#'screaming in annalise keating voice'

[berrceste]

i love ultimate spider man i love danny rand i love luke cage i love ava ayala i love sam alexander i love mj watson i love harry osborn I LOVE PETER PARKER I LOVE MAY PARKER

THEY MEAN THE WORLD TO ME

so. if you ever want to talk about this show. please talk. i would be back there somewhere. listening and clapping for you. applauding. im out of words im sorry

[kooqitas]

... law class & sex ★ with: jjk!

#pairings: teacher!jjk X reader

#synopsis: you didn't think your teacher would notice how desperate you were for his cock

#tags: teacher!jk, pwp, cockslut, rough sex, spanking, semi public sex (?), creampie, vaginal sex, overstimulation, degradation, humiliation,

🌸 . . nsfw, +18 | 

────────────────── ୭ ──────────────────ㅤ

"you fucking pervert. you like this, don't you? is this pussy wet after seeing my class?"

your teacher looks like you are a freak, yeah, maybe you are.

to be honest, it is kinda difficult to explain how this happened. you really have a big crush on your teacher and of course if he asks you to ride on his dick, but he's never made a mention about that, unlike this, he's really so kind and respectful with you and your friends. 

but he’s hot. super hot.

you feel your underwear wet after the moment you stepped on the class.

jeon jungkook is your teacher of criminal law, and you really like your teaching methods, but being a young adult in a constant fertile period doesn’t help. 

the teacher is so attractive, every part of your body, with the passing of the months you just want to sit on his face and sucking your dick. 

but you always hide this, except for today.

you never felt your pussy so wet when this man started speaking like annalise keating, and your tight pants doesn’t help, your thighs make you insane. 

the only thing you can do is take a lollipop and leave it in your mouth, sucking like jungkook's dick.

he got it. you practically devore him with eyes when sucks the candy.

the class is over, so he’s calling you.

“what’s your problem today?”

is he looking at your nipples? wow

“excuse me, sir?”

“to be honest, i really receive several proposals to eat my students, but you know, i always decline…”

it’s true, you always hear your friends say that they have tried something more with jungkook, insinuations, short clothes, inappropriate photos, everything, but he always said “no”. 

this is one of the motives you never tried anything.

“i know that, but i can’t understand why u tell me this, sir…”

“oh! really?” he asked, the mocker tone evident in his voice. “what you want of me, sweetheart?”

“excuse me?”

oh, jungkook we're going to humiliate you? say that you’re a pervert and he never wants anything with you? really? 

“i see how you look to me when sucks that lollipop, i see in your face how that cunt makes you wet at each little word i said.” he’s raised, staying in front of you. “you want that i fuck you, stupid whore?”

jungkook's face changed. he’s look like a devil, maybe the pleasure, but still a devil.

what the fuck he’s doing? all your friends say that he always said “i'm not interesting, bye” but why now he’s spoken like that? 

“i made a question, because to be honest, i’m tired of hiding how much i want to fuck your cute little drippy cunt, of hiding how much i want make you cum on my cock and made you my personal slut”

“y-yes, i want”

he laughed.

"you fucking pervert. you like this, don't you? is this pussy wet after seeing my class?"

so, he stood in front of you, grabbing her waist tightly and sticking his tongue in her mouth.

“the d-dor.” you said.

“that’s ok, i don’t care if someone see i fucking a whore.”

without a warning, he lifted your skirt and rubbed his middle finger on you wet underwear. you moaned.

“this is a good slut, i even need to prepare you with my fingers, you are so wet to my cock, desperate for me to fill you with my sperm, no?” he still rubbed, now your clit, your legs trembled and you feel that you can cum in his fingers. “we need to be faster, i said that i don’t care if someone see, but if this happened we can’t play anymore”

“p-please.” you even know for what you are asked, have jungkook brushing his middle finger on your clit is like a fucking wet dream.

“can your sweet and little pussy take my fat cock?” you feel the other hand pinched your nipple, and scream because of the pain. “a word, sweetheart, i need a word because nothing else will make me stop to fuck this hole open.”

“i dont need a w-word. i want everything.”

he pinched your clit, and you scream again, made him laugh on your ear.

“knew a dumb slut like you was good to me. desperate to feel begging me to defile this tight, no? but i need a word. but i know you won't use it, you're desperate to cry while i tear that pussy apart.” 

you said a word, nothing special just “popcorn”, don’t have a motive or anything, is just a random word that you can remember if it is necessary.

you even notice when he removed the belt and underwear, just feel he’s dick opening you without any care, it didn't hurt, you were too excited for that, of course, a slight burning but nothing that wasn't pleasurable.

“now, my favorite student, watch me dick fuck this little hole open” he said when he lifted your skirt and grabbed your leg, leaning against the table to leave you open for him. 

jungkook isn’t a ‘gentleman’ he’s fucking you like a toy, the table is shaking because the power of that he hit you and you scream everytime his ball hit in you.

you see his sucking his middle finger and you can’t understand what happens, but the confusion soon disappears when you feel him rub his finger wet with spit on you asshole.

“next time, i use this hole.”

“c-cu-”

“you gonna cum?” he let go of your waist to leave a slap on your face. “is your teacher's cock so hot that you're going to cum on it?”

“y-yeah.”

“so cum, whore!” he slap on your face again, and again.

and when the orgarms finally came, he kissed you trying to muffle your screams.

he continuous to fucking your pussy. you ruined and felt the overstimulation, your body didn't stand up, but his still fucking.

still fucking untill cum on your pussy, the white liquid oozing on you. 

the floor is a mess, the table is a mess, and you is a mess too.

you think that is over, but jungkook got on his knees and sucks you. 

making him swallow your cum and his.

“so…” she said, standing up and fixing his pants. “i want to fuck you everyday now.”

“i'll do anything for my favorite teacher.”

“so when you get home, send me a video of your shower. i will be waiting.”

🌸 . . part 2 maybe?

[itsthestutterforme]

Distraction (How to Get Away with Murder)

Characters: Teagen Price x fem!reader, Teagen Price x Dom! reader

Summary: Y/N and Teagen have both been under a lot of stress lately and needed diffuse. //EXTREME SMUT WARNING, 18+ ONLY

--

You went to 1518 Bar and Grill in hopes of making your problems temporarily disappear. You were one of Professor Keating's students and you and Michaela are constantly trying to one up one another. But competing over something as vigorous as one of the best lawyers in Philly.

Your eyes was starting to twitch and that was definitely not a good sign. Because once your eye starts to twitch, the twitching spreads to my muscles. You walk into the bar and instantly become overwhelmed with the scents of grilled chicken, toasted bread and potato skins.

You were more concerned about the booze but your growling stomach tells your otherwise. You sit at the bar and order an chicken avacodo ranch sandwich. While you wait, you down a few tequila shots. "You know, they say it's not a great idea to drink shots on an empty stomach," a familiar voice chimes.

You look over your shoulder to Teagan Price leaning on the bar with a small smirk on her lips. "Ms. Price, hi, what brings you here?" "Probably the same reason why you're here. To temporarily forget my problems," she says before drinking one of your shots.

"To temporarily forgetting our problems," you say, raising a shot glass. She takes one and collides it with your before you both drink your shots. You lips twist because of the sour, burning taste. "Awe, are you a babe in the drinking game?" She taunts. "I am a babe but not in this game. I'm more of a wine cooler kind of girl," you explain.

"Then why the shots?" You sigh deeply before saying, "Desperate times." Your food finally arrives and the first thing that you go for are the fries. Its always been a routine of yours. Fries first, burger later. You see Teagen reach for one of your fries, and you hold her and presses if against the table.

"There are many things that I can let slide, but stealing fries is not one of them," you taunt. She raises an eye brow at you and you let go of her hand. You try to shake the excited feeling you got from touching her. No, Y/N, she's you're boss's boss. Don't even go there.

While you were lost in your thoughts, she took not one, not two, but four fries. Your mouth falls open in disbelief. She closes your mouth with her forefinger, giving you a chance to inhale her sweet, linger scent of cherries. "I always get what I want, Y/L/N," she says, holding eye contact.

My God, the way your name rolls off her tongue makes the heat flush from your cheeks. "Well so do I," you say before eating a few fries. "So I've heard. You've become a real headache for Michaela," "She's has endless tricks up her sleeve," you say, your eye starting to twitch again.

"That's because she has Annalise whispering into her ear. The fact that you can stand on your own without a mentor is impressive," she explains. A small plays on your lips. "Ah, ah, ah, don't get all cocky on me." "I know when to humble myself and when to strut myself out,"

"Do you now?" "Of course." She steals another fry and you scoot your tray away from her. "Teagen, you are treading on thin ice," you state. "All I'm hearing is all bark and no bite," "Oh I'm sure you've seen plenty of my bites and my barks against Michaela."

"Eh, they're mediocre," she shrugs. "Then mentor me," "What? Uh uh, I've already got enough on my plate between Emmett, the firm, Annalise, and her students." "Wow, seems like you have a lot more problems than I do. Just the thought of midterms make me want to jump off a bridge,"

"Ah, the good old days," "Definitely not good, and surely not old. You are literal embodiment of black don't crack," you compliment. She chuckles and your heart skips a beat when you see her perfect, white smile. You have to get out of there before you do anything you'll regret.

"It seems like you need to take the edge off." Oops, too late. "Why do you think I'm here?" she playfully snaps. "That's not what I meant." You two hold eye contact for a moment and had a small, silent conversation. "After your sandwich,"

**

You enter her apartment and look around at the beige, classy theme Teagen has going around. "You like?" "I don't expect anything less from you. I'm surprised you don't have a nude picture for yourself." "That's in my bedroom, where you should be." "Oh so that's how it's going to be?"

"I thought you expected nothing less?" "I'm just saying, it'll be hard to effectively diffuse if you're on top," "I'm not a pillow princess," she says, crossing her arms but you can tell that she was contemplating it. "You are tonight,"

You lift her chin to bring your lips to hers. You pull her closer by her hips and trail your hands up towards the zipper of her dress. You unzipped her dress and she shimmed out of it before reconnecting her lips to yours. You walk her against the counter top and ghosted your hands over the curve of her ass.

You pull away from her lips and began kissing and sucking at her neck. Her soft moans made your pussy throbs but you had to take your time with her. You peppered kiss down her breasts and her stomach. You ghost over her clothed bundle of nerves and heard her whimper.

You smirk against her thighs and drag her underwear down her legs to reveal a beautiful, brown tinted pussy. She gasps when you pull her closer by the back of her thighs. You lick her painfully slow and her legs were already starting to tense.

You roll your tongue into her fold and make sure to hit her clit every time. Her hands found her way to your hair and pushed you closer to her. You plunge your tongue deep into her and drag the tip of your tongue against the top of her wall. You kept this motion going and sucked at her nub.

"Please, Y/N, oh God," she moans. "Patience baby," you say before going in and out of her pussy with your tongue. Her legs were beginning to give out but you didn't stop until her walls walls were convulsing around your tongue. You swallowed and licked every drop of her cum.

"You did amazing." You say before kissing her sensually. She pulls you closer by your belt before unbuckling it and you shove it down your legs. You pull away from her lips to take off your shirt. You push her back into the counter and lift her into your arms so her legs were wrapped around your waist.

You knew you were able to do that because you did a lot of power lifting over the summer. She tugs at your hair and you moan into her mouth. "Where's your bedroom?" "Up the stairs and to the left." She works on your neck as you walk up the stairs with her in your arms.

You chuckle when she nibbles at your ear lobe and when you found out she was right. There was a nude painting of her that sat right above her king sized bed. You pushed her on to the bed and licked up her stomach. "Toys," you say before kissing her. She pulled away from me and turned on her stomach to reach for the drawer.

You admire the view while it lasted and she set a drawer full of vibrators, dildos and strap ons on the bed. As soon as she fully turned around, you plunged two fingers into her and her head went back. Her mouth fell open as you curled your fingers before pumping them out of her. "I'm impressed you have so many toys, baby girl,"

"Oh," she moans. Your fingers went deeper and you rub your nose across her nub, making her entire body jolt forward. You teasingly lick the nub and she yells out in bliss. You look up at her and saw her eyes snapped shut. She was close.

You squeezed her ass and pulled her closer as you absolutely devoured her. She was crying out a lot louder this time. Her legs were kicking and spasming under me until she came. You hum before taking off your underwear and reaching into the drawer for a dildo.

You wrap the belts around your hips and thighs. She positions herself in the middle of the bed and spreads her legs for me. "Such a good girl." You line the dildo up with her and slowly push yourself into her. She digs her nails into your back, arching it slightly. Her mouth flies open so you more your hips at a slow pace to start.

She unclips my bra and takes one of your boobs into her mouth. Your back arches again and she yells out. "Move faster, damn it!" You stop, making her whimper out. You reach back into the drawer and grabbed a vibrator.

"Fuck," she says. You rail into her as fast as your hips can take and put the vibrator on the highest setting before applying it to her clit. She pulls away from me and spreads herself out like a starfish. She was practically screaming in my ear, begging for more until her body went rigid.

You slowly pull out of her and she lays there motionless. "You okay?" You ask, brushing her baby hairs from her forehead. "You're really good," she chuckles and eyes were barely staying open. "Why thank you," you tease. "A-alright, it's your turn," "Oh, I know, honey."

You take off the dildo and set it to the side. You take out another dildo and gave it to her. "Put this on." She complied and you slide yourself right onto the dildo. Your eyes flutter close at it fills you up completely. Your body curls when she takes your nipples into her hand and rubs them with the pads of her thumb.

A series of soft moans leaves your lips as you bounce on the dildo. She takes one of your breasts into her mouth and uses her free hand to rub your clit. "Fuck!" Your hands grab the headboard for dear life. You thrusts your hips against her fingers but you completely loose it when she curls her tongue around nipple.

"Damn it, that feels good!" You exclaim. Soon after, your orgasm came. You continued to thrust against the dildo and she went from one breast to the next. Your head fell into her neck until you heard a vibration. "Now you'll know how I felt." She put it on its highest setting and you were screaming at the top of your lungs.

**

Morning of, you were the first one up and you felt great. You could only imagine how she feels. You went on for hours until both of your bodies gave out. You looks at her with a small smile and kisses down her neck warmly. She moans and leans into your touch.

*I'll make breakfast, you are pancake or waffle kind of girl," "I'm niether" "What? You don't like pancakes or waffles?" "Look, Y/N, I don't-" "Let me stop you right there. I know exactly what you're going to say. And just know that I understand," You explain.

She turns around to face you and you hold the side of her face. "I'm just glad that you got the chance to get your mind off of things. I'll see my way out," you stand from the bed and picked up your clothes. You were halfway down the stairs until Teagen called after you.

"Y/N, wait," "You don't need to feel bad, Teagen." "I don't, I just wanted to ask if you wanted to go to dinner?" "You don't have to do that," "Believe me, I want to. Because that was some of that best sex I've ever had," she adds, making you two laugh.

She meets you at the middle of the stairs and adds, "Now about breakfast." Her eyes fall downwards and you smiled, knowing exactly where this was going.

[thefanficmonster]

Always Here

Connor Walsh & Michaela Pratt (How To Get Away With Murder)

Warnings: MAJOR TW: Rape, Trauma, PTSD, Swearing

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationship

Summary: Following the less than poor advice of her ‘friends’ Michela finds herself at the apartment and in the hands of a piece of scum eager to take advantage of her. Connor is not having any of it, rushing to her rescue and impatient to teach the bastard a lesson, punish him for the horrible, disgusting thing he did to his friend.

Requested by Anon as a birthday fic. Hello dear, happy birthday! Hope you have the best one yet! Sorry for the downer of a fic for such a happy day in your life (I was genuinely surprised when you requested such an angsty fic but I’m not complaining) hope you enjoy the read nonetheless. Enjoy your special day, hope you have a ton of fun and make great memories! Lots of love, Vy ❤

“Nah, I think you’re judging him too heavily.“ Laurel comments, taking a sip from the coffee cup on her desk, “He seemed rather nice when I got to talk to him last week. He seems to be really into you too.“

“Well, just because he’s into me doesn’t mean I’m into him.“ Michaela points out, irritation in her voice and a shudder running down her spine at the memory of the creep Laurel talked her into meeting a week ago - Charles Mahoney. Michaela immediately felt the oddest and creepiest vibes coming off the guy, but Laurel was persistent and Michaela tried to talk herself into trusting her friend’s judgement, despite her gut screaming at her to get out of the situation, accompanied by the alarm going off wildly in her head. The guy didn’t do anything to set off those alarms and he wasn’t acting like a creep per se but as Michaela put it when complaining to Connor later that same day: He seemed like a creep trying to act and behave like a normal person would. Connor noted the odd feeling he had in regards of that guy.

It was something about his demeanor, but not something she could pin-point to Laurel and use as concrete evidence that her gut was right. And, as a lawyer, she knew that without concrete evidence she wouldn’t get anywhere with that argument.

“Or it just means you’re too picky.“ Laurel swoops the file out of Michaela’s hands, earning herself a death glare from her friend, “Who says you have to date the guy? Just have some fun, a couple of drinks. Maybe a hook-up if you’re feeling it. Who knows where that might lead?“ She sits back down and flips open the file, eyes skimming over the text as if the discussion is over on her part.

Michaela’s about to complain when Asher decides to share his two cents on the subject, “Right! I agree with Laurel, he seemed like a nice guy. To be fair, we didn’t get to talk much, but he seems like a cool dude. Easy on the eyes too, not gonna lie.“

Michaela rolls her eyes, having heard enough about this Mahoney guy from these two. In fact, they’ve been playing this game of persuasion for two days now, neither of them giving a concrete reason on why they were doing it. Although, she might have a guess on their intentions: a few too many drinks one night and she ended up spilling her guts on how lonely she feels sometimes. She did her best in that drunken state to pack the emphasis on ‘sometimes’ but Asher and Laurel seem to have brushed past that bit, seeing as how they’ve made it their personal duty to play matchmakers. If only their choice of guys to pair her with wasn’t so crappy, they may have come in handy to fill the nights she didn’t have any work to do and really felt the lack of company setting in.

Seeing no other way to get the two off her back for good other than feed into their attempts and humor their ideas, Michaela sighs exasperatedly, resting her forehead in the palm of her hand as she speaks, “Will you get off my case if I give him a call and go out with him tonight?”

Asher opens his mouth but Laurel cuts him off before he can throw their chances of succeeding with this in the water, “Permanently. A lawyer’s word.” She nods, giving Michaela a tight-lipped smile that’s supposed to represent faux innocence which instead hides her fondness of her success at last.

“A lawyer’s word doesn’t mean much.“ Michaela mutters under her breath but pulls out her phone nonetheless, standing up to exit into the hallway to make the phone call to Charles Mahoney. She stops in her tracks, turning on her heel to face Laurel once more before exiting the room, “We need a safe-word, just in case.“ She snaps her fingers, trying to get a simple word to come to mind for the purpose of a GTFO signal.

Laurel suddenly gets an idea, “How does ‘trophy’ sound to you?”

Michaela can’t help the shiver that runs down her spine, “Like a nightmare and a ton of bad memories.” She replies bitterly, knitting her brows together in a displeased frown.

Her friend tilts her head to the side, “Then it’s perfect.”

She contemplates Laurel’s reply for a second. Well, contemplates the whole situation and the decision she’s about to make. Sure, it might not be final and she could still cancel if she changes her mind later on, but it’s still a borderline ridiculous move to make. But, when compared to finally being given some peace from the pesky Asher and Laurel, she finds spending a few hours with Mahoney to be worth it. 

So, with that, Michaela turns back around, heading out in the hallway to make the phone call she has no idea will lead to the worst moments of her life.

                                                             *  *  *

“Oh shit!“ Laurel curses, quickly disconnecting her phone from the charger where she had left it while her and Asher went to buy some dinner for the rest of the team to enjoy back at the office after Annalise had called in they were on their way and they had some important news to share with them. Some concerning news, if her voice was anything to go by.

“What’s up?“ Asher asks, setting the plastic bags he’s been carrying on his desk.

“Missed calls and texts from Michaela. Twenty seven of them, almost all saying ‘Trophy’.“ Laurel replies with a sigh that’s a mix of frustration and concern. The call goes to voicemail almost right away which only fuels the concern as she taps the button to call again. “Shit, she’s not answering.“

“She’s texted and called me too.“ Asher says, taking a look at his phone, “She could be in danger.“

“I know, Asher! I know she could be in danger!“ Laurel snaps, squeezing the phone tightly, pressing it against her ear, swearing and fighting the urge to slam it on the floor when the second call also goes to voicemail, “Damn it!“

Just then, the door to the office opens and in walks Connor, closely followed by Annalise and Frank who he ran into on his way in. The mention of a ‘she’ that could be in danger immediately puts him on edge as his eyes skim over the room, looking for his frenemy - Michaela Pratt. ‘On-edge’ is replaced by an early onset of panic when he takes in her absence, connecting the dots that the ‘she’ Laurel was referring to is indeed her. But, just to be safe and avoid a false alarm, he decides to fake nonchalance and ask:  “Danger? What’s going on here?“ He tilts his head, his gaze switching from Laurel who’s still trying to reach Michaela to Asher who is doing his best to avoid eye-contact with anyone in the room.

Annalise cuts the crap, way less nonchalant than him, “Where’s Miss Pratt? Didn’t I tell you all to stay in one spot?“

Laurel looks to Asher for backup, but when she realizes she’s clearly not gonna get any, she turns back to look at Annalise, feeling as though she’s shrinking under the woman’s intense and powerful gaze. “I-it’s my fault. Michaela left before you called and...”

“And she’s now gonna come back! Call her and tell her to return her ass here as soon as possible!“ Annalise cuts her off, her eyes glinting with anger the Keating 5 were so used to seeing yet were terrified of just the same no matter how many times they saw it.

“Well, that’s the thing. She left two hours ago to meet with Mahoney and she isn’t picking up her phone and...“ Laurel trails off, the words dying down in her throat, failing to reach or leave her mouth.

“And we think she could be in danger.“ Asher whispers, finally finding it in himself to speak up despite feeling guilty as all hell.

Annalise’s eyes widen as her heart drops, a sickening feeling overcoming her in the form of cold sweat covering her whole body at once, “YOU THINK?!” She snaps, eyes briefly blurred by tears. “You think she could be in danger when she’s in the hands of a fucking rapist?!”

The phone slips from Laurel’s hand, falling to the floor with a crash at the sound of that word. Asher’s reaction is not different by much - he becomes but a frozen statue in his spot, both him and Laurel looking at Annalise with deer-caught-in-headlights looks and pale faces that suggest Annalise’s heart isn’t the only one that’s dropped. Fear, guilt and despair has paralyzed the two in their spot, unable to think of something to do. Unable to find it in themselves to move.

One person, however, doesn’t remain paralyzed. He takes action, driven by his protective instinct that has set off all the alarms in his head and has sent shots of adrenaline pumping through his veins at a rapid pace. With trembling hands, Connor pulls out his phone, the one calm part of his brain reminding him of his pact with Michaela to always share their location with each other. Opening the app, he reads the address out loud. “Where is that place?!” He snaps, unable to contain his anger that’s blended in with the dreadful sense of fear for his friend’s safety and well-being which are most definitely at a huge risk at this very moment.

“The fucker’s apartment.“ Frank replies, looking up from his own phone where he had looked up the address Connor read out.

Without a second to spare, ignoring the fact his blood’s run cold and the numbness in his face and limbs, Connor takes off, running out of the office and straight to his car, closely followed by the rest of them.

“Connor, wait!“ Annalise attempts to stop him, but you cannot stop a hurricane with your bare hands. And this hurricane is a raging beast with a mission to save his friend and teach the fucker who’d dare touch her or harm her a lesson in the form of beating him bloody.

‘God, please tell me I’m not too late‘, he chants to himself silently, praying for the first time in a long while. ‘Please, keep her safe just a little longer, then I’ll take over.’

Little does he know, the worst has already happened.

                                                              *  *  *

Michaela feels herself coming back to her senses. She doesn’t want to wake up though. She wants for her eyes to remain closed and for her to perish, never again to be seen by the world outside of this apartment that to her now represents hell on Earth. Her survival instincts are kicking in but rather lowly and slowly, almost as if they’re afraid of scaring her or making her snap. So, instead of making an effort to move, she stays completely still and listens, takes in her surroundings. She can’t see much without turning her head which is facing the ceiling, but she’s too afraid to do so. As if her body has been rigged with explosives and the tiniest movement could set them off.

The first thing she hears is the sound of a shower running not too far away. The sound is faint but not faint enough, and neither is the humming that’s accompanying it. She recognizes the tune, she’s recently heard it. With a slight tilt of her head she catches a glimpse of a coffee table which has red wine spilled on it, one wineglass has fallen over and is still dripping tiny red drops alike blood on the carpeted floor. She vaguely recognizes the setting and she feels sickened looking at it, but it takes her a moment or two to place exactly why she feels that way.

And then it hits her.

The tune the voice is humming, she heard it in a bar earlier. The bar she went out to have drinks at. With Charles Mahoney. The Charles Mahoney who then persuaded her into going back to his apartment for a continuation of their drinking session. She remembers the repulsion she felt at the thought of going, but she wasn’t receiving any help from neither Laurel nor Asher whom she has texted and called countless times. So, she succumbed, regretting every step she took that led her closer to his apartment. Her gut was screaming at her the whole time, repeating over and over how bad of an idea that was and how she should make up some bullshit excuse and ditch the situation.

But she didn’t.

And he took advantage of it. Of her body, her tipsy vulnerability. Of her.

It was my fault

With that horribly wrong thought in mind, tears rush to Michaela’s eyes prickling them, begging to escape and relieve the tiniest portion of her pain. She allows them to, the silent tears slowly turning into suppressed sobs that escape her aching chest as she continues lying on that couch, helpless and in pain that cannot be healed or seen.

Her sobs come to an abrupt halt when a round of aggressive and loud knocks, or rather bangs are delivered to the front door that right beside the living room. She only then becomes aware of the subsiding of the running water in the shower. She renders herself silent, faking unconsciousness when she hears the bathroom door open, followed by hurried footsteps coming down the hall, passing the living room and stopping at the front door.

Charles had expected many things, but what he didn’t see coming was the punch that sent him falling to the floor with a broken nose as soon as he opened the door. He didn’t even get a good view of the person but he recognized the voice that called out to the girl he had raped barely an hour prior.

“Michaela!“ Connor shouted, his chest aching, heart racing so loud he could hear it in his ears. He rushed down the hall but stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the living room where he found who he was looking for. And he found her in a state that broke his heart, “Michaela! Oh God, I’m too late! Fuck!“

Hearing the familiar voice of her friend, Michaela’s eyes snap open, catching sight of Connor’s concerned face hovering over hers. “Connor.” Her coarse voice barely makes it out of her throat in the form of a choked up sob.

Grabbing a blanket from the nearby armchair, Connor wraps it around Michaela covering her almost completely naked her body. Securing the blanket in place, he takes her face in his hands, directing her gaze to his eyes to prevent her from looking anywhere else, prevent her from seeing anything that will further confirm what has happened to her. “It’s ok, you’re ok now. I’m here. I’m here, Michaela and I will never leave you again, ok? You hear me? Focus on my voice, ok? It’s over, he can’t hurt you ever again. The cops are on their way...”

“Hands in the air! Get up! Search the apartment!“ Just as Connor says that, the urgent shouts of cops come from the hall, startling Michaela while also giving her the smallest spec of relief as she once again breaks out in a fit of uncontrollable sobs that are the result of that mix of trauma, emptiness, relief and disgust.

Connor wraps his arms around her pulling her close and resting her head on his chest, not making any attempts at subduing her cries, aware that she needs to get it out of her system before having to face and deal with anything else.

“Michaela?!“ The shout of her own name doesn’t get registered by her, but Connor hears it and feels rage building inside of him when he sees Laurel, Asher, Annalise and Frank enter the living room, “Oh God, Michaela, I’m so sor-“

“You’ve done enough damage!“ He snaps at her, the message meant for Asher as well, “Leave her alone, she’s had it with you and you bright ideas!“

Just then, a cop approaches him and Michaela. He’s not spared Connor’s death glare either, but he doesn’t allow himself to be too intimidated by it, “Sir, we’ll need to take Miss Pratt to a hospital and then to the station to give a statement.“

The rage continues bubbling up inside of him but forces himself to stay calm, seeing as how he’s talking to an officer, “You really think she’s fit for an examination and questioning right now? Can’t you see how traumatized she is?”

“It’s procedure, sir. We must follow a very strict protocol in these situations. Miss Pratt needs a proper examination and all harm done to her needs to be aided and handled properly.“ The officer makes another attempt at persuading the distressed Connor whose arms are still wrapped around the trembling Michaela who suddenly raises her head off his chest, placing her hand there instead.

“It’s ok, Connor. I-I can handle it. But...“ she trails off, a stray tear escaping her eye again.

“But what? Tell me, what do you need?“ he takes her hands in his, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

She inhales shakily before replying, “Could you stay with me? I mean, could you come with me for...well, for it all. I don’t wanna go through it alone.” She bites her lips, still looking down where their hands are connected, unable to look him in the eyes because of how weak and pathetic she feels that request was.

“Of course, Michaela. I wasn’t planning on leaving even if you tried chasing me away.“ He gives her hands a reassuringly, “I’m always gonna be here for you, ok? Never forget that.“

That finally gets Michaela to look up and allow her eyes to meet his. Fresh tears have welled up in her eyes, having grown emotional because of Connor’s words as she whispers a barely-audible, ‘Thank you.’ which says a lot more than just her gratitude for him accepting her request.

It shows how grateful she is to have a friend like him, to have him as a friend. How thankful she is he found her and is willing to stay with her through the nauseating experience she’s about to endure. How happy she is to have found a safe haven in his embrace - his arms serving as a barrier, keeping her safe and shielded from the world that has harmed her so many times and will continue doing so. She’s just glad she won’t have to heal her wounds on her own, all alone. She’ll never have to deal with anything by herself, cause she has him - someone she trusts. Those people have been rare in her life - the trustworthy ones - Connor has the privilege to be one of them. One day, he might even hear her say it, not that he needs to hear it to know though.

That’s what their friendship is - a connection that doesn’t require verbal communication in order to reach an understanding. Even if that understanding has more often than not been ‘agree to disagree’. Still, a friendship as strong as a fortress nonetheless.

[protectconnorandoliver]

when you rewatch the season finale of season 3 of htgawm and loose your voice from yelling at the TV

[electrakarasu]

❛ she is a knight polishing her amour, carrying her own sword. fighting her own battles. making her own glory. ❜

SIMAY BARLAS? No, that’s actually ELECTRA “LEXI” KARASU. Only TWENTY-ONE years old, this SLYTHERIN alumni works as a CURSE BREAKER and is sided with THE NEUTRALS. SHE identifies as CIS-WOMAN and is a HALFBLOOD who is known to be ARROGANT, SCRUTINISING, and DETACHED but also CLEVER, DETERMINED, and ENTERPRISING.

links: stats, pinterest character parallels: jane villanueva ( jane the virgin ), jessica huang ( fresh off the boat ), valencia perez ( crazy ex-girlfriend ), lu ( elite ), lucifer morningstar ( lucifer ), annalise keating ( how to get away with murder )

ELECTRA KARASU : ON HER LIFE

tulip karasu never did have an off-switch. she danced through life like it was a party, she broke every rule the world set out for her and she made reckless decisions with the fury of someone who was so sure of what they were doing. was she so sure that sleeping with a man twice her age, a man who had a wife, was the right thing to do? maybe not. but she did it anyway.

antigone, tulip’s first child, was six years old when tulip gave birth to electra. electra. another name from an old greek play tulip had only half understood. people tried to warn her that naming your child after a woman who attempts to murder her mother was bad luck, but tulip refused to listen — she liked that it sounded alive, crackling with intensity.

one week after electra was born and seven months after she had left christopher harris, tulip reached out to the married man to let him know of the birth of his daughter. christopher, being the ceo of a well-respected company in london, was absolutely mortified and agreed to pay a generous portion of child support if tulip didn’t tell anyone who was the father of her daughter — especially not his wife. he arranged to have the money transfer out of an account his wife could not see, set it to wire to tulip once a month and then never spoke to her again. tulip didn’t much mind — she was on to her next affair anyway.

and so electra was born into a world of chaos, a world without rules or order. tulip wasn’t much of a mother, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t kind — it just meant that as electra grew up, as her smarts began to build, she had to learn how to raise herself. she changed her name to lexi when she was just six, finding the name electra to be too stormy, too out-dated for a girl such as herself, and with that she formed the first step to navigating the world on her own, separate from her mother, from ‘ electra ’.

you see, lexi was something of a prodigy in every sense of the word. she was intelligent and cunning and emotionally mature, showing skills far beyond her age range from the time she could walk. she was nothing like her wild mother or her scruffy older sibling — she had the genes of her father, and from a young age she knew she could build an EMPIRE on that. she understood that she was better. she embraced it. she scolded her mother and her sibling, she corrected her teacher with a squeaky little voice, and by the time she was ready to be shipped off the hogwarts, she knew she was the best of the best.

and so she proved it. having been sorted into slytherin exactly thirteen seconds after the hat had found her head, lexi thrived both academically and socially. within months she was top of her class, she was the most popular girl in her grade and she knew, oh she knew she had the world wrapped around her little finger. this self-importance only grew as she flew through each year, passing every subject with flying colours and proving herself to be one of the brightest and most talented witches the school had seen in years. she finished on a high when she was elected her years head girl, and promised to stay in contact with everyone after graduation. ( spoiler alert: she didn’t. )

leaving hogwarts, lexi knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life. anywhere she went, they’d be lucky to have her, and in fact the ministry had tried to recruit her in any capacity, but she refused, telling them outright that she wouldn’t align herself with a corrupt organisation running over with power-hungry white males. she instead headed straight for gringotts, slotting in easily with the dangerous and fast-paced job of a curse breaker. she would travel the world and learn new languages and collect priceless treasure. within months she was trusted, she proved herself to be worthy of the dangerous title and she wears it with great pride.

ELECTRA KARASU : ON THE WAR

lexi wasn’t daft — she’d always known that some people looked at her differently, as if she were tainted, not worthy of the numerous titles that were being thrown at her. and she knew what it was rooted in, too — for years people would try to undermine her achievements because she had muggle blood, because she wasn’t as pure in her magic as, say, her housemates at hogwarts. and she knew that simmering hate could only last so long before it burst — so she knew what was here when the war finally arrived.

just because lexi is a halfblood, does not mean she is about to storm the streets with signs painted in large letters campaigning for MUGGLE RIGHTS. she thinks it’s ridiculous she should be seen as lesser than, of course, but she’s no fool — war is toxic. no side can claim innocence because anyone who participated in nameless violence, something this war requires, is corrupt. she sees right through the orders facade of innocence and believes them to be just as reckless and one-sided as the death eater’s. she refuses to join, to participate in something that is so clearly below her. let them fight — they can’t touch her, anyway. she’s smarter than any of them, quicker than any spell that can be thrown her way. she can defend herself without a cult.

perhaps subconsciously — though she would never admit it — lexi doesn’t care for the war either because she doesn’t particularly care for muggles. after all, the one muggle that always comes to mind for her is her father. and she hates that man more than she hates anyone else on this earth. her father, power-hungry and drowning in his white privilege, thriving off his success and not giving a fucking damn about anyone other than himself. not even his wife. christopher disgusts lexi, and she is vehemently in agreement with him on one thing — they will never meet.

ELECTRA KARASU : ON FAMILY

despite any apathy that lexi might try and push when it comes to her mother and her sibling, lexi would do anything for her little family. especially antigone — certainly not a role model, nor a particularly good older sibling, but a force and someone lexi would defend until the ends of the earth.

from a young age, lexi had to take on a leadership role in her family — the only one with realistic, practical common sense, the little girl keeping her family from blowing up the earth. she’s very good at it, too, with the emotional maturity to keep it together, but sometimes she can’t help but resent tulip and antigone for leaving it up to her to pick up the pieces. tulip is supposed to be a mother. antigone is supposed to be older. and yet both of them can’t seem to hold it together long enough to stay sane when lexi is gone. sometimes she wonders how they’re even alive, but she’ll do it. her job. her job to keep them together. she might not love it, but she’d rather be caught dead then see her family crash and burn.

lexi is incredibly protective over antigone and so had her doubts when antigone decided to push themselves into the spotlight. they’re obviously talented and incredibly good at what they do, but lexi worries about what might happen should antigone be caught slipping up. after all, they’re all in the spotlight now, no matter how small. lexi isn’t a fan of fame, and she’s certainly not a fan of how antigone deals with their success. throwing your money away and screaming political opinions on stage is certainly no way for a sensible adult to behave. she’ll support her siblings career, always, but of course she’ll worry — and worry she did when antigone disappeared.

to say that lexi nearly lost it when antigone disappeared and returned as a vampire would be an understatement. she was so overwhelmed with grief when they were gone, and then when they returned to live a new truth — lexi could barely handle it. she is so worried about how antigone is handling things, whether they’re dealing with this appropriately and whether or not they’re keeping safe. of course, she got somewhat of an answer when they announced their vampirism live on stage for the world to hear after the announcement of the new creature registry — clearly they are not keeping safe. and lexi doesn’t know how much longer she can keep her sibling truly safe before they get themselves killed — really killed.

ELECTRA KARASU : THE REST

born in 2002, lexi is the absolute epitome of a gen z kid. she’s still not over vine’s death, she’s over dramatic and sarcastic and has a very dry sense of humour. and of course her wardrobe is a complete mess. ( check out her pinterest for more wardrobe inspo. )

obviously incredibly self-important when it comes to her smarts and her skills with a wand, but is also equally aware of just how beautiful she is. she doesn’t exactly strive to accentuate anything in particular, but she knows that eyes are on her almost constantly, and while sometimes she revels in it, other times she gets frustrated and wishes people ( men, in particular ) would see her for more than her looks.

she’s pansexual but very, very tired of men. any man talks and she instantly turns into the eye roll emoji. men exhaust her! she’s attracted to them but at what cost!

multilingual! she says it’s part of the job, but honestly she’s known italian and french since she was 12 and it’s not even necessary to speak the languages of the places she travels. it’s just another way to challenge her brain.

[erijonarexhepis-blog]

IS SOMEONE REALLY DEAD?

SEASON THREE, EPISODE SIX ////// PART TWO

Part one

Masterlist

April makes her way down the staircase in the Keating house. "Are you going to the courthouse?" She turns her head and sees Bonnie sitting by her desk.

"I am," April makes her way over to the blonde. "Has professor Keating said anything to you?"

"Involving?"

"Me."

Bonnie shakes her head. "No, she hasn't. Why?"

"She won't talk to me, and it's infuriating. She called me out in class, and she didn't even spare me a glance."

"What am I supposed to do about that?"

"Can't you talk to her? I've been trying to tell her that our client's story was a lie, but she won't listen to me."

"What makes you say that?" Bonnie asks, with a frown on her face.

"She was working a desk job the day she said she was attacked. I did some digging and found out the day we met Dani."

Bonnie lets out a sigh. "Well, Annalise knows now."

April turns around and sees Annalise standing there. "Call that lawyer," she tells Bonnie. "Tell him to come here to meet Wes tonight."

Bonnie grabs the phone as Annalise turns to leave. The professor turns to Bonnie again. "Bonnie? I need your help at court."

"With what?" Bonnie stands.

Annalise finally looks at April. "See if Coleman is right about the story being a lie." She turns away and leaves, along with Bonnie.

"Are you okay?" Wes asks.

April turns to Wes. "Yeah." She approaches him. "What about you?"

"I—" he sighs. "— I don't know, honestly. Maybe the others are right."

"About what?" She frowns.

"It being my fault. I shouldn't have fallen for Rebecca."

April steps closer to Wes. "None of this is your fault, Wes. Rebecca came here on her own, and that would have happened whether you dated or not. You didn't do anything wrong. We will work this out— you gotta trust me on that." Wes doesn't say anything, but he nods— trusting her words.

"Ms. Keating, are you ready to begin?" Judge Kendrick asks.

"The defense calls Daniela Alvodar to the stand." As the client goes to take the stand, Simon turns around to face Michaela.

"I'm coming for you," he says in a low voice before turning back around.

Annalise stands next to her desk and starts questioning the client. "Can you tell us about the events that took place August 10, 2013?"

"I was on a rescue mission for aid workers in Afghanistan, guarding a Humvee when I got attacked from behind. The combatant put me in a chokehold, started hitting my head. I still have nightmares, wake up screaming."

"Did you see anyone about these symptoms?"

"I went to the VA. The doctor said it was PTSD."

"And do you think that this PTSD contributed to your altercation with Jace Stone?"

The prosecutor speaks up. "Objection. Speculation."

"Sustained."

"Can you tell us about when Mr. Stone approached you on the dance floor?" Annalise asks.

"He came up from behind me, pressing his body against mine."

"Would you say that this reminded you of the attack that you described?"

"Yes. I was in that moment all over again. That's when everything went black."

The doors to the courtroom open— Bonnie rushes in, holding something in her hands. "One moment, please," Annalise says before approaching her associate.

"Ms. Keating?"

Annalise looks through the file given to her by Bonnie. "I just received new evidence and request a meeting in your chambers. It's urgent, your honor."

"Let's take 15."

April and Michaela exit the courthouse together. "What did you want to talk about before?"

"Us," Michaela says, a little bit hesitant. "I know I said that I only want sex and nothing more, but..." she trails off.

"What?"

Michaela grabs her arm gently, stopping April in her tracks. "I want a relationship... with you. I want us to be girlfriends openly, and I want to go on dates."

April is surprised by her statement. "I thought you wanted to figure things out."

"I do," Michaela nods. "I still am. I haven't labeled myself yet— maybe I am bisexual, but why does it matter? I know that I have feelings for you and that I've never felt this way for anyone else."

"Really?"

"Really. I want to be able to hold your hand and show affection in public. I was worried because I- I didn't exactly plan this. I've planned my future, and I didn't plan to fall for a woman but plans changed because I have. I'm just hoping you feel the same way."

"I do..." April trails off.

"But?"

April lets out a sigh. "I don't have a good track record— not when it comes to dating. I mean... almost all my exes are dead. I've never had a good, long-lasting relationship— ever."

"Me neither," Michaela admits. "And with everything that has happened, I doubt either of us will find someone who understands us. We understand each other, and we know each other. There's nothing you can do to scare me off." April looks conflicted, so Michaela grabs her hands gently. "I want to give us a try— if you do."

A slight smile forms on April's face— which brings a smile to Michaela's face as well. "Okay."

"Okay."

"Don't say I didn't warn you, though."

Michaela chuckles as she grabs April's hand firmly in her own and drags her along. "You won't regret this."

"I hope not."

///

"Professor Keating, you need to see this," April calls out to Annalise, her eyes on the tv screen.

Annalise walks in. "What?"

"Sources confirm that Wallace Mahoney's own son is currently being held without bail, charged with first-degree murder," the reporter says. Bonnie walks in.

"Police have just confirmed that the identity of the suspect in custody is, in fact, Charles Mahoney. No stranger to the justice system. Charles was charged with the violent murder of his fiancé, Vickie Moran, in 2005, but after a highly publicized trial, he was acquitted and released."

"Frank," Annalise says, knowing he is behind it.

"The arrest was made earlier this evening after authorities found the suspected murder weapon, an unregistered Remington 2020, in his car."

"I told you," Bonnie tells Annalise. "He just wants to come home."

[nevermindthewind]

Waurel prompt, kind of a spin on the finale: laurel goes into labor (but full term) in Annalise’s elevator, she calls wes and he shows up just in time

He finds her name in his recents and hits dial with a shaky hand.

She answers on the first ring. “I thought I told you —“

“I know, I know you said not to call unless it’s a disaster. But it’s a disaster,” says Connor, looking around the room for any signs of the others.

“What do you mean?” Annalise asks, her voice tired.

“Laurel’s Dad burned the house down. Everyone is at Caplan and Gold. They’re about to expose him and I don’t know what to do.”

He hears her sigh.

“Don’t do anything. I’ll handle it.”

—

To say Laurel is freaking out would be the understatement of the century.

She’s been stuck in the apartment for what feels like forever, waiting for the call to come, for Asher to let her know that everything had gone according to plan. It’s infuriating, having been the mastermind of the whole thing, to be a literal sitting duck while the rest of the group executed her plan. Originally she had been pacing around the apartment, walking off her nerves. But after an hour or so she gives up, her body more exhausted than she’d ever care to admit; almost nine months of pregnancy having taken its toll on her tiny frame. She eventually takes to the bed, curling into a ball a she runs the plan through her head over and over, imagining every possible outcome.

As she feels the baby swirl around, making his presence known, she knows she made the right choice. She begins tracing random patterns with her index finger over her belly, distracting herself with thoughts of a baby boy with his dimples and her eyes. It’s not long before she’s imagining an entire life for him, a life without the lies and the disappointment she’s come to expect from her own family. A life without her father. All the while the baby continues to roll and kick, more than he has all day. It’s as if he’s just as impatient as she is.

“Just hang in there for one more night little guy,” she murmurs as she brings her hand to rest on the curve her belly, lightly drumming her fingertips as she does so. “Then you’re free to come out at anytime.”

She checks her watch, only to see that another half hour has past without any sort of update. A frustrated groan escapes her lips as she lies back down, trying not to imagine the worst.

They all knew their roles, nothing was going to go wrong. Wasn’t that what she had told them just hours ago? Why couldn’t she take her own advice, and just relax?

Her phone begins to ring, causing her to sit up with surprising ease. Laurel answers in the middle of the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Are you at home?”

Laurel’s eyes harden, her heart rate intensifies. Because it’s not Asher on the other end.

“Annalise.”

“Laurel, listen to me. I can help you,” she says.

She brings her hand to her forehead. Of course Connor snitched. “How can you possibly help?”

“Come to the Easton and I’ll explain. Room 1106. Please, Laurel, you have to trust me again.”

Laurel squeezes her eyes closed, trying to think through every possibility in just a couple seconds. Annalise knows better than anyone how powerful her father is. What can she possibly have that can help them take him down? And why would she want to help Laurel after how she’s treated her the past year?

Despite all of the parts of her screaming at her to say no, Laurel nods. “Okay,” she says. “But this better be good.”

She’s already hung up and out the door before Annalise can respond.

—

The drive to Annalise’s is quick, and it’s not long before she’s walking into the poorly lit hotel. She’d heard from Connor that Annalise was living here and that it wasn’t exactly the nicest hotel. However that failed to prepare her for how rundown it really was. It’s hard for her to believe that Annalise Keating, the once supreme ruler of the Philadelphia law world was now living here, in a two star hotel that looked as though it hasn’t been cleaned in years.

As Laurel walks up to the elevator, there’s an uncomfortable twinge in her belly, a pain different than anything she’s felt before. She presses a hand to the side of her stomach as the other hits the up arrow. The pain goes away just as the elevator clatters to a stop, causing Laurel to breathe a sigh of relief as she steps into the lift. She struggles to shut the grate, but after one particularly hard tug she manages to slam it closed and begin the 11 floor ride up to Annalise’s.

1…2…3…

Anxiety begins to bloom in her chest as the elevator starts to rise. What could Annalise possibly have on her father?

4…5…6…7…

But before Laurel has the chance to properly freak out, a blinding pain hits her out of nowhere, causing one hand to go to her belly while the other grips the railing so hard she can see her knuckles turn white. It’s all she can do not to cry out in the middle of the elevator while the elevator continues its steady climb.

8…9…10…11.

She lets out a whimper as the lift comes to a shaky stop, the bumpiness causing the pain to intensify.

“Open up,” she pants, willing the doors to open faster. However the doors stay frozen in place.

She slams her hand against the door open button. “Open,” she says again, her voice rising with panic. Still nothing.

A moan escapes her lips as the pain intensifies even more.

“PLEASE open!” she begs.

Once again, the doors stay shut.

She hits the emergency button, only to have it fall off and into her hand. Immediately Laurel grabs her phone, typing in 911 as fast as she can, but the no signal flashes before she can even press dial.

Panic washes over her as another contraction hits, pain threatening to tear her entire body apart. What’s going to happen to the baby? What’s going to happen to her?

Her knees buckle, causing her to collapse against the wall.

Some insane part of her lets out a laugh mixed with a cry of pain. Because this can’t be happening. Not tonight. Not now.

She attempts to clear her head, to figure out her next step, but the pain and terror clouds any type of logic she has. All she can do is sit there, and hope that someone hears her.

“HELP,” she cries, banging her fist against the wall. She cradles her belly, feeling the tightness in her muscles. “HELP!”

She continues to yell for a couple minutes, or maybe a couple hours, she can’t tell anymore. Her voice gets weaker and weaker as the pain ripples through her.

“Please,” she sobs. “Please help me.”

She closes her eyes as tears finally begin to fall down her cheeks. “Please help me.”

“Laurel!” A muffled voice calls out to her from the other side of the door.

She must be hallucinating. He’s not supposed to be here.

“Laurel! Annalise called 911. They’re so close. Laurel answer me!”

“Wes?” she calls weakly.

“I’m right here Laurel. I’m trying to get the door open. I’m coming.”

Relief washes over her like a tsunami.

“You promise?” she can’t help but ask.

But before he can respond the door springs open, revealing a disheveled Wes and Annalise on the other side. Immediately Wes rushes to her side, bringing his hand to her cheek.

“You’re okay, Laurel. The ambulance is coming,” he whispers. She curls into him, groaning as another contraction hits. “You’re okay.”

“It hurts,” she croaks out.

“I know,” he replies. “You’re so strong. Just hold on, okay?”

“The paramedics are here,” Annalise says, her phone glued to her ear. “They’re on their way up.”

Not even five minutes later she’s being lifted onto a gurney, and Wes is stripped from her sight.

“Wes?” she calls, panic coursing through her once again.

“I’m right here, Laurel,” he says, quickly coming back into view and taking her hand, “I’m right here.”

And for once, everything’s okay.

[intertwincd]

i just need someone to break this wall of bricks i’ve built (coliver angst)

part 1/3 of the handle with care trilogy

hello, chelsea here. this is a lil something i wrote in attempts to give myself closure and to help myself reminisce of the times everyone in htgawm wasn’t pulling bullshit stunts (aka season 1) and i hope you enjoy it! huge, enormous thank you to @colormayfade for editing and beta-ing too 

oh also i forgot to mention that the title of this part is borrowed from Yuna’s Places to Go

▪ ▪ ▪

i just need someone to break this wall of bricks i’ve built

It wasn’t as if he was scared, right?

Wrong. Of course he was scared, petrified even. Connor never knew what it was like to be brought back into a memory again and again every night; but that was before he and the other 4 of the k-5 killed Annalise Keating’s husband with their very own hands. He woke up drenched in cold sweat some nights; knuckles always bleach white and clutching at his sheets, trying to find some comfort, some security. This, ladies and gentlemen, was one of those nights.

He took lengthy breaths, in and out, trying to wash out the discomfort, fear and most of all—guilt.

In his head, Connor had long stopped trying to forgive himself for what he had done, because it was wrong in every sick disgusting way. Can you imagine killing your lecturer’s husband, cutting him up into sizable chunks and then pouring gasoline over it before proceeding to burn it? They might as well had tied a pink ribbon around the body and left a thank-you card with it at her doorstep.

As Connor raked his fingers through his wet hair, he laughed bitterly at what a mess he was. Even he couldn’t give himself the consolation he needed.

What he did the other night seemed to have created a black hole in him, a vacuum that sucked at whatever dignity or feelings he once had.

“Connor, I know this is hard on you, but you have to try— ” W es had tried to make him feel better, offering empty words of comfort that echoed around the house of Annalise Keating.

“And then what? Forget? We killed a man, Wes. ” Connor had stormed out of the house, unable to sustain another minute being suffocated by the air in the Keating house. God knew how many times he had to put himself through those memories until they’d stop resurfacing.

He sat in his car, letting his head rest against the steering wheel while the steady hum of the engine calmed him. The night in retrospect started its loop again, a broken VCR, a reminder that he had a debt to pay.

He wanted to be punished for what he had done wrong, he wanted to face the consequences of his crimes; but he just couldn’t find the bravery in him to own up.

Although Connor feels the things he does and claims to already accept that he himself had actually done something so unthinkable, he knows there is some part of him that is still in disbelief, too scared to come out of his forged armor and be true to himself for once.

The drive home was painful. Being alone was always an open invitation to the voices and the flashbacks, the silence a game of fill-in-the-blanks for the screaming and wailing.

He turned his music all the way up, and yet all he could hear was a mixture of his own screaming and the voices in his head going on and on and on. Thank God his subconscious self could still drive him home safely.  

A whole week after, and Connor still hadn’t  made any progress , unless the increasing number of beers he could finish within an hour passed as‘progress’.

He always liked living in the city. He found comfort in the fact that it was never completely asleep, and that he could fall into sweet slumber to the whirring of the city coming alive. Like it was a life form on its own, made up of a million others. Despite how people always call him vain and conceited, it was ironic how afraid he was of the idea of solitude.

Every night he turned on the TV, and weirdly enough,  the static buzzing and monotone voices between the constant flickering of channels provided c onnor all the company he needed.

And,  of course, there would be alcohol. Beer, usually, but occasionally, a fancy bottle of Jack as a congratulatory award for putting up with himself for yet another day.  But surely we all know that wasn’t the only reason Connor had such a knack for drinking.

He was pathetic, lonely, and empty–just like the barren apartment he owned.

Connor would fall asleep with the windows open, television still on,  surrounded by a pity party of beer cans scattered everywhere: the coffee table, the floor and even one still half full in his hand.

The other hand would hold a cell phone more often than not, and if you were lucky, his thumb would still hover over that number even his drunk self couldn’t bring to call. On other nights he would lie in the dead center of his bed, arms hugging his knees together, boxing himself in feeble attempts of covering  up that gaping hole in his chest called Oliver.

Who would’ve known Connor Walsh had feelings after all?

When the dreams came, every single detail—especially the ones he tried hardest to blur out or dilute with the uncanny amounts of beers he consumed—would remain untouched; sometimes even clearer and sharper. It was as if the alcohol he doused himself in was never enough to erase the memories, like the blood on his hands that would always make him feel dirty, inside and out no matter how many times he washed them.

The reason Connor took so much alcohol was to knock himself out to the extent that the hangover he’d wake up to could distract him for everything he feared: the truth.

He hated it when he was sober and awake, because even though he’d be one step further from the voices in his head, he would see his life laid out in front of him (like a PowerPoint presentation of his life—“Look, this is how much of a failure you are!”) and, as the people in the streets partied their lives away, he would feel every second passing, every tick of the clock a reminder that this was his life.

Staring at the ceiling, he learns this really is it. The hope and courage and kindness he had accumulated his whole life seemed to lessen every time he replayed that night in his head. He had his one shot in making his life one to be proud of, loving someone and letting them love him back and he blew it. He fucking blew it.

And then as the sky would turn another shade brighter outside the window of Connor Walsh’s apartment, he’d wonder about Oliver.

He’d piece everything together, every fray memory, every single second shared between them—trying so hard to find that one stray thread; the one thing he did or didn’t do—the single moment where he went wrong, the first symptoms of a splintering relationship.

He would go on for hours, just looking at the peeling cream-colored plaster until his vision doubled over. Sometimes, he’d even take out the old shirt Ollie left at his place ages ago and will himself not to call him, even if it meant just being sent to voicemail—at least he could hear his voice.

That’s when he would realize he no longer had the luxury of calling Ollie. He hurt him, and that was reason enough to cut all ties between them.

Do you ever do it? Sift through all the times you’ve had with someone you once held so closely, replaying them in your head again and again, looking for that one happy memory you can hold onto without all the pain that came with it, and then realize there aren’t any and everything is just one meaningless mess? You are down to your hands and knees, trying to clean up the stain of your mistakes that would just never quite disappear. The more you try to mend yourself, the bigger of a mess you make.

And yet, Connor did it repeatedly despite knowing there was nothing left to savor from that fractured relationship between him and Oliver. It hurt him to reminisce, but there was little he wouldn’t do to just hang on to some reminder of the latter.

In summation, it was beyond-words-woeful. But there was something about that one night that was different, because Connor figured it out.

He had found the missing puzzle piece, the answer to his one aching question; he knew where he went wrong. It was all his fault, all him.

He was scared of hurting others, so he never committed and instead gave away parts of himself to people who called him names and moan that ”God, they loved him,” and yet… it was only sex, nothing more.

The thought of commitment and exclusivity scared him enough to never settle down with anyone, enough for him to disappear before they could get his last name, enough for him to only leave empty white sheets in their wake.

He pushed people away when they got emotionally involved—he pushed Ollie away.

For years he had lived in the mindset that he was trying to protect others from getting hurt by him, but all this damned time the only person he was protecting was himself. The more distance he put between himself and all the people who cared for him (or who cared, in general), the safer he felt.

He was a liar. He lied to his parents when he said he was doing fine, he lied to Ollie when he said his charm wasn’t a weapon he used oh so often, but most of all he had been lying to himself: convincing himself that he was only lessening the casualties by doing what he did. He lied and he lied, telling himself he was over it, telling himself he was an independent, capable young man as he would pull out another beer. One sip for taste, two for company and three to forget everything completely.

So much for capability.

▪

There is only one thing worse than waking up smelling like a bar itself on a Tuesday morning with your apartment looking like an aftermath of World War II—having a witness.

In this case, it was Oliver Hampton; IT wizard, hacker, and the newly discovered love of Connor’s life. While you go on to wonder why on earth he was here, Connor’s attention was snatched by that feeling in his stomach whenever he…

“Fuck, I called you, didn’t I?”

Oliver looked up from his tablet, feet propped onto the coffee table that still had empty cans of beer that reeked of misery, despondency and the night before. He looked nothing short of as tired as Connor, and he definitely had been up till late.

For starters, Ollie was always a light sleeper; but his phone had been ringing off the hook; the caller ID flashing like a warning as he pondered on whether he should pick up or block the number. Naturally and eventually, Oliver picked up (he could never delete c onnor’s number anyway, he memorized it by heart); with his sweaty hands while he paced the floor in his slippers.

“Ollie? I know you really don’t want to talk to me right now, and it’s four in the morning…but I just, I figured it all out. I’m so broken and messed up and so fucking stupid, but I figured it all out. I hurt you a lot, and I lied even when the truth was out in the open.”

Oliver stared at the carpet some more, hearing his heart beat in his ear. “And I just need you to know that I’m sorry, and I miss you, I miss you so much. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ollie, I really didn’t.”

The line went dead and the man on the receiving end heard his heart shake and shatter just a little.

That is how he ended up in the depressing apartment of Connor Walsh. With a soft heart like his, Oliver couldn’t have kept away for long even if his life depended on it; he just wasn’t the type to walk away and stay away. He’d known both of them would cross paths sooner or later, but he didn’t expect it to be this soon.

When Oliver had let himself into the apartment (Connor never changed his lock, and he had a spare key—“For emergencies,” Connor had said) the whole place emitted the foul smell of alcohol, and his eyes carried out a panoramic sweep of the area, landing on the subject—a man presumably wearing clothes from the day before, a shirt with its sleeves folded and its collar unbuttoned and a cell phone lying next to his ear.

He did what he had to; changed Connor into one of his old tees and carried him to his bed. He found a trash bag and started to clean up, but stopped halfway. He had to stop picking up after Connor and let him learn his own lessons, or nothing was ever going to work for both of them.

Now, Connor lay in his bed, sitting against the headboard in the fresh set of clothes courtesy of Ollie. “I…What did I say to you?” He looked down, studying the creases on the sheets.

Oliver had so much he’d wanted tell him, so much anger and frustration he hadn’t been able to voice all this time. There were days where he felt he could punch Connor square in the face, but then and there he couldn’t seem to summon that anger because his heart ached in longing for this man that was staring at him, bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair.

“Something along the lines of I really miss you…or some really needy drunk talk?” Connor tried to probe some memory of him calling Ollie, but nothing would come. He chuckled nervously, still struggling to hold a steady gaze.

The bespectacled boy sighed. “You really don’t remember? Not even a little?” A crease formed between his eyebrows, suggesting that the phone call meant so much more than just some “really needy drunk talk” as Connor had put it.

Connor bit his lip, equally frustrated.  “I…really don’t remember.”

The other man reached for his briefcase, putting his tablet inside and getting ready to leave. “Well, then I guess it’s about time I get going.”

 He didn’t sound like Oliver at all. There was something cold in his voice that made Connor feel even more helpless than before.

“Wait, no. Don’t go. Stay.”

Oliver took one look at Connor who held onto the fabric of his shirt, trying to find some part of himself that didn’t feel forlorn.

“Fuck, why do you keep doing this to me?”  

“You always do this. You bat your eyes, and everything goes your way; you tell me to stay and I always do.” Oliver wasn’t thinking anymore. Every word he had vested in himself for so long… they were all pouring out.

“You made me watch you tear my heart to shreds, you cheat on me; and when you turn up again I just fall helpless to your charm, always crawling back to you.” Months and months of words gushed out—a broken dam.

“It’s not fair that I have to go through all of this. Sometimes, I just feel so damn vulnerable, you know? When you use that charm of yours and you get anything you want, I can’t help but feel like I’m just one of those ‘things’ to you. I feel so worthless. You do it repeatedly and you keep hurting me. And when I finally find the courage in me to actually leave you, this is what I get?” Sleepless nights, a thousand and one texts begging to be answered, and tears leaked from his shattered heart.

Connor sat cross-legged on his duvet, startled. Oliver was still …Oliver. The first and last person he had ever truly loved, and everything he said made sense: Connor pushed people away when the only thing he had wanted was to get closer.

“Look around you. You have a drinking problem, and you can’t take care of yourself. I told myself I had to stop cleaning up after your mistakes, because you will never learn if all everyone ever did was cover up your dirty work.”  

Oliver held up an empty can. “Can after can, you are drinking your whole life away, and you don’t seem to care about how you are hurting yourself, but can’t you have a little compassion and see how much this hurts the people around you? How much this hurts me?” Raised voice, pounding head.

“You broke me, Con. You broke me and now that I’ve left you, can’t you at least give me some comfort in knowing we are both better off apart? Not to have you call me four in the morning and see you destroying everything you are? Don’t you think I deserve at least that much?”

Connor kept silent, lost in his own turbulence.

“I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have come looking for some kind of…explanation.” Oliver wiped at his face which was now tear stained. “Look at you.” he laughed bitterly. “You’re not even trying. And those words you said to me, I really thought you figured it out.”

The law student stared at his palms, trying to grasp at any memory of the night before—anything at all.

“You’re right,” Connor started. “I’m a tragedy and I hate it just as much as you do…but I can fix this, I can fix us.”

Oliver scoffed. “God! Get over yourself, Connor. You fucked up, big time and you aren’t going to be able to fix us if you don’t start working on yourself.”

Even in crucial moments like this, Oliver’s heart still ached for what they once shared, but he knew it in his conscience that this was the right thing to do. He handed Connor some freshly laundered clothing and the black garbage bag he found earlier, not making eye contact the entire time.

“Here,” his voice softened, “Clean up this mess. Wash yourself of this self-pity and try to get yourself together.”

At this point, Connor had long surrendered, so he took the towel and went into the shower.

In the small cubicle the water rained down Connor’s lean physique, washing off the feeling of exhaustion, clearing his mind of the haze it had been caught in layer by layer as he lathered his body with soap and rinsed himself clean.

His skin grew red at the heat of the water, and he remembered. He remembered everything—from the beer to calling Ollie—he remembered it all.

Most importantly, he remembered that he did, in fact, figure it out.

He put two and two together and realized that the only reason Oliver would’ve turned up with that light in his eyes only barely lit was because Ollie had chosen to believe him when he said he had an explanation.

With his heart finally revving up again after what seemed like weeks of stagnancy, Connor hastily wrapped his towel around his waist. There was still time. He could still explain himself and convince Ollie he could find a way to mend himself and their relationship—light up that fire in Oliver’s eyes again.

“Ollie?” Connor called out as he stood before his apartment, only to be greeted by the quiet Ollie-less air of the living hall.

What lay before him was a whole new arrangement, a few novels stacked neatly on the coffee table replacing the beer cans that had been there for weeks on end, a laundry bag of clean clothing and the shades opened to let the light in.

Connor looked around for any sign that Ollie might return afterwards only to find a spare key—laid next to a bag of Chinese takeout.

The steam from the food was wafting out in slow spirals—warm, just like the spot on Connor’s temple that tingled; remnants of the kiss Oliver had left when Connor was tucked in bed, his calloused fingers clutching Oliver’s hand.

Connor probably didn’t realize, but that was the first time his nightmares kept quiet through the night.

[cchambers]

Five Years

ao3

 AN: I'm sorry for this. Thanks for reading!

It had been five years. Five, long years. Connor was watching him, but it was like looking, staring into a warped mirror, the image distorted, the glass dusty after never being clean for so long. Oliver sat across from him, for the first time in five years.

His body was tight, tense as he leaned back into the booth, his nervous stare never leaving Connor's- he remembered the way they looked at each other, the glimmer in their eyes when the other caught him staring, but now it was lost in memories, never coming back. Oliver's voice was steady, "Hi." Connor reached for his drink, "Hi." Oliver was wearing glasses, his eyes hidden behind the frames; Connor's stomach turned when he saw a hint of a tear welled in the corner. Neither of them knew what to say: Connor had so many thoughts, jumbled inside his brain and drilling a hole, a migraine starting to ping in his temples. So many words, but his voice was gone. You left me. We left each other. We were in love. Once, five years ago. "You've done well for yourself," Oliver said quickly, the words spit out of his mouth, "I saw that case your firm did on the news. You were wonderful, Connor." He was proud of him, that was all Connor ever wanted, all he ever tried to do: make him happy, make him proud. No, you failed. "Do you still live here?" Connor asked, "In New York?" The city was big, but Connor still looked, searched for the back of Oliver's head, listened for the sound of his voice. "No," Oliver sighed, fidgeting with his glass. He didn't want to be here. "I moved back to Philly, got an offer from a great start up company." Connor remembered the nights spent at the table, a smile plastered on his face as he watched Oliver gush about the latest computer nerd stuff he buried himself in. You didn't listen, when he said no, when he tried to stop you, you didn't listen to him.   Connor was alone, in his apartment, in New York. Oliver was in another state, out of sight, but never out of mind. "I'm glad you made something of yourself, Connor." Oliver said, "I'm glad you moved on." Middleton, seared into his memories. The Keating five. Wes. Annalise. Sam. He was still friends with Michaela, bound by the sick horrors of law school. She was at a firm a couple blocks down from his, clawing her way to the top of the food chain. Most of the time, Laurel was with her. Connor was happy, that she found someone to keep. Someone to love. But he was still hurting. It had been five years. Oliver, who wasn't his Oliver, who was different, changed. His Oliver, with his smile and his laugh and his love. His Oliver, who he left. The world broke. Connor couldn't handle it, couldn't handle anything. The stress of thrown into the real world, still carrying the murders, the permanent guilt. He crashed. He worried. It was all he did, it consumed him, like a virus, sick and deadly. His first thought was Annalise. How she said they were alike, how they worried, how she stripped him of his soul, how she knew everything. Worriers, murders. Worrying. Connor didn't want to drag Oliver down with him. "What?" He'd never forget the crack in Oliver's voice, the way his face fell, the way he broke. "I love you," he'd said, he'd begged, "Connor, I love you." And he loved Oliver, too. He loved him so much. You do terrible things to protect the ones you love. "What did I do? Please, Connor, tell me. I'll try to fix it. I'll try to fix everything." "Oliver," he'd said. "There's nothing that can be fixed." The only person who could fix Connor was himself. He lied. Told Oliver he felt something. That maybe the love wasn't there anymore. They signed the divorce papers three months later. He let them drift apart, lose themselves. Connor's ring was still in his drawer. Five years. They would've been married for five years. "Did you miss me?" It hurt to ask, and Connor kicked himself, bit his tongue. Oliver nodded, wiped away a tear that escaped and ran down his cheek. "I did. I really did." Connor still ached, still ached for him, the pain lingering, coming in waves. "Five years," Connor said. "Five years." Connor saw the flicker of the gold, shining in as it caught the light from the lamp hanging overhead. A ring. Oliver turned, whirled around in his seat. Across the bar, a man sat, staring directly at them. He sipped a cocktail, trying to advert his eyes when he saw he was caught. He was looking at Oliver the way Connor used to. "What's his name?" Oliver shrunk; he didn't want Connor to know. "Henry." Henry. Henry was wearing the same ring. Everything hurt. Tears burned in Connor's eyes, and he felt his heart, shattering into pieces, shot by an imaginary bullet. "Two years," Oliver fought the urge to smile, a blush forming. He was in love, and Connor wanted that so badly. He used to have it. Then he let it walk away. "I would've stayed," Oliver's voice was shaky, and he reached across to take Connor's hand. "You know that." But you didn't let him, you let him walk away, you didn't even fight, you just- "I know." "I loved you." "I know." Oliver rose from the booth first, stepping back and holding out his hand. "It was good to see you, Connor." Did he want to say more? Did he want to scream, cry? Connor pulled him into a hug, wanting to feel his heartbeat, smell his cologne, feeling the weight of him in his arms once last time. "Five years," Connor said. "Five years."

[vervevibesvino]

Vibes + Vino: Langmeil Hangin’ Snakes 2013 with Run the Jewels 3

Vibes: Run the Jewels 3 - Run the Jewels Vino: Langmeil Hangin’ Snakes Shiraz/Viognier Blend 2013

Quick notes: Black fruit. Bold and bracing, but not flamboyant impact. Fine tannins. Medium+ alcohol. Somewhat leggy but doesn’t stick. Pepper notes.

Comparatives: “I hope with the highest of hopes” a hopeful (not to be mistaken with enthusiastic) dogma sets the tone in “Down”, track numero uno of RTJ3. This creed acts as a blanket for the suppressed combustion of later tracks, ignited like suppressed “when will we be heard?” and “brace yourself for [insert X event here]” narrations fighting for mental and physical existence within media, policy, and humanism in 2016 going into 2017.

There is no shortness of politically charged anthems this past year and the third major Killer Mike/El-P collab plunges into the same murky, turmoil-of-the-times waters. They echo similar reality-check perceptions not limited to police brutality, race relations, and wage gaps.

This bracing form is like Australian, Barossa Valley Shiraz: bold, with unabated, consuming defiance. It’s gripping in concentration. But much like this Langmeil blend mellowed out by Viognier, it alters within axial commotion in a warzone that’s not defined by time or space. A very middle-fingers-up account if you will. To my fellow binge watchers of How to Get Away with Murder, I imagine something like a raging urgency, teary-eyed, snot-flying Annalise Keating dropping a verse in the “Don’t Get Captured” RTJ3 track as a reference point.

Run the Jewels collectively have a running-the-bureaucratic-gamut emcee history even before they both linked up in 2012. It’s evolved since. RTJ3 to me is Gil Scott-Heron preaching rhetoric, just short of direct 2pac and Immortal Technique “fuck you”s, with Public Enemy tenacity… warily looking for accountability like a Malcom X speech in the 60s. This dynamic is all met with a bit of resistance, all exposed with a screen of fog in-between, all very much with the unfortunate reality to be misconstrued.

The common confusion between Shiraz/Syrah/Petite Syrah (Shiraz and Syrah are the same — two different names for the same red wine grape just from different regions, while Petite Sirah is related but entirely different) paints a comparable picture to these type of misconstrued matters, and how easy it is for world perception, especially in music, to coin artists as catalysts to sudden, for-no-reason outlash rather than as reporters of societal observation and fear. The aftereffects then mutating from the culmination of varied disqualifying of civil realities, much giving weight to the Dr. King speech sample of “a riot is the language of the unheard.”

The syncopated, back-to-back texture of rapid fire Killer Mike baritone and El-P wit bombs crisscrossed to that 808 snare reap very human, primal responses to the inhabiting brainwork of those of us just on the tip of revolt (or already there), but met with a heartbreak barricade (i.e. “It sounds like war/And it breaks our hearts” from A Report To The Shareholders/Kill Your Masters).

It’s as if we’re screaming faux obscenities like a 10 y.o. who can’t swear in front of the parents. Which, coincidentally, is the theory of how the “Hangin’ Snakes!” wine name came about  — one of Langmeil’s best growers doesn’t curse, hence the expression, “Hangin’ Snakes!”. EXCEPT, in the RTJ3 and 10 y.o. shriek-like cases, even the so-called obscenities are clear behind the backdrop of fog.

The position many journalists have taken in the wake of the election conveys this on the nail. While there are both brilliant and horrific versions of each, I can’t think of another example in time, at least in most recent years, when important figures in the print and digital realms willingly jumped off the censored dick-riding wagon, alternately taking defiant jars openly [in reporting] (still with a lot of tongue-holding, but much less in comparison to preceding political matters) despite all ramifications of doing so.

Politics hasn’t absolved itself from musical voice -- it’s there, affecting community, sculpting faith, questioning authority. RJT3 simply emphasizes how the anguish and uncertainty of our current political climate actualizes the desperation in the air and brings us back to the mechanics of hope, if nothing else.

Most of the album you don’t know where RTJ3 is going, but it’s a paradigm they unmistakably execute well as the heaviest duo of critical hopefuls. It’s a call to arms caution that our current state is not a moratorium to government affairs, it’s a rough, combative hallmark where there are no segways. The rhythm in their message pounces on advocacy and how action met with doubt decays, while action met with hope withstands the war. So while we push forward and the world watches, the perpetual physical and mental muscle comes in the form of spiritual-like guidance: “you defeat the devil when you hold onto hope.”

[viralhottopics]

Viola Davis: Im pretty fabulous

Her extraordinary performance in the upcoming Fences has seen Viola Davis tipped for an Oscar. But her success has taken a huge amount of self-belief. She tells Alex Clark why it is only through demanding respect that you get the parts you are due

Its the run-up to Christmas and everybody in Los Angeles, which to a Brit feels unseasonably sun-drenched, is bemoaning the chilly weather; as we settle down in the Beverly Hills hotel, Viola Davis draws a warm jacket around her shoulders. Not that shes complaining: throughout our conversation, she is determinedly upbeat, celebratory, optimistic. She radiates a sense of excitement and satisfaction that, at 51, all the hard work is really beginning to pay off.

Five years ago, when Davis was playing the role of the maid Aibileen in The Help, for which she was nominated for an Academy Award, she told me that, as a dark-skinned actress in Hollywood, she had done what it was at my hand to do, even if that didnt give her as much scope for her talents and energies as she would have liked. Ive had to sink my teeth into a role that was probably a fried-chicken dinner and make it into a filet mignon.

Now, with film roles coming out of her ears, the lead in the TV drama How To Get Away with Murder and her own production company, she is opposite Denzel Washington in the film adaptation of August Wilsons Pulitzer prize-winning play Fences. (After our meeting, she begins 2017 by winning a Golden Globe for her performance, saying in her acceptance speech that the film Doesnt scream moneymaker, but it does scream art and it does scream heart.) Surely the role of Rose Maxson is a filet mignon.

She bursts out laughing. This is absolutely a filet mignon a medium-well filet mignon. And Davis clearly relishes every bite: her performance as a wife and mother in 1950s Pittsburgh, struggling at every turn to hold her family together, to absorb the rage and disappointment of her husband Troy and to protect her sons innocence and ambition, is electrifying so involving that it invokes an almost physical response. We watch as Rose is beguiled and charmed by the charismatic, storytelling Troy, unable to chide him for his excesses without dissolving into mirth, and as she seeks to intercede on others behalves to limit the damage his temper and pride cause. It takes almost the whole film, however, for Rose to voice her own feelings and desires.

That was the role of womanhood in the 50s, says Davis. You were an instrument for everyone elses joy except for your own. The 50s in America had the highest rate of alcoholism and depression. There were whole manuals out there that were being passed out about how to make your husband happy put on make-up when he walks through the door, after a long day of work, dont weigh him down with any of your problems, ask him about his problems, greet him with a smile, make sure the children are fed and theyre clean, his favourite meal is on the table, and nowhere in that manual is anything about her joy, and the centre of her happiness.

She has been here before, and with Washington; they are reprising the roles they played in the 2010 Broadway revival of the play, for which they both won Tony awards; and they are rejoined by Russell Hornsby and Mykelti Williamson as Troys son and brother respectively. Part of Wilsons 10-play Century Cycle, in which the playwright chronicled the experiences of African Americans decade by decade, Fences transition on to the big screen has taken so long because its author, who died in 2005, insisted that its director be black a simple demand revealingly hard to accomplish in Hollywood.

Now, Washington himself directs, and his key artistic choice is apparent the moment the film begins: he has preserved the works theatrical origins, with nearly all the action taking place in a confined domestic space, and dialogue ranging from quick-fire ensemble scenes to extended soliloquies. The effect is disconcerting we rarely see such unfiltered staginess on film but always riveting; there is not an inch of slack, a word wasted.

Davis herself has two show-stopping speeches, in which she first rails at life and at last attempts to make her peace with it. What was different about playing Rose this time around? She replies that she had been sitting with this narrative for so long and never quite got the ending until I did the movie. And I keep saying to myself that the reason I didnt get the end is because she is at a place that probably most of us as human beings never get to, and that is a place of forgiveness and grace. I think that most of us spend a lifetime holding on to the past, even when we feel like were letting go a bit.

Maid in Hollywood: a scene from The Help with Viola Davis as Aibileen Clark, and Bryce Dallas Howard and Ahna O Reilly. Photograph: Dale Robinette/DreamWorks

She holds close to the advice of psychiatrist Irvin D Yalom that one must give up all hope of a better past. Davis herself grew up in extreme poverty; she has spoken powerfully about the series of makeshift dwellings she, her parents and five siblings occupied in Rhode Island, about hunger and lack of sanitation, about her fathers violent abuse of her mother. The letting go seems to take two distinct but related forms: allowing herself to feel good about what she has achieved, and building platforms that will help broaden the possibilities for a new generation of actors, writers and directors of colour.

She cites her delight at seeing Shonda Rhimes, the producer behind Greys Anatomy, Scandal and How To Get Away with Murder, accepting a Norman Lear achievement award in Television last year. She said: I happily accept this award because I deserve it. I LOVE IT. Absolutely love it. Its the waking up and understanding that OK, you may not be the best person out there, but youve put in enough work to understand that you deserve what youve got, that that is what is at the end of hard work. The happily ever after comes after youve done the work. And to literally understand, especially as a woman, that a closed mouth doesnt get fed, youve got to ask for what you want and expect to get it.

I remark that its noticeable how often women play down their successes; how they will even deflect minor compliments on appearance. Why does she think that happens? I think tapping into ones power and ones potential is a very frightening thing, she replies. And for women its a very new thing. It is. I always used to feel that self-deprecation was an answer to humility that people would see me as a humble person the more I put myself down. And people do say that: Oh! I ran into so-and-so and they kept saying, Oh, my work in this really sucked, and they were great! I just thought it was so refreshing that they said that! And I often think to myself, what if someone says, You know what, Im confident, Im really happy about the work I did. I really felt like I gave it my best and it came out great, the same way men do. Why is that not seen as humble?

Motherhood has given me a different telescope to look at life: with husband Julius Tennon. Photograph: Tibrina Hobson/Getty Images

Her increasing ability to feel comfortable with her achievements is linked to an awareness of her emerging position as a figure of influence. The more Im pushed in a position of leadership and I know I have to be the mouthpiece for so many other people who cant speak for themselves, the more confidence Im gaining. And that extends to the way she views her own past and the more she shares her story. She explains: I can hear myself say, Oh yeah, I took the bus five hours just to get to the theatre, then took it five hours back, and Im listening to that, Im being an objective observer, and thinking to myself I did that? Its like looking at an old picture of yourself when you felt like you looked bad, and you go, Wow, I was fabulous! Thats how I feel about my life now that Im looking back at it, and Im like, Im pretty fabulous. I really am. Im pretty fabulous.

Back in 2011, when we talked about Daviss commitment largely via JuVee, the production company she founded with her husband, Julius Tennon to addressing the limited opportunities afforded people of colour by the entertainment industry, she expressed her hope we wouldnt be having the same conversation in five years time. Naturally, because challenging entrenched privilege takes time, we are, but it has shifted ground. Davis herself is scheduled to play the part of Harriet Tubman, who liberated slaves in the Civil War era, and to star in Steve McQueens Widows, a revisiting of Lynda LaPlantes TV series co-scripted by Gone Girls Gillian Flynn. Its not even a role that would be necessarily written for an African American, but not according to him. Hes like: Why not?

Davis brings up The Help, and says that although she loved making the film, she understands the criticisms levelled at it that women of colour were once again placed in the role of maids, and not portrayed as tapping into their anger as much as they could have. Tapping into all the things they could have been other than the maid. Partly, she thinks, that relates to the image of the black maid as a nurturer, a second mother, so that even within the movie, there are certain things that are not going to be explored, if it somehow messes up the memory of what the audience had, that perfect mother. She couldnt be angry. She couldnt be sexualised. Shes gotta stay that image that brings us comfort and joy knowing that we were loved and nothing more than that.

Davis loves the riposte to that one-dimensional figure provided by the character of Annalise Keating, the firecracker law professor, ambitious, potent and flawed, that she plays in How To Get Away with Murder. Its blowing the lid off everything that people say we should be, especially as a dark-skinned woman, that you cant be sexual, you cant be unlikable, you can be angry but with no vulnerability, you cant be damaged, you cant be smart. It blows the lid off all of it. And even if its not executed all the time in ways that people like, it doesnt matter. What matters is that shes out there. Thats it. Shes out there, shes on screen, shes making an impact.

In the 1950s women were an instrument for everyone elses joy except their own: Viola Davis with Denzel Washington in a scene from Fences. Photograph: David Lee/AP

Another fundamental has changed in the past five years; in 2011, she and Tennon adopted a baby, Genesis, who is even as we speak frolicking in a nearby hotel room. When Davis and I are done, her babysitters release the six-year-old to bound along the corridor and leap into her mothers arms, asking whether she can go and buy a swimming costume in the hotel boutique and head for the pool. Her mother observes that in such a luxurious joint, its a purchase that could easily come to a couple of hundred dollars, but concedes that theyll work something out (you imagine somebody might be despatched to Gap).

Davis combines motherhood which she says has changed her utterly, and given her a different telescope through which to see life with work by clever stratagems and good planning; often taking Genesis with her, only making one film a year, having a TV shooting schedule that allows her days off and free weekends. She claims to live by two mantras Im tired, and Im doing the best I can but she doesnt look remotely weary. And things might be about to get a whole lot busier. She was the first African American to win the outstanding lead actress in a drama series Emmy award for her role as Annalise Keating; alongside numerous other awards, she has hitherto been nominated for two Oscars for The Help and Doubt. But now her role as Rose Maxson is being spoken about as a cert for nomination and a very strong contender to win her an Academy Award come February. Has she allowed herself to think about it? She pauses, laughs, parries.

You know what I know about that? Because I dont know if thats going to happen or not. But what I will say about this is, and this is how I keep my perspective, whatever happens, Ive gotta go back to work. The carpets are going to be rolled up, the people are going to stop calling like that, and Ive gotta go back to work. And you cant bring that Oscar on a set, and that Oscar cant do the work for you. You gotta do it. Thats what Ill say.

Fences is released on 10 February

Read more: http://bit.ly/2iq9KWq

from Viola Davis: Im pretty fabulous

[cchambers]

Volatile Times

AN: After seeing all the theories of Connor killing Wes, I got inspired. So, another cliché fic where Connor shoots Annalise in 2x09 . (It’s probably been done before) Enjoy!

The phone rang three times.

The bathroom was dimly lit, smelling of dried pee and the water of the sink was tinted with brown, rusted and tainted. It didn’t matter, whatever scrubbed the red staining his hands, such a deep crimson it was almost as if he dipped his hands in buckets of paint.

But this was no masterpiece.

How long had he standing there, he didn’t know, but the silence grabbed him from behind and held him as if he were its long lost lover.

Ring, ring, ring. His phone vibrated against the counter, shaking slightly from the force. It brought him back, and only until the ringing stopped did he realize that he caused it himself.

“Hey, this is Oliver. I can’t come to the phone right now, so please, leave a message!” A low beep echoed through the gas station bathroom, humming against the walls.

“Ollie.”

Connor breathed, a shuddery sound that caught in his throat almost like a whimper. He inhaled sharply, the heart in his knife twisting, the knots in his stomach strengthening.

“Oliver, you know I’d do anything for you, right?” He was talking to himself, his heart spilling onto the tiled floor, pouring out of his chest like water from a broken dam, shattering and cracking on the edges until it all came together to form one big crash.

Computer hacking, falsifying records, and that face…The friends he’d make behind bars.

The words were venom, injected into his bloodstream with a needle; a vial he drank from until he coughed up his lungs.

“Connor, stop!” Michaela jumped into harm’s way, pleading with him as tears ran down her cheeks, the moonlight glowing on her face. She was pleading and praying to a God who wasn’t there.

All eyes were on him, but Annalise had his gaze, the gun held out to him the same way she held out that trophy to him. “Shoot me.”

It was an order, barely above a whisper, but her voice was clear and she held herself together, despite the hysteria clouding the room like a fog.

Oliver.

She would destroy him, destroy them. Oh, how badly it would destroy Connor, deep from the inside, ripping him apart as if he were nothing more than a piece of paper.

Without Oliver, Connor had nothing left to lose.

He would never forget the sound of the gunshot, the blinding white veil falling over his face as the bullet hit its target. He didn’t see where, and he lunged for Annalise, hands desperately searching for the wound, soaked with blood.

Someone with strong hands pulled him away and threw him out of the room, and screams still rung in his ears.

Annalise Keating faced her death, and Connor presented it to her on a golden plate.

So many things rushed through his mind, but only one fully reached him: Oliver. You did it for him. He’s safe. He’s safe.

The phone rang once more.

He left another message.

“Ollie, I am…” his lungs were heavy with sobs, shaking him to his core and rocking his body with the force of a storm. “I’m so sorry, Oliver.”

The wall was against his back, and Connor fell onto the floor, his knees locking and his legs turning to rubber.

The message was still going.

“Whatever happens now, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want any more blood on my hands.” Connor had screamed at her, rage blinding his conscience. He was so furious he didn’t care how terrified he was of her, or how powerful she was.

Weeks later, he found himself in a gas station bathroom with just that: hands covered in blood… Annalise’s blood.

He was a criminal, a cold blooded, selfish son of a bitch.

He was in love.

“Oliver, I didn’t want this to happen. I just wanted to keep you safe. I was so worried, I was so scared, and I didn’t want you to be hurt. You’ve been hurt enough.”

How much would this hurt Oliver? Would it be nothing more than a paper cut; or a stab in the back?

“I’m so sorry.”

Connor’s time was almost running out.

Michaela’s voice was muffled as she called his name, knocking on the door.

He had to leave, and he didn’t know what would happen when he walked out the door. Hell waited idly on the other side with a calm smile.

“Oliver, I’m sorry.”

[delilahmidnight]

Lol I still hate frank and he looks even more like a pedophile without hair

Also @ annie and wes screaming together in the middle of the woods at night = mood

GODDAMN LAUREL LOOKS SO DAMN GOOD WITH HER NEW HAIR OH MY GOD

When Annalise smiles……..I….die…

FURKGKBKDKJV ASHER DJKGKGKD

same tho honestly this drake guy is a douche

I love murder mom reassuring her murder kids. Concept: they have a normal semester where nothing bad happens. Everyone is happy and gets enough sleep.

(Yeah right.)

Wait I feel like im missing something–caleb was guilty of his parents murders and he killed himself, but we haven’t heard anything else about the case? Is it over?

*GASP* HERE SHE IS THE LIGHT OF MY LIFE THE STAR IN MY SKY

oh my god oh my gOD SHE LOOKS SO FREAKING GOOD GODDAMN SHES WEARING PANTS AND A FEATHERY SHIRT TO MATCH HER FEATHERY HAIR I LOVE IT I LOVE HER SO MUCH I MISSED YOU CUPCAKE FACE

lmao annies tryna be a good person now and bonnies tempting her with a rich gang leader mmmmmm

awwww shes planting flowers!!! Love it. Annie needs some therapeutic relaxing activities.

Ah, chickie’s mama lives in mexico

Finally laurels dumped franks bitch ass

Laurel insisting shes on annies side and sticking up for herself, thank god. I need these two to stop being so antagonistic to each other. Laurel choosing annie over frank, yesss.

Also btw both annie and laurel are wearing some premium Soft Gay Looks in this scene and. I love it

“weenball” shdhjfjckd ASHER

Im……they said imam and mosque……….in a completely neutral tone of voice and situation………..the same way they might have said church or priest…………I feel………………valid???????

Mmmmmmmmmmokay I know th is is not at all relevant but this next scene is….the exact place on campus where I fell in love with Her….the magnolia trees….the red brick benches…..im….having a lot of feels about 9am on Tuesday mornings. God I miss Her.

MurderMom!Annie promising to protect oliver and not letting him be “ruined” (again that word)

ollies hand is shaking when he hands over his proposal ommmmm

Noooo pls dont hire him :(

I love how everyone is always so genuinely happy to see ollie, it’s like hes the puppy of the group even tho hes probably the oldest lol

for the last time annie, no one needs to be protected from you, YOU do the protecting babe!!

Ommm laurel and her thing for kids I love her so much

Lmfao Connors throwback comment to when michaela did the exact same thing in the very first episode

Ohm ygod d???? Laurel in a pantsuit is............................gay. also I'm gay.

my girlyyyyy she looks so good goddamn

annie being truthful with connor and compromising with him to keep ollie safe

I…….really love Annalise……….so much…….lliste n…..she never wanted kids…..but shes taking such good care of the idiots she has now…….im….gonna cry…..she came to pick up a drunk Michaela and called her out for acting like a child (which she does under stress)????? and told her to come over if she needs to drink so she can keep her safe???? I…….would die for Annalise Keating. Know this.

This is like….the most neutral bonnalise scene ive ever seen and it’s still painful as hell. Annie automatically getting up and pouring bonnie a glass of vodka even tho she JUST sat down and took her shoes off. Bonnie not taking her eyes off annie for one second. Bonnie delicately suggesting Frank is dead and that she would understand if annie had done it. The most vulnerable we’ve ever seen annie be in front of bonnie in a non confrontational situation–“im no killer, bonnie”– and all I want is for bonnie to reach out and touch annie, reassure her that she knows shes not a killer, and they cant even give me that, all I get is angst hanging in the air between them so stifling its like a suffocating sadness while they sit there alone together, close enough to touch but never actually reaching it

laurel babyyyyy :( she wants so badly to be a friend, to be good, but that little chin dimple of hers keeps appearing and that means she thinks shes failing ugh

Also meggys a hugger that is SO CUTE

Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttttttttttttttttttttt he knooooowwwwwwwwwssssssss fu k fuck fuck fuck shes in so much danger

Mk so i saw spoilers ages ago so im guessing its wes in the ambulance and frank who set fire to the house. Also throwback to Ophelia burning her house down to punish clyde for raping annie. I really hope im wrong and that ill be surprised by a plot twist but