#adults can’t abuse other adults in positions of power /s

[maybeiwasjustjade]

Genuinely, perhaps 99% of me, believes that the only reason Condal and Hess made HOTD Aegon a r*pist/have adult Aegon’s introduction the aftermath of the SA of a maid, was because they knew that if Aegon was just a drunk and a cheat—like almost all Westerosi men—he would be too tragic of a character not to root for, and they really couldn’t have that. No, Aegon has to be the monster to Rhaenyra’s saint, because if you took away the act that made him monstrous, he’s so easy to root for, and the TB/TG divide would be significantly larger.

Cheating and visiting brothels are quite common in Westeros, with the vast majority of male characters doing one or the other or both. Drinking is even more so. Aegon would still be palatable with either or both traits because it doesn’t make him worse than Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra had three bastards with Harwin because Laenor’s gay, so it makes her affair understandable and valid. Aegon was forced to marry his own sister as a young teen, and clearly despises the whole targ-incest tradition. Why is it a crime that he doesn’t find his little sister sexually or romantically attractive???

Aegon’s basically a Greek tragedy made flesh. The eldest son conceived to be a long-awaited heir, yet simultaneously cheated out of a birthright. Born wanted yet unwanted, the heir who is not an heir. Meant to be loved, yet raised without it, with a mother’s disdain and fear as his only companion. His father stopped wanting him sometime after his second birthday (probably around the time Jacaerys was born), and his mother never wanted him anyway. His mere existence is a threat to a crown he never wanted, yet nobody cared when they placed it on his head. He wants love but no one loves him, and contrary to popular belief, that lack of love didn’t just stem from adulthood. He was a little boy once too, who very much didn’t deserve that level of apathy.

Married to his sister despite his clear disdain for his family’s incestuous tradition. Forced to father children on her at the grand old age of sixteen (and she fourteen). The only thing he ever really loved was his dragon, and the children he had. And even those he loses to tragedy, and someone else’s doing.

It’s not at all a surprise that Aegon’s defining trait is his love for Sunfyre. A ridiculously strong bond, born from years of having only each other. Moreover, a dragon is the symbol of power, which Aegon has little of. He can’t protect himself from his own family’s abuse or machinations, and unless he claims the crown everyone he loves will die. Dragons also represent freedom, and the ability to just fly away. And if there’s one thing Aegon wants more than anything in the world, it’s to run away from his family and the accursed throne.

In that, he’s not so different than a young Rhaenyra (pre-personality change anyway). Young Rhaenyra hated having to conform to societal standards. Hated having no choice but to marry, and to whom. She too wanted to fly away to freedom. There’s too many parallels between the two, even down to their ages pre-timeskip. Rhaenyra was about 18, and Aegon now is only 20. Yet Rhaenyra at 16’s only problem was whether her infant brother would replace her as heir, while Aegon’s was being forced to play house with his sister and newborn twins.

Perhaps misogyny and society would always be Rhaenyra’s greatest opponent, and the same Aegon’s ally when it comes to their claims, but it was not the only issue. Precedent declared that Aegon would be heir ahead of her, yet it was Rhaenyra’s position and honor that Viserys defied law for, even when she committed high treason against the crown thrice. She got everything; Aegon had nothing. He’s the underdog of the story, not her. So had they not made him an on screen r*pist (unlike Daemon who was off-screen one and merely an on-screen pedo and wife-killer), it would’ve been very hard for the writers to push their “Rhaenyra good, TG bad” narrative. Those two would’ve had too many parallels and foils for it to work, and they really couldn’t have that, could they.

No, Aegon has to be the villain; Rhaenyra has to be the hero. It’s a black and white war, good vs evil. That’s the story HOTD is trying to sell, and not at all the complex tragedy of a family tearing itself and its dynasty into pieces over greed and idiocy.

[severitus-big-bang]

Prompts and ideas for your SeveritusBB work

Categories

as taken from the Potions and Snitches site:

Big Brother Snape [23] Stories where Snape and Harry have the same parents, or one parent in common with each other. May be biological or adopted, officially or not.

Snape Equal Status to Harry [279] Snape and Harry have the same status and are equals in social power. Subcategories are Colleagues Snape and Harry, Foes Snape and Harry, and Comrades Snape and Harry.

Healer Snape [251] Stories where Snape heals Harry in some way. Healer - one that heals or attempts to heal. Healing: the process of recovery, repair, and restoration.

Master Snape [38] Stories where Snape has absolute authority over Harry; consists of Apprentice Harry, Headmaster Snape, and Slave Harry.

Parental Snape [1159] Snape exercises paternal care over Harry; to perform the tasks or duties of a parent or father. Subcategories include Biological Father Snape (Sevitis and Severitus stories), Stepfather Snape, and Guardian Snape.

Reverse Roles [51] Harry Potter takes care of Severus Snape. Roles are opposite or contrary in position, direction, order, or character. Subcategories include Big Brother Harry, Healer Harry, Master Harry, Parental Harry, Teacher Harry.

Teacher Snape [1002] Snape teaches or instructs Harry, esp. as a profession; instructor. Contains Trusted Advisor Snape, Professor Snape, and Unofficially teaching Snape.

Starting points

Which relationship are you aiming for? - see categories and Severitus relationship

Canon/Canon divergent/AU

In which time is the story set? (era)

Is there a background Severus/xy ship (for example Lily, James, Sirius, Petunia, OC, …) or a background Harry/xy ship (Ginny, Hermione, Ron, Draco, Cho, OC, whoever you can think about)

Tropes

Hurt/Comfort - injury at school/after encounter with Voldemort/ because of the Dursleys

Family fluff

Time travel (reversed Severitus?)

Angst

Humour

…

Setting

Hogwarts

Spinner's End/Cokeworth

Potter Residence/Gordic’s Hollow

Surrey

…

How old are the characters

Toddler

Kid

Student

Adults

…

Classic prompt ideas

Hogwarts setting

Severus is the only adult at Hogwarts to notice how Harry is doing after Quirrel's death/ Cedric’s death/Sirius’ death

Severus is the one to find out about the Dursley’s neglect/abuse

Someone discloses that Severus is in fact Harry’s biological father, but Lily had to hide it

Harry is put in Slytherin and therefore Snape can’t [be seen to] hate him

Friendship between two professors

Reverse Severitus

Harry travels back in time (to prevent Severus’ death?) by looking after him from a young age Either as a professor/mentor or he adopts him

Severus is de-aged and Harry decides to look after him

AU where their roles are reversed and Harry notices how much Severus struggles

Early in Harry’s life

Severus decides to adopt/care for Harry directly after Lily’s death (he is godfather?)

Severus is sent to look if everything in Privet Drive is all right and finds out about cupboard 

Dumbledore places Harry with him against his will

Sev decides to take Harry away

Dursleys refuse to take Harry in - needs to be places somewhere else

Harry runs away - is taken in by Severus

Severus finds him by accident

Severus is tasked to find him

Lily put in her will that Harry should go to Severus (turns out he is his father but didn’t know)

Severus knows he is Harry’s father but promised Lily not to tell, after the Potters' deaths he takes on his responsibilities

AU - Potters survive

Severus and Lily are together

Severus and James are together 

Triad Severus/Lily/James

Godfather Severus, Uncle Severus…

(Adoptive) brother Severus

...

Actual prompts

Challenges created by P&S members can be found here:

[vewyscawwynawcissist]

List of red flags

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UOEVeDMWQ3XPQed1Y7ZB5PU4z3mD2b2dXVBqDqlFUhE/edit?usp=sharing

^ more updated version this is a list of general red flags

   -playing victim to dominate -not taking repsonisbility

-dodging issues -rigid self absorbed thinking

  -takes actions and leads you, forces themeslves on you, forces you to walk their way, yells at, judges, assaults, children and vulnerable groups.

  -tries to control your emotions and expressions blames you for getting aggressive after repeatedly violating borders gets aggressive when you try to take whats yours as if its within their borders -takes their privileges for granted and doesn't want to share when it's the right thing to do -orders you how to dress

-doesn't allow you to talk to friends or strangers, people of particular

gender or age or wahtever -tries to draw your attention to them in a controlling disruptive way disrupts your routine and is selfish about it, doesn't try to take alternative solutions that let you both be -minimizes and ridicules your needs for proper nutrition, sleep, exercise, amenities or ohter things that any nromal being needs to keep themselves together -makes you financailly, emotionally, any way dependent on them instead of giving you power to be more independent yourself

  -puts their items everywhere and doesn't give you proper and fair space for your items, says "you dont need it that much, u dont use it that much, u wont need that soon" or takes your items for their use and doesn't return them or organize them as they were < ofc they may be tired and need them point is if they do it in a selfish malicious way. -is dependent on you without trying to be more independent themselves

  -cares more about image than integrity -interest in continuing the bloodline rather than genuine love and care -interest in war and weaponry (edited)

-is a landlord

-is a sensor (some red flags are general red flags)

  -is a conservative or right leaning -believes their achievements or gifts are deserved by the fact they have them, sometimes rationalizes it with hard work -uses the argument that you can't judge them if they are mistreating you bc they were not born good or their environment made them bad which would be fair depending on the context being if you are abusing them first, or if they try to genuinely change or remove themselves from the situation to avoid harming you, or if they possibly genuinely cant control it and are dead inside bc of abuse then its like judging an object bc their actions are not rational/controlled at all, ofc its bad but its the fault of circumstance or other people provided they did genuinely try beforehand.

-imperceptive of the broader context they use as justifications to abuse you while telling you you dont understand while gaslighting you about it. -not aware or respectful of power dynamics. this here means a child can shit talk and hit an adult more than an adult can shit talk or hit a child.

 -gaslights about invisible illness, doesnt recognize or respect when someone is tired, in pain, or something is wrong, thinks everyone feels the same pain the same or has the same experiences and has the same body reactions to other things. -doesn't believe in implicit duty to serve and care for others (edited)

-values a person that is helping them with being selfish, money, pleasure, items or is tied to them by blood or friend of a clan or some b s like that but has no moral integrity and is exploitative than someone who isn't all of those things but is not exploitative.

  -ties back to power dynamics > someone who is in a weak position is not exploitative because they have no power to change anything. the power is in the rich, big, powerful, more populous, healthier person/people to decide the fate of the ones who are not. the weaker can demand from the stronger but the stronger can't withhold what's not rightfully theirs. believes might is right, argues using natural selection witohut understanding it.

  -waits for ohters to tell them what they are doing wrong instead of instrospecting, imagining, analyzing and troubleshooting what they may be or may end up doing wrong. its not that they didn't know, they didn't care much either.

- on a large scale you have to make your life meaningful. if you as a man have to work a shitty harmful job, not seek to better your health, emotions, spirituality and intellect because it would be gay or nerdy or delusional or whatever which makes you look bad which will make people make your life harder and hurt you, and you start targeting as a part of the community, other vulnerable people, to keep ur image, and you develop anger issues bc of all that, and you physically assault your children and spouse to cope, and you blame them for making your life harder because they act like degeneretes (dress a certain way, have sex or sexual experiences, have or develop certain interests, isntead of living low and staying low like you who is afraid of getting hurt so bad you keep hurting the ones u were supposed to value the most, they are not the ones violating your borders, everyone else who is pushing you to repress yourself and stay an angry selfish controlling domineering moron is.

  - if you as a woman have to live in a shitty world where everyone is trying to use your body, gaslight you about it, tell you its not a big deal, doesn't respect you if you develop your self respect, health, emotions, spirituality and intellect because it would be too masculine, abrasive, controlling, ugly, slutty, delusional or whatever which will make people make your life harder and hurt you, and you start mistreating vulnerable people dependent or around you, its not those people who aren't violating your borders etc same as above

[zaenaris]

Reflections on ch.277

Nothing, it feels too easy like this. 

I very much get the position of people happy we're getting a happy ending for everyone, and I myself want to be positive and I'm glad these kids are getting the happy ending they deserved. 

I understand that Takemichi and Mikey did everything in their power to prevent all those terrible events, even if it was without doubt a nightmare for them to be 27 and 18 y/o in the bodies of children, Jesus Christ.

They’ve spend years  being mentally and emotionally adults in bodies of children, this is the fabric of many horror stories, holy shit. 

Anyway, I'm still grieving all the characters I've known for all this time.

I know that, in these people I know nothing about (...), there's the potential we've seen in the story, the point is that, I didn't see this story. 

You could say this is a double edged sword because on one hand you can imagine literally whatever you want but on the other, I still don't know these characters. I don't know their fears/struggles, their victories, what they enjoy and don't. 

It makes sense they save everybody, Kisaki was only bad for his stupid obsession for example. But there are more nuanced things that should be explained (and probably won’t: like Kazutora’s domestic abuse had nothing to do with Mikey’s curse, so why no tattoo? Wakui forgot or what?

Same with Inupi’s scar: nowhere to be seen. Again, did Wakui forgot or the fire never happened? (but again, it had nothing to do with Mikey’s curse, same for Mama Shiba dying and the trauma of the Shiba siblings)

If no fire, why are they Inupi and Koko in gangs? I mean, it’s cute they fight over the vice captain position, but still.

I could go on. We don’t know exactly the relationship between characters now. Again, double edged sword but still. 

Idk, mixed feelings, I don't want to be sad, I want to be glad I've known these characters, they made me feel something in these months. and I don't want to be sad.  

We still have one chapter, so it's not really the end-end and I've survived far worse fictional endings, so even if I'm not totally sold, I guess I'll learn to appreciate it more in time maybe? 

Some moments, like Mikey welcoming Sanzu as a Toman founder, Kisaki being good, Izana, Kakuzho and the S-62 reunited, Emma, Shin, Baji, Draken alive etc was nice, but not satisfying on a purely writing side.

Because these kids didn't deserve all the terrible things that happened to them, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but on the other, I need time to elaborate this  new TL. 

Maybe it was just me expecting a more mature ending where the lesson was “you can survive and improve even if you can’t alway change the past and it’s okay, this means to grow up” instead of “never give up!”. Which is an okay message, but it’s very shonen/Disney propaganda... but in the end, this is a Shonen, i just wanted to forget about it, I guess lol

I hope we'll get to know these characters, at least just a bit.

Mixed feelings again, let’s see how Wakui wraps up 

[wutbju]

BJU Class of 2018's Aaron Randolph is completely flummoxed by Robert Lazzell's conviction.

How does this happen?

This is the question ringing in our minds. As I’m writing this, I have in mind, primarily, those who grew up in the same educational and religious context as I did. We went to similar churches, attended the same youth group events, went to summer camp together, and attended the same Christian school.

Unfortunately, while we’ve mostly gone our separate ways, recent headlines have led us to the same questions. We know the names, we’ve watched the reports, and we wonder how we could have been so oblivious at the time, better yet how could the adults we trusted have been so deceived.

My heart goes out to Michael and his family. I won’t pretend we were particularly close in high school, but if you’re reading this know that I and many others are praying for you and are here anytime you need us.

My thoughts since the guilty plea was announced, have centered around this question. How does this happen? How does someone with these wicked desires and tendencies obtain a position of such power and influence in a ministry supposedly devoted to pursuing holiness?

How does such wickedness continue for years and remain hidden for a decade?

This is the third time in my adult life (only ten years) that I have seen this story unfold in men I knew personally who were entrusted vocationally with authority over teenagers and all three worked for Christian institutions while the abuse took place. An assistant pastor (not mine though he attended my church for a time, and I briefly dated his daughter), a work supervisor in college, and now my former Christian school principal. How does this happen?

A Wake-Up Call.

I am not the first person to label events like this a wake-up call. It’s obviously that anyway you look at it. But if we stop short of addressing the root of the problem, we’re missing the point.

Wickedness of this kind is rotten fruit decades in the making. To continue the analogy a bit further, neither a tree nor a branch grows in a day, but both a branch and a whole tree could be destroyed far faster than either can be grown. Assuming that none of the problems that led to these horrendous events have been addressed just because we weren’t there to see it is foolish. We ought not burn down a good tree just because we’re too angry or lazy to prune the rotten branch instead.

I am discouraged by the fact that the root problem here, has not yet been adequately addressed.

Where There’s Smoke, There’s Smoke!

I’m convinced the root problem, the issue most likely to produce future victims, is us, the church. I’m not just talking about a specific local church, nor am I referring exclusively to IFB and IFB adjacent congregations. I mean us, Christians!

We’ve all thought about times we witnessed odd occurrences, creepy vibes, or questionable decisions since we heard the news reports.

I remember feeling something wasn’t right when a youth pastor I knew joked along with some teenage boys claiming his son was homosexual. When he resigned due to a porn addiction a few months later I can’t say I was shocked.

But just as it’s easy for people who have already decided they hate the church to use this as an opportunity to try and burn it to the ground, it’s also easy for us as Christians to pretend the solution is developing some sort of abuser Spidey-sense.

I heard tasteless jokes and witnessed awkward behavior from the individuals I’ve mentioned, but do I remember these things because they are telltale signs of child abusers, or do the similar memories of others fade until headlines jog my memory?

The underlying issue here is that we do not practice biblical church discipline. Nothing I witnessed personally was cause for firing anyone on the spot, but many of the things I witnessed were cause for concern. Christ’s instruction in Matthew 18 is threefold. Go alone, go with witnesses, involve the whole church. I wonder how much sin and abuse would be avoided if we questioned our brothers and sisters appropriately at the first sign of sin.

Unfortunately, even in our conservative churches, we often wait till an egregious sin has taken hold of our brother. Having left him to fend for himself every step leading up to this sin, we then rush in to do all three steps of discipline simultaneously and kick him to the curb without any meaningful attempt at drawing him to repentance.

We wouldn’t wait till our neighbor’s house was engulfed in flames to call the fire department, yet we so often do the spiritual equivalent with church discipline. Is it not better to catch a porn addiction at six months and spend the next year beating it than to kick a man out of the church three years later for cheating and leaving his wife? Can we not at least attempt the former?

If in our churches we were truly iron sharpening iron, how many would be predators would be scared away by the sparks?

We Must Respond Biblically!

I am grieved by the abuse that took place in my high school, but I am also concerned by how quickly many of my friends are willing to jettison the inerrancy and sufficiency of Scripture.

I remember hearing a woman on Moody radio several years ago talking about the need for churches to form anti-abuse committees. She suggested that they must include women and preferably individuals trained in psychology. These committees, she said, should have free reign in the church to sit in on meetings and investigate however and whenever they deemed necessary. Evidently some of my former classmates think these are good ideas as well.

The problem of course, is that there is already a group which God has tasked with the oversight of the church. If we believe God knows best then the answer is not new committees, parachurch organizations, or secular watchdogs! Cameras, prevention policies, and increased security measures are all good, but nothing can fill the gap left when qualified leadership and biblical discipline are absent.

God ordained a plurality of godly men to lead His church and a loving vigilance among church members to protect it. That is the answer and must be our pursuit going forward.

The leadership that hired Bob Lazzell and allowed him to operate without accountability was not acting biblically. Leading up to the abuse there was no senior pastor and evidently none of the other pastors were capable of picking up the slack. One was already clearly disqualified when he was hired, and he went on to abuse a minor at another church a few years later.

To those looking at FBC and FBCS leadership in the 2000s as a case study of biblical church leadership failing, biblically qualified leadership was not there! A little research and comparison with the qualifications provided in Scripture makes that abundantly clear.

Final Thoughts

In a moment like this it is only natural to grieve with the victim and lament the blight this is on the name of Christ in our community. It is also good and normal to feel a call to action. That action though to be effective must be biblical.

We must not seek answers from unqualified teachers. Those who by word or deed have forsaken God’s instruction must not be followed. The fastest, loudest, and angriest voices are not necessarily the most righteous regardless of their sincerity on this issue. What happened is horrible, but our community will not be served by reactive rage aimed only at destruction. We desperately need a biblical response.

We should acknowledge the leadership deficiencies that existed and lead to Lazzell’s hiring, and lack of accountability are inexcusable. They fall far short of the biblical model given for both elders and deacons. We must practice all levels of church discipline as we pray that God will protect our ministries.

To those who would aim their anger at the current administration of our former school or the pastoral staff of the church, I simply ask, what’s the evidence? As I’ve already stated, an abuser Spidey-sense doesn’t exist. I simply don’t understand how we can be angrier at a man that unknowingly showed up to a church with unqualified leadership and two soon to be child molesters than we are at the men who hired these unqualified leaders and failed to provide biblical accountability for years. 1 Timothy 5 still applies here. To simply say “He should have known!” when none of us knew, is foolish.

The overarching takeaways here are these.

First, the consequences of spiritual laziness are far worse than we ever imagine. Church discipline and vigilance are not optional, they are essential at every level! We don’t need solid evidence to have a conversation! If there’s smoke, say something, we must edify and exhort one another to good works!

Second, we can’t allow our emotions to draw us away from God’s wisdom. Several of the demands hurled at FBCS should be ignored because they are entirely unbiblical! If we turn to our own understanding to “fix” the problems, our efforts will be futile, and our lives will produce rotten fruit much like the wickedness we now rightly resent.

[aimfor-theheart]

COIN TOSS– PART II

(18+ MINORS DNI)

PART I

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Reader, a little Shouta Aizawa x Reader

SUMMARY: As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if you’re the first thing he’s fully touched without losing in a long time.

You are Eraserhead’s troubled protege with a Quirk that cancels out others the moment they touch you. Tomura Shigaraki takes great interest in you.

(Enemies to lovers, a lot of angst, some hurt/comfort)

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, age gap/power struggle, violence, gore, Tomura’s trauma specifically, (in later chapters) murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut, some blurred lines, rough sex, a smidge of a spit kink, a smidge of somnophilia (let me know if I’ve missed anything!)

If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading or interacting with this!

A/N: again, thank you @randomrosewrites for beta-ing!! and thank you guys for the support and comments on the first part! here is your part two!! it's tomura heavy, but for those who love shouta, there's a lot of him in the final part! i hope you enjoy! let me know what you thought!

i also am obsessed with making playlists for when i write and i spend far too much time organizing it all and making sure the songs blend together so if you'd like to take a look at the playlist i made for this fic, it's here!

Read on Ao3

***

Shouta, like the responsible adult he is, soothes things out with you. Well, it doesn’t feel very soothed to you, but Shouta’s made his position clear and you’ve both returned to some semblance of normalcy.

He keeps his distance.

You try not to overstep, but you’re aching and furious.

(You’re holding a secret, too, letting it tear apart your insides, letting it turn circles in your mind until all you can think about is the chill of rain, the bite of a desperate kiss).

You hate that Shouta has retreated from you now. You hate that he’ll stop his hand before reaching out to touch you, like he always has to make sure, like he has to decide if that will be good for you. If you can handle it.

You feel shockingly alone.

You lash out at him more, bicker and argue over things you never used to. You don’t even know why you do it, can’t stop yourself from trying to dig into him. You regret it every time when all he gives you is impassiveness, levelheaded coolness. An adult speaking with an unruly child. He’s good at that, unfortunately.

Some days you want to beg him for answers. Why can’t you love me the way I love you? Is it me? How would you have me? If I was older? I can be more mature, I can be better and better and better–

His undercover work grows greater, draws him away from both you and Shinsou more. Shouta seems to ghost around your life now, drawn away from you, keeping a very careful space between you both.

But there are nights where he tells you to train with Shinsou alone now. You feel responsible. Mature. You glow with pride that he can trust you with one of his students, that you could be a mentor to Shinsou, too.

You grow closer to Shinsou because of this, too, when it’s just the two of you in the gym.

There is one evening in particular, when you’re both sprawled out on the floor taking a too-long water break because Shouta isn’t around when he admits that he used to be– still is sometimes– feared for his Quirk.

He tells you everyone expected him to be a villain.

“I used to be a thief,” you admit, “I was a petty villain, I guess.”

Shinsou looks at you and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t entirely show it, except for the lifting of his brows. You don’t sense judgement from him, though, when he asks, “Really?”

You take another swig of water, humming in affirmation. You swallow, “I was homeless, had no money, nothing. I was stealing from a supermarket when Shouta caught me.”

“You were just trying to survive,” Shinsou adds, like he’s trying to justify the crime, like it soothes him to know there was a good reason for a misdeed.

“Sure,” you reply, fiddling with your water bottle, “But I stole things I didn’t need, too. Just things I wanted.”

“But you’ve changed,” Shinsou says and you can’t tell if he’s trying to reassure himself or you more. “You’re a hero now.”

“Only because my circumstances changed. I was given a roof over my head, food to fill me. Clothes of my own that fit and weren’t torn. I was accepted.” You explain, “If it hadn’t been for Shouta, I would never have become a hero.”

Shinsou is silent, watching you.

“I’d probably be in jail. Or still a thief, in the least, if any other hero would’ve caught me.”

You don’t know why, but you think of Shigaraki suddenly. You think of how young some of the League of Villains are. You wonder if it had been them who offered you food and a home, if you’d be with them now, and not here, sitting on the floor of a nice, sparkling gym attached to U.A.’s dorms.

Something strange grows inside you, something a little bitter. It simmers with sympathy for them, for their lives. For kids like Shinsou with their villainous quirks. You wonder if he’d been poor, if he’d been alone, would he be here, too? Or somewhere else?

“But you were good before,” he says, and it almost feels naive, “I know you’re good.”

You shrug, “Good is relative, you know? I thought I was good because I didn’t kill people, I didn’t steal from other poor people, but society didn’t think I was good. I was still a thief.”

“But you were only a thief because you needed to survive.” he says again, “When given the chance, you changed and became a hero.”

“Exactly.” you say, “How many villains do you think just needed a chance?”

Shinsou goes silent now. His brows furrow in thought, pinching together in a way that makes him look a little too old for his age. You think all of the kids at U.A. grow up too quickly, all of them with too much on their small shoulders.

They’re only kids.

You’re barely older.

Shigaraki is barely older than you.

You push him out of your mind, toss your water bottle aside, and rise to your feet again. “C’mon,” you offer Shinsou your hand to help him up, too, “Shouta would kill me to know I let you lay around so much.”

This seems to pull him from his thoughts and he snorts, taking your hand.

You pull him up. And you both stare at each other a moment. You think he looks at you in a different light now and it isn’t bad, no, he seems to be pondering you more.

(And you’ll realize later that he’s become more sympathetic, that he sees you in villains now, reminds himself they’re people, too, with lives and needs and wants–)

It gives you a strange hope, as you begin to train with him again, to know that he’s the future of hero society.

***

Tomura spots you while he’s out stealing with Toga. Usually it’s Twice or Magne with her, but Twice was onto something else and Toga had decided to latch herself onto him for the day. He’s grown to tolerate her.

Besides, she’d managed to steal him a jean jacket, dark, rough, and worn with holes but it keeps him warmer while still being able to keep the hood of his sweatshirt up to hide himself. To blend in. She’d stolen herself something, too, as the weather begins to get colder and they still don’t have a base, wandering aimlessly.

(He feels stupidly responsible for them. But he’s learned good leaders are, in some way, responsible for their people. They don’t have to care in any way that is emotional, but they have to care in some way, make the group feel important to them. And begrudgingly, they are important to him–)

You’re with a boy around Toga’s age. Wild violet hair. You’re laughing at something he’s saying and you’re sharing street food, he thinks, something that’s warm, steaming up into the air.

He feels a vicious surge of jealousy for a moment. It’s so sharp and jarring that he reaches up to scratch at his neck, tearing into his skin.

But the boy looks too young and you tousle his hair like he’s a younger brother, not someone romantic. While there’s familiarity between you two, it’s not overly intimate.

Toga, unfortunately, follows his line of sight.

She looks between him and you. She tilts her head and Tomura can practically see the gears turning in her strange little mind.

“Do you know them?” she asks, almost innocently.

He doesn’t know why, but he says, “Just her.”

Toga looks back at you. She watches as you talk with the boy– the sun through the autumn leaves cast you in tangerine light, all golden and warm.

When she looks back at Tomura, a smile creeps onto her face. One that he knows is going to give him a migraine.

“She’s so pretty,” she trills, eyeing him too closely.

Tomura scratches at his neck again, harder, wincing a little when he feels a cut reopen.

“Do you have a crush, Tomura?” Toga sings, dancing in front of him to force herself into his line of sight.

“No,” Tomura snaps, bristling, which only seems to encourage her.

“Let’s say hi!” she says, about to bound off and Tomura catches her by the scruff of her jacket like a kitten. He’s wearing his partial gloves, but he still keeps a finger away from her.

“No,” he hisses, firmer now, pulling her back towards him. “They’re heroes. Don’t get distracted.”

Toga twists in his hold, wide-eyed for a moment, before her face settles into another enormous and excited smile. “You’re in love with a hero, too?!”

Tomura grits his teeth, snarling out, “I’m not in love with anyone.” He shakes her then and she yelps a little, “Now focus. We need food and I don’t want to deal with them.”

Toga finally squirms her way out of his hold, pouting at him, “You’re no fun.” she whines and all he does is shoulder past her. He stalks ahead, trying not to look at you again, if only to not draw your eye.

“Do you want to starve?” he asks waspishly, glancing at Toga over his shoulder.

She huffs, rolling her eyes, before hustling to catch up to him. She hums a strange little tune the rest of the time, knocking into his side, throwing him new looks as if to suggest they share some sort of commonality or secret. He grits his teeth but suffers through her torment.

When they return to the rest of the League with what they’d stolen, Toga announces to the whole group, “Tomura is in love with a hero, too!”

The migraine that had begun earlier in his temples reaches full force now. He doesn’t bother trying to deny it. He decides he doesn’t care.

Dabi’s laugh grates on him, though, “Is that so? Which little hero?” he asks Toga, and just as she’s skipping past him, he snags her, snatching the granola bar she’d had in her hand from their little raid.

She turns to grab it back and he pulls it out of her reach, “I don’t know! Give that back!” she squawks, clawing at him.

She must really dig at him because Dabi hisses, “You little twerp–” Just before Magne snatches the outstretched granola bar from Dabi’s hand. She hands it back to Toga, who quickly rushes off with it now.

And thankfully, for Tomura’s sanity, you’re not brought up again.

But he hadn’t noticed you– hadn’t noticed the way you’d seen him with Toga, too. Just a girl Shinsou’s age, following after him like an eager puppy.

Shinsou had trailed beside you like that, too, when you’d both walked back to U.A. with full bellies and new coffees in hand, warm and content.

***

There is a night where Shouta is out doing work undercover and you’re left to patrol on your own. You can’t take Shinsou yet, since he hasn’t earned his provisional license. You don’t mind these nights, by yourself, when you stick to shadows and rooftops, watching the city from above.

It’s cooler now and you tuck your face into the high collar of your hero uniform to hide from the wind that brushes past.

It’s been a quiet night so far. There are other, flashier heroes patrolling, too, meandering around the sidewalks to deter petty crime.

You check the time on your phone, noting that you have a little less than an hour until your shift is over, until you can go home and take a hot shower in an attempt to warm yourself up– especially your fingers, the tips of your ears.

You stretch, standing on one of the low roofs of a building. You’re stiff from crouching, so you decide to move around, change position. You use a grappling tool to shoot it onto a higher roof of the next building. You scale the bricks easily and once safely up, retract your grappling hook.

You look out over the quiet city, the golden light of lampposts, the meandering of cars through the streets. Some restaurants and bars are still open, their windows look warm and inviting with the flush of people inside.

You waste most of the last hour of your shift trying to remain warm, keeping a careful eye on the world below.

Towards the end, you notice a familiar figure in one of the alleyways down below. You don’t even see his face, just the back of his hoodie, just the angle of his shoulders.

Just the way he walks.

The thought should frighten you– that you know him like this, that you’re familiar with just the movement of his body.

Shigaraki Tomura walks away from the soft light of the main city, slips away into alleyways and darkness. You glance at the time. Your shift is nearly over.

This counts as hero work, doesn’t it? Silently following after him?

You drop down onto a fire escape– leap off to latch onto a lower window sill, until you’re dropping silently on to the ground a distance away from him.

You are careful to keep away from him, to use everything Shouta taught you about stealth to remain hidden. And you know Shigaraki is observant, you know he’s always looking over his shoulder so you have to stick to hidden places– behind dumpsters, ducking into alcoves of buildings.

He heads back to the part of the city you grew up in, where everything is falling apart, where there are plenty of abandoned buildings for hiding, plenty of places for runaway teens and homeless to sleep. The cheapest apartments, the streets that are the least patrolled by heroes and police alike, where parts of the Yakuza groups are bolder.

These streets are familiar to you. It’s a strange trip down memory lane.

You think of the last time you saw Shigaraki and flush darkly– it was around here, too, what happened that night.

Still, you follow him because you think you still have some upper hand. Maybe he’ll lead you to the rest of the League of Villains. For a heartbeat, you wonder if you’ll tell Shouta, if you’ll tell the Hero Commissions– you’d have to, right? That isn’t some little squirmish. That’s important information.

But he doesn’t lead you to the rest of the League.

He leads you to an apartment building, small and falling apart on the outside. A window is boarded up poorly. There are stray cats that linger around the side, where the trash is. You’re sure there are rats and bugs, too. You’re sure the building is one bad day away from falling apart.

Shigaraki pauses by the door that is nearly falling off its hinges.

He glances over his shoulder, “Are you following me in, too?”

Your heart kicks up, hammering against the inside of your chest. You swallow hard, internally cursing.

For all your effort of stealth, he still noticed you?

Well, there’s no use lying about it now.

You step around the corner you’d been hiding behind, moving towards the glow of a street light that flickers in and out of power to reveal yourself fully to him.

“When did you notice me?” you ask, peering at him, at the shape of him in the dark.

You catch the lifting of his scar when he smiles, just a baring of teeth, “I saw you on the roof.”

Damn, you curse again, you’ll have to work on that, “That bad, huh?”

He shrugs gracelessly, lifting of his shoulders only for them to fall unevenly, “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known. You were silent otherwise.”

It feels like a compliment– a generous one, coming from him. You don’t know why you have to hold off a smile.

He turns back to the door, shouldering it open. He walks through the archway without another word. He leaves it open and it seems there is no light on the inside, just a blackness that swallows up your vision. He disappears inside.

You stand there, beneath the light that flickers in and out, eyeing the doorway. You could go now, run back home to Shouta, to the Hero Commission and tell them you think you know where he stays, you have a lead on him. You look behind you, glance at the alleyway you came from with it’s’ dull, fluorescent lights that splash against the concrete, that barely fight against the shadows.

You look back towards where Shigaraki had been, the entrance to the building.

You’d probably even get extra little hero points for it from the Commission.

Shouta would be proud of you.

For bringing them to this dilapidated, shabby little apartment complex that rests on the streets of the place you used to call home.

You swallow hard, flex your freezing fingers.

Then you step towards the doorway, peer inside carefully. You hold your breath and the door creaks quietly when you cross it’s threshold, into the darkness.

Tomura is mildly surprised when he hears the door creak behind him. He can feel you, even in the dark of this hallway, the tentative steps you take after him. They’re almost shy.

But you followed him, didn’t you?

You followed and followed and followed him– and of course you did, he thinks, you had kissed him back, hadn’t you?

He supposes you could be playing a part, trying to get close to him but his intuition tells him differently, not with the genuine reaction you’d had. Your sudden guilt for giving in to him. Still, he’ll be careful around you.

He’ll probably have to move again, which would be a shame, since he has already killed the tenant of this apartment– he’d been sure they wouldn’t be missed by anyone, made sure he’d have time. He did the work to get it, thought he’d have it for just long enough until the League made another move.

He almost wants to test you, see if you’re going to run and tattle on his location. He wonders how far you’re willing to follow him.

Tomura walks steadily down the hallway, to the apartment he has taken claim to. He unlocks the door, hands in his partial gloves, shoving it with his shoulder to then enter. He leaves it open for you.

The apartment is a studio, shabby and the heat isn’t amazing, but it has hot water and a lack of bugs in this particular room. It has furniture– a bed, specifically, was all he had cared about. There’s empty wrappers of food and cans of energy drinks on the counters because he doesn’t really bother to pick up after himself but otherwise, the space isn’t his. There’s nothing else of his, besides some spare clothes on the floor.

And still, you follow him here, too. But you stand at the doorway, peeking inside.

He glances at you and is reminded of a fox, something with clever eyes but wary, a little skittish– would bite if he got too close too soon.

So he gives you space, just like he let you leave.

If there’s one thing Tomura has learned, it’s patience. Any good plan takes patience. The reward is always sweeter. The longer and harder the level, the greater the wins.

He ignores you, puts even more distance between the two of you as he wanders further in. He flicks on lights. He takes off his shoes, shrugs off his jean jacket and throws it over the couch. He gives the appearance of carelessness, of letting his guard down. Non threatening.

And you take your fist shy step inside. The door behind you remains ajar, though, for escape.

Tomura has to fight a terrifying smile, fight the sudden twisting in his heart, the inhale of his breath.

“I don’t know how wise it was of you to bring a hero to your home.” you finally speak, cutting through the silence. You’re trying to be witty, but he can tell you’re nervous.

“This isn’t my home,” he answers.

Home, with it’s round and warm syllabus, is not what he thinks of this place.

You eye him some more, but before you can respond, he says, “I don’t know how wise it was of you to follow a villain into his home.”

“I thought it wasn’t your home,” you quip and he only gives you a dry look.

Your bravado is wavering, especially when the door clicks shut behind you, your hand finally falling to your side.

And the two of you are sealed away from the outside world.

“Why did you bring me here?” you ask him and your voice is deceptively quiet. Small.

“Why did you follow me?” he asks in return.

You inhale like you’re trying to steady yourself, “Because I’m supposed to.”

Tomura smiles now, something lazy, almost amused. He knows it’s a lie, can feel it slide along his skin, can see the floundering, desperate look in your eyes.

“Why did you follow me?” he asks again, forcing himself not to move, not to step towards you in his budding excitement. Patience, he tells himself, be patient.

“Why did you kiss me?” you ask instead and the question is raw, as if it’s plagued you, haunted you like an insistent ghost. Crept around in the back of your mind, growing teeth and fangs and spindly, lampshade bat wings large enough to terrify you.

The idea that he’s taken root in your mind in the same way you have infested his is near dizzying.

Tomura weighs his answers carefully. He’s silent for a long moment and it’s heavy, charged with something that he can’t name– has never felt before.

When he speaks, his voice is just a rasp of breath, a little more honest than he’d like, a touch annoyed with the truth, “Because I wanted to.”

Another long stretch of silence where you watch him carefully, where he can see your chest rising and falling too quickly. He can see that frightened look in the rounding of your eyes, the high flush in your cheeks.

And when you speak again, it’s hardly louder than a whisper, like it’s all you can manage,“Do you want to kiss me again?”

It is far too gentle of a question for what he wants– it almost feels innocent, juvenile. Out of place between the two of you. But he’ll take it, he’ll take whatever you give him and then some.

He takes a step towards you. You don’t flinch away so he takes another, then another, until he is standing in front of you. You’re close now– so close that he has to force air into his lungs. He reminds himself of patience, of waiting–

He could take whatever he wanted from you now, he supposes, but he doesn’t want to have to wrestle you for it. He wants it given freely, he wants you to kiss back, like you had before. He wants you to willingly submit and it’s taken longer but it’ll be sweeter, so much sweeter.

“Are you going to run away again?” he asks and he can feel his heart quicken, the squeezing of it awful and tight.

You look up at him in a way that reminds him of his dreams, the ones he pretends to hate, where you make those small, soft noises. Where you let him touch you and taste you and have you.

And you shake your head no, just fractionally, the barest hint of movement but it’s enough for him.

The force of his kiss slams you back against the door. You make a surprised noise against him as he crushes himself to you. It’s just as violent as the first, but this time you take back what he gives. You get your bearings quicker, like you’ve learned a lesson already. He grins into the kiss, opening it, when he feels your little hands clawing at his shoulders, at his back.

He groans when you part your lips for him, when you lick tentatively into his mouth. He possesses you, bears onto you, pinning you to the door as his hands, still gloved, curl around your sides, your hips.

Your hero costume is tight, fits the curves of you snugly and in a way that’s making him nearly insane. He isn’t careful, doesn’t care if he’s moving too fast now as his hands roam and grab and squeeze. There’s layers between you, he naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

One of your hands tightens in his hair, pulling when he bites your bottom lip.

But you don’t seem to mind, either, with the way your breath is hitching, with the way you’re trying to pull him closer, desperately fuse him to you.

Your lips are so soft, he notices, even with the forcefulness with which you’re kissing him back.

It feels surreal for a moment, like one of his dreams, when he parts from your mouth only to slot his lips against your jaw, your neck. A whine is loosened from you, which breaks when he sets teeth to the vulnerable line of your throat.

Your hands are in his hair still, body arching into him eagerly. Youthful in your earnestness.

You’re better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, so alive and rosy and warm beneath his hands, beneath his mouth, which is making a mess of your neck. A particular hard suck over the sensitive line of your pulse makes you pull at his hair.

“Don’t leave a mark,” you hush and he thinks you meant to sound more threatening, but it’s softened by the desperation in your voice.

He scoffs into your throat, dragging teeth roughly along your skin.

“Shigaraki–”

“Tomura.” he corrects without thinking, finally pulling away to look at you, which is almost a mistake because you–

You’re flushed, lips kiss stung and pink, all swollen. Your head is tipped back, exposing the column of your throat, hair mussed with being pressed to the door so roughly. Your eyes are hazy and fever pink with your Quirk activated, like spring flowers, glowing in the low light.

He thinks of paintings and colors and dreams, something like beauty, if he knew anything about that.

And he’s so hard it hurts, teeth grinding together as he looks at you because he can’t even fucking stomach this feeling.

Then you repeat his name for him, “Tomura.”

He’s never heard his name like that, bedroom soft, more of a lullaby and less of a tragedy. He feels like he’s going to shake apart, his body to become just old ruins– he feels as if it’ll collapse inwards, topple over to crush his heart.

Where he’s usually seething and livid and clawing ruthlessly, the festering feeling in his chest is replaced with a new energy; something bursting and squirming and warm. His Quirk lies dormant and docile inside of him with your hand in his hair, your other now at his neck, fingers pressing lightly at his jaw.

It’s terrifying, he realizes, to not feel his Quirk at the edges of his fingers.

(It’s freeing, too, he’ll come to find, to not feel it’s weight, it’s demand that had been encouraged and shaped in him.)

You’re both trying to catch your breaths, looking at each other now. His fingers, still gloved, flex and squeeze at your waist, like he’s scared you’ll run off again.

You inch forward instead, rock onto the tips of your toes to press your lips to his again– softer this time, but no less heated, no less desperate.

He thinks you must be starving, too, with the way you pull him close. His mouth slants over yours, demanding more, a little rougher.

You squirm against the door, the slightest rocking of your hips– he can feel it against his thigh, against his waist. It makes him hiss out a breath against your lips, makes him grab harder at your waist, force you to do it again, harder this time.

You whine and it’s the snapping of his patience.

He reaches for the zipper at the back of your hero uniform, gives it a rough tug, pulling it down some. And then you’re pushing at him, nudging him away from the door and it’s a flurry of movement as you yank at his hoodie while he pulls at your clothes. You’re both stumbling further into the room, towards the bed pushed back into the corner.

Tomura feels young suddenly– feels his age. He feels like a twenty something year old with a girl in his apartment who wants his hoodie off. Who's kissing him hard in between every article of clothing that manages to come off.

He sits back on the edge of the bed to ease the rest of your cat-suit down. He watches with interest as you wiggle your hips to help him get the fabric down over you– and it’s nothing romantic, he doesn’t kiss the newly revealed skin, he doesn’t gently run his fingertips over you, but you grow shy under his gaze.

You’re still in undergarments, athletic slips of fabric, but his eyes fly over your face. You’re nervous, he can nearly feel it, with the way you shift, with the way you catch your bottom lip between your teeth and worry it.

A thought strikes him.

“Have you done this before?” he rasps, hooking his hand in the crux of your knee to drag your forward so you nearly fall into his lap.

“Yes,” you grit out, arms coming up to his shoulders to steady yourself. “Once.” you then shakily exhale.

He doesn’t particularly care– your answer wouldn’t have changed how he’d treat you. He’s not going to be gentler nor slower because you’re less experienced.

“Have you?” you ask, eyeing him, fingers nervously toying with the ends of his hair.

“Yes,” he says, perhaps too sharply, but he gives no other information and you don’t press him, which he’s thankful for. He doesn’t have the patience for useless questions.

Rather, he pulls you down harder, so your bare thighs finally settle into his lap. He slides his gloved hands up the notches of your ribs to hitch beneath your bra. That comes off, too, and then he’s got his hands on you more. You gasp, arching into his touch when his fingers curl around a breast, fingers roughly brushing over the peak.

He doesn’t think anymore, just acts, just moves and does as he pleases. All the things he’s done in dreams or in his mind– he sets lips and teeth to your breast, tongue laving over your nipple. He forces your squirming still with an arm banded around your torso, keeping you flush to his eager mouth.

You yelp in pain when he uses his teeth too roughly, trying to jerk away from him but you can’t with his hold on you. He grins, mouth opening, spit slick and wet against your breast again. He groans against you when you pull on his hair.

But then he twists you, throws you down onto the bed only to crawl over you. He yanks at your panties just as you pull him down for another kiss– maybe to distract yourself, to settle your nerves. When you pull away, you’re on your back and he’s over you, your legs hitching over his narrow waist. His hands are on your thighs and you–

You suddenly grab for his hands.

“Take off your gloves,” you get out, breathless, and before he can respond, your fingers are sliding against his wrist, up to his hand, beneath the glove and against his palm.

It makes him shiver, makes him grit his teeth. You pull off one, then the other.

For a moment, he just looks at you all spread out and bare for him, his hands now open and uncovered, too.

You squirm under his scrutinizing gaze.

“C’mon,” you coax and he thinks you’re trying to find your bravado, “Touch me.”

There’s nothing between his hands and your skin now and he settles his palm on your stomach, beneath your breast.

He naturally keeps a finger lifted away.

“Tomura,” your voice is pitched, almost pleading, “You’re not going to hurt me– c’mon.”

He tenses for a moment, eyes flashing over your face. For a moment, his heart stumbles, he grows wary. He thinks of you slipping away beneath his touch, falling away into nothing and all he’d have is a bed of ashes.

But your eyes are bright with your Quirk.

His final finger comes down. Nothing happens, except you smile a little, except you arch up into his touch– alive and vivid and furiously warm.

He feels like he can’t breathe, can’t even function.

He catches a groan behind his teeth, falls forward as his hands become feverish and possessive, suddenly confident, suddenly brash– touching and squeezing and grabbing at you.

His teeth clank with yours as he tumbles into another kiss. You’re needier now, making those higher pitched noises that used to haunt him.

It drives him insane, makes him feel half feral, overeager and desperate. His fingers wander lower, seeking and searching, just as the kiss grows in intensity again. It’s messier, all open mouth and tongue.

When he pulls away, a string of spit connects the two of you and he lets more of the saliva pooling in his mouth drip down with it, letting it fall between your open lips, some on your bottom lip, too. It’s depraved and dirty and his eyes simmer as he gazes down at you.

Your face scrunches up as you go to wipe at your mouth, and he hates it because all he can think of is how cute that face is.

“Gross,” you mewl, but his fingers finally move between your legs and–

And all he finds is that you’re hot and slick for him.

He has to grit his teeth to keep from moaning.

But you nearly cry at the touch, a pathetic little noise, hips jolting like you’re not sure if you want to go towards his touch or away.

“Gross, huh?” Tomura asks, voice low, the pad of his finger sliding easily, teasing you slowly before he goads, “Why are you so wet then?”

He sinks a finger in suddenly– just because he can. Just because he wants to watch your face screw up again, which it does, your mouth falling open, eyes squeezing shut.

“Hm?” he hums, amused with the way you’re gasping beneath him. He starts a slow but deep rhythm and–

And he’s had sex before, a handful of times, but it’d always been for him. He hadn’t cared how the other person felt, hadn’t cared to try and get them off. But now he suddenly wishes he had learned, if only for you, now. He wants you as obsessed as he is, wants you to feel as maddened as he feels.

Thankfully, you’re so expressive. And he doesn’t have to worry about his fingers. He can find the spot inside you that makes you toss your head back into the sheets and moan for him, he can focus on the way you keen when he finds your clit with his thumb.

You’re a sensitive little thing, clawing at his bare shoulders, whining into his neck. He forces in another finger and you start rocking your hips, growing more desperate until–

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Fuck, I’m going to–”

He curls his fingers harder, watching your face as you fall apart, as you try and twist and squirm beneath him. He forces you through it, isn’t gentle, but selfish, wringing everything he can from you.

And when he’s finished watching you whimper and feeling you flutter and gush around his fingers, he takes them out only to force them between your lips.

Once more your face screws up, but you close your mouth around them and he groans low and raw. You look hazy, drooling all over his fingers, lashes fluttering prettily.

He uses his other hand to fumble with his belt, to work his pants down low enough for his cock, aching so bad that he swears he’s going to go insane–

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, watching the mess that comes with it, so wet and slick and shiny. He can’t help the growl he gives, before covering his mouth with yours again.

As you kiss, sloppy and desperate, Tomura slides the head of his cock against you and you’re so slippery and soft and molten for him that his next moan tapers off into a whine.

You pull away fractionally, “Shouldn’t we–”

He thinks maybe you were about to ask about protection of some kind, but he shoves inside you hard, breaches your body and watches as your eyes roll back, just about to cross as your nails turn sharp against his back.

You moan, low and drawn out.

He can’t help the absurd laugh that is wretched from him, his head dropping onto your neck as he snaps his hips forward. He can’t believe he’s actually gotten you here, in his bed, beneath him– let him inside where you’re so warm and soft.

“Fuck,” you gasp, maybe laced with pain, clawing at him, raking your nails down his back.

“Does it hurt?” he hisses, excited, his teeth coming down to close over your exposed neck.

“Yes,” you get out, almost a whimper, “Feels good, too.”

He snaps his hip forwards roughly, grinding deep as he laughs again when you just about sob into his shoulder.

You latch your teeth onto the vulnerable juncture between his neck and his shoulder, where you’d already laid claim to him once before.

He wrestles for your wrist, the one he broke, and forces it down onto the bed.

“Look at you,” he almost snarls, voice low and gravely, “Little hero letting me fuck her.”

You gasp when he angles his hips, when his other hand reaches beneath you, to fist a hand in your hair and pull so your neck is arched and exposed to him.

“I used to dream of this,” he admits roughly, the confession like a curse being spit out of his mouth, “Wanted to stalk you or possess you or–” he groans because he can feel how you’re throbbing around him, how slick you are for him, “Wanted to fucking ruin you–”

He pulls at your hair more, tries to get you to look at him through your wet lashes. The flash of pink meets red and his smile is more a cruel bearing of teeth.

“And you feel so much better than I dreamt– fuck, so much tighter–” he babbles as he ruts into you hard and quick. You keen, high and broken, just as he feels you flutter around him again and he almost loses his mind because–

“Are you going to fucking come again?” he growls, pulling harder on your hair.

“Yes,” you groan, “Please, fuck, please, c’mon–” your voice is high and wrecked and all he has to do is angle his hips a few more times before you’re shattering, nearly breaking apart, squeezing down on his cock so tightly that he shudders, that he let’s go of your hair just to focus on his own pleasure.

He doesn’t even realize he’s drooling into your neck, not as he loses his rhythm, as he shoves himself as deep into you as he can and comes hard. Pleasure races up his spine, turns him white-hot and sensitive, making his eyes roll back into his head, too.

You’re both breathing hard when he collapses on top of you. Your fingers, which were once scratching down his back to cause sharp shooting pain, are now surprisingly gentle, slipping back into his hair.

You squirm, fussing slightly– no doubt sore, no doubt aching with him still inside you but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to.

He mouths at your neck, feels you sigh, before he moves to cover his mouth with yours again. He kisses you languidly now, slow and deep.

You’re making breathy little noises against him, content and surprisingly soft, your other hand tracing over his side.

(He doesn’t like how much he enjoys this part, the afterglow, all that violence slipping away, expelled from you both–)

Tomura feels his cock twitch inside of you again, feels your hips arch up a little, and before he knows it, he’s moving his hips again. It’s a slow rocking, your lips still attached to his, heated and gentle.

“Gross,” you say again, just a breath against him as he fucks his cum further into you, feels himself harden, feels the mess he made of you. But you still hitch your leg over his hip, pull him deeper into you.

He grins lazily against your lips, “You like it,” he says and it’s not a question, rolling his hips until he gets you to shut your eyes and moan against him.

“Yeah,” you reply, nudging your cheek against his, rubbing like a cat until he returns the gesture. Until he’s humming because he’s sensitive and you feel so good, better than anything he’s ever felt in this miserable fucking life–

You whine a little, ‘Touch me again?”

He doesn’t deny you for whatever reason, doesn’t even have something smart to say as he slides his hand down your torso, down to where you’re both slick and connected. He rubs unpracticed, messy circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re sighing.

He’s no expert but he doesn’t really care and you don’t seem to mind this time, either. It’s unhurried now, lazy.

This time your peak is a fluttery, soft thing, and he watches as you gasp, as you blink away tears. She’s pretty, he thinks, feeling stupidly young again, she’s pretty like this. Like his dreams.

Tomura spills inside you again soon after, groaning against your collarbones, and this time you force him to slip out of you. Force him to lay beside you as you both catch your breath again.

And he’s not expecting it, but he has the vicious need to be close to you, desperately wants to feel your skin against his. It’s a new feeling– usually after sex, he wants to be as far away from someone as possible. Usually he can’t leave or kick them out fast enough.

But there’s something about you now, hazy and pleasure-drunk, fucked out and dazed, that makes him want to stay close. Maybe it’s just that you’ve soothed all the festering that usually squirms in his chest. Maybe it’s just that you’ve made everything in him quiet for once.

He expects you to find some sort of your regret now, he’s sure that you’ll feel guilty, collect your clothes and go. But you don’t. You stay in bed with him. And it’s strange but he knows he wants to touch you, so he does. He doesn’t deny himself, why would he? He’s always taken what he wanted.

He curls around you, shivering a little with the skin to skin contact after the fog of sex has cleared from his mind. His hands slide over you, touch you fully and without restraint because he can, because you won’t disappear beneath his touch.

And for a moment, as he traces along the dips of your waist, he thinks maybe you were made for him– cut from his rib, isn’t that how the story goes?

He doesn’t know, only that there’s no one else in the world he can touch like this.

You’re surprised.

You’d figured after Tomura had his fill of you, he’d kick you out, send you away. You figured you’d feel guilty, that you would rush out of here and try to wish the whole thing away. But your hero suit stays on the floor and you’re still in his bed.

You didn’t think he’d be a cuddler, you assumed that he wouldn’t want nor care for any sort of contact after. But his arms are wrapped around you now, one of his hands sliding curiously over the curves of your body. All five fingers down, pressing into your skin.

But you suppose, for someone who has to be so careful with touch, that he would like this. That he might want this. You wonder if he ever gets to touch anyone like this, if he ever allows himself intimate touch like this– tender and for no other reason than to soothe or comfort.

You get the impression that he doesn’t, that touch is just a means to an end for him; sex is probably just an itch to scratch. You can’t imagine that he’s very relaxed or enjoying himself when he’s worried about decaying the person he’s with.

But all his crackling, restless energy now seems subdued, sated, as he walks his fingers over you. His hair tickles your bare skin as he nudges closer, nose running along your jaw.

Once more, you feel your age. You don’t feel like a hero, but just someone young, maybe on the cusp of being old. He looks young now, too, with his vivid eyes shut and relaxed, nothing to crease his brow. He doesn’t seem like a villain, either.

You brush a finger over his cheek, touch lightly at the scratches beneath his eyes, drag your thumb down to touch the scar at the corner of his lips.

His eyes flutter open to watch you, half lidded, squinted almost like a cat.

But he allows you to run your fingers over his face, doesn’t protest or jerk away from your touch.

No, his eyes fall shut again. He lets out a deep sigh that you think he has held inside him for years.

He doesn’t have a gentle face, but one that shows it’s angles and sharp edges, the scars and cuts that trail down onto his neck. You’d noticed some on his chest, too. Proof of an uneasy life lived, proof of violence and pain.

You imagine he’s seen horrors, kept them trapped inside for fear of letting them spill out, like maybe it’ll be as gruesome as the memories.

His body hasn’t been handled gently, you can tell, with it’s indents and scars and scratches. You don’t know who was the last person who touched him without wanting to hurt him. And you shouldn’t but you think of yourself when you were a child– desperate for love and affection, desperate for any scrap of attention like the scavenger you always were.

Maybe still are.

So desperate that you’d end up in the bed of your enemy– all because you couldn’t end up in the bed of your ally. So hungry that you’d eat out of a hand that has harmed and killed and destroyed.

Hands that haven’t known gentleness, a body that hasn’t known peace. But he’s being gentle with you now, isn’t he?

So you try to give gentleness to him now, too, with your careful touch. You keep your fingers kind and sympathetic.

Even your own eyes drift shut for a moment, still tracing idle patterns into his skin.

You only slip away from him for a moment, to use the bathroom, to clean up. Your reflection in the mirror looks strange; raw and flushed with color. Honest in a way that makes you turn away.

You slip back into bed with Tomura, let him latch onto you again. You drag your fingers gently over his ribs, over his sides.

You let your eyes fall shut, too.

There’s a sudden, loud buzzing from the floor that cuts through the quiet, which makes your eyes startle open. It’s insistent and you realize after a moment that it’s your phone, caught up in your hero suit on the floor.

You never came home after your shift. You curse softly, almost certain you know who's calling.

You squirm out of Tomura’s hold again, which he huffs at in irritation, but eventually allows you up.

“Where are you going now?” he asks, annoyed, when you climb out of bed to find your phone. Once found, you hold it up to him.

It’s still buzzing in your hand, lit up with Shouta’s contact.

You think the guilt should hit you now.

It doesn’t and that’s what you feel worse over. You swallow hard, frown down at your phone.

(Horribly, you even feel somewhat spiteful, as if you’re trying to prove something to Shouta. Maybe to yourself.)

You don’t answer.

And then you see the several texts from him, wondering where you are. They’re all bland, but you can tell he must be worried. It’s unlike you to not tell him where you are.

“Are you going to leave?” Tomura asks and there’s something strange in his voice, something you can’t place.

“Do you want me to?” you ask in return.

He doesn’t answer right away. But he does eventually give an annoyed drawl, “Do what you want.”

You take that as a no, don’t leave, since you’re certain if he wanted you gone, he would’ve told you.

You send a text to Shouta;

Sorry. Staying with an old friend for the night. Be back tomorrow.

It’s not unheard of, for you to spend time with an old friend from the foster care system.

You get a dry “okay” from him in response. You fight the urge to roll your eyes for some reason, tossing your phone away again.

You end up staying the night with Tomura Shigaraki, one of the most wanted villains in all of Japan.

Its not romantic— he isn’t sweet or funny or caring. But he holds you tight, leaves no room for distance. And it is the first time you’ve ever slept with someone like this, tucked away into a bed, bare, and wrapped up in each other.

Is this what it always feels like? You press yourself into the crooks of his body. You wonder if you’re supposed to fit this well together.

And it’s the first time since his Quirk developed that he hasn’t needed to wear his partial gloves to sleep in fear of decaying something.

He won’t admit it but it’s the best he’s slept in a long, long time.

You won’t admit it, either, but you think you could get used to this, too; this closeness, being held as if you’ll slip away, being held like he doesn’t want you to.

The morning brings rosy sunlight that slants through the windows. Neither of you talk much. You try to tell yourself this won’t happen again, can’t happen again.

But you had kissed him goodbye before you’d left, like he was a boyfriend and not a criminal, and you’d been in a surprisingly good mood for the rest of the day.

Like you had a crush, puppy love you never got as a teenager because you were too busy trying not to starve, only to realize you’d been starving in other ways, too.

But you’re sugar soft and excitable, dropping into bed that night alone, and allowing yourself to admit, in the quiet and privacy of your own thoughts, that you wish you were in his again.

***

One time turns into two which turns into three which turns into so many times you’ve lost count. That little, rundown apartment that isn’t really Tomura’s has turned into another world entirely, some harbor away from the rules of society. It’s almost too good to be true, a dream, a place for a secret as bad as this one.

When you’re here, you don’t talk of heroes and villains. You urge him not to; you think you’ll keep some part of your innocence in this affair if you don’t actually know anything about him or the League of Villains. You’ll feel too guilty, if you know any part of their plans and don’t tell Shouta. And telling Shouta anything about Tomura is beginning to feel like a betrayal, too.

You don’t know anything substantial about Tomura Shigaraki and that’s the way it needs to stay.

You know he likes sour candy, though, and drinks too many energy drinks– they’re sickly sweet and you think kissing him might make your teeth ache. You know he likes video games but no longer has a console. He has trouble sleeping at night. You’re familiar with the scars on his skin, the jagged ones across his neck, the one on his lip. The beauty mark on his chin. You know his moods; from the prickly ones to the downright vengeful ones. You even know the calmer ones, the quiet, contemplative ones.

(In this way, he seems like a normal twenty-something-year-old. In the quiet moments, when you’ve convinced him to watch a cheap horror movie on the tiny, staticky TV in the apartment, he could be anybody. When he’s got his bare hand up your shirt as someone onscreen screams and begs for their life, he’s not the heir to an underground empire. He’s just Tomura, with his face buried in the crook of your neck).

He pretends to get annoyed with you, huffs and scoffs against your lips when you’re being cheeky. You wear his worn down hoodies, slip your thumbs in the holes at the sleeves. He eyes you when you wear them, pulls you to him by the collar.

(He likes to fuck you in them– pushes the hoodie up your stomach to watch you ride him. But he likes things bare and raw, too. Skin to skin. So close it’s terrifying, so close you feel like he’s trying to tear you apart from the inside out. He likes it dirty, you think, because it makes it more intimate.)

You soothe him. You know you do because when he’s festering and angry, all it takes is your hand on his wrist, pulling it away from his neck. Sometimes, when he can’t think straight and there is too much on his mind, he forces you to lay on top of him until his breathing slows and his head is clear.

He can’t talk to you aloud about what’s plaguing him, but you must quiet some part of him. He likes to use you to think, runs his long fingers through your hair as you lay atop him. He pets you until his thoughts aren’t as jumbled, but smoothed out and sharp. Or until he doesn’t want to think anymore at all and he drags you into languid makeouts that always end with him surrounding you, inside you, possessing you.

You bicker sometimes, flash your teeth to make his eyes spark ruby and excited. Mostly, you act your age with him.

You don’t know when his birthday is or where he grew up. You don’t know what his childhood was like or what memories shaped him, don’t know where he’s been or where he’s going to be. You only know him now, in this moment, in this little world you’ve created for each other.

He’s what you imagined first boyfriends are supposed to be; excitable and often immature but fun and new. You never had the luxury of first loves, just odd first kisses with strangers and an uncomfortable loss of virginity with a friend of a friend of a friend who jammed his tongue too far down your throat. You hadn’t had anything stable until–

Until Shouta.

Shouta has grown suspicious of this old friend of yours and how much time you now spend with him.

He questions you about him and you wish you felt worse for lying. The rebellious part of this affair is thrilling, though. Feels like you’re sixteen and sneaking out from under your dad’s nose to be picked up by the boyfriend you’d know he’d hate. Feels like swiping liquor too young and getting sick off it, smashing the bottles and laughing with your friends because sometimes things just need to break.

“Will you at least tell me his name?” Shouta had asked one morning, when you’d let yourself into his apartment after another night at Tomura’s. You had your own hood pulled up around your face to hide the rose blossom hickeys against the skin of your neck.

He’d still poured you a cup of coffee. You’d watched his careful, large hands as they made it the way you liked it.

You’d given him a lie, fed it to him the way he feeds you breakfast, “Shinta. Are you happy?”

He’d slid the mug to you, let you catch in the cradle of your palm. He’d shrugged, but you think his eyes had flashed to you, “You know you can bring him around, right? You don’t always have to go to him.”

You’d had to bite back a painful laugh. It wasn’t funny. It had hurt strangely in the pit of your chest.

You had shaken your head, tried to brush him off, “It’s not like that.”

“Alright,” he’d said, but he hadn’t believed you. “You’re training alone with Shinsou again tonight, I’ll be busy with a job.” Then he’d given you a stern look, “And don’t cut it early to go see Shinta.”

“I’ve never done that!” you’d protested, perhaps a little too defensively. But it was true, you’d never do that to Shinsou, wouldn’t dream of it. The only time you’d cut training early was to share takeout with Shinsou, not ditch him for–

This comment had rubbed you wrong, scratched up against something abrasive and surprisingly fragile inside of you. Maybe because he was questioning your dedication which already felt so flimsy, even if he hadn’t been entirely serious, even if maybe he’d just been trying to take a dig at you. At this new boyfriend.

Shouta had grown cold then, shrugged impassively, took his mug of coffee and brushed past you to keep getting ready.

It had angered you enough to bring it up later to Tomura, when you’re falling into his lap and he’s squirming his cold, fluttery hands beneath your shirt to touch skin, to make you hiss through your teeth.

His lips tilt into a small smile as you fidget while he warms his frigid fingers on your body.

“Eraserhead asked about you yesterday,” you tell him, letting your nose brush against his, “Told me I could bring my friend around– don’t always have to go to him.”

Tomura snorts, eyes falling half-lidded when your lips skim over his. The night is plum dark, presses into this little apartment that’s tucked away from the world.

“How’d you get out of that one?” he asks, fingers walking over the dips of your spine. He likes tracing the bone beneath your skin, likes making you shiver.

“Told him it’s not like that.” you respond, your own hands wandering to his neck. You're careful over the ridges of flesh there, skim lightly to get to his jaw.

“No?” Tomura asks, pulling you closer, pressing his chest to yours, “Don’t want to bring me home to meet Eraserhead?” he sneers and there’s something underneath his voice, lurking, with its hackles raised.

You think maybe it’s jealousy, the same flash of his eyes like Shouta’s when he’d said Shinta.

But then he kisses you deep and drags your hips against his, forces a warbly, surprised little moan from you.

Most of your thoughts melt away then, most turn to something base and desperate, all desire and need. You can’t help but think about it, though, how you can’t ever take him home to Shouta. You can’t ever expect anything more than whatever stays in this room. He kisses you hard, your teeth clinking against his like clashing with the truth of it all.

There’s no happy ending here.

It’s like smashing bottles because sometimes things just need to break.

***

Tomura thinks you would be a good edition to the League of Villains.

You’re clever and capable. He comes to find you’re not just a good thief and pickpocket but an excellent one. You swipe everything from his pockets, right from under his nose, just to play with him. You’re stealthy and sharp; he could use someone like you at his side.

Your Quirk could be useful, though he doesn’t like the idea of you getting so close to people while in battles. You have a reckless streak, but he thinks he could temper that. All you need is a little guidance.

You were a thief once. You give him clues of your past; you didn’t grow up like the other heroes, didn’t come from a warm home with dreams of saving the world. Your head wasn’t filled with fantasies of rescuing the downtrodden. You were the downtrodden. And you learned that there was no one who was going to save you, except yourself. So you stole and fought and survived a world that was willing to forget you.

You’re like him, a very quiet part of him thinks, no one saved you. Not until you were too old, all grown up with sharpened teeth and claws, eyes that see in the dark. That could be now used and extorted by the heroes.

He thinks they’ve leashed you, taught you how to sit and stay and sic ‘em.

He wonders if he’d have gotten to you first, if you’d be with him and not your heroes.

Tomura doesn’t dwell on it, though. He refuses to imagine it. What would be the point? It didn’t happen.

Besides, he is certain he is capable of slowly swaying you to them still. You possess a startling amount of compassion for villains which, perhaps wouldn’t help you as a villain, but that’s fine.

(You’d have him. No one would touch you if you were at his side. You could be as stupidly compassionate as you wanted.)

You meet members of the League with him by accident, times when Toga and Twice’s meeting with him overlap with you arriving. Toga goes on endlessly about you, it seems. Dabi drops by once in the middle of the night, bloody and demanding a place to sleep because he’s tired of sleeping on the streets.

It’d been one of the more insufferable nights, perhaps one of the worst ways for Dabi to find out about you. You’d already been asleep, cocooned beneath blankets and Tomura’s body, just in one of his loose shirts.

Tomura had already been lying awake, listening to your even breathing when he’d heard the handle of the door shake roughly. He’d gotten up then, slipped into clothes, melted into the darkness by the door and waited for the intruder to try and step inside.

The lock had been picked.

He had nearly decayed Dabi by accident before realizing it was him.

A ridiculously quiet but terse argument had ensued then, before Dabi had asked, in a regular speaking voice, “Why the fuck are we whispering?”

Tomura had almost winced when he heard you stir from the bed before your small, sleepy voice had murmured into the darkness, “Tomura?”

You’d said it too soft, too sweet. It’d been for his ears only and something about Dabi hearing you, seeing you, being in this space that had been for you and for him had made Tomura suddenly livid.

He had watched Dabi’s mouth fall open in shock before you’d switched on the bedside lamp to flood the room with artificial, golden light.

Dabi’s face had been near horrific in the light, one side of it all bloody, the stitches mangled or falling out. Part of his face almost looked like it was melting, his eye squinted shut with the damage.

But he’d thrown his head back and laughed when he’d seen you, sitting up in the bed, blinking sleepily at them. Tomura hated a lot of things, but he’d hated nothing more than the sound of Dabi’s rasping laugh in that moment.

You’d narrowed your eyes when you had realized who it was.

“I had no idea you had it in you, Tomura.” Dabi had said.

“Why the fuck are you here?” Tomura had hissed instead, fighting the urge to tear into his neck, fingers twitching agitatedly.

Dabi had gestured to his face with a lazy flourish, “I need medical attention and I’m crashing on your couch.”

Tomura’s teeth had ground together, “Get. Out.”

“No, I’m sick of sleeping on the streets when you’re here playing house with your little hero bitch–”

Before Tomura could even react, though, you had found the small supply of first aid from beneath the sink in the tiny bathroom. You had come up beside them near silently and offered it up, asked, “Do you want help?”

And there it had been– that compassion of yours. Even for the likes of Dabi.

In that moment, he’d wondered how you had ever survived with it. He’d thought that you’d lose your hand if you kept extending it.

Dabi hadn’t let you touch him but you’d gotten a cool rag for him to clean up the blood, watched as he tried to patch up the wound. It was made worse by a mangled staple in his cheek, jutting out strangely.

“Does it hurt?” You’d asked but with the way you were looking at him, at his marred skin up close, Tomura could tell that you weren’t just referring to this one injury.

Does it hurt? You’d asked, like you were asking if it all hurt. You weren’t just seeing a singular part of Dabi, but a series of tragedies that was proudly presented in large, rippling scars against his skin.

“Of course it fucking hurts,” Dabi had spit out, all venom and bitterness. But you hadn’t even flinched.

Tomura had tried to kick him out again once his wound had been treated.

“It’s fine,” you’d said, resigned, tired and rubbing at your eyes.

(Later you’d shrug and tell him, I know what it’s like to not have somewhere to sleep).

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Dabi had drawled, already pulling off his heavy boots, prying the coat from his body to toss onto the floor. “Just don’t do any weird shit.”

And you’d gotten back into bed with Tomura, fit yourself against him, ducked your head down beneath his chin and pressed your hands against his sides, felt the notches of his ribs.

Sometimes he wonders if you can feel the missing one, the one you took from him, the one you’d been made out of.

It had occurred to Tomura that either you didn’t fear Dabi or you trusted him enough to know he’d never let Dabi harm you while sleeping.

Both were acceptable to him, both would aid him in converting you. And they were true, too. You shouldn’t fear Dabi, especially not with him around.

Tomura had brought his hand up then, suddenly covered your mouth with his large palm, letting all five of his fingers come down against your pretty face.

You’d furrowed your brows in confusion, not fear, which made something inside of him grow warm and hungry.

Then he’d slid his other hand down your body, between your legs, just to spite Dabi.

He’d watched as your eyes went wide in the dark, cheeks flushing beneath his hand. He could feel his smirk, smug and sharp, fitting across his teeth like a muzzle.

You’d tried to shake your head, tried to squirm away from his touch, but he’d been persistent and soon enough you were sighing against his hand, melting into the bed he pressed you into. Soon enough you were trying to hold back whimpers, all slippery and soft beneath his fingers, silently begging with your eyes.

He hadn’t denied you that night; no, you were being good, walking the steps he wanted for you. You were moldable and sweet beneath him so he’d give you what you wanted.

He watched in satisfaction as you came hard around his fingers, face scrunching up in that way he loved, fingers easing you through it. He was gentle with you then, taking his hand away from your mouth slowly, letting you nudge closer and cling to him.

(He loved when you clung to him).

You’d wanted so much affection that night and he had indulged you, letting your nose brush against his, or rubbing your cheek against his chest while his fingers wound through your hair.

You’d fallen asleep all tied up in him.

The next morning, you were gone before Dabi even woke up.

Dabi had asked, “What the fuck are you doing with her?”

“Mind your business,” Tomura had snapped, fingers already seeking out his neck again when they couldn't find you. He hated that he wanted your presence so badly now. (Hated that he missed you, but he would never say that, never even dream of it). Then he’d added,“And find someone else’s doorstep to show up on.”

Dabi had scoffed, “Whatever. Just don’t get distracted.” He’d pulled out a cigarette from his jacket still on the floor then, much to Tomura’s annoyance, and lit it with a spark of his fingers. Smoke curled into the air with his first drag. “I’m not about to watch all our efforts fall apart because you wanted to play Romeo and Juliet with some braindead little hero.”

He’d torn into the skin of his neck then. Wished he could tear into you instead.

“Violent delights and violent ends and all that shit,” Dabi had said then, his smile just a curled stitch, smoke pouring from his lips, evidently amused with himself.

But Tomura has never read that play and he doesn’t know anything about poetry in the same way he doesn’t know anything about art or beauty, just that you’re the only thing he’s bothered to compare to a painting.

***

You put Tomura into your phone as Shinta and when you’re too busy to visit him between missions and training, you text him. Though short, he is surprisingly witty over text, something that has you biting back grins and distracted, feeling like a schoolgirl as you try to hide the screen of your phone from the rest of the world.

You grow distracted with hero work, with Shouta. You pay less attention to your life at U.A. You don’t visit Shouta for lunch as often. You haven’t spent a quiet night with Shouta in weeks. You tell yourself you don’t care.

It’s better than fighting with him. It’s better than trying to beg for his love and affection.

Early tomorrow morning you’re supposed to shadow Shouta on a brief mission.

The Hero Commission is trying to train you into espionage and underground work, trying to mold you in the shape of Shouta.

But at night, when you’re alone in your bedroom, tucked away into your own apartment and not with Tomura, he calls you.

You let yourself say his name into the receiver of your phone, hushed and excited.

He doesn’t say I miss you or when will I see you again?

He says, “Touch yourself.”

And you don’t say I miss you, too, or hopefully soon.

You do as he says, let your fingers fan out over your stomach like they might be his. You listen to his breathing turn ragged over the phone. You moan softly for him.

You do what he says in the navy dark of night, bite back frustrated whines because you’ve gotten too used to his touch.

“–Wish it was you, fuck, it’s not fair,” you gasp, tilting your hips up into your fingers desperately.

You can hear the hiss of breath he takes, “Did I ruin you?” he croons into the phone lowly, his voice slithering through to you, making your thighs clench. “Can’t even touch yourself without needing me?”

You groan, high and defeated, fingers slipping against yourself. You’re aching and empty and bereft without him, “Yes, yes–”

He rambles about what he’s done to you, almost seething by the end, when he demands you tell him that you’re his, that he’s the one who made you this way. He’s the only one who can soothe you now. You need him.

He isn’t wrong, you realize, when you still aren’t satisfied after your climax. When it doesn’t feel as good as when you’re with him. You realize you hate sleeping alone now. You miss the press of his body to yours. You coo into the phone about it, lay on your stomach, arms curled around your pillow with your ear still to your phone.

It never gets overly sentimental. You don’t want to scare him, especially as you grow terrified of your own feelings. It doesn’t feel as fun anymore, you realize, only because your attraction to him has now grown serious.

Your crush has grown teeth and claws, ready to tear apart the vulnerable, fleshy parts of you.

But he talks with you until you fall asleep, phone still in hand, heart still on the line.

***

There’s a stray kitten that hangs out around Tomura’s apartment– he thinks there must be a colony of strays in the area, since it’s not the only one. But this one is scrawny, just a messy tuft of grey fur. It’d be sleek and pretty, if it wasn’t so malnourished, if it wasn’t missing clumps of fur or full of scars and scratches.

The kitten likes Tomura a great deal for some reason. It rubs itself against his legs, follows him around outside of the apartment, much to your utter delight.

You coo and fawn over it, scoop the little thing up into your arms and hold it up to Tomura’s face.

He hates it, the face you give him. The face the kitten gives him. He hates that the corner of his lips twitch upwards.

“He’s so cute,” you gush and he can hear now that the little thing is purring furiously in your hands. You wiggle the cat a little bit in front of his face and Tomura finally reaches up to stroke the back of his knuckles against the kitten’s head, if only to appease you.

Your smile is crooked– an excited curve of your lips, your eyes alight.

You’re always so expressive and he used to be livid about it, wanted to teach you a lesson in the worst way possible, but now he just wants to keep you from learning them.

He has to turn away from you at the thought, heads towards the door of the apartment building. You follow after him dutifully, coming up to nudge against his side. He’s become too comfortable with you there, knocking into his elbow.

You’re still smiling down at the kitten in your arms and he wants to look away because some part of this is starting to sting.

The kitten is excitedly looking around, green eyes all round and bright. It’s purring happily.

“Put it down, it’s not coming in with us.” Tomura tells you, his voice rough and soft.

You stop in front of the door with him. Your bottom lip pulls out into a pout. Your eyes get round like the kitten’s.

He gives you a cold stare.

You hug the kitten tighter to your body, “C’mon,” you whine, “It’s just a baby.”

“I’m not taking care of a cat.”

“I’ll take care of it!”

“No,” he responds, harsher, voice a little sharper.

Maybe, in the beginning of this little affair, you would’ve headed the warning in his tone, but now you don’t even bat an eye at him.

“Yes,” you respond indignantly.

You both glare at each other. The kitten’s purr still rumbles on.

Tomura can tell you’re not giving this one up, he can tell by the set of your jaw, the way you’re clinging to that little creature. There’s a determined flush to your face. Your eyes are bright and fiery.

All over this little stray.

“You’re a brat,” is all Tomura says and you take that as a win, because your face immediately morphs, brightens up completely. You duck past him, into the apartment building with the kitten cradled in your arms.

He heaves a deep sigh, following in after you. “I’m kicking it out when you leave.”

“Don’t be mean,” you reply, waiting at the door, and the irony is not lost on him. He comes up behind you, his chest to your back, crowding you against the door.

“I think you need to remember who you’re speaking to,” he says, his voice just a rasp against your ear and maybe at some point, it would’ve sounded threatening, but now you just lean back into his chest. His heart beats against the curve of your back.

Something soft is growing between the two of you, he can feel it. It has no place here, though, in this world. In the two of you. His ugly infatuation with you, all that anger and vitriol he had for you has melted, turned spring soft inside of him after an unforgiving winter.

He unlocks the door, he lets you in.

The kitten ends up coming and going. He opens the window to let it in and out, let’s you feed it. You call it Ryuji. It lives partially in this new little world the two of you have built.

He thinks of it like the pause screen in a video game, somewhere to return to when he’s frustrated or tired or done. Idle, soft music and the freezing of his screen. A moment away from the turmoil or struggle of the game.

But he’ll have to unpause eventually.

He can’t stay here forever, he knows it, but he just has to be sure he plays it right– he doesn’t think he’ll be able to start over this time, with you.

And he wants you there at the ending, at his side like in his dreams.

The ones where it’s all in ruins, the world nothing but his, destroyed, but he gives you his hand to have, and you take it in yours to hold.

***

The distance between you and Shouta stretches and grows until it snaps in the form of a blowout argument. Which, is mostly just you, shouting, crying furiously, and Shouta stone-faced and cool.

It had started with an offhand comment from him about how you’re not focused anymore. You’re getting sloppy. You’re distracted. And usually, you take his criticism with a stiff upper lip and a determined glare.

But you and Shouta haven’t been the same since you tried to kiss him.

You blame yourself, maybe, but part of you feels angry with him, too. Bitter. You thought, in some way, he reciprocated your feelings. He’d acted like it. And when he’d rejected you, he’d pulled away, been more careful with you.

(You wonder if this proves your point, that he was toeing a line with you then.)

And maybe your lies are starting to eat at you, too, starting to rot away on the inside of you. If you focused on them too hard and all that Shouta’s done for you, you think you’d start crying every time you looked at him.

But Tomura has also thrown all you know into question. And you’d already been critical of the life you were afforded by becoming a hero.

You look at all of Shouta’s students and you just get angry. You look at Shinsou, so determined to prove he can be a hero, that he’s good and you are livid. You look at Toga, with her villainous Quirk. She’s near Shinsou’s age and something about it just makes you ache, it makes you sick.

You look at her and see who she could’ve been as a hero– you wonder if they would’ve stuck her in espionage, with the likes of you and Shouta. You wonder if she would’ve gone to U.A. You wonder what it would’ve taken to change her fate.

Even Tomura, you look at him and in the safety and privacy of your own heart, you dare to wonder what he would’ve been like if he hadn’t been a villain.

(He could’ve been a rescue hero, you think, and he could’ve decayed debris to save people. This version of him lives in the quiet, tentative parts of you. It grows soft and underground, a seedling that has sprouted on the inside of your chest, and one day you think this little dream of yours will grow so large inside of you that it’ll breach skin and show the world it’s horror.)

It feels like a coin toss, almost, like the difference between a hero and a villain sometimes is one flip away from changing.

You don’t bother to wonder what would’ve happened if it hadn’t been Shouta that found you, but someone like Tomura. Or All For One. You know if you’d been given somewhere to sleep and a warm meal, you would’ve done what they wanted.

You wish you could say you were a noble, starving person, that there was something shining and golden inside of you. But all you were was starving.

Shouta says you’ve been underperforming lately. He says he’s considering limiting the nights you patrol until you can get it together.

The Hero Commission was supposed to come observe you to see if you’d progressed enough to begin accepting your own missions. He tells you he doesn’t think they should come any longer. It feels like a dig, too, like he’s reprimanding you somehow.

And you snap, “Well maybe I didn’t want them to observe me!”

He looks taken aback for a moment, before he asks, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know! Maybe I’m tired of being observed and used and watching all of these kids be observed and sought after and–”

“Alright,” Shouta sighs, and it makes your teeth grit because he sounds like he’s trying to parent you, “It’s one thing to be upset yourself, but I don’t see how this has anything to do with these kids.”

Your nails dig into your palms as you try to find the words to get him to understand you.

But he speaks before you can, almost patronizingly, “Clearly, you’re struggling through something, so it’s probably a good thing we’ve put this off.”

Tears well up hard and fast. It hurts to be dismissed like this. It hurts to look at him, to think that he’s a part of the ever growing issue that has been itching beneath your skin. You’re a part of it, too, but you have the sudden urge to run. To get out.

Still, you swallow down all of that turmoil and say, “I hardly know what I want now, so how do you expect children to know that they want to be a hero?”

“What is this about?” Shouta asks.

“It’s about the Hero Commission and U.A. and the entire fucking system. That’s what it’s about.” you seethe, looking up into his eyes, trying to find something there.

“It’s not just about you?” he asks, unperturbed.

“Why can’t it be both?” you respond, trying to keep your voice from going high, from going hysterical. There’s so much you want to say, so much that it’s making you sick, that it’s turning your stomach. “I’m– I’m barely older than them!” you say, because all you keep thinking about is how they’re just kids. And you were just a kid. And at one point, Tomura was just a kid.

He’s barely older than you. Closer in age to Shouta’s students than to him.

“I didn’t invent the system,” Shouta says and he sounds weary, “I just try to give my students the best opportunity at surviving being a hero. I try to teach them everything to keep them alive.”

They’re just kids! You want to shriek, kids that were chosen or forgotten or accepted or shunned.

Looking in the face of the system now feels so massive that it’s hopeless; a system that produces shiny heroes from children with their perfect and acceptable Quirks and discards the rest. Even you and Shouta, with your Quirks that aren’t as flashy, are pushed into the shadows to do the Hero Commissions business. And what business is that? You have to wonder their intentions, too, with all the money that’s pumped into it. Into all of these heroes. A system that forgets anyone who doesn’t fit into it’s perfect mold.

“But you see how it’s wrong, right? And just because you didn’t invent the system doesn’t mean you get to throw your hands up!” You say, voice raising.

Shouta levels you with a cool look. He lets loose a sigh. “What would you like me to do?”

You don’t have an answer, it’s too big of a question.

(You see the appeal suddenly, in wanting to get rid of it all, in destroying it since it’s such a mess.)

But you hate his aloofness, you hate that he doesn’t care. You hate that you feel crazy.

“I don’t know!” you shout, tears finally falling down your angry and flushed face. “I don’t know!”

“Are you done?” Shouta asks and it makes you want to scream more. You just want a reaction from him, you realize, you want something more than his impassiveness. You think of trying to shout more, to try and say something cutting or powerful or enough to make him wince.

But nothing comes to mind and you’re just stubbornly trying to keep back a sob.

So you shoulder past him, rush out of his apartment, rubbing at your cheeks and trying to keep back your hiccuping cries.

You have every intention of going to Tomura’s.

But you realize when you’ve nearly made it to his door that it might be foolish to go to someone like Tomura with tears in your eyes. What is the leader of the League of Villains going to do? You have a feeling you might just get your feelings hurt more.

So you pause, rub at your eyes again, try to dispel all the turmoil inside you. It doesn’t work, so you turn away from him, too, and you start moving.

Your feet carry you to the train station, carry you across town, to a warehouse you used to vandalize and hide in when you were young and alone.

You haven’t been here in years.

It feels strange, loping around the side of the building. The alleyways are cast in garnet light with the fading sun. It makes it look prettier than it is. You enter through the same hole in the wall that you used to when you were young; you’re bigger now, though, need to duck lower, curl yourself up to get through it.

You think of yourself scurrying around, knowing the ins and outs of this dilapidated building the way most children know their childhood home.

It’s strange, stepping back into a place you haven’t been to in years. You know, in some way, it has to have changed. It’s falling apart more, there’s larger holes in the ceiling, letting in auburn light, setting everything ablaze. There’s a lot of debris; from torn tents to discarded sleeping bags to spare junk, it’s all spread out throughout the place. Graffiti covers every corner of the walls. You used to look for a face painted in pink, it’s eyes dripping down it’s face in the back corner of a wall. When your eyes slide along all the artwork, it’s nowhere to be found now. No doubt covered up by the years, but you know it’s there, somewhere beneath all that color and paint.

There are a lot of empty bottles, glass laying around that crunches beneath your shoe.

You pick up a glass by the spout, watch as it catches in the light, murky gold and sunkissed.

You feel small again, fragile like the bottle in your hand. You stopped crying at least, but all that’s left is the aftertaste. Just the lingering frustration, the bitter aloneness that settles over you as cold as Shouta’s stare.

Your fingers squeeze around the glass, curling tight, before you suddenly hurl it at the wall.

It bursts on impact, explodes into thousands of shining, glittering pieces that spark in the sun.

It feels good, so you pick up another glass– this one’s mint green, pretty like the sea, reminds you of spring and the stems of flowers.

It breaks prettily, too, the sound ringing and sharp in your ears, your eyes trying to catch all the splinters of it. It explodes in the light. It’s cathartic, letting all your aching frustration and hurt rush out with each breaking, with each smashing.

You don’t get through many more, not before you hear footsteps behind you.

You can’t say you’re surprised to find Tomura, but you can’t say you were expecting it either. Quickly, you turn away, try to school your features. You try to rub at your eyes again, as if this will somehow dispel damp lashes and splotchy cheeks.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask, but there’s no bite to it as he comes to stand beside you.

He doesn’t answer.

You think he might be, but you can’t find it in you to care.

The sound of the distant city is just a hum between you two. Glass sparkles on the floor like stars in the fading, ruby light.

You turn to face him, don’t bother trying to look up into his face, just shove yourself into his chest. You bury your face into his hoodie, rubbing your cheek against his chest. “Creep,” you mumble, “What are you doing here?”

His hands come up, one at the back of your head, the other along your back. He has his gloves on. Not that it matters.

“I followed you from the apartment,” he admits and his voice is quiet, but it seems to echo in this open space. Then he says, “You should be more watchful.”

“Don’t start,” you grumble, letting your fingers curl in his jacket, “Been scolded enough today.”

The hand at the back of your head tugs at your hair lightly, lifting your head from its hiding place against his chest so that he can look you over carefully.

The light casts him in maroon and russet, saturating him, making the dark of him stand out sharply. It makes the silver of his hair seem peach, brands him in all the sun’s honey and whiskey glory.

His eyes are vivid, maybe the most true shade of red you’ve ever seen in your life.

He takes in your face, perhaps your bloodshot eyes, your damp lashes. You aren’t a fool; you’re certain he can tell you’ve been crying. You have the urge to squirm away, to try and hide from his gaze.

But all he asks, in a surprisingly gentle tone, is “What happened?”

You shake your head fractionally, “Nothing. Got into an argument, that’s all.”

He hums lightly, tracking your expression. You want to glance away from him, but he holds you still for a moment longer.

When you can’t take his scrutinization any longer, you ask, “Wanna break some shit with me?”

He lets you go finally, let’s you step out of his arms despite not responding. You pick up another glass, this once an icy blue that reflects light that reminds you of the color of morning skies.

You watch as it explodes against the wall, flashing like a little firework. Glass rains down onto the ground, some of it flinging up into the air or back towards you. Tomura pulls you away from it by the back of your jacket, yanks you back into his chest as glass shards fly past you.

He glares at you somewhat and you can tell he wants to scold you, but he doesn’t. You squirm out of his grasp to do it again.

Glass showers down as you break another bottle. It rains in shards of tangerine and pale yellow, bright pops of cherry in the light. It feels good, to watch it all burst apart in the sunlight, like watching little stars burst and explode at your hands. It’s so pretty, for such a violent act.

You hand a bottle to Tomura, offering him the chance to also act out. Instead, he pulls off one of his gloves– tugs it off with his teeth, the glint of sharp white against flesh pink. You watch fascinated for a moment, catch his eyes, blazing and barbed.

When he takes it with all five fingers, you watch as it first cracks in your palm, before fluttering away into dust. Into nothing.

You make a face, “That’s not as exciting as breaking them.”

He rolls his eyes, but you catch the way the corner of his lips hike up. He takes another glass, this one icy silver, caught peach in the honey light, though. He keeps a finger lifted away delicately as he lifts it up to the beams of scarlet sun that flare through the rafters.

And in that fiery patch of dusk, with the glass reflecting iridescence onto the angular plains of his face, your heart gives a violent lurch, like it’s trying to burst free from your chest.

I think I love you, you think, unbridled, and so suddenly that it feels as if the thought has slammed into you the way a body might fall from the ledge of a roof.

I think I love you, you think again, because you can’t quite believe it, as he lobs the bottle at the wall. It fractures into a thousand little beams of glass and light, like an exploding comet. You feel as fragile as that, like he’ll do the same to you. Maybe you’ll be nothing but shards by the end of this, nothing but dust slipping through his fingers.

He turns to you, no doubt to say something snarky, but you’re already taking quick steps to him. He doesn’t get the chance to speak, not when you collide with him, hard and reckless, throwing yourself up onto your toes to kiss him with a new violence.

He makes a surprised noise, soft, but catches you otherwise. His hand is already up, worming beneath your clothes to press chilled fingers into the bare skin of your upper waist. He likes the way you hiss into his mouth, and you like the way they dig roughly into you. He forces you closer, melds his mouth to yours, rough at the edges, slick and warm at the center as the kiss blossoms into slow simmering heat.

And by the end of it all, when the light has given way to violet darkness, the press of indigo shadows that stretch tall in this abandoned warehouse, there is too much glass on the floor. Everything is shattered or decayed. Your lips are stinging from sharp-toothed kisses and the desperate press of his mouth to yours. You’ve turned molten, fallen apart the way glass does.

You walk home together, hand in seeking hand.

Your eyes flush pink with your Quirk, brightening up in the dark.

You knock into his side like you’re a kid, eagerly trailing beside him. He has the hood of his sweatshirt up, hidden, as you rush into the next train back to the part of town that holds the little, distant world of his apartment.

You sit beside each other on the train, knees pressing into each other. He leans over to crowd you against the cool glass as the world streaks past you in a wash of darkness. He ducks his face to yours, his hood hiding the both of you from any onlookers as he seers his mouth to yours again.

You feel like a teenager, kissing in front of strangers, beneath the flickering light of the train car. You feel young and reckless, letting him have you like this, while the city burns like a blurry halo behind you. But you feel older, too, older and in love, like you finally know the secret of the universe, the one that every adult knows and has only learned in the burn of a kiss, in the messy squeezing of your heart.

He licks into your mouth slow, you curl your small hand into his worn hoodie. If people stare, you don’t know, don’t care.

He pulls away from you, forcing you up when your stop is announced, leaving you a little dazed and dizzy, but you eagerly follow after him. Your hands bunch into the back of his jean jacket. You stumble behind him a little, feet tangling with his as you duck beneath his arm to come to his side.

Ryuji finds the two of you on your walk home the closer you get, follows you both inside, happily chirping at your coos. But he paws at the window to be let out again a short time later, after you’ve fed him something. Tomura opens the window for the cat, but not before you catch him rubbing a knuckle against the kitten’s fuzzy cheek, brief but gentle.

You think he likes Ryuji more than he lets on. You think he loves all this more than he lets on.

Tomura takes his time with you that night, surprisingly languid for once, like you’re not on borrowed time. Like this is an entirely new planet, a version of the two of you that is not bound by pasts and future expectations. No strings puppeteering you both, no invisible hands holding you both back.

He pulls you down into his lap, to sink onto him, fill yourself with him as you please. You twine your arms around his slender neck to pull him close, eyes half lidded and pyretic pink, fiery and soft with the way your Quirk reacts to his. It always hums somewhere inside of you, brushes against his until it quiets, until he’s soothed and relaxed.

“Do you feel powerful?” he murmurs against your lips, eyes flickering up to find yours.

The question takes you by surprise for a moment, pulling away fractionally from his parted lips. And with the way your heart squirms in your chest, looking down at him like this, you want to say no, I feel terrified and new and desperate.

But he drags nails down your back, makes you gasp and roll your hips down onto him, which startles a groan out of him. The sound of it turning your stomach in the best and worst ways, making you flush, making you squirm to try and sink lower onto him. Greedy and desperate, you wiggle your hips to make his breathing come out ragged.

It makes you realize you have one of the most dangerous villains beneath you, as desperate as you are.

You roll your hips again, slow, take what you want of him. You fist your hand in his hair, tilt his head back and watch as his eyes flutter. His cheeks are flushed.

Pretty, you think faintly.

“Yeah,” you breathe, gliding your lips along his, heart a storm in your chest to have him looking up at you like this, “I do.”

His lips tilt into a knife-sharp smile, enough to gut you.

And he lets you take what you please of him that night, and the thief that you are, you take and take and take. You steal from him with deft hands and a smile that he thinks he’d destroy the world for. You take all the love that you want from him, gorge yourself on it until you feel sick.

Until you feel as if you could rot with it, carrying your love for him in the pits of you, coveting in the safe, secret parts of you, for no one else to find.

Just you and him, like this, hand in seeking hand.

***

PART III

[sillyguyhotline]

yttd and themes of parental failure; how the adults in our life disappoint us

alternate title: how everyone in your turn to die has mommy issues, daddy issues, or both

I’m not the first person to talk about this, nor will I be the last, but there are a lot of themes sprinkled throughout YTTD’s story and one of the themes that isn’t talked about much is the theme of how parents (or more broadly, adults) tend to fail us. Throughout the game, we see children and adults being placed in the same deadly situation, and are disappointed time and time again as the adults prioritize their lives over those of their children... often perpetuating the cycles of abuse that they themselves have suffered. I don’t think this theme encompasses the whole story by any means, but I do think that, in some parts, YTTD attempts to tell a story of irresponsible adult figures, failing as parents, and the ways cycles of abuse are perpetuated.

I think it’s best to start with Sara, the main character and the most visible victim of the adults’ failings in the death game. Despite being a teenager, she’s elevated to a position of leadership partially by circumstance and partially by the machinations of others. I think it’s pretty clear that her being a leader is more crucial to the story than it initially seems to be, but for now it’s evident that she, as a child, has been deemed stronger than the many adults beside her in the game and has thus been made a leader. It’s acknowledged that she is the person who makes the majority of the crucial decisions, she is the person the others look to in times of turmoil, and she’s tasked with shouldering many of the heavy burdens of the group’s failures. This certainly doesn��t come without consequences; much of Sara’s grief comes not just from Joe’s death, but from regret over the countless people she’s failed to protect and the obligation she feels to prioritize their lives over her own. While many of the adult characters (Q-taro, Keiji, Shin, Alice) have the opportunity to sit back and make more selfish decisions for their own survival, Sara never has that liberty because she’s been thrust into a role where the group’s wellbeing is worth more than hers and every group failure is felt by her more than anyone else. This is most evident in the aftermath of the Kanna/Shin decision, specifically in the Kanna Dies route; Sara is the one who is tortured and meant to feel the most pain for Kanna’s death because she, as the leader, felt obligated to take the decision into her own hands... and nobody stopped her. From Russian Roulette (where Kai, the least underhanded out of all of Sara’s adult protectors, tried to stop her from becoming a leader) to Chapter 2′s Main Game, the effects of Sara’s leadership are heavy. She’s still a child who’s been given power, and the other adults in the game choose to either profit from or resent this power instead of challenging the fact that a child has been entrusted with it.

This is where Kanna comes in, another child who’s been failed by the adults in the game. When she entered, she’d lost her most important mentor figure (her sister) and as a result was left incredibly vulnerable. At first, a few of the characters tried to help her (Nao and Reko), but ultimately she was left vulnerable for too long and Shin used that vulnerability to coerce her into going along with his plans, putting her life in jeopardy by claiming she had the Sage. It’s likely that Shin reminded her of Kugie, which motivated her to stick by his side, but there’s no doubt that his manipulation influenced her to continue supporting him throughout chapter 2. Kanna is another character who felt obligated to provide protection and support for adults who didn’t provide all that much of it, which is made evident as she continues to insist he’s a good person throughout ch2 and, of course, demands that everyone vote for her to die in the main game because she thinks Shin is not only good but much more useful than she is. She, like Sara, continues to prioritize the well-being of the group over her own as a result of the position she was forced into and of the failure of the adults around her to do anything about it.

This aspect of Kanna’s character ties into another point I want to make, about cycles of abuse and protection. I believe that Shin is one of the biggest in-game examples of how abuse victims can be pushed to perpetuate those cycles upon the people they’re supposed to love and care for. Shin definitely cared for Kanna; he wrote the message in the phone to boost her spirits and fought for her to survive even knowing that if she got the Sacrifice she wouldn’t pick him to escape with. However, a lot of his dynamic with her comes as a result of the abuse he suffered under Sou Hiyori, and this abuse is part of why Kanna perceives herself to be worthless. He takes out his own anger at himself and his weakness by constantly belittling Kanna, calling her weak and useless to the group (eventually doing this because he thinks it will help her escape), and the constant reinforcement of this mindset is what leads to her self loathing and, in some cases, eventual self sacrifice. Not only does Shin fail to protect Kanna from death as a parental figure, he fails to prevent his own patterns of abuse from affecting her. This is a classic example of how abuse can become generational.

I want to cycle back to the topic of Sara, now, and bring Keiji into the mix, because I believe that Keiji is one of the biggest and also most fascinating examples of the failures of adults- primarily because he is simultaneously the child being failed and the adult who is failing. Keiji started out as an idealistic child with high hopes for his own future and strong beliefs in the police force, but he ended up killing his mentor and destroying his own faith in the goodness of the police. I also find it intriguing that the person he kills is one of the most solid parental figures in the game; Mr. Policeman cares for his child a lot and shows great care for children who aren’t even biologically related to him (such as Keiji). He likely left the police force for the sake of his child as well as to escape corruption. When Keiji kills him, he is not only killing the idealistic dream that his child self once harbored, but he is killing the biggest human embodiment of that dream in his life. Fittingly, then, Keiji goes on to turn into the opposite of what his younger self would have wanted to be. He wanted to be a protector, but in the Death Game we see him flirting with the child he’s protecting, consistently lying to and deceiving her for his own gain, pushing her into being a leader because it benefits him, and going behind her back to help himself survive (such as performing the card trade with Q-taro when it’s clear that Sara had the Sacrifice and likely would have died because of it). At the surface, Keiji is a betrayal of the mentor Sara needed in her life, but when you look beyond that, he’s a betrayal of the adult figure who guided him and the adult figure his child self wanted to be. 

There’s also Q-taro, one of the more blatant examples of an adult who valued his own survival over those of the children in the game. His selfishness, however, wasn’t concealed with concern for the children, like Shin’s and Keiji’s were. He indirectly participated in thrusting Sara into a leadership position, and time and time again attempted to get the children (specifically Gin) killed because he thought it would benefit either him or the group. His selfishness is not as much of a betrayal as it is a sad reinforcement of the idea that adults in this game can’t be trusted to protect the children. Even as he campaigns for Gin and Kanna’s deaths, even as he waits until the last minute to press the button, he still looks to Sara for guidance and trusts her as a leader. To make things even worse, the child whom he’s targeting has already been disillusioned to how pathetic adults can be; Gin’s father abuses alcohol, and as Gin establishes from the beginning, he’s already lost his trust in the reliability of adults. And, in a sad way, Gin ends up being proven right; his first father figure in the game dies immediately, and his second either dies or is quickly revealed to have been tasked with killing him. Unreliable adults in awful circumstances. 

Then you have Gashu, one of the only actual parents in this game, whose failures are felt in not one, but two children. As I stated before, while talking about Sara, Kai was one of the only people who made a move to stop Sara from being established as the group’s leader in Russian Roulette. While I believe that this is mostly because he knew of the Hades Incident and wanted to stop it from being replicated, I also have to wonder if it was because he knew what it was like, as a child, to be forced into a terrible position (as Gashu had high expectations of him as an assassin) and didn’t want the child he’d grown affectionate towards to be forced to undergo the same thing. Whatever his motives were, Kai was an example of the pain neglectful parents can bring, and he provides a stark contrast to Ranger, who wasn’t yet aware of Gashu’s cruelty when we met him. We watched in real time as Ranger realized that he wasn’t actually all that loved or valued; he was just created to serve a purpose, and when he stepped out of line he quickly lost his value. Just like how Kai served the purpose of being an assassin, and, potentially, how Sara serves the purpose of being the leader. Gashu isn’t just a neglectful parent, he’s outright malicious. 

I’d like to speculate, then, about how the story is going to take the path of neglectful adults as it goes forward. I already think that we can see where it’s going to go with Sara, as 3-1a has clearly showcased the effects of her guilt and, depending on which route you take, has either established that she’s grown comfortable with her position as leader or is crumbling under the pressure of her grief. However, going back to the theme of parents... it must be noted that almost none of the characters have been confirmed to have 2 biological parents. They either come from an orphanage or are missing a parent... and the parent they’re missing is typically the father. I have to wonder if this consistent theme of failed parenting is going to tie into Gashu’s reminder to “question your upbringing,” and if the shitty adults are going to make a more literal appearance. 

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

All pointing and laughing aside, I do think it’s important to know it’s impossible for people to embrace the most radical forms of relativism that anti-intellectualism demands (”there’s literally no difference between the words of people who know things and the words of people who don’t”) and also be of any use whatsoever to the project(s) of progressivism.  The very nature of saying you want progress suggests that some things are forward from, yea even superior to other things.

This isn’t a fictional slippery-slope argument.  The reason we can’t marshal coherent responses right now to the slow crawl of fascism and misogyny into left-leaning spaces is that, well, if everything is a perspective and nothing is true, then it isn’t actually relevant or useful to know whether shining a red light on your balls makes you more masculine or before capitalism people only worked three days a week or 5G signals are secretly Jewish lasers or gluten causes autism but copper bracelets cure it or sluts caused the fall of Rome.  Someone who did their own research sure thinks so!  And if you do your own research, you might end up thinking the same thing, and sure maybe that’s a bias, but aren’t we all biased?  Who has the right to tell me it’s not true, if I believe it?  Just some guy?  Fuck that guy!

But some things are true, in spite of all the limitations we humans have around the edges of our understanding.  There are either microchips in the vaccines or there fucking aren’t, and some people are more in a position to “research” any given truth claim (where “research” means “access and analyze evidence” rather than “consume polemics on TikTok”) than others are.  And some things that aren’t strictly speaking matters of physical fact are still statements that can and should be researched.  Does learning about American slavery traumatize white children or doesn’t it? Is discussing the idea of gender as a spectrum with minors a form of sexual predation or isn’t it?  Is dressing in blackface bad? Does having a personality disorder make you an abuser? Does the existence of hedge funds harm the economy?  Who and what comprises “the economy” anyway?  Are children fundamentally property of adults or are they autonomous humans with enforceable rights?  Is there such a category as “unborn child” or is that an oxymoron? 

It’s one thing to have opinions on all those statements.  I have them. I presume you do, too.  But the minute you resign yourself to living in a world where everyone’s opinion carries identical weight, you are ipso facto coming down on a world ruled mostly by inertia -- a world where existing structures of power and the force of collective habit continue to make decisions.  By definition, that’s a small-c conservative position to take, and you’re never going to get to any kind of progress through small-c conservativism.  You have to bring something to the status quo that provides a substantive challenge to it, and if you’ve ceded facts and reality as things you can offer as a challenge, then all you have left is kind of a quasi-religious tent-revival marketing approach, and that kind of economy of attention and emotional response is exactly the environment where these warped alternate realities about tribalism and persecution fantasies and utopian promises thrive best.  Nothing that fits any recognizable definition of progress is going to survive in that Thunderdome.

[ithehellisbucky]

Fake Smile

Carol Danvers x Reader

Request: for @marvels-writings

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Hatred, grief, suicide, etc

Author's Note: This is for @marvelxreaderfanfictionfest's contest last year, it's already on ao3 here. They have a great contest opening on may tenth for the mcu ladies, so go check that out! There isn't enough wlw fanfiction in this fandom (or really any).

~

You could swear her skin was glowing. Or at the very least reflecting the colors around her. Soft golden light shone around onto her face from the cracked window next to her chair, and she basked in the light as if she had just won every award the world had to offer. She didn't have the right to be this fucking pretty.

Her golden hair floated around her head, almost literally, forming a halo that made her look even more like an angel. Her skin was only several shades lighter, and her cheeks scrunched up in a way when she laughed that you could only describe as euphoric. Her piercing blue eyes only complimented her features, and your eyes were instantly drawn to her impossible beautiful cheekbones.

If only the woman below that was as beautiful as the face it belonged to.

Carol was the enemy. Not literally, of course. But she was the enemy. Utterly unsympathetic when you had told her about the death of your best friend in the dusting, you had grown to despise her within mere minutes of a word coming out of her mouth.

She laughed like she didn't notice you glaring. And when she finally locked eyes with you, her lips formed a smirk and kept on giggling.

In the brief days that she had returned to earth, she made it her mission to do everything for the sole purpose of lighting rage inside your chest. No one had the right to make you feel this way, least of all her.

She had returned to earth to "check-in." In the past 3 years since the snap, the world had taken a turn for the worst. Not only was every other person gone, but the death toll was slowly rising. Crime rates were increasing, and the suicide toll was only getting higher.

Every single damn day of your life you had dedicated yourself to helping the people on earth, and the only thing she had on her mind was the big picture. Trying to bring people back that couldn't be brought back. Bullshit.

All you were trying to do was make sure that the people who had left stayed alive.

"Ava? Would you like a scone." She said it in a normal voice, but you could feel the passion behind the words.

"No thank you. I'm careful about what I let others feed me. Because I'm careful. Unlike some other people I know." You say in the most passive and sickly sweet voice you could muster.

"I'm very cautious about keeping myself, and others, safe. I'm just nice enough to do it politely." She responded in the same voice as before.

"Carol, Ava. Do I need to remind you that this is a professional meeting, where we are to talk about important topics only." Nat said in a stone-cold tone. Natasha was never the most playful person, to begin with, but in the past 3 years, things had taken a turn for the worse.

When someone is already flying by the seat of their pants and is about as stable as a bull in a china shop, you tend not to provoke them. And by provoke, I mean of course murdering half of humanity.

"I was being professionally, just Carol here was-"

Natasha sharply cuts you off. " Ava. "

"Fine." You say, internally rolling your eyes.

Carol looks you dead in the eyes and gives you a smirk. Damn this woman.

You had been through hell. You had talking people of bridges, you had stood up for abuse victims in court, you had watched the people you had loved die. You were a stone-cold bitch. But with Carol, you might as well be a 2-year-old with a pair of scissors and a disturbing lack of adult supervision.

Once the meeting was over, you sparked a conversation with Natasha. "Hey Nat, do you wanna get some lunch?"

She looked at you, and then down at her phone, and then at you again. "Um, I can't. Not today." She looks behind her shoulder, and a sinister smirk creeps onto her features. "But I'm sure Carol would love to go out with you."

"Natasha, no. I said no."

Her menacing grin only intensifies. "Oh come on Ava, you could cut the sexual tension between the two of you with a knife."

"It's not sexual tension. It's just tension. Because we hate each other."

"Mm, I don't think so." She turns over her shoulder and calls to the blonde. "Carol, could you come here for a sec?"

Carol's head perks up, and she walks towards Nat, a scowl forming on her face when she sees that you're next to her. "What is it?"

"Do you want to go to lunch. Will Ava and I?" She questions politely.

"That sounds great, but doesn't Ava have to do that... Thing?"

You turn on your sickly sweet smile for what seems like the ten-thousandth time. "No, I canceled it. Just. To. Have. Lunch. With. You."

Natasha is almost guffawing at this interaction between the two of you. "Alright then, lunch it is!" She starts walking right without any hesitation, and both you and Carol have to run to catch up to her.

"I saw this cute little Italian place. Do you want to go-"

"Chili's." Natasha stops her pace and looks back at you.

"What. It's an incredible experience that I'm sure we'll all enjoy."

It's now Natasha's turn to wear the fake smile. "Great."

You reach Natasha's car, and she quickly whips out her car keys.

"Oh, we're riding together?" Carol exclaims with disgust.

"Yeah, saves energy," Natasha exclaims as she checks her phone.

"I call shotgun!" You counter, trying to do anything to get away from Carol.

"No shotgun. I think it would be nice for the two of you to bond. I wish it was in a bedroom, but a car will do." Natasha says, still looking down at her phone.

"What was that?" You asked, hoping that you didn't hear what you thought you heard.

"No shotgun, window's broken." She replies, opening the door.

You and Carol squeeze into the back seat. It wasn't a tight fit, by any means; but anywhere that isn't 50 feet apart from her is hell on earth. How was she so fucking pretty.

Every time your skin brushed together you shot up as if you had just touched a shock wire. The glares passed between the two of you could freeze even the darkest parts of hell.

As you were getting out of the car, you slammed the door in Carol's face. She opening it, and it was obvious she was pissed.

"Oh come on, you're a fucking superhero, if you're afraid of a car door then you're in the wrong line of work."

She doesn't respond to you and instead flashes you one of her infamous fake smiles.

The Chili's is cozy, with only 15 or so booths, less than 5 of them preoccupied. The hostess kindly led you to a booth, in the corner of the room. You slide into the booth first, and your shoulder pushed against the plastic wallpaper when you moved into your seat.

Carol takes her position in the seat in front of you. Natasha doesn't sit down.

She makes deadly eye contact with you as she pulls her phone out from inside her pocket. "Oh look, I just got a text message." She exclaims, not breaking eye contact.

Natasha quickly flashes you the screen of her phone, showing that in fact, she had not gotten a message. "I have to go. Emergency."

"Are you sure." You say, yet again feigning a smile.

"I'm positive, there's an emergency at work."

Carol attempts to get up and join Natasha before Nat gives Carol a disapproving glance.

"There's always going to be an emergency, but there isn't always going to be lunch." You say, cocking your head and putting on a smirk.

"No," Natasha says. And smiles at the two of you. "Have fun."

You flip her the bird, and without even turning around she returns the favor.

"This is going to be fine." You say.

"Yep," Carol responds, popping the p.

The two of you study the menu for a couple more minutes.

You begin to notice that whenever you adjust yourself Carol does the same, and you do as well, subconsciously.

The waitress walks up to you and politely introduces herself. She asked you what you wanted and, without skipping a beat, you ordered yourself the best thing on the menu, and Carol the worst. She looked as if she was going to protest, but at that point, the waitress had walked away. And all you did was sit there and smirk.

The tension in the room was not sexual. The hatred you felt in your heart for her and the simultaneous need to kiss her and have her kiss you back was not sexual, in any way shape or form.

"So." You promptly exclaimed, in the most positive voice that you could muster.

"Yes," Carol responded, deadlocking her eyes onto yours.

The longer you stared into her eyes the more love you felt. You lost yourself in the depths of her eyes as if you were Alice just entering wonderland. The smile lines surrounding her lips were faded and it seemed as if she hadn't cracked a grin in decades. Her fair hair fell into her eyes, and she quickly brushed it out of the way with one unmanicured finger.

"Why the fuck are we doing this?" She asks, avoiding your gaze.

"What do you mean?" You counter, plastering on another one of your on-brand fake smiles.

"Forcing ourselves to sit in this hell-ish place just for the courtesy of Natasha."

You tilt your head slightly and regain eye contact, "oh, so you want to leave?" You politely ask, knowing all to well the stir that you would get from Nat if you left now.

"No, of course not." She said, rolling her eyes. "But, why would she ever think that I would ever want to be around you for longer than the 5 seconds that are already peeling off my eyes."

"It's nice to see how kind you are to the people around you." You respond, attempting to be as harmful as she was even though you were internally hurt.

"But now that you mention it, I'm realizing how shitty it is that I have to engage in conversation with someone as horrible as you." You winced, and you were positive that she didn't notice either, because she was doing the same.

"What are your powers then, fixing computers?" She mocked you with a smile "oh, the world is ending. Look, someone to get rid of a faulty line on my phone."

"Oh yeah, I forgot that you were a dinosaur. I'm sorry, we don't use phones bolted to the wall in national security." You exclaimed. You wouldn't usually be so harsh, but her words were causing you to lash out.

"At least I can hold up in a fistfight." She said, putting on another mask of a hollow smile.

"I can hold up in a fistfight just fine, but can you hold up with a speakerphone button on an iPhone?" Ah yes, another hollow shot at her prehistoric days.

"You know, for someone how talks all this talk, I'm shocked that you can't actually do anything. Oh wait, I'm not. Sorry, Princess, you're all bark and no bite."

"Excuse me, I forget I was talking to someone who flies around in a space-suit and mohawk." Yet again another fake smile.

The two of you continued to bicker for another few minutes until the waitress comes over with your food.

"I can't believe that you would do such an ignorant f-"

"Hi, I have your food." A woman with a positive attitude and a braid crown places your meals in front of you.

You quickly stopped your argument and the both of you put on yet another fake smile to make it seem like you weren't two seconds away from causing an avengers level threat.

"Thank you so much."

"Really, we really appreciate it."

The second the woman walked away you were back at each other's throats.

But, somehow, Carol was still gorgeous all the while she was yelling at you and eating a shrimp on top of a salad drenched in vinegar.

"Seriously, you're so incompetent." You quickly burst out when she notices you staring.

"Maybe you wouldn't worry so much about me if you were actually doing your job." She responds, rolling her eyes.

"I am sweetie; I'm just good enough at it to be able to pay attention to your uselessness."

"You're too kind." She exclaims as she reaches for a napkin that you quickly pull away from her.

"What I find especially depressing about you is that you will never grow. You're the same person. You're stuck in a box. You will never be better than what you are now. And what you are is shitty." She looks up at you, " Princess ."

You pull back from your meal in shock. You couldn't believe that she had said something like that to you. It pointed out everything you had ever worried about yourself.

"I can't believe you. Why are you so relentlessly horrible to me? What have I done to you? I get when you take cheap shots. I take cheap shots all the time. I don't hate you. Why do you hate me?! I don't hate you! I love you!"

Carol freezes up. Everyone in Chili's looks at you. You were screaming. And you had just told Carol you loved her. You told her you loved her.  You loved her.

"What?" She says in a meek voice.

"I'm so sorry Carol, I was just-" She kisses you.

Carol kisses you.

Carol puts her lips on yours and kisses you.

And you kiss you back.

She's leaning over the table and knocked both your plates off the table and knocked you drinks over. You feel the liquid on your knees as you climb onto the table and place yourself on top of it. You kiss and you kiss until the rest of the world is null and void.

You only pull away for air, and when you're doing so Carol whispers a careful "I'm sorry."

You keep on kissing and kissing.

"I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I love you." Muttered between you.

You finally pull away and stare into each other's eyes for a minute, basking in the beauty of her blue orbs.

"I feel god in this Chili's tonight." You breathlessly exclaim.

She laughs a beautiful, glorious laugh, and then leans in to kiss you again.

~Requests are open~

New fics out most Saturdays (check on Masterlist or bio in case the day changes) 💜💜💜💜

~Taglists are open~

Permanent Tags: @natasha-danvers​

Marvel:

TUA:

Criminal Minds:

[ooops-i-arted]

I know that considering (TCW-2008) refs/characters in this episode that it won’t be your fav but can you please share your child development thoughts for S02E05 please??

They may have been stuff I wasn’t fond of but there were so many cute Baby & Dad moments to make up for it!!

First of all, the puppeteers deserves ALL THE AWARDS for bringing Baby Yoda to life!  Not just making Baby “come alive” in general, but also that sort-of-awkward way children move when they don’t have complete confidence in their limbs yet.  The are doing a phenomenal job this season and I hope they are all safe and healthy and have all the chocolate they want.  Not only is it fantastic from a special effects perspective, it really highlights how far Baby has come now that he’s not stuck in a pod all day and implies that Din is trying to keep him active and physically healthy, and giving him opportunities to develop his muscles and muscle control.  (Just imagine them playing a makeshift game of chase through the Razor Crest!)

I absolutely loved Din saying “Hey, what did I tell you” because I have said those exact words in that exact tone SO MANY TIMES and also his Dad Voice is getting so much better!  Baby actually listens to him and understands that Din expects him to listen!  Of course he still wants the ball (and apparently takes it enough that Din has been practicing his Dad voice on that too, “What did I say about that” is another phrase I also use at work).

Though there may have been another reason he wants the ball this time - as a comfort item, like a child bringing their favorite stuffie to the first day of school.  Baby was there when the Armorer told Din to find Jedi to bring the Baby to.  He has been listening a lot when Din talks about finding Jedi to train him and give him to.  I think Baby is very, very aware of the fact that the end goal is to leave him with the Jedi and is very afraid of leaving his beloved father.  He would’ve had stable caretaker(s) at the Jedi Temple but in the last twenty years who knows what’s happened to him.  His subdued, don’t-draw-attention-to-myself behavior in Season 1 definitely makes me think he’s been neglected, bare minimum, and possibly abused.  Din not only treats him kindly but actually takes care of his needs, is kind to him, and is the most stable presence in his life.  Of course he’d be terrified to leave him!

I think that’s also why he doesn’t play ball with Ahsoka, so to speak.  We all know he can lift a mudhorn, a rock is no problem for him.  He could do it in a heartbeat.  But I think he understood that if he showed off for her, Ahsoka might take him away.  So he refused for that, and because it’s very common at that age to refuse to do something to regain control of a situation.  (That’s why you get kids enjoying telling you “No!” and the whole terrible twos thing.)  If he refuses, he stays in control of what’s happening.  But of course Din knows exactly how to tempt him with his favorite ball, and kids do want to please adults they like.  Anything to hear that sweet, sweet positive reinforcement.  So it wasn’t just the shiny ball that convinced Baby - it was the fact that Din was the one playing with him, and that Din so enthusiastically tells him good job.  (And Din is noticeably more into it when using the orb.  Maybe he and Baby have played with it before?  So it’s more natural to both of them.  And he was truly so proud of his boy!!  It was adorable.)

It’s the same with hearing his real name, which he presumably hasn’t heard in twenty years.  He responds when Ahsoka says it, but when Din says it?  He’s instantly turned around, ears perked all the way up in “happy” mode.  It’s special when Din says it, because Din is special to him.

Which then ties into the whole attachment thing.  Baby is very healthily attached to Din.  There’s a reason we stick kids with the same teacher for a year plus at a time, it’s because kids are comfortable with a regular person they can get to know, just like adults are.  To Baby, Ahsoka is just some orange stranger and Din is his dad.  Of course he is more attached to Din and has fears over losing him, especially if he’s been deprived of that for the last 20-odd years!  It’d be different if Din was sticking around to transition Baby somewhere new, or just dropping him off for lessons.  But leaving a parent permanently and abruptly after likely previous trauma?  That would be horrible for Baby.

And re: The Jedi + attachments Ahsoka (and Filoni) are wrong on that.  The Jedi do not forbid attachments, only letting your attachments rule you.  Ki-Adi-Mundi is married and so were others, and there are plenty of Padawan-Master relationships to see - for example, Obi-Wan was attached to Qui-Gon and clearly loved him and was devastated by his loss, but it’s only when he conquers his emotions and calms himself is he able to defeat Maul, and afterward is implied/shown to mourn Qui-Gon and handle his grief in a healthy way.  Anakin doesn’t fall because he’s attached to his loved ones.  He falls because he’s willing to commit murder and genocide over his attachments.  So “I can’t teach Grogu because he’s attached to you” is bullshit.  “I can’t teach Grogu because he is attached to you and needs to be safely transitioned into Jedi life in an environment that is comfortable and safe for him, with your help as his adoptive father, and I have no way to do that here and/or don’t feel comfortable doing that” is much more accurate.  (This is probably what would’ve happened if the Order was still around, anyway, and/or how he was actually taken in - the 3D TCW episode with the Jedi children shows the bounty hunters tricking the parents to kidnap the kids, implying that a real Jedi would work with the family to transition the children in a safe and healthy manner.  The Rodian even says the Jedi have already spoken to her iirc.)

Of course even if Grogu is unhealthily attached to Din (which he isn’t, imo, he behaves like a child at a normal level of attachment to a regular caretaker he loves) then ignoring it and not doing anything about it is equally bad.... as we’ve already seen when he got upset with Cara last season.  Baby must learn to control his powers so he doesn’t hurt himself or others, especially since he’s so young he doesn’t always have full control over his own emotions.  “Big” emotions can be a lot for a kid; a screaming meltdown is bad enough when the kid can’t yeet you with their mind.  I’ve been hit, kicked, bitten, scratched, had toys thrown at me, even been hit with heavy wooden blocks.  A Grogu out of control with his emotions and using the Force?  Terrifying.  Yes, his attachment to Din makes him more vulnerable to his fears and anger - we’ve seen him choke Cara and while he only held back the mudhorn, in theory he could’ve done more.  But that is just all the more reason to teach him control.  Ignore harmful behavior and it will only get worse, and Din isn’t really equipped to help him navigate that since Din doesn’t understand the Force and can’t understand what Grogu says.

(Also lol at “He doesn’t understand” “He does.”  You can 100% tell when kids understand you perfectly and are refusing to do it, even when a parent is making excuses for their darling. xD  Especially since kids will frequently act/react differently to their parents versus other caretakers.)

“He’s hidden his abilities to survive over the years” I call partial bullshit on that.  No, I don’t think Baby has done any long-term planning or had thoughts along the lines of “I’m being hunted and need to protect myself by pretending not to be a Force-user.”  But I think he has probably figured out people react a certain way when he does Force things and perhaps decided “I shouldn’t make things float because then people will grab me/I will get taken away/other consequence I don’t like will happen.”  That’s more in line with a toddler’s level of thinking/comprehension.  And it adds greater weight to him saving Din from the mudhorn - he didn’t know how Din would react to him using the Force, if Din would try and hurt him or lock him in the pod or whatever, but he still wanted to save Din.  Overall though I think Baby’s Force-use is in line with a toddler’s thoughts.  “I want X to happen, I can make that happen with the Force, so I will make X happen unless I’m more scared of [consequence] happening.”

So overall a pretty revealing episode for Baby/Grogu.  (I’m not used to the new name yet tbh.)  Although I’m worried about how many times it will take Din hearing it to realize that yes, you are this baby’s father, get that through your beskar-plated skull.

[emilyofjane]

Why the Disney Princesses definitely need therapy: a Hot Take

Snow White

Losing her parents as a child and having to learn to take care of herself at a very young age (Snow White is 14 in the movie, and judging by her work ethic, she appears to at least have some experience with living independently before moving in with the 7 dwarves)

Lack of socialization due to isolation

Depression due to isolation and loneliness. This makes the whole “Someday My Prince Will Come” thing much more believable, because Snow White really isn’t in any sort of immediate danger and doesn’t need “saving” or whatever; she’s just tired of being alone and wants human companionship. (And tbh who can blame her? The poor girl’s literally talking to birds and moved in with the first group of humanoid creatures she could find ffs)

This one’s a bit of a stretch, but I’m pretty sure Snow White would also have an unhealthy fear of strangers and/or an irrational fear of being poisoned after the whole apple fiasco

Cinderella

Being raised in an abusive home environment for most (if not virtually all) of her life

The complete lack of positive social interaction throughout her life has probably led to problems with social withdrawal and isolation at some point, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she has repressed symptoms of chronic depression due to loneliness.

Her closest emotional confidants are literally two talking mice, and that just screams “My only friends are animals because their love is unconditional I’ve been invalidated and unloved by every human being in my life” (aka extreme emotional neglect)

She probably has tons of questions about her biological parents that were never answerd because, again, her stepfamily hated her, which would obviously lead to some emotional baggage

If we consider Cinderella III: A Twist in Time to be the new canon, she definitely has some unresolved PTSD from her near-death experience (the “almost getting crushed to death in the carriage because it was transforming back into a pumpkin” scene)

Aurora

Existential crisis because the three fairy godmothers basically rewrote her entire identity as “Rose” and hid the fact that she was a princess

Never knowing who her real parents were as a child, leading to emotional baggage similar to that of Cinderella and Snow White mentioned above

Either the emotional burden of having to make up for 16+ years of lost time with her biological family, or the grief of losing her biological family without ever getting the chance to know them (idk whether Aurora actually got to meet her parents by the end of the movie or if they died before she woke up, because I don’t remember exactly how much time had passed while she was in the coma)

Speaking of the spindle prick-induced magical coma (which is a really long-winded and inefficient way to kill someone honestly, idk what Melificent was thinking), Aurora also has to deal with the emotional burden of how much time has passed while she was in a coma, which would only further feed into the existential crisis and emotional trauma in bullet points 1 and 3.

(Also, off the record, but Aurora’s entire life post-movie is just a hot fucking mess and she really deserves a second movie exploring that concept imo. I know that Sleeping Beauty has already gotten a live-action villain spinoff, but the story of Aurora herself really deserves to be reexamined under a modern lens also. Aurora is easily one of the most overlooked Disney princesses and tbh she deserves more love.)

Belle (feat. the expanded lore from the live-action movie)

Witnessing her mother die from the plague in their own home

Being forceed to move from the more culturally progressive city of Paris to the unnamed “poor provential town” in the movie, where she is clearly the odd one out and is subject to gender inequality on a daily basis (in the form of being publically shamed and socially ostacized for being an educated woman)

Being regularly sexually harassed by Gaston, which is further exacerbated by the villagers and their close-mindedness. Not only is Gaston’s behavior enabled and encouraged by the villagers, but they even go so far as to idolize Gaston — as shown during his namesake song — despite his obviously predatory actions, simply because he is a cishet white man that they find conventionally attractive

Watching her father get arrested despite being 100% innocent...TWICE

Also being arrested when her father is wrongly convicted a second time, by none other than her abuser

Watching her lover — who besides her parents was the first person in her life who truly loved her and respected her intellect despite being a woman — nearly die in her arms, as well as everyone else in the castle (who ALSO respected her regardless of her gender) nearly die at the same exact time.

...And you know, Stockholm Syndrome or whatever. (But tbh, given how everyone in the castle was very kind and respectful and how the Beast was a tsundere at best, Belle would probably suffer far more from PTSD brought upon by Gaston and her previous environment than from “Stockholm Syndrome” in a castle where everyone actually treated her like a normal fucking human being. Unpopular opinion I know but as a sexual assault survivor this is literally a hill I will die on.)

Jasmine

I’ve actually never watched Aladdin all the way through, so unfortunately I can’t give a full analysis of Jasmine’s conflicts...but I have seen that gif of her saying “I am not a prize to be won” and that just screams “I’ve suffered a lifetime of female objectification and gender inequality despite my social status, and not even in the highest position of authority possible am I allowed to have a voice” and idk about you but that is really fucked up man

Ariel

PTSD from being manipulated by Ursula to give up her voice and nearly losing everything (both her previous life in the ocean and the promise of a new life on land with her love interest) because of it

Near-death experience from *vague hand gesture to whatever the fuck that was at the end of the movie*

Inevitable depression from abandoning the only home she’s ever known (the ocean) and leaving her friends and family behind

She’ll probably also need some form of behavioral therapy to help her adjust to her new home on land, whose culture is still extremely foreign to her — and maybe even additional therapy for social anxiety, given how her first 3 days of human interaction were so mortifyingly embarrassing that she’ll probably be laying wide awake at 3 AM and thinking “oh my god I can’t believe I looked Eric’s parents dead in the eyes and brushed my hair with a dinner fork” for the next 10 years.

Tiana

PTSD from literally being turned into a frog

Overworking herself to the point of near burnout, and being unable to fully live out her prime adult years because of said burnout

Constantly dealing with shitty customers, bosses, and other white-collared people disrespecting her and treating her as subhuman because of her career choice, which is unfortunately a common shared experience among restaurant workers and those who work hourly wages

Since this movie takes place in the United States presumably before the 1960’s, it’s probably safe to assume that Tiana also probably had to deal with segregation, Jim Crow laws, and other forms of racism off-screen on a daily basis, which would obviously take a toll on her mental well-being and further exacerbate the issues mentioned in #3

Grief from losing her dad, which has likely been repressed due to her workaholic tendencies denying her the ability to properly take the time to mourn

I don’t even know what to categorize the whole witch doctor shenanigans as, I just know that she and Naveen are both going to need some SERIOUS therapy after going through all that shit

Rapunzel

Being raised in an emotionally abusive and controlling environment for her entire life

Being completely isolated for 18 years with no social interaction whatsoever with anyone except her own abuser

Existential/identity crisis from discovering that she’s actually a princess, that her “mom” was actually the one who kidnapped her as a baby and tried to cut her hair, and that everything she knew about herself and the world she lived in was essentially a lie to keep her obedient to Gothel

Near-death experience (the drowning scene)

Internalized fear and mistrust in strangers — and quite possibly in people in general — due to Gothel’s lifelong warnings that people in the outside world would only want to take advantage of her

Watching the woman who raised her MERCILESSLY STAB THE ONLY OTHER PERSON SHE EVER KNEW AND LOVED IN THE GODDAMN CHEST

Watching the woman who raised her LITERALLY CRUMBLE TO DUST IN FRONT OF HER VERY EYES

WATCHING FLYNN, THE ONLY OTHER PERSON SHE EVER KNEW AND LOVED BESIDES HER GODDAMN ABUSER, FUCKING DIE RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER before she miraculously healed him

Because Flynn’s revival was such an uncanny revival that not even Rapunzel knew how she did it, she obviously thought he was gone for good...and since Gothel was gone also, there must’ve been at least a split second before she healed Flynn where, for the first time in her entire life, she was completely and utterly alone. That alone deserves to be a bullet point because holy shit

I’m not even going to get into Tangled: the Series man this list is getting too long as it is

Elsa

Losing her parents at a young age

Abandonment and isolation issues (mostly self-inflicted due to her own fear of hurting others, see #3)

Internalized fear and self-doubt of her powers — and, by extension, fear and self-doubt in herself

Guilt from nearly plunging Arendelle into an eternal winter

Guilt from almost losing her sister (twice!) due to her own direct actions

(Coinciding with #3) Guilt from isolating herself from her sister to protect her, only to nearly get her killed by the very thing she was trying to protect her from

Anxiety. Just lots and lots of general anxiety.

(Omitting Frozen 2 for Elsa because I haven’t seen it yet and this list is getting too long)

Anna

Also losing her parents at a young age

Abandonment and isolation issues, but hers are moreso due to Elsa “shutting her out” as a kid and having no one else her age in the castle to interact with

Lack of socialization in general for much of her childhood, as well as any social anxieties/lack of social knowledge and etiquette/etc. that would come with it

Abusive relationship with Hans (I know it was only one day, but holy fuck that was a trainwreck. What Hans did to Anna is a literal breeding ground for PTSD and trauma)

Coming to terms with the fact that the trolls fucking erased her memories of Elsa having ice powers and that Elsa isolated herself to protect her (and not, you know, because she hated her or something)

Leftover guilt from holding a grudge against Elsa for most of her childhood for shutting her out, because NO ONE BOTHERED TO TELL HER THAT IT WAS FOR HER OWN GOOD and she never knew why

Basically Anna and Elsa both need joint therapy or family counseling or something because holy shit their parents did NOT handle this situation properly AT ALL

(Also omitting Frozen 2 for Anna because I haven’t seen it and this list is also getting too long)

Moana

Surprisingly, Moana’s movie was relatively tame — in fact, because her tribe returned to voyaging and she is now exploring the seas/following her passion, these events were arguably beneficial to Moana’s mental health rather than detrimental. The only emotional baggage I can really imagine Moana having post-movie is leftover grief from her grandma dying and maybe the stress of having to put up with Maui’s shit

[tema-makes-art-sometimes]

rank classic fandom ships!

Classic Fandom Ships huh? Okiiii if I miss any let me know

1. USUK

1-5: negative possible incest out of 5 (quote my friend Lemon)

Do I ship it?: I’d rather get a booster shoot, thanks.

General Feelings: I can’t ship ships when one character raised the other, even if it’s an au where it didn’t happen, knowing that England is a caretaker to him in that way just kills it for me. There’s no way to make having a crush on someone you raised, distant or not, not be weird. No matter what that’s going to come off creepy. Doesn’t even matter if they’re blood related or anything. It’s still the idea of one nation being an adult while the other raised them since they were a little kid. It gives me the same vibe as dating your childhood babysitter. If you want this dynamic, why not try PruEng, DenEng or PortEng, same sunshine x raincloud aesthetic with 0% creepy under tones.

TLDR: You’re just in it for the Cute Jock x Angry Nerd dynamic and it shows.

2. GerIta (Ive already talked about.)

TLDR: If fandom ships were ice cream, GerIta would be vanilla. It’s a base line, it’s fine as it is and some people hate it for that exact reason. I like vanilla, it’s alright.

3. FRUK (Ive already talked about)

TLDR: 11/10 would pirate fight again.

4. Rochu (Ive already talked about)

TLDR: It vibes. It just vibes.

5. Spamano

1-5: -5

Do I ship it?: I’d rather not, thanks.

General Feelings: I just never liked spamano, again the Angry x Sunshine (which isnt what Romano is, but it’s how it’s often written) isn’t really fun to me? I used to hate it cause I don’t like tsundere’s in writing style cause I personally cannot understand them. Like my brain does not register well with aggressive insults being seen as compliments because it’s from X person. But that’s just me, I don’t do that shit I think “tsundere” needs to die. But that’s beside the point.

I don’t like it now for two reasons. One because of the same thing I said with USUK, I’m not comfortable with shipping pairs where one raised the other, no matter what it’s gonna be weird dynamic wise. Two is in my mind the merits of Spain as an older brother or father figure to Romano mean more than him as a love interest. It can create a lot of dynamics that are more fun both between Romano and Spain and Romano and his brother. It creates a situation where one is often in the position the other wanted. 

Vene having more money and general social support, but often having to play along in cherry high class situations which makes a lot of his relations, especially with Austria, feel kind of hallow. While Romano was more poor and seen as low class and crass, but he has much more honest and deep relationships with the small group of people he cares for. it creates situations where the brothers can envy one another and I dont know. I just like it better than leaving Romano with only something like Rome and letting Vene have Hungary and Austria.

TLDR: Let Romano have a father figure please he’s earned it.

6. PruAus

1-5: -2

Do I ship it?: No

General Feelings: If you like Prussia with someone slightly uptight and orderly, why not just use England instead? Their personalities work better together cause at least then he gets a partner that understands him being a feral punk gremlin. I’m biased in this regard I don’t like Austria as a character so take with a grain of salt. But I never cared for the dynamic. The only PruAus thing I ever liked with bubblyernie’s ask art school prussia blog, and that’s it. It feels like the rivalry dynamic but it doesn’t get to the fun part for me, but again I also get that I have a bias.

TLDR: Meh.

7. PruHun

1-5: 5

Do I ship it?: Y e s

General Feelings: I just like the idea of them being strong feral gremlins on horseback together. Powerful generals, good friends, just the idea of excited forest heathens on adventures. I don’t know, it’s just fun. If not romantic they would be ride or die friends and I cannot be convinced otherwise.

TLDR: 10/10 would feral gremlin in the woods again.

8. AusHun

1-5: -2

Do I ship it?: No

General Feelings:I never liked cause I always saw Hungary change around Austria versus other people, especially Prussia. Plus they’re canonly divorced. I’m not an expert on Hungary, but I just don’t care for it. There’s better ships. Though again, I am biased.

TLDR: Let them stay divorced, Hungary deserves better,

9. PruCan

1-5: 0

Do I ship it?: Nah

General Feelings: Nothing really to say on PruCan, I just see them as friends and ship them with other people. They’d be good gaming friends tho absolutely 110% catch those two raiding together. They’re gaming nerd buddies and I can respect that.

10. SuFin

1-5: -3

Do I ship it?: Fuck No.

General Feelings: I really don’t. I just don’t like it. I know mainline ship but I just- Every time I want to talk about the Nordics it comes up. I’m not well versed in Nordics. But every single time I try to talk about Finland, or any of the nordics. BUT ESPECIALLY FINLAND, it devolves into how Sweden plays into it, or how SuFin plays into it. Like I cannot talk about Finland without him being treated as Sweden’s accessory and it infuriates me. Let Finland be his own god damn character and then maybe I’ll like SuFin cause he’s never given his time to shine without having it feed into someone else.

TLDR: Finland is no one’s wife, fuck off.

11. DenNor

1-5: 0

Do I ship it?: Nah

General Feelings: Again, I never knew much about the Nordics, but the basic of the ship when I first saw it was ‘haha Norway chokes Denmark with his tie what a tsun-tsun hur hur’, which makes me really uncomfortable... as someone who doesn’t vibe with abuse=romantic feelings. I like NorFin myself, and Denmark is a ball of sunshine. I don’t hate it but it’s not really good.

TLDR: Why was the tie choking thing seen as funny/romantic? Am I missing something??

12. RusAme

1-5: 4

Do I ship it?: Sure

General Feelings: While it’s not my immediate first pick romance wise, I thoroughly enjoy all the RusAme there is out there. If not lovers, I still see them as ride or die friends. Because they’re both freakishly strong I feel like they’re the only ones who can really cut loose and use their full strength on one another even in the most small ways and it means the world to them that they can do that. No holding back just full open honesty with each other. Also the fact that it’s canon that people think they hate each other and they’re just like ‘nah man we pals’ is fucking great.

TLDR: Rock on you funky space lads.

[alexeiadrae]

Katherine Parr was Henry VIII’s sixth wife, and along with Anna of Cleves, was one of the only two who outlived him. Yet as the song, I Don’t Need Your Love from Six the Musical makes clear, this was not her only legacy. However, from what I can tell, the musical also leaves out something that stains her legacy.

Katherine Parr’s mother was an attendant of Henry’s first wife, Katherine of Aragon, and Katherine of Aragon was her godmother and influenced the education that Katherine Parr had and awakened a lifelong love of learning in the young girl.

Katherine Parr had been married and widowed twice to much older men and had no children from those marriages. She was in love with Thomas Seymour, brother of Jane Seymour, and had plans to marry him when Henry VIII came in, and of course, you can’t say no to the king. So Katherine Parr married another old man.

Katherine Parr was Protestant, and while Henry VIII broke with the Catholic Church, Henry still considered himself Catholic and he did not like Protestantism. Katherine nearly became the third wife to lose her head when she was exposed. Only by intense groveling did she save herself.

Still, she had a lot of influence on Henry’s children, Edward VI and Elizabeth I, as well as the tragic and doomed Lady Jane Grey, cousin to Edward and Elizabeth. Katherine was a good step mother to Edward and a good surrogate mother to Jane, who grew up in a very abusive family. And initially she was a good stepmother to Elizabeth. Influenced and educated by Henry’s first wife, Katherine of Aragon, Katherine Parr was a big champion of education for women and Jane and Elizabeth were prodigious students. And she definitely steered the children in a Protestant direction, which had a major impact when first Edward and then Elizabeth took the throne. Admittedly, while Edward, Jane and Elizabeth had other Protestant influences, Katherine was a big one.

After Henry died, Katherine did marry Thomas Seymour, yet it was not the dream match she had believed it would be. Thomas Seymour was a power hungry jerk, and even though he was married to Katherine, he wanted to marry the 14 year old Elizabeth so he could be king consort. He would barge into Elizabeth’s room as she was dressing and ignore her attempts to hide and get away from him and he would slap her on the buttocks. And he would even get Katherine to join in with him, having Katherine tickle Elizabeth with him and one time having Katherine hold Elizabeth down in the garden while he cut off her dress.

I don’t think Katherine thought of this as sexual, however, and Thomas did escalate to the point that she could no longer deny it. Katherine blamed Elizabeth, and because of the social mores of the time, Elizabeth had to spend several years rehabilitating her reputation. Even as far as the 1990s I would read from historians who would say that Elizabeth was leading Thomas on by hiding and playing hard to get. Nevermind the fact that Elizabeth would wake up obscenely early to be dressed before Thomas would barge in. And lets be frank. Elizabeth was 14 and she was in a vulnerable position. Thomas was an adult. Thomas should not have been in her room period. And Katherine should have used more discretion rather than enabling it.

Katherine, who had been presumed to be infertile because of her three previous marriages, got pregnant by Thomas at the age of 36. She delivered a daughter, Mary Seymour, and died as a result of complications from the birth. Thomas was executed for treason shortly thereafter. Tragically, given how much Katherine would have loved that little girl, no one was interested in providing for the daughter of a former queen and while the historical record is not clear on what happened to her she likely died when she was still a child, though there are romantic stories about how she survived that are likely little more than stories.

Katherine Parr was a very educated and smart woman, and perhaps her greatest legacy was educating Edward and Elizabeth and sharing her Protestant faith with them. She also enabled her husband to molest her stepdaughter. This incident did affect Elizabeth profoundly, and was likely another reason that while Elizabeth was definitely attracted to men she never trusted one enough to marry.

I Don’t Need Your Love drives home the fact that Katherine Parr, good and bad, was so much more than Henry VIII”s wife. And the more that you learn about his wives, that more you find that to be true for all of them. Katherine of Aragon initially championed women’s education which influenced Katherine Parr who received a good education because of Katherine of Aragon, which influenced Elizabeth I, a powerful and fiercely intelligent queen in her own right who altered the course of English history. I am glad that they are getting some time to step into the spotlight.

[queerlymasculine]

note to subs with ptsd and other struggles related to childhood trauma:

I've had a bit of an Emotional Journey over the week or so, and I want to impart a few lessons. I can only speak for myself and my own experiences, so ymmv, but hopefully this will be helpful in some way.

(obviously, this will have non-specific, general references to childhood trauma. no details are given. this discusses expecting other people to act like one's abuser(s) did/does. but there are no details.)

disclaimer: everything I say here assumes a relationship with a dom who is acting in good faith. also, my dom and I don't play with rules or punishments, so when I say something like I felt like I had done something wrong, I mean it in a regular, everyday, interpersonal relationship way. this post is only talking about kink dynamics that are ongoing relationships. finally, kink is not a substitute for therapy with a licensed and competent professional nor for medical treatment if appropriate. go to therapy.

disclaimer over.

self-awareness is one of the most important skills you need to build in order to practice kink safely and responsibly. sometimes the way we react to things does not seem logical from the outside, so we need to understand why we react certain ways and be able to clearly communicate that. this does not just apply to reactions that may occur during a scene. in fact, I think it's even more important for reactions outside of a scene.

for example, recently, I realized I have not been as supportive to my dom as I would like. it's been a tough month for me for a variety of reasons -- not enough work, pandemic, ongoing health issues, etc -- and although it's understandable to be at limited capacity, I want to be a more positive, supportive person in general, at least towards the people I like. so I had this realization, and it's always uncomfortable to realize you haven't been acting in a manner consistent with your values, but because you're an adult, you tolerate that discomfort, recognize the behaviors you want to change, apologize, and move on.

except...... I wasn't feeling just that healthy discomfort. it was also something else. and what made it worse was that my dom didn't think I had done anything wrong, and at first, I thought I was fine. I assumed it was just the healthy discomfort, so I waited for it to fade on its own over time.

slowly, the situation changed from "I would like to be more supportive" to "I have been so selfish and I've been constantly asking for support and I'm a terrible person and ze must be angry with me for not being as supportive as I think I should be."

and then it became "ze is angry with me but won't tell me and I don't know how to make this better."

so that was when I realized I might be a little off base because that is not what ze is like lol and we had played recently and ze had been as just as amazing as always, everything has been wonderful, nothing had felt different. so something was off.

I decided to broach the topic again, and as I was communicating all of this, I realized:

lmao oh shit I feel like I'm walking on eggshells and waiting for the other shoe to drop and expecting to be punished (like, in a bad way, not a fun consensual way because punishment play could never be fun for me and I will never consent to it) by this person who I love and am close to and wishing for some kind of punishment just so I won't be waiting constantly for it. that's ✨trauma✨. that's not how things have ever worked in this relationship I am having at 29. that's how things worked when I lived with and talked to my family.

it made me doubly grateful that I had been so careful and discerning when deciding to be with my dom. when I have that walking on eggshells feeling, I can't guarantee I wouldn't do something I was uncomfortable with, just to make things right. but that's not something I have to worry about because ze doesn't give orders and would never ask me to do anything I wasn't comfortable with.

power exchange is risky, no matter what role you choose to play. when you have experienced childhood trauma, the risk increases exponentially. power exchange changes a relationship. even when we're not playing and we're just people, I am incredibly sensitive to my dom's behavior towards me. I wouldn't be this sensitive if we didn't practice kink because I wouldn't be as vulnerable.

and if my dom was truly angry with me, if I felt like I was no longer in hir good graces, if I felt like ze no longer wanted me? that would fucking hurt in a way I don't think many people would understand. because it wouldn't just be an argument or something. I consistently bear my soul to this person. I have never trusted another human being like this. I have given myself to hir.

I always say kink is play and that people need to stop taking it so seriously. and this remains true. it doesn't have to be a whole thing with all the bells and whistles. protocols are unnecessary unless you want to play with them. doms have no inherent right to my respect whatsoever.

but just because it's play doesn't mean it doesn't matter. yes, it's play, it's make believe, my partner doesn't actually own me because you can't own people, and it's just stuff we do for fun when we feel like it.

but the emotional stakes are real. the potential for harm is very real. if you have lived through childhood trauma and you want to do kink on the sub side of things, you need to know yourself well enough to be able to communicate your needs to your partner. you need to be able to communicate when shit like this happens.

awareness and communication is how you avoid sabotaging your relationships because you're trying to keep yourself safe. you keep yourself safe by knowing when it's trauma talking and not your realistic view of the situation at hand. you keep yourself safe by telling your partner what you're feeling and giving them the necessary context. you don't have to give details, but you do need to give context because that helps them understand and it gives them the tools they need to take better care of you and keep you safe.

it's not easy, but it's necessary if you want to be able to engage in kink in an ethical way. your dom can't take care of you if you don't tell them what they need to know. your dom can't give you what you need if you don't tell them. unexpected things happen, of course, and people make mistakes along the way and that's normal and fine, and your needs can change over time, and you learn more about yourself as time goes on because that's part of being a person.

but as a rule, you have to know yourself and you have to know what you need, and you have to give this information to your partner. you have to be willing to address issues as soon as they come up. issues might seem small at first, but it's better to have a conversation now rather than later. if you wait or don't fully air everything out, resentment can build.

again, this isn't always easy, and it's okay if it feels hard. but you still have to do it.

it might feel like a lot of work at first, but doing that work now when everything is fresh is better than watching your dynamic fall apart. it's work worth doing if you're in a dynamic you want to stay in. and part of being a human is learning to give other people chances to surprise you. I'm not talking about letting toxic people back into your life. I'm talking about giving partners a chance to give you what you need, and they can only do that if you tell them what you need and how to give it to you.

[cameoamalthea]

So About the Traveler: Critical Role C2E103

“How can I be cruel? That is for mortals.” But then she did raise her eyes, and they were great with sorrow, and with something very near to mockery. She said, “So is kindness.” - Peter S Beagle “The Last Unicorn”.

In lore and media, including Dungeons and Dragons, immortal beings whether called “immortals” or “fey” are not bound by the same sense of morality as mortals. Indeed, some interpretations posit they lack the same capacity to feel the same emotions as mortals do. These beings are by their very nature different and alien. 

The Archfey is an immortal. They are ancient and yet, ever young. A contradiction. They cannot lie and are bound by any promise they make, but are very good at wording things carefully or withholding what they’d rather not say. They are not to be trusted. They are not safe. They can be good, and Artagan falls squarely on the good side for a fey.

The key words being “for a fey”. 

Fey generally lack empathy, which makes sense for the short lives of mortals are nothing compared to their eternal existence. They can be killed, but they do not simply end and pass away the way mortal things do. So there is a question as to how much a fey can value mortal lives at all. 

Still, Artagan makes it clear he does not want to hurt his followers. He rejects killing them when Jester brings it up. He sees leaving them to join the Island cult where they will be happy as a viable solution for the ones he dislikes. Which is actually fairly merciful considering fey do not value mortals in general and can easily destroy the lives of any who offend them. That does not make it ok by normal ethical standards, but it is important to realize that it is his nature not to have normal ethical standards. 

Artagan seems to be primarily motivated by doing whatever amuses him. Trick a bunch elves into worshiping a dead whale because it’s funny? Sure. Respond to someone claiming they can’t die by requesting to kill them just to see what happens and see what it’s like, just for the heck of it. It is likely he has never cared about anything other than his own self-interest and personal enjoyment. He has certainly never cared for a mortal.

Yet, he cares for Jester but cannot understand what she cares about.

He sees she is crying and does not like that, but doesn’t understand why she’s scared.  

He does not understand why asking her to lead a lot of people to a place that is home to a dangerous monster that will erase their memories and turn them into willing slaves would upset her. 

He understands when she expresses fear for herself; because he understands that. And he is quick to assure her that he wasn’t going to give her to the monster. And again, fey cannot lie. Artagan does value Jester but does not value mortals in general.

For Jester the question is ‘how do I know you wouldn’t do that to me’

Whereas to Artagan it’s as obvious as how can someone keep animals as pets and still eat meat.

One is cute 

One is food

It’s not a question that you could truly love your pet chicken and also love some BBQ wings. The same animal, but one is valued.

Jester is valued, and there is a question as to whether a fey can value a mortal as more than a human might value a pet or what if any capacity fey have to love anyone. That said, he is genuine in his affection for her. He did not intend to hurt her (he still did - he absolutely did) and honestly did not mean to put her through any heartache. 

Some would describe this behavior as “creepy” or even as “gaslighting”. (And if this narrative is triggering because the character’s actions remind you of an abuser that is 100% valid. This essay is exploring only the actions of this character in the context of analyzing the fictional portrayal of an imaginary magical being).

While creepy is subjective I do not believe he is malicious so much as heartless (another quality of fey). He does not understand caring about other people so he honestly could not foresee that the fact he would do this would feel like a betrayal to Jester. He does not have the empathy to understand why he has hurt her and instead tries to explain his perspective honestly and assure her that she is safe (which she is safe with him, at least insofar as he will not intentionally hurt her - the problem is this dumbass doesn’t understand how he’s hurting her).

So while I understand the impulse to say “He made Jester cry KILL HIM”. 

He is not lying when he never intended to leave her on the island or when he assured her that she is his favorite person. He also freely makes a promise to her, which is binding and not something a fey would give lightly. 

So now- Now he cannot ever leave her. He will keep her safe and her friends safe. That’s a big deal. And there’s nothing in it for him aside from her happiness. He paints the moon itself to make her smile.

He is a powerful, alien, chaotic neutral fey and he adores Jester.

The question is then will Jester love him after this. Will she be able to have a close relationship with him now that she understands his lack of empathy. Even when he is sorry all he can say is he’s sorry she feels hurt (because he doesn’t want her hurt) but he cannot truly apologize and take responsibility for hurting her. (I’m sorry you feel hurt vs I’m sorry I hurt you). 

He can’t take responsibility for anything. He is carefree and free from the ability to care. Mortals care, mortals can love and regret. They can understand hurting someone else and take responsibility for that rather than focusing on the consequences that relate to their own feelings (I don’t like that you feel hurt because I care, so I am sorry for that).

Note: In real life, in humans, we call this behavior toxic. To focus on yourself and not emphasize with others and your impact on them is harmful.

And Jester grew up with Artagan. He is not a “child groomer” as some have accused. He was a child with her. However, once she became an adult he dropped the polymorph and became a fey again. Jester grew up. Artagan can’t grow up, because he’s a fey. He is still and will forever be as selfish and unthinking as a child. 

Jester isn’t anymore and she may outgrow Artagan unless his affection for her can make him grow as a person. However, Jester is not at the point where she is able to call him out or push him to change. She is understanding ‘I know you wanted to get rid of followers’ she doesn’t want to judge. When he complains about the headache of dealing with ships she joked about some of them dying.

However, the Traveler does not join on that joke. He doesn’t want them to die. He has learned to enjoy doing good and to care somewhat for people in general - which is notable given that he is a fey and caring isn’t in his nature. 

Jester has made him a better person. He did grow up with her for a time. He was mortal with her then and grew and, I think, learned to feel love for her. To be her best friend. 

But he has a long way to go to be a good friend; if he can even get there. Either way, it will be an interesting story to watch play out. An interesting dynamic. An interesting take on a fey that Matt has done a wonderful job writing as truly inhuman. 

Footnote:

1) For further reading on the nature of fey/magical creatures, please see this post on “The Last Unicorn”

2) Why are these chickens so cute you guys???

[richincolor]

Voting and YA Lit

The November election is getting closer and closer. If you're eligible to vote and need more information, Vote.org is an excellent place to start. The League of Women Voters also has a First Time Voter Checklist that may be helpful. This year there may be additional challenges to voting, but if you are able, please let your voice be heard through your vote.

In the final two months before the election, you may enjoy some related reading. First, a few YA novels featuring elections or voting:

Yes No Maybe So by Becky Albertalli and Aisha Saeed Balzer + Bray [Group Discussion]

YES Jamie Goldberg is cool with volunteering for his local state senate candidate—as long as he’s behind the scenes. When it comes to speaking to strangers (or, let’s face it, speaking at all to almost anyone), Jamie’s a choke artist. There’s no way he’d ever knock on doors to ask people for their votes…until he meets Maya.

NO Maya Rehman’s having the worst Ramadan ever. Her best friend is too busy to hang out, her summer trip is canceled, and now her parents are separating. Why her mother thinks the solution to her problems is political canvassing—with some awkward dude she hardly knows—is beyond her.

MAYBE SO Going door to door isn’t exactly glamorous, but maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. After all, the polls are getting closer—and so are Maya and Jamie. Mastering local activism is one thing. Navigating the cross-cultural romance of the century is another thing entirely.

The Voting Booth by Brandy Colbert Disney-Hyperion [Crystal's Review]

Marva Sheridan was born ready for this day. She’s always been driven to make a difference in the world, and what better way than to vote in her first election?

Duke Crenshaw is so done with this election. He just wants to get voting over with so he can prepare for his band’s first paying gig tonight.

Only problem? Duke can’t vote.

When Marva sees Duke turned away from their polling place, she takes it upon herself to make sure his vote is counted. She hasn’t spent months doorbelling and registering voters just to see someone denied their right. And that’s how their whirlwind day begins, rushing from precinct to precinct, cutting school, waiting in endless lines, turned away time and again, trying to do one simple thing: vote. They may have started out as strangers, but as Duke and Marva team up to beat a rigged system (and find Marva’s missing cat), it’s clear that there’s more to their connection than a shared mission for democracy.

Romantic and triumphant, The Voting Booth is proof that you can’t sit around waiting for the world to change, but some things are just meant to be.

Running by Natalia Sylvester Clarion Books

When fifteen-year-old Cuban American Mariana Ruiz’s father runs for president, Mari starts to see him with new eyes. A novel about waking up and standing up, and what happens when you stop seeing your dad as your hero—while the whole country is watching.

In this thoughtful, authentic, humorous, and gorgeously written novel about privacy, waking up, and speaking up, Senator Anthony Ruiz is running for president. Throughout his successful political career he has always had his daughter’s vote, but a presidential campaign brings a whole new level of scrutiny to sheltered fifteen-year-old Mariana and the rest of her Cuban American family, from a 60 Minutes–style tour of their house to tabloids doctoring photos and inventing scandals. As tensions rise within the Ruiz family, Mari begins to learn about the details of her father’s political positions, and she realizes that her father is not the man she thought he was.

But how do you find your voice when everyone’s watching? When it means disagreeing with your father—publicly? What do you do when your dad stops being your hero? Will Mari get a chance to confront her father? If she does, will she have the courage to seize it?

There are also a few YA nonfiction books that deal with activism and voting rights:

How I Resist edited by Maureen Johnson Wednesday Books

Now, more than ever, young people are motivated to make a difference in a world they're bound to inherit. They're ready to stand up and be heard - but with much to shout about, where they do they begin? What can I do? How can I help?

How I Resist is the response, and a way to start the conversation. To show readers that they are not helpless, and that anyone can be the change. A collection of essays, songs, illustrations, and interviews about activism and hope, How I Resist features an all-star group of contributors, including John Paul Brammer, Libba Bray, Lauren Duca, Modern Family's Jesse Tyler Ferguson and his husband Justin Mikita, Alex Gino, Hebh Jamal, Malinda Lo, Dylan Marron, Hamilton star Javier Muñoz, Rosie O'Donnell, Junauda Petrus, Jodi Picoult, Jason Reynolds, Karuna Riazi, Maya Rupert, Dana Schwartz, Dan Sinker, Ali Stroker, Jonny Sun (aka @jonnysun), Sabaa Tahir, Shaina Taub, Daniel Watts, Jennifer Weiner, Jacqueline Woodson, and more, all edited and compiled by New York Times bestselling author Maureen Johnson.

In How I Resist, readers will find hope and support through voices that are at turns personal, funny, irreverent, and instructive. Not just for a young adult audience, this incredibly impactful collection will appeal to readers of all ages who are feeling adrift and looking for guidance.

How I Resist is the kind of book people will be discussing for years to come and a staple on bookshelves for generations.

The March Trilogy by John Lewis, Andrew Aydin and Nate Powell Top Shelf Productions

A graphic novel memoir in three parts. It tells of the Civil Rights movement through the eyes of John Lewis. Readers see Lewis and other activists launching campaigns such as the Freedom Vote and Mississippi Freedom Summer. The books lead all the way through to the Selma March.

And finally, picture books aren't just for children. Here are two picture books young adults would likely appreciate:

The Voice of Freedom: Fannie Lou Hamer by Carole Boston Weatherford, illustrated by Ekua Holmes Candlewick Press

A stirring collection of poems and spirituals, accompanied by stunning collage illustrations, recollects the life of Fannie Lou Hamer, a champion of equal voting rights.

"I am sick and tired of being sick and tired."

Despite fierce prejudice and abuse, even being beaten to within an inch of her life, Fannie Lou Hamer was a champion of civil rights from the 1950s until her death in 1977. Integral to the Freedom Summer of 1964, Ms. Hamer gave a speech at the Democratic National Convention that, despite President Johnson’s interference, aired on national TV news and spurred the nation to support the Freedom Democrats. Featuring luminous mixed-media art both vibrant and full of intricate detail, Singing for Freedom celebrates Fannie Lou Hamer’s life and legacy with an inspiring message of hope, determination, and strength.

Granddaddy's Turn: A Journey to the Ballot Box by Michael S. Bandy & Eric Stein, illustrated by James Ransome Candlewick Press

Based on the true story of one family’s struggle for voting rights in the Civil Rights–era South, this moving tale shines an emotional spotlight on a dark facet of U.S. history.

Life on the farm with Granddaddy is full of hard work, but despite all the chores, Granddaddy always makes time for play, especially fishing trips. Even when there isn’t a bite to catch, he reminds young Michael that it takes patience to get what’s coming to you. One morning, when Granddaddy heads into town in his fancy suit, Michael knows that something very special must be happening—and sure enough, everyone is lined up at the town hall! For the very first time, Granddaddy is allowed to vote, and he couldn’t be more proud. But can Michael be patient when it seems that justice just can’t come soon enough? This powerful and touching true-life story shares one boy’s perspective of growing up in the segregated South, while beautiful illustrations depict the rural setting in tender detail.