#and then pretend the other part doesn’t deserve that same respect

[reikunrei]

when it’s about queerness it’s “groundbreaking and powerful and beautiful high art that’s going to change the world” but when it fumbles topics of race and class and disability and copaganda it’s “not so serious omg it’s just a tv show why do you have to make so much drama about it” like do you see your own dunce cap in the mirror

[barblaz-arts]

I haven’t sent any of the other messages, and this is the first time I’m even seeing your opinions on this matter as I’ve followed you for your Wenclair art.

I’m an Israeli citizen. On October 7th thousands of Hamas terrorists went into Israeli villages (on Israel’s territory) and raped, shot, beheaded, burned alive and murdered 1400 CIVILIANS. They kidnapped 230 more citizens into the Gaza Strip, including babies and the elderly (no idea if they are alive, as Hamas didn’t let the Red Cross or anyone else see them and REFUSED any deal to release them, despite all the lies they are spreading). Hamas uploaded videos of them doing these deeds, they were proud of them. We are still not done counting our dead, 3 weeks later, because of the state they were left in. We identify people by DNA pulled from pieces of skull tissue, by CT scans of burned masses of flesh showing parents hugging their children as they were burned alive.

A little bit of history. In 2005 Israel completely pulled out of Gaza, and handed it over to the Palestinians. In 2007 Hamas was elected to lead the Gaza Strip. This is an organization that in its charter says loud and clear they want to murder Jews. It’s not hidden, there is no question about it. They are proud of it. And since 2007 they have not allowed for an election in Gaza, they have stolen international aid money to build terror infrastructure and embedded themselves deep within their civilian population (just a few days ago evidence was provided that Hamas built their HQ under a hospital, specifically because they knew Israel wouldn’t bomb it).

The truth is, the pictures from Gaza are heartbreaking. The civilians are suffering and it’s making me sick. But how is Israel supposed to respond to the massacre of October 7th? Just pretend it didn’t happen? No country would. Israel isn’t targeting the civilian population though, unlike Hamas. I’m not saying innocent civilians aren’t killed, they very sadly are because war is horrible. But it’s always an accident, they are never the targets. Hamas is the target.

Israel has its part in creating Hamas just like the USA had its part in creating ISIS and Taliban. Still doesn’t excuse terrorism. Israel didn’t deserve the October 7th massacre anymore than the USA deserved 9/11. I hope that you can appreciate that.

The truth is, there are innocent civilians on both sides here that are suffering. Things aren’t black and white, and they never were with this conflict. And if you want to have a discussion I’ll happily talk to you privately, answer questions as best as I can. But only if we come from a place of mutual respect. If you want to block me, that’s fine too.

I do want to let you know while I can that your art is beautiful and made me smile on multiple occasions. I hope you continue it. And I wish you luck with everything and hope that we all have peaceful days in the future.

First of all. Gaza was not given to Palestine. Israel put them there and had Gaza serve as an open air prison.

You can't go around saying "Israel has its part in creating Hamas but it still doesn't excuse terrorism" then go around saying that this genocide is justified because "What else are we supposed to do after what happened in Oct 7?" What a double standard. You do not get to say that what happened to them makes you feel bad but say that you were left with no other choice. You dont get to say that Hamas being born from 70+ of brutality is still not an excuse to kill but also say Israel doing the same thing is justified.

Now, of course this does not mean that I side with Hamas. Never have, never will. I side with Palestinians, something so many Zionists cannot seem to comprehend, because they see killing them as one and the same.

Listing off those atrocities, though heartbreaking, as I will always mourn the innocent, still does not change my stance or how I feel. I feel like a broken recorder, constantly having to repeat that the civilians in Gaza did not do those and in turn did not deserve any of this. The hostages don't either of course, and the families of the ones still held captive are furious with their government for choosing to bomb them along with Hamas like some sort of sacrifice, like what you are implying the civilian deaths to be. Just unfortunate casualties for the greater good.

You can go ahead and say that only Hamas were meant to be targeted all you want, but they did not need to cut off their water so they're not even able to clean and defecate. They did not need to cut off power and render hospitals useless. And NO they did not need to bomb those same hospitals, even IF it were true that it was a Hamas base. And they did not need to use phosphorus bombs to do it. This has, and always will be about Israel's hatred of arabs and Muslims, as it was 70 years ago before Hamas even existed, as it still is now.

Tell me, if the past two or so weeks was really about Hamas, then why are these people mocking the civilians that are mourning their families' death as they starve?

None of this should have happened. Hell, you shouldn't even be living where you are in the first place. No one has any right to colonize. Whatever white supremacists or religious reason anyone says.

Of course this does not mean that I believe all jews or Israeli are as evil as the pieces of shit in that tiktok compilation or the powerful pile of dung that rule your country. There are Isreali and Jews protesting for Palestine as well, and I deeply admire them for their bravery and to feel compassion for the other side and act on it.

It's baffling how you're aware that Israel is responsible for Hamas creation but still, maybe not want it, but think all you can do is reluctantly accept the unavoidable. Because this was definitely avoidable. But your government actively wants this, and frankly I dont think it cares about you. It does not care about the soldiers they send out and the people that died and the hostages that were taken. They are using you as an excuse for more death and money.

"Those thinking of revenge should be ashamed," said by one of the survivors of Oct 7. And she is right. You are demanding the wrong things of your government.

And no, I will not be talking to anyone about this in my direct messages. Talking about it privately makes it feel like some debate to be won, when this shouldn't be a debate at all. The reason why I answer these kinds of asks is to make people aware of what is happening. I'm just some girl, I cannot fight for Palestine in any way that can directly save a life and I dont have the financial capability to donate, but I can do this. We can make those sick excuses of humans on top know that we know of their stink and we will not give it any excuse.

[boneblushed]

Untouchable

part 1 | part 2

synopsis it is crucial that the head boy and girl of Kildare Academy work together. Too bad the head girl is you and the head boy is Rafe Cameron.

wc 2K

Rafe Cameron likes to do this thing where he pretends that he's hopelessly in love with you.

Every morning, when you walk past him in the Academy carpark, he says, “Good morning, sweetheart.” Easy on the morning, rolling the sweet over his tongue so heart sounds thick as brown molasses. He always has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the emblem on his breast-pocket hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Sometimes you humour him. Often you avoid acknowledging him altogether.

He has a tendency to call you every pretty noun under the sun except your actual name. Though he has a certain predilection for sweetheart, he’ll always follow up your carpark rendezvous—if you could even call it that—with a, “Wait up, beautiful!” Gorgeous if you’re particularly unlucky. You’re pretty sure he does this because it’s more convenient than remembering your name; that, or he’s covering his ass in case he mixes you up with the other girls on his roster.

“C’mon,” he adds, catching you up with ease, “think you can give me a smile today, birdie?”

That’s a new one. You frown hard, conveying your disapproval at being branded by yet another nickname against your will.

“Think you can show me you deserve it, Cameron?”

Rafe slaps his hand against his chest, faux-affronted. “Oof, I’m wounded.” He grins fondly. “You know that it’s bad luck to ice out the Head Boy on the first day, right?”

“Don’t remind me,” you mutter grimly, quickening your pace in an attempt to create some distance from him. It’s a futile attempt at hostility; he’s heading to the same handsome office that you are, home to the Academy’s once imposing headmaster.

He’s gotten soft over the years. It’s the only explanation, really, for why he’s chosen such a diametrically opposed duo to be the Head Boy and Girl respectively. Where you’re serious, unsmiling, easy on the eyes and hard on the ego, Rafe Cameron is this cocky, deceptively charming wall of solid muscle. He’s attractive in that way that’s made him every girl’s default love interest, and even worse, he enjoys the attention as much as you absolutely hate it.

“Remind you?” Rafe echoes, feigning bemusement. “Of what? That we’re partners now, partner?”

You force a breath of air out through your nose, halting in your tracks and turning to face him. He doesn’t think you look nearly as formidable as you want to, especially with that sweet, little furrow between your eyebrows. He tries to look earnest, as if proving his maturity is going to make you hate him any less than you do.

He’s to blame for the animosity, of course — callow, sophomore year him who called you “seriously fucking hot” in the boy’s locker room, and then in the gym, within earshot, added, “shame she’s such a frigid bitch, huh?” He didn’t mean it, and he was very clearly wounded; if you could’ve seen his face as he’d said it, maybe the cracks in his armour of indifference would’ve been more obvious. Maybe you would’ve realised he was deflecting from the fact that your rejection had really hurt him.

But then again, maybe you wouldn’t have. Because in what world was yelling “Go out with me?”—crudely, callously, you might add—from across the classroom meant to be taken for real? You’d assumed that sophomore year him was making fun of you. When you said no, he assumed that sophomore year you just wasn’t interested.

Fast forward two years, to now, it’s clear that neither of those assumptions were wholly true. You walk past the front reception and toward the headmaster’s office in tandem, halting just short of his closed door, a polished knocker hanging directly above eye-level.

As you reach up and press it against the smooth mahogany, you send him a wayward glance. “Just because we have to work together this year,” you say evenly, “doesn’t mean we have to be friends. Alright?”

“Yes ma’am.” He nods, sending you a mock salute.

This just makes you frown harder than before, as if that’s fucking possible. He’s going to get a smile out of you if it fucking kills him. “I mean it, Cameron.” You let go of the knocker to punch your forefinger into his chest, eyes narrowed sternly. “No more sweetheart, beautiful, gorgeous, honey, whatever. If there’s one thing I deserve, as your,” you raise your fingers in air-quotes, “‘partner’, it’s a bit of respect. That clear?”

He’s never once called you honey. He raises his eyebrows. “Darling?”

You let out this sigh that’s more disappointment than frustration, like you didn’t want to deal with this, like you almost expected more from him. It makes his mouth go dry. “You know what?” you say, shaking your head defeatedly. “Never mind. I thought... I don't know, I thought that if Cromwell’d chosen you to be the Head Boy, maybe you’d done some growing up since sophomore year. But clearly he's getting old, because —”

“Who’s getting old?” A pleasant voice interrupts, the mahogany door in front of you jolting open abruptly. “Miss Y/L/N,” Headmaster Cromwell adds, mock-austere. “I sure hope you aren’t talking about me.”

“Headmaster Cromwell,” you answer, eyes widening sheepishly. “I didn’t mean —”

“She was talking about me, Crom-dog,” Rafe pipes up, throwing him arm around your shoulder genially. When he pulls you into his side, the smell of his vetiver and musk cologne grows ever present. “Us. How we’re no longer the scrawny little freshmen we were when we first met you.”

He pauses, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “Women, am I right? Always so sentimental.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, shaking him off in a hurry. “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Rafe agrees with a grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. For the price you pay for a uniform blouse, he privately thinks it should be made of thicker fabric. He can still feel your soft skin pressing into all his finger calluses. “You wanted to see us, sir?”

He nods significantly, beckoning the two of you into his office. “Yes, yes, come in,” he says, taking a seat in his brown leather chair, the headrest cracking with age. “First day of senior year, eh? How are the two of you feeling?”

“Apprehensive,” you say, sending Rafe a glare.

He meets your gaze with something akin to amusement, his blue eyes full of mirth. “Sentimental.”

“Ah.” Cromwell raises his eyebrows, regarding the pair of you with interest. “And you’ll be conveying these emotions at your address this Friday, I imagine?”

Your head whips back to his desk, bottom lip pulling between your teeth. “Oh. Um —”

“Because of course,” he adds, clasping his hands together on his desk, “the start of year speech isn’t just tradition, it’s a collaborative effort. As head students, leading the fortnightly school assemblies is going to be one of your biggest responsibilities.”

“Right,” you agree, nodding vigorously. “I assure you, Headmaster Cromwell, it’s all under control.”

Rafe turns to face you, surprised. “It is?”

“Of course it is, Cameron,” you answer tiredly, not bothering to meet his gaze.

Cromwell frowns. “A collaborative effort, Miss Y/L/N.”

You swallow a sigh, plastering on a smile before turning in tandem and nodding. Fake though it may be, being on the receiving end of one of your smiles makes Rafe unusually pleased. He grins back handsomely, his head cocked toward you in a way that accents his stubbled jawline.

“All I’m saying is,” you say carefully, the smile becoming more gritted teeth than anything remotely amicable, “I’ve… made a start on it. I know that you’ve got football trials to organise, so I thought —”

“Successfully delegated,” Rafe interjects. “Got Ollie organising them this year.” He pauses, leaning toward you and clearing his throat. “You know… to free up time for this partnership.”

“Excellent!” Cromwell exclaims before you’re able to protest, clapping his hands together approvingly. “Already taking initiative. Excellent, excellent…”

He reaches for the hefty stack of papers to his left, plucking off the two forms at the top of the pile. “Here,” he says, handing one to each of you. “A suggested programme for your first meeting with this year’s prefects.”

You accept it with a nod, scanning over the template before folding it once, twice, careful. Beside you, Rafe throws his into his bag callously, threatening a migraine.

“As you know, alongside the school assemblies, you’ll be in charge of timetabling prefect duties and maintaining order. Of course, we’ll meet every fortnight or so so I can check in — ensure everything’s running as smoothly as possible.” He pauses here, looking between you through assessing grey eyes. “Being the face of this institution is a massive undertaking, you two. You’re responsible for more than just the student body… you’re responsible for Kildare Academy’s legacy.” Another pause. “It can be quite the burden. It’s important that you trust each other… know that you can rely on one another.”

You clear your throat gauchely. Rafe feels this strange jolt in his chest as Cromwell’s words wash over him.

You’re saved the awkwardness of having to respectfully disagree with him by the peal of the bell, signalling the start of first period. Cromwell springs up and nods in dismissal, the lapels of his suit jacket quivering like jowls. “Alright then!” He exclaims, smiling jovially. “I look forward to hearing your address this Friday!”

You return his smile, albeit reluctantly, avoiding eye contact with Rafe as you turn around and exit. Though you’re determined to make it to class without having to engage in any more conversation, it appears Rafe Cameron’s more determined to do the opposite.

Scratch unnecessary though. He’s pretty sure every precious second that he’s trying for more receiving-end smile is another that shows him time is of the essence.

“What did you reckon?” He asks, messing with his dirty-blonde locks absentmindedly.

The side of his elbow brushes your blouse, and you begin to walk faster, incensed by his closeness. Despite this, he refuses to back down, “Think it’s true? Him retiring this year? Cause shit, it’d explain all that crap about responsibility and legacy.”

You frown at your feet and continue to soldier forward. Rafe tries again, “Remember when Jake was head boy? Kelce’s older brother? Swear to God he didn’t get speeches like that from Crommy… I mean, shit, he was doing all this and organising football practice, not to mention all the parties he—”

“Look,” you interrupt abruptly, letting out a tired sigh. “Yeah, whatever, I won’t tell Cromwell, alright? As long as you just… just do everything you’re scheduled to do.”

Rafe turns toward you, frowning bemusedly. “Huh?”

“That’s what you’re getting at, right?” You ask impatiently, because you’re late and the second bell is about to ring and you really don’t have time for this, not with Rafe Cameron. “Doing the bare minimum just like Jake Smith did? Because yeah, whatever, that’s fine — in fact, I’d almost prefer it to trying to work together.”

Rafe draws back slightly, regarding you for a moment. “Huh.” A pause. “You think I don’t deserve it.”

You balk at his expression, something dejected behind blue irises. “Well, I,” you hesitate, “no. I just… I don’t want to work with someone who doesn’t consider this a priority.”

“You’re a priority to me,” he says, referring to the guy sophomore year you had once rejected.

“Not me,” you mutter irritatedly, cheeks warming. “Head student stuff. You know — all those things Jake Smith got away with not doing?”

“As I seem to recall,” Rafe replies matter-of-factly, unperturbed, “I’ve already delegated football trials to Ollie to free up time.”

“For the speech,” you say slowly, unsure.

For you. “For the speech,” Rafe affirms, looking down at you in this sincere way that makes your head hurt.

You swallow. “Alright then. We’ll do it Wednesday after school.”

Rafe grins triumphantly, nudging your chin with the hook of his forefinger. “Your place or mine, sweetheart?”

“Cameron,” you warn, ducking out of his reach with a frown.

“Sorry.” He nods faux-apologetically. “You prefer honey, yeah?”

“If you call me anything other than my name, I’ll murder you in your sleep.”

“In my sleep?” He asks, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “So you’ll be on my bed, huh? Knew it. Knew you had a secret thing for me.”

“School library, Cameron,” you say grimly, beginning to walk away. “4pm on Wednesday. Don’t be late.”

Rafe nods again, sending you a mock salute. “Oh don’t worry,” he calls after you. “I never keep a lady waiting.”

[el-tur-el]

coconut skins. - Chapter 1

Pairing: Rolan x F!Tav

Warnings: Tailplay, Light D/S, Explicit Sexual Content. 18+, Minors DNI.

Word Count: 2,674. Read it on AO3.

While she was immensely proud of the work Rolan put into his studies - the achievements he’s managed to garner at an age much younger than those before him, the respect that his new title commands - she would be the first to admit that sometimes it all became a bit of a slog. The constant late nights studying, crawling into bed beside her long after the sun had set over the Gate and the sky had become scattered with pinprick starlight.

She tried to stay up with him when she could; she’d drape herself over a chaise in the study and pretend to read while he worked. In truth, she was spending more time watching him. Fingers twitching as he scrawled notes on a piece of parchment with a quill, the shape of his mouth and he silently rehearsed the verbal components of new spells he was working on. Something so mundane should hardly be considered intoxicating, and yet the competency set a heady thrill in her veins. The Master of Ramazith’s Tower.

Gods above, but he deserved it.

Tonight, boredom has settled itself into her bones, leaden and heavy. She’s been sprawled out on chair in the study for the better part of six hours now, idly leafing through a book while he pours over research and hastily scribbles notes in the margins. She can see the exhaustion radiating off of him, the soft hunch of his shoulders, the way he’s rubbing at his temples and mumbling under his breath. She wonders, idly, if he even knows what time it is. If he had even been aware of the sun sinking far below the horizon two hours ago, painting the room in split yolk yellow and flicker flame orange.

She rises from the chair delicately, walking across the room to his desk; footfalls ghostly silent against the carpet, her fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of the sleeve on her thin nightgown - a gift from him a month or so ago, with delicate flowers embroidered on the material.

“Love,” She murmurs softly, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind, pressing a whisper of a kiss against the crown of his head. “You’ve been at it for hours. Why don’t you take a break, hm?”

“In a moment.” He replies, not looking up from the paper in front of him - she swears he’s been stuck on this one for over an hour now, some text about the importance of somatic components in spellwork, written in tiny, cramped hand. “I’m nearly done with this one.”

Something tells her that’s not true - that he would sit here for another eternity if she let him; not bothering to slink to bed until the sun began to lazily pull itself over the horizon, and even then only allowing himself a half hour of rest before getting up to tend to Sorcerous Sundries for the day. She knows this because he has done it before, more times than she can count on one hand. Murmuring a quiet apology for being so late to join her, then turning around and doing it all over again the next day.

“Rolan, you’ve been staring at the same piece of paper for hours. Maybe it’ll make more sense after some rest and some breakfast.” One of her hands gently rubs over his shoulder, soothing small circles against his robe with her thumb.

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

Getting him to be anything other than self-sacrificial is a task akin to pulling teeth even on the best of days. He runs himself ragged constantly, all weeping edges. Nose to the grindstone until there’s little left but marrow. It makes her chest ache, truthfully; the extent to which he is willing to go in some misguided venture to prove himself.

He doesn’t have to prove himself to anyone, anymore.

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind the tip of a pointed ear, and brings her lips to the stark line of his jaw; no amount of pleading will get him to relent, but perhaps there are other methods at her disposal that will be effective. He’s always had trouble saying no to her when she looks at him with soft eyes, when she’s soft and clingy and sweet. Like he has a weakness for the saccharine. Or maybe just a weakness for her.

“Tav.” He rumbles, low and throaty - a warning.

She’s never been particularly good about contemplating consequences.

“Come to bed.” She whispers against his skin, dragging her mouth down to the slope of his throat. Open-mouthed and damp, her breath ghosting over his pulse point, her arms still draped over his shoulders.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat that sends heat spooling in her stomach, makes her feel effervescent. He’s still looking at the desk, but his gaze is unfocused and hazy, and she thinks, for one triumphant moment, that she may be winning this battle.

A few things happen in the span of a moment. He rises from his chair rather noisily, and a flicker of fear that she has somehow overstepped jolts through her. But then he’s pushing her up against the desk, the edge of the hardwood digging into the small of her back, his hands planted firmly on her shoulders. He leans dangerously close to her, his breath a heavy and ragged thing, a few strands of his hair coming loose from their tie and framing his face in a way that would almost be considered soft were it not for the glimmer of hunger held within the aureate flame of his eyes.

“Someone ought to teach you a thing or two about patience.” His voice is sharp and hushed, gravelly in a way she’s not sure she’s ever heard from him.

She stares at him with wide eyes, her lips parted in a silent question, her hands curling into the soft material of his robes at his flanks. He tilts his head to the side, eyes trained on her, flicking over her expression to see if there’s any hesitance. When he doesn’t find any, he leans in further, his breath hot against the shell of her ear.

“Is this what you wanted, Tav? To test my resolve? To see how much it takes for me to snap?” A yawning chasm of want splits open within her, a flush rising to her cheeks. “For me to pin you down and have my way with you like some kind of animal?”

“I’m certainly not complaining.” She finds her voice, shaky and uncertain as it may be, and the words fall forth in the ghost of a whisper.

“You would think that the time you spent saving the Sword Coast would have taught you even a little in the way of self-preservation, but here you are. Still so godsdamned brave.” His teeth graze over her earlobe, and she stifles a soft sound. “I could eat you alive. But you don’t care.”

“Because I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” She does, in her bones. He’d been reticent to even entertain the notion of anything that would put her in harm’s way, even if she’d expressed enthusiastic consent. Pain was not associated with pleasure in his mind, and she had never been about to argue - he’d been through enough. She wanted to be a safe place for him. A respite from it all.

He pulls away to look her in the eyes once more, a soft smile dragging up the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t.” He echoes, quiet.

“This is nice, though.” She feels like such a shy creature when faced with the intensity of his gaze. What a difficult thing, to be seen so thoroughly. For him to peel back the layers of herself, scrutinize each one. To know and be known. “The confidence.”

“I’m glad you think so.” He laughs, soft, all breath. “I’m rather uncertain of what I’m doing.”

She presses her lips to his cheek, featherlight. “Just do what feels natural. Or do nothing at all. I’m not trying to pressure you into anything.”

He contemplates her for a long moment, as though trying to determine the best course of action. It feels rather silly, to calculate intimacy, to map it out into data points and facts and figures. But she’s intrigued, curious as to where, exactly, this is going to go.

“I want to try something.” He says after a while. “Do you trust me?”

“Endlessly.” She replies immediately - she doesn’t even have to put thought into the question. She’d put her life in his hands if he asked her to.

“Undress for me.” The words are offered up on a breath, still so gentle.

She wordlessly moves to comply, shaky fingers moving to the hem of her nightgown, gingerly pulling it over her head. She takes the time to fold it neatly - she’d loathe to unceremoniously toss something so delicate, something he picked out for her by hand, on the ground. She turns to look at him with expectant eyes.

“Everything.” He’s perched back onto his chair, and he watches her with a neutral expression, his tone settling into something detached. It shouldn’t send a thrill of heat through her, and yet it does all the same.

She drags her bottom lip between her teeth, all nervous energy, but does as she’s told with no resistance. She steps out of her smalls, undoes her breastband, sets them both to the side. He looks at her appreciatively, eyes roaming down her body in a way that has her feeling like he could see right through to the bone if he so desired.

Oh, how vulnerable it is, the mortifying ordeal of being known.

He taps two fingers against the corner of his desk that is free of paperwork and stacks of books. “Sit.”

She wonders what he’s playing at here, exactly.

She settles herself down on the hardwood, sucking in a sharp breath at how cold it is against her bare skin. Suddenly so unsure of how to take up space, she folds her hands in her lap. Her movements feel awkward, unsteady.

“I’m going to finish my work.” He motions towards the paper he’d been engrossed in earlier. “And you’re going to sit there quietly.”

“And I need to be naked for this because….?” She blinks at him - suddenly she is very much feeling like the one who has been played here.

“If you’re good,” He ignores the question. “I’ll give you the attention you so desperately desire, once I am done.”

And just like that, he’s once again directing his attention downwards, beginning to resume his reading. She shifts awkwardly - the idea of sitting still, bare before him, with him not even paying attention to him…. It fills her with equal parts arousal and defiance, makes her want to act out so that this is over faster.

But she’ll let him have his way for now.

One of his hands comes to rest on her thigh - not gripping, simply touching. It sends sparks rolling through her, bright bursts of something fluorescent and alive. She takes in a soft breath, tremulous, and he offers her a pointed look before returning his gaze to his work.

And you’re going to sit there quietly.

Ah. She’s beginning to understand the game, now.

Silently, he pushes her knees apart, and she knows with resounding certainty the moment his hand splays out flat against the inside of her thigh that she is well and truly fucked. His nails drag a slow path upwards, and her stomach lurches, teeth sinking into her bottom lip in an attempt to keep silent.

There’s a heavy ache between her thighs, and it takes more than a little self control to not press them together, to coax his hand higher, to open her mouth to plead with him to relent. He’s still reading, and she wants to take back everything she said earlier about finding his bravado intoxicating - such a selfish creature suddenly in the face of such overwhelming want.

Perhaps he’s feeling merciful, perhaps he can sense the yearning bubbling beneath the surface of her, because his index and middle finger graze over her slit, and she nearly whines. He lets out a breath when he feels the evidence of her arousal, how wet she is just from being made to sit before him like this - but his gaze does not leave his work.

The callused pads of his fingers press against her clit, and her hands come to grasp at the edge of the desk, knuckles white from the effort of it. She hopes to all the gods above that he is not nearly as patient as he makes himself seem.

She thinks that perhaps she can handle this - a little touching, a little teasing, and then he’ll cave.

And then comes the tail.

The point of it drags over her thigh, and oh, that’s new. She does let out a gasp when he brings it up higher, when he flicks it over her slit like a silent question. Tentative, cautious, curious. Without really thinking, she spreads her legs a little wider, invites him to indulge in the impulse.

It’s different than anything she’s ever felt before. The stretch of it, the hesitancy he uses. He’s no longer paying attention to the words on the paper before him, instead staring at her with wide, glossy eyes, his lips parted.

“Look at you.” He breathes, the tone of his voice awestruck, and she lets out a whine - her patience has been unraveled, decorum discarded.

She shifts her hips, desperate for more - something, anything. He relents, dragging the spade of it out, pushing back in.

Fucking her with his tail.

It feels licentious. Base. Wrong and filthy and yet so completely and wholly right. She moans, her head tilting back, her eyes fluttering shut. His fingers work against her clit more insistently now, his breath heavy, leaning forward in his chair, drinking in the sight of her.

“Fuck.” She manages, shaky, all breath. “Holy fuck, Rolan -”

“That’s it, Tav. Just like that.” He’s all rasp and gravel, and she cracks her eyes enough to see him palming himself through his robes. Something within her snaps, fractures. “Want to see you come like this - want - Gods.”

It takes little more in the way of prompting for her to get there; flashbang bright behind her eyelids, her lips splitting open in a silent cry. It feels like drowning in the most pleasant way possible, the way it rips through her. He hisses out a curse from behind gritted teeth, his movements slowing, then stopping completely.

She’s panting as she comes down, peering down at him through unfocused eyes, her hair sticking to her forehead - skin slick with sweat, her chest heaving. He’s looking at her with a reverence in his eyes, an awe that she feels wholly undeserving of.

“That was - that was different.” She fumbles for the words, coherent thought having evaporated from her mind.

“If I had known you would have responded positively, I would have suggested trying that a while ago.” He leans forward to press his lips against the back of her knee, soft. “Was that alright?”

She motions to herself, disheveled on his desk. “I hardly think you need to ask, Rolan.”

“Right, yes, well.” He clears his throat. “No harm in checking.”

“Will you come to bed now?” She tilts her head to the side, her gaze flicking over his form, lingering on his lap. “I’d rather like to repay the favor.”

“I… believe I’m at an appropriate stopping point for the evening, yes.” He smooths out his robes and stands, offering her a hand. “But please don’t feel like you need to -”

“Rolan.” She takes his hand and gently slides off of his desk, lifting a finger to his lips. “If you don’t take me to the bedroom and ravish me right this minute, I swear to all the gods in every pantheon, I will cry.”

“Well, we can’t have that, I suppose.”

[shelby-fangirl00]

Hunting You-part one

•A successful assassin from London named Penny is hired to travel to Small Heath and kill Thomas Shelby. (Don’t want to give too much away tehe)

•WARNINGS(18+, minors DNI): Enemies to lovers, Dual POV, Smut (in future chapters), Lots of angst, Strong language, Lots of violence

•Authors note: hey y’all! This story has been brewing in my mind for some time.This part is kind of an introduction to my story. Reblog if you enjoy:) Next part will be in Tommy’s POV.

Penny

I checked my watch every few minutes for what seemed like an eternity. Plopping my elbows on the wooden table top, I huffed loudly. According to the dick who hired me, Shelby should’ve been here hours ago. Honestly, I didn’t mind waiting, since I was paid in advance, but my fingers still twitched in anticipation, eager to finally get my hands dirty again.

This was an ordinary night for me, except for the part where I had to travel into this piss poor town. Under any other circumstance, I would have told the man who hired me to fuck off. But how could I refuse such a hefty wage? Anyways, doing this out of town work only makes my job easier. At least that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. Nobody here seems sober enough to remember gossip about a hitman. Let alone talk of a random woman in a pub.

Killing Thomas Shelby will definitely make waves Small Heath, but thats not my problem. I’d be gone before sun rise. Talks of a female assassin surely hadn’t traveled to this poor drunken town anyways. It’ll be as if I was never here.

I nurse my glass of whiskey. Just as the rim of the glass touches my lips, I pull out the very dated photograph of Mr.Shelby I was given. I imagine he was just a boy in the photo. He appears to be in uniform and my chest tightens at the thought. I can only imagine the horrors he’s seen since this was taken. It wouldn’t surprise me if the man today doesn’t resemble this photograph at all.

The doors open for the first time in an hour and I hear the booming laughter before I see the lot of them. A large group of nicely dressed men in caps waltz in and I assume this to be the notorious Peaky Blinders. Of course I did some research before coming here. They were feared throughout this place. Known to be unforgiving and ruthless. This Shelby man I’m sure is a sick and twisted bastard. All the best men I know are. I myself am a bit sick and twisted.

Hiring a female hitman, like myself, had different perks. It’s far easier for a woman to get close to a man they don’t know. They don’t see us in the same light. We come off as less of a threat. In my experience, no man is immune to the powers a beautiful woman can possess over a man, in the right circumstances. Thomas Shelby couldn’t be any different from the rest of them.

I straightened my back and fell into the role I’d been assigned. My long black dress hugs my waist and my thigh is bare under the slit of my gown.

My eyes search for someone loosely similar to the photograph, maybe with a beard and some extra weight, but there’s so many men now crowding my view. Eventually, I hear a loud voice yell for a “Tommy.”

Gotcha.

The men seem to part perfectly and I have a clear view of him. I see the not-so-young-boy who grew into this apparently fearsome man.

My blood runs cold and I curse under my breath. To put it plainly, the man is fucking gorgeous. His stature radiates confidence while his presence demands respect.

He’s aged nicely, his cheekbones even more pronounced now. Even from my small booth in the corner, I notice his dazzling blue eyes. Out of all the men here, why did it have to be this one? Most of the men I’m hired to kill are assholes who don’t deserve to see the sun again. I hope he’s the same.

I beeline to a nearby group of drunk and smelly men. I pretend to walk past them and “trip,” over one of the chairs, spilling my whiskey out onto an old man’s shoulder.

“Stupid bitch!” The man attempts to stand up and almost falls on his ass. I try to muffle my laughter. I wish I could kill this one too, it would be too easy.

“I’m so sorry, sir!” I plead with him and he finally steps closer to me, trapping my body against another table. His stench is repulsive and it takes every bit of willpower inside of me not to put a bullet through this fuckers head. I momentarily get lost in the thought, his greasy face would downturn and the life would drain from his angry expression before he dropped dead.

My hands press down into the table as he spits at me. He grabs my wrist tightly before speaking again.

“You’ll fuckin pay for that, girl. Why don’t you join me and-

A hand covers the man’s shoulder, squeezing harshly before speaking. As if the man has eyes in the back of his head, he freezes and turns slowly, like he knows exactly who the hand on his shoulder belongs to.

“Alright, Tim?” A low but smooth voice asks. My breath hitches in my throat and I don’t really need to pretend how scared I am anymore.

“Of course, Mr.Shelby. Just teaching this one a lesson in manners.” The big oaf states confidently.

For the first time, Mr.Shelby’s eyes lock with mine and I suddenly forgot how to breath or blink or function at all. He’s even more stunning this closeup. He examines me for an uncomfortable amount of time before speaking again.

“I don’t think that’ll be nessacary Timmy. Why don’t you go back to your table and let me handle it?” This Tim man peaks at Tommy from behind his shoulder and I can tell this is an order. Tim finally releases my wrist and grunts, giving me one last look that makes me feel dirty, and stumbles off.

I exhale loudly, pretending to finally relax.

“Thank you, sir. I was worried I wouldn’t get out of that one.” I stated, chuckling lightly under my breath.

“No trouble, Tim’s an angry drunk. He won’t remember ya tomorrow.” His words sit in the air between us awkwardly before I decide to speak again.

“I’m Nora.” I lie.

I stick my hand out and smile stupidly. This takes him back but he recovers quickly, smirking and pressing his hand in mine firmly.

“Tommy. You aren’t from here…don’t tell me you actually moved to Small Heath on your own free will.” He chuckles darkly, placing his half empty glass between his lips and searching my eyes for an answer. He looks similar to the picture, more dead in the eyes now. No less mesmerizing.

I laugh. “Thankfully, no. I’m just here visiting an old friend. How’d you know?” I place my own glass to my lips now, scanning the room behind him.

He smirks, finally letting his eyes drop for a split second to my chest.

Shrugging his shoulders plainly, he states, “It’s a small town and I’ve lived here me whole life. I would’ve known if someone like you lived here.”

My eyebrows arch in question. “Someone like me, yeh?”

He smiles slowly, but it’s dark, almost like a warning. I don’t understand why I’m suddenly so clammy?

I need to get this over with. My body is betraying me, because all I can think about are his lips and how they would feel on mine and what his chest looks like underneath all those damn layers.

Giving in only slightly to my body’s demands, I take one big step into him, putting my chest inches from his own. I look up at him with a dazzling smile, and he just smirks. Does he always have that smug fucking look on?

“Well thank you for saving me, Tommy.” His eyebrows shoot up in what I’m assuming is surprise?

“Another whiskey?” He asks, stepping past me towards the bar and nodding to the barman.

I take in his stature beside me, leaning his forearms against the long bar. As much as I would love to entertain this handsome stranger, I had a job to do.

I squeeze his shoulder, leaning into him so my lips barely touch his ear.

“Excuse my forwardness, but I’d rather take you back to my flat, Tommy.” I squeeze his shoulder one last time before stepping back.

He cranes his neck to look behind him at I don’t know what before returning back to me.

“I like forward. Lead the way, love.” Finally, this can end.

“Of course…” I say sheepishly and he doesn’t hesitate to follow closely behind, his hand resting on my lower back. The sensation sends a shiver up my spine.

As we trot outside, he moves his hand from my back to behind his own and i do the same. I silently acknowledge the few daggers I have hidden in my stockings along with the gun in my purse….aaaaaand maybe a few razor blades underneath my pinned updo. It’s just a precaution, really. I can never be too safe. Plus, it’s fun to switch it up every once and a while.

“Where ya staying?” He asks smoothly as we round the dark corner.

“Just across the p- the air is quickly swept from my lungs as Thomas grabs me from behind and slams my body against a brick wall. I gasp as both of his hands wrap around my throat and he never stops squeezing.

Fuck. He knows.

Panic sets in and I’m clawing at his arms desperately. I try to maneuver my legs in order to knee him, but his body is flush against my own.

“thought it be that easy to kill me? You’re at the back of a long line, love.”

I muster up enough rage in my throat to spit out a “fuck you.”

My hands could only reach his side, so I wail on him. As soon as my punch lands, I feel another pair of hands on me, pinning my arms over my head. Thomas bends for only a few seconds before spitting and regaining hold over me.

I look over to see the other man pinning me against the wall. He’s younger than Thomas, but sporting a similar smirk.

If I don’t finish this job, Tommy will kill me. And if he doesn’t, the man who hired me would. Especially after being paid in advance.

I felt myself slipping from the lack of oxygen. But just as I closed my eyes, Tommy released me but the other man stays put to my side, his hands tighten around my wrists and his chest is pressing into my arm.

Tommy turns back around, adjusting his coat and lighting a cigarette before examining my flesh, the way my dress had fallen open at my chest during our scuffle.

“Who hired you?” He asked plainly.

My chest was heaving and I swear his eyes followed the movement for a split second.

“How should I fucking know? A man overpays me in advance for a hit and I don’t ask questions.”

The man holding my body hostage against the brick wall, bellows out an annoying laugh but Tommy doesn’t so much as smirk.

He sighs before reaching inside of his coat and pointing the barrel of his gun at me.

I giggle, cocking my head and studying him now. “You ever killed a woman, Mr.Shelby?”

“Enough. Tell me his name or I’ll put a bullet between those pretty eyes.” He says, almost softly, like he’s seducing me instead of trying to kill me. I hate how my thighs clench together and my nipples harden under my dress. All this foreplay tonight between the gun, the two angry men holding me against a wall and a touch of breath play.

“Promise?” I don’t know how, but I knew he wouldn’t shoot.

He sticks his gun back into his holster from underneath his coat before speaking again.

“John, put her to sleep and tie her up.” And before I could even protest, the man’s hands move from my wrists to around my skull, slamming it into the brick wall. Everything goes black. I never stood a chance.

Part two coming soon in Tommy’s POV!

Taglist:

@lyarr24

@forgottenpeakywriter

@casa-boiardi

@tigernach575

@crabat-the-queen

@adaydreamaway08

@everysage

@yurmomsawh0r

@delusionalxoxo

@trixie23

@star017

@bbuckysslutt

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER NINE: The Heart Is Hard To Translate

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Your coffee date with Matt continues, and you end up sharing more about yourself than you originally planned.

Warnings for this chapter: Angst, hurt/comfort, dead parents, mentions of drug addiction, hints at child abuse, mentions of medical negligence, PTSD, flirting, pining (a smidge)

Word Count: 5.6k

A/n: This is the second part of chapter 8 with a direct connection, so be sure to read the previous chapter!

Read Chapter 9: The Heart Is Hard To Translate here on AO3

After giving the barista your coffee order, Matt reaches for his wallet. “I’ll take care of it,” he says, and he lets go of you momentarily to feel around for the right bill.

You don’t protest. You watch him, ready to step in if he needs help, but his cash is folded in the corners at varying degrees. He takes out a twenty-dollar bill and hands it to the woman behind the counter without trouble. “You can keep the change,” he adds with a smile that makes the barista’s brain backfire.

You would have gotten jealous at the look in her eyes if Matt paid more attention to her, but as soon as he has paid for your drinks, he turns away from her.

You notice that for someone who doesn’t make much money with his job, he still tips generously. You shouldn’t find the bare minimum so attractive, but you do because you can’t help yourself. You’ve grown lonely, and everything this man does is attractive to you in some twisted way that makes you wonder if you still have enough brain cells to survive.

This is on him, not you.

Now that someone is treating you like a human being, and paying you the attention you’ve been craving, telling you things you have always wanted to hear from a man who is not manipulating you into sleeping with him, your brain can’t comprehend all of the dopamine your brain is secreting. You feel high, so to speak, but it is not at all unpleasant. If anything, you want more. And that’s dangerous. You swore yourself to be careful. You can’t go through the same hell again. And you don’t want to be wrong about someone you like—again. 

You make your way over to the other end of the counter to wait for your order. Matt grasps your arm again.

“Is it okay if I hold onto you?” he asks, his voice softer than before. 

You blink up at him. “I–”

He’s about to let go of you, not even commenting but rather respecting the lack of consent before he could hurt you, but you stop his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter. “I just zoned out for a bit.”

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I don’t always know the answer to that question.”

His thumb brushes your arm. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

He suddenly seems so protective, standing closer to you, blocking out the noise and the people around you. His head is tilted downward as if he’s truly looking at you, and maybe he is. 

You shake your head. 

“Did you just shake your head?”

“Shit,” you curse. “Yeah. Yes, I did. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Matt smiles at you, pulling you just a little closer. 

How do you tell him that you disappear in your head sometimes because your abusive ex-boyfriend made you believe that you are worthless? How do you tell him that you had to change your identity to escape his cruel hands? And how do you tell him that you want to be normal about this, but the man you once thought was the love of your life hurt you so badly that you lost all hope in ever being happy again?

Matt believes that he’s going out with Olivia Clarke, and she has a clean record. A clean slate. You don’t. And he’s not in this café with just a name—he’s there with you, and your history will always be there, no matter how many times you change your identity. He deserves to know, but you would not dare say it to him. Not now. And you’re not sure if you ever could.

Claire was right when she said that you can’t erase your past and that you can’t pretend it never happened. The past shaped you in cruel ways. You wish you could talk openly about it more than anything, but you can’t. Fear only plays a small part in it.

How are you supposed to deal with it? How is anyone other than you and Claire supposed to deal with the truth? Unless they fully understand, they can’t deal with it. It’s a lot of weight to force upon another person’s shoulders.

You hear your name being called, and you snap out of your trance. “That’s us,” you mutter.

Matt nods, following your every lead. “Are there any free tables by the window?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You grab the tray. “But wouldn’t you rather sit in the back? Fewer people there, which means it’d be quieter.”

“I’m asking for you.”

“But–”

“You should enjoy the view while I enjoy the auditory experience.”

He’s so incredibly patient with you. Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. All of the excess blood settles into your head, and the heat in your cheeks makes you sweat. You hope your body can regulate its temperature before you start smelling. That would ruin not only your day but his as well. You brought deodorant, but once you’re drenched in sweat, even that won’t help you anymore.

“Table by the window it is then,” you say, trying to sound cool, but the slight crack of your voice betrays you. 

His face lights up with an irresistible smile, and you make your way over to the window. While Matt sits down, you put the mugs and the plates on either side of the table. 

“Sugar’s to your right.”

He nods, moving his fingers along the tabletop until he finds it. “Thank you.”

You shove the tray aside before taking a seat across from him. “You’re welcome.”

“Do you need some?”

“Sure.”

He searches for your cup, but it’s not directly across from his. You chuckle, gently guiding his hand. “I can do it myself, you know,” you tell him. 

“No,” Matt shakes his head, “This is my version of pulling the chair out for you. Like a gentleman.”

“That tradition is a bit old, don’t you think?”

“Maybe, but I like to give.”

He pours some sugar into your cup. You pat his hand when you’re satisfied with the amount, and he instantly pulls back. 

You swirl the spoon around in the light brown liquid before you. “So, you’re a giver,” you state. “Is that due to your Catholicism?”

Matt chuckles over the brim of his own cup. “That depends on what I’m giving,” he says, and his voice has a certain edge to it. “Sometimes, religion has no place in what I’m doing.”

You shift in your seat. You know exactly what he means, and it causes the heat in the pit of your stomach to bubble over. Instead of answering, you dive face-first into your coffee.

If he likes to give, how good is he in bed? The question comes at the most inappropriate time, and you shrug it off. You can’t allow yourself to think like that or you definitely won’t make it out of this café alive. 

You decide to change the subject. “How’s your rib?” you ask in an attempt to sound casual.

He touches his side. “Oh, yeah. Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Did you get it checked out?”

“No. It, uh, healed on its own.”

You want to scold him, but you decide not to. “The cut on your forehead also looks much better.” Your hand stops midway to his face. 

What are you doing? You’re not his doctor. If you were, you wouldn’t be here. But that also means that you have no right to his medical history, including whatever led him to get injured in the first place. 

You lower your hand again with a soft sigh, wrapping it around your mug instead. 

Matt’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “My wounds are known to heal faster than average.” He scratches the spot where the bandage used to be. “I can’t complain.”

“I get that. I’m just glad it’s nothing more serious,” you say. “You’re not experiencing any other symptoms, are you?”

“No, Doctor,” he says, and the amused smile he’s giving you makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, showing off his perfectly formed dimple. 

One downside of having a demanding job is that it gets hard to detach from your work persona after some time spent in the same profession. You close your eyes, exasperated at your behavior, and you pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry,” you chuckle. “I know I’m not your doctor. I’m out of line. I’m sorry.”

He cuts you off, “Don’t apologize. You care.”

“The problem is that I see every medical issue as something I need to fix and the fact that I sometimes work twenty-four-hour shifts and my life revolves around my work in the OR does not make it easier to have a normal conversation with a normal human being.”

“I could start using legal jargon if that would make you feel better.”

Again, you can’t help but laugh. The mood lightens, and some of the weight lifts off your shoulders. You take another sip from your latte. “It would even the stakes,” you say. “But I think I’ll get back to you on that when I have my first malpractice suit filed against me.”

“Ah, my partner and I would happily defend you,” says Matt. “Although you strike me as the kind of doctor who knows what she’s doing.”

“Well, you can know what you’re doing and still screw up. Most trauma patients are just thankful you’ve saved their lives after they come out of surgery, but trauma also isn’t just black and white. Our guts aren’t infallible, and our knowledge doesn’t always help with the in-the-moment decision we need to make when someone comes in on death’s door,” you explain. “I have seen good doctors sued for choosing to amputate a limb because there was a slight chance they could have saved it, and if I had been the patient, I would have done the same thing. So, I’m prepared that it might happen to me, too, eventually, and I’m prepared to either fight for myself because I know the decision I made was the only right one that presented itself in that current situation, or I will pay the price for my mistake.”

He hangs onto your every word. “That’s very self-reflective.”

“You have to learn how to be self-reflective yet confident in your work when you’re dealing with human lives. We’re not above valid criticism or the feelings of others.”

“And that is why you’re a great doctor,” he states. 

You shrug, taking another sip. “I try my best to do right by my patients.”

“Including jumping in front of a security guard’s gun?”

“If I have to.”

The silence that grows after your statement is heavy. Matt takes a deep breath. Maybe he’s grappling with the fact that you have to regard for your safety or your life.

“Why did you choose to go to med school?” he asks then. 

You pause. That is the one question you hoped he wouldn’t ask. It’s not a bad one but a hard one. There are many reasons you can recall from the top of your head, reasons everyone in medical school gave when they were asked, but you never thought of any of them before your freshman year. The reason you chose to go to medical school and become a doctor runs far deeper than one might think, and you never know how to put it into kind words that won’t put the mood down. 

You could tell Matt that you do mind and that the answer is too complex for your first official meeting together, but that would be rude. You feel like that would be rude, even though he probably wouldn’t mind, and it��s your life that no one but you is entitled to, but you still would feel bad to leave him hanging with such genuine curiosity. 

When you start fidgeting with your fingers, he slides his hand across the table. He doesn’t touch you though. 

How can no be a complete sentence and still be so fucking hard to say? 

“When I was two years old,” you say, “my mom took her own life because doctors blamed the symptoms of a hormone-secreting meningioma on postnatal depression.”

Somehow, once the truth is out, you’re less scared. You can’t tell what Matt is thinking. He leans back in his chair, almost as if he was struck by lightning. His nostrils flare. You wish he would have kept his hand next to yours a little longer. 

A million emotions flash across his face. Shame, guilt, maybe even a little pity. You can’t read him. And you’re not sure if your words shocked him to his core enough to cut this date short, or if he’s just trying to process what you told him. 

What if he thinks that you’re a freak now? What if he starts to think you’re too much work? Considering that this is only the tip of the iceberg that sank the Titanic—your life—if this is enough to make him think that way, maybe staying isn’t worth it after all. 

But he slides his hand back across the table, this time sliding it over yours. His calluses are rough, but his touch is tender. You only then realize that you’re shaking. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. 

You don’t want his pity, but you can’t deny that the way he’s focusing on you and holding your hand makes you feel comforted. 

How much further can you allow yourself to go?

Matt squeezes your hand. “So you wanted to become a doctor to make a difference after what happened to your mother?” he asks, genuinely curious.

You can’t deny him the answers he’s vying for. He’s respectful about it. You know you can pull out anytime you want to, but he has triggered a wave that cannot be stopped. 

Your answer is a swift shake of your head. “Not entirely,” you admit. 

“How so?”

“After she died, my father had to take a second, manual labor job to make sure I was fed and taken care of. I mean, I was a toddler, and he had to make money while also taking care of me. You know, since the American Dream is bullshit. Anyway, one day, he got into an accident at work. It completely wrecked his back, and he had to have emergency surgery. Afterward, they realized that he wasn’t insured. He got a very large bill with all the medical expenses the hospital didn’t cover. That also meant that he couldn’t afford the necessary physical therapy either, so he started taking opioids to deal with the pain.”

He grunts. It’s a story even he can foretell.

“Oxycodone turned into heroin, which turned into other recreational drugs. He lost his job when I was six, and we had to move into a trailer park because it was the only place that would have us. My father turned into a stranger that I had to take care of. The drugs messed him up too badly to even remember my name most days,” you say. “I always knew that I had to get out of there as soon as possible, so I worked my ass off for a scholarship. I graduated high school early. I worked two jobs. And after Stanford offered me a full ride, I left.”

You trace your index finger along the natural lines of the wooden table. A raspy scoff forms in the back of your throat. Matt’s thumb traces over the back of your hand, and you just want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to scream. You’re not sure what you want to do, but the silence is nauseating. 

“Me leaving also meant that my father no longer had someone to look after him when he was drunk or high.” You sigh. The memory is many years old, but you can still recall it as if it was yesterday. “So, two months into my freshman year at college, he overdosed on heroin. I knew then that I had to make a better life for myself and make sure the same thing that happened to me wouldn’t happen to the families of those under my care. And that’s why I made sure I would graduate with honors, and become a good doctor.”

The rest, you can’t tell him. You’re not ready for that. Because even though you worked hard to leave your childhood behind, your trauma caused you to seek the same kind of dysfunctional relationships that you grew up to hate. The irony is not even bittersweet anymore; it’s just bitter.

You did everything right, and it still wasn’t enough.

The tears prick in the corners of your eyes. You pinch the bridge of your nose to stop them. You can’t cry in front of him. His hand slips from yours when you pull back, and the breath you inhale turns into a weak laugh.

“I’m sorry, that was probably not the story you wanted to hear.”

Matt’s hand remains flat on the table, the veins on the back starting to bulge. His shoulders are a lot more tense than before. You still can’t read him. The wrinkles on his forehead seem so much deeper when he frowns. It’s not the judgmental type of frown though. Not a frown of confusion, either. His lips are turned down, and he looks sad—like he is feeling for you, with you, and he wants nothing more than to hold your hand again because he doesn’t know how to comfort you. 

The last thing you want is pity. The last thing you want is for him to apologize again for something in which he played no part. It is the kind of thing you would hear from anyone. You even heard it from Claire, and you hate it. You have hated it as a child, and you have hated it shortly after your father died and those people who never gave a shit about you suddenly came crawling back. 

You have no family left, and you have accepted that. You don’t need pity to know that the situation is far from fortunate and that you are scarred for life. You don’t need a stranger feeling sorry for you because you are already doing that plenty yourself. Besides, after your father turned to drugs, he grew into a monster, and you no longer grieve him.

Matt exhales, pulling your attention back to him. “I wanted to hear your story,” he says. “I didn’t expect that, but thank you. For telling me. I mean, you could have just lied to me.”

Relief washes over you. “But I didn’t want to lie to you,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. 

He nods. He understands. You want to know why he is so understanding. Your heart is still racing, and you still haven’t fully averted the tears in your eyes. You’re not even sure you can find the words to ask. 

“I lost my father when I was nine.”

You hold your breath. You didn’t have to ask.

“He was shot,” he says. “I know it’s not the same as what you went through, but I understand what it’s like to have no one left.” You startle him when you take his hand, and Matt pauses. You squeeze, interlacing your fingers.

“I know it sounds cliché, but,” you say, “I think your father would be proud of the man you’ve become.”

He chuckles. “Hardly.”

“No, I think he would.”

You can see the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks.

“He was a boxer, you know,” Matt tells you. “My dad.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He always told me, ‘It’s not about how you hit the mat, it’s how you get up.’ I like to believe he was right.”

“So, you’re saying even though we’ve been hurt—even though life kicked us down—we still have a chance at winning in life?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

The analogy seems philosophical—too far out of reach for you to grasp. It makes sense though. If you’re still alive and if you’re still breathing, there is a chance for you to get up and fight back until you finally hold the victory in your hands. Grief is a process. Eventually, it gets easier.

For someone so reserved, his father’s words offer a very optimistic outlook. 

You eye him. The mood has darkened after your admission. His eyebrows are furrowed deep in thought. You want to look beyond the façade. There are so many questions you could ask, but you don’t know where to start. You don’t even know if you should start. He already gave you a piece of him after you gave him a piece of you. Should you dare to go any further?

Matt takes the words right out of your mouth when he says, “You can ask.”

Either you have been thinking out loud or he is more perceptive than you gave him credit for. You lean back in your chair, playing with the muffin on your plate. You’re not hungry anymore. Not for food, at least.

“How did it happen?” you ask, your voice remaining a soft cadence. 

He doesn’t need you to define what you mean. With a nod, he leans forward. “Accident. When I was a kid,” he tells you. “A bunch of chemicals got into my eyes after I pushed an old man out of the way of an oncoming truck.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight.”

The empathy in your eyes softens your expression. “You were just a child.”

He shrugs it off, “I did what anyone would’ve done.”

The vulnerability in his voice resonates deeply within you. It’s not at all hard to wrap your mind around the fact that an eight-year-old Matt Murdock saved an old man’s life. If anything, it underlines what you already knew. But a man this selfless with a past this dark can’t possibly not have any skeletons in his closet. There must be at least one secret he’s keeping. 

He’s reserved, guarded even, and he seems like he more often than not wants to protect his own heart. Like you. And you know that people like you and him keep secrets, often bigger than someone on the outside might realize until it’s too late. You want to be wrong, but you have grown used to silently observing because, for the longest time, you didn’t have a voice. You learned to study people, not just their medical conditions but their behavior as well. 

The truth weighs too much. It’s too heavy. So, Matt hides it away. That doesn’t change that he has a good heart, of course. It doesn’t change how selfless he is. It simply—or not simply at all—is what happens to children who go through hell and grow into damaged adults who don't know how to make good decisions for themselves, so they give everything and lose it all.

You clear your throat. He sets you on fire in the best ways possible. Though this time, it hurts a little more. “Not everyone would’ve done what you did,” you say. The calm sound of your voice stands in stark contrast to the noise around you. “Not everyone dares to act in the face of danger, especially at eight years old.”

Matt fidgets with the rim of his glasses. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“You saved a life, Matt,” you reassure him. “You’re a hero.”

A faint smile of gratitude tugs at the corners of his lips. “Thank you,” he repeats, “but I wouldn’t call myself that.”

“That’s why I’m saying it. We all have our demons.”

Some demons are just bigger than others and harder to kill, you want to say, but you close your mouth before you can give away things that would ruin the good thing that is building between you. 

As the weight of your words hangs in the air, there’s a fleeting moment of silence between you. Matt is the first to break it. “I guess we can scratch dead parents and a traumatic childhood off our bingo cards,” he says. It’s supposed to be a joke, but the truth hits too close to home for both of you. 

You laugh, but it’s more of a pity laugh, and he offers the same reaction. He just wanted to break the silence. You would have done a worse job, you are sure. 

Instead of dwelling too much, you raise your half-empty mug into the air. “I’ll drink to that,” you say. 

He mimics you. “Me too.”

“To dead parents and PTSD.”

“Oh, is that what it is?”

“Yes. All that’s missing is a sad backing track played on the trombone and we could make this a bad soap opera.”

That gets him. He laughs. His chest rumbles, and he almost loses control of his drink. You smile, happy that you made him laugh. When you see him like that, you feel a little less sad. A little less hopeless. A little less like a stranger in your own body and this world that everyone around you inhabits just the same. 

You spend the rest of the afternoon talking about less serious topics. Things you would imagine two people on a date would talk about. Perhaps even two friends having a coffee and getting to know each other.

You talk about Matt’s law firm, why he went to law school in the first place, and how he survived his time at Columbia. He graduated as one of the best in his class. Judging from what he told you, he’s not exactly bad at his job. 

Matt tells you the story about how he met his best friend, Foggy; their time at college together as roommates, then working together at Landman & Zack as interns, and how it was Matt’s idea to quit their jobs and start their own practice. 

They gave up a job that would have paid them more than enough to get by without a struggle every month, but they quit because Matt’s core beliefs didn’t correlate with what the firm stands for. Foggy tagged along because he cares about his friend, and you’re starting to grow to like the other man—you only met him briefly at the hospital the other night, but he seemed like a good guy. Like draws to like. 

The attention is on Matt and your shared views for the longest time. He shares anecdotes, and you laugh because he is genuinely a funny person. He’s not just charming and in it to turn your head; your conversation flows effortlessly, and that shows how well you get along, even when you’re not flirting. 

Eventually, though, he decides to turn the focus on you again. “Okay,” he says. “Enough about me. You mentioned you went to Stanford.”

Your blood runs cold. You don’t want to hear his next question. You don’t want to answer it. You want to pretend you never told him about your childhood. Maybe he wouldn’t have thought about asking you about it then. If you had lied, he wouldn’t have had a reason to prod. You could tell him how uncomfortable it makes you, but you’re not that kind of person. You can’t do it. 

“I take it you’re not from around here then?” Matt asks. He sounds a bit more careful when he phrases the question, still as calm as ever. 

You exhale. He’s not pressuring you. You have to remind yourself that he is not the devil, and he is not John. He has made you feel safe up until now.

You swallow, then shake your head. “No. I’ve only been in Hell’s Kitchen for two years,” you answer. 

“So you’re from California?”

“Mostly here and there, actually.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Eh,” you shrug.

“I’ve never been further north than 116th Street,” he says. 

That catches your attention. “You love New York that much?” The little smile on your face as you say that is one of amusement and pure adoration. 

He grew up in Hell’s Kitchen. All of his memories are here. He’s blind. There are many reasons why going outside of his comfort zone may seem too terrifying for him, and you can’t blame him. If you hadn’t had to flee, you would still be in that same hospital in the north of California. You wouldn’t even have traveled because your life revolves around your work.

Matt scoffs. “You have no idea.”

“If it helps, I’ve never been outside of the country before either,” you confess. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. Never really got the chance to.”

“Would you?” he asks curiously. 

You think about the question for a moment, then settle on a nod. “I’d love to go to Paris,” you say.

“Paris sounds nice. Where else?”

“Spain, Sweden, Germany, maybe. I’d even work for Doctors Without Borders in a third-world country.”

The next question out of his mouth strikes you like lightning. “So, why Hell’s Kitchen?”

Convenience. Survival. Distance. A new identity. 

“I imagine it’s not Metro General’s surgeon salary,” he says. “I heard it’s only good if you’re a world-class neurosurgeon.”

You struggle to find an answer. “It wasn’t the pay or the job, no.”

“Then why?”

“Life just happens sometimes, you know?” you answer. “Metro General was the only hospital with an attending position for me, so I took it. I’d travel the world if I had the financial means, but until then, Hell’s Kitchen isn’t so bad.”

You want to pat yourself on the back for coming up with that explanation. It’s not even a lie, it’s merely a perfectly concealed sliver of the truth. A diversion, so to speak.

The smile on his face suggests that Matt believes you, at least. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says.

I’m glad you’re here. You can’t remember the last time someone said that to you—probably because it never happened before. Your heart swells at least two sizes, and it refuses to shrink again. 

“Thank you,” is all you can muster up the courage to say.

Time flies, and before you know it, Matt asks for the time. His lunch break is long over. He has to get back to the office. You were having such a great time that you conveniently forgot that he doesn’t have a day off. 

“Can I get you a cab home?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “But I’ll walk you back to your office.”

Matt smiles gratefully at your offer. “I’d like that.”

As you walk together through the bustling streets of Hell’s Kitchen, his hand tightly clasped around your bicep, the afternoon sun casts long shadows on the pavement. His cane taps along the sidewalk with ease. He knows the city inside and out, but being a blind man in a sea full of people can get exhausting. Every time someone almost bumps into him, he moves closer to you.

Before you know it, you’ve reached the steps of Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law. The only sign on the door is a makeshift piece of cardboard, but something about it makes more sense than a modern sign ever could. 

Matt turns to face you. “Thank you for today,” he says. “I haven’t had a conversation like this in... a long time.”

You return his smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Thank you for sharing your world with me,” you reply.

“Thank you for sharing yours. I’ll call you, alright?” 

“I’d like that.” 

He squeezes your bicep one last time before making his way to the door. 

A sense of reluctance washes over you. You’re about to part ways with the first man you have been on a date with in years. The first man that has shown you genuine care in years, and the first man that has touched you in years. You have grown so used to being around him that you feel like you are letting him go forever, which sounds dramatic even to yourself, but it’s true. It’s scary, but it’s true.

He makes you feel the same cliché emotions over and over again until they are embedded in your bones; until they are embedded in your very soul, and you can’t get enough of him anymore. He draws people in like no other. It makes him dangerously attractive to you. It has been far too long since you’ve been wanted by a man—genuinely wanted.

You want to run up to that doorstep, wrap your arms around his waist, and pull him into you. You want to kiss him senselessly until you both forget your names. You want to see those beautiful cheeks of his flush because you’re being good to him the same way he is good to you. But you also wouldn’t mind if he held you. If he took a few steps back and decided to kiss you goodbye. 

He said that he would call you. That’s a good sign. He wants to see you again. Do you want to see him again? It’s not a hard question to answer. You need to see him again. It’s a desperate need deep within you, and you have no choice but to surrender to it. 

Matt doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t kiss you. Your body is still on fire when you blink and look up, but the doorstep is empty. 

His soft, “Get home safe,” lingers in the air, and you can hear yourself answer faintly, “I will.” And then, he’s gone.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41 @kiwwia-wiwwia @writtenbyred

[honorarybuckley]

been reading @evcndiaz’s buddie infidelity posts and my mind is whirling. i wrote this down last night and wasn’t gonna share but when have i ever just kept my thoughts to myself. but go read jack’s stuff for the truly messy and twisted wonderful angst and context lol. anyway, it’s like eddie could leave her for buck. he could do that. but there’s the part of him that loves her too. that loves the kids they have together. who doesn’t want to fuck up another relationship with a woman who loves him too. eddie constantly torn apart in the middle of this web he’s spun himself. but when it comes down to it he’ll always choose buck. when they’re finally caught in the act because the kids are getting older and marisol has had enough and won’t let one of them be the one to uncover dad’s secrets and there’s no pretending anymore from any of them he’ll choose buck. every damn time. not that marisol gives him much of a choice because she’s a self respecting woman but still he’ll break her heart and his just to see buck’s in tact. but because buck loves him and he respects her on some sick demented level his heart will break too. because that’s always where this was headed. buck and eddie together as they’ve always been and three hearts broken at their feet. and kids in the middle of it all. and they’ll stay together because they love each other and they need each other and most importantly they deserve each other but it won’t be the same. the lack of secrecy, lack of deluding themselves will be gone. now they’ll be in the light and everyone will know how they got together and the ones who don’t will ask not knowing that their only receiving half the story when their told the friends to lovers version of events. shame and guilt will haunt them, will taint the taste of each other even though they still have that hunger, that never quenched thirst that leaves them both wanting more. they’ll stay together but there will always be something rotten festering between them.

[1d1195]

Normal People IV

You can find the first two good parts and the mediocre third part here: Normal People *throws hands up* here's this part

Note: A flashback scene is in italics

“That’ll be the day—Harry doesn’t buy drinks for pretty girls.”

“Fortunately, Harry doesn’t think I’m all that pretty,” she winked.

“Kitten, please stop.”

Niall’s eyebrows perked up. “Oh, kitten,” Niall said. “M’sorry, I didn’t realize who you were."

Harry truly changed after that party. He didn’t see her anymore. There weren’t many days left of school, but when it rained, he was soaked now when he got home. But he bore that punishment. It was important he did because apparently, it was the only way he was going to learn.

He spent his summer working in a bakery and hiding from his friends. Any time they asked to hang out, Harry was busy. Another punishment that he deserved.

“She’ll forgive you,” Anne reminded him as he laid on the couch reading a book.

“Maybe she shouldn’t,” he said miserably.

It went without saying that the last punishment he took with grace was not kissing her sweet face anymore.

*

Harry got a room in a flat with a bunch of other guys from university. His closest roommate was Niall. He liked him a lot and saw him as a friend and he hoped he felt the same way. Niall had a bright outgoing personality and he invited Harry to every party and outing he attended. Harry said yes on occasion but ever since his last party of school, it didn’t feel right.

When he did go with Niall, he thought about how pretty she looked that last time and how terribly he treated her. Not sticking up for her was the worst thing he could do. Harry would do it all differently—the right way—in a heartbeat now. He thought about it a lot these days.

When he saw the ways his friends treated girls, and he didn’t feel it was the utmost proper respect, he said something. When he saw a girl that was too drunk at a bar or at a party, he made sure she found a way home safely or with a friend. It made girls fawn over him and he brushed all of it off. His friends teased him about it saying he was the only guy they knew who could get any girl he wanted but not want any of them.

But he couldn’t get any girl he wanted. There was only one. Harry didn’t date anyone during that time. He didn’t see the point. He lost the best girl he ever knew because he was an idiot. It didn’t make sense for him to pursue anyone else.

“There’s a girl in m’English lecture who likes you,” Niall told him. It wasn’t the first time Niall had tried to set him up. It led Harry to telling him the whole story—the whole ugly thing. Harry didn’t spare a detail and painted himself the villain of the story.

Harry smirked barely moving his gaze to look up from his notebook. “Thanks, Niall. M’not interested,” he said. “M’focused on studying these days.”

“I sure hope she’s worth all this moping for,” he muttered quietly. It wasn’t that Niall thought Harry was without blame...he just thought that if she was as lovely as he described, she wouldn’t want him moping for the rest of his life. Least not about her.

* “Harry, this girl has been staring at you for at least fifteen minutes,” Niall said to Harry over the crowd and live band. Harry had just a couple drinks, usually the brains of the operation making sure everyone made it home safely.

“Ni, seriously,” Harry murmured. “M’not—”

“Harry, she’s walking over,” Niall interrupted; he was excited. There was giddiness in his voice. Harry wanted to leave without even looking. But he didn’t want to be rude. There wasn’t anyone worth his time. “She’s in m’biology lecture,” he said. “Very smart...I think you would like her...you want me to pretend you’re taken or—” Harry was shaking his head as Niall talked loudly in his ear. He was ready to tell Niall to chill out and it would never be.

“Hi, Harry.”

There wasn’t a world in which this was real. There was only one girl, one person worth his time. And here she was. Why didn’t he just look over when Niall said something? Turning to the sound of her voice, he met her eyes and her gentle smiling face. It had only been about six months, but she looked older, more mature than she did in school. She looked...happy.

Harry’s heart was beating out in an unhealthy rhythm. It was radiating through his veins and made his fingertips numb. She was here. Right beside him. Looking so utterly gorgeous. “Oh, y’know each other?” Niall asked cheerfully.

“Hey, Niall,” she answered sweetly and smiled at him so kindly it melted Harry. He tried to look away from her, take a break so he wouldn’t faint thinking about how unbelievable this moment was. It was a second chance and he felt sick. But he didn’t even deserve the second chance. He was unsure of what to do.

“Hi, princess,” he said flirtishly. “Buy you a drink?”

“No thank you, m’leaving soon, but even still Harry would buy me one,” she smiled sweetly wrinkling her nose so cutely, Harry blushed at the sight of her.

“That’ll be the day—Harry doesn’t buy drinks for pretty girls.”

“Fortunately, Harry doesn’t think I’m all that pretty,” she winked. Harry felt sick and he shook his head as he called for the bartender. Niall was the one talking but she kept her gaze on Harry.

“Harry!” Niall gasped. “What makes you say that, princess?” He said winking at her and clapping Harry on the back with a joking smile. Harry wanted to die.

“Kitten, please stop.”

Niall’s eyebrows perked up. “Oh, kitten,” Niall said. “M’sorry, I didn’t realize who you were,” Niall smirked. “Harry will definitely be buying you a drink because you are stunning,” he promised and patted Harry on the back, gave the girl’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and meandered around a crowd to the other side of the bar.

She was still standing beside Harry, and he cleared his throat. “D’you want to sit?”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to get me a drink,” she said. “I am heading out, actually—but wanted to say hi.”

Harry told the bartender he wanted to pay for his tab, and he pulled money from his wallet before standing. “After you,” he said to her and gestured for the exit.

She tilted her head at him. “You don’t need to leave, Harry. I’m sure we’ll run into each other a lot more now that Niall knows—”

“M’not letting you out of m’sight, kitten,” he told her, stuffing his hands in his pocket. “Won’t be losing you again.”

“Harry, really—”

“M’not leaving you alone, love.”

*

Harry was surprised when she said she would prefer his place over hers—he wondered if it was because she knew she could “escape” if she wanted to. It was obvious she had more self-control in this scenario than Harry did. Harry wouldn’t want to leave if they went to her place. He would want to stay with her for...for forever, really. So it was best she could leave when she wanted to. Harry would let her—he wasn’t crazy. He just...missed her.

In Harry’s room she looked at his bed, with the same comforter set she recognized from Anne’s house. The desk was set up the same way as before. If she didn’t know any better, she could picture him at Anne’s house still. The only difference is he had a seascape on the wall above his head.

She stared at it for a few moments. “So, you’re staying a while then,” she said. “All moved in.” He nodded silently. Observed her pretty being in his room again after the longest time he’d gone without seeing her. “Cat got your tongue?” She wondered. He didn’t say anything, just kept looking at her. He was afraid to blink; if she disappeared, he would cry. But she needed to leave. Had to leave. Harry didn’t deserve her. He smiled at her nervously and shrugged. They were silent for a few moments. She scuffed her foot on the floor and then sat on his bed. “I...I...m’seeing a guy right now.”

His heart shattered. Of course she was. Only an idiot wouldn't be with her. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “He’s nice,” she shrugged.

“Good,” she deserved nice. She deserved the best, to be fair. But this was a start. Better than Harry. She sounded like she was hedging her bets though. Like she didn't want Harry to know something about him.

“He uh...” she pursed her lips together and stared at the floor in front of her in concentration as she spoke. She shook her head of whatever thought she was trying to form in her brain. “I don’t think it will last," she almost whispered the ending. Nervous about the thought.

“No?”

“No.”

“How come?” He wondered--he couldn't help it. He thought about being with her. If he was ever given the chance again he wouldn't blow it; wouldn't make a single mistake. He would pave her path with rose petals and make sure she had everything her heart desired.

She leaned back on his bed and the movement wasn’t lost on Harry--he thought about how his pillow would smell like her when he fell asleep tonight. It hadn't smelled like her shampoo in months and he thought it would be the cure to all the negativity he felt. He leaned against the wall opposite the bed so he would join her on his mattress. He stuffed his hands in his front pockets. “I think he thinks I’m too independent. He doesn’t...do anything for me.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“I do all the planning and the...everything...and when we kiss or...” she trailed off and Harry’s heart shattered into another piece thinking about the end of the sentence that she was kind enough to forgo. “I just don’t...I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she shook her head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. You must think I’m nuts.”

“No,” he shook his head back at her. “No, kitten. I don’t.”

“You really need to stop with the kitten stuff.”

Bravely--and because his resolve to stay away from her was crumbling by the millisecond--Harry crossed the length of his room to her and knelt beside his bed. She turned her head to look at him and she smirked. “Kitten,” he said gently. She opened her mouth to protest but he spoke quickly before she could. “He should do everything for you,” he said simply and pressed a hand on the inside of her wrist. It felt like touching a pan fresh out of the oven. It burned Harry to touch her—he’d never felt anything like that in his life. If it were a pan from the oven, he would have released it; but all he wanted was to hold tighter and feel more of a burn.

“I don’t really let him do anything for me, though. To be honest.”

“He should do it anyway.” She leaned on her elbows propping herself up just a bit. Harry was still touching her forearm. He was afraid if he released, he wouldn’t feel her warmth anymore. That she would get up and leave him. He didn’t deserve her presence.

But he wouldn’t be the one to tell her to go.

“I think I repel love,” she admitted and lowered herself back to her bed. Harry wanted to say he loved her, and he wasn’t repelled at all. He was so attracted to her he could have melted himself to her body and it wouldn’t be close enough. “Like there’s something wrong with me,” she snorted.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, love.”

She didn’t say anything for a few moments. “How about you? Any ladies in your life?”

“No,” he chuckled wryly. He released the grip on her forearm in favor of trailing his finger along her veins instead. “Uh...m’afraid I’ve repelled the one lady I love.”

She turned her head to him and stared at him without any emotion in her eyes. Not anger, not distrust, not happiness, not anything. “She doesn’t sound like someone you should be with,” she said softly.

“I would give the world t’be with her.” She was silent as she scanned Harry’s face. She didn’t respond because she couldn’t. Harry knew she was wondering why she wasn’t enough when they were in school. Why he wouldn’t give her the world before. “I made so many mistakes,” he whispered.

She turned her head in the other direction. “Don’t,” her voice cracked. She shook her head and Harry was silent again. He just kept tracing her skin.

He thought about one of their afternoons.

Harry was kissing her as if his lungs were in her body. When they finally stopped to catch their breath for a few minutes he kept his lips hovering over hers. His nose bumped into hers. His fingers tugging and brushing through her hair. “I think you’re my best friend,” she told him.

“Yeah?” He smiled. He liked that. He liked being her friend.

“You know what I’m thinking before I tell you.”

He was quiet for a few moments, and he thought about all the ideas and things he had in his head. He wished she knew them all. “I like that,” he admitted. “I like...knowing you.”

She smirked. “What do you want to do in college?” She asked.

“M’not sure,” he admitted. “’Ve always wanted to do something with...music. But m’told that’s a silly choice. I’d probably do something with English.”

“Why wouldn’t you do what you want to do?”

“It’s not a smart choice,” he shrugged. “I won’t make very much money...I don’t think—"

“I don’t think doing something you don’t love is a smart choice. I know it’s easier said than done...but who cares about money?”

She bit her lip. Harry wondered the last time someone encouraged him like that. Even his mum worried about his financial stability. “Music, eh?”

“I think so,” she answered. “How long until your mom comes home?”

“Fifteen or so.”

“Better kiss me again, then, Harry.”

It was the last time he kissed her. He was looking at her eyes, they were closed looking away from Harry—as if he pained her. He probably did.

“Do y’want to Uber back to your place?” He asked softly avoiding the previous topic.

“Don’t want me here?” She smirked wryly; the worry etched in her face from his last statement was gone and she turned back to face him.

“Don’t be silly, kitten.”

“Can I ask you a random question? And then I'll leave." He didn't want her to leave but he nodded anyway. "What are you majoring in?"

Harry wondered if she could see into his brain. There was no way she knew he was thinking about that without some sort of superhuman capabilities. She said that Harry always knew what she was thinking but here she was all the same, knowing exactly what was on his mind.

"Music."

She smiled, genuinely. So heartfelt, it ached Harry down to the bone. "Good."

Harry thought about love being a superhuman ability a lot when he fell asleep to the smell of her hair on his pillow.

Really, the song of her wrote itself.

--

taglist: @feestyles @sunshinemoonsposts @matildasatellite @asmilinghopefullromantic @macy-tpwk

[cq-studios]

I hate this notion there is that asexual and aromatic (and all Aspec people, for that matter) are not discriminated against. Especially in queer circles that should be a safe space.

Like sure maybe our identities are easier make it easier to fake straightness (not really any more than bi/pan people, and is that even good for us, emotionally?), maybe our issues aren’t systemic (not really, considering the prevalence of Amatonormativity and how deeply it is rooted in the way said systems were made), maybe people are more willing to accept us (not really, we’re treated as wrong, broken, needed to be fixed just as often if not more, even in places we should feel safe).

Tell me how my grandfather, who I love very dearly, asking me to lie to him when he’s on his death bed, and tell him I am dating some nice boy to make him happy, isn’t hurtful, isn’t discrimination.

Tell me how my (queer) friends all infantilizing me after coming out, treating me like I was too pure to hear anything sexual, not saying things around me that didn’t bother me before I came out and would’ve continued not to after, isn’t discrimination.

Tell me how me explaining my identity to people and getting pitying looks, at best, and active denials of existence, at worst, isn’t discrimination.

Tell me how me headcannoning a character as Asexual or Aromantic, or ‘shipping’ two characters queer platonically and immediately getting shut down (mostly by other queer people saying they’re gay), isn’t discrimination.

TELL ME HOW ME NEVER SEEING ASEXUALITY OR AROMANTISM EVEN MENTIONED IN PRIDE DOCUMENTARIES ISN’T DISCRIMINATION

Maybe our issues are all social (not really) but that doesn’t make our struggle nothing. That doesn’t mean we don’t deserve support. That doesn’t mean our stories are less deserving of being told. That doesn’t mean we aren’t a part of your community.

I’m sick and tired of people pretending we don’t exist. Pretending we’re not deserving of the same attention, representation, and respect as other members of the community.

Neglect is still abuse. 1% is still a number. We’re here and we’re queer too.

Stand with us. Yell with us. Help us make ourselves known. Help us spread our message.

Because, god, I am so sick and tired of being ignored.

[gothamslostboy]

Paul w/ a Werewolf Mate

MICHAEL DAVID MARKO DWAYNE

He’s lived a long time, done many things, but this is new for him

He doesn’t experience new things often anymore

So he’s super fucking stoked when he catches your scent on the boardwalk

Even though the other 3 seem on edge about a werewolf on their turf, Paul immediately tries to find you

He only gets even happier when he realizes your his mate

He literally tramples ppl in his path on the way to you

Comes up to you and very excitedly introduces himself, unaware that you seem kind of scared to have a vampire so close

Not scared of him, but werewolves are told stories about vamps killing them on sight since they’re pups

Vampires are told the same things about werewolves when they turn

Neither side actually does it unless they think the other will

But Paul seems nice enough, and there’s so many ppl nearby that you feel comfortable saying hello

‘Hello’ turns into hanging out together for the rest of the night and making plans to do the same tomorrow

When he shows up tomorrow, Marko is with him, trying not so subtly to figure out if you’re here to kill his boyfriend

Both a little scared of each other, Paul does most the talking until Marko determines you not a threat and loosens up

He can smell that you’ve been a lone wolf for at least 3 months

You seem nice and Paul already told him about you being one of his mates

He leaves a bit later, wanting to annoy David

Now that you’ve established trust, Paul takes you to a quiet part of the beach

You both ask each other questions about what it’s like being your respective supernatural beings

You tell him about how you left your pack bc it felt too serious and stressful

Now you’ve been traveling town to town for almost 6 months trying to figure out life

Paul, w/o asking permission, offers for you to stay at the cave

You say as long as Marko and the others would allow it you’d love to

Paul snatches you up and takes you to David and Dwayne begging them to let you stay

After a bit David agrees bc like Marko, he can tell you’re a loner

He also knows you’re not an alpha so he doesn’t have to worry about that

You and Paul start dating very quickly and life is good

You use your advanced smell to help him pick ppl who nobody would miss or ppl who just suck in general

On full moons you get hyper and, let’s say more excited, so you and Paul go run around in the woods and have fun

You don’t fully transform on full moons, but it’s enough that Paul eats the ppl who spot you those nights

You have dog-like tendencies, but Paul himself is basically a puppy so it matches

Human form is less comfortable for you, so during the day you hang around the cave in full wolf form

One day you fell asleep like that long enough for the boys to wake up and find you

Paul thinks it’s awesome

After the other boys tease you for a bit, mostly David and Marko Paul ask if you can cuddle like that

It’s his new favorite activity on nights in

He loves dogs

Dogs don’t love vampires

So it’s nice to pretend he can have one for at least a small moment

He figured out that getting pet feels very calming

Even when you’re in human form

He uses this to get you to relax after fighting with David

Tbf David deserved the anger

He bought you a collar the little shit

Paul, sometime the other boys too, will howl at the moon with you

I mean they already do it on the motorcycles

Speaking of, paul teaches you to ride a bike if you don’t already know

You prefer riding with him tho

Occasionally you’ll curl up in his lap and try to ride as a wolf

This stopped when you went flying off once

You were ok bc of super healing, but it still scared the shit out of him when he heard you yelp and whimper in pain

“Sorry sugar, but the last time we did it you got hurt, and those aren’t the kind of whimpers I like to hear.”

Eventually the topic of aging comes up

Neither of you know what to do

You don’t even know if it’s possible for a were-vamp hybrid could exist

One day Dwayne comes rushing out of his nest with a book on werewolves

He showed you a page talking about if you did a very specific set of rituals and trials then you’d, as the book said, “exist for as long as the moon exist”

It was a hard couple of months

Eventually you finish all the rituals

Ta Da! Immortal wolf boyfriend for Paul!

With that solved, all you two have to worry about now is loving eachother and being a family with the others

You end up saving all the boys lives a few years later in 1987 when you heard the frog brothers coming into the cave

You went all hound of hell and chased them outside, where you told them about max

They left w/o killing the boys

Michael, Star, and laddie got to live human lives

The boys were a little pissed you ratted out Max at first, but only bc of the sire bond

After he was dead they didn’t care bc, well, they didn’t even like him

Paul was sure to show you in many, many ways just how thankful he was for being saved

[lovelywritinglady]

Be Okay pt.3

Satoru Gojo x Reader, Nanami Kento x Reader

Fluff, slight angst. Last part of this series.

Your pov

F/n came and picked me up from my apartment and took me to their home. I’m so grateful for them. I think I’d lose my mind entirely if I couldn’t have their help. They let me lounge on their couch for the time being. Thankfully it was extremely comfortable. They let me vent and cry about what happened. Telling me just how shitty Satoru is for cheating on me and ruining or relationship.

My life for the longest time has be all but consumed with Satoru. Now that I no longer have him, I’m not sure what to do. I know leaving was the best option for me. He cheated on me, broke my trust, and ruined the love we once shared. Part of me blames myself for what happened. Maybe I could have tried to love him more? Maybe I could have pretended? Or maybe I’m not pretty enough for him anymore? The woman he was with was extremely beautiful. Honestly, I can see why he was with her. However, if he wanted her so bad, then why did he stay with me? A week later I was touring a small apartment the was in my price range. One bedroom and one bathroom. Just enough room for me and whatever happens next.

Fifteen months later…

It’s been a while now and I’m much happier and I’ve been going to an awesome therapist for the past ten months.  And now I feel so fulfilled with myself and the life I made for myself. I was such a broken soul back then and now I feel free. I also got a new job at a financial company in the sales department. It’s a boring job that requires me to sell shit product for way more than they are worth. It’s not an honest job, but at least I get paid well. So I guess you can say that’s I’m okay.

I also met someone nine months ago whose so incredibly beautiful. His name is Nanami Kento. He’s a mature man that is so kindhearted. I never thought that I’d be able to love like this again, but he’s shown me that it’s okay to love. He was very respectful towards me and didn’t pressure me to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. We took our time together and built up a trust that I never even had with Satoru. And I find the beauty in moving on from him. Now I see my worth when it comes to relationships and even other things outside of that. Kento really helped me realize that. So I can safely say that we love each other and that it’s real. I don’t fear losing him to someone else or being afraid of him flirting with other people. He looks at me and treats me like I’m the most important thing to him. He takes time out of his busy day to make sure I’m doing okay. That was something that took getting use to, but I realize that it’s a good thing. Nanami and I have a healthy relationship dynamic and I couldn’t be happier with it.

I haven’t seen Satoru Gojo since that dreadful day. I’m really glad for that. But now I know that if I see him, that it won’t hurt me like it I thought it would’ve months ago. Now I’m okay and his betrayal doesn’t affect me at all. I understand now that it wasn’t my fault in the slightest. That he was the one that broke that trust. I’ve felt so much lighter having that burden off of my shoulders. I try not to think about it too much, but I sometimes wonder how he’s doing now.

Satoru Gojo pov

It killed me not seeing her these past fifteen months. Initially I wanted to give her some space. I knew that if I went to her immediately, she’d shut me down. And I didn’t want that. I truly don’t know why I waited this long. Maybe it was because of work? Maybe it was because I was scared? Maybe I was just to nervous? I don’t really know. But now I’m ready to get her back. I’ve changed these past months. Since that woman, I haven’t been with any one else. No one else to me could even compare to y/n. No one else holds my heart the same way she does. No one else loved me even when we were at our lowest. I don’t deserve her at all. I know that I don’t, especially after what I did. But I’ll be dammed if I don’t try.

It’s practically took a month to convince y/n’s friend to tell me the area that my lover lived in. They simply wouldn’t budge. And to be honest, I kind of respect their loyalty. F/n told me that they would not give y/n’s actual address because that would be shitty. And they told me that it was up to y/n whether or not she would give me further information. Which was completely fair.

So here I am with her favorite flowers in hand walking around the area in which y/n lives at. I want to convince her that I’ve changed and that woman meant nothing to me. That y/n is the only person for me and back then I was far too stupid to understand that. If things go well, maybe we can move here together. This place is really nice and it’s got a homey feel to it. Walking around I notice a lot of cute stores and other fun things to do. No wonder she chose this area. It’s the perfect place for her.

I wondered around for awhile about to give up on my search. Maybe she’s out of town or something? Or maybe f/n gave me the wrong area? I was about to give up my search when I saw her. She looked so beautiful. Even more beautiful than I remember her. She had this huge smile plastered on her face and her cheeks were dusted pink. She looked genuinely happy and my heart filled with joy seeing her so.

Not even a split second later I saw the reason for that happiness. It was my old friend Nanami Kento. He was holding her hand. Even he was smiling too, which was an extremely rare occurrence. I felt cold seeing them together. I’m not a fool, I know when I see a happy couple. She’s moved on now and I was too late to stop her. I guess I deserve this though. I was the one to break her heart. I’m just glad she’s in good hands now. Nanami is an honorable man who will take good care of her. At least I know that’s she’s gonna be okay…

Thank you so much for reading. This is the last part of “Be Okay” I have a lot more stories in stock. Stay tuned. ❤️ This story has an alternate ending on Wattpad that I am currently writing if anyone is interested.

Please feel free to request, comment, and reblog

Click here to see what I’ll write for and click HERE for my master list.

•I do NOT own any characters except y/n•

Art not mine

L.W.L

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3



[f0point5]

I voted for most attractive because even though I don't necessarily like the male attention it would get me, there's nothing more humiliating and depressing than never even being considered an option. Like being treated as a piece of furniture just because you're unfuckable to them. Like I'm not trying to justify the pretty privilege or how men view women because it's gross and wrong. But I'd rather be treated with (false) respect even at the cost of it being because of my looks than to be treated with zero respect.

I know it's not ideal, and I have so much more that's worthy of respect than just looks, but a lot of times it doesn't matter to others. And I also know that not being considered fuckable doesn't mean I'm not subjected to haressment so at least I'd be pretty then. At least I'd have something. I know what it's like to be the ugliest and wonder what is wrong with me for never being chosen. What it's like when every crush I ever had preferred my best friend.

Call me vain, selfish whatever, but in this day, pretty privilege exists and I'd like to benefit from it. I'd like to experience it for once. Having men to choose from and not beg for crumbs of attention. No wonder I have issues with getting obsessed with guys that's show an anounce of "effort", I know my worth and I know I deserve better but when I have no options, sometimes you lower the bar and settle for what you get.

This reminded me of a study they did where they recorded which parts of men’s brains get activated looking at different women. Apparently when men see a woman they don’t find attractive it activates the same part of their brain as when they get angry. So if a man doesn’t think you’re fuckable that literally angers him. So interesting and explains SO much. (Also they did the same study for women and apparently there was just no significant brain activity when they saw unattractive men lol. So like…now we know why men are rude and women know how to leave people tf alone.

But yeah no, pretty privilege is so real. And it’s weird because it’s such a sliding scale most of the time we don’t even notice it. Like the other week I was talking to my friend and I was like am I ugly because I don’t get everything for free like pretty privilege is talked about on tiktok nowadays and he was like yeah you don’t get everything for free but how many times have you got away with not paying for a train ticket, or been given a free drink from a bartender, or had someone help you out when they don’t have to, that’s all pretty privilege. And I was FLOORED but it’s probably kind of true because I’m only ever helped out by men. I definitely don’t get like “insta model” privilege but I get so mad when people say pretty privilege doesn’t exist because it’s actually fundamental to how you experience womanhood (I could RANT about this but it would be boring and probably piss people off so I won’t).

I don’t think you’re vain at all btw. I think we’re in this era where we’re kind of pressured to pretend that we’re “de-centring” men but like…we’re not. And if you’re someone who is attracted to or hoping to be in a long term relationship with a man that’s a pretty counterproductive goal. We care what people think of us, that’s natural. We want to be attractive to people we are attracted to, there’s no shame in that.

[legionnaireslover]

Here Gator, let me fix that "letter" to BC for you...

Hey Ben, (Corrections have been done in RED TEXT)

I know you think that I am nothing but the kid who keeps running to tattle on you to the teacher, but you need to remember that I wouldn’t be doing it if you’d help YOURSELF. I know you don't know I even exist but I really want my few remaining followers to pay attention to me, so here goes another "Hey Ben" letter.

And don’t forget that I know a LOT more than I have leaked/tattled about. Here's the part where I sound like I'm threatening you and at the same time let it be known to anyone reading that I reeeeeeally am IMPORTANT so DON'T IGNORE ME!!!

Things are coming to a head, what with Iger taking control again, Zero’s health, $$$ running out, Adam, Usher and Birkin trying to find a new victim (and I know how they plan it, btw), and you feeling guilty about the kiddos. I know I've said this dozens of times before but THIS time I really, really mean it!  SHITS going happen!  Disney is going to END THE SHAM!!

I also know you’re scared. Team Z is doing whatever they can to hold onto you and your access to money. I saw that article about the farm you and Sophie bought and of course it completely destroys (again) all my "Sophie is ruining BC financially" stories, so I have to distract my few followers from this news!

I’m sure they are planning another trip to the Sunken Place for you, as I type this. Let me throw in another veiled reference to make it sound like I'm in the "know" concerning your fate!  It's all bullshit but it makes me sound "important"!

But you should know how many people are questioning the different pics of the kiddos. If I was being honest I'd say that number is probably around 6-8 people. But hey, how can I spread any lies if everyone knows it's only the hardcore Haters that are questioning the existence of your family!

It sucks. It really does. But Disney is playing hardball. You can work with them or they will let you go down with Team Z, for all the trafficking and other crimes…maybe even all the sexcapades online and off…You know and I know, Iger doesn’t bluff. And, unfortunately, most courts of law do not allow DID as a valid defense. Now I have to remind everyone about just how scummy I said you are (you know - the "sexcapades" and all!) and also show that I have dreamed up this DID thing that would excuse all the BAD things I blamed you of doing! 

There may even be a part of you that believes you should go down, since you couldn’t stop them. But that is survivor’s guilt. There is truly only so much you can do for those kids. Here's my latest bullshit  - I'm going to say YOU are complicit in harming CHILDREN!  Of course, I don't want you to look irredeemable, so I'll just say that you aren't really capable of truly helping those "fake" kids, who I'll say are TRAFFICKED BY SOPHIE! 

The BEST THING? Use their trust money to get them away from Team Z, into Therapy, and placed with a good person as their caregiver/nanny. Maybe a good Day School, so they can avoid what happens in Boarding Schools. Now, not only is Disney holding YOUR $$$$ in a TRUST, apparently the 3 children who keep popping up beside you, NOW HAVE TRUST FUNDS TOO! 

And it’s not like you are really doing anything to protect them RIGHT NOW. ONE more reminder that i really think you are SCUM!

The only thing you REALLY can blame yourself for is letting the Fixer die in vain. still time to avoid that. Oops!  Just ANOTHER reminder of how little I respect you - I'll lay a fictitious "death" at your feet!

Also, it’s out there about Zero’s drug trafficking…and her human trafficking. No one would be blame you for walking away and letting Disney handle the spin. You deserve to be treated like a human. You should not feel like you still have to be abused to get jobs. YOU ARE AN ALISTER WITH TWO OSCAR NOMS AND TONS OF OTHER AWARDS. You have paid your dues and should be able to live your own life now. Here's the part where I have to pretend I "care" about you as a human being!  By the way,  when I say that you "should be able to live your own life" I mean LIVE YOUR LIFE ACCORDING TO THE HATER NARRATIVE!

But you keep putting your head in the sand and trying to ignore your problems. You don't pay any attention to ME and I NEED ATTENTION!

I can tell from personal experience, that doesn’t work. And you are so much stronger than you know. How many others in your shoes died young? JUST A LAST SHOT AT ANOTHER VEILED THREAT BECAUSE I'M A REAL FAN, DON'T CHA' KNOW!

[iamnmbr3]

ugh. getting so tired of how the feminine is considered inferior. how being a woman or someone of another sex/gender who is "too" feminine automatically makes ppl look down on u and makes the world less safe. how traveling is so much harder and u have to constantly be on ur guard for a potential threat to ur safety. how u can't just trust a stranger complimenting u or starting a conversation bc if u don't brush them off it might put u in danger. how u have to constantly be on ur guard and assessing like ur living in a horror movie or smthing. and yeah obviously there's other circumstances/groups this applies to as well in certain contexts. but u know what I mean?  

how women are encouraged to model their behavior and appearance off of what would be pleasing to the male gaze but it's not the same for men. men get to decide how women should be to be attractive but then they also get to decide how men should be. women are told what kind of men they should be attracted to and if they are attracted to a different image of masculinity or a different kind of man or not attracted to men at all then they are Othered and looked down on. 

(and it’s not even all men making the decision. it’s like this subset of men. like the men who aren’t like this don’t get a voice either. and the more a man deviates from what masculinity is “supposed” to be the more they are silenced. men who aren’t straight/cis/traditionally masculine often don’t get to be part of the convo). 

an actress that has lots of male fans who think she’s sexy is considered successful. but if a male actor has too many female admirers it’s viewed as tho he’s not a serious actor or lesser somehow or as if it’s a joke. probably partly bc a lot of times the male actors with huge female followings are the ones that fit the female gaze and don’t fit the traditional conceptions of masculinity that women are “supposed” to be attracted to. and thus deserve to be punished. which is unfair to them as well. 

and it’s self perpetuating in a way bc it’s an excuse to mock and degrade men and other genders who don’t fit this toxic mold. maybe partly bc the things that are sexy according to the so-called female gaze (and I don’t really like that word either bc I feel like it’s very reductive and gendered and generalizing and stereotyping but im using it for lack of a better term) are more difficult. like being respectful or cultured or smart etc takes work. and requires giving agency to the other person too. being powerful and just taking what u want is easy. so it’s better to pretend that that makes u a ‘real’ man or something instead of just a jerk. 

and yeah. it’s just tiring. how society punishes anyone who doesn’t fit this certain specific conception of “masculinity.” (which really has NOTHING to do with masculinity and everything to do with rebranding certain behaviors as somehow being sexy and justified and natural instead of just being a jerk. bc c’mon. the truth is men are perfectly capable of being empathetic and mature and compassionate and calm and respectful and controlled. being aggressive and arrogant and hotheaded and selfish and pushy isn’t manly or masculine. it’s just being a jerk. 

[ciaossu-imagines]

can I get one large fries and uuuum Eric Surt from K Project reuniting with a sort of childhood friend he had at his abusive group, but both got away? (He thanks to Homra and they actually managed to run away?)

Or is that too specific and weird?

That’s not too specific or weird at all, my lovely anon! I actually really enjoy how specific it is and it’s a really fascinating scenario that I had fun thinking about! I hope you’ll enjoy the headcanons, and just saying, but the way you worded the first part of your message made me laugh!

I feel like the two of them would have been among the youngest in Hikawa. And, even if his friend hadn’t been an orphan like Eric was, I feel the gang still would have treated them rather unkindly and they would have suffered some abuse at the hands of the gang’s higher-ups and possibly even by their own parents. They were another person who Hikawa used as fodder for their own petty wars because, to the gang, these children hadn’t earned their place in the gang and thus they didn’t deserve the same level of respect or even to really be thought of as human beings so the gang members treated them as dogs instead, at least until such point as they would have proved their actual use and provided a reason to be thought of as one of the actual gang members. Eric and his friend would have had to earn their place in Hikawa and the lengths the gang goes to make them earn those places are nightmarish.

Eric didn’t trust anyone while living with Hikawa so I don’t think the childhood friendship between the two would have been super close but there was still a sort of friendship there. They often had to work together and, honestly, it was strangely comforting to have someone else who knew what they were going through and who could understand their situation. Eric still would have been irritable and would have been harsh in his words to them but that person was probably the closest he had to someone he could rely on in Hikawa, though with how the gang worked, the gang’s leaders would have found it funny to keep trying to pit the two against each other so complete trust was impossible.

I feel Eric’s friend got away first, honestly, and their disappearing and the gang being completely unable to track them down probably made the gang’s actions towards Eric even more brutal and probably set about the actual events that led to Eric becoming a part of HOMRA. Eric does feel abandoned by them and kind of angry with them for not taking him with them, but at the same time, he’s a little glad they got away and he doesn’t begrudge them for taking the opportunity to leave.

Let’s be real here…every last shred of Hikawa was obliterated in the wake of Eric joining HOMRA. Even their name is destroyed because people will know not to ever speak of them, to pretend like the gang had never existed. And that complete absence of the gang, that wiping them from the world, allows not only Eric his freedom to build a new future with HOMRA, but it means that his friend no longer has to hide in fear of being discovered by the gang and can start to build a more public life for themselves.

It’s while his friend is working on building that new life of theirs that they’ll run into Eric, completely by chance. He’s really shocked and honestly a little scared to see them. He knew they were never a big fan of Hikawa and he knew what the gang did to his friend and that they had left prior to the destruction of the gang but at the same time, HOMRA had destroyed the only semblance of a family, and possibly even his friend’s actual biological family. He’s not sure if you’re there for revenge or not, because it is a possibility. He’s going to be on high alert for the first little while, especially since he knows that they were taught to lie as children and his friend had always been better at that then he was.

His friend would have to reassure him that they were not out for revenge and they’d have to prove it to him, giving him time to trust them. They’d have to take the first steps into rebuilding any kind of friendship with Eric.

That being said, even while he’s learning to trust his old friend and while he’s learning to be sure about their motives, Eric does think about them a lot and he does worry about them. He knows he’s been really lucky to find HOMRA after his life with the gang and he wonders if his friend has been so lucky, how they’re living, what they’re doing…he doesn’t ever really say anything to show his worry but those that know him will kind of easily guess what he’s feeling.

If his friend still hadn’t found a safety net, and once he could trust them, I do feel like he’d maybe want to bring them into HOMRA. He’d still be distant with them at first and would never lose his gruffness completely, and it would take a lot of time for him to get over the abandonment issues they kind of left him feeling when they disappeared, but he still wouldn’t feel right if he was the only one who discovered a safe place to live after their shared childhood.

[burningtheroots]

what are sex based protections in a legal system designed to harm women lmfao. rape shelters are women aiding other women, for the most part, but to pretend trans people are the only ones we need to safeguard womens spaces from is ridiculous and honestly a right wing lie. no hate or anything i just see a lot of right wing and liberal women calling themselves radical feminists when its an inherently leftist, not liberal, branch of feminism but the only thing they agree with from it is that porn is bad and trans people are somehow the biggest enemy. its ridiculous

First of all, sorry for the late response, I saw it and then it got buried.

So, you‘re right, the entire system we live in is patriarchal and works against women.

Sex-based protections, however, are protections women have eagerly fought for, such as single-sex spaces including prisons, bathrooms, changing rooms etc.. You need to ask yourself why these single-sex spaces were and still are needed in the first place.

As for trans people, or more specifically trans women, I don‘t view them as the biggest enemy. In fact, I don’t have a problem with dysphoric people at all — I have a problem with the political ideology behind it.

Transwomen are still male, and therefore shouldn’t be given access to single-sex spaces reserved for people of the female sex, a.k.a. women.

They can advocate for their own spaces, and they deserve respect like anyone else. Giving males access to female spaces, however, is not the solution.

It has been repeatedly reported and statistically proven that transwomen (biological men) have still been socialized as males, and have the same violent tendencies. That doesn’t mean a transwoman is automatically violent, it just means that they‘re on par with men who don’t identify as transwomen when it comes to likelihood and potential.

We need to differentiate between sex (a material, biological reality) and gender (a social construct, set of stereotypes etc.).

I don’t care whether someone is a man who 'identifies' as a man (what you call "cis") or a transwoman. They‘re males, and they don‘t belong in spaces for females.

As for your experience with radical feminists or people who call themselves radfems, I can‘t judge it because I wasn’t involved. I just know that there are many misconceptions about radical feminism out there, and I‘d suggest to dig in deeper and learn about it throughoutly before jumping on a bandwagon of any kind.