#man what's it like to only have trauma from discrete Events

[cesium-sheep]

no yeah pretty sure it's a trauma response thing.

the whole year has been so very very very bad, so as the end gets nearer I get counterintuitively more anxious, both because I become more afraid something else will come along to kick me back into the pit and because I have a little more room to breathe instead of just having to grit my teeth and carry on. (this is pretty normal in the context of prolonged stress and long-term traumatic situations (as opposed to singular Events))

[narcoleptic-assassin]

Maximus Has C-PTSD

I’m surprised no one else has talked about this yet so I’ll just jump in and give my thoughts. Grabbing a snippet directly from wiki, it reads:

“The diagnosis of PTSD was originally developed for adults who had suffered from a single-event trauma. However, the situation for many children is quite different. Children can suffer chronic trauma such as maltreatment, family violence, dysfunction, or a disruption in attachment to their primary caregiver. In many cases, it is the child's caregiver who causes the trauma. The diagnosis of PTSD does not take into account how the developmental stages of children may affect their symptoms and how trauma can affect a child's development…

“Repeated traumatization during childhood leads to symptoms that differ from those described for PTSD.”

So what is the difference between PTSD and CPTSD? Let’s look at the seven behavioral clusters described.

• Attachment – “problems with relationship boundaries, lack of trust, social isolation, difficulty perceiving and responding to others' emotional states”

• Biomedical symptoms – “sensory-motor developmental dysfunction, sensory-integration difficulties; increased medical problems or even somatization”

• Affect or emotional regulation – “poor affect regulation, difficulty identifying and expressing emotions and internal states, and difficulties communicating needs, wants, and wishes”

• Elements of dissociation – “amnesia, depersonalization, discrete states of consciousness with discrete memories, affect, and functioning, and impaired memory for state-based events”

• Behavioral control – “problems with impulse control, aggression, pathological self-soothing”

• Cognition – “difficulty regulating attention; problems with a variety of 'executive functions' such as planning, judgment, initiation, use of materials, and self-monitoring; difficulty processing new information; difficulty focusing and completing tasks; poor object constancy; problems with 'cause-effect' thinking; and language developmental problems such as a gap between receptive and expressive communication abilities.”

• Self-concept – “fragmented and disconnected autobiographical narrative, disturbed body image, low self-esteem, excessive shame, and negative internal working models of self”

There are also some similarities to regular ptsd such as reliving traumatic events (although more so in rumative occupation rather than the classic war flashbacks you see in media), insomnia, hypervigilance, and of course depression and anxiety.

People with CPTSD also sometimes have an obsession with their abuser, being preoccupied with thoughts of revenge, or having an idealized or paradoxical gratitude towards them, and acceptance of a perpetrator's belief system or rationalizations.

At a very young age, Maximus lost everything he loved and knew, only then to be snatched up by a fascist organization and revictimized over and over again. He was beaten regularly, by his peers and teachers, constantly derided and humiliated, and given the most menial and disgusting tasks. That’s what we know just looking at the very surface. Who the hell knows what else went on that we the viewers haven’t seen. He’s a perfect candidate for such a disorder.

If that’s not enough for you, let’s go through the above listed behaviors.

Maximus is repeatedly shown to be inexperienced and awkward in social interactions. He either gives too much, or too little, like when he came clean to Thaddeus way too soon, or how he repeatedly lied to Lucy. This also displays his general mistrust. When he saw all the vault 4 dwellers being nice and happy for apparently no reason, this immediately seemed wrong to him, and he labeled it a cult. However, when Birdie gave him a home and food, he latched on to it like a dying man. He craves attachment, longs for it so badly that he falls into this vicious cycle of reaching out, getting hurt, then becoming mistrustful and dishonest. I could write a whole essay on Maximus’ attachment issues, but I’ll move on.

We don’t exactly see any biomedical symptoms with him, but who knows. Maybe there’s something going on internally that we just haven’t seen yet.

With affect and emotional regulation, Maximus has several emotional outbursts during the season, the first when he breaks the toilet after hearing that Dane got promoted and he didn’t, and the second in the very next scene with him during his interrogation. He obviously feels immensely guilty for wishing harm upon his only friend, and panics when asked about it. Whether he did it or not, to him it probably feels like he might as well have just put the razor in the boot himself. Then when Quintus spares his life and even promotes him, he cries in relief and joy. There’s also the other side of this, where he often shows little emotion and remains stoic even when those around him are obviously upset, such as with the fiends on the bridge. He hides behind an expressionless mask, because it’s the most safe, the most neutral option. He was probably punished for expressing himself when he was younger, and now in adulthood, it’s become habit. The only time we see the mask come down, is briefly and usually when he’s alone.

Maximus doesn’t seem to have dissociative symptoms or amnesia, but we know very little of his backstory. At times he may dissociate in response to situations, but that’s a very internal thing, and Max as a character is already quite stoic and aloof. It’s hard to gauge his mental state.

Impulse control is not our guy’s strong suit. He is a slave to his desires as one might say. He almost takes vault 4s fusion core without hesitation until Birdie stops him. When he sees Lucy in trouble he jumps to action (although most people probably would in a similar situation) then attacks the residents almost immediately without stopping for a moment to read the room. He also panics several times and acts quite impulsively. He ripped out the radio in the suit, which with just a little thought he probably would have realized wouldn’t help. (Then again he was probably heavily concussed at this point so you have to give him a break lol) Then when Thaddeus responded negatively to him revealing himself, this immediately sends him into fight or flight mode, and he’s been taught by the Brotherhood to respond to threats with violence.

For cognition, I feel like I could just copy and paste it here again lol. I could go through all the times he’s not thought things through, or done something poorly planned, but come on, you watched the show didn’t you? And this goes right along with impulse control as well. In the class scene, he’s shown not to be a particularly good student, this could be due to a short attention span, or difficulty focusing. Or it could even be due to a lack of object recognition and consistency, which is defined as the ability to recognize an object across varying viewing conditions. These executive dysfunctions are similar to those displayed in ADHD and ASD. There may even be an overall lack of motivation, but as you can see in the first scene with power armor, he shows more knowledge about them than his peers. He’s more than willing to learn about something that interests him, but you’ll know if you have ADHD, it is much harder learning about or doing things you’re not interested in.

Finally, there’s his self image. He goes through most of the show masquerading as someone else entirely, and even says to Lucy at one point that he doesn’t think he’s a good person. He’s ashamed of his own body, thinking that sexual arousal is disgusting, and has shame surrounding those feelings. I think he even blames himself for what happened to Dane because he had intrusive thoughts about it happening, which is why he may have had trouble telling Quintus that he didn’t do it. Maybe he even thought he deserved to be punished.

There’s also his relationship with his abusers. In his mind, there is only one perpetrator, the person who blew up Shady Sands, but in reality there’s two. For the person who destroyed his home, he’s consumed with a vague but obsessive goal of revenge even years later into adulthood. But for the Brotherhood, they are his saviors. He owes them his life, and repeatedly goes back to the memory of stepping out of the fridge and seeing this gleaming suit of armor standing tall among the wreckage of his home. He bought in wholesale to their ideology, taking it literally, even too literally. He betrays his own knight, going over him to stay loyal to the Brotherhood overall. I’ve seen other people mention this, but I don’t remember who now unfortunately. Honestly, I’m so grateful to them because I hadn’t thought of this before.

There is so much more I could say about Max and his symptoms of trauma, but a lot of it is still floating around my head in a messy abstract clutter. This is all I’ve got right now. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk!

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

Man. How did I forget that an entire subplot of Dazai's main story was just. Trying to trap him into having a single conversation with MC like a normal person I'm so akhdjgfkljshgskjd

I just love watching her, Arthur, and Isaac deadass plot with glee to get one over on Dazai it's killing me, this is some Hamlet level shit (no Charles do not stand behind the curtain to kill Dazai coming in the window!!! yamero!!!!!)

Also because I felt personally attacked (/j) when Isaac said this:

I love you Isaac but pls have mercy on creatives we only have one brain cell and we're trying s o hard oTL

Although, and I'll leave it under the cut since I'm back on my Comte-posting, but the way Comte talks about Dazai fascinates me. Also just as fair warning, I do broach a lot of the topics that come up in Dazai rt so trigger warnings for self-harm, suicide, CPTSD and PTSD, trauma, etc. I don't go too too in-depth, but they are there.

Comte: "Dazai is quite skilled at concealing what he's really feeling, even from himself, perhaps."

The way he instantly remarks on how Dazai is not only working to conceal what he feels from others, but also from himself. Tbh I think that's enormously perceptive, because at first glance most people tend to think Dazai is lazy, troublesome, flippant, or erratic (and sometimes, a combination of all of these).

I love that he sees to the core of who Dazai is and what he's feeling; fear. Dazai is afraid of hurting someone again, but I also think on some level he's made it an ontological problem; he's afraid of himself. He thinks his very existence is a negative entity, something that exists only to hurt and/or estrange other people, something wrong/different. I'd argue that's why he's so adamant about mood-making and keeping to himself. If you never express how you truly feel or live true to yourself, on some level you can't entirely reach others. Because fundamentally, being close to other people does require some level of lowered defenses and sharing. Ergo, never dwell too long or give too much of yourself away, never make a mark on anyone--good or bad.

As a side note, Theo calls him "a half-strewn dandelion puff" and I agree that's rather blunt, but on some level Theo operates on a level of utility. His entire operating precept is that life and work must serve a discrete purpose. And Dazai, in choosing to opt out of living with meaning/intent out of fear, makes this description entirely consistent with Theo's perspective of the world. Though his phrasing is harsh and perhaps one-dimensional, I do find it interesting that he comes to a similar conclusion as Comte as to what Dazai is doing.

Comte talks about it with such clarity and calm, he really does feel so parental in this moment. He's not necessarily minimizing the reality of how Dazai is experiencing the world, but he also clearly doesn't agree with Dazai's self-perception. Perhaps most striking to me is how Comte seems to understand that the only threat Dazai poses is to himself...Sometimes it feels like, in the case of conditions like mental illness/depression/etc. people are so eager to assume ill will of a person. This is only exponentially compounded if they prove to have striking intelligence and strategic capacity, the same way Dazai does. I guess I can't help but appreciate that Comte knows the difference between strong and scared, and even how the lines between the two can and often do blur (perhaps best exemplified in his relationships with Jeanne and Dazai).

(Side note: I forgot which event it was but, one time when Dazai was homesick for cherry blossom watching, Comte had the entire house filled with flowers to cheer him up [insert ugly sobbing]).

For someone so enigmatic, evasive, and distant, Comte still notices instantly that Dazai is much, much happier with MC. I suppose it makes me wonder if Comte knew all along that Dazai's real wish was to be accepted and loved as he was, but kept quiet out of respect for his privacy. I would offer too that sometimes people need to realize these things on their own for the information to have value.

But what really gets my ass is what Comte says right after:

This is my bread and butter (so is he but that's not the point of this particular TED talk). In the last few years I've done a lot of exploratory work on how trauma is mapped both internally but also visibly on the body. What I think is engaging here is that, while it could be read on a surface level as "body language gives people's true intentions away" I don't think that's quite what he's getting at. Or perhaps better phrased, it's an oversimplification. I don't think it's that body language can't communicate real and important information about people's lives. Rather, that people associate rigid and absolutist interpretations to singular mannerisms, which does a disservice to both parties. Nobody can know a person at a glance; to say that you do reduces the lived reality of the opposite party.

Comte gives simple examples and couches his words for the context of the moment, but I think that first line is incredibly telling. "But the body is remarkably truthful." It makes me think of how, in moments where Comte is overcome with anxiety as a result of traumatic recurrence, he has acute panic attacks (i.e. shortened breath, racing heart, trembling). How Leonardo's lethargy (i.e. napping on the floor everywhere like the hobo he is) belies the reality of his very real exhaustion, the emotional turmoil that comes with a fraught immortal life.

Dazai's endless struggle with dissociation and self-harm, the way he stood in the rain unmoving at the thought of MC returning home to the modern era. Whether to numb himself from the pain of that grief/loneliness, or perhaps more likely the self-immolation of subjecting himself to the re-enactment of the most harrowing moment of his life. To relive that anguish as a reminder; to abstain from making the same mistake ever again. Jeanne's endless bodily tension, struggles with basic self-care (appears to be interoception-based; reduced signalling of the need to eat/rest/etc.), and self-isolation to cope in a world where only the strong survive. Never safe, always alone, always defensive.

I think, for many people in general but especially people who have been through intense PTSD/CPTSD/etc., it can be hard to express these feelings directly. Whether they are forcibly silenced, ridiculed into self-derision/self-concealment, or are overwhelmed by emotions that are difficult to process--each manifests itself in unconventional ways. It means a lot to me when those phenomena are portrayed so sensitively in written works/media, that they're explored with real intention and narrative subtlety to communicate how hard it is for people who are wounded or simply different (or both, as often is the case).

Addendum:

Even more than that, and this is an observation at the end of Dazai's route, is Comte's open belief that life is something to be cherished. Of course, like any other person he has behaviors he won't abide and people he doesn't feel partial to, but by and large he doesn't take life lightly. Perhaps that's why he doesn't expect Dazai to resort to such measures again, in conjunction with the circumstances of his transition. From an outsider perspective, I could see how Comte might assume Dazai no longer wishes for that if he seemed to regret his initial course of action by seeking resurrection. There is also the implication that Dazai is always at war with himself, and therefore might give contradictory impressions; one moment he wants to live, the next he doesn't. This is precisely what led him to ask Charles for help to subdue his own 'cowardice.' (His terms, not mine. [bonks him]) There is a sizeable subset of s-word survivors who, after recovery, feel that their problems were actually solvable despite their despair in the moment.

Of course, that doesn't apply to everyone, but I think there's something to be said of Comte feeling such real affection for the mansion boys that he is stricken to find out what Dazai attempted. And perhaps unsurprisingly, very adamant to keep him from ever pursuing such a course of action again. He's incredibly vulnerable about his horror that he might have inflicted something on Dazai that he never wanted in bringing him back, though Dazai comfortably refutes any lack of agency in the situation.

I guess I feel very compelled by the duality inherent in Comte's glass heart, precisely because of how realistic it feels. His greatest strength is his sensitivity, but it's also his greatest weakness in tandem. His genuine care for Dazai--the unwavering belief that his life is valuable and worthy--ends up being the reason he doesn't anticipate Dazai's rather deeply entrenched self-loathing. And to be honest, I'm a bit inclined to agree; looking back on a third reading Dazai feels way too hard on himself. It feels like the young girl's death was more a catalyst for what Dazai was already feeling, than anything. Dazai wanted so badly to have a reason to despise himself (as he already disliked how different and out of place he naturally felt) and with this, his self-reproach could have a viable, rational explanation. A locus outside of his body by which to rationalize his self-hatred. Accident or not becomes irrelevant; he was involved, and thus he is guilty.

He reminds me a lot of that post that was circulating once about how cultish behavior inculcates intelligent people with more devastating pull than one might expect, because intelligent people can more easily and more insistently find ways to desperately rationalize their situation to function in that whirlpool of abuse. Dazai feels like he's in this same such Catch-22, so busy believing he deserves to be scorned (because of how well he hides his perceived abnormalities) that he takes steps to ensure and reinforce it. He wants and needs to see his reality make sense, and if it won't answer his designs he will find a way to make it so.

It fascinates me because Dazai is an incredibly complex example of someone who desires control, but instead of inflicting it with external rapacity, he targets his own internal state. I once heard a Buddhist explain: yes, it is a sign of disturbance to engage with others aggressively and without grace. However, it is also a sign of disturbance when the mind seeks to harm one's own body. Although Dazai's disturbance is not as apparent, it is there. And that's part of what makes him so excruciatingly compelling to me, in a lot of ways he is the manifestation of the Sisyphean suffering of being ill in a quiet way. In enduring and smiling and laughing because you don't want to burden others--or know you're not allowed to--all while you slowly bleed from the inside out.

[zap0ch0s]

Remastered 9 headcanons for the painful experiment AU part 2

hey! here the second part of the headcanons for the "9: Painful Experiment"

and well, disclaimer below

TW: blood, death, murderer, mental diseases (maybe), gore, hardcore topics

please have discretion before reading

Tom (OC):

him :)

his father died because of a misterious sickness called sanguinosis (I explain myself,  it happens when the blood vessels break throughout the body, that’s because they didn’t develop well, causing internal and external hemorrhages, I’ll be fast, first, you get a fever, second, you cough up blood, third, you cough and cry blood, fourth, you get seizures, fifth, you get internal external hemorrhages, and lastly, you die, and no cure has been discovered yet, the only thing that relieves it is fever pills), that's the first traumatic event Tom went through

he had a young sister called Carie

Tom lived in a place of the city of Roanoke (Virginia) near from the beach, so when it was summer vacations, Tom and Carie usually went there to have fun, but one day, her sister was drifted away in the ocean, Tom's mother went very worried to call for some help, but when the ambulance came, it was very late for Carie, cuz she drown in the deepest part of the ocean (well, not so deep, but deep enough), that was the second traumatic event for Tom

after his sister's death, he used to sleep in his sister's bed due to the trauma of seeing her in an emergency stretcher, wet and pale, months later, he just stopped doing that cuz he thought it was time to move on

years later, at his 25's, he met Olivia and fell in love with her, they married and had a baby girl, months passed, and the baby was already 3 years old, after many yeras, Tom was finally in peace, but death knocked his door again to fuck his life once more, one night, a misterious man with a scientinst outfit came into his house and killed his wife and daughter, by the night, when Tom arrived to his house, he could only see their corpses, that third event was the drop that spilled the glass for him to resort to shadow magic to avenge his family

after making a ritual to obtain shadow magic, his skin turned white (literally), his eyes turned red, a weird shadow mask appeared between his eyes and his hands turned black due to the shadows effect

he lives with the grief of losing his family, but he tries to keep the composture

he met the scientist once more when he kidnapped Tom to study him until 9 released him

after the massacre in the laboratory, Tom (just like 9 with Tom) became attached to 9 and started to treat him like he was his own son

Tom sees 9 as a reflection of his daughter

when 9 has mental breakdown of feels very stressed, Tom usually cuddles him and spoils him a little bit, saying comforting things to 9

Tom is 9's paternal figure

9 just craves Tom's affection and Tom doesn't have any problem with that ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

6:

In this part, there is a trigger warning of implied abuse, so please, have discretion

he has a lot of visions of the past and present (and maybe future?)when he's sleeping and when he's not, that happens almost often

almost all his visions are about demons and the Witch of Doom

during the demon massacre, he collided 7 while running away, then he met 5 when 7 saved his life and lastly, he met 2, 8 and 1 when 7 was reuniting with them with with a injured 5

he's very fearful and more shy than 5

not very talkative cuz he stammers a lot

when he has visions, he prefers to draw them so he doesn't forget what he saw

unfortunately, 1 saw that and forced 8 to beat him so 6 could learn to control that the bad way

that physical abuse traumatized him a lot that he became untrustful to 8, that from the beginning, 6 wanted to start a friendly relationship with him, and he still wants to but he's too afraid to do that

the only stitchpunks he really trust are 7, 5 and 2

one day, he prefered to lock himself in

once he had a vision about 9 and his next moves, but 9's figure was to fuzzy that he could barely see him, so 6 started to ask himself who was that stitchpunk

3 and 4:

it's funny cuz I don't have anything original with these dudes, just two things:

althought they are canonically non binary, I see them both as boys (don't get mad at me)

they communicate with flashes but they are really communicating in morse code

2:

when he leaved the scientist, he was a chill old man until he met 1, unlike 1, he didn't fell in love with him inmediately, first, he started being friends with 1 until 2 months later, he finally fell in love with 1 despite his moody personality

patient to some point

during the demon massacre, he never got separated from 1's side, of course, until he met the others, he became a little bit... distant

he's very gentle and always wants to help the others

it's very difficult to make him mad, since he doesn't get easely irritated

he didn't know about all the abuses 6 suffered before and after he went to "scout"

he didn't even know 5 was a pyromaniac, but he knew he could sing

he loves 1 with his heart, but he feels that 1 is the distant one (poor little oldman)

8:

he's a sentimental troubled brutus

he's 1 forced bodyguard

he has a good heart deep inside

introvert

rarely has something to say

abused physically and emotionally of 6

he really wanted to be friends with 6, but due to 1's shitty orders, he thinks he now lost that only chance to ask 6 If he want's to be his friend

he's very strong (but not that strong enough like 9 unnatural and abnormal magical strenght)

he hates to be the bully

everytime he ended beating the shit out of 6, he could only lament himself miserably

tries to hide his soft side due to the shame of seeing him acting good

he never doubts on protecting the ones he cares

eats when he's upset

and finally this bitch 1:

he was already a bit stubborn before leaving the scientist

when he met 2, he felt inmediately with him, in his case, this was love at the first talk

he noticed 2 was a very gentle and soft man, something that he hated but loved so much about him

during the demon massacre, he never got separated from 2's side, of course, until 2 met the others and 1 felt very distant from 2

all the bad decisions in the story is due to the stress and trauma that the demon massacre left in him

welp,the reason he forces 8 to beat 6 is beacuse he's afraid that any of his visions cam come true someday

it all went practically "good" until 2 tried to figure out 6's visions

1 considered that the man he loved was betraying him, so that's the reason he send 2 to "scout"

he wants to marry 2, but doesn't know how to propose

deep inside, he's regreting every damage he did to his little family, but he decides to hide that pain

wow, finally, after a lot of days making this crap, finally is finished, hope you enjoy it :3

[coochiequeens]

Trans community: “misgendering is literal violence” Also trans community: will violently attack from behind over an accidental use of the wrong pronouns

Content Notice: This article contains photos of bruising and physical injury. Reader discretion is appreciated.

A woman in Melbourne, Australia was hospitalized and left with horrific injuries following a brutal attack from a trans activist over what she speculates was retaliation for her gender critical views.

On September 24, 2022, Ruby* and her partner were attending the Punks Pub Crawl, an annual barhopping event for those in the punk rock scene which has been held in Melbourne since 1982. Ruby, a bass guitarist in a local band, had been attending the crawl since she was a teenager. Though she was excited to return to her tradition following the loosening of COVID-19 restrictions, Ruby’s evening turned into a nightmare.

“I had only just arrived with my partner sometime around 3 p.m. There were about 70 people or so attending the crawl. The whole group of us stopped at Carlton Gardens for a group photo,” Ruby recounts, explaining that immediately after the photo was taken she would have an incident that has since left her with a debilitating injury.

“I was walking away, talking to a friend when I noticed one male walking beside the group but in the opposite direction to the rest of us,” Ruby says. “As he passed me he shoulder-barged me hard, and I stopped to address him.”

Ruby describes her attacker as “male, but not obviously ‘trans.’” As she was with a group of individuals belonging to the punk rock community, she didn’t immediately believe he was attempting to present as the opposite sex, and simply thought he was donning classic punk attire. 

“He just looked like a metal head with lipstick on, and I had never seen him before in my life,” she says. According to a police report Ruby provided Reduxx, the individual is described as approximately 5’7, with long dark hair. He had been wearing a black shirt and black pants.

Startled by the body check, Ruby confronted the male.

“I said something very close to, ‘Is there a problem here? Do you and I need to have a conversation?’ He started denying and gaslighting. He claimed it was an accident and one of his friends backed him up. It was clearly no accident so I replied, ‘No, he just shoulder-barged me as hard as he could.’”

Ruby says the onlookers immediately seemed to take issue with the pronoun she had used for the man.

“I heard a few murmurs of ‘He?’ Like people were offended at my choice of pronoun,” she says. “I stood facing him for another [few seconds] waiting to see if he was going to kick off, but he seemed to have nothing to say so I turned and walked away.”

But just as she did, Ruby says she was suddenly attacked from behind, with the man pushing her onto the concrete with tremendous force.

“I was wearing a heavy studded leather jacket so I went down hard and fast. I put my left arm out to break the fall with anything other than my head and the impact reverberated all up my arm, shattering my shoulder and breaking my arm at the joint.”

Ruby says other pub crawl goers told the man to back off, and she says that while she was in extreme pain, she didn’t immediately recognize the extent of the damage. A friend of hers who knew first-aid put her in a makeshift sling, and it quickly became obvious to Ruby that she needed to seek medical treatment. 

She first attempted to go to a public hospital, but was left in the emergency waiting room for agonizing hours without proper attention, so she left and later sought help at Austin Hospital, which is reputed for its trauma care. Ruby was sent for a CAT scan and X-Ray where she was diagnosed with a fractured shoulder.

Ruby provided Reduxx medical records from Austin Health showing she was admitted to the emergency short stay unit, and that she was initially slated for a surgical intervention by an orthopedic registrar. 

A second orthopedic surgeon Ruby saw while in hospital decided not to operate, feeling her outcomes would be better if she were simply closely monitored and sent for physiotherapy after the initial injury had healed. The surgeon left the possibility of operation open if anything were to come up with the injury in the future.

In the chaos of her attempts to get medical treatment, Ruby had managed to track down the individual who had assaulted her through a band contact. She recognized her assailant had been friends with an individual who her band had performed with in the past, and skimmed his socials to find more information. She managed to identify the attacker, and, armed with the information, went to Melbourne Police and filed a report after being discharged from hospital.

Ruby supplied Reduxx with the statement she signed and witnessed with a Constable about her ordeal. In the statement, she names Sarah Cadzow, a male who identifies as a “woman,” as being her assailant. 

She speculates that their mutual band contact had alerted Cadzow to her views on gender ideology at the Punks Pub Crawl, and that he had body-checked her in retaliation. 

“It became clear that someone had been showing the attacker my Facebook posts. The attacker had never been on my Facebook friends list, as far as I know, but his friend was. My Facebook has been all about women’s rights and spaces for about 4 years now, since I found out about men in women’s prisons,” Ruby says. “We messaged the friend shortly afterwards and he helpfully agreed in writing as to what happened, but attempted to justify it because apparently [Cadzow] was ‘defending his community’ by attacking a middle aged woman from behind.”

In his youth, Cadzow had been associated with LGBTQ youth charity Minus18.

Cadzow was listed as a development team member of the Trans 101 project, a “gender diversity crash course” aimed at youth supported by Minus18, YGender, and the Sydney Myer Fund. He also penned a biography for the Rainbow Story Project, praising Minus18 and boasting about the fact he transitioned when he was approximately 14 years old.

Despite having provided Melbourne Police with two witness statements as well as the identity of her attacker, Ruby explains that it took months for Cadzow to finally be charged in a process that initially left her feeling abandoned.

“I can’t speak for police resources or procedures, but it was very concerning to me that it took so long to charge him. They seemed to be handling the assailant very delicately,” she says. “I wanted there to be some immediate disincentive for him to do this again – to me or anyone else – and the police didn’t seem to take that concern seriously at all.”

Ruby says she observed a definite “tone shift” when police learned her assailant was transgender.

“The delay in charging and the manner in which they went about it certainly felt to me like a reluctance to act. This was very serious violence and all I could think about during that waiting time was ‘Where are the consequences? What’s stopping him doing it again? What happens if he sees a woman in an Adult Human Female t-shirt?'”

On January 25, almost exactly four months after the incident, Cadzow was finally handed charges related to Ruby’s assault. He is currently scheduled for a hearing at the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court on April 14.

While Ruby expresses some relief that Cadzow has now been charged and the legal component of her ordeal is moving after months of stagnation, she has been left with the lingering impact of her attack.

“I play bass guitar, and at first we weren’t sure if I was going to be able to play gigs anymore. Fortunately, it’s looking like I will be able to, just not too often and it hurts like a bastard to tune up,” she says, explaining that her impacted arm can no longer be lifted above the shoulder

“I will never swim again, [or] shoot hoops with my son, get things from high shelves, or hang washing. The doctor said: ‘your ability to lift that arm above your head ended when you hit the ground.'”

In relation to Cadzow’s upcoming hearing, Ruby says she hopes the consequences for Cadzow are serious enough to act as a deterrent. 

“I hope others who may have similar ideas realize that you simply can’t just go around attacking women with impunity.” 

But even then, Ruby explains that she has concerns about how the case will be handled by Australia’s criminal justice system, which has become notorious for its position on gender self-identification. 

“This was a clear-cut act of male violence but I have my doubts as to whether statistics or records will reflect that in the end,” she says.

“It’s getting very scary to be a woman speaking up about women’s rights these days. This kind of violence is going way, way too far and it has to stop before something even worse happens.”

* – Subject has been assigned a name to protect her privacy.

By Anna Slatz Anna is the Co-Founder and Editor-in-Chief at Reduxx, with a journalistic focus on covering crime, child predators, and women's rights. She lives in Canada, enjoys Opera, and kvetches in her spare time.

[longtimenospooning-luci]

Azalea's, Camelia's and Rhododendron's Chapter Two

Summary: Life always seemed to throw bullshit your way. A bullshit childhood, a bullshit family with the exception of your older brother, a bullshit bodyguard team because of aforementioned older brother... To say you were tired of it would be an understatement. You just wanted to bask in your self-made richness as a bestselling author, all by yourself being the key point, and pretend you're not doing it to avoid your trauma. But now you have to deal with seven incredibly hot, stubborn and frustrating men forcibly barging into your life against both of your wishes and ruining your peaceful silence. So, if they were going to be hardheads, you'll be one right back.

Pairing: Bts x reader, featuring older brother Bang Chan and a dickhead ex to be revealed later on.

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of Abuse and Human Trafficking (If these trigger you in any way please do not read this or read at your own discretion, I don't want anyone to be hurt by this work. If you need help please reach out to the national hotlines), cursing, 1st appearance of the shithead ex. Namjoon is a guilty baby that hasn't apologized yet.

**This chapter is mostly Namjoon and Reader focused, the next chapter will bring the other boys thoughts into the mix much more.

Word Count: 2.5k

Taglist Form

Seoul Today

04 April 2022

Chaebol heir Shin Do-Yun sentenced early this morning in connection to Abuse and Human Trafficking case of ex-girlfriend. . . .

Seoul Today

22 September 2020

Chaebol heir finally arrested after fleeing the country in connection to Abuse and Human Trafficking case of ex-girlfriend. According to authorities the man in question arranged with the victims father to receive her as compensation in a business deal between the two. . . .

Seoul Today

13 July 2019

Unnamed CEO found guilty in case of Abuse and Human Trafficking after six months of cross-examination. The prosecution requested before the trial that the proceedings and case file be sealed for the protection of the Victim’s identity. The verdict comes as a relief to her and the rest of her family. The police have yet to find a lead on the second suspect in the case after his disappearance upon the CEO’s arrest. . . .

Namjoon has read the news articles on his desk what seems like hundreds of times.

It's been three days since the incident in the living room between you, Yoongi and Jungkook. Namjoon had honestly been expecting to get a call that afternoon informing him that they had been fired, but no such call came.

A little while after Mira had left your room that morning, she had informed the boys she would be back the next day. She only worked every other day and she was just there that morning for the hearing. They knew better than to ask her what upset you so much, the woman had too much affection for you and wouldn't spill a secret like that.

So Namjoon did what anyone would do in his shoes. He googled the fuck out of it, and now he has that nice stack of printed articles to add to the puzzle that makes up you. But he didn’t expect his research to create this pit of emotions in his stomach that he can only describe as sickly. He doesn’t want to think about the consequences of his theory being true. He doesn’t want to think about the looks of mortification on Yoongi and Jungkook’s faces when he reveals to them what he found.

They didn't see you again that day, only receiving confirmation of your existence from the takeout you had ordered for everyone, asking them to leave your portion at the door when they knocked.

On the second day they came into the kitchen to find Mira looking at your office door in concern. You had apparently gone in there sometime during the night, and Mira had found you clacking away on your computer keys when she arrived. Namjoon knew he would have to apologize for the events of the day before, and the ever-growing pit in his stomach was nagging him, so he volunteered to take in your breakfast for Mira.

The sweet woman had been right to fret about you. When Namjoon got the call to come in when he knocked on the door, his jaw nearly dropped in disbelief.

There were papers strewn everywhere across the room, everything from the floor to the bookcases were in complete disarray. Namjoon had to tiptoe over heavy tomes and folders laid open and spilled out in the pathway to your desk; which was clustered in a similar fashion, not even an inch of free space to place the tray down.

It took a bit to catch your attention, your glasses sitting askew when you finally looked up at him; and if he didn’t know any better he would say you looked cute.

It took another few minutes for your brain to catch up to what Namjoon was doing in your office, and again with his offer for you to come eat at the kitchen island when your frazzled brain tried to clear your desk, but had no comprehension of what was supposed to go where.

With his watchful eye on you Mira was able to leave you in your void like state and get started on tidying up your office. To which Namjoon sent the rest of the boys to help her in order to avoid the possibility of another fight breaking out. Plus god forbid you snap out of your slump with the boys right there, the thought of your wrath sending a shiver down his spine.

And now here he is on day three with the news articles at his desk. Namjoon selfishly hopes you’re back to normal today. Watching you move through the motions of life without being mentally present was like a brick dropping into that pit inside him, weighing him down with each zombie-like step you took.

It's been three days since you lost your shit in front of seven strangers in your living room and to say you were embarrassed was an understatement.

It was even more embarrassing when your best friend called you yesterday afternoon and knocked you out of you stupor, only for you to realize you had acted like that in front of said strangers. But Key had called you with the promise of a surprise for you today and that you couldn't tell him no. So you put your embarrassment behind you and looked forward to seeing your insane bestie.

You hear the doorbell ring and one of the boys open the front door from your office.

"YYYYYYYYYY/NNNNNNNNNNNN-AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!" You internally blanch at your best friend's opera rendition of your name echoing throughout the manor, and you can only hope he isn't having you do something ridiculous today.

Your office door slams open with Keys mission oriented Gusto and you can tell from the multiple dry-cleaning bags in his arm that he's making you go outside today.

"Get your perky ass up and out of that chair you're going out to lunch today bitch!" He exclaims, turning from the doorway with a flourish and heading to what you assume is your bedroom.

A few members of your bodyguard team stand in the doorway looking after your retreating best friend in bewilderment.

"Well, I guess we're going out today. Go ahead and let the others know." They whip their heads to you at the sound of your voice. Finding you now in front of them, Hoseok and Taehyung nod their heads in acknowledgement.

When you get up to your room, you find that Key has laid out six dresses and a couple of pairs of heels to choose from. You spot two wooden carriers on your wardrobe that you recognize as his portable makeup kit and jewelry box.

"So, what hairbrained scheme are you making me attend today. Because I know I'm not going with you, you're not dressed up enough and we both know you won't let me look better than you in public." You address the man in your room with a raised eyebrow as you close the door behind you.

He gasps in faux offence "Excuse you I look fabulous thank you very much! And I got you a lunch date with the greatest woman of all time!" singsonging the last bit of his sentence he finally turns his attention to you.

You just huff in resignation to his antics, used to them by now as he ushers you over to the dresses. "Okay, take a look at these and tell me what you think."

Looking over the choices, you notice the dresses are all Versace but pay no mind to it as you grab the black safety pin minidress and the Hot chick Louboutin's to go with it. 

"Ah, this is why we are besties. What a perfect bad bitch choice." Key claps enthusiastically, setting aside your picks and bringing you over to the chair at your vanity. 

It takes him about an hour to do your makeup, finishing with pride and letting you go to put on the dress and heels in your walk-in closet. 

You step out of the closet and stop to look in your body mirror. It's been a long time since you've felt this sexy and confident and you loved it. Key came around behind you and clasped a blue rhinestone Versace chain around your neck and held out the matching earrings and ring to you.

"Okay, I'm starting to see a pattern her. What's up with all of the Versace?" You asked in suspicion.

"You my dear, are having lunch with our beloved Mademoiselle Versace." He replied with a shit eating grin on his face.

You lit up in surprise and happiness, having met the woman and become fast friends about a year ago when you were on a book tour in Paris. She had come to a signing event and expressed to you she was a fan, and of course you were floored by the revelation, and next thing you knew you were getting afternoon coffee in a Parisian patisserie with THE Donatella Versace.

"No way she's here!?" turning to your best friend.

"Yep, she arrived yesterday morning for a conference and called me to help surprise you for lunch." he answered.

"When? Where? Lets go! Right now, lets go!" you scramble around the room to grab your black matching clutch and your phone, shoving everything you would need in the small bag as you talk excitedly.

"Relax will you, I gave the boys the address and reservation info when I got here. Go have fun, okay." you can hear the tone in his voice and can recognize from it that he did this because he was worried about you.

The thought makes you want to cry happy tears, you give him a long hug whispering a thank you to him. He gives you a kiss on the cheek and lets go, grabbing your shoulders to turn you around and give you a push towards the door.

When you reach the stairs you see the boys at the bottom in the foyer, and it almost makes you angry at how hot they are in their suits. Begrudgingly you even admit to yourself that Yoongi and Jungkook are included in that hotness. You quickly push away the thought and begin to descend the stairs.

If you weren't so focused on not missing a step and tumbling down the stairs to your death you would have seen the boys shocked faces when they noticed you.

They thought you were beautiful when they met you but holy fuck they did not know you could look like that.

"Ready to go?" Your voice snaps them out of their thoughts and they simply nod and lead the way out to the car.

The thirty minute drive into town was the most fucking awkward experience ever, the tension was off the charts between you and them and it made you want to jump out the window.

Pulling up to the luxurious restaurant the awkwardness and tension is quickly forgotten with your excitement. The boys got out first as you were sitting in the center seat in the middle row, and Hoseok who was sitting on the passenger side offers his hand to assist you out of the large SUV.

You look at the hand apprehensively, but you really don't want to start anything and ruin your mood so you take it without a word. As you begin walking you notice the boys have created a complete barrier around you, and you roll your eyes at the unnecessary behavior.

Entering the restaurant Namjoon tells the hostess the name your reservation is under and you're quickly being led to a private room. When the doors slide open you immediately squeal in happiness, lightly stomping in place before moving towards the woman on the other side of the room who was reacting in a similar matter.

"Mademoiselle Donatella! I can't believe you're here!" You exclaim as you hug her, switching into French to talk to her.

"Neither can I! I see you got my gifts from Key. They look wonderful on you; I should have had you walk the runway in them instead." She replies to you.

While you chat away in French like this situation isn't absolutely bonkers, the boys eyes are nearly popping out of their sockets. You are having lunch with the fucking owner of Versace, their jaws are practically on the floor at this point. Namjoon regains his composure when the two of you sit at the table and quickly moves the team into their places. Sending Yoongi and Jungkook to guard the doorway from the outside, and then splitting up the rest around the private room.

"What's up with the entourage of Greek Gods?" Donatella asks, leaning in towards you with a glass of champagne in her hands.

"Ugh, they're bodyguards my brother hired, and they are complete assholes." You huff back, taking a sip of your Moscato.

"Want me to get rid of them for you?" She smirks back at you.

"Mademoiselle if you can get rid of them, I'll let you read my next book that's coming out in the Fall and tell you what happens in the sequel I'm currently writing." You wager back at her, mirroring the smirk.

"Deal, do any of them speak English?"

You think for a moment and then call out to Namjoon. "Namjoon, Come here please."

He comes to stand next to you where you sit "Yes, Miss Bang?"

"Mademoiselle Donatella has a question for you, I recall my brother telling me you can speak English, correct?"

"Uh, yes Miss I am fluent."

"Great, go on." You motion a hand to the woman across from you, he looks about ready to piss himself and you find it highly entertaining.

Namjoon swallows down his anxiety and turns his attention to your lunch date, taking a deep breath he greets her in English.

"Have any of you ever modelled before?" She cuts straight to the chase and you almost snort your Moscato holding in your laughter.

His face is burning red as a tomato in what you assume is a bountiful mix of uncomfy feelings. "Uh, no Mademoiselle we have not."

"Interesting, I'd like to have you all come to my studio here for an interview. I think the seven of you could become next seasons supermodels."

Okay now you actually spit some of your wine out that time.

"Oh, OH. I... Er, thank you Mademoiselle for your.... offer but I don't believe we have that kind of talent. We are happy with our career as it is."

And now your wine is actually spewed out onto the restaurant floor. Holy fuck he's got some balls to tell her no, that would be anybody's golden ticket! Damn you Kim Namjoon and your muscle head.

Donatella looks at you with an expression that practically screams 'That's never happened before.' Namjoon gives a bow of respect and steps back to his post against the wall.

You chat a little while longer as the courses are being served, switching back to French. Donatella jokes with you about the absurdity that is your bodyguards and, of course, you quip back that this means she's definitely not getting her hands on your book early.

You eventually part ways when she gets a call about a runway emergency, and you can say you definitely feel much lighter after seeing her again. But we all know life likes to throw bullshit your way, and this time it came in the form of Shin Do-Yun standing on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant doors.

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[darkthingshappen]

Three Days - Chapter 14

This is a collab with @quietly-by-myself for @the-whumpers-soiree. It features Faolan from their Mercury and Time series (link here) and my original whumper, Finlay Iver.

This story will contain elements of explicit noncon, references to past violent events, including noncon, torture, among other adult/dark themes. Reader discretion is advised. It’s much darker than what I normally post. Minors DNI.

Tags: @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage

CW: discussions of past noncon, PTSD, trauma recovery, whumper taunting caretaker

Another night went by with Atticus negotiating with Faolan to eat again. The doctor at the hospital had kept the majority of what Faolan had told the staff private, but as Faolan’s medical proxy, Atticus knew the rough details of it all. Faolan hadn’t just been roughed up; he’d been utterly traumatized.

It almost felt like the two of them were back at the beginning, in those horrible months just after the war had ended. Sometimes, Atticus was left with an eerie feeling of déjà vu each time they sat down for a meal. He remembered all too well those days when he spent most of the day in flashbacks and had to teach Faolan not to eat eggs off the floor.

Faolan was avoiding anything acidic now. Atticus didn’t ask. He was also strangely defensive of his stomach medications. Again, it was unusual, but Atticus didn’t ask. If anything, Faolan had always been scared to take medicine, not scared to have medicine taken from him.

He never pushed Faolan on why he always begged for the lights off or why he sometimes wound up in Atticus’ bedroom. It all had happened before.

Atticus was most concerned with the eating. He’d offered to take Faolan to the doctor for an appetite stimulant, but Faolan had refused. It was fine. He couldn’t help someone who didn’t want help. Regardless, food had been used against Faolan so many times that he didn’t blame the man for having a chaotic relationship with mealtimes.

One night, Faolan finally said something about the entire ordeal.

Faolan neatly put his utensils down, having taken only three bites of his dinner.

“H-he.”

Faolan was struggling to get the words out. Atticus forced himself to hide his anticipation.

“He tube fed me as a punishment.” Faolan seemed distant. That was okay. Atticus remembered that time before prazosin and venlafaxine when he was, too. “I’m sorry. I left for my perch.”

That was a new term, but Atticus could guess what Faolan was talking about. “That’s okay, Faolan. Keep going. You’re safe here. He can’t reach you.”

Faolan nodded. He knew. That was the difference between then and now - Faolan knew he was safe. “O-one day, the second day, he fed me my medicine in microwaved eggs and lemonade.” Faolan chuckled a bit to himself. “It doesn’t sound that bad when I say it to you.”

Atticus had to try to keep the horror off his face. He didn’t want to startle Faolan by making Faolan think that Atticus was upset with him. 

“No, it’s awful. I understand why it bothers you.”

Faolan went quiet for a bit. “I lashed out because I was scared of what he was doing afterwards.”

Atticus, when Faolan didn’t elaborate, gave him a little signal with his hand that told Faolan “everything’s okay.”

“T-the wound in my side. He cut out William’s brand and put his own.”

Atticus was the only one Faolan ever said William’s name around. Maybe it was because Atticus had been the one to kill William all those years ago. He was Faolan’s ultimate protector and he knew it well.

“I’m so sorry, Faolan.” Atticus moved around the table, slowly, crutch in hand, and pulled Faolan into a hug. Suddenly, Faolan broke down sobbing harder than he’d seen him in a long time. Faolan’s psychologist was on break and he immediately decided to make the call to the answering service to ensure that he would get an appointment with the psychologist in the office. Maybe they’d set up an appointment with their psychiatrist.

Forgetting about the dinner he’d worked so hard to cook - one of Faolan’s favorites - Atticus moved with Faolan to the couch and hugged him tight, letting him cry until, eventually, Faolan had fallen off to sleep.

Slowly, carefully, Atticus helped Faolan move to his bedroom. He tucked Faolan in gently and gave his hand a squeeze. Just before he left completely to place his call to the answering service, Faolan muttered something to him.

“Sometimes, he was kind. It’s confusing, because he wasn’t like William. He was kind sometimes.”

Atticus swallowed the lump in his throat. His anger at Finlay was bubbling to the surface again. “That doesn’t justify what he did, Faolan. Just rest for tonight. We can talk more in the morning. Is it okay if I call Dr. Ackehurst? I know she’s on break, but you need to see someone before she comes back.”

Faolan nodded. “Tell the office that I told them it was okay. I thought I signed that paper a few months ago.”

“You did. You have a right to consent to me calling her office, though.”

That was the last Atticus heard of Faolan as his friend drifted off into a deep, probably horrible sleep.

When Atticus got to his office to call Dr. Ackehurst, the phone was already ringing to his surprise. He picked up the phone, knowing it was far too late for any legitimate calls.

“My car is past warranty. My credit cards are all fine. I can’t apply for social security disability. I have a veteran’s pension. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

There was a slight giggle from the other end of the line.  “Good evening, Atticus.  I was just calling to check on how my little pet is doing?  Did you bed him well when you got him home?  I made sure he’d be loose for you.”  Finlay smiled, knowing it would be easy to rile the old war vet.  

“Finlay you fucking bastard!” Atticus had to try his hardest to not scream into the phone. Faolan didn’t need to know that he’d even called, much less know how upset Atticus was over the whole ordeal. He took a deep breath. “He’s doing fine. Thank you for asking. Now give me one good reason I shouldn’t just hang up and change my phone number so you never find it again.”

“Change your phone number and I may have to come find my wayward little pet in person.  He really is an intriguing little creature.  You should have seen the way he bent to my whim.  All I had to do was cuddle with him at the end of the night.  No wonder you keep him around.  He’s a pretty good little cock-sucker too.  I mean, I had to gag him to make sure he wouldn’t bite.  But did you know that just before you so rudely barged in he was begging to suck me off?  I may have to find him one day and let him do it.  You can’t be with him all the time.  And I can be patient.  Or who knows.  Maybe I’ll find another toy and move on from yours.  I just wanted you to know that he behaved wonderfully and was absolutely perfect for me.  I thoroughly enjoyed my time with him and only wished it could have been longer”

“Well, even if you do find him, I assure you that Faolan isn’t just skilled with what you say that he is. He’s an incredibly talented marksman. I assure you, either him or I will shoot you in the back of the head before you get a chance.”

“Hmm.  That’s cute.  One last thing before I go.  I did him the favor of removing his previous owner’s brand.  I was very surprised, given how highly he regards you, that you hadn’t done it for him years ago.  It was very satisfying to peel it away and throw it in the fire.  And it was even more satisfying to put my own in its place.  I know you won’t lift a finger to have the new one removed, since you didn’t with the last one.  So I thought it could go somewhere just a bit more visible.”  Finlay smiled at his taunt as he hung up the phone.  

“I gave him the option years ago. He didn’t want to do it. You’re a bastard for thinking that I would’ve made that choice for him and you’re a bastard because you made that choice for him. Faolan is his own person. If he wants yours removed, I won’t stop him. I think it could look rather nice with a big ‘fuck you’ tattooed over it.”

It took Atticus a moment in the heat of it all to realize that Finlay had already hung up by the time he’d gone on his little rant. All the satisfaction of being able to say that was gone as he slammed down the phone and held his head in his hands.

Atticus couldn’t help but feel like a total, utter failure. As he held his head in his hands, thinking over everything he should’ve and could’ve done, he found himself in tears. He should’ve done better by Faolan. He should’ve fought harder for him. 

As he cried, he tried to tell himself that it would be okay. They got over William together and he’d been with William for many years. They would get over this together, too. It would just be a matter of time, is all. 

That somehow, didn’t reassure Atticus at all. At least Faolan was safe, at home with him. That was the biggest relief of all.

Atticus focused on finishing what he needed to. The next morning, he’d give Faolan the biggest hug he’d ever given him before. He couldn’t risk losing the man again. In fact, as long as he was alive, Faolan would live a free life without worries of men like Finlay.

*!*!*!*!*

The next morning, Atticus decided to start them off on the right foot. The call with the on-call physician was surprisingly helpful. She’d gently reminded Atticus that the two already had a strong relationship, whether Atticus felt secure in it or not. She’d also reminded Atticus that Faolan needed the reassurance just as much as he did. They struggled with a lot of the same insecurities. 

Well, she’d never actually said that. It was something that Atticus knew well from his time with Faolan. What worked for him often worked for his traumatized friend. After all, they were two gay men with no living relatives living in a house together because they were too insecure to find anyone else to live with. It wasn’t exactly a common set of characteristics to find in a person; dead family, war experience, and a life-threatening encounter with some horrific bug. Even if they all happened a world apart, they were more alike than Atticus often remembered.

So, Atticus focused everything into making a good breakfast. Faolan was a traditional artist. Atticus considered himself a food artist. Ever since those early days where cooking took his mind off of his guilt and self-hatred, Atticus had invested more and more time into learning to cook. Especially with those two hours before the sun he had every morning to do as he pleased.

By the end of the two hours, he’d made sausages up from scratch, baked some pastries, chopped fresh fruit, and somehow found time to make hash.

Faolan came down the stairs of their house and saw the sprawling meal in front of him. A mix of emotions washed over his face - first shock, then anxiety, then relief, and lastly, something Atticus hadn’t expected, happiness. 

“Morning sleepyhead. How’d you sleep?”

For the first time in a while, Faolan actually smiled. “You always used to greet me like that.”

“I guess I just expected everyone to get up at the ass crack of dawn like I do,” Atticus added a little sarcastically. “Let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

Again, another first - Faolan smiled and nodded, walking over to the table.

Faolan started to speak after he’d taken a few bites of the food. “Remember that time I broke a plate of tomatoes and panicked? You thought I’d cut myself on the plate and was bleeding.”

Atticus didn’t have a clue as to why that memory had come to Faolan then, but he played along. Maybe it’s the strawberries?

“Yeah, I do. I was so worried about you.”

Faolan chuckled a bit. “I was really scared of you hurting me for breaking that plate. Today, when I brought my plate over from the kitchen, I wasn’t scared of dropping it. I’d forgotten that I was scared of that for a while.”

“You were with William for a while, Faolan. It’s understandable.”

Faolan hummed a little, like he always did when he was thinking about something deeper than he could handle.

“Faolan, I want to apologize.”

That familiar panic washed over Faolan’s face. “F-for what? Is something wrong? What’s happening?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I just…” Atticus didn’t know how to phrase it. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t find you sooner. I should’ve gone with you to that party. I should’ve contacted the police or something. I was just so worried that someone would screw it up that I took it into my own hands to find you. I should’ve done better by you, Faolan. I hope you can forgive me.”

Faolan was quiet for a very long time. “I have to learn to live on my own.” His voice held that wavering conviction Atticus had come to know. “I know I struggle with that sometimes, but…” 

Faolan waved in the air, clearly feeling very guilty for what had happened. Atticus almost felt bad for saying anything at all. “How many people go to parties without being kidnapped like that?”

Atticus soon realized that Faolan couldn’t be more right. He was protective over Faolan as though they’d fought in the same squad at war all those years ago. That commander that hated feeling responsible for the deaths of his soldiers was always there, parroting about his failure to protect people under his command. Sometimes, he forgot that everyone was their own person, and that sometimes, the only person at fault would never see justice.

“I should’ve never gone to that party in the first place. I should’ve done better… as…” Faolan had tears in his eyes that he was holding back. Their breakfast was starting to get cold, but, again, Atticus couldn’t care less.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either.”

Atticus paused at the rebuttal. He was proud of Faolan for saying it to him so easily. Everything’s going to be okay.

“You’re right. It’s that bastard Finlay’s fault.”

They could agree on that.

In fact, that seemed to end the conversation right then and there. They were on the same page, as they always were. Faolan came back over to Atticus for a hug to calm his tears, before he ate his first meal without having a panic attack. Afterwards, Faolan helped him clean up. 

Maybe Faolan didn’t speak of what happened with Finlay today, but Atticus was confident he would eventually. After all, they had the same heartbeat. 

One day, Faolan would talk about it. Today wasn’t that day. Tomorrow wouldn’t be either. However, when the day did come, Atticus would be ready to help him put the pieces down and figure out how to put them back together.

That comforted Atticus. Undoubtedly, Faolan also found it comforting.

*!*!*!*!*

Atticus often described those moments where his body went back to the past as a lightswitch flicking on. He assumed it was much the same for Faolan; they were similar in so many other ways - why not this one? Atticus just never expected it to be so… literal.

Faolan had been sleeping with his door open since he came home from the hospital. It was an unexpected request to say the least. Atticus couldn’t sleep unless he knew his door was shut and locked, along with all his windows. He never opened them to sleep, not even in the dog days of summer. For some reason, he assumed that Faolan would want the security of nobody being able to enter or leave without him knowing.

Though, Atticus presumed, Faolan had probably been a prisoner longer than a soldier. Maybe the open door was comforting.

When Atticus flicked that lightswitch on in the hall, he heard a panicked gasp from Faolan’s room. It wasn’t the first time that Faolan had woken up with a start. Maybe the lights had triggered something with a nightmare? Atticus didn’t know.

Everything seemed “normal” until he heard the panicked whimpers and breaths coming from Faolan’s room.

Atticus peaked his head in. “Faolan, are you okay?”

Clearly, he wasn’t. He was kneeling on the floor with tears streaming down his cheeks. “I-I’m sorry, Master. I didn’t mean to wake up so late. Please don’t shock me. I’m very tired, Master.”

“Faolan?”

It clicked. This is probably how Finlay made Faolan greet him in the morning. 

Faolan had burns from the shock collar when he arrived in the hospital. It took an enormous amount of restraint to not show his anger. Atticus had long since learned to control his anger during Faolan’s flashbacks. No matter how upset he was about what had happened, it was about Faolan, not him. Faolan needed his support, not his ire.

Atticus pulled out the packet of chewing gum he always kept in his pocket.

He approached Faolan carefully, taking his hand and pressing a piece of the chewing gum into it. “Faolan, it’s okay. You’re with me right now.”

Faolan’s eyes darted to the piece of gum, then back to Atticus. His face broke as Atticus could see his heart shatter through his eyes. Those tears from a bleeding, broken heart came rushing out as Faolan began to sob heavy, hard tears of a man who’d been shattered into more pieces than he could put back together.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Atticus.”

Atticus brought Faolan into a warm embrace. “It’s okay. You know I would never be mad at you for something like this.”

Atticus rubbed Faolan’s back as he cried. He whispered those small words of comfort until his hip couldn’t take the odd positioning anymore.

“Faolan,” Atticus pushed him back so he could watch his face, “I need to sit for my hip. Are you okay with sitting on the bed together? It wouldn’t be triggering, right?”

Faolan shook his head. Atticus could see the honesty in his face.

“He didn’t… neither of them… never on my bed. They never hurt me on my bed.”

Looking at those fresh, but distant tears in Faolan’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. Of course, Atticus already knew that both Finlay and William had raped Faolan. Hearing Faolan speak about it was always different, though.

“Okay,” was all Atticus could manage. Faolan was the first to stand, offering his hand to Atticus and helping him with his crutch. 

Together, the two moved to the bed. That moment with the crying had long since passed. Faolan’s eyes were growing dry as that numbness set in. 

“With William… it was all bad.” 

At first, Atticus didn’t quite know why Faolan was saying such a thing, but he let Faolan speak regardless. He knew it was important. He knew the amount of trust it took for Faolan to be able to tell him anything.

“Finlay… he was kind sometimes.”

Silence hung between them for a very long time. It was only broken when Faolan teared up and began to speak again. 

“He would hug me and bathe me when he was done. Sometimes, I feel crazy for preferring that life. It’s just… I feel lost all the time. That life, even if it’s bad, is familiar.”

Atticus had a million things to say and no words to say them with. Before he had time to say anything, though, Faolan broke down crying completely again. Atticus pulled him into a tight hug and squeezed as Faolan clung to his shirt.

“Will therapy ever fix that? The pills don’t help. I just want something to take the pain away.”

Again, Atticus knew not what to say, even if he had a thousand ideas. Perhaps it was just better to let Faolan talk, regardless.

“I feel so broken. Maybe it’s better to live that life. I’m too broken to fix.”

To that, Atticus knew what to say.

“One day, Faolan, you’ll realize that nobody ever broke you. Something in you never gave up on life, all those years you were with William. Even if you felt like you wanted to die, you’ve endured so much more than I ever could. It’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to feel like things aren’t going to get better. Maybe… maybe it’s okay for you to not follow the beaten path. You just need to give things a chance. Hell, I’m a two-time med school drop-out.”

Atticus let out a self-deprecating chuckle. 

“We’ll figure it all out, Faolan. Life will be okay again, like it was before. After what we did to Finlay, he won’t be coming back to you.”

Faolan smiled a little as Atticus gave him another hug. Why Faolan smiled that time, Atticus didn’t really know. Perhaps Faolan didn’t know either.

“Let’s eat out. I don’t want to have to clean.”

With a teary, gargled voice, Faolan gave one of his little quips. “Just so long as it isn’t the marina again.”

Atticus couldn’t have been happier to hear Faolan say that. He’ll be okay.

“Of course. We’ll go to the patisserie instead,” Atticus added sarcastically.

Faolan groaned a little. Atticus smiled.

Things were going to be okay.

[attemptsonherlifepdf]

bojack horseman and bo burnham: the art of acting like you’re acting and the comedy of misery

at the core of bojack horseman, raphael bob-waksberg’s 2014 comedy, is a story about the relationship between performance and depression. the protagonist of this renowned tragicomedy is best described as a sympathetic villain; he is shown to clearly be in the wrong across various events of the show, and is explicitly referred to as a bad person, but the audience is granted deep access to his personal struggles, resulting in some portions of the audience finding themselves on bojack’s side. the duality of his character is complex, but can be broken down into some core components, that all stem from the impacts of stardom and performance. the standup comedy of bo burnham arguably echoes this sentiment in real time. having been a performer from a young age, burnham creates work that serves as a satirical commentary on the life of entertainers. he uses original songs to explore the reliance upon and resentment for his performative nature both onstage and within his personal life. both the comedian and the netflix show are widely understood to be thinly veiling their critiques of the entertainment industry behind a particular brand of witty and absurd humour.

both bojack and burnham’s content openly criticises their audiences and explicitly states the manufactured nature of the narrative the audience is fed. in the fifth season of bojack horseman, the show satirises itself by having bojack star in a police procedural drama, parts of which are actively written by other characters to reflect events of bojack’s life. the titular character he plays, philbert, is the epitome of selfish male angst, and an example of what bob-waksberg’s show could have been; another story about a sad and angry man whose guilt supposedly makes up for the people he has hurt. according to bojack, philbert teaches us ‘we’re all terrible, so we’re all okay’, an interpretation that is harshly disputed by diane: ‘that’s not the point of philbert, for guys to watch it and feel okay. i dont want you, or anyone else, justifying their shitty behaviour because of the show.’ this moment is a direct reaction to some of the online reception bojack horseman has received. various circles of the show’s fanbase have found themselves relating to the protagonist to the point of defending his untoward behaviour, a response not intentioned by the show’s creators. this is not the only example of bob-waksberg’s ability to make his work self-evaluative. in season six’s exposure of bojack and sarah lynn’s problematic relationship, characters question their sexual encounter from the first season. the writers use this as a way of examining their own choices, and the harmful tropes they played into when using this exploitative sexual encounter as a gag. this self-evaluative quality is what sets bojack apart as a show that assesses the performance it participates in, much like the comedy of bo burnham.

bo burnham is known for directly addressing his audience, particularly in terms of discouraging idolisation and parasocial relationships. some examples of this manifest as responses to hecklers rather than a planned bit in the show, for instance:

heckler: i love you!

bo: no you don’t

heckler: i love the IDEA of you!

bo: stop participating!

he actively addresses the issues posed by being an entertainer, and encourages the audience to understand and recognise that his onstage persona is just that: an exaggerated persona. not once does burnham claim to be fully authentic onstage, and even moments of authenticity we see in his latest special, inside, are staged. we make the assumption that having the physical setting of a stage stripped away grants us a more personal look at the entertainer’s life, but he makes it clear that even in his own home we still see the aspects he has carefully constructed rather than the full truth. arguably though, parts of the show really are authentic; in his monologue during make happy, bo deconstructs his own show in a way that is similar to bojack horseman’s later seasons, admitting that all he knows is performing and thus making a show about the more mundane and relatable aspects of life would feel ‘incredibly disingenuous.’ in his attempts to separate himself from this onstage persona he actually manages to blur the lines between what is acting and what is now part of his nature as a result of his job. this notion is echoed in bojack horseman as bojack’s attention seeking nature is attributed to his years acting in front of a camera every day.

bo suggests that the era of social media has created a space in which children’s identities mimic that of an entertainer like himself, describing the phenomenon as ‘performer and audience melded together.’ in this observation he criticises the phenomenon. bo attempts to force the audience to recognise the ways in which their lives are becoming shaped by the presence of an audience and to some extent uses his own life as a warning tale against this. he points out the way in which the ‘tortured artist trope’ means that your cries for help or roundabout attempts of addressing mature themes such as substance abuse, mental illness and trauma become part of that on stage persona and therefore become part of the joke. both bo and bojack address these topics in more discrete manners earlier in their careers, but this eventually becomes expected, and thus they are forced to explicitly detail their struggles with these topics in order to be taken seriously. even then, portions of the audience are inclined to see it as part of the persona or as something that fuels the creators creativity and thus does not need to be addressed as a legitimate issue. the emphasis on creating a character or persona promotes the commodification of mental illness: any struggle must be made into a song or a joke or a bit, must be turned into part of the act in order to have value. this actually serves to delegitimise these emotions and create a disconnect between the feeling and the person, as it becomes near impossible to exist without feeling as though you are acting. even when an artist’s cries for help become blatant, they continue to go ignored because now they serve the purpose of creating content that criticises the industry they stem from. online audiences can be seen as treating bo burnham and his insightful work as existing to demonstrate the negative effects entertaining can have, and because this insight is useful or thought-provoking to audiences, he is almost demanded to keep entertaining and creating. in response to this demand, his work becomes more meta and his messages become clearer, and the more obvious his messages, the more people he reaches. this increases audience demands and traps entertainers in a cycle fraught with internal conflict.

during bojack’s second season, bojack’s date asks him, ‘come on, do that bojack thing where you make a big deal and everyone laughs, but at the same time we relate, because you're saying the things polite society won't.’ this moment exemplifies how aspects of his genuine personality have now become a part of his persona and this is demanded of him in genuine and serious situations, undermining the validity of his emotional reactions. he immediately makes a rude comment to the waitress at the restaurant they’re in and satisfies his date by performing that character he has set himself out to be. some circles of the fan base have argued that bojack is written as a depiction of somebody with borderline personality disorder, offering a psychoanalytical lens through which to view this notion of performance. a defining symptom of borderline personality disorder is a fluctuating sense of self; having grown up on camera, being demanded to perform to others as young as six years old, bojack’s sense of self will have been primarily dictated by the need to act.  whether this acting is for the sake of comedy, or as a representation of masking his mental illness, when they need to act is taken away bojack entirely loses his sense of self and relapses into his addictions: ‘i felt like a xerox of a xerox of a person.’ burnham’s depictions of depression run along a similar vein; in his new special he poses the idea that his comedy no longer serves the same personal purpose it once did for him. he questions ‘shit should I be joking at a time like this?’ and satirises the idea that arts have enough value to change or impact the current global issues that we are facing. burnham’s ‘possible ending song’ to his latest special, he asks ‘does anybody want to joke when no-one’s laughing in the background? so this is how it is.’ implicit in this question is the idea that when the audience is taken away and there is nobody to perform his pain to, he is left with his pain. instead of being able to turn his musings and thoughts into a product to sell to the public, he is forced to just think about them in isolation and actually face them, an abrupt and distressing experience.

the value of performance and art is questioned by both bojack and burnham, particularly during the later years of their respective content. burnham’s infamous song, art is dead, appears to be a direct response to the question ‘what is the worth of art?’ he posits that performing is the result of a need for attention (‘my drug’s attention, i am an addict, but i get paid to indulge in my habit’) and repeatedly jokes throughout his career that the entertainment industry receives more respect that it deserves (‘i’m the same as you, im still doing a job or a service, i’m just massively overpaid’). his revelations regarding the inherent desire for attention that runs through all entertainers is frequently satirised in bojack horseman. bojack is comically, hyperbolically attention hungry and self-obsessed, and the show has a running gag in which he uses phrases along the lines of ‘hello, why is nobody paying attention to me, the famous movie star, instead of these other boring people.’ his constant attempts to direct the focus of others towards himself result in bojack feeling like ‘everybody loves you, but nobody likes you.’ his peers buy into his act and adore the comical, exaggerated, laughable aspects of his character, but find very little room to respond to him on a genuinely personal level because of this. interestingly, bojack appears to enjoy catering to his audience and the instant gratification it produces, whereas bo burnham becomes increasingly candid about his mixed feeling towards his audience. ‘i wanna please you, but i wanna stay true to myself, i wanna give you the night out that you deserve, but i wanna say what i think and not care what you think about it.’ he admits to catering to what audiences want from him, but resents both the audience and himself in the process as it reveals to himself which parts of his character are solely for the sake of people watching him.

within bojack horseman, this concept is applicable not only to the protagonist, but to the various forms of performer demonstrated in the plot. towards the show’s end, sarah lynn asks ‘what does being authentic have to do with anything?’ to which herb kazzaz responds, ‘when i finally stopped hiding behind a facade i could be at peace.’ this highlights the fact that because entertainers are demanded to continue the facade, they do not receive the opportunity to find ‘peace.’ this sentiment is scattered throughout the show, through a musical motif, the song ‘don’t stop dancing.’ the song stems from a life lesson bojack imparted to sarah lynn at a young age, and becomes more frequently used as the show progresses and bojack’s situation worsens.

sarah lynn is also used to explore the value of entertainers; in the show’s penultimate episode, she directly compares her work as a pop icon to the charity work of herb, arguing that if she suffered in order to produce her work. it has to mean something. she lists the struggles she faced when on tour: ‘i gave my whole life...my manager leaked my nudes to get more tour dates added, my mom pointed out every carb i ate, it was hell. but it gave millions of fans a show they will never forget and that has to mean something.’ implicit in this notion is the idea that entertainment is the epitome of self-sacrifice. there is a surplus of mentally ill individuals within the industry, largely due to the nature of the industry itself, but some may argue that the cultural grip the industry has, and the vast amounts of respect and money it generates annually, gives the suffering of these prolific individuals meaning.

the juxtaposing responses entertainers feel towards their audiences manifest as two forms of desperation: the desperation to be an individual who is held accountable, and the desperation to be loved and validated. we see both bojack and bo depict how they oscillate between  ‘this is all a lie’ and ‘my affection for my audience is genuine’, or between ‘do not become infatuated with me im a character’ and ‘please fucking love my character i do not know how to be loved on a personal level.’ bojack explicitly asks diane to write a slam piece on him and ‘hold him accountable’, similar to bo’s song ‘problematic’ in which the hook includes the phrase ‘isn’t anybody gonna hold me accountable?’ for his insensitive jokes as a late teenager. their self-awareness is what enables their self-evaluative qualities, but self-awareness is its own issue. bojack grapples with a narcissistic view of his own recognition of his behaviour before settling on a more nuanced, albeit depressing take. originally he makes the assumption that in recognising the negative aspects of himself, he is superior to those who behave similarly: ‘but i know im a piece of shit. that makes me better than all the pieces of shit that don’t know theyre pieces of shit.’ eventually, during his time at rehab he is forced to reconcile with the fact that self awareness does not, to put it bluntly, make you the superior asshole, it just makes you the more miserable one. the show does, however, make a point to recognise how the entertainment industry protects ‘pieces of shit’, prioritising their productive value over how much they deserve to be held accountable, demonstrated using characters like hank hippopoalus. the show itself obviously stems from the entertainment industry, as it is a form of media produced by netflix, one of the most popular streaming platforms available. bojack horseman and bo burnham represent the small corner of the industry that is reflective enough to showcase the damage it inflicts. this is powerful in terms of education and awareness, and urges audiences to question their own motives and versions of performance, but the reflection alone is not powerful enough to help the artists in question. burnham’s candid conversations surrounding his mental health continue to reveal a plethora of issues somewhat caused or sustained by the nature of his career. within bojack horseman, bojack is only able to stop hurting other characters when those characters construct a situation that forces him to face consequence, his introspection alone is not enough. while bojack ends on a message of hope, suggesting to the audience that reverting back to the status quo is not the only acceptable way for events to end, it leaves stinging lessons and social commentary with the audience regarding the unnatural and damaging narrative that performers live through. on a similar but markedly different note, bo burnham’s work and personal progression is playing out in real time, and not in a way that is as raw and genuine as it appears. each bit is planned, even the most vulnerable moments that appear unplanned and painful. his latest special is not entirely devoid of hope, but does translate to audiences as a somewhat exaggerated look around the era of social media and the development of performance, using himself as an example.

the absurdist humour that often acts as a vehicle for poignant statements or emotionally provocative questions is very specific to each media creator. bob-waksberg’s use of puns, tongue twisters and entirely ridiculous circumstances served to simultaneously characterise his points as an expected part of the show’s style of humour, similar to bojack’s emotional instability, but also to make them appear gut-punching in comparison to the humour. burnham’s work is similar in that poignant but blunt statements are often sandwiched between absurd and exaggerated jokes, making them stand out via contrast but not giving the audience too much time to dwell upon them as they are said. performance art is second nature to entertainers, and is presented a an issue that is infiltrating the general population via social media rather than solely affecting the ‘elites’. bojack horseman and bo burnham present the duality of artists simultaneously attempting to level the playing field and increase their chances of survival in the industry, and encourage audiences to know that everyone is bluffing and you’ll never have the right cards anyway.

i.k.b

[san-fics]

Felix VS the World

I've been repeatedly asked why in my fics I don't make Felix an outright villain who has lost all concern for what happens to other people, but only achieves his goal regardless of the means, which would be closer to the canon character.

Although my Felix usually acts on his own discretion and doesn't care about most people who aren't interesting to him, he always has that human warmth inside him, thanks to which he is actually able to build close relationships with those people who he really does care about.

The fact is that from a psychological point of view, Felix in Canon doesn't correspond to himself in the course of the plot development.

The creators of Miraculous showed us that Felix has an excellent relationship with his mother, which is for a man (as well as for a woman) the key to the ability to build close relationships with significant people in the future, and his external coldness and detachment may be caused by his introversion, and not the inability to experience feelings, as many fanfiction authors impose on this character, showing him as internally cold, or asexual, or just an insensitive villain.

And although we didn't see what Felix's relationship with his father was like, purely psychologically, we can conclude that the two were close, because having an adequate relationship with their father is for a person the key to the ability to achieve success both in business and in any other endeavors. And by showing us that Felix has already reached many heights (early completion of school, achievements in sports, etc.), the creators of the series just confirm this assumption.

Of course, Felix recently experienced severe psychological trauma in the form of the loss of that very father, and his aggression towards people who, being close to him, didn't support him at the time of loss, is related to this fact. And this is an adequate reaction and in psychology is called post-traumatic stress disorder, during which a person has the right to oppose themself to the world in feeling and action, which Felix does, and at the same time still be considered socially adequate while this period lasts.

And technically speaking, in Felix's case, this period has clearly not yet passed, because we know that it hasn't been a year since the death of his father (which is the psychological cycle to deal with trauma), because a little more than a year has passed since Adrien's mother disappearance, and we know that Felix's loss was later, because Gabriel didn't let Adrien go to the funeral, referring to the loss of Emilie.

But then the authors of the show begin to oppose Felix to the main characters of the series (heroes), associating his actions with the main villain of the show (which, in my opinion, isn't Gabriel, but the authors themselves…). This plot twist is no longer go in accordance with psychological stress or childhood trauma, but driven by the Miraculous authors' desire to lengthen the story for a few more seasons. And we know that characters' integrity in Ladybug show is often neglected in favor of the plot or to create buzz around the upcoming episode.

We saw this with Chloe, who suddenly changes the direction of her personality from good to evil and back, we saw this with Alya, who either absolutely believes Lila without a second thought or suddenly turns out to be the most insightful and attentive around, we saw this with Adrien and Marinette themselves, who grow unrecognizably smarter and dumber out of the plot necessity…

Therefore, dear readers, unlike the creators of Ladybug, I follow my psychological instinct and pay attention to what situation surrounded the character's development as a child, and which actually formed their personality. So, you shouldn't expect a Felix-villain from me, although I periodically write him more or less tough, depending on at what point in his life the story takes place and what events he encounters.

But the family in which he grew up seems adequate to me, therefore, under his coldness, pranks that seem heartless and all the PTSD he experiences, Felix seems to me to be a very developed, adequate and stable person capable of close relationships (much more than Adrien, but that's another story intirely).

So I often see him as someone who - being paired correctly (and even without it) - not only capable of deep tender feelings and long-term serious relationships, but also able to help his partner overcome personal difficulties and grow.

*

Here are more of my thoughts to read if you feel like it:

Why the authors of Miraculous Ladybug hate Felix so much

Daminette and Felinette dynamics in fanfiction

3 main types of Felix's character development in fanfiction

*

Come to read my fics on Ao3 / Wattpad / Patreon!

[justimajin]

Til Death Do Us Part ♜ Pt. 1

➟ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader 

➟ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut 

↳ (3.7k), Arranged Marriage AU

➟ Summary: If someone told you that you’d be marrying the Kim Namjoon, you would think you were being lied to, or worse, that you were hallucinating. However, fate seems to have it’s own ways of making the impossible possible and before you even know it, the title of Mrs. Kim is bestowed onto you. There’s just one problem: you’re not sure if Kim Namjoon is the person he says he is and the truth of your own identity is dangling by the strength of a mere thread. 

➟ Warnings: This series will involve themes of graphic violence, depictions of blood, major character death and hints of trauma. 18+ rating. Reader discretion is highly advised. 

gif credit. 

➟ Next Update: Tuesday, December 22 

Love is a strange thing. 

It pulls individuals together, sparking fireworks and blissful rays of euphoria within seconds. It renders people affectionate, words dripped with honey and caresses full of tenderness transcending  without a means of stopping. To be frank, it’s majestic through the eyes of the beholder. 

But love is indeed a strange thing. 

It’s history has been plagued with moments of weakness and hesitation, moments that rip away layers to reveal raw, vulnerable selves from every individual. It’s inability to forget and move on clutches onto the minds of those that chose to associate with it, invading their memories and never granting them a single second to run free. Love is a strange thing, but it’s most putrid use has always been the necessity to use it like a tool. 

A deep breath escapes your tinted red lips, cold hands clutching onto the delicate bouquet that’s been thrust into them. The petal pink and lilac purple flowers rest against the chaste white of your dress, the awaited arrival of yours long passed as you raise your head and sneak a peek at the person standing in front of you behind your veil. 

Clad in a special tailored suit for the occasion, his dark brown hair has been brushed back and neatly tucked into the corners of his hair. He stands tall and confident, seemingly captivated by the words the priest mumbles through as he drags on through every dull phase written in his book. As if he can tell your eyes are on him, he suddenly looks in your direction and you return your gaze back to the ground, clutching onto the array of petals in your hands. 

The priest goes on to dutifully declare the responsibilities you must carry, including the very ones that tie you to each other. 

For better, for worse. Rich, poor. Sickness, health. 

Love. Cherish. 

“Until death do you part?” The priest peers up with fatigued eyes, glancing in between you. You suck in a shaky breath, eyes fixating on everything except for the man standing on the opposing side.  

“I-I do.” You hastily mutter, swallowing the lump stuck in your throat. Patiently waiting for his answer, you try not to focus on the collection of eyes gawking at you from the altar. 

“I do.” He states, firm and resolute with his answer. It shakes you to your core, eyes immediately flickering up to meet his warm ones. 

You’re perplexed for a moment, but you’re not given time to dwell any longer once the priest shuts his book, content with your answers. Relief floods you in an instant, yet it’s short-lived and has your stomach churning instead. 

“You may kiss the bride.” The priest steps back as if you needed room for the grandiose gesture, eagerly awaiting the showcase with the rest of the people seated in front of the altar. Nevertheless, your hands begin to quiver despite your best wishes and you remain planted in place. 

Before you even know it, the delicate veil resting against your forehead is being pulled up and tucked away, projecting your dolled up features on full display. You can only fidget when he draws near, preparing for the worse until he pauses. 

Glancing up in surprise, you’re caught off guard from the lines crossing his forehead and the dismay clouding his eyes. For a second, you could have sworn that you were gazing into a mirror, an image of your combined concerns being painted right in front of you. 

You’re caught in between a daze and bewilderment when he advances again, however all you feel is a soft peck against your skin before your veil is placed back into place. Your audience seems to be at loss with the action, but once he turns around to face them in the midst of holding your hand, loud cheers and roars flood the room as congratulatory confetti bursts into the room. 

Unconsciously, your hand drifts over to your cheek with furrowed brows and you steal another glance at the man you will be bound to for eternity. 

***

The L/N Family. 

Tactical and resourceful, known for their skillful strategies and trade explorations, a business they would go on to proudly pronounce in the arms industry. Others would look to them for support and reassurance, and they would in return cohesively make protective deals that would ensure no harm. Yonghwa, their head, would go on to make a legacy out of his family name. 

The Kim Family. 

Discreet and powerful, known for their relentless determination and invokable hunger, characteristics that would eventually seep into their weapon manufacturing business. They know how and with whom to pick their fights, vigorously acquiring a steady position in the industry within a flash before everyone’s eyes. Namjung, their head, carved the Kim name into a status no one would have ever imagined. 

Trade and manufacturing, two able sides of the same coin. They seeked to forge an union that would unite their two sectors, to create a harmonious flow of success within their collective industries. 

But not all deals, go as planned. 

On the fateful day, Yonghwa was found on the ground in a pool of his own blood while Namjung was left visibly shaken. Catastrophe seemed to only follow the event there on after, with both families seeking revenge on the other. Their union seemed to be the last thing on either mind, but after the years passed and stained relations had been fully dragged out, there only seemed to be one solution that could bring peace to the two of them. 

*** 

The wheels of the large suitcase hit the polished ground. 

It’s lavish and grand, crystals littering the high held ceiling and lilies spread over the handles of the spiraling staircase. It ends right at the large chandelier, with more crystals dangling down opposite the shining marble that your slippers find purchase in. 

You remain in place, staring with wide eyes and an agape jaw the scenery before you. 

“Please,” A girl bows before you, dressed in a simple pale blouse and skirt that’s paired with an apron. There’s a small twinkle in her pleasant eyes paired with natural pouting lips; the delicate features drawing out the sheer youth the girl embodies. “Follow me.” 

You snap out of your daze once she advances forward, her hands careful weaving through yours to clutch onto your packed luggage. At first, you’re a bit unsure as to if you should let her carry the heavy load up the stairs, but you’re pleasantly surprised when she manages to hall it all the way up.

She roughly pushes herself against a large wooden door, revealing the grand room behind it. It’s decorated similarly to the main portion of the house, however the sheer size of it has your jaw dropping again, eyebrows furrowed as its appearance. 

Your suspicions are confirmed right away, “This will be your room, Miss Y/N.” 

“I-I…” You can’t help but hesitate, “Are you sure?”

She nods, placing your luggage now. “Of course, Master Kim asked us to prepare it for you.” 

You instinctively flinch at the sudden mention of your husband, but the girl tilts her head to the side, curiosity peeking through her. 

“Don’t they have such rooms in the L/N residence?” Her eyes suddenly widen, and she slaps a hand against her mouth, “Oh no, I-I didn’t mean it that way!” 

A smile curls on the corners of your lips, “What’s your name?” 

She gazes at you with surprise, like she had been expecting a scolding fit for her lifetime. Nonetheless, she hastily answers your question with a bow. 

“I am Eunjoo, one of Master Kim’s most faithful servants.” 

“Little flower.” You decipher, “Sounds like a fitting name.” 

“It could have been summer’s grace.” Eunjoo offers with a shrug, “Though I don’t really like summer, so I’ve tried my best to ignore that meaning.” 

You let out a genuine chuckle from that, something that has Eunjoo instantly beam. The news of her own Master getting married to someone from the L/N family was initially difficult for her to digest, but it appears that she was too early to judge. 

A lopped smile etching onto your features, “And to answer your previous question, unfortunately the L/N’s don’t have such a residence. We’ve lost much of our wealth after‒…” You pause, biting back your words, “...after, you know.” 

You wave your hand away in the air and Eunjoo understandably nods, no need to delve into the long-lived history of your families that is known to all. She hurriedly aids in you in unpacking much to your reassured protests, following and assisting you around like a little fairy. Her company ends up being both interesting and comfortable, especially since the two of you discovered the other wasn’t well in adapting the titles you carry. 

A knock resounds against the door, drawing out your attention. Immediately Eunjoo drops the clothes in her hands, right before she straightens up and takes a graceful bow. 

Her reaction is telling of who's at the door, so with pinched lips and a creased forehead, you turn around. 

He remains glued to the door frame, still adorned in his tailored black suit. Aside from the similarity in his put together appearance though, his shoulders are no longer hiked up in a noble stance, nor is there any remaining amount of warmth spreading through his eyes. Instead, he appears akin to how he was in the split-second before your ultimate union was official, the memory causing the skin of your cheek to slightly burn. 

Swaying from side to side, he hesitates to step into the room. 

“I see you’ve met Eunjoo.” He mentions. On cue, the servant straightens up, a huge smile on her lips. 

“I was just helping Miss Y/N unpack!” 

“Oh that’s nice, perhaps I can assist to‒” He isn’t able to finish his sentence, because the next thing you know you jolt at the sound of a loud crash that echoes through the room. 

“Master Kim!” Eunjoo immediately rushes forward, scurrying to help the fallen man. He instantly rises up to his feet and dusts off his suit jacket, but remains of glass are scattered all over the ground. 

He lets out a groan and Eunjoo sighs, “Master, you know you have to be careful.” She begins to quickly pluck up the shards of the vase, raising one up to eye level with a pout, “I especially picked this one out for your newly wedded wife.” 

At the mention of you, Namjoon instantly glances up, pupils shaking. “I-I can get you a new one soon, it might take around a week but if I put in a request now‒” He scrambles around for a moment, before checking the inner pockets of his jacket for something to write on in a haste. 

Unconsciously, a small smile cracks through the seam of your lips, increasing as he tries to intervene with Eunjoo to pick the shards, and she protests that he shouldn’t get his hands soiled with her errands. He eventually has to sheepishly stand to the side, staring at her defeated like a child that had just gotten scolded for misbehaving. 

Eunjoo eventually collects all the pieces and ushers herself out, reminding you of the pending family dinner you’ll need to attend in the evening. She leaves the room and you decide to resume unpacking, until you come across the realization that you’re not alone. 

“Do you need help?” He peers at your suitcase behind you, “I’m usually more capable with things that aren’t easy to break.” 

The abrupt proximity catches you by surprise, but you merely shake your head at his kind offer, “I should be fine, thank you.” 

He nods and you assume he’ll excuse himself after a moment, but he lingers and that’s when you crane your head over at him. 

Appearing to be in between a deep ponder, he snaps back into reality once your questioning eyes fall onto him. “Uh I‒” A lengthy sigh leaves his lips, “I know this is strange.”

You wonder what he's referring to until you notice him gesturing to the gap between you, “It’s strange for me, and it’s strange for you. We didn’t really have a choice in the matter.” 

He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck, a deep crease forming between his brows. You’re frozen in place, at a complete loss for words. 

He suddenly sucks in a breath, looking up to gaze into your eyes, “But I’d like to get to know you better….a-as my future wife.” 

Your eyes round and his declaration only receives dead silence in its awake. Flabbergasted, he attempts to correct himself amidst your prolonged response. 

“T-That doesn’t mean right away! We can take our time and I’m not expecting anything from you, so you don’t need to worry and‒” 

“I’d like that.” 

He freezes, “Wait, really?” 

You hum, a corner of your mouth lifting, “You’re right, it’s strange. But I’d like to get to know my husband better as well.” 

His eyes immediately sparkle, like you’ve said the very words he’s been aching to hear, “That’s great!” A breathtaking smile overtakes his features, “I guess I’ll see you at dinner then?” 

You nod with a smile,  and he departs, the euphoria never once leaving his lips. 

***

Evening draws near and long gone is the dilatory white piece of garment that’s forever confined you to your fate. Instead, it’s replaced with a delicate fabric of rose gold, perhaps to represent the luxury you have of being present in such a place or in the new beginnings that will soon follow you. 

Regardless, you prepare yourself. Although you’re simply arriving to dinner, there’s a family waiting at the table that you don’t know of yet. 

Eunjoo brings you down with her after putting your hair up and presenting a pair of matching heels your way. You’re wary as you walk down the spiraling staircase, barely balancing yourself on the elevated shoes. Luckily, Eunjoo notices and helps you down, but the split moment of relief is met with a jolt of surprise when you notice someone waiting at the bottom.

“I’ll take it from here, Eunjoo.” The women amiably bids. Eunjoo swiftly bows, mumbling something along the lines of Mistress Kim, before heading into the dinner room. 

You immediately whirl around, eyes on alert like a deer in headlights. She mirthfully smiles at you, carrying a warm tone in her eyes that feels familiar. 

“You don’t have to look so worried,” She reprimands, “I’m not going to bite your head off.” 

Your eyes widen even more, “I-I’m sorry?” 

She bursts out into laughter, concealing her ruby red lips with a hand that is glittering in assorted jewels. 

“Nothing, dear. I’m just teasing you.” You nervously laugh at that, and she places a hand against your back, guiding you forward. “Come, I’m eager to know what my son’s wife is like.” 

Politely nodding, you follow behind her and nearly freeze. If you had expected your bedroom to be astonishing, then you weren’t prepared for the enormous buffet that waits for you ahead. 

Pieces of food are scattered all over the decorated table, ranging from freshly cooked to foods you would have never imagined yourself eating. It reminds you of times your family could barely manage to have a decent meal for one night, lost scavenging for food that wouldn’t make your empty pockets hurt. 

You’re so lost in the thought that you don’t feel someone brush by you. There’s suddenly a warm hand planting onto your shoulder, drawing your attention with a smile full of dimples. 

“Do you want to sit down first?” He gestures to the table, where his mother sits next to his father and opposite to his sister. Embarrassed that you’ve been just gawking at the table, you hurriedly take a seat and so does Namjoon. 

Even though you’re only just sitting at the table, it seems like all eyes are on you, burning into your skin and tracing every move. The impending silence eventually does crack though, and it’s done by a person you would have least expected. 

“Is that chicken?” Namjoon’s father blurts out, his eyes following a tray one of the servants brings by. His wife immediately interjects, dismayed by his reaction. 

“Indeed,” She points a demanding finger at him, “But none for you, there’s a reason why your health hasn’t been the greatest as of lately.” 

He pouts at her response, longley staring at the dish once it arrives. The childlike display catches you a bit off guard, eyebrows raised. 

“That’s unreasonable though.” He suddenly looks in your direction, “What do you think, Y/N? Isn’t she being unreasonable?” 

The abrupt inquiry leaves you speechless, no coherent words manifesting at the tip of your tongue. His wife whirls around, cocking up a brow in his direction. 

“Why are you dragging her into this?” She faces you with a smile, “Y/N is the newest addition to our family so we should make her feel welcome, not bring her into such trivial matters.” 

The pleasant response astonishes you, but more so the mention of your inclusion. He lets out a sigh, acknowledging his wife’s sentiments. 

“You’re right.” He turns to you, “Y/N, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” 

His mother hums, “I’d like to hear about where you grew up, Y/N.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing really special,” You grow bashful, “I was raised in the outskirts of the country by my parents.” 

The two of them nod, intently listening to you, “Before coming here, I studied in the imperial academy for a while.” 

“Ah, involved in the industry I see.” He praises, “You must know a lot about how our businesses are conducted, right?” 

“Not quite.” There’s a strained smile on your lips, “I didn’t want to actively participate in it.” 

Although your answer seems to have taken both of them by surprise, his wife hums in approval. “So I’m assuming that was your personal choice?” 

When you nod, a giant smile stretches onto her lips, and she elbows her husband, “A gutsy one, don’t you think?” 

He smiles in retaliation, “Just like you.” 

She blushes at his sudden compliment, but a voice from afar breaks the two out of their daze. 

“Gross - we’re eating here.” 

Appalled at the feminine voice, you notice the young girl seated across from Namjoon, a deep frown etched onto her stern features. 

“Leave them be, Geongmin.” Namjoon coaxes his sister, but she lets out a grunt of disapproval in the midst of eating soup.

The corners of his mother’s lips turn up and his father faces you again, looking as if he had a million questions up his sleeve lined up just for you. 

Much to your surprise, the rest of the evening is spent exchanging pleasantries with them and keeping conversation light. There even comes a moment when both you and Namjoon end up reaching out for the bread basket, only to pull away once you discover your hands had ended up meeting halfway. As you grow bashful, you notice his mother smiling tenderly and his father chuckling at the abrupt affiliation. 

Once the evening begins to come to an end, you excuse yourself through the use of your own fatigue and request to head to bed first. They waste no time in understanding, with Namjoon’s father even wrapping a hand around his son and expressing that he needed to discuss some things with him anyway. 

You leave the room as he heads off with his family, granting you with some much-needed time and space. 

***

Treading back, you pause at the large wooden door that leads into your room. Your eyes briefly skim over the fine carvings on the wood, instead choosing to scrutinize the direction of your right and left side. A shadow casts over your pupils and your hand presses against the door, letting it slowly creak wide open. 

Step by step, you stroll inside and let the light fade out, replacing itself with only darkness. 

The moment the source of luminescence disappears, you move within a flash. The handle is locked, tugged at for a confirmation. There’s a speck of radiance coming from the small lamp you’ve turned on, enough to see the large suitcase you’ve brought get yanked out. 

Zippers are flying and the cover is ripped off. Clothes are frantically thrown astray, dumped into a careless heep without much of a second look. Your hands are weaving through the material and running rampant, eyes flickering with something akin to desire and alloyed with increasing unease. 

Once your hands meet with metal, a twinkle emerges within your orbs. The spindle of ore is unwound; detangling the material in a quickened manner. It looks distinctly similar to what one would use for electrical purposes, set with the intention of providing light in grim areas. 

Right. The intention. 

Unraveled, you cautiously drift over to the large window by the bedside and crank it open. Peering outside, there’s no glimmer or streak of luminescence meeting your eyes, only a dark, simple gray sky. 

Unconsciously a breath of relief leaves your lips and you reach out, reclining your body just enough to reach above and then below the window’s hilt. The instrument effortlessly blends in, appearing like a simple cable that’s been tightly strung around. 

You lean back and rummage through the luggage on the ground, pulling out a small plastic box that doesn’t appear to be much, but more or less, is the sole thing you couldn’t have departed without. With a small hinged click, it connects to the thin barbed string you just unraveled and right when a quiet buzz resonates through, does a smile tugs on the corner of your lips. 

A knock resonates through the box. Followed by another, and then another. It’s succeeded with a prolonged silence on your part, your entire body remaining in a frozen state. 

Static echoes and you let out the air you didn’t realize you were holding from your lungs. 

Within seconds, you are nimbly knocking against the box in repetitive notions. Your actions range from different types of knocks; heavy, light, twice the sound. 

More static echoes and your eyes immediately widen, hands balling up into tighter fists. 

A heavier one. 

“I have….” 

Lighter. 

“...successfully infiltrated….” 

One last firm knock. 

“....the enemy household.”

[mandoalorian]

I'll See You Again, I Promise [Din Djarin x Reader]

!! SPOILERS FOR THE MANDALORIAN SEASON 2 FINALE. DISCRETION ADVISED. !!

Author's note: Spoilers for the Season 2 finale of the Mandalorian. Just like last time, I wrote this in three hours. The episode literally came out three hours ago. I'm so thankful for how many people liked my one shot based around last week's episode— and as promised, this is a continuation of this week's episode (the season finale). You don't have to read the previous part in order to understand this, but if you wish to read it you can find it here.

Masterlist

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 2k

Permanent taglist - let me know if you want to be added: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth

Taglist for this part: @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life @dantakuart @yikesdameron @artsyzartsi @karnita-mexicana @multifandomfollower @saavikchekov @what-is-life-in-general @karnita-mexicana @pcrushinnerd @tillytheslytherin @jedinerd27 @queenofspades20

Din Djarin taglist: @alecdamndario0

gif by @cavill-henry

When you saw Din return, holding the child in one hand, and the ancient Mandalorian weapon in the other hand, relief washed over you. Your whole body deflated and you let out a sigh you didn't even know you were holding in.

"Where are the others?" Din asked, his voice gruff as he pushed a binded Moff Gideon to the ground. You gasped when your eyes met with the ex-ISB officer who you knew had given Din so much trauma and hurt. There was a dark and menacing glint in his eyes that you could see right through.

"With Boba on the ship. They didn't think you'd come back," you admitted sheepishly, biting your lip as you cautiously looked back up at Din. "But I believed in you." You desperately tried to search through his visor and locate his brown eyes.

You wanted to cry; your little family had been restored. Grogu had been rescued. You were once more a clan of three. And now, things could be different. You had seen the beauty that was hidden beneath the beskar. You had seen Din for who he really was. You imagined starting a new life with him and the Child, far far away and out of any danger. You could be happy. Of course, you had to deal with Moff Gideon first.

You took a step closer to Din, breaking any remaining distance and placing a hand on his chest. "I'm so glad you're safe." Din revealed with a shaky exhale as you caressed the child. You wanted nothing more than to curl up into his arms and tell him how much you loved him, how proud you were. Grogu was so lucky to have a father as loving as Din.

"We can leave now," you smiled weakly. "We can be free. Go to the lake county on Naboo and start a new life. Live in peace." You had half forgotten Moff Gideon was even there. You just wanted to live in the moment with Din. All you could see was the love of your life holding his child. Everything else in your peripheral vision was a blur. It didn't matter.

"How cute," Moff Gideon's lips curled into a snarl. "The Mandalorian has a lover? What an unexpected twist of events." Din knocked Gideon to the ground the second those malicious words left his mouth, leaving him doubled over and grumbling in pain.

"We don't have time to stick around, we have to go." Din told you, grabbing your hand and interlocking his gloved fingers with yours. You were ready. You were so ready to leave this life behind and be with Din and Grogu forever. It was the happily ever after you knew Din deserved more than anyone else in the galaxy. Before the blast doors could open, the nav system began to beep hysterically, illustrating that a single light Starfighter was boarding the same Imperial cruiser you and your little family were on.

"It's an X-Wing…" you were rendered speechless. Din considered who it might have been. Had Cara comm’d the New Republic from the ship? If so, why was it only just one fighter? Could it have been the likes of Trapper Wolf who had granted Din a favour back when he encountered trouble on the ice planet of Maldo Kreis? Din was truly clueless.

Grogu began to coo and shuffle around, prompting Din to carefully place his son on the floor. Grogu waddled over to you by the terminal, gargling and pointing his finger up at one of the screens. "What is it buddy?" you asked, leaning down and picking up Grogu. Grogu guided you to the CCTV where you saw a cloaked figure emerge from the X-Wing and ignite a lightsaber. Your heart stopped. "Din…" you said nervously, your grip tightening around Grogu defensively. "You might want to see this."

Din approached the small screen and looked closely. "A Jedi?" he asked, although it almost sounded rhetorical. He looked back at Grogu who was already staring up at him. "Did you… did you bring him here?" Din asked the child, his voice breaking slightly. Grogu made a small and indistinguishable noise in response.

"No," you placed a hand on Din's shoulder with comfort. "No, Grogu wouldn't…" you reassured him.

"The seeing stone," Din deadpanned, his gaze not tearing from his son once. He remembered Ahsoka Tano's words. "Grogu reached out with the force and if a Jedi felt his presence, they'd come looking for him," Din turned to you, his body stiff and his voice shallow. "And they've come."

Your lips parted slightly as you turned back to the screen, watching as the mysterious figure roamed through the halls of the Imperial cruiser. Part of you deep down knew that Din was right. It was the only plausable explanation, but that didn't mean you wanted it to happen. You knew it wouldn't be long until you were found.

"Din, let's go," you said with teary eyes, feeling your anxiety bubble up in your stomach. "Please Din? Can we just go."

Din clenched his fingers into a fist. "No." he said sternly, his voice returning back to being gruff and modulated. He was doing what he always did when fear consumed him. He'd shut himself out and go into hunter/protector mode. He'd become the fighter he was trained to be since he was just a young boy.

"Din." you hated the way his name fell from your tongue, sounding needy and desperate, but you were just as afraid. You didn't want to stay any longer. You had what you needed; Din and the child. You didn't need anything else. You could go now.

Din picked up Grogu and nursed him in his arms, holding him close to his chest. Just like always, Grogu curled up into his father, taking comfort in feeling his beating heart, learning the true feeling of unconditional familial love.

The blast doors shot open and the cloaked figure entered the room. Your fingers dropped to the blaster in your holster as he approached you both. The man put his lightsaber away, signifying surrender, and pulled down his hood, revealing himself. He looked slightly older than you, with pale skin with mousy brown hair. He looked like he had seen a lot in his lifetime.

"Are you a Jedi?" Din asked eventually, breaking the silence through the need of confirmation.

"Yes, my name is Luke Skywalker," he introduced with a small nod. You recognised that name… Skywalker, perhaps from old tales, the likes of myths and folk stories. You didn't spend long contemplating the mystery man's identity. There were more pressing matters at hand and so you opted to brush it off completely. "I have come for the child," Luke announced and Grogu turned from Din, his ears cocking at the mention of him and looked at the man with curiosity. "Hello little one." Luke smiled.

Grogu cooed in response before turning back to his father with big pleading eyes. "He doesn't want to go with you." Din gulped, his heart aching. There was no way to be sure, Din could never know exactly what Grogu wanted. But he was aware of the bond he had with his son, now more than ever he was aware. He knew that there was no way his son would want to leave him. Din loved Grogu. Din loved Grogu with every inch of his being.

"He wants your permission." Luke explained, and Din turned back to look at the little green bean in his arms. His… permission? "He is incredibly strong with the force and without learning how to utiIize his powers he can become a danger to those around him… and a danger to himself. It's important that he understands the nature of the power he possesses."

Luke's words became a blundered fuzz in the back of your mind. This was Grogu— this was Din's little boy. When Din looked into Grogu's eyes, he saw nothing but memories. From the pair of them sipping spotchka, to chasing frogs and playing in the hull of the Razor Crest, everything just felt so distant. Din took a deep breath, his finger softly brushing against Grogu's cheek.

"Hey go on… he's one of your kind," Din winced at his own words. One of your kind— something the Armourer had implanted in Din's head all those months ago. "I'll see you again. I promise."

You felt your heart shatter in your chest. This… wasn't meant to happen. It wasn't meant to end up like this. You wanted to speak, you wanted to say something and put a stop to this absurdity. You knew better than anyone that Din needed Grogu and Grogu needed Din. It felt like your throat had closed up, like you could hardly breathe. All you could do was stand there and watch it play out.

Grogu reached up with a small wail, his green claw tracing the curves and ridges of Din's beskar helmet.

Din knew exactly what his son wanted, and right now, Din was certain he wanted it too. Just for once, he wanted to look at his son with his own eyes. Not the eyes blinded by his visor blade, Din wanted the child to know his face. Recognise him. With a hiss and a click, Din removed his helmet. You swore your heart stopped upon seeing him again. Brown eyes, but this time they were glazed with tears and there was nothing you could do about it.

Grogu reached back up and rested his claw over Din's jaw. Subconsciously, Din leaned his cheek into Grogu's hand, never wanting to pull away from his touch. His heart was broken beyond repair.

"All right pal," Din rasped. "It's time to go." He didn't want this. He couldn't do this. But he had to. He had to be strong for his son. He had to be a good father. "Don't be afraid." Was Din's final words to his son.

He placed Grogu down carefully and nodded towards Luke, accepting his fate. Grogu clutched onto Din's leg, not wanting to let go. His little mind was racing with wonder— why can't his daddy come with him? Why must he go alone? The erratic beeps of a white and blue astromech droid were what eventually tore the curious child from his father. Grogu waddled towards the droid and Luke picked him up.

No matter how hard he tried, Din couldn't seem to swallow the lump in his throat. Everything Din had done so far had led up to the moment, and he wanted to curse himself for letting it affect him this much. He should've been prepared. It's just, he really didn't think this would happen. He really didn't think Grogu would want to leave.

He didn't blame the child of course. He could never blame the child. He just wished he understood. Just before the doors to the elevator closed, Luke spoke up. Unfazed, unbroken. "May the force be with you." he wished. Din ignored the comment. It meant nothing to him. Nothing meant anything anymore. No meaning, no purpose. Luke tapped the key that would shut the doors and Din offered his son once last nod, trying his hardest to break out an impossible smile. When the doors finally closed, Din let out a choked sob and fell to his knees.

You sprinted over to Din, kneeling down and pulling him into you. He cried, hot salty tears falling from his brown eyes and dripping down his face. You pulled his head into your lap and smoothed out his hair trying your hardest to lull him. But you couldn't. You couldn't even bring yourself to comfort him. Your shoulders curled in and you fell limp, whimpering into his hair. You felt completely broken. Grogu was like a son to you, and you cherished him so very much. You couldn't even imagine how Din was feeling.

His little family was no more but he knew that Grogu was going to go on to do bigger and better things. No matter what, Grogu was going to make Din proud.

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

why does jean warn up to mc so quickly? ikevamp makes it clear that jean is a pretty reserved person and doesn't open up or let people in easily but he seems to let mc in quite quickly and it confuses me quite a bit.

Oh boy, where to begin with this one.

Well, I have a lot of Feelings^TM about this, but I'll try to be concise. Essentially, I think Jeanne doesn't recover in the other routes--or the general storyline--largely because he's just a lot to unpack narratively speaking. And without some pretty direct intervention, he has a hard time healing. MC’s direct intervention was meaningful because it was focused, consistent, and adapted to Jeanne’s specific needs. She also doesn’t make light of his experiences which is key; she fully understands that she can’t fathom what he’s been through. There is a very weighty respect and acknowledgement, a seriousness with which she treats his wounds that’s important.

It’s easy to make this a “why is MC nOt LiKe ThE oThEr GiRlS” but honestly that’s just not the sense I get when I look at all the information available to us. 

That being said, I also just feel like every person's recovery from traumatic events doesn't really look the same? I mean Leonardo’s cptsd isn’t going to operate the same way Jeanne’s wartime/Inquisition cptsd is going to operate. Some people require very individualized healing, others will often require a large scale group effort to lift them up.

Typically people don't ever just get over what happened to them and never worry about it again, either. It's usually a process of coping; the hope is that with time you find healthy ways to deal with grief and move forward. Therapists aren't magicians, they just help people process painful experiences/thoughts. It's honestly up to individuals to find meaningful ways to implement these tactics. 

Tl; dr: My contention is that Jeanne doesn’t open up or choose to stay alive because MC magically heals him, rather his recovery is a convergence of many people’s efforts and hopes that he stays alive. Gilles (he insists that Jeanne must live, asks him to promise), MC (affirms and bolsters that promise), Comte (makes a second life and recovery possible)--and in no small measure Mozart and Napoleon--all make an active effort to buoy him. As people often say, it takes a village to raise a child.

While Jeanne seems to respond most powerfully to MC’s attempts, it feels more like a product of chemistry/compatibility than it does a random cop out. There is no insinuation that only romantic love can heal; after all, MC gets close to him without any romantic intentions at first. They’re just good friends? It’s more that their feelings simply moved in a different direction after a point, which doesn’t necessarily happen all the time. Jeanne is also incredibly moved by Mozart’s love for him as a friend, Comte’s love for him as a father, and even Gilles’ love as a comrade to an extent. If anything, without their input Jeanne’s capacity for romantic love would be questionable at best.

Now, because I can never for the life of me stop analyzing, I have a more large scale outline of my thoughts below. Spoilers for Jeanne’s route:

If we look at Jeanne's life history, he has pretty specific trauma. Most of the harm he endured was a direct result of human rights violations after the war itself. He didn't enjoy fighting and killing people, but he's also very much a man that sees the reality of his position: it's either kill or be killed. His entire goal was to defeat the enemy as efficiently as possible in the hopes of ending conflict, and with his enormous resolve turns the tide. He had no innate interest in inflicting harm, or lack of control when engaging. He isn't pathological about it, and doesn’t dehumanize the other side. He was more "this was an act of necessity, but those are still human beings." So as far as I can tell he has a very strong moral compass and sense of duty, he doesn't show much delusion/confusion in that regard. (Also evident in his conversations with the young orphan boy.) Furthermore, he has been shown to have a sense of humor--cracking jokes with Gilles and boosting morale for his fellow soldiers.

His childhood abandonment is significant (he left his home because he was "not an adequate farmhand and they had no ability to feed all their children") but I don't know if I would consider it a huge trauma point for him. It seems as though he deemed it an act of necessity--not spite. It was simply the way of things, and he couldn't help his wiry constitution. You'd be surprised how common that was once upon a time, tbh... While it's certainly not right or fair, it does appear that in his perception it was the choice he made and he moved on after he became a soldier. Just focusing on what he could do, rather than everything he lacked. For people in his position, they often feel it is useless to linger on what should have been. There’s no time to linger or doubt, life hangs in the balance.

That leaves us with his time under the Inquisition, just before he was slated to be burned alive. I think this is the keystone trauma point for him, because there are a lot of moving parts to his powerlessness here. The first part is that his entire life's mission--ending the war so that people would no longer have to die and/or starve as a result of senseless violence--was just sabotaged. All those years of doing things he never wanted to do (wartime violence) and being forced to leave his family to ensure they didn't all starve, all of it treated like some kind of joke. Like he didn't sacrifice years of his life and sanity to protect a people who were happy to call him a monster and watch him burn alive. The second part is the overt gaslighting and rewriting of Jeanne's personal history (and overall French public perception) for the sake of the King's political agenda. To call him a treasonous danger to the country when he was once lauded a hero. The third portion is the actual physical helplessness of being arrested, starved, and continuously maimed for no reason beyond pure malice. While it's never right to do that to any human being, this was done to a man who prided himself on his stalwart moral code. To abuse and torture him for something egregious that he would never do (at the risk of death) is just another slap in the face to everything he is and believes in.

I just feel like the context clarifies why that period of time would be the tipping point. His entire moral code and life’s work is being called into question and swept aside, as well as his agency? He believes very powerfully in a sense of right vs wrong, what's fair and what isn't fair. Somebody else deciding that for him--and deciding in a way that is openly unfair/incorrect--further makes him lose himself and his sense of reality. A person in that situation begins to doubt if they are good or bad. His belief in god all the more pressing; if he was a good person, why would fate bring him so much suffering? Honorable soldier or not, his blade has drawn so much blood...

People often reference his stilted social skills (and I am of the belief that he is on the autistic spectrum) as a reason why he is so "people-adverse" but tbh? I don't agree. His memories before the onset of this trauma reveal that he was actually a very warm person, and that people were more than willing to fight under his banner. He had friends, and he had comrades--his country loved him. He was the picture of well-meaning civic duty. Just because he doesn’t integrate smoothly into larger social groups or adapt well to socially shifting circumstances, doesn’t mean he just hates people lmao. When people give him the space to exist within his comfort zone and don’t take advantage of him, he thrives. Compounded by that, we also have his actions in the present to further prove what is true and what isn't.

While he is stern with the orphan boy (I'm sorry I can't remember his name, damn it) there is no malice or cruelty in what he has to say. He doesn't punish the kid or do anything out of line. It may not be fair in terms of the adult level of discretion he asks of him, but the kid also didn't have a lot of options realistically speaking lmao. Same thing with MC, she and the orphan boy are nearly identical in how Jeanne treats them. He's a little rough, but the route reveals that his intentions are just a reflection of what he's been through. He truly believes that if a person isn't strong, they won't survive--because his entire life was a series of trying to be strong/reliable because nobody else would. There was nobody to protect him, and nobody to care for him went things went south. It was him and his sword against the world, and even his exceptional skill as a fighter did not protect him from the Inquisition's arbitrary torture. He has lived in a world where good acts can become absolutely meaningless, where following rules and helping people still gets you slaughtered. That's going to take a considerable toll on his mental health: where do you find the will to go on when the next second of your life could mean the devastation of everything that matters to you?

Spoilers: you don't. Or if you do, every minute of the day is a fight to stay alive. That is the point at which we meet Jeanne. Caught in the hellish whirlpool of wanting more, wanting better--but being terrified of the cost. The cost of hoping, only for his entire world to go up in flames again. It's not a small thing, in my view.

If you have any doubts as to whether or not that is the case, I direct you to literally every singular instance in which Jeanne's emotional sensibility goes visibly dark/south. When do these instances happen? When it rains, for one. And when Shakespeare deliberately starts pressing on his sensitivities: about the soldiers he was forced to kill, about the nation that spurned him, how he's truly "wicked" at heart and doesn't deserve to be happy--seconds before flames erupt for the festival. Does that really sound coincidental? I mean lmao. The rain is a painful reminder, but MC transforms that memory into something a little lighter with her bet. He has nothing to lose in her game, all she does is ask for time with him or offers him something if she loses. There's a playfulness there, a restoration of agency and ease that's invaluable to his recovery.

As for Shakespeare's deliberate retraumatization...I can't even begin to explain how damaging that event was. Shakespeare is undermining Jeanne's agency in that he--not unlike the corrupt monarch of Jeanne's era--is twisting Jeanne's beliefs to work against him. He knows full well that Jeanne doesn't feel like he deserves somebody so bright and understanding (we need to remember it's not really a luxury he's had much in life, especially after the war ended). He knows Jeanne has a tendency to impose that strict moral code on himself even more than he does on others. To reaffirm his every worst fear and lurking terror only throws Jeanne into a vicious downspiral. Jeanne doesn't reject MC out of disgust or hate. He rejects her because he literally cannot handle the concept of trying to be happy again, or of burdening her with his constant struggle to move on while he’s in the middle of a bad episode. He knows he won’t be able to stop reliving the past, that every second of his life and breath will be colored by his gruesome memories. He's trying as hard as he can to keep the intrusive thoughts quiet, to move on. But I'm not going to lie to any of you, that is incredibly difficult to do alone.

The next obvious question is, well why can't the other men help him? This isn't to say that they can't--we see how much solace Jeanne finds in Napoleon and Mozart. Even Isaac is gentle with the veteran. But there are limits to how much they can do. Napoleon is struggling with his own wartime trauma, and it's not identical to Jeanne's. Plus there’s a distinct difference in their sensibilities? Napoleon is the type to habitually seek comfort in helping others when he can't help himself, he's not as in tune with answering his own personal feelings and regulating them. (I mean just look at his new ES: he knows what he wants, but it takes a nudge from Isaac for him to go through with it.) He’s very communally reliant in ways Jeanne isn’t; Jeanne is a very private person, and typically prefers one on one from what I can tell.

Mozart is the definition of repression, and if you look at their interactions it's usually Jeanne that's smoothing over Mozart's rough edges. Mozart says as much himself: that he feels like a rotten friend because he knew Jeanne was struggling with a lot of intense trauma, but he didn't know how to unravel it without hurting him in the process. Mozart calls it personal cowardice, but honestly I just feel like they both had too much going on to be able to help each other effectively. (And Jeanne expresses this sentiment too? This idea that he's not angry with Mozart? He knows they're both carrying a lot, he's just touched Mozart cares about him in return.)

Okay, briefly unrelated, but like. Am I the only one that wheezes uncontrollably when Mozart is like "?????? Idk what it is about MC...I don't want her to be scared of me..." in his own main story in the baths. And Jeanne. IS TRYING SO HARD. NOT TO SPILL THE BEANS ABOUT HIM O B V I O U S L Y BEING IN LOVE. THE HILARITY I CAN'T DO THIS. Jeanne was like "yeah....yeah that's rough buddy.......[screams internally, give your boy time Jeanne he's fragile]"

Honestly? That's the thing about Jeanne too--he has incredible self-awareness and hyperarousal-related (I mean the PTSD kind, get your head out of the gutter) awareness to the people around him. He's very, very conscious of the fact that he is surrounded by geniuses when he can't even write his own name. Just because he has the fortitude not to lash out with his insecurities, doesn't mean he never feels stupid or inferior. And it doesn't help when there are people in the mansion who call him--a fucking war veteran from 500 YEARS AGO--nAiVe. He's not naive lmao. He just doesn't know how the world works so many years later, and it's a ridiculously steep learning curve? Leonardo and Comte are nearly 500 years old, but they lived throughout every hour of that time in a linear fashion. It is a big deal to be moved from 1430 to 1890 in the span of a second asynchronously, and then be expected to function without a hitch??? Given the circumstances he adapts well.

That atmosphere--this constant impatience with what he doesn’t understand, his inability to be caught up to speed quickly--is going to hinder his recovery lmao. He feels like a burden most of the time, and agency and freedom are crucial.

Another thing that occurs to me about the mansion's arrangement is that there is a power dynamic, just as any space with people in it has some level of hierarchy (unless you live with miraculously chill people). Jeanne is acutely aware that Comte is the most powerful being in that space, and he is not only hatefully angry at him--but likely afraid too. We have to remember that the biggest betrayal he witnessed in his life was at the hands of a monarch; it was the aristocracy that turned on him and erased the truth. Comte is openly a child that resulted from both that era and that type of lineage, I don't really blame Jeanne for being wary. He intimately knows how willing rich people are to throw normal folks under the bus to suit their ambitions/whims. Comte, while not deliberately threatening, also seems to be painfully aware of this impression he gives off. His "chad persona" as I've mentioned allows him to navigate his life in secret by necessity, but it’s actively damaging to his son. He can't reveal the truth because of Vlad's betrayal, and he's openly unsettled by what it could mean to be honest. Will they wonder about Vlad and find themselves ensnared under his mind control as Charles and Shakespeare are? Will Comte himself be subjected to the mortifying ordeal of being known only to lose them?? That's a risk he isn't willing to take--and that leaves him in a double bind.

What is it that they say, the truth will set you free? This is where MC and Comte come into enormous play when it comes to Jeanne's recovery. One thing to keep in mind is that most of the people in the mansion have their own traumas they're trying to carry, and I feel like a lot of them are unsure how to approach Jeanne. Or if they do, he's very guarded. It takes a lot of consistent effort to get through to him. What does MC do when Jeanne unleashes his harsh worldview on her? She's understandably frightened, but Jeanne isn't malicious (so she chases him around). In fact, he openly avoids and runs away from her--well aware that what he's done is wrong. If anything, he did it on purpose, bringing us right back to Shakespeare's verbal undoing; why does Jeanne attack her in the first place?

LMAO. He attacks her because she essentially says "oh thanks for helping me!" "I am not nice. Watch yourself." "But you seem like a nice guy to me?" "REEEEEE" Does the pattern become a little clearer? When people think kindly of him, his instinct is to shatter that illusion with an impulsive reprehensible act. When people think poorly of him or lash out, what does he do? When that orphan boy starts yelling and screaming, Jeanne is nothing but calm. He explains the situation, and offers the kid a choice, perfectly happy to be the bearer of bad news. This operates on many levels I’m sure, but I have a feeling it has something to do with him being hailed a saint and a war hero only to be tortured and branded a monstrosity (and he probably thinks being a vampire is doubly monstrous). He’s more comfortable being hated because he feels it’s what he deserves in a lot of ways.

Jeanne has a lot of internalized self-hatred because of what he's done, and because of how much harm was inflicted on him outside of his control (he's Catholic and he was tortured, come on this writes itself). If I'm honest, I think that's actually the greater part of why he hates Comte lmao. Comte refuses the very concept of being cruel no matter how much Jeanne lashes out. Sure he lectures him and scolds him, but he never actively limits what's important to him or controls or harms him. Comte fully realizes the tragedy of how Jeanne's life was used by a nation in dire straits, and knows he needs time and acceptance to heal. No matter how dismal or unhappy, Comte doesn't stop--he fully believes Jeanne should have time in his life where he can really live for himself for once. But therein lies the issue, Jeanne doesn't know how to live for himself.

Which brings me to how MC and Comte "heal" Jeanne. I feel like they give him the space he needs to recover, and that's what results in his gentled temperament and happiness. Remember that so much of his main story is MC endlessly chasing after Jeanne. No amounts of his hissing or running or threatening stops her. Even if his refusals are empty of real dislike, they're enough to deter most people. Not MC. She's able to see through to the depths of who he is, and doesn't just use him for her own ends? She actively seeks to teach him (to read and write) to help him settle better in this era, she actively tries to ease his distaste for rain with a well-meaning bet, and she never gives up on him. (Actions mean so much more to him than words in general too, tbh...). Love is more easily defined by work and effort than it is by attraction.

When he has his episode at the festival, sure she's rattled; but that's because she truly believed that he didn't want to be around her anymore. When she notices he really doesn’t want to be followed, she stops like any normal person would. It’s only when she reads his notebook and sees the truth for herself (that he’s given up despite having the same feelings for her) that her determination is rekindled. She doesn't approach him fearfully, doesn't treat him like he's made of glass either. She just wants him as he is--accepts and loves him as he is. Scarred, bloody, exhausted, abrasive, terrified. She doesn't define him by how easy he is to love. That is a huge issue with traumatized people lmao. Because of their maturity, people always just assume they don't need help, or they rely on them to an extent that isn't sustainable. The second they reveal need or that they struggle, people walk away or victim blame them because it’s easier than taking them seriously.

While MC's attempts may be a little more obvious (cherishing his lily field, wearing the hair pin he gave her, careful about his gruesome injury, really listens when he talks about the horrors of his life and accepts that he experienced a level of agony/terror she can never understand, tries to express her feelings no matter his evasion) I think it's also important to consider Comte's large scale effort. I don't say this to undermine MC, I say it because Jeanne's life was defined by a complete lack of security. He left his parents to make their lives easier, he lived in a war that meant life or death any second, and his country's leader branded him a traitor which lead to his endless torture and public execution. Jeanne does not know a life in which safety is the norm. Point blank. He does not understanding going outside and not expecting the worst anymore.

Comte not only understands that level of despair, but treats it with dignity and respect. He fully accepts being hated if it means Jeanne can use that hatred to live on and find a way to heal. And most importantly, when Jeanne begins to move forward with MC and Mozart's help, Comte never once holds it against Jeanne when the truth is revealed. He's not angry, this isn't about reprisal or reparations or revenge. It's just love.

Jeanne doesn't really have a concept of this? His entire life was mostly transactional, defined by strength and efficiency. Nobody gives a damn about your feelings. You either hurl yourself at the problem or die. Nobody is going to help you or carry you or save you. While he may have had a little more support while he was in the military from his fellow soldiers, that support system was ripped away from him during the Inquisition.

One very common sentiment regarding elongated imprisonment and torture is that survival occurs in pairs. It is an undeniable fact that people need others to survive. It is the nature of who we are. Individualism has never proven to be successful, or if it is, its dividends are astronomically minimal when compared to people working together.

What does it mean to be the most reliable, steady person in the room? Usually it just means you don't know how to ask for help when you are no longer capable of maintaining that stance. Napoleon is guilty of it. Leonardo, Comte, and Jeanne all are too. It's part of why MC and Comte's capacity to see what he needs and provide as much as they can is such a big deal. That sort of consistent support (without a constant necessity to beg for help) allows Jeanne to be able to re-integrate into his new reality and find joy. Even if his nightmares and memories never go away, they are now being actively overrun by positive experiences. That's the thing about recovery, really--it tends to be more about drowning out the negative as much as possible and coming to terms with it, than it is about forgetting or never feeling it again. It’s about softening the sharp edges of pain like sea glass.

So is MC magical and randomly got Jeanne to open up? Nah, I don't think so. I think it was a series of persistence and real acceptance of who he is that made him warm up. People really seem to underestimate how deeply affecting understanding is, but that's how damage is undone. Jeanne can't really linger on the idea of his own monstrousness, his unworthiness, a lifetime of misery, when the person in front of him actively listens and cares about him. Makes him laugh and smile and lose himself in warmth for the first time.

If I'm honest, I feel like people also just...underestimate the level of traumatic resurgence that's perpetuated and inflicted by society’s standards in general lmao. This rhetorical structure in which good and bad exist in moral extremes, this idea that people should be able to recover and never experience relapses or periods of sensitivity. The refusal to radically listen to people and their problems, and make active attempts--not matter how small--to mend/ease those hurt feelings. Granted there will always be people in the world who do not want to improve, but I feel like most people want to. It's hopelessness, silence, and stigmatization that remain the true enemies of traumatized/mentally ill people everywhere. And among that population are always war veterans...

[ninaleewrites]

Apartment 301C – Lee Felix {Part 4}

MEMBER: Felix

GENRE: Dystopian, AU, Smut, Fantasy, Psychological, Conspiracy Theories, Angst

WARNINGS: dealing with death, suicide, dark themes, explicit language, confronting scenes, significant trauma, murder, rape, supernatural themes, violence, sexual content, nudity, alcohol & substance abuse, kinks,

The content within this book may not be suitable for certain audiences. Reader discretion is advised.

This book is a work of fiction. This is an AU fanfiction which means that it is an alternate universe, therefore all characters, names, behaviours, events and incidents are completely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental. I do not know StrayKids, what I decide to do with the characters within this book, should have no effect on the members or alter your perception of them.

Chapter 4

Mr Lee, so that’s the good-looking man’s name. “I would like to speak to Mr Lee as soon as possible. Can you arrange that?” I ask.

“Sure, we can go over now. I’m not guaranteeing he’ll answer the door though.” Randy walks towards the front door.

“I think he went out.” I state.

“Really?” Randy looks at me confused.

“Yes, I told you I think I saw him earlier while you were unlocking the door. He smiled at me and when I looked again, he was gone. But I didn’t hear a door open or close, so I assume he left.” I explain.

“Can I ask what this man looked like?” Randy asks.

What an odd question, “well, he was about your height, young, slim but with a fit figure. He was good looking and had a beautiful smile.” I try to describe him the best I can, but I only caught a quick glimpse.

“What colour was his hair?” Randy asks.

“His hair?” I retort.

“Yes,” Randy seems serious now.

“It was dark brown,” I state.

Without another word Randy walks out of the apartment. I quickly follow as Randy locks up the apartment and makes a beeline to apartment 301B. “One last question if you don’t mind?” Randy asks.

“Go for it,” I say.

“What kind of smile was it? Sinister? Creepy?” Randy looks concerned and I think I’ve figured out why.

“You’re not seriously suggesting that the man I saw was the dead man, are you?” I ask.

I didn’t need an answer, Randy’s face said it all. “Please answer me,” pleads Randy.

“It was friendly, it was warm and friendly. Nothing sinister or evil.” I state.

I can see Randy’s body start to relax as he rings the doorbell for apartment 301B. I was almost half expecting no one to be home, and that I was indeed right that the man I saw was the tenant and that he had gone out for the evening.

“Mr Lee, it’s Randy Echorling. I have someone here who would like to talk with you.” Randy calls out and is met with silence.

Just as I was about to say I am right I hear a noise coming from the other side of the door.

Suddenly the door swings open and I’m greeted by a beautiful yet rugged looking man. He is slim with dyed blonde hair that is tousled. He looks like he’s been through hell but somehow his dark brooding only serves to make him more attractive.

“Who is she?” His deep voice took me off guard. I wasn’t expecting a man this attractive to have such a deep bass for a voice.

“She is viewing apartments here today. We’ve just been inside Eric’s and I told her about the history here. She asked to speak with you.” Randy seems sad seeing Mr Lee this way.

Mr Lee looks me up and down. I feel my cheeks burning, I don’t normally react this way when men look at me, but he almost had a smirk appearing on the corner of his lips before it quickly disappeared, “If you’re here to offer your condolences, thanks but I don’t need them.” He moves to close the door, so I speak up.

“I’m not here for that.” I speak.

Mr Lee pauses in his steps. “What are you here for then?” he asks.

“I apologise, Mr Lee. I didn’t mean to say it like that. Of course, I’m sorry to hear about the death of your friend. But I’ve actually asked to speak with you because of what the other tenants who have tried to move into 301C believe to be your friend haunting the apartment.” I state.

“Haunting?” he nods his head with a raised eyebrow. He doesn’t believe me.

I sigh. “I want to ask your permission to move into your friend’s apartment.” I ask.

“My permission?” he chuckles under his breath. “Why would you need my permission?” he asks.

“Because I believe you,” I state. I can see his expression change from one of disbelief into one of hope.

“I believe that your friend didn’t die the way the police said he did. I believe that he is still here in one form or another and that he is angry and upset – as are you – about his death and how it was handled. I think that’s why there’s unrest here still and why no one has been able to move into that apartment since he died.” I know my reasoning sounds flimsy as hell, but I would think his friend Eric would appreciate it if his best friend gave his blessing.

“You believe me?” he asks.

“Yes, I do,” I state.

“What makes you think Eric is here somehow?” he asks.

I contemplate my answer. What should I tell him? I decide the truth always works best.

“I haven’t been in Eric’s apartment long, but I know that based off of what numerous tenants who have tried to move into his apartment have said, that he is causing chaos and is unhappy.” I pause momentarily as I contemplate my next words carefully.

“I also saw him outside your door for a brief moment while Randy unlocked the door to his apartment. He smiled at me. It was a warm and friendly smile.” I take a deep breath as I try to read his expression. I can feel Randy tense beside me.

“Did you see him, Randy?” Mr Lee asks without shifting his eyes from mine.

“No, I didn’t.” Randy replies.

“Then she could have seen anyone outside my door,” he responds.

“No, she didn’t.” Randy says. Mr Lee finally averts his gaze to Randy.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I asked her to describe this man before we came to your door. She saw him.” Randy seems sincere and slightly worried.

“Can I have a moment alone with Miss,” Mr Lee pauses for a moment as he looks me in the eye again.

“Ravenhill,” I reply.

“Miss Ravenhill,” my name rolls off of his tongue like liquid gold.

“Sure,” Randy replies. “I’ll be over there,” Randy walks off and leaves me with Mr Lee.

“Mr Lee,” I begin to speak but I’m cut off.

“Felix,” he says. “Call me Felix, please.” His voice is soft and sweet almost like a child.

“Felix,” I nod my head slowly as I say his name. “You can call me Suki then,” I reply.

A small smile sweeps across Felix’s face. “You really saw him?” he asks honestly.

“Yes, I really did. I thought he was the tenant living here. He looked like he came from your apartment.” I could tell all Felix wanted was closure and by talking to me he was feeling closer to his friend.

“Was the smile genuine?” he asks me.

“Eric’s?” I ask.

“Yes, was his smile to you genuine? I understand you’ve never met him before, but you’d know if it was a forced smile, he was terrible at those,” Felix chuckled.

“It was genuine. I didn’t feel fear or anything sinister. He gave me a genuine friendly smile, I almost felt at peace and when I was in his apartment, I felt like I wanted to stay. I think he wants me here for some reason. Maybe it’s to help you?” I ask.

“Help me?” Felix raises a brow.

“Yes, I think he watches over you every day, and I think he’s worried about you and how you’re handling his death. I think you’ve been angry and upset when new tenants arrive, and for you, it’s like they sort of erase him and his memory here and I think that’s why Eric causes chaos.” By the look on Felix’s face I think my wild stab in the dark is ringing true.

“It’s like you can read my mind,” he whispers.

[fromthedeskofelizabeththird]

Hellfire

This is a prequel to Exercises in Self Control, going into the events leading up to Enji's arrival on Reader-chan's doorstep from his POV.

You don't need to have read Exercises in Self Control to enjoy this fic, but I recommend it!

Fandom: BNHA

Pairing: Endeavor x Reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors BE GONE

Trigger Warnings: Enji is possessive and thirsty in this fic so bear that in mind before continuing. Some of Enji’s fantasies involve dub con

Sequel Piece: Exercises in Self Control

AO3: Here | Want to support me? I have a Kofi

For as long as he can remember, Enji has had problems sleeping. He’s counted the ceiling tiles, counted sheep, counted hours. He’s helped himself to cups of tea, herbal and otherwise. He’s tried meditating, he’s tried ASMR, all to no avail.

It doesn’t strike him as out of the ordinary that he can’t sleep tonight either. He stares at the ceiling, eyes wide open, listening out for the wind in the trees outside. He put chimes in their branches on purpose; something to ground himself every time he closes his eyes.

Tonight he’s grounded by something else; the warm body sharing his bed. He lies flat on his back and doesn’t look, listening to your soft breaths.

Enji is a grown man, now twice married, but this is the first time anyone has shared his bed. In his first marriage, he and Rei slept in separate beds. He visited her only occasionally and never bothered to stay the night, making sure to leave the moment the deed was done. Tonight you’re the intruder and his immediate instinct is to tell you to leave.

He can tell you’re asleep from your steady breathing and he wonders how you got so relaxed. His own children never slept in his arms even as babies but here you are, not just an adult but one he stole away, sleeping so calmly that for a second even he believes you’re an ordinary husband and wife.

You’re not, of course; your first conversation was your wedding vows. You became husband and wife knowing little more than one another’s names.

Against his better judgement, he turns to look at you, admiring what details of your face he can make out through the darkness. He knows you’re beautiful without looking.

Your beauty, in fact, was one of the first things he noticed about you and he remembers that moment with perfect clarity.

Even before Rei’s admittance into a hospital, it had been years since he felt welcome in his own home. It fell silent whenever he returned, his childrens’ laughter dying the moment he was in sight. He had always told himself it didn’t bother him; that they would understand when they were older. Everything he did, however cruel, was for their benefit in the long term.

Touya’s death was the first time he questioned it. Rei’s hospitalisation only drove the point home. For the first time in his life, he saw his house for what it truly was: misery and trauma under several layers of paint.

He couldn’t stand being there for more than a few hours, sitting alone in the dark with nothing to do but think. At first he stayed at the office for longer, taking on extra jobs and filing away paperwork long before it was due. It was a temporary solution and one that backfired spectacularly. He was greeted at work one day by smiling interns, who enthusiastically pointed out the piles of paperwork they had completed in his absence. They told him they’d done it so he could spend more time with his family and didn’t understand why he reacted with anger.

Enji realised then that he needed an alternative hiding place; somewhere no one knew him and he could spend the night alone.

He went from one bar to another, never settling down in one for too long. His reputation was crucial to his career and he didn’t want to risk being recognised.

It was with a great deal of reluctance that he finally arrived at a hostess bar. The owner was well versed in discretion and offered him his own table towards the back, as well as his pick of any of the hostesses. Enji didn’t bother to absorb any of their names or memorise their faces. Instead he asked for the owner himself to tend to him. He had a vested interest in his good graces and was therefore less inclined to gossip.

It became his routine for the next few months. Enji would finish up at the office and head straight for The White Rabbit , simmering in the corner as he sipped his drink. He stayed there until the early hours, returning to the estate once everyone else had already gone to bed and leaving for the office before they woke up.

It seems strange to him now. He used to be a regular, but he hasn’t been since he married you.

He remembers your first encounter far more clearly than you do. As far as you are concerned, your first meeting was in your home, the day he bought you from your father.

You couldn’t be more wrong, of course. He’s known you far longer than that.

Enji spent that much time at the bar that he came to know the regulars. He knew which men were married and booked hostesses to escape their wives. He knew which customers worked long hours in an office cubicle and came to the bar to let loose. He knew which ones were heroes as well and just as incognito as he was.

Among all of these customers was a familiar gaggle of six businessmen who very often dropped in after work. They were boisterous and very often blind drunk, booking multiple hostesses to sing karaoke with them.

One night in particular, you attended their table, carrying over a tray of crimson strawberry daiquiris. Your specialty, he found out later.

The businessmen were louder than usual that night and when Enji glanced over at them, it was with disapproval. He quickly became distracted, though, by something else entirely. You were setting a tray of drinks on their table, laughing and smiling as you tended to each customer.

Perhaps it was the backless dress you had on, showing off smooth, unblemished skin that reminded him of undisturbed snow and still waters. Maybe it was the coquettish way you fluttered your eyelashes as you spoke to them, giggling at their bawdy jokes and expertly dodging any of their attempts to take you by the wrist. Perhaps it was the way you left them hanging.

In any case, the next drink he ordered was a strawberry daiquiri and he relished the tangy sweetness, all while thinking of your lips.

That night, for the first time in many years, Enji fell into a deep slumber and deeper dreams. He dreamed about bending you over his desk, holding one arm behind your back and slamming into you so forcefully that you squealed. Your cunt fluttered every time his hips hit your ass, betraying how many times you had unravelled around his girth.

“Enji,” you whined, “Enji please .”

He slapped you across the ass at that, relishing the way you squealed in shock. He let go of your arm, eying the red marks he had left on your skin.

“It’s what you deserve,” he said in his dream, holding onto your hips and driving his cock in deep, so deep that you cried out and gripped the desk. He came so hard that it painted your insides and left him groaning in pleasure. He held you in place as his cock twitched and filled you with his seed, letting go only to shove his fingers deep into you to stop any drops from escaping.

“Enji,” you said, quivering.

He woke seconds later, pleasure running through him and semen covering his sheets. He cursed and threw himself out of bed, spitting obscenities as he rinsed his body clean.

For a moment, just a moment, he hated you. He was filthy, all because of you and your backless dress and long eyelashes.

You’re sleeping with your back to him tonight and he draws back the covers to admire it. He takes in your naked shoulder blades; the way the moonlight hits the curve of your spine. Not so long ago this view was enough to drive him mad.

The dream left an imprint, after all. He thought about it when he brushed his teeth, patrolled the streets, got into the bathtub at night.

He continued to attend the bar, telling himself it was because he liked the atmosphere and not because he hoped to catch another glimpse of your innocent smile.

He told himself he didn’t want you.

He didn’t want to defile you and fuck you senseless.

He didn’t want to fill your belly with yet more Todorokis.

You were a distraction and one he needed to be free of. He was Endeavor, the flame hero, the world’s number two. He couldn’t afford to fall into such debased habits as the businessmen who had tried to paw you. He was better than that, better than them and certainly better than you.

Every night he sipped strawberry daiquiris and masturbated furiously when he got home, fantasising about you in all manner of scenarios, each filthier than the last. He took photos of you as you worked and scrolled through them when he got home. He filmed you at the bar and watched it over and over, knowing what he was doing was wrong.

Heroes didn’t do this. He should have been protecting you from such terrible invasions of privacy, not enabling himself. Something about you, though, prickled at his skin. Something about the backless dresses you sometimes wore and the careful way you mixed drinks. He knew desire all too well, but never for a person. It was intoxicating; addictive. You were untouched and unspoiled and it drew him to you like a moth to a flame. He wanted to spend the rest of his life as relaxed as when he came all over his fingers, before reality sank back in and he remembered the ghosts lurking in every corner of his home.

One night, desperate to be free of you, he ventured into a nightclub and took a girl into the bathroom, pushing her down onto her knees in front of him and holding her in place to fuck her mouth. She had the same colour hair as you and that was why he chose her, pretending you were the one gagging on his cock. He thought it would help him; that once he got a fix he would stop thinking about you. Ultimately, it only made matters worse. The girl in the bathroom wasn’t you and every time he looked down at her he came crashing down to earth. He wondered what you would think of him if you knew what he had done.

It took him ages to cum that night, holding the girl’s head in place as it shot down her throat. She slumped over when he let her go, choking on semen and wiping her mouth even as he dropped notes down to the floor. Just like when he finished alone, Enji felt disgusted, tucking himself away and leaving the girl without bothering to express his gratitude.

He went to the White Rabbit straight afterwards, paying for you to stay at the bar and ordering his usual daiquiri. He expected to feel different, only to curse his own stupidity for ever thinking the woman in the nightclub could have compared.

He splashed out on bracelets, earrings and more, eager for you to wear them. The thought of them touching your body where he couldn’t made his mouth water, even though you never wore them. The only jewellery you ever wore was a set of plain earrings. Your mother’s, he found out later.

Meanwhile, his dreams only grew more obscene.

He dreamed of rescuing you from villains and insisting you spread your legs in exchange. He dreamed of hiring you as one of his house staff, permitted only to serve him without clothes. He dreamed of sitting you down on your knees before him and covering your face in cum.

He was a man possessed, desperate for any sight of you. The realisation came to him slowly: he didn’t only want to corrupt and break you anymore. He wanted you to desire him as he desired you. Perhaps even more.

He wanted you to want him, wanted you to let him touch you.

Every time he sat down in the bar, he almost managed to convince himself that your circumstances were different; that he truly was the honourable man the world believed him to be. He almost believed that his touches wouldn’t ruin you.

He was desperate and not only to be fucked, though refused to acknowledge it.

He told himself it was no weakness on his part, no dent in his armour. He wasn’t as vile or depraved as the businessmen who tried to paw you on a near daily basis.

He begged the owner of the White Rabbit to let him spend the night with you, begged him to leave the pair of you alone. He was quite convinced that he wouldn’t want you anymore the moment he had you in his arms. He’d find an imperfection on your body that would shatter the illusion.

The owner, being a shrewd businessman, refused him every time.

Enji isn’t proud of how cruel he became in his desperation. It wasn’t hard to break the owner into handing over your name, nor to track you down to your home address. It was all too easy to learn of your father’s gambling problems and difficult financial situation.

He was on your doorstep before he knew it, happy to pay any price to keep you under his roof, unspoiled and protected from harm. He was an honourable man, he told himself. He could keep his hands to himself.

It was what you deserved, after all.

You shiver next to him and he drags the covers back over your body, considering that you are the only person he has ever wanted and the only one to want him in return. He brought you into his home, yes, but you’re the one who sought him out. You’re the one who led him to the bedroom and shed your clothes willingly. He’s almost certainly spoiled your body, but if anything that makes him want you more.

He’s addicted to every inch of you: the feeling of being buried within you, the scent of your hair as he holds you close. You’re the only person he’s ever fucked for pleasure and he hasn’t been able to resist ever since. Even now that you’re asleep, he’s desperate for a fix. He feels starved of oxygen and it’s keeping him awake.

Not long ago, he would have prodded you awake and told you to spread your legs. Now, though, he rolls over onto his side so he no longer faces you, content to listen to your gentle breathing instead.

He curses under his breath as you begin to stir and squeezes his eyes shut, laying perfectly still as you yawn and turn over onto your own side to make yourself comfortable. His skin still prickles when you touch him, especially as you drape an arm around his chest and plant kisses on his shoulder.

“Enji,” you whisper, “are you awake?”

He doesn’t answer and you smile before burying your face in the back of his neck, the combined heat of your bodies lulling both of you to sleep.

He has no need of wind chimes to ground him anymore.

[softly-savage-mint-yoongi]

Heat Seekers I

Genre: Dark Cyberpunk AU Pairing: Chanyeol x f.reader Words: 5k Fic Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. I’m serious people. If any of the chapter warnings are uncomfortable or triggering for you, please do not read this. Do so at your own discretion. Lots of angst and hurt, eventual smut. Chapter Warnings are below the cut. Author’s Note: There are some specific things in this fic that I’ve personally experienced, and some that I have not. Please understand my intention with this fic is a way of healing not just for myself but hopefully for others who unfortunately have experience with these types of situations. I did a lot of debating about whether or not I should even post this fic, and have spoken to a few individuals about it. Ultimately, with the intent of healing and moving past such trauma, it’s been decided OK to post. Please take my warnings seriously.

Chapter Warnings: Metaphoric descriptions of statutory rape. Assault, sexual assault. Gaslighting. Attempted murder. Brief mentions of substance abuse and prostitution. Minor character death.

You always believed there was no such thing as Heaven, but surely there was Hell. Several iterations of the grotesque and horrific afterlife; because humanity is a plague and that is what each of us deserved.

Perhaps in your younger days, you didn’t know it… no, even then you knew. Deep down inside you remember nothing of happiness or blessing. No memories of a person’s presence, actions, or words doing anything considerably good for anyone else. Certainly not without a motive. Certainly not out of empathy.

Before you could walk, throwing yourself into the repetitive ease of programmed machines and technology brought you peace. Technology is predictable and massively accessible to anyone. Technology is your comfort.

Electricity became nearly free and unlimited after the revolution that ended the War on Power in 2045. So long as the sun rose every day, there was never a shortage, and the resulting surge of technological advancements that boomed, as a result, have made most fairly new tech obsolete.

Sustainable, economic, and eco-friendly power became the way of the world. Wind energy became the norm. Buildings were now made from fiberglass solar panels, stronger, taller, and widely available, so every surface collected energy from the sun. Window glass collected heat to use in the winter, eliminating the need for natural gas heat altogether. More room for technology to grow. More surface area on the ground for parks and forests. Resorts built above an ocean’s surface harnessed the energy of the currents moving below their supports. Anything that wasn’t hovering in midair could collect energy from earthquakes and natural disasters alike, as long as humankind was lucky enough to have built something that could capture the energy and withstand the storm. The earth was well on its way to healing by the time you were born in 2051, and although humankind flourished along with it, the world was still a dangerous place. Corporations rose even higher and politics declined, dissolving into a place wrought with criminal activity and fear. Yes, humans were healthier, stronger, lived longer if they were lucky. But was that really such a good thing? Your parent would throw anything she didn’t find valuable at you whenever you locked her out of the apartment, and she was too weak to force her way inside. You were smart enough to know you would be no match in the likely event someone tried to break in, so you had to defend yourself. You wear wary of the men she brought inside, always idly wondering if any of them were your father, but so few of them ever returned.

You don’t remember ever knowing you even had a father before that, unknowing until she told you about sex and what makes a human child when you were four. Not that you’d asked and not that she would care to speak to you when she was anything other than suffocatingly drunk.

In a room that was barely such, the feeble plywood walls held together as if by magic and the curtain strung up as your door sagged so low it only served to be a nuisance to your agenda. Outdated machines and technology stacked high around the walls, most were scrap parts for your projects.

You dedicated every day to sitting in the same spot, surrounded by computers and machines, and learning what makes them function. The finite possibilities, yet the scope of their differences, is something that brought you peace and kept the gears in your own head turning. Sometimes, you would pretend and daydream as if you were an android yourself. You were not lucky enough to be born as one with artificial intelligence.

You attended virtual school whenever you felt like it, or at least you knew the basics. Your parent didn’t care. She nearly pretended like you didn’t exist, which suited you just fine. From the time you were five, she began leaving you alone at home. You knew how to pull the cracked plastic stool over to the counter and get yourself some goldfish crackers or something else simple. You weren’t allowed to use the stove even though you’d repaired it twice, but the microwave was fine.

You knew how to bathe and how to use the restroom and clean up after yourself because you had to. There was nobody else for a long time. Days came and went when you weren’t sure if she would ever come back, only for her to come banging on the squeaky front door or crashing through it slurring her words and waking you from a fitful sleep to wipe at your tear-stained cheeks in the middle of the night. The notion of your tears on her behalf was always something unpredictable and confusing to you. Why would you cry over such insignificance, you sometimes wondered to yourself.

If she stopped coming back one day you would figure it out. The nice man across the street from your apartment building ran a tiny tech store and he always had a smile for you and something that needed fixing. Most days he would ask you math problems as something he called a “lightning round” of questions for an extra quarter for every right answer. Surely the three dollars he gave you for what your fixed every time was enough to put what little food you needed in your stomach.

By the time you were eight, the habits you and your cohabitant fell into became routine. You became accustomed to sleeping during the day while she was out, setting your school live feed on record so you could watch it later. At night, while trying to drown out the sounds of her screaming or sex or shattering bottles, you would work. In the world you knew, the industry wasn’t as slow as it used to be. Too fast-paced for most new phone models to make it past their six-month mark before it was time to stop manufacturing and making capital, moving onto the next one. From what you understood, a new model of home security cameras could go on the market one day and be in the clearance pile before you got your next paycheck. Security tech became your playground after a few years, and you didn’t have enough money to buy anything. It never bothered you that you were always a step behind the latest tech because you had to wait a week until the latest model began showing up in dumpsters. It was never your intention to be faster than that. By the age of ten, you knew your priority was survival and in order to do that, you had to protect yourself with whatever means necessary. You had six different checkpoints in security on your living space not long after you became familiar with it. An additional four security cameras had been installed by your own two small hands around your building as well, at the entrance, elevator, your floor’s hall, and in front of your flimsy front door. All secretly controlled by you, without the knowledge of the outdated model of AI that ran your front desk, passively named Al- born of the building owner’s lack of creativity or care. Probably both.

You spent your days alone, in the tiny, insufferable hole in the wall place called your ‘home’. Where, as the years propelled to 2063 on your twelfth year, you chose to ignore most of the other inhabitants of this world. On a worn-out and broken faux leather armchair, perpetually stuck in the reclining position. Where you sat to work and where you slept and where you held your breath at the groaning sound omitted from its cushions every time you moved. You kept fixing it whenever it would break, dumping you from the side of it with a ‘plunk’ as the bars jumped off their tracks. You scowled every time they snapped the tracks completely. You worked to hone your skills in the world of technology, tinkering and learning every detail of every machine you could get your hands on from the dumpster behind your building. Sometimes if you were lucky, the building owner would forget to pay the trash removal services and it would pile up for weeks. Heaps of smelly trash were a small price to pay if it meant you could hit the jackpot and take several trips up and down the rickety old elevator with your arms full of tech.

Those were your happiest memories. Your body felt like jelly by the time you finished sorting through it all and bringing it up to your stash, carefully removing casings of microcomputers or game cartridges to get to the gold inside.

Everything was fine and although you couldn’t say you were content with your life- you didn’t hate it. You loved the freedom to be left alone and the peace of your tinkering tech. Perhaps a little impatient to grow up, but with every passing year, you celebrated quietly to yourself during the days you had been told your birth date fell. Somewhere between these seven days, you pulled up the same app on every smartphone you had in your possession and ran quickly around your makeshift room trying to blow out twenty digital candles in one big breath- careful not to trip over small piles of tech as you went.

It became a blur after you turned twelve. Somewhere along the timeline not long after that, a man started showing up to the apartment and threw off the balance you had so carefully maintained. You never knew his name, but you remember his face, his cologne, and his voice, and the way his eyes sparkled with something that sank in the pit of your stomach the first time you laid eyes on him. Most of all, even now, you remember him in your restless nightmares and the raw feeling of vindictive rage that in your weakest moments, reminds you that you’re alive, if only by the boiling heat of your blood rushing through your ears. In those moments, when your vision goes fuzzy with the desire to see him suffer and rot miserably in the deepest pits of hell, preferably bleeding and screaming.

You remember him from a time past, standing in the kitchen with your parent, one of her arms curled around his thick neck and the other raised in the air, his fingers closed around her slim wrist. The suit he wore looked expensive, and their bodies were slowly bending over the kitchen table in a strange dance, waiting for her back to snap and flatten against the wooden surface. Their eyes flashed to yours for less than a heartbeat as you walked to the refrigerator, laughing at something that lulled in the silence.

The next time you saw him he had fed your cohabitant something so toxic she passed out on the floor beside the couch. Then he spoke to you. In his deep baritone, he sounded like he smoked too many cigarettes too often. Or drank a bottle of razor blades.

“Pretty little thing ain’t ye?” he asked, dipping his head through the curtain that thinly veiled your world from outside eyes.

You ignored him, choosing to pretend as if the headphones situated on your head were actually producing audio. So he hit you.

Then he hit you again, screaming at you for ignoring him and calling you a bitch, whatever that meant. You heard it slung at your parent enough to know it was derogatory.

You didn’t even scream, you remember. Very clearly you sat shocked, but tears spilled down your cheeks from the pain alone. The heat you felt on your cheek, swelling and rough as if you’d fallen off a motorized bike and gotten road rash on your face.

Your fingers rose and you can recall them vividly, shaking as they reached to touch at your cheek and the hiss of pain as you recoiled from yourself.

Then, you try not to visualize it, but it won’t go away. You remember the feeling of his hand grabbing yours as it froze in midair, yanking you from the protection and warm affection of your old faux leather chair. It growled as he ripped you from its grasp in protest, pulling you so hard the force nearly dislocated your shoulder while he simply tossed you on the floor.

You remember the feeling of his fingers pulling at your clothes and then pain. Extreme pain, so brutal and fast it took your breath away. Your face throbbed as his palm fit perfectly across your whole skull, pushing your head onto the rough wood planks below.

You screamed, but you don’t remember if any sound came out, or if it was just that nobody cared that you did so. You screamed and cried, trying to crawl away as he grabbed at you. There was a ‘whoosh’ feeling as the air was ripped from your lungs when something burning sunk, forcing itself a home of darkness that never should have been between your soul and your corporeal form.

And then nothing.

You remember waking up to the sharp scent of blood, confirming it when you saw it on the floor around you, glistening and wet in the faint glow of computers. You remember the pain that shot between your legs as you tried to sit up properly, groaning as fresh tears worked down your cheeks. The cry that left you rippled pain across your face, too, and you remember crawling yourself over to your beloved chair and leaning against the comfort of its worn fabric as you reached for any of the smartphones you had.

For the first time ever, the brightness of a screen made you flinch back in the darkness. Persevering, you opened the camera and turned it to selfie mode, inspecting your face in the digital reflection. Your right cheek was fat and red, and two purple circles were clearly left in the wake of where his gaudy rings hit your skin. The stain on your skin crept up below your eye.

You made yourself calm down enough to quell the sobs wracking your chest to softer whimpers and tears to help the pain in your cheek stop.

It happened again some unknown weeks later. Your parent so stoned and drunk she passed out blissfully somewhere else and he came to you again. Your begging did you no good, and you were no match for his strength. Why hadn’t you run the moment you could stand on your legs again after the first assault? Why hadn’t you hauled every piece of your tech and saved dime from your bank account or gone to the nice old man across the street for help? Deep down, you knew. You were confident enough to know he would find you and smart enough to know he would kill you when he did.

The second time, you wished you had a gun or a knife. Not just cameras to catch him in the act. Or something that would make him stop and leave you alone. It was just as bad as the first, except this time you didn’t pass out. You did your best to stay still, compliance your only weapon in hoping he goes away that much sooner if you let it be over with. It still hurt just as bad, and he still left you in a puddle of white and red wetness on the floor. The scent of blood made you dizzy.

For the first time in your life, you begged. You begged the adult that raised you and fed you until you could do it yourself. For just once you desperately wished to talk to her and confirm. To make her do something to save you. You were terrified you wouldn’t be able to save yourself, and if this were the last thing she would ever do for you, if it were the last time you would ever see her, you would be grateful if she would just do something to save her daughter.

Hopelessness and an unending free-fall of terror are what you received. You were stronger than she was, and nearly her height by now, with a young healthy body not wrought with substance abuse. You forced her to sit still and keep her eyes open. To keep watching the video even though you couldn’t watch it yourself, barely able to weather the sounds coming from the captured footage.

When it was over, you hadn’t realized you were crying. Your vision blurred when you opened your eyes, with wet cheeks that felt the rush of air as you maneuvered in front of her and gingerly knelt on the floor to beg at her knees. You gathered her hands in her lap, struggling to hold them as you repeated your pleas.

She ignored them, literally shaking and gasping for breath and telling you it wasn’t real. Telling you it never happened. When you forced it upon her and threatened to go to the police with it she pulled your hair and screamed at you. Screamed that you were an idiot and that he would kill you both because didn’t you know who he was? Didn’t you know the power that man held over so many? No, you didn’t.

And it suddenly dawned on you, she was just as scared. She was scared and terrified and unable to grasp any semblance of control over what that man did anymore. She was a fool to think she ever did, and you were a fool to have a sliver of faith in her. So you left to clear your head, much to her cries not to. Born out of anxiety, fearful you would go to the police.

You walked farther than you thought you could as you attempted to regain the strength in your legs. Slowly, and by the time you returned the sun had fully set, but an orange glow caught your attention from the rooftop, one floor above yours. Wisps of smoke, too. Odd, nobody ever went up there.

A single stray cord and a plastic piece of backing laid on the floor between the elevator and your door, and your heart sunk back down all fourteen floors. You were out of breath and the pain between your legs was searing by the time you shoved your way through the metal door to the roof.

Sitting on the ledge was a gaunt, familiar face. She was smoking a cigarette, watching the flames and smoke from three rust-stained barrels. Inside of them was most of your tech. Your cameras, a few handfuls of smartphones, seven computers, gaming consoles, tablets.

You barely remember what happened after that, but you know it was a lot of screaming and a burn when you attempted to kick one of them and stomp out the flames. That day was the catalyst that made you take action, planning to escape from hell. If there was no chance to be saved by someone else, you would have to do it yourself.

Racing the clock on a high of anxiety, you only prayed that for three days he wouldn’t show up. You only needed three days.

On the afternoon of the second day, you hadn’t realized you were alone in the small apartment of your old and outdated building. You were too busy working like lightning to beat an imaginary deadline on your heels. You hadn’t noticed she had left until you came out shortly to use the restroom and find some crackers.

There he was at the kitchen table, the cheap metal legs of the chair bowing under his mass. You froze, watching him in shock and briefly you let your eyes wander around the living room to realize she wasn’t there. His voice was low as he told you she passed out in the elevator hours ago.

The chair made a horrible scuffing sound as he stood up, and you flinched. It didn’t matter once he took your wrist in his grip, and he made you suffer once more.

Something unhinged him this time, and even through the pain and nausea and the attempt to make yourself faint just to not have to live through it, you felt it. Felt the psychotic shift in his brain as he laughed at your pain.

It broke something inside of you. Escape. Do not let him do this to you. Definitely do not give up and let it happen. Retaliate. Fight. Get away. Run. Live.

You barely recall how you came to the conclusion, or how you stomached the grotesque way, when he leaned over your back, you turned your head. How you took the easiest thing to reach- his right ear lobe- between your teeth, and mangled him for all you were worth.

The gratification was immediate as he sprang from you, shoving you forward and holding his head. You remember no pain in that moment, and smiling with adrenaline, breathless but with lungs full of oxygen at the same time. You bolted before he could come back to his senses, grabbing your bag from your chair, thankfully nearly complete, and ran out, fixing your clothing along the way.

He tried to get up fast enough to stop you, lunging for you with one hand as you made it into the hallway, but whatever adrenaline you were on was potent, and your senses were razor sharp. You ducked his hand, hearing him barrel into the wall with his momentum as you made for the elevator.

You watched in slow motion the hopeless rage morph onto his stubbled face, knowing he wouldn’t catch you in time. Letting go of his ear, you saw it maimed, the bottom half missing, an obvious mouth-shaped crest bleeding heavily onto the floor as he reached instead to procure a gun from his jacket.

Although your heart leaped at the sight of it as the metal door creaked open behind you, his hands were messy, and the gun slipped from his bloody grip.

Turning to get on, you hesitated for just a second when you saw her there, passed out in the corner of the elevator. You shoved the button for the lobby as hard as you could, planning to rip the wires from the panel behind Al’s desk the moment it reached the bottom. It would give you enough time to get away as he descended the stairs.

You remember watching her sleep, but an eerie sense of foreboding grew in the intimate space the lower the elevator went, despite the beauty of golden hour cityscape from the window that served as the back wall of the capsule.

It took a few moments for you to realize the sun looked odd against her skin. Her hair didn’t catch the rays, nor did her lips hold the same color or fullness of your own, a feature you had in common. She looked sick.

An unfamiliar emotion welled in you. Some concoction of fear, sadness, and a heavy sense of solitude congealed in your chest and your throat as you crouched beside her quietly, afraid to make a sound.

Hesitantly, you touched her shoulder, immediately recoiling at the unnatural stone of her form, refusing to be pliant under the gentle press of your fingers. Swallowing the bile that rose in your throat, you grasped her shoulders, shaking her. Her body slid further down the wall when you let go. It remained there on the floor in an unnatural and rigid stillness, heavy.

You tripped as you receded backward, falling against the smooth metal of the door. Terror overcame you and a bewildering sense of lonely unknown stood towering before you in your mind’s eye. Not that you expected to ever see her again. Not that you expected to care, you hated her. But you hadn’t wanted her to die.

“Mom,” you remember choking up her title in reverence, the one and only time in your life you’d ever said the word.

You groaned with pain, suddenly powerless without the adrenaline that was just coursing through your veins. Everything hurt. Your vision, your head, your body, your heart. You were going to throw up. But you’d be damned if you did it before you escaped. You were so close. Just a little further.

Your mouth watered with the impending expulsion of your gut, but you managed to fall backward out of the elevator and stumble to your feet, feeling heavy as you trudged past Al’s inquiry of your health to the panel, ripping every wire out with your fist.

Just once you threw up beside the revolving door of your building before entering. You staggered through it after, feeling a rush of fresh air that told your very soul it was over.

You did it. Now you just had to make sure you survived, but you were good at that.

_________________

April, 2072

You pursed your lips, scowling at the bitter, sour flavor of the lollipop settled on your tongue. Leaning to the right, you lifted your hand from the grip of your bars, reaching through the thickness of your helmet through the open visor and whipping the candy from your mouth with a grimace.

You slowed, unable to afford a littering fine if you just threw it to the wind behind you, even though you wanted to rebel in that way. Too many high-tech cameras on the city streets to get away with anything unless you had the money to pay off the cops.

Which, unfortunately, you didn’t.

Twisting forward to squeeze the brake, you let your bike lull into a quiet purr as you pull off onto a quiet road, looking for the correct receptacle. You let it crawl forward, along the curb, and over a storm drain so you can lean over and drop the candy into the trash. For a moment, you lick your lips, pulling your backpack around to rummage through the bag of lollies inside for a better flavor.

While you search for a strawberry- your favorite- you weigh the pros and cons of just buying a bag of strawberry flavor instead of the assortment. Price, for starters, you scoff to yourself, remembering to pluck the sour apple wrapper from your pocket to toss into the trash. Exclusive flavor bags are more expensive, but you don’t waste as much by throwing out every god damned green apple you pluck from the bag.

Frowning when you come up empty-handed, you take the second-best choice, unwrapping the dark red of a cherry lolly when a presence catches your attention. A man, tall and thin, clothed in dark colors standing still against the bustle of the city. There’s a black baseball cap on his head, pressed down over dark red curls that peek out at the edges.

He’s wearing square, dark-tinted sunglasses that block out his eyes, with ears that bow out from his skull, and you briefly register that he’s built the same all around, in large proportions, from his hands to his face to his towering height.

Even in the late afternoon, his visage glows with artificial color as he basks in the light of a large television displayed in the storefront window. Although his attire tells you he’s trying to conceal his identity, he doesn’t seem to stick out, going ultimately unnoticed by the people passing by him.

His face is turned towards the television as a news channel covers a fire at a large corporate building from last night. It shows impressive plumes of flame and thick smoke, even darker than the night sky, glowing faintly with billions of lights.

The man watching the television bounces a short stick between his teeth, but you can’t tell what it is from this distance. You notice his face moves, the apples of his cheeks rising high as he smiles wide, easily a head above the crowd.

The sound of sirens from the recording of the fire dins away to the sound of an audio clip taken from a phone call. A man’s voice, clearly distorted with an autotune. Raspy, dark laughter, and a bitter promise to chase someone to hell.

A small part of you is smug, rooting for the villain even, and his vicious words to whomever the message are, or was, intended.

The sun is starting to set, and you hate having to watch the skyline glitter with the golden light as you drive on. It’s an unwanted and unnecessary memory, unforgiving in the distance of your timeline.

Luckily, you enter the undercity just as the light grows intense, escaping into the sleepless neon of your world. Into the black market and the tech industry, rife with people who thrive on a never-ending night, as if their veins are made of glass and filled with inert gases to make them glow just as brightly as the buildings here.

You’ve got a lead from a friend of sorts. Someone who you’ve got a history with from your days at the bordello, and who kept you alive once upon a time when you first came to the undercity, terrified but determined to forget yourself and be born as someone stronger, smarter, better.

He’s never given you bad intel before, so long as you could get to it before a clan or a faster loaner. Luckily, you have a natural gift for hacking and the latest model of ‘unhackable’ Hyperbikes are no exception to your deft fingers.

You pull up outside Blue House, scanning the digital bulletin for the job he mentioned. You press your finger to it, holding your breath for the marquee to inform you whether it’s still up for grabs, or if it is unfortunately for you- in progress.

A smile cracks your lips when the green light pops up, and you whip your glove off when the prompter asks to scan your left thumb. A second passes as the soft blue light moves across your finger, chirping in confirmation when it’s done.

You don’t even care what the job is- but Chan promised it would be something you could do. All you remember is hearing a payment sum that could put good food in your stomach for a month straight. The only question you had was why a tech hacking job was showing up on a brothel’s bulletin board.

Ultimately, what was one more undercover prostitution job? You were familiar with the work that came through the bordello, and its basic services. In the last two years, you’ve moved away from it little by little, having made some waves with your work as a hacker in the undercity. Your moniker started to be whispered across the shadows as the underdog, a  genius ‘for the people’ hacker that put bad men where they belonged. Only Chan knew you by two names. The rest of the world only knew one.

The name Maneater.

[stillness-in-green]

Thoughts on Chapter 314 (and surrounding events)

Being a loose summary of several things I thought about in relation to the leaks, what they say about the series as a whole, a bit of new operating headcanon on the Peerless Thief, and a dash of how fandom is responding to the revelations. Spoilers, obviously.

This chapter makes it quite clear that the HPSC absolutely would have gone in and eliminated the PLF quietly, lethally, and wholly unlawfully if Hawks hadn't reported back the numbers that he did. The only reason the raid involved non-Commission-affiliated heroes at all is because the PLF's manpower was simply too much for the Commission to deal with via their usual methods. I'm both appalled that the disregard for human rights in HeroAca Land is somehow even worse than I thought it was and smug that that tiny little piece I recently posted criticizing the PLF's treatment has turned out to be totally justified and supported by the canon.[1] (Note that this does not absolve Horikoshi of the responsibility to, himself, treat the PLF better than paper dolls tossed into the incinerator of Plot Irrelevance when they cease being convenient to his story.) The fact that the Commission was forced to involve heroes might mean Re-Destro, Mr. Compress and the others are somewhat safer than might otherwise be the case. Because of the involvement of the unsuspecting stooges law-abiding heroes, and because the botched raid became such a huge disaster, there’s far more public scrutiny on this than would otherwise be the case. Of course, "accidents" can still happen,[2] especially in a chaotic environment, but the factors above (combined with Clone!RD murdering the bejeezus out of the Lady Prez) do, I think, suggest that there probably isn't an organized push for quick solutions going on behind closed doors.

I don't think Nagant has been around for a terribly long time or that there was an uptick in vigilantism in recent years—I think the scene where she mentions vigilantes becoming accepted as heroes is just in reference to the early history of heroism. It's in keeping with what Tsukauchi Makoto described in Vigilantes, and forms the basis of the current system—the current system that Nagant was a single cog in a big machine grinding away to preserve.

Speaking of Nagant and the system, it's interesting to me that one of the groups Nagant apparently targeted at the HPSC's behest was corrupt heroes—those who colluded with villains or specifically goaded/incited civilians into using their quirks illegally, thus turning civilians into capital-V Villains in the eyes of the law. One might easily say that targeting corrupt heroes (albeit using a much broader definition of "corrupt") was Stain's whole shtick, but it actually puts me more in mind of the Peerless Thief, Harima Oji. Harima punished greedy or corrupt heroes with theft, and presumably with a measure of declaration and exposure,[3] then distributed their money back to the streets. Someone who ridicules those who abuse their power, and gets away with it for long enough to build a reputation: that right there is a recipe for a folk hero. The HPSC, in whatever form they existed at the time, obviously couldn't let that go on—such repeated humiliations would weaken peoples’ faith in (and obedience to) the system the HPSC was trying to build. At the same time, though, it would also weaken faith in the system to openly acknowledge that system's flaws, to acknowledge that some pretty awful people had found their way into the heroics business specifically for the power and ability to abuse it that the title of Hero afforded them. Public trials would make it a matter of record that some heroes—and, accordingly, heroes at large—did not deserve the public's unquestioning faith. Obviously in a system that was built from the ground up on faith, that was unacceptable. And so Harima was branded a supervillain for exposing the system's flaws, while the corrupt heroes who embodied those flaws to begin with were—and continue to be—quietly disposed of at the HPSC’s discretion.

There's a lot of talk around about how Lady Nagant is stupid, or hypocritical, or delusional, or whatever other dismissive adjective people want to use, because she expresses a preference for AFO's rule over the HPSC's. Firstly, I think it's dubious Lit Crit to fault a character for not being a Paragon of Rationality, especially when they're under the cascading stressors Nagant has been under since she was, what, 13? 14? Forced to live this dichotomy of smiling gallant hero and ruthless covert assassin, had her life threatened by the man who'd taken her in,[4] probably dumped in Tartarus until such time as her trial could be held,[5] and kept in those ghastly, dehumanizing conditions for who knows how long? How shocking, that her objectivity might be somewhat compromised! Secondly, it's not like she's saying that AFO's rule would be a sunny walk in the park. The kanji she uses doesn't even mean "better"; while it can mean serene or tranquil, her more likely meaning is clear/transparent. Her phrasing indicates that she's aware it would be pretty bad; she's simply of the opinion that at least his rule wouldn't be a sham, a pretty lie. It would be bad, but everyone would know it. No one would have these comforting illusions they could lose at any time; if you stepped out of line and got shot in the head by an assassin, well, at least you would probably know you that being defiant was running that risk, rather than never seeing it coming because you'd been told all your life that Heroes Didn't Do That To People. Again, this is a woman whose life was shattered no less than three times by the duplicity of the highest acting authority in this comic.[6] She doesn't have to be Objectively Correct By The Standards Of Ethical Utilitarianism—nor do you have to agree with her choice that because she doesn’t want to live in the Matrix, no one else should get to either—for her opinion to make sense from her own perspective! Thirdly, while I think it's fair to say that the HPSC and AFO actually use fairly similar methods to recruit followers and punish dissenters, we have no idea how much Nagant herself knows about AFO's recruitment tactics other than her own brief experience of it. And while AFO is a controlling and manipulative bastard, at least in his case it's coming from a man who openly styles himself as a Demon King, not an organization positioning itself as lawful regulators of the protectors of society at large while secretly training child soldiers to flagrantly violate every law protecting the human rights and due process of that society's people.

Overhaul's presence is delightful, and yes, he is a victim of Hero Society, if only because Hero Society could have put him in some kind of prison-based rehab facility after Shigaraki was through with him, but chose to dispose of him in Tartarus instead, for absolutely no justifiable cause. I suspect it's only due to Horikoshi not being very interested in the harsh realities of the trauma caused by enforced isolation[7] that Overhaul is the only Tartarus escapee that talks to himself and has dissociated from reality almost completely. Overhaul's maiming was not the fault of Hero Society, nor did Hero Society force him to torture Eri and repeatedly commit cold-blooded murder. But his madness? Yeah, I'm pretty comfortable laying that one at Hero Society's feet, actually. I can’t wait for Deku to have to face the victim that Chisaki Kai has become due to levels of systemic cruelty and negligence that really ought to be criminal—and which, if this were real life, would be.

--------Lately, footnotes are really popular with us!--------

[1] Lady Nagant: *talks about how the Hero Society everyone believes in is illusory, a thin fake over a brutal reality, and that returning to the false simplicity of that status quo will only cause history to repeat itself* Me, two weeks ago: Hero Society will never stop creating its own villains so long as, every time it fails people, it does nothing but shrug and write off the victims as unavoidable, inevitable sacrifices for the greater good.

[2] Yes, I'm still highly suspicious of the "Destro committed suicide in prison" claim.

[3] Compress tells us Harima “preached reformation,” but regardless, you don’t dress up in a modified kabuki costume and waltz midair through nighttime cityscapes raining cash out of the sky if you’re trying to keep your activities a secret.

[4] And her family situation couldn't have been much better than Hawks', if she was targeted by the HPSC to begin with. I would guess she was an orphan in the childcare system, easy to move from whatever alternative care arrangement she was in, be it an orphanage, a group home, or simply mature enough despite her relative youth that she lived alone on government support payments—that kind of thing isn't as unbelievable in Japan as it is in the U.S.—to the HPSC's care.

[5] And given what we learned between this chapter and 297, I doubt she was even allowed to be present for it. Japanese law states that everyone by default is supposed to be present for their own trial, but as in the U.S, that right can be waived if the defendant proves themselves to be a threat to the safety of the judge, court staff and other attendees. And of course, what a threat the HPSC could have painted her as being!

[6] At least until Hori deigns to show us a damn Diet session.

[7] To say nothing of the physical consequences of spending six months stuck in a tiny room with no natural light while frequently being strapped into a straitjacket, of which there should also be several.