#the entire thing is just ‘’adults meet an abused child and collectively decide to be the parents he needs

[vaugarde]

finished kotaro lives alone

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Is it wrong to lie to children?

A personal essay on reconciling with a shitty childhood and the question: is it wrong to lie to children?

It’s perplexing to have a shitty “unorthodox” childhood because initially I tried to throw out everything about It. Toss out the plumping and the rafters and the roofing, dispense of every single part of my upbringing I could get my hands on and not look back. Naturally, this approach didn’t work. It wasn’t even a real possibility. You’re still haunted by it, a ghost in the bones of a house, a foundation that remains long after the builders have left. That’s part of recovery too, to look at that ghost, to look at those bones, and keep saying: I see you, I see. I let you in. You sit with it and accept, accept, accept.

The really terrible part of this, the part where I don’t throw away the baby with the bathwater, is that you then have to raise the thing, deal with it. You have to do the hard work of parsing through the endless bits of self and placing them in “keep” piles and “discard” piles. I want to keep my mother’s kindness. I want to keep my father’s sense of humor. I want to discard the isolation. I want to discard the delusions.

But then there are these weird . . . “I don’t know” things. The things I am unsure if they helped me or hurt me. As I’ve gotten older I’ve gotten more and more of those “I don’t know” categories piling up. I’ve worked my way through most of the more obvious ones and now it’s all grey and mushy and as cloudy as a London winter. Recently, more than anything, I’ve been grappling with the fact my mother believed it was wrong to lie to children. She believed, in her flower-child way, that it was unethical in all forms.

I never believed in Santa Claus. I’m sorry to say I was a pretty obnoxious kid too because I would preach on the playground about how there was no Santa and there had never been any Santa. Which was a bit harsh, but in my defense I was under the impression these people were suffering from some sort of collective mass delusion. They were being lied to. And lying was wrong.

Is it wrong to lie to children?

I’ve known about sex since I was around 5 years old. I don’t remember why I asked, but it was something about where babies come from and so on. Most parents talk about a stork or love or some other abstract side-step. My mother described the anatomy to me and showed me a scientific diagram of the process. She told me that a sperm meets an egg and fertilizes it so the baby can grow. I learned most of this in scientific terms and was surprised when none of my middle school friends knew how a penis worked.

Is it wrong to lie to children?

When I was 9 or so our cat was eaten by a coyote. I asked my mom where he went and she said that he accidently got out the night before. She said they looked for him all morning, but it was too late. She didn’t use the word “gone” or “passed on” or “he’s in a better place now.”

She said he was dead. I said oh. She asked if I wanted to see him. I said yes. For the record, I am not actually sure if 9 year-olds should see corpses. That is neither here nor there. It was something that stuck with me though, the body of my cat with his tummy ripped out. I had never seen intestines before. His eyes were open.

But there was something cathartic about digging the grave. About helping pick up his little stiff body by the feet and placing him inside. There was something about piling on the red dirt as the sun set and letting the tears fall.

People on sitcoms hate talking about death. It’s understandable, it’s not funny, it makes for good dramatic irony when the kid asks “Where’s Socks?” and the parents go “Uuuuuh. He ran away.” I’ve never felt more alienated at those points. My cat died. He was eaten. I saw his body, and I buried it. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t want to be told he ran away-- that he had a choice in whether or not he left me.

Is it wrong to lie to children?

For a long time I thought the entirety of my childhood was wrong and bad, because I was miserable and broken at the end of it. I will assure you, my parents fucked up time and time again. But sometimes I have to stop and keep asking: Was this the wrong part? Was this the part where they fucked up? Was any part of this valuable? It’s a hard process to comb through an entire life and decide which bits are worth keeping, and if there are any silver linings.

So here is one: I am an honest person. I am a crooked person too, unsure of where to place my feet in social situations, picking my way through others normalcy. I do not readily share information, I am not forthcoming, and it’s a slow burn for me to open up about anything.

However, I notice time and time again that strangers will share personal things with me. I don’t mean for it to happen, but there’s just this pattern in my life. I once went on a car ride with a girl I barely know from my debate team. She described how she wanted to lose her virginity, she wanted it, but was scared God would be angry. That she’d be dirty afterwards. I told her that that was impossible, sex was just an act, it had no eyes, it had no priestly robes, or bearing on her soul. She cried. She said she hadn’t told me anyone this before.

I had a friend in high school who was struggling with an eating disorder, people had tried to get her to talk about it before, but I was the first person she admitted it to. In the hallway, sitting, just discussing nothing, and out it comes: I’m scared to eat sometimes. I was on a city bus and an old woman struck up a conversation with me. Over an hour or so, and she ended up telling me her fears for her own daughter going away to college. Her fear of growing old and passing on. Her problems with sleeping as she lay awake and dreaded it.

People have told me about their problems with substance abuse, their struggles with sexuality, and childhood trauma. People spill to me and I sit there thinking: Why? Sometimes I think it’s my gender or just how people are, but it always feels like I’m missing some part of the picture. Why do people open up to me, unprompted, all at once? Why me?

Is it wrong to lie to children?

Recently, I was reading a memoir set in 2001 where two young kids ask the narrator, their mother, about 9/11. They asked what happened to the people on television who were jumping off the building. Where did they go? The mother says this: They were caught. There are people-catchers that flew and saved them. Everyone is okay.

This story was meant to be heartfelt and lyrical, relatable. It ended like this: It is the job of mothers to offer gentle lies.

I had to stop reading because I was suddenly lost in a white-hot rage, unexpected, knee-jerk. How could she do that? I found myself frothing. They trusted her with answers and she lied. How could she? I knew it was irrational. It was silly even. This was a sweet story. It was meant to be heart-warming and framed in a way that suggested this is what all mothers do. This was what they needed to do. 

I felt my own mother, pumping through my veins, furious that these elementary school students were being betrayed. I stopped myself of course, I knew it wasn’t reasonable. I wasn’t raised “correctly.” I had no legs to stand on.

But still, is it alright to lie to children?

I am once again faced with that unending dilemma: how to throw-out those parts of myself that don’t work and keep the ones that do. It’s difficult to say, because in some ways I agree with my mom. How can I not? But death is cruel. Sex is weird. Santa Claus is a beautiful lie.

And what’s wrong with lying? I still don’t know. What’s wrong with letting them never hurt? Never knowing the pain or gross parts of the world? What’s the harm in letting them make-believe?

But sometimes I think about all those people who have cried to me. All these unprompted confessions come with an unspoken plea: I hurt. I am afraid. I am so scared. It’s all so heavy, these painful truths.

And some part of me stands there, the part my mother raised and says: there is nothing in this life that is too shameful. There is nothing in this world that is unnatural. There is nothing in this life to lie about, even to children.

Is death too painful? Is sex too gross? Would you tell an adult that a man lives in the North Pole and watches them?

I asked my mom, years later, when I was less furious and able to talk with her again without screaming, about why she believed all this. She had told me about it since I was very young, but I never asked why. She shrugged. She said: children are people, aren’t they?

I still don’t know what to do with this.

Children are people, but they are not adults. They shouldn’t be exposed to “adult” things, right? But is that line so concrete? Is the word “adult” just a mask for the greater word, the one we really mean? We all agree: honesty is good. Lying hurts. But it’s alright to lie to kids, because in many ways they aren’t people yet, they aren’t people yet, they don’t count.

I am admittedly an argumentative person. I was on the debate team, mock trial, United Nations, I studied political science in college and fought with every single one of my professors I thought was wrong. And I stood in that playground, age 6, and told every single one of my classmates Santa wasn’t real and I wouldn’t stop. The truth was important. And my mother, no matter what, thought I disserved it.

I often felt tiny and powerless as a kid. Terrified and holding myself together by shoestrings. I often felt there would be nothing better in the world than to be grown up. Not for the money or the dating or the job, I just wanted to feel like the hurricane would end. That one day I could stand on solid ground again. My friend often says: I wish I could be a kid again, ya know? No responsibilities. Just bliss. I want to be a kid again.

I can’t relate. I never have. I’ve been busy weeding through the pipes and lighting and the carpentry of my upbringing and asking myself: is any of this worth keeping? Is any part of me built correctly? There are no right answers.

But still, I am haunted. I sit and ask myself in circles: is it alright to lie to children?

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[sophieakatz]

Thursday Thoughts: Marvel What If’s Women Problem

Welcome back to the feminist rant!

I really didn’t intend to spend three weeks in a row writing about the Marvel animated series What If…? But I wanted to see this through.

Last week we talked about this show’s abundant use of the “fridged woman” trope. However, a show doesn’t need to kill its female characters in order to fail them.

Remember that time I made up a feminist movie test? I call it the “Want Test.” You can read the full explanation here, but here’s the summary:

This test requires that a film (or, in this case, an episode of a TV show) has at least one named female character. After watching the show, ask, “Does what the named female character want matter to the plot?” Then, score the movie based on the answer to this question.

If the answer is “Yes, what the named female character wants matters to the plot,” then give the movie a checkmark!”

If the answer is “Yes, AND this is true of multiple named female characters,” then the movie gets a check-plus. If these characters help each other get what they want, the movie gets a check-double-plus!

If the answer is “Yes, BUT her wants are an obstacle to a male character’s goal,” then the movie gets a check-minus. The woman may matter to the plot, but her importance is centered on her relationship to a male character and how much he matters to the plot. Often movies with a check-minus involve a male protagonist actively trying to stop a female character from getting what she wants; while she has an impact on the world around her, the movie isn’t rooting for the woman.

If the answer is “No, what she wants doesn’t matter,” then the movie fails the test. Give it a minus.

Okay, now let’s talk about Marvel What If. Once again, there are spoilers for the first seven episodes of this show below the cut, and some discussion of the plot points in the movies these episodes are based on.

When I compare the first seven episodes of What If to the Want Test, they each barely scrape their way to a check-minus (though after my rant last week, I’m tempted to edit my test so that a show that fridges a female character automatically fails). In summary, it does not matter what most of the named female characters want. Each episode has a single woman whose wants do affect the plot, but what she wants is always some kind of obstacle to a male character’s goal. Even when the women of What If survive the episode, the male characters’ feelings are the primary engine of the show.

As I neared the end of Episode Six, “What If… Killmonger Rescued Tony Stark?” I said to myself, “Well, at least Pepper and Shuri aren’t dead.” But then, in the last minute of the episode, Shuri and Pepper meet and state their intent to take down Killmonger. And I said to myself, “Okay, so why didn’t we get THAT episode?”

Sure, it’s cool to see two smart girls teaming up, but they don’t get to do anything! This episode repeatedly puts Pepper and Shuri down. Every time they express suspicion of Killmonger, someone contradicts them. What they want does not matter. They are obstacles to the men, and they are easily pushed aside, and so all they can do is stand in the background and watch while the boys run around and play war games.

If your named female characters only matter in the last scene of the show, then they don’t really matter. This episode wasn’t about the women at all. It was about the men killing each other and making each other sad.

*

I really don’t want to say much about the seventh episode, “What If… Thor Were an Only Child?”

What I will say is, “Why, why, WHY is Dr. Jane Foster more concerned about hurting the hot guy’s feelings than she is about how the hot guy is about to cause the end of the world?”

And I will also say, “Why does Captain Marvel need to be nice to Thor at the end of the episode after he spent the entire episode being a jackass to her?”

And I will end this section of the blog post by saying, “Frigga deserves so much better than any man in her family has ever given her.”

*

The second episode of this show, “What If… T’Challa Became a Star-Lord?” might be my favorite episode. Mainly because it’s the only one I genuinely liked while I was watching it. It was fun, and I was happy to hear Chadwick Boseman’s voice one more time. Overall, it’s a lovely tribute to both the actor and his character.

But, for me, liking this episode required ignoring a big problem: Nebula and Thanos’s relationship.

We don’t know exactly when in this timeline T’Challa met Thanos and convinced him to give up on the “murder half the universe” plan. But we do know that even before Thanos collected the Infinity Stones, he was roaming the universe slaughtering millions. We know he committed genocide against Gamora’s people the day he “adopted” her, and it’s safe to assume he did the same to Nebula’s. We know that he raised Gamora and Nebula to fight each other, and every time Nebula lost a fight, he replaced a part of her body with cybernetics, constantly torturing her.

What If never tells us that that Thanos did not abuse his daughters. It never tells us that he did not slaughter millions, including his daughters’ birth families. But it does tell us that Thanos is Nebula’s father. And he wouldn’t be her father if he hadn’t been roaming the universe killing people.

In this episode, we see an adult Nebula who seems to think her dad is annoying, but any feelings she might have about how genuinely terrible he is – feelings she was freely willing to admit in the Guardians of the Galaxy movies – go completely unmentioned.

Thanos and Nebula’s relationship is played for laughs, like they just need to get over their past and hug it out. That bothers me a lot. It’s like the show is saying that Nebula’s pain doesn’t matter. What matters is that Thanos is sad she doesn’t want to hang out with him.

I should also point out that in Avengers: Infinity War, Gamora gets fridged. Her feelings are unimportant to the plot; her stated desire to die before she can be used as a part of Thanos’s plot is mocked and discarded. When she is murdered, the moment of her death is all about how it would hurt Thanos to kill her. Gamora’s death also serves as motivation for Peter Quill to sabotage the other heroes’ efforts to stop Thanos.

Gamora is nowhere to be seen in this episode of What If. The women that Thanos abused really don’t matter here at all.

*

I’ve been putting off talking about this show���s pilot episode, “What If… Captain Carter Were the First Avenger?” This episode was… You know, it was fun, in a very similar way to how the Star Lord T’Challa episode was fun. I can’t lie and say I didn’t like seeing super buff Peggy Carter beat the crap out of Nazis. That was a lot of fun.

But the thing I couldn’t stop thinking while watching was, “This isn’t Peggy’s story. It’s Steve’s!”

Peggy Carter may have gotten the super serum in this reality, but Steve Rogers is still the main driving force of the plot. Peggy goes to Germany to save Steve’s best friend. She works with Steve’s allies, the Howling Commandoes, instead of finding her own. Steve’s issues and emotions are central to everything Peggy does; she may say in dialogue that she wants to end the war, but what we see is that Steve is her motivation. In fact, he’s everyone’s motivation – in the scene where Peggy, Bucky, Howard, and the Howling Commandoes decide to go take down Red Skull, they all go around the table and say that they’re doing it “for Steve.” Not because ending the war is the right thing to do, not because they care about the millions of people murdered and tortured by the Nazis – but because they care about Steve.

When I first heard about this show, I thought that Steve was going to die, and that would be why Captain Carter would exist. The interesting/ironic thing here is that the episode pokes at the idea of fridging Steve, but it doesn’t quite have the guts to go through with it. Everyone thinks that Steve died on the train, but then they find him in Red Skull’s castle, and he’s totally fine! Killing off Captain America would have been an interesting, powerful new direction to take the story. But this episode doesn’t seem interested in taking new directions. It seems more interested in showing how things would stay the same even if Steve didn’t get the serum, even if Peggy switched careers from secret agent to superhero, even if Bucky never became the Winter Soldier, even if Red Skull decided to open a portal to tentacle hell. Things just stay the same.

And I don’t get the point of presenting us with a show where there are “endless possibilities” if things are just going to stay the same. If Peggy Carter will still be a side character in Steve Roger’s story. If Hank Pym’s grief still matters more than Janet and Hope Van Dyne’s lives. If Thanos will still never be held accountable for abusing Gamora and Nebula. If Doctor Strange is still an arrogant jackass. If the only realities we see are ones where men get to act and feel, and women get to be plot devices.

The truth is that the Watcher just isn’t interested in showing us realities where women live and thrive in their own right. For all its emphasis on how different decisions can cause dramatic changes to reality, the creators of What If have no real investment in making different decisions in how they portray female characters. It’s just more of the same.

I’m done thinking about this show. Let’s talk about something else next week, okay?

Be good to yourself, be kind to each other, and you’ll hear from me again soon!

[kuuderekweenfics]

Canción de Cuna

Two in one week? I’m on a roll! (Actually, I was just late to post my last fic, so I thought I’d hit ya with a double whammy.)

Well, if you wanted an emotional roller coaster, you’re in for a real treat.

Because the turmoil is strong in this one. This is a follow up to my previous Dabi fic, although you don’t necessarily have to read that one to enjoy this piece of work. 

Now that I’m three fics in, I want to start opening up the polls to you lovely readers. I don’t necessarily have to stay on the MHA/BNHA train. I’m free to venture into other territories.

I’ve been thinking about maybe a Levi from AoT/SnK fic. But we’ll see. :)

Anywaayyyssssss, back to the point of the matter:

Dabi x Female Reader

Explicit Warning: non-con, and angst sex, as well as psychological abuse and trauma. A lot of adult themes here, people. You’ve been warned. (18+)

Manga Spoilers! Not anything that hasn’t already been put out there, but if you are only watching the show, beware!

El que no sabe de amores, llorona,

no sabe lo que es martirio.

(He who does not know love, weeping woman,

does not know martyrdom.)

Tápame con tu reboso, llorona,

por que me muero de frío.

(Cover me with your shawl, weeping woman,

Because I’ll die of cold.)

He has red hair.

Your child has red hair and you’re not entirely sure you’re seeing this right because, boy, is it red. 

Like brick red. 

Like fire-truck red. 

You blink, rub your eyes, then blink again.

Not a trick of the light. It’s still very red.

Well, at least he’s no longer bald.

You lay him down in his crib, a melodic, yet cracked, lullaby stringing its way from your lips as sleep attempts to overtake you. You run a finger against his puffy cheek, and watch him breath silently. 

Up, down. Up down. 

Sometimes, you stare at his chest for several minutes at a time to make sure he’s still breathing. To make sure he’s still there. He’s a miracle; a glowing ember in the dark void from which he was borne. 

For weeks after your discovered pregnancy, you contemplated aborting. He was a product made not from love but fear. No one would blame you. But the day you heard the whirred sound of a quick and steady heartbeat, your love became boundless. And thus, you gave birth to your baby boy. 

His red hair must come from his paternal genes.

You learned a lot about his father recently. Although, you didn’t have much of a choice in the matter since he hijacked the entire broadcasting network to air out his family’s dirty laundry. If he hadn’t broken you over a year ago, you’d probably feel bad about what he went through. It sure explains a lot of those inner demons he has. 

A small part of you almost wishes that his child inherits some of that apparent intelligence he has before deciding against it altogether. You want him to be nothing like that monster. He will be a good boy. The thought of the great man he will surely become etches a smile on your face. 

You scan any signs of distress before heading back to bed. If you can manage to get in an hour of undisturbed sleep, you think you’ll be able to keep the patisserie running for a whole day tomorrow. While money isn’t necessarily tight, being a single, new mother in a bustling metropolis can be expensive. Not long after your eyes close are you alerted by a high pitched coo. He’s not crying. But he’s awake. And being awake equates to needing attention. 

You don’t register the shadow standing in the corner of his room as you make your way in, your eyes closed and only your deeply ingrained memory of the layout of the nursery to guide you to his crib. It is when your fingers meet an empty bed, growing cold from the lack of a body, do your eyes finally fly open. 

Another coo raises the hair on the back of your neck. This one is deeper, much calmer. You crank your head. Nausea creeps up, pinching every nerve in your stomach with a ferocity that leaves you quaking.

You shouldn’t be surprised to find Dabi there. Part of you had always known that he may come back. Out of sheer curiosity or some bitter resentment, perhaps. But you desperately locked the thought into the depths of your mind, hoping that he might possibly be arrested, or eradicated before then. 

He holds your child, his child, gently, a whisper of a smile almost odd against his otherwise rough demeanor. He is slightly illuminated by the blue hues coming from a small night light. Cerulean eyes flicker at you before settling back down at the small human who sleeps soundly in his arms. 

Your breathing is forced and shallow. Have you blinked? The stinging pulse at the corner of your eyes is a good indicator that maybe you should. But you don’t dare to. Not when he’s around.

“I’m surprised you kept him,” he starts, his low voice rumbling through your core. “It didn’t take long for my hounds to find you. I thought you’d at least put in a bit more effort to hide.”

The silence rings in your ears. You’re not sure if he wants a response or if this is just another villainous monologue to add to his collection. But as the seconds crawl, slow but steady, your confidence grows. You clear your throat. Did your tongue always feel this dry and heavy? You grip the crib with white knuckles. An anchor for the fury you’re about to unleash.

“You changed your hair.” 

It comes out small and tired. Of all the things you could have said, all the icy venom you could have spat at him, you decided to comment on his white hair. His. Hair. You mentally plead for a do-over, as if the earth would spin backward to take the last minute and give you another opportunity to rain hellfire. 

He smirks at you, reading your inner turmoil, but decides to drop the matter. “What have you named the twerp?”

You tell him. He nods a bit, and you wonder if it’s a mark of approval as he walks toward the crib. He leans forward to gingerly place the baby back in and you feel the tension in your body cave, your rigid muscles releasing almost sorely.

Another pregnant silence.

“Sometimes, his eyes scare me,” you admit finally, chipping away at the stifling quiet. “Not because I believe he’s capable of ever doing what you did; what you do...but because they look just like yours. And then I see you.”

He doesn’t turn to you. Doesn’t react. He keeps his attention on his child, and, for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s heard you at all. 

“Do you regret it?”

Do you regret being there that day? Do you regret not calling for backup? Do you regret keeping your child? His question can apply to so many things, but the answer to all of them remains the same. 

You look down at the sleeping boy and finally answer, “Never.”

You hadn’t noticed he closed the distance until his hand was pressed against your lower back and your lips met. 

Oh no. No, no, no. Not again. Your heart thunders in your throat as you push him away. But his other hand wrenches your arm down and he pulls you in, deepening the kiss.

A sob escapes your trembling lips. You use your free hand to grab hold of his jaw, the skin thick and scarred, and shove him from you. You reach for the baby, your alarm blaring for you to get out, to create any distance you can from the danger before you, but his arms wrap around your waist before you can attempt your escape. 

“Don’t do this,” you plead, hoping the fragment of kindness he had shown toward his son would extend to you. 

He rests his forehead in the crook of you neck and holds you tighter. You can feel him shake behind you. Is he crying? Is he remorseful?

The blood drains from you as you hear it: laughing. Softly at first, a quiet, tired chuckle cutting into the dark, turning into loud cackle which startles your son into a tearful wail. 

You reach out in a feeble endeavor to comfort him. Your hand is pushed back down by your captor. 

“He’ll be fine. I think we should focus our efforts on giving the little tyke a playmate, what do you think?” He growls into your ear. “Maybe we can try for a girl this time. She’d be pretty, like her mom.”

You swallow the hot bile back down. It’s so unfair; him speaking to you as if he’s ever the doting father, as if he was around during the most crucial moments of your pregnancy, or in the months thereafter. He threw away his opportunity of being a family man long before he met you. Not that you wanted him there at all. Another child wouldn’t change him, wouldn’t change the fact that you didn’t, had never wanted, a family with him.

You don’t know what made him decide on you. What made him believe you were the perfect candidate to bear his children? You failed at having a useful quirk for power-breeding.  You were a shell among the rest of them. How long had he wandered along the shore, surpassing all others before reaching down into the sand and picking you? 

He breathes you in, the mere scent of you encouraging his cock to harden and rub into your ass. How did you get to this point? What could you have said differently? It goes without saying that you have no means to fight. He trails wet, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and bites down on your shoulder. You hate that he elicits a shiver in response. 

You lean forward on your own, letting him rut against you as you take a pacifier and place it into your son’s mouth. 

You hum a lullaby as your shorts and panties are pulled down and fall in a heap on the floor. 

You stroke his cheek as Dabi stroke his length against you, the precum coating your folds and the tip just barely grazing your clit.

You choke down the sob as he claims you, for the second time, just as the boy slowly submerges into another warm embrace of sleep.

He grips your shoulder and drills into you, and despite not having any form of stimulation, your arousal awakens hot and electric with each pulse. You close your eyes in a vain attempt to shield your son from seeing you this way: broken and needy. 

But he’s fallen back asleep. No, what you’re really shielding yourself from is the shame enveloping you as your legs squeeze together and your back arches. Because you want Dabi to hit that spot; you want him to pound into that button that shoots a wave of pleasure up your spine and into your skull. And as his thick cock finally strikes home one, two, three times, and your pussy becomes a soppy mess, you’ve realized he’s found it. 

You let out a raspy moan. This only invites him to reach over and rub your clit.

How embarrassing. How unbelievably mental you are. You bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to taste a metallic tanginess. You just hope he decides against his previous notions and pulls out at the last moment. 

But It’s different from before. He holds you close, bending down and grabbing the crib’s railing with one hand and tucking the strands of your hair behind your ear with the other before bringing it back down again to play with your bundle of nerves as he whispers obvious fantasies against your cheek. 

Teaching his son how to control his quirk.

Learning how to braid his daughter’s hair.

The tears fall freely from you now. Because each dream sounds so perfect. So delightful. But that’s all it will ever be. A dream, wrapped nicely with a polka-dot bow. Because Dabi cannot be the man of your dreams. Not when he’s stolen so much from you already. Not when he is devoid of any basic human decency. He licks your tears and fears away and plants a sloppy kiss against your clammy forehead as he pounds almost endearingly into your tight, obedient cunt. 

And maybe that alternate reality is how you let yourself fall deeper into the abyss of want. You mask moans with whimpers to deny the immense pleasure you feel. Each squelch, squelch, penetrating the night’s stillness in sequence with your bodies. Cruelly tethered to one another until death. 

He growls, signaling his close release. His hand latches onto your hip as his thrusts become erratic. His balls, heavy and begging for release, slap up against you. You let out an open-mouthed gasp, closing your eyes as you hone in on that feeling that sends you deep, so very deep, into oblivion. 

Unlike the first time, you both cum together, your groans a harmony in the night.

You don’t remember what came next. Either from lack of sleep, mental exhaustion, or both, you fall into a deep slumber. You could have also fainted. But trying to figure it out now was simply futile.

Only, you’re not sure how you made it into bed, or how you opened the blinds to let the sun shine brightly through the window. And you’re not quite sure how long you’ve slept either. But you snap back to reality and run to the baby’s room, only to see not one, but two sleeping figures swaying back and forth on the rocking chair.

You can almost hear the crack, crack, cracking as you surrender, the fracture in your mind severe and unmendable.

You walk quietly, reaching for Dabi’s shoulder. His eyes flutter open, and immediately close as your lips meet, tender and sweet.

And you allow yourself hope, just for a bit longer, that maybe, just maybe, it may not be so bad after all. 

[ragingbakusimp]

And I’m Still Hurting - Bakugou x Reader

Angst to fluff ⛅️

TW ⚠️ Mentions of PTSD from abuse

16+ (Mentions of adult content and language)

Ripples of sunlight spill through the shutters, warming the exposed flesh of your legs. The bed covers shift like the lazy laps of waves against sand as the body next to yours rises from the cotton bedding. Long lashes cascade a shadow across your cheeks as they flutter open, welcoming the fresh light of morn.

Stood, staring out the window, was the man you loved. Your soulmate. His silhouette stood tall and muscular, hands firmly gripping the window sill as he most likely glared at the streets below. Sitting up in bed, your skin almost glistened in the glittering beams of the sun. Noticing the sound of movement, Katsuki turns toward you, his face serene.

His form moves towards you, placing himself on the edge of the bed. Heated lips are pressed against your temple as you cling to the duvets, holding them up to cover your exposed bust. 

“Good morning.”

His gravelly voice sends shivers down your spine as you smile sleepily.

“Mornin’.”

Scars and bruises cover his torso and arms, signs of his victories, as everyone knows, Katsuki never loses. He rises yet again, his warmth leaving with him. Pondering round the room, he finds the necessities needed before he packs his bag for work. Leaning down over you, he grazes his lips against your ear.

“I love you, Teddybear.”

And with that, he picks up his things and leaves the bedroom you share, giving you time to get ready yourself. He treasures the purity of you. In the nights, long gone is your innocent tone and angelic aura as you scream his name and beg him for more, nails creating long scratches down his back as you cling onto him for dear life. He treasures the marks you leave on each others skin. He treasures the way you throw your head back as you both climb the mountain. He treasures the moment his lips meet your jugular, your racing pulse against his mouth. 

Yet he also treasures the sleepy mornings. The return of the innocence. The way you stare up at him like he carries your entire world on his shoulders. These sentiments drag him through each day, no matter how easy or tough. He knows he's coming home to your care, your love, your heart. 

Today would test him though.

The walk to work was quiet. Katsuki could tell something clouded your mind as your eyes stayed trained on the footpath in front of you. Shining windows reflected the early morning sun as the agency came into view. What could have switched your mood? Katsuki wondered. You loved your job, you loved him, what was there to be sad about? Concern and anxiety bubbled up inside of Katsuki. Clocking in was also silent. The ash-blonde male watched as you got into your hero costume, your face was a blank slate.

“Oi, Dumbass, you good?”

(E/C) eyes darted up and stared directly into his own. Like a mask, a fake smile was smeared across your cheeks.

“Yeah Suki, all good here.”

Sucking on his lip, he didn't pry. Nodding firmly, he zipped his costume up and motioned for you to join him in leaving the cubicle. Grabbing your hero mask, you quickly trailed behind him. You both worked under Hawks’ agency. You checked the spreadsheet and you were both on patrol together in the sketchiest part of town. 

Katsuki scanned your face as you both made your way into your patrol area. Many poor families lived here, and the crime rate was astronomically high. Many young children played out on the streets as their mothers watched them closely, smiling to the two of you as you walk by, grateful for your watching eyes as heroes. Small dainty fingers interlaced with Katsuki’s as you clung to his hand. It was almost like he could feel your heart racing. 

“Oi, what's wrong?”

You simply shook your head as you clung to him, clouds starting to dim the gentle light of the sun, the world turning grey. A man emerged from behind a car, his gaze landing on you and Katsuki. 

“(Y/N)? Is that you?”

The fiery male felt you tense. Your quirk was mental manipulation. You could manipulate things well, mentally. Telekinesis, telepathy and mind control were all in the palm of your hand. Katsuki watched as your hand gripped around his, small pebbles beginning to float off the floor.

‘Suki, we need to leave.’

Your voice rang in his mind. Just as he pulled you in to move down another street, the man appeared in front of you both. You swallowed. The older male smiled crookedly at you as Katsuki observed.

“Can we help you?”

The older man chuckled sickeningly. 

“Still clinging to a man hoping he’ll protect you I see. Do you still hold all that stuff against me? Come on now baby, you know I did it to make you stronger.”

Katsuki furrowed his brow. 

“(Y/N) do you know this geezer?”

“I’m her father you punk.”

You seemed to mumble something under you breath as he spoke those words.

“What did you say?” 

The male spat at you as Katsuki held your hand tighter.

“No. You're not my father. You never have been. You hurt me and my brother. You deserve to sit in this shit pit and rot. You are not and never will be the reason I’m the hero I am today.”

“You little shit. After all these years that's your idea of a thank you? I BUILT YOU FROM NOTHING!”

The older male raised his hand and Katsuki's instincts kicked in as he blew him half way down the street with his palm. You buried yourself into his side as a million thoughts drilled into Katsuki’s skull. Snapping back into reality, he radioed the police. The local squad arrested the male and assured Katsuki they would be running a full report on him. All the angry male could do was watch your solemn shaking form. 

The rest of the day trailed on. You barely spoke, disappeared during your lunch break and came back with puffy eyes and red cheeks. By the time you both got home it was late. Katsuki had stopped by the station to collect the report on the man who claimed to be your father. The apartment was dark and quiet, the first thing Katsuki noticing was you slinking off to the bathroom by yourself. He held his breath until he heard the shower running. 

‘Good.’

He thought, hoping the shower would help you clear your head; hopefully meaning you'll talk to him again. Katsuki sat down on the couch after removing his shoes and began reading through the report.

Name: Malcom (L/N)

Age: 56

Height: 5′11″

Convicted of: Domestic Violence, Petty Theft, Theft, Grievous Bodily Harm and Child Abuse.

Fuck. He abused you. No wonder you shut down completely after seeing him. Katsuki felt slightly less guilty about blasting that fucker down the street now. As Katsuki read the rest of the report, you stood in the shower rinsing away the dirt from today. Katsuki had showered at the agency but you just couldn't. You wanted to wait till you came home and felt safe. You scrubbed your face and rinsed the soap out of your hair before stepping out of the shower and drying yourself off. You plugged in the hair dryer and began to blow dry your hair. Staring into the mirror, you frowned at the girl that was reflected in the glass. She looked weak and tired, not strong like a hero. Brushing your hair and teeth, you finished up in the bathroom and left the steamy room. You quietly pottered around the kitchen, making some peppermint tea before heading to your bedroom.

Katsuki watched you disappeared into the bedroom and he decided it best to sleep too. Following behind, he opened the bedroom door to see you curled up under the covers. Changing out of his clothes and into just boxers, the ash blonde male joined you under the sheets. 

“He’s going to prison, you know.”

No response.

“I know what he did to you.”

Silence again.

“He won't hurt you ever again.”

Katsuki shuffled up behind, hugging you as he buried his nose into your hair. That was when he felt the shaking of your body and head the soft sobs that fell from your lips. Rolling you over, he pulled you tightly against his chest. Your shaky hands gripped to his shoulders as you hugged him close. 

“I-I’m weak Katsuki. Heroes should be strong.”

The ill-tempered male pulled you away from his chest and looked you dead in the eyes.

“No fucking way. No. You are the strongest person I’ve ever met. You stood and faced your trauma today. It takes a lot of fucking strength to do that. You are so strong and so grounded. That man didn't take anything away from you and he didn't break you either. He will rot in prison and you can make your life whatever you want. I will be here for you every single step of the way. I fucking love you cause you're dumb-ass but also a bad-ass.”

By the end of his speech you were giggling into his shoulder. Calloused fingers gently held your face as he wiped your tears. His crimson eyes warmed your heart as they stared at you lovingly. This was your soulmate. And you treasured the days and the nights, no matter how easy or tough. 

*SOBS* - Ragingbakusimp

[hey-hamlet]

BNHA FIC PROMPTS

A collection of all of the fic ideas from that ask game, as of now. I’ll throw in new ones if i get any and when I remember. Feel free to use any of them, I’d love a link if you did!

with hands to the sky, I beg (what will save us?)

Izuku is a god who asks to be reborn as a human to try and help. He is warned he can’t return to being a god and will join the mortal realm, ever reincarnated. He agrees.

Izuku is a child with faint memories of a life he never lived, who knows too much about the world but not enough about the people around him. He’s not listed as having a quirk but he’s never gotten sick, never been hurt. He scares the other children and the adults don’t like his precocious nature. Inko loves her little miracle.

 My Soul is Like a Supernova

Things happen around Izuku. Always have. Everything from earthquakes and villain attacks to miraculous healing and lottery wins. He’s always attracted big events like this - as if even the universe can see how important he is and it warps itself around him.

He sees this as perfectly normal. 1A is begining to notice a stressful pattern.

This one regret of mine

Character study of Inko and how she deeply regrets so many things she’s done in her life, from her husband, to giving up on her carrier, to telling Izuku he couldn’t be a hero and then letting him keep going to UA.

But no matter what she’d never regret her son.

Of souls and lost causes

A good ol’ Izuku sees dead people AU, focused more on his younger years when he’d wander around the city helping as many spirits as he could, only to return home at the end of the day exhausted and dirty to an increasingly worried mother who believed the doctor when he said seeing ghosts as a quirk would be impossible.

my life.your choice

Underground heroics AU (i dont think ive ever posted that au huh): Izuku is the well-known son of japan’s immortal emperor, All for One. Born quirkless, he’s been emotionally abused but violently protected his whole life by his father, his mother killed before his eyes for trying to take him away. He’s never been able to make a choice for himself save for his bodyguard - his childhood friend, Bakugo Katsuki.

Katsuki made a pledge to protect him when they were in kindergarten and he’ll be damned if he breaks it now. And if it takes the two of them joining the resistance, meeting a vigilante by the name of All Might thought long dead and Izuku receiving a near-mythical quirk? Well, that just makes it more exciting, doesn’t it?

I forgot that you existed

Izuku gets hit with a quirk that not only makes people forget him, it prevents them from seeing him as well - all but erasing him from reality for everyone he knows. He can still interact with things but all it manages to do is just UA shut down under fear of villain infiltration. They find Izuku 18 hours later when the quirk wears off - a motion tracking gun trained on his forehead.

certain uncertainties

No one can predict the quirks trapped in One for All or when they’ll show up. Anthology fic of Izuku discovering each of them, some being rather helpful, and at least one piece of merch being sent into a low orbit.

Sometimes goodbye is a second chance

Set in the same universe I wrote console reset in; during the two heroes movie: they never defeat Nine and he slaughters the whole island and his class, leaving Izuku till last. He comes back at the start of their first day on the island and doggedly makes friends with every islander he can because while it hurt seeming them die, it hurt even more knowing he’d never even learnt most of their names.

They win this time the first time they meet him, even if it’s a marathon fight of 8 hours with him and Bakugo doggedly wearing him down. No one dies. Izuku thinks it’s worth dying as many times as he has to to keep the people he loves smiling.

The immortality of the heroic spirit

One of the quirks in One for All is determination: if you have something you desperately want to do, you can’t die - no matter how much blood you lose or home many pieces your body is crushed into - you’ll just heal back to where you were before you died. All Might and Aizawa find this out to horrifying effect during a brutal villain fight they are stuck watching on the news with the rest of a terrified UA.

In hindsight this makes a lot of sense to Izuku. Aizawa wants to scream. All Might has coughed up more blood than is probably healthy and all of 1A bruised hands from where they were clutching each other’s when it got too tense.

Shine on you invincible legacy

Izuku becomes a top 10 hero before hes even out of high school, hitting No.2 the second he graduates and taking No.1 from Hawks literally the next time the ranking is counted. 1A will not stop throwing him parties each time he moves up in the ranking, even if in 3rd year it was every other week. All Might comes to ever one of them.

Shake the Dirt from Your Shoes

Izuku will be a hero and no one will stop him - an AU a fair bit like the beginning of canon except Izuku fights back, remains unending optimistic and maybe engages in a light bit of technically legal vigilantism, accidentally befriending a vast array of heroes and a student or two.

To his horror, they recognise him out of costume as soon as he speaks to them, resulting in a very eventful first day at UA.

do you feel with a heart of steel

Original Sin AU, young Izuku finding feeling emotions difficult and not knowing why. He finds a dying animal on the way home and sits with it, patting it until it passes away. He doesn’t think he feels anything, but his cheeks feel wet.

all you want is milk and honey

Villains have been trying to use Izuku his entire life, much to his annoyance and confusion (I wonder who in his family might make him known to villains? hm). He’s gotten very good at being intimidating, even as a child.

When he gets kidnapped with Bakugo on a primary school field trip he decides to hell with it and breaks out all the stops. Turns out villains don’t tend to want a 10-year-old who can describe in great detail how they would hang you with your own intestines.

Bakugo decides that fuck Izuku being quirkless, he’s kind of amazing.

Even the stars

Izuku dies young and no one but the stars cry for him. They bring him back, but his body is cold and he has a nova burning where his heart should be. A four-year-old who has known death and walked among the stars is a terrifying thing. His skin has a shimmer to it, his eyes look like planets with no visible pupil, and he knows far too much.

The stars still speak to him, and they see everything.

bitter dreams and optimistic nightmares

Bakugo and Izuku grow up good friends, until Izuku is taken by villains age 9.

Bakugo’s determined to be a hero to save Izuku, even if it hurts to be at UA without him.

Izuku hates hurting people but he’s determined to make the most of his horrible situation by leaking information to heroes whenever he can. He’s given to All for One to serve as a lab hand to the doctor when All for One finds out this rag tag outpost of his had been hiding a valuable resource.

They meet at the USJ.

Mind Games for Two Shinsou and Izuku are both gen ed students in the same class, but with Shinsou stubbornly refusing to make friends and Izuku being the vice president they are almost strangers. UA has a no quirkless students policy and Shinsou has accidentally discovered that he student in his class with an analysis quirk, doesn’t, actually, have one. Izuku is aware Shinsou knows. They both want to get into the hero course but are under the impression there is only one spot.

It’s tense.

The Melody Stuck in My Soul

Izuku has an empathy/emotional control quirk that hears other’s emotions like music. He uses this both to read people, to defend himself, and, because hes Izuku, to ramp up his adrenaline/motivation/anger to kick ass. He and Bakugo are friends because baby Bakugo was lowkey impressed Izuku managed to weaponize his tears.

Advantage of the musical element: it gives him something concrete to latch on to and change, and it was very easy to work out which emotions were which. Also he has his own theme song, even if he’s the only one who can hear it.

Disadvantage: He cant turn it off. The stronger the emotion the ‘louder’ the music (it doesn’t cover up natural sounds because its not technically there, you get me?)

Error 404, childhood not found

A Hero’s Son AU, snapshot’s of Izuku’s childhood with No.1 Hero All for One as his abusive father.

Age 4 when his quirk never comes in and All for One abandons all pretences of loving him. Age 6 when he realises his son is intelligent and has a use as a lab assistant for the doctor. Age 8 when Bakugo first realises something is wrong. Age 9 when his father is almost killed by the No.1 villain All Might. Age 9 when he’s made to work in the labs with the doctor.

Age 14 when he meets All Might. Age 15 when he makes it into UA.

Darkness Growing (The Light Ever Smaller)

Villains take over Japan after the current arc, leaving all heroes and students that don’t switch sides on the run. 1A is instantly separated with a few of them  being killed, most of the living students with Aizawa and Izuku and Bakugo by themselves, both too stubborn to leave the other.

Aizawa is desperately trying to get to Izuku and Bakugo in an attempt to keep them safe, while the two of them are avoiding Aizawa to keep the rest of their class safe(er), all while avoiding the villains, turncoat heroes and police out to get them. Public support is spotty at best with anyone found ‘harboring a criminal’ given the same punishment as the hero.

Lost soul of last hope

The first wielder has been Izuku’s imaginary friend since he can remember. He’s not very imaginary.

Featuring Izuku with the world’s strangest older brother, Inko coming to the realisation her son can see a ghost, but only one ghost and no one will believe them, Izuku’s quirk being listed as Inko’s because the first wielder can help him fake it, and Izuku wondering why first looks so much like that picture of his father on his mother’s bedside table.

The kids the system failed

100% The 1A run aways au with 1A, Aizawa and Mic being runaways kids of various ages that band together to stay alive and maybe do a little vigilante work on the side.

Izuku has All for One and uses it like you’d expect a traumatised kid to - cautiously at first but when he gets the hang of it there are suddenly no more criminals with quirks in their area, and it looks suspiciously like Uraraka can fly.

Just a second to soon? For the Fic thing?

Aizawa struggles and gets knocked out just before Shigaraki lunges at Tsuyu. She and Izuku are left horribly injured by his quirk with massive facial scarring, and in Tsuyu’s case, the loss of an eye.

Daze

An illusion/fear quirk makes his teachers look like villains and convinces him he’s in danger. They try and stop him without hurting him but it’s difficult considering Izuku is convinced he’s protecting his friends, considering he can only see them broken and bloodied with villains he thought were locked away loaming over them.

Even as Aizawa cuts out his quirk Izuku still tries to shield his friends, snarling ferally.

Morning Glories and Forget-me-nots

A memory quirk of unknown duration hits Izuku, leaving him remembering none of his life. 1A starts to fall apart without one of their pillar’s.

hopeless but not broken

The Long Con au where Izuku asks All Might if he could be a hero without a quirk - he’s really asking if he can stop pretending to be a villain, if he’s worth anything without the quirks he’s been given, if he’s worth something as himself rather than the limited use he can provide. He doesn’t know how to say all of that, so he just asks if he could be a hero.

All Might says no. And Izuku basically decides right then that the only way he’ll ever be able to help people is by being a mole for the heroes like he’s been since he was 10 - that he isn’t worth anything because he’s quirkless and to be considered just as valuable as the people around him are he needs to give his life and more.

He shows up to the bar crying because of All Might and Shigaraki moves his murder plot forward a few months.

Sunflowers and Summer Gardens

All Might starts a garden on campus and 1A like to help. He uses it as a nice place to chill and as physical therapy. He likes to give the different classes bunches of flowers when they sprout.

For Dos and For Donts

Izuku runs into some of his old bullies when out with some of his friends. Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki, Shinsou and Asui intimidate the fuck out of them, and Izuku realises hes not scared of them any more. Then they get frozen yoghurt!

your mistakes, my unbecoming

Aizawa assigns a project on quirk related issues, Izuku ends up with quirkless discrimination, Aizawa assumes his discomfort is just him being upset he doesn’t get to talk about quirks. He doesn’t realise his mistake until he finds Izuku dissociating on the roof.

one and one into the vast

Original Sin AU, All for One and Izuku seeing the vestiges together. One for All sees his brother for the first time and Izuku learns a lot about the voice in his head.

All for One has a mini-crisis about his not son learning he’s a horrific villain, especially considering he has the power to cast his soul out at any time, killing him at will. Izuku doesn’t kill him. He admits its probably not right of him to let AfO remain considering the things he’s done, but All for One is a part of him now and it would be like killing a friend.

All for One quietly decides to hold off on the villainy until all of 1A is dead, for Izuku’s sake.

between the stars of our souls

Izuku and All Might are old gods who keep getting reborn into human forms with their memories regained when they turn 4. Normally finding each other takes a while, and their last reincarnation they never found each other, so this time he resolves to make himself as easy to find as possible, all while saving as many people as he can.

Izuku, aged 4, memories fresh in his head, makes it his mission to get into contact with the man he knows is his father/mentor’s reincarnation. All Might’s agency was not expecting a 4 year old to repeatedly try breaking in to their office, and they especially weren’t expecting him to be so good at it.

you really should have thought this through

Different (and ill-advised) attempts at special moves or team up combo moves. Featuring:

Izuku managing to break Kirishima’s nose.

Uraraka sending Bakugo so high he broke the sound barrier coming back down to earth.

Kaminari and Shouto managing to electrify ice.

Izuku, Todoroki and Bakugo levelling a whole suburb (at least it was condemned???)

I'll Break Anything You Give Me

Different times Izuku desperately tried to repair his relationship with Izuku over the years and the one time Bakugo fully grasps how much he fucked up and reaches out his hand to try to fix it for the first time. Probably includes a lot of screaming, Bakugo learning how to say sorry, a field trip and them having a conversation on Aldera’s roof.

Sinking

One for All kind of possesses Izuku during a quiet night at the dorms. One for All, made of 8 people, 7 of which are dead and had their last experiences in life be rather painful and violent, breaks down, Izuku alone not enough to drown them out. They lash out at anyone who tries to touch them, their quirks tearing Izuku’s body apart.

All Might’s vestige reaches out a hand to Izuku to keep his mind from being torn apart as 1A set about both trying to protect Izuku and get Aizawa who was off campus on patrol.

Feat. Bakugo and All Might being the only people with any idea about what’s going on and getting more and more stressed each second that passes. Iida, Uraraka and Todoroki being good heroes and even better friends. Blood King deciding he’s never watching 1A for Aizawa again, and Aizawa deciding he’s never leaving 1A alone ever again.

A Long Way From Home

Shirakumo wakes up in Kurogiri’s body in Tartarus with only shadowed memories of his time as a villain. He’s scared and alone and he just wants to see his friends again, even if he’s scared they hate him because at least that’s something he knows.

Too Far Gone

The other side AU, it comes out Izuku is a villain with (knockoff) All for One and he has a showdown with Mirio. He and Izuku trained together under All Might and Mirio tries to plead with him but Izuku has to basically tell him to go to hell to not ruin his placet as crown prince of the underworld.

Of course, he’s not only doing this to save people, he’s also doing it with All Might’s blessing - taking over from All Might himself serving as a villain after he killed All for One to prevent a power vacuum.

Doesn’t mean that his friends in 1A know that.

Snowy hills and sunlit peaks

Probably an AU about All Might being a mountain spirit with a little shrine that Izuku is the only one who visits - Izuku gets in trouble and All Might manifests himself, saves him, and tells everyone to keep their hands off his human son.

Wilting

Izuku gets sick and he tries to hide it because he’s scared its something serious but he just gets worse and worse. His friends are the ones who eventually step in and comfort him.

I’d probably write two endings with one being a bad end and the other a good end.

My wish came true without me realising 

Izuku wakes up one morning, comes downstairs and just starts crying. Everyone panics and he reassures them they are happy tears and that he's just glad to be here. They all call him sappy and give him a hug. Later in the day he and Bakugo chat and Izuku reveals he never even expected to live this long, let alone become a hero. Bakugo grumbles that he’s too stubborn to die, and not to get too cocky. Izuku promises he wont.

[eloisevisualculture]

the hypersexualisation of young girls in the media

The abuse and use of children for an adult’s personal gain is an issue that has always existed, regardless of the existence of the internet and the media. But the propagation of this platform (social media, entertainment or fashion magazines) has lead to a whole new sets of problems like the hyper-sexualisation of children, particularly young girls. The dictionary Larousse defines “hyper-sexualisation as “in society, the fact of giving an increasingly important place to sexuality, by multiplying references to it in the public space (media, advertising)”. In some cases this has been so normalised that criticism of these portrayals can be described as purist and excessive. What is the consequence of hyper-sexualisation of children in social media? The purpose of this essay will be to discuss the way the different ways children are sexualised in media and advertising and the effects it can have on their lives. It is not uncommon to hear the phrase “they grow up to fast nowadays” when referring to the youngest generations, as a result of their exposure to the media. Of course if the only thing young girls had to fear from acting like ‘grownups” was wearing makeup earlier in life, then there would be less cause for concern. Unfortunately, the dangers always revolves back to struggle of the ill- intentioned praying on the weak and easily influenced, and the continued danger of a patriarchal mentality passed down through generations. In the highly publicised fashion industry for instance, that holds a great influence on our society, there have been many instances of very young girls chosen as models, and put into adult life contexts. A notorious example is the 2011 edition of Vogue Paris, who published photographs of Thylane Lourby-blondeau, a 10 year old model who was pictures, in revealing clothes, makeup and jewellery, lying on a bed and looking at the camera with a sultry air.

It sparked a controversy and brought up the issue of the hyper-sexualisation children. Many people and parents stated that it was inappropriate and dangerous to picture a young child in an undeniably sensual light, and that directing a shoot to appeal to post-pubescent men, while the child was too young to understand the implications.  Thylane Loubry-Blondeau, on the cover of Vogue Paris, 2011, January edition Others defended it simply as ‘art’, the portrayal of a girl playing dress up, which ultimately does little to justify morals. Art was also the excuse Irina UNESCO gave after photographing and publishing albums of her daughter in sexual, pornographic scene, also nude, from the age of 4 to 11. In an interview with the purple magazine, Ionesco reflects on how her mother used her for years for her own personal gain and career, her works being widely known because they were so scandalous; “She would put make-up on me when I was a child. I slept very little, didn’t go to school. She took erotic photographs of me and made me act in erotic films, of which I was the subject. It wasn’t just about the photos — her entire approach was abusive. Sometimes she would send me to other photographers. She’d say: “You’re going to see such and such a photographer. It’s not great, but you’re going anyway.” It was becoming very dangerous.”(Ionesco). One of the disturbing things about the work Irina published about her daughter is that it is still available to purchase today, and even praised for it’s artistic value.

Eva Ionesco in her adult years has described in detail the “loss of childhood” and the life long effects she had to deal with from being sexualised and abused from such a young age “You were thrown into a world of adults, of nightlife, sex, and art very young — from the age of 12 or 13. And in one of the most liberal periods we’ve seen so far in terms of morals.” She went on to write a film inspired by her childhood and relationship with her mother. As with everything, it is important to avoid blind censure, and condemn anything without a deeper understanding. It is very easy to doggedly pursue a cause and become set in our opinions, and not allow freedom of expression to well meaning individuals, if their children are understanding and willing participants. The artist Sally Man was criticised for publishing nude pictures of her children. They were done as a celebration and a chronicle of her children’s evolution, childhood and slow progression to adulthood, and were done with the children’s understanding and consent, as was made clear in an article in the New York Times “The collaboration of the children in their mother’s work is apparent to anyone who spends time in their company. They are impish, argumentative participants, not robots. (When a photographer asked them what kind of portrait of their mother should accompany this article, they shouted, “Shoot her naked, shoot her naked.” She did.)”(2015).

Sally Mann put the safety and wellbeing of her children above personal gain, choosing to publish her photo album ‘Immediate Family”, when the children would fully be aware of their choice. “I thought the book could wait 10 years, when the kids won’t be living in the same bodies. They’ll have matured and they’ll understand the implications of the pictures. I unilaterally decided.” (2015). One of the effects of the explosion of social media, and their ease of access, is that young children know have the ability to not only watch content that might not be suitable for age but to create content themselves. On Tiktok for instance, there is a lot of content based on visual, and sensual appeal, like women doing suggestive dances in revealing clothing. Women who are old enough have the experience and sense to be fully aware, and take distance themselves from the comments, they are doing it for their own enjoyment. Young girls watch these videos and see the adulation and attention these influencers get, and want to try it out for themselves. Dr Elaine Kasket explains this system on TikTok is artificially amplifying a natural phenomenon. Unfortunately, the same ease of access that allowed the children to post these videos also means that the people who want to abuse them can see them too. Not only do they write inappropriate sexual comment in the comments, or encourage more extreme behaviour for their own benefit, they also get in touch with the minors, and message them privately. Dr Kasket explanation is well illustrated by the 2020 film Cuties shows the traumas and effects of young girls lives governed by social media. This film portrays the journey of a young eleven year old Amy, as she joins a self organised preeteen dance group and is confronted with a whole new world of social media, pressures to be sexual and grown up.

"Teenagers are naturally interested in taking risks and they’re naturally interested in finding out about sex and The sexualisation of young girls is an issue which can be confused, but is also linked to their natural desire to imitate their mother, or older siblings. Every single child has tried at some point to act like their parents. But with the rise and ease of access of social media (instagram, TikTok), children have access to whole new world, and many try to imitate what they see on these platforms. discovering themselves as sexual beings and exploring that. "They are open to flattery, they are open to seduction, they are open to the verification they get from the hearts they get and the likes they get”. (2020, The Sun)Unfortunately, the same ease of access that allowed the children to post these videos also means that the people who want to abuse them can see them too. Not only do they write inappropriate sexual comment in the comments, or encourage more extreme behaviour for their own benefit, they also get in touch with the minors, and message them privately. Dr Kasket explanation is well illustrated by the 2020 film Cuties shows the traumas and effects of young girls lives governed by social media. This film portrays the journey of a young eleven year old Amy, as she joins a self organised preeteen dance group and is confronted with a whole new world of social media, pressures to be sexual and grown up. Through their imitation of sexualised adult women on the media, young girls inherit patriarchal and misogynistic ideals that superficial beauty determines their worth.The child beauty pageants are intensely popular in America, and raise a lot of money for charity. They parade toddler and young children in false nails, high heels, heavy makeup and heavy wigs, and are trained like performing animals to smile, pose and wave at the camera. 

Naturally, many people argue that the simple fact of wearing makeup does not affect the girls in the slightest, and while that is true on the surface levels, there is much more than meets the eye. By dressing them up in all these gowns, and covering them in makeup and accessories to make them look “prettier”, the young girls are being taught that their natural appearance is not enough, and  moreover that they need all these additional to get praise and win in life. 

These little girls might enjoy looking “ like a princess”, but they are also adopting restrictive and superficial beauty ideals, and learning the all importance of appearance. Naturally, it is important to avoid completely vilifying pageants, they are not always the traumatic experience described by anti pageants or even shown behind the scenes pageants show. In her article for The Cut Goode collects the testimonies of other pageant stars and they are a mixed bag. Some describe that they have fond memories of competing, as ' bonding experience with their mother. An other used the platform to raise awareness about suicide, after her mother took her own life when she was 10 years old.But most often pageant are for the parents gain, and while women and mothers are often the ones organising them, they are, unknowingly or not transmitting the pressures of performative femininity to their daughters. Perpetuating a patriarchal and misogynist mindset in which Women must prioritise their appearance above all else, as the only thing giving them value. 

And this cult of appearance and the emphasis on changing your appearance too fit the standards is the reason why eating disorders are so common in young girls and women. It could be argued that this is not the same as sexualisation of young girls, but beauty ideals and sexualisation are often intrinsically linked, especially if children are trying to abide to rules set by adults.  While this essay has been essentially focussed on young girls, because they are the most targeted and at risk, the sexualisation and perpetuation of beauty ideals gives a toxic example to a future generation of men. Young boys are taught from a young age that pretty girls must look a certain way.

Conclusion:The sexualisation of children is a topic that is heavily discussed, by those against it and those who deny it’s existence or effects. The fact remains that sexualisation along ever occurs for an adult’s personal gain, or benefit.Little girls want to be pretty and attractive, but it is rarely for themselves.Admiring and wanting to be an adult is the most natural thing in the world, it is just tragic that they incorporate toxic ideals of femininity and beauty at the same time.

Bibliography

COTTAIS, C. LOUVET, M. (2021). The dangers of the hypersexualisation of young girls: a stolen childhood​. ​growthinktank.org.​ ​[online]​ Jan. 2021​. at https://www.growthinktank.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/The-dangers-of-the-hypersexualisation-of-young-girls_-a-stolen-childhood.pdf(Accessed 8 apr 2021)

Woodward, R. B. (2015) ‘The disturbing photography of Sally Mann’. The New York Times. At:https://www.nytimes.com/2015/04/19/magazine/the-disturbing-photography-of-sally-mann.html(Accessed 5 apr 2021)

Cuties (2020) Directed by M. Doucouré. Available at: Netflix (accessed 20 April 2018)

Ionesco, E.(unknown date) ‘Eva ionesco’. Interview with Eva Ionesco. Interviewed by O. Sham for The Purple Magazine, Paris issue num 32At: https://purple.fr/magazine/paris-issue-31/eva-ionesco/ (Accessed 9 Apr 2021)

Good, L. (2012) ‘I was a child pageant star: Six Adult Women Look Back’. The Cut. (November). At: https://www.thecut.com/2012/11/child-pageant-star.html (accessed 18 April 2021)

Hall. D. ‘How ‘supercharged catnip” Tiktok is fuelling the sexualisation of young girls an exploitation of teens.’ The Sun online. At: https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/10941512/tiktok-catnip-sexualisation-teens/ (Accessed 18 April 2021). 

[fidothefinch]

Playing House - Ch 1: Welcome Home

He shifted the duffle bag higher over his shoulder and walked on, toward the back of the dealership building. “I’m here, just like you asked,” Dick said, raising his voice. “Alone. I have your mon—”

He stopped dead in his tracks as car headlights flicked on, directly ahead of him.

This wasn’t a ransom drop-off.

Read more on Ao3

This chapter fills the Whumptober 2020 prompt for Day 2: kidnapping. I have planned on writing about five prompts into this story, but who knows?

Overall warnings for this story: kidnapping, nonconsensual restraints, attempted nonconsensual drugging, domestic abuse, using family members as hostages, forced infantilism (not the kinky kind), some form of gaslighting, and the antagonist uses some “parenting phrases” that may be triggering for some folks (counting down, for example)

Warnings for this chapter: all of the above, plus ransom demands, being threatened with a gun, non-consensual non-sexual kissing (not on the lips), (the word “sugar,” as in “give me some sugar,” has a familiar affection connotation rather than a sexual one where I am from (southern US); I am warning for it regardless)

Dick’s feet hit the pavement as hard as the rain.

“Tim! Damian!”

There were no answers. A few people taking shelter from the weather in a nearby pavilion glanced over, but nobody said anything. This was Gotham, after all.

Dick’s jacket was soaked through, but he didn’t stop long enough to take it off. He wiped water out of his eyes and peered into the foggy weather around him. There was an open gazebo smack-dab in the center of the park, and he raced to it so he could get a better look.

His feet slid on the wet floor when he got inside, but he wasted no time pulling out his phone. While it rang, he searched the park again, in all directions, as though there were a chance the two of them had left their bags under a picnic shelter to play a demented game of hide-and-seek and would pop out from behind a tree, cackling.

He turned Tim’s broken camera over in his hands. No way he would have left it; it was new, a gift for his birthday.

He was so focused on his search he didn’t notice, at first, when Bruce answered the phone. He snapped back to reality with a sharp, “Richard. Report.”

“They’re gone.” He was panting from his sprint through the park. “I’ve looked everywhere, and they’re gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“They left all of their stuff at our pavilion. Tim left his camera – the lens is cracked. I found it on the ground a few feet away.” He had to stop to catch his breath, and he swiped his soaked hair back off his forehead.

“Have you tried calling them?”

“Nobody answered.”

“I’ll have Alfred try again from the secure line. When did you last see them?”

“We had just finished setting out the food. I saw an old friend from school and we got talking, and when I got back they were gone.” His breath hitched when he saw two figures running down the path ahead of him. “Wait. I think I see them.”

Without hesitation, he ran after the figures. “Tim! Damian!”

They didn’t answer, but that was typical. As Dick got closer, though, he realized with a heavy heart it wasn’t his brothers. The two joggers hurried past him without a second glance.

“Dick?”

“It wasn’t them.”

A sound caught his attention. A familiar tune, one he had heard chirping through the thin walls of the manor countless times. He tuned out Bruce and followed the sound of Damian’s ringtone, hope building in his chest.

He found Damian’s cell phone, and that hope plummeted.

He reached into the weeds and pulled out the device. The screen was cracked, but he could clearly make out the caller ID across the screen. He hung up his own phone to answer Damian’s.

“Master Damian?”

“It’s me, Alfred,” Dick answered, voice flat.

“I think Tim and Damian have been abducted.”

xXx

Twelve hours later, Dick pulled his vehicle into a used car dealership’s parking lot. He scanned the lot as he pulled through, but didn’t find any signs of life. The shadows were still; the night silent. He seemed to be alone.

“I want to talk to Richard,” the kidnapper had said through a voice modifier. Bruce had spluttered a refusal, but Dick didn’t hesitate to answer with, “I’m here.”

Dick found a spot to park, but hesitated before opening the door. He rested a hand on the seat next to him, where a stuffed black duffel bag waited.

“Bring $100,000 in unmarked fifty-dollar bills. No consecutive serial numbers. Pick it up from different banks and accounts. Come alone.”

Dick hoisted the bag over his shoulder, wincing as its weight dug in. It was heavy, and nearly dragged him off-balance as he exited his car. His breath fogged in the night’s chill, and his car door shutting sounded like a nail in a coffin.

“Don’t involve the police,” the kidnapper had said. “If I see a single cop get involved in the case, I’ll kill one of the boys. And I’ll let you decide which.”

Batman was around here, somewhere. Dick looked from the corner of his eye, and spotted a flash of movement from a rooftop not too far away. If they weren’t able to catch the criminal tonight, they would still be able to collect enough evidence to put him away.

But the most important thing was getting Tim and Damian back.

“We need proof they’re still alive.”

“Oh, I can help with that.” Dick and Bruce exchanged a worried look over the phone speaker as footsteps sounded over the other end. A door creaked open. Then, “Timmy, honey, say something for your dad?”

The distinctive sound of bedsprings squeaking. “Bruce?”

“See? Safe and sound, as long as you follow my rules.”

There didn’t seem to be anybody at the meeting place. “Hello?” Dick called out.

No response. He shifted the duffle bag higher over his shoulder and walked on, toward the back of the dealership building. “I’m here, just like you asked,” Dick said, raising his voice. “Alone. I have your mon—”

He stopped dead in his tracks as car headlights flicked on, directly ahead of him.

This wasn’t a ransom drop-off.

He dropped the duffel bag to the ground and backed up, but he couldn’t outrun a car. Wheels squealed on the pavement as the car lurched forward and took a sharp turn, cornering Dick against the brick wall. The trunk of the car popped open, and the streetlights glinted off the barrel of a gun.

“If you ever want to see your brothers again, you’ll get inside right now.”

It was a woman.

It was all the thought he had to process before a warning shot buried in the brick wall next to him, spitting dust and shrapnel at his face. He blinked and coughed, ducking to avoid a second shot.

“Get in right now! Don’t make me count!”

Weird choice of words. When he looked up, Batman had crept into the parking lot, and waited behind a car to pounce.

“One!”

Dick looked over the car, using his shock and fear as an excuse for his hesitation. There was no license plate, no identifying marks. He suspected it was a car from the lot itself. The woman wore black clothing; none of her skin or hair showed.

“Two!”

They didn’t know enough to identify the kidnapper; even if they were able to catch her, they wouldn’t be able to find Tim and Damian on their own. There was a chance she didn’t intend to take Dick to the same place, either.

Dick made eye contact with Batman, across the lot. Batman’s mouth was a hard flat line.

“Two and a half!” the woman shouted, through grit teeth.

Dick raised his hands. “Don’t hurt them,” he pleaded. “I’m coming.”

He rose to a full stand and shifted to the side, toward the trunk. The woman turned to point the gun at the back of the car while he climbed inside.

It was clean, at least.

She barely waited long enough for him to get both feet inside before she slammed the accelerator, and the trunk slammed shut over Dick’s head.

xXx

He felt the car swerve through city streets for what he estimated was twenty minutes, before they pulled onto a highway and drove for another hour or two. He reached out to smash one of the car’s taillights, but found them blocked with an extra layer of sheet metal. He used his hands to search the darkness for the switch that would open the trunk from the inside, but, predictably, this was missing, too.

She changed cars nearly two hours after they began their journey, forcing Dick’s wrists and ankles into two sets of leather cuffs that buckled behind his back. He felt sick to his stomach when he realized they were soft from use. She let him sit in the back seat, this time, with the assurance that the child lock was engaged and any “shenanigans” would be met with severe punishment. After she buckled him into the seat, she put a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. The lenses had been taped over; he was effectively blindfolded.

They drove another two hours. Dick worried his bottom lip with his teeth the entire car ride.

xXx

“Dick!”

“Tim?”

The sunglasses were ripped from his face, and he stumbled in the sudden light flooding the room.

It was a relatively small space, with two identical twin-sized beds set against opposite, pastel-blue walls. A dresser and desk took up most of the far wall. The lone window, above the desk, was boarded over.

Tim was lying in one of the beds. He wore similar cuffs to Dick’s, except his were attached to the metal headboard, keeping him pinned back. There were dark circles under his eyes, but Dick couldn’t find much else wrong with him on his first look-over.

“What are you doing here?” Tim asked.

Dick ignored the question, trying and failing to get closer to his little brother. “Are you hurt?”

“Timmy,” the woman behind Dick said, saccharine voice strained with the effort of pulling Dick toward the opposite twin bed.

Tim stiffened. His eyes tracked over Dick’s shoulder.

“You kicked your sheets down again. How many times do I have to tell you?” she admonished. “If you do it again, you’ll get time-out.”

“You’re crazy,” Tim said. “And I’m an adult.” He scowled at the look Dick shot to him. “Shut up, Dick.”

“Young man, you’re already in trouble.” The woman pushed Dick down onto the opposite bed. “Language like that is not allowed under my roof.”

“Then let us go.”

“That’s not how families act.” She pinned Dick down with a hand on his chest, and Dick got his first good look at her. She looked to be around her mid-thirties. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and her face was still round with youthfulness, even if there were the beginnings of creases around her eyes and mouth. Her makeup reminded Dick of old Hollywood movies.

As Dick studied her, she pulled something out of her pocket. When she smiled, it was sweet and warm. “Open up, sweetheart.”

Dick eyed the pill. He couldn’t tell what it was. “Uh. No, thanks.”

“Take the medicine and you’ll get some sugar.”

Dick recoiled. “No.”

She sighed. “The longer we have to do this, the longer it will be until I can check on your baby brother.”

Dick glanced around the room again. There were no signs Damian had even been there.

Tim seemed to know what he was looking for without him having to voice it. “I haven’t seen him since the park.”

“Hush, Timmy. You’re supposed to be asleep.” The sharp words were tempered by her soft expression. When she looked down at Dick, she held up three fingers. “I’ll give you to the count of three, and if you don’t take your medicine, I will have to put you in time-out, too.”

The counting again. It wasn’t unusual for Gotham’s villains to have their themes, but Dick had to admit this one was new.

“One.”

Maybe one of Calendar Man’s cousins? Dick fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Two.”

“Dick,” Tim said, voice quiet. Dick looked past the woman’s hand and met Tim’s gaze.

Tim shook his head, just slightly.

The woman’s face was slowly getting more red, but her expression was frozen. “Thr—”

Dick opened his mouth.

“Oh!” Her smile stretched wider, revealing pearly white teeth. “Thank you for doing what I asked.” She placed the pill on his tongue and waited expectantly for Dick to swallow it.

Dick pocketed it under his tongue and pretended to swallow.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The woman didn’t seem too interested in waiting for the drugs to take effect. She got busy unlocking the cuffs behind Dick’s back and reattaching them to the bedframe in a mirror of Tim’s position. When she had finished, she stood up, admiring her work. “Would you like me to tuck you in, Richie?”

Dick’s face screwed up at the nickname. Ew. “No.”

She seemed determined to ignore him, reaching down and pulling the navy blue sheets over his legs and torso, tucking them into the sides tight enough they practically pinned him to the mattress.

“Where is Damian?” Dick asked.

“Dami’s in the nursery, where he’s supposed to be.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Shh, Richie.” She bent down at the foot of his bed, and a night light flicked on. “It’s time for bed.”

She leaned down over his face, and Dick cringed back.

She pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead.

He froze.

She stood up again and walked over to Tim, tucking him in again and repeating the gesture. Tim twisted his head away, and received a sharp slap in retaliation. Where she kissed his forehead she left a smudge of bright red lipstick.

The woman walked to the door and waited in the open doorway. “Goodnight, boys,” she said, sickeningly sweet. “Sweet dreams.”

The door locked behind her.

[sepublic]

           As a teacher, Trexdis has definitely SEEN a lot.

           She was and is a spy, so she’s pretty good at observational skills, just quietly noticing others, keeping track of little clues or hints here and there, tiny puzzle pieces that allude to a bigger picture, to something else going on in the back of a person’s head.

           Trexdis also has a pretty good frame of reference for what decent parents should be like; Her and Will’s parents were loving and attentive. And of course, Trexdis knows what it’s like to grow up neglected, without parents to really look after you… And, she grew up alongside her handful of classmates and friends who hadn’t been as lucky. Kids who’d been neglected, didn’t get enough to eat… Had unhealthy pressures and expectations placed onto them, didn’t get validation, were afraid to speak up. Felt like their parents’ acceptance was conditional, that sort of thing… She quickly got a good eye for tiny little reactions to even the most innocuous gestures.

           So, by the time she became a teacher at Arkley’s… Trexdis has a pretty good eye for this sort of thing. And, she’s wizened up, cooled down, she knows how to approach things properly, subtly, carefully. She doesn’t call the kid out on it- Instead, she approaches them in an almost deceiving kind of way… Where she’s hiding her true intentions with some mundane and innocuous, but really she’s getting at slowly unrooting the truth from the kid, without actually confronting them, not making them uncomfortable, etc.

           The kid’s comfort is VERY important to Trexdis, the whole idea is to give them a safe environment where they can feel like they can open up- If Trexdis deprives that, what’s the point? But at the same time, she has to make sure… She can’t take any chances, she won’t and refuses to. So of course Kate will take matters into her own hands… She’ll quietly get to the root of things, and then subtly do what she can to help, without calling attention. Maybe having an impromptu pizza party, claiming that the Spirius Drones or some friend of hers accidentally made too many pizzas, she’d REALLY appreciate if the kids could clear it out before it goes bad…

           Not really calling attention to it, not making a big deal as she commends a kid’s progress, gives them good notes on their work. Or else makes sure not to call on them to speak in front of class, watches her body language… Reads the general room and environment, and if she can tell some kid is lowkey panicking and having anxiety over an assignment that’s due, she’ll admit to the entire class that whoops, she made a mistake, and now she’s extending the deadline to compensate! If kids come to her with questions, Trexdis is ALWAYS incredibly patient and attentive, thorough, making sure to give as many answers in anticipation, so the kid doesn’t have to speak up much.

           And of course…

           Like I said- She doesn’t want to get the kid involved. Not make them uncomfortable, not make them feel at fault for ‘causing a mess’. But Kate HAS to know and be reassured, because she can’t make assumptions in good faith… And, well- Her time in the Monster Realm taught her that sometimes, you’ve gotta do morally dubious things, for a greater good of sorts. Privacy is important, so of course Trexdis isn’t going to immediately go off and spy on some kid at home using her invisibility; Well, not always. Instead, sometimes she’ll arrange a meeting, under the innocuous guise of just ‘checking up’ with the parents or guardians, whichever, let them know how the kid is doing, it’s all routine and normal.

           And, Trexdis will drop small hints, little verbal cues, and gauge the reaction of whoever’s she talking to then. She’ll make it clear the child’s having a GREAT time at school, but it really depends on the situation. And, if she feels like it’s appropriate… Well, she might have a chat- Just bring up her curiosity. Allude to just how observant and careful she is, her wild imagination that goes out of control, there’s literally nothing the kid could be blamed for about this… Then, she might ask. Or not. Trexdis might allude to it, say she noticed this, she’s just a bit concerned, and depending on the reaction… Well, she can figure out a LOT from the reaction.

           Trexdis respects privacy, but she also CAN’T take any chances when a kid is at stake here. Especially if the issue in question IS as bad as she thinks it is, if it’s something Trexdis can’t just remedy at school, if it’s something that requires her to immediately step in, to put a STOP to this adult ASAP… Then, yeah- She’ll use her invisibility to check on a kid back home, and make sure they’re safe. It’s wrong and intrusive, but Trexdis is used to doing bad things for a better purpose. In some cases, the kid’s privacy is already being violated by someone else, so at the very least, Trexdis can make sure that when this is all said and done, she’ll never have to invade their privacy like that again, because they won’t need her to. It’s necessary closure.

           For peace of mind, Trexdis watches and quietly observes, totally unnoticed- And if she sees something that confirms the worst, then… Depending on just HOW bad it is, who knows? Maybe she’ll just outright step in to stop it. But probably not, that’s only rarely… Instead, she’ll arrange another meeting with the parents. Again, just a follow-up… And this time she’ll be a lot more direct about her curiosity and paranoid ‘imagination’, and outright ask if something’s the matter, if this kid is having issues. Trexdis can’t exactly call social services, her status with as a member of the Arkley Gang is kind of complicated… But amidst what cruelty she must inflict, Trexdis is determined to do at least some good, wherever she can.

           Trexdis will call out the parent. She won’t reveal the bombshell yet, if ever… But she’ll make it clear that yeah, there’s CLEARLY an issue here, and it’s her responsibility to check. Some ask her what right she has, that this isn’t Trexdis’ jurisdiction, but she’ll bat that aside, because hey, SOMEBODY has to step up when the parent clearly isn’t! And she can and WILL get serious… Trexdis wants to, and she only reins herself in for the sake of the kid. She doesn’t want to disrupt things for them, but sometimes…

           Sometimes, you just gotta do what needs to be done. Trexdis will get her point across, clear and bluntly- You do anything wrong, you make that kid uncomfortable… You make them feel responsible for this change of behavior, you do ANYTHING that isn’t to make their life better…

           …And she will know. She always does, she always finds out. Sometimes she’ll even drop the reveal that, yeah, she knew and SAW what happened last night, too!

            Usually, Trexdis makes the point while she casually, wordlessly reveals her own sword collection, or something like that. Yeah, she’s used to making threats, and the unusual status of Arkley’s as a school… It gives her a LOT of leeway to do plenty of things, she’s pretty high-up in a criminal organization, so Trexdis exercises plenty of resources and minions at her disposal. Normally she prefers to do it by herself, on her own, but you know how it is.

           If the parents still aren’t getting the point? Try to get mouthy, threaten to call the police on her, or something? Again… Trexdis has spent a LOT of time not being nice. Doing horrible, terrible things, and she’s accepted this by deciding to contribute it towards something greater and worthwhile in the end. She can and WILL get physical and kick someone’s ass, to get her point across; Because sometimes, nothing enrages her more than what she sees a parent do their own child. Sometimes she remembers how they took advantage of this kid, someone so vulnerable and dependent…

           And a part of her just snaps, decides screw it, the time for formalities or that stuff, it’s all done and gone- These people are twisted and need to be put in their place ASAP, as brutally as needs to be done, because no chances can be taken at the kid’s expense! Trexdis can and will get physical to prove her point, she’ll utterly terrify and thrash the abuser, and make threats that she will ALWAYS follow through on, if her conditions aren’t meant. Long ago she stopped worrying about who had the right to do this or that, now all she cares about is settling this, and doing what needs to be done.

           When the parent crawls back home, after being reminded by Trexdis not to let their kid know ANYTHING happened… She’ll of course follow them. Follow them the whole way through, invisible and undetected, to make sure they don’t break her rules. Trexdis will silently stalk and decide if the parents are trying to go behind her back, keep an eye out for them trying to abuse the kid, trying to take things out or accuse them. 

          If she catches them doing something wrong, she might just knock on their front door very loudly, as a reminder that SOMEBODY is watching… And again, if push comes to shove- Sometimes she HAS to step in personally and manhandle the abuser. She’ll of course be invisible, for anonymity and confidentiality, the kid has no idea what’s going on, and in some ways that’s more terrifying… But regardless, after the first time, the parents truly realize just how serious, just how far Trexdis’ eyes and ears can reach- And then they finally, truly, permanently stop.

           The poor kid is of course terrified, and it breaks Kate’s heart- But what else can she do? They were always going to be terrified no matter what happened… This way, the terror can finally end and stop, once this moment is over. And once Trexdis ensures everything is going along nicely, as she so kindly demanded… Sometimes, she’ll take matters into her own hands, and have Arkley just take the kid. If an environment is THAT toxic, Trexdis has no choice… And yeah, she knows what Arkley eventually has planned for those kids, too, she’s no idiot- But that’s why she has that plan to backstab him, to kill Arkley before he has the chance to really begin the torture and indoctrination.

           She’ll make an ACTUAL safe haven out of Arkley’s assets and resources, and to the kids there- Hopefully, nothing will have really changed, except for the better. In the meantime, Trexdis is busy, so a lot of times she’ll have an agent of the organization do things on her behalf, the Spirius Drones such as Nine or Ten prove useful in that regard. She can pull her strings well and subtly, to the point of being untraceable- And in some cases, she might just ask a student she trusts to befriend the kid, to give them support and much-needed solidarity.

          And, if Trexdis deems it necessary, if she deems the environment for the kid comfortable enough- She might drop the hints that, yes, things ARE going to get better and stay that way, and she knows- Because she’ll personally see through to it. Because that’s what she’s been doing. Trexdis of course prefers to operate in anonymity, but sometimes the kid wants or deserves an answer, and sometimes they feel better, knowing a trusted teacher is keeping watch over them. It really depends and Kate handles it with all of the tact she can, she’s not perfect… But in the midst of some mistakes, sometimes you just gotta keep trudging on stubbornly to get it over with and do what needs to be done, all temporary and momentary feelings or morality be damned.

[emrysarthurpendragon]

Where do you think you're going?

Arthur’s POV:

 I stare with wide eyes at the collapsed building. It can’t be. Merlin can’t be … he can’t be dead! Buried alive and gone to the land of Avalon. Gwaine hand stops me just in time from running inside when the stones started falling. I scream in despaired, yells my friend’s name but no answer came. In anger, I turn my sword to a mercenary. The man dared to laugh at my distress, and, of course, I killed him. I killed him coldly and feel no remorse. Not even a hint of regret. Cover with dust, I push Gwaine away and hurry to the fallen tower. My hands shake with fear as I collect one cold rock after another. The dust makes me cough, my eyes are watering with unshed tears but still I work harder and call his name.

“Merlin! Merlin!” the desperate words of a man, a lover. I loved him, I still do, and he has to come back to me. I’ll do whatever it takes. “Merlin, can you hear me?!”

 An eerie silence falls on the group. We are all listening for something, even a muffle noise from beyond. Percival approaches me and with his force, he starts moving rocks too. I notice how some prisoners want to help, to use their magic and save my friend, but they are too weak. I can’t blame them, even if I will give my throne to a spark of the ban art right now. Something, anything to find him. Find them. Just when I formulate that wish inside my heart, something happens. Hope rushes in me. Here, right where I picked up a pebble, I find a hand. Not Merlin’s, it is too small, but it clearly belongs to someone. Probably the child we came here for in the first place.

 “Over here!” I call. The frail fingers move, not much, but the person is still alive if not in a good shape. As a time, my knights, brothers and friends in more ways than I can describe, help me. The more we collect the tower’s fallen parts, the more we realise magic was at work when the building collapsed. A golden shield, thin as skin, covers the child’s arm. Before long, we free her entire arm and are met with bright red clothing. Camelot’s cloak. Meaning Merlin is now closer than ever. Once again, I hear myself call his name. What if he died? The mere thought scares me. I can’t lose him. Not after my father and Morgana. Not when he is the only one keeping me sane and alive. No one can replace him in my life. If there was a drug for me, it would be Merlin. His presence gives me strength and hope. Hope for a brighter future, for a prosperous reign. He makes me see the good in myself and the others. Without him, I may end up like my father. I cut my thoughts when an adult body appears. It’s my warlock, firmly curled around the child. He protected her from any harm. Gently, I unwrapped him – pardon the poor comparison – and call for Percival. I hand him the girl, barely human with all the dirt and coagulate blood on her, before focusing again on the dark-haired man. He does not move. He does not even seem to breathe. Blood is pouring from the back of his head, where he’d been hit earlier. I’m scared. What if I cause more damage by moving him? Had he always been so light? Elyan helps me carry my former manservant to a clear place and we check his injuries together. We are no physicians, but a first look makes us notice things like a concussion – well, he had a tower falling on him, it does no good – broken ribs and maybe more. We also notice his soft breath. He’s alive…

 “We need help; but we’re too far away from Camelot. He may not make it,” I say, worried creating wrinkles between my brows.

“The same goes to the girl,” says Leon, who volunteers to care for the girl. I guess he just wants to feel useful, by saving a child when he couldn’t do the same for his own daughter. He never told me about her … or her magic. Did he believe I would have handed her to my father? Was I that kind of prince in my early life? Before Merlin came and changed my world? “She suffers severe malnutrition and abuse I can’t even name.” My knight voice turns into a growl and I can only guess what he means. I noticed the burn when we pulled her from the debris, I can’t imagine what they had done to her. I close my eyes, fighting nausea. Now is not the time for revenge. Especially when we took off most of the men involved.

 Hours later, both knights and former prisoner set camp into a new clearing. We decided to move once the wounded had been taken care of and now, I allow myself some rest. Merlin is lying motionless beside me, sometime shifting with unease and I pray for whatever God to help us. Near him, the child rests too. She looks healthier now. Or at least, Leon and Percival cleaned her, so she looks decent, and wrapped in a couple of extra-size clothing and blankets. Sir Leon even added his cloak, so she now looks like a baby carefully swaddle. I won’t be surprised if, back to Camelot, my friend adopts her.

 “You two are quite the pair,” I whisper to myself, running my fingers through Merlin’s messy hair. “Of course, you have to find a child of magic and end up in danger together. What am I going to do with you, eh? There are quicker ways to kill me.”

Even the joke sounds lame in my ears. I must be tired. I decide to call it a night and, after my thoughts quieted enough, I find myself drifting to sleep. For a while at least.

 * * *

 The sun is barely rising when my eyes shoot open. I felt something. A touch on my shoulder. My instincts make me places a hand on my sword, only to find the cause of the ‘threat’. The little girl is up, her eyes burning gold and sitting next to my face. What I felt was her small finger booping my nose. The moment she noticed I’m awake, she tried to run but fell, her legs too weak to carry her. How does she come here? Crawling on the floor?

“Hey, don’t worry. I won’t hurt you,” I say awkwardly. I never interacted with a child before. Especially a wild one. “My name is Arthur, I’m Merlin’s friend.”

I gesture to my unconscious knight and jump when a voice pops in my head.

“Emrys?” asks the small, cute voice. “Emrys hurt. I’m sorry,” she continues, her breath fastening and the wind blowing harder. Is that the kid doing?

“It’s not your fault. Merlin is an idiot. He would have got hurt anyway,” I try to joke, resulting in a pinecone falling from a branch to my head. I saw how the thing snapped and, judging by the look of pure horror written across the girl face, I knew she was behind it. To ease the tension, I laugh openly. Probably the best reaction, since the little one tilts her head, confuses like a cat. She moves closer and places her hands on my cheeks, studying my traits when I am laughing.

“What’s this?” she asks, still not using her voice.

“What’s what?” I ask, confuse. Were all kids so ‘not specific’?

“This!” she mind-says, mimicking the smile I had not long before. She also tried to produce a laugh, but not so well. The fact she does not even recognise a smile or what it means crushes me. Even with a father like Uther, I had happy moments in my life. Saddened by that knowledge, I sober off before answering the best I could.

“It’s a smile. That’s what you do when you are happy. And if you are very happy, you make a noise too, and it’s a laugh,” I’m bad at this, right? “You can laugh too if you think a joke is funny. Like, I think it was funny when you make than pinecones fell on me.”

“Funny?” the cat look is back again. She seems to proceed all the information like they are new to her. “Not mad? No punish?”

“Of course not. You did nothing wrong. You were unhappy because I say Emrys is an idiot, right?”

This time, the kid nods and locks her golden eyes into mine. The wind disappeared some minutes before, and I can’t tell what she is using her magic for now.

“Emrys is strong. I love him.”

“So do I, I love him and respect him. He’s a dear friend, and I like teasing him from time to time.” Shall I feel worried for the child claiming her love for my warlock?

“Teasing?”

“Uh… You have a lot of questions, haven’t you?” I ask, chuckling. “But I have one too. What’s your name?”

She blushes for a second and lowers her head. Her fingers play with the grass beneath us. I can see her mind rushing, searching for the information locks in her brain.

“Gaia?” she finally says, “Where papa?”

“I don’t know where’s your dad. You know his name?”

For the first time, I see something other than fear on Gaia’s face; she is judging me. Like I just ask the stupidest question ever. There is actual ‘are you dumb’ look in her eyes. So much like Merlin now that I think about it.

“His name is Papa!”

Right. Of course. Papa. There were not hundred men with that name, according to children. Ok. Think, Arthur.

“It’s a very common name, can you tell me something else?” and please, not that her mother’s name is ‘mama’ or ‘mum’ or ‘mummy’.

“Show you! Come, come!”

Curious, I let the child sit on my knees – I guess she feels I’m safe? – and cup my face with his hands. Magic invades my mind, but it does not hurt. It feels like I am welcoming something I longed to meet before. It’s both foreign and familiar while Gaia leads me to a strange place. In this vision, she’s not the scared little girl anymore. She’s a teen, strong and confident, leading the way through what she endured before we found her, ignoring the pain they may cause, to a secret door. The gate was barely large enough for a rabbit. I look up at the young woman, confuse.

“Push the door, and you will see my happiest memories. They are from before I was taken.”

“You look older,” I blurt before I could stop myself. No shit, Arthur.

“I was older once, in another life,” she tells me. Another life? Like … reincarnation? Like, she lived, died, and came back again? Well, her life sucked until then.

“You’re right, but it’s all in the past. There is more to life than what happened. With your help, I may retrieve my memories and who my parents are now. I’m afraid my magic locked away all the happy memories when my younger self realised no help was coming.”

“Wait, you can read my mind?!” Arthur asked, horrified.

“We are in my head, what do you expect, Queenie?”

“Oi! You sound like Gwaine, I don’t like it.”

We share a laugh but, after she tells me I’m the only one – with Emrys – able to unlock her memories, I place my hand over the wooden surface.

 Something clicked and the scene morphs into something else. I’m in a courtyard, watching a family in the distance. Blurry at first, they become sharper as I walk. A child, maybe around three or four-year-old, laughs and tries to escape her father’s grasp. I can’t see the man, as he is turning his back to me, but he is blond and clearly busy tickling that version of Gaia. The girl squeals happily and locks her arms around her dad. From behind, Yseult walks with a soft smile, one she never had since the incident.

“It’s nap time, my love. Kiss papa and off to bed.”

“Oh noooo! Wanna play more, pwease?” she asks, giving both her parents the best puppy eyes one could imagine. I almost yell for them to allow her more time, and I’m just visiting the memory. Wait … did I say Yseult? Like, Yseult Leon’s spouse? Could it be? I take a step back and sure, he is my friend – younger – holding his baby girl against his chest. I see him gently kiss her curly blond hair and promising her a story if she just agrees to sleep.

“I even have a surprise for you, if you are nice and follow your mother’s orders,” Am I dreaming, or does Leon sounds like the kind of parents who have a hard time parenting, just because their child is too cute? I’m sure he just makes up that gift story.

 The scene changes and I’m now in beautiful gardens. Gaia is gasping at what her father just gave her. A pendant, with a small quote engraves behind. In her hand, a wooden sword hangs, forgotten for now. “I love you, papa!” she squeals, laughing when Leon picks her for a kiss.

 Another moment, Leon is on his horse and Gaia clings to his cloak. She is sobbing uncontrollably and scream.

“Don’t leave, Papa pwease! Bad men are coming, please! Please! I’m scared!” she is probably between four or six years old now. Leon shakes his head, silently begging Yseult to take their daughter. When her mother pulls her away, the noble child shrieks. I can feel the panic that took her then, her magic flying around and summoning the wind.

“I’ll be back soon, baby. Be a good girl.”

 It is now night. I don’t know how much time has passed since Leon’s departure, but Gaia is in bed, clutching a small sword in a hand. I don’t know where she finds it, but I’m sure nor his mother or a servant gave it to her. Her blue eyes stare at nothing but blackness. Until they heard the alarms. There are screams coming from the village and soon, from inside the house. I see Gaia rushing out of bed, her small arm barely able to lift her sword. She’s brave for her age, I notice, as she’s not calling for her mother. More children would have, that’s what people do when they are scared. They beg for a parent. An eternity pass and the door opened, revealing two men. One fly across the room and I cheer for Gaia. It’s not a kingly reaction, but I’m alone, so I guess it’s ok. The other laughs when he sees the little girl stands proudly and pointing her sword at him. With a single blow, he makes her lose her grasp on the weapon and she shy away. She was terrified, of course. The man tackles her to the floor, and I curse. Why can’t I help her? It’s all in the past, but I want to save that girl, to give her the life she deserves. Of course, I am amazed when I see the way she burns the mercenary’s hands when he took her, but all I can think is her current state, in the real world.

 The scene vanishes and I’m now back in the clearing. Gaia watches me as if nothing happened and I smile at her. I also take notice of all the curious glares send toward us, meaning the moment lasts more than a minute.

“Arthur? You okay?” Lancelot asks, and I nod, sitting more comfortably with Gaia still clung to me. “Hello kid, is Arthur all comfy?”

“I’m not a pillow, Lancelot,” I say, still smiling when Gaia nods seriously. Ok. Maybe I was. “She showed me her last memories with her parents, oh and she talks her lot,” I point, winking to the child who hid even more against me. I’m not sure, but I think I have a thing, like a natural talent with little humans. I mean, I’m friends with Merlin, and he’s a child in a man’s body. “Only, she uses her mind. Can you … can you fetch Leon and bring him here?”

The man nod, quickly checking on Merlin before the leaves. Emrys is still out, but I have a good feeling. Maybe because a sorcerer we saved comes to me while I wait for my friends.

“Emrys will be fine. Druids are coming to heal him. They heard the King and Queen’s call.”

“The … what?” I ask feeling dumb again.

“It’s a long story. A legend among our people. Emrys will tell you when the time comes.”

I nod my agreement. I guess I just must wait and see then. For now, I’m amazed by the magic around the camp, with people acting as if they were not with people from a kingdom where their kind is killed for what they are. Is this Camelot future? Once I lift the ban? I have that dream, and I’m sure Gaia has too, if I believe the way she uses her gift to create small sparkly butterflies. Red, blue, or golden insects that vanish when she notices my two knights.

“You summoned me, Sire?” Leon asks his eyes studying the strange pair we are forming with our new addition. “I see our young guest is feeling much better,” he adds, and I nod.

“I think her magic helps a lot. Her eyes keep glowing since she wakes me.” But I focus on the main topic right away. Leon waited long enough, right? I stop Gaia’s game and she looks up, worried and confused, before I turn her face toward my most trusted soldier. “See that man? His name is Leon, he travelled for a long time to rescue you. He’s a brave knight and always keeps his promises, even when it’s hard.” Gaia tilts her head; I can see her picks all the pieces together. She’s still somehow in my brain and the blurry face of her dad is becoming clearer in her mind. Leon, on the other hand, struggles to see where I’m going with my reasoning. “Sir Leon, may I introduce you to the young Lady Gaia?”

 I almost laugh at the way the gap at each other, like fishes out water. Leon moves slowly, unsure. He stops when Gaia places her tiny hands over his face, searching for something or showing him a memory. Then, Leon just breaks in front of us. He is crying, for real. Sobbing with an equally crying little girl in his arms.

“Yes, you were right … the bad men came, and I wasn’t there. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” and for the first time, we heard her voice. She speaks in a small whisper, with the tone of someone who scream more than enough in her life.

“You came…”

 And he did, even if it took them years. I can’t help but smile at them. A family reunited. Merlin on his way back to health when druids came later in the day and used their magic. Maybe there was hope. I have to believe in it.

 “You’re right, Sire,” a voice whisper. A druid stands beside me, his hand behind his back. “There may be dangers here, waiting for you and seeking revenge for your father’s actions. But I think you are on your way to become the Once and Future King. If you ever need our help, my people will answer.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Don’t thank me yet. Raising a magical child is a lot of work, she may drive you crazy before you accomplish the prophecy.” I can sense a laugh, a mockery behind his words and my smile soon match his. I should lift the ban of magic soon after we return to Camelot then.

“As long as she’s happy, I’m sure we can work something out.”

 The druid laughs even more, but I don’t ask questions. For now, all is well.

[adrasthee]

All questions for Delia

🌟 When your OC loses all hope, who do they turn to first? What helps make them feel better? What calms them down and reassures them? Why?

Delia turns to Apollo. It’s as simple as that. Since she grew up in his temple and he was her only friend for the longest time, he’s basically his comfort person. Is he always comforting and reassuring? No, not really, with him it’s pretty 50/50, but the familiarity of his person and his temples is usually enough to lead Delia into the path of calming down.

☀️ What makes your OC genuinely happy? A person, an item, their hobby? Where is the place they’re happiest, or most at home? What is the happiest they’ve ever been?

Seeing people happy is a good start, frankly. Then there’s Apollo, of course, which is almost guaranteed to bring her smile on her face, and creating stuff, no matter what or how tends to make her happy too.

🌙 If your OC could have one wish come true what would it be and why? Would there be consequences to this wish or would they regret it once they get what they want? What would they give in return for this wish to come true?

Having a family, because, well she’s an orphan that doesn’t have any and struggles a lot to find a place where 1) she feels home, 2) she feels like she belongs at and 3) she feels loved. If she did have a family, however, she would never really have gotten to know Apollo the way she did and probably never even would have had known him enough to fall in love, which kinda changes a lot? So in a way, yeah, she’d come to regret it.

❄️ What makes your OC sad, so sad that they can’t help but cry all day? How do they cheer themself up? Does their sadness upset any of their loved ones too?

When she feels uneeded, mostly, because she’ll tend of isolate and fall into self-loathing. Delia has this problem where she doesn’t see any reason for her to exist and live if it’s not to be useful to people, especially the gods, and as such, well, feelings of uselessness is easily the best way to make her cry. Usually she tries to deals with it alone as to not uspet anyone, so it’s hard to say if it does upset people? But yeah…

🔥 If your OC known for having temper tantrums? If not, what gets them really angry? What makes their blood BOIL? Is there anyway to calm them down or are they unstoppable? What are they like when they’re angry? Do they take it out on their loved ones?

Not really. Delia’s actually rather known to keep calm and collected through stuff that would enrage most people. However… seeing the people she loves, especially those she considers her children, get hurt is more than enough to get her blood boiling and she won’t calm until the person that did it is dead. She’s not known to take her anger out on people, especially not loved ones, but she can punch a wall if she need so to blow off some steam.

❤️ What would your OC’s ideal lover be like? Appearnce, personality, voice? Would their family approve or would it be civil war?

Delia does tend to like musicians and artists, but since she only fell in love once, it’s kinda hard for her to realise it much, if that makes sense. Unlike many people, she doesn’t really have to bother too much about her family approving of her lovers as an orphan, double that with the fact that the only person she might have to consult is Apollo and, subsequently, the only person she’s ever fallen for… Yeah, I’d be surprised if he refused I suppose.

🕊️ Would your OC ever get married or are they already wed? If they’re married, describe what their wedding was like! If not, describe their ideal wedding (or do this if you feel like it anyway!)

Nope to both! In Antiquity, weddings weren’t for love, but rather for status and, in the case of Greece, passing citizenship to your kids. Delia being an orphan, she has nothing like that she can give to her kids. As such, she sees wedding as something completely pointless.

🍼 Does your OC have any children or want children? What names would they pick? Are they good with kids or a complete disaster?

Spoiler alert? Delia does end up pregnant, now whether or not kids come by… That’s an entire other story. Those kids were ones she honestly really wished for while at the same time being absolutely terrified of what that would mean for them since, well, Apollo is their father. She’d let their father pick the names, since, as the god of prophecies, she feels like he’d be the most suited to know what name would be best for them. Is Delia good with kids? Yes, she’s the best. Not much more to add to this.

☕ Give us one (or more if you feel like it) of your OCs deep dark secrets! Why do they keep it hidden? Spill the tea!

Delia generally looks like the last person you’d expect to exploit and use people yet she won’t hesitate to do so to get the results she wants and needs, especially when it’s to serve Apollo.

🍂 What are their opinions on the different seasons? Which one do they hate and which one do they love and why?

She has a very love-hate relationship with summer; she loves it because it’s the sunniest, but also hates it because that means she gets to see Apollo the least.

🦋 If your OC could change everything (or just something) about their life would they? What would they change? What do they think would happen if they did? What would their loved ones think?

She’d probably change something about being accepted by others or having parents? Like Delia’s grateful for the chance she had when she was raised at the temple, but she really missed the feeling of having parents she could fall back on and the one of not being the strange temple orphan that everyone made fun off.

💐 Does your OC like flowers? What are their favourites? Do they keep a garden of some sort? What flowers would they use in a flower crown? (and if you like, research the meanings behind those flowers!)

She loves flowers, but I wouldn’t say she has a favourite in of itself. Back in Delphi, she grew and took care of a garden mostly filled with hyacinths, a few cypresses and a laurel tree, for Apollo. It was kind of their spot when they wanted to avoid responsabilities and just chat for a while. Eventually, the garden became her final resting place.

🌼 Write a short drabble from your OCs POV meeting their LI (or if they don’t have a love interest, their best friend. If you don’t want to do a drabble, describe their first meeting instead!)

“He should arrive soon, do not forget what we told you: say nothing, accept whatever he is to tell you and obey to his every desires.”

Delia nodded, rubbing her anular in between her thumb and index, trying to focus on the pression on her finger rather than the one all those expectations were putting on her shoulders.

“Don’t look at him directly in the eyes and don’t forget to bow. Clear?”

The Hellen nodded again.

“Today is an important day, Delia, you have been preparing for this since your birth, you better not mess it up and anger him, because if you’re not good enough and he decides to kill you, it will have been deserved and nobody will cry.”

Delia bit the inside of her cheek. That hurt a little… What about Apollodorus? Would he best friend not care? Then again, the priestress wasn’t wrong either, an orphan had nothing to offer and if she were to be gone… No one would lose anything.

“You may go wait in the gardens now.”

With a last nod, the young woman muttered a thanks to the older one and made her way outside, feeling as if she would break if anyone added just a little more expectations.

“Everything’s going to be okay… you’ll be good… you’ve been preparing for this since forever… he’ll be satisfied… you won’t- today’s not the day you die,” she muttered under her breath.

“Well I do sure hope it isn’t, because I’d need to share a few words with the fates about warning me when my best friend is about to die.”

Delia whirled around as she recognised the voice coming from behind her.

“Apollodorus! What are you doing here?!” She took a step towards her friend, giving him am unamused look, “I told you you weren’t supposed to-”

He pressed a finger against her lips, smiling softly, “can’t I be in my garden to officially meet my herald?”

“You-”

The young man winked, bowing slightly, “Phoibos Apollo, at your service.”

🥀 Has your OC ever been hurt by someone they love? Ever been betrayed? Abused? Attacked? Give me the angst! (if you’d like, write a short drabble about it!)

Delia has never been willingly hurt by anyone she loves, but she has lost a teeth when she was a child because of Apollo. Long story short, she tried to eat a rock because of him and broke one of her molar. Thankfully, an adult tooth eventually replaced it.

🏞️ If your OC could travel to anywhere in their world where would they go? Why? If they could live there would they?

She alreayd kind of travels everywhere around what is her world, but if she could go to any places she’s forbidden to go, Delia would probably just want to go in one of those “men only” places out of curiosity. However, she’d never live anywhere that isn’t Delos if she could avoid it.

🏡 Describe your OCs ideal house! Give us a tour around! What’s their garden like? Their bedroom? Kitchen? Where is it and how many people live there?

It’s a small, traditional house, with a room for everyone and a main room and a place to cook. In the best of world, there would be a garden as big as the one she was in charge of, at Delphi, and many flowers of all sorts.

🔪 Has your OC ever killed someone? Ever had to defend themselves against violence? How did this make them feel? Or, alternatively, has your OC ever attacked someone? Seen someone die?

Delia has killed once or twice on Apollo’s request, but also to defend herself (she was, after all, a woman traveling alone in Ancient Greece). She’s never been fond of it, hell, I’d even say she hated it, but if it’s what was needed to accomplish the gods’ will, it was, to her, the right thing to do.

💎 Does your OC collect anything? Is there a reason? When did they start and is it beginning to turn into a little bit of a hoarding issue? What do they do with their collection?

📚 If your OC was given some kind of forbidden knowledge, what would they do with it? Would they tell anyone? Use it for evil or good? How would it change their outlook on life, if at all?

Delia wouldn’t share it with anyone but the gods, in a broad general sense. She would try to use it for good as much as she can and, surpisingly, it wouldn’t change her outlook on life too much. Why? Well, simply put, mortals aren’t supposed to know everything about what is to happen -nor are most gods, let’s be real- but as someone that regularly spends time with Apollo, Deli has witnessed countless prophecies being delivered, including some that should never have been known by mortals like her and she’s kind of used to pretending nothing’s different and to not let it affect her as much as she can. Now, if that forbidden knowledge was to be about someone she appreciates… well things would be a lot different, let me tell you.

🌗 Early mornings or late nights? What do they spend their time doing during these hours?

Early mornings because she loves to watch the night turn to dawn and watch the sunrise! Usually she spends her day going around and doing stuff for Apollo, whether it’s help the Pythia in Delphi or go around Greece and deliver warnings.

👑 If your OC was made royal (or is royal) how would they use their power? Are they a good leader or bad? Do their subjects like them or is it ‘off with their head’? Do they enjoy being royal?

Delia would probably not be quite certain what to do with her newfound powers and end up not using them to do anything but help those that asked her for help. She has the potential to be a good leader and she’d strive to be one, but she’d start off as a pretty ordinary queen since she has only a basic understanding on how royal politics work. I feel like she’d be liked as a symbol or royalty, but not quite as much as a leader since, as I said, she’d be kinda clueless. She’d probably hate being royal because it would mean she needs to be far from the people and that wouldn’t go well with her.

💕 How is your OC like with physical affection? What are their boundries? Do they enjoy being touched or is that a no-go? Is there any reason behind this?

While Delia do loves hugs and enjoys physical affection very much, she’s not afraid of going out of her way to hug someone that seems to need it, but won’t really ask for it either, mostly because she doesn’t think of asking.

☁️ What’s something your OC wishes they could forget? Why is this? Or, what is something that your OC has forgotten? (or do both!)

Honestly, Delia wouldn’t want to forget anything because she knows every memory and everything that happened is intregral to who she became.

👀 Describe your OC through the eyes of another person! (bonus + specify who)

“She’s so… nice. Like a mom, always there to help you and always listening to you and always with the perfect advice. She makes everything feel like there’s a solution and nothing is hopeless. It’s reassuring.” -Alexios probably :’)

❓ A random fact or short drabble! Or make up your own question to ask the OC!

Apollo knows how Delia’s parents died.

[yourbeauties]

deleted scene from ch 16

This is a different version of the scene where Bill confronts the teacher about Holden’s Matchbox car. It’s far inferior to the scene I ended up posting, IMO, but if you are interested in my writing process, maybe you will find it interesting.

Some context:

- When the story was emerging and I knew that I wanted a toy of Holden’s to go missing and for Bill to investigate, I ended up going entirely the wrong route. I thought the principal would take it, because he was a collector of tchotchkes, and then I had to figure out what Holden’s toy would be based on that. So I spent a lot of time learning about Matchbox cars, only to throw most of it out!

- I wrote a very loose outline of the parent-teacher meeting with only the principal and not Mrs. Reid, that featured the things McNarland had collected in his office. He said he displayed them to show his students how to be patient, because the collectables gained value over time? Or something lol?

- I ended up deciding against this plan because a) collectables weren’t as big a field at this point in time, I think, and b) it wasn’t hitting the profiling theme as strongly as I thought it could. I wasn’t connecting how Bill could figure it out, or how he could “interview” the principal. Once I realized that the actual item didn’t matter, and it should just be about the theft itself, the rest fell into place. RIP all that Matchbox car research! Then I went and created Mrs. Reid and the Campus Creep to be mirrors of each other. (I also decided using the principal would be too close to the foot-tickling principal in canon.)

- When I was first outlining this story, I also kicked around the idea of Holden getting bullied by popular jock-types at school. At some point I was going to have him being hazed, and getting himself out of being hurt by offering sexual favours to the bullies. I was looking for a way to keep the sexual acting-out symptom of abuse that we saw in chapter two alive.

- Dealing with bullies at school was kind of stressing me out though, it seemed like a lot of pipe to lay for what was essentially a C-Story. And while I wanted to keep the thread of his sexual acting-out-ness alive, I didn’t want to go too deep on it. So at some point, it shifted to his teacher. Mrs. Reid was going to be a man, and I was going to have an off-screen scene where Mr. Reid asked Holden to stay after class because he had failed a test or something. Holden would panic and try to offer some kind of sexual favour, the way he panicked and touched Bill’s thigh in chapter two. Mr. Reid would shut it down, but NOT report it to anyone— until Holden got lost in DC on Mr. Reid’s watch. Then that would all come out in the parent-teacher meeting.

- However, because the parent-teacher meeting was going to have to cover 1) the book 2) suspension and 3) the Matchbox car, another element just seemed like too much. The consequences of something like that seemed like they’d take over the story, and again, I thought that wouldn’t strike the right tone with Holden’s symptoms of abuse. I’m not sure if I am reaching the right tone at all anyway, but I think less is more.

Anyway, with all that in mind, here is the scene!

—

Bill went to James Monroe to talk to the principal.

“Hey, about Holden,” he started.

“Mr. Tench, I know you’re in a tough situation with him, but policy is policy,” said Mr. McNarland.

Bill shook his head. “It’s not about the suspension. I totally understand. And I wanted to apologize for what happened yesterday, with Holden’s outburst. I was taken aback, and I shouldn’t have let it get so out of control.”

Mr. McNarland blinked. “Well. I appreciate that, Mr. Tench. Thank you.”

“This business with the Matchbox car, though,” said Bill. He coughed, and shifted. “Holden’s been through a lot.”

Mr. McNarland nodded. “I know. He’s not the only child in care that I’ve had as a student. I know it’s a unique challenge.”

“Yeah. It is.” Bill nodded in return, mirroring the principal’s movements. “He doesn’t have a lot of his own possessions. We only recently started giving him an allowance and he doesn’t even seem to know what to do with it. But he had those cars since he was little. They mean more to him than a typical kid’s toys do. And you’re a collector, Mr. McNarland.” He nodded at the display shelf of aging trinkets. “You know how important a kid’s toys can be to begin with.”

Mr. McNarland sighed. “That’s unfortunate. My heart goes out to him. But…” he shrugged. “Screaming at school staff, and his foster parents, and trying to destroy someone else’s property is not the right way to deal with his problems.”

Bill nodded, frowning, trying to look like he was taking in what the principal was saying. “I’m just trying to help him figure it out. Because he’s very organized. It’s not like him to lose things.”

Mr. McNarland sighed and shook his head. “Well… even the most organized kids lose things, Mr. Tench.”

“Yeah,” Bill conceded. “But not Holden. Not really. You don’t live with him. He’s meticulous. More than any adult I know. And if he says he never took those Matchbox cars out of that plastic bag, I believe him.”

Mr. McNarland fiddled with his tie uncomfortably. “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at here, Mr. Tench.”

Bill leaned forward. Let his face get a little harder. “Holden didn’t lose his Matchbox car at home. And I seriously doubt he would have taken it out at school. Do you think he would have?”

Mr. McNarland frowned. His fingers fiddled with his tie faster.

“You always wear such cute ties?” Bill asked. “The little boats yesterday. Planes today. The Matchbox people make boats and planes, too. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Mr. McNarland looked taken aback. “Are you… insinuating something?”

“I’m not insinuating shit,” Bill spat. “You know exactly what Holden was talking about when he had his tantrum. And you know that the only time his backpack was out of his sight was when <I>you</I> were searching it.”

“Mr. Tench—”

“You said you knew how hard that particular car was to find. You said <I>Matchbox wasn’t the same after Superfast.</I> Because you knew <I>that’s</I> why they don’t make Holden’s car anymore.” Bill leaned one arm on the principal’s desk. “I wonder if you happen to know how much a late ‘60s, pre-Superfast, brown Ford Cortina with doors that open is worth these days. Probably not a fortune, but at least two or three times what was paid for it, right?”

The principal sputtered indignantly.

“But the trick is to wait,” Bill said, staring McNarland straight in the eye, “for the value to mature.”

McNarland’s lip quivered. He broke the stare, and shook his head rapidly. “Mr. Tench, this is really out of line.”

“Oh, is it?” Bill stood. “You know what I think is out of line? A teacher that doesn’t <I>do anything</I> about a student trying to trade sexual favours with him, and a principal who steals from poor foster kids.”

“Excuse me!” McNarland stood too, trying and failing to match Bill’s height. “If you have an issue with how we’re handling Mr. Reid, you’re welcome to take it up with the school board. But I won’t stand here and let you accuse me of—”

“You’re fucking right I’m gonna take it up with the school board,” said Bill. “Where’s the car, McNarland? Or do you want me to get the Bureau involved, too?”

McNarland laughed in disbelief. “Mr. Tench, you are not the only law enforcement parent who’s tried to pull strings.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m the only law enforcement parent whose foster kid you were dumb enough to steal from. Give it back.”

“I don’t have it,” McNarland said forcefully, hands fisted in his tie, dropping his gaze on the last word.

“Then maybe it’s not just me who goes to the school board,” said Bill. “Maybe I’ll round up all the other law enforcement parents and tell them how Mr. Reid let a kid make sexual passes at him for over two months and nothing was done about it. Maybe I’ll call all the military parents I know, too. I know some Marines who would be thrilled to hear it.”

McNarland huffed. “You think— you think I don’t see bullies like you day in and day out? You think I didn’t grow up with kids like you, who are used to— to making threats to get what they want?”

“Oh, I’m sure you were well acquainted with <I>bullies like me</I> when you were a nerd in high school,” said Bill. “But the difference between <I>us</I>, Mr. McNarland, is that I grew up and got my head out of my ass. While sad twerps like <I>you</I> grew up into the kind of adults who would steal a toy from a child.” He shook his head and turned to leave. “I guess we’re done. You’ll hear from the school board.”

“Wait.” Mr. McNarland’s voice was strained. He shakily opened a drawer and slapped a little Matchbox on the desk. The brown Ford Cortina.

Bill sighed, half disbelieving. “You’re pathetic,” he sneered, taking the Matchbox and slipping it in his pocket.

“Get out of my office,” McNarland snapped.

“Gladly,” said Bill. “You should get started on your resume, Mr. McNarland.”

He stepped out of the principal’s office and closed the door with a shaky sigh. The secretary stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I think I may have made your life a bit harder, Miss. Sorry about that.”

[lilith-lovett]

Found Families - Home is Where the Hart is - Chapter Eleven

Here you go a new chapter. I am no entirely happy with this one but it is okay and I am really excited for the chapters to follow. So prepare yourself for a truck load of angst in the next few chapters but this story arc is almost over and then I can move onto much more fluffy scenes I can’t wait to write. Also we have a Virgil POV (Roman’s will be coming soon) and an insight into Virgil and Dee’s past here, I hope to hear your thoughts about them. Once again thank you for all of your kind comments and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Masterlist

Summary: Virgil is faced with a difficult situation.

Word Count: 3021

Warnings: Child abuse, insomnia mention, nightmare mention, implied child abuse, description of injuries (bruises), scars mention, fire mention, implied past child abuse, implied murder, OCD behaviours, panic attack mention, self-deprecation, anxiety, description of panic attack, implied depression, sympathetic deceit. (If their is anything I have missed please let me know).

Virgil couldn’t sleep. That in itself wasn’t unusual, often being plagued by both bouts of insomnia and nightmares. But tonight, he couldn’t sleep for an entirely different reason. Logan. Despite only meeting him a few hours ago, he felt strangely protective over him, disregarding the two years age difference. But those bruises were no accident and upon eavesdropping on a conversation between two matrons, his fears were confirmed. Someone was hurting Logan and now Virgil was burdened with that information.

Once Virgil, Roman and Dee left Dad and Logan to talk, returning to the foyer. Virgil caught a glimpse of the owner of the orphanage - the matron Patton had pointed out to them - and the lady from the front desk, sharing whispers between each other under hushed breaths. Virgil couldn’t help but be curious. He passed Dee over to Roman who quirked a brow in confusion, Virgil shushed him quickly and gradually made his way over to where the two women were, while remaining hidden from view. Now Virgil was in earshot of their conversation and could make out most of what they were saying.

“Do you really think Logan will be adopted?” The first said, Virgil recognised her as the desk lady.

“No, Mr Hart will soon see sense but I shall not let our Logan’s behaviour go unpunished,” The larger women responded. Virgil couldn’t believe what he was hearing, all of Logan’s bruises, she was the one hurting Logan.

Virgil slapped a hand across his mouth to prevent him form calling out, his laboured breaths slipping through his fingers as he rushed back to where Roman was. Mentally running through the breathing exercise Uncle Emile had taught him so not to alarm Dee or Roman. So he sat, silently wishing he hadn’t given Logan his fidget cube but instead he began to scroll through his phone, hoping for a distraction from the spiralling thoughts. But the sight of the bruises on Logan’s arms was at the forefront of his mind.

Now Virgil lay on his bed, staring up into the seemingly never-ending blackness, his mind filled with ‘What ifs?’, debating whether or not he should tell Patton about Logan or not. He brought his own wrists towards his face, his own bruises had long ago faded and only the faint white scars and memories remained. He had taken off his gloves, in his room he had no one to hide them from, the hideous scars hidden underneath. They weren’t as severe as Dee’s, only reaching the joint connecting his hand to his wrist, no longer causing him any physical pain but he still kept them covered when out in public, to avoid the stares his brother would be forced to endure for the rest of his life.

Virgil still saw the flames. Heard the screams of his mother - it was the most emotion he had ever seen her show - and felt the fear of losing his beloved brother on a daily basis. That night haunted his every waking moment, causing him to obsessively checks the locks on every window and door in the house before he could even think about resting, flickering candle light brought on violent panic attacks and the thought of being separated from Dee. He couldn’t bare to even think what he would do.

Virgil listened to every sound Dee made in his sleep - his crib barely a metre from his own bed - every breath, every sniffle, every cough. Just to know he was still there. That Virgil was still here. It was too quiet, everything was too quiet. He had nothing to block out his thoughts, compelling him to take notice of them. The sight of Logan’s bruises, the well-concealed wince and perfect mask which would convince the most sceptical but unfortunately for Virgil he knew the signs. He knew the signs to well. As he had been in the same position, only wearing long-sleeves, never allowing anyone close enough to see his pain. Patton had told him that Logan reminded him of Virgil but know he knew that wasn’t a good thing. It meant he had a past. It meant he had been hurt and he was far from healing.

Virgil recalled an assembly from earlier this month, in which they discussed the signs of abuse and urged all of them to tell a responsible adult if they believed someone was being abused at home. He hadn’t remained in the assembly for long as he ran from the hall, had a panic attack in the hallway and was sent home. But now a question repeated itself in his head again and again and again

‘Should he tell Patton?’

Virgil knew he should but what if Patton thought he was lying? What if he misheard the conversation? What if Logan had gotten the bruises from a fall or accident? Would Patton get mad at him and send him away? No. Virgil quickly banished that thought. Patton assured him enough times a day he would never send him away. But how would he react? And on the other side. If Patton did believe him and went to the Orphanage, would it only worsen Logan’s abuse? He had experience that more times than he could recall. Every phone call from school about his work, his attitude or if heaven forbid they saw one of his bruises. It was a sure sign more would be added to the collection.

Virgil didn’t know what to do. He wished he could talk to Patton about this. Patton always knew what to do. Sweet, brave, selfless Patton. Constantly giving, never thinking selfishly, a light which could expel any darkness. He always knew what to say when the bad thoughts took over. He always knew what to say to make Virgil feel safe, to feel loved. He glanced towards his alarm clock. 22:27. Patton would still be awake, preparing their lunches for the following school day, then he would check on them for a final time before going to bed himself.

Virgil sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed. He was going to do this. He was really going to do this. He was going to tell Patton. And he was going to do it for Logan.

 Virgil swiftly lost his resolve. The further he ventured down the stairs, the greater his anxiety grew. Filling his chest and throat, the pressure building and slowly crushing his lungs. He could hear Patton in the kitchen, softly singing to himself, a song Virgil didn’t recognise but he found it comforting so he used the soft sounds and pretty lyrics to ground himself before steadily approaching the kitchen. Patton stood by the counter, preparing both Virgil and Roman’s lunches, incorporating their favourite foods into their personalised bags. Finishing them with a presumably sappy handwritten note. He continued to sing and sway along to his own music, unaware of Virgil’s presence.

“Hey dad,” Virgil said after a moment of hesitation.

“Oh Virgil, you frightened me” Patton exclaimed jolting at Virgil’s sudden appearance. “What’s up kiddo, can’t sleep?”.

“No, not really,” Virgil admitted burrowing his hands deeper into the pockets of his well-loved hoodie.

“That’s alright Virgil, if you want we could watch something or listen to that band you really like…Twenty Two Drivers,” Patton suggested setting aside his lunch preparations, giving Virgil his full attention. “Or…we could talk about what ever is bothering you,”.

“Firstly, it’s Twenty One Pilots and secondly how do you know something is bothering me?” Virgil questioned furrowing his brow.

“I’m your dad kiddo, I have a sixth sense for this sort of thing,” Patton replied taping the center of his forehead, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Now, shall we talk?”

“L-let’s talk,” Virgil stuttered his anxiety rebuilding within his chest as his mind screamed at him that this was a bad idea and he should just apologise, tell Patton everything was fine and go back to bed but he forced himself to stay.

“Great, now you go get comfortable on the couch and I’ll whip up some of my super special supreme hot chocolate,” Patton said clapping his hands together in excitement as he danced around the kitchen, collecting the ingredients for their drinks. Patton’s super special supreme hot chocolate - Roman came up the name - was a necessity for all late night chat sessions and he could confirm they certainly lived up to their name.

“Roman’s going to be so jealous,” Virgil smirked settling himself on the couch, bundling himself up on one of the many weighted blanket which lay around the living room. He needed the extra comfort.

“Then it will be our little secret,” Patton chirped arriving with their steaming mugs of chocolate, joining Virgil underneath the blanket, passing him his drink. He blew on it before talking a tentative sip and he was immediately enveloped in warmth as the sweet and rich chocolate flavour exploded in his mouth. “So, what is it that is bothering you?”

This was it. The moment of truth. Where his fate would be decided.

“This is an entirely hypothetical situation but if I hypothetically knew someone was getting hurt, should I tell an adult even if their was a chance they could get hurt even worse. Hypothetically?” Virgil said his gaze fixated on his mug, refusing to meet Patton’s eyes.

“Virgil, look at me please,” Patton asked calmly, Virgil heard a soft clink as Patton set down is mug on the coffee table and he cautiously glanced upwards to see Patton expression had completely shifted. His former cheerful expression melting away to reveal a much more serious one underneath. Oh no, this was a bad idea. Now Patton was mad at him. And…and everything was going to fall apart…And Logan was going to get hurt…And it would be all his fault…And…

“Virgil, I need you to breathe for me. You remember the technique. In for four, hold for seven, out of eight. Come on Virgil, can you do that for me?” Patton urged, coaching him through the breathing technique. Patton placed one hand in the centre of Virgil’s chest and brought Virgil’s own hand to rest on his chest, encouraging him to match Patton’s breathing and eventually it evened out, allowing him to breathe easier. “Are you feeling better?”.

“Yeah,” Virgil murmured slumping back deeper into the couch, drawing his blanket to his chin. He suddenly felt really tried.

“Now Virgil, it is really important to tell an adult if you think someone may be being abused,” Patton explained. “Can you tell me who it is? Is it someone from your class?”.

“No, they’re not. It-it’s…,” Virgil hesitated. He was really going to do this. He was going to tell him. “It’s Logan,”.

Patton jolted violently, nearly leaping out of his seat, startling Virgil who forced himself to look up from his hands at Patton. His eyes were blown wide in a shock and his mouth was hanging open, his hands shook in his lap, mouth opening and closer as if he was struggling to find the right words.

“V-Virgil are you absolutely certain?” Patton asked a slight tremble present in his voice.

“Yeah, I saw the b-bruises on his arms and I heard the matrons talking about…about punishing him,” Virgil explained curling further into his hoodie. He was terrified but he needed to help Logan.

“Okay, okay. Thank you Virgil, I am going to get Logan out of there,” Patton assured pulling Virgil into his chest and for once he did not protest, instead allowing the contact, burrowing his face into Patton’s soft shirt. Patton’s warmth spreading throughout his body, filling with him a sense of security.

Logan wouldn’t be forced a wear a mask any longer. Patton would save him. Virgil knew he would. Just like he saved Virgil.

Patton didn’t sleep well that night, after what Virgil had told him. His mind was reeling and he had spent the majority of the night mentally flicking through the signs of abuse, matching them to Logan’s recent behaviour and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realised it sooner. He hadn’t noticed. Any actions he was initially concerned about, he chalked up to his troubling past but fresh bruises. Someone inside the Orphanage was hurting Logan and Patton hadn’t noticed.

Patton spent the morning yawning through his routine, rubbing sleep from his eyes and fighting against the overwhelming temptation to crawl back into bed to sleep the rest of the day away but sadly work came first. Once Roman and Virgil departed for school, he settled himself on the couch, a pile of paperwork sat waiting to be sorted on the coffee table but the Logan situation never once left his mind. Patton wasn’t quite sure when he dozed off, his eyes drifting shut, his head lolling back, his papers discarded in his lap.

“P…Pat….Patton!” Emile shouted as Patton jolted awake, his eyes taking seconds to adjust to the change in light, his paperwork fell out of his lap and scattered across the floor.

“Oh sorry Emile, I must have fallen asleep,” Patton said scramble to retrieve his fallen papers, Emile crouched beside him to help.

“Are you alright Patton, it’s not like you to take a nap in the middle of the day?” Emile asked handing Patton the rest of his paperwork.

“I’m totally fine, just had a lot on my mind last night,” Patton assured returning to his seat on the couch, Emile joined him at his side. He hoped his vague answer to prevent Emile from pressing any further but unfortunately it was Emile, whose profession required him to press for information but secretly Patton wanted someone to talk to about everything going on in his head.

“I’m listening,” Emile said placing a single hand on Patton’s thigh, rubbing soft circles into the muscle.

“Well firstly, the school called yesterday and they want to offer me a full-time position after the summer holidays. So, the next few weeks will be a little chaotic with paperwork and interviews,” Patton explained lowering his head. The job opportunity was incredible. He would finally be able to teach a class, to make an impact in the lives of many more children but all of the preparation for the career change allowed little time to visit Logan. Who needed him more now than ever before.

“Patton,” Emile said presumably having had noticed Patton’s change in demeanour and was coaxing him to continue.

“Well, now I don’t have a lot of time to visit Logan and…and Virgil told me something last night about…a-about Logan,” Patton continued Emile inched closer as Patton’s breath hitched. “He told me that someone inside the Orphanage was hurting Logan, he saw the bruises and I didn’t. How did I not notice?”.

Patton dropped his head into his hands, hot tears streaming down his cheeks, muffling sobs in his palms. Emile immediately wrapped him in a hug, pulling him against his chest, allowing him to cry openly. Releasing the wave of emotions he had kept locked inside until he had cried himself out, slumping against Emile’s chest, pathetically sniffling into his shirt. Until Patton heard a pained whine and was met with the tearful gaze of his youngest who insistently pawed at his trousers, attempting to crawl his way into Patton’s lap. Tears flowing as he struggled.

“Aw baby, what’s wrong?” Patton asked immediately pulling Dee into his lap who in turn threw his chubby little arms around Patton’s neck, the quiet whimpers bringing yet more tears to Patton stinging eyes.

“Daddy sad,” Dee murmured his voice muffled by sobs.

“I think he is worried about you,” Emile said rubbing comforting circles into Patton’s back.

“Baby, daddy is okay. See,” Patton said stretching his lips upwards into a smile which Dee mimicked before curling himself into Patton’s chest once again, eventually nodding off. “Emile?”.

“Yes, Patton,” Emile replied.

“What should I do?” Patton pleaded hiding his tear stained face in Dee’s curls.

“That is up to you Patton, but I know you’ll make the right decision,” Emile said with a warm smile which Patton returned before resting his head on Emile’s shoulder, suddenly exhausted from his rather emotional outburst.

Patton would do everything in his power to take Logan away from that place, to take away his pain, to hold him in his arms at long last and call him his son. No matter how long it took or the difficulties he faced along the way. Logan was his son in every way other than name.

And it was time Patton changed that.

Tag list: @poems-art-darkness-n-more @i-do-not-dislike-fudge @alex-cain @darkrainbow333 @amber1594 @falseh0od @lovingcreatorstrawberry @mason-does-a-thing @callboxkat @tacohippy56900 @anxiousangel121 @comicsimpson @harrypotternerdprincess @cobythinks @whatschooldoesntteachyou @fandomkitty8 @coloursintheblur @read-write-inspire-repeat @clinicalawesomeness

[shiscawrites]

im still alive i promise im just slow as shit

and i’m back on my bullshit

cross posted on ao3 please give me all the validation you can

Series: Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure

Pairing: Giorno/Mista

Rating: T

Summary: like i already gave it a pretentious summary on ao3 im not doing it here too

Warnings: uh obvious implications of past child abuse

Giorno is standing outside on the veranda again.

The sun has already started to rise. The harsh rays shine through the panes of glass that line the door leading out to the marble balcony, and it forces Mista to crack his eyes open.

He takes a moment to acclimate himself, to wake up enough, and he steps out of bed to walk towards the rising sun.

Giorno hears his footsteps on the marble floor; he knows, but doesn't react, as Mista opens the door and moves closer to him, and only twitches slightly when his Mista places a warm hand on his bicep.

“Come on.”

Giorno grips onto the stone railing a bit harder before relenting and turning around, being led back to bed silently.

***

Mista had never been used to being the responsible one.

Bucciarati was their fearless leader, the man who always had a plan. Told them what to do, and they would do it. Bucciarati handled the meetings with higher ups, delegated any missions that had to be done when he didn't just do them by himself. Kept a watchful eye over them but never got in their way unless it was ultimately necessary. Bucciarati was who they all looked up to.

But Bucciarati wasn't here anymore. And neither were half the people who looked up to him.

Giorno was here, instead.

He had always been similar to Bucciarati; a little colder, perhaps, but he had the same air about him, the same aura that made people want to follow him. Made people want to be with him. Giorno was always so confident, but humble enough to know he was not infallible. Knew what his limits were yet boldly pushed past them anyway.

Once the dust had cleared and Trish was safe, doing her own thing as a singer and model, did Mista have the startling realization that he was wildly unprepared for what actually taking down the boss meant. What actually taking his place meant.

He had to start wearing suits. Looking and acting professional. It wasn't insurmountable, but the sudden sharp turn into having to constantly present as dignified and poised when he was anything but had been tedious at best and utterly asinine at worst. Making Giorno's appointments, delegating where Giorno couldn't, meeting with businessmen and politicians who demanded their attention—it had been a difficult leap to make for somebody whose only responsibilities a month ago were shaking people down and maybe putting a bullet in somebody's brain if the situation truly called for it.

Giorno had handled it all with startling aplomb. Mista had been thrilled, at first, to have a good chunk of the work shouldered off to him—and to Polnareff as well, but to a lesser extent. Once everything had settled into place, though, the magnitude of what Giorno was doing had dawned on him in an unsettling way.

Giorno, Mista had one day realized, was only 15 when everything had started. He was only 15 when he decided he would uproot the entire command structure of one of Italy's largest mobs. He was only 15 when he decided that he would be willing to commit premeditated murder.

Mista had been failing chemistry class and getting his first girlfriend when he was 15. The first time he killed was in a heat of the moment snap decision so he could save a life, and he'd vomited in a toilet once the adrenaline wore off.

Once it all had clicked for him, any sense of fear or hesitation he had ever felt towards Giorno as a leader melted away, and was replaced with a deep sorrow and an even stronger urge to follow him. A stronger urge to be with him.

Their relationship had naturally progressed to the point where Mista knew Giorno the best out of anyone in Passione, in more ways than one. They shared a bed, intimately, and being the underboss was barely a factor in why he stuck to Giorno like a second shadow.

Yet, with his loyalty and affection in no question, Mista had an inkling, a niggle in the back of his mind that told him that he was just on the outside looking in.

Giorno himself stood at the peak, and Mista would just have to make peace with the fact that he would always be just a little bit below him, looking up.

If Giorno, who had done incredible acts of self-sacrifice in order to get where he was today, would be willing to pick up the mantle of running an entire mafia syndicate, then Mista could at least make sure that he survived long enough to see his change realized.

He just wished he could walk beside Giorno, instead of staring at his back, six paces behind.

***

Mista tunes out most of the meetings Giorno has. To the people Giorno delegates to, he's just a silent sentry with a gun on him as visibly as possible.

He keeps his eyes on them, of course, but the words coming out of Giorno's mouth became white noise a while ago.

“...Is that clear?”

Their backs straighten in unison and they mutter their words of affirmation. Giorno nods them off and Mista escorts them out, a practiced routine they've done the fifth time today.

He turns back to Giorno just in time to see him rubbing his eyebrows—the telltale sign he's got a migraine forming. Mista pauses for a minute. The words “you should take a break” are on the tip of his tongue, but telling him to do that never works, so he eyes the end table Coco Jumbo is snoozing on and reaches into the drawer to take out a bottle of Ibuprofen, the pills rattling from the movement. He sets it on Giorno's desk, and nudges his boss a little bit.

Giorno regards it coolly, but doesn't move to take any. He's going to be stubborn today.

“I'm fine, Guido. It'll pass.”

Mista rolls his eyes and uncaps the bottle, pouring out three in his hand and places them on the desk. Giorno visibly bristles. Mista moves them closer to him.

“I said—.”

“Gio. We both know it's going to get worse and you'll be bed bound if you don't deal with it early. Stop being a dick about this.”

He can see Giorno's jaw clench. If he were any other person in the organization, Giorno would've already killed him.

Mista keeps his gaze on him leveled. He stopped being intimidated by Giorno a long time ago.

Ultimately, Giorno breaks first, with a deep sigh accompanying his decision.

“...You're right. I'll take them.”

He takes the pills and swallows them without water in one fluid motion. His attention is turned back to the papers he has on his desk without a second thought, as if those few seconds wasted were deeply precious.

Mista places a hand on his shoulder and rubs gently, and Giorno only hesitates slightly before moving his hand up to link their fingers together. He leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of Giorno's hair. His hair smells like vanilla, no doubt from whatever new conditioner Trish sent him to try.

“If you want my opinion...” He presses another kiss against the top of Giorno's head. “I think those land development contracts can wait. It's time for lunch, anyway.”

Giorno tilts his head up for a proper kiss in lieu of an actual response, but the final answer is there regardless by the motion of him picking up his pen and putting his name to the paper, then turning it over and grabbing another one.

Mista breathes in sharply through his nose, and leans against a wall near the open window behind Giorno once more. If he moves his head slightly, he can see Giorno's reflection in the glass pane.

Giorno's pen scratching against the paper is the only sound other than the waves crashing in the bay. The salt from the ocean paints the breeze, and overtakes the scent of Giorno's vanilla conditioner in his mind.

And, just like that, he's back on sentry duty.

***

They typically make time for Polnareff whenever they can. As consigliere, Giorno runs most of his ideas by Polnareff before truly implementing any.

It's less common for them to speak about work-related issues, though. Mista steps inside the familiar space mostly to drink from the vast wine collection Polnareff keeps in there and vent to the only functional adult in their perilously small inner circle who has similar experiences he does.

“Giorno's upset again,” Mista murmurs, swirling Chianti around in a glass as he sits on a sofa across from where Polnareff was standing.

Polnareff leans against one of the sofas as he nurses his own glass of wine. When Mista doesn't continue speaking, Polnareff clears his throat.

“Is that all you came here for? To say that and drink my wine?” Polnareff's lip quirks up. “I know I'm good company, but really, this doesn't seem like the best use of your time.”

Mista rolls his eyes and sets his glass down.

“Well, I wanna get him out of his funk but I don't know how. I keep catching him looking at Bucciarati's hair clips. Those little...” He mimes ovals with his hands, and places them on the top of his head. “You know.”

“I know what hair clips are,” Polnareff says with a chuckle. “But yeah, I know what you're talking about. I catch him looking at Narancia's bandanna once in a while. I don't see him looking at Abbacchio's...” He mimes something being on top of his head. “I don't see that too much, but he does do it occasionally.”

Mista snorts. “That's not surprising. Abbacchio treated him like shit.” His face turns stony and he turns his gaze back down to the red wine he had began swirling around again. “Giorno still cared about him, though.”

“He cares about all of the people who work for him.” Polnareff pours himself another wine glass.

Mista takes a sip, ready to correct him. “Abbacchio was working for Bucciarati.”

Polnareff raises a brow. “Are you sure about that? Are you certain about that?”

Mista grimaces.

“You've got a point.”

Polnareff sits down on the sofa across from Mista, and crosses his legs. “We're off topic. So he's upset. Are you going to do anything about it?”

Mista breathes out a sigh. “I don't know. What can I do? Usually he just sorts through it himself. I'm typically a non-presence whenever he gets, y'know, depressed like this. Nothing I try to do seems to matter.”

“Mh.” Polnareff swirls around his wine. “I don't think he knows how to deal with people supporting him. In the emotional sense.”

“Well, I'm not about to have a big sit down and talk about our feelings. Giorno has too much on his plate. With all this work he has to do—he barely eats. Whenever we get lunch together I end up eating most of his food.”

“So too little on his plate, then?” Polnareff responds with a grin that was a little too wide.

Mista narrows his eyes briefly before groaning and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That was awful. Jesus, you should feel ashamed for that.”

Polnareff lets out a cackle, to Mista's unrestrained annoyance. After taking glee in his terrible pun, he dials it back and resumes discussing the matter at hand.

“Well, regardless.” Polnareff takes a sip from his wine glass. “This is a good time to bring this up. I kept meaning to tell you about this and just I never got to it, but the other day while you dealing with that stand user near the docks, Giorno and I got in a heated argument.”

Mista is taken aback slightly. Giorno getting into an argument, and a “heated” one at that, is incredibly rare.

“About what?”

“Something stupid. Honestly, I really can't remember the details.” He waves his hand absentmindedly. “But there was a point where I raised my voice, and he—I've never seen this before, he...shrunk back? It was the first time I've really seen Giorno look scared.”

Mista jerks. “Scared?” There's a brief moment where he pauses, confused, before realization dawns on him in a way that makes his stomach churn. “You don't think he was—.”

“I don't know,” Polnareff pointedly interrupts, holding up a hand to stop Mista's thought. “And it's not my place to ask. But speaking as somebody who had to take care of themselves, and...” He pauses in his sentence, visibly gathering himself. “...And a little sister, at a young age, on their own, I recognize his behavior.”

Mista rubs one of his temples with his fingers as he leans back in the chair and lolls his head up towards the top of the room with closed eyes.

“Jesus.”

Polnareff swallows the rest of his wine, and keeps the empty glass in a loose grip between his index and middle fingers.

“Mista, listen,” He starts, placing his glass to the side and leaning over with his hands clasped. “If I'm being honest, I don't think Giorno doesn't appreciate what you're doing. As underboss, your entire job is making Giorno's life easier. Even little things, like making sure he eats, I think, he does appreciate. I just...I think he doesn't know how to appreciate it.”

Polnareff stops speaking, briefly, and closes his eyes to gather his thoughts. Mista keeps quiet, and waits.

“...Up until something forces him to change, I think, Giorno...he's going to do everything himself.”

“But why?” Frustration creeps into the edge of Mista's words. “It doesn't make sense.”

Polnareff looks at Mista with a sad smile on his face.

“Because, for him, that's all he's ever known how to do.”

***

It's a day of meetings. Neither of them are thrilled about it.  

Mista is sitting over a coffee table, cleaning his gun and waiting on the shower, when Giorno steps out, water dripping from his damp hair. He moves to sit at his vanity that's leaned up against a wall far across from their bed, pulls his hair back away from his face, and gets to work.

It's almost hypnotizing as Mista watches him go through his morning routine: toner, spot cream, face cream, eye cream, moisturizer, facial oil, sunscreen, primer, foundation, concealer, powder, bronzer, blush, eyeliner, eyebrows.

Giorno does not leave room for imperfection.

Mista almost feels drab in comparison.

He puts the chamber back on his gun, the last piece that needed to be added, and walks over to Giorno, who just finished blow-drying his hair. Giorno's mouth quirks up in a small smile as he sees him approach, and Mista toys with the ends of his hair as he stands behind him.

“Not sure about you, but I'm excited to sit in office after office of high-ranking Italian politicians vying for Passione's support.”

Giorno tilts his head up and their lips met.

“It won't be that bad, I'm sure.”

Mista snorts. “Every time we meet with people like this they're never under the age of 50 and they all smell like mothballs and too much cologne. That smell takes days to get out of my head, Giorno. Days.”

Giorno laughs, soft and airy. Mista can't help himself and leans back over to place a kiss on the star birthmark just below the junction of his neck and shoulder.

“I'll make sure to put an air freshener in the car after we get out, then.” Giorno wrinkles his nose a little. “They really do wear too much cologne, you're not wrong about that.”

Mista gives one last kiss against Giorno's jaw and steps aside as Giorno manifests Gold Experience to braid his hair, and he leans against a wall perpendicular to the vanity with his arms crossed.

“It's still pretty jarring to get used to, I gotta admit. Bucciarati would always go alone to these sorts of things—sometimes he brought Abbacchio but he did it by himself, I'd say like, 99% of the time. I don't think he was ever high up enough to meet with, y'know, senators and stuff, but he met with Polpo a lot, and some other capos from time to time.” Mista put his hands on the back of his head. “I think I really took for granted some of the stuff Bucciarati did for us.”

Gold Experience fades once Giorno's braid is perfectly fastened. Giorno sits silently, staring down at his pale fingers that rest on the edge of the oak wood vanity.

Mista sees Giorno's lips part in the mirror as he starts to speak softly. “How long did you know Bucciarati for, Mista?”

“About a year or so, I think? Give or take. I told you he bailed me out of jail after I got that bullshit ruling, right?” Giorno nods. “It was right after that. We had lunch and he wanted me in his group and I said yes.”  

Giorno breathes in, then out.

“...Do you think he would be satisfied with how I'm running things?”

Mista stares at him with furrowed eyebrows.

He...doesn't really know how to answer that.

Bucciarati, for all his talents as a leader, never really had many grand plans the same way Giorno did and still does. Anything Polpo asked him to do, he would do it, and do it well. The only times Bucciarati ever spoke out against Passione were when Mista would overhear him speaking privately to Abbacchio or Fugo about his distaste for the drug trafficking and how he felt frustrated at his inability to do anything, but that's all it ever really led to: frustration. Bucciarati was in no position to do anything about the growing drug problem, and he knew it.

Then Giorno entered the picture.

Then Bucciarati was gone.

And all of his ideals had been passed onto Giorno like a burning torch.

The large part in Mista's brain that cares for Giorno wants to say “of course, you're stopping what Bucciarati hated most about Passione and you're doing an amazing job at it” but a feeling of hesitation stops him. While no doubt Bucciarati would have been thrilled at seeing how much cleaner Naples as a city now is, Giorno is brutally pragmatic and stopped being able to bloody his own hands a long time ago. Mista has no doubt that had Bucciarati taken over, he would've eliminated every threat on his own, with his own hands.

So his answer isn't the most confident.

“I mean...probably.”

Giorno frowns.

It's not what he was expecting, and Mista knows it.

“I see. Thank you.”

The conversation ends anticlimactically; Giorno ignores him as painfully and as obviously as possible while he puts rollers in his bangs. Mista walks away towards the shower, seeing Giorno picking up hairspray for his braid out of the corner of his eye.

As he rounds a corner in their bedroom, he hangs onto the wall and stops.

He opens his mouth to say something, and his eyes flick back over to Giorno, who he sees looking up at him in the mirror.  

Nothing comes to his mind that sounds good enough, so he simply walks into the bathroom. Giorno doesn't spare him another glance.  

***

Once a month, Trish deigns to visit the two of them in Naples, and each time, it's a great reprieve for everyone involved.

Their guards at the front can barely announce her presence before she's strutting into the palazzo. Her white Versace heels match the mink coat she's wearing over a short, black dress with a keyhole neckline. She keeps her hair the in the same, perfectly coiffed style, most likely by using enough hairspray that would choke a lesser being. Sunglasses costing at least €500 lay over her eyes, and with each echoing step of her heels she acts increasingly like she owns the place despite the fact that she's being led around by a guard—a guard who is obviously intimidated by her.

As soon as she's led into the room where Giorno entertains guests, her mouth splits into a grin and her heels clack even louder on the marble flooring as she darts up to hug the both of them.

“Giorno, it's so good to see you!” She grabs hold of his hands as she places a kiss on his cheek. When she pulls back, she sniffs the air slightly. “I see you've started using that conditioner I recommended.”

“Yeah, it smells great,” Mista interrupts, and wraps her up in a big hug. “I dunno where the hell you find half of this stuff but it's all amazing.”

She kisses his cheek as they pull back from the hug. “Still not trimming the hair on your knuckles?” The smug, knowing tone in her voice is hard to miss.

Mista grins, and fires back. “Still wearing outfits you have to be peeled out of?”

They all sit down on ornate couches with gold-trimmed crimson pillows, Mista casually throwing an arm around Giorno's shoulders as he drinks tea across from Trish. She plucks a macaroon from one of the silver trays set out with treats and pops it in her mouth.

“Milan fashion week was a shitshow, did you see? The Prada winter collection? Awful. It was all trash.” She takes a long sip of her tea. “If I'm being totally honest, none of the other lines were much better. Gucci kept using this terrible mustard yellow color. For winter!” She threw her hands in the air. “There was a bright spot, though, in that giant waste of fabric they called a fashion show. I met another stand user!”

Giorno raises an eyebrow. “You did?”

“Mhm. Her stand wasn't for combat, so it was nice not having to fight for my life for once,” She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “We really hit it off. Her stand was like real-life photo touch up. She could smooth out their skin and make their make-up pop,” She makes a popping sound with her mouth as she says the word. “and all that stuff. Once they got a certain distance away from her it would wear off but it was really cool—I haven't...most of the stands I've seen were, 99% of the time, only useful in a combat situation. Well, besides Coco Jumbo. How is he, by the way?”

“Asleep,” Giorno says with a chuckle. “How did you find out she had a stand in the first place?”

“Well, I was waiting on my makeup and the chair I was sitting in was very uncomfortable, so I used Spice Girl to make the cushion I was sitting on softer. She was nearby doing makeup for another model and was amazed that I had a stand, too. She'd only seen a couple before mine. She called hers “Dress Down”, interesting name.”

Mista snorts. “You use your stand for shit like that?”

Trish straightens in her chair, undeterred. “I can and will. Sounds like somebody is jealous that all their stand can do is deflect bullets. Look at this,” She brought out Spice Girl, and the couch she was sitting in began to undulate slightly. “It's like I'm in a water bed now, I'm so cozy.”

“That's the dumbest thing I've ever seen.” Mista turns to Giorno with a “can you believe this” look on his face. “C'mon, back me up here.”

“I used to use my stand to grift people.” Giorno closes his eyes and sips the rest of his tea, looking more than a little bashful. “So I don't have a leg to stand on here, really.” He sets his cup down. “And sometimes, when nobody else is around, I do things like this.”

He grabs a book off of the coffee table in front of him, and takes Gold Experience out to morph the book into a small Calico cat. Trish gasps in amazement, putting her hands out and making grabbing motions. Giorno happily hands her over, while Mista looks mildly annoyed.

“Man, what the fuck.”

Trish holds the kitten close to her body, scratching under her chin. “Oh, she's so cute! Do you make them often?”

“I do. Making animals like that can be very therapeutic, actually. Cats, especially. Did you know that cats actually domesticated themselves? It started in ancient Egypt, I believe. It was more beneficial for them to lower their aggression and stay around humans for food—typically mice that would get into the farmed grains. Most cats purr at about 25 decibels, but the interesting thing is that nobody is quite sure how exactly they purr. One theory is that they use the muscles in their larynx to create the sound, but why they do it is also up for debate. They mostly do it as a sign of being content, but it can also happen if they're in pain. For example, cats can start purring whenever they give birth. Oh, and recently, I found out that a group of cats is called a “clowder”, and that they sweat through their...”

Giorno looks up, and sees Trish and Mista simply staring at him, bewilderment on both of their faces. He clears his throat, and gathers himself, uncomfortably aware of what just happened.  

“...they sweat through their paws.”

Trish gently releases the kitten back onto the table, and Giorno turns it back into a book, silently staring at it afterward.

“Um,” Mista places his hand on Giorno's shoulder. “Gio—.”

Giorno shrugs it off and stands, offering a hand across the table to Trish. “Trish, I think it's about time we all gave Polnareff a visit, don't you agree?”

Trish clears her throat and nods, taking his hand and standing in one fluid motion. Giorno throws a look back at Mista, who jerks and stands up beside him.  

“Ah, let's go meet with Polnareff and then have lunch?” Trish flicks her eyes between the two of them. “Is that alright with everyone?”

“Yes. It sounds great.” Giorno replies quickly, obviously eager to distract and move past his earlier diatribe. “Mista?”

“Uh, yeah. Sounds fine.”

Giorno nods and begins to walk forward, opening the door and leaving it wide for the two of them.

Trish yanks Mista by the wrist to get him to walk with her, her heels clicking loudly against the floor once more as they trod down the long hallway to Giorno's office.

“Listen.” She hisses out in a whisper. “I don't know what the heck is up with Giorno, but you gotta do something.”

“I don't—.” Mista sighs, irate. He looks up; Giorno is getting further away from them. “I don't know what to do, Trish! What am I supposed to do?!”

She shoves him back, nothing but anger showing in her bright green eyes.

“Do what he can't do for himself.”

She gives him one last glare as she stomps briskly in front of him, leaving him in the dust.

***

Mista wakes up shivering.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes as much as he can, then turns to find the source of what's making him cold.

Giorno is on the veranda again.

At least the sun isn't up yet.

With a groan and a stretch, Mista pulls up the sweatpants he's sleeping in and gets out of bed. Even with socks on, the marble floor is icy as he walks across it.

Giorno's head twitches towards him as he steps outside. Mista doesn't say anything as he moves towards him, wrapping his arms around Giorno's bare chest and pressing a kiss at the junction of his neck and shoulder.

“You're freezing,” Mista murmurs, his voice low and groggy. The cold night air causes him to instinctively cling to Giorno tighter for warmth.  

“Just a little longer,” Giorno whispers, his fingers squeezing the hand Mista has on his chest. “I just...need a little longer.”

What Mista wants to do is tell him that he'll catch a cold standing out on a stone balcony in the middle of the night as he stares at the calm, black ocean. He wants to take him back inside and touch him until Giorno stops thinking about whatever he's thinking about. He wants Giorno to say what's on his mind.

But Giorno won't talk without Mista prodding him, and Mista isn't going to do that.

Even though he wants to.

He just holds Giorno tighter and watches the crashing waves with him.

***

Mista throws open the door to their bedroom and the two of them slink in, utterly exhausted from another day of nonstop meetings.

While the election in Italy was already over and done with, it meant that most time spared went to meeting with politicians and making sure their goals were in line with Giorno's own. His power over Passione, while uncontested at the start, could easily slip if public opinion was against them. Getting politicians, and more importantly, their delegates, on their side, was key to consolidation.

That didn't mean it wasn't tiresome.

“Fuck.” Mista undoes his tie with his index finger and tosses it aside, shrugging off his coat jacket and unbuttoning the dress shirt beneath it and letting it drop to the floor before he falls onto their bed face first.

Giorno is only barely more collected than he is, and manages to get his own jacket, shirt, and tie in a small pile near their hamper before sitting on the bed next to where Mista collapsed.

“I'm going to be hoarse tomorrow from how much I talked today,” Giorno takes out the hair tie holding his braid together and shakes it out, golden locks cascading loosely over his shoulders. “I think they'll all be willing to work with us, though.”

“They better be!” Mista groans and rolls over onto his back. “With all the money we're willing to throw at them, I'm gonna be real pissed off if they turn their backs on us now.”

Giorno makes a noise of affirmation. “Half of the people we met with are so corrupt they don't really have a choice, unless they want us to release all the information they'd rather keep hidden away.”

Mista snorts. “What information? The mistresses? The racist comments? The illegitimate children? Or a combination of all three?” He groans. “These guys are such assholes.”

Giorno hums in agreement, and stretches his arms out, his joints audibly popping. “I'd like to shower,” He rubs his hand against Mista's shoulder. “Join me?”

He looks at Giorno out of the corner of his eye. “You're gonna have to help me up for that to happen.”

Mista feels Giorno move off the bed to stand up, and shortly afterward the cool, alien hands of Gold Experience help bring him up into a sitting position. He holds his own hands out to Giorno, who gets him onto his feet.

“You'll feel better afterward.” Giorno says, then pecks him on the lips.

They step onto the granite flooring of their large, opulent bathroom. In the entryway sits a long, marble counter with two sinks inset into it, in front of a framed mirror that spans the upper half of the entire wall. A broad, stone archway leads into the bathroom proper. Their shower, one that could easily fit six, sits nestled in the corner, with a half-wall coming between it and the toilet. Across from it lies an elevated, oval, drop-in porcelain tub that's the size of a small pool, two marble steps leading up to it. Fine art lines the walls, and a glass chandelier hangs high above the floor.

Giorno takes off his pants and briefs and enters the small cave they call a shower, turning it on and waiting for the water to heat up. Mista manages to stop gawking at him long enough to shed himself of his own remaining clothes to join him.

He places a hand on Giorno's bicep and kisses his neck, letting warm water run down his tired body. Giorno turns and links his fingers with Mista's, and Mista bumps their foreheads together, wrapping his arm around Giorno's slim waist.

His thumb brushes over a raised spot, and Mista furrows his brow as he looks down at a long scar across his lower back. He's seen Giorno naked more times than he can count, but he's never noticed that scar before. A few other scars mar Giorno's back, but they almost seamlessly blend in with his pale skin.

“Woah, I never noticed those before. Were these from when we were guarding Trish? I'm surprised you haven't used Gold Experience to heal the tissue.”

Giorno's reaction is immediate and severe. He breaks away from Mista, almost as if he's been burned, and takes two steps back from him. He's shaking, just slightly, and Mista's hand stays hovering in the air as he tries to process what just happened.

“Giorno, what—.”

“Don't touch me.”

He speaks in a low, cold tone, and Mista bristles. He's two steps away from immense frustration until realization dawns on him.

“Oh.” Mista rubs at his arm. “I don't...do you want to ta—.”

“No,” Giorno interrupts, his stare placed firmly on the shower tile below him. “Let's just finish showering.”

Mista starts to reach out him.

“Hey, Giorno...”

Giorno's head jerks up and he cuts down whatever Mista was attempting to do. His eyes are dark and unmoving. The hot water of the shower does nothing for the ice in Mista's veins.

Resolve crumbling, Mista stays silent and reaches up to grab some shampoo that sits on an indent in the tile wall, and lathers it up in his hair. Giorno's tenseness fades, and he takes his own bottle of lavender-scented shampoo off its ledge.

They finish up the shower in silence.

They don't talk the rest of the night.

***

“This doesn't seem like something you need to do, Gio.”

Mista leans back in the Lamborghini, turning his head to the side to get a better look at Giorno, who seems nonplussed.

“Repeated attempts to get them to stop via intimidation haven't worked, and I have no intentions of bribing a drug dealer.” Giorno crosses his legs. “It's about sending a message, Guido.”

“Yeah, but I probably could've done this on my own.” Mista crosses his arms. “How long has this guy been dealing drugs? A month or so?”

“Longer than that, probably.” Giorno's cheek presses against the car window, and he sighs. “Signs point to this person being a stand user, and even though many of our soldatoj are good at what they do, a significant amount of them don't have stands.”

Mista hums. “Still, I don't think this is something you needed to involve yourself in. Like, I could've gone with another stand user and taken care of this.”

Giorno smiles, and Mista can feel himself relax.

“It'll be fine, Guido. If all goes well, we'll be drinking wine and eating bruschetta in an hour.”

The car turns and drops them off in a large, abandoned alley that's littered with cracked walls and graffiti, leaving no spot barren. Giorno and Mista begin to scope out the area the second their feet touch the dirty concrete.

“This is right, yeah?” Mista takes out his gun and checks the chamber. “Seems a bit...I dunno, seems kinda shitty even for a drug dealer.”

“From what we've been told, this is the place,” Giorno murmurs in response, pushing around loose debris with his foot as they round a corner away from the car. He keeps staring in the distance before his head sharply turns towards Mista. “Stay here and cover my back. Don't let anybody down this alley.”

Mista nods, and summons his stand. No. 6 follows behind Giorno as he rounds a corner. With his back up against a decaying brick wall, all Mista can do at this point is wait.

Five minutes pass until something feels off. It's a change in the air or something like that, but the hairs on the back of Mista's neck stand up, and he makes sure nobody is coming towards him before peeking his head around the corner.

Large swaths of flypaper litter the ground and walls, and Mista's eyes widen. He grabs a bullet out of his pocket and tosses it about a meter away from him, into one of the pieces of flypaper on the ground. The bullet lands, and sizzles, melting into a puddle of goo and soaking into the flypaper until no trace of it remains.

He's seeing nothing but red flags, and what finally gets him moving is an alert from one-sixth of his stand.

“Mistaaa! Giorno's in trouble!”

He bolts. It's tricky; flypaper is literally everywhere, giving him very little room for footwork. His balance falters, just enough for the leg of his pant to lower to the point where it touches the paper. Part of it sizzles and burns off, being absorbed and fading into nothing. Once the acid finally stops, he can make out indistinguishable voices around a corner about six meters away.

Mista jumps between the spaces, being extremely careful to not let any part of his body touch the flypaper. The closer he gets to the voices, the louder and more distinct Giorno's own voice gets. No. 6 is waiting for him, jabbing its little finger around the corner.

He sidles up against the corner, and peers his head around just enough to see what's happening.

A man has Giorno pinned against the dirty brick wall, one arm caught behind his back and the other pressed into a swath of flypaper on the wall, his pale skin burning away and filling the air with the stench of melting flesh. He's wearing jeans and a sleeveless denim vest, but what strikes Mista's eye the most is that the skin around his forearm looks utterly bizarre. What looks like a ream of paper—the same color as his splotchy flesh—is fanning out of his arm.

The man grins; any teeth that weren't missing entirely are a sickly yellow. “...It takes about five minutes for 'Scar Tissue' to completely disintegrate a human arm, clothes included.” He presses Giorno in closer to the wall, and Giorno glares at him out of the corner of his eye. “Next, it'll be your face, Giovanna.”

“Giorno!”

They both look towards Mista; both equal amounts surprised. Mista levels his gun, the momentary distraction giving him the perfect opening. He's milliseconds away from squeezing the trigger, before Gold Experience is out and the arm that Giorno has stuck in the flypaper is cut off by his stand.

Mista's eyes widen.

He's too stunned to move.

Blood gushes from the wound on Giorno's arm, but Giorno barely pays it a second thought. Gold Experience decks the man in the head and he hits the brick wall behind him, landing square against a sheet of his own stand. He doesn't even get time to scream before Gold Experience moves in crushes his windpipe. His body falls to the ground, lifeless, and the flypaper spattered around the area fades away.

Giorno sways on his feet, woozy from blood loss, but has Gold Experience punch out a brick from the wall. It transforms into an arm in just a few seconds, and he presses it against the stump, fusing together cells, veins, bone, and muscle until he's making a fist with his hand to confirm it's back on correctly.

He looks up at Mista, and smiles gently. The shock finally wears off for Mista, and he walks up to Giorno and shakes him.

“Giorno. What the fuck.” Mista hisses.

Giorno's eyes widen. It's not the reaction he was expecting.

“I had the perfect shot—he was going to have a bullet in his brain in a second. There was no reason for you to rip your arm off like that!”

He can feel himself raising his voice. Giorno scowls, and roughly removes Mista's hands from him.

“I had no guarantee that his stand would fade when he died.”

“There's only been two exceptions to that rule, Giorno! You couldn't have waited for me to shoot him before you ripped off your fucking arm?” Mista pulls at his hair with both hands, then rubs both down his face. “Don't—don't do that!”

“I can replace limbs, Guido. This isn't the first time I've done this, and I really don't think it's going to be the last.”

Giorno begins walking out of the alley, but Mista grabs onto his wrist to stop him.

“That doesn't make it okay! What the fuck?” Mista's voice is completely raised to a frustrated yell at this point. “There have been times where we've had to hurt ourselves to complete a mission, but this was not one of those times!”

Mista blinks, the red clearing from his vision, and he can see Giorno's entire body trembling. He lets go of his wrist like it's made of fire.

Giorno turns to Mista.

“Do not ever raise your voice at me.”

He tries to sound authoritative, but the tremor in his words betrays him. His hands, already pale, have turned even whiter from how hard he's clenching them. His eyes, normally a stoic and calm blue, are large and watery. Stray hairs fall from its normal braid, and frame his face in a way that makes the harsh angles look softer.

Giorno, Mista thinks morbidly, is finally acting his age.

All of the anger vanishes from Mista like a cloud of vapor. More than anything, he just feels so, so tired.

“Boss. Let's just get back to the car.”

Giorno doesn't respond to him, and Mista didn't really expect him to in the first place. They stand silently for a few more seconds before Giorno wordlessly leaves the alley and heads back to where the Lamborghini is parked.

The car ride back is silent. Giorno's reflection is in Mista's window, and he stares at it the whole time.

***

Three days later, and they've spoken less than 20 words to each other.

When a letter from SPW Foundation came in requesting a meeting with Giorno to “create a mutually beneficial business relationship”, all the details came from a meeting with Polnareff in the turtle. Giorno, conveniently, was out of his office when Mista entered and exited the turtle.

Just as conveniently, Mista wasn't needed for the discussion of how to go about meeting them.

That doesn't mean he didn't stand outside of Giorno's office and eavesdrop.

“You can't seriously be thinking about meeting him on your own,” Came Polnareff's voice, equal parts incredulous and concerned.

There's a brief pause in the conversation; presumably, Giorno is sipping his tea.

“We'll be meeting at a restaurant that I own. That I've been to several times, by myself, without issue. I really doubt that a stand user would attack me in such an obvious place.”

“There's always a chance,” Polnareff warns.

“Didn't you tell me that this man I'm meeting with was a stand user?” Giorno responds, his tone a little huffier than how a mob boss should sound.

“He's probably just as strong as you are,” Polnareff admits. “But he's not invincible. And neither are you.”

Giorno pauses again.

“I appreciate your concern, Polnareff, but I can take care of this on my own.”

Mista steps away from the open doorway, feeling a little hollow, and leaves before Giorno can tell he's been there.

Two days later, Giorno gets in his Rolls Royce and leaves for the restaurant. Five minutes later, Mista tails him on his motorcycle.

He hasn't done anything like this in a while, and it's nice to be able to get out of the palazzo without having to wear a suit. Even in ripped jeans and a grey hoodie, though, Giorno would easily recognize him, so keeping his distance is key. With a helmet covering his face, and a guitar case on his back to obscure the weapons he's carrying, he makes a sharp turn onto the street where the restaurant Giorno's going to is.

Mista can see Giorno's car drop him off at the entrance. The restaurant is open-air and viewing the sea, stone archways all around the perimeter. Marble stairs lead up to a second floor, thicker pillars holding up the ceiling with tables situated near the stone railing that runs along the second level. Potted plants hang from the middle of the archways, and granite tile lines the floor.    

Not even two blocks away from the restaurant is a modest apartment complex, six stories high, giving Mista a perfect vantage point to watch Giorno from. He turns into a narrow alley, parking his motorcycle near a dumpster and placing his helmet on the seat. Eyeing the fire escape, he ascends as quickly as he can given the weight he's carrying on his back.

By the time he's at the roof, he's wiping the sweat off of his brow, and he drops the guitar case as gently as he can before opening it and taking stock. A revolver, useful as it is in most situations, isn't suitable for this range, so he picks out the semi-automatic rifle taking up a good 50% of the case and attaches the ammo cartridge and scope to it. Ostensibly, everything is ready to go, but Mista can't help himself. He looks longingly at his revolver, and decides to grab it and some spare rounds anyway. He places the gun in the back of his pants and the ammo in his jean pocket.

Everything is finally set up. There's no wind in the air, and it's a perfectly sunny day. A cement half-wall runs around the roof of the building, and he rests the rifle on top of it to keep it as still as possible.

Mista closes one eye, stares through the scope to get a perfect visual of Giorno, and then he waits.

Giorno is certain nothing bad is going to happen; Mista is going to keep that certainty in tact.

He sends out No. 3 and No. 6 to hover near Giorno; close enough give Mista a broader visual range of the restaurant but far enough away that he's certain Giorno can't see them.

Giono sits, poised, at a table in the middle of the restaurant, his position shifting as he sees someone coming towards him. Mista follows his gaze, and his eyes widen as he spots a large, hulking brute of a man in a white coat speaking indistinctly to the host before he's ushered towards where Giorno is. He says something to Giorno, who responds, but he can only make out faint murmurs. Mista places his finger on the trigger and keeps watching as he urges No. 3 and No. 6 a little closer so he can hear their conversation.

“...It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Kujo. I have to say, I'm surprised to be meeting somebody from America. I had assumed they'd send a European agent.”

Kujo pulls out the chair across from Giorno, and sits. “I wanted to meet you for myself.” He scoots his chair in. “This was a good opportunity.”

Giorno's eyebrows go up, and he leans back in his chair. “All this way just to meet the Don of Passione for a business deal?”

“Yes and no,” He responds gruffly. “It...has more to do with your birth father.”

Giorno looks confused, and a little stunned. Out of all the things Kujo could've said, that was hardly something he could have expected.

“You..knew him?”

Kujo pauses.

“I killed him.”

There's a shift in the air. Giorno does his best to put on airs that he's unaffected, but Mista can tell, even through a scope, that he's torn. His body language cools, his arms crossing and his back pushing further against the chair. Kujo himself doesn't try to speak, instead taking long sips of his water as he waits patiently for Giorno to gather his thoughts.

It's some time before Giorno opens his mouth to speak, and he's noticeably unnerved when he does.

“...I spent most of my life wondering who my real father was. All I had was a picture my mother gave me. I had thought, maybe, that we would meet, at some point.” Giorno's fist clenches. A childhood notion, held on for this long, finally dashed.

Kujo very obviously doesn't know what to say, so he keeps quiet.

Giorno collects himself, and breathes in sharply.

“...Did he deserve it?”

Kujo, stoic as he is, manages to convey an expression most would call “surprised”.

He takes a long sip of water.

“I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it.”

Giorno stares at him, silently urging him to continue. Kujo takes in a deep breath.

“Your father—Dio Brando...He killed hundreds of innocents—there's no official death toll, but I would put it at over 500.” Kujo gets quieter, and he stares down at clenched hands. “He killed my best friend. Two others were killed on his orders. He almost...killed my grandfather.”

Kujo's hand is trembling slightly as he brings it up to adjust his hat.

Giorno himself looks shaken, having to process too much information too quickly. Kujo has no reason to lie to him—his father being a killer dashes whatever fondness is left of him. He still has that picture in his wallet, and Mista has a feeling that it won't be there for much longer.

His eyelashes brush against his cheek as he blinks, and looks up at Kujo with a solemn expression. He responds, just barely above a whisper.

“I'm sorry.”

“...To give an answer your question: yes. I think he deserved it.”

It's quiet for a solid two minutes, before Giorno speaks up in a slightly wavy voice.

“How do you...cope? With losing your friends.”

Kujo smiles a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and doesn't respond.

The conversation comes to an end in two ways: one, with Kujo's lack of response, and two, with a gunshot that cracks the air from a gun that isn't Mista's.

It's not a stand user that tries to kill Giorno, but a regular assassin with a regular gun. It's something they rarely deal with anymore, but the oversight cost them.

No. 6 kicks the bullet out of the way before it can hit its intended target of Giorno's head, landing squarely in his shoulder instead. Giorno hisses and leans forward, grasping at his wound. The sound of a gunshot has the other patrons screaming and running out of the restaurant, leaving it and the surrounding area mostly empty within minutes.

Giorno has Gold Experience out, ready to turn the bullet into muscle tissue, and then something in the atmosphere changes and Mista feels his skin prickle. The table they had just been sitting at has been flipped on its side; Kujo looms over Giorno, hand on his bicep, looking at the wound on his shoulder as Giorno sits down on the floor with the table as his cover. A pit forms in Mista's stomach—it had been so nauseatingly similar to how it had felt when time skipped.

He dwells on the feeling for too long, too distracted to realize that a large, buff, purple man is holding No. 6 between its thumb and index finger. Mista blanches as No. 6 kicks and screams, trying to get out.

Kujo shows it to Giorno. “Is this a stand? Is this what's causing this?”

Giorno looks at it in utter disbelief.

Kujo dives over to another table and kicks it over to use as cover just as another gunshot goes off, clipping his long overcoat. Mista grinds his teeth, then lets go of his rifle, making a mad dash down the fire escape. His heart thumps in his ears, legs sprinting as fast as he can down the street and into the restaurant.

Giorno takes on a look of sheer bafflement as he sees Mista running towards him, loading his revolver all the while.

“What—.”

Several bullets are shot towards Mista and all are casually kicked away by 1, 2, 5 or 7 and made into holes on nearby buildings. He dives down once he gets close enough to Giorno, and takes cover next to him, who looks at him with a mix of confusion and irritation.

“What are you—.”

Mista ignores what he's about to say and places his gun on the ground next to him. He puts both hands on the sides of Giorno's face, and pulls him in for a kiss. Giorno reflexively kisses back, but makes a confused sound in the back of his throat. Mista continues to ignore it, and after he breaks the kiss, he wraps his arms around Giorno tightly, squeezing him, as if confirming he's really still there.

Kujo stares at them. Mista ignores him the most.

“God, you're safe, okay.” He places one last kiss on Giorno's forehead, then lets go. He narrows his eyes and looks over at Kujo, who is still holding No. 6.

“Hey! Let go of my fucking stand!”

Kujo blinks, and stares at No. 6 with mild amusement, before what Mista assumes to be his stand lets it go.

Mista jerks his head and sends No. 6 off to find the gunman, but Kujo does the work for him by pointing up at pillar breaking up the railing on the second floor. Mista sees a shadow on the pillar behind it, and relocates No. 6 a little to the left of where he's standing, then shoots.

He hears a gurgled scream, labored breathing, and a thud—then no sounds follow.

“Is he dead?” He yells up towards No. 6.

“Yup! Got him right in the throat!”

Mista sighs, and slumps down against the table. He reaches for Giorno's hand, and squeezes it tightly. The adrenaline still hasn't worn off, and his whole body is shaking.

“When we get back, I'll give you guys some pepperoni. The good stuff, I promise.” No. 6 fades away and he hears all six pistols cheer in the back of his mind.

The restaurant is utterly deserted now save for himself, Giorno, and Kujo, with a few new bullet holes added to the decor. He turns to Giorno, still gripping his hand, and notices the blood running down his suit jacket.

“Hey, you haven't healed your shoulder yet.”

Giorno blinks, eyes wide.

“Oh. Right.”

Gold Experience is out, and the hole is closed in a second. He barely even reacts, and in fact seems more upset that his suit is ruined than anything else.

Mista rises to his feet, and helps Giorno up as well. He's a little unsteady, likely from the shock of being shot at, but Mista helps right him. He glances over to see Kujo, who's still sitting on the ground. He's not hurt, but by all accounts, he seems a bit exasperated by the whole ordeal.

He walks over to Kujo and offers him a hand to help him up; Kujo takes it, and Mista wheezes from helping up a man two times his size, nearly toppling over onto the ground from the effort.

“You didn't get hit, right?” Mista grimaces, rubbing his hand.

“I'm fine.” Kujo cocks his head slightly. “Who exactly are you.”

“Uh, Guido Mista.” He jabs his thumb towards Giorno. “I'm his Underboss.”

Kujo raises an eyebrow. Mista's face reddens under the scrutiny.

“...Right. I should be getting back to my hotel.” Kujo adjusts his hat, and looks over Mista's shoulder at Giorno. “We'll be in touch, Giorno Giovanna.”

Giorno jumps slightly, still a bit dazed, then nods. Kujo brushes past Mista, and heads towards a payphone across the street to call himself a cab.

As they wait for Giorno's car to pull back around, Mista heads back up to the apartment building roof and gathers up his weapons, placing them all back into the guitar case he brought them in. As he's coming back down the fire escape, he sees Giorno's chauffeur open the door to the Rolls Royce for him, and Giorno enters it.

Mista saddles up in his motorcycle, revs the engine, and follows it back.

***

Giorno stays quiet even as they get inside the palazzo, and Mista doesn't even bother trying to start a conversation. He follows Giorno up to their bedroom and lets him get changed, lets him wash his face, undo his hair, and watches silently as Giorno walks out onto the veranda.

He closes the door behind him. Mista stares at him through the paneled windows.

Something in him cracks.

He can't do this anymore.

Mista stomps towards the door to the veranda and throws it open. Giorno turns around to look at him in shock.

The sun lights him up from behind, bathing him in a golden hue. His loose hair brushes across his face in the breeze.

“Guido?”

“I don't know what to do.”

Giorno looks at him quizzically.

“I don't know how to say—I'm not,” Mista runs his hand down his face and sighs, then steels himself. “You can't—you can't do that again.” He's mindful of how he keeps the tone of his voice, trying to stay low and even. “The only reason there isn't a bullet lodged in your brain right now is because I was there. Don't ever do that again.”

“I know. And I can't thank you enough, Guido, but I can't talk about this right now.”

“Giorno.”

He takes Giorno's hands in his own.

Mista breathes in, breathes out, and then starts to talk.

“Listen. I don't know what happened in the past to you. It's something you obviously don't want to talk about and I'm not gonna press you on it—if you ever wanna tell me, that's fine, but you don't have to and I don't expect you to. I just gotta tell you that you don't have to do this all on your own. You shouldn't have to do this all on your own. You feel so far away from me sometimes, it's scary.”

“I know you wish Bucciarati was here. I do too, y'know? He was always better at shit like this; I hate wearing these suits, Giorno, it sucks so much. He would be so much better in this position than I would be. But it's up to me, now. It's my responsibility. And more than anything, I want to keep you safe, but you have to let me. You've always made me feel like I can do anything, now let me put that feeling to use.”

Mista squeezes his hands before he gets down on one knee, and kisses the ring finger on his right hand. He lets his lips linger before rising to his feet once more.

“...I'm not here for Bucciarati anymore. I'm here for you, Gio. I'll follow anywhere that you go, but please, let me walk beside you.”

Giorno looks at him with widened eyes and cheeks dusted pink. Mista squeezes his hands and smiles at him. The ocean waves crash around them, sunlight glimmering off the water.

Giorno's golden hair flutters about his face as he turns his gaze downwards.  

“...I remember making my own meals when I was two,” He murmurs, and Mista has to strain to hear him. “I learned how to do stitches by the time I was six because my step-dad...” He inhales sharply to cut himself off and lifts his head up to look at Mista with an emotion he rarely displays: uncertainty. “This...is entirely new territory for me, Guido. And I...I get scared sometimes.”

Giorno exhales sharply. The tension leaving his body is visible.

Mista pulls him into a hug, and Giorno winds his arms tightly around Mista's back, almost clingy.

“I'm just glad you finally said something.” Mista's voice is muffled in Giorno's hair, and he places a kiss against the top of his crown. “We can work this out. I'm...not great at this, either. But I don't want you to rely on just yourself from now on. Because you don't have to anymore.”

Giorno doesn't move or say anything for a bit, and Mista lets his words hang in the air. It's only several minutes later does he feel a small nod against his chest.

“...Okay.” Giorno pulls back, his hands sliding down to squeeze onto Mista's own once more. His voice is soft and tentative. Large blue eyes lock with Mista's own deep brown ones, and Giorno gives a small, genuine smile. “I can try. I want to try.”

Mista grins, and dips his head to catch Giorno's mouth in a kiss.

The sea salt lingers in the air as they stay on the veranda, watching the sun set. Mista keeps Giorno firmly in his arms. When the night air becomes too chilly to bear for any longer, Giorno takes him by the hand and leads him inside to lay on the bed. Throughout the night, they stay curled together in a warm embrace.

***

Things weren't always smooth.

Sometimes Mista had to insist more than he should have in order to get Giorno to crack. Sometimes Giorno would still take on more than necessary. Sometimes Mista would take long breaks outside of the palazzo because he was too overcome with frustration.

But things were improving. Things were better than they had been.

There was one day, one specific day, where Mista could tell the progress was being made—he would never be able to forget it.

He had woken up from a crick in his neck, his eyes adjusting to the soft blue hues of the room indicating the sun was starting to rise. Instinctively, he had looked towards the door to the veranda, but the curtains obscuring the windowed door had been closed.

Giorno had stayed, curled up against his chest, breathing softly, looking perfect even in his sleep.

Mista, with a grin on his face, had pushed back his hair and kissed his forehead, before wrapping an arm tighter around Giorno's waist and falling back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

[3d3nsr0s3-blog]

Jake T. Austin, Male, He/Him -——- Izaya Matias Pryce had been identified as a eighteen year-old resident with florakenisis/Ghost physiology. Their files indicated that they worked as a student and may have been closely linked with the heroes union (though he had connections with the underground as well). They had been known to be familial and easily controlled, and knew the deceased because of his public image.( 1amc3a10t, she/her, 20, PST)

Backstory:

Izaya was born in Guatemala to a pair of young parents who had just begun to understand how the adult world worked. His father had come to Guatemala from the east coast of America and met Izaya’s mother, they fell in love rather quickly and got married. What Izaya’s mother had failed to tell her husband was that she was a mutant, the man had openly expressed his hatred for the race and she feared that coming out may result in danger or the end of the relationship. The family was nothing but normal until Izaya began showing signs of a mutant ability at the age of four. It started out small with buds popping up in the dirt he rolled around in, or plants being brought back from wilting when he spoke softly to them. Knowing that this was something special he ran to his parents excitedly to share the news. His father lashed out. Taking pity on her only child his mother paid for two tickets to Diamond City, California and left the boy near the closest police station. Confused and unable to speak the countries native language Izaya shoved himself into the nooks and crannies of a nearby building and waited in fear until his mother would come back and rescue him. His mother never came, but after a long and restless night, a beat cop doing his daily patrols stumbled upon the child and took him to shelter.

It took him only two weeks to find a home in the loving arms of the bright-eyed beat cop and his two weary husbands. Although they all struggled to understand each other these fathers refused to give up and enrolled in both supplementary English courses and Spanish classes. It took Izaya a while to learn and he had to enroll in school a year later than his peers but once he began to understand, he began to thrive. At home on the outskirts of the city, they lived a quiet life in a secluded cottage with acres of supple land that Izaya almost immediately turned into a garden. After the initial excitement of watching the life bloom slowly quelled he was struck with a deep fear that his new family would throw him out just like the other, but their reaction was quite different, he began to pull away and cower when they ran to him with arms open wide but they didn’t seem angry, rather…they were excited. Izaya’s ability was heavily celebrated, two of his fathers were mutants and immediately began teaching him to control his powers, while the other quietly reminded him that abilities don’t make the person, personality and actions do.

At the age of six, a new Pryce entered the family, a toddler by the name of Zachariah. The first day together was spent staring each other down, the second-day Izaya decided this child was a demon. Years later Zachary became Izaya’s biggest fan and constant support system, although Izaya never stopped believing the kid was a demon the little devil did become his best friend.

At the age of fourteen, he approached his papa with a fake sort of confidence that oozed the fear of rejection and demanded to be included in the Heroes Guild. He knew he may be young but he was capable and was well aware that the control over his abilities were amazing. He was immediately rejected. Papa explained it wasn’t safe, and although he would make a wonderful hero when he was older this was not the time to dive headfirst into a dangerous career. So, he went to Papi and begged, but he said the same thing. In a huff, he approached his dad, who also said the same thing but in a bit more supportive manner. After a lot of thinking and days of watching Izaya mope around the house his father’s let him tag along with his Papa for one day. That day turned into years, and the public came to know him as the flower wielder Eden.

At the age of eighteen, he died. It was supposed to be a routine fight, nothing hard, nothing new. He was just…in the wrong place at the wrong time. He can still feel the piercing pain that rang through him when he was shot, the alien power that coursed through his body as he slowly turned to stare his killer in the eyes. It was an ally, it was a friend. He had collapsed to the concrete with a thud, hands pulling him onto someone’s lap, frantic talking he couldn’t understand but…none of it was his fathers’. Papa wasn't there today, he let Izaya go without him, that was a mistake. He desperately tried to reach out to someone who wasn’t there, grasping at memories of his life as they flooded his vision. As his breathing got harder and his body went limp he could hear the familiar whirl of news trucks, his last thought was a hope. A hope that his family wouldn’t find out from the news.

***

Papi - Draxton

Papa - Vincent

Dad - Theodore

Brother - Zachariah

Izaya had always been closest to his Papi despite him being an extreme helicopter parent. Vincent was a bit too aloof for Izaya’s tastes and Theodore was the one who was the most grounded. Though, he did, and still does, love them all very much.

D: *kicks open door*

D: Hey bitches, I’ve got the child you ordered. They only speak Spanish but Theo you’re fluent in it-

T: Wrong. I took 2 years in high school.

D: Vincent you’re fluent in it-

V: Russian. I’m fluent in Russian.

D: Well I’m fluent in it-

T/V: You’re Australian.

D: Fuck.

Papi- Plays the role of a detective but works in the underground manufacturing and distributing whatever is needed.

Papa- Hero in the Heroes Union.

Dad- Owns a bar and does bounty hunter work when needed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Random Headcanons:

-Living in Guatemala for the first four/five years of his life has caused him to speak in a somewhat heavy Guatemalan accent.  

-He enjoys music and it has a calming effect when he becomes anxious and/or worried. Surprisingly he is a wonderful singer and a decent dancer.

-He will hoard objects that he finds ‘pretty’ or ‘cute’, if he gives someone something from his collection that means that person is special.

-He’s slowly learning how to cook but he can bake fairly well, especially recipes that include lavender. He also knows how to make body butters and perfumes using flowers.

-He’s just a bit touch-starved and will hold on a little bit too long when it comes to hugs. For those that don’t understand what happened in his past, it’s kinda awkward.

-He loves animals and they happen to be the one thing that will always get him to smile.

-He’s naturally curious but doesn’t like asking questions. So he’ll follow people around and/or stare at individuals until he receives some suitable answer.

-He may cause arguments here and there but he hates when others get into fights.

-He has a fear of older men that stems back from the emotional abuse and abandonment caused by his father.

-His ‘hero name’ is Eden.

-He is rather perceptive of individuals feelings, though he doesn’t always act on that knowledge.

-He speaks with a slight lisp.

Connections:

Friendly Fire- It was an accident, they never meant it to go that way. Why in the hell would they ever want to kill a kid? This individual, from the heroes union, caused the end of Izaya’s life. They had been allies, worked closely together, but they were both in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Earthy Possessions- Izaya may have known them during his life or they may be complete strangers but the ghost has become particularly enthralled by their presence and enjoys being around them. Whether he’s invisible or fully present depends on

Casper the Friendly Ghost- This particular individual is mortified by even the slightest sight of Izaya. They hold a strong opinion that ghosts are things of fiction and should not be casually floating around their city. Whether they lash out at the specter for even daring to be real, or run away in a panic the moment they meet eyes is up to the writer.

Polter-guys, run- Izaya absolutely despises this person, but he’s not entirely sure why? Whenever he’s around this individual he is filled with disgust, hate, and anger. He has yet to lash out and become violent though he isn’t sure how long he can keep his temper in control.

[siriusist]

♠ ACE REPRESENTATION MASTERLIST ♠

Sherlock Holmes.

Jughead Jones [in the reboot solo comics -coughcoughthanksriverdale-]

Let’s face it. Mostly everyone’s favourite literary characters are asexuals, but when faced with most asexuals in real life, people tend to get...

Weird. 

 ‘Why don’t you like to go out?’

‘You just haven’t met the right guy.’

#WHYISITANYOFYOURBUSINESS

To be blunt, we lack the representation that other orientations have. For example,I’m twenty-six, and I didn’t have half of the resources/ representation growing up that is available today. Which is why this year, in my twenty-sixth year of life, I am proud to have experienced more asexual media/representation than I ever have before.

Which ALSO is why I knew I needed to make a list for my own health and myself to show that there IS positive representation out there, and show those aces younger than me (and maybe even older than me, if you’ve been struggling with your sexuality or lack thereof as long as I have) that we exist, and we are not simply ‘freaks’ to be judged and chided.

Which is why.

I am proud to present.

THE GIGANTIC HUGE UBER LIST OF ACE RESOURCES [trumpets]

This includes a list of historical asexual/demisexuals, young adult literature/ resource books, cute merchandise, asexual books currently being released in 2019, and additional resources. ♥

( P.S: I also labeled these if they feature any sort of intersectionality, such as POC protagonists, bisexuality/lesbianism, or any intersectional aspects to try to give people the biggest and broadest representation within the asexual field we can. 

I also tried to include the literature that had the most positive representations and dispelled as much of the ‘myths’ about being asexual as possible, and presenting us as regular people in a strong powerful light, who just happen to be asexual. Some of these include dispelling myths around ‘YOU JUST HAVE TO TRY IT,’ ‘YOU’RE NOT REALLY QUEER,’ ‘THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU,’ ‘YOU MUST HAVE EXPERIENCED ABUSE,’ ETC. Anything dealing with dispelling absolutes. For example, I was sexually abused when I was a child, but I now know that even though I could have issues with sexuality due to trauma, my asexuality/ demisexuality is completely separate from my past, and I am proud to come to that conclusion. I hope I can help others to come to that conclusion, too.)

Lastly, I also put my own comments in brackets besides copied book descriptions/ biographies if I had anything else to contribute; hopefully someone besides myself might find this helpful! ♥

Historical Asexuals/ Demisexuals:

Emily Brontë: Emily Brontë was a very private person and as such it’s impossible to be entirely certain of her sexual orientation. Some Brontë scholars believe she died a virgin, never having had physical relationships with men or women. However, most Brontë scholars think that the content of her novels would suggest she may have been asexual, but she was not aromantic.

J.M. Barrie: The man who wrote Peter Pan into existence, was reportedly asexual. His marriage was never consummated and ended in divorce when his wife cheated on him. Because of his relationship with his neighbor children, and the subject matter of his books, some speculated Barrie was prone to pedophilia. Those who knew him closely vehemently deny Barrie ever exhibited such behavior. Instead his lack of sexual relationships was more likely due to his asexuality. 

George Bernard Shaw: Renowned playwright George Bernard Shaw was a man far more interested in intellect than sex. He never consummated his marriage (also at the request of his wife, Charlotte Frances Payne-Townshend) and was a virgin until 29. Shaw told friends he appreciated the ability of sex to produce "a celestial flood of emotion and exaltation" but only as it compared to the "conscious intellectual activity" he strove for with his work.

Isaac Newton: Isaac Newton's supposed asexuality is based on his recorded behavior and lifestyle. He had strict religious views, never married, was obsessive in his scientific careers, and supposedly died a virgin. Whether he truly lacked sexual attraction or was simply too immersed in making massive scientific discoveries to have a sex life is unsure. 

T.E. Lawrence: Tragically, T.E. Lawrence – a man immortalized in the film Lawrence of Arabia – was sexually assaulted while held prisoner during The Great War. His lack of sexual and romantic relationships in life were mostly attributed to this trauma but some scholars argue he may have been asexual. He had no documented relationships with men or women. Most notably, since it was the turn of the 20th century, Lawrence was known to be non-judgmental of homosexuals. His personal orientation may have motivated his tolerance. 

Florence Nightingale: Interestingly, though "the Florence Nightingale effect" is a situation where a caregiver develops an attraction to the patient they are caring for, the effect's namesake, Florence Nightingale, was likely asexual. The famous nurse never married and instead chose to devote her life entirely to her work. She even refused a marriage proposal from a suitor who had been pursuing her for years. Nightingale rarely discussed her personal life and the term “asexual” was not widely used at the time, but asexual activists and scholars strongly suspect she lacked sexual interest.

Nikola Tesla: Nikola Tesla, the revolutionary engineer who was instrumental in the invention of electricity, also lived a life of celibacy typical of asexuals. He showed very little interest in sexual relationships throughout his life, preferring to focus on science. Many asexuals describe their lack of attraction as a blessing allowing them sharp focus. Once again, we have a person who could have been too busy (and brilliant) to focus on relationships, but who's asexuality likely allowed him to be busy (and brilliant). [Fun fact: I am actually related to ol’Nikola. Sometimes it’s nice to even think about someone in my family being asexual, because it makes me feel like we’d both be able to get along together when we get fixed in our little studies, research, and schemes ♥]

Frederic Chopin: Famed composer and pianist Frederic Chopin is supposed to also have been asexual. While he lived with writer George Sand, she noted in her biography that their connection was affectionate without being sexual. She described their affair as “eight years of maternal devotion," also noting, “He seemed to despise the courser side of human nature and...to fear to soil our love by further ecstasy.”Whether Chopin was uninterested in sex, or had reservations about consummating the relationship for other reasons, is unclear. Many scholars believe the famed pianist lacked sexual desire altogether.

John Ruskin: Victorian art critic John Ruskin was known to be particularly uninterested in sex. Though Ruskin was once married, he reportedly showed no interest in getting physical with his wife. Typical of other asexuals on this list, his marriage ended having never been consummated.

Cute Pins/ T-shirts/ Merch Representation:

Ace and Anxious Mug

Asexual Hearts Mug

Ace and Anxious Sweatshirt

Netflix and Actually Chilling Sweatshirt

World’s Okayest Grey Sexual Baseball Shirt

Ace Illuminati Pin 

Asexual Flag Pin

Asexual Pride Flag Pin

Asexuality ‘Nope’ T-Shirt

‘Space Ace’ Astronaut Pin

Asexual ‘I Am Valid’ Heart Sticker

LGBTA+ GameBoy Sticker

‘I Put the A in the LGBTA’ Shirt

Young Adult Fiction/ Books about Asexuality:

Let's Talk About Love by Claire Kann: Alice's last girlfriend, Margo, ended things when Alice confessed she's asexual. Now Alice is sure she's done with dating... and then she meets Takumi. She can't stop thinking about him or the rom-com-grade romance feelings she did not ask for. When her blissful summer takes an unexpected turn and Takumi becomes her knight with a shiny library-employee badge, Alice has to decide if she's willing to risk their friendship for a love that might not be reciprocated-- or understood. [A bisexual POC protagonist; adorable fluffy, easy and sweet read].

All Out: The No-longer-secret Stories of Queer Teens Throughout the Ages: Take a journey through time and genres and discover a past where queer figures live, love, and shape the world around them. Seventeen of the best young adult authors across the queer spectrum have come together to create a collection of beautifully written diverse historical fiction for teens. [This features several different types of queer stories, from transexual freedom fighters, but also a very sweet asexual love story set in a seventies roller rink with a POC protagonist].

The Pride Guide: A Guide to Sexual and Social Health for LGBTQ Youth by Jo Lanford: Jo Langford offers a complete guide to sexual and social development, safety, and health for LGBTQ youth and those who love and support them. Written from a practical perspective, the author explores the realities of teen sexuality, particularly that of trans teens, and provides guidance and understanding for parents and kids alike. [Although this is a little rudimentary, I found it a great resource even in my twenties for someone coming out, or to slowly but carefully come out to those who may be uncomfortable or not understand asexuality, or not see it as a valid sexuality or lack thereof].

Tash Hearts Tolstoy by Katie Ormsbee: Natasha 'Tash' Zelenka has found herself and her amateur web series plucked from obscurity and thrust in the limelight. And who wouldn't want fame and fortune? But along with the 40,000 new subscribers, the gushing tweets, and flashing Tumblr gifs, comes the pressure to deliver the best web series ever. As Tash struggles to combat the critics and her own doubts, she finds herself butting heads with her family and friends - the ones that helped make her show, Unhappy Families (a modern adaption of Anna Karenina, written by Tash's eternal love Leo Tolstoy), what it is today. And when Unhappy Families is nominated for a prestigious award, Tash's confusing cyber-flirtation with an Internet celeb suddenly has the potential to become something IRL if she can figure out how to tell him that she's a romantic asexual. But her new relationship creates tension with her friend Paul since he thought Tash wasn't interested in relationships ever. All Tash wants to think about is the upcoming award ceremony in Orlando, even though she'll have to face all the friends she steamrolled to get there. But isn't that just the price you pay for success?

Every Heart a Doorway by Seanan McGuire: The story is set in a boarding school for teenagers who have passed through "doorways" into fantasy worlds only to be evicted back into the real world. It serves as something of a recovery center for boarders who find they no longer fit in, either in the "real" world or their own uncomprehending families. For a fortunate few it is just a way station until they can find their ways back to the worlds they do fit into; for others, it's the least bleak choice in what may be a life-long exile. This unhappy ending for the students takes a terrifying turn when some of their number start turning up dead. A small group joins together in an attempt to expose the person committing these murders before it is too late to save the school, or even themselves.

The Invisible Orientation: An Introduction to Asexuality by Julie Sondra Decker: What if you weren’t sexually attracted to anyone?A growing number of people are identifying as asexual. They aren’t sexually attracted to anyone, and they consider it a sexual orientation—like gay, straight, or bisexual.Asexuality is the invisible orientation. Most people believe that “everyone” wants sex, that “everyone” understands what it means to be attracted to other people, and that “everyone” wants to date and mate. But that’s where asexual people are left out—they don’t find other people sexually attractive, and if and when they say so, they are very rarely treated as though that’s okay.When an asexual person comes out, alarming reactions regularly follow; loved ones fear that an asexual person is sick, or psychologically warped, or suffering from abuse. Critics confront asexual people with accusations of following a fad, hiding homosexuality, or making excuses for romantic failures. And all of this contributes to a discouraging master narrative: there is no such thing as “asexual.” Being an asexual person is a lie or an illness, and it needs to be fixed.In The Invisible Orientation, Julie Sondra Decker outlines what asexuality is, counters misconceptions, provides resources, and puts asexual people’s experiences in context as they move through a very sexualized world. It includes information for asexual people to help understand their orientation and what it means for their relationships, as well as tips and facts for those who want to understand their asexual friends and loved ones [A good beginning place to start if you’re considering your asexuality. Also provides reassurances about the most common stereotypes concerning asexuality].

Young Adult Fiction/ Books about Asexuality Coming Out in 2019:

Switchback by Danika Stone: Vale loves to hike, but kind of hates her classmates. Ash is okay with his classmates, but kind of hates the outdoors. So, needless to say they are both fairly certain that the overnight nature hike with their PE class is going to be a hellish experience. But when they get separated from the group during a storm, they have worse things to worry about than bullies and blisters.Lost in the Canadian wilderness with limited supplies, caught in dangerous weather conditions, and surrounded by deadly wildlife, it's going to take every bit of strength, skill, and luck they can muster to survive.

Not Your Backup (Sidekick Squad #3) by C.B. Lee: Emma Robledo has a few more responsibilities that the usual high school senior, but then again, she and her friends have left school to lead a fractured Resistance movement against a corrupt Heroes League of Heroes. Emma is the only member of a supercharged team without powers, and she isn't always taken seriously. A natural leader, Emma is determined to win this battle, and when that's done, get back to school. As the Resistance moves to challenge the League, Emma realizes where her place is in this fight: at the front. [This is a third in a series, but the main character has recently come out as asexual at the end of the last book].

If It Makes You Happy by Claire Kann: Winnie is living her best fat girl life and is on her way to her favorite place—Misty Haven and her granny’s diner, Goldeen’s. With her family and ungirlfriend at her side, she has everything she needs for one last perfect summer before starting college in the fall.…until she becomes Misty Haven’s Summer Queen.Newly crowned, Winnie is forced to take center stage at a never-ending list of community royal engagements. Almost immediately, she discovers that she’s deathly afraid of it all: the spotlight, the obligations, and the way her Summer King wears his heart, humor, and honesty on his sleeve.To salvage her summer Winnie must conquer her fears, defy expectations, and be the best Winnie she knows she can be—regardless of what anyone else thinks of her. [Another POC protagonist and promises to be a cute summer read in the vein of Gilmore Girls. Claire Kann’s first book was the adorable ‘Lets Talk About Love’ which reads as an asexual rom-com. This also promises to be absolutely precious.].

Immoral Code by Lillian Clark: Ocean's 8 meets The Breakfast Club in this fast-paced, multi-perspective story about five teens determined to hack into one billionaire absentee father's company to steal tuition money.For Nari, aka Narioka Diane, aka hacker digital alter ego "d0l0s," it's college and then a career at "one of the big ones," like Google or Apple. Keagan, her sweet, sensitive boyfriend, is happy to follow her wherever she may lead. Reese is an ace/aro visual artist with plans to travel the world. Santiago is off to Stanford on a diving scholarship, with very real Olympic hopes. And Bellamy? Physics genius Bellamy is admitted to MIT--but the student loan she'd been counting on is denied when it turns out her estranged father--one Robert Foster--is loaded.  Nari isn't about to let her friend's dreams be squashed by a deadbeat billionaire, so she hatches a plan to steal just enough from Foster to allow Bellamy to achieve her goals. 

The Last Eight by Laura Pohl: Extinction was just the beginning in this thrilling, post-apocalyptic debut, perfect for fans of The 5th Wave series. Clover Martinez has always been a survivor, which is the reason she isn't among the dead when aliens invade and destroy Earth as she knows it.Clover is convinced she's the only one left until she hears a voice on the radio urging her to go to the former Area 51. When she arrives, she's greeted by a band of misfits who call themselves The Last Teenagers on Earth.Only they aren't the ragtag group of heroes Clover was expecting. The seven strangers seem more interested in pretending the world didn't end than fighting back, and Clover starts to wonder if she was better off alone. But when she finds a hidden spaceship within the walls of the compound, she doesn't know what to believe...or who to trust. [I’ve read there is also aromantic representation in this book too, so helpful for the Aros out there as well ♥]

LGBTA+ Comics with Possible Asexual Representation/ Influence:

Lumberjanes: At Miss Qiunzella Thiskwin Penniquiqul Thistle Crumpet’s Camp for Hardcore Lady Types, things are not what they seem. Three-eyed foxes. Secret caves. Anagrams. Luckily, Jo, April, Mal, Molly, and Ripley are five rad, butt-kicking best pals determined to have an awesome summer together…and they’re not gonna let a magical quest or an array of supernatural critters get in their way! [I LOVE THESE COMICS SO MUCH I SWEAR THEY’RE SO DAMN CUTE ♥]

The Backstagers: When Jory transfers to the private, all-boys school St. Genesius, he figures joining the stage crew would involve a lot of just fetching props and getting splinters. To his pleasant surprise, he discovers there’s a door backstage that leads to different worlds, and all of the stagehands know about it!All the world’s a stage…but what happens behind the curtain is pure magic!

Check, Please!: Check, Please! is written and drawn by Ngozi Ukazu. Eric Bittle—former Georgia junior figure skating champion, vlogger extraordinaire, and amateur pâtissier—is starting his freshman year playing hockey at the prestigious Samwell University in Samwell, Massachusetts. And it’s basically nothing like co-ed club hockey back in the South. For one? There’s checking.It’s a story about hockey and friendship and bros and trying to find yourself during the best 4 years of your life. [You can also read the cartoons online; it’s actually started by Tumblrite/ Yale Grad who is positively adorbs and I follow her on Instagram and I’m sort of obsessed with her/ it’s about hockey. CANADAAAAAAAA [x]]

And Lastly, Extra Online Resources For Asexuality:

UCLA LGBT Campus Resource Center: Asexuality

The Trevor Project on Asexuality

Campus Pride: Asexuality

The Canadian Centre for Gender Diversity and Awareness

Asexuality needs to be a recognized as its own, unique sexual orientation, Canadian experts say

Asexuality.org

Hopefully this helps! ♥♥♥