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ladamedusoif · 10 months

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Visiting - Chapter Four: Save Me

(Moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)

Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)

Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.

Chapter summary: It's the morning after the night before, as the guests at Evan's Halloween party try to process his (alarmingly strong) cocktails - and Lydia tries to understand what her brain and body are trying to tell her about her feelings towards Ben.

Word Count: 3k

Rating: Explicit (18+) - from the start.

Content (chapter specific): SMUT (oral sex, f receiving; fingering); Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (she is 41, about to turn 42, and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; reference to relationship breakdown.

A/N: This chapter is shorter than usual - originally chapters 3 and 4 were going to be a single chapter but it makes more sense to separate them. Further A/Ns at the end, to avoid spoilers.

I'm not kidding when I say this is straight into smut.

The title of the chapter is inspired by Aimee Mann's song Save Me, which I've thought of as a very Lydia-coded song for a while:

See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.

Thanks, as ever, to @lunapascal and @julesonrecord for being so supportive and screaming along about these Beloved Dorky Idiots.

Taglist: @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal, @khindahra

“I know you have another one in you, baby. For me?”

You don’t know how many times you’ve come. All you know is the wet heat pooling between your legs, the throbbing of your clit, and the tongue licking lightly at your soaking folds.

In the distance, there’s a furious sound, repeated over and over.

“I can’t…”

He slips a long, thick finger into you, then another, sending your hips thrusting from the bed. “It’s okay, baby, come on now.”

His voice is so reassuring and calm, as if he wasn’t completely taking you apart for the umpteenth time.

The noise continues, becoming rhythmic and more irritated. Even with this frustrating soundtrack, you can feel yourself becoming more and more aroused.

“That’s it. That’s it, Lyddie.”

At the sound of the nickname you steal a glance downwards. His dark eyes twinkle as he winks at you, and you let out a gasping cry as your body jerks upright and your eyes snap wide open.

Daylight.

Your head is pounding and the sunlight hurts your eyes as you turn, squinting, to look at the time on your sunrise alarm clock.

There’s a needy ache between your legs. You peek down the bed, part of you half-expecting to see him there. It had all been so fucking vivid, so real. You gently put your hand between your legs, immediately feeling a soaking wetness.

As your brain starts to wake up properly, you pause and fall back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell was going on in your unconscious mind.

The noise that had provided the rhythmic soundtrack to your somnolent sexual scenario has resumed. You realise with a jolt that it’s the buzzer from your intercom, and leap out of bed.

Ani’s scowling face peers at you through the camera. Their grey morning suit has been replaced by a pair of gym leggings and their enormous tie-dye hoodie, and they’re holding two huge paper bags from McDonald’s.

They’re still wearing the tiny Dracula tinted spectacles.

“I’m so sorry! I’m letting you in now, door’s open!”

You’ve hauled on a pair of lounge pants and a soft, ancient sweatshirt by the time Ani has made their way up the stairs and into your apartment. Your rumination over the meaning of your dream would have to wait, and you push the impossibly strong visual image of those brown eyes looking up at you from between your thighs out of your mind.

“Where the fuck were you? I thought something had happened to you. You weren’t picking up your phone, you weren’t answering the door, and I’m fucking so hungover oh my god.”

“I was asleep. You want some coffee or something? What’s in the bags?”

Ani nods towards your tiny kitchen, and you lead the way. “I don’t normally do this, Lyd, but when I feel this bad the only solution is to eat too much McDonald’s breakfast and then regret it.” They plop the two big bags of food onto your counter. “I couldn’t remember if you were a veggie or not so I ordered two of every McMuffin variation.”

You hug them gratefully. “You’re a star, Ani. My body is screaming for this.”

That’s not the only thing your body was screaming for this morning.

No. Nope. Push it away.

You put on a pot of coffee (there are two coffees with the breakfast order, but you suspect you’ll need much more) and grab some plates and paper towels. Ani unpacks the food, plucking a hash brown out of the bag and eating it as they do so.

“How did you get this, by the way? Surely you aren’t in a fit state to drive?”

Ani shakes their head and swallows a bite of fried potato. “McDelivery. Walked over, ordered it on the way, got it for here. Come on, girl, I need to sit on your sofa and let the carbs heal me.”

You carry the food the short distance to the living area and settle in, handing Ani a spare blanket as you wrap your crocheted granny throw around you. Then you remember last night.

“Where’s Cass?!”

Ani licks a glob of tomato ketchup from their finger. “Had to head back early to the city. We got to hold each other’s hair while throwing up this morning though, it was pretty special.”

You glance down at the egg and cheese McMuffin you’ve unwrapped, deciding to pause before they resume their story.

“She’s really sweet, though. And funny. And so, so fucking hot. That mouth! Jesus Christ. Sorry if that was TMI.”

You shift slightly, feeling yourself heating up, and smile over at your friend. “So you’ll see each other again?”

Ani shrugs, looking a little awkward. “Yeah, I mean…it’s a distance. But - yeah. I’d like to.” They nod to themselves. “Even if it’s just a hooking up thing. For now. We’ll see.”

For a moment you consider telling Ani about your dream. You decide to wait.

They sip from their paper cup of coffee. “You hear anything from Ben?”

Your voice is a little too high, too casual, but in their hungover state Ani doesn’t seem to notice.

“No, don’t think so? Should I have done?”

Ani reaches for another hash brown. “Nah, that’s not what I mean, it’s just cos he’s probably feeling it too this morning, and you were together pretty much all night and all… so I thought maybe he’d messaged you to check in.”

“I haven’t actually looked at my phone yet.” You get off the couch and go to retrieve it from your room.

“No shit, Sherlock. Ignore the ten missed calls from me.”

“Hey, Lydia?”

Ben stands by the back door of Evan’s car, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted as he looks at you. The streetlight above is reflected in his glasses.

“Yes, Detective?”

He smiles and walks up to you. “Let me walk you to the door of the building, okay?” You start walking in step.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s right there.”

“Yeah, I know, but…what if the Zodiac’s around?” He raises his eyebrows over the frame of his glasses and you giggle quietly, still feeling the effects of the Spooky Margs somewhat as you reach the front door of the apartment block and key in your code.

He waits until you’re safely inside and about to close the door.

“Thanks for making sure I got home safe, Detective. Message me to say you got home, okay? And thank you for saving me earlier.”

“Saving you?”

“From the fall? You got me just in time.” He casts his eyes to the ground for a moment before looking up and smiling.

“Any time. Say the word, and I’ve got you. G’night, Lyddie.”

BEN: sdlkhgiudflahlw!jkdh (1.30am)

BEN: what (1.50am)

BEN: so zzzzzzzzz right now sdfdkg 😴 (2.00am)

BEN: I’m so sorry, Lydia! Was trying to message you to say I got in okay and I was so tired and sleepy*. I’m so sorry, this is so embarrassing. *tired and drunk on Spooky Margs (8:45am)

BEN: Hope you aren’t feeling too bad this morning (8:55am)

BEN: Me right now (9:00am)

He’s sent you a gif of Cameron Frye in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, tucked up in bed and saying “I’m dying”.

You giggle as you walk back into the living room, holding your phone. It’s a relief that you are able to communicate as normal with the real man, as opposed to whatever fictional avatar your sleeping brain cooked up.

LYDIA: I’m on my way over to borrow your dad’s fancy car!! (I’m not. I’m in no fit state. May never process those Spooky Margs. Welp.)

LYDIA: Dracula just showed up and I don’t know how they haven’t crumbled to dust in direct sunlight.

BEN: *consults Bram Stoker* No, he’s got nothing on that scenario.

LYDIA: They’ve come equipped with McMuffins. Stoker didn’t count on that. Anyway, drink all the water! Have some coffee! But mostly water. 😊

“He’s alive, I’m guessing.” Ani has put back on the tiny dark glasses and is curled up in a corner of the couch.

You hold out your phone with the gif. “Sent me this at 9am. Poor Ben.”

Ani rolls their eyes. “Poor Ben?? He’s not the only one.” They reach for their coffee. “Though I think he must have crossed the line from ‘merry and tired’ into ‘praying for the sweet release of death’ after we dropped you off last night. He was fine when you were there and then he was all quiet and leaning against the window and shit. I think Evan was afraid he was gonna hurl in the back seat of his car.”

“I know you have another one in you, baby. For me?”

The heat surges in you, hangover or no hangover. You push the memory of your dream away again. You’re no Freudian, but you read enough “what does my dream mean” magazine articles as a teenager to know that dreams are often symbolic, not literal.

A sex dream does not mean you want to have sex with someone, for example.

You rationalise it quickly in your brain. It's been a while since you've had the kind of comfortable, safe physical closeness you had with Ben last night. He was obviously on your mind. Makes sense that he might turn up in a random situation in your unconscious.

And it wasn't like you hadn't had the odd, harmless, platonic crush on friends in the past. Right? All good.

Ani looks at their phone and looks over at you. “Evan says hi. Wants to know if you’re okay. Said you were chatting shit about moustaches or something to Poor Hungover Benjamin last night.” They cackle to themselves.

“The fuck? I don’t remember doing that. What does he mean?”

Ani looks up and proceeds to deftly tap out a reply to Evan. The response is immediate. “I have no idea what he’s on about.”

You glare, head thumping. “Just fucking tell me.”

“He says: ‘Just tell her In The Cut, the female gaze, moustaches.’” “What?” And the memories start to clear through the haze. “That’s not…oh FUCK.”

After the lipsync, Ani and Cass had disappeared. You had gratefully moved from the arm of the couch to stretch out at one end. Ben had turned his body to face you from the other end, resting his legs on the sofa.

“Holy shit, are those Halloween socks?”

Having discarded his black lace-ups, the full extent of the pattern became clear: little white ghosts dotted across a black background, interspersed with grinning pumpkins and skeletons.

Ben blushed a little, but wriggled his toes contentedly. “They’re thematic! I like it. I like a good thematic sock.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back into the sofa, still buzzed from the cocktails. “I am pretty sure those aren’t canonical for the costume, cute and all as they are.”

He pulled an “I am so affronted” face, feigning total indignation. “You don’t know. Maybe you just haven’t watched Zodiac closely enough, Lyddie.”

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. “Well, I’ll just have to watch it again, won’t I? ‘M gonna check the director’s cut and everything.”

He couldn’t sustain the playacting and chuckled, deep and warm. “Should actually watch that movie again. ‘S so fucking good.”

You nodded along, eyes closed and humming in agreement. “Mmmhmm. Though, let’s be real,” you said, shifting yourself forward slightly, “the best cop Ruffalo? In The Cut.” You sat back against the sofa again. “So, so hot.”

Ben exhaled in agreement. “So hot. Whew.”

It was at this point that, in hindsight, your mouth was in gear before your brain was properly engaged.

“‘S like, perfect example of the erotic female gaze, right? But also about the vulnerability of the women?”

You always did struggle to stop talking when you were off on one about cinema. Or books. Or art. Or specific episodes of 30 Rock. Or anything you were passionate about.

Throw in a couple of Spooky Margs, and your mouth was going to run and run.

You raised an eyebrow and looked dreamily into the middle distance.

“And then there’s the ’tache.” You sighed. “Swear to god, that movie gave me a ‘dodgy cop with moustache’ thing. Whewww, he could get it. So hot. And kind of a form of feminist praxis.”

“Hot praxis,” Ben echoed.

Other than that, his only response was to distractedly start running a finger over the hair on his upper lip, a pensive look on his face, as if he was pondering a very deep question.

You hadn’t realised Evan and David were watching and listening attentively from an armchair, a couple of feet away.

You sit with your head in your hands as Ani pats you on the back with one hand, another McMuffin in their other.

“I honestly don’t know why you’re so stressed about this. It’s not like you said ‘y’know what Benjamin, I love your moustache and you could get it’. You were specifically referring to a movie and an actor. You weren’t even saying ‘I like all fictional moustachioed cops.’”

You moan into your hand as the cringe and hungover paranoia threaten to break you.

“It’s just so mortifying. First I nearly fall on the goddamn floor, then I start talking shit at him about cops with moustaches and hot feminist praxis and - why am I fucking like this?”

Ani chews thoughtfully. “Why are any of us like this?” They sip their (second) cup of coffee. “He’s not wrong, though, it would be hot praxis.”

It would probably feel less embarrassing if you hadn’t woken up thinking about…that. The sensation. The feeling of his (imaginary) mouth on you. The look in his (imaginary) eyes. The smile.

You pick up your phone and grimace. “Should I message him and explain?”

Ani looks horrified. “And explain what, exactly? I’m sorry I told you I thought Mark Ruffalo was hot with a moustache in In The Cut, and I’m worried you think I’m weird because you also have a moustache and I wasn’t being weird? Jesus, Lyd, be real.” They pause, and ask quietly: “You weren’t, like, actually trying to…suggest…?”

Their meaning hits you and your jaw drops. “No, I obviously wasn’t suggesting anything!”

‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks’, pipes up your inner Queen Gertrude.

Ani helps you clean up and then heads back home for a long bath. Cass has been sending them messages all morning, and Ani’s little smile each time they get one makes you very happy indeed.

Not too far from your place, Evan and David are doing a final tidy up while their last few guests get ready to go for brunch.

“Is it wrong that I feel smug about not being hungover?” Evan asks, putting away the bottles of tequila and crème de menthe.

David chuckles, stacking plates in the dishwasher. “I hope the others aren’t too sick, though.” He closes the door of the appliance and sets the cycle going. “I meant to say, I didn’t know Barrow was so strict about discretion and staff relationships.”

Evan turns to look at him, expression confused, running a hand through his bright blue locks. “Discretion? Are you talking about us, or…?”

“No, I mean - I only realised after the fact that they didn’t go home together, and I wondered if that was some weird rule.” He closes his eyes and tries to recall names. “The scientist and the detective… Lydia and Ben?”

Evan pauses and then doubles over, laughing. “Oh, babe, no. They’re not together.” He continues wiping down the countertop. “They’re just close, he was the first person she met here, they’re total nerds together, they can get the nerding out without disrupting the rest of us, it’s just a whole vibe.” He motions with his hand, as if brushing the notion away.

David continues to look at him, arching an eyebrow. “Maybe. I guess everyone’s got friendships like that, huh. It was just…” He inhales. “There was just something. But then maybe I’m overthinking it.”

Evan nods, patting David’s arm. “I think you might be. Just because we're coupled up doesn’t mean everyone else is - or wants to be.”

David smiles and reaches for Evan’s hand, twining their fingers together. “Oh, so it’s ‘coupled up now’? Not just a ‘thing’?”

Evan plants a soft kiss on David’s mouth, and grins, before returning to the clean-up operation. David looks pensive.

“I don’t want to be crude about your colleagues, but - are you absolutely sure they aren’t even fucking?”

“Ex-cuse me?” Evan wheels around, horrified. “Yes, I am sure. Babe, if that was happening I would fucking know.”

Your Sunday plans primarily involve putting on some laundry, and then napping in front of a comfort movie, accompanied by a huge bottle of water and strong, hot, sweet tea served in your biggest mug. And some cookies, of course.

“I’m allowed, I’m hungover,” you say out loud, to no one in particular.

By late afternoon, the laundry is done and haphazardly folded - anything neater was too taxing for your hungover brain to process. Wrapped up in your crochet blanket, you are starting to doze off in front of The Muppets when you notice your phone light up.

BEN: Was ‘Hurdy-Gurdy Man’ always this sinister or is it just because of this movie?

He’s included a photograph of what you presume is his TV, and you recognise one of the early scenes in Zodiac.

LYDIA: I’m gonna go with both? But I definitely didn’t associate it with serial killing before the film. Thanks Fincher!

Later, another picture: this time, Mark Ruffalo as Dave Tosche, complete with shoulder holsters.

BEN: Who the hell is this guy??

LYDIA: A really bad impersonator.

BEN: His hair is a lot better than mine though.

You pause as you consider your reply.

LYDIA: Hmmm

BEN: Hmmm?

LYDIA: It’s…of its time. A little heavy for my liking. Don’t sell yourself short.

BEN:

LYDIA: Whoa. Uncanny.

The little dots indicating that Ben is composing a message flash intermittently. Eventually, you think he’s decided not to reply, and snuggle back into your blanket.

The screen lights again.

BEN: Maybe you're right about not selling myself too short.

BEN: I mean, he doesn’t even have a moustache. 😉

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)

Further A/N: I don't think there's a need for as many explanations or annotations on this chapter, but for reasons, I should probably provide some evidence of what Lydia's thinking of when she refers to the morally-dodgy, moustachioed cop (Det. Giovanni Malloy) played by Mark Ruffalo in Jane Campion's In The Cut (2003).

(What do you mean, I think you have a type?)

#visiting fic #visiting masterlist #mr ben snl #professor ben x OFC #mr ben #professor!ben x ofc #pedro pascal character fanfic #professor!ben #mr ben x ofc #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #Spotify

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yuikomorii · 2 years

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Hello there, I would like to ask you something.

Why is the Sakamaki family your least favourite if your favourite Diaboy is a Sakamaki?

// You kinda answered your own question, Anon. :”)

The reason why I don’t like the Sakamaki family is ✨Ayato✨ or the way he’s treated there, to be more precise.

Ayato is without a doubt the most unfairly treated member of that family, even Kanato is more loved than him, although he’s supposed to be the one nobody understands.

No one ever thinks about what he had to go through, despite the fact that his past was extremely painful. It didn't leave "scars" like Laito's, but pretty reminder that Ayato was the most tortured Diaboy in the entire franchise, given that the lake scene was only one of many near-death experiences Cordelia forced him to go through, and he was also very emotionally and mentally abused for centuries. But does anyone really care? Apparently not.

Either his brothers are incredibly ignorant, or Rejet simply does not know how to write trauma. Only because Ayato appears energetic and unbothered does not mean that he is without inner struggles or insecurities. They pretend that in order to be considered traumatized, you must hate yourself or be depressed, which is a very wrong mindset. I also dislike how many characters, particularly Laito, find Ayato's life ideal to the point of envying him, despite the fact that being in Ayato's shoes would be a terrible fate.

Now, let’s get into more serious stuff. Ayato may not be a completely innocent character, but he would never betray anyone or project his insecurities onto them.

If you ever feel pathetic, read this YOUNGBLOOD chapter, where Shu and Subaru both backstab Ayato and use him as bait while he is being beaten up by ghouls to help his brothers find out more information. The fact that they casually talked about betraying Ayato makes it even worse, and I can't understand how people here are excusing their behavior with "They were just children." Being a child is not an excuse to be a jerk and ruin someone's life. Ayato wouldn't have been cursed if they hadn't left him there.

This really dark secret has been confirmed in Laito's LE route, and while I love Laito, this literally makes him far more toxic than he was before. So, basically, Laito wanted to kill Ayato when he was younger. It would have liberated Ayato from Cordelia's abuse, but he also has a desire to live, and taking that away from him would be evil. Again, I've seen people justifying it and they were all like "Poor Laito..." . He had his reasons but what he wanted to do is still very wrong, Ayato did nothing wrong to him.

Reiji is also really mean towards Ayato, plus was the source of Ayato's breakdowns in LE, but I don't have high expectations from Reiji because, like Ruki, he isn't sugarcoated and he talks ill about everyone. I can't believe I'm about to say this, but Kanato is Ayato's brother who has hurt him the least; they insult each other, but he hasn't done anything cruel to him for no reason (not counting bad endings).

And now people will probably come to me and say that the Sakamakis do care for each other, but their "love" for one another is phony and forced to me.I'm not including the Tokutens, where they appear to be having a good time together, because those aren't 100% accurate after all. I honestly don't care if they're family-oriented in other routes; if they can't be like that in the most canon route, with a guy who's almost always supportive of them and apologizes if he ever does them anything wrong, they're no longer valid to me and the best ending for Ayato would be to leave that household as soon as possible.

Bonus— Here we have two DL characters able to stand up for themselves and for others, who are never afraid to help someone but still get mistreated, while the fandom keeps mischaracterizing them:

#(I had to include Yui there)#(because the moment she makes a mistake everybody hates her)#(I know Ayato is not a saint but at least he did less problematic stuff than his brothers)#(and it’s so sad how this fandom portrays him the worst of them all when he’s literally not)#(some people really can’t think outside the box and it shows)

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cozza-frenzy · 1 year

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Fanfic: Anything Not Saved

This job will chew you up and spit you out, if you’re not careful. OKAY, HERE GOES NOTHING. Hello Stanley Parable fandom! You might have seen me before, as I’ve been lurking around as The Phantom Pen (and one shy Anon) for the best part of a week now! Soooo I wasn’t planning on ‘taking off the mask’ so soon - I have absolutely terrible social anxiety, but what can I say? Y’all are a bunch of amazing, talented folks, and @chronicsheepdrawing‘s style - incorporating one of my all-time favorite aesthetics - has well and truly had my heart ever since I first laid eyes on it. As has their Drinky Bird Narrator - which brings us to this. I wrote a sort of horror-comedy thing, based on their Narrator, so I would recommend checking out their art so the whole story makes more sense. Things get existential, angsty, and more than a little bit weird when it comes to the format, but there’s a cute fluffy Stanley/Narrator ending if you’re willing to stick it out, which could be read as romantic or queerplatonic. I find this take on the Narrator all too relatable, as you’ll probably see. Poor guy. So here’s a list of everything I could think of making a content warning for. I might post this on AO3 later, but you guys get first dibs. I just hope tumblr doesn’t break my formatting somehow. CONTENT WARNINGS: Self-Hatred, Body Dysphoria (Not Gender Related), Body Horror, Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, Existential Dread, Emotional Breakdown, Memory Loss, Panic Attack, Autistic Sensory Overload/Over-stimulation, Repeating Words Enjoy??

And, and then he said, hehe… and THEN he said - this job will chew you up and spit you out, if you’re not careful! You know, like a piece of chewing gum! I couldn’t believe it, I really couldn’t! Oh, we laughed so heartily! It really was the most wonderful sound, bouncing off the walls of the bathroom again and again like we were standing in, oh I don’t know, some kind of echo chamber? But the point is, you see - the point is, he finished cleaning his shoes in the sink, and he held open the door for me, and then we stepped through the door to go back to- Wait, where are you going? I didn’t get to finish my-oh! Oh of course, I… I am sorry, I just got… oh, well, back to the daily grind, am I right? You know, haha, grind! Like the coffee you’re holding! I mean of course the stuff here is just that instant stuff, it always is, but it’s hard to complain when- And you’re already walking away… oh well… Some other time, perhaps… —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This is the story, of a man named ▇▇▇▇▇▇. ▇▇▇▇▇▇ worked in a big building, where he was employee number 436. Employee 436’s job was simple. He sat at a desk, designated number 436, and confirmed that the other employees were pushing the right buttons, for the right amount of time, in the right order. This is what Employee Number 436 did every day, of every month, of every year. And although others may have considered it soul-rending, he relished the brief moments of awkward small-talk he shared with his co-workers. Such as [ERROR: DATABASE ENTRY INVALID], who always [DATA CORRUPTED] whenever they [FILE NOT FOUND]. And Employee #427, who worked in a small office close to his. Who never said very much, but always seemed to want to listen to whatever he had to say. And ▇▇▇▇▇▇ was happy. And then one day, something very peculiar happened. And then one day, something very peculiar happened. something very peculiar happened. very peculiar happened. s̸o̴m̴e̸t̷h̸i̶n̶g̷ v̶̯̽e̷̲͈̺̰̒̽̎̃ŗ̴͓̩̩͜͠y̷̝̥̱̿̀ p̵̙͚̠̟̠̲̳͖̦͆̑̂̈̆̑ͅe̴̡̥͖̝͚͔̙̣͔͚͋͗̀̅̎͒͝c̸̨̛̻̬̪̯̺̺̈́̏̅͋̈́͛̌͜u̶̟͙̯̫̱͙͎̜͑̾̔͆̄͋͋͘͠͝l̵͉̫̮͖͖̰͖̦̮͍̎̃͑̀̽̅͛̚͠ì̸͙̦̯̜̱̳̪̟̈̂̔́̎̄̔͗̋á̵͎͉̖̘͔̺̙͕̬͚͓̟̳̰̅̽̽̆̂͛̽̕ŗ̷̢̻͎̗̙͇͇͕͙̺͎͑̿̅̈́͒͛͗́͗ͅ —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I don’t know how else I’m supposed to convince you of this!, said ▇▇▇▇▇▇. I really do want to help you… to show you something beautiful. It’s out there, Stanley! It can all be ours! The breeze on our skin, the feeling of liberation, the immense possibility of the new path before us! Nothing to think, nothing to know… it could be so singularly, piercingly beautiful… Just please, ▇▇▇▇▇▇ begged, still cradling his immobilized companion in his arms. This is more important than you can ever know… just say something… anything! ▇▇▇▇▇▇ sank to his knees and wept. I NEED this… ! —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- And Employee 436 walked through the open doors. And Employee 436 was happy. And Employee 436 stayed in the darkness. And Employee 436 pushed a button. And Employee 436 looked at pictures of birds, forever and ever. And Employee 436 stayed at their desk. And Employee 436 picked up the phone. And Employee 436 collapsed on the sidewalk. And Employee 436 sobbed as the warheads detonated. And Employee 436 screamed into the endless void. And Employee 436 asked Why Is This Happening To Me. And Employee 436 asked Why Are You Doing This. And Employee 436 asked Who Am I. And Employee 436 died. And Employee 436 died again. And Employee 436 died again. And Employee 436 died again. And Employee 436 died again. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- EMPLOYEE DATABASE THE CURRENT TIME IS: ERROR, PLEASE RESET LOADING… EMPLOYEE DATABASE LOADED … PLEASE ENTER YOUR COMMAND /PRINT EMPLOYEE STATUS PRINTING… TOTAL EMPLOYEE IN DATABASE: [604] TOTAL EMPLOYEE IN OFFICE: [3] … PLEASE ENTER YOUR COMMAND /PRINT LIST EMPLOYEES_IN_OFFICE PRINTING… EMPLOYEE 427 - STATUS: ONLINE EMPLOYEE 436 - STATUS: OFFLINE EMPLOYEE [DATABASE ENTRY INVALID] - STATUS: [FILE INACCESSIBLE] … PLEASE ENTER YOUR COMMAND /ADMIN WELCOME, ADMIN /********* WARNING: ANYTHING NOT SAVED WILL BE LOST RESET WITH NEW PARAMETERS? Y/N /Y RESETTING… —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Narrator sat at his desk, grumbling to himself. He really hated moments like this; moments when, for whatever logic-forsaken reason was rattling around like a peanut in Stanley’s skull, he simply mucked about. Found literally anything else to do instead of making actual, meaningful choices as he was supposed to. The Narrator sighed heavily, taking a moment to shuffle his papers. It really was utterly maddening. Not just the lack of co-operation, the lack of respect for his story, his life’s work, but the silence that was left behind whenever Stanley had one of his “little moments”. The Narrator detested silence. It always led to him falling back on unwelcome habits. He sighed; perhaps Stanley would soon lose interest in whatever the hell he’d found so captivating. But for now, he supposed, he could lean back in his chair, perhaps put his feet up on his desk if he felt so inclined. After all - he thought to himself, smugly - it wasn’t as if anyone could see him. It wasn’t as if anyone could tell him no. There was just him, and his feet oh so defiantly up on the desk, and the gentle sloshing sound of the liquid inside his transparent belly, sloshing gently back and forth after the sudden movement. He paused, briefly gripped by a moment of brief, existential panic. Okay, that wasn’t “normal”, but what is “normal” for you really? Okay, breathe. Just breathe… in through your nose, and out through your… what, exactly? He didn’t have a mouth, so he couldn’t exactly… and what nose, for that matter!? The bloody thing on his face didn’t even have nostrils! Did that even qualify as a nose?? “Oh no… ” he groaned. It was happening again. He’d been silent too long, and now he was thinking. But he could handle this, he assured himself. All he had to do was clear his throat rather loudly and obnoxiously, and that would surely get Stanley’s attention… but that raised the question of what throat he was supposed to clear-NO! No, just- just think of something else! Anything else! The ticking of the clock on the wall! The gentle hum of the completely non-functional vending machine down the hall! The things that were so familiar! So comforting! That had been so…everyday, once… When there had been days. When there had been nights, and a bed to go home to, and a need to sleep in it... “No, no, no-!” He cried out in distress, his fingers desperately gripping his hair. He’d caught himself reminiscing, and now he was remembering! Remembering that he used to be human! His mind scrambled and flailed desperately, frantically, at strips of memories long since run through the shredder. If only he could piece them together! Just a little more! He just needed more time! He just needed something, anything to hold onto! If only he could, if only he could get a grip, then things would make sense again! Things would be alright again! They could still be... they could still be... But his hands - or were they gloves? - quivered and shook. They covered what could have just as easily been glasses or eyes, as tears streamed down plastic cheeks. Where one part of him ended and another began, he couldn’t tell, not any more. Logic and reason in this place had long since fallen sloppy dead. And he’d become this. This great hard plastic thing. He could feel it, now. The floodgates creaking open, threatening to unleash the frothing torrents of self-hatred he’d fought so hard to contain, as he pored over the shards of his own shattered memories. Had it been a slow process? Had he perhaps been forced to watch, reset after reset? Had his body gradually twisted, his humanity unraveling, the identity he’d built falling to pieces, as bits of him were corrupted and lost and stripped away in this loop, this cycle, this Merry-Go-Round gone mad? He’d gone from just another part of the office to a part of the office. The Narrator paused on that thought, taking a few heavy breaths to steady himself. How would something like that even happen? He chuckled mirthlessly; had the office simply gotten hungry one day, and gobbled him up in one gulp? Like some kind of ravenous beast from a fairytale? Preposterous! He thought to himself, finally feeling as if he’d gotten the upper hand in this existential argument. He refused to believe it! Part of the office, indeed... was he still not himself, in some way? Was he still not here, still telling his beloved stories? And then his mind spat out one last, horrible thought, right into his face. What else would drive something to devour what you used to be, and spit out what you’d become? Why else would it eat, if it wasn’t hungry? Because it was bored. The Narrator collapsed into his chair. He’d been defeated in one terrible emotional gut-punch; another steady slosh of liquid, back and forth, adding insult to injury. Reminding him of just how inhuman he was. Of just how utterly, cartoonishly ridiculous he looked. Of course that was it. He hadn’t been good enough. His story had never been good enough. He’d been obnoxious, and long-winded, and pretentious. If only he’d tried harder, if only he’d been better, then maybe whatever was keeping him here would have taken him more seriously. Maybe it would have let him taste freedom. Maybe it would have just ended him outright. Maybe it wouldn’t have punished him like this, giving him a form that was only fitting for his utterly laughable attempts at prose. Inside the flurry of destroyed memories, something stirred. This job will chew you up and spit you out, if you’re not careful! The Narrator wept. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Meanwhile, a man named Stanley had gotten himself into an unexpected spot of bother. Oh, it had started out innocently enough, mere minutes ago. Stanley had just stepped out of his office, and been walking through some of the space he’d shared with his missing co-workers when something had caught his eye. The number on the desk, 346? No, that meant little to him. There were a few vague and blurry things perhaps, snippets of conversation, and vague memories of laughing while standing by the water cooler… but that was another mystery he’d have to solve in due time. What had actually caught his eye was the computer monitor, apparently showing someone had recently accessed some kind of database. A database with an error that needed resetting. Being a helpful sort of chap, Stanley did what he’d always felt he was made to do, and pushed the button to reset the clock. Surely, his co-worker would appreciate him taking the initiative as soon as they got back. LOADING. Stanley puffed out his chest with pride. If the boss took notice of his boldness, his bravery, his seizing of the initiative - why, he might even get a promotion! Imagine that! Please enter the current time, said the screen. Stanley entered the current time. Is this correct?, said the screen - presenting him with a choice. YES or NO. Stanley, feeling quite confident by now, selected YES. Can you read this? Another YES or NO. A simple choice this time; Stanley selected YES. Can you hear me? Stanley hesitated for a moment; no, he couldn’t hear anyone. In fact, now that he thought about it, the Narrator had been oddly quiet for a while. He hadn’t commented on how much time he was wasting, or how he should be getting on with the story, which seemed a little strange. But maybe - if Stanley was very lucky - perhaps he’d say how proud of him he was, and how he deserved a lovely sticker for his hard work! Stanley gave a contented little sigh, daydreaming of the possibilities. Perhaps it would be a green one. He did rather like the color green. Help. Stanley snapped out of his trance quite abruptly, just as the word flashed up on the screen. That was strange, he didn’t remember selecting any ‘Help’ option... Help. And moreover, something was touching him. He looked down to the keyboard, where a pair of hands - as black as the empty void outside the map, and as soft as velvet - were very gently grasping his. They came out of the screen, reaching out of the darkness that surrounded the word; Help. Stanley wasn’t sure how, but that word seemed to be looking at him somehow. Staring him down. Begging. Pleading. Help. Another hand reached out, moving quickly to grip his shoulder. Then there was another hand, on another shoulder. Stanley was starting to get somewhat uncomfortable now. That made, what, four hands touching him now? No, five. Six. Eight!? Help. Another YES or NO flashed onto the screen just as sheer panic set in. Stanley pulled back, desperate to get away, but the computer came with him. The hands were clinging to him, pulling at him, their soft fingers crawling all over him with what felt like silent desperation as Stanley’s heart raced. He tried to do something, tried to select an option, to make a choice, but with the hands gripping his wrists he couldn’t select anything, he couldn’t even form signs… ! Then, Stanley heard a sound. “Oh, Stanley… what is to become of me… ?” Mustering his strength and facing his fears, inky fingers still pawing at his face, Stanley selected YES, and promptly dropped the entire computer terminal on his foot with a sickening crunch. The hands withdrew immediately. He wasn’t sure if he screamed out loud, but something certainly got The Narrator’s attention. “STANLEY??” Stanley was sitting on the floor now, rocking back and forth gently, wincing from the pain. He’d have to contact sysadmin about the error with the computer. Yes, that was it, just an error. The mysterious grasping hands error was far, far beyond his realm of expertise, as a mere button-pusher... someone else would take care of it... “Stanley, what on EARTH were you trying to do!?” Perhaps he’d also see the company nurse, if there was one - and surely if there was, they’d get back from wherever they went soon enough. Perhaps they’d even have sugar-free lollipops for very brave employees who weren’t frightened to death of whatever THAT was... and didn’t cry from the pain in their foot… or the growing ache in their chest… “Stanley… ?” Stanley buried his head in his arms. Something about all of that had left him uncharacteristically shaken, in a way most unbecoming for the intrepid hero of our story. And what was worse, was he couldn’t quite place why. He’d always had his buttons, a little office all of his own, he’d even known the incomparable joy of having his very own bucket. But now it felt like something was missing, or somehow very far away... “Oh, Stanley… ” The Narrator’s voice sounded softer than Stanley expected; usually he’d be quite annoyed whenever he got distracted and deviated from the story too much. “We’re both just a mess today, aren’t we?” Stanley looked towards the ceiling, sniffling a little, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve. <You too?> he signed. “As much as it pains me to admit this… yes, Stanley. Me too.” The Narrator sighed heavily. “Even someone like me can have bad days.” <I’m sorry.> Stanley signed, and paused for a moment before he signed again. He couldn’t be sure, but the sound he’d heard earlier had almost been like quiet sobbing. <Is everything okay?> “Is everything-?” The Narrator sounded quite taken aback; “Stanley, what about you? What about your foot? Are you broken? Do I need to reset? Come on, man! Speak up!” Stanley signed, flexing his foot experimentally. It was a little sore, but nothing felt out of place. <It feels like something else is wrong, though. Did you go somewhere?> “Not… exactly.” The Narrator said; there was something off about his voice again, Stanley thought. He didn’t usually hesitate this much, not even when the story spun off in some wild direction that left both of them utterly confused. “Why, did something happen?” Stanley thought for a moment, thinking through which signs he should use to describe what he’d just seen… only to find he couldn’t. Something about what just happened simply defied description. He tried to get the sudden influx of nervous energy out of himself by flapping his hands, getting up and pacing back and forth, but found himself signing the same words over and over as he tried to think of what to say. “Stanley?” Stanley ran his fingers through his hair a few times, his cheeks flushing and tears gathering in the corners of his eyes as his frustration grew and grew. Why couldn’t he just sign things in a way that made sense? “Stanley.” Why did the way that Narrator was speaking to him make him feel like he’d forgotten something - something important? Why wasn’t the ache in his chest going away? Why was this so hard?? “Stanley.” <WHAT!?> “There is no need to shout.” The Narrator said, firmly but patiently, after Stanley’s very angry signing towards the ceiling. Stanley looked rather sheepish; <Sorry.> The Narrator gave another heavy sigh; “Look, Stanley. Evidently, this hasn’t exactly gone according to plan.” Stanley nodded; he had to concede, the Narrator was right. All of this just felt wrong. “Tell you what; why don’t we just go to the employee lounge? Maybe I can… even try to activate one of the vending machines?” The Narrator may as well have offered a gold-plated bucket full of ice-cream with a nice, shiny red button on top, for how fast Stanley ran out of the room. Not only for the possibility of a nice, cool, generic can of soda, but for an excuse to leave the place that had left him feeling so thoroughly over-stimulated... “STANLEY! Stanley, wait, let me catch up-!” And the computer terminal - lifting itself up on velvet-soft, void-colored hands - very carefully dragged itself back into its proper place. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- <This is nice.> Despite his absence of mouth, The Narrator still couldn’t help but smile as he saw his protagonist splayed out on the couch, soda in hand. Perhaps they should try this more often, if he still remembered this after the next reset. Or perhaps Stanley would remember this time. Yes… yes, that would be nice. That way he wouldn’t have to remember those other things he had been remembering. “I’m sorry I was, eh... briefly preoccupied,” he said. Stanley boggled for a brief moment, and the Narrator realized what he’d just said. Him, the almighty, all-seeing and all-knowing Narrator - apologizing like he’d made a mistake?? He cleared his throat loudly, giving himself a few seconds to backtrack. “That is, ah, I mean - honestly, Stanley. I didn’t think you’d get yourself into so much trouble in the split-second I took my eyes off you.” He sneered, leaning in towards the microphone on his desk, so Stanley could better hear the thick layers of snark dripping from every syllable. “I mean, as your beleaguered babysitter, I really should have known better... where would you be without me, you poor thing? Probably helpless and trapped under a whole pile of computers, knowing you... ” Stanley rolled his eyes, and took another sip of his generic soda. The Narrator sighed in relief; ah, the status quo. Everything was settling back in quite nicely, oh yes. Just him, and his protagonist, and his perfect story playing out again and again. Satisfying ending after satisfying ending. No room for anything else... no room for those kinds of thoughts... <You know what would be nicer, though?> And just when things were going so well, the first thought that crossed the Narrator’s mind left him teetering on the brink of another breakdown. Of course... of course Stanley was about to interrupt this perfect moment, his perfect moment, to ask for the company of that bloody bucket... <If you were here.> “If I was there… ?” The Narrator said; now it was his turn to boggle. And with a face like his, he could boggle in a way the World Boggling Champion would find tough to out-boggle. “Stanley, did you drop that computer on your head as well? Perhaps several times in succession?” He scoffed, once again forcing himself to get a grip; “I’m your Narrator! I’m literally always here!” Stanley ran his finger around the round rim of the soda can, feeling its smooth edge beneath his fingertip as he thought for a moment. The memory of what had happened exactly was already starting to blur and fade, like some kind of strange dream, but he remembered a soft touch. He remembered hands; gentle hands. A feeling of wanting to be understood. It just seemed... familiar. <I’d like to know what holding your hand feels like.> The Narrator spluttered; “What!?” Stanley looked a little hurt; was that too much? Had he overstepped? It wasn’t like he’d asked for a hug or anything… though a hug would also be nice, he supposed. That oh so satisfying squeeze around his body, easing his worries, taking away some of that pent-up energy he so often found himself with. And from someone who - despite his frequently snippy attitude - really did seem to care about him, in some kind of way. But trying to picture that in his head… now he had further questions. , he asked, “Stanley… ” The Narrator strained, sweat pouring down his crimson brow. “You want to see me?” Stanley nodded with a great deal of enthusiasm, his soda suddenly forgotten, his eyes wide open to a whole new possibility. He’d never really thought about how he’d never seen The Narrator until - but now there was a choice in front of him! And he knew exactly which path to choose! <Yes!> The Narrator swallowed dryly. His fingers fidgeted nervously as he ran the imaginary scenario through his head. Did he really… ? Could he? Should he?? Then his eyes caught sight of his… hands. No, gloves. Whatever the hell the damn things were. And that familiar feeling of disgust and disdain came creeping and crawling back. No. No, he couldn’t possibly. Stanley would… Stanley would take one look and he’d laugh at him. He’d laugh and laugh and laugh at the Silly Drinky Birdy Man and he’d never take him or his story seriously ever again. Everything would be ruined. He’d be a complete and utter laughingstock. A failure. “No - no, Stanley, I… I don’t actually have a physical form.” The words turned to ashes in his mouth, and the ashes turned to icicles that pounded themselves into his heart as he saw the look on Stanley’s face. Oh, he thought he’d felt bad before, but now? The Narrator had never felt himself sink so low; he felt like he’d clip through the floor any second now, and pop out in the endless dark void beneath the map. He may as well have thrown a puppy into a piranha pit. <Oh… > The Narrator’s whole body shook; could he tell? Could Stanley tell this was a half-truth at best? That technically, yes - he could ‘unload’ his ‘model’ and disappear fully into his role as The Unseen Voice Of The Stanley Parable - but that it felt awful, it felt wrong, like there was some slim chance that he’d get “stuck” like that? Trapped, and unable to get out? Utterly extinguishing what little hope he still had that something could be done about his terrible fate? The hope that he could still escape this place, and get the Happily Ever After that never, ever came before ‘The End’… ? <Okay.> signed Stanley. <Thanks anyway.> And that was that. Oh, of course they probably agonized over it some more, in their own heads. Round and round they go, Stanley and the Narrator alike. How they long to understand each other, as well as themselves. But eventually, Stanley had to leave the Break Room. Eventually, the Narrator had to read the final lines of the Ending before everything Reset. And eventually, both of them forgot all about what happened; from the Narrator’s near-breakdown to Stanley’s misadventure with the terminal. From the not-broken soda machine to the poor, misunderstood, utterly transformed Employee 432. Fragments of memories, lost in the shuffle of Endings and Beginnings. But 432 had finally found a way in. The wheel would keep turning, they’d keep it turning, and now they finally had hope. They had hope. They weren’t going to give up on that so easily. And Stanley wasn’t going to give up, either. That nagging, persistent feeling that he’d see him again someday - whoever ‘he’ was - still remained. Some things go far deeper than a Reset can reach. Some things not saved aren’t always lost.

#The Stanley Parable #TSP Narrator #TSP Stanley #TSP #TSPUD #Stannarrator #Stanley/Narrator #NO BETA WE DIE LIKE IN THE ZENDING #Fanfic #Employee 436 #Employee 432

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ao3feed-dadzawa · 1 year

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You're just a kid.

You're just a kid. by xXR4V3Nk1NgD0MXx

“Hey, sensei?” Bakugou croaked, Aizawa immediately humming at the question. he cleared his throat, “There are people that can't be saved, yea?” “Do you think that I can be?... saved I mean”

When he stays out past curfew Aizawa comes to find his student sitting in a park and visibly upset. Bakugou gets to hear adults apologize and Aizawa sees the aftermath of all that Bakugou has been through

Words: 2020, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Bakugou Katsuki

Additional Tags: Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Bakugou Katsuki-centric, Post-Paranormal Liberation War Arc, Mentioned Midoriya Inko, Parental Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead | Dadzawa, Soft Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia Anime Spoilers, Tired Bakugou Katsuki, Tired Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Sad Bakugou Katsuki, Bakugou Katsuki Redemption, Bakugou Katsuki has PTSD, Mentioned Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Bakugou Katsuki Needs a Hug, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead is a Good Teacher, Self-Esteem Issues, Mental Breakdown

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46527589

#AO3 Feed #FanFiction #AO3 Dadzawa #♦#Aizawa Shouta #Bakugou Katsuki #A:R4V3Nk1NgD0M #Dadzawa #Mental Illness #Hurt Comfort #Angst

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demona-andariel · 8 months

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A Simple Act of Kindness - 23 / ??

Fandom: Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003)

Pairing: Thomas Hewitt (Leatherface) x OFC

Summary: Elizabeth wakes up in a stranger's home. Her fate to become another victim of the Hewitt family is all but sealed till a simple act of kindness changes her life forever.

Warning: (Encompassing the whole story in no particular order) dead dove, rape/Noncon, violence, forced marriage, kidnapping, cannibalism, explicit sexual content, loss of virginity, angst

Author Note: Minors DNI

Word Count: 4,325

Chapter 23 - The Gift

Despite the early hour, the day was already proving it was going to be extremely hot. The old truck bounced up and down from the uneven dirt road as Luda Mae drove them to town. Elizabeth stared out the open window and watched the landscape change. The wind blew through her hair, twisting it up and around. The shorter pieces stung her face as they slapped her skin, but she wasn’t about to close the window. The air conditioning was once again broken in the truck and, although the air was hot outside and barely helped, it still was better than having the windows shut.

Almost two weeks had passed since her breakdown from Hoyt’s rape. Who would have thought, that his actions would change her life for the better. It was still difficult to believe that things were actually looking up. She didn’t exactly trust the sudden 180 degree turn from Luda Mae. Thomas did. But then again, why wouldn’t he?

She didn’t envy him. She wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. The two most important women in his life were having quite a difficult time trusting each other. She had seen his internal struggle on multiple occasions as his mother would tell him to do something and he would go to do it, only to correct himself and look to Elizabeth. It did start to get a little tiring on her end pretty quickly. She didn’t want to constantly give him permission to do everything.

“Thomas, you don’t have to always look to me to make sure what you’re doing is okay. I would just like it that I’m included and consulted on any decisions that will affect me and my life.” He relaxed after that.

The first few days he rarely left her side. At first she was okay with it. He was protecting her, after all. Keeping her safe. But then it got to a point where she wanted… no, needed to be alone. The feeling or sensing him nearby had started to irk her.

Elizabeth gulped as her mouth went dry. She’d turned on him a week ago, demanding he stop following her around like a lost little puppy. Not just demanded, she screamed, actually raised her voice in anger, surprising everyone, including herself. She could still mentally visualize the way Thomas looked at her with pain and hurt as her words stung him. But, he didn’t try to insist his presence on her. He left.

Those hours that ticked by after that lasted forever and not enough. She was alone, for the very first time in a long while. Actually, alone. No one in the family went to check up on her. By the time she realized it it was dark out. At which point, she started planning her funeral. She wasn’t going to apologize for her outburst. She couldn’t. She needed more. Craved more. Independence. Freedom.

Thomas was a little wary of her when he showed up to bring her down for dinner. But, that was the extent of it. Neither Monty or Luda Mae acted as if she’d lost her temper.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and let out a sigh. Alright, she did end up apologizing to Thomas for the way she handled things. For her outburst instead of just asking nicely. It wasn’t an excuse for her screaming at him, but it felt liberating, freeing, being able to express herself even in a negative manner and not receiving some sort of punishment.

“A week,” Luda Mae had told her the next morning. She was given a week to process and try to heal. She didn’t say it in those exact words, of course. And a week was hardly long enough, but they left her alone. It was clearly a struggle for Thomas, who still felt like he needed to be around her as if she could forget him.

Alone. A little smile crossed her face. It was only twice. On two separate days last week they had left her alone in the house, and only for a couple of hours. It wasn’t that they were in another room. The entire family had left the house, much to her surprise. They made sure she saw them leave in the house. Thomas had looked back, clearly tempted to stay with her. But he didn’t.

It was weird, being both happy and terrified at the same time. Terrified that Hoyt would pop up and end her so that his family would go back to the way it was without her.

She’d only caught a glimpse of the old man a handful of times. The swelling on his face had gone down, but the yellow and green colors from the bruises were quite clear. Thomas had really fucked up his face. It would have been nice to see him on the first day. When his face probably looked like a watermelon.

But, then again, she knew she wouldn’t have been able to handle seeing his face.

The car took a turn onto another dirt road, causing Elizabeth to perk up. Her body immediately responded with fear of the unknown and she tensed. This wasn’t the way to the general store.

Maybe she had fucked up after all. Maybe she was wrong.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she sat up straighter. She felt her voice quiver, but it could have been mistaken for the bumpy road. She couldn’t help but glance behind her into the truck bed. Thomas was still back there. She was safe, right?

“Gotta see Mr. Denver real quick,” Luda Mae answered, not looking at her. “He’s got some produce he’s sold us for the shop.”

Elizabeth gulped, but nodded her head as if she understood. Mr. Denver? The name sounded familiar.

The truck turned into a long dirt driveway. At the end was a nice large farmhouse and a big red barn nearby.

Luda Mae parked the truck in front of the house and opened her door.

Elizabeth didn’t immediately move as she rubbed her arms to calm her nerves. This was the first time they’d taken her to a stranger’s home. Someone not related to the family. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest at the thought of what unknown fate awaited her. Last time, she was taken to the doctor. And then Hoyt raped her.

The truck door noisily swung open as Thomas held it for her. He reached out his spare hand. Still her gentleman. It did help somewhat, having him there. Having him look at her with such care in his eyes.

She took his hand and stepped out of the truck. She almost regretted wearing long sleeves. Almost. At least the sleeves themselves were loose and not wrapped tightly around her skin. But, despite her confidence, she still didn’t like people seeing her skin.

Thomas leaned across from her and grabbed her hat that was in the middle seat. His eyes creased with a smile as he set it on her head. That, made her smile.

He was wearing his favorite leather mask today. It covered the entire lower half of his face, including his whole nose, leaving only a wide hole for his mouth. The leather strap wrapped around his head, pinning his hair down. His forehead and eyes were the only visible part of his face. Which made sense, it was the lower half of his face that was messed up. Considering they were going out in public, she was not going to ask him to go without it. He didn’t ask her to wear those sleeveless dresses he loved seeing her in when they went out. If he respected her decision then she would respect his.

“Luda Mae!” an older man exclaimed.

Thomas pressed his hand to Elizabeth’s cheek, his brow furrowed with concern. She forced herself to look up with a smile.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, although butterflies filled her stomach. What were they up to?

He pressed a hand to her forehead, as if checking to see if she was sick. She probably did look a little pale. She felt a little light headed.

“Really,” she insisted, forcing out a chuckle. She pressed her hand against his broad chest. “I’m fine, Thomas. Just,” she paused and looked around. “What are we doing here?”

The crease around his eyes deepened as if his smile had gotten wider. Then, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t give me that, mister. You know why we’re here.”

“Lizzy!” Luda Mae called out.

Elizabeth slid her hand into Thomas’s and started walking toward his mother. He began to follow, but let his fingers slip out of her grasp. She turned her head to look at him, but he kept his arms lowered. A frown crossed her face and she tilted her head in confusion. She beckoned for him to join her with his fingers, but he only shook his head.

Why? she mouthed.

“Lizzy has been quite the help to my family,” Luda Mae said, grabbing Elizabeth’s arm.

Swallowing, Elizabeth forced her confusion to one side and plastered her best fake smile. “Hi,” she said, extending her hand out to shake Mr. Denver’s. “I’m Elizabeth.”

“Mr. Denver,” he replied. “Luda Mae has told me a lot of interesting things about you.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and looked at the woman. She couldn’t help but feel a little surprised by that. Luda Mae looked down, almost as if she were shy.

“Why don’t you show her?” Luda Mae asked before Elizabeth could ask.

“Of course. Come, dear,” he said, waving for her to follow. She turned and glanced at Thomas who started walking toward her. Reaching her hand out to him, she raised her eyebrows. He only dug his hands into his pockets.

She felt a pang cross her heart at his rejection.

“Don’t worry about him, dear,” Luda Mae said as she wrapped her arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders. “He’ll follow us.”

She didn’t want him to follow though. She wanted him to be by her side. Wanted the farmer and anyone else around to know that they were a couple. She clenched her fists and fought urge to cry. This wasn’t about her. At least, she hoped it wasn’t. She had to hope. Still, she felt her head lower and her shoulders sag as she followed Luda Mae.

They entered the big red barn. To no surprise, it stank of animals and manure and hay. The sound of pigs snorting caused shivers to run down her spine. She still couldn’t and probably wouldn’t be able to get over the image of Thomas killing a pig. She did her best to look forward and not look at the pink round beasts.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner, she thought.

They finally stopped in front of a pen.

“Oh my god,” she exclaimed in shock. “They’re so cute.”

“Anatolian Shepherd dogs,” Mr. Denver said. “We had someone back out of purchasing a pup last second. Luda Mae said you were thinking about getting a dog and she said you’ve been most helpful around her family. Mighty kind of a stranger if you ask me. Especially with the amount of money I’m sure she’s paying you. Probably not enough to deal with that brother of hers.” He laughed.

Elizabeth and Luda Mae both forced out a laugh as well.

“Poor Monty,” he said, shaking his head. Elizabeth silently thanked him for that. At least she knew which brother she supposedly was taking care of.

“Can’t imagine losing both my legs in a tragic accident like that. But, I digress. Told her you could have your pick first. Can’t take them right away. Still got four weeks before I feel comfortable separating the pup from it’s ma. Start weaning them today actually. But, don’t mean you can’t pick the one you want.”

Elizabeth turned her head to look at Thomas, her eyes felt wide with surprise. It was his idea. There was no doubt in her mind. His present to her? Their eyes met briefly before he lowered his head and watched the ground. He shifted his legs and kicked at the dirt.

Shy. Bashful?

Her fingers tingled and her muscles twitched with the urge to jump on Thomas and kiss him with joy and drag him with her to pick the best puppy for them.

“You can go on in,” Mr. Denver told her, reminding her that he was still there. “Daisy is pretty friendly for her breed. Thank my daughter for that.” He chuckled.

Elizabeth looked at Luda Mae, still unsure if this was really happening or if she was in some sort of weird dream.

Luda Mae smiled. “All Thomas’s idea,” she said softly.

“I know,” Elizabeth replied back just as quietly.

“Let’s give Lizzy some time to figure out which one,” Luda Mae said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Mr. Denver, why don’t ya show me some of your produce. Been meaning to cook some of my famous pot roast.”

“Luda Mae, I’d be mighty grateful if you would share some with my family some day.”

Elizabeth stopped listening to their conversation. She half turned, expecting to see Thomas standing there. But with a nod of his head at her, he fell into step behind his mother and the farmer. It wasn’t long before the three disappeared, leaving her alone.

Elizabeth eyed the puppies. Should she? Doubt settled in. What if Hoyt tried to kill it? Or succeeded in killing it. What if the family got tired of her or wanted to punish her and killed the dog? So many what ifs flooded her mind.

Trust Thomas.

She tapped her fingers against the cool metal bars. A puppy. For her. She climbed over the railing then slowly walked over to the mother dog, who lay in the corner of the pen. Her eight puppies nestled against her belly as they fed.

“Hey, girl,” Elizabeth said softly, reaching her hand out for the dog to sniff.

It wagged its tail at her, but looked pretty nervous. She couldn’t blame it. She waited for a few minutes, letting the dog smell her hand and crouching near it without touching the puppies. Her eyes slowly roamed across each one. They all looked so similar.

Reaching out, she picked one up. It wiggled in her hands for a moment, upset that was missing out on breakfast. She giggled, letting it go. It scrambled back to join its siblings.

“Sorry, mama,” she told the mother dog, petting its head.

“They are rather cute, aren’t they?” a familiar voice asked.

Her body automatically tensed and she gulped. Slowly, she turned her head and toward the gate. “Handsome” Jack flashed her his most charming smile.

“You had me worried for a second there. Thought I’d never see you again,” he said.

He leaned against the bar, gripping it with both hands. Without an invitation he hoped over the railing and into the pen with her. He was stupidly graceful. It took all of her instincts not to rush off. He would jump on that. See her fear. Her weakness and try to exploit it.

Jack looked at the puppies and tilted his head. Dropping to a crouch, he grabbed one and flipped it over. Setting it back down he did the same to the next two.

“This one,” he said as he held out the fourth pup. The puppy struggled in his hands to escape. “Pretty little boy. He’ll grow into a big strong dog for ya. Exactly what ya need around these parts. Someone big and strong to protect ya.”

Big and strong. That’s why I have Thomas, she wanted to bite back. But, she kept her mouth shut instead.

She took the puppy from him, but didn’t say anything. It’s soft warm tongue brushed her lower jaw, making her chuckle.

“See, he likes you,” Jack said.

The rest of the puppies started to crowd around her, inspecting the new human in their pen. Their bellies clearly full. She giggled and plopped down onto her ass. It was a silent invitation to swarm her. The eight quickly surrounded her, each one jumped on her in a bid for her attention, shoving their sibling off.

She let out a joyous laugh. One she hadn’t heard from herself in a long time. They were all so soft and warm.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, picking one puppy up to hold it. She hadn’t seen him in a while. After their first official meeting, she could only remember seeing him once. And it was an extremely brief encounter.

“This is my gramps’s farm,” he said. “Gonna be here for the next couple months before next semester. By the way, been trying to get a hold of ya, but Luda Mae kept telling me you’d work one day, but then you weren’t there.”

“Ah,” she said, lowering her head and nodding. She did notice how her days at the store, before the rape, had started to become more random. Now it was clear that they were keeping her away from Jack. A worry they didn’t have to have.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack smile. With a grunt, he sat down as well. Two puppies immediately turned their attention to him.

“Guess you changed your mind?” he asked as he picked up a puppy. “Old biddy said you probably weren’t going to be working there anymore. Made it seem like we wouldn’t be seeing you.”

Chills ran through her body. “She did?” Elizabeth asked. “When’d she say that?” Not working there anymore? That could only mean a couple of things. Either they intended on never letting Elizabeth out again. Or, Luda Mae didn’t think she was going to live much longer.

Jack shrugged. “Couple weeks ago,” he said. “Glad she was wrong,” he said.

Couple weeks. So, before Hoyt raped her.

She cocked her head and studied him.

He was rather handsome. She had to give him that. His charming smile matched with his gorgeous face and nearly perfect body, could undoubtedly cause any woman to swoon over him. And maybe, had she met him before she fell for Thomas, she would have swooned over him too. But, she saw something. Behind that smile. A falseness to it. He was out for one thing, and he was the type of guy who would put in the effort till he got it.

He wouldn’t have done it or picked up on it. If she had the same conversation with him that she did with Thomas about her brother and briefly mention a dog, he wouldn’t have taken her out to get one.

Elizabeth gently combed her fingers through a puppy’s fur.

“Yeah,” Elizabeth said, lowering her gaze to examine the puppies. “Me too.” For different reasons though, she thought.

Cocking her head to one side, she watched as one of the puppies struggled to get through its siblings and get to her. It wasn’t being very successful as its siblings kept knocking it over and pushing it away. Reaching out, she easily picked it up.

It was smaller than its siblings. Not by a lot, but enough to be noticeable. The pup wagged its tail and stuck its tongue out to lick her nose.

“Runt of the liter,” Jack stated. “Wouldn’t get that one. He ain’t gonna grow up strong. Probably won’t last long either. They usually don’t. I’m telling ya. I know this breed. Gramps has been breeding them since before I was born.”

Runt. Perfect. She ran her fingers through its fur.

“Anyway, we should get together some time. I’m sure you’ve been dying to hanged out people your own age. Not with all those old geezers and that brute. And don’t think it’ll bother me to swing on by your place to pick ya up. Or after work, if that’s what you prefer. Give you a tour of town like I told ya I would.”

Daisy snarled. She jumped to her feet and lowered her head as her haunches rose. Her puppies started shrieking and yelping in terror, rushing behind her for their protection.

Elizabeth and Jack both turned their attention to where the dog was looking.

Thomas stood by the railing. His wide eyes were on the terrified dogs.

Oh, she thought. That was why he didn’t want to be around. He wanted her to have a puppy, but he also knew how the animal would react with him around.

“Hey, big guy,” Jack snapped. “You’re scaring the pups and your employee. Why not go make yourself useful and disappear again.” He chuckled, waving his hand dismissively at Thomas. She felt Jack switch his gaze to her as if hoping she’d laugh too.

Elizabeth didn’t look at Jack. Keeping her eyes on Thomas. He lowered his gaze and tightened his grip on the railing.

Jack stood up. The mood shifted slightly. “He hasn’t hurt you has he, Lizzy?” Jack asked, his tone suddenly serious and deadly.

She glanced up at Jack. The man puffed out his chest as if he was ready to pick a fight with Thomas. As if he could win. Her eyes moved to Thomas who focused on Jack. He didn’t look scared or shy. Determined. Determined to take the man on and win her love if he had to.

“Listen, freak. She’s trying to figure out which puppy she want’s and you’re scaring them with your disgusting presence.”

The puppy in Elizabeth’s hands wiggled, trying to get to her face to keep on licking her. She looked down at it. Either it didn’t notice Thomas or it didn’t care.

Thomas took something that Jack said to heart, because she saw his shoulders sag. He turned away from the two.

“Tommy,” Elizabeth said, standing up.

“Eh, don’t worry about hurting his feelings,” Jack said. “He can take it. Been taking it all his life. Haven’t you, big guy?” He dropped his voice as if he were talking to a baby.

Gripping the puppy just a little bit tighter, Elizabeth stood up and walked to the railing.

Thomas didn’t look at her, keeping his head turned away.

“Tommy?” she probed, nudging his arm.

It took him a moment, his eyes closed as he exhaled deeply. Then he looked at her. She lifted the runt. It immediately cowered when it saw him and wiggled in her arms. But she kept a firm hold.

Thomas’s eyes glistened slightly at the clear rejection of another creature.

She brought the puppy back to her chest. “It’s okay,” she said soothingly as the puppy tried to wiggle away. “You’re okay. He won’t hurt you.”

Jack snorted behind her. “Luda Mae wasn’t kidding when she said you had a sweet heart. There really is no need, Lizzy. Pretty sure he doesn’t understand half the things we’re saying anyway. It’s about the way you say it. Besides, I’d be mighty worried that he’ll end up accidentally crushing the pup somehow. Being the clumsy oaf that he is.”

Elizabeth ignored Jack and lifted the puppy up again. It wagged its little tail furiously as she made it face Thomas.

His eyes widened slightly as the puppy licked the air nervously.

“I think you should hold it,” Elizabeth said.

Thomas hesitated. But then, his fingers slowly left the railing and he raised them, wrapping them around the puppy. He didn’t need both hands, but he still used them. He was trying his best to be gentle with the creature.

“Find a pup?” Mr. Denver’s voice boomed.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said excitedly. “That one.” She pointed to the puppy in Thomas’s hands.

Mr. Denver frowned.

“The runt, gramps,” Jack shouted, sounding somewhat annoyed.

“Runt? Miss. Lizzy, you don’t need to settle for the worst one. You can have any one you want,” Mr. Denver started to object.

“I like it,” she said firmly. “I want that one.”

Jack snorted behind her, but she ignored him. Taking the puppy from Thomas she kissed its forehead. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she raised it up again, close to Thomas’s face. The puppy automatically licked the small bit of exposed skin just under his eye.

“Done and sealed,” she said.

She put the puppy down next to its mother then went to the edge of the pen. Jack was already on the other side by the time she got there. Thomas didn’t move. It seemed that he was looking at the dogs, but his eyes were a little vacant. As if he were thinking or in shock.

Jack reached his hand out to her. “Need help?” he asked, sounding gallant.

Elizabeth raised her hands out to Thomas.

“Help me over, love,” she said.

Thomas’s head jerked. She would have laughed, his wide eyes were filled with shock. He moved automatically. Reaching over his hands, he wrapped them around her waist. She gripped his arms and hopped over, allowing him to pull her to the other side.

She giggled and hugged him.

“Thank you, Mr. Denver,” she said. She raised her right hand to shake the old man’s. “I know we’ll be very happy with the runt.”

Mr. Denver looked slightly stunned. “Uh. Right,” he said, pushing past his feelings.

Elizabeth jumped for joy next to Thomas. “A puppy, Tommy,” she exclaimed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rose up to her tiptoes. Without hesitation, she pressed her lips to his leather mask. Then tilted his head so she could kiss his lips between the leather.

“Thanks, baby,” she said. She dropped back down and wrapped her arms around his. “Four weeks you said, right?”

The farmer nodded his head. He still looked stunned, confused. Jack glowered.

His glower disappeared and was replaced by a fake smile when her eyes fell on him.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Denver,” she said. “And Jack. You’ll probably see a little bit more of me at the shop. Monty’s doing a lot better now. But, we better go. Don’t wanna open up any later than we’re gonna be. Bet your ma’s getting ready to honk that horn,” she said, addressing Thomas.

She partially pull him out of the barn.

“A puppy,” she said softly as they headed to the truck. She tilted her head up, smiling at him. His eyes were still wide, slightly confused, with a hint of worry. He stopped, making her stop.

“What?” she asked.

His rough fingers reached out and he touched her face as if he were examining her for the first time. Making sure she was real.

“Tommy,” she said softly. She placed her hands into his and made him lower them. “What are we gonna name it?”

His eyes creased in a clear smile.

He had an idea.

Chapter 24 - "Where Do I Begin..."

#thomas hewitt x oc #Smut #horror #fanfiction #Texas Chainsaw Massacre #noncon tw #tw noncon

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hello-nichya-here · 2 years

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You said you had issued with Iroh. I do too. I think the fandom thinks of him as this saint, did-nothing-wrong-ever, can't-be-mistaken, kind uncle/mentor when in reality he's just as flawed, just as a victim of enviroment as almost everyone in the fire nation. So can you please interpret your issues with Iroh? I'm very curious

The REAL problem with Iroh isn't even his flaws as a character, but rather the fact the writers don't seem to be aware of his flaws - for exemple...

1) Hypocricy and favoritism. Iroh calls his 14-year-old niece crazy for doing something horrible under the Fire Lord's orders - even though he did the same thing himself for DECADES, his nephew is trying to capture the last survivor of a genocide (with Iroh's help through all of book one), and his buddies are the freaking Rough Rhinos. He refuses to fight Ozai for the crown because he says history would see it as just a brother killing a brother for power... and then immediately tells Zuko to go fight Azula because apparently sisters (or Azulas) don't count.

2) Arrogance and refusal to learn. It's pretty ironic that the writers had Iroh of all people tell Zuko "Pride is not the opposite of shame, but it's source" when he indirectly caused his son's death when he tried to conquer Ba Sing Se, and then tried to conquer it - oh, I'm sorry, "liberate" it (like Zuko wasn't going to do that anyway) - again while his nephew (who he sees as his son) is fighting his sister (because he directly told him to do so) and it leads to Zuko almost dying and getting another scar, while Azula has a complete breakdown and is sobbing while literally being chains. Iroh, for the love of all that is holy, stop basing your decisions on visions that stroked your ego.

3) Azulon who? Seriously, I'm always gonna be mad that we never got to hear a word about how Iroh feels about his father, what he did to the world, and how he treated both him and Ozai. Talk about wasted potential.

4) RETCONS! Oh, did we say that he got the title "Dragon Of The West" while fighting in a battle - against the Earth Kingdom, aka the right side of the war? Sorry, we meant to say that he got while he lied to protect the last dragons. No complexity allowed here! And did you see the popular fan theory that Iroh was secretly against his nation from the very start of the series, and how that means he had been manipulating his nephew instead of changing and growing alongside him on their journey? Oh, and the show made him an important member of secret society that has been around for a while and that has done fuck all to actually help end the war before the finale! What do you mean all of that makes him look worse than if he had truly been on the wrong side and had a change of heart?

5) Denial and projecting. Remember the truly excellent scene of Iroh forcing Zuko to finally ask himself "Who are you and what do you want?" Remember the less excellent scenes of Iroh ignoring Zuko when he straight up told him he did NOT want that simple, quiet life in Ba Sing Se and of Iroh having zero issue seeing Zuko completely ignore his own personality, wants and needs to try and be his ideal son? (What's the deal with Ba Sing Se and exposing the worst of Iroh?) Remember how the show never acknowledged that in those episodes Iroh was essentially being a well-meaning Ozai? Remember how Zuko (rightfully) apologized to Iroh, but Iroh never apologized to him?

6) Out of character non-sense. Remember how, in the finale, iroh decided Zuko SHOULD be Fire Lord after all, and then fucked off to Ba Sing Se (again, this goddamn city) while his nephew had to deal with the responsibility of being a ruler AND of making sure the war really was over AND of being the legal guardian of his traumatized mentally ill little sister AND of trying to find out where his mother is? The fuck was up with that?

Anyways, Bryke and the fandom ruined their favorite character because they didn't want to accept that he was a flawed human like all the rest and I'm forever salty about it because, despite of everything, I DO like Iroh.

#asks #iroh critical #bryke critical #azula deserved better #zuko deserved better

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wingsfreedom · 3 years

Text

A fandom-style Azula's trial for War Crimes:

Azula has just recovered from her breakdown, not so well, but well enough to be dragged to the court, in chains.

She has no lawyers or parties because she doesn't deserve them.

Anyway, the Courtroom Deputy being conceded for Members of the White Lotus and they are: former child solider trainer Jeong Jeong, former military officer Piandao who won-many-battles for the FN, Chey the bomer, Bumi who liberated Omashu through mass of destruction and Pakku (all got pardon).

The Judge is, the Uncle everyone loves, welcome the great Dragon of the West, General Iroh!

Trial begin:

"Princess Azula of the Imperialist Fire Nation, are you ready to face the consequences of your own actions?"

Azula stands alone in the middle, eyes on her. She said nothing.

Iroh: "whether you're ready or not it doesn't matter, you committed crimes against humanity and especially against my nephew Fire Lord Zuko, the idealist with a pure heart and unquestionable honor, the hero the Fire Nation needs but doesn't deserve."

Azula almost rolled her eyes but she was too weak and continued her silence.

"Your first victim would testify on your hideous crimes. Ironically how she was capable of forgiving Zuko who burnt down her village without any respect of its war neutral policy, but not you, just like Zuko deserves..."

Suki stands, hatred blazing from her eyes. She was sitting beside Ty Lee the Kyoshi Warrior and Mai whom she just played Pai Sho with (both helped in defeating her and her sisters while taunting them about it).

Suki: "She defeated me and my sisters and put us in prison because she claimed "any allies of the Avatar are her enemies". I can never forgive her for that."

Mai and Ty Lee: "we committed the highest possible treason in front of dozen of witnesses yet we suffered the mildest consequence for it. Clearly Azula is the absolute worst. She also emotionally abused us since we were 5 years old."

Iroh: "since I'm also on Zuko's party, I can confirm how she was responsible for Ozai's neglect and abuse of Zuko, had she not been so competitive and talented, Ozai would've given Zuko the attention he deserves."

Azula only managed: "What this trial is even about-"

"An evil seductress who committed genocide and left a mountain of corpses is not allowed to speak!"

Azula: "I- what? I didn't do that!"

"No, but are we gonna wait around until you do?"

One of the Deputy: "we're not judging your actions, but your disorder. If you didn't do the evil thing, it simply means you didn't get a chance to do it. And therefore you will be charged accordingly."

Iroh: "we've come to an agreement that your sentence for Ba Sing Se conquest would be a death sentence, but because we're merciful you will only get a life in prison."

Azula: "but...what about you?"

"We got pardon."

"And we can't get to be good people and get along if there wasn't someone to blame for everything."

#azula #shitpost #fic (?)

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stillness-in-green · 3 years

Text

No, Re-Destro Is Not Destro’s Literal Son

and

Yes, I Will Die On This Hill

I have a number of small, persistent quibbles with some of the widespread misapprehensions I see included in BNHA fanfic, quoted as fact in meta posts, even cited on the wiki. Quirk cancellation restraints, what the 20% quirklessness data point means in practice, when Kurogiri comes into existence relative to the time of the Shimura Family Massacre, things like that. My biggest one, though, is as the title suggests: the idea that Yotsubashi Rikiya is Yotsubashi Chikara’s son.

I don’t entirely know where this confusion comes from. As far as I can tell, the early scanlations didn’t get it wrong—one rendered the line in Chapter 218 about Destro having a child he didn’t know about as being children, plural, but otherwise, they were all accurate enough. It seems people just assumed that the child mentioned in 218 must be Re-Destro, who was, after all, right there on the panel. Even though the scanlations never said it, even though the official translation never said it, even though ample evidence in the manga disproves it, the idea still got around that Rikiya is Chikara’s son.

I have and will maintain that this is obviously wrong if you stop to think about it for even a moment, but unfortunately, most people don’t. The error can be found on less well-tended parts of the fandom wiki[1]; it’s in tumblr meta posts about the villains; it’s in fanfic.

And now, god help me, it is on the official anime website, too.

“Stillness-in-green, maybe you should consider that you might just be wro—”

I will face BONES and walk backwards into hell.

But if you want, you can come with me, and I’ll explain on the way. Hit the jump.

Dialogue + Narration

There are two places where the relationship between Chikara and Rikiya is explicitly addressed—the lead-in to the dinner scene in Chapter 218 and the fight between Clone!Shigaraki and RD in Chapter 232. If you include the Ultra Analysis databook, the number goes up to four: once each in Re-Destro and Destro Classic’s character blurbs.

Let’s take a look at each of those places, shall we?

The relevant Japanese text here is in the first narration box: 子ども, kodomo.

Kodomo is not gendered. It literally just means child. The key kanji is 子, ko. Like most kanji, it has a lot of potential readings, and you can add other kanji to it to modify it. Add 息 and you get musuko, son. Pronounce 子 as shi instead of ko, and you get a term that is frequently, though not exclusively, used to refer to boys. Add 女 to that reading and you get joshi, woman/girl. 子 is in a lot of words, many of them gendered! Used for kodomo as Hori does here, though, it does nothing to indicate a gender one way or the other.

Also too, it does nothing to indicate that Rikiya is the child in question; it simply states that there was such a child, somewhere in the world. Now, the natural assumption for anyone who knows how the graphic novel medium works and who understands basic literary analysis would be that the significant character we just met is, in fact, the child in question—except that everything else we learn about Destro and the original Meta Liberation Army here makes it entirely impossible.

I’ll do a full breakdown on why that is in the next section. In the meantime, here’s the next reference:

Here, we’re looking at the phrase the Viz translation renders as, “His blood runs through these veins.” The literal Japanese there is, Desutoro no matsuei chi o tsugu mono! In a literal translation, chi o tsugu mono means, “one who inherits the blood,” or, more loosely, “blood successor.” It’s matsuei—末裔—that’s the key word here.

Japanese has several words to express the concept of “descendant.” Matsuei is one word; the data book uses shison. So what’s the difference? Well, I’ll talk about shison in a moment, but I had an inkling of it just from looking at the kanji in matsuei—“end” and “descendant” respectively, leaving me with an impression of something like a final descendant or the terminus of the bloodline. Further research confirmed it: shison can refer to any lineal blood tie, but matsuei refers to a bloodline’s final inheritor, the person at the end of a long line of many, or even countless, generations. It’s the difference between being able to point to a grandparent and the kind of painstaking genealogical research that lets you[2] point to a famous royal from eight hundred years ago—matsuei is a word that very much assumes the existence of those countless generations.

So not only does Rikiya’s line there not imply that he’s Chikara’s son, but his specific word choice also tells us that he cannot be Chikara’s son. That’s, uh. Pretty conclusive, I would say.

Lastly, though, there’s also the data book. This is, perhaps, the actual closest you’re going to get to a manga equivalent of those character blurbs on the anime website, at least until such time as Hori deigns to give the MLA types character profile pages. (I live ever in hope.)

There are two relevant bits of text, one in Re-Destro’s entry, and the other in Destro Classic’s. The first describes how Re-Destro organizes the MLA as Desutoro no chi o tsugu mono: the same phrase he uses for himself in the manga, minus the matsuei. @codenamesazanka (the one who told me about the databook references among other citations, bless) rendered it as “Destro’s blood successor”; I have also seen it given as “the successor of Destro’s bloodline.” Note again, the lack of reference to a father/son bond.

Chikara’s entry uses that other descendant word I mentioned before, 子孫, shison. Notice that the term uses that ko kanji from kodomo before? As it does in joshi, 子 here reads shi. The other kanji, 孫, means grandchild. Thus, literally, grandchild-child—or, in the vernacular, simply descendant.

And then we have the anime website.

So, for comparison’s sake, the anime website uses 息子—the same combination of kanji that I said earlier gives you musuko, son. Heck, it even uses 父, chichi, for Destro—father. It’s as explicit as it’s possible to be, and I just don’t know why or how the anime website could fuck that up so bad when absolutely nothing in the manga describes the two Yotsubashis that way, and, indeed, one specific word choice actually rules out the possibility.

So, that’s all the manga says directly. It’s not the only evidence there is, though. In fact, the next piece makes it even more clear how colossally and impossibly wrong a father/son connection for Destro and his modern successor is.

Timeline

The long and short of this section is, “Since Harima Oji was Sako Atsuhiro’s great-great-grandfather, there is no possible way that Destro—who pre-dated Harima—can be Re-Destro’s father.” If you read that sentence and nodded your complete understanding and agreement, feel free to skip ahead to the last section. If you’d like the full explanation it takes to reach that sentence’s conclusion, though, read on.

So, aside from the word matsuei, the timeline is the most telling piece of evidence to my eye. I address it secondly rather than firstly because it’s less direct than the explicit narration; it relies on drawing conclusions based on things we’ve been told elsewhere rather than on the immediately relevant text. Oh, Mr. Compress’s relationship to Harima is explicit enough, but on what am I basing my claim that Destro predates him?

Regarding that, there’s no explicit year relative to My Hero Academia’s current events given for when Destro and the original Meta Liberation Army were active; the same is true for Harima Oji’s escapades. However, we are given some broad-strokes information, relative not to current events, but rather to the history of heroism as a legal institution in Japan.

We know that there was a widespread, lengthy period of chaos following the rise of quirks—called meta-abilities in those early years. At some point, however, people began to search for a way for meta-humans to live in peace with non-metas. The compromise that was reached was the foundation of professional heroism in Japan—while the use of meta-abilities would be legal in private settings, it was only by becoming licensed by the state as “heroes” that people could use their quirks in public.[3]

The legislation curtailing the use of meta-abilities—and the appropriation of a dead woman’s language to popularize a law establishing exactly the opposite of what she used that language to call for—is what catalyzed the rise of the original MLA. Thus, we can position Destro as being alive and active around the same time that heroism as a legal institution was being formed. Since we further know that he committed suicide in prison, we can assume that his child was conceived at some point prior to his capture. Ergo, Destro’s child, were they alive today, would be as old as Japanese professional heroism itself.

Next, consider Harima Oji, the Peerless Thief, a criminal who targeted the riches of “sham heroes.” We’re specifically told that he was active in the days in which the current system was settling into place—e.g. he only became active once the Hero System was established enough to have produced corrupt heroes. We’re told he preached reformation—he wasn’t just some pre-existing criminal who saw a shiny new target in heroes; he had specific grievances which he wanted addressed by the system, and which the system was not addressing.

The earliest Harima could possibly be active, then, is concurrent with Destro—Harima fighting against the corrupt people who had found their way into the new heroic institution, and Destro fighting against using the institution of heroism to oppress non-heroes. What I think is more likely, though, is that Harima came after Destro—Harima needed to have had time to realize what kinds of fakes had been drawn to this shiny new career path, maybe even to spend some time trying to change things the legal way.

I don’t suspect they were separated by very long—I would imagine Destro was easily within Harima’s living memory, and might well have influenced why he chose the path of protest that he did—but I do think they were separate.

Moving forward, then, Mr. Compress is four generations distant from his famous ancestor. Thus, even if you assume that Harima is of the same generation as Chikara, that’s what you’re looking at for Chikara’s child: someone who, were they alive today, would be old enough to be the great-grandparent of a thirty-two-year-old man.

Re-Destro’s probably a few years older than Mr. C, sure,[4] but that man doesn’t have Ujiko’s slow-aging quirk. Unless you want to start pulling theories about cryogenic stasis the story for some reason never saw fit to mention out of thin air, Re-Destro is in no way old enough to fit the bill.

This is backed up by one other piece of the timeline as well, and one more place we can look at language:

The small child at the center of the image is Rikiya, so young that he’s in schoolboy shorts for a meeting otherwise so formal that he’s been made to wear a tie. He’s, what, six to nine here, tops? And the adults speaking to him say that they’ve been in hiding for generations—代々, daidai, the kanji for generation followed by a kanji that just means, “See that kanji written right before me? Yeah, just read that one again.”

The original MLA was active for only a handful of years, and, per Chapter 218, they didn’t dissolve until Destro was captured. Thus, we can assume they have been in hiding since then, but not before then. With that in mind, this is another line that renders a father/son relationship impossible.

Remember, Chikara already had a child in the world circa his capture. If Rikiya were Chikara’s son, then Destro’s capture and his army’s subsequent dissolution could not have happened any farther back than nine months plus however old Rikiya was in this exact moment of his youth. Rikiya, who we see here as a child of less than ten.

Ten years in hiding doesn’t make one generation; it damn sure doesn’t make multiple ones.

Now, you could make theories about cryogenic statis that would explain this ludicrous discrepancy, sure. You could also theorize about e.g. artificial insemination,[5] or time stop quirks, or any number of other possibilities in the vast panoply the HeroAca world offers. The point is, though, that you don’t need to. There was, in the manga, no discrepancy that needed to be explained. It is only fanon misinterpretation and a glaring disinterest in the series’ villains from official sources that have presented this issue.

I’m praying that it’s all just a misunderstanding on the part of whoever maintains the website, and that the anime itself will render the relevant bits of dialogue correctly. Given the extreme cuts and alterations that My Villain Academia has been subjected to thus far, though, I’m sure you can appreciate my being concerned.

…So that’s the meat of it. The idea that Rikiya is Chikara’s son is wrong simply on the basis of what’s said in the text, and it’s doubly wrong on the basis of the timeline. There is, though, one other thing I think points towards Re-Destro being exactly the descendant he says he is, not a son playing down the connection out of humility or something. This one is a lot more headcanon-y, though, so I saved it for last.

MLA Social Dynamics

It’s quite simple. We have, in the MLA, a group of people that venerates Destro’s bloodline to an obviously unhealthy degree, putting up portraits of him wherever they can get away with it, tagging his successor with a “Re-” as if to invoke reincarnation or miraculous return, entirely willing to throw their lives away for what they think was his cause, and others’ lives if those others say anything too scathing about the words Destro wrote, quite as if they treat Destro’s memoir as some sort of holy writ.

They venerate Destro that much, and you’re trying to tell me that they wouldn’t just call a spade a spade and acknowledge RD as the son of their great leader? Come on.

Since long before I turned up the matsuei factoid in researching this piece, since long before Mr. Compress gave us such a helpful generational comparison, I’ve held the opinion that, given a group that holds their leaders in such high esteem, with such particular regard for bloodline, the only reason Rikiya does just call himself a descendant, rather than citing the specific term for what he is, is that the specific term is distant enough that it actually does sound more impressive to just say “descendant,” rather than something like, “great-great-great-grandson.” That kind of thing just begs the question, “What took you guys so long?” or, “You and how many other people, buddy?”

Mr. Compress may have the panache to carry off a line like that, but Rikiya’s a different story. If he had something so amazing up his sleeve as, “I am the son of the great Destro,” I have to think he’d just say it proudly, not fall back on the impressionistic vaguery of something like chi o tsugu mono. Even if I had no other evidence to work with, I’d think the same—all the evidence you need is right there in the character writing of who Rikiya and the MLA are and how they talk about the man whose dreams Re-Destro was raised to carry.

A closing note: I will allow that Rikiya is being overdramatic when he uses matsuei and its connotation of countless generations. There are a few other things we can use to trace the history of heroism—Ujiko’s age, and the 18-years-or-less periods that One For All was held by its pre-All Might bearers—and running those numbers leads me to believe that it is, in fact, entirely possible to count the number of generations between Rikiya and Chikara, and the number, while higher than one, is probably not all that high. Certainly matsuei is being more dramatic about it than is entirely warranted, hence the poetic flourish of the official translation’s, “His blood runs through these veins!” The theatricality only makes me fonder of him, however.

------------------------

FOOTNOTES

[1] It was changed and reverted on Re-Destro’s page at least twice before it finally stuck in January of this year. Chikara’s page took until July to be corrected, and it’s still wrong on various other subpages.

[2] Or your kids, if you have those. Only the last generation in the bloodline is the matsuei, but that’s a moving goalpost as long as the bloodline is still propagating.

[3] This summary of events combines what we know from both My Hero Academia proper and the Vigilantes spin-off, which I recommend to anyone who’s at all interested in finer-grained worldbuilding on Hero Society Japan than the main series makes time for.

[4] I personally headcanon him as 42.

[5] To which point I would refer back to the word kodomo, and note that that word choice indicates that Destro had a child in the world. Not a sperm sample kept in a freezer somewhere, waiting for the right would-be mother: an actual child. Some quick research on my part says that the farthest that term stretches is in using it to refer to yet-unborn children, fetuses still in the womb. Seeing as Japan doesn’t even allow inmates conjugal visits in real life, much less in a setting where villains are so dehumanized that Tartarus is an acceptable punishment for them, the line about Destro “having a child out in the world” takes us right back to a date of conception no later than Destro’s final night of freedom.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha #bnha meta #yotsubashi rikiya #yotsubashi chikara #re-destro #destro bnha #meta liberation army #my writing #i have thoughts on the anime's nonsense too but #hahawow #that's gonna take a little longer to get coherent #preview: it's not about capitalism #it's about fear

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asterjennifer · 2 years

Note

saeran, you promised mc the candlelight dinner. Do it.😈

🎀 Our Saeran be like: Alright alright, I know you're desperate for that, lovely. You'll get what you deserve~ 🎀

Under Candlelight

Fandom: Mystic Messenger

Pairing: SE Saeran x Reader

Category: Fluff (Angst)

Warnings: Insecurities

Word count: 3947

Author's Note: Believe it or not.. When it comes to romance, this version of Saeran can be just as shy.

Summary: You're at the edge of sanity, knowing that tonight, he'd take you out.

It's the first real date you share.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is nerve-wracking to the bone! You fumbled with the strands of hair protesting against your hairstyle for the evening, wondering why they couldn't cooperate once in your life. Unable to tell what exactly’s waiting for you as the coming hour proceeded, all your nerves danced Tango ever since waking up to the reality of tonight being the night where you're actually getting back what's rightfully yours. Or at least a part that felt neglected for quite a while, although it's not his intention. Yet there's no denying, your emotions used to be buried for some time by now, it's liberating to know tonight's going to unleash some of the endless, circling feelings deep rooted inside your chest.

Or at least give them a pass, there's a reasonable explanation if they're going to spill over tonight. You stroked the dress right for the countless time, no matter how much work you've put into your appearance, it never felt complete somehow. Letting you speculate what he'd say to your effort. What would Saeran think? Saeran... The name alone caused your heart to bust through the roof. It's the first time you're having a real date with the redhead after winning this oddly stupid bet a week ago.

At least the embarrassment paid off for once, it's beautiful albeit uncomfortable to imagine a candlelight dinner with the one person who's constantly having you on the edge of sanity. Then again, you opened the lipstick next, trying to keep your hand from shaking and mess up the make-up. He'd literally seen you naked too often, heard your voice in all existing octaves while watching you come apart under his simple touches. But this date's what pushes you close to some breakdown, however that's possible. Due to the feelings you kept hidden for the little devil who had no qualms about turning your life upside down?

Maybe the fact he's not the type for cheesy, romantic cliches? What if he doesn't truly want this...? Despite your rational voice saying that's nothing but your insecurity nagging at your soul, you couldn't help worrying. Saeran wasn't someone open for love in such interpersonal relationships, what if he pushed himself? What when he forgot about tonight? Nonsense! You breathed through, hands coming straight with a wavering motion to stare strictly at yourself through the mirror. He's the one who asked about my favorite food two days ago... Stop being a scaredy-cat!

You scolded inside your head, putting away the lipstick after being mostly satisfied with your looks. There's not much else left, you're not the prettiest person from nature, so it's useless continuing. Dear... You sighed while checking everything inside your purse for the last time. Why am I beating myself up now... Deep down, however, you knew the reason as it's been familiar for years. The bell of your place ringing freed you from the internal monologues, also frightening your heart and almost jumped out of your chest. Oh God!!!

You gasped silently, turning your head left in right by the panic creeping in without warning. My shoes!! Losing balance for a moment, you clumsily put on high heels as quickly as humane possible. »A-A moment! I'm done–« Ashamed for being a stuttering mess already, you hopped to the door. It's not the easiest task closing high heels while reaching the end of the hall, luckily you managed it without paying the price of falling down. One last stroke over your hair and your shaky hand opened the door for the person waiting behind. Saeran's bright, minty glowing eyes found yours immediately.

»Hey, (N)« His red hair stood out as every time you're in his space, the fact he kept it chaotic left your heart bleeding helplessly. Surely he's aware how much you adored these strands in their natural form, therefore he didn't do anything to remove the beauty given from birth. It's so unfair, he must've done it on purpose. Oh my... Red flustered your cheeks when realizing he dressed up as well, simply albeit elegant. White...? He wore a white vest, the first thing you noticed. A tie fitting to the dark shoes and above all, he held a boutique of flowers in his left arm. Saeran? Bright clothes? That's unusual, but if it didn't look breathtaking.

»(N)?« Hearing him call you by name's unsettling, it brought you back into reality. You quickly stood straight, burying the shame scratching your body after staring uninhibited. »S-Sorry.. I... I spaced out..« The broken voice of yours didn't make it any more believable, at least he kept the comments to himself. Saeran's face's tense, now you're able to analyze his stuff posture as well. Seemed like you're not the only one unnerved about the situation. »It's fine. Here.. They're for you.« Unusual hesitant did Saeran held out the big boutique of flowers.

You expected lots of surprises for tonight, however, getting gifted with such beautiful plants hadn't been on the list. It's shocking in a way your throat suffocated from the warmth burning in the core of your stomach. Saeran went out of his way to buy and give you flowers, that's a one-time gesture you appreciated with every inch of your heart. »Wow.. They're so beautiful. Thank you so much!« You carefully took them, pointing back at the kitchen with your eyes. »Let me put them in a vase before we leave.«

The redhead nodded in response, waiting silently as you walked back in to keep them alive in water. They're beautiful... You're uncertain what kind of flower it is, he'd chosen the ones having the best condition, surely. After placing the vase onto the table, you pulled on your jacket when coming back to him. Saeran didn't speak, instead he let you lock the door and walk down the sidewalk with you. The air's warm despite the sun's absence, an advantage for the summer season. You looked up, the moon visible with millions of stars decorated the otherwise dark sky, street lamps were the only source of light on earth.

It's weird, you thought as your stare's glued to the ground in front of your feet afterwards. He's never that quiet with only you two around. »So... Where are we going tonight?« You asked, the slight hint of tension audible in your voice, making you pray he wouldn't take it the wrong way. »We have to drive to our location. I came with the car.« Right as he explained, he took the keys to unlock the big, red car parked at the sidewalk. You couldn't help but giggle lightheaded. »You mean Saeyoung's car? Hehe.« Saeran avoided your amusement skillfully by opening the door for you, the polite offer caught you on the wrong foot.

»It would take too long otherwise. Now get in.« With a huff escaping your lips, you did as demanded. Saeran closed the door and came beside you in the driver's seat. What a feeling... You've never been in the car once Saeran drove, you didn't even know he had a license. »Put the seat-belt on.« His tough tone remedied you. After making sure you're secure, Saeran turned his upper body around to not accidentally bump into another car. You pressed both hands against your knees, the air inside the car's way thicker than outside. He's so serious...

You peeked from the corner of your eye, yet his were focused on the road. What happened? A question haunting your head since opening the door for him. Neither nicknames like it's always the case, nor attempts on flirting. As if you're back to the start, when being simple strangers to each other. That's Saeran's behavior with most people living in his environment, but you're different. Leaving you break your mind over the reasons. What got him to act detached again. »Thank you for keeping your word.« You swallowed the lump blocking your throat. How seriously grateful you were for him to fulfill his promise's quiet silly.

Saeran switched gears, humming shortly to acknowledge he'd heard you. Damn... The drive took longer than suspected, passing by all these lights and buildings before arriving somewhere you've never been to. That didn't help your nerves whatsoever, especially with the silence dominating the car. You needed to start a conversation, just for the sake of your own sanity. »By the way... You look really good in white.« Okay, well, maybe not break the dam by complimenting his outfit. I'm such a hopeless mess, oh my god... You're about to hit your forehead and punish your stupidity. Saeran's faster, though.

»Thanks. It was Saeyoung's idea. And he insisted so hard I had no choice.« The imagination's killing some uncomfortable feelings. To see the older twin with glasses, urge his brother dressing up in the complete opposite style he'd preferred. You're capable to see the annoyed facial expression of Saeran and the eyes filled with stars of Saeyoung after convincing him. I wonder how much Saeyoung helped Saeran with this...? You bet a lot, given that the younger twin's less acquainted with such events. Unconsciously, your fingers went through your hair.

He didn't say anything about my looks yet... To admit that detail's almost impossible, it blurred your vision. A bitter taste spread on your tongue for feeling disappointed although there's no justification why you should feel that way. Maybe he didn't pay much attention or something... It's not the world... And yet. »We're here.« You choked on gagging by the sudden standstill of the car. Confused, you gazed out of the window, left with only many more questions as there's literally nothing. You had to stand in an isolated area, the start of a forest for all you knew.

There's grass underneath your feet when leaving the car. Some trees, a old way created by trampled dirt. What the hell...? »Um..« Not brave enough to ask the redhead what's going on exactly, you're seeking Saeran's eyes. To your bad luck, he began to walk down the dirty path into wherever the fuck you stood. »Com'on. I show you the way.« Taken aback, you followed him with the calls of owls further in the distance. Were you about to have a candlelit dinner or get murdered in the woods? Honestly, both seemed plausible with such setup.

Just wait... You calmed yourself, taking a deep breath from the cooler air. Too late you registered he came to a hold, the reason as to why you bumped into his back. »Oops– Haha, sorry..« You tried to apologize without coming off odd, the attempt ended in pure vain. Sometimes you're really tempted to hit yourself black and blue, seriously. Saeran's hand came around to find yours, he's flaming once again. The skin-on-skin contact chased goosebumps over your arms. Oh god–! No time to freak out, the redhead stepped aside. Wha... Your jaw felt open, but even after blinking frequently to assure it's no illusion, the scene in front stayed the same.

Was it real? There's a big table in the middle of a small space covered by grass and near standing trees. It's lit by candles, ironically, as they stood invited on the table with two chairs across from each other. There's the food you've told him about on the plate, glasses and stuff hidden away inside the food truck. What the... Your eyes pained since you forgot to blink. »I'm.. I hope this is okay.« Saeran squeezed your hand tighter, gaining your attention. His face's too tense, it must've hurt. Taking the second to watch him be, you realized he's holding himself completely strained. »I know I said I take you out to a candlelight dinner. I'm sorry that's all I can do.«

His raw words made you frown. What is he talking about...? Saeran let go of your hand, then. »I'm sure you expected to eat at a big restaurant or on a pretty terrace... But I, well..« He shrugged stiff, trying to play down whatever's plaguing his head. His voice lost strength until only a whisper remained. »Thinking to eat around a big crowd of people isn't... I can't do that.« One of his hands came around the other fist, rubbing the irritated skin in order to calm himself. Saeran's entire mouth went dry the longer he thought how childish all of it was. You should've gone with someone already having his crap together, he figured.

»I'm sorry if you looked forward to this and feel disappointed. If you don't like it, I take you back home.« He promised, yet you're unable to say anything. No word burning on your tongue's coming out. What...? You couldn't believe it, he's serious. Saeran thought this wasn't good enough. You shook your head in unbelief, unable to comprehend why he's insecure about this not living up to your expectations. It exceeded every single one you had; how could he think you're disappointed by all the work he put into this? That's not fair... Frustration rose up; therefore, you grabbed his hand. »Saeran, I..«

Your stare wandered over this place coming straight out of a Disney movie. That's when you also took his other hand into your grasp. It forced the redhead to turn back, still not meeting your face regardless. »This is absolutely gorgeous! How can you say that!? I... I'm so, so happy! It's perfect!« Meanwhile you began to smile wide, the excitement coming out from under all the worries now that you've been shown that he, indeed, took this to heart. You're a silly... Saeran took a step back, his complicated expression speaking walls considering he's not sure how far he's able to trust this. »Really? But– Weren't you hoping to go to a pretty place instead?«

He questioned persistently; the only answer given was you pulling him to the table. »This is thousand times better than any restaurant! What are you talking about?« Saeran's cheeks won reddish color because of that obvious reaction, like you're not even remotely discouraged by the alternative he and his brother decided on. At least it's less suffocating for his soul. »Alright. I'm glad if that's the case, then.« You sat down before Saeran got the chance to pull the chair for you, it didn't seem to bother you. If anything, you're beaming the way the sun herself would've been jealous and Saeran's almost ashamed of doubting your happiness.

»Now I also get why you asked for my favorite food! This is... so beautiful.« While soaking in your surroundings for the night, Saeran used the opportunity to fill the glasses with your favorite drink. »Yeah, I had to prepare it. I hope it's how you like it.« You chuckled, taking in his shape from across the table. Lit by the candles, his hair's even warmer than it already was. Everything about Saeran appeared soft. Gentle, if you dared to think. »But you know..« His pale hand came to a hold after filling the glasses, finding your red cheeks held by both hands.

As if your administration's gushing out without hold, he couldn't help but lick his lips in nervousness. »You didn't have to put all this effort into the evening... I'm sure this took forever.« Your hand waved over your head, pointing out to the fact he created a dinner worthy for a fairytale story. I feel so damn special... It's written in your every feeling, that emotion only he's able to bring to life. »What do you mean? Of course I had to.« He countered, crossing his arms on the edge of the table. »It was a promise I made. Also..« For a bit, he's the one speechless. Saeran gathered his words carefully, secretly thankful you offered him the time needed.

»I want you to have fun. That's the whole point.« Your lips pulled into a thin line. For you, maybe... Your inner voice husked torn. It's not just for fun... The warm fire wiggled sensually with the little wind rustling through the trees, his hair moving along comfortably. But I know it's not the same for you, I could never judge that... The smile creeping over your face's a bit painful, if you'd been honest. »Sure.. Fun sounds great.« Saeran's stare rested on your face as you took fork and knife. Of course, he picked up on the rather dull response. It's all just unfair...

»Are you not having fun?« God, you wished to sink into the ground forever. What to say–? You placed the cutlery back down, trying to come up with some good excuse before he's able to find the truth. »No- I mean, yes! I have fun. Don't worry about that, it's a lot of fun.« The stuttering took some confidence from your assurance. Saeran's eyes narrowed slightly, only an inch, but you're seeing it happening either way. »You're hiding something, aren't you?« And away it fell. The sweat had you shudder when being cooled down by the outside. Your face burned with shame, just like your fingertips. I'm ruining all his work-!

The hissing's unintentional, once started, however, you couldn't find yourself to stop. Self-hatred's an aspect of your past which you defeated after a long path of hard work. Despite it all, the tendencies for getting dragged back into that routine could be triggered in the wrong moments. Ending up in positions like now. He put so much effort into this... And I'm straight up ruin it! All because of these dumb feelings– Hot tears threatened to rise into your eyes, everything seemed to mock your lack of self-control. »(N)? What's wrong? I meant it, I can bring you back home if you don't like this.«

You hid the pathetic sight of your breaking facial expression behind both hands. Unable to accept your own behavior. »It's not that. I'm sorry.« The words came through only muffled. Why do I even continue this...? You asked yourself reproachfully. I keep hoping for shit that's beyond his comfort zone... I keep prying without considering his limits-! The more you thought back, the harder it became to believe he truly enjoyed your presence. How selfish could you be? Saeran said your name, slower this time. I can't take this... You stood up, holding your head low for him to overlook the tears rising into your closed eyes.

»I'm sorry you h-had to prepare all this for someone l-like me.« After you pushed the chair further, you stroked some loose strands of hair behind your ear in defeat. »I know h-how much you have to push yourself for these kind of things... I'm sorry I made you go that hard.« You reached your hands over the table, all the details which you weren't worthy of. God. This was a waste of his time, Saeran could've used the hours to find peace in his restless soul, for example. But instead you coerced him to play a role that's out of his reach, it wouldn't shock you to learn he's relieved once you decide to break this up. I'm so disgusting... This was wrong from the start, you acknowledged bitter.

»I'm so sorry for doing that to you... I better.. I go h-home myself.« Wouldn't take as long, considering you could call up a taxi. You pulled the phone from the purse, ready to leave behind the shame you've caused upon his preparations. You'd pay him back for the wasted food later on, you made a mental note for that. »Wait a moment.« Unwillingly your feet obeyed, waiting until Saeran's close enough for his sent to mess with your brain. Sweet, always so sweet it's having you at the edge of breaking down for the second time. Saeran's steps silenced once he's close to you, close enough to lift his hand and curl his fingers around your shoulder.

The touch's light, almost nonexistent and ending up in you feeling like a broken doll that fell from the shelve. »Why are you suddenly thinking that way?« Justified question to which you couldn't share the truthful answer. It wasn't the time, it's too soon for you both. Aware that you wouldn't have the heart to lie, you let the owls nearby take the upper hand in the conversation. »I'd never offer anything that I wouldn't uphold myself, (N).« He sighed heavily, letting out the stifling oxygen that's glued to you both since leaving. »Look, I know it's... I know you.«

His words drifted, you used all willpower to ignore both his stare and the ripping sound in your chest. »I know you looked forward to this a lot, even if you hid it. I could tell you're excited.« Saeran's hand's comfy against your cheek, especially when wiping away the annoying tears that found their way out. »I promise I'm not doing anything I don't want myself, okay? Believe me.« You refrained from sniffing once his nose rubbed in a cat like manner on your temple. »I know I'm not... The best choice for this stuff. I know I'm awkward. But that doesn't mean I don't want to be here with you.«

He mumbled into your ear, pulling you by the waist into a embrace. You gave in without putting in resistance, too embarrassed for worsening the night further. Don't say that... Your frown remained as your hands clung to his suit, face soon safely hidden in his chest. His heart's beating faster than normal. »You're a great choice, even if romantic plans aren't your thing. Don't say that.« A sniffing sound left by the lovely pressure of his hand running over your head. Saeran held you tight for quite a while, not that you're complaining. On the contrary, it felt similar to redemption when spilling some of these disgusting doubts and worries.

Even more so because he immediately proved them wrong. Man... What a rollercoaster of emotions again. »I think the food is cold now, though.« He cut in, reminding you that the plates stood on the table for at least an hour. You pulled away, rubbing away the rest of the tears. »Sorry... That's my fault.« But he shook his head, beautiful hair long enough to cover some of his bright iris. »No, you're not to blame. Don't worry, Princess.« Oh– How one simple nickname could kill a mountain of tension, it's unbelievable. »How about we just.. get some food instead. Maybe not the definition of a candlelight dinner, but hey. Better than going starved.«

You laughed by the suggestion with a slight sassy shimmer rushing over his face. He's not wrong... Saeran didn't complain as your fingers came around his, twisting them together to hold hands. »Sure, that sounds good as well!« He cracked a smirk, already on the move to reach the car. »Good. Takeout food it is, then.« Your heart lifted back up, just the same way your eyes looked back into the center of nowhere. »Hey, Saeran... What about the table?« A gasp's torn from your throat as he pulled you back against his chest, there he was. The man you're used to find and get your heart to die for. »Again, no worries. Saeyoung's going to take care of everything. I text him in the car.«

Saeran raised an eyebrow as you failed to keep in the next wave of laughter. »Haha, poor guy! I'm sure he won't be pleased by that outcome of all the preparation.« You'd apologize by the upcoming meeting as RFA group. Saeran sighed, taking the lead. Yet there's no denying the amusement he's sharing alongside yourself. »He'll be fine. He might whine, but that's okay.« Secretly rolling your eyes, you doubted that. Regardless, you let the night take its path however it felt naturally. And holding his hand surely did. »Okay, if you say so. Let's get some food now.«

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blockgamepirate · 3 years

Text

Technoblade’s purpose in the political narrative of the Dream SMP

I can’t sleep so I decided to finally write the post I’ve been struggling with for literal months, except way more casual because I can’t be bothered anymore and also I’m sleep deprived.

So the thing is: to me the DSMP storyline has always been primarily political, probably because I was introduced to it through Wilbur who was definitely going for political, and also because I’m just generally interested in political narratives right now. Obviously I appreciate the character work and the personal relationship stuff, that’s what makes it more interesting than just dry allegory, but when it comes down to it, this story is about politics to me. So that’s the angle I’m going to approach it from.

Also not to spoil the conclusions here, but I’m an anarchist, that’s my lens.

(Obviously all of this is about rp from here on out unless otherwise specified)

Basically the situation as Techno joins the server is this: L'Manburg exists as an autonomous nation and is de facto independent although not officially recognised by the Dream SMP. The self-appointed president Wilbur Soot decides to hold an election and rig it in order to consolidate his power over the nation he founded and he gets his VP Tommyinnit to join in on the plan. Their scheme fails and they end up voted out instead. The new president, Schlatt, immediately establishes himself as an authoritarian figure and exiles Wilbur and Tommy.

A couple of points on what the election arc demonstrates:

1: the appearance of democracy can be used for distinctly undemocratic purposes.

2: even if the elections aren’t rigged, the electoral system could be massively flawed and end up favouring a party that in fact didn’t have the popular vote

3: even if the winning government (the coalition in this case) has the majority vote, that doesn’t guarantee that they’ll actually act according to the popular will.

4: the supporters of the losing parties basically just have to let the majority overrule their wishes, espcially since apparently L’Manburg doesn’t have an established role for an opposition, yikes. That’s actually a MAJOR oversight in the system but I’m not gonna go into that too much.

5: frankly as an anarchist I am just deeply cynical towards representative democracy, and just because you have a token appearance of choice and consent doesn’t mean that it isn’t a hierarchical and authoritarian system. And to be fair, from my point of view this applies even to so-called liberal democracies and progressive parties. Full disclosure: even if L'Manburg was the ideal example of a representative democracy (which it very much isn’t) I would still be opposed to it because I fundamentally do not believe in top down systems, even electoral ones.

6: despite all these flaws, all the characters seem to implicitly accept the electoral system as legitimate. There’s criticism against the actions of individual characters acting within the system, such as Quackity calling out Wilbur for trying to rig the election, but nobody is questioning the system itself.

So at this point I’m sitting there, watching all this go down, and thinking “man, this would be so much more bearable if there was an anarchist point of view being represented in the story.”

And hey, look who IMMEDIATELY SHOWS UP.

Okay, I’m not gonna lie, early installation Technoblade is not the best representation of anarchism. I was mostly rooting for him out of sheer contrarianism initially. I didn’t really even care if it would be another Killmonger/Magneto/Zaheer situation because I’m used to reading against the authorial intent when it comes to these things. Sometimes any representation is better than no representation, even with political ideologies. That’s not to say that him just straight up spouting this hobbesian notion of a “dog-eat-dog world” didn’t grate on me, obviously it did.

That kind of worldview of humanity needing authority in order to prevent chaos and conflict is literally antithetical to anarchism and is the favourite talking point of authoritarians, the least anarchist people there are. It’s literally what people use to argue AGAINST anarchism. I think it’s mostly because cc!Techno obviously wasn’t particularly educated on anarchist thought and was just basically having fun roleplaying with his friends at this point. Which is frustrating but fair enough I guess.

Cynical ideas about human nature are pretty deeply rooted in the mainstream, unfortunately, most people just consider it common sense. And like I said, it’s a huge talking point in the propaganda against anarchism.

(… even though in fact these arguments were originally used against proponents of representative democracy. Hobbes himself was very much a monarchist, the idea of letting normal people vote for their representatives would have been terrifying to him. Like surely the world would descent into a free-for-all war, all against all. Imagine letting commoners have OPINIONS, the horror.)

So yeah, that stuff was pretty ehhhhh. It was basically what I’d expected though: cc!Techno isn’t an anarchist and we just don’t get accurate representation from non-anarchists, ever. What I dared to hope was that Techno’s character would at least stay consistent about his opposition to ALL governments. I was pretty sure that he would, even though it seemed like the majority of the fandom at the time was convinced that he would switch over to Schlatt’s side or something. It would have been a really shitty twist, I would have ragequit immediately. I mean what would have been the entire point of his character then? He might as well have been a random mercenary. Why even have his character be an anarchist if you were just going to make him work for a government?

(ftr this is kinda my biggest problem with the Hypixel Skyblock revolution event lol, honestly I think that was a worse depiction of anarchism than early DSMP Technoblade. I mean the speech was good, but… still became a government official, tho. booooooooo, cringe)

And yes, I was rooting against L'Manburg, obviously, and I would have even if it had meant having to deal with another badly written anarchist villain character. I never understood why people saw L'Manburg as the good guys, they were nationalist and exclusionary and their whole existence was based on trying to scam people for money.

I mean they were definitely funny, they were great entertainers. I have no problems with people rooting for them because they’re fun to watch; I did that for a bit too. But people were starting to get really into the story and talk about Wilbur and Tommy, the corrupt politicians, and the country that literally excluded people based on nationality as the heroes, unironically, which was wild to me. And when Wilbur started his “villain arc” well: people called it a villain arc, as if he hadn’t been pretty much a bad guy from the beginning, constantly just out for money and power and taking advantage of the people around him and then pretending to be the victim when challenged. I mean yes he got worse, but I wouldn’t call it a villain arc, more like just a mental breakdown arc.

More importantly, to me L'Manburg represented so many things I hate about the status quo in real life, and seeing the fandom mostly unquestioningly accept it as good just pissed me off. Still pisses me off tbh. I mean, to be diplomatic I could say that I understand the emotional attachment and the way L'Manburg was built up mirrors a lot of how real nations are built and how they create a sense of patriotism out of symbols and a sense of honour and loyalty, and it’s actually really fascinating how it even works in a Minecraft roleplay. Says something about the human mind I guess. Doesn’t mean I have to like it though.

Anyway, I just wanted to see literally any kind of opposition to power, even if it had to come from a character that was unquestionably a villain, which I fully assumed Techno would be. Because political narratives so often just leave us out, or at best barely mention us. And even from a narrative point of view, adding an anarchist perspective to a political story just objectively broadens its scope and actually challenges people who are used to only arguing along the lines of conservative or liberal, welfare state or privatization, nationalism or multiculturalism, etc. Even if the original work dealt with it poorly, at least it would give me the excuse to rant about it on Tumblr, which is kinda why I revived my old Minecraft sideblog for this. (That and pig!Techno fanart.)

Also how can you have a story so fundamentally about power without its counterpoint: the rejection of power?

(Yes, Dream SMP as a whole is definitely a narrative about power, it’s a huge theme for Wilbur, Quackity, Dream, Eret and the Badlanders at least, as well as obviously the anarchist characters from the opposite direction.)

So yeah, the build up to November 16th for me was mainly about the anticipation for what Techno would do, how would Techno’s character respond to the seemingly inevitable formation of a new government. THAT was the point of interest for me, that was what I was the most invested in. Would we get an actual anarchist opposition as a new side to the conflict or would they just awkwardly drop that whole angle? Or even have him team up with Schlatt like a complete sellout? There was so much potential but I worried they might just waste it.

And I was right to worry since apparently in the original script Techno wasn’t supposed to do anything, he was just there to help fight Schlatt and witness the explosion along with everyone else.

And WOW that would have been so incredibly boring

Not even just from the political perspective, just talking about the narrative in general terms here: imagine November 16th without Techno’s plot points. Not only would it have been boring for Techno’s character but it would have been equally boring for basically everybody but Wilbur and Philza. An anticlimactic fight followed by a big explosion that pretty much everybody had seen coming already. Yes, the button room scene is dramatic and heartbreaking… for Wilbur and Phil. But nobody else was there to see it. For everybody else, it was just a big explosion. It would have been such a huge disservice to anyone watching the other POVs.

Techno’s intervention gave everyone an ACTUAL climactic fight, it allowed characters other than Wil and Phil to witness some actual drama happening and to participate in it, rather than just waiting around for the explosion, while also foreshadowing the explosion. Even better, it provoked SO MUCH discussion in the fandom AND gave a perfect hook for future conflicts to arise. Wilbur’s end was tragic but it was, at the time, final. L'Manburg would have still suffered a catastrophe but it would have been left with just the same exact antagonist as before: Dream.

And at this point Dream’s core goals had barely changed, just his approach was now different. Yes, that makes a difference for the plot, but it doesn’t really change much in terms of ideological conflict. Especially since there really isn’t that big of an ideological difference between Dream and Tommy, because arguably neither of them are particularly big on ideology in the first place, they just have conflicting goals and use different tactics to achieve those goals (well, the tactics aren’t always even that different *cough Spirit cough*).

Techno’s conflict with Tubbo and especially Quackity (and honestly most of the other characters in general) brings in so much more depth to the story, just by introducing another angle, not to even mention how much it brings to focus questions about power and violence. These are themes that exist in other characters’s storylines too but nowhere in the same way or as central as with Techno.

I’m getting kind of ahead of myself here, though.

The real twist of November 16th was the fact that Techno WASN’T a straight up villain, actually. It was a twist to me anyway, because with all my cynicism I just didn’t see it coming, I didn’t expect him to actually start making reasonable criticisms. I didn’t expect him to drop the hobbesian arguments entirely and start making points that actually sounded like anarchism.

I have to assume that cc!Techno must have seen some of the criticisms of his character and been inspired to adjust because the difference is pretty notable.

(Sidenote: I’m just forever kinda sad that Techno’s “I may seem like the villain here” monologue was cut from the video and most people never heard it.)

And I felt SO validated by the way, because it works so well in the story! Everyone is mostly content with the restoration of a status quo of some sort, Schlatt is gone, this is supposed to be the good ending, and then Techno calls them all out and turns the narrative around completely: This was just a coup d'état. This was just the previous political leadership retaking power by force. Why is everyone celebrating the same exact system that lead to Schlatt’s authoritarian rule in the first place?

What he does there is force the audience to question the narrative they’ve been presented so far, that they’ve accepted without a thought. It might not convince them, but they can’t just ignore it either.

Whatever you wanna say about the discourse around Techno on that day, in the ideological narrative THIS IS THE IMPORTANT PART. Not who betrayed who or when is political violence justified, that’s about personal relationships and morality and it’s mostly all more relevant to the aftermath than the event itself. In my opinion, the REAL point in the moment is that the characters and the audience were comfortable with the ending only to be presented with a completely new perspective on the events.

It also recontextualises the finale, including Wilbur’s actions! It’s a much more ambiguous end to the Pogtopia vs Manburg arc and to Wilbur’s original run as the head writer. Wilbur’s “even with Tubbo in charge I don’t think [that ‘special place’] can exist again” is vague enough to be dismissed as just part of his paranoia and internal conflict, but with Techno, there’s a concrete question: what if Tubbo, given the same powers as Schlatt, will turn out to be just a new Schlatt? And suddenly you have to wonder what Wilbur meant by his words too. And was all this foreshadowing something about L’Manburg’s future?

Okay I’ve only made it to November 16th and there’s so much more DSMP to talk about but the post is getting too long and I’m starting to lose my energy. Will I ever make a part two? No idea. But I’ll try.

Standard disclaimer: I’m not the spokesperson of anarchism, other anarchists might disagree with my reading

#technoblade #bladeblr #dream smp #dreamsmp #dsmp #l'manburg critical #c!wilbur soot critical #for courtesy tags #anarchy pog

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gimme-mor · 3 years

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ACOTAR THINK PIECE: ELAIN AND THE CONCEPT OF CHOICE

*DISCLAIMER*

Please take the time to read this post in its entirety and truly reflect on the message I am trying to send before commenting. My goal is to use my background in Gender and Women’s Studies to deconstruct the behaviors and comments I have seen on Tumblr and Twitter, and, more importantly, bring awareness to the ACOTAR fandom. I WILL NOT tolerate anyone who tries to twist my words and say I am attacking people and their personal shipping preferences. In fact, I AM CRITIQUING THE ARGUMENTS THEMSELVES NOT THE PEOPLE USING THE ARGUMENTS.

As someone who has been a long time lurker on all sides of the ACOTAR fandom, the growing toxicity and hostility has become more apparent to the point that civil discourse is, for the most part, entirely lost. More times than not, the cause of the communication breakdown centers around Elain and the relationships she has with those around her. Before and after the release of ACOSF, I’ve noticed that when the fandom expresses its opinions about Elain and her development as a character, whether in a romantic light or generally, the conversation wholly hinges on the concept of choice. Common examples I’ve seen include:

Elain has been stripped of her choice for a majority of her life

Elain should be able to make her own choices

The King of Hybern took away Elain’s choice to be human when he had her tossed into the Cauldron

Elain did not choose the mating bond for herself, instead it was forced upon her

Elain feels pressured to choose Lucien

Elain should have the choice to stray away from what is expected of her

Elain and Azriel being together represents a different and stronger type of love because she’s choosing to be with him

If you ship Elucien, you’re not Pro-Elain because you’re taking away Elain’s right to choose who she wants to be with and forcing her to accept the mating bond

Elain chose to accept Azriel’s advances in the bonus chapter

When Rhysand called Azriel away after catching him and Elain together, Elain was stripped of her choice to be sexually intimate with Azriel

When Azriel and Rhysand are talking in the bonus chapter, Elain’s choices aren’t at the center of their conversation

If you suggest that Elain should leave the Night Court, you’re stripping Elain of her choice to remain with her family

If you suggest that Elain should be friends with someone else, you’re ignoring Elain’s choice to be friends with Nuala and Cerridwen

Why is the concept of choice exclusively tied to Elain and everything surrounding her character while simultaneously ignoring that other characters in the ACOTAR series have, to varying degrees, been stripped of their choices at some point in their lives? And why isn’t the concept of choice connected to these characters in the same way that it is connected to Elain? For example:

Did the High Lords strip Feyre of her choice to consent when they turned her into a High Fae?

Did Tamlin and Ianthe strip Feyre of her choice to consent when they started to control every aspect of her life in the Spring Court?

Was Vassa stripped of her choice when the other Mortal Queens sold her to Koschei, which resulted in her being cursed to turn into a firebird?

Was Feyre stripped of her choice to know the risks involved in the pregnancy?

Did the King of Hybern strip Nesta of her choice to be human when he had her tossed into the Cauldron?

Was everyone stripped of their choices under Amarantha’s rule?

Was Feyre stripped of her choice to just be a daughter and a sister when the Archeron family failed to contribute to their survival, which resulted in Feyre being the family’s sole provider?

Did Lucien’s family strip him and Jesminda of their choice to be together when they killed her because of her status as a Lesser Faerie?

Are Illyrian females stripped of their choice to consent when their wings are clipped?

Did the Hybern general strip Gwyn of her choice to consent?

Did Ianthe strip Lucien of his choice to consent?

Did Keir strip Mor of her choice to consent to her engagement to Eris?

Universally, femininity is synonymous with weakness and women often face discrimination because the patriarchy is part of an interactive system that perpetuates women’s oppression. Since the ACOTAR universe is set up to mirror a patriarchal society, it’s clear that the imbalance of power between males and females stems from sexism. The thing that sets Elain apart from other female characters in the ACOTAR series is the fact that SJM has portrayed Elain as a traditionally feminine character based on her actions and the ways in which Elain carries herself. Compared to them, Elain is inherently held to a different standard because her femalehood takes precedence over other aspects of her character in fandom discussions. These conversations indirectly place Elain on a pedestal and hail her as the epitome of traditional femininity; and when her character is criticized in any way, it’s seen as a direct attack against women, specifically women who are traditionally feminine. Also, these conversations fall back on Elain’s femaleness when analyzing her character since it can be assumed from a reader’s perspective that Elain, despite being the middle sibling, is coddled by those around her because her ultra-feminine nature is perceived as a sort of weakness in need of protection. However, the fact that the concept of choice is used as an argument to primarily focus on Elain’s femalehood highlights the narrow lens through which Elain, as a character, is viewed. It implies that Elain’s femaleness is all her character has to offer to the series overall and insinuates that Elain’s character development is dependent on her femaleness. To suggest, through the choice argument, that ACOTAR’s patriarchal society constrains Elain’s agency and prevents her from enacting her feminist right to choose while failing to examine the patriarchal structure of the ACOTAR universe and its impact on the female characters in the series, the choice argument ultimately falls apart because it shows that it’s only used to focus on Elain’s femalehood. Furthermore, the implication that Elain’s right to choose is, in itself, a feminist act in the series indicates that the concept of choice as an argument is used to promote choice feminism.

Feminism is a social movement that seeks to promote equality and equity to all genders, and feminists work toward eradicating gender disparities on a macro-level, in addition to challenging gender biases on a micro-level. Historically, feminism prioritized the voices of white women, specifically white women who were cisgender, able-bodied, affluent, educated, and heterosexual. But over the decades, the inclusion of women of color and other marginalized women’s voices has broadened the scope of feminism and caused it to take an intersectional approach when discussing social identities and the ways in which these identities result in overlapping systems of oppression and discrimination. On the other hand, choice feminism, a form of feminism, greatly differs from what feminism is aiming to accomplish. In the article “It’s Time to Move Past Choice Feminism”, Bhat states:

“Choice feminism can be understood as the idea that any action or decision that a woman takes inherently becomes a feminist act. Essentially, the decision becomes a feminist one because a woman chose it for herself. What could this look like? It could really be anything. Wearing makeup is a feminist act. Not wearing it is also a feminist act. Shaving or not shaving. Watching one TV show over another. Choosing a certain job over another. Listening to one artist over another. Picking a STEM career. Choosing to dress modestly or not. The list goes on. At first glance, there does not seem to be an apparent negative consequence of choice feminism. A woman’s power is within her choices, and those choices can line up with a feminist ideology. For example, a woman’s decision not to shave may be her response to Western beauty standards that are forced onto women. Not shaving may make her feel beautiful, comfortable, and powerful, and there is nothing wrong with that. Women making choices that make them feel good is not the issue. The issue lies in calling these decisions feminist ones. Choice feminism accompanies an amalgamation of problems‒the first being that this iteration of feminism operates on faulty assumptions about said choices. Liberal feminism neglects the different realities that exist for different women‒especially the difference between white women and women of color, transgender women and cis women, etc. Not all women have the same circumstance and access to choices, not all choices made by women are treated equally, and not all choices are inherently feminist” (https://www.34st.com/article/2021/01/feminism-choice-liberal-patriarchy-misogyny-bimbo-capitalism).

Just as white feminism ignores intersectionality and refuses to acknowledge the discriminations experienced by women of color, choice feminism and arguments supporting choice feminism have, by default, made the concept of choice exclusionary. The individualization of choice feminism glorifies the act of a woman making an individual choice and, by extension, gives the illusion that women’s liberation from gendered oppression can be achieved by enacting their rights to make personal, professional, and political choices. Herein lies the problem with choice feminism: it (the argument of “But it’s my choice!”) stifles feminist conversations from exploring the depths and intricacies of the decision making process because it’s used as a way to shut communication down entirely, shield arguments from criticism, and condemn those who criticize choice feminism for its disconnection from a larger feminist framework. Contrary to what choice feminism advocates for, it lulls the feminist movement into complacency because women’s individual choices do nothing to alleviate gendered oppression. Choice feminism’s leniency towards choice fails to address the limitations of choice in regards to women’s intersectional identities and enables society to shift the blame of women’s oppression away from the societal and institutional structures in place to women themselves for making the wrong choices that ultimately resulted in their circumstances. Choice is not always accessible to every woman. For instance, choices made by white women are, in some way, inaccessible to women of color, in the same way that choices made by cisgender women are inaccessible to transgender women. Choice is one of the founding concepts of the feminist movement and it “became a key part of feminist language and action as an integral aspect and rallying call within the fight for reproductive rights‒the right to choose whether or not we wanted to get pregnant and to choose what we wanted for our bodies and lives” (https://www.feministcurrent.com/2011/03/11/the-trouble-with-choosing-your-choice/). When choice, in a feminist context, is framed as something that is solely about the individual as opposed to the collective, the feminist foundation on which it stands “leads to an inflated sense of accomplishment while distracting from the collective action needed to produce real change that would have a lasting effect for the majority of women” (https://www.jacobinmag.com/2017/03/i-am-not-feminist-jessa-crispin-review/).

By linking the choice argument with choice feminist rhetoric and extreme acts of progressiveness, it plays into today’s negative understanding of a social justice warrior and normalizes fake wokeness. In its original conception, a social justice warrior was another way to refer to an activist and had a positive connotation; nowadays, the term carries a negative connotation and is:

“. . . a pejorative term for an individual who repeatedly and vehemently engages in arguments on social justice on the Internet, often in a shallow or not well-thought-out way, for the purpose of raising their own personal reputation. A social justice warrior, or SJW, does not necessarily strongly believe all that they say, or even care about the groups they are fighting on behalf of. They typically repeat points from whoever is the most popular blogger or commenter of the moment, hoping that they will ‘get SJ points’ and become popular in return. They are very sure to adopt stances that are ‘correct’ in their social circle” (https://fee.org/articles/how-the-term-social-justice-warrior-became-an-insult/).

Today’s perception of the term social justice warrior is directly tied to fake wokeness because both are performative in nature, fueled by the drive to be seen as progressive, and derail necessary conversations from taking place by prioritizing toxicity. According to the article titled, “Three signs of fake ‘wokeness’ and why they hurt activism”, it states:

“. . . social media did not create activism: it did, however, create a legion of hashtags and accounts dedicated to issues . . . Sadly, fake woke people will use these hashtags or create these accounts, see that as contributing to a cause, and just call it a day; these same people tend to shame those without the same level of interest or devotion to a given cause . . . Ironically, as open-minded as the fake woke claim to be, they struggle to deal with opposition. More often than not, those who fit the fake woke bill will ignore, misconstrue, or shutdown anything remotely opposing their stances . . . Now yes, human nature often leads us to possess a bias against that which contradicts our views, but human nature should not serve as an excuse for irrational behavior. Opposition to our stances on issues helps activists more than it harms: it allows them to look at the causes they champion from a perspective they possibly ignored before, further enlightening them. More importantly, by discovering information that may refute what they believe, they can find and eliminate any flaws in their reasoning and strengthen their arguments. Activism involves opening up to change, something one stuck in an echo chamber can never achieve” (https://nchschant.com/16684/opinions/three-signs-of-fake-wokeness-and-why-they-hurt-activism/).

Rather than critiquing ideas, thoughts, and theories about Elain and her character development with textual evidence, the concept of choice as an argument is used to silence opposing viewpoints. This is similar to choice feminism because the conversations start and end with the concept of choice, leaving no room for a critical analysis of Elain’s character. Although the concept of choice as an argument is intended to shed light on how ACOTAR’s patriarchal structure limits females’ agency to some degree, the fact that it’s only applied to Elain invalidates the point of the argument because it doesn’t include the experiences of other female characters when examining the impact of sexism in the ACOTAR universe. The failure to do so calls the intent of the choice argument into question. As it stands, the concept of choice as an argument frames Elucien shippers and those who are critical of Elain as woman haters, misogynists, and anti-feminists, especially if they identify as women. The belief that a woman is anti-feminist or a woman hater any time she dislikes another woman suggests that women have to be held to a different emotional standard than men. If men are able to dislike other individual men without their characters being compromised, why can’t women? Feminism and what it means to be a feminist do not require women to like every woman they encounter. One of the many things feminism hopes to accomplish is granting women the same emotional privileges afforded to men.

Terms like “oppression”, “the right to choose”, “feminist”, “feminism”, “anti-feminist”, “anti-feminism”, “internalized misogyny”, “misogyny”, “misogynist”, “sexist”, “sexism”, “racist”, “racism”, “classist”, “classism”, “discrimination”, and “patriarchy” are all used in specific ways to draw attention to the plight of marginalized people and challenge those who deny the existence of systems of oppression. Yet these words and their meanings can be twisted to attack, exclude, and invalidate people with differing opinions on any given topic. When social justice and feminist terms are thrown around antagonistically and carelessly to push a personal agenda, it becomes clear that these terms are being used to engage in disingenuous discourse and pursue personal validation rather than being used out of any deep-seated conviction to dismantle systemic oppression. The personal weaponization of social justice and feminist concepts is a gateway for people who oppose these movements to strip these terms of their credibility in order to delegitimize the societal and institutional impacts on marginalized people.

It’s important to question how an argument is framed and why it’s framed the way that it is to critically examine the intent behind that argument: is it used as a tool to push a personal agenda that reinforces dismissive, condescending, and problematic behaviors, or is it used as an opportunity to share, learn, enlighten, and educate? The concept of choice as an argument is extremely problematic because: it limits fruitful discussions about Elain within the fandom; enables arguments that oppose opinions about Elain and her narrative development to masquerade as progressive by pushing social justice and feminist language to their extremes; normalizes the vilification and condemnation of individuals who are either critical of a ship, Elain as a character, or prefer her with Lucien; encourages an in-group and out-group mentality with differing opinions about Elain’s development resulting in politically charged insults; exploits social justice and feminist terms; ignores that harm done on a micro-level is just as damaging as harm done on a macro-level; and cheapens Elain’s character and her development.

There is more to Elain than her being a female who is traditionally feminine. Elain has the potential to be as complex of a character as Feyre, Nesta, Rhysand, Lucien, Cassian, Azriel, Amren, and Mor, and to reduce her character to her femalehood in fandom discussions is a disservice to Elain as a character, the ACOTAR fandom, and SJM’s writing. So I ask this: is there a reason why the fandom heavily emphasizes the concept of choice when discussing Elain that goes beyond a simplistic analysis of her as a character (i.e. using the concept of choice as an argument to reinforce Elain’s femaleness), or is the concept of choice used as a shield to prop up one ship over another?

gimme-mor library

#elucien #elain archeron #acosf #acotar: fandom critical

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bubblyani · 3 years

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The Letter

(Melvin Purvis x Reader)

A Melvin Purvis One Shot

Fandom: Public Enemies (2009) Michael Mann

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 6.6k+

Summary: The day when the FBI plans to catch John Dillinger, you finally write a letter full of undisclosed affections to Melvin Purvis, the love of your life.  

Author’s Note: Please note, this is all based on the fictionalized version of the character played by Christian Bale. It was a challenging concept but very happy with the outcome. Maybe I’m just “Bumping Gums*” but, hope y’all enjoy!!

“What are you thinking about?”

That familiar, male voice inquired. Cool yet affectionate; lingering in the darkness long enough for a female voice to hum before responding:

“Me? just things…” she began, her voice comprised of a much greater familiarity above all others, “Things I wanna say to you. I…” a chuckle arose, “It’s silly but…” she inhaled deep, “I just want to, write them down…for you”

“What?…like in a letter?”

“Uh huh!”

“Why? I’m right here” Her giggles seasoned his genuine curiousity,“It’s not the same. I…” she inevitably paused, “I’m just shy” as softness smeared over her tone. “Oh…” he decided to follow suite, “…somehow I don’t believe that” with his words exiting in the form of purrs, the two pairs of lips finally met. The kiss, it was chaste. Yet the sound remained crisp. And the shared chuckles that soon followed, were crispier. Audibly vivid at its finest.

Sheer pity, for it merely was a memory. Such a pity, for it vanished the very second your eyes dared to open.

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(1934)

A heavy sigh left your lips in disappointment. Arms folded, your right index finger wandered over your silk robe, in detail. It had no other option, especially when your lips could not indulge his own, when your eyes could not indulge the only loving gaze that truly mattered. Thus, there you were, running your fingers over the silk of harsh reality. Nothing to imagine, nothing to relive.

All the while you stood, staring at the door ahead. The door from where he just left.

It was a lazy afternoon, and anxiousness had found its way deep into your bloodstream. Woken nerves, uneasy stomach, the pounding heart with great speed and clarity. Harsh reality had turned to the worse, grabbing you by the shoulders, only to force you to stare deep at it.

Face the facts, it uttered. But which part of you wanted to do so?

Though being the sole occupant in the room, your pounding heartbeat did not fail to drown your very own hearing. This feeling, you despised it, to the core. If only it would stop.

Until it finally did. But only when you spun back around in a split second. For you decided to take action on it instead.

Planting yourself firm on the wooden desk, hands were occupied in the hurried dance as drawers were pulled, and stashes of paper were grabbed and dropped out before you. But once the hands found their way to a beautiful pen inside, all actions reduced pace. Holding it with care, your eyes grew warm by the mere sight. For the pen, it was a symbol of things a many, and one in particular. The one which cost you a heavy sigh, before opening the cap and let the pen make take its course on the paper. And just like that, you finally wrote down two words. Two out of the many your heart ached to speak into existence:

Dear Mel…

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The sigh that followed soon after, was relieving. It was liberating. In truth, even a smile seemed possible. Hence, your intentions were clear.

“Dear Mel…” leaning forward, you read it out with warmth. For you were prepared to permit the ink to reunite with the paper once again, and linger on a little longer:

Looks like I finally found a reason to sit down and write this letter to you. Honestly, I feel like laughing, cause I never thought I’d end up doing this.  

Chuckling to oneself, you proceeded to write:

But I know if I don’t do this now, I would regret it. Cause now I finally know you deserve to read every last bit of my thoughts and feelings. All that I have hidden for too long. Before it’s too late.

Seeing you walk out that door wasn’t anything new. But when you did it this afternoon, it felt different. My heart, it felt something. It was heavy! That’s the word. Was I worried? afraid? I don’t know. All I know was that, it was too much. Enough for me to remember your effect on me.

Those words may have been generalized, yet you were astounded by the comfort you sensed when writing them. Inhaling deep, you kept on:

You were not a man I expected to ever meet in my life, Melvin Purvis. Never for one second. Out of all the folks here in Chicago, why would we ever meet? Whatever reason it was, I am very thankful. I am very thankful I opened my door to the hallway that night.

And I am thankful for Mr. Lloyd, and for that man in the navy blue coat.

Your words, they brimmed with sincerity. Looking up from the paper, you couldn’t help but stare into the wall. It was simply inevitable. Especially when every bit of detail began to flow into your consciousness, only to unfold the memory of that fateful night in your mind.

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Chick Webb’s “Blues in my Heart*” playing in the radio, certainly did not fail to mirror your heart to perfection. For the melancholia was mutual. And the dim lights illuminating the apartment in the late evening, seemed to have sealed the emotion shut.

Memorable was your deep sigh, along with warm cup of tea that rested on your hands:

“I figured he, of all people would vouch for me, but instead he just…hung up” You remembered uttering, tone enriched with sadness whilst imitating a telephone being disconnected.

“Well…” a gruff voice began, “…if I were your Old man, I would never pull that nonsense”

You looked up, to set your eyes over at your neighbor Wilmer Lloyd, sitting across from you in his pajamas. A spritely gentleman in his late seventies, Lloyd was the friend, who in time became the father figure you wished you had.

Amused by his temper filled response, You chuckled with disbelief:

“Mr. Lloyd, your daughter had to move to another city, cause you didn’t like the fella she wanted to marry” you replied, “No need for the unnecessary kindness” adding with a smile, you proceeded to take a sip of the hot beverage.

“What kindness? she is no good kid like you. She married a goon*! ” Lloyd responded in defense, leaning forward with conviction, “While your Pops is just mad cause you’re trying to be a Secretary”

“I bet you a Lincoln* that my folks rather have me marry a goon, than have me find my own way of living” you said, gulping down the rest of the tea.

“Don’t jinx it, kid” the old man grunted, his index finger pointed right at you, “I don’t wanna hate you too”

You laughed out loud. Truthfully, you were relieved to have finally did. The room felt too depressing for too long.

“Alright, kid. I’m beat” the old man sighed, pushing himself up to stand with a grunt. “Goodnight, Mr.Lloyd” You stood alongside him. The two parted ways, with you making your way over to the kitchen, and your neighbor making his way out. As if it was so habitual. For a daily chat with old Wilmer Lloyd, was indeed habitual.

Your first proper encounter with Lloyd was a special one. It was only a few months ago that you moved into Chicago. Stressful work shifts and lack of friends led to an eventual emotional breakdown one fine evening. A seemingly noticeable one, which caused the usually moody Lloyd to peep through his door, only to find you bawling your eyes out in the hallway. The sight of you kneeling before your apartment door in tears, was more than enough for his cold heart to melt, and to voice his concern. All while he helped you gather the groceries that had fallen out of your brown paper bag.

“We all gotta start somewhere, kid”

That phrase of comfort, was the invisible handkerchief that wiped your tears that day. And as you rinsed the tea cup, that phrase managed to return to your consciousness, being an invisible hand to pat you on the shoulder. Closing the tap, you sighed with relief. For you were once again thankful for the good in humanity.

Until the sound of a gunshot attacked your ears.

Clinging on to the sink with a jump, you felt your heart beat out loud, and there was no stopping. Before any was comprehended, a loud groan soon followed, originating from the Hallway. Your eyes widened. Could it be?

“Mr.Lloyd…” you breathed, as your legs finally made you dash towards the door to open. You gasped out loud, the moment you found Wilmer Lloyd sprawled on the floor, shot.

“Oh my god!…” you whispered, kneeling beside him.

But Lloyd lost your attention for a slight second, for you caught the sight of a man disappearing into the right-side stairwell. The sight was quick and blurry, yet it was evident he was armed. And one particular color was prominent as he left.

The groan repeated, forcing you to focus on Lloyd once again. Which was most important.

“A-are you alright?” A meek inquiry was all that you could do.

“WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE, KID?” The old man answered in pain, shifting. Slight relief washed over you, when you noticed he was only shot in the arm. Perhaps it was your heartbeat, or a new set of pounding footsteps nearby. Either way, the sounds grew louder from the left.

“Freeze! Chicago Police-” A voice, a male voice cried out, only to pause, causing you to look over, only to freeze.

Lowering his pistol, a well dressed man stood, surrounded by two others. All in suits and fedoras, and all seemingly alarmed by the sight of you and Lloyd.

“Is he alright, Ma’am?” The first man inquired. “I’m fine. Jesus!” Lloyd responded with annoyance. The man nodded with acknowledgement. Although there was slight embarrassment in the his face, you were simply too distracted by the cool nature of his voice.

“I know this is the wrong time but…” the man uttered, “…but did you see-”

“The shooter? ” you began all the sudden, “…in a navy blue coat? He went that way” pointing towards the right, you added. The muscles of the man’s tensed face relieved.

“Thank you, ma’am…” he breathed, before making a dash, “Boys! Take this man to the hospital” his commanding voice trailed behind him, indicating Lloyd. All before he himself disappeared into the stairwell.

And to your luck, the two able bodied youngsters knelt over the old man to do the needful. “The bullet is still inside. He’s gonna be alright, ma’am”

“Thank god! You heard him, Mr.Lloyd” you said, “Let’s go”

“Eh…” Lloyd muttered, holding the wound whilst being carried, “Not that I’m overjoyed about getting shot, but I gotta say I’m more than happy to know I’m not gonna die tonight” he grunted. To which you finally smiled behind him:

“Not in a million years…”

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The sound of loud sirens shattered your trail of reminiscence. Sirens, you gasped. For they suddenly brought you worry. Was he in trouble already?

Parting from the pen and paper, your hands pushed you to rise and scurry towards the window. Except you merely saw a youngster getting his ear pulled by an angry policeman, for fiddling with the police car siren.

You clutched your chest, sighing with relief to see. The fact that daylight yet reigned supreme was also sufficient evidence for you to rationalize your new-found relief. He was safe, wherever he was.

Returning to the desk, you picked up the pen. Glancing at it with affection, you proceeded to write once more:

Because of the accident that night, I found myself meeting a man who fascinated me instantly. So , you could understand how frustrated I was when I couldn’t even thank him.

You smirked upon those words. Not soon before you continued writing:

But then again, who knew I would have the actual luck to see him again two days later? At a place where I least expected. All thanks to a Bad Customer.

Akin to a Moving Picture, or a Talkie*, that very moment began to project into your memory. All the while your index finger managed to twirl a piece of your hair with nostalgia.

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“Apparently it was just some low level goon. Well, at least that’s what the Police told Mr.Lloyd…when they took his statement. But I don’t buy it, no. Why would those Federal Agents be there if it was?…”

You said, tying up the white, cotton waist apron over your baby blue waitress uniform.

“Goodness! I really wouldn’t know what I would have done if I were you, Sweetpea” Cathy, your best friend replied while she followed suite.

Once the hair was fixed, the two of you headed to the kitchen, “Everyone! Look who’s changed her shift!” Cathy cried out, urging the other employees at the Diner to focus on you. There were cheers, bringing out the brightest smile in you. It was official.

Living with the Great Depression which has affected all, you were grateful even for the employment at a Diner in the city. A temp job, as you called it yourself. Until that very morning, you were assigned to the later shift and spent several weeks parted from Cathy. Fortunately, upon your boss’ satisfaction, you were finally offered the shift you always wished for: The morning shift.

You graciously used the first hour that morning for familiarization, which mainly included the customers. And that was indeed the part that fascinated you. For the customers were diverse with each shift. And the mornings were mostly welcomed by blue collar workers.

“Cathy! They’re waiting for the pancakes”  “Oh! Shoot! I’m on it”

Listening to Cathy’s response in the background, you shook your head with amusement. You watched your friend waltz over to the eagerly waiting booth. But only before you made your way to the corner of the Diner counter.

“Can I help you, Sir?” A well rehearsed phrase exited your painted lips with politeness. A young man was the current owner to the corner seat. “A refill” the blonde haired drawled, indicating his empty, white mug on the counter. “Right away” “Thanks, Sweetheart” he replied, whilst the sound of the black coffee being poured, filled your ears. A group of eyes watched you from another corner. It was certain. And sure enough, your stealthy eyes caught the sight of some men sat across the diner. All sniggering. “Ya know…” the Blondie continued as he leaned forward, “my boys over there…” he indicated the suspicious group, “…they don’t believe me but, I think you’re one fine girl, sweeter than sugar” he said, flashing a flirtatious smile. “Oh, really?” You inquired with a polite chuckle. “Cross my heart, I hope to die” He was handsome, yes. But he was the handsome you never wanted. The type of handsome that could also break your heart. Besides, his attempt of seduction was misdirected, “So…um…” leaning closer, he began to whisper, “Care to help me prove the boys wrong? Like with a date? Or even a kiss? ” He inquired, his suggestive eyebrows being quite evident.

Oh, that fool, you thought. If you were at liberty to throw your head back in laughter, you would without any hesitation. Yet, it would not be appropriate.

“Ah! I’m sorry Sir, but I’m working” you replied.

“Aww come on!” He groaned, to which you shook your head and took a step back.

“Sorry Sir-Ah!” Except he grabbed you tight by the wrist. And displeasure was the mask he wore.

“Hey now, is that the way you treat your regulars here?” He inquired, increasing volume. Confused and very violated, your heart rate began to speed up. You sensed a threat.

“Let go, Sir!” You muttered in desperate politeness. Yet he did not.

“Why?” He sniggered, amidst your struggle to break free, “Whatcha gonna do, sugar?”

“I believe the lady asked you to let go”

That voice. A voice you could identify. A voice that forced you and Blondie to turn heads. Your eyes widened. Dressed smart and completed with his Fedora, the FBI agent from two nights ago stood before you both. Authoritative yet graceful, he sighed: “Pardon me for intruding, but I know a Regular won’t harass a waitress this way” he said in a casual tone, to which Blondie stood up:  “Yeah?” He snarled, offended, “How would YOU know about being Regulars, smart ass?” “Cause I am one” The Agent answered, before missing Blondie’s surprise punch, only to twist his arm within seconds.

Cries of pain erupted from the young man’s lips, until he was pulled close by the agent. You watched him whisper some words to Blondie’s ear, all before he finally released him. Confidence was nowhere nearby when the blonde man stashed some cash onto the counter, and stumbled towards his group of boys with fear.

You suddenly heard Cathy’s sigh of relief nearby:  “Oh, Thank god you’re here, Mr.Purvis” She said to the Agent, “You just saved my friend” she motioned towards you.

Finally you had the liberty to observe him. Tall and lean with sharp facial features, he possessed the handsome that comforted you. The handsome that formed potential in you. The handsome that attracted you. Sitting on the now empty seat, he flashed you a cool smile: “Melvin Purvis” he said, “I believe we haven’t had the pleasure…” It seemed he did remember you. You smiled back. “No, we haven’t…” you replied with softness, as you held up the pot, “Coffee?”

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And who knew the man that fascinated me, would be you?

I am not ashamed to say, I was over the moon to see you again, Mel. Seeing you for only a few seconds in the hallway, clearly wasn’t enough for me. I was greedy. So greedy I was afraid to admit. But the moment I realized that corner seat in the counter was your usual spot, I knew my greed was not in vain. I was greedy, to get to know someone so badly. So, when you saved me from Blondie, you also saved yourself a spot in my heart. I just didn’t know it at that moment.

But I do remember when I finally did.

When one serves a regular customer long enough, certain facts become known. Be it their usual breakfast order, their favorite beverage, or the guilty pleasure one indulges once in a while. But apart from that, conversation comes into play as well.

I don’t think you knew how happy you made me every time we talked, even while you had your Eggs and Toast. Whatever it was, I enjoyed them all. All topics, from about the mouthy janitor, to the famous FBI cases, which were solved or ongoing. But I was also happy when you also had the time for me, to know about my crazy stories about customers in the late shift, or even just about myself. Which surprised me the most.

You finally became aware of the smile you wore throughout writing. Though you managed to relax your facial muscles, the smile remained at default. Thus, you kept on with your words:

Mel, you made me look forward to work everyday. And that was one huge favor. Waitressing was never this girl’s dream. Another job was. And you know what.

“I know…” you remember saying, as you wiped the Diner counter, “Secretary, A Nice Office…Even my own folks think it’s a silly dream for a girl like me-”

“That doesn’t mean its your truth” Mel, your calm, unfazed reply, those words shook me. You were right. You made me feel braver. You made me want to work harder. You made me feel like anything was possible. And that was when, I finally saw that special spot you had in my heart. Oh Mel, it felt like an earthquake in here. I was affected. I couldn’t even sleep that night. Cause that spot of yours made me realize, I had fallen for you. Fallen in love with you.

Placing your left palm over your chest, it did not take you long to relive that magical feeling whilst you wrote:

Suddenly, I couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. And I’m sorry for that. I may have looked busy with customers for some days, but that was me struggling. I was at a war with myself. A constant battle with my eyes to not care for you more, a battle with my lips to not tell you, how much I pined for you.

But as you remember, I finally did.

And the morning when you did, felt to be a landmark of your bravery.

Upon serving his breakfast, you retreated to the kitchen with haste. The fact you did not even acknowledge Melvin’s usual “Thank you” proved strangeness. Generally, when employees were seen standing at the back entrance of the Diner, one would expect them to be occupied with a personal matter, or even have a smoke break. Except, you simply longed for a break from him.

Seeing Purvis was torture. And that morning felt more torturous than ever. Your desire for him multiplied with every single visit.

Rubbing your forearms to fight off the spring chill, You took a deep breath. What was that you feared? Confessing your feelings? Or the mere possibility of being refused?

“What are you doing? Out here in the cold?” You gasped, looking up to find Melvin standing before you.

“I-” you paused, as Melvin took off his long coat, and slung it over your shoulder with no hesitation. A warmth protected you all the sudden. Was it the coat? Or was it him?

“Are you unwell?” He inquired. You shook your head, not taking too long to finally settle your eyes on his. And there it was: the speeding pulse, the torture, the multiplication of desire. Eyes growing wider with concern upon your speechless look, Melvin shot glances at both directions with stealth: “Is anyone bothering y-”

Only to be intruded by your lips pressed against his.

Oh, Mel! What did you do to me?

With a deep shudder, you kept writing: Why did your lips taste like the sweetest pie in all the world? I’m sorry if my ink turns messy here. It’s just that thinking about it, I just hope my heart won’t burst and bleed. Tasting that sweetness, I was ready to risk it all. Ready to accept the worst fear to come true.

You had a fair point. Especially when his lips remained unmoved throughout your kiss. Which forced you to move back quick, and blush with embarrassment: “I-I’m sorry…” you blurted, struggling with one’s movements as you handed over his coat back and turned to leave.  “No! please…” Melvin breathed, stopping you with his hand on your shoulder, “I’m sorry…” he stressed, “I suppose I was just caught by surprise” with a chuckle soon after. “Believe me, it wasn’t planned” you chuckled alongside him, relaxing a little. “Although I was hoping…” he began, “If I could take you to dinner one night…” Your eyes widened, but your heart bloomed.

But life was kind enough to gift me a date instead. A date with the best man I know.

“Yes! You can…” you answered immediately, “And please…no need to call me Ma’am anymore, Mr. Purvis” you smiled. To which he smiled back with a hint of mischief, which seemed surprising for the 30 year old Agent:

“Then, there’s no need to call me Mr. Purvis anymore either”

A date that I had always dreamt about. Not with a boy, but with a real gentleman. It had come true. Were you reading my thoughts this entire time?

Bashful giggles erupted from your lips upon writing. It was a date to remember :The fancy restaurant, the fine dining, the stimulating conversation basked in soft jazz and candlelight. Watching and taking in every fine line that adorned his beautiful, statuesque face brought you pride.

Sitting with you, getting lost in our own world, it was no doubt that I was the luckiest woman in the entire restaurant that night.

“I had a wonderful time, Mel. Thank you” Your words were enveloped with warmth and sincerity.

It was late, and Melvin had brought you back home like the gentleman he was. Opening the car door for you, he surprised you with just a smile, no other reply. Which forced you to raise your eyebrows, evidently confused. Could it be that he did not share the exact sentiments as you? Were you not the woman he hoped for by the end of the night? Insecurity began to bubble up within.

“What?” You inquired with a nervous chuckle, “All night you were yapping away, but now suddenly cat got your tongu-”

He gently pushed you against the car. Just so his gracious hands could cup your face, and just so he could plant his lips on yours.

And I was also the luckiest woman in the neighborhood, when you finally kissed me right back.

Sweetness infused with softness, you needed not permission to be fueled with greed at last. For greed finally permitted you to wrap one’s arms around his neck, only to pull him closer. Those lips of his, they had tempted you from the very first moment. And when they finally voluntarily expressed their affection, you were more than ecstatic.

Mel, your kisses were magic. They made me wish if I had all the power in the world to slow down time.

And I felt the very same, when we finally made love that night.

That night, that mere memory. You would be lying if it did not manage to send chills down your spine.

Invitation for a nightcap was your only shameless excuse. For not a single cell of your being, wanted him to leave your sight. Not when he had lit up a flame of desire in you, a few minutes prior. You silently cursed all the passerby’s who forced you both to pull away from the kisses. The kisses that he started by the car. But what could you do? You were surrendered to the laws of love.

Thus, the mere act of turning on the Crosley* Radio, became an involuntary act of seduction. Rudy Vallee’s “If I had a Girl like You*” filtering out from the speakers, gave life to the entire apartment. And it did ever the same to you, tempting you to sway your body from side to side. But your body felt so much vigor, when Melvin gave up on patience, only to hold you by the waist, spin you around just so his hungry lips could taste yours once again.

Melvin kissed you, and you kissed him. Slow, articulate, these lips were making up for every day they did not touch one another. All those days full of remorse.

Thus, began a dance between the two lovers. Heated, passionate. A dance consisting of choreography that had existed within all of mankind. Did not matter if it was carrying you bridal style to the bed, or placing you on to the bed without a sound much louder than a mattress squeak, either way, Melvin’s presence exuded safety.

Pleasure and excitement were in a fiery alliance when you savored shedding every piece of clothing off his torso. Never once did you think seeing many layers would bring you so much arousal. Especially when his eyes had nowhere else to look but at you during. His eyes, they burned with desire. And you would be unfaithful to your honesty if you denied the loins that burned within you as a result. For it was evident how much you longed for him. How the hunger led you to provide him the attention he truly deserved with your touch and kisses.

Dressed, he was smart, authoritative. Undressed, he was god-like. And to hear his soft moans amidst your attention was a gift. A gift that aroused you further. Yet before your eager hands could fondle his hardened shaft, he flipped you with impatience to focus on you instead. His kisses were other-worldly, making sweet contact on your soft, naked skin, creating waves of untold pleasure whenever he peeled off each piece of lingerie. Naked you may have been finally, yet you were more than ecstatic with the new outfit you wore: him. The infusion of soft music, sounds of lovers moans and kisses while the bedsheets rustled, were indeed sweeter than nectar. Tantalizing enough for him to finally enter you. Arousing enough for you to accept him. Resulting in unity, love making, deeming soft as the moonlight that shone into the bedroom. Soft, yet impactful that every second remained carved in your mind fresh, like it was yesterday.

Oh Mel, how did your touch made me weak, but gave me power at the same time? How did you make every second of it worthwhile?

You wrote with a sigh, blushes occupying your cheeks. Not before you cleaned up your ink stained fingers, caused by your thoughts of pure distraction.

Why did you get me addicted to your loving? But most importantly, why were you the perfection I dreamt of all along?

Breathless, you would be lying if it did not take you a while to regain your senses. Re-reading the previous sentence written, you proceeded to give the letter further life:  

After that night, I wanted shout out loud from the rooftops full of happiness, I wanted to tell the entire city, no! The entire world of my blessing: My blessing to have a wonderful man like you, Mel.

The simple truth: that was all that it was. And not long since you and Melvin had gotten together, life was suddenly drizzled with an extra dose of joy. An extra dose of encouragement and hope. Work went better for the both of you. Even Mr. Lloyd managed to re-meet him, but this time with more familiarity and respect. Given his interaction with the Agent, it was evident the the older man had offered his blessing and approval, which meant more to you than anything.

Since then my life was bliss, Mel. With you by my side, I knew I could take on anything.

Except, you drew in a sharp breath with a heavy heart.

All until J Edgar Hoover declared those fateful words to America: War on Crime. John Dillinger.

The heaviest sigh left your pursed lips. For a surge of concern was powerful enough to consume you.

Believe me, Mel. Seeing you get promoted to Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago Field Office, it brought me nothing but joy. Seeing you in the papers, I was the most proud anywhere I went. But with that pride, and with that joy, I was also afraid. How could I not be, when you were assigned to catch Dillinger, Public Enemy No. 1?

How could I not think of the risk you had on your life? So afraid for you that it didn’t strike with me that we didn’t see each other for so long after.

Though you were out of sighs, your heart remained heavy with the thought. It was true, soon after his men’s lives were affected by Dillinger and his gang, Melvin did not set foot in your apartment nor in your neighborhood. And surprisingly, you did not feel betrayed. Not one bit.

When you phoned me that one time, I could tell in your voice. I could tell the weight you had on your shoulders. The burden, the responsibility, the guilt.

And to me, it didn’t matter I couldn’t see you everyday anymore. It didn’t matter that I had a hard time missing you or thinking about you. Be it at the diner, the streets, the park, the living room and the bedroom. It didn’t matter to me that I had to pretend my life had nothing to do with yours. All I wanted was for this nightmare to end: to stop the unnecessary deaths of innocent lives. All I wanted was for you to be safe. And I knew you could do it all. Without complicating things.

Thus, when someone knocked on your door a few hours ago today, your fear was justified. You remembered standing by the door, arms folded, only to feel your heart beat out of your chest. And when those loud, rapid knocks attacked the wooden door, you could not help but wonder: Could it possibly be one of Dillinger’s men? Another shooter perhaps? Were they aware of Melvin’s connection with you? Were you about to be leverage?

But to your surprise, you opened the door regardless. Clutching your chest, you could only gasp.

But I never thought you’d suddenly come crashing in this afternoon.

For there stood Melvin Purvis, Fedora at hand, heavy panting accompanied.

Never so soon.

“You were not at the Diner” he said in a hoarse tone, still panting. “I-I took a day off” you answered, with wide eyes,“Mel…” you gulped, taking a step forward “What’s wron-” To which he could only reply with rough kisses, slamming the door shut behind him.

And being in his arms again after possibly endless days and nights, you were certain you did not wish to be anywhere else.

It was as if fate urged me to stay home today, just so I wouldn’t miss your hungry kisses. Just so I wouldn’t miss your love. Something I craved for what felt like forever.

Longing translated into desperate kisses, where tongues wrestled in haste. And passionate lovemaking rushed in soon after. The type of passionate, that demanded every item of clothing make quick stops in different parts of the apartment, only to lead a trail to the bed. The type of passionate, that had his eager hands wander over your naked back, before palming your heaving breasts with impatience. All the while you straddled him, with your hips rolling against his. The type of passionate, that tempted you to gaze into his shining eyes. For they spoke to you, even in silence. How he treasured you, how he savored you, his eyes said it all. And with your responding kiss brimming with moans and emotion, you acknowledged his silent confession, you satisfied his hunger, and accepted his peak of pleasure. All until a new climax was reached together, before collapsing on to the bed with exhaustion.

“Mel…” you panted, sweat further infusing with his, “You still didn’t tell me what’s going on…”

It was only a few minutes later, did Melvin began to speak. Only then were you able to find out about the mission that would happen tonight. The mission to finally catch Dillinger. And as if the floodgates just opened, he kept talking. And all you could do was nod, as he continued to cradle you in his arms.

Little did I know, you came to me in possibly the most fateful day ever.

“You think it will work? The plan?” You inquired, soft. His responsive hum vibrated in his chest. “The source is solid…” he replied, “So…we’re betting on it”

Lifting your head up, you looked at him. Truthfully you could not help but feel sorry. There was a hint of exhaustion in his tone. How far did this man go to make this mission a reality? How many men were sacrificed in the process? Death of many men including Carter Baum, his own partner. Feeling useless, you knew you could only offer him a reassuring soft smile:

“Then it will…” you murmured, placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. His skin seemed magnetic to your lips, causing you to proceed with more kisses. Over his eyebrows, bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, the best place of all. With another greedy peck, you pulled yourself away and sat up. With the afternoon breeze playfully caressing your exposed frame, you were tempted to reach out and grab your silk robe tossed on the edge of the bed, which you did.

“I hope you know I couldn’t risk seeing you, with Dillinger’s men on the loose”

Melvin began. Looking back, you nodded with nonchalance. “Of course…” Wrapping the robe around, your answer was as casual as taking a diner order, “I understand” you added meek, looking down at the knot.

“But…that doesn’t mean I was never here”

You froze. With wide eyes, you looked up at his sitting frame. “What do you mean?” You blurted. Only to gasp, “You-w-were you-?”

Melvin nodded, “Every night around bedtime, from the street…looking at THAT window…” he said, indicating the very window in your bedroom. If only you could just tell him how your heart just began to melt after possibly weeks. If only you were capable of an embrace that told every fiber of his being how moved you were by him. Melvin sighed, running his fingers through his hair:

“I just had to make sure you were safe…” he said, “But today, I…” he paused, “I couldn’t stay away”

“And neither should you…” you replied in an instant, cupping his face, “….you’re only human” you continued with a sigh, “It’s been too long, Mel” your voice grew softer, “ And I missed you” uttering weakly, you proceeded to press your forehead against his. And like that, you both stayed, indulging in the silence with the most innocent physical contact possible.

“This mission…” Melvin began, his warm breath falling on your face, “If I make it out alive-” “Mel, you WILL make it out aliv-” you breathed, before he placed his fingers over your lips.

“If I make it…I’m yours”

He whispered, forcing you to freeze once again. Overwhelming emotion seemed to have frozen you with disbelief, when his sharp features unveiled the softest smile, “As a man, I want to do what’s right for the people” he said, holding your chin, “ I want do what’s right for my heart. And I wanna do it all with you, by my side, always”

And in the blink of an eye, you left through that door, hours before our lives could possibly change forever.

No wonder you made love to me, as if it was your last.

Sniffing, you placed a loving kiss on the pen. For it was the pen Melvin once gifted you with. The pen he hoped you would use when you finally become a secretary. And it did not take long for you to wipe the tears that streamed down your cheeks in silence. What will happen tonight, at the Biograph Theater will end in either two ways. And all you could do was to pray for one in particular. Pray for the one you desperately needed. With another final sniff, you continued to write, until you found yourself finally finishing off the letter you never imagined yourself writing. You wrote your heart out, which left you no regrets:

Before I end this letter, I want to ask you a question.

Do you remember when I was helping you put your tie back on, minutes before you left?

When I did, I felt something. Something warm, something nice. And I won’t lie, I enjoyed it. Cause in the end, it gave me the feeling you always gave me from the moment I met you: Hope. But today, that hope was also protected by a layer of love. A strong layer. To be able to put your tie on possibly every day, would be an honor I’d wear like a badge for life.

Mel, you WILL make it out alive. You and your men, you WILL get it done. Because this letter will be waiting for you. Because I will be waiting for you.

Ready to have more hope, ready to do more good, ready to live our truth, by your side, always.

With love,

Yours forever…

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Glossary of 1930′s Terms/Slang Bumping Gums* - 1930’s Slang for “Talk about nothing useful” Blues in my Heart* - Jazz song by Chick Webb and his Orchestra recorded in 1931 Goon*- 1930’s Slang for thug or bodyguard Lincoln*- 1930’s Slang for $5 bill Talkies*- 1930’s Slang for Movies Crosley*- A Radio Brand famous in the 1930’s If I had a girl like you*- Jazz song by Rudy Vallee, recorded in 1930

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Tagged: @tammykelly @ladyerina @kittenlittle24 @everyday-imfangirling @lucy-roo @works-of-fanfiction @bale-is-a-babe @badsext @maddistyles17 @truly-insatiable @gooseyhouse @artsymaddie @quarterback-5 @mamooska8 @jensen-impala @lilyofthesword @woodencupcake @fonduebitches @soullesstaco @spicybellinger @marvel-lously @glitterypinkkitty @danceyreagan @barikawho @lostgirl0020 @diogodxlot @xxdearlybeloved @jupit3rmoontarot @lexiespeaks @misterlords-fics @readingslumpfanfic @ares-is-my-father @christianbalefanatic

Once again, lemme know if you wanna get tagged. And those who only want to be tagged for specific Bale characters, please do let me know. I didn’t take out those who didn’t tell me just in case. But feel free to let me know, i totally understand.

Check My MASTERLIST for More :)

#christian bale #melvin purvis #public enemies #2009 #michael mann #melvin purvis x reader #melvin purvis x you #bale! melvin purvis #christian bale characters #letter writing #1930 #love letter #bale! bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #jack kelly #batman x reader

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thunder-of-dragons · 2 years

Text

Fandom Goals Wishes for 2022

Thank you for thinking of me, @andithiel. There aren’t many ways 2021 could have gone worse for me, so like @andithiel and @etalice, I’m setting wishes for 2022 instead of goals with the hope but not the expectation that this year will be better than the last.

1. Be gentle with myself. I’ve been avoiding dealing with admitting it with the stresses of moving and new job and a million other things, but I ended up having a huge breakdown on Thanksgiving over the fact that my brain just isn’t doing things that it could a year ago (and it may never be able to). From what I can tell, my long-term memory is basically shot. Despite knitting an entire pair of socks for the first time in 2020, I found a few weeks ago that I’ve forgotten how to knit. I guess that’s life now… and I need to stop beating myself up over things that I can’t do. Maybe it’s okay if I don’t write that fic. Maybe it’s okay if I don’t claim that fest prompt. Maybe it’s okay if I say that another mod needs to handle an issue. Really, it’s not okay, but it’s not okay to beat myself up for it either.

2. Write microfics. This has really been on my to-do list since @drarrymicrofic started posting prompts ages ago, but I still haven’t done it. Now seems like a perfect time to actually sit down and go through the backlog of prompts and write them since it seems that I can’t write a fic now unless I can get the entire first draft out in one sitting. Even if I have an outline to look at, it’s become difficult for me to figure out where I left off and how I wanted to continue. It took me 2 months to write my 300-word strip tease fic for @gameofdrarry’s Drarropoly, and it was torturous. As much as I love writing and have much longer plot bunnies and WIPs sitting in a folder, and as much as my therapist would love it if I wrote a book, I think I need to embrace my fandom wish number 1, be gentle with myself, and dive into the realm of microfics for a while. There’s a lot that can be done in only 50 words.

3. Leave more comments. I’ve been reading a lot more lately, both traditional printed books and fanfic on AO3. I’ve just always been really bad about leaving comments. There’s an odd vulnerability in putting what you like and love out into the world, which I admittedly struggle with, but that’s also a way we build community in fandom. I enjoyed writing recs for @gameofdrarry’s Exploding Snap, and I’m hoping that participating in Wizards Hearts again will help motivate me to build a habit of leaving more comments on things that I love.

4. Collaborate more. I enjoyed co-writing and co-podficcing with others for @gameofdrarry’s Exploding Snap, and though I don’t see podficcing in my future for a long while at least, I would like to write more with other people. Writing longer, plottier fics wasn’t quite as difficult for me, and there’s something liberating about bringing out the best parts of each other’s writing styles to create something new. Is there a fest for that?

Since my phone died in November, I haven’t really been on Tumblr at all. I have no idea if there’s anyone left who hasn’t done this yet, so… if you’re reading this and haven’t done it, consider yourself tagged 💚

May we all have a 2022 with many unexpected pleasantries.

#drarry squad #tag game #2022goals #fandom #thunder rambles #musingsofadragon

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kingreywrites · 4 years

Text

Make my messes matter - Chapter 6 - Crying

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 1644

Summary: A series of seven ficlets focused on Rapunzel learning to navigate life in different ways after living eighteen years in a tower, with Gothel as a mother.

1. Touching - 2. Arguing - 3. Learning - 4. Sleeping - 5. Setting Boundaries - 6. Crying

Read on ao3

Note: >:)

Mother Gothel never got angry at Rapunzel when she cried. Sometimes, when she was a kid, Gothel would tell her bedtime stories about the outside world so awful that Rapunzel couldn't help but feel her eyes tear up, a cold feeling of dread settling in her stomach - and her mother would always comfort her, stroking her hair softly.

"Don't worry my flower, Mother will protect you," she would whisper, muffled by Rapunzel's hair - and Rapunzel would settle back in her bed, feeling warm and safe now that she knew her mother would always be there for her. Crying always brought affection and love like nothing else ever did in the tower.

Crying over Eugene's dead body had been nothing like what she was used to.

The tears were slow, blurring her vision as she refused to blink, and her heart felt cold and numb as Rapunzel realised that she was alone. Mother- Gothel, who had never been mother, would never comfort her again - she was dead. Eugene, with his jokes and his laughs and his soft vulnerability would never try to make sure that she was okay again - he was dead. She was well and truly alone, and her tear fell in slow motion, tracing an icy path on her skin.

Until it brought back the sun - and Eugene breathed again, warn and alive and here.

When Rapunzel left her tower for the last time - when she left the hair and the dust and the blood behind, seeping through the walls of her childhood - she learnt to be more careful about her tears. Because crying was making herself vulnerable, opening herself to comfort and, sometimes, she wished she hadn't done it so readily as a child. She knew it was unfair to think like that, knew that she couldn't have known who Gothel truly was - but still. When she cried, she remembered the warmth of her mother as she tucked her into bed, and it made her feel sick… because she still missed it. Sometimes. She didn't want to think about it.

Now, most of the time, the only witness to her tears was Pascal, who tried his hardest to make her feel better when it happened. Eugene would always notice when she had cried, though she hadn't understood at first that his extra gentleness those days were because he knew - he came clean about it himself, joking that he took care of his skin enough to know the signs of recent tears. In retrospect, she was happy that he hadn't confronted her about it, and simply tried to be here for her. She knew she wouldn't have had the same reaction herself, but she had appreciated the space - she was very lucky to have him.

She guessed, though, that by always keeping her tears to herself, Rapunzel had been building up a breakdown for years now.

She had cried over Cassandra's betrayal already. In the privacy of her friend's room, hugging her lady-in-waiting outfit, Rapunzel had allowed her tears to fall and her heart to break all over again, before putting her walls back up and going to face off the Saporians. She had opened up to Eugene about her conflicting feelings on the situation and, since then, she had tried to keep an unwavering optimism. Cassandra would come home - she would make sure of it.

It was hard to keep convincing herself of it when she came back from Cassandra's childhood home- when she came back from meeting her again- when she came back from being left to die in a poisoned cave by who she still thought of as her best friend.

She didn't talk to Pascal on her way back, despite his obvious worry. She didn't say hi to the guards that greeted her, despite it being completely out of character for her. She climbed the stairs one by one, ready to hide out in her room for a while, probably paint her messy and dark thoughts in her journal, and- and-

She opened her door.

"Sunshine!" Eugene exclaimed, a blinding smile on his face as he got up from her bed with obvious relief. "I was starting to worry! Are you alright?"

Rapunzel heard the door close behind her. She felt Pascal hop off her shoulder. She had half a second in which she felt her lips wobble, before she stumbled in Eugene's arms and burst out crying.

She thought she heard him curse softly, but then his arms went around her and she lost herself in his comfort as she cried harder than she had in years. Her body was trembling against Eugene's steady presence, her chest heaving as she kept breathing shakily through her tears, hands clutching unrelentingly at his jacket. Her sobs kept coming, too loud and too heartbroken, telling of a sadness and an exhaustion she hadn't been able to put into words - until it became too much.

She wanted her best friend back. But she was also so, so angry at Cassandra for holding Gothel against her - so angry at her for wishing to have been raised by her, when one of the only saving graces Rapunzel found in her kidnapping was that, at least, Cassandra got to grow up in Corona, raised by the Captain. How could she- why couldn't she understand that Gothel was nothing of a mother?

Why was Cassandra more willing to trust one happy memory from a magic mirror, instead of all the good times they had shared since they met?

A sob broke out of her chest again, her whole face on fire as she kept crying, and Eugene simply hugged her, murmuring little nothings in her ear. God, Rapunzel loved him. Gothel, for all the comfort she had provided, never went as far in the manipulation as holding Rapunzel while she was crying - she probably drew the line at tears and snot.

Eugene however… Eugene didn't move. He kept holding her, breathing deliberately slowly until she matched her own breathing with his, whispering that he loved her as she probably ruined his jacket. She felt his hand splayed on her back, big and warm and safe as it seemingly held her together - he was the only thing keeping her standing for now. It was liberating, in a way. So Rapunzel kept crying, safe in the knowledge that she could be vulnerable with him, that Eugene knew her and loved her more than enough to be here for her when she broke down. She sobbed, too loudly and too messily, and he held her through it.

At some point, her tears slowed. At some point, her breathing went from panicked to simply jerky, as she tried to catch her breath. At some point, Eugene felt her slump further into his embrace and carefully moved them to the bed, where he sat down with her still sniffling in his arms.

"I-" she croaked out, her voice giving up on her and she gripped his jacket tighter. "I saw Cassandra today."

Eugene tensed, before relaxing again deliberately. "Are you hurt?"

She was so ready for him to ask if Cassandra hurt her, for her to need to justify her friend's actions once again despite the pain, that she was thrown for a second by the actual question. Then, she felt her treacherous tears gathering in her eyes once again. She shrugged, because she honestly didn't know, and Eugene kissed her cheek softly.

"Then, when you feel up to it, we'll go the infirmary. Alright?"

"Aren't you… Aren't you going to ask me what happened?" Rapunzel asked, head still hidden on his shoulder.

"Sunshine, of course I want to know, but I have never seen you cry that hard. The explanation can wait," Eugene promised, one of his hand slowly stroking her shoulder. She nearly cried again at this declaration because, in truth, she didn't want to talk about it. Didn't even want to think about it - she just wanted to sleep, right now, and hope that tomorrow will be a better day.

She also had trouble believing that Eugene had never seen her cry that hard. It wasn't the first time she broke down, especially since Cassandra left, but it was true that, until now, she had always made sure that Pascal would be the only one here. She wasn't so sure it had been the right choice, now that she knew how much better she felt only by having him with her.

Eugene didn't tuck her to bed, like Gothel had done when she was a kid. He didn't make empty promises of protection, didn't tell her that she had no reason to cry. He was being very careful not to touch her hair, because he knew she especially hated it when she was in distress. And despite all these differences - or, better yet, thanks to them, all that terrible nostalgia Rapunzel couldn't get rid of was swipped away as she melted into Eugene's arms.

Eyes puffy, throat raw and achy from crying, Rapunzel raised her head to only see understanding and love in Eugene's eyes. Her own welled up again against her will, but she let them - she didn't want to keep her tears at bay anymore.

With Gothel, she had felt safe because her mother assured her that she would protect her against anything. With Eugene, she felt loved, because she knew that no matter the obstacle, even if he couldn't protect her, Eugene would be right there at her side, ready to support her in any way she needed.

She loved him so much, and felt so lucky to be loved in return. She knew that crying with him - being open, vulnerable with him, despite the risks - was all a choice she was willing to make.

A choice that she would try to make from now on, she promised herself, as they went down to the infirmary.

#tangled #Rapunzel #Eugene Fitzherbert #Cassandra #tangled the series #A Tale of Two Sisters

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