HEY, i think i just saw MAEVE ATKINSON walking down the strip. stop by to catch up and you’ll learn the THIRTY YEAR OLD is working as a LAWYER FOR THE WEISS FAMILY + SNELL LAW FIRM and lives in THE CROIX TOWNHOUSES. given they are ELOQUENT but DUPLICITOUS, it’s likely that they ARE NOT a vampire. on the flipside, rumor has it that SHE SET UP THE PREVIOUS WEISS LAWYER TO TAKE HIS PLACE and it keeps them looking over their shoulder. i bet you can find them tearing up the dance floor to ABBEY BY MITSKI and you’ll know why they’re called THE MOUTHPIECE.
character inspirations. michaela pratt, how to get away with murder, abby whelan, scandal, lip gallagher, shameless, paris geller, gilmore girls
pinterest. here
iii. 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥
faceclaim. olivia cooke
build. mesomorph
hair colour. auburn
eye colour. dark brown
iv. 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭
tw: sibling & parental death, religious imagery
You learn vigilance before you learn forgiveness.
Your mother’s faith is quiet and disciplined, the kind that leaves little room for doubt. Mass every Sunday. Candles lit every night. Rosary beads tangled in fingers as prayers are memorised and recited. Confession taken seriously, penance accepted without complaint. Faith is a contract – if you do your part, God will do His. You absorb it all eagerly – you believe, sincerely, that if you follow the rules, that if you do everything right, the world will remain intact.
Your sister makes this belief feel true.
She braids your hair before Mass, walks you to school. When your mother is tired, your sister becomes the calm centre of the home – capable, gentle, reassuring. You model yourself after her without even realising it. You look to her as though she hung the moon – living proof that following God’s rules would lead to security.
Isaac is the disruption.
His trouble follows him home – bruises, rumours, fights nobody explains. His mistakes demand attention in a way your quiet competence never does. You watch your sister absorb the brunt of his carelessness – sitting beside your mother in hospital waiting rooms, whispering reassurances that sound practiced, praying with her when your brother fails to come home at night. You resent him, and you admonish yourself for such wrath. You despise the way he is allowed to be lost. Allowed to rage and be forgiven later. He is allowed to tear your family apart while your sister is left to put it back together.
Your sister dies first.
She dies suddenly, violently, without meaning. A carjacking gone wrong. It does not feel like tragedy, it feels like betrayal. You had prayed. You had obeyed. You were devout, diligent, good. You believed in order and in consequence. The candles still burn. The prayers are still spoken. God should have prevented this – and yet, He had done nothing.
Perhaps this is what fuels your decision to pursue law. Because justice should not be arbitrary. Protection should not depend on luck. Because you believe, perhaps naively, that rules can succeed where people fail. Your faith holds, barely. You still pray, still attend Mass with your mother. Perhaps, you think, God might just be distant, but not absent.
Your mother’s death destroys what remains.
She does not die gently. She does not die with meaning. No, she dies after years of strain, exhaustion, and unanswered prayers. Without her, the candles burn out, the prayers feel hollow, and the rituals begin to erode. You realise that her faith did not save her. Her obedience did not protect her. Devotion did not spare her. You stop believing in God, then – your faith disappears not with anger, but with resignation.
So, when Isaac announces his intention to become a priest, it feels like a betrayal. He speaks of calling, of forgiveness, of surrendering judgement to God. You hear something else entirely – escape. He is allowed to place his suffering into divine hands, to be absolved rather than held accountable. Where you stayed and endured, he is allowed to kneel and be forgiven. In the very place you felt so abandoned, he is allowed to feel welcomed.
It feels unjust.
Law becomes your replacement religion.. It is structured, hierarchical, predictable. You worship it with the same fervour you had once worshipped the Lord – not because it is kind, but because it is enforceable. You work pro bono cases. You exhaust yourself for clients who cannot pay. You tell yourself that justice is imperfect, but defensible. You exhaust yourself trying to make the system fair through sheer willpower.
Reality slowly erodes your optimism.
You watch as good people lose because they cannot afford time. You watch better-funded counsel win without better arguments. You come to understand that justice is not blind, it is transactional. That, without power and influence, your sense of righteousness is purely decorative.
Your boss, the Weiss family’s lawyer, embodies the alternative.
He is not cruel, or reckless. He is comfortable, his work is clean. His outcomes are decisive. His life is insulated from the chaos you grew up with. He does not pray, does not need to justify himself. He understands that power is far more useful than piety.
You tell yourself you are learning from him so that you might do better later, but the truth is far more sinister. You want security, you want certainty. You want to make sure that nothing – not grief, nor chaos, nor someone else’s mistakes – can tear your life apart again. You see your boss’ paychecks, you understand the scale of protection that Weiss money can buy. And you crave it.
Temptation does not feel like greed, it feels like finally choosing safety.
When your boss begins to falter, you recognise the moment immediately. You have spent years studying him, learning his weaknesses. Grief trained you to spot instability before it collapses. You do not hate him – far from it, in fact. But his loss will be your gain.
You replace him.
The act is clean, clinical. You do not invent crimes – you simply ensure that he bears the weight of decisions you made together. When Weiss cuts him loose, you step forward seamlessly. When he is disbarred, you do not volunteer to come to his aid. You didn’t do it for goodness, or righteousness, or to be kind. You did it because you saw a chance to grab power, and you took it.
Your brother wears humility like a virtue. He speaks of mercy as though it costs nothing. His priesthood unsettles you in a way you can’t quite explain. Perhaps you have to believe his pivot is a falsehood, because you cannot stomach the alternative. Because, if Isaac is sincere in his conviction, then absolution is possible. That your suffering can be overcome instead of repurposed into a weapon.
You do not believe in that anymore. You cannot believe in that anymore.
You no longer believe in God.
No, now you only believe in preparation. In power. In control.
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
dededos
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
janainaart
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