❝love isn't love until it makes you hurt enough that you are scared to breathe.❞

Why? 

The question that dominated Isla Burton's life. Or at least, the question that should have. The question that should have poked and prodded at her, that should have stabbed into her organs, that should have wrapped a cord around her neck and squeezed, squeezed tight, until her lungs heaved and she choked for life and her diaphragm desperately attempted expansion.

But no.

There was no reason to know why, if her only job was to exist and do as she was told. Because she was one of the perfect ones, she would present that way; she would not allow herself to be diminished into one of the others, one of the unspoken ones. She would be a woman, but only a woman as they wanted her to be.

Not a woman to be loved or respected or even feared, but rather one to be seen and pomped about. She was to carry on their legacy, not create her own. Obedience was her directive, her order, and she followed orders like a goddamn robot. At least, until she found out she wasn't perfect. At least, until she thought for herself.

And then there's Hank McCoy.

❝it must be lonely, being so smart and yet feeling inferior every step of the way. feeling defective.❞

( this plot as joyfully received from carlgrinds plot shop, 'love galore'. )