#they make me so ill i want to eat wet cement

[lasbiarez]

um... Falling and Failing by winterhats kinda hits hard

[emmyrosee]

part 2 for the axel angst please!!🥺💓💙

The searing sun peeking in through the windows was the first thing to rouse you awake, and maybe that was for the best. Last night lingered on your tongue like a bad hangover, going stale as it mixes with the acidity of the new day.

The house was almost unrecognizable; Axel’s belongings tossed without care and broken everywhere. Clothes, photos, jewelry, some of his scholarship memorabilia and alumni shit, it didn’t feel the same. It felt more like a horror film set than a home.

You gently sat up off the hard, cold floor, back nerves scolding you wildly as your head spun around, refusing to settle on one thing. Trying to focus only increased the nausea cemented in your stomach. Every fiber of your soul hurt, every part of you was drained with exhaustion.

You reach down to push yourself off of the hardwood, and you flinch when your hand lands on a mop of sorts. When you retract your palm and look down, Axel lay sleeping next to you, ever the loyal mutt. It brought you a twisted sense of comfort to see the exhaustion and sickness ectched on his once beautiful features, and if it were any other case, you’d want nothing more than to bring him to bed and nurse him back to himself.

You hated that you still wanted to do only that. You reach down to caress his cheek, and a sudden memory wracks through you-

It’s her. From last night. Axel’s hand caressing her flawless cheek.

You once thought Axel flawless, too.

As if burned, you yank your hand away from him and place it to your chest, the sting of tears prickling your eyes. With a deep, settling sigh, you push yourself up from the hardwood, letting yourself finally rise from the floor. You shook from lack of energy and shambled like a zombie to the bathroom. You look at yourself in the mirror and get lost in your own eyes, the hollowed pools dulled with dustiness. You wondered how you let a man get such a reaction out of you, you’d never let it happen before.

But this wasn’t just any man. This was Axel Cluney, the one man who your heart refused to let go. The man who was saving paycheck after paycheck to buy you a diamond ring before riding off in the sunset with you in his Mustang.

His two babies.

It didn’t matter how bad you hated him and wanted to watch him burn and collapse, go mad without your love.

It just didn’t.

The cold water you splashed on your face does nothing to spark the stale feeling in your body, if anything it makes you realize how numb you are.

A broken, scratchy call of your name snaps you out of your thoughts as you stare at yourself. It’s desperate, needy, like a sick baby who needs it’s mother to calm the illness that wracks through their body.

“Please… where are you? Let’s talk about this, please.”

You chuckle to yourself at his words. What’s there to talk about? What else could either of you begin to say? You lick the corner of your lips and dry your hands and face on a dirtied towel, tossing it randomly back onto the floor. You exit the safer confines of the bathroom before passing Axel; he looked even worse awake than he did asleep:

Tousled wildly was his chocolate brown hair, eyes sunken in like a corpse. His once lively pools of green were glazed from expired tears and swollen from already fighting new ones.

“Hi-“

“What do you want for breakfast?” You say flatly, pushing past him and making your way to the kitchen. He follows, ever the loyal pup, only stopping on one side of the island to face you.

Silence seems to be law as it lingers between you both, his constant gnawing at his bottom lip increasingly making you concerned for canker sores to form on them. It was a nervous habit of his, and you hate how much you care about it. 

“Stop eating your lip and eat your breakfast,” you mutter in annoyance, sliding the plate of buttered toast his way. You fix your own mediocre breakfast, feeling too sick to eat as you pick at your cereal. Looking up from your bowl and through your lashes, you see him toying with the warm bread, eyes darting from his plate to the clock on the stove.

“It’s 7:15,” he says aloud to seemingly no one. You wonder if it’s secretly to you, a silent hope that you didn’t mean it when you told him he had to be put by seven.

You shrug, “so finish eating and leave.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, almost a snap. “I want to talk to you like a fucking adult.”

“And I want to know why you need to lie to me,” you yell, tossing the bowl in the sink. It shatters with a spine tingling clink, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.. “Like, I know the truth, I saw you with this little brat, you were touching her and smirking that stupid smirk, I literally just need to hear you say it.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” Axel yells back. “Nothing happened! She came to the garage, Harrison was still working on her car, I took her to dinner-“

“WHY DID YOU TAKE HER TO DINNER!” You screamed, tearing at your hair. The room falls silent as you continue to stare at him, chest rising and falling with each deep gasp you took. “Why-why-why the mustang, why the sudden change of your appearance, why!”

“Is it so weird to believe that I can form relationships with a customer to increase my business?” Axel snaps.

“No, it’s not! You should! But never has anyone ever changed everything about them for a client!”

“I didn’t change everything!”

“You’re right,” you say, chest rising and falling against your pained heart. “Your bullshit attitude and lack of respect will never leave you, no matter what shitbox you drive to seduce women.” You cross your arms tightly over your chest as you pace the floor. Then, you snicker despite yourself, “sorry. Your clients.” With a final glare, you sink back to the floor, knees folded tightly to your chest. Loud pads of footsteps approach you, and out of the corner of your broken eyes, you see legs fold down as Axel sits next to you. He leans his head on your shoulder, sniffling softly.

“What do you want me to do… what can I say to fix this?” 

“What’s your story, Axel?” You mumble. “I just want the truth… was there nothing, was it playful flirting, is it a, b, or c, like… what is the fucking truth, Axel?”

The lump in your throat burns like acid as he says nothing, shoulders stalled as if he forgot how to breathe. Your hand comes up to card his hair softly, his tears sticking to your chest. “I think you need to go,” you mumble sadly. He chokes on a sob and shakes his head, his grip around you tightening. Your nods are numb to counteract his shivering no’s, it makes you sick to have to see him like this, let alone be the one to send him away.

“I wanna fix this,” he whimpers. “Please… I want to fix this.”

“How?” You ask. “How in the name of fuck are you going to fix this? Because please, if you could, do it, Axe!” 

Once again, nothing. You’re not fully sure what you’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t silence. Some dramatic reveals, or a word of assurance that you’re absolutely insane for even thinking he could want to be with anyone else.

And that’s true. You know it is.

But there’s a stranger before you, and until words of charm and poetic justice slip out at an unforgiving pace, you wouldn’t know how you’ve known him.

“This won’t work…” you mumble to the air. “Not like this… there is no way we can come back from this. Not like this.”

“Then we will just have to fix it,” Axel says, words shaky. “We always fix it. Always. There’s never been anything we can’t-“

“Alexander,” you interrupt, effectively silencing him. His eyes are sleepy and wet with his sobs, making your heart physically ache. Your lungs squeeze, and you will yourself to speak. “No. Not now.”

“Is this the end?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you still love me?”

Yes. With every fiber of your soul and being, yes.

“I think so,” you murmur.

“Can you please think about this?” He practically begs. “Please?”

Yeah. You can give him that. You close your eyes and nod, letting the feeling of exhaustion weigh you down.

Broken, almost robotic, Axel slowly stands and shambles towards the door. He numbly, with minimal movement, opens the large entrance, and the light cutting around him makes him look different than you’d seen him these past few hours.

Better. Cleaner. Refound.

One foot crosses the threshold, and he pauses, quickly spinning on his heel to look at you.

“I’ll go, but you need to listen to me.”

“Axel,”

“No.” He says sternly. Your stomach hurts at the gruff, no-negotiate tone of his voice, but you say nothing as you eye him. “You’re going to listen to me, and you’re going to listen good because if this is the last time I’m going to see you, I’m not hiding shit.”

With a thick beat of silence, you swallow the lump in your throat and watch him, nodding slowly. He inhales sharply; “for two years, I gave you the best of me. There is no ‘better’ part of me that I’m saving for someone else, you’ve got him. You’re always going to have him.” He blinks rapidly, and though his voice barely cracks, a new wave of tears flow down his flushed cheeks, splattering on the expensive leather of his jacket.

“And I’ve done everything I fucking can to keep you away from the asshole I once was, and I thought I did a pretty good job. Apparently, not, because here I am making you cry and feel less than like the queen you are. You fuckin’ know that I’d rather have needles shoved in my fucking eyes and razors slicing under my nails than see you cry, and to know that I’m the cause of that is sickening to me.

“I can’t give you the truth you want because I don’t know the truth. I don’t know what I did last night. I don’t think what I did was cheating, but I’m not going to sit here and argue with you about it, because you’re the smartest person I know, and if you’re hurt from something I was too dense and downright stupid to not know would hurt you, then I need to accept that yeah, I guess I cheated like the fuckhead I am, and I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again. And you have the right to sit here and hate me and despise me all you want, but you’ve got my heart, and I’ll be damned if you don’t get to keep it.

“You need to take time to heal. I got that. And I respect that. I’m going to be at the garage; and when you decide what you want to do, where you want to go, I’ll be there. You are the-“ he cuts himself off with a deep crack of his voice, and upon coughing in his fist to compose himself, you’re left absolutely speechless as to what to say.

“You are.. the single, only thing I want in this fucking life. And I had you and I might’ve lost you. And If I didn’t lose you, I absolutely don’t deserve you. I never did. And if you’re done playing this charade where you think I’m better than I actually am, just leave my stuff in front of the garage. If you never want to see me again, I’m not going to force you to have to look at me.”

There was the poetic explanation you’d wanted.

“When you do to clean up later, the bowl in the sink is broken. Don’t hurt yourself on it.”

With that warning and a quick spin on his heel, Axel slams the door shut behind him, hard enough to shake the good plates his mother bought you both, and leaves you to yourself and your thoughts, your mind a mush as you try to process every word that he said effortlessly. It was like it was rehearsed, and you wonder what bounces around his own mind now, as his truck starts and peels out of your driveway, leaving the rest of fate in your clammy, tear soaked hands.

——

Tagging; @gothguitargal @babyboy-cody @madamaholmes @walkxthexmoon @yesloverboy @billofourtime @kathryn-jane @jadelynlace @multi-fan-lover @shenevertricks1831

I tagged people who originally asked for part two way back, as well as new people who enjoyed it, if you read it and made it this far, I can’t thank you enough for your continued support🥺❤️

[eldritchsurveys]

1012.

1. Do you eat your candy in any specific color pattern? (ie: M&M’s, Skittles, SweetTarts, etc) >> I think I was more prone to doing that when I was younger, but I still do it on occasion. That is, on the rare occasions I’m eating a bag of candy like that in the first place.

2. When’s the last time that you opened a door the wrong way? (Ie: pushed when it said “pull” or vice versa) >> I don’t remember.

3. What is the worst illness or injury that you’ve ever sustained? How long did it last? >> I suppose my worst injury is the one I got ~50 stitches for and that also happened to be on my face. I don’t remember how long the stitches were in for, I just remember I had to be careful how wide I opened my mouth for a while.

4. When you open your mouth sometimes, does your mother come out?  >> No, my father would come out, because that’s who raised me. And yes, my more critical and standoffish and “tough-guy” type thoughts are definitely his voice.

5. Have you ever lived through a significant weather experience? (ie: hurricane, notable earthquake, tornado, etc) What was it like? >> I was in NYC when Hurricane Sandy came through, but that’s all. It was... interesting (luckily, I wasn’t adversely affected).

6. When was the last time you ate food off of a plate while standing up instead of sitting down?    >> The last food I ate standing up was probably that bowl I got from Bridge Street Market that I ate at the park meetup. Sometimes I just get tired of sitting down all the time.

7. Do you live in a city, a town, or a village?  >> A city.

8. Would you do better at keeping pets alive or keeping plants alive? Why do you feel this way? >> I think it’d be easier to keep a pet alive than a plant, because [most] pets are more communicative about their needs, and/or their regimens are less esoteric to me. Sometimes even the simplest plants stump me. Also, it’s way easier for me to forget about a plant since it doesn’t move or make noise or anything.

9. What is the most boring movie you have ever sat all the way through?What was there about it that you disliked, and why did you just keep sitting there? >> Hmm. Nowadays I don’t really sit through movies that bore me. A few days ago, I got through a whole ten minutes of Replicas before giving up, lmao. (I love Keanu but sometimes his acting really be like ???? sir what are you doing)

10. Have you ever slapped someone across the face before? What was the reason why? >> Yeah. I was angry at them.

11. How do you feel about children? >> The same feeling I have towards any other kind of human -- I’m inclined to treat them with respect, but I’ll also remove myself from their presence if I feel annoyed.

12. The last time you broke the law (no matter how insignificantly small of an offense) what were you doing? >> I don’t remember.

13. Have you ever unintentionally gotten your foot stuck in wet cement before, leaving your mark permanently somewhere before?   >> No. The idea of stepping in wet cement distresses me on a sensory level.

14. What is the worst thing that you’ve ever said to someone you loved? Why did you say it to them? >> I have no idea.

15. If you knew that this very next meal was going to be your last, what would you want to eat? >> ---

16. If you had 3 Poke’Balls, which three Poke’mon would you try to catch? >> I don’t play Pokémon so I have no idea how to answer this question.

17. Have you ever created something using a Cricut machine before? >> No. I only learned about them a couple of weeks ago, when we went to Michael’s and I saw one.

18. Who is your oldest friend, and how long have you been friends for? >> Elle, I suppose. Ten years.

19. Is there an unusual hobby that you’re into that isn’t as well-known as some others? Or a skill/talent that you’ve perfected, perhaps? >> No.

20. What is one thing that you’ve always wanted to do, that you’ve never done before? >> Skydiving. [bionic-beth]

[purplesurveys]

985

1. Do you eat your candy in any specific color pattern? (ie: M&M’s, Skittles, SweetTarts, etc) If it’s the type of candy that comes in different flavors like Skittles or Jelly Belly, I just go for the flavors I’m into and leave the others for other people in the house who might want them. Otherwise, I just pick whatever.

2. When’s the last time that you opened a door the wrong way? (Ie: pushed when it said “pull” or vice versa) Ooh I don’t remember. I think I always do this at the vet clinic though; I never got used to the directions at their entrance door.

3. What is the worst illness or injury that you’ve ever sustained? How long did it last? The worst ‘illness’ I had was having to be hospitalized over a weekend for low platelet count, if that counts. OH the UTI I got a few months ago was also bad; I was sick for a whole week... the worst injury I got was a foot infection from snorkeling.

4. When you open your mouth sometimes, does your mother come out? I sound a lot like her and have unconsciously adopted a lot of her expressions and reactions over the years, that’s for sure. Whenever we have family videos that feature both of us it’s usually hard to tell if it’s her speaking or me.

5. Have you ever lived through a significant weather experience? (ie: hurricane, notable earthquake, tornado, etc) What was it like? I mean yeah, I live in one of the most hurricane-prone countries in the world, if we aren’t already on top of that list. You might have heard us in the news in the past too, because the aftermath can sometimes get really bad.

6. When was the last time you ate food off of a plate while standing up instead of sitting down? That’s a good question haha - I genuinely don’t remember. My best guess, and not a very good one, was the time I attended a ONE Championship press conference for my PR class at the start of 2019 and there hadn’t been enough tables and chairs during the free buffet for the media, so my friends and I had to contend with standing up while eating. The food was SO good though, and it made the inconvenience worth it.

7. Do you live in a city, a town, or a village? I live in a gated/private village in a city in a province in a region.

8. Would you do better at keeping pets alive or keeping plants alive? Why do you feel this way? Pets. I have never kept a plant alive for more than a day; I’ve just never learned their love language. But Kimi’s 12 going on 13 and he’s still strong and feisty, so I’d say that I’m definitely better with animals. :)

9. What is the most boring movie you have ever sat all the way through? What was there about it that you disliked, and why did you just keep sitting there? There’s a certain sub-genre within the thriller genre that I just can’t stand, and it’s movies like Knives Out and Now You See Me that have never been able to capture my interest. I think it’s the element of being too fictional that makes them unappealing to me; I find that I flock more to more realistic dramas, so I guess that theory can make sense.

10. Have you ever slapped someone across the face before? What was the reason why? My brother slapped me during a family fight that got out of hand, so I slapped him back. I’ve never been touched that way before, so I fought back in the way I knew how. And then I haven’t talked to him since.

11. How do you feel about children? I like sweet, well-behaved ones. IT’S POSSIBLE. But I honestly have very little patience for kids who run around in restaurants or play their iPad at the loudest volume setting in public spaces or are super rude towards adults...and I feel bad for not liking those children when it’s really not their fault but their parents’. I also can’t help but roll my eyes at 5-6 year old kids who are still being pushed around in a stroller. BUT IDK, I don’t wanna come off as judgy because I know parenting is a goddamn handful. It’s just that well-behaved kids out there make me believe that it’s possible to raise children for them to end up that way.

12. The last time you broke the law (no matter how insignificantly small of an offense) what were you doing? I’m pretty sure I took a u-turn in what wasn’t a u-turn slot yesterday. That city has, like, no traffic rules though and it’s like survival of the fittest over there, so I didn’t get in trouble.

13. Have you ever unintentionally gotten your foot stuck in wet cement before, leaving your mark permanently somewhere before?   No. But I see dogs’ pawprints on those all the time and it gives me such a fuzzy feeling inside when I see a trail haha.

14. What is the worst thing that you’ve ever said to someone you loved? Why did you say it to them? I’ve never said anything heartlessly mean to anyone I love. I know how much words can stick, and I don’t plan on doing that to another person.

15. If you knew that this very next meal was going to be your last, what would you want to eat? I’d want all my go-to meals from my top three favorite restaurants: salted egg chicken wings with truffle dip, truffle mac and cheese, and a rosu katsu set. OH and my favorite maki from Torch makes the list too.

16. If you had 3 Poke’Balls, which three Poke’mon would you try to catch? Jigglypuff, Chikorita, and Eevee.

17. Have you ever created something using a Cricut machine before? I don’t think I’ve heard of that before, so no.

18. Who is your oldest friend, and how long have you been friends for? Angela, we’ve been best friends since 2005. First day of first grade.

19. Is there an unusual hobby that you’re into that isn’t as well-known as some others? Or a skill/talent that you’ve perfected, perhaps? I like making spreadsheets about the most pointless things just so that I have things to organize.

20. What is one thing that you’ve always wanted to do, that you’ve never done before? Travel with my own funds. Let’s hope that happens soon.

[bionic-beth]

[tinyshe]

Garden Report 20.04.25

I’m going to skip the plant talk today and focus on something many gardeners tend to overlook: gardener care. Young and old and all those in betweeners need care. We tend to forget, dismiss or even disdain self care. Pause. If there is no self care then there is no garden care. You and your family and friends are then impacted as well. Everything is interconnected, the garden, the gardener, the world. Little piece to big pieces. Parts to whole.

The first thing is the hands. Gardening is hard work with overtime on the hands. Think of gardening as a contact sport and get appropriate equipment if you can. Gloves are a tremendous help and protection. I am all for always buying quality when you can. The little cotton gloves you buy will not last you a season. Doe skin is good in the wear and tear but will not give a good grip nor wet protection. I am fortunate enough to have available a glove, Atlas (tm) in their winter grey [ergonomically correct design, latex coated palm, palm and finger coating over a durable knit double napped liner, latex is textured for superior grip and the extra liner is ideal for cold weather environment conditions, it also gives added cushioning]. Because of where I live (I think the average mean temperature is 60F/ 15c) these are pretty much four season gloves for me. If you live in hotter/extremes climes, these would be great for Winter/early Spring (cold/ wet). If you can afford it, get two pairs: one dry if one pair is wet or messy/ lost gloves, have spare! If you are in a place with seasons, do what you can with what is offered but think quality because it will save you money in the end because they will last longer and less in replacement cost. If you forgo gloves, make sure you take extra steps to good hand care and hygiene. Scrap, cuts and punctures can be serious business so be aware and take extra good care. Be attentive to your nails, cuticles and nail bed. I really want to stress gloves though because they are a safety article. Yes, they are clumsy sometimes; with practice it gets better. Take them off it you are pricking out seedlings but please wear gloves for everything else; your hands will thank you. 

Arms, shoulders, neck and back, work in slowly. Build muscle. You think you have muscle? The garden will show you otherwise unless you are really over all fit. Learn to bend and lift properly no matter your age, ability or fitness level. Wear wrist braces if necessary (remember to fit your gloves with braces on or if wearing over gloves get a second set of braces because they are going to get dirty nasty). If you normally have back issues, wear your compression belt/lower back support. Learn to squat more. Work into it slowly and get stronger as you go. Older gardeners (even younger will benefit), a gentle stretch as you tour the garden to loosen up muscles -- don’t just jump right into heavy work. Look, enjoy, plan, observe. If you find you are doing a lot of repetitive motion, give it a break and come back after a bit. No repetitive stress injuries, please.

Feet are another concern. You are on them all day; don’t take them for granite. Keep your feet warm and dry. Compression socks are a benefit to those with feet/ circulation issues. If the footwear is ill fitting, non-supportive and hurt your feet just walking around the house, imagine hard labour in them all day and just say no. I have the habit of wearing old running shoes past their prime which is ok up to a point … and here I have to listen to my feet or pay later. I do have a leather pair of hiking boots for when we are doing construction or heavy work where I need good ankle support, tread to ground contact and toe protection. Rubber boots for winter with wool inserts. Use what you can but know the limits. Learn to listen to your body. ! and I never ever recommend flip flops. I’m sorry, I have seen more accidents with people wearing those. The only good thing is that you can see the mangled foot/toes right off and see the blood quickly to make first aid assessments. Just Don’t Go There. 

Sun protection is necessary. Sun burn and sun stroke are not your friend. Stay hydrated. Stay energized by taking breaks to eat healthy food (stay away from the sugar!). Sit down and rest while you eat. Relax. When you return, gentle stretching will put you in tune with how your body is reacting. Protective clothing is preferred over topical cremes. They offer shade. Long sleeve shirts, once you start to sweat actually start a cooling session as it evaporates under the clothes. I like loose fitting clothes for this reason and also if things fall in (debris) it is easy to shake it out without undressing. Less restriction means more free movement. But you don’t want voluminous covering that can get tangled, stepped on or caught on other objects. Ever see a woman squat down, step on her dress hem then try to stand? No need to be jerked to the ground by your clothing >:) In winter, a hat is still necessary. Winter sun can burn too depending on your skin, conditions, altitude. I like wool in the winter because it breathes, warm even when wet: jumper, socks and hat. If extra cold and I’m extra stubborn, silk long johns are friendly set that also breathes, light weight, non binding and warm.

If you are dizzy, don’t work through it. Sit and figure it out. Is it dehydration, blood sugar, blood pressure/ circulation, allergy, stress, or underlying medical condition (lymes, inner ear, parkinsons, cancer, anemia, thyroid, etc). Sometimes people are bending over a lot and don’t realize that their head is hung low and can get dizzy from that. If you have an underlying condition, just sit back and enjoy what you have accomplished. Taking care of the yourself, the gardener, is just if not more so, important.  I like to sit, squat or if you have the knees, try kneeling. Get garden knee pad (or tiling/cement worker knee pads for heavy duty, cross purpose work) or a garden kneeler/ kneeling pad. You can also make your own kneeling pad as well if you are feeling crafty.

Working in the garden requires energy. Eat healthy foods. Stay away from processed foods, empty calories and sugar (this includes all corn syrups). Be aware that some foods like cheese while tasty, does contribute to inflammation. If you have food issues or are aware how different foods impact you, you don’t need the lecture, you live it. You want healthy foods that will fuel your work all day, not a quick fix. Drinking fluids to stay hydrated is a must. No sugar! Try slices of citrus in a mason jar of water. There are some old fashion recipes for haymaker’s / switchel (no alcohol while working in the garden; it dehydrates you! Save it for after) that are healthy and beneficial to a work out. Fruit juice is ok but realize that it is still sugar; maybe cut it with some mineral water to make a spritzer if you feel the need to drink fruit juice.

After garden care: I love a good Mg salt bath. The Epsom salts are great for the muscles plus you have the added benefit of osmoses of magnesium and relaxing down time to read those garden books (no kindles in the tub! get a book or magazine). After bath, I recommend a good self massage of oil. Simple  grapeseed or apricot kernel are my go to.  You can slip some EO (essential oils) in there as well. I don’t like petro products so I don’t recommend commercial lotions. If you have shea, coco or coconut butters/ oils or other natural product, that is preferable. You don’t want toxins in your garden, don’t put them in or on your body if you can help it. Make sure to do a good self massage to relax those muscles. Get a good night sleep and repeat working in the garden as soon as possible. You are doing more than gardening, you are also doing self care.

[vegannightschool]

Manchester Pig Save

by Connor Thomas

At 4am on a dark & crisp summers morning, the soft gentle chill of the air through my open window carries the sweet songs of the early rising winged creatures. A beautiful start to a day that we had all not been looking forward to. I make a hearty wholesome Tupperware box of porridge for each of us. It’s full of bursting blueberries and zingy ginger, a hug in a bowl for the journey down. Ben arrives at 5:05 and is greeted with an energetic loving smile by all three of the hounds I share a house with. We head to Dale’s house, pick him up and finally set off for Ashton Under Lyme on the outskirts of Manchester.

We give ourselves a small pep talk on the way down, as we drive through parts of the Peak District and witness spectacular sights of low hanging intense clouds on endless rolling hills. As we grow closer to our destination, a grey mist cushions Ben’s Mini through the higher hills. In this bubble of misty thought, we rattle our brains and remind ourselves of why we put ourselves in the spectators’ seat of such immense suffering and how we are going to devour a gigantic hearty breakfast after the vigil. Self-care and the scrupulous planning of it is so important!

We pull up on a terrace parallel to the slaughterhouse. As we take our first step out the car, I feel a sharp chill; this is a re-occurring sensation I’ve found in my own personal experiences of visiting slaughterhouse areas, even on summer mornings. To our right is a high cemented wall around 9ft high with barbed wire. To our left is the ordinary world, a simple terrace that reminds me of the old family house I previously lived in. I wonder if kids still play street football like I used to at home when I was a bairn. If so, are they aware of what happens behind these high walls?

I’ve been holding a pee for a few hours now and the moment we arrive, I quickly say hello to a few of the welcoming faces in high visibility vests before I dart along the riverside to find a secluded spot to relieve myself. Behind the woods, I hear the first sound. It is piercing. It is 8:30 in the morning and we have gone from harmonious birds to deep and fiercely terrified squeals. It is their call for help, for relief. The sound is awful, like a baby screaming in pain. You know you can’t turn your back; you must address that cry for help to alleviate the sound that we ever so naturally respond to. What shocks me most is how hard it is to tell if the cry was human or non-human. The intensity of the orchestra of screams touches every millimetre of my physical structure and I just desperately wait for a crescendo to come and end it all.

It never does. It continues.

Something occurs to me. What if within all the screams, the slaughterhouse workers also cry out for help? They work with unnatural non-human tools - a far cry from the sharpened stone on a long stick, the tools used by our ancestors in times of food urgency. Nowadays we demand workers to use tools such as carousels that rotate through pits of carbon dioxide, flamethrowers so hot they burn every hair from their skin, huge harsh knives that cut through dense twitching protective flesh and penetrating bolt guns that fracture skulls and periodically miss, leaving animals to meet the sharp blade fully aware of their feelings, fellow friends and their unforgiving fate. Do you think this sounds violent? If yes, what does this violence do to the mind of the human holding the tool? Do they ever get caught in these machines or have they become machines themselves?

After ten long minutes, I walk back to the front of the gate. I am told there has already been six trucks enter the yard since the early hours. I can see the backs of the trucks which have the name of the location the pigs have travelled from. Each and every one of them has an obnoxious picture of a happy pig looking out at the drivers who follow the trucks on their long journeys. This is a comforting image to those who have never witnessed the inside of a farm, truck, slaughterhouse or probably even something I had smiled at when I used to eat bacon and sausage. Long journeys they certainly were; each individual had travelled without water or food, packed so tightly that many of them could not lie down at the same time. It took between one to four hours to reach the pigs’ final destination, while the drivers would return within the week with another hot box of snouts.

I look left. The Manchester Pig Save banner is now out of sight, blocked by a colossal three-story high trailer, fitted with small rectangular mesh slats on each level. This sight was a shock to the mind; I had seen trucks like this on videos of American and Canadian pig saves and I had never imagined it happened in the UK on this scale. Now my nostrils are twitching, something doesn’t smell good. This nose filling scent that feels so permanent. Intensified by the heat of many bodies packed so closely together; similar to that of when you’re very ill for days, you feel you need to keep cosy and the minute you lift those covers, you smell the fever inspired body odour arise from the warm depths of your quilt. It is a smell much worse than one can describe with words. Imagine faeces from your toes, up your legs and smothered on your belly as the truck comes to a sudden halt. Your friend accidently crashes their arse into your face. Now with every breath you inhale your fellow beings’ gruesome shit scent. You have no way of getting it off your nose. This confined space is abhorrently different to the woodland you are so used to stewarding, a place where you get to enact your instinct of keeping your toilet far from your sleeping quarters and much further from your snout.

“You use all of your senses when bearing witness at a vigil”. This is what I once heard Alex Lockwood talk about on a podcast about bearing witness. To me this is key, this is reality. It’s not a video filmed by someone else, neither is it your minds ability to use what it thinks is the ‘best guess’ and imagine what the experience would be like. Ask anyone who has been to a Save Movement vigil; their words can describe it so well, yet they’ll all tell you, “you must experience it for yourself”.

Back to the gates. This first truck I see is lively. The pigs look out from their confined space with searching eyes that are focused curiously on our high visibility vests, voices and video devices. At Tulip meats, the Manchester Pig Save group have an agreement that they can spend five minutes with the animals before they enter the facility. This helps us a lot and we bring pop up stools with us so we can peer into the lowest slat that usually sits around head height - this is how we gather the footage that we want to share with people. It’s also how we get to see the individuals for who they are within their confinement. It is smallest act we can do, to share their story and show them love.

The horn of the truck blares and my body suddenly becomes tense. I feel a hollowness within this stressed structure. I feel like a strong wind could blow into me and fill this empty space to such a volume that I just blow away into the grey sky, like a balloon left unattended by a distracted child. I look around at the people I’m bearing witness with. Some are in tears; others are looking deeply into their own minds and emotions. I look for a cue from Ben or Dale to see if they would want to talk about that first truck full of curious snouts. We come together and check if we’re all alright, embracing each other in a tight heartfelt three-way hug.

As we let go and share our experience within our trio, I see a car swinging in. A mother dressed in a nurse’s uniform dropping off three young men. They head into the facility for another regular day of processing. I wonder which area they work in as this plant is huge! Do they work with the tall gas cylinders that fuel the screams? How about the kill floor a real life house of horror containing the carousel of pain that spins continuously, turning life into death? The ‘process’ in this plant takes inquisitive trusting pigs and transforms them into a commodity through a process that not many people would be willing to do or witness themselves. I, along with every activist within the non-violent Save Movement have only compassion for these people. It didn’t start like that for me though. I think of how angry I was attending my first save. I blamed the workers. I now realise that this is the wrong orientation to have. If you’re feeling stuck in this rut, remember it’s not the people we are fighting, it’s the oppressive system that Melanie Joy coins as “Carnism”. Workers, animals and our planet are all under the oppression of this powerful ideology.

Twenty minutes pass, another truck indicates its intended route into the plant. We approach the right-hand side of the truck, set up our stools to give us the extra foot we need to peer in and this time we bear witness to something different. These pigs don’t look at us; they don’t even seem to know whether we exist or if they themselves exist. All we can see are either wide scattered eyes or closed eyes along with heavy breathing, like zombies from an apocalypse film. This trailer is filled with misery. There are scratches, wounds, blood and shit all over the pigs. Most of them seem to have deformities on their bodies, they simply look either unconscious or completely unhappy and unnatural. I jot in my notebook that they seem to have no perception of anything but their own bodies, crashing around and pushing each other with their heads held low. Are they aware of what is coming, or have they come from one of the 85% of UK standard intensive pig farms? The epitome of ultimate despair.

As this truck leaves, I spot the driver hosing down the now empty insides of the trailer in the cleaning section. He departs after switching his now wet and faeces covered t-shirt. Just as he leaves, we see two other trucks flashing their indicators in the direction of the slaughterhouse gates. The first smaller truck of the two standing at two stories high drives straight in as the security must clear the busy road for the next truck, which is huge. I approach the second truck. I look up from my position at the side of the truck and see four levels of this ginormous structure. I then glance through more mesh and witness a mixture of lifeless looking bodies and frantic searching eyes in this first level.

I think of my dear friend Lesley, who has been to a vigil here before. She told me to talk, sing and vibrate with love towards these creatures who have probably never known this feeling before. Suddenly I feel a state of shock and find myself gazing into a pair of blue eyes that are looking directly back at me. Connected by this glance, I feel the urge to sing words to this individual and that’s exactly what I do. The ever so slight sense of embarrassment you may feel singing to a pig in the back of a slaughter truck suddenly disappears. Along with everything else except those blue curious eyes. It is a moment in which you realise that you are giving this pig a comfort it has never known in its life before.

The horn blares.

My chest is tight.

It’s not raining Connor.

Those are your tears.

As this truck pulls into the yard, my emotions overwhelm me due to this connection with the eyes of the individual. Those eyes I will be able to recall in every animal I meet. What the fuck can I do? I walk through the crowd of activists, straight to the riverside as the waterfall of emotions floods from my eyes. Frustration gets the better of me and I can feel the heat of anger arising. As this heat arises within me, I feel the cool calming hand of Dale on my right shoulder. Followed by Ben’s to my left. My eyes begin to dry up as we take a stroll through the thin line of woodland that surrounds the tall slaughterhouse walls.

Another six or seven trucks have come in the time we are present.

Now the worst part of a vigil is upon us. Here comes the abrupt return to reality on the other side of the wall. We came closer when you were in pain. We stayed with you when you were afraid. We wish we could watch over you, all through the night. Remember that every day, we’ll never give up the fight.

We walk from the back and head to the front. We gather our things and leave at 12:30. We’re heading straight to Manchester to fill up on some tasty delights at a rainbow beauty of a café named: Boho Utopia! We fill ourselves up on a full English breakfast and a mega chocolate, peanut butter & banana cake milkshake. We’re heading home now. What a day.

I can only try again from my own experience to describe the sensory circus that occurs when you walk to the back of the slaughterhouse. These words come to me at that moment in time, you may have a different experience:

Screams. Terror. Pain. Dominance. Burning. Crying. Witnessing. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Damage. Violence. History. Shock. Fire. Anger. Rage. Suffering.

The afore list of words is the dark side to describe the reality of a vigil. I’m going to share a different list of words now, under the title of; ‘How you feel when you talk to people who stand side by side with you at The Save Movement’.

Inspired. Committed. Fulfilled. Hopeful. Happy. Fair. Joyous. Connected. Warm. Calm. Loved. Empathetic. Caring. Truthful.

I want you to add to this list, your own words that come to mind when you think of an animal vigil. Let us tell everyone why bearing witness is one of the greatest things you can do in your life! You can simply think of these in your head or share them on Facebook, Instagram or under this Tumblr post. I’ll get you started with a few easy ones:

Tea. Cake. Coffee.

[terminallydepraved]

Halcyon (D:BH - Hank/Connor)

So, I really like d:bh. Like, a lot. Namely Hank and Connor. So... This was just an inevitability, really. 10k, Domestic, smut with light angst. Please enjoy!

Read on Ao3 Here

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Hank could admit to leaning on some tendencies that could certainly be considered self-destructive. When things got tough, when the world became too much to handle, everyone who knew him knew where to find him: at the bottom of a bottle in the nearest bar. He’d fucked himself up with booze and vice and self-loathing, and when that failed to get him where he wanted, he’d go further.

Hank was not what one would call a healthy individual. And Connor, helpful little lap dog that he was, had noticed.

“Come on, Lieutenant!” Connor chirped half a block ahead of him. “Three more miles to go!”

Forget drinking himself into oblivion, Hank thought. For a torture this pronounced, throwing himself into traffic was the only option left.

He threw a hand towards his hair and shoved the sweaty, matted locks out of his face, forcing himself to jog a little faster. Sumo barked encouragingly from Connor’s side, far too happy to be out of the house to bother taking Hank’s side in this torture.

In hindsight, it hadn’t sounded that bad. Getting in shape again, running with a partner. Saying yes to Connor had felt the same as making a New Year’s resolution. Something you did to make yourself feel like you were going to get your life together, but never actually went through with doing. Hank was used to breaking promises to himself. What he wasn’t used to was being held accountable for them.

“Fucking Connor,” he grunted, though wheezed was probably more accurate.

“Did you say something, Lieutenant?”

Hank glowered. “Just that I’m going to have a heart attack and then you’ll be sorry you made me fucking jog ,” he spat. It was so fucking early too, and on a Saturday even. Fucking torture. That’s what this was, and Connor was the sadist responsible.

Connor raised a brow and fucking… Christ, fucking jogged backwards to look at him without slowing the pace. Sumo kept on trotting at his side happily, not even sparing a look at his owner to see the cruelty being dished out on him. “Now, Lieutenant,” Connor began chiding, “you know as well as I do that being healthy is important. I can see from your current vitals that you are in no danger of going into cardiac arrest. Your current heart rate is—”

Hank didn’t want to hear it, so he drowned out the number with a loud, ill-advised groan. It took up breath he didn’t have, but damn if it didn’t feel good to shut Connor up. “Keep running like that and you’ll hit a fuckin’ tree,” he gasped, the heat of his words lost in the effort of getting them out at all. “Trip him, Sumo. It’d serve him right.”

Sumo let out a low bark, tail wagging and tongue lolling, drool dripping from his jowls as he moved a little faster. Connor smiled at the dog and Hank just hung his head. Even his own damn dog had turned on him. Traitors. He was surrounded by traitors.

Connor gave him a look that was every ounce the pedantic, patronizing brat he was. Dark brown eyes rolled, an unnecessary sigh falling past Connor’s lips. His LED cycled yellow, then blue. “We can take a break here,” Connor relented, coming to a stop at the corner. He immediately went down on his knees to pet Sumo, scratching behind his floppy ears as a reward for keeping up. “Please try to regain your strength within the next ten minutes, Lieutenant, else we will fall behind schedule.”

Hank longed to tell him exactly what he thought of that, but there was no way to manage when his entire body screamed at him to sit the fuck down. He wobbled the last few steps and collapsed beside Connor on the cement, bringing a burning hand to his sweaty hair to push it out of his face. He sucked in deep lungfuls of air, and bit by bit his vision seemed to return to normal.

God, he was out of shape. Sumo was pushing forty in dog years and he still seemed to be doing better than him, and all he did all day was lay around the house and shed.

He flinched when something cold touched his cheek. Hank recoiled, nearly losing his balance and toppling backwards. He was spared an embarrassing accident when Connor grabbed him by the shoulder, righting him easily. A small water bottle was in his other hand. Hank frowned at it.

“What’s this?” he rasped, skin prickling uncomfortably as the sweat dried on him.

“Water, Lieutenant,” Connor reported, holding it out to him once more. “Hydration is very important during prolonged physical activity.”

“I know that,” Hank blustered, snatching the water from Connor. He wrestled with the cap and managed to get it off before Connor could offer to help, and then downed it all in one go. The cool water soothed his burning throat. He lowered his hand and gasped for breath, hanging his head while his body throbbed in pain.

“I’ll recycle this,” Connor murmured, kneeling down to take the empty bottle from Hank’s lax hand. “You’ve done remarkably well today, Lieutenant. I’m very proud of you.”

Groaning would be rude. Hank knotted his fingers in his fringe and resisted the urge to be rude.

“Thanks,” he muttered, lifting his head just enough to watch Connor walk Sumo over to the nearest recycling bin. God, Connor’s shorts were short. Where did he even get those? The get up could only be called peppy at best, and the neat white athletic top Connor wore with the shorts just added to the realization that Hank was reaching his threshold for the day.

To be honest, Hank was proud of himself for holding out this long too. Ever since the android revolution, life had become… different. Good different, bad different— the demarcation was too narrow to make out. All Hank knew was that Connor was now a permanent fixture in his life. A partner at the precinct, a partner on his runs. Hell, Connor practically lived with him now despite the fact that the android could make a life of his own if he so chose. Free will and all that.

But nah. Nah, Connor had decided to saddle himself with Hank, and for better or worse, Hank was growing used to it.

Worst of all, he thought as he watched Connor toss the bottle in the bin and lean down to pet Sumo, was that he was beginning to like it too.

He lowered his head when Connor stood back up. The company he liked. These runs, he absolutely hated. Fucking exercise. He should have known by those less than subtle burger comments that Connor wasn’t going to drop the topic of Hank’s abysmal eating habits. The change in diet was one thing, but these torture runs were so much worse. Letting someone care was… Well, it was fucking painful. But Connor was persistent. Persistent and sincere and entirely too good for someone as washed up as him.

Hank blinked as a dark spot formed on the cement. His brow furrowed. That better not be… Oh, fucking Christ. He grimaced as another appeared, and then another. Forcing himself up, Hank looked up at the sky and swore loudly at the black, swollen clouds gathering overhead. Rain began to speckle his face.

Fuck.

“Connor, it’s fucking raining,” he said, swearing louder when the rain just came down harder.

Connor paused at his side and looked up at the sky as well. “It certainly is, Lieutenant,” he reported, completely unbothered by the rapidly worsening weather. Sumo seemed fairly unbothered too. Hank frowned as his dog shook, flecking them both with more water. That was going to be wonderful to deal with once they got home. He resigned himself to the stench of wet dog invading his evening, and then he turned his attention back to Connor.

“So, you gonna call a cab for us or what?”

“A cab?”

Hank raised a brow and then startled a bit when a crack of thunder rumbled in the air. Sumo let out a pitiful whine. He reached out a hand to soothe his dog, sighing under his breath. “Yeah, Connor, a cab. I didn’t exactly bring my phone with me,” he muttered. No damn pockets on these decade old sweats of his. He was a bit surprised they even fit still, but that was neither here nor there.

Instead of an affirmative, Connor’s LED flickered yellow. For some reason the sight sent a wave of dismay through Hank. Police instinct, he figured, and it was rarely wrong. The light flickered blue. Connor smiled.

“I think this is the perfect motivation to help you finish your run, Lieutenant,” Connor recited pleasantly as the rain soaked his carefully styled hair. “Consider this your cool down.”

Hank stared at him as the rain fell harder. “You… Connor, you can’t be fucking serious!” He looked around desperately for any sign of a bus or taxi. The street was empty though, and even if it wasn’t, he knew well enough they’d never let them on with a dog. Fuck.

Connor smiled widely. Hank hated how he looked great even soaking wet. “Let’s get going,” he said brightly, tugging on Sumo’s leash to coax the dog into standing. “First one home wins!”

“What… Wins what!?” Hank shouted as Connor took off without another look back. Hank swore lustily as he watched the damn android jog off in perfect form, Sumo keeping pace easily as they crossed the street. Hank took off after them, knees aching, lungs burning. “Fucking hell, at least pretend I might win, you asshole!”

If he’d thought the run there had been torture, the run home was absolute hell. Hank struggled to keep up with Connor’s inhuman stamina, and with every sheet of rain that came down, it brought with it another puddle to splash through, another lock of hair plastered in his eyes, and another mouthful of rainwater that didn’t taste nearly as nice as the bottle of water had. Eventually Connor noticed and slowed his pace. He even encouraged him every step of the way, but it didn’t hide the fact that Hank was running two and a half miles in the pouring rain, half blind and wholly exhausted.

By the time they reached Hank’s neighborhood, Hank was on his last legs. His legs trembled as he walked the final steps to the door, and he shoved his keys at Connor blindly, letting the android unlock the door so he could sag against the outer wall and wheeze for the breath he couldn’t seem to catch.

“I’m very proud of you, Lieutenant,” Connor said, opening the door with ease. God, it was dark inside, but fuck him if he cared. “We’ve exceeded our target mile goal for the day, and you’ll be pleased to know you burned over five hundred calories overall.”

He’d be pleased to get the fuck inside and collapse on the floor, actually, but Hank didn’t have the energy to say as much. He just pushed past Connor and used the wall for support until he made it to the living room. The curtains hid what little light the street might have offered the room, but muscle memory was one hell of a crutch, both while inebriated or blind. Errantly he heard the sound of Sumo being unleashed, and it was a testament to his own exhaustion that he didn’t have the wherewithal to warn Connor about the imminent mess Sumo was about to make.

“Sumo, no!” Connor yelped like clockwork. Hank managed a wry smile before face planting on the couch, body trembling and muscles aching.

“You better clean that up,” he mumbled, searching blindly for the bottle of beer he’d left half-drunk on the coffee table the night before.

The sound of glass on wood prompted Hank to lift his head. Connor was standing beside him now, the beer bottle in hand. “I’ll clean the living room, starting with this,” he said, lifting it out of reach. “Please hydrate with water, Lieutenant. You’ll find it works better than alcohol.”

Hank scowled, shoving himself upright. “I think you’ll find that I’ve had my fill of water for the day,” he said blandly, gesturing at his soaked sweats. He made a swipe for the beer bottle, but Connor was already moving towards the kitchen. Hank sagged into the couch and groaned. Not loud enough to drown out the sound of Connor pouring the rest of the beer down the sink, though.

Sumo, fresh from shaking the excess water from his coat, meandered through the living room and towards his dog bed. Hank watched him plop down in the cushions and pillow his head on his paws. Lucky bastard. A nap sounded ideal, but Hank had a feeling Connor wasn’t done with him yet. Already he could hear the android on his way back from the kitchen. Hank rolled his head on his shoulder, giving Connor a bitter look that Connor returned with a placid smile.

“I bet you’re proud of yourself,” Hank snipped.

Connor, still dripping water from his hair and clothes, furrowed his brow. “Proud? I suppose I am feeling some measure of contentment at the results we’ve achieved. You did well today. I had fun.”

Hank stared at him in disbelief. “You had fun?” he repeated. God, Connor really was a sadist. “Well, fuck then. Glad you enjoyed torturing me.”

Putting his hands on his hips, Connor… Fuck, he pouted . Hank balked at the sight. It was… Well, it was a cute look on him. Damn.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Hank relented when Connor’s stupid pout didn’t. He held up his hands and looked lower, hiding from Connor’s gaze. “It wasn’t torture. But God, Connor. I’m old. You can’t work me like a dog and expect me to like it.”

A bead of water rolled down Connor’s cheek, down his neck to disappear in the collar of his shirt. In the quiet darkness of the house, the storm outside seemed distant. Hank fidgeted a little and put a hand on the back of the couch, pushing himself onto his feet. He was going to get sick if he sat around in these clothes all night getting guilt tripped by a doe-eyed android.

“Do you have a change of clothes here?” Hank muttered, sighing when he heard Connor follow him towards the bathroom. Just like a poodle. The thick cotton of his sweatshirt stuck to his chest uncomfortably, the sweatpants sticking and sagging from the weight of the water it’d collected along the way. “Fuck, this is a mess,” he grunted, flicking on the light. “Can’t believe you made me run home in that monsoon.”

“It isn’t a monsoon, Lieutenant,” Connor corrected helpfully in the doorway. “And I didn’t consider the need for another outfit.”

Hank pulled a couple towels from the closet and threw one to Connor. The other he used to dry his matted hair. “I bet you didn’t,” he sighed, looking at Connor in the light. Which was a mistake, he realized a little too late to do him any good.

The white of Connor’s shirt hadn’t survived the deluge. It clung tightly to his body, see-through and sheer. The rough towel mussed his dark hair as he perfunctorily began to dry himself, but the lifting of his arms only made his shirt cling all the closer to his trim chest. Hank saw Connor’s mouth move, off-handedly heard his voice rattle off another bout of observations, suggestions, and nit-picky thoughts on the water, Hank’s health, and the carpet’s cleanliness. He knew Connor thought he was listening. But Hank wasn’t. He wasn’t listening at all.

All he could really focus on was the way the light showed the pale pink tease of Connor’s nipples hidden just beneath the thin layer of fabric.

It was a stupid thing to get caught on. Infinitely stupid. Of course Connor was anatomically correct. He was an advanced prototype, the best Cyberlife had to offer. No expense had been spared in making him the epitome of artificial life. From the way his damp hair curled as it dried to the humanistic reaction of cool air against biomechanically warmed skin, Connor was perfect. Hank wasn’t sure why he had expected any different.

He really wasn’t sure why it made his blood burn either.

“Is there something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Hank jerked his head up and looked Connor in the eye. Shit. Connor had that curious expression again, his eyes no doubt scanning Hank to figure out what had him out of sorts this time. Would he even be able to notice? Would the idea that maybe he was the distraction phase those pre-conceived program parameters of his?

“No, Connor,” Hank said with a sigh, forcing himself to hobble out of the bathroom. “I’m just peachy keen.”

Connor moved back a few steps, rainwater still trickling down his cheeks and shirt. He cocked his head to the side the same way Sumo did when he heard something strange in the distance. “Are you sure?” Connor probed, because of fucking course he would. “My readings tell me you are exhibiting symptoms atypical with with lethargy or inebriation. Was our run too long for you today? Should I reconfigure our future outings with this reaction in mind—”

“Would you just stop analyzing things for two seconds?” Hank cut in, holding up his hands in surrender. “Jesus Christ, it’s not your fault, okay?”

Connor blinked. He almost looked surprised. He folded his hands in front of him, his fingertips meeting to form a steeple against his sternum. An odd tick, Hank had noticed. Connor had a lot of them once you really started to look for them.

“I wasn’t implying it was my fault,” Connor said quietly. His warm brown eyes turned towards Hank, a sheepish look taking root on his young face. “But regardless, I am… concerned, I suppose, as to the cause.”

Hank gave in to the urge to bury his face in his hands. This was just… Fuck, he was too innocent looking. Those wide eyes, the soft looking lips. He stared at Hank like he hung the sun and stars, and here Hank was, projecting. Again.

Something brushed his shoulder and Hank couldn’t help but jump. He flinched away and moved his hands, but it was just Connor. It was always just Connor, standing a little too close, probing when Hank was at his worst. Standing at his side with worry in his eyes, staring up at him, and… Fuck.

He was too old for this. He was too old and broken and fucked up to deserve this, but Connor made it too easy to want it anyway.

“Lieutenant?”

Hank cleared his throat and averted his eyes. His face felt a bit warm. “It’s nothing, Connor,” he mumbled. “Just drop it.”

But Connor just cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. He assessed Hank as if he were a crime scene. Well, sort of like a crime scene. If Connor tried to fucking lick him, they’d have a bigger problem on their hands than just whatever it was happening right now. Hank took a step back and fiddled with the towel he held, wiping his already dry face for want of something to do. He was beginning to feel a big chilly now that the heat of the run had ebbed away. He’d need to get some new clothes for Connor too.

“Are you perhaps feeling desire, Lieutenant?” Connor asked, aplomb nothing.

Hank dropped the towel. He couldn’t quite find the words to answer that. Connor, of course, took that as invitation to go on.

“Your pupils dilated when you looked at me, and your core temperature increased slightly as well,” he rattled off, as cool as a cucumber. He even bent down to pick up the towel, folding it over his arm as he continued on. “Perspiration began despite the lack of physical exertion. Subconscious body language cues of your lips, hands, eye movements all point to a sense of sexual desire. Am I wrong?”

For some reason it felt like being on trial. If he got defensive, it’d just make him look even more guilty. Hank swallowed and avoided Connor’s gaze.

“How long have you wanted to have sex with me?”

Hank nearly choked. On his spit, on his shock, on something undefinable. He looked at Connor with wide eyes, hating how the damn android didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed asking a question like that. “Fucking hell, Connor,” Hank muttered, crossing his arms to glare at anything that wasn’t Connor. “Where do you get off saying shit like that?”

That damn yellow glow again. Connor frowned. “Am I…” He paused, bringing his hand to his chin in a startlingly human gesture. He looked down at his feet. “Am I misunderstanding something? You’re exhibiting signs of attraction, and since I am the only one here, it must be in regards to myself.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to- to fuckin’ say it out loud!” Hank shot. God, he sounded so defensive. Aw fuck, and now Connor was looking at him with that kicked puppy look of his. “Jesus, just… Goddamnit Connor. Just ignore me. I’m not gonna sit here and project on you—”

“Project?” Connor interjected. Now he was staring harder. He took a step closer. “Lieutenant, do you believe I don’t reciprocate? Is that the source of your discomfort with this subject?”

Hank tried not to look at Connor like he was stupid. He probably failed in that, but what else was new? “You’re a fuckin’ android, Connor,” he said, speaking slowly to make sure he understood. “I’m not the kind of sleazebag who’d go around humping the leg of something that doesn’t feel the same.”

Connor curled his hand into a loose fist, holding it to his chin as he analyzed Hank from head to toe. “And what evidence do you have that states I don’t feel the same?” he wondered, processing it the way he might a case.

It was getting increasingly harder to keep his incredulity in check. “Are you really going to stand there and tell me that you— you, what? Want to fuck me?” Hank’s head spun at the thought alone.

A blink. The smallest glimpse of a yellow light. “Yes,” Connor said, lowering his hand. “Yes, I would stand here and tell you that.”

Hank gaped.

Connor smiled. He walked a little closer. “Does that surprise you?” he asked.

Does that… “Yes, it fucking surprises me,” Hank shot, taking a step back until he was firmly in the living room once more. God, he needed a drink. What the hell was this day turning into? He rubbed at his temples and glanced at Connor’s eager little smile. “Do you even know what you’re saying?”

“I think I’m saying that I’d like to have sex with you.”

Hank turned on his heel and made a beeline for the kitchen. Specifically, for the bottle of whiskey he kept hidden behind the cereal where Connor hadn’t quite noticed yet. “You need to run a diagnostic test,” he muttered. Some bug in the program, obviously. That’s all this was—

“Diagnostics ran. There is no flaw in my system,” Connor recited helpfully, following him into the kitchen. Hank opened up a cabinet and shoved the boxes of cereal out of the way, searching for that elusive bottle. He gritted his teeth and went up on his toes when he didn’t feel cool glass. “If you are looking for your whiskey, I disposed of it last week.”

Hank lowered himself woodenly, turning with a glare. He closed the cabinet door a little harder than was strictly necessary. “If you expect me to have this conversation while sober, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Really?” Connor asked. “Like what?”

Like what? “Like… Like… Don’t sass me right now, Connor,” Hank grimaced, giving up. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Because you’re in the mood to be intimate with me,” the android offered up. “I understand.”

Hank stared at the ceiling, begging for God—any God at all— to end him here and now. “This cannot be happening,” he said. “You work me within an inch of my life, make me run home in the goddamn rain, and now you tell me you want to have sex with me.”

Connor came a little bit closer. The glow of his LED casted a cool blue light on Hank’s chest. “In my defense,” he murmured, “you did express your interest first.”

“Why?” Hank scowled, only to grimace a second later when Connor put his hands on his chest. “Why on earth would you want me of all people?” A whiskey-soaked mess of a man whose closest friend was a dog because no one else would put up with him. Sure, it wasn’t as if Connor had other acquaintances. But still.

Yellow light. Processing. Then blue.

Dark brown eyes sought out Hank’s, and Hank was too weak to avoid them. With him this close, Hank could just about count each eyelash, each little artificial blemish speckling his skin like rain. “Because I like you, Lieutenant,” Connor said simply, earnestly. “Do I need more of a reason than that?”

Yes. Yes, he needed more of a reason than that. He needed a thousand reasons, but even if he had them, Hank was sure he’d have a rebuttal for each and every one of them. And when it came down to it… When it came down to it, Hank was tired. He was cold and tired and aching and weak, and Connor was so close. He was close enough to make it easy to give in.

So, Hank gave in.

Connor didn’t have time to process things. Or maybe he did. Hank wouldn’t pretend to understand how his mind worked. All he knew was Connor allowed the kiss to happen. Hank found Connor’s hips and held them tight, tugging him closer, lifting him just a little until he went onto his toes. Soft lips moved against his own awkwardly. Connor kept his eyes open. Hank closed his own for the sake of his own sanity.

This was probably Connor’s first kiss. No, it definitely was. Connor wasn’t good at this. His lips moved gracelessly, his jaw locked and his head slightly off angle. Their noses bumped and Hank broke the kiss with a bit of a laugh. Connor stared at him curiously but smiled back after a moment’s pause. Weird. It was a weird kiss with a weird android and Connor through and through.

“Does… Does this mean we’re going to have sex?” Connor asked carefully.

Hank swallowed. “Is that really what you want?”

There was no need to process anything. Connor simply nodded his head, his hands closing into fists against Hank’s chest.

“Go wait in the bedroom,” Hank breathed, sweating already. “I gotta… I gotta do something first. Okay?”

Connor lowered himself back onto the floor. Hank’s knees went a little weak when that pink slip of a tongue peeked out to wet soft lips. Lips he knew were far softer than they had any right to be. “Alright, Lieutenant,” he said.

“Hank,” he corrected, shaking his head. He cleared his throat a little. His voice sounded so low. “It’s… It’s Hank when we’re like this.”

That earned him a smile. “Alright, Hank,” Connor whispered, pulling away to head to the bedroom. Hank braced himself on the counter and watched him until he slipped through the door. Out of sight but certainly not out of mind.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled, reaching blindly for a glass beside the sink. No booze, so water would have to do. Fuck. He filled the glass and downed the water in one gulp, wiping his chin when it trickled into his beard. This was… This was insane, right? Fucking insane. But God, if this wasn’t a dream…

He wanted it. He wanted this so bad he could scream.

His hand shook as he set the glass on the counter. Connor was waiting for him. He… He needed to go in there.

Despite the water, Hank’s mouth felt so very dry. He closed his eyes and pushed away from the counter, combing his hair out of his face. It was now or never, he thought, looking towards the bedroom. Connor hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights. What was he doing in there? His cheeks colored at what his imagination conjured up.

Now or never , he mouthed, forcing himself to take the first step. It was just Connor. Gorgeous, weird Connor. There was nothing there that could surprise him more than hearing the android say he wanted this. Everything from here on out would be a cakewalk compared to that.

When Hank moved finally entered the bedroom, he found…

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked, staring at how Connor was sitting on the bed. Prim and proper and acting like they were at the office, Connor sat with his spine straight and his hands neatly resting on his thighs. The android blinked owlishly at him, cocking his head curiously. Hank dragged a hand down his face. It was like Connor was waiting to be evaluated.

“I am… I am waiting for you to join me, Lieu— Hank,” he said, only stumbling a little as he backtracked the title. Connor’s hands curled into fists against his thighs. The shorts he wore rode up a little, baring another inch or two of flawless pale skin. “Am I supposed to be doing something else right now?”

Connor stood up before Hank could say something, his hands immediately going to his waistband. In a quick, decisive move, he pulled down his shorts and stepped out of them, his long, lithe legs nearly glowing in the low light of the room. Tight black briefs covered his lower half, nondescript and unassuming. Hank’s brain stuttered at the sight. If he had his own LED, he had to wager it’d be stuck on yellow and spiralling for traction he couldn’t find.

It was when those pale hands moved to grip the bottom hem of Connor’s shirt that Hank finally found his voice. He crossed the room in a flash and grabbed Connor by the wrists. “Hey, wait a minute,” he ordered, biting his lip hard to keep from doing something stupid. “What are you doing now?”

Connor looked at his trapped hands and then up at Hank. “Undressing,” he said slowly. “That is what people do when preparing for intercourse, right?”

“Wh- That’s—”

“Perhaps undressing isn’t absolutely necessary,” Connor carried on, closely analyzing the grip Hank had on his wrists. “My knowledge on this topic is rather lacking, but basic logic would dictate that only partial nudity is required for successful copulation. But Hank, wouldn’t that increase the likelihood of making a mess?”

Fucking Connor half clothed was an idea that Hank had never entertained before, but damn if he wasn’t thinking about it now. Fuck. It’d be so dirty like that. Hank bit down on his lip even harder and forced himself to shake his head. “You need to cool it with the analysis,” he said, using his grip on Connor to push him down onto the bed. “Just… slow down, alright? There’s no rush. I…”

Hank felt his face burn hot. Connor stared up at him, content to let him hold him in place despite the fact that he could break the hold easily if he so chose.

“I want to undress you myself,” Hank mumbled, staring at Connor’s shirt to avoid seeing how the android took that. “This is your first time, right? I’m not going to rush it.”

Connor sat without a word. His hands stayed in Hank’s until he realized he needed to let go. “There’s no need to be so considerate,” Connor said quietly, looking at Hank with wide, curious eyes. “It’s impossible for you to hurt me by moving too fast.”

Hank sighed and gave in to the urge to rub the back of his neck. “Just… Just scoot up a bit more, alright? It’s not about hurting you. It’s about doing this properly.” Fuck, did he even have lube left? He rarely kept that around anymore. A quick jerk off in the shower was all he managed to get by with these days. He glanced at Connor as the android seated himself in the center of the bed. He rested his hands on his bare thighs, and that was somehow worse than before.

“I don’t mind either way,” Connor said matter-of-factly. “I just want to have sex with you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Hank groaned, “Goddammit, Connor.”

When it came down to it... that’s all Hank wanted too. He couldn’t begrudge Connor for being so blunt about it. Hank fisted his hair in a hand, sucked in a deep breath, and climbed onto the bed, blood too hot to fret about stupid shit anymore. Connor moved his hands and leaned back a little, parting his thighs as if he expected it to happen right away. It wouldn’t, though. They were going to take their damn time with this, Connor’s assertions be damned.

Kissing seemed like the best way to get things going. Hank hooked his hand around Connor’s head, tugging him forward until they were close enough to share breath. Connor stared into his eyes. His LED flashed. Processing. Processing. Hank closed the distance between them, kissing him before he could catch up. And this time, Connor did it right. His eyes slowly closed and he leaned into Hank’s touch. Soft lips, a warm tongue. Overwhelmingly human but for the taste. Connor tasted like nothing. Like a blank canvas waiting for a brush, and when he parted his lips, Hank deepened it, content to be that brush for as long as he could get away with it.

As they kissed, Hank let his other hand wander. Down Connor’s shoulder to his waist, and then lower still. He shifted a little and squeezed Connor’s impossibly smooth thigh. God, his body was perfect. Absolutely perfect. He stroked the patch of skin between Connor’s hip and groin, thumb catching on the edge of his briefs. Young and fit and still soft in a way he never thought an android could be. Hank opened his eyes and broke the kiss, catching his breath against Connor’s cheek. Fuck, he was hard already. It’d been too long since he’d last done something like this. He glanced down, eager to see Connor’s reaction.

Instead, Hank froze.

“Hank?” Connor breathed, his voice tickling Hank’s cheek. “Is something wrong?”

Is something wrong. Well, that really depended, didn’t it? “Is this… I mean, like…” Hank grimaced, staring at Connor’s blank expression. Fuck, this was awkward.

Connor just cocked his head. It looked far too innocent, clashing with his half debauched state in the worst way. “Is this what, Hank?” he wondered.

Fuck. Hank brought his hand to Connor’s cheek, warring with himself on the sleaziness of it all. “Is this like… doing anything for you?” he got out reluctantly. He tried not to stare at Connor’s crotch, but with the shorts gone and his tight black briefs the only thing left on his lower half, he felt like it was a more honest judge than Connor’s face.

“You’re asking if your touch makes me experience sexual desire,” Connor gathered evenly, leaning into Hank’s hand.

“Yes, Connor,” Hank sighed. He gave the android an unimpressed look. “I’m asking if this makes you feel good.”

Dark brown eyes met his own, the LED on Connor’s forehead flashing yellow for a few seconds. “It’s not one of my primary functions,” he said, no doubt only just checking for himself. “But I seem to possess the capability. I am not as equipped as models intended for sexual use. Would you like me to download new protocols for this? I can cycle through various personas until we find one that suits you.”

Hank was shaking his head before he really processed what Connor was offering. He let go of Connor’s cheek to hold his shoulder instead. “Absolutely not,” he muttered, feeling like a skeevy old man. Connor really was a virgin, more so in a sense since he didn’t even know how to act without additional software.

Connor blinked at him, pressing his hands together. His long, slender fingers were beautiful, really. Not at all like Hank’s rough ones. “Then… how would you like me to act, Hank?” the android asked.

“Shit, Connor, I want you to act like you,” he said exasperatedly. He looked at Connor and rubbed at his eyes, wondering if this had been a bad idea. “I want you to feel good. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

Another whirl of yellow. It took a few seconds for it to turn blue. Connor blinked and then nodded. “I’ve turned on my pleasure sensors,” he reported with a chipper smile. “I have very limited experience to offer you, so please let me know if I’m lacking in any way.”

It was Hank’s turn to blink blankly. He may have even gaped a little. “You… You what?”

Connor reached for Hank’s fallen hand and brought it back to his cheek. This time, instead of just staring at him, he leaned into Hank’s touch, the ghost of a gasp issuing from his parted lips. When Hank stroked his cheekbone with an errant swipe of his thumb… Connor closed his eyes.

“I turned on my pleasure sensors,” he repeated, quieter now. “I’ll feel and experience your touch differently now.”

Hank swallowed the knee jerk urge to ask Differently how? Asking was a cop out. He leaned in a little closer and guided Connor down, cradling his head in his hand until it rested against a pillow. A bit of a blush teased Connor’s high cheekbones. Fuck, he was gorgeous.

“Connor?”

“Yes, Hank?” Connor whispered.

“Let me know if you don’t like something I do,” Hank said, bringing a hand to the hem of Connor’s damp shirt. He let the tips of his fingers trail along Connor’s hip, and he shivered when Connor fidgeted in response. “Alright?”

Connor closed his fingers around a handful of bedding, nodding his head. “Alright, Hank.”

It was a bit… unsettling? Yeah, unsettling, having to do this with Connor watching him so intently. His big, curious eyes never left Hank for an instant. Hank tried to ignore the way it made him sweat, and instead set himself to testing the waters. It’d been a very long time since he’d last fallen into bed with someone. Even longer still since he had to be the one to guide a virgin through the pitfalls and pleasures of sex. There was a lot of pressure to do it right. Doubly so given what Connor was, what he was offering when he looked at Hank and told him he wanted him. This had to be good. It had to be perfect.

Hank started slow. Connor was already laying down, and if he’d never had his pleasure sensors on before, it’d be best to see how he took a little fondling before they got to anything more intense. He reached out a hand and slipped it beneath Connor’s shirt. He pulled back a little when Connor flinched at the touch.

“Everything okay?” he asked, wondering if this was in fact the worst idea he’d ever had.

Connor, though, was quick to shake his head no. “I’m fine,” he whispered, relaxing again when Hank began tugging his shirt higher. “The change in sensitivity is something I am still becoming accustomed to. Please, pay me no mind.”

And sensitive he was. Hank watched Connor fidget against the sheets as his skin was bared to the open air. His flat stomach, his cute navel, higher and higher until the teasing slip of his chest peeked past the damp shirt. Hank’s eyes roved over all of it, drinking in the sight of a perfect body made real. Connor was quiet. Hank… He wanted to change that.

He started by lowering his head to kiss everything he saw.

Connor’s skin tasted like rain. Against Hank’s lips it felt just as soft and warm as any human’s might, perfect in every way. Hank laid himself out along Connor’s body, his hands roving beneath the damp shirt, his lips and tongue exploring the chest that had been teasing him since they got home. Connor wiggled and arched. The scrape of Hank’s beard against his skin earned him a low, broken keen.

“Pleasure sensors, huh?” Hank mused, kissing a nipple too cute to leave alone. “How much can you feel?”

The LED spiraled yellow. It took Connor a few seconds to find his voice. “My sensors correlate with a typical human’s erogenous zones,” he rattled off, closing his eyes to gasp when Hank rolled the pad of a thumb over a nipple. “Stimulation of a sexual nature sends impulses to my neural networks to simulate endorphin production.”

“In English, Connor.” Hank pushed the damp shirt higher, rucking it under Connor’s arms until his entire chest was on display. He glanced down. Something was tenting those tight little briefs of his now. He reached out with his fingertips to touch. Connor whimpered pitifully.

“I feel what you are doing to me,” he rushed, voice anything but unaffected. His thighs twitched as Hank traced the shape of his cock through the fabric of his briefs. What did it look like? How lifelike was it? “I… Hank, please. Is this teasing?”

“Is this teasing,” Hank huffed, smiling despite himself. He gave Connor a humored look and hooked his fingers in the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down his thighs. Connor lifted his hips helpfully, almost eager to be rid of them, and that left the android naked but for his the shirt under his arms and the artificial blush tinging his cheeks red. Hank let out a low whistle.

Cyberlife had outdone themselves with Connor. Hank had limited experience with androids, sure, and even that job at the Eden Club failed to really give him much indication as to how realistic android anatomy normally was, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Connor was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Models couldn’t boast of this kind of perfection. Hank drew his hand down Connor’s hip, ghosting his knuckles along a slender thigh. Connor’s cock was already erect. Flushed slightly at the tip, it looked as picture perfect as the rest of him.

A modest five or so inches long and slender like the rest of him. His balls were tight and so completely unnecessary given what Connor was, but accuracy was important in these things, Hank had to think.

When he took Connor in hand and got a choked little yelp in return, it hit Hank that they were really about to do this. This. Sex. With Connor. He never thought he’d see the day where he wished he’d paid more attention to the break room talk that always rose up after long weekends. The beat cops weren’t strangers to the clubs. As nauseating as it had been, it might have proven education at a time like this. Trailing his fingers along the length, Hank let out a huff. “Can you… come?” he asked, glancing up at Connor’s dazed face. God, he looked so good like this.

“Y-Yes,” the android said, voice shaking slightly as his hips sought more from his hand in little abortive thrusts. “I’m able to ejaculate once optimal stimulation is achieved.”

Hank gripped Connor fully in his palm and gave him a few pointed strokes. “If you can still manage to say the word “ejaculate,” I’m obviously not touching you enough.” He shook his head in disbelief, his expression softening when Connor let out a broken moan. The flushed tip of his cock was beginning to bead with something that looked an awful lot like precum. “What is this stuff?”

Connor forced his eyes to open so he could look down at what Hank meant. He didn’t manage to look for long; his eyes shut tightly a second later, his head rolling back on the pillow to face the ceiling instead. “A composite mixture of biodegradable lubricant and non-toxic binder to achieve a c-consistency synon- ngh , synonymous with human e-e-ejac-” He stammered on the word, letting out a gasp that sounded like something from a porno. “H-Hank, I c-can’t focus like this.”

Hank, who had been speeding up the movements of his hand the longer Connor made his explanation, just grinned. “That’s the point, Connor,” he said, leaning down to chase Connor’s lips with his own. He found them easily enough, kissing Connor until he was sure the android was nearing the point of no return. He could feel how tight his body was wound. The LED cycled through a burst of yellow to blue to yellow again. He pulled away and slowed his hand when it settled on yellow fully.

It took a few moments for Connor to open his eyes. A smattering of heartbeats in the darkness. His fingers clutched the sheets beneath him, and when he finally looked at Hank, it was with awe in his dark, dark eyes. His cock twitched against his thigh, flushed like the real thing.

“That felt… That felt nice,” he breathed, his voice just a whisper. Wide eyed and innocent, he looked to Hank for more.

“It’ll get better,” Hank promised him, leaning back to rest on his haunches. “Take off your shirt. It’ll just get in the way.”

Sitting up, Connor shucked his shirt and held it a little awkwardly in his hand. “Are you going to undress, too?” he asked, setting his shirt aside when he realized it might get ruined if he kept it near. Naked and flushed, his gaze sent Hank’s heart pounding harder than the run had.

The question didn’t help things in the slightest. Hank stiffened a little and glanced down at the damp sweats he still wore. His dick was about as hard as sheetrock, and with all the excitement going on, he was sweating beneath the thick layers. He rested a hand on his stomach and winced. He hadn’t been jogging nearly enough to make him want to be on display with someone like Connor in the room.

“Nah,” he said, looking up. “You don’t want to see all this.”

Connor cocked his head a little, leaning back on his hands with his legs spread just enough to be salacious. “What makes you think that?” he wondered quietly, LED light casting his body in a pale blue glow. All it accomplished was showcasing just how beautiful he was. Hank felt like glancing down would be enough to answer the question for him. But, knowing Connor, he wouldn’t grasp the obvious quite so easily.

Hank shifted on the bed, his fingers worrying at the ratty hem of his sweater. Some old police academy thing, worn out in places and only good for getting stained or ripped or sweated on. He tried to ignore the obvious parallels. “Shit, Connor, because why would you?” He let go of his shirt to rub at his eyes. If there was one way to kill a hard on, this might be it. “I’m not exactly a spring chicken.”

“No,” Connor said, still staring, still hard, still unbearably attractive. “You’re Hank.”

“Yeah, and Hank is a… a… What are you doing?” The question nearly didn’t make it out. Hank swallowed on nothing, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as Connor laid back on the bed and spread his legs. A graceful hand moved between them, brushing past his hard cock to probe at his entrance carefully.

“I want to have sex with you,” Connor said with a determined air. His brow was even furrowed in concentration. “I’d like it if you took your clothes off. Either way, I’m going to have sex with you. Because I want you.”

“...Goddammit, Connor,” Hank muttered, closing his eyes before he lost control entirely. With a deep breath and another muffled swear, Hank yanked off his shirt and tossed it off the bed. The cool air of the bedroom prickled his skin uncomfortably, but the look Connor gave him warmed him back up immediately. It was a struggle to meet Connor’s gaze head on. He managed somehow, but only because he had to. “At least let me do that.”

Connor moved his hand away immediately. A ruse. His smile was bright enough to soothe away Hank’s frustration, though. “Of course, Hank,” he murmured, lifting a hand to Hank’s chest. His fingers were warm when they touched, gentle as they assessed his soft flesh and the hair thick along his sternum. They paused on a scar here or there. Bullet wounds and surgeries over the years had left their mark. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to ask about them. But only for a moment.

Dark eyes met Hank’s. “Please remove your pants, Hank,” Connor requested, letting his hand fall to his side. “Then we can begin.”

This was fucking unreal. All of it. Every last bit. Hank swallowed roughly, letting out a hiss of a sigh as he yanked the sweats off his hips and down his legs. It was graceless and rough; they tangled around his ankles a bit and Hank grunted as he kicked at them until they fell to the floor. The cool air raised the hair on his thighs and arms, but the precise, focused look in Connor’s watchful eyes warmed him back up again before it could do more than make Hank shiver.

“Happy now?” Hank asked.

Connor nodded. “Very. Now,” he said, looking between Hank’s legs and then his own. “How do we proceed?”

Proceed? That was an awfully polite way to put it. Hank raised a brow and leaned a little closer, shuffling until he was situated between Connor’s parted legs. He ran a hand down the length of a thigh, squeezing when Connor’s eyelids fluttered from the touch. He kept a careful eye on Connor’s expression as he moved his hand higher, and then higher, and then higher still. He gave Connor’s cock a pump before moving his fingers lower to prod at the silken skin of his entrance.

“I don’t think I can fuck you,” Hank said reluctantly, surprising himself a little at how husky his voice had become.

“And… And why is that, Hank?” Connor’s cheeks were flushed a dark pink, his hips making little twitches as if seeking out Hank’s fingers. “I believe I’ve been adamant about my desire. Are you having doubts?”

Hank rolled his eyes, punishing Connor a little with a hard swipe of his thumb along the underpart of his balls. Connor let out a startled huff, his body locking up tight. “No, you fucking brat,” he muttered, apologizing with a gentle stroke of his thumb that had Connor shivering. “I don’t have any lube. I’m not about to fuck you dry, so…”

Connor’s LED went yellow. It should have been the clue Hank needed to know something was up, but he was probably a shittier detective than he thought since he couldn’t anticipate feeling something wet brush his fingers in the next instant.

“What the fuck!” he rushed, jerking back his hand. Hank looked from Connor face to between his legs, then to his hand. His fingers were damp with something shiny. Connor’s entrance was likewise slick. “What the fuck is this, Connor?”

“You said we required lubricant,” the android said as innocently as anything. “I’ve merely provided it myself since you were lacking your own.”

“You… you what?” Hank slowly brought his hand back down to touch what had only just seconds before been warm, dry skin. It was still plenty warm, but a cursory probe told him that Connor had coated his insides with whatever this gel stuff was. Hank bit his lip when a rush of warmth passed over him. Fuck. Fuck, that was… That was really fucking hot, wasn’t it?

Shit, Connor was talking again.

“-and it’s merely a collection of lubricants used to better my movements internally,” he said, knee deep in an explanation of what he must have thought Hank meant by his exclamation. “It’s non-toxic and readily available. Though not its intended purpose, it should suit us for the moment until you can procure lubricant of a better quality for next time.”

“N-Next time?” Hank laughed, propping himself over Connor with a hand while his other one gave in to the urge to see how tight an android was. “Haven’t even had me once and you already think you’re gonna want to go again.” The first finger went inside easily, Connor’s walls silky smooth and slicked perfectly as if he’d already been fingered for an hour before this moment. God, if that wasn’t hot. Fuck.

“I like you, Hank.” Connor shivered and spread his thighs a little wider, glancing at Hank through his lashes. “There’s no need for you to worry about preparation. You can’t hurt me.”

Hank pressed another finger in alongside the first, knowing it was true. Connor opened up beautifully for him, his head falling back as he gasped and shifted impatiently. Every inch of him was on display like this, every insufferably perfect inch. He twitched and arched and sought out the slow, probing fingers. “If you think I’m going to take a shortcut and miss this show, you’ve got another thing coming, Connor.”

Connor’s cock twitched at the words. A bead of his precum teased the head of it when Hank tried scissoring his fingers, and he had to clap a hand down on Connor’s hip to keep him flat against the bed. Hank leaned closer, kissing Connor’s stomach, then his ribs, then up his chest and neck until he reached his soft lips. A third finger was accepted just as eagerly as the two before it. Hank kissed Connor through his shuddering gasp, savoring everything about this moment.

He kept up the torment for another few minutes. Every time Connor tried to move things along or rush him, Hank would hold him down and kiss him until he settled. A heady thing, really. Connor was stronger than him. Hank could feel it in the moments when he lost a little control and bucked too hard or gripped too tight to his shoulders. He was so strong but he still let Hank hold him down, let him hold him still for another kiss that didn’t seem to satisfy him like it had before.

Hank pulled his fingers free and coated his own cock with the slick covering his hand. Connor stared at him with dark, glassy eyes. “You sure you want this?” Hank asked, because he had to fucking ask a thousand times more before he even came close to believing it was true. “We can still stop if you don’t.”

“Shut up, Hank,” Connor gasped, lifting his hips for the stimulation he wasn’t getting. “Just shut up and fuck me.”

“Oh, so now you’re gonna call it fucking?” Hank gripped himself at the base to hold his dick steady, hooking one of Connor’s thighs over his hip to give himself a little more room to work. The head of his cock teased the soft, wet pink of Connor’s entrance. God, was he really going to do this? Connor looked at him with his dark eyes, so young and gorgeous. He could have anyone he wanted but… but he wanted Hank. This was such a fucking clusterfuck, but Hank knew his hesitation wouldn’t be put up with for long.

“Hank, please—”

“Fuck, Connor, I’m going,” he grunted, his cheeks burning a little as he leaned himself over Connor and sought out his hand to hold. Sentimental of him, but he couldn’t help it. He glanced at Connor’s face and forced himself not to look away. He moved his hips forward. He pressed inside without another backwards glance.

Connor’s hand fit perfectly with his own. Sappy of him to notice, but he couldn’t quite help it either. Their fingers interlocked as their bodies came together, the warm, soft tightness so good that Hank had to think he was dreaming. Everything about this moment was perfect; from Connor’s body to the tight little expression he wore on his face, it all felt like something not meant for him. Dark brown eyes stared at him like he were God. Lips parted, cheeks flushed, Connor let out a shiver and a broken moan, his body opening like a flower in the morning light to embrace Hank entirely.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” Hank wheezed, tightening his grip on Connor’s slender hands. If Connor had been a human, he might worry about hurting him. But Connor wasn’t human, and Hank’s grip wasn’t strong enough to bruise artificial flesh. “Jesus Christ, Connor. You’re so fucking tight.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor breathed, biting down on his lip in an overwhelmingly human gesture. His cock nearly weeped between their bodies. “I can… I can loosen the—”

“Don’t you fucking think about it,” Hank snarled, pinning Connor to the bed as if that would be enough to keep him from changing anything about this moment. “I don’t want you doing anything but enjoying yourself, you hear me?”

A whimper. Connor closed his eyes and turned his face towards the pillows, nodding his head to show he heard. Hank buried his face in Connor’s neck, licking and biting and sucking marks that wouldn’t take. Fuck, he was so tight. Virgin tight even though he showed no sign of the pain that sort of thing usually brought with it. Connor squeezed Hank’s hands, moaning softly from the kissing. Hank rolled his hips forward, coaxing that moan a little louder.

“How’s it feel?” Hank asked, trailing kisses along Connor’s neck, his cheek. God, it was so hard to take things slow when it felt this fucking good. Connor’s cock was trapped between their stomachs. Hank pressed them closer together, rocking into him with long, smooth thrusts. “You feel good? You like it?”

Connor furrowed his brow and closed his eyes, wiggling this way and that and going ramrod straight when Hank fucked into him hard enough to scoot him an inch up the bed. “H-Hank,” he stammered, shivering from head to toe. “It’s… It’s a lot. I can’t- I’m not- I like it,” he choked, meeting Hank’s gaze with a wanton look on his face. “I like it. Feels good. I can’t think. More.”

What sort of pleasure was he feeling? Did it feel anything like how Hank felt? His blood on fire and his hands sweating, that punch-you-in-the-gut kind of light-headedness that only came from wanting more of another’s body? Hank shifted his knees on the sheets and rolled his hips forward, harder and faster, smooth but still forceful, chasing that broken little keen of Connor’s with a kiss too deep too keep up for long. Hank struggled to catch his breath when Connor didn’t need to breathe. The bed squeaked and creaked, thudding against the wall.

“Hank,” Connor wheezed. “Ha-Hank, I’m—”

Connor’s entire body seized up. His hands tightened on Hank’s and his spine arched like a bow. The LED on his temple flared yellow, yellow, red for a split second— He’s coming , Hank realized. The thought was all it took to do him in as well.

It was too soon. Embarrassingly soon, really, but Hank comforted himself with the thought that Connor still came first. Despite wanting to watch, to see what Connor’s orgasm looked like up close, Hank could only groan and close his eyes. Stupid of him to miss it, but keeping cool right now was too much to expect after an evening like this. Hank squeezed Connor’s hands and fucked into him like his life depended on it, thrusting as the white overtook his vision and the pleasure wiped out everything else. His body ached and his face hid itself in Connor’s hair.

Too good. It all felt too good.

A less enlightened man might say an orgasm was an orgasm no matter where it came from. Hank, on the other hand, felt this one hit him right between the eyes. It was Connor , he thought, the only thought in fact that managed to permeate the din of his sluggish mind. Connor in his bed, Connor he was inside, Connor who was coming in thick bursts against his stomach, the mess smearing them both.

Hank groaned at the warmth of it, the stickiness. Connor would be an utter mess once this was done; Hank hadn’t had the foresight to pull out before coming inside him. But somehow he managed the foresight to pull out and roll off of Connor before he collapsed on top of him completely. Somehow. Hank collapsed onto the bed beside Connor’s body in a limp pile of too-hot flesh and sweaty bliss. Connor followed him as he went, clinging to his hand as if he didn’t want to be apart from him just yet. Hank hid behind his free hand, fisting his fingers in his sweaty hair.

God. God-fucking-damn.

It took Hank an embarrassingly long time to catch his breath. Fuck, he really was out of shape. He let his arm slide off his face and flop on the bed beside him, the cool air slowly drying the sweat on his brow as his body winded back down. It’d been way too long since he’d last gotten off like that. Every nerve in his body felt like it was singing, that bone-deep weariness a long forgotten friend in the wake of all the nights he’d spent alone. Hank turned his head and looked to see how Connor was faring. It made him a little nervous when the android got too quiet.

He shouldn’t have worried. Connor was laying on his side, pink-cheeked and smiling that weird little smile of his. Despite being covered in cum and that… that artificial lube and stuff, he seemed infinitely happy. Happy and preoccupied, Hank noticed, frowning a little when he caught sight of the yellow glow bathing Connor’s face. The hell could he be processing at a time like this?

“What’s up?” Hank asked hoarsely, tapping at Connor’s spinning LED. “Thought I fucked you hard enough to shut off your processor for a few minutes.”

Connor smiled and batted away his hand. He rested his head on the pillow, his processing light turning from yellow to a calming blue. “I was just calculating the estimated number of calories you just burned,” he reported helpfully. “The number is one hundred and seventeen, a bit higher than the projected average.”

Hank’s mouth fell open in a gape. Connor cocked his head but kept talking. Because of course he did.

“The average caloric loss during the average four mile run for a human of your body type is somewhere around four hundred and fifty calories,” Connor said, “so, if this sort of activity is preferable to you over running, perhaps we should consider substituting it as your daily exercise of choice.”

“Connor, what the—”

“Of course,” the android charged on, “we would need to do it at least four times a day to equate the same caloric loss as a run, so—”

That was it. That was… That was so far beyond anything Hank could handle right now, and he made it known by grabbing the nearest pillow and shoving it over Connor’s face. “Jesus fuck, Connor,” he wheezed. “Are you trying to kill me?”

The pillow was pulled away. Connor looked at him with wide, sweet eyes, his lips curled upwards into a smile. “I think that’s the exact opposite of what my words imply,” he murmured, inching a little closer to Hank. With him this close, it was hard to be annoyed. Hank fought to frown. When Connor nuzzled his shoulder with his cheek, he lost the battle entirely.

Hank let out a low sigh and sagged into the bedding. He wrapped his arm around Connor, staring up at the ceiling with utter resignation. “You really like doing it with me that much, huh?” he mused, only half joking. An old man like him. Fuck.

“I like doing most things with you, Hank.” He turned his head at that. Connor smiled at him. “This was very enjoyable. Naturally, I don’t have much grounds for comparison, but you were able to skillfully bring me to clim—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough outta you,” Hank said, drowning out Connor as he rolled onto his side. His face felt decidedly hot and he didn’t need Connor pointing that out too. “It’s bedtime now. No more talking, you got that? Power down or whatever it is you do at night.”

Connor went stiff in his arms. “You want me to stay here?” he wondered, voice quiet. Hank had his eyes closed. He could imagine the expression Connor wore and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to see it. “You want me to… to sleep with you?”

“You like doing things with me, right?” Hank still cracked open an eye, his heart giving a funny little squeeze when he saw how Connor smiled. He closed his eyes once more, a wry smile quirking his own lips. “Might as well do this too.”

“Hank…”

“Shh.” Hank threw an arm over Connor’s waist and shoved the other beneath the pillow. It’d been ages since he’d last slept with someone else. He’d nearly forgotten how to do it. Lucky for him that Connor didn’t really need to sleep. It wouldn’t matter if he held him wrong. He still tried harder to do it right, though. Connor… Connor deserved the effort.

“Goodnight, Connor,” he muttered.

His face burned when he felt a kiss fall on his cheek.

“Goodnight, Hank. Sleep well.” Hank grunted and held him a little tighter.

It wasn’t perfect. Hank was sticky and aching, and Connor wasn’t as soft as a human might be in a similar position. The LED on his forehead was bright in the dark room, and even when Hank closed his eyes, he could still see the calm blue glow through his eyelids, teasing him like an obnoxious bit of sunlight peeking through the blinds. But Connor was warm. He was warm and there, and when Hank shifted a little, his lips grazed a soft temple. Connor leaned into him, seeking more. More of Hank.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it could be.

[braindamageforbeginners]

The Morning After/Diet

Cycle 9, Day 16

POST-FINAL INFUSION, CYCLE 9

Thankfully, a quasi-legal medical substance allows me to get through the night, and wake up feeling mostly-okay on post-infusion days. I’m still exhausted and fatigued, but caffeine does help with that, too. I guess the DARE program’s message should have been that recreational drug use was bad, but as an entire lifestyle, it might be neccessary (I say that knowing they’ll eventually have to stop chemo, because, again, these are dangerous, expensive drugs that will burn out one’s innards. Good news, the outtards are doing pretty well at the moment, which plays well to my plan to ask for more napalm doses until those wretched new cells on the block give up. There are a few people who know me personally who know there’s a non-minor chance I’m just too stubborn to die. Of course, it’s easy to say that now, after a clean scan (that occurred two weeks ago). And it feels good to say that,even for what’s usually the worst infusion in the series was easily treated by some aspirin, and my new bionic joints (although I still seem to get a nasty wonky leg after infusions). The bad news is that, even with my bionic joints, a simple high-speed walk around the neighborhood left me wobbly. So much for prosthetic devices (although it’s worth noting that gait issues are very common symptoms of  progressing brain cancer; which pretty much also means they’re a side-effect of chemo)..

Also, even though I’m still not looking at 401K options, I am getting a little better at reading between the lines about cancer statistics, and figuring that our society is completely riddled with bad health practices that will automatically make every health issue worse, including brain cancer (Dad recommended looking into going back to grad school for biomedical informatics, since that’s now one of my hobbies). Case in point, the average American turbo-loading on unhealthy diets. This wouldn’t normally be worth commentary, but when you spend most of your waking hours obsessing over your own health, you can get tunnel-vision and forget most of us aren’t leading terribly healthy lives, anyway; as I kind of realized yesterday taking my grandmother shopping. There’s endless fats, sugars, and all kinds of insanely unhealthy junk (so says the man on a potentially-fatal course of drugs). Before we continue, I’ve been asked if I’m on a ketogenic diet. No, I am not. I am on the Jack Lalanne diet (that was intended to be a joke, until I did a little research and found out that I am). I’d normally not go over that, except this is intended for the next set of folks in line, and ketogenic diet is en vogue with cancer patients. To dip into my biochem background, the ketogenic diet basically swaps sugars for fats, and it is a fad diet. Even though there’s more research being done on it as an interventional therapy (that’s “we’re doing something medically to treat an illness”), I only saw one study for GBM, and it only increased life expectancy two months, AND, to be effective, he patients had to be kept in a state of near-ketogenic shock and in the hospital constantly. We’ll call that “Plan B.”

In the meantime, because chemo and/or zofran tend to stop you up; I thought it’d be easier to just eat loads of fruits of and vegetables to keep everything sluicing through me (that’s not true, I’m just terrified of laxtives; you can peruse the archives for that particular incident). I think I’m up to seven or eight a day, because it’s easier to maintain healthy habits than start and stop them (Jack had at least 10 raw vegetable/fruit servings a day). People often talk/ask about changes in taste because of chemo. I usually shrug because my own tastes are largely unaltered; however, upon reflection, pineapples got amazing in the last year or so. Add onto that at least 15-20 grams of protein before starting dinner or snacking, and, my rule is, you can eat as much as you want of whatever you want. I don’t think you’ll want much, though. If you’ve never heard of Jack, it’s a shame, because he pretty much invented modern fitness.movement. He’s credited with starting the first public gyms in America that featured things like barbells (he’s not so much “Old School” as much the guy who pours the cement foundations). And he lived to be 96, so, clearly, the man was doing something right. His dietary rule was - and this is a direct quote - “If it tastes good, spit it out,” So far, it’s worked fantastically for me (and that’s a pretty easy diet rule to remember), in the sense that I’m still alive and mostly-intact, and haven’t lost much weight (but my belt size has dropped by two inches)(to be honest, I have cheat days, and I do have the odd beer or Manhattan). That sounds all pretty narcissistic, but here’s the pay-off if you’re ever in the hot seat. If you are diagnosed with a terminal illness (another thing that skews GBM stats; if I get side-swiped tomorrow and die in a freak accident; that’ll get calculated into life expectancy stats, even if the cause of death is clearly a drunk semi driver), get into a level crazy health and/or physical activity. Cancer survivors have a severely reduced life expectancy, because of  all the side-effects and long-term damage associated with treatment. That’s not just brain cancer, it’s all of them.

And there are many, many cancers that were previously considered “acute” and have been reclassified as “chronic.”  My plan here is stolen from Ben Williams - stay healthy and alive long enough and well enough that the Warlocks will keep hexing me until I die, or the cancer (which is me, remember) does. I realize that seems grim and unpleasant as a philosophy, but that is the definition of a terminal situation. Someone will die. I’m damned if that someone is going to be me.

Because that’s not exactly an upbeat way of ending this post, I will point out that there are all sorts of nutritionists at the cancer center, who all have the secret to staying healthy during and after treatment, and, even though it’s a little mean, I do remember one of them mentioning, in a support group, something like, “It pains me to hear people say they want to eat healthy, but don’t enjoy the things that are healthy for them.” Which is an interesting statement to make to a bunch of people in chemo, because it’s not like anyone enjoys or feels great on a non-stop diet of mustard gas. I am now so deep in the Abyss that “unenjoyable” is almost a vacation. Still, I’m ready to endure more punishment, because my sense of humor is still there, and able to appreciate the delicious irony of an authority figure talking about the concept of “fun meals” with people who are now far beyond conventional fun. That seems horrible unless you consider the possibilities of unconvenional fun. Or getting funny, which was my coping method.

Also, because I’m getting restless with just the basic stress of undergoing chemo, micro-managing my health and keeping current with all my drugs, writing the tale/blog, and/or my ongoing attempt at a novel, I figured I’d start The Terminal Artists list. This will be an ongoing project, both as a form of therapy for myself, and because everyone who suddenly comes face to face with a life-altering and/or limiting illness could use it, and because it was a theme at the cancer writing group on Monday. So, the rules: 1. This is a list of people whose greatest - or best-known works (in a few lonely cases, the only books or poems some ever wrote were started when they began dying) were done in the final year of their life. I realize that “best” is highly subjective, and the idiom “best-known” would require a poll to establish. 2. Even though I use the word “artist,” I’ll happily use that as a catch-all for scientists, engineers, playwrights, dancers, athletes - anyone who produces/designs/discovers/creates anything that would positively impact those left behind is a contender. I just don’t want some estate attorney who cleverly scams their clients using loopholes in probate law; or a smuggler who figures a new way to smuggle and sell arms to UN embargo countries. Use your judgment, folks. 3. Ideally, you’d pair a specific person with their song/album/film/discover etc., but if it’s an extremely well-known (or prolific) artist/whatsit, I’ll bend the rules and do some research 4. people who are so prolific that they have works published after they die will be on the list, because the only thing cooler than giving the Reaper the finger and leaping on the keyboard (or easel, or guitar, or wet bench) is leaving such a vast, consistent body of work, it’s still considered awesome when you aren’t around to advocate for it

THE LIST SO FAR.... -Vincent van Gogh - “Starry Night” -Jimi Hendrix - “Angel” -Howard Ashman (Playwright/lyricist/) - “Beauty and the Beast” and “Aladdin” - Paul Kalanithi (surgeon/writer) - “When Breath Becomes Air” -Nina Riggs (writer) - “The Bright Hour” -Warren Zevon - “The Wind” -Freddie Mercury - “The Show Must Go On” -Johnny Cash -Michael Crichton (writer, minor demi-god to all sci-fi fans) - Pirate Latitudes -Samuel Clemens (writer) - Autobiography -Roy Orbison (minor private music teacher - “You Got It”

[distortmymind]

Distort My Mind - Part 6

.:Watchpoint Gilbraltar:.

At the base is sore and or hurt.

Most of the team stood in bed while Lucio prepared breakfast, Mei and Ana decided to join in.

Jamison awakes to a spray of water in his face.

“Oi!” He shouts. Mako had sprayed him with a water bottle to wake him. “Get up…” He mumbles as he leaves the room to the dining area.

Jamison was much too tired and sore so he plopped back down and fell back asleep.

Mako got his breakfast and sat by himself. He glanced up and could see into Zarya’s room. Mei had brought her breakfast. He couldn’t see her face but he felt relieved that she was alright. She had taken quite the beating, such a young woman. He wondered why wasn’t she careful. He didn’t realize he had zoned out until Ana snapped him out of it.

“Where’s your friend?” She asked him.

“He’s probably still asleep.” Mako grumbled as Ana shook her head. “He’s going to miss breakfast.” She stated as she loaded another plate to take it to Jamison.

Mako sighed and proceeded to eat. Once Ana entered the room, she placed the plate on the night stand and pulled the covers off of Junkrat. “Jamison…” She said nudging him. He yawned and looked up at her.

“Oi, how’d you get in ‘er?” He asked with a bit of confusion. “That’s not important, now you come and eat. You don’t want it to get cold.” She said pulling him out of bed, handing him the plate, Jamison was almost completely naked, Ana helped him dressing up, his body giving up from the moment he had to step out of bed. Once they were done, she walked him to a table. He was seated with Mei who he couldn’t stop staring. Mei was having a conversation with Lúcio, talking about how the weather at ecopoint was even more troublesome than the last time she was there. Mei was wearing a beautiful white cardigan and a thick scarf around her neck, Lúcio too was wearing a scarf, a lime green scarf with frogs.

She seemed to pretend Jamison wasn’t there.

Junkrat cleared his throat.

“’Ello” he said. She looked up and gave a dry and soft hello back, staring down at her plate.

“So uh, what ya got there?” He asked. She glanced at him.

“Same as you…” She said taking a bite. Lucio soon joined in with a bright smile. “Hey Hey, how’s breakfast?” He asked. “Wonderful. Thank you!” Mei replied with a cheerful smile. Junkrat took a huge bite and chewed quite loudly. Mei scrunched up her nose in disgust. “This is good mate!” He said swallowing. Mei stood up and went to her room after putting away her plate. Lucio stared at him in a matter of fact way at him.

“What?” Junkrat said raising an eyebrow. “I think I know what’s going on here…” Lucio said with a sly smile.

“I was just trying to talk to her.” The junker said crossing his arms. “She’s the only one who doesn’t trust me.” He said sighing. “Well, she just needs to warm up… She’s a tough cookie” Lucio said with a chuckle. “Yeah. I guess.” The junker said laying his head in his hands.

“But take a look at how many times I’ve tried this, it isn’t fair ya know?” Jamison pitched his voice, yelling at nothing. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me, and it’s nothing I care about but why would she be so repelled by me?”, Jamison turned around and saw everyone at their tables staring at him, but not Mako, no, Mako knew what he was referring to, he knew more than anyone what he meant.

“She has absolutely no reason to hate me, not even when I try so hard to make it count, I’m not wanting to be anything, I just want her to not hate me!!” Jamison said, he felt a knot growing withing his soul, his past becoming one with the present… So he remembered…

(…A vivid orange light hit his eyes in the most numbing way, his body vibrated as his young ten year old body fell, his knees hitting the warm cement floor in a matter of seconds, he felt tears running and his eyes turned into a lighter brown, the one his eyes beheld as his short life resumed into a single moment, the present. He felt thin, soft arms around him, he collided against a pair of breasts, his mother’s. His guardian. She carried him away from the outbreak as fast as she could, with her lasts seconds of life.

Her mother was a prostitute.

Poverty was a demon they couldn’t run from, it haunted them for years and years, along the family roots… from the very beginning…

“Jamison, go get me a few would ya?” he heard his mother say in a ghostly voice, he remembered her voice, never her name, never her face. “Be useful for your momma, or ill have to sell ya for the money I need.”

“Yes mum.”

He heard himself say. His saliva became sour and he realized why was he recalling these memories.

He stood up and realized not even the monster her mum once was really hated him. She saved him.

That was the last time he had someone until Mako came along.

But at this point it didn’t matter did it?…)

Everyone at the room saw Jamison’s face wet with tears, he didn’t move, he didn’t squeal, he just stared blankly at nothing, crying, weeping. Lucio stayed with the junker for a few hours, he didn’t wasn’t to ask him straight on what was going on but he wasn’t going to leave him. The sun had set and everyone had retreated to their rooms. Lucio yawned and scratched his neck. “I’m warn out. I’ll see ya tomorrow James” Lucio said taping his shoulder and heading to his room. “Take care buddy”

“Night mate" The junker called. James was the only one left In the dinning hall. He sighed and laid his head on the cool table. 'There’s so much snow’ he thought.

Mei opened her door and walked down the hall. She could hear Zarya vomiting as she passed her room. 'Poor Zarya, she was so beaten up. It really took a toll on her.’ She thought.

She yawned once more as she walked into the dining hall. She looked up at the clock. 'Its 2:30 in the morning’ she thought as she poured herself a glass of water. She watched the snow storm happening outside. She heard movement and spun around. But nothing.

She thought it might have been the wind outside. Mei slowly walked towards the pitcher again, her throat was dry and warm. But a sound was heard form outside, she heard it, she was sure she did.

Mei took a few steps towards the window, cleaning it from inside, making sure she didn’t came across someone outside, she was afraid she could find someone outside with this weather at this hour. She was afraid there was something, anything outside that could mean danger to her, to all of them. And this fear increased, more and more each step she made, each movement she did to cleaned that window, each time she heard the sound that was coming from outside, when before even seeing it she knew there was something out there. She took a step back.

´There’s someone out there!´ She thought, placing one hand on her chest and the other on her mouth. But then she thought twice, and then three times, until she came across a thought.

´What if they need help?’.

Once the thought went through her mind she quickly dressed up accordingly to what she was planning to do. She decided to go out there and help them, but before going out she made sure to bring a pocket knife with her, just in case.

The doors were colder than life. Her gloved finger pressed the button at her right and the doors raised. A cold merciless wind hit her entire body, a big windy storm unleashed the sound of raging dragons upon the facility, but she made sure no one heard. To keep everyone safe, she stepped outside as quickly as possible, closing the doors.

‘The white death…’ she thought. Her panicking thoughts coming back from the deepest graves of her mind, the deepest catacombs, the sewers of her mind. ‘I must help now that I can’.

Very carefully, she watched foot prints on the snow, they were very dim, almost gone by the wind, but still they guided somewhere. Slowly she stepped careful not to trip, moving against the cold. Then in the distance she heard it once again, a sound, no, not a sound, a voice.

“…You… you told me… you told me I’ll live momma…”

Her heart skipped a bit, she wasn’t sure, but that voice… That vice was familiar.

“…Momma come take me!!…”

The voice moaned, and this time Mei was sure of what she had heard. It was Junkrat’s voice.

“Junkrat!!” Mei screamed, she started following the voice now instead of the foot print pattern. “Junkrat what are you doing?” she squealed. She moved forward with anxiety, forcing her legs and arms in front of her, helpless she fell onto the snow, the wind made her trip back and roll down about ten steps. “Junkrat!” She screamed. She recovered and kept walking towards the moaning voice.

But then she stopped, she didn’t stop because she was tired, nor she had given up on him. She stopped because she saw him. She saw him and heard him. He was hot red. He wasn’t wearing clothes more than underwear, he was on the floor sobbing and trembling, but most importantly at the edge of a frozen cliff. She then understood.

She understood and couldn’t hold herself back. Her body vibrated with anticipation, she felt her guts rumble and contort. Her legs succumbed to her thoughts. But inside she wanst going to let that happen. She was going to help, she wanted to help, she had to.

She crawled up to him on the snow and took off her big warm jacket, and placed it over him, then she hugged him from behind, making sure he received warmth, but then she realized, then, very late then she realized where they were. She stood up, held her guts and took a look at the young man’s face. He was blue and red all over, pale and burned from the cold. He wasn’t moving no more, he wasn’t crying no more, he was silent as a rock.

Mei panicked, she picked him up with both arms and carried him inside the facility. And she swore to herself she wasn’t going to, the moment she knew what was going on, the moment she saw him by himself on the snow alone and depressed, but she did, she recalled, and she cried, she cried out a single loud yelp and she started to move once again, she remembered.

His body was ice itself, but he was soft, he was alive.

Once inside Mei took off most of her clothes, the ones she used to go outside with and wore a her pajamas. She quickly took Junkrat to the showers. There she carried him to one of the showers and turned on the hot water, she carefully placed him on the floor and regulated the water, then she sat on the shower floor with him, she took his motionless body and hugged him once again from behind, making sure he received warmth from every angle.

She couldn’t cope. She couldn’t confront the thought of someone dying. Not since what happened barely a few years ago. She trembled at the feeling of his cold back against her chest, her nipples hardening as a natural reaction to the temperature change. She thought how embarrassing this was and held the Aussie’s head and placed it on her legs.

All she could do at that point was to wait for his body to take a somewhat neutral temperature. But she found herself staring at the man’s face.

He had a very soft skin, at least it seemed like that to her, he had a pointy chin with only a few very blond hairs in them, almost not noticeable. His wet hair rested on his face as his mouth also rested in place, opened just a bit, his teethe barely showing. She could hear him breathe, she sighed in hope. But as much as she wanted she couldn’t stop looking at him, his face has a lot cleaner, his nose was so incredibly detailed. All his features seemed like they were made by a sculptor.

Mei was stubborn at times, but her passion in nature reflected how much she loved details. She felt attracted to his face.

She realized she was just inches from Junkrat’s face. She stopped herself quickly and closed her eyes. Mei shook the moment off her head and reached the junker’s neck. She pressed two fingers against it. Alive, he was alive, his heart beating, he was breathing, his blood pumping. She was certainly relieved.

She turned the water off and took Jamison to her room, she sat him on her bed and looked for clothes and a towel. Once ready she came across something she wasn’t ready about, mostly something she wasn’t sure of how to do. She had to undress him so she could dry him. Mei sat on the floor wondering how and what to do at the moment. Mei started snapping her fingers on Junkrat’s ear. Nothing.

She clapped a few times next to his ear, but nothing again.

Mei stood still and closed her eyes. She looked to her left, as if she didn’t want to see what she was doing, even though both of her eyes were tight shut. She first touched the young man’s legs, and softly she drew a path with her fingers up to where his underwear was. ‘I got this’ she thought. But she wasn’t sure.

Mei slowly but firmly grabbed onto the junker’s underwear and started pulling it down. She could hear her heart beating, but she kept going until she made sure they were off, the fabric wet and cold, she tossed them away and again, only with her hand she reached for a towel but her hand touched for a bit Junkrat’s leg, soft and warm now. She placed the towel over him, she opened her eyes. There he was, resting and breathing deeply, unlike before.

As she took a sweater from her bed she realized he was moving, Junkrat was waking up.

“Hng…” A moan came out of his mouth.

‘Oh no, oh no why.’ Mei thought, ‘This is awkward!’

She shook the thought and stood in front of him. She thought if she was going to get into this situation she better have most of it under control.

The blonde found himself soaking wet and staring at a white ceiling, by his side a rather small, chubby girl stood staring down at him with a blank expression.

“Mei-?”

“Go put on some clothes, I’ll wait for you at the kitchen.”

He stared at his body and noticed he wasn’t wearing any clothes, he was speechless, he stared at Mei and as he was about to say a word Mei left the room and onto the kitchen. He wondered what had happened… But it didn’t take long, he recalled, and then he got a headache.

It was far worse than a headache.

He crossed the towel over his waist, a pink towel. He left the room jumping on his foot, and into his own room, there he carefully took clothes from the bags and put them on, slowly. His body a decaying mess. Once out he cleared his throat and walked onto the lunch room. There she was, now using a gray cardigan over a white sweater. She had changed her clothes for dry ones, and on the table she prepared two hot coffees.

He was stunned, Mei being nice to him.

He carefully took a seat in front of her and stared down. He knew she knew what he was trying to do.

“I… I don’t really want to make you feel bad in any way mate but, ya didn’t had to do that at all.” Jamison said, giving a pale almost blurry smile.

“I did, and I did it because I promised myself to do so.” Mei replied.

“How so?”

“…Not so long ago, all of my coworkers died. Friends and coworkers.” Mei said taking a sip of the hot coffee. “But I worked hard, so hard and got out of there, here, where we stood hours ago.” Jamison stared at her, Mei’s glasses steamed up from the coffee, yet he could still see a shine rolling down her cheek, a tear.

“But there’s so much more to do here, life is beautiful!, every inch of this planet is, don’t you see it?” Jamison saw her face light up but at the same time she had long streams of tears down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry I was mean to you, I’m never like this over anyone…”

Jamison felt once again that knot in his throat, growing bigger and bigger, thicker and thicker like a balloon was growing from inside out.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, don’t you get it?, There’s a reason I don’t want to live anymore. This life has nothing to give me.” Jamison replied, lowering his voice and pitch.

“No!” Mei replied. “There is much to see still… I know you need help with this, I certainly did. Trust me”

“You’re being oddly talkative now aren’t ya?” Jamison said with a laugh, but Mei wasn’t laughing, she was clearly worried.

“Look, I don’t know what to do, but if you’ll feel better then I wont do it. At least not until I’m outta here sunshine.” He said with a smile on his face, changing his posture.

‘Sunshine?’ Jamison thought. ‘Where the hell did that came from?’

Mei sighed deeply and took another sip of coffee. Mei wasn’t very talkative with anyone unless they were friends. But Jamison was, and as he always did he tried persuading her into talking more about other stuff. Jamison told her about the time he lost his arm, and the one he lost his leg, he told her about the day him and Roadie got caught stealing something and they had to run from a bunch of people, more than usual. Mei told him about her sketches and how she likes to doodle things, she told him about the things she loved, about what natural phenomenons she wonders about the most sometimes and he replied with for the first time in a long time with taking note and paying attention to what she said. He wasn’t very fond of memories, but at that moment he felt that listening to someone at this point really didn’t mean anything, but that was no excuse to not do so. About an hour passed and they found themselves chuckling and opening themselves to one another, at least for a short time. None of them had slept and it was about to be 3:30 am.

“…Oh!, it is so late, we should take a rest don’t you think?” Mei said, looking at the watch in the kitchen. Jamison grabbed both cups and walked towards the kitchen. Mei, still sitting down stared at him, ‘He’s very tall’ she thought.

“Alright mate, see ya tomorrow.” Jamison said waving his hand.

“Wait,… you told me all these things but you never told me your name…” Mei said, standing up from the table.

“Well it’s James. Jamison Fawkes. Yours?” Jamison said smiling and bowing down, he seemed happy but deep inside Mei could still see the man’s sorrow.

“My name is Mei, Mei Ling-Zhou.”

“Ahh Mei Ling shoe right?” Mei chuckled.

“No, no. Mei Ling- ZHOU” She said, emphasis on her last name.

Jamison laughed and replied. “I’m just kidding, ya know I know Chinese right?, well that doesn’t help it, ill be calling you shoe until we get out of here sunshine.”

Mei stared at him with a smile “Well, so far Mr Fawkes, you’ve called me ‘sunshine’"Jamison lowered his face and in the back of his head a million thoughts came across, but he shut them up as quickly as he could.

“Haha… I’m sorry” He replied, his voice weak.

Mei replaced his smile with a worried expression, she got near him and told him to ‘rest for the day, tomorrow it’ll be okay’ so he did.

————————————————————————— This story was created by @chellbuns and continued by @starlightpeaches

[jinjikook]

House of Cards: An Ace (M)

word count: 4.8k

genre: super angst + references to smut; non-idol AU ; set in i need u + run mv universe, references to other mvs

pairing: ot7/reader (includes all pairings but enforced yoonseok, vhope, jikook, yoontaeseok, sugamon, yoonmin, jinkookmin)

summary: all eight of you were just trying to live life, go with the flow. unfortunately, fate had much more awful plans for you all.

warning(s): lots of angst, plenty of major character death, suicide, self-harm, depressing thoughts, cursing, sex (straight and gay), murder, violence, eating disorders, codependency, drugs, smoking, verbal, physical and mental abuse, sexual situations, use of the word slut and whore (both used only once), promiscuity, mentions of being arrested

a/n: this is suuuuper angsty so please read the warnings beforehand because it has a million things that could trigger someone. this was inspired by the song listed, along with a video edit that i’d love to link but unfortunately, the one link i had seen it from was a repost with no luck in finding it so if anyone recognizes the edit to go with the song, please let me know!

music: dynasty - miia

masterlist

There was no definition for you all.

Lost.

Distant.

Drifting.

Just following your hearts until it inevitably led you over the edge; into the unknown, the deep dark abyss of which you never thought you’d welcome so familiarly, like a distant cousin or old friend from kindergarten. Like someone you’d lost touch with and barely remembered their name but you still had shards and fragments of their memory, burned and etched into your mind in a million insignificant, nonspecific ways—from how the bitter taste of your coffee was like the candies from their mom’s purse or the hollow sound of your desk drawer reminded you of someone’s hollow eyes, empty smile full of promises you knew neither of you would keep.

You couldn’t say you all hadn’t tried to stay together, amongst it all.

When Taehyung’s dad would beat him to a pulp, you all vowed to make it the glue to hold you closer. When Yoongi’s music went nowhere, it just solidified your need to stay united. When Jimin’s love rejected him, it just made you all codependent on each other, saying how no one’s love could compare to the bond you all had.

Even when Hoseok swallowed a bottle of pills, you all realized that it made the group tighter, as you huddled around the too-stark-white hospital bed, stench of chemicals and medicine in the air; with the boy who used to breathe life in everything he did, his sunshine warm skin now pale in comparison to the milky sheets he was laden in. All your knuckles matching the empty color along the bars of the bed, gripped tight and the fabric below just darkened with tears as they soaked into them, only making Hoseok look that much more devoid of life.

But sometimes, life had its limits.

As much as your little ragtag gang liked to test them, push past them and tease Mother Nature by screaming in that bitch’s face with as much malice as you could muster, at the end of the day there were things that you all just weren’t capable of withstanding, holding up like a weak twig on an already bare tree, trying to weather the hurricane that came rushing at millions of miles an hour, determined to break you off and sweep you into the whirlwind until you’re forever forgotten, spread across acres as only bits and pieces of who you used to be.

Soon all would remain are those stale, empty, hollow memories.

Like how a strip of aluminum foil just made you think of the burrito joint Taehyung danced on a table at, how a candle’s gentle flicker would remind you of Jeongguk’s birthdays, his favorite thing to do being blowing out them out and waiting with his eyes scrunched shut and wish being plotted for his friends to smash his face with frosting and bits of cake.

The smell of fresh strawberries made you retch, only able to recall the sweet taste you used to savor, Seokjin’s chapstick melding with your own countless nights, only for you to be torn away and forced to mash lips with Yoongi right after, just because he was always the one to taste you last, to leave with your tongue on his.

Some called you a slut, a whore.

For what? Just letting things run their course?

You weren’t sure if you’d ever end up with any one of the guys, feeling like all it would ever be is whirlwind romances, quick fucks in closets and stairwells with palms muffling sounds until you reached your high, going lax in their grip and smiling contentedly at your inner beast being satiated, while whoever was with you finished quickly. It was never a chore but it was something done daily, just another aspect of humanity you all indulged in.

Sometimes it was with one of the guys, sometimes they did it with each other and sometimes you just took care of it yourselves.

Not that big of a deal you always told yourself, because it really wasn’t. You loved them, and you always hoped the feeling was mutual amongst them as well.

“Hey Y/N, wanna blow me?” Jeongguk asked one night and all you could do was shrug and tug his zipper down, wetting your lips because you knew he liked things sloppy. Not once did you doubt their intentions, fear that they’d speak ill of you or treat you like some object because your friendships ran deeper than that.

Hoseok and Yoongi were close, Taehyung somewhere sandwiched in the middle there. Jimin was fond of Jeongguk and the latter was protective of Jimin, Seokjin being the Taehyung in their pairing. Namjoon and yourselves just slotted in the cracks in-between, being something along the lines of rubber cement in the shredded wallpaper lining your friendships.

Somewhere along the line, the rain began to trickle in and soften your hold, the boys slipping from your grip one by one.

Taehyung was the first to go.

He had always been a rebellious guy, loved to go tagging with Namjoon and mock fast food workers for giving into society’s ploys. Never one to back down from a challenge, he’d participated in more orgies than you could count on your fingers and toes and you’re sure he’s never said no to a dare—having slept with a teacher, gone streaking past a police station and even slipping in a tab of ecstasy on his tongue, just for shits and giggles. You swore he’d be the one to go kicking and screaming if anyone even thought about threatening your groups bond.

But one day, it was just too much.

Too many bruises on his skin, too many harsh words spat at him and his sister, too many days where he wasn’t sure if the sun would rise and he’d be alive long enough to see it.

So he made sure one day he would see it, but his father wouldn’t.

He ran for days after it happened, after someone called about screams and wails of anguish; after his apartment was littered with cops, each inspecting the spatters of blood along the floor and window of the small room, swabs in clear cases turned purple to indeed confirm it was exactly that, blood. Tests were ran to show the fingerprints on the broken beer bottle indeed were the dead man’s son’s, the boy with a record for graffiti and public indecency. The boy with a boxy smile that charmed all the female officers whenever he’d be brought in, the boy who you felt inside you too many times to forget.

It wasn’t like any of you hadn’t tried to find him, countless days of searching and shouting and hoping he’d turn up like a lost dog, ears perked and stomach receded until you finally brought him in to have a big meal and a warm bath.

But he never came.

Someone spoke of a boy with pretty eyelashes and dead eyes standing by the ocean, muttering about how sorry he was, how he wished things could’ve been different but he wouldn’t have changed a damn thing because every small, seemingly insignificant detail in his life led him to you, to your friends. To his lovers and exes and all the in-between that you couldn’t name or define. That same someone said they watched as he took a deep breath and jumped over the railing, taking a plunge and never emerging from the dark waters of the stormy shores.

The hurricane powered on.

It took ages to even sort of recover, Yoongi went back to smoking and as many times as Jeongguk would blow out his fire to keep him alive a little longer, it only served to double his cigarette count. Namjoon always kept a journal on hand, writing the most obscure details of the days in it because he was worried one day, something else would happen to another one of them and he didn’t want anyone’s memories to die with them, for their days to be meaningless and forever lost in the wind. He had a black hair tie always on his right wrist, a running joke that he just wanted to give it to a pretty lady one day just to make her life easier but you knew what it was for. You at least commended him for taking the tamer route in hurting himself, unlike Jimin who—no matter how many sweaters he’d wear even on the hottest of days—couldn’t hide how he befriended a razor, the dotted lines of scabbing and scarring flesh being his only lifeline, as ironic as that was.

Hoseok lied and said the orange bottle in the trash wasn’t his and Seokjin would just keep dealing out cards on game nights, as if nothing happened, as if he wasn’t putting out stacks for eight players when there were only seven of you seated. As if Taehyung’s cologne wasn’t still sitting there in Jeongguk’s gym bag right where he forgot to grab it. As if the scratch marks from when Yoongi fucked him too hard on the table you were sitting at weren’t prominent still, the grooves dipping under where your dug your nails into, hoping to cover them up with your own tracks.

You want to say it was unexpected, that you all had no idea it was coming.

But really, it was just a matter of time before someone else came crumbling down, an unfortunate victim to the Domino Effect.

Jeongguk was covered in bruises, supposedly not from the car that carelessly drove straight into him. The medical examiner said he was in a fight, two different assailants with big fists and a drive to kill but the stake in his coffin, the final nail, were the headlights that he stared into before it barreled into him, splattering him onto the pavement.

It was poetic, how his blood looked so similar to Taehyung’s father’s, to Jimin’s when his wrists began to leak down his arm. It was just blood, it flowed in everyone and despite the fact that when you donate it, you have to be so specific when you scribble it down on paperwork, it all looked the same on the ground.

“Kiss me.” Yoongi looked at you with disgust, his lighter a constant flicker in his fidgety fingers.

“What is it with you people? Two of us are dead and we’re supposed to act like it never happened? Like we can all go through the motions without their presence around?” It was the first time someone had verbalized it, made it real by saying it out loud. The room was pin-drop quiet—not like it wasn’t already—but now everyone’s eyes were on Yoongi.

“We’re not forgetting about them, Yoongi,” Namjoon corrected. His pen already blindly scratching down the date and time of this incident to forever keep in his records.

“Just because you put a few things in your little dream diary doesn’t make them alive, Namjoon. They’re fucking dead, in the ground and lost at sea forever. At least with Jeongguk, we got some fucking closure but Taehyung… he’s still out there, floating like trash or sunken like…”

“Like treasure.” Hoseok finished.

Taehyung was always closest with Hoseok and Yoongi. Jeongguk also but…. he wasn’t around to speak his mind right now.

“Maybe we just need to be with them then. They’re waiting for us, probably. God knows Jeongguk can’t do anything without one of us to hold his hands anyways.” Jimin mumbled, fingers toying with what laid under his striped sleeves, his skin marred in a similar pattern. You don’t even know why he even bothers with the sweaters anymore, it was no secret what he did to himself.

“Jimin. Never say that.” Seokjin chastised, fingers wringing out excess water from the sponge he was using to clean up the drink Namjoon has spilled on the table. The table that still has sticky sweet liquor inside the grooves that Taehyung left behind.

“It’s not like we aren’t already headed that way anyways. Hobi has tried and so have I. Pretty sure Y/N attempted to too, after Jeonggukkie died.”

“Don’t call him that.” It was Yoongi’s turn to chastise the younger, eyes shutting as he tried to push the rotten, beautiful memories of Jeon Jeongguk in his prime, chasing after butterflies and having the stars in his eyes.

“So what if we’ve tried? Clearly, God doesn’t want us, that’s why we haven’t succeeded.” You picked at the stray tweed from the sofa, knowing you were not only unraveling the lining of the cushion but also in the patched layer of your friends. “He wants the good kids, it’s why he took Tae and Guk. God is a selfish prick, he can suck me.” You seethed.

“Or you could.” Yoongi looked at you with his dead eyes, and you knew he probably couldn’t get it up if he had swallowed as many Viagras as Hoseok took pretty white pills in unmarked bottles. But it didn’t stop you from getting up and tugging his belt off.

The calendar marked today as some off-brand holiday, something that a store somewhere would profit off of. It marked that it’d been a week since you choked on Yoongi’s limp dick in front the rest of your numb friends. The red circle on the date, however, was because today was yet another tragedy.

In your dreams, you pictured Jimin to die in the tub, the water murky with his blood and something poetic inscribed in his forearm, a picture or something of equal significance burned into scorched soot by the clawed feet of the porcelain bath.

You didn’t think it’d be Seokjin found like that instead.

Namjoon wrote in his journal, tore out the page and burned it the minute he finished with it. The hair tie on his wrist was replaced with something sturdier, more industrial. The colored rubber band snapped harder, louder and left a bigger welt. He tried to take pride in the fact that he still hadn’t resorted to pills or fire or the end of a blade but honestly, this was so much worse. He lived a lie, a façade that he was alright just because his choice of pain wasn’t that of vulgar taste. He lived among the common faces of the world, blurred in the crowds but nothing would make the bright green on his wrist blend into the bland, colorless world.

Jimin tried to cry, the tears burning at his retinas but nothing ever came to fruition, his fingers scratching at the scars he chose to keep visible to the world today.

Of-fucking-course Kim Seokjin would ask to be cremated, to be turned into soil for trees. It was such a “him” thing to do, something he probably read on FaceBook or saw on Pinterest. You honestly thought if he was to be reincarnated into anything, he’d ask to be a pressed into a diamond, so he could always be has beautiful as he said he was. As he really was. No one was as beautiful as Seokjin, both inside and out.

The screen of your phone was shattered and you couldn’t bring yourself to get it fixed, the constant swiping on the glass leaving shards in your thumbs and making you smile whenever another cut embedded itself into your skin. You were just as weak as Jimin, though you hoped that you looked a little more civil since at least you didn’t have to wear jackets in ninety degree weather.

“What are we ordering for takeout?” Hoseok flickered through the several menus in his hand, mind caught between Chinese and pizza. Namjoon just shrugged and Yoongi pointed his chin at the one in Hoseok’s right hand, the Chinese menu. He scanned the options and asked what meats and sides for everyone. When he reached dumplings, Seokjin’s favorite, Jimin ran to the bathroom and left the door wide open as he puked into the toilet.

It was a resounding no for dumplings that night.

“Do you ever think… we’re being punished?” Namjoon started one night, his journal long forgotten as he inhaled deep, passing the joint to Yoongi before puffing out a big cloud of dragon-like smoke.

“For what? Fucking a lot and tagging some abandoned buildings?” Yoongi bitterly spat, Jimin next to him flinching with every venomous syllable. His body was constantly trembling, fingers unable to stay steady unless they were gripping something, anything. This time, it was Yoongi’s own shaking hand.

Hoseok took his own inhale of the drug before giving you the rolled up papers, the joint looking more and more displeasing to you as you stared at it.

“Maybe this is why we get out every time we’re put in a cell, because our ultimate justice will come from a higher power.” Hoseok drawled; weed always made his tongue slow and his eyelids heavy. He’d probably pass out on your shoulder any minute now.

“I think we’re just bad people getting what’s coming to us.” Jimin whispered, eyes still stuck on the break in the floorboards where Jeongguk drunkenly fell, his ass breaking the wood but no one caring because Jimin was on top of him, making out heavily mid-party. You all cheered for the two of them, watching their sexual tension unfold and you yearned for those days back, when you’d skip school and come to this little shack of a home, broken and frayed at the edges but still home. Just like you and your friends; your family.

“Stop repeating what your deadbeat alcoholic of a mother says to you, Jimin. She’s more worthless than any one of us.” Yoongi tightened his grip on Jimin, his squeak of pain doing nothing to ease the tension in his fingers. He didn’t want to lose him too, to watch him slip through the cracks.

Hoseok began to sing, slightly off-key but still melodious, somber in the empty house with broken furniture and too many memories to stay sober near. Namjoon couldn’t sing to save his life but his voice joined, a low murmur along Hoseok’s. Soon, the scratch of Yoongi’s voice intertwined like the threads in Jimin’s crocheted sweater before he too, began to sing. He harmonized with them, a missing link tying the bridge to the chorus. When you finally gave in, it was when you’d all reached Jeongguk’s name, singing Happy Birthday to him one last time.

 “Did you know the Song dynasty ended in 1279 but it coincided with the Liao and Western Xia dynasties as well?”

“Who gives a fuck, Namjoon?” Yoongi pulled off Namjoon’s dick long enough to try and shut him up, hoping he’d just be quiet for once and take the damn blowjob without making a damn lesson out of it.

Hoseok was asleep on the couch, Jimin and you in a heated battle of black jack, currently you had 20 and you could chance it and hope you’d pull an ace and win all the graham crackers you’d put in the pool or you could play it safe and hope Jimin had less than you. He wasn’t a great card player but lately, all his expressions look the same so his bluffing was the same as his genuinely sad face, making you lose your cookies too many times in a row.

You used to use real money when you played, back when you had a reason to want to win. Back when you’d cheer for taking all of Taehyung’s money and you and Seokjin would go out to spend it on stupid shit that you’d regret a day later but in the moment, it just looked so useful and convenient.

When Jeongguk would win it back the next day just to see Taehyung smile again, to have him underneath him that night to repay him for his chivalry.

“Hobi, did you want me to suck you off too?”

Silence.

“Hobi?” You murmured, looking over in his direction. Jimin’s sad eyes followed.

Namjoon tucked himself back in, not zipping up the rusted metal in his tattered jeans.

You put down the card in your hand, moving from where you hovered over the deck to turn and watch as Yoongi crossed the room to shake Hoseok, his voice incomparable to the ringing in your ears as he screamed for Hoseok to wake up, to just wake the fuck up.

Jimin didn’t look away, Namjoon frozen in place as Yoongi continued to slap and shake his best friend, his lover, his confidant, hoping he’d wake up from some deep slumber. You turned back to your game, hand back on the deck as you decided it was time to give fate a chance. You pulled a card, the black butterfly in the middle telling you what you never hoped for.

An ace.

You won.

It used to be “us against the world” with you eight, a force not to be reckoned with whenever you all banded together. When you originally met, it was through friends of friends, mutual interests and one through a really interesting Tinder profile. You all had sworn fate brought you together for a reason, happiness meant to be share amongst the lot of you.

You wish you’d never met them, not a single one.

“Jimin? Could you let go?” You touched his shoulder, his body no longer jerky with anxiety. He was desensitized, no longer feeling anything. His eyes stayed on the cascading waves as he released the urn he had clutched against his chest, as if Hoseok still radiated his warmth through the pretty patterns and decorative top.

He wanted to be spread into the ocean, to find Taehyung. He didn’t want to leave him alone out there, knowing that Yoongi could be strong and handle him being gone. His note read:

“Just because I was weak, doesn’t mean you have to be. Let us live on in your hearts, let them beat for the rest of us. Taehyung was a tragedy, Jeongguk an accident, Seokjin an unfortunate chain of events and I, an outlier. Don’t make us into martyrs, something we’re not. We’re just kids, dealt a bad hand. But you all still have your game faces on, so come on Yoongi, pull an Ace for the rest of us.”

Yoongi set fire to his bedroom instead; with the lighter Jeongguk used to blow out, the very one Seokjin used to light his birthday candles, the one Taehyung bought at the gas station at the corner of where you lived. Namjoon threw the remainder of his journal pages in there, Jimin tossed his sweaters inside the flames. You stood by and warmed your hands by the fire, feeling your tears dry from the heat until the firetrucks came screaming and the hoses put out the fire that was in Yoongi’s heart. They killed him. Right before your eyes.

  And then there were three.

Jimin never ate, walking bones that creaked and cracked whenever he moved. Namjoon refused to give up his rubber band, switching to a thick red one that turned white when he stretched it beyond his limit, matching the color of Hoseok’s pills, the mayo that globbed out of Seokjin’s burger, the come that Jeongguk would get on the bed after round two, the boxy grin Taehyung used to get everyone in more trouble than it ever did help. The same color that burned when the ignited fire got to its hottest, right in the core. The color of Yoongi’s skin when he found his friends dead, one by one.

“Should I take up the flute?” Jimin shook his head and told Namjoon his fingers weren’t dexterous enough, that he’d never manage the fine skill it took to play such an instrument. You nodded, knowing the damn thing would break the minute it slipped between his grimy fingers.

“Taehyung liked the sax, maybe you should try that instead.” At the sound of his name passing your chapped lips—lip balm no longer appealing to you because every flavor reminded you of someone different, someone dead—Namjoon stiffened, Jimin motionless like always. You’re sure any sort of use of energy from the younger male would cause him to pass out, the hunger in him always there but food never enticing enough for him to give into the temptation and give his body the energy it so desperately needs.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Another tack on the wall as Namjoon robbed a music store and let the cops gun him down. You never thought Namjoon would be the kind to go out in a blaze of glory, let alone one to own a gun. He was a pacifist, but when the crime scene investigator told you that the initials M. Y. were on the handle, messily scratched with probably some house tool, you knew what he’d done.

  Jimin stopped holding hands, not having the nutrition in him to making his fingers tighten around yours, the bones probably seconds away from turning into dust. Your throat was dry, like the days you used to love. The days where the sun burned something serious and the boys only wanted to run around outside, despite your protests. Those were the days that everything seemed so simple, so cut and dry. So… easy.

You really hoped that Jimin would be stronger than you, that you’d finally give in and join the others so you wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of yet another piece of your soul, your very being, shot dead right in front of you. So you wouldn’t have to go to another funeral or service or spread another’s ashes or read another’s will; so you wouldn’t ever have to hear crying wails or heartfelt apologies, hushed murmurs about how tragic it all was and how you all slipped through the cracks, the school system and your parents all failing you. So you wouldn’t have to etch a seventh mark, as you found Jimin, strung up from the ceiling fan.

The bedsheets were Jeongguk’s, the bandana Taehyung’s, the dishtowel Seokjin’s, the rubber bands Namjoon’s, the shoelaces Yoongi’s, the scarf Hoseok’s, and the sweater Jimin’s.

All knotted together to create a perfect noose, just like you all were meant to come together as. Only good for bringing the worst, death hovering over you all like an ominous storm, threatening to rain on the parade you’d created for yourselves.

All that was missing from Jimin’s perfect noose was yourself.

So you made sure to remedy that.

Putting yourself next to him with the aid of a rickety dining table chair; your hands wrapped around his throat to create a vice, to wrench the last breaths from his body, knowing that his heart was weak but his eyes weren’t; finally there was a spark inside his irises, something more than fear and dismay. You felt his body go limp before you finally checked his pulse, confirming that he indeed, was gone.

You sat down on the ratty couch, the same one you’d had sex with each and every one of them on; the same one that hosted countless movie nights and had popcorn tossed all over it whenever Hoseok got scared or Taehyung too excited. The couch that cradled Jimin when he cried at night and when Jeongguk would hold him for hours, promising to never leave him. The same couch that Yoongi would always fall asleep on, Seokjin covering him because he knew he’d catch a cold if he wasn’t kept warm. The couch that sat Namjoon when he’d heard the news on the phone:

“Kim Taehyung has committed murder.”

It felt like weeks, months, years scrawled by before you heard the front door open, slowly and then suddenly. The creaking something similar to Jimin’s bones, his body still hanging from where he killed himself; where you killed him.

Taehyung walked in, eyes on Jimin then you.

“How’s Hell?” You murmured, knowing damn well he could hear you clear as day.

“I just got back.”

You smiled and let death sweep you up, leaving just one. The first, the domino that started this terrible chain of events. The butterfly on your card, the Ace you needed.

Taehyung took one small breath before taking your life, making sure he followed right after.

Maybe you’d all meet up again, in some maze of chain link fences and pristine white ribbons like the bedsheets of Hoseok’s hospital bed, the suds in the sink where Seokjin scrubbed, the wax of Jeongguk’s birthday candles, the hoodie Taehyung always wore, the blond of Yoongi’s hair, the pages in Namjoon’s journal, the nailbeds on Jimin’s small hands. The white on the back of your playing cards, the ones built to be a steady house but instead crumpled in on itself.

But for now, you just welcomed the white and hoped that no one else would follow in this Butterfly Effect.

[grumpygardener]

Getting Started

The thought, “I think I’m too emotional for gardening,” has been ringing through my head a lot.  One day, I go outside to find a new sprout or that something has grown and I am over the moon, so excited, bursting at the seams, can’t contain my joy.  I feel proud and accomplished and wonderful.  The next day I go out and find an issue - unexpected sprouts growing in our compost (that was a BIG issue, to be fair), or a break in the cardboard under our sheet mulching or half of the tomato sprouts were eaten overnight by a bug.  And then doomsday sets in.  I am discouraged, sad, frustrated, angry ...  So basically, gardening really brings out two extreme emotional states for me - bliss or dispair.  It makes me feel unstable!

Now, truth be told, it isn’t really gardening that’s causing the instability.  It’s just highlighting something that I struggle with, and that is control (or lack thereof).  When I lack control, I feel unsafe and ungrounded, which triggers a whole shitshow of negative emotions.  And that can happen when I am not in control but also when I perceive that I’m not in control.  The thing is, how often are we really, actually, truly in control in life?  If COVID-19 has brought anything to light, it’s that the entire world can change on a dime and all of your efforts to be in control can’t stop it.  

And COVID-19 is really what sparked all of this to begin with.  My partner, Adi, has been wanting to put our land to use for years, with garden plans in mind.  I, on the other hand, had next to no interest in gardening.  In fact, a few summers ago, Adi planted a few flower beds and an herb bed.  Due to chronic illness and logistics, the task of watering the beds shifted to me eventually and I hated it.  It felt tedious and boring.  It meant getting up an extra 10 minutes early for work to have time to water.  Adi even wanted me to do gross things like stick my finger in the dirt to test how wet it was - YUCK.

The day I found out my school was closing because of COVID-19 (I’m a middle school teacher), I stopped by the grocery store on the way home and it was apocalyptic.  We live in New England and in the winter, when there’s a blizzard on the way, often the grocery store shelves will be barren as people stock up for the storm.  The day my school closed for COVID, it was worse than I’d ever seen.  Empty shelves, people frantically filling their carts, employees struggling to keep the place organized.  It was disconcerting, to say the least.  And while it sort of got better(ish) as the days and weeks went by, it really cemented for Adi the idea that we have land (not a lot, we’re in suburbia) and we should put it to use to grow our own food.

I was starting to warm to the idea and Adi got to work researching.  Hours and days of looking into different styles and techniques, methods and systems, brought Adi to the plan for us to do permaculture - no dig, raised beds (which, in theory, would mean no weeding!!) - with the goal of eventually transforming our backyard into a food forest.  For those of you who don’t know what that means (like me), basically we’ll have a little forest in the back yard full of edible plants where we can just forage and pick and eat!  Nature’s grocery store out back.  A large factor in choosing this method was that Adi wanted to minimize the work that I will have to do.  

As mentioned, we’re dealing with chronic illness and that means that the physical labor falls to me, while Adi does meticulous research, planning and directing.  It’s sort of a perfect set up ... well, except for the part where I get really emotional about things and can be kind of, um, stubborn, and occasionally a little, er, combative, and I get particularly angry when doing something new and different and unknown to me.  And everything I’m doing out on our property is brand new to me - I have 0 experience with all of this.  So even though Adi was working hard to create a system for us that wouldn’t tax me too much, the beginning was rocky.

Of course there are other reasons for going with permaculture and creating a food forest.  Sure, let me be a lazy gardener.  Also, we are interested in gardening in harmony with nature - no chemicals, no pesticides.  One of the goals of permaculture is to create a balances, healthy ecosystem that is self sustaining, one that invites nature (critters, birds, etc.) to live in their naturally balanced state - as undisrupted of an environment as possible.  We are surrounded by neighbors who regularly spray their lawns with chemicals and work to have the perfect green carpet of grass.  Those chemicals severely exacerbate Adi’s health issues, so that’s never been something we could do.  But we wanted to take it further than that.

At this point, we’re about a month into the magical makeover of our property.  I seem to have settled down in that I’m not having angry fits or breaking down in tears every time I go outside to do something.  There’s some growth!  But recently, as the seeds have started to sprout and the sprouts are starting to grow and we are expanding, this issue of emotional extremes has been coming up.  I have this underlying frustration that I’m not one of those gifted gardeners with the green thumb who wanders blissfully through my garden, connecting to and understanding all the plants.  I wish I were already an expert or at least somewhat versed in the plant world.  I want to be good at this already.  I want to be a natural.  Instead, I’m bumbling around, mostly feeling clueless and terrified that I’m going to kill everything because of my incompetence.  I’m a grumpy gardener who is surprised at every turn and falls into pits of despair at the slightest deviation from my vision of what should be.  It makes me want to give up, on a really surface level, but also is an opportunity for me to maybe do some personal growth (in addition to growing food).

And so, I thought I’d start this blog to both have a record of our progress out there, and to work through some of the emotional stuff that gardening brings up for me.  That feels so silly to say - gardening makes me emotional... really?  But, it’s true.  It’s what’s happening.  And maybe if I take an honest look at it, I can find some more stability and grounding and learn to better manage anxiety issues that have been a constant in my life for a long time.

[hottmessexpresss]

Fever.

Back problems.

These mothafuckin'Kids.

Three days ago, my son woke up sick. He had this look* on his face. An unsettled look. He looked me dead in the eyes, and he started to gag. My eyes widened with horror. My instincts kicked in, and I did what my dad would do when I was growing up. The only sure way to know you have reached another level of parenting: held out my hands cupped together held under his chin. A vomit catch-all, if you will. Maybe it's a kid instict too. He knew* what it meant and what to do. He played and was fine throughout the day. Thank god.

The NEXT day, I developed a decent fever. I felt like my body was ran over by an 18 wheeler. "Greaaaaaaaaaaat!" I thought to myself. I laid on the couch half dead in a pool of my own sweat staring at the clock. Is 7:00 too early for bedtime? My daughter ended up puking ONCE that evening, so i figured it was a 24 hour tummy bug. No other symptoms. No more vomit. Both kids seemed fine. I prayed that I would not fall ill, and that I**wouldn't be sick. Could you imagine? Being sick AND being the mom? Being the house chore manager? Being the post-op surgery home nurse? What the hell would that* be like? Well, my dad has always told me, God must have a sense of humor based on my life being like an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm....and it was a god awful sense of humor, if that.

Yesterday, I was swiffer wet jetting a pool of urine on the floor. I shook my head, did my usual lecture on how only an animal would pee on the floor. How grayson wasn't an animal, and how pee goes INSIDE of the toilet. Not inside his construction cement truck (boys🙄😬). I bent over, and my life flashed before my eyes. BAM. I almost collapsed to the floor. I was sweating and writhing in pain. I couldn't muster up ENOUGH inertia to walk my body forward. My knees started to buckle, and immediate panic set in. Of all times for this to happen, with my luck-- it did (cue Curb Your Enthusiasm theme song). I am damn near 30 years old, and a Swiffer wet jet mop, along with a slight twist and bend movement, put me to the fuckin' floor. Meanwhile, J-Lo who is in her 50's is pole dancing and dancing at a top performance rate for a Superbowl half-time show. And again, here I am, in the same clothes as yesterday, my body getting over a fever, AND NOW pulled my back out of place. I was angry and upset that I have disabled myself.

Of course, Grayson and the baby caught wind of my sudden lack of movement and chaos ensued. Both hanging on my feet, whining and crying and fighting each other to be held. Every second ticked by slowly, as I completely winced and cursed in pain. I huddle by the cat tree. I try to stand and lean onto it and realized..I needed help. But who could help? How?

My husband was at work. Barely 2 weeks post-op from his shoulder replacement. I broke down in tears. My husband has just now been able to shower by himself. He's still in a sling and has very limited movement. What the hell am I going to do? With different parts of our bodies being out of commission, how* could we do this? I reluctantly called him. In tears, I waited 45 minutes before he got to the house. Before he arrived, with a little help from my Grayson, I was able to dress the baby. Grayson picked his clothes out, and got ready all by himself (I was shook). I waddle slowly to my bedroom and grab some socks and my Nike's. Grayson hauled ass into my room like always (because there isba child lock and it's forbidden) kneeled down and helped me put on my socks and shoes. I told him my back was hurting and he told me, "Don't worry mom. I'll fix it!" He lifted my shirt gently, and started to scratch my lower back. The tears were welling up. He got the baby clothes from her drawer (after one attempt), and sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to her as I changed her. I was overwhelmed with many emotions. I was in that moment, proud of Will and I's parenting and how my sweet and sour child, was being sweet and helpful to me.

Will arrives. He's stressed. I'm stressed. I keep apologizing over and over to him. I shove fruit snacks in my jacket. Will raises his voice at me to stop trying to put Grayson into his car seat. We are both frustrated. We are both not feeling it. I get to urgent care and wait for the doctor. He comes in after 10 minutes and says, "Oh? Are you striking a pose for a photo?" My hip is out and I'm leaning against the wall. I laughed. I explained what happened. He felt my hips and lower back. "Oh. Wow......you have HUGE knots all over the place...no wonder!" I held back tears. Then. This man turns to me and has THEE AUDACITY TO ASK ME** "Do you need a doctor's note for work?" I cracked a smile, but also wanted to strangle him right then and there. I explained my husband is two weeks post-op from shoulder replacement surgery, and that I have a 10 month old and a 3 year old at home, and all three are waiting in the car for me. He smiled and said, "I'd reccomend taking it easy, but that's not realistic is it?" He gave me a toradol shot, steroids for the inflammed muscles, muscle relaxers and T3. My anxiety sky-rocketed. I knew how Toradol made me tired. I knew how muscle relaxers obviously*** relax your muscles. T3 makes me groggy. How the fuck am I supposed to function on these AND take care of the kids?

So long gone are the days of being injured or sick and being able to sleep or "relax". So long gone are the days when no one else depended on you to be a fully functional adult during times of illness or injury.

My husband told me to go nap and relax my back. Though I was irriated by having to listen, and fight back the internal urge to pick up the toys on the ground, I obliged. Thinking back to a few months ago, my husband's sciatic caused him to be down and out from work for three days. I sat up in bed thinking of this. No offense to my husband; he works extremely hard and allows me the luxury of staying home with the kids. However, in this moment, I realized I wasn't able to experience the same "luxury" of taking three days off. Being a stay at home mom means, no days off. When youre sick, the world doesn't stop. Your toddlers certainly don't stop. So you, as the mom and house-manager, trudge through it. Because there is no other option or reason. Some are lucky to have family nearby that can cushion some of this blow. But unfortunately, that's not the case here. Instead, I facetimed my mom and cried to her, asking her to tell Grayson to be good for me. It worked (for a while).

I hate sometimes that these types of "problems" often come across as "complaining," but to me, just shows that a Mother's job never ends. We don't get to clock in, and clock out. We don't get paid lunch breaks. Often times I eat standing up, and pee with a rather curious audience (like when Grayson handed me toilet paper and told me to wipe my gina and did a horrendous digging motion with his hands). I don't get uninterrupted breaks. I don't physically see a paycheck deposited into my account.

This morning I woke up and before I got out of bed, I said a little prayer about being able to walk today. Thankfully, I can walk (at least). I made coffee, and waited for the monsters to wake up. I cooked them eggs and toast. I bribed grayson with a fruit snack to help get his sisters walker, and I slowly slowly lifted her in it. Getting her in and out of the crib has been a challenge. Babies want to be held and carried, and do not understand why* their mother isn't picking them up (torture).

I am realizing women are strong. Though I physically feel decrepid, I am appreciative of what women endure on a daily basis. Whether you work or stay home, being a mother is a 24/7 job that often goes without praise or recognition. Instead of binge watching Mad Men, or The Office (for the 56th time) posted up chillin' on meds, I am watching Paw Patrol while my kids nag and cry at my feet. "You should be THANKFUL. YOU HAVE THE BEST JOB IN THE ENTIRE WORLD....and an IMPORTANT ONE IF THAT." Well, Karen. Yes. Yes I do. I am "blessed" and "cursed" by this experience. I am** thankful. However, I am a human being. I am allowed to scowl and huff to myself, "this isn't fair!" While wanting to break down into tears. How dare I feel so selfish?

I am allowed to have bad days. Being a mom doesn't mean I am some bionic robot (though some days it definitely feels like it)

So here I am standing, slouched over the counter trying to rub a tennis ball into my lower back while my toddler screams, "THAT'S MY BAAAAAALLLLLLL MOM." All while my daughter also starts to scream (because her brother is screaming) I can't do anything but count to 10.

"Being a mom means having to choose between eating, showering, or sleeping. You can't do all three in one day" -unknown

Hug a mom, grandma or aunt today [or anyone that has raised you] and give yourself a pat on the back for being a bad ass super mom.

[builder051]

Come to me now and rest your head part 1: the day after Thanksgiving (MCU Captain America fanfic)

This is a re-post from AO3.

This is part 1 of a 15-chapter fic about Bucky’s return and recovery, as told through a year’s worth of rough holidays. Not every chapter will be emeto, but all have some form of physical illness or mental health struggle that could be categorized as sickfic or whump.

We are in powers/no powers choose-your-own-adventure.

Trigger warnings: vomiting

__________________________________________________________________

The first night Bucky comes back to Steve, it’s the day after Thanksgiving.  Of course, Bucky has no idea what day it is.  He just knows he’s so tired and so cold and his head’s been aching on and off for the past four or five months, and it might be a little worse tonight.

Bucky knocks on the door of the townhouse.  He hopes Steve will come quickly.  It’s raining, and though Bucky’s not drenched, he’s a certain amount of damp that’s adding significantly to his teeth-chattering discomfort.

He hopes Steve won’t come at all.  He hopes Steve’s out of town.  The last clear (well, clear-ish) memory of Steve he can drudge up seems to involve his fist connecting with Steve’s jaw.  So maybe they’re not friends…?  And that other, foggier, way-back idea of them sleeping together is something imagined…?  Bucky rubs between his eyebrows as if that would actually help alleviate anything.

There’s a soft sound of movement from inside the townhouse, and the deadbolt clicks before the door swings open.  Bucky doesn’t realize he’s leaning on the grey-painted wood until it’s not there anymore, and he manages to hold his own weight for about one second, just long enough to make eye contact through his wet, stringy hair, before he’s falling forward.  Vertigo steals any perception of directionality, and it’s only when Steve’s shoulder materializes under Bucky’s chin that he has any inkling of where he is in relation to anything else.

“Hey,” Steve whispers.  Bucky starts to sag against him, all previous apprehension and don’t touch me lost in a sudden and involuntary non-verbal hi I’m here and I kind of need you and I hope you’re ok with that.

They hug for a while.  Well, Steve hugs; Bucky hangs there limply.  The contrast of the warm house from the cold outside makes Bucky’s nose drip.  He breaks the silence with a loud sniff.

“Come in,” Steve says.  “Come sit down.”

Bucky struggles to get his feet underneath him and follows Steve through the entryway into the living room.  He sits on the couch when Steve gestures for him to do so.  Steve perches on the edge of the coffee table, offering a Kleenex and a throw blanket.  

Bucky’s sure Steve’s asking questions, but the words are getting lost somewhere between Steve’s mouth and his ears.  “You’re, um…hm.  Ok…” is about all he gleans.  Bucky’s so fucking tired.  It feels like cement is slowly pooling around him and enveloping his body in inescapable heaviness.  But at least it’s warm.

“Buck.”

It’s the first time Steve’s said his name in the few minutes they’ve been together.  It’s the first time anyone’s said his name in who-knows-how-long.  Bucky opens eyes he didn’t realize were closed.

“What can I do?  What’s gonna help the most?”

Bucky doesn’t have an answer.  He’s wet and shaky and exhausted and not feeling very well, and there are probably things that can be done to fix that, but Bucky can’t begin to imagine what they are.  He owes Steve something of an answer, though.

“I…um…?”  It’s truly the best he can do.  He opens his mouth again, but words don’t come.  Bucky shakes his head, brings on a wave of nauseous vertigo, and drops his face into his hand.

“It’s alright, ok?” Steve says.  He hovers his hand over Bucky’s knee.  “I’m just really glad you’re here.”

Bucky spends the next few minutes trying to drudge up a response, but fails miserably.  Instead he finally wipes the dribble of snot that’s traveled from his nose down over his upper lip where it’s lost in stubble.

“Are you hungry?”

Bucky has literally no idea.  He can’t remember the last time he ate.  He does have a feeling that his stomach hasn’t been treating him too well lately.

“I have all these leftovers,” Steve says.  “I was gonna make myself a plate.  I can get some for you?”

Steve’s voice goes up at the end, like he’s expecting an answer, but Bucky manages just a hitchy breath and another swipe of the Kleenex.

“Ok, I’ll just…how about something small.”  It’s less of a question this time.  “I’ll be right back.”  He gestures to the kitchen, which is widely visible from the living room.  “If you need me, or anything at all, just say so.”

Turning his head to look into the kitchen is borderline painful, so Bucky lets his eyes slide out of focus as he gazes forward toward the turned-off flat screen TV and listens to the sink running and the microwave whirring.  He feels like he’s bobbing just under the surface of sun-bleached lake water. Everything’s feeling somewhat nostalgic and nice, but also frighteningly wrong, as if one wrong move will send him drowning to the depths.

“Here.”  Steve’s offering a plate of sliced turkey and mashed potatoes and a glass of water.  Bucky takes the plate and sets it in his own lap, and Steve puts the glass on the coffee table before going back to the kitchen for his own dinner.

They sit side by side on the couch and eat in silence.  Well, Steve eats; Bucky picks.  His jaw feels tired after chewing a couple bites of meat, and the potatoes, though delicious, verge on too creamy and salty to feel comfortable in his mouth.

“Are you done?”  Steve’s done, and he reaches for Bucky’s half-eaten plate.

“Uh…”

“It’s ok.  You don’t have to be hungry.  We’ll save it for later,” Steve says as he takes the plate back to the kitchen.  He cleans the dishes quickly, and is back to Bucky’s side.

Bucky has no idea what time it is, but it’s dark outside, and he’s tired enough to sleep.  He feels like he probably shouldn’t, though.  Like maybe something bad happened last time he tried.  But he can’t remember exactly what.

“Do you want to lie down?”  Steve can read his face.  Or maybe read his mind.  Bucky tries to read Steve’s, but doesn’t come up with much.  Just concern.  Or pity?

Bucky starts to shift so he can recline on the couch, but Steve stops him.  “No, come upstairs.  You need to sleep in a bed.”  He leads Bucky up to the bedroom.  Bucky tries not to grip the railing too tightly, but he ends up having to when he trips over the top step.

Steve fusses over him for two seconds, then grabs Bucky a pair of sweat pants and a clean T-shirt from his closet.  “There’s a bathroom,” he points out the ensuite.  “Then you can sleep here.”  He pats the foot of the bed where Bucky’s already collapsed.  “Do you need help?  Or want some space?”

Bucky shrugs and shakes his head.

Steve sighs.  “Ok.  I’m gonna…in the office, right next door.  I’m gonna blow up the air mattress.”  He moves his hands awkwardly.  “If you need anything…”

Bucky nods, then wishes he hadn’t when his forehead throbs.

“Ok.”  Steve retreats.

Bucky changes clothes without so much as standing up, and he foregoes toweling his hair or washing his face in favor of burrowing under the blankets into sheets and pillows that smell familiar and comforting.

James is squinting down the barrel of an assault rifle, lining up crosshairs on the target.  She’s young, maybe mid-20s, with glossy black hair peeking out of her headscarf and red lipstick gracing her full mouth.  Her baby bump is visible under the fabric of her long dress.  James locks the crosshairs on her left ear, takes a quick breath, and pulls the trigger.

Bucky wakes up with a strangled, wet grunting exclamation.  He’s not in the rear-facing seat in the back of a van, but his stomach didn’t get the memo.  His brain still hasn’t engaged, and he doesn’t know where he is, and he’s starting to gag on something he doesn’t remember eating.

Bucky gets as far as shoving up on his stump arm when Steve bursts into the room, just in time to watch Bucky throw up in his bed.

“Hey, you’re ok, you’re ok,” Steve says, “Come on, let’s go in here.”  He pulls Bucky out of bed and steers him into the bathroom.  The next heave hits the floor in front of the toilet, but Steve throws down a towel gets Bucky onto his knees for the rest of the retches, which are rapidly becoming dry.

“It’s alright, ok?” Steve says, patting Bucky between the shoulder blades.

Bucky coughs, spit flying from his open mouth.  It’s not ok.  Steve shouldn’t see this.  Steve shouldn’t have to guide him through this.  This is why he’s unlovable and broken and worthless… “I…” Bucky croaks.  “I—I’ll go…”

“No,” Steve says, draping his arm over Bucky’s shoulders and holding him close while he still bends over the toilet.  “No, you don’t…If you don’t feel good, you don’t feel good.  It’s not…you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I—” Bucky breaks off in a hack.  “I killed…”

“No, you didn’t.”

“But I…”

“It was a dream,” Steve says in a firm, yet gentle voice.

Bucky’s out of breath and beyond dizzy.  He drops his cheek to the toilet seat.  He has a feeling it wasn’t a dream, at least, not completely.  He’s afraid to articulate that, that it might make it true.  But he’s also afraid he’ll explode if he keeps it in.  Or at least vomit again, which he does.

Steve rubs up and down his spine until Bucky stops retching and is just violently trembling, which really isn’t that much of an improvement.

Steve brings Bucky a paper cup of water to rinse out his mouth, then quietly asks, “Do you want to lay on the air mattress for a while?  I can get it cleaned up in here, and you can go back to bed.”

Bucky inhales something like “uh huh” because his head hurts too much to nod properly.

“Ok,” Steve intones as he pulls Bucky upright and into the office down the hall.  “Here, it’s low,” he warns before lowering him to the edge of the thin blow up bed.

Bucky eases himself down, recognizing the scent of Steve over the essence of plastic surrounding the mattress and bedding.

“I’ll be right back,” Steve says.

But no, that’s not going to work.  “No,” Bucky whispers.

“I’ll be really quick,” Steve offers.

“Stay.  Please.”  A single tear tracks down Bucky’s cheek, and he half lifts his right arm in Steve’s direction.

“I…” Steve starts.  “Ok.  Ok.  I can get it in the morning.”  He slides down onto the mattress, leaving space between their bodies.

Bucky edges forward until his face is in Steve’s chest, breathing him in.  Steve holds Bucky to him and snakes his arm around his back.

The first night Bucky comes back to Steve, they spend it together on an air mattress.

[adenil-umano]

Dan buddy, yoga and meditation instructor spock and bones going because someone makes him?

Grumbling didn’t work. Promising to eat better didn’t work. Swearing up and down that he would take it easy at the hospital didn’t work. Swearing in general didn’t work. In the end, it was Jim’s face that finally pushed Leonard over the edge. The way he pouted when he said, “Bones, you really need to take care of yourself. For me?”

And goddammit, he was a doctor! He knew how to take care of himself! So what if he imbibed too often and frequently forgot to eat? So what if he worked himself half to death and forsook sleep? He took his vitamins. But the sad kicked-puppy dog look on his friend’s face forced him down to the store to buy a pair of bright blue spandex yoga pants and a matching yoga mat. He muttered under his breath the entire drive to the yoga studio.

Leonard wasn’t normally a yoga kind of guy. He’d never been very flexible and much preferred a quick jog around the park–something outside, where he could see green things growing. But Dr. M’Benga had given him a coupon for the place along with a stern scolding that he needed to unwind, so he figured he might as well check it out. He had ten free visits and he planned to make the best of them.

The studio was a drab little building that appeared to have been recently painted the color of cement. Inside was nicer, all wood paneling and soft silk drapes, although there were no overhead lights in the lobby. The only light emanated from three bright white string-lights and a glowing rock in each corner. There was a young boy with a stunning helmet of hair filing his nails behind the desk.

The boy glanced up. “Hello,” he said in a disinterested Russian accent. “You’re new. You here for a class?”

“Er, yes.” Leonard stepped forward and flashed his coupon. “I checked the online schedule and saw that there was one in a few minutes.”

“The fal-kov,” the boy confirmed. He took the coupon and punched out a square and then went back to filing his nails. “The non-member changing room is to your left, and the studio is on the second floor. Elevator is beside the changing room if you prefer that to stairs.”

Leonard nodded and hastened to the changing room. He got out of his tired scrubs and struggled into the spandex tights, annoyed by how tightly they clung. They caught on the hairs of his legs. Once dressed he tossed the wrapping off his new mat and climbed the stairs.

There were already people gathered and stretching. Leonard unfurled his mat in the corner, as far away from the front as possible. He didn’t want anyone looking at him. He stood there, uncertain, until a tall slender Vulcan man walked in alongside a short, round woman with long, tightly-coiled black hair. The Vulcan was wearing black yoga pants and a cropped yellow t-shirt that revealed his slightly furry belly.

The woman had a bucket of water bottles and she handed one out to everyone in the room. Leonard accepted it politely and gave her his best winning smile, but she only arched her brow in return. She went and had a hushed conversation with the Vulcan man and Leonard swore they looked his way. He thought maybe it was his nerves getting to him, but then the Vulcan looked directly at him with a piercing black gaze and raised one angled eyebrow.

Leonard frowned.

The woman left and the man stood at the front of the room and unfurled his mat. He introduced himself as Instructor Spock and said they would begin when the room reached the proper temperature.

Immediately, Leonard began to sweat.

He thought it was his residual awkwardness at the new situation, but then he really began to sweat. The temperature in the room seemed to double and it was like they were piping water into the very air itself. Leonard struggled to breathe, but Spock and the others seemed unaffected. Spock had an excuse–he was Vulcan–but the humans in the room must just have been crazy.

“The temperature is now optimal,” Spock said, his voice rich and resonant in the thick air of the studio. “Begin standing, ankles together.”

Leonard hastened to catch up with what everyone else seemed to implicitly know how to do. He followed along as Spock demonstrated from the front of the room how to stand and slowly lift one’s hands to the air. Leonard found his gaze drifting a little south, to Spock’s flat stomach. He jerked his gaze upwards again.

It didn’t seem very difficult at first, and then quite suddenly it got impossible. Spock made them balance haphazardly and stick their legs out at odd angles and lean dramatically to the side. Occasionally, Spock came out into the room and readjusted one of the students. Leonard was feeling headstrong now and refused to stop even though he was already feeling tired and hot and sweaty. He guzzled about half his bottle of water in the first ten minutes and sweat began to bead on his brow and run down into his eyes.

His feet were wet and kept sticking to the mat. His shirt clung to his shoulders. But dammit, he was going to do this. He’d show that Vulcan that all his skeptical eyebrow raising was ill-informed. He was perfectly capable of–ah!–stretching in these…weird…uncomfortable poses. He winced as his back let out a shout of distress.  He let out a breath and held the pose. Spock came from the front of the room and stood behind Leonard, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. Spock only pushed him a half-a-centimeter but suddenly the tension went out of Leonard’s body and his back relaxed. He blinked a confused thank you, but Spock did not respond.

Spock was up at the front looking utterly unruffled, though most of the humans in the room were now huffing and puffing. Leonard figured they had to be at least half-way done–it felt like they’d been at this for hours–so he drank the rest of his water and mopped the sweat from his brow. Spock had them all stand on one leg and then, mercifully, they could lay down. Leonard felt like taking a nap but Spock didn’t let up for a second.

They lifted legs, shoulders, bodies in time to Spock’s meditative voice. Leonard did find it soothing, and at some point his brain stopped registering his discomfort. He moved through the series of poses not without effort, but certainly without thought. He moved where Spock guided him. Twice more Spock came to his mat and helped him enter the pose required, his long hands shockingly cool and dry in the oppressive heat of the room.

Finally, they knelt. Spock told them to breathe and they did so. Leonard felt his eyes close automatically. Breathe in, Spock said. Out. Feel the heat of the room. Moisture in the air. The center of your body striving for water. Breathe in. Out. Feel.

Leonard felt.

He opened his eyes sometime later and saw that most of the students had already left. A few hung out by the door, chatting.

There was a bottle of water hovering near him.

He took it, looking up at Spock with embarrassment. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“It is no difficulty,” Spock said. He stood with his hands folded behind his back as Leonard tried not to drown himself in his haste to drink. He hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was, but now that he had water he realized he was light-headed with dehydration. “You did well for your first session.”

Leonard frowned. “How do you know this was my first time?”

“I know all the students,” Spock said patiently. “We are a small studio. Also your…expression as the room began to heat was quite telling.”

Leonard chuckled. “I guess I didn’t exactly know what I was getting myself into.” He tried to stand up and realized his legs were jelly. He swiped a hand over his brow, disgusted at the sweat still clinging there.

“If you wish—” Spock cut himself off, glancing towards the door. “There is a shower area normally reserved for studio members. I would give you access today.”

“That bad, huh?” Leonard said, hoping he didn’t stink. Wasn’t there something about Vulcans and a superior sense of smell? “I sure could use it. Thanks.”

Spock nodded and looked away politely as Leonard struggled to his feet. Spock lead him to a door tucked away on the ground floor and opened it with a key card. Inside were rows of lockers and two students chatting as they changed. Leonard gave a wave to Spock in thanks and went straight for the showers.

The water was exquisite. Amazing how different water could feel pouring down his throat or over his body, rather than clinging heavy in the air. He let the water run over him and rested his head against the cool tile wall, thinking that maybe everyone had been right. A little exercise never hurt anybody. He felt good. Energized. 

He found towels in a pile and put on his street clothes. When he left he saw no one until he got to the lobby, where Spock was sitting on a wooden bench reading a book with a pair of black thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He’d changed into a regular long-sleeve shirt that covered his midriff. A real disappointment for Leonard.

He glanced up as Leonard entered.

“Did you…” Leonard trailed off, not wanting to ask if Spock had waited up for him.

Spock rose. His ring finger fell between the pages of his book, saving his spot. “The studio closed. I remained behind to lock up.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize I had taken so long.”

“It is no trouble.” Spock’s face was soft. “I also intended to tell you that tomorrow you will feel quite different than you do now. There is a certain euphoria after exercise that will fade to exhaustion tomorrow.”

“I know that.” He smirked. “The human body’s no mystery to me, Spock. I’m a doctor by day.”

“I see.” Spock seemed honestly interested. “In two days time I will hold another class. You should attend.”

Leonard laughed, caught off guard by Spock’s forthrightness. “I’ll do that.”

Spock gestured Leonard out and locked up the studio. Leonard hesitated on the sidewalk in the cool night air, feeling like he should say something else. He wasn’t sure what.

“So…”

“I did not get your name,” Spock said.

“It’s Leonard. Leonard McCoy.” He almost stuck out his hand before remembering Vulcans preferred not to touch. But then, Spock had been touching him plenty during the class. Maybe it was different in that hot space.

Spock nodded and Leonard realized suddenly that his eyes weren’t black, as he’d thought at first. They were a deep, rich brown. Quite inquisitive. “I bid you good night, Doctor McCoy.”

“Just Leonard, please,” he said, and smiled. “Doctor McCoy was my father.”

Spock didn’t seem to get the joke but his face softened anyway. “Good night, Leonard.”

Leonard left into the night feeling lighthearted. He bounced in time to the song dancing through his head, not caring at all that tomorrow he would awake sore and tired, cursing Vulcans and their overheated yoga classes. He knew he’d still be back in two day’s time to unfurl his mat at the front of the room.

And maybe he’d bring his own water, next time.

…

[send me a prompt or support me on patreon]

[withoutjoy]

hmf

i.

gasoline runs in pale blue veins; bright city lights, scratching of needle against vinyl disc, shouts of victory accompanying the kisses lovers shared with their loved ones upon returning from war. ivory skin made of cemented road and daunting skyscrapers. monochromatic is the photo that serve as the only reminder of homeland, where gunpowder is suffocatingly thick in the air and earth dyed red from the spilled blood of brothers in arms. mingfei has never fit in anywhere, not even in the comforts of his blood and flesh. his skin is too dark to blend in with the crowd when he walks in the main road. soil-colored eyes dull--boring, even, compared to the cerulean blue or forest green of his friends'. his black hair seem to be a stark contrast against the lighter colored hair everywhere he goes. but he understands.

he understands that he is different. he understands that it is okay to be different. he learns that it is better to retreat than to be deemed ill-fated. he learns that to get by he’d have to cast that identity aside by blending in. he understands and learns to accept that compared to the prismatic hues of this foreign land, he’s just an analogous scheme of beige, black and white.

( vibrant red with dark crimson, sunny yellow with elm, spring green with dull cherry-wood, and sky blue with thick grey )

he also understands that it is human’s nature to never be able to have their thirst quenched; no matter how many lives are taken, how many youth and old spirit ripped away from the warm embrace of their families, how much mothers starve just so their children can survive, humans will always be there to destroy anything in their path. to get rid of everything that shares a different view from them over a baseless paranoia.

and him being here--in a land far away from home--is the living proof. heck, he might as well call himself the very product and victim of war.

ii.

ironically it started when a life ended.

papa thinks he’s sick in the head. gege thinks he’s a morbid freak. mama is too busy rotting in her coffin to care, dawn-colored discoloration adorning her pale skin beneath broken ribs and damaged internal organs--a complete contrast to the white dress and lilies held by nimble fingers.

mingfei thinks he should be sad--or scared at least, but why would he be when his dreams have shown him worse things?

( his fingers bleed grotesque; vermilion jarring upon the dull white of paper. black outlines the shape of a woman sprawled upon gray concrete. a small car as if complimenting the lifeless body next to it )

so papa sends him to a place far, far away. no, not the place where you get your happily ever after, where the princess marries the prince. or the monster that threatened the town vanquished by the knights in shining armor. or the place where all the rainbows point to. no.

to the place where normal people fix people like him. where any methods are used in order to straighten crooked lines.

then mingfei thinks again; maybe, he can finally fit in somewhere after this.

iii.

the sensations hit him abruptly like a tsunami.

first, head up in cloud nine. vision swimming. mingfei lets the current carry him anywhere they want to. ignoring the buzzing sound near his ears or the poking on his eye. he sees the distorted blue of the sky with cotton white clouds. he sees his parents’ smiling faces when they arrived at their new house. he sees the colorful billboards scattered around in downtown new york. his mother smiling at him, mouthing “it’s going to be okay”.

second, the pain is sharp enough to cut through everything, even the daze inflicted upon him. brown iris dilates, light coming in too much at once. gauze obstructs his left eye. black locks are shaved clean. two pair of holes pierce both sides of his head, on top of his ears. his sight are blurry, no matter how much he tries to focus. how long has he been out?

third, confusion settles in. why is it still here? the man in the white suit promised he’s going to be okay. but if anything his ears catches the voices a lot easier now. the dreams gotten worse, to the point where he would wake up in someplace else that his awake state doesn’t even recall. faces seem like a disarray of oil color on wet canvas in his mind.

well, perhaps that’s what happens when one attempts to cure something that has been there from the very beginning.

fortunately, the madam that came to pick him up one day understands that clearly. her features lost in soil-colored hues, yet the red lipstick burns in the back of his mind as clear as the daylight. she picked him up like how a grandmother would to their grandson at school, warm hand enveloping tiny one as they walk towards the outside world. golden strands gleaming when the sunlight filters through them. he thinks her voice is croaky, but it’s not exactly unpleasant.

“you’re coming with me, young man. i’ll show you how unique you are.” she said, pearly white teeth bared while looking upon him. mingfei smiles back, ignoring the amount of bodies scattered behind them, their blood splashed on dirty green of the asylum’s interior. could this really be it?

iv.

miss heron is very nice to him. she lets mingfei eat delicious food until he’s full for two-times a day. never to raise her voice and always patient while explaining the things he doesn’t understand. she let everyone embrace their ‘peculiarities’ by encouraging them to utilize it, like listening to the dreams he has each night and putting him back to bed when he sleepwalks. its almost his first year of staying with her yet never once mingfei has been hit with a belt or a wooden stick whenever he missed a target with his knives during training sessions. and he is more than happy for that.

but what’s better is the amount of books in her library. it’s almost like a room of endless shelves, each one containing books mingfei doesn’t even know exist. from the illustrated storybook that miss heron would read to the younger kids in her orphanage to the books with difficult words in it. yixing decided that he’s fond of the psychology and medicine sections and would spend hours there even if it’s just to look at the diagrams.

he learns that the name of his peculiarity is extrasensory perception; esp for short. people around the nation has been conducting research on people with peculiarities like him, but some is skeptical and try to cure them by driving stakes into the patient’s head instead--just like what they did to him.

either way mingfei is pleased, because he knows he’s not the only one now.

v.

it always ends as soon as it begins for him.

he was never one to lose his temper over things so easily, but the very composure he thought he possessed flew away upon finding out that the invisible creature that took miss heron’s eyes were the same runt that couldn’t keep his mouth shut during his reading sessions in the library.

he thought about abandoning the remaining children--he really did. but the responsibility of leading them automatically falls onto his hands as the oldest of the group. and who is he to say no if their caretaker herself decreed so in her last breaths?

so in the end mingfei gave in. the role as the guardian taken with a heavy heart and watery eyes. the task of finding loops for the other children to live in wasn’t easy, and there are sacrifices he had to make. but what’s that compared to a gratitude of a lifetime?

he’s all but sunken cheeks and hollow eyes when he stepped out of the last loop, leaving the last child for the ymbryne to take care of after five years of living in the streets. saccharine voice convinced him to stay, but mingfei rejects the prospect of living in momentarily peace if the same incident will only repeat itself again.

( he eventually stopped his travels and settled down in a loop somewhere in russia, though. twenty five and he becomes the headmistress’ most trusted keeper )

vi.

six decades of waiting for a chance to strike back, six decades of gritted teeth and clenched fist. his disease decided to make an appearance on the moment that counts.

it was just one, minuscule cut to his finger, courtesy of the throwing knife he hadn’t touched for so long. the cut wasn’t even deep yet the red that flows from it managed to put him into a state of  unconsciousness for almost a day.

the headmistress’ voice is clear as the day even in his dazed state when she told him he’s not cut out to be a hunter, that he’s going to teach the ones that has the potential instead. empty eyes glanced at the spot on the wall across his bed, words lost to deaf ears save for the occasional mentions of ‘new loop’ ‘mara-do’, and ‘transfer’.

the world is so fucking unfair. but what’s new, really?

[angry-old-asian-man]

The Adulting Tips Masterpost

A lot of you are newly adult or soon to be. This generally isn't what this blog is for, but I've come to realise it's sorely needed--apparently also Millennials, many kids of Boomers, but some kids of my generation--didn't really learn how to be an adult and try to avoid it? I'm part of the latchkey generation. That happened with a guardian when I was in high school anyway, but when my dad and granparents were still alive and I lived with them, I got taught stuff and learned stuff. Then some, I did figure out, either as a latchkey and abused kid, or just as I went once I was on my own. I've been on my own for this entire century. So lemme pass on a little bit of helpful tips to prepare you, whatever your situation. THIS IS THE ADULTING MASTERPOST! You know stuff like "you need to learn how to manage money," or "having a fridgerator is a good thing." This is a bit deeper. It aims to be comprehensive and there are multiple sections. The need for this is pretty Western. When I mention "X also exists in Japan," I mean that and America are all I ever lived in and I'm saying there's a chance this thing is nearly universal. Let's begin: Things every home should have: A wet-vac (shop-vac) A hand drill Hemostat clamp (trust me--they're a irreplaceable household tool) (not the veterinary ones) A tape measure A fire extinguisher Surge-protecting outlet extenders ALWAYS KNOW WHERE YOUR FUSE/BREAKER BOX IS A flashlight or two (yeah, you have a phone. Get dedicated flashlights) A pail or two a bit bigger than a sand pail A cold compress and a heating pad A well-stocked toolbox A well-stocked first aid kit A few extension cords, at least one outdoor-use grounded one Some all-metal pots and pans I would recommend a landline phone, but they now depend on electricity coming through a modem, so they're not a lifesaver as they once were. Speaking of which, a radio that can run on batteries. Even better if it has shortwave (SW) bands, in Japan and America, at least, meteorological stations exist on SW (短波[たんぱ]) Bug bait on reserve--whatever bug is the worst in your area. On that note, many spiders, such as daddy long legs, will actually eat bugs like gnats and ants. Don't panic if the spider isn't a poisonous variety--they're there to help. A strong cement. Not Krazy Glue, but actual cement Always know where is your nearest: Hardware store Urgent care and hospital Library City hall Thrift store (these may have different names such as Recycle shop, outside of America) Recycling/E-waste centre (but please donate to that thrift store if your old electronics are still functional!) Public transit, even if you drive. Cars break down. On a similar note, memorise one taxi company number. Pay phone (just trust me) Repair shop for your appliances/electronics. Sometimes you just can't do it at home, hopefully you can always afford it Learn to do as much as you can, though Learn the hours of your closest corner store in case you need some medicine for a sick baby or sick self, etc. Befriend at least one or two neighbours. You'll be a great help to each other. Have plans for whatever natural disaster is known to strike your area. Tips for the ones I know: The best tip for earthquakes are: You can't outrun them Door arches are way better shelters than flimsy modern tables Arrange your house for the least things falling on people--especially in bed For hurricane, the evacuation route will change, but have a plan if you don't have your own car on how to get out of town Learn basic repair of household items. Good pantry foods (always keep some of these, according to your diet/intolerances): Powdered milk or canned milk (evaporated is not sweetened and therefore more versitaile) Pickled vegetables Dried fruits, vegetables, and grains Canned meats Beans you like, canned or dried Dollar/100 yen/whatever-your-equivalent-is stores should have most of the above. Get whatever groceries you can here. Suggestions include dried cuttlefish and canned media crema, too Pan spray is totally your friend unless you want oily food LEARN TO COOK! I know today's young adults don't, and we men have been discouraged from it unless as a job, but that's bad for both your health and wallet. Yes, even if you don't gain weight. You don't have to be four-star caliber, just be able to make basic food that tastes as you like (having friends/family like your cooking is super-rewarding, though) On that note, keep something that is simple to prepare (nattou and insta-rice/can of soup) for "low spoon" days if applicable If at all possible, please regularly see your doctor. Not seeing one doesn't make you "superior"/"manly" / "strong" /"not part of the sheeple," it makes you an idiot. An idiot with bad health Shower daily if at all possible. People have been bathing since Ancient Greece/Stone-Age Japan. It literally reduces bacterial illness. People in equatorial climates like Haiti bathe twice daily--might need this in more places with global warming Simple destressing tips: Live in a warm costal area? Invest in a beach towel and a large cold thermos Cold rainy/snowy? A nice sweater (okay for me, I'd get a yukata if I did, this varies), keep around one nice canister of tea/coffee/bouillon/pipe tobacco/bottle of wine/whatever. Pull up a seat, enjoy the view Don't do this after ten PM and before ten AM, and take night working/chronically ill neighbours into consideration, but enjoy your records out loud once in a while. Multitasking is actually rapid task switching. Actual multitasking is non-extant Find an easily accessible/low cost hobby you enjoy. It could be productive, like hunting, fishing, repairing and upselling stuff you find at thrift shops, or it could be absolutely nothing to do with gathering resources, like hiking or reading Edwardian poetry. Do it regardless. Carve out a little time once a week. If you're a single parent, there are ways to make it bonding time for most ages Make your bed. Trust me People Stuff, Yourself and Others: Above all, be kind to yourself. There's a whole lot of people that will be hard on you, no need to add yourself to that number Do unto others as you'd have done to you. But don't worry about some bullshit moral high ground with people who demean, belittle, and attack you. They don't deserve you Don't fall into that "I have a partner, so now I'm not supposed to socialise with anyone else/without them." That is SO not healthy. That can destabilise your relationship. Rapunzel didn't do well in that tower--isolation, even if self imposed, is very bad for you Having a counsellor isn't a bad thing. There might be people you don't wanna tell, but trauma is real--ask a veteran or assault survivor. If you think you need one and you can get to one, go. It's okay. There are thresholds, but consider different opinions. Not "your people are inferior savages" --that's crossing a line. But one of my best friends, I found out, likes modern folk rock. I only like the original folk rock, like America (band). You might argue whether more business and job creation in your town or building a new public middle school is better for the poor in your community, and you might disagree. There are certain beliefs that are bad (these are most always a belief in inherent inferiority /servility/ primitive, dangerous, or mystic quality in a [non-dominant] demograph, also known as bigotry--this is that inexcusable line) but not everyone who disagrees on everything is bad. I also tend to stay away from "morally superior lifestyle" (moral vegan, moral "I only watch TV on the Web," moral "I only smoke expensive weed and not stuff poor people of colour do," (this is a very real dichotomy in California, USA), moral yoga-er which can apparently also seep into pricing Indians out of yoga, I've heard, the quinoa/pork belly/greens gentrification--a lot of this morality in being rich [and white] is very western and rooted in Victorian British culture) because that's pure classism, see bigotry, but your mileage may vary. Disagreements on "I like mayo, you like Miracle Whip" or "Jobs for the poor! No, library for the poor!" are pretty trivial. You still both seem like good people. (And there are totally times for Miracle Whip, L O L!) Growing up means being able to handle your own stuff--it doesn't mean having to hate cartoons (Thank Archie for that misconception. At the same time, note that was never absolute. See stuff like Fritz the Cat, City Hunter, Lupin III, Patsy Walker. Before Archie, think about Betty Boop and early Blondie in the actual context of the 1920s) It doesn't mean you have to hate puns and the music you liked in High School. I love both, and I'm making you this list. Don't be embarrassed about what you like. Life's too short. Don't worry now or ever. Like 50 Shades? As long as you know that in real life, you should stay safe from abuse, and you know real BDSM isn't that and don't treat people in that community shitty or put yourself in danger. Be critical of what you like but only dislike it if its shittiness ruined it for you, like how I feel about David Bowie after "China Girl." And people having limits is okay. White people frequently tell me I have no right to dislike David Bowie after that song because... I have no right to complain about the fetishisation/assault/other oppression of Asians because they want to keep oppressing me, I guess? I have a right even if I weren't attacked more times than I can count because of the treatment of Asians in America. They have no right to tell me what to enjoy or not to enjoy. Similarly, people might tell you your interest makes you immature or whatever ("O M G, you STILL listen to New Kids on the Block!? What are you, 13?") this is like the point about the person who likes Miracle Whip v the person who likes mayonnaise. What you like isn't impervious to criticism, but it doesn't make you morally anything. You might not want to tell your co-workers you write fic, but just know sometimes things aren't worth dealing with and still liking The Muppet Movies even when you turn 35 someday is no judgement on you. (I have a couple of those on VHS) I've been literally beaten for reading in my mother tongue and not only ever English. I buy/check out my books. I don't have to listen to them. And that's the thing about being an adult. You're in control. Yeah, you're responsible for you, and depending, you might not have anyone to fall back on. My dad died in my high school years. My grandparents had already died when he did. Some decided they really didn't want to fulfill the duties of parents because you turned out too different. That isn't fun. I know, as you see. But it would seem young people now are afraid to grow up? It's a good thing. As long as you do no harm, you're (supposed to be) free. You can bake a cake and have it for breakfast on Sunday morning. A la mode, even. Watch that movie--no one should be able to tell you no! ((They can tell you wait if they have to sleep or the TV is shared, but they shouldn't be able to disallow you--controlling shit like that for an adult happens, but that's the realm of abusive partners or staying at mum and dad's for the weekend) If I think of anything else, I'll edit this post. For now, that's it. (Remember to brush your teeth!)