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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months ago

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“That Makes Me Smart”

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/04/its-not-a-lie/#its-a-premature-truth

The Biden administration disappointed, frustrated and enraged in so many ways, including abetting a genocide – but one consistent bright spot over the past four years was the unseen-for-generations frontal assault on corporate power and corporate corruption.

The three words that define this battle above all others are "unfair and deceptive" – words that appear in Section 5 of the Federal Trade Commission Act and other legislation modeled on it, like USC40 Section 41712(a), which gives the Department of Transportation the power to ban "unfair and deceptive" practices as well:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

When Congress created an agency to punish "unfair and deceptive" conduct, they were saying to the American people, "You have a right not to be cheated." While this may sound obvious, it's hardly how the world works.

To get a sense of how many ripoffs are part of our daily lives, let's take a little tour of the ways that the FTC and other agencies have used the "unfair and deceptive" standard to defend you over the past four years. Take Amazon Prime: Amazon executives emailed one another, openly admitting that in their user tests, the public was consistently fooled by Amazon's "get free shipping with Prime" dialog boxes, thinking they were signing up for free shipping and not understanding that they were actually signing up to send the company $140/year. They had tested other versions of the signup workflow that users were able to correctly interpret, but they decided to go with the confusing version because it made them more money:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/05/amazon-execs-may-be-personally-liable-for-tricking-users-into-prime-sign-ups/

Getting you signed up for Prime isn't just a matter of taking $140 out of your pocket once – because while Amazon has produced a greased slide that whisks you into a recurring Prime subscription, the process for canceling that recurring payment is more like a greased pole you must climb to escape the Prime pit. This is typical of many services, where signing up happens in a couple clicks, but canceling is a Kafkaesque nightmare. The FTC decided that this was an "unfair and deceptive" business practice and used its authority to create a "Click to Cancel" rule that says businesses have to make it as easy to cancel a recurring payment as it was to sign up for it:

https://www.theregister.com/2023/07/12/ftc_cancel_subscriptions/

Once businesses have you locked in, they also spy on you, ingesting masses of commercial surveillance data that you "consented" to by buying a car, or clicking to a website, or installing an app, or just physically existing in space. They use this to implement "surveillance pricing," raising prices based on their estimation of your desperation. Uber got caught doing this a decade ago, raising the price of taxi rides for users whose batteries were about to die, but these days, everyone's in on the game. For example, McDonald's has invested in a company that spies on your finances to determine when your payday is, and then raises the price of your usual breakfast sandwich by a dollar the day you get paid:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

Everything about this is "unfair and deceptive" – from switching prices the second you click into the store to the sham of consent that consists of, say, picking up your tickets to a show and being ordered to download an app that comes with 20,000 words of terms and conditions that allows the company that sends you a QR code to spy on you for the rest of your life in any way they can and sell the data to anyone who'll buy it.

As bad as it is to be trapped in an abusive relationship as a shopper, it's a million times worse to be trapped as a worker. One in 18 American workers is under a noncompete "agreement" that makes it illegal for you to change jobs and work for someone else in the same industry. The vast majority of these workers are in low-waged food-service jobs. The primary use of the American noncompete is to stop the cashier at Wendy's from getting an extra $0.25/hour by taking a job at McDonald's.

Noncompetes are shrouded in a fog of easily dispelled bossly bullshit: claims that noncompetes raise wages (empirically, this is untrue), or that they enable "IP"-intensive industries to grow by protecting their trade secrets. This claim is such bullshit: you can tell by the fact that noncompetes are banned under California's state constitution and yet the most IP-intensive industries have attracted hundreds of billions – if not trillions – in investment capital even though none of their workforce can be bound under a noncompete. The FTC's order banning noncompetes for every worker in America simply brings the labor regime that created Silicon Valley and Hollywood to the rest of the country:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

Noncompetes aren't the only "unfair and deceptive" practice used against American workers. The past decade has seen the rise of private equity consolidation in several low-waged industries, like pet grooming. The new owners of every pet grooming salon within 20 miles of your house haven't just slashed workers' wages, they've also cooked up a scheme that lets them charge workers thousands of dollars if they quit these shitty jobs. This scheme is called a "training repayment agreement provision" (TRAP!): workers who are TRAPped at Petsmart are made to work doing menial jobs like sweeping up the floor for three to four weeks. Petsmart calls this "training," and values it at $5,500. If you quit your pet grooming job in the next two years, you legally owe PetSmart $5,500 to "repay" them for the training:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/04/its-a-trap/#a-little-on-the-nose

Workers are also subjected to "unfair and deceptive" bossware: "AI" tools sold to bosses that claim they can sort good workers from bad, but actually serve as random-number generators that penalize workers in arbitrary, life-destroying ways:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/26/hawtch-hawtch/#you-treasure-what-you-measure

Some of the most "unfair and deceptive" conduct we endure happens in shadowy corners of industry, where obscure middlemen help consolidated industries raise prices and pick your pocket. All the meat you buy in the grocery store comes from a cartel of processing and packing companies that all subscribe to the same "price consulting" services that tells them how to coordinate across-the-board price rises (tell me again how greedflation isn't a thing?):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

It's not just food, it's all of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Take shelter: the highly consolidated landlord industry uses apps like Realpage to coordinate rental price hikes, turning the housing crisis into a housing emergency:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/24/gouging-the-all-seeing-eye/#i-spy

And of course, health is the most "unfair and deceptive" industry of all. Useless middlemen like "Pharmacy Benefit Managers" ("a spreadsheet with political power" -Matt Stoller) coordinate massive price-hikes in the drugs you need to stay alive, which is why Americans pay substantially more for medicine than anyone else in the world, even as the US government spends more than any other to fund pharma research, using public money:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

It's not just drugs: every piece of equipment – think hospital beds and nuclear medicine machines – as well as all the consumables – from bandages to saline – at your local hospital runs through a cartel of "Group Purchasing Organizations" that do for hospital equipment what PBMs do for medicine:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/27/lethal-dysfunction/#luxury-bones

For the past four years, we've lived in an America where a substantial portion of the administrative state went to war every day to stamp out unfair and deceptive practices. It's still happening: yesterday, the CFPB (which Musk has vowed to shut down) proposed a new rule that would ban the entire data brokerage industry, who nonconsensually harvest information about every American, and package it up into categories like "teenagers from red states seeking abortions" and "military service personnel with gambling habits" and "seniors with dementia" and sell this to marketers, stalkers, foreign governments and anyone else with a credit-card:

https://www.consumerfinance.gov/about-us/newsroom/cfpb-proposes-rule-to-stop-data-brokers-from-selling-sensitive-personal-data-to-scammers-stalkers-and-spies/

And on the same day, the FTC banned the location brokers who spy on your every movement and sell your past and present location, again, to marketers, stalkers, foreign governments and anyone with a credit card:

https://www.404media.co/ftc-bans-location-data-company-that-powers-the-surveillance-ecosystem/

These are tantalizing previews of a better life for every American, one in which the rule is, "play fair." That's not the world that Trump and his allies want to build. Their motto isn't "cheaters never prosper" – it's "caveat emptor," let the buyer beware.

Remember the 2016 debate where Clinton accused Trump of cheating on his taxes and he admitted to it, saying "That makes me smart?" Trumpism is the movement of "that makes me smart" life, where if you get scammed, that's your own damned fault. Sorry, loser, you lost.

Nowhere do you see this more than in cryptocurrencyland, so it's not a coincidence that tens – perhaps hundreds – in dark crypto money was flushed into the election, first to overpower Democratic primaries and kick out Dem legislators who'd used their power to fight the "unfair and deceptive" crowd:

https://www.politico.com/newsletters/california-playbook-pm/2024/02/13/crypto-comes-for-katie-porter-00141261

And then to fight Dems across the board (even the Dems whose primary victories were funded by dark crypto money) and elect the GOP as the party of "caveat emptor"/"that makes me smart":

https://www.coindesk.com/news-analysis/2024/12/02/crypto-cash-fueled-53-members-of-the-next-u-s-congress

Crypto epitomizes the caveat emptor economy. By design, fraudulent crypto transactions can't be reversed. If you get suckered, that's canonically a you problem. And boy oh boy, do crypto users get suckered (including and especially those who buy Trump's shitcoins):

https://www.web3isgoinggreat.com/

And for crypto users who get ripped off because they've parked their "money" in an online wallet, there's no sympathy, just "not your keys, not your coins":

https://www.ledger.com/academy/not-your-keys-not-your-coins-why-it-matters

A cornerstone of the "unfair and deceptive" world is that only suckers – that is, outsiders, marks and little people – have to endure consequences when they get rooked. When insiders get ripped off, all principle is jettisoned. So it's not surprising that when crypto insiders got taken for millions the first time they created a DAO, they tore up all the rules of the crypto world and gave themselves the mulligan that none of the rest of us are entitled to in cryptoland:

https://blog.ethereum.org/2016/07/20/hard-fork-completed

Where you find crypto, you find Elon Musk, the guy who epitomizes caveat emptor thinking. This is a guy who has lied to drivers to get them to buy Teslas by promising "full self driving in one year," every year, since 2015:

https://www.consumerreports.org/cars/autonomous-driving/timeline-of-tesla-self-driving-aspirations-a9686689375/

Musk told investors that he had a "prototype" autonomous robot that could replace their workers, then demoed a guy in a robot suit, pretending to be a robot:

https://gizmodo.com/elon-musk-unveils-his-funniest-vaporware-yet-1847523016

Then Musk did it again, two years later, demoing a remote-control robot while lying and claiming that it was autonomous:

https://techcrunch.com/2024/10/14/tesla-optimus-bots-were-controlled-by-humans-during-the-we-robot-event

This is entirely typical of the AI sector, in which "AIs" are revealed, over and over, to be low-waged workers pretending to be robots, so much so that Indian tech industry insiders joke that "AI" stands for "Absent Indians":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

Musk's view is that he's not a liar, merely a teller of premature truths. Autonomous cars and robots are just around the corner (just like the chatbots that can do your job, and not merely convince your boss to fire you while failing to do your job). He's not tricking you, he's just faking it until he makes it. It's not a scam, it's inspirational. Of course, if he's wrong and you are scammed, well, that's a you problem. Caveat emptor. That makes him smart.

Musk does this all the time. Take the Twitter blue tick, originally conceived of as a way to keep Twitter users from being scammed ("unfair and deceptive") by con artists pretending to be famous people. Musk's inaugural act at Twitter was to take away blue ticks from verified users and sell them to anyone who'd pay $8/month. Almost no one coughed up for this – the main exception being scammers, who used their purchased, unverified blue ticks to steal from Twitter users ("that makes me smart").

As Twitter hemorrhaged advertising revenue and Musk became increasingly desperate to materialize an army of $8/month paid subscribers, he pulled another scam: he nonconsensually applied blue ticks to prominent accounts, in a bid to trick normies into thinking that widely read people valued blue ticks so much they were paying for them out of their own pockets:

https://www.bbc.com/news/technology-65365366

If you were tricked into buying a blue tick on this pretense, well, caveat emptor. Besides, it's not a lie, it's a premature truth. Someday all those widely read users with nonconsensual blue ticks will surely value them so highly that they do start to pay for them. And if they don't? Well, Musk got your $8: "that makes me smart."

Scammers will always tell you that they're not lying to you, merely telling premature truths. Sam Bankman-Fried's defenders will tell you that he didn't actually steal all those billions. He gambled them on a bet that (sorta-kinda) paid off. Eventually, he was able to make all his victims (sorta-kinda) whole, so it's not even a theft:

https://www.cnn.com/2024/05/08/business/ftx-bankruptcy-plan-repay-creditors/index.html

Likewise, Tether, a "stablecoin" that was unable to pass an audit for many years as it issued unbacked, unregulated securities while lying and saying that for every dollar they minted, they had a dollar in reserves. Tether now (maybe) has reserves to equal its outstanding coins, so obviously all those years where they made false claims, they weren't lying, merely telling a premature truth:

https://creators.spotify.com/pod/show/cryptocriticscorner/episodes/Tether-wins–Skeptics-lose-the-end-of-an-era-e2rhf5e

If Tether had failed a margin call during those years and you'd lost everything, well, caveat emptor. The Tether insiders were always insulated from that risk, and that's all that matters: "that makes me smart."

When I think about the next four years, this is how I frame it: the victory of "that makes me smart" over "fairness and truth."

For years, progressives have pointed out the right's hypocrisy, despite that fact that Americans have been conditioned to be so cynical that even the rankest hypocrisy doesn't register. But "caveat emptor?" That isn't just someone else's bad belief or low ethics: it's the way that your life is materially, significantly worsened. The Biden administration – divided between corporate Dems and the Warren/Sanders wing that went to war on "unfair and deceptive" – was ashamed and nearly silent on its groundbreaking work fighting for fairness and honesty. That was a titanic mistake.

Americans may not care about hypocrisy, but they really care about being stolen from. No one wants to be a sucker.

#tether #ftx #scams #trumpism #caveat emptor #cryptocurrency #twitter #sleaze #premature truths #bossware #pluralistic

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t4t4t · 1 year ago

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The Liberal is always INNOCENT; he has nothing to do with anything; he never acts:

“God forbid! I didn’t send for the Police! I didn’t intend any VIOLENCE! I just didn’t want an Unobjective Person in My Department. If he was jailed or shot by the Police, THAT’S NOT MY CONCERN; I’M COMPLETELY INNOCENT! I DIDN’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT, and in any case, that merely shows what kind of person HE really was.”

The Liberal’s project is to exclude the radical from society, but he does not take responsibility for the project; he realizes his project in stages, but he is only responsible for the “innocent” first stage. OTHERS DO THE REST. The Liberal merely initiates the process, and is not responsible for what the others do.

The Reactionary hits the radical directly; the Liberal does not do his own hitting. The Liberal merely PROVOKES the radical until he responds to the provocation, and when he responds, THE COPS GET THE RADICAL. The Liberal maintains his good conscience: HE didn’t act--the radical acted; HE didn’t repress the radical--the cops did. THE LIBERAL IS ALWAYS INNOCENT; his only desire is peace and quiet.

The Reactionary throws out a radical and then has him arrested for Loitering or Conspiracy or outside Agitation if the radical returns to fight; the Reactionary “eggs on” and harasses until the radical is provoked to hit back, and then has him arrested for Assault and Battery; the Reactionary tries to exclude the radical from any sources of income in order to have him locked up as a thief. To the Reactionary, the radical is ALREADY A CRIMINAL WHEN HE EXPRESSES HIS THOUGHTS.

The Liberal knows just as well as the Reactionary that “The cops’ll get ‘im”; HE COUNTS ON THE COPS TO PROTECT HIS PEACE AND QUIET; but, as Rafferty repeatedly observed, THE LIBERAL DOESN’T WANT TO SEE THE COPS WHO PROTECT HIM.

The Liberal can be compared to the Medieval Church. The Church excommunicated a heretic, but did not itself put the heretic to death. The Civil Authority, the Secular Authority, took charge of the heretic’s body. The Church was innocent; the Civil Authorities and the Executioner were the ones responsible for physical extermination. The excommunicators of the Church maintained clean consciences.

Thus also the Liberal: All he does is to excommunicate the radical, to exclude him “spiritually”; the Civil Authorities do the rest. At every single step he applies systematic terror and violence, and at every single step he manages to maintain his clean conscience.

The Liberal ALREADY KNOWS that when his “Leftist Colleague” is an unemployed radical he will do something for which it will be legitimate to throw him in jail, but the Liberal doesn’t want to be aware that HIS PEACE AND QUIET ARE MAINTAINED THROUGH TERRORISM AND VIOLENCE. In other words, the Liberal’s weapons are the same as the reactionary’s; the only difference between them is that the Liberal doesn’t look, and has a good conscience. He’s “tolerant,” he “reads radical literature,” he’s the “only one who talks to radicals,” he’s MORAL in every single way; he goes out of his way to “help radicals”; he’ll do everything for radicals which will help him keep his good conscience WHILE HE CONTINUES TO RELY ON TERROR AND VIOLENCE.

Liberal professors and students whose situations can only be maintained through terror and violence, through systematic psychological and physical murder, advertise “Make Love Not War.” Liberal students who have ALREADY CHOSEN to help maintain the dominant project when their time comes, are busy “accumulating” large “stocks” of good conscience while they can, while their “new styles of life” do not yet conflict with their future “responsibilities.”

Liberals are not “moderate.” That’s their own self-image. They’re extremists, but unlike reactionaries, THEY’RE EXTREMISTS WITH GOOD CONSCIENCES. Their instruments are not “ideas”; their instruments are TERROR and VIOLENCE. But unlike lynchers, THE LIBERALS TURN THEIR EYES AWAY to maintain their innocence.

People are EXCLUDED; thousands of people are OUTSIDERS; yet the Liberals who forced them out are TOTALLY GUILTLESS, and have the illusion that they are the ones who are “sympathetic” to the Radical Students, the Emotionally What-Have-You Students, the Hippie Students. The Liberal who is the first to move WHENEVER SOMEONE CROSSES ONE OF HIS LINES at the same time “contributes generously” to “Left-wing organizations” and “is against the war in Vietnam.” He is a supporter of all GOOD THINGS; he is a GOOD PERSON; he’s the BEST PERSON IN THE WORLD. He is able to accept physical and psychological TERROR and VIOLENCE WITH A GOOD CONSCIENCE AND CHRISTIAN MORALS.

Kalamazoo, February 1969

I Accuse This Liberal University of Terror and Violence, Fredy Perlman

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nujeskz · 2 months ago

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Kismet — 황현진

Pairing: boxer!hyunjin x fem!reader

Genre: strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, instant connection, damsel in distress, angst if you squint

Synopsis: Hyunjin encounters a lost girl outside a club and steps in to help her when she's harassed. They end up stranded together, sharing a memorable night. Despite losing contact, fate intervenes, bringing them back together and sparking a powerful connection between them.

Warnings: not proof read! mention of alcohol and cigarette use, injuries/blood, harassment/assault, anxiety, fear, physical fights, and underground boxing. Let me know if I should add anything else!

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Hi! this is my first time posting something I've written, I had this idea in mind for a while it might not be perfect since I'm not really that good a writing and English is not my first language but I really tried my best to express everything I wanted to, I wrote everything in Spanish first and translated it myself to English (I had to look up words to portrait it better) so I hope you all like this! Please let me know if anything needs to be a warning. Feel free to leave a comment with any suggestions or with your thoughts on this!

Hyunjin didn’t intend to meet her that night.

The night air was heavy, laden with the scent of tobacco and alcohol seeping out from the club, with the cold biting at his skin. Hyunjin stepped out through the back door, the sharp smell of cigarette smoke curling around him as he lit one, his knuckles still swollen from the fight earlier that night. He leaned against the brick wall with a silent sigh. The dim glow of the streetlights highlighted his buzzed head, the subtle sheen of sweat from his last fight still clinging to his skin. He shouldn’t have been there — not really. He should have gone home, iced his knuckles, and rested for his next match. But adrenaline still burned in his veins, and the chaos of the crowd inside the club only made it worse.

He didn’t expect to find her there.

She appeared like a whisper, slipping through the club’s door as if the night itself had pushed her outside. Her chest rose and fell, fingers gripping her phone as she paced back and forth. Her breath was ragged, not from dancing but from the anxiety of losing her friends in the middle of the crowd. She stared at the dead screen of her phone, cursing the drained battery, trying to calm herself with the fresh air. Against the darkness, she seemed fragile, her silhouette delicate under the neon glow.

Hyunjin watched her from the corner of his eye, saying nothing, leaning against the wall with his gaze fixed on the street. It wasn’t his problem. It didn’t have to be.

They wouldn’t have spoken to each other if it wasn't for the group of guys who stumbled out a few minutes later, laughing too loudly, their sharp gazes locking onto her like she was a trophy. They approached her without any attempt to hide it.

“Hey, gorgeous, you lost?” one of them asked, stepping too close.

She took a step back, uncomfortable but trying to be polite.

“No, I’m fine. I’m waiting for someone,” she said.

“We can keep you company until they show up,” another one sneered, closing the distance.

Hyunjin tried to ignore them at first, flicking the ash off his cigarette with a clenched jaw. He didn’t want trouble, but the way they cornered her made his stomach turn. When one of them grabbed her wrist, and she flinched, he moved without thinking.

“Let her go,” he said, his voice low, each word laced with warning.

The guys turned, sizing Hyunjin up. They laughed. They always laughed at first.

“And who are you? Her boyfriend?” one of them sneered, stepping closer.

Hyunjin’s fingers twitched, curling into a fist at his side.

“No,” he said, glancing at her. Her expression was fearful, her chest rising and falling with silent pleas — “But I can break your face if you don’t back off and leave her alone.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and the guys stiffened. One shoved Hyunjin, but he didn’t budge. It wasn’t until they tried to touch her again that Hyunjin snapped. His fist connected with the guy’s jaw with a sharp crack, sending him sprawling to the ground. The others lunged at him immediately.

“Come with me!” Hyunjin barely had time to grab her hand before they started running, their feet pounding against the pavement, shouts echoing behind them. They didn’t stop until their lungs burned, until all that remained were their ragged breaths, the nervous laughter escaping in gasps, until the city swallowed them whole and the night fell silent around them.

As they slowed down, their surroundings suddenly felt… off. The streets weren’t as familiar as they had seemed in the chaotic confusion of their escape. They had run farther than she’d realized, deeper into a part of the city that felt more like a maze than anything else.

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin asked, breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m fine. That was crazy, but thank you,” you said, trying to steady yourself as you stood in the middle of the street. You looked around, searching for some kind of landmark, but nothing looked familiar.

“No problem. I just thought you could use a hand,” Hyunjin said with a lopsided smile as he stopped and surveyed the area. You were surprised to find yourself looking at him for the first time. The adrenaline still surged through your veins, but now it felt different — lighter, less frantic. In the dim glow of the streetlight, his features stood out with striking intensity, his jaw was sharp, his eyes dark and steady, carrying the same determination you’d noticed when he stepped in to help yoy. But there was something else, something softer beneath that surface— a quiet attentiveness as he made sure you were okay.

She felt the electric pull between them before she could even fully process it. His presence was powerful—like a contained storm, and for a brief moment, she felt as if she were standing in the eye of a storm, drawn to him in a way that caught her off guard.

“Do you know where we are?” you asked, clearing your throat, trying to hide your flushed face.

Hyunjin turned to look at you, a sheepish smile on his face as he ran a hand through his buzzcut. “Honestly? I have no idea where we're standing right now.”

“Oh... I thought you knew where we were going — well, never mind. We can split the fare for a cab and head back to the club. I was with some friends, but I lost them and my phone died. Do you think we could use yours?” you asked, speaking quickly, trying not to panic.

Hyunjin patted his jeans pockets, searching frantically.

“Yeah, of course... except my phone’s dead too,” he muttered, the last part barely audible. He ran a hand through his hair again, this time with frustration.

“Oh, great,” you said, sarcasm lacing your words as frustration and fear crept in.

“Hey, it’s okay...” Hyunjin stepped closer, his hands raised as if to calm you, waiting for you to say your name — something he’d only just realized he hadn’t asked.

“I’m Y/N, and you?” you said, meeting his gaze, making Hyunjin feel something he couldn’t quite describe.

“Hyunjin. Nice to meet you, I guess... Anyway, look, Y/N, if you want, we can look for somewhere to stay or see if we find a taxi. Given the time, I assume nothing’s open. Either way, I'll pay, so don't worry about that.” Hyunjin said, visibly frustrated, trying to find some kind of solution.

She noticed his broad shoulders then, the way his hands, bruised and rough, had clearly known more than one fight. But there was a softness in his eyes, like he was waiting for her to decide what came next. It was crazy — she barely knew this guy. And yet, the attraction was undeniable. The night had shifted, and now, lost in an unfamiliar part of the city with just the two of them, she couldn’t ignore the magnetic force drawing her closer to him.

And in that moment, in the stillness of the situation, when he looked at her, she realized that she no longer felt afraid. Instead, something else began to emerge. Something much more dangerous.

“You’re right... And don’t worry about paying. We can split it,” you said, and Hyunjin sighed, somehow relieved.

They were lost. Their phones were dead. But it didn’t matter. They walked for hours, talking about everything and nothing, sharing stories under the flickering city lights. By the time they finally found a small motel, rain had begun to fall, making them sprint to the entrance, laughing as they tried not to get drenched.

The rain gently tapped against the roof of the small motel in the middle of nowhere. Droplets slid down the window, reflecting the flickering lights of the sign that advertised available rooms… although, in reality, there was only one left.

“Just one room?” you asked, your voice tired but trying not to sound desperate.

The receptionist nodded indifferently, sliding the key across the counter. Hyunjin took the key and gave her a soft smile.

“We can look for another place if you want,” he suggested, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t mind walking a bit more.”

You looked out the window. The storm was still intensifying, and you’d already spent hours wandering with your phones dead and no idea where you were. You sighed and shook your head.

“It doesn’t make sense to keep looking in this weather,” you said, crossing your arms. “We can share the room.”

Hyunjin nodded, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. They climbed the stairs in silence, their shoes squeaking against the wet floor. When they opened the door, they found a modest room: one bed, a small table, and an old television hanging on the wall.

Hyunjin dropped his jacket on the chair and ran a hand through his damp hair.

“You can take the bed,” he said, gesturing toward the mattress. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You frowned, shaking your head.

“Don’t be silly. The bed is big enough for both of us. Besides, I doubt we can sleep after everything that happened.” you laughed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Why don’t we just stay up and talk?”

Hyunjin hesitated for a moment but eventually sat beside you, leaning his back against the headboard, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, looking at you with curiosity.

“I don’t know... Why don’t you start by telling me something about yourself?”

Hyunjin stared at the ceiling as if searching for the right words.

“I’m a boxer. Well... an underground boxer.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really? How long have you been doing that?”

“A year,” he shrugged. “I started because I liked training, and a friend convinced me to try underground fights. I guess I got hooked on the adrenaline.”

You smiled, resting your head against the headboard.

“That sounds intense. I’m a photographer. I have a small studio in the city.”

Hyunjin turned to you, genuinely interested.

“Really? That’s amazing. What kind of photos do you take?”

“Mostly portraits. I love capturing moments, people’s expressions... it's like every picture tells a story.”

The conversation flowed naturally, as if they had known each other forever. They talked about dreams, fears, silly anecdotes, and things they had never shared with anyone else. Without realizing it, their eyelids grew heavy, and at some point, they both drifted off to sleep. Their hands rested almost touching on top of the blanket, bodies finally relaxed after the night’s storm.

At dawn, the first rays of sunlight slipped through the window. Hyunjin opened his eyes first, blinking slowly as his brain processed the scene: they were in the same bed, only inches apart.

You woke up shortly after, realizing the same thing. You looked at each other, faces burning with embarrassment, but soon burst out laughing to ease the awkwardness.

“Well... at least we survived the night,” you joked, stretching your arms.

“Yeah... and without you kicking me in your sleep,” Hyunjin teased, grinning as he stood up.

You left the motel with wrinkled clothes and still-damp shoes, but with a strange lightness in your chests. You shared a taxi, and Hyunjin insisted on taking you home first.

When you arrived, you stepped out and smiled at him from the sidewalk.

“Thank you for everything, Hyunjin.”

He nodded, resting his arm on the window frame. “See you soon, okay?”

He watched her disappear into her building, feeling an unfamiliar ache in his chest as the door closed behind her. The taxi pulled away, leaving them both with the same sensation in their hearts, something had changed that night, and somehow, they knew this wouldn’t be their last encounter.

It was only when Hyunjin got to his apartment that he realized the mistake: they never exchanged numbers.

⭑.ᐟ

Days went by, but you couldn’t get him out of your head. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his crooked smile, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about boxing, the way he had protected you without hesitation. You remembered his hands, the same ones that had held yours as you ran through the streets, and the softness in his voice when you talked in that tiny motel room. But you never exchanged numbers.

You kept checking your phone as if somehow he might have magically found a way to text you. But nothing came. Just the echo of a night that felt farther away with each passing day.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Minho insisted, sprawled out on your studio couch while you edited some photos.

“I already told you no,” you sighed, not taking your eyes off the screen. “I’m not interested in watching a bunch of guys beat each other up until they end up all covered in blood.”

Minho scoffed, rolling his eyes. “First of all, it’s not just a bunch of guys— It’s Hyunjin. And second, you need to get out. You’ve been acting weird lately.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Hyunjin?” you echoed, as if the name had escaped from a dream.

“Yeah, a friend of mine,” Minho shrugged. “He fights underground. He’s good — you should see him.”

The universe had to be playing some kind of cruel joke on her.

At first, you refused, but Minho knew exactly how to convince you. And so, a few hours later, you were in a dimly lit basement, the air thick with the smell of sweat and nicotine. The crowd roared around the ring, and you felt put of place, your heart pounding far too hard against your ribs.

When the announcer called the next fight, the room erupted with excitement. And then, you saw him.

Hyunjin stepped into the ring, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, knuckles wrapped tight in white bandages, that same intense gaze making him impossible to ignore. But the second his eyes met yours, all the noise faded away.

He froze for a moment, shock written all over his face — and then he smiled. A wide, genuine smile, like he’d finally found something he’d been desperately searching for.

You couldn’t move. You could barely breathe.

The fight was a blur. You didn’t know if he won or lost, because the only thing you could feel was your fingers clutching the hem of your jacket, trembling with anticipation. The second the fight ended, Hyunjin jumped out of the ring, ignoring the sweat dripping down his face, weaving through the crowd straight to you without a second thought.

“I found you,” he panted, voice rough but radiant.

You laughed, unable to contain the rush of emotion.

“I found you,” you echoed, as if you needed to say it out loud to believe it was real.

They exchanged numbers immediately, laughing at how ridiculous it was they'd forgotten to do so before.

From the moment he saw you at that underground match, eyes wide with surprise as you recognized him in the ring, Hyunjin knew he was doomed. You kept running into each other, as if fate refused to drift you apart, and from then on, you never stopped talking. Endless texts, shared laughter, dates that lasted until dawn because neither of you wanted to say goodbye.

Hyunjin had never been afraid of fighting. He was used to the blows, the adrenaline burning through his chest, the blood sliding down his skin as if it were part of him. But what he felt for you… that terrified him.

He'd never felt so vulnerable. Every smile, every touch from you made him feel like he was lowering his guard, leaving his heart exposed to the possibility that everything could shatter at any moment. So he did what he knew best — run away.

It started with short replies, then excuses to cancel plans, until he stopped responding altogether. Three days. It had only been three days, but every hour without talking to you felt like an open wound. He couldn't sleep, couldn't fight properly, couldn't even pretend he was okay.

That night, without thinking, he ran to your apartment in the pouring rain, not caring about anything else. His breathing was erratic, hands shaking as he pounded on your door. The rain soaked through his clothes, but he didn't care. His heart was beating so hard it hurt, and when you opened the door, brows furrowed and eyes heavy with sadness, Hyunjin felt something inside him break.

“I'm sorry,” he blurted out, voice raw and broken. “I've been an idiot. I thought pushing you away was the right thing to do, but… I can't. I can't be without you”

And without waiting for a response, he kissed you.

He kissed you with all the fear, desperation, and love he'd bottled up over those days. His lips sought yours with frantic need, as if he were terrified you might disappear. You froze for just a second, then started laughing against his mouth before kissing him back, holding onto him like you never wanted to let go.

That night you talked for hours, until you fell asleep tangled in each other's arms, as if letting go wasn't an option.

The next day, you officially started dating. It wasn't perfect — there were insecurities, silly fights, and moments of doubts. But you always chose each other. You always found your way back.

Because Hyunjin finally understood that loving you didn't make him weak.

He loved you because, for the first time, he'd found something truly worth protecting.

#hwang hyunjin #hwang hyunjin stray kids #hyunjin #hyunjin stray kids #hyunjin au #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x you #hyunjin x y/n #stray kids fanfic #stray kids #stray kids x reader #skz #skz hyunjin #buzzcut hyunjin #nujeskz

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sometimes-i-write-good · 19 days ago

Text

Handling It

Top Gun: Maverick - Fanboy x f!reader [no use of y/n]

7.2k | Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time he punched someone square in the face. Today seemed as good a day as any. He’d forgotten the way pain blossomed behind his knuckles and webbed its way up his arm. Assault and battery charges were the last thing on his mind. Honestly the only thing on his mind when he threw that punch was you.

===

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

CW: Mentions of Abuse and Stalking, Breaking of Restraining Order, one-sided bar fight, insults and confrontation by a past abuser (there is no mentions or illusions to physical abuse, but please handle anything to do with emotional/mental abuse, stalking, and breaking of restraining orders with care. If this story isn’t for you, that’s okay. Just be safe <3)

Author’s Note: I’m a sucker for the ‘who did this to you’ style fics or any kind of ‘you came? you called’ - also, sorry to any Brent’s who caught a stray today. || cross-posted on ao3

===

“I can’t name just one thing.”

Mickey laughed over the lip of his beer bottle. A quick sip to, hopefully, mask the pink gracing his cheeks, even though he knew the effort was futile at best. “You know that.”

Reuben wouldn’t listen. He never did. It was one of the many qualities that made him such a great friend at times, and such a frustrating one tonight. “One thing you like about her,” Payback pushed for an answer. “It’s not that difficult of a question, Mick.”

But it was.

They went through this once a week. Minimum. He and Payback skirted off base early - easier to secure a spot at the bar before the crowds rolled in - all to sip a few beers and lament over the fact that they both missed the clause in their kickass fighter pilot careers where it stated relationships wouldn’t fall into their laps. If anything, their chances at love were as out of reach as the horizon in front of them. They could speed towards it all they wanted. The line would still always be there, a hair’s breadth away.

Reuben often started. Making sure to take his time in overanalyzing every interaction he had that week with the woman who worked in the control tower. Fanboy could agree she had the voice of an angel. Payback’s infatuation was completely warranted. Even before they found out she also looked like an angel, Mickey could tell she was a good fit for his wingman. Reuben would flirt relentlessly and she, ever professional, would instruct them with a smile in her voice. Occasionally she’d joke around, but not enough for a week by week breakdown. Her clearing them for landing wasn’t the easiest thing to warp into a ‘dude, she likes you. You should totally ask her out.’

Creating a conversation around you took no effort for Fanboy at all.

“She’s like no one else I’ve ever met, Reuben.” Once Mickey got started, he couldn’t stop. His callsign hadn’t exactly spawned into existence because of his cool, detached, and nonchalant approach towards anything he remotely liked.

“I know what you mean,” Payback said.

He motioned to the bartender for another beer. Mav and Penny had a date tonight. Precisely why he and Mickey were sitting belly up to the bar so early on a Thursday afternoon. No eavesdropping from Penny. She was known for meddling if any of her regulars were remotely interested in each other.

“Day,” Payback sighed, “she has the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. You know what she did last week?”

Fanboy arched a brow. He did know what she did last week. The past few months of being stationed here sat in his mind, carefully cataloged away. From the batting eyelashes to the extremely obvious attempts to get Reuben to ask her out on a date. Mickey knew Day’s entire day all thanks to Payback’s crush. At this point, he felt like he knew her well enough to consider her a friend despite having never held a conversation with her.

Payback could easily do the same. There was one memory in particular Fanboy would break down again and again - Reuben truly had the patience of a saint.

“Does your mother call you Garcia?” You asked the first time he took you out for drinks.

The rest of the Dagger Squad milled about the bar. You all had shown up together, along with some of your fellow TOPGUN instructors, but somehow Mickey paid for everyone’s drinks that night. The two of you ended up tucked away in a booth by yourselves. He couldn’t help but to think of it as a date.

“No, she doesn’t.” He remembered how to form words somewhere between watching you polish off your drink and feeling you lean in closer to show your interest.

“Does she call you Fanboy?” A sheepish grin and a small shake of his head. “So what does she call you?”

He leaned closer to you, stopping just before your noses could touch. “She calls me Miguel.”

You tested the word out for yourself. Reuben swears that was the moment Mickey fell in love, and he wasn’t entirely wrong. Fanboy melted when he heard his name on your lips. This shift in power felt dangerous. At any point you could have this man in a puddle at your feet, willing to do anything for you. Yet, Mickey felt nothing but trust. You had never been one to abuse power - unless, of course, it was to give Hangman shit or get Payback back for something.

“But I can call you Mickey?” You smiled one of the most stunning smiles Fanboy ever saw out of you. How could he say no?

And that’s how you wormed your way into a first name basis. On top of becoming a featured subject for their Friday debriefs. If Payback took a shot every time Fanboy asked “Do you think her asking to call me Mickey was her way of hitting on me?” he’d have alcohol poisoning.

“Mickey!”

His head snapped towards the sound of your voice like a moth to a flame. Icarus to the sun. Maverick to bad decisions. Hangman to asshole comments. Thousands of similes all as timeless as the way his heart ached in your presence. A romance for the ages.

He only wished it could get off the ground.

Reuben slapped him on the shoulder. He passed Fanboy a tequila shot saying, “You need to make a move tonight.”

You moved towards the pair, splitting off from your friends. Surely that was something Mickey could overanalyze later tonight.

“Yeah,” he answered absentmindedly. “Sounds good.”

“Hi, Reuben.” You saddled up to the bar. Payback crushed you in a hug, and Mickey couldn’t ignore the jealousy flickering about in his chest. When would he build up the courage to greet you with a hug? Why couldn’t he approach anything that had to do with you with the same surefire confidence he could impart towards flying?

You squirmed in Payback’s grip. “Too tight,” you playfully choked out. “I’m dyin’ here.”

Payback released you, taking care to carefully shove you closer to Mickey, and laughed. “Good to see you too, Einstein.”

Both you and Mickey shot him a look. You’d been through your fair share of shitty callsigns. Mouth, which finally got axed after filing enough harassment claims, started because you’d mouthed off to your superior once during Plebe Summer and had your whole squad in the doghouse for two months. It took another two months for the disdain to finally drop off whenever someone called you. By then, though, people had been shifted around, and most at The Academy (those with extreme insecurity) didn’t appreciate having a woman attempting to be a future TOPGUN flier.

Needless to say, Mouth in the hands of young men with sexism at the forefront of their minds quickly became a problem. So the remainder of your time at The Academy, and sometime after, marked you as IKEA. I Know Everything Anyway. Not nearly as cool as Maverick, Slider, or Iceman, but you’d rather be known for your brain than your hotheadedness. Talking over everyone simply had to happen in class. Otherwise you weren’t going to be heard at all.

Einstein came later; from Iceman himself. He came to personally congratulate you on your perfect score. “You’re a regular Einstein, aren’t you?” He’d said, and it stuck. Sometimes spoken in awe, sometimes with disgust, but mostly in a playful manner like Payback always managed.

“Watch yourself, Payback.” You plucked the shot from Mickey’s fingertips. It was gone in a flash. “Can I have another round, please?” You asked the bartender, then turned towards Fanboy with a grin. “You’re having one with me, right? And one more, probably, to make things even.”

The one thing Reuben asked about earlier came to mind. Your refusal to take shit. That would have to be his favorite thing (in this moment because Fanboy knew he truly couldn’t choose a single aspect) about you.

“What’re you starin’ at?” How you tilted your head to scrutinize him reminded Mickey of his childhood dog. A stray his mother swore up and down would never come in the house, only to end up sleeping in bed with her each night. Kind of like you - except you snuck your way into his heart rather than his bed. “Are you okay?”

Mickey could feel the heat radiating off his face. In comparing you to his childhood dog, he had gotten the image of you in his bed stuck in his mind. What a dream, and not even in the typical horny way people used the term ‘in bed.’ Fanboy’s fantasy consisted of being able to hold you, talk to you for hours in the early hours of the morning, and revel in the knowledge that out of anyone in the world you could choose, you chose him. Anything more that came with a domestic love like that would be a bonus.

Of course, you weren’t a mind reader. Thank god for that. No stumbling apology would ever be enough to save Mickey from the embarrassment of daydreaming about you while you were next to him. This crush steadily reached towards schoolgirl doodling your joint married name in a notebook levels of delusion. Whoever said be friends with your crush never mentioned the crushing anxiety of ruining that friendship with any given misstep. When did Mickey know it was safe to take the next step?

“Hmmm?” The tips of his ears grew hot as you stared. Somehow he managed to grasp every chance to make a fool of himself around you. “Yeah,” he breathed, acutely aware of Payback’s smirk off to the side, “I’m fine.”

“Are you doing a tequila shot?”

“I don’t know about Mick here-” Reuben brought a hand down on Mickey’s shoulder- “but I will definitely be having one.” He turned his attention to the bartender pouring the shots. “Lime and salt too, please.”

Your eyebrows practically shot to your forehead. “You can’t handle a tequila shot? I would not have guessed that about you, Payback.”

If only she knew how Reuben truly partied. Fanboy knew him longest out of anyone on The Dagger Squad; they'd been a pair for most of his career.

Payback brought a hand to his chest. He gasped dramatically and Mickey rolled his eyes. “We call him Payback because of all the shots I paid for that he promised to pay me back for.”

“I did pay you back!”

“When?”

“How many times have I saved your life?”

You laughed, doing nothing for the heat still trapped in Mickey’s cheeks. “Isn’t that your job?”

“I could be shit at my job.” Payback shrugged. He shifted his position to reach for the salt on the table. All the confidence of a man who didn’t own this tab - Mickey, unfortunately, would be paying for more of the squad’s drinks tonight. “The lime and salt,” he explained, “are a part of the experience. There’s a comradery to a ritual done together. After this, we’re bonded for life.”

Long ago Fanboy used to be envious of the way people flocked to Payback. This simple act transformed into a performance. Storytelling was an art, and Reuben perfected it. He even had you succumbing to the supposed weakness of using a chaser.

To not stare you down while you licked your hand, Fanboy busied himself with the salt. However, his eyes flickered to you for the briefest of seconds. Right as he dragged his tongue over the fleshy part between his thumb and wrist. The want must have been apparent. He had always been the type to wear his emotions on his face.

But you weren’t. So when your eyes widened, Mickey paused. A horrible thing to do considering his current position. Your chest stilled for a second, eyes trained on him, and time stopped entirely. The knowledge that you might just want him too sent Fanboy crashing back to reality. He salted his hand with as steady a hand he could manage.

“A toast!” You cleared your throat, eyes darting around before settling pointedly not on Fanyboy. He could see your desperation for control. “Payback?”

Payback lifted his shot glass. The two of you followed suit. “May it always be the other guy who says 'This drink's on me.’”

Between Fanboy’s annoyance and your giggle Reuben licked the salt, threw back the shot, and grabbed a lime wedge to bite down on. He grinned around the peel. “I win.”

The competitive nature of fighter pilots took over. Mickey completed the sequence with ease. His bank account wouldn’t appreciate the smooth taste of the liquor but nearly dying those few months ago made him realize two things. One, he really didn’t want to spend all his time pining over you - he’d rather be with you. Two, he was getting too old for cheap liquor.

“That’s really- hey!” You felt around blindly on the counter. “Mickey, that's so not fair.”

He brandished your lime slice. “You’re supposed to do the shot, then complain about Payback. Everyone knows this.”

You stuck your bottom lip out in an overdramatic pout. “I wanted that.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sure, Fanboy may have deepened his voice slightly. He might have seized the opportunity to slide forward, closer to you. What was he supposed to do? Ignore your blatant attempts at flirting because someone else was standing right there? He’d been doing that for the entire time he’d known you. At some point the third wheel needed to read the room.

Placing the lime wedge between your lips helped Payback do precisely that. His gaze flicked back and forth between Fanboy and his thumb gently pushing the fruit to your mouth. “I, uh,” Reuben fumbled for words, “I’ll go over there.”

No one acknowledged his departure. Fanboy kept his eyes locked on yours. After all, you were the whole reason he was at the bar in the first place. You pulled the lime into your mouth, and he let his thumb linger on your bottom lip for a moment before leaning back on the bar stool.

“Done pouting?”

You popped the lime out of your mouth. “I wasn’t pouting.”

Being a gentleman became so much harder when you ran your tongue over your lips to lick up all the juice. The movement killed Fanboy’s ability to speak entirely. Your smirk confirmed what he already knew. You were well aware of his weaknesses.

“So, Mickey…”

Like the sound of his name falling from those very lips.

It had been a while since the two of you talked about something other than work. Hell, Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time you and him were one on one. A lie. Payback debriefed that last one on one conversation with Mickey a few days ago. He couldn’t help it. Every day you were gentle on his mind.

“What have you been fanboying over recently?” You toyed with the citrus peel. Focused intently on pushing the thing around the counter. “Anything interesting?”

“You mean other than you?”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. His eyes locked on yours. Widening by the second with embarrassment. “I mean-”

A shy smile played on your lips. You looked pleased with yourself as you said, “Yeah, other than me. I try not to talk about myself too much. Don’t want to be Bagman Jr.”

Oh, Mickey could kiss you right now.

“Then what do you want to talk about?” He asked. Straightforward in the hopes of appearing more confident than he felt. Fanboy could face certain death, he could face Cyclone, and he could face Bob in poker. Your pretty face on the other hand almost always left him flustered.

You tapped a finger against your chin. Faking a deep concentration to pull a smile out of Mickey. “What was that TV show you’ve been dying to get everyone to watch, again?”

He instantly perked up. “You sure you want to open that door?”

“You’re right. Let’s have one more shot first,” you teased. Your hand rested on Mickey’s forearm. He tried hard not to stare at the headliner for flirty behavior and focused on your beautiful smile instead. The whole time his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. “I’m sure, Mickey. I like listening to you talk.”

And, damn, did Mickey talk. Somewhere in the midst of laughter, finding excuses to touch one another, and conversation the two limes turned into seven. The liquor worked any and all tension from Mickey. Tipsy - maybe leaning more on drunk - confidence coursed through him. Any flirty freudian slips he took in stride.

Tequila made a new man out of Fanboy. A closer version of himself, might be a better way to look at it. How he normally attempted to pick women up at bars. You weren’t any woman. Precisely why so many shots were necessary in the first place.

“Is it Thursday today?” You slurred your words together ever so slightly. The drinks brought a warmth to your cheeks that hadn’t been there earlier. Fanboy resisted the urge to reach out. Scared the slightest touch would shatter the illusion. “Thursday is darts day.”

“Thursday is karaoke day,” Mickey corrected, his sentence also fuzzy around the edges. “ ‘s why Coyote’s not here.”

He focused on the concentrated furrow between your brow. An expression that only ever came out when you were drinking. Sober you calculated everything immediately. A beer or two in a loading screen appeared while you clicked the pieces into place. “But Bob’s here.”

Bob and Javy often skipped Thursday’s at The Hard Deck. Karaoke was bad enough with sober people who couldn’t sing. Adding drunkenness to the equation ended in certain disaster. Case in point - Javy “Coyote” Machado almost became Javy “Wolf” Machado because of all the drunken howling he did onstage instead of singing.

He hadn’t shown his face at karaoke since.

“Bob is here at Phoenix’s request.” That request being he lost a bet, but semantics were lost on the squad. “My guess is she gets him to sing ‘Sweet Caroline.’”

“All that attention on him? He’d melt.”

Fanboy shook his head. Bob was shy, sure, but he could handle the spotlight with enough time to prepare. “No, but Rooster is absolutely going to take the next three slots after to prove he’s the better singer.”

You laughed, and Fanboy could have sworn you used that as an excuse to lean in close and squeeze his bicep. “Oh, I’m telling him you said that.” You swung around in your stool, using Mickey’s arm to stabilize yourself, and searched for Rooster in the sea of people.

In your time surveying the crowd, Fanboy traced the rim of his empty shot glass and reveled in being your rock. Could this be your future together? Inside jokes over drinks. Innocent touches with serious potential to transform into something more.

Tonight everything became clear. All questions would be answered - good or bad - Mickey decided. You were the brains. IKEA. You could tell him if you knew your feelings for him. If this pipedream had potential or would swirl down the drain.

Nails pricking skin pulled Fanboy from his thoughts. Your grip went stiff along with the rest of your body. Any traces of a buzz disappeared entirely in this strange rigid poster. He carefully pried your hand off him. “What is it?”

“Brent.” Your voice escaped you in a panicked whisper.

The name registered with Mickey briefly after wracking his tequila soaked brain for a moment longer than necessary. A few weeks ago, during downtime between practice hops, everyone traded stories about the worst ex they had. Payback shared his egregious tale about a girl he dated in high school stealing his dog when he didn’t ask her to prom, Phoenix told everyone how her blind date ended up storming into the kitchen of the restaurant they were at to cook his own meal, and Mickey gave the pared down version of his longest relationship ending when she moved halfway across the country to reunite with her… other boyfriend.

No one had anything nice to say. Except for you.

Your most recent ex, it seemed, had boundary issues that couldn’t be solved in a relationship with someone in the military. The constant reminders and communication simply weren’t compatible with where you were at in your career. Always moving around from base to base, fully prepared to be whisked away on a secret mission without a word of warning, didn’t bode well for the two of you. So, you split.

Everyone - Hangman - blatantly accused you of still having feelings for this man. Mickey couldn’t help but lean forward with interest, waiting for your answer. He prepared himself for crushing disappointment. You simply dismissed the notion with a gentle, “He’s not bad people. I wish him nothing but the best, and I hope that best for him is far, far away from me.”

But your body language conveyed the opposite. You stood, swaying on your feet, and shook your head. Mickey was immediately off the barstool. Buzz be damned. He let himself assume the worst and boost some adrenaline into his system. Overpowering the effects of the alcohol with stress always pulled Mickey’s mind back together. He called a constant state of anxiety home. Fight or flight was where he performed best. Fanboy had medals to prove it.

“Einstein? Are you okay?”

One arm wrapped around your waist. The look of shock on your face had Fanboy scared your legs would give out from beneath you at any given moment. His earlier thought of being your rock solidified in this storm. He wanted to be your constant, a source of comfort.

If only he knew how to help you.

For a second you didn’t answer him. Your eyes were locked on the man who had just passed through the threshold of The Hard Deck. Then you nodded. “Yeah.” You sounded far away. “Everything’s fine.”

Fanboy followed your gaze. He wanted to know exactly which man you side-eyed.

Smaller and skinnier than a lot of the men in the bar, expected from someone who wasn’t training with the Navy seven days a week. He appeared unassuming. Still, you knuckles were turning white from where you were gripping the counter. Unassuming didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of harm.

“What do you need from me?” He asked.

You swallowed, and your eyes finally met his. Mickey could have cried. You looked… small. The feared Naval aviator he knew so well had been replaced with someone else. Someone hurt, clearly because fear wasn’t an emotion you willingly showed. In all of a few seconds you’d become human.

“Einstein,” he repeated in a slow, gentle voice. “What do you need from me?”

“I have a restraining order on that man.” Shame, which Fanboy couldn’t comprehend why, lit your eyes. You turned back towards the bar. Eyes trained on the pile of lime peels. “For stalking.”

Boundary issues seemed like a serious downplay.

Mickey slid behind you to shield you from view of anyone approaching. He brought an arm around to rest against the bar. To anyone else, this would look flirty, but really Fanboy wanted to give you the ability to whisper to him without anyone else overhearing. “We should get you out of here.”

You shook your head. “I don’t know where he is.” The way your voice broke, broke Mickey’s heart. What did he do to you? “I don’t want to move if I don’t know where he is.”

“Okay.” Mickey nodded. “If I tell you where he’s at, then we’ll figure out if we’re using the back door or the front door.”

He keeps his eyes locked on yours, searching your face for any sign that you heard him. Gears turned behind your eyes. Emotions clicked away, compartmentalized to deal with later. You were using your training. Adrenaline killed if not dealt with effectively.

“You okay?” He whispered.

“I don’t want you to look away.” Selfishly, Mickey nodded. He didn’t want to look away until he felt confident he wasn’t leaving you to drift about in your anxiety alone. “I have to… to get myself under control.”

The bartender passed by without a glance in their direction. Conversation around them continued loudly. As far as Mickey could tell, no one paid you two any mind at all.

“You’re doing a great job.”

You closed your eyes. “Thank you, Mickey.” When you opened your eyes, any trace of fear vanished. Einstein, the Navy’s top aviator, would do what everyone else on a particularly traumatic mission did - deal with the emotional shit later, and eliminate the threat now. “Ready to go?”

Right now? He shouldn’t be shocked. When you were in action, you didn’t hesitate.

Mickey nodded. Now was as good a time as any. He held out a hand and helped you step around the barstool. You clung to him, the only impression that Brent’s appearance still had you rattled. It didn’t seem like a good time for Fanboy to peel himself away from you. Having a hand on you might be smart anyway. You wouldn’t get separated as you made your way through the crowd.

“There you are.”

Brent stood an uncomfortably close foot away. His teeth weren’t sharpened fangs, but his smile cut Mickey to the core regardless. This was worse case scenario - coffin corner. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but my calls go straight to voicemail.”

Hands still clasped, the two of you turned to face him. You stared straight past him, right over his shoulder. Only when it became clear you couldn’t pass by without him being able to lay a hand on you did you acknowledge him. “Brent.”

The grin grew. Mickey straightened to full height. He wished he had the intimidating extra few inches most of the others on Dagger Squad had. Brent’s eyes slid Mickey’s way, down to your enjoined hands, but snapped back up to Einstein quick. Like you’d vanish given the slightest opportunity.

“Please move.” Your voice gave no room for further conversation but Brent made an attempt anyway.

“Went by your place, but your windows were dark.”

A pit of unease grew in Mickey’s stomach. Einstein had been going through this all on her own. None of them knew the baggage she carried. Some squad they were. He glanced your way, but you had the same blank look on your face.

Brent barreled on. “Key didn’t work in the lock. The one you kept under that stupid garden decoration was gone.” His eyes bore into your face. Too aggressive to be considered making eye contact. Fanboy had only ever seen a power display like this in interrogation training. “Did you move or something?”

You lifted a shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “If you’d like to contact me, you’ll have to do so through my lawyer.”

The mere implication Brent was breaking his restraining order changed the set of his jaw. Muscles feathered and he pressed his lips together. “But,” he said around a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I’m here now. Look. This is the last time, I swear. I just need closure.”

“If you’d like to contact me, you’ll have to do so through my lawyer.” You gripped Mickey’s hand a bit tighter and moved to step around Brent, but he sidestepped in your way. “Please move.”

“It’s a public bar, darling. I can stand wherever I fucking please.” All attempts at playing nice slowly started to drip away. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Darling. Mickey’s stomach rolled. He felt your hand jerk backwards but neither of you could back up without the bar digging into your back. Brent seemed well aware of such a fact. He took a lazy step forward. “Whenever you want to ditch this one-” he spoke about Fanboy without sparing him a glance- “I’d like to talk to you.”

Enough was enough. Fanboy stepped forward with intent. What exactly said intent was he would figure out halfway through the confrontation. He wasn’t exactly known for his foresight in his personal life. The only thing that stopped him was you tugging him back.

With one small squeeze, you removed your hand from Mickey’s.

“You can talk to my fucking lawyer.” You used the same sickly sweet voice Fanboy heard you use on higher up’s that refused to take you seriously. “Until then, you need to move. Now.”

“Can we just talk outside?” Brent asked. He reached out to grab for your arm, but you dodged his advances.

“Please, do not touch me.” Your words were firm and flat. “I don’t want you touching me.”

“You owe me the courtesy of a conversation.”

Mickey never wanted to white knight on your behalf, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to let this douchebag get anywhere near leaving his sight with you let alone get all the way to the front doors. He could handle you being mad at him for fighting a battle for you. He couldn’t handle what would happen if you took on a fight like this by yourself when you didn’t have to.

“Can we talk outside? Or are you going to keep letting your friends gaslight you into thinking I’m always the bad guy?”

When you failed to answer, Brent rephrased his question. It seemed your lack of emotional response wormed its way under his skin in a way he couldn’t hide.

“Can you stop being such a bitch and answer me?” He asked, reaching out once again to put his hands on you. A mistake.

Everyone in the bar fell silent at the dull ‘thack’ of your fist connecting with Brent’s cheek. Somewhere in the wide arsenal of cinema there was a scene just like this that ends in an all out brawl. Here Brent’s head snapped to the side thanks to the sheer force you packed in a single punch. He blinked in disbelief.

Mickey, on the other hand, saw the first forming a while ago. He wasn’t one for violence, but watching you remind everyone you weren’t one to take shit always made his mouth water. And watching you throw a punch may just be the hottest thing he’d seen all week.

Excusing, of course, the fact that your creep of an ex boyfriend still stood there in front of you with a dumbfounded look on his face like he had no clue what he could have done to deserve that.

You cleared your throat. “I asked you not to touch me, please.”

Fanboy grew tired of the niceties. The second you looked towards him for help, he was telling Brent to fuck off and he wouldn’t give him any choice but to listen.

Payback paced behind Brent. He inched close enough to catch Fanboy’s eye. Mickey and Reuben could always reasonably assume the other’s thoughts without words. Half the time they only talked because they liked to hear themselves speak. One look from Fanboy said everything, though. His wingman was headed out the front door on the phone with the cops in an instant.

All Fanboy had to do was keep things from escalating.

Brent straightened, eyes shifting around to all the Navy’s finest, and brought a hand up to where you punched him. For a second, Mickey foolishly thought he would swallow his pride. Brent looked ready to tuck his tail, turn on his heel, and run out of the Hard Deck.

No one said anything while they waited for Brent to respond. If he left, no one would bother him too badly. If he didn’t take the warning punch seriously, Mickey could almost bring himself to pity the poor fool. Almost, but not really.

Creepy smile devoid of emotion in place, Brent reached out politely once again and, this time, caught ahold of you. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”

At the sight of Brent gripping your arm, the sound of your first name falling from his lips, Fanboy’s self-control snapped. This thin string holding himself together split.

His fist flew up faster than he could process. Brent’s teeth clacked as his jaw came together. Fanboy clipped your ex’s chin in the perfect uppercut, and he dropped straight to the floor.

Unconscious.

You, who talked so highly of this ex those few weeks ago that Fanboy convinced himself you were still in love with him, turned to Mickey with panic written across your features.

“You punched him!” You shouted to Mickey, eyes flickering between your ex on the floor and Fanboy. The angle wasn’t the slightest bit flattering for the poor guy.

Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time he punched someone square in the face. He’d forgotten the way pain blossomed behind his knuckles and webbed its way up his arm. Assault and battery charges were the last thing on his mind. Honestly the only thing on his mind when he threw that punch was you.

“You punched him first.” Mickey shrugged. He shook his hand out in a gesture he hoped passed as nonchalant. Pain lingered, though, and he couldn’t help but grimace when he flexed his fingers.

“I had a reason.”

“So did I.” You crossed your arms and arched a brow. Mickey sighed and stepped over Brent’s unconscious body. “He didn’t respect you clearly stating you didn’t want to be touched.”

“I was handling it.”

“I know,” he said, and shrugged. “I just handled it with you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but, when your gaze moved from Brent to Fanboy one more time, he could see gratefulness. “I have to call my lawyer.”

—

Those bright red knuckles of yours had yet to fade. From the sound of it, Mickey could guess you’d hit his cheek bone and would be sporting some nasty bruises for a while. He didn’t bother to look at his own hand. It throbbed to an annoying degree. The chances of his knuckle being split was exceptionally high, but your well being in the moment mattered far more.

Neither of you wanted ice for your hands. Fanboy hoped it would make him look tough. You had been more preoccupied with leaving a voicemail explaining Brent had broken his restraining order and the police had been called and “to please call me back as soon as humanly possible.”

Then you both collapsed in a booth in the furthest corner possible of the Hard Deck because you wanted to see when the cops walked through the door rather than tuck yourself in the back. Fanboy refused to stray far. You hadn’t asked him to leave, which he took as a good sign. At least you weren’t too mad at him for stepping in.

“That’s one hell of a right hook you’ve got there.”

He hoped to ease the tension with a teasing joke. In classic Fanboy fashion, he misread the timing.

“My lawyer is not going to like this one bit.” You dragged a hand over your face. The one with the angry knuckles. “She told me, ‘If he breaks his restraining order, you can’t just punch him. As much as he might deserve it.’”

Mickey smothered a grin. He wanted to throw out a joke about you being the only one to find a lawyer who talks like Bob, but instead he motioned for your hand.

“Here.” A towel of half-melted ice sat next to him, waiting for the opportune moment for Mickey to refuse to let you suffer any longer. You extended your hand across the table for him to grab. He set the ice down gently, muttering a soft “sorry” at your hiss of pain. “You handled yourself pretty well out there.”

You made no move to take the ice pack or your hand away from Mickey. So he sat there, icing your hand, and watched you wrestle with your reaction. Fear, anger, grief, aggravation. They all shuffled over your features like Payback trying to pick a song from the jukebox.

Eventually, you settled on a classic. Humor as deflection. “I think I’d feel better if my punch was a one and done.”

He lifted the makeshift ice pack and made a show of inspecting your knuckles. “I’d say you packed a pretty good punch.”

That same shy, flirty smile from earlier came back. “Thanks, Mickey.”

“Of course.” Any attempt to appear cool shattered the second he saw the gratefulness in your eyes. “I hope I didn’t overstep. I’m not really up to date on the laws surrounding restraining orders or stalker exes.”

You shook your head with a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t think you would be. You don’t strike me as someone who would ever turn out like Brent.”

“If I do, you have full permission to punch me. Whether your lawyer advises it or not,” he teased, and relief flooded him when you laughed.

“It isn’t self-defense to punch someone violating their restraining order. No matter how scared I was seeing how he found me.”

The tone in the booth shifted towards seriousness. Any trace of a smile on your face vanished, and you curled your fingers around Mickey’s hand. “I used to live out in Texas. Stationed there so often, I rented out an apartment because living on base didn’t feel permanent. I wanted a place to call my own.”

Mickey glanced out towards the bar full of the Navy’s best. Payback stood watch over Brent, who had finally come to and was arguing with the wall that was Rooster, Hangman, and Bob.

“He followed you from Texas?” He asked.

You nodded. Whatever you attempted to say got lost in the tears welling up behind your eyes. “Sorry.” You swallowed and blinked rapidly to clear the emotion from your face. “I saw him around town a few times, but this was the first time I felt like he actually knew where I was. Like it was more than a coincidence. When he talked about coming around to my place… there’s this part of me that can’t tell if he was talking about back in Texas or where I live now. It’s terrifying.”

Fanboy hoped the cops would hurry up. The sooner Brent could get out of here, the better. One punch suddenly didn’t feel like enough, and if Mickey threw another he didn’t think he’d be able to stop.

“And there’s a good chance I’ll be charged for assault.” Your laughter was ice cold. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I know better- god, I’m so fucking stupid.”

Mickey squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him, and shook his head. “You are not stupid. He put his hands on you.”

“That’s not self-defense either,” you sighed. “He wasn’t attacking. The cameras are going to show him reaching out with a smile and he’ll, at most, get a slap on his wrist. I’m screwed.”

“He was attacking.”

“Did you not hear what I just said? He wasn’t attacking.”

“He. Was. Attacking.” Fanboy emphasized every word, then gestured to the bar you were in. “There’s at least 20 people I can count who will give that same story without needing to be asked. I’m sure Phoenix and Bob are already out there waiting for the cops so they can be the first to let them know what he did.”

You turned to look at the crowd of people, mouth quirking up into a smile when you spotted the rest of the squad keeping Brent on the other side of The Hard Deck. Fanboy watched your gaze lock onto the camera capturing the man acting like a saint for the sake of the security camera in the corner of the room.

The smile faltered. “You really think so?”

“You’re one of us, Einstein. We don’t care what base you’re coming in from. You’re assigned to our squad and we take care of our own.”

Mickey moved the ice pack and released your hand back to you. “Don’t worry about the security cam footage, either. The cops tend to take our word at face value. Plus, Penny’s got a good reputation for not calling unless it’s warranted. There hasn’t been a single bar fight she hasn’t sorted out herself..”

“That feels…”

“Like how Maverick would handle something?” He supplied.

You nodded with a laugh. “Exactly.” Your eyes traveled over Mickey’s face. “I appreciate you handling things with me today. I’ve been dealing with this on my own for a few years now. I forgot what it’s like to know someone has my back on the ground instead of only in the sky.”

“I’ve always got your back, Einstein. Ground, sky, and all areas in between.”

The opening practically presented itself to him in the way you smiled at him.

“Look, I know this might not be the best time or anything…” Mickey trailed off. He cleared his throat in an attempt to keep his nerves at bay. What kind of moron decided to ask someone out immediately after an incident like this? “But, after all the statements are taken, would you, maybe, want to take a walk along the beach with me? Just get out of here, get your mind off everything?”

You sat up straighter in the booth. For once, Fanboy wished he wasn’t alone with you. If Payback were here, he could confirm if your eyes actually lit up at the proposition or if Mickey’s wishful thinking clouded his mind again.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Mickey?” You asked. His name passing over your lips, over the teasing smile spreading across your face, rendered him speechless.

He cringed. “I’m an idiot, right?” Nervous laughter escaped him. “I mean, I planned on asking you out tonight anyway. If that changes anything. I don’t want you to think I’m, like, stepping in to take advantage of a bad situation. You can tell me no, Einstein. I know it’s been a… I mean, the past hour has been a lot.

“But I don’t want you to be alone while you’re dealing with all of this.” He turned in his seat to glance around for Phoenix. “Should we call Nat over here? Would you rather talk to her? I’m serious, this doesn’t have to be a date. I didn’t mean to overstep… What? Why are you laughing at me?”

You sat across the seat, hand smothering the giggles slipping through your smile. “Am I rambling again?” He asked, and you nodded. “Sorry. I’m usually better at dealing with emotional situations like this.”

“I’d say you knocked it out of the park today,” you joked. Fanboy could only groan at the pun.

The two of you sat in silence for a bit. Mickey hoped the flush on his face appeared to be alcohol induced rather than his lapse of judgement. Your phone sat between them, screen still black while you waited for your lawyer to get the voicemail and call you back.

“It took you long enough.”

He tilted his head. Much like how you did when you first walked in today. “What?”

“Asking me out,” you clarified, “that took you a while.”

“Is that a yes?”

You threw your head back and laughed in a way Fanboy never heard you laugh before. A mix of elation and pure joy. Maybe the sound of your voice saying his name could be his second favorite sound. That laugh needed to be bottled away in his memories forever. “Yes,” you said. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“I really like you,” he said, then, after a moment’s consideration, he tacked your first name at the end of the sentence. It only felt fitting.

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yeyinde · 5 months ago

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I am binge reading your work and I love your Price characterisation so much! Can you please go into detail what you his childhood looked like and what led him to be this angry, stubborn man who is fixated on saving the world at all costs

this is basically a reinterpretation of opening Pandora's box but instead of releasing great evils, it's just me yapping non-stop about John Price whenever i get the opportunity. but i cut a lot out because it was getting too long, so this is a brief summary on what made John Price the way that he is;

re: abuse (physical, mental, emotional; of authoritative power).

Nepo-baby. Born into Military Royalty. The Price name has a lot of sway in the government. Probably lived in Hereford going up before moving to Liverpool at 18. Realistically, Price has no other career choices because I can't see Mr "threatens to hang superior officers" sitting in a cubical and expected to hit quotas without catching several charges for assault and battery when his temper gets the best of him. And it always does.

His homelife was bad (but absolutely nothing compared to Simon's). His dad was just a staunch disciplinarian groomed by the traditional values of 40s-60s England. The typical "father works to provide for his family all day and then comes home to quiet, respectable children neither seen nor heard with food already on the table waiting for him and a wife that only speaks when spoken to and only ever to agree with her husband (and a lil bit of female "orgasm"????? by god! they've brought witchcraft back to the land of her Majesty the Queen!)"

He has an angry, uncompromising father with a temper and a mother who says thinks like, "well if *you* didn't make him angry, then you wouldn't have gotten yourself a black eye."

His dad was very physically abusive to both of them. Price really tried to stick up for his mum, but that would just set his dad off even more. And afterwards, his mum would just side with his dad, anyway. But on the flipside, I think she expected Price to protect her. So when he didn't (because he's a literal child!!), she'd get angry. But she obviously can't lash out like her husband or even her child, so uses the only weapon she has to gain some semblance of control: manipulation.

Price takes pieces of both his parents. His father, the physical aggressor, and his mother, the manipulative victim. And she is a victim, very much so. But I also think she pits them against each other. Gets bored. Causes issues. But there's power in getting someone to do what you want, and that's how she takes hers.

Price catches on to her in his early teens, but that's still his mother. Even though they have a very rocky relationship, she's still the Victim in his head, even when she's whispering in his dad's ear about all the things she despises about her son. And then going to Price (after his dad does something about it - again: disciplinarian, control freak) and playing the pitiful mother subjected to her husband's tyranny and a sad, weak son who can't do a single thing to protect her when she needs him.

Price learns to manipulate from her. Emotional blackmail. Victim-complex. Gaslighting. Scapegoating. But the biggest takeaway is the way he shifts the victim-complex into heroism (esp with Gaz). They can't be the bad guys. It's a logical fallacy in his mind. They're the ones saving the world, and if the world wasn't so riddled with bad guys, with people who need projecting, then they wouldn't need to do what they do.

I think Price has a bit of animosity towards people he sees as weaker (re: his mum having to share the victimhood with her son). But this animosity can also rear as obsession. He's the only person who can save you/them/the world. And since you/they/the world can't save yourself, then you should just listen to him.

And if you don't. Well, that's going to be a pretty big problem.

Honestly on the fence about siblings. If he has any, it's probably an older sister and she's either the equivalent of Janice Soprano (minus any of the backbone and ambition) or Barbara, resigned to her life and utterly forgetful. but I kinda like the idea of him not having any siblings to weather the storm with, you know? Like, it's just him and a mother who victim blames and ignores, and he gets the brunt of his dad's anger.

He was an obnoxious kid to be around. Probably really tried to impress his dad by adopting all of his values; baby misogyny, bite-sized authoritarianism, military fiscalism/military–industrial complex, militarism, etc., before realising (earlyyyyy teens) that he hates his dad and everything he stands for (but I'm a SUCKER for letting Price suffer and I love cyclicity and generational trauma so naturally, as much as he tries to run from the ghost of his dad, it still lingers - just in different ways; the worst thing you could ever say to Price is, you're just like your father).

Turned into a moody teen in the 80s/90s. His anger is a hair trigger. Utterly uncontrollable. But by this time, he learned to hide it because his dad's way of idealing with trauma was to add more. Therapists are pseudoscience, so he taught Price that men just bury these things. And if you can't, then you should be put down like a dog.

The assessment of a man's character was entirely based on the military tests he passed. And with Price's anger, trauma, he probably shouldn't have passed the evaluations, but since his dad, his grandfather, his great-grandfather, were all military dogs, he learned how to beat it. He's also really good at manipulating people.

I think between 16-17 there was a real attempt to do something that wasn't the military and I haven't decided which one I like better but:

He gets a job (as a port worker or in a factory). The Price name has no sway here (and baby Price grew up surrounded by people who knew his family, who revered them for their service to the country, etc). If he wants to make it, it has to be by his own merit. The problem is, while he's a hard worker, his trauma (men who remind him of his father, women who are too much like his mother) causes an incredible rift between him and authority.

If his boss is a man just like his dad, then Price is a match in a tinderbox.

If he isn't, to Price (who has only just learned to hold his tongue), the idea of a nobody being in a position of power over him will also set him off.

Either way, he's doomed.

If he man is a beast that no one can stand up to, and gets away with things because he's the boss, then Price's temper would flare pretty quickly. Especially if he comes after Price. Bullies him. Belittles him. But the worst is the humiliation. He ends up beating his boss very badly, terrifying the men around him but in their fear, and how quickly they listen to him because of it, Price realises he likes it. That fear can be weaponized. Honed.

Or: same situation, but if you lean more towards Price looking out for the underdog rather than his own self-interest, then he sticks up for someone and beats his boss to protect them. Everyone's still afraid of him, but they revere him. They do what he asks. This version, he realises that respect can be weaponized.

(and if the man is not like his dad, then Price will antagonise him into action. He'd throw the first punch, and Price will retaliate. It would still go too far, but - Nepo baby, weaponized fear: the outcome would be the same.)

He gets taken into custody. The tell him his boss is not going to make it. But Price's dad exercises every ounce of power to get his son out of trouble (because this will look very bad on them), and Price leans several things which shape him as an adult: his name has a lot of power; rules and regulations and just policing won't stop bad people unless you take it into your own hands once and for all, and people listen to him and that either version of the above can be weaponized.

He'd probably take the military a bit more seriously but only because he's trying to get vengeance for himself (even if this is subconscious and he doesn't realise it). He leaves at 18. Joins. And climbs the ranks higher than his dad.

At first, there's a concerted effort to do good but something cracks. Builds. Eventually Price comes to the conclusion that he'll have to take a more hands-on approach and get them a little bloody if he wants real change.

I have a lot of thoughts of military-dog Price. But!! That's basically it.

Shaped by physical, mental, emotional abuse; leans into the poor rich kid trope slightly. It all manifests more when he climbs the ranks, gets freedom, and realises that only he can do what needs to be done.

#his complex relationship with his mother (the one i made up inside of my head)#is also why i cannot see him as a brat tamer #he wants the opposite of his mother and a brat is just not that #ahhhhh anyway!!!! thank you letting me yap!!!#john price #john price headcanons #priceheadcanons

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rayday-mayday · 7 months ago

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I seriously don't get why antis believe that SA ( or just sex in general ) and violence are so far removed from each other. Like, of course there's how both rape/SA and violent actions ( murder, battery, etc ) are illegal and harmful, but there's a lot more on top of that that links the two.

Like, there's how SA aka Sexual Assault literally has the word "Assault" in it. You know, which is a crime of it's own that involves physical violence sometimes. Saying rape/SA of any kind and violence aren't the same/linked, inherently takes away the violence of rape/SA.

We could also take a look at the BDSM scene, where stuff like choking, spanking, bruising, biting, etc are quite common kinks that obviously go alongside sex, which, once again, links the two subjects.

There's cannibalism which is inherently violent, but often sexualized in multiple different ways. Be it the classical soft vore fetish art you see online, or the metaphors where cannibalism and sex are woven together to show some deeper meaning.

And there's also how classical horror media and ( fictional ) non-con media can produce similar reactions in people. I know personally that when I read yandere x reader fanfiction ( both with- and without non-con elements ) it gives me this form of rush that has helped me cope with the urge to be abused. And just here a bit ago I was playing Doors ( yes, the Roblox horror videogame ) which gave me a similar rush of adrenaline.

I know part of the appeal of monsterfucking at times also ties into the fear and horror of the creatures, which ties into the violence and destruction these monsters can commit.

There's also how both violence and sex can be practiced safely if everyone involved is consenting, and have the proper safety precautions in place; and how both can also be traumatizing if done without consent and/or without the proper safety precautions.

As you can see just by those examples, sex, violence, fear, and trauma are incredibly closely linked. This isn't to say that sex is bad or that violence is good, but that denying that all those subjects are tied together, or that saying they aren't similar, is just flat out wrong.

Tbh there's probably more examples out there, too, but those listed above are just the ones I can think of at the moment. Feel free to add onto this in the reblogs/tags/comments if you can think of any. I just wanted to ramble about this after I realized how similar the rush I get from horror games is to the rush I get when I read darkfiction.

#proship please interact #pro fiction #profic #proship #proship community #proship safe #anti anti #proshipper #proshipper safe #profiction #op is profic #op is proship #op is a proshipper #proshippers please interact #profic safe #profic please interact #×discourse×#discourse

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byte-your-tongue · 7 months ago

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Sebastian Solace x Crybaby!Reader

(Platonic, GN Reader)

AN: This is actually a repost from my main blog. But i edited it to be more general rather than selfship writing! I haven't written anything that wasn't basic headcanons in a LONG time. So please excuse the first couple ones i do being bad lol.

TW: Blood, gore, violence, vomit, descriptions of injuries, constant talk of an impending death (that doesn't actually happen.)

Run.

That was the only thought coursing through your mind at the moment as you were chased through the halls of the abandoned facility.

You weren't even sure if anything was following you anymore, but your adrenaline fueled brain kept screaming at you to keep moving. And that was where your first mistake lie. You were so caught up in keeping an eye out for flickering lights and sparks coming off fake doors you forgot to pay attention to your other senses.

You couldn't hear anything over your own loud footsteps and heavy breathing, failing to notice the tell tale sign of a wall dweller sneaking up on you until it was nearly too late. You whipped your head around just as the creature struck, scaring it off in the same moment it lunged for your legs.

You let out a loud yelp and stumbled, but refused to break eye contact with the fleeing monster until it was fully gone. And even then you lay on the floor for a minute longer, making sure it wasn't faking its retreat. But when you finally went to pick yourself off the ground your right knee buckled from the injury inflicted by the wall dweller.

Just as you sat down to assess your injuries all the lights in the room flickered, an ominous warning of the Angler approaching. You ground your teeth through the pain and dragged yourself into the nearest locker, slamming the door shut right as the monstrosity roared past.

'Goddammit! I really can't catch a break this time, huh?'

You grimaced as you slowly opened the locker door, switching on your only light source you had managed to find so far: a lantern with half the batteries drained already. It was more likely to anger squiddles, but even after who knows how many failed attempts to retrieve this stupid crystal you still hadn't gotten over your crippling fear of the dark. If anything it's gotten worse during your time down here.

And so you limped along, praying you would be out of this stretch of dark rooms before your light source died out. As you entered through the next door you noted the number: 42. That was important for one reason: Sebastian's shop. Sebastian prefered to hang out further from the entrance that your fellow "expendables" used. Sebastian didn't want to get caught by anyone important enough to pose a real threat, and he wanted to give people time to actually collect enough research to make it worth his effort.

But none of that was important to you right now. At the moment the only thing you cared about was purchasing a med kit and fixing your leg up.

And so you continued limping along, hoping that you would soon hear Sebastian calling out to you.

As you opened the next room, it was finally bright enough to turn off your lantern. It was a long hallway with tall glass windows looking out into the ocean. You moved closer to one, admiring and fearing the inky abyss that stretched seemingly endlessly in every direction.

Your thoughts were cut off abruptly when Eyefestation quickly swam up to the glass, invading your mind with whispers and shouts in a million different voices. You doubled over from the physical and mental assault, vomiting and scrunching your eyes closed.

You slowly crawled along the floor, pain searing through your head, feeling around for the exit with your hands. As you faintly heard the hiss of a door opening the pressure in your mind finally retreated.

Your were definitely worse for wear now. You were nauseous, bleeding, had a splitting headache, had nearly no supplies, and were unable to do anything other than pathetically crawl onwards.

You were convinced you were going to die down here.

Again.

But just a few doors later you heard a quiet voice hiss out at you:

"Hey, over here!"

Sebastian.

Safety.

You quickly located the vent and clawed weakly at the covering, finally getting it loose with a grunt. You dragged yourself through the tight space as you felt your vision dimming.

It was all you could do to finally get into the meager shop before you collapsed fully, your mind and vision going dark as you drifted away into unconciousness. The last thing you heard was a surprisingly panicked shout from Sebastian.

'Ah. He actually cares about me?'

It was the last though you could muster up before finally fully passing out.

...

It was merely 20 minutes later when you finally awoke, groaning in pain and taking note that your injuries were now bandaged. You looked up to see Sebastian. He was fidgeting with something in his hands, his brow furrowed and the tip of his tail nervously swishing from side to side. As soon as he realized you were awake he perked up and slithered over to you.

"Are you feeling ok? You aren't concussed, right? I bandaged you up and gave you some painkillers, but you really shouldn't take them on an empty stomach so let me know if you have eaten recently."

"Ah..." You slurred your words somewhat, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "I don't think I got any injuries on my head, so no concussion. And I haven't eaten. How much for some food? And how much do i owe you for the medkit? I don't have that much research on me right now..." You trailed off as you saw Sebastian's face shift to annoyance.

"Are you serious?" Sebastian's voice raised and he looked offended. "Do you really think i'd charge you for something like this? How little do you think of me?"

"Oh....." You looked down in embarrassment. "I don't know i just.... i mean i consider you a friend. You're the only safety i have down here and you let me rest in your shop and-" You cut yourself off. "But... but i thought you didn't like me. I thought i was an annoyance..."

You looked down with a look like a kicked puppy as you continued in a small voice:

"I thought.... I thought i was just another expendable to you..."

Sebastian's face was sometimes hard to read, but the look of hurt he wore at that moment was clear as day.

"Y/N...."

'That's the first time he's said my name so softly...'

Sebastian cleared his throat before continuing awkwardly. "I know that... I am not always the most pleasant person to be around. But... I want you to know.. that.. out of everyone down here.. you are someone who i do truly appreciate."

You were stunned for a second. You had only ever heard sebastian either insult you or try to sell you something. The refreshing honesty and compassion in his tone was something you took a second to savor before you finally realized you should respond.

"Sebastian... I'm so glad you like me. I'm so glad you wanna be my friend. It honestly makes me so happy.... I- I-" You trailed off with tears in your eyes. A common sight yet one that managed to shock Sebastian this time around.

"Hey! Hey! Hey! Don't go crying after i just said i appreciate you! Do you really not wanna be my friend that bad!" Sebastian panicked, reaching an arm down to comfort you.

You laughed, your tears starting to dry up as fast as they started. "Noooo! You already said you like me!! You can't take it back now!"

Sebastian playfully jabbed at you with one of his much larger hands. "You're damn right! You're stuck with me now whether you like it or not!" He gave a smile full of sharp teeth, one that used to scare you but was now a comfort to see.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while until you finally broke it.

"Hey... if we're friends now can you tell Painter to stop trying to kill me?"

"Hahaha... I think you'll have to take that one up with Painter yourself."

...

"Dammit...."

#x reader #✧byte writes✧#sebastian x reader #sebastian solace #platonic x reader #pressure sebastian #pressure roblox #roblox pressure #pressure game #sebastian solace x reader #pressure x reader #sebastian solace x you #roblox pressure sebastian #sebastian solace fanfic

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viridian-dagger · 6 days ago

Text

That You Are - 1

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x OC

Rating: Explicit/Mature - 18+ only! Minors DNI

Warnings: sex worker!oc, age gap!, non-explicit discussions of sexual assault and a physical assault, vague descriptions of sex work and injuries, Langdon is straight up mean to her, other people judge her for her line of work, some insults, Abbot is highkey a simp for her, mention of Abbot being a widower. This fic is in part inspired by Pretty Woman which will become more relevant later. Smut in later chapters to come 💕

✨ this is a companion to Residuals by @eureka-its-zico but can be read on its own. Jenn's character Dr. Fullerton is featured in this ✨

word count: 5.3k

Author's Note: listen. i didn't intend to write this but Jenn got in my head and now here we are. i don't think this will be too many chapters, but it also was never supposed to be more than a one-shot so we see how that turned out. lmk your thoughts and if you want to be on the taglist 🖤

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She hates the way she can’t force herself to leave the waiting room. The only doctor she’s ever seen there who didn’t treat her like garbage was part of the night shift, and she’s pretty sure that he's long since gone. All she can do now is hope it’s not him who gets saddled with her. He has a way of making her feel worse than a client ever could.

But her face hurts, and she can’t bring herself to stumble back out onto the street without the pill. She knows too many girls who lost everything relying on birth control alone — she won’t let that be her.

Hopefully the nurses won’t ask too many questions, or the doctor believes her when she says the bruises are a few days old; she knows they look bad. She isn’t immune to the stares she’s been getting for the last few hours; mothers with disdain in their eyes as they shield their children’s gaze, the leering stares from men, the pitying looks from girls who think they know the fear she’s been living through. In a way, she's grateful for them. They think she’s just another party girl who trusted the wrong guy on a night out, and in a way they’re right. But while this would be the worst night of their lives, for her it’s just another day late she’ll be on rent.

So she ignores the looks, ignores the pain radiating from underneath her skin, ignores the way her pleasers dig into her toes and have long since gone numb, ignores the black dots that dance in the edges of her vision, and focuses on her rapidly dying phone battery and the crooning in her headphone that she wishes could tune out the man complaining to anyone who would listen about his treatment thus far, or lack thereof.

“Kat Thomas?” The intake nurse calls out, eyes scanning over the waiting room teeming with people, all suffering in different ways. She tries not to flinch at the pity in the intake nurse’s gaze when they make eye contact; she knows she’s seen this nurse before, and her stomach drops. She knows he is an inevitability now — she knows she’s a fool for hoping to see someone else, anyone else.

She holds her head high as she walks toward the doors and the ER nurse who's waiting for her and away from prying eyes, but the click of her heels on the linoleum draws eyes like flame draws a moth, and she regrets ever sitting in the far corner. By the time she reaches the door, a hush has settled on the waiting room and she can feel the discontent stirring.

“So you’ll take some junkie whore but you won’t see me?” A man calls out, and the rage in his voice makes her toe catch on the waxed linoleum. She can see in perfect detail in her mind the way she’s going to be sent sprawling on the floor when her ankle wavers the same moment the nausea hits. But hands under her elbows stop her descent before it can begin.

The ER nurse who caught her has curly brown hair and a softness in his eyes she doesn’t see on many people; he knows what she is, but he doesn’t care. In fact, there’s something she can almost recognize as rage in his eyes when he looks away from her, eyes locking on someone behind her — undoubtedly the man who just called her a whore for all of Pittsburgh to hear — before they slide back to meet her gaze.

“Do you need a wheelchair?” He asks, voice soft. The words die in her throat as she shakes her head before straightening out and pulling her limbs from his grasp. He withdraws without a fight, the small smile on his mouth unwavering as she steps away, toward another nurse standing at the door who wears another tight smile trying to hide pity, and she retreats into the all too familiar bustle of the emergency department.

She can hear his voice again, hard and stern, when the door closes, but the words are muffled by both the plexiglass and the chaos of it all that’s been kept out of view by the waiting room. She wonders if people would complain so much if they could see just how busy it is back here as she follows the nurse back to a room, and she can’t help but scan the faces of every doctor she can find who’s wearing black scrubs. There are four faces she doesn’t know, five really when she sees a woman in black scrubs disappear into a bathroom. But none of them are the one she's dreading, and for a moment she lets herself hope.

The nurse gives her a pitying smile again when they enter the room and gestures to the gurney and the folded hospital gown that’s waiting for her. It almost makes her embarrassed when she realizes the gown will cover more of her than the dress she’s wearing, but she swallows it and gives the nurse a half-smile-half-grimace.

The nurse turns to leave, and the words come out of her without her permission. “I know it’s a long shot,” she rasps, ignoring the way her throat burns and the way it coincides with the downturn of the nurse's mouth, “but is Dr. Abbot here?”

“I'm sorry, but no. He usually works the night shift, and left a few hours ago,” the nurse says softly. “Someone will be by in a minute to check on you,” she trails off, ducking her head to look at the tablet in her hands as she turns, clearly eager to leave if the speed the privacy curtain closes is any indication.

The moment the nurse is gone, she lets herself deflate. Stripping the dress off her body hurts; emotionally and physically. Her joints pull, her skin is raw, and it feels like every nerve ending is on fire. But the state of her dress just makes her sad; the glittery mesh is torn in multiple places, and the white satin is flecked in blood. The whole thing is going to have to go.

Just looking at it makes her feel sick, but she refuses to think about the man who did this to her. She puts the concept of him out of her head and slips the hospital gown on. It chafes the bruises on her throat but she ignores it in favor of tossing her ruined clothing and the holographic platforms on the chair in the corner and making herself comfortable on the gurney. She wouldn't be surprised if it was hours before someone saw her.

-----

If Jack is honest with himself (which he tries to be most of the time) it wasn't the vet patient dying that fucked him up this morning; it started way before that. It had been calling the time of death at 2:39 am on a Jane Doe who had been attacked and all but bled to death in the ambulance on the way in. Because when the call had come through 14 minutes before he had to call it and Bridget told him about the inbound sex worker found on the street, his throat felt like it was closing. Because he knew it could have been her. Because when they rolled her in on the gurney, black hair spread out like ink on the white sheets, blood spilling from her slashed throat, face bruised and swollen so bad she was nearly unrecognizable, he couldn't breathe.

But then he saw it — more the lack of it — Jane Doe didn’t have a tattoo. She had a tattoo of a mermaid in the dead center of her left forearm, a beautiful thing he always wanted to ask her about but never got the chance. The realization it wasn't her had the vice of fear loosening its grip from his chest.

He worked hard to save the girl (even though she wasn't her) and he probably let the effort go on longer than he should have, but the inevitability of her death couldn't be changed. He tried to let go after; let go of the panic that had invaded his senses, let go of the questions lingering in his mind.

But the unease had stuck to him like a fly trap through the rest of the shift. It might not have been her, but damn well could have been.

Losing the vet had just taken him out at the already shaky knees. And he held it together until he knew Robby was about to show up for his shift. Only then did he retreat to the roof. Only then did he let himself feel it all the way.

He knew he wasn't going to jump, not when he had so many unresolved parts. Because more than anything, Jack craves the completion, to get the full image, the satisfaction of all the pieces coming together; it doesn't matter if the outcome is bad, it just needs to be done. And she is unresolved.

So the first thing he does when he walks out of the hospital is call his therapist. Jack talks as he walks through the park, his therapist listens, and when they're done talking, Jack gets in his truck and drives home; the police scanner stays on low.

He started listening to the scanner years ago, wanting to be prepared for anything. Prepared to come in on his day off. Prepared to go in early if he's needed. But it's only recently that he really listens for something. Any mention of a Jane Doe that fits her description, Jack has to see. Has to know if it's her. And thankfully it hasn't been yet.

But he’s afraid it will be soon. His therapist, Walter, keeps telling him to talk to her the next time she comes into the ER. But he also knows he shouldn't, for any number of reasons.

In fact, he has a list of reasons, detailing exactly why he should not speak to her or seek her out for any reason:

1. She's way too young for him, probably with baggage he hasn't the first idea how to deal with

She's younger than he has any right to even look at, younger than he thinks he could ever be comfortable with. And he knows her line of work isn't something people go into easily or with a lot of other options. The thought of her forced into that life unravels something in him that he thought he left in the desert overseas.

2. He's a grown man, with a lot of baggage he still isn't quite sure he knows how to deal with

Jack knows the life he’s lived hasn't been easy; tours and medic training and losing a foot and losing his bride days after she walked down the aisle to marry him. All probably before she was even old enough to drive. Maybe even before she hit puberty.

3. She's a patient (sometimes) and he's her doctor (sometimes)

These go hand in hand, because there are lines he told himself he wouldn't cross, lines he knows he shouldn't cross. And the biggest one was taking advantage of someone who he was duty bound to. Worst of all, it's a position he's seen lesser men take advantage of many times, and Jack has always enjoyed making those men regret it.

4. She could ruin him

Despite all the things that he knows about himself to be true — he's standoffish, borderline suicidal, a workaholic, not quite cold but definitely not warm — the one thing he can't deny is that he’s never been able to do something in half measures. Jack can't do casual, not anymore; he tried after his wife died. He told himself that he couldn't commit to someone again, but the emptiness the one-night stands left haunted him. And he swore off flings after the last one left him bitter and hollow.

5. He would happily let her ruin him if she wanted to

He feels like Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship when it comes to her. And he convinces himself that he’s resisted her pull until the next time she ends up waiting in a patient bay for him. He desperately wants to know her, wants to be pulled into her orbit, wants any part of her she'll give him. And he knows himself; he is already too attached to her. Because he doesn't even know her name (she always comes in with a different one) but it doesn't matter to him.

And he knows he should tell someone, Ellis maybe, or Robby. But he also knows he won't, because he needs to see her. He needs to know she's alright. Because he knows it's a dangerous world out there, especially for a girl in her line of work. Because he’s already lost himself to her. Because the day he goes to ID a Jane Doe and it's her, he's going to shatter.

So he drives home listening to the police scanner and recites his list while he packs away the anxiety and the emotions from the shift and starts ticking off the items on his day off list: he sleeps, he goes grocery shopping, he picks up his package from the post office, he picks up a new book from the library. And he hopes he doesn’t hear about her through the police scanner.

-----

The sound of the curtain being pulling back is what startles her out of her half aware doze; it isn't like anyone can get much sleep in the ER. But the loss of time still confuses her; he must have hit her harder than she remembered. Actually, now that she thinks about it, she can't really remember what happened other than the pain and the fear. But the memories around it — how he got her alone and how she got away from him — are what's missing. The more she thinks about it, the less she can remember even getting to this side of town. PTMC should have been an hour walk at least, and she can't remember making that walk at all.

But she puts that aside as she braces herself for him; the condescending remarks, the accusations, and the threats of getting her arrested for prostitution. She’s taken every insult, every intimidation, every reproach and doesn't say a word. He'll never know what it means to live the life she does and how vastly different it will always be from his world; if not for the fact that he is a man, but also for the choices and opportunities that have been handed to him at every turn.

She tries not to let his words stick too much, but sometimes she can't help but hear his voice in her head, sneering and snide as he walks out the door, gloves snapping, “I can't wait for the day you show up in the morgue instead of my ER.”

It was what she heard rattling in her head when she was losing consciousness under violent hands a few hours ago.

But the relief swamps her all at once when two female doctors walk in, neither of whom she'd ever seen before. One looked younger than her, by five years at least; her eyes widened and she fought to stifle the gasp that tore through her throat when she walked in. The other was the one who disappeared into the bathroom when the nurse walked her through the ER; she was confident, but not cocky, and despite the kind smile on her face, her eyes betrayed her pity.

She didn't want their pity, she was sick of it. For a second, her rage burns bright and hot, but it gets smothered instantly by shame. What right did she have to be angry at them? They could pity her all they liked, maybe she deserves it. She’s broken enough for it today.

“Good morning, Kat. I'm Dr. Fullerton,” the doctor with the kind smile says. “I have a student doctor here with me. Is it okay if she comes in with us?”

She gets tired of watching the shock compound on the student doctor’s face and she turns away from their stares before agreeing half heartedly.

Moving her head was evidently the wrong move as the ringing in her ears comes back just then, and she can barely hear Dr. Fullerton’s question, but she’s been through this enough times to know what the question was.

“I need Plan B,” she mumbles back. She doesn't really care anymore if that's not the answer to the question she asked, only that the sharp ringing starts to subside. Only now the bright, fluorescent lights are making her feel like her head is being bounced off the pavement again.

She hears the muffled sound of satisfaction and agreement, before the wave of pain passes, and Dr. Fullerton’s voice now comes back, “—did you get your injuries?”

That's the question that always makes her cringe; they're never interested in how it actually happened. And even when they are, all it means is that cops are soon to follow. They don't need to know that some guy who was supposed to pay her decided he wanted to get his pleasure for free, and didn't like it when she said no.

She flicks her gaze up to meet Dr. Fullerton’s eyes, pity now stowed away. She doesn't bother looking at the student doctor — she knows exactly what she'll find there. The shrug she gives gets no response, and she finds she can't look this doctor in the eyes and lie. So she looks away, down to her beaten up hands and says, “Took a nasty fall down some stairs.”

“That's one hell of a staircase,” the student doctor fires back, and if it were any other time she would have laughed out loud.

But her ribs scream even as she huffs out the mirthless chuckle, “You're not wrong.”

Dr. Fullerton looks distraught for a second before schooling her expression into something neutral. "Do you mind if I examine some of them? I'm worried about your right eye, especially. It's swelling up pretty good."

The thought of missing a shift sends her reeling. She needs the money, badly. Ivan took her rent money saying she never paid him out for last weekend. If she doesn't have the money by the end of the week, she'll lose her apartment, and being on the street is the one thing she really doesn't need right now.

"Is that going to take a long time? I-I kind of need to get back to work…” she hopes they understand, hopes they see the urgency in her eyes.

Dr. Fullerton looks nauseous as she stares into the middle distance just above her head. It makes her nervous more than it makes her comforted by someone's care; if Dr. Fullerton wants to keep her there, to try and save her from this, she's dooming her to a life worse than what she has now.

It takes a moment for the doctor to find her words before speaking. "It depends if the exam findings indicate anything that appears worrisome. Your wellbeing is important and I'm going to treat it as such."

The simple way Dr. Fullerton says it shocks her all the way to her bones. It's maybe the nicest thing she's heard from a doctor in a while — definitely the nicest from anyone on day shift regardless of the hospital.

But as she watches the doctor’s slow, methodical movements and feels all at once like the feral cat she feeds sometimes outside her apartment. Skittish, wary, ready to strike out and escape. She supposes the image does fit as the doctor's hands move toward her face and she cringes away, expecting the pain.

"I'm going to apply a little pressure," Dr. Fullerton says, pushing her thumbs against her cheekbone first before moving them up towards her nose.

The gasp that escapes her is involuntary but cuts through the silence of the room like a knife, followed by a hiss of pain that makes Dr. Fullerton pull away.

Dr. Fullerton looks actually aggrieved as she sits back in her chair, small frown set on her lips. "I'm going to order a CT to rule out any facial fractures. Have you felt dizzy at all? Any bouts of nausea or vomiting since you...fell?"

She almost laughs; of course she has. The room hasn't stopped spinning since the first slap. Every blow that followed only made it worse. It reminded her of learning ballet as a little girl and getting dizzy when she lost her spot in a turn. But she also knows that telling them means more time in the ER, and she doesn't know if she can afford that. Especially not when she doesn't really know what time it is anymore.

"No,” she says dismissively, but as soon as the lie passes her lips her head throbs and her conviction wavers for a second, “I mean… I get a little dizzy but it's okay. Is the CT going to take a long time?"

Dr. Fullerton looks actually distraught by the idea of her not getting a CT scan and she decides she can try to wait it out as long as possible. But over her shoulder, she sees the one person she's been desperate to avoid since walking into PTMC.

"I'm super curious what your name is today? Val? Eva?" Dr. Langdon’s words land like a slap and she recoils as if he had as well. He leans against the doorframe, arms over his chest with a smug smile and she can feel the threat in his stance. He wants her to know he's caught her and he’s going to make her suffer for it.

"What are you doing?" Dr. Fullerton snaps, voice full of what she can only identify as rage and indignation.

But he isn't phased, he just juts his chin towards her and smiles passively at Dr. Fullerton like he’s about to open her eyes to some unseen truth. And she hates how nervous it makes her. "She's a frequent flyer and has been flagged at multiple other hospitals for drug seeking."

But Dr. Fullerton’s mouth purses in disgust as she glares at Dr. Langdon over her shoulder. "Can I speak with you for a minute?" The doctor’s voice is clipped and angry, and it sends a sick satisfaction curling in her gut. Especially when she sees how it makes him sweat and watches the confidence die in his eyes.

“I'll be right back, Kat, alright?" Dr. Fullerton says, and everyone in the room jumps when she snaps the gloves off her hands; the sound still makes her flinch as Dr. Langdon’s words echo in her head.

"Okay,” she chokes out, ignoring the metallic shing of the curtain and the hiss of the door closing.

The student doctor shifts back and forth from her toes to her heels, looking at anything but her. The girl is pretty in an innocent sort of way, and she knows with near certainty that this doctor has never met someone like her before.

“So, is this your first day?” She asks, trying to break the tension.

“Oh! Uh, yes. It is. I don't think Dr. Fullerton said it but I'm Dr. Javadi,” she says back with a smile, holding her hand out for a shake. She can't help the wry smile that sneaks on her face as Dr. Javadi starts to second guess her attempted pleasantries.

She reaches out to shake the hand offered politely; her grandparents would have rolled in their graves if she snubbed the poor girl's handshake. “If it's not too rude, how old are you?”

Dr. Javadi’s eyes widen in alarm before she cringes and admits, “I’m actually 20.” The look on her face must have betrayed her surprise because Dr. Javadi is quick to follow with, “I swear I finished med school, I am a real doctor. I just-I had a lot of—”

“That’s awesome,” she manages to breathe out, which stops Dr. Javadi in her tracks.

“Wait, really? You think it's cool that I'm a huge nerd who finished med school like 4 years before everyone else?” The doctor chokes out and she smiles.

“Yeah, it's really fucking cool,” she laughs, “I’m older than you and I don't even have my—”

The door hissing open draws her attention away from Dr. Javadi and onto Dr. Fullerton, who's bustling in the room so quickly she almost stumbles into another doctor's back. For a second, she's happy it's not Dr. Langdon.

But that's immediately overshadowed by fear. She's seen this doctor before, not as a patient but around. Dr. Langdon pointed him out to her once, the warning in his tone was clear but the words were lost in the haze of pain from her fractured collarbone.

His eyes go wide as he scans her, and just for a second she sees shock and horror. But he shutters it quickly and steps aside to let Dr. Fullerton back into the room.

She can't deny how scared she is; he’stall and broad, hair salt and peppering at the temples. But his presence looms and steals the words from her mouth in response to Dr. Javadi.

She's instantly back to feeling like a cornered animal, and she knows she probably looks like it to the doctors in the room as well when all three of the doctors softened their postures.

Dr. Fullerton gives her a soft smile, "Kat, this our senior physician, Dr. Robby. I asked for his help during our assessment."

Her eyes cut back to Dr. Robby warily, "Hi," she deadpanned cautiously. She couldn't tell if they were preparing to kick her out or follow through with Dr. Langdon's threat to send her to jail.

Dr. Robby gives her a small smile, tight but lacking pity. "It's just like Dr. Fullerton said; I'm just here to check on you. I also want to apologize on behalf of my resident earlier if anything he said upset you. That's not how we operate here."

It would have been funny if she wasn't so afraid he was lying; Dr. Langdon had been threatening her for months, ever since the first time she'd come in. She waits for the catch, for the caveat, for the hint of a lie. But he simply stares at her, waiting for permission. She nods, but hesitation lingers in her mind.

He approaches her like the scared animal she feels like, hands outstretched toward her. "Can you tell me how this happened?" He asks, gently taking her face in his hands presses on her cheekbones, just as Dr. Fullerton had.

The pressure makes her vision swim and her eyes water and she forces out the words, "I took a nasty fall down some stairs." It barely tastes like a lie when her face feels like it's on fire, pressure moving closer to her nose and forcing a tear to track down her face.

She winces, and surprisingly he stops, but his hands stay hovering slightly over her skin. "Does it hurt when I apply pressure?"

"Yes," she spits out, willing him to stop with her mind.

"On a scale of 1 through 10," he asks, and she fights the urge to snarl at him.

"It hurts but I'll live,” she grits through her teeth, staring him in the eyes.

She barely notices his hands fully leaving her face, fighting against the tears gathering in her lashes, when he takes her arm in his hand, lifting and prodding.

The medical jargon starts flowing between the doctors in the room and she feels like a doll on a shelf; it's a familiar feeling for her. She lays back on the gurney when he directs her to, and lets him press on her stomach.

She finally zones back into the conversation when Dr. Robby starts "—a CT also for chest and abdomen along with an x-ray."

"Why?" Dr. Fullerton and Dr. Javadi ask at the same time.

Dr. Robby gives her a sympathetic smile and moves his hands and presses on a spot that makes her groan in pain.

"That hurts, ya know," she gasps.

Dr. Robby gives her a wry smile, "I know. You're sure you fell down a flight of stairs?"

Defiance rises in her chest and tastes like ash in her mouth as she snaps, "You calling me a liar?"

She stares him down, all the judgement and vitriol and pity filling her like acid. He wants to paint her as a victim, but she's a fucking person and she doesn't have time for this.

"Not calling you a liar," Dr. Fullerton cuts in, voice soft and pleading. "Your injuries unfortunately don't seem to be from falling and landing on concrete."

She almost feels bad for snapping at Dr. Fullerton but Dr. Robby's tone and condescending doubt override her sense, "I fell."

His humourless chuckle makes her want to scream and the disapproving smile that plays on his face fills her with rage. "It's okay if that's how you want to play this," Robby says gently, but the disbelief in his tone bristles. When she doesn't back down, he crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively, shoulders curling inward as he shrugs. "We won't force you to share more than you're ready to, but we just want to make sure you're safe."

Safe, a hilarious concept for her. Especially after she's received more threats from PTMC doctors than any other hospital in the city. "I'm good. Great even" She deadpans, not backing down from his stare.

He sighs and nods, "Okay. Well, you're in good hands with Dr. Fullerton. She's one of our best."

Dr. Fullerton nearly runs out of the room after him when he leaves without a look back in her direction but she stops and looks back, eyes focused on Dr. Javadi who's been doing her best impression of a decorative plant for the last 5 minutes.

"Can you put in the orders for the CT, x-ray Robby suggested, and a urine analysis? Give her tylenol with codeine for pain. If her UA comes back negative for pregnancy, go ahead and put in for Plan B," Dr. Fullerton instructs and barely sees Dr. Javadi's nod before tossing a hasty, “I’ll be right back,” over her shoulder as she passes through the door, following after Dr. Robby.

She and Dr. Javadi sit in silence, letting the moment pass, but she can't help but mumble, "I bet they used to date."

The startled laugh claws out of Dr. Javadi’s throat, but the panicked, half coherent protest just solidifies her opinion. While the young doctor has clearly never considered the idea before, she can always tell. Maybe it's just the line of work she's in that gives her the hint, but the signs that those two were lovers are hard to miss.

“Well, anyway, I'm gonna get you a cup for the UA—I mean the urine analysis—and then get you lined up for CT and x-ray. I'll be back in a minute,” Dr. Javadi smiles nervously.

“Wait,” she calls out, and Dr. Javadi stops in her tracks, eyes wide. "What time is it?”

“Oh, god, yeah, uh it's…” she trails off, pulling up her sleeve to look at her watch, her expensive watch, “Almost 11am.”

She gives the doctor a smile and turns away, giving the out she knows is needed. She decides to wait for the scans, hopefully they don't make her wait too long to take the pill. But as long as she can get out by 4, she can make it.

-----

taglist is open!

#jack abbot x oc #jack abbot fanfic #dr jack abbot #dr abbot x oc #dr abbott #jack abbott #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction

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cherryblossompink303 · 1 month ago

Text

Patience: ~Tamaki's Unwitting depression~

➼ pairing: Kyoya Ootori x Reader ➼ summary: For a group of hosts some club members are only just realising what love feels like ➼ what to expect: "Darling I have been doing this long before we met" ➼ warnings: n/a ➼ Part Twenty one | Part Twenty three

Tamaki's Unwitting Depression!

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

"Peeping tom!" "You saw-" "-Didn't you Bossa Nova?"

Kasanoda is leaning against the door to support himself under shaking legs "No, I didn't see! I mean, I caught a glance, yeah, but it was all so fast that I didnt- It was just an accident I swear to you that i'm not a pervert!"

"Of course you would say that, sure sign of a guilty conscience" Honey chooses to be menacing for once.

Kasanoda finally manages to pick himself up "So then, fujioka's a girl?"

"Red alert, he's onto Haruhi's little secret" "That's not good, so let's hear it"

"How much of her maidenly terra incognita did you actually see?"

"Well she was changing so i saw her underwear"

The twins begin to freak out "You saw Haruhi's underwear?" Tamaki gasps, clearly on the verge of a crisis

"So what do we do?" "There's only one thing to do. We have to induce amnesia" Kaoru grabs Kasanoda so that Hikaru can batter up to hit him.

"That's enough you two" Kyoya steps forward, arriving slightly late along with you. "Leave assault and battery to the professionals"

"What are you made of ice? how can you be so calm about this? I bet if it was y/n you'd make a big deal"

"Look! The boss is so deep in shock, he's regressing" Hikaru points to tamaki who is practically comatose at this point.

Kyoya sighs, pushing up his glasses "Well, now that the proverbial cat is out of the bag, let's talk, Haruhi is compelled to hide the fact that she's a girl due to certain mitigating circumstances. While we can't physically force you to cooperate exactly, there is something i would like for you to bear in mind. Coming from the type of family you do I'm certain you hear all sorts of juicy little rumors, enough to know what's true and what is not. Take the Ootori family's private police force, the black onion squad, it is said that they can be mobilised against our enemies in the blink of an eye. You have heard of them right?"

Haruhi finally steps out, now dressed "Come on guys, stop scaring Casanova. Sorry about all this. Look it's alright, it doesn't matter to me you can tell whoever you want to"

"Well well bossa nova" "Since you know she's a girl, are you in love?"

Kaoru's question seems to break Tamaki sending him spiralling. You lean over to Kyoya "You're getting quite good at this now" you whisper. He smirks "Darling I have been doing this long before we met"

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

You had to admit that you did not expect Kasanoda to return the next day, you certainly did not expect him to waltz in, sit down and request haruhi. Even the girls started freaking out not to mention renge who rises up out the floor once again.

"The geniune article, at last"

The girls run up "Renge, is it true? is he really" "Could he rally be that kind of persuasion?"

You lean forward in your seat, taking a sip of coffee "Well this certainly is an interesting twist" You note, although Kyoya was not taking much notice, too busy filing through old Ootori hospital documents.

"Hello Kasanoda, so you're our guest today huh?" Haruhi happily wanders over with a teaset, sitting next to him. You sigh as you realise she has no clue why he's here.

"Uh, that's right"

"Would you like to have some tea? How much sugar do you usually have?"

"Let me help!"

"Now, now, you're our guest it's okay" Haruhi pours him a cup "So, tell me, is this your first time in place like this?"

"You sure have this down huh?"

"Trust me it did not come naturally at all, at least not a first but then I realised if i just sat back and had fun with it, everthing sort of fell into place on it's own"

The twins, more particularly Hikaru was growing increasingly frustrated "Hey don't just sit there Kyoys-senpai, get him out of here!" "If he's getting along with his goons so well now, why does he need to be here in the first place?"

Kyoya shrugs "He has kept Haruhi's secret so far, and as he is afterall a paying guest I can see no reason to eject him."

"But the other guests are afraid!"

You laugh "Oh no I think not, just look" You nod over to the girls fawning over the scene.

"Hello sumire? Forget about your stupid violin lesson, I'm telling you this is a one in a million chance to witness something truly amazing!"

"see? We're just fine, thanks to him, we may even set a new record" Kyoya adds. "You money grabbing enabler"

You all look back over to Haruhi and Kasanoda "Would you like another cup of tea?"

"Uh, yes, Thank you"

"Oh no she's giving him that adorable smile" "The one that no man can resist"

You raise an eyebrow "No man? Or just you two and Tamaki?" The twins gape at you.

"Wow, usually you guys wouldn't waste any time interrupting the two of them" Honey watches in awe "Yeah, but our hands are tied, after our screw up in Karuizawa Haruhi would never forgive us if we butted in" "Karuizawa was really your screw up Hikaru"

The twins turn back to Tamaki "Hey boss? Are you done being shell shocked yet?" "Yeah we could really use our king right about now" They drag him up "Go get him!" They yell, throwing him upwards.

"Tamaki-senpai?" Haruhi questions as he robot walks his way up to the two of them. "Um just what exactly are you doing?" He moves between the two of them.

"Hey if you want to sit down do it there" Haruhi moves him "You can play with this as a distraction. It's a little freebie I got at the supermarket when i went for instant coffee earlier" Tamaki fiddles with the trinket, mechanically unlooping them "Look, I solved it haruhi"

"wow that was fast, okay, now try and see if you can put them back together" Tamaki fiddles more

"That moron" Hikaru rolls his eyes, pulling out his phone to call him "Earth to boss! Will you snap out of it already? The longer you sit there like an idiot playing robot, the worse this situation becomes for all of us! Now listen to me carefully, you can't let this happen, if she and that two-bit thug hit it off, she'll become a mob wife!" This seems to break Tamaki out of his trance.

Tamaki slams his hands against the coffee table to stand. "Daddy won't stand for that!"

"Uhh please don't do this"

"Bossa nova! Just what are you trying to do here? You established a bond with your henchmen didn't you? Why aren't you with them right now? what about kick the can? You remember that? You should be out there enjoying life to the fullest with your friends, while you're still young enough to appreciate it, before it all slips away from under your nose! Whya re you harrasing my Haruhi! As her father, I forbid you to see her!"

"Wait what?"

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, this is going to end in tears.

"You're telling me that you're Fujioka's dad? You have got to be kidding me. That's just impossible"

"Oh no"

"Well, we might not be related by blood "

"Okay so what, are you married to her mom then?"

"No, i've actually never met the woman"

"So i guess you aren't really her father then, are you?"

You and kyoya brace yourselves for tamaki to break at any moment. which he does.

"Wah! Tama-chan! I'll catch you" Honey runs up. "He's right you know? strictly speaking, i'm not Haruhi's real father"

"uh, strictly speaking or otherwise"

"I need to sort this out"

"Sort out what exactly?"

"If supposeing I'm not my haruhi's daddy after all..."

"We don't have to suppose it boss"

"Then how can it be that I find her so utterly adorable?" Oh this is worse than you thought "What are you talking about?"

"When she is with another man why is it that I become so insanely jealous, i'm not her father, i have no right to be so protective" Oh this is so bad, he really had no idea.

"So tell me what is with the whole 'making haruhi your wife one day' thing?"

"I know! Daddies don't typically want to marry their little girls when they grow up do they? "

"What about keeping her from kissing anyone?"

"I only wanted to preserve those precious lips"

"Preserve? really? That's a very interesting choice of word sir, you think everything is okay now, and having this family setting will keep it all from changing right?"

"I don't understand"

"Actually he has a point" Kyoya speaks up from next to you "I mean you're delusional, yes, any halfwit could see that but who knew you were so..." You roll your eyes, crouching down in front of Tamaki

"Tamaki, sweetie, have you considered that maybe that you think of haruhi as something other than a daughter and are trying to bury it under something less scary to admit?" Tamaki stares back at you with a blank face.

"In some ways Tamaki is kinda like my dad" Haruhi says to Kasanoda, which seems to reset Tamaki who chuckles "Did you hear that? apparently in some ways I am like haruhi's father"

"Well, to be more precise, I think what she's saying is, that while you and her father do share some personality straits, in actuality-"

"I've got it! I've got it now! I'm like a father to her!"

You sigh, placing your forehead against your knees "Well, I tried"

"And we've lost him yet again"

"Fujioka, do you think that we could maybe do this more often? Because I was thinking since you entertain girls all day long it might kind of give you a break from all that, you know, if i came around. I mean if, if you want that is"

"Absolutely, that way, you and I could get more acquainted"

Tamaki gasps, the girls hold their breaths.

"Fujioka, i, i've got something i want to tell you. I just wanted to tell you....that i'm...."

"That you're excited to have someone you can relate to, aren't you?"

"Oh Haruhi you sweet summer child" You mutter.

"i know I sure am" She stands "A conversation like this is a rare thing for me, we're going to be great friends"

The girls murmur in pity of kasanoda, fawning over him.

"Of course the two of us are going to be friends! Best of friends forever!"

The girls well up in heartbreak for him, piling around him. leaving Tamaki on his knees with you still crouched down in concern next to him "What's the matter Tamaki?" Kyoya also crouches down next to you, looking at him like two concerned parents look at a toddler.

"When I think about how bossa nova must have been feeling my heart goes out to him a little"

"that's strange isn't it? I mean as haruhi's father, you shouldn't feel sympathy for the man who tried to take your precious little girl away now should you?" you nudge him "Not helping"

"On the contrary, i think it is"

Next time on patience 'And so Kyoya met her!'

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xoxorealitygalore · 4 months ago

Text

Trust and Believe

Trust and believe me

You're gonna need me

Trust and believe me

She'll never be me

Authors note: I’m nervous as hell! This is my first time writing…well I mean publishing one of the many stories that I’ve written in my Google docs on here. This is one of my goals for 2025. So let’s see how it works out for me. Enjoy.

summary: Keyshia and Joe had a seemingly perfect life together after marrying in 2010. However, as their careers grew, so did the strain on their relationship. When Joe cheats on Keyshia. The emotional fallout from the incident leaves their relationship hanging in the balance, with Keyshia questioning if they could ever recover from the betrayal.

TMZ EXCLUSIVE

KEYSHIA ANOA’I

ARRESTED FOR ASSAULTING WOMAN

In Roman Reigns's Penthouse

Keyshia Anoa’i spent a not-so-pleasant Monday morning in jail ... after allegedly assaulting a woman who apparently spent the night with Keyshia's husband WWE wrestler Roman Reigns.

Keyshia showed up at the swanky penthouse building in Miami at around 5 AM. We're told she came to Miami to surprise her husband after being on tour for two months.

Our sources say ... she got into the penthouse and she saw another woman and went nuts.

We're told Keyshia attacked her ... leaving scratches and knots all over her face. Cops were called ... and Keyshia was arrested for battery.

She was just released on $46,000 bail, which her husband paid.

We called Reigns and Keyshia's reps ... so far no comment.

Keyshia Anoa'i, a soulful R&B singer with a string of chart-topping hits, had always prided herself on her relationship with Joe Anoa'i, better known to the world as WWE wrestler Roman Reigns. Since their marriage in 2010, they had built a life together—one that, from the outside, appeared perfect. On the surface, they were the picture of success and love, navigating the pressures of their high-profile careers while raising a family. But as the years went by, the cracks in their relationship began to show. The more their careers flourished, the more the distance between them seemed to grow.

Joe’s career as Roman Reigns had skyrocketed. His fame and schedule with WWE meant long stretches of time on the road, and his larger-than-life persona brought both admiration and envy from fans and fellow wrestlers alike. Keyshia, on the other hand, had continued her journey as a chart-topping artist. Touring, recording, and engaging with her fans had become a huge part of her life, but it also meant being away from Joe for extended periods.

The couple's physical separation, driven by the demands of their respective careers, slowly became emotional as well. What started as occasional misunderstandings soon evolved into deeper issues. Trust, communication, and intimacy—key components of any relationship—were fraying at the edges. Joe’s long absences and late-night workouts at the gym were often coupled with his refusal to share much about his personal life. He bought a penthouse in Miami without consulting Keyshia first, something that, in hindsight, symbolized the growing distance between them. He would justify it as his need for space, a private place to unwind after a grueling schedule. Keyshia didn’t think much of it at first, but deep down, it only served to fuel the quiet fire of suspicion she had begun to feel.

Over time, those suspicions grew. Keyshia had always trusted Joe, but there was something about his behavior that began to feel off. His late nights, his constant phone calls, and his cryptic responses when asked about his time away made her wonder if there was something more going on. It was the kind of feeling that gnawed at her insides—a woman's intuition that something wasn’t right. She had asked him about it a few times, but each time, Joe brushed her off, assuring her there was nothing to worry about. But Keyshia’s gut told her otherwise.

On the night in question, Keyshia had just finished her twentieth show as a part of her five-month tour, Trust and Believe Tour, and decided to surprise Joe at his Miami penthouse. She was exhausted, but her mind was consumed with thoughts of reconnecting with her husband, of finding a sense of closeness that had been missing for so long. She’d gotten a few days off and felt it was the perfect opportunity to show him how much she still cared. However, what she didn’t know was that Joe had been keeping secrets—secrets that would soon be laid bare in a shocking way.

Keyshia arrived at the penthouse, a place she had visited only occasionally over the years. She felt a flutter of excitement as she stepped out of the car and walked toward the building. She imagined the surprise on Joe’s face when he opened the door to see her. Perhaps they would have a romantic evening, catch up on lost time, and rebuild the emotional connection they had once shared. But as she approached the door and inserted the key card, everything changed in an instant.

Keyshia stepped into the penthouse and froze. The sight before her took the breath right out of her chest. There, in the living room, was Joe—her husband—sitting on the couch with another woman. The woman was leaning into him, and Joe appeared to be speaking to her in a way that was far too intimate for a simple friendship. The woman’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of Keyshia, and Keyshia’s heart dropped. The floor beneath her seemed to disappear, and all at once, years of confusion, pain, and suspicion crashed down on her.

Her first instinct was to confront Joe, but the anger that surged within her was overwhelming. She felt her fists clench at her sides, and before she could think, she marched toward the woman and pushed her away from Joe. In the heat of the moment, words failed her, and all she could do was physically lash out. She slapped the woman’s face, threw punches, and clawed at her in a fit of rage. The betrayal, the hurt, the disbelief—all of it culminated in an uncontrollable outburst. Keyshia wasn’t thinking about the consequences; she was thinking only about the woman sitting with her husband, a woman who had crossed a line that Keyshia had never expected.

The woman screamed in surprise and tried to back away, but Keyshia was relentless, shoving her toward the door, her hands swiping and scratching. "Stay the fuck away from my man," Keyshia spat, her voice dripping with venom. "I better not evee catch you around my husbans again! Slut bucket!"

In the chaos, Joe stood up, trying to intervene, his voice raised in an attempt to calm the situation. But the damage had already been done. A neighbor heard the commotion and called the police, who arrived shortly afterward to find Keyshia still at the scene, her emotions running wild. The officers quickly subdued her, arresting her for misdemeanor battery. The police report would later note that Keyshia had struck the woman multiple times and caused visible scratches on her face. As the cuffs were placed on her wrists, Keyshia’s mind was a swirl of emotions—confusion, anger, and heartbreak. It wasn’t just the sight of Joe with another woman that cut her so deeply, but the years of tension that had been building up between them. This, she realized, was the breaking point.

At the police station, Keyshia was left alone in a holding cell for what felt like an eternity. The time felt like a blur, and every second she spent behind those bars was another moment for her emotions to spiral. She had always been known for her composed and graceful persona in the public eye, but here she was—gripped by raw emotion, fighting to make sense of the man she had married, the man who had been her partner for over a decade. Joe had always been her rock, her protector. But in that moment, he had shattered her trust in a way that felt irreparable.

Hours later, Joe arrived at the police station to bail her out. He appeared tired, his usually sharp features softened by concern and frustration. His presence was both comforting and maddening. He had been the one to create this mess, yet now he was here, trying to smooth things over as though nothing had happened. When Keyshia saw him, her anger flared up once more, but she fought to control it. She had no idea what she was supposed to feel at that moment—anger at Joe, at the woman, at herself—or a combination of all of it.

"Keyshia, you can’t keep doing this," Joe said softly, his voice strained as they walked out of the police department together.

"You’re telling me what to do? You’re the one cheating while I’m on tour, Joe!" Keyshia snapped, getting right up in his face. Her voice was trembling, but it was also fierce. Every word she spoke was filled with pain. How could he do this to her? To their family? She had trusted him, loved him, and this was how he repaid her?

Joe sighed, his frustration evident. "Chill, we ain’t even leave the police department yet."

Keyshia’s heart felt like it was breaking all over again. She wanted to scream, to hit him, but instead, she just exhaled deeply, the fight leaving her body as quickly as it had come. She felt drained, emotionally and physically. She had never imagined that their love story would end up like this, not in a million years.

The drive back to Joe’s penthouse was silent, filled only with the sound of the engine humming in the background. Keyshia stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts, while Joe kept his eyes on the road. There was no quick fix for what had happened, no simple apology that could erase the betrayal Keyshia had felt. But as the minutes passed, she couldn’t help but wonder: Could they find their way back from this? Was there still hope for them? Or had the damage been done beyond repair?

For Keyshia, the road ahead was uncertain. The life she had built with Joe, a life she had once believed in so fully, now felt like a house of cards, teetering on the edge of collapse. Would they find a way to rebuild, or would this be the end of their story? Only time would tell.

#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #wwe #roman reigns x oc #fanfic #the bloodline #otc #the tribal chief #tribal chief #wrestling #angst #black oc #black woman #woc #wwe fanfiction #roman reigns angst #trust and believe #head of the table

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