#I could fix it but I prefer whatever the fuck is wrong with me (and him) far more

[wildcatblues]

[pumpkinbxtch]

hi!!! I was wondering if you could do hcs for what arguing would be like with the HOO boys

Don't talk me like that! | headcanons

— arguing with the hoO boys

warnings: angst, language, boys being...boys

who's here: jason grace, leo valdez, frank zhang ands percy jackson.

a/n: ohh ohh ohhh, yes. I can. I love drama.

— jason grace:

To get into a real fight with him, you must have come a long way because he's so peaceful and always tries to negotiate calmly, making sure both of you communicate effectively. But at the end of the day, you're like any other couple and sometimes end up having real fights.

The big issue is Jason's nature. He goes silent when he's really upset, his emotions hard to show.

When he’s that mad, you can see it on his face. It’s scary, let’s not lie.

When the ice breaks, he tries to take charge to explain what's wrong, which often makes things worse.

He keeps his distance when you argue, tense and rigid. He’s like a handsome, angry log.

Sometimes he says things reluctantly, like "don't act childish," which is so him.

Yes, he raises his voice and gets frustrated, "no, I said NO, THAT’S NOT HOW IT IS, gods…"

If you're wondering if his powers show, the answer is NEVER, or at least not against you. His mouth might taste like metal or his fingers might spark, but that's just him being really stressed.

His eyes get cloudy and grey.

He takes off his glasses and rubs his temples while muttering.

When things finally start to work out, he breathes better and starts talking more because he knows nothing will work if he doesn’t.

He’s practical, coming up with solutions to problems.

When the fight's over, he hugs you and kisses your forehead, relieved to be out of that situation.

Can he stay mad for days? Depends on the problem, but he’d prefer it doesn't last more than a day.

— leo valdez;

Leo and you usually argue over small things because you have that kind of relationship where you bicker and tease for fun, but when things get serious, the arguments can get heated (get it? heated? laugh, please).

That’s when things get tough. He may seem easy-going, but Leo has a strong temper and is very stubborn when he's mad. Whatever made you really fight doesn't matter because he’ll be stuck on his point.

"No, that's not how it happened." You could be contradicting each other all day until you both turn away and stop talking.

"Well, screw you!" you say, and he growls back, "Yeah, you too," swearing in Spanish. "vale ma-" "me lleva la ch-"

Yes, he switches languages mid-sentence.

"I already told you no! CUANTAS VECES TENGO QUE DECIRLO, carajo!-"

If you know Spanish, you can reply; if not...

"I don’t understand you, idiot. Say it in English or fuck yourself ." (just in case because you’re not sure what he said)

Swearing is common if he's really mad, but it's more his way of dealing with it than being mad at you.

That or sharp sarcasm.

Yes, he might cry if the argument is really bad.

His rigid feelings and insecurity can come up.

Leo is attached, so he’s constantly thinking of ways to fix it because he can’t stand being away from you for too long.

He keeps his distance, terrified of hurting you with his powers, which makes him nervous. "No, DON’T COME NEAR ME." It's for your safety, but it hurts him to see the look in your eyes when he says it.

Can he stay mad for days? Absolutely, but he misses you a lot, though his pride might keep him from showing it.

Don’t worry, he’ll eventually sit down to talk it out, and you’ll both calm down and fix things.

Then he'll give you a big hug and kiss your cheeks.

— frank zhang:

it’s hard to imagine: WHAT DID YOU DO TO FIGHT?

Yes, Frank is Mars’s son, but he’d never choose the battlefield for his lover. He’s very careful and always considerate, but yeah he can be severe when things get bad, and when isn't enough just have a serious talk.

You end up fighting in not-so-quiet whispers, with your faces and gestures being the most expressive.

"Of course not, I already told you, hey!" He raises his hands, and his body tenses up threateningly.

Frank tries to understand your point and make himself heard, always mindful of both your feelings. He knows how to set boundaries.

Sometimes, he just can’t take it anymore and signals a pause. "You know what? This is getting too much, and neither of us is in the best shape. Let’s talk tomorrow or later, please."

Does he raise his voice? Hardly, only when he really needs to make a point.

His eyes are bright, tinged with sadness and anger. The deadliest is his calm face or the way he slightly curls his lip, almost growling.

His eyebrows always seem to be touching, even if he doesn’t want them to.

He keeps a cool head to solve things.

Can he stay mad for days? Yes, while clearing his mind and thinking. He’ll come up to you, and you’ll talk it out, making things work in the end.

He’ll take your hand. You might feel guilty for pushing a guy like Frank to his limit, but he doesn’t mind having relationship problems with you:

"I hope we fight many more times, but about totally different things because it means we’ve really solved the previous issues."

— percy jackson:

wtf did you both do to get into a fight?

Percy won't waste a second, trying to resolve it immediately by asking and reflecting on his own actions. "What did I do wrong?" if it was his fault. "Can you listen to me for a second?" if it was you.

He hates being mad at you, just can’t stand it. But if the fight starts, he wants to start or finish it (or both).

Yes, he might cry.

Yes, he might raise his voice. "No, I didn't do anything. LISTEN TO ME."

Then he apologizes for it because he lost it.

He tries to hold your hands and says, "Babe, babe…"

He makes you both breathe and talk calmly.

He argues, of course, but differently. He’ll stop the conversation. "You know what? I'll think about it." He leaves or makes you leave.

Consequently, he might stay mad for days, or both of you might be mad at each other, but he’s thinking of what to say rather than just calming down. (Nothing wrong with that, everyone handles feelings differently and that's valid.)

Yes, he asks his mom.

Yes, he asks Paul.

You both end up fixing things, and he hugs you tight, giving you kisses all over your face while pouting.

"I missed you, babe."

[orionhelluvaranting]

Like creator, like character

Isn't that interesting how every bloody time someone tries to call Stolass' out this frigging owl finds a way to justify himself or shift the blame?

"I would feel bad if I hurt you but we both know I didn't do that!"

"Cheating implies there was a betrayal..."

"I don't look down on you!"

"I didn't leave you, I would never, that wasn't my choice!"

And do you know who does the exact same thing?

Vivziepop by herself! 🌟

"You disapprove me for sexualizing the rapist and preferring to sell merch with him rather than with his victim? C'mon, guys, Val isn't real! He's Karen from 'Mean Girls'! Fiction is an escape!.. You're just pissy your faves didn't get merch!"

"I liked the post calling my haters 'subhumans'? Well, people are just 'exhausted of being attacked for liking a show'. My fans harass critics? It sucks, but my fans are 'scared to talk about liking the show due to the harassment'. So you're no any better!"

"You've found a plothole XYZ, inconsistency in the story, lame jokes or any other flaws of my shows? No, my writing is smart and logical, bc I said so! Learn to read between the lines!"

"You think I have favoritism toward certain characters? No way! Stolass and Blitz are BOTH in the wrong, I'm gonna show this! Millie isn't ignored by the narrative, actually I'm so excited for you to know about her more! Loona doesn't speak a half of the season because... it was easier on the budget. HB has steered more towards a male-led stories. It's intended this way. You're just misunderstand my genius thought process."

"That's not my problem", "I care about SA victims," "Grow up!" etc.

And I'm not even talking about the justifying/problematic tweets she simply liked 💫

This woman always has an excuse. For everything. Just like Stolass does. Honestly I'd rather not speculate about Stolass being Viv's self-insert (as other critics said long before) but that kind of behavior only confirms such statements. It's like they both live by this quote:

Say whatever you want but for me this is the main proof that Stolass will NEVER take responsibility for his own actions. Because it's seems like Vivienne has no clue how to do this either. She doesn't think she could ever be wrong. So she uses the same mentality for Stolass since he's her beloved pet.

And which one of Viv's excuses is your personal favorite? Mine is "We didn't ask anyone to redesign these characters, it's a choice". Sounds like "They should've seen that coming! It's their own fault they're harassed! What did they even expect?" for me. Just fucking brilliant! 😤💢

PS/ I haven't been monitoring Vivziepop closely enough all the time and maybe I don't see the whole picture, so please correct me if I'm wrong here but... I can't remember a single time this woman admitted her wrongness or apologized sincerely. Ever. I mean, if there's at least one case of Viv making amends or smth it would be nice, even if it prolly won't fix everything.

[roosterforme]

Always Ever Only You Part 32 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You try to keep it together as much as you can in Annapolis, but that's easier said than done. Bradley realizes that while this week feels unbearable, a deployment would be much worse. And you cautiously tell Bradley there are two people you think should be the first ones to know about the baby.

Warnings: Swearing, adult language, pregnancy topics, angst, fluff

Length: 4100 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order. Always Ever Only You masterlist. Gorgeous banner by @mak-32

Monday morning came way too early on the east coast, especially when you barely slept and couldn't stop throwing up. "Why?" you groaned from your spot on the floor next to the toilet. You had exactly three hours until you had to give your presentation at 10:00, but Cat was already texting you from her hotel room across the hallway about getting breakfast. You'd be lucky if you could stomach a single peanut butter cracker and squeeze yourself into your uniform on time. 

You crawled back out to the bedroom and rummaged in your suitcase for one of the ginger candies Bradley packed for you. It couldn't hurt at this point, so you shoved it in your mouth and pulled yourself up onto the bed. It was amazing that you could possibly feel this shitty. Your ribs and back hurt from constantly throwing up, and you were starting to feel dehydrated, but the idea of drinking something was too taxing to even consider.

"Why are you so mean?" you moaned as you rolled onto your side, letting your hand rest on your belly. "I actually love you, and you're being so mean to me all the time. Why?" You sucked on the candy and laughed. "You'll prefer your dad, I can already tell." 

You kind of wanted to call him, but you didn't want to wake him up at four in the morning, so you settled on trying to get dressed instead. It was amazing that you did nothing but throw up, yet you were still all bloated and puffy. Your khaki pants were a little too snug for comfort, but you had no other option at the moment. When you looked at your butt in the mirror, you shrugged. 

"Whatever," you whispered, buttoning your shirt as your stomach growled angrily. "Please, make up your mind," you begged your body as you heard a knock at your door. You pasted on a fake smile and opened it to reveal Cat Coleman looking like a million fucking dollars while you looked like a sewer rat. "Morning," you rasped.

Her eyes went a little wide as she pushed your door open. "Did you not get any sleep? You look awful."

You huffed out a breath, realizing you buttoned your shirt up wrong. "I'm fine," you muttered as you fixed it. "I'm just not quite ready to go yet."

"Yes, I gathered that much," she replied, eying you up and down. "Are you going to be able to present today? Because I can't do this without you."

You shot her a scathing look. "Of course I can present today. I'm fine. Great. Golden." You were in all honesty on the verge of throwing up again.

"Okay," she said with zero conviction. "Well, just knock on my door when you want to grab some breakfast and head over to the Naval Academy."

"Will do," you promised her. As soon as she was gone, you gagged into the toilet one more time before brushing your teeth and putting on enough makeup to hide the fact that it looked like you were going to fall over. 

You felt weak as you tried to eat a pack of crackers so your stomach had something in it. This was a lot easier when Bradley was with you, rubbing your back and holding a glass of cold water for you to take sips from. You moaned softly and fought against the tears. If you thought about him too long, you were going to cry. Or worse... start to get turned on. 

"I don't have time for this," you whined as you checked your phone. How was it already 8:00? Fuck, it was still too early to call Bradley, but now your mom and dad were both texting you to see if you were coming for dinner on Thursday. You knew you were going to have to invite Cat to come with you, since you only had one rental car. The idea of trying to get through the night with all of them was too much to consider at the moment. 

Ignore it. Ignore everything. That was all you could do. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Focus on the presentation. Focus on not throwing up. That was the key.

You knocked on Cat's door, and she opened it immediately, dragging the tub of equipment out into the hallway with her. "It's late, so I figured we would eat breakfast and then head right to the conference?"

"Sure," you replied, picking up one end of the tub. But it really was heavy, and you struggled to get it to the elevator with her. "I'm actually not that hungry, so we can just get whatever you want on the way."

Cat scoffed. "I wanted to eat at Waffle House. I miss Annapolis so much."

Just thinking about the sticky floors and smell of maple syrup was turning your stomach at the moment. "Maybe we can do that tomorrow morning instead? Since we don't have our second presentation until Wednesday?"

"Fine," Cat agreed, and the two of you took the bin out to the rental car. She offered to drive, and you let her. Apparently you fell asleep on the ten minute ride, and she had to wake you up to go through security. "They want your ID card to get through the gate," she said, shaking your shoulder. 

"Oh," you groaned, digging it out of your pocket and handing it to her. 

"Seriously, are you sure you're okay?" she whispered as the guards inspected the car.

"Just jetlag," you promised, resisting the urge to roll down the window and barf. "I'm totally fine. Let's get this show on the road."

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

Bradley poked at his burrito bowl in the cafeteria. Even the green hot sauce wasn't helping his mood since you couldn't actually eat it right now. It was just making him sad. He'd written five pages in the notebook for the baby, but it just made him miss you more. He wondered what you were doing right now. Surely your presentation must be over, but he hadn't heard from you. Maybe you had already checked in with Bickel. Maybe he should go up and talk to your boss and see?

"Wow," Nat said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Focus, Rooster."

"I'm sorry," he replied, trying to give her his full attention. "What did you say?"

"I asked you three times if you wanted to go see the new Tom Cruise movie with me tonight. I have a coupon for a free large popcorn that's about to expire."

"Yes. Absolutely." He'd do anything to keep himself busy this week. "What time?"

"6:30. I'll pick you up so you can call your wife from the car and talk to her before she goes to sleep east coast time."

"Sounds good," he agreed, taking his phone out to let you know about his plans. After work, when he was eating a bowl of cereal for dinner, you finally wrote back. 

Baby Girl Bradshaw: The first presentation went pretty well. Have fun at the movie. I love you.

"That's it?" he asked Tramp after reading the message twice. Nat knocked on the door at the same time he called you. 

When you answered with a soft, "Roo," followed by a groan, he had to take a deep breath.

"You okay, Sweetheart?" he asked as he headed for the front door to let his friend in.

"No," you moaned. "I had a rough day. I feel disgusting, and now your voice is making me horny."

This was admittedly not the best time for phone sex. He paused as he said, "Nat just got here, but if you need me to cancel the movie plans, I can do that."

"No," you gasped, "don't cancel your plans. Go have fun. We can talk tomorrow."

He shook his head as he said, "I'd rather talk to you now. I'll cancel."

"No! We can talk now. Put me on speaker so I can say hi to Nat."

"Fine," he agreed, unlocking and opening his front door. Tramp made a run for Nat as Bradley tapped the icon for speakerphone and said, "My wife wants to say hi to you."

His best friend took the phone right out of his hand and had a full conversation with you while she rummaged through the refrigerator and helped herself to a seltzer. Bradley stood there as patiently as he could, simultaneously feeling annoyed that you were telling Nat all about your presentation while also feeling relieved that he remembered to hide the ultrasound photos. You and his friend laughed and laughed together, and then he started tapping his wrist to get her to move things along.

"We'll be late," he told Nat, and she rolled her eyes at him.

"Here's your husband back," she told you. "Have fun in Annapolis. Who knows, maybe you'll meet someone less annoying."

"Don't tell her that," Bradley said as he turned off speakerphone. "Don't listen to her, Sweetheart."

But you were just laughing now as he held the phone to his ear and followed Nat out to the driveway. He had to kick aside so much trash to get in her car, he was about to offer to drive instead, but she was already starting the engine. "This is fucking disgusting," he told her, covering the mouthpiece of his phone. "Clean your shit."

She just tore out of the driveway and said, "Talk to your wife before we get to the theater."

"Are you in the car?" you asked softly.

"Yeah. Unfortunately," he grunted. "Can you tell me about your presentation?"

"I nailed it even though I threw up so much this morning," you told him, but then you moaned. "Am I on speakerphone?" 

"No."

"Bradley! I am so fucking horny, Daddy!" Your voice was extra whiny, and the last thing Bradley wanted was an erection in front of his best friend, but he could hear in your voice how badly you needed him. "I was talking to Commander Patterson after my presentation, and I swear Roo, he asked me if Top Gun aviation was a good fit for me, and all I could think about was your cock the whole time. I even told him that things from Top Gun aviation are a really snug fit for me!"

Bradley felt his cheeks warm up. He had no idea who Commander Patterson was, but he said, "I think Top Gun aviation is the place for you, Sweetheart. Nothing else is gonna fit you quite right."

"Bradley!" you whined, and the sound went straight to his cock as Nat adjusted the air conditioner settings. "Fuck, you remember that time you fucked me in the back of our Bronco after I texted you dirty photos at dinner?"

"Yeah," he grunted, closing his eyes and actually trying not to think about it.

"Remember on our honeymoon when you finger fucked your cum into my pussy and then traced my tattoo?"

He growled out your first name. "I absolutely do, but I think perhaps we should talk about that later?"

"Yes, yes, you're right. I'm sorry. I'm going to get my vibrators out and listen to old voicemail messages you left for me so I can get off, okay? Have fun at the movie. I love you."

The call went dead right as Nat pulled into the parking lot, and the trash at Bradley's feet shifted as she went careening over a speed bump. He was trying to catch his breath. All he really wanted was a little more information about your presentation and to make sure you and the nugget were okay, but what he got was a semi that he was trying to keep at bay.

"If I get nachos and a soft pretzel and popcorn will you eat some?" she asked as she parked. 

"Yeah," he grunted as he unbuckled his seatbelt. 

"Listen," Nat said as she fixed her hair in the mirror. "I know you miss her, and rightfully so since she's way cooler than you, but if you just give me one word answers all night, it's going to piss me off."

"Sorry," he added, trying to remember how to talk. Right now you were possibly getting off while listening to old voicemail messages that you kept? Of him just talking to you? Jesus, why was that making him so hot?

Nat was glaring at him now. He needed to focus.

"I'm sorry. No more one word answers. Let's go. It's time for Tom Cruise."

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

When you woke up on Tuesday, you were snuggled up and so warm, you reached for Bradley. "Roo?" But when you opened your eyes, you were met with the sterile looking hotel room through your blurry vision. Now you remembered talking to Nat and Bradley on the phone before masturbating and falling asleep. When you sat up in bed, you definitely didn't feel as awful as you expected. And when you eased yourself to standing, you were surprised that your stomach didn't lurch. 

You had one text message from your husband, and when you put your glasses on to read it, you laughed. 

Bradley Rooster Bradshaw <3 <3 <3: baby girl, i'm going to need you to describe in detail for me exactly how you got off. while listening to my voicemails? please, as much detail as you can. i hope you came hard thinking about me. i love you. the movie was good. i'll take you next week if you want.

You wrote back to tell him that you did in fact come while you listened to a long rambling voicemail he left you a few months ago about how he left the house without his shopping list and made it all the way to Costco before he realized it. "Your Daddy has a nice voice, little nugget," you whispered, pressing one gentle palm to your belly. 

It was 8:30, and you didn't have too much planned for the day other than breakfast at Waffle House with Cat. You had to give another presentation tomorrow, and you were excited to talk to some more superior officers afterwards. You were also supposed to make it to a cocktail hour this evening, but you were planning on ditching it and hoping Cat could network for both of you. It would be nearly impossible to avoid drinking without drawing attention to yourself when there were waiters walking around with flutes of champagne. 

You took a quick shower and got yourself ready, and you tapped on Cat's door. When she opened it, she eyed you skeptically. "You look so much better today. Everything okay?"

"I think it was just the jetlag," you told her smoothly. "Wanna go to Waffle House?"

"Hell yes," she replied, turning to grab her bag. "Hopefully we don't run into my ex or anyone I used to work with."

In all your morning sickness and preparation back in San Diego, you had forgotten that Cat also had roots in Maryland. "If we run into Mike, point him out to me. I'll punch him in the face."

She laughed. "I would personally love to see that."

You drove the rental car through the familiar town to the diner you'd been to many times with Cam when you were at the Naval Academy together. You snapped a picture to send to him before walking inside. Sure enough, the floors were sticky, but it smelled like strong coffee, and your stomach started growling. You silently prayed that whatever you ate managed to stay down, at least until you were alone again. 

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Cat asked you as you glanced at the menu, a little disappointed that they didn't have avocado toast. 

"I thought maybe I would take a nap at some point."

"Oh, that's actually a great idea. I might do that as well. I never get a full night of sleep when I'm home with Jeremiah."

You ordered a stack of pancakes and some bacon and then listened to Cat order the signature waffle. When the waitress wandered away, you asked, "Is Jake watching him this week?" with a little smirk. You already knew he was. Well, him and Hondo both were.

She played with the container of sugar and didn't meet your eyes as she said, "I think this week will make or break my relationship with Jake."

"Why?" you gasped. 

She was quiet for a moment as she glanced out the window. "He practically begged me to let him help watch Jeremiah. So he and Uncle Bernie are sharing duties. I just... know how my uncle feels about Jake. They clash, and none of it is really Jake's fault. I just need to make some decisions when we get back."

Your stomach lurched. "What kind of decisions?"

She shrugged and poked her silverware. "If they can't get along, then I'll have to decide if I can reasonably keep putting everyone through this. I'll likely never be able to afford my own place, and Bernie is the only family I still talk to. But Jake...." She had a dreamy look in her eyes as she said, "I wasn't expecting to ever fall in love again."

The only thing you could think to say was, "He loves Jeremiah."

She didn't humor you with a response. Instead she asked, "Are you planning on seeing your parents while we're here?"

"Yeah," you answered as the food arrived. "About that... you mind if I use the car on Thursday evening? You're more than welcome to join me, but they want me to have dinner with them at home."

"You can use the car all you want," she replied. "And I'll think about it. Thanks." As you were coating your food in syrup, she asked, "Weren't Bradley's parents from Maryland as well?"

"Virginia," you replied immediately. "They were both from the Norfolk area. Nick grew up closer to the beach, and Carole grew up in the city." As you took a bite of pancake, your stomach growled awkwardly, but a warm thought lit up in your mind. "Hey, so you wouldn't mind too much if I actually used the car today?"

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

Bradley was in the air all day on Tuesday, and he kept looking at his little collection of photos longingly. He had one of you from when the two of you were dating. You were mid laugh, face lit up, looking right at him. And then he had a wedding photo as well. It was the one the photographer took where the sun was just hitting the horizon behind you. And now he also had a little stack of ultrasound pictures to look at.

When his comms crackled to life, he tucked the photos away and got himself in position for some tactical dog fighting with Nat and Bob. Bradley loved flying, but more and more he had been considering what might come next for him. One day he could get injured or fail an eye exam. Then what? Other than being home with you and the nugget at that point, he didn't know what else the Navy could offer him.

"Tally, tally!" Bob called out, and Bradley easily dodged the attack. He knew he was good. He knew he was the right mix of cautious and impulsive. He had to be. But there also needed to be more, because if this week was teaching him anything, it was that too many long deployments away from his family would be unbearable. 

When he finally touched down on the runway at 2:30, he was hungry and thirsty, and Maverick dismissed him to the rec room along with Nat and Bob. When he checked his phone, he had a bunch of missed calls and texts from you. 

"Hey, you go ahead," he told them. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Alright," Bob replied, and Bradley watched them walk inside the tower while he read your most recent message. 

Baby Girl Bradshaw: I have a little surprise for you. Any chance you can facetime?

He had no idea what you could have in mind for him. A little surprise could be anything. Shit, it could be dirty. He glanced around before tucking himself up against the side of the building with his aviators perched on his nose. He dropped his helmet gently to the ground and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair as he called you. 

"Bradley!"

Your gorgeous face filled his phone screen, and he smiled immediately. "Hey, Sweetheart. You look pretty."

"Thank you. I feel good today."

"How's the nugget?"

You laughed. "As finicky as ever."

You were obviously outside somewhere, and the sky was cloudy behind you as you walked past some trees. "Where are you? And what's my surprise?"

You bit your lip and looked between the phone screen and something else before you knelt down on the ground. "I just had this silly idea earlier when I was eating breakfast." You tilted the phone away from your face, and then Bradley knew exactly where you were. "But I thought we could tell them the news together? Let them be the first to know?"

He pulled his sunglasses from his face and stared at his phone screen as tears blurred his vision. "Baby Girl," he gasped as he looked at his parents' gravesite. Both headstones were decorated with fresh flowers which you must have just placed there today, and you had tucked an ultrasound photo underneath a few pebbles as well.

"Do you want to tell them?" you asked, your voice just the softest whisper that made him ache even more. 

"Yeah," he managed to say as he fought to keep his composure as a tear slid down his cheek. "Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad. That's not just my perfect wife sitting there with you. That's your grandchild, too."

He could hear you laughing and crying at the same time as you rearranged the pebbles. "Still just a nugget right now, but we'll bring him or her back again someday. Right, Roo?" you asked, turning the phone back to your gorgeous face. 

Bradley nodded as he sobbed. "Yeah," he rasped as you smiled at him and swiped at your own tears. "Of course. The three of us will come back together. We can have a picnic. Let the kiddo meet Grandma Carole and Grampy Goose."

"That sounds perfect."

"Hey, Sweetheart?" he managed as he cried. "I fucking love you so much. You know that, right?"

Your voice was still soft, and Bradley wanted to melt into it. "Yeah. I know."

He wiped his cheeks with the rough sleeve of his flight suit as he asked, "You really drove three and a half hours from Annapolis to the cemetery?"

You curled up on your side next to the ultrasound photo as you said, "Yeah. It seemed like a no-brainer. I thought they should be the first ones to know."

"Fuck." He had to fight for composure. "I would marry you a hundred times. A thousand times. I would marry you a million fucking times, Sweetheart."

You laughed softly. "I'd let you."

Those were some of the sweetest words Bradley had ever heard in his life, and you said them as you and the baby were curled up there with the memory of his mom and dad. He would literally never get over how perfect you really were. 

Then you popped up and groaned, "Oh no." And Bradley was treated to the vivid facetime experience of watching you run a few feet to your left before you threw up in the shrubs. 

"Take some deep breaths," he coaxed, just like he would if you were in the bathroom at home. "Do you have some water and the ginger candy with you?"

"In the rental car," you told him as you set your phone on the ground. "I was doing so well today, too."

He didn't want to say it, but he knew this meant the baby was nice and healthy. "Why don't you curl up with Carole again, Baby Girl. She told me she threw up non-stop when she was pregnant. I'm sure she can commiserate."

"Actually, I think I will," you told him when you picked up the phone once again. "I'm going to hang out with my in-laws a little longer. Have a chat about how much I adore their son. Maybe get their opinion on some baby names."

He laughed. "Don't let them talk you into Bradley Junior."

You shook your head adamantly. "I'd sooner allow you to name the nugget Bronco."

"Hell yes!" he cheered. "Bronco Bradshaw is still on the table."

You cradled your forehead in your hand, but you were smiling. "Get back to work while the nugget and I spend some time with your mom and dad."

"I love you more than life itself, Baby Girl."

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

She treats him so well. Fuck, this even made me tear up a little bit. Grandma Carole and Grampy Goose would have been the best. Next we will find out what kind of trouble awaits in Maryland. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 33

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@chassy21

@solacestyles

@daisyhollyxox

@wintercap89

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@chaoticassidy

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@sylviebell

@wkndwlff

@horseslovers2016

@gennyanydots

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@magicalmorg

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@ughthisisntright

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

[naamahdarling]

I don't GET it.

My doctor doesn't want to write me a scrip for a specific med because I'm on a super high dose and he wants me to see a specialist.

He sent me to a specialist. A PITA since usually I do my bloods at the same time I visit whatever GP I have and have done this since 2007. But fucking fine, whatever, not like I have other shit to do and limited access to transportation or anything.

The specialist is like "...You're stable on this so why change it???"

The specialist didn't tell my GP last year that I could just be on this dose.

A year later my GP balks at refilling the scrip. I am severely irritated.

FINE. The referral expired months ago. I need a new one, I get one.

The specialist's office calls. He has moved 40 minutes away, one way. I like the drive but No. Just...No.

The specialist's office, the largest in the area, has nobody else that takes my very common insurance. It is also very firm that there are very few of these specialists, and the ones there are tend not to take many new patients.

My GP DID agree to refill these meds until I could see someone. Hopefully he won't change his mind.

The medication that is such a big deal? Is it the stuff I'm on that is scary and bad and not for naughty future addicts? Is it the stuff I'm on that is so dangerous it is also on the nastybad fuck informed consent list?

No.

Fuckin $10 thyroid meds. That I'm stable on. That's the huge problem.

Like, I get that having levels that are too high is Bad. But so is not having ANY meds. I did that for 2 months last summer when I ran out of ADHD meds and lost the bottle of thyroid meds and because my ADHD was so horrendous I never tore my mess of a room apart looking for where they fell, and did not realize how long it had been because time is unknowable.

I could not THINK. I genuinely thought something was direly wrong. No. It was brain fog, which is terrifying AND inconvenient and dangerous, by the way. I was cold and tired all the time and hungry all the time (lack of ADHD meds does that, though so it may have been that). I was forgetting to do things like them off the stove burner, or turning on the toaster and immediately putting something on top of it. I was fine in a week once I got the meds again.

I will not be able to organize multiple appointments in that condition. The person who helps me? Also has horrible ADHD and a job that does not leave them free to make calls for most of the day. Or watch me to make sure I turn off the stove.

I'm so annoyed.

I get why this is happening, my GP is not wrong, exactly, and I know he will fix this. I know it is the lack of endocrinologists. But oh my god. Come on.

Also I REALLY do not want to take up an endocrinologist's incredibly important time with something so basic. Like, I really do not need to be doing that. I prefer specialists for most things, honestly. I just get better care. But the ones I usually see are plentiful. Everywhere. I really, really have a moral objection to using specialists if the discipline is understaffed and it is not absolutely necessary. Elderly folks, kids, and truly sick folks need this more. Just give me my meds until my bloods are out of bounds again.

[python333]

residual self-image — python³

― ― ― ―

synopsis residual self-image is the mental projection of your digital self; it refers to your own physical appearance that is understood by you, that is projected unto you by yourself. you see yourself as something to be ashamed of. price sees something different.

relationships platonic!captain price & gn!reader.

characters cap. price.

word count 7.6k

warnings anxiety/panic attack [not sure exactly how to classify it; i think it's more of an anxiety attack?], reader takes SSRIs [zoloft/sertraline], suicidal thoughts and almost-suicide attempt, reader is the most unreliable narrator known to mankind, second person pov [you/your/yourself], usage of [name], usage of [c/n] for call sign/code name, bad matrix references/spoilers for the matrix and the matrix: reloaded.

note please please PLEASE let me know if this comes off as me romanticizing having anxiety or taking antidepressants so that i can fix/rewrite it /srs i don't take any form of antidepressants or anxiety medication and i also am not diagnosed with either of those!! nothing i say is final!!! i do not have firsthand experience with what reader goes through in this fic!! sorry i disappeared for a second, have some food as an apology. again, feel free to correct me on anything you think is inaccurate and i will (most likely) change it!! also sorry for like 3k words of backstory oopsies

In The Matrix, Morpheus gives Neo two options: blue pill, or red pill?

He says that if Neo takes the blue pill, “the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe”. But the second option, the red pill, if Neo takes that, he will “stay in wonderland and [he] show [Neo] how deep the rabbit hole goes”. Neo, of course, takes the red pill, and is shown the “real world”. 

Neo is thought to be “the One”. With the “O” in “One” being capitalized, so you know that it’s a pretty important title. 

In the end, Neo becomes confident in who he is and what he can do, and defeats the “Agents”. Trinity confesses her love to a “sleeping” Neo, their ship is getting attacked by whatever those weird fuckin’ creatures were called, and Neo defeats the last of the agents. The end. 

You take pills too. But yours are blue. They’re matte, powdery, baby-blue pills that are branded with the name “ZOLOFT”. It’s sertraline, to be specific, and you’ve been taking it for the past few months. You’re new to pills like these, ones meant to treat anxiety and depression and a number of other medical issues, so you didn’t know how much to take at first. You asked your doctor so many questions. You think about it often, and wonder if, even though it’s their job, that doctor had gotten annoyed at some point because of your inquiry. 

These pills do similar things to the ones in The Matrix, though. You take them, preferably at night, and wake up in your bed like you always do. You believe whatever you want to believe, and another chapter is closed at the end of every day, marking another page closer to the end of your story. 

Some days, the story feels like it’s going to end sooner than expected. 

A side effect of sertraline―or, well, Zoloft specifically―happens to be suicidal ideation. It’s not that common, not that talked about, and isn’t the most well-known. But then again, most mental disorder-treating medicines have some kind of side effect like that, and plenty of people take things like antidepressants without an issue―or so you thought―so surely you could deal with something as simple as sertraline, right?

Wrong. So, so, wrong. 

It’s probably really bad for a person who works in a military group to be dealing with such thoughts. You think about quitting sometimes, for the sake of the other people in the task force, because what could happen if the wrong straw breaks the wrong camel’s back while you’re doing an assignment? What if, caught in the crossfire between your team and your enemy, you say fuck it and decide that it’s all just too much? What are the odds of that happening? What are the odds of anything happening? What were the odds of the Earth being created, of the first animals evolving, of the first humans speaking the first languages? Statistics are so important, chance is so important, and odds determine everything. What are the odds of you deciding whether or not you have the will to live? The ability to keep going, to keep the routine you’ve always kept, to keep from taking one of those G19s from the armory and turning off the safety before pulling the trigger? To commit to such a permanent solution, one you’ve deemed as the “s-word”, because thinking about it sometimes is too much.

Or maybe it’d be a rope, your brain continues without your consent, A chain. Anything that will hold your body weight up enough for you to dangle from the fan on the ceiling―an image that makes you lean towards a chain, sickeningly enough, because of the idea of your abnormally stretched neck on display. The purple bruising that would appear, the indentations of each link, the smell of your blood and the metal of the chain unable to be told apart. Maybe your eyes would still be open, and it would look like you’re staring down at anyone who walks into your office. There’s so many possibilities. They add up, and create new odds, new chances. Every time you simply think, you are creating a new way to go about life, and that creation is sometimes stored so deeply in the back of your mind that it haunts you. It comes back around, becomes more common, the chances of it happening go up. 

Sometimes the odds feel like they aren’t in your favor at all. Sometimes you wonder how you could’ve ever thought that any part of the universe was against you. It’s not bipolar; it doesn’t come and go in extremes, it just comes and goes. The odds will lower in your favor some days, and you will deem those days “bad days”, and other days they will be so high you don’t even think about “good days” or “bad days”. But those other days are almost as bad as the “bad days”, because they go by so quickly. You take them for granted so easily, too easily, and they leak through the thin lines between your fingers, leaving you with nothing by the end of the day. 

Sometimes on “bad days”, your hands go from cupped to praying, and you will plead with yourself to just get better. You never do, on those days, and after taking your medicine you will go to sleep and believe that the next day will be better. Or, at least, convince yourself that the next day will be better. 

You would’ve understood if Neo took the blue pill. If he stayed in blissful ignorance, even after all of the weird shit that happened to him. If he continued to wake up every day in a “normal” world, to sell computer systems and hacking programs, to be anyone but “The One”. 

Because that’s what you do. You take your medicine, and go on with life as normally as possible, even with all of the things that you’ve been through. You wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for saving the world, or beating up robot-alien-things, or whatever. Just like how you don’t want to be held responsible for really just… taking care of yourself. 

Which you’re shit at, by the way, if that doesn’t make things worse. 

You take your sertraline and that’s about it. It’s not like it doesn’t work, it’s just underwhelming sometimes. Before you got on it, you would take more things to heart, think about things more, and were probably a little more prone to actually killing yourself. After starting to take it, it was admittedly pretty rough. It felt like your anxiety had increased a little, like your paranoia had only heightened, and everything felt so elevated. 

Then, maybe a few months after beginning to take it, everything dimmed out. Like one of those lightbulbs you can dim, everything gradually came back down, and even lowered to a more tolerable level. You were glad, at first, that you had endured those first few months the way that you did because you’re not sure you would’ve even been here to this day had you not. Reading several articles and Reddit posts about Zoloft definitely didn’t help, especially as someone who was taking it partially for anxiety, but still, you managed. 

And then you realized that just taking the medicine didn’t do as much as you hoped it would. 

It helps you deal with anxious and depressive thoughts, yes, but you still feel like something’s missing. That lightbulb in your mind has dimmed, but it’s only just enough light to see ahead of you. Before all of this, the light was bright enough to blind you, to make you see that dreadful stark-white that still sometimes haunts you―when it dimmed down to where it is now, it was obviously a relief, but you feel like now there’s not enough light. 

You understand the whole point of the medicine is to dim that light, to help bring down your mental state to a more “normal” one, but you think that even people who don’t have diagnosed mental disorders feel strong emotions like you used to. Maybe not as strong, but definitely something adjacent to it. You miss that, funnily enough―getting strong enough emotions. 

Right now, you’re sitting at your desk in your office, staring down at the plate of mashed potatoes in front of you. You get it almost every time it’s offered, and endure the teasing you get from your teammates, all for one purpose. 

To hide your pills in it.

Mashed potatoes are starchy, yes, but easy to swallow without chewing. They’re thick enough to help hide the feeling of the pill going down your throat, and don’t leave that weird aftertaste in your mouth that taking your medicine with water does. You tried taking the pills with water at first, like you would with any other medicine, but with this specifically you just can’t. It’s too easy to notice, they’re too big to just hide with water, and it feels like swallowing a rock every time you take them with water. 

So, mashed potatoes it is. 

The pill is already mixed into it. You had folded the small blue tablet into the mushed vegetable with a plastic fork, trying to keep it as hidden as possible, making sure no hints of blue bled through the beige-yellow of the potato.

You’re now watching the mashed potatoes, unblinking, as if it’s going to grow legs and run away from you. It’s never truly easy swallowing the medicine, even with the mashed potatoes coating it, but it’s usually easier than it is today. Then again, today was deemed a “bad day” the moment you woke up, so this was to be expected. 

You grab the white plastic fork after a brief moment of hesitation and pierce the food with it, hand trembling ever-so slightly as you do―not from anxiety, but from your lack of water intake―and pick up a clump of potato with little strength. The vegetable oddly weighs your hand down the tiniest bit more than usual, but you ignore this in favor of pushing yourself to just force the food into your mouth. You try your best not to chew, your jaw only really moving to chew the side of your cheek instead to satisfy your urges, and eventually manage to swallow the food. 

Right off the bat, you can tell the cluster you swallowed had the pill in it. Lucky me, you think almost bitterly, not sure whether you should be happy or uncomfortable, at least it’s over with. It’s not that it’s a bad thing that you got to the pill so quickly, but usually you’re able to get a few bites of medicine-less potato in before the actual medicine itself. Nonetheless, you scoop up another fork-full―fork-full?―of mashed potatoes and try to eat as much as you can to get rid of the weird feeling of having a pill going down your throat. 

Just the fleeting thought of having a pill that big going down your throat makes it feel like your esophagus is closing. You feel yourself grow closer to nausea at the feeling, setting down your fork and pushing the paper plate of your dinner aside, just to rest your elbow on the table and put your forehead in the palm of your head. It’s bad enough that you feel ashamed because of the fact you even have to take antidepressants, so it’s even worse that those same antidepressants are throwing bad side-effects at you. 

Ashamed because needing medicine to function the same way anyone else does feels so pathetic to you. Maybe it isn’t pathetic. Actually, you know it isn’t; you don’t look at other people who do the same thing and think that they should feel as ashamed as you do. But you still look at your bright orange prescription bottle, labeled with your legal name, and think that you shouldn’t need it. 

You think, for a moment, that it’s because of how much you’ve dehumanized yourself. 

Dehumanized is such an ugly word, and it leaves a strange bitterness in your mind after thinking about it, but deep down you feel that it’s true. You know that you’re human, obviously, because physically that’s what you are. You are, undeniably, a homo sapien―a person, a living being that is a bipedal primate mammal. You, in a less literal sense, have those same cords attached to you that Neo did when he first went to the “real world”. 

But you need those cords, you think, lifting your head so that your chin is resting in your palm instead of your forehead, you need to stay attached to the Matrix. 

Because you took the blue pill. You found a way to keep yourself attached to the Matrix, to keep yourself grounded to what you wish you could experience without them. And those cables weigh you down, and that pod you stay encased in limits your movement―sometimes you feel more like the pod than the person inside of it―but it all seems so worth it to you, doesn’t it? To keep believing what you want to believe, to wake up everyday and dose yourself with that fifty-milligrams worth of sertraline hidden under a pile of food, to eat that food and swallow that pill even though it makes you feel like a mutt? 

You take a shuddering breath in, your thoughts building up in volume and mass, more questions entering your mind too fast for you to process them all. You feel that familiar rush of adrenaline, the kind that triggers your ‘fight-or-flight’. It lights your nerves on fire and causes them to jump, to electrify, and you feel your fingers twitch with the feeling. It almost feels like there’s something crawling along your nerves, under your skin, and the thought almost triggers your gag reflex. Your eyelids flutter, barely shutting for just a moment before you force them open. Your gaze flits over to the still-mostly-full plate of mashed potatoes. 

You’re usually able to finish them, even on “bad days”. But today, with nausea swirling uncomfortably in your stomach, and a too-big pill going through the thin tubes inside your body, you find that it’s much harder to even think about picking that fork back up. You can almost feel your heart beating through your palm, that continuous th-thump, th-thump growing exponentially faster, and your palm getting sweatier by the second. You shift your feet and find that invisible needles are poking at the bottom of them, small pins that push and prod at your skin that leave a strange hot-cold feeling. It forces you to take the pressure off of your feet by holding them up ever-so slightly, the soles of your shoes just barely touching the ground. 

You swear your heart rate increases at all the different sensations lingering on your body. You can feel your breathing starting to pick up, and for God knows what reason, you suddenly find it difficult to keep your eyes locked onto one object. Your gaze dances around the room as a surge of chills runs up your spine. A trail of goosebumps rises after each wave of biting cold, passing over the bony projections of your dorsum. After having so many of them, you know instinctively the signs of an oncoming anxiety attack, and know how quick those symptoms escalate from simple shallow breaths to the inability to keep your breathing consistent at all. Yes, they develop slower than a panic attack does, but the gradient from fine to not-fine is hard to view as slow when there’s so many symptoms to keep track of.

At the thought of such a thing happening, your gaze instantly locks onto the prescription bottle sitting on your desk. It’s still uncapped―fortunate for you, because you’re seriously doubting your ability to uncap something with a child-proof cap on it right now―and in your eyes is practically glowing. It’s so tempting, because it’s just right there, so easily accessible, so easy to just grab and pour however many pills you need down your throat. The thought makes you realize how dry your mouth feels, how constricted your throat feels, but your mind is too filled with a flurry of incoherent thoughts to dwell on such feelings. 

With your free hand, you grab the uncapped bottle. It shakes with your hand, now more from your building anxiety than your dehydration, and makes the tablets inside rattle. You bring it to your lips, ignoring the chiding voice in the back of your mind telling you how disgusting it is to just put it on your mouth like that, and shake it just enough to get a single pill out of it. The dryness of the pill sticks to the wetness of your mouth, just below the border of your bottom lip. You set the bottle down and poke at the pill with the tip of your tongue, the weird vanilla-like taste of the medicine spreading across the muscle easily. 

Your mouth is dry, so you have to use the residual saliva sitting on your tongue to slick the pill up enough to go down somewhat-smoothly down your throat. It’s still rough, and some areas of the pill remain powdery, the feeling of it sliding down your throat enough to make you gag. For a brief moment, the action causes the pill to lodge in your throat―it’s not big enough to make you choke or anything, but it’s enough to make your heart beat faster and your hands grip onto the edge of your desk tightly. Your thumbs are tucked under the edge, the first knuckle at the tip of your finger bent and the flesh of the tips of your fingers turning lighter from the pressure. 

You cough once you feel the pill go down your esophagus entirely, and breathe raggedly afterwards. Deep down, you know that the medicine takes some time to work, and that if you gave it a little longer than a minute that you’d start feeling better. But the reeling anxiety that wraps around your throat like a chain seems to pull you impossibly farther away from that betterness, and forces your throat to tighten to a point where your breathing feels limited. You go from breathing through your nose to your mouth, where you can still taste the lingering artificial-vanilla with every inhale. 

It’s getting worse, an annoying voice tells you, one that manages to be louder than the others, the medicine’s supposed to help. You’ve only taken a hundred milligrams so far. Another and it’s a hundred and fifty. An overdose is only if it goes over two hundred.

It’s stupid logic but more tempting the more you think about it. It is, after all, only a third pill. You’d be pushing it—

Do you really care all that much that you’re pushing it? What if you want to break that limit? The limits you made, to keep yourself alive, that you still sometimes question the existence of? 

―but that doesn’t really compute well in your mind, and you soon find yourself reaching for the bottle again. Each pill shakes with your hand, and with each tremor another wave of tablets hits the sides of the bottle, like a visual representation of the thoughts that bounce off of the walls of your brain. You lift the bottle, and bring it to your lips, the area that makes contact with your mouth cooler than the rest of the bottle from earlier when you had done the same thing. You’re about to tilt it up before you hear a sudden knock at your door. 

The noise is startling and makes you drop the bottle, the pills spilling over the edge of it and onto the table. 

“Shit,” you curse quietly under your breath, quickly flattening your hand and sweeping all of the pills into a pile, and picking them up in clusters. You manage to get them all back in the bottle before another knock sounds out, and cap the bottle before opening up one of the small drawers on the side of your desk and shoving it in there. 

“Come in!” you call out in a strained voice, praying that you’ll be able to keep it steady for as long as the person at the door needs to talk to you. You close the drawer just as the door creaks open. 

Much to your horror, you look up to see your Captain. 

Your palms are still sweaty as he walks in, so you try to discreetly wipe them off on your pants, and hope to whoever can help you that he doesn’t pay too much attention to the sweat gathered on your forehead. You take a deep breath as silently as you can, attempting to gather yourself before Price can notice anything being wrong.

“It’s a quarter past two,” Price comments once he walks in, closing the door behind him, “why are you still awake?” 

You look over to the digital clock on your desk almost immediately and, oh shit, it is exactly 2:15. You look back over at Price, who is busying himself with pulling the chair that was once in front of your desk around it, presumably to sit next to you. You still feel the dreadfully fast pace of your heart, that th-thump, th-thump, th-thump that you can hear blaring in your ears. It makes itself known in your chest, in your wrist, even in the base of your throat―almost every pulse point in your body has forced you to become aware of its existence.

You swallow dryly, trying to ignore said feeling, and reply, “Why are you still awake?”

Price raises an eyebrow at you, pulling the chair up beside you and sitting down in it, “I asked first.” 

You look at him with an unimpressed look on your face. “Can’t sleep. Why are you up?”

Price hums and leans back in his seat, arms crossing over each other, “Same reason.”

It doesn’t sound like a lie, but it doesn’t sound entirely true either, in your opinion. It’s not that you don’t trust him, but he just seems like he’s up to something. What that something is, though, you aren’t sure. 

“Why the food?” Price nods over to the plate of mashed potatoes, very noticeably unfinished. 

Your gaze follows his to the mashed potatoes. You can still feel the moisture on the palms of your hands, the small tremors that wrack your fingers, and Price’s presence does nothing to soothe your flaming nerves.

“Wanted dinner,” you shrug as casually as you can, forcing a neutral expression onto your face―you briefly overthink what a neutral expression looks like, and decidedly just let your face relax the best you can, “I didn’t get any when everyone else went, I was busy with something, and didn’t really want to head over to the mess with so many people over there, plus I was busy.” 

You look over at Price after your lengthy explanation, not realizing just how lengthy it was, and watch the corners of his lips quirk up into an amused-yet-worried smile. 

“You said you were busy twice,” he points out, before pausing, and pointing out again, “and it looks like you’ve taken a few bites out o’that at most.” 

You don’t bother to look at the mashed potatoes again; you know very well how they look, and know how undeniably full the plate looks. 

“Didn’t feel that hungry,” you make up a poorly thought-out excuse, that even you can understand is unbelievable. 

Price blinks at you, slowly, before sighing. 

“Are you alright?” Price asks, looking more concerned than amused now. You should’ve known from the moment that he walked in that you wouldn’t be able to hide anything from him. If not for the fact that he always seems to know what’s going on, then because of the overwhelming presence of your disquietude. 

You look at him and try to figure out what to say. What is there to say? You were panicking just two minutes ago, with your prescription bottle in one hand, the other too shaky to hold up the damn thing. You can still taste that vanilla. You can still taste the plastic. The bottle itself never once touched your tongue, but every time your tongue rests in your mouth, the tip of it pokes at the same exact place the bottle made contact with. You expect it to taste of vanilla, like its contents, but it doesn’t; it tastes like the pharmacy you got it at. It tastes like the sterile white of the counter, the fingers of the person who handed it to you, the money you spent on it, and the time it took you to get it. 

It’s nothing pleasant. The strange vanilla of the pills aren’t either, but they’re preferable to the bottle itself. 

Price notices you zoning out for a moment, and waves a hand in front of your face. Your eyes unconsciously track his hand for a moment before you blink back into reality and look at him. You knew you were fucked earlier, but when you look at his expression, at the look in his eyes as he watches you snap back to reality, you know that he knows. Maybe he doesn’t know exactly what happened, or how it happened, but he knows something. Fuck, he knows. 

Or, maybe he does know. Maybe he heard your cursing through the door, even with your low voice, maybe he heard the pills spill onto the desk, maybe he heard the opening and closing of the drawer, maybe he―

He’s staring at you.

―has security cameras set up in here, because he does in every room, every hall, everywhere but the bathrooms and the sleeping quarters―

He’s talking. It’s muffled by the sound of your own heavy breathing.

―or maybe it’s just intuition, a gut feeling he has, where he just knows that something’s wrong, that same gut feeling that everyone seems to get when something isn’t the way it’s supposed to be―

Your palms are sweaty. Your heart is pounding out of your chest. You’re starting to feel a little lightheaded.

―the same “gut feeling” that you experience every day but have to ignore because it’s not a gut feeling it’s anxiety and your real gut feelings feel the almost the exact same way anxiety does so you may never know if you ever get an actual one―

Price grabs onto your arm, though the feeling of his skin on yours can’t push past the skin-crawling sensation that coats your skin.

―but how do you really know that your gut feelings aren’t gut feelings? How do you know that anything is anything? That it’s really Price that’s sitting next to you, that it’s your own office you’re sitting in, that―

“[name]!” Price’s voice snaps you out of the trance you seem to be in, and you sharply inhale at the sound of his voice, his volume much louder than you expected it to be. 

You didn’t realize how fast and heavy your breathing had really gotten until this point. You look at Price, a little more on the panicked side now, with restless eyes that can’t stop flitting all over his face. He takes his hand off of your arm before you can even notice it was there in the first place, and leans back away from you. 

You try to take deep breaths, but each breath feels like trying to breathe underwater, and each inhale-exhale leaves you shuddering. You look down at your lap, breath hitching and stuttering, and the moment you open your mouth in the hopes of breathing easier, you are all too aware of just how dry it’s become. You’re sure you let out some kind of sound that alerts Price of your growing distress, because he hesitantly leans forward and takes a deep breath. 

“[name],” Price keeps his voice soft and quiet, quieter than he’d been just a few seconds ago, his soothing voice a gentle wave crashing against the rock of your mind, “you’re okay. Look at me, soldier.” 

Like a remote to TV static, the noisiness of your mind is partially calmed and the waves that wash over your brain provide sweet escape from the overwhelming adrenaline and cortisol thrumming in your veins.

Mindlessly, you do as he asks, his words grounding you and tugging you back down to Earth more effectively than any anchor could. When you look at him, his eyes are clouded with concern and there’s a small frown on his face that almost perfectly juxtaposes his usual quokka-smile.

You know you’re still trembling. You can feel the hairs that stick up on your legs and arms, the weird hot-cold feeling that creates pinpricks of discomfort across your body, the way your heart is trying to escape the prison cell of your ribcage—but none of it compares to the unbelievable dizziness you feel. Your head is a balloon filled with helium and it is slowly deflating, but not fast enough. You feel like you’re no longer in control of your own body—or were you ever in control? 

Your stomach is churning. There’s a sense of dread that dwells there. You might throw up. 

Cutting through your thoughts is Price once again.

“You listenin’?” your Captain asks, to which you nod after a delay of a few seconds. Price holds a hand out and gives you a questioning look, the question of ‘can I touch you?’ clear enough on his face that you nod lightly and he takes your hand gingerly.

“Do y’know where you are?” Price asks. You nod, and he softly requests, “can you tell me where?”

“My office,” you answer simply, the gravel in your voice making you wince. The warbling that escapes your mouth is nowhere near your usual voice, and for a moment you think you might be right about needing to vomit, but you manage to push it down and pray. Price ignores this and pushes on.

“And who am I?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. 

“... The Captain.” Price purses his lips—he doesn’t really want to accept this as an answer, because he wants you to say his actual name, but he knows what you mean, and you know what he’s doing. He knows that you mean that you’re here, that you’re present, and you know that he’s trying to ground you the best he can.

“Do you know my name?” he questions, to which you nod again, though a little more moderately, seeing as the repetition of nodding your head only makes you more lightheaded, “what’s my name?”

You take a few shaky breaths, ones that are shallow and uneven, ones that hitch enough for it to be so noticeable that Price manages to pick up on it. You open your mouth to talk, but find that your tongue is too heavy to lift to create coherent sounds. The thought somehow heightens your anxiety, something that seems to be noticeable to Price, judging by how his expression shifts to something impossibly softer.

“Here, let me—” Without another word, Price cautiously brings your hand up to the middle of his chest, where his sternum is. 

He exaggerates his breathing, taking long, deep breaths in, and similarly long exhales. His chest rises and falls satisfyingly, and it’s clear that he wants you to copy him. You try your best at first, taking that same too-deep breath that he does and fail almost immediately as you choke on the air you attempt to inhale. Price brushes his thumb over the back of your hand and takes another exaggerated breath, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. You keep your gaze more focused on the lower half of his face as you copy him, oxygen going in through your nose, and carbon dioxide going out through your mouth. 

That one successful breath is followed by an unsuccessful one, then another successful one, then another, and it’s a little rocky but you find that soon enough you’re breathing. There’s air flowing in and out of your body smoothly, with each exaggerated breath you take, almost in sync with Price, until finally he puts your hand back into your lap but continues to hold it. He squeezes it once before letting go, and clasps his hands together. 

“What’s my name, soldier?” he asks, and this time you think you can answer him. 

“John Price,” his name feels weird coming out of your mouth, especially with no honorifics, but he accepts the answer anyway. 

“Good,” Price praises, giving you a small smile, “you’re doing good.”

The approval he gives you helps to calm your nerves the tiniest bit, and you feel yourself slowly coming down from the God awful high that you’d just been on. Again, you’re not sure how he knows, but he senses that you’re calming down―is it because your breathing is steadier? You aren’t nearly as restless? You’re no longer zoning out?―so he leans back in his chair and watches as you do the same. 

“Now,” he breathes out, “can you tell me what’s going on with you?” 

You look away from him for the briefest moment, sparing a glance at the cabinet you know the bottle of your pills lays in, before looking back at him. If he noticed you pulling your gaze away from him for a split second, he doesn’t mention it nor does he make it known that he did. 

“There’s not really anything going on,” you shrug, to which Price scoffs. 

“[c/n],” he looks at you, disbelieving, “two seconds ago I had to help you breathe normally. I know that there’s something that’s going on, somethin’ that had to trigger what just happened.” 

You stay quiet and he gives you an expectant look. The pressure from his fixed glare makes you feel like you’re about to explode. 

Finally, you answer him defeatedly, though vaguely, “I was in the middle of taking my medicine when you knocked.”

Price stays silent, expecting you to elaborate. 

“And…” you try to find a way to make it sound less awkward than it does in your mind, though you suppose there’s never really a correct way to go about something like this, “I almost took more medicine than I needed to.” 

The silence continues, but now Price looks less expectant, and instead more of a mix between concern and something else you can’t identify. That something, though, is still soft, and still has a hint of pity―maybe sympathy?―to it.

“Almost?” he repeats, “was that on purpose?” 

When you think about it, it’s complicated. You didn’t necessarily intend to overdose, you just dismissed the idea of it. Or, at least, you don’t remember trying to overtly kill yourself. Then again, you knew the risks of taking more pills than prescribed to you; had you taken that third pill, you would’ve only been one more away from an overdose, and even then you’d still probably get some kind of health issue. 

Price’s face hardens when you don’t answer immediately. He must be taking your silence as a “yes”. 

“Not… really,” you answer slowly, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

He nods, waiting a few seconds before asking, “Have you thought about it before?”

By it, for some reason, you sense that he isn’t asking exclusively about taking one too many tablets.

It’s tempting to be dishonest about it; it’s a shameful thing to you, to use the things that are supposed to help you to harm yourself, to be so careless with your own life. You know that it isn’t necessarily all your fault, but there’s still that small part of you that can’t help but feel guilty for using something so many other people try so hard to get to almost kill yourself with. 

After a few beats of silence, you decide to answer, “Yeah.” 

Price nods again, and he looks like he expected that answer. “D’you want to tell me more about that?”

You could, hypothetically, go in-depth about all of your weird thoughts about committing. The ones you’d been having just, what, fifteen minutes ago? Thirty minutes ago? The ones about chains wrapped around your throat, stolen guns from the armory, deep purple bruising and a stretched neck. Those thoughts, the ones that try to make ending your life sound pretty, that try to make it sound appealing. It’s not to convince yourself, you don’t think, but rather to help you come to terms with the fact that you were already convinced that you were going to commit at some point. The thought still scares you, because you’re a pussy―terrible, terrible choice of words, a voice at the back of your mind insists, you’re not a pussy, you’re just like anyone else―but you felt like you just knew that you were gonna die by your own hands. That you’d already made the choice, and now you have to understand it, to realize it. 

You are in that room full of TVs, with The Architect in front of you, telling you that you have no choice. That, in fact, the problem is choice. You are surrounded by a million other yous, all protesting, all denying that you have no choice but to kill yourself, all yelling “Bullshit!” because deniability is the most predictable of all human responses. 

But, you remind yourself, The Architect was wrong. He told Neo that he couldn’t do anything to save Trinity from her “fate”, but Neo did save her. He plunged his hand into her chest and forced her heart to beat. 

That’s true. 

And, you add on, The Architect is a computer program, tasked with mimicking human emotions, despite never having felt them. He could never understand the power of human will, of the desperation so many humans have to live. 

Because The Architect was never alive. He is a sentient computer program, whose job is to create a world in which humans can “live” while they are fed on in the real world, but his problem was his inability to create anything less than perfect. We aren’t expected to be perfect, and are taught that flawlessness doesn’t exist, which is why he came to the conclusion that he needed a “lesser mind” to help him create a better Matrix. 

You aren’t supposed to succumb to the idea of having no choice. Because that, in itself, is a choice. Everything you do is a choice. Even if everything you do will only add up to the same ending, to the same fate, why should you waste time not making the choices you want to make? When you assume that you have no choice, you assume that everything you do will go to waste, but that’s not true. You aren’t the only person that exists. You aren’t the only person who makes choices. The choices you make affect other people’s choices, and those choices affect another person, and another, and another. You still have to live through the choices you make, as does everyone else, so even if everything will end the same, why should you make inherently bad decisions when you could be making good ones? Why should you go through things you don’t have to go through, just because you believe that nothing matters in the end?

“Not really,” you answer Price, snapping yourself out of your thoughts, “I don’t… want to think about it too much right now.” 

Price looks a little more worried now but he doesn’t protest your decision.

“Is there anything in here that you could use to hurt yourself?” he asks after a moment, “Or that you’ve already used?” 

You bite your tongue. Technically, the pills count, you suppose, but those are your meds. You can’t really have those confiscated.

“Other than the medicine, no,” you answer truthfully, much to Price’s relief, as is evident on his face as his hardened expression softens. 

“Good, good,” he shifts in his seat. 

He’s gearing up for something. You can tell with the way he subtly presses his clasped hands together, the way his face goes through a mix of emotions, and the way the deafening silence of the room really seems to be getting to him. 

Suddenly, he asks you, “D’you think you’re going to… ?” 

He doesn’t ask you explicitly, but you have a good idea of what he’s asking.

“I was thinking about it,” you respond softly, “before you came in.”

Price nods, having expected that answer. You’re not sure if it was obvious, or if he just assumed you were thinking about it because of you confessing to having thoughts of it before this. 

“Y’know I have to tell someone about this, right?” Price reminds you gently, as if you didn’t already know, “Someone up the chain. Might be Laswell.” 

You hum affirmatively, because you didn’t expect anything less from him, and know that it’s for the better. It doesn’t make you feel any better, obviously, but you know how to be realistic when the time calls for it, and you know that if the roles were reversed you’d do the same thing. Not because it’s mandatory, but because when you imagine Price in your situation, the thought wraps itself around your heart and twists. 

The room is silent for a beat, and you get the feeling that Price is somehow more uncomfortable with the quiet than you are. He shifts in his seat while you stay still, and he clears his throat to break the silence for a brief moment before speaking up again. 

“It’s late,” he points out the obvious, before pausing and irresolutely asking, “do you want to head back to my quarters with me for the night?” 

His words confuse you for a moment. You open your mouth to ask why, before it suddenly hits you―oh, right, you just basically confessed to being suicidal. He doesn’t want to leave you alone right now. 

“Yeah, sure,” you agree, less questioning than Price expected you to be judging by his momentary look of surprise, before he nods and begins to get up. 

He pushes his chair behind him, standing up straight, and holds a hand out for you to grab. You grab it gingerly and use it to haul yourself up, your knees cracking as you do after having been sat for so long. You wince at the sound and Price gives a light-hearted chuckle.

“I thought I was s’posed to be the old one?” he teases, making you give him an unimpressed look and let go of his hand. The room falls back into soundlessness.

You both remain silent as Price leads you out the door of your office, turning off the lights and closing the door after you, and continues to lead you down to his sleeping quarters. His are farther down the hall from yours, because of his higher rank, and therefore takes longer to walk to from your office. The long walk is quiet enough to hear a pin drop, but you both don’t mind this, as the atmosphere here is more comfortable than the one in your office. 

Eventually, you make it to his room, where he opens the door for you and signals for you to walk in first with his hand. You enter the room and hear him enter shortly after you, and go to sit on his bed before pausing. 

“I’m still in my…” you gesture to your clothes, gear-less but still not your “normal” sleeping clothes. Price raises an eyebrow at you as you wave at the state of yourself. 

“I’ve seen you sleep in worse,” he points out, “and I think you sleep in this than in your actual sleeping clothes.” 

You’re about to ask how he even knows about that, before he answers you before you can voice your question, “I’ve seen you walking back t’your quarters in these clothes and hear you snoring a second later at least ten times.”

You close your mouth and sigh through your nose, before muttering, “Didn’t know I was talkin’ to fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes.” 

Price snorts at your retort, “If I’m Sherlock, are you Watson?”

You think about it for a moment, before shaking your head negatively. 

“No?” Price toes off his boots and walks over to you, sitting on the bed, “Then who are you?” 

You sit down next to him, “I dunno. I’m like…” 

“Like Neo,” you continue, ignoring the way Price’s eyebrows immediately raise, “and you’re Morpheus. But less smart.”

“You’re not Neo,” he scoffs, “and I’m not a less-smart Morpheus.” 

“I wasn’t askin’ you,” you grumble, shaking your already-loose boots off of your feet and crawling up Price’s bed. You manage to snake under the covers and feel Price’s eyes on you as you do, staring holes into your face.

He hums in acknowledgment, not bothering to answer you verbally, and instead gets up to lift up the covers and get into bed. The bed is small enough as-is, but with two people inside of it, it obviously gets much smaller. Price doesn’t seem to mind, though, and turns so that his back is facing the door and his front is facing you. Directly in front of you is the base of his neck, but if you tilt your head up, you can see him looking down at you with tired eyes. 

You let out a soft breath through your nose and realize just how tired you are. Price seems to notice this, because his arm comes up and rests across your side, his hand splaying across the middle of your back. He gives you a comforting sweep of his hand, before settling it on your upper back, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb in soothing circles against your clothed back. 

You close your eyes, and he closes his, and it feels like you’ve woken up in the real world and removed the cables from your body.

[slowsonic69]

Leave My Body

Chapter 1

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!oc

Summary: His words collapsing Alex's walls as easily as a blow could collapse a house of cards. It had felt right. Authors note's: Story is happening during the five years between season 3 of Daredevil and Daredevil: Born Again. I don't what this is, but the lack of Dex fic made me write it. I am in no way an experienced writer, so bare with me. I hope everything is coherent and if you notice any grammar mistakes, please tell me and I'll fix it. English is not my first language. Maybe I'll write more about those two maybe not...enjoy!!

Word count: 2.7k

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The most horrifying aspect of life for Alex Hazel was change. Change in seasons, in people, in time. Everything seemed to move toward someplace or another, in a hurry for something different — something better.

Alex preferred stagnation, using the same trustworthy tools she had been given at a young age. The same vanilla scented softener her older sister used to wash her clothes with. The same gun her father taught her how to kill with.

With change came complication, unknown factors accumulating into an uncomfortable feeling that settled heavily in her chest. So heavy that she had to focus on her breathing while watching Benjamin Poindexter make omelets in her kitchen — with the wrong pan.

“You like ’em scrambled or flat?” His back was turned to her. His muscles shifted underneath the tight-fitting black t-shirt he had stolen, as he shook the eggs in the cast-iron pan instead of the non-stick one.

With no answer, he turned, an eyebrow raised, unsure if she was still there.

“I don’t like eggs,” Alex finally responded, her hands tightening into fists. He noticed and smiled, turning back to the chaos he was unleashing in her kitchen.

“Of course.” A chuckle resonated deep in his throat, mocking her in her own kitchen. Wearing her t-shirt and sweatpants, using the wrong fucking pan. She had to look away, to let it go. He was here only for a few days, and then he’d be gone.

She’d never have to deal with him again after finally repaying this favor — they’d be even and strangers once more.

With all the strength she could muster, Alex moved her legs toward the sofa, sitting herself down with a rigid spine. Her hands awkwardly placed on her lap. She didn’t know what to do with herself, not when someone else was here. A long-forgotten skill of sharing spaces. The last time had been when she still lived at home with her siblings and father. Since then, she was alone — for the better.

Seemingly trying to torture her, he came to join her at the sofa, a plate in hand and cutlery. He sat with a flop, a lot more comfortable than she felt. From an outsider's point of view, he seemed more at home than she was. It irrationally irritated her.

Placing his plate on the living room table, he picked up the remote and put on whatever channel she had last been watching: Cartoon Network. He eyed her for a moment, the same mocking smirk on his lips.

“Watching kid’s shows?”

Her fingers twitched to grab her AutoMag III hidden underneath the couch and put a bullet between his two eyes. But she didn’t — for some unknown reason.

“It’s entertaining,” she answered instead, her gaze laser-focused on the screen in front of her. Not absorbing anything of the show. Benjamin Poindexter hummed in a taunting way but didn’t change the channel. He preferred to lean forward and start eating his omelet instead, one big bite at a time. Some pieces fell from his chewing mouth back into the plate.

Alex felt her face contort from disgust — She might watch kid’s shows, but he ate like one.

“How long will you be staying?” The question slipped out of her, in desperate search for a possible release from him.

He shrugged, taking another bite. Her left eye twitched. “That’s not an answer.”

Swallowing after barely chewing his food, he placed his fork and knife crisscross on the now-empty plate. Finishing his omelet in record time —Did he even taste it?

“Already growing tired of me, Hazel?” He leaned his elbows on his knees, his head tilted, as if this was a genuine concern of his. She knew better.

“I ask for inventory’s sake,” Alex reasoned, wishing it were socially acceptable to just say ‘yes’ to such a question. Then again, she shouldn’t care about what was socially acceptable with a man like Poindexter. He surely didn’t.

For a moment, he just looked at her in a silence only filled with whatever show was playing in the background. His black pits searching hers, perhaps for a weakness, or maybe a hidden weapon stashed behind her eyeballs. A show of strength, most likely. Alex had never found the hitman intimidating — or anyone.

She had no reason to. He was like every person she had ever met. Annoyingly human with badly hidden insecurities. He was flesh and blood, something she could pierce and hit until it was black and blue and dead.

“A week or two. Depends.” An answer, less vague but still unspecific. Every fiber in her body wanted to ask for more, to know the whole ordeal of his stay here. She restrained herself, deciding it was better to know as little as possible to avoid getting involved altogether.

With a nod, she stood, escaping to her bedroom.

“Oh! Before you go.” She stopped mid-walk, slightly turning.

“Next time you order groceries on your phone, can you add a pack of beers?”

A pause. “I’ll consider it.”

Without waiting for an answer, she retreated to her bedroom, sat in the corner of her bed, wiping the tiredness from her face with her hands. Finally alone, Alex was left with one last question echoing through her mind.

How did he know she ordered her groceries

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

Poindexter was strange, but ultimately not such a bad roommate. He cleaned up after himself, cooked his own meals, and most importantly — left her alone. Most nights, when Alex came back from her office job, the apartment was empty, as if no one else had ever lived there but her. It was only hours later, in the early mornings, that she would hear the keys jingle in the door lock — then a loud thud on the couch.

Leaving for work, she sometimes inspected his unconscious body from afar. Checking if he had any open wounds bleeding into her couch, if he was really asleep or simply resting his eyes. She even kept quiet while making her breakfast, glancing over every so often to see if he stirred at any noise. If he did hear anything, he didn’t seem to mind — too tired to care, perhaps.

And after each morning, watching him snore softly, more questions kept popping up in her head about his whereabouts — questions she would never ask, even if it ate her alive. She couldn’t. She had left that life behind, and tipping one foot back into it would be enough to make her topple forward in full force. Alex had to accept the mystery, for her own sake.

She contented herself with imagined scenarios, ones she built from the few clues he left behind. An open newspaper on the kitchen island—a picture of a New York lawyer winning a case, a red bullseye scribbled over his head. His next target? Although throughout Poindexter’s stay, no news ever came of the lawyer’s death. Strange.

There was also the collection of knives drying on a towel in the bathroom, ranging in size and thickness. Some duller than others, telling her he preferred the thinner ones. They must pierce skin easier—he preferred quick deaths, then.

Mud-stuck shoes were neatly placed in the hallway closet. A H-S Precision sniper rifle rested upright next to them, a model well known among federal agencies. An ex-fed? His stiff mannerisms pushed her more toward a military angle. Perhaps he had been both.

She couldn’t build a coherent story for him, and it made her brain itch and stretch, frustrated by her own imposed rule of not looking him up.

It was a good exercise in self-control—one she planned to succeed in. He wouldn’t destroy what she had worked so hard to build.

So days went on, the both of them almost never crossing path. Even when they did, not much was said. Only the few things he needed her to order from the groceries. Beer, mac & cheese, premade meals ect…

Whatever asked the least of effort to make but gave enough fuel to go through a day —practical stuff. It became a routine, one she could follow. One she could accept for the time being.

Until she came home after two weeks of living together. He was sitting at the kitchen island, a cold beer in hand. She froze for a second, not expecting him at this hour.

The thought of greeting passed through her like a shiver. An urge to ask about his day, if he enjoyed the beer she had bought for him. If he was as lonely as she was. Alex shook her head, silently scolding herself —they weren’t even real roommates.

He ignored her too, facing the kitchen his back to her. Lost in his own a daze it seemed. Did he even know she was there?

“Welcome back.”

Of course he knew she was there. “Hello.” She settled on as she put her coat and shoes away in the hallway closet. A stinging sensation crawling up her spine —she realized she was nervous. How stupid. How pathetic.

"Good day at work?" he asked, sipping from his beer and finally turning his whole body to face her, a curious look in his eyes. He made it seem so simple, these questions — as if they were nothing, a leaf in the wind.

"I didn’t take you for someone who participates in small talk," she said, placing her bag on the island and unloading her empty lunch box and reusable water bottle.

"What can I say? I’m full of surprises." He smiled, his full upper row of teeth on display, leaning toward her. She could smell the beer on him — and something else. An odor she had noticed in her bathroom towels and the cushions of her couch.

Leather, with a hint of gunpowder and soap. A scent that had crawled its way into her home. She had been alarmed when she first detected it — it was different, it wasn’t hers. She had washed the cushions and towels, using more detergent and softener than needed. But it stuck, and it only amplified every time he reused them. So she gave up.

Then — without even realizing it — she grew used to it. To him.

His smile suddenly became unbearable to look at.

“It was fine. Work was fine.”

It felt unnatural to answer, to even consider how her day had gone. Alex didn’t think about such futile things. Days were days; how she felt about them didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change the fact that she had to go back to work the next day.

"Susie didn’t give you any trouble today?"

Her movements halted, her eyebrows creasing together. She figured.

"How long have you been following me?"

He chuckled. "Well, I had to know what kind of person I was dealing with."

She had been too focused on how she acted and spoke, questioning every action with tedious care — not even spending a second to look further than her own nose. Her father would be disgusted by her carelessness.

Alex managed to stare him down then, not out of anger or fear; she simply looked at him. Observing him, catching up to the fact that he had observed her first.

Crooked dirty-blonde hair, gray strands growing from his sideburns. A square jaw meeting in the middle at a cleft chin, covered with light stubble. A straight nose, and two brown eyes beside it, heavy eye bags holding them tightly.

He was handsome —she concluded with a frustrated sigh.

“And?” She asked, taking her empty lunch box and bottle to the kitchen sink.

He finished his beer with one last sip before answering. “I was disappointed to find out about your change of career.”

Washing the metal box, her back now to him, she shrugged. There was not much to say. Not much she wanted to tell him. Or anyone. It was a choice she had made on her own, so, she would handle it alone.

“You know you can’t run away from it forever right?”

Alex placed the metal lunch box on the dish drying rack, turning her attention to the water bottle. She could feel the wall between them building inside her — brick by brick. He could spy on her, mock her, steal her clothes, use the wrong kitchen utensils — but she wouldn’t allow him to give her advice. As if he knew her. As if they were friends.

Finishing up, she passed him with hastened steps. "I’m tired. I’m going to bed."

A small gasp escaped her as he shot forward, his finger wrapping around her arm painfully. "You can’t throw away what you have like it’s nothing. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you, kill like you."

The couch was only 6 feet away. Beneath it, the AutoMag III was still waiting to be used. She could reach it in time, before he could even throw the first object at her.

His hold tightened as if hearing her thoughts.

“That night... when we first met." A low wavering whisper, only for her to hear. Stepping closer the smell of cheap beer followed him. Overfilling her senses once more, but Alex stayed put nonetheless. Focusing forward, waiting with a squeezing heart on whatever he was about to say.

"When we fought side by side, it was effortless. It felt..." . She could grab her gun now, easily. Yet she didn’t, instead her face turned on its own. Meeting glistening brown eyes with apprehension.

“It felt right. Didn’t it?"

Did it?

They were both cornered, she remembers — strangers accidentally caught in the same problem at the same time. Alex knew then she couldn’t take them all on by herself; there were a dozen broad, strong men ready for the kill. She had to use Poindexter to survive.

And when they fought, she did what she did best — imitated his movements: a precise swing of the wrist, balanced feet, and a right hook here and there. In that large, desolate storage unit, just for one fight, they were one. She complemented his close encounters by moving to the back, throwing whatever she had in hand — hitting their knees, their hands — pushing forward only when his knives started flying through the air, piercing them between the eyes each time.

In the end, they were the last ones standing. At least Alex tried to keep herself upright. Although, with two bullets in her stomach and another in her left knee, it slowly became harder to do so. That’s where the favor came from. Poindexter took her in, treated her wounds, and helped her survive another day.

“It was out of survival,” Alex rationalized, pulling her arm out of his grasp. He let her. “Nothing more.”

In a blur, she reached her room, locked the door, and sat back down on the same spot at the end of her bed. Immediately grabbing her own arm, clutching it as tightly as Poindexter had, closing her eyes firmly, savoring the feeling just a little longer. Her chest tightened, her breath jagged and uneven, almost painful. His words collapsing her walls as easily as a blow could collapse a house of cards. It all fell down upon her — what she refused to recognise.

It had felt right.

When they fought together, when he tended her wounds in complete silence afterward, when he had grabbed her arm just then—his glistening brown eyes swallowing her whole. Begging her to admit it too.

Her hand left her arm as she startled at the harsh sound of the front door closing. He left as she had left him. Her breathing worsened. Goddamn it, Alex. She didn’t even know him. They had barely talked. He had been here for only two weeks.

And yet, in the last five years, he had been the only one who had ever touched her outside of a fight. Who had talked to her like a human being. The closest thing she ever had to a friend.

[bambi-kinos]

I agree with the last anon about the shares things. I feel like that narrative has been highly blown out of proportion to villify Paul during that time by beatles authors. John's lawyers relied on John's own forgetfulness and Paul as well about the fact that John put aside 100k shares for Julian to misrepresent the facts. It then looked like Paul had 100k more shares than him when he only had about a 1000 more. I agree that there might have been neglect on Paul's side and lack of emotional support but I really don't amount it to the same level of abuse John put him through. And it's frankly messed up to me that John is allowed to have a wife and child and still keep up whatever the heck he had with Paul but it's wrong or somewhat seen as abusive if Paul finds someone to commit to.

I do agree that Paul's behavior wasn't on the same level as John's. I just don't know how else to categorize it because neglect is abuse, just a different kind. Paul took John for granted and it became part of the "fuck you" cycle.

Paul getting married and having a family with Linda was not abuse. What was abuse was Paul keeping John so close to him and then running away when it was no longer convenient to be with him because Paul couldn't take the heat. It's said that when John came back from India that he went on a massive bender when the trip had been partially conceived as a way to help him stay off substances. That was before Paul hooked up with Linda but it was while Yoko was sending John messages and he was visiting the post office near Rishikesh to pick them up.

The situation with Cynthia and Julian was profoundly messed up and it was an example of John fucking up other people's lives while trying to do the right thing. In that context Paul isn't being abused but Cyn and Julian sure were, and Paul got caught in a lot of irradiated run off. It seems obvious to me that John subconsciously engineered the situation with Cynthia hoping that getting her pregnant and being forced to marry her would "fix' him in some way. But John's heart was not in it (though I do think he genuinely loved her and Julian.) John did not like being married and preferred to forget about it when possible. John benefitted from being married to Cynthia as men often do, even when they don't like the relationship, but I don't really think it is comparable.

When John saw an opportunity to leave Cynthia he took it, he didn't try to keep Paul enmeshed in a John/Cynthia/Paul dynamic. When you look at how John carried on and his private interactions (including Mimi's claim that he came to her the night before his wedding sobbing that he didn't want to get married and wanted to call it off) you can see that John viewed marriage and family life as an immense burden. He shouldered it because he wanted to do right by Cynthia and wanted to be a better man than Alfred Lennon. He failed but at least he tried.

But Paul's dynamic is very different and that is the difference. Paul was desperate to get married and, I speculate, very desperate to not cleave himself to John. When John was set to marry Cynthia he swung between arguing with Mimi about it (Julia Baird recalls in her book "My Brother John" that she heard him shouting at Mimi "we're getting married, what's wrong with you!" when Mimi tried to make him abandon a pregnant Cyn) and then begging Mimi to help him get out of it (the cold feet episode.) John clearly dreaded the prospect and went through with it because he was trying to do the right thing as dictated by his society at the time.

Paul is a very different story. Paul ran up and down London trying to find a woman to marry. All of a sudden it was very important. He got engaged to Jane Asher almost as soon as he came back from Rishikesh and then nuked his relationship on purpose by cheating on her and arranging it so that she would walk in on him and Francie. Paul needed a woman, stat, a fertile woman also stat, so that he could make the kids he had been wanting his entire life. And then he couldn't make up his mind about whether he wanted John in his life or not, holding him at arms length because he could see John falling to pieces but not being brave enough to just amputate when the time came.

This is immensely disrespectful to what he and John had. Not because it was feasible for him and John to be together (this was always a pipe dream with slim chance of becoming reality) but because from John's POV, Paul dangled that possibility in front of him even going so far as to trip with John regularly and letting John live in Paul's house during 1967. And then when John chose to self actualize and get out of a marriage that wasn't working with a wife who resented him and a son who saw him as a stranger, Paul instead went "wait I changed my mind" after they had known each other since they were kids in the 1950s and after they made whatever promise that they did in Paris in 1961. John felt abused and abandoned and knowing what we do of Paul's inner rat, his cockiness, and his refusal to accept the POVs of other people....

Paul getting married and having a family with the woman he loved is not abuse. What is abusive and disrespectful is blindsiding John and chucking what they had because Paul got cold feet. It's not that it wasn't warranted, it's that Paul invalidated everything they worked for and John was forced to come to grips with the realization that everything he had done up to that point had been a waste. No wonder he went off the rails.

And that is not an attempt to equivocate between the two because I agree, John was a lot worse when you compare them side by side. But Paul had more expectations and responsibility that he chose to abdicate. He refused to be honest with John, he refused to set terms with John, he refused to talk to John about his expectations, he was happy to be with John and do God knows what when it was convenient but the moment Brian died, the moment Alma died, when John needed someone, he found Paul's support insufficient (provided it even existed) and insulting.

I always had an easier time with lyrics – although Paul is quite a capable lyricist who doesn’t think he’s a capable lyricist, therefore he doesn’t go for it. Rather than face the problem, he would avoid it, you know?

John interview w/ David Sheff for Playboy. (September, 1980)

And that's not even the whole story because there as more than John and Paul's relationship drama happening. John was in the grip of major depression and he felt isolated and alone.

We all went through a depression after Maharishi and Brian died; it wasn’t really to do with Maharishi, it was just that period. I was really going through the “What’s it all about?” type thing – this songwriting is nothing, it’s pointless, and I’m no good, I’m not talented, and I’m shitty, and I couldn’t do anything but be a Beatle. What am I going to do about it? It lasted nearly two years and I was still in it during Pepper. I know Paul wasn’t at the time; he was feeling full of confidence, and I was going through murder during those periods. I was just about coming out of it around Maharishi, even though Brian had died – that knocked us back again. Well, it knocked me back.

John Lennon, interview w/ Barry Miles, (partially) unpublished. (September 23rd, 1969)

WENNER: So Brian [Epstein] died, and then you said – and then what happened is Paul started to take over.

JOHN: Well, that’s – Paul – he— [hesitating] I mean, you know. Paul, I think Paul... I don’t know how much of this I want to put out or tell you. I think Paul had an impression, he has it now, like a parent, that we should be thankful for what he did, you know, for keeping The Beatles going. But when you look upon it objectively, he kept it going for his own sake! Not for my sake did Paul struggle. But Paul made an attempt to carry on as if Brian hadn’t died, by saying, “Now, now, boys, we’re going to make a record.” You know? And, being the kind of person I am, I thought, [flustered voice] “Oh, well, we’re going to make a record, all right.”

John's interview with Jann Wenner December 1970

I guess my POV is that I think John's feelings of abandonment and isolation were warranted and that Paul had a direct hand in all of them. Paul isn't a monster but I do think that it's his responsibility and that he played a part in all of this. I know what it's like to be abandoned when you're going through something and you're even suicidal thanks to depression and it changes how you think of people when they disappear right when you need them.

[nethhiri]

Chapter 59: Eye Eye, Cap'n

Warnings: "medical" "procedures", Heat gets something stuck in his ass

Milling about the infirmary, you made a list of things you needed to restock on. If it were an emergency, you could probably make them, however you preferred to keep your devil fruit reserved for your prisoners at the moment. You were starting to understand Wire's preference in clothing. You had no choice but to commandeer his fit since your pants were ruined. There was no question you could have fixed those too, but once you tried on Wire's fishnets, out of curiosity, you didn't want to. Instead, you decided to add his tiny shorts, which were much less tiny on you, yet stretchy enough not to fall down. His mesh bralette-like top had to be adjusted a bit to fit your body. Once everything was on, you couldn't deny that you felt very sexy. 

There was a touch of a strut to your step as you paraded around your domain. When your eyes touched the place where Kid had upset you, your step faltered. Failing to push it from your mind, your heartbeat sped, thinking about it had been causing you quite a lot of anxiety. You were still angry, but no longer seething. It was reasonable to assume Kid would be safe in your presence, however not guaranteed. You knew you would have to face it soon. All you needed from him was a sincere apology and reassurance that you were something more than easy sex. You wanted to believe it was just something stupid he had said, and it most likely was, but you needed him to say it for you to fully forgive him and put it behind you. You wished it was easier being romantically entwined with him. With Killer it seemed so easy. Why couldn't it be like that with Kid? Or was it normal with Kid, and Killer was the abnormality? Relationships, if you wanted to call whatever you had with them that, were an enigma to you. 

You leaned against the counter and took a short break. You had gotten into your feelings again and needed to clear your head. Tears pricked your eyes at the thought of not being able to forgive Kid. Fuck him for making you soft. You wanted badly to go back to the way things were, but you were not going to compromise your self-worth. When you first stepped on the ship, you were fearless and confident. Lately, you had been feeling like part of that was lost when you were in captivity. You were struggling to regain it. This anxiety of being wanted and accepted was undermining your composure. Maybe that was it. Maybe caring about it was the thing that was undermining your usual confidence. Before, you couldn't have given less of a shit about the Kid Pirates, and now you gave a lot of shits. 

A timid knock at the door interrupted your thoughts, fortunately. 

"Yeah?"

Heat shuffled in awkwardly. 

"Hey, Heat. What's wrong?" You immediately clocked his discomfort. 

He seemed to look around to make sure no one else was there. 

"It's okay. No one is here." You went to the door to lock it and double checked that the one to Kid's workshop was still locked. "You can tell me." As Heat approached, there was a low humming noise. "What is that noise?" 

Heat faced the floor, fidgeting with his hands. 

The noise emanated from Heat, specifically his abdomen. Your eyebrows furrowed, as it sounded familiar. When you realized what it was, your eyes went wide and darted to his face. "Heat!? Are you serious?"

"It was an accident. Please don't tell Wire." 

"I won't say a word to anyone." You sighed. You didn't have plans to be elbow deep in someone today, but here we were. "There's a few things we can try, but let's start with the easiest."

You had him lean over one of the gurneys and drop his pants while you put gloves on, the long ones. A few other things, like lubricant and a mild analgesic cream, were also grabbed. Hopefully, that was all you needed. If it was further up, you may need to use your fruit. You stood to the side of him.

"Cold hands," you warned as you parted his cheeks enough to put some of the cream on his asshole. Then you lubed up your hand. "I'm gonna need you to relax as much as possible, hun. I'm going to see if I can reach it manually. I may need you to bear down at some points, okay?"

Heat nodded, clearly embarrassed. This is not how he imagined you inside him. 

"Tell me if it hurts. Ready?" After another nod, you gently pressed a finger inside him, using the vibrations to guide you. Luckily, the vibrator he used wasn't very far up and he was lubed enough from whatever he had been doing that your finger easily reached the base. Your clean hand rested on Heat's lower back, gently patting him for comfort. "You're doing great. I think I can feel it." 

Gently, you retracted your hand enough to add a second finger. You paused as he tensed, waiting for him to relax again before going forward. Holding them in a scissor shape, you grasped the base of the sex toy with your fingers. "Push. Not hard, please." When Heat neared down, the base was pushed more firmly into your grasp and you tugged just enough to make it move. "Keep doing that." 

With a soft whimper from Heat and a sloppy, wet noise, the dildo was free. Heat let out a relieved sigh. 

"It's a boy!" You said, presenting the lube-covered thing to him, still vibrating. "Good thing it was a skinny one." You turned it off and tossed the thing in the sink. Heat stayed still while you cleaned him up with a warm washcloth. "All done." 

Heat pulled up his pants. "Thanks, Doc." His face was red with embarrassment. Half from the incident that had happened and half because he was a little turned on by it. Did he just discover a new kink? Did he like playing doctor? Or maybe he liked seeing you in Wire's clothes. 

"What did we learn?"

"Tapered bases are important for a reason." 

"If it happens again, I may have to give you a lesson on how to play safely." You winked at him. "Now take your fake dick and scram."

"Sorry, ma'am. Won't happen again." Heat darted from the infirmary, shoving his vibrator in his pocket so no one could see it.

You went back to what you were doing, grateful to have your thoughts filled with wondering how Heat managed to get that stuck up his ass, instead of thinking about real feelings. Mini snorted in a judgy way from her napping spot against the back wall. 

"Everyone does it once! Don't bully Heat. That's my job." 

She snorted again and let her head rest on the floor.

Your list was fairly long. You had used up a lot of the supplies on yourself, or they had been used on you when you were incapacitated. You weren't even sure when the Victoria would docking at an island. If you were on speaking terms with him, you could ask Kid. You could have asked Wire the previous night but you were otherwise occupied. Killer hadn't been around for a minute and certainly, you were not going to ask Heat while you were knuckles deep in him, not that you had thought about it then. 

You tapped your foot, staring at a bare corner in the small room. Something could fit there. Now that you knew you could restore things, as long as they weren't rotten to the point of no return, maybe you could start saving spare parts. Kid could build you a fridge no doubt. Killer may even have an old one to spare. You could harvest the more important parts from prisoners and replace them when one of your own crew was injured. You didn't even need a refrigerator technically. You could put everything in formalin like your eye had been in, though it would take a lot more effort to get it in working order. The fridge would be better. A deep freezer could work as well. You would have to test that to see if freezing affected the parts too much.

A metallic, rolling sound caught your attention. You rolled your eyes watching silver nuts and bolts stream across the floor. Not this again. Still, you felt your face get hot. It was the little things like this that made Kid so charming when he waned to be. Per routine, you knelt on the floor, watching them form words and shapes. 

COME HERE.

You rearranged them: WHY?

MISS YOU.

More like he missed your pussy. There wasn't enough material to spell that though. AND?

LO- He started to spell something and then the metal bits quickly scattered and rearranged. WANT 2 SEE U.

WHY? You arranged the pieces in reply. 

This time you heard muffled yelling from the other side of the door. "OH FER FUCK SAKE, WOMAN!" It was followed by banging on aforementioned door.

"WHY SHOULD I OPEN IT?" You yelled back.

"RAGHHHH." Kid's loud, exasperated yell was followed by stomping footsteps fading away and then getting closer, but in a different place. Kid flung open the actual door to the infirmary.

Startled by the stomping, the dozing boar in the back of the room suddenly became alert and ready to defend her master. Did she "accidentally" mistake Kid for an enemy? Did she have a grudge against Kid in the first place? Had she always wanted to headbutt Kid full force? Either way, Kid was barely one step in before a flash of brownish-red flew by you. You heard a grunt and a whoosh as the force of Mini's head knocked the air from Kid's chest. You took off running after him, realizing a little too late that Kid was flying over the edge of the ship, and you were following him down. Instinct made you chase him. You were completely focused on seeing if he was okay, and not at all focused on where he was headed. You should have been laughing your ass off at the railing watching that dumbass sink until Killer undoubtedly jumped to save him, but no. You cared too much and now you were destined to sink with him.

You saw the water below explode and froth as Kid's broad body hit it. The water swallowing you whole before you could register what was happening. At least you had taken a full breath before you were enveloped by the icy, cold sea. Kid had nothing. When your hand touched something soft, you grabbed onto it and pulled closer, immediately recognizing it. At the same time, something curled around you in an iron grip. The poor visibility in the water made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of you, and the salt stung your eyes. Still, your mouth found Kid's and you pushed half the air you had into him. Here you were again, always giving him something of yours, trying to prove yourself. His stupid ass better appreciate you giving him a few more minutes to realize that. 

Any second now Killer would be yanking you both out. Any second now. Except you were both still sinking.

He was coming to get you both right? What if no one saw you go in? You clung more tightly to Kid's feathered cape and you felt Kid's other arm wrap around you in a protective embrace.

It felt like forever because of the adrenaline. In reality, it was only a few seconds. Your muscles started to burn from the lack of oxygen. Kid grabbed your arm, positioning it in front of you and turning it so the bottom side of your forearm was up. You stared at him, confused. With his other hand he made your head look back down at your arm and gestured for you to watch. With a finger, he wrote across your skin. You could barely see what he was writing, but you could feel it. 

S-O-R-R-Y

A mix of emotions flooded you. The first was relief, followed by longing. An apology was all you wanted. The second was anger. Why did it take a life or death situation to spur him on? Then you were guilty. That probably wasn't true. You had been ignoring him and pushing him away. Maybe he intended to say it earlier and you had been too hard-headed to accept that. Lastly, you were scared. What if he was only saying it because you were near death? Did he know something you didn't? He pulled you back into an embrace, suddenly pushing you away from him after a few long seconds. What was he doing?! You stretched, reaching out for him, and were yanked upward. You tried kicking at whoever was pulling you away, losing some of the air you had left in a flurry of bubbles, but were too weak. You covered your mouth and nose to keep the rest of the air from escaping.

As soon as your head broke the surface of the water, you were coughing and gasping for air. You hadn't even blinked the water from your eyes before you were scanning for anything red in the waves. 

"Where's Kid?!" 

"Worry about yourself, not your boytoy." Dive's sharp teeth glistened in the sun's rays reflecting off the water as she grinned. She patted your back as a fit of coughing overtook you. "Killer's got him. Don't fret." 

With surprising strength, Dive swam with you in tow. Seconds later, there was a disturbance in the water as one blond, albeit under a helmet, and one red head popped up. You held your breath with worry until you heard Kid cough as well. Dive and Killer got you both on deck with the help of the rest of the crew. You and Kid lay flat on your backs trying to catch your breaths. Your hand searched to your side until it found purchase in Kid's. Even though you heard him cough, you were relieved that his hand was warm. At least this time you didn't loss consciousness. You had woken up in this position more times than you cared to remember.

You sat up and Killer helped you to your feet, then thanked Dive before Wire and Heat shooed off the rest of the spectating crew. Heat was still walking funny, but he seemed fine. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Kid glaring in the direction of a very smug-looking pig. You got in the way of his line of sight. You were mad at her, mad wasn't the right word, but would scold her privately. If you did it now, you weren't sure what Kid would do, assuming he was already pissed at the animal. Kid rose from the deck, shaking water from his hair, and walked towards you, meaning to get to Minerva. You backed up, putting yourself between he and Mini. You could forgive the things he did to you, but you would not forgive anything he did to her. Your back touched her as she stood to her full height, fur puffed out, taking a fighting stance against Kid. He similarly made himself look bigger, but you didn't sense malice from him, strangely. 

You put a hand out to keep him back. "It was an accident! All your stomping spooked her!"

"YER LUCKY I DON'T BARBECUE YA AND FEED THE CREW TONIGHT FOR THAT STUNT!" He leaned in as if he were gonna growl something to the boar, instead speaking in a hushed normal voice. "That was yer one free shot at me cuz I deserved it." He narrowed his eyes. "I know ya been wantin to do that fer a while, piggy." 

Gazing into his amber eyes before they flicked away, you knew that was part of his apology to you, choosing to let the boar's actions go because you loved her and he loved you. He turned to go back to his workshop, with you tailing him.

"Hey! You can't stay in wet clothes! You'll get sick!" 

Suddenly your feet weren't touching the ground as Killer plucked you from the deck and followed Kid. "That goes for you, too, little darlin." He grabbed the back of Kid's coat and pulled him below deck with you towards his room.

Killer stripped you both of your wet clothes, though taking a minute to appreciate how good Wire's outfit looked on you. And the two of you were now seated nude at the end of Killer's bed, hands shoved between your legs and heads down with guilt, while he paced back and forth, arms folded over his ample chest. He was deciding which one of you to scold first, not allowing you to put clothes on yet.  

"You." He stood at your feet and you reluctantly met his gaze through the holes of his mask. "Are you stupid? Why would you jump in after this big idiot?"

"HEY!" Kid protested.

You covered yourself up to the best of your ability, feeling vulnerable under Killer's gaze. "I didn't mean to. I just..." 

"Just what? Hm?" Underlying Killer's stern voice, was a thin layer of exasperation. "I have to worry about him enough. I don't need you adding to it."

"I wasn't thinking! I saw that he got hurt and I went after him!"

"And you didn't see the ocean? The giant blue thing on all sides of us." Killer huffed and carried on. "You come get ME. Understand? What if no one saw you go in? Huh? Then both of you would be lost."

"I..." You snapped. "I only saw Kid okay?! I was scared he was hurt! As much as he irritates the fuck out of me and makes me mad, I still care about him and I can't stop." You saw him grinning stupidly beside you and punched him. "Fuck off. I hate you." You folded your arms tighter and turned away from him so he couldn't see your pink-dusted cheeks, slapping his hand away when he tried to pinch one. 

Kid's boisterous laugh filled the room. "HA-HA! YER IN LOVE WITH ME, DUMBASS!" 

Killer snapped at him with his fingers. "Hey, numbnuts, look at me." Kid's laugh faded as it was his turn to be scolded. "Stop riling up the pig, first of all. Second of all, stop saying stupid shit. That's what always gets you into trouble. Think for one extra second before you open that big ass mouth of yours." 

"FINE." Kid huffed. 

"Did you apologize yet?"

You half turned to see what his expression was, seeing him looking at you with a question, and nodded, indicating you accepted his underwater apology. 

"Aye." 

"Y/N?"

"He did." 

"Great." Killer clapped his hands. "Now kiss and make up." Killer turned both of your heads to face each other. "Don't be shy."

You curled your lip and gave Kid a quick peck on the cheek. 

"No! Not good enough!" Killer folded his arms. "What's wrong?" 

You hesitated. If you were going to get it off your chest, now was the time. You huffed and faced Kid. "I want to know that..." you forced yourself to keep his gaze. "...I'm more than sex." 

"Hah?!" Kid had an incredulous expression on his face. "What're ya? Stupid? Course ya are!"

"But you said...as long as I have a pussy-"

Kid put a hand over his face. "Fuck me! That's not what I meant. I was tryin to make ya laugh is all."

"It wasn't funny! I had real fears that...maybe that's all I would be if I couldn't fight."

"Once a Kid Pirate, always a Kid Pirate. We won't abandon ya, even if ya get hurt. Do ya think we would raid a marine base to save ya if ya didn't mean more to us?" Kid continued. "If all I wanted was easy sex, I could grab any random whore from an island."

You hummed in agreement. He had a point. 

"And I did. But we made her our whore." Kid laughed again and you frowned. 

"I really don't like you." You rolled your eyes. 

"Come on now, doll." Kid wrapped his arms around you and smushed his face into your neck. "What would I do without my Rotten? Right, Kil?"

You tried to squirm out of Kid's overly affectionate hug. You could tell he was laying it on thick to annoy you, smug that he knew you could never really stay mad at him.

Killer sat on the opposite side of you and took one of your hands in his. "Kid isn't good with words. That just how he's always been. Sometimes he says the wrong thing or he doesn't realize what he says can be harsh, but trust me when I say he cares about you. If you're on this ship and a part of the crew, he cares about you." 

"Even if ya ever decide ya don't want ta fuck us, yer still a Kid Pirate. I'll still take care of ya." Kid pressed a kiss to your neck. "But I will be sad if ya decide ya don't wanna be my bunny anymore." 

"Good?" Killer got up and folded his arms again. "Now kiss." He made a motion of pushing your heads together. 

You relented, facing Kid and planting your lips on his. He ran his hands lovingly over your cheeks and into your hair. You pulled back and rested your forehead on his. "I'm sorry for being stubborn. And thank you for not being an asshole to Mini."

"I've never been an asshole in my life. Tell her, Killer."

You rolled your eyes again and sighed, feeling a lot better than you had.

"Next time, because there will be a next time, we're going to talk about it together instead of you two being nightmares for the entire ship. Deal? Heat is gonna fucking quit if you keep dragging him in." 

You and Kid nodded, regretfully. 

"Or else you'll get seastone manacled together until you can be nice to each other."

You and Kid glanced at each other, neither exactly opposing that idea.

Killer shook his head and put his hand to his helmet. "Get dry clothes on and get back to work."

You got up and squeezed Killer's midsection. "Sorry for making you worry."

"Aye, sorry." 

You were squished as Kid came from behind you to also hug Killer. Your head was being crushed from all sides by four huge manboobs. A much more preferable way to die than drowning. Shockingly, Kid didn't even get a boner. Wondering what was taking so long, you looked up to see Kid planting red lipstick marks all over Killer's helmet. You had no right to be annoyed, happy to see your boys being affectionate with each other. You could stay here a few minutes longer.

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

Kid dragged you to his workshop. He was dying to show you something, and that was why he had been pestering you earlier. He wouldn't tell you what it was. Killer was following you quietly. Even he didn't know what it was, though he had a pretty good guess. Kid made you sit while he rummaged around through his things. You weren't sure why he always had to be rummaging. Why wasn't anything organized? This was his space. It wasn't like anyone but him was making a mess.

While you waited, there was a crumpled piece of clothing on the corner of Kid's bench. It was peppered with smeared eyeliner and Kid's red lipstick. A sweat rag? You picked it up, fabric unfolding and revealing black kanji. This is-! You unfolded it in your lap. It was tattered and stained but it was your coat. Your fingers traced over the marks that were clearly left by Kid. 

"Was gonna give it back. Meant ta clean it first." Kid was scratching the back of his head, a reddish hue developing on his cheeks. 

"You saved it?" You had assumed it was lost when you were taken. 

"And this." Kid held your gunblade out in his hands. "Hope ya don't mind, I tweaked it again."

He did more than that. It was shiner that it had ever been, and it was adorned with intricate snake designs that hadn't been there previously. He had taken your criticism from the last time and applied it. Against his professional judgement, he kept it weighted how you liked. You looked from it to your coat. Your stomach clenched with guilt. If you had known he had don't all of this, you wouldn't have questioned his feelings for you. You brought your coat to your face, to cover the emotions that ran through it. Tears threatened to make themselves known. 

"Don't ya start being a crybaby on me. Ya won't be able to see the other thing I made ya." Kid pulled your hands away from your face. 

You looked into the palm he had held out. It was a small marble-like object. You didn't understand. With the wires attached to it, it sort of resembled... "This is-!" You stood up abruptly and took it from Kid's palm. Inspecting it further, there was no doubt that it was a replica of your eye. "Kid!" 

"Wanna try it?" Kid offered, cheeks radiating with blush. "Just... Don't be upset. It may not work initially. I haven't gotten to test it or-"

"Shut up! Of course it will work! You made it!" You looked at it and gave it back to him. "How do we do it?"

Kid pointed to an open book on his desk, one of the medical reference books that had been in the infirmary. You noticed it was gone, but thought Pomp, UK, and Reck had taken it again to look at the naked anatomical pictures. He explained where the wires should connect and that he could get them there, you would just have to use your fruit to make that possible. You did it with on eye. This wasn't that different. This one had been gone much longer though, and your brain had grown accustomed to not having it, so the neural pathways may be altered. You studied the diagrams for a few minutes and talked it over with Kid. Then, you sat back down and tilted your head back to rest on the bench top. 

"Killer, do you mind holding my head still? I don't know what this will be like."

Killer put both hands on either side of your head and you held the eyelids open for Kid to place the mechanical eye into. It sat in the socket well enough, but now the connections had to be made. You and Kid had to work in tandem to put everything in place. With the flesh eye, you could sort of control the things around it. This was metal, therefore Kid needed to direct it. You probably could have, but he had far better control over it. A jolt went through your body as one of the wires strayed from the correct path.

"Fuck!" Kid flinched, trying to stay concentrated. 

"It's okay. Keep going." You held onto his arm to support him. 

Killer watched, mesmerized by the dancing purple electricity melding with the soft yellow-tinged glow, each devil fruit power working as one. He held your head still, periodically feeling twitches and seeing your face wince. 

Kid pulled his hand away as a spark jumped to his metal finger. "Can ya see?"

The eye made a few jerky, mechanical movements, not quite in synch with your body. "No." You tried to hid the disappointment in your voice. 

"Hold on." Kid made some minor adjustments, looking back at the textbook for confirmation. "Try again."

This time the movement was much smoother, though still no vision. "Still no." You sighed. Maybe the problem was on your end. "Let me try." 

The best way to figure out the issue was to compare it to the working side. You couldn't see into your own brain but you could feel what was there, in a weird way. Everything was connected properly, the issue was that the path of the wires had missed a stop. Both eyes were being used by the same half of the brain. Kid didn't realize that the optic nerve was meant to cross to the other side. The right eye went to the left side and the left eye went to the right, give or take a few nerve fibers. Very carefully, you brought the necessary connections through the chiasm, nerves intertwining with the mechanical fibers. The small metal pistons that acted as muscles worked fine, they needed time to attune to your control so they would move more fluidly, but you could deal with that. 

You cracked the smallest opening in your eyelids, afraid that it wouldn't work, and saw a sliver of light through both. BOTH! They opened the rest of the way and you sat bolt upright, taking in everything around you, everything that seemed so much brighter and vibrant. Your eyes darted around the room. How will the ocean look? The ocean! I have to see the ocean! You were caught by strong hands before you could run out the door. 

"Whoa! Can you see? Everything ok?" Killer looked down at you, holding your shoulders tight. 

You pulled him down by the helmet, too fast, almost knocking yourself out, but you had to see. You had to see his blue eyes. How much of the blue had you been missing? You brought your new eye up to one of his eye holes, trying to get a glimpse. Even in the shade of his helmet, you could see glimmering blue. You released him and he did the same. You looked around the room frenetically for Kid, running to him and yanking him by the shirt until his face was at your level. You held his face between your hands looking at every freckle in new detail. And his eyes! They weren't only amber, but orange and golden, too. There was nuance that you had missed before.

"Holy shit." You breathed. You clapped Kid's head between your hands, slapping his cheeks. "I can see, you baby back bastard! You son of a bitch!" You shook his head in your grip and hugged it. "You fucking did it!" Remembering that you wanted to see the ocean, you practically threw him away from you and zipped out the workshop door. 

Killer allowed himself to chuckle. "Baby back bastard? That's new."

Kid's chest was puffed out and he had his signature grin plastered on his face, framed by two small, red handprints from where you slapped him. He was virtually levitating with how much pride was radiating from him. "Of course I fuckin did it. I'm me!" 

They followed you out, seeing you bent over the railing with your eyes as close to the water as possible without falling in again. Killer grabbed your waistband, sighing. He didn't want to spoil your good time by reprimanding you. 

"It's so fucking blue! Have you seen this shit?!" Suddenly, numbers popped into your vision, scaring you so badly that you jumped back. "What the fuck!?" You swatted at the air where they appeared to be. 

"Ya didn't give me time to explain all the features," Kid said, preventing you from falling backwards.

"Features?"

He laughed. "Ya didn't think I was gonna give ya some dumbass plain eyeball, did ya?" Kid handed you your gunblade. "Here. Point this at somethin random." 

You did as he said, pointing it at the deck some distance away from you. The numbers popped back into your vision, changing depending on where your gun was pointed. When you lingered, crosshairs also flickered into view. "No fucking way."

"That's not all. Look here." Kid pointed to the pulse point in his wrist. 

You holstered your weapon and the display vanished from your sight. Staring at his wrist, a new set of numbers came into view, numbers you recognized as heart rate. You flung yourself at Kid, throwing both arms around him. You released one to reach for Killer, who gladly accepted your hand. At the moment, you had no words. Kid gave you something that you hadn't had in years. You took it back, the thing about always being the one to give. Kid gave, too. It was simply a different kind of giving. You pulled your face out of his cleavage, this time not trying to hold back tears. 

"Thank you, Kid! Thank you. Thank you! It's so beautiful. Everything is so beautiful!" 

"Wait until you look in a mirror," Killer added. He didn't mean for it to be cheesy. He only noticed how you were so excited to see everything, you forgot about yourself.

"Now that's an idea!" You ran into the infirmary bathroom where the nearest mirror happened to be. 

Killer gazed at you adoringly as you saw your own face. Finally, you could learn to appreciate what they had noticed a long time ago. 

It had been some time since you had seen yourself this clearly. Part of you thought you would be disgusted by the scarring on your face, but that wasn't so. It reminded you of how much it took to get to this point. You traced the semi-circle of a scar that went through your old right eye, then the outline of where the acid had melted your skin. It held all of your anguish, but your triumphs as well. Where some might see a disfigurement, there was only strength. You stared at one eye and then the next. They were exactly alike. How Kid managed to get it to match that well, you didn't know. Maybe you did. He always seemed to be watching you, though maybe it wasn't watching so much as it was looking. Kid's eyes followed you all the time. Had he had memorized the details? But why would he? 

You ran back to Kid, stopping briefly to plant a kiss on Killer, who was kind enough to bend down for you. You did a running jump at Kid, which he, thankfully, was prepared for, lest you both fall int the ocean again. Kid caught you as flew at him. "Ha-ha! You stupid fuck! You love me back!" 

NEXT

Tag list: @bbnbhm @nocturnalrorobin @wgwingguns

[imrllytootiredforthis]

More on sub bully yandere pretty plz 🥺🙏

i'm gonna do gyu again just bc sub bully=beomgyu (kinda a part two to this)

afterwards he just gets meaner and meaner. for a multitude of reasons-

one being that you humiliated him in front of the entire school, and now he needs to get back at you,

and the other being that he's head over fucking heels in love with you now and has zero idea how to talk to a crush other than bullying them

so he continues to fight with you. threaten you, insult you, release compromising photos of you taken by his own hand (which he also uses on lonely pent up nights)

he's an asshole. who doesn't know when to quit.

you don't exactly make it easy for him though.

every time he's harassing you, you're there with a blank face, arms crossed. giving nothing away, and taking every ounce of satisfaction away from him. knowing entirely that if his group of friends weren't standing there backing him up you could do whatever you wanted to him-and he'd let you.

but you don't.

because unlike him, you pride yourself of being a decent human being.

that somehow just makes him angrier though. makes him try harder to piss you off.

spilling your food all over your clothing, laughing as he lets out an "oops, sorry, i didn't mean to." all while cackling with his friends.

egging your car and writing on it with spray paint, causing damage he knows you don't have the money to fix.

he wants you to be angry. he wants you to be so pissed at him, at everything he's done to you that you just can't hold it in anymore. he wants you to finally snap and grab him by the neck. kiss him until he's breathless and dumb (his very first kiss) and then fuck him to oblivion and back (his very first fuck).

beomgyu wants you to put him in his place, unlike so many other people in his life that don't care as he walks all over them.

and it only takes a single thing for you to snap.

him loudly talking to you in the middle of class, taunting the fact that you somehow got a lower mark than him. leaning across the isle to get up into your face, smirking his dumb smirk.

you simply ignore him, preferring not to add to the scene until the teacher zeroes in on the two of you, looking unimpressed as she sends the both of you to detention.

--

"fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! what the hell is wrong with you?"

nothing. he only smiles back sweetly.

"i have shit that i need to do, places i have to be! records that i need to keep! i don't need to spend my time in detention with your sorry ass!"

nothing.

"you're so annoying, you hear me?"

infuriating fucking prick. absolutely nothing.

"a fucking brat who doesn't know how to man up and be a normal person. instead you're acting like a pussy, too scared to ask me out hmm? a pathetic loser virgin."

something.

his cheeks are flushed red, his face so close your noses are practically touching, his hands gripping onto the desk.

"yeah, is that what you are? a brat and a pathetic loser virgin?"

your hands on either side of his shoulders against the chair, trapping him in place. he's painfully hard in the confines of his pants.

the room around is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. the teacher had left awhile ago, not that she was supposed to, she just did and told you guys to behave.

the detention class was completely silent now. just the sound of your heavy breathing, his shallow pants and his heart beating so fast it seems as if it's about to leap out of his chest.

"say it."

his mouth feels dry, his body feels hot.

"say that you're a pathetic loser virgin and then maybe i'll take care of that for you, okay?"

his eyebrows knot together as you press a hand against him, biting his lip to hold back a moan. "i-..."

you nod, prompting him to continue.

"i'm a...pathetic virgin loser!" his eyes squeeze shut as he breathes it out, whining lowly under his breath. "i'm sorry! all i wanted was your attention!"

when he opens his eyes again, you're smiling.

"okay then. you have my attention now." you sit back against your own chair again. "come here."

he begins to stand up. "on your knees, beomgyu." face burning in shame, dick throbbing with humiliation, he shuffles towards you on his hands and knees until he sits between your legs.

"good boy." he shivers. "now, if you wanna take care of that, you're going to have to get off on my leg."

he looks at you as if you've grown a second head, as if you're crazy. he searches your face for any sign that you might be joking. "go on you mutt."

[slytherhys]

June in January (Because I'm in Love)

Prompt: Powers & Possibilities (but make it Witchy!) @elriel-month

A/N: So I've had this AU in my mind for a really long time and I thought it'd be perfect for this prompt. It is kinda different from how I usually write so please bear with me. I hope I managed to make it at the very least a cute read! Enjoy 🌼

TW: Swearing, Blood and Violence (mentioned because Az is an idiot!)

You can also read this story on AO3!

The first time Azriel visits the witch’s cottage on the outskirts of Velaris, it’s against his will.

For starters, he has never been a fan of witches – not of their unrestrained power and certainly not of their blood-drinking habits. He is also a firm believer that, despite Mor’s insistence, Madja would’ve been perfectly able to fix him up with whatever medicine she usually gave Cassian whenever he got punched in the face.

But after a sparring session gone wrong, a vicious hit to the face that takes both him and Cassian by surprise, and a pounding headache only made worse by Cassian’s incessant bragging about knocking out the Shadowsinger for the first time in centuries, Azriel barely bats an eye when Mor presses a piece of parchment to his hand and nearly forces him to visit her dear friend.

“You can thank me later.” She says with an impish smile. “Preferably with chocolates.”

Azriel doesn’t bother asking any questions – namely, who her friend is. Or rather what . With a nasty black eye, a bruised ego and absolutely no desire to take part in any small talk with a stranger, he simply goes, dazed, and confused as to how the fuck he let himself be punched in the face by Cassian, of all people.

But when he first gets there, he has to wonder if Mor is pranking him. 

The cottage is covered in ivy, idyllic enough that one could think it actually belongs to the landscape where it stands. The garden surrounding him is an array of colours and scents, neatly organised by a logic Azriel does not pretend to understand. It looks innocent enough, all things considered.

But something in him goes still as he takes in the landscape in front of him. His eyes narrow as he watches the flowers sway softly in the cool January breeze. They’re beautiful and fragrant and would raise absolutely no suspicion on any other given day – if not for the fact they were in full bloom despite it being the middle of winter.

And then he sees it – a plain, wooden sign, the lettering a loopy cursive that speaks of lovely, gentle things. If it wasn’t for what they spell out, of course.

Elain’s Herbs & Potions

His entire body goes cold, and it speaks of his self-control that Azriel doesn’t shoot to the skies without a glance back. Because he knows –vividly remembers – all the tales of witches he grew up hearing about. Of their all-seeing eyes and their crooked smiles that promised nothing but pain and horror. The tales of their rituals and tricks not even the most cunning soldier could escape. Even Rhys, for all his powers and smarts, has never showed much interest in coming across a witch.

He's wondering why, exactly, Mor ever thought it’d be a good idea to send him here when he sees her.

The first thing he notices, oddly enough, is how small she is. After living next to Amren for most of his life, Azriel is not foolish enough to ever think that a sign of weakness, but it intrigues him all the same. Then, he’s utterly aware of how she doesn’t look anything like what he thought she’d look like. There’s no yellowed teeth, no wispy, greying hair, no soulless eyes.

Instead, all he sees is long, golden-brown hair and chocolate eyes. A yellow dress that compliments her tanned skin and red cheeks and speaks of warmer, sunnier days. She’s carrying a wicker basket overflowing with flowers, but the scent that trails after her is all her – sweet and sour, and Az feels his legs nearly giving out from under him, it’s probably completely unrelatable.

Elain , he assumes, and never a name has ever sounded so sweet.

When she looks up and spots him, she smiles, as if she was waiting for him and is pleased to see he's finally here. His heart tumbles inside his chest and he tells himself it’s because he’s in the presence of a witch – not because he’s suddenly wanting things he’s never wanted before.

She eyes him curiously and he has

to stop himself from asking her what’s on her mind, even if it suddenly feels

like the most important thing he’s ever needed to know.

“Can I help you?” She asks sweetly. Her voice echoes through him, and something inside him settles. He, however, can’t bring himself to speak, swallowing dryly as he stares and stares and stares . The woman - Elain ,

he thinks with delight - tilts her head, furrowing her brow as her chocolate

eyes trace his face. “That doesn’t look good.” She mutters and Azriel has to

remind himself of the reason he’s here in the first place.

“A fight.” He says oh-so-eloquently , and he’s surprised she doesn’t seem alarmed in

the slightest by his response. As if, perhaps, this is a normal occurrence for

her. He doesn’t know why that bothers him, but it does. 

Elain, oblivious to his nonsensical thoughts, simply nods and turns on her feet, disappearing inside her cottage without another word. Azriel remains where he is, unsure of what to do. All of a sudden, he can’t recall why he ever feared witches in the first place, why he ever believed the tales his brothers told him in the middle of the night when they were too young to know any better. 

And fuck if they knew any better. 

It takes the pretty witch less than five minutes to return, this time carrying a small basket in her hands, each one of her steps a small symphony of bottles clicking against each other until she’s standing in front of him. He looks down at the basket with intrigue and pretends that her closeness isn’t making his skin tingle. He listens carefully as she explains – a bit shyly, Azriel notices with satisfaction – how he must apply the green ointment to his bruises, at what time he must drink the periwinkle potion and how many times a day the white paste must be applied to reduce the swelling of his cheek.

When he nods in thanks and turns to leave, it’s entirely too soon and a pang echoes through his body as he desperately tries to come up with ways of prolonging his stay but comes up empty instead. His skin feels too tight, his cheeks too hot, his hands too clammy. He vaguely wonders if he’s running a fever - if maybe he can ask her for a cure for that as well. 

She walks by his side until they’re standing on the limits of her property, like maybe she doesn't want him to leave just yet either. He feels oddly mislaid; uncertain of what to do and who to be. All his convictions turn into ash and suddenly there’s only one thing he knows for sure: he’s going to have to get punched again, because there’s not a chance in this world he isn’t seeing Elain again.

“Who won?” Azriel turns to her as she asks, confusion clear on his face. Elain, not one to be put off by his silence, clarifies, “The fight.”

Azriel chuckles softly. “Not me.”

She frowns like she's not entirely happy with his response. “Well, make sure you win next time. Okay?” 

But the second time Azriel visits the witch’s cottage, just on the outskirts of Velaris, Elain greets him with a brilliant smile, not disappointed in the slightest to see him sporting a new bruise and a busted lip.

It shouldn’t surprise him how beautiful she looks, but he still is taken aback when he first sees her. Her hair is tumbling down her back in a messy braid, a too-big straw hat on her head and a small streak of dirt on her cheek that she probably isn’t aware of. Her cheeks are flushed from the sun, her blue dress reminds him of ripe blueberries, and the way it sways with her every step reminds him of flying in the summer breeze.

This time around, there’s no doubt in his mind he’s right where he should be. A familiar feeling of contentment rushes through his body, as if after weeks of waiting to see her, he can finally let himself relax and enjoy this small moment of reprieve (and really, who can blame him for wanting to get punched again?).

When Elain asks him what happened this time around, Azriel doesn’t dare tell her he made sure to pick Rhys during this week’s sparring session; that he made sure the most powerful High Lord in history punched him just in the right place so that he could bust his lip open. He doesn’t tell her about the confused look on his friend’s face as Azriel smiled maniacally when he felt the blood on his lips, nor does he tell her he tried to go for a broken nose instead so that maybe she would touch him too.

He simply smiles sheepishly at the pretty witch and utters something about distractions, making her blush under his stare as she turns around and scolds him for being so careless, all the while making a package of too many potions he doesn’t entirely need. (He still hasn’t used up all the old ones, but he doesn't tell her that either).

When Elain finally turns to him, her eyes drop to his lips and Azriel feels fire licking up at his spine. She watches him with curiosity and something else lingering in those cinnamon eyes. Amusement, perhaps?

For a brief, panicky moment, he wonders if she can see right through him. As it is, Azriel doesn’t exactly know where her power lies, and for all he knows every lie, every excuse is pointless in the presence of this witch.

Elain, however, doesn’t seem too concerned by his lies. “What is your favourite fruit?” She asks instead, eyes flickering to his as if nervous to see his reaction. 

Azriel tucks away his puzzlement and says, “Blueberries,” pretending the whole time it’s not only because of the colour of her dress. She nods once, as if the answer satisfies her, and hands him the basket.

“Be careful, okay?” She tells him in that honeyed voice and Azriel can think of nothing else to say, so he nods and leaves without a glance back.

He pretends he doesn’t miss her the entire flight back home.

The third time Azriel visits Elain’s cottage, he is greeted by a brilliant smile that sends his heart racing inside his chest. Elain, still bent over a shrub, tells him about the new batch of healing potions she’s been perfecting so he can try them, and he tries not to show just how pleased he is that she has been thinking about him, waiting for him to return. She doesn’t ask him about his bandaged shoulder and Azriel doesn’t tell her about the lecture he got from Rhys once the High Lord of the Night Court realised what was going on.

“These ones taste like blueberries.” She says, handing him three new potions he’s never seen before. He frowns slightly. “They’re your favourite.” She explains, and the expectant smile on her face makes it impossible for him to come clean. He isn’t even sure he likes blueberries, but he thanks her anyway and smiles the whole way home.

The fourth time Azriel visits Elain’s cottage, he has just returned from a mission abroad. When she hears the rustle of his wings, she turns to him with that brilliant smile of hers. To her credit, she doesn’t stop smiling when he sees the heavy expression on his face. She simply stands up, holds his hand, and leads him to a wooden bench under a willow tree behind her house.

They sit there for hours, without a word ever being spoken. He doesn’t know how Elain knows he doesn’t wish to speak, but he’s thankful all the same.

When he returns home, he doesn’t take any potions with him, but nevertheless something inside him feels mended; lighter than it has ever felt before. For a quiet, lovely moment he wonders if maybe he’s worthy of having his hands held despite the scars marring his skin and the idea of such a life follows him all the way home.

The fifth time Azriel returns to Elain’s cottage, nothing seems to be amiss - both Cassian and Rhysand refuse to fight him (since Rhysand promptly forbade them), and Azriel can’t seem to find any more excuses to see her again. Until he realises he doesn’t need them anymore.

As he flies to her house, a million scenarios rush through his mind as he wonders how she’ll react. If she’ll welcome him with her beaming smile, watching him as if she’d been waiting for him all along or if instead, she’ll find it so weird to find him uninjured she’ll send him on his way the second she understands why, exactly, he’s there. Azriel isn’t foolish enough to believe he’d be so lucky, but he wants to brave enough to find out.

He finds sitting in the middle of the daisies, looking for all the world like she has been painted into the landscape to make it all the more appealing. When she sees him, a smile lights up her face, eyes taking him in as he walks her way and Azriel isn’t entirely sure why, but every single doubt tainting his mind melts away into a puddle at the expression on her face.

Elain doesn’t say a word. She simply waits, rising to her feet and watching him with an expectant look in her eyes.   

“I don’t need anything today.” He says by way of greeting, and she gives him a tentative smile. 

“But you’re here.” She says gingerly, not a trace of confusion on her face.

Which makes him confused in return. “I am.” He says, and Elain chuckles, the sound low and so sweet, so perfect his heart nearly leaps from his chest to try and catch the sound. He can’t stop watching her as certainty settles deep into his bones.

Elain blows a breath like she’s finally had enough of his silence. Her cheeks pinken under his stare but she isn’t deterred. “Are you finally going to ask me out, Azriel?” She asks a bit exasperatedly. “Or is the Shadowsinger going to keep getting his ass handed to him until he finds the courage?”

He’s speechless for one second. Two. Three. He vaguely thinks of Mor and how she described Elain as her dear friend . And then he’s wondering if he’s truly that transparent and if she’s known what he had been doing all along – gathering the courage to kiss her, have her in any way he can get.

And then he’s not wondering anymore - he’s pulling her into his arms instead, kissing her until they both can’t breathe, until the sun falls behind the trees, until the cool breeze of January makes Elain shiver in his arms, reminding them of where they are. That, despite the blooming garden and the warmth of their kiss, it’s still January and there’s an entire world out there waiting for them to start the rest of their lives.

But none of it seems to matter as Elain pulls away from him, never letting go of his hand as she asks, “Do you want to come inside?”

And later that night, when the colours of dawn chase away the darkness of the night, with Elain sleeping soundly against his chest, Azriel smiles, shaking his head in disbelief.

Because he now owes Mor a very big fucking box of chocolates.

[frostyblustar]

Write Klance Angst? I’d love to read some

I’ll take a shot at it

Keith tended to secretly idolize people, for various reasons. Shiro was an amazing leader and protector. Hunk was a great friend and chef. Allura had earned their respect and dealt with so much loss. Pidge was a tech wizard and had unwavering loyalty.

When it came to Lance however, it was hard for him to put into words how much he had put Lance on a pedestal. Lance felt untouchable, a person he didn’t even deserve to be associated with. Even if he felt that way, it didn’t stop him from being selfish. He still desperately wanted to be with Lance.

It took him a while to realize these feelings weren’t platonic, rather it was something more. He had never experienced this sort of attraction before, and it scared the hell out of him. Keith felt his heart race when he thought he stared for too long at Lance, or did anything else that could give away his true feelings.

Lance seemed pretty much oblivious. Keith preferred this over being rejected though, so he let the obliviousness continue. He had never been good at communication or relationships, so he thought it was fine.

Despite Keith’s attempts to shy away from his feelings, one day they boiled up inside of him. He was in the observation deck, looking up at the stars. They twinkled, and reminded him of Lance. A lot seemed to remind him of Lance. Speaking of the blue paladin, he heard hushed giggling come towards the deck.

He instantly stood up when he saw Lance and Allura coming into the room. Allura had taken Lance’s arm and was pressed against his side. Keith felt betrayed, though that feeling was completely nonsensical. Lance, and especially Allura, had no idea how he felt.

“Oh, hey Keith. Do you want to watch the stars with us-?” Lance asked, but Keith just believed the man was being polite. The two would likely want alone time, and Keith would let them have it.

“I was just leaving.” Keith didn’t mean to sound angry, but he likely came off that way as he shouldered past Lance and started to walk down the hallway. His hands balled into fists, and he so badly wanted to let out his anger on something. He was glad he had walked away, he wouldn’t want to deliver those feelings to Allura or Lance-

“Keith! Dude, what’s going on??” Why did him thinking of Lance seemingly summon the man? Maybe it was just a coincidence, Keith did think of him a lot after all. That thought just became depressing to him now. He was chasing after the unattainable.

He felt a hand grab his wrist and he instantly wretched it away, spinning around to face Lance. Brushing some of his raven locks away from his face, he wasn’t sure how he was going to respond. Maybe he should have thought about it longer before he spoke. Lance looked at him with such naive concern, but it just made his heart hurt more.

“Fuck off, Lance.” He tried to walk away. He was close to his room, he could make it. Lance ended up making a grab for his arm again though, grabbing his wrist again and tugging him back.

“No, you should tell me what’s wrong. We’ve been on great terms for a while, what’s up now??”

“You wouldn’t be able to fix my issues, there’s no point in telling you.” You can’t make me not love you. You can’t love me. I’m not meant for you. I need to accept it. Lance shook his head and a delusional part of Keith wished that Lance was responding to his negative thoughts somehow, but that would be stupid of him.

Lance held onto Keith’s wrist, his blue eyes set on keeping their gaze on Keith’s. “Keith you’re my friend. Besides, it’s not good to keep feelings inside. You can tell me what’s bothering you. I’ll keep everything a secret, and I won’t judge you. You can trust me”

“What if I told you loved you then?” The words slipped out.

Lance paused, and then let go of Keith’s wrist. Keith missed the warm hand, his skin felt even colder without the touch. He wasn’t sure how to read Lance expression. Though he could detect some shock, he couldn’t pick up on whatever else there was. He felt like sprinting into his room, but he needed to hear what Lance had to say.

He watched Lance lick his lips before responding, “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” Why had Keith even tried? Why had he laid himself out like that? Why had he hoped for a positive response? Keith knew he was unlovable, no one had ever stuck around after all. After the war was over, he could bet no one would stick around him. He would be unneeded.

His feet moved seemingly involuntarily, or maybe his mind was too crowded to notice him giving directions. He slammed his bedroom door behind him and triggered the lock, falling to the floor with his back to the locked entrance. Keith wished he could cry, but he hadn’t since his father died as a child. Instead, his emotions would build and he had no way of getting them out that way.

Keith could hear his communicator dinging, but he ignored it as he sat on the floor. Soon he could feel someone hitting the door he had his back against, though he couldn’t hear it. His room by default had noise cancelling, since he was a light sleeper. Sleep didn’t actually seem so bad right now, it was a way to ignore what just happened.

He put his communicator on silent and climbed underneath the covers, planning on making his mind inactive for a few hours.

It didn’t work, instead he dreamed about Lance. He dreamed that he was actually loved. They were living in his dad’s shack together, alone but happy. Lance would give him kisses and he would accept them bashfully. His mind mixed together so many things, like for some reason there being a random wolf from a TV show he liked as a kid there. He ignored it though, Lance was the best part in his unconscious mind’s conjurings.

They would lay on the couch together, and Keith would watch Lance talk. In the dream it wasn’t decipherable, but he still enjoyed it. Lance would wrap his arms around Keith and hold him close, and he could imagine dream Lance was telling him everything was going to be okay.

When he woke up, he instantly wanted to go back. The delusion was so much better than the reality, and he desperately tried to imagine what else could have happened in the dream. Though even as he dozed off for a few minutes, thinking of these possibilities beforehand, the dream didn’t come back.

He was still in bed, by himself, with the shame of liking someone he knew would never love him.

[angeliccumwhore]

𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜!𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

> 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐭!

you didn’t like big events. still, chris dragged you to them. you preferred sitting in the bedroom in the comfortable blankets and playing songs on your guitar. he didn’t understand that; how you found so much semblance in the house. but, he ended up dragging you to a social event. he was extroverted snd loud—your social battery was out like a light.

you felt like a zombie. and of course, he was too drunk to listen to you. you decided to just go home, craving the silence the empty house would offer. you assumed he would uber, since you took the car. and she left him there, at the party, alone?

yeah, he got to see how it was like to live on your side, but—it sucked being abandoned, even with the dozens and dozens of people surrounding him. They weren't you. sure, you could've been right in the moment or whatever, but to actually *leave?* he was getting ready to throw a fit at the fact that you ditched him, ready to storm home and give you a piece of his mind after his friend had given him a ride.

meanwhile, you’re at home, in a off the shoulder sweater and white sweatpants, hair pulls up in a braid with little stands falling out. you have your mothers old guitar in your lap as you sat on the bed, your notebook in front of you. you strummed the strings mindlessly, knowing he would be fuming when he got home.

chris walks through the door, his keys being slammed into the entryway table as he throws his jacket onto the couch. he looked pissed. he could scream, he was so angry. “are you stupid or something?" he practically yells, walking over to you with his hands emphasizing his words, eyes burning. “leaving me?" he asks, glaring down at you. "at the party? with no ride? who the hell do you think you are?" he questions. you were silent, clutching your guitar. he broke things when he got angry.

don't be scared, you reminded yourself. you didn't do anything wrong. chris almost feels bad, but anger overshadows his compassion and he snatches the guitar away, and you wonder if he's going to smash it right in front of your eyes.

he doesn't. he doesn't smash it, but the next best thing—he throws your guitar across the room, it slamming into the wall and dropping. "oh, you didn't think i was mad?" he asks, his eyes dark and dangerous. you're practically paralyzed, eyes trained on him as you try not to sob, afraid.

but it’s still broken. your guitar, the one you use for all your songs, your favorite thing in the entire world, smashed. "do you get it now?" he asks again, stalking towards you as you stumble back, bumping into the wall behind you and he's cornering you. “are you done being a fucking bitch now?" he taunts, moving his head closer, his lips hovering inches from your ear. “if you ever try to treat me like that again, i'll do it again.” he promises darkly.

he leans back, pulling his hands from the wall and moving away from your stunned self. there's a sick, twisted feeling growing in your stomach, as you stare at your guitar shattered and splayed out on the floor. you're going to cry.

this had escalated way too fast. who is this person standing there? why did it feel so much different than all the times you'd had a disagreement before? this was far from that.

It's like you were suddenly a small, defenseless animal - you know that he *likes* that. The thought sickens you.

why is it that every time, that chris is the one with the power in the relationship? when you're with him, he can do whatever he wants, and he knows that you'll forgive him. you’re dating him after all.

it isn't fair.

you need to fight back, you know it, he knows it. but that doesn't mean you want to.

“my guitar,” you whispered. shaky hands fumbled to piece the guitar back together, the sharp pieces nearly cutting your hands. you were in some type of daze, hyper focused on fixing it.

it hit him. right in the gut. he flushed with guilt, anger disappearing in an instant and fading into remorse. "hey," he says lowly, sitting behind you and grabbing your trembling hands as they attempt to mend the guitar. "baby," he coos, "please, stop,"

you're sobbing uncontrollably, tears streaming down your face as you gasp for breaths and chris wraps his arms around you, trying to make amends for the horrible thing he just did. he doesn't know what came over him, but seeing you in so much agony tore at him, because he loves you. he loves you a lot.

"oh, babe, shh," he whispers, holding on you tightly and rocking you slowly in an attempt to calm you down, "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i’m so sorry," he starts, his own eyes watering, as he watches the mess he created in front of him. he's scared that you're going to leave him, you can even hear the fear, the tremble in his voice when he speaks, "let me help you, okay? I'm gonna fix it,"

he tries to be as gentle as possible, wrapping his hands around the shattered pieces of your guitar as he lays them together, "i'm so sorry," he says, over and over. he knows you love your guitar. there was no way to fix it. he doesn't even know why he grabbed it in the first place, but he hates seeing you upset even more. why had he done that?

you sniffled, sitting on the bed as he knelt on the floor, desperately trying to fix the guitar with trembling fingers.

[ochrearia]

Right Back to the Same Old Habits

Uhhh I don't know if this is really? Anything? But it's writing so might as well post it. I don't have anything else finished for RGBFverse and I don't know how motivated I will be for anything else so. Food lol. And it's Beefer so. I haven't done anything with him in a good while and he deserves at least a little something

BFs in this one-shot: Beefer (cs!BF, mine), Yourself (YS)

He wasn’t expecting anyone. He’d actually preferred that everyone decided to be smart and not come around because they had so many better things to be doing. If no one was watching like usual then YS would’ve felt less angry about, well, everything. He had so much anger. It was usually just buried under misery and came off as an already extinguished fire. Not today, he supposed. Right back to the same old habits. Because what was he supposed to do now? Congratulations, you’ve successfully convinced everyone that you’re worth a damn and now you can’t even keep that facade up. So what was left, then? Just anger. Always anger.

Boyf had accidentally seen it. Angry, furious just in general that when he was presented with an excuse to let it out he did. He was actually angry about that damn lemon monster thinking it could get away with hurting his little brother. But the anger hadn’t really been proportionate to what had been going on. It had burned so deeply that he’d forgotten his rule entirely and went eldritch. Using his shapeshifting in fury to look so grotesque and terrifying to match how his anger had felt. Showing an ugly side he hadn’t cared if the monster saw or not. But Boyf had also seen, and there was guilt there in his chest for it regardless. Boyf had told him it was fine. Didn’t stop YS from being angry about going against what he’d promised.

So YS wasn’t expecting anyone. He would prefer to be alone when he was so angry. Which was why he was surprised when he wasn’t left alone after all, and by someone he expected the least.

“Come on. You’re moping and I can feel it, I’m surprised no one else is here to try and fix that for you.” Beefer’s head was peeking through the mirror, a sharp edge to his tone that YS picked up on immediately. “You’re angry.”

“My walls are up? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You shouldn't have been able to notice that.” YS grumbled. “Not your job to show up and fix it. My mind, my problems. You have your shit to deal with. Focus on that.”

“Not your job to show up and fix our shit either.” Beefer countered.

“It actually is, now. Guardian angel. What’s your excuse?”

“Dunno, probably that your walls have literally never worked for me to begin with. Just another illusion isn’t it? A disguise to hide the true intention. The true you. I can tell when things are fake. I thought it was just being able to tell real humans from fake ones. I think it’s actually just being able to tell illusions from reality in general.”

Fuck.

“Not what you wanted to hear was it?” Beefer snipped knowingly. “Makes you more angry doesn’t it? Come on. Let’s go destroy something together. I’m pissed too, there’s a ton of places in my world where we can cause damage and get away with it.”

“Is it your own anger or is it mine, bleeding into your head?” YS asked, tone bitter. “My fault I guess. Of course I’d find the one version of me that is immune to magic used to hide things. Go home man. Go away. Get out of here, god, fucking leave, whatever comfort you could get from your GF or Pico will still be infinitely better than fucking wasting your time here.”

What are you doing? That’s no way to talk to one of your people. What the fuck is wrong with you?

“Nah.” Beefer shook his head. “You’re just angry. You don’t mean that really. I’ve felt what you really feel for a while now. I know what you’re doing and I may not be able to pull you out of it, but I’m not gonna let you just. Burn all the way down by yourself. Come on. Let’s go destroy some shit. I have something to show you, I was going to save it for a better time but that’s not important. Up. With me. Now.”

Damn fucking lizard. Always someone fucking showing up and acting like they wanted to help him. Pity at best. Obligation at worst. These days were getting more and more common, almost back to being daily and he knew that was bad but what even was the point anyway? There were enough other selves around now that YS could duck out like he’d wanted to and be forgotten. It would just be so damn easy. Maybe that was what he was angry about. He should’ve been long fucking gone by now.

“Times up, I’m not humoring your stubborn little game. You’re not the only one angry and for the record I would still never do anything to hurt you, but I’m not putting up with this. We’re going before you actually lose grip on your emotional walls and it becomes the problem of everyone instead of just me. That would make you even more angry.”

Beefer’s skills had gotten stronger somewhere along the line since the last time YS saw him. There was a sudden inhuman strength in the Dinaurian’s grip as he pulled the both of them through the mirror. Well, guess that made sense, he wasn’t human anymore anyway. YS swore his arm had changed before it, arm becoming more dinosaur-like. Guess that didn’t matter compared to the sudden blast of heat that he was met with.

“The fuck? Why are you at a literal volcano?” YS didn’t think that would ever be a sentence he said.

“Mt. Lavaflow. This isn’t even the only volcano that I could be at right now.” Beefer shrugged. “Thought you liked warmth? Too hot for you, big guy? I can potentially fix that a little in a moment but, better question, how strong are you really? I have no clue about the nature of supernaturals. Are you physically strong or magically strong?” YS ignored the Dinaurian for a moment, choosing to fully take in his surroundings instead. Certainly was a change compared to the routine of jumping through puddles. They’d crossed here through a large shard of obsidian glass, reflective enough for the magic to decide it would work. They were up high, and the angel could see rivers of lava that pooled in lakes. Nothing seemed like it was cooling down on its own.

Ironic.

“This mountain is self-sustaining. Most of the volcanos here are.” Beefer explained. “Apparently that’s not really a thing for everyone else? I’ve gotten ridiculous reactions every time I tell one of the others that volcanoes in my world just perpetually leak lava. Yeah. You can stop gawking now.”

“I wasn’t.” YS snipped. “Congrats. You’ve got me here. Now what? Great, I can sit and stew in physical fire instead of emotional fire. Actually, now I can do both. This is a great idea.”

“God you’re insufferable when you’re pissed off.” Beefer groaned. “Guess I wouldn’t be any better. I’m you. You didn’t answer my question. Think you’ve got the arm strength to start smashing some rocks? The lava here won’t cool down on its own. But it will cool if an outside force makes it.”

“What, you?” YS asked with a raised eyebrow. “I’m a shapeshifting angel, I have no water related magic. And without my wings I can’t do anything with wind either. So what do you have?”

Beefer gave a mix between a sneer and a grin. Maybe this was a bad idea when both of them were in such foul moods, but, oh well. Already here. Might as well keep digging this hole.

“Like I said. I wanted to show you this at a better time but if we’re going to be angry, you know, maybe there isn’t a better time for it. This is the last thing I’m going to be able to communicate to you so you’re going to have to save your awe-inspired questions for later!”

Before YS could ask what the fuck that possibly meant, Beefer was engulfed by a flash of light. And when it was gone, so was Beefer- well, the Beefer that YS was used to seeing. In his place was now a literal fucking dinosaur. Over twice YS’s height, towering over him with a tooth-filled mouth set in something like a snarling grin. Paper white skin, a giant cyan mane, teeth, claws, everything you’d expect to see of a theropod. Except it was so clearly alien, staring back at him with blood red eyes. Beefer, more dangerous than YS had ever cared to think.

“And for the record I would still never do anything to hurt you.” 

Right. YS could at least recall things said five minutes ago. He could see why Beefer had wanted to save this for a better time, because the concept of an angry dinosaur usually would end in someone getting torn to shreds. Those baby fangs and claws Beefer had in his humanoid form were more of a fucking warning than something to be scared of. His full dinosaur form, on the other hand…

“So, what, you’re going to start smashing rocks and leaving me smaller ones?” YS asked, hands in his pockets. “Look, fine, I can admit that you look cool. Fucking warn a guy about the flashbang effect next time.”

In the back of his head he remembered Beefer wasn’t always able to do this. So at some point along the line of not getting to hang out with each other, he’d learned. And he’d wanted to show the angel that despite everything going on with him, he’d found something to learn and be excited about. If he wasn’t letting his bad emotions get in the way of logic then maybe he’d say something about that like he should.

The Dinaurian grunted at him. Stomped off, looking behind him to make sure YS was following. They walked for a little while, down the side of the mountain to lower ground with a closer pool of lava.

“I don’t see how this is any better.”

The dinosaur glared at him, using his tail to push YS to back up. He did with a raised eyebrow, not seeing how this was going to do anything, but he assumed Beefer knew what he was doing.

Beefer let out a shrill mix between a growl and a hiss, jumping up and slamming the ground right next to the lava pool, causing some of the molten rock to be disturbed upwards. While that was happening, a sudden jet stream of compressed water came blasting out of his mouth, disrupting the lava further and cooling it down. Hot steam billowed into the air as chunks of solidifying rock started falling on the ground within reach, some not making it and falling back into the lava. But the saveable bits were enough.

“So you can… breathe water.” YS relented. “Actually, not really breathing it. You’re a walking pressurized water gun. Has anyone told you that you’re a lot more dangerous than you look in your normal form? Remind me to never make you pissed off at me directly…”

There wasn’t much else to be said. Beefer couldn’t talk in a way YS could understand in this form, so he was talking to a brick wall on a technicality. That was fine, though, both of them weren’t in their right minds at this point. YS had seen before how vicious Beefer could get when butting heads with Boyf in particular. And he knew he wasn’t any better right now. They all had the potential to be rather vicious if given the right circumstances.

Maybe smashing rocks wasn’t such a bad idea right now.

Beefer, of course, was better at it than him. Ancient strength born of a genome mixed with alien and reptile, the idiot was destroying the rocks he’d created like he was slicing through a stick of butter. There were smaller ones that YS could get to crumble in his grip if he tried hard enough. Man, letting his body atrophy for as long as he’d been, it was starting to show now. It wasn’t like he was able to crush rocks as fast as Beefer could before, but if he’d been taking better care of himself then it probably would’ve taken less effort than he needed now.

God, what was he even doing? Right back to the same old habits.

There were bits and shards left all around now. YS wasn’t sure how long they’d stood here just destroying for the sake of it, but time had passed at least. Pieces left thrown about everywhere. It was still boiling hot, but YS didn’t care, and it didn’t look like Beefer cared much either. Nothing but the sounds of lava bubbling around them, and their own heavy breathing.

Beefer eventually laid down. Using his tail to brush away as many shards as he could before curling up, red eyes watching YS carefully. The angel decided to follow his lead, lying down on the ground next to him.

Lying down next to literal pools of lava. What the hell was even going on anymore really?

“...We’re still angry.” Beefer said after a flash of light, and he was back to his humanoid self again. “Brought us here to let off some steam but there’s still so much left of it. We’re still angry.”

“...Yeah.” YS agreed after a moment. “You should be proud of at least trying. I would’ve just left myself to rot.”

“Too bad we almost had it, huh?”

YS frowned. Yeah, okay. He was angry, and in a bad mood, and he didn’t see himself getting out of it all that much anytime soon. But he was still himself. Still a guardian angel and Beefer was still one of his people. He could still see reason if it wasn’t something he had to apply to himself for the moment.

“You figured out how to switch into your battle form.” YS said instead, changing the subject. “You said you wanted to save showing me that for a better time. I’m sorry you couldn’t be as excited about it as you deserved to be. It’s very cool, by the way. Hey. I’m proud of you for figuring it out. Doing something that makes you excited despite your situation. That’s good.”

Beefer shrugged. “Cherry had to teach me. She taught Pico and I at the same time. It wasn’t… good the first time. That whole water gun thing, it’s not just water, it’s scalding water. Definitely would hurt if burns were something Dinaurians couldn’t just walk off immediately I guess. I didn’t want to practice that attack on Cherry because she’s tied to the fire element. Water element attacks hurt more for her.”

I thought Dinaurians were able to walk off attacks like nothing? Or is it different in the heat of battle? YS wondered, chest tightening painfully at the thought of Beefer not being as safe as he claimed to be. Being able to heal off anything was great but that didn’t mean the pain wouldn’t be there. He’d prefer Beefer didn’t get hurt to begin with.

“So Pico, fucking, volunteered instead. He’s tied to the air element. His attacks would hurt me more and my attacks would hurt him less. He wasn’t practicing on me, before you get even more mad. Just me on him, he said, because of the elemental matchups or whatever. It should’ve been fine. But I didn’t know what that attack was going to be like until I did it. Scalding hot water, that would burn anyone. I burned Pico, I think. I hurt him. He can heal it off, who cares, well, I do. I burned him. He was dying of burns caused by a Dinaurian. That’s why he is what he is now. And I fucking did it to him again.” Beefer spat.

Oh. Oh dear. YS grimaced. Yeah, explained like that, holy shit that was terrible. “Hey, you didn’t mean to though. Surely that has to account for something?”

“Jackshit in my opinion.” Beefer growled, folding his arms. “I’m so angry. And I’m even angrier that I had a thought for a second to be mad at him for volunteering in the first place. We keep doing this shit. I guess an outsider would call us even, he hurt me, I repaid it. I didn’t fucking want to.”

YS sighed, turning on his side so he could look at his brother better. “It’s easy to do things that you think are fine and then accidentally end up hurting someone else anyway. At least you feel bad about it. There’s too many people out there that wouldn’t care about that. You’re also lucky that both of you are now things that can heal off horrible wounds like that. It might not get rid of the emotional damage but it’s better than nothing. And you can still make up for it.”

“We still haven't talked yet.” Beefer admitted with a huff. “Could fix it, or try. But we haven’t had time. There’s gotta be people looking for us. Some of them aren’t even being subtle. Reports of unhidden Dinaurians going around asking about us. The human versions of us though. No one knows we’re… different. Cherry has to use the cloaking device almost all the time now. I hate that.”

YS looked at him for a moment. “You’re also angry that you have a place to escape to and they don’t. You have a place that you know you’re safe but they can’t benefit from that. You know that has nothing to do with you, right? Not at all your fault?”

“Still feel responsible for it.” Beefer sighed. “Like how you feel responsible for basically everything. How angry you get when things don’t go perfect right away, every time. Anger over any of us having to feel anything that isn’t a positive emotion. Anger that you can’t always save us from our situations. You can hide that from everyone else but not me. Sometimes knowing that makes it worse. Because why would I ever want you to feel like that?”

“I don’t… think I can really stop feeling like that for things.” YS treaded carefully, “But I know now it’s affecting you. So I can do better at keeping it at a level that isn’t so terrible, I think.”

“I would prefer that you try to learn that you don’t need to think like that at all.” Beefer countered. “But I know you can’t promise that. No one should promise such large change right then and there because old habits are hard to get out of. But you can at least promise to start trying. Because that’s something small you can do and it will be easy to see for me.”

“I…” YS hesitated. “Okay. You promise, then, too. You’ve got a lot of anger as well. You’re putting a lot of blame on yourself for things that were at worst just being careless. You didn’t intend for things to end up this way. You didn’t intend to burn your Pico. You didn’t intend for your friends to fall apart around you. So promise too. That you will try to learn it’s not your fault either.”

Beefer let out an empty laugh. “Yeah, alright man. Sure. We can play this game.”

“...Things probably aren’t going to start getting better today.” YS sighed in response.

“Too bad, we almost had it.” Beefer repeated knowingly.

“We almost had it.” YS agreed. “There’s always tomorrow. And the day after that. Always more time to be able to actually have it. Guess we just have to try to move forward for that, huh?”

The Dinaurian nodded. “Yeah.” He replied quietly.

“Just gotta try to move forward.”

[mieczyhale]

Life updates! Mental, dental, and medical related nonsense 🪿

Mark helped me with my assessment call for Rogers yesterday, for their ocd program. The person who does the assessment call has to pass it on to someone else and I was supposed to wait for a call back

They called yesterday afternoon while I was making a trip to Appleton with @thebobcatspajamas and for some reason by phone screen kept turning around - so the listening part was where the talking part should've been, and when i rotated my phone to try and correct it it just kept being the wrong way. So i had the entire phone call upside down, trying to make sure I didn't miss anything while also trying to make sure my jeep wasn't drifting, which was stressful

BUT

I got in

Y'all

Y'all

I have been trying to get into this place since LAST. APRIL.

The ProfessionalsTM recommendation was that I do residential treatment for 30 days. That's literally the exact kind of treatment I was trying to get into. Not partial-inpatient, not inpatient, not zoom - residential. And i fucking got it. (they said the others would've been okay if i preferred those options, but that they weren't the top recommendation for me) (there is literally no way those would've worked so i was happy to turn them dowm)

It's currently a 3 to 5 week waitlist, which isn't as bad as we were expecting, so yay!

However

It's 31,500$ for 30 days

And my insurance will not cover it / Rogers does not accept my insurance

Because of course they don't

But I already knew this so it sucks but whatever

The lady on the phone said "I know that's a lot, and most people don't just have that kind of money lying around-" yeah no shit, "but we're going to have our financial department call you to talk about it". Which is great, because they'll know what the fuck I can do to help cover that absolutely insane cost

Like.. we could afford some of it, but the whole thing would take literally all our money, so finding a grant or a medical loan or.. fuckin SOMETHING is not only preferable, but it's necessary

I debated briefly on going the gfm route but whenever I try to raise money it literally never works. Doesn't matter what it's for. So why waste my time

This isn't, btw, the only "medical" related nonsense I have coming up. Thankfully at least some of it is covered by my insurance, like the physical therapy, and possibly some of the teeth implants i finally got a referral for, but none of the TMJ specialists take my insurance (because, again, of course they don't) so we're paying for the first appointment with carecredit (god bless and amen that that exists AND that they accept it)

Knocking on wood and sending out prayers but I hope nothing else comes up anytime soon

Josh had to have his jeep towed and fixed and either the towing people didn't charge him, or someone paid it for him, bc the invoice says he owes 0$.

Maybe I could get a little help??

God I fuckin hope so lmao

[animentality]

in re your post about therapy speak and ship wars, i THINK i agree from what I do understand, but i also dont know what therapy speak means? I looked it up and got this definition "Therapy speak is a colloquial term that refers to the use of psychological, therapeutic, or mental health language in everyday conversation. It can include terms like "boundaries," "abuse," "psychopath," and "trauma"."

So would an example of such be, "X ship is better than Y ship because X ship respects each others boundaries, but in Y ship they're a psychopath"? And then you know probably some added death/doxxing threats cuz ship wars.

Either way, yeah, ship wars dumb af, I just am dumb af too so I don't know what the post means. I also, fortunately, don't encounter much of therapy speak in my fandom spaces or online in general (proven by the fact that I had to look it up) as I just talk to people that I know and avoid the For You pages (which, plot note, are very often not For Me) so I'm lucky to avoid stupid opinions.

Thanks for answering if you do choose to, I know that at least several of the replies/responses to that post are likely stupid af, so I hope that my stupid af question is at least stupid af in a different way :) If I somehow have the wrong definition feel free to just link me to something that explains it better, because regardless it seems like a useful term to know!

not a stupid question at all.

so in the context of that post, abusing therapy speak refers to people who misuse terms like "narcissist" and "bipolar disorder" and "gaslighting" to suit their own personal tastes.

say for example, a character is arrogant and kind of haughty. if you don't like that character because people ship him with the character you like to ship with someone else, you insist he's a "narcissist" when he's you know. just arrogant.

and you say he can't be with her, because he's a narcissist and he has problems. that's problematic.

or say there's a female character you hate for having genuine human reactions to traumatic things. you'd say well I don't like her because she lets her obvious bpd hurt people instead of trying to fix her issues, she's so messy :(

and then if someone lies to another character, say their enemy, because they're fucking enemies, then you'd say oh he GASLIGHTS him, how could you guys ship this??? toxic ship???

so that's what that post refers to.

therapy speak as a whole, by definition, is fine because PTSD and depression and trauma do exist.

but in certain spaces, especially Twitter and TikTok and Tumblr of course, it's been weaponized as a tool to harass people who are fans of characters or ships that they themselves do not like.

which is ridiculous.

like you can say you don't like a ship without feeling the need to diagnose the two characters with whatever fun term your gen z therapist tossed at you that week.

you can say oh I simply do not like this character instead of oh he has an obvious mental illness and that's why I don't like him.

or you know.

he's a terrible representative of (insert illness) and that's why I don't like him-

bitch, we used to just not like things.

now it's like... oh this character is a psychopath.

let me read you a Wikipedia page on dsm-5 and explain that my personal preference is morally correct while yours is amoral.

that's why that post meant.