#I understand the urge but I think it's probably counterproductive

[cookinguptales]

lmao @ the post on my dash below the one I just made being about the evangelical christian persecution complex

[just-horrible-things]

'Verse: Resistance Story: Unlikely Salvation, co-author @whump-sprite Timeline: Arc 2

Riot, pt2 [Prev | Next]

There are breaks from the noise. Whether that means anything’s changed, or it’s just that even the cops have gotten sick of the continuous wailing and turned their sirens off, it’s hard to know.

It’s a welcome reprieve, regardless. 

The news focuses on the police response, and sometimes on the damages. Once a shot of a witch or warlock throwing fire – followed by the familiar rhetoric. Lawless, reckless, dangerous magic users, out to harm anyone who crosses their path.

Ariadne understands why the focus is what it is, what the objectives are. But the lack of actual information is deeply frustrating.

The acts of vandalism are spreading. Anger is catching like a flame, drawing more and more people into the streets. Anger at landlords, at big business, at everyone who has enough. Warlocks angry at regular folk, the poor angry at the rich, young people angry at everyone and everything.

Somewhere, most likely, a mob is forming. When the numbers in the street hit a critical threshold, more people start to pour out from the cracks to join them, drawn in by the allure of a large enough group to feel invincible.

They don’t show that on the news. It would be counterproductive.

They do show a police line, which implies a crowd – or the threat of one. But it’s a tidy, by-the-books line without a rioter in sight, almost certainly drawn up specifically for the cameras. No one’s yet thrown paint at them.

Ariadne makes eggs for lunch, and spends a while contemplating the contents of the cupboards. They have cans that they almost never use, bought on the vague gut feeling that a kitchen should have cans. It’s unlikely they’ll be stuck inside for days, but she still wishes she’d paid more attention when mom used to stretch the food out to make it last.

She works out again, because there isn’t much else to do indoors. Then, driven by boredom, she fixes up the torn hem on that one pair of pants, and a t-shirt with a seam that’s coming undone, even though the only thread she has is black.

Alex watches her with something like fascination, but he doesn’t comment.

There’s another gunshot in the middle of the afternoon. Just one. Alex and Ariadne are silent and still for long minutes listening for more.

Ari checks the news again, but apparently the weather segment is higher priority than the ongoing situation. She leaves it playing, and returns from the bathroom to find Alex scowling at the newsreader’s plastic smile.

“Have they used the r-word yet?” He shakes his head. “No surprise.” They hate admitting that anything is out of control.

It gets worse as evening draws in – or nearer, which is functionally the same from their limited perspective. Sirens again, and beneath them through the cracked-open windows the noise of the crowd, the swell of raised voices, shouting, chanting.

Ari closes the windows, and pushes down the irrational urge to tape over the cracks. It’s unlikely to keep any more noise out anyway. Alex watches, and winces a little at how hard she slams the sash closed.

“This is why I didn’t want to live here,” she grouches, unwisely. “Because of too many warlocks?” Alex snaps back with surprising vehemence. “No. Because of the violence.” “Because warlocks are violent.” “It’s not just warlocks –” she exhales sharply in frustration, and Alex’s tiny flinch makes her wince too. “All I mean is, I’m thinking about our safety. I just want us to be safe.”

“We can’t afford to be safe. Just like they can’t.” A gesture at the TV, currently off. “Yes we can,” Ari insists. “There are quieter neighborhoods.” I grew up poor, she almost says, but she bites it back. She probably had more than Alex did.

Alex glowers at the closed window. “I should be out there,” he says. Ariadne blinks at him. “What, rioting?” “No.” A flat look. “Helping injured people.” “Alex, no.”

If there’s something of a challenge in his stare, it’s a little wide-eyed too. Guilt rises like bile in the back of Ariadne’s throat.

“Haven’t you given enough?” she asks. “Don’t risk getting caught by the cops.” She feels like an asshole for saying it, because she knows before the words are out it will make him wince like that. Her tone turns pleading. “Let’s just stay inside and be safe. I’m sorry I said the wrong things, again. I’m sorry. Can we just try to stay safe?”

There are more raised voices in the street. Not fighting, not here. Not yet. Just calling one to another, back and forth – but with an electric, slightly wild energy. Are they on their way to break something? To look for the mob?

“Okay,” Alex says, voice small and defeated. “I’m sorry,” Ari repeats. “I won’t say any more stupid shit. Let’s put a movie on?” “Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay, let’s do that.”

Ari has a couple of packs of popcorn in the back of a cupboard. The price is ridiculous for the scant handful of calories, but sometimes you need a treat. She lets Alex pick a film while she watches the paper bag inflate in the microwave. When it’s done, she tips it into a bowl.

Alex accepts her offering with a quiet “thank you”. And when she settles at the other end of the sofa, he says “c’mere?”

She scoots over, and he puts an arm over her shoulders and pulls her in in an almost possessive gesture. 

It’s all kinds of fucked up, but some of the tension in her eases just from the physical contact. They’re still okay. This still works.

He’s picked an action movie, and the soundtrack masks the noise from outside, and Ari doesn’t quite forget but for a while she can put it to the back of her mind.

Alex invites himself into her bed that night. He’s welcome. His arm across her ribs and the weight of his head on her shoulder force her not to toss and turn, but she doesn’t sleep. The rioters quiet down in the small hours, but she keeps thinking she still hears their voices, just on the edge of perception.

She isn’t sure how much Alex sleeps either, but it’s more than she does. He twitches with dreams, on and off, and once wakes with a start, grip tightening around Ari’s ribcage.

He lifts his head in the dark, and asks, “Ari?” “Yeah,” she answers, soft as she can manage. “It’s me.” Sorry. A pause. “Not interrogator?” “No, just Ari.”

Gradually, hesitantly, he settles back onto her shoulder.

“I can go, if you want,” she offers. His bed is vacant. Or she could find something better to do than fail to sleep. “No,” he says, “stay.”

Morning brings no respite. Ari almost throws the remote at the TV in frustration. 

She looks round to see Alex staring.

She puts the remote down carefully, inhales slowly, and forces her shoulders to relax. He looks away, but she sees his hands go to the edge of his sweater to fidget at the hems. Irritation and guilt itch across her skin.

She can control herself. She has to. She has no right to be annoyed.

He doesn’t join her in exercise this time. So Ari does angry push-ups until her wrists hurt too bad to carry on. When she showers she sets the water as cold as it will go. 

A neighbour knocks on their door to ask if they’re going out. She has a duffel bag over her shoulder, a ski scarf round her neck ready to pull up over her face, and a pair of heavy duty goggles on her forehead. She has enough goggles to spare, she says.

Alex looks tempted. Ari says no firmly and closes the door in the woman’s face.

“Idiot,” she grumbles. “What if we reported her?” “Are you going to?” “Fuck no. We don’t –” We don’t want any contact with the cops. “I don’t – want to do that kind of thing anymore.”

Sirens roll past, loud enough to be in their street. Ari laces her fingers together and squeezes until the bones threaten to snap, because otherwise she’s going to punch a wall. And that really might break something.

Somewhere in the distance, the mob is singing in that godawful, bone-thrumming way that crowds do, where everyone is out of tune but the melody still somehow rises like a spectre from the averaging of their mistakes.

She longs for a treadmill.

“Are you… okay?” Alex asks, with the wary edge that suggests he might half-want to append a sir. “Yeah.” “Your wrists…” She looks. They’re a little swollen. She hadn’t noticed. “May I?” “No.” It comes out too short. “I mean – save it. I’m okay.”

He retreats to the kitchen, looking hurt.

They have canned soup for lunch. It’s not bad, but Ari isn’t tasting it.

“I’m sorry,” she tells Alex. “I’m sorry I’m on edge. I’m not mad at you.” “It’s fine,” he says, but she doesn’t believe him.

And then the rattle of automatic gunfire has them both leaping out of their seats.

It’s over in a second or less, but the screaming lasts longer. They stand, wild-eyed and frozen, until it ebbs out of earshot again.

Less than a km. But not so close as their own street.

“I-I have to,” Alex says, breathless, just as Ari starts to move again. “Alex, no.” He shakes his head, backing away from her. “Don’t tell me no,” he says, and turns, and almost runs toward the door.

“Alex! Wait! Wait for me, I’ll come with you, wait – we’ll stick together, I’ll bring the first aid kit.”

He hesitates just long enough to look at her, and whatever that is in his eyes, it makes the risk they’re about to take worth it. 

He nods just once, and then they’re both in motion.

Guns, one each, in the hastily-buckled concealed holsters she insisted they splash out on rather than tuck pistols into waistbands. Alex ties a scarf round his face like he’s done it a thousand times, and tosses another to Ariadne. She grabs the first aid kit, and he only needs to bring himself.

She’s first out the door, wishing for the neighbour’s goggles as it closes behind them.

[Next]

[velvetporcelain]

appetite. force. intellect.

this is no longer about him.

this is about me.

it’s about me.

it has been about me.

i think you have to be selfish in order to UNDERSTAND the concept of selflessness.

i made it about him, because it was about me, but at the time it never felt about me. hindsight. sucha little weasel.

what if hindsight was the guru? the divine? god?

i am not rushing, but I’m right on time.

i am satisfied, and my sadness is imaginary, a fairytale, a story of the moment. it’s always will be there because light needs balancing. thy will be done.

i feel good. this morning i struggling to move my idle mind. so i just went with the flow. i find petting my cat helps me practice consciousness. i stare at him in awe for as long as i need to. what a stunning creature.

i love cats so much. id nurture any cat to my fullest potential, you know, besides my children. i fucking love me a needy cat, a dog on the other hand? HA.

it’s a great way to channel my negative energy because it comes so easily. dogs are so fucking needy, they smell, they go outside, they bark, they drool, they piss all over everything, they are a liability, huge liability. Do we have dog insurance? 🤔 anyways- dogs. Ew. Now that doesn’t mean that I don’t give dogs love if I feel they deserve it, but most of the time I will let them know I will not be petting them. Dogs know, and I like using it against them.

it’s the day after Christmas and everything is right back to normal, ha , I said “still” at first , but realized that is only due to my privileged lifestyle. I don’t have to get up and be at work and fight for crumbs left by the rich. So it is still for me.

I’m working on attracting and not chasing. Life chases me. Yes we probably won’t know a probable outcome, but saying that the universe continues to give just means that you recognize there is an infinite amount of ways life can play out, and we are hear to experience that.

Sometimes I wonder why I set to break my peace. Urges of old behavior haunt me. some days I can only see them but not feel them, some days I can see them and feel them, I always see them, they are called memories. There is no control, alt, delete for that. Why are we consistently regulating our memories while trying to be as present as possible? It’s so counterproductive, counterintuitive!!!!

I think balance between two people can look very much like when one recognizes that their partner is on the dark side of the hemisphere they easily become the light—- something along those lines. See sometimes I am afraid it perspective of love is deeper than I even know at this point, like I don’t even understand what love is because I still feel unloved. I don’t want this getting in the way of the many, many, infinite, ways of love I have yet to experience. So I am working on turning that into fantasy, sexual desires, and role play. Using my creative mind when I feel “unloved “ and be able to act accordingly. Fuck, does this make sense. *squeezes your cheeks and nods your head yes” yes mommy it does. 👀

What if you started a group against the government specifically to get their attention on real issues that Americans have? 🤔 wow what a left turn. Vibes. But like think about it, if we follow the rules, we fall in line- lol wait nevermind, I’m not wasting thought on thinking that they would ACTUALLY give a fuck about us. Let alone their veterans. I literally know nothing.

am i a gypsy? —or——- a free bird afraid to fly?

am i just a story inside my mind? How wonderful it is to be the main character. 🥰💕🫡🕊️✨🍒🐺

today I need to save my fish, i am failing them. i hope my snails are alive.

please think about me today.

-x

[2n2n]

I hope you haven't already talked about it but I need to know why Hanako and Tsukasa have hitodama in the Hanakotei AU.

Unlike the other people working at the inn, Hanako isn't even a Bakeneko but a Nekomata, but the hitodama didn't appear when he first transformed and ran off with Tsukasa. Apparently the worse a cat is abused, the stronger she becomes as a Nekomata, so I get why he burned down the circus but rescued Tsukasa who was apparently very loving and even took up his form but-- why'd he kill him afterwards??? Did he just fail to control his urges? He likes eating human meat, so surely the person he likes best would be especially appetizing, especially after he just became a Nekomata and had no time to learn how to control his instinct. He'd be hungry and disoriented.

Or did he want Tsukasa to stay with him eternally? Nekomata are known for their necromancy, so it's not like this is difficult for him. But considering that Tsukasa hasn't changed since the circus incident, Hanako killed him pretty much right after. That seems quite excessive since he could have just let him live out his life together with him and then revive him when he dies of old age...? (Tsukasa certainly wasn't running away from him! He gave him clothing! Held hands with him while escaping the law! Seems perfectly happy to pretend to be a cat even fifty years later as long as Amane plays with him!)

Of course Tsukasa could have died because of some other reason but considering Nekomata are known for killing their owners that's kinda, eh, doubtful? Especially since Hanako canonically killed his little brother. On the other hand Hanako does also have hitodama so he might be dead as well???? Either he is a ghost Nekomata or he's using these things to control (?), stabilize (?) Tsukasa, basically they might be a sign that he's currently doing necromancy.

There's no reason for him to kill himself in this AU even after killing Tsukasa since he can simply revive him! Surely suicide would be counterproductive if regrets it/ wants Tsukasa to live/ killed him in order to make sure Tsukasa wouldn't leave him.

(Nekomata aren't the most stable yokai. Apparently you can be perfectly nice to them but as soon as a cat turns old enough, she'll turn into a nekomata and eat you, so... you know... Hanako talking about how he is searching for yummy humans to eat, doesn't make him sound very stable.)

TLDR: Even if Tsukasa is dead and was subsequently revived by Hanako, why does Hanako have hitodama?

Ahhh it's super interesting, whether they have seals + hitodama in any given AU! it feels like it says everything… with a lot of what you say, I'm in agreeance; it's obvious with a Nekomata's urges, what must have happened between the two... at least in raw actions. He surely killed him, as he so loves to. But it begs questions for the details...

So many questions! Hanako really didn't last very long, at resisting killing Tsukasa. I wonder how effective Hanako was at taking care of Tsukasa, after running away? How long were the two lost in the woods together? How did Tsukasa, a normal human child, fare, with a Nekomata as his ward? Was Hanako any more mature than Tsukasa? As a Nekomata, Hanako could probably kill them some kind of food ... but is he really that adept and skilled at caretaking? Does he even understand all the needs of a human child? Does he understand how they differ from a cat's? I'm not sure if Hanako, at that moment, was so smart or capable … its possible Tsukasa wasn't doing well… but Hanako is a suspicious person. I personally would be fond of both things happening; that Hanako underestimated how little he was fit to be Tsukasa's only master, as a foolish kitty, and how impossible it was to resist the appeal of Tsukasa's flesh.

I believe both are ghosts in the AU. most AUs with seals+hitodama combo, they are for sure ghosts. (in the teen drama AU they have neither ... in monster nursery they have seals but no hitodama... inscrutable....)

I think, as well as the hitodama, one should consider their seals! In my mind, the seals always convey that Tsukasa is Amane's property, and that Amane did something to make Tsukasa 'his'. So, surely he used his necromancy on Tsukasa after killing him … it feels easy to explain that 'tie'... but then, why does Hanako have a seal, too? In canon, that seal was placed by someone else (grandma Minamoto, as far as we know) ... did Hanako choose his sealing in this AU? Did Sakura seal him after they arrived at the inn? Did that seal come some number of years into the inn arrangement?

I tend to assume Hanako's seal has to do with limiting/restricting himself, purely because that is the only use for that kind of seal we've seen thus far. It represents repressing something, to me, so it's interesting when he wears it even in an AU as seemingly lawless as Ghost Hotel or Bakeneko, where Hanako seems completely leaning into his urges and dangerous-ness… but… the seal implicates something is held back. It could always be that Sakura required it of him, in order to work at the inn (to place him more on-level with the other bakeneko, and subdue his power level to reduce risks)

in canon, Hanako leans very much into being a murderer, despite the agonies surrounding it. He brandishes the knife flippantly, he threatens people around him with it as a gag, he poses cool with it for Nene, he acts as if it carries no weight at all to him, even as he pulls it out of his own body. If you saw only a few images of our Hanako, he would look like a monster who feels no remorse. He typically presents himself as care-free... if he can help it...

We don't really know how Hanako feels about what he did to Tsukasa, in canon… ashamed? proud? complicated? It's probably just as layered for Hanako-tei. Maybe it felt very good to kill Tsukasa, and maybe he's pleased at their arrangement now, but maybe it was also a miserable moment he cannot forgive himself for, the very last thing he wanted to see himself do.

It could always be a failure to protect Tsukasa, and an explosive moment of indulgence.

I think there might be a reason to kill himself; self-hatred or shame or agony, OR, personally, I believe Hanako is most inclined to 'follow' Tsukasa's death out of a romantic urge to 'prove' he would do that, to die with him. I think the shinjuu is always a gesture of proving love and devotion, and the seals represent that commitment whenever present. Tied together and all. Being both dead at the same age is also gratuitously decadent, for twins. It's like a big gigantic banner reading "DEFINITELY DIED TOGETHER". Its funny Hanako-tei is seemingly pretending this is reality by making him and Tsukasa cosplay each other ... what is up with him?

There could be circumstances where there is "no good reason" for Hanako to kill himself, i.e. no societal punishment or parents to answer to, nothing to escape via death, or already seemingly powerful enough to keep them both safe as a kaii, and he would simply ache to do it out of a need to profess something profound. I think Hanako always struggles at saying how he feels, or expressing it … in a normal way …

I also think we're always missing pieces, with the Yugi. Its worth always keeping in mind that Tsukasa is also suicidal, and easily sees himself as unnecessary/a burden. If Amane was trying to take care of him, after running away, and it went poorly or was visibly difficult for Hanako, or he was struggling to resist his urges, Tsukasa might hurt himself or try to kill himself as a way to do Hanako a favor (and given Takase-Bune and Night on the Galactic Railroad both feature situations like this, and Iro references both, I keep it in mind as a central aspect of Tsukasa, who tried to die to give Amane life).

In Bakeneko Ryokan AU, you could imagine a situation like that … one where Tsukasa tries to rid Hanako of the burden or offer himself for Hanako to consume, and, you could have a situation where the last thing Hanako wanted to do cannot be helped but to happen. I think it's Hanako's nature that if Tsukasa says, "I'll die, then. It's okay. You'll be happier if I die." Hanako is like, SCRREEEAAAA NO NO WHO SAID YOU COULD DECIDE THAT??? I'LL SHOW YOU HOW IMPORTANT YOU ARE *kills himself and curses them both eternally* . .. . just killing Tsukasa is only half of the love poem. It's important to say "and I don't want to live without you; I want us to change each other, permanently. I want to be as marked by this as you are." A fully in-tact, healthy Hanako, and a murdered Tsukasa, it's just not quite romantic enough, is it? Then only Tsukasa is sacrificed and trapped ... I think both of them need to be trapped, haha. Altered permanently, irreversibly, by their love.

and I think Hanako's gesture always makes the intended impression on Tsukasa.... he is pleased to be with him, now. To thank Hanako for his loving and generous gesture, he will play kitty-kitten all day long with him.

I hope that tackled everything! I'm having trouble keeping my head on straight lol....

[fandomlovingfreak]

Glacial Passion (4/?)

Regulus Black/Reader

Rating: Lemon, 18+

Trigger Warning: Arranged Marriage, talk of potential pregnancy

Word Count: 2576

MasterList Link I AO3 Link I Wattpad Link

Summary: Glacial, cold, icy… all words that described Regulus Black’s grey eyes. Was there truly no emotion behind those eyes, or did a caring man exist beneath? Could she defrost those glacial eyes?

Disclaimer: Regulus Black (Walburga Black, Orion Black, and Sirius Black) is a character from Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling. Reader or y/n is not owned by Rowling. This work has not been created for profit or financial compensation, and is a transformative fair use work in accordance with Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.

Notes: I felt bad because I haven’t updated in centuries... so if it sucks SORRY </3

Enjoy

The restaurant was a suggestion from his father. How Orion knew about this particular restaurant, Regulus hadn't a clue. Well, he had some ideas-- but they were ideas better left unexplored in his opinion.

Despite being aware that his parent's marriage had always been a farce, it still stung a bit knowing they hated each other and his father sought comfort in others. A restaurant as... sappy as this one wasn't something his mother would enjoy. Orion would never even dream of bringing Walburga to a place like this. 

Everything about the restaurant screamed romance, from the candlelight to the rich reds of the chairs. Even as this type of dinner wasn't his cup of tea, Regulus hoped that a romantic setting like this was something (y/n) would appreciate.

Not like he would know, as she had hardly spoken a word to him the entire night. 

She looks beautiful, and momentarily he wonders if he should tell her. On the one hand, it could get her to talk to him, but on the other, he felt like it was inappropriate in a way. Like he was feeding her false ideas about his emotions because he wanted her attention.  

He can't help it, though. She looks ravishing; the color of her dress complimenting the glow of her skin in combination with the flicker of candlelight was something only a poet could describe in perfect, heartwrenching detail. And Regulus was no poet.

Merlin’s beard, wouldn't it be easier to let oneself fall completely in love instead of keeping the carefully constructed guard up.

Instead, he opts for a dumb, "You look beautiful tonight."

Her (y/e/c) eyes flicker up to his. Regulus burns under the stare, thankful for the near darkness of the restaurant. 

"Thank you." 

"Are you-- do you like the restaurant?" Yikes, when did he become so--

"It's nice." (y/n) smiles, taking another sip of her white wine. 

Regulus scowls over his own drink. Why was this so difficult?

"My father suggested it. I don't know how he knows about it--" Merlin! Now he's just blurting out things to fill the awkwardness he felt.

"Oh really? I can't imagine that your mother would be interested... in all of this."

"She's not."

(y/n)'s eyes widen before pity settles in her (y/e/c) eyes. "Oh-- I--"

"Don't-- I didn't mean to make my father's-- personal life the topic of our conversation." 

"So..." (y/n) looks down at her plate. They couldn't be worse at this; Regulus is convinced that the conversation couldn't be more painful. 

"Was there anything you wanted to see around the city? I don't have much planned--"

"Wasn't this your idea?" (y/n)'s lips are pinched, displeased suddenly. Regulus feels the tension build under that subtle pinch of her lips.

"No."

For a moment, she just stares, until suddenly, a small fluttery laugh seems to spill from her lips. She tries to cover her laughter with her delicate hand, but it's uncontrollable quickly.

Tables turn towards the sound of her laughter, trying to see why his wife has erupted into furious giggles.

"I-- I don't understand why you find this humorous?" Regulus tries not to notice the people as they continue to stare at their table.

(y/n) attempts to control her amusement by taking another sip of her wine. The giggles don't secede, though, even with the glass pressed against her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she says, pressing her napkin against her lips, "It's just that you suddenly dragged me to another country, and it wasn't even your idea to do so! Isn't it a bit ridiculous, Regulus?"

Again, he feels the burn of embarrassment across his pale cheeks, "You are not having a good time?"

"What do you want me to say to that? We don't spend any time together besides having sex, and you've brought me to a restaurant your father brings his whores to... Not exactly the honeymoon many women dream of."

Maybe this restaurant wasn't the best idea--

"What do you want me to do?"

She sighs, "I don't know."

If he was not flustered before, he surely could say he is now. How do you please someone who doesn't even know what they're asking you for?

He exhales slowly, trying to calm the irritation he feels with her, "If you told me what you want from me, I could possibly make it happen."

(y/n) stares back at him, "You already told me what I want was impossible."

Regulus feels the coldness radiating off of her, "(y/n)--"

"This really isn't a conversation for public ears."

No, it really wasn't.

***

Even as our conversation wasn't exactly satisfactory, I still wanted what I wanted and was willing to go to any lengths to get it. Seduction seemed to be the option with the most success. That and hoping he'd be distracted enough by the suddenness to forget certain charms.

***

(y/n) disappears into the closet the instant they step into the room after dinner. Everything had been tense and uncomfortable after their conversation. He could practically feel his wife's annoyance with him the rest of their silent dinner.

Regulus sits down at the desk, running a hand through his black curls. Admittedly, he could see why she was upset with him. All she seemed to crave from him was emotion, and he was adamant in keeping her at a comfortable distance from him emotionally. It was a battle both desperately wanted to win, and there didn't seem to be a clear winner in the near future.

Regulus searches the desk for a distraction, landing on his quill and ink. Writing a letter to his parents could be a good distraction-- except nothing of real interest had happened in their short time away from home. Besides, distracting himself from the woman behind the closet door by writing about her seemed counterproductive. 

Anyways, Walburga would write back to him immediately upon receiving such a letter. He wasn't sure he wanted a written explanation of his duty as the sole heir of the Black family alongside her continued talks at home. It seemed just as uncomfortable as talking to his mother face-to-face about such matters.

Instead, he addresses the letter to Sirius, who was probably still unaware that his younger brother had gotten married. He would write to Sirius on occasion, hoping his brother had some secret insight into life that he did not possess. If Walburga knew her favorite still corresponded with the 'blood traitor,' he was sure he'd be disowned alongside Sirius, or at least hexed to hell and back. Not like it really mattered at this point. He was sure he was being punished in his current situation anyways. 

When Sirius left, he was devastated, scared even of living alone in Grimmauld Place with his parents. Regulus had also been furious, but missing his older brother had overshadowed any anger he felt towards Sirius. Their correspondence had been less frequent in the past year, but Regulus thought he ought to share the news of his marriage with Sirius. 

He's just about to start the letter when (y/n) walks into the room wearing lace lingerie that leaves little to the imagination. He soaks in the image of her alluring body wrapped up like a present for him.

"Regulus," his name sounds luscious, dripping from her lips like honey.

"(y/n)," he stands, taking a step towards his bewitching wife. The half-written letter to Sirius is entirely forgotten on the desk as he stands.

She does a little turn, showing him the entire outfit, "do you like it?"

He nods dumbly, eyeing the small bow resting against her spine.

"Do you want to touch?" The sultry smile on her lips is like a magnet, pulling him closer to admire the way the lace accentuates her beauty.

"I want to take this off," he reaches out, intending to pull her closer to his body. Instead, (y/n) shoves him back towards the bed, the backs of his legs hitting the plush mattress. Her hands run up his torso, eye contact never wavering as she pushes him gently on the bed. Regulus's eyes widen at the boldness of his wife.

Crawling up onto the bed after him, she settles on his lap. 

"Weren't expecting this, were you?" Her fingers grip his chin, forcing him to keep eye contact.

Regulus grips her hips, fighting the urge to press her down on his aching cock. Instead, (y/n) rolls her hips. "Merlin--" Regulus groans, throwing his head back against the pillows.

(y/n) grins wickedly down at him, repeating the motion a few more times before he can't take it anymore.

"I need to be inside of you." He tries sitting up to control the situation, but (y/n) pushes him back down on the bed.

"Patience. I think it's only fair that I take charge tonight."

He frowns, conflicted because he doesn't hate this sudden change in his wife's sexual confidence. 

She pauses another moment, gauging how certain she is that he won't continue to fight her for dominance. (y/n)'s fingers slip down from his stomach to the buckle of his belt. Regulus swallows hard, trying to fight how he wants to push her back on the bed and bury himself in her tight heat.

"If you don't hurry up--" Regulus practically snarls as her fingers trail down the front of his pants.

"Patience, Regulus." 

Damnit, woman... 

Slowly, (y/n) tugs his pants down his thighs. 

"C'mon (y/n)--"

(y/n)'s fingers begin to slowly unbutton his shirt, ignoring his pleas. 

Her smile is wicked, "you're so good, letting me do what I want."

Regulus frowns but doesn't respond. He won't beg for her, won't beg to feel her tight heat. Won't beg to hear those little breathy moans she lets escape when he fucks her just right.

"Do you want me?" 

"Obviously, woman." This technically isn't begging, he rationalizes as he eyes her barely covered tits. 

"Tell me how badly," she guides his hands up to her chest, encouraging him to squeeze the flesh.

Regulus pinches her left nipple, enjoying the way it peaks under his touch. "I've never wanted a woman the way I want you."

(y/n) pauses, her eyes focused on his as she looks at him with shock written across her features. Regulus fights the blush that creeps up his neck, suddenly feeling shy over his words. There hadn't been an intention to reveal anything of the sort to her. 

(y/n) bites her lips, "really?"

Regulus sighs, feeling insecure at the moment as (y/n) watches him with stars in her eyes. He runs his hands up her thighs, collecting his thoughts, "Yes."

She smiles, leaning down to press her lips against his. Regulus cradles her face in his hands, pulling her closer to continue the slow and sensual kiss. 

"I don't have patience for your teasing."

For a moment, he's sure that he's regained some dominance in their exchange as her face softens substantially. But before he can get his wicked hands on her, she's up and off of him, removing the lace from her body.

Regulus watches her hesitate for a moment, looking suddenly insecure in her actions.

"Well? Was this not your game of seduction, darling? Finish what you started."

She looks down at the ground for a moment before climbing back to sit on his lap. (y/n) whimpers slightly, rubbing herself against his length.

Finally, she engulfs him in her heat. Regulus grits his teeth, the warmth of her practically chokes him. (Y/n) plants her hands on his chest, her lips slightly agape as she stares down at him. At her work.

"Do you want me to help you?" He rolls his hips against her, fingers itching to grasp the flesh of her ass.

(y/n) doesn't slap his hands away but shakes her head no, moving tentatively up before sinking back down. Regulus can't help the moan that spills from his throat. It just feels so good.

Regulus pushes himself up on his elbows, so their chests prest together. Her arms wrap around his neck as she grinds against his lap.

"Merlin--" Regulus kisses her before maneuvering her to her back. His hips are quick to piston against hers.

"Regulus!" 

He shushes her gently, "let me take care of you."

"No more contraceptive charms," she brushes away hair from his forehead. He wants to 

"I'll cast it when you're asleep," He frowns down at her, hands gripping her waist as he buries himself savagely within her.

"You wouldn't dare. I made this happen, initiated it." She looks magnificent beneath him, tits bouncing, lips slightly open as she argues.

"I said no."

(Y/n) stops her movement, looking up at him with a blank expression. It unnerves him how... blank she looks.

"What are you doing?"

(Y/n) scowls at him, "I'm done with this." She pushes him away by his shoulders, getting up and off the bed to cross the room where her robe hangs.

Regulus stares at her in disbelief. "Wait!"

"No! I'm done."

"You can't just walk away!"

"Watch me." (Y/n) walks into the adjoining bathroom.

He throws his head back in frustration, "you're really going to leave me like this?"

"I don't care!" She pops her head out angrily from the bathroom, "I don't care if I leave you in any way!"

He leans his head on his hand, looking at her, "c'mon darling…."

(Y/n) looks at him with sudden rage, "No! Do not darling me. You do not love me; you don't even know me! You have no right to use such language with me."

He gets up from the bed, walking closer till he's inches from her face, "I'm sorry—"

"No!" She pushes him away, "this is why I wanted a child! You will never love me, but maybe…" she looks away for a moment before looking him directly in the eyes, "maybe the child would."

A conversation with his mother when he was small is thrown to the forefront of his memory. Walburga had sat him down on her lap, back when he was a child when she was a loving mother to both Sirius and Regulus. Always patting his small curly head or lovingly stroking his plump cheeks. She had admitted that her sons' love was once something she thought she could replace the love a husband should give a wife. 

When the pain of being in a loveless marriage completely caught up to her, she lost her loving touch. Her heart became cold, and her love a distant thing of the past. 

And now he was doing the same thing his father did to his mother to his own wife, making her heart bitter. Bitter enough that she already sought something to numb the pain that their marriage was causing her.

Grabbing her, he pulls her into his arms, hugging her close.

"Regulus?" She sounds alarmed.

"I'm sorry."

She doesn't say anything for a moment, "for— what?"

He pulls away just enough to see her face. Cupping her jaw in his hands, he presses a kiss to her lips.

"Regulus—"

"No. I understand what you're telling me, and I want you to give me a chance."

"Give you a chance… you already said you can't."

"I— I can try."

"I don't want you to pretend to love me."

"I won't pretend. I'll figure it out, I promise."

(y/n) looks alarmed for a second, "you shouldn't promise things you can't do, Regulus Black."

He stares back, "give me a chance."

The silence is deafening as she watches him.

[juliandev0rak]

Main 6 with an MC who is extremely sensitive and cries easily? If someone so much as raises their voice at them or overly scolds them, they will 100% cry and try to get out of the situation as soon as possible.

ok so the MC is meee... 

I kind of made this more about the MC being sensitive about raised voices in particular, so hopefully that’s ok! 

Asra

he remembers the way you were before the plague, how even raised voices in the marketplace made you upset

he remembers the fight you got into as the plague began to seep into the city, the way his voice raised in hurt and anger made you cry

and of course he remembers your face, tear streaked and broken as he walked out of the shop, the last time he saw you alive

he isn’t sure how you’ll react now that you’re back, but he makes every effort to never raise his voice at you ever again, he can’t stand to see you cry

if he accidentally raises his voice, or if someone else does, his first instinct is to apologize, comfort you, and make sure you’re ok

if a customer at the shop raises their voice at you, you best believe Asra will throw them out either physically or with the use of some careful magic that makes rude customers very suddenly want to leave

Julian

he would never intentionally raise his voice at you or scold you, even if he didn’t know how much it affected you

he’s been called sensitive many times before and he knows how hard it is to control your emotional reactions to distress

but sometimes Julian gets drunk and loud without meaning to, sometimes he just doesn’t know how loud he’s being when he’s talking to you

however, even in a drunken state he’s good at reading your emotions and can tell when something’s wrong, instantly switching to Sober Concerned Julian to make sure you’re ok

if he, or the situation, is getting too rowdy he’ll be quick to apologize and get you somewhere quiet

he’ll be there to comfort you and help you calm down- whether it's through a hug, breathing exercises, or simply going on a walk, he knows how to calm emotions after so long dealing with his own

Nadia

she would never raise her voice at anyone, even if she’s angry her tone of voice stays calm and cool

she tries to keep her scolding to a minimum, as much as she might snip at other people from time to time, she won’t do it to you

the courtiers however? they can be extremely rude and loud at times

she tries to keep them far away from you when she can, but if you attend any of Nadia’s meetings with her you’re bound to hear some yelling

while the yelling isn’t usually directed at you (although Vulgora does get a bit too riled up at times), it can still be overwhelming and Nadia is well aware of how the atmosphere can make you feel

she’s quick to demand silence from her fighting courtiers or make up an excuse to help you leave if you need it

she never questions why you’re sensitive, she just wants you to feel safe and comfortable at all times 

Muriel

when you first met him he was very brusque and just wanted you to leave which definitely made for a rough beginning full of hidden tears 

as he begins to like you and trust you he realizes that speaking with an angry tone or raising his voice really upsets you, and that’s the last thing he’d want to do

he knows what it’s like to get overwhelmed in situations where others don't, and he knows that just as he gets nervous and upset about going into town you get upset when people start raising their voices 

travelling with Morga during his route probably isn't easy for you with her tough personality and tendency to yell, it brings out your sensitive side and Muriel is quick to notice

he’s there for you on the road to offer a comforting shoulder to cry on or even just a non judgemental listening ear (even if he does think you're “weird”) and back in Vesuvia he’s just as supportive and comforting when you need it

he does everything he can to make sure you feel safe, just as you do for him

Portia

she doesn’t know you’re sensitive about it until she accidentally scolds you one day

you’re walking through the garden towards her cottage and accidentally stomp over some flowers she’d been growing at Nadia’s request, they’re extremely rare and delicate and she can’t help but yell out “Be careful MC! Those are fragile!” 

she doesn’t say it out of anger or to make you upset, but it still manages to make you tear up and have to fight the urge to run away

she immediately rushes over when she sees your facial expression grow dark and she pulls you into her arms, apologizing for raising her voice

”You’re more important than those silly flowers!” she assures you as she wipes away an errant tear rolling down the side of your face

she vows to be more careful with how she talks to you in the future 

Lucio

oh wow good luck, Lucio’s default setting is “raised voice”

he doesn’t ever yell at you in a mean way, he just can’t help but yell as his normal tone of voice- even if it's to compliment you or to say hello to someone in the palace halls

he generally doesn’t notice how his tone of voice (or even what he’s saying) affects people, but when he accidentally makes you cry he begins to think about it more

he won’t make fun of you for being sensitive, but he will have to work a bit to understand why you’re sensitive to certain things

he’s quick to offer comfort or help you leave a situation where you feel overwhelmed, but it takes a while before he learns that yelling at someone to stop them from yelling at you is counterproductive in making you feel better

mellowing a bit can only be a good thing for Lucio, and learning to think more before he speaks is another important lesson you’ve taught him 

[ourloveisforthelovely]

This or That. Part 8

Harry Potter Marauders Era 

Link to Part 7 

Pairings: Regulus Black x Reader. Sirius Black x Reader 

Rating M: Sensitive Themes

________

Once Sirius was out of the room you were kneeling in front of Regulus and gently began to unbutton his dress shirt.

“This is kind of a bad time to be wanting to get me naked.”

Regulus said with a pain-filled smirk. You had to fight the smirk that was threatening to take over your face. That sounded like such a Sirius-like comment.

“I need to see how badly she hurt you.”

Regulus winced as he leaned back enough for you to finish unbuttoning his shirt. As gently as possible, you eased the black dress shirt that he was wearing off. The moment that you saw the huge gash on his left arm it took all that you had not to cry.

“What happened?”

You finally were able to ask. Regulus shrugged.

“I’ll tell you later.”

Before you could protest, your mother and father came into the room. Both stopped at the sight of a half-naked boy sitting on the sofa. Your father turned to Sirius.

“This is your brother?”

Sirius nodded,

“And what’s left of his arm.”

Lyall Lupin nodded before turning to his wife.

“Hope, darling, go get some bandages, please. I have a feeling that we will be needing them.”

Your mother nodded before motioning you to come with her. Your attention flickered to Regulus. He gave you a nod.

“I’ll be fine.”

When you left the room with your mother, Lyall took the place that you had been sitting in so he could get a better look at the injuries the boy had sustained.

“Does your family run an underground fight club?”

Regulus smirked.

“It might look that way but no.”

Lyall chuckled. He had seen enough injuries that Sirius had received when he would sneak to the Lupin family home to be with Remus.

“I’ll be able to get you fixed up momentarily. So you’re the boyfriend? I have heard your name leave my daughter’s lips at least a thousand times since she’s come home.”

Normally this kind of conversation would strike fear in the hearts of most teenage boys but to Lyall, the boy in front of him was eerily calm. He wondered if Regulus was expecting another beating for agreeing to be your boyfriend.

“You can relax, son. We aren’t going to hurt you. You have been through that enough. I have one request to make of you when it comes to my Y/n.”

Regulus nodded. He decided not to reply as he had a feeling that he knew where this was going.

“Yes, sir?”

He questioned softly. Lyall took out his wanted and quietly uttered a healing spell to sew up the exposed flesh and muscle on Regulus’ arm.

“Y/n has been through a lot in her life. She has had to deal with things that no child should. Her mother and I have always had to keep a closer watch on Remus. I think you know why too. Sometimes Y/n fell through the cracks. I’m fine with you being with her but I don’t want her harmed. She doesn’t deserve to have a broken heart when she’s had to deal with those enough in her short life.”

Regulus swallowed back a groan as his arm healed a little quicker than he was prepared for. He shouldn’t have been surprised either. Lyall Lupin was probably a master of healing wounds since he had a son that was a werewolf. The man probably spent the days after the full moon patching his eldest son up.

“I would never hurt her intentionally. Mr. Lupin, I love you daughter.”

Lyall nodded.

“Well, since we have an understanding of Y/n I suppose you’ll see my point when I say that I can’t let you go back to your family. If you get hurt worse, my daughter will never forgive me for allowing you to go back to a viper's nest.”

Regulus was a bit surprised by your father’s proposition. Lyall and Hope Lupin were stretched thin with two children to take care of. How were they going to care for a third? There was no way. Regulus knew that your family was on the poorer end of things. Caring for a third teenager seemed a bit crazy.

Sirius’ voice pulled Regulus from his thoughts of being a major inconvenience.

“Reg, I wrote uncle Alphard. He is going to be dropping by tomorrow morning.”

That answered Regulus’ next question. He knew that Alphard Black had been financially caring for Sirius since his brother left home and had low key offered Regulus the same support should he ever decide to leave “the crazy.”

(meanwhile)

You stood beside your mother as she went through her stash of first aid supplies. Her kind eyes were taking in what bandages would do and what wouldn’t do.

“Mum, you can tell me what you are wanting to say.”

You said softly. Hope looked up at you with a soft smile. She hadn’t stopped feeling “happy” since she saw the way that you were looking at Regulus. In the beginning, when you wrote and told her that you were dating Sirius, she was nervous. While Hope adored Sirius, she couldn’t help but wonder if his younger brother was as reckless and “wild.” Hope had been worried the moment that Remus brought Sirius home but things were different for her son. Remus would be able to handle whatever Sirius threw his way (and he did). Things were different for you, however. Maybe it was a bit of a double standard or slightly sexist but you were her only daughter.

“He is cute.”

You grinned.

“Cute? He’s perfect in every possible way.”

Your mother smiled. She had never heard you talk this way about any boy before. You didn’t even seem to be phased by them. Maybe it was having Sirius, James, Remus, and Peter for friends?

“You’re really happy aren’t you, darling?”

You nodded. Despite all of the bad things that had happened in your relationship with Regulus; you were very happy. You weren’t thrilled that he turned up injured at his parent’s hand but now you wouldn’t have to let him go anytime soon. There would be no way that your father, being the good man, that he was would ever let Regulus return to his parents.

“I am.”

Hope put the bandage that she was holding down.

“Are you being safe?”

Your face immediately went scarlet.

“Oh, mum!”

You whined. The last thing that you wanted to do was discuss your sex life with your mother but this talk was bound to happen.

“Y/n, things are different with you than your brother. I don’t have to worry about him and Sirius. You are different. I don’t want you to be a mother as a teenager. I don’t think Regulus would want that responsibility either.”

You put a hand over your face.

“Mum, I know plenty of contraceptive charms.”

Hope turned with her warm motherly smile.

“I would like it if you would consider taking some other forms of birth control too.”

“You mean the muggle stuff?”

Your mother nodded. She wanted to giggle at the expression of sheer dread on your face. The two of you had never had this clear of a discussion on sex before. Now that the two of you were, Hope could see that she should have had this conversation sooner.

“I’m not going to tell you to stop having sex with the boy. That will be counterproductive because you are going to do what you are going to do. If I know one thing about my daughter, telling you not to do something is the encouragement that you will need to go and do whatever the task is.”

You smiled. Hope was right on that one. If your parents didn’t want you to do something, telling you not to do it was all of the fuel that you needed.

“Mum, I’ll take it! If it makes you feel better, I will gladly take it. Besides, you’re right. I don’t need a baby right now. There’s a lot that I want to do. Getting out of school before I take that step is a big one. I’m sure that you want to be a grandma but not tomorrow.”

Hope reached out and tucked your messy sandy curls behind your ear.

“My sweet wild girl.”

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before placing the bandages in your hands.

“Go patch him up. I think by now you know how to patch people up well.”

You smiled and quickly went back to the room where Regulus sat with your father. His stormy eyes rolled up as soon as you walked back into the room. Your father stood up from his place on the floor.

“I was wondering if the two of you had gotten lost.”

You had to resist the urge to tell your father that you were getting the birth control talk. Lyall Lupin may have been cool in a lot of ways but he wasn’t that cool. He would probably faint at the idea of you no longer being a virgin. Maybe it would be a good idea to tell him so he would come out from under the rock that he was living under?

“Sorry...mum was talking to me about…”

Your father held his hand up shaking his head.

“I don’t want to know. Have a nice night kids.”

Lyall backed out of the room to go back to the book that he was reading. Remus, who had come into the room, was looking as grossed out as his father when you sat back down beside Regulus.

“Merlin, Y/n just scar our poor parents.”

Remus muttered. Sirius chuckled.

“I think they get the idea that you two know what sex is. If they don’t...well Regulus and I need to do our jobs better.”

“Can we not talk about this right now?”

Regulus questioned as you gently lifted his arm to wrap the bandage around his healing skin. Sirius elbowed Remus in the side.

“Let's go back to the party. Prongs will probably be wondering where we have made off to. I think Regulus and Y/n won’t be joining us.”

Remus nodded and looked back at you with a smile. You were gently wrapping Regulus’ arm as you had his multiple times. If you didn't become a healer in the future then you would truly miss your calling.

“Yeah, they are busy.”

Remus said before following Sirius out of the room.

Once the door closed, you finally met Regulus’ gaze. He didn’t have to tell you that he was still in pain. His eyes told you everything that you needed to know. It wasn’t physical pain but mental pain.

“Did she hurt you anywhere else?”

Regulus shook his head as you reached down to help him up.

“Come on, we’ll go to my room. It will be quieter there. “

Stepping into your room, Regulus couldn’t help but smile. This room screamed “Y/n.” Everything seemed to radiate your sweet scent. Pictures lined the wall opposite of a cozy looking window seat. You quickly tugged back the quilt that your mother had made you years ago. Slightly blushing at the realization that your boyfriend was looking at your “pony quilt” was a tad embarrassing.

“I like it.”

Regulus said, softly. You blushed harder.

“You like pony quilts.”

Regulus chuckled.

“Well, it's not really my style but it's all you. That’s why I like it. Everything here is all you and I like it. It's all comforting.”

You smiled before pushing a strand of hair away from your face before taking his hand in yours. The realization that his family ring was gone struck you as surprising. Even with all that his family put him through, this was an indicator that Regulus really had “enough.”

“Tell me what happened. I need to know, Reggie.”

Regulus’ peaceful smile faded and his “Black family scowl” took over.

“I told my mum and dad about us. I told them that I would not give you up no matter what they or any other member of our family had to say about it. My mother had a tantrum. Apparently, she has been diligently working to find a suitable wife for me. She was on the floor screaming like a spoiled toddler because I was marrying a half-blood. She said some crap about Remus and I told her to shut up. After that, my father decided to use the cruciatus curse on me a couple of times while mum beat the crap out of me.”

Your hand had covered your mouth as Regulus quickly took your hand in his.

“Being with you is worth it though. You’re the only one that gets me, Y/n. You don’t care about the depression or the cutting. I know that you don’t like it…”

You shook your head. No, you didn’t like it. In fact, knowing that he was causing himself that much pain made your heart physically hurt. The most that you assumed that you would be able to do was be there for him when he needed you (which you would do with no complaints). If you could help Regulus enough to stop the cutting, you would do anything that he asked of you.

“I don’t like knowing that you are in that much pain that is the only outlet but I know that you are trying to stop too.”

Regulus was silent as he rubbed his thumb over your palm. He wouldn't tell you that he wanted nothing more than to find something sharp to dig into his arm. His brain had gone into overload with everything that had happened that day and he didn’t know how to deal with it all.

Another thing that Regulus wasn’t ready to tell you was the fact that Evan was pressuring him to join the death eaters. At the moment, Regulus had no plans of saying yes. He knew if he said yes to that it would mean losing you. You wouldn't support him with that dark mark on his arm.

Regulus and Evan had words the night before over you too. Evan had told Regulus that he needed to cut ties with you.

“A Slytherin dating a Gryffindor is laughable. That girl is wasting your time. You need to say yes to whatever girl that your mother finds for you. She will find someone who is worthy of you.”

It had taken all Regulus had not to punch Evan in the face. He politely told Evan that he was wrong about you and that there was nothing that his former best friend could say to sway him. It was Barty Crouch Jr who actually saved that day. Barty had followed Regulus after he stormed out of the room and offered his compliments on you.

“Y/n is a nice girl. I don’t care much that she is a Gryffindor either but I like Y/n enough to overlook that detail.”

“You know that I love you.”

You said, gently. Regulus nodded.

“I know. I love you too. I really do. Hey look at that, I was wrong about something. Love is actually a real emotion. Look at you, you perfect half-blood angel, you proved me wrong. That’s a feat in itself.”

You smiled at the comment before gently climbing on Regulus’ lap. Taking extra care not to hit his sore arm, you wrapped your arm around his waist and snuggled your face against his.

“I’m glad that I proved you wrong on that one.”

You said with a smile.

“Me too.”

Regulus replied softly before pulling you into a soft kiss. Wrapping your other arm around his neck, you were desperate to deepen the kiss. Having not kissed him properly since the night before the Christmas holidays, you wanted to take whatever chance that you could.

“We don’t have to say goodbye anymore.”

Regulus said in a soft whisper. His grey-blue eyes fluttered open and met yours.

“Your father said I can stay here if I wanted. Sirius is in touch with my uncle who is supporting him. He’s apparently going to be dropping by tomorrow sometime. We don’t have to worry about my stupid parents. We can be happy.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell Regulus that the two of you would still have to say goodbye at school. Maybe that would be healthy though? The two of you would need to have some time apart. You also didn’t see Evan Rosier being too thrilled to have you tagging along with his group. Something would never change.

“Yes, we can be very happy.”

Regulus gently laid the both of you back. You waited all of two seconds before snuggling back to his side. Both of you lay in silence until you felt Regulus’ even breathing let you know that he had fallen asleep. You sat up enough to press another kiss to his cheek before snuggling back down against his side.

You weren't sure how the meeting with Alphard would go the next morning. Part of you was worried that he would be like the rest of the Black family. So far their reputation wasn’t so great in your eyes. You tried to push the worries from your mind as you drifted off to sleep.

“We’ll be happy.”

________

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[wickedmilo]

BITTERLY HUMAN | MILO SOLO

PLACE: An abandoned building near Friction TIMING: 2:11 AM SUMMARY: Milo contemplates Dani’s words, and ends up finding answers he isn’t sure he still wants CONTENT WARNINGS: Brief mention of needles, brief implied drug use (not explicitly mentioned), vomit/vomiting 

Milo wasn’t sure how much time he spent on the ground before whatever was holding him down released its grip. Part of him almost enjoyed the inability to move. If he couldn’t move, he didn’t need to think about where he was. And if he didn’t need to think about where he was, he could ignore the voices in his head, the feelings threatening to overwhelm him. But when the pressure disappeared, and his lungs filled with air once again, he tore his gaze away from the stars, shakily pushing himself to his feet. And he decided to do the one thing every instinct in his body was telling him not to; explore. If he didn’t do this now, he might lose this location. He might forget Dani’s words, or how desperate he was to seek out his answers. He should know the area well, but alcohol and drugs always made his memory unreliable, so he started small, picking the glass out of his palms to carefully run them along the brick walls. A vain attempt to trigger any memories he might have, anything lurking in the deepest recesses of his mind.

Dani’s words were still ringing in his ears, and he could still feel the gaze of the man responsible for killing him, even though he must be long gone by now. Seeing his face, looking into his eyes… even being in his presence alone, it was nothing like he had expected it would be. Largely due to realising who he was after he had successfully made his escape. He had been secretly hoping an identity, any form of contact, might help him to accept his fate, or at the very least understand it. But his stomach wouldn’t settle, his entire body was shaking. He didn’t even get the chance to talk to him. Not here. What did that mean? He had more questions than answers, which was utterly infuriating. Continuing to the end of the alleyway, his footsteps unsteady, and hesitant, he took a deep breath as he emerged onto the high street. After being in the dark for so long there were so many sights, smells, and sounds attacking his senses. Each distracting in their own way, each demanding his attention. He forced himself to focus, which wasn’t difficult to do considering his mind only wanted to dwell on what had just taken place. How stupid he had been.

Glancing down towards the direction of club, he was begrudgingly forced to accept it was the most logical place to start, and he began his impulsive journey, his quest to find something more concrete than the information Dani had provided him with. Building by building he paused, carefully analysing the scenery, observing every brick out of place, every scratch, or mark, or unusual scent. The anxiety in his chest was growing in strength with each passing storefront, or boarded up window. Something didn’t feel right, something other than the strange way he had been pulled to the floor by an unseen force. This wasn’t coming from the Weird of White Crest, this was a very natural, and very human feeling of dread. One connected to something he couldn’t quite grasp. It felt like trying to remember a dream, desperately clinging to details even as they faded away. Having long since lost any concept of time, when he eventually reached the club, instead of trying to get back inside, he slipped between it and the abandoned building that stood towering next door. It felt undeniably familiar, but of course it would. Hadn’t he walked this way earlier? Hadn’t he passed this ominous structure in his evening’s mission to get drunk? He so wanted to believe that was it, but ignoring the way his skin was crawling, the way his throat felt tight, the way his vision blurred uncomfortably at the edges, would be counterproductive. He resisted every urge to turn and run, allowing muscle memory to lead him. Following his own footsteps rather than contemplating a possible destination. It was easier to move forward that way.

Until he was close enough to touch the building next to the club, that is. Only then did the feeling return to him. Dirty, and incredibly old, it was all too obvious people used it as a place to get high, to hide away from the prying eyes of bartenders, and club security. Which should probably make him feel at home, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t used to such specific environments. But the sense of dread was only growing, rising steadily in a way that made his lack of a heartbeat painfully obvious. Swallowing his fear, he brushed his fingers against a faded poster that had been pasted to a wooden board. He couldn’t read what it said now, but something about it drew him in. So he moved to the next board covering the next window. And then the next, and then the next, until an entryway became apparent to him. Faltering, he stared at it, and then through the doorway to the darkness beyond it. He was met only with a limited view of exposed brick wall, and concrete flooring. It wasn’t an awfully interesting view, but it was undeniably triggering something inside of him. Hurriedly attempting to light a cigarette, struggling to catch the flame due to how severe his tremors had become, when his lungs filled with smoke, and his mind filled with undecipherable noise, he stumbled over the bottom half of the boards keeping it sealed. The top of them had been torn away, so they only managed to reach his ankles.  

He wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting. Some life altering flashback, or a spiritual revelation. Maybe a neon sign saying MILO, THIS IS WHERE YOU WERE MURDERED. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. He wasn’t disappointed, or even relieved. He felt absolutely nothing but the sick, twisted sense of something being terribly wrong. Reaching up to brush away a fresh wave of tears, his steps were small, as though if he didn’t commit then taking them wouldn’t feel as terrifying. Tapping ash, he reached the centre of the room. The far wall was aggressively demanding his attention but he couldn’t understand why. There wasn’t anything in here, the entire trip was proving to be pointless. It felt as though the only thing he was achieving was a heightened state of anxiety, and that wasn’t going to benefit him in any way. There were a few needles, a burned spoon, some broken bottles, and empty cans. Nothing should be standing out to him, and yet he had the awful suspicion something horrific had happened here. More specifically, something horrific had happened to him here.

Taking another shaky breath of smoke, his gaze followed an invisible path to a room on his right. Smaller, and darker, further away from the high street than the one he was currently standing in, this room seemed to emanate the overwhelming scent of old blood. It hung thick in the air, only becoming more obvious as he grew closer. He could almost taste it as he crossed the threshold, his tears falling freely even as he fought to maintain his composure. He couldn’t bring himself to step into the centre of the room, not this time, and inched around the outside of it instead, his back firmly against the wall. His chest was heaving as panic violently clawed at him, and when he finally, finally looked down, he was hit by an unexpected barrage of emotion. It was almost too much to feel at once. Fear, anxiety, confusion, desperation, hurt, anger… and a sharp, physical pain in his neck. Choking back a sob, he stared at the source of the scent; a large deep, rust red blood stain. It was crisp, and dry, but still coating the concrete as though whatever had taken place happened days ago, and not months. Only it had been months. He knew it had been months, because as the cigarette fell from his hands, as he dropped to his knees in horror, he realised it wasn’t just blood. It was his blood. It was human, it was painfully, bitterly human, but it belonged to him.

“Fuck…” He breathed, his voice cracking, barely louder than a whisper. He should look away, this wasn’t healthy. The pain in his neck was only growing worse, and he reached up to press a hand against the scars at the base of his throat. “I-” He broke off, not understanding what was happening until it was too late. Bile burned in the back of his throat and he crouched forward in discomfort, unwillingly emptying the contents of his stomach. Blood mixed with alcohol hit the floor, pooling beside the only evidence of his attack, what was left of his death. He really needed to get a grip, he needed to pull himself together. But how? He had seen his killer, had managed to find the place where his heart finally stopped beating. Why didn’t this feel like closure? Why did everything feel so much worse than it had? When he managed to stop retching he scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, collapsing to the ground again for reasons entirely unrelated to gravity. Maybe he just needed time, maybe he would be okay when he had come to terms with what he had seen and suffered over the course of the evening. Maybe Dani would find him, and she could rub his back, and tell him everything was going to be okay. Even in his current state he knew that was a ridiculous thought. But that didn’t mean there weren’t people willing to help him. Not for the first time, he curled up into a ball, ready to spend the night on a cold, bloody, and unforgiving floor. But he wasn’t here to die again. Maybe he was here to prove he could keep on living. Clumsily pulling his phone from his pocket, letting it rest beside his head, he used speed dial to call Evelyn’s number. It rang for a moment, and he listened to the repetitive sound. By the time she answered the call he was halfway through convincing himself to hang up. But when he heard her voice, he knew he had made the right decision, a genuinely good decision. “Hey…” Even he could hear how different he sounded. No doubt Evelyn would realise immediately that something wasn’t right. “You know how you said I could call you if I ever needed someone… I think I… I really need someone.”

[cinnaminsvga]

Hug-o-gram Preview | Yoongi

→ summary:

“This is probably the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” Yoongi hisses, but it’s kind of hard for Seokjin to take him seriously when he’s wearing a cardboard sign around his neck that says ‘Huggie Wuggie Machine!’ in bubble font. 

“Like, even worse than when we DIY’d your car into a convertible by sawing the top off?” Seokjin asks, genuinely curious. 

“Worse,” Yoongi admits, trying his best to stay out of your line of sight. His cheeks redden, matching the gaudy pink kitten ears he was forced into wearing.

{or alternatively: Seokjin is a terrible wingman. He also runs a profitable business by sending “hugs” to people’s crushes for a fee. Mix them together and you have a recipe for Min Yoongi’s worst nightmare.}

→ genre: college!au, hugging booth!au, fluff, humor → warnings: yoongi is so smitten that he’s a walking disaster, so much shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to *o*e him, seokjin just tryna get his homie some y/n love coochie bro ;o; → words: anticipated 10-12K  → a/n: who the fuck am i... why am i writing so much??? let’s all thank miss kwaranteen for that, my friends. but what’s with the fluff, you ask? thank miss @jincherie​ for that because her weak heart can’t handle angst so i have to use my limited fluff muscles to write this for her... anyway idk when this is coming out but its probs soon,, enjoy this lil snippet i guess LMAO 

“Yoongi, it’s time for me to head to work. You want to come with me today?” Seokjin asks, though he knows what answer he’s going to get. You see, Seokjin’s new booming business is another one of his fantastic ideas, but it is a little... inventive. Sure, Yoongi had scoffed when he had originally suggested the idea, but Seokjin knew that it was going to be a money-maker. Sure, it had taken a few years for the business to really take off, but once it finally did…

Enter Kim Seokjin’s Hug-o-gram Service! Students from his university are able to send anonymous payments directly to him, with little notes attached for their crushes. Each love letter delivery comes with a hug from Seokjin himself, delivered straight to the person without them ever knowing who the hug came from. It was ingenious! It was lucrative! But most of all…

It allowed Seokjin to cause drama and have an excuse for it! Nothing could have been more perfect for a man like him.

“No thanks,” Yoongi snorts, rolling over to face him. He watches from the floor as Seokjin changes into a butter-less shirt, which also happens to have his own face printed on the front and back. His trusty cardboard sign that reads “I’m Gonna Glomp Ya!” also joins his attire for the afternoon, a long piece of string tied to its edges so that he can wear it around his neck. Throwing on a pair of white sneakers with the tags still attached, Seokjin is ready to tackle today’s list of would-be hug-ees.

“How do I look?” Seokjin asks, combing his hair with his fingers. It leaves an oily sheen, which he somehow makes it work.

“Ugly,” Yoongi says, like a liar.

“It’s okay, I understand. I can speak tsundere, so you don’t need to explain,” Seokjin snickers, nearly getting hit with a TV remote by Yoongi. He opens his phone again, swiping to his e-mail to see his list of hug deliveries for the day.

Seokjin gets around 10 requests a day, with around half of them coming from regular clients. He’s especially fond of this boy who has been sending hugs to his TA named Namjoon for almost a month now. He has no idea why this kid has so much disposable income, though seeing the blush on Namjoon’s face everyday makes Seokjin think that he would spend every last penny for him too. Namjoon had begged Seokjin for his secret admirer’s identity, but snitchin’ isn’t a part of his service, unfortunately.

As much as Seokjin wants to know who is crushing on who, his little business wouldn’t work as well as it did if anonymity wasn’t included in his package deal. It allows people to thirst in public without facing the repercussions, like getting a knee to the groin or a slap to the face. Not that Seokjin has ever been at the receiving end of that; everyone loves him! Like, have you seen him? He must have saved a civilization in the past with how devastatingly beautiful his forehead is.

��Why am I suddenly filled with the relentless urge to deck you right now?” Yoongi says, getting up to change into clean clothes as well. His black t-shirt unfortunately does not have Seokjin’s face on it, but that can quickly be amended if the elder of the two decides to follow his every intrusive whim.

Seokjin laughs, completely unaware of the murderous capabilities of his friend. Due to his smaller body size, his percentage of evil is unusually concentrated. “Maybe it’s because you know that I’m into pain pla–” but Seokjin’s retort suddenly grinds to a halt. He chokes mid-sentence, coughing wildly as he pounds his chest with a balled-up fist. When Yoongi looks up at him, he finds his hyung staring slack-jawed at his phone, seemingly flabbergasted by what he finds on his screen.

“What’s the matter? Accidentally sent a dick pic to your prof again?” Yoongi snorts.

“That was one time! And no, it’s…” Seokjin trails off, uncharacteristically hesitant. He shifts his gaze from his phone to Yoongi, a drop of sweat quickly forming on the back of his neck. Yoongi raises a brow, silently urging him to continue.

Instead of replying, Seokjin hands him his phone. Yoongi finds a copy of one of Seokjin’s newest hug requests, only having just received it five minutes ago. As he scrolls down, he finds that this secret admirer is a new client, but that isn’t what made Seokjin stop in his tracks. Instead, it’s the recipient of the hug that catches his attention–

“Y/N has a secret admirer?” Yoongi says, voice cracking at the end. He clears his throat, trying his best to school his face into something less… jealous. He swivels away from Seokjin, forcing himself to breathe slowly through his nose. He convinces himself that he is the very epitome of calmness.

“You okay there, Yoongi? You look like you’re about to vomit,” Seokjin says, immediately breaking his inner peace. Yoongi groans loudly, shucking the phone over his shoulder, uncaring of where it lands. Seokjin, with his superhuman and God-given reflexes… doesn’t catch it. But he did dive to the floor like a seasoned Olympian, and his ass cushioned his phone so he supposes that’s a win.

Back to the matter at hand––

“I am fine,” Yoongi says, as he continues to not be fine.

From the floor, Seokjin shoots him a disbelieving look. He lies down more comfortably, propping his head on his elbow. Screw his hug-o-gram appointments for now; nothing brings him more joy than seeing Yoongi absolutely losing it. “Really? So you wouldn’t mind if I marched up to Y/N right now and give her the warmest, coziest, most tender hug of her fucking life?”

“Y… Yes,” Yoongi squeaks, neck glowing a furious red. He has his fists clenched (adorably) by his sides, head bowed as he faces the wall of their apartment. Seokjin’s brain makes the unhelpful comparison of Yoongi with that cat meme who says “no talk me angy” in Impact font.

Seokjin grins, his wickedness from within coiling and yearning to burst from his seams. This is it! Maybe if he pushes a little more, then maybe Yoongi will stop pining like a pathetic loser! Also, it didn’t hurt that he got to push Yoongi’s buttons while he’s at it, but hey! Not all heroes go to heaven or whatever.

He grabs his phone from his ass, scrolling back to the e-mail. “So… You wouldn’t mind if I walk up to Y/N right now and tell her ‘Hey! I’ve had an embarrassingly long crush on you and when I heard about this hugging service… I couldn’t miss the chance to shoot my shot! If you’re single and ready to #mingle, then please meet me at the Corner Cafe at 2 PM tomorrow.’” Seokjin sing-songs, snickering loudly when he sees the absolute pain etched onto Yoongi’s face.

There is a pause, and Seokjin waits as Yoongi uses his tiny kitty brain to think of what to do. He can only imagine what’s going inside his head, but he has a guess. Yoongi could either: 1) finally admit his feelings for you and come clean before Seokjin has to deliver your hug, or 2) do something stupid and counterproductive.

It comes as no surprise when Yoongi goes with option number––

[chupitulpa]

It's me again, permaswitch guy.

TW: depression, suicide

The same anon from the last post asked:

Hey, thanks for your reply and for uploading it so fast. I come here to answer your reply and add a little something after.

First of all thank you for your acceptance and kindness, as a tulpamancer but also as a depressed person. Come to think of it it is ridiculous how long we took to reach this point, over 6 times longer than most, but then it’s logic too because of how randomly I forced over time. To lazy or extremely lazy hosts, there is hope. I don’t encourage laziness on anyone of course, but you can still achieve progress if you give it enough time. This may sound counterproductive, but trying so badly can cause a lot of stress and doubts, while giving your brain time to accomodate to a new mindset might be helpful. Ideally hosts should find a balance between forcing and letting the mindset in.

Next let me talk about your proposed alternative solutions. I find it strange that you encourage me to step further into my comfort zone. It’s probably because I haven’t told you anything, but this is already what I’m doing as much as I can and I keep being told this is only making things worse because I have to step out of it to make changes and go anywhere in my life. However in contrast, you think more like me. I’m so much going into my comfort zone that I’m avoiding talking to anyone or leaving home ever. May expand on it later. About groups to fit in: I don’t work well on 1-to-1, leave alone on groups. That’s why I prefer being away of tulpa Discord servers. I always go unnoticed and/or misunderstood. Looking for friends or relationship outside of our system is something I’ve finally given up on, after continuous failures. May expand on it later. Lastly I’ve been to therapists for almost all my life and while this sounds like nonsense, they and medications have never proven to help me personally. I find a simple talk with my tulpa to be much better than years of medication and therapists.

Before I go with the last issue I’d like to say that unlike many would think I have morals too, so yeah, it’s probably a better idea for us to switch than for me to create another tulpa yet for the sake of switching.

Now, I’ve had this issue going on for my entire life and specially since 2020. This is not strictly related to tulpamancy but I think many tulpas will be able to relate to this, unlike most hosts. I, however, am host, and am dealing with this.

Many people like to think of themselves as something else than humans or even feel as if they were also something else. Most notably the furry community, which I’ve been interacting with for years, is full of people who besides humans would like to be a fursona, or even feel more as if they were their fursona than a human. I, however, take this to the next level. I have been both unvoluntarily and voluntarily distancing myself from the concept “human”. It is not something positive to me being one. As such I’ve been suffering of “species dysphoria”, or am trans-species. I bet many many tulpas who have fronted have had this issue if they weren’t made after humans to begin with. However I cannot say the same for hosts. Indeed I’m the only host I know so far who thinks they aren’t human and would rather be some yellow dragon drawn by a furry artist. This issue is easily fixed with a switch. Not saying I’m switching because of this, but it is something nice knowing that I can stop being trapped in a human body and just be myself. Believe me, species dysphoria can get to the same points or even worse than gender dysphoria. Fortunately I never had the latter. So maybe now you understand why I am isolating myself too.

Looking back at my old asks here now I know much more about tulpas than I used to back then. Yeah I’m happy we made progress too, but I wish things would have been different. I wish I could be more consistent and this wouldn’t have took or take nearly as long. Not only for seeing it as a chore, but also because we run out of time to survive. Some pressure to live on. Thanks to my tulpa I’m more hopeful and relaxed, and we’re trying our best to delay another suicide attempt for as long as we can. But we can’t do that forever so ultimately it’ll happen. Thanks to him I also think about it twice since now it’s two of us.

Say, may I ask if you’re religious? What do people tend to think on tulpa afterlife? It’s not a topic you hear much about in the community.

Oh I almost forgot. I want to get rid of this life, the human life, 100%. This means after switch I don’t care what happens on this side. Giving the fronter full permission to do as wanted, as opposed to other cases where the original host wanted to leave but also still cared about their human body’s life, bringing unnecessary worry and ultimately a regret of permanent switch. I think this is something important. I always think of this life as a burden that was put on me, and have been despising it since 2008. As such, I see my parents in the same eyes as you would see a tulpamancer who creates a tulpa solely to have them switch. Totally unacceptable behaviours. Of course, I understand a child can never choose to be born or not, while a tulpa can choose whether to switch or not. But my parents could have refrained from having a son in the first place, specially if they were going to be neglectful parents. This world is one unjust place.

My reply:

Don't worry about how long it took to get there. Some people barely force at all and have a talking tulpa in a day or two. Others work at it for years before hearing a peep. Laziness happens too and definitely contributes. Stress, doubts, laziness and working too hard at it can all produce slower progress. And depression contributes to all of the above as well.

As a depressed and socially awkward person, I have to say I can relate to the urge not to go out or talk to people. The current situation in 2020 has not helped either. Like you, I didn't get a whole lot out of meds or talk therapy. Tulpa stuff does help a great deal, but I keep falling off it and back into the awful depression.

I do think that full isolation isn't healthy. However, as far as I can tell, this doesn't seem to apply as much to tulpas if the host/whoever is fronting interacts with people some. Whether the tulpas are fully active and thinking or just snoozing in the background, they seem to benefit from the interaction the same way the host/fronter does. Or at least that's our experience. I don't know whether it works like that because they're in the background experiencing it to some degree, or if it affects something that's shared between all of us; my tulpas seem to think it's a combination of the two.

If the tulpa you already made is able and willing to try switching, give it a shot. I don't know how many other tulpa systems this applies to, but I think there's a special bond between the original host and their first tulpa: You discovered all the stuff you know about tulpamancy together, encountered and overcame the obstacles together, and discovered a lot about your minds together. If he's unable, doesn't want to, or tries it and decides it's not for him, you could (together!) try making another. But be sure to value them as a person and friend first and foremost, and emphasize that the switching thing is entirely optional.

I actually know more than one person who, for one reason or another, wishes that they would wake up in a world where they're a dragon, pony, canine, etc. The species dysphoria is certainly tied in with depression one way or another though I'm not sure which starts first. I can see why you won't care to interact with humans if you don't identify with or relate to them.

I am not religious. If there is an afterlife though, I would certainly want to be together with my tulpas in it. I haven't seen a lot of discussion on it, particularly since I've really just been involved with Tulpa.info which takes a secular, scientific viewpoint.

I'm curious. What would you like to do after switching? Be basically like a tulpa, doing your own thing in your wonderland and interacting with the new fronter when he has time?

Since you mention suicide, I feel obligated to mention the crisis text line. Text HOME to 741741 (US), 85258 (UK) or 686868 (Canada) to start a chat with an understanding person who can help you through your moment of crisis. I know people who have used it and they had positive experiences. Or there's 1-800-273-8255 (US) if you'd rather talk. Or a list of similar services in more countries than I can count.

[parabelled]

Hi! I’ve been following you for a lil lil bit, but already you seem super smart and knowledgeable so.. what are some books or other pieces of writing you think everyone should read? Have a lovely day!

B’aww, thank you! <3 You too nonnie! <3

Just off the top of my head at three o’clock in the morning, and the qualification that you provided that its something that ‘everyone should read,’ I’m going to go for more books that I found changed me fundamentally, as a person, after reading them. That may be a self-help book; that might be a societal critique, that might be a work of classic literature. I tried to give a bit of everything. <3

 I’ll put a little copy-and-paste synopsis here for you for each book, and will elaborate if necessary in brackets. 

BEHOLD: LAUREN’S LIST OF LITERARY RECOMMENDATIONS:

From My (Non-Law) Bookcase (But still are about political issues):

Rage Becomes Her: The Power of Women’s Anger by Soraya Chemaly: 

‘As women, we’ve been urged for so long to bottle up our anger, letting it corrode our bodies and minds in ways we don’t even realize. Yet there are so, so many legitimate reasons for us to feel angry, ranging from blatant, horrifying acts of misogyny to the subtle drip, drip drip of daily sexism that reinforces the absurdly damaging gender norms of our society. In Rage Becomes Her, Soraya Chemaly argues that our anger is not only justified, it is also an active part of the solution. We are so often encouraged to resist our rage or punished for justifiably expressing it, yet how many remarkable achievements would never have gotten off the ground without the kernel of anger that fueled them? Approached with conscious intention, anger is a vital instrument, a radar for injustice and a catalyst for change. On the flip side, the societal and cultural belittlement of our anger is a cunning way of limiting and controlling our power—one we can no longer abide.’

Academic Ableism: Disability and Higher Education by Jay T. Dolmage:

‘Academic Ableism brings together disability studies and institutional critique to recognize the ways that disability is composed in and by higher education, and rewrites the spaces, times, and economies of disability in higher education to place disability front and center. For too long, argues Jay Timothy Dolmage, disability has been constructed as the antithesis of higher education, often positioned as a distraction, a drain, a problem to be solved. The ethic of higher education encourages students and teachers alike to accentuate ability, valorize perfection, and stigmatize anything that hints at intellectual, mental, or physical weakness, even as we gesture toward the value of diversity and innovation. Examining everything from campus accommodation processes, to architecture, to popular films about college life, Dolmage argues that disability is central to higher education, and that building more inclusive schools allows better education for all.’

(This book strays into more academic categories, but it’s still really great that this sort of book is being written. I personally recognise its value as someone with mental health struggles and who has had to fight ironically in the legal sphere for myself in terms of finding support within my own career moving forward as a lawyer/legal academic. I think the fact that the narrative that disabilities are seen as the antithesis of secondary education despite claims of diversity is something that all university students need to guard themselves against, or at least educate themselves on, in order to work against some systems that even though they espouse equality, might not have their best interests at heart. 

I’ve ironically found this especially terrible in law, where my first term of law school I was told ‘girls like you don’t go to law school,’ followed by constant questioning by the community at large after graduate that any hint of mental weakness equates to being unfit to practice law. This is despite the majority of lawyers having mental health problems, if not full blown addictions. It’s honestly why I’m pivoting back to academia (law prof), or moving to practice for the government (which enforces union restrictions on how long a lawyer can actually work, where firms just actually work them to death without union protections ironically; ugh. My whole point is, I’m not ashamed of having mental health problems in a field largely categorised by achievements in secondary education. I feel no reason to hide it, even though people tell me to. If someone is ashamed of me over something I had no control over developing, then I probably don’t want to be involved with them, do I? (A good method I recommend; it may cut off some superficial ‘friends’/’opportunities,’ but it leads to those who truly understand what a mental health disability may entail, and how strong you are for overcoming it).

White Fragility: Why It’s so Hard to for White People to Talk about Racism by Robin DiAngelo:

The New York Times best-selling book exploring the counterproductive reactions white people have when their assumptions about race are challenged, and how these reactions maintain racial inequality.

In this “vital, necessary, and beautiful book” (Michael Eric Dyson), antiracist educator Robin DiAngelo deftly illuminates the phenomenon of white fragility and “allows us to understand racism as a practice not restricted to ‘bad people’ (Claudia Rankine). Referring to the defensive moves that white people make when challenged racially, white fragility is characterized by emotions such as anger, fear, and guilt, and by behaviors including argumentation and silence. These behaviors, in turn, function to reinstate white racial equilibrium and prevent any meaningful cross-racial dialogue. In this in-depth exploration, DiAngelo examines how white fragility develops, how it protects racial inequality, and what we can do to engage more constructively.

Two Mental Health-Related Books:

Do Nothing: How to Break Away from Overworking, Overdoing, and Underliving by Celeste Headlee:

‘We work feverishly to make ourselves happy. So why are we so miserable?

Despite our constant search for new ways to optimize our bodies and minds for peak performance, human beings are working more instead of less, living harder not smarter, and becoming more lonely and anxious. We strive for the absolute best in every aspect of our lives, ignoring what we do well naturally and reaching for a bar that keeps rising higher and higher. Why do we measure our time in terms of efficiency instead of meaning? Why can’t we just take a break?

In Do Nothing, award-winning journalist Celeste Headlee illuminates a new path ahead, seeking to institute a global shift in our thinking so we can stop sabotaging our well-being, put work aside, and start living instead of doing. As it turns out, we’re searching for external solutions to an internal problem. We won’t find what we’re searching for in punishing diets, productivity apps, or the latest self-improvement schemes. Yet all is not lost - we just need to learn how to take time for ourselves, without agenda or profit, and redefine what is truly worthwhile.

Pulling together threads from history, neuroscience, social science, and even paleontology, Headlee examines long-held assumptions about time use, idleness, hard work, and even our ultimate goals. Her research reveals that the habits we cling to are doing us harm; they developed recently in human history, which means they are habits that can, and must, be broken. It’s time to reverse the trend that’s making us all sadder, sicker, and less productive, and return to a way of life that allows us to thrive.’

(I just read this book lately and I love it; it’s really follows the history of how we’ve come to this point where we can’t shut off our brains, and we see ourselves in this really puritanical, commercialist manner: How we define ourselves by how much we produce, and if we fall short of this goal by being (ironically) human, we berate ourselves for it. This really has let me shift my mentality towards a much healthier, less ‘workaholic’ mode in my COVID downtime, and really helped me move towards a healthier lifestyle in the jobs I’m searching for now that I’ve left school. Recommended for anyone taking the big leap into the full time work world).

Chained to the Desk by Bryan Robinson:

‘Americans love a hard worker. The worker who toils eighteen-hour days and eats meals on the run between appointments is usually viewed with a combination of respect and awe. But for many, this lifestyle leads to family problems, a decline in work productivity, and ultimately to physical and mental collapse. Intended for anyone touched by what Robinson calls “the best-dressed problem of the twenty-first century,” Chained to the Desk provides an inside look at workaholism’s impact on those who live and work with work addicts—partners, spouses, children, and colleagues—as well as the appropriate techniques for clinicians who treat them. Originally published in 1998, this groundbreaking book from best-selling author and widely respected family therapist Bryan E. Robinson was the first comprehensive portrait of the workaholic. In this new and fully updated third edition, Robinson draws on hundreds of case reports from his own original research and years of clinical practice. The agonies of workaholism have grown all the more challenging in a world where the computer, cell phone, and iPhone allow twenty-four-hour access to the office, even on weekends and from vacation spots. Adult children of workaholics describe their childhood pain and the lifelong legacies they still carry, and the spouses or partners of workaholics reveal the isolation and loneliness of their vacant relationships. Employers and business colleagues discuss the cost to the company when workaholism dominates the workplace. Chained to the Desk both counsels and consoles. It provides a step-by-step guide to help readers spot workaholism, understand it, and recover.’

(I also just read this one, and it’s an older book edited to a third edition, and it shows. However, it also does the important work of demonstrating how workaholics should be treated in the same category as anyone else who gets any sort of ‘high’ from something, like drugs or alcoholism. It opens with the quote (and I’m paraphrasing here), “Workaholicism is the best dressed addiction.” It’s the one we’re rewarded for constantly, not matter what mental toll it takes on us. While I’m not exactly ready to sign up for a twelve-step plan (and some of the chapters are specifically for spouses and children), it still dishes out some really good advice about feeding other areas of our lives and how to not simply focus on work.)

From My Undergraduate Degree (Classics and Double Minor in English and German Literature, with a little World Literature thrown in for good measure):

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe: 

THINGS FALL APART tells two overlapping, intertwining stories, both of which center around Okonkwo, a “strong man” of an Ibo village in Nigeria. The first of these stories traces Okonkwo's fall from grace with the tribal world in which he lives, and in its classical purity of line and economical beauty it provides us with a powerful fable about the immemorial conflict between the individual and society. The second story, which is as modern as the first is ancient, and which elevates the book to a tragic plane, concerns the clash of cultures and the destruction of Okonkwo's world through the arrival of aggressive, proselytizing European missionaries. These twin dramas are perfectly harmonized, and they are modulated by an awareness capable of encompassing at once the life of nature, human history, and the mysterious compulsions of the soul. THINGS FALL APART is the most illuminating and permanent monument we have to the modern African experience as seen from within.

(This is a classic of African Literature, and what I wrote my world literature paper on in first year. It really is a story about the affect of a fall of one culture, where Okonkwo is the prime example of what a ‘man’ may be in this society, to how this society (and African societies as a whole) are affected by European colonialism. How one man can be seen as a paradigm of perfection at one point in time, and the scourge of the earth at another, when he stubbornly holds to his ideals, no matter how flawed they may be. It’s a book I remember reading the ending of, and it’s a theme for all three of these books, and just looking down and literally letting out an, “Ooooooooh~~~~” xD That’s really my ‘tell’ of a good book. I haven’t reread it since then, but it’s always stuck with me). 

Animal Farm by George Orwell:

‘Perhaps one of the most influential allegories of the 20th century, George Orwell's Animal Farm has made its way into countless schoolrooms and libraries, and has been the inspiration of several films. Written in 1945, before Orwell's conceptually similar 1984, Animal Farm's world consists of anthropomorphized farm animals as they attempt to create an ideal society--it becomes dystopian as the flaws of the ideology seep out. Like 1984, Orwell meant for Animal Farm to represent a Communist state, and to depict its downfalls. With a message that is not soon to be forgotten, Animal Farm reminds us that "all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others."’

(It’s stereotypical and you’ve probably read it, but I still love this book to pieces and literally have an Animal Farm pin on my bag xD If you haven’t read it, read it: It also has the OhhhOOohhh~ effect xD)

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury:

‘Ray Bradbury's internationally acclaimed novel Fahrenheit 451 is a masterwork of 20th-century literature set in a bleak, dystopian future.

Guy Montag is a fireman. In his world, where television rules and literature is on the brink of extinction, firemen start fires rather than put them out. His job is to destroy the most illegal of commodities, the printed book, along with the houses in which they are hidden. Montag never questions the destruction and ruin his actions produce, returning each day to his bland life and wife, Mildred, who spends all day with her television "family". But then he meets an eccentric young neighbor, Clarisse, who introduces him to a past where people didn’t live in fear and to a present where one sees the world through the ideas in books instead of the mindless chatter of television. When Mildred attempts suicide and Clarisse suddenly disappears, Montag begins to question everything he has ever known. He starts hiding books in his home, and when his pilfering is discovered, the fireman has to run for his life.’

(What do I have to say by this point? Another Ooooh~ effect book xD)

[sammyspreadyourwings]

angst 12 with maylor? :)

12) Who did this? Who hurt you?

CW: Bad sexual encounters, Discussion of. Sexual encounters.

18+ Be responsible!

I have to think of a new organization method now.

I don’t know how I should label the CW, so if anyone has any suggestions. Also if you need me to put a CW for anything shoot me a message, no questions asked! Continuing on the angst train, because that’s what y’all are in the mood for lmao. Again, a little bit of a different kind of whump.

Circa 1970

Roger shoves from his knees to kiss Brian messily on the lips. He still has a dribble of precum in the corner of his mouth. They tumble backward, breaking the kiss. One of Roger’s legs is still awkwardly stretched behind him, and he moves so that he’s straddling Brian. Brian’s fingers tense against his back. He moans and leans down to kiss Brian, but Brian turns his head away and Roger finds himself planting a light kiss on his jugular.

One of his hands moves so that he can trail it down the baby fine hair that doesn’t match Brian’s hair at all. Brian’s stomach twitches, and Roger frowns. He’s never noticed Brian being ticklish before. Roger steals another kiss from the peak of Brian’s shoulder. To spar Brian a laughing fit brought on by his fingers, Roger reaches up to undo his pants.

The second he starts to pull down his fly Brian shoots away from him. Roger quickly shoves himself to the other end of the bed to give Brian space. They stare at each other, Roger trying to get his mind from the gutter enough to have a conversation and Brian looks like he’s fighting off a wave of… something with how tightly his eyes are shut. His fingers are pressing so tightly into his scalp that Roger can see the ligaments clearly.

He has a small urge to pull the hands to his chest, but Roger has a feeling any touch would be unwelcome now. Had he done something wrong? It could be that Brian was just oversensitive from Roger not blowing him to orgasm.

A few minutes later, when the lust has gone out with the rest of the air through the slightly open window, Roger finds his voice.

“Bri?”

“Sorry,” Brian mumbles.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Roger glances over what he can see of Brian’s form, there doesn’t look like there had been any damage he missed or caused, “but we do need to talk about what happened.”

Brian shakes his head.

“I have to know what it was that I did that set you off. I don’t want you worrying that I’m going to do it every time we have sex.”

Roger watches Brian hide his knees. He hears a string of sounds, but they’re so quiet that he can’t make them out. Eventually, Brian lifts his head, Roger offers a mild smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Brian bites his lip, but it looks like he gives up with how the tension bleeds out of his body. Roger’s concern spikes and the horrifying idea that’s been stirring in the back of his head starts to gain traction. He wants to shake Brian for answers, but he knows that would be counterproductive.

“I said, I didn’t think I’d freak out.”

Roger tilts his head, “is there a reason that you thought you might?”

Brian nods.

“You don’t have to go into detail, but can you let me know about what we just did set you off?”

“It was what we were going to do.”

“Sex?” Roger asks.

Brian narrows his eyes minutely.

“Penetrative sex?”

That earns him a nod.

“Okay, I can bottom if that would make you more comfortable.”

Brian shakes his head. Roger tries to not get frustrated with the lack of a verbal answer. He closes his eyes and counts to ten.

“Do you not want to do penetrative sex at all?”

It’s not like he couldn’t live with that stipulation, but it’s more about trying to figure out how to make Brian comfortable. If it’s something to do with their relationship, it won’t get better no matter how many concessions Roger makes.

“That’s just it. I do want to do it,” Brian looks away, “with you. But my mind just keeps reminding me of the last time.”

Roger couldn’t stop the words, he knew he shouldn’t say them even as he utters the first syllable, “who did this? Who hurt you?”

“It’s not-” Brian rushes out, and his voice cracks, “it’s not like you’re thinking.”

“I don’t see how,” Roger coughs, “you don’t have to tell me, but I don’t understand what you mean.”

“One of my old partners, the last bloke I was with, we were in 6th form, so we didn’t really know what we were doing. And well, too little lube for too little preparation,” Brian speaks quick, trying to rush out the words, “and he didn’t notice, not even after he finished. But it hurt, and when I checked- there was a good amount of tearing.”

Roger nods, he hates that someone would be so careless with Brian and hurting him that badly. It makes him sick to think it because it’s still a trauma but he’s glad that it’s not something else.

“So, your body remembers the pain.”

Brian releases a shaky breath.

“Why can’t you penetrate me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you like I was hurt.”

It makes sense in a twisted sort of way. Roger doesn’t know of a way to make Brian more comfortable with the thought, because it seems like any discussion of it makes Brian look ill.

“You wouldn’t,” Roger assures, “I’d walk you through it, let you know if it was too much or too little. But we don’t have to do it now or soon. We never have to do it if you aren’t comfortable.”

“But Rog,” Brian looks away.

“Hush,” Roger crawls closer now that he’s sure it wasn’t his touch that spooked Brian.

“Roger seriously I would under-”

“I said hush. Brian, I’m not with you just because I want to have sex with you, a definite bonus I won’t lie, but I’m with you because I,” not love, not yet, “adore you. I adore you when you go on about space or try to buy everything that has a badger or a hedgehog on it. I absolutely adore it when you play guitar, but then you smile at me when we’re on stage.”

Roger cups Brian’s face, “if we never touch each other sexually again, I don’t care because I would have had you as mine.”

He smirks, “but there are plenty of sexual things we can do without doing that.”

Brian is staring at him with parted lips and wide eyes. Roger is knocked to his back with the force of Brian’s hug. He laughs out the air knocked from his lungs. There’s a sloppy wet kiss placed on his cheek.

“I adore you too,” Brian whispers, “I adore it when you complain about people not taking care of their teeth or try to buy albums that we probably already have. I absolutely adore it when you’re drumming but especially when you close your eyes and get really into it.”

Brian leans forward and presses their lips together for a second before leaning back, “and I very much adore it when you don’t freak out about and respect my issues.”

This time Brian is the one smirking, “and I think we can eventually find something we both like without involving that. At least for now.”

Roger grins and sees it mirrored on Brian’s face.

“For now, I think we should hide under the blankets and steal kisses like we’re teenagers,” Roger tugs down his jeans and tosses them into a corner.

“I think I can get behind that.”

[parentingtheoryandpractice]

Maya’s birth story (and reflections on previous births)

My third pregnancy felt like a pretty long and hard road, overall. But by the very end of it, I was actually feeling pretty good, most of which I chalk up to having finally resolved my iron-deficiency anemia. As I passed 39 weeks, I was pretty energetic, getting excited to meet the baby, and also quite focused on and nervous about labor.

Labor is pretty different from most things in life because on the one hand, it’s active hard work. It’s not the sort of thing I just have to suffer through, like being sick. And on the other hand, there’s no way to stop it. Most hard or painful things that tend to come up in my life are either passive or the type of thing I could in theory stop doing.

I wasn’t anxious that anything would go wrong with me or the baby during labor, but I was worried that would be painful and overwhelming. I didn’t feel like I wouldn’t be able to do it, but I did feel like I didn’t want to do it.

I’d been having Braxton Hicks contractions a bunch during my pregnancy, but at some night maybe around week 38 I remember noticing that they were coming pretty regularly, even though they weren’t intense. I mostly ignored them, but took them as a sign that things were starting to move in the right direction. At around the same time every night, I started to get semi-regular contractions that didn’t progress in any particular pattern and sometimes went away when I changed positions. The next noticeable ramp up was on Wednesday, when the contractions were strong enough to wake me up at night. I think that was when I first lost some of my mucous plug. But they mostly went away the next morning. Thursday night, again, the contractions were strong enough to wake me up. And then Friday I intermittently had fairly strong (meaning easily manageable, but very noticeable) contractions throughout the day, anywhere from a few minutes to half an hour apart.

We had our regular babysitter that evening, so once she took the kids, I was hanging out with Will. We had watched the video of the end of my labor with Zeke, where I pushed him out at the hospital with an epidural, earlier in the week. Friday night, we watched the video of me pushing out Lydia without medicaition at home.

That night, I did a bunch of talking through and processing both my previous labors, and I identified some things that I didn’t feel great about.

I had a vivid and mildly unpleasant composite memory of some of the hardest contractions I had in the tub during my labor with Lydia. I think there were two distinct memories stored with these contractions. One was my conclusion that moving during a contraction seemed to prolong it instead of helping. (There’s some nuance to this—I’ve had only positive experiences swaying while leaning against a counter, for example, but there was a way I had been moving around in the bath that was motivated by trying to escape the pain that seemed entirely counterproductive.) The other memory was that at one point during Lydia’s labor I promised myself that I would let myself seriously consider getting an epidural next time, now that I knew what it felt like. I assume that these memories were salient because they included information I was supposed to remember.

I had a memory of walking up and down the stairs during my labor with Lydia that evoked some dread. My midwife had encouraged me walk up and down near the end of labor. I think I was pretty much dilated by then, but my water hadn’t broken and I wasn’t feeling the urge to push. I also remember sitting on the labor stool as being pretty bad, though the experience with the stairs was more vivid.

I also remember how I had felt during the long part of Zeke’s labor where I was fully dilated but not experiencing the urge to push, before we went to the hospital. I didn’t want people telling me what to do, I was exhausted, and I was generally feeling crappy.

And after watching my birth videos, there were some other parts I didn’t like, but hadn’t consciously remembered as much, that stood out to me. When I was pushing Lydia out, my midwife was doing some perineal massage and stretching, and it seemed like her doing that was one of the main things I was complaining about. And after both Lydia and Zeke came out, I didn’t love seeing how I seemed sort of helpless, and there were a lot of people who seemed to be doing things to me and my babies that I didn’t necessarily want to be happening.

I want to include that I don’t think it’s anyone else fault that things played out in these ways. Insofar as I communicated with my birth team, people did what I wanted. I asked my midwife, Maria, about the stretching she was doing as it happened and once she explained that it was to prevent tearing I told her to keep doing it. At the end of labor with Lydia I was looking for direction, so I ended up doing what Maria told me to do. And when I was at the hospital with Zeke, whenever I was clear that I didn’t want the staff to be doing something, they didn’t do it.

And yet despite my consent, I think a bunch of the things that happened were mildly traumatic, in the weak sense of being stored in an unprocessed, “stuck” sort of way.

Notably, various of aspects of my previous labors that were actually more painful or adversarial than the ones I listed above didn’t seem to be stored as trauma. The car ride to the hospital during Zeke’s birth was pretty brutal, with all the pain of labor and none of the ability to choose my own position. We also ended up taking a wrong turn, so the car ride was longer than it should have been. And when we got to the hospital, it took a bunch of tries for the nurses to get an IV in my arm. And then when I did eventually get the epidural put in, I had to sit still for it despite still experiencing very strong contractions. All of those parts just seemed like stuff I had to put up with to get what I wanted. When I remember them, I feel distant from the physical experience, and I identify more with the self who chose the overall plan.

As far as I can tell, the stance where I have a plan and I’m trying my best to execute it despite obstacles is quite protective against trauma, and the stance where I’m letting things happen to me that I’m not really on board with because I’m feeling helpless and out of touch with my values is very likely to lead to trauma.

As I was meditating on all this in early labor with Maya, I was clear that I wanted to avoid trauma. I called up Sue, my midwife, and asked her to talk me through what would happen if I wanted to go to the hospital. She told me that they probably wouldn’t take me until I was 6cm dilated. That when I arrived, they would put me in an intake room with a fetal monitor for about 20min, and then someone would check my dilation. At that point, if I was far enough along, I could go to a labor and delivery room and get an epidural when the anesthesiologist was available. I still wasn’t sure whether I wanted to go to the hospital or not.

Around that point, having done a bunch of emotional processing about my previous births and what I wanted for this one, I told Will I wanted a change of context and asked him to walk around with me outside. We paced around our block, and he started to time my contractions. Once I noticed him doing it, I started telling him when they were starting and stopping. They were fairly regular at that point, but still under a minute and usually at least five minutes apart. They were manageable, especially if I were standing up and leaning against something or pulling down on something, but they mostly required my full attention. (I remember having one while I was sitting down outside and not liking it at all.)

I’d been working through the Pink Kit labor preparation materials, and one of the things it recommends is using your pain management techniques during early labor to get into the habit, so that by the time things got more intense you would be using your techniques more automatically. I did try to follow that advice. My basic procedure was to try to relax, and visualize my uterine muscles pulling my cervix more open. Thinking of the actual muscles involves helps me contextualize the sensation and short-circuits exaggerated thoughts about what’s going on, like “I’ feel like I’m going to break in half”. I would remind myself to let go of physical tension, and practice diffusing my awareness. There’s a tendency when experiencing intense pain to let it take over my entire awareness, and I tried not to do that. I would try to note other perceptions that weren’t the pain intermittently.

And my verbal loop was mostly busy reciting the Litany Against Fear from Dune:

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

I remember reciting this to myself sometimes during my first labor, but this time I said it to myself multiple times during almost every contraction. Insofar as I had thoughts about how I didn’t want to be experiencing labor, I told them to wait until I wasn’t having a contraction. I had a pretty visceral understanding of the fear/tension/pain feedback loop, and I was very strongly motivated to avoid any thoughts that would lead to me tensing up.

We had our nanny that night until 11:30pm, and I told Will that when he took over with the kids I would want the labor support woman we had been working with to come by and be with me. At that point, I was trying to mentally prepare myself for the long haul. I was pretty sure I wasn’t in active labor yet, and I didn’t want to wear myself out either physically or mentally by assuming things would ramp up soon.

We went back inside, and I got in the tub. I have always liked laboring in the tub. The water feels great, and I like the way my belly gets buoyant. With my second labor, it was when I got into the tub that things really ramped up and I started actively dilating, and as far as I can tell the same was true with this past labor. By the time it was 11:30, and my birth support person with me and Will was with the kids, the contractions were much more intense. I remember wanting to actively push against something during them, and I think I was pressing my feet up against the side of the tub. Still manageable, but quite painful. And around that point I would say I was pretty far into labor land, and my awareness of the passage of time got fuzzier.

Not so long after 11:30, I got out of the tub and checked my dilation. I could feel that I was quite dilated, though not fully dilated. I figured that if I wasn’t 6cm, I was close to it. I would say that I was coping okay, but I wasn’t liking labor and I decided I wanted to go to the hospital and get an epidural. We told Will to take the kids to our friend’s place for the night. Between contractions I got dressed and packed some things in a hospital bag. I asked my support person what she thought I should bring. I grabbed a robe, and a change of clothes for me. I thought I grabbed a baby wrap and a baby outfit, but I later realized I left those things on the bed. I also grabbed a teething necklace I had bought recently and put it on. I knew I was going to want something to bite down on. During contractions, I mostly stood up and leaned against whatever counter-like thing was closest.

I remember my birth support person saying to me that I might be further along than I realized. I told her that I realized I could be pretty far along. In retrospect, it seems odd to me that I didn’t mention to anyone else that I had checked my dilation. It’s funny to me how being in labor seems to shift my sense of what’s private. I get pretty unselfconscious about people seeing me naked, for example, but information about what’s going on in my body and how I’m relating to it can feel oddly private.

Once I felt ready to go, i went downstairs. I put some food in my bag and ate some of Zeke’s old sandwich that was sitting on the counter.

Pretty soon (though it felt longer at the time) we were ready to drive to the hospital. Will called Sue, our midwife, and told her to meet us there.

I remember asking the baby and my body to please give me a break and slow things down while I was getting to the hospital. I took one look at the seat and realized there was no way I was going to sit down in it, so I got on my hands and knees and hung off the back of the seat while Will drove me to the hospital. I think I only had two or three contractions during the drive over. We got there quickly, checked in, and went to the intake room. A nurse got me fitted with a fetal monitor. I took one look at the bed in the room and had the same reaction I had had to the idea of sitting down in the car—I was completely unwilling to do that. Instead, I labored over by the counter in the room. I was glad that I brought the teething necklace, because it felt very satisfying and helpful to bite down on it hard during my contractions.

Before too long, Sue got there too. I remember her, Will, and my birth support person experimenting with the lights to try to make the ambience a little nicer. I was pretty internal at that point. I mostly had my eyes closed during contractions, and I didn’t want anyone to talk when I was having them. They were very strong at that point, and getting closer together.

After a while, a different nurse came to the intake room and said that there was an emergency on the floor, I think as a way of explaining why we had mostly been on our own in the intake room. She also then asked me a bunch of questions about my pregnancy, which was the most weirdly dystopian part of my whole birth experience. I insisted on only answering between contractions, which I think in a sane world would have been a given! Most of the questions were definitely things the hospital would have had in their records anyway, since I went there for some prenatal appointments. I’m normally pretty scrupulous about not saying stuff that isn’t true, to the point where I stress get stressed and want moral support filling out medical history sections of forms because they don’t usually specify which relatives they are asking about. But I guess now I know around where my limit is. I remember the nurse asking if I’d had any problems during my pregnancy. I said “no”. She then asked if I’d had any gestational diabetes, and I said I had. She said that was obviously a problem. I knew that, and I also knew that anemia was a problem. But I really didn’t feel up for discussing any of that stuff. Around the time I was answering these questions, I was in transition. What was left of my mucous plug was falling out at this point during my contractions.

At some point, I remember noticing a very strong desire to pull down on something during my contractions, and thankfully the pulls for the hospital cabinets were high quality and attached very securely! I think around the same time, though again, the timeline is pretty fuzzy, I remember hearing my vocalizations change to something that sounded more like I was starting to push. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from that change on what timescale, since I hadn’t experienced a spontaneous desire to push in either one of my previous births. I went with it though, and pushed along with the contractions insofar as it felt natural. It felt good to do that. I wasn’t at all sure how effectively I was actually pushing. I remember reaching down to try to feel what was going on, and I think I felt a bulging bag of waters.

And soon it became quite clear that I was pushing effectively, because my water broke. I might have kneeled down for this contraction. I know I kneeled down for one of the contractions around this point, though I guess then I stood back up again.

As with the pushing, on some level I knew that my water must have broken, but on some level I was confused because with both of my other births, someone else had eventually broken my water after I’d been fully dilated for a while. I knew that once my water broke, I was going to feel way more pressure, and I did.

I think it was with the next contraction that I said that I was worried I was going to have the baby right there.

Sue, my midwife, assured me that right there was a fine place to have a baby. I trusted her, so I took that as a green light. I wonder how my body would have responded if Sue had told me that right there wasn’t a good place to have a baby, but I guess now I’ll never know! With the next contraction, I felt a very classic and unmistakable urge to push, I went with it, and I pushed out the head. I announced that I had pushed out the head, and I’m glad I did, because I hadn’t registered that no one could see the head hanging out behind the birthing gown. I think I said something to the effect of how I didn’t like how it felt, having just the head sticking out. Sue came over, saw the head and told me that the rest of the baby would come out with the next contraction. I don’t know if it was then or a little before when I announced that I didn’t want anyone taking the baby away from me.

I’m not quite sure where the nurse who had been asking me the intake questions was at this point. Maybe around when I said I was going to have the baby she went to get more people?

The next contraction happened pretty soon—maybe within a minute or two—and Sue caught the baby and handed her to me under my legs, and I sat down on the floor of the intake room with the baby. And right around then, there were around six people who hadn’t been there before. I had been excited about the idea of catching my own baby this time around, and I feel like I got what I wanted in that regard. I was very happy that Sue was there, since I didn’t have to worry about the baby falling on the ground, but my hands were right on her the whole time.

They gave me lots of warm blankets, which was nice, and were trying to do some other things that I didn’t like so much and mostly told them to stop doing, as I remember it. Sue shared some thoughts about putting Maya’s head lower to help drain any fluid, and at some point encouraged Will and me to rub her feet some. I’m mostly of the opinion that unless something is truly an emergency, medical professionals should ask before doing things, and I remember telling them that this didn’t seem like an emergency. A pediatrician also came and wanted to take Maya’s blood sugar immediately. I had thought about this before hand, and I declined, saying I would think about doing that later.

I also tried to get Maya to nurse, mostly because it just seemed like the most natural thing to do. One nurse said something to me about how I shouldn’t expect the baby to nurse right away, but I ignored her and kept trying, and Maya did in fact latch.

Having now given birth three times, I feel justified in making some generalizations about how I give birth, and one of the ways I give birth is that once the baby is out I have a mental todo list of what needs to happen. And one of the very next things on the list is that the placenta needs to come out too. The first time I thought of this, the cord was still pulsing. A nurse told me that it was fine to cut it as long as it had been a few minutes, but I wanted to wait. A little while later, once it had stopped, Will and the hospital midwife (I think?) clamped it and cut it. At that point I gave baby Maya to Will, and wanted to get the placenta out.

I was worried it would hurt to get it out. I find it abstractly amusing how having experienced something very painful recently doesn’t make other things less painful, at least not straightforwardly.

My original plan had been to get Pitocin after I pushed out the baby, but for whatever reason I wasn’t really feeling it once it happened. I didn’t end up losing very much blood, so that worked out okay.

Someone brought me a pan to push the placenta into. I tried squatting over it and just trying to push, which didn’t seem to be working. I asked if it was okay to pull on on the cord, and the midwife said it was. The combination of squatting and pulling a little did the trick, and I delivered the placenta.

I think it was around then that they wanted to move me into a labor and delivery room. It felt pretty weird to get up and be wheeled somewhere else, but I didn’t feel up for walking!

In fact, ever since I had pushed out the baby, I had been shaking intensely—another birth experience I had read about but I don’t remember experiencing with either of my other two. I wasn’t particularly cold, and the shaking wasn’t aversive. I’m not sure what to say about it other than that it was a very interesting experience, and according to what I understand of Peter Levine’s model of trauma, probably one with very positive effects.

Once we got to the labor and delivery room, my focus was very much on wrapping things up and getting out of the hospital as quickly as possible. I knew from my experience giving birth to Zeke that if we signed some forms we could leave AMA within a few hours. I got stitches for a second degree perineal tear, which was no fun at all, though I liked the midwife who stitched me up. I got my blood pressure taken a whole bunch of times. I signed some forms, declined a bunch of stuff, peed, got dressed, ate some of a banana, drank some water, chatted with Will, our birth support person, and Sue, and waited around to hear whether the cord blood was positive. Eventually we found out that it wasn’t, so I didn’t need a Rhogam shot, so we were ready to leave. It was around 3 hours after I’d given birth, which I’ve since been told is quite a fast turnaround.

My second least favorite part of the hospital experience, after trying to answering intake questions during transition, was trying to leave with the baby. They told us we would have to bring the carseat up and carry her down in the carseat, which we didn’t want to do. It seemed nonsensical to us, particularly because we don’t have an infant carseat—we have a convertible one without a separate base that we would have had to fully uninstall and reinstall. So then they told us that it would be acceptable to wheel Maya down in the huge hospital bassinet, because they couldn’t risk us dropping her…while walking through the hallway to the elevator.

I get about liability and why hospitals have policies like this, but I don’t like it at all because the message it sends is that it’s not safe for parents to carry their babies! What could be more disempowering, especially to first-time parents! What exactly do they think we’re going to do as soon as we get home—not carry the baby around???

Anyway, Maya didn’t mind being in the bassinet for a bit, so we went with it. I like to think I would have picked her up if she started crying, but she didn’t.

And pretty soon we were home to start life with our new baby :-). I found the wrap and baby outfit that I had left on the bed while attempting to pack my hospital bag. I tried to sleep that night, because I was super tired, but predictably I spent a bunch of time awake and staring at Maya

[ankhlesbian]

FE Rarepair Week: Day 1

Prompt: Snow, for @ferarepair-week

Fandom: FE Echoes: Shadows of Valentia

Pairing: Faye/Silque

AO3 Link: Here

Length: ~2k

Title: in a polaroid picture

A gust of wind howls by, biting at Faye’s uncovered skin. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself. Her usual outfit has served her well so far during their journey across Rigel, but the days just keep getting colder and colder. Silque glances over at her, frowning.

“We should be able to procure warmer clothes next time we find a village. It’s the right season for it, after all.” Faye nods in agreement.

“It never got this cold in Zofia.” she says mournfully. “Do you think it’ll snow?” Ram Village never saw real snow. Even if a few sad flakes did start falling, they never stuck to the ground for longer than just a couple of minutes.

Silque tilts her head towards the sky, full of swirling wispy clouds, and hums thoughtfully. “It might.”

Faye watches her closely. She seems much more animated than usual, her eyes twinkling. She’s… excited?

“How long has it been since you saw snow?” She knows Silque has been to Rigel before, a long, long time ago. Silque hesitates.

“Years, I suppose. I don’t remember much from my time here. Most of my memories are from growing up on Novis Isle.”

“Do you miss it?” It’s perhaps a rude question, but the piercing cold and the somber grey sky above and the muted grass beneath their feet has Faye feeling oddly pensive. Silque’s lips quirk upwards, not quite a smile.

“Of course. But if I had gone back, I’d just be doing what I was doing before the war. After everything, I couldn’t go back to sitting around. There’s people who need healing, people who need guidance now that Mila has left us. Besides, I enjoy getting to see the world.”

Faye can understand that. Before deciding to join Silque, she had gone back to Ram Village to see her parents. It hadn’t changed at all, but it still seemed emptier. There wasn’t much there for her, not anymore.

“Ah yes, who wouldn’t want to enjoy this glorious view?” She says, instead of voicing any of that. She gestures out at the barren landscape around them. Silque elbows her, but she’s smiling, for real this time.

“Don’t be so crass! There’s all sorts of wonders out here.” And as if on cue, something cold and wet hits Faye’s cheek. She gasps, touching the spot instinctively.

Silque giggles, and then it turns to laughter as she sees Faye’s face. Her head is thrown back, blue hair all the more vibrant thanks to the shining white snowflakes falling down around her. It’s a positively radiant sight, and Faye finds herself laughing too. She raises her hands to the sky, trying to catch a snowflake. Her lingering homesickness dissipates, and she wonders how she ever thought she liked Alm. He never made her feel like this, like this moment alone was worth a lifetime of loneliness.

They goof off for the next few minutes, mission forgotten. It’s like being a child again. Of course, they eventually tire of throwing snowballs at each other, and reality sets in. It’s getting late, and the snow shows no sign of letting up. The wind is also picking up, blasting ice into their faces.

“I think it’s a blizzard.” Silque says, voice shaking despite her attempt to stay calm. Faye’s own teeth are chattering. She takes a moment to compose herself.

“It doesn’t look like it’s gonna stop. We need to find a cave or something.” she agrees, because they’ve both looked over their map, and they both know they’re too far from any towns to seek shelter there.

The terrain isn’t rocky enough for caves, but they do manage to find what appears to be an old shed. The windows have been shattered, and the wood looks like it’s rotting, but the roof is intact and it’s better than nothing. They stumble inside and slide to the ground, resting their weary legs.

Faye cups her hands around her mouth and breathes out, rubbing her hands together. Silque is doing something similar, and she also adjusts her headdress, tugging it down over her ears.

They sit shoulder to shoulder, the warmth comforting. Faye cranes her neck so she can peer out a window without having to move. All she can see is white. There’s a nice little pile of snow collecting underneath the windows.

Her body complains, but she forces herself to get up. Silque furrows her brow, opening her mouth to protest.

“I’m going to block off the windows,” she explains. There’s scattered wooden planks on the floor, and some tarps, and even some spare tools on old shelves. She doesn’t dare touch those, for fear of accidentally chopping off a finger, but she manages.

“Hopefully that’ll keep the chill out.” She settles back down beside Silque. The cold seems to slow down even time, for the moments trickle by slowly, until finally the sun is set, and it seems her efforts were in vain, because now her and Silque are both shivering nonstop. Silque’s cheeks are a rosy pink, which would look quite nice if the situation wasn’t so uncomfortable.

“Here,” Faye says quietly, taking off her cape. She wraps it around both of their shoulders before retying it. Silque’s practically sitting on top of her, but she doesn’t think either of them mind. She may even get feeling back in her fingers. Without thinking, she reaches out for Silque’s hands, grasping them tightly. Silque doesn’t complain, only readjusting her arms to a more comfortable position.

“I really wish I had decided to keep studying black magic with Kliff now.” Faye complains. Healing spells are useful, but none of those will create a nice, sizzling, cozy fire.

“It’d probably just sap your energy, anyways.” Silque offers. “It’s not like white magic. Maintenance is harder. Black magic is just meant to harm a foe, then fade. No longevity.” Faye turns her head to look at Silque, and finds her face embarrassingly close to hers. She quickly turns away.

“I didn’t think you knew much about it.” Faye knows her way around multiple weapons, thanks to Sir Mycen, and picked up white magic during the war, but as far as she knows, most priories don’t make a habit of teaching black magic.

“Well, it certainly isn’t standard. But there was a library in town, and only so much to do as a bored child in the Priory.”  The image of a young Silque carefully sneaking around the watchful eye of older clerics to read makes Faye smile.

“I bet you were a real troublemaker.” she teases.

“Not as much as you were.” Silque fires back. “Alm’s told me stories, you know. Something about you being banned from learning dark magic.” Faye had hoped she would just think it was a deliberate choice, and not a strict rule imposed by Sir Mycen.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Silque raises an eyebrow at her. Faye caves.

“I may have set one of Sir Mycen’s sheep on fire,” she admits. Silque starts to laugh, but she breaks off into a fit of coughing. Faye wraps an arm around her, awkward from their positions, to help stabilize her.

“I’m fine.” Silque says, only wheezing slightly. “Would you tell me another story, one from your childhood?” Faye nods, resisting the urge to bite at her lip.

The talking is a good distraction, but time keeps on ticking. Faye can feel the cold air sapping her energy, can feel it right down to the bone. Her stream of words trails off, despite her best attempts at wrangling her brain into order.

“Faye?” Silque is worried, her hair tickling Faye’s chin as she scrambles. Silque presses her fingers to Faye’s neck, and somehow, they feel even colder than her own skin.

“M’fine.” She mumbles, sluggishly swatting at Silque’s hand. She isn’t looking at her, but she swears she can feel Silque’s unhappy frown. Silque grips her hand, holding it close to her chest.

“You are wearing less layers than me.” Faye isn’t a chaste woman of the cloth, though. “We should keep talking. Let’s talk about- about Alm?” She wants to talk about something Faye’s interested in, she recognizes. But Silque hasn’t been present for her internal monologuing. Alm is old news. She thinks she only liked him because he would never like her back. A good reason to show interest in no other boys.

“That’s okay. How about you? Life on Novis Isle? You’re prettier than Alm, anyways.” That last bit just kind of slips out. Thankfully, Silque seems more concerned with the talking idea.

“Well, I didn’t spend a lot of time with Celica and her friends, but—”

Faye lets her voice wash over her. It’s soothing, and entirely counterproductive to staying awake. Silque’s head is nestled into Faye’s shoulder, and it’s so easy to just let her head fall on top of Silque’s. So easy to just shut her eyes and shut out the numbness she can feel. She focuses on Silque’s voice, low and sweet, until she can’t focus on anything any longer.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Faye jolts awake an indeterminate amount of time later. Miraculously, she doesn’t feel quite as cold anymore.

“Thank the Mother,” Silque breathes, from where she’s standing above Faye. She reaches out, gently grabbing Faye’s face with a hand, tilting her head to the side as she examines it with a critical eye. “I was afraid the cold had taken you.”

Faye pulls herself to her feet, stretching her arms upwards. “I wouldn’t let the weather take me out, not after surviving an entire war.” Silque doesn’t look convinced, but she does seem relieved that Faye’s in good spirit.

“You’ll probably have to tell me about your childhood again later, though.” she admits sheepishly. “I fell asleep before you got to the interesting stuff.”

Silque rolls her eyes. “It would be my pleasure.”

Outside, the sun is shining bright. It makes it hard to see, since there’s piles and piles of snow reflecting the light.

“It should start melting soon.” Silque says from beside her. “Then we can slog our way to a village.”

They stand in comfortable silence for a while, admiring the sight. The landscape is much more interesting when covered in snow. There aren’t any trees nearby, but Faye bets any evergreens look stunning right now. She glances at Silque out of the corner of her eye.

She remembers complimenting her, and she’s sure Silque remembers it too. Maybe she just thinks Faye was completely out of it. She could let it lie, let the two of them sweep it under a rug and move on. It would be a risk to bring it up again. But it was a risk to leave Ram Village with Alm wasn’t it? And a risk to leave a second time, to accompany Silque on this journey. Risks pay off.

“It’s certainly very pretty out,” Faye says abruptly. Silque is startled out of her own inner monologue, and looks over at Faye. “But not as pretty as you.”

“Faye—”

“I mean it. I’ve had a lot of time to think, lately. And I’ve realized that I like you. You’re caring, and good at healing, and you tell the best stories. And you were patient enough to put up with me, back during the war. I don’t want to lose you.”

Silque looks stunned. Is it that much of a shock? Anyone from the Deliverance could tell you that Silque was worthy of all sorts of praise. Her face goes red, and it takes her a few tries before she’s able to reply.

“Are you sure?”

Faye crosses her arms. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.” Silque rubs the back of her head, scuffs a foot across the ground awkwardly.

“Of course. I did not mean to imply anything untoward about your character. It was just… unexpected. I’m honored.”

“Just honored?” Faye can’t keep the disappointment from her voice, but she has to know. She isn’t going to sit through another bout of unrequited love.

“…More than honored.” Silque amends, finally looking up and meeting Faye’s eyes. “I’m a bit delighted. I think you’re wonderful, too, Faye.”

Despite the weather, Faye feels warm all over. She beams, and Silque’s face softens.

“That’s a good look on you.” she says, voice going quiet as she steps closer. She reaches a hand out and brushes her thumb over Faye’s lips.

“You always seemed miserable, back then. You deserve to be happy.” Faye takes her hand gently by the wrist and lowers it.

“I am happy.” Her volume lowers to match Silque’s, adding a level of intimacy to their conversation. Her eyes drop to Silque’s lips, dart back up to her eyes, then dart down again. They both lean in at the same time, and then their noses crunch together audibly, right before their lips touch.

They both recoil, clutching at their faces. And then they’re both laughing, just like yesterday, and Faye can’t help but think that she could live the rest of her life like this.

[vagrantblvrd]

Learn from the Sky (1/1)

Summary: Technically, the first time Michael gets kidnapped after moving to Los Santos is at the hands of the Fakes.

AO3

Michael's minding his business driving home from work and some dickhead hops into the passenger seat because the power locks on his car don't work and Michael's an idiot.

The guy's got perfect hair and a pleasant smile on his face while he points the gun in his hand at Michael's.

“Oh, I hope I'm not interrupting,“ he says, bright and cheery when he realizes Michael's on speakerphone with his mom.

She's reading some news article she found somewhere talking about the incredibly high crime rate in Los Santos as a not-so-subtle hint for him to move back home for a bit.

“Gotta go mom,” Michael says, careful not to make sudden movements and keeping his hands where the guy can see them. “I'll call you back later.”

“She's right, you know,” the guy says, unnervingly cheerful and perky for someone with a gun. “There are just loads of criminals just running around all willy nilly here.”

What the actual fuck?

“Wow, really?” Michael says, hands tightening on his steering wheel, wondering if maybe his mom has a point after all. “I hadn't realized.”

The guy hums, something that Michael suspects is a bastardized version of a pop hit, and gestures at the intersection coming up.

“Take a right here, please.”

Michael does as he's told, following directions until they end up somewhere in the industrial district. Warehouses with boarded up windows quietly rusting away. Goddamned dogs barking somewhere in the distance and Michael finally catches a glimpse of one of the freight trains he always hears but never sees.

“Oh, this is it,” the guy says, still smiling as he gestures at a building.

Michael pulls over to the curb and turns the car off, handing the guy the keys when he makes a little gimme motion with his hand, and gets out with the guy when he clears his throat pointedly.

“You're going to need your little kit,” the guy says, tipping his chin to Michael's bag in the backseat. “Things are kind of...messy inside.”

Michael looks at the building, just like all the other warehouses around here. Slanted roof and faded lettering. Busted streetlight out front that may or may not be deliberate. Couple of cars he can just see parked around back.

Like something out of a movie, the kind where some idiot goes to check a strange noise and gets brutally murdered for his trouble.

And this is where the dickhead wanted Michael to drive them, all cheerful and perky and Jesus fucking Christ.

Michael's mom is going to be so fucking impossible when he gets killed here and she gets to be all, “I warned him, but did he listen to me? Not one fucking bit and just look what happened!”

“You want to tell me what I'm getting into here?” Michael asks, wishing he hadn't taken his jacket off for the drive home with the way the temperature's dropped since the sun went down.

The guy hums again, something strained to it as he gestures for Michael to go first with a little wave of his gun.

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that,” he says, and Michael bites back a sigh because that probably wouldn't be smart in this situation, now would it.

They head around back and Michael glances toward the cars. One of them looks like it's been rolled a few time, sitting low on its suspension, broken windows, mangled bumpers, and missing fender. Sees sees the shattered windshield on one, cracks spider-webbing outward from a single point.

“Sniper,” the guy says, when he sees Michael looking. “Not the best really, bless their heart, but they tried.”

Michael's eyebrows go up because the spot the bullet hit -

“You'll have to meet ours sometime,” the guy says, something sharp to it. “He's much, much better.”

Michael doesn't know what to say to that - the implication that he might leave here alive - but from the amused twist to the guy's mouth, he notices.

“If you can keep a secret, that is,” he adds, and Michael, okay, Michael is tired and more than a little annoyed.

“Cross my heart and hope to die?” he asks, some bite to it that has the guy outright grinning at him, something appraising to the look he gives Michael.

“Ooh, feisty. We like that.”

Christ.

Thankfully the guy doesn't have any other creepy, cryptic things to say when they reach the door. Shots Michael a look before angling his body to keep Michael from seeing whatever the code is when he punches it in.

Stepping inside, Michael realizes someone's put a lot money into the place. That it isn't just another rundown warehouse from a bankrupt company wasting away out here.

The place is sectioned off, mechanic bays and some sort of workshop at the back. Racks and cases with weapons and God only knows what off to their left and rows of desks with computers and other equipment nearby.

Off to their right -

“Jesus Christ,” Michael mutters.

Someone's cleared the area for the handful of injured people he can see. Various injuries from what looks like broken bones to gunshot wounds.

There's someone else seeing to the injured, movements brisk and efficient and exhausted. A familiar enough sight, really.

More so, when he looks up and Michael fucking recognizes him. Fucking Phil from work who's transferring out of Los Santos at the end of the month to be close to his parents or some bullshit.

Nice guy. Quiet, keeps to himself for the most part. Showed Michael the ropes the first week before he got his assignment and honestly seemed...not boring, okay, just. Sure as hell not fucking this.

“He needed another pair of hands,” the guy says. “Mentioned you by name, which is pretty high praise coming from him.”

Michel slides a look at him, sees the exhaustion he's doing a damn good job of hiding himself. Strain to the smile he's been wearing like a mask this whole time.

“Sure,” Michael says, already stepping towards Phil and the injured he's treating. Figures he won't get shot in the back for doing what the guy brought him here to do, because talk about being counterproductive. “Coming from a guy who has pictures of his plants in his wallet, that means a lot to me.”

He hears the guy laugh behind him, but tunes it out when he gets to Phil who fills him in on what's going on. Leads him over to a kid trying to keep their blood inside where it belongs and looking annoyed at having been shot. (Fucking relatable, actually.)

“Try not to kill them,” Phil says, deadly serious as he claps a hand on Michael's shoulder and heads back to the bickering idiots.

Michael looks down at the kid who looks back. So very young and stupid, and sighs.

“Tell me where it hurts,” he says just to be an asshole, and gets to work.

It's ugly and messy and none of the people he treats complains. Just sit there and do what he asks, this same little light in their eyes. Stubborn fuckers every single one of them and that sticks in his head as he moves from one patient to the next.

Phil leaves sometime around midnight. Gives Michael a look, before the guy shuts the door after him and Michael -

He's past tired, well into exhausted and that's not good really.

The injured are either sleeping or resting quietly and the others just watch when the guy takes Michael over to an office of sorts.

There are model rockets and framed blueprints on the walls. A little table tucked into a corner with a model of the solar system on it -

“That's my orrery,” the guy says, odd little smile on his face when he looks at Michael. “A friend got it for me.”

Okay?

“Nice,” Michael says, because really, what do you say to that?

The guy's acting like there aren't people a few rooms away with gunshot wounds and other injuries. Like they clearly aren't criminals- like he didn't kidnap Michael.

Fucking model rockets, what the fuck?

“Michael Jones,” the guy says, and Michael's attention snaps back to him because he hadn't addressed Michael by name before now.

Must have gotten it from Phil, sure, but until now -

“I trust you understand that if you tell anyone about all this, well. It wouldn't be the best idea, you know.”

No fucking shit.

“I figured, yeah,” Michael says.

Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out, and goddamn, he's so fucking tired to be thinking that.

“Can I go?” Michael asks, trying not to think about what happens if the guy says no.

Thinks Michael won't keep his mouth shut about this, might just run to the cops and spill what he knows – which, honestly isn't much, but he knows where this place is, and that -

“Yes,” the guy says, “but we'll be watching you.”

Michael stares at the guy for a long moment, and then snorts, because Jesus fucking Christ.

“You practice that in front of a mirror?” he asks, because what the hell, why not at this point really.

The guy stares at him for a beat, and then looks around as though there's anyone else in the damn office with them and asks, just above a whisper, “How did you know?”

Michael resists the urge to facepalm because no and lets the guy lead him back the way the way they came.

Stops Michael with a hand on his shoulder before he walks out of the building and hands him a fucking business card.

“Thank you,” he says, honest and sincere in a way that hurts to hear.

Michael swallows, eyes sliding away from his and shrugs.

“Yeah, well. Thanks for not killing me. Means a lot.”

The guy laughs and says, “Don't make me regret it!” and shuts the door in Michael's face.

Michael stares at the door, takes a few steps back and looks at the building. Rundown warehouse like all the others out here from the inside, whole lot of trouble on the inside.

========

Michael has no idea if Trevor ever told Ryan about kidnapping him way back when after B Team got a little fucked up dealing with a rival crew.

But the thing is, when they officially meet, Trevor gives no sign of ever having met Michael before, let along shoving a gun in his face, so  -

You know, maybe not.

Maybe it's some unspoken rule with these idiots? A social faux pas to bring up the fact that the guy shaking your hand and telling you how nice it is to finally meet you once actually kidnapped you? Who the fuck even knows with them.

Still, Michael thinks about telling Ryan when the idiot's getting so worked up about about a little incident that happened earlier that day that he's pacing. Long strides, breathing a little rough because he's still fucking healing and Michael knows reminding him that oh, hey, Los Santos isn't the safest city around won't help.

Not with Ryan telling Michael to take his safety more seriously. That he can't just open his door to every Tom, Dick, and wanted criminal in the city just because they happen to be shot or stabbed or otherwise fucked up, fuck's sake, Michael -

“Alright, asshole,” Michael says, stepping in front of Ryan who seems hellbent on wearing a groove in the floor of Michael's place, look at how much better he's doing and everything. “First of all, I've never done that, second of all - “

Ryan's looking at him with these eyes, all worried and scared because someone grabbed Michael after work.

Pulled a gun on him, hands shaking and terrified and desperate, made Michael drive to some rundown office building slated for demolition and his buddy who'd gotten into a fight with people he probably shouldn't have.

Pale and bleeding and so, so small despite the fact he probably had a foot Michael.

Couple of no-name criminals in a city that spits on people like them, and what was Michael supposed to do?

“Second of all,” Michael continues, anger bleeding out of him because he gets it, alright? He does. “Second of all, who do we both know who broke into my place to bleed all over my furniture?”

Ryan blinks, like he'd forgotten that bit. Opens his mouth like he's going to defend himself, use some lame excuse because he's an idiot and a dork and just real dumb for someone so smart. Or maybe, and the odds are actually decent on this one, use that as a reason why Michael should take the Fakes' offer of finding him a new place to live.

Somewhere with better security and blahblahblah like Michael hasn't already said yes. Isn't waiting for the paperwork to go through at work for his new promotion and working with Jack and Gavin on finding a place he can afford with the pay raise when it kicks in that they can all agree on. That won't leave Michael feeling indebted to anyone, even if they won't see it that way.

“I don't know!” Ryan says,  throwing his hands in the air like he's wracking his brain trying to remember if he's heard anything about some other asshole without a working understanding of personal boundaries and shit. Frowns, eyes narrowing. “Was it Gavin?”

That's actually a good guess. (Accurate as hell, too, but Michael promised Gavin not to rat him out to Ryan on that one, so.)

“I'm talking about you, you dumbass,” Michael says, lips twitching at the look of sudden realization on Ryan's face.

“...Oh.”

“Yeah, 'Oh',” Michael mimics, grinning at the annoyed huff Ryan gives him because Michael's never been kind when he does his impression of Ryan.

Ryan sighs, and something about it tugs at the little black lump that's Michael's heart because this idiot, okay. This idiot.

“He was scared,” Michael says, wanting Ryan to get this, to understand even though some part of him already does. Has to, because he's not that much of an idiot. “He was scared and did the only thing he could think of - “

“Michael - “

“ - and the safety was on the whole fucking time.”

Michael may not be a fan of people waving guns in his face - seriously, who the hell is? - but he's had the basics down for a while now. Knows how to tell when some idiot – or just a scared kid – leaves the safety of their gun on thanks to a couple of friends he grew up with who became cops. (There's a bit of irony in there somewhere, or maybe it's a metaphor. Michael doesn't really give a shit either way.)

Ryan's staring at him.

“What?”

“He wasn't going to shoot me,” Michael says, remembering the poor kid's stuttered apologies after Michael patched his friend up, so stupidly young both of them. “He just needed help.”

Something harder to come by in Los Santos than anywhere else Michael's been. Most people here only out for themselves, stepping on everyone on their way to wherever it is they think they're headed.

“Michael,” Ryan says, looking like he doesn't know what to do with Michael some days. “You - “

“I'll be careful,” Michael says, reaching out to put a hand on Ryan's shoulder, nudging him towards the couch because he's doing better sure, but he's not a hundred percent yet. Keeps pushing himself more than he should, and this isn't really helping.

“More careful,” he amends, when Ryan looks like he thinks Michael's just humoring him right now.

Which, he's not really.

Michael's very much aware things could have gone a different way earlier, that the kid could have been one of the stone-cold killers this city loves so much. Could have seen Michael as a useful enough tool, but something of a loose end, still. Could have put a bullet in his head the moment he was finished helping his friend.

And just because it hadn't, doesn't mean it won't some day.

Still, it's not like Michael can just say no when someone comes to him needing help like that kid. That he could have turned his back on Ryan when the asshole showed up at Michael's place all that time ago. That he's going to stop now just because the Fake AH Crew have put some kind of claim on him and people are bound to notice.

“I promise,” Michael says, because Ryan doesn't look like he believes him, which is bullshit because the fucker's being a major goddamned hypocrite but you don't see Michael calling him on it, now do you? “I'll be more careful if you are too, asshole.”  

Oh, wait.

“I - “

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael says, because Ryan sees himself as the last (only) line of defense between his crew and anyone looking to touch one of them. Always throwing himself between them and trouble and ignoring the part where they've never asked that of him. “You're an idiot, I get that. Just. You know, fucking try, okay?”

Best anyone can do in this city really, and that's all either of them want.

========

The thing Gavin and Jeremy do from time to time doesn't really count as being kidnapped in Michael's opinion.

Not when one of them will randomly pop up and poke him in the back like they're holding a gun on him and say things like, “Hands in the air, this is a stick-up!” because it's a Sunday and Michael's at an ATM getting cash.

“Fucking hell, really?”

“That's what they say in the movies, isn't it?” Gavin asks, stepping back to let Michael turn around. “I've always wanted to say that.”

Michael squints at Gavin who is looking far too awake this early in the morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and disgusting, really.

Michael's getting to know Gavin and Jeremy a little better since the two of them seem keen on sticking their noses into Ryan's business. Making sure Michael's not the “love 'em and leave 'em sort” according to Jeremy, but really, they're just nosy bastards.

The way Ryan talks about them, fond exasperation and no little bit resignation, they've always been like that. Fearless little bastards with no sense of boundaries and protective as hell of their weird little family.

The thing about it, though, is that he's learning that Ryan's not the only idiot who doesn't look after himself the way he should. That that little trait seems to be a common thread with the Fakes as a whole, and Gavin's one of the worst offenders.

“Have you even been to sleep yet?”

Gavin shrugs, gaze wandering away from Michael's to land on that dumb little Blista he loves so much parked down the street.

“...Yes?” Gavin says, turning it into a question towards the end as though he's genuinely unsure of the answer but knows Michael's feelings on the matter.

“Right,” Michael says, running a hand through his hair as he watches Gavin.

Restless energy running through him that has him fidgeting a little where he stands, eyes flicking from spot to spot as he tries not to let Michael see how wired he is. Coffee and energy drinks that he might as well just inject into his veins when he's working on something, and goddamn this little idiot.

“I was headed to get some kolaches,” he says. “You want to come with me?”

Gavin perks up because he's mooched some off Michael before. Might as well take him to the source so he can pay for his own.

“They only take cash,” Michael warns.

It's a small shop, family-run, and usually Michael makes sure to have cash on him for his Sunday run down there.

Gavin cocks his head, and smirks before brandishing his “gun” at Michael.

“Gavin - “

“Michael, no,” he says, chastising tone to his voice. “You're doing it all wrong.”

Michael sighs as he holds his hands up, and lets Gavin prod him over to the Blista.

“Are you really kidnapping me for fucking kolaches?”

Gavin hums, bright grin on his face when he opens the passenger door for Michael, so polite for a kidnapper.

“They're very good kolaches, Michael,” he says by way of answer, and honestly, he’s not wrong, so.

“Fucking incredible,” Michael mutters, because really.

========

“Ooh, kolaches,” Ryan says, face lighting up as he catches sight of the box Michael's holding.

Gavin laughs around the one he has stuffed in his mouth and wanders off to do Gavin things with a little wave.

Michael rolls his eyes and fends Ryan off with his shoulder until he can set the damn box on the coffee table. He takes a seat on the couch and watches Ryan, something warm and stupidly fond in his chest because Ryan has standards when it comes to kolaches it seems. Muttering to himself as he roots through the box looking for an acceptable choice and honestly, this is the guy the city's so fucking scared of?

Still half sleep, hair this ungodly mess, and wearing some stupid shirt one of the others must have gotten him with a cartoonish version of the Vagabond cackling madly in front of an explosion. (At least Michael hopes that's the case, otherwise he's going to have to talk to Ryan about it.)

Ryan finally finds The One and turns back to Michael, chewing happily.

“I thought you had 'shit to do' today,” he says, words garbled but Michael can hear the air quotes just fine even so.

Michael shrugs, because he did, but getting kidnapped like this kind of makes the errands he was planning on taking care of seem unimportant. Things he can do another day, because this right here isn't so bad.

“Eh,” he says, smile tugging at his mouth. “It can wait.”

========

Jeremy's just a horrible human being all around.

Will do things like break into Michael's place even thought they've talked about that shit, and shakes him awake somewhere around four in the morning.

“The fuck do you want?”

Jeremy's smiling. All pent up energy like that stupid lapdog one of Michael's aunts had when he was a kid. Tiny and loud and annoying.

Watching Jeremy babbling about Geoff and some new cars he got while he all but bounces around Michael's place, Michael can't help but notice the similarities.

“Jeremy.”

“We're going for a ride!” he says, and Michael's brain stumbles.

“...What?”

“Come on, come on, Michael Jones. Get dressed, Gav's got everything set up, we're going to be late!”

Michael stares at Jeremy for a long, long moment, certain he's dreaming this whole thing up because what the fuck?

But no, because Jeremy sighs and starts pushing Michael towards his bedroom, hands warm and real on his shoulders as he shoves Michael along.

“Hurry u,. Who knows what Gavin might do if he gets bored.”

That -

It's a legitimate concern, and dream or not, Michael doesn't want to find out the hard way. He gets dressed and meets Jeremy back in his living room and lets the little bastard guide him downstairs to the horrific thing he calls a car.

Might as well have vandalized that sweet little X80 of his with its new paint job.

“Jesus, put the poor thing out of its misery already, I can't stand to see it suffer  like this.”

Jeremy makes an annoyed sound because he thinks orange and purple actually look good together, and hell, why not throw in some yellow while he's at it?

“Shut up, she's beautiful,” Jeremy says, running a hand over the X80's hood before hopping into the drive's seat. “Also get in.”

Michael sighs, looking over his shoulder at his building and the bed he left behind.

Jeremy honks the horn, and Michael sighs, Hating himself just a little as he slides into the passenger seat, because why. Why does he do these things?

Jeremy doesn't seem to notice Michael's train of thought as he turns on the radio and starts singing along to whatever song is playing as they head out of the city.

North-ish from the look of things, sky lightening as the miles go by and the scenery goes from big city to the suburbs to scrub country.

“The hell are we going?”

Jeremy grins as they blow past a group of eighteen-wheelers traveling in a convoy.

“There's an old airfield out here,” he says, and pats the X80's steering wheel fondly. “Plenty of room to open her up, let her run.”

That's nice, but Michael doesn't see what it has to do with him, really.

At least not until they reach the airfield and Jeremy stops beside Gavin who's waiting for them and leaning against an Adder.

Not the fastest car around anymore, maybe, but Michael's always appreciated the way it looks. Muscle to it for something as fast as it is, and supposedly handles like a dream.

“Michael boi!” Gavin calls, a little too smug when he sees the way Michael's looking at the damn Adder. “Care to go for a test drive?”

Michael looks at Gavin, all sunshine and sweetness like he didn't steal one of Geoff's new cars. Looks to Jeremy, who's just annoyingly smug, like he's not Gavin's accomplice and Michael's erstwhile kidnapper.

The X80's far and away the fastest thing out there these days, will absolutely leave the Adder in the dust, but Michael's not interested in winning any races at the moment. Would give a hell of a lot to be behind the wheel of that Adder.

“I mean, sure,” he says, catching the keys Gavin tosses to him. “Might as well, right?”

========

Ryan sidles up to Michael.

Eyes sliding left, sliding right, to make sure they're alone, and leans down to whisper, “I have a Zentorno.”

Michael looks at him, sees the smile on his face. Like some kid with a secret he wants to share, all excited and shit.

“In your pants? And here I thought you were happy to see me.”

“No! Yes?” Ryan frowns, because he's an idiot. “Wait, I mean. I don't have a Zentorno in my pants, but I am happy to see you?”

Goddamn, the man's an idiot.

Loves his bikes from that shiny little nerd bike he has from that shitty sci-fi movie sequel to the stupid thing with the skulls on it “for the aesthetic”, sure. But he's he's got a special spot in his heart for his Zentorno.

Fast little car Michael's seen on the news during a high-speed chase, all sharp and sleek like a shark zipping through the streets of Los Santos or some shit.

“Good for you,” Michael says, because he's not about to make this easy for Ryan.

And Ryan, he sighs. Face in his hands and clearly despairing of his life choices, which you know, only fair really.

“Michael,” he says, voice muffled by his hands and horrible life choices.

“Yes, Ryan?”

Another sigh, familiar blue peeking through Ryan's fingers from where he's sneaking a look at Michael.

“Why are you like this?” he asks, like it's not his own fucking fault.

Michael takes pity on Ryan because the guy's just kind of sad like this. Pathetic, even.

Pats his shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Sure, I'll look at your etchings,” and cackles at the defeated sigh from Ryan.

========

Yeah, no.

The thing Gavin and Jeremy do from time to time have nothing on shit like this, that's for damn sure.

Michael's arms are bound behind his back and his shoulders ache.

“A million dollars, but - “ Gavin's saying, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling above them like this is just another one of his little games.

Like he didn't get shot earlier, the makeshift bandage Michael had slapped on him before the goons grabbed both of them stained red.

Michael regrets, a little, letting Gavin snatch him up off the street to play with another one of Geoff's cars at the airfield. Jeremy already waiting when they pulled up, something about coming off a job for the Fakes and needing time to wind down, so why not race unbelievably expensive cars around an old airfield?

Michael clenches his hands, focusing on the way his wrists sting – torn skin from the rough handling  these guys seem to specialize in.

Tries real hard not to think about Jeremy taking a bullet to the chest before Gavin pulled Michael to cover. Gavin's frantically hissed, “Vest, Michael, he's still wearing his vest!” keeping Michael from doing something stupid when these fuckers showed up out of nowhere, guns blazing.

The door to the room they were thrown in opens and a pair of the goons from earlier walk in.

Idiots, really.

Walking around like they own the damn city. Shiny little guns and mean eyes and so fucking small in the grand scheme of things.

The goon in front walks over to Gavin, looming over him because that's what guys like him do. Play-act at being big and tough when hey have the upper hand, let whoever they think they have under their heel squirm.

“Free,” he says, something satisfied to his voice that Michael's not a fan of, honestly. “Boss wants to talk to you.”

Gavin looks at the guy, gives him a lazy once-over, and smirks.

“So you're the errand boy today then, Ricky?” he asks, and of course the little shit knows these guys, of course he does.

The guy scowls, hand going to the gun at his waist like he's going to finish the job, just fucking kill Gavin right then and there, but doesn't.

Breathes hard through his nose, eyes moving to Michael, this look in them Michael doesn't like.

“Keep talking like that, your friend pays for it,” he says, a bully through and through. “You want that, Free?”

Gavin raises an eyebrow.

“Who, him?” he asks, like he has no damn idea who good old Ricky's talking about. “We're not friends, Ricky. Barely know the bastard.”

Oh, well okay then.

Michael raises his eyebrows when Ricky looks at him, this little scowl on his face like he thinks Gavin's lying to him.

“What? I can't fuckin' stand the asshole.”

Ricky gets this suspicious look to him, head cocked to the side. Michael stares back because he's not lying just as much as Gavin is.

They're not friends, exactly, and God knows Michael hasn't gone and shared his life story with the little shit. There are definitely times Michael cannot fucking stand Gavin and the shit he pulls, all wide smiles and cocky grin and no goddamned common sense.

“Then why - “

“I patch those fuckers up,” Michael says, tossing in a sneer just for the hell of it. “You think they keep me around for my sparkling personality?”

...And now Ricky's looking at Michael thoughtfully, gaze flicking towards Gavin for a moment. Maybe thinking he can get the poor idiot civilian in over his head here to flip on Gavin and the Fakes if he plays his cards right. (Or, you know, forces the issue.)

“Oi!”

Ricky snorts, looking over his shoulder where a pair of goons are lurking and waiting for orders.

“Get him up,” he snaps. Glances at Michael as the goons pass by like he doesn't quite buy what he and Gavin are selling him, but hey, he has all the time in the world to figure it out since no one knows where they are and all.

Michael waits for a bit until he's sure he doesn't hear anything outside, and then a bit long just in case these guys are even a little bit smart.

There's no actual moment when he goes A-ha, now is the perfect time for this bullshit! when he sets to getting out of the zip ties because of course they sprang for the heavy-duty ones. He's not as flexible as he was when he was a kid, hell even a few years ago, but he's not such a piece of shit he can't get out of this mess.

Just, you know. It might take a few minutes.

========

Tweedledee and Tweedledum bring Gavin back a few hours later. Toss him in and loom when Gavin pushes himself into a sitting position, wall at his back.

There's more blood on him – from exacerbating his injury or something new, Michael can't tell just yet.

“Boss wants answers, Free,” Tweedledee says, derisive little sneer on his face. “Give 'em to him, or your buddy here goes next.”

The smart thing to do here would probably be to keep his mouth shut. Just sit there and look like the helpless civilian he's supposed to be. All meek and and shit.

But then Tweedledum smirks when he looks over at Michael. Trying to act big, tough, when all it does is show how much of an asshole he is.

“I'm from Jersey, you fucks. You think two-bit shitbags like you compare to what we have there?”

Michael isn't even talking about the criminals, is the thing.

Tweedledum scowls, makes like he's going remind Michael who's in charge here, but Tweedledee barks out his name, calls him to heel.

“We'll be back,” Tweedledee says, mouth twisting a little when he looks at Michael. “Hope your memory improves before then, Free.”

The idiots slam the door behind them, like everything they know about being a big-shot comes from the movies. All dramatic posing and cliché threats and fucking toddlers throwing tantrums shit.

“Christ,” Michael mutters, shifting around to look at Gavin, who's looking back at him with this little grin on his face.

“That wasn't very smart, Michael,” he chides, like he has any room to talk.

Michael rolls his eyes and makes his way over to Gavin. “Shut the fuck up.”

Gavin looks like shit, which.

You know.

Not too far from the way he normally does because he's an idiot who acts like he's invincible half the time. Doesn't need to bother with things mere mortals do like sleep and food.

Gavin's eyes light up when he realizes Michael's hands are free, zip ties little more than shitty bracelets at the moment.

“Michael.”

“You owe me new shoelaces, asshole,” Michael says, checking Gavin over, angry at the bruises he finds, but grateful there's nothing worse.

Gavin hums, leaning on him a bit as he plots.

“They're not very smart,” Gavin says, looking at Michael. “And I am injured.”

Michael frowns, confused by the upwards lilt to Gavin's voice – the little eyebrow waggle he throws in when he sees Michael's frown.

“There's no way that's going to work,” he says when realization hits because no one's that dumb outside of movies.

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” he says. “They're really not that smart.”

========

Michael is starting to think there's something in the water in Los Santos.

There's really no explanation as to why these idiots fall for Gavin's stupid plan.

Practically come running when Michael kicks up a fuss about Gavin dying, spouting medical bullshit from medical dramas on television he's suffered through in the past.

Look like they're panicking at the thought of having a dead Fake on their hands even though they were so goddamned keen to make that happen themselves not that long ago.

Makes it real easy for Michael and Gavin to get one over on them, little practical application of fists to faces and down they go.

No one else around, and Gavin takes the lead. Little smile on his face as he tells Michael to stay low and follow him and they'll be out of this place in no time.

The worst thing about it all is that he's right.

There aren't a lot of people around to start with, so that helps.

Just Ricky and the Tweedles and a few others, including this Boss Michael never saw.

“Oh, that's just rude of them,” Gavin says, when they come across Geoff's car these guys took as a reward.

Looks like someone took affront to the Fake AH Logo on the hood and went at it with spray paint.

The rest of the car looks to be in one piece, though, which is the important part. Michael leaves Gavin to fuss over the car while Michael takes care of the others parked nearby. Uses a knife he took off one of the Tweedles and slashes tires here and there and everywhere.

Gives Gavin a look when he makes his way back to him and shrugs. “Jersey, remember?”

Gavin snorts because he knows Michael's hardly from one of the more crime-riddled parts of Jersey. That people tend to forget Jersey's a fucking state, but you know. Why remind them when you ca let them think whatever they want? Let them come to their own damn conclusions and play off of that.

“Let's get out of here, yeah?”

========

They run into a goddamn fleet of cars half a mile out. Fake AH Crew logos on half of them, and a sleek black Zentorno at the front of the pack.

“God's sake,” Gavin laughs, because there's another hideous purple and orange car flanking it.

Michael doesn't look over at Gavin, no, because that laugh's a little too loud, wild, and it's been a hell of a day for them.

Michael watches the cars ahead of him. Sees Ryan get out of his Zentorno, Jeremy a beat behind him.

Gavin makes this little noise in his throat, eyes glued to Jeremy keeping pace with Ryan. (Michael doesn't say anything about that either.)

Jeremy might have been wearing body armor when he got hit, but that shit fails sometimes. Defects in the manufacturing process you don't know about until it's too late or maybe something else goes wrong  and you don't shrug off that bullet the way you think you can.

And Gavin, okay.

Gavin's been acting this whole time like he knew without a doubt Jeremy was fine. That the fucking vest had done its job, kept him safe and alive, but the fact of the matter is that he didn't.

Neither of them did, and Jeremy hadn't gotten up after he'd been hit. Had just laid there on the ground while Gavin did his best to protect Michael until there was no choice left but to go with Ricky and the Tweedles.

“Hey,” Michael says, because Gavin's just watching Ryan and Jeremy get closer, makes no move of his own to get out and meet them. “You guys ever think about holding an intervention for Jeremy about this whole 'Rimmy Tim' bullshit?”

Gavin snorts, fucking chokes on his laughter. Gives Michael an attempt at a reproving look, but it's Gavin so it's nowhere as effective as he thinks it is.

“Didn't take,” he says, like that's just how it is with Jeremy, and honestly, Michael didn't expect anything else. “He's a stubborn bastard.”

Like that's a bad thing to be in a city like this.

========

“For the record,” Michael says, preemptive on his part even though he knows it won't do any good, “they didn't show up at my place, so you can save the part of the lecture about how shit the security is there, if it's all the same to you.”

Ryan looks a little like he wants to throttle Michael, which you know. Fair, really.

“Also - “

Ryan's hand flashes out, and Michael holds still when he feels fingers wrap around his forearm, careful, gentle.

“Ryan - “

“Your security's still shit,” Ryan says, absently, almost like a reflex as he examines the marks on Michael's wrists, red and raw and stinging like a motherfucker even now. “But I get your point.”

There's no such thing as a safe place in Los Santos – anywhere, really – so you do what you can to minimize potential risks. Play it safe, smart, and hope like hell that's going to be enough.

There's something in the way Ryan looks at him that has Michael's eyes narrowing.

“Whatever you're thinking, knock it off.”

Ryan sighs, and releases his hold on Michael.

“They didn't know who you are this time,” he says, weight to his words like he knows how this goes. “That's going to change.”

The Fakes have made a lot of enemies over the years to get where they are. Michael's heard about a few of them, stories one of them will tell, offhand comments about some incident. Michael not being a complete idiot and doing a little research into them, Los Santos back when all of this started.

It's...sweet that Ryan's trying to warn Michael off like this. Let him know that hey, he's in pretty deep with these idiots and that probably wasn't the smartest move on Michael's part. That maybe he should be thinking of cutting his losses while he can and all that bullshit, you know? Be smart about things.

Problem is, if Michael was smart he never would have stayed in Los Santos. Would have gone back home to Jersey, sucked it up and gotten his old job back. Toed the line and played it safe and been the most miserable piece of shit on the planet.

“No shit,” Michael says, because fucking really.

Ryan looks...confused, as though this little talk he had planned isn't really going the way he expected.

“Look,” Michael says, tries to use small words because Ryan looks like he needs them right now. “You think I don't know that? You think I didn't consider it after that first time you broke into my place?”

Only an idiot wouldn't have, getting some fucker like the Vagabond in their face and this unspoken understanding that if anyone found out it was the last thing they'd do?

Yeah.

Michael knew back then, saw it in the way Ryan watched everything he did like a hawk. This bit of steel in his eyes even when he was being an arrogant prick, expecting his reputation to spook Michael into playing nice for him.

And maybe he should be more concerned about this, all the ties with the Fakes he has now. Not just this thing between him and Ryan but the way Gavin and Jeremy have of butting into his life. Jack and Geoff and even fucking Trevor and Lindsay from time to time. The members of B Team who give him secretive little smiles that drive Ryan nuts because there's no way any of them should have met Michael before. Should be worried about how it's all going to bite him in the ass one day, but he isn't.

Or, okay, that's a fucking lie, because he is, just -

You do what you can to minimize the risk sure, but you don't turn your back on something good because there's a possibility it might go bad on you if you want to live a life worth living. Don't let it become a regret to take with you when all's said and done.

“You're an idiot,” Michael says, because those are small words Ryan's familiar with coming from him. Should be able to get through that thick skull of his, understand on some level. “But I knew that going into this, so I guess that makes me just as bad.”

Ryan's looking at Michael like he still doesn't get why Michael hasn't done the smart thing and left. Fucking cannot comprehend what possible reason Michael has for staying here and making a target of himself the longer he does.

Asshole breaks Michael's heart when he gets like this, because there's a reason for it. Same one that had Gavin and Jeremy goddamned stalking him at the beginning of this. Doing their best to protect Ryan from getting in too deep with Michael - getting hurt – before they realized there was really only one way to do that.

“Yeah, we're real dumb,” Ryan says, like he's still expecting Michael to come to his senses one day and so damn guilty that he hasn't, taking what he thinks he can get and grateful for it and so fucking stupid. “Like. Unbelievably so.”

Michael smiles, crooked little thing, because Ryan's killing him with this bullshit. So clueless and breaking his heart all over again.

“Shut the fuck up,” Michael says, and drags Ryan down for a kiss because maybe one day Ryan will fucking understand why Michael refuses to give this up so easily.

Steady As You Go