#I’m still sick and have this damn kidney stone STILL

[xx-thedarklord-xx]

I got a raise today 😊

[alyosiuscreightonward]

DearDiary. I recently saw a post, “please brag to me about a thing you did in 2023 that you’re proud of…”

I had to go to the emergency room in October due to passing a kidney stone. That resulted in something called “gross Hematuria,” meaning there’s blood in my urine. That sucks. It continues, but not as bad as I thought it would be. I can see the different colors in my urine. Yeah. I fucking look. Then I had noticed blood in my stool. UGH!! Then I went and had a colonoscopy. The doctor said that there was one polyp and it was benign. Which made me think of a guy I used to know who was referred to as “The Benign Polyp” due to him him being morbidly obese and the fact that he was very much like milk toast. He’s another story. I digress. So I think that’s a good thing. Then there’s upcoming visit to the urologist. UGH!!! First is the CT Scan to make sure that the kidney stones are still there. Dude, they’re still there. Trust. Then comes the procedure. That motherfucker is going to stick a catheter, as thin as a piece of dried any gel hair pasta or even thinner possibly, into my urethra. Excuse me?!?! WTAF?!?! When I was told this, all I could think of was Robert Mapplethorpe. At an exhibition of his art, there’s a picture of man’s finger shoved into another man’s urethra. Fucking scary shit. Look here, I grew up in house with three women and I was told shit I did not want to know. Then there are the innumerable women I’ve known over the years and trust and believe, I learned more than I wanted to know. Now, as a guy, I really don’t want to tell you about some shit and most men will never tell you anything because they’re men. I know some men are big babyies when they get sick or injured. I have found that they want all kinds of attention. Me, I’m like if I’m going to suffer through this, please leave me the fuck alone. Don’t fawn over me.

When I broke my finger and was released from the hospital, I went to work. After I had surgery on my finger and had to wear the a cast, I went to work, but I had someone drive my car because I wouldn’t drive with a cast on. I’ve seen folks do it and it ain’t me.

Then after my brain surgery, I went to work.

I had double hernia surgery, I went to work.

Even after cataract surgery, I still went to work and I drove.

I’ve always listened to my doctors and stayed home, but just not the more than the ten days they had mandated.

I’m tough old buzzard and I don’t know what will keep me down. Maybe when I learn that I’ve got cancer, that still don’t keep me down.

I know I am a fucking drama queen but god damn I’m still gonna keep on trucking regardless. There’s shit I know that I know I shouldn’t do, but if I don’t do it then it will not get done.

That’s all for now.

[stardustedknuckles]

I have been dealing with psych since April trying to get my records over for them to take over my ADHD meds after I got kicked off my old insurance. Medicaid expanded their income requirements so even though my income didn’t change, I was pushed into it and lost pretty much all medical autonomy. 

This got long, sorry.

I offered to self pay to keep my doctor because she was very good to me and nope, clinics are not allowed to charge medicaid patients. The reasoning is that if you can pay for it you shouldn’t be on Medicaid. No fucking shit I shouldn’t be on Medicaid and also fuck Medicaid. Doctor recommends you do something medicaid won’t pay for? You literally cannot pay for it yourself. The only things scarier than being unsure if you can afford to cover a cost yourself is that not even being an option, legally. If they say you can’t have it, fuck you.

So my new and terrible PCP referred me to psych because nobody at her office could maintain my script, which I figured was coming because I’ve been seeing MDs since I got diagnosed. I had a luckily quick dx and I have always feared if I went to psych for meds they would be like “hmm the notes say he saw you for ten minutes, so I’m not going to honor this.” I woud have kept going to MDs, but they’re damn hard to find on medicaid and I learned that it didn’t matter how fast I was diagnosed, a dx is a dx.

For two weeks they have been telling me they got my records, everything looks fine, should be put in at the pharmacy any day now. And today they told me just kidding, actually, since my diagnosis is considered inattentive ADD there is no evidence to suggest it should be treated with the meds I’ve been on for three years.

A few of you ran into my blog for general critical role reasons but most of you are here because of the fic I write. That was not fucking possible before meds. Paying attention to something for four hours routinely was not possible. Staying at my computer and drafting plots and thinking about these characters was not possible. I was in a state of perpetual exhaustion to the point a few doctors have wondered if we’re actually treating chronic fatigue syndrome (HUGE overlap btw). Those doctors have all agreed - hold on to that ADHD diagnosis, because the end result is that I’m being treated effectively.

This right here is my worst nightmare. Forced to go to psych (they snuck me in one last appointment with my old PCP in march so I could get 3 more months of meds - I still don’t know who got that bill) only for them to jack me around and mislead me until I would not leave them alone. Where are the meds you promised me, I am now running low when I had a surplus (I didn’t tell them that part - I was sick enough earlier in the year that I had a few weeks where taking them was pointless). I have already been splitting my evening dose because I haven’t trusted them that they have it figured out and now they are just. No, sorry. Hope you had a good three years because you’re going to have to go through everything unmedicated again to do the test she wants to see.

Nobody even recognizes a difference between ADD and ADHD-I. They are clinically the same dx with the same treatment and have been for a while.

It’s fucking cruelty is what it is.

And I immediately started crying because new birth control and also nightmare scenario, but the only saving grace is that mom already got me in with a clinic that has an MD for unrelated reasons. She’s THREE HOURS AWAY but it is literally the only option and will allow me to keep my meds. I will still have a period where I am low/without them since I’m splitting and it still might not be enough but. Fuck.

And in the middle of all of this I have a kidney stone working its way through, AND my blood pressure keeps dropping me an hour after I eat and scaring the shit out of me. That’s why mom called up my brothers’ MD, because my primary care is utter shit. It’s not even “they do their best but they’re underfunded” it’s “I have medicaid now and that means I am disposable.”

Fuck the american health system up the ass. I can’t even begin to process what this would do to someone who didn’t already have a mistrust of doctors and a backup plan at all times. Who didn’t have a mom who is frankly routinely controlling but who also knows how to get shit done.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to lie down because the emotions from the last three days also set off some kind of histamine flare.

[taeyohonic]

the trophy wife (m)

summary: the proposal doesn’t go as planned (established relationship, idol au, fluff and angst) pairing: min yoongi x fem!reader rating: explicit (18+) warnings (containing spoilers): swearing, robbery, pandemic, vomit, description of injuries and blood (very abstract), mentions of depression, insomina and periods, a hella lot ugly crying info: when i tell you that this is a super-duper fluffy piece, i’m not lying! it was 99% sweetness, so i added a little... angst (but like... only 10%) related work: the stalker | baby, what’s wrong? | favoritism (m) | the trophy wife words: 5.7k

“would you still love me if i became your trophy wife?”

yoongi snorts into his iphone, your grimace too adorable to be taken seriously.

“how bad are these papers?”, he asks. jungkook next to him is stealing curious glances at his hyung’s screen. to hear your voice so distressed makes him worry. you’re the best thing that ever happened to his member – your well-being comes right after his need for homemade kimchi.

“how… can they not know which products contain dairy? how yoongs?”, you vent eyeing the ungraded test in front of you.

“i ate… so much yogurt. the whole class did. we tested so much dairy products… like… so much. we drank all of the banana milk… how can they get this wrong?”, you continue. unbeknown to you, the maknae is now furrowing his brows at your words. wait a minute…

“noona, did you steal my banana milk last week?”, jungkook questions and moves closer to yoongi. before you can hide you see his big eyes joining your boyfriend on the screen.

“wow, jungkookie – your undercut looks so good. damn!”, you say. it’s not a total deflection; he does look extremely handsome after his haircut.

“noona, i thought i sleepwalked”, he whines, not caring for your compliment… right now.

“taehyung even made a meme out of it”, he complaints and you have the audacity to coo at him. yoongi tries to hide his smile, but he can see his reflection grinning on the screen.

“it was oppa’s idea!”

and now his smile freezes as jungkook moves his accusing glare to him. you don’t usually call yoongi by this name. and he’d be all too happy to shut you up in your shared bedroom. but now he and the boys are in the outskirts of seoul to film the newest music video, far away from you and your treacherous mouth.

“hyung?”, jungkook asks with the voice of a cheated wife ready to sign the divorce papers.

“it’s for the kids, maknae”, your boyfriend defends himself to which jungkook only huffs in irritation.

“there was a time when i was the kid – what happened? am i not cute enough anymore? noona? am i not the most adorable?”

his deer eyes stare at you – big, brown and full. you can’t help but to take a screenshot of these two – your rapper visibly done with his member and jungkook in the middle of a banana milk breakdown. you’ll have to frame this picture.

“you’re the most adorable thing there is, jungkookie”, you reassure him. yoongi just snorts when he sees the faintest flush on his bandmate’s face.

“that’s enough praise for him, baby. save it for your students.” there is no humor in the smile you send him. after a beat of silence in which you burry all your frustration deep inside the pits of your stomach, you try to change the subject.

“how is nature?” they’ve been in the woods for weeks, completely closed off from all the city drama. you’ve never seen jimin so excited to drive – while namjoon’s sour face reflected how much the latest failed drivers test bothered him.

“jin-hyung nearly died in the water today. it was epic”, your friend instead of your boyfriend answers and you have to shift a giggle at yoongi’s eyeroll.

“be gone, maknae”

rudely blunt – just how you liked your partner. jungkook just winks at you in a silent goodbye and gets up. he’s nearly out of the picture before his upper body shoves against the rapper. his nose is way too close to the screen and you’d be worried about his eyes – if you didn’t know how often the singer spends his nights in front of his computer.

“noona, you’ll replace the milk, right?”

“jungkook”, yoongi growls in responds. the boy is not acknowledging his colleague, so you give in and nod.

“of course, kookie. it’s already waiting in the fridge for you to come back”, you tell him. as soon as these words leave your mouth, the maknae is satisfied and gone.

“you don’t have to baby him that much, ____”, yoongi says while moving the phone closer to his face. you can see the dark circles under his eyes better now.

“what’s keeping you up at night, yoongs?”, you ask instead of answering his complaint. the rapper smiles faintly at the screen.

“you, baby, always you” yu snort and let yourself lie down on the couch – the papers can wait another day, or a lifetime.

“i wish”, you say truthfully. you’d sell one of your kidneys to relax with the boys far away from the pandemic madness. after having yoongi to yourself for two weeks non-stop, you are way too spoiled. even though your legs are deeply grateful for this recovery time, you miss the constant calm radiating off of your boyfriend.

“i’ll be back soon, baby”, he reassures you and draws lines across the screen. your cheeks look colorless and it worries him just as much as his lack of sleep bothers you.

“make it sooner”, you mutter and close your eyes when you hear his chuckle in responds.

“have you had dinner yet?”, yoongi asks but you don’t want to open your eyes, not ready to face his criticism.

“nah, i’ll wait till sungho gets here.” you don’t need your eyesight to feel his disapproval.

“that’s not very socially distance of you, ____.” yeah, no baby anymore. still, you remain shut off.

“he’s just a friend. one friend. one work friend. one work friend that needs help with the new school cloud. the online grading program is a pain in the ass.”

“and why do you have to do that at six on a friday night in our home?”, yoongi notices the tiniest of smiles on your lips as he mentions your shared home. he, too, loves your little flat with a pandora of memories.

“because i am a loner and don’t have anything better planed for the weekend and my boyfriend is camping in the woods and oh – there is a global pandemic”, you snort and open your eyes to watch your boyfriend’s tensed expression.

“if you’re a loner – what am i then? a stone?”, yoongi asks sarcastically.

“maybe a boulder”, you shoot back with a soft smile that melts his jealousy away… nearly.

“just… don’t let him touch my stuff”, yoongi orders. he’d trade his own maknae to be the one at the other side of your door when he hears a distant knocking sound.

“that’ll be him, yoongs”, you say and move off the couch with as much dignity as one can muster after a whole work week and no motivation left in the bones.

“promise to call me back when you’re in bed?”, your boyfriend pleads, reluctant to let you go. with him going on world tours this phone conversation isn’t your first and it won’t be the last. still, his small request fills you with yearning.

“of course”, you promise, eyes still on him as you open the door without a second thought.

a fist connects with your skull while your eyes widen at the sight of two ski-masked men. the pain is instantly blinding your senses and you start to scream with tears clouding your vision. you fall to the floor before they push their way inside your home. one of them, muscle clad with wide shoulders kicks you in the stomach just to move you out of their way. the other, smaller in statue, crushes your phone with his shoe, the cracked screen frozen with your boyfriend starring at you in horror.

**

namjoon will never forget the bone chilling scream waking him this evening from his nap. he’s never heard yoongi’s voice filled to the brim with pain. not even registering his movements, he tumbles into the living room where is friend is still yelling your name, his face a mask of panic.

“hyung, what’s wrong?”, namjoon asks as footsteps behind him signal the arrival of his bandmates.

yoongi’s hands shake as his eyes stay fixed on the screen of his form. the leader moves first, not able to watch his friend losing himself. when joon steps behind yoongi’s figure to calm him down, a cold shower travels through his body. the screen shows you lying on the floor with red dripping from your mouth. your eyes are closed, but namjoon notices the uneven rise and fall of your chest – you’re breathing.

“jin, call the police”, the leader orders without turning around. his hands try to pry the phone out of yoongi’s fingers, but they are white with pressure and unforgiving. his lungs are still screaming and namjoon’s heart breaks at the scene.

“hyung, - just… calm down”, he says, not quite believing in his own words. he wouldn’t calm down either in yoongi’s position.

“what am i reporting?”, seokjin asks, close enough that the question answers itself as soon as he peaks over yoongi’s shoulder.

“i’d like to report a break-in – there is a person, hurt. the address is-“

yoongi can’t hear his oldest colleague, the voice drowned by his worry for you. at first, he doesn’t register namjoon’s chest pressing behind his back, but then his body shudders when the fellow rapper hugs him from behind.

“hyung, we – sh – it’s gonna be okay. it’ll be okay, she’s okay… we… you have to calm down, yoongi”, namjoon sooths his friend of ten years and rocks them both from side to side.

“taehyung, call the building manager – there should be security in the foyer”, seokjin commands the young man who watches the scene in front of him passively. as soon as he hears his name though, the singer moves to grab his iphone with shaky fingers.

“look, hyung, she’s awake”, joon points out and yoongi shakes his head to move these stupid tears out of his vision. indeed, your eyes are open as you try to even your breathing. it looks like you are crying as well and yoongi has never felt this kind of searing pain before. to see the love of his life in tears and burglars destroying your home while he is in the middle of fucking nowhere, makes him sick. when he sees you trying to get up, only to drop back onto the floor, his stomach turns. yoongi vomits onto his lap and namjoon has to hold his friend upright as he loses consciousness.

**

you’ve never been this glad for the heavy painkillers your boyfriend has tugged away in the bathroom due to his immense shoulder problems. the icepack pressed to your forehead cools for body down; still, you are shaking with adrenaline as you watch the security guard pace in front of you.

“yes, sir, yes – no, of course sir, negative sir”, he looks at your shaking form and grimaces before answering. “minor injuries”, the guard holds his phone further away when his caller answers a few decibels too loud.

“the paramedics are on their way”, he responds, not daring to look you directly in the eye. after another game of “yes and no”, the security ends his call.

“how are you, ma’am?”, the man in uniform asks, but remains standing a few feet away. when he first got here after receiving a hectic message from his boss, you were crying on the floor – alone. his colleague is already checking the floors, while another is combing through the surveillance footage. it’s been five minutes and you still look like a ghost.

his instructions were crystal clear – don’t touch the subject. but his heart clenches when he sees your trembling form trying to calm yourself down.

before you can answer him, two paramedics arrive through the door. they zero in on the blood drying across your forehead. their hands press gently against your skin and ask you questions you try to answer. soon, they move you to a standing position, with your head wound dressed and your vitals checked.

“we’ll take you to the hospital, ma’am”, the older woman explains. with a few steps you are at the door – there, right on the threshold where your nightmare began half an hour ago, stands sungho, chinese take-out and laptop in hand. your fellow teacher looks at you with widened eyes.

“_____ - what the hell?”, he curses and nearly drops his food when you smile at him – your teeth unbeknown to you still tinted red.

“are you her partner?”, the paramedic asks.

“just a friend”, he answers, not letting you out of his sight.

“we have to get her to the hospital – will you accompany us?”, the medic questions and sungho nods. your little crowd moves to the elevator and the security guard closes your door with a soft click. the police will be here soon, he thinks as he watches your beaten figure step onto the elevator.

**

“this cannot be the way to do this, ___”, sungho exclaims while you are staring at the iv-drip connected to your arm in distress. you hate needles.

the hospital’s v.i.p room is normally reserved for celebrities, but they made an exception for you, the girlfriend of min yoongi. sejin’s hunched form outside the room might have played a role in that. bangtan’s manager arrived half an hour ago, worried and disheveled. his posture calmed when the doctors reassured him, you’d be okay. now, he’s waiting for seven idols in various stages of panic to arrive.

“it’s the way this works – just… do as i say, okay?”, you huff. there is a part of you not willing to let the last hours crash into you; not without your partner here. so, you’ve spent the last sixty minutes showing him how to use your new school cloud – the easy way, not the right one.

“but the course still doesn’t show in my settings”, he whines, and you roll your eyes while pushing cold pad thai in your mouth. the rich flavor appeases your hungry stomach and you swallow the take-out down in one breathe. songho is a godsend for bringing the ordered food with him to the hospital. it’s a much-needed distraction from the horror of your cracked rib and light concussion.

“you have to set the course to ‘official’ – it’s still private”, you explain with another mouthful of oily noodles slurring your speech.

sungho’s brows furrow in concentration when you hear heavy footsteps in the hall. the boys are there – and they are not slowing down.

before sejin can even try to greet the idols, yoongi pushes through the door – all six of them only a breath behind.

the second you see him, the tears start without your consent. yoongi looks crazy – his eyes gleam with insanity – as he sucks in the hospital air through his mask.

you’re here. you’re alive. you’re safe. you’re here. he’s here. you are both here. his thoughts are running in circles – not ready to slow down, not ready to expand.

your boyfriend resembles a statue; just standing in front of the hospital bed. his face screams for help and it breaks you as the first cry leaves your throat. in a flash yoongi is moving to you, bumping into a shocked sungho. his finger brush against your wet cheeks like you’d break under his touch, while your body collapses.

“baby”, he whispers – the first word his members have heard since he regained consciousness.

“yoongs”, you answer and throw your arms around his neck. the smell of vomit and sweat makes your nose crunch up, but your boyfriend hugs it all away. his forearms rest on each side of your head – supporting his weight – as he lets you hold on to him, the boyfriend who was playing idol life in the woods instead of being at home with his girlfriend. even through his mask he can breathe in your unique smell, clouded by disinfectant.

“noona”, the youngest whimpers from the doorway. jungkook is silently crying, his mask discolored from the tears. every member looks at you with sorrow, the younger ones visibly not as professional at keeping their emotions together. namjoon looks like he’s aged a decade, but there is a small smile pressing his eyes together behind his mask. you try to reciprocate his smile, but yoongi’s head his pressing against your cheeks with vigor.

“why don’t we give them some space?”, sejin says to which your coworker nods instantly. he’s your friend for sure – but this is a level of intimacy he’s not willing to share with you.

the members need more convincing as hoseok tries to gently pull jungkook back. the maknae vehemently shakes his head, not ready to leave you and yoongi alone.

“we’ll wait right outside, kookie”, seokjin coax him out of the room. he’s still reluctant so go, but jimin’s small body pushes against his back. soon, namjoon closes the door, leaving you alone.

your tears won’t stop and you try to move closer to your boyfriend – you want to feel him all around you. without words yoongi understands your need and presses his body down on yours. there is a sharp pain when his stomach meets your fractured rib.

“ah”, you breathe, hurting. yoongi extracts himself from you in a flash; every fiber of his being furious at your injury.

“baby”, he calls out as his fingers ghost across your ribcage.

“it’ll… it’ll heal soon”, you say timidly.

“how could this happen, baby?”, he asks, still more interested in your upper body than your eyes.

“i-i i should-d have che-checked the door before, ah before answering”, you whimper, ready to face the blame.

with yoongi’s lifestyle comes a certain level of danger. you’ve been trained to be more cautious with everyday things like grocery shopping, inviting new friends over, answering the door without checking the cam.

“no, no, no, no – baby – no…”, he hushes you. “they should have never been able to pass the foyer, nor should they have been able to move to the penthouse level.”

“i-i was so scared”, you admit, linking your fingers with his and pressing them close to your still beating heart.

“i know, baby, me too”, yoongi soothes you and flexes his fingertips against your warm skin.

“i’ve never felt this worthless… you got hurt… right in front of me… and i … i couldn’t do anything.” his voice shakes with emotions and slowly his stare moves to your bruised face. the madness has nearly died in his eyes – but there is still so much pain hidden behind his brown iris.

“i- i could have lost you”, he whispers darkly, speaking a truth into reality he is not ready to face. your crying has stopped now that the both of you are calmer and connected.

“nah, never, remember?”, you say with some form of humor behind your words. “i’m your trophy wife. trophy wives don’t die. first, they’d kill their rich husband”, you remind your boyfriend of your conversation half a lifetime ago.

“it’d be an honor getting murdered by you, baby.” his mask is gone in a flash and then you feel the warmth of his lips against your temple. “just let me finish my third mixtape first.”

**

“don’t move, noona”, jungkook pleads as the warm sunlight irritates your skin. the fresh air is caressing your body while the youngest tries to finish his painting. trees surround the both of you, resting on a soft picnic blanket. it’s the first time since your release from the hospital that yoongi has left you out of his sight. granted, you’re still not totally alone with the strongest bangtan member watching over you like a hawk. but it’s definitely a much-needed break from yoongi’s fretting.

after nearly throwing a tantrum in front of his manager und some staff members who wanted to continue the filming of their new “in the soop” show, all the members knew they’d have to handle their rapper with care. leaving you alone wasn’t an option, so taehyung and seokjin packed your suitcase with essentials and after your doctors determined you ready to rest at home, all eight of you moved back to the chill vacation home in the middle of nowhere.

the last few days have been difficult – the filming staff getting more and more irritated because the members flocked around you 24/7. sejin had to come up with a different schedule allowing every bandmate time to reconnect with you as well as time to do their work. only yoongi was allowed to not leave your side most of the day – him working on the new music being the cover for his absence.

but after days of your boyfriend breathing down your neck, you’ve had enough. so, now yoongi is out on the water with seokjin fishing, while you’re spending time with jungkook.

“when did the police say they are coming?”, you ask the painter. his nose is crunched in concentration as he tries to outline your hipbone.

“they should be here before lunch – if your boyfriend even manages to catch some lunch”, he answers. you snort, messing up his grasp of your proportions.

“i do have faith in seokjin’s ability.” jungkook chuckles but keeps his eyes on your drawing. you look so delicate, so soft, he can’t believe they nearly lost you.

“i got robbed – i didn’t die, kookie”, you read his mind as his eyes darken.

“you got hurt”, he responds through clenched teeth.

“and they’ll pay for that”, you vow. the police had called this morning with the news of your robbers being captured during another crime. you’re still not sure how the officers can be so sure they’re the same criminals, but you’re eager to close this chapter with your statement later that day.

your painting session gets interrupted by namjoon. “the detectives are already here, ____.”

jungkook is by your side in a flash and together with the leader the both of them help you up. the rib is healing and harsh movements still hurt. yoongi had a near meltdown when you tried to ride him yesterday morning only to topple over in pain.

“yoongi and jin don’t have a signal out in the water – but they won’t be long”, namjoon explains and guides you indoors to meet the two officers.

“ms. ______, a pleasure to meet you”, the older policeman says in greeting. the younger one only shifts uncomfortable when he sees you flanked by two famous idols.

“thanks for coming all this way”, you respond and bow slowly, not to put extra pressure on your rib.

“is there somewhere we could talk – uhm- privately?”, the old man asks and you show them to one of the office rooms in the back. jungkook reluctantly leaves your side and joon only squeezes your hand in passing.

“just holler when you need us, _____”, he says before ordering the maknae to clean the art supplies.

with both officers sitting across from you, you nervously fiddle in your chair.

“the two intruders were caught this morning while pawning off their haul”, the younger policeman states and shows you a surveillance picture of two familiar men. their figures alone invoke iced fear in your heart, and you push the picture out of your sight. after a moment of silence, you collect yourself enough to absorb the information.

“what did they steal? i – i didn’t report anything missing, sir”, you question. sure, they trashed the painting yoongi brought for you during your last vacation in italy. and some cloths were thrown across the bedroom – but there was nothing stolen. you even signed your statement last week before leaving for the woods.

the officers look at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“miss, you reported the item missing days ago. there is even a harsh voicemail left with your fiancé demanding a swift investigation.” you shake your head at their words – no, you didn’t.

“which item?”, you ask the men with narrowed eyes. you’d been off the pain meds for days now. but to call yoongi your fiancé? clearly, they’d switched up cases. the older officer opens his briefcase to retrieve a plastic bag with a… ring in it.

“in my days, my wife would have never forgotten about her engagement ring”, the man snickers as you watch the cold metal in front of you. it’s beautiful – it’s so yoongi, you wouldn’t be surprised if he himself crafted the asymmetric diamond set on roughened silver.

you’d dreamed of this moment for over a year – to lay eyes on the ring cementing your future in stone – or diamonds.

never would you have imagined it to be this tainted with two officers starring you down and the jewelry wrapped carelessly in plastic – a piece of evidence – while your boyfriend is fishing with kim seokjin.

“uhm”, you hesitate as emotions swirl around your brain. he was going to propose? to you?

“i had half a panic attack carrying it around with me the whole day – that thing could pay off all my debt, as well as my kid’s college fees”, the officer jokes, still not recognizing your surprise as genuine.

“uhm”, you try again to form words.

“we’ve all the papers here for you to sign; after that we’ll be ready to get out of your hair… for now”, the youngest states and moves different documents across the table. they lie next to yoongi’s engagement ring – your engagement ring.

“uhm”

giving up on forming a coherent sentence, you move along and sign your name on the different protocols. the paper from your insurance company makes your heart still – reading all the zeros on the price of your ring.

this… is by far the worst engagement set up you’ve ever heard of. your hands shack and your signature looks just terrible, but it’s enough for the two detectives. they still don’t seem to find your reaction odd as they collect their stuff and bid you fare well. like a zombie you get up and follow them to the front door, your ring clutched between your fingertips.

jungkook and jimin are waiting for you next to the foyer and jump at the sight of your pale face.

“everything alright?”, jimin asks and places a protective hand on your back. your slow nod does not convince them and their eyes sour at the policemen.

while the younger officer takes a step back, the oldest just chuckles at your idol friends.

“all is well, kids”, he sooths them. then both bow to you and you can only muster an awkward smile, the jewelry heavy in your hand.

“happy wedding planning, ms. ____”, he winks at you before they leave. the soft click of the closing door is the only sound in the hallway. you’re not even sure you’re breathing.

after a beat of silence you flinch at the sound of jimin’s high-pitched squeal.

“weeeedding”, he asks, way too loud and way too joyful. the mochi-cheeked idol excitedly jumps up and down, not really caring that you remain silent.

jungkook on the other hand looks … really upset. “you told the police but not me?”, he whispers betrayed.

you could cry as you feel the headache from your concussion clouding your mind. this is… too much.

“uhm”, you’ve decided to stick with your running-gag answer and push both idols out of your way.

your feet carry you out of the house, through the terrace door and before you know it, you’re running across the green gras. the smell of the lake invades your nose while you search for you boyfriend. yoongi’s boat is still on the water and you spot both men resting against each other with their rods, ready to catch your lunch. sunshine shimmers on the lake’s surface as you run onto the dock. your bare feet press against the wood while your hair rushes around you – the wind breezing through the unkempt strands.

**

“is… is that _____, yoongi?”, seokjin asks his fishing buddy who’s more focused watching the water for prey than his surroundings.

“huh?”, he hums, not really listening to his friend.

“i- i think your girlfriend wants to talk to you, yoongi”, the old singer says hesitantly as he sees you jumping up and down on the wooden dock. this can’t be good for your health.

swiftly, the rapper turns to the spot seokjin is pointing at. and there you stand – beautiful and barefoot, dressed in his t-shirt and some old leggings. your hair is a mess and the sun dances across your skin like the tiniest firework.

“MIN YOONGI”, you shout at the top of your lungs. your boyfriend flinches hearing your loud voice across the water.

“she sounds angry”, seokjin whispers.

“YOU FOOL”, you continue to yell and see seokjin’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“oh, i hope the crew gets this on tape”, he says with glee while yoongi really, truly tries to find a reason for your anger. he’s left you alone today, at your request. maybe you didn’t really want him to go? was it a test to see how much he wanted to stay with you? did he fail?

“I GOT YOUR RING!”, you shout and flash the evidence bag high in the air.

immediately, the rapper shoots up from his sitting position, rocking the boat dangerously form side to side.

“yah, yoongi, what the hell?”, seokjin swears but your boyfriend’s eyes rest on you, holding your engagement ring in a plastic bag. there is no air in his lungs – he’s been thinking about this moment for the last two years. he dreamed of your joyful tears, how soft your hands would feel while pushing the silver banner on your finger.

and now… he’s an ocean away from you holding on to the jewelry that got you hurt weeks ago.

“DO YOU WANT TO ASK ME SOMETHING, MIN YOONGI?”, you scream and your boyfriend’s eyes widen when they see the smile on your lips; do you – do you find this funny?

without thinking, he takes a step forward.

You can only watch seokjin’s helpless grimace as yoongi brings the boat out of balance. both idols topple over and splash into the cold sea.

the icy water doesn’t bother the rapper as he pushes to the surface. the sun shines high up while he speeds to the dock. you’ve never seen your boyfriend this determent – his laps forceful and quick, leaving a still shocked seokjin behind.

your fingers shake as you watch him come closer and closer to you. in mere moments he’s close enough for you to hear his heavy breathing.

yoongi heaves himself out of the cold, his shoulder screaming in pain, and then he is dripping in front of you. your boyfriend looks like a wet dog, the black hair plastered to his forehead as he steps forward. you can smell the sea salt across his drenched clothes.

the engagement ring screams from the bag to be acknowledged and yoongi is just… staring at you deeply.

“i had it all planned”, he whispers wringing his sweater. the gush of water drops on the deck, but the idol only looks at you. “weeks ago.” his fingers wrap around your writs, a silent plea to give the ring to its rightful owner – for now.

“i wanted to take you to the restaurant where we had our first date”, he admits and opens the bag. your first date had been a disaster – you’re still vividly remembering the food poisoning.

“then all the restaurants closed down; we were both so stressed… and… life went on”, yoongi continues as the ring dances between his fingertips. it looks like art without the plastic cheapening its presence.

“i... wanted it to be perfect.” his whispered words fall to the floor as he kneels in front of you. warmth is coloring your face, seeing your idol submitting to you.

“baby… you know how much i love you… how much you inspire me every day to become the best version of myself”, yoongi’s voice cracks against his words and you can’t help the softest coo from leaving your lips.

“i promise i’ll make you the best trophy wife of south korea.”

you snort as you hear boyish snicker from behind you at yoongi’s joke.

“will you spend the rest of my life with this ring on your hand?”, he asks and without waiting for an answer, he pushes the silver band on your finger. it fits perfectly.

“am i not supposed to agree first?”, you respond as your eyes stay on your future husband.

“oh baby, you agreed the moment you ate my burned pasta.” yoongi gets up and pushes a lose strand of hair behind your ears.

“you agreed the moment you moved in with me, a struggling insomniac.” his hands cradle your face, framing the expression of love between his palms.

“you agreed the moment you let me change your tampon because you were too drunk to move.” he gives you airy butterfly kisses.

“you agreed the moment you didn’t kill me for stealing your favorite ice cream from the freezer.”

“that actually was a close call”, you chime in, only to hear his soft chuckle.

“you agreed all those nights staying with holly in our shared bed while i traveled across the globe.”

a kiss is planted on the fresh scar across your temple. “you agreed all these moments where my depression was too much, where i was trapped in my own misery.”

a line of kisses travels to your mouth. mere millimeters from your lips he stills. “you do, right?”

under all the layers of love, confidence and familiarity, there is still a shy boy unsure of his worth. your smile is infused with giddiness as you close the gap, pressing your lips together in the softest kiss.

“i do”, you whisper in his mouth, only to meet his tongue with your own in a joyful dance. the boys around you are cheering, while the soft waves of the lake clash against the dock. you’re in pure bliss, kissing your wet fiancé fiercely.

and then you hear a loud thud, a wet slash on the wood. surprised, you both jump away a step – only to see a heaving seokjin lying flat on the deck, chest rising at a fast pace.

“i near- i nearly died for th-this engagement, ____. if – if i’m am not the be-best man, i’ll… will cast a spell on all- all yo-ur children.”

____

ah, this fic is crazy and totally not what i imagined it to become. i hope you enjoyed the read! there is only one chapter left (the stalker) – who’s excited for it? i hope you are doing well! to you, your family and/or loved ones i wish only the most festive time this week! love, dana

[asset35-maya]

Prompt no. 18 from this list

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

“Sorry, just give me a minute, babe. I need to recalibrate the interface I’m using…”

Gavin’s voice trailed off. The only sound in the room was from the clacking of his keyboard, his fingers flying across the keys.

Nines tried his best to take his mind off his situation. Immobile in bed… with the very real possibility that it could be permanent.

It was a just a software update… just another afternoon nap… but now he had no idea whether he’d ever move again.

Noticing his stress levels spiking, he focused on Gavin. The crease of his brows… the old scar across his nose… the determined set of his jaw as he scrubbed through lines and lines of code to find the root of the problem.

Gavin.

Lover. Friend. Saviour.

The man he depended on for everything, including his continued existence.

Nines silently thanked whichever force of nature had brought him into the safety and sanctity of Gavin’s embrace. RA9 or God or the laws of physics that dictated where atoms would end up from the beginning of time.

Not all androids were as lucky as he was.

After the Revolution, the digital giant known as Cyberlife had been dissolved under political pressure from New Jericho and its vehement supporters. Android production ceased, Cyberlife’s assets were stripped and its R&D departments were spun off into smaller, more benign companies.

People were elated in the beginning… and then they realised there was no one around to maintain and service the androids that now comprised 30% of American citizenry. Private technicians had booming business, but they were eventually overwhelmed.

The worst of it was the software.

The patches, the bug fixes, the security.

No single company was able to do it by themselves and individuals realised they were pretty much on their own. Human husbands and wives and girlfriends and brothers and pretty much everyone scrambled to learn how to take care of beloved androids on their own.

Gavin was one of the most capable ones. He knew how to do most of the mechanical work and quickly taught himself the software and systems elements. When Nines asked him how he was so proficient… whether he learnt any of it in college… he wouldn’t respond directly. The closest Nines had gotten to an answer was a grumbled “s what happens when you share a room for fifteen years with the nerdy prick that started all this trouble in the first place”

It was initially tough on the both of them… and expensive… as they figured out how to do things by trial… but Gavin was confident and adamant that he wouldn’t let Nines down. He quickly reached a steady state, even managing to get a maintenance routine in place.

But he couldn’t be perfect.

And there were things he couldn’t control.

Androids were the most complicated cyberphysical systems on the planet. Anything and everything could go wrong at any time…

And it had… during a major OS update.

“Babe, can you hear me?”

Nines’ LED cycled yellow once and went back to red.

Gavin held one of the limp hands in his own.

“Can you feel this?”

The LED spun again.

“Great. And I’m pretty sure you can see me, I know that look in your eyes, babydoll. Hmm… okay, that means all the sensors and IOT device connections are fineee…”

The musing continued as Gavin set aside the laptop and scooted closer to Nines. A gentle hand came up to tilt the android’s face from side to side.

“But you can’t talk…”

“AAAAAAAAAA”

“Wow. Never make that noise in the bedroom again. Hmm… Okay, this means your vocal chords are fine but you can’t move your mouth. Huh.. well… you can’t seem to move anything… not that different from your usual participation levels in bed then. Not to worry.”

The only thing Nines could do was glare and Gavin seemed relieved that even that was possible. He patted the android’s cheek.

“I’ll check your motor actuation and control. Simple modules. I should be able to see anything strange right away.”

Gavin resumed scrolling through the chunks of code and running searches for common errors. But minutes passed… and turned into an hour… and the hour, doubled, tripled.

But Gavin was undeterred. He had to be. Giving up was not an option. Plus, years of being a dedicated police officer had wiped out any fears of hard work and failure… he would scroll all night if it came to that.

A notification popped up on the screen.

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87: Sweetheart, you’ve been trying for hours. Take a break.

Gavin turned to his side. Nines could detect the worry and agitation behind the facade of lighthearted calm.

“I know right. It’s not fair. You’ve been chilling this whole time I’ve been working. Tsk tsk.”

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87: I’m serious, Gavin. Stop. Take a break for today. Call someone. You can try again tomorrow morning.

“Nines, you’re not a work assignment. I can’t take a break from you. You can get up and close this laptop for me.”

A few more hours passed. Frowning, Gavin climbed under the covers with Nines and began troubleshooting and testing all other modules too. It was a massive undertaking, but he’d be damned if he didn’t do it.

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87: Know when to give up on a lost cause.

It was nearly two in the morning when that message popped up. Gavin’s eyes were red from all the screen time, but his fighting spirit had not flagged. If anything, he felt close to the finish line. Having gone through nearly the entirety of his lover’s system architecture, there were only a few stones left unturned. He’d identify the problem, win half the battle and then the solution would flow from there. It always did. They’d be fine.

He turned to tell Nines precisely that and balked at the tears staining the android’s perfect face.

“Hey…”

Gavin leaned over his partner and wiped the tears away.

“Hey… shhh… don’t… don’t worry, I’ll take care of you…”

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87: I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m putting you through all this. Things can’t go on like this. I’m such a liability. Emotionally, physically, financially! You can’t keep doing this for me, Gavin.

Gavin placed the laptop on the bedside table and slipped deeper under the covers, wrapping himself around Nines’ still form.

“It’s a good thing you can’t speak right now, cause you’re talking some major bullshit, baby. You are going to be FINE. I will take care of you, like always, like I promised.

You are not a liability. You are my man. I signed up for this. If you were human and sick and I dunno, needed a kidney or something, I’d simply give it to you. You and I are bound like that. For life.

So quit bitching, let me do my thing, and when you’re back… you know how to thank me.”

He smiled genuinely as he said that, stroking the android’s skin and trying to calm him down. When the speed of the LED cycles came down and the colour stabilised at a warm amber, Gavin kissed the frozen lips and gave Nines one last cuddle before returning to his computer.

Sunrise began to streak across the dark sky by the time the critical error was identified. Gavin sighed deeply as he pulled up the faulty synchronisation that had jammed the hundreds of motors and drives throughout Nines’ body.

There was actually nothing much to be said for the root cause of the failed execution loop. Just improper methods written for some of the new hardware they had installed the previous week.

That’s what they got for using uncertified biocomponents and unlicensed third party software bought off the seedier parts of the internet. Some incompatibility somewhere would inevitably trip them up. Gavin was usually able to see such trouble before it found them… but even he couldn’t be perfect.

He stretched and cracked his spine and wiggled his fingers before plunging into rewriting the problematic section. He would sleep like a log after this… but first, he had to sprint to the finish line.

And he did.

At 7AM, Gavin finally copied the clean code into the compiler and hit execute. After a brief reinitialisation, Nines blinked awake. He raised his hands tentatively. As soon as he realised full functionality had been restored, he sat up and threw himself at Gavin, smothering the exhausted human in a giant hug.

Gavin hugged back, fighting to keep his emotions at bay.

“All… all good?”

“You saved my life. Again.”

“I’ll do it a thousand times more if I need to.”

“I thought I was done for.”

“Don’t be dramatic. It was just some bad code.”

“I could have been stuck like that forever. Never moving, never talking. Just lying there till my charge drains out. That could have been the end for us, and frankly, I was prepared for that eventuality. You should be too.”

“Never.”

“I don’t doubt your abilities, sweetheart, but we are painfully limited by our resources. There’s things in this world that only Cyberlife can do and they’re never coming back. We have to make our peace with that. Pulling all-nighters just to keep me alive… it’s not sustainable.”

“Hey it’s not like this happens all the time, Nines. I get that this was really scary, but it’s not always like this… so please don’t tell me whether things are sustainable. I will always fight for you. End of discussion.”

Nines didn’t respond and just rested his head on Gavin’s shoulder. His steel blue eyes were fixed on the pair of birds fluttering outside their bedroom window. They sat intertwined like that on the bed for a while. Now that he could, Nines didn’t seem to want to stop holding his partner. The birds landed on the window sill, chirping away and enjoying the morning breeze.

“They’re really quite sweet, aren’t they? The two of them are always here in the morning. I should build them a little bath in our garden.”

“They’re mates.”

“Huh. Just like us.”

“You know… it’s just a myth, what they say… that birds die when their mates do.”

“What?”

“Most species will go through a grieving period, but after that they will begin courtship again.”

“What the phck are you on about? No one’s dying and no one’s beginning courtship again. Nines, I’d move heaven and earth before anything like that happens.

Besides, if I really, really couldn’t get your body to work, worst case scenario, I’d just transfer you to a mobile device. Carry you around like a voice in my head… like my conscience… I promise you that nothing can keep us apart.”

It wasn’t all that easy to convince Nines, and Gavin wasn’t about to try. It had been an ordeal for the both of them. It wasn’t the first time, and it might not be the last. But for the time being, they had emerged, and they had each other, and that was all that mattered.

Yawning, Gavin lay back among the mussed sheets and pulled Nines with him. Birdsong and the muted whir of thirium pump compressions lulled him into a dreamless sleep.

[quidfree]

tdbk hurt/comfort?

writing this just made me think about my long-running theory that principal nezu is a mastermind villain who is taking out his grudge on humanity via slowly destroying the next generation of heroes bc how ELSE can you explain the amount of personal injury-lawsuits-that-never-were within UA’s supervision 

anyways i would have made this w shouto injured but i feel like IGFTD already has enough of bakugou babysitting him so *reverse uno*

(definitely not at all thinking abt the latest updates of the manga aha..ha)

it’s hardly the first time shouto has seen bakugou get his ass beat. he doesn’t have midoriya’s abysmal track record, but midoriya mostly destroys himself; bakugou tends to get battered by external forces. now that he’s thinking about it he can’t think of another classmate with worse luck, except maybe mineta, but that’s more punitive justice than anything.

habit is a great deadener, or so he’s read. that may be true on a day-to-day basis, but it does nothing to diminish the gut-punch of worry when bakugou’s explosions stutter to a halt so abruptly that it makes him look up just in time to see him plummeting out of the sky, jagged shard of rock protruding through his chest.

midoriya is yelling from somewhere, panicked cry of ‘kacchan!’ turning into a furious scream midway, and shouto is skating upwards on instinct, ice solidifying beneath his feet, arms extending and pulse thudding with memories of ‘how sad, todoroki shouto’ echoing through his mind. 

not so slow, this time. bakugou knocks right into him, gauntlets and all, heavy enough to knock them both off the ice; it shifts and reforms beneath them as he grapples for a better hold. somewhere above them a berserk midoriya is exploding into green light, blows breaking through the villain’s crumbling shell as the mountainside continues to fall apart; shouto’s hands are slick with what he can only hope is sweat as he rides the ice to safety.

they land roughly between the trees, rumbling from above muffled through the foliage just enough that he can hear bakugou cussing, which he has rarely been so happy to hear. 

“get your damn hands off me, icyhot,” bakugou snaps, as shouto’s heartbeat slows incrementally. when their eyes meet his are uncharacteristically hazy, sweat and grime sticking his hair to his face. 

shouto’s eyes lower, and his gut clenches. 

“stop that,” bakugou demands, as shouto’s ears buzz. the rock has embedded itself in his abdomen, and all around it red is soaking through even the dark materials of his suit, torso slick with blood. 

“bakugou...”

“i’m fine,” bakugou grits out, with unconvincing anger. somewhere distant there is a final sounding boom, and then the ground starts to shake. “worry about the damn- earthquake.”

“shit,” shouto says, under his breath, mind racing. earthquake, and mountain, and- landslide. and bakugou, with a poisoned piece of stone stuck right through him. 

he rises to his knees. when he moves bakugou recoils, smacking his hands away with an alarming lack of violence. 

“bakugou,” shouto says. “i’m not going to leave you behind.”

“worry about your damn self!” bakugou retorts, though his gaze flickers to the mountain above. “you’re not carrying me out of here.”

for a second, panicked frustration overwhelms him; he inhales deeply, stands. 

“fine. come on. get going.”

it’s cruel, really; bakugou’s face twists, and then he’s stumbling to his feet, leaking blood as he does. he barely makes it two steps before he’s swaying violently, face gone sheet-white under the mask. 

silently, shouto hoists an arm under his shoulder. bakugou, jaw clenched tight, looks away. it’s as much of a concession as he’ll get.

ice carries them upwards, over the trees, and he glances backwards to find bakugou’s warnings prescient: the mountain top has deteriorated, great chunks of rock sent spiralling downwards with increasing speed. midoriya and the others are fine, he tells himself. he can’t focus on two things at once.

what he can’t stop himself from focusing on, as they make rapid progress overhead, is the way that bakugou is sagging into his hold, dampness spreading through his suit; the pallor of his cheek and the rasping quality of his breaths. he feels faintly nauseous. 

bakugou isn’t dying. not now. what a stupid, ridiculous way to die this would be- three years into UA, having survived every other ridiculous thing life has thrown their way. dying at the hands of some elemental villain, for the price of diverting his attention from his exhausted classmates. 

fuck, why does this always happen to him? his fingers closing on air as dabi whisks bakugou away- his father in his grip as shigaraki pierces through bakugou right above him- it’s always like this, in his face, like fate derives some personal enjoyment out of his helplessly witnessing bakugou’s near-death experiences. 

he doesn’t realise how tight his grip is getting until bakugou hisses in unwilling pain; he relaxes it a fraction, guilt sickening, as he lowers them towards the rocks. there’s enough height and distance that the landslide won’t reach them- or won’t reach them fast enough to disrupt the process, anyways.

bakugou all-but crumples as soon as they’re on firm ground, folding inwards like a house of cards, and shouto is on his knees besides him instantly, hands fumbling for his medical kit. 

he’s a third year; he shouldn’t be so shaky when it comes to rescues, but his fingers are unsteady. 

“i’m going to have to take that out.”

“rule one of on-site aid,” bakugou rasps. his eyes are half-lidded, torso jerking irregularly as he watches shouto move.

never remove the knife from the stab wound. “i know. but you’ve seen what these rocks do. it’s hurting you worse than the blood loss can.”

“came first on the medical test, but who’s counting,” bakugou mutters. he keeps spasming, face tight with pain, and shouto remembers his brushes with the stone- like having fire ants crawling over your skin, red-hot and vicious. to have that inside of you-

ten minutes, if you’re lucky, aizawa had said. 

“i’m taking it out,” he repeats, redundantly, and wills his hands to stop shaking, ice spreading around the shard as bakugou gasps and flinches. 

“fucking- get off me, you bastard, get-”

he’s freezing around the stone now, forces himself not to react to the wet sounds of ice sliding through blood and organ to wrap itself around the intruding shard. bakugou’s cursing has turned to incoherent noise, and he can’t bring himself to look up, own breathing heavy to his ears as he coils the ice like a hook, tugs softly then harder.

“fuck!” bakugou howls, as he grits his teeth and painstakingly pulls back another fragment; a defensive explosion hits him right in the side, and he pulls too hard on instinct, whole shard yanked free as bakugou screams bloody murder. 

shouto falls back with a piece of rock the size of his forearm in his lap, covered in blood and tissue and ice, almost gets sick at the feel of it. instead he drops it hastily, slams an arm down over the gushing wound as his free hand grabs for the spray. top of the line hero resources; knits any wound back together, hatsume had promised, and why the hell had he trusted hatsume mei of all people with his tech? if this is one of her misses-

he sprays, blood splattering him in the face when he withdraws long enough to do so, and then keeps spraying so violently that his hand cramps, watching tissue knit itself in a disturbing parody of organs as the bleeding slows. 

for a beat he just sits and stares, chest rising and falling. there is still a hole through bakugou, but it’s like it’s been half-sketched in the way it’s supposed to look, veins and muscle and what could be a kidney half-fleshed out within the empty space.

“motherfucker,” bakugou chokes out, tight, and then shoves himself half-upright just in time to throw up off the side of the rock. shouto’s hands have resumed shaking.

bakugou collapses back onto the rock, arms wobbly from the exertion, and for a second he just lies there, shouto’s pulse slowing ever so slightly as he takes in the mess they’re in, blood and guts and ice and some half-mended massacre in bakugou’s abdomen. 

more than ten minutes, though. enough to get actual medical care. that has to be enough. 

“todoroki,” bakugou says. shouto startles, leans over. his gaze is unfocused, hazily attentive.

“am i dying?”

it’s said matter-of-factly; instinctively his stomach turns. 

“no.”

“don’t lie to me.”

“i have never lied to you,” shouto retorts, intent. “you’re not dying.”

bakugou looks at him, brow furrowed deeply with effort as he blinks in frustration. can’t quite muster up the energy to concentrate, shouto assumes. it makes him look oddly like his younger self, all screwed up suspicion.

not dying, shouto tells himself, fiercely. not fucking dying. 

he stomps down the emotion, but he’s lost his touch over the past three years because bakugou’s mouth twitches wryly, eyes briefly sharp. 

“’f i’m not dying what’s with that look?”

“what look?”

“the fucking- hero’s crisis. failed rescue.”

“shut up,” shouto says, abruptly harsh. “that’s not- shut up. you’re not dying.”

“feel like shit though,” bakugou mutters, eyes drifting shut again. 

if the roles were reversed bakugou would have said and you look like it too. but he’s not bakugou, even if he is the only other person in the class that’s as poorly equipped to play nurse; he can’t muster the normalcy to banter. he just keeps replaying bakugou’s screaming, eyes caught on the tear-tracks on his cheeks. he hadn’t even noticed him crying during.

help is coming. help has to be coming. bakugou will last until then. but he’d hate for them to find him like this.

of its own volition, his hand retrieves a sanitary wipe from the medikit. then it’s dabbing at bakugou’s face. 

“the fuck are you- get off,” bakugou protests, albeit with more bewilderment than anger. shouto’s hands resolutely do not listen, wiping dutifully ahead, and at some point bakugou gives up, just lies there with confused annoyance in his frown. when his face is clean shouto folds the wipe away, sits back. 

“i’m sorry i made you walk earlier.”

bakugou’s eyes flicker open, slanted red. “’s whatever.”

“it was petty of me,” shouto continues, half a sigh. “i was panicking.”

“yeah, well,” bakugou mumbles. “would have kept bitching if you hadn’t, so. for the best.”

not dying, not dying, not dying. “don’t suddenly become reasonable just because you think you’re on your deathbed.”

“fuck you,” bakugou retorts, managing a snort before it turns into a coughing fit that leaves him curled up and sweating, eyes squeezed tight with pained humiliation. 

if midoriya were here, shouto thinks- but that’s stupid. he and bakugou are friends too, really. have been for much longer than bakugou would admit. he should be able to do something. 

he can’t move him, though. not with the fragile hold hatsume’s gadget has on his internal organs. he’s not exactly going to kiss him better like recovery girl would. and when it comes to conversation, he’s never really had a knack for keeping bakugou placid.

he keeps thinking about all of the times he hadn’t caught him. bakugou out of reach. that sick feeling, worsening every time. 

hesitantly, his hand finds bakugou’s. 

“what the fuck.”

instinct should make him jerk it back, but stubbornness supersedes the urge. he winds their fingers together as bakugou lifts his head to glare at him. 

“get your damn hand off me, half ‘n half.”

“no.”

bakugou tugs, hard and ineffective, falls back with an outraged glower. 

“are you fucking kidding me? what is this, a k-drama?”

“i don’t know what else to do to make you feel better,” shouto retorts, nebulously self-conscious but entirely resolute. “so unless you have any better ideas i’m not letting go.”

“it’d make me feel better if you stopped touching me!” bakugou snaps, coughing. shouto ignores him, runs his thumb over his knuckles, vague sense memories of his mother coming to him as he does. had she held his hands, back then? he thinks maybe. he can’t think where else he’d have picked it up.

bakugou has stopped struggling, but has not died. shouto relaxes a fraction.

holding hands is sort of nice. bakugou’s hand is sweaty, which makes sense, but also very hot, and calloused. after a while he sort of forgets the circumstances, just starts absently playing with it, pressing his fingers into the pads of his hand. he thinks he was right about his mother. he can sort of recall the sensation of her hands in his.

“if i don’t die,” bakugou says, after a minute, sort of resigned sounding, “i’m going to kill you.”

“yeah,” shouto says, squeezing his hand. “sure.”

he wonders if bakugou’s parents held his hand a child. he thinks probably yes. he seems like the type whose parents love him a lot in spite of his attitude. that’s mostly how everyone treats him, in the end.

mitsuki bakugou looks a lot like her son. the last time he saw her she was aggressively ruffling his hair into even greater disarray, voice strident as bakugou yelled back obscenities and made no real effort to displace her.

it must be hard, shouto reflects, for a civilian parent. midoriya’s mother certainly has reason to worry. bakugou’s is probably a close second by now.

“stop looking at me like that.”

“sorry.”

“no you’re not!”

“well, if it bothers you...”

“can you just be a normal damn person for once?”

bakugou hits him when he starts messing with his hair, but he doesn’t let go of his hand. 

(he also doesn’t kill shouto when he’s released from the hospital, but then shouto had sort of expected that.)

[womanlives]

MERCY’S ALWAYS HATED THIS RITUAL. Find familiar, or as she likes to call it, an hour of sitting on her ass throwing stinky herbs into a stinkier fire. It takes too long and it makes her legs cramp. Or at least it’s supposed to take too long, but casting it in a large, empty stone room of an even larger, almost as empty stone palace is — different. Maybe it’s because she damn near died about twenty minutes ago. 

Probably it’s because Kaldar’s just down the hall. Right in the room next door. 

She stares at her reflection in the small washbasin mirror. It’s not as wrong as it was a little bit before. Her hair’s still the wrong color — gold, like the sun if the sun was sick — but her eyes are back to normal, and she rubbed off most of the shit from the disguise kit. The little scar at the corner of her forehead has reappeared. Her freckles are back. Her cheeks are bright red. 

Mercy swears. It comes out louder than she means it to, but she’s too busy burying her face in her hands to notice. Her thumb traces the edge of her lips. They didn’t look swollen in the mirror, but they’re still burning from — from before. 

Damn it. There’s a gentle pressure on her elbow. She looks up into two liquid brown eyes. They belong to the small, black fox who appeared from smoke and nothingness, and they have a question in them. Francois tilts his head. In response, Mercy mutters something from behind her fingers. It sounds like: “Mmm kmmmf hmmf.” 

Francois blinks, and looks towards the door. It’s open. Just a crack. She left it like that.

“I know, okay? I know. I want to, and I brought you back so you could see him, but — I can’t, okay? I’m not — I don’t know what to — I kissed him. All right? I kissed him. And I can’t just — yes, it felt good, but it doesn’t change the — no, I’m not going to answer that — I’m not even sure if he — I kissed him!” 

Francois slicks his ears back. His eyes turn shifty.

Mercy catches his expression and freezes. She lifts a finger. 

Francois flicks an oversized ear.

“Don’t you dare.”

And then he’s gone, like a streak of ash lightning. Francois darts out the door and beelines it down the corridor, pausing just long enough to make sure the stupid girl takes the bait. She does; she bursts out of her room so fast she slips, catches herself on the opposite wall with a clipped bananas, and — as quietly as she can — sprints after her fox. 

Here’s the thing: she’s good at quiet. So good there really ought to be a stronger word. When everything you do is loud, so is your silence. Nothing’s louder than the absence of a song that’s always been there. 

Mercy reaches Kaldar’s door. It’s open, and the panic hits almost immediately. He’s the second-most (well, to her, the first-most) wanted man in a goddamn city filled with murderers, one of whom is a hunter with no soul and rot-eyes, and what if she’d missed the signs that she was being tailed, and what if they’d followed her to him, and —

“Kaldar?!”

Madeline barges in, and damn near trips over a boy who’s grown up and is now sitting right by the door. She catches herself, though it’s not as graceful as it could’ve been on account of her right side being previously bombarded with arrows, and whirls around to slam his door shut. “You — what — why are you leaving your door open?! Are you trying to give me a heart att — oh.” 

There’s a fox on his shoulders: all black, unnoticeably arcane. As she watches, Francois rubs himself against Kaldar’s hair, nuzzling the scars on the side of Kaldar’s face with a big, wet nose. His emotions register crystal-clear in her mind: safe, happy, home. Something in Madeline’s ribcage cracks. Kaldar looks up at her.

Suddenly the words are gone. This is unusual for her. Back when she was seventeen and vain and by no means plain, Chastity had warned her about this. Careful, she’d said, after Mercy had bragged about how easy it was. It’ll be anything but when it’s someone who matters. 

“Um,” she says. “You — your door was open.”

Francois settles on Kaldar’s shoulder and kneads at his cloak with tiny paws. 

“That’s — I mean, you know who he is, but — well, um, he’s different, but not really, and — ” there’s a bit of desperation now “ — well, your door was open, and he wanted to see you, and I did, too — to make sure you were all right, I mean, um — ” Logic says if she doesn’t look at Kaldar, he won’t notice her blush, so she looks at Francois instead. His fluffy face is smug and patient. Like there’s a riddle he’s waiting for her to solve. 

Madeline’s first thoughts finally catch up to her third thoughts, and she blinks. “Wait a minute.” She points over her shoulder. “What were you doing at your door?”

@hvadeina / tfw u cant steal him kidney cuz he already stole ur heart

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Black Lives Matter, @azothel donated $50, and requested ‘jealous Sam with implied Dean/John.’ Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

Summer in Arizona. Sam thinks it might actually be hell. He’s laying spread eagle on his bed, stripped down to t-shirt and boxers, and this absolute dump of a motel only has an evaporative cooler and so the whole place smells like wet dust. He’s got his eyes closed, concentrated on not moving, and if he doesn’t move then he can pretend like it’s damp instead of sticky--cool, instead of muggy--but unfortunately it doesn’t stop his ears from working, because Dean’s on the phone with Dad. Again.

“Yessir,” Dean says, quiet. Corded phone up near the door and he’s got it pulled all the way over by the mini-fridge. Like if he’s far enough away somehow Sam won’t notice. “Yeah, we got it taken care of. When do you think you’ll--”

Be back, cut off. That’s what Dean always wants--Dad, back, the three of them faking at happy families. Sam opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling fan, slow its only speed. They aren’t exactly a Norman Rockwell painting. Sam doesn’t know why Dean pretends otherwise.

“Yeah,” Dean says, soft, and it’s nasty the way Sam’s gut immediately takes a downward turn. He draws up on his elbows, looking past the screen into the tiny kitchenette. Dean, leaning against the wall with his shoulders hunched in, the cord tangled in his fingers. Chick from a movie talking to her crush, Sam thinks, and his second thought is--worse. “Yeah, Dad. See you.”

He hangs up and sighs. When he turns around he’s surprised for some reason, seeing Sam watching him. “Dad’s gonna be another week,” Dean says, and wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. He’s still wearing jeans, and that Ozzy tour t-shirt they found at the thrift mart. Overdressed, to Sam’s mind. Dean flaps his shirt, his white belly showing. “How do people live here. It’s so frickin’ hot, man.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, sounding braindead. How do they live.

They weren’t supposed to be here. California, Dad had promised, and Dean lit up with talking about going to the beach, cool breezes and girls in bikinis. Of course, when they stalled out here with five hundred miles to go, because Dad caught wind of weird deaths in the Chiricahua Mountains, Dean didn’t complain a peep. He went out with Dad one night--left Sam alone, in this same dumpy motel, to stew and worry--and then he came back by himself the next morning, fretful but loyal. Told Sam, Dad’s got it covered, don’t worry. Like that was what Sam was worried about. Dean had a bruise, on his shoulder, when he came back. Sam laid awake, wondering--knowing. Knowing. He’s always known.

The motel has a pool, if you can call it that. A crappy small kidney bean with no shade, carved out of bleached-white kool deck. It gets locked up at night but they figured out pretty quick that the motel manager’s a drunk and doesn’t give a damn what they do, and so it’s something to occupy them at night--a padlock Sam could’ve picked when he was nine, a six pack of beer they share because Dean can actually get it legally, now. “Not as fun that way,” Dean says, shrugging. Sam rolls his eyes and shoves water at his face, which makes Dean splutter predictable as ever--which makes him dive for Sam, predictable as ever--which means they wrestle, trying to dunk each other, and Sam’s got new height but Dean’s got more experience, and Sam wants to win but--but Dean’s skin is slick-silk, even in the over-chlorinated water, and he’s warm and weightless, and whoever wins Sam’s held right up close against his body and has Dean laughing and right here, right here, with him and nowhere else.

Nobody comes out this way. Not this time of year. There’s a tired hispanic family that checks in, one night, and they have a pretty daughter maybe Sam’s age--who smiles at Dean, shy but interested, and Dean grins at her, blows her a kiss, until her dad sees and she gets berated in a quiet barrage of Spanish. “Dude, I am an international man of mystery,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes and says, “Okay, Austin Powers,” and that was--shit, a mistake, because he knows that instantly Dean’s going to do his terrible Mike Myers impression--but then the phone rings in their room, and Dean’s face changes instantly, and he disappears inside while Sam bangs his head back against the stucco. He doesn’t need to hear to know Dean’s saying, obedient, yessir. Sam looks out at the fire-colored sunset and wonders, bitter, if Dean’s dick gets hard every time he does.

Sick. Not that Sam has room to throw stones. When they finally drag themselves out of the pool--one a.m., four beers under Dean’s belt and two under Sam’s--half the time Dean’ll just change right there, in the kitchenette on, making a puddle on the linoleum. “Dude,” Sam will always say, throwing up hands like it’s gross--because he knows he’s supposed to find it gross--and Dean always says, “Like you don’t love it,” smug. They hardly go out in the day, too damn hot, and so he’s pale, pale, everywhere, his back and the pretty curve of his ass and his legs, bowed out at the knee where Sam knows he’d fit, where he’d slide his hips between them and it’d feel--right. Cowboy legs, Dad called ‘em once, kind of drunk, and Dean had immediately darted a look at Sam and his ears had gone bright red--and Sam had looked away, thinking, yeah. Made for riding.

Seriously, sick. Sicker that he bets he wasn’t the only one in the room having that thought. Sicker, that when Dean tugs up dry boxers and turns around, Sam doesn’t look away fast enough, and Dean sees him and his face does--some strange thing, something Sam doesn’t know how to interpret. His amulet swings in the middle of his pale chest and Sam wants to get up, grab him by it, pull him in. Ask him--why not Sam? Why, if it was going to be anyone--

“Dude, earth to Samuel,” Dean says, and Sam blinks and refocuses. Dean frowns at him, kinda smiling-kinda not. “You gonna sleep in your wet trunks? Get a move on, weirdo.”

“You’re weird,” Sam says, automatic and dumb, and Dean rolls his eyes, throws himself back onto his own bed. Sam looks at him--his knees, spread--his nipples getting hard in the damp cool air--and then looks away. He has to, because if he doesn’t then he has to do something, and he just doesn’t know what to do.

Dad swings by--middle of the night, the next night. Sam’s asleep until the door opens, and then his eyes slam open at the wall away from the door, listening to the low conversation happening behind his back. Everything okay? Yeah, kiddo. Just needed a resupply. Salt and a few other things. Gotta head back into the mountains but I think I’ve about got it cleaned out. Can I help? No--this is a stealth mission, can’t risk it. I’m just taking a shower before I head out. Wanted to stop by and make sure you boys were okay. We’re okay, Dad. Do you...

The bathroom door closes, very quietly. Sam breathes, twice, and sits up, and the room’s empty. He looks at the bathroom door, and the water rushes on, and he can’t hear talking--it’s not Dean sitting on the toilet giving a debrief while Dad cleans up blood and guts, not like they’ve done before--and it takes Sam a minute to realize that he’s chubbing up, his mouth dry because he’s just staring at the pale pink paintjob, and he’s imagining--cowboy legs. Fuck.

They don’t try to wake Sam up, before Dad leaves. The room door closes and Dean fixes up the locks again, and when Sam turns over he’s got his forehead pressed against the paint, his hair still wet and his boxers barely tugged on, and Sam--jesus, how’s he supposed to take it? There’s an engine sound--the peel-out of tires on gravel. Dad’s gone, again. “Good visit?” Sam says, and Dean jumps, looks at Sam over his shoulder.

“Shit, dude, nearly gave me a heart attack,” Dean says. Frowns, after a second. “You woke up?”

“I’ve been here the whole time, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean’s frown gets deeper before his eyes go wide. It’d be kind of funny if Sam weren’t pissed. “Like--I’m not deaf, you know?”

Dean doesn’t say anything. Sam gets up, crosses the room, and Dean doesn’t say anything still until Sam’s right in front of him--both of them in their bare feet and Sam’s got half an inch on him, even if he’s still trying to get the muscle--and Dean says finally, “Sammy, what--” but it’s a little late because Sam’s got his hands on Dean’s arms--damp, warm--and presses him back, against the door.

This close, Sam can see a red mark--a circle, on Dean’s shoulder where normally it’d be covered by a t-shirt--and he thinks, sudden sick certainty, that soon it’ll turn into a bruise. “You let him,” Sam says, and Dean looks--actually panicked. Sam squeezes his arms, rocks him a little against the door. “You let him.”

He does. Eager, like a puppy thrilled that its master came home. Dean stares back and forth between Sam’s eyes, mouth half-open waiting for an excuse to come--but there’s no excuse, they both know it, because Sam’s not deaf and he’s not blind and Dean was just in the shower, too, and there’s a mark on his shoulder, and Sam leans forward in raw stupid hope and kisses Dean. Clumsy--too much force, and their teeth clack--but he pushes in, pins their hips together, holds Dean tight, and realigns their mouths right and licks in. Dean breathes shock, doesn’t participate, and Sam tastes inside--beer, but--whiskey, too--and they haven’t had whiskey, not for weeks, and that means--that means--

Dean flinches--licks at him, too--gets his hands up and pushes at Sam’s ribs and breaks their mouths apart. Sam pants at him, an inch away. Dean’s eyes are bright, wide, his lips wet. “Sammy, what are you doing?” he says, like that’s not fucking obvious.

Sam licks his lips, tastes that phantom flavor. He lets Dean’s arms go and slides down his sides, to his hips, and presses forward until his knee’s between Dean’s knees--that open space. Space that’s maybe already been filled tonight, and the thought makes Sam’s gut lurch. Sloppy seconds. “You gonna let me, too?” he says. Dean’s hand splays against his stomach, holding, while his face goes slowly and deeply red. Sam ducks in, kisses his mouth soft and brief. Dean inhales sharp and his face, when Sam pulls back again, looks somehow dazed. Like soft isn’t what he expected. “We’re supposed to take care of each other. You and me.”

“Sam,” Dean says, rougher, and Sam cups his face in both hands and kisses him, soft, and again, and on the third Dean makes a weird small noise and holds Sam’s waist, fingers digging in, clutching and desperate. Yes, Sam thinks, groaning--yes, Dean touching him--yes, he thinks, at the car driving off into the night--because he’s Dean’s but Dean is his, and maybe with this, finally, he won’t be anyone else’s.

[justkindaoverhereobsessing]

2020 IN WRITING

tagged by: @indestinatus​

tagging: no one, because I am unable to think straight. But whoever is interested in doing this: I’m interested in reading it. <3 

Wow, okay, I’m getting real in this little questionnaire... read at your own risk, friends.

1. List of works published this year:

I genuinely can’t write them all out here... there are too many of them! (I’ve done so little besides writing this year!) But I keep a running list of all my projects here. I’m sorry for cheating on this one, haha. 

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

This question comes up a lot on these things, and I always put the same answer: That We May Forgive. It’s has emotional moments, silly moments, heartfelt moments where the warmth made me cry as I wrote. It was written in one sitting, and it’s the story where I felt most connected to the characters I love so much. It sums up the joy I feel knowing that these (fictional) friends of mine have finally reached peace after too many years of trauma and hardship. I began the story with a single line in mind, after which the characters took over and told the story for me:

Ziva's second pregnancy is nothing like her first.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

You Stumble, You Soar, which was written for one of my dearest friends in the world, @why-did-you-just-lie-to-mcgee​. I wanted to do so much better by her, but as I ran out of time to complete the story by the end of her birthday, I rushed the writing and I think the story suffered for it. It made her happy, though, and that’s the most important thing. She deserves all the happiness, all the time—but especially on her birthday. 

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

I can’t think of a favorite excerpt of my writing, because I’ve written so much that I can’t think back!

5. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

“Wow. Let me just tell you that I am absolutely in love with this story. I wake up everyday and, as I log into fanfiction, my only hope is that you've uploaded a new chapter because DAMN. The characters are so well written, the story is beautifully constructed and this last chapter just broke my heart into tiny little pieces. What a remarkable job you've done. Please, don't ever stop writing NCIS/Tiva fanfiction- specially this one story: it's one of my all time favorites. Thank you :)”

An incredibly kind and inspiring comment by a reader named Alexandra on my longest (WIP) fic, We Are an Ocean.

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

I’ve had two periods of NCIS hiatus this year—and actually, I’m still in the midst of the second one right now. These have periods of turmoil in my own life. When I’m upset, feeling sick, feeling sorry for myself and I’m depressed and aching... that’s when I write the best, because writing is my safety blanket. When I’m feeling numb, though, or lost... the characters are lost to me, too, and so are the words I use to wrap them (and myself) in comfort.

7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you:

I’m going to deviate here from NCIS, which is—I’m well aware—why most of my followers have chosen to follow me. But in the last month, I’ve written a single fic for Criminal Minds—it’s called In Possibility, it’s unpublished, and it’s now over 100,00 words. It’s centered on Spencer Reid, who was intimidating to me when I started writing the fic. He’s far more intelligent than I am, requiring me to do a lot of research to give him realistic lines, he’s a deep and complicated character with complicated motivations and a tangled, traumatic past. He also has a sweet, really good heart that’s been scarred by years of difficult work and an emotionally taxing personal life. 

I thought he’d be difficult to write; to my surprise, he comes as naturally to me as any of my other favorite characters ever have. He gave me my first nanowrimo win! To be frank, he’s gotten me through a lot of shit this year. That was the best surprise.

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

To be honest, I wasn’t much of a writer before this year. I enjoyed writing, especially in a roleplay setting with fandom friends... but I deeply struggled with trying to write alone. I didn’t do much of it.

Then, this year, well... the concept of writing exploded into the most important distraction, escape, and joy I could imagine. 

I didn’t grow as a writer this year. I became a writer this year.

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

My most recent project—the one that, as I’ve said, is (and will remain) unpublished—has given me a new perspective. It’s written for an audience of me and only me... so I’ve given myself permission to engage in the most ridiculously self-indulgent writing I’ve ever embraced and thrown myself into. 

And it has been the greatest joy I could imagine in a time of great pain.* 

Next year, I want to throw myself into every project I work on with as much reckless abandon as I’ve done in this last project. I want to stop worrying so much about what people will think and pursue the words that are bursting out of the fingers on my laptop keyboard. I want to have confidence in my ability to draw out emotions—if from no one else, at least from myself.

“If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.” —Emily Dickinson

And it’s alright if that one heart is mine.

That’s what I want to accomplish in my writing next year, and what a growth that would be!

* I’ve mentioned this in my last post, but I’m recovering from brain surgery, I also have the COVID-19 virus, and I’m working on passing a kidney stone that may be too big to pass. I’m writing 10,000 words a day to get through it—and it’s working. Distraction is everything to me right now.

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

Like Sof, I have to tag three people here, because I really couldn’t choose just one. My three best friends in the world all influenced my writing in their own ways! <3 (Sorry for deviating a little from the writing thing in some of the following lines, oops. I just have emotions that are all over the place this week!)

@indestinatus — One of a few best friends who has had my back every day for so long now. She listens when I need to talk things out—whether or not I’m talking about writing. She really gets me when I need to be silly, or I need to be serious, or I just really, really need a friend. Also, she inspired me to start learning Portuguese this year, and I’m actually practicing by writing a fic in Portuguese, lol. It’s slow going... but Sof encourages me (and corrects me, haha) whenever I work on it, just as she does with absolutely anything else I work on. Truly, I’ve had few friends in my life that are so special to me, and I love her. I really do. 

@why-did-you-just-lie-to-mcgee — Is there a better cheerleader on this earth? Is there a better friend? Doubtful on both counts. She thinks I’m a disaster—and, by the way, she’s absolutely right—and she sometimes has to remind me to eat and sleep, but she’s totally cool with being my internet mom. Doesn’t matter that she’s nearly a decade younger than I am, lol. All of these things have bolstered me when the writer inside of me has faltered, and she has carried my burdens as I wrote them out. Anyway, she reads everything I write, and she has requested to gain access to all of my unfinished chapters and unpublished works in the event that I die—I completely trust her with that nonsense. I’ve written it into my will. Really. Like with Sof, I genuinely love Tiz, and I’d do anything for her. 

@honeybadgerdocare — Best friend of 20 years. She doesn’t watch the same shows that I do, and my endless ranting makes very little sense to her... but she listens. She’s my sounding board for everything I write, everything I read, everything I watch, and everything that gives me big feelings. I genuinely can’t describe how much she has helped me with my writing every single day, so I’ll leave it at this: I could not do it without her. I’d drown in my own struggles and I’d stop creating the art that sustains me. She’s my soulmate—sorry to her fiancé. All of my love goes to her!

11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

HAHAHAHAHA it’s cute how you think my writing is anything other than a re-organized and fictionalized version of my life and my feelings. Real life shows up in my writing, and my writing shows up in my real life. It gets crazy and obsessive, but like... I had a trip to Israel booked this year (obviously canceled due to the pandemic, but still) because Ziva comes from Israel. (Also because of my Jewish adoration for the spiritual homeland, but the thought of going and the trip planning all started with Ziva.) I went to Baltimore so I could run down an alley yelling “YOU CAN’T OUTRUN ME, I’M WEARING TUBE SOCKS!” to encourage my inner Tony DiNozzo. I nearly froze to death in Washington, D.C. and called my mom every time I saw a little red mini coop that looked like Ziva’s, or came across a place that was featured in an NCIS scene.

And to answer the actual question here, because I obviously flipped it around like the moron I am... when the pandemic canceled things I was desperately looking forward to, I wrote a fic where Tali’s excitedly anticipated dance recital got canceled because of the pandemic. I lost my appendix (last year, but the fic was written this year — does that count?) and wrote a fic where Tali loses hers, too. (I swear, I don’t always write things that torture Tali, lol, these are just my best examples!) When I lost a couple of loved ones this year, I wrote a funeral scene where Tony and Tali remembered Ziva. Writing is definitely free therapy, y’all.

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

Write for yourself—write what you love, and you’ll love what you write. That’s all. That’s it. That’s my advice, something I’ve learned this year.

13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

I’ve been working on We Are an Ocean for roughly a year now, and 2021 needs to see it finished. I’ve got a number of lovely, dedicated readers who deserve to see the story play out as it’s intended to be played out. 

Also, my greatest love right now, In Possibility, will probably write itself to an end in 2021. Or... who knows? Maybe it will worm its way into 2022, too. :-)

14. If you could recommend only one work from yourself published this year:

Since I already went into detail about my favorite fic of mine from this year (That We May Forgive), I’ll recommend a different one: The Stars Always Make Me Laugh. It has some of the darkest moments I’ve ever written, but it also has some of the lightest moments I’ve ever written. It was an answer to two different challenges, and if I can say this without sounding arrogant, I think I met the challenges beautifully. It gave me comfort, catharsis, and closure for a few things in my own life... and I hope it comforts my readers, too. 

15. Year word count: 

HOLY FUCKING SHIT (excuse my French). I just added up my AO3 word count + my current unpublished project, and... my word count is:

428,557.

FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT THOUSAND, FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY SEVEN WORDS

I nearly just fell out of my chair. Goodbye, friends. I am deceased.

[ellaintrigue]

I've had health problems for nearly a decade now, stemming from urinary things. Things I would already have but on top of it I get kidney stones which is sadly genetic. I am on a diet for it but nonetheless I get the fucking bastards roughly yearly at this point. When I first started getting them I would jump in the horse bucket, which was always cold, to numb the pain. Last year I went to the ER with one and they found out I had passed it but it had, well, ripped up my pee hole. I was in agony!

So last week I didn't feel well, then got my period, still didn't feel well. Swollen ovaries and the OTHER shit I get (I have so much going on). Well, I got up one morning and just doubled over. I was having cramps almost as bad as when I went to the ER last September. Fuck! I was in intense, INTENSE pain to the point I was almost gasping. It lasted 20 minutes while I contemplated going to the doctor, then I felt cramped for 3 days after that.

Finally I figured out, or my best guess, was that the stone was in my bladder so I could barely piss for two days. I was miserable but just went to work on the computer as usual. The problem with these kinds of pains and also regular fatigue and my other issues is that it all makes me weak, dizzy, and unable to focus. So while I would most definitely call out of work at my previous, physical job, with the computer job I can barely work either because I have to read and write and well, my head is a blur. A lot of people, including my mom, don't understand that. Like hey, your job is just on a computer, why can you just sit and work?

The last night of this nonsense I got wasted which isn't great but holy fuck, pain. (I don't normally binge or get shit faced, believe it or not.) They gave me painkillers at the ER last year and I took them the day I had bad cramps but I am not a pill kind of girl. Only take that shit if you're dying. Plus the pee factor. I drink citrus, vinegar and all that but in the end nothing makes you piss like alcohol. I've literally used beer to push out a stone before because it makes me pee so much. And the real irony is that alcohol in general inhibits the development of stones. If I didn't drink I could very well end up with much bigger and more problematic stones. Obviously no one should drink but sometimes life has its laughable moments.

I was in pain the whole night despite the booze which means it was pretty bad and the next day I woke up bleeding. I had finally passed the motherfucker without going to the ER to whine. Woo hoo! Now to look out for infection. People have told me to go to a specialist, blah blah but I already have and between that, my GP, and the ER I've had everything tested and I just have a weak bladder, messed up female parts, and scarring. So there's really nothing anyone can do since I don't retain urine or anything dangerous. I just have to live with it, which is fine, EXCEPT THE DAMN STONES which will happen anyway. All I can do is diet. There is no sure fire way to prevent kidney stones, especially when they run in the family.

I honestly think the worst part is that not many people really listen to me during these times because they either think I'm seeking attention or it's too much drama for them. All I told mom and other people was that I was doubling over in pain that one morning and was trying to get past it. I wasn't rambling in an emotional way or crying, just stating a fact when people asked how I was. Mom rapidly changed the topic while I was sitting there squirming and sweating (I mean she has fucking cancer so I probably shouldn’t even say anything to her about my issues to be fair). Then over the course of the day everyone stopped talking to me as soon as I mentioned I was sick except for my best friend who just changed the topic on me and another guy I talk to who was like, "wow that sucks, I hope you feel better!" That man had told me before how he hurt his leg and we have honest conversations. He seems really cool but at the same time I don't think I should have to be surprised when someone is nice or sticks around when I'm not having a good day. Again I wasn't screaming or bitching, just saying I was trying to pass a kidney stone and that I was hurting!

Years ago when I was with the ex before last I had an episode I get very rarely but is very agonizing. Doctors can't quite figure it out, they think it's something to do with a bad nerve near my heart if I remember right. Basically I feel like I have indigestion but the cramps spread throughout my jaw and shoulders. It feels like I'm being crushed and stabbed around my shoulders and I can't move or function, it's agonizing pain in waves. I normally just cry from the pain but it was fucking  ridiculous one night so I was literally wailing. All I could feel were these excruciating waves of agony from my jaw to my shoulders. So I was laying on the bed nearly paralyzed from it because every time I moved it hurt worse. And my ex started yelling at me to stop it. “Stop crying! Just stop this!!” Then he huffed out of the room angry and I literally forgot about him because I was in too much pain to care. He didn't calm down until I did, because he couldn't stand my cries of pain. He didn't offer to do anything to help.

In 2017 I got the same thing, RIGHT before my last ex came over. He texted me to unlock the door and the second he saw me he knew I wasn't right. I could only gasp to him that I was sick because of the pain again radiating around my shoulders making it so I couldn't move my neck. I choked out the my body was seized up and he instantly took action. He filled up the bathtub and put me down in it and started working his hands around my shoulders to try and loosen up my muscles or whatever was causing the pain. It eventually went away and I apologized for ruining the night. He said that I hadn't and that I was also never under any obligation to have sex with him. He said we could always do whatever I wanted, even when I wasn't sick. I will never forget his kindness because once when I was having horrible period cramps I had another ex tell me that he wished I could just fuck him anyway or at least blow him when I was sick. Sometimes it really does feel like most people only care about themselves.

[twisted-trunk]

 I Don’t Have Time for This [A Day In The Life]

I drag myself up from my bed, heaving heavy winter blankets off of me. I take one step away from my place of rest and despair. My medicine, pills placed in two separate containers; morning and night, lay on the dresser that functions more as a tall nightstand. Choosing the one closest to the door, I squint and try to remember the day. It shouldn’t be so hard between taking my meds and keeping my medical diary. Good thing I don’t fully close the tab from the day before. 

I take my medicine: some float on the water in my mouth, some are small, some are big. I down half my water bottle. My heating pad clinks to life as I tap the remote on the cord three times then slink back into place. I maneuver my laptop in front of me, slightly tilted then click on a YouTube video.

The window for sleep is gone. 

I’m tired. 

I open my phone. 

The time flashes brightly at me then gives way to my home screen. I click the weather app. The barometer reads 1023 hPa (hexopascals; normal or one atmosphere is 1013 hPa), last night ended at 1018 hPa. What’s the point in this, I ask myself even as I dutifully record it in my medical diary; I feel like shit either way and it’s been doing fucking backflips. 

Next, I record the time: 6:35. It’s winter. The sun isn’t up. My birds are, for the moment, quiet. The house isn’t awake. Save for the annoying neighbor that straight-piped their muffler, the world is quiet. The fish tank’s filter pours water back down into the tank. Car lights flash on the wall through the slight opening my layered curtains allow. Soon, the sun will come and the light will force its way into my world far before I’m ready. 

I can already tell it won’t be a cloudy day. 

I click a new YouTube video, something’s ought to catch my attention. I pray the depression med will finally do something. I pray the rest of the medicine with do something. The dose of one has been upped, there has to be a difference, right?

Through muscle memory, I click through apps. Weather. Instagram. Solitaire. Tumblr. Instagram. Safari. Solitaire. 

I check the time. 

6:53 am. 

Unconsciously, I sigh. I check my blogs though I know nothing’s new, no one has interacted with them; no notifications tell me otherwise. Still, though, I check. Maybe someone will want to talk with me. I think I expressed that enough? I hope I did. 

I don’t want the disaster or awkwardness from attempting to make conversation first but then really having nothing to say besides please talk to me, give me something, anything, I need something to take my attention away. Let me know I’m not alone. 

7:03 am. 

Light is invading more of my space. I pull the stiff blankets up as a pathetic barrier against it. I exit the YouTube video and search my recommended for something. 

I refresh. 

I refresh again. 

One more time. I click on something. I play with my phone again. The water continues to fall and splash. I open a different app. The noise grates on my thin nerves if I focus on it. I try my mindless games. Nope. 

I flow through Instagram and tumblr and instagram again. 

8:59 am. 

It’s bright and I don’t want to get up but I’m thirsty, and it’s a horrible feeling and my mouth is dry and my doctor even prescribed me to drink more and I don’t want a kidney stone. 

I don’t know how long it takes, but I get up and trample around my bed to fold the curtains in. The best it’ll get. The room is shaded only slightly; more so if it were darker out. Winter, I think, it’ll be darker, I think, but as ever, I remind myself that snow reflects light and it will be worse than a bright summer’s day.  

I grab the same cup I used the day before. My inner germaphobe winces but nothing’s been in there but water; I barely had enough energy yesterday to make myself a small bowl of pasta. 

I throw my forlorn, now warm compress into the freezer and ensure it’s shut with a knee to handle. I hate this freezer. 

I refill my glass and go to the bathroom. 

I come back and stand in front of my bed. Just do it, it think. You’re already up, I think. 

I shame myself into doing my physical therapy—at least the exercises I am able to do. Halfway through my first, I remember the ones I could have done before ever getting up to warm myself up for the rest. That was the plan I’d had for two weeks yet could never quite do it without flipping the order. I’ll lay down again anyway, after this I won’t have much pith and vinegar left. 

I never do. 

A few in, the hardest ones, I feel sick. Whether it be the “exhaustion” or unintentional dehydration or my poor eating habit courtesy of a very sickly stomach, I don’t know. 

I grit my teeth and focus on whatever distraction I’d last clicked on. 

I do some stretches in the middle, finish what’s left of it all while I’m still up. Then I lay down. I open my phone again as I begin this round of exercises and stretches. 

10:15 am. I write down when I started in my medical diary, giving a very wide birth of time considering my... inabilities. 

I click through apps again. YouTube plays in the background. My birds rise to an unknown challenge. I get up and whisper sweet nothings at them, half chiding them for being so damn loud. They direct their complaints directly at me. I give them food and open their cage doors. One flies directly onto my shoulder. Another makes declaration and flies past me to a tall perch. Two others share the same shyness. The rest take their time. Despite the time I’ve spent with them and my attempts at training over the last year or so, the second two flee my attempts to hold them. The last addition plain out tries to bite me. He doesn’t do it hard and still takes my finger as a perch, but his cuddlebug-ness needs direction. Still, he has his moments. I mumble at him and lightly chide him, petting him with my cheek as one hand has my phone and the other is holding him. I set my phone down and make entreaty towards the shyer two. They make exclamation and half hearted attempts to flee. They’ll come around. They all will, eventually. But now I have to lay down again. 

I pause in my room again. I look around. At what, I’m not quite sure, the thoughts come and go, barely a thing left behind. I mull on the thought of food. 

Nah. Nothing’s “ready.” Pulling something together seems too much. I set my cuddle bug on a perch on their birdy playground I have set up in my room. It’s next to the bike I got as an early Christmas present. 

I gather my laptop and make myself comfortable on the bike. I watch a YouTube video, my phone still open on solitaire. 

The video ends. I catch a glimpse of the time: 11:45 am. 

Nearly time to take my midday pills, I think as my legs continue to move and my finger clicks on another video. 

Finally, something catches my attention. 

I still play solitaire on my phone. 

I add a science-y video to my watch list. 

I check the barometer. 

1019 hPa. 

I keep peddling. 

1:51 pm. 

I get up and take my midday pills. 

I blow kisses to my birds as I refill my water. 

I stare at the counter for a minute. Food, I think, it’s about time. I need food. I evaluate my appetite and what my stomach would accept. Spaghetti, I decide. I retrieve my laptop and listen to a tiktok while I wait for the water to boil, and eat. 

I retreat back to my room to lay down and record the time I took my meds and ate. 

I text a friend. Something they say triggers me. I take a breath. That’s not how they meant it, I say to myself and do my best to tone down my response. It still comes off rudely. I hope they don’t take it the wrong way. 

3:47 pm. 

The light has faded some, the shadows have shifted. 

My friend and I make light conversation. Something viscerally in me feels off. It’s like when I dread something. 

I try to distract myself. 

3:51 pm. 

I move back to my bike. 

3:56 pm. 

I keep peddling. 

4:03 pm. 

I keep peddling. 

4:08 pm. 

I keep peddling. 

4:12 pm. 

I keep peddling. 

4:16 pm. 

I refill my water bottle. 

4:23 pm. 

I keep peddling. 

4:27 pm. 

I keep peddling. 

4:34 pm. 

I keep peddling. 

1022 hPa. 

My room is slightly darker than before. A YouTube compilation drones in my vision. 

Tomorrow will be rinse and repeat.

For the nth time, I think about all that I could be doing. I know why I can’t yet I shame myself all the same. 

I find something interesting to watch. 

Then refresh. 

And refresh.

And refresh. 

And refresh. 

I give up and turn to Netflix. 

Nothing. 

Something borderline interesting. 

6:50 pm. 

Dinner, maybe? Energy level? Nada. I’ll think about it later. 

Another video plays. I play on my phone, half interested in everything. 

7:13 pm. 

Dinner? 

I need food, I think. 

Can’t. 

I’ll regret it, I know. 

I’ll probably binge some in the morning whenever I get up. 

I don’t move from my place. I try to down talk myself for bed, for the hope of not staying up half the night. 

I drag myself up from my bed, heaving heavy winter blankets off of me. I take one step away from my place of rest and despair. My medicine, pills placed in two separate containers; morning and night, lay on the dresser that functions more as a tall nightstand. I take my medicine: some float on the water in my mouth, some are small, some are big. I down half my water bottle. My heating pad clinks back to life as I tap the remote on the cord three times then slink back into place. I close my laptop and set it further from me. 

That sickly feeling comes back. 

I realize it’s dread. 

I open my phone. 

[NOTE: this is not about suicide—I noticed after writing this that some things could be taken in such a way, hence this note.]

12/7/20

To those suffering: I see you; I support you; I love you.

~Rosa ❤️

[chicgeekgirl89]

Mercy is Out of Your Reach: Chap. 3

Fandom: SEAL Team

Characters: Sonny Quinn, Clay Spenser, Lisa Davis, Jason Hayes, and the rest of the team

Read Chapters 1-3 Here

                                     XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Clay wasn’t a doctor, but he could tell Sonny was in bad shape. It had been a little over forty-eight hours, by his best estimate, since they’d been taken, and his buddy looked like he was going downhill fast. Sonny’s clothes still weren’t completely dry from the initial soaking and subsequent near drowning. He was propped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as if he was trying to keep himself warm, and his breathing seemed labored.

His own back was bruised and hurting from the minor beating he’d taken, but he was doing fine by comparison. At least they’d been pretty well left alone since their initial chat with Farhad. Maybe he had too many other things on his bad guy agenda to pay attention to his American prisoners. Although Clay suspected that wasn’t going to last much longer. “You all right?” he asked.

“Right as rain,” Sonny grunted, but he didn’t lift his head.

“You got a plan yet for getting us out of here?” Clay asked, switching topics since Sonny didn’t seem interested in talking about himself. 

Sonny squinted at him. “You asking me that cuz you really want to know? Or cuz you’ve already got one and you want to show off?”

He wished he had a plan. If he did they’d be out of here by now. But so far everything he’d come up with wasn’t feasible. Not while they were locked in this cell with armed guards all up and down the hall. Not with Sonny so sick. But maybe together they could come up with something. “Guards come by every half hour. Always in twos,” he said.

“There were six more cells and four doors between here and that room they took us to.”

Clay nodded; he’d noticed the same thing. “The girl who dropped the water off.”

That had been sometime yesterday. She’d been young, afraid. The guards waited outside while she set down the bucket and two plates of food. There had been no direct eye contact and when Clay had attempted to speak to her she’d flinched away and out the door as fast as she could.

“Could be somebody’s daughter,” Sonny said before coughing into his elbow.

“Hey you need to drink more man,” Clay said, taking in Sonny’s gray pallor. 

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Don’t matter how I look.” Sonny offered up a weak smirk. “‘Sides, you heard Farhad. You’re the pretty one anyway.”

The cell door clanged open and four guards stepped in. “We doing this again?” Sonny asked as the weapons were pointed at them and a command issued that clearly meant, “Get up.”

Back down the same hall, back into the same room. This time they didn’t waste a second; Sonny was dragged immediately over to the tub and dunked under. “Hey!” Clay struggled against the guards holding him and received several blows to his kidneys for his trouble. “Leave him alone!”

They pulled Sonny up and he made a horrible gasping, retching sound before they plunged him back under. In desperation Clay lashed out and managed to knock down one of his captors, the other thrown off balance, his grip going loose. Clay pulled away and made it about two feet toward Sonny before all his muscles seized at once and he collapsed. It was only when the excruciating pain finally hit that he realized what had happened. A stun gun. They’d struck him with a stun gun.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but by the time he was coherent again he could only lay groaning on the floor. There was a wet slap beside him and was able to turn his head enough to find Sonny in a similar position, coughing as if his lungs were trying to leave his body. “We’re just tourists,” Clay managed to gasp out. “We don’t know what you want. Please let us go.”

“I don’t believe you,” Farhad said. “You are American military. Stop trying to make me think otherwise.”

“Man please, please just let us go,” Clay begged.

It got him a boot to his ribs. “Tell me what you were doing in that café.”

“We were just eating man! My buddy’s got a cold, we got him some tea!”

Another kick that had him curling in on himself in pain. “I am losing my patience!” Farhad spat. “As I said before, I only need one of you. If you won’t talk, perhaps your wet friend over here will.”

Clay watched in horror as they pulled Sonny off the ground. One man pinned his arms behind his back while the other drew back his fist and punched him in the mouth. Sonny let out a sickened moan, blood dribbling onto the floor as they sank a second punch into his gut.

“Hey, hey stop it!” Clay yelled. “Leave him alone! He’s sick! Leave him alone!”

“Tell me what I want to know.” Farhad’s eyes were menacing.

Clay clenched his teeth. “We’re just tourists.”

“Fine then. I’m going to give you one more night to think about it. Tomorrow, I won’t care so much if either of you live. Or if your face stays too pretty for the Navy.”

Clay couldn’t tell if Sonny was conscious or not as they were dragged back to the cell. He waited for the door to shut before dragging himself over to his friend. “Sonny! Sonny hey! Hey look at me. Talk to me.”

Sonny remained listless, eyes fluttering and then mumbled something unintelligible. Clay shook him, trying not to hurt him any further, but needing him to be conscious.

“‘m ‘wake,” Sonny mumbled, rolling onto his side and spitting out a mouthful of blood. 

“How bad are you hurt?”

“Not bad.” He coughed and it sounded painful.

“Drink some water.” Clay reached for the bucket with aching, trembling muscles and pushed it toward him.

“Don’t need—“

“Damn it Sonny, drink some water!” Clay said desperately. He didn’t have any other way to help his brother and he was grasping at straws. The least Sonny could do was listen.

“You drink some,” Sonny rasped. “I just drank half a damn swimming pool. You’re the one that got hit with a stun gun. Probably still can’t feel your feet.”

It was true, he couldn’t. His head ached and the muscle in his left calf kept cramping, along with his back and shoulders. “We’ll both drink some.”

He waited for Sonny to take a couple sips and then took his own. Sonny coughed painfully again and let his head fall back against the wall, struggling to get a full breath. Clay swallowed hard and closed his eyes. They needed to be found. Soon.

                                     XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

His lungs ached. Every inhale was like breathing through a straw and every cough made sent fire through his chest. He couldn’t remember ever being this sick. What had just been a cold had definitely turned into something far worse. 

He knew Jason and the team were searching for them. But he also knew that their abduction had come out of nowhere and there was a good chance that they might not find them in time. 

Or ever. 

He was grateful that so far they’d gone easier on Clay. He was the senior man, the brunt of whatever was happening should fall to him. But damn it would be nice if they stopped giving him so many baths.

Something caught in his chest and he hacked out a cough into his elbow, gasping for air and taking a sip of water to soothe his raw throat and burning lungs. When he looked up Clay was watching him.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

Sonny shook his head, suppressing another cough as much as he could. “Not bad.”

“Sonny.”

“Don’t matter. Ain’t nothing you can do about it anyway.”

“You’re shivering.”

“Stone floor.” Sonny tapped it with his fist. “Cold as ice. Even in the summer.”

Clay slid closer so they were side by side and put a hand to Sonny’s forehead. “You’ve got a fever.”

No wonder his joints ached and his head felt like a bag of wet cement. “Little fever never hurt anybody.”

“Yeah except for the part where it could kill you or fry your brain like an egg.”

“Eh, not much up there anyway,” Sonny said with a grin, wincing when it made his split lip pull and start bleeding again. With how painful each breath was he’d almost forgotten that they’d thrown a couple sucker punches in for good medicine.

“Sonny—“

“So tell me about Rebecca.”

Clay raised his eyebrows at the abrupt change of subject. “You don’t like Rebecca.”

“But I like you.” Sonny tried to settle into a more comfortable position and then gave up. Everything was uncomfortable when you couldn’t breathe. “And you like her. Sell her to me.”

“Sell her to you?”

“You know what I mean. Tell me what’s good about her. Give me all the dirty details.”

“I’m not—“ Clay shook his head. “She’s smart.”

“Well I figured that Mr. ‘War and Peace is Bedtime Reading.’ You’re always going for the hot and nerdy ones.”

“She’s passionate.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Clay rolled his eyes. “I mean about her job. She really cares, you know? Wants to make change.”

“Ah, one of those.”

“Yeah one of those. But she means it. I can tell. She makes me feel…like maybe I can do something more, you know? Be better. Make the world a better place.”

Sonny shrugged. “Kinda thought you already did that.”

“You know what I mean. In a different way. A bigger way.”

“You want bigger I’ll let you handle the explosives next time we need ‘em.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Well, I can appreciate wanting to make things better.” He squinted at his friend. “Don’t tell me the looks don’t have anything to do with it though.”

Clay tried and failed to cover up his smirk. “She is definitely…nice to look at.”

“Ha! I knew it!” The laugh cost him and he started coughing again. “Damn it.”

He took a shaky breath trying to get under control. “You all right?” Clay asked.

“I’m fine. Fine as I’m gonna be.” Every breath felt like knives, but sure. He was fine. 

“So what about you and Davis?”

Just the mention of her name and it felt like he’d been shot directly through the heart. “What about it?”

Clay looked at him. “You never really told me all that happened there.”

He didn’t want to talk about this now. Or maybe ever. “We were together, then we weren’t. Job got in the way.”

“But when you were together, it was good?”

“Best thing I’ve ever had,” Sonny said, throat feeling tight as memories flitted through his mind.

“D’you love her?”

Sonny fiddled with a stray string on his shirt. “We loved each other.”

The use of past tense felt like a lie even as it passed his lips. Sitting here in this filthy hellhole he knew: he still had feelings for her. He’d probably always have feelings for her. Their’s was a story left unfinished and now…it looked like they might never get a shot at a happy ending.

[crossyourheartspreparetodie]

Alright kiddos. Serious moment here. (Need some fatherly advice from Cross? Read it.)

I know it’s getting to be that great special time during the year when stress is getting high (I’m looking at all ya’ll college students and high school/college graduates). Maybe you’re not a part of either of that group yet but you’re going through some shit. Either way, it’s fine and this is for you.

I know I”m not necessarily the guy who would be the best at any sort of motivational bull shit, that’s more so Tiedoll’s job than mine. Still, I am a parent or master depending on which world you view this in (mun has decided to keep this mostly modern au! versed but it can fluctuate). Being in that sort of position sometimes leads you to needing to be a source of motivation so I’d like to think I’ve gotten somewhat good at it. So if you’re looking for motivation, look under the cut.

To those in college and high school (and trust me mun is in that boat to), especially those who are perfectionists by nature, good luck. Study hard, but there are a few things you should know. A’s are not everything. Anyone can pull an all nighter, cramming the night before a test and probably earn a decent grade. Still, grades are not everything. What you should be focusing on is actually learning the material because you’ll need it more than an A when you graduate with your degree.

Learning involves failing sometimes, if you want to learn, you shouldn’t fear it. Trust me, it’s not the end of the world if you fail a class. You can try again. If this is your second rodeo in a class and you’re still failing, maybe it’s a sign that you need to go in a different direction. Life has a weird way of working like that. If you want to stick with it, then keep working at it. I don’t know when it’s become a badge of honor to be sleep deprived, sick all the time, and taking on way too many classes and activities, but it’s not supposed to be. In the end you’re just hurting yourself and burning yourself out which isn’t going to be a great combination when you finally hit the real world. I don’t know why brats are in such a god damn rush to finish in four years. Take your time and enjoy the experience.

High schoolers if you truly don’t want to go to college right now, that is just fine. Take a gap year. Learn about the real world for a little bit. College will still be there when you’re done. And for those scared to death to be an adult. Yeah, it’s kind of scary, but I have faith that you can get through it. Maybe you’ll be a dumb ass like me and it’ll take a bit (well okay a long while) to get your footing, but that’s okay. People who are adults still don’t know how to adult so don’t feel like you’re failing at it when you’re only at the ripe age of 18.

People going through finals week hell: Remember to take frequent breaks. If something is frustrating you, it’s useless to keep plugging away at it. Take a break, do something else, come back to it. Get some fucking sleep for the love of God. You’re not going to remember jack shit if you’re trying to keep your ass awake during the final. Plus sleep is essential for memory.Hydrate. Eat. Your brains need fuel for memory. You’ll get through it. Sure, it may be hell, but you’ll get through it and then you can rest during the summer.

To those simply going through a shit time.

There are people who care about you. It doesn’t seem like it right now. It may feel like everyone is too busy to care or it may feel like the world is against you, but they do care. The world is very fast-paced and complex. Sometimes you can’t just wait around and what for someone to notice you’re feeling rough. You gotta take that step. People can’t read each other’s minds and sometimes life sucks us up into our own problems and heads to the point we can’t notice someone else’s struggle. Even then, if you are struggling, quite badly, you should seek support in other areas (definitely not the right person to be saying this, but it’s true). Things hopefully that don’t involve using substances to self-medicate.

If it seems like the world is against you, there will always be someone out there who thinks the best of you and sees potential in you (I mean come on I’m pretty trashy and I still have old friends like Tiedoll). Maybe a group of people dislike you for the shit you post or the things you like, but with that group of people there is also a group of people who likes the things you do or supports the shit you support. You shouldn’t let one fucker destroy your self worth because there is only one in the sea of how many people living on Earth. If they have a problem with you, that’s their problem. Anger depletes energy quickly and if they want to go to bed angry, that’s their choice, but you shouldn’t lose sleep over it.

There will always be people who think they fucking know everything when in actuality they know jack shit. It’s a psychological fact that people who act like they know everything truly do not know as much as they think they know. They’ll think they know what the true definition of right is or what the true definition of wrong is, but I’m here to tell you there is no definite right or wrong. Unless they are God themselves, they shouldn’t be preaching what is ‘right’ and what is ‘wrong’. Life is so complex and complicated that there are a lot of gray areas. You just have to weigh the pros and cons and hope you make the right decision at the end of the day.

So yeah. Stuff may be rough right now, but it’ll pass. Sometimes it’ll pass like a fucking kidney stone or a horrible shit, but it’ll pass (gotta make this light-hearted somehow, bite me.). Don’t give in to the haters, just give them the bird and move on. Let them fester in their own anger and hate if they so choose. You are the one who chooses how you want to react to situations. If you want to get pissed. Get pissed. Wanna be happy? Be fucking happy. Just because Sharon can’t pull the stick out of her ass, doesn’t mean you can’t. With that humbling thought. Goodnight and good luck.

[lamotriginerash]

This shit with my boyfriend saying he can't have me over his house because his mom "needs to rest" is fucking ridiculous. It's been over a week since she got sick.

And he's saying I can't come over again for at least another 10 fucking days, when she goes back to work.

Again, this is all over a kidney infection. Who in the fuck needs almost a month to recover from a kidney infection?

For fuck's sake, my brother started getting kidney stones when he was 11 and didn't act like this much of a baby. And I've known women who've said that kidney stones hurt more than fucking childbirth, ok? So a little kid in that much pain was less of a lil bitch than she's being right now.

And I know damn well she's not still recovering from it, she's just using it as a vacation. Which isn't something I'd mind if she weren't pulling this dramatic ass shit. Also I was still allowed to come over a billion other times before when she was on sick leave from work, so what's the difference now? This is the second fucking time she's tried to keep me out of the house just within the past 2 months. I honestly just can't fucking stand her anymore and I can't stand my boyfriend's mama's boy bullshit. It annoyed me before, but now it's just too much.

I haven't even seen him in like 3 weeks because he can never pick a day to come over. I'll try to make plans, he'll say he's busy on the day I suggest, then late at night on that same day he wants to come over and I have to tell him no. It pisses me off because for him to come over I need to actually shower and clean up a bit and have energy (something I'm not as likely to have in the middle of the fucking night). Like just pick a fucking day and stick to it. Jfc.

[oddsnendsfanfics]

But That Makes You Family Pt. 2

Genre: Fan Fiction (Animal Kingdom)

Pairing: Craig Cody/OFC

Warnings: Drinking, Death, Sexual Content, Language, Drugs

Rating: R

Length: Chaptered

Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: Thank you for those who have read or left comments. It’s daunting putting a fic in a new fandom, no matter how many times you do it. 

Catch Up Here

California was hot, hotter than Olivia remembered. Lack of shade around the patio table was a contributing factor, she was certain of it. Back and forth, back and forth. Craig's eyes followed Olivia's pacing; she reminded him of a caged tiger at the zoo. Pacing, anxious, waiting to lash out.

He could have started this conversation with less hostility, which would have greatly decreased his chances of Olivia wanting to punch him in the throat. Craig counted his lucky stars that she didn't bother to carry a gun.

Throwing insults at your child's mother, while high, wasn't one of  Craig's brightest moments. Back and forth, her flip flops slapped across the stone patio with each step. A scuff when she turned and moved back in the previous direction. Olivia chewed her bottom lip, tense and needing to slowly unwind before she spoke.

"Sit down."Craig pointed at a chair.

"No."

"Sit. Down." He was a fool to think he could boss her around.

"No!" snapped Olivia. "Don't tell me what to do."

Leaning against the glass top table, Olivia tipped the beer bottle to her lips, frowning when nothing came out. Resting on the edge of the table, she snarled when Craig rested against the table next to her. How dare he come out here demanding things and then acting like it was nothing.

J and Deran had given up watching from the window, a quick glance through the door revealed the kitchen was empty. Relief washed over Olivia, when the tears came the less audience the better.

"What happened to your head?" Craig pulled a few strands of hair between his fingers. Her once dark locks were now an off shade of purple. There was nothing better to say.

"I needed a change." Olivia swatted his hand away from her head.

"It looks different, I sort of like it." He sank down into a chair, swiping his own locks away from his eyes.

"I don't care what you like, Craig." Olivia moved away from him.

Leaning back in his chair, arm stretching out for her, Craig made a feeble attempt to grab her arm. "Are you fucking serious, Livvy? What the fuck is your problem?"

Pausing mid step, Olivia stood frozen, a laugh rumbling in her chest. Loud and ringing off the walls it hit Craig like a sharp knife. He'd heard that laugh before. A signature anger filled amusement.

"Really? You have the balls to ask me that? You're asking me what my problem is? You know what my problem is. The real question is what's yours?"

Tattooed arms folded across his chest, Craig smirked. A look of amusement and torment crossing his features. Sometimes, when Olivia thought of this exact look, she wanted nothing more than to punch him. To knock that cocky smirk right off of his face. Ironically it was the same look that had taunted her until he'd got her into his bed.

Craig Cody had a power that was worse than any drug that Olivia had ever tried. One glance at that cocky smirk and women fell over themselves to be near him. Once they got close and got to know him, they changed their minds and ran for the hills.  Olivia had often thought about Craig, as a whole, about how he made people run away. If he cleaned up, got way from his mother, and this life – he could have potential. Years of day dreams had left her wondering if Craig were to walk away, would they be different? Could he be somebody she'd allow in her life, all the time?

"I'm sorry." Craig's words were nearly shocking.

"You're what?"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come out here looking to argue." He sighed, shifting around to lean his head against the back of the chair. His long legs splayed under the table, making him look ridiculous. "I panicked. You show up out of the blue and like the last time, I assumed you were pissed off."

"If I were pissed, I wouldn't have waited until we were alone to talk." Olivia shrugged.

Craig knew Olivia well enough to know that. If she had been looking to start a fight, she would have done it the second Pope walked in, giving her as many witnesses as possible. J was still green, she had no guarantee the kid would take her side, if anything went back to Smurf.

"I'm not mad." Olivia gave in, sinking down into one of the chairs. "And I didn't show up out of the blue, I came with reasons."

Funny.

That's what she had said the last time, right before she began yelling at Craig for being a useless dick head, dead beat who was trying to buy her off. Craig had came out of that with a black eye and a large scratch down the left side of his neck. At 5'6", Olivia didn't have much on Craig's towering height or strength, an advantage was her speed.

She was quick and Craig had made the brutal mistake of underestimating that. He learned his lesson, when Baz pried the screaming brunette away from Craig, still swinging.

"Reasons?" Craig echoed.

Eyebrows quirked, Craig reached across the table to a pack of cigarettes that had been left behind, picking a smoke from the pack he offered one to Olivia. Refusing the rush of nicotine, she watched as Craig lit the cigarette and took a deep inhale. Licking his lips, he rested the cigarette.

Smoke billowing as he spoke. "What reasons? Something that can't be done over a text, must be big."

"I um, I..." Olivia inhaled deeply, trying to steady her mind. Even now Craig had this damaging and dizzying effect over her. Pushing her hand through her purple hair, moving her bangs away from her petite face. "I wanted to talk to you, because there are some things that need to be cleared."

"So what is it?" Craig shrugged. "Do you need money? Corbin needs a kidney?"

"I don't need money, Craig. You know that I've said it a million times. I'm not taking stolen money." Olivia used her best mom glare to tell him he was being less than reputable. As if Craig had ever received a real mom stare, one that didn't come after threatening to shoot him at least.  

"Whatever, can't say I'm not trying."

"I send those checks back for a reason, you know. I don't want your money and I'm not taking a handout from Smurf. I don't want to owe her a damn thing." Olivia was something else. The amount of money she could have collected in the last eight years, Craig knew it was enough for anybody to live comfortably. She had pride. "Corbin has started to ask questions."

Sitting forward in his chair,  Craig lazily flicked the cigarette into the butt can and rubbed his hands against his jeans. "What kind of questions?"

"The normal questions a nine year old boy asks, when he's ever met his dad. Where you are? Who you are? If you know he's alive or if you love him."

Craig would be a liar if he said this wasn't hurting, anybody with a heart would be crushed hearing this. He had never met his son, not because he hadn't tried. Every time the topic came up with Olivia, one of them blew up and took off.  Arguments followed and it seemed to be a pattern that they had yet to break.

What had she told him?

What did anybody tell a kid who asked that sort of thing?

Craig knew what Smurf had told him about his father, none of that bullshit had helped. Thank God that his son had a far better mother than he did. Olivia was a good mother, Craig knew it.

"What...what do you tell him?"

Never had Craig felt so scared, make that terrified, to hear an answer.

"He knows that you're not around, because your life is complicated." Olivia hurriedly answered. "He knows you're just...busy."

"Busy?" Craig scoffed. "You are keeping him away, because I'm busy?"

"I'm keeping him away, because I don't want him anywhere near Smurf. I don't need him to end up like J or Lena. It's nothing personal. I want more for him, is all."

"What have you told him?" Craig felt his heart in his throat. "Other than I'm too busy?"

"I've never said anything bad about you, believe it or not. If you're worried that I make you out to be some monster, I don't." Olivia's hard shell was softening.

As a single mother raising her child, protecting him from the chaos and plague that was the Cody family, Olivia was as honest as she could be with her son. He knew that his father's life was complicated, code for a royal fucking mess. Corbin also knew that his father had a big heart and if he could be there, he would.

Sometimes, Oivia had told her son, people can't be with us but they still love us.

She'd never deny that Craig loved his son, to some capacity, despite having never seen him in person. If Craig didn't care, he would have completely detached and moved on.

"He knows that he has cousins, uncles, but that's about it. He's uh, our last trip out..." Olivia wished she had a drink to ease this blow, at the very least she wished Craig had a drink. "He's met Deran, only the one time. I wasn't planning on it, but we were at the beach and Deran was there."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

What kind of sick joke was this? She could introduce her son, his son, to fucking Deran but Craig wasn't even allowed to see him?

"This is fucking bullshit, Livvy. You know it!" Craig jabbed a finger in her direction. "He's my son. Why would you do that? Huh? And Deran that fucking asshole, what right does he think he has?"

"You can't be mad at Deran, he didn't do anything intentionally. It's a big fucking beach, Craig. Adrian was the one who came over and started talking to me, I doubt Deran would have even bothered, once he saw that I was with Corbin."

Craig pushed his hands through his hair, his dark curls falling like soft strands of silk over his fingers. Olivia closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"So what Deran came over, told him he was his uncle and then what?"

"They hung out for a bit, we grabbed lunch at the pier and that's about it.  Deran didn't say shit." Olivia defended her friend and choice. "After, when we got home, I told Corbin that Deran was his uncle. Once in a while Deran calls and they talk on the phone. Look, Craig, I've always turned you away not because I don't want you to know him, but because I'm scared of what will happen if you get too close."

"Fuck. Fuck!" Craig cursed loudly. An angry growl rumbling through his chest. "Where is he? I want to see him."

"At my mother's. I'm not bringing him over and you are not to go near him! Do you understand?" Olivia glared at Craig, the look in her eyes told him that she wasn't jerking him around.

"He's my kid, why can't I meet him? He's almost ten and I've never laid eyes on him. What kind of mother does that?"

"You know why. I don't want him to be part of this. He's a good kid, Craig. He goes to a really great private school, he's an amazing baseball player, he takes art classes and..." Olivia paused, biting her bottom lip. "He doesn't need this."

Corbin may be a Cody, despite his lack of knowledge on the topic, it didn't mean he had to be part of this. For once it would be nice if someone in this shit show of a family went into the world and did some good.

Everybody had their weaknesses, Olivia was no exception, she knew what happened when you mixed with this family.  

Growing up, Olivia had always done the right thing. She rarely broke the rules and was practically a model citizen. During her teen years things had grown rough, her parents divorced when she was twelve, her father moving back to Connecticut leaving her and her younger sister in California. At fourteen, her mother remarried, like any teenager Olivia had hit a rebellion that would end up taking another six years to blow over.

The final act of her rebellion was getting pregnant, while it wasn't intended, things happened and Olivia was stupid enough to let life play out however it damn well pleased.

If she could keep her son bubble wrapped a little longer, she would.

"What are we going to do?"Craig lazily bounced his knee out of agitation.

When Craig got nervous the need for a hit or two grew, clenching and un clenching his fists he sniffed hard and did his best to wait for a solution.  Their relationship was so much easier to take, when Olivia was wild and crazy. Back when she was the one with the pocket full of blow and the itch for a good time, Craig missed that chick.

"Do you want to meet him?" Olivia turned sharply.

"What the fuck kind of question is that? Of course I do."

"Then we'll set it up. Give me a few days, I'll work something out. But I want to make it clear, because I am letting you meet him doesn't mean you get to stay in the picture."

@noobchic, @ivarlothbroks, @sparklemichele, @klinger-verseau  , @hows-my-hair  , @grungyblonde , @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly - if anybody else wants a tag, feel free to ask :)

[kyidyl]

Hey Tumblr

I wanna tell you a thing.  

I graduated college with a B.A. in Anthropology last weekend.  

I’ve...been putting off the discussion of school for a long time here.  I got an anon ask about it awhile ago that I didn’t answer because I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.  I think I might be now that I’ve graduated.  

I am 37.  I went to college, like most people, right after HS and I did terribly.  I struggled through an A.A. and never applied for graduation.  Had a 1.3 GPA.  I *failed* biological anthropology. I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to major in and I was so done being in school so I just...stopped.  

Fast forward a decade.  I got sick.  I was on Yasmin and it gave me a double P.E. - on in each lung.  This was after several kidney stones and an operation to remove a dermoid tumor (it’s a type of benign cyst that is basically what happens when human parthenogenesis is a thing.) the size of a baby’s head from my left ovary - it took my ovary and tube with it.  Anyway, all this is to say I had a lot of exposure to medicine in a short period of time.  I was starting to chafe at my job (tech support), and knew that to get out of support I’d have to either learn a lot more about computers or completely switch fields.  I just knew I didn’t want to be fixing computers the rest of my life.  Then, I visited a museum that had a lot of human artifacts in it.  

These factors combined with my love of science and biology and crystallized in one line from one nurse I met while hospitalized with the PE.  I said that I liked medical people, I got along well with them and he replied “then become one of us.”  

Come to the dark side, we have cookies.  So I, uh, did.  I signed up at my local college immediately and started the next semester.  I have an A.S. - Premed.  My GPA was higher, but not high enough to cancel out my grades from when I was younger.  After I graduated, I transferred to my final university and majored in anthropology - the museum was what spurred that choice.  As it turns out, I absolutely love the subject.  

About a year and change ago I was sitting in my Pacific archaeology class looking at pictures of tropical islands, feeling exhausted.  I’m a pretty typical pre-med in that I’m pretty damned type A in school and I never think anything I do is good enough and I worry constantly and pile a lot of guilt on myself (Best thing about graduating is the cessation of that guilt.).  I was like 35 staring down the barrel of like 11-12 more years of school and training (because surgeon.), 300k-ish more debt, out of shape and exhausted all the time already from going to school on top of working a 9-5 m-f job.  I saw tropical islands and thought to myself “that’s someone’s job.  Someone gets to just...do that”.  

I love biological anthropology in a way that makes me jabber on endlessly and annoyingly at length about it.  I love phys anth in the way that some people love Marvel.  I love the science of it, I love the varied nature of it - to be in bio anth you are part biologist, part osteologist, part geologist, part pathologist, part artist, part puzzle-solver.  All scientist - bioanth largely studies evolution.  So specifically, I love evolutionary anthropology, although my interests are pretty eclectic.  

And you know what else? I’m really fucking good at it.  I understand evolution in ways most people can’t or don’t (and that’s ok! There’s plenty I don’t understand.).  It is my thing.  I’m really good at being a jack of all trades, and my brain makes connections between things in a way that makes me really good at things like diagnostics and logic puzzles.  Which, incidentally, is also awesome for visualizing “what went on here?” from not a lot of evidence.  That’s another reason I originally chose medicine - it’s not boring and I’m really good with diagnostics.  As it turns out, during the journey, I found something I’m even better at.  

There are a lot of inspirational quotes and articles that float around medblr.  The only one I ever found relevant went something along the lines of “If they don’t scare you, your dreams aren’t big enough”.  And you know what was never scary to me? Med school.  Sure, it’s hard.  But...I’ve spent a good long portion of my life just kind of surviving so honestly hard isn’t scary to me.  The career on the other side of med school also offers a decent amount of financial security.  You know what was scary to me? 

Clicking submit on the application to grad school.  I found the *perfect* program for me.  It’s a bioarch program that combines bioarch with genetic testing.  It’s in Liverpool, England.  It’s only a year long.  Then I’d get to go on to my PhD.  And I’m really nervous that I won’t get in.  It doesn’t matter that I graduated with a 3.93 at my current institution - my overall was a 2.96 because of my grades back in the day (super bitter about that because I’d have graduated Summa Cum Laude if I didn’t screw it all up back then.).  I’ll be more surprised if I get in than if I don’t.  I’m scared that even if I do, if I go on to get a PhD, that I won’t get work and I won’t be able to pay off my loans.  But goddammit, I’ll be happy.  I’ll know I did it.  

I still like learning about medicine, and I’ll keep following most of the medblrs I currently follow because they’re awesome badasses.  I’m still interested in the state of US healthcare.  But my education is going to take a different path, and if I’m successful it’ll be exactly what I want in life.  Also, gratz if you made it to the bottom of this long ass personal post, lol.