#and just really really low energy even if nothing else is physically wrong with me

[studentbyday]

so i read recently that strength-based exercise has a bigger impact on depression than other forms of exercise? time to test that hypothesis on myself...

[only-mostlydead]

Hello. Today is my 30th birthday, and I am in bed recovering from surgery. To entertain myself, I wrote up a list of 30 things I'm glad I learned before I turned 30, and now I'm sharing it with you. Take what resonates, leave what doesn't.

30 Things I'm Glad I Learned Before I Turned 30

You can decline to be weighed at the doctor's office. Seriously. Unless they're dosing meds or need to report it to your insurance for something, you can say no thanks. And if they have to weigh you, you can request that they don't tell you the number.

Fed is better than not fed. There are days when my stomach won't tolerate anything except cheese puffs, so I eat the damn cheese puffs, without judgment. Feed yourself the best you can, and know that this will look different every day

Eventually, people will always tell you who they really are. Believe them the first time (this one comes from my mom).

Not living up to family expectations is very often a good thing. Your life needs to make you happy. You are your own person with no obligation to be what they want you to be.

Having a creative hobby that you're not "good" at is important. For me, it's watercolors. I do them because they bring me joy, not because I'm trying to be good at them. That's not to say that I don't love what I paint - I do. But there's no pressure for it to be anything other than fun.

Your job doesn't have to be fulfilling - it can just be a fundraiser for the things in your life that do bring you fulfillment.

Mental health is every bit as important as physical health. Don't neglect either.

When you have nothing to be sorry for, say thank you instead. Thank you for listening instead of sorry I bothered you, thank you for helping me instead of sorry I needed help. I'm not always good at this one.

Throw away the clothing with holes. You deserve clothing that doesn't have holes.

Your clothes are meant to fit you, not the other way around. Your body is the thing that carries you through your life. Clothes that don't fit are just scraps of fabric who aren't meeting their performance goals.

Everything is figure out-able. This one also comes from my mom.

Laziness doesn't really exist; it's almost always a response to something else (burnout, low self-esteem, etc).

Being your most authentic self is scary. It's also 100% worth it. Life has gotten better every time I've been even a tiny bit more myself.

There is no timetable for when you should hit certain milestones. You are not behind. You are on your own time.

Femininity means whatever I want it to mean, not what society tells me it means. Everything I do is feminine because I say it is, and no one can tell me otherwise.

Your job doesn't care about you. If you disappeared from the face of the earth, they would replace you immediately. You should bring them the same energy. You're the only one who will look out for you.

Use your PTO. Every damn second of it. When I started my current job, I was told that no one used all of their time off. I do. Every year.

Dieting literally does not work. Scientifically. Reading up on the Minnesota Starvation Experiment, Famine Response, and why BMI is literally sexist, racist bullshit changed my life.

Doctors might be experts in their respective fields, but they are not experts in what it's like to live in your body. Whenever possible, find one who makes you an active participant in your care plan.

Wear whatever the hell you want. Life is too short to worry what other people will think.

Live theatre, good meals, and beautiful tattoos are always worth the money.

Anger isn't inherently bad. Most of the time, it's your signal that something is wrong. This is the most impactful thing my therapist ever taught me as an ex-vangelical who grew up hearing that anger was a sin.

Don't put down the things that bring others joy. If they're not hurting you, themself, or anyone else, why waste your energy?

You cannot miss out on the things that are meant for you. If you miss it, it wasn't meant for you, and you should probably be grateful you missed it.

If I'm too much, go find less.

You are always responsible for your actions. Diagnoses, negative life experiences, and the like might explain bad behavior, but it doesn't excuse it. You are responsible for you.

Your feelings are always valid, but they are not always correct.

Go outside. Every day if you can. Even if it's for 30 seconds. Go get some fresh air on your face and look at a tree. If you can't make it outside, open a window, even just for a minute. Your brain will thank you.

You can leave. Hate the fitness class? Leave. Party too loud? Leave. Doctor not listening? L e a v e. As the famous tumblr post goes, if it sucks, hit da bricks!

You need nothing days. Days where you intentionally do absolutely nothing and feel zero guilt for that. Sit in bed, binge a Netflix show, eat some snacks, and don't think about all the things you're not doing. Let yourself rest, dammit.

[goodlucktai]

soft ground, claiming moon

it came from the trees

@natsumeweek 2023 day 2; keepsakes/new meetings read on ao3

(previous) (next) 

x

In a way, this situation reminds Takashi of when he was new to town—when he inadvertently led a mean ghoul straight to his bright, affable classmate and got him possessed.

Nishimura is never quick to anger when he’s in his own mind. He never snaps, never gives in to anger. He has a temper, because he’s too lively and feels too much about everything not to, but even when he’s on a long rant about the guy who cut in front of Mana at the convenience store—or waxing poetic about burning down Takashi’s old junior high school because Takashi unthinkingly mentioned the time the upperclassmen locked him in a closet there—it’s not really anger.  It’s just another shape his caring takes. 

The Nishimura in front of Takashi now is equal parts miserable and prickly. He’s wrapped in Tanuma’s jacket, a size too big, and his eyes are red-rimmed, face more and more pale, as if he’s very sick. He’s irritable as if he’s sick, too, energy sapping a little more with every step they take up the mountain toward the temple. 

When Taki bumps past him to push a low branch out of the way, Nishimura’s lips pull back briefly, like his mouth wants to snarl at her. She levels him with a flat stare. Kitamoto rattles him by the shoulder, worry warring with slightly hysterical humor. It’s enough together to snap Nishimura out of the fugue state that has seemed to be right under his skin for the last twenty-four hours. 

“Your teeth aren’t sharp enough yet to scare me, kiddo,” says Taki, who is less than one full month older than Nishimura. “Save it for moonrise.”

“Or don’t,” Kitamoto adds. 

Beneath sweaty fringe, Nishimura’s eyes are fever-bright. He looks back at Takashi, as frightened as he was in the hospital room. Maybe more so now. 

“This is a bad idea,” he says for the millionth time. 

“It’ll be fine,” Takashi tells him with a certainty he doesn’t really feel. “You’ll be fine. Nothing bad is going to happen, I promise.”

Nishimura stops walking abruptly and blurts, “You can’t!” 

He must be able to feel it. The sky is a deep, vivid blue, the sun a pale yellow orb, half-hidden in the misty mountain haze. Night is creeping in, shadows stretching beneath the trees. Change is coming. 

Tanuma meets Takashi’s eyes over the top of Nishimura’s head, transparently concerned. Kitamoto is still holding Nishimura’s hand, but he looks like he’d like to pick his friend all the rest of the way up and carry him someplace safe from all of this. Taki’s grip on the strap of her bag turns white-knuckled.

“Hey,” Takashi says. “I can. I do.”

“How?” Nishimura’s voice warbles. “How could you possibly know what’s gonna happen? What if something goes wrong? What if I hurt one of you?”

He’s quick to cry on a good day, but normally over silly, harmless things, like animal videos on Youtube, or the romance dramas he’s not ashamed of watching. 

Absolutely none of his friends are prepared for it when it happens for real. Tanuma is outright hovering now, hands half-raised, expression openly devastated. 

Not for the first time in his life, but certainly for the first time since coming to Hitoyoshi, Takashi wished he could go back in time. He wished there was a yokai like the Days Eater who could make the whole world younger—just by a month. One month. 

Then he could keep everyone out of the forest that day. He could keep Nishimura safe. 

Takashi had encountered okami before, silent, watchful messengers of the mountain gods. Even their physical forms are ghost-like. The thing that hurt his friend was something else, all twisted out of shape and mangled, horror incarnate. 

Sensei pinned it to the earth in one giant foot, but the damage had been done. Nishimura’s howls of pain were indistinguishable from the wolf’s and so much blood had poured out over his hands. It was like a nightmare. 

Taki summoned her own familiars, two trilling foxes that sprang to her side at a whistle. They weren’t particularly friendly, but they were loyal, and their hackles went up at the sight of the misshapen creature writhing beneath the cage of sensei’s claws. The second the foxes had it contained, sensei flew like water to Takashi’s side. His snow-white fur was stained obscenely by the time Kitamoto and Takashi had maneuvered Nishimura onto his back. 

When sensei was only a speck in the sky, Takashi was finally able to tear his eyes away. He made his way slowly back to Taki and Tanuma’s side, the three of them breathing heavily, hearts racing, staring at the mindless animal thrashing and swiping against the kitsune’s binding. 

They didn’t speak. After a long moment, Tanuma wound his prayer beads around his shaking hands. Taki ground a piece of colorful chalk, her favorite medium, down to dust in her restless fingers. 

It was cursed, she had said, face tight with rage and sadness, watching Tanuma release the poor thing into its next life. Her face was tacky with drying tears. Someone’s bright idea of an extermination spell gone wrong. Those stupid exorcists don’t know the damage they do. 

It was worth her anger. When the wolf was gone, and Natsume’s friends among the yokai were on alert for more creatures like it, and Taki’s finicky familiars were delivering word to the local god, she, Tanuma and Takashi were running full-pelt into town. They crashed into the hospital covered in dirt and sweat and, in Natsume’s case, dried blood. Nishimura’s parents were absent, but his brother was there, and so was Kitamoto’s entire family. 

Kitamoto was sitting in a chair, hands tucked between his knees, terror in his eyes. Someone had gotten him a fresh shirt to wear, at least. His hands had been scrubbed raw. Sensei was squished stubbornly against his side. 

It felt disloyal to think it, but they were lucky. If it had been a real wolf that mauled him, Nishimura probably would have bled out before sensei could deliver him to the hospital. If it had been an actual wraith or monster, the poison it left in him would have done nothing but destroy. 

Even cursed, the wolf was still a messenger of the mountain god, inherently divine in nature. Even the evil forced into its spirit could do good. Once Nishimura’s fever broke, he improved in leaps and bounds. Taki had to sketch a quick circle on the back of Nishimura’s hospital bed to lightly confound the medical staff who otherwise might have been confused at the unnatural rate of healing. 

When they weren’t glued to Nishimura’s side, they were pouring themselves into research.  It didn’t take them long to figure out the nature of the beast. Especially when Tanuma overheard one of the nurses asking Nishimura’s brother if Nishimura had any allergies. 

Eggs when he was little, Kiyoshi replied, nonplussed. But he outgrew that. 

He’s having a bit of a reaction to something, the nurse said. It might be the dressings. They contain silver. It’s a rare allergy, but not unheard of. I’ll change these and we’ll go from there. 

Oh, god, Tanuma had said out loud, and then fled the room when Kiyoshi and the nurse looked at him weird. 

Since then, they’ve poured every second of their time and energy into preparing for the full moon. The Yatsuhara spirits are active and vigilant, hundreds of secret little guards, and Takashi can feel himself thrumming with the excess energy. Ogata and Shibata are meeting at the station in Yatsushiro and according to their LINE messages, they’ll be in Hitoyoshi within the hour. 

They’ve got this. Whatever happens, they’ll handle it together. Takashi gazes at Nishimura, wishing he knew how to tell him that Nishimura is the one who taught him how to do that in the first place. How to put his faith into his friend’s hands and let them hold onto it. 

That noisy, clingy boy from his homeroom who attached himself to Takashi on day one, who adamantly refused to let Takashi wander off alone. Takashi is determined to return the favor.

“You won’t hurt anybody,” Takashi tells him now. “You’ll still be you.”

Nishimura’s eyes drip with tears. His fear is visceral. There’s nothing he can do to stop the sun from going down. There’s nothing any of them can do to stop the change from coming. 

But Takashi can, at the very least, make his friend less afraid.

“We have the best witch in Kyushu here to help,” he says lightly. It makes Taki smile at him, and then at Nishimura when he glances her way. “And our favorite monk-in-training, and sensei. Nothing bad is going to happen, okay? We won’t let it.”

While Tanuma’s brain buffers, surprised and pleased to be anyone’s favorite anything, Nyanko-sensei jumps down from his shoulder and lands with a muffled thump in the damp leaf-litter. 

“That’s right, brat,” sensei says. “A puny wolf is no match for me. Now hurry up and get walking before the strawberry cake in Kitamoto’s bag goes bad.”

“That was supposed to be a surprise, you rat!” Kitamoto shouts. 

Nishimura laughs. It’s wet and shaky, and he looks surprised to have done it, but it leaves a tiny smile on his face. He crouches when sensei paws imperiously at his leg and scoops the fat cat up into the crook of his arm. 

They climb the rest of the way to the temple in better spirits. Daylight is barely clinging to the sky with pale fingers. Tanuma’s father left the lights on for him before he left. It would ordinarily be the kind of warmly-lit beacon that takes all the stress out of your shoulders, a comfortable, familiar, safe sight at the end of the road. 

But today the sight is marred by Natori, standing on the path way with his arms folded and a bag at his feet. Something glints in his hand. His familiars drift warily behind him like sharks. 

“Looks like I’m fashionably early,” the exorcist says with a gleaming grin. “Introduce me to your friends, Natsume.”

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Dismantled Chapter Nine

ao3

not completely happy with this one but also i do this for free and for fun so im not gonna stress about it

Trigger Warnings: mentions of dying, panic attacks, PTSD, also the muzzle™️ gets brought up

2584 words

Something was wrong with him. 

Anytime he so much as thought of his brothers, of his previous life, he was plagued with a panic that rivaled being dangled over the edge of a cliff, raging waters crashing against the rocks below. More than a moment of thinking about it would have him falling, dying dying dying, body crushed, drowned, and destroyed. 

He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why it was happening. Was this seriously a result of his… what, trauma? Sure, he’d figured he and his brothers all had issues (oh god, oh god don’t think about them just stop thinking about them it hurts this hurts so bad please stop—), but he’d never thought them to be this bad.  

Maybe all their unsupervised adventures and hero stuff really had taken a toll on him. 

With the amount of raw panic he’d been experiencing, his energy had never been more drained. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, and the only way to solve the problem was. Well. To stop thinking about it.

Easier said than done, of course, but he couldn’t find another drop of energy to spend on crying.

And through it all, this wanna-be father figure of his just… comforted him. Anytime Donnie began to show signs of oncoming panic, he wouldn’t just leave him alone. He’d stay, he’d manage to find just the right things to say to help him calm down.

It was… weirdly really nice. His terror didn’t feel stupid, when d-he was there. 

“Okay, here’s an idea,” his… he was blanking. Why was he blanking? — said. “I need to go to the store, we’re running low on some stuff. How about you make me a list of stuff we can get to help relieve some of this stress you’ve been experiencing?”

“Seriously?” He asked, half-sure he’d hit his head again.

“Yeah, bud! Whatever you need.”

Donnie cracked a smile. “I don’t suppose uranium is on the table—?”

He laughed, shaking his head fondly as he slid a sheet of paper across the table. “Within reason, kiddo.” He passed over a pen. “Here’s the list, just jot down whatever you can think of and I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

That was just so… so considerate. 

“Oh, um… thank you.” It just felt surreal. This wasn’t something that Splinter (don’t think about him thinking about him hurts stop wait makeitstop) would do. He wouldn’t have even pretended to care.

Determined not to snap the pen in his rising anxiety, he swallowed the thought down. He wasn’t going to think about that stuff right now. He was literally trying to figure out how to stop freaking out like that.

He took a deep breath, pouring his energy into staring down at the paper and trying to determine what would actually be helpful. Fidget toys? Possibly. A weighted blanket? Most definitely, but was that too expensive?

What would really help, he mused, would be something to tinker with. He hadn’t built or created anything in… how long had he been here? 

He could only imagine the amount of stress he could relieve if he could wield his array of tools. Of course, his tools were upgraded beyond an average plebeian’s comprehension. Those tools were probably still in his lab back home, which — home. Shredder. Danger danger dangerdangerdanger!

Wow, trauma kind of sucked.

Shaking his head, he jotted down whatever he could think of before sliding the list awkwardly back across the table. 

“Alright, I’ll be back in an hour or two, okay? If you get hungry, there are apple sauce packets in the fridge — nothing else while I’m gone. You know how I feel about chokeables. Do you want to set up a movie?”

And, yeah, he kind of did want to set up a movie.

And so they did. Through it all, as Donnie sat in the living room, with complete freedom to move; as he snacked on apple sauce and watched a cartoon he’d never heard of on the TV; as he idly worked a coloring page he’d been offered (with crayons, no less)… not once did the thought of leaving even cross his mind. More accessible to him than ever was the door, but it seemed stupid to go through it, now. 

Out there was scary. It was dangerous. He couldn’t defend himself, he was just a kid. And, well, he’d always been somewhat useless without his tech. 

And boy, a part of him did itch to work, to create something from nothing, to make a gadget or gizmo that could make his life easier. Maybe he should ask about that…

He flipped his coloring page over, beginning to sketch out various designs and ideas for tech he could make. A better toaster, firstly. The one they had didn’t seem to work very well. 

It was nice to get back to this part of himself. The part that had been aching to build. And of course, every good creation started with a rough sketch.

------

It had been a few days. The fidget toys (and weighted blanket, which Donnie couldn’t even begin to describe how appreciative he was for), had been more helpful than he could have anticipated. The random spikes of anxiety were still present, but they felt so much easier to deal with. It was nice.

And, something he couldn’t have anticipated at all: he’d actually been given access to tools. His… caretaker? His dad? (unsure, but it was kind of starting to feel like a nicer word to fit his mouth around), had even gone out to find some scrap parts. The only catch was that he needed to be supervised when he handled any of that stuff, but Donnie could absolutely live with that. He’d upgraded the toaster the first chance he got, feeling happier than he could remember in a long while.

In fact, he was actively enjoying a perfectly done piece of toast from the freshly fixed-up machine, when, out of absolutely nowhere—

“What are you up to, sunshine?”

“Fuck!” Donnie screeched, so startled that he dropped the last bit of his bread. He clamped his clean hand over his mouth. “I — I’m sorry I didn’t mean to say — you startled me, I — I’m sorry,” he stammered, heart racing. He scratched at a phantom rash on his face.

It had happened again, a few days ago. He hadn’t been thinking, and he’d said one of those stupid words, and… he really, really didn’t like that thing. He desperately didn’t want to have to deal with again so soon. Or ever.

The expression on his caretaker’s face was neutral, unreadable. Or maybe Donnie was just really bad at reading people. He wasn’t sure of things like that, these days. Things about himself.

“You used the toaster.”

Oh, no. He’d honestly just… forgotten. It was just another item on the long list of things that he wasn’t supposed to do without “supervision”.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, bracing himself for whatever punishment was about to come his way. Not the muzzle. Please not the muzzle.

There was a long, drawn out sigh. “It’s okay.”

…what?

He wasn’t mad? That was… he’d expected him to be really mad. Not that he was complaining, but… this had to be some kind of trick, he was sure.

“I know you’re still getting used to all this. Just… don’t do it again, okay?”

“Okay…” he agreed, nodding slowly. As little sense as this made to him, he was not about to question it. Out loud, at least.

“Anyway, I was thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Donnie quipped, entirely on reflex. 

He barked out a laugh. “I was thinking,” he continued, suddenly so lighthearted and smiling and for some unexplainable reason, contagious. Donnie felt warm in the happiest of ways. Like he hadn’t just been anticipating a horror-show as consequence for saying the wrong thing. “How about we go to the library?”

Was that… was that an offer to leave the house? That was… completely unprecedented. What was going on today?

“I’m… banned from the library,” he finally responded, stupidly.

“How could you possibly—? Actually, we can talk about that later. This is a different library. I’m sure you’re dying to stretch your legs.”

He was, but with his experience, there had to be some kind of ulterior motive here. “Why?”

His brow furrowed. “Why… what?”

“Why… ugh, why do you want to take me to the library?”

“I just thought you’d enjoy getting out of the house. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to—”

“No, no I want to, I just… what do you get out of it?”

“Um… spending time with my kid?”

While before, that would have made him deeply uncomfortable, now it just… sat in him with a giddy warmth. His kid. It was nice to be wanted. 

“Oh.” he finally said, sitting with that for a moment. “Yeah, I… but I thought… somethin’ about a concussion?” He asked. His brain hurt. He was supposed to be better at using it than this.

“It should be mostly healed up by now.”

And, well, that was good enough for him.

It didn’t go unnoticed, as they actually left the house, that it wasn’t the door he’d grown accustomed to staring at that they existed through. It was a different door, one that, even as he stepped through it, he couldn’t quite place where specifically it was in the house. It was like his mind was just… warping around it. That was so weird, why would it—?

But he didn’t have the time to finish the thought, because for the first time in ages, he was actually outside.

The street was lined with houses that looked completely dissimilar from each other, each with yards that Donnie had to assume would never be HOA-approved in the human world above. They were certainly more interesting to look at than a human suburb. If he were allowing himself to think of the things he didn’t want to think about, he’d assume that Mikey would love this area. But he wasn’t thinking about that.

It wasn’t a long walk before the scenery quickly began to change to the Hidden City that Donnie was used to seeing. Another side of town, of course, as he didn’t recognize anything specifically. Then again, it wasn’t as if he was a frequenter of the place.

Despite his strong distaste for most things mystic, the Hidden City remained fascinating. 

Before long, there it was: yet another mystic library. Did the Hidden City really need two endless voids of limitless knowledge? Not that he was complaining. Libraries were number one on Donnie’s list of Places He Enjoyed. 

“Great Galileo,” he said softly as they entered, mindful of his volume. “I could get lost in here for days and be happy.”

The librarian looked down her nose at him, gaze flickering between the pair. “Kiddy room is over there,” she said, waving dismissively. 

His heart seized at the memory of that place. For a room for little kids, it was one of the most horrifying experiences that had ever happened to him. He could be quiet this time. He swore he could.

His definitely not-dad laughed, beating him to the punch. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, “we just need directions to the… what was it?”

“Erm… mechanical engineering, please,” Donnie said, rocking on his heels awkwardly.

The librarian raised her eyebrows, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Or… something that wasn’t somewhat common in yokai-culture, probably. “Catalog is to your left,” she said, “were we looking for children’s science books, or…?”

“Oh, no. He’s brilliant, real sharp. Smartest kid I’ve ever seen.”

Real, genuine, unprompted compliments from a parent aged-adult? He could get used to this. He… could get used to this…

“Right…” the librarian hummed, seemingly bored. “And are we signing him up for a library card, today?”

“Ooh!” he exclaimed. He hadn’t even known that was an option! “Can I?” he asked, squeezing his hands in an effort not to flap them in his excitement.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Name?” she asked, typing away.

“Donatello Ha—” he cut himself off, a tinge of doubt clouding his long-practiced answer. “Um… Donatello.”

“Mhmm. Can I see your ID?” She asked, though this time, she wasn’t addressing him.

His parent aged adult pulled out a small card, handing it over to her.

“Mhmm…” she muttered to herself as she typed, “Scorch…” she said under her breath, Donnie just barely catching the word. 

Scorch.

So that was this guy’s name, huh? It felt… weird to know it, after so much time going without. He felt like being a little kid learning that his dad’s name wasn’t really dad. He supposed that was exactly what it was like. 

“Okay,” she finally announced, “he’s all set up.”

It was nice to have a dad that would actually do these things for him. He’d never had a legitimate library card before.

------

“Excuse me,” a young yokai boy said, politely stepping around Donnie. He paused, staring at him quizzically for a moment. “Sorry — have we met? You look familiar.”

“Probably not,” Donnie said, lifting the book he’d just picked off the shelf and begun flipping through to signify that he wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

The boy didn’t move. Was his social cue not obvious enough? 

“No man, I swear I’ve seen you before…” he snapped his fingers, eyes going wide. “Wait, holy shit, you’re one of those turtles from that weird-ass mascot thing in New York!”

Donnie looked up, utterly confused. “What?”

“That Times Square bullshit — all those yokai that were in the costumes, and you guys like, exposed them? Dude, that was not cool.”

Oh. He remembered that day. They’d been out, just trying to get a present for… oh. 

His chest felt too tight. 

Focus on something else. Focus on something else. 

Like how this kid kept swearing. Trying to sound, what, mature? The words left his head muffled, like he could still feel the muzzle. 

Maybe he should have chosen something else to focus on. His breathing wasn’t right. His hands tightened around the book hard enough to rip the paper. If he tried to move now, he was sure he’d be so unsteady he would fall. That imagery of the rocky cliffside felt closer than ever, right now. Another inch and he’d be pushed right off.

“It went super viral, dude, I knew I recognized you, you guys really weren’t thinking, were you?”

His throat felt too tight to form a response. What was he even supposed to say? He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, oh god—

“What’s going on here?”

Donnie breathed a sigh of relief.

“You bothering my kid?”

The boy who’d been pestering him laughed awkwardly. “Oh, uh, no sir. I was just asking him… y’know, nevermind.”

As the boy scurried off, his savior knelt down, fussing over him. “Are you okay, bud? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing, he just…” Donnie trailed off, heart pounding in his chest as he fought off those memories.

“Breathing exercises, remember? It’s okay, deep breath in… deep breath out. You’re okay. You’re here.”

He was here. He was safe. It was fine. It was all totally, completely fine. 

“Thanks, dad.” He said, exhausted as he calmed his racing heart. He didn’t even quite register what had slipped right from his mouth. He hadn’t even thought about it. It just felt right. It felt safe.

He felt completely and totally safe.

[lapisllong]

You don't owe anyone but yourself forgiveness.

No one owes you anything they didn't explicitly commit to

Consent is not just for sex. It may feel weird at first, but asking for consent in most situations will help you create a safer and more comfortable environment, build trust, and may even normalize it for others.

Talk to people and really listen to what they have to say. Everyone brings something new to you, and everyone will take something of you with them if you allow connections. The world will be richer for it.

Treat your body well. Your joints, teeth, spine, & feet take a lot of abuse during their normal use. Be kind to them because you will really miss your mobility later

If anyone makes you feel like they don't have time or room for you, give them some space. After a week, ask them what's going on. Sometimes, they are overwhelmed. Sometimes, they need more space (like ALL of it, forever).

Moving on doesn't have to be bitter. You are allowed to fondly lose touch with someone when you two no longer connect and are becoming very different people. Love who they were and let go.

There is some truth in the saying that all relationships are transactional, but that is too distilled to be the whole truth. Relationships have give and take, whether it is energy, support, love, sex, conversation, clothes, money, etc. Don't be an accountant about it, but make sure that the interaction feels balanced to you both.

Keep in mind that the value given is not always the value received. Ex: You could give me $500 running shoes and feel super proud of the work and value they represent to you, but to me, they are valueless because I can't use them. On the other hand, my boyfriend does physically strenuous tasks for me because they are low value and easy for him but extremely high value to me, and I do the talking and driving in public because that is low value and easy for me but priceless to him. So don't discount things that are easy for you; they may mean the world to someone else.

There is nothing wrong with admitting you don't know or can't do something. You can always find the answer together or ask what outcome they are looking for and help them get there another way.

hi any life advice for 21yo

Don't date thirty-year-olds until you are at least 25.

Having a glass of water for every glass of alcohol will give you a 50% reduction in hangover viciousness.

Bad people will use your willingness to be quiet as a weapon against you. If someone's being awful to you and trusting you'll be quiet to keep from making waves, surprise them.

There is no physical object in the world that is worth as much as your honor.

Honor is not the same as dignity. Retaining one sometimes means leaving the other aside.

Don't have any sex you don't want to have; have as much as you want of the sex that you do, whether that's a lot, a little, or none at all. Nothing you can do to your own body is immoral, unless you're doing it as an act of self-punishment.

Food is morally neutral. You do not have to earn the right to eat calories. Fat and sugar keep your brain from eating itself.

Learning to sit still and breathe--in, in, in, hold, hold, hold, out, out, out, out, out, out--can give you five feet of clear space around yourself in a maelstrom.

Find out how to make three good meals: A comfort meal you can make for just yourself relatively easily, a fancy meal you can use to wow a date, and a meal you can feed a bunch of people. All the other cooking can come later, but you can build a community on those three meals.

If you ever get to the point that things are so bleak you can see no other way forward but to die, make any other choice. If that means leaving everything you own and being a beach bum, or quitting your career, or taking up or leaving a religion, or deciding to bicycle across the country, so be it; living means more chances, dying means everything stops and you don't get to see any more interesting things. As you have not yet seen all the things that can interest you, it is better to live.

[estelleah]

You know what is the worst part for me about the times when it's "getting bad" again?

It's having a part of me that wishes that I wouldn't have any friends anymore.

It feels like such a horrible thought - especially because I love the few people that I get to call my friends with all my heart and because they mean more to me than I could ever put into words...but at that time, when my energy is already running low and when my brain is already telling me that I don't even deserve friends (and they hate you anyways, you only cause them trouble and annoy them)...at that time a part of me can't help but wonder if it wouldn't be easier to not have to put so much time and thoughts into worrying and overthinking.

And believe me, there's a lot of worrying and overthinking involved every time it comes to my friends. Did I say something wrong? Did I pressure them too much? Did I not appear interested enough? Is something else bothering them or am I just picking up the wrong signals? Are they alright, mentally and physically? The list goes on and on and it's not even always about my relationship with them but just their general situation.

While most times I'm able to balance that out somehow, it's just so hard to do when I'm already running on low sleep and constant anxiety. My body is already using so much energy to simply exist and it takes a lot of my time and mental headspace to worry about them. Putting effort into maintaining these friendships seems like an impossible task at times - even though another part of me wants nothing more than to put that effort into my friends because I care more for them than I care for myself sometimes and because I want them to be loved and valued.

And it's not fair to them in the slightest because I get so irrationally frustrated with them and because I constantly apologize and do annoy them with my general behavior and I know that and that just makes it worse. A part of me always wants to explain, wants them to tell everything so they can understand if they want to but that would mean that a) I have to share my deepest and darkest thoughts with them, which is nothing that I would even consider in a heartbeat and b) I have to take the risk of them not getting it and instead getting mad at me for it or - and that would be even worse - would feel bad or guilty.

And I know that it'll get better eventually and I know that I will never act on these thoughts and do things that I will regret later on but man sometimes I really wish I just wouldn't have to deal with that.

[keefwho]

September 01 - 2023 Friday

8:49 AM Thoughts

I guess I feel kinda worthless this morning. Rather my head is full of thoughts that keep telling me whats wrong with me and how everything is going downhill. They are deep beliefs like "I can't keep up this act" "It'll all come crumbling down" "Whats the point of trying anything if it'll only lead to ruin"

2:09 PM Thoughts

I hate where I am. I do nothing. I live in the same room every day. I don't really mean anything to anyone. I have no physical connection to anyone. I can't live up to any friend that does. That makes me disposable. I feel horrible and selfish that I think I deserve love from anyone. I feel wrong expecting that from anyone. No matter how much I give back, it never makes me enough. I want to be able to love like others do. I don't know if I am capable. I want to talk to my friend, I want to be moody with them and open up. But that also feels selfish, especially with what they are going through recently. I want to be able to have other friends I can be vulnerable with but I don't like anyone else like that. I don't know what to do with myself today or this weekend. All I can think about is how bad everything could be. I'm still awaiting the seemingly inevitable destruction of everything I enjoy in my life. I can't move up, only down. I don't even know how I got to where I am, I feel like I wrongfully own everything. I don't want to isolate but I don't want to talk to anyone either. I feel like I can't connect with anyone. But how do I know I'm not just self destructing. I know I need to make a conscious effort to put myself in favorable positions.

3:14 PM

I'm sitting here wallowing instead of doing something. I vaguely know what I want to do but my thoughts stop me. I'm literally choosing to give into my sadness rather than putting in the energy to direct my focus onto something that will fulfill me. I guess I still haven't really learned how destructive this really is. One day I should wake up and realize what I'm doing to myself.

11:54 PM

I don't WANT to do a journal entry but is that low self worth talking or do I really not want to? Also I DO want to in the sense that I want to have said I did it and documented my life a little but I don't want to put in the work. I will anyways.

Breakfast was leftover broccoli pizza. I wasn't looking forward to today since it's the 1st of the month and that means new commissions and finances. Stream went as normal as always. The guy that commissioned me was iffy on what he wanted at the end and I had to contain my frustration because of how petty his complaints were. Also he wanted to add a background which isn't a huge deal except I have to match the lighting of the background to his character while usually I do it the other way around. Really its just been bad communication on his part which is something I have to put up with alot.

Before lunch I tackled my finances and updated my profiles everywhere but honestly a good chunk of the midday was spent procrastinating. I took a shower and had spaghetti for lunch. After lunch I felt like giving into my sadness and not doing anything but I was able to get myself to work on some art and another avatar so I guess I'm proud of that. It was also a case of wanting to do something for the sake of having got it done and it is fulfilling if I can actually do it. I also made sure not to isolate myself by hanging out in a friend's server even if I was mostly just listening to them yell at their games. Eventually I left them and joined a different server where I finished up work and played some Battlebit with them. It was kinda fun but all day I had been in my head and wasn't entirely present. All day I just wanted to chat with my bestie about anything because I felt like I needed that emotional release and I did end up getting that after some fun VR time. The only meaning I felt today was spent with her because she always manages to be a good thing even on bad days. Now I'm hopeful for tomorrow that I can figure out some things to do and focus on them. Im aware of the kinds of ways I was feeling today and how I did/didn't handle it properly.

[otherworldsjt]

Death's Fury Chapter III: SVVL

      Thankfully there isn't an assessment during our missions; otherwise, we'd look pretty unprofessional right now.

      I looked as if I'd just woken up and after leaving the train station, Trik and I realized we'd gotten off at the wrong stop. We were closer to the center of Atlanta rather than being dropped off near the west, so we had to hoof it the rest of the way.

      Lucky for me, I'd brought my trusty compact board along before leaving home. It's a sleek board with energy-absorbing panels on the front end that...well, absorb energy. Then it can release it in controlled amounts of force from either the two fan ports on the bottom for height control or the retractable jet thingy in the back that provides the propulsion. Trust me; it's way cooler than it sounds. My dad whipped it up for me since Primordials aren't as earthbound as humans.

      Controlling it's simpler than I initially thought it'd be. Once it's connected to my chip, I feel like there are two levers in my head: one for height and one for power output, so staying in control isn't difficult.

      According to my dad, its top speed depends on its rider; with me, it's enough to break the sound barrier. Still, I haven't tried it out yet since he warned me that to achieve that speed, I'd have to be able to infuse my spirit energy into the panels while also maintaining physical enhancement for my body to be able to withstand the g-force, drag, and impact from any unlucky bugs.

      Now, I'm proficient in controlling my spirit energy or enhancing my body with it, but multitasking isn't really my strong suit, so I decided it'd be best to hold off on that for now.

      We had to cruise along the sidewalks since cities are considered no-fly zones for all aircraft. After about 30 minutes, Trik started complaining about being hungry, so we stopped by a nearby deli restaurant. Immediately after entering, my mouth began to salivate at the scent of food.

      It hadn't occurred to me until then that it'd been over 24 hours since I last ate, and, at the moment, I was ready to eat the entire restaurant's supply.

      We both ended up ordering nearly half the menu before finally being satiated. I finished before Trik and watched him devour every piece of food on his plate – even the bones.

      Not sure I understand how he eats or how he digests food exactly, but it appears as if he puts the food into his mouth, and the food is then broken down into energy for him somehow.

      Usually, when I ask him about it, he takes it personally and gives me vague responses that don't really answer the question. So, this time I asked something else I've been curious about – why does he eat the bones?

      He says his body gets fuel from all the food, wasting nothing. He followed with a low comment about humans being incapable of assimilating what he refers to as the best parts of food—bit of a superior complex there.

      When the bill came, to no surprise, it racked up to a pricey amount. It wasn't a problem, though; we still had plenty of money from our weekend in Las Vegas back in April. It was the most amount of fun I'd had, and now that I think about it, the luckiest we'd been since beginning the mission.

      We'd agreed only to spend the money on food since we'll be traveling too often to buy something like a house or car. Besides, if all Primordials can fly and Death can teleport (pretty sure I read that he could somewhere), then what's the point in buying a car anyways?

      After leaving the restaurant, we continued west and passed a martial arts stadium where experienced men and women battle each other while masterfully controlling their "chi." The poster outside had a man with an EQN of 837 facing off against a woman with an EQN of 841.

      By the way, EQN are energy quantity numbers that's an essential factor in today's society. It can cement one's status almost as much as money does. Decades ago, the global corporation, TekTra, invented sensory devices called energy quantifiers that, when held, can measure how much spirit energy someone has. Now SVVL centers use them to determine a contestant's position and capabilities.

      Considering the average human has an EQN between 500 and 600, I found it interesting to see a non-Watcher that close to 1,000.

      We decided to take a peek inside. I used the compact board to float to the top of the stadium, where the ceiling was opened, and we saw thousands of people sitting in arranged seats with poly glass lined between each row. They were all cheering at the fight being displayed on giant projection screens. The actual battle was happening 80 feet below in the center of the arena.

      I channeled some of my spirit energy to my eyes, enhancing my vision. It's a secret skill called omni-vision that most Watchers and Primordials use. I try not to do it around others since it causes the iris to glow the same color as my spirit energy; though, it happens instinctively when I'm on alert.

      Like this, my vision not only gets enhanced, but it also makes other's spirit energy perceptible. I could see the match well now, and I gotta admit, they were pretty good. I've never seen anyone other than Watchers who could manipulate their spirit energy that well.

      Standing inside a ring the size of half a basketball court was a burly man in his early 30s,from what I could tell. Probably 6'2", 6'3" maybe, and easily 250 pounds of bulking muscle. He was shirtless, wore green gym shorts that were a little too tight, white bandages wrapped around his fists, and his spirit energy radiated from him with an assertive orange flow. My guess was close quarters combat was his specialty.

      On the other hand, his opponent was a woman, I'm guessing in her late 20s, who was dressed in a purple sparring outfit with her midriff exposed, revealing a very well-toned stomach. The material appeared light and Egyptian, with a slightly thicker hood and mask that only showed her eyes. Her weapon of choice was a polearm of some kind with a blade at its end, with her calm, blue energy imbued within it, so her specialty was probably mid-range combat.

      By the way, just in case things are different in your time and you're wondering why anyone would let a master of polearms use a deadly weapon against someone fighting with his fists...the answer is overpopulation.

      Remember how I said people weren't dying for two centuries? Well, new babies were still being born every day, and the planet started to feel it over time. Within 50 years, worldwide panic ensued after the human population reached an all-time high of 12 billion. To solve the apparent problems presented, every country came up with its own ways of trimming its numbers.

      For example, some created these Spartan-like battle expeditions, and tried creating events using kid games with a death principle. But, with both ideas, people weren't dying; they'd just get back up, so they implemented a way to indefinitely "hold" those who should have died.

      America came up with a similar approach by creating a martial arts tournament system named SVVL (get it?), where participants would sign a contract stating they'd relinquish their life in the event they lost.

      Following their consent, participants would compete in a city tournament, where the champion would then be entered into the state tournament. The state champion would then be entered into a country-wide tournament. Those who lost were held indefinitely until scientists could figure out how to get people to die again.

      What made people sign up was the reward system the government created. For city tournaments, the families of volunteers received $50,000. They received an extra $10,000 for every tenth consecutive win, and the overall tournament winner would receive $500,000.

      During state tournaments, contestants no longer received pay for consecutive wins, but the champion would receive $10,000,000, and the country-wide champion received $100,000,000. Taxed, of course.

      Combine that with Greed's influence on humans, him spreading the principles of spirit manipulation, and the match rules permitting any weapon excluding firearms. You have millions who felt invincible enough to win the prize.

      After that, America's consuming population declined dramatically, resulting in other countries creating tournament systems of their own. Over the following century-and-a-half, consuming populations fell, with the only issue being where to keep all the people being held.

      Thankfully that hasn't been an issue since Death's resurfacing, so space has been slowly increasing while the population continues to decrease.

      Anyways, that's why I am currently watching a seemingly unfair fight between a polearms master and a hand-to-hand combatant.

      To most of the audience, the fight most likely just seemed like an exchange of blows between a nimble woman and a solid man. But, to those few like me, who could see and sense spirit energy, it was clearly a fray between two masters.

      The giant man was slow but durable. He'd focus his spirit energy into his fists to parry strikes from her weapon unscathed, then quickly spread it throughout his arms right before making contact during his counter strikes. That way he could increase the strength of his attacks without wasting energy.

      The woman, though smaller, was able to withstand the devastating force from each strike by concentrating her spirit energy on her feet and calves while simultaneously spreading some to the points of the polearm that contacted his fists. After gaining some distance, she focused more on her legs and began to attack with so much speed and agility that the guy's only option was to spread his spirit energy throughout his entire body to protect himself.

      Unfortunately, not only would that quickly eat away at his strength and leave him exhausted, but due to not having a large spirit reserve to begin with, spreading it throughout his entire body only gave him a thin layer of protection.

      As the man guarded against the onslaught, the hardened spirit energy protecting him began to crack.

      In a desperate attempt to stop the woman, the man slams the floor beneath them, causing it to shake and throw the woman off balance.

      In one, swift movement the man punches the woman in the stomach while she'd off balance. The man then grabs her polearm with one arm and her neck with the other and slams her into the ground as he chokes her.

      As the man grins in self-satisfaction the woman, struggling under his strength, reaches for her polearm in the man's other hand.

      Gripping the end of it, she twists it causing imbedded blades to eject through the mans hand that was gripping the polearm.

      As the man let go of the polearm the woman slashes the blade across his face, causing him to wail in pain. The woman takes this opportunity to coat her legs with her energy again and speed around the ring.

      It would've been easy to determine the winner at that point, but I noticed the woman's spirit energy had begun to diminish fast. The energy consumption rate for maintaining that speed is high – way more than she could handle.

      Both fighters must've realized they were nearing their limits and decided to put everything they had into their next attack.

      The woman sped around the ring and flanked him from behind; then, midway, she leaped forward while placing her remaining spirit energy into the tip of the blade on her polearm – most likely with the expectation he'd continue to shield his entire body – but the man, instead, focused and charged his right arm with the remainder of his spirit energy. Then, whirling around towards the woman, he swung his arm in an arc, directly clashing with the woman's blade.

      The force from their attacks impacting each other created a shockwave that shook the stadium, and it was at that moment, I grasped the purpose of the poly glass down in the audience.

      Sadly, being an illegal observant of this fight and completely ignorant of its customs, I had no such protection from the shockwave.

      The blast blew me backward off the roof over an 80-foot drop, but luckily, Trik and I have quick reflexes. Trik caught me underneath my arms and flew upwards to slow the fall while I focused my spirit energy on my legs.

      As I watched the dim, aqua-colored aura enveloping my legs become denser, I felt the familiar sensation of power seep through my skin.

      At first, it spread with an intense heat through every fiber of muscle within my legs, strengthening them before finally settling on the bones with a solidifying coolness that reached the marrow.

      With my legs now reinforced, and the ground about 40 feet below me, I told Trik to let go and landed on the ground below me. Let me just say that landing on solid concrete is not as easy or as painless as TV makes it look. Even with my legs reinforced, I felt some of the impact around my knees. Next time I'll remember to roll instead of trying to look cool.

      Still reeling over the fight I had just witnessed, I couldn't help but think about how different things are from what was taught during my training.

      I mean, yeah, I already knew that nowadays, most people are aware of their spirit energy since Greed revealed it, but even then, I would have never imagined anyone other than Watchers gaining that kind of skill.

      Hell, the guys back in Charlotte didn't have nearly that level of control over their spirit energy. They could only muster a thin coating around a fist.

      Truth be told, I wasn't even aware of SVVL becoming more of a competition for professional spirit masters until now. I guess all the weaklings were weeded out since people started dying again.

      I would've continued my astonishment, but Trik mentioned it being preferable to meet Death before dark, and it was already 3:50 pm, so we continued west.

      After about 30 minutes, we had finally left the city of Atlanta and were in an area surrounded by dirt roads, grasslands, and trees, so I used the opportunity to get some airtime on my board. In less than a minute, we were cruising through the sky at 300mph – me on my board and Trik flying next to me.

[winterrose42]

.

[not-poignant]

im finally sick of my brain being shitty enough to make an appointment with a psychiatrist, but in the meantime i thought i might ask you this: in your wonderful answer to my ask re writer's block you mentioned burnout, which im pretty sure is whats happening to me. i dont want to ask you to give me a long answer if you dont have the energy for it, but i would like to know your thoughts on the matter. its been head empty hours over here 24/7 for months, lol, i miss creating

Helloooo,

I actually have written about burnout quite a bit because I've gone through burnout er, quite a bit... In fact I'm going through it again right now.

I have written a fairly long post about it in the past, so that's there if you want to read it.

I've had different kinds of burnout. I've had 'I couldn't write for years' burnout (literally, after university I just couldn't write anything for years and just assumed it was dead and gone because I didn't want to do it either), I've had burnout that's lasted months (even while like...writing as I am now), and so on.

A lot of dealing with burnout is just...resting more. Taking the pressure off yourself more. Grieving that you can't create right now without guilt-tripping yourself for it, a sort of 'I mourn that I can't do it, but there's nothing wrong with me and I am not failing because I can't do it. I need rest and care.' You can try little writer's block tricks here and there when you want to prod again. You can try other kinds of creativity. I can't write like I used to write, so I tried fanfiction. I can't write like I used to write fanfiction, which is why I've never written another Game Theory, because I just...don't want to write another story like that right now (I mean specifically all the sex every chapter, not the politics lmao). I've been feeling an urge to write poetry lately.

For you, through burnout, low-stakes creativity may help. Stuff that can be automatic (cross-stitch kits, where you're just doing someone else's pattern and don't need to really think about it beyond the stitching), colouring books. Or stuff that's low-stakes for you. For me that's often poetry. For you it might be something else.

I also think of getting through burnout where I can't create anything as needing to 'refill the well.' I catch up on shows I've been missing (writing as much as I do actually gives me no time for reading / watching media), I read books, I watch movies, I listen to new music and comfort music, etc. If my well is empty, rest will partially fill it, but so will inspiration. Watching Studio Ghibli for example almost always makes me think 'I want to write the way this makes me feel' - even if I don't write it, that little urge is like, a pulse or spark of alive-ness that gives the well a drop more inspiration for when I'm ready to write again.

It's very different for everyone though. It's important to address the basics - sleep, medications, quality of life, hydration, being well-fed, health (as much as health is possible) etc. If you're anxious and have insomnia and skip meals and forget to drink water etc. then it's back to square one with just...doing your best there. If that's mostly covered, then burnout is often just about meaningfully resting your mind.

I'd also add that there's different kinds of rest. Physical rest (sleeping / stretching), sensory rest (unplugging from screens and social media and overstimulation), emotional rest (time and space to express your feelings), spiritual rest (connecting with something greater than yourself - going into nature, community, giving, meditation etc.), mental rest (breaks, journalling), creative rest (like the cross-stitch and stuff I mentioned above) and social rest (spending relaxing time with people who love you as you are now).

So it's also worth looking at maybe... you're only focusing on one or two kinds of rest right now. Sometimes burnout requires that you address more of them. <333

There's no easy way through, because rest is the easiest way through, and rest is very hard (and not always possible to the degree we need it) for all of us in this day and age. Be gentle with yourself. I wasn't going to write a post as long as this but actually as someone who needs to hear these things myself right now, maybe you might need to hear some of them as well.

The main thing is burnout doesn't last forever, it's cyclical, it's not like chronic fatigue, or other chronic illnesses. Even people with chronic fatigue (like me!) can experience burnout cycles. So this will pass! You may not feel like writing again in the same way, and that's okay, whatever new version of you evolves out of your current exhaustion, I hope you enjoy that version of yourself, and learn to care for and show compassion to the current version of your tired self as well <3

[dreamsequencer]

The thing about Zuko was that he just didn't know when to quit.

Sokka felt like maybe someone had told him, a long time ago, to pick his battles, and Zuko had picked all of them.

It was like his fight or flight instinct didn't exist. It was just fight. All the time. Constantly. And it was on overdrive.

That was what was going through Sokka's head as he watched the scene unfolding in front of him.

Zuko was yelling at a general who was three, maybe four times his age. And he was pissed.

"I am telling you to withdraw all troops from the Earth Kingdom! I am telling you to do that and you are telling me no, is that right? Am I misinterpreting the situation or are you telling me no?"

"I am telling you no, that's right."

"Oh, really? Because the last time I checked, I'm the one in charge!"

"I am a Fire Nation general!"

"And I am the Fire Lord!"

"You are a child! Tell me, what does a child know of war?"

"WE ARE NO LONGER AT WAR!" Zuko roared - and yes, roared is exactly the word Sokka would choose - and the torches that lined the walls flared with his anger.

The general actually, physically took a step back, and he looked genuinely afraid. Sokka could hardly blame him.

Zuko had told Sokka a few days ago that he was working on controlling his anger.

Right now, it appeared as if any attempts to control his anger had gone right the fuck out the window.

"Fire Lord Zuko, I did not mean-"

"Oh, I know what you meant. I know very well what you meant," Zuko said in a low, almost growling voice, and somehow it was even more terrifying than him yelling. "You think I'm too young. That I don't know what I'm talking about. Is that right?" He didn't wait for the man to respond. "You think I know nothing of war, but in the past three years I've come to know war. I've gotten to know war on an incredibly intimate level. What is war to you?"

The man said nothing, as if waiting for Zuko's permission to speak.

"Go ahead. Answer me. What is war to you? I'm asking you a question. What do you think war is?"

"Well, war is... it's a conflict between two nations."

"Wrong."

"It's a series of battles."

"Wrong!"

"It's-"

"I'm gonna cut you off right there because whatever you're gonna say, it's wrong!" Zuko slammed his fist down on the table. "War is death. War is-"

"Well, yes, people die in every war, but that's just the price we-"

"Do not. Fucking. Interrupt me," Zuko growled. "This war? The one I'm trying to end? This war is the genocide of a people who couldn't fight back. This war is the decimation of one tribe and the forced isolation of another. It's imperialism. It's the erasure of entire cultures. It's a series of not battles, but massacres."

It was at this point that Sokka realized Zuko had the general cornered, had him backed up against the wall.

"This war has lasted for 100 years and now I'm saying that it's over. That we are no longer going to spread death and destruction across the world, because that is what we are doing. What do I know of war? I know a 12-year-old boy who's the last of his kind. I know a 14-year-old girl whose mother died to protect her. I know a girl who's far too good at fighting for her age. I know a little blind girl who nearly died trying to take down our airship fleet. And I know a boy who had to become the head of his family far too soon. Who had his childhood stolen from him when his father had to leave him to fight in our war. A boy my age. If I am too young to be Fire Lord, then he is certainly too young to be a soldier! Do not try to tell me what war is when you've only ever had a cushy, high-ranking position on the winning side! Don't try to tell me what war is until you've been on the front lines fighting what you know is a hopeless battle! Don't try to tell me what war is until you've seen what it's done to the children. You say I am only a child, and you're right. You say I'm too young to know anything of war? I am. I am too young! And that's the problem! Someone my age shouldn't have to experience war the way I have, so it ends here! Today! You are going to have all of our troops withdrawn from the Earth Kingdom, and from wherever the fuck else they might be, or I am going to have you thrown in a prison cell and let you rot."

The general nodded. "Yes, Fire Lord Zuko. It will be done."

"Good."

The general left, and Zuko sank into his chair, his energy spent. "I know you've been watching us, Sokka."

Sokka came out of his (admittedly terrible) hiding place behind a plant. "You alright?"

Zuko sighed. "That's the problem. I don't know how it feels to be alright. That's the true cost of this war. No one alive now has ever experienced peace."

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

A/N: okay so this was supposed to be a short, funny piece about Zuko losing his shit at a general but then it turned into a rant about the effects of war, so... yeah, sorry about that.

[darkmulti]

King of Hell

BTS

Series : part 1

Pairing: demon!Jungkook x human!Female Reader x demon!Taehyung x demon!Jimin

Genre: Angst & Smut

Word Count: 4.3K

CONTAINS DARK THEMES!

PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! READ WARNINGS CAREFULLY!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N: SHAIWJW, IVE BEEN “WRITING” THIS FIC SINCE LAST YEAR, HOLY FUCK. Anyways I hope you enjoy this shitty story:)

These are the warnings for the entire series!! This is a dark fanfic that is not meant for everyone! If these warnings trigger you, please leave!!

Smut Warning(s): multiple smuts, cockwarming, face slapping, saliva kink, thigh riding, humiliation, heavy degradation, dacryphilia kink, threesome, anal, blowjob, somnophilia kink, mirror sex, choking, spanking, hair pulling, rough sex, mix of ddlg, sleep sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting, begging, small bits of praising, marking, fear kink, cum shots, cum eating

Other Warning(s): possessive!Jungkook, blood, murder, torture, physical abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, submissive reader

I’m probably missing something...

THIS FIC CONTAINS NON CONSENSUAL SEX! PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this was wrong. But did she care?

No.

The girl laid supine on her boss's desk, sore legs bound around his torso, caging him in. His hand gently kneads her sensitive breast, earning soft moans from her. She grabbed his tie and tugged on it until he leaned down and passionately kissed her. The man gently pulled her up and swiftly wrapped his shapely arms around her body. She pulled away first, eager to catch her breath.

The excessive tension in the overheated room was unbearable. Her head remained low in embarrassment while her boss burned her with his gaze. To break up the tension, she awkwardly clears her throat and hops off his desk. For some reason, she desperately wanted to apologize but stopped herself. From what she remembers, her boss was undressing her with his eyes, so she let him have it. Deciding she’s not going to apologize, she frantically pulled up her skirt and opened the door to leave.

However, her boss was faster than her and instantly closed it again. He cupped her cheeks and attempted to kiss her again, but she stepped away. “I’m sorry, Dr. Kim. It’s getting late and my apartment is far from here, so I better get going. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Taehyung scowled at her. It was insulting to him. No one has ever rejected his touch. He grabbed the hem of her shirt and flung her onto his desk. She groaned in pain, protecting her injured side. Taehyung clutched her face and attached his lips onto hers, kissing her like it was his last time. She instinctively kicked her legs at him, but that made him more belligerent.

“Stop! Leave me alone!” She yelled, throwing her hands against his chest, trying to get him off. Unfortunately, she was no match for him. Taehyung pinned her down without a struggle and pulled her skirt down again. “I tried being nice, princess. But now you’ve gotten on my nerves.” He growled, forcing his cock in, despite her screaming at him to stop.

A sadistic smirk appears on his face as he picks up his pace. His warm cock fitted inside of her perfectly. It was like they were made for each other. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, enjoying the feeling to the fullest. While Taehyung was on cloud nine, the girl was bawling her eyes out underneath him. “T- Taehyung! Stop! It h- hurts!” She sobbed uncontrollably, breath hitching. Her vision started to blur as she felt her energy drain out of her writhing body. She's never endured this much pain.

Taehyung grunts as he pushes himself forward one last time before cumming in her. “Fuck! You feel so good, baby.” He leaned down and licked her tears away. He then created a trail of hickeys along her jawline, down to her collar bone. “How about another round, babe?”

“No, no! Please, no! It hurts!” She hiccuped, putting her hands together. “Please, Dr. Kim. I’ll do anything except for this! I c- can give you money… if you’d like.” Taehyung couldn’t help himself. Watching her beg for mercy was a turn on. “I don’t need your filthy money, slut. Now stay still or else you're fired.”

He ruthlessly entered in again. She let out a painful whimper but didn’t dare to move because her job was on the line. Taehyung held her hips down and quickened his pace. The helpless girl was fighting off the urge to push him away with all her remaining strength. Soon enough, her legs trembled on their own as ripples of forced pleasure went through her body. More tears gathered in her fearful eyes. A minute passed, she was still sprawled on his desk, catching her breath. “C- can I pl- please leave now?” She faintly whispered, on the verge of passing out.

Taehyung pulled her ragged skirt up then pulled her upright. He moved her hair out of her face and tenderly caressed her cheek, admiring her face. “You won’t tell anyone about this, understand?” She sobbed but nodded her head. “Good… get your stuff, I’ll drive you home.”

“No, sir. It’s okay. I’ll call a taxi. You can go home.” Taehyung’s eyes darkened. He grabbed her neck and squeezed it. “You’re making me repeat myself, Y/N. You out of all people should know how much I hate doing that. Now for the last time, get your shit and I’ll drive you home.” He took a step back and followed her to her office. She quickly grabbed her purse and jacket, then they both headed out.

The car ride home was silent. She didn't dare to speak a word. Not after what he did to her. All she could do is keep her head down and play with the hem of her shirt. Taehyung glanced over at her here and there, but he too didn’t speak a word. He looked in his rear view mirror and spotted his best friend sitting in the back, staring at “his” girl. “Keep your eyes off of her. She’s already taken, Jungkook.”

Y/N flinched when Taehyung started talking. “Huh? Are you talking to me?” She asked, confused. Red flags were popping up but she couldn’t exactly jump onto the highway. She bit down on her lip and waited for a response. “Took you a while to detect my presence, Taehyung. I thought you could do better.” She immediately turned around and saw a man sitting in the middle seat, legs spread apart. His long, jet-black hair almost veiled his eyes, and he was covered in tattoos. “Who the hell are you?!” She slightly yells, clearly startled by the man. “I wouldn’t raise my voice if I were you, sweetheart. Anyone who disrespects me will regret it for the rest of their life and afterlife.” Jungkook mockingly said, confusing the girl even more. She turned to Taehyung for an explanation, but he simply rested his hand on her thigh. “Calm down, angel. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“Bold of you to say that, Taehyung. You really think you can take me on?” Jungkook challenged.

“To keep her by my side, I’d knock you over without hesitation.” Taehyung said with a dull expression on his face.

“Don’t tell me you have feelings for this girl. Man, you keep letting me down. First living in the mortal world and now, falling in love. What’s next? Marriage? Family planning? Pathetic, Kim Taehyung. If Jimin were here, he’d be laughing his ass off.”

“If you have nothing nice to say, leave. I thought you didn’t enjoy the mortal world.”

“I don’t, I just wanted to see what my dearest friend is up to. I’m astonished, however. You managed to keep that unpleasant side of yours a secret.”

Taehyung glanced at his girl. Her face was pale and if you looked closely, she was shaking. Taehyung stroked her thigh in a soothing manner, signinally her to calm down. Out of fear, she clings to Taehyung’s hand tightly. This didn’t go unnoticed by Jungkook. He sensed her fear the moment she sat in the car. He enjoyed watching her crumble apart in the passenger seat. She looked vulnerable and afraid, he wanted to ruin her innocent looking face.

“Stop gawking at my girlfriend, Kook. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“No, I actually don’t. Next month, I’ll be announced king, but until then, I’ll hang around you and this lovely princess.”

From that point on, Taehyung knew he couldn’t leave her alone. If he did, Jungkook would 100% hurt her or even worse, mark her as his own. Jungkook’s one selfish bastard. He will always put himself before others. Taehyung immediately knew Jungkook was attracted to her; he could tell just by observing the way Jungkook looked at her. But he wasn’t going to let Jungkook have her too. Originally, Taehyung was supposed to be king, but Jungkook was stubborn and wanted to fight for the title. Taehyung didn’t want to fight his best friend, so he willingly surrendered.

30 minutes later, he finally arrived at her apartment. She quietly thanked Taehyung for the ride, then got out. However, Taehyung turned off his engine and got out of his car. “I’m staying with you tonight.” Without question, she nodded her head and grabbed Taehyung’s hand. She was terrified of what was going on. Of course she wanted an explanation, but Taehyung seemed to be protecting her. Therefore, she thought it’d be the best to stay with him until she knows exactly what’s going on.

She opened her apartment door and set her purse and jacket on the table. “I’m gonna go shower… Make yourself at home... I guess.” She mumbled the last part and headed to her bathroom until Taehyung stopped her. “Mind if I join?” Taehyung hinted he needed to talk to her so she said yes. Meanwhile, Jungkook plopped down on the couch with his arm behind his head. “Got any bourbon?” He yelled and she responded, “the cabinet behind you has all the liquor I own.”

Taehyung pulled her into the bathroom and hugged her tightly. “I’m sorry! I fucked everything up for you.”

“Taehyung, what are you talking about?” She worriedly asked. Taehyung looked at the door then quickly turned the shower on. “We have to be quiet. He might hear us.” “Please tell me what’s going on! Who is he? How did he get inside your car?!” She whispers as calmly as she can. “His name is Jeon Jungkook. Next month, he'll be announced king of hell. He’s a very powerful demon and currently, he’s looking for his queen. Someone who can be the mother of his children and someone he can somewhat tolerate. Y/N, he has his eyes on you. You need stay around me, so I can protect you. I know I hurt you not too long ago, but trust me on this one. Jungkook has anger issues and if he gets a hold of you, you will be his punching bag for eternity.”

“Demon? King of hell? Are you hearing yourself right now?” She whispers louder, being unable to control her anger and concern. “I’m not lying, Y/N. How else did he get into my car. Do you remember our conversation in the car? He said he didn't like the human world.”

“What about you? What are you?!”

“I’m a demon too.”

“Prove it because I don’t believe-” Taehyung towers over her and his eyes turn black. His teeth become insanely sharp and black, thick horns start coming out of his head. She stood there, staring at his true form. She reached out and touched his cheek which was freezing cold. “Demons are real?” She faintly whispered. “Take your clothes off. He’s coming.” Taehyung’s out of his clothes in a blink of an eye but she didn’t want to remove her clothes. Taehyung heard Jungkook getting closer, so he ripped her clothes off and pushed her in the shower. He followed behind and pinned her against the wall, kissing her forcefully. “He’s looking through the door, pretend you're enjoying it so we're unsuspicious.” She surprisingly listens and returns the kiss. Taehyung picks her up, and she wraps her legs around his waist, allowing him to enter her. “Moan loud for me, baby.” The girl digs her nails into his shoulder and releases her needy moans.

Jungkook was standing in the door way, watching Taehyung fuck the living out of her. What he would do to be in his position. A part of Jungkook was telling him to kill Taehyung and take his place. However, the other half of him knew that it would create a war between the Kim’s and the Jeon’s. Centuries of feuds have been going on between the two families and it finally ended when Taehyung’s father made a peace offering and Jungkook’s dad happily accepted. From there on, Taehyung and Jungkook grew up together as best friends. Jungkook stopped himself from making a big mistake but continued watching the two fuck.

Taehyung came in her one last time before pulling out and cleaning her up with some water. She clung onto Taehyung because she had no more feeling in her legs. Her clit was burning from the overstimulation, but she wasn’t complaining because it felt so good. He carried her back to her room and wiped her body off with a towel. Jungkook went back to the couch and tried to relax his mind. For some reason, her moans kept playing in his head and before he knew it, he was hard. “Shit!” He angrily muttered.

After tucking Y/N in, Taehyung came to the living room to see what Jungkook was doing. Jungkook was leaning on the balcony railing, staring at the full moon. “If you want, you can crash at my place.” Taehyung said, fiddling with his house keys. “Nah, I think I’ll stay right here… By the way, your girlfriend is hot. If she ever wants to have a threesome, tell her-”

“She doesn’t, Jungkook. One man is good enough for her.”

“That’s too bad. Well, tell her if she gets tired of you she can come to me any time and anywhere.” Jungkook cockishly smiled, raising one eyebrow. “Stop with the jokes, will you?” Taehyung's voice got deeper because he’s had enough of Jungkook’s irritating comments. “I’m going to bed now. Sleep on the couch or wander on the street, I don’t care. Just don’t kill anyone.” Taehyung said before leaving Jungkook alone on the balcony. “I'll try not to.”

Taehyung opened the door and saw Y/N struggling to fall asleep. He quickly got into her bed and pulled her into his comforting embrace. “Shhh, it’s okay. I’m here now.” He carefully laid her face on his chest then ran his fingers through her smooth hair. “I love you so much. You don’t even know how long I’ve been watching you.”

“How long?” She whispers back. “First year of university was when I first saw you. Ever since then, I’ve been looking out for you.” She giggled and wrapped her arms around his body. “Why didn’t you talk to me?” Taehyung smiled, remembering why. “I’m a little shy.” She climbed up his chest and kissed him on the lips. “Is he gone?” She asked, tracing lines on Taehyung’s chest. “He’s gonna crash on your couch. Sorry about him, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay.”

Soon, silence took over the room and the girl fell asleep on Taehyung’s chest. Taehyung continued to play with her hair and trace her back until the door slightly opened. He saw Jungkook in the doorway and sighed. “What do you want now?”

“Her.”

Everything happened rapidly. The door swung open and all Taehyung saw were 2 red eyes staring him down. Before he could react, Jungkook knocked him out and pinned the girl’s body down. He entered into her sore cunt, causing her to wake up. As soon as she saw Jungkook’s face, she started to scream and fight. “Stop! Taehyung, help me!” She shook Taehyung’s body, but he was unresponsive. “What did you do to him?!”

“Shut up and cooperate with me or else I’ll take you to hell.” Jungkook swiftly got into a better position and let his raging boner free. The bed frame began banging against the wall harder and harder each time. Y/N was in a state of shock. She didn’t know what to do. Jungkook viciously thrusted into her and held her down by her neck. “No! Please! Stop!” Jungkook flipped her around and took her from behind. He spanked her ass multiple times, leaving his hand print on her skin. He pulled out and got up from the bed, dragging her along with him. “Look at yourself, you fucking slut.” Jungkook pulled her hair and forced her to look at herself in the mirror. “Watch me fuck you, slut. If I see your eyes aren’t open, I’ll slit your family's throat and send you pictures.”

“No! No! Please don’t! I- I won’t close my eyes, I promise.” Jungkook thrusted in again and had no mercy on her. Tears were rushing down her face but didn't once close her eyes. Jungkook deliberately went faster seeing if she could handle the pain. It took a lot out of her, but she didn’t want to put her family in danger so she listened to every order. Jungkook continued fucking her hard. He could sense the fear that was taking over her body. She was shaking and silently crying, but it merely encouraged him to go faster. At last, he pushed his whole length in and came deep inside her. She squirted around him and collapsed on the floor. “No more, please” “Get on your knees, now!” She whimpered but got on her knees. Jungkook didn’t waste a second to shove his whole cock in her mouth. He grabbed her face and started fucking her throat as fast as he could. After some time, hot cum was running down her throat as he finally pulled out. The poor girl was choking on her own saliva when Jungkook clutched her hair and spat in her mouth.

Jungkook wanted to go for another round, but someone hit his head, knocking him out. Jungkook fell to the floor, revealing a conscious Taehyung. He immediately picked her off the floor and hugged her tightly. She started sobbing on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. We have to leave.” He quietly spoke. Taehyung quickly cleaned her up and gave her some warm clothes to wear. He carried her out of the apartment and into his car. He quickly dialed someone’s number and stepped on the gas.

“Hello?”

“Jimin! Take your fucking brother back to hell. He’s lost his fucking mind. He knocked me unconscious and raped my girlfriend.”

“Holy shit! Where is he?”

Taehyung quickly informs Jimin of Jungkook’s location.

“I’ll pick him up. Just find a safe place, Tae.”

“Yeah, I will.”

—————————————————-

After receiving the call from Taehyung, Jimin rushed to Jungkook. He was still on the floor, passed out. “How hard did you hit him, Taehyung?” Jimin muttered before bringing Jungkook back to hell and chaining him up.

Jungkook woke up with his head pounding. He groaned and looked at his surroundings. “What the hell?” He spoke in a raspy voice. “Wake up, brother. Taehyung informed me you were up to no good.” Right, that bastard Taehyung, he thought. Memories of last night came rushing to his head and he couldn't help but smile. “Where’s Y/N?” Jungkook asked, replaying last night in his head. “Y/N? As in Taehyung’s girlfriend?”

“Don’t call her Taehyung’s girlfriend. Soon, she’ll find her way back to me.”

“Brother, I knew you were absurd, but fucking Taehyung’s girlfriend? Really?”

“You’ve never seen her before, so you won’t understand. But as soon as you get close to her, I ensure you, you won’t be capable of controlling yourself.”

“I’ll see for myself.” Jimin said before getting up and closing the heavy metal door, leaving Jungkook alone.

————————————

1 month later

After the incident with Jungkook, Y/N and Taehyung got into a serious relationship. Every single day, Taehyung worked on becoming stronger to protect his beloved. He felt remorseful for placing her in this kind of situation, so the least he could do is protect her. Y/N was deeply in love with Taehyung. At first, she kept telling herself she only wants him around so he can keep her safe, however she couldn’t help herself. She let go of what he did in the past and focused on the present.

“Taehyung! I’m home!” Taehyung pops his head from the kitchen and she swiftly runs into his embrace. “I missed you.” She pouted her lips and kissed him. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I missed you more.” She giggles at his response and pecks him all over his face. Taehyung picked her up and sat on the couch with her on his lap. A sweet make out turned into a heated one quickly. She tugged on his shirt then removed it for him and he did the same for her. “How about we try something different?” Taehyung placed her on one of his thighs and placed both of his hands on her ass. “Ride my thigh, angel.” She started moving slowly, unsure of how it might feel. Once her clit started getting some stimulation, she kept going faster and faster, falling apart in Taehyung’s arms. She clenched and came around nothing while Taehyung attacked her tits with his mouth. He left a trail of hickeys all over her upper chest. Taehyung came in his pants just from watching her and feeling her juices leak onto his thigh.

They both eagerly kissed each other until Y/N pulled away. “Can we go out for dinner? I don’t feel like cooking today.” She panted, playing with Taehyung’s hair. “Of course we can.”

——————————————-

The long-awaited day had finally come. The crowd was larger than it ever had been. Everyone came down to watch the ritual and pay their respects to the new king. Torches were pointed downward, symbolizing death. In the middle of the stadium, there was a massive platform. On the platform, there was a throne, a crown, a pentagram and a tied up angel for the sacrifice. Jimin and his father stood side by side, wearing black suits. The crowd went silent when everyone detected a compelling, cold presence. Jungkook revealed himself from the shadows in his true form. He was shirtless with only a thin fabric wrapped around his waist. He walked to the platform and laid down on the pentagram. Everyone knew, this was the beginning of a new chapter.

Moments later Jungkook was screaming in pain. His body became a portal for all the previous kings. They were passing their abilities down to him, resulting in Jungkook's chest and back being burned. Everyone in the audience stood up and started chanting. Jungkook sat upright and headed towards the angel who was pleading for mercy. He manipulated his sharp nail and slit their throat, killing them in a matter of seconds. He attached his mouth onto their neck as the chanting got louder. The warm, thick liquid gliding down his throat was incredibly addictive. Jungkook could feel his power triple in seconds. He tossed the deceased angel away like a rag doll then faced his people. He stretched his wings and grew out his horns.

“I am honoured to be your new king. Thank you to everyone who came to watch the ritual. Please know I’ve acknowledged your presence and respect. I greatly appreciate it.”

Everyone applauded for Jungkook. Surviving the ritual requires an enormous amount of strength. Jungkook has proved to everyone that he is worthy of being king.

——————————-

“Are you ready? I feel like I’ve been waiting forever.” Taehyung said, sitting down on the couch. He was dressed up in his black suit and tie, looking flawless like always. 5 minutes had passed, and he still hadn’t heard a word from her. “Angel? What’s taking so long? Do you need help with your dress?” Taehyung walked back to their shared bedroom only to see Jungkook holding her down with his sharp nail on her neck. “I’m giving you two options, Taehyung. Let me have her, and I won’t hurt her or, she dies, I take her back to hell and torture her for eternity. What will it be, Taehyung?” All Taehyung saw was red. Without realizing, he changed into his demon form and attacked Jungkook. He managed to get him off of her, but strength and power wise, Taehyung was no match. Jungkook punched him over and over, until his nose and jaw was broken.

“Fuck you, Jungkook. I let you have everything! I gave it all up for you because I wanted to be a good friend! One good thing happens in my life and you fucking take it away!” Taehyung yelled, managing to punch him one last time. Y/N sprinted off the bed and rushed to Taehyung’s side. She didn’t care that Jungkook was there, all she cared about was Taehyung. “Taehyung! You’re bleeding! What should I do?! Should I call the ambulance?!” Taehyung looked into her eyes and his heart softened. Tears were streaming down her face. She was actually worried about him. Even after he revealed his true form, she stayed by his side. Does that mean she loves him? Taehyung slightly smiled. “I’ll be alright, love. I’ll heal by tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t.” Jungkook interjected as he got up and kicked Taehyung’s head. “STOP!” She screamed, protecting Taehyung with her body. She wrapped her arms around his head so Jungkook couldn't kick him. “C- can’t you see he’s hurt?! Leave him alone!” She bawled. “I’m not going to leave him alone until he makes a decision. So Taehyung, what will it be?” Taehyung wrapped his arms around her waist, refusing to let her go. “There are billions of other people in the world. Why do you want MY girlfriend?!”

“Don’t question me, Taehyung. Now give me her, or I’ll have to forcefully take her.”

Y/N started sobbing on Taehyung’s shoulder. “Please don’t take him away from me. I love him. Please don’t.” She begged, her tears staining Taehyung’s shirt. Jungkook was slowly starting to lose his temper. He massaged his temples then grabbed her arm, prying her off and away from Taehyung. “If you don’t come back with me to hell, I’ll kill Taehyung right here right now. Or better yet, I’ll make you help me kill him.”

Y/N began to shake. “Please don’t hurt him. I’ll go back with you.”

“No! Y/N he’s going to hurt you! Jungkook you can kill me but leave her alone after I die. You break the promise and will die too.”

“No, Taehyung! I can’t let you die! You can’t leave me alone!” Jungkook pushed the girl back and kicked Taehyung in the stomach. “If you want her so badly, you’re going to have to fight me.” With that, Jungkook turned around, picked her up and disappeared. “NO! Shit! Shit!” Taehyung cursed at himself.

Once again, he failed to protect his love.

——————————————————————————

Uhhh, hi🤠

This is terrible and I’m sorry if it doesn’t live up to your expectations. I completely understand because many people have been waiting for this fic to release and it’s not even good. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed what part 1 has to offer. At first, I didn’t want to make this into a series because I’m very inconsistent. However, I had a sickening plot in mind that I really wanted to do, so the next best option was to make this into a series.

I know, not a lot of Jimin was in this, but the next couple of parts will have him.

xoxo,

naina❣️

[youare-mysonshine]

heavy || bucky barnes

Summary: reader’s mental health has been taking a decline and bucky is there.

Requested: No

Pairing: TFATWS Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: talks of mental health, depression, anxiety, angst, cussing.

Word Count: 3.2K

A/N: Hey guys, I’m back I guess lmao. I’ve really been struggling with my mental health lately and I guess I kinda just wanted to put it into words, something productive? And I’ve been feeling our angsty emo boy bucky barnes. Most of you might’ve followed me for my Oscar fics but I kinda wanna branch out and I thought this would be a good time to do so. Anyways, I know that some of you have inboxed me or messaged me and I haven’t responded and I’m sorry. But I just want you all to know that if you’re struggling, I’m always here to talk. About anything, always. So, I hope you enjoy this. I might’ve cried while writing this lmao and I also might’ve ended it on such an awkward place but, i’m still getting used to writing again. (Flashbacks are in italics)

————

Bucky didn’t miss the dark circles under your eyes. He didn’t miss the way you sort of slouched as you approached him. He didn’t miss the way that your smile didn’t really meet your eyes.

“Hey,” You said in a breathless voice. “Sorry, I’m late. I got held up.” You said as you took a seat across from him in the booth. Held up. It was better than telling him that you were thinking of just not showing up at all. In the end, you knew that you couldn’t do that. You couldn’t just blow off your new friend who you had so enjoyed spending time with. So, in a rush, you got dressed and made your way to the small, quiet diner that you two had taken to frequenting together. Bucky Barnes was an enigma if you’d ever met one. The way that you had met was rather.. cliche and something straight from a story.

You had been trying to lay off of the caffeine for a while, realizing that you had nearly gone through an entire packet of 32 k-pods that you had just purchased. You realized that you might’ve had a problem. You had been going pretty strong with staying away from caffeine for the time being, until you passed by a coffee shop and got a whiff of coffee. You just couldn’t help yourself; you bought a cup of coffee. It was when you were walking down the street, holding the cup of coffee in one hand, looking down, that you didn’t see someone walking right in your path. You had collided into what seemed like a solid wall and the impact had caused you to squeeze the cup of coffee in surprise, the warm liquid burning your hand, staining your clothes and the other person. You had realized it was another person you had crashed into when you heard them let out a low cuss.

Bucky’s grumpy self had been fully prepared to tell you off for crashing into him, having just left his therapist’s office, but when you looked up at him with those bright eyes of yours, a million apologies spilling from your lips a mile a minute, he swallowed whatever harsh words had nearly sprung forth. He had apologized as well; both of you had been at fault. Bucky had been going over his session with Dr. Raynor that morning, completely lost in his own mind, and you had your eyes trained on the ground, something that was a bad habit of yours. The shock of realizing you had bumped into a man, a really really handsome man with the brightest blue eyes you had ever seen, had made you temporarily forget that you had practically scorched your hand with the coffee, and that you had gotten it on him as well.

“I’m so, so sorry.” You said once again, quickly averting your eyes from the handsome stranger’s face. Instead you focused on the smushed cup in your hand and the stains on his leather jacket. It just made you feel even terrible. “I, I can pay for you to get your jacket cleaned, if you want. Really. I wasn’t paying attention and I just, for whatever reason, squished my cup and.. I’m sorry.” You said, kind of breathlessly.

“It’s.. it’s alright.” His voice was like the coffee that you had been drinking. Smooth and rich. It was deep, something that reverberated deep in your chest and had your stomach fluttering with butterflies. “I wasn’t paying attention either. Really, it’s fine. And don’t worry about my jacket. No harm, no foul.” He said. “You should, uh, you should take care of that hand. Hope you didn’t burn yourself too bad.” He gestured to your hand, still clutching the cup, with one of his own gloved hands.

“Oh, I’ll be fine. It wasn’t that hot. Thank you, though. And again, I’m really, really sorry.” Sparing one, seemingly, last glance at the handsome stranger, you side stepped him and began to walk away, tossing the empty cup of coffee in a trash can on the sidewalk. But you didn’t get very far because that deep voice called out to you, halting you in your tracks.

“Can I buy you another cup of coffee?” Bucky’s mouth had opened and spoken the words long before his brain could even catch up. He didn’t know why he had asked you that, but something in his gut was just telling him too.

“What?” A look of total bewilderment had crossed your face and he had seen it.

“I just, well I thought that, since I bumped into you, I could make it up to you by buying you a new cup of coffee. If you wanted, I mean. You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or anything.” Bucky clarified, hand stuffed in his pocket, waiting for your answer. For a few seconds, you simply stood there, unsure of what to say because surely this wasn’t happening? The last time that you had gone out with a guy was.. well, shit, you didn’t even remember the last time. The little voice in the back of your head, that anxious, paranoid little voice, was telling you not to go off with a stranger. You’d watched too many episodes of Criminal Minds and other true crime shows and documentaries to know that situations like this never turned out well. However, you didn’t get a bad feeling from this particular man. He seemed just as awkward and slightly frazzled as you felt. So you agreed.

“I’m Bucky, by the way.”

“Y/N.”

That had happened about two months ago. Ever since then, you and Bucky had formed a strong friendship. Your first time getting coffee with him had been awkward, as were the next few times that you had seen one another. But things got easier. Becoming friends was easy. You kind of fell into this routine, almost as if you two had known each other your whole lives. That was why Bucky telling you who he really was had been terrifying for him. He carried around guilt and shame and just contempt for everything he’d done. Everything The Winter Soldier represented, and when he told you, he figured that you would think the same. He had asked you meet him at the diner that had now become your spot and and you remember how he nervously wrung his gloved hands together. You remember when you asked him what was wrong and he didn’t verbally respond but he took off his gloves; the right one first and then the left, revealing a shiny black metal hand, golden lines intricately placed.

He told you then. Maybe he didn’t tell you everything but he told you who he was and he had braced himself for you to get up and storm out. Or, to yell at him and tell him how much of a monster he was. But, it never came. Instead, you reached out and placed your hand on top his. Not his real hand, but the metal one. You didn’t say anything. You just gave him that smile that was quickly becoming his favorite. Sometimes, silence spoke a thousand words. To Bucky, you had become kind of a respite for him. Even in the late nights or mornings when he woke up after a nightmare. Or after a particularly hard session with Dr. Raynor. He had closed himself off from other people except you.

Bucky might not have known it, but he gave you the same level of comfort as you gave him. You found yourself craving his presence. Every time you were around him, you couldn’t help but to smile or laugh. In the time that you spent together, your mind was clear and free from all your worries. It all evaporated into thin air. Your mind, usually so active with all sorts of thoughts and worries, could finally rest when you were with Bucky. You could sleep. You could get up in the morning without that stress and anxiety drowning you. It was okay. It was great.

Until it wasn’t.

“No problem, doll.” He said, gloved hands clasped under the table on his lap. “I already ordered. Got your usual. Hope that was alright.” He added, to which you nodded absentmindedly.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fine. Thanks Buck.” You said, mustering up a half hearted smile that didn’t reach your eyes. It was like even smiling drained the energy from you. You were exhausted. Not even just physically but mentally and emotionally. You had been having such good days for a while now, since meeting Bucky. You felt like maybe you would finally be alright but.. this feeling of hopelessness, the feeling that nothing was quite right, it was heavy. It weighed you down. It suffocated you. You wanted to be alone, but you also couldn’t stand to be alone because when you were alone, you were just stuck in your head and being in your head was the absolute worst place to be.

The intrusive thoughts had started. They told you that you would do nothing but weigh Bucky down. That he didn’t need someone like you in his life, someone with clear problems of their own, when he was going to therapy trying to better himself. Even if it had been mandatory for him to go. You wanted to push him away, save him from yourself, but you also couldn’t stand the thought of losing him.

Bucky noticed the shift in you. Normally when you two met up, whether it was at the diner or anywhere else, you would usually talk his ear off. Not that he minded, he was content to just sit back and listen to you. Sometimes, you’d tell him about a new book that you had started reading. You had just started reading the fifth Harry Potter book and you were trying to get him to read them. You’d tell him about your day. You’d ask him how his day went, how it went with Dr. Raynor, though you never pushed for more information. You always let him share if he was comfortable with it and he appreciated that. Sometimes you teased him for being such an old man.

The food came soon after you had arrived and sure enough, Bucky had ordered your usual. It sent a pang through your heart when you realized that he had memorized your order, down to the extra syrup and whipped cream on the pancakes. Bucky always liked to make fun of you for ordering the same thing when you came to the diner. No matter what time it was, you always ordered the pancakes with extra syrup and extra whip cream, with the strawberries on the side. Secretly, though he found it adorable.

Today, you had barely even taken more than a few bites and that was what really let Bucky know that something wasn’t right. You kept your head down, eyes on the pancakes and you cut them up, bringing a few up to your mouth and chewing slowly, but you mostly just moved them around your plate with the fork in your hand. Bucky himself had barely taken only a few bites of the food he’d ordered for himself, but it wasn’t for lack of appetite, it was because of the growing concern. His bright blue eyes were now a stormy grey, kind of like the clouds that you see during a heavy storm. His brows were furrowed, giving him an appearance almost as if he were angry.

“You alright, Y/N? You’ve barely eaten your food and normally you finish before I do.” He attempted to joke, to bring about that smile that seemed to always fill him with warmth. He half expected you to look up at him with that cheeky little smile, a mischievous look in your eyes and say “You know, I would be offended by that, but I know why you eat so slow, Buck. I completely understand. You don’t want your dentures to fall out.” But it never came.

You don’t know what it was. Bucky asking you if you were alright or if it was simply all the pressure of just.. everything, finally breaking, but you could feel the hot tears in your eyes. They blurred your vision until you couldn’t really see the plate of the pancakes in focus. The dam had finally come apart and you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You set the fork down and buried your face in your hands, your shoulders lightly shaking as you began to cry. All Bucky could do was stare for a few seconds, alarm written all over his face. Alarm and distress because he had no idea what just happened and if he had done something to upset you.

“Woah woah, hey. Sweetheart, hey. What’s wrong?” In seconds, Bucky was out of his side of the booth and scooting in beside you. You felt the comfort of his warmth, you felt his arm tentatively, almost hesitantly, slide around your shoulders and anchor you to him. You shook your head, attempting to calm down, to stop the tears but the more you tried, the more they seemed to come.

“I-I’m sorry, Bucky.. I.. I’m sorry.. I-I’m fine. Really.” You said, sniffling. It was apparent to you both that you were not alright and he really just wanted to get to the bottom of it. Or at least attempt to comfort you. But doing that in the middle of a diner with other people around wasn’t ideal.

“Hey, my apartment is only a short walk away. Come on, let’s get you out of here and somewhere more quiet.” You didn’t protest. You just nodded and slid out of the booth after he did. Bucky took out his wallet and placed a few bills on the table, paying for the uneaten food, and then quickly led you out of the establishment. He kept his hand on you, almost like an anchor. Whether it was to reassure you or himself, he didn’t know and you didn’t mind either. It was probably the only thing that kept you from retreating inside of your mind and giving in to the panic that so desperately wanted out.

You didn’t even realize that you had reached his apartment until he had led you up the stairs and you were standing behind him as he unlocked the door. He allowed you to step in first and then quickly followed behind you, shutting the door as he did so. You didn’t really get the chance to take in his apartment because he had ushered you to sit on his couch while he knelt in front of you.

“Alright, you’re scarin’ me here, doll. What’s wrong? Did someone hurt you?” The sheer look of concern and slight panic in his face and those pretty eyes of his made the waterworks come back again. You shook your head, your face scrunched up in anguish. Hot bullet tears fell from your eyes and left a wet path in their wake down your cheeks. Bucky wasn’t one to pry; he hated it when people tried to pry into his life and he didn’t do it to you, but he couldn’t stand the sight of seeing you cry. He couldn’t stand the sight of your once bright eyes and cheery smile just.. gone. You eyes were sad and your lips were pulled into a frown. “Talk to me, baby.” He practically pleaded.

“I just.. I don’t.. I don’t know how to explain it, Buck.” You cried. “I-I.. I just feel like..” You let out a frustrated cry when you couldn’t find the right words but Bucky was patient. He reached a hand up, cupping your cheek and wiping away the tears that kept falling. “I don’t feel.. happy. Everyday I wake up and I just, I feel fine for like a few seconds and then everything just comes crashing down on me. I can’t ever stop thinking. I can’t sleep at night. I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling like this, Bucky. And I feel fucking crazy. Sometimes I feel like you don’t even really like me. I feel.. hopeless, like nothing is ever going to be okay. I might feel okay for a few seconds but then it just goes away.” You explained, though you were sure that you probably sounded like a raving and ranting lunatic. “Before I met you, I liked being alone but I also hated it because when I was alone, I would just overthink and overthink and overthink about every fucking thing. If it wasn’t one thing it was another just giving me such bad anxiety and.. I don’t know what to do anymore, Bucky. I’m just tired of feeling like this. Feeling like nothing is ever going to be okay, like I’m never going to be okay. I just feel.. alone.”

His heart was well and truly broken. In the two months that he’d known you, he hadn’t known how badly you had struggled with your mental health. He hadn’t known the war that you fought within your mind, and how bad it had become. You were such saving grace for Bucky; you saved him from the wars inside of his mind. The constant feeling of guilt that he fought with on a daily basis, and now.. he just wanted to do the same for you. He wanted to shoulder some of the pain that you carried, the pain that seemed to be weighing you down. Both of his hands now cupped your cheeks so delicately, as if you were the most precious thing in the world to him. His blue eyes were shining, looking at you with not pity, but something like.. understanding. If anyone knew what you were feeling, it was Bucky.

“You’re not alone.” His smooth and rich voice was so soft, so gentle that it brought on a new set of tears. “You’re not alone, sweetheart. Not anymore. You know why? Cause you got me.” He said. “I know what it’s like to feel hopeless. To feel stuck in your head. To feel like nothing is ever gonna get better. I felt like that in Wakanda. Sometimes.. sometimes, we need help. And I know I’m not one to be talking considering that I don’t really like talking to my therapist or even going,” That roused the smallest of smiles from you. “I’m here. You know that, right? I’m here. You got me and I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I don’t care if you have a million bad days. I don’t care if you feel like you’re bothering me. I’ll be there every time.” You two have gradually gravitated close to one another until your foreheads were pressed together. Bucky was still knelt in front of you on the couch, his hands still holding your cheeks. Your eyes were closed and you could feel his warm breath fanning your face. The tears had stopped falling but you were still sniffling softly. “You’ve helped me. Even if you don’t know it. You’ve helped me.” He was whispering. There was no one but you two in his apartment but he was still whispering the words meant for only you to hear. “Now, let me help you. Please.”

“Okay. I trust you, Bucky.”

[after-witch]

Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Title: Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Synopsis: You’ve broken up with Ransom Drysdale, and you mean it this time. But the freedom that comes with the breakup leads to a series of unexpected coincidences that leave you wondering: was it worth the price?

Word Count: 8955

notes: yandere, mentions of physical abuse, financial abuse, comfort sweaters

Nothing lasts forever. Not even relationships--and certainly not love. What might start off as an intense, passionate relationship can (and did, in your case) eventually fizzle; things that you were willing to overlook when you were absolutely besotted would wear down with time, and eventually they became too much to ignore.

That’s what you tell yourself, what you remind yourself, in the moment after you tell him:

“It’s over, Ransom. We’re done. I’m leaving.”

It couldn’t last forever. Not with his inability to stay sober, not with his tendency to cheat on you with meaningless flings that somehow hurt more than any steamy single-minded affair. Not with his flare-ups of controlling tendencies that left you in tears on the bathroom floor as he asked you to please stop dressing like a slut in front of his family, is that too hard to ask?

You’d asked him to change. He swore he would; he never did. You forgave him, more than once, more times than you could count. But enough was enough. Maybe he thought you were too weak to leave him, especially three years into your relationship, when your lives were becoming so integrated, pushing you towards a potential permanent future. It was a future that left you feeling numb and anxious. Stuck in a marriage with someone who wanted to stay with you but treated you horribly, all the same. And that wasn’t even getting into the family dynamics that left your head spinning.

He stares at you now, and his mouth opens just a little bit in what you know is going to be a barrage of questions, insults, maybe even threats spurred on by your words. But instead he closes his mouth and shakes his head, letting out a soft, bitter chuckle.

“Well, damn. This sucks.” You can see the indent of his tongue in his cheek before he clicks and shrugs. “Guess that’s it then. Need help packing your shit or what?”

His response is so blasé that you’re genuinely shocked and, you must admit, a little hurt. He didn’t even ask for a second chance or beg you to stay or argue with you about your terrible timing because our-vacation-to-Hawaii-is-coming-up. So it’s your turn to look surprised, and you shake your head.

“No, I… already took care of it. It’s at a storage locker.” You didn’t have family left, and your close friends had pulled away from you one by one once you stayed with Ransom time and time again--so you’d had to pay movers to help you pack and transport everything to storage over the weekend, while Ransom was away and you were free to make a clean breakup.

He nods, sticks his hand inside his jacket pockets. He’s looking around the room, avoiding direct eye contact in a clear show of his discomfort. It’s weird seeing Ransom like this--the normally self-assured, cocky Ransom, looking for any excuse not to look at you.

“So… see ya around?” His tone is sincere, if still confused. The idea of you leaving must have really never crossed his mind. The look on his face when he finally faces you again appears genuinely puzzled.

He sticks out his hand and it feels almost comical for things to end this way, particularly considering the nights you’d spent imagining some big blow up, some big fight with Ransom screaming and you firing off the many reasons why it had to end no matter what he said.

But it didn’t go the way you expected at all. It was calm. Easy. A clean break-up.

So you shake his hand and grab your purse and the small roller-suitcase and give a half-hearted wave as you walk out the door; the taxi you’d hired to pick you up is waiting, car running, meter going. You would be staying at a hotel for two weeks, which would hopefully be enough time to find a semi-decent apartment; your credit score had improved so much since Ransom added you to his cards, to a shared checking account, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to get approved.

A new life, one where you could focus on yourself for once, was just around the corner.

**

"I'm sorry, miss, but it's definitely not the reader. The card is declined."

You've had this nightmare before. No, you've lived this nightmare before--years ago when your credit was shit and you ran up your cards and had to face the music in a publicly humiliating display with the longest checkout line you'd ever seen behind you. Only that was years ago, in a little grocery store, and since getting together with Ransom you never had to worry about problems like this. You never had to worry about the shame of not having enough, not being enough.

But this? This was happening now. In an upscale hotel. With your nice purse (a Christmas present) and designer clothes (casual, comfortable) and your cheeks flushed undeniably warm.

The hotel clerk has a tight, sympathetic smile on her face. A coworker who walks behind her glances at you, judging, and you just know he's going to head into some break room and tell everyone but yet another piece of discarded army candy with a declined credit card. You wish you'd kept your sunglasses on.

"Did it, um, say why? I don't--" you plaster a smile on your face, hating the way this all feels familiar, like a part of your past coming back to haunt you. "I don't understand, the card is good."

The clerk's smile flickers, just a bit.

"It says there's a fraud alert on this card. Perhaps you'd better call the company. Or would you like me to call them?"

Fucking. Ransom.

"Oh, oh no, don’t worry about it. I’ll call them myself. I'm so sorry about this." You turn away from the clerk as quickly as possible and step away from the counter, away from the person waiting behind you who will surely have no trouble with their card, away from the clerks giving you a passive side-eye. You lean against a cool cement pillar in the lobby and you know what you have to do.

You have to call Ransom.

You haven't deleted his number yet--you'd planned on calling him today or tomorrow to figure out how to split up your shared finances--so it's easy enough to find the number. It's not so easy to tap his contact, but you have to, so you force yourself to do it and stare at his photo as the call rings. And rings. And rings. “Hello?” Your breath catches but in an instant, when the message continues, you feel stupid. It’s his voicemail. Fuck.

You text him, instead. Emergency. Call right away. And of course: He leaves you on read. Fuck.

You call him again. And again. He picks up on the sixth call, but your heart is racing too hard and sweat is beading down your forehead and it takes you a moment to confirm that the "Hello?" wasn't part of the voicemail message this time. Fuck.

"Um. Hey," you say, keeping your voice as un-royally-pissed-off as possible, because if he did put in a fraud alert then you don't want to risk any additional asshole moves. "So there's something wrong with the card? The one that ends in 8921? The hotel said there was a fraud alert and--"

"Did you really think I'm going to keep paying for your shit if we're over?"

His voice is quick, biting--exactly what you'd expected from him earlier. Somehow it stings even harsher over the phone, where you feel more helpless, unable to avoid his words.

"I thought..." you wet your lips, trying to maintain your cool. "Look, my name is on them, so I thought send you my part of the payments until I can get cards in my own name."

He chuckles, low and short. "Yeah? What, you want to create a payment schedule or something?"

You fight back the annoyance in your tone. You hate having to be the bigger person, but your finances--your life--is on the line. "Yeah, actually, that'd be perfect. It wouldn't be for long. You know I'll pay them on time, I'm not looking to screw you over."

"You're going too pay me on time? For all the stuff you've bought, the stuff I’ve bought for you, this hotel room and god knows what else? How are you going to afford all that?"

He knows you recently earned a promotion at your work. He knows this, because you were so excited about it, and his half-assed congratulations over lukewarm leftovers left you feeling bitter and sad and useless. So you can't help it when bitterness seeps into your voice with your answer. "You know I just got a promotion."

"Did you?" It's said in such a casual tone that it gives you pause, but a moment later he simply hangs up on you.

Fucking. Ransom.

You shove your phone back into your purse, and the clerks at the counter are staring at you. Sweat has trickled down your back and your shirt sticks to your skin ever-so-slightly as you pull away from the pillar and approach the counter, awkward smile and cheeks hot.

"There is an issue with the card, they're working on it, so I’ll just call for a new reservation when it's fixed. I'm so sorry for the mix up!" Your voice is so peppy and high-pitched and fake and you feel like you’re back at your old job, feet aching with falling apart shoes, forced to deal with people returning old toasters laden with crumbs, calming they’d “just bought it the day before and it didn’t work.”

"Of course," the clerk says, and you know this is hotel clerk code for "You're a shitty liar."

You roll your suitcase out of the lobby with tears in your eyes and you shove your sunglasses on as soon as you've cleared the building. You feel exhausted, drained--so you use what little energy you have left to start googling for cheap motels.

**

The room smells musty. You pin the plastic sheet you’d snagged at a dollar store over the comforter and pray it will be enough to protect you from whatever is on the likely unwashed fabric. The TV is broken, there’s no WIFi, and there’s a few suspicious stains on the floor that make you wonder if this hotel has ever been featured in a porno, true crime show, or both.

But it’s all you could afford with the cash in your wallet. You only had enough cash on hand for 2 nights at a ragtag hotel that offers nightly and hourly rates. You didn’t dare use your debit card or any credit cards with Ransom’s name or information on them.

You just need some sleep. A good night’s sleep to feel renewed and ready to tackle retaking your life, bit by bit. In the morning, you need to go to the bank and withdraw your money from the joint bank account. Then you can reopen an account in your name, get a new debit card, and apply for a few credit cards afterwards.

Sure, it would have been nicer to do this without Ransom being an asshole. But deep down, you suspected he wouldn’t let you have a clean, lets-still-be-friends type of break. Not after all the times he’d pressured you into staying, manipulating you with words and gifts and promises, promises. Promises that were worth shit. 

The sheet crinkles underneath you as you scroll through your messages. You’d texted a few formerly close friends about the breakup earlier, hoping that they’d maybe want to reconnect. So far, you’d been left on read, blocked, and received only one response: “New number, who is this?”

So much for that. Not that you can blame them. There are only so many times they can rush over for a late night intervention in which you tell them every horrible thing Ransom does (he’s controlling, he doesn’t want me to meet with friends without permission, he tells me what I can and can’t wear, he cheats, he lies, he pushed me--)--before they get tired of you returning to him, again and again and again.

The only one who’d been texting you recently--okay, for the past year--had been Ransom. Mostly dick pics. And demands for you to send him something back, which you always did after a while, because you didn’t want to deal annoyed texts or voice messages accusing you of clearly cheating on him or hating him because why else wouldn’t you be willing to send him so much as a sexy selfie to your boyfriend? 

But in between those, there were conversations. Sometimes sweet ones, sometimes thoughtful ones that always made you remember why you fell hard for him in the first place. Late night conversations from when he was off on trips. You try not to wonder if he was fucking someone on each of these trips, if while you were sending him a late night ramble about a TV show and he was humoring you with jokes and quips, he was actually snuggled up with someone else. Laying in bed, naked, laughing at your dumb ass waiting at home.

The not-so-sweet conversations were ones that you had screenshotted and sent to your friends more than once, before they pulled themselves away. Texts asking where you were. Asking who you ate lunch with, and whether or not you were fucking them. Asking why your new office was connected to a certain co-worker’s, and how many blowjobs you had to give to get said new office because you didn’t tell him about the new office until after you were moved in, so you were clearly hiding him. Asking you to send him outfit pics so he could approve them or make you change if they were too slutty or not slutty enough or if you were only clearly wearing that halter dress to try to get with the bartender.

Yet your mind had always returned to the nice Ransom, the Ransom who made you laugh and squeezed you hard when had a shitty day of work and let you bury your face in his sweater as you snuggled on the couch. Maybe that’s why it took so long to leave.  You were waiting for him to stop being Ransom and start being the fantasy of Ransom you’d conjured in your head.

Your eyes feel heavy so you plug in your phone, turn the sound off, and lay down on the uncomfortable plastic sheet that crinkled over the pillows. It feels strange to lay on a lumpy mattress covered in plastic, after years of custom-made beds and memory foam pillows and all the other luxuries that Ransom was able to provide.

You try not to think about it too much. While you won’t exactly be indulging in all the luxuries you had with Ransom, but your job pays you well, and you won’t ever have to go back to living hand-to-mouth like you did before. You won’t have to worry about late bills and debt collectors and landlords who come late at night and demand inspections while you’re in your pajamas.

You have work in the morning. You have to get to the bank in the morning. Your thoughts are still buzzing with anxiety as you fall into an uneasy slumber.

**

“I’m sorry, but the account has been closed.”

You feel years of customer service training cracking underneath your skin. You can’t freak out. If you freak out, they won’t feel inclined to go the extra mile. You know this, from firsthand experience.

So you take a shaky breath. “Um, this just--it isn’t possible. It’s a joint account. I’m on the account. There was money in there, you can check--”

“I’m sorry, but the funds were transferred and account has been closed by the other account holder. There’s nothing I can do. I suggest contacting the other party in the account.”

You swallow and nod and walk away, this time having been smart enough to keep your sunglasses on to hide your humiliated expression. Why didn’t you insist on having your own account? Ransom said it was better to keep it joint, so you could just buy stuff whenever you wanted. You’d agreed because it was so generous, something you’d never thought possible at the time, when you were used to having to pay overdraft fees and cringing whenever you checked your balance.

Your fingers tremble as you bring up his contact on your phone. You tap. No answer.

You don’t have time to call him two, three, ten times--you have to get to work. So you steady your nerves. You breathe in, you breathe out. You get in your car and plug your phone in and decide to contact your lawyer. Fuck--your lawyer was Ransom's lawyer. But the anxiety eases when you remember that you’d paid him a retainer fee months ago, and Ransom couldn’t do anything about that. You could at least get a basic consult out of the retainer.

The call ringing sounds muffled through your car’s speaker but it isn’t long before someone answers, and you’re transferred to the lawyer Ransom insisted you have--gotta have a lawyer when you have money, babe--and that you hadn’t spoken to in ages.

“Hi,” you say, voice artificially bright, “this is--”

You don’t get a chance to finish.

“I know who this is.” The lawyer sounds tired, and his tone is curt and clipped. “I’m sorry. I’m no longer able to provide you with any legal counsel.”

You almost miss a red light and regret calling the office while you were driving.

“Is this about the debit card? Because I paid the retainer months ago--”

“The retainer has been refunded into the connected checking account.”

Your voice looses its artificial cheeriness and you stumble over your words in frustration. “That’s--it’s--it was a joint account, which is why I called, Ransom drained it and took everything. Isn’t there something we can do, because that was my money too and--”

“I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel.”

You want to cry. You hate crying, as an adult. It makes you feel weak. Especially on the phone.

“I don’t understand. Why was the retainer refunded? Did--did someone call you?”

He clears his throat into the phone. “I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel. Goodbye.”

He hangs up. Your hands shake.

You pull into the parking lot of your work and park the car and as soon as you do, you hunch yourself over the steering wheel and simply shake in frustration.

You have no bank account. Ransom drained it. You have no credit cards. Ransom blocked them. You couldn’t even talk to a lawyer, because--shock--Ransom made sure you couldn’t. Everything was in Ransom’s name. He insisted on adding you to his accounts, closing out your own paltry ones; insisted that he pay off your credit card debt, and making you close those, too, instead adding you to his cards. It was all to help you out, he said, at the time.

Wasn’t it? He was shockingly not judgmental about the state of your finances, and while you’d put up some protest, you didn’t exactly argue with him when he suggested wiping your debts clean and getting your credit back up. And considering that he wasn’t immune to needing a bail-out now and then (late night calls to his grandfather, snarky comments at his parent’s dinner table, come to mind) maybe he could sympathize with being in over your head. Even if your issues were rooted in poverty and shitty jobs and his were rooted in a total lack of financial discipline and, as you’d later found out, a drug addiction.

Still. He helped you before. He would help you now, once he realized how serious it was. For now he was just--reacting like an asshole, acting childish and ridiculous. He was an asshole. You know this. You’ve known this. You need to call him and meet with him and make him realize how ridiculous he’s being, and he’ll sigh and snark but he’ll agree to stop acting like such an ass.

But first you have to work. Life goes on. Even without Ransom--even with Ransom, screwing you over out of pettiness.

The air conditioning in the lobby is on blast, and the familiar smell of clean furniture and floor cleaner from the late-night cleaning crew is surprisingly comforting. Here, you can forget about Ransom--forget about the cards and the lawyer and the fact that your life has been upended in mere hours. If only until your lunch break, at least.

Anthony is working the front desk and you give him a a soft, if strained smile. There’s something in the smile that he gives you in return that reminds you of the hotel clerk. Sympathetic and judgmental.

Ah. You probably look like--well, less than your best, you realize. You did pack some toiletries in your suitcase but the water in the motel had streaks of brown and you didn’t shower, opting instead to rinse your face with what was left of a water bottle you’d bought earlier and layering on more deodorant to make up for the lack of a proper scrub. You probably looked a bit tired, haggard, not unlike some of the employees who got stuck with big clients the night before their paperwork was due.

Still. Nothing that freshening up in your private bathroom--thank god for the new office--can’t help. So you hit the button on the elevator and take deep breaths as you ride up, intent on working as productively as possible. The doors open and you navigate the familiar maze of open-plan desks for the lower-tier workers, desks surrounded by half-walls that always kept you staring straight ahead, lest you accidentally glance over and see a co-worker picking their nose.

Yet as you weave in-and-out of the familiar rows, heading towards the back of the room where the real offices, the ones with full walls and doors and privacy glass lay, you can’t help but feel that something is… off. 

No one calls out to greet you, though that can be easily attributed to the jealousy over your promotion. You’d been working there for far less than most of the lower level workers--Ransom got you the job, with his connections and a hefty revision of your resume and, you assume, some personal phone calls--and you’d already been promoted to senior management. That wasn’t technically Ransom’s work, though. That was all your own effort, your own blood, sweat, tears and intense devotion to each project that came your way. Sure, the connections he helped you make, the dinner parties, all that helped--but if it weren’t for your skills, the connections wouldn’t have made a difference. Right? 

Still, whatever bitterness existed in the people hunch in open-air cubicles, the receptionists always greeted you. But today they caught your eye then awkwardly glanced down, or pretended to be looking for something in their drawers. It was odd. Did you look that bad? That out of sorts?

You shake off the heavy feeling in your stomach and for once, you shut the door to your office instead of keeping it open for passers-by or people needing approval for this-and-that. It feels good to lean against the solid wood door and take a breath, a deep one, invigorating and calming.

A quick trip to the bathroom has you staring at yourself from all angles. You don’t look that bad, you reason. Just tired. But who wouldn’t be, sleeping on a plastic sheet in the shittiest motel in the area? You take a quick sniff under your arms but even that reveals nothing much but a faint hint of sweat and powdery deodorant.

There’s a firm knock at your office door and you glance at the mirror for a final once over before opening it up. It’s your boss. Did you have a meeting? You try to do a mental scan of something you’ve missed, but nothing comes to mind.

“Hi,” you say, wavering with uncertainty at the threshold. Should you invite him in? “What can I do for you? We didn’t have a meeting, did we?” You let yourself chuckle, dry and quick. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit scattered this morning.”

Your boss doesn’t return your chuckle, which immediately raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Something was wrong. Shit--you were working on a major project for a seriously important client. The type of client that could genuinely make or break a company, if you got on their bad side. You press your lips together and make a silent vow to keep it serious.

“I’d like to keep this conversation private.” His tone is low and serious and you invite him in without a second thought, shutting the thick door behind you, trying to ignore the way everyone was shooting glances as it closed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your thoughts race--no wonder everyone was giving you the stink eye. Something was wrong with the client, and you were the one making primary contact with them.

Your boss takes a seat on the leather sofa pushed up against the wall and you immediately set yourself down behind your desk.

He sighs. Short. Frustrated. Annoyed.

“We have to let you go.”

The words don’t register.

“Go where?”

It’s only after you say it that you realize what he said, what it meant, and you feel like a colossal moron in every respect.

“It’s not working out,” he continues, staring at your desk and not at your face. “Since you’ve only been in this position for a month, you don’t quality for senior severance. The best we can do is to pay you what you’ve earned this week.”

Your mouth is so dry that you don’t know if you can talk. Your hand fumbles on your desk for a water bottle you’d left overnight, and that’s when you see it--the photo frame. You keep a photo of yourself and Ransom, cuddled together for a selfie, on your desk. The photo was lying on your desk, frameless, ripped in half--leaving only your vacantly smiling face staring up at you.

Ransom was here.

“Did he put you up to this?” You whisper. “Did Ransom tell you to fire me?”

You know he won’t answer. But you stare at him so fervently that he can’t help but look up at you, and you see it all in his eyes, in the subtle, embarrassed expression of his face.

You can imagine Ransom strolling in--maybe he called first--and settling in for a private audience with your boss in his office. He’d probably pull the chair up to the desk and put his feet on it, just to be an ass. Then he’d bring up… you. And why you had to be let go. Did he give a reason, did he tell your boss why a respected employee who he once secured a position for, who shot up the ranks through intense effort and work, needed to be fired? Did he even need to give a reason?

“This is absolute bullshit,” you say, finally, voice dry and hoarse and bitter. You want to say you’ll be contacting a lawyer. That this won’t stand. But you know--and he knows--that there’s nothing you can do.

Your boss stands, slow, and sighs again. “I’m sorry it had to end this way. Pack up your things as quickly as possible.”

He leaves, and you keep your eyes trained on the ripped photograph to avoid seeing the expressions of the people in the doorway before your boss mercifully shuts the door.

It takes all of your effort not to cry.

You don’t have much effort left.

**

Your things consisted of a handful of personal items, little touches you’d brought in to make your office feel more like “you.” A nice picture print. A pastel afghan to drape over the couch. A stapler with a floral design. You have the strong urge to dump them in a trash can, but that’s quickly quelled by the realization that you can’t afford to buy new things, or any things, at this point.

You don’t care if wearing your sunglasses as you power walk to the elevators makes you look stupid. You know someone, somewhere in this office is filming you and probably captioning it with something stupid to post to their Reels or TikTok, and it just makes you leave faster. A few people murmur comments your way, sympathetic in tone, but you’re not really listening. None of their platitudes matter, because Ransom was here, in your workplace, in your office, and he stole the thing you were most proud of from under your feet.

To his credit, when you reach the bottom floor, Anthony practically fumbles out from behind his desk and holds the door open for you. He mouths a “Sorry” and he probably is, but he’s probably used to dealing with rich assholes like Ransom who get what they want, when they want it; even when what they want is to fire a good employee on demand for very personal reasons.

The sun is beating down hard, even for the morning, and the stress of your situation makes you blast the air conditioning as soon as you get in the car. God, the car--how are you going to afford the payments? You wish you could call your mom. You wish your friends--are they even your friends, anymore?--would call you back.

You grab your phone from your purse and stare at the black screen. Maybe you should call the friend who didn’t block you. She would answer, if you called, because she knew you didn’t make calls unless it was serious. She might not rush to your side, but maybe she can offer you a place to stay, a couch, some advice. A kind word would do, right now, with how much anxiety and frustration has been packed into the last 12 hours.

But when you unlock your screen, your gut sinks. Five missed calls. From the storage company. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You tap their number and bring the phone to your ear and pretend that your hands aren’t shaking.

The man who answers is the same one you talked to on the phone before, when setting up your move. “Hello, Move’nSecure Storage Company. This is Steve speaking. How many I help you?”

“Hi Steve!” You hate how chipper you sound. “I actually just got a few missed calls from you guys, I’m sorry, I was in the office and--”

“Oh.” His voice is surprisingly flat, suddenly flat, losing its customer service inflection in an instant before picking it back up. “Yes. We’ve been trying to reach you. For confirmation, the storage locker your purchased is A443, correct?”

You fumble in your purse for the receipt and confirm the little numbers printed neatly on the paper. “Yes, A443. Is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not.” You’re grateful that you didn’t have much for breakfast because you know it would be clawing its way back up at this point. “The card you gave us for the storage fee was declined.”

The debit card. You’d paid in cash for the move, and paid for 1 month of storage with the card. The card that was now useless, connected to an empty and closed bank account.

“Is there another card you can give us?”

“No, but...” You say, because no, there is not. There is not a card. There is not a job. There is nothing. “But if you could just hold my stuff, I’ll be there in less than a hour to get it.”

“We don’t hold items,” Steve tells you, a rehearsed banality to his tone. “Your items are currently outside the unit.”

You instinctively want to yell at Steve but, fuck fuck fuck, you’ve been there, behind the counter, dealing with people who couldn’t pay for shit and then had the nerve to get upset with you. “All of it?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly.

“Yes.”

You hang up, and toss your phone onto the passenger seat. The quicker you get there, the less chance that something will get broken or stolen or who knows what else.

The trip to the storage unit seems to take forever, and when you arrive you don’t even take a second to lock your car doors. Instead you sprint inside, startling Steve--looking at his phone, then at you, then at the sign plastered up on the wall leading to the storage locker floors. He points. Row A, separated into 100s, 200s, 300s, and--your number--400s.

You don’t remember if you say ‘thank you,’ because you’re speed-walking down the hallway and following the signs and it isn’t long before you see it: a storage locker with tons of stuff piled up, dumped, outside the now-empty unit where it was supposed to be safe and sound. Waiting for you to get an apartment and pick it back up and rearrange it into your new life, your new “you.”

The problem is immediate: You can’t fit all this in your car. You don’t know anyone who could take the stuff for you. You mind reels for options and the only thing you can come up with is ferrying your belongings to and from the hotel. You can pay for a few more days once you cash your partial paycheck. After that… you don’t know.

Pawn your things? Yeah. That might work. You can get enough cash by pawning most of your stuff, the good stuff. Enough money to get you into a shitty apartment with leaks and a bad landlord. Then you can a job that barely pays rent and you’ll be right back where you started, before you met Ransom. Before you thought leaking ceilings and $20 paychecks after taxes were a thing of the past.

You ignore the humiliation that makes your stomach curl as you take your things out to the car, handful by handful. Steve doesn’t bother holding the door open for you. You mention that you’re going to be back on your way out, and he offers a non-committal hum.

At least when you get to the hotel, the owner sees you fumbling with boxes and offers to help you out. It takes less time with two hands to get everything in the room, and once it’s locked up you head back out to the storage units.

You keep your sunglasses on for the second trip into the storage unit, even though you don’t know Steve or care what he thinks. He doesn’t look up when you walk in and it’s just as well, since you’re only heading back to the A-400s and don’t need his non-existent help.

But the sight that greets you when you round the corner to your unpaid-for storage locker makes your blood run cold.

Your stuff is gone. All of it.

You rush back to the desk, where Steve does look up, startled by your urgency.

“My stuff,” you spit out, “My stuff is gone! Someone took it!”

Steve shrugs. “Sorry.” He points to a sign behind him: “We are not responsible for the loss of items inside or outside storage lockers.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” You can’t the anger in your voice this time. “You just watched someone walk off with my stuff and didn’t say anything?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “If it was that important, you shouldn’t have left it here. Or you should have given us another card.”

You feel like throwing your hands up but you just clench your fist and storm out the door, huffing as you reach your car. The anger melts into the sense of loss, the realization that you only have a few meager items that you’d managed to collect; you picked the lightest stuff, first. And in retrospect it was things that didn’t matter much at all. Clothes. Hair supplies. Makeup. You should have grabbed the box with your USB sticks, your memory cards, your photo albums; your personal mementos and sentimental shit. Instead you grabbed the box with your shampoo.

At least the clothes might get something in a pawnshop. The makeup, too, on Facebook or Depop or Instagram. But it wouldn’t be enough to put you up in an apartment. You’ll have to live in your car. Until they repossess it for lack of payment.

You don’t have your bank account, your credit cards, your job, a place to stay, or your personal possessions. And soon, you won’t have your car.

You have no friends. No boyfriend. No family.

All you have $20 left in your wallet and well, fuck it. You grab some McDonalds on the way home because, fuck it, and eat all the fries before you make it to the motel. The thought of eating in your dirty room makes your stomach turn and you decide to eat everything else you bought, the burger and the shake and the chicken nuggets too, tossing the wrappers on the floor. It feels like deja vu--getting cheap fast food to make you feel full, tossing trash on the floor of the passenger seat, all bringing back the way you used to when you’d grab something from the dollar menu on your way to work at the call center.

You almost wish you could stay at this hotel, brown water and all. The owner is decently nice. He smiles at you when you enter and doesn’t bring up that you didn’t come back with more boxes, like you said you would.  

You’re surprised at how grateful you feel for the dingy hotel room now that you won’t be able to stay here more than another day. Now that the alternative is sleeping in your car, then sleeping on the street, if you were lucky.

Your phone feels heavy when you set it on the table and stare at the home screen. Another photo of you and Ransom stares back up at you. You haven’t had time to change it up yet. He’s grinning. You’re smiling. It’s a good photo. You try to place it in your memory, try to remember what beach that was, but your trips blur together and you can’t.

Should you call him? If it was just the cards, just him being petty over credit and finances, it was one thing. You could try to placate him with returning gifts, just asking him to give you what you put in from your own paychecks. But making you lose your job? It was too far, too fucking far. And there was no going back from that. Fuck, someone was probably moving into your office as you sat in this dimly lit room mourning the loss of your entire life.

For a brief, very fleeting moment, you consider calling Harlan. You weren’t exceptionally close, but he seemed to like you well enough. He’d even asked you once, puling you aside at a tension-filled family party, if Ransom treated you right, told you to tell him if he ever got to be too much. Harlan felt like Ransom’s keeper--in more ways than one. You could never tell Harlan about the shouts or the occasional bruises from when Ransom really, really lost his temper--it’s not like you could prove them, anyway, as Ransom made sure to keep you away from his family when he lost control like that. No need for excuses about running into doors when he made sure you looked your best at family functions.

But the thought of breaking the uneasy stasis that Ransom had with the most significant member of his family made you want to vomit. There would be no coming back from that, and you knew better than to cross any line involving the great Harlan Thrombey.

You could call your friend--ex-friend? The one who didn’t block you or forget your number. You should. No, you will. Because what else do you have to lose.

But before you can bring up her number, you get a text--Ransom. It’s a photo and your curiosity gets the better of you as you click the notification.

“What the fuck?”

He’s sent you a photo of his car, trunk open. It’s filled with boxes, odds-and-ends. It’s filled with your stuff.

You text him: What??

He texts back: Hey. I’m in front of the hotel. Come out? Bring your suitcase. :P

It’s your stuff. It’s his car. He’s here. All reason is thrown aside as you grab your suitcase and purse and rush down the hallway, ignoring the owner’s confused response from behind his desk as you push open the front doors and look around the parking lot.

His car is parked to the side, not in front of the hotel’s glass double doors. He’s standing outside his car, leaning against it. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in his pocket when he sees you approaching, face confused and fuming all at once.

“What the fuck, Ransom, what the fuck is your problem--”

“Hey, hey,” he says, hands up in defense, “You’re not even going to thank me for picking up your stuff?”

You feel suddenly, impossibly rooted to the spot.

“What do you--what? You took my stuff?”

He shrugs. “C’mon, did you really think I’d just leave your stuff in some shitty storage unit? Someone would’ve taken it if I didn’t get there first.”

You swallow. “Why?” You ask, because Ransom never does anything for no reason. Or so you’ve learned.

His expression loses a bit of its cocky casualness. He tilts his head a bit, looking at you as if you’ve asked a particularly offensive question.

“Why do you think?”

To lord it over you? To make you think your stuff was gone and make you worried, sick, crazy?

“I don’t know,” is what you settle for in the end. “I really, really don’t. You--” You lick your lips, and try to calm down, calm the pitter-patter of your heart, and think before you speak. “You’ve done some pretty messed up stuff today. My job?” The last question comes out soft and pained, and you know your eyes are starting to tear up.

“Hey.” His voice is soft and placating and it makes your stomach flip as he approaches you, standing there on the sidewalk with your purse and suitcase. “Hey, c’mon. Don’t cry on me.”

You know this Ransom. The Ransom that holds you and pets your hair and offers to get Thai food delivered even though he doesn’t like it just to make you happy.

He puts his hand on your shoulder and you jerk it away. “Don’t.” That Ransom is a fantasy. Or an incomplete version, the version that pretends he doesn’t lie and cheat and hurt you in more ways than one. “Don’t you fucking dare, especially not after what you pulled today. My job? My job, Ransom? You’re a--a fucking asshole.”

He puts his hands up again, defensive, and takes a step back. But he doesn’t return to his car, and stays just a few steps in front of you.

“Look. Call me an asshole. Sure, fine, I can admit that. But do you know what else I am?”

He waits a beat, waits for you to look at him, before he continues. “I’m a realist. I like facts. And the fact is? You aren’t much without me. No job, no credit cards, no bank account. Without me, you’re just some broke chick scrambling to get an apartment in the shittiest part of town, working a dead-end job that don’t pay shit. With me though…. “

He leaves the words unfinished, but you know what he means. Flashes of your life, cocktails and smart business outfits and dinners at restaurants you didn’t even dream about attending before you met him. Phone calls with shakers in the industry and social media requests from people you’d never dream you’d meet. Connections that meant something, a career path, dinner parties with people who could offer tangible benefits to your career and your life.

It wasn’t that he spoiled you. He wasn’t a sugar daddy. You weren’t getting gifts for blowjobs. It was that his presence in your life boosted you, socially, financially, mentally, physically, in every which way possible.

His presence got you a job that you loved, which meant you weren’t burnt out when you came home, which meant that you had the time and energy to spend hours catching up on books or redecorating the house or watching movies. Good money meant you could order in whenever you felt like it, meant you didn’t have to worry if you burned dinner because you could just buy new steaks or order-in or go out, last minute, and still get a great table. It meant you had all the clothes you wanted, stylish and personally tailored; it meant you had easy access to a gym and exercise equipment and an indoor pool to keep you healthy. It meant you had a life that provided comfort in every way possible.

Being with Ransom Drysdale was like… like a little shot of privilege directly into your arm.

Privilege that he took away just as easily as he gave it. Just as easily as you took it. Just as easily as you took it and eagerly ignored the dark side underneath. Or maybe you didn’t ignore it. Maybe you liked it, maybe it reminded you of who you were underneath the designer clothes and expensive dinners.

Maybe you wanted to fix him, like he fixed you? He wasn’t totally bad, after all, he did make sure no one took your belongings. Maybe it was your presence that gave him the idea for that touch of sympathy, maybe with Ransom change was slow and muddled, not picture-perfect sweeping changes like the kind in movies.

“So?” Ransom’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Are you going to come home or,” he waves his hands around dismissively, at the hotel, at you.

You feel very, very less-than right now. You look awful, your hair mussy and your makeup mostly melted off with sweat and sun. You probably smell more than you normally do, thanks to the lack of a shower. Your muscles, sore from the motel bed, ache for the large spa bathtub that Ransom had installed in the master bathroom just for you, stocked with bubbles and salts and overpriced bath bombs that were $10 a pop.

But your muscles had hurt before, when he pushed you against the dresser.

You have nothing, and no one. Except Ransom. Ransom who didn’t judge you when you instinctively saved plastic bottles and boxes, but merely nudged you towards recycling and took you out to splurge on a reusable water bottle and proper storage containers the next day. Ransom who asked you what sort of job you wanted, really wanted, and made it happen for you. Ransom who shrugged and wiped away your credit card debt without making you feel like shit.

Ransom who didn’t let you leave the house if your wrists were sporting fingerprint shaped bruises. Ransom who argued with you about talking to men, even men at work. Ransom who held you tight at night and said he never wanted to let you go, and wouldn’t you just make a fine-ass addition his crazy family. Ransom who took care of you, now that you had no one else.

“What do you want me to do?” The words feel slow, sluggish. Like they wanted to stick to the roof of your mouth and it took everything in you to get them out.

His voice turns low and serious as he stares at you with an characteristic expression. “Well, the first thing is to get down on your knees…”

You feel your eyes practically bugging out.

“What the fuck, Ransom?”

He laughs. He always did have a nice laugh.

“I’m just messing with you, Jesus. Take a chi-I-il pill. Just grab your purse and come sit your sweet ass in the front seat. Let’s go get some burgers, I’m starving.”

Your legs feel like jelly when you take that first step, and the sound of your roller suitcase as you pull it along seems louder than ever. Ransom pops the truck and you just manage to fit it inside with the handle closed, jamming it in between some boxes at an odd angle. The handle of the passenger side is familiar, warm from the sun.

You open the door and practically shove yourself into the seat, closing the door as fast as possible. You can’t do more than glance at him as humiliation and anxiety and just the smallest bit of relief washes over you. It’s been less than 24 hours since you broke up, and here you are--again.

He’s staring at you quietly, his expression difficult to place. He looks relieved. He looks annoyed. He looks like he wants to kiss you. He looks like he wants to slap you. Maybe he wants to do it all at once and can’t decide which to pick.

Instead, he puts his hand on your thigh. Gives it a squeeze. Hard, bordering on painful.  He’s staring straight ahead, at the worn-out sign on the hotel’s front door, one hand gripping the flesh of your thigh. He looks good in profile. “Don’t ever try to pull something like that again. I mean it. I really mean it.”

You turn, glance out the window, familiar tears at the edge of your eyes.

“I won’t,” you whisper, dreaming of the tub and bubbles and how good a warm soak will feel on your back, on your thighs, on your soul.

“Good girl,” he says, patting your thigh firmly. He plucks his sunglasses out of pocket and puts them on in a smooth motion. The car starts smoothly, its fine-tuned and expensive engine a familiar sound, and your hands feel robotic as you pull the seatbelt over your chest and click it tight.

“Let’s get dinner and get home. You have some unpacking to do.”

[delimeful]

in sickness and in health (2)

this fic was patron picked to be published by a 24 hour poll! hope you enjoy! :)

warnings: fear, fairly bad illness, murder mentions, crying, remus saying some remus things

-

The next morning, after a few measly hours of sleep, Virgil poked his head out of one of the upper boltholes in his human’s bedroom and found him still in the same position, the sheets damp with sweat around him.

Another check in a couple hours later found much the same.

And another.

And then night had fallen, and still his human hadn’t moved, looked perhaps even worse than before. Even more galling, nobody else had come over to check on him.

It was to be expected, he knew. He’d seen the human collapse and sleep a day or two away after one of his week-long at-home work sessions; it was only natural that his many friends assumed this was the same sort of scenario.

Except it wasn’t. And now his stupid human was too unconscious to even contact anyone. Virgil dragged his hands over his face, bemoaning the situation and humans and even the world in general.

He peeked down over the ledge, studying what he could see of the burns. Another application couldn’t hurt. At the very least, his parents hadn’t raised him to leave a job half-done.

His human would wake up soon, he told himself sternly as he made the trek over to the nightstand. He paused, and shook his head. There was no point in avoiding using names anymore. He was literally risking his life to go tend to the human’s wounds— he was much more than attached, at this point.

Patton would wake up soon, he told himself as he unscrewed the ointment tube’s cap. It almost sounded a little more believable like that.

Unfortunately, it ended up being truer than he would have liked.

He was halfway done with the right hand when the general unease he wore around like a second skin suddenly spiked into outright fear. He went still, straining all his senses.

There— it was the silence that was setting him off. The constant backdrop of low, raspy breathing had suddenly gone completely quiet.

As if someone was holding their breath.

Slowly, Virgil turned to confirm what his instincts were already telling him, and met the gaze of a pair of huge brown eyes.

Despite himself, he went frozen. Knowing how large humans were was one thing, but being seen by one? It had never happened to him before, and he felt utterly pinned under the stare.

(His sleeves were rolled up. Could the human see the markings on his body? Other borrowers recognizing Virgil as a part of that group was bad enough, but a human-- A human could do so much worse.)

Patton let out a little whoosh of air, as though deciding that he didn’t have to hold his breath to avoid disturbing him anymore. “Um, hi.”

His voice, even at an almost-whisper, was crackly and rough, and it made Virgil jerk slightly, his mind desperately trying to convince his locked up body to bolt already.

Patton’s hand twitched a little in response to the motion, and Virgil went stone-still again. He was standing right next to the curve of the hand, had unwittingly practically done everything but climb into the human’s palm himself. In this position, he had no doubt that in a race between him and Patton’s reflexes, he would lose.

But the human hadn’t grabbed yet. The longer it stayed that way, the better.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Patton mumbled apologetically. His eyes were a little glazed over; he probably thought he was dreaming. Good for Future Virgil, bad for Present Virgil. “You takin’ care of me?”

Virgil let the silence stretch, and then nodded a little when it was clear Patton was waiting for an answer. There was no point in denying it; he’d been caught red-handed. Ointment-handed. Whatever.

“Thanks,” Patton replied, face scrunching up into a weak grin. “I guess a little first aid is just what I needed.”

Not even a raging fever could hold back the puns, it seemed. Virgil narrowly avoided snorting, a return jab about Patton being a big pain on the tip of his tongue.

Abruptly, though, the hand was curling around him, sending his pulse racing as his route of escape was cut off.

Horrific ways this could end ran through his mind one after another; The human was nearly out of his head with fever, all he had to do was misjudge his strength even a little and Virgil would snap—

Everything went still again. Virgil struggled to slow his breathing, gaze darting back and forth like a cornered mouse. Patton’s hand had curled around him, pressing just slightly on his arms without actually trying to lift him. He was just sort of... holding him.

“Y’okay?” Patton murmured, and his thumb (thankfully ointment-free) gently patted his shoulder. “It’s justa’ thank you hug.”

On cue, his almost-grip loosened, hand remaining half-cupped around him but open enough that he could easily step out. Testingly, he stepped forward once, twice, always watching Patton’s face like a hawk as he did.

Patton blinked slowly at him, apparently completely unfazed by Virgil performing the world’s slowest escape.

It wasn’t until he was nearly to the edge of the bed that Patton stirred, shuffling his shoulder a bit and turning his head a bit farther to keep watching him.

“Leavin’?” he asked, looking almost a little worried. Virgil couldn’t imagine why; if anyone had the right to be worried here, it was him.

Still, he was finally close enough to his hook that he could definitely make it if Patton even twitched wrong toward him, so he took a deep breath and nodded, waiting to see how the human would react.

“‘Kay, be safe,” Patton offered, his cheek smushed against his pillow. His eyes were already half-lidded, apparently already preparing to head back to sleep now that there weren’t any convenient borrowers around to scare the life out of.

It couldn’t be that easy. Could it?

Virgil kept checking over his shoulder as he grabbed his rope, but Patton’s attention had already strayed, and as he descended, the human’s breathing returned to that familiar, sleep-slow cadence.

He only barely managed to make it back into the walls before a hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest. He slid down to a sitting position, trying to get his breathing under control. He’d been seen, he’d have to pack up everything he’d made and leave to face the treacherous elements again--

… Except. Except Patton hadn’t grabbed him. That was no promise of safety, but… really, he had barely seemed fazed at all by the presence of a tiny person in his space. Unnaturally so, for a human. Virgil knew well how a ravaging sickness could make anyone less than keen, leave their memory foggy. There was every possibility that that was the case here.

And if it was… Virgil didn’t have to move. He could observe Patton once he got better, stay discreet and make sure that his existence was dismissed as nothing more than a fever dream.

It was a risk, but… wasn’t every choice a borrower made risky?

(He was tired of leaving homes behind.)

---

There was one problem with his plan: it required Patton to get better.

Watching the human now, it seemed that he was intent on doing anything but that. Virgil scowled down at the bed from his check-in shelf, trying to shove down the worry at the sight of Patton twisting and turning in the sheets, iller than ever.

It seemed his moment of brief lucidity (if it could be called that) hadn’t lasted. He’d spent over a day in bed, only getting worse.

Virgil was getting well and truly worried.

(He didn’t know how long it took humans to recover, but he had an extensive frame of reference for how long it took humans to succumb to sickness.)

He’d taken to pacing indecisively back and forth at his latest check in, thousands of potential options and their terrible outcomes running through his head, when a low noise caught his ear.

Patton was crying, little hitching sobs that came out rough and crackly, blinking harshly as he stared up at the ceiling.

Virgil couldn’t tell why; it could’ve been a nightmare, physical pain, or just the helplessness of being so terribly sick. He gripped the edge of the shelf he was hiding on, biting his lip harshly.

If he called out, would it help? Would Patton listen? Would he remember, later?

Before he could try, the creak of bedsprings drew his eyes back to the human, who was twisting onto his side, reaching for the bedside table. Where his phone was.

“Yes,” Virgil whispered, watching the human strain to reach just a little further. “Come on, come on…”

Patton’s hand grabbed at the edge of the phone, so close to being able to finally get the help he needed— and it fell right through his fingers, his grip too weak to hang onto it.

It was as though their spirits plummeted right along with the phone, landing with a muffled thud on the bedroom floor. Patton let out another half-sigh, half-sob, and settled back onto the bed, exhausted from even that small expenditure of energy. Virgil’s lip began to bleed from how hard he was biting it.

Within moments, the room was quiet again, Patton returning to that hazy unconsciousness.

By then, Virgil had already made his choice.

(It was almost poetic. What better way to spit in the face of his upbringing than to save a human?)

He made his way through the walls in record time, finally able to use the pent up energy he’d accumulated from all that time helplessly watching.

Once he got to the floor, he paused for only a moment to listen to the rhythmic breathing above before darting over to the phone, lying in the shadow of the bed. He flipped it over and pressed the button, the screen lighting up with a picture of a cat.

“Isn’t he allergic?” Virgil muttered, and then shook his head, swiping through to the home screen. Luckily, Patton didn’t seem to have any locks, though Virgil hated to imagine how that trust could be abused.

He recognized the old phone shape on one of the icons easily enough, and squinted at the contact list for a long moment before finding the one with a tiny picture of someone he recognized: Patton’s loud friend, the one who came over for movie nights when they were both free (a rare occurrence).

“Roman”’s number was pressed immediately, and it was only as the phone began to ring that Virgil realized he had not thought this plan through.

The phone rang once, twice, and just as he thought it would ring out and he’d be able to think of a plan-- “Patton! Perfect timing!”

He jerked away from the tinny voice, casting a glance up at the bed where Patton laid. If this was enough to rouse him, even just enough to talk, this situation would resolve itself.

“...Patton? Hellooo?”

The human above didn’t even twitch at his friend’s call.

“Ooh, did you get a booty call from Daddy Dearest?” another voice asked, gleeful and a little bit fainter than the first.

“What-- it’s buttdial, I know you know how that sounds, Remus!” There was the sound of tussling for a moment, and then Roman’s voice piped back up, sounding strained. “Okay, Pat, call back later, I guess? Remus, lemme go--”

The line went dead.

Virgil smacked the screen harshly, cursing the fact that Patton’s friends were apparently prone to nonsense and not nearly as concerned as they should be about the situation, as little as they knew about it. He glanced up at his Human again, brow furrowed.

No speaking, no texts, no physical evidence. How could he get their attention without giving himself away?

He leaned forward and pressed the call button again.

“Uh… Patton?” There was a long pause, and then a nervous laugh. “Jeez, what is he up to?”

Virgil hung up, and called again.

“What the heckity heck--”

Virgil hung up, and called again.

“Patton, are you there?”

“Maybe there’s a serial killer in his house and he can’t pipe up or they’ll get to his windpipes!” the second voice, presumably “Remus”, chimed in.

“Shut up, that’s not it!” There was an uncertain pause. “Patton, that’s not it, right? C’mon, Padre, you’re freaking me out worse than the Outage Incident of ‘09.”

Virgil hung up, and called again, ignoring the phone’s buzzing as worried texts began to filter in.

“Something’s wrong. If his phone was accidentally calling me from his pocket, he’d be replying to my texts.”

Yes! Virgil held his breath, letting the thick silence hang in the air.

“Patton, are you there? Do you need help? Give me some sort of signal,” Roman pleaded, and Virgil leaned back, desperately searching his memory for a sign that would mean something to Roman.

There was something he’d overheard, lurking in nearby wall corridors during one of their sleepovers. Roman had been waxing poetic about effective storytelling.

“That’s the thing about repetition,” he’d said. “Like that saying! Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, but three times? That’s a pattern. And patterns have meaning!”

Virgil had rolled his eyes at the time. The advice didn’t hold true for borrowers, who avoided patterns like the plague. One slip up was all it took to have to uproot his whole life or worse, after all.

Now, though, he latched onto the memory with both hands.

Two witnesses to this were two too many, but so long as they couldn’t prove anything… he pulled out his hook and carefully tapped the side of the phone, producing three distinct, dull clinks.

There was a clutter of alarmed arguing on the other end, and Virgil hurriedly smacked the red ‘end call’ button once more, his nerves frayed.

After a moment, more texts popped up.

Roman!!! ❤️👑✨: patton, i know you wouldnt pull a prank like this

Roman!!! ❤️👑✨: ur spare key is still under the kitten statue, right?

Roman!!! ❤️👑✨: im coming over

Virgil sank back on his heels, letting out a long sigh of relief. Thank goodness he knew how to read.

After another moment of shaky decompression, he hurried back into the walls, returning to his former vantage point on the shelf.

The phone lit up a few more times, the cheery ringtone of an attempted call still not quite enough to bring Patton back to awareness. Virgil resisted the urge to go climb up on a windowsill, knowing that it was far too risky, and he wouldn’t be able to recognize any human vehicles anyhow.

Finally, finally, there was the sound of a key rattling in the front door’s lock. Virgil ducked back behind a novelty bobblehead as voices spilled into the house, growing more alarmed once they reached the kitchen. Virgil remembered belatedly that the mess from Patton’s disastrous attempt to make cookies was still there.

“Patton!” Roman appeared at the doorway, eyes fixed on the bedridden form of his friend. He rushed over, pressing a wrist to his forehead. “You’re burning up…”

With some careful maneuvering, he managed to lift Patton from the bed in a bridal carry, calling for Remus to get the door.

And then they were gone, off to the human version of a sickbay.

Virgil sprawled back, letting all the tension leave him, his heart still racing from his part in it all.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

[maulusque]

Clone genetic enhancement ideas

So the clones were genetically enhanced, but i don’t really see any writers (in fanfic or in published stuff) really exploring what that MEANS beyond “clone very stronk”. Here are some ideas that would actually make clones significantly different from just a regular-ass human in peak condition. 

-enhanced senses: eyesight, hearing, etc. I’m talking eyes like a HAWK

-better reflexes

-quicker information processing

-can hear sounds of higher and lower frequency than standard humans

-can see light of a broader spectrum than human standard

-learn quicker, retain information and skills better (potential problem: if you learn something the WRONG way, that way might stick really well)

-photographic memory (really useful for memorizing layouts and maps)

-immunity to various diseases

-can tolerate a wider range of temperatures and environments

-increased stamina and strength baseline. Clones can just run full-tilt for hours and hours and be like “ah a nice stroll”. Over long distances, they can out-pace jedi in the same way that humans can out-pace horses.

-higher tolerance of certain poisons/toxins (clones can straight-up drink ethanol, and get maybe a little tipsy)

-bodies respond quickly to physical stress, and slowly to the absence of it (basically, this means that physical conditioning results in stronger muscles and a stronger cardiovascular system really quickly, and it takes MUCH longer for a clone to lose strength and conditioning due to not exercising than standard humans. Think how much valuable training time is saved if they only have to go on a run like, once a month in order to stay in shape)

-increased ability to function through intense pain and acute injuries. Basically, semi-disabling the pain system so it’s less distracting. Probably not good for the survival of the individual in many situations, but an advantage on the battlefield. 

-heal faster and better, with fewer long-term complications. Clones can dislocate their shoulders and NOT have the joint be permanently fucked up, because the Kaminoans re-designed the whole damn thing to suck WAY less.

-actually, unique internal anatomy. There’s probably a lot about the human body besides the shoulder joint that is actually just really stupid, and something no intelligent designer would actually build. So the Kaminoans can fix a lot of that stuff. Better knees, maybe. Stronger ribs. Maybe Cody punches droids not just because he’s a mad bastard, but also because his metatarsals are literally as strong as steel. 

-Hearing loss/hearing damage? No problem, your ear can regrow those little hair-thingies that help you hear. 

-Of course, it takes energy to maintain muscle mass, which is why human bodies lose it if we’re not using it. Clones need significantly more calories than standard humans. However, their digestive systems are enhanced to extract calories and nutrients from food much more efficiently, so food goes much farther. Potential weird side effect: maybe clones only have to poop like, once a week?

-You could probably extend that into increased ability to tolerate long periods without food/on low rations, despite the increased need for calories. 

-wouldn’t it be NEAT if the kaminoans somehow designed self-repairing DNA. This would mean that others couldn’t take a DNA sample from a clone and modify it to create their own clones (basically, it protects their product. It’s like DRM for clones). This ALSO means that clones couldn’t get cancer, and that they’d be immune to radiation poisoning. So a clone could just walk up to a sphere of uranium at critical mass and pick it up. Maybe with oven mitts on if it’s hot. (this would also make it harder for a rapid-aging cure to be developed, but uhhhh fanfic writers find a way)

- “bred for obedience” I think most of this would have to be accomplished through tightly-controlled messaging and cultural norms as the clones grow up- basically, enshrining obedience as a desirable and almost sacred trait, to be prized higher than anything else, including the lives of your brothers. In the same way that we hear stories of people sacrificing their lives to protect their loved ones, the clones would grow up hearing stories of soldiers sacrificing their brothers’ lives to obey an order from a superior. 

-SOME of the “obedience” thing could be engineered, though. Humans are already super social, but it would probably make sense for the clones to have an even greater need for social bonds. This would make for greater teamwork and coordination, and better unit cohesion, since the clones would be more inclined to prioritize friendship/agreeing with someone over winning an argument. It would also make it so they’d bond with their natural-born generals more easily, so they would obey them not just because they’re supposed to, but because they’d be much quicker to see them as a friend, and someone who’s trust they want to earn, someone they want to incorporate into their group and make happy.

-consequently, clones who find themselves alone do NOT do well. Isolation has a much more profoundly negative impact on clones than on regular humans.

-Originally, clones designed to operate alone or in small teams would not have the social enhancement- ARC troopers, spec-ops teams, etc. There wouldn’t be much of a noticeable difference in everyday interactions, but they’d also be vaguely weirded out by what they interpret as aggressive friendliness from their brothers, and their brothers would think they’re a bit shy and standoffish. 

-actually this social modification would make it MUCH harder for clones to kill people. REGULAR HUMANS are already super bad at killing people- i remember reading this article about how as soon as soldiers have to point their weapons at actual people, their aim gets mysteriously much shittier. Even when compared to situations that are exactly the same, except they’re not shooting at other humans. So reconcile this how you will, idk.

-I imagine a lot of these enhancements would be accomplished not through DNA, but through microorganisms. Retroviruses could explain the DNA resistant to modification, and the increased healing speed, and possibly some disease resistance (do i know anything about retroviruses other than a vague concept of what they are? no i do not. will that stop me? also no.) Their metabolism can be partially explained through specially engineered gut microbes.

-not sure how they’d go about making clones “resistant to any stress”, because you can’t exactly turn off the trauma response in the brain without breaking a bunch of other things. They could probably do a bit of fiddling to make clones more resistant to chemical imbalances, and therefore more depression-resistant. I think most of the “stress-resistance” would have to come through training. Either they train the clones to basically suppress everything, which might work alright in the short term. OR they actually have systems in place that help prevent the development of things like PTSD and help treat trauma. Meaning the clones are literally trained in self-care, positive self-talk, talking about their pain with their brothers, and having community rituals around things like death and grief. I don’t think that’s super likely because one thing that’s integral to those concepts is the concept of “i am a person and i have worth, and if i feel angry about something bad happening, that is ok and valid” and considering that a whole lot of bad things happen to the clones all the time and their childhood is a whole boatload of bad all happening at once, i don’t think the kaminoans would want the clones realizing “hey wait a minute i’m a person and i don’t deserve to be treated this way and it’s ok for me to be mad at you”. 

- the clones were supposedly engineered to be “less aggressive” but i think there was literally nothing more to that than a cover story for the control chip. The clones wouldn’t be raised with a lot of the aggressive western concept of masculinity, where anger is the default reaction to like, everything, and your personal pride is extremely important and also fragile (no offense lmao). So you wouldn’t have clones posturing and getting angry over perceived slights and fighting each other all the time, like everyone in-universe apparently expects to be the case. Anyway, why would you want your soldiers to be less aggressive? they’re literally supposed to fight and kill the enemy. You want them fully capable of getting angry, anger is the human response to fear and danger that lets us DO something about it. 

-obviously the biggest component in how they behave would be how they are raised, but that’s an entirely different post

-Specializations! I imagine that initially, the Kaminoans had different clones with different traits engineered specifically to fill certain roles. However, as the war went on, they struggled to keep up with demand and had to start shoving clones into whatever roles were needed (hence Fives and Echo becoming ARCs, despite not being engineered as ARC troopers). 

-Command clones would have better abilities in the executive function parts of the brain that deal with extrapolation, planning ahead, spatial reasoning, etc. They’d also have increased visual pattern recognition (like a pigeon)

-search-and-rescue troops would also have the pigeon pattern recognition abilities. The coast guard literally strapped pigeons to helicopters who would tap a button when they saw orange in the water, because they were better at spotting it than humans. Pigeons can detect cancer in microscope images of cells, because they’re that good at pattern recognition

-Pilots would have hella reflexes, excellent spatial awareness and spatial reasoning skills, much greater ability to process visual information, stronger hearts and blood vessels (to resist greater Gs of force), and they’d also be much shorter, to better fit into a cockpit. Which reminds me of Axe, that poor bastard from Ahsoka’s squadron over Ryloth who was almost eight feet tall. rip poor Axe, how did you even become a pilot, you long bastard.

-medics who can smell certain diseases. If you want to get a little bit out there, make the medics able to purr so they can sooth stressed-out patients. 

-infantry would have even greater endurance than everyone else, as well as greater tolerance for, and ability to, remain constantly on alert.

-ability to fall asleep at will? that would be super dope.

-maybe more efficient sleep, so to an adult clone, 4 hours of sleep is genuinely sufficient.

-concept: clones can sort of turn down their bodily functions- slow their digestion, heart, lungs, the whole nine yards- to last longer in adverse conditions. Sort of a half-hibernation (or quarter hibernation- they’d still be able to talk and think, but they’d feel very lethargic). They wouldn’t be able to function very well, but it would be great for things like enduring intense cold, periods without food, low-oxygen environments, and it would be especially useful if you were wounded and waiting for help, since you could slow your circulation, meaning it would take you a lot longer to bleed out. This state could be triggered by a combination of physical actions such as sitting or lying still, breathing slowly and deeply, and focusing on slowing the heart down (humans can actually slow down their hearts consciously if you practice at it, this is basically that, but turned up to like 1100).

-one thing that never made sense to me was the whole “we’re running out of jango fett’s DNA, all the new clones won’t be as good, and we have to stop ventress from stealing the original DNA” because like, can’t they just, get the EXACT SAME DNA from the clones?? you know, the exact genetic copies? With all the enhancements already done? But now my idea is that the kaminoans have engineered the clones so their DNA straight up can’t be copied. The clone’s own body can obviously replicate it, but if you take a sample and try to extract the DNA, it just self-destructs or something. This is to protect their intellectual property, but also means that they literally have to use a couple of Jango Fett’s actual human cells for every single clone they make (and the fact that they then have to do all the above enhancements to every single embryo helps explain why there’s so many small mutations, such as hair color and height). So they kinda shot themselves in the foot with that one. 

-of course since things like ADHD and autism have a strong genetic component, the kaminoans could theoretically engineer those out of the clones, but actually FUCK THAT so for whatever reason, that’s just not something they are able to do, and neurodivergent clones are absolutely a thing