#freaking out and smoking a pack in a day type of shit. day six is when benny is on the verge of being like i am just gonna go

[fnvbennygecko]

head in hands i need to rewrite the clover breakdown fic even though im not goddamn done with it. benny wouldnt act like that............... but i also need to do like a whole diagram to figure out what the fuck he would do. i frankly gotta talk it out i wont lie.

[prettyboybillyhargrove]

Harringrove headcanon: 10-ish years after high school, Steve and Billy run into each other at a bar or something. And Steve is kinda freaking out because he's put on some weight and feels scruffy with his beard, while Billy still looks like he has a six pack under his shirt. Meanwhile, all Billy sees is a guy he already knows is good with kids now complete with a bit of a dad-bod and a definite man beard and Billy is DROOLING.

AHHHH IM A SLUT FOR DAD BOD STEVE *im gonna make him chubby just because I can*

It was Steve's 35 birthday and he was sitting in that quiet dirty bar. After Hopper retired and left the chief status to Steve he had no time to be here actually. He was always on the office. And mostly alone. No wife no kids. No life at all. He made one day exception only for his birthday. Because Robin insisted that's an important day.

Years ago when Billy run away and ask Steve to come with him, he said no. Because he thought Billy was not really meaning it. At first he thought the boy was joking. Then he understand Billy really meant when he said he wants Steve to come with him. But he thought he'd be left alone there when they arrive to Chicago. Thought Billy just wants a road buddy to not be alone. And he'd fine someone better than Steve in a second. So he didn't accept his offer. But he was alone in here. Without Billy. And he regretted every second of his life. He rub his chubby belly without even noticing. It was a reflex he did when he's anxious. "Dingus why are you stressed right now? That's your fucking birthday. We're celebrating it." He looked at Robin and smile a little bit. "Sorry I get lost in my thoughts. Yes I'm celebrating it. Look that's my third drink."

"This doesn't count as celebrating Stevie Bear you're literally mourning. Is this about being alone again? I told you I can find you someone from work. You're just too picky. Wait I need to pee. We're gonna fix this when I come back." Steve laughed behind his friend and shake his head disapprovingly. And then he saw him. Like BAM. THERE HE WAS. Billy fucking Hargrove. Sitting on the other side of the bar. Looking like a million bucks. Hot as fuck. And not a day older than 25. Shirt still halfway open to his belly. Still has his six packs and everything. Drinking his beer and smoking like he didn't graduate 16 years ago.

Yes he heard Neil's dead news of course. All the people were talking about this. But it was actually not big news for the town. Everyone knew Neil went crazy after Billy run away. Not because he loves his son that much but he lost the money with him too. So he did what he did best, drowned himself to drinks. And being a trash bag. Yes he knew Neil die but he never thought Billy would came back for his funeral. The boy hated his father more than Steve hated the Demodogs. Maybe he was just here to piss on Neil's grave.

"Harrington I didn't notice you'd be that hot in ten years, wow. The beard is a good touch to dad bod. It's complimenting your face." Billy was looking at him like he saw something nice. And waits him to speak. His hand immediately went to his beard. He should have fucking cut that shit this morning fucking hell. "Billy. Hargrove. Hi. It's nice to see you too! You still look the same. You know muscles and everything. Jacked and shit. Dude you look good really. But what are you doing in here? I thought you left us years ago man. You did good running away from this shithole tho."

"I didn't left you DUDE. I said let's run away together. But you were too straight to be with me. Too coward. Anyway I always knew you'd be the married with kids type. Your wife is beautiful by the way. You find a good catch. Do you have kids?"

Steve was to shocked to talk. He didn't know what he'd say to Billy after all this years. Billy was right. He was a coward, a pussy.

When Billy did't get an answer he continue talking. His face was smug like he knows all his life. Like he was there. That beautiful piece of shit. "Let me guess. You have two. Because you didn't want one of them to be alone like you. Am I right? You're always so thoughtful about little shits. I bet your wifey didn't even know you did the second child because of that. It was nice to talk to you Harrington. I hope I'd see you around again. I'd love to see you around actually. Without your wife tho. Maybe in a more quiet place. We can talk about the good old days. You know when we were young and gay. You remember that times man? You'd eat my ass and I'd blow you. You know all the dude activities. Ahhh good times." Robin walk from the bathroom and looked between two men. Billy noticed the woman and immediately stand up from hs chair like she was poisoned. Like he can't stand her. "Anyway, bye Harrington. Oh hi and bye to you to Mrs Harrington." He reverence exaggeratedly before Robin and left the bar like that.

Steve and Robin looked after the blonde for a minute with shock. Robin turned from the door and looked Steve with disbelief. "Omg Steve was that fucking Billy? Billy fucking Hargrove? And did he just call me Mrs Harrington? Ewww."

*okay I have so much thoughts about this headcanon already and I'm definitely gonna write a long fiction about that. That's why I'm cutting this here for now. Thanks for the hc.*

[twohearts-hs]

‘Apples’ - Shawn Mendes Imagine

Words: 1,818

Pairing: Shawn Mendes & (Y/N) (Y/L/N)

Warnings: Severe angst, divorce, alcohol

|| Masterlist in bio ||

-

She sat down. A huff left her lips as she plopped herself on her new couch. She didn’t know whether she was happy or tired. But Y/N looked around her new place and smiled, bringing her glass of Merlot to her lips. Her kids were in bed and now she could finally relax after the moving day.

But, she felt alone. This was all new to her, being by herself and being a single mum. Yet, she had to do it. She had to get the divorce. They were both miserable.

She laughed at the memories of Shawn. They flooded back. She remembered it all, from the first day she saw him and the gentle smile adorning his lips to his tear covered face as she whispered the ‘d’ word. But, she laughed only at the good memories. They all came back as she looked at her fireplace and slowly got drunk off her cheap-ass boxed wine.

-

Y/N giggled, watching him shake his hips to her playlist in her flat. She laughed as he danced horribly towards her, kissing her and shaking away from her younger self. They’d only known each other for about three months now, but her whole life had changed.

She only wore a tank and underwear as the aftermath their morning rendezvous, but she enjoyed small moments like these. She leant over, grabbing a pack of cigarettes that she only smoked every so often; a treat for good times. Shawn crashed down on her old mattress that was close to broken and grabbed a smoke as well. She brought the stick to her mouth, breathed in the intoxicating air, and smiled.

This was their normal weekends at this point of the relationship. They’d stay in bed all day, having sex and smoking fags. It was so informal, so perfect and lively. And she constantly wondered what’d changed.

-

Of course, she felt a load of pity when their relationship went off the tracks. But she couldn’t sit and look at him across the table when signing the documents while spilling the worst excuse ever: ‘I never meant to break your heart’. Such a stupid answer she told when she requested them to split or, ‘I’m to blame for all your pain’. Too cliché, she realised, too pathetic. But, she had to do it. She had to break it off, as they were both to the point of depression with each other.

Y/n remembers how they no longer spoke when he came home. If they were to chat, it was horrible, dry chatter. ‘How was your day?’, ‘fine’, ‘ok’. That was it. She would never regret each other. Shawn was still a fantastic father, but he wasn’t a fantastic husband anymore. Towards the end of it, they weren’t even having sex.

She came out to him and was honest. Y/N really loved him, too much, to the point that she’d die for him. But, she was raised with certain standards. A guy was only good for writing the cheque. Later on, she realised a relationship was way more than that, but they went from being lively to dull. It was a routine and a boring one at that. So, when Shawn was off conquering the countries with his music, she filled her nights with shit telly and hard liquor.

Everyone she loved saw this and thought she was a wreck, but she simply believed that she was an adventurer waiting for another journey. Y/N was never a settler, a person to give up. And, with Shawn, she couldn’t be her twenty-year-old self anymore. After saying her vows and pushing out two babies, she wasn’t herself.

Her memories of the early days were perfect. Cheeky dinner dates and hidden tattoos, the hotel minibar shazam, daydreaming out loud ‘till sunrise overtook the stars, private planes, and non-stop living; that was her life. Not housewifing and baking brownies for her six years old’s bake sale on a Sunday night. She wanted to go back to having sex in the janitor’s closet and getting so drunk you don’t even know your own name. She wanted her old life back. But with Shawn, he couldn’t give that to her. He grew up; she didn’t.

Y/n knew what type of man Shawn was. He was the ‘Playboy, but I want kids’ type of guy. She just fell too hard and gave up everything for him.

One year in, he gave her a set of keys. Two years and he bent down on one knee. Three years and they’re living out in the country. Four years and he’d given her her beautiful babies. It was all too much for her. She freaked out and said ‘yes’ to it all.

Y/N didn’t regret her lovies; she loved her babies to bits. She didn’t regret Shawn. She just wished she’d balanced and figured everything out better.

Now, she sat in her living room, looking at her new life, crying from the mistake she’d made.  

“I’m just like my mummy and daddy.” She whispered, staring off into the distance. Rubbing her tear-laced eye.

“I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She smiled, raising her cup up to her dog across her. What a fucking mess she is now.

-

She closed the door to the townhouse in a puff. The first day of truly being a single mum had yet to finish, and all she needed was a gin and tonic and a huff of a smoke. She hadn’t smoked since she met Shawn, but the obsession cultivated her veins at the moment.

She laughed pathetically and went to her fridge. Her kids were dropped off at school and now she was left with her own thoughts. The calendar was attached on the fridge and she eyed the red ink circling her ex-husband’s name. He was back that day and it was his turn with the kids.

She was willing enough to give them to him. Y/n believed that Shawn should be in her kids’ life. She wasn’t one of those ex-wives that held a grudge, reminding herself that she was the one that walked out.

Man, she felt stupid. She couldn’t even go to the grocery store without seeing the headlines, ‘Shawn Mendes divorcing wife’.

Y/N took a swig of whatever was in her house and internally screamed. Shawn still loved her. She knew that. She knew it to the fullest potential.

“God, I’m so wild and ruthless.” She mumbled, walking towards the door of her home after hearing a knock.

“What the fuck do you want?” She pulled the door and seeing someone she didn’t want to see at the moment, “Shit…”

Shawn raised his eyebrows, eyeing the bottle of rum in Y/n’s hands.

“Can I come in?”

She nodded way too enthusiastically and opened the door fully. She began walking away, shaking her hips to whatever was on the radio she turned on.

“Want a drink?”

Shawn took a breather and followed his ex-wife. “It’s ten a.m., Y/n.”

She turned around and laughed. “Five o’clock somewhere.”

He nodded, not picking up her joking matter. He sat down at her kitchen table as she worked to get him a coffee.

“I thought you weren’t home till the twenty-third.” She told him, handing over the mug.

“Baileys?” She nodded, “Meetings and shit ended early. I wanted to see my bubs.”

She rolled her eyes, “You’re out of luck. They’re at school.”

“I know. I wanted to see you. See how you’re holding up...and I don’t think you are.” He mumbled the last bit.

“I’m holding perfectly fine. Still alive, ey? Noah and Ivy are still alive as well.”

He took a sip of his coffee. She was always good at making coffee and baileys. Y/n taught him, but it was never like hers.

“All else aside, how are you?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m fine, you?”

He huffed. “No, you’re not. You’re a wreck and selfish.”

“So, I’m a little selfish.” She mumbled, grabbing his coffee and taking a sip of it after abandoning the bottle.

“You’re a drunk.”

She shook her head. “No. I can’t believe you would say that. You can deal with this far differently than I am, Shawn.” She chugged down the coffee that she made for him and which she stole for herself.

“I get it, you’re a family man. You get over things and doing what you need to do to get by; so am I. Don’t come to my house and judge and cause a fight. If I had the time of day, I would give all of it to that, but I am a busy woman, Shawn. I am tired, and helpless because of everything; give me time to heal. Fuck off.”

He got up from the chair and walked towards the door, shaking his head. “I’m picking up the kids because you’re drunk and miserable. Figure out your shit or else I’m taking them. Grow the fuck up, Y/n.” He stared her down.

She scoffed. “Fuck you.” And he left without even looking back.

That night she sat in her own thoughts. Her humble home wasn’t filled with children’s laughter or the soft snoring of her babies. It was just her, the dog, and some sitcom.

She looked at her dog, raising her coffee mug of wine in a cheers matter; she didn’t have any glasses left clean.

“Cheers to being a fucking mess, eh?”  She only got that dog so Shawn couldn’t be in her home; he’s allergic to them. Also the fact that the kids constantly begged for one, so she got one...to win them over. It was always a competition with him.

The competition wasn’t like this before. It was sweet competitions: who made the better pancakes and loser does the laundry sort of thing. But, her impossible self of being an Aries overruled and took it one step higher.

But, she got better. Every day was challenge after challenge as a new one arose. She let loose but wasn’t ashamed of who she originally was. She was lost but found herself. What she regretted the most out of everything was herself.

He saw her as evil, but she wasn’t evil, just scared. Scared of growing up and maturing. She regrets the way she acted towards him because she still fucking loved him. She loved him more than life itself. But, she just needed time away to heal.

[hollowedsammy]

Hello, hello, everyone! My name is Susie, I am 21-soon-to-be-22, I live in the EST timezone, and this is the first of my two characters, Sam! If you’d like to plot, like this or IM me! This contains his basic info, backstory, info about what he’s currently up to, some misc. information, a small playlist, tropes that apply to him, and wanted connections. Yeah... I went a little hard.

☾  ↪  cillian murphy, male, forty, he/him.  ／  ❛  have you heard from samuel marx lately ？ yeah, the forty year old mechanic / drug dealer. pretty sure they’ve been here twenty years, and from what i’ve heard, sam can be kind of cynical  &  self-serving, but i caught them on a good day once, and they were pretty funny & clever. i’m probably overthinking it, but given all the crazy shit around here, i hope they’re okay. maybe they’re watching their favorite scary movie, i heard it’s child’s play.

trigger warnings: homophobia, parental/domestic abuse, self-harm, depression

BASIC INFORMATION

Full name: Samuel Joseph Marx

Nickname(s): Sam (everyone), Sammy (his mother, close friends, or significant others only)

Age: 40

Gender: male

Sexual orientation: bisexual

Birthday: January 12, 1956

Zodiac: Capricorn

Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw

Personality type: ISFJ

Family: Joseph Marx (father, deceased), Serafine Marx (mother, deceased)

Criminal record: shoplifting (3 counts), underage drinking (2 counts), auto theft (1 count), fraud (2 counts), possession with the intent to distribute (2 counts)

TROPES

Beware the Quiet Ones

Cornered Rattlesnake

The Cynic

Deadpan Snarker

Don’t You Dare Pity Me!

Even Bad Men Love Their Mamas

I Just Want to be Loved

I Need a Freaking Drink

Lower-Class Lout

Not Good With People

Perpetual Frowner

The Runaway

Smarter Than You Look

The Snark Knight

Sour Outside, Sad Inside

When He Smiles

FIVE-SONG PLAYLIST

“The Mute” by Radical Face

“Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked” by Cage the Elephant

“Run Boy Run” by Woodkid

“The Kids Aren’t Alright” by Fall Out Boy

“Emperor’s New Clothes” by Panic! at the Disco

BACKGROUND

Sam was born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He had a small family -- just him, and his parents. His father was a police officer, and his mother was a housewife.

Sam never got along with his father. Never. He can’t remember a single time that he didn’t entirely despise the man.

Joseph Marx was a corrupt cop, as well as an abusive husband and father. The Marx household was frequently filled with the sounds of slamming doors, screamed profanity, and glass breaking. While he frequently took his anger out on his wife, Sam quickly became Joseph’s favorite target.

Sam was also a favored target of other kids. An incident during which two older boys held him under the water instilled an unshakable case of hydrophobia in him, and he was often beat up when teachers weren’t around. Many said he brought it on himself -- what did he expect, when he was so obviously queer, dressed in such ratty clothes, acted so strangely?

Unsurprisingly, he developed delinquent behavior early on, and was frequently in trouble for cheating on tests, stealing other students’ possessions, skipping class, smoking, drinking, and stealing cars for joyrides.

Bullied at school and abused at home, Sam had few friends, and spent as much time as possible out of the house. He’d wander the swamps and streets alone, only occasionally having a companion with him.

Finally, when he was sixteen, Sam hit a breaking point. A terrible fight with his father led to Sam being thrown into the kitchen window. The glass shattered, cutting into Sam’s skin. His mother tried to help him get cleaned up, but Sam had had enough. That very night, he packed a small bag and snuck out the back door. He stole a truck from one of his neighbors, and hit the road, never to return to Baton Rouge.

Lacking any sort of plan, Sam wandered from town to town, making money via odd jobs, shoplifting, pickpocketing, purse-snatching, and selling dime bags of weed. He had his fair share of scrapes with the law -- even spending six months in a correctional facility when he was eighteen -- but always managed to worm his way out any long-term consequences. 

While in jail, Sam finally wrote to his mother -- now that he was eighteen, he couldn’t be forced to return to his family’s home, so he could assure her that he was alive. While he kept in contact with his mother from then on, Sam never spoke to his father again, and refused to ever return to Baton Rouge, even after his father was shot and killed in the line of duty.

ARRIVAL IN HOLLOWAY

Sam got to Holloway at the age of twenty. He only intended to stay for a couple weeks, long enough to make enough money to make a cross-country trip. The girl he was dating at the time went to school in Maine, and he wanted to go visit her.

When the first Hollow Man murder happened, a couple weeks after Sam’s arrival, he was nervous. When it became evident that there was a serial killer in Holloway, he started thinking maybe he should just say “fuck the money” and skip town altogether. However, before he could, the police were asking to talk to him.

It had been discovered that a couple of the deceased had bought drugs off of Sam a few times. While they hadn’t thought much about Sam at first, this caused the cops to look closer at him. Upon further digging, the investigators found that Sam was a drifter who had dropped out of school and run away from home, had a history of behavior issues, an ever-growing rap sheet, a brief stint in jail to his name, a skittish and antisocial air about him, and an obvious hatred of cops.

Yeah. It did not look good.

Sam was interrogated many times. His story never changed. He did sell weed to two of the deceased. No, he didn’t hurt them. He never even interacted with them beyond the sales. He was asleep at the time of the murders. No, no one can confirm that, he was alone. No, he doesn’t have a hotel room, he’s been sleeping in his truck.

Despite a lack of solid evidence or a motive, Sam was still a prime suspect for the first few murders, and he was told not to leave town. Knowing it’d look much worse if he ran, Sam decided to get a job -- partially because he was stuck in Halloway for the foreseeable future, and partially because he knew he might have to hire a lawyer soon. He eventually persuaded the local auto shop to hire him as a mechanic. (Accused of murder or not, Sam is damn good with cars.)

No official charges were ever brought, and eventually, another murder took place while Sam had a clear alibi, having been drinking in a local bar in full view of at least a dozen people all night. He got busted for having a fake ID, but at least he wasn’t an official murder suspect anymore.

Key word being official. Some suspected that Sam had an accomplice, and that the whole thing was a set-up to clear his name. Despite rumors, whispers, stares, and even a few people accusing him of the crime to his face, he always maintained that he never hurt anybody.

After being cleared, Sam intended to get out of town as soon as he could. But then, the girlfriend in Maine he’d been planning to go see dumped him... via postcard. It was the cherry on top of what had been a shitty few weeks.

Sam decided to stay for a little while until he figured out where to go next. He was rather enjoying having a steady paycheck for once, and it wasn’t like he had a plan. “A little while” eventually turned to twenty years.

NOWADAYS

Sam has now lived in a half-double in town for many, many years. It’s small, but he makes it work.

While most have probably abandoned the idea that Sam killed anybody, he’s still not exactly Mr. Popular in town. He’s known to be a sarcastic, self-centered dick, who has no respect for authority. (Some things never change.)

He still works at the auto shop. The original owner’s son runs it now, but Sam is the longest-standing employee, as well as the best mechanic.

Sam still hates cops. If he could refuse service to them, he would.

He’s still selling weed on the side (his boss looks the other way -- so long as Sam doesn’t get busted while at work, he doesn’t really care), and can be bribed into purchasing alcohol for underage students. However, he refuses to get mixed up in anything harder than that.

He mostly keeps to himself, and isn’t known to be particularly violent. If someone else attacks him, he’ll defend himself, but he rarely throws the first punch.

He’s been in an even more melancholy mood than normal lately, because his mother died last month.

He honestly thought the Hollow Man business was behind him. But now that a new victim has been found, he can feel people looking at him sideways again.

And, no matter how much he says he doesn’t care what other people think... he doesn’t like it at all.

MISC.

Sam’s sexuality is not public knowledge. He’s not ashamed of it, but he also wants to avoid harassment, so he’s only ever openly dated women. The only people who know are men he’s been with in the past, and maybe, maybe a very close friend.

Despite his dislike of people, Sam is quite fond of animals, and even adopted a stray cat he found a couple years ago. He’s named him Hecate, and he is quite possibly the ugliest cat in existence -- he has one eye, crooked fangs, and scratches everything that isn’t Sam.

Sam suffers clinical depression, but is in denial about how serious it actually is. It’s driven him to make some pretty damaging decisions, and he’s had a habit of burning himself with cigarettes since high school. The scars are all over his shoulders, arms, and stomach. 

Sam was -- and still is -- a frequent target of classism. Due to his lack of education and working-class background, many assume the worst in him, and many underestimate his intelligence. While he uses it to his advantage, he is irked by it.

It surprises people to learn that Sam is actually very well-read, and a talented actor. In another life, he could’ve joined a Shakespeare company. In this one, he reads passages aloud to himself when he’s alone.

Sam claims to hate... well, everyone, but he holds a special contempt for bullies and abusers. One of the only times Sam’s been known to instigate a fight is when he got sick of listening to a drunk guy catcall a woman walking by, and just decked him.

Sam still hates water, and refuses to go swimming -- on the rare occasions he has to go near the water, he won’t put his head under.

Sam has a pitch-black sense of humor. The Hollow Man murders are one of the few things he won’t joke about.

SUGGESTED CONNECTIONS

Someone who still believes Sam was or is the Hollow Man.

Related to the above, some of the younger characters have probably been told by their parents to stay away from Sam. Whether or not they listened is up to you.

Friend with benefits.

Exes.

Someone who has become aware of Sam’s depression and is trying to help him -- whether he likes it or not.

Unrequited crush (from either party).

And anything else you can think of!

[matchstickwords]

a/b/o Masterlist

Read the tags/warnings once you click on the link. Includes Heat/Mpreg adjacent stuff and playmating stuff (of the real and fake type) 

IN: incomplete CO: complete

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

Small town blues series by Rhiw (21,781 words. IN) Alpha Billy

Nancy and Steve break up before Tina's party. Steve finds himself on the rebound, damned and determined to have some fun. Billy just wants to get laid.

Aka: The ABO of Stranger Things no one asked for. Written while drunk, with drunk characters, and lots of angst and smut and shit. Enjoy.

Don’t belong to anyone (else) by Sparkleeye   (11443 words. IN) Alpha Steve

And he does, just Billy’s fucking luck, because Harrington licks his lips and hoarsely goes, “I fucking knew it, fuck Hargrove, you’re in heat.”

He shudders as Harrington takes a step towards him. The tangy, warm scent of alpha has him struggling to stand upright, already slipping into the too far gone state and it’s fucking Harrington’s fault because he still won’t leave.

Better yet, he knows, he can smell the sweetness of omega, particularly herbal and saccharine like lavender and vanilla - Billy knows he smells like a girly little candle, okay - flooding the air between them. He could push Billy over and take him there, on the floor, push his face down onto the cracked, dusty concrete and fuck him stupid.

aka -- Billy is a stubborn idiot and goes to school during his heat.

More than instincts by Morganadelacour ( 2022 words. IN) Alpha Billy

Billy is looking for his sister but instead finds Steve Harrington in full heat, so he helps him out. However, things get more complicated afterwards.

This spell I’m under might last by Universealternating (1810 words. CO) Alpha Billy

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here!” Tommy exclaimed, jerking the door open. He didn’t say anything after that, probably sizing Steve up and trying to figure things out.

“I’m in heat.” Steve admitted, not looking at Tommy.

“Aw, jeez.” Tommy said with a sigh. “Alright, alright. Guess I can just call and try to explain it to Carol from your place?” Tommy grinned but it didn’t really reach his eyes.

What a wicked game(s) series by ToAStranger, Brawlite (125,823 words. IN) Alpha Billy, Alpha Steve.

Billy knew Steve Harrington would ruin him. Steve knew Billy Hargrove was nothing but trouble.

They never expected it to end up like this.

Oh to be young (and greek) series by Hoppnhorn (9771 words. IN) Omega Billy, Omega Steve

Billy rushes Steve's fraternity and gets in, which sucks, only when it doesn't. Drunk Steve has a hard time staying away from what isn't good for him.

Turn me loose by Hoppnhorn (3321 words. CO) Alpha Billy

Billy is a dominant, powerful alpha with a slew of omegas dying to win his affection. He loves it, lives for it, except when he’s in rut. Steve is an omega and fights it every damn day. But when his body goes into heat, needs to breed, he can’t do anything to stop it. Billy is in rut and Steve is in heat when a freak heatwave knocks out the air conditioning in their shared apartment complex. Open windows and rampant hormones? What could go wrong?

High demand by Underthegrave (13,256 words. IN) Alpha Billy

In a dystopian society where the vast majority of people are betas unable to reproduce, alphas and omegas are kept as second-class breeding stock.

Billy and Steve are the most anticipated pairing of the year... but they aren't quite getting along as planned.

Don’t threaten me with a good time by Oop (7508 words. IN) Alpha Steve

Billy doesn't keep it a secret. He doesn’t use suppressants, doesn’t chase other omegas around like he’s lead by the nose, doesn’t do anything too particular that screams alpha, but that’s what people seem to hear anyway.

"Hey," Steve says, exhaling smoke at the sky. "This is gonna sound weird, but... What cologne are you wearing?"

Heaven by femmesteve (219 words. CO) Alpha Billy

Something short about a very horny, omega Steve basically.

Suppressants by femmesteve (12,430 words. CO) Alpha Billy

Billy finds out about Steve

Steve Forgets by femmesteve (1,242 words. CO) Alpha Billy

Steve forgets his heat and Billy is there to be a jerk and fuck him how he needs.

Heatstroke by Hobbitspacecase (8022 words. CO) Alpha Steve

Billy is out of suppressants and going into Heat. Steve finds him. It's too bad Billy can't have this every time.

First part / Second part by Lipgallagher (5712 words. IN)

“You’re leaking, Harrington. It’s gross.”

“You’re gross.” Steve’s head hurts, his entire body is just aching, and he is so fucking horny that it’s goddamn embarrassing. This is a heat, he knows that, but he also knows that the first day isn’t ever the worst one.

One by eightiesboys (390 words. CO) Alpha Billy

steve’s heat starts up during basketball practice without him noticing the telltale signs (excessive sweating, added body temperature) because he’s too focused on trying to keep the ball away from billy 

One by Snow (515 words. CO) Alpha Billy

“Billy, hey…Billy? C'mon, man, wake up already…” Steve murmured, starting to frown. Billy always slept like a dead, and while at one times it was kind of adorable, at the other times, like this, it was annoying. 

Hawkins happy day daycare by Chiefette (4584 words. IN) Alpha Billy

Steve is just an omega daycare teacher stuck in a tree.

Billy is just an alpha firefighter that helps him down.

It's obvious to the 6 kids of Hawkins Happy Day Daycare that they need to get the two to fall in love, and how do you know when two people are in love? They have a baby of course!

Not that Steve and Billy need much help.

or

Short looks into an extremely self-indulgent daycare AU

Mind over matter series by Hati_skoll (4358 words. IN) Alpha Billy

Steve gets wet for Billy.

(Less porn inside than implied.)

Heat of the moment by Akayn (2614 words. IN) Alpha Billy

Steve crouched down to grab the shampoo when he felt it. That warm heat curling low in his belly. Steve froze. His heat shouldn’t be here this early, there was no way. He had been on suppressants since he’d presented two years ago. Under a strict regime that controlled when his heats struck. And he was six weeks early.

Sweet scent that has me fallin’ to my knees by sens8tional (1253 words. IN) Alpha Billy

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Billy growls as he cornered Steve in the empty hallway. “Do we have ourselves an omega in dear ol’ Hawkins?”

-

Steve has been hiding the fact that he's an omega for a few years now, ever since he had his first heat and his parents put him on suppressants but everything comes falling apart when new boy Billy Hargrove comes into town and corners Steve in a hallway, leaving the omega confused and desperate to keep himself far away from the Alpha no matter what his biology wants.

Learning each other by Poisonousflower3 (1358 words. IN) Alpha Billy

"Billy hated being an alpha. He hated how it made his sense of smell stronger and smell the despair that always seemed to linger in this town. He hated how he was always so angry, though he knew that part of it was the abuse from his dad and his temper.

What he didn’t hate was how it let him get a good whiff of Steve whenever he was around."

In which case home starts to include Steve Harrington for Billy.

I never injured thee by Sachanpwns (812 words. CO) Alpha Steve

Billy should have known the second Steve’s teeth broke through his scent glands that shit was going to go down at school. He should have known that coming off his suppressants and presenting to King Steve as an omega would end up causing fucking drama. He should have known.

I don’t need you (but I do) by Sachanpwns (1274 words. CO) Alpha Steve

Billy's in heat, and he doesn't need Steve.

Except he does.

Not done until I say so by Sachanpwns (1132 words. CO) Alpha Steve

Steve likes that, even as an Omega, Billy has the bite and bark of an alpha.

My status (I hate it) by Sachanpwns (774 words. CO) Alpha Steve

Billy does everything he can against his natural instincts as on omega. 

Collision course by Cherryfleash (7835 words. IN) Alpha Billy

Takes place just after season 2. Billy struggles with his aggressive alpha nature, made worse by the abuse at the hands of his father. Steve leaves the hospital with a diagnose of his own. In a world with little to no correct information of this mystical medical phenomena, can two teenage boys navigate that rocky path on their own?

‘Cause We Feel Young and Wild by beautyinchains (1515 words CO) Alpha Steve

Soon, is Steve’s best guess. Soon like the subtle itch beneath his skin that intensifies with each passing day. Soon like the voracity of his appetite as his body begins to prepare itself for the upcoming marathon. Soon like the aggression that continues to build and threaten to spill whenever another Alpha so much as glances Billy’s way. Soon like the way he’s been tenting his sheets, his slacks, his gym shorts at so much as a gentle breeze.  

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

Adjacent stuff

Bound by Luv_haze ( 38544 words. IN) Alpha Billy

Steve's high school sociology class suddenly becomes the focal point of his dreary winter in Hawkins when the teacher assigns a semester long project that makes absolutely no sense but apparently counts for his entire grade.

The class assignment reads: "This semester we will be understanding social roles in a pack or clan like dynamic through the wonderful world of Alpha, Beta and Omega personalities!"

And Steve's individual assignment is a string of several words that coil deep in his gut and might as well be in Klingon. "You are Omega #1. Mated to Alpha #1."

He hopes his "alpha" partner is anyone but that jackass Billy Hargrove, but then this just hasn't been Steve's year, has it?

Build it better by Anonymous (29853 words. CO) Mpreg Steve

“Congratulations, Steve. You’re having a baby.”

Your tongue is sharp, but I miss the taste of it by Thecopperkid (7683 words. CO) Fuck or die Billy

Billy looks sweaty as fuck. Abandoned his denim jacket, drenched through his thin t-shirt. He’s like, unbuckled, rolling around in the seat, all hunched in fetal position. Grabbing the crotch of his fucking pants.

Then he really fucks with Steve’s shit.

Says, “I need to come, I think.”

*

Billy had one job -- don't take off the scarf. / Science is probably not Steve's strong suit, but he's really trying to make sense of why Billy's suddenly found him so appealing.

Put a baby in me, baby by femmesteve (353 words. CO)

Billy and Steve play with Steve’s pregnancy kink

The real stranger things by femmesteve (1025 words IN) 

My AU where Billy is an alien and Steve is a human who loves him dearly.

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

09/2018 (if you want to send me your faves fics, head canons or anything to update this I’ll add it when I get the time again)

[jojuarez26]

We found love in a hopeless place

It's been such an incredibly long day. I just want to go home and soak in the jet tub with my bottle of whiskey and a pack of smokes.

I had to spend five hours in Erudite today. I fucking hate Erudite, I left for a reason. Unfortunately being former Erudite and having the superior intellectual intelligence out us five Dauntless leader's, I tend to get stuck attending all the seminars.

When I get back Max has left a fuckton of paperwork on my desk and two disciplinary action. Not to mention the extra two hours spent working on a personal investigation.

Chip, a fence guard I completed initiation with, came to me two months ago with something he had heard out on a recent two month tour. If any of it was true it would be fucking life altering for me.

As I stalk towards the Chasm heading home I see a blur of black with long burnette hair drop over the railing.

Fuck! I burst forward looking over the edge. I expected to be looking for a body. What I saw surprised me.

She was hanging on by her finger tips looking down. The internal struggle clearly displayed in her emerald eyes. Quietly and careful not to startle her I crouch down to get closer.

"Hey there. Give me your hand," I say quiet and calm reaching out for her

Those polished emerald eyes lock with mine and go wide. She struggles to move away without falling.

"Go away!! Leave me alone! I can't do it anymore!" She yells panicking.

"Ok, ok relax. Whatever it is we can figure it out. Let me pull you up," I coax calm but stern.

"There is nothing to figure out. It hurts to much. Leave me be," tears are now streaming down her face. Despair and hopelessness on full display on her face.

Think Eric, think.

"This is a pretty permanent solution you can't take back. Let me help you up. Let's talk about it." I desperately want to get her from dangling over the edge.

"I can't. I don't know how. I don't want to do this alone anymore," she is clearly hurting inside.

A unusual emotions of empathy and sorrow wash over me. I suddenly have the desire to hold her and tell her it will all be alright.

"Sweetheart, please let me help you. Whatever you're going threw I won't leave you alone in it. I promise," the words slip out before I can even register what I just said.

She hesitates a moment longer before giving in and reaching for my hand. Quickly before she has a chance to change her mind, I grab her and haul her over the railing. She crumples into a sobbing heap in my arms.

"I'm Eric if you didn't already know. What's your name sweetheart," I ask trying to calm her down while texting the infirmary.

I'm sitting on the floor holding her in my lap stroking her hair while she continues to sob uncontrollably.

"S-Sam. Samantha is my name," she works on blurting out

"Well Samantha, we're going to get you to the infirmary and get you checked out ok."

Her heart is racing, whole body trembling and her pupils are diolated. Her glazed over, feral look leads me to believe she is on a drug of some sort.

"Don't leave me alone Eric. You promised." She whispers as she begins to calm down a little bit.

Shit. Me and my damn mouth. I am, if nothing else, a man of my word. A fucking asshole prick, but a noble one.

"Yes Samantha. I am going with you."

I finally see the infirmary team heading towards us. Two females crouch down coaxing Samantha out of my arms to check her over. As I stand, Samantha thrashes wildly grabbing for my pant leg.

"Don't leave me! You promised!" She shrieks wildly.

"Hey, hey. Shhh. I'm not leaving you Sam. I did promise. But I need you to do something for me. Let these two nice ladies look you over while I talk to Dr.Marx a minute ok. Can you do that for me Sam."

I took her face in my hands talking to her softly. She looks into my eyes intently. I almost feel naked for a second. Like she is stripping away my layers and staring into my soul. After a moment with no loss of eye contact and final content she believes me she sits down. I run a hand gently threw her hair and use the other to stroke her cheek.

"Thank you. I will be right here. I promised."

I turn to see the doctor and two nurses staring at me wide eyed and curious. Quickly I school my feature and narrow my eyes with clear disdain. Quickly the snap out of it and get to work on Samantha.

When I turn to Dr. Marx I give him a death glare. He just smiles, an amused look on his face.

"So the evil, ruthless,asshole leader does have a soul after all," he says quietly, merriment in his voice.

"Tell anyone and you'll be hanging over the Chasm next," I grumble giving the doctor a pointed look.

"Your secret is safe witb me. Besides, nobody would ever believe me anyways," he chuckled.

"So how do you know our Sammy girl here and how did you find her?" The doctor inquiries.

"I don't. I was on my way home and I seen jump over the rail. When I got to her she turned histarical and spouted off about how she couldn't take it anymore."

She must have a history if the doctor knows her. Great. What did I just get myself into. I'm starting to regret my promise.

Dr. Marx gets a sympathetic look in his eyes. He flicks his gaze to the girl with compassion and sadness in his eyes.

"Sam has been a frequent flier in the psychward since she joined us three years ago from Candor. She has had a rough life that nobody deserves," the sadness with a hint of anger laces his voice heavily.

"However I'm impressed. I honestly can't believe she let you touch het let alone threw herself in your arms."

I narrow my eyes at him. I have a feeling I am not going to like what I hear. I nod at him to go on.

"Samantha has been violently and repeatedly abused physically, mentally and sexually by those she should have been able to trust the most. General she doesn't let men, especially essential strangers, get near her. She a strict female staff contact order in her Dauntless file."

I feel the blood begin to boil in my veins. I have a sudden memory of training her. I remember an instances when Four went to correct her stances. She freaked the fuck out and had to be sedated. Max pulled her from training for three days. She returned with strict orders that she was only to face female opponents in training and to get Lauren if anything one on one was required of her. An explanation was never given. I'm snapped back into the present by Dr.Marx calling my name. I shake my head and return my focus back to him

"I'm sorry what was it you just said?" Annoyance clear in my voice.

The doctor just smirked and repeated himself.

"She has a history of drug and alcohol abuse. A strike on her records from secondary school for several minor assault charges. We're ready to take her now. Are you coming?"

I give the good doctor a glare that usually sends even the strongest and bravest of Dauntless running in fear. Not the doctor, he just rolls his eyes

"Did you not hear the part where I promised to go with her. Besides, I would like to sit down and see what action plan we can get in place for her for permanent ungoing therapy."

Dr. Marx expression was one of surprise and being caught off guard for a split second. But then just as quickly he schooled his features to a neutral look before speaking

"That is very kind of you Eric. I don't think anyone has ever kept that type of promise to the poor girl. She could use any bit of support she can get."

I felt a tightening in my chest. I usually never let anyone get close to me or I to them. Ever. I did that once and my trust was betrayed. I prefer to be alone with minimal non-proffesional interactions. I only do casual sex and I am an asshole.

However something about Samantha has me drawn to her. Plus still a noble asshole. Some Erudite traits where just impossible to break even after five years in Dauntless.

I nod my head for the doctor to go. I turn back to Sam who's eyes are still locked on me. They have her on a stretcher. I walk over to walk beside her as we head to the infirmary. I was caught off guard when she grabbed my hand in a death grip.

I turned surprised eyes to hers and my breathing faulted for the briefest of seconds. Never in my life had anyone looked at me with so much trust, gratitude and some other emotion I couldn't quite pinpoint. Ever.

Most people looked at me with fear or contempt. Occasionally respect and way too many times pure lust.

Something inside me I couldn't identify with stirred my emotions. I reached my other hand out and gently stroked her cheek. Her eyes slipped shut as she leaned into my touch. The tiniest of a tingle shot threw my hand.

"We're going to get you better Samantha. You will never have to deal with it alone again."

Tears of relief filled her eyes. She has such beautiful eyes when they weren't filled with so much pain.

"Thank you," she whispered giving my hand the smallest of squeezes before those beautiful emerald eyes slipped shut.

Two hours later I sat nodding out off and on in the recliner I pulled next to Sam's bed. They had drawn blood, hooked her up to an IV and various other machines to check her vitals. I stepped out of the room while a nurse helped her change into a gown.

I had also went and got coffe while Dr.Marx and Sam disgust what she would allow for disclosure to me and how much power I would be granted in her decision making. She had no family here in Dauntless.

Her mother passed away when she was five. A younger deceased sister. Both her father and her older brother where incarcerated indefinitely in Candor for crimes that where sealed to the public because they where committed against minors.

Sam had been placed to live with in Aunt in Erudite for the last six months before her choosing ceremony.

"Eric. Eric wake up. The notary is here. Let's get this paperwork signed and you can be on your way."

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and glanced over at Sam. She was sedated and being given meds to detox off of some drug or another she had been taking. She looked peaceful, looks can be deceiving. I was being given partial patient history disclosure and full power of attorney whenever a doctor deemed her fit for decision making.

"Why on earth give a complete stranger this much power and leverage over yourself?" I had asked.

"Because in all her twenty-one years that stranger is the only person who showed initiative to give a damn abour her. Plus it doesn't hurt your a leader and all."

I had scoffed and reminded him what a dick I am and that people usually loath me.

"That's because people never get to see the side of Eric we did tonight. I think you hide behind your authority to hide your own demons."

I glared at the doctor for a moment before looking away.

"Carful doctor, don't forget who the patient is," I sneered.

He had just sighed shaking his head. I had known Dr.Marx since I was a child. He had been a friend and colleague of my father before he passed away.

"Alright Eric. Everything is in order for now. Go home and get some sleep. Should I tell Samantha if and when you will be back?"

"I'll be back to have dinner with her. Call me if I am needed before then."

I stretched and turned to leave. I paused looking at the broken girl lieing on the bed. What the fuck had I just gotten myself into? I bent over and placed a kiss on her forehead and turned to go.

"Eric," I stopped and turned to look at Dr. Marx.

"You are a good man you know. Your father would be proud. Also call your mother once in awhile you little shit."

My lips turned up slightly at the last comment. Of course my mother would use Elvin as her messenger.

"I will. When I have something to say."

With that I left to head home for some sleep. As I walked uncertainty started to slowly creep into my thoughts.

I just completely let a stranger in just to save her life. From what I had gathered she had a fucked up childhood and just couldn't seen to cope as an adult. Besides my leadership duties I just made the biggest and second commitment of my life. Did I just change my life for the better or make the biggest, foolish mistake of my life?

@pathybo @tigpooh67 @iammarylastar @kenzieam @lunaschild2016 @emmysrandomthoughts @clublulu333 @beautifulramblingbrains @frecklefaceb @sparklemichele @mom2reesie @ericdauntless @dani5102 @readsalot73 @kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995 @bookwarm85 @glamlover87 @badassbaker @captstefanbrandt @jaihardy @ariwolff14

Divergent fanfiction: Eric/OC

I do not own any part of Divergent

Strong language and mature content

[iamnotadamnedmonkey]

Hey Mikell ya old fart, can you tell us some of your rowdy adventures as Agent Cowboy?

His name was Albert Smith, and he was the Spirit of Peace. So, I killed him.

Well, that’s what he claimed anyways. Called himself Brother Earth, and said the hippies were his children, his idea. I’m not sure why anyone would want to claim that, so I’ve never really doubted him.

I was still an agent then, back in the Sixties. They called me the best of the best, though I like to think I didn’t have a swelled head. Like my Father before me, I fought against a horde of self-named terrors, people and creatures who had come into some modicum of power through freak accident, or sometimes, hard work, and sought to use those powers to subjugate the human race. It was before my younger brother died, but after we’d had to lock up the youngest.

It was an… interesting time. The Foundation had stopped trying to make deals, or live alongside these monstrosities, and started putting them away for good. No more seeing what we could use, now was the time to put things away, and put them away hard. If we couldn’t contain them, they had to go, for the safety of mankind.

I can remember some of them, when I stop and think about it. The ones that they sent me to… finish. I was the Foundation’s hired gun, their executioner, walking up and down in the world, and meting out justice to those who deserved it. The names of the dead read like a list of late night horror matinees. The Shrieking Sister. Crawling Mentality. Danny Devious, the Deadly Diva. The Winter Wolf. All of them had been powers and principalities in their own right. All of them brought low under the barrel of my gun.

I had a gimmick. I hate to admit it now, in a time when we strive to not stand out. When one agent needs to be as bland and unobservable as any other. Some days, I regret the need for it, the need to iron out the strident personalities, but it helps, you know? If it feels like you’re facing down a monolith of uniformity, you start feeling burnt out quicker, and find it harder to keep fighting. I understand why the Council did, but sometimes, I miss the quirky ones. Hell. They’ll take my hat from me when they pry it from my cold, dead hands, no matter how much they whine that it doesn’t fit the theme.

My gimmick was a whole southern theme. A long slow drawl, a tendency to slur my speech, and, of course, the proper accouterments. My deed name was known to show up in the most unusual of places, and very few people linked the Southerner who could wear a suit to the Foundation's terror. I could blend in damn near anywhere, and immediately make friends. Even if I had to kill them.

I got the order to take out Brother Peace on a day like any other. If I recall correctly, I was relaxing at the ranch, a hard won break after dismantling the Scarlet Ghoulade. I remember, I was surprised that I was being offered the mission by Six. Usually, I got orders from a handler, or occasionally, my father. Six was the second member of the Council I had met, and he didn’t impress.

Six was a big man. Fat. The kind of fat you get by never doing anything. He was dressed in a silk black suit, and sweating in the heat before the choppers rotors had even stopped moving. If it had been a normal agent, or my usual handler, I would have given him shit for landing so close to the cattle pens, scaring my stock, but one look at this guy was more than enough to tell he had no sense of humor.

“Agent Vivid?” he asked, like he would’ve disembarked without knowing exactly who I was. I nodded my assent.

“That’s one of the names they call me. Can I help you mistah…” Letting my voice trail off, for him to fill in the blank.

“Six.” He said it like he expected a reaction from me, like I was suddenly supposed to kowtow before his great and mighty self. I shrugged, and stuck a dogeared cigarette in my mouth, taking the time to strike a match and light it. When he saw I wasn’t going to respond, he continued. “I am here with a mission of, utmost importance. We have a rogue asset that we need you to remove, immediately.” Always with the double speak, and weasel words. I just nodded my head, ready for him to continue.

He shoved a manila folder into my hands, clearly uncomfortable under my gaze. “Everything you need to know is here. The target is unrecoverable. It is to be removed with extreme prejudice, do you understand?” He wrung his fat hands together, more nervous than a hen at a meeting of Coyotes Anonymous.

I flipped through the briefing, picking up the important bits, here and there. Absently, as I took a drag on my smoke, and mostly just to annoy this man who was grating on my nerves, I drawled. “He.”

“What?” He looked at me like I was a bit of dung on the bottom of his shoe. I wasn’t going to tell him he’d already stepped in a pile when he got off the bird.

“You said it.” I flipped up a picture of the soon to be deceased. “Target’s a he.”

"Ah, no, Policy change. We've found it allows our researchers to experiment with less sense of guilt."

I pondered taking a stand. Doing something brave and stupid, like shooting a hole in his stupid coat, or spitting in his face. It’s the type of thing my admirers will tell you I did do. Sadly, I’ve always been a Company man, so I just lazily saluted, and stalked off. I could hear him blustering behind me, like I should have given him more, but I didn’t really care that much. I heard the chopper take off as I was grabbing my to-go bag. Thank god. I was happy years later when the fat man got torn apart. Less happy when they picked me to replace him.

I didn’t pack much. I never do. I’ve always been a little impetuous. Not planning, that’s the plan. The paperwork said Smith had run away from Site 19. Well, walked away. His particular little reality twist was that no one could take violent actions in his presence. Guns didn’t fire. Bombs didn’t explode. People refused to wield knives. He’d been real good at keeping the D-class in line, until something made him run.

Repeated readings of the info packet gave me no reason behind why he should run. Guess it didn’t really matter, but I do like a little inside knowledge of who I’m working on. Info said he’d found himself a little commune in California, and quickly risen to Godhood, at least in the eyes of the hippies there. I don’t normally fit in to hippy culture, but that was easy enough to fix. Let my hair hang loose, don’t shave for a couple of days, switch my jean shirt for a leather vest, and bam, instant hippy. The cowboy hat may have been a bit off, but I never worked without it. And of course, my trusty ivory-handled six shooters. I never go anywhere without them.

Getting into the commune was easy too. Just a matter of walking up to the gates, and saying I wanted to study with the master. I wasn’t the only one. Hundreds of people had started flocking to this place, having heard that Brother Earth was the new Guru of True Peace, or some shit like that. The guys at the entrance just waved me in, not worried about guns, or anything else.

I listened to Smith preach for a while. It wasn’t anything new, or different. A couple of times it sounded like he was talking about the Foundation itself. The Walls of Ignorance, the Jailers, the usual tripe you hear from those bastards in the Hand. I figured some of them had slipped into his retinue. I didn’t care. It wasn’t my job to look into that stuff.

Instead, I walked the camp, finding all the ins and outs. His sleeping place, the gardens, the quickest path away. It looked pretty simple. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. I knew I could kill him at any time, and walk away in the confusion, but…

So, I snuck into his tent that night. People were in and out all the time, asking his favor, kissing his ass, sucking his dick. All the girls wanted to screw him, and all the boys wanted… much the same. Everyone gets tired, and he was no exception. Round about the time his close people were sending everyone away, I was slipping into the back. So when the good Brother Earth finally got around to heading to sleep, I was already sitting in his bed.

“I’m sorry my child,” he said, with a sleepy smile. “I am already exhausted, I need no company tonight.”

“But the Foundation misses you, Albert,” I replied with cool aplomb.

He paused then, looking me over, really taking me in. The sleep left his eyes, but he didn’t seem worried. “So. The Hand Sinister of the Council Itself. Come to drag me back to your den of depravity and evil, hmm?”

I arched an eyebrow at him, smirking despite myself. “After watching you and your followers, I believe you have the market cornered on depravity, Albert.”

“Brother Earth!” he hissed. “I am Brother Earth. And I am not going back. I have seen what they have done to those poor, deluded fools, and I will not be part of it.” He strode towards me, glaring down at me in a poor attempt to intimidate me. “And you can’t make me go back.”

“I’m not here to make you go back, Al. They don’t want you back. They want you dead.” He waved me off, as if I was inconsequential. “I’m just curious as to why you ran in the first place. You must have known they’d kill you.”

“I ran because… Because I am the Spirit of Peace. I was born on this world to help mankind grow, to turn their back on their murderous ways. I am here as a promise, that the Earth has not forgotten her children, that we can live together. We do not need to kill each other to survive, we can work together!” He stabbed a finger at me, glaring imperiously. “And you can do nothing to stop me, Hand Sinister!”

I hated that name. Of all the code names I had, that one always struck me as the dumbest. Hell, just calling me Left Hand would’ve been better. I was frustrated, and bored, so I shot him in the foot.

He dropped to the ground, shock written on his face.

“How… how…” He gasped, unbelieving. I grinned, absently stroking the handle of my revolver. I could have told him the guns were special made, I could have let him know who the bone that was inset in the handle was actually from… But I don’t monologue. I simply lowered my gun to press against his forehead. He shivered, clearly afraid, his eyes crossed to look at the gun barrel.

I noticed some of his people pushing into the tent. They froze, staring dumbfounded at the scene, and I ignored them. The biggest one stepped forward, then stopped, the veins standing out on his neck.

“I know! I know what they do to the D-class, I saw what they fed them to! I would not be that thing, not anymore! Kill me if you must, but-” And I shot him. I’d heard enough, and he was just going to keep ranting, hoping someone would save him. Better to end it now, when I had what I needed. The big guy dropped to his knees, tears in his eyes. The rest of his followers ran in terror, expecting to be next. I couldn't help but pat the big man on the shoulder as I left. After all, he did his best.

I left the same way I came in. No one stopped me. I could hear the wailing rise as I passed through the front gate. My admirers would have said I smiled, but death is never something to smile about. I heard they enshrined him, hoping the peace effect would linger. Good luck, I say.

Six was grateful for my actions. Gave me a raise. And the standard admonition not to talk about it with anyone.

When I became O5 in his place they told me what they did to the D-class. I didn’t like it any more than old Albert had. The difference is, I didn’t run away. I did what I always do. I studied the problem. I set pieces in motion. Everything I’ve done since then, the increase in containments, the Keter breach in 19, the up scaling of the MTFs, and, yes, even Pandora’s Box, all of it has been towards the goal of removing something most of the Council still sees as a vital necessity.

And you are the last part, the very last piece I need. A very special blood flows in you, Miss Argent, my brothers blood, and, more importantly, you’ve had all the training you need. So tell me.

Will you take up my guns?

http://www.scp-wiki.net/rip

[revengeworld]

The Deal - Prolog

Demon! Kylo Ren + Witch! OC AU

Summary: Tara isn’t an ordinary girl. She has always been “the weird one” but now after transferring to a new school, getting along with other girls might be her least problem.

A/N: This is my first FF that i put online in a loooong time, so i´m kind of nervous. The Idea came when i rewatched American Horror Story - Coven (which is by far my favourite Season!)and this Story is mostly Inspired by that Universe. This will be just the Prolog, more Chapters will follow. I hope you will like it. To clarify first, i´m sadly not a native Englishspeaker. So if you find any mistakes, please let me know, so i can improve my writing!

MY MASTERLIST

REQUESTS

Chapter 1 here

“I can´t believe this... how could this happen?!” “You sayed that already a hundred times now. It doesn´t make the Situation any better, you know?” stated the black haired Men next to me while they walked through the streets of New Orleans. “Oh shut up you!” she hissed while he sighted.

“I can´t believe it ...” he started to growl and now she was the one who sighted. “They will kick me out of the Acadamy if they find out!!” “Well then they better don´t find out, little Witch.”

Tara always thought she was the only one that was weird. At least everybody told her that from the beginning, as soon as they got closer to her.

When she was a child she thought she was just very good at daydreaming, until other kids could see her ‘dreams’ as well and told the grown ups.

If anybody had explained it to her from the beginning, maybe she wouldn´t had so much problems being around other people. But her parents just tried to hide her from the neighbours.

First it seemed like she was the only one, until Cordelia called them and invited her into the Academy so she could meet others like herself.

That happened all after her 17 Birthday when her and her family … well that is another story.

As soon as she saw the white and big Mansion in New Orleans she finally could put her doubts aside.

They were Witches and she was one of them and wasn´t alone anymore.

“Hey Tara! Still learning I see.” “Of course, because we have our Telekinesis Exam soonish. And if you want to get on the -Council- I would suggest you should start too.” quickly browsing through one of the books she tried to find the next exercise to help her concentrate my mind.

“Well you could stop distracting me with all the floating books.” “What?” as soon as she looked up to her roommate, several books landed beside her on the bed.

“Ah... sorry Norma.” “It´s alright, but you should stop pressuring yourself. Your Illusion magic is amazing!!” “Thanks...” with a sight she shut the book in her hand. “I still can´t believe what happened to Queenie.”

“Well Cordelia is looking into things... I hope nothing happens.” Norma stated worried. “She is the Supreme... and ohhh shit …..she will kill me if I don´t tend her Garden right now!” Tara got louder while looking on the clock. Since their Supreme, Cordelia Foxx would be in Los Angeles for an undefined time, she had asked her to take care of the Greenhouse, which she daily did, exactly at 15 o´clock. Now the clock was showing her that it was already 2 hours later then she had thought. “Do you need help?” “I will be alright. Thanks Norma!” quickly jumping down the stairs, focusing her Eyes on the Floor, while passing the other Girls in the Academy. To be honest, she never was good with other people. The only one she felt comfortable with was her Roommate and Best Friend Norma. She came a few days after Tara into the Academy, after she was caught stealing Earrings with her Transmutation Powers.

With a loud sight she closed the Door behind her, while closing her Eyes and inhaling the scent of the many flowers in the Greenhouse. It was always the most relaxing part of the house, besides her room, because most of the students find Herbology to be the most boring type of magic.

So it was mostly her with Cordelia who showed her all she needed to know how to care of the plants, make Potions and Spells.

While she would be absent, she left the Greenhouse in Taras care, which made her really proud to say the least.

As she was dropping Lavender Oil into her brewing solution she suddenly had the feeling that somebody was watching her.

First she tried to shake the feeling of, nobody comes here and she was probably just being paranoid again, till a hand on her shoulder made her drop the vial she had in her hand.

Just before it hit the floor she could stop it mid Air, before turning around to the Person that started to laugh.

“Clio , what do you want?” she tried to caught her breath again, while taking the bubbling Potion from the Fire.

“Sorry I didn´t mean to scare you, sweetheart.” cringing from that nickname Tara just rolled her Eyes. Yeah who would believe that.

“I came here to ask a favor of you.”

Of course you did. She thought to herself and was glad that Clio was no mind reader. She was the most liked Girl here in the Academy, but Taras guessed every school had this popular really annoying girl, that thought she had a fashion sense.

“So what favor are we talking about? Finishing your Homework?” Tara asked.

“Oh no sweety...” she put a torn out page in front of me on the table and Tara looked quickly over it.

“What is this?” “I found it way back in Cordelias Bookshelf. It´s a summoning.” Tara quickly grabbing the page and started to read it.

“You want to summon a freaking Demon?!” “So you can read it?” she suddenly asked excited.

“What? Of course I can ready, why wouldn´t …. ooh… you can´t.”

“Exactly! But you can.” “I don´t think this is a good idea… you shouldn´t do this. We know almost nothing about Demons ...” she gave her the page back and Clio sighted dramatically.

“Well we will try it anyway, of course it would be better if someone could understand the whole spell. We will be leaving at six, so if you change your mind Darling. I mean, you don´t want anybody to know your little secret,why you really ended here, right?” “How do you …” Taras face froze immediately. “A girl has her ways.” She smiled down at me, trying to be mysterious and left.

Tara started to bite her Lip and looked after Clio, while she was leaving. “Shit.”

“So where exactly are you going?” Norma asked her curious, while she was packing her bag.

“Just into town with Clio and her Friends.” trying to not sound suspicious Tara turned away and quickly stuffed half her hair up into a bun.

“What?! You know it´s a trap , right?” “Well if it will be one I think I can handle them with a little bit of my illusions. Maybe I let them think all their hair fell out.” Norma snorted and seemed less worried.

“I can take of myself, so don´t worry. Maybe I bring donuts alright?” she started to smile, well no wonder, donuts where Normas favorite snacks.

“I will be back to curfew, see you later.” She shouldered her bag and made her way down the stairs.

“I knew you wouldn´t let us down!” she heard a shrill voice and saw Clio standing with her friends at the front door.

“Well it´s better than letting the whole town blow up.”

After they took every ingredient they needed from the greenhouse, before driving to a rather abounded farm house.

The whole time Tara felt more than uncomfortable, rather it was of the unusual behavior from the three girls or that they would be trying to summon a demon.

Maybe that is why she didn´t notice that they didn´t help at all and stood far away from her, while she drew the sigils on the floor with a white chalk.

After putting all the ingredients into a bowl, the final step was to say the formel, drip some blood into the bowl and set it all on fire.

“So there is just one step left. I figure since you wanted your demon, you should do it Clio.” with a sight she turned around but Clio was shaking her head.

“Well you already started the summoning, what if it doesn´t work if I suddenly take over.” “But it was your idea to begin with!” suddenly she hugged Tara from behind.

“You said it yourself, 'better then blowing up the whole town.” “Fine...” she growled, before Clio got back into the corner were the three were hiding in.

Trying to calm herself, she took two deep breaths while taking the knife from her bag.

“Now or never...” with a quick motion she run the blade over her palm, before letting the blood drip down and starting to chant the incantation.

“...Et ad congregandum...eos coram me. ”

Letting the match fall into the bowl, expecting something big to happen she shielded herself with her arms.

But it stayed quiet. Slowly she lowered her Arms, while the Girls behind her did the same. “I can´t believe it didn´t work...” Clio hissed. “Maybe it´s a sign that we shouldn´t have tried it in the first place.” Tara nodded kind off relaxed that nothing had happened. That was until a sudden firewall appeared in front of her.

First she just heard screams, glass shattering and the stomping of feet while the girls were running out of the house.

She started coughing while the room filled itself with black smoke. While trying to get up she suddenly felt a grip around her ankle and saw shockingly to a figure that was crawling out of a firey hole that suddenly appeared there were the bowl was.

“Shit...” looking around for something she could use to get away. For a brief moment Tara could see her bag, were her spellbook was. But the grip around her ankles was to strong and moving was impossible.

As she looked up, she saw him slowly standing up while letting his bones crack.

“So... who dared to summon the Knight of Ren.” he growled with a low voice and looked down at her.

“The Name is Kylo... so tell me little Witch-Bitch, what Deal do you want?”

NEXT CHAPTER

Tags: @dragonjedihobbit

[vin-taege]

Petals pt. 2

Summary: Taehyung bumps into Jungkook again, but in more awkward circumstances.

Pairing: Taehyung x Jungkook

Words: 2k+

Taehyung went home thirty minutes late. His hyungs didn’t really mind, except Jimin, who tried to act angry at him. 

“Yah, ‘I’ll be home before six’, he said. ‘Just going for a walk’, he said.” Jimin eyed him, a small smile breaking through his lips. He grabbed Taehyung, hooking an arm around his neck in a mocked chokehold. Jimin began ruffling the younger one’s hair. “Who did you meet up huh? Did you go out for a quick fuck without telling us?” 

Taehyung cringed at the thought. He didn’t want easy catches. Even though he had a sugar mommy, he still believed that sex was for two people in love,not just for temporary satisfaction. Everything he did was wrong most of the time, but that doesn’t mean he lost his moral code.

He squirmed at of Jimin’s grip. “Hell no. Like I said, just for a walk.” He shrugged his jacket off, carelessly tossing it on the floor. They usually had dinner at seven, but he saw Namjoon and Yoongi already sharing a big cup of ramen on the couch.

“Ah, dongsaeng. Your shirt’s torn. Who the fuck did that?” Yoongi asked, nodding to his side. He followed the older boy’s action and saw his shirt ripped on his right side. He had second thoughts about telling them his encounter at the library. They might tease him for defending someone, thinking he’d gotten soft. Even such an act was foreign for him. It’s been a while since he’s done something good for a change. Plus, he couldn’t let them know that he was at a library.

“I got into a fight.” 

He said timidly. He didn’t show the whole truth, but for him, that was better than lying. “Hm? With who? One of Seungcheol’s men? Goddamnit, I already told Woozi-”

“No, no. Just a uni jock. He had a big mouth on him.” Partly saying the truth again. Yoongi took it in and continued eating. “Next time, make sure to include us. I’ve always wanted to beat up a jock.” Namjoon piped up, his mouth still full of noodles.

Taehyung chuckled. He knew why Namjoon’s blood was so hot with jocks. Namjoon did well in school. He always got good grades and high honors, which was why everyone was shocked when he dropped out. Except for his seniors in the varsity team, who made sure his school days were filled with torture. But he was grateful, because he learned how to fight because of them.

Everyone had a reason for being in the group, mostly because they were neglected, and pushed to a point where they acted out. Taehyung left because of his parents, who had an attitude shittier than their couch. He was just glad to be where he was right now, even though he wasn’t exactly the best influence. 

“Namjoon needs to stop smoking before he gets sick. We can’t afford a new couch, much less his chemo.” Hoseok sighed, partly annoyed, partly joking. Taehyung walked next to him, Jimin behind them. Namjoon initially ordered Jimin to get him a new pack of cigarettes, but Hoseok wanted to come too, and dragged Taehyung with him.

“I just want to scare everyone on the way to the market for shits and giggles.” Hoseok had said when they went out.

Jimin was silent. He didn’t like going outside much, except for bars or nightclubs. But aside from that, he didn’t want interacting with people who aren’t like him. At least that’s how he labelled them. In his world, there are only two types: those who are bent, blindly following a path already made for them, and those who make their own. 

He was considered a disappointment in their family the second he went to his first dance competition. So he lived up to that name, but this time he did what he want.

“Hyung, keep your voice down. You don’t want unneeded attention.” Jimin muttered from behind them. Normally, he was cheerful, but being in town made him sour. He loved how the crowd parted for them, how fear was evident just because of their presence. But he didn’t like the stares they got. 

“It’s those boys again, huh? Going to be involved in another gang fight, probably.”

“Gonna get shit-faced at the bar again.”

Jimin heard the whispers loud and clear. He has always been the most sensitive regarding these things. Even though he couldn’t give less of a fuck, those comments still managed to get under his skin. He looked at the younger boys in front of him. Hoseok was smiling, still going on about a story only he found funny, while Taehyung stared straight ahead, seeming to be deep in thought. 

“Shit!”

Hoseok was on the ground, books and papers sprawled around him. A boy laid opposite him. They were both rubbing their heads, and Taehyung couldn’t help but laugh. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but the laughter was still heard. 

In a flash, Hoseok got up and grabbed the boy by his collar. “What the hell where you-”

“Jungkook?” Taehyung stared. Hoseok paused and looked at him. “You know this guy?” Taehyung nodded. With a huff, Hoseok let go and walked over to Jimin. 

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t see where I was going. It was my fault.” Jungkook said, frantically gathering his things. Taehyung helped him, occasionally giving him glances. His hair look messier, fluffier, than the first time they met. “No, it’s okay. Hoseok’s okay with it, right?” Taehyung said, pointedly looking at his hyung.

Hoseok scrunched his eyebrows, but after seeing the pleading look from his dongsaeng, swallowed his remarks. “Yeah, whatever. Just watch where you’re going. Come on, Tae.” Jungkook stood there, gaping at them. He’s only heard stories about their group, but now three of their members are standing before him.

The two started walking away, while Taehyung shot him one last glance and slowly followed. “Wait! Uh, I’m not busy, and I’m assuming you guys aren’t too. Do you- do you guys want some coffee? As an apology? I can treat you guys out if you want.” Jungkook said, jogging up to them. Hoseok looked at him, a small smile on his face. Taehyung tugged at Jimin’s sleeve. 

“Hyung, free coffee! We haven’t had coffee in a while. Plus, I need something other than booze to keep me going.” he whispered. “Yeah, and this guy does owe me an apology.” Hoseok added. “We can get the cigarettes later anyway.” Jimin groaned. There was no way his friends where going to turn down the offer. He stopped walking and eyed Jungkook. There was something about that kid that screamed they could trust him. And he was the first person to look at them like they were actually humans, not monsters.

“Yah. What’s your name?” he said, making his voice purposely cold. Maybe he could scare him off.

“Jeon Jungkook” Jungkook shifted his weight to one foot, intimidated by the man in front of him. “Sir.” he hesitantly added.

“Do you study or...?”

“I go to university.”

After a minute more of eyeing him down, Jimin knew he wasn’t going away. So with a sigh, he held out his hand. “I’m Jimin. The one you bumped into earlier is Hoseok hyung. He’s too nice for his own good”

“Hey!” Hoseok glared at him. “I guess you’ve met Taehyung?” Hoseok patted Taehyung’s shoulder. Jungkook smiled. “Yeah. He kinda ‘saved’ me at the library yesterday.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.’ he thought. His hyungs looked at him, suspicion and a glint of mischief in their eyes. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh yesterday.” He shrugged it off, trying to play it cool. He could already hear Jimin’s voice teasing him. 

“There’s a really cozy coffee shop down there.” Jungkook pointed straight ahead. “They make nice latte art too.” He grabbed Taehyung by the wrist, being most comfortable with him, and dragged him in the direction of the cafe. The older boys gave each other a look, before following them.

“Well, you were right about the latte art. I thought I had to kill you there earlier, but you proved me wrong.” Hoseok said, contentedly taking another sip from his cup. Jungkook nervously laughed. He was sure everyone at the cafe were looking at them, especially when Jimin began picking his nails with a small pocket knife.

“See? I told you he’s nice. What do you think, hyung?” Taehyung nodded towards Jimin, “Oh? Yeah, the coffee’s great.” he said, sparing an uninterested glance at his mocha latte. “Jungkook, what course are you taking?”

“Fine arts. I’ve always wanted to, ever since I was young.” he beamed. He was thankful that his parents were supporting him. He thought they wouldn’t let him move, since Busan was far away from Seoul. But here he was, living by himself, going to an arts college.

“Wait, then what about that thesis freak?” Hoseok smirked at Taehyung. The younger one groaned. Jungkook just had to tell that story. Even Jimin grinned a bit. 

“Oh, Daewon. He’s in the other school a few blocks away from ours. He’s older, but he always got held back. He uh, thought I was nice enough to make him his thesis.” Jungkook said, not wanting to touch that topic much. Getting, the hint, Hoseok asked him another question. “Do you have any part-time jobs?” 

Jungkook nodded. “I wait tables at Burgundee. That burger place downtown.”

“The one with the good cheese sticks? Doesn’t Jin hyung work there?” Jimin said, suddenly engaging in the conversation. “Can you get us discounts?” he whispered. Hoseok smacked him lightly on the head. Jungkook laughed, not scared anymore by Jimin’s cold demeanor earlier.

“I could try. You know Jin hyung? He’s really nice to me. A bit clumsy at work, but he’s a gentleman.” Jungkook smiled at them. Taehyung returned the same warm smile. 

“Hey, kid. No offense, but aren’t you, well, scared of us or something?” Hoseok didn’t want to make things awkward, but he found it weird, although pleasing. He was used to getting feared, but this was a nice, slightly odd, change. “Well, I couldn’t really judge you based on rumors. I should’ve thought of that more before.” he shot Taehyung an apologetic look. 

Taehyung nodded and looked at his hyungs. They seemed to like Jungkook, which was a good sign. They normally weren’t comfortable with people they just met, but there’s something about Jungkook that made him so like-able. The way he spoke softly, his gentle actions, how he’s so passionate about arts. 

Then Taehyung felt something itchy in his throat. He coughed into his sleeve. “Excuse me.” he quickly got up from his chair and rushed to the bathroom, coughing. 

As soon as he locked the cubicle door, he leaned on the sink. Something was stuck in his throat, and he did everything just to get it out. With one last violent cough, a spur of color went out. He felt dizzy, and at first he thought he was seeing things. There was no way he was high or drunk. The last party he went to was over a month ago, and he’s been clean for a few days.

When his vision cleared, he looked at the sink, only to be greeted by a mixture of flowers and his saliva. His eyes widened. He has heard about this, but never true. Even Jin and Yoongi told him about it, but he has never seen it happen. 

With another hack, he leaned over the sink. He thumped his chest and spat out one more petal. He slid down the floor and tried regaining his breaths. 

“Taehyung? We’re leaving.” Jimin knocked on the door. Taehyung kept silently for a bit, his throat sore and exhausted. The knocks became louder. “Tae? Are you okay in there?” Jimin asked, worry laced in his voice. “Uh, yeah. I’ll be out in a bit.” Taehyung weakly replied.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.” he added with much more conviction

‘I need to to tell Jin’

[wellimhavinga3outof10day]

Lost Lullabies - Chapter Nine

Description: Mickey Milkovich, former child star turned action movie star, runs into his old co-star, Ian Gallagher, out on the street in the middle of a winter night. When Mickey takes him in, he doesn’t realize that Ian has the power to completely turn his new life upside down.

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Read on AO3

Mickey didn’t sleep well that night, if he slept at all. He woke groggy at six a.m. and immediately listened for Ian shifting in the living room before he remembered Ian had walked out. Less remembered and more came to terms with. Whatever. Ian had never stayed away for more than one night in a row, so that night he would be back on the couch and Mickey could wake to his small, soft noises tomorrow.

           Mickey got up and went about his day. Breakfast, auditions, meetings, filming, late lunch with Svet, more meetings, a long negotiation with his agent, a radio interview, dinner in the car, and an appearance at a local bar in danger of being shut down – but judging by the crowd, Mickey sincerely doubted that was the real reason he’d been asked to appear.

           He got back to the apartment late, late enough that he expected to see Ian on the couch. But no such luck. He checked the bathroom and his bedroom, but there was no one there. The only sign Ian had been back at all was that his jacket was missing from the rack by the door along with the change he’d left on the coffee table. At least Ian was alive, Mickey knew that.

           He settled in for another sleepless night. Right before he crawled into bed, he sent Ian a quick text saying, come home and sent Fiona a text asking if Ian was with her. He waited five minutes for either of them to reply, got nothing, and rolled back into bed.

           Throughout the night, whenever he got bored of lying with his eyes closed, he checked his phone. Fiona replied sometime after two saying she hadn’t seen him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t somewhere in the house. Ian didn’t reply at all. Mickey sent him another text around four, asked him to say whether he was alive or not and still got nothing.

           He rolled out of bed exhausted the next morning but simply brewed a large pot of coffee and drank as much of it as he could before the car came. On the way to the breakfast place – the producers wanted to pitch him the idea for the Disney show’s spin-off before he officially declined – he sent Ian another text message. I’m not mad. You made the right choice. Please come back.

           Mickey stared at the screen, waiting for the typing bubbles to pop up. Nothing. He bit his bottom lip and started to scroll back through their texts. All of them were simple conversations – are you coming home tonight? yes, do you want Chinese for dinner? sure, don’t make so much fucking noise if you come in at three in the morning. fine – but Mickey read each one with care. He had no idea when Ian’s one word answers had started to mean so much to him, but they had. After last night, he wondered when Ian had started to mean so much to him at all. Maybe Mandy had been right. Maybe he’d loved him all along.

           Mickey managed to get through the meeting with the producers without signing away his life again, even when they asked if maybe he’d do a reunion movie instead of a new show. He told them he’d think about it but as soon as he was out the door called his agent to say that no, no, no, he wasn’t going back ever.

           For once, Mickey didn’t have a lot to do all day long. He sat on the couch and watched more of their show. If he tried hard enough, he thought he could see the exact moment Ian had started to look at him differently. If he stopped being in denial, he could see the exact moment he started to look back differently.

           He actually slept that night, somewhat peacefully. When he woke the next morning to no Ian, his heart didn’t sink as much. It had only been a week. Ian had only been back in his life a week. Mickey could let go of that. He’d managed to let go of seven years of friendship without trying that much at all. He could forget about a week.

           Mandy called late that evening and a couple minutes into her monologue about how the Hamilton cast had absolutely soaked her in champagne, she asked, “How’s Ian?”

           “Gone.”

           “You kicked him out?”

           Mickey considered lying to her. After all, she was miles away and had no way of knowing what really happened. But in the end, he didn’t. “No. We had a... fight and he left and he hasn’t been back for a couple of days.”

           Mandy was silent for a moment. “A fight about what?”

           “We were drunk. I don’t know.”

           “Mick,” Mandy said, her voice slow. “Look, you’re gonna be mad, but your publicist didn’t tell you this for a reason. And that reason is, it’s not a big deal.”

           “What’s not a big deal?”

           “A couple days ago, there were some blurry club videos of you grinding on someone.” Mandy paused. “No one recognized Ian, thank god, and quite a few people thought it might be a girl because the lighting in that place was shit, and your publicist got them all taken down in a couple of hours, but...” Mandy took a deep breath. “Tell me. When you say you had a fight with Ian... did you hook up with him and then throw him out?”

           “No!”

           “Mick.”

           “Honest. Fuck, Mandy.” Mickey’s heart beat hard in his chest, but he swallowed it. If it had been any real scandal, he would have heard of it immediately and had paparazzi camped outside his front door – more than usual. “That’s not what happened.”

           “Then what was the fight about?”

           “He... we...” Mickey chewed on his bottom lip. “I think I might be gay.”

           “No shit, Sherlock.”

           “Thanks, Mands.”

           “Sorry,” she said. “Just, I could’ve told you that when you were about six or seven.”

           “Fuck off.”

           “What happened?”

           Mickey shook his head. He sunk into the couch cushions and managed to resist the urge to bury his nose in them and smell Ian. “He was showing me how to lap dance and we were flirting and I told him... I told him I wanted him and he freaked out. Said I wasn’t ready for it and that he couldn’t do it and he left.”

           “He freaked out?”

           Mickey bit his tongue. “I might have cried.”

           “Shit.”

           “He hasn’t been home since and he hasn’t been answering my texts and I think he’s just gone.” Mickey couldn’t stop his voice from cracking on the last word. Tears pricked at his eyes but he blinked them back.

           “I’m sorry,” Mandy said. There was a long silence, then she added, “You want me to set you up with someone? There’s a ton of gay guys out here.”

           “Fuck off.” Mickey laughed.

           Mandy launched back into one of her stories as Mickey lay down on the couch, listening to her. He fell asleep to the sound of her voice and the smell of Ian on the pillows.

 When a week had passed without Ian, Mickey headed down to the diner he’d gotten Ian the job at. He figured he owed the manager an apology for his shitty recommendation and he probably needed to reassure the guy that he wasn’t about to back out of his promises.

           As he walked down the street, he waved to a few fans and smiled at a guy who took his picture, but was relatively unbothered. When he came through the front door of the diner, the hostess looked mildly shocked, but quickly regained her composure to ask if he wanted a table for one. He asked her to bring him back to the manager and she did.

           Mickey knocked on the office door and stepped in. Bill didn’t even look up from his computer.

           “Hey,” Mickey said.

           Bill glanced his way. “Oh, hi.”

           “I just wanted to come by and apologize.”

           “Apologize?”

           “For asking you to take Ian on,” Mickey said. “I thought he’d last a lot longer than a week before bailing. But don’t worry. I’m still going to do the promotions and everything we talked about—”

           “What are you on about?” Bill looked up with genuine confusion.

           Mickey paused. “Ian. You know? The dishwasher I sent over?”

           “Yeah. What about him?”

           “He hasn’t been here in a week.”

           “He’s here almost every day,” Bill said. He turned back to his computer. “Never misses a shift. Picks up all the dropped shifts. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

           Mickey’s heart skipped a beat and then crashed painfully into his stomach. All right. So Ian had only ditched him. Something about the information should have been comforting – Ian wasn’t too fucked to go into work, he was still trying, and he’d been down the street almost every day – but in reality it just made Mickey sad.

           “Does he work today?” Mickey asked.

           “Four ‘til close.”

           “Thanks.” Mickey checked his phone as he backed out of the office. It was only ten, which meant six hours until Ian came by, and Mickey had appearance to make, interviews to do, and a date with Svetlana. However, if Ian got off at midnight, he might be able to catch him then.

           Mickey walked back to his apartment, got into his driver’s car, and went about his day distracted. He kept checking the time at the worst moments – right as someone asked him a question or when he was supposed to be acting interested in something. His agent called at three to tell him he better get back on his game or he’d be working well into the night. So he put his phone away and tried a little harder.

           Still it wasn’t until ten o’clock that night that he was dropped back at the apartment. He considered going straight to see Ian – he could go into the back and talk to him there – but maybe that wasn’t the best idea. So he bummed around the apartment for an hour, then put on his winter jacket, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and headed down to the diner.

           He settled into the back alley between the diner and another apartment building. Pulling out a cigarette, he lit it and let acrid smoke billow out of his lips. He checked the time. Forty-five minutes until the diner closed. And Ian might stay after to help with clean-up.

           Mickey considered sending Ian a text, but if the other man really was avoiding him, it was probably better to catch him by surprise. So Mickey stood shivering in the cold, smoking more than he had since he was a teenager, and checking his phone every five minutes. His fingers started to go numb twenty minutes in, but he refused to walk into the diner and sit down just in case Ian spotted him.

           Thirty minutes in, Svetlana called to coordinate schedules and that distracted him for ten minutes before she hung up with a huff. She was probably annoyed that the shots she’d made at Mickey for having a “boyfriend” hadn’t gotten anywhere with him. But what did it matter to Mickey what Svetlana knew? She couldn’t out him without ruining her own reputation too.

           Twenty minutes after midnight, the back door opened. Mickey straightened against the wall as light and laughter pooled out into the darkness. Ian stood between two other people, a smile bright on his face, clearly in the middle of telling a story. But he stopped the minute he saw Mickey.

           “Go on without me?” he said. The two girls he was with nodded and headed off. Ian stuffed his hands into his pockets and didn’t step any closer to Mickey, didn’t say a word.

           “Want a cigarette?” Mickey said.

           “Sure.”

           Mickey handed him one and then leaned in to light it. Ian leaned back as soon as the tip caught and breathed in a long drag. The smoke pushed out of his lips in a long, clean line. Mickey looked away from him to focus on his own cigarette burning down towards his fingertips. He took a small drag and puffed it out in short breaths.

           Ian settled against the wall a foot or so away from Mickey. Once half his cigarette had burned down, he said, “You stalking me now?”

           “Came by to say sorry for giving Bill a shit employee,” Mickey said. “Didn’t know the only person you ditched was me.”

           “Come on.”

           “Whatever.”

           Ian sighed and turned to look at Mickey. “You know I made the right choice.”

           “I meant what I said. I’m not mad. I just thought you were fucking dead.”

           “Believe it or not, I can take of myself. Have been for years.”

           “Yeah.”

           Ian put the cigarette back to his lips and blew the smoke away from Mickey. Mickey was too distracted watching his lips to realize his own was nearly gone. Sparks touched his fingers and he swore, dropped it before stamping it out with his boot. Ian smiled.

           “Fuck off,” Mickey said.

           “I’ve been trying to get clean,” Ian said.

           “Yeah?”

           “Yeah. I went to a couple of NA meeting with Fiona and—”

           “Fiona said she hadn’t seen you.”

           Ian looked down. “I might have told her not to tell you.”

           Mickey brushed a hand across his lips. “Okay. Yeah. Whatever. I get it, man. I’m annoying as fuck and you’d rather do things your own way. And it’s fine if you never want to see me again, but don’t just... disappear like a fucking ghost.”

           “I don’t... Mick, I never said that I didn’t want to see you again.”

           “Then where the fuck were you?” Mickey snapped. He turned the full force of his glare on Ian. “It’s been a fucking week. You didn’t text, you didn’t call, you didn’t come home.”

           “Your couch isn’t my home.”

           Mickey opened his mouth to disagree and then shut it quickly. He looked down at his feet. “I just wanted to know you were safe.”

           “And I am.”

           “You could’ve fucking told me.”

           “I didn’t want you waiting at the phone for me. I didn’t want you thinking I was going to come back to your place and sleep on your couch again.”

           “You won’t?”

           Ian forced a smile, but it was weak. “It’s a bad idea, Mick.”

           “Why?”

           “Because one of these days my resolve is going to break and I’m not going to be able to stop myself. We’re going to go way past kissing and grinding and we’re not going to be able to go back from that.”

           Mickey forced himself to look up into Ian’s eyes. His heart was in his throat, making it hard to speak, but he managed, “What if I don’t wanna go back?”

           “We’re better off as friends.”

           “Why?”

           Ian touched his forehead to Mickey’s. “Because.” His voice dropped to little more than a whisper, the flutter of his breath hot on Mickey’s lips. “We’re too different, Mick. I’ve been out since I was ten and you’ll probably never leave the closet. I’m a drug-addled former child star and you’re a clean action movie star. I have about twelve bucks to my name right now and you’ve got, what? A couple hundred thousand in the bank? Face it. We’re from different worlds.”

           “We’re from the same fucking world. We’re from the same fucking street.”

           Ian smiled. “Maybe we used to be. If you’d let me kiss you when we were fifteen... who knows how things could have gone? But now? Now it’s not gonna work.”

           Mickey felt the first tear hit his cheek, but he was too close to Ian to wipe it off. “I don’t care,” he whispered. “I don’t give a fuck, Ian. You want to come back to the apartment coked up? Do it. You want to out me? Go for it. I want you. I don’t care about anything else.”

           “God, I wish that was true.”

           “It is!”

           “So if it fucked up your life? If all of a sudden nothing was the same and you couldn’t get a part for the life of you and all your money was spent on my drug habit and we had to move back to the Southside, you would live with that? You would just fucking be fine with it?”

           “Yes. Yes.” Mickey closed the space between their lips with a soft kiss. Then he opened his mouth to press in between Ian’s lips, kept it soft and light, so not to spook him. “Ian. Please. I’ll do anything.”

           Ian exhaled and pulled away, a sad smile on his face. “Let’s not do this to each other.”

           “Do what?”

           Ian reached up to caress Mickey’s cheek. “Fall in love when we know it’s not going to work.”

           “Stop saying that.”

           “It’s true.”

           “You don’t fucking know that, Ian.” Mickey batted away Ian’s hand and stepped back. “You’re just too fucking scared and I thought it was my job to be scared. It’s my life that’s on the line, isn’t it? What the fuck do you have to risk? Your life? Your family? Does anyone give half a shit? Or would dating me just make your life exponentially better?”

           Ian’s expression hardened. “Is that how you see me? I’m just some fucking charity case to you and you’re doing the world a favour by stepping off your high horse to date me?”

           “If the shoe fucking fits.”

           Ian tossed his cigarette to the ground. “You know what, Mick? You were right before when you said I wanted you the fuck out of my life for good.”

           “Fine. Go back to your life before me. Just remember it was always shit without me.”

           “You think you’ve been nothing but good for me, Mickey? Fuck that. You were always the worst thing in my life. And if I stay, you’ll continue to be. You’ll treat me like a fucking child that needs to be taken care of and keep me locked up in your apartment as your little secret. If I go home with you right now, you’ll never come out of the fucking closet and you’ll never respect me and you’ll never, ever come to terms with who you are.”

           “Oh. So you’re doing this for me?”

           “When have I ever done anything not for you?”

           Mickey shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. How about when you went fucking insane after the show ended even though I begged you to keep your shit together? How about when I texted you audition after audition after audition and you went to fucking none of them? How about when I called Fiona to tell her I could get you in for help and she said you laughed at the idea?”

           “You punched me in the fucking face.”

           “I was scared.”

           “And you always will be, Mick.” Ian took another step back. “I’ve got to go before Fiona thinks I’m on a bender and locks all the doors.”

           “Run away then. See if I fucking care.”

           “Bye, Mick. Nice knowing you.”

           “Fuck you too.” Mickey spit on the ground and then stepped back. He tried to turn, to walk away, but he felt glued to the spot watching Ian go. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt the sudden urge to puke. Instead, he sunk to the ground and rested his head against his knees. After a moment, he lit a cigarette and let the nicotine burn away his tears.

<<Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten>>

[ecotone99]

[NF] "This is the end... for now."

“This is the end... for now.”

A True Story of a Former NCAA D1 Athlete

​

The hotel phone started to scream. This is the modern day rooster. Courtesy wake up calls never feel courteous.

My body was as stiff as a wooden board. I could feel every muscle aching and my back spasms get off to an early start. Even opening my eyes was a competition between my exhaustion and waning motivation. I did the most ungraceful shimmy type of move to get out of the bed in one piece.

It was almost noon, and I was already missing morning workouts to prepare for the semi-final round that night. This was the Florida Tropicana tournament, with professional scouts everywhere. Even at the morning warm-ups. Instead of fighting to live my dream, this was what I had come to; staying up all night binge eating and drinking, smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, and setting my wake-up call for 11:30 AM when morning workouts started at 10 AM. The team would return to the hotel around one o’clock. I did not want to be a mess in bed by then, so I fought to get up from the edge of the bed after having my wakeup smoke.

I stumbled to the bathroom door, kicking all the beer bottles and empty food containers along the way. This was what I called a “power binge.” A power binge consisted of any food consumption in one sitting that added up to over five thousand calories. I know it sounds like a lot, but I was at the point where I could handle anywhere from three to five of those binges per week. Ironically they would be accompanied by a light beer or diet soda if I was not drinking bourbon. What can I say? I did not want to drink my calories.

As I arrived at the bathroom mirror, I was disgusted by my reflection. My weight gain was becoming more evident and I had a grayish tone to my skin that resembled clay. A twenty-one-year-old man should not look like this - especially a top division collegiate athlete. I had formed the most grotesque pattern of stretch marks on the front of my stomach which was as red as an apple and extremely painful. It looked like I had been stabbed multiple times around my torso. I wished I could vomit, but it was not happening. Throwing up on demand was never a talent of mine. God bless bulimics.

I turned the faucet on with my left hand and made sure the water temperature was just right for my toothbrush. As I transferred my toothbrush from my left to right hand, something was wrong. I could no longer lift my right arm at all. It had gone completely numb, accompanied by a strange burning sensation that I had never felt before. This was out of the ordinary. It felt like a swarm of scorching hot spiders were crawling chaotically on the inside of my shoulder and down through my elbow. Tears uncontrollably dripped from my eyes. I did not know what hurt worse; the physical or emotional pain that I was experiencing. Perhaps it was the perfect combination of both.

I could hear my cell phone ringing on the bed. I rushed over as quickly as I could to answer the phone. It was my father. He asked me how the trip was going, and I did my best to fight back the tears from the pain that I was experiencing. I do not think he was sold on my pitch of everything going perfectly, but he did not push me to talk about it. The conversation was short, and I hung up faster than he could say goodbye. I felt terrible, but I could not hold the pain in for another second.

Suddenly, I heard knocking at my door. I still had not cleaned up or put a shirt on yet. It was Coach Belton, the pitching coach of our team. He sounded sincerely concerned - he had always been good to me. When I was very young, my dad used to send me to private pitching lessons with Belton. At the time Belton was a minor league pitcher giving pitching clinics locally during his off-season.

“Josh, please listen, man. Just open the door. Nobody is mad at you for missing practice. I am just concerned and want to make sure that you are okay.” “I’m good,” I blurted back. “Okay Josh, I’m going to get a copy of your room key. Save us both the hassle and just let me in.” I took a deep breath as my heart sunk from my chest to my stomach. The second I opened that door I was letting Belton into my own personal hell. The freak show starring yours truly. Part of me wanted him to see what I was going through on the improbable chance that he could save me from myself. I gulped down a handful of ibuprofen and opened the door. We started our conversation at the doorway…

“You look like shit, dude.”

“Yeah Coach, I do.”

“Your shoulder is hanging.”

“I’m okay. I have some ibuprofen…”

“I brought you a pretzel and a Gatorade. Let’s talk.”

“Take the Gatorade, leave the pretzel.”

As Belton entered the room I could see his immediate reaction was that of concern. We sat on the bed and spoke for a minute about what I missed from morning warm-ups. There were some funny stories and information on the game later that night that I needed to know. Then the serious talk was about to begin.

In case you have never played organized sports at a competitive level, let me explain something to you. Yes, I just totally broke the fourth wall for a moment. Please forgive me and let us move on. When a coach asks an athlete if he is healthy enough to play, there is an honesty rate of about twenty percent. Most athletes will play through the worst of injuries if they feel it is best for the team. In cases like mine, being the captain on a scholarship with all of the pressure on your shoulders, saying that you are too hurt to play is considered quitting. We literally had starters playing through fractured bones, bruised ribs, and shin splints; if a player could physically move they considered themselves well enough to play. I had pitched through a ruptured meniscus in my right knee throughout my whole senior year of high school. To this day, my knee has never fully healed.

The “are you hurt,” conversation began and I denied it the whole way through to Belton. I repeatedly said I was fine and the pain was no more than the usual. I pulled out all the tricks in the book, including the claim that I had just slept on my shoulder in a weird way. Just as I thought I was getting off the hook, coach Moreno walked through my door and into the room.

“What’s up, Josh?” He looked around the room. “Have a crazy night? Listen, Thompson said you are having shoulder issues flaring up again. You okay?” “Yeah coach, don’t listen to Thompson. He’s just being an overprotective catcher.” Moreno stared at me in a weird way for a minute, trying to test my honesty. “We need you to pitch tonight Josh. Don’t mess around.” “I am fine, coach.” Then Belton intervened.

“Okay Josh, go touch the smoke detector.” Belton stared at me for a second, seeing if I would go for the bait. The smoke detector was about an arm’s reach away over my head. I got up and slapped the detector with my left hand. I turned and smiled, and sat back down. Belton was wearing a very concerned look on his face and was not in the mood for my joke. “Very good, Josh. Now do it with your right hand.” “This is stupid,” I said as I tried to deflect the request. Coach Moreno started to insist, “What is the big deal, Josh? Just stand up and do it.” I tried to muster up every bit of energy that I could. As I went to reach up, the same feeling as earlier with my toothbrush returned aggressively. I got my arm about six inches up from my side before it involuntarily hung back down. I could not touch the damn smoke detector, and now my own personal smoke screen had been cleared. I was caught.

“Okay, so you’re hurting,” said Moreno. “Go to the trainer’s room and get a Toradol shot. You’ll be good to pitch tonight. I think Vanessa is in her room.” Moreno immediately left the room after he let me know where the trainer was staying.

I turned to Belton and told him I was tired of everything. I was tired of the shots, the ibuprofen, the lying about my pain. I hated how physically difficult every second of my life was becoming when I was not on the mound. Belton just listened and nodded his head. As he stood up, he stretched his arms and turned to me slowly. “I’m no shrink, but what I do know is this. If you don’t figure this whole thing out you’re going to look back five years from now and talk about how your glory days have passed you by.” Coach Belton was right about me looking back, only now I believe my glory days are still ahead of me.

I never went to the room where our trainer was staying. I went straight to the bus as we took the trip to the field. Coach Moreno sat with me on the bus ride to the field. He informed me that he knew I never went to Vanessa to get the shot. I assured him I could still throw and I would be fine. I had a whole bottle of ibuprofen and a sandwich case with some of my stronger prescription pain medications in my equipment bag. My brilliant plan was to down half the bottle all at once before the game with the prescriptions, and then the other half of the stash gradually throughout the game. As long as I could lift my arm; I could pitch. I was on two days rest, which was an adequate amount of time for a tournament like this.

I followed through with the first half of the plan, taking half of the bottle and forcing each arm lift throughout my warm-up. I could not get enough juice going to feel comfortable, and my back spasms started early. I took more ibuprofen, and now only had about a quarter of the bottle left. The game had not even started yet, and I had taken enough pain medication to numb a horse and its jockey. Jockeys are really small guys, so that alone is not anything to write home about. But numb his horse too - and you may have taken too much.

I got out to the mound feeling shaky. Somehow, by the grace of God, I got through that first inning in approximately six pitches. I got lucky and was happy that I did not have to throw too much to get things started. My teammates were all telling me how happy they were that I was pitching. The Yankee scouts from earlier in the week were in attendance behind home plate, along with an entire section of scouts from various teams. I just blurred out all of their faces and focused on pitching the best game that I could. It was similar to Kevin Costner in For the Love of the Game when he says, “Release the mechanism.”

I made it all the way through the fifth inning, giving up no runs, two hits, one walk, and six strikeouts. I had run out of pills and had to go out for the sixth. Our bullpen was thin and unreliable, so the coach was really set on having me throw one more inning. My only option left was to just go to the trainer and discretely get more pills. After a long and tough inner battle, I decided against that route. My arm was a beat-up truck with high mileage, and I was going to drive it as far as I could until the wheels fell off.

A feeling started to creep up that this was the end. One last inning to complete my baseball career. My whole portfolio of work and dedication was going to be summarized into the next three outs in this one game.

I sent a text message to my dad from the dugout, “Thanks for the support. Love you.” For a moment, I put everything behind me. The weight gain, the pain, the depression; it was all obsolete. There was no pressure, no scouts, no game; this was for me. If I had anything left in me, it was going to be left out on the field. I was walking willingly through the door to career suicide and made peace with myself.

That next half-inning before I went back out to the mound probably took about ten minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. Coach Belton came and sat down next to me as I was preparing for this spectacular finish. “The scouts from the Phillies organization just put in a bid for you. Not trying to add to the pressure, I just thought you’d like to know. They want to meet with you when you get back.” “I don’t think I will be available for that,” I responded calmly. Belton’s eyes began to water a little bit. “I know,” he said, fighting away tears. “I just thought you’d like to know. It’s been an absolute honor to coach you.” I nodded and gave him a quick hug. “I’m okay coach, I’m just tired.” “You sure you want to do this?” I quickly nodded my head, and the coach tipped his cap to me. As he walked down the dugout, he left his glove next to me. I did not have to say what was going on; Belton already knew. He had a saying he would always say to our pitching staff, “Pitch every inning like it is your last.” Those were the words inscribed on his glove. I was about to experience the ultimate personification of that quote.

As I walked out to the mound, everything was a blur. This was the moment to justify everything I had fought for in each inning I had pitched throughout my lifetime. I just wished that my father would have been there for it. No one had been more supportive than him.

I inhaled deeply to get that smell of the ball field into my lungs. I wish I could have trapped that scent in a bottle and kept it forever. This was my time to show everybody at that game (and watching on television) why I wore that captain’s patch on the sleeve of my jersey. It was so much more than a letter.

Wearing Coach Belton’s glove, I struck out the first two batters with the best sliders I had ever thrown. I was not looking at anyone watching the game, but I heard the reactions for each of the third strikes, and it was the loudest I had heard the crowd the entire tournament. One more out to go. One more out and I could feel satisfied knowing that I gave my all on that baseball field in Florida that night.

As the third batter approached the plate, I felt the spiders-crawling feeling up and down my arm again.

Over the course of the season, I had worked with one of our relief pitchers who pitched, “submarine” style. He is now in the major leagues and has been for three years. His name was Chad. I never knew how significant those practice sessions were going to become. I could no longer lift my arm over my head, but I could swing it under my body decently. It was time to break out the submarine style practice and put it to work.

I threw four submarine-style pitches that all looked great, and got the last hitter to strike out looking. My whole dugout erupted excitedly when I threw that last pitch. I could not hear anything. All I could feel was my arm tingle and then go completely numb. If there was any doubt in my mind that this was the end, it disappeared as soon as I threw that last pitch.

As I returned to the dugout, Coach Moreno came over to me. “Nice angle switch. I’m putting Chad in to close, and now because of your creativeness, they got used to the sub delivery. Anyway, you have a meeting with the Phillies when we get back. Thank me later.” I nodded my head and continued into the end of the dugout. My phone had a message from my father that read, “Always proud of you son. Love you too.”

Belton gave me a high five and handed me a tin of Skoal chewing tobacco. I threw in a pinch of tobacco and sat with him for the remainder of the game. We won. The whole team celebrated as I walked around giving left-handed high fives to my teammates. They had no idea that would be their captain’s last sail with his hands on the wheel. As long as the ship was not sinking, I was happy. I was not abandoning the boat; I was just going to b enjoying the ride as a passenger for the first time in a long time.

We ended up losing in the finals, but it was still a great accomplishment to come in second at the Tropicana tournament. I ended up going out with the team the night we lost the finals- thanks to the help of my best friend, ibuprofen.

We got on the plane and had a relaxing, safe flight and bus ride back to campus. As we reached our destination, Coach Moreno pulled me aside. “So if I’m hearing correctly, you’re too hurt to pitch?” “Yes, sir.” It felt amazing to honest about my arm aliment for the first time in my career. Moreno took a breath and said, “Okay, no problem. Listen, you can’t keep your scholarship since you can’t play, so you’ll have to pay the full tuition if you decide to finish your academic path at this college. Also, you’re going to have to pack your things and be out of the apartment we provided for you by tomorrow. Coach Jason already picked up the car we provided for you, too. I hope you understand.” I took a minute to process everything the coach had just said. I stayed calm and asked, “So that’s it?” “Yeah, Josh. That’s it.” Coach Moreno extended his hand for a handshake, and I decided to do the honorable thing and extended mine as well. Only this time I used my right hand.

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[alexdmorgan30]

Ring of Shame: How Getting Ringworm Triggered My Alcoholism

So one day I see this pink round patch on my forearm. It itches. I immediately start Googling eczema and psoriasis. Nope, looks nothing like that. But it does have that distinctive red ring so I look up pictures of ringworm and voila, there it is, my new friend.When I was smoking meth and shooting cocaine, I never got sick. I never got staph or scabies despite lying around with a bunch of gutter punks. But at six years sober, out of nowhere, I get ringworm. I don’t deal with children. Colonel Puff Puff, my cat, doesn’t have it. What the fuck is going on?Despite its grotesque and misleading name, it has nothing to do with worms. Ringworm is a type of skin fungus akin to athlete’s foot and jock itch. Trying to make light of the situation, I tweeted: “I was super depressed and smoking again but suddenly I got ringworm and that cheered me right up.” I was hit with a bunch of questions like “Is that the one that makes you skinny?”No dear, that’s a tapeworm, but thanks for the concern.I’d heard ringworm was very contagious so I went straight to urgent care where they confirmed it was indeed ringworm. I was prescribed a cream that burned like the fires of damnation and told to “keep it covered” at night to protect the Colonel. (When the Colonel last got ringworm, it cost $2,500 for multiple lyme dips, shavings, and numerous vet visits to get rid of it. It's a persistent motherfucker.)I went to the pharmacy, pulled up my sleeve, and told the pharmacist I had ringworm. “I don’t know how I got it,” I said, annoyed.The pharmacist pulled up the leg of her capri pants and said, “I got it working here! I was really stressed out because I was getting married and my mom had a stroke and boom.”We both laughed and then I took my supplies home, hopeful things would soon return to normal.Once I informed my friends of my condition, nobody would touch me. Friends and neighbors wouldn’t come into my apartment nor let me into theirs. “We love you and your ringworm,” they’d chant from the other side of the door. I was beginning to feel very leper-like even though it was one fucking red ring. My sponsor told me I could still go to meetings but I didn’t want to take the chance of giving it to anybody…(except maybe a few specific people).Two nights after following the urgent care doc’s protocol, the ringworm seemed to be getting worse. I saw a new circle sprouting up and there was a clear red rectangular demarcation from the band-aid. Kill me.Panicked that I would soon be a walking petri dish of ringworm, I went to my primary care clinic as a walk-in patient. This clinic treats a lot of homeless people and has quite a few tents parked permanently outside with adjacent grocery carts packed with stuffed animals and recyclables and blankets. People are allowed to shower in the downstairs bathroom and it often gets crowded in the waiting area. But once I told the receptionist of my “condition,” I was quickly escorted to an empty room and quarantined. Four long hours I sat in that room, my phone dying, sneaking out to smoke and feeling more and more depleted and well, just gross. A triage nurse came in briefly and told me that the urgent care doctor had made a huge error by telling me to cover the ringworm. It had created a tiny greenhouse, capturing the moisture and providing the perfect breeding ground for the ringworm to reproduce. Perfect.Finally, I was taken to another area to see a doctor. As I waited, I looked at the white cabinets. Two were locked. Where were the syringes, I wondered. Wait, what? An enormous urge to use had come over me. I wanted to get high, call my ex, die…. It’s just ringworm, I tried to tell myself. Calm down. Why the sudden impulse to use? “You’re disgusting and poor and getting old and nobody loves you,” my head said. Thankfully interrupting my horrible inner dialogue, the doctor, a big ruddy guy in his mid-30’s who looked like an ex-linebacker, came in and shook my hand. I cringed inside.“I hear you have a rash,” he said.“I have ringworm,” I corrected him, hanging my head in shame.“Okay, let’s take a look.” He put on gloves initially but then took them off.“You have one ringworm,” he said. “The rest of the redness and that other circle is contact dermatitis from the bandage. You’re allergic to something in that bandage.” He touched the irritated area with an ungloved hand.“Oh.” I was near tears.“I’m going to give you another cream and just wear long sleeves if your cat sleeps with you. Better yet, take him to the vet to get him checked out. This stuff is everywhere. It’s really a reaction to your own flora. Do you do yoga?”“No.”“It’s very common among wrestlers because of the mats and sweat and body contact.”“No wrestling and unfortunately no body contact.”“You could have gotten it anywhere. If your immune system is compromised from stress or HIV or chemotherapy…”“Stress is my hobby these days,” I said. “Everything feels itchy, doc, like especially my head.”“Do you want me to check your scalp?” “Please.”I took down my bun and into my dirty hair he plunged with bare hands. I felt ashamed but grateful that somebody was touching me.“You’re good,” he said.“Thank you for making me feel like a human being. Really…”He smiled.But as I drove to the pharmacy, I still felt depressed and still felt like using. Why? The answer, as usual, came in a phone call from my friend, addictionologist and psychiatrist Dr. Howard Wetsman.“I understand people being scared about the ringworm because of its name and reputation. But what you’re experiencing is being shunned and isolated. People are treating you like your presence can hurt them. Even medical people are treating you like a second-class citizen. Is this really about a skin fungus or is this reminding you of what it’s like to be a person with addiction?” he asked.Whoa. “When we’re isolated or feel ‘less than,’ the dopamine receptors in the reward center actually stop being available. You can’t feel your own dopamine as well as before. We need those receptors to keep up dopamine tone, and without that we’re back to feeling restless, irritable, and discontented. And that only goes to one place, right?”“Yeah I really wanted to use and it freaked me out.”“When you’re an addict and your dopamine tone is lowered, your brain goes ‘we gotta fix this fast.’ It doesn’t care if it’s an éclair or heroin or death…”“That’s why I’ve been smoking…”“Nicotine will give you dopamine for sure. But let’s talk bigger picture. When we go to treatment and we’re told to sit down and shut up, when we’re treated like stupid people who abused a substance that everyone else was smart enough to stay away from, when we’re told to wait three hours sitting on broken plastic chairs for someone who doesn’t give a shit, the deck is stacked against the treatment working. No healthcare system that systematically lowers people’s dopamine, much less one that treats addiction, will succeed,” he told me.“It’s the same in the rooms,” he continued. “The reason the 12 steps work is because you don’t have to feel ‘better than’ to not be ‘less than.’ The two messages you should get from an AA meeting are that you are never alone again and you aren’t less than anyone. But when people don’t sponsor with love, when some old-timer wants to be the boss, when it’s all about some guy with more time being right instead of helping, you lose those messages. That’s not a problem with the message; that’s a problem with the messenger. Don’t let the messenger fuck up the message. You aren’t less than anyone!”I sign every copy of My Fair Junkie with “fuck shame” and I don’t think I really knew why until just now. For more on dopamine and feeling "less than," check out Dr. Wetsman's youtube talk.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8241841 https://ift.tt/2ujekcm

[pitz182]

Ring of Shame: How Getting Ringworm Triggered My Alcoholism

So one day I see this pink round patch on my forearm. It itches. I immediately start Googling eczema and psoriasis. Nope, looks nothing like that. But it does have that distinctive red ring so I look up pictures of ringworm and voila, there it is, my new friend.When I was smoking meth and shooting cocaine, I never got sick. I never got staph or scabies despite lying around with a bunch of gutter punks. But at six years sober, out of nowhere, I get ringworm. I don’t deal with children. Colonel Puff Puff, my cat, doesn’t have it. What the fuck is going on?Despite its grotesque and misleading name, it has nothing to do with worms. Ringworm is a type of skin fungus akin to athlete’s foot and jock itch. Trying to make light of the situation, I tweeted: “I was super depressed and smoking again but suddenly I got ringworm and that cheered me right up.” I was hit with a bunch of questions like “Is that the one that makes you skinny?”No dear, that’s a tapeworm, but thanks for the concern.I’d heard ringworm was very contagious so I went straight to urgent care where they confirmed it was indeed ringworm. I was prescribed a cream that burned like the fires of damnation and told to “keep it covered” at night to protect the Colonel. (When the Colonel last got ringworm, it cost $2,500 for multiple lyme dips, shavings, and numerous vet visits to get rid of it. It's a persistent motherfucker.)I went to the pharmacy, pulled up my sleeve, and told the pharmacist I had ringworm. “I don’t know how I got it,” I said, annoyed.The pharmacist pulled up the leg of her capri pants and said, “I got it working here! I was really stressed out because I was getting married and my mom had a stroke and boom.”We both laughed and then I took my supplies home, hopeful things would soon return to normal.Once I informed my friends of my condition, nobody would touch me. Friends and neighbors wouldn’t come into my apartment nor let me into theirs. “We love you and your ringworm,” they’d chant from the other side of the door. I was beginning to feel very leper-like even though it was one fucking red ring. My sponsor told me I could still go to meetings but I didn’t want to take the chance of giving it to anybody…(except maybe a few specific people).Two nights after following the urgent care doc’s protocol, the ringworm seemed to be getting worse. I saw a new circle sprouting up and there was a clear red rectangular demarcation from the band-aid. Kill me.Panicked that I would soon be a walking petri dish of ringworm, I went to my primary care clinic as a walk-in patient. This clinic treats a lot of homeless people and has quite a few tents parked permanently outside with adjacent grocery carts packed with stuffed animals and recyclables and blankets. People are allowed to shower in the downstairs bathroom and it often gets crowded in the waiting area. But once I told the receptionist of my “condition,” I was quickly escorted to an empty room and quarantined. Four long hours I sat in that room, my phone dying, sneaking out to smoke and feeling more and more depleted and well, just gross. A triage nurse came in briefly and told me that the urgent care doctor had made a huge error by telling me to cover the ringworm. It had created a tiny greenhouse, capturing the moisture and providing the perfect breeding ground for the ringworm to reproduce. Perfect.Finally, I was taken to another area to see a doctor. As I waited, I looked at the white cabinets. Two were locked. Where were the syringes, I wondered. Wait, what? An enormous urge to use had come over me. I wanted to get high, call my ex, die…. It’s just ringworm, I tried to tell myself. Calm down. Why the sudden impulse to use? “You’re disgusting and poor and getting old and nobody loves you,” my head said. Thankfully interrupting my horrible inner dialogue, the doctor, a big ruddy guy in his mid-30’s who looked like an ex-linebacker, came in and shook my hand. I cringed inside.“I hear you have a rash,” he said.“I have ringworm,” I corrected him, hanging my head in shame.“Okay, let’s take a look.” He put on gloves initially but then took them off.“You have one ringworm,” he said. “The rest of the redness and that other circle is contact dermatitis from the bandage. You’re allergic to something in that bandage.” He touched the irritated area with an ungloved hand.“Oh.” I was near tears.“I’m going to give you another cream and just wear long sleeves if your cat sleeps with you. Better yet, take him to the vet to get him checked out. This stuff is everywhere. It’s really a reaction to your own flora. Do you do yoga?”“No.”“It’s very common among wrestlers because of the mats and sweat and body contact.”“No wrestling and unfortunately no body contact.”“You could have gotten it anywhere. If your immune system is compromised from stress or HIV or chemotherapy…”“Stress is my hobby these days,” I said. “Everything feels itchy, doc, like especially my head.”“Do you want me to check your scalp?” “Please.”I took down my bun and into my dirty hair he plunged with bare hands. I felt ashamed but grateful that somebody was touching me.“You’re good,” he said.“Thank you for making me feel like a human being. Really…”He smiled.But as I drove to the pharmacy, I still felt depressed and still felt like using. Why? The answer, as usual, came in a phone call from my friend, addictionologist and psychiatrist Dr. Howard Wetsman.“I understand people being scared about the ringworm because of its name and reputation. But what you’re experiencing is being shunned and isolated. People are treating you like your presence can hurt them. Even medical people are treating you like a second-class citizen. Is this really about a skin fungus or is this reminding you of what it’s like to be a person with addiction?” he asked.Whoa. “When we’re isolated or feel ‘less than,’ the dopamine receptors in the reward center actually stop being available. You can’t feel your own dopamine as well as before. We need those receptors to keep up dopamine tone, and without that we’re back to feeling restless, irritable, and discontented. And that only goes to one place, right?”“Yeah I really wanted to use and it freaked me out.”“When you’re an addict and your dopamine tone is lowered, your brain goes ‘we gotta fix this fast.’ It doesn’t care if it’s an éclair or heroin or death…”“That’s why I’ve been smoking…”“Nicotine will give you dopamine for sure. But let’s talk bigger picture. When we go to treatment and we’re told to sit down and shut up, when we’re treated like stupid people who abused a substance that everyone else was smart enough to stay away from, when we’re told to wait three hours sitting on broken plastic chairs for someone who doesn’t give a shit, the deck is stacked against the treatment working. No healthcare system that systematically lowers people’s dopamine, much less one that treats addiction, will succeed,” he told me.“It’s the same in the rooms,” he continued. “The reason the 12 steps work is because you don’t have to feel ‘better than’ to not be ‘less than.’ The two messages you should get from an AA meeting are that you are never alone again and you aren’t less than anyone. But when people don’t sponsor with love, when some old-timer wants to be the boss, when it’s all about some guy with more time being right instead of helping, you lose those messages. That’s not a problem with the message; that’s a problem with the messenger. Don’t let the messenger fuck up the message. You aren’t less than anyone!”I sign every copy of My Fair Junkie with “fuck shame” and I don’t think I really knew why until just now. For more on dopamine and feeling "less than," check out Dr. Wetsman's youtube talk.

[emlydunstan]

Ring of Shame: How Getting Ringworm Triggered My Alcoholism

So one day I see this pink round patch on my forearm. It itches. I immediately start Googling eczema and psoriasis. Nope, looks nothing like that. But it does have that distinctive red ring so I look up pictures of ringworm and voila, there it is, my new friend.When I was smoking meth and shooting cocaine, I never got sick. I never got staph or scabies despite lying around with a bunch of gutter punks. But at six years sober, out of nowhere, I get ringworm. I don’t deal with children. Colonel Puff Puff, my cat, doesn’t have it. What the fuck is going on?Despite its grotesque and misleading name, it has nothing to do with worms. Ringworm is a type of skin fungus akin to athlete’s foot and jock itch. Trying to make light of the situation, I tweeted: “I was super depressed and smoking again but suddenly I got ringworm and that cheered me right up.” I was hit with a bunch of questions like “Is that the one that makes you skinny?”No dear, that’s a tapeworm, but thanks for the concern.I’d heard ringworm was very contagious so I went straight to urgent care where they confirmed it was indeed ringworm. I was prescribed a cream that burned like the fires of damnation and told to “keep it covered” at night to protect the Colonel. (When the Colonel last got ringworm, it cost $2,500 for multiple lyme dips, shavings, and numerous vet visits to get rid of it. It's a persistent motherfucker.)I went to the pharmacy, pulled up my sleeve, and told the pharmacist I had ringworm. “I don’t know how I got it,” I said, annoyed.The pharmacist pulled up the leg of her capri pants and said, “I got it working here! I was really stressed out because I was getting married and my mom had a stroke and boom.”We both laughed and then I took my supplies home, hopeful things would soon return to normal.Once I informed my friends of my condition, nobody would touch me. Friends and neighbors wouldn’t come into my apartment nor let me into theirs. “We love you and your ringworm,” they’d chant from the other side of the door. I was beginning to feel very leper-like even though it was one fucking red ring. My sponsor told me I could still go to meetings but I didn’t want to take the chance of giving it to anybody…(except maybe a few specific people).Two nights after following the urgent care doc’s protocol, the ringworm seemed to be getting worse. I saw a new circle sprouting up and there was a clear red rectangular demarcation from the band-aid. Kill me.Panicked that I would soon be a walking petri dish of ringworm, I went to my primary care clinic as a walk-in patient. This clinic treats a lot of homeless people and has quite a few tents parked permanently outside with adjacent grocery carts packed with stuffed animals and recyclables and blankets. People are allowed to shower in the downstairs bathroom and it often gets crowded in the waiting area. But once I told the receptionist of my “condition,” I was quickly escorted to an empty room and quarantined. Four long hours I sat in that room, my phone dying, sneaking out to smoke and feeling more and more depleted and well, just gross. A triage nurse came in briefly and told me that the urgent care doctor had made a huge error by telling me to cover the ringworm. It had created a tiny greenhouse, capturing the moisture and providing the perfect breeding ground for the ringworm to reproduce. Perfect.Finally, I was taken to another area to see a doctor. As I waited, I looked at the white cabinets. Two were locked. Where were the syringes, I wondered. Wait, what? An enormous urge to use had come over me. I wanted to get high, call my ex, die…. It’s just ringworm, I tried to tell myself. Calm down. Why the sudden impulse to use? “You’re disgusting and poor and getting old and nobody loves you,” my head said. Thankfully interrupting my horrible inner dialogue, the doctor, a big ruddy guy in his mid-30’s who looked like an ex-linebacker, came in and shook my hand. I cringed inside.“I hear you have a rash,” he said.“I have ringworm,” I corrected him, hanging my head in shame.“Okay, let’s take a look.” He put on gloves initially but then took them off.“You have one ringworm,” he said. “The rest of the redness and that other circle is contact dermatitis from the bandage. You’re allergic to something in that bandage.” He touched the irritated area with an ungloved hand.“Oh.” I was near tears.“I’m going to give you another cream and just wear long sleeves if your cat sleeps with you. Better yet, take him to the vet to get him checked out. This stuff is everywhere. It’s really a reaction to your own flora. Do you do yoga?”“No.”“It’s very common among wrestlers because of the mats and sweat and body contact.”“No wrestling and unfortunately no body contact.”“You could have gotten it anywhere. If your immune system is compromised from stress or HIV or chemotherapy…”“Stress is my hobby these days,” I said. “Everything feels itchy, doc, like especially my head.”“Do you want me to check your scalp?” “Please.”I took down my bun and into my dirty hair he plunged with bare hands. I felt ashamed but grateful that somebody was touching me.“You’re good,” he said.“Thank you for making me feel like a human being. Really…”He smiled.But as I drove to the pharmacy, I still felt depressed and still felt like using. Why? The answer, as usual, came in a phone call from my friend, addictionologist and psychiatrist Dr. Howard Wetsman.“I understand people being scared about the ringworm because of its name and reputation. But what you’re experiencing is being shunned and isolated. People are treating you like your presence can hurt them. Even medical people are treating you like a second-class citizen. Is this really about a skin fungus or is this reminding you of what it’s like to be a person with addiction?” he asked.Whoa. “When we’re isolated or feel ‘less than,’ the dopamine receptors in the reward center actually stop being available. You can’t feel your own dopamine as well as before. We need those receptors to keep up dopamine tone, and without that we’re back to feeling restless, irritable, and discontented. And that only goes to one place, right?”“Yeah I really wanted to use and it freaked me out.”“When you’re an addict and your dopamine tone is lowered, your brain goes ‘we gotta fix this fast.’ It doesn’t care if it’s an éclair or heroin or death…”“That’s why I’ve been smoking…”“Nicotine will give you dopamine for sure. But let’s talk bigger picture. When we go to treatment and we’re told to sit down and shut up, when we’re treated like stupid people who abused a substance that everyone else was smart enough to stay away from, when we’re told to wait three hours sitting on broken plastic chairs for someone who doesn’t give a shit, the deck is stacked against the treatment working. No healthcare system that systematically lowers people’s dopamine, much less one that treats addiction, will succeed,” he told me.“It’s the same in the rooms,” he continued. “The reason the 12 steps work is because you don’t have to feel ‘better than’ to not be ‘less than.’ The two messages you should get from an AA meeting are that you are never alone again and you aren’t less than anyone. But when people don’t sponsor with love, when some old-timer wants to be the boss, when it’s all about some guy with more time being right instead of helping, you lose those messages. That’s not a problem with the message; that’s a problem with the messenger. Don’t let the messenger fuck up the message. You aren’t less than anyone!”I sign every copy of My Fair Junkie with “fuck shame” and I don’t think I really knew why until just now. For more on dopamine and feeling "less than," check out Dr. Wetsman's youtube talk.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8241841 https://www.thefix.com/ring-shame-how-getting-ringworm-triggered-my-alcoholism