#given that food is only the bare minimum and rent is for something only barely better than a capsule hotel

[miraclemaya]

i need to come up with a name for money in this game and i really dont want to do some bitcoin alternative

[harbingrs]

Bouncing off tags on my last post... moral OCD is the one thing I hate most about myself and actually what makes me a far worse person than I could ever be without it.

(Note: Bits about 'maybe I /should/ sacrifice xyz' are not me being dramatic for attention, I genuinely, sincerely don't want to discount the possibility that people will think so, because I do not think I'm more deserving of safety and well-being than anyone else.)

I am trapped in a place where I cannot do things I desperately want to do to help people (like d*nate money - in addition to being poor - or volunteering my time on anything) because I cannot regulate my thoughts/behaviour around it and cannot stop it escalating to a scary degree.

And I know how self-indulgent and pathetic any of this sounds. I hate it beyond belief. This is genuine loser behaviour, I will say that in advance, I get that.

And the context is that I am poor. I am regularly food/housing insecure. If I was sitting on a pile of wealth or even average means maybe it would be different.

But if I start with something small that opens that door - like 'doing what I can' or 'd*nating what I can' it quickly escalates out of control and my brain will never stop upping the stakes. And maybe it's right to do so.

But whatever I do is never enough. I'm not choosing to feel this way or make it about me or be dramatic. But it escalates to the point where I'm distraught about like... feeding myself or paying my rent because how can I justify doing that. I go from 'd*nating what little I can' or trying to make small sacrifices 'where I can' to buying the cheapest food I can survive on to tally up what I've saved to living on bread with my body falling apart and it still doesn't feel like enough.

And maybe I should be doing all that. Because I'm not more deserving of food Maybe there should be no limits, when I'm not more fundamentally deserving than anyone else. My well-being is not any more important than someone else, and its not right that someone else has to suffer when I can prevent it but I'm just prioritising myself, I'm choosing to buy bread or medicine for myself.

It usually takes less than a week for me to go from doing 'what little I can' to the point where I'm running scenarios in my head knowing if I'm not alive I can't d*nate anything, and if I'm too weak/sick or unhoused then I can't work, so what is the bare minimum I can spend on myself to maximise what I can help with or give away?

And the obvious answer is 'well you could simply be normal about it'. But I try time and time and time again and I never get that option. I can never control it and harness my actual intentions shape it into the outcome I actually want.

I try, and the same thing happens. It escalates until I run into a wall with not being able to fully grasp the pros/cons of myself existing, because the money I am being paid for work still exists if I am not here, so it must go/be somewhere, but I don't know enough about economics to fully understand the implications of that.

It only stops when the web of cause and effect gets so complex that I can't follow it any more. And it's terrifying to reach that point and get a visceral sense of like... having a gaping abyss where other people have a sense of 'how to be normal about it'. I reach for it and it's just not there.

It turns out that 'do what you can' is actually a lot - because I could always sacrifice more. There is always room for more if I can need and want less, if I stop treating Me and My Life like something that matters, because how can I ever justify that? There's an opportunity cost to everything I gain. Every meal may as well be snatched from someone else's hands.

I know that other people have... guardrails, I guess? Like a sense of how much is enough and how much is too much. It's a given that someone is allowed to 'put on their own oxygen mask first' - to make sure they are fed, housed, safe and (relatively) well, and then to help others with the means they have.

I don't have that - not that I have some kind of overt belief about self-sacrifice, and I especially don't have that belief about what other people should do. I don't worry about what other people should do because I do not have to make that decision. But I do have to decide for myself and it's absolutely terrifying.

I reach for my own sense of what I should do, how much I deserve to meet my own needs, and there's nothing there. I reach for some kind of grand cosmic truth to tell me what's right, what anything even means, what the purpose of /anything/ is and it's not there.

And so I have no way to justify caring for myself - especially beyond the minimum I need to stay alive and be able to give away the rest. To simply be a conduit to the benefit of others wherever possible - because I cannot find a justification to do anything else. I can't find anything that gives my life (and especially my quality of life, to want more than the minimum) significance beyond that.

And this is not a choice to be dramatic and play martyr, this a deep, terrified reckoning. I want to know what to do and more importantly /how/ - how to be okay with whatever I do, how to live with it, how to feel like it's ever enough. I don't want an excuse or a permission slip to be selfish and slack off on the work, I want anything but that.

But ending up on the precipice of having no answers, ever - no peace, ever - no meaning, ever - is terrifying. Because I cannot find it no matter how long and hard I look. There's no way out other than to shut it out and never open that door, because that's the only place it ever leads to. I have to disconnect from reality and experience life like it's happening to someone else who plays the part of a Normal Person and when I eat and sleep and work I'm following the script. I can't be present because then all of it would be real and I don't know what to do with real. I can't be present with all the questions and no answers and no way to solve it, ever.

All I have to hold onto is what the people who care about me say and want for me. There's nothing else besides the fact that they want to see me fed, clothed, housed, generally alive.

And I swear to fuck this is not a martyr complex, this is not about my image of wanting to be the most morally righteous person on earth. I don't /want/ that. It's about the unknown. It's about the fact that I don't know what is right or okay or what I should do or how. It's the fact that there IS no reference point for 'should' and that is beyond terrifying. There is no fundamental truth to uncover there, there's just the world and my life and I'm supposed to decide what to do and how to live and how to live with the choices I make.

For other people, it's like they Just Know - that they can care for themselves, that it's okay to be alive and meet their needs, that their life matters. And I don't question that about other people, but when it comes to myself, I can't find any justification to hold onto.

I try and try and I can't find it beyond my ability to do good for others - but then how does it work in practice? How do I figure out exactly what I need to do the most good, without taking more than I need and taking that away from someone else?

How much can I justify eating, resting, caring for my body? Because I need to do those things to be physically and mentally and emotionally capable of helping others. But how do I know what will pay off? Will eating better food now make me more capable of giving or make me live longer? Is me living longer doing more harm or good?

Even if I found that perfect balance, I have to decide what to do and how. Where do I d*nate, when giving to one is taking from everyone else. Is it better to volunteer my time and labour and live on the minimum needed to survive or is it better to work and d*nate what I earn? Can I justify resting in order to be able to volunteer or work to d*nate or is that time better spent?

The only clear answer in all of this is that I'm not mentally well enough to decide that or to navigate this based on my own thoughts and emotions. I have to trust in what people /I/ trust say is safe for me, or it's impossible.

I cannot grasp what is normal in these situations, what is 'allowed', what is expected. I have no concept of how to be normal about it or how to stay in control of it or how to make sense out of anything.

I have to trust that the people /I/ trust think my existence is justified, that it is okay for me to feed myself or get myself healthcare or meet my basic needs at all. I have to outsource that decision because I am not capable of making it myself and being safe, and maybe I should not get to be safe, but there we go.

And I know the assumption on that is that I'm being whiny and self-indulgent and dramatic, that nothing is about me, and I should just get over it to be able to do the right thing. And it's agony because that's what I wish I could do, with everything in me.

It's agony because none of it comes from not caring, from being indifferent or selfish or wanting an excuse or an easy way out. It comes from caring so, so goddamn much - but not having the means or resources to navigate any of it.

It's not a new and overly convenient 'excuse' about anything in particular. This long predates anything happening in the world right now. But the mechanisms I'd developed to cope and survive no longer work, not only because of the actual situations happening which warrant my attention and action despite anything and everything else, but also in light of people like... directly contacting me saying that my action or inaction is killing them and their children. And following up when I don't respond to ask why their lives are meaningless to me.

And I don't blame them one bit. I don't have the slightest bit of judgement for people wanting to survive and be safe and wanting their loved ones to survive and be safe.

I am not upset about it happening, I am upset that my brain being this way stands in the way of me doing what I want to do to help people. I would give anything not to be this way, not for my sake in any way, shape or form, but to be able to help without the messy, selfish drama my brain brings to the table.

I'm in absolutely pieces about everything and at the same time, I know how selfish it is to feel any of this at all, and to give any time and space to my own emotions.

I can't do a single thing without opening that door. I can't add image descriptions to reblogs because I do one 'when I can' and suddenly any time I'm not doing them, I'm passing up a chance to do something to help people. And I don't even mean that I feel bad reblogging stuff without them, I mean any minute of the day where I COULD be helping people by adding image descriptions to things, I'm failing.

So I do image descriptions only for my own original posts - which are rare, so that's self-limiting. But I can't open the door to something that ISN'T self-limiting because I cannot regulate myself as long as I could be doing More.

For a solid decade, I've only been able to handle the /existence/ of d*nation posts with the rule of 'I only share them from people I know personally' - because again, that's self-limiting and can't escalate. And it avoids spiralling over my limited ability to vet stuff and opportunity costs - not just if I accidentally share a scam, but also the logistics of sharing lots of donations posts - because where do I stop? There are more to reblog, and I could do this all day and night for the chance that one of my five followers will d*nate or share it - but the more I reblog, the less of a spotlight there is on any individual post. Which are more deserving? What am I costing people? How many times should I reblog them? How can I always be doing more and more and more? How can I ever justify not doing more when I could?

Current circumstances mean the 'only people I know' rule went out the window. Or more accurately, that I have been trying to push it over and over and over with disastrous results, as in I am completely falling apart. And I am not even doing that much, if anything.

It doesn't help that every platform has an algorithm, that the more I engage with, the more I see, the more people contact me, the more I need to do, the more I can't stop.

The advice is always 'do what you can' or 'do what you can without harming yourself' but the answer to the second one is always inevitably nothing. I'm disabled and struggling to stay fed/housed, I have no time or energy to spare, I have no money to give. To 'do something' at all will always be at my own expense - and that's not even starting on the implications of opening that door for me.

The amount I can do without harm is nothing because the smallest action will start the cycle of never-ever-ever-enough until I have to check out of my own brain. Writing a single image description is not safe for me because I have to keep doing it until I've missed days of work and people want to know why. D*nating a dollar is not safe for me because clearly I could give more and more because to feed or house myself is to take that away from someone else.

The answer is 'just be normal about it' and I want to be. The answer is 'stop being so selfish and dramatic and get over yourself' and I want that more than anything. I want to be able to 'do what I can', genuinely and sincerely, without it spiralling into a complete, dysfunctional breakdown where am no good to anyone.

I want to be able to exist and be present in my own life - without the complete terror of things being real, that I have to make real decisions that affect real people and I am making all the wrong ones and there's no way I can live with that.

Because that's what it's all about with me. Not moral OCD as in 'desperately wanting to be A Good Person' or 'wanting to be percieved as A Good Person'. I want to know how to live with myself and live with the world as it is. And if I let myself think about it, if I know I'm not doing everything I possibly can, I don't know how to live with it. I don't know how to just exist that way. I'm not indifferent to people suffering - it matters so deeply to me I can't feel any peace if I could do something to help and I don't.

But I could always do more - with every dollar, every minute. I don't know how to be okay with it. And all the advice in the world doesn't help - putting on your own oxygen mask first, needing to be at your best to do the most good for other people, etc. Because it's still too vague and unclear about what to do and how and how much and how to make sense of it all - and how to ever feel okay about it. How to sleep at night knowing you've done all you can, when every cause and effect is so vast it's impossible to know.

And it's so useless that it distresses me so much that /I/ end up useless. I know I could do far more letting all of it go and making SOME small effort than being this way and not being able to do anything. But I try, I try to choose that outcome and I can't.

I don't have a reference point. I don't have a theology or belief system to hold onto to find peace with anything. There's just people and their lives and their suffering and all of it is really and that's all that matters. And I am never ever doing enough.

And it still should be simple. I should shut up, put up and do what needs to be done. I want to. I swear I want to.

[stickychow]

Close Quarters

In which Harry hates his roommate. Or he thinks he does.

warnings: swearing, almost pure smut at the end, angst, fighting (verbal/very very mildly physical)

not really proofread, not sure of the word count either lol

“It looks like a fucking pigsty in here. I go to my friend’s apartment for one night and this is what I come back to? I swear to God, Harry, you make me want to rip my hair out. Also, this is my food! Not yours!”

Harry’s mildly ashamed to admit that, yes, it was a mess in the apartment. So what, though? He’s going to clean it, so why does she need to start complaining the second she walks in the door? He doesn’t even fight the urge to roll his eyes, freely doing it without any sort of hesitation. He’s too irritated to think straight.

He’d only had a few people over last night. Maybe a little more than a few. Whatever!

It’s his apartment too, so he argues that he should be free to have whoever he wants over. He’s usually met with a usual rebuttal from his imperious roommate, some bullshit about him having no respect, or something. She’ll get five words in before Harry is tuning her bothersome voice out. He usually daydreams about a new roommate. Or apartment in general. The rent is getting so high!

He’ll be out in a year, though.

Hopefully.

And he’ll get to leave Nico’s whining behind, because she doesn’t get to be out in a year.

Harry’s favorite thing to make fun of is the fact that he’s the oldest in their living space, trying to force some “when I was your age…” advice down her throat even though there’s only a year and three month difference between the two of them. It pisses her off, which in turn makes Harry laugh.

It’s… a dynamic.

Nico’s been on top of her schoolwork, and Harry hasn’t. It’s even more evident now, though, because part of the mess that he’s created throughout their home is his unorganized stacks of papers which he desperately needs to sort through.

His essay draft should be in there somewhere. The essay itself is three weeks late, the draft four. He’s a sweet talker, so he was able to snag an indefinite extension.

Being smooth with his words clearly doesn’t phase her.

“Harry! Are you listening to me?”

His daydreaming is cut short by the screech of his name.

“Uh,”

He begins, faking a thoughtful expression before letting it drop with a scoff.

“No.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you.”

Harry finds this comedic, and a smirk is already tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Do you seriously think this is funny?”

We just went over this. He really, really does.

“Yeah.”

He’s quick to respond, but not quick enough to dodge the empty Tupperware container being hurled at his shoulder.

“Harry, get out! I’m so sick of you! I cant fucking live in peace!”

Her voice is trembling as she yells, and Harry actually starts to feel bad. He never meant to make her that upset. It was a joke, at first. It was funny! That was their dynamic! She’d get pissy, he’d laugh! We went over it!

“Your trash is everywhere, you don’t respect me, or my space, or my food or fucking anything! Look at this! Do you see this? All these papers? Yours! Imagine if these got destroyed last night with the people you had over! I bet you wouldn’t have given a single fuck. You just try to float through college doing the bare minimum, Harry, but some of us try. We try so hard. And you know I try. But it’s hard when I have to deal with you and all of your shit daily!”

Yeah, he feels really bad.

He wishes he could admit it. He very literally can’t, though.

It’s like someone’s hit the off switch on him. As if he’s trying to speak a language he’s never even heard of before. He just can’t speak, period.

“Cat’s got your tongue, huh? Yeah. Whatever. I know you don’t really like me. You know I don’t really like you. Just, please, for the rest of the time we’re living together, could you just be a little nicer?”

Harry stays silent.

“I see. That’s fine, Harry. You don’t have to answer. I don’t really want you to answer. You’d spew bullshit anyway. Fuck off, go do something to get out of my way. Leave, or something. I’ll clean up your piles of shit per usual. Do your friends think you live alone?”

“No.”

“Hm. So you can talk. I really think you should leave, now.”

“You know I live here too, right?”

He can’t help but to be a dick once more.

Harry’s glancing over at Nico, and he’s this close to having a heart attack. She looks fucking terrifying.

Her face is burning up, he’s not sure if it’s from anger or sadness, but it’s obviously not good either way. Harry swears he can see steam coming from her ears as she stomps over, yanking him close by the collar of his shirt and practically spitting venom at him as she speaks.

“I’m telling you to get the fuck out. You make my life a living hell. I was gone yesterday, you’re gonna be gone today. I’m so serious right now, Harry, and I don’t think you understand. Find someone to stay with. Grab a few things and just go. You clearly know a lot of people.”

She gestures to the clutter across the room from them with her free hand, sighing as she releases from Harry’s shirt. It looks like she’s been drained from the yelling.

Nico’s also a little hungover, which clearly doesn’t help.

There’s just silence after her explosion. Both of them aren’t sure if it’s helping the situation or making it worse.

She’s leaning towards helping, Harry’s leaning towards worsening.

They really can’t agree on anything.

Harry packs — silently, of course, stuffing a few necessities into a small duffel bag. He’d managed to shuffle past her once she was simmering down, eyes shut with her hands rubbing against her temples to try to avoid an oncoming headache. It wasn’t hard for Harry to find a place to crash for the night. Hell, he even let some people stay last night as long as they’d promise to be put by 8:30 sharp the next morning. People owe him!

He was shocked that people took him up on that offer.

Mitch’s couch would be his bed for the night. Neither of them minded. Mitch didn’t know the full story, and he figured that he wouldn’t get it anyways. Even if he did, he wasn’t interested in hearing the whole thing.

“‘M leaving now.”

Harry grumbles.

The only kind of response he gets is from a bird chirping outside. It’s silent inside.

“I said I’m leaving.”

“Mhm.”

Nico’s started to clean the litter that Harry (and some other people… but mostly Harry) created. She’s clearly busy. And still livid.

“M’kay. Act like that, it’s fine. You’re wound up tighter than an antique clock. You should find someone to fuck for the night while I’m gone, it’ll be good for you. Hopefully it’ll make you less of a hard-ass.”

“Fuck off, Harry! Out! Now!”

—

Harry’s given a rude welcome upon his return.

His belongings are packed away in his spare suitcases and trash bags for the items that didn’t fit anymore, but his papers are nowhere to be found. He’s assuming they’re shoved in one of the bags.

Nico is knocked out on the couch, mouth hanging open as she snores with arms awkwardly positioned across her body.

Now Harry’s the one who’s pissed, and he’s going to make her problem as well.

“Wake up!”

He shouts, laughing as she flies up out of her sleep into an upright position.

“You’re pathetic. You’re fucking kicking me out? Over nothing?”

“You should have expected this. Consider it, like, the final straw. You think I’m pathetic? I wish I would have left the mess you made so we could see who’s really pathetic. You trashed your own home and left it for me to clean up because you knew I would. That’s pathetic, Harry.”

He shouldn’t have made that comment, cause it’s obvious that he can dish it out but not take it back.

Harry’s throwing his spare bag down, quickly making his was over to Nico before balling his fist around her hair and yanking her to stand. She hisses at the sting, eyes squeezing shut before she’s grabbing at his own hair and tugging it back.

“You pull, and I’ll pull harder. Don’t be a fucking idiot. Let go.”

“You first.”

There’s anger in her eyes when she opens them.

“Me first? You’re the one who ripped me off the couch by my fucking hair!”

“And you’re the one who packed all of my things up! You act as if you can afford this place by yourself, you’re too insufferable to get another roommate. They’ll hate you more than I do. You need me but won’t admit it. Drop the fucking act, you’re not as tough as you think.”

Harry’s yelping as Nico gives a rather harsh tug, causing him to return the action as she mumbles an angry “fuck!”, her face in a scowl.

“Neither are you. Look down.”

Harry already knows.

He knows, because he can feel it.

He knows, because there’s a knot in his stomach.

He knows, because he felt a wave of shame wash over him as soon as she got a hold of his hair.

Harry’s hard. Completely hard.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“So this isn’t funny to you, now? This isn’t funny? This is hilarious to me. You hate me cause you can’t fuck me. You know you wouldn’t do good, either. Is this why you like fighting so much? Do you have a thing for being a fucking cunt?”

Harry’s the first to let go.

“No. I’d ask you the same thing, but I’m assuming you’re not into much since you clearly haven’t been fucked in years.”

“If it’s such a problem to you why don’t you just do something about it?”

“…What?”

“What?”

Nico didn’t expect for that to come out of her mouth, and neither did Harry. They’re staring at each other with wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and she’s slowly letting go of his hair.

“Bet you want me too, huh? That’s why you’re asking?”

“What’s it to you?”

“You piss me off.”

Harry grumbles, his hand meeting the back of her neck as he pulls her into a heated kiss.

She groans against him, arms flying around his body as she holds him close against her body. She feels as if she’s on fire, every part of her is burning up but she’s too embarrassed to admit that it’s because of Harry. Sure, he was the worst roommate imaginable, but she at least internally acknowledged the fact that he was hot.

He felt the same way.

He’s quick to add in tongue, fighting with hers before he pulls away to nip along her bottom lip. Nico lightly digs her nails into his back to redirect his attention. His lips are fully back on hers now, curious hands trailing over her body until they’re cupping her breasts. She copies the action, letting her palm rest gingerly against his bulge.

Hips jutting up to meet her hand, she thinks it’s safe to assume that Harry’s needing more. Their lips separate with a wet pop, Harry’s hot breath fanning over her face as she glances down to work at the button on his pants. Wet, open mouthed kisses are being planted across her face and down her neck, and she’s holding back a smile and an airy moan.

“Still wanna kick me out?”

Harry teases as she’s letting his pants drop and gather around his legs, her arms reaching down to the hem of her shirt as she lifts it and tosses it across the room.

“Don’t fucking talk. Don’t wanna hear your stupid voice right now.”

Nico shimmies out of her loose sweatpants in a hurry, glancing over at Harry with a “really?” kind of expression before he takes the hint and removes his own shirt. He’s quick to lift her up, her long legs wrapping around his waist as he finds to closest wall to slam her up against.

“Could you calm the fuck down? Nearly gave me a concussion, Harry! We’re gonna get a noise complaint and it’ll be your fault. You piss me off.”

Harry scoffs before nudging himself up against her clothed center, a weak whine filling the air.

“Really? I piss you off? Then why do you seem so ready for me, huh? Bet you’ve been dreaming of this.”

“Says you.”

Nico’s words are cut short as Harry slips his hand down in between the two of them, nudging the seat of her panties to the side as he slides his fingers along her soaked cunt. He’s smiling, now, watching as she leans her head back against the wall once he’s circling his fingertips over her clit.

“So slutty. You’re fucking dripping over the thought of me fucking you, yeah? That’s what you want? I bet you want that noise complaint, want everyone to know how good I’m fucking you.”

“Harry, shut the fuck up! I fucking hate you, just hurry.”

She’s a whimpering mess, groaning as Harry barely dips his fingers into her hole before pulling away to remove her underwear. He’s dropping her down in order to take his own off, and she’s using the opportunity to unclasp her bra and toss it somewhere to the side. Once there’s no more barriers, he’s lifting her up again, biting down harshly on her neck.

“I can bet money I hate you more. Hate you so much, I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Now that’ll be a sight. You’ll really have to rely on me, then.”

Harry’s choking back a moan as he glides the tip of his cock along Nico’s folds, nudging himself against her clit a few times as her body jolts with each new movement.

“Hurry the fuck up!”

“If you insist.”

Words can’t describe how hard Harry slams himself into her warmth, both of them gasps and moaning out from the sensation. He’s about to cum from how tight she’s squeezing him, grunting as he pulls back to slam into her again.

“Can you stop gripping me like that? I get that you’ve been needing a good fuck, but I’d rather wait a little longer to cum.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Harry.”

Her snippy response causes Harry to absolutely pound into her, pressing her further against the wall by her neck as he squeezes at the sides of it. His other hand is busy palming her ass, pulling it in with each thrust to try to bury himself even further into her.

“You’re such a whore, letting me fuck your pretty little pussy with nothing on me. Want me to fill you up, baby? Huh? Want my cum?”

Nico could cry from the humiliation, but she’s too overwhelmed with how good Harry’s making her feel.

“Shut up! God, just shut up! Fuck! Oh my God, Harry! Could you just focus on fucking me? I’m getting bored.”

She’s lying, of course. She could never get bored of this feeling. She’s never felt this good before, and she knows that she’ll be screwed after this. Nico knows nothing will ever top this.

Harry listens, though, and begins to pick up the pacing of his heavy thrusts. He’s removing his hand from her neck to drop down to her clit, his thumb easily swirling tight circles onto it which causes her legs to clench hard against his waist. The sound of their skin meeting is driving Harry crazy, and he’s practically biting his tongue to not comment further on the situation.

He’s absolutely pounding into her, his thick cock stretching her out as the head nudges against her spongy g-spot repeatedly which awards him with a deafening moan from Nico.

Yeah, they’re probably gonna get a noise complaint.

“Right there, huh? Is that it? Is it good, baby? Just admit it, I’m fucking you good. You’re still squeezing the shit out of me, trying not to cum. You don’t wanna admit that you’re about to soak my cock?”

He’s leaning forward to attach his lips to the hinge of her jaw, sucking harshly as her nails dig deep into his back. Harry’s positive that she’s drawn blood, but he’s too busy to care right now.

Nico’s moans are like music to Harry’s ears, and he can’t contain his own as she’s pushing back against him with her own hips at each thrust.

“Fuck, Harry. You’re good, so fucking good. Can’t get enough. You fucking ruined me.”

She sobs, digging her heels down into his lower back to try to get more of him.

“That’s it, baby. You know you’re mine now, nobody else can fuck you like I do. ‘S like your cunt was made for me, yeah? Perfect fucking fit…”

He huffs, clenching his eyes shut as Nico arches her back off from the wall as her orgasm rushes through her body.

“Fuck, Harry! Please, please. Jesus Christ.”

Nico’s whimpering, taking her bottom lip between her teeth so tightly that she’s tasting blood.

Harry’s orgasm is following close behind hers, moaning out as he’s releasing into her sensitive pussy. She gasps, blushing harshly as she feels Harry fill her up and slowly slide out, wincing from the sudden emptiness.

She feels ashamed once she feels a liquid leaking down her thighs.

“There’s cum all over you, now. Or at least all over your legs. Gimme a second.”

He wanders off into the bathroom, returning only a few moments later with a damp cloth as he begins to clean Nico up with it.

He’s kissing her as he helps her out, and she’s not opposed to the action.

“I’ll unpack your bags, Harry. I’m sorry.”

She mumbles in between pecks.

“I’m sorry, too. Are we good now?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, cool. I’m glad. Do you wanna watch a movie, or something?”

Nico quietly laughs, then nods.

“I’d like that, Harry. We’ve gotta change first.”

“Sounds like a great plan to me.”

[creativeashproductions]

Back to the 118 // Evan Buckley

IN WHICH: Buck meets the firefighter he replaced as the reader transfers back to the 118. The reader never expected to fall for a co-worker the first day back at the 118 after two years spent at the 155 in Los Feliz.

Warnings: Swearing, sickness, hospitals, health issues, pregnancy, angst and a shit ton of fluff

Words: 5.9k

A/N: So this is obviously a modern au for jatp to fit in the 911 universe. To make this work, Buck replaced Reader instead of Tommy after many failed probies. Eddie then later replaced Tommy.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX/ASK PLEASE!

Masterlist

Your e/c eyes scanned the outward appearance of the first firehouse you’d worked at fresh out of the Academy. The place that had become a second home from the increased tension-filled house your parents still lived in. A place you had escaped as quickly as you could for a dream career. A career your parents hadn’t been proud of in the beginning, with the danger that came with being a firefighter paramedic.

“You the new recruit?”

Your eyes fell from the building to the male individual standing near the open bay the engine and ladder truck both used. The male in question must have joined the 118 after you transferred to the 155. The stranger towered at least six feet minimum with blue eyes and short blonde hair with the slightest wave.

“No-”

“Flint!” The excited voice of the only other female paramedic called out. You only saw dark navy before you were pretty much tackled.

Hen and Chimney had equally taken you under their wings when you initially joined as a rookie. You’d been the second female firefighter-paramedic at the 118 and the youngest by far. As if you’d summoned him, you felt the arms of Chimney sandwich you against Hen.

“Flint?” The stranger parroted, blinking his eyes at the rather unusual scene of Chimney and Hen wrapped around an unknown girl.

“What are you doing here?” Chimney questioned, stepping back. Hen scoured your entire form for any differences that had occurred.

“Y/N decided to come home,” Bobby spoke from a few feet behind the reunion with the beaming smile on his features. His lips pulled into a smile directed at the first recruit he’d taken on his first year at the 118.

“Bobby!” You grinned, meeting the father figure in the middle of the distance between you two. Bobby wrapped you up in his arms tightly, a certain lightness cocooning the Captain as he took in his friends.

“You’re back here?”

“Everything is squared back at home now, thankfully, and while I loved working with the 155, it wasn’t home. This will always be home.”

“Buck, this is Y/N Patterson. She worked her first two years with the 118 before transferring to the 155 in Los Feliz. Y/N, this is one of our newest members, Evan Buckley.” Bobby gestured towards the previously nameless firefighter.

“Who would leave the 118?” Buck questioned, unable to come up with a valid reason to leave the family at 118.

Buck’s opinion didn’t stand with his only workplace after successfully becoming a firefighter solely was the 118. Never had he worked in another firehouse. He’d been a fire marshall and volunteered his time in the Austin wildfire, but he always came home to the 118.

“Family issues.”

2018, Firehouse 118, Los Angeles

A fresh-faced, albeit dirty from sweat and soot, jumped down from the engine truck’s high steps. The synchronized slam of doors sounded from your colleagues and friends Hen and Chimney. All three individuals famished for the casserole Bobby had premade during the slow morning.

“Baked Mac n’ Cheese.” Tommy breathed from his position by the driver side. Tommy Kinard was a stoic man towering over six feet. He was always a gentle giant after you’d bonded after a hard call.

“Clean up, and I’ll have it in the oven. It’s Chimney’s time to make the salad and Flint’s turn to set the table.” Bobby spoke with barely a glance to the ground ahead of him. 

Your Captain jogged towards the stairs, whereas his team made their way to the locker rooms for a well-deserved shower. You and Hen split away from Tommy and Chimney to the women’s locker room that had gotten an upgrade.

Well, before you joined the Academy, the locker room had been used as a glorified game room, all thanks to the misogynist Captain from hell. Hen often had over the years mentioned how lucky you got with Bobby being your first Captain.

“Chimney better not put those onions like he did last time.” You spoke from under the stream of warm water. Nothing beat the warmth of a shower near the end of your shift erasing the evidence of your job.

“Man needs to learn the complimentary salad to the main dish.” Hen piped up from across the shower room.

You and Hen had both showered and redressed in a fresh uniform in under five minutes, the dirty one placed in a laundry bag. You’d managed to beat the boys to the upstairs by a few seconds. Enough to set half of the able before Chimney began to making his salad of choice.

“Looks great, Cap.” Tommy complimented the gooey homemade pasta Bobby religious made every third Thursday. He alternated between pasta recipes with the odd new recipe every once in a while.

“What are you waiting for? The bell?” Bobby quipped to the unmoving bunch of hungry individuals. His words started the boisterous meal time preceding the end of shift.

“So, we’re halfway through dinner and Amber-” Your phone interrupted the disaster date Tommy had begun telling. He continued as soon as you waved him to go ahead while you took the call.

“Hello?” You breathed into the phone.

“Hi, sweetheart.” The warmth infused in your mom’s voice soothed the ruffled feathers from the call you’d come back from, “How are you?”

“I’m good! We just finished eating. My shift is almost over, and I’ll have to go straight to the store for groceries-”

“Y/N, we found him.”

The him was easy to figure out given your brother had run away from home three months prior with only his dreams in mind. You’d spent most of your off time, sometimes even during shift out on a call, to scan the environment for Luke. You became a regular in questioning hospitals and homeless shelters.

“Where was he?”

“His band had been about to play at some big venue last night.” Mom’s word choice concerned you. Her voice dripped with sadness instead of the typical disappointment and annoyance on anything to do with Sunset Curve.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“A few nights ago, the boys got hotdogs-”

“Streetdogs.” You interrupted with evident anger in your tone at the mention of those death dogs Luke consumed. You can’t even give a number to how many times you had told him how unsanitary and dangerous the food is.

“Something was wrong with the food. They got ill fast. Alex and Reggie are being kept for observation but will be found with a few days of rest.”

“What about Luke?”

“He tried to call 911; he was weak and fell. Y/N, he hit his head. He’s in the ICU in a coma.” Emily Patterson’s voice cracked as soon as she acknowledged the current state of her youngest child.

The colours of the world dulled as soon as your mind clicked that Luke was in the hospital. Your little brother had put himself in danger all because he had a big dream. Your mind flashed through your life growing up with him.

You remembered talking to your mom’s growing bump when she was pregnant with Luke. You remembered five-year-old Luke unable to settle unless you sang to him. Your voice was nothing special, but it soothed the little boy when he had a nightmare. You could vividly recall teaching Luke how to play the guitar when he was thirteen; the brunette a complete natural at it.

“What’s his prognosis?”

“Too early to tell. The doctor is hoping Luke will be in a general room after tomorrow if the swelling goes down. I wanted you to know as soon as possible.”

“How’s Dad?”

Emily hesitated from her position by a hospital bed. Her brown eyes carefully scanning the male sleeping soundly in the bed.

“Mom?”

“Your father had a heart attack last night. That’s why I haven’t been able to tell you sooner. He’s currently sleeping, but he’ll have a barrage of tests later today-”

“I’ll be there as soon as my shif-”

“No. Don’t drop anything. I can keep you up.”

“Excuse my language, but there’s no way in hell I’m staying away from my family. I’ll take a few days off. I’ll see you in a couple hours.” Your thumb tapped the red circle on the bottom of your screen.

The 118 didn’t bother pretending they hadn’t been watching your form during your phone call. Bobby felt like something had drastically changed in a few minutes you’d been busy on the phone.

“Everything okay?” Bobby inquired from his position at the kitchen sink. His hands in the sudsy water to scrub the empty pan.

“My brother and my father are in hospital. I’m gonna need some days off.” You informed your boss with a look of utter defeat coating your expression.

Those few days transitioned to transferring to the closest firehouse to your childhood home and the hospital. The medical bills from both your brother and father had begun to overwhelm your mother with the current single source of income. Emily didn’t ask you for anything, but you started renting the home you’d bought for extra money.

It was a silent agreement that you paid rent as a cover to helping with the bills piling up.

Present Day, Firehouse 118

Buck followed behind the welcoming group to the girl that seemed larger than life. Buck was impressed by the sacrifice you’d made for the good of your family. You’d willingly given up the family of the 118. Buck didn’t know if he could do the same.

“Welcome back.” Hen cheered on her guidance to the heaven everyone called the kitchen. Your department issue duffle bag dropped out of the wall on the top level.

Your eyes zeroed in on the spread of your favourite foods prepared by the only person aware of your return. It was only one look of gratitude towards the father figure before everyone dug in.

A few changes had occurred since you’d last sat at this table. Tommy Kinard had left the 118 for the 217 shortly after your departure. He’d been replaced by the ready to impress Buck. One thing that hadn’t changed was the delicious food Bobby made.

Your eyes found the sole empty chair at the long table, “Didn’t you say the house took on two new recruits since I left?”

“Buck took your position when you left. We had a revolving door of firefighters before Buck permanently joined.” Chimney supplied with a mouth full of lettuce and grated carrot. Hen whacked his arm for his lack of manners.

“You’ll meet Eddie on the next shift. He took the day off. It’s his son’s first birthday since his mom died.” Bobby informed you with that pinched wrinkle between his eyebrows, “He joined after Tommy left.”

“Well, I can’t wait to meet the entire team.” You replied, looking past to the circular table behind Bobby’s spot. Sam and Ryan both waved happily upon catching sight of you back at your unspoken seat.

You listened intently as Hen shared the changes Denny had gone through in the time you’d been away. Chimney was ecstatic to point out the faint scar on his forehead.

“You had rebar go through your skull, and you’re completely fine?” You questioned, floored by the pure luck Chimney had.

“Oh, it was nasty. Went in from the back of the skull to the front.” Buck spoke enthusiastically, recounting the scene. Chimney deadpanned a look at his younger coworker, “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s like you never had it happen.”

“Doc was shocked at how positive the outcome and healing was. I was back at work within a month on light duty. I beat my record getting in my turnout gear.” 

“And yet my little brother was comatose for two months.” You grumbled under your breath. None of the people could make out the words, but the grimace on your face was enough to show them it was personal.

In true 118 fashion, the bell rang throughout the firehouse with the disembodied voice declaring the type and location. Yoru e/c eyes found Buck climbing into the driver’s seat where Tommy had once commandeered. It was odd not having the man who’d became an older brother to you.

“How’re your parents?” Hen questioned, sitting diagonally from you. Her fingers repositioning the radio on her chest.

“Dad’s recovering pretty good. Mom’s started attending her knitting club again.” 

Buck’s eyes raised to the rearview mirror to meet yours in interest, “What happened?”

“Uh...my dad had a heart attack a couple years ago. He took a long time to recover with the further stress that caused it.” You piped up, understanding the news would come out at some point, “My little brother was in an accident that left him in a coma. Life was just as messy after he woke up.”

“He’s okay?” Chimney questioned, “I know we’ve never met them, but it really gutted you.”

“Well, physically, he’s fine, but emotionally he’s upset. He was in a band, and when he came out of the coma, he found out some devastating news.” You continued to explain, but unfortunately, or maybe, fortunately, you’d come to the scene.

It was a little known place most teenagers discovered as a hang out spot just on the edge between your county and the next. The location was the infamous spot of cliff jumping; you knew because this was something you’d recklessly done in high school.

“He’s over here!” A blonde male of average height called from the edge of the cliff. His blue eyes were bright even from this distance, matching the detailing on his swim trunks.

Surrounding the edge with the boy was a group of teenagers his age, all in different versions of swimsuits. You found the scared brown eyes of a beautiful girl you vaguely knew from the few shows of Sunset Curve you had watched. Her dark blonde hair plaited out of her face. Her face clicked as Carrie Wilson, Bobby’s sister or cousin.

You jogged towards the edge of the cliff to look over. It was easily between fifteen to twenty feet from the edge of the cliff to the water. You recognized Hen crouching by your side, looking at what you were looking at.

On the rocks was a prone body of a teenage male with bruises already forming on his face from where you could see. His thick shoulder-length hair laid still half in the ponytail and around his head.

“Head trauma.” You murmured to Hen, scanning from a distance, “I can’t tell much from this height and angle.”

“Either a broken tibia or fibula. Spinal injury is definitely a concern.”

“Okay, his name is Willie Young. He’s eighteen years old. His sister Kayla was dared to jump off by doing some kind of flip. Willie took her dare and didn’t jump far enough or tripped over a rock.” Bobby listed having been talking with the group of teenagers all shook up.

“I can rappel-” Buck began to speak before you cut him off firmly.

“It would take too long, and the angle is difficult. Nobody rappels down it; the cliff isn’t stable enough. It crumbles pretty easy, and the unofficial name of this cliff is Devil’s Dive.” Your eyes found Carrie’s tear-filled once and the utter devastation in who you pegged as Kayla.

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve jumped off this cliff for years as a teenager. You’re looking at the resident champion of self reckless endangerment at Devil’s Dive.” 

Hen, Chimney and Bobby each stared, shocked at your revelation of stupid teenager decisions.

“Then how are we gonna get down there,” Buck questioned, staring at the unconscious teenager lying on the rocks.

“Easy, I can jump from here into the water and climb onto the rocks to where Willie is. I have the experience of how and where to jump safely.” You spoke to your Captain with complete confidence in your abilities, “You can lower down the kit, radio and backboard by a rope. There’s a mansion beyond the trees that you can ask to borrow a boat from the owner. He’s eccentric and questionable but nice enough.”

Bobby nodded his head to your plan. You unbuttoned your uniform shirt to strip down to the department t-shirt with the emblem on your chest and across your back. You kept the boots and emptied your pockets of anything. The butterflies fluttered in your stomach at the height of the cliff you hadn’t jumped from in years.

“I’ll jump where-”

“Excuse me?” You scoffed at Buck’s assumption he could follow you.

“You’ll need another pair of hands to roll him on the backboard. I don’t have anyone waiting for me at home. This is kinda what I do. Bobby cleared it already.” Buck shrugged with a half-smirk on his handsome face.

With a roll of your eyes, you quickly gave Buck a rundown on how to jump correctly before you tossed yourself off the cliff. The cold water momentarily shocked your system as soon you submerged under the water. You swam to the surface before swimming towards the rocks. Willie hadn’t moved an inch.

“Whoa! That was so cool!” Buck cheered once he’d appeared on the surface of the water, “No wonder you used to do that!” 

His excitement both annoyed and amused you, “Eh. I was just an idiot kid who thought they were invincible.”

The two firefighters lifted themselves onto the rock formation, where blood stained the rock. While Buck retrieved the backboard and essentials from the rope, your hands moved across Willie’s body, checking for breaks. You caught the c-collar Buck tossed without looking. You quickly but gently put the collar on Willie.

“Hi, Willie. My name is Y/N, and I’m a paramedic. I’m gonna check you over for injuries.” You informed the teenager closely. You’d only just opened his eyes to flash a light on them, “Buck let Bobby know Willie’s pupils are reactive to light and the same size.”

“Got it!” Buck called out from the open medkit, “I’ll splint his leg.”

“W-what happened?” Willie wheezed sluggishly. His brown eyes were unfocused.

“You got hurt trying to jump off the cliff. You’re in good hands, Willie. I’m a paramedic with the Los Angeles Fire Department. This is my coworker Buck.”

“Kayla?”

“Perfectly safe, but you did give her a scare. Willie, can you feel this?” Buck questioned, gently touching his right foot. Buck and you both gave a sigh of relief as Willie confirmed he felt it.

 “Okay, we’re gonna roll you on to the backboard. On three: one, two, three.” You counted before rolling Willie on his side with Buck. Willie’s cry echoed around the surrounding as you settled him on the board.

“Need a ride?” Chimney asked as a very nice boat floated towards the three people on the rocks. Hen and Bobby helped load Willie onto the boat, “Mr. Covington agreed to let us use the boat if we don’t get blood on the seats.”

“Can you call my boyfriend?” Willie sluggishly asked when he was loaded into the ambulance on the cliff. Kayla sliding into the seat in the back of the ambulance with their items.

“Alex is meeting us at the hospital.” Kayla told her older brother, “You absolute idiot! You should have just let me jump!”

“And let you be in the back of the ambulance? Dad would kill me if I had let you do it.” Willie scoffed. Their conversation was silent as Chimney and Buck closed the back doors of the ambulance.

Bobby, Buck and you climbed into the fire truck to follow the ambulance to the closest hospital. Hen and Chimney rolled the gurney to the doors with Kayla hot on their heels. You’d just turned to head back to the truck when you saw three teens loitering near the entrance.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You grumbled, marching away from Bobby and Buck to the teen who was supposed to be in class.

Luke had been forced into private tutoring to catch up to his friends in his grades, meaning every afternoon. The watch on your wrist confirmed Luke was definitely supposed to be with his tutor at the community centre.

“Luke!” You shouted, stomping right up to the wide-eyed teen.

Luke’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as his older intimidating sister caught him like his hand was in the cookie jar. You didn’t give Reggie or Alex a second look while you gripped Luke’s ear to tug him away.

“Ow!” Luke whined from the angle you dragged him at.

“What the hell are you doing across the city? You’re supposed to be in your session that our parents are paying a great deal for.” You snapped, crossing your arms in your wet t-shirt.

“We need every chance we can to-”

“Make it big in the industry.” You parroted the past discussions on Luke’s dream as a band, “Do you remember how I got mom and dad off your back? An agreement that you finish high school on time. Not dropping out.”

“So many musicians have dropped out! Green Day’s frontman dropped out his senior year to focus on the band. Several others like Elton John and Kurt Cobain!” Luke enthused, gesturing with his hand to emphasize his words.

“Luke.” You warned, “It’s either catch by with a tutor with some time dedicated to your band, or it’s a military school.”

Luke’s hazel eyes minimally widened, “They would-”

Your stoic expression stayed the same as the energetic seventeen-year-old bounced in his spot across from you. 

“There’s only so much I can do before you lose everything. I know you feel anxious after what all happened, but music isn’t going anywhere.” You reached to squeeze Luke’s hand in yours, “So, I’ll clear it with my boss to have you ride the bus to the station. You’ll have your tutor sessions with my supervision, so I know you’re attending.”

“Y/N!” Bobby called from next to the firetruck, “We gotta go.”

“I’m guessing the Alex that Willie is dating your best friend?” You questioned with one raised eyebrow. Luke nodded in response, “Let mom know you had to be there for Alex. She’ll let skipping your session go this once.”

“Thanks!” Luke chimed, lunging to hug you. Your mouth barely opened before he was racing towards a jittery Alex and a grinning Reggie.

Reggie lifted his arm to wave with his flushed cheeks a darker red colour. You found Reggie’s crush on you to be absolutely adorable. He was a friendly kid.

“He looks good for a kid who was in a coma not long ago.” Hen breathed as the teenager entered the ER with his best friends beside him.

“Oh, he healed quickly. He was crushed after he fully recovered from his head injury.”

“That was your brother?” Buck inquired, and he was just as focused on your features as he had since he first met you. 

“Yeah! He was in a coma for ten months when he was sixteen. He’s spent the last two years catching on on school to graduate with his friends. Well hopefully. He’s dead set on dropping out.” You heavily sighed, leaning your temple on the glass window, “He was supposed to be at a tutoring session. I’ll be chaperoning to make sure he goes.”

“If you need to have them at the station, send me a schedule, and I’ll make it work. Luke’s just as much family as you are.”

The rest of the shift was smooth sailing as Buck followed you around with the sole purpose of getting to know you. The friendship came naturally to the two of you. He didn’t hold back with you like he did with others. Fridays off became hangouts that varied from just Buck and you to spend it with Eddie and Christopher.

Everyone could see Buck had developed feelings for you and vice versa. Unlike the man Buck used to be, he was cautious. He wanted to do this right. And Buck did. With the help of Christopher, he asked you out.

Months Later

Buck’s eyes fluttered open in the dim lighting of your new home’s bedroom he often found himself in. Before, you had alternated staying at his apartment or yours before a significant change happened. Luke moved in to finish his senior year with the help of your tutoring, as agreed with your parents. That led to you giving up your former home, the one that coincidentally Buck’s sister Maddie had rented from you.

“Luke! You better be awake!” Your voice came from the main floor of the home. Your voice alone seduced the firefight to leave the warm sheets.

His bare feet pattered down the hardwood floor stairs into the kitchen coated in all different kinds of breakfast food. Waffles to imported maple syrup to bacon spread across the counter.

“Morning,” Buck grumbled, stepping up behind you to tug you against his chest.

Unlike Buck’s softer footsteps, your little brother tore down the stairs like a stampede of elephants. Luke wore a vintage band shirt modified sleeveless; you’d be getting a voicemail about dress code violations. The chains hanging off his black jeans.

“You have to hurry, Lu. Buck and I can’t be late. He needs to get to his apart-”

“I don’t see why he doesn’t just move in. He’s here almost every night. He helps buy groceries.” Luke’s hazel eyes stared at the plate he towered food on.

Buck raised one eyebrow in response, “You just moved in. You should be settled before we make-”

“Dude. Your lease is up in like a month; just move in already. No feathers will be ruffled. Besides, the band’s taking off now that Nick got his dad Ryan to check our music out.” Luke sprouted with a beaming smile at the good news his new band received.

After Luke had recovered from that coma, he’d woken up in a world where Alex, Reggie and Bobby, no Trevor, now continued the band. Then when Alex and Reggie couldn’t go on, the rhythm guitarist betrayed Luke. He stole every song he could get his hands on and proved successful.

“Ryan Evans, right? His sister’s some bigshot on Broadway? Sharpay, right?” You questioned recalling in the early 2000s the success of Sharpay and Ryan in some kind of Disney films based on them.

“You’re about to be the sister and brother-in-law of a certified rockstar.” Luke’s attempt at smirking made him look like a chipmunk with full cheeks of food, “I don’t need a ride. Alex’s picking me up.”

“Straight to school, Luke. You’ve got two weeks left before you can leave that behind.” Buck pointed his coffee cup in the direction of the passionate musician. Luke returned a smile of acknowledgement.

The kitchen was quiet as Luke shoved as much food in his mouth in such little time while you watched. In a flash, he’d stuck his dishes in the dishwasher before sprinting out to the van beeping continuously.

“Think we can have you moved in by tomorrow? Your one-bedroom place will be a little cramped for five people.” You simply spoke as you rinsed your coffee cup out. You could hear the wheels in Buck’s brain turning as he thought.

“Five people?”

“Yeah. Luke, Albert, me, you and baby Buckley.”

The entire home went completely still as the announcement bled into the house you’d made a home. One hand resting against the smoothness of your belly. That hand covered by the calloused one of Buck’s. His blue eyes gleaming in utter adoration and excitement.

“Baby Buckley?” Buck marvelled, turning you to face him with tears running down your cheeks, “You’re pregnant?”

“I am. I guess we’re giving Maddie’s daughter a cousin.” You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Now I’m obligated to see your parents regularly, and I still grimace at the first introduction.” Buck winced, recalling the foot in mouth syndrome he’d developed.

Buck had never been as nervous as in this moment. Not when he had to tell his parents the first time he got kicked out of college. Or when his teenage self sat beside one of his flings waiting for the results of a pregnancy test. Not even on his first date with Abby. 

“You’ll be fine.” You soothed the anxious man standing by your side on the doorstep of your childhood home. The door opened, revealing Luke standing with a grimace, “Oh Mom, made you wear that.”

Luke had been stuffed into one of the only long-sleeved shirts he owned by your mother. It was a magenta maroon hued corduroy shirt and set off his chocolate hair perfectly. Apparently, your mother hadn’t been able to get him into a pair of pants that weren’t skinny, black or ripped.

“We’re meeting your boyfriend, not the damn Pope-”

“You wouldn’t be wearing that if the Pope was involved.” You retorted, stepping to tug the younger Patterson into your arms. The only thing you adored about your little brother was he never denied a hug. Physical touch is his love language, so he never went through a phase.

“Lucas, don’t let them freeze on the front porch!” Emily shouted from within the Patterson home. Luke rolled his eyes at his mother’s request.

“Luke, this is my boyfriend, Evan Buckley. Buck, this is my not so little brother Luke.” You swiftly introduced the most important males in your life.

Luke and Buck got along better than any previous partner you’d brought home. He got along with your parents really well. Even when he slightly embarrassed himself as the time came to go home, whether it was his place or yours. He kissed your mother’s cheek and shook hands with your father.

“No offence, but thank you for having a heart attack and a coma. If you hadn’t, I’m sure I would have never met Y/N.”

Luke snickered at Buck’s odd choice of words, as did your parents. A part of Buck dreaded the next time he’d see your parents.

The gentle press of lips against your cheek pulled you from your thoughts of the first family dinner. Despite the issues between Luke and your parents, they were great people and parents; Buck had felt like he finally fit in. Even with that awkward thankful he gave your brother and dad, he was family the minute Mitch and Emily saw the mutual looks.

“How are we gonna do this?”

“Well, as the pregnant one, I’ll carry the little Bean until it’s time for them to enter the world. Then we’ll-”

“I get that but with our jobs?”

You felt guilty at the dread of not getting to do what you love, but you were excited, “I’ll keep working as a paramedic. I’ll stay away from fires, and then I’ll go on mat leave. We’ll make this work, Buck.” 

Buck leaned down to rest his forehead against yours with his eyes closed, envisioning how life was about to change. Buck adored children. He had loved Christopher from the moment he’d first met him. Buck himself was a kid at heart. 

“I didn’t think I could fall more in love, but you continue to surprise me each time,” Buck murmured with that gorgeous smile that utterly melted your heart from the first time you saw it. Back when you tried to deny any feelings beyond friendship.

“We’re so lucky to have you, Evan Buckley.” You breathed as you leaned up to kiss him with as much passion as you could. Although it was mostly clashing of teeth with the matching wide grins on your face.

“This little girl is gonna be a heartbreaker but no boyfriends or girlfriends until they’re thirty.” Buck declared, tugging you into his arms. His blue eyes twinkling in the natural lighting.

“It could be a boy.”

“Or maybe neither. Boy, girl or non-binary, I’ll love them just as much.” Buck spoke once more.

Gideon Buckley was born in the early morning to the pride of his parents and extended family. He was a healthy solid 8 pounds with sparse dark blonde hair and the trademark grey-blue newborn eyes. You everyone but Buck and your surprise Gideon wasn’t alone. Grace Buckley followed her older twin brother eight minutes later.

You rested against the propped up pillows spent from the exhausting hours of labour, but it was worth it. The two tiny babies snuggled beneath the swaddling blanket concealing your bare chest. Skin to skin contact was absolutely the best part of being a parent.

“Did you steal a baby?” Chim joked upon entering the hospital room with Maddie in tow. Right behind them were your parents and Luke.

“I’d like you to meet our twins Gideon and Grace Buckley. Surprise!” Buck quietly cheered in the nearly silent room. Buck’s curated newly parents playlist gently playing in the background.

Mitch and Emily came closer to look at the little loves they proudly got to claim as their first grandchildren. Emily’s heart melted upon hearing Gracie coo in her sleep. Grace and Gideon’s fist pressed against each other.

“Congratulations.” Maddie breathed, bending to catch a peek at the twins’ faces.

“Luke. Would you like to meet your goddaughter and godson?” You questioned the nervous musician. The nineteen-year-old tiptoed his way to the hospital bed.

“I’m both their godfather?” Luke choked as soon as Buck gently transferred Gideon onto his uncle’s chest. 

“There’s no one else in the world I’d choose to help guide them in the right direction. You always found your way back onto the right path. You’ll do the same for them.” Buck answered with Gracie nestled on his chest.

 Buck was the first to hold them followed by you and then their godfather Luke.

Gid and Gracie, although unseen, had been in Luke’s graduation pictures and watched as Julie and the Phantoms signed with a record label. Where Gid was, Luke wasn’t far beyond; the special bond melted everyone. Likewise with Gracie and Alex.

Gid overall was a happy baby compared to Grace. Loved visiting the firehouse. Loved the people working with their father and previously their mother. For the entire first year of Gideon and Grace’s life, you stayed at home with the utter support of Buck.

“First day back.” Hen spoke from beside you on the bench in the women’s change room. As a fellow mother, she’d been watching your behaviour.

“I miss them. I feel guilty that I abandoned them-”

“Okay, your feelings are valid, but you aren’t abandoning Gideon or Grace. You’re teaching them that you can be a great mom while also being a badass firefighter. I was the same when I went back to work after we got Denny.”

“Do you ever wish you could be a stay at home mom?”

“I love Denny with my entire heart, but I couldn’t do that. I was meant to be a paramedic firefighter as much as Denny’s mother. Besides, I can see Maddie pushing in the double stroller.”

Your head snapped to see your sister in law beaming with the double stroller carrying Gideon and Grace. Maddie’s daughter sitting on the seat made for a toddler. Maddie and Chimney had come to a decision for Maddie to work part-time.

Hen watched as you bounded out of the changeroom in uniform to scoop the twins into your arms. In a split second, Buck was down the stairs cooing at the absolute loves of his life. His partner and two children.

Buck would forever be grateful for finding his way to the 118, where he found his true family. A place of acceptance, love, trust and loyalty. Buck found his place in the world, and that was beside you.

Tag List(s):  (PLEASE SEND AN INBOX TO BE ADDED! I CANNOT GUARANTEE YOU WILL BE ON THE LIST VIA POST COMMENTS!)

Julie and the Phantoms Taglist

@safehavenmuse @siennanoelle01 @whiterose291 @mell-bell @blackhood5sos @ficrecsideblog @ifilwtmfc @deadpoolgirl23 @crappy-unicorn @sunsetcurve-h @elioelioeli0 @lovesanimals @popcrone818 @lolychu @deepsleepnat @tenaciousperfectionunknown @aunicornmademedoit @just-a-writer-here @simp4reggie @faithiebrock01 @overlyhypedup @differentsoulrascalsalad @aesthetic-lyss @versaceapa @carleywhittaker @lostgirl219 @itsalexx21 @elllaoo4 @merxxleighann @mediocremunge @fantomlovesjuke4ever @dpaccione @oswin05 @kaylinfayezink @aberette13 @faithie-brock-gillespie01 @eharvey0218 @overlyhypedup @benstormy @auriandthepussicats @sarcasticsagittarius1998 @whothefuckstolemykeds  @siriuswvrld @princessvader15 @xoxbloodreinaxox @heimdoodle @joshy-obx @lovesanimals @oopsiedoopsie23 @am3l1a-24 @flying-solo-without-you @jaskiers-sweetkiss @lostrandomfangirln @must-be-a-weasley-92 @jatp-holland @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch @dxlanhxlland @dasexydevitt13 @ifilwtmfc @arianagrandes-things @kinda-really-lost @marinettepotterandplagg @ssprayberrythings @morgandamrose @thedarkqueenofavalon @zukoshonourr @crybabyddl @spooky-season-bitch @kcd15 @morganayennefertyrell @magnet-girl @all-in-fangirl @kinda-really-lost @tenaciousperfectionunknown @badwolf00593 @blowakissbabe @talksoprettyjjx @thesweetestsinner @kaitieskidmore1 @writerinlearning @aiofheavenandhell @sageellsworth05 @link-102 @merceret @kexrtiz @biqherosix @lukewearingbeanies @dangersolns @soverignparker @omgdani17​ @julessbrown

9-1-1 Taglist:

@julessbrown @msmarvelsmain​

[daughter-of-sapph0]

me: capitalism is bad. no one should starve to death. food and water and electricity and housing should all be free

someone on tiktok (not saying their name for privacy reasons): no

me: no? the fuck? what do you mean no?

s: no, I don't think capitalism is bad.

m: so what, you just think people should starve to death?

s: no, not starve to death. but if they want food so bad, they should just work for it

m: we are! we are working, but we aren't paid enough. I have two full time jobs and four roommates, and that's only barely enough to cover rent. that's not even mentioning food, water, electricity, gas, insurance, etc. if nothing else, the minimum wage should be increased so these things are affordable for most people.

s: if you hate it, you should get a better paying job.

m: okay, so say everyone takes your advice. instead of working at McDonald's, everyone becomes tech ceos. despite that being incredibly unrealistic and a stupid thing to suggest to people who can't or don't want to change jobs, what do you think will happen once everyone quits working at fast food. who's gonna make your shitty burger now?

s: okay but that's not what I'm talking about. you can't just give people free stuff they didn't earn. then nobody would work. all the lazies would get shit they don't deserve

m: if by "lazies" you mean the disabled, sick, elderly, or children, I personally think they should not starve to death.

s: no I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the people who choose not to work.

m: example?

s: you know? guys who just sit on the couch all day and watch TV and argue with people online

m: like who?

s: like people who wouldn't go to work if they had money

m: would you go to work if you had enough money to live comfortably? what would you do with your life if you didn't have to worry about starving to death?

s: idk... I'd probably just... do something I like. like draw cartoons

m: and how often do you draw cartoons right now?

s: not that often. I don't have a lot of time I'm usually busy with wor- hey, fuck you!

m: see, if capitalism didn't exist, you would be doing something you love because you won't have to struggle to survive

s: but how can food and shit be free? how would people do stuff without any money?

m: what you're thinking of is a moneyless society. which is optimistic, but in reality is unachievable. in an ideal socialist world, money would still exist, but basic necessities like food and water and housing would be given for free to people who need it. people can still pay for nicer things. you want a bigger house, you can buy it. you want to travel, you can pay for that. working would still exist. you just wouldn't need to work to survive. rather, you'd work to afford extra nice things you would want. and not everyone wants those extra nice things. so those people wouldn't have to work.

s: but like... you can't just give water and food away. we'd run out

m: actually we wouldn't. we have more than several times the amount of food needed to end world hunger. unfortunately, most is hoarded, destroyed, or left to rot, because big giant monopolies might lose 0.0001¢ if they give a sandwich to a homeless person instead of selling it to him. under capitalism, we sacrifice morality for profits.

s: so, we have enough food and shit, but who's gonna make stuff like houses?

m: at the moment we already have more empty houses than homeless people in the us. but even if that wasn't enough, I know tons of people who would love to be construction workers, plumbers, electricians, contractors, architects, etc. but aren't because those jobs don't pay enough. if those people were given the basic things they needed to survive, they'd perform their job not because they need to eat, but because they actively want to help other people. despite what everyone tells you, humans are not selfish. they genuinely do want to help other people. and other people genuinely want to help you. no one should struggle to survive.

the person didn't respond after this, but they did delete their comments saying they loved capitalism. so I'm pretty sure I changed their mind.

[blazehedgehog]

Roughly how many hours do you spend working on your major videos? Have you ever tried to figure out what sort of hourly wages you earn when you divide your YouTube and Patreon revenue by time spent working on content? I get the feeling that it's becoming increasingly difficult to make videos for a living, but I don't have any hard numbers to support that suspicion because creators tend to keep that info close to their chest (for good reason)

It's not really something I can easily measure. This isn't like I'm traveling to an office, clock in, focus on work for four hours, take a 30 minute break, work for four more hours, and then go home.

I try to do that, certainly, but there are also a lot of days where I get distracted for hours at a time with something on twitter, or discord, or whatever. Depending on the job, that could happen at real work, too, but not as much.

Like, when I worked at the thrift store back in Colorado, they actually patted me on the back for being one of the few people they had who took it seriously. Sure, I often took long lunches (45+ minutes) but they didn't seem to care and they were very happy with my work ethic outside of that.

Being your own boss is very difficult and unfortunately I am in a place where my work space is the same space where I do everything else -- I eat here, I sleep here, I relax here, and it can be hard to shift gears between different modes.

So I can't accurately tally up how much work I do in a given day because some days I work for what feels like 14 hours and some days it feels like I only work for a few minutes. Most of that depends on the stage of production -- script writing seems to be the slowest grind these days. Capturing footage goes the fastest. Cutting the final product together is where the longest, most intense hours come in.

I do, however, routinely think about "hourly wages" when it comes to Twitch, because they print "here's how long you streamed vs. how much you earned" in pretty black and white terms. Hopefully I don't sabotage anything by saying this (I know Youtube Networks don't like you sharing earnings analytics), but the two Twitch streams I did for Halloween, I streamed just under 6 hours and made about $9. That's, like, what, $1.50 an hour? Not great.

(But it was also totally impromptu, super low key, and in the middle of the night. More "for fun." I didn't even break 10 viewers for most of it.)

I will say, though, bare minimum, this has been one of the more profitable years for me on Youtube. But I need to do better.

Which natureally leads me to wonder what the purpose of this ask is.

As my Patreon has grown over the last couple months, and I've declared I'm finally making enough from it to cover my food groceries, I've had people ask how that's possible because I'd need more money for rent and things like that. Which is true! I cannot cover rent yet. I pay what I can when I can to my brother for the room I am staying in currently and I keep my fingers crossed that the hammer doesn't drop.

I have sat around and had a lot of panic attacks whether or not I can make this work. Doubts and questioning whether I can get things up high enough fast enough to make a dent in... I dunno, life, I guess. I don't need people drilling me about it, because I'm already drilling myself every second of every day.

For now, as long as the number keeps going up instead of down, I am going to close my eyes and pray for the best.

(Further reading beyond this point becomes very serious and heavy.)

To some extent, this is what my Mom wanted. When she went in to the hospital last year and her leg mysteriously broke, she came here to live at my brother's. Same room I'm in now. And I had this sense that even if she recovered, she may never drive again, she may never walk again, so by the end of that second or third week we sat down and had a loooong talk, because it was clear that no matter what else happened, there was about to be a shift in the dynamic.

So we cleared the air. There was a lot of crying. Up to that point, she had still acted like The Mom. She did the cooking, she did (some of) the cleaning, she managed all the finances, she was the head of the household. I'd offer to cook dinner and she'd either refuse, or only let me cook for myself only. Like, there would be times where she'd be full on asleep on the couch or whatever, and if she heard me trying to cook, she'd get up and try to shoo me out of the kitchen so she could fix dinner for us.

But after her leg broke, she was traumatized. She'd been suffering from very bad sciatica (back pain) for a long time, and every time she'd go to the hospital, they would brush her off and push her out the door. The circumstances in which her leg broke were horrible. She told us time and time again she begged them to go easy on her because her leg hurt before it broke, likely due to weak bones. After it broke, they refused to believe her. I think she said they left her laying in bed in the worst pain of her life for hours because they didn't think her femur actually broke. I actually saw her during this time and she was writhing in her hospital bed, barely coherent. It was awful.

That hurt her mentally as much as physically. My strong, independent, "I'll do it MYSELF" mother was suddenly frail and timid and prone to crying over something as small as me forgetting to make her a cup of coffee.

So even though it was a months and months and months before we knew she was actually just dying of cancer, I knew we had to sort things out and shift the balance of power. Even if she made a recovery, nothing would ever be the same again.

And when I brought up the prospect of taking Youtube more seriously, she was all for it. She said that "I always told everybody you were going to be famous some day."

My impostor syndrome never really rationalized that. In that moment, and especially now in retrospect, I believed her, but prior to that moment, all the praise she had given me over the years smashed in to a brick wall and ceased to exist. But it was her, when I'd have my one video a year take off, tell me about the "serious money" I could be making if I applied myself (which I never did, because she was my safety net and my comfort zone.)

And then I think about all the times she tried to tell me how smart I was, and about how, when I was 14 years old, there was some manager from IBM that "wanted to talk to me" because I had made a game in Clickteam Fusion over a weekend to sell at a craft fair she was attending.

Or how she'd push me to give out business cards to people who would compliment me on my Redbubble shirt designs when I'd wear them out in public. She always wanted me to hustle and I never had the drive or the energy for that.

I am trying to summon the energy up for that now. And it's hard, but at least I'm trying. Am I trying hard enough? Shit, I don't know. Maybe ask all the sleep I've lost in the last three months. I used to be the kind of guy who would zonk out and fall asleep within two minutes of my head touching the pillow, but now I routinely lay in bed for close to an hour, wondering and worrying if I can make this work.

As long as the number keeps going up instead of down, I am going to close my eyes and pray for the best.

I would like to end this saying that I'm pretty sure you aren't actually drilling me or anything like that. Honestly, no need to apologize. I always expect the worst from these asks and nobody is ever really that mean, outside of like... what probably amounts to one guy.

You're fine. And hopefully I'll be fine.

[sarahlynnirl]

Losing my best friend - Sugar Daddy culture is not empowering

I finally feel strong enough to talk about this and hopefully get some love, support, and reassurance from other women who agree that this is fucked up. I’ve never been “terfy on main” before so here goes. (TW child abuse + SA but no graphic descriptions of SA)

My mother is a narcissist who financially and emotionally abused my father and myself, with some additional physical abuse of me, for as long as I can remember. My dad made plenty of money but my mom controlled it all and made sure it didn’t go towards anything for me beyond the bare minimum required not to look obviously guilty of child abuse and neglect. I met Kiara (not her real name) when I was a junior in highschool and she was a freshman. Her mom was a single Korean woman doing her best to support Kiara and her 2 sisters while also running a Korean restaurant. My first jobs were a summer camp counselor and fitting room attendant at Forever 21. I would spend the last scraps of my paycheck making sure Kiara was able to order a full meal when our friends went out to dinner, buying her little gifts, and generally trying to keep us both as happy and healthy as possible.

When Kiara graduated highschool her mom drove her into Koreatown New Jersey, got her a room in the apartment of an acquaintance, and basically left her to fend for herself. Kiara spoke barely any Korean. She began working at a Korean salon where she met Ariana (not her real name). She had a NY cosmetology license, not an NJ one, while Ariana was an illegal immigrant from Korea so they were both overworked, underpaid, forced to work overtime, paid under minimum wage, and deprived of their tips. They couldn’t report or complain about this since they were both working illegally.

Kiara had to pay rent for the one room she occupied despite her land lady yelling at her, walking into her room while she slept, banning her from having friends over, and reporting to her mom if she spoke to a guy on the phone or a guy dropped her off. I was working at a restaurant in my college town on top of my classes and doing my best to keep surprising her with little gifts, but neither of us had enough disposable income to afford to visit each other. This was really difficult for me as she was my favorite person in the world and I was used to spending every second with her when we both lived in upstate NY. Ariana got them both to start using SeekingArrangement for one time meet ups with Sugar Daddies where they were paid anywhere from $200-2000 for sex. “The first time I ever did it I walked out of the hotel and just screamed because I was so disgusted and I was thinking about his wrinkly skin touching mine and all I wanted to do was get in the shower and scrub it off but I had $1000 cash in my hand for a couple hours of work which was so crazy and kinda made it all worth it ya know?” - Ariana to me

I was immediately skeptical and a little grossed out but Kiara genuinely seemed happier. She was buying new clothes for herself, ordering food to the apartment when she was hungry, and taking trips into NYC to have fun with Ariana and her friends. By the beginning of the summer of 2019, Kiara had found the Sugar Daddy who she would establish a long term agreement with and who ultimately ended up completely supporting her. I’m not going to say his name here but if people want to know it just ask, I am willing to share. He moved her into a much nicer much bigger apartment with Ariana as her roommate. He paid for me to fly up and visit her, and all of our activities during this vacation. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry. I wish I shoved the money back in her hand before it was too late, I wish I worked harder and longer hours and got us an apartment in Florida and paid both of our rent. I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t listen to my instincts and allowed her to brush off my concerns. It was the most freedom we had ever had, I ran around NYC by myself while she was at work, and my ex took the bus to NJ from upstate NY and joined us for a few days. I feel so selfish but I also didn’t know how bad things would get.

One night Kiara and I went to NYC for dinner with her SD and she took the bus back to the apartment because she had to work early the next morning. It made sense for me to stay in the city because I was supposed to visit my friend at NYU the next morning. In the Uber to his apartment alone with him he was drunk and high and I very clearly looked scared shitless. At this point she was 19 (but she had looked that way since age 17 and I doubt he would have minded if she was lying about her age), I was 21 and he was 44. He seemed offended by my discomfort and was basically like “jeez relax I’m not gonna touch you, I really care about Kiara I think she’s so amazing, just go to the guest room and sleep, make a left to walk to NYU when you wake up.” I peaced the fuck out of there early the next morning.

After that summer Kiara and Ariana quit their jobs at the Korean salon and sugaring became their sole incomes. Ariana was still doing one time meet ups, not nearly as financially stable as Kiara, and got herself into a lot of credit card debt that to my knowledge she’s still in. At this point Kiara was flying down and staying with me in Florida so often that people at my college thought she went there too. I also wasn’t working at this point because college had gotten harder and my ex was fucking up my mental health real bad. He had given me a coke problem and Kiara sending me “grocery money” was enabling me to continue. I wasn’t honest with her about where all the money was going. During Halloween week we didn’t know that she couldn’t just snort molly (MDMA) with the frequency I was doing coke, she ODed, my guy best friend took us to the ER, it was so fucking scary, she got IV fluids for 2 hours and made a full recovery, she stopped doing molly, I kept doing coke. I’m so sorry :(

In November her SD paid for us to take a trip to Cancun Mexico. He was with us for the first part of the trip and this is where things started to get really bad. He tried to be my friend and act the way a boyfriend of my best friend who was my age would, but it was creepy and wrong and I was so uncomfortable. He asked about my drug use in a way that was gross and shamey and basically him seeing me as the “coke whore” stereotype...while continuing to buy me more coke. He also brought and gave us ecstasy pills. He asked really invasive questions about my relationship with my ex, why I stayed, my sex life, etc. It felt like an uncle asking me these questions, I did NOT wanna talk about any of this with him. But from what I did say it was very clear to someone with 44 years of life experience that I had an abusive mother, an addictive personality, and was in an unhealthy relationship. He offered to set me up with an SD friend of his looking for a sugar baby. I of course declined because I always knew this was a boundary I wasn’t willing to cross. No matter how bad my addictions got I would NOT give up that piece of myself in return for money.

In this part of Mexico, drugs that were only given with a prescription in the US were available over the counter. Kiara and I got a little box of 1mg Xanax with my money. My ex had given us Xanax a couple times in NY and we had fun with it, but at this point in time we did NOT have a problem with it. We had bought one bar, broken it in half, and each took half one night of Halloween week and called it “xanpires”, but this wasn’t something we were scripted or buying regularly from plugs. We went to dinner with her SD, we got up to go to the bathroom, and she immediately slipped and hit the ground. I was like woah did you take one of the xans and forget? Because we were supposed to tell each other if we were taking one so we could look out for each other. I was never mad at her! I never wanted money from her! I was just a little concerned, and once I determined that she was safe we thought it was kinda funny that she had taken a xan without realizing and started joking around about it. Her SD of course didn’t understand how a 19 year old and 21 year old girl joke with each other because he was a creepy old man, decided that we were “arguing”, and got up from the restaurant, walked across the street, bought a 90 count bottle of 2mg xans and gave it to me. This was honestly the most irresponsible way someone has ever treated me in my life, and this is coming from someone with an abusive and neglectful parent. Google “benzo withdrawal” if you’re not familiar with it.

We went to a different hotel, and Kiara and I both took xans and blacked out. I passed out on the guest bed, while Kiara was awake but in a conscious blackout. I woke up on the couch on the balcony (which was fine, it was comfy and I saw the sunrise over the beach. The gross part was that meant her SD had picked me up, put his hands on my body while I was unconscious and carried me out there). I remembered that at one point I had woken up, wanted to go to the bathroom or get something from inside, caught a glimpse of what I thought was them having sex, and went back outside. I mentioned it to Kiara and she had no memory of it whatsoever, she thought all she had done was gone to sleep. She was rightfully pissed the fuck off that her SD had taken advantage and done things with her while she was blacked, screamed at him, he gave us a half ass apology, and bought us more stuff (buying our silence). He finally flew home and we got to enjoy the trip with just each other, but I was careless with the dosage of a drug called tramadol, and I ODed with my head in her lap...I’m sorry. When I woke up I was hallucinating, hearing voices, crying hysterically and terrified. Kiara called my ex who asked how many mg I took, told us I was 100mg short of the amount that would require medical attention, made me laugh, and told me to go to sleep. I recognize how scary and unfair to her this was and I really do take responsibility for my actions. The day I was supposed to leave I did ecstasy, hooked up with a guy from Canada, and tried to skip my flight. She was mad because like yeah what the fuck. She got me on the flight, the ecstasy comedown hit, and there’s pictures of me crying in the airport because I hated when we fought.

I was supposed to stop in Miami, then fly back to my college town but while in Miami I texted my granny that I was “sad and really didn’t feel good and could she and my uncle visit me at the airport and bring my uncles dog?”. Her parenting instincts went off that something was very wrong, made me skip the flight, picked me up from the airport and took me to her house where I immediately threw up and ran an extremely high fever that night. She said it was one of the scariest nights of her life and she kept checking on me to see if I needed to go to the hospital. She drove me back to my college town where my guy best friend took me to the ER and it came out that Kiaras SD, in addition to giving me drugs, had also allowed me to drink Mexican tap water throughout the entire trip. I was treated for that + given chlamydia meds just in case since I’d had unprotected sex in a foreign country. I was fine, promised to do better, Kiara forgave me, things started to go back to normal. Except I had begun taking Xanax daily to deal with the anxiety of the illness...and she had a trip to Bali planned.

During that trip things managed to get even worse. She was there with her SD and another Korean friend and her SD was pressuring her and guilting her into sex, isolating her from her friend, going through her phone, and becoming extremely aggressive. She would call me crying and having panic attacks and I would walk out of class to try to comfort her over FaceTime. She did not have panic attacks before this trip. She begged to go home early because something was very wrong but he said it was a waste of money and kept her in Bali until the planned end of the trip. I think it was almost a month. She sent me a recording she secretly took of him screaming at her and her saying “don’t touch me, don’t grab me like that, leave me alone”. When she got back to the US I was begging her to stop. I was so worried for her safety. I said the money wasn’t worth it, we’ll get jobs, please just stop. I’m pretty sure he read those messages. We also had a suspicion that he had installed spyware on her phone but were never able to prove it. At this point I also reached out to my dad for help and his response was basically “I don’t care, not my problem, focus on school”. I reached out to my granny who absolutely cared, but her response was “I’m sorry but I can’t afford to support her, I have to focus on taking care of you, if she won’t stop this you’ll have to stop being friends with her”.

I went home to New York for winter break, suffered through my first round of Xanax withdrawal and was truly trying to get better but my ex manipulated his was back in my life and got me addicted again....but now this bottle of 90 had run out. I went back to my college town, got scripted, and was copping street bars when my script inevitably ran out early. What comes next is blurry for obvious reasons. We moved to the town in Florida my granny lived in and got an apartment together. The female friends she made in our town (my current home) she got most of them into sugaring and using SeekingArrangement. Things deteriorated super fast at this point. I was struggling hard, failing my online classes, and eventually got completely financially cut off by my parents. My granny was paying my half of the rent and my puppy’s vet bills but I was too embarrassed to admit I couldn’t afford groceries. Kiara was pressuring me hard to go on SeekingArrangement but I still refused. I would sit on the floor of the bathroom in a towel after I showered and just cry because the steam made me nauseous and dizzy since I wasn’t eating.

I met my current boyfriend and something just started to click: I didn’t wanna live like this anymore. The mom of a friend from this town who also refuses to sugar landed me an interview at the gym I currently work at, I fought for the job, and I got it. Now I knew I didn’t wanna be completely fucked up all the time anymore but I was still doing enough Xanax to keep me out of withdrawal. The 2mg that had blacked me out at the beginning were now just barely enough to keep me functional. Kiara and I were fighting frequently and bad by this time. She and her partner in sugaring, Mena (not her real name but pretty close to it, fuck this bitch fr) were expecting me to keep how they made their money a secret....from friends and guys that I saw every single day. They both very obviously did not work and were flexing new cars, designer clothes, and cash all over their social media. Kiara thought she could cover her ass by saying she dealt drugs but it was also obvious that she wasn’t putting the time into that to come up with the amount of money she had. The only one dealing drugs was me, and not enough to do anything flashy, just enough that in addition to my work money I was usually getting enough to eat. But there were still some times when the previous weeks paycheck had run out and I was having my first meal of the day at 3pm after someone had bought adderall from me. We had our serious serious fight where she threw my stuff in the lawn and I lived with my current boyfriend full time for about a couple weeks since my bedroom at my granny’s was getting refloored when this happened.

By January 20th he was concerned by my Xanax problem and wanted me to seriously try to stop. At the time I started tapering because I wanted the girlfriend title but I’m forever grateful for him giving me a reason, even if it was a shallow one, because I just needed to START. We tried to reconcile once, despite boyfriend and guy best friend begging me not to, and of course the same problems reappeared, we had another serious fight and haven’t spoken since.

Now the fog is clearing and today I’m 96 days clean of xanax, 16 days clean of all benzos, and 19 days clean of gabapentin (what was keeping me from having a seizure while quitting benzos). But it’s hard because being out of the fog means feeling all of my emotions, even the really bad ones. This past week I’ve been waking up and crying sitting in front of my mirror trying to put my makeup on for work and it just drips right off and I have to start over. She was my best friend for 8 years. My favorite person. My partner in life. I loved her more than anyone.

My boyfriend and guy best friend are pretty uncomfortable when they hear someone express an opinion of me that’s “Kiara’s side of the story” and I don’t correct it. Both of them saw exactly how bad it got near the very end and don’t get why I don’t defend myself more or tell people about her letting my dog eat dab (THC) wax while she was supposed to be watching her and having to be rushed to the animal hospital TWO separate times. (She’s a Pomeranian and the highly concentrated THC was super dangerous to her tiny little body). Yelling at me and giving me the silent treatment because less than 48 hours after my SA she expected me to drive her to a hair appointment in Miami and I woke up late and didn’t get her there on time with traffic. Me begging her to be there for me when it felt like everything was falling apart and I self harmed for the first time and her leaving me to go on a vacation to Orlando with a girl we didn’t even really like. Me not wanting to sleep in the apartment alone after my SA and her not letting me sleep in her bed anymore, her and Mena just dumping me at the neighbor’s so they could continue to sugar, party, and see guys our age at night (this sounds super awful but neighbors roommate —> current boyfriend. He kept me safe until I felt better, was really sweet and careful, and I was the one to make the first move). There’s more but I really don’t like talking about it, after the abuse she went through and I assume is still going through, I expect her to be pretty damaged and not have it in her to treat people right all the time. Not exposing every bad thing she’s ever done to all our mutual friends and acquaintances is kind of my last gift to her.

I also admit that sugaring wasn’t responsible for everything that went wrong. Loving an addict is difficult and exhausting and I went through it myself with my ex. I was also out bi and she was “probably straight, maybe a little bi-curious” in her words. But when she was drunk or on Xanax she’d kiss me first...we had done more than kiss but only during 3somes with a guy. I don’t know, I think I loved her more than I was supposed to and some of the stuff she’d say made me think she saw me in a way she really didn’t. When we first moved to this town I had a thing with a girl and expected it to be no big deal but things here were different than up north. I got called the d slur for the first time by someone who wasn’t joking. It was like getting slapped I was so shocked and hurt, I truly didn’t think that happened anymore. I think she saw what happened to me and kinda closed off that part of herself because she didn’t wanna experience that herself. She stopped making out with me at bars and parties after that and it made me sad and maybe a little jealous. But I really do blame her SD for basically “breaking her”, for handing me that first bottle of free Xanax, for a lot of other little things that I can’t possibly include because this is already way too long. This is my first time even saying this much. Feel free to add your own experiences or thoughts on this or anything you’d like. [I’m prepared to get death threats or called a SWERF or whatever but I don’t care, now that I started talking about this I’m not going to stop.]

[tin-can-iron-man]

Now this is going to sound weird and cruel and if I was a better writer I would propose this satirically a la "a modest proposal" (because I do not condone actual animal violence so this is an extreme example) but hear me out on this:

You know what make every person who decides things for this country (America) required to own a pet (cat, dog, rabbit, bird, maybe a fish but like a high maintenance fish, etc) and apply the minimum wage and healthcare to their pets. They are not allowed to spend any more than minimum wage for their pet (which for a 40hr work week at 7.25 is barely over 1,000 a month btw.). They are not allowed to dip into any other money for them. Any medical emergencies have to be paid in full by that money no matter how expensive it actually is (if little fifi has to pay for a $20,000 surgery, well, fuck! Fifi doesn't have any insurance because her minimum wage job does not cover it and healthcare is clearly reasonably priced in this country for anyone (sarcasm)). (Btw, for anyone who thinks $1000 is too much to spend per month on a dog, cat, or other (I don't know I don't have a pet I don't know how expensive they are) at least $500 will be taken away from this fund per month for "rent". So really they only have about $500 for their pets food and other needs). Fifi gets pregnant and complications arise that put your pudsy woodsers life in danger? Sorry, you voted to overturn accessable abortions and so they are going to have to carry to term no matter how dangerous, painful, devastating or life threatening it is to your fluffy lil baby. Every lawmaker would become blatant, obvious animal abusers in months because they simply do not have the money to take care of their pets needs with the budget and restrictions they have. They can apply for "welfare" and get an extra $100 per month because of it but your pet gets taken off of it randomly and it is harder every time to reapply for it. If they get babies you now have to budget their needs with the same amount of income.

If they're going to treat actual human beings this horribly show them the pain and suffering they cause through something that lives in their house. These people are something their pets should be capable to rely on and trust. And when they don't make changes to how this country is run they constantly fail, betray, and let them down every day. The only ways they can improve their pets lives is if they pass laws to improve basic rights in this country, if they quit, the pet will simply be given to the successor of their position. I want them to face the cold hard reality of the suffering they cause with every whine, meow, and squeak of pain, fear, and sorrow. Knowing full well that they and their ideals are the cause. I don't know I think it would work better than a petition is all.

Also if you're a supreme court justice you have to adopt a special needs animal. Also nobody is allowed to help you in any way with caring for your pet. Especially financially.

Because the government is something that the people are supposed to be able to rely on and trust, and in this country the government constantly fails, betrays and lets us down every day. I want them to face the cold hard truth of the suffering they cause with every shitty decision they make. Or allow to happen.

By the way: I am aware of the...implications that saying "people are pets and the government is the owner" is fucked up and sounds bad but the government is capable, in fact, it should be their obligation, to better their country and people's quality of life. And if they do not do so then they're a shitty, abusive, neglectful government. Much like a shitty dog/cat/whatever owner. I am not attempting to compare people in need to animals, but compare our government as the cause and the abusers in this situation.

[jackbabewang]

Head over heels

Genre: Another nose bleeding ceo Jae, Fluff, Mature content

Word count: 5,818

Currently, in your mid-20s, studied for a degree in Administrative Assistant at a four-year college and working as a secretary in a major corporation. You have a good salary and excellent benefits, earning enough to rent an apartment of your own, but your workload may be more than you can realistically handle and no matter how motivated you are, it will be beyond the realms of human possibility. 

Working with your superior, Jung Jaehyun, is more like a profession. There is always a sense of moral obligation to do more than the minimum laid down in the job description when the man himself works like a monster. You were prepared for the immense sacrifice as well had you accepted the offer. It was agreed. 

With great reluctance, you have grown one hell of an addiction to caffeine, which is clear when you go without it for even one morning, like today. You feel foggy and crabby. None of the words seems to penetrate beyond your mind of half-conscious blank. The pen that is unfailingly in your hand, starting to draw elaborate doodles on a clean page in the notebook which is largely useless at this point.  

Surprisingly, Jaehyun is not listening to the presenter as well. He has crossed and uncrossed his legs six times, peeked out the window eight times. His fingers plow through his hair, messing up the always-neat style he has probably struggled half the morning to achieve. The generality however appears to be interested in the object of the meeting, behaving orderly and attentive. Their intention is, of course, to impress their boss. However the man is probably scoffing inwardly at their obvious acts. 

He is looking around, when out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. The strain on your face, your lips pressed tightly together, your body slumped almost sliding off the chair, as if your backbone has been pulled out through the top of your head. Amused, he brings his attention to what exactly you are struggling with and he sees your right foot: bared. Stretching on your toes, you try to snag your lone shoe but it is an inch out of your reach. And inside, you curse yourself to lose that annoying habit of swinging your feet. 

He watches a moment more then drops his pen, letting it roll over. He bends and pretends to pick it up, catching you off guard as he picks up your shoe instead and holds it so you can slide your foot into it. You cannot quite comprehend of his gesture, and try not to think about it—even when his hand, lightly touching your ankle in turn, sent coils of heat twirling all the way up your leg and through your whole body. Nothing comparable to this has ever occurred which requires direct bodily contact with your boss, to be exact. You slightly choke on your own saliva, but refuse to look at him in the face, visibly embarrassed. In the meanwhile, Jaehyun glances at you the oftener, thus noticing your reaction of an interesting one. 

Weeks have gone by, you never spoke of the incident, and he never brings up the subject either as though nothing ever happened, despite the tension that is sometimes evident in the way he watches you like he demands a “thank you” after the act and thinking you are a woman so ignorant, unmannered and … immodest. That thought troubles you more than the other, though.

Troubles always, somehow, never come to an end, never reach exhaustion; they are new every morning, one woman in particular is trouble herself—Park Sooyoung, the embodiment of your day-to-day horror. You have to admit, from head to toe, she is more beautiful than any female, including yourself in this workplace. She is gorgeous with a perfect figure and has all the attention of the men here, except for the one enclosed behind glass doors on the 45th floor. Mr. Jung, Jaehyun, is eye-candy extraordinaire. Or ‘sex on a stick’, which you overheard her conversation that day in the pantry.

The employee manual says, “Keep the dating scenes away”, as it is most likely to ruin the workplace or kill your career. She interpreted otherwise, eagerly looking for her dear ones. You do not understand her, her constant attendance at Jaehyun's office with a stack of papers which she claimed as her legitimate reason to meet the CEO. And every damn time, exercising intense self-control, you refrain yourself from laughing seeing her walk out a minute after with her ‘documents’ left untouched, indubitably not a single glance from the man. 

Then you know you might be in trouble when the buzzer system, a companion to the intercom, alerts you with two buzzes to indicate that you are to come into Jaehyun’s office. Knocking twice as a courtesy and you enter after hearing his bid and shutting the door behind. You utter no word, make no sound as you cross the thick carpet. You know the instant you set foot in there is something about the air that gives you a bad feeling. The familiar prickle ripples over your scalp and spreads down your neck and shoulders. You gulp. 

He stops, looks up, then back to the chaos on his desk. “Could’ve stopped her…” Phew!

“Yes, Mr. Jung. I should. Next time.” Your sentence breaks into phrase, phrase separates into words, you speak out like a robot, totally expressionless. 

“No more next time, please.” He has never used the word before, rarely hear it from his lips, which sounds like an exasperating term because it shows the helplessness in him. “And put this away,” he orders, without lifting his head. 

The bittersweet fragrance of coffee curls enticingly around your nose, the porcelain filled and still warm in your hand, whereas he has not even touched the beverage. Sooyoung needs to step up her game if she is ever so determined to get into his pants. Brown is the colour of the milky coffee that Jaehyun absolutely dislikes. He has them dark brew, no milk, no sugar, no creamer. You have tried it once and it tastes bad, it tastes awful as its poisonous-looking black. You switch the flat-out rejected beverage for the one to his liking and not so long after he finished with nothing left in the bottom of the cup. 

He works all day, and you work all day. As the saying goes, “A good boss does not leave until after his last employee does.” But if it is the other way round, does that make you a good employee? Totally. The corporation has an extra busy month with the expansion to take all the business it can get. To demonstrate how busy it is, longer hours of work on the same day has been introduced. Even on a Sunday, you are with your friends having brunch when you receive a call to work where your boss has clearly heard the munching of food and clanking of silverware against China over the line. How sucks it is even when you have not drive today and given ten minutes to be there, you have to pay the additional for cab fare. 

Inside, Jaehyun is leaning over his laptop and typing furiously. His fingers are almost a blur over that keyboard. 

“Sorry, Mr. Jung. I’m—” you glance at your wristwatch, holding the tiny face of it between the fingers of your right hand and squinting, “—six minutes late. I was caught in a traffic jam.” 

“It’s fine. Come sit.” 

You do what he asks. You peek over his shoulder and see a screen full of words, you peer harder at the teeny-tiny letters and it takes a fraction of a second to realize he is doing your portion of work. Almost immediately you interrupt him, almost instantly you regret your harsh manner when he turns to you with eyes filling with confusion before his brows knit themselves together in concern. 

“Move over,” his fingers wrap around your wrists, pulling your hands away from which you have shielded the brightness of the display. 

“No, that’s my work. I should be responsible for it.” 

“I don’t have time for this,” he warns. 

You grumble right back, “Just this one, alright? And I’ll do the rest.” 

“If you’re feeling sorry then stay until I leave.” Oh so easily he is keeping you captive, simply taking advantage of his position because he knows that he can. And of course, you will. 

There is the occasional tap tap on a keyboard, turning of pages, then comes the restlessness where conversations are strained or non-existent. As you let the spin of the swivel chair stops on its own, it yields to face the spectacular turquoise tank behind the ornate desk where Jaehyun is sitting at. There swims a three foot long koi which his father bought for 1.4 million after a fierce bidding war at a fish farm in the city of Hiroshima. The bare tank with no gravel or decorations is built into the wall covered with white marble; its simplicity yet luxurious touching makes it a convincingly beautiful moving portrait. Staring at it for the rest of the afternoon, or a probable evening, is enough to elevate your somber mood. 

“Mr. Jung—”

“Jaehyun,” he corrects. He has previously asked you to dispense with the “mister” treatment when you and him are alone in the office but you cannot drop the formality just because he said so. You have to maintain the dignity of his position and allegedly emphasize an atmosphere of collegiality. 

Suddenly you are eager to initiate a conversation, “I like your fish tank. Salt water?” 

“Fresh actually.” Right there. He is giving you the look again. “It’s a carp.” 

“I know I sounded dumb… You don’t have to make it so obvious…” you mumble under your breath, but he heard you nonetheless.

The sky has sunk nearer to the horizon and everything is deep red. Your Sunday is like an ordinary weekday and ordinary rounds of filing, opening and sorting the mail, verifying facts and assembling data—which you have gotten everything complete by now. However the workaholic’s compulsive ass stay rooted to his leather seat, as if he is growing right into it. Only when you call out to him for food does he excused himself from the havoc on his desk, reluctantly. It fascinates you most of the time how he actually listens to you when it comes to reminding him to drink, to eat, and never not to eat, because he always, always got carried away and forego meals. At some point, you are like his mother for real and feel an obligation to take care of him his health; while it only increases his dependency on you. Pretty sure you can accurately state his likes and dislikes with the certainty that you understand him better than he understands himself. 

Two years of working with Jaehyun, you have never once put your foot in his pantry and you assume he never does too. It fills with the distinctive smell of those new things untouched by humans; pristine white cabinets reach to the floor and ceiling, bisected by a tasteful granite countertop and subway tile backsplash. The warm glow from the overhead lights giving the place a cozy, homey feel (and hiding layers of dust). Rather, you will work in here instead of facing the boring office neutrals 24/7. 

You eyed him as he slurps his bowl of jajangmyeon and chomping down the strands of noodles with his front teeth. He resembles a rabbit eating like that but in all honesty you are hyper aware of the black sauce being splattered on his white shirt. 

Or what he thinks about the food, “Do you like it?” 

He ponders momentarily before answering, “This thing is unhealthy.” 

Well, you are unhealthy for your unhealthy eating habits! 

Jung Jaehyun, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, is made for fine dining and ridiculously expensive food anyway. What will he even see in these cheap Chinese food?

“How about this— Try this—” Fried dumplings dipped into the red sauce of tteokbokki topped with a piece of kimchi. You pick up the salivating fusion with your chopsticks, before you know it, he leans forward and captures the heaping amount in a huge mouthful. It then follows by approving nods and satisfied hums, all the while your mind comes into play. Purposefully, you ignore the jolt of awareness, even though it twists you up like a pretzel. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks. “Do I make you nervous?” 

The hell is he talking about. His speech is all but business-like and you are internally freaking out at this cheeky side of your boss. 

“N-No…”

“I think I make you nervous.” 

“You don’t make me nervous,” you reiterate. Collecting yourself, you pick up overlapping circles of sliced radish and pop them into your mouth only to feel the choking burn of vinegar at the back of your throat. 

“Why do you shy away every time our shoulders brush?” 

“I don’t like being crowded.”

“You didn’t seem to mind so much before.”

“That was different.” 

“What was different?” He wears an open grin of amusement, enjoying every second of your embarrassment. 

As you continue to stuff your face, you glance over at him, and caught him staring at you. You look away for a moment, then look at him again. “What are you looking at?” you ask through gritted teeth. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he says. “It’s just that, I’ve never seen you dressed in casual clothes.” 

You are always in a buttoned-up white blouse, black pencil skirt and matching fitted blazer. “Right, and I get tired of wearing the same thing all the time.” 

While he has always dressed in fine shoes and classy suits, you have never before, indeed, seen him like this either—oversized cotton-poplin shirt and black ankle pants. Though someone else may look like a baggy, slouchy mess in the outfit, he looks like a whole meal. This Jaehyun radiates comfort and soothing kindness that for a minute you have forgotten about him being your boss. 

“Well, you don’t look so bad yourself.” You tell him and he grins in that lopsided way.

Yet a man has his pride. So you add, “Ugly as ever.” The comment itself is certainly a rude way to speak to your boss and instantly you regret it, but he does not seem bothered anyway.

“I may be ugly, but I’m still better looking than you,” for which he retorts quickly. “Say. Why don’t we skip work tomorrow?” 

You blink, taken aback by his idea, but in truth you desperately want to stay home and shed your responsibilities and act as lifeless and unrestrained. “We can’t skip work.”

“C’mon,” he whines, “I know you’re fucking tired of this shit.” 

Though once again taken aback by his unusual words and speech patterns—which you can only assume the filters of polite society is not working when he is overtired—his facial expression implies reference to something else. But why the teasing tone?

Then it hits you. Your Twitter account, where you have been very active the last few weeks, as a platform to express your thoughts and emotions on working tons of overtime. Your rants are so insane that it is as if someone has pixelated your brain. The ungenerous, unladylike words blurted you regret them. 

“You stalked me!” 

“It’s not my fault that your profile is public.” 

“Why would you even search my profile?”

“Just checking out what my employees been up to.” 

He speaks about it so nonchalantly. You almost roared at him.

“There’s a meeting tomorrow morning with Mr. Kee,” you remind.

He groans only at the utterance of the name of the presenter. Recalling what has occurred in the last conference, he resents waking up early to another yawning dullness, however he chuckles at the reminder of the little interaction between you and him. That brings a pleasant recollection and something to look forward to. Under the table, maybe games of tic-tac-toe, dots and boxes, or maybe, just maybe he can play with your fingers. He stares at your hands to savor the lingering and wonder if you know how incredible they are. Hands like that—small and soft-skinned next to his—should be pampered. He can spin a dream of what those hands will feel like on his flesh. 

Suddenly, an overwhelming feeling falls over him as he says, “I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“What?” you ask. 

“Dinner. Food.” A few seconds lapsed, and he says, “It seems that I’ve been eating alone a lot lately, and I’d like some conversation with good food.” 

“I have plans for—”

“You’re not married, are you?” he asks.

“Me? No, I’m not.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Involved?”

“No,” you answer, a little offended.

“Then let’s have dinner.” That’s it? 

“Like… on a date?” Stupid, stupid, stupid, you tell yourself. Dinner. That’s it. You know that you are not supposed to overthink it as a romantic appointment, not with him. Perhaps, he wants to talk about the company’s cash flow in a private setting, or he wants to inquire on the status of recent projects, or he wants to find out which projects are running. Perhaps, deep down, you want to casually talk about everything over good food, as a friend for the least. 

“A real date?”

Date. He likes the sound of it, oh he likes it even more when you are the one clarifying it. 

“There’s such a thing as a fake date?” 

You roll your eyes at him.

“Call it a date then, as you wish.” And you resist scoffing out loud at his cockiness, while there is bursting red upon you the shyness of a young girl. 

Hours elapsed upon return to work, but the ambience is more calm, peaceful and comfortable in the moment. Presumably Jaehyun had quelled his distress with food as he is adorable high-spirited than ever. The once deadly dull office is now filled with music of Cigarette After Sex’s and Frank Ocean’s, such that you poke fun of him being an emotional teen, while you secretly enjoy the songs as well. 

By the time Jaehyun finally shuts down the computer, though the files are left open on his desk, it is already midnight. With a groan, you sink in the fact that you still have to wake up early tomorrow as per usual. 

At the sound of it, Jaehyun turns to you with a raised brow, “What? Don’t want to leave?” 

For a minute, he looked unusually handsome and resplendent, marked by deep-set brown eyes, little indentations in his cheeks. He is teasing and it does not help with how awestricken you already are by the look he gave you. For a second, you stand rooted to the spot with nerves twisting your insides; Jaehyun holding the elevator door open and waiting.

His fake cough brings you sharply back to your senses. “Oh, no— shit— sorry,” a smile pulling at the edges of your mouth with false gaiety. 

The elevator comes to a stop. Later taking larger steps than you usually do and out to the ground floor lobby, there he cocks his head, confused, “Where are you going?” 

“I’m not driving today. I’ll take the bus home. See you tomorrow, Mr. Jung.” You bow and wave in a polite manner but he is quick to stop you from taking more steps away. 

“I’ll give you a ride. Come in.”

“It’s fine. The bus station is not so far away.” 

And just like that the both of you end up arguing at a distance over the way to get yourself home, with him still pressing the ‘open’ button that his finger is most likely indented at this point. 

“Don’t keep me waiting,” his eyes stern as he scolds (but with no harshness in his voice) yet you then are aware of this mistaken outburst of his and so you quickly step inside. His lips curled up in a victorious smirk unnoticeable by you, a clear winner once again.  

Jaehyun drives this maddeningly slow pace when the road is not even under congested conditions at this hour. Inside this four wheels, you seem to get strangely awkward with all the fidgeting of fingers on the seatbelt despite being on the same ride for multiple times. But those times were with his private chauffeur as well. Have you talk about the Jung Jaehyun drives one-handed? Because that is freaking hot. Spicy. 

Things take off another note—when the next morning you arrive with a cup of hot, steaming coffee and your favourite cinnamon sugar donuts on your desk. Judging that you appear to be showing up behind schedule for sleeping in—the reason being so, it is better not to be reminded of. You run a list of names in your head to figure out who that ‘secret angel’ could be. Aside from your only friend in the workplace, Chaeyong, who received maternity leave a few months ago. You hardly associate with the rest of the employees due to your position that you only need to deal with one person. And that only person seems to have been watching you the second you walk in, however, there he is sitting in his office, eyes trained on the documents from the night before. 

It is of infrequent occasions he has the shades rolled up. 

The said meeting with Mr. Kee goes by smoothly with the respective project itself taking form now and the next thing you know—you are sitting at a table of two in a fancy Italian restaurant located within the affluent area of central Seoul. You are still unable to stir the reality that the ‘date’ is actually happening, judging that Jaehyun could have or should have brushed it off when both are time-poor during the day. Here you have him twirling a glass of red liquid by its stem mindlessly and show no signs of initiating a conversation. It is frustrating at first, but you think that there is a need to make the most of the night when you could have been eating cheeseburger and greasy food back at your little chamber. 

Unfortunately, what should have been a long-winded conversation dies down fast with Jaehyun answering questions by questions in straightforward and short factual answers instead of throwing the ball back to you in effort of prolonging. You bet your entire fortune that Jaehyun is a mo-ssol (one who has never dated since birth), judging the way he speaks in a manner so expressionless like a piece of log, so stubborn. All those meetings or business events do him no good.

Sigh. You have to do everything yourself around here. 

It almost takes you off guard when he asks, “So… tell me about yourself.” You definitely knows him very well but it was never the other way round. Your heart beats with odd little jerks at the thought of his possible interest in you. Now, you do not want to give yourself a false hope of it being a romantic interest otherwise. 

To make things easier, you suggest on the game of “I Like”, to which he shrugs and says, “Okay.” 

You begin, “I like… visiting zoos, scented candles and everything chocolate.” 

“That’s odd.” 

A weird combination indeed but, “That’s how the game goes!” 

“Well… I like…” he ponders for such a long time, as if mulling over the merit of finally revealing the side of him that you never knew of, nonetheless, “I like… turntable, pistachio ice-cream and Batman.” 

Your chuckle comes in response at his last item, “Batman, really?” 

“Hey, never judge someone’s favourite superhero!” 

“Whatever,” you mumble a, “Superman is way better,” under your breath to which he catches on immediately and a childish bickering breaks out from then on who is the best superhero. 

After paying the bill and a bit of you whining, “I don’t want to go home… It’s cold, dark and lonely, and cold…” after wine after wine intake. Jaehyun takes you back to his place and things escalated from there. You kick off your heels attempting to slide across the marble floor in bare feet, stumbling forward you slam him against the wall while still holding on to him. 

Though genuinely surprised, he cannot ignore your eyes like cataracts producing the hazy look, blush tingeing your cheeks from too much alcohol and every inch nearer you get he finds himself having trouble refusing your anything. Letting your index finger, delicate, almost like a feather, trace the arch of his eyebrows to the tip of his nose and along his pouty lips. 

“N-no… We can’t do this…” he groans in protest, holding onto a dangerous slippery rope that is ‘lust’. He finds it completely wrong to take advantage of you in this drunken state, but you seem to not care at all as you slide closer to him stepping on his sock clad feet. Your narrow rib cage with the pillowy softness of your bosom pressing against his chest, so alluring with your breath mingles with his own—that is his last straw. 

He inches a hand downward and wraps itself around your waist as he gathers you close capturing your mouth with his in a dance of sorts, tasting with tender, tantalizing nips and slow strokes of his tongue. Feeling—yes—the excitement of his racing heart and the ragged edge of his breathing. You are so generous, so giving, so primally female. He has never done this before, but his body reacts, it is taut and hard and humming with impatience. 

You ease his suit jacket off his shoulders and it drops on the floor behind him. Then he twists around, shuffling to his room until he falls backwards when his foot hit the edge of the gargantuan bed. Straddling atop him, you curl your hands into his pristine shirtfront and surrender to the consuming heat of his kiss. In semi-consciousness, your fingers flick open the buttons. He weaves his fingers into your silky hair as you continue to undress him. He spins your bodies around again, this time having his hips nestle their way between your thighs. 

You want to touch him. You want him to touch you—all over—but all he does is touch you with his mouth and feed you kisses while devouring your good sense. He growls low in his throat as he abandons your mouth to drag his lips along your jaw. He licks at the delicate skin of your throat and closes his teeth on the tendon joining your neck and shoulder, sending sensation shooting through your body like a hot bolt of lightning. You shudder, half expecting your head to explode. 

“Jaehyun… it tickles,” turning into a giggling mess when he slides his lips over your neck, kissing from the front to the sides to the back. He chuckles boyishly all the way and those giggles turn into breathy sighs, gasps when he lingers on the tender skin behind your ear. You moan, moving restlessly against him and nearly combust when the long, thick ridge of his arousal presses against you. Right where a painful, empty ache blossoms. 

Every stitch of clothing removed and your entire body gives a single shiver as he enters with perfect precision, penetrating slowly all the way inside. He is so tender, so gentle with each thrust, making you cry out in blinding ecstasy and only crave him more. He revels in the new sensations of you enclosed around him so tightly, and how good your bare skin feels against his. It is a level of heaven he has never known existed. 

“Oh God, you feel so good,” he curses under his breath, closing his eyes as he savors each moment rising towards his own orgasm, “Want to come inside you, is that okay? Can I?” 

You cannot even form an answer properly with your mind fuzzy with absolute pleasure that adds to your intoxication, giving him a weak nod and clenching around him so he is moaning your name loudly. As you both reach the edge and shatter, you hold onto each other and squeezing whatever is there to reach out. Breathing deeper and faster, hearts pounding in your chests, laying there limbs tangled for quite some time. 

Your internal clock wakes you up at eleven and you glance around trying to assimilate something of your surroundings. Your eyes, squinting in the sunlight that dance through the large windows. Your body, dressing in a pair of silk pajamas that is of luxuriousness you will never possess. Immediately, you head in the direction of what you assume is the bathroom. And your reflection, astonishingly clean and tidied up of the makeup from the night before besides the remnants of waterproof mascara and some semi-permanent “stains” on your skin. 

Jaehyun looks to you popping out from behind the wall like a thief, his eyes falling to the shirt you are wearing and the corners of his lips twitch upward at the sight. You have not acknowledged his presence yet as you continue marvelling at the large apartment until you hear a soft chuckle from a distance. You shriek, there sits your superior at the dining table with a tablet propped up in a case. 

“W-we’re… late for work,” you blurt out awkwardly, glancing at the clock on the wall. 

There is a short pause before he speaks, “Well, good morning?” and tells you that he has called in to say that you are both away on a business trip. Skipping the fact that you are walking funnily. 

The tips of his ears a cute shade of pink and it hits you, “D-did we…?” Such a stupid question when your neck and chest all over have hickies that match the big one on his clavicle. Boy, were you wild last night. He only answers with fake coughs and avoids looking directly at you.

Your eyes squeeze shut with a heavy sigh upon an internal breakdown. How are you supposed to maintain a great performance at work when the embodiment of your disaster is only a few feet away. Things will never be the same. Heck, it was never the same since the incident from a month ago. 

“Please tell me I didn’t do anything stupid…” if sleeping with your boss is not dumb enough. You just have to be reminded about it over and over again. Is there any way you can shut down your brain or even better, trade it with someone else?

“...besides dragging me around by my necktie,” he mumbles, the shade of his ears intensifies and spreading to the column of his neck. Anyways, “Are you hungry?” 

You are about to reject and scram off to your apartment just to hide this enormous feeling of embarrassment you are suffering at the moment but heaven does not help you. Your belly rumbles in hunger and he is instructing you to take a seat. 

The smell of lightly burnt toast with a side of eggs and delicious bacon as well as the aroma of caramel coffee makes your mouth water. Though it is just a combination of simple brunch menu, he manages to get the job done perfectly and you are inhaling the food with a childish grin. The humiliation from before has whisked off and thrown to the back of your mind, replacing with the appreciation of having someone to fill you up instead. Wait— that sounds wrong. You choke on food and on the air itself at such polluted thought. 

“Are you okay?” he rushes to your side giving gentle pats on your back. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, just—” you find yourself going red again when you see that maroon mark on his skin. 

His hand finds purchase on your head, stroking endearingly, “Don’t get all shy with me now. You’re practically all over me last night.” 

Right when you are getting mushy from the affection, he has to add that so you remove his hand and sigh heavily, “Mr. Jung—” his brows furrow at the formal address, “Maybe we should just forget about the whole thing—”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he interrupts, “I’ve seen the way you look at me and you should’ve known better. I would’ve transferred you to another department if I were so against it but I kept you by my side, didn’t I? You knew that I could hardly work with anyone else, I am stubborn at times and couldn’t even take care of myself, but the fact that you are always there when I need you… You understand me more than myself and you’re…” he heaves a sigh of overwhelming relief for finally getting off these words from his chest, “You’re just amazing…” There are sparkles in his eyes with the utmost sincerity. 

Oh my Lord, is this a confession? Is it? This is a confession!

“So… you took me on a date to fuck me?” Your mind chooses to betray you at the very moment, being equally submerged by the revelation. 

“I’ve never said that.” Bending, he leans closer, “But we had a great time. True?” and kisses your lips you stiffen unprepared. Seeing that you did not answer, he adds, “I don’t mind going for another. If you’re down for it too.” 

Things do change afterwards. The atmosphere of that particular 45th floor of the office building has now blossomed with bubbles of pink. Jaehyun has the shades rolled up ever since and sometimes sending you flirty gazes. It is surely distracting but you do the same and never fail to grasp the chance just staring at him in awe and thinking, “Oh, this handsome man is mine!” The oftener he catches you watching and the intercom goes, “Missy, get back to work.” 

Even so, Sooyoung still pay her regular visits. As she finally leaves his office, you are called over immediately and the first things you say, “What does she want this time?” not realizing your tone of speech. 

He grins, victorious, “Were you jealous all this while?” 

With a scoff, “Jealous my butt.” 

“Had I known…”

“What?” What are you gonna do? I dare you!

“I would’ve kept her in longer,” he says nonchalantly, though you are fuming with his ridiculousness (knowing that he is only teasing). But still!

He is quick to catch your wrist when you turn to leave, and tucks you in the warmth of his embrace. Your nose filled with the scent of him. His cologne makes you think of green, grassy meadows covered with yellow flowers. So fucking good.

“Mr. Jung, it’s against the rules— Keep the dating scenes away,” you warn in a stern voice, feigning annoyance from his previous remark. 

He leans closer instead and invades your space, capturing your mouth in a scorching kiss like he has been holding himself back for hours.

“My rules, my way.” 

[jubilantwriter]

No Idiots Were Harmed in the Making of His Reality

(AO3)  (First)  (Epilogue)

Summary:  The gang goes to an unnamed popular fast food joint after Pico commits mass murder in the name of protecting his duo of idiots.  And this is the thanks he gets.

Or:  An unfortunate fast food employee gets the misfortune of meeting the trio in their finest hour.

Word Count:  2127

////

There’s only so much a job description can prepare one for.  For instance: making burgers, serving customers, taking orders, so on and so forth.  That’s what this minimum wage job suggested she would be doing.  But it didn’t come with the fine print.  It didn’t tell her that she’d be making burgers, sandwiches, chicken nuggets, fries, so on and so forth under pressure as customers ranged from dead-inside but patient patrons to Karen levels of impatient and entitled.  There’s caveats, little sidebars, unmentioned stressors that go overlooked because her job is solely to serve the people shitty, shitty burgers.

And it barely even helps her pay rent.  The things she’s seen on the job only serves to make her wonder how long it’ll take for her to become either bitter and jaded or completely desensitized by the bullshit this hellish existence can throw at her.  Maybe it’ll be a mix of both.

The door opens and swings shut with a heavy, muted thud.  Cashier Girl looks up, already exhausted two hours into her shift as she catches sight of the next batch of cus-

Oh.  Oh no.  Oh no, they look like trouble.

A tall, bubbly young lady in a figure hugging dress smiles sweetly in that, “I’m going to try really hard not to create problems on purpose for you”, sort of way, which happens to be Cashier Girl’s favorite kind of customer.  Granted, this girl looks nothing like trouble.  She looks like the exact opposite of trouble.  But the two men she has in tow makes Cashier Girl think twice about lowering her guard around the pretty girl.  

Standing next to her is some dude with cyan-colored hair, a red cap turned backwards in a very dudebro kind of way.  He dresses sloppily, like he just rolled out of bed and threw on whatever happened to be in reach, which also just so happened to be the same clothes he wore the day before.  His clearly white shirt is stained with something… she hopes is nothing but the results of him being a messy eater.  Or maybe he got into a knife fight and won?  That has to be the answer for the mysterious, rusty stains and splatters on the right side of his shirt.  

However, the one who really sets off her anxiety radar is the taller young man standing next to the cyan shortie.  The guy is covered in blood.  Not only that, but she’s pretty sure he’s toting at least two guns on his person.  And to top it off, he’s wearing a sweater vest and a turtleneck in this kind of weather!  Granted, it is a bit chilly, but that level of layering just feels like overkill.  He glowers with his arms folded over his chest, clearly hating everything about this experience.  Is that dried blood on his face?  That is absolutely dried blood all over his face.

Cashier Girl sucks in a deep breath through her teeth and puts on a well practiced smile.  “Hello!  May I take your order?”

“Yes please!  Um,” the lady in red nudges the shorter man with a smile, “what were we going to order again?”

“Beep!”

...Beep?

“Oh!  Right!  Can we get the 2 for $5 deal?”

She could understand all of that from a single beep?!  “Of course!  And what would you like?”

“Badoop.”  The cyan-haired man nudges the blood covered ginger, and boy, did it look like Little Boy Blue was poking a stick at an angry bear.  “Skdeep!”

Having been in the industry for a long, two years has given Cashier Girl the ability to see when someone is about to take a dive into the deep end fairly quickly.  The ginger twitches an eye, lips pulled into a snarl as he breathes out a little too deeply.  Not quite like a sigh, but like a bull about to charge headfirst into a china shop on purpose.  He sucks in a harsh breath through gritted teeth and hunches his shoulders up.  Oh wow, he’s really restraining himself.

“Just get me…”  And of course Probably a Murderer understood everything Little Boy Blue said.  “The nugs and burg.” 

With the way he’s restraining himself, she wants to believe that he once worked in the same industry as her.  No wonder he’s a murderer.  Good for him, good for him.  Doing what the rest of them can’t do.  

“Alright!  And is there anything else I can get for you?”

“Hmm.”   Pretty Miss Sunshine looks over to Little Boy Blue who shakes his head before turning back to face Cashier Girl.  “I think that’s it!”

“Alright, your total comes to $5.40.”  

“Beep!”  Little Boy Blue pipes up excitedly and starts digging around in, what she assumes is, his back pocket.  The short man pulls out a crumpled, moist-looking five dollar bill.  He straightens it out, and Cashier Girl swears that a good quarter of the bill is stained with blood.  Probably a Murderer must have noticed the blood too, because he suddenly stiffens and glares at Little Boy Blue.

“...Boyfriend.”  Oh shit, are they dating?  Is Miss Sunshine just a lady friend of theirs?  “Isn’t that the fuckin’ money I lent to you a couple weeks back?”

Oh damn.  Cashier Girl looks between Blue and Murderer, Blue either oblivious to Murderer’s growing rage or too wildly confident that the bloodstained ginger won’t actually hurt him.   As interesting as the tension may be, she still needs the forty cents to complete their order.

“Sir-”

“Ba beep!”  Boy Blue nods vigorously, but she knows it’s not towards her.  Murderer lets out a long, aggrieved sigh as he massages his temples.

“So.  You’re tellin’ me.”  He points to the money on the counter and back at Boy Blue.  “You spent… how long at my apartment?  Botherin’ me for some extra cash for food, refusin’ to leave for a good few hours, and then completely forgettin’ about gettin' the fuckin’ food you were supposed to get?  After I gave you the goddamn money?”

“Oh, I remember that day!”  Pretty Miss Sunshine speaks up a little too cheerily given the mood.  “We were supposed to get some Chinese takeout, so Boyfriend disappeared for a bit to ask you for some extra money since he was short some.”  Wait, are they all dating each other?  What the hell?  “But Boyfriend came back looking all happy and without any food, and when I asked where the food was, he said he totally forgot!  We ended up just using Daddy’s credit card since I remembered I still had it, so we still got food in the end.”  Miss Sunshine beams brightly at the flabbergasted Murderer.  “You don’t need to worry about that!”

“That’s not what I was pissed about!”  For a yell worthy statement, Murderer does an awfully good job at keeping his voice reasonably leveled in this shitty fast food restaurant.  “And you had a credit card this entire time?!  Why do you fucks keep comin’ over to my place to ask for cash?!”  

“Ohhh, well, Daddy took it back after he found out I still had it.  But now I’m borrowing from Mommy instead-”

“Oh, so you just have another credit card you could be usin’ instead of my money-”

“Excuse me,” Cashier Girl says as politely as possible, seeing how Murderer’s hand is twitching over one of his guns, “but you still haven’t paid the full amount.”

“Boop!”  Boy Blue quickly begins to dig through his pockets, his confident smirk slowly morphing into a stricken grimace as his movements grow more frantic.  “Sk-skido, bap de doop-”

“Do not fuckin’ tell me you do not have forty fuckin’ cents.”

Ohhhh shit.  Cashier Girl feels torn between wanting to see Murderer fucking snap because man, they really are just running his patience into the GROUND, and wanting her goddamn forty cents so that she can move on with these customers.  Murderer’s face turns a bright shade of red as he inhales a deep breath through his nostrils and breathes out heavily through gritted teeth once more, the process repeating a few times before he reaches for his back pocket and pulls out a ratty wallet that’s literally being held together with duct tape.  Quietly, they all watch as he shakes some coins out and carefully counts out forty cents exactly.

“There,” he says softly in that tone she recognizes from parents who are this close to losing their absolute shit towards their children, “five fucking dollars and forty cents.”

Cashier Girl looks up and sees Miss Sunshine finally starting to sweat just a bit.  Still, she keeps up her cheerful demeanor as she addresses Cashier Girl.  “I think we’re good now, right?”

“Uh, yes!”  She takes the money and tries to get a read on Murderer to see if this shift will be her last one, but he’s got his arms crossed as he stares directly ahead.  The stony expression can only spell doom for the two standing next to him.  “Your number is 69,” haha nice, “and your order will be out shortly!”

“Babeep!  Pi-!”  Blue probably tries to make the same comment that Cashier Girl internally made to Murderer, but he’s quickly shut down by the dark glare Murderer shoots down.  He quickly laughs nervously and clears his throat, rubbing his arm as he looks away sheepishly.  “H-hm…  bop.”  Blue takes the receipt and nods his thanks, going over to stand by one of the dividers with Miss Sunshine in tow.  Murderer, however, remains where he stands, now making uncomfortable eye-contact with her.  Anger still rolls off of him in waves, but she’s starting to wonder if being angry is just his default.

“Oi,” he begins, and she quickly glances behind him to see if there are any other customers behind him.  None.  She’s not sure if she’s disappointed or a bit glad that there’s no one standing behind him.  “Honest opinion - you think this joint is a good enough reward for savin’ their asses?”

Oh boy.  Cashier Girl has no idea what he means by “savin’ their asses”, but if he means it literally then…  She sucks in a breath through her teeth and tries not to grimace.  He grunts in response and squeezes his eyes shut with a humorless chuckle.  “Yeah, thought so.  Really shouldn’t have taken them at their word when they said, ‘their treat’.  Ain’t nothin’ been their treat so far.”

Oof.  That’s right.  That five was originally his that Boy Blue was supposed to pay back, and the forty cents were definitely his.  The guy basically treated himself by force.  They both share a silent look before he sighs heavily.  As much as she’d kind of like to hear more of this dude’s story and why he’s even friends (datemates?  They did call Little Boy Blue, “Boyfriend”, after all) with them, she still has a job to do, and chatting with customers for longer than a certain, nondescript time could get her in trouble.  However, much to her relief, the ginger takes the initiative wordlessly and wanders back to the pair, sulking in his blood soaked clothes.  

Despite clearly looking like a group of troublemakers (especially Murderer), the three keep to themselves, Blue and Sunshine chatting amongst themselves and nudging Murderer every once in a while in some dangerous gambit to get his attention.  Each time they do that, he grips his arms tightly, before stiffly looking over to them as they jabber on about something Cashier Girl can’t hear.  All he does is nod and look away, intent on focusing on some spot on the wall and practice what she assumes is deep breathing exercises.  For a dude covered in blood, he’s doing a real good job at showing restraint.

Finally, their number is called.  Little Boy Blue grabs the bag with glee and nods his thanks to her co-worker before heading back to the group.  He practically thrusts the bag into Murderer’s face, and the ginger looks ready to bite his hand off when he catches sight of Blue and Sunshine’s faces.  They both look so… genuinely hopeful?  Like some shitty nuggets and a burger will be enough to quell his fury.  Cashier Girl is about to suck in a sharp breath when his expression softens.  He takes the bag and almost manages a smile, before seeing the blood on Little Boy Blue’s clothes and hardening his expression back into an annoyed glower.

They all leave without much fanfare.  The door slams behind them as she hums to herself, thinking back to this strange group of people who made less trouble than she expected.  A smirk rises to her face before she schools it for the next batch of customers.  

At least she knows now why he still hangs out with those friends of his.  What a softie.

[lurking-umbra]

Bad things happen bingo fill #10: Eating Disorder TW: disordered eating, abusive relationships

When Juno and Diamond were together, Diamond had two rings that they wore all the time, one on each hand, one gold, one silver. Juno still remembered the coolness of them against his cheeks when they cradled his face in their hands, after a nightmare about Ben or when they were apologizing for something they did. Juno hadn't dated anyone who wore rings since, at least not until Nureyev. Nureyev wore an assortment of rings on his fingers, of varying sizes, but somehow they always felt warm against Juno's skin rather than cold like Diamond's. Nureyev took all of them off when the two were in bed together, which helped make it feel different than Diamond.

When Juno and Diamond's relationship started to go bad, if it hadn't been bad to begin with and Juno was just too blind to see it, Diamond began to get rougher and rougher with him. Diamond had always had a temper, blowing up at Juno for small things. Juno still remembered the feel of those rings knocking against his face. As their relationship started to get worse, when the yelling and fighting became closer to once a night rather than only on occasion, Diamond complained that Juno had never bought them anything.

At the beginning of their relationship, Diamond had showered Juno with gifts: skirts and dresses, earrings, alcohol; all more expensive than what Juno could afford with his starting salary at the HCPD. Diamond had been born into money, and when they bought Juno lavish things he could never even hope to afford, they always said it was a gift, because they loved him. Looking back, at some point the gifts had turned from spontaneous delights to apology bribes, given whenever Diamond got really angry and broke his things or hit him.

Diamond had never asked for anything in return, but there wasn't much Juno could buy them that they couldn't get themselves much quicker and easier. Or at least they hadn't asked until things were getting really bad, around the same time they were planning their wedding.

When Diamond demanded for him to buy them something special, Juno had wanted to protest, to say that even though he rarely, if ever, bought them things, he did other things to show he loved them instead. He cooked them elaborate dinners when they were home from work late, he cleaned the apartment they shared from top to bottom, planned extravagant date nights in, and ran them warm baths and gave them massages when they came home with their muscles sore. Things he could do without spending the small amount of free creds he had that didn't go towards necessities. But they wanted more, and Juno was tired of the fighting and getting knocked around. He was tired of being so afraid of treading wrong in his own home, of feeling like he had never really left Oldtown and Sarah Steel. He missed Benten and the ability to hide behind his brother on the rare occasions when he allowed it to happen.

So when Diamond asked for him to buy them something, anything, in time for them to receive it before their wedding, Juno started saving everything he could. It wasn't enough at first, not nearly enough for anything that Diamond would accept, and so he looked at his budget and tried to figure out what he could afford to lose. Most of his salary went towards the rent Diamond charged him for living in their apartment. He often purchased the groceries for the two of them as well, and it didn't take long for Juno to realize that the food would last longer if he didn't eat, like he and Ben would do sometimes when money was tight and their mother hadn't managed to attend work that week. Eating only the bare minimum, making his money stretch further by not purchasing as much food, Juno could do that for Diamond. He could sacrifice the occasional lunches eaten out at the HCPD, eat less on the few times when Diamond insisted on sharing a meal together. If being hungry was what it took to make Diamond happy, Juno didn't mind starving to death, if that was where this was headed.

He could tell Rita worried when he started working through lunch, and he tried to reassure her that he had a big breakfast, or that he would eat while he worked, or that he was saving room for a big fancy dinner date with Diamond. 

Juno wasn't sure when skipping meals to save money became a habit, but he had saved up enough money to buy Diamond a very nice engagement ring, a sign of his commitment to the relationship, within a few months. Diamond had been so happy and things were really good for a short time. They continued to be good, up until the week before the wedding, when everything fell apart so rapidly. 

Some of the details from then were still a little foggy to Juno, the lack of food catching up to him all at once, it seemed, and the stress of both the wedding and Diamond's own stress doing much to continue to keep him from eating. Juno had passed out at work twice in that week, and was once so dizzy while on a foot chase that he had run into a wall.

Even now, years after all of that had happened, Juno still found himself eating less when he thought someone was mad or frustrated with him. It happened less often than it had while he was with Diamond, but Juno had yet to be in any relationship where things were perfectly smooth all the time. So when Nureyev was mad at him for nearly sacrificing himself on a job, Juno stopped eating.

He wasn't sure how it was supposed to help, but it did mean that Juno could avoid being in public spaces with Nureyev. He didn't need to go into the kitchen to eat with the rest of the crime family when he had a small stash of non-perishables hidden in his room that he could eat from when the dizziness started to impede his ability to work. Both Rita and Buddy made mention of seeing him less often in the days since his sacrifice attempt, and to appease them, Juno went back to eating at least one meal a day with the crew, though that was often the only meal he would eat that day. When he thought he could get away with just moving his food around his plate, he did so. His missed meals didn't come to a head until nearly two weeks later when Nureyev stumbled upon Juno half collapsed in the middle of a hallway as he waited for the dizziness impeding his visual field to go away.

"Juno?" Peter asked, and Juno did his best to ignore the way his head throbbed when he attempted to look up at him, only for his field of vision to be the barest of pinpricks surrounded by odd bursts of color. "What on earth are you doing in the middle of the hallway?"

"Can't a lady spend some time alone in a hallway?" Juno asked as he leaned into the wall and pulled himself up to his feet. He startled badly at the feel of hands on his arms, banging his head into the wall and sending his vision into utter darkness.

"Juno?" Peter repeated, and Juno could hear the concern in his voice even as he remained the only thing keeping Juno upright at the moment.

Juno's vision cleared slowly and he could finally see Peter's face and the worry that lined it. He hadn't seen Peter very often since they had their disagreement and he found his heart lifting at the sight of his face. "Hey hon," Juno said with a grin, as he finally gained his footing once more rather than leaning on Peter. The dizziness had finally faded, although the pounding of his head that replaced it wasn't really any better.

"Do you… need to see Vespa?" Peter asked slowly, looking Juno up and down. "How hard did you hit your head and what happened before that?" 

"I'm fine," Juno assured him, stepping out of Peter's grip and moving in the direction of his room. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, and that was probably overdoing it. He could grab a granola bar from his stash and he would be fine for the next day or so.

"Juno, you just nearly passed out when I touched you," Peter said, trailing behind him and reaching out for him once more. Juno forced his muscles to stiffen rather than flinch back like he wanted. Diamond had not been so gentle when they were angry with him, even though Juno wasn't sure why he was thinking about them so much or when it had even started.

"It would ease my mind if you would get Vespa to look at you, at the very least."

"Yeah, I will," Juno said despite making no move to turn and head towards the infirmary.

"That's not in the direction of the infirmary."

"I know!" Juno snapped, turning around to face Peter head on. His head gave a particularly bad throb at the rapid motion, but his vision remained clear at least. "I'll go later, okay?" he offered in a softer tone.

"I would much prefer that you go now." 

"I've barely seen you at all recently and now you decide to care about my wellbeing?"

"I would have seen you more if you didn't seem so intent on avoiding me," Peter said with a frown. "The little time we've spent together isn't for lack of trying on my part."

"Oh," Juno said softly. He wasn't quite sure of what to do with the fact that Peter still wanted to spend time with him. "But… aren't you... mad at me?"

Peter stared at Juno for a long minute. Juno resisted the urge to fidget, though he found that he couldn't quite meet Peter's eyes. 

"I am… frustrated with you, yes," Peter began haltingly. "But I am coming to realize that speaking with one another would do much to improve the situation."

"You've been talking with Buddy, haven't you?" Juno asked, a small grin stretching across his face.

"She does tend to offer advice an awful lot for someone who claims not to be a therapist, though I can't help but agree with her in this case." Peter reached out to touch Juno's arm gently and slowly, telegraphing his intentions clearly. This time Juno didn't flinch away, wasn't startled or scared by it. This was Nureyev, the man who trusted him so much that he gave him his name, not Diamond. "Would you be agreeable to us talking?"

"Sure."

The two of them moved down the hall once more, this time in step with one another. Peter let Juno choose where to go, and so he led them into his room. Juno thought about grabbing a granola bar once they were inside, but the thought of trying to eat anything while having a serious conversation about their relationship tied his stomach into knots. Later, then. Peter sat down on the bed and Juno took a seat beside him, just barely within arms reach.

"I must admit that I am not entirely sure of why you were avoiding me," Peter started, once it was clear that Juno was not going to say anything. "I was upset the first few days afterwards, but when I wanted to speak with you, you made yourself difficult to get alone."

"I…" Juno trailed off as he realized that there really was no reason for him to have avoided Peter. He had fallen into old habits from a relationship that hadn't existed for years. "I'm sorry, Nureyev. I wasn't… I wasn't thinking."

"Well you always seem to be thinking something, my dear. You don't have to answer, but perhaps it would help if you shared your thoughts? Or told me what I did wrong at the very least, so that I can do my best to avoid doing so again."

"It's not something you did wrong. I messed up. I knew you were angry at what I did, so I…" Juno huffed, running a hand over his hair before standing up to pace. "It's been years since then, but for some awful reason this reminded me of--" Juno cut himself off before he said their name, as though saying their name would bring them back into his life somehow. He knew it wouldn't and yet he felt terrified at the thought of speaking it out loud. "Someone I dated," Juno continued. "And when they were angry at me they… they weren't nearly so nice."

"Oh Juno," Peter said softly from the bed.

When Juno spun around to face him, the dizziness from before came back with a vengeance, sending him collapsing to the floor as the pounding in his head drowned out all sound for a few long moments.

When Juno came back to awareness, he was sitting on the bed, leaning into Peter's side. Peter held him to his side and upright with one arm as he tapped at his comms with the other.

"What're you doing?" Juno slurred, sitting up slightly even though the movement made his head throb.

"Asking Vespa to come look you over."

"I'm fine," Juno said, reaching out clumsily for Peter's comms. He lifted it easily out of Juno's reach and so he slumped back into Peter's side in defeat. "Just a little dizzy. Nothing a granola bar won't fix."

"Juno, you passed out," Peter said, placing the comms down and wrapping his other arm around Juno as well. Juno melted into the embrace. He had missed this. "I'm worried that you may have given yourself a concussion."

"It's not a concussion," Juno mumbled into Peter's chest. 

"I'll be the judge of that," Vespa rasped from where she stood in the doorway.

"That was fast," Juno muttered as Vespa moved towards the bed. She took out a pen light and shined it into Juno's eye, watching the pupil contract and expand. She then had Peter move away from Juno to perform a few other tests.

"You seem fine," she grumbled once she was satisfied. "You probably don't have a concussion, but Ransom here said you passed out twice."

"It wasn't twice," Juno protested. "Just the one time, the first time I was just very dizzy." 

Vespa narrowed her eyes at Juno. "And have these dizzy spells been happening often? I know you don't have any other conditions that would cause that."

Juno very carefully did not look at either of the other occupants of the room. "I… I may have not been eating enough. ...These past few weeks."

"Juno!" "Steel!" Peter and Vespa yelled his name in admonition simultaneously and Juno winced at the combined volume. 

"I didn't mean to," Juno snapped. "I just… fell back into bad habits."

Vespa eyed Juno warily. "And what are you going to do now that you've realized?"

Juno shrugged. "Do better next time, I guess." 

Vespa nodded. "Eat some food so you don't pass out. A real meal, with balanced nutrients. There's some leftovers from last night still in the fridge." That said, Vespa left, the door closing behind her.

"She has such a wonderful bedside manner, don't you think?" Juno joked.

"Juno." Peter had been frowning since Juno mentioned the reason for his dizzy spells, and Juno realized how much he disliked seeing that expression on him, especially when he was the one to put it there.

"Would it help if I say I'm sorry?" Juno asked hesitantly.

Peter sighed wearily. "It's a start, I suppose, but Juno, why haven't you been eating? I understand why you wanted to avoid me now, but why would you not eat?"

Juno focused down on the edge of the sheets on the bed, flipping it back and forth between his hands. "Back when I… when I was dating…" Juno cut himself off with a huff and tried again. "The person I mentioned before? At one point they… we… I… they wanted me to buy something I couldn't easily afford. But I wanted to be good for them, I wanted things to be good between us and so I… I cut out what expenses I could."

"And food was one of them," Peter extrapolated with a frown.

"And food was one of them," Juno echoed with a nod. "You can make food stretch longer if you eat less of it, and that saves creds. It… was not a concept that I was unfamiliar with, and it worked. And for a while after things were much better than they had been for a long time, and so I just… kept going, in the hopes that they would stay that good."

"I suppose I would be remiss if I said I didn't understand the concept as well," Peter said with a sigh. "I only wish you hadn't felt the need to fall back into bad habits."

"Like I said, Nureyev, it wasn't entirely intentional. But once I realized what I was doing, it felt like it was too late to stop. It was… surprisingly easy to pick up again and now I have to remember how to stop it."

"We can help. The whole crew can ensure that you get adequate food and nutrients." Peter stood up from the bed and held out a hand for Juno to take.

Juno rolled his eye but took the offered limb, leaning into Peter a little more when his head spun dizzily as he stood. "I sure hope you don't intend to be supplying any of those meals."

Peter squawked indignantly but didn't make any other protest. Juno grinned up at him as he leaned back into his side before leaning up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Peter's cheek.

"Thank you for being so understanding. And supportive. I…" Diamond wouldn't have been much of either. "It's been a while since I was dating someone who cared about me like this."

"And you deserve that and more, Juno. You are a wonderful lady," Peter said with a frown, pausing at the door to the kitchen. 

"Why thank you, Ransom," Juno said with a grin. He lowered his voice and his smile fell slightly. "I'm trying to remember that myself sometimes."

"Well rest assured, I will do everything in my power to remind you of it when you need it."

Juno leaned up and pressed a kiss to Peter's lips, leaning into the kiss when Peter kissed back. When they finally pulled back, Juno was unsure if his dizziness was due to the lack of food or the lack of oxygen. "Thank you in advance."

"Oh it's my pleasure. Now which of our leftovers would you like?" Peter punctuated his statement with a wave of his hand in the direction of the refrigerator.

Juno opened the door to look at his options, and felt his mood sinking at the thought of eating any of them. He knew that he should, knew that he needed to, but he hadn't been lying to Peter when he said that he had to remember how to stop this habit all over again. He grabbed a container randomly, grimacing down at it when he realized what it was. He put the container back and grabbed for one that had some kind of noodles. Noodles were safe, some of the first meals Juno had cooked for himself and Ben when they were younger. The soup that had been in the other container on the other hand, well, Juno had been avoiding soup ever since his trip into Miasma's mind. There was just something about the whole experience that had set him off soup entirely.

Juno took the container to the table where Peter was sitting, a plate and fork set in the place across from him. He used the fork to scoop out some of the noodles from the container, feeling Peter's eyes on him. Instead of feeling reassured, as Peter likely intended, he just felt watched and judged.

"You don't really want to just sit there and watch me eat, do you?" Juno asked half jokingly, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. He turned to put the plate in the microwave, more to do something than because he had any interest in the food, despite the fact that it had been a while since he'd last eaten. 

"Is that all you're eating?" Peter asked rather than answer Juno's question.

Juno stiffened in response, not needing to turn around to know that Peter had a frown on his face. He turned to face Peter slowly, having to remind himself that he wasn't Diamond and that this was different. Peter asked because he cared and was worried. 

"I figured I'd start small," he replied softly. "I can always warm up more if I'm hungry after." The microwave dinged before Peter had the time to respond and Juno was able to turn away from Peter once more. "I've done this before, remember?"

Peter hummed agreeably and Juno grabbed the plate and moved to sit in the seat across from him. He stirred the noodles on his plate, eyeing it warily. He knew from experience that despite his body's insistence on additional food, actually eating would be a bit of an unpleasant chore at first. He also knew that pushing his food around on his plate wouldn't work when there was nothing to distract Peter from his eating habits. He sighed softly before taking a small bite, feeling hyperaware of his chewing and the sensation of the noodles and sauce in his mouth. He swallowed his mouthful down against the wave of nausea that washed over him. This was the worst part of this process, forcing his body to adjust to regularly getting food again.

Juno looked down at the plate of food still left for him to eat and resisted the urge to sigh heavily at the sight. Even that small amount of food felt like an insurmountable task. He glanced up at Peter from beneath his eyelashes, training his gaze back on his plate when he saw Peter watching him intently.

"Juno," Peter drawled, causing Juno to look up at him once more. "Did I ever tell you about the time I stole the ring of Saturn?"

"You stole one of the rings?" Juno asked flatly.

Peter grinned in a way that showed off the points of his teeth. "Not one of the planetary rings, my dear. This was a physical ring, though quite ostentatious, even for my tastes."

Juno snorted. "And just how showy is that? You have a very high bar."

Peter continued to speak, weaving the tale of his heist bit by bit, leaning into the dramatics even more than usual. Juno wasn't sure why until his fork scraped across the bottom of the plate and found nothing. He looked down and realized that all of the contents were gone, and looked back up to see Peter smiling gently. 

"Did you want more, dear?" He asked.

Juno shook his head and stood to place his plate and fork in the washer. "I see what you did there though. … thank you."

"Anytime, dear. Now shall we retreat to your room or mine?"

"Mine, I guess," Juno said after a moment of thought. "If I get hungry again, I have a store of granola bars."

Peter nodded and offered his elbow to Juno. "Away we go."

It didn't take long for the two of them to arrive at Juno's room once more. Juno sat on the bed, pulling Peter up behind him, and rearranging until they were leaned up against the headboard with Juno curled up to Peter's side, Peter's arm around his shoulders.

"Thanks again for everything," Juno managed after a few moments of comfortable silence.

"Any time my dear."

"I'm sorry that I get stuck in my head so easily. I don't…" Juno trailed off as he tried to figure out how to say what he wanted. "I know you're not them. You're very different, but sometimes my brain… sometimes I forget that."

"Well, I will do my best to remind you, I suppose."

"Doesn't it bother you?" Juno asked, his nose wrinkling in a frown. "I shouldn't need you to remind me that you're not… them."

"Juno," Peter said sadly and Juno turned his face slightly to bury it in Peter's shoulder. Peter ran a hand over Juno's head and down his back. "If it makes things easier for you, I am willing to do whatever you need. I don't mind. I know you would do the same for me." Peter's hand slowed in stroking Juno's back as he hesitated for a second. "I would rather not see you pass out from not eating again."

Juno hummed noncommittally in his throat, opening the eye that had closed at the soothing sensation of Peter stroking his back. He stared at the fabric of Peter's shirt, achingly aware of the fact that he didn't want to have this conversation. "I… I'm not sure I can make that promise. You can ask Rita, back when I tried to kick the habit the first time it was… not easy. Sometimes I'm going to forget."

"Like I said before, Juno, I'm willing to step in and remind you, or check in to make sure that you've eaten recently, if that's what you need."

"Yeah, that… that sounds good." He closed his eye once more, focusing on the gentle feel of Peter's hands on his body, one stroking up and down on his back as the other came to rest gently on top of his hair.

He hadn't eaten much, but he already felt a little better, the constant throbbing in his head receding and the dizziness gone. Curled up in Peter's arms, he felt safe, like he could rest for the first time since all of this happened. Peter wasn't angry with him, and even if he was, he wasn't Diamond. Juno didn't have to worry about jumping through hoops in order to salvage their relationship. Juno could relax and know that he'd be okay, that they would be okay, and if they weren't, they would talk about it. 

"Are you falling asleep on me, dear?" Peter asked amusedly, after a long but comfortable silence.

"Maybe," Juno hummed, already partway there.

"Are you aware that it's the middle of the day?"

"Don't you know that that's the best time for napping, Nureyev?" Juno asked, looking up at Peter with a sappy grin. 

"I can't say I've ever had the chance to try it."

Juno's grin widened. "Try it with me now. You can see how nice it is and we can both wake up to the rest of the crew calling us for dinner, confused at what day it is."

Peter was quiet for a few pointed moments. "And you call that good?"

"Oh, yeah. The best kind of naps are the ones that make you forget where and when you are when you wake up."

Peter grimaced. "I'm not sure I see the benefit, but feel free to take a nap if you feel the urge."

"Already on it," Juno replied, snuggling further into Peter's side. He felt more than heard the soft chuckle Peter let out at his response. 

"Sleep well, Juno."

[astoldbygingersnaps]

On Petco and COVID-19:

I’ve seen a lot of stories and reports about various companies and how they are treating their employees poorly in the wake of COVID-19, but to my surprise I haven’t seen anything about my company, Petco. I suppose it makes sense, given that Petco isn’t as large a company as Target, Starbucks, or Walmart, but I believe people should know what we as partners have been dealing with since the outbreak really picked up steam in the US. 

Before I detail exact what my personal struggle with the company has been, I’d like to make one thing clear: I am a hard worker. I have spent five years of my life--half a decade--dedicating myself to this company. I am both a dog trainer and a keyholder, and I take both of those duties very seriously. Nothing means more to me than taking care of pets and their people, and I pride myself on providing the best care and service to our guests as possible. So when I say that this entire situation is forcing me to abandon my job out of disgust for the way I and my fellow workers have been treated, I want you to understand how much that means. 

I love the work that I do, but that does not change the fact that I, along with many other Petco partners, have been exploited, dismissed, and outright lied to during this crisis. While I understand that we are living in a dangerous and chaotic time that is difficult to navigate, such a fact makes it all the more necessary to treat people with dignity, compassion, and respect. I do not enjoy putting an organization that I have given so much of my heart and soul to on blast, but the events of the previous month have made it clear that Petco as a company does not care whether or not its employees or even its customers are harmed or killed because of their negligence.

For almost a month our concerns have been ignored, belittled, and redirected, and the little action that has been taken has been incredibly delayed and led to even more confusion. Furthermore, we’ve had little clear guidance on what we, as partners who work in retail stores, should be doing to take care of ourselves and our guests. 

It is also worth noting that our CEO, Ron Coughlin, was sending out emails to Petco Pals Rewards members in the beginning of March claiming that stores would be instructed to disinfect and clean regularly, but no such instructions were ever given. We never received any emails or forms of internal communication telling partners on how they should be cleaning, and because of this my own store took time out of our day to develop a cleaning schedule and shared our template throughout the district. Again, this is something we did OURSELVES, NOT something we were explicitly told to do. So, if you don’t care about how retail workers have been treated, at least care that you, as a customer, have been lied to. 

From the beginning, there has been a very clear divide in how store partners have been treated compared to corporate/office workers. While corporate/office workers have the luxury of working from home with full benefits and are allowed to perform social distancing to the CDC’s guidelines, we are not so lucky. Again, I understand this, to a point: because of their positions they are able to perform their jobs from home while we are not. But such a decision was consistently framed as “difficult” and “emotional,” which, frankly, is bogus. What’s so hard about giving your employees access to work from their personal computer? And what’s so difficult for them anyway considering they’re not the ones who have to come in contact with the public day after day?

Through the second week in March, numerous communications were spread throughout the company on our internal Workplace service, each one more inadequate and inefficient than the last. The worst was a ten minute long video where our CEO repeatedly stated that “pets are our main priority” and described over and over again how we simply MUST stay open for our customers. It wasn’t until the very end of the video that any mention was given to partners at all. The entire post was incredibly off-putting and made me, as a partner, feel incredibly undervalued. 

What made things worse, however, were the comments under the video. Floods of partners shared their concerns and disappointments. Many of them cited having young children or older relatives at home, or were immunocompromised themselves, and worried about the danger that working in a retail environment put themselves and their loved ones in. And what was the company’s response? To tell these people over and over to simply “partner with their district manager if they were worried.” That’s it. No direction, no guidance, no words of comfort. Nothing. One person was even accused of simply not having a desire to work rather than, I dunno, A FEAR OF CONTRACTING AND SPREADING A DEADLY ILLNESS. 

The post in question (all names have been blacked out to respect privacy): 

It was some of the most vile behavior I have ever witnessed, both from upper management and lower-level employees like myself who were displaying an almost slavish devotion to a company that was so ready and willing to dispose of them. Multiple people stated they were proud to work for our company in this moment, which was utterly baffling to me, as I had never felt more worthless to Petco than I did seeing those messages.

So! Let’s talk about partnering with your local leader! (Spoiler alert: it’s fucking useless)

On March 15th, my direct supervisor and I made a call to our district leader to “discuss our concerns.” What followed was thirty minutes of our life wasted where we were told the exact same thing as we had been told via the Workplace post: no partner would lose their job for taking time off if they displayed symptoms or came into contact with a person who had COVID-19 (the absolute bare minimum, in my opinion), but they would be required to either take a fourteen day unpaid medical leave or use their personal PTO and sick time to cover the cost. Around this time I was both showing symptoms (dry cough, fatigue, shortness of breath) and learned that my fiancee, whom I live with, came into direct contact with someone with the illness via her work. The possibility of contracting COVID-19 was especially worrying for us, as my fiancee has severe asthma and I have scarring on my lungs from chronic bronchitis; were we to get sick, the consequences could be severe. It’s even more concerning given that the state we live in, Massachusetts, has one of the highest rates of infection in the US and hospitals are in danger of becoming overwhelmed. Therefore, I decided to make what I believed was the most responsible and ethical decision, and went on leave. 

Fortunately, I am lucky; as a full-time worker who has been with the company for many years, I have accrued enough PTO and sick time to cover the weeks that I would be gone for. But many people who work for this company are not so lucky. Many are part-time workers who are not entitled to benefits, and some are full-timers who may have already burned through their paid time off as it resets on the anniversary of your hire date. So now these workers, like many other workers across the country, are being asked to choose between taking care of themselves and their community or putting food on the table. It is absolutely inhumane, especially given that last time I checked our CEO is worth more than two million dollars--yet the rest of us are forced to worry about paying our rent and feeding our families while we do the dirty work on the front lines. 

Since I initially took leave, this has been amended, and employees who have been affected by COVID-19 have been given access to 40 hours of sick time, regardless of their status as full or part-time. But that only covers one week of the mandatory self-isolation period, meaning partners are still at risk of losing money. 

Time and time again we have been told how much our overlords value us. We have been thanked, we have been praised, and we have had so many meaningless words and tiny gestures thrown at us. Sure, our store hours have been cut and we’re offering curbside pick-up to reduce foot traffic in certain stores (my store, a smaller Unleashed location, doesn’t qualify for curbside pick-up, because of our size). Sure, changes have been made to the dog training program to freeze classes and puppy playtime for the time being. And sure, there has been a partner assistance fund opened to support partners in these ~trying times. I applaud the company for making these necessary changes and for putting their money where their mouth is when it comes to donating directly to us.

But in a lot of ways, it’s too little, too late, and so many of these services remain inaccessible to all partners. Hell, partners have even been policed about when they can actually utilize their own personal sick time even though we are in the middle of a global health crisis. 

Even for those of us who have done everything exactly as we were supposed to, we are still getting screwed. Currently, I’m battling with Petco HR to get paid for the first week of my self-isolation as, even though I submitted all my time off requests accurately, none of it was reflected in my paycheck; because we get paid by-weekly, I have yet to see whether my second week will be covered, but I suspect I will have to battle for that as well. As a person who lives paycheck to paycheck in one of the most expensive cities in the country, I quite literally can’t afford this right now. But, of course, the HR team is off work right now because of COVID-19, because unlike us they have that luxury. 

In addition to this, I’ve also been prevented from coming back to work because our Leaves Coordinator now claims I need a doctor’s note to return to work even though I have it in writing, from paperwork directly from the Leaves Department, that I do not, as evidenced here:

I would also like to note that I confirmed that I would be returning to work on the afternoon of March 27th and received an automatic reply that I would hear from a representative in 24 to 48 hours. I did not, in fact, hear back from a representative until March 30st at 11:59pm EST, ten hours before I was scheduled to return to work, as you can see here (again, I am hiding my personal information as much as possible to try and avoid retaliation from my employer): 

While I understand delays given that our HR and Leaves Departments are no doubt bogged down given how many employees are currently in the same boat as me, it does not change the fact that I am suffering because of their lack of action. 

It would be one thing if the facts had been clearly communicated from the very beginning, but as you can see that’s very much not the case. Instead, I’ve been jerked around, lied to, and, again, had my pay withheld. Every day I spend at home fighting with these people is another day of pay I lose and cannot get back. Words cannot express how terrible this whole experience has been. I’ve cried nearly every day and been so anxious and depressed I’ve literally vomited from the stress. All the years I’ve spent building my career and taking care of clients while earning money for this company and this is the thanks I get in return. It is quite literally sickening. 

Throughout this entire process I and many of the Petco employees in my area have been treated like absolute garbage. The stores in our district are running on fumes because so many partners are sick and/or on leave. Employees are running entire stores on their own and not getting breaks because we’re so short-staffed. One store in our district even closed down because a groomer tested positive for COVID-19 leading to the entire store shutting down and being professionally cleaned... and then re-opened almost immediately, causing even more of a burden on the remaining employees scrambling to cover all these near-empty locations. Our technology is over-loaded and crashing because it can’t bear the weight of our increased Buy Online, Pick Up In Stores (BOPUS) and curbside pick-up orders. It’s absolute insanity and it needs to stop. 

I am not the first person to say this, nor will I be the last, but the crisis we are currently experiencing has starkly exposed how broken our economic and social structures truly are. Along with doctors, nurses, and medical care professionals working in hideous conditions to keep the rest of us healthy and safe, the people who contribute the most to our communities are those that have traditionally been looked upon as unskilled and overall less-than: janitors, housekeepers, garbagemen, cashiers, shelf-stockers, etc. Very quickly public perception has turned, and now society as a whole knows what those of us who work these types of jobs have always known: we are essential. We have the power in society. And we should use that power to defend ourselves and each other, which is why I’m writing to you now. By shining a light on the flaws and failings of this company, I believe we can hold them and others like them accountable and demand better, because we absolutely deserve it. 

The bottom line is this: if you care about workers’ rights, if you value the safety and lives of your fellow humans, and if want to slow the spread of this disease that has upended everything we hold dear, don’t go to Petco. Don’t reward this company’s bad behavior with your money because they have proven they do not deserve it. 

[zelvyth]

 From a very young age it was reinforced that my ADHD was a disability I was meant to overcome rather than a tool I could use to better myself. I didn’t even know that I had been diagnosed, and that my mother had chosen not to medicate me, until I was partway through highschool. By that point I had already begun to give up on ever truly “making it” in life. The hurdles I needed to overcome had demoralized me to the point of near total apathy. Between my sexuality and early coming out in a small town highschool, and my various mental health problems, I felt like no one in the world saw things from my point of view. The last blow to my self esteem came when my grade 12 english teacher, the true decider of fate to any young person, told me my final thesis on Lady Macbeth being one of the greatest example of the flaws in Machiavelli’s “The Prince” was brilliant, but due to formatting and scattered grammar issues, she could give me no higher than a 60%. After years of getting consistent high 90’s in my english classes as well as other subjects, I had failed this extremely crucial essay due to the idiosyncrasies of the most frustrating language known to humankind. I passed that class with a 68, and felt like my fate was sealed. No chance at getting into any University in the country without redoing 5 months of work because one person believed that following the rules was a more important indication of intelligence than original ideas and the ability to make an argument. It crushed me. I admit that I didn’t put in the effort, but I had spent my entire life being told I was incredibly intelligent. It was the one thing I held onto. I felt betrayed by the education system. Though it was also due to many other factors at the time, this contributed to the second of my four suicide attempts. Today, I reject that philosophy. 

    When a person with ADHD is thinking, they connect ideas in their heads much faster than the average person. It can be confusing and disorienting to the people around them. I constantly have to explain how I got from point A to point B because the points connect automatically in my head. It’s exhausting, so I frequently do not bother to try. It’s extremely helpful when crafting an argument, however it can be debilitating in many aspects of modern life. Things the average person doesn’t think about, can be crippling for me. Without a true passion towards something, my ability to focus becomes hazy and my thoughts become scattered. I spend the majority of the day stuck in my head having conversations with myself instead of doing “normal” things with my time. I have spent my life being told that ADHD is my weakness, today I can tell you with the utmost certainty that it is my greatest strength.

    When the international pandemic of the respiratory disease “Covid-19” truly began and the world went into full nationwide lockdown, the bistro that I had, for the most part, happily been employed at shut down. After 8 years of honing my culinary craft certain that my skills, though undervalued, would always be needed somewhere, I was out of a job. Indefinitely. So was most of the country that worked with their hands or, in some capacity, physically with other people. Unless you were able to conduct business through zoom conferences or were a suddenly “essential” employee like a fast food worker, you were left with little to do but sit and think or try desperately to distract yourself from the increasingly troubling world around you. Luckily, to my surprise, the conservative government had pledged to keep us all fed and watered as best they could. What deeply worried me was the knowledge that my friends south of the border, through no fault of their own, and already mostly furious with their government, were not being treated with the same bare minimum of respect. I knew it was a recipe for true disaster and widespread civil unrest as early as march.

    I watched while the culture of social media, at least from my own lgbt bias, slowly started to shift and I picked up a lot of the big picture through memes and personally shared anecdotes. Celebrities were being ripped apart as they tried to get our attention again from their huge mansions while people sat at home worried about how to feed their children. Using insensitive phrasing like “we’re all in this together” when they undeniably weren’t. It quickly became a social caste system. The desperately poor trying to creatively make money any way they could. The often needlessly endangered. And the upper class for whom, little had changed besides the inability to do whatever they want at any given time. The lines were very clearly drawn. While the rich bemoaned their accessibility to haircuts, the poor argued with landlords about rent. All the while another group was frequently paid minimum wage to work on the proverbial front lines; flipping hamburgers, being yelled at by the rich because you were out of everything with the supply chain so damaged, or literally saving peoples lives. The anger and frustration quickly took over nearly every form of social media. Subtly, but day by day it grew. There was only so much one could do from inside their apartments, and globally, the havenots found solace and comfort with one another. The narratives of meme culture, which had matured and specialized far beyond the early days of “lolcats” and “trollface” comics, became almost exclusively about mocking the rich and their inability to deal with slight inconveniences.

Nearly every month of 2020 was a new major nationwide crisis and people had little else to do but talk about it or ignore it. The year kicked off with serious threat of a third world war because Donald Trump was tweeting intentionally inflammatory remarks towards the fascist leader of North Korea. All while nearly the entire country of Australia was ravaged by forest/bush fire. January saw a clearly corrupt president unbelievably not be impeached. Sparking outrage among, in my humble opinion, any sane individual. This also exposed, to anyone who knew all the facts, that the systems to hold those in power accountable was clearly broken and corruptible. Towards the end of January, beloved basketball player Kobe Bryant died in a horrible helicopter accident involving his daughter. Late February leading into early March was when global fears over Coronavirus began to be taken extremely seriously by every government in the world, the exception being the United States and the Trump administration. By late April, the country had over a hundred thousand dead, and nearly a quarter of its population out of a job. The irony of this, is that the calls to reopen the country didn’t come from those that had lost their jobs, but the upper class that had grown restless deprived from their usual comforts. Meanwhile we openly mocked them on instagram, tumblr, and twitter. Trying desperately to make light of a horrible situation and bring at least a little levity to their lives. News that a new breed of dangerously fatal hornets had migrated to North America was derided as a filler episode. One of my personal favourite takes on the year as a whole so far was a comparison to the four horseman of the apocalypse. January representing War, February representing Pestilence, March representing Famine, and April representing Death. In fact a lot of meme culture started to take on an extremely apocalyptic vibe. The message for many was clear, and depressing.

Then things started to happen really fast, so fast that for many it would make your head spin looking at it from the outside. It began with a video featuring a white Canadian woman from Waterloo named Amy Cooper that went viral across the globe. In the Ramble area of Central Park in NYC, this woman was filmed by a clearly peaceful, yet insistent, black man named Christian Cooper, no relation, asking her to leash her dog. This is a bylaw of the area. The woman refused and began to become very distressed, roughly handling her dog by the collar. She started dailing 911 and accused the man of assaulting her to the dispatcher. What many understood about this act, and rightfully called her out in outrage over, is that she was using her knowledge of how police handle black people in America to threaten this mans life over leashing her dog. She has been fired, and the shelter has taken her dog back.

Two days later, as I was travelling to my family’s cottage to “get away from it all and unplug”, a friend sent me a snapchat video from Minneapolis. It was on fire. I immediately did everything I could to try to find out what had happened. That, is when I saw the video of 8 minutes and 46 seconds of a police officer with his knee on the neck of another human being. This did not shock, nor suprise me. I had followed the many accounts of police killing people on video since 2014 when I was 16. When the Ferguson protests over Michael Brown’s killing by police officers were broadcast over most of the developed world. I had seen little change, despite Barrack Obama being President. This continued to happen for the next 6 years, though there were no more protests. Some of the people of those original protests that started the Black Lives Matter Movement, went missing over the next several years. Mainly those that had been photographed.

George Floyd’s death, I feel, was the straw that broke the camels’ back. Which is how anyone who has personally experienced police mistreatment and injustice would understand watching that video. A societal contract had been broken. And Minneapolis started to burn down the city that would let this happen to their friend, their neighbour, their father, their brother, and most importantly, their son. The words that chilled me to my very core… And continue to make me cry when I think about. Continue to make me want to punch every cop I run into.The words that have caused me to continue having this argument every day with everyone I know. The words that make me want to scream and rage and burn that country to the ground….  “Mama”

In his dying breaths this man called out to his mother. Who had died 2 years earlier. Who could not come save him. The police officer casually, with his hands in his pockets, knowing he could get away with it, murdered that man while he called out for his dead mother. Suffocated him to death in the middle of a global pandemic driven by respiratory disease. If I had been in Minneapolis that night, I would have helped burn it to the ground.

Something I didn’t expect happened then. Something I didn’t expect when I saw the fires and the rage from mostly black citizens of the city. As I watched Fox News try to turn the story into a conversation about rioting and looting rather than Police accountability. Other peaceful protests started up in other cities. My entire social media feed from multiple sources was filled with people discussing their anger and vowing to protest it. I don’t like to admit that I didn’t see this coming. But on May 26th, as I ravenously tried to keep up from the comfort of a cottage on Crystal Lake Ontario, a spark of hope for humanity that I had lost a long time ago started to ignite.

Something interesting happens when you get most of your information from social media. It either makes you hyper critical of everything you’re told and willing to research anything important, or it makes you willing to believe anything your friends tell you. As the protests kicked off in major cities across America, after months of inactivity, my ADHD kicked into high gear. I used every neuron of my brain power to follow the protests from as many different angles as I could. Most importantly, I followed the story from the people who were at them. That’s what growing up in modern society makes you do. After months if not years if not decades of being lied to for personal gain constantly. It makes you pay attention to the people who have nothing to gain.

I got back to my appartment from my cottage a day later, still glued to my phone. Barely talking, barely eating, barely sleeping. I watched police officers in riot gear throw tear gas into peaceful protests in every city in America. Tear gas, by the way, is an international war crime in combat situations. I watched media with an implicitly right wing bias condemn the protests. Convincing people that looting was worth a war crime. I watched it work. It worked with my own father. It did not work for me. I watched the news from political biases of both sides but took most of it with a grain of salt. That’s what I had been taught to do from as young as 14 by the world I grew up in. The news could give me general information. However, the story was on the ground and I knew from experience that people would try to bury it so I had to watch it as quickly as possible. I watched friends of mine in the states get tear gassed and beaten while exercising their first amendment rights. I watched the news condemn the protests. I was horrified. I watched the peaceful protesters of police brutality in New York get beaten and gassed from a minimum of 30 different perspectives of the people I knew and trusted, and those I didn’t. I watched the peaceful protestors in LA get beaten and gassed from the same amount of perspectives. I watched them throw flash bombs and shoot rubber coated bullets into the faces of my friends in every city in America. I watched the President of the United States order the peaceful protestors in front of the White House to be beaten and gassed so he could have an awkward photo-op with a fucking bible. I watched this for a week straight from every angle available. Day in and day out. Every hour I was conscious, I watched fascism try to grab power in in every city in America. I watched people in powerful positions deny it.

It wasn’t just paying attention to the protests and the news of them explicitly. I wasn’t just filled with horror. I was also watching something wonderfully unexpected happen. I watched my black friends, my gay friends, my asain friends, and my intelligent friends, begin to weaponize social media. I watched them beg all of their friends to do the same. So did I, even though I felt like there wasn’t anything I could really do from cozy liberal Waterloo. I watched us all turn the algorithms against the people who made them. I did everything I could to make sure you couldn’t turn away. I told my gay white friends condemning the actions of protestors that his rights came from a riot. I watched them shrink in fear of my voice. My father told me I was getting caught up in left wing rhetoric. I tore his arguments to shreds. He told me broad angry statements don’t do anything. I told him broad angry statements create the conversation we’re having. Resistance is a highway with many lanes, and I knew my lane.

You grow up, especially in my age, especially when you’re gay, especially when you are exposed to a lifetime of stories of rebellion against tyranny, hearing about the power of resistance. As I marched in Waterloo with over thirty thousand people I didn’t know, I realized that I have never truly understood that power. How it surges through your body like electricity as you scream until your voice is hoarse. It’s a high better than any drug known to man, than any pride parade where I was pandered to by corporations for hours. It took my fear, and my anger, and my helplessness and turned it into raw power exploding from my body. I continued to watch people I knew deny reality. 

The protests grew. They spread across the world like wildfire. I went to facebook, a place I avoid because I don’t agree with the majority of people on it, and told anyone who would listen to me that this is what Pride means. What it truly means to be proud of your community. Not a rainbow flag in a store window, not a corporation asking you to buy it’s rainbow backpack. But turning apathy in face of evil into raw unbridled electricity. I watched the protests spread to Montreal and Toronto, I watched the police mishandle things there too. I watched violence perpetuated by the state against my friends, people I’ve known for years. The power I felt merely grew. It grew with every flash grenade and bullet and tear gas canister shot at my friends. It will not subside till this is over or until I die. I’m going to spend the next decade giving up the comfortable life of good food, great drinks, and fantastic company that I found in the restaurant industry. I’m going to spend a decade getting my Law degree to fight for every last one of us in the courtroom because that is a place I can make it count. 

Today is June 8th of the year 2020 and I began writing this piece at Noon, it is now 4:11 P.M. I have done zero editing and I refuse to. I submit this as my revised final essay. I want to know when you got behind the protests. Because if it was as you were reading this, I deem you unworthy to judge my critical thinking skills. If it was yesterday I think you should be ashamed of yourself. I was with them from hour one. You should have been too. How dare you spend years teaching children about racism and oppression. How dare you tell me that I’m not worthy of higher education in any form. Telling children that wikipedia is unreliable as a source is idiotic, it’s one of the most peer reviewed encyclopedia’s to ever exist. How dare you tell me and the young adults you teach that you don’t give out scores higher than ninety percent. What is the point of forcing teenagers to write in cursive. Why must I live the experiences you write about in your precious properly formatted essays. In this country a 68 is two percent shy of getting into any University.  It’s sentencing an intelligent person with an array of disabilities a life of believing they have no power. Despite my own mistakes at the time and the amount I have grown as a person since, I will hold you personally accountable for that. 

As a closing statement, to every English teacher in this province, no, to every English teacher in the great country of Canada. Think very hard about when exactly you put your full support behind this movement. Because your curriculum is outdated, and absolutely useless in the real world. And your racism is showing.

Post Script.

There is no bibliography of unbiased sources because all sources are biased. You have a supercomputer in your pocket and this should all be public information. Look it up.

[dracox-serdriel]

It’s time we stopped saying people take “the easy way out” in medicine

I’d really like to stop hearing people say “people don’t want to make diet and other lifestyle changes, they just want pills” as if people wanting (or not wanting) things occurs in a vaccuum.

There seems to be an understanding that capitalism has made life exceptionally difficult, even for people and families in the so-called middle class. In the USA, even someone who is financial secure -- has savings, a retirement fund, “good” health insurance -- can be set back financially for years for injuries sustained in a car accident.

It seems to me that most people in the USA know that they’re not that far off from financial ruin. All it would take is a serious enough injury - or, worse, a fight to surive something like cancer. Suddenly, you go from being financially secure to screwed, and the system is set up so that you receive no aid until after you’ve depleted your carefully saved funds (and, in some cases, anything considered an “asset”, too).

All that hard work to do “the responsible thing” suddenly means nothing.

So when I hear someone say that “people don’t want to make life style changes -- they just want to pop a pill and fix it,” I have to wonder if this person is just generally unaware of the lurking financial crisis hanging over all our heads, or has -- for reasons unknown -- decided to persist in this ridiculous assumption that other human beings aren’t actually invested in the health of their own bodies.

After a patient hears that they are either fully prediabetic or are close to developing Type 2 Diabetes, do people really think that they don’t care that they’re about to develop a serious illness that will put them at risk for countless other maladies -- including a shortened lifespan?

Do people honestly believe that these individuals persist in their old eating habbits because they can’t be bothered by eating healthier? Isn’t it entirely possible that they have made “poor choices in diet” to due circumstances beyond their control? More specifically, isn’t it possible that those same circumstances are still beyond their control, even after they find out they need to “make a change”?

Isn’t it possible that these individuals “have a lunch break” that rare actually happens because of the “lean and mean” scheduling tactic their employer uses to save money? (Which results in them “grazing” rather than eating a single meal - a notoriously bad thing to do if you’re at risk for Type 2 Diabetes.)

Or maybe that’s not it. Maybe the issue is that when they go to the grocery store, their weekly grocery budget isn’t enough to cover purchasing “healthy” options -- not if they want to eat for the entire week, anyway.

Or maybe it’s not even that. Maybe they have enough money to buy “healthy” foods, but by the time they get home, they’re exhausted and hungry, and don’t have energy to cook -- or simply don’t want to spend over an hour preparing the “healthy” meal they’re supposed to eat that night when they’re hungry right now. (Or, worse, maybe they’re responsible for feeding other family members who are also hungry right now.)

The same goes for exercise. Do people honestly thing that other people don’t exercise because they’re lazy? Because “all people want to do is watch TV”? Really? Surely everyone must know that the vast majority of people like at least one activity that qualifies as exercise. (And if you disagree, think about it for a moment. Is there anyone you know who doesn’t like a single activity where they are moving? Anything. Anything where you are moving is excercise.)

But -- if that’s the case -- why don’t people in the USA exercise enough? If we have the desire, why aren’t we doing it?

It’s the same issue as eating “healthy” -- you need to have the time/money/opportunity to do the actiivty you like that counts as exercise. If you like gardening, you need to own (or have access to) a garden to do it. If you like running, you either need access to indoor equipment or an area where it’s safe to run outside. If you like exercises classes - like spin class or other workouts - you need the money to pay for those classes.

Yes, you can cheaply purchase some lifting weights to “exercise” at home. Hell, you might even be able to come up with an exercise routine that costs you no money at all -- but, there’s no such thing as an exercise routine that doesn’t cost you time -- which is often something people just don’t have, especially if they have to work more than one job, or if they have children/family members they’re responsible for taking care of. Surely, people must know that some people honestly don’t have an “extra” hour - or even an “extra” thirty minutes - for anything.

I’m also sick and tired of hearing stuff like, “Well, their priorities are wrong. They need to put their health first.”

What?

Tell me, isn’t it “healthy” to have adequate shelter and clothing, so as to avoid sunstroke, hypothermia, and other forms of illness and death by exposure? Oh, it is? Then I guess paying rent (and paying for clothing and clothing management) is part of “putting health first.”

Tell me, isn’t it “healthy” to have adequate calorie intake - even if it isn’t rich in nutrients - so that you don’t starve to death and lose your teeth? Oh, it is? Then I guess paying for groceries - even if they’re not all “healthy” foods - is part of “putting health first.”

This idea that people “aren’t putting their health first” because they stick with a crappy job to afford housing and other basic needs -- despite the negative impact on their health -- is ridiculous because leaving a crappy job (without haivng another one lined up) puts their health at even more risk then it is now.

It’s not that people don’t want lifestyle changes -- they don’t “want” a pill to make it better. The ugly truth is, the way things are now, they need a pill to make it better -- they need the fix to be something that won’t risk their livelihood because if they lose their job, they’re at risk for losing everything.

I have a disorder that’s technically systemic (meaning, it affects all systems in the body), though it’s classified as a neurological or a neuroendocrine disorder, since effects the neurological systems and the endocrine/hormone systems of the body directly.

When I first sought treatment, I was given medicine and some basic guidance on things to avoid whenever possible. Doctors explained to me that I needed to make behavioral (aka “lifestyle”) changes, too, but seemed resigned to the idea that I wouldn’t really bother doing more than the bare minimum (that way, I can say I’m following my doctor’s advice, but still be “lazy” or whatever).

For some reason, a lot of medical professionals seem invested in the idea that patient’s don’t make “good lifestyle choices” because we’re lazy - despite the fact that this makes no sense. There’s no logical basis for this assumption. Yet I see this idea everywhere. As if someone was really, really trying to convince us that other people have poor health because of “poor lifestyle choices” that they could change but simply choose not to. They have to work really hard at it, though, because most of us are making “poor lifestyle choices” not because we’re lazy idiots, but because capitalism has created a system where we’re forced to make “poor lifestyle choices” in order to meet our basic needs.

I was able to switch careers so I could have better pay and better health insurance. And once I had enough income, I was also able to make lifestyle changes. I was able to afford membership in a dojo so I could do martial arts training (which has been the most effective treament for my symptoms, most of which didn’t respond to any medications). I was also able to afford ridiculously high copays for trying so-called “orphan” drugs that had no generic version available yet. I was also able to afford dozens of specialists appointmnets each year to manage my disorder.

As a person who mananges most of her disorder’s worst symptoms by so-called “lifestyle changes,” I’m constantly told how impressed people are with “my approach” to handling my situation. Yes, people have told me they’re impressed with the fact that I am so willing to make lifestyle choices to benenfit my health. It’s very clear to me that these people don’t understand that most people in the USA aren’t being held back by will at all. They’re willing to make lifestyle changes, but they’re not able to implement them.

As someone who has done “lifestyle choices” -- as someone whose life was literally transformed by “lifestyle choices” -- I know how incredibly difficult it was to do. And you know what? I don’t know a single person in my life who wouldn’t do the same thing.

Notice in my story that I mentioned switching careers. I was able to do that because I graduated with a dual degree. I had the opportunity to change not just jobs, but my entire career path, in order to enter a field that has decent pay and health insurance. I only was able to make “better lifestyle choices” to treat my disorder because I made enough money - and had good enough benefits - to make those changes to begin with.

No matter how difficult it was to implement these changes in my life, I assure you, choosing to do it was easy as soon as I had the opportunity to actually choose to begin with. My life is definitely better because of it. But that being said, I am also keanly aware that money was a prerequisite to these changes. Like I said, I don’t know a single person who wouldn’t make the same choices I did, but I know plenty of people who don’t have those choices at all.

It’s shocking to me how people act as if “good lifestyle choices” are made free of charge. Nobody wants “the easy way out” when it comes to medicine. Nobody wants to put the one body that’s their own at risk just because they’re “too lazy” to do anything else. That’s 100% capitalist propaganda.

[cuorepietoso]

--009. HOME

no trigger warnings. we did it. we really did it folks.

Overview:

     Battista’s apartment is nestled in a rather rough spot in Capulet territory-- he moved in before he joined the Montagues, right after he got back from Milan. It’s a five story walk up with roof access. He lives on the fifth floor in apartment C. It’s a studio, relatively small, with a tiny but functional enough kitchen, a table, a couple chairs, his bed, a stack of half-filled sketchbooks, and a television. He owns an Xbox and he almost exclusively plays Call of Duty live with the sensitivity turned all the way up. 

     He’s the resident handyman for the place, fixing the things he knows how and googling the rest. His landlord gives him a discount on rent because of this. She’s ancient, keeps paper records, and doesn’t give a shit that he gave her a fake name when he moved in. 

     The only way to know where Battista lives is if he tells you, or if you somehow manage to tail his paranoid ass all the way there. He never locks his door

     i. 1a. Maria Esposito, 78 (prev. mentioned here)

     Maria Esposito is no stranger to the ways of the Mafia. She knows who he is, what he does, and she bullies him into drinking tea with her on Thursday afternoons anyways. She always oversteeps it until it’s nearly too bitter to drink, but he sits on her ugly fucking paisley couch and listens to her rattle off complaints. Complaints about the weather, growing old, politics. She tells him what the tenants have been complaining about, what needs fixed. She complains that he doesn’t know how to cook, and she complains about her sons who ran off and left their poor old mother, and he listens to all this quietly. She them complains about how taciturn he is, and sends him away with a list of tasks. 

     He doesn’t mind listening to her raspy tenor for an hour. Old people are lonely. And she buys expensive cigarettes, the kind that feel silky when you inhale the smoke, and she gives him one to nurse while she talks. 

     ii. 1c. Danya Elkayim, 67

     She’s recently widowed, a tiny woman, with curled shoulders and arthritic old hands. When he introduced himself as Battista, Tahan ma’am, she’d ceased speaking to him in Italian and switched to Hebrew so fast he’d barely been able to keep up, so long his native tongue had gone unused. But he’d picked it back up quickly enough to satisfy her, and, well-- he suspects she breaks things in her apartment on purpose, if he forgets to check in on her. Ms. Elkayim makes far too much food, and shares it with the rest of the building. Matzo ball soup, borekas, shakshuka, bazargan; all a taste of his childhood. She always reaches up with gnarled old fingers to pinch at his cheeks and coo at him, ask after his health, and he helps her pay for and carry her groceries whenever 

     He feels bad, but he tries to avoid her sometimes when he’s feeling just a little too brittle to function. She makes him think about what his mother would have been like, if she’d lived that long. Danya’s kind about it, at least-- gives him his space when he can’t meet her eyes, pressing food containers into his hands with a small, sad smile. 

     iii. 2b. Doriano Colombo, 43

     Doriano is a strange sort of fellow. Keeps to himself, mostly, but kind enough. Sometimes Battista will catch him on the roof, where they’ll both stare out at the city in stoic silence and smoke a cigarette or two. He’s a butcher, or something, missing the tips of two fingers and a couple of teeth as well. At first Battista had pegged him for a Capulet, and the thought had made his heart pound, but after a long afternoon of the two of them smoking on the roof, the man had opened up. 

     Said he was a sea dog-- a sailor, in the navy. Spent twenty years away from this godforsaken city, retired, and came right back to run his parents’ shop. He’d asked, then, how long Battista had been in the army. Fifteen years. Huh, funny how time flies isn’t it? Sure is. They’d finished their cigarettes, gone back inside. 

     iv. 3a. Lalia Perrone, 25

     He knows the look of somebody that’s trying to get away. Hastily bleached blonde hair, the nervous way her eyes always dart around to check the street when she walks into the building. It’s instinctive to let her be, mind his own business, a polite nod in the hallway and the occasional pleasantries exchanged. When her sink breaks, he fixes it with the bare minimum of words, and when he leaves he gives her a container of Ms. Elkayim’s matzo ball soup, from 1c, yeah she’s great, cooks way too much-- have you spoken with her?

     After that they smile at each other, continue exchanging polite nods, occasionally chatting. She helps Sana in 4c out by watching her kids in the daytime, if she has to work and they don’t have school. She’s nearing six months pregnant, now, and Ayaan and Maira are both fascinated by her bump, always squealing when they can feel a kick. Battista’s excited too, he likes babies, and she’s already wrangled a promise out of him that he’ll babysit sometimes. 

     v. 4b. Enzo Ricci, 27

     Enzo Ricci is, as far as Battista can discern, either some kind of starving artist, a teacher, a madman, or some combination of the three. He’s up at all hours of the night, pacing the hallway on the fourth floor or the entirety of the staircase from top to bottom. The younger man doesn’t smoke, or drink, or do any drugs, as far as he can see. His apartment is tidy as a pin, the only mess being the clutter of hundreds of half finished paintings on canvases, scenes of burning buildings and portraits with far too much shadow, broad strokes of paint, explosions of nonsensical color. He catches Battista staring at them absently one day as he works on rewiring the light in his kitchen, and he practically drags him off his little step ladder and over to the collection leaned on the wall, tearing through them and asking what he thinks about every single one. 

     Battista wasn’t quite sure how to answer, quite tongue tied, no longer familiar with the words he’d learned to describe art in his youth. Things like form, balance, perspective had all slipped from his mind. Enzo had given him the one he’d liked best without him even commenting on the thing, pressing it into his hands with a wide eyed look. As a thank you. Far be it from him to argue. 

     vi. 4c. Sana, Ayaan, and Maira Baqri, 35, 10, and 6

     Sana’s husband had died or left before he moved in. No mention of him is ever made, and he doesn’t ask, unwilling to pry into something that isn’t his business. She’s a nurse, works a lot, always seeming just a little tired and a little older than her years. Sweet as can be, but always eyeing him critically like she can see all the bruises along his ribs, on his arms-- tutting softly at him whenever the splashes of purple, yellowbrownandgreen end up on his face. He watches her kids, sometimes, when Lalia is working in the night or taking a morning for herself. The pair of them are delightful. Ayaan is fiercely protective of his sister, quick witted. A better cook (better at Call of Duty, too, but they refrain from telling his mother that) than Battista, too, not that that says much at all. Maira is a quiet little thing, always clinging around his shoulders whenever he lets her get away with it, and eager to color in the lines of whatever he’s drawn her, a process she watches with absolute fascination. 

     Sometimes he leaves the Library early, gone for just an hour or so, to walk them home from school in the afternoons if Laila is too sick to go all that way. Maira likes to hold his hand, and Ayaan kicks a football around all the way back to the building. They hug him goodbye, and make him promise to be good at work. 

     He always laughs and promises to do his best, at least. 

[arcadiasarchives]

Of Lockpicks and Ex-boyfriends

Jay was broke again. It was happening more frequently than he was willing to admit. In the three years since he’s gone straight and moved back to London, he’d gone through seven jobs and turned down MI5 and MI6 more times than he could count. Which he’d realized some time ago probably had something to do with why he couldn’t hold down a normal job. He’d kill whoever had told them he’d ‘retired’ if he ever found out who it was and he’d do it slowly and painfully. So he’d begun taking odd jobs, nothing particularly spectacular and nothing that would draw any attention to him, mostly stuff for PI’s and the like who didn’t want to get their hands dirty. Which was how he found himself on a Saturday night kneeling in a dusty corridor attempting to break into an office which supposedly held a safe containing blackmail material. With any luck, the pay off from this job would pay his rent. He was almost done with what had turned out to be a rather complicated lock for a door that could be kicked in with minimum effort when he realized someone had snuck up behind him.

“I taught you how to pick locks, and this is how you’re using that skill?” A male voice chuckled and Jay clenched his fist, willing down the anger that was already beginning to boil up inside him.

“What’s it to you!” He snapped and he was fully aware that he should probably be keeping his voice down but the building was empty and he couldn’t be bothered. 

The door clicked open before the other could answer and he sighed, with no more reason not to look at him he forced himself and turn around. Elijah was lent against the wall across from him, jet black hair lightly covering one blue eye and a smile that was dangerously close to a smirk softening his features. It had been two and a half years since he’d last seen Elijah, and the last time he’d seen him he’d threatened to shoot him if he didn’t leave him alone. Despite knowing Jay wouldn’t go through with the threat the older immortal had left him alone up until now. So why the hell couldn’t he keep it up.

“Your brother is worried about you.” Elijah shrugged his leather jacket riding up to reveal his gun, or at least one of them, as he did. “He’s otherwise occupied so he asked me to check up on you.”

Jay snorted Michael was always otherwise occupied, though that had been a blessing more than a curse in recent years as his brother would have had quite a bit to say about his life choices. 

“Why you.” He spat and Elijah seemed mildly taken back by the amount of venom in his voice. “He doesn’t even like you.” 

The older immortal made a small noise of agreement as he looked Jay up and down. The reason Michael had blackmailed him into checking up on Jay was because he blamed him for the state his little brother was in, and it wasn’t completely unjustified either. Not that he’d tell Jay that. Jay had left the immortals, and at the same time him because compromise was not something Elijah was good at. Jay had already been planning on leaving the immortals, possibly to freelance, but after one confrontation too many he’d just cut off all contact. Elijah had tried to patch things up but Jay had made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with him.

“I assume everyone else was busy.” He replied with another shrug.

“Well you can tell him I’m fine and the next time he wants to know he can call like a regular person.”

“Please Alice has her life together better than you and she’s working for MI6” Elijah snorted dismissively. “I’ve been following you for over a week, you’re barely keeping your head above the water.” Jay frowned he hadn’t noticed he was being followed, though truth be told he’d had a rough week so it wasn’t all that surprising, still the thought of Elijah tailing him all week was mildly off-putting. “You should ask your brother for some help.” The other immortal continued as he pushed himself off the wall. “Or accept one of the job offers.”

Of course, Elijah would know about those, he wondered if he’d told or would tell Michael because that would go down brilliantly and he wasn’t ready for that conversation. Elijah moved towards him and Jay tensed, perfectly willing to punch him if he thought he had to.

“Back.” He growled but Elijah just rolled his eyes, shaking his head lightly as he frowned.

“You can’t take me at the moment Jay I saw the beating you took last night.” Jay felt himself flush, of course, he had because his life never failed to find ways of making a bad situation worse and embarrass himself in the process. He raised his chin defiantly, he may not be able to take Elijah but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try given half the chance. “What was last night about?”

“Hell if I know,” Jay muttered and he sounded almost petulant which drew a smile from the other man. “It’s not like I do anything to make enemies any more.” Come to think of it maybe it had something to do with Michael after all his brother had absolutely no way of knowing he was worse off than he was two months ago when he’d last called and it would explain why he’d sent Elijah out.

“If I offer my help are you going to try and punch me.” The older immortal sighed eyeing Jay’s fists wearily. He didn’t want to hurt him which was what would happen if they traded blows.

“No I won’t try I’ll actually do it.”

Elijah rolled his eyes but stepped back and watched as Jay relaxed slightly. With a small shake of his head, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, ignoring the glare he received as he held it out.

“It’s from Michael.” He placated which was vaguely the truth, some of it was from Michael but the rest was from Elijah though that was sure to get him a fist to the face. “You can actually buy yourself some decent food.” Jay’s glare didn’t particularly soften but he accepted the cash, shoving it in his pocket before glancing pointedly at the stairs. “I’m going, I’m going,” Elijah assured him as he turned and Jay only just had the time to see the smirk on his face. “I left the pictures you were after on the desk for you.” Elijah was gone before Jay could complain.