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tryst-art-archive · 2 years ago

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Suite Francaise Creative Writing Assignment

I remember almost nothing about Suite Francaise other than it was assigned reading for AP English. Apparently there was a creative writing assignment based on it? Anyway, here that is:

“One moment everything’s fine, and the next we’re stuffing our crap in suitcases,” she muttered. Where was her sweatshirt? Was it in the wash? She needed her sweatshirt!

The girl pounded down the stairs to the first floor and then down to the basement, rushing past her mother who was hastily flying to the master bedroom with a load of bathroom products in her arms. The girl dashed into the laundry room, dug hastily through the clothes scattered on the floor and let out a groan. She checked the clock – two hours until they had to be gone. It might be enough to wash the clothes they needed.

She gathered together the dirty laundry, destroying the careful separation of lights, darks, and whites and threw the mass into the washing machine. She hastily set it, filled it with detergent, and sent it running before speeding over to the gaming system. The cabinet she flung open, and the memory cards for the games she took and shoved into her pockets. The older games – the games from the last version of the system which was now some ten years old – she gathered together and held to her chest.

She stood, bouncing from foot to foot with the sense of urgency that flooded her senses. Was there anything else she needed from the basement? What down here couldn’t she replace?

Nothing came to her mind but she hesitated a moment longer to be sure. Still nothing.

She ran back up the stairs and into the computer room, pausing here to gather up her flash drive and the disks on which she had backed up her important files. It occurred to her that the art, writing, and web projects that were saved on those disks did not include the last month’s work so she stopped and began the process of burning a new disk.

While it burned, she looted her school bag for anything worth saving. Out came iPod and sketchbook followed by her wallet and her cell phone – the later only because she thought she might have need of it later. She debated grabbing her digital camera, decided to bring it, and hung it off her wrist from its strap. Then she turned to the bookshelf and took off the binder containing drafts of a novel and all of the other notebooks containing her works and notes that happened to be there. The disk finished burning and she dashed back upstairs, struggling not to drop any of the mass of items she carried.

She dropped the objects on her bed, emptied her pockets, and rushed to the corner of the room in which she kept her tens of sketchbooks. She lifted them up with some effort and dropped them on her bed as well. Then she turned to her filing cabinet and removed some seven years’ worth of drawings on copy paper from its draws, placing these on her bed as well.

The girl paused then, listening to the sounds of her parents’ rushing to and fro in their own effort to save what was important. She turned to her suitcase and forced the mass collection of her creative works into its body. There was some space left so she unplugged the twenty-five-year-old gaming system from the thirty-year-old TV in her room and placed it in the suitcase as well. It was followed by its associated games and wires.

This filled the main body of the suitcase so she zipped it up and began to fill its outer pockets with the sketchbooks and cartridges and disks that did not fit into the main body. She then rushed to the computer room once more, taking a pocketbook from its place on a door handle. In moments, she had returned to her bedroom and was filling the pocketbook with her iPod, her wallet, her current small sketchbook, and the other paraphernalia that she carried with her wherever she went. Even her house key found its way into her bag, though she doubted she would have need of it later.

The girl scanned the room, looking for other irreplaceable mementos. Her eyes fell on her collection of Beanie Babies – much loved as they were. Her immediate urge was to pack the lot of them, but there simply wasn’t space in her baggage for all one hundred of them. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and picked the six that she would miss the most if she lost them: Flip, Chip, Snip, Zip, Nip, and Doby. They had been the center of the “town” she had imagined, back in the day, and they had been her favorites. She needed them.

The six plush toys were deposited into her old duffle bag from back in the days when she lived in Stoughton and attended the Dawe elementary school. Another scan of her room added the Beanie Baby Howl to the mix. He was, in turn, followed by a stuffed fox that was of some significance due to a particular raccoon-fox exchange between the girl and her best friend. An anthropomorphic rabbit in Victorian garb was soon plucked from her shelf and placed in the bag as well even as the two largest stuffed animals – PJ Bunny and Frederick the Dalmatian – were removed from the bed and placed atop the suitcase.

Having removed these essentials from harm’s way, the girl returned to more practical matters. She took her various small, glass sculptures, wrapped them in a scarf, and, reopening her suitcase, shoved them into what seemed to be a safe corner. She then gathered the small metal pieces she had constructed and, wrapping these as well, placed them in her bag. Her clothes she forced into tiny spaces in the suitcase and duffel.

Her mother was taking care of the bathroom accoutrements so the girl ran her hairbrush and other necessary morning items over to her mother to be included in the bathroom bag before returning to her room. Here she grabbed a selection of necklaces from her jewelry box, stuffing them haphazardly into her bag.

She checked a clock. An hour left.

The laundry must be done by now.

Half a moment later, she was in the basement, forcing the half-washed clothes into the dryer and setting it running. She returned to the ground floor in time to scoop up her cat and place the animal in a carrying crate. She then ran to the fish tank, dumped half a container’s worth of food into it, and hurried to a closet to gather her coat, a serviceable pair of sneakers, and any other necessary outdoor items.

She paused again. What about her flute? She hadn’t played it in an age, there was no space for the music books, and she couldn’t play it without notes written before her…

She grabbed it and dashed upstairs.

How she found a single inch of space in her bags to place a single item that she carried was a mystery, but she achieved the packing feat nonetheless. Presently, she began the process of bringing her bags to the dining room on the ground floor. On the way, she realized she was missing all of her photographs, artworks given her by her best friend, and a host of other paper memorabilia.

She bit her lip, shook her head. No. She couldn’t fit it. There was too much of it. A crateful not to mention what was on the walls, and if she brought one thing she’d have to bring it all…

The walls! She herself had artwork on the walls!

And the folder with her portfolio materials behind her bed! There was that too!

The girl performed a dance usually reserved for those in dire need of a toilet and then dashed around the house, gathering the images from the walls, adding them to her suitcase. She flew back to her room, grabbed the portfolio, massive though it was, and added it to her pile of baggage.

Oh, there was far, far too much.

She glanced at a clock.

Half an hour. The laundry wouldn’t be done yet.

What else was there?

She thought, irrationally, about bringing her bicycle. She shook the madness from her head and attempted to think more seriously.

Utterly irrelevant items popped into her brain. There was something, she knew, something that she was forgetting, something she would miss. What was it? Why could she only think of snacks and glow sticks? She shook her head again. It would not clear. Her mind, which under normal circumstances could keep her awake from midnight to three a.m. with no difficulty, ran at full-tilt. It was quite possible that thoughts were flying through her mind at the speed of light.

“Cat food,” she said. She grabbed the bag of cat food and, as an after-thought, also went in search of one of the jingling balls that the cat adored. These, along with a harness and leash which she had bought with the intention of bringing her fearless indoor cat outside, she placed in a plastic bag.

There were now ten minutes left.

She bolted to the basement, stopped the dryer, and dumped her damp clothes into another plastic bag. Too bad if they stank.

Five minutes left.

She flew up the stairs, grabbed the bags she could carry, and began forcing them into the trunk of her mother’s car which was already partly full of her parents’ things. The rest of her things she put in the back of her father’s truck and in the back seats of the two vehicles. She planned to be in her mother’s car and, thus, ensured that the manuscripts, art pieces, and disks would be with her.

As she gazed at the over-full vehicles, it occurred to her that there simply wasn’t space for the cat’s crate. The thought of leaving her cat behind sent her into panic. She dragged the harness and leash from her baggage and returned to the house. She opened the cat’s crate, chased and cornered the animal, and forced it into the harness with no small amount of difficulty. After another chase, she got the leash hooked onto the harness, picked the cat up, and deposited her in the car.

She faced the house. Her parents were dashing out of it, their last bags in hand, and locking it. Her father ran for the truck which contained the majority of the collective baggage while her mother hopped into the car. The girl got in on the passenger’s side, bringing her anxious cat into her lap.

The two vehicles rolled out of the drive, shaken by the blast wave of the first bomb which fell a mile and a half away.

This is archival work from my teens. You can find my current work @tryskits and @tryskits-art

#writing archive #TrysKits work #prose #fiction #assignments #old writing #oc writing #war #00s #2008 #Age 17

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empyllon · 8 months ago

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Around the Bureaucracy in +80 Days: 5 Weeks in Hell — Where is Em?

TW unaliving, self harm, harmful thoughts, domestic violence, depression, systemic abuse and the factors that drive/prevent it systematically in Sweden, from one perspective

Part I, the Austerity Measures

Foreword

Today is March 26th as I start writing this, but I am doubtful I'll finish this draft tonight, or this week. When I publish, it might be tomorrow, or the week after, or never. I won't know until this is formulated and I hit post.

The title is a reference to the book "Around the world in 80 days", but the similarities ends there. I just needed a witty title to my experiences, at the expense of a preexisting work.

The State, the Laws, the System

So let me begin as far as I can go back. Because this story is not about me, but about the system around me. The attitudes, the support, and the erosion of it that caused such a thing as mass suicides among vulnerable citizens.

It begins in 2010, our government has become moderate. Some quiet changes has been made to the welfare and benefits system. There is a 180 day cap introduced to the sick pay. And 2012, a specific kind of sick pay (sjukpenning, SP) is created for individuals who has never had a job. The catch?

This is a bottleneck, specifically designed to make it as hard as possible for people entitled to "disability reimbursement" (sjukersättning, SE), formerly called early retirement (förtidspension). If you are below 30, you'd have "activity reimbursement" (aktivitetsersättning, AE).

It's about saving money either way.

The idea is that you would go from AE to SE if your rehabilitation hasn't been fruitful, but you might be placed on SP until you have done your trials. However, while AE & SE have about the same pay (it's adjusted for inflation), SP is not. In the later years, SP has been used to deny people AE as well, due to the 180 day limitation, causing people to become "uninsured", as a way to lower the statistic for people on benefits.

The Numbers

SP, 100% disability is fixed 160 sek/day, no adjustment for inflation

SP has a housing benefit with a cap of 7000 sek, that supposedly is paid the month after (this is what I'm told)

AE, 100% disability in 2023 was 568 sek/day, adjusted for inflation

AE has a housing benefit with a percentile coverage based on cost between 90-75% of your max rent, and is paid the same month

AE also comes with expanded rights to activities that promote rehabilitation, I'm unsure if SE includes this, SP does not. But realistically, with the crashed housing market, and increased rental costs, not even the smallest benefit can cover comfortable living for a disabled person. As in, assistive fitted tools, medication or adjustments. My own numbers were abysmally small by themselves; SP alone was 2560sek (due to delayed/refused housing benefit) and supposedly, at full reimbursement only yields 3712kr, and AE was 11928 (plus a housing benefit of 75% coverage in June 2023) allowed for a much better living standard. The issue lies in the daily allowance; AE is 350% times higher than SP, and SP is well below the minimum existence level. The system is designed to be punishing and harsh, so that people stop being "lazy" and go to work. I'll get back to this in a bit.

Too Sick to work, Too Healthy to be Sick

There is a saying here in Sweden that "you have to be healthy enough to be sick". Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Along with these statements each state agency behind this has their own derogatory names; Försäkringskassan "Förskräcklingskassan" (akin to "antisocial nonsurance system", more literally "horrible insurance") and Arbetsförmedlingen "Arbetsförnedringen" (Public Humiliation Service, or literally "work humiliation"). I'll just refer to them as FK and AF from now on though, but there is a reason for their "names".

The purpose of these bottlenecks is that our government has since the new financial policies from 1993 that decentralized some institutions (read privatized), decided we need to cut spending on welfare. It's only in 2010 that our government realized the plans, and we now in 2024 have record low reports of people living on welfare.

There is a reason for every number, and the bad math is on full display (this is the so called "9. 0 goal", referring to the median days of sick pay being paid out). Post 2010, there have been reports of people either dying from cut assistance, or simply choosing to end their lives when they have nowhere to go.

Erland, 55 (2018)

Johan 35, (2021) (Source #2)

Sara, 33 (2019)

Linnéa, 22 (2020)

These are only a few names and articles I could pull under the search query "självmord försäkringskassan" on google (these are complete separate instances of welfare from the entire chaos that are the migration policies, although sometimes they overlap). There is a staggering amount of articles, that again and again state that a stable income is one of the foundations to improve mental wellbeing. And that the government knew that cutting welfare came with this risk. And... only in 2022 have they as much lifted the issue in the riksdag.

So why the hubbub? Why raise a fuss? Because aptly put — Sweden has invented a suicide machine, and I'm one causality.

News outlets are reporting of elevated suicide threats to FK staff (source #1, #2, #3, #4, #5, #6) and that the insurance system FK is disregarding the red flags. It's been reported that the case managers are actively encouraged to, or sometimes gets a bonus based on how many people they reject (#2), and has made it a competition in their office. They have also been documented as being callous, derogatory and outright ableist. They will even override doctors medical expertise to pull benefits and sometimes override their NDAs. Due to the toxic work environment, the government agency also has a high turnover.

As of today, Sweden has no legal clause to hold state workers accountable for such grave errors. It was scrapped in 1976, and replaced with a law that has less legal effect. You can report agencies to Justitieombudsmannen (justice ombudsman department), but it often has little effect. Even if you pull FK to court, and you win, they might totally disregard your case. In some cases they might demand a new court trial, in order to make you pay back.

What used to be jokingly memed about, "svensk välfärd" has become somewhat of a zeitgeist of a bygone era, where swedes took pride in sayings like "arrived like a letter in the mail"("som ett brev på posten"), "smooth as the train" ("går som loket/på räls") and so on. All of these referenced phenomena have since become privatized or decentralized with negative effects (#1, #2, #3).

Part II, The Time Frame to Disintegrate a Human

The Basic Understanding of Needs

It doesn't take much to totally annihilate a human and make them be void of any positive feelings of the self.

We can talk about it in terms of psychology, and use something simple like Maslow's pyramid.

The levels are (from bottom to top);

Pysiological Needs (Breathing, Food, Water, Shelter, Clothing, Sleep)

Safety & Security (Health, Employment, Property, Family, Social Ability)

Love & Belonging (Friendship, Family, Intimacy, Sense of Connection)

Self-Esteem (Confidence, Achievement, Respect of Others, the need to be a unique individual)

Self-Actualization (morality, creativity, spontaneity, acceptance, experience purpose, meaning and inner potential)

If we are talking about an already lesser-abled/differently-abled person — because let's be frank — without tools or assistance, some of us are unable to function, rendering us partially or fully disabled. This pyramid becomes the easiest way to explain the ableist droning of "why can't you just...", this is why.

A lot of neurotypical and/or ablebodied seem to lack the architectural skill of designing inclusive systems and societies that promote healthy growth, instead opting for some sort of stick. Usually in a similar fashion to people who say "my parents hit me and I came out fine", but reality is, you get a better growth curve with positive reinforcements and constructive negative reinforcement. Heck, even after owning only one elderly dog of 14 years, I've encountered these preconceived notions that "you can't teach an old dog to sit", mind you, he (the dog was untrained when I got him). Since then, he now knows a bunch of commands, and can almost perfectly heel off-leash. This is with a mostly positive reinforcement regimen, where negative reinforcement has only been used to teach him to avoid danger.

Enough side tracking, back to the main point.

The Calm Before the Storm

So how many days does it take to destroy a human through bureaucratic means?

About 90 days, if you count from my experience. I'll explain it.

It starts with being put on AE, because I was lucky to get on it before the 2012 reform. In Sweden, you also have something called LSS, which is summarized an anti-discrimination law of disabled individuals that includes neurodivergencies. This has mostly shielded me from most bullshit, until now, and allowed me quite a lot of support, which might be why I'm still alive.

Today it's March 27th. 90 days ago it would've been November 22nd, it's actually not that far from reality.

As I mentioned AE only covers you until you turn 30, and then you either have to

a) go into work rehabilitation programs or,

b) apply for SE, which with the new rules is increasingly hard to get.

Even though I could technically and legally qualify for it, my casemanager has told me that she will deny any applications I make. (I'll try to explain this later.)

Timeline Begin!

So in mid December I was scheduled for a "handover meeting", where my AE case manager gave me to a manager overseeing SP and a manager overseeing my case at AF. I had an assistive person attend from the LSS network, that helps specifically with work rehabilitation/education/occupation, abbreviated as EFA.

I was told the following;

My reimbursement would be less than now, but it shouldn't be a problem...

I'll be put on a work training program with AF to be an intern in active training...

I would get some paperwork sent to my home regarding rehabilitation reimbursement, RE ("rehab ersättning"), and was supposed to fill it in. However, I've forgotten the rest of the details, because despite my best efforts being neurodivergent, ND often means information overloading, despite keeping notes. (This will be relevant later.)

All government agencies will work together...

What I wasn't told;

But my reimbursement would be below poverty level, to the degree I could not afford any amenities, including medication to attend "training".

But I would have to apply to any programs/workplaces myself, while my case manager at AF does nothing but criticizes my efforts.

But my case manager at FK overseeing the SP would constantly use veiled legal terms and difficult words to delay or prevent me from applying to the right aid. She would sometimes flat out lie about papers sent, and misinform my social workers calling for clarification, causing paperwork to go missing.

But only in a way that would erode my energy, and in a way to deny me my legally approved LSS services. Claiming that I don't have the right to them and so on.

I'm getting a bit ahead of myself, so let's pull back a bit.

It's January now, so me and EFA draws a battle plan with AF, following the guidelines of FK. My month is mostly normal, I contact my doctor, apply for a new ID, take out my medications, work out, care for the dog.

Mid month, I talk with FK and get told what is going to happen. The only reason I know this is because my external memory is a notebook and a paper calendar with color coding. My notes from December-January state I was supposed to apply for;

a) SP with housing benefits

b) apply for SE if I can't work

c) fill in a form for RE and send it in

Don't report later than February 1st, and there will be a meeting with the case managers. To summarize, my notes are twice the size in bullets and span pages per meeting and task, each page with stick-ns and post-its (so you can see how easily someone gets overwhelmed).

Somehow I managed to get this step done, minus RE, because I forgot what the one prior case manager said (but it's still relevant to the story).

It's already just barely 4 weeks in, and we are already tangenting level #2 of Maslow's famous pyramid.

Oblivious to my abysmal future, I carry on, doing my best, trying to ignore the gut feeling (always trust it).

It rolls over to February, I send in the some papers, because I am not sure about what they mean. I couldn't apply in the end of January, and only in early February I understood it as.

Attend my doctors meeting to get the evaluation, and the eerie thing is this guy tells me "Em, from experience I don't think it will work, but they usually don't deny my extended applications for SP". I know he has his reasons of clinical expertise to make a judgement, and in hindsight, guy was right. I wasn't too invested in trying to understand the bureaucratic lingo, as I was in the middle of trying to combat a shortage on one of my daily medications, and I was more focused on solving that issue.

One problem less right?

Dead wrong. So from this day onward, in a picturesque description; it's like you start observing seismic activity on the radar, and you get concerned over the readings, before the actual catastrophe hits.

I keep going though, I wanna be good, I want to show I am a citizen of good standing. My performance anxiety kicks in. I'm placed at a dog daycare, and I make sure to be good with my boss. I never ask for accommodations other than asking that nobody eats peanuts in the kitchen, I use all my assistive tools (corset, orthoses, pain relief, psychotherapeutic medications, planners, custom shoes, etc.). I bring my dog with me initially to work, along with my gear. And I do good, at least I try. I make sure my dog behaves with their pups and help them organize/discuss stuff. Mostly I'm helping with the dog walks (relevant). This is from the 18th onward.

However second week, I'm told that my dog is no longer welcome due to new regulations, and that I need to start taking more/other dogs. Most of their clients are bully-type dogs, which is by no means something bad, but they are strong and have bullish willpower that requires a strong handler with the right physique. Just by comparison — I own a 3,4kg senior toypoodle that has been leash trained, and mostly walks off-leash as part of his training. The dog I was given to walk was a small French bulldog that was used to flexi-leashes and would run into oncoming car traffic any chance she could. I would describe her posture as frog-like due to the sheer pulling. She had a good nature, but horrible leash manners. It seemed she got worse when she was given shorter leads, which could be a sign of frustration.

Imagine handling that daily, intensively for 30-45 minutes. I think anyone would be sore.

On the 23rd FK finally responded to my claim. After being radio silent for a week. On the 24th they approved it, a text stated I'd be entitled to 2560 sek. So I logged into my e-services to make sure it was real, because like I said AE was much higher. In December 2023 they sent a sms statement saying they will be paying me 17589 sek. Anyone with at least one point in logic skill can see there is a huge gap of 15029 sek, you can sort of explain some of it away, but the more you stare, the more of an offensive austerity measure it becomes.

AE broken down looked like;

13036 + 6549 (housing allowance) - 1996 (tax)

Remember how I talked about flexibility and percentages earlier? This is where that stuff matters.

The daily reimbursement is closer to a very low wage job, that can allow you some flexibility. It also comes with a beneficiary card for 25% discounts.

SP broken down;

3200 + (no housing allowance) - 640 (tax)

When the daily allowance is fixed, you get no wiggle room for errors, or extras.

I might have dyscalulia, but I can still use markers, tools and excel sheets to sort my own finances, so I did. I thought there must be some grave mistake. You know, the oblivious to the fact, believing it was a simple solution. DEAD WRONG.

Regardless, I checked my medication stock. I'm running low. Made a journey into town on my way to work between my doctors appointments for newer orthoses and my internship. I showed a clerk at the office my paperslip with the math and said "can you make this work?" I think this was on the 26th or the 27th. She called my case manager, saying I might not even be entitled to SP. My case manager at FK had changed, you know, like that story of Jekyll and Hyde. She became cold, callous.

I had entered a state of panic.

I had friends run my numbers too. And it was all the same, after rent I'd have around 397 sek left. If you ever seen the memes that say "I finally paid rent, now I have a place to starve and freeze in", this is exactly it. I used my adaptive excel sheet to calculate my finances, and cut off anything that isn't essential (not that I had any to begin with). I had so many suggestions as well, I could move theoretically (but rent is still due), I could give up/surrender/sell my dog (and suffer alone).

Regardless of how these numbers went I'd be -4023 every month. Half is just the cost of utilities, you know, heat, water, internet and so on. Half is groceries and medical expenses. I had with assistive tools set up a frugal lifestyle that allowed me some savings. But if you are constantly reliant on new assistive tools, your savings can vanish just like so (a set of shoes with custom soles are usually 3600 sek, my much needed orthoses are 900 sek).

I'm not writing this to e-beg, I'm writing this for you to see, to understand how financially crippling it is to be disabled and in need of tools you can't afford.

And we are still only in February.

So I asked my social workers to help me locate the contacts and numbers for each case manager to rectify this problem. Because I've never been late with rent and it's honestly one of the most stressful situations to be in.

So we called the case manager for SP, and asked, and sought clarification. Did I send in all my papers right? Will I be able to pay my rent? What about RE, because I need to afford my medications. Yes the papers came in. Rent next month, it will be a delay. RE is irrelevant and you won't be reimbursed for your days in training.

Meanwhile me and EFA have weekly meetings, AF decided I should only contact them every 6 weeks for a follow up. I started lifting the fact I will have issues to go to work, both because of my ticket expiring and my lack of access to affordable medication. My casemanager at AF said that any financial questions are to be forwarded to FK. (So I brought them there.) EFA was keen on still hounding them down for me.

It's not like I didn't try, I did. On the 26th(?) I applied for municipal welfare, after being heckled by FK; "if you can't afford anything, apply for welfare". I sat through 1 e-application, 1 phone meeting, 1 physical meeting and at least 2 complementary paperworks, either with a parent and/or social workers. Trying to note down what I needed to do. My welfare, "WF" manager, has been away from work since mid-February. Despite calling weekly to ask who is overseeing my case, so I can pay rent, I never got full answers.

I couldn't sleep, nor afford my meds. I had to chose between my sleep aid, or my daily tablets, so I chose my dailies.

On the 29th I physically broke down, unable to work. My hands stopped functioning. I dropped a mug due to a failing grip, and I recall vividly that day. I let the last of my spotify premium play podcasts run on autoplay sometime during the week, and P3 Dystopia aired an episode on suicides and what drives them.

The three factors mentioned

Economic crisis — I can't afford my living

Isolation — I can't travel freely

Feeling like a burden — Shamed for being less abled

There are a few more, but the short summary gave only 3.

The podcast was more about the statistics, and trends within the genders, than the actual act of it. It also went over preventative measures and buffering effects. Regardless, after hearing that, and glancing over my own situation. I turned to my contact at EFA and said "put me on suicide watch and don't let me go".

The Beginning of the End

It's now March, I've called my landlord and pleaded for help. Asked to postpone my billing, just tried to put out any fire possible while balancing trying to not stress my dog and keeping up with the good girl image. Just trying to survive. I got no good graces left, my landlord won't push anything past March. The welfare system bans you from receiving payments, so I am forced to wait for their evaluations. I feel like I'm standing before the executioner.

I recall the podcast, and the time process it takes to go from just an intrusive thought, to real actionable plans. I cracked a joke at my peers, to synchronize their death watches, nobody would suspect a harmless TF2 meme as my way to say "I'm dying soon, it was nice to know you". A meme is a meme after all.

I think I set it to 2 weeks. That's when my expiry date as a passable good is over. I'm just another carcass thrown to the biowastage grinder, perhaps to end up as fuel somewhere, or just as pure filth.

I thought I wasn't good for anything. A failure. Just a waste of space. That I was better off dead.

I went as far as considering the comfort of my peers, to simply vanish. I won't say how, or with what, as that is how someone else might end up hurting themselves. I imagined remaining gone forever would be better than finding my remains. I also considered my dog, how he's my child, and that he deserved someone better than me.

If you have read this far, you can see how the pyramid of needs have eroded, and it didn't take that long either. You can also see given the sources, that I'm fitting all the criteria for becoming suicidal.

Did you try...x?

It's not like I didn't try. I really did.

At every instance where there was a snag, I referred to my health network. I talked to my occupational therapist about the hands and the internship, and was recommended to ask for help finding an office job because they were mortified regarding the laboring tasks. AF told me I have no redeeming qualifications for that. When I asked in forums for my disabilities what people worked with, I requested to be put on a training program that suit my abilities, again AF said no, I'm not entitled to it. I also asked a friend that works as a job coach what is going wrong, explaining my situation, only to be turned down when I asked AF for an evaluation of my competencies (on their suggestion as this would enable me to find internships faster and enter programs more tailored to me). This past week I learned AF also has something called SIUS consultants, which is a specifically appointed consultant with competencies tailored to disabled individuals. I asked EFA to find out if my AF contact was one, the answer no.

Ground 0

After exhausting all my ideas, all my possible solutions. I had none left, even with LSS at my back, the system won. Last Wednesday I had my final call with FK and AF with EFA.

I once more asked "realistically, how do you think I will manage work, without my assistive tools? Without medication?"

FK replied "seek welfare then"

I replied "I did in February, it's at least 3 weeks waiting time, I can't afford to maintain my health"

Radio silence.

AF chimes in "Em forget the money"

I again reiterated my needs, and asked about RE.

I questioned her on it asking why one is called rehab and the other is called sick in title.

FK then started citing some legal paper, without explaining the differences or why I was sent this paper to begin with. She just kept repeating that they are the same. And I'm wrong and won't get any more money.

They are not the same. They are two different economic programs for different activities and purposes. You can read about them here and here. My issue is I need to verify I do things correct, due to my disability.

After that call I decided, I didn't want to live anymore.

Disability Bingo

So how many conditions qualify for a humane insurance system?

It's individual, and regional. Randomly based on the case manager you get.

I won't state my full medical history because I'm not some zoo animal to watch, but I'll say this.

I have more than 3. The ones that impact my day the most are Ehler-Danlos (hypermobile), AD(H)D (I think it's type C nowadays), and Autism Spectrum Disorder.

When I'm medicated, I'm slightly more prominent on the spectrum, but it's manageable, ASD comes with perks too. EDS require a strict regimen of rest, and regular exercise. I used to lift weight machines to prevent my physical pain and subluxations. Despite the best of efforts, I'm still very limited. I rely on cars and buses, but I'm very much self reliant.

With the right supports I'm a star model for rehabilitation and upward mobility, but denied my basic needs, I'm like a fish out of water, forced to climb a tree.

Due to my severe counts of subluxations, I'm always careful with how I use my body. (I've dislocated my elbow by lifting a phone and opening a car door.)

You hopefully understand my predicament now, and the true scope of my limitations.

Part III — Where are you now?

Inside You There Are Two Beasts

That's how the meme goes.

Inside me,

there's the dark overwhelming monster that wants to kill myself,

and then there is the side that wants to live.

The side that wants lo live has won, for now.

Before I acted on my plans, and undo myself forever, I called 112.

I cried on the phone, told them how I felt. An ambulance came, and they took down my story.

I got placed in urgent psychiatric care with supervision and has mostly slept.

What I told you here is only really the short, and tailored version of actual events. There is so much more I wish I could talk about, but I need you to know.

I. Am. Safe.

My dog, Robin is safe. A friend that knows me has his full care sheet and is updating me.

The hospital knows about my situation, so does my network. Most of them.

I hate opening up to people about myself, to show myself at my most delicate, but maybe this post will stand as a beacon to someone in the dark.

I tried, and I tried real damn hard to get everyone to see and hear me. I shouted on top of my lungs, and only now has I arrived in a place where my weary voice is tuned into.

There was this quote from the Netflix series Midnight Club, it goes something like;

"Here but not here. Gone but not forgotten."

I'm still here, I hope you haven't forgotten me.

And I hope anyone out there, reading and identifying with this, will keep trying.

Someone will hear you.

Today it's the 27th as I write this. I've been hospitalized for about 5 days, and I've slept most of it. I feel like I still have to justify my own existence, even though I don't have to.

Call the hotline, tell your story.

The most disgusting part was that FK still tried to call me, to make sure I was actually sick. Had I not had EFA or LSS... I don't even wanna think about it.

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mischief-lies-and-stories · 1 year ago

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Reacting to Animated Marvel Shows 1/?

Taking a break from my Loki rewatch to react to another animated Marvel show because I saw SIGYN in the thumbnail of this episode and got excited. Is Loki going to treat Sigyn poorly? Almost definitely. Is Marvel going to treat both of them poorly? Almost definitely. Am I going to watch it anyway because I'm a glutton for punishment? Absolutely. Let's get started.

[Post-watch edit: Sigyn is NOT in this. It is a case of mistaken identity in the thumbnail because this is the only episode of this show I've watched. I've been bamboozled and I'm still pissed about it. Sorry if I got your hopes up. I got mine up too.]

Spoilers for Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes 2x15

Okay so already in the recap I'm seeing they buried the lead and this is NOT the only episode of this show Loki is in. So once again I will be consuming Loki content backwards. Cool.

Fuck yeah Surtur, crush Amora in your fiery hand!!

Okay recap over

New York always just has tanks casually rolling around

Fuck no I SWEAR TO GOD IF I THOUGHT AMORA WAS SIGYN IN THE THUMBNAIL I'M GONNA BE SO PISSED

Loki that was the most chill groan of pain I've ever heard. Isn't this shit supposed to HURT? It seems like you're more annoyed than anything else.

Fuck I'm sorry y'all. Sigyn is not in this. Goddammit Marvel. IT'S THE VENOM MYTH [not Venom like the character] AND YOU PUT AMORA THERE INSTEAD OF SIGYN??? THE BITCH WHO BETRAYS HIM TIME AND AGAIN INSTEAD OF HIS WIFE. FUCK Y'ALL.

How fucking rude to replace Sigyn with AMORA. Just add to his fucking torture, Jesus.

Amora has Maleficent horns. Bitch take those off you ain't shit. You can't hold a candle to Maleficent. Get the fuck out of here and go get Sig.

Wait why does Thor still get to be buff but not Steve?

Dude the theme goes too hard for this show

The balls on Thor to call his fucking bodybuilder shit a frail form in front of Cap's asthmatic, wrinkly ass

Eew Amora stop touching Loki's face

WHERE IS SIGYN MARVEL I'M STORMING YOUR HEADQUARTERS

SHE JUST GAVE HIM THE ARMOR SIGYN WENT TO GREAT LENGTHS IN THE OLD COMICS TO GET FOR LOKI'S SOUL TO INHABIT (I mean it might be the Destroyer armor but I'm angry anyway so I'm going with the first option)

THEY JUST TIT FOR TAT REPLACED SIGYN WITH AMORA FUCK THIS WHAT THE HELL

Goddammit am I gonna have to write an AU for this episode specifically, where Sigyn shows up and punches Amora's lights out, like Get away from my husband, bitch!

Cap looks like he's both eleven and ninety

Damn it is the Destroyer, but I think Loki possesses it which is the thing that happens in the old comics? Idk, I only know this secondhand.

Steve I'm begging you to lose your temper just once. Thor is towering over you, at least twice your body mass, can still walk with a broken leg and hasn't once complained of the pain, but anytime the fucker opens his mouth it's to complain about how weak he is. Meanwhile you could drop dead any second, polio has been eradicated in the US and you've already gotten it, but you could probably breathe wrong and immediately need an iron lung in 2010 with your luck.

Thor says "That voice" like he didn't grow up for thousands of years with Loki by his side. Like this isn't fucking, I don't know, Ultron, someone you've fought once (I know they tend to fight him more in the comics and animated shows), that's your BROTHER

Tony saving Steve was cute

THOR FUCK OFF DID YOU JUST PLACE THAT VOICE YOU DUMBASS

Good job, Clint. You helped.

Well do we call that Sigynbait? Healthy relationship bait? Whatever it is I'm fucking pissed and I'm going to have to change my intro for this post to reflect it because I don't do clickbait (which you already know because you aren't reading my draft).

#loki #marvel tv shows #avengers: earth's mightiest heroes #avengers: earth's mightiest heroes spoilers #avengers: earth's mightiest heroes 2x15 #animated avengers #still so mad #but that's what i get for only watching one episode of this show

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loudenver · 11 months ago

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"Great. Excellent." Louis heard himself saying, shoving his hands deep into the recesses of the pockets of Max's sweater. He curled his hands into fists once they were out of sight, suddenly picturing this 'friend' being a gorgeous, built, well-hung hockey player. He really was cursed with an overactive imagination. Why else would Wardo be hanging around a hockey rink at this reasonable hour? There was no other logical response.

Louis shot a furtive, yet longing glance at the door, trying to will Max to appear. He needed the other man's calming presence, the steady hand on his shoulder, the voice that always talked him down when he considered throwing away entire drafts of his novel. Basically, he needed Max to show up just to tell him to stop being fuckin' crazy and delusional. Did everybody go this insane and paranoid when confronted with an ex? Louis had no idea if it was sane or rational to be plotting Wardo's imaginary boyfriend's demise. He'd never had an ex before.

Louis' attention was drawn back to the flailing mass of limbs belonging to the teen, who had since been freed from his hooded prison. He sure had a mouth on him like Wardo, who knew enough creative insults and cuss words to make a stripper blush. Louis knew, remembered half-fondly the way he and Ivy would one up each other when it came to insults and screaming matches, which were de-escalated as quickly as they had begun.

Aside from that though, there wasn't much physical resemblance between Wardo and his tag-along. Louis raised an eyebrow at the insinuation Wardo had raised him, feeling hungover and slightly dehydrated and viciously out of the loop. Come to think of it, the teen wasn't quite young enough to be Wardo's. Unless he had some real skeletons in his closet. Or the aforementioned sexy hockey player came with some baggage, baggage Wardo was happy to adopt because the other guy's dick was big and he had a nice smile.

Fuckin' save me, Hayashi, Louis thought.

Eventually, the kid at Wardo's side seemed to power down, the string of insults making way for silent reverence. Wondering if Louis had somehow established some sort of psychic link between himself and the other man, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as Max appeared in plain sight.

It hadnt been the first time Max had been recognised in public, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Pretty girls, hot guys and excitable kids all had a tendency to stop them when the two of them were in public. More than once Louis had had an iPhone thrust in his face, forced to take a cutesy, staged photo of Max with a complete stranger's arm around him. He took it all in stride. If Max was nice enough to do it, Louis was nice enough to oblige. He was trying to be a better person, ater all. Besides, it was pretty cute, watching his fans light up like that.

Louis threw Max a smile, inclining his head gently towards the boy, who was obviously more than a little starstruck. The writer couldn't help but snicker, just a bit. The nice moment, however, was broken by an exclamation from Wardo, who, for a blissful second, Louis had forgotten was even there.

Wait... Ivy's Max?

"Ivy's Max?" Louis scoffed, not content to keep that thought to himself. He was sure he was looking at Wardo like he had two heads, but right now, he wasn't really sure how else to look at him.

"He's my Max." Louis insisted, letting his mouth run of it's own accord. Jealousy, a trait Louis had thought he'd learned to reign in, reared it's ugly head. In what world did Max belong to Ivy?

Louis felt himself gravitate subconciously to Max's side, annoyance prickling under his skin. Ivy's Max, yeah fuckin' right. He didn't know whether he was fuelled by petty jealousy, the need to get one over on Wardo (he hadn't forgotten the lighter, nestled in the bottom of his bag) or just habit, when he leaned over instinctively to press a soft kiss to Max's cheek.

"I missed somethin' here, clearly."

Wardo absently wondered if this was like, exposure therapy. That if he was continually thrust into Louis’ presence now that he knew the other man was in New York, he’d grow desensitised to the effect of Louis Fucking Denver and no longer feel like his skin was peeling off when he was near him. Forcing himself to give the man a blatant once over, something sticky lodged in his chest and he realised he wasn’t quite there yet.

Unfortunately, he could still trace the sharp cut of Louis’ jaw blind. His lips recalled what it tasted like to kiss the freckle just under his eye and his fingers were still imprinted with the memory of the man’s curls slipping through them when they were unencumbered by the copious amounts of gel he’d styled it with during college. Currently, they were free from the prison of American Crew Firm Hold Gel For Men, a product that had monopolized what little cupboard space they had in the tiny bathroom of their equally tiny apartment all those years ago. Wardo had always liked it better like that.

He blinked in response to Louis telling him, quite bluntly at that, that he was meeting his friend. Oh, and that he loved hockey.

Wardo had been led to believe that it was football Louis had taken an interest in. But they were all the same to him anyway. A bunch of men grunting in ways that they claimed wasn’t homoerotic at all but he wanted to know why any sweaty man would willingly want to collide with another, equally sweaty man in a tackle if not for reasons Grant Morley’s chihuahua looking ass would try to beat him up for putting words to.

He wondered how that guy was getting on. Hopefully rotting away in jail for some hate crime or another.

“I’m waiting for my friend too,” he said, not saying Ivy’s name in the hope that it would suggest to Louis that he had other friends too, actually. “And I couldn’t give less of a shit about hockey, so.”

When Louis’ line of questioning was directed to Bryce, Wardo glanced down at the teenager still caught in the hooded trap of Wardo’s making. He kept him at enough of an arm’s length to avoid Bryce’s bony little elbows poking him in the side, and only barely managing to swiftly avoid a kick to the shins when the little asshole began lashing out with his feet as well.

“Hopefully not,” he said, matter-of-fact, before finally giving Bryce a gentle shove and freeing him.

“You piece of shit, Wardo!” Bryce cussed, ripping his hood down, hair pointing in all directions. “Fuckin’ asshole, shithead, fucking idiot, I hate you, stupid fuckin’...” He went on for quite some time while Wardo regarded him calmly.

“I didn’t raise you to talk like that.” He paused, considering. “To me. Specifically.”

Bryce continued with his verbal tirade which was a sufficient enough distraction, keeping a buffer of sorts in place so he and Louis didn’t have to talk or even look at each other while Wardo waited for Ivy and Louis waited for his nameless friend. He raised an eyebrow as Bryce got more creative with his insults, up until he broke off, halting his rant completely when the door swung open and a man walked out.

“Holy shit,” Bryce breathed.

Frowning, Wardo looked over at the man in question. He looked… normal. Fine. Nothing special. But Bryce was staring at him like he’d just turned water into wine right in front of him.

“That’s Max Hayashi,” he whispered to Wardo out of the corner of his mouth, the reverence in his voice clear as day.

Wardo choked on air and whipped his head around.

“What? Max Hayashi?” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “You mean Ivy’s Max Hayashi?”

Now it was everyone’s turn to stare at him. Bryce’s head spun around so fast it would have given the Exorcist chick a run for her money, Max Hayashi himself had paused and was looking over at him in confusion and Louis - well, Wardo was doing everything he could to not look at him, but he couldn’t help but feel the man’s gaze on him anyway.

#thread: wardo2 #ft. wardo

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tadpole-san · 4 years ago

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Hi again! I’m the user that recently asked abt Klarion lol. Could I request a Klarion x Reader (one shot or head canon is cool I’m not picky) where they have an established relationship and live together? Klarion, despite being a Lord of Chaos, wouldn’t dare hurt his s/o, but does enjoy pranking them. I was thinking he could do a small prank for this one, like moving one of his s/o’s things inch by inch until it ends up in a different room or something? :)

pairing: klarion x reader, pre-established relationship

a/n: I’m so sorry this took like,,, a longass time anon! I deadass had this drafts sitting as an open tab on my Docs for a longass time between school and everything else because i am, unfortunately, a second semester highschool junior :(

This is my first time doing headcanons on this blog, i hope you like it! I also took this ask as an excuse to rebinge all three seasons of yj for klarion content. ANYWAYS, enjoy this combination of general living with Klarion hcs and what happens when he pranks you

Have you seen the guy’s hair? He both looks and acts like a devil - the mischievous fun kind, not the kind that’ll try to eat your soul (but when you poke fun at him for his “horns” he does throw a bit of a tantrum and threaten to do that. Since he’s the Lord of Chaos and all) and living with him is guaranteed to be like living with the kind of imp trickster you’d read about in a story book

And with his magic? Definitely uses them like he’s an imp - one of his favorite pastimes has been to use them to play little tricks on you. They’re still harmless, and the worst they’ve done is inconvenience you, like whenever you’d have an outfit planned out for whatever you have going on during the day and he uses his magic to change all the colors into something wildly inappropriate for whatever it is you have planned

You don’t ever get really mad at him, but you will roll your eyes and sometimes be a little annoyed depending on how far he goes, and to get back at him you’ll usually hog Teekl and take him to your room while you lock Klarion out (even though he can technically use his magic to get into the room anyways) and pretend to ignore Klarion while he whines about being totally neglected outside

This doesn’t usually last that long because you tend to cave in and let him in with you and Teekl

He’ll then proceed to drape himself all over you - not unlike a cat - and get into some sort of one-sided argument with Teekl about stealing your attention from him. You always end up having to pull Teekl away from him when he lunges at the cat (“Babe, you need Teekl if you wanna stay in this dimension” “He’s pure evil!” “And we can unpack your feeling about this some other day when you’re less inclined to throttle the cat-”)

He talks in his sleep- a lot. His chaos-addled mind already has him saying stuff like “holy carp” and “see ya later, armadillos” and things get even weirder when he’s asleep. The result? You’ve subsequently picked up these sayings for yourself and you mutter them around… a lot. Your coworkers have given you weird looks, but they’ve taken it for the equivalent of Robin’s “holy ____ Batman”, and at this point, it’s better than explaining that no, you’re not from Gotham, and your boyfriend is actually technically the supervillain Lord of Chaos from a different dimension

“I guess I’m from Gotham” is also a pretty good explanation as to why you’d show up to work in a hot pink shirt and neon green pants. At this point, this particular prank of Klarion’s with his magic and your clothes is one of the regular almost-daily ones

The more you had to show up to work looking like - well, a literal clown - a lot of the days, the more irked you got about it; but the more often it happened was the more you saw Klarion actually brighten up and laugh when you had to go to work instead of generally sulk the way he would when you had to leave for hours on end. So that made it pretty worth it to start getting an extra pair of normal clothes ready in your car

Another one of his favorite pranks to play is to mass-duplicate random things in your apartment - like you’ll open your closet, expect to see a neon rainbow from your old clothes greeting you, and instead dozens of clothes racks will just tumble out

The first time it happened, you think your brain literally short-circuited, and Klarion found you staring at the pile at your feet

“Babe - I don’t really know what to do with this - thank you?”

That definitely wasn’t the reaction he was expecting, but he gets smug about it anyways - “you should be grateful that a Lord of Chaos such as myself would do this for you!” - and then he takes it as a sign to do it at random intervals

He’ll do it with literally anything, but he does know to definitely avoid the kitchen after you open the cupboard and a dozen identical bowls nearly fell on your head

Hearing your subsequent shriek and onslaught of swearing is what alerts Klarion to your impending dilemma, and right at the last second he’s able to freeze them in midair and save you from an inevitable concussion (and probably worse)

Lesson learned the hard way: kitchen is off limits, along with anything above eye-level

He won’t admit it, but the incident freaks him out enough that he literally hovers around you for the next few days, in midair, and when you’re at work, Teekl will “magically” show up in your office

The pranks even stop completely for the next few days - he’s definitely spooked, even if he’ll never admit it out loud, and he plays it off as throwing a tantrum that the prank didn’t work the way he wanted it to

But it’s easy for you to see past his somewhat “childish” front. You also know well enough that if you confront him on it it’ll lead to a cycle of denial, more tantrums, and finally, denial

And you love him, and you don’t like seeing him worry in his own way (hell, it’s even affecting the things he says at night) so it’s more than easy for you to cave in after a few days

“Damn, I could really use dozens of the same exact clothes hanger to completely overrun my closet. It’s a real shame I don’t know any magic to do it, huh?”

Is it the easiest trick in the book? Yes. Does it work? Absolutely. And it brings a smile back to his face, even if it’s at the expense of your poor sanity at times - but that’s still part of what comes from living with him, and you honestly wouldn’t trade it for anything else

DC Taglist:

@cipheress-to-k-pop

#🌙#✨#📰.dc #klarion x re #klarion x you #klarion imagines #klarion #young justice klarion #young justice imagines #fluff #here marks my return from my #hiatus??? sort of #klarion remains to be criminally underrated (HAHA! a pun) and i hope ive contributed to what little content there is of him #in a way worth of the lord of chaos #gender neutral reader #reader imagines #headcanons

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starlightsearches · 3 years ago

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Mistletoe and Holly

Part 1│Part 2│Part 3

Modern! Armitage Hux x Femme! Reader

Notes: Here's part 2 of my modern Christmas fic, inspired by @cyantomatos incredible winter prompt list, and @girl-next-door-writes lovely 10 days of Huxmas.

This is heavily inspired by girl-next-door-writes 10 days series, so if you like this even a little bit, PLEASE go and check out her stuff.

7. Late Night / Love Language / Comfort from cyantomatos winter prompt list

Warnings: just language, fluff, mild horniness, and some angst

Armitage tosses another log on the fire, the flames licking at the blackened stone. The heat doesn’t break through more than a few feet of the icy chill that permeates the room, and Armitage rubs his hands over his arms, grateful for the protection his thick, flannel pajamas offer him from the cold.

The en-suite bathroom door opens, and he tenses like an animal listening for strange human footprints, instead hearing your voice call out over the rumble of the water.

“Uh, which towels am I supposed to use?”

Armitage holds his breath, warding himself against the scent of the steam and the soap and your skin, barely able to gasp out the words.

“They’re under the sink.”

The hinges squeak, and he hears your triumphant shout before the door shuts and he’s able to breathe again.

This is too close. It had been different at the party, when every touch had happened in public and his father’s potential presence around any corner kept him from imagining the way your hands would feel—your nails tracing patterns through his hair or the flat of your palm across his ribs. There’s nothing keeping him from the knowledge of it now, besides his own self-doubt and your lack of interest. It makes him want to peel off his own skin; he has no use for it if it's not pressed against your own.

Instead, he putters from place to place—pulling open the curtains to watch the snow fall through the large picture window, feeling for a draft under the door, rearranging his clothes in the armoire, first by color, and then by order in which he’ll need them.

“I swear to god,” you call out to him when you open the door this time, letting the warm, wet air pour from the bathroom, “I have never been in a fancier bathroom before. I could live in that shower.”

Armitage hums in response, clutching the fabric of his dress shirt for tomorrow’s mass in a fist so tight it wrinkles. He’ll have to find time to iron it in the morning.

“Maratelle seems alright,” you fill the silence amiably, ignoring his reticence as you ready for bed, “but your father’s a piece of work. I can see why you didn’t want to come.” The rustling duvet punctuates your statement as you climb under the blanket, getting yourself comfortable. His jaw is clenched so tight he's surprised it hasn't snapped.

If he waited long enough, would you fall asleep without him? He could find ways to keep himself awake—for the whole night if needed. He’d use any excuse to stop himself from crawling beneath those sheets beside you.

He must seem ridiculous, in your eyes—a grown man terrified of his father’s ill-will, and so mortified of the idea of facing him alone that only your pity has saved him from it. And look how he’s repaid you; you’re left without a bed of your own to sleep in.

“Hey, Armitage.”

Your voice is soft as snowfall, and he shivers, like you’ve traced your fingers down his spine. He clears his throat silently and addresses the back of the armoire.

“What is it?”

Maybe you want to leave. He wouldn’t hold it against you.

“It’s just . . . " your voice is soft and pleading, the annoyance he had expected completely absent, "you don’t have to worry about me. I offered to come because I knew this would be hard for you, and I want to help. If that means we share a room to piss off your father, then that’s okay with me.”

Had you read his mind? Armitage lets out the breath he’d been holding, overcome by your acute understanding.

He releases the clothing from his clutches, standing straighter. Maybe he could do this, and more importantly, maybe he should. It might be his only chance. Even if you’d never look at him the way he wants you to, he could have this night—could have the heat of your body and the tenderness of your sleeping sighs to sustain him through his loneliness. He shuts the door of the armoire, the determined set to his shoulders only faltering when he hears your next words.

“It’s probably for the best that we share anyways—if I had known how cold your house was I’d have brought more substantial pajamas.”

He can’t not look at you, and when he does, his chest folds in on itself, crushed and empty. You’re divine—hair damp from the shower and splayed across the cream pillowcase, brushing against your bare shoulders. The low neckline of your tank top reveals more of your luminous skin than he’s ever seen before, the blanket resting just below the swell of your chest. He can picture, in agonizing detail, what could happen if he were someone else, and if you wanted him. The way your lips would part as they formed the words—“come to bed, please, darling”—and how his whole body would ignite as he crawled over your prone form, slipping one strap and then the other down over your shoulders, his lips at your neck.

“Actually,” he straightens, turning automatically back towards the fire and the sitting area before it, “I think it might be best if I stay on the couch tonight. You can take the bed.”

Armitage walks with stiff steps towards the overstuffed sofa. It’s much too short for him to lay comfortably, packed with dust, and still less frightening than the alternative. Your footsteps echo close behind him on the stone tile, your hand at his wrist, pulling at him until he’s forced to look you in the eyes.

Jesus.

“You can’t do that,” you say, brow set and stern, “you’ll freeze! I’ll have to thaw you out in the morning.”

You’re tugging at his sleeve, pulling him back in the direction of the bed, and he just barely manages to hold his ground. Armitage keeps his eyes on yours, refusing to let himself look at your bare legs, stretched long beyond the hem of your shorts, the white lace at the edge brushing rhythmically against your skin as you shift from foot to foot, trying to generate some warmth.

“I’ll be fine by the fire,” he replies, but he takes one step forward, and then another, called by the siren sound of your voice, willing to follow wherever you take him.

“Then do it for me. I’ll be way too cold alone in that bed. I need your body heat.”

He glances back to the couch, although the farther he gets from it, the warmer he feels.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“For the last time, you’re not; now lay down.”

He follows your directions, taking up the space you’d been only moments before, the sheets still holding a bit of your body heat, and you crawl over top of him in a strange mimicry of his earlier fantasies. You land beside him, pulling the sheets into place and turning off the bedside lamp.

“See,” you say, laying back as the room plunges into darkness, “this isn’t so bad.”

No, it’s certainly not.

And as much as he wants you, those thoughts don’t trouble him now—he’s able to appreciate this moment for what it is. Just being with you is a gift. Your presence here, your friendship, it’s all unprecedented—undeserved.

Miraculous.

“Armitage.” You whisper his name. He realizes that he never likes the sound of it unless it’s on your lips.

“What is it?” Your soap smells like peppermint, filling the air with its crisp, cool scent, but your presence comforts him like a warm cup of coffee nestled in gloved hands.

You don’t respond right away, and he turns, just now feeling the gentle trembles that move through the mattress.

“Are you still cold?” He sits up straight, and you nod, curled up tightly on the bed and shivering, trying to preserve a little warmth.

“I think there might be some extra blankets in the hall,” he glances around the room, looking for anything he can use to help you, “or I might have a jumper you could borrow—”

He’s about to offer you his portion of the blankets, until he feels your hand on his shoulder, pulling him back down to the bed.

“Just . . . stay here.”

You’re watching him—he knows you’re watching him—and he tries desperately to keep his features passive, but it’s no use. You must know how he feels about you. He’s never felt less subtle than he does now—like his every thought is projected on his face, playing out for you in a humiliating highlight reel.

You lay down at his side, both of your heads sharing one pillow, and your hands grip tightly at the loose fabric on his pajamas, pulling him closer.

“Is this okay?”

He hums in assent; his throat is too tight even to form a word as simple as yes.

Armitage feels you everywhere—your breath warm at his neck, a hand brushing rhythmically over the tense musculature of his back. The slow rise and fall of your chest mirrors his own as you press yourself tighter against him, and he can feel the give of your thighs, the heat of your skin seeping through the fabric of his pajamas as you adjust your position, further entwining your legs.

This is different. This is unparalleled—better than any midnight fantasy or any derailed train of thought.

You’re nuzzling your head into his chest, and he must be flushing all the way down to his feet, his head so foggy he barely hears your mumbled gratitude.

Armitage remains motionless and wide awake, maybe for minutes or maybe for hours—terrified to move, certain that if he shifts even a centimeter, he’ll lose this perfect dream.

“You're better than any of them give you credit for, you know.”

“Hmmm?”

He thinks he may have imagined the words, convinced that the cadence of your breathing had meant you were fast asleep. Do you sleep talk? He’d never heard it before in the sparse handful of times you’d dozed off while he finished up some late-night paperwork.

You shift again, resting your chin against his chest, and he can't look at you, instead letting your words fall against his neck.

“I know you worry about your father . . . and I’m sure his opinion means more than mine ever could, but everything I said about you at dinner? It’s all true. I mean every word of it.”

“Really?” Maybe he's the one asleep. This feels like a dream.

“Of course, Armitage,” you shift, looking at him with sleepy eyes, but he’s never seen you more serious than you are now, “I’d never lie to you.”

If there was ever a moment he’d like to kiss you, this is it.

The pregnant silence is broken by the steady toll of the grandfather clock in the entryway, it’s twelve chimes echoing quietly throughout the house. You lay your head back on his chest, unwilling to fight the languor that threatens to consume you anymore.

“Merry Christmas, Armitage.”

He'd repeat the words back to you, but there are tears in his eyes.

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bqstqnbruin · 4 years ago

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Always be my plus one

Here we go, y'all. We're ignoring that it's 3:30 in the morning but I'm just yeeting the first part of this into the wild and hoping it goes well. Ignore typos, we all know that everything I post is a first draft.

I need to thank @hockeywocs, @chara-hugs, and @zinka8 (WHY CAN't I TAG YOU) and all the anons who have come into my ask box to help me with this! ily all!

WARNING: some description of child birth

Hope you like it!

Series masterlist

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

Part 1: Christmas Day and the day after Christmas

The name for Christmas comes from the shortening of “Christ’s Mass,” a traditionally Christian holiday that celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ to the Virgin Mary and Joseph in a manger in Bethlehem. Although the exact date of his birthday is unknown, around the fourth century the Catholic church fixed the date of this celebration to be December 25th. Other religions and belief systems have similar celebrations around the same time, such as the Winter Solstice, or Midwinter. Celebrations include a mixture of pre-Christian, Christian, and non-secular traditions, such as gift giving, completing an Advent Calendar or Advent Wreath, Christmas music, church services, a special meal with family and loved ones, Christmas trees, lights, nativity scenes, and Santa Claus to name a few.

The day after Christmas, known as Boxing Day in some European countries, is traditionally known as a shopping holiday. In America, this is typically the day when people start to return any unwanted Christmas gifts, stock up for next Christmas on items that are marked down on sale, or see friends that they hadn’t been able to see before Christmas.

=============

December 21, 2021

“One fifteen means fifteen minutes before I have to clock in. Fifteen minutes before a twelve-hour shift that I’m not ready for and don’t have enough caffeine for,” Anne muttered to herself, staring at her reflection through her car's rearview mirror. “But, fifteen minutes before getting to do something that I thankfully love, something that I enjoy doing.” No matter how long the shift in front of her, Anne had developed a habit of giving herself a pep talk before she got out of her car. “Whatever happens, you’ve helped someone.”

The last part wasn’t always true, knowing that there was the possibility that something could go wrong that she and the other nurses and doctors wouldn’t be able to fix. Lying to herself that everything was going to be ok was the only want to convince herself to go into the hospital every day. Finally mustering up enough courage to get out of her car, she grabs her bag from the backseat, heading in for yet another long day right before the Christmas holiday.

The maternity ward where Anne worked never ceased to be hectic, the miracle of life happening at least once an hour. No matter how much Anne had studied in nursing school, nothing could have prepared her for the stress that could come from the job, the long hours, the potential for something so right to turn so wrong in a minute, the way nothing can go planned since the baby dictated all, the mess that comes with every birth, or the joy that results from a former patient sending her the occasional picture of a baby she helped deliver as they’re growing up.

“Hey, Tyson, come on!” comes from inside the open doors of the building, Anne not paying attention to who it was coming from, causing her to collide with a stranger, spilling her much-needed coffee all over the both of them.

“Shit,” she says, not looking up from the brown splatter on what should be mint green scrubs. “I am so sorry.”

Standing in front of her was a curly-haired boy, about her age, wearing what she was sure was a Colorado hockey jersey. Beyond that, she had no idea. “No, no, it’s my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Let me buy you another,” he offers, ignoring the persistent calls from his friends to hurry up.

Anne checks her watch: 1:19. “It’s ok. I don’t really have the time, I have to clock in in eleven minutes, and knowing the cafeteria or the vending machines, it would take a lot longer,” she says, trying to get by him. Before he can protest, she gets to the elevator that would bring her to her floor, thankful that it was ready to get her there without her having to wait. The doors start to close, only to be stopped by a hand stuck through them, the curly-haired boy with the coffee stain down the front of him getting on the elevator with her. Anne gives him a confused look, begging him to explain why he was trying to make her late for her shift.

“If you aren’t going to let me buy you one now to make up for it, at least let me see where you work so I can drop one off for you.”

Anne rolls her eyes, unamused by the man in front of her as he attempts to flirt with her. “That would be nice, but the chances of me getting it before it goes cold are slim to none, so you need to suggest something else if you really want to buy me a coffee.”

“Let me get your number so I can buy you one when you aren’t working?” he asks, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. 1:25. “I’m Tyson, by the way.”

The elevator dings, signaling that they were on Anne’s floor, opening the door to nurses and doctors running around, expectant fathers who were probably kicked out of the delivery room for making the mom too nervous pacing the halls, grandparents trying to control younger children who had little to no idea what was going on as they waited in the strange building. Anne walks to the backroom to drop her stuff off and clock in, typing her information into the stranger’s phone as he followed her like a puppy, his friend’s texts coming across the top of his screen asking where he went so they could leave.

“I’m Anne, and I’ve got to go,” she tells him, handing back his phone. There was no way he was going to text her, and it’s not like the coffee was that big of a deal to him. She could go to the vending machine down the hall and grab one during her break, or have someone else on their break do it for her if she needed it sooner.

“Can’t wait for our coffee date, Anne,” he says, winking at her before shoving his hands in his pockets and sauntering back down the hallway.

“Who is he?” her coworker, Jess asked, popping up out of nowhere. “He’s hot.”

“In more ways than one, apparently,” Anne jokes, “he’s also wearing my hot coffee on his shirt.”

“You didn’t,” Jess scolds her, turning her around to see the coffee that was spilled down Anne’s own outfit, knowing Anne’s tendency to be a little absent-minded as she gets wrapped up in her own thoughts. “Anne, you did.”

“Not on purpose!”

“DeFormicola?” Anne’s supervisor, Jackson, pops his head into the room just as she was clocking in, “We need you in room 414.”

“Saved by the bell,” Anne teases, walking down the hall to where all the noise was coming from, trying to throw on the appropriate clothing before she went into the room, struggling to get the gloves on as she entered.

“Ok, Erin, we’re going to need you to push,” one of the doctors says, Anne standing behind him as she watched the baby’s head crowning.

This was her favorite part of the job, helping the mother stay calm and trying to make sure that despite the child coming out of her, she was as comfortable as possible. Normally, she would be with the mom as soon as she came in, Erin clearly nervous as to what was going on. They had to be first-time parents, the dad going back and forth to Erin’s side and behind the doctor, looking mortified each time and clearly regretting what he was seeing.

“It’s a boy!” the doctor says, handing the new baby to a breathless Erin.

“A boy! A boy!” the dad yells, going out to the hallway, Erin clearly unamused by whatever antics he was going about.

“Don’t worry, he’s not the first one to do that,” Anne reassures her, knowing that something like that would happen at least five more times during her shift, hearing the father’s voice repeating the phrase. “I’m going to get him cleaned up and then get him right back to you, ok?” Anne asks, reaching for the baby as everyone else around her tries to clean everything else up.

“Be careful with him,” Erin warns, not meaning anything bad by it. She was definitely a first time mother.

“I will be,” Anne tells her, feeling her phone vibrate in her pocket as she does. “So you have a name picked out yet?”

“We were thinking Matthew.”

Anne turns her head, smiling at Erin. “That’s a good name. My older brother is named Matthew.”

Erin smiles at her, the father finally coming back in, clearly overjoyed by the birth of their new baby. Anne hands him back to his parents, Matthew screaming his head off as they get wheeled into another room.

Anne goes over to the desk, sitting down where she was supposed to be for the start of her shift to do paperwork, but the uncertainty in the hour by hour of the schedule was not surprising. She pulls out her phone, ‘Maybe: Tyson’ coming up across her screen.

“He’s already texting me,” she alerts Jess whose head whips away from her computer to look over Anne’s shoulder at what message the mystery man could have sent her.

“He’s horny.”

“Jessica!” she squeals, wishing she was more shocked by what her friend had said. “Why is that always your first reaction to a boy sending a message?”

She shrugs, swiveling back to her own computer, “I’m normally right. What’s he saying?”

“He wants to know when he can buy me coffee.”

“Horny.”

“Enough.”

“You should date him.”

Anne turns to her, clearly unamused by Jess’s need to continue the conversation. “I don’t have to date anyone.”

Jess lets out a long sigh, Anne knowing that she was rolling her eyes. “I’m not saying you have to, I’m saying you should.”

“Ok, I don’t want to date anyone.”

“Oh, come on Anne,” Jess says, getting up and plopping herself on the desk in front of Anne, fiddling with the wire connecting the mouse to the rest of the computer. “You work in a maternity ward where people become parents every day, and you haven’t even thought of finding a man?”

“You don’t have a point,” Anne tells her, not making eye contact with her.

“My point,” Jess says, leaning over to block Anne’s view of her computer screen, “is that you can’t be single forever.”

“Says who?”

“Didn’t you tell me that you were named after the patron saint of the town your grandmothers were from?”

Anne rolls her eyes, knowing where this was going. It was going in the same direction that this conversation always went in when she had it with her mom every single holiday. “All four of us are named after the patron saints of the towns our grandparents are from.”

“St. Anne is the patron saint of child care, grandparents and mothers.”

“She’s also that patron saint of unmarried women, so your argument is invalid, as usual.”

Jess takes in a breath to say something, cut off by Jackson calling for Jess to go into one of the delivery rooms. “Just don’t say no because you think you have to be single,” she advises as she walks away.

Anne leans back in the chair, rubbing her hands over her face. “This is how Christmas is going to go, isn’t it?” she asks herself.

=============

December 25, 2021

The number of cars lining her parent's driveway meant that she was one of the last ones there, but knowing her aunts and uncles, she wasn’t the last one there. Her parents were the ones who did Christmas Day for her dad’s family, Christmas Eve being the anniversary of her mom’s mom’s death, and, on top of that, Teresa doesn’t talk to her family over some argument and grudge being held over their parent's house.

Scanning the cars, she didn’t see the one belonging to her brother Matthew, or his wife, Stephanie. “I’ll just leave Harper’s gifts in the car,” Anne mutters to herself, trying to juggle as many gifts as she could while also balancing the box of pastries her mom asked her to pick up for dessert.

Without a free hand to open the door, Anne did everything she could to ring the doorbell with her elbow, praying that someone would come to open the door before she dropped anything.

Her younger brother, Sebastian, opens the door, a disappointed look on his face. “What the fuck is all this for?” he asks, taking some of the bags from her arms to lighten her load.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” she remarks, “Yours is still in my car if you’re wondering.”

“Did you have to get gifts for everyone?” he asks, Anne greeting her aunts and uncles on the way to the tree to put everything down for later.

“Well, it’s Hazel’s first Christmas," she explains, referencing their sister's youngest daughter, "So getting her something and not getting the other children something seemed wrong, and then Jessica took me shopping and kept saying things like ‘oh this would be perfect for Lucy,’ or ‘oh don’t have you an aunt who likes mystery novels?’ And everything went downhill from there.”

Sebby groans, walking with Anne back out to her car to retrieve the rest of the gifts, Anne still holding the box of pastries since they hadn’t made it to the kitchen yet. “Please tell me you didn’t get Aunt Lisa that Agatha Christie illustrated novel that the bookstore was selling.”

“Please tell me you didn’t get Aunt Lisa that Agatha Christie illustrated novel the bookstore was selling,” Anne laughs, Sebby nodding his head. “I got a gift receipt.”

“What did you end up getting Matthew?” he asks her. Anne had texted Sebby in panic on Black Friday, coming home from a day of shopping with Lucy that left her without a gift for Lucy’s twin brother.

Grabbing the rest of the gifts and handing them to Sebby, she closes the door to her car and starts to go back inside. “I found this ‘make your own wine’ kit that I think he would like. That way Steph doesn’t have to listen to him complaining about how the stuff she drinks is ‘too sweet.’”

“What about for me?” Sebby asks, nudging Anne with his elbow as they arrange the rest of the gifts in the already mountainous pile under the tree.

“Oh, I knew there was someone I forgot,” she says sarcastically, Sebby ripping the bow off one of her carefully wrapped presents and throwing it at her. “Ok, now I’m never getting you a gift again.”

Sebby laughs, helping his older sister off the ground. The two of them wander into the kitchen, slipping in unnoticed due to the sheer number of family members and noise that was filling the room. “Aunt Anne! Aunt Anne!” Harper and Skylar squeal in unison when her nieces spot her, hoping that either she or Sebby had grabbed Harper, Matthew, and Stephanie’s gifts. She didn’t think there was anything left in her trunk.

“Hey there, fireflies,” Anne greets them, bending down as they both kiss her on the cheek. “Guess what? Santa stopped by my place and left some gifts for you, but he made me promise that you two were really good today if you want to open them after dessert, ok?”

The two girls nod excitedly, bouncing up and down at Anne’s words. To still be young and believe in Santa, that must be nice.

“Hey, ma,” Anne finally finds her mother, putting down the box of pastries in front of her and kissing her on the cheek. “Upstairs or downstairs fridge?”

“It goes downstairs. Come on, I have someone I want you to meet,” her mother says, dragging you away from your aunts that had aggregated around her. They all had excited looks on their faces, something that instantly worried Anne as she followed her mother down the stairs with the box. She could hear Matthew and Lucy’s voices, knowing that her brother and sister’s wife and husband had to be down there with them, too. “Matthew told me about this friend of his who couldn’t make it home for Christmas,” her mother whispers before she got to the last step.

“Mom, no,” Anne says, already knowing where this was heading. “I told you: I don’t need a boyfriend.”

“But I don’t have a grandson,” her mom whines, shaking Anne’s hand in her own against her chest.

“How is that my fault?”

“If you just find a nice boy, and get married, I just know you’re going to be my child that has a boy.”

“Oh my god,” Anne groans, pushing past her to get to the fridge.

Teresa pulls Anne over to the couches where her siblings were, Lucy sitting on one with her feet in Jason’s lap, Jason’s hand lazily rubbing his wife’s shins. Matthew was on the other, Stephanie nuzzled against his shoulder, all four of them with a glass of wine and three bottles open. Next to Matthew was a guy sitting there awkwardly, straightening his back when he saw you while Sebby tried to contain his laughter as he sat on the floor. “Jeremy, this is my youngest daughter, Anne. Anne, this is Jeremy,” she introduces the two of them before running up the stairs.

“I do have a girlfriend, actually,” Jeremy says, “So I’m sorry.”

Anne and her siblings burst out laughing, Lucy pouring her sister a glass of wine. “If only this were the first time Ma tried to set Anne up with a guy who was seeing someone.”

“I even tried to tell her that but she didn’t listen,” Matthew adds. “It’s better than when she tried to set you up with Adam,” he says, referencing Lucy’s partner at their optometry practice.

“Yeah, his husband wasn’t too thrilled by that potential match,” Sebby says.

They all keep talking, Anne just sitting and listening to them reminisce about all the people their parents had tried to set her up within their desperate attempt for her to no longer be single. It didn’t help that the last time she listened to them about dating was Andy, the boy who cheated on her when they got to college. Apparently going to school half an hour from each other wasn’t enough for him to keep up their two-year relationship instead of shoving his tongue down multiple girls throats before doing god only knows what else.

“When do you think they’ll stop trying to set me up with someone?” Anne finally pips in, accidentally cutting off something Jeremy was saying as she stared at the wine she was swirling in the glass.

“When you get a boyfriend,” her siblings say in unison.

“I hate all of you for doing that,” she laughs. “But, seriously, why is it so important that I have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, you know your mother,” Jason says, putting his glass down on the floor. “She saw what Lucy and I had and then wanted that for all her children.”

Lucy playfully shoves him, kissing him as Anne and Sebby groan. “She just wants you to be happy, and to her and dad, happiness is marriage and a family.”

“Where am I going to meet someone if I go to work or here where they try to bring in non-single non-potential suitors?” she asks, looking over at Jeremy. “Sorry.”

He shrugs, not able to get a word in before Matthew starts, “What if you met someone at work like how Steph and I met?”

“Yeah because there are so many single men walking around the maternity ward,” she says, her phone buzzing in front of her. “What about you, though, Seb, how’s Collins?” Anne asks, changing the subject.

“Eh,” he shrugs, his eyes wandering to Anne’s phone screen, “I’m not sure we’re going to last to graduation.”

“What?” Lucy squeals, causing Jason to jump as she threw her legs out of his lap. “I thought you said she was ‘the one’?”

Sebby looks down at his glass, a stupid smirk on his face. “Nah, that changed. She doesn’t want me to go to law school in Boston, she wants me to stay here or move to California with her.”

“But the adventure of moving with your girlfriend to another state!” Matthew offers, Stephanie rolling her eyes.

“Matthew, not everyone needs adventure like you do, hon.”

Anne’s phone buzzes again, a reminder that she had a text waiting for her. Picking it up before Sebby can see who it is, ever the nosy little brother, she sees a message from Tyson popping up as they continue their conversation about Sebby’s love life and Anne’s lack thereof. . They had only been texting for a few days since their encounter at the hospital, but every time his name came up she couldn’t help but smile, lifting the wine glass to her lips to cover it in hopes of her siblings not noticing.

How’s your Christmas been so far?

A simple ‘eh’ as a response was all that she needed to send. It could be worse, but her mom trying to set her up with a guy with a girlfriend was definitely not something that made for a good Christmas. The only thing that could be worse is if their dad came home early from the flight he was on with a guy he picked up in whatever country he had to go to that prompted him to miss the holiday. Normal dads who had to travel would bring their kids back little trinkets or a postcard, but Anne wouldn’t put it past Tony to borderline kidnap someone from the plane he was flying and bring them home for Anne.

Tyson’s contact comes up again, an incoming call that prompted Anne to step away so she could answer it. “What’s up?”

“You said your Christmas was ‘eh.’ What’s going on?”

“It’s a long story,” she groans, pressing her back up against the fridge.

“Well, what if I have something that might make it better?” he flirts.

“Oh? Like what”

“What if I said I’m 100% free to buy you that coffee any time tomorrow, since I know you said you didn’t have work, and you can tell me about Christmas then?”

Anne hears her siblings laugh not ten feet away, praying that they couldn’t hear her conversation. Taking in a deep breath, she knew that her cheeks were turning pink at his words. “Sure, that sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asks, walking back over to join her siblings.

“I’ll text you details,” he tells her, hanging up.

“Oh, my god,” Lucy yells, interrupting their conversation. “Anne was talking to a boy.”

“What the hell? What makes you think that?” she asks.

“Your cheeks are red," Lucy says, prompting Anne to raise her hand to feel the heat radiating from her face, "Who else would you be seeing tomorrow?” her sister eggs on, her eyebrow raised since she knew she was right.

Anne tries to find her words, unable to think of a name that wasn’t a guy's name to blurt out.

“Is it Tyson?” Sebby asks, Anne’s unlocked phone in his hand.

“You jackass!” she yells, lunging at her brother to try to get her phone back.

Teresa’s footsteps sound down the stairs, her poking her head between the gap in the stair rail and the steps themselves, Anne and Sebby looking like a deer in headlights when they see their mom. “I was coming to say that dinner was ready, but what’s going on here?”

“Anne has a boy she wasn’t telling us about,” Sebby blabs, earning an ‘I’ll kill you’ look from Anne.

“Oh! Annie!” their mom squeals, running down the stairs to pick her up off the ground and hug her. “Why didn’t you tell us about him?”

“I, uh,” Anne starts, still not sure what to say.

“You have to bring him to New Year’s Day at Uncle Vince’s house,” she tells her, the rest of the siblings following Anne being dragged back up the stairs for dinner, her mom announcing that Anne had a boyfriend when she, in fact, didn’t.

=============

December 26, 2021

“So, are you going to tell me why your Christmas was only ‘eh,’ or am I going to have to guess?” Tyson asks, setting down two cups of coffee in front of them. Tyson had asked Anne to meet him at a small coffee shop that was within walking distance of her apartment, thankful that she didn’t have to drive through Denver on the day where everyone was returning anything unwanted, like her Aunt Lisa returning one of the copies of the Agatha Christie novel that her and Sebby each got her.

Anne groans, the images of last night’s dinner flashing through her mind. “Can we talk about something else, first?”

“Fine,” Tyson says, taking a long sip of the coffee, “What did you get for gifts?”

She raises her eyebrow at him, Tyson mirroring her expression except with a goofy grin on his face. Rolling her eyes, she starts listing off the stuff she got: “My parents got me a new attachment for my KitchenAid stand mixer since my younger brother, Sebby, broke it last time he was over and a voucher for a flight anywhere in the country like they do every year, um, some gift cards from my aunts and uncles, my nieces all did their best attempts at drawing a portrait of me, Sebby told me he was going to come over and make dinner for me, which scares me because he can’t cook, Matthew and his wife got me some books they thought I would like, and Lucy and her husband got me this bracelet,” Anne tells him, extending her arm out to show him.

“I have so many questions,” Tyson starts.

“I might have answers,” Anne tells him, raising her cup to him.

“How big is your family?”

“I’m the third of four, Lucy and Matthew are twins and are about five years older than me, then Sebby is a year younger than me. Lucy has two daughters and Matthew has one. My dad has two brothers; one older, one younger. The older one has three kids, the younger has two and then three grandchildren.”

“Mom’s family?”

Anne looks down at her coffee. “I’m the only one who talks to anyone on that side of the family. My mom and her brother got into a fight when their parents died over what was left to them. My uncle has two daughters and two granddaughters.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking between the coffee and Anne.

She shrugs, not really bothered by it at this point. “It’s whatever. I talk to them because I want to, so it’s fine. What other questions do you have, though?”

“The ticket voucher?”

“Yeah,” Anne laughs, “Our dad is a pilot with Southwest Airlines, so every Christmas they give us a voucher to fly anywhere we want. They say they want to make sure that we take time for ourselves, but I think Dad gets some sort of bonus for every voucher he buys.”

Tyson throws his head back laughing. It wasn’t that funny, but seeing him so happy, Anne couldn’t help but smile back at him. “What about you, what did you get for Christmas?”

“My mom and sister flew down and basically restocked my kitchen for me.”

“Ok, that’s a great present, though,” she says. “Where was your dad?”

The smile from Tyson’s face fades, not looking up at Anne. “I never knew him. My mom and grandmother raised me.”

“Oh, Tyson,” she says, reaching out for his hand. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

He shrugs, a forced smile on his face. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything, I don’t think. My mom and my grandmother are the reason I am who I am. I wouldn’t give that up or change it.”

The two of them sit there, Anne trying to think about how many times she helped deliver a baby when the father was nowhere to be found. She normally figured they were busy or just not in the delivery room, not being there all together was something she couldn’t even begin to imagine. “But enough about me. Why was your Christmas ‘eh’?”

“My family has it in their heads that I need a boyfriend,” she admits, Tyson smirking at her words. “And my brother saw your texts coming up on my phone and being the asshole that he is, announced that I was texting a boy, so now, I need to find someone to bring with me to my uncle’s house on New Year’s Day that I can pass off as you.”

Tyson gives her a confused look. “Why wouldn’t you just bring me?”

Anne sits there, a shocked look on her face. “Because they think ‘Tyson’ is my boyfriend, and you aren’t?”

“So we pretend. They don’t need to know,” he shrugs, acting like it was no big deal.

“That would never work,” Anne dismisses him.

“Why not? You don’t think I’m a good actor?” Tyson whines, acting insulted at Anne’s words.

She scoffs, “Ok, one, hockey players are never good actors, and two, Sebby or Lucy are bound to figure out that you are not my boyfriend. Sebby wants to be a lawyer so he analyzes everything and Lucy is just this perfect anomaly of a human who would be bound to figure it out.”

“I think I can play your boyfriend for New Year’s Day,” he says, confidence dripping in his voice.

“No, I can’t have you do that.”

The maternity ward where Anne worked never ceased to be hectic, the miracle of life happening at least once an hour. No matter how much Anne had studied in nursing school, nothing could have prepared her for the stress that could come from thhe job, the long hours, the potential for something so right to turn so wrong in a minute, the way nothing can go planned since the baby dictated all, the mess that comes with every birth, or the joy that results from a former patient sending her the occasional picture of a baby she helped deliver as they’re growing up.

#tyson jost #tyson jost imagines #tyson jost fic #tyson jost oc fic #colorado avalanche #avalanche #nhl #colorado avalanche imagine #avalanche imagine #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagines #tyson and anne

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welcometothecrockpot · 3 years ago

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Merry Christmas @the-redheaded-league from your secret santa! ❤

A fluffy little fic for you, featuring our favorite priest! I hope you like it!! Christmas of 1970 is approaching on Crockett Island and the spirit of the season has lead you to Saint Patrick's to visit the young priest one snowy night--

Snow drifted down from the sky to land softly on the rocky shores of Crockett Island. December of 1970 carried with it unusual winter flurries, bringing holiday cheer to the remote community. Fluffy snowflakes kissed your face, melting on contact with your skin as you walked along your path to Saint Patrick’s church.

It was Saturday night, but you couldn’t wait until mass in the morning. You needed to see him. Stolen glances and awkward pauses had become all you could think about. It started not long after his arrival to the island, this tension you felt anytime you were near him. Many of the young men in the community had been drafted in the war, so the church had become an important source of comfort. Then came your saving grace, tall in stature with dark hair and a tender smile.

He spoke such lovely words of compassion, bringing comfort in grief and light where it was dark. But as time went on, he had become something more. It brought butterflies to your stomach, just thinking of him. The shepherd, the guide… the priest. The torment you’d put yourself through, trying to deny your feelings and hiding them from the light, you could no longer bear it. Honesty would be your salvation tonight.

A warm glow emitted from the old church, contrary to the cold air fogging your breath, and you felt a tingle of anxiety in your fingers from where you stood in the gravel road. But you’d decided that whatever the outcome may be, this had to be done. The fear of rejection had had you in its grip for long enough. You stepped forward, squeezing your fists that you’d stuffed into your coat pockets, until you reached the front steps and stopped in your tracks. A sound, a voice, like the echo of angels reached your ears.

“Fear not then, said the Angel Let nothing you affright This day is born a Savior Of a pure Virgin bright To free all those who trust in Him From Satan's pow'r and might Oh tidings of comfort and joy Comfort and joy Oh tidings of comfort and joy”

The words had drawn you up the stairs to the open doorway, where you could see Father Pruitt arranging fresh cut garland behind the altar, singing out his merry hymn to the empty pews. The place was beautifully decorated for Christmas, dozens of candles surrounding lush evergreen wreaths and bright crimson poinsettia flowers. Your heart swelled and on your face, a cheerful smile turned as his velvety baritone lyrics wrapped you in a feeling indescribable.

Enamored and transfixed, you remained there just inside the doorway until he turned from the altar and his voice caught in his throat with startled surprise.

“Oh! Father, I’m so sorry!” you hurriedly apologized, stepping further into the church.

Your remorse was met with a jovial chuckle, his hand loosening its alarmed hold on the pulpit’s edge beside him. “That’s quite alright. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but… it is good to see you.”

His eyes practically sparkled in the light when he smiled at you, your body now weightless as the drifting snow. Then a stone suddenly sank into your stomach, an unwelcome reminder of your purpose there, for your mind had been taken over not by Godley things, but by human things. Your apprehension must have shown in your face, as his smile fell with worry weighing on his brow before he gently approached you.

“Is everything alright?”

The answer to that question was more complicated than he knew. What you would give to feel his lips on yours, to know how his skin felt against your cheek, instead of the pressure that grew in your chest.

“No,” you choked out in reply.

He blinked at you before carefully taking your hand to lead you to sit in the front pew, his fingers leaving behind an impossibly warm impression after leaving yours. He lowered himself to kneel on the wooden floor in front of you then lifted his gaze to hold yours in quiet sincerity.

His steadfast kindness struck a feeling that welled up behind your eyes as the man of God before you stared into them, a man that had stirred something most impious within you.

“Forgive me Father, for I… I love a man who can’t love me back.”

No sooner than when the words burst from your mouth, did you long to take them back. But they hung there in the air between you, mercilessly irretractable. The only sound you could hear was the rushing in your ears while you sat in stillness, trying to read the expression on his face.

He breathed in the surrounding silence before he quietly uttered, as if to himself, or maybe to God, “Lord forgive me.” Your brows knitted together, and lips parted in question but before you could speak he quickly said, “I vow to provide council to the best of my abilities, God willing, but I must confess something to you now.”

Your own breath quickened, keeping your eyes locked on his while you nodded wordlessly.

“I-I have had… feelings that I’m afraid will affect my ability to offer the council and comfort you deserve from me,” he spoke carefully. “I offer to you my ear, but you must know that I cannot bear the thought of you with another man.”

The confession that was to be yours, that came from his lips instead, brough a rush of heat to your cheeks, your heart thumping faster than before when you replied, “Father… that man is you.”

His brown eyes widened while he took in the words you’d just spoken, like he wanted to be sure he heard them correctly, then a toothy smile stretched across his face.

“Is that true?”

You felt as though you could fly, light as air, your soul mingling with the stars. You returned a smile that could be no larger as you reached to take his hands in yours and nodded eagerly. He beamed at you, a joyful chuckle pushing its way out for your own to join it. This feeling, this brightness, it couldn’t be a sin, it was too pure.

You knew this in your heart, you told him, but the collar he wore was a part of something bigger than you.

He thought for a moment, looking to the ceiling before locking eyes with you. “When I’m near you,” he said, “I’m closer to God than I have ever been before.”

A breath of cold winter air rushed into your lungs, then your hands reached out to hold his face as the distance between you closed and the world around you ceased to exist, only your lips on his and the soft snowfall blowing through the open doors.

#secret santa #midnight mass #john pruitt #midnight mass fic #the-redheaded-league #hamish linklater

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applesontheground · 3 years ago

Text

catching web 🕷️

hi! welcome to the next part of a little draft gone AWOL! 🎉 i wanted to jump into the violence like immediately, but stopped myself for one more installment. don’t worry, it’s coming. i’m just one of those writers who gets lost in her own plot sometimes. 😕 also, asa only makes an appearance at the tail-end of this, so if you’re here for professor creepy crawly, i will honestly say it might be best to wait for the next part -- but much like the slashing, he will also arrive sooner rather than later. 😅😊

SFW | Word Count: 1,808 | Asa Emory x GN Reader

contains: canon typical/murder, hints at paranoia/being watched

🎼: x, x

⬅ continued from cohort

➡ continued in crosshair

“Utilizing study groups will save you this semester. Sticking to your guns and doing things alone in my class is fine, I’ll allow it-“

You waited for the mute laughter of your students. When it came from the mass of desks just as dry and half-awake as you anticipated, you sighed and continued, “But I encourage you all to get to know each other. Safety in numbers, right?”

The lecture wrapped up, and you watched your morning group file out slowly, not even mumbling amongst themselves at a volume that you’d expect from a sophomore class. Some of them had already shoved the handouts into their bags while others held them in their hands along with their caffeine of choice. You always hung around the room for a few passing moments just in case, but you knew as the last person shuffled out that no one was going to be stopping you for a question of any sort.

When the door finally shut, the last twenty-something out on the other side, you turned to the desk behind you for your own mug of coffee. As soon as your eyes had been taken off the room, a voice came from the entrance, echoing to the high ceiling. “Professor [L/N]?”

Turning back with big eyes, you found the superintendent of the department at the top of the steps that trickled down into the lecture hall. His smile said good morning, but the hands in his pockets and the tip of his chin said I’m going to need you for a minute.

You nodded sagely at him, taking a sip from your mug.

“So, you stay late pretty frequently, is that right?”

You sucked in a breath, wondering where the hell the old man wanted to go with this. There was a dull moan from the back of your head, He’s going to start telling you to go the fuck home. Luck’s catching up to you. Still, you shrugged and admitted, “Yes, I do. I tend to be slow in my chores sometimes, but I just want to make sure I’m prepared for classes.”

He nodded, hand mowing over his neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard as he pondered for another beat. Silence was starting to compress your chest, making it feel impossible to breathe without making some sort of intrusive noise as the quiet swallowed you whole. You uncrossed and re-crossed your legs to the other side, the hem of your slacks brushing your ankles. There wasn’t a lot of circulation in the stuffy office he had escorted you to, so you bobbed the foot on top back and forth, feeling the tickle of air along your socks.

“Have you seen anyone else on campus while here late?” He finally asked, peering over the thin wire frame of his glasses in your direction. You probably gave the question three seconds of thought, and then shrugged with a shake of your head. He prodded again, “Any commotion, perhaps? Maybe you haven’t seen anyone, but have you heard something odd when you stay after hours?”

Furrowing your brow, you gaped like a fish; mouth falling open as your eyes darted to the wall, and then closed again to think with a pensive squint. He sighed slowly, and explained, “Listen, there’s been some suspicious activity during the evenings, and I figured I’d ask before campus security starts their preliminary investigation.”

Curiosity had you now, your arms settling over the arms of the chair that you sat in, across from the body behind the old-fashioned desk. You cautiously murmured, “If I might ask, what kind of commotion could I have heard? I sometimes can catch kids cutting through campus as they’re walking home from the bar or something, but nothing else. Especially if it’s that la-”

“Missing persons.”

Your rambling fell flat, jaw slacking as he quickly added, “Right now we’re not disclosing this to students, or anyone outside of the University besides law enforcement. There are police investigations underway, but they’ve encouraged us to remain diligent as things are sorted out. There’s only been two confirmed cases so far, so I need to make sure my staff are aware and accounted for.”

You nodded again, craning your neck and sending a worried glance to your knees. You started running through the evening before with a fine-tooth comb, unsure of what to tell him besides you hadn’t noticed anything odd; and not only to give him some sort of hope that things were accounted for, but that you hadn’t been involved with anything even close to suspicious.

The awareness of what it looked like by you staying late while students ended up going missing was making your jaw clench and unclench, knowing he had called you in specific for a reason. You had to have been the first person he went to in the day, your eyes looking at the clock. I organized my bookshelf at around 4, ran out for a coffee at 6, and then I made copies after a while.

…

“[L/N]. Why are you here so late?”

Eyes snapping up, you fought the urge to gawk at the superintendent again as Professor Emory’s face flashed in the back of your mind, the dilated eyes only a figment but the hair on your arms raising up under your sleeve very real.

The old man was already dismissing you, using an assuring tone. “Don’t look so frightened. I understand the concern, but if you have nothing to tell me then I’ll let you go about your day. When’s your next lecture?” You replied, “Forty-five minutes. Really, sir, I didn’t know this was what I would ever be called into your office for.” Your hands fiddled with one another as you murmured, “I…I wish I could do more to help right now, but…I didn’t even suspect that people going missing was what you were going to tell me.”

“You can at least give me peace of mind, [L/N].” He pursed his lips at you, and when you only gave him a blank stare back, he chuckled, “Start going home on time.”

A heavy frown was plastered on your countenance as you closed the door to your office, squinting at the light coming from fluorescent lampposts lining the walkways of the campus. Once again, you fought the urge to crawl back into the room that had all your busywork that you wanted to do. Even though the superintendent had asked you to leave on time, you still weaseled your way into quitting at 9:30. You shoved your keys into your jacket pocket and started walking down the hall and towards the stairs, leading to the road home.

At first, you were at peace. There was laundry to be done back at your apartment, meaning you could leave to go to some shabby laundromat and sit for a couple hours with your assignment plans that still needed your devout attention. It was something to keep you out of the confines, at least. As you neared the stairwell, you could’ve sworn you heard footsteps barely whispering against the linoleum. Your legs locked to stand still, staring at the corkboard hung up beside the stairs and turning all attention to the empty air behind you. Your arms stuck fast to your sides as you slowly turned your head, eyes barely moving to glance over your shoulder. When they finally did, they scanned the corridor in an attempt to find something in the shadows. You honestly didn’t know what the hell you would do if you did.

When there was nothing to raise concern upon initial glance, you stopped trying to find one and began trotting down the steps, air whistling through your nostrils.

You strutted out into the night air, the first signs of Autumn immediately coming for the exposed patch of your chest from the first buttons of your shirt being undone. Even the nearby traffic had died for the night, leaving a hollow ring to the clearing outside of the building. A disturbance down the way, towards the direction of the quad, made your eyes snap to your left. Your breath hitched, making you choke out a clunky noise that died in the depths of your throat before truly leaving your mouth. Tires squealing from a distance made you jolt and turn your head to the other direction as soon as it had the first way. You clutched your chest, recognizing the echo of the University’s parking garage a five minute walk away from the building.

A thud against concrete made your eyes swivel across the sidewalk in front of you, once again casted to the left in a haphazard back and forth motion of your head. A figure shot by the corner of your eye; a featureless silhouette of a head gone before you even registered that as what you saw. A dark splotch against the sidewalk, glowing black and blue in the light of the moon, made you take three large steps back. You couldn’t stop staring, unable to pull your gaze away for another long pause before you finally turned and fled.

Was that fucking blood? You could barely force air through your lungs, clutching your jacket and pulling it over your shirt and exposed neck as you sped down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. No one was there to drown the vivid recollection, or to distract you from the noise you were already replaying in your head. It was as if the campus itself was staring down your back, watching you where you were most vulnerable.

The hum of the lights above your head, signaling the return to your apartment building, brought anything but comfort. Its buzz was like an unrelenting insect, only adding insult to the way your head had been spinning.

Bearing witness was a heavy thing, but you wondered what sort of explanation matched that scene -- or rather, what had been left of it. The splatter against the white slab of concrete, the figure that you weren’t even sure whether or not it had actually been there, and the fact that no one else could vouch for the entire scene made you realize that it was something to attack head-on. No one could quite address what had happened like you could.

How could you explain it? Who could you explain it to?

You paused in your frantic thoughts, keys hovering over the lock to your apartment door as you stared down the hall again, wary to be curious but still giving into the natural urge.

Huh, someone left their luggage out in the open.

A large scarlet trunk stared back at you, sitting in an almost quaint way down the hall in front of your neighbor’s door. You shrugged it off and unlocked the door, slipping inside and flicking the light on. It was hard to linger when the remnants of what you had seen were still fresh in your memory, as fresh as the blood had been on the walkway.

#asa emory x reader #asa emory x y/n #slasher x reader #slasher x y/n #✏️#🕷️#'do you listen to apc every time you write??' yes <3 <3

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heybeybey · 3 years ago

Note

Royal AU : King Levi x domestic Petra bestie pls ??

Thanks for this @himebee-5! I needed a break from all the smut I've been drafting 😭

Word count: 1,155

Genre: Fluff, Romance

- - -

"I'm sorry... what?" Petra utters out, hand freezing on top of the young lamb whose fur she was brushing.

"I need a wife." He repeats to her, voice steady but his eyes reveal a tinge of fear at being rejected.

He'd long since discarded his crown, not even fond of the thing to begin with and Levi now stands before her in his casual black clothing. "My cousin ran off with a soldier. Tch. Brat didn't even choose a sane one."

Seeing that Petra is still reeling from the news he just dropped, Levi decides to continue.

"Now, because of Mikasa's smart decision, I don't have an heir to pass on the stupid crown. The court is pressuring me to get married as soon as possible."

"I-I heard that, my lord but-"

"Petra, drop the title," Levi said, stepping closer to her. "I thought we're way past that."

Petra can still recall the moment when Levi first visited two years ago to meet all the nobles and peasants that live throughout his domain. He was freshly crowned after the Ackerman line's matriarch and queen had died of a disease.

She recalls thinking that the new king was quite short and cold, a frown never leaving his face despite the purpose of these visits is to build relationships with his countrymen. He'd never spoken even once and mostly kept to himself while his taller, blonde general takes over the pleasantries on his behalf.

She personally found it endearing, how he'd awkwardly wave at the cheering masses, despite hearing the whispers from other townspeople how rude it was for a king to greet his people that way.

Petra was currently in the stables, taking care of the horses of their town's newest visitors. She'd often be back at her farm house and attending to the sheep, but with her father's death bleeding her savings dry, she needed some extra income other than what she could sell from her family's farm.

She'd been alone for a few hours now and the arrival of a new person made her jump a little in surprise. She was even more at a loss when she sees that it's just not anyone. It was the new king.

"My lord," she drops in a sorry attempt of a curtsy. She'd only ever seen the higher-class ladies do this. As a farm girl, she'd never seen any purpose in practicing such protocols.

Until today.

"What's your name?" He had said, eyeing her in amusement as her hand clenches her skirt. "You can stand up now."

"Petra Ral, my lord," Petra answered.

He silently nods in acknowledgement. "Care to show me around, Petra? Those nobles had been dragging me around but I doubt they even know shit about this place."

Petra jumps slightly at the curse word, not expecting that such a word would even come from a man bred in royalty. She finally offers him a small smile before gesturing him to follow her outside the stables with her own personal horse in tow.

"Well, you can't consider yourself an official visitor of our town unless you've seen the sunflower farm," she said. "My father used to offer tours. I can try to show you, but I'm not really as charismatic and charming as he was." She giggles at the thought of a stoic king amidst a field of bright flowers.

"I doubt that." He said. Petra's giggles stopped, and she found her face heating up fast as he tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

"My lor- I mean, Levi..." Petra whispers, head looking down as her heart skips a beat, both from the intense gaze he's currently giving her and the memory of how that first night ended with them in between bedsheets at her almost dilapidated farm house. "I don't think I'm qualified for such a title."

"Petra, we've been seeing each other for almost two years now." He said, voice taking on a softer tone when he sees the insecurity starting to settle on her face. "You're all I think about every time I go to war. I ride to this farm every week, and you don't know how many times I wished I could stay."

He finally takes her hand in his, lifting it up to place a soft kiss on her knuckles before continuing, "I'm tired of you remaining a secret when I know the future I want is with you."

But this special thing they have in private doesn't mean it would work in public.

What does she know of being royalty? Of dazzling, expensive dresses when all she had ever worn her whole life are peasant skirts and headdresses that she had to sew and re-stitch herself every few years.

"I doubt your people will approve my lord," She replies in a shaky voice, emphasising his title so that he would be reminded that what they have isn't normal. "That you're planning to marry a farm girl. I'm sure there are other candidates out there."

"There are." Petra's chest clenches at his answer, remembering the noblewomen in her small town who always tried to drape themselves on him. "But I don't want any of them. You're the only one, Petra."

In the two years that she'd been secretly with Levi, her heart always felt full at the knowledge that he'd never given in to their seduction and whims. Two years in and she can't believe that she's still smitten every time she finds him waiting outside her door in the wee hours of a Saturday morning.

Sighing, Petra makes a final attempt to convince him otherwise and make him see reason. But she can feel her own resolve wavering.

"I've never even been to the capital."

"I'll show you around." He replies, lighting up a bit when he hears from her voice that she's trying to convince herself as much as she's trying to convince him.

"People will talk. They'll say I seduced you for your money and power and-"

"Who gives a shit." He starts to pepper kisses against her cheek, hands trailing gentle patterns against her hips.

Her breath hitches when his lips reaches her neck. "I don't know a single thing about being royalty. I'll just embarrass you."

"I don't care." With that, he lifts her up in his arms while she finds her own hands settling on his cheek and undercut. Levi gives her a hard and almost bruising kiss before he starts to carry her towards the cozy haven that is her farm house.

"I want a lot of children." Her own yes to his proposal.

"We'll raise an army." Levi replies against her lips, kicking the door to her bedroom open.

#rivetra #levi x petra #rivetra au #rivetra fanfiction #rivetra fanfic #levi ackerman #petra ral #rivapet #rivapeto

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