#it's nothing specific it's just like urg! urg is a far too frequent reaction

[elainemorisi]

.

[myrulia]

An Oiran's Sacrifice - Kokushibou x Oiran!Reader

CHAPTER 2

Oiran

Oiran (花魁) was a specific category of high ranking courtesan in Japanese history. Divided into a number of ranks within this category, oiran were considered – both in social terms and in the entertainment they provided – to be above common prostitutes, known as yūjo (遊女, lit. 'woman of pleasure')

Warning: Prostitution, strong language, gore (slightly)

Word count: 4037

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`` Silence, Douma, `` was all the male had said before sheathing his sword once more into his saya. Kokushibou was not particularly pleased with being assigned with Douma to scout the village for a human that had crossed Lord Kibutsuji the wrong way. In fact the only way Kokushibou can really tolerate the Upper Moon Two is by showing his distaste towards him. Being the number one Upper Moon meant he had lots of responsibilities to carry, along with pleasing his Lord, yet those responsibilities felt merely meaningless the moment his 3 pairs of eyes landed on your human form.

Truth be told, Kokushibou cursed himself for letting the demon even see you in the first place. It was barely moon-rise when they arrived to locate the one they were after, and Douma being Douma was not giving the Upper Moon One an easy time with constantly asking questions relating to why he is usually the first Moon gone as soon as the moon is out. Of course, that wasn’t any of Douma’s business so Kokushibou ignored him per usual. `` Come On Kokushibou-dono!~ You always bully me one way or another and I will not stand it! `` 

Before Kokushibou knew it, Douma had already left with his head in his hands. Letting out a soft sigh, the demon who was now alone watched as you finally went inside, seeing as how demons could harm you one way or another since you were previously sitting on the engawa that wrapped around the large minka. The 6 eyed demon watched your retreating form return inside the estate, so he could rest easy knowing you were somewhat safe, but that was not all that Kokushibou came for. 

The demon then jumped from the branch he was hiding on, to a nearby roof in the span of a few seconds. Due to no living soul being out in the wake of the night knowing of the dangers, he could move about from rooftop to rooftop without drawing attention to himself. He traveled around the small village known as your home for quite some time, until he was on the roof of your very own minka. He disregarded the warm candle luminosity emitting from the small window, for that was what he had hoped. Kokushibou was no stranger to humans, he was once one himself. He understands the different emotions one goes through, or the sacrifices that must be made in order to live another day. 

Jumping from the top of the roof down onto the dirt pathway in front of your door, he holds one hand on the tsuka of his katana, while the other pushes open your surprisingly unlocked door. He steps inside the empty room and looks around for the man he was searching for, yet Kokushibou did not expect for your foolish father to try and attack him.

With one swift movement, your father's wrist is grabbed by a calloused and strong hand. The man felt shivers emit from his spine and move throughout his entire body, fear striking his heart. `` Who are you..! `` Your father hollered out in utter dread for his life.

`` Who I am is not of importance, `` Kokushibou stated, shoving the man backwards which made your father land on his bottom, hitting the tatami mat painfully. Taking slow strides to his cowering form beneath him, the Upper Moon unsheathed his katana, pointing the end at your father's neck. `` You, have sinned time and time again, thinking it is to save you and your daughter, but in the end, you are just as selfish as those who have riches. You will listen to what I have to say and answer any question asked. ``

The man before him merely nodded, since there was not much he could do in the situation, a demon, one that looked terrifying, approached him. Kokushibou took note of how easy your father gave in, which satisfied him so now sitting down, the Upper Moon sheaths his sword, yet keeping a firm grip on the tsuka. `` Why do you steal, Fujisaki? ``

Swallowing hard, Astuhashi answers as best as he can without feeling the urge to wet his hakama. `` I steal so I can provide for my daughter. To make sure she has clothes on her back, a roof over her hea- ``

`` Are those the only reasons that come to your mind? `` Kokushibou inquired in his usual stoic tone. It made your father scoot back slightly to regain himself, as well as to not scream in fear. `` There is no ot-other reason, I simply wish for her to have a better life than I did. ``

`` If you want that so desperately, then why do you get caught so frequently? By doing so, you put the two of you at risk of being beheaded publicly. One, because she is your offspring, and two, directly related to you. And if she somehow escapes being hanged beside you, she will live her life shamed by your neighbors. You have done nothing but dishonor your wife and daughter. ``

For once, Astuhashi had nothing to say. The demon who can easily kill and devour your father was indeed correct with his accusations. Kokushibou noted his silence and simply lowered his head, unsheathing his sword slowly. Your father heard the sound of a sharp blade brushing against the holder of the demon's katana and quickly began stammering for words. `` How can I continue to dishonor my wife if she has already passed on? M-My daughter knows very well that we will soon no longer have to live in such wa- ``

`` Your daughter will no longer have faith in you, `` Kokushibou growled out, his temper running short as the pitiful man before him was giving him no results of change, even after losing his daughter to a powerful man no less. `` You are just as pitiful as everyone makes you out to be. You are nothing but a selfish human who has no regard for how many times your daughter has humiliated herself just so you can live to see another day. Not once have you said thanks, instead you allow her to willingly give up her body for someone who sees her as a sex slave. ``

Just like before, Astuhashi had nothing else to say, but the bulging of his eyes once Kokushibou finally withdrew his sword completely, standing up from his sitting form and glaring down at your father who was cowering in fear at the thought of being killed. `` You do not deserve the amazing daughter you were blessed with. She works day in and day out for you, yet you continue to doom her future. ``

Kokushibou took slow strides towards the man beneath him, and all the while he moved closer, your father only pushed himself with his feet until his back hit the wall behind him. Now that Astuhashi had absolutely no where to run, the Upper Moon before him raised his sword, and in one swift swing, blood was splattered on the walls and tatami flooring. A shriek of pain rang through the ears of the demon who did so, yet he held no remorse, for it was his fate that was long overdue. 

Stepping away slowly, Kokushibou finally sheaths his sword once more, all the while glaring down at the vision-less man before him. The smell of blood did indeed overflood his senses, but Kokushibou knew that taking his life would affect you deeply, and that is not what he wanted for you since you already gave up your body to be nothing more than a yūjo. It was irritating that you allow yourself to be so quick to give up everything, just so your bitch of a father could live. The demon knew all too well of the emotional attachment you have, since Astuhashi was indeed your father and the only family left alive that you knew of.

Backing up even more, Kokushibou was about to open the wooden door to your singular room minka, but on the other side commotion was heard, unfortunately trying to figure out where the scream of combined pain and agony originated from. It was only a matter of time until they located the cause, so in natural reaction, Kokushibou fled from the apparent backdoor of the small household, climbing up the one story building onto the rooftop, making sure he was not seen.

Doing what he did previously before the somewhat conversation he had with Astuhashi Fujisaki, the Upper Moon One jumped around in the wake of the night from roof to roof, until he found himself in the foliage of the forest next to the Suzuki estate where he and Douma were standing together just an hour ago. His original mission was to eliminate a certain someone that Lord Kibutsuji was not pleased about, but that could wait. Kokushibou found a mission more seemingly important than that for it can be done later.

Now going back to his original stance on the branch that he had an annoying small talk with Douma, he watches a few other oirans walk along the hallways of the large minka that he had his eyes on for once reason and once reason only.

You.

But, Kokushibou could not stay for long. The sun is a natural enemy to demons and even thought it is hardly an hour and a half past sundown, he still is loyal to Lord Kibutsuji and does not want to suffer torture from the latter. `` You are quite the distraction.. `` the male said to no breathing soul in particular. 

Sighing out rather dramatically, he rubs his temples in deep concentration. On one part, he so dearly wishes to make sure you are safe and sound, and not doing anything you do not wish, but on the other, he has duties to fulfill as the Upper Moon One and not disappoint the demon lord who he owes his demon life to. Standing there, not knowing what to do, he mentally cursed himself for his next choice of actions, because he simply jumps atop of the Suzuki estate, the one he was sent to kill being inside.

Kokushibou knew that you were inside as well, which is why he dreaded the thought of you hearing the scream of bloody murder coming from a room not to far from the one you were most likely assigned. He knew just how much you have gone through in the span of 24 hours and adding on to that made the demon feel a sense of guilt. Something he has not felt in centuries.

Jumping down from the rooftop and onto a generally flat area, he steps onto the wrap around engawa and slowly pushes open a sliding door that revealed a sleeping man who he was after the entire time. Unsheathing his sword for what seemed like the millionth time that night, Kokushibou lifts his arm with the blade in hand, and as he does so, Kenta finally wakes up to his change of surroundings in utter shock. `` Who the hell are you and why are you in my house?! ``

The demon's eyes seemed to widen slightly. He did not expect such a casualty to present itself to him, but the Upper Moon simply shrugged. `` Ah, you are awake. I guess your scream will alert the others of your "unfortunate" death. ``

Kenta looked as if he was about to defy his upcoming death, but nothing could stop the strong arm that brought down an even stronger blade with it, beheading Kenta in the process. Another loud shriek rang through the ears of both Kokushibou, and anyone else nearby that was awake or not. Blood was splattered on the wall behind the lifeless body that dropped on the bloodied sheets that most likely had so many different unfortunate women in them. There was another tinge of pain in Kokushibou's undead heart as his mind wandered to your naked body sleeping with someone you did not want to. A sex hungry man no less.

That small pain lingering in his head would not go away as his mind drifted to you being forced to sleep with nothing but a boy who can not keep his dick in his hakama. It was infuriating to know that you had a high probability of already having sex with someone you did not wish to do so with. His face only scrunched up even more in disgust at the entire family and their way of living, his teeth gritting at how this was considered a "normal" life for them. Swinging his katana again, and again, and again, the demon only creates more of a bloody mess in the bedroom he already ruined by decapitation in the first place. 

By the end of it, there was nothing left but ruined silk sheets, soaked in red blood which came from the now mutilated and cut-to-pieces man in front of him. There was nothing left that looked remotely human, just brutally severed limbs and a head that rolled onto the tatami mat flooring beside the bed. Huffing out, Kokushibou takes a step back to get a clear view at what he had done, with little to no regret. His resentment towards the entire way the household runs was made apparent in the bloodied mess of a bedroom. Although, the male could not stay for long, for commotion was heard from a few rooms down from the one he was standing in. He simply assumed that the scream of death was heard, therefore he swiftly exited from the door he entered in, closing the wooden paneled door behind him and swiftly dashing away from the minka that he mercilessly killed in.

Now that the Upper Moon's mission was fully complete in the village, he had absolutely no reason to ever return unless it was specifically assigned to him.

Then why did he want to desire so badly? 

It was as if something was beckoning out to him, calling him back to the distraught village, but, Kokushibou had a strong will, and he did not want to lose his life to the sun. So, without falter, the demon continues to sprint away from the mountain-side village, his mind set on getting as far away as possible so that he can clear his mind of the small voice in the back of his head that keeps telling him to return. 

Just as the undead being was about to let out his anger through violently swinging his katana at the trees around him, he is suddenly transported back to the only place that really seemed recognizable. The Infinity Fortress. 

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Your peaceful slumber was suddenly disturbed when a masculine shout echoed throughout the entire minka. Your body jolted from the futon given to you, your head trying to adjust to your dark surroundings until a warm luminescent light was seen from the door crack that led to the hallway. Hurriedly, you got out from the futon and slid on the house slippers provided by the tayū and immediately pushed open the door, only to see multiple other bodies rush to the other side of the estate. `` What is the matter? `` You asked to a fellow oiran who stopped upon seeing your confused and still drowsy state.

`` The headmaster was mutilated, that is all that has been told, `` she replied rather gently in the hopes of calming your nerves, but you felt like your heart plummeted upon hearing the terrible news. Of course you knew Kenta was the cause of you becoming a yūjo, but the fact that he was killed in such a brutal way really hurt in a sense. Following behind the small crowd of people who wanted to truly see what was happening, you only became more curious as to what was happening. Although you did not know you were going to regret such things.

Pushing past a few people who were frozen in shock, you manage to make your way to the front of the crowd, part of it standing inside the private sleeping quarters of the former owner of the Suzuki estate. You looked around at the walls that had blood splattered all over them, the horrible sight looking even more worse than what you perceived, but nothing could have truly shocked you than the sight before you that caused a hand to practically fly towards your mouth. 

Disembodied limbs.

Limbs that belonged to brutally murdered Kenta Suzuki. Your eyes wandered to one arm split in half on the bed, to the other that was not cut in half but instead handing off the bed. His legs were still somehow on the bed as well, yet still separated from each other and bare, covered in blood along with every other body part you spotted. Yet, the most gut wrenching sight before you presented itself on the floor, being Kenta's decapitated head. His eyes were left wide open from the pure shock of the event that happened. His mouth set agape with blood still dripping out which stained the floor.

`` Oh my God… `` you uttered out in pure shock of the mess before you. It was sickening to see just how much one's hatred can turn into a blood bath. Before you could get another good look at the entire scene you backed away quickly and darted out past the crowd who could not pull their own eyes away. Your chest never faltered from rising and falling at its rapid rate, trying to process what happened in so little time. Just a few minutes ago you were sleeping somewhat peacefully, but now you felt as though you could not even close your eyes without your mind wandering to the unfortunate death of Kenta. 

`` Okay everyone, we will try to figure everything out in the morning, but for now, please try to get your rest. I understand that might not be possible since the murder of my father was indeed shocking. Please, try to sleep, `` spoke the son who you still resented, Hiroto Suzuki. It was surprising how he took some charge of the situation when he was most likely in the middle of getting his dick wet. At least he tried, is what you thought to yourself once you finally made it back to your own small quarters of a bedroom. 

Not even bothering to turn on the light, you kicked off your house slippers and practically flopped onto the futon, yawning in a desperate act to get some sleep, but you knew if you closed your eyes, you would only see a head on tatami mat flooring. 

Even though you tried so desperately to fight the urge to sleep, you found yourself already drifting off back into your slumber whether you liked it or not. Your body craved rest, and so, you finally gave in. 

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Just as quickly as you closed your eyes, you felt them opening once more to the warm lighting of the sunrise shining through the much bigger window in comparison to the one from your old living space. Sitting up slowly, you let out a dramatic yawn and stretched out your limbs, adjusting your vision to the sunlight shining through. Even though the sun was beaming, the events last night were dreadful as your mind flashed over the gore filled memory. 

Shaking it off, you got up and opened your wardrobe that you could proudly say held your own clothes, pulling out the things required in order to fully dress yourself for what you perceived to be a long day. The process still was not engraved into your memory entirely, so you still struggled with getting the entire kimono set up in general, but got it done anyways. Moving onto your hair, you decorated your bun-styled hair with the multiple ornaments provided, making yourself look presentable. 

The make-up though, you still struggled with profusely. It took a much longer process to hide your eyebags in view of the fact that they have been forming over the years that your father has committed acts of thievery during the night, and you having to stay up in order to make sure he returns alive. 

Although, those were things of the past and no longer apart of your everyday life. You had to admit, being able to escape from such things felt like a heavy weight that was no longer on your back. You finally had breathing space despite being no more than a common prostitute, and even though that was your new reality, it made you feel pretty in a sense with how you were given such beautiful jewelry that was given for free.

`` Lotus, it is time for your first sleeping experience with Young Master Hiroto! `` 

And just like that, your peace was ruined.

Your first time having sex with someone you never would have imagined you would do it with. You originally thought you would lose your virginity to the man you love, a perfect husband in the hopes of even having a child with him. But that little childish fantasy of yours was about to be ruined the second you actually undress yourself before the eyes of Hiroto Suzuki.

Exiting your bedroom and closing the door gently, you follow Sakura who told you about your fate. She had a proud smile on her face as she began explaining the situation. `` Go in there and make me proud. I just know you will, after all, you have a beautiful body that was practically made for this. Therefore, enjoy yourself. Hiroto does have a rather enjoyable cock..~ ``

It seemed as though Sakura was trying to make you feel better with the playful tone she used, but telling by your tired and more serious face she could tell that you were obviously not too pleased about the whole thing, so she clears her throat and stops in front of large double doors. `` Well this is it, Goodluck and at least try to enjoy yourself. I know this is not what you imagined your first time would be like, but, this is how it must be. So please, try not to upset him. ``

You only nodded your head since you did not have much so say about your fate. It was saddening really to know that this is out of your control, but you chose this path yourself. Opening the double doors, you step inside to see a fully bare man laying on his futon who looked as if he was waiting on you. You perceived that to be true with the way he leaned back on his shoulders and looked you up and down without shame. `` Well hello Lotus. ``

`` Hello, `` was all you said. You did not have much to say to Hiroto, because deep down you were still upset and you being you, decided to make that apparent. `` Aww come on..~ Not excited to help me get rid of that memory from last night? My dear old dad dying? ``

`` If you are going to use that as an excuse to have sex with me and make me enjoy it, you are certainly wrong. `` Even though Hiroto could quickly have you killed. You still wanted a shred of your dignity left because you at least know your self worth. `` I am here for the sake of my father, and if I have to have sex with someone who only thinks of sex, then so be it. `` 

Hiroto had nothing to say, and so since he did not, the male pulls you into his futon directly on top of his naked body. You could feel his shaft press against your stomach so you shuddered at the thought. Getting up slowly, you simply roll your eyes and begin to undress yourself until a pale hand came to grab your wrist. `` Let me undress you instead~ ``

And so, that is what you let him do. His hands did not know where to start until you guided him to the proper area where he could strip you with ease. In the middle of him beginning to untie the large bow on your lower abdomen, the wooden doors are pushed open abruptly. 

`` Young Master Hiroto, I apologize for interrupting your private time with Lotus, but she is needed at the moment. Something terrible has happened. ``

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[theggning]

Codsworth Is So Underrated, You Guys

ALTERNATE TITLE: Codsworth and the Totally Understated Mindbending Evolution of Artificial Consciousness

I find Codsworth is often the most underrated of the 16 companions in Fallout 4. Your faithful robot butler is among the very first you can recruit and an excellent early-game ally, but he has a few disadvantages in gameplay that mean he’s often sent back to Sanctuary before long. Codsworth is a mid-to-close range fighter only, cannot wear armor or be equipped with weapons. He cannot be healed by stimpak, which makes him a liability if you’re playing on Survival mode. He has no companion quest of his own, so unless you particularly enjoy him there’s not a compelling reason to keep him for a long time. He also becomes recruitable exactly 2 minutes after adorable puppy Best Boy Dogmeat, so he is often (understandably) replaced just as soon as he’s made available.

But there is this great, completely understated facet to Codsworth, so understated that the game does not draw attention to it in any way. And yet, it is a wonderful reflection of many of the themes of Fallout 4 and, I believe, a pretty strong indication of its thesis statement.

Now what in the hell am I talking about?

Like many sci-fi/fantasy universes, the Fallout series is home to many highly-advanced robots. Robots were commonplace before the Great War, and many have survived the bombs intact and in working order. Others have been built or modified by wastelanders to serve various tasks (Percy, Ada.) The most important thing to understand about robots, though, is though they may have vivid personalities programmed in, they are widely accepted to be objects. They are thought of the same way as an appliance, a machine built for a specific purpose and programmed to follow a strict set of protocols.

Many jokes revolve around the relatively rigid intelligence of robots. Pre-War, many were deployed in inappropriate jobs or designed haphazardly (Mister Handies acting as nurses in a hospital, “paramedic” Protectrons with massive deadly tasers for hands, military robots constantly going haywire and erupting in friendly fire.) Others continue to man businesses and play out daily tasks as they were programmed to do over 200 years ago. Most robots are incapable of understanding anything beyond their initial programming, and most pre-War robots are completely unaware that the Great War ever happened.

When the Sole Survivor reunites with Codsworth at the ruins of their home, it seems like he, too, doesn’t understand what’s going on. He talks about tending the (dead) garden, references the (ghoulified) neighbors, and generally acts like the chipper robot butler Sole left behind on their way to Vault 111.

But there is something slightly… off in Codsworth’s dialogue here. Though he acts like the war never happened, he also specifically mentions details that suggest it did:

Player Default: Codsworth! You're still... fully operational?          

Codsworth: {Defiant} Well of course, mum. You can thank the fine engineers at General Atomics for that! At least, you could have. Had they not been... vaporized.

A bit over 210 actually, mum. Give or take a little for the Earth's rotation and some minor dings to the ole' chronometer. That means you're two centuries late for dinner! Ha ha ha. Perhaps I can whip you up a snack? You must be famished.

You've no idea the desperation for human contact one develops over 200 years. {Upset, recalling bad memories of encountering raiders and scavengers. / Disgust} And when you do encounter them? Oh the cruelty! You're either... target practice or... spare parts!

Even stranger, Codsworth mentions details that are plainly made-up (or some kind of delusion):

Codsworth: It's been ages since we've had a proper family activity. Checkers. Or perhaps charades. Shaun does so love that game. Is the lad... with you...?   

Player Default: Codsworth... listen to me carefully... have you seen him? Have you seen Shaun?              

Codsworth: Why, sir had him last, remember? Perhaps he's gone to the Parker residence to arrange a play-date?

(Shaun is an infant. He is too young to play charades or to go to the neighbors for a play-date.)

So at once, Codsworth does and does not acknowledge the war. He does and does not seem to understand what’s happened, and he does and does not seem to follow Sole’s urgency regarding their spouse’s death and Shaun’s kidnapping.

And then, after a speech check, Codsworth finally snaps and breaks down sobbing in despair. Not only does he understand that the war happened, he has developed the ability to get depressed about it. Longing for human contact and with nothing else to do, he’s even developed coping mechanisms to help him try to deal with his loneliness and despair—futilely trying to do his chores and deluding himself into pretending everything is completely normal.

Wait a minute. Sobbing? Despair? Depression? Coping mechanisms and delusions? This Is all pretty sophisticated stuff to be programmed into a robot, and if you spend more time with Codsworth, the reality of what’s happened to him becomes apparent:

Codsworth has evolved beyond his programming. In his 210 lonely years of existence, he has developed emotional reactions and self-awareness far beyond that of most other robots, and, indeed, has basically evolved an artificial consciousness.

“Emergent intelligence” is the theoretical ability of an AI to eventually develop something resembling human thought processes, and it seems that our dear Codsworth has undergone this. Traveling with him, he displays many sophisticated thoughts and behaviors far beyond what most robots are shown to be capable of. He has memories of pre-War time and places, and understands how various locations have changed. He is capable of learning new information and forming opinions on it, gaining his own understanding of the people and factions in the Commonwealth. He can feel happiness, sorrow, fear, disgust. He can anticipate things, predict danger and imagine how people might respond to your actions. The mere he fact he has opinions and a moral code that he applies to you shows he has free will, something even other robot companions don’t (Ada has a personality, but absolutely does not care about your actions.)

He’s also smart enough to make many wry observational jokes, and to lay one hell of a sick burn on you:

{Joking - Found an old bowling alley. / Amused} Fancy a game, mum? Something tells me the bumpers are no longer available.

 Codsworth’s intelligence is even more sophisticated than that. He displays stunning self-awareness, frequently referencing the fact he is a robot and what that means. He is very proud of his background as General Atomics’ finest, and seems pleased with his robot nature and his lot in life. (Unlike Curie, I don’t think Codsworth would ever really want to gain a synth body. He seems quite happy as he is.)

Here he is making reference to still feeling the tug of his programming:

{Seeing an office with chairs arranged in a circle. / Neutral} I've the most incredible urge to rearrange those chairs in a more perfect circle.

Understanding when other robots are restricted by theirs:

A pity. It appears Deezer's programming is too severe to allow for normal conversation. Ah well.

And when they’re actually not:

Codsworth: Greetings, sir. Good to see another robot in town. That chef hat becomes you.

Takahashi: Nan-ni shimasho-ka?

Codsworth: Takahashi you say? I'm Codsworth, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

Takahashi: Nan-ni shimasho-ka?              

Codsworth: Is that so? Well, we both know RobCo is no General Atomics. It's not surprising it failed, shoddy work and all.  {Friendly - trying to cheer up another robot. / Friendly} Chin up, though. Never know when parts may turn up.

 And here’s Galaxy Brain Codsworth ruminating on his own state of being and contemplating his nature:

{Disappointed that he can't be 100% human sometimes. / Sad} It's unfortunate that I lack the proper design to consume liquids. Something about camaraderie over a few drinks is very inviting.            

I suppose if I had the hardware, I'd have the software as well. I'd hate to see how that'd affect my honesty and manner settings.

{Reconsidering what he thought was a good idea. / Thinking} Indeed. Perhaps I should rethink my initial desire.

Hilariously, Codsworth does not seem fully aware of how remarkable his intelligence is. He occasionally says things like “if I had feelings” and “if I could feel things,” indicating that in some ways he still believes he is only a robot and defines himself by what a robot is and does.

But as we can see, our humble robot butler has essentially evolved to become the smartest, most emotionally intelligent and person-like robot in the Commonwealth*, and potentially in the series.

([SIDE NOTE: Other FO4 robots nearing Codsworth’s level of consciousness and developed personality include Captain Ironsides, KLE-O, Whitechapel Charlie, and perhaps Takahashi. Curie is close, but also receives the unfair advantage of being uploaded into a synth body with a human brain. Jezebel also functions off of a human brain. Nick is not a robot, he’s a synth (though he does jokingly refer to himself as one) and also has the advantage of a human brain encoded on his processor.])

Also hilariously, the game basically does not acknowledge Codsworth’s impressive evolution. At all. There is absolutely no direct mention of it in the script. It is all left to ambient dialogue and the player’s own observations. And because so many people overlook Codsworth as a companion, they may not even realize exactly how unique his expanded consciousness is.

Now, you might call this total lack of mention a mistake, an oversight on Bethesda’s part, or that old chestnut “bad writing.” I don’t think it is. I think it’s a deliciously subtle little detail to include in a story about humanity, machines, artificial intelligence, and what makes a person.

Many of the themes of FO4 revolve around synths—distinctly not robots, but androids, artificially created beings with fully organic human bodies. Most of the storyline factions have strong beliefs about synths and the relative humanity thereof. The Institute believes that synths are objects, tools, machines no different from a robot who are only simulating their personalities through programming. The Brotherhood believes synths are monstrous abominations, a danger to humanity itself, technology run amok which needs to be destroyed. The Railroad believes they are people. Not humans, but people, built instead of born, free-thinking beings that deserve to be treated with respect and given rights.

Through quests, dialogue, notes, worldbuilding and other venues, players explore these questions. What makes someone a person? If your personality and memories can be rewritten or programmed, then who are you, really? Where do we draw the line between humans and machines, and how do we decide who belongs where?

Meanwhile, as the player contemplates the nature of personhood and the definition of intelligence, their robot butler quietly evolves into a fully-conscious person on his own, right beside them.

Codsworth is unquestionably a machine, but also unquestionably beyond the appliance he was built to be. Which to some philosophies and players should really beg a few other questions. If a robot can be considered a person, then what makes synths so different? And how many excuses do we have to make to pretend otherwise?

Ya boy Codsworth may not be flashy, or powerful, or kissable. He may not be the most glamorous companion around. But he is a good friend, a beloved member of the family, and above all else, a loyal butler—content to serve, quietly and humbly doing his job where some may never even notice him-- or the fact that he’s casually become his own person and sent generations of roboticists and philosophers spinning in their graves.

[carnelianns]

hi! i really loved your hcs about mc making depreciative jokes, could you please do that for isaac, mozart, vincent and comte please? thank you!

anon was talking about this post if anyone’s interested .. also this is so long (*´ー｀*)

tw: anxiety, depression

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Mozart is very supportive in his own, roundabout way, and also has quite the humour (or lack of it — you’re not really sure) so when you do make one of your infamous jokes, you always have to think whether or not to take his reply seriously.

“Are you alright?” You nod, shooting him some finger guns. “Yeah, I’m totally fine, just need to set myself on fire is all.” 

He stares, the silence stretching out for a while, then, “Do you need help with that?”

When your self-depreciation does, however, fall on the slightly more serious side, all he can do is frown at your silence, mind running miles and miles to find something that could get you to show him that smile he’s fallen for once again.

Because, he admits, nothing pains him more than knowing the one he loves, the one he’s decided to lean on, is facing struggles he can barely wrap his head around.

“Can you.. hold my hand?” Meek and tiny is your voice as it breaks the silence of his room, Mozart preparing a teasing remark before he turns his head, the sight of your weary eyes and forlorn expression bringing his mouth to a close.

Wordlessly, he moves from his desk towards your snug form on his bed, taking it upon himself to hold your hand in his larger ones, gently shifting your head to rest comfortably in his lap as he soothingly rubs slow, soothing circles on the skin of your hand — just the way you like it.

When he hears your soft sigh of bliss, he allows his motions to continue in silence for a few more moments, before voicing out with furrowed brows, “Why did you suddenly ask for my hand?”

Mozart feels you tense up briefly, though he makes no move to stop his calming ministrations. Said ministrations only come to a pause when you reply.

“It might sound silly but… I felt like if I didn’t feel your warmth, you’d leave. Slip away, like you do so frequently in my thoughts.”

“I’ve never met someone as foolish as you in my whole life,” he mutters lowly. You’re a second away from frowning when he brings his soft fingers to your face, tilting your head to meet his gaze.

There was a certain look of pain in those violet eyes of his, the frown you deemed unfit on his face communicating each and every thought filtering through his brain. Vulnerability was never something Mozart paraded around, yet that exact quality seems to be the only thing he ought to show to you at this moment.

“Why would I ever leave the only person I wish happiness upon every waking second?” His cheeks only redden as he continues, not once leaving your gaze, “I would never leave you. Get that fact into your terribly tiny brain.”

Despite his aversion to, well, affection, Mozart had, in one way or the other, made his words clear throughout the whole day, be it the way he pressed his leg against yours at the dining table, or how often your shoulders touched whilst walking around together.

Actions do speak louder than words, after all.

Vincent van Gogh

The little ray of sunshine is unaware that your gloomy words are mere jests (most of the time), and he still is at times, even after you explained. He has a slight frown on his face whenever you make these jokes, only causing you to regret even opening your mouth.

“How are you feeling today, schatje?” “Oh, I’m not.” You answer listlessly, only straightening up when you see his lips curl downwards. “I mean, I’m not feeling.. Bad. Yes. Haha.” Nice save.

In all honesty, he doesn’t quite understand your self-deprecation, or, well, you. And it eats him alive. The only thing he wishes for is your happiness, but how can he do that when he can barely understand your sadness?

He often partakes in conversations with you regarding your views, always ending up reassuring you in any and every way that he cares, that he loves you.

“You’re going to hate yourself in the morning if you don’t fall asleep right now, you know?” His sleepy murmur against your forehead only brings you to scoff slightly, snuggling in closer to his chest.

“Jokes on you, Vincent, I’m going to hate myself no matter what.”

Your tone is joking, though it does nothing to stop him from tensing up, the better part of his brain urging him to wake up. Furrowing his brows, Vincent manages to calm himself down, slightly glad that you’re unable to see his worried countenance.

“Do you mind telling me why?”

He finds himself listening intently to your words, only pulling you closer to his chest as you explain. It’s heartwarming, really, how someone loves you this much, to listen to the ramblings you’ve deemed “pointless” and feelings you thought “unnecessary”.

“Well.. you know...” he starts, gently pushing your chin up to meet his intense gaze, one you often see when he’s immensely focused on one of his paintings. “I love you. I always will, and I won’t stop, even until you figure out how to love yourself.”

It should be illegal, for someone to say such honeyed words in that gentle tone of his. For someone to say such words, and mean every single one.

You’re helpless as you burry your sniffling form into the chest of the man you love, Vincent only humming softly as he rakes his soft fingers through your hair, urging you to sleep, to bathe in his warmth.

Isaac Newton

Whenever you let out one of your self-deprecating jokes, Isaac always manages to furrow his brows, process it for a few seconds, then proceeds to scoff, scolding you lightly.

“Why is it so easy for you to talk badly about yourself, but so hard for you to stop?” He asks one day, sending you a look. You roll your eyes, “An object in motion stays in motion, genius.”

“... I can’t believe you used my words against me like that.” His lips were permanently twisted into a moue that whole day.

Isaac is quite used to both receiving and giving vitriolic remarks, though he can only remain silent when those remarks are from you, directed to yourself. He can shoulder any amount of criticism, any amount of malice, but when it comes to you — it’s a whole different story. 

He’d rather you direct those “jokes” to him than yourself, in all honesty, if it meant taking the burden off your shoulder (which he knows it won’t).

"You’re looking awfully thoughtful today.” His statement reverberates through the empty living room, slowly making his way towards you and the faraway look clear in your eyes.

“Thinking about sleeping but forever...” You murmur absentmindedly, unable to notice the frown marring his features as he sits himself to your left in your zoned out state. “Do you think it would be nice?”

Hesitance broods over his features as he struggles to form an answer, his mouth falling closed and open in a seemingly endless cycle. A frustrated groan brings you out of your daze, your head snapping towards just in time for Isaac to tackle you into an unexpected hug.

“Of course it wouldn’t be nice, you idiot,” he hisses, his grip on you tightening ever-so slightly, as if to keep you from doing what you had just suggested. “Don’t do that. Don’t even think about it.”

His words float through the room, your eyes widening in surprise at the slight rancour in his tone. Though confused, your arms slowly snake around his chest, obvious that he isn’t letting go anytime soon.

“If you do, then who am I going to be loving?” His gentle words are barely audible, but the room is far too silent for his confession to simply fly away.

And usually, you’d be teasing the probably flushed and reddened man, though today you simply opt to hug him just a little bit tighter, inhaling his sweet scent.

It takes a while for the both of you to move from your position on the cushioned sofa. The fact that your lover also pushed away both Dazai and Arthur’s teasings only caused your heart to warm even more.

Comte de Saint-Germain

There isn’t many things that are able to get a reaction out of the always poised man, but your self-deprecating humour always induces quite an unexplainable expression on his handsome face. A confused smile, a worried look, and a slight frown mixed all together is the closest words can get.

“Quite frankly, ma chérie, your life is falling apart,” he says, bemused at your current kitchen situation — cooking without Sebastian is a difficult feat, you’ve learned.

You only wink humorously at him, some sort of concoction dripping from your fingers. “Your life can’t fall apart if you never had it together.”

Cue The Look™.

He can’t deny that his thoughts drift to you a lot. More specifically, to your thoughts and feelings, if it hadn’t already before. Don’t be surprised if you see the man randomly lurking around near you — just a mere check up, as per usual of the worrisome man.

“Ah, ma chérie.. pray tell me why we’re in this position again? Not that I mind, of course.” Confusion is evident in his ever-smooth voice, slowly rubbing his large hands up and down your back as he rests his head on your shoulder.

Not many times do you burst into his study, wordlessly nestling yourself into his lap — much like a koala, he thinks — and staying in that position for quite some time, but it does happen. He can’t say he’s not used to it.

“... You know how you’re perfect?” You ask, briefly looking into his golden eyes before setting your head down once more into the crook of his neck. “Yeah. I have to keep reminding myself that you won’t be leaving this self-deprecating self of mine.”

He inhales softly for a moment, before you hear that comforting voice of his right beside your ear, gentle and deep, and not going anywhere.

“You know that I will never leave you, mon coeur.” My heart. Your own heart thumps slightly at the rare nickname.

A meek nod is the only reply you can muster. He continues, “And you know that I love you.”

Another nod. Then, finally, he turns your head towards his own with the tip of his fingers, a sweet, slightly pained smile painted on his face. Lithe fingers caress your cheeks, bringing you to lean into his warmth. “And you know, that I will love you until your next life, and the one after that, and every, other—”

You immediately cut him off with a kiss, one which he only smiles mischievously into. Curse the immortal for knowing exactly how to get you all hot and flustered.

Not once did he lie though. And he isn’t planning to, especially when it comes to the one he loves.

[puddygeeks]

𝑾𝒂𝒓 𝑶𝒇 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 - 𝑪𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝑺𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓 𝑹𝒆𝒊𝒅 𝒙 𝑶𝑪 - 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 9: 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒅𝒔

Masterlist

Rating: Mature

Summary: 𝐴𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠. 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ�� 𝐵𝐴𝑈 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦, 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡.

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Spencer Reid x OC

Status: Ongoing

LONG TERM ONGOING PROJECT :)

My writing is entirely fuelled by coffee! If you enjoy my work, feel free to donate toward my caffeine dependency: will work for coffee

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑑𝑢𝑙𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡, 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑤. 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑎𝑏𝑑𝑢𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 & 𝑠𝑒𝑥𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐵𝐴𝑈'𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘. 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑢𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑠 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑑, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤.

Eᴘɪsᴏᴅᴇ: Pʀᴇ Sᴇᴀsᴏɴ 1

Chapter Nine

My office felt colder than usual when I returned from my trip, but I suspected that it was mostly due to the lack of the warm BAU team’s presence. It was difficult for me to concentrate on anything whilst Hotch’s offer repeated in my mind and I found myself mentally making a pros and cons list as I worked. There were so many factors to consider. In order to avoid any external influence I was careful to ensure that I made the decision alone, hesitating from discussing it with anyone after Ricky.

Following my brief break away from Interpol, it seemed as if I was even more swamped with work than when I left. It wasn’t long before I was feeling the stress of being spread too thinly between numerous teams. Requests for assistance from each of them mounted up around me and it became a struggle to suitably prioritise them.

As I busied myself with organising a list, a new task flashed up on my screen that made my blood chill. Etienne Vidal had submitted a request for my individual support with researching a suspect list, insisting in the notes that having my undivided attention would have a substantial benefit to this case.

Much to my disdain, I knew that it was only a matter of time before Shepard approved this with the perspective of improving our working relationship. I pushed my hair out of my face to massage my temples. Mentally, I was attempting to convince myself that I could manage another encounter with Vidal.

Before I’d even realised what I was doing, I found myself striding out of my office clutching a few files to my chest and decided to take myself to get a cup of herbal tea from a nearby café.

I felt immediately clearer the moment that I stepped out of the Interpol headquarters. The fresh air flowed through my loose hair, rejuvenating my worn down spirit. The tightly packed streets of Lyon were a welcome sight and I was thankful to at least be blessed with living in such a beautiful, historical city.

Opening up the files to flick through the information inside as I walked, I hoped that my picturesque surroundings might give me a fresh perspective. Even once I had settled within the charming café, I lingered for a while as I waited to feel ready to return to my desk.

Eventually, I mustered up the courage to begin strolling back in the direction of the office. I had decided not to overstay my welcome, leaving with my lovingly made hot drink in a takeaway cup and lost myself in documents to distract from the rising feeling of anxiety in my chest. I was completely enthralled in the files as I walked the halls of the building on autopilot, causing me not to notice the voice calling my name in a thick French accent until it was too late.

“My, my, Alice. I hope that you’re not trying to avoid me.”

The absence of formalities caused my stomach to lurch with recognition and I paused on the spot in horror as Vidal blocked my path. When I finally pulled my nose from the papers, I realised that I had been unfortunate enough to be caught in one of the least used hallways in the office.

The only rooms here were disused offices which had been utilised as storage for cold cases, decreasing it’s foot traffic to practically nothing. I had grown accustomed to taking this longer route back to my own space in order to avoid the rest of my team. However, today this plan had backfired, instead meaning that we would be highly unlikely to be interrupted.

“Oh. my apologies, Vidal. I was lost in work.” I answered with a forced smile,

Unwilling to engage in any further conversation I moved to pass him, but he immediately shifted himself to block me from leaving.

“You are so dedicated, ma poupée. It is admirable, but certainly too much for you.” He drawled, making no effort to hide the way that his gaze explored my entire body and his smile afterward made my skin crawl.

“I fear that you may have missed my request on your break, but Shepard has agreed for me to borrow your skills. It will allow you to relax for a while with only one case, and with me.” He explained confidently.

Even with all of the experience of his arrogance, I remained shocked by how genuinely he seemed to believe that he was doing me a favour by trapping me into working alongside him.

“Ah, I hadn’t seen it yet.” I admitted, attempting to contain my disappointment at this revelation so that I didn’t anger him. “Let me just finish the task that I’m on and I’ll find you when I’m done.” I instructed as I strained to keep the nerves from my smile, but it was obvious that he had no intention of allowing me to move yet.

“Come on, Alice. You don’t need to pretend to worry about the others. I should be your only priority.” He insisted, stepping closer to me again and in my efforts to regain some personal space, I ended up trapped between him and the wall. “I know that you have been spending more time with your FBI team recently, but you wouldn’t ever forget about me, would you ma chérie?” He asked, his voice slipping lower whilst his expression grew painfully serious.

Out of an overpowering feeling of intimidation, I shook my head vigorously in response. Vidal only seemed encouraged by his effect on me, smirking arrogantly as his face neared mine and I felt my hands begin to shake with nerves. I prayed for anyone to notice us, as I felt too paralysed with fear to do anything to stop him, but the hallway remained silently empty.

“Well, I do worry. You seem to be working with them more and more frequently. I would imagine that you’re getting to know each other very well. You were rudely defensive of that one young man during our consultation call.” He suggested, thinning his eyes at me suspiciously.

The reminder of my outburst in front of the BAU team caused me to cringe. His words were alarmingly accusatory and I couldn’t deny the feeling that he saw himself as entitled to the details of my life, specifically my love life.

A loud sound caused me to whimper as he pounded his hand against the wall behind me to frighten me, shifting to lean his weight on the surface so that he could confine me in position beneath him.

“There wouldn’t be anything going on between you and this Dr Reid that I should know about. Would there, Alice?” He questioned, the subtlety of his temper failing to escape my notice and I could hardly breathe from the intensity of his stare. “You know how I detest dishonesty.”

“No.” I whispered hurriedly, my voice shaking from stress as any sense of control rapidly dissolved into anxiety.

From my years of study I understood the effect that past trauma had on our natural fight or flight instincts, but experiencing it first hand gave me a level of insight that was frankly horrifying. I willed myself to confront him, to strike him out of my space with the power that my aunt had always encouraged me to own, or even to simply run away, but I had no control against my natural reaction, which was to freeze.

“That’s a good girl.” He breathed, a wicked smile filling his lips as he revelled in my obedience. Much to my terror, he leaned his face suffocatingly close to me and I felt like a caged animal under his gaze. “I don’t know what I would do if you betrayed me like that. You’re too special to belong to anyone else.” He soothed, so deep in his delusion that he was flattering me that it made him completely oblivious to my disgust.

My entire stomach felt as if it might literally drop out of my body as he reached out to push my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering against my cheek nauseatingly. He bit his lip in a way that he must have believed to be seductive and I realised with a new level of panic that he was inching closer, as if he intended to kiss me. My mind spun with a million thoughts as I urged myself to escape, but I couldn’t break out of the survival instinct that held me in place.

“Vidal! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Someone called out at the last possible moment before his lips touched mine and my breath caught in my throat. He seemed incredibly aggravated by the intrusion, taking a moment to compose himself before he finally stepped out of my space. His posture was still as he turned around to address the source of the voice.

“Prentiss. My apologies. I’m afraid that I am rather caught up with assisting Alice at the moment.” He drawled with a polite smile, clearly not even slightly flustered by being caught in the act.

The absolute control in his demeanour was especially chilling. It was an ability that I had seen frequently in the types of people that I assisted in catching for a living, allowing me to understand precisely how dangerous he was capable of being. I could barely think straight as I stared over at Emily who was standing at the far end of the hall.

“Yes. I can see that.” She answered curtly.

It was clear that she had no intention of allowing him to brush this encounter off as she strolled closer to get a better view of the situation. I jumped as I felt one of Vidal’s hands squeeze my arm painfully tight, silently warning me to play along with his ruse.

“Can this wait until later, Madame?” He enquired, the air of calm that he had previously possessed already slipping as he spoke and whilst his gaze was distracted by her, I risked meeting her eyes to communicate a desperate plea for her help.

“No. Actually, it can’t.” Emily insisted, maintaining an authoritative tone as she thinned her eyes at him and I could have burst from the relief of confirming that she had noticed my distress.

“You have an urgent call waiting and I’m afraid that I need Agent Hawthorne’s assistance for myself.” She added, turning her attention to me with concern that was subtle enough to escape Vidal’s notice.

Without any concern for him noticing her actions, she ushered me to come to her. I wasted no time in removing myself from his grip, rushing over to meet her with my eyes glued to the floor nervously. Even so, I could feel her fixing him with a stern glare, before she fell into step with me.

We walked in silence with her positioned at my side in a manner that would prevent anyone else from reaching me and she remained this way every single step back to my office.

As I stepped inside, she hesitated in the doorway to give me the chance to regain some personal space. Whilst I did this she continued to protect me, aligning herself so that entry to the room would be impossible for anyone else.

“I actually don’t have anything that I need you for. I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay. If there’s anything that I could do to-“

“I’m fine.” I answered abruptly, keen for this situation to be over as quickly as possible and Emily studied me sympathetically. “Thank you for checking on me, but I can handle it from here.” I added, subtly reassuring her that I would take action to protect myself if it was needed.

“I know that you can. If you change your mind, my phone is always on me.” She suggested with a caring smile.

After a few moments of silence, she reluctantly left the room. The moment that she departed, I closed the door behind her and moved furniture in front of it to prevent it from being easily opened again.

Tears of shock rolled down my cheeks as I felt my entire body shaking and I had to wrap my arms around myself to calm my anxiety. It was a method that I had been taught to use in triggering situations, but even knowing that I was barricaded in this room, I couldn’t convince myself to feel safe.

In the depths of my despair, I became aware of the only logical next step for my life. I opened my emails and began drafting a letter of acceptance to Hotch that ended with a simple question.

When can I start?

--⥈--

Emerging from my flight at the Virginia airport felt completely different this time. Despite getting to know it well from the numerous recent visits that I’d made over the past six weeks to get things organised, I was still excited to see it again. It was surreal to inform security that I was actually emigrating instead of visiting and I strolled out into the bright open space of arrivals with a sense of wonder.

Everything felt larger and grander, as if being seen through new eyes. I suspected that viewing it as a new start had a significant effect on my perception. There was even a relaxing scent in the air, something that lured me toward the exit with a feeling of hope and it was as if the strain of the past was melting away with every step that I took.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I noticed that instead of just Penelope waiting for me as we’d agreed, there was an embarrassingly large welcome sign covered in glitter, pom poms and complete with tiny flashing lights. It was being waved by her, Morgan, JJ and a bashful looking Spencer.

“Penelope! You are the absolute worst at no fuss!” I groaned as I reached her and she threw the part of the banner that she had been holding at Morgan so that she could embrace me tightly.

“I don’t care! I wanted to make sure that your new life here starts on the right foot.” She excused as she squeezed the life out of me and the others busied themselves with packing away the banner as I blushed furiously at them over her shoulder. “I can’t believe the day is finally here. I’m so excited! Oh, guys, we almost forgot.” She enthused as she released me to turn back to the group and I glanced nervously at them as she made some insistent gestures.

“Welcome to America!”

The other three were completely out of sync in their half hearted cheer, with Penelope contributing the loudest and most dramatic voice, whilst I smiled at them with burning cheeks.

“You’re all very sweet. Thank you.” I muttered gratefully, wishing that Penelope had at least given me enough of a heads up to wear something less tattered than my moving clothes, which weren’t what I would have chosen for spending time in anyone else’s company than hers.

Thanks to all of my planning visits, which allowed me to leave cases in storage at Ricky’s new place, combined with the fact that he had graciously accepted the boxes of possessions that I shipped to him in advance, I had hardly anything with me. There was no clothing in my flight bag, leaving me with only the white, off the shoulder blouse and ripped denim shorts that I was wearing and the few personal items that I’d needed to take care of myself for the last couple of weeks in France.

Penelope looped her arm through mine as we all moved toward the exit and I had the sensation that the surprises weren’t over just yet.

“So, we’ll start by collecting your stuff and then help you to get settled at the new place.” She announced, already wrapped up in the joy of the day, oblivious to how questioning my gaze was.

“When you say we, you still mean the two of us as we planned, right?” I enquired suspiciously, but the way that she chewed her lip as she considered how to explain herself gave her away.

“Please tell me that she hasn’t already roped all of you into this? I’m sure you have better ways to spend your days off than carrying my stuff around.” I gasped, glancing between the three other members of our group in horror, only to be met with amused smiles at my outrage.

“You got a moving truck booked?” Morgan interrogated, crossing his arms at me as if he was already prepared for my protests, but I could only shake my head cluelessly. “Well, it just so happens that I have one on loan from a friend for the day. You already know that I’m not about to let my baby girl spend her day doing a hundred trips in the car, when I can get this done in one. Just let it go, Poppins.” He asserted, glancing over at Penelope with a conspiratorial smile and I looked to JJ and Spencer in a silent plea for help.

“What kind of team would allow their newest member to struggle?” JJ asked, her kind nature seeping into her words. “You’ve got enough to worry about with a move this big. Let us help you to do this at least.” She added, smiling at me warmly and Spencer cleared his throat to gain my attention.

“You’d also be wrong in the assumption that we have anything better to do.” He shrugged comically, causing Morgan to frown at him in blatant disapproval.

“Hey. Speak for yourself, kid!” He remarked, knocking Spencer’s arm slightly in the kind of manner that an older brother would to annoy their younger sibling. “I see you people enough at work. I definitely have other things to do than follow you around on my weekends, too. I’m just here to help out a friend.”

“Wait. Does that include me?” Penelope stopped in her tracks, causing a collision amongst all of us as she faced down Morgan with a heavy expression of offence.

“You already know that it doesn’t, Sweetness. I can never see enough of you.” He crooned, earning a pleased smile from her before he turned back to me. “So, where’s our first stop, new girl?”

“Well, my cousin is working today, but he’s arranged for his housemate to let me in to collect my things. Here’s the address.”

--⥈--

“Ally. Please tell me that’s not a ladder up to your bed?” Penelope questioned with a blatant disbelief and I chuckled as I followed her into my new studio, carrying a case full of clothing up the stairs.

“I thought you’d like that. It’s quirky.” I remarked as I dragged the case inside behind her, catching her glancing around at my home.

The place was remarkably small, almost feeling full with just the two of us inside. I had to shift awkwardly as I tried to get past her. This had been the main reason for my reluctance about the team assisting us with the move, as I knew that we would be likely to be tripping over each other, rather than benefiting from their help. Judging from Penelope’s reaction, I was already dreading the others coming up from the van.

“It certainly is. It’s just so small.” She commented, looking over at me with concern and I shrugged in response. “I know that you’ll be the only one living here, but I’m worried that you’ll get claustrophobic. I mean, this place is like a bunk bed that grew up to identify as a studio.” She clarified, wanting to ensure that she wasn’t coming across as judgmental, but she didn’t need to worry as I chuckled in agreement.

“You could always stay with me until you find somewhere. I’ll even help you look for a place. It’ll be like a constant sleepover party!” She added enthusiastically, already seeming to get lost in the excitement of this concept.

“As much fun as that sounds, you don’t need to worry. It’s only temporary.” I admitted, causing her to furrow her brows in concern. It was obvious that she was worrying I had some secret plans to leave her again soon.

“I don’t have a long term contract for this place. Ricky recommended the owner as someone that he usually rents holiday homes like this from. I’ve got this place until the end of the month to give me a chance to get to know the area better, figure out what kind of place I’m really looking for.” I presented my plan, allowing Penelope to drop her shoulders in relief.

It was difficult to differentiate whether she was more appreciative of the revelation that I wouldn’t be leaving her, or that I wasn’t planning to live here for long. Either way, my explanation seemed to have put her mind at ease.

“Well, that’s a good thing. Because this place is not up to standard for a proper tenancy.” Morgan announced as he carried the heaviest box inside and though I scurried to get out of his way, Penelope seemed quite content to allow him to squeeze past her. “I’m gonna give your locks a proper check before I leave. They’re looking a little too old for my liking.” He added as he dropped the box, turning to examine the door with a sceptical expression, even from across the room.

“Hey. As the person with the most experience busting them open, I’ll trust your opinion on locks.” I teased, earning a cheeky smile before Morgan headed back out to grab some more stuff, taking Penelope with him.

After their comments, I took another look at the place and couldn’t understand their concern. It was already substantially nicer than the miserable flat that I’d rented in France, even if it was smaller. Sure, it was a tight squeeze to navigate, but it had all of the essentials. Unfortunately, most of them were contained within the same four walls, but I just thought of it as cosy.

The kitchen was simply a couple of cupboards along the side of the room where the dimensions more closely resembled those of a hallway than a living space. There was a sofa pushed up against the end of the cabinets to almost create a lounge and above it was a platform with a mattress which I felt gave the whole place a treehouse vibe. Lastly, there was a separate small bathroom and some stairs at the back of the studio that led to a rooftop that could almost be described as a balcony. It certainly wasn’t glamorous by any stretch of the imagination, but it would give me a place to stay.

JJ entered the room struggling with a large box and I rushed over to take it from her before she hurt herself.

“This has got to be the third box labelled books so far, Alice. I’m seriously getting worried about you.” She chuckled playfully, looking around the place with interest during the time that I found a surface to dump the box. “Seriously. How many books do you need?” She asked with a warm sparkle in her eyes and before I could think of an excuse for my addiction, Spencer made his way inside.

“Comparatively, Alice's collection isn’t especially unreasonable. In the middle ages, the purchasing of multiple books was considered to be a hobby that was suitable exclusively for wealthy individuals.” He launched into defending me without a second thought and I was glad to have his support to push aside the embarrassment that I was feeling. “In the present day, the largest collection of books belongs to the Library of Congress, which houses more than 170 million items.”

“Wow. The dream.” I breathed, for a moment losing myself in the fantasy of being able to own a library of my own, until I was distracted by JJ looking between Spencer and I with a suspicious smile, leaving us to geek out without having to pretend that she was interested. “I’m sure that still wouldn’t keep you busy for long, though.” I teased as I turned to face Spencer and he smiled shyly at me.

“Will you be alright here?” He asked as he began to assess the space.

I had to admit that his concern had caught me off guard. The others were often open with their emotions, but Spencer was quieter, almost as if he was still deciding whether he could be himself around me. Although I hoped that in time he would relax, I had no intention of pushing him. For now, I was simply pleasantly surprised to find that he was just as protective of me as the rest of the team.

“Oh, sure. It’s kinda bare right now, but once I get some books on display and add a bunch of plants, it’ll be great.” I defended, hoping that he wouldn’t sense the nerves that I still held for this move. “Maybe I’ll even get some fairy lights for the edge of that loft bit.” I added thoughtfully as I pointed toward my bed, causing him to peek over at me with confusion, but before I could question it Morgan charged back inside the apartment with a heavy case containing a large majority of my clothing.

“She means string lights, pretty boy. It’s a Britishism.” He explained, causing Spencer to smile at me as if endeared by the idea and I shrugged, unaware that this was a term that was uncommon here. “That’s everything from the van. I don’t think we’re all gonna fit in your place, so how about grabbing some lunch out? I know a joint nearby.”

“Sure. My treat for all your help.” I offered as Spencer and I began to make our way to the door, only for Morgan to snatch my keys from my hand to test the locks protectively.

Once he was satisfied that the apartment was safe, we regrouped with the others and followed his lead to a small bar a couple of blocks away. Even in the distance, it was clear that it was a lively venue. On closer examination, I noticed a couple of decorative choices that indicated that it was probably a sports bar.

Everyone chatted happily as Morgan arranged a table outside in the sun, seeming as if he knew the owners and we took our seats whilst he caught up with them. The waiter provided us with menus whilst gesturing to Morgan, who joined us with a bright smile.

“Now. I know that you’re used to all of your food being boiled and beige, but you’re not living in the war anymore. It’s time to get modern. This here is some real American food that’s gonna blow your mind.” He announced, flashing me a cheeky wink but I simply rolled my eyes at him.

“Ah, yes. I’m in America now, the land of heart attack burgers and copious amounts of salt on absolutely everything. I’ll need bigger clothes in no time.” I retorted, causing laughter to pass around the table and Morgan shook his head at me.

“Alright. You just reserve your judgement for now. You’re gonna eat your words.” He argued, throwing a menu at me insistently.

Flipping through the pages of the menu, I was overwhelmed by choices. Though I’d experienced a few months of living in the States as a teenager and had actually spent the first four years of my life here, I considered myself proudly British at heart. I knew that the lifestyle was going to be the hardest adaptation for me to make.

With little other options that felt familiar, I ordered a grilled sandwich with fries and an ice tea, with Morgan raising a brow at me judgmentally for somehow slipping tea into my meal.

“So, Alice. Do you know anyone here other than us?” JJ asked, moving the conversation away from the British vs American war that Morgan and I had begun. “I heard that you’ve got family in the area?”

“Well, I’ve got Ricky, as you know. He is starting his second year at the University of Virginia, so he’s really local. Then I have two aunts in Florida and my grandma in New York. Plus, my dad who is on the West Coast somewhere, I think?” I listed openly, realising as I got to the end that I wasn't exactly sure where my flaky father was living at the moment.

“You’re not in touch with your dad?” Morgan investigated, studying me with an obvious curiosity and I shuffled awkwardly in my seat.

“Is it that obvious?” I chuckled under my breath, attempting to make light of it and I noticed Penelope out of the corner of my eye gesturing at him to drop his line of questioning. “He has a habit of moving from one fancy apartment to another in various superficial cities along the coast. He’s still out there chasing his Hugh Hefner, playboy dream.” I clarified, attempting not to cause them all to feel that I was shutting them out from the details of my life so soon, but Penelope dove in to change the topic.

“I actually made you something to help you to get situated.” She announced, dropping a large binder onto the table that caused me to stare back at her in confusion. “This bad boy has all of the details for local laundromats, gyms, take outs and everything else that you could possibly need, all based on our personal recommendations. I know that it can be hard to get into the swing of things in a new place, let alone a new country, so hopefully this makes that process a little less daunting for you.” She smiled and as I scanned the faces of the team around the table, I could tell that they had each contributed to this.

“That is so considerate!” I breathed, taking a quick flick through the pages with amazement and it was easy to tell how much work had gone into creating it. “Thank you so much. I honestly can’t even tell you how much this is going to help.”

“We’re here for you, Alice. We’re a team.” Spencer emphasised, meeting my eyes with a kind smile and my heart felt full at the sight of it.

[beyoncesdragon]

Over now (Sirius Black x Reader)

Requested: no

Warnings: it’s angst and sad (my English) 

Summary: Love always hurts at some point. Not always immediately, at least not with Sirius. But granted that at some point, love hurts. This is how it went.

My Masterlist 

Pt. 2 

Breakup’s are always hard for one person. One person always get’s let down. One person always ends up heartbroken in the end. Always. It doesn’t matter if you get married, the day will come where one dies. It also doesn’t matter if it’s a simple relationship, even if it lasts twelve years, because one will fall out of love. And it specifically doesn’t matter if it was just a stupid relationship over a few months. Unimportant how beautiful those months were; one person always gets hurt. And this person was not yet to be Sirius Black. But instead it was her, for good. The second Sirius told her that he felt like they were growing apart, a world went up in flames for her. She didn’t felt like they were growing apart, far from it actually. She just had told him the day before how much she loved him. Thinking back to this very moment, she felt stupid. Incredibly stupid to be honest. Stupid and blind, because she should’ve noticed the fact that he didn’t said it back this time, or that he looked away with a slightly pained look. He had always said it back up to this very moment, sealing it with a kiss or a peck. This time he had staid quiet, lips pressed together tightly, curled up into a half smile. She should’ve known, really. The next morning, he had been even weirder. Distant, cold and somehow distracted. Not really returning her kiss or her hug, only half-heartedly smiling at her. She had asked him what was on his mind if everything was alright. He had stopped mid-nodding and quickly pulled her into an empty classroom. And the second she saw his face, a bit pale but determined, uncomfortable but still confident, she knew. And it made her eyes glossy and her hands shake in fear. She had clinched to this last straw of hope that maybe, maybe he just had a problem with his family again. That he needed a favour, that he did something bad. But nothing of that. He said exactly what she feared he would and it pretty much ended her. She had gone to class after it. She had had no tears immediately after, only sickish gleaming eyes. With her head down she had dropped down on the seats the furthest back, avoiding any kind of eye contact or interaction with anyone. She had barely paid attention to what the Professors said and showed them. Her eyes were always glued on the parchment on the table or the shoulder of the student in front of her. She hadn’t skipped breakfast after and she hadn’t skipped lunch. If she would’ve, she knew that she would not be able to get up right away and ready for class. 

Then, after the last lesson of history of magic in the afternoon, she rushed upstairs and buried herself in her pillow and cried. She hadn’t said a word to her friends but they figured soon, when they found her like that as they tried to get her to dinner. That she skipped, also breakfast the next day. And if it wasn’t for her friends and quidditch training she would have skipped lunch as well and spend her free afternoon in her bed. Probably crying again, avoiding any kind of people. But she had training and it was important to her, she felt very honoured to be on the team as a chaser. Also, it would be like a temporary blindfold for her shattered love life, which was why her friends also pushed her to go. 

The sun had hid behind a thick layer of dark clouds as she approached the training pitch, just a day after her breakup, dragging her broom behind her though the grass. She felt drenched from all energy and strength and whished that she could just lay down and sleep a little. She had said exactly that to her best friend, who had immediately pulled her into a tight hug. She had carefully stroked her back and tried to comfort her as good as possible without triggering a cry. At the end, she had her convinced to slip into the red and gold training gear and leave for practice. And there she had been, a bit lost next to her team mates. As always when she was nervous or felt uncomfortable she drew circles on the top end of her broom, hoping no one notices how her mind wasn’t as wrapped around the heavy quaffle as usually. Unfortunately someone noticed it quite quickly; James Potter, who had already scored three times through the hoop in the middle and two times from an ungodly distance through the hoop on the left in the past half an hour (which was an absolute best and he was pretty stoked about it). Being characteristically observant he quickly caught on her little slips and untypical shaky hand. Maybe the way she seemed to be weirdly off-beat when she was passed the quaffle, or the three times she almost got palmed away by a bludger made him aware. Of course he knew her, they got along pretty damn well actually. And of course he knew about the breakup, but because of the fact that she appeared at practice he assumed that she was alright. As alright as maybe Sirius was, which was very well, but her being so off – maybe James had underestimated the whole thing. Light hazel eyes watched her attentively as she dove down, catching the quaffle last second before it hit the ground, only seconds before a whistle released them from training for today. It now had softly started to rain, making everyone run in a rush to the changing rooms. Maybe that’s why James failed to ask her about her well being again. However, James wasn’t the only one who caught a glimpse of her well masked suffering. Remus Lupin caught on to it too. He had seen the dull look in her eyes quite well, scaring and worrying him at the same time. He had liked her, he still liked her very dearly. A pretty lively person, bursting with sass and happiness, never failing to make fun of an awkward situation. That was also why Sirius had even laid his eyes on her the first time; they had bumped into each other, right in front of a open classroom. Sirius had accidentally emptied the whole content of his bag over her, including the ink pot. It had immediately stained all her notes from Professor Binns lesson beyond saving. Sirius had stopped dead on his tracks, a horrified expression on his face. He had waited for a scolding, a cry (and Sirius could not handle crying girls, it seemed to be the only thing that made him really nervous) or just a negative reaction. A reaction which would be totally appropriate, since it was entirely his fault that they even crashed into each other. Sirius had the habit of always coming around one to two minutes late which urged a quick sprint if he was running late for transfiguration. McGonagall was not having any of that late but worth the wait attitude at all. Incidentally the term “detention” and “late” had the very same meaning for her, which was why Sirius who was in detention almost all day every day, ran. Only for her lessons though, the other Professors had given up scolding him. His sprint to class also lead around a corner, just a few metres next to the door. Slithering around the corners, already preparing for pushing forwards he crashed full speed into her, knocking her over. As far as her reaction concerned him, she reacted pretty chill. Lifting the ink soaked parchment with her left thumb and index finger carefully before shrugging it away. Sirius had then started to stutter an apology, but she had waved it away and assured him that those weren’t really her notes. In fact, she had taken not a single note and just drew ink clouds and hippogriffs on her parchment. That had obviously lifted a rock in the size of Hogwarts off Sirius heart, and he had quickly helped her collecting all her loose notes and drabbles, books and nibs, quills and ink pot’s. After that little incident they had spoken more frequently in class. Soon she started to spend time with him outside of class, getting friendly with the rest of the Marauders. Lupin remembered well how he watched his friend slowly grow less interested in other girls and more and more in her. He had caught him eyeing her quickly during class, suddenly becoming very touchy with her. He had usually kept one arm on or around her shoulders, effectively chasing away possible other interests. Following the hands who brushed over each other seemingly by accident, were little pecks. On the cheeks, on the nose, on the front and knuckles. Sirius had been flirty and sometimes almost improperly cheeky with her, so much that James one day suggested that he (Sirius) should just grow himself a pair of proper balls and kiss her on the lips (and something with bloody coward). Whereupon Sirius had chased James through half of Hogwarts since he had said that pretty loud and she probably had heard him. Later on, Remus remembered being occupied with a book about the history of werewolf hunting, Sirius had sneakily tried to ask him if he should maybe really follow James’s advice. Remus had just nodded, not even looking up from his book. He knew that Sirius would or wouldn’t do it with or without his yes. Sirius asking him, was just Sirius being an overly informing drama queen, keen on sharing what was on his mind. Long story short, Sirius had kissed her that very evening and they had been inseparable since. That was until Sirius got a little closer to Lily’s best friend Marlene McKinnon. Marlene was beautiful with her cute curls and little nose, freckles and petite frame. Big doe eyes and puffy lips, a soft appearance. The very first time Sirius had met her, he wasn’t giving her any attention. He just wasn’t interested, he was only accompanying James during one of his attempts on asking Lily out. The first time he actually looked at her was when James and Lily had already went on their first date. He remembered being star-struck for a brief second before reminding himself that he was a taken man (or boy, how James always teased) and snapping out of it. But Marlene hadn’t left his head. He caught himself thinking about her sweet little giggles or the smirks and eye rolls they often exchanged over James and Lily’s behaviour. He caught himself comparing his girlfriend to Marlene and feeling bad afterwards – only because he seemed to crush harder on Marlene than before. He had hoped for the crush to only be temporary and disappear after a few days maybe, but he soon reached a point where he realised that he was no longer in love with the girl he was in a relationship with. And it hurt him to a certain degree because he felt how much she still loved him. He felt how much she still worshipped him and their relationship and he felt how much she trusted him. The last night they spend together, cuddling on one of the sofas in the common room she had told him again that she loved him; he wasn’t able to say it back and not lie. That had been the moment he had decided to end things with her. But not now, he couldn’t just break up with her over her I love you. Tomorrow, he had told himself, feeling a weird sort of nervousness creeping up on him. But he had to – it was only fair to her. And Sirius was not the one to cheat, especially not on her. After all she still was a person he loved dearly, just not in a romantic way anymore. She had fallen asleep on his chest, softly nosing the soft skin in the crook of his neck. He had felt like an absolute twat, an idiot for being that way to her. But he had broken up with her the next morning, leaving her alone in the empty classroom after telling her how he felt. Not the whole truth, he hadn’t told her about Marlene. But no matter what he had told her, he had left her alone.

Alone like now, where she watched how Sirius gave Marlene a little amused smirk before whispering something into her ear making her giggle. She gulped heavily, trying to push the memory of him giving her those looks out of her head. The piece of strawberry cheesecake suddenly lost all his appeal to her and she excused herself from her friends. Carefully raising up to her feet, she carefully avoided eye contact with her friends and rushed towards the doors of the great hall. Many knowing and therefore sympathetic eyes followed her on her way out. Also James and Remus watched her leave, their faces showing honest hurt and compassion towards her. The only ones who weren’t aware of her leaving were Sirius and Marlene. They were all giggles and loving eyes for each other and it would’ve been awfully cute if there wasn’t someone hurting about it. But as said, a breakup always hurts someone, doesn’t it? 

And Sirius Black was not yet to be the one.  

[gideongrace]

7. "I just don't. Want to! Why is that so hard to understand?" + 40. "You might as well just walk around with a sign around your neck saying 'perpetual asshole' on it." 💜💜💜💜

Today is Steve's first day back at work since the accident and it's also Billy's day off so he's had nothing to do but sit and worry and think everything to death since Steve left this morning. 

He's been texting back and forth with Steve since then, trying to keep it light, keep it easy all while also texting Max and snapping at every single thing she says. Because no amount of time nor effort nor therapy could ever truly make him not the kind of asshole who handles stress real poorly. But. At least he isn't snapping at Steve. At least there's that.

//

Today is Steve's first day back at work and it's… good. It's great. It's… fine. Really. 

Okay, he's miserable. His feet hurt after only having been on them for three hours because after having been reduced to basically lying on his ass on the couch for months, his stamina is garbage and his arm is sore and his everything else aches seemingly just because the rest of his body parts didn't want to miss out on the party his feet and his arm are apparently having and…

It sucks. 

The only thing keeping him going is texting Billy, even if Billy is pretending to be cool about everything rather than be honest and admit how stressed out he is about this. Steve expects to head to Billy's apartment at the end of the day and find that he's punched a hole into the wall. He's got 'nearest hardware stores' pulled up as a google search tab in the browser on his phone, just in case.

"Oh no, by all means, go ahead, laugh at my misery."

Steve's head snaps up as Dustin comes stomping into the kitchen followed closely by Robin and rather than pay attention to what Dustin just said, Robin is on Steve in an instant, dragging the tall, ugly stool over from the far side of the kitchen for Steve to sit on because she can tell just by looking at him, can tell just from the way he'd been leaning against the wall that he's exhausted just by standing. 

He sits down in the proffered chair without complaint and Dustin continues on with his rant like he'd never been interrupted in the first place. "Like. I just don't. Want to! Why is that so hard to understand?"

Steve looks at Dustin, then at Robin, who shrugs uselessly, before looking back to Dustin. "I take it your date didn't go very well?" 

Dustin huffs out a breath in the most dramatic, most Dustin way possible. "No, it did not."

Robin giggles and shoves her hand in front of her face before muttering, almost unintelligibly, "Tell him what happened." 

Dustin's face crumples up so hard it begins to resemble a crushed soda can more than it does a face, but he says, "He showed me a naked picture of himself in the middle of the date as a way to, I think, proposition me for sex." 

Steve feels his eyes try to separate themselves from his skull. He has no idea what to say to that so he just winds up gaping at Dustin blankly and fighting his eyeballs and their unrelenting urge to flee.

"Oh, he was totally trying to fuck you," Robin says. "He wanted him some curly haired nerd boy real bad." She giggles uproariously.

Dustin makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a squeak. "And, as I have said a million times before, I. Do. Not. Want. That." 

With a grunt of his own, though its one borne of exhaustion and not defeat, Steve gets to his feet and goes to pat Dustin reaffirmingly on the shoulder. "I know, man," he says, because he does.

Before meeting Billy, his dating life had been the exact same way. A complete and unmitigated disaster.

//

Max gets home from class sometime after one, spends ten minutes listening to Billy groan softly to himself and throw the same ball against the wall again and again and again before finally deciding she's had enough and dragging him out to Navy Pier. It's tacky and cliche and touristy… and also the only place in the entirety of basically landlocked Illinois that even remotely reminds either of them of California. And it's not that it looks the same. Or that it feels the same. But that it's a pier with a ferris wheel and that's about as close as either of them is going to get around here.

So they go. And sometimes they go a lot considering as they both quite frequently miss California but also love Chicago and the people they've grown to know and love here.

It usually cheers one or both of them up when they're bummed out or angry or sad or whatever and today Max drags Billy, same as always, thinking it'll work its usual magic, same as always. 

Only it doesn't.

They wander around the tacky little gift shops and nothing. 

She buys him an ice cream and nothing.

She offers to ride on the ferris wheel with him and nothing. 

The only thing that gets him to smile even a little is a bakery with some plain little cupcakes out on display that he immediately takes pictures of and then starts texting, she thinks, Steve. 

And that's when she gets the idea.

//

Dustin sighs. "Thank you, Steven. You on the other hand"—he turns to glare at Robin—"You might as well just walk around with a sign around your neck saying 'perpetual asshole' on it." 

Robin huffs, clearly unbothered by Dustin's accusation. "You know I support your right to not fuck whoever you please. I just think your reactions are funny." 

Steve's phone goes off and he struggles not to check it. 

"And a guy showing you naked pictures of himself in the middle of a date is hilarious," Robin says, grin nearly splitting her face in two.

Dustin scowls and Steve's phone goes off again and he loses the battle not to check it.

He has two texts from Billy. The first is a picture of some cupcakes with pastel blue icing. The second says, "Yours are better," and Steve can't help but smile.

When he looks up Dustin is still scowling only now it's being directed at him. 

"What?" Steve asks, fully not getting it.

Dustin grumbles something Steve doesn't quite catch, throws his hands up in the air full drama queen style and stomps back out to the front room.

"What?" Steve says again, this time to Robin. 

Robin's still smiling but the meaning behind it changes a little. Now it's less like she's having a good time and more like she's about to explain something to him. (And she just loves explaining things to him.) "He's just mad you have someone while all he can find are losers," she says.

"Oh." 

Robin shrugs like, "What can you do?" and she says, "Yeah." 

//

"I got an idea," Max says. 

Billy looks up, not exactly curious, but not… not curious, either. 

"Come on," she says, holding a hand out to him. He takes it, but he looks suspicious.

She doesn't tell him where they're going, just drags him to her car and makes him get in.

//

They arrive at the bakery and Billy sighs partly in annoyance with Max for coming up with the idea and making it some big secret, partly at himself for not getting it sooner than four blocks ago and partly in relief because annoyed as he might be at Max, he needs to be here and he's glad she's dragged him.

He walks in and the second he does, Dustin grumbles at him, "Of course you're here. Because you're perfect!" And it sounds like an insult, it has the tone of one, but Billy doesn't remotely get why or what for.

"Why—" Billy starts but Max's burst of laughter cuts him off.

Dustin makes a very loud noise and points to the kitchen. "Your boyfriend's in the back," he says, sour as anything.

Max laughs again and Billy just shrugs and heads for the back. He claps Dustin on the shoulder as he passes by and manages to keep his laughter to himself, but none of this impresses Dustin. 

The kitchen is worse (read: weirder) than the front room had been because the second Billy steps through this door Robin shouts, "Billy! Yes! Please take your idiot boyfriend home!" 

Steve glowers at her and slowly—much too slowly to mean anything other than he needs to be taken home right now—gets up off his ugly, little stool and comes to stand by Billy. "I'm fine," he growls.

This time Billy speaks before Robin can get to it. "Yeah... considering how long it took you to get up off your stool and walk over to me I'd say you're not." 

Robin nods at him and he nods back and Steve grunts, "What? Are you two conspiring against me now?" He looks to Robin. "Did you text him and ask him to come get me?" 

Billy huffs. "No. Max brought me. I was being miserable and she dragged me to the Pier and when that didn't work she dragged me here." He puts a heavy hand on Steve's good side and Steve melts under the touch almost completely.

Billy waits for Steve to say something, or for Robin to, but when neither of them does, he leans in and kisses Steve, gentle and quick. 

"Let's go home, yeah? This was good enough for a first day." 

Fortunately, this is all the convincing Steve seems to need and he lets Billy lead him out of the bakery and to Max's crusty, old orange Beetle. 

Max is incorrigible the entire drive back. She doesn't say anything in terms of words, but the smug smirk plastered all over her face says everything.

//

They go to Billy's without even discussing it.

Steve's not brave enough to admit it out loud yet, but he's started thinking of this place as 'home' as much as he hopes Billy thinks it is. And maybe he does. After all, Billy did say, "Let's go home?" didn't he? Not "Let's go to my place" or "Let's go, we'll pick where later" or even just "Let's go". He said, very specifically, "Let's go home." So maybe he meant it.

Or maybe it was just a casual slip of the tongue and Steve is overthinking things.

There isn't time to talk about it, though, even if Steve had wanted to, because Billy starts directing him towards the bedroom the second Max opens the front door and Steve is asleep the second he lies down on the bed and his head hits the pillow. 

[tsarisfanfiction]

Xenoglossophobia (Tales From The Heart)

Fandom: One Piece Rating: Gen Warnings: None Characters: X Drake, Penguin, Shachi

A little known fact about X Drake – so little known that only he knew it – was that while he had long since kicked the cowardice he'd been known for as a teenager, there was one thing that could regress him back into a state where he was emotionally compromised. To say that it struck fear in him was perhaps not true, but with no exposure to the culprit since his teenage years, he had no way of knowing how he'd react if confronted with it once again.

Not, he'd thought, that that would have been a problem. It was region-locked, kept to the confines of a small island far, far away from anywhere he frequented after being drafted into the Marines, and had no reason to move. As long as he stayed away from that little trio of islands in the far north, he'd never need to face it.

In the middle of the Grand Line, working under Kaido's flag, he was wholly unprepared to hear something that should never have made it that far.

Different islands often had different native languages. The majority of their inhabitants also spoke Common, for ease of communication with traders, but as a young pirate Drake had discovered that those outside of the World Government's influence, in particular, vastly preferred to natter away in their native tongue in front of unwelcome visitors.

Some would say that the native language of Swallow Island was beautiful to listen to. It had a melodic undertone to it, with a lilting accent that made it sound almost like the speaker was singing, capable of enrapturing the casual listener. Minion Island's was similar – Drake had never worked out if they were separate languages or simply alternate dialects – while Rubeck had all but abandoned their own language due to the Marine presence forcing Common upon them. If not for the proximity, Drake suspected that both Minion and Swallow Islands would never have adopted Common at all. Then again, he'd never found any examples of writing for their native languages, so either they kept it close to their chest, or the languages were purely verbal.

The language(s) of those far northern islands was unique, in his travels. No matter where else he'd been, deployed to almost every corner of North Blue during his time as a Marine, he had never found another language like them, which was nothing but good news for him.

Some said the language was beautiful. To Drake, it was the noise of his nightmares.

Fear had made the two islands address the Barrels Pirates in Common. Discovering that they had been victimised by previous pirates with no patience explained their paranoia, and made trading with the terrified communities easier. However, not everyone respectfully kept their words in an understandable language.

Back then, Drake had been a coward. He wasn't proud of it, but the fact that he had always cowered rather than take part in a fight was unavoidable, and he wasn't the type to ignore his own flaws. Despite being easily strong enough to deal with any dissent from the residents of the two islands – their occupied Minion Island, and the trade with Swallow Island – he could never bring himself to stand his ground.

Two younger teenagers had not only picked up on that, they'd capitalised on it. Running from them had done little good – they were fit, and knew the terrain better than he did – but there was nothing else that a young Drake had been able to do in the face of their aggression, even if he should have been able to handle them with ease.

Their confrontations had always been accompanied by that language. Words described as beautiful by people who didn't know better took on a taunting quality. He'd never managed to pick up the language, so the exact meanings of their words were forever lost on him, but what they were saying wasn't the point. The thing that drove the fear into Drake was the sound that heralded his cowardice, spoken by two teenagers whose hate he'd always considered unjustified.

"Thír cé ha na," he heard one day, on an island in the New World, far far from Swallow Island where the language was supposed to stay. The words were familiar, ones he'd heard many times before in his childhood nightmares, and even said in the exact same taunting tone he'd come to associate with them.

All that was different was the deeper voice, that of a full grown man, rather than a pre-pubescent teenager's, but Drake had thought he'd seen them around, once or twice, and had no doubts that the boys responsible for his intense dislike of the language – he wouldn't call it fear, even though it brought back irrational old feelings of flight when he was strong enough now that he should default to fight – had found him again.

"Ha na mura sé Hén Dory," came the reply, and he turned around, already knowing who he'd see.

Matching grins greeted him, and while the teenagers were teenagers no longer – well into their twenties, even though Drake didn't care for the specifics – it was impossible for Drake to mistake them for anyone other than his childhood tormentors.

He was stronger than them, now, and clamped down the old urge to flee as he reminded himself that a simple transformation should allow him to chomp at least one of them. Not that either of them were weak – weaklings would never have survived the journey from the northernmost reaches of North Blue to where they were now, in the New World and clearly comfortable there – but if he could just shake the cold sweat gathering at the back of his neck, the fight would end in his victory.

There was no fight, however. The men were not stupid, and had set things up well. Drake had no qualms about transforming to munch on them, but they weren't alone. Confirming his long time suspicion that as well as having far too much to do with the annihilation of his father's crew, he'd also recruited two of the most infuriating teenagers Drake had ever met, Trafalgar Law was slouching alongside them, lanky limbs arranged in a display that promised he would not stand idly by if his nakama were attacked.

Alone himself, Drake fancied his odds against the two men, but not his odds against the pair of them and Trafalgar all at once.

Convincing himself that he was not fleeing yet again, but rather tactfully choosing his battles, he turned back away from the smirking faces from his childhood and walked away.

He'd get revenge on them another time, and with it shift his irrational reactions to that one minor language no-one outside of Swallow Island had any right speaking.

[written-rebellion]

Perfect Distractions

A/N: whew! Lots to say, lots to make up for! I hope you’re all still here? After a whole lot of life happenings, I finally set a hard deadline for myself to get this done and here it is (on my 23rd birthday no less, bc that’s exactly the type of motivation I need)

First of all, I’m so so sorry for leaving so suddenly and for so long. The short of it is a very bad mix of family tragedy, extra stuff at work, and then a quick health scare made finding time to write this year veerrryyy difficult. But I’m back!! And I promise, even if we can’t ever make it back to that 2 posts a week schedule (I mean, I’ll try my best!!!), I won’t abandon this story completely. I love it so much, I have so much still planned, and hopefully *peers out* if you’re all still here with me, you love and miss these lovesick dorks too. 

And thanks so much for the messages and comments in my absence too! They meant everything to me <3 

And so in true fanfic community fashion, and because I do believe you’ve all waited long enough: Enjoy this ~3K, mostly smut chapter as my apology. Also, the first bit is taken from a prompt by @mo-nighean-rouge about guys and their girlfriend’s scrunchies, so enjoy that too!

And thank you all again, for not giving up on me!

Claire’s probably not drunk, Jamie only knows one dance, and as always, the facts of this fanfic are contrived specifically to make fluffy university/modern-day au scenarios. Please let me know what you think!

Part One: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] | Part Two: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Three: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Four: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Five: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Six: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Seven: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Eight: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Nine: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Ten: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Eleven: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Twelve: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [ Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Thirteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Fourteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] Part Fifteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Sixteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Seventeen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Eighteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Nineteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Twenty: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Twenty-One: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Twenty-Two: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Twenty-Three: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4]

Part Twenty-Three: Timing | Chapter 5

“You’re like—really bad at this, huh?”

“I’m trying no’ to step on yer toes.”

“Ohhh,” Claire giggled, “Is that why we’re dancing on the off-beat?”

“Och, aye.” Even in the dim light of the hotel’s reception hall, he could already see the effects of her last few drinks painting her face in faint dustings of pink. “And it doesna help that ye’ve drank a bit more than I have.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, not disproving his statement in the slightest.

“I’m not drunk.”

“Never said ye were,” he chuckled, nuzzling her cheek with his nose. “Though, ye’re skin’s a bit warm, lass. Are ye alright?”

“It’s these damn curls. It’s too bloody hot!” She sighed, stepping out of his arms to reach up and shake out her hair but losing her balance in the process.

He rushed to steady her, laughing shamelessly all the while – and even more so when he saw her thoroughly displeased expression.

“I’m fine,” she said before he could even open his mouth.

He nodded, definitely believing her as he released her waist and put his hands up in good faith.

With a great deal more care this time, she gathered her hair up and away from her neck with a huff.

Poor wee thing.

With little more than a flick of his wrist, he was holding out a hair tie to her.

She blinked once. Twice.

“What is that?”

“Christ lass, how much have ye had?”

A moment to enjoy her pout at him.

“No, I know what it is. Why do you have one, I mean.”

It was his turn to blink at her then.

“I always carry one for ye, ‘round my wrist in case ye need it.”

More and more, her reactions – or in this case, lack thereof – did nothing to refute his overall judgement of her inebriation. It was a full 9 seconds of a genuinely blank, only slightly baffled, expression; he counted.

“You what—?”

She shook her head, seemingly gathering some semblance of coherence as she cupped his cheeks with both hands and kissed him.

“You—” She tried again. “—are a god amongst men, James Fraser.”

He chuckled, his hand skimming the back of her neck as he returned the kiss in thanks.

“Shall I help ye wi’ that, mo chridhe?”

“No, no, I’ve got it,” she said over his insistence otherwise, pushing away from him and wobbling slightly on her heels.

Resigned and as irretrievably smitten as ever, he stepped around and let her back prop against his chest, steadying her by the waist as she tied her hair up.

The lights hanging above them changed into a soft blue haze as the raucous swing faded into something far gentler.

“Oh, we can do this one!” Claire said suddenly, turning in his arms and urging him to start swaying. Jamie, like so many other times since he met her, gladly let her lead.

He snaked his arms around her waist, sliding over the soft fabric hugging her hips as she smoothed her own hands past his shoulders and, tucking her head under his chin, draped her arms down his back.

She was right, it was no more a dance than the drunken stupor some of the bride’s relatives had already fallen into. Though just a touch more romantic, he supposed.

He held her close, feeling the calm rise and fall of her chest against his, as even and relaxed as it was right before sleep. Wholly vulnerable and entirely safe, just like he always felt with her.

A laugh floated above the music from across the room where Jamie could see Willie and his new bride feeding cake to each other. The fairy lights delicately hung around the hall cast the newlyweds in a soft glow and Jamie felt like he was watching the end of a movie, except that he knew – had countless childhood memories – with the leading man.

Willie was the youngest of his extended cousins, just a year younger than Jamie himself, and Jamie easily recalled the image of a much smaller, pudgier version of the groom stumbling to catch up with Rupert and Angus as they jaunted around the grounds of Lallybroch every summer.

Jamie didn’t know the bride though. As frequently as their childhoods intersected, he and Willie were never close enough to share much about their personal lives save the informal summer catch-up. Willie had met her at school in America; a point well-discussed, if discreetly, by nearly every relative he’d spoken to today, plus Jenny whom always swears she’s not a gossip immediately before proving herself wrong.

She seemed lovely though, with a big laugh that filled the room and – as far as Jamie could see as he held Claire and watched the dessert table – lit up Willie’s eyes like the child Jamie remembered. Of course, the Mackenzies were steeped in tradition and no stranger to gossip, he mused, whether it be a foreign girl marrying the clan’s youngest son or—

He stopped himself too late and swallowed the thought the same way he reigned back the tension that rushed to his fist

—or a lifelong farm boy marrying the clan’s only daughter.

He flexed his fingers and opened his palm onto the small of Claire’s back, pulling her closer to erase the tension completely.

Not that it mattered in the slightest, but he did wonder whether to expect the same kind of discreet – or even brazen – disdain from the Mackenzies for Claire if—

When—

Then an entirely different thought supplanted and overrode everything else.

She moved against his chest slowly, then pushed back to look up at him and only then he realized he had said her name out loud.

---

He was staring at her again, in that unnerving way that presented his thoughts to her, his emotions, just past a veil of inscrutability. Like he himself wasn’t sure he wanted her to know the sheer depth of whatever storm was brewing behind his blue eyes.

More often than not, she wasn’t on the receiving end of this mask. At least, not without pretense. The last time she could really recall not being able to divine his thoughts was their anniversary spent huddled under a blanket in the estate’s backyard.

“What is it?”

“I—” He wet his lips, swallowed, and Claire watched carefully. Watched how his eyes looked straight at hers, and yet seemed as though they were seeing so much more than what was right in front of him.

She waited, 8 full bars of music before he chuckled and shook his head. His warm hand at her back pressed their bodies together and he flexed his fingertips into her skin as his head bent to her ear.

“Ye look absolutely stunning in that dress, mo chridhe.”

Something inside Claire deflated, but she smiled nevertheless as her shoulders released some unwarranted tension.

“Finally found your words, have you?” she said, butting his nose with hers.

“Aye, I have.” He lowered his voice to a soft rumble that Claire could feel pressed up against his chest. “I lost them for a moment, in that mystery of a bra ye’re wearing.”

She stifled a giggle into his shoulder.

“I’m serious, Sassenach,” he went on. “Just how in hell is it holding everything together?”

“Double-sided tape, and a prayer?” she offered, pulling back slightly to peer up at him from under her lashes, and lowering her tone to match his. “Of course, you’re welcome to find out for yourself.”

She felt his repressed groan travel up to his throat, and saw vestiges of that same sentiment in the narrow and quite incendiary glare he gave her.

Now it was her turn to wet her lips.

Then the spell was broken. He tutted at her, tilting his head to one side slightly as if sizing her up.

“’Such a shame, lass,” he tutted at her, “As drunk as ye are—”

“What?” She blinked at him. “No, I told you I’m not drunk, Jamie.”

“Aye, ye are,” he insisted with a shrug. His voice was casual but his eyes, Claire could see, were sending her a different message entirely. “It’s really too bad but, I guess we’ll have to get ye back to the hotel room, aye? As soon as possible.”

Understanding bloomed as quickly on her face as his air of aloofness dissipated. 

“Well,” she said, trying in vain not to mirror his wide grin. “I suppose if you think so.”

“I do,” he said softly, squeezing her hand in his.

In 30 minutes’ time, they had made their obligatory rounds of congratulations and goodbyes, narrowly avoided Jenny’s insinuating remarks, and piled themselves into a cab.

And 25 minutes after that, Claire had Jamie pressed into a hallway wall with her fingers systematically mussing his once perfectly groomed hair.

“Sass—mm—Sassenach!” he struggled between her relentless lips. “We havena—gotten to the room yet.”

He had been right, goddamn him. Claire was just tipsy enough to feel uninhibited. Her blood was boiling, and she couldn’t find it in herself to give two shits about any guests that might decide on an after-midnight stroll through the hall.

She bit his lower lip and revelled in his groan, lathing it over with her tongue as one hand left his hair and travelled downward to untuck his shirt.

He caught her wrist and pulled gently on her hair, making her whimper in protest. 

“Ja—Ah!”

Claire suddenly felt her feet leave the ground as Jamie threw her bodily over his shoulder.

“Jamie! Jamie, put me down!” She was dangling over him helplessly and began to pummel her fists into his back and kick her legs to no avail.

“Keep still, lass,” he laughed, pressing a quick kiss to the fabric-covered arse situated right next to his cheek. “Or ye’ll kill me ‘afore we get to the room.”

“Likely!”

She wriggled against him all the way to their door, finally stilling as she heard the telltale beep of their key-card lock.

Achingly slow, Jamie let her slide down his front and they both inhaled sharply when her leg brushed up against the length of him.

One breath.

The click of the door handle.

Another breath.

Then the world turned on its axis and Claire found herself pressed into the other side of their door, her eyes only briefly taking in the sight of their hotel room before they closed in rippled pleasure as Jamie sunk his teeth into her collarbone.

“Christ,” he murmured into her skin as his lips travelled lower. “I’ll have to go to confession for all the thoughts I had of ye during the ceremony.”

His stubble scratched at the soft skin between her breasts and she arched into him, turning any remark she might have had for him into a sweeping gasp.

Her arm rose to tug at her straps, but Jamie caught her wrist and pinned it to the door just above her head, pressing himself harder into her as his knee slid between her legs.

“No lass. Keep it on.”

The deep rumble of his voice shot straight to her core and she rocked shamelessly onto his insinuating knee. That familiar ache between her legs was getting more urgent by the second and she knew it could take one quick turn of her heel to have him on the floor, hers to ride. But—

“I have to—Wait—” She gasped, at war with herself as she pushed Jamie back by the shoulder.

Jamie came back up immediately, searching her eyes for whatever was wrong, but she shook her head.

“You did want to see how this bra works, and I’d much rather have it off anyway.”

She wiggled her hand until he released her wrist and took one step back, his other hand never leaving her waist as he watched her pull the straps down past her chest.

“You’ve gotta untie the—”

He understood and began loosening the ties between both pads. Slowly, methodically. She watched his brow furrow as he mentally worked out the strapless, backless contraption for himself.

The strings came loose, and Claire heaved a full-chested sigh of relief. One that quickly turned into a squeak as Jamie’s finger lightly traced the outline of the pad.

The curious quirk in his eyebrow suddenly felt all the more erotic as he closed his eyes, bent his head to the side of one breast, and slowly pulled at the adhesive, lathing the irritated skin with his tongue as more and more of it was revealed to him.

Now Claire’s breath came in short spurts. Her head fell back, and her hands came up to thread in his hair as he massaged and kissed and nuzzled his way across her chest.

Finally, he peeled off the last bit of adhesive, stopping to give the contraption one last look before casually tossing it over his shoulder. Then, very gently, he replaced the straps at her shoulders and pressed a delicate kiss to each.

A gesture Claire would otherwise find heartbreakingly sweet, had his previous work not rendered her heaving and near-sobbing with her heart pounding loudly in her ears.

When he at last came up to meet her eye, two equally molten stares dared each other to move.

“I told ye I wanted to take ye in that dress.”

She rose on her toes, closing what little space they had left between them to butt her nose against his.

“So take me then.”

His mouth was on hers in an instant, her head thudding softly against the door as his whole body enveloped her, consumed her like the fire she’d willingly walk with him into.

The heat of his palms felt like it was searing through the fabric as his hands skimmed up her thighs, bunching the dress up around her hips. With few words but so much more between them, she kicked off her heels to wrap her legs around his hips.

Lightning darted through her as she rubbed against his hard length on her ascent, and Jamie groaned into her hair. Very much liking the sound, and more so revelling in the knowledge that he was as helpless in her arms as she was in his, she pressed her back into the door and rolled against him again.

His jaw clenched, his fingers pressing into her hips as he took long and measured breaths, and Claire was elated, alight with renewed desire.

And very likely as intoxicated as he’d thought she was. Not that she’d admit that to him.

In a flurry of moans and blind stumbles, she felt her back finally hit the mattress as her legs dangled off its side. Jamie’s hands on her hips pulled her closer to the edge, once again bunching up the dress, and she was lost in a haze until she felt the tickling of Jamie’s hair and stubble against her inner thighs.

“Fuck,” she swore as Jamie ran one finger down her panties. He hooked that same finger under the cloth and pulled at it slowly.

“You should be off to confession after this as well, lass,” he chuckled, nuzzling his nose and chin back up her legs.

“Oh shut up and—” The last of that sentence was lost in a gasp as his tongue prodded gently against her inner folds. His hand, which had since been drawing meaningless patterns on the back of her knee, travelled up to spread her legs further apart just as he pressed the flat of his tongue onto her core.

Her hips bucked up off the bed then with a sharp groan and she could feel the bloody bastard smirking as he brought his other arm down across her waist to keep her steady.

Her teeth were nearly puncturing her bottom lip as she tangled her fingers into Jamie’s hair and pulled.

Placing a kiss just under her navel, he rose up to quirk an eyebrow at her.

“Ready, I’m—” she started, trying to speak and refill her lungs at the same time. “I need you. Now.”

The look he gave thoroughly erased all her hard work as her breath rushed out of her again. He stood straight, eyes never leaving hers, as he made quick work of his belt.

“Ye dinna have any idea what you look like right now,” he said, voice thick with feeling.

The more pragmatic side of Claire’s mind – wherever it was at the moment – could take an easy stab at the thought; dishevelled and sloppy, and in an alarming state of undress. But she knew – and frankly, could see – Jamie’s mind was decidedly somewhere else.

“Spread out like that, Sassenach.” She could feel the deep timbre of his voice leaving goosebumps up her arms. “Waiting for me, wi’ yer hair all mussed and yer chest heaving—Christ—I’d gladly burn in Hell just for the privilege of seeing ye’ so.”

She inched herself further onto the bed as he finally bent to join her, pulling away just slightly as he leaned in to kiss her.

She smirked.

He rumbled.

“Tease.”

In less than a breath, she was lost in insistent lips and warm, roaming hands steadily making their way downwards until, like all her cells converging onto a fixed point, she felt his thick cock press into her.

“Mmmgh—Jamie!”

Instinctively, she hooked one leg around his hip and gasped greedily for air as he buried his head into her neck.

She draped her arms over his shoulders, dancing to the only choreographed rhythm she knew Jamie had memorized, a timing and movement he could never get wrong as he answered every twist and curve and grind with his own. Keeping in time with a single heartbeat shared between them. 

Moans and sighs accented their growing crescendo, higher and higher as he pushed in deeper, faster, until Claire crested. Her back arched off the bed, feeling weightless and shapeless, if only to better mould her body to his as she shattered around him and carried him off with her.

By the time Claire opened her eyes again – minutes or hours after – Jamie was peacefully snoozing beside her, his lips in a wide smile that tugged sharply at her heart. With eyes firmly shut, he reached, found, and tucked her neatly under his chin with a content hum.

“Jamie…?” she whispered. One bold hand came up to smooth down his hair, all the while waiting for his eyes to open.

When they didn’t, Claire snuggled closer into him, pressing a soft kiss at the base of his neck.

She hadn’t forgotten, even through the haze of alcohol and everything that followed.

“Jamie?” she tried again, louder, to no response.

It wasn’t the first time he’d stared at her like that, back at the reception, though she hoped the next time he did, it would be the last.

She smiled, comforted in the fact that whenever it happened to be, it was one of the few things in her life that was inevitable. She could – and would – safely let the tide deliver her there with the utmost faith in its certainty.

“It’s already a yes,” she said softly, into the night, “all you have to do is ask.”

[End of Part 23]

Read Part 24

[raendown]

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 3648 Chapter: 35/42 Summary: Not all wars are fought on the battlefield. Some are fought at the conference table, with whispers in the shadows, or even in the bedroom.

In a world where the Senju and Uchiha traditional lands were too far apart to have ever made them enemies, Butsuma and Tajima are the ones who come together and sign a treaty of peace. Madara isn’t happy to have his life signed away for him in a political marriage to strengthen the bond between their clans. He is even less happy to have Tobirama make assumptions of him from their very first night together. What follows from there is a journey of healing, of learning, and finding the places to belong in the places least expected.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Chapter 35

For as many times as he had yelled at his brother for spouting similar flowery nonsense it was possible he owed Hashirama an apology or two and yet even that thought wasn’t enough to stop him from noticing just how bright the sunlight was today, how crisp the shapes of first frost on every windowpane. Every smile he passed only increased his cheer and if it wouldn’t be so out of character he might have stopped to laugh with some of the happy citizens walking by. Not even the much more reserved atmosphere of the Senju district was enough to dampen his spirits, a spring in his step all the way to his brother’s house where he let himself in without knocking as was his habit. Mito took one look at him and turned her head away to smother a laugh. 

“Good morning, ane,” he called, too cheerful to find any annoyance in her reaction to what was surely a foolish look on his own face. She waved him further in to the home without a word. With a low chuckle he followed the direction she had waved in and found Hashirama watering a few plants in a small side room they frequently claimed was meant for an eventual child. Judging by the sheer amount of flora contained within these four small walls Tobirama sometimes wondered if they weren’t a little more nervous than they let on about the idea of procreating. 

“Hi Tobi! Good morning!” His brother offered a blinding smile, trying to wave and water a small potted tree at the same time only to shake water all over the floor. 

“It certainly is a good morning. I trust you fared well while we were away?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Hashirama dropped the watering can and hurried over to feel his forehead. “Tobi are you okay? Did you get sick on your trip?”

“Begging your pardon?”

“Oh dear! It’s worse than I thought!” 

To his utter bafflement Hashirama pulled him back out to the living room and pressed him down in to the closest chair, babbling to Mito the moment they entered her view. “Darling, my dearest, something is wrong. Could you fetch me the blanket from the couch there? He’s not acting himself!” 

“I am perfectly fine, anija.” Tobirama chuckled and then chuckled harder when the sound elicited a small fit from his sibling.

“You asked if we were okay while you were gone! You never ask that! And you’re being all polite and kind and – oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. I hope Madara isn’t sick too!” he turned to his wife with an indecisive frown. “Should we check on him or do you think it would make him angry?”

“For goodness sake, man, I said that I’m fine! Control your husband ane!” 

“Ane!?”

To his great amusement Hashirama's eyes rolled back in his head and he sank down on the couch next to his wife, fanning himself with one hand like a gentlelady experiencing the vapors. On any other day Tobirama knew he would have been fuming with temper at so many insults against his character – to be so worried about him simply for a little politeness! – but his mood was too good and today nothing felt wrong with the world. Today he had enough patience to simply recline in his chair and watch with a mild expression as Mito lost the battle with her own self-control and let slip one single string of giggles.

“Peace, husband, he’s perfectly fine,” she told him. 

“Now you too!?” he cried. “What is going on with you two?”

Reaching over to pat him on the knee, Mito took a few deep breaths to calm herself. “He had sex, darling, he’s just in a very good mood.”

Like the brave woman she was she made it all the way through her entire sentence before breaking down and exploding in to a full on giggling fit. Tobirama cocked his head to watch her, wishing for a moment that he could record her like the Sharingan could. What excellent blackmail this would have made. 

A very small piece of his mood was soured when Hashirama shot up on the couch with a ramrod straight back and a smile bright enough to light the entire village at the witching hour. “Oh! Excellent! Finally! I really was beginning to worry about the two of you again. Madara explained his clan’s customs to me – and I respect them! – it just doesn’t seem very healthy to me for a married couple to ignore that part of their relationship.”

“What if one person in the couple doesn’t like sex?” Tobirama asked, more in the mood for gentle teasing than to allow Hashirama of all people to offer opinions on something he thought had been going fairly well for a while now. Also it was fun to watch the man flail as though terrified he might have offended someone.

“Of course! It’s their choice! I just meant–”

“Did you ever ask Madara if he was even interested in that? How do you know I didn’t just tie him to the bed and have my way?”

Hashirama clapped both hands to the sides of his face, horrified. “Tobi! You wouldn’t!”

“But how do you know I didn’t?” He was so glad he’d come here first before visiting Touka. This was much more entertaining than her easy acceptance would have been. 

“Please tell me you didn’t? Oh Tobirama, I’m so disappointed, you two have been getting along so much better lately. He’s going to be so angry. Do you think I should go see him? Maybe I can settle him down, talk to him and keep him calm. You should apologize!” On and on he went, completely unaware of Mito rolling her eyes beside him, until finally Tobirama cut him off with a loud huff. 

“I am, quite frankly, very insulted you’re taking this so seriously. Do you honestly think I would ever force anyone in such a manner? I know I was just joking about it but it’s not actually a joking matter.” Tobirama frowned reprovingly. “Honestly, what must you think of me?” 

He was pleased to see that brought Hashirama up short. The man fell utterly still and one could almost physically watch the wheels turning in his mind and he processed the fact that he’d been had. It seemed to take even longer for him to figure out what to do with that information but eventually he sagged back next to his wife and drew one hand down his face as though exhausted by so much difficult thought all at once. When he met Tobirama’s eyes again he was grinning in relief. 

“You really had me going there!” he said and Tobirama only shook his head.

“Only because you make it too easy for me to do so. Truly if I weren’t in such a good mood I would be very upset with you right now.” 

Hashirama laughed nervously and offered a dozen or so apologies before Tobirama let the subject drop, turning to strike up a conversation with Mito instead. The visit ended up being quite a pleasant one despite the insult he suffered at Hashirama's assumption. After all the personal gossip had been traded and Tobirama had made enough hints at the events of his rather delightful night without actually giving them any details their chat finally turned back towards the purpose of his visit. 

Where most might have spoken with their coworkers or others in their department to catch up on what had happened in the village during an absence Tobirama knew better. The best method was to hope Mito was available and in a proper mood to spill a few secrets. Butsuma may not consider her part of the official spy network but the size of her web of connections was rivalled by very few and Tobirama knew no better hub of information than his dear sister in law. All it took was a few questions worded just right and he was perfectly caught up not only on the official things he had missed but also a few unofficial ones as well, gossip that didn’t really pertain to him but could be useful if he encountered the right circumstances. 

The one little tidbit which caught his attention the most was from a team who had travelled in the opposite direction of the capitol and came back reporting strange chakra activity in the area. Without a sensor in their group they hadn’t been able to say anything more specific than that but it was just odd enough of a warning to make Tobirama curious about what anyone else travelling through the area might have to say. For a non-sensor type to feel strange chakra activity there had to be quite a large amount of it. If he were a less responsible man he might have skipped out of the village to go look in to things himself. 

Once Mito finally ran out of gossip she was willing to share he stuck around for a little while longer, bearing his brother’s teasing about how often he smiled in the few short hours of his visit and quite proud of himself for resisting the urge to retaliate even once. At least his sister in law wasn’t quite so loud and brash about her own ribbing. When he left he made his way through the backyard to pop in on Touka where he suffered through more than twice as much teasing as he’d gotten from the other two, though once again he managed to let it all flow off his back with the help of his unnaturally good mood. It was, he told himself, nice to see his beloved family so happy even if it was at his own expense. 

Leaving Touka’s he was still in high enough spirits he had to concentrate in order to keep his face from breaking out in to a ridiculous smile as he walked back home. The office could wait for tomorrow. Whatever paperwork had piled up in his absence would still be there when he was actually on the clock; maybe if he was lucky then the people who were supposed to have been covering his duties while he was away might be inspired to actually do the work before he got there. Probably not but he could hope. 

A very small bit of his good mood dissipated, however, when he reached for the front door of his home and caught a minute flare of chakra from inside. Evidently Izuna had come to visit while he was gone. Tobirama hovered with his fingers wrapped around the door handle, waffling with indecision, hoping neither of the men inside were paying enough attention to feel him there. On the one hand he wanted nothing more than to step inside and spend the rest of his day cozied up next to Madara watching his husband shiver at every touch, hyper aware of him after last night. On the other he knew that Madara had as much right as he did to catch up with family and Izuna had proven time and time again that he just couldn’t be comfortable with Tobirama in the house. Should he leave? It would be the decent thing to do. 

But when had he ever professed to be a decent person? 

In the end Tobirama turned away from the door with a sigh only to creep his way around the outside of his own home and slip in through the window like some common burglar. As long as he stayed quiet and kept his chakra low he could at least be productive here in his home office without disturbing Izuna’s visit. The man couldn’t stay forever, after all, and it wouldn’t hurt him to let his husband have at least one decent visit without the two of them ruining everything with their pointless feud. All the white flags in the world wouldn’t matter for shit if Izuna refused to accept the ceasefire he had offered. Stubborn pride would be the death of them both.

The first thing he did was wrinkle his nose and find a rag to wipe off the desk with. After so many hours in their offices at the tower this room didn’t see quite as much use as it probably should. On the all too frequent occasion either of them brought something home to finish they prefered to work in the living room where there would still be a warm body to cuddle up with in reward for being responsible. With his work space a little easier to look at Tobirama was able to comfortably settle himself in the chair he sort of wanted to steal for his own office, pulling out enough parchment to keep himself occupied for a good long while, and settled in to lose himself among the ink. A very small part of his consciousness remained focused on the other side of the house where both Izuna and Madara remained pleasantly calm; it was nice to know they weren’t fighting for once. But for the most part he pulled his chakra inwards and kept his own presence as unobtrusive as possible.

Given a chance to guess he would probably have said he expected to stay in the office for at least a couple more hours if not several. With how volatile things had been between the Uchiha siblings and Izuna stubbornly instigating fights when they were entirely unnecessary he fully understood them taking their time to enjoy a good bonding session. It was therefore quite a surprise to have the door open and both men step in to the room after barely more than a full hour had passed. They stopped as soon as they spotted him there, of course, and Tobirama was so startled all he could do was blink back at them with his own stunned expression.

“When did you get home?” Madara demanded. 

“An hour ago.”

“I didn’t even hear you come in.”

With as straight a face as possible he admitted, “I came in through the window after I sensed Izuna’s presence.” His brother in law squinted and he hurried to add to his statement. “There didn’t seem sense in disturbing you.”

As he’d thought, the man couldn’t seem to find anything wrong with that. Madara, on the other hand, was wearing a pinched face caught halfway between gratitude and annoyance. He could easily guess what thoughts were going through that beloved head, wished he had a better solution than crawling through windows in his own home. 

“Suppose I was gonna get going anyway,” Izuna murmured eventually, cutting through the awkwardness. Tobirama waved one hand. 

“Do not leave on my account if you’re enjoying your visit. I had planned to stay in here.”

“No I really was leaving anyway. Mads was just grabbing a book that I wanted to borrow.” He looked almost irritated that he didn’t actually have anything to be irritated about. 

Rather than fight him on that – he was hardly going to complain about getting what he wanted after all – Tobirama remained silent as Madara rifled through the shelves and kept his eyes on his work in an effort to ignore the tense atmosphere in the room. It was a relief when the book was finally located and Madara shooed his brother towards the front door so they could say goodbye to each other in peace. With the door left open he could have heard what they were murmuring to each other but he chose not to invade their privacy in such a manner, not after going to so much effort just to give them privacy before. 

He had bent his head back to the papers before him by the time Madara came back in to the room but dared to peek up in the hopes that he would not find irritation there, thrilled to see his luck holding out still. His husband was leaning against the door jamb with his arms folded and a particular tightness around his mouth that said he was holding back a smile. Tobirama liked to think that smile would have been at least half as soppy as the ones he had been fighting off all morning.  

“You’re home a little earlier than I expected you to be. Thought you’d be trapped at Hashirama's forever before you made it over to your cousin’s.” 

“Ah.” Tobirama gestured with one hand for his partner to come closer. “They did both have quite a bit to say.”

“Izu says it’s super obvious that we had sex last night!” Madara immediately clapped both hands over his mouth, clearly not having meant to blurt that out. He glared when Tobirama laughed but still allowed himself to be coaxed across the room. 

“My family told me the same thing – well, Mito did, it took Hashirama a while to figure out the context for my good mood.” As soon as the man was near enough Tobirama hooked his waist with one arm and tugged, pulling Madara in to his lap where he could bury his face against the neck he had so liberally covered in love bites. All under the massive volume of hair, of course, and with the way his husband usually wore it he was fairly sure they had so far gone entirely unnoticed. He wasn’t cruel enough to embarrass either of them like that. 

After squirming a little at first Madara eventually melted in to his touches with a low purr. “He said I looked really stupid.”

“Not the word I would choose to describe you. Well, not today anyway.”

“Hey!”

Tobirama laughed and distracted the man with a few more kisses to some choice locations. 

Despite having spent most of their visit sitting around the kitchen table gabbing like old men with nothing better to do apparently Madara never bothered to actually get up and make food for him and his brother, though he decided to rectify that the moment he heard Tobirama’s stomach growling. It took a bit of play fighting but eventually Tobirama relented and allowed him to get up so they could move back to the kitchen together. He did offer to help cook but Madara shooed him in to a chair with one stern finger and that was just cute enough to convince him to listen. 

While he cooked for the most part he nattered on in a way reminiscent of his best friend, though Tobirama was smart enough not to make any such comparisons out loud, and the large majority of what he talked about had to do with Izuna. He spoke on what his brother had been doing with the ANBU since being given control of the project or what he had been up to in general and all the while didn’t really seem to remember why he usually wouldn’t talk about his brother in front of his husband. Tobirama soaked up every word with a beatific smile. He might not be terribly interested in the subject matter but married couples were supposed to be able to speak to each other about anything at all; seeing Madara so free did wonders on his heart. 

As he listened Tobirama played with one of the empty mugs still sitting on the table and tuned out a little, falling in to his own thoughts. The issue of Izuna was one he could not solve himself, clearly, making peace required the cooperation of both parties. But should he really give up so soon after only a single gesture? Did a lifetime of training how to schmooze and ingratiate himself with potential allies mean nothing? If he were completely honest with himself there were many actions he could take from here and he’d known that all along, he just hadn’t wanted to admit it. Hadn’t wanted to be the one to back down and show himself as the weaker party. Really his own stubborn pride had been getting in the way almost as much as Izuna’s had and that meant he probably had almost as much of the blame on his shoulders for the ongoing state of this ridiculous feud. 

He didn’t realize just how badly he had slipped away in to his own head until Madara set a plate down in front of him with a playful scowl that said he knew he’d been ignored. Tobirama apologized by tugging him down far enough to kiss the pout from those lips. When he looked down at his lunch, however, it stirred an idea that he wanted immediately to reject off hand yet forced himself to stop and reconsider. A feud with such deep emotions required a deep gesture. His problem up until now had been that he was thinking too small. 

“I don’t know if I like the smile on your face right now,” Madara said cautiously as he sank down in to the opposite chair. 

“What do you mean?”

“You look like you’re up to something. That is an evil smile if I have ever seen one. And I lived with Izuna for most of my life, I’ve seen more than my fair share of evil smiles.”

Tobirama resisted the urge to snicker at the irony that Madara should still be so focused on his younger brother even without knowing what thoughts had led to the expression that so worried him. Instead he reached for his fork and filled his mouth with rice to excuse himself from offering any sort of reply. His husband scowled but that was fine. He could fix that again with more kisses after they had eaten. Until then he simply continued to eat and kept his plans to himself, somehow just a little more hopeful for a happy future than he had been even just this morning. 

[incomingalbatross]

Fic: The Adventure of the Spontaneous Physician

I wrote this snippet of “Modern Holmes AU” a while ago, but I’m feeling the urge to post it Today Specifically (Easter euphoria? maybe), even though it’s more a first chapter than a real story. So... If you have any interest in seeing my idea their modern-day first meeting, here it is! :P Length: ~2800 words Characters/Pairings: John H. Watson MD, Sherlock Holmes, OFC. Gen. Warnings: Absolutely none Summary: The call of adventure is heeded. This leads to a meeting of friends in a Starbucks, and from there to another such meeting in St. Bart’s Hospital.

It was a fine spring day in London, and Dr. Meredith Lynn, OB/GYN, was feeling the pull of Adventure.

She wasn’t feeling it terribly strongly, mind you… But it was enough to have her get off the Tube a stop or so early, and walk the rest of the way to St. Bart’s in the fresh air. And when she passed a little hole-in-the-wall Starbucks she’d used to frequent in her student days, the urge for spontaneity was easily enough to break her routine and send her in for a drink and a pastry. In her just-over-three-decades of life, she’d learned to embrace moods like this one, and to find satisfaction in following where they led.

Having made her order, however, she paused. She had time—that same adventurous mood having sent her off with an early start—but did she want to sit here, or venture back out into the sunshine?

Brow furrowed, she scanned the tables for an empty spot. A young couple—two mums chatting—a single man on his computer—

Wait.

Something about the solitary young man caught her attention. She looked more closely. He was in a slightly ill-fitting suit, browsing the web with a condensation-coated frappucino next to him and a dark look on his face. But, expression aside, that face was familiar…

She lit up, threads all slipping into place suddenly, and hurried to his table. “John Watson!” she exclaimed, standing over him.

He looked up, startled, but quickly smiling. “Meredith?”

Meredith grinned, pleased he remembered her—it had been years, and they’d never been particularly close, but clearly the bond of a shared residency was a lasting one.

“The one and only!” she chirped. “Fancy meeting you here, Dr. Watson.”

He laughed, still a little incredulously. His look of open delight, though, proclaimed she was a pleasant surprise—he’d always worn his heart on his sleeve, Meredith remembered, and she was glad to see that that guilelessness hadn’t disappeared.

“Really!” he agreed, smiling. “I haven’t even looked for anyone from the St. Bart days since…well, since I got to town. What have you been up to?” Then he paused, expression flickering with sudden self-doubt. “Or, sorry, are you on your way to work or someplace? I wouldn’t want to keep you—”

But Meredith put an end to that by sliding into the seat opposite him. John had always been a good sort, and she was glad to catch up. And besides that…well, between his earlier gloom and his enthusiasm at seeing her, she rather thought he could use some company.

So she smiled and said truthfully, “Nothing but time. My first consultation’s not till—ooh, over an hour from now, and I’m still at Bart’s, so it's just ‘round the corner.” Setting her coffee and her scone decidedly on the table, she said, “So tell me! How’ve you been?”

He brightened, closing his laptop to give her his full attention. (Always the gentleman, John.) “I’ve been… Well.” He half-shrugged. “A mixed bag, I suppose. Not so bad now, really, but…”

He trailed off, and Meredith bit her lip in concerned attention. She’d thought, when she saw him, that he wasn’t looking well…

He shook his head, smiling at her as if in apology for his brief silence. “Well. Did you know, back in the day, that I was planning to sign up with Doctors Without Borders?”

“Hmm…” Meredith frowned. “I may have. Not sure, sorry.”

“That’s all right! Anyway, I did. Filled the qualifications, signed up, and got sent out last summer… It was pretty brilliant, actually,” he said earnestly. But then he gave a rueful grimace. “Then I got shot, sent home, and put on disability pay this winter.”

Mer’s mouth hung open. “You got shot?” she exclaimed. “Good lord, John, how bad was it? Where?”

He pulled back a little at her unthinking reaction, looking as if the attention made him uncomfortable. “Shoulder, but it’s not too bad,” he said quickly. “I mean, my leg doesn’t work properly either, just as a bonus, but neither is debilitating… I can get through daily life all right, now, and I can work as long as it doesn’t demand too much fine motor control. Doesn’t even hurt too much!”

His face had fallen, though, despite these hopeful words, and it was plain to see he was hurting on some level.

“It’s just that I can’t go back, you know?” he said after a moment. “Maybe not ever. And I know I could be much worse off, but it’s…disheartening, I guess. All that work, and I got less than a year of doing what I wanted to do with it.”

Looking at him, Meredith frowned. She could only imagine the disorienting upset of having your entire life’s plan forcibly torn apart like that… But it hurt to see a man like John H. Watson looking so adrift, so done.

“Hey,” she said, leaning forward. “Whatever…whatever you’re meant to do with yourself, you’ll find it. If not Doctors Without Borders, something better. You’ve just…” She fumbled over her words, torn between trying to say what she really felt and wanting to avoid empty-sounding platitudes. “You’ve got more ahead than behind, John,” she said finally, earnestly.

He blinked, looking unexpectedly touched. “I… Thank you,” he said, the empty look fading. “I do feel that myself, at least some of the time… It’s just frustrating, you know? I’m not terribly good at planning ahead to start with, and now my one big plan’s just…thrown out, and I’ve got to make another?” He sighed, stirring the sludge left in his cup with an idle straw. “Having something out there is all well and good, but finding it…” He snorted, one corner of his mouth curling up in a rueful smile. "Need somewhere to start, you know. Can't make bricks without clay."

Meredith blinked at the odd choice of phrase…and more, at recognizing it.

"Y'know," she said, "somebody else said that to me just yesterday? The bricks thing, I mean."

John looked up. "Oh really?"

She nodded. "He was complaining about rooming, though. Something about needing either more money or a roommate, and how impossible it would be to get either." She rolled her eyes tolerantly, thinking of her labmate's dramatics.

"Well, I can relate to that, too," John said, laughing and taking a drink. "Before anything else, I need a halfway-affordable place to stay, and that's…not easy."

"No…" Meredith trailed off halfway through her wry agreement, struck by a sudden thought.

"Why not room with him?" she said.

John blinked, startled. "I—sorry? I mean, I wouldn't mind a roommate, of course, but we don't know anything about each other—I don't even know his name!"

But Meredith just grinned, the idea having now firmly taken root in her mind. It would be good for John—he clearly needed company, and something to take him out of himself, and this set-up would certainly provide stimulation.

And as for her labmate… Well. She was sure he'd have a fit if he ever heard her say this, but occasionally he seemed lonely, too. And you couldn't find a more considerate friend than Dr. John H. Watson…

So she just said, smiling over the rim of her coffee cup, "His name is Sherlock Holmes. Now you know!"

"…Sherlock Holmes." She watched him turn the syllables over. "That's quite a name."

"He's quite a person." She took another sip of coffee. "An odd sort, definitely—very bright, and sometimes very impatient with us mere mortals who are less bright and can’t keep up, but not unfriendly. Lives in his own world, a bit, I think? Not sure what he’d be like to live with…but he’s good company when he decides to be.”

“An eccentric genius?” John suggested, smile lighting up his eyes. “Sounds interesting, at least. What is he, exactly? Another doctor?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. Truthfully, I don’t know what his thing is—he seems to be some sort of perpetual grad student, but I couldn’t tell you what in! No, we just share lab space occasionally—I’m assisting on a research project in post-natal care, did I mention?”

“No, congratulations! What’s it about?”

Meredith started to answer…then checked herself and looked at her watch.

“If I start answering that,” she said, with a grin, “we’ll be here until you’re bored stiff and I’m late for work. But here’s a thought—walk with me to Bart’s? I can talk your ear off on the way, and then maybe we can find Sherlock Holmes and I can introduce you before my first appointment.”

He grinned. “Sounds brilliant, if you don’t mind. I’d like to meet him, even if we don’t end up working as a flatshare.”

They gathered up their things and set off—the conversation, as they walked, bouncing between Meredith’s work in London and John’s experiences abroad. He had a gift for storytelling, picking out the drama or the humor or the human interest in events; but, unusually, he had an equally strong gift for listening. All in all, the rest of her commute passed far more quickly than Meredith would have expected when she got up that morning.

She paused outside the hospital. “Hang on…” She turned to John with a rueful smile. “I should’ve thought of this before—I suppose part of me was thinking you still worked here—but I think I’ll need to leave you for a bit. Sherlock Holmes is probably in the lab, and…I can’t get you in without a badge.”

John’s eyes widened. “Oh, right! I’d forgotten that too.” He frowned, lost in thought. “Where should I wait for you, then?”

“Hmm…” Meredith tilted her head. Her first thought was the lobby, but she felt there must be something better. Somewhere quiet, public, enjoyable…

Ah. Hm. “Pathology Museum?” she suggested. “Have you been lately?”

“I haven’t, actually,” John said, brightening. Ah, so she remembered correctly—he had been the one who liked the place, back in the day. He was a bit of a nerd, wasn’t he? “I heard they’d been doing more remodeling, though. How does it look now?”

“I don’t really know,” she said, smiling. While Bart’s Museum of Pathology was fascinating, she supposed, from a certain point of view—certainly the layout was nice, and they had a vast variety of artifacts from the hospital’s centuries of history—it was all a bit too odd, and sometimes morbid, for her own tastes, and she rarely visited it herself.

Still... “I’ll walk over with you,” she decided. “Then next time someone asks me that, I’ll know the answer!”

John laughed, and they made their way in and up to the museum’s third-floor location.

“Come to think of it,” she remarked, as they entered the open floor of the museum, with its multiple mezzanine levels running around the walls and its glass roof above (it really was a nice place, if you ignored some of the exhibits), “this seems like exactly the sort of place Sherlock Holmes probably hangs about in.”

And then she stopped, surprised—because there, bending over one of the glass cases in the middle of the room, was a tall figure that could only be the man himself.

He showed no sign of having noticed their arrival, so Meredith steered John over.

“Dr. Lynn, hello,” Sherlock Holmes said without turning. “Aren’t these exhibits fascinating? Look at this old doctor’s bag, here. Imagine how much it has to tell us… I wish I could open the case and take a closer look.”

Meredith looked down, seeing that the case did, indeed, hold an old-fashioned doctor’s kit, black bag and all. “I have to admit,” she said, “I don’t get much out of museums… I’d love to meet the man who owned the bag, but the bag itself doesn’t make much impression.”

“But can’t you see they’re practically the same thing?” Sherlock Holmes said enthusiastically, turning to face her. “If you could really get your hands on the bag, really examine it—oh, hello.”

He’d finally noticed her companion, she saw; his sharp gaze had locked on to this new figure, and flickered rapidly over him from head to foot before meeting John Watson’s eyes.

He blinked; and then smiled one of his genuine, spontaneous smiles, and held out a hand. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “A Doctors Without Borders veteran, I see? Impressive, especially when you’re also a friend of Dr. Lynn’s. I’m interested in the flatshare if you are, Doctor…?”

“John H. Watson,” John said, shaking his hand automatically. And then he blinked, eyes widening in belated, vaguely awestruck shock. “But—hang on, how did you know all that?”

Sherlock Holmes grinned. “Oh, I’m perceptive,” he said easily. “But look, you’re a doctor, and one who likes stories—what do you think of this bag?”

He turned back to the exhibit, and John followed his lead. “…It’s fascinating to think about,” he said slowly, looking down at the faded black bag. “All the things it must have been carried through, how the man first got it… All the lives that may have been saved with the tools inside it.” He sighed. “If only you could learn those stories from the bag itself.”

“You might be able to,” Sherlock Holmes said. “If you studied it well enough.” His fingers tapped out a staccato rhythm on the glass case. “But you came to talk about rooming together, yes? The rooms I’ve been looking at are on Baker Street—two-bedroom, a little out of the way but not far from the Tube, and a good building. Do you have pets, or smoke?”

John shook his head.

“Perfect!” he exclaimed, grinning again. “Fair warning before you commit, though—I have a tendency to get into odd hobbies, chemistry being my most consistent one. Would you be all right with occasional home experiments?”

John just laughed. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“Good, good. My other major drawback as a roommate—or so I’ve heard, anyway—is my moods. I have a tendency towards depressive episodes, and although they’re never major, and they only last a few days, they can be uncomfortable for those who have to share space with me.”

“I would think,” John said slowly, blinking, “that they’d be more uncomfortable for you.”

Sherlock Holmes looked startled, then laughed. “I suppose so,” he allowed, “ but I don’t have much of a choice about them—and, no, before you ask, I’ve never gotten a solid diagnosis, and yes I did try before the whole ordeal became more trouble than it was worth. But anyway, they’re not dangerous and they’re not triggered by those around me, so all I need is some space. So what do you need me to know, Doctor?”

John thought for a moment—smiling, as if amused by the other’s bluntness. “Well,” he said, “I got shot up in Afghanistan, so I’ve limitations on how I can use my arm, and I’m going to both types of therapy. I also don’t like parties, and… Ah, right. I was called a Puritan a good few times in college, so if you’re likely to have, er, anyone overnight…?” He flushed a bit.

“Good Lord, no,” Sherlock Holmes said instantly, with a snort. “And if you aren’t either, that’s an added draw—I don’t like strangers in my space much, myself. Should make life easier for both of us, yes?”

“I’d say so,” John agreed, clearly relieved. “It sounds as though we’ll have a quiet flat.”

“So it seems. Although…” For the first time, he looked concerned. “How do you feel about the violin?”

John laughed, looking surprised. “My favorite instrument, believe it or not,” he admitted. “Although it does depend on the player…”

Sherlock Holmes laughed too. “That’s fine, then,” he said assuredly. “When would you like to look at the flat, in that case? I’m free today…”

Meredith, who had ostensibly drawn back to examine an old plaque on the wall—although it was really too worn by age to read anything except the date, which commemorated something to do with “New Year’s Day 1881”—watched them both, and smiled happily to herself.

They had clicked, and even more thoroughly than she had expected them to. Both men’s postures were loosened, and they had begun talking easily and animatedly already. There was a warmth to Sherlock Holmes’s voice, and a spark in John’s eyes, that she’d rarely seen before in either.

She hummed to herself, remembering the call of Adventure she’d felt that morning. It had faded, now, leaving behind a welcome bounty of drink, food, and unexpected reunion for her, and leaving her to her life until it came again…

But as she looked at the two young men her spontaneous walk had brought together, she rather thought their Adventure had only just begun.

[ckcker]

Fear of Being There

The scientists put 3D glasses on a cuttlefish I read in an article, which I pair with the unread email from a friend of twelve years sitting one tab away, it appears to partly be a link to some video.  Feeling brave, I gather speed and push to the open email, purposefully ignoring all of the friend’s written message to zoom into the thumbnail of the video link they shared with me, which shows on one side of the thumbnail the shocked open mouth of a drag queen reacting to what I assume to be the most heinous transgression.  On the other side, a porcupine’s needles blasting from inside the mid-section of what appears to be a burmese python.  “How could this scenario have ever happened,” I ask myself as I don’t click, then scan the message written above the link:

“are you still in Kansas City??”

“I saw our high school English teacher walking in the park with a huge clump of moss stuck on her ass, I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a long time”

“Carrie is in NA now and I never see her.  also I adopted a dog”

“I’m sad I haven’t heard from you in a long time but I respect that you are just doing your thing, doing what you think is best for you, I love you.  enjoy this video of a drag queen screaming as she watches a porcupine impale a boa constrictor from the inside, it really made me laugh.  It’s not real”

“I would love to visit some time if you’d have me, I would love a long road trip, no pressure.”  

All I ever felt towards this person was worry; they were frequently to be found painfully descending the valley of some knotty, unlubed parabola.  Suicide often seemed on the table though it was never openly discussed, and what was discussed and unburdened between us never seemed to offer this person any relief.  But, I had not seen them in almost two years — still, I worried.  The gristle of sympathy.  Though now I could only think this person a bit stupid for not electing revenge as the only compatible solution.  They wallowed, tried to make inroads on the community around them, multi-tasker, all I did was worry, wonder if there was no chance for them.  On my better days I in fact stopped worrying because I resolved to believe that there was no chance for them.  On worse days I used to encourage them to online date, to take classes in some technical craft and escape minimum wage, incredibly coming from me who has yet to escape minimum wage, I bloated them with the most despicable general advice most likely invented by some phantom community and popularized by rotating day time talk show cryptids.  I surprised myself, the self-help industry deluge came spilling readily from my own mouth, I had no other advice to give. No effect.  I had no idea what could help someone, I did not respond to the e-mail, the scientists put 3D glasses on the cuttlefish to study if it uses stereoscopic vision to hunt, love that.

I responded to the email by going out for a long walk.  The walk proceeded as planned.  And then, in front of my eyes, the glistening juice of a misdirected frappé bronzed itself on the sunlit sidewalk.  It was June.  The person who bought then dropped it when attempting to give their companion a lil sip seemed one or two involuntary grunts away from the most amateur keening. We did not know each other and passing by I said nothing, in another hour and a half it would be sunset and that was the daily alarm for my worst and most stupid memories.  

Walking without a plan for a couple miles had led me to nothing specific: a popular cafe with drive-thru option, and the entrance to some truncated nature preserve with an ample parking lot, that I barely observed.  The humiliated and frappé-less melody of the forlorn customer began to spread over my shoulder, I averted my gaze from the nature preserve to treat it as if an attractive face I was intimidated by.  The only use for such a pathetic nod to wilderness in an urban area should be frequent alien abduction.  I knew better than to hope for that, I was not a good multi-tasker and did best with a single plan of attack.  And I already had a good plan, through subtle make-up I was looking older by the day (more like the month).  Pretty soon I would dye my hair grey.  I considered it was something the young people of the era liked to do and not for the reason of appearing aged.  In fact, more than anything this coalition of young and old visual signifiers increased the proof of their wrinkle-free faces and accentuated the domineering stylistic awareness inherent to youth in a, unnaturally long energy-sucking sigh, capitalist country.  I continued to high step forward like a finickety markhor in a fugly mood. Then, finding myself facing a hard-to-cross state highway I concluded, “oh, haha…ok, ah……that’s fine” and turned back towards the unused nature preserve parking lot, “I am almost too far away from home anyway.” I sat on a curb on the side farthest away from the road.  Looking across the street I saw that the customer and friend had started to kiss.  A simple solution to the loss of the drink.  His body turned awkwardly, I allowed myself to espy the torque of the male’s twisted cargo short pocket and felt very little.  I was turned away from the forest preserve entrance, at sunset I would have the executioner’s urge to once again survey and prepare my Doha nights.  

The arrival of sunset did not derail my day, but it always succeeded in sequestering my concentration so as to remember that, perhaps, time — I felt fully sick of telling myself about it.  I would prefer an obsession more traditionally fun, there was something about the way the eyebrows (with near-unibrow between) met the sharp lines at the top of the hyrax-like nose of Q.C.’s gradually-hot-to-me face.  I did not spend too much time thinking on him, I had little control over my eyes when in his presence. Worse, attempting to appeal to him would mean calling off the whole ambitious deterioration project, which was fully under my control/the best path forward.  I did not spend much time thinking of him when not in his presence and the collective shimmy of maple tree leaves in the breeze appealed to my left side as it carried on through the row of trees behind me.  A sparrow bopped around the swath of thick grass to my right and was not interesting at all.  I knew I felt this about the sparrow because I turned away from it quickly.  Finally I rotated towards the nature preserve entrance.  Was this an opportunity for me to snag a poesis?  I wanted to be home in my bed alone.  I also wanted to pretend to be thriving, inspired and free.  I wanted to try to see the world for the first time again.  

I got up and started towards the forest path with the confidence and direction of the professional managerial class.  To appeal to Q.C. would involve a gravitational u-turn, I would have to cut my hair better, with more style and intention, I would have to once again attempt to wear clothes that mostly fit my body, with careful monitoring of the area where jeans could be hit firm with zested glute.  I would have to invest much mental analysis into determining how to embody his desire.  I would have to keep emphatic track of my body language and reactionary expressions when near him so as to appear at least some low level of confident and laid back.  The antithesis of an angry errant stump, sucking vengeance through an ancient straw lined with obsidian spikes that clacked ominously against dentures I did not need.  I could not appear as “depressed for two.” Again, and worst of all, I would have to deselect the only source of direction for the future, my only true idea for satisfaction: the pursuit of my literally new age.  My only chance to repair my original timeline, by controlling my own time.  The old tension between wanting badly to be noticed and desired by others, and wanting that definition of freedom which is the refusal of all external attention, both approval and disapproval, in order to bring about the most contained stability — of course that tension ran me ragged once again.  That wan zit, it really seemed scripted at this point, I worked very hard to send it to the background.  My body clearly sensed this when it activated the release of an ear wax ball the shape and weight of a gently used cheek piercing stud.  The feeling associated with its premiere and gruesome launch was similar to just catching the last concrete appearance and subsequent fadeout of a semi-interesting-but-ultimately-unremarkable ghost of a 52 year old coffee mug.

I entered the forest, which began with a layer of joyless mulch.  The opening of the trail had dimensions so wide even the most sexually depraved plant had little chance to gak its repressed gropeage on a passing body.  I looked up as I walked, realizing the only animal likely to be spotted here, at this time of day, would be a bird.  Perhaps I might see a hawk or turkey vulture.  My survey resulted only in the very soft swaying of stacked green branches in front of striated and unremarkable clouds.  After watching this gentle tableaux for about thirty seconds, I wanted to more than violently shake an in-his-prime Ansel Adams, ask him what in the unconscionably labyrinthine fauxhawk I’d just seen. Would he have looked twice at this sky — my glance still directed upwards, I heard its scabrous chirp before I saw it, and then I saw it and immediately hated its presence: a sparrow had landed on an oak branch forty feet above my head and wanted to stay there.  I refused to let it observe me, turning to it I suddenly screamed in the timbre of an aggressive synth orchestra hit.  Continuing my walk after compartmentalizing its non-reaction, I wondered how I might make these natural surroundings matter to me.  They made no inherent argument that profoundly engorged the fun bags, perhaps because I was generally hooked into things by chaos, aggression and arguments, not by continuity or bucolia.  I could identify the simpler trees at least.  Of course pines and maples were easy, birch too.  I could usually confirm oak and cherry through guesswork. Otherwise I wandered through a forest in a skein of unskilled silence, in some beta-level abyss that was never fact-checked.  I didn’t know if having the names of mosses and wildflowers and mushrooms made it easier to appreciate the woods I forced myself into.  That I recognized and questioned such absences in myself was part proof that I felt a large component missing in the ongoing construction of respect for humble surroundings, and part recall of an inherent tendency to not care much about my own construction.  Against the spirit of the times, I spurned the concept of “personal development,” both in the thought directives I gave myself, and in the level of base inertia and hatred of fitness that exposed me as down-low sirenia.  “Personal development” — I did not trust the idea.  But moderate walking was acceptable to me and I continued to walk.  All trees beside me were suddenly activated by a quite beefy breeze from inside the forest.  Mood was present.  And along the audio effects of the wind in heavy leaf-covered branches, I thought I heard a rustling in a different tempo one-hundred feet further along the path.  A clench shuttered my body.  Once, I was reckless.  I entered badly lit hotel rooms brimming with silhouettes of animatronic movements.  I took pills handed to me, only asking after I swallowed them what they were (bottom tier migraine medication).  These days nearly any situation outside my apartment brought the inflamed trance of cautious thoughts.  Where I seemed to hear the sound I saw nothing but the continuation of breeze, and felt fully the irregular welts of my prey mentality.  

But I did not turn to exit.  The introduction of humidity into early summer pumped a new game in me anyway, the godforsaken thirst for some swell of “possibility.”  Against my addiction to titanium cowardice, flicked this vague and acidic proposition for adventure — that most rancid word of careerist travel influencers and successful stunt doubles.  Heavy hot air seemed to ferment a perennial wildness of feeling that, in other weather conditions, remained neatly veiled in self-suck.  I hated that I could still be easily infiltrated by this hormonal illusion of “anything can happen,” despite all my malevolent associations with the phrase.  It was important to make a list of all the things that are possible. “Anything can happen” was a sloppy mantra full of menace and probably popularized at some point in the late 20th century to sell mini frozen bagels with pizza toppings.  The list of all the things that are possible is the list of most crucial truth, it is a list that serves as sublime prep for someone who has been through the full consummation of “anything can happen,” when the thing that happened was a mind-shedding, unmentionable thing.  I knew the culture at large was heavily against such a distrust of possibility, as the concept suggested monumental change and always for the better — the potential of fortune.  I also knew it was against the cosmetic grafting of extra skin to make what I suddenly decided to refer to as ‘my boys’ look especially wrinkled and saggy.  I stood still and surveyed the way partial sunlight glazed on and off the nearest bush of presumably poisonous berries.  I briefly turned around and took in the forest entrance in the distance, and beyond it the suggestion of abridged midwestern meadow, now also washing in and out of sunlight with an unpunished laze, that I felt very unused to.  Nowhere else in my life, to which I paid attention, obeyed that kind of rhythm.  This statement was immediately wrong and a direct contradiction of my slow motion lifestyle.  I allowed the statement to stand because its wistful gush was enjoyable, roughly spiritual, and juicy.  

It brought thoughts of a nightmare I once had that eventually, through sustained lack of action, curdled into just a dream, a dream that had a trolled atmosphere of never-ending.  A dream that felt three years long.  A nightmare-incubated dream that appeared seven months after that moment of apex possibility and only the second dream after.  

There was a group of us.  We were in a house, we didn’t know we were in a slasher movie, we had thought it was a self-liberation biopic.  We were pursued by a presence we did not expect.  But every time there was a shot of the killer, the killer had been deleted in post.  Only a tense and expectant camera followed us around, and we screamed at empty spaces at the top of the staircase and in corners of rooms.  Dissonant music accompanied us, which, now knowing we were in a horror movie, we expected and rolled our eyes at. But we never saw the killer and nobody ever died.  

I also remembered the first dream I had after the event, it was very short and involved me waking up at 7am to give a dog one cup of dry food.  The density of hanging leaves in the forest began to inch a feeling of haunch and ceiling overhead, the light landing on the settled foliage only in splatters of rhapsodic dag.  The inevitable feeling of being alone in the woods, despite the steady wash of faraway highway motors, is intimacy with something.  You believe you are not being seen, when small and mundane animals see you, it means absolutely nothing.  With a bear or mountain lion in the mix, at last you will truly feel “seen.”  I was in a freely neglected and shrunken nature preserve on the edge of a midwestern city, I did not think it was possible to be seen by a bear and so I did not feel like I could be noticed.  Thus I felt intimacy.  

The content of that intimacy had zero intellectual value.  It was only the comfort of being fully hidden, safe and alone.  I was impressed by how much thick cover the trees supplied since the preserve itself was state park theater.  The trees hid me from the sky, repressed my existence from something that could watch me.  I basked.  I thought of the substantial bulge of an older male in tight-fitting jean shorts.  In this context of feeling unseen, it seemed the thru line of my consciousness in bringing up such an image was the keyphrase, “something hidden.”  The intimacy began to retreat as a counter.  Again, my head disenrolled me from a healing terrestrial feeling; it looked at nature with vast inexperience, it pursued a perspective of mountainscape print out.  I tried to recover the hypnotic sap of that momentary solitude and continued walking. Of course the interruption of erotica in mind is one of the more iconic nature moves.  And yet for some reason it seemed to unravel the hallmark atmospherics of a more investigative mystery.  Such a divide was proven by watching my pivots of attention between two tickles.  For instance, on one side, direct observation of a boner. The other side, fog covering an empty island highway at night.  I thought I knew well the narrative arc of a priapism, and I thought I did not yet know much about the carnage in my seeping memories.  It seemed obvious — of the things that controlled me, I prioritized with meaning the one I did not know much about.  And instinctively, being alone under thick canopy felt like good setup for that kind of self-irrigation.  I thought of the bulge again then saw another sparrow and after it reasonably bopped about for a skoach I suggested to it, “get away from me fuckface.” Again it did not move.  

I walked several paces off the path and leaned against a definite oak trunk, wondering if my old person stage makeup was still intact, glancing towards the voyeuristic rays of sun slipping through the trees, well diffused and beginning their noticeable descent.  I listened.  After approx. twenty seconds of listening I heard the long-churning spew of a motorcycle gunning down the road about a quarter mile away, somehow powerful enough to overwhelm the peaks of forest ambience with its quite rascally discharge, hunh, the streaks of horrific classic rock revival spraying after it.  I thought, “stop subverting me,” then felt the newly introduced stance of someone in my peripheral vision.  They did not advance or retreat but did fidget.  Probably, I could not be sure without glancing directly, pretending to look up something on their phone.  They seemed about fifteen feet away from me, I considered if I would have to kill them in self-defense.  

“How’s it going?” a man’s voice directed at me from the trail, giving me permission to look at him directly.  A balding but well-maintained buzz of greying black hair, glasses, a thin white-yellow-green-black button down tartan print department store shirt tucked into leather belt and loose fitting blue jeans, the eye eventually and uncontrollably being led down to the neon pink, orange and yellow running shoes with white laces low-key dusted in a sampling of diaphanous schmutz.  My “hi” was squeezed out with full defenses.  The man did not say anything back but immediately enacted some plan of his, made obvious in his eyes that pressed on my face with an unmistakable singularity. He pursued unbroken eye contact to evaluate the potentiality of the interaction. I responded by looking away, remembering it was a powerful move in the game. I also refused to believe he thought me attractive enough for whatever in-development future passed through his turgescent nethers.  As a mature adult, I was no longer available to rawk out with my cawk out but clearly the cast of desperation on the man made it possible for me to appear sexually acceptable, as evidenced by his not leaving.  Nor did I imagine that he produced much foregrounded desire in an m4m community; lastly he probably stayed because he was closeted.  I tried to maintain an appearance of clueless indifference, comparable in chillness to deciding to write ‘U R’ in a text message the same moment you observe a plastic bag fly in the wind towards a sleeping stray cat. Since the man did not leave or say anything, I also waited another 7-10 seconds in silence and downward glance.  Yet this tactic, usually so effective in social settings, had failed, and so I looked at him again.  And again the charged stare of non-verbal magic.  The humid air was beginning to slightly cool as the wind filled the space between my collar and neck, suggesting it might rain soon.  But behind the man’s head the sun, flanked by fleshy lard-swept clouds in various indigo exposures, was still visible.  I hoped if the increase in gusts continued that they might produce a temporary bald spot on the crown of my head as I said, “why are you looking at me?”

He did not immediately respond, but severed all links with my eyes.  I watched his glance minutely dart from one close location on my face to the next, “do you have makeup on?”

Each generation, freer than the last. The man did not know the answer for sure, but that he had noticed something was confirmed.  Very exciting, I beamed internally.  I controlled the beam.  There was still so much work to be done.  

Towards the man I projected breathtaking displeasure.  I assumed the keyed up tone of someone wanting to be regularly shared on the internet: “I’m just trying to enjoy the forest on my day off sis so don’t—” and shut off inexplicably, though recognizing as the system recoiled that the implication of this man’s advances had lightly cracked some automated timecode in my lower lefthand corner of frame.  My body — I had only felt it all of a sudden.  Shoulders were arched forward to protect my underbelly, chest was swollen and stuffed with the debris of a delayed reaction of terror, single inconsistent tingle in left leg suggested the tiniest strobing marquee aimed at the brain, suggesting “run.”  I had thought, this is not a dangerous situation at all.  A little unusual but not something I haven’t experienced before.  Something I could refuse and easily walk away from.  

The body had behaved differently.  Sunset mounted.  The body had believed it was going to die.  I hadn’t even noticed.  Internal monologue always suggested much to investigate when looking for a solution, it presented long interconnected hallways and sliding doors, considerations of escape and tactical movement.  It berated the body for not reading the situation correctly or at all, it hated the body’s spontaneous and inept mechanisms.  It relished any reference to the phrase “bassackwards” but in this case the body was right.  If I was to be killed by this person was still up in the air, I leaned towards no, but the body had not been reacting to my imminent death, only suggesting how relaxedly I pretended to advance through commercial district sidewalks, gas station candy aisles, cruisy chip bag-strewn forest preserves as if I’d never been reorganized by some sort of adaptation of death in which you survive. There was much work to be done, much work, to make the hair of my eyebrows more profuse and unkempt.  My nose hair, which was way too thin and manageable, samesies.  It was with the failure of a deep breath that the gauze of that summer sunset coaxed me back into the scene, despite the marquee now reading “Run II: Darkest Before Dawn.”  The man had not known how to respond to my ejection from the clapback.  I took stock, the forest appeared momentarily still and squirrelless.  His energy seemed as if grappling with the possible realities of what I was.  If crazy, at least in the way that interferes with verbal communication, I was no longer an option in his “mmm………damn”-ridden design.  If crazy but able to continue clear conversation, or if so shy as to appear only intermittently awkward in conversation with strangers, I was still a highly available mark.  

“Do you like it here?” he asked.  It seemed that micro makeup and abandoned sentences were not considered dealbreakers for someone in his position.  My body continued to want to leave and I stayed, he took a few steps forward, staring again with that binary intensity where the recipient must commit to its endgame or flash exit.  

A strap broke in me: I suggested, “I hate it here.”  The comment reached him. He looked as if to be re-processing me under a blank face but maintained his slow approach.  I was answering his questions coherently and so I was incredibly sexy, perhaps.  “I’m not doing well,” I followed up, using a long-acting smile-to-smirk succession in an attempt to muffle it.  

This was ignored, “I’ve got a pretty big one,” silence, breeze, sunset, wow — squirrel, “what are you looking for out here, alone?”  

Silence, squirrel, “you know where you are, right?”

Breeze, trees, sunset, reggaeton in the distance, instinct erupted — I stepped forward. “It’s not yet time for my annual anal,” my voice cracked.  “In fact, it won’t happen this year, or ever again.”  

A pause was produced, though it was clear he didn’t quite grasp my meaning.  I stood still, now staring at him in order to properly knead the info.  Finally a look of understanding on his face — “oh, I’m sorry” and he exited back up the trail, all spells dismantled.  

I remained in the woods.  I looked at the squirrel.  I even yearned to see a sparrow, uninterested in knowing why.  I allowed the intellectual regulations to rest, I listened to the joyous pump of prancing squirrel feet on twig-bedazzled forest floor.  I looked at the sunset, while blocking the word “beautiful,” and liked it.  I walked to the path, turning away from the exit with the rush of a recently liberated preteen spray-painting an anarchy symbol on the door of a rusty abandoned sedan next to discontinued freight train tracks that are overgrown with weeds and yellow wildflowers.  I wanted to walk deeper into the woods, I wanted to be in the woods when it got dark.  I wanted to be alone and without a mind.  Knowing it was untrue, I nevertheless proposed to myself, “I think I could cum just from being alone for 3 weeks.”  After a feisty fifty or sixty steps around the curving path, I met chain link fence separating the forest from a row of backyards and their respective single family homes.  I thought of the cliche of an evil character in a kid’s movie laughing maniacally for some time then very suddenly stopping to present a severe and unamused face.  It surfaced as a whimper.  

[gdelgiproducer]

What’s been your favorite staged version of JCS? (Non-concert)

First, a list of the staged (non-concert) versions of JCS I’ve seen: two high school productions (about which you’ll hear nothing in this post; it’s unfair to judge them in competition with pros), the closing performance of the 2000 Broadway revival, two performances of the national tour that followed said revival (one of which featured Carl Anderson as Judas and Barry Dennen – Pilate on the original album, Broadway, and in the 1973 film – as Herod), and four performances of a national tour initially billed as Ted Neeley’s “farewell” engagement in the role of Jesus. In total, discounting the number of performances of each, five productions, only three of which we will consider here.

The 2000 Broadway revival had basically all the problems of the video of the same production: I’m sure Gale Edwards is a fine director of other shows, but she missed the boat with this particular iteration of JCS. (Not having seen her original production at the Lyceum Theatre in 1996, which unfortunately never left that venue and was reportedly far better than the one that went wide, I can only comment on this version.) Her direction and the production design that accompanied it were full of the kinds of blatant, offensively obvious attempts at symbolism and subtlety that appeal only to pseudo-intellectual theater kids. In real life, there’s no such thing as obvious good vs. obvious evil (things just ain’t black and white, people), and any attempt to portray this concept on stage or in a film usually results in a hokey “comic book” product, which is kind of what the 2000 production was. 

The first thing Edwards did was draw her line in the sand. “These are the good guys, and these are the bad guys.” The overall production design played into this ‘line in the sand’ feel as well, being so plain in its intentions as to almost beat you over the head with them. There may have been some good concepts mixed in, but for a show that runs on moral ambiguity, they were very poorly executed and did damage to the piece. Some examples:

Annas and Caiaphas were devoutly “evil,” seemingly designed to inspire fear.  It’s easy to see good as so very good, and bad as so very bad; to want to have the evil in a nice little box. But it’s not that simple. As Captain Jean-Luc Picard (and now you know where my Star Trek loyalties lie, curse you!) once said, “…villains who twirl their mustaches are easy to spot. Those that clothe themselves in good deeds are well camouflaged.”  Evil isn’t always a clear and recognizable stereotype. Evil could be lurking inside anyone, maybe even in you, and you would never know. People aren’t inherently evil. Like good, it’s a role they grow and live into. And since history is basically a story of the developments and actions of humans over the ages, maybe it’s a mistake to view the characters who’ve played their parts in it so one-dimensionally. It doesn’t dismiss the evil they did, but it does allow one to understand that this potential to be good or to be evil is in everyone, and that it’s not always as simple as just doing the right thing.

Judas was an almost thoroughly unlikable prick (though Tony Vincent played him a tiny bit more sympathetically than Jerome Pradon in the video); in beating Jesus over the head with his cynicism and curt remarks, any sense of a fully three dimensional person was lost, leaving us with a total, utter dickhead. If the audience is to truly feel for Judas, and appreciate his fall, it’s imperative for them to see his positive relationship with Jesus. More importantly, it has to be readily apparent. It shouldn’t be the audience’s responsibility to assume as much. I never once saw any love, or even a hint of friendship, between Jesus and Judas in the 2000 production. Judas’ interactions with Jesus were a constant barrage of either completely in-your-face aggression, or more restrained (but still fully palpable) aggression. No hint of a conflict in him, or at least none the audience could see, and what use is a conflict or emotion if the audience isn’t privy to it?

And when not telegraphing an ultra-specific view of the story’s events, everything else about the design would’ve left a first-time viewer befogged. Young me liked the industrial, post-apocalyptic, pseudo-Gotham City atmosphere of the set. Older me still likes it (though I am firm in my opinion it works best on stage), but realizes what a mess the rest of it was. We’ve got Jesus and the apostles straight out of Rent, Roman guards that looked (with the choice of riot gear) like an army of Darth Vader clones with nightsticks substituting for light sabers, priests that practically stepped off the screen from The Matrix, a Pilate in generic neo-Nazi regalia, a Herod with showgirls and chorus boys that seemed to have visited from a flash-and-trash third-rate Vegas spectacular, a Temple full of ethnic stereotypes and a mish-mosh of dime-store criminals, and a creepy mob with a striking resemblance to The Addams Family that only popped up in the show’s darker moments. Lots of interesting ideas which might work (operative word being “might”) decently in productions of their own, all tossed in to spice up a rather bland soup. The solution to having a bunch of conflicting ideas is not to throw all of them at the wall at once; you look for a pattern to present itself, and follow it. If no pattern emerges from the ideas you have, it’s a sign you should start over.

You can see what my basic issue was: where other productions at least explored motivation, examining possibilities and presenting conflicting viewpoints for consideration, the 2000 production (when not utterly confused in its storytelling thanks to conflicting design) blatantly stated what it thought the motivation was without any room for interpretation – this is who they are, what they did, why they did it, so switch off your brain and accept what we put in front of you. Which, to me, is the total opposite of what JCS is about; it didn’t get famous for espousing that view, but for going totally against the grain of that.

The national tour at least had Carl and Barry to recommend for it the first time around, but for all the mistakes it corrected about the 2000 revival (swapping out the shady market in the Temple for a scene where stockbrokers worshiped the almighty dollar, with an electronic ticker broadcasting then-topical references to Enron, ImClone, and Viagra, among others, was a fun twist, and, for me, Barry Dennen gave the definitive performance of Herod), it introduced some confusing new ones as well:

For one, Carl – and, later, his replacement, Lawrence Clayton – looked twice the age of the other actors onstage. Granted, Christ was only 33 when this happened, but next to both Carl and Clayton, Eric Kunze (I thankfully never caught his predecessor) looked almost like a teenager. When Ted and Carl did the show in the Nineties and both were in their fifties, they were past the correct ages for their characters, but it worked – in addition to their being terrific performers and friends in real life whose chemistry was reflected onstage – because they were around the same age, so it wasn’t so glaring. Without that dynamic, the way Jesus and Judas looked together just seemed weird, and it didn’t help anyone accept their relationship.

Speaking of looking weird together, the performer playing Caiaphas – who was bald, and so unfortunately resembled a member of the Blue Man Group thanks to the color of lighting frequently focused on the priests – was enormously big and tall, while the actor in the role of Annas was extremely short. Basically, Big Guy, Little Guy in action. Every time I saw them onstage, I had to stifle the urge to laugh out loud. I’ve written a great deal about how Caiaphas and Annas are not (supposed to be) the show’s villains, but that’s still not the reaction I should have to them.

The relentlessness of pace was ridiculous. It was so fast that the show, which started at 1:40 PM, was down by 3:30 PM – and that included a 20-minute intermission. What time does that leave for any moments to be taken at all? A scene barely even ended before the next began. At the end of the Temple scene, Jesus threw all the lepers out, rolled over, and there was Mary singing the “Everything’s Alright” reprise already. How about a second to breathe for Mary to get there? Nope. How about giving Judas and Jesus two seconds’ break in the betrayal scene at Gethsemane? The guards were already grabbing Christ the minute he was kissed. I was so absolutely exhausted towards the end of the show that I was tempted to holler at the stage to please slow down for a minute. The pace didn’t allow for any moment in the show to be completed, if it was ever begun; it was just too fast to really take advantage of subtle touches and moments the actors could’ve had, and as a result, I think they were unable to build even a general emotional connection, because one certainly didn’t come across.

The cast was uniformly talented singing-wise, with excellent ranges and very accomplished voices. (In fact, the second time around, the woman understudying Mary, Darlesia Cearcy, walked away with the whole show in my opinion, and I am incredibly glad to have seen her career take off since then.) But, in addition to some being more concerned with singing the notes on the page just because they were there than imbuing them with emotion and motivation, the cast was undercut by the choices that production made with the music. For one, there’s a huge difference between singing “words and notes” and singing “lyrics and phrases.” When you have a phrase like “Ah, gentlemen, you know why we are here / We’ve not much time, and quite a problem here…” you sing the sentence, and if sometimes a word needs to be spoken, you do that. You don’t make sure you hit every single note by treating each like a “money note” (which you hit and hold as long as you can to make sure everyone hears it), dragging out the tempo to hang on to each note as long as you can. Generally, the actors were so busy making sure every note was sung – and worse, sung like a money note – that they missed the point of singing a phrase, and how to use one to their advantage. Caiaphas and Pilate were particularly egregious offenders. (I’ve never understood some of these conductors who are so concerned that every note written has to be sung. The result suffers from it.) 

And then there’s Ted’s production. Of the three, it’s the one I liked the most, but that’s not saying much when it was better by default. 

The production design was stripped-down, the set basically limited to a bridge, some steps, a stage deck with some levels, and a couple of drops (and a noose) that were “flown in.” The costumes were simple, the sound was very well-balanced, and the lighting was the icing on the cake. Combined, the story they told was clear.

The music sounded very full, considering the pit consisted of a five-piece band relying in part on orchestral samples.

Ted, for being of advanced age, was in terrific form vocally, if his acting fell back a little much on huge, obvious, emotive gestures and choices. (I love him and all, but his attempts at acting were kind of like a “Mr. Jesus” pageant, striking all the appropriate Renaissance poses. The film, through editing and close-ups, allows him a subtlety he just ain’t got onstage.)

And there were some beautiful stage pictures; for example, there was a drop with an image of a coin with Caesar’s head on it in the Temple scene, and it fell on the crowd when Jesus cleared out the riff-raff. In the leper sequence that followed, the chorus’ heads popped out of holes in the cloth, under which they undulated, pulsing to the beat, and rather than being treated as a literal mob scene, the sequence had a very dream-like effect, a mass of lost souls reaching out to Christ. It was rather like a Blake painting, with a creepy vibe in a different manner from the typical “physically overwhelm him” approach. He didn’t interact with them, didn’t even turn to look at them, until finally he whipped around with a banishing thrust of his arm, hollering “Heal yourselves!” Sometimes it was over-acted with annoying character voices (remember, I saw this four times), but when it wasn’t, the effect was chilling.

My main beef with the show was, oddly enough, on a similar line to my beef with Gale Edwards’ production: it drew lines in the sand. But in this case, it drew them with respect to Jesus’ divinity. 

As written, JCS deals with Jesus as if he were only a man, and not the Son of God. The show never suggests that Jesus isn’t divine, but neither does it reinforce the view that he is. Portrayed in detail in JCS is the mostly-unexplored human side: ecstasy and depression, trial and error, success and regret. He agonizes over his fate, is often unsure of his divinity, and rails at God. Not so in this production. Aside from “The Temple” and “Gethsemane,” there was never any room for doubt that Jesus was the mystical, magic man portrayed in the Gospels.

At the top of the show, after a fight between his followers and the Romans during the overture (a popular staging choice I’m not a real fan of, but you’ve got to do something during that moment in a fully staged version, and I understand why it’s an easy choice to make for exposition purposes), Jesus made his majestic entrance, spotlit in robes that looked whiter than Clorox bleach could produce, and raised a man from the dead. Well, where’s the room for Judas to doubt? Clearly “this talk of God is true,” we just saw it! If this guy is actually capable of performing miracles, and more than that specializes in necromancy, good luck telling him that fame has gone to his head at the expense of the message and he’s losing sight of the consequences! Try explaining to anyone that that person is “just a man”!

If that weren’t enough, Jesus went on to have a constant connection with God throughout the show, speaking to a spotlight that focused only on him and often served to distract him from anything else happening onstage, and at the end, during “John 19:41,” his body separated from the cross, which fell back into the stage, and he ascended to heaven. 

Now, though the former was admittedly played to excess (some reviewers unkindly compared Neeley to a homeless man with Bluetooth), there are arguments to be made in favor of both of these choices: a Jesus who constantly seeks a connection with God that isn’t reciprocated, searching for guidance or at least a friggin’ clue, is great foreshadowing for his eruption – and acceptance – in “Gethsemane.” As for the ascension, depending on how it’s staged, there’s room for argument that it could be interpreted more metaphorically than literally, as the moment when Jesus’ spirit is born, as Carl Anderson once put it (meaning, to me, that his message is given life and strength when his body fails him). But this production didn’t have that level of shading and layers to it, and coupled with the resurrection at the start, it defeated the rest of the story.

None of ‘em’s perfect, and I don’t think I could create the perfect one. Thus, concert.

[rollinsgrant]

Location: Betsy’s Office Date: January 16th Time: 11:00am Trigger Warnings: nothing major, but there are some vague references to Freeport/Grant’s past, food, medication, and anxiety over the draft! 

Grant waves away the hot chocolate, like he always does. Dr. Dobson shrugs, but Grant knows she’ll offer it up again next time too, like clockwork. It’s his fifth year as a Fox, and his fourth with regular sessions—twice a month now, but they used to meet every single week. They’ve got their routine down. 

And that’s good, because Grant loves his routines. The morning ritual of a run, the weights he lifts in the gym in neat sets of eight or ten, the afternoon practices, his evenings blocked out for homework or pouring over tapes from an old game. Now that he’s back in Palmetto, Grant knows more or less what every day will hold. He can’t predict it all, of course, not when he plays alongside Foxes, but he can control his own actions. That’s always been the most important thing.  

These sessions are part of that. Outside of her office, Grant doesn’t spare much time for his past. Here, on his own terms alone, he’s dissected every inch of it. That hasn’t been the focus of his sessions for ages, but he can still feel Freeport when he’s in this room, like scar tissue that’s sore to the touch even after it’s healed. 

“Let’s see…” Dr. Dobson trails off, checks her notes. “Your homework from last session. What changes have you made these past weeks? Small things count, as long as they were for yourself.”

It takes Grant back, against his will, to his mom saying well, at least now I can put my favorite comforter on the bed, instead of his—gotta do the little things for yourself after his dad walked out and left her alone with a ten year old to raise. As far as memories go, it’s benign, and Grant knows that well enough. It still doesn’t put him in the best of moods. 

“I play Exy for myself,” Grant protests. He’s nothing if not stubborn, even in therapy. Besides, he’s not some martyr; almost everything he does is calculated for his own ambitions. He’s never made a secret of that. Maybe he gives everything on the court, but it’s for his own career too. Not just the team’s benefit. “I’m not a Fox out of charity. I want to be here.”

“I meant outside of Exy, Grant. Outside of your classes too. You know that.”

It’s true. That’s been Dr. Dobson’s push this year—if last year she threw him towards his teammates, now she wants him to dial back, find at least one new hobby that even Grant can’t twist to make about Exy. It’s hardly fair, but Dr. Dobson’s helped him through far worse things than this over the years: sleepless nights and side effects from medications until they found the right one and flashbacks that do more than just sour his mood. Hell, she’s the therapist for the Foxes; she’s seen far worse than him, even at his lowest. 

That’s always been strangely comforting. Grant will never be the worst tragedy to set foot in her office. More importantly, Grant trusts her by now. There’s comfort in the endless cups of sugary drinks he refuses; the exact, precise lines of everything in this office. 

“We’ve got our first Championship game on Friday,” Grant finally says, spine straight even though he knows she’ll disapprove. She’ll call this an excuse. “I didn’t have time.”

Sure enough, the look Dr. Dobson gives him is exasperated. “Somehow, I don’t believe that. If there’s one thing you’ve shown me, it’s that you’ll find a way to make something happen if it’s a real priority. This tells me you aren’t prioritizing the tasks I give you.”

To her credit, Dr. Dobson respects every one of Grant’s boundaries. She lets him focus on his anxieties over the draft. The game. Once he put his foot down last semester, she stopped asking after his mother’s crumpled up contact information in his desk drawer, and she’s accepted that he truly doesn’t want to introduce some new, complicated variable to his life right now. They talk about what he’s ready to talk about. 

Even still, she’s persistent. Once he’s opened up about, oh, say his fears of what happens if he doesn’t get drafted, if he has nothing else outside of Exy and the Foxes and he loses both—well, she doesn’t let him flinch away again. Technically, Grant likes that about her too. Just not in this moment. 

“Fine,” Grant says, successfully chastised. “You’re right. But I came to therapy, and this is for me, right? This isn’t an Exy thing.”

That gets a smile. “Fair enough. But it isn’t a new thing either, and I’d like to see you challenge yourself more. Off the court.” She pauses. “I’m going to be honest. We’ve made a lot of progress together, and that’s wonderful. Lately though, I feel like things haven’t changed much for you or our sessions. Do you feel the same?”

Grant shifts. Nods. It’s true, they go in circles now; Dr. Dobson wanting something more personal from him, and Grant focused on the games and the upcoming draft that overshadows everything else. He understands the logic of her approach; if he’s so worried about leaving here with nothing, then why shouldn’t he find something else, just in case? He can’t control the draft. He can control himself. In reality though, he’s come up short, every single time, as if failing to make room for anything else in his life will give him power over what happens next.

“That isn’t necessarily a bad thing Grant, but it means we might need to change our approach,” she continues. “You’ve spoken frequently about your anxieties for the draft, but seem resistant to my suggestions to alleviate them. So, I’m going to turn the question to you now instead—what do you think we should do next? What do you want out of these sessions?”

Grant resists the urge to twitch, going still and steady as he considers his options. It’s the same reaction he has when a journalist asks a question he doesn’t want to answer, and it doesn’t surprise him Dr. Dobson obviously recognizes it. After four and a half years, she knows him.

“You don’t need to answer right away, but I’d like you to think about it. You’re very good at setting professional goals. I’m sure you can turn that power towards personal growth as well.” Her piece said, Dr. Dobson settles back into her chair. “If there’s nothing specific you’d like to talk about, why don’t we end early today? Think about what I’ve said, and as always, let me know if you’d like a session sooner than scheduled. If not, I’ll plan on seeing you again in two weeks time.”

[verdigrisprowl]

Donuts and Viruses

Prowl visits Tarantulas, partially to socialize and partially to see about moving some projects forward. The project they end up discussing is a defensive virus, meant to protect potential victims from being assaulted by mnemosurgeons. By the end, Prowl promises to get Tarantulas the brain modules of some deceased mnemosurgeons to use for research.

Prowl and Tarantulas also agree to set up space bridge drop boxes in their homes to send each other stuff.

Tarantulas

Visits from Prowl had always been a treat for Tarantulas, but these days they were particularly so. For one, visits happened far more frequently than they had millennia ago, and more importantly, this time the visit had also been preceded by a literal treat. He suspected the donuts were from Prowl himself, but he wasn’t totally sure, so…

“That was you, was it not?” Arms wrapped around arms wrapped around arms, all in greeting. “The donuts, that is. If it was, you have an incredibly accurate memory, but unfortunately so, hyeh.”

Prowl

That was. So many arms. He only had two to offer in return, but offer them he did. "They were me, yes. Er—accurate?"

He was pleased that Tarantulas had found them (and, Prowl hoped, consumed them). He hadn't wanted to interrupt Tarantulas's work with them, but, well—Prowl worried, from time to time, about whether he was remembering to refuel himself properly. His sleep schedule was erratic enough, Prowl doubted his other self-maintenance habits were much better.

Tarantulas

Thank goodness. Now Tarantulas didn't have to worry about delayed-onset poisoning via donut intruder anymore.

"Accurate - well, accurately positioned, according to where the cabinet was the day before." A bit of snickering, and Tarantulas let Prowl go. "The donuts didn't fall terribly far though, they were only slightly jostled. It didn't affect the taste, anyhow." A brief smooch of mandibles.

Prowl

"Ah. Yes." Right, most people didn't just... casually memorize the positions of everything they saw.

Prowl held on a moment longer. To even out the disparity in hug quantity due to his lower number of hugging limbs.

Okay. Okay, letting g—smooch—letting go. "I would have put them on the counter on the other side of the room, but I was worried there might be an experiment running on it." Tarantulas had eaten them, though. Good. "... Perhaps if you set up a, hm. Mailbox? That I could deposit things in?"

Tarantulas

No mech had the space to memorize things like that - at least, things they didn't consider worth keeping data on. Prowl, as per usual, was extraordinary.

Ah, how Tarantulas loved when Prowl hung on like that... "You were rightfully concerned. A mailbox, though...?" Tarantulas looked around, his visor squinted thoughtfully. "I'm sure there's somewhere I could set one up. But you'd have to arrange one of your own as well, or check mine in turn; I can't have you sending me things without proper reciprocation, now can I?"

Please say yes - because then it'd mean Tarantulas could send Prowl gifts, right

Prowl

Prowl considered that. "... I'll set up a drop box on the balcony." That wasn't IN the apartment, but it was within Prowl's property. "That could be very useful, actually." Beyond the obvious gift exchange functions.

Tarantulas

Score! Now Tarantulas had to think up a proper return gift, hm...

"Actually? Howso? For other mechs as well, you mean?" Tarantulas hoped not - it was much more disappointing to think of it as a general mailbox instead of a romanticized vessel of Tarantulas's affections.

Prowl

"No, in terms of shuttling supplies and projects back and forth. Dataslugs and devices and whatnot. Everyone else can just mail me things like normal." Or chuck them at his balcony door, if they happened to be a neighbor from a block away with a half dozen violent deployers.

Tarantulas

Oh, good! For presents and science, then. Romanticized vessel still intact.

"Ah, I see - far less lossy than comms, especially. I can't believe I'd never thought of that before." Tarantulas rocked on his pedes, fighting the urge to start roaming his labs for some reason. That'd be a little rude with company over. "Do let me know exactly where its parameters are once it's established. And - if there's a project that'd require greater volume than the balcony permits, I could connect the mailbox to a mutual subspace instead? That'd be simple enough

Prowl

"And far less hackable. ... Although more steal-able. But we can work on those details later. At the moment, I don't think we're working on anything incredibly sensitive that you'd need to drop off rather than having me come here to get it."

Prowl considered the possibility. "... We can discuss that once we have such a project."

Tarantulas

"I'd say our projects do lean more toward the tangible over the digital, so theft would be more of a problem." A fluttery tap-tap of mandibles. "That aside - yes, of course. It's a standing offer, whenever."

What projects was Tarantulas working on for Prowl at the moment? He'd spent so long researching Prowl's moral compass that he'd nearly forgotten everything else. There had to be something he was forgetting...

Prowl

"Some are digital. There's the virus, for instance." Prowl took the slightest step back, to a moderately more professional distance. "How is the virus going, anyway?"

The mnemosurgery virus wasn't the only reason Prowl had come over—Tarantulas's company was, of course, a major draw—but he'd come with it on his to-do list. He didn't think they'd discussed it since—since their whole... blowout. But that was now in the past, and prowl hoped very much to keep it there. It was time to get back to work.

Tarantulas

Professional distance? Prowl of all mechs knew that when it came to matters of science, professional distance meant basically squat. Prowl's slight step back was, of course, mirrored by a two-toed step forward.

"Virus? What do you -"

Oh. That virus. The anti-mnemosurgical malware Prowl had requested, a key project that had managed to completely slip Tarantulas's mind for months now. Yes, that virus. There wasn't any excuse for forgetting this one, moral compass research or no.

"Virus! Yes, of course." Alright, refocus your visor, you've been staring blankly at Prowl for too long. "It's - well, technically it's not going anywhere, since I haven't installed it in a host yet, hyeh." Fidget fidget. Where had he been when he'd left off? Time to hastily skim his abandoned files for some clues, and meanwhile think of a way to stall the ongoing conversation.

"Oh! First the donuts, though - shame on me. You graced me with such sweetness and I haven't uttered a single 'thank you' yet." Tarantulas put on his most apologetic expression as he reached out to Prowl in one swift movement again. Adios, professional distance. "They truly were delectable. Did you make them yourself, perchance?"

Prowl

"You know what I mean. Progress on making the virus." He paused. "Unless you're saying you're at the point where it can be installed in someone?"

Tarantulas was so inclined to jump from topic to topic that, for the moment, Prowl didn't realize he was specifically trying to dodge one. (Okay, they were touching again. Prowl was fine with that.) "Hah! No. Someone gave me a box. I don't even know where they were from. They were good?" "Delectable" was high praise for cheap goods.

Tarantulas

Was Tarantulas at the point of installation? No, he didn't think he'd gotten that far. Where was he, really...

"Hyeh, well it's really the sentiment that matters, not the exact origin of the goods. I'll admit I have a soft spot for donuts with filling especially, and the jelly-filled one -" Tarantulas pinched his fingers at his lips and dramatically outward in a mwah gesture of deliciousness that few could pull off without shame.

That arm fell in distraction as Tarantulas continued to skim the files. No, he really hadn't achieved much - gotten hung up on an intellectual snag and left it for his future self to handle. What was he supposed to do now? Prowl expected progress, and what Tarantulas had to offer him was meager at best, given how much time had elapsed.

Mmmmmaybe he could just... own up to it? That's what the whole not-lying-to-each-other deal had been about, right - transparency and honesty? Hopefully Prowl wouldn't be too disappointed with what he'd find.

"I..." Erk. This was already harder than he'd thought. "I, ah, back to the malware, though. Unfortunately it's... nnnnnowhere near comprehensive enough for installation. As a matter of fact, it's hardly progressed past the point of my last update, mostly because... I may have..." Squirm squirm. "Forgotten about it. R-regrettably."

Prowl

... And now, Prowl was focusing on Tarantulas's mouth. He was trying to figure out how to get a jelly-filled donut in there. "Wouldn't... How do you not make a mess when you eat them?" Unless he DID make a mess. Which wouldn't surprise Prowl.

He'd forgotten it. Prowl stared at Tarantulas a moment. He'd FORGOTTEN it. And then huffed in amused exasperation. Of course he'd forgotten about it. Prowl hadn't mentioned it in months—including a couple of months during which Prowl wasn't sure he'd ever even want to speak to Tarantulas again. The virus couldn't have been high on his list of priorities.

"It hasn't been immediately pressing," Prowl said. "Consider it back on the table, though. I WOULD like to receive the completed project." Preferably before he got too comfortable keeping his hands clean to do what needed to be done with Chromedome.

"Where did you leave off, then?"

Tarantulas

“I could give a demonstration sometime.” Tarantulas waved dismissively. “It’s really not that difficult.”

A tense moment passed as he waited for Prowl’s reaction – then a sigh of relief. Thank goodness it was exasperation and not pointed disappointment. Tarantulas was used to dealing with exasperation on a daily basis, that was nothing new.

“Duly noted, hyeh. The last section I recall completing…” His hands found their way to Prowl’s waist, never quite settling down. “I’m certain I’ve finished the coding required to activate the program upon mnemosurgical invasion, but that was simple enough. At least part of phase one is complete as well – preventing immediate access to your brain module, of course – but phase two I’m not as clear on. That’s – ah, the exact method by which the malware would disable their future abilities.”

Prowl

Did Tarantulas actually know how distracting hands fluttering everywhere were? He put his hands on top of Tarantulas's to trap them on his waist. Distraction managed. "Brain modules in general. Not just MY brain module." (He said, as though he was still fooling anyone that this virus wasn't first and foremost meant for his own protection.)

"That's massive progress. That alone is a stellar defensive tool." They could stop there and call it a success. ... Not that they were going to, but. They COULD. "Where are you having trouble with the method?"

Tarantulas

Judging by the tapping claws and shifting frame, the distraction wasn't entirely managed, but probably as best as it could be for now. Tarantulas was more than happy to keep his hands on Prowl's waist, at any rate.

"Ah yes, that's what I meant." Totally not specifically Prowl - because Tarantulas totally hadn't pieced together that Prowl had suffered mnemosurgical trauma and totally wasn't also hiding the fact that he knew. "But I did say part of phase one; it's not entirely ironclad. Put into action, it would prevent mnemosurgical alteration, but one would still be able to read another's mind, so to speak. So, yes - there's that to add, and then the actual virus module itself. Which..."

Tap-t-tap went his mandibles, rippling thoughtfully. "Disabling a surgeon's ability to operate requires two facets, in turn. Erasing current ability, and stymying future reacquisition. When I say I'm not clear on the method of disabling, it's - how do we attack the knowledge? Do I erase memories of having learnt mnemosurgery in the first place? That may help in the moment, but wouldn't one be able to discover what'd occurred, and maybe relearn such a thing? Reconnect with old contacts, actively seek to fill in holes of missing information? Or is there possibly a physical flaw in the process, some circuit to be permanently disrupted, as if chopping off whole servos to void their needles? Because if there is, I haven't found such a flaw, and it's so -"

Tarantulas would go on spilling the contents of his brain module as long as Prowl let him, words tripping over his mandibles in their haste to be said. Although, fidgeting and agitation would become a bit of a problem pretty soon.

Prowl

"Those are different functions? Alteration and reading? I suppose that's... not illogical." More than that, it sounded familiar. Like Prowl had been told so before; but attempting to recollect it was hard, the memory fuzzy and distant, and he couldn't quite grasp it. Had Chromedome tampered with that memory, too? Damaged Prowl's memory of how mnemosurgery worked during his invasion? Or did Prowl only suspect him because he happened to be thinking about the attack?

If what Prowl thought he knew about mnemosurgery had been tampered with, did that mean Chromedome might have inserted fake information? Prowl should look up mnemosurgery on his own, see whether the literature out there agreed with what he thought he knew...

Without noticing it, his grip tightened on Tarantulas's hands.

He listened to Tarantulas's questions and speculations until he was fairly certain that he'd gotten a sense for the problem he was grappling with, and decided he ought to cut in and attempt to help rather than wait for Tarantulas to run out of words.

"Maybe not a physical flaw in the circuitry, but—what about brain function? Their processors have to be doing something specific when they're doing mnemosurgery, I don't know what. Is there something in there that can be damaged, or made to malfunction, or just made incompatible with other brains, or...?"

Tarantulas

Tarantulas noticed Prowl’s tightened grip – had he done something wrong? Fidgeted too much? He’d quiet his hands as best he could for now, still letting his thumbs rub vertical lines on each side of Prowl’s waist.

“Yes, it’s akin to the difference between being able to reach through an open window, or only looking through a closed one, or simply looking at a wall. But -” Moving on. “The thing about mnemosurgery is that it’s really just another form of data-focused interface.” Like hardlining with needles - but Tarantulas figured that phrasing wouldn’t go over well. “As far as I can discern, there aren’t any specific brain patterns or centers that are unique to mnemosurgical activity, only ones that are key, by which I mean of course the robocampus. If I could simply delete the entirety of their robocampus, or - or maybe corrupt the needle compatibility software, I don't know – those would be effective, but I doubt they're viable options.”

Prowl

Prowl could feel his optics glazing over as Tarantulas started in on a metaphor— Oh, it was only a sentence long. That was fine.

"And... how bad would deleting their robocampus be? Pretty bad, right?" Prowl didn't entirely remember what the robocampus did, but he knew the word, so it had to be important. "I don't want to do permanently debilitating brain damage, here. Outside of the effect on their mnemosurgery abilities, I want to inconvenience them, not—not do damage that will leave them permanently hospitalized, or the like."

Corrupting software? Prowl frowned hard as he thought that over. "... Wouldn't they be able to just redownload the correct software?"

Tarantulas

“It depends on what you qualify as an inconvenience,” Tarantulas chuckled. “Inability to convert short-term memory into long-term? Impaired spatial perception and navigation skills? Among other things – I haven’t tried wiping a robocampus before, so I don’t know specifics.” He’d definitely wiped other module sectors though, with amusing results.

A defeated sigh. “Yes, that’s technically true... Unless somehow I were able to convince their system to permanently accept the corrupted software. That seems too… unreliable a solution. Someone’s bound to find a way around mere software glitches sooner or later – that is, if they don’t skip the whole debacle and install all-new hardware instead.”

Leaning down to bunt his helm against Prowl’s, Tarantulas grumbled something unintelligible. “I think - I think - the solution might be found in incompatibility. From what I’ve researched - what scraps I’ve gathered - it seems there’s something different about the file properties. It’s far-fetched, but it’s possible that mnemosurgery flirts with an entirely novel file system. I just don’t know if it does, or how.” Grumble grumble.

Prowl

"... I think the inability to store new memories is a bit farther than we want to go." This was, after all, not about revenge, but about preventing future incidents. Revenge was only an incidental second bonus and certainly not to be pursued to excess.

Prowl nodded; expert in viruses he was not, but it sounded unreliable to him, too. He bunted Tarantulas back, optics dimming as he listened. "What's different about the file properties? Which file properties?"

Tarantulas

“I thought as much, hyeh.” Revenge would certainly have been amenable to Tarantulas, given the situation that led to all this – but no.

He gave Prowl a strangely frustrated nuzzle. “I only know this information second-hand. I haven’t been able to get my claws on any primary reports or data or anything for me to actually dig into. There’s no chance you could be of any help? Even if it were just snagging a Primus-forsaken brain module for me, I’d be pleased.” A snort, then a thoughtful pause. “…I’d be thrilled, as a matter of fact. A mnemosurgeon’s robocampus alone would speak volumes more than any reports ever could.”

Prowl

That was the hard part, wasn't it? They were supposed to figure out how to make a virus that could take out a mnemosurgeon without the benefit of a mnemosurgeon to test it on. They could get so far simply by knowing the theory behind how they worked and general truths about how ALL brain modules worked, but to get something specific, something targeted... Well, up until now Tarantulas hadn't specifically asked for a mnemosurgeon's help, so Prowl had hoped they might not need it. They might be stuck now.

Except. Tarantulas hadn't asked for a mnemosurgeon. He'd asked for a mnemosurgeon's brain module.

Could Prowl supply that?

"... Does it need to be alive?"

Tarantulas

Tarantulas pulled back slightly, squinting into Prowl’s optics. Was this a trick question? “No, no of course not. I’ll be able to glean plenty from it so long as the robocampus is fairly intact. Did you think I would want a live sample? Goodness no, I’m much more comfortable with posthumous operation than having to deal with a living mech.” A noise of displeasure to go along with that half-truth. “But – you could acquire a brain module, truly?”

Prowl

(Tarantulas was pretty from this angle. Prowl could just lean in and...)

(Stay focused.)

"Data in brain modules decay and artifact quickly after death, I don't know if you needed a live sample to get whatever data you were looking for." Mnemosurgeons themselves preferred live subjects. Prowl didn't know how he knew that. Chromedome again, probably. The thought of it made him very faintly sick. "I'm not certain I can; but I know several places I could go looking."

Tarantulas

Tarantulas wouldn’t have minded if Prowl had kissed him - he never minded - but the moment passed. Instead, Tarantulas shrugged dismissively. “The decay is systematic and capable of being unraveled under the correct circumstances. I don’t require 100% recovery in any case.” If his vague hypotheses were correct, mere shreds of data could tell him everything he needed to know. “Curiosity compels me though – where would you even look? I’d adore anything and everything you can scrounge up.”

Prowl

"Classified. Of course." Sorry, Tarantulas. But he wasn't about to talk about the hidden stockpiles of resources left over from the New Institute—resources that, Prowl hoped, included the bodies of the Autobots who'd worked there. They'd kept stranger things. And the possibilities got more far-fetched and more secret from there. "Is there anything else you want me to try to scrounge up?"

Tarantulas

Would a little pathetic whine get Tarantulas any more information?

“Specifically, aside from the robocampus…?” A moment of thought. “I couldn’t care less about any actual experiments, but the background research and formative papers in the field – those, those I could use.”

Prowl

No, but it would get him a kiss. "I can certainly manage that."

Tarantulas

Yes, please. And it was only fair that Tarantulas returned the affection - once, then twice, three times. "But of course you can. There really isn't anything you can't do, after all. ...I ought to have just asked originally, if I'd had any sense, but..."

A leaned-forward nuzzle. "Is this the reason you came today, then? To tend to our poor, neglected project?"

Prowl

There really isn't anything you can't do. That was something Prowl ought to be saying to Tarantulas, not the other way around. Sure, Prowl could do anything—as long as he had an army of agents or a scientist ten times smarter than he'd ever be to do the hard work for him.

"It was an item on the to-do list," Prowl said. "But I would have come without it."

Tarantulas

Clearly each of them depended on the other to fully realize their potential, then, because Tarantulas certainly thought he was nothing without Prowl.

A pleased churr. "I'm flattered. Unless you mean to say there are more business items on the to-do list...?"

Prowl

"There are always more business items on the to-do list. Are you interested in doing any more right now, though?"

Tarantulas

Tarantulas hummed and pulled Prowl in even closer. "At the moment? Not exactly. I don't have anything planned, but I'd fancy a bit of quality time, if you don't mind?"

Prowl

He gladly let Tarantulas tug him in. "Ah, yes. That is, as it so happens, the last item on my to-do list." He offered Tarantulas a slight smirk. "Let's skip right to it, then."

[relbyshock]

Amy Winehouse, Princess Diana, Britney Spears, Marilyn Monroe, Aileen Wuornos, Angelina Jolie, Adolf Hitler, Darrell Hammond, Pete Davidson, Winona Ryder, Vincent Van Gogh, Tommy Tiernan….

What do they all have in common? Apart from being famous figures, they all suffer(ed) or were rumored to have suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder.

Hey, me too.

I’m over the moon to have something in common with Princess Di (apart from our shared plight with bulimia), but I have to say, I’d rather not have anything in common with Aileen or Adolf…..

Borderline Personality Disorder is a confusing term to say the least. On the borderline of what and what? Well, in the ‘30s, it meant you fell somewhere between psychosis (untreatable) and neurosis (treatable).

Great, that’s reassuring.

Come the ‘70s, BPD sufferers were described as being very emotional, needy, difficult, at risk for suicide, and to have an “overall unstable level of functioning”.

Check. *sings “Welcome to My Life” by Simple Plan*

We also have rapidly fluctuating mood swings, unstable self-image, and a fear of abandonment. This disorder wasn’t even recognized by the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) until 1980.

Today, we know far more about BPD – “neurosis” is no longer used in the diagnosis, and BPD is no longer considered a psychotic disorder.

 So what are we then?

Crazy?

Hormonal?

According to my family, yes. But in reality, the problem lies within our brains. Let me nerd out here for a minute:

The Amygdala (Ah-mig-dah-lah) is composed of two almond-shaped parts of the brain, deep in the medial temporal lobe, that regulate fear and aggression. People with BPD have amygdala’s that are noticeably smaller than that of a healthy person. The smaller the amygdala, the more overactive it is.

Like short guys with bad attitudes, or what I like to refer to as “little man syndrome”.

And then we have the Hippocampus – no, not pachyderm college. The hippocampus is responsible for spatial orientation (not falling over), long and short-term memory, and emotional regulation. Put simply, the hippocampus chooses the correct response to environmental events: Fight or flight.

You may be wondering if I was dropped on my head as a child. The answer is yes – frequently – but the chances of minor brain trauma causing BPD are slim.

The causes of Borderline Personality Disorder are unclear. It seems to involve genetic, brain, environmental and social factors. There are rumours that people with BPD have issues with serotonin production, which has been linked to depression, aggression and having a hard time controlling “destructive urges”.

As for environmental factors, those who have been a victim of emotional/physical/sexual abuse, as well as being exposed to chronic fear or distress as a child have a high likelihood of developing BPD. This is because our relationship with our parents and family has a HUGE influence on how we see the world, and how we feel about other people.

Gals are also diagnosed 3 times as often as guys. You’ve gotta wonder if that’s due to the fact that men tend to be more weary of the doctor, therefore avoiding a diagnosis altogether. This is pure speculation.

Shall we take a dive into the “Signs and Symptoms” as listed by Wikipedia?

-Markedly disturbed sense of identity

-Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment and extreme reactions

-Splitting (black and white thinking)

-Impulsivity

-Intense and uncontrollable emotional reactions that often seem disproportionate to the event or situation

-Unstable and chaotic interpersonal relationships

-Self-damaging behavior (ie, substance abuse)

-Distorted self-image

-Dissociation

-Frequently accompanied by depression, anxiety, anger, substance abuse or rage

We are also aware of the intensity of our negative emotional reactions, and since we can’t regulate them, we shut them down completely. What my doctor and I refer to as feeling “flat”.

BPD sufferers are also extremely sensitive to real or perceived rejection. Let’s explain with a meme, shall we:

*looking at an unanswered text from 12 minutes ago*

You: They must be in the shower or just busy, they’ll respond when they have a chance.

Me: Ok well they were active on Instagram 6 minutes ago and they just posted a snap story….they’re ignoring me, why do they hate me? What did I do? Are they mad at me? Should I send another text to get their attention or is that too needy?

If you’re annoyed just reading that, TRY LIVING IN MY BRAIN.

I annoy myself.

I feel grief, overwhelming shame and humiliation where others would feel mildly embarrassed. A minor inconvenience such as cancelled plans takes me from excited to absolutely miserable.

In the past, an unflattering photo on Facebook has caused me to reevaluate my self-worth, and even my life.

The Sickboy podcast explained it beautifully: Borderline Personality Disorder is like having a third degree burn on your emotions. I feel that. Everything hurts me just a little bit more than the average bear (or human).

Why am I telling you this? Because boys and girls, today is Bell Let’s Talk Day here in Canada. I’ll include the link at the bottom. Basically, in 2010, Bell began a new conversation about Canada’s mental health. They’ve enlisted such figures as Howie Mandel, Michael Landsberg, and Clara Hughes to share their stories of struggle and strength in the face of mental health.

I thought today was as good as any other to address the stigma surrounding mental health, but more specifically, the stigma around BPD.

I can’t pretend to know all the answers – I’m not and won’t pretend to be a psychiatrist. But this is what the world looks like through my lens.

If someone honks at me while I’m driving to work, I’m upset ALL DAY. I never want to drive again, I want to pull over and cry, or turn around and go home.

If I get a moderately rude email, my brain fills with cutting, angry, and just plain mean remarks to respond with. “I’m sorry your father never hugged you as a child” is not a suitable response to a professional email, but that’s where my brain goes.

When I make plans with friends weeks in advance and they bail 10 minutes before, I am a heap of inconsolable sobs for the rest of the evening, and even into the next day. This plays into the fear of “real or imagined abandonment”. My BPD brain does not care that something came up or you’re feeling under the weather. BPD tells me that you hate me and you never want to see me again and you were just pretending to like me this whole time and you’ve finally made your escape. My logical brain tries to tell me that it’s ok, and we’ll plan something for another time, but usually, my BPD brain wins the fight.

When I get nervous and start to ramble trying to tell a story and my mom cuts me off with “Anyways.” I want to crawl in a hole and die, but I also sort of want to throw a plate at her face. My mother is a saint, so why do I feel this way about her sometimes?

Let’s get back to the causes of Borderline Personality Disorder. Dad, Mom, maybe stop reading here…or don’t…but here’s your warning. You aren’t going to like this next part.

I was severely neglected as a child. Not physically – I had food to eat, clothes to wear, a roof over my head – but emotionally and mentally. The minor relationship I did have with my father was marked by him coming home from a long shift (as a firefighter) and starting a fight with me about my weight, my shoes at the front door, my marks in school, and more often than not, “why are you always crying?!”. My mom also worked full time at a stressful sales job. So by the time she got home, she didn’t want to have to deal with anyone else’s issues.

So when I would have issues with anything from being bullied at school to just having a ‘bad mental health day’, I had nowhere to turn.

See, my brother and I were latch-key kids. We got home from school at least an hour before my parents got home from work. He and I never got along, so some sort of fight would ensue, and by the time our parents got home, he had made me cry. I was deemed dramatic and sent away to my bedroom, while the 3 of them would eat dinner together (usually something I refused to eat – like meat – which would be another reason to fight).

I’ve voiced this to my mom before, and she remembers my childhood very differently than I do.

As long as I have been alive, I have come second to my brother.

No, honey, we can’t go to (insert activity I wanted to do) because Maxx has hockey/a book report due/needs a ride to the bike track, etc.

Every dinner or event we went to was with HIS friends and THEIR parents, who ended up becoming my parents’ best friends (still to this day). I was always the only girl; so naturally, I stayed with the adults, because the boys wouldn’t have me.

But the adults didn’t want me there either. I felt like a constant annoyance.

Thinking back on it, I realize that I may not have been as unwanted as I perceived myself to be. Remember, BPD brains are sensitive to even slight facial expressions and tones of voice. But, when I voiced this to my parents, that I felt unwanted, and why couldn’t we do things with my friends and their parents, etc. I was told that I was being ridiculous.

Enter: Invalidation

Invalidation is the number one cause of BPD, according to my psychiatrist. Growing up in an environment where nothing you do is good enough will cause you to internalize everything.

I have no memories or examples of healthy emotional behaviour or relationships. In our house, we got the point across by screaming at or just plain ignoring each other. So when I get hurt, or I feel let down, I have absolutely no idea how to deal with my feelings. Further reinforcing my belief that the world is full of bad people who are out to ruin your day and be unkind, because that’s all I’ve ever known.

Research shows that if you already experience these difficulties as a child, experiencing trauma as an adult could make things worse.

Dad - now is really the time to stop reading.

(Sometimes I feel like I live inside the DSM definition of BPD)

At the age of 21 – fresh out of college and trying to start my career in the fashion world – I was sexually assaulted. Cue the downward spiral.

I didn’t report. I didn’t seek help. I confided in a close friend, and was called a liar. But that’s a story for another time.

So I buried that part of me so deep, that sometimes I could convince myself that it never happened. Sometimes.

I reached the end of my rope in 2016. I knew that if I didn’t seek help, I would not survive. I finally went to my doctor and spent hours with her, just sobbing and telling her everything.

She hooked me up with a psychiatrist, and put me in Dialectical Behavioural Therapy, and started me on an SSRI (anti-depressant) immediately.

As of today, it has been 1172 days since the assault. I only told my mother this past summer.

Since reaching out for help, I have begun to repair the relationship with my parents. My mom and I are closer than ever, and my dad and I are working on it.

As I write this, I feel the judgements pouring in. But I have decided that this year, I don’t care. I am not ashamed of my story. I will no longer hide the things I have been through in order to make others more comfortable. I will not keep my pain to myself because it’s easier for others if I stay silent. If bearing my soul can help even one person seek the help they need, then I have succeeded, and all this pain has been worth it.

The long and short of it is SPEAK UP! There is nothing embarrassing about mental illness. If you aren’t feeling right, there are people who care and are here to help you, including me. The first step is to tell someone.

The best advice I can give is to find your people. People who trust you, who lift you up, who validate your feelings, who listen and take you seriously when you say you’re having a bad day. I have spent the past year painstakingly building my support system, because the truth of the matter is, I can’t do this alone. And that’s ok.

Today and every single day, be kind to each other – it’s the only thing that matters.

https://letstalk.bell.ca/en/bell-lets-talk-day