#like it feels like I’m just pouring thousands of dollars down the drain every month and all I have to show for it

[whentherewerebicycles]

also I KNOW that all my college and high school friends are not actually announcing pregnancies or births at a higher rate than usual I’m just more hypersensitive/attuned to this kind of news than usual but also sometimes I feel an uncontrollable rage in my heart towards these people who are 1) getting pregnant for free and 2) getting pregnant, period. I recognize this as an irrational and unfair emotional reaction! it’s not like these people can help being straight and/or having uncomplicated pregnancies! but also I can burn with suppressed rage and grief about it!!!

[spartanguard]

untitled monster loving fic (1/?)

Summary: A mysterious event ten years ago left a number of people in Boston with unusual abilities and physical attributes...whether they like them or not. Killian Jones is one of them; so is Emma Swan. Are these things curses, or blessings? Will finding each other help them decide?

rated (eventual) M | 2.4k | AO3 coming at some point

A/N: So full credit for this idea goes to @thesschesthair and her ramblings on The Deep while watching The Boys. And since it’s spooky season, and monster f***ing is a thing, ideas started spinning and....this happened. I’m not sure where exactly it’s gonna go and ngl, I definitely borrowed a plot point from Static Shock, but...it’s here. (And there will eventually be some monster loving for real.)

The door rattled in the frame as Killian Jones slammed it shut; frankly, he was surprised he hadn’t shattered it, flimsy as it was. He’d probably do it yet one of these days, but not tonight—not when he was already making a beeline for the bathroom. He needed to get out of these stifling clothes once and for all.

Granted, all clothes did that to him, so this wasn’t a new occurrence, or born of any particular stress or lengthy day. He supposed he should be used to it after all these years, but not yet. 

He tossed his jacket...somewhere, probably the sagging sofa, on his way across the flat, and kicked his shoes off equally haphazardly. There was no door for him to open to get into the restroom, and muscle memory told him where the switch was, filling the tiny space with dingy light. Only three of the four sockets above the vanity worked, and he’d been meaning to replace another burnt out bulb for...well, months. But less light meant it was harder to see the cracks in the ancient tile.

The one nice thing—the only nice thing—about this place was the tub; he probably could have afforded a slightly (very slightly) nicer apartment, but they only had stall showers, and he needed the tub. The squeaky knobs and the thud in the pipes as hot water poured out the faucet were familiar sounds. 

He almost forgot to put the stopper in the drain, but managed to get it in there before losing too much; hot water was a precious commodity, considering the water heater was older than him. He wiped his hand dry on his threadbare jeans, wondering in passing why he bothered, but forgetting it.

Like he did every night, he took stock of himself in the age-spotted mirror. He supposed he was still what would be considered attractive, even if he mostly kept to himself nowadays. Dark hair, blue eyes, a bit of stubble; lean, muscular frame. The front he gave the world still looked like the man Milah fell in love with, before...everything. The shadows under his eyes and the weight of painful memories resting on his shoulders were more recent acquisitions, though.

His tshirt was mostly clean and in decent shape; like most of his clothes, he bought it second hand and it was a couple sizes too big. It had to be. He couldn’t stand the feel of anything touching his upper body—but at the same time, couldn’t be bare. Wouldn’t dare.

He wanted to tear it off, but first had to work off the mechanism that held his prosthetic left hand on. His fingers methodically knew what to do, even if the bit of webbing between them hindered his dexterity to some extent. Once it was off, he carefully set it on the counter—the only possession of his he treated with any sort of care—and then reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged it up over his head.

For the first time all day, he found relief, and was able to take a deep breath. He closed his eyes at the sensation of finally breathing freely—partly to revel in it, and partly to avoid looking in the mirror. But then another breath made him twinge, recalling the hit he took to his side while working on the docks earlier, and he had to inspect it. 

Sure enough, there was a bruise—right on top of one of his gills. 

No wonder it stung when he breathed.

God, but he hated to look at them—they perhaps weren’t as monstrous as they were right after the accident, but they were far from pretty. Deep slits arced on either side of his abdomen, the longest one sitting just above his waist and running parallel to his rib cage; subsequently smaller ones followed up his sides, ending just below his pecs. There were times he laughed at how well they framed his body hair, but those were few and far between. Scar tissue surrounded them from where the skin had healed when it first split, and he could feel the stiff skin move with every breath. It...fluttered, almost, rippling along with his muscles and lungs. 

He shuddered at the sight and turned away, continuing to strip until he was naked. The tub was full, so he shut off the flow and stepped in. He sighed again as he sank down into the warm water; it was a balm on his aching muscles. He sometimes wondered if that was another side effect—after the accident, after everything, they’d gotten a lot denser, it seemed, and he was certainly stronger, his muscles more defined. But it also meant that he was always tired, always sore, always in some sort of pain, and he only knew of two ways to deal with it. He didn’t have the cash for rum right now, so a hot bath would have to do.

Unnecessarily, he took another deep breath, and slipped below the surface of the water. His lungs quickly adapted to the change, and he was hyper aware of the constant movement coming from his gills as they worked. He exhaled and started to breathe normally—at least, as normally as was possible underwater.

He couldn’t drown, but maybe his demons could, just for a bit.

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

Emma Swan would never understand why the landlord kept locking the door to the roof; she’d just pick it again later. Besides, she was the only one that ever went up there, and unless the dude wanted to install a camera and evict her, she’d keep going. 

She had planned on taking a long, hot bath when she got home, but some asshole had used up all the hot water. It was probably just as well; she kind of didn’t feel like dealing with the inevitable mess. That’s why she had her dollar-store spray bottle, right?

It had been dumb of her not to bring it up here, though; she could already feel the itch forming between her shoulder blades, making her shift uncomfortably beneath her leather jacket. It was definitely time to get that off. (The July heat certainly didn’t help in that regard, but she could bear the discomfort; she could stand that easier than the alternative.)

She easily slipped off the red leather and let it fall on the cracked concrete of the roof, leaving her in a well-worn long-sleeved tee; it was the only way to make sure that puting the jacket on was as easy as taking it off. Plus, an extra layer helped keep things under wraps. Just one of the many things she’d learned about her situation in the last 10 years. 

(“Situation” seemed like the best term for it. Someone might call it a blessing; some might prefer curse. Honestly, it was more of an annoyance, so she figured it was best to use as neutral a term as possible.)

This was the part she both loved and hated: taking off her shirt. She knew it’d feel good to remove it, but it always hurt in motion. Oh well—like ripping off a bandaid. Quickly, trying to ignore the thousands of pricking and tugging points across her back and arms, she pulled it up over her head and let it fall on top of her jacket.

Now down to just a cami, she rolled her shoulders back and flapped her arms a few times. Yeah, flapped; what else was she supposed to call it when they were covered in feathers?

The biggest ones extended from her triceps and forearms, with smaller ones covering her skin from shoulder to wrist and between her shoulder blades. The tiniest ones blended in with her natural peach fuzz; the rest varied in size from a few inches to a couple feet and layered on top of each other like...well, like a bird’s wing.

She had wings, okay? But not like the kind you’d see on an angel in a Christmas pageant—freaking swan wings where she’d once had normal human arms. Even her hands vaguely resembled talons, but thankfully, it was easy to pass off her thick, dark nails as a really good gel manicure.

A few feathers drifted to the ground as she stretched, and she stared at them in annoyance, trying to determine if they were indicative of an oncoming molt or just incidental. She was incredibly close to catching a high-paying skip; she didn’t have time to be laid out with a molt for a week.

(Those were the weeks she did label it a curse. Last year, it had overlapped with her period. To make a long story short, she was now banned from ordering at the pizza place down the street due to some things she may have said to the teenaged delivery driver.)

She shook her arms again, watching in disdain as a few more feathers came loose, confirming her fears; damn. She did not need this right now. 

A breeze blew in from the harbor, ruffling her feathers. Some foreign bird instinct leaned into it, holding her arms out behind her to brace against it. For a minute, she let herself forget about everything—her finances, her schedule, her ever-present loneliness, the constant weight of whatever this was—and let her feathers float on the wind like they were meant to.

Fuck it. She needed to fly. 

Quickly, she undid her ponytail and threw her hair back up in a messy bun as she took long strides to the edge of the roof. There, she unlodged a loose brick, revealing a small hidden compartment below containing a white mask. It wasn’t anything fancy—the kind you could get from a party store any time of the year—but it did the job, so she slipped it on. It was best to hide your identity when you were one of the local cryptids, she figured.

(Maybe, one of these days, she’d meet another one; she somehow hadn’t in 10 years, but they had to be out there. They had to.)

Without any further hesitation, she stepped up onto the ledge, spread her arms wide, and jumped.

There was always a bit of fear that it wouldn’t work this time, that the pavement would meet her hollow bones and crush them—but then she caught an updraft and rode it up over the next building.

For at least a few hours, she could pretend to get away from everything, before the inevitable weight of her baggage brought her back down to the ground.

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

Ten years prior

The explosion came from nowhere. Not that most explosions ever gave warning, and if it was going to happen anywhere, a seemingly abandoned waterfront warehouse was as likely a place as any.

The official report said it was a gas explosion; that was true enough. 

Two fatalities were listed: the building owner, one Mr. Gold, who was inside when the blast hit; and his wife, Milah, who was just outside.

[She’d asked Killian to meet her there—he didn’t fully know why, but she’d asked, and he was at her beck and call. He didn’t care that she was married; he loved her, and she loved him.

She was scared; it was visible in her darting eyes and hunched-over position. But she immediately relaxed when he rounded the corner of the building and ran to him, immediately wrapping her arms around him.

Frantically, she started to say something about her husband—that he was inside, she was worried about him and her son, and she wanted to go somewhere—anywhere—when suddenly there was a deafening sound, a wall of heat, an acrid stench, and Killian was in the water, fire at the end of his left arm and in his lungs and Milah—where was she?

It took far too long to break the surface of the harbor, only to be greeted by a scene from a war film—and the undoubtable form of Milah’s lifeless body, under smoldering debris where the building had once stood.]

The number of casualties was unknown; only one person went to the hospital, due to losing their hand in the explosion. 

There were more people in the area, within the radius of the damage, but most fled as quickly as they could.

[Emma still wasn’t sure why Neal had wanted to wander down by the docks; most of his deals went down in other parts of town, but she didn’t think too hard on the change of venue. The salty brine of the ocean was and oddly refreshing scent, compared to the typical smog and gas of the parts of the city they usually haunted.

It was kind of romantic; they were walking hand in hand, snacking on the Pop-Tarts they’d just nabbed from the corner store. She’d had a pretty intense craving for them lately and he’d been all too happy to oblige.

They took a turn down what looked like a row of warehouses in varying amounts of use; he seemed to know where he was going so she followed, taking note when he was starting to slow. She was about to ask what they were doing, but then a deafening roar screamed from the building across the street, immediately drowning them in dust and debris, and something that smelled like gas, but also not?

It didn’t matter; they needed to get out of there. They immediately sprinted off in the direction they came, not stopping until they were sufficiently out of breath. They didn’t dare linger in case the police wanted to talk to them. No thanks.

But, ugh, she’d dropped her Pop-Tart.] 

The smell of the gas lingered—though it was only labeled as such because none of the experts could place it. It was more than natural gas, more of a chemical note to it—but it didn’t match any other known chemicals. Gas was easier to explain, so that’s what they went with.

Besides, that was the only thing that got hot enough to completely disintegrate human remains; what other reason was there to explain why they couldn’t find Mr. Gold’s body among the melted, charred remnants of the building?

The site was razed, but never rebuilt. But urban legend quickly grew to talk of a mysterious figure rising out of the shadows there, said to be his ghost.

(Or possibly something worse.)

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

thanks for reading! I know this is weird so let me know if you’d rather not be tagged: @kat2609 @optomisticgirl @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @amortentia-on-the-rocks @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @profdanglaisstuff @wingedlioness @word-bug @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @its-imperator-furiosa  @killianmesmalls @sherlockianwhovian @ineffablecolors @laschatzi @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @killian-whump @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis​ @scientificapricot​ @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook​ @therealstartraveller776​

[heauxplesslydevoted]

All I Have Is Memories (M!Raleigh x MC)

Summary: Raleigh isn’t handling the breakup well.

Word Count: 3.4K+ Honestly two thousand words longer than I originally anticipated. I have no self control.

A/N: My crybaby ass was in shambles writing it, so I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labor. All italicized parts are flashbacks, and my MC’s name is Cassandra Paige

Tag List: @x-kyne-x @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @choicesobsessedd @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @furiouscloddonutpeanut @livedinawomansworld

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So tell me again what I’m doing tonight,” Raleigh orders, putting on his sunglasses.

“Just a simple club appearance,” Raleigh’s manager Mason answers. “Luxe in Midtown is hosting a launch party for some model’s Ciroc collab. I think it’s one of the Hadids or some other nepotism model or another.”

“Ciroc?” Raleigh grimaces. “I don’t even like vodka, especially that cheap shit.”

“I don’t care what you do with the Ciroc. Drink it, pour it down the drain, use it to start a fire for all I care. It’s 75 thousand dollars for a few hours of your time and as much vodka your liver can handle, and you don’t even have to perform.”

Raleigh doesn’t give a reply. The rest of the car ride is filled with silence, for which Raleigh is grateful. He doesn’t want to talk, especially about work. He really wants to close his eyes and take a little cat nap.

He’s been on a run, doing pop up shows and club appearances almost every night for the past month and a half. Mason was loving it. Raleigh’s popularity had somehow skyrocketed even more after his “breakup” with Cassandra, and Mason Bentley was always one to strike while the iron was hot. And in the beginning, Raleigh didn’t mind either. He needed the distraction, he needed his mind to be on anything other than Cassandra freaking Paige.

He had been in multiple fake relationships. He knew they had a shelf life of 6 months at maximum before TPTB stepped in and put an end to everything, but he didn’t think it would happen with her. He thought she was different, he thought they were different.

What started out as something fake had quickly turned into something real. It was less paparazzi runs, and more kisses when the fans and cameras weren’t around, late night sleepovers, hookups in bathrooms and coat closets at big industry events, and tiny moments of intimacy such as hand holding, her tracing nonsensical patterns into his chest after sex, and staying up late at night, swapping childhood stories.

It’s been two months since their split, and it’s still as fresh as ever in his mind.

They’re sitting at an outside cafe not too far from Central Park, He’s eating a bagel and people watching when Cassandra finally speaks up.

“So we’ve been at this for a few months now.” she starts.  “And I think we’ve reached the end of the road with the fake relationship thing.”

Raleigh doesn’t say anything immediately. He honestly forgot the reason they were put together in the first place. He needed image rehab, and she needed publicity. “I think you and I stopped with the whole fake relationship thing a few months ago, Andy.”

“Yeah,” she agrees with a subtle nod.

She doesn’t speak again and Raleigh feels the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention. He sits up straighter and looks at Cassandra. He notes that she can’t look him in the eyes, opting to focus on her lap instead. “Cassandra, look at me. Just what are you trying to say?”

After a long while, she finally looks up at him. Her eyes are large and glossy, as if she’s on the verge of tears. “I think the real part of our relationship needs to come to an end too.”

In that moment it feels like all of the air has been pulled out of his lungs. Is he...being dumped?

“What?”

“If we’re ending things publicly, I think it’ll work out better if we severed everything,” Cassandra continues. “Things will be less messy.”

Raleigh’s jaw clenches. “Wow, did you just repeat verbatim some bullshit Fiona force fed you?”

“Raleigh-”

“What, I’m right, right? She’s putting you up to this?”

“Yes, but-”

“So don’t do it!”

“I’m not you, I can’t afford to blatantly disregard my manager and piss off the label. We can still be friends, but our arrangement snowballed into something different than what we intended.”

“But I don’t want to end this. I want you, I l-” He’s able to catch himself before he makes a bigger fool of himself, but it’s too late. They both know what he was about to say.

I love you.

Raleigh doesn’t have time to pivot and steer the conversation in a different direction because before he can open his mouth again, he spots a paparazzo taking pictures of them, barely hiding behind a bush. That’s when he gets angry. “Is that why we’re here? Why we’ve been in Central Park all fucking day, so these vultures can get a piece of the pie?”

He knows that this is how these types of things work. Things have to end with a bang, not a fizzle, but he doesn’t give a fuck. That was before. Before he actually gave a damn about the other person, before he actually felt something.

He composes himself though, closing his eyes. He isn’t going to give the tabloids the satisfaction of getting raw footage of Raleigh Carrera having a complete meltdown in public. “I thought you were different, you know. I thought you weren’t like the rest of these fake industry people.”

“I’m not!” Cassandra argues.

“I thought we had something real.”

“We do, we did. But I can’t just-”

“Whatever,” Raleigh interjects. He stands abruptly. “And for the record, no we can absolutely not still be friends after this.”

Raleigh is thankfully pulled out of his thoughts before he has to relive any more of that tragic day. He hates thinking about it, he hates being that vulnerable.

The limo he’s riding in comes to a screeching halt in front of Luxe, and he hops out, Mason not too far behind. They’ve gone all out for this party. Red carpet, tons of celebrities (though he’s clearly the biggest name there), and lots of press. Paparazzi is yelling, calling out his name, reporters are practically shoving each other in order to get closer to him, hoping to be the lucky SOB that gets to interview him.

Mason points Raleigh in the direction of a reporter from Charttopper. Raleigh plasters on his best industry smile and heads over.

“Raleigh, hi. Janet Carmichael from Charttopper News, thank you stopping to chat!”

“Oh, thank you for having me, Janet.”

“Can I just say that you are killing it right now!”

“Thank you.”

“Seriously, I mean. The start of your victory lap was your latest single, a sultry collab with fellow R&B crooner Bryson Tiller called Wrong. It’s been out for three weeks and it’s already gone platinum. How does it feel?”

“It feels great,” Raleigh says. “I’ve been in this industry since I was a kid, I’m just glad the people still enjoy my work.”

“That’s a complete understatement, we more than love it.”

“I’m glad.”

“Now tell me, the song is about a man expressing some angst and guilt over a relationship gone wrong.” Raleigh tenses. He already knows where this lady is going to go with her line of questioning. “You recently went through a breakup, with up and coming pop sensation, Cassandra Paige.”

“Yeah.”

“Was she the inspiration behind the ballad?”

“No,” Raleigh replies. “I had been working on that song long before Andy and I broke up.”

And that’s the truth. The song had been in the making for months. In fact, Cassandra sat in on a few of his sessions.

“You want to have a fake snowball fight with all of these pieces of paper,” Raleigh suggests, tossing a crumpled piece at Cassandra. She quickly bats it away before it can hit her forehead.

“You’re supposed to be writing, mister,” Cassandra teases with an eye roll.

“But I have writer's block.” The two of them have been locked up in the studio for hours, crumpled pieces of paper strewn about, Raleigh’s guitar haphazardly dangling from the back of a chair. He had sent the rest of his team—sound engineer, mixers, and producer—away a long time ago. “Nothing sounds right, and the label is being annoying, pressuring me. Raleigh Carrera doesn’t do well under pressure. Raleigh Carrera needs time and space.”

“You are such a dork.”

“Just don’t tell anyone,” Raleigh shoots back with a smirk.

“Your secret is safe with me.” Cassandra sits back on the comfortable sleeper sectional that takes up a lot of the studio space. “Come here, come sit with me.”

“Andy”

“I’m not taking no for an answer. Come sit.”

Raleigh obliges and sits next to Cassandra. She pulls him back further so his back is on her chest and she nuzzles her face into his neck, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders.

“What are we doing?” Raleigh asks.

“I’m hugging you,” Cassandra says simply. “Hugging is good for you, it lowers anxiety and stress levels. You were on the verge of spiraling.”

“You know how it is, releasing a buzz single to get hype for an album. They want something deep, something sad. Something that’ll make Toni Braxton’s music look cheery.”

“Yikes. Why so glum?”

“It’s a niche market that’s currently untapped. People miss the heartbreak of 90s R&B. The crying, the begging, the dramatic music videos. They need me to fill that void. They’re all but demanding it. I don’t work well with demands.”

“I know it’s easier said than done, but you need to relax.” Raleigh snorts at the suggestion. “I’m serious. Music can not be forced, it has to be felt. It has to flow.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t write my own music. It’d be easier to have someone else do it and then head straight to the booth.”

“Let’s see if I can help you. Tell me what comes to mind when I say these words. Heartbreak?”

“Crush.”

“Loss?”

“Gain.”

“Pain?”

“Hurt.” 

“Okay, so give me some bars,” Cassandra demands.

“What?”

“You heard me. Don’t think about it, just go. Start singing.”

“I can’t just—” Cassandra cuts Raleigh off by flicking his ear. “Hey! What was that for?”

Cassandra flicks his ear again. “You better get to singin’!”

Raleigh ponders the words. “I gave you my heart, all you did was give me pain. You played me like a fool, look at this mess you’ve made. I’m stuck with all of the memories, heartbreak’s my only gain. Caught in your web of love, I feel so ashamed.”

Cassandra smiles. “Look at you!”

“It still needs some fine tuning.”

“Yeah, but it sounds like you’re on your way to a bridge. It’s more than you had 10 minutes ago.”

“How are you so optimistic all the time?”

“I just am.”

Raleigh bends down to kiss Cassandra’s arm. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

He turns around and lifts himself up so he’s hovering over Cassandra. “I feel like I should repay you in some way.”

“Mmmm, I’m pretty sure you can think of something,” Cassandra runs her hands through Raleigh’s hair. “I accept payment in the form of kisses.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Paige, but I think I can manage.” Cassandra tilts her head up and presses her lips against his in a soft kiss that he instantly heats up. 

Raleigh manages to flip them around so Cassandra is straddling him without breaking the kiss. If he wasn’t so wrapped up in what he was doing, he’d boast about it, but he’s too focused on the task at hand. His hands dig into the soft flesh of her thighs and he’s sure there will be marks there come morning time. Good. He wants her marked as his

He sits up, his back against the arm of the couch, pulling Cassandra in closer to him. His lips travel, planting kisses on her neck and collarbone, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His hands find the hem on the shirt she’s wearing and he tugs it up, yanking it off of her body. His hands roam her skin appreciatively. She’s soft, so soft it should be illegal. It was unfair for one person to be so perfect.

“Sh-shouldn’t we be working on your song?”

Raleigh quickly finds the class of her bra and he unhooks it expertly. “The song can wait, I have better things to do.”

“Aw, you have a nickname for her,” Janet coos. 

“Huh?”

“Cassandra. You call her Andy.”

Raleigh mentally curses himself for letting it slip out. Everyone else refers to the singer as Cassandra or Cassie, but not him. She was his Andy. She’d joke that if she was Andy, he was her Woody. He’s mad at himself for exposing their private, intimate thing to the world. He just shrugs it off. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Speaking of Cassandra, have you spoken to her since the breakup?”

“No, I haven’t seen her, I haven’t spoken to her. But she’s killing it out here, and I’ll always be supportive of her and her career. Always.”

Raleigh can tell it wasn’t the soundbite she was expecting, and he has to hold back his smirk. He’d never trash her publicly, despite the messy media outlets and overzealous fans stoking the flames.

“Well thank you so much for stopping to talk to me. Enjoy the party!”

Raleigh doesn’t even respond. He just shuffles through the throngs of people until he’s inside the club. It’s packed and he can barely hear himself think. Before he can register what’s going on, someone is ushering him into a secluded VIP area, and handing him a drink, which he happily accepts.

A few hours go by, and Raleigh has never been more grateful for the passage of time. He’s no longer contractually obligated to be there and he can finally leave. All night long people are coming up to him left and right, posing for pictures, offering to get him food and drinks.

And the women are relentless with their flirting. Everyone wants a piece of him, and they make no qualms about it. Between the half naked bottle girls constantly circling the section and the fellow VIP party goers clinging onto him in hopes that they’ll be the lucky girl that he takes home, it’s overwhelming. 

He never thought the day would come where he’s actually tired of clubbing, but it’s here. He’d rather be anywhere else. The only bright spot was the alcohol.

He stumbles into his Tribeca apartment a little after 1AM. He doesn’t even bother changing his clothes, he just collapses face first into his comforter.

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket and he groans. After pulling it out, he sees it’s just a Google Alert for an article about him. 

‘Exclusive: Raleigh Carrera Opens Up About Singer Ex-Girlfriend for First Time Since Split!’

Underneath the title of the article is a picture of him and Cassandra together. She’s sitting on his lap and he’s whispering in her ear. Her head is thrown back and she’s laughing hysterically at whatever he’s saying. He can’t remember. The important thing is that he made her laugh.

Seeing that picture of them makes his heart thud wildly in his chest. He’d done a good job of blocking her out, for the most part. Skipping her songs on playlists because he wasn’t ready to hear her voice again, muting all of her social media account but never unfollowing or blocking her. He’s caught in a weird limbo of not wanting to see her and not wanting to let her go.

Before his heart or brain can object, his fingers are dialing her number. He knows the 10 digit sequence by heart.

After a few rings, the line in picked up. “Hello?”

“Cassandra?”

“Raleigh?” Her voice is deep, and Raleigh can surmise that she was asleep when he called.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you up? I didn’t even trip off of the time.”

“I was just up. I was catching up on all of the recorded shows taking up space on my DVR and I must’ve dozed.”

“If you were sleeping, don’t let me hold you up.”

“Is everything okay?”

What a loaded question.

“I don’t know, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“What was streaming my songs not good enough?” He can tell that she’s teasing, her tone light.

“Nothing is better than the real deal, baby.”

“Well, since I’m on the phone, we might as well talk. How have you been? I heard your new single. It’s the one—”

“The one you forced me to start?” Raleigh finishes with a smirk. “Yeah.”

“I think I deserve a writing credit. I played a pivotal role in that song’s conception.”

“I’ll have my people call your people.”

“But seriously, you’ve been working like crazy. Good for you.”

“I hate it,” Raleigh confesses quietly. “I’m exhausted, completely burnt out. It feels like I’m running a race, but the finish line keeps getting pushed back. Or like I’m a hamster on a wheel.”

“Why don’t you stop?”

“Because I’m running from you.”

“Me?”

“I needed to stay busy. I needed to have always have something to look towards, because if I’d stop, I’d think of you. And I’d break.”

The line goes silent for a long time and Raleigh gets nervous. Did he say too much?

“So, what made you decide to call?”

“Because you’re all I can think about. You’ve consumed my thoughts all day, good, bad and in between. I was at the hottest event of the week and all I wanted to do was be with you. I wanted to be at your apartment, curled up in your blankets, binge watching It’s Always Sunny reruns.” Raleigh feels a lump form in his throat and he awkwardly coughs. “And how I wanted to smell the perfume of yours that I’m so obsessed with. And run my fingers through your pink hair. And you’d correct me and say it’s not pink, it’s rose gold, and I’d call it pink again just to annoy you.”

“It’s kinda sad. My latest single has received critical acclaim, it’s already certified, I’m getting early Grammy buzz. I just bought my parents the house of their dreams in San Juan, I made $75 thousand dollars tonight for a stupid appearance. Hell, I’m calling you from my multi-million dollar Tribeca condo, and I should be ecstatic. Raleigh Carrera is on top of the fucking world right now, and I hate to sound ungrateful, but I can’t bring myself to feel joy about any of it. I feel like my insides aren’t connected to my outsides, and my insides are just hollow. This celebrity shit is draining me. The appearances, the interviews, the fake relationships and feuds, all of it. Like I said before, I’m tired. And I just...really fucking miss you, Andy. You were the only real thing I had in this crowd of bullshit, the only person I cared about out here. I’m sorry for rambling, I’m kind of tipsy right now.”

“Oh god, are you going to wake up tomorrow and regret this entire conversation?”

“Of course not,” he says earnestly. “A drunk mind speaks sober thoughts, and all that jazz.”

“This hasn’t been the easiest for me either,” Cassandra admits, her voice shaking slightly. Raleigh frowns at the thought of her crying on the other end of the phone. “I really miss you too.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one struggling.” And he means it. Knowing she felt even slightly similar to him made all the difference.

“Not in the slightest.”

“So what do we do? Are we going to be slaves to our shitty contracts for the rest of our lives?” Raleigh asks rhetorically.

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, I don’t know either.”

They sit in silence for a long time, not knowing what to say, but not wanting to the conversation to end either. They just listen to the sound of each other’s deep breathing.

“Hey, Cassandra?”

“Yes?”

“I’m really sleepy.”

Raleigh hears her giggle on the other line and his stomach flips. God, he’s missed that sound. “Go to sleep, superstar. It’s really late.”

“No,” he says stubbornly. “I want to keep hearing your voice. Stay on until I fall asleep.”

“And talk about what?”

“I don’t care. Whatever you want to talk about.”

Cassandra humors his request and launches into a mini rant about a fitting for some award show she’s scheduled to present at. She and Zadie aren’t seeing eye to eye on what she should wear at all, and they were in a stalemate.

He tries to keep up with her, interjecting with commentary and now and again, but after a few minutes, he stops responding all together.

“Raleigh?” She prods. “Raleigh are you sleeping?” He doesn’t say anything but she hears him breathing softly on the other line. He’s out like a light. “I love you too, Raleigh.”

And with that, she hangs up.

[illyrianwingspans]

Do Not Go Gentle: Trouble

Link to song

Synopsis: The one where Tamlin figures things out, and Feyre loses everything. 

TW: domestic violence, domestic abuse. Please read with caution.

Ao3 link

Chapter 5: Trouble

I was asleep when Tamlin got home Sunday night. Well, I was ‘asleep’. I’d felt the kiss he pressed to my bare shoulder before rolling over onto his side. Then I stayed up most of the night rethinking all that’d happened in the last few months, wondering how life had gotten this messed up.

Rhysand’s words came back to me, how he’d promised that he’d answer my questions tomorrow morning. Tamlin had never explicitly agreed to answering my questions, and at this point, I was in no mood to try and coax any sort of information out of him. Both my mind and my body couldn’t handle it anymore.

The ceaseless commotion of the city life kept me company as I stared out the floor to ceiling windows that stood on the far end of the room, the wall closest to my side of the bed. I used to sleep on the other side—I always felt like I was going to roll off the bed or something and find myself tumbling down onto the sidewalk in my sleep. But after the accident, I’d switched sides: I needed the open space. I’d been stuck inside that car for too long, and the claustrophobia hadn’t left me since.

Blood splattering across the concrete surfaced in my mind, and my eyes snapped open. I would not regress. I could not.

If I went back to who I was after the accident, I was afraid I’d never make it through this.

So I compiled the list of questions mentally until my eyelids felt too heavy and I drifted off, unable to keep myself awake any longer.

+

It felt like I was fucking up every order that came through. Whether it was cream instead of milk or two sugars instead of one, I kept pouring the cups down the sink and starting over, the white ball in my chest growing tighter and tighter with each screw-up.

What made matters worse was my wrist. It kept aching, dully when I wasn’t using it, and in sharp bursts whenever a rush pulled through. My forehead was lined with sweat, and my face was practically sore with every wince.

By the time lunch swept around, I almost got up in a man’s face because I put ‘too much’ whipped cream on his hot chocolate. He’d stormed out of the shop with his middle finger up, and I was ready to climb out from behind the counter and hunt him down. I was snarling like a feral cat as Rhysand walked in, eyebrows raised.

“Did you make him a decaf by accident?” He called out smugly from the entrance. He just stood there, leaning against the wooden doorframe, and I rolled my eyes.

I said, “Try too much whipped cream, if that’s even an issue.”

Rhysand chuckled and finally ventured further into the shop until he was leaning up against the counter, sitting upon one of the bar stools. I made him his usual, in a ceramic mug this time, knowing he’d be lingering today—and Rhysand accepted the mug gratefully.

“You know what, I’ll take one of those tuna paninis as well, if you don’t mind,” he added.

“Feeling adventurous today?”

“No, I’m ravenous.”

“Tuna hits the spot for you?” I wrinkled my nose.

“Pescatarian,” he explained, “and there are other things I’d like to devour, but that would be inappropriate to mention while I’m eating.”

My cheeks warmed—nearly as hot as the panini press—and I replied, “You’ve never held yourself back before.”

“Yes, but telling you exactly how I’d like you splayed out on that table over there would put a dent in your engagement I think.”

I choked on the breath in my throat and turned around to face him, feline smirk and all. “And what makes you think I’d ever say yes to you?”

“Well, the heated cheeks, for one. And the way you froze, for another. I’m quite good at reading body language, Feyre.”

“Can you read this?” I held up my middle finger and presented the sandwich to him, of which he immediately took a big. Pain flared in my wrist and I lowered my sweater-clad arm, trying to shake out whatever flare up I’d triggered.

“Loud and clear,” he smirked around the bite before wiping his mouth with a brown napkin. “You alright?” He pointed to my hand.

“Fine,” I said dismissively. As soon as he swallowed the bite, the first question on my mind escaped my lips. “What kind of pills are they?”

The man stared at me for a few moments before taking a long sip from his mug. The tension sat heavy upon us as our eyes locked together. He set the mug down carefully and straightened out his napkin, then said, “The pills are a variant of hallucinogens that induce intense feelings of euphoria. They’re crossed with stimulant side effects so they don’t make you drowsy. People—mostly white collar workers—are using them for party drugs at the moment, but they’re getting popular in the streets. They call them Cauldron. C’s for short.”

“Why?”

The smirk returned. “Because you never know what they’ve brewed in that shit.”

I snorted. “And I assume you’ve taken it before?”

Another sip of coffee, and a look of disgust. “Never. I don’t do drugs.”

“You work in the drug industry and don’t do drugs?”

“Some things aren’t as black and white as you’d like them to be, Feyre,” was all he said before taking another bite of his sandwich.

“And how long has this operation been going on?”

“Three years,” Rhysand said around a mouthful of tuna, and my stomach dropped. Three years? Tamlin’s been keeping this from me all this time?

He must’ve read the expression on my face because he clarified, “Your boy��s only been involved for the past six months. He’s been offered several times before and well…” my eyebrow quirked, and Rhysand shook his head. “Can’t tell you that. Confidential.”

I sighed. “Fine. How much does each shipment cost?”

“The individual pills go for about ten to fifteen dollars apiece, so I’d say a week’s worth of shipments range between…” his eyes flipped back and forth as he did the mental math. “Around fifty and sixty five thousand dollars.”

My jaw dropped. Tamlin was making that much? In one week?

“A percentage of it goes to Tamlin. I don’t know how much, so don’t ask me, but it’s a nice percentage: just enough to tease him and keep him wanting more.”

“More?”

“Hybern wants a contract. Tamlin might think this is short-term, but once you’re in with them…” Rhysand shook his head. “There’s no going back. They will extort and manipulate and black mail to no end. The law bends around them because of Hybern’s guys in Prythian PD. He’s basically untouchable.”

Untouchable. So Tamlin was going to get roped into this, and we were going to have to live the rest of our lives as fucking drug pushers.

How could he have been so stupid? Why couldn’t he have put his investments into rising stock? Open a new business? Anything except criminal activity?

“The people handling the shipments. Who are they?” My voice was low and patchy. Everything about this was only wearing me down, more weight to add on my shoulders despite the aches that were already there.

Only Rhysand noticed the dip in my mood instantly. Softly, he said, “After Bron and Hart screwed up the last shipment, it’s been my guy. He’s one of my right hands, and he poses absolutely no harm to you. The one thing Tamlin isn’t lying about is that fact that you are safe here.”

They both kept saying that word: safe.

But ever since my hands had touched those plastic wrappers, I haven’t felt safe for a second since. I kept looking over my shoulder as I walked down the street. Every time a new customer came in, I had to look them up and down and evaluate: were they a cop? A junkie looking for a fix? Low level pushers looking for some product to steal?

Everybody seemed to be fine with the drugs except for me. And I wasn’t sure how much longer I could handle this.

“How do I know I can trust you?” I asked quietly.

Rhysand took the last bite of his sandwich and stared at me as he chewed. Slowly. Once he swallowed, he said, “Because you’ve got nobody else to turn to.”

Tears filled my eyes when he said those words. It was true: I had nobody else. Not even my fiancée or my best friend could answer my questions because they were too damn head strong and stubborn. They thought they were protecting me.

I understood why. But I also really, really didn’t.

“Feyre.”

My gaze snapped back up to take in the concern flickering in Rhysand’s eyes. He licked his lips then said, “You have me. It seems like you’ve got nobody right now, but you have me.” With that, he pulled out a pen and scribbled a phone number on a new napkin, then slid it over the counter to me.

“If there’s absolutely anything I can do, you call me. No matter the time or day.”

I looked from him to the napkin and back. “Why?”

It took Rhysand a few moments before he said, “Because I see you. I see you, and I see your pain, and I just want to help make it better in any fractional way that I can.”

There were so many things I wanted to say but Rhysand swiftly got to his feet, drained the rest of his coffee then turned on his heel, heading straight for the door.

“Rhysand?” I called.

He paused and slowly looked over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” I said, and it wasn’t sarcastic or bitten out like a witty retort, but true. Sincere.

“Call me Rhys, darling.” He replied as he adjusted the collar of his suit. “Only my enemies call me Rhysand.”

This time, he'd left a fifty beneath his plate.

+

This week, when the shipments came, I stared at the man handling the units from the entry to the storage room. We exchanged no words beside a heavy, tension-filled gaze as he unloaded the pastries and sandwiches, then loaded the boxes and boxes of 'coffee' silently. He was tall, darker skinned with that same jet black hair. If I wasn’t imagining things, I could’ve sworn he was a copy of Rhys and Cassian, only with his features scrambled: where Rhys’s eyes were wide and bright, this man’s were sharper. More narrow. And his hair was shorter, sticking closer to his scalp, which only further accentuated those high cheekbones. If they were brothers, like Cassian had hinted at, it must’ve been one hell of a gene pool.

The man had said nothing, and neither had I. Just a normal day. Just a normal shipment.

Yet all my mind could think of were drugs, drugs, drugs.

To get everything off my mind, I texted Cassian.

I need to see you. Tonight.

Within minutes, he responded. Feyre, we’ve been over this. You’re engaged. Sex is off the table, no matter how attractive I may be.

I rolled my eyes. You know what I mean. Are you free?

Of course. I’ll see you at seven. You bring the wine, I’ll bring the condoms.

Asshole.

The minute hand couldn’t move fast enough today. At some point I tried experimenting with the syrups and trying to configure new drinks for the holidays coming up—pumpkin spice season was fizzling out—but everything tasted like hyperglycaemia and cholesterol. Plus, my right wrist was still killing me even after I’d iced it yesterday.

There was nothing else I could do besides wait. Wait, and let my thoughts send me careening off the deep-end, unable to roll myself back in. Even in the light of day the parasite of darkness wouldn’t go away, and I was stuck, sitting on the stool, trying to blink back tears every few minutes as the waves of emotions continued to crest through me until the day ended.

I texted Tamlin before my shift was over. I’m meeting with a university friend for dinner tonight.

His response came seconds later. Who?

You’ve never met them, I lied. It’s just dinner. I’ll be home around eight.

Fine.

It was one word, and in my mind it sounded like a growl, but at least I got his approval. Once five o’clock came around and I was off my shift, I went home, shovelled some left-overs into my mouth then set out into the streets and down to Wind avenue. This time of year I needed to bundle myself up. It was going to snow any day soon—but for now, Prythian was stuck in limbo where the rain didn’t freeze to snow but it was cold enough to bite you in the ass. Trees shed their leaves and spread them through the city like an epidemic of wildfire. Every where I walked, those patterns of orange and red and gold were stuck in the nooks and crannies of the sidewalk. Fall used to be my favourite season, but this year it fell short. The lack of daylight was a blessing and a curse—more time for the stars to shine, but more time for the darkness to reign.

Cassian was already at the reception desk when I entered the building. His mouth was set into a concerned frown. “What’s going on, Feyre?”

In the month or so that we’d grown to know each other, Cassian could read me, better than anybody in my life could for some reason. He was probably the closest person I had to a friend—him, Rhys and Alis (though it was kind of in Alis’s job description to be my friend). I could read him, too. On days where he pushed his body to the limits, when his jokes ran dry and his eyes lacked the light and amusement they usually held, I tried to liven him up in any way that I could.

But tonight I didn’t want to talk. Tonight, I just wanted to punch and kick until my knuckles bled and my knees buckled.

“Fight first. Talk later.” With that, I wandered into the changing rooms.

When I walked out, Cassian was already in the ring, fists raised. I didn’t hesitate before donning the gloves he’d laid out for me and raising my own hands.

And Cassian didn’t hesitate to throw the first punch.

+

Another punch. I pivoted on the ball of my right foot, and saw that his left side was open. Instinctively, my left hand prepared for a low hook, but Cassian anticipated the move and went for an uppercut instead. I knocked it out of the way with a simple swipe of my right hand, and winced at the bone to bone impact of his forearm onto my wrist. Even with the thick sweater, I still felt the full brunt of hit and ground my teeth.

“You alright?”

“Yes,” I spit out, and tried a right switch kick. His leg met his elbow instantly in a flawless block, and he followed up with a jab only to find I’d stepped out of the way. With every movement, though, my wrist throbbed, and I had to close my eyes for a few seconds as a wave of pain rushed over me.

“Feyre, I’m not fucking around anymore. What’s going on?” He lowered his fists and stepped out of his stance to stand in front of me. Scowling, I pushed his chest with both my gloves fists.

“Come on,” I egged him on, “stop it. Let’s fight.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow, which normally would’ve been a playful gesture, but his features were filled with contempt. “Seriously? You want to fight, Archeron?” Then he grabbed my right wrist. Hard.

I gasped out a grunt of pain and my left hand instinctively slapped his grip away. “What the hell, Cassian?” He let go and I cradled my wrist in my hand. Wildfire spread through my arm, and I had to bite my lip to keep it from trembling.

“My office. Now.”

Without another word, he stepped out of the ring and into the employee’s room. Sighing, I stripped off my gloves—careful of the sharp pains shooting up my arm—and followed suit, knowing I was in for a round of even more painful lies.

The employee’s room was a foldout table and a mini kitchen with a fridge. A hallway continued past the shared area and into an office, where I could hear Cassian rifling through drawers. When I entered the space, I blinked in surprise: it was neat, professional and extremely tedious. By looking at Cassian, most would think he was a slob, but his desk was organized immaculately, right down to the alignment of his pens next to the open folder on his desk. Only he wasn’t in this room. There was a light on in what looked like a closet space just beyond the bookshelves lining the walls, the only light shining through the room besides the moonlight entering through the wide windows.

It wasn’t a storage space like I’d thought, but an infirmary. There was a singular uplifted patient bed up against the far wall lined with wax paper, and Cassian squatted down as he rifled through the drawers.

“Sit down,” he ordered. No tenderness, no softness or concern. Concern had left the window as soon as Cassian had taken those gloves off.

“Cassian, seriously, I’m fine—”

“If you say those words again, I’m firing you as my friend. Now sit down and shut up.”

Sighing, I shuffled over to the bed and hoisted myself up carefully with my left hand. The paper crinkled beneath me, and I stared at my toes as my legs swung back and forth below me. The sleeves still hid the bruises, which had faded to a lighter shade of green-purple. Not as sickening as they were the day before, but still raunchy enough to incite concern.

“There,” he said, before pushing off the ground and standing before me. He held out his hand and ordered, “wrist.”

I shook my head and clasped my hands between my thighs. I couldn’t meet his eyes, which I knew were staring down at me piercingly, ready to explode any second.

“Feyre,” he said, “you’re hurt. Please, just let me help you.”

Ever since I was a kid, I’d never relied on anyone else.

Nesta and Elain, my sisters, both had two wheel bikes while I was still stuck in training wheels. My father told me it was because they were older and were more experienced—but I didn’t care. I wanted to be like them, I wanted to prove that I was just as good as them. So I stole Elain’s bike one day when they weren’t home and tried to pedal by myself.

I fell so many times that day I was surprised I didn’t break a limb. Scratches lined my body up and down, my mother was horrified when she saw me and told me I’d been irresponsible. Child-like. Nobody helped me as I’d poured the anti-septic on the cotton swabs and dabbed at the sensitive flesh. Nobody patted my head and told me I was going to be okay. No, I bandaged myself up, then got back on Elain’s bike the next day, and the day after that until I could finally ride the damn thing without dying in the process.

The same pattern followed me throughout my life. I relied on no one, nobody except myself.

I don’t know what it was about the words that incited the burst of fear. Maybe it was the stress or the pain or the exhaustion, but I began to cry silent tears as I rolled up my sleeve and showed Cassian the bruises. His face fell as he gently examined them.

“Feyre,” he murmured, as he gently prodded the marks, “you’ve got to tell me what happened.”

“I fell.”

“Bullshit.”

“Cassian, I’m a clumsy person. You’ve told me yourself that I’ve got two left feet.”

There was fire in his eyes when he said, “Fall injuries would’ve caused bruising to your knees, maybe torso. But wrists?” He gently took both my wrists in his hands and held them up. A breath hitched in my throat as I remembered being pressed up against the window pane and feeling like death was standing just above my shoulder. “I’m not an idiot. So stop lying to me.”

Carefully, he released me and I let my arms fall to my lap, not caring that another flare of pain shot through my nerves. Never again would I be able to look Cassian in the eyes. Not now that he knew the truth—well, guessed correctly at the truth.

“If somebody is hurting you—” he tried once more with thunder in his voice, but I interjected quickly.

“It’s not going to happen again. It happened once, it was a mistake, and everything’s fine now.” The words were hollow. Empty. Because something in me knew that they were lies.

Cassian wasn’t appeased, though. His jaw was clenched so tight I thought he was going to break a tooth as he unwrapped the compression brace and slid my wrist into it, then velcroed it shut. I’d probably have to take it off as soon as I got home to not piss off Tamlin further. If he found out I ever told somebody about this… I didn’t even want to imagine his fury.

“I can call someone,” Cassian said softly, “one of my closest friends is a lawyer. She can get you out of this.”

“Stop,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut at the tears that threatened to fall, “please.”

My voice broke on the word. So pathetic and weak and broken…

“Okay,” Cassian murmured, and as my chest began to shake with sobs, both of his arms wrapped around me and he held me tightly against his chest. “It’s okay.” He kept murmuring it over and over into my ear, but all I could thin was it’s not, it’s not, it’s not okay.

+

He told me to call him if anything ever were to happen to me, and I promised I would, but I’ve been promising a lot of people a lot of things these days that weren’t true. He gave me one last hug in the lobby before releasing me, and I was on my way back to the condo in the cool night.

Only when I entered the parking garage, Tamlin’s car was already there. He said he was coming home late tonight. I thought I’d have time before I got home to shower. Gods, I was still in my workout clothes.

My hands were shaking as I rode the elevator up. Terror streaked through me, cold and pulsing within my limbs, and I had to clamp my jaw shut to keep my teeth from chattering. I could probably lie my way out of it. Besides, Tamlin was probably just in is office losing track of time with paper work like he always did.

The doors opened after punching in the key code. Silence blanketed the apartment eerily, and my footsteps echoed throughout the space. HIs shoes were at the door, and his coat was in its usual spot on the coat hanger. Quietly, I padded through the penthouse down the hallway into our room. He wasn’t there either. I made the best of it and changed quickly into different clothes—more appropriate for an outing with a friend—then stepped back out after stuffing my workout clothes to the bottom of my hamper along with the wrist brace.

Light shined through the crevice of his office door. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself, then knocked softly. “Tamlin?”

“Come in.” Cold, dismissive. My stomach lurched at the sound, but I opened the door nonetheless and found myself facing him from where he sat behind his dark wooden desk. Bookshelves lined either side of the room, and the windows stood behind Tamlin, looking over the city. A print of Spring Corp tower hung proudly on one wall in black and white. My eyes darted between Tamlin, whose scowl made my knees quake, and the half empty glass clutched in his right hand.

“How was dinner?” He asked, but there was no sincerity in his voice.

I swallowed hard. “Fine. What’d you have?”

He licked his lips, then pushed off his desk to stand. “I bought soup from Suriel’s again for you. But you had other plans tonight.”

My face fell. “I’m sorry, Tam. It was so last minute, and I didn’t want to blow her off again—”

He laughed, and it was empty, hollow. “Blow her off? No. But you probably blew him, didn’t you?”

Heat spread through my cheeks. “What?”

“The guy you were with. The gym on Wind Avenue?”

The burning in my chest was like wildfire. “How did you…”

“Sorry, Feyre, but you don’t have friends,” he spat the word like venom, and I flinched. “I knew as soon as you texted me that you were lying to me.”

“So you followed me?” I demanded, incredulous. How could he be so invasive?

“Well, apparently you’ve been doing this a lot for the past two months, so what’s the arrangement? Casual sex? Or are you actually in love with this low-life?” He turned to look out over the city, and beneath his white shirt I could see his muscles tensing. “Every weekend you go to Wind Avenue Gym. You meet with the same man at the reception, then there’s at least an hour that you’re unaccounted for.”

“Are you fucking stalking me?”

“Tamlin—”

“Answer me,” he snapped and slammed his fist down on the wood.

It shook something within me, and I quipped back with equal ferocity, “Where is it that you go, eh? You don’t see me prying into your life every second of the day.”

“Because I am out there working my ass off to put food on the table! To pay for this place, to pay for everything! And this is how you repay me? By fucking other guys?”

“I’m not cheating on you!” I shrieked, my hands clutching the emptiness in front of me. “Where the fuck is this coming from?”

Tamlin strode out from behind the desk until we were facing each other, our faces only inches apart. Deathly low, he said, “I know that you meet him. At the gym. What is it, you guys fuck in the locker rooms or something?”

Tears spilled onto my cheeks at the absurdity of the situation. My voice was rough and breaking as I yelled, “I’m not cheating on you, I am working out! It’s just boxing, for fuck’s sake Tamlin, I’m trying to protect myself!” My hands clutched my chest and a sob tore through me. “I’m trying to have some sort of control on the situation that you’ve put me in!” I pointed an accusatory finger at him and his eyes flared with rage.

“Why not ask me? Why not come to me for help?” His fist pounded at his chest.

“I did and you said no. You completely shut me down, like you always do.”

“You don’t trust me,” he spat, then continued louder, “Why don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t trust you because you’re a liar and a fucking drug dealer!” The words tore from me.

Like sparks and a match, we ignited. The heat, the rage, the anger simply exploded, until all that remained was my broken, limp body, and his heavy breathing as the adrenaline faded, and time regained its normal rhythm.

I couldn’t quite remember what’d happened. Either purposefully, or because I’d kept my eyes shut tight the entire time, all I remembered was lying on the floor.

He slammed me into his desk. Hard. That I knew. I think I hit my head on the floor after his hands let go and I fell limp, but all I knew was that I laid there, still. Un-breathing. Hoping, wishing that maybe this time it was hard enough to kill me.

“Feyre,” he whispered, and tears streamed down my face.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Feyre,” he moaned, like he was the one in pain, like I did this to him.

I breathed, “It’s okay. Just…” My breath rattled in my lungs, and I let out a wheezing cough. “Give me some space.”

"Feyre," he said once more, and his footsteps grew closer.

"Don't," I sobbed, "please, don't touch me. Go. Just go."

I didn’t remember him leaving. I didn’t remember how he’d stepped over and brushed my hair with the back of his hand despite my protests. All I could do was lie on that floor, close my eyes, and pray that this was some sort of nightmare, and that I’d be waking up any second.

That night, Tamlin took a piece of me. He’d taken them slowly over the time we were together, so infinitesimally small that I hadn’t noticed until I was left with a withered version of my self, the version of myself that let herself be used like a brute’s rag doll.

Today, Tamlin took a piece of me. One that I’d never, ever get back again.

+

The next morning, Tamlin got on a plane. There was a business meeting he had to attend on the west coast. I tried to convince myself that the tears in his eyes as he whispered another apology to me were genuine, that he truly felt sorry for what’d he’d done, but I knew better.

Yet still, despite the fact that I knew better, I couldn’t leave him.

Because as I stood there in the back of the storage room, trying to stifle my sobs and wipe away the tears on my face, I realized that I had no where else to go. I didn’t have money. I didn’t have friends. My family had all but disowned me after I left.

I had nothing to my name and no one to rely on. The thought settled within me like a heavy stone.

The bell to the shop rang, and I tried to wipe my face, to make myself look as presentable as I could. I smiled at the two men who approached the counter and asked, “Hi, what can I get you today?”

“Shut the fuck up,” said the first man, voice like gravel, “and bring us the drugs.”

My heart stopped. I looked at the man, who was of average height and brown, greasy hair. His eyes, though, were blue like crystal waters. The one beside him couldn’t have been older than me—and he probably looked just as terrified.

Shakingly, I replied, “I—I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

The man reached into his back pocket and the next thing I knew there was cold metal pressed against my forehead. “Go get the C’s,” the man threatened, “or I start shooting.”

The bullet clicked into the chamber, and I stopped breathing.

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

Quick updates while I wait for the valerian, ginger, and zofran to kick in:

~ Finally took White to the vet for her recently-returned head tilt issue, and was greatly reassured. 

Because it’s brief episodes and not a constant tilt or consistently worsening, the vet assured me that it’s not a toxicity or infection or nutrition imbalance, or resulting from her (congenitally) enlarged liver. I have a bunch of vitamins to give her though, and steroids to see if we can reduce it any. Because it’s not impacting her overall quality of life, but it’s not fun to not be able to coordinate.

He compared it to being a little bit like epilepsy. She’s disabled, basically. (Which is why I adopted her in the first place... I thought I could fix her with nutrition, but that wasn’t the case. And that’s fine. I love her even with her weird angles that freaks my family out, apparently. She’s a sweetie and I’ll coo and croon to her through every episode I see until it stops and she stands right-side up again.)

And then, new job.

I’m a touch disappointed, I was hoping to be dealing with the more business-relations-y side, and less sales. But it’s like... all sales. Entirely. 

If I was in better health, I wouldn’t be feeling negatively towards it at all. But it requires standing for 5-7 hours, and constantly initiating conversation... so, I’m wiped. Drained... exhausted, too little energy to begin with. But it’s probably the easier job I’ve ever had, exertion-wise. (I’m just... still sick. And standing for hours while fatigued already. But whatever, I need money to survive.)

~ No car, no problem. Carpooling is indeed a thing they’re alright with. (Half the office doesn’t have a car. ?!)

~ Didn’t have a chance to bring up my health issues or doctor appt yet;; but was assured that while in the field, if I needed a food or bathroom break, that was just fine, nobody cared because the only person I hurt is myself and my own chances of making a pitch.

~ i didn’t Have An Episode today but i also kiiiiiind of didn’t really eat at work;;  not sure how to manage Working with Being Unable to Eat Much for an entire Four More Days, but we’ll see.

But it’s a job I can make $600/week (2400/month and 28,800/year) without going into thousands and thousands of dollars into debt, it’s a job that offers rapid advancement to management, and I’m gonna be honest. Salespeople get a bad rep. If it’s a good salesperson: they’re not pushy, they’re not only trying to make a sale, they’re only making a sale if you have a WANT and a NEED that they can fill. It’s about helping people, connecting with them and creating positive rapport so they feel comfortable being honest with you.

(NOT luring someone into buying something they don’t want. And it sure as hell should NOT be about pressuring someone into spending money.)

It’s not something I would’ve ever imagined myself doing in a million years (in fact, it’s the one thing I thought I would NEVER do).

But today was my very first day, and within 5 hours I made a sale. I got phone numbers for two others who were interested but needed further discussion with their housemates.

And I guess, with my own business endeavors, I’ve really gotten a good grasp on the whole “filling a need” thing. Sales really isn’t evil. And being a good salesperson isn’t going ot make me evil, either. It’s how you use your skills to either help others, or help yourself.

Yeah, I need the money. But I’m vowing now, I’m not gonna give someone something they don’t want. Or make them pay for anything unless they know it’s there and know exactly how much they’re paying for what. Full disclosure is my policy.

But cable and internet are considered necessities by a lot of people now. It’s just a matter of seeing if I can save them any money with the promotions, really...

......(I’m kinda using this post to practice for my family, who are going to try convincing me that I shouldn’t be in a sales job because they know I hate talking to people, pitching sales, generally interacting with people... but I don’t know how to convey to them that it’s really not ENJOYING THE WORK in the moment that matters, it’s the long-term future goal of stability, and buying a car, and moving out, and NOT going into thousands of dollars of debt so that I can actually OWN what I OWN and KEEP the money that I make instead of pouring it down the debt drain.)

I don’t actively enjoy the field work, but it’s something I can do physically, they’re as eager to teach and advance me as I am to learn, and once I start doing it well, I’ll be raking in the cash.

Finally getting to where I REALLY want to be in my end-goal Stage 3 of Life Scenario is going to be worth it.

Five more years. I just have to make it through five years of this, and I’ll be able to pay off my debt (couple thousand really isn’t a lot of debt, overall), pay off a car, have a place, make it home, have a garden... maybe even have earned my freedom from this job field. Maybe I’ll go back to school, maybe I’ll focus on my personal endeavor. maybe I’ll make a retirement plan...

In 2020, I want to be able to attend my sister’s wedding and visit a dear friend in Ireland. Maybe stop by another friend’s in England, while I’m there.

But right now, I need to focus entirely on getting my finances under control. Especially after losing two weeks of work to this illness.... ;; Money money money... that’s how it goes, really. Isn’t it.

[fiftyeightminutes]

The Curtains Close On a Kiss A Blueski Fanmix

Listen Here

Tracklist below because as with my previous fanmix, I wanted to write a bit about each song choice.

1.  Sleepsong by Bastille (gif credit)

Oh, in the strangest dreams, walking by your side It is the hole you impose upon your life When you're out, loneliness, it crawls up in the ground It's what you feel, but can't articulate out loud. Oh you go to sleep on your own and you wake each day with your thoughts And it scares you being alone It's a last resort

When we first meet them, Will and Riley are both haunted by their pasts.  With Will we see this immediately, the episode starting off a memory of Sara Patrell overlapping with his visions of Angelica.  With Riley, we don’t know about her past, but there is an obvious sadness to her.  Neither of them want to be alone, but through circumstances beyond their control they have found themselves that way.  Riley has lost so much, her mother and husband and daughter all dead back in Iceland.  Will’s father is a shadow of his father self, and he never believed Will about Sara Patrell.

2.  I See the Light from Tangled (gif credit)

And at last I see the light And it's like the fog has lifted And at last I see the light And it's like the sky is new And it's warm and real and bright And the world has somehow shifted All at once everything looks different Now that I see you

Then Will and Riley see each other for the first time, and everything changes.  After so long being emotionally isolated, they instantly feel an affection for each other.  They are in love at first sight.

3.  Gasoline by Halsey (gif credit)

Are you insane like me? Been in pain like me? Bought a hundred dollar bottle of champagne like me? Just to pour that motherfucker down the drain like me? Would you use your water bill to dry the stain like me? Are you high enough without the Mary Jane like me? Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me? Do the people whisper 'bout you on the train like me? Saying that you shouldn't waste your pretty face like me?

Riley doesn’t want to open up to Will about her life at first.  She doesn’t want to get him involved in her world, even though she witnessed a shootout and knows she is being followed because of the drugs and money she accidentally took.  Even before that happened, she was already in a dark place.  Although talking to Will makes her happy, she also doesn’t want him to see the side of her that numbs herself to the pain with drugs.

4.  Cough Syrup by Young the Giant (gif credit)

Life's too short to even care at all oh I'm coming up now coming up now out of the blue oh These zombies in the park they're looking for my heart oh oh oh oh A dark world aches for a splash of the sun oh oh If I could find a way to see this straight, I'd run away To some fortune that I, I should have found by now And so I run to the things they said could restore me Restore life the way it should be I'm waiting for this cough syrup to come down

Unfortunately, Riley doesn’t have much of a choice about Will getting involved.  Nyx finds her, trying to kill her when she tells him she doesn’t have his money.  Even though they have just been reborn as sensates, Will feels Riley being attacked.  He saves her.  But London is no longer safe for Riley, and she knows it.  She wants to go back home to her father, but she believes returning to Iceland will put the people she loves in danger.  While she is grappling with this choice, Will is dealing with the consequences of helping Nomi.  He is suspended from his job as a cop, something that is a core part of his sense of self.  When Riley arrives in Iceland, she visits with Yrsa while Will is visited by Jonas.  They finally admit to each other that they’re not as alright as they’ve wanted the other to think.

5.  A Thousand Years by Christina Perri (gif credit)

Time stands still Beauty in all she is I will be brave I will not let anything, take away What's standing in front of me Every breath, every hour has come to this One step closer I have died everyday, waiting for you Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years I'll love you for a thousand more

When Riley is taken by BPO, Jonas is right to say that the first thought in Will’s mind is getting on a plane to save her.  From the moment they met, they’ve been constantly on each other’s minds.  It has only been a couple of weeks, but there is no hesitation from Will.  He does everything in his power to get to Riley.  But in the process, he makes eye contact with Whispers.  They get as far as they can from him, Will driving to the top of the mountain.  But Riley is struggling with her flashbacks.  With her new sensate abilities making her relive the day of her daughter’s death over and over, Riley is in an unbearable amount of pain.  Will can feel that pain.  With Whispers on their trail, Jonas and the memory of Angelica are telling him the only way to save the rest of their cluster is to kill himself.  But Will knows this would doom Riley to death as well.  He has just found this amazing woman, and he realizes in that moment that he loves her.  He loves her, and he refuses to give her up.  Will confesses his love to Riley, giving her the strength to save them both.

6.  Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men (gif credit)

There's an old voice in my head That's holding me back Well tell her that I miss our little talks Soon it will all be over, and buried with our past We used to play outside when we were young And full of life and full of love Some days I don't know if I am wrong or right. Your mind is playing tricks on you my dear 'Cause though the truth may vary This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore

Riley is reliving the worst day of her life, sure that she was supposed to die on this mountain.  But she can feel the strength of Will’s love for her.  Through her pain, Will’s love gives Riley the strength to save them both.  To live.  Riley drives for the first time in years, bringing them to Sven’s boat to escape safely.  They don’t know what the future holds in store for them, but Riley and Will know that together they can make it through.

7.  Where Do We Go From Here? From Once More, With Feel (the Buffy musical episode) (gif credit)

Where do we go from here? Where do we go from here? The battle's done, And we kind of won So we sound our victory cheer Where do we go from here?

The cluster have won their first battle with BPO, saving Riley and escaping from Whispers.  But Will looked Whispers in the eyes, and their war has only just begun.  He has to live in a state of semi-consciousness, hiding from Whispers while still trying to gather information on him.  They’re starting to run out of options.  Will’s body is slowly succumbing to the heroin.  For a while, Riley has to have faith that Will can pull through this.  She believes in him, but there is no clear plan.  Their future is uncertain.

8.  Heartlines by Florence + the Machine (gif credit)

We will carry We will carry you there Just keep following The heartlines on your hand Just keep following The heartlines on your hand Keep it up, I know you can Just keep following The heartlines on your hand 'Cause I am

Whispers finds Will’s father on Christmas.  Seeing his father struggling without him is too much, and Will admits to Riley that he’s not sure he can win.  He has been strong for his cluster for months, but because of his savior mentality he felt like this was his burden to carry alone.  Riley reminds him that he is never alone anymore.  He doesn’t have to fight Whispers by himself - they will defeat him together.

9.  All The Small Things by Blink 182 (gif credit)

All the small things True care truth brings I'll take one lift Your ride best trip Always I know You'll be at my show Watching, waiting, commiserating Say it ain't so, I will not go Turn the lights off, carry me home

Together, the cluster gets one over on Whispers.  But it doesn’t take long for Whispers to come back into their lives, driving Will and Riley back into hiding.  When they realize that there must be more sensates out there than any of them thought, Riley makes a decision.  She is tired of hiding.  She decides to take Vincent up on his offer to do a last minute show.  Will is worried, but he trusts and supports her decision.   Likewise, Riley feels and understands Will’s worry.  She gives him her strength and love, and her speech at her show is largely directed at telling him just how much he has given to her in their time together.

10.  Colors by April Smith and the Great Picture Show (gif credit)

I'll wear your colors my dear Until you're standing right here Next to the one who adores you Whose heart is beating for you Like a lighthouse guides a shipwrecked sailor safely from the sea I'll wear your colors til you come back home to me I'm hoping you return the glow I'm just making sure you know That no matter how, no matter when You come back to me

Riley’s plan works.  They find more sensates, the first of whom is The Old Man of Hoy.  They ask for his help, and he and the Archipelago agree to give it.  But they have one condition - Riley has to go to Chicago alone.  It is the first time Will and Riley have been separated since they met in person, and it is extremely hard on both of them.  Will is especially worried, considering Riley is taking a huge leap of faith in trusting Mr. Hoy and the Archipelago.  This could easily be a trap.  When Will’s father dies, it gets worse.  Will struggles.  But they hold strong for each other over the distance.

11.  Learn To Let Go by Kesha (gif credit)

Had a boogeyman under my bed Putting crazy thoughts inside my head Always whispering, "It's all your fault" He was telling me, "No, you're not that strong" I know I'm always like Telling everybody, "You don't gotta be a victim Life ain't always fair, but hell is living in resentment Choose redemption, your happy ending's up to you" So I think it's time to practice what I preach Exorcise the demons inside me Whoa, gotta learn to let it go

Will is struggling with the death of his father.  Whispers has been doing everything in his power to make the loss as painful as possible for Will.  It reverberates through the rest of the cluster, and Capheus is almost hurt when Will is unable to pull himself out of his pain.  He has been strong for the rest of his cluster for so long, always encouraging them when they need it.  Will has especially been there for Riley through her pain, helping her recover and lending her his strength.  But is is hard for him to do this for himself.  When Capheus is taken after the rally, the cluster confronts Will.  They feel his pain, and they don’t blame him.  But Riley tells him that they need him.  Capheus forgives him instantly, but Will decides in that moment to work through the pain.  He has helped Riley survive hers - they can do this.

[oncethrown]

Cold Press and Half Truths

For Shadowhunters AU Mondays @shadowhuntersaumondays

Set in the Never Stand Between Two Mirrors ‘verse, about a year after the end of the story. 

Read on AO3

“No,” Jace declared, waving an arm in front of him to punctuate his point. “No way. You can’t bring that into the truck.”

Alec shifted his grip on Lydia’s baby, Tabitha, holding her up so that she was eye to eye with Jace. “But look how cute she is.”

“She is a health hazard. She is a licensing violation,” Jace said, pushing his hair back off his face. “She will throw up on hundreds of dollars of equipment, and ruin my life.”

“I will let you smell her head,” Alec countered.

“I don’t want to smell any part of that baby in my truck.”

Alec frowned and brought Tabitha back to his chest, adjusting the little hat he had carefully velcroed onto under her chin before venturing out. She squinted at him in a way that was oddly reminiscent of Lydia, despite the fact that Tabitha had huge squishy cheeks, and Lydia did not.

“I will forget to tell Lydia that you called her daughter a health hazard.”

Jace pursed his lips, but gave in, waving Alec toward the door into the Java Jace coffee truck.

Alec sighed in relief as he moved into the shade. When he’d decided to take Tabitha out for a walk half and hour ago, the preparing-to-set-sun had not looked anywhere near as merciless as it actually was.

Thank god Magnus had enchanted the little hat and the stroller to protect Tabitha from the sun and the heat, or Alec would be holding a half cooked baby, and probably wondering if he should just kill himself rather than chance Lydia’s revenge.

Alec leaned back against the truck wall. “Could I get a cold press?”

“Are you serious?” Jace demanded.

“Do Lids and I do all your marketing for free?” Alec replied.

“Godammit. Coming right up.” Jace grabbed the pitcher of cold press out of the mini fridge. “So, what brings you out to the park today?”

“Magnus and I were babysitting, but he had an appointment he had to take, so I thought Tabitha and I would get out of his hair for a while.”

Jace gave Alec a sidelong look as he filled a  plastic cup with ice. Alec tried to pretend he couldn’t see all the questions in that look.

A sudden appointment. For a psychic. A psychic who somehow managed to afford a huge loft near the park.

It had been sort of… thrilling at first. New boyfriend. Secret world. Torturously slow blowjobs where Magnus would stop to tease his tongue over the rune that Alec’s gloomy demon hunter alternate self had burnt into his skin during his foray into a legitimate alternate dimension. Alec had never fallen so hard, or so fast before.

But that had been over a year ago. The more permanent a fixture Magnus was in his life, the more obvious it was becoming that he couldn’t keep everything he needed to about Magnus secret forever.

And every day it was getting harder not to tell someone. Jace and Clary were openly suspicious about Magnus’s money. Simon and Isabelle kept accidentally working Magnus into pockets of pop culture knowledge that were somehow wrong, or old fashioned in a weird way that neither Magnus nor Alec understood, but spoke mysterious volumes to Simon and Isabelle.

And Lids…she was going to figure it out. If the secret behind Magnus had been something more… earthly, more possible, she would have figured it out already. She knew there was something weird about him. She knew when Alec was keeping a secret, and now that she’d had to give up her own freelance career and throw in with Alec… she was going to figure it out. Or work her way to a conclusion that made sense without the demons and the magic and the secret worlds on the other side of purple doors.

And he didn’t know what he was going to tell her when she did.

Alec felt the most guilty about not telling Jace. Maybe that’s why he’d found himself wandering in the direction of Java Jace’s when he’d been suddenly expelled from Magnus’s loft.

Jace handed the cold press to Alec just as a customer walked up to the front of the truck.

He was tall and handsome, with tight, neat dreads brushing across the tips of his shoulders, gold and emerald beads hanging from a few of them in a very carefully curated manner. The air around him shimmered in a way that Alec had learned to recognize and he looked through the glamour. The man was still handsome, but underneath the glamour his normal flat, round nose was triangular, raised, and catlike. A warlock. Like Magnus.

He asked for an ice mocha, which Jace cheerfully made him. Alec turned his attention back to Tabitha while Jace worked, tickling her toes until she made a noise that was a little bit more of a grunt than a laugh.

“Jesus shit,” Jace huffed. “That guy just dropped a 50 dollar bill in the tip jar.”

Alec nodded, before realizing he was entirely too unsurprised. Warlocks were generous tippers. Most of the warlocks now were centuries old. They’d been investing since before the stock market was a thing and only the stupidest and most extravagant found themselves short on cash.

Magnus was 900 years old.

And Alec wanted to be able to tell Jace that.

Without sounding crazy.

Jace stared at Alec. “A 50 dollar tip,” he repeated.

“Wow. That’s… maybe he’s in a good mood?”

Jace quirked his head to the side and leaned back at the corner of the counter, so he could face Alec, but still see if any customers were approaching. “Everything okay? You and Magnus…”

“Yeah,” Alec replied, not so fast that it seemed suspicious. “We’re great.”

“And you and Lydia and everything? Working together. That’s still okay?”

Alec decided to latch onto this to cover his earlier error. He let out an exaggeratedly mirthless chuckle. “We’ll see after tonight.” He moved Tabitha up onto his shoulder and started to bounce her. “She and John are going to the Opera.”

“I thought she hated opera now,” said Jace.

“She hates the snobby opera bitches that didn’t understand that not everyone can afford a nanny. She hated the way all of her former clients and associates made her feel low rent because she actually had to take care of her own child. She still loves the opera. And she’s been complaining that all she ever gets to do now is mom stuff and wanted to go out on a real full date. Dinner. Opera. Drinks. I mean… we’ll see how the night goes. She asked if Magnus and I would watch her because his place is closest to the Met, so if they needed to they could get to the loft fast, but she also explained to me what “Pump and Dump” means, so I have no idea how her night is really going to go.”

“Do I want to know what Pump and Dump means?” Jace asked.

“I guess it’s when you pump out all the breast milk that gets contaminated with alcohol and dump it down the drain. I couldn’t think of a good way to ask her if she’s just going to be tits out in the bathroom of the Met, pouring breast milk down the sink… but I think she would see it as an appropriate “fuck you” if she did.”

Jace’s face squeezed inward. “Why can’t I stop picturing it now?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop seeing it either. It’s extremely disconcerting.”

Jace shook his head, grabbed a cup and started making himself something. “Okay. Angry… breast milk things aside, she likes her new job with you?”

Alec shrugged. “We always did the same thing. She’s just… not doing it in a stupid way anymore. The brunch botox and balayage crowd will keep paying for opera. We’re going to actually help people. We set up a google doc where we can compare amounts. It’s driving her nuts that I’m still thirty thousand dollars ahead of her for the month.”

“You don’t think she���s going to find a rich opera friend tonight to make up the difference?”

Alec laughed. “Oh, she will. But now we both win if she does.”

Jace laughed too. Over Alec’s shoulder, Tabitha started to make a noise, like she was starting to get fussy. Alec set his drink down, freeing up both hands so he could bounce and spin her where she could see him, which usually helped.

The strange look on Jace’s face as he played with the baby eventually caught Alec’s eye. “What is it?”

“Did you…did you get a tattoo?”

Alec shifted Tabitha into one arm and checked his jeans, which, with no belt, had migrated downward off his hip.

For just a second, Alec considered telling Jace the truth. Trying to find a way to make the rune on his hip a rock on which to build his insane story about magic, and dimensions and demons. Letting it be the first step in the path to being able to tell his best friend that the guy Alec was pretty sure he was going to spend the rest of his life with had been to the world premiere of the three hundred year old opera that Lydia was seeing right now. And had a bunch of spell books — real spell books— hidden all over the loft that he paid for with money that he had set aside to invest in telephone technology after he had gotten drunk with Alexander Graham Bell at a party one time. And had slept with Casanova, Rose Bertin, and Michelangelo.

Jace laughed and held out his arms. “Here, hand her to me. Show me this thin you got put on your body.”

Alec handed Tabitha over and pulled the waistband of his pants down just a little bit, annoyed with himself. He always lost weight when he was stressed, he should have realized the jeans weren’t fitting right.

“I… it was kind of a whim,” Alec said, which was mostly true.

“What’s it supposed to be?”

This was the moment. Was Alec going to find an easier way of bringing this up than talking about runes and how he’d really gotten this mark?

He cleared his throat, and looked down at the dark black lines across his hip. Thought for a moment about how they let him see the world as it really was and how hew as probably the only person of shadowhunter blood in the world who still wore a mark.

As the words came to him, he looked up from his hip, to Jace.

And saw Tabitha puke all over the side of his face.

He’d have to tell Jace the truth another time.

[asfeedin]

Identifying weakness: the real reason I chopped my hair

Estimated Reading Time: 7 minutes

If you know anything about me and how I operate, I’m highly strategic about most aspects of my life.

Before I’ve done something, I’ve already mapped out why I need to do it, because the dance around the playground of pros and cons can be never-ending.

Without sounding like an extremist, I’ve always been someone who’s either all in or all out. Naturally, I tend to value that quality most in people as well.

When I half-ass an idea, I get a half-assed result. And mama wants da whooooole ass.

Okay, awkward ass talk aside, I’m sure you’ve all seen this quote:

As someone who’s lived on the road for over half a decade, I was constantly at the mercy of countries that lacked the proper hair care products I needed.

So I actually was chopping my hair off every 3-6 months and using wigs and weaves to carry on as usual.

Contrary to popular belief, Black hair grows fast! And it became an annoyance to bury my fro underneath wigs constantly because I was too lazy to always cornrow them down.

It wasn’t until last year after my surgery, that I decided to let it grow out again, because I came out of that experience with a newfound gratitude and decided I’d take better care of all aspects of my body, hair included.

I remember buying a bulk order of a specific kind of hair conditioner and getting it shipped to a friend in LA, before realizing that it’s literally impossible to be able to travel with all the hair care products you needed for proper maintenance of my 4C hair.

I have a pretty substantial number of white readers here, so I wanted to include the above graphic to educate more of you on how complex our hair can be, and how the “nappy or kinky” images that society touts as unprofessional, is our hair’s natural state when not chemically modified or pressed.

I grew up dreading the hot comb burning the back of my neck every Sunday getting ready for church.

My hair was just past shoulder length at its healthiest, but the time and products it took to maintain that, always exceeded either my budget or level of patience.

So I taught myself how to do box braids, quick weaves, lace fronts, you name it.

Black women don’t wear weaves because we have to, we do it because we want to, and enjoy the convenience. Click To Tweet

I always hated how society painted Black women as incapable of growing hair, when ours are so incredibly versatile.

And for the last few years, weaves and lace fronts are the preferred style of 90% of non-Black celebrity women, but I digress.

Anyways, 2019 took me through the wringer, and I entered 2020 with this burning urge to change more than just my location.

I was ready to level-up my outer appearance, inspired by these lessons I learned last year:

Don’t aim to be nice; aim to be respected.

There are people committed to misunderstanding you.

People aren’t evil; but if they can take advantage of you, they will.

Image isn’t everything, but it can be complementary to your messaging.

The less you care what people think, the more freedom you’re afforded.

My boho, carefree, gaping smile was the look I became branded by.

Always happy, always helpful, and always ready to lend whatever I could to make someone’s day.

Holy shit, Glo. You were a total people-pleaser.

You allowed yourself to get so bent by the needs and wants of others, you bent your own self out of shape.

In typical Glo form, I wanted to investigate this further, diving into self-help books, investing in therapy, and looking into psychological questionnaires to see who else “suffers” from this.

It led me to the Myers–Briggs Personality test (here’s a free site to take yours and where I’m pulling my reference screenshots from).

I got my ENFJ-A results and immediately scrolled to the weaknesses section to have a self-deprecating pity party for one, joking but absolutely f*cking serious.

And though this discovery was made after I had my hair chopped off, it confirmed what I already knew and why I had to do it.

First and foremost, let’s point out the fact that I’m equally as extroverted as I am introverted.

Over the last 3 years, I’ve tapped into my introverted side more (even wrote about how travel impacted that), but this is something people are shocked to learn because I have so much energy online.

But I’m able to preserve energy because I’ve developed a morning routine that allows me to pour into myself before trying to pour into others.

Another shout out to the fact that I share any category with two of my faves: Uncle Barry and Oprah.

Okay, now to the flaws.

Overly idealistic: I hold my values close to me, and when someone tends to lean on the cynical side, I struggle to relate or want to engage with them, because I find it a draining way to live.

However, in the world of business, this trait will eat you up alive.

If you’re kind to people, surely they won’t turn against you?

If you do good unto others, surely they will do good back?

If you have business ethics, people you do business with will as well?

LoOoOoOooOoOooOol.

It only took me a couple really shady experiences to realize, woooooow, Glo, you really was strollin’ through life with a rose-colored lens, seeing the world how you hoped it could be, rather than how it actually was.

Some lessons need to be learned the hard way, and I’m super thankful for the people that took advantage of me or tried to get one over on me, because it exposed a weakness in myself that I’d yet to confront. Click To Tweet

While I want to tell entrepreneurs that growing a business is a thrill, the hard truth is this:

If you are truly looking to build something great, get ready for the snakes to come out.

In droves.

It’s the people you least expect as well.

And when it comes to the B2B world, a company could see you needing their services more than they need your business, and so tacking on an extra $10K to the price tag because they can, isn’t out of the norm.

Money talks and there’s a lot of people who only see dollar signs when it comes to running their business.

I don’t think I’m in the minority when it comes to genuinely wanting to serve from a place of compassion, but it’s a matter of time before you might mix with the wrong people.

It’s a side of the business world I refused to acknowledge and therefore was so blind-sighted by the act that I had no choice but to change my narrative and take back control over how and who I would allow into my world.

This sounds like a Michael Scott a la The Office reference where your weaknesses are actually your strengths, see this clip for the lolz.

When people know that you love to help others, they become too reliant on you to the point that you don’t even realize you’ve overextended yourself far beyond your boundaries should allow.

With my products and services, I’m so committed to getting people results, that I forget that even if I’m giving 100% of my time and resources, there are still external factors that play into the desired outcome.

But because I’m so caught up in delivering results, I can’t even see that I’m literally just digging myself into a hole of mismanaged expectations and effort.

Don’t get so involved in the commitment to help others that you sacrifice yourself in the process. Click To Tweet

And before I knew it, I couldn’t tell a doormat apart from my reflection.

It’s why I created my Mastermind, because I could see others who have that same generous heart for serving, and I wanted to also help them navigate the shadier sides of business that you often only learn about through mentorship and personal experience.

I’ve created so many dynamics of ways that I help others, from daily posts on social media to my e-book, to syndicated articles, to podcast interviews, to live workshops, to bootcamps, to retreats, to courses, to private mentorship, and so on.

Thousands of people have invested in my products and services over the years, but the problem is, I started to feel like I needed to go out of my way to show gratitude, as if the product or service they paid for wasn’t enough.

Too much emotional investment into the people who you want to help, will have you trying to solve all the problems of a person who bought a $10 ebook, the same way you help someone who bought a $2,000 course.

Unrealistic expectations I unknowingly placed on myself, all because I wanted to make sure people realized that no matter the investment level, they were going to get answers/results/etc, ha insert mental breakdown here

So I flew to a hairstylist who I heard was one of the best in the country, and told her to literally do whatever the hell she wanted with my hair. I’m almost positive I used those exact words.

Around the time I did it, I was so over being the “nice” girl.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to turn into some mean b*tch (sad that women need to preface this because it’s assumed we’re bossy b*tches when we want to be more assertive in business).

I’m just no longer apologizing for the boundaries I’m putting in place to protect my peace and guard my energy.

One of my mentors, Necole, said it best:

And so, here we are, two months into having this short do and I’ve never felt more myself.

It matches the page I’ve flipped in my career and the new boundaries I need to put in place to protect my energy.

It took me a good week of looking in the mirror to even recognize who was staring back. I remember rehearsing in front of my tripod, going from one power pose to another.

I love who I’m becoming. And that I can look at myself and now see the reflection of someone on a journey who’s redefining her boundaries and who she allows to join her next chapter.

If this is what my 30’s have to offer, I’m loving this newfound peace that comes with the assertion and ownership of your life.

I don’t know if any of this was useful to read, but if you’re someone who’s ready to make a bold statement to yourself or to the world, I highly recommend shaving the locks and going for a pixie.

You’ll give off just enough “Can I speak to the manager” vibes, while still having a luminous flare, which makes your expression of radical self-love something that people can model in their own lives.

Here’s to the journey, Glo

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Tags: chopped, Hair, Identifying, Real, Reason, weakness

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[middlecountries]

He Felt Nothing

As an infant, Karen Issa didn’t laugh very much, but rather, preferred to stare and ponder. This tendency continued as she got bigger and in grade school she was pegged by her classmates and teachers to soar high and far based on her cerebral and inquisitive disposition. 

But despite Karen’s intelligence she missed an important lesson in early life: too much thinking was a dangerous thing. In her Grade 8 valedictory speech she said that school should ask harder questions of young people like what they expected things to be like when they grew up and how they the children, planned to make their livings while not endangering the planet the way their parents were.    

The audience’s tepid applause following the speech marked the beginning of Karen’s social exclusion. The majority of her high school and university life was passed in solitude. She smoked pot and took Percocets as a substitute for social contact. Even on the occasions she did get invited to parties, the fact remained her imagination was more interesting than most of what went on in the outside world, or at least in Calgary, where she lived. 

Fortunately during university, Karen discovered that writing fiction could fuel her imagination without the negative side effects of drugs or the high cost of travel. Thus she decided to shirk a traditional, middle-class career-path and make writing her life’s goal.  

-

Matthew Colton’s father was a carpenter-handyman and his mother, a night-manager at Denny’s. From an earlier age, they’d both encouraged Matthew to find a high-paying, white-collar job that wouldn’t run him ragged to support a family the way theirs had them. Matthew rebelled and decided to go to art school after he graduated from high school. He built up and maintained his dream of being a visual artist despite bitter arguments with both his parents. But, after completing his degree and working for two years, he’d only managed to sell a few paintings and eating beans and rice every day was a drain on his creative energy. One day, at the art supply store where he worked to pay his bills, his manager said that he should have been an accountant because his cash-outs and ledger entries were so meticulous. Matthew paused and replied,  “Maybe I still will.” 

The night of his manager’s comment Matthew went to the five-bedroom house he rented with some friends and fellow artists. He looked up the requirements to become a chartered accountant and it turned out his fine arts counted towards the designation and that the additional courses and training he needed wouldn’t require another four years of full-time study and tens of thousands of dollars in tuition the way becoming a doctor or lawyer would. Only one flicker of doubt lingered in his mind: One of his roommate’s had once referred to accountants as “bean-counters.”

“Beats being a bean-eater,” Mathew said to himself, and he enrolled in Introductory Accounting Principles and Practice at the University of Calgary.

-

Karen experienced various professional and personal difficulties in her twenties but nothing so severe it broke her commitment to being a writer. Now, as she approached thirty, published in a handful of small literary magazines but without a book deal, the personal and financial costs of writing as a career began to weigh on her.  At least she was more stable money-wise, she thought. She’d started working as a flight-attendant for Air Canada, a job that gave her weeks off at a time to pour into writing. Plus, she was dating an accountant which made her feel more responsible by association.   

Throughout this time, her looks betrayed her. She was beautiful, with mother-of-pearl skin, wavy blonde hair and sharp hazel eyes. She and the accountant met at a mutual friend’s house-warming party where he‘d stared at her nearly non-stop for an hour.  After she’d ruled out he wasn’t near-sighted or dumb, she walked up to him and asked why he was staring at her, if she had something on her face or a third eye.  

“No,” he replied, “I was just picturing you in the morning with one of my shirts on.”

-

Matthew was on a set course and nothing or no one was going to detract him. He was six-foot-one without a ounce of excess weight, save his plush, full lips.  Before the party where he met Karen, he’d smoked half a dime bag and used the proposition of smoking the rest of it as a reason for inviting Karen back to his condo.   

There, under dimmed, halogen lights, they had good sex – too good sex for the experience not to be repeated. The next day Karen broke things off with Jim or Joe, whoever the pilot was she’d been seeing infrequently for a few months. -

Karen and Matthew had been dating almost a year when she boarded AC1896 from Calgary to Las Vegas.  It was the 15th of February, the day after Valentine’s Day.   

“Good morning, captains,” Karen said glancing towards the cockpit on her way to the flight attendants’ station at the back of the plane.  One of the pilots was Jim or Joe, the guy she’d dated before Matthew and he recognized her immediately.  He remembered how she’d dumped him less than a year ago, claiming that she needed space in order to better concentrate on writing. He was in the midst of hanging up his jacket in the hallway closet when she stepped into view. Feeling undesirable and embarrassed, he fumbled with the coat-hanger and dropped his jacket on the floor.          

Instinctively, Karen started to help him but then changed her mind. She feared that prolonging the encounter might expose the fact she couldn’t remember his name. “Have a good flight, captain,” she said and walked off, feeling her jilted ex-lover’s eyes on her back. If only she could remember his name maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad.  

Valerie and Mike arrived soon after and the cabin pressure fell. Karen took a discrete look at her compact to verify her sleeplessness was adequately hidden.  She snapped the heavy plastic case shut and spoke to Valerie: “Hi Valerie.  How’s LAS treating you? Which turn are you on?” 

“It’s my fourdt turn,” Valerie said. “It ‘as been vhery quiet. We ‘ad one passenger who was very drunk one time. He ran up and down de aisles yelling but I got ‘im to stop.”

“What did you do?”

“I crossed my arms and said, ‘If you don’t go back to your seat rhight this second you’re going to wish you were dead.’”

“You did not?!”

“Why don’t you ask the captaine?”

“Ok, I believe you.”   

“And you, Karen-l’écrivaine?  Where was your last turn?”

“Florida. That’s why I chose LAS. I’m hoping for a bit of excitement for a change. The retirees were killing me.”

“Careful what you desire, ma belle, or your story may turn out, how you say, tragique.’”

“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll want out of here before long…Hey, let’s play some black-jack when we get to Vegas. We’ll win a million dollars and never set foot on a plane again. Sound good?”

“Black-jack?” Mike cut in. “You guys want to hit Bellagio? It’s the best. They give you free drinks and have the hottest chicks.”  

Valerie gave him a knowing smile and asked,  “Where ‘ave you been flying, Michel?”

“Hey – Michelle’s a girl’s name. My name’s Mike, okay?”

Valerie rolled her eyes at Karen. “Hokay, Mike!”

“Good…I’ve been flying domestic. This is my first international turn. I’m totally pumped!”

Valerie rolled her eyes again. “Super!” she said. 

“Mike--” Karen interjected, “LAS has the most problems of any route we fly. If anything happens, just let Val or me take care of it, okay?”

Mike took out his cell-phone and looked at it in lieu of a response. After a few moments he said: “Oh, I better go get ready to greet the passengers.” He got up and walked up the aisle to wait for two-hundred-plus thrill-seeking travelers.

-

Matthew didn’t dislike Audit the way most junior accountants did. He was in his second articling year—supposedly the most difficult stage in the CA-certification process—at Ernst & Young. He was scheduled to write the Uniform Evaluation in June and the prospect of the thirteen-hour, three-day test didn’t bother him either.  He’d been working steadily towards his designation for almost four years and wasn’t going to let a few wrought tasks like counting lumber and passing an exam get in his way.  

He was standing in front of a sprawling room of wood at his client’s soft-wood lumber warehouse. There were varying lengths of spruce, birch, pine and fir stacked on a city of shelves. He looked at the moveable staircase he’d been given to help him count the wood and, after a short inspection, went to the warehouse manager’s office to ask for help using it.

The manager was seated at a big hardwood desk in his office. He was a bloated, middle-aged man, undoubtedly no stranger to conflict given his position of authority over semi-skilled, hard-living manual labourers. “You release the stop with your foot and push it,” he said impatiently in response to Matthew’s question about how to use the staircase.

Matthew stared at the warehouse manager and smiled. 

After a moment the manager sighed and got up. He led Matthew back out into the cavernous, eight-acre room to the movable stairs. “See?” he said, pushing down a metal lever with his foot. “This. Is. The. Stop.” He pushed down on the wheel-lock mechanism. “…Release…”  

The mechanism clanked, releasing the wheel stops.

“…Push…”  

“Thank you,” said Matthew. “That was extremely helpful.”

The manager shuffled away and Matthew set about verifying the existence of six-hundred and forty-thousand pieces of lumber.

-

Karen and Valerie followed Mike to the front of Economy and Valerie went to First Class. They helped the passengers to their seats, made sure that their seatbelts were buckled and that the overhead compartments were closed. The plane taxied and took off for LAS. They climbed to a cruising altitude of 37,532 feet and Captain Jim-Joe turned off the seatbelt sign. Karen got up from her fold-down chair and headed to the front of Economy with Mike to begin pouring drinks and passing out peanuts. 

The Las Vegas-bound flyers were not dissimilar the typical airline passenger. They were predominantly middle-aged and white.  They were all Canadian except for a group of four Irish. (Vegas’s veneer of luxury and riches could apparently lure people all the way from the other side of the world.)

Karen and Mike reached the last row of the plane, poured a few more ginger-ales and Cokes then sat back down in their fold-out flight-attendants’ chairs. Valerie returned from First Class and started to talk about all the things she and her husband were going to do on their next vacation. Mike flipped through a men’s magazine while Karen listened politely. She wished Valerie would talk herself out soon so she could read her book. She was mid-way through Anna Karenina and completely engrossed in it.

Just as the pauses in Valerie’s monologue were almost long enough that Karen could politely take out her book, Mike jutted in: “We went to Cancun on our grade twelve spring-break,” he said. “It was totally awesome.” “Reallee?  I ‘eard Cancun is full ov tourists…” 

Anna would have to continue to wait. Fortunately for Karen, last night’s sex with Matthew entered her mind and distracted her from her coworkers’ banal conversation. She remembered her climax vividly. The usual tightness between her shoulders dissolved and in its place formed a tingling ball of energy. The ball crept down her back, settled between her legs, and exploded, shattering everything. Her ceaseless intellect and cool detachment lay in ruins. For a moment she even lost track of where she stopped and Matthew begun. 

Fuck, she thought as they rocketed through the atmosphere. I might be falling in love.  

Then the plane made a sudden lurch and the seatbelt light came on.  

-

Matthew hadn’t seen daylight in more than a week but at least it was almost the mid-way point of the long, prairie winter. He’d taken a week off to mourn Karen but needed to get back to auditing lumber in order to stay on track for accreditation.  Besides, although he knew he’d miss her—she was good company and great in bed—they’d only been dating for about a year and who knew where it was going. At the time of her crash, she’d still been carting most of her stuff to and from his place on weekends. They hadn’t even talked about moving in together, let alone getting married.

But that morning, as he threw away the things she’d kept at his apartment, something inside him changed. She’d had overnight clothes in his dresser and make-up and skin lotion in the vanity in the bathroom. Her femininity-inspired possessions were finer and lighter than their male counterparts, and when he packed them into a computer paper box and threw them down the garbage shoot, he started to feel like he was choking. He imagined her things tumbling down the long, metal esophagus and landing in chicken bones and soiled paper serviettes in the dumpster in the underground parking lot. He felt heartless and uncaring, but what else could he do? He didn’t hold on to useless baggage. He looked down row 108 of 123 at his client’s lumber warehouse. The florescent lighting accentuated the yellowish hue of the stacks of lumber and, along with the natural variation in colour from piece-to-piece, the scene reminded him of Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Cypresses.  

Then the image of Karen’s things in his condo dumpster returned to his head and he had to fight back the choking sensation again. He inspected the first shelf of row 108. It was made of steel, four feet deep by six feet wide and ten feet tall. The bottom platform was six inches from the ground, supported by four horizontal beams. 

Matthew pulled one four-by-four and one eight-by-two off the shelf and arranged them like a lever under the bottom platform’s long side facing away from the subsequent shelves of row 108. He positioned the fulcrum so that the lever would lift the shelf with maximum force yet also be flat enough for him to jump on without losing his balance. Then he wheeled the movable staircase up in front of the eight-by-two, walked up to the top, aimed, and jumped. 

He landed on the eight-by-two and the lever lifted and toppled the half-ton shelf. The self fell into the shelf next to it, and it fell into the one after that, and so on.

Matthew watched the shelves domino with increasing speed and force all the way down the row of them. The warehouse manager came running out of his office at the sound of the crashing. He came up beside Matthew as the last shelf fell fifty metres away. He breathed heavily and put his hands on his face in exasperation. He looked back and forth between Matthew and the wreckage of fallen shelves. “What the fuck happened?!” he shouted.  

But Matthew had already turned and started walking towards the exit. He tossed his clipboard and pencil on the ground.  Useless baggage, he thought.  

-

No one should have begrudged Karen her detachment from outer life, but invariably they did. Matthew thought she lacked interest in him so he acted disinterested towards her in return. It was less ignorant than any of her previous boyfriends’ but flawed all-the-same.  

Captain Jim-Joe’s misinterpretation was murderous, sexist, and no-doubt a product of much deeper psychological problems and mental illness. He thought that Karen’s rejection of him was based on her conscious appraisal of his person, rather than her general obtuseness, or at most, a passing assessment of their mutual incompatibility.  

On the morning he saw her for the first time since she’d dumped him, his co-pilot stepped out of the cabin to use the bathroom shortly after they’d reached cruising altitude. Jim told himself that if he couldn’t attract a flight attendant, he wasn’t a real captain, or even a man. He locked the cabin door, and amidst the pleas and screams that soon arrived from outside, he steered the plane and its two-hundred and twelve innocent passengers and crew into the peak of Mount Jefferson.