#poor emotional intelligence

[360degreesasthecrowflies]

BEYOND FRUSTRATED today with my mum's attitude (& briefly wondering if it's just her or anyone else has experienced similar)

Recently when I've told my mum about things hard in my life or personal specific difficulties (or challenges in light of my achievements, efforts etc.) she's come back with responses like "things are for sure harder for your generation, I know".

Mum!

I'm not talking to you to represent my generation speaking to yours like some kind of diplomat!

I'm sharing my actual life with you so that a) you're aware and b) maybe you can offer some specific advice or encouragement. Or at least listen to me!

I come out of these conversations feeling like I've just been pushed aside as just another symptom of generation gap.

The point of that generation gap or even general difficulties someone in their 20s or 30s might have nowadays that one 30 or 40 years ago might not have had is that these challenges are coming despite our absolute best efforts to plan for, anticipate, and mitigate them or ride them out. I feel like the sheer scale of what is happening as we lurch from one 'once in a lifetime' crisis to the next is that despite our best efforts those of us who still have the energy to try are never getting out of the storm and are only barely keeping our heads above the water.

Others in our generation have already given up and are just making the most of playing with the fishes while they still can, before they sink completely out of sight. Not because of a lack of confidence which is what I see older people constantly claiming, but because the chances of actually making it work are so low nowadays even for people who've done everything, at every stage - school, work, volunteering, paying for extra courses etc. even when that's a huge sacrifice - to give themselves the best possible chances of success available to those not born into families of extreme wealth. And then as soon as that gets close to paying off, boom! The government moves the goalposts again.

I don't understand how my mum can't recognise that (not my intention to brag) I'm an outlier here and I'm still fucked.

Salary triple what I had 5 years ago. A position of responsibility and influence just into my 30s, that I got through sheer grift with no relevant qualifications while suffering from chronic illnesses. And despite that, despite that I pay near a grand a month for rent, the bank won't lend me more than double my salary to get a mortgage. For which I couldn't even buy the shittiest apartment in a dangerous neighbourhood.

Yeah mum, positive thinking and being sure of myself is really going to help me get out of that one. Really feels some days like its a general failure of some older adults to actually accept the reality that 'things are more difficult nowadays' doesn't mean just a little bit for only the poorest or those who are lazy or chose to fuck about when they were younger, some hypothetical abstract 'those poor people' who aren't 'us'. It means that your adult children who might have gone above and beyond to succeed or even just to get a secure and safe lifestyle when older are also struggling right at the absolute bottom rung through no fault of their own - not because, as is sometimes implied, we WANTED to try and play at being worse off like some kind of sick poverty cosplay safari - and no amount of positive reframing or "but what if" is going to change that. We need systemic change from the top to make any dent in that reality and under this government? No chance.

[gareleia]

THE KNITTING SAGA BUT MAKE IT SAD

update: my co-writer friend FINALLY got a tumblr account, so I can tag them now!!

previously: part 1 part 2

next: part 4 part 5

lets talk about relationships, shall we. i'm gonna focus on Athena & Telemachus this time, but Hermes will have his turn later

let's be real, Athena is a hardass. sure, she cares, but she's so emotionally constipated that it really doesn't show that much. especially before she goes through that character development arc after her break up with Odysseus in My Goodbye

(and what a crisis that is)

(because her masterpiece??? failed her??? but she trusted him??? she made him much as in her image as possible??? he was supposed to be perfect???)

(and if he's not perfect, then she failed,,, and she can't fail, she doesn't fail,,, she's a goddess,,, war strategy is her domain, surely there is no way her plan could be flawed,,,)

(what even is the point of her if she's not perfect)

so yeah, she's a hardass. even on baby Telemachus who'd never held a sword before - especially on baby Telemachus, because he's the son of her favored Champion. he may be waaay younger than any of her previous pupils, but she's expecting him to shine just as bright.

Athena, on the first day: let's get down to business! make your father proud! you won't have a weakness! by the time we're done! you're the saddest pupil that I've had! and you haven't got a clue! but I will make a man outta you! Telemachus, a literal toddler, holding a wooden sword as big as himself: ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶

and for years to come she trains him relentlessly. she's honestly trying to be nice about it, too. it's just that Athena doesn't do soft or gentle, her default is a neutral face of displeasure, and her idea of encouragement is saying 'you're not as bad as you used to be', or something along these lines.

Telemachus: *succeeds at something* Athena: *raises an eyebrow in a slightly different manner than usually* Telemachus: *le gasp* could it b-be? am I doing a good job??? Athena: it's… acceptable, for your age.

she never once tells him she is proud of him. because surely he already knows. he doesn't need to hear it. his father didn't, after all (ody so fucking did)

and this goes on until Telemachus reaches double digits. then My Goodbye happens, and Athena has Feelings™. she's having an existential crisis, and has to confront the fact that she had done something wrong while training Odysseus, and she can't understand what. which is terrifying, because what if she makes a mistake like that with Telemachus. will he fail her too?

will she have to leave him too, so she doesn't watch him die horribly in a tragedy that could've been prevented if only she had made him see-

so Athena doubles down and starts demanding more and more from Telemachus. the praise goes from sparse to non-existent, and nothing he does seems to be enough anymore. she goes from tough love to borderline verbal abuse, thinking that it's the only way to keep him safe and prepare him for the future.

and Telemachus endures. he has to, because he doesn't want his mother to worry. doesn't want to appear weak. Odysseus had done it, so it's only fair his son should too. and when his dad comes home, he'll be sooo impressed. he can do it!

except…. not really. it's been a losing battle since the beginning, and deep down he knows it. he can't win with Athena, not on his own.

???: if you want to impress her, you'll need the blessing of a certain god! divine intervention! someone who's not afraid to- telemachus: aeolus, what are doing in my closet?!

so anyway, Aeolus and the winions start helping him via winds and stuff, and Telemachus actually starts exceeding everyone's expectations. it's not that he'd been bad before, but he's soft, and not quite strong enough physically to make up for his gentle constitution

everyone is cheering him on. he's the talk of the palace! his mom is so proud! the suitors start sizing him up with consideration instead of dismissing him outright! (and tele, baby, that's not a good thing! ಠ_ಠ). Athena seems pleased for the first time in ages!! but he knows that it's all a lie, and it's killing him.

cause he's a good, honest boye, and he wants to succeed on his own merit, not because of cheating and lying to everyone he loves. that's vile and dishonorable.

que some very important island-wide competition that everyone is expecting him to join and win. maybe it's even his duty as a prince. like, a right of passage from complete boyhood to adolescence.

and there's,,, a lot of pressure on Telemachus to suceed. everyone and their mother are telling him that of course he's got this, he's a prodigy! def his father's son! nobody doubts his incoming victory! he's got this! he definitely won't disappoint them!

random noble: we'll be cheering you on, young prince! truly, we are blessed by the gods to have such a talented successor to the throne! we'll watch with keen eyes as you triumph over your foes and bring even more honor to your family! b(￣▽￣*) telemachus, eye twitching: y-yeah… thank you… (ㆆ _ ㆆ)

so, the night before the competition Telemachus can barely sleep, he's so wrecked by guilt and nerves. he keeps thinking - what would his father do in this situation? all the stories he'd ever heard of Odysseus always painted him as some kind of invincible, righteous, all-capable genius. so the idea of his dad ever grappling with guilt and feelings of inadequacy is just laughable. (oh, if only he knew)

so, he goes to his mom for advice. because Penelope is awesome. but he can't bring himself to admit that's he's cheating - what if she's ashamed of him? he brought dishonor to his father's name, and if anyone knows - will he get exiled?

so yeah, he basically has a panic attack and cries for like, half an hour straight.

telemachus, bawling: if I lose tomorrow, will you hate me? will dad hate me? I can't do anything right and I'm a failure and a horrible person and- just- what do I do, mother? penelope, holding him: oh, love. sometimes you're so similar to your father I wonder if the gods haven't returned him to me in spirit through you.

because no matter what everyone else says, Penelope knows the truth - Odysseus always followed his heart. oh, how he may have tried to forget he had one, to only ever use his head. but a heart he did have - does have, they have to believe that - and it's a bright and gentle one. he may have been hardened by years of pain and struggle in a way that Telemachus hadn't been yet (and Penelope's heart breaks from knowledge that her son will be, one day). but deep down, at ther cores, Odysseus and Telemachus are strikingly similar. and she loves them all the more for it.

and so, with his mother's blessing, the young prince does just as she told him to: follows his heart. he thanks Aeolus for their help, and asks them to stop giving it from now on. either he'll suceed on his own merit, or he'll wear his failure as a badge of honor and an incentive to do better.

and he loses. badly.

and the world,,, doesn't end? sure, the suitors sneer and jeer, but there's a surprising lack of disowning and exile going around. and the nobles tone it down significantly with undeserved adoration, which is definitely a plus, as far as he's concerned.

the only thing is. Athena.

oh boy.

because she's not stupid. Telemachus may have gotten away with cheating so far, but now he'll have to answer to her why he had flunked so badly, and she won't buy his go-to excuse of 'I got nervous!'

athena, expression unreadable: so. care to explain yourself, my stupid pupil? telemachus: w-well, you see… ha-ha… it's, uh… a funny story��� athena: you threw away your best advantage! you've had a god perfectly willing to assist you and yet you still somehow managed to lose! telemachus: wait, what-

so yeah, Athena knew all along.

athena, mildly insulted: how stupid do you think I am, boy? telemachus: but! but! but!.. you never said anything! didn't even scold me for cheating! athena, even more insulted: child, I am the goddess of war strategy, where did you get the idea that I ever play fair and straightforward? leave that to ares, the simple-minded fool!

to clarify, she's not upset at him for cheating. she's upset that he stopped doing so. so she throws some choice words at him, implying he lacks both talent and intelligence

and Telemachus defends himself by saying that he'd rather fail on his own merit, than abandon his principles and win by lying and dishonoring his family. in response, she calls him naive.

he tries to implore to her connection to his father by saying that he was just trying to do what's right. he was following his heart, just as Odysseus had always strived to. and he's training to fight for his loved ones, not for glory of being known.

it's a one hit K.O., because it reminds Athena of her recent break-up with Odysseus. of everything they spat at each other during My Goodbye. of anger, of hurt, of disappointment, of betrayal, of I loved you and you failed me, of I loved you and I failed you, of good riddance! and y̶͈̔o̴̘̖͆u̶̻̱͆͒'̸̫̩̌̉r̷̼͝e̴̩̒ ̴͎̻̈́̎ȧ̸̦l̵̗͙͌̐o̸͚͕̚n̷̟̯͠e̵̳̩͠

and is their whole line just cursed? is this their way of punishing her for something? why do they both hurt her so? is it her fault?

telemachus: athena? are… are you okay? (‘-’*) athena, coming off MG flashbacks: well, obviously, boy, why would you even ask that (ಥ﹏ಥ)

Telemachus just hugs her, because she obviously needs it. and she melts into it like never before.

because she wasn't made for empathy or kindness. she's been born to be ruthless and cold. she's not supposed to love and be loved care about anything but winning. it doesn't come natural to Athena, until recently she had truly thought herself unable to, and yet-

yet here, right in front of her, is a boy who loves for the both of them. loves the whole world - sincerely, selflessly. a truly kind and caring soul (the nobles even joke that his true father is Polites).

she can't love.

but maybe… maybe he will teach her.

maybe he already did.

or maybe she always could.

she forgets sometimes, that her fingers know not only the roughness of swords and spears, but also the gentle softness of weaved silk. creation goes hand in hand with destruction, and she can bind countless threads together without breaking them.

and what are humans, if not strings, waiting to be cut by the fates?

also, if Telemachus can teach the goddess of cold cynicism and detached cruelty kindness of all things, then she can teach him swordplay.

yes, it's a threat.

[ghostinthegallery]

can you do "please hold me" for the prompts please?

Here it is! "Please hold me" from this list of prompts. Featuring Zahndrekh/Obyron and a little post-Severed trauma.

###

Obyron had endured hundreds of feasts. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands by now. Some in the time of flesh, most in the time of metal when there were no dishes nor full goblets save for in his master’s mind. Obyron hated them, but he had never once fled from the unpleasantness. Until now.

Obyron wished he could slam the door behind him. Instead it slid smoothly back into place, doing nothing to release the violent tide of emotions roiling in his flux. His heart should have been racing, his head swimming, his skin dotted with sweat. There was nothing. His living metal was pristine and he was still. If one were to look at him they might assume he was as mindless as his brethren. He wasn’t. Sometimes he cursed that fact.

Right now he cursed his weakness most of all.

Casual barbs at his expense from Sautekh lords were a reality of his position. The necron nobility had little to do but battle with their armies and battle with their wits, meager as the latter often were. In reality, they simply insulted each other. Their performance in campaigns, their palaces, their possessions…their soldiers.

“That one had a phalanx, didn’t it, Zahndrekh?” The lord had pointed to Obyron then. “Shame you never taught it proper tactics, otherwise it might have held onto them. Or perhaps your example was too poor.”

At that point, Obyron had faced a choice between leaving the feast or beating the noble to death.

He had managed to make his exit somewhat subtle. Found a lychguard to take his position at Zahndrekh’s side, circled the room as if he were simply patrolling. Then he left. This chamber was the first empty one he had found, scrying through the oculars of some nearby scarabs. The Yama had been built in the time of flesh, back when ships needed room to store provisions, beds, and life support. There were many unused sections to slip into. Perhaps this plain, dull silver room had once held necrontyr soldiers. Perhaps they had spoken here, reminisced, laughed, cried, lived. 

Obyron pressed his hand against his faceplate to try and drive the thoughts from his head. He could not stop the flood of images of the phalanx he had lost. Sabni, Pentesh, Neb. Dead gods, Neb who had asked to die at his side. Well he had gotten his wish, only Obyron had no idea if Neb had realized it in the end. What little existence they’d clung to had been erased on Doahht. Because of Obyron’s orders. So much had happened on that planet he’d barely had time to think about their loss. Part of him had even been relieved that their suffering was over. But still…they had died. And it had been his fault. 

Why? Why had his mind survived when theirs had not? Why was he standing here when they were reduced to nothing? Their bodies not entombed but repurposed to build new chassis for different soldiers? He had been no different from them. Born a soldier, promoted for good service and a stubborn ability to stay alive. Burned away body and soul. What had he done to earn existence while his friends had been condemned to mindless oblivion?

A knock on the door startled him. Damn the dead gods. He had let his circumspection protocols slip in order to fall into this pathetic malaise. 

“Obyron?” asked a cautious voice. “Are you in there, old friend?”

“My lord?” Obyron paused. Zahndrekh? He should have been entertaining his guests. “Has something happened?”

“No, no. That feast was just growing interminably dull. Might I…come in?”

Obyron was not sure how to respond. “It is your ship, lord nemesor.”

After a pause the door slid open, revealing Zahndrekh, whose arms were folded. “I was trying to be polite,” he said as he crossed the threshold. “Now, what ever is the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“You always were a terrible liar, Obyron.” Zahndrekh let the door close, trapping them together in the low, gauss-green light. 

Obyron shifted, grateful that his height let him look over Zahndrekh’s head so their oculars would not meet. “I apologize for leaving. I should not have—”

“None of that.” Zahndrekh held his finger up to what would have been Obyron’s lips. “Please, don’t make me guess. Tell me. What is wrong?”

A flash of despair tinged with anger washed over Obyron’s engrams. Zahndrekh could not possibly understand. He refused to see the horrors of biotransference, so he could not comprehend the weight of what Obyron’s phalanx had lost. Obyron could never tell his lord that they had not simply died. He alone had watched his friends fade into pale imitations of themselves, be dragged across thousands of battles, only to expire. He could not even offer himself that comfort that they were finally at rest because without souls he was not sure if they were.

And then to have that thrown back in his face at a dinner party—

“Obyron!”

Zahndrekh grabbed his hand. Obyron realized he had clenched his fist hard enough to crack his necrodermis. Already it was repairing, but seeing that shook him. He should have had more control. He should not have been this affected.

“I—” he stammered. “I don’t know what—”

”Here, sit with me.”

Gently but firmly, Zahndrekh dragged him down until he was kneeling on the floor. Obyron felt his legs give out from under him, as if the flux had ceased flowing to his motor actuators. Grief and guilt burned his insides like acid. 

“I never mourned them,” Obyron gasped. “I brought them to their deaths, yet I never did anything to remember them.”

“Your phalanx?” Zahndrekh shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Obyron. I should never have let that insult slide. It went too far.”

Obyron wished he could say that he did not care. He had no right to care. But those words had hit too close to the truth. He had not known what to do on Doahht without Zahndrekh. And yet he had not been the one to suffer for his incompetence. 

“I was the one who failed you then,” Zahndrekh said. “I bear more responsibility for their loss than you.”

That was perhaps true in the strictest sense, although it did little to assuage his guilt. The more he dwelt on it, though, the more he realized it was not simply grief that disturbed him now. Because if he was like them, if they had not been so different…

“Why have I been spared all this time?” he whispered, finally acknowledging something he had not wanted to speak aloud for years. Though his living metal form was more advanced than most soldiers’, even elites, he did not have the enhancements of a lord. “What if I share their fate? What if I fade away?”

He looked into Zahndrekh’s oculars at last, afraid he would find confusion or pity. He saw neither. For a moment he thought he saw understanding, although he could not be sure. There was so much about his nemesor he did not comprehend even after all this time.

“My dear vargard,” Zahndrekh said. “I am sorry I did not see your pain. You have been my shield for so long, it is too easy to forget that you are not just steel. That there are parts of you that  need protecting as well.” 

Zahndrekh’s hand moved slowly along Obyron’s amor until it settled over the place where once his heart had been. There was nothing there now but machinery. But Obyron’s chest still ached and his mind still reeled. And his body still reacted to the nemesor’s touch. The shoulder where Zahndrekh rested his hand was the only part of him that felt warm. The only part that didn't feel ready to crumble under the weight of everything.

“What can I do to protect you?” Zahndrekh asked. “How can I ease your pain?”

It went against all propriety and protocol. But they were alone. Who would it hurt if Obyron allowed himself one small comfort.

“I feel lost,” Obyron said. “I just want to…”

”Yes?”

”Please,” he said. “Hold me, my lord. For a moment.”

Before Obyron could think better of it, pull away, beg his lord’s pardon, Zahndrekh’s arms were around him. They struggled to fully wrap around his broad shoulders, so Zahndrekh pulled him close, buried Obyron’s face in the crook of his neck. He imagined the time of flesh, when Obyron would have been able to weep. His tears would have stained Zahndrekh’s robes.

Obyron clung to him. The lord that he did not understand and who did not understand him in turn. But that did not stop Zahndrekh from being Obyron’s anchor. His love, though it terrified him to even think the word. Yet what could he call it but love that kept him at Zahndrekh’s side? If someone offered Obyron an empire in exchange for this moment in Zahndrekh’s arms, he would have laughed in their face. It wasn’t a choice.

Perhaps that was all love really was.

“Would you like to tell me about them?” Zahndrekh asked after a long period of silence. “The comrades you lost?”

It would feel good to remember. To speak their names and their deeds and prove in some small way that they had lived. To finally allow himself to grieve and know that he would be heard.

”Yes,” Obyron said. “I would like that.”

[redrapscalian]

Batfam's "I am too emotionally stunted to know how to react to bad news" responses:

Bruce: [aggressively avoiding eye contact] That's unfortunate...

Jason: Yikes.

Dick: [looking the person dead in the eyes] L

Tim: Sucks to suck :/ [shrug]

Damien: Oof

[arolesbianism]

Finally drew the messed up guy of all time <3

[gavipedris]

the gavi recovery documentary was so much better than the new gen one damn 😭😭

[four-raccoons-in-a-trenchcoat]

five favourite characters poll :D

got tagged by both @britishsquidward and @madhippiekisser for this thing lol (affectionate) (friends^^!!) (thanks for tagging me :D !!)

the rules i’m pretty sure are to put five of your favourite characters and have your friends choose among them

@femprincesstoyourbutchknight @box-the-box @raindrop-righteous and @ whoever is available and wants to try :D !! (sorry not sure if the others i’d planned on tagging would be alr with it ;u;) (dw no pressure to do^^)

[ahtal-ka]

(bayonetta title screen voice) Meowynetta....

[mmmatchasims]

Cerise: I told you at the start I just wanted something casual over the summer, and then you made me catch feelings for your dumb ass! And now you’re telling me you changed your mind, just like that?

Hibiscus: I’m sorry, Ceri-

[enbygunderson]

2000-2500 is too high for most modern people with desk jobs. And yes, there IS evidence to support CICO. People who have ever tracked completely and honestly for any length of time can tell you that it fucking works. You may need to adjust your fire a bit from the general starting numbers, but if you actually ever tried you would see the cause-effect for yourself. Y'all honestly sound like flat earthers when you start talking about this stuff lol. You don't return to a "set weight" because you're programmed that way or something, you return to a "set weight" because you eventually go back to eating the way that got you fat in the first place.

The mental gymnastics y'all do to deny any accountability for this shit is honestly mind-blowing to me; y'all try to argue that you're so confident in yourselves/your body, but you'd rather try to make some stupid strawman about sawdust having calories than just admit that you like food? JFC. I'm currently obese and it's 110% because of how much I eat.

Just found out that the dietary calorie is still measured by burning food in a "bomb calorimeter" and then measuring the heat produced. There's no solid evidence that this method is at all equivalent to how our bodies process food (an entirely different chemical process from combustion), the accuracy of this system has been disputed for as long as it's existed, and there are no available alternatives

There are 4800 calories in a kilogram of dry sawdust even though wood is completely indigestible to humans, because calories don't measure nutritional value, just how well something burns

Nutritional "science" is pure bullshit

[kingcenred]

“You and me. Always.” / aelin

@ircnwrought

Rumours that Morgause was once again within Essetir's borders had spread: it happened occasionally, a soldier or scout mistaking an innocent blonde woman for the traitor who had almost killed the king. This time, however, there seemed to be an inkling of truth to the reports and Cenred, true to form, had taken the news very badly.

Roaring orders to his men, storming down to the stables to join the patrols himself, and yelling at any of his advisors who dared to question his actions was all bluster to stop himself from acknowledging the true emotion that just the whisper of his ex-lover's name provoked: fear. And now, it was not just his life that was in danger. If Morgause laid a hand on his wife...

But Kings did not feel fear: Kings were never afraid. So deep had that indoctrination been that he found himself unknowingly avoiding his wife; one moment alone with her, and he knew that Aelin would see through the anger to what was truly troubling him. And then what? What Queen wanted a scared, weak man as their husband?

But, of course, his evasion lasted only a matter of hours before Aelin captured him. All it would take was one look for her to see the tension running through every inch of his body...and yet, the words that left her mouth was most certainly not what he had been expecting.

"You and me. Always."

He reached for her, pulling her tightly against his chest and hiding his head in her hair for a long moment - breathing in her soft scent. "Yes," he simply said, "yes."

[donotdestroy]

"Several studies have shown that wealth may be at odds with empathy and compassion. Research published in the journal Psychological Science found that people of lower economic status were better at reading others’ facial expressions—an important marker of empathy—than wealthier people. 'A lot of what we see is a baseline orientation for the lower class to be more empathetic and the upper class to be less [so],' study co-author Michael Kraus told Time. 'Lower-class environments are much different from upper-class environments. Lower-class individuals have to respond chronically to a number of vulnerabilities and social threats. You really need to depend on others so they will tell you if a social threat or opportunity is coming, and that makes you more perceptive of emotions.' While a lack of resources fosters greater emotional intelligence, having more resources can cause bad behavior in its own right. UC Berkeley research found that even fake money could make people behave with less regard for others. Researchers observed that when two students played Monopoly, one having been given a great deal more Monopoly money than the other, the wealthier player expressed initial discomfort, but then went on to act aggressively, taking up more space and moving his pieces more loudly, and even taunting the player with less money."

[ohbutwheresyourheart]

I watched north and south years and years ago; I don't remember exactly when but I'm pretty sure I was in my teens

I loved it then, but there's an extra appreciation to finally reading the book as an adult who grew up in the north, lived for a few years in the south, and now lives in Manchester

[evonflow]

Thunsheer 25th, Syngorn

A friend of Ira’s asking if we can rescue an intern from a pocket dimension? No trouble! The fact that it could have collapsed in on itself at any point in time? Alright, so, Velora could’ve been more forthcoming from the get-go.

The money was good, and we thought we could be in and out, just don’t mess with the time dilation… Minutes into the weird crystal city and we’d already gotten kidnapped by crystal constructs and thrown into a comfy jail cell with anti-magic chokers around our necks.

It feels like a fever dream. The kind where you’re trying to walk up a slope that gets steeper until you’re sliding down into some pit and you can’t even keep upright. That’s what we get for getting cocky and greedy, I guess.

Thank the gods for Ra’i. And I hope they drag Otto Scarborough to hell. And that hell is fashioned after his hellish crystal city bureaucracy. At least we got the intern out so we got paid.

Even that whole ordeal feels more straightforward that Barley’s whole deal. We tracked him down (because the took Ira with him, the dumbass) to his mother’s home. She lives in Syngorn, apparently, and I am starting to understand why he was so apprehensive about being in this city. She didn’t even invite him into the house.

I never had a family that I didn’t choose or that didn’t choose me. It was gut-wrenching to watch Barley beg his mother to visit his dying father—to tell her that his brother, Colton, is dead and that it’s the old man’s dying wish to see her once more, that it would mean the world—to watch her refuse, saying only that it’s complicated.

In the aftermath, he becomes part of our little misfit crew, I guess. You don’t watch someone go through that without your heart going out to them a little. Fuck this city. Let’s go back to the wilds.

[cheriecoke]

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ SAFEGUARD — dazai, chuuya, akutagawa

summary . . . they save you after you've been injured and captured by an enemy.

contents . . . sfw, f!reader (chuuya & dazai) and gn!reader (akutagawa), violence / blood, threats, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, and it's pmboss!dazai bc i can't help myself — 3.5k total

notes . . . i got this request so long ago lol. not my best work, but i have been in the worst writing slump ever and just wanted to finish something. i've also never written for akutagawa before so pls be nice <3

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 . . .

there are very few times that chuuya feels he’s been outsmarted. he knows he’s not the mastermind of the port mafia, but he certainly isn’t a fool. when it comes to you and your well-being, though, his mind short-circuits, half of his intelligence draining away while his emotions take hold. 

your relationship isn’t a secret to anyone in the port mafia, which means that it isn’t a secret to your enemies either. and while most people know it’s hard to land a finger on chuuya directly, his pretty little girlfriend doesn’t have the power of a god nestled inside of her.

the rage sparks through him, growing fiercely into the blaze of a forest fire, until all he can think of is getting you home safely. he thinks of your sweet smile as he rips the door of the enemies’ base off the hinges, crushing it into a million pieces with the force of gravity. 

the men are quick to react, but chuuya hurtles the crushed door towards them, knocking three of them to their feet. another group charges at him, but their guns do little against his skill. after years of fighting some of the strongest ability users, simple criminal organizations are as easy to step over like ants. 

chuuya kills them all — except for one.

the man’s knees are wobbling, hand shaking around the gun as he realizes that these will be his final moments. there is fear in his eyes, brown ones that rest wide open, and chuuya almost hesitates. his remorse doesn’t last long, though, before he’s wrapping a hand around the man’s throat, thrusting him backwards. 

“where is she?” chuuya asks, voice sharp and commanding. 

he can feel the man swallowing. 

chuuya knows that backup is probably on the way, but it won’t matter whether they show up or not. he’ll crush the rest of his enemies just as he’s crushed the last twenty men. the poor soul in his leather hold seems to know that as well. 

“i-i’ll take you to her,” he rasps, dropping his gun to claw at chuuya’s hand. 

he drops him, lets him take a few heaving breaths and coughs, before he’s kicking at him, forcing him back to his feet.

the young man takes him up the elevator, weaves him through a hallway as chuuya leaves a scattering of bodies in his wake, not hesitating to kill a single man that gets in his way. there is nothing that can keep him from you. 

how fiercely and loyally he loves you — it drives him to near insanity. 

finally, with blood coating his face and his clothes, the young man enters a room, locked with a code, revealing you. 

chuuya’s rage is almost as blinding as his corruption, as he gazes at the sight of you. bloodied and bruised, tied up in a chair, so visibly harmed. his hands clench into fists. “get the fuck away from her,” he says to the man who seems to be monitoring you.

“what are you doing in here?” the men left in the room panic, but they don’t have time to react before chuuya throws them back at the wall, so quickly, with so much force, that their spines snap. they hit it with a sharp crack, skulls shattering against the plaster, the wall crushing beneath the weight of them. 

limply, they fall to the floor. 

chuuya rushes over to you. 

the young man that led him here disappears, but chuuya isn’t worried about him. he’s a coward; he’ll likely flee from the country and never look back. the men that truly hurt you are already dead, and he’ll burn this building to the ground once he’s gotten you away from it. 

“hey,” chuuya says, cradling your cheeks gently, trying to coax you back awake. he’s not sure if it’s exhaustion, blood loss, or the obvious head trauma that caused you to pass out in the first place. but you’re still breathing, so he counts that as a blessing. 

“hey,” he whispers again, kissing your forehead, like it will heal all your ailments. “wake up, baby. we gotta get you out of here, okay?” 

it takes you a few seconds to come to, eyes glazed over and shell-shocked as you blink at him. “chuuya?” you say; your voice is so hoarse it makes chuuya want to keel over and vomit. “is it really you?” 

guilt gnaws at him, almost crushing, at the fact that thirty-six hours passed, and you’re delirious enough not to recognize him. you probably haven’t eaten, either. 

he should’ve been there. no one should’ve ever had the chance to hurt you, yet…

“it’s me, i’m here,” he says, kissing your lips, your temple, brushing your hair away from your face. the strands are sticky with blood. “shit,” chuuya nearly shouts, pulling a knife from his pocket, sawing through the thick ropes around you as quickly as he can. “i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry.” 

he can’t get you free fast enough, and you smile at him, drowsy, your eyes fluttering shut once more. “it’s okay, chuuya,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “you’re here now.” 

“you have to stay awake,” he says desperately, realizing your head is still bleeding. he doesn’t know how hurt you are. chuuya’s no expert when it comes to medicine, but he’s smart enough to know that internal injuries could be even worse than the external ones. 

“stay awake for me, okay, honey? i’ll get you back to the boss and we’ll find you a doctor. you’ll be just fine.” 

“okay, chuuya,” you hum, weakly gripping his back. seconds of silence pass before you mutter, “i just want to go home.” 

"i know." his heart pulls, and he almost lets out a cracked sob. but he refrains, knowing that there is plenty of time to drown in his sorrows later. 

finally, he gets the ropes under, lifting you from the chair. you’re so much lighter, weaker, and it makes him sick as he carries you. “let’s get you home.” 

𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀. . .

the call comes just as akutagawa is getting ready to head home for the evening, his tasks completed, eyes heavy with exhaustion. 

normally, he doesn’t stick around to say any goodbyes, sneaking off into the darkness of the night like a shadow, blending right in. but, something about the evening, so gloomy and drizzly with spring rain, feels off. 

with a heavy knot in his chest, so much different than an incoming fit of coughs, akutagawa heads back up to mori’s office, if perhaps to only ensure that everyone else’s jobs had been completed. he’s a lot of things, but he’s never been a slacker; and he’ll do what it takes to ensure that his position in the mafia is eternally secure.

though, he doesn’t have the opportunity to get all the way upstairs before he run into the boss, who is calm, but with an air of irritation clouding him. 

he explains the current situation to akutagawa in a clipped tone, bored — an enemy group has kidnapped you, holding you hostage. 

“how rude is it to bother a man, just as he is getting ready to go to sleep?” mori says, sighing histrionically.

but what is a minor inconvenience to mori sends an entire wave of dread through akutagawa, his entire body feeling as if it’s been dipped in ice. he can’t explain the horror that washes over him, not really, because he shouldn’t feel so panicked. it is rare for him to get worked up about the danger his subordinates find themselves in, save for his sister, of course. 

but you… you’re different. 

“can i trust you to diffuse the situation?” mori asks, impatiently glancing at his watch as if that will change anything. “i can call someone else, but they will not be so quick.” 

akutagawa doesn’t even think before he accepts the job, hating the way he sounds pathetically desperate for more details. his hands flatten the edge of his cloak, as if his ability is going to take on a mind of its own. 

he calls for a driver, calm but breathing so heavily that an aching cough rises up in him. his throat feels as if it may begin to bleed, but he swallows, glances away from the driver and gets himself under control.

there’s a ransom — bring them the money and they’ll return you, mori had told him. you’re only a lower ranking member of the mafia, and someone that makes for a pretty poor bargaining chip, so the motive is questionable. 

mori probably would’ve let you die, akutagawa knows, his teeth gritting together, so much so that a splintering sound comes from it. but the boss, in his infinite, concerning wisdom, seems to also know that his loyal dog has an soft spot for you. 

as regrettable as that may be.

akutagawa has no doubt that whoever the enemy is, they are no match for him. still, a twinge of anxiety settles in his stomach, fingers jittery as the driver, despite the decreased traffic of the hour, seems to drive impossibly slow. 

“are we not in a rush?” akutagawa snaps, leaning forward.

“apologies,” the driver, says, not daring to even look at akutagawa from the mirror. but the car speeds up, enough for akutagawa to be able to notice, at least. it cools the simmer that has already begun deep in his chest.  

even so, the car seems to go at a snails pace, minute upon minute flying by, with you in the clutches of an enemy. 

akutagawa doesn’t care who they are. he doesn’t care why, or how they captured you. he wants them dead. he’ll rip them apart, easily, and he’ll make them suffer — they’ll be alive for all of it, for every second that he peels the skin from their bones, ripping the smaller ones out of their sockets. 

what he feels for you… well, it’s too hard for him to admit to himself. he has no experience with what it means to care for another person, doesn’t even know if that’s his goal. he just knows he wants to protect you.

and he can’t do that if you’re dead.

finally, the car pulls up to an old warehouse, one at the very outskirts of the port, beyond the docks and the shipping carts. it’s tucked far back, an obvious lair for some villainous organization that doesn’t want to be found. 

akutagawa gets there, but there is nothing. he hears nothing, feels no signs of life as he trudges through the puddles left behind from the earlier rain. 

a small string of panic begins again, as he wondered if maybe the call that mori had told him was only a ruse. maybe this entire time had been a distraction, a way to lure him away. there are other skill-users in the mafia, but none quite as dangerous as him. 

though, he hears it, then. a small little sound, muffled and hoarse, full of pain. 

he ducks into another corner of a warehouse, and you’re there — bound with chains and a gag across your mouth, one of your eyes blackened with bruises, your nose bleeding. 

his heart aches. never in his life has he so quickly made his way over, used the sharp edges of his ability to shear through the chains, falling to his knees as he unbinds the cloth from your lips. 

“where are they?” he rasps, mouth opening and closing, hating the sound of his own voice. he recognizes his desperation, his anger, but the affectionate sound that clips at the end is unfamiliar, as he shakily pulls himself closer to you. 

you glance up at him, eyes glossy and wide, and though you are scared, hurt, he’s so thankful you are alive. his heart flips once, as you grasp at his cloak, the material that has the blood of so many staining the threads. 

“gone,” you say, throat chalky, words nothing more than a note against the wind. “they fled when they heard it was you coming.” 

“and left you?” he asks, jaw clenching, as he hopes that the emotions aren’t as visible on his features as he thinks they are. “were you not a ransom?” 

“no,” you swallow, hard, as if in pain. he notices bruises around your neck, the shape of fingerprints indented there. “i was bait.”

anger rises up in him like a wave, engulfing him, wholly and relentlessly. he is no stranger to that, like he is the kindness you show him, the way you look at him as if he is your protector, rather than a bringer of destruction. “i’ll go after them. where are they headed? they’ll pay, i’ll slaughter—”

“ryunosuke,” you say, reaching for him as he stands, expression pleading as he backs away. “stay.” 

he has half a mind to ignore you — the enemy escaped, after all. but your voice. your eyes… you look so small sitting there, bloodied and bruised and broken. 

“please,” you try again, near tears, and though he has never been good with obvious displays of emotion, something within him snaps at the desperation in the word. 

he nods, slowing his pace as he returns to you, lets you wrap yourself in him, cling to him. his hands fall, naturally, to your waist, somehow knowing where they belong, even if akutagawa never has a clue what he’s doing with you. 

“i’ll call hirotsu,” he says simply, before pulling out his phone, not bothering to untangle himself from you. 

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 . . .

dazai is not a forgiving man, and will never learn to be. forgiveness is not a luxury he is often able to indulge in in his line of work, and his heart has hardened enough that until the end of time, those that are branded his enemies will remain his enemies. 

though, in his blackened heart, one soured over the course of time, you have carved out your own little space, lit it up with golden rays of light that are fiery enough to melt the stone casing of his chest. 

his only love — his only weakness. but it is a weakness that his enemies know about as well. 

dazai tries his best to keep you safe. he always has, and he knows that, sometimes, his grasp on you can be a little too tight. that the way he tries to keep you under his watchful eye can sometimes be stifling, frustrating. 

but he can’t always be there to protect you. and it is in times like these, that he regrets letting you go without a bodyguard. he regrets that he listened to your insistence that you could keep yourself safe. 

he should’ve at least told you to take a friend. 

“boss,” his subordinate says, bowing his head, his voice pleading, desperate. “i’m so sorry. your wife—”

“if anything… anything happens to her, you will be the one responsible, do you understand?” dazai says, his eyes cold as he glowers down at the man, only a few inches shorter than him, but feeling so much smaller. “i will personally see that this act does not go unpunished.” 

“of course, sir,” the man says, and he, at the very least, has the decency to sound resigned. to accept his fate and suffer the consequences, for allowing the boss’s wife to get herself into such a situation. 

and dazai means it, every last word; if he finds you in a state closer to death, anyone who put you in harm’s way will be torn apart from the inside out. he isn’t able to think of anything but bringing you home safely, his hands shaking with rage as he sends more than enough people out on a search to find you. 

with all the strings he’s able to pull as the mafia boss, it doesn’t take long to find you, for those that have bravely — or stupidly — used his wife as bait to come forward, and offer an attempt at some sort of negotiation. 

there’s little of the conversation that dazai remembers on the phone, even less that he remembers after that. the anger bubbles up in him and grabs hold of his conscience, the emotion directing his movements with a mind of its own. 

he’s already sent out every last one of his people into the field, ensuring that the organization that had the gall to threaten you is wiped off the face of the earth. deleted from every corner of the world, buildings flattened to the ground. by tomorrow, they won’t have ever existed. 

today, he doesn’t care what happens as long as he finds you alive. 

you’re held hostage by two men — so completely beaten that they’ve given up on any restraints. whatever they wanted from you, you seemed to refused to have given up, lip bleeding, eyes swelling so badly that you can’t even open them. 

dazai doesn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger on the first man, then turning to the other, shooting the hand that holds the pistol. the man recoils, shouts, and drops the weapon completely, as dazai lands another bullet to his knee, causing him to fall. 

slowly, dazai walks up, firing again to his other arm, a loud snap echoing throughout the room. the man winces, trying to crawl to the gun, one last desperate attempt to stay alive. 

he kicks the gun away, watching, as, pathetically, the expression in the enemy’s face changes — any of his remaining hope vanishes. 

“you told me she was unharmed,” dazai says, bending down, his coat flaring out behind him as he squats. 

the man coughs, gasping for air as the blood seeps out of him. “we lied.” he smiles cruelly, and though he shares the same sort of darkness as those in the port mafia, there is something even more twisted in his smile. 

dazai hums. “you the leader?” 

the man doesn’t give an answer, but the slight twitch of surprise on his face is all dazai needs. he’s no one — just a grunt whose life was put on the line to guard you. 

“didn’t think so.” dazai shoots him once, straight through the forehead, instantly killing him. but he is vindictive, angry, and the man he truly wants to destroy, the one who took you, is nowhere to be found. another bullet lands, tearing apart the flesh of his temple, then another, and one more, his skull beginning to cave in from the force of it all. 

dazai heaves, letting the gun clatter to the ground as it runs out of bullets, and then he realizes, all this time, you’ve just been watching him. the ugliest side of him — the worst side of him. 

you’re no stranger to it, of course. how can you be, when you’ve shared a life with him for years? but that doesn’t mean he wants you to see it, see how bloodthirsty he can become. 

he stumbles over to you, where you’re still sitting on the ground, your wrist in your lap, bent at an angle that he knows isn’t right. bruises are littered across your skin, and your hair is matted from the blood that pools at your temple. 

it takes every ounce of restraint he has to stay calm, a million feelings swirling under his skin. ones that he was never familiar with until he met you. 

“i’m sorry,” he says, taking your face in his hands so, so softly, worried that he’ll hurt you even more. “i’m sorry, darling. i should’ve — i should’ve been there.” dazai notices his hands are shaking and he balls them up into fists, leaning back. “fuck. fuck — i’ll kill them all, just tell me who it was. anyone who laid a finger on you. i’ll cut them down one by one.” 

“osamu,” you say, and your voice is raspy, cracking, as your unbroken arm reaches for him, squeezing his shaking hand. “i—”

you open your mouth to continue, but only tears come streaming down your cheeks, over your bloodied lips, saltiness soaking your jawline. no words don’t leave you, but a soft sob chokes itself up your throat.

“hey, hey, hey.” dazai’s voice softens, every muscle in his body relaxing as he draws you nearer to him, into his chest with a touch that’s barely there. “you’re safe. i’m here, okay? they’re not going to hurt you again, sweetheart.” 

you sniffle, barely making a sound, but he can feel the tears drop onto his clothes, soaking the material.

“can you walk? are you hurt anywhere else?” 

you hesitate for a moment before answering; he’s not sure if there’s a reason you only answer the first question. “i can walk.” 

dazai nods, and though the rage is still bubbling there, underneath the surface, there is a coolant streaming through him at the vision of you alive. the men who did this will pay the price, but he still has you — and that’s all that matters.

thank you for reading !!! ❤︎

[oceanbreathessaltyx]

Charles Vane doesn’t care what Blackbeard is up to on the Revenge. He’s comfortable holding down operations on the Queen Anne until whatever fancy that’s possessed the captain this time passes. The men obey Charles and he’s served under Teach and Hands long enough to know what he can and can’t get away with as acting captain.

‘Order any deckhand without shit for brains to deal with resupply’ would fall beneath ‘can’t get away with’ in regards to Izzy. Not that Charles is inclined to care about that either, but he is curious what’s next on the agenda. So rather than drown in tits and drink at port until it’s time to set sail again, he’s elected to meet Izzy at market instead of sending anyone else.

Charles towers over Izzy as he stalks at his side, visibly impatient. “Any word on when we’re to make course for the Republic of Pirates?” Not that it matters. Taking another prize means more coin, but he does have plans for when they return to the island he’s come to think of as home between voyages. “Believe it or not, I’ve a life outside you fuckheads.”

@isrighthand