#so why you would intentionally purposefully take on this responsibility and then intentionally purposefully bury your head in the sand

[grunge-mermaid]

my mom's hairstylist is 7 months pregnant and I'm not sure who I feel worse for: the baby whose mother is "too scared" to learn anything about pregnancy, childbirth, or childcare because she thinks she'd "back out if she knew the truth"

or the pregnant woman who is so uninformed (self-inflicted) that she thinks that 3 hours is a long labour

[thinking-mans-submissive]

High School Sweethearts 

Part Two

“So how’s the missus?” 

Trevor and Michael smirked over their heaping plates of linguine at Jared’s thinly veiled attempt to get a reaction from Kyle, but He was taking it all in stride. 

After high school, Kyle had determined to live His life unashamedly and He’d naturally gravitated towards like-minded people. Trevor, Mike, and Jared were your typical Alpha-bros: loud, obnoxious, and rippling with muscle and testosterone. They weren’t gay, but they held a similar world view of male dominance and superiority and had been very accepting of Kyle and Matt’s unique relationship. In fact, Kyle wondered if they weren’t a little too interested, and He made sure never to leave them alone with Matt.

“She’s out shoppin’,” Kyle replied, looking Jared straight in the eye. Jared smiled at the other guys who’d gone quiet. 

“No shit! You let him out with that shiner?”

Without missing a beat, Kyle responded confidently and calmly, “Why not. She’s proud of it, so why should I care?”

But Kyle wasn’t exactly proud of it, of what He’d done. His sweet little girl had very purposefully challenged His authority and had pushed and pushed Him, despite His warnings and attempt to extract Himself from her little tantrum. He’d lost His temper and was more than a little ashamed of His lack of self-control. But a hard slap followed by a quick right hook had had a most unexpected result. 

As soon as it happened, Matt’s temperament and demeanor changed instantly. Matt cowered on the floor, crumpled and defeated. And quiet. It was the quiet that had unnerved Kyle the most, not the cut across Matt’s lips or the bruise on his face. 

Kyle stood motionless, His chest heaving, His face twisted in anger, and His fist still clenched when suddenly Matt rushed to Him across the floor. Matt clung to Kyle’s legs and then pulled himself up to bury his tear-stained face in Kyle’s crotch, blabbering almost incoherently, “I’m so sorry, Daddy! I’m so, so sorry!” 

There was anguish in His little girl’s voice, but Kyle also detected joy and immense relief, as though she’d desperately needed something that only He could provide, something she couldn’t explain or ask for or maybe even understand. 

Kyle flinched when Matt leaned back and reached for His zipper, but He didn’t stop him. Matt fumbled desperately to open His pants and release His cock and was soon sucking Him as though his life depended upon it, slobbering and taking Him to the root. It was obscene, shameful, and debasing. And Kyle loved it. 

So this is what His little girl needs to feel safe and loved, He thought. A good beating. He would apologize later, not for hitter her, but for hitter her out of anger. Her behavior had been purposefully provoking and deserved an immediate response. But He would never let her control and manipulate Him like that again. 

He wasn’t quite sure how He was going to punish her, nor could He contemplate it with all the blood rushing from His head to His cock. 

Matt had impaled himself on Kyle’s swollen cock, with his nose buried in Kyle’s thick, wiry bush. Matt was still clinging to Him as though He might kick him away. Despite Matt’s choking and gagging, he refused to let up. And Kyle’s anger was giving him a particular red-hot need to watch him suffer. 

Kyle intentionally refused to touch or comfort Matt. Until recently, she’d been the perfect little housewife: cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing Kyle’s clothes, massaging His feet, and being respectful deferential to His authority. And Kyle never missed a chance to pet and fondle her to make her feel loved and protected. 

But shortly after He’d returned Matt’s car keys and allowed her to venture outside unescorted, He started to notice a subtle change in her attitude. Apparently Matt’s newly regained independence had triggered old habits and ways of thinking. 

Whatever the cause, after their confrontation, Kyle determined He would give His good girl whatever she needed to find her way back to contentment and happiness. And if that meant harsh punishment and discipline then so be it.

But that alone would be too simple a solution to a more complex issue. She needed more; they both did. 

Kyle realized that every good wife needs a firm hand - craves it, in fact. Clearly, Matt’s maintenance spankings weren’t enough. Kyle had never held back when having sex with His girl; He was rough, demanding, and insatiable. It was time to explore both their needs for more. 

[tragedybunny]

The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 19

Hello Lovelies, We are in the endgame now. 💕

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.

Darkness, screams, ravens crying, something feels as though it is scratching at my brain, a voice whispers in my ear. I awake gasping, I roll over, another nightmare. Only one thought comes next, Kat. I yearn to hold her and feel her warmth close to me. Instinctively I reach out for her, my hand grasping toward her side of the bed, and I find nothing. “Kat?” I whisper into the blackness. No response. My eyes fly open as I confusedly reach further across the bed. “Katarina?” I push myself up to sitting, scanning the room. Where is she? Was something sinister a play? My glance finds her pillow, neatly tucked in it’s usually spot, clearly unslept on. It all rushes back to me, hitting like a charging basilisk. “Oh.” Reality holds more misery than any nightmare. Kat is gone, she left me. 

“If that’s really how you feel.” Her voice calm, she turned and walked away toward the stairs, leaving me to stalk off to the study and pour myself a rather generous portion of whiskey.  The entirety of the amber liquid went down in one burning swallow. How dare she! I poured myself another. “How dare she what?”  The glass stopped halfway to my lips as I tried my best to ignore that rather sensible inner voice. “Enjoy herself for a few moments? Speak to someone who was treating her with kindness? Call out your jealousy and abysmal behavior?” The second glass vanished the same as the first. Gods she was right, I was so terribly jealous. It seems I couldn’t let her go even while I was trying to push her away.

I’d very intentionally been putting distance between us. It had started with that first letter I’d received from her. Most of it had of course been well-coded intel but woven throughout was her side of a conversation that was painfully reminiscent of our more domestic moments. I felt a tugging at my heart and I wanted nothing more than to be home with her. Every quiet moment from then on was filled with that longing, and I spent my nights yearning for the feeling of her beside me, for our physical intimacy. I grew to despise it as weakness. I knew what that longing was, what I had succumbed to. It was unseemly, I wasn’t some foolish young romantic to be spending his time pining away for his bride. I was the Grand General of Noxus, and the Empire was all that I should be so concerned with. So I didn’t write her back as often as I could have, keeping my letters short and brusque. When I returned home I’d put every effort into remaining cold and aloof, determined to sever myself from these troublesome emotions. And yet there I was, drinking whiskey alone in a dim room feeling guilt begin to weigh me down after the pain I knew I’d inflicted on her. We needed to talk, tomorrow, when we’d both calmed down a bit. 

I turned the lamps off and started toward the stairs, emerging in the hall just in time to find Kat, changed out of her dress, setting Skadi down on the floor beside her. I quickly noticed she was wearing that same small pack she’d had with her when she came to live with me. Ice traveled down my spine. “Kitten, what are you doing?” I made haste to her side. 

She turned to look at me, eyes full of a coldness I’d never seen before. “Don’t call me that, I hate it!” I stopped short, taken aback by the venom in her words, and stricken as I had believed quite the opposite. “I’m leaving, as we agreed to earlier.”  

She couldn’t possibly be serious. Is it not exactly what you wanted? “No, we didn’t...I didn’t mean...Kat, I’m sorry.” What had I done? 

She shook her head. “We’re beyond apologies.” 

All the air seemed to rush from my lungs. “Then I will find other ways to make amends.” It was a promise, anything she desired

“Because I’m a whore to be bought like they’ve always said.” She snapped at me, causing Skadi to take up a defensive posture at her side. 

I furrowed my brow. “No, of course not. Do not be like this.” I reached out, trying to pull her to me, to put my arms around her. I had neither held nor kissed her once since my return and at that moment it was the only thing in the world I wanted. 

“Don’t.” She jerked away from me, putting her arm up as though to protect herself. “Stop. It’s over.” She started for the door again, snapping her fingers for Skadi to follow. 

My limbs felt like dead weight, the edges of my vision blurred, and I heard myself sucking shallow breaths. Only once before in my life had I felt panic that acutely; on the bloody fields at the Placidium, as my Warhost melted away from me and the Blade Dancer sought to strike me down. I forced myself to move, desperately grasping her hand, my mind reeling, searching something to say to her. I’ve always been so good with words, I should have had so many then, words to soften her heart, to soothe her hurts, to tell her the truth of my feelings.  “Kat, don’t leave.” The pathetic attempt was barely more than a whisper. I squeezed her hand softly as I had so many times before. Why couldn’t I tell her? Was I a coward? I was losing my wife and still, I couldn’t say it. 

She spun back toward me, face inches from mine, a snarl on her lips. “Unhand me Jericho, unless you wish to lose that one as well.” Her words felt as though they had burned me and I released her hand stepping back from her. 

With no hesitation, she turned her back on me. “Please.” If she heard, she gave no sign. And with the terrible finality of the door slamming shut behind her, I was left standing there alone in the darkness staring at the floor, pain such as I’ve never felt blazing in my chest. 

That was two weeks ago. Since then I’d swallowed down the bitter anguish, burying myself in running the Empire. Piltover had been dealt with, their farewell the first social function in so long I had to attend without Kat. There was a yawning emptiness at my side the whole night, no arm wrapped in mine, no head leaned affectionately against my shoulder. I’d contemplated going after her, trying to win her back. But to start I had no idea where she had gone, just as she had, no doubt, intended. And ultimately I knew, even if I could convince her to come home, I was likely to end up treating her in the same manner. I would never be the husband she deserved. No, Kat should have the freedom I promised her so long ago, the potential to build for herself the life she wanted.

I’d been resolved in that until last night. I’d arrived home to an envelope on my desk, my name in her distinctive script, letters somehow bearing sharp edges. Hope and elation welled up within me, I had not been completely abandoned. Breath held, the letter open did its work. My world went blurry and indistinct as the first thing that fell from it was her wedding ring, landing on my desk with a clatter louder than a black powder explosion. Knowing that whatever it held was not what I wanted so badly, I withdrew the parchment and unfolded it, collapsing into my chair at first glance. She’d sent me a writ of divorce. There was never a thought of reconciling with me, she was putting a permanent end to us. She was gone, she’d taken nothing with her, and now she asked for nothing but the dissolution of our union. It was as though she wished to erase every moment shared between us. 

I retrieved her ring from where it fell, clutching it tightly, memories of our wedding day haunting me. It was time to take mine off as well, I told myself, time to let go. I barely grasped it when I felt something I had not felt since childhood, the stinging of tears in my eyes. There was a finality in this act. I pulled it from my finger and gave in, letting the tears come. I felt stupid and childish, choking back sobs so none of the servants would hear. My only comfort was Bea, coming to sit on my shoulder, patient as I tried half-heartedly to stroke her head. She’d missed Kat as well, often going to sit in her room as though waiting for her to return. “Oh Bea, she’s never coming home.” She gave a mournful sound caw in response. 

I must have sat there for hours, lost in my misery, until the sun began to fade. I took our rings and reverently tucked them in one of my desk drawers, settling them next to her unanswered letters. There was work I could have done, but all I wanted was to sleep, to forget it all for a little while. So I crawled into bed, pulled the covers around me, and tried my best to ignore the empty spot next to me. 

And now I lay here staring into the darkness. Reaching over, I pull her pillow to my chest, it still smells like her, like violets and blade oil. I breathe it in and try to imagine she’s here, curled up next to me, as happy as she was on our wedding night. That night, the look in her eyes, the passion that burned between us, I knew how true her affection was for me. Once I believed she stayed by my side merely to ensure her own prosperity, I had been so very wrong. I wrap my arms around the thing and bury my face in it

I had been so cruel and idiotic. Why? So I could feel as though I were in absolute control. So I could pretend I didn’t need her, because needing her was a weakness, and so the opposite must be strength. I take one deep breath, I’ve run out of time for grief this morning, and now I must see to my Empire. Gently I replace her pillow, soon it will lose that comforting scent and she will be completely gone from my life. I sit up, what will I do then? A worry for later, for now, duty calls.

It would seem I had not suffered enough though, as that duty included an Intelligence briefing to close out my day. Of course, Katarina is in attendance, the two contingents of war masons she oversaw being a topic of high importance. Throughout the meeting I note her gaze shifting about the room, purposefully avoiding me. The first time I hear her voice in weeks is when she gives a brief on Demacia. My attention waivers, I’m lost in simply letting the sound of it wash over me. I manage to glean the overall conclusion of it, Jarvan IV may well be a grave disaster for his country, civil unrest continues, and more mages flock to the rebel cause. Piltover is the next item on the agenda, our new alliance was a rather nice little political victory. “It was only upon the delegation’s return that the true meaninglessness of our concessions was revealed to the Council. They are furious, but cannot act for fear of triggering a real military conflict. Our spies report there has been much division over the failure.” 

“Let it not be forgotten the Commander played a crucial role in our success. The information she extracted from their delegation member directed our negotiations.” General Talus allows herself a satisfied grin. She has realized what I knew a long time ago, Katarina’s capabilities extended beyond her blades. Now she uses it for her own advantage, a Trifarix loyalist with an excellent spymaster at her disposal. 

It is not lost on me that this highly commendable work is the same that I was so needlessly jealous over. I imploded our marriage because she was doing her duty to the Empire.  “Agreed, impressive as ever Commander.” I hear the sudden intake in breath around me, our separation is no secret, and so I suppose many would believe I would turn on her. 

She inclines her head slightly. “Thank you, Grand General.” So this it is, we are now just Grand General and subordinate. 

The briefing closes and I lag behind, if I tarry long enough perhaps she will be gone. I am not sure I can endure a walk down the Stairs of Triumph with her purposefully ignoring me. Pity Darius is out on field exercises, an impromptu meeting would give me an excuse to stay even longer. The Legionaries salute me and I begin the long descent, perhaps I will drink myself into oblivion tonight. A crowd clears from the first landing and there she is, arms crossed, expression impatient, waiting to pounce on me. 

“Did you sign it?” She hisses, quiet enough to at least not draw attention our way. It’s a small mercy but a welcome one. 

“No. I was preoccupied with other business.” The lie comes easily enough. I didn’t think she’d want it done so quick. It was agony to even look at it this morning, I couldn’t bring myself to sign it. 

She throws her hands up, an exasperated sigh escaping her. “This is just like you. I made it as simple as possible, asked for nothing, and because you didn’t deem it important you ignored it.” 

“I will sign it tonight and have it filed with the Magistrate tomorrow.” I force my voice to remain steady. That’s all that is needed, and she will have her freedom.  One signature, no more marriage; no more late night conversations, or evenings at the theatre, or quiet dinners, or holding each other in our sleep. “I promise.” 

“For all that’s wor…” She looks up, brows knotted, as though she hasn’t truly seen me this whole time. “Jericho, are you alright?”

“I’m fine. If that’s all you required of me.” I hastily turn and begin to walk away. I fear if she says another word to me I will fall apart. 

A firm tug on the arm of my coat stops me. If it were anyone else I may well have ended them even without my present misery. Instead, I sigh and turn back to face her. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping, again.”

“It is nothing to concern yourself with.” I gently free my coat from her grasp, my voice beginning to betray me. Being near her has brought back that burning in my chest and stinging in my eyes. I need to get away from her, I can’t break like this in public.

Her eyes now soft, she gingerly reaches up and cups my cheek. “Jericho.” Am I delusional? I can almost hear a note of affection in her voice. 

I put my hand over hers and, desiring to never let it go, hesitantly move it away. This is not what I deserve. “Do not worry over me. I will be fine.” 

“You’re” She’s abruptly cut off as the deafening roar of explosion envelopes us, the very stairs beneath us trembling.

Instinctively I grasp her, and pull her to me, even as I summon the demon’s aura around us. I sink to my knees, shielding her as much as I can, large chunks of rubble pelting us from the crumbling side of the Immortal Bastion. I shrug it off, letting the demon take more control. Across the city, I hear more explosions, diversions no doubt.

A sizable hunk of stone strikes the side of my head, the pain diminished, but my vision still blurring for a moment. The rocks rain and I feel myself shaking as the aura around me begins to fade. We cannot sustain that immense expulsion of power through me. I let go of Kat and fall forward onto my hands just as the dust begins to settle. 

I feel a hot trickle of blood down the side of my face, a throbbing ache where at least one of my ribs is certainly broken, and the demon’s retreat has left me with only my natural arm. I sit back on my knees, urgently reaching for Kat. Her eyes are closed but I mercifully detect the rise and fall of her chest, unconscious but still alive. My mind begins to race, I need to get us out of here. 

“Spread out! He’s here somewhere, we were given the signal.”  It would seem the plot has finally come to a head. 

I try to stand, the world spins and my knees buckle, bringing me back down. I cannot get us both out of here. Even if I could stand, I cannot pick her up like this. “Move the rubble, quickly!”

“Kat!” I whisper and desperately shake her to no avail. I have a choice, there is no saving us both. I hear them coming, below us, they make their way up the stairs. I can flee, mayhaps I will move quick enough to save myself. If they find Kat in their search for me, they will no doubt kill her. There’s little chance I’ll make it in this current state. I’ve taxed the demon too much, I’m on my own. If I move towards them however, there is a greater chance that they’ll retreat once they have me, leaving Kat unharmed. In the end, there really is no choice to be made. I put my hand over hers, one last time, and give it a small squeeze. Finally, I give voice to what that little gesture has always meant, the words I had been too craven to say when they would have mattered the most. “I love you Kitten.” 

  I try again to stand and every muscle and joint burns in agony until I rise on shaky legs. With faltering steps, I descend, working my way around the largest debris. My lungs burn, my right knee is nothing but fiery agony, and the world begins to waver around me. Finally, I’ve gone far enough that I’m reasonably assured she will not be found. I let go, sinking down. Numbly I feel the impact as I hit the ground, my eyes close, and I slip into blackness. 

[rivkalashnik]

dishonorabletask01: a deep deep dive 

Describe your character in a few words.

Sociable, impulsive Ukrainian tries her best 2 survive. 

What do you know about your character that they don’t know yet?

Rivkele thinks she can kill someone else to save her life with no problem-- a Flores, in this case, according to the deal. If the terms are upheld. However, while she puts her own self-interest above others every day just by nature of her passive participation in the mob’s workings, she’s never willingly taken a life with her own hands in order to better hers. The distinction is a thin line but a real one, and she’s going to find herself a lot more morally conflicted than she anticipates, I think. 

What are your character’s major flaws?

Her lack of self-control and her fear. 

What would your character give their life for?

Almost nothing-- she’s a fighter, tooth-and-nail, to the point where self-sacrifice isn’t a viable option. The only situation I could think that would even come close would be if someone was holding a random innocent child at gunpoint and made her choose between her or the kid. And even then, in the back of her mind she’d be certain that the kid was in on it and it was all a setup. 

What is your character’s greatest asset?

Her mind-- she’s sharp as a tack. And an associated asset would be her open-mindedness. Everybody’s got flaws, and she knows that, so she’s willing to get to know people from varied walks of life. 

What would completely break your character?

Good question, good question. I think-- if she finally does manage to kill a Flores and it turns out that the whole thing was pointless and she can’t get out of the mob even then. 

How does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

Usually, what you see is what you get with Riv-- although in situations with new people, she tends to try to appear more apathetic than she actually is. 

What is your character afraid of?

The main two would be being tortured & being trafficked. 

Where would your character fall on a politeness/rudeness scale?

She doesn’t purposefully try to be rude but it sometimes does happen if she can’t control her brain-to-mouth filter, so I’d put her at a 6/10 leaning towards rude, but usually non-intentionally. 

If your character could choose a different identity, who would they pick?

I don’t think she would-- though maybe herself, but with a few adjustments. 

In what or whom is your character’s greatest faith in?

I think her greatest faith is in her own resilience. 

What was the best thing in your character’s life?

When she was still on top of her game, she owned her own apartment-- owned, not rented-- that actually had a bedroom instead of just being a studio. It had a giant window, and wasn’t on the first floor, and hardwood floors. And for a span of about eight months she also had a dog, a huge black Newfoundland named Andrei. She loved that dog. She had to sell the him, and the apartment, but they were the best things in her life at one point. 

What was the worst thing in your character’s life?

Essentially, everything that has happened since she had to sell her dog. 

What is your character’s biggest nightmare?

Anybody finding out what she’s been tempted to do re: the Flores family. 

What seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

She remembers exactly which floorboards creaked in her house when she was growing up; she remembers the first song that was playing in the background when she won her first big pot (Fergalicious, from the tinny overhead speakers); she remembers the exact feeling of air on her face when biking down the big hill outside her house when she was a kid. 

What is your character’s secret wish?

Her secret wish would be to go back and re-do the last half of her life again so she wouldn’t be one foot in the grave before she finally has some measure of freedom again. 

What is your character’s greatest achievement?

Winning when the odds are against her. In general. 

What is your character’s deepest regret?

That she never kept in contact with her older sister. 

What is your character’s deepest disappointment?

That she’s 38 years old and her life still continues to suck, on the whole. 

What is your character reluctant to tell people?

She doesn’t ever want to admit why she works for the mob, especially to other people in the mob, because she’s worried they’ll think she’ll turn out to be a traitor (especially because they’re not technically wrong??). Her allegiance is out of necessity and not loyalty, which she always avoids mentioning.

What is your character hiding from themselves?

I think deep down she wants to find people she can genuinely trust, but because that seems impossible, she buries it deep enough to pretend like she doesn’t care. On a separate note, she also struggles with guilt because she’s complicit in such shady dealings on a daily basis-- but also, she doesn’t want to take responsibility for her actions, even though technically it’s her choice to continue participating in the mob’s nonsense. So I’d say she’s hiding from dealing with all of those paradoxical feelings just by... ignoring & burying them, again. 

What makes this character angry? What calms them?

Direct personal insults. If you try to belittle her, or try to pull one over on her like she’s an idiot, she will get pissed. Yelling usually calms her down, in that situation. She’ll eventually wear herself out. On a daily basis, though “calm” doesn’t really cross her mind except for maybe popping in some earbuds. 

List situations in which your character would not have control over themselves.

Too many to list.

How strong is your character’s emotions? Controllable? Uncontrollable?

They’re pretty strong; 8/10.

What wakes your character up in the middle of the night?

The guy in the apartment on top of hers doing jumping jacks at all hours of the night, or maybe sirens of police cars rushing down the street. Otherwise, she sleeps like a rock. 

Describe a recurring dream and/or nightmare.

She’s drowning and there’s absolutely nothing and no one nearby-- just dark black water as she sinks. 

Describe your character’s family.

She hasn’t talked to her mother or her sister in years, so it’d be difficult to describe them now. In her memories, her mother is perpetually frowning, which nicely balances out her sister Rina’s laugh. 

Name your character’s favourite person and why.

Father Patrick. He’s not at all what she would expect from a priest, which she finds terribly amusing. 

How many friends does your character have?

I don’t know that she would consider herself to have any friends. “Friends” is a loaded word that implies some loyalty and level of mutual truthfulness, and I don’t think she ever feels like she’s in a place where she can reach that level of real connection. But she’s friendly with many, many people. 

How many friends does your character want?

Again-- the general concept is asking a little too much of her, honestly. 

How would a friend or close relative describe your character?

Loud. Scrappy. Clever, yet also incredibly stupid. 

Who depends on your character? Why?

No one really depends on her? She’s pretty replaceable, in most regards. Which makes it even more annoying that they won’t just let her leave. 

Who does your character most want to please? Why? 

As obnoxious as it is to be worried about his opinion, she wants to make sure she doesn’t disappoint the Englishman. Among others. Just for her own safety’s sake. 

How does your character feel about sex? 

Sex is fun, but only with people she doesn’t know. 

How does your character feel about romantic relationships?

Ew. Then they have to deal with your problems, and you have to deal with their problems when you already have your own... she’ll pass on that. She’s not the romantic type anyway. 

If your character had to live in utter seclusion, what six items would they bring?

A warm blanket, a pack of playing cards, a pack of cigarettes, a fully-charged ipod mini, earbuds, and a bottle of vodka. 

What is your character’s most noticeable trait and most noticeable physical feature?

Her incredibly tight red curls. Just a massive amount of hair. 

How does your character feel about work?

Inescapable. Shrug emoji

Write one headcanon.

She was raised in a Jewish household, but as an adult, she isn’t super engaged in religion & she doesn’t keep kosher. 

Write one additional thing about your character.

Riv’s first languages were Ukrainian and Yiddish-- and Ukrainian is pretty close to German, enough that she can get by in a German conversation. She learned Russian in school so she’s pretty fluent in that. Her English skills are so-so; she won’t be able have a deep, philosophical conversation in it, though. 

[kookienomster3]

I Want The Headline (Pt. 42)

Written By: suga-of-daegu BTS Fanfiction Angst WARNING: MATURE CONTENT Mafia/Gang

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The rumpled blanket from the bed was collected and gently draped over his body. You sat there, unsure of what else to do for him but cry. All you could do for anyone here was cry. You weren’t strong like Jungkook, or cunning like Namjoon or Yoongi.

You didn’t have that sly charisma like Taehyung or the intimidating presence like Hoseok.

You couldn’t sweet talk like Jin could and you couldn’t adapt like Jimin.

You were you; and you were useless.

So you cried, hands gently stroking Jimin’s side and eyes careful to avoid the staining sheets. “I’m so sorry Jimin.” You whispered. He didn’t respond of course and all you could hear were your sniffles and the ringing in your ears from the gun. It sounded like sirens, but you had never experienced that feeling before to know if it was normal or not.

Gunfire went off somewhere within the warehouse, but you didn’t bother to try to find a spot to hide. Jimin was right; it was only a matter of time. Yoongi was nowhere to be seen and Jungkook’s entire attitude to you had shifted the moment you purposefully left him behind to go with Taehyung. There was no way he’d let you return to him with an understanding perspective. You had saw the way his anger had shifted from Namjoon to you.

Going back to Jungkook was a dangerous option.

Your fingers curled into the sheets draped over Jimin, “He just takes and take and takes away..” You quoted him, smoothing your hand over his hip, “It’s only a matter of time before it’s us.” He had been right in so many other things and you were afraid that he was going to be right about this too. “Please be wrong, Jimin.” You pleaded weakly, “Please be wrong about Jeon.”

There were shouts and screams (some close enough to cause alarm) but you sat still, tenderly stroking Jimin as if you were trying to lull him to sleep. “We were friends..” You agreed softly, “We are friends. We understood each other. You understood me a lot better than I understood myself. I wish..I wish we could’ve met differently. The way we met was bad. You had to do a lot of things you didn’t want to, but I understand. I forgive you for most of them.” You whispered, leaning down to rest your head against his hip,

“Maybe if we originally met in passing..? Or at work? We would have been close friends; I know it. We-You could have moved in with Jae and I. You and your girlfriend. I think you both would have liked it, Jiminie. It’s a small place, but it had a beautiful view of the city, especially on rainy days.” You chuckled to yourself, “I’m sure you would have been a better handyman than Jae; he barely knew how to change a vacuum filter. We could have been best friends, Jimin.” Wiping your eyes, you sat up, frowning at the red stained sheets. “Please let this be a dream…”

You knew it wasn’t and that your ramblings were making no sense. Jimin had hurt you, intentionally, several times and yet you were talking about him like he was the kindest man you’ve ever met. He wasn’t meant to die like that; not by you. You had to compensate for that somehow.

So now Jimin was practically a saint in your eyes.

He was truly the kind and understanding man who only wanted to help you like no one else would; he was the man he pretended to be.

He was the man you were pretending he was.

Footsteps rushed closer to the room. A figure darted by the partially opened door, but you hadn’t turned fast enough to see who it was. You were too numb to go check and your voice was too hoarse to shout. Either way, it was probably someone who would be intent on hurting you, so hiding in this room with Jimin was your best option. Several other heavy footsteps rushed by and a door was heard slamming at the end of the hall. Whoever they were, they were gone now. You turned back to Jimin, idly smoothing the wrinkles in the sheets. You’d make sure he was buried beside his girlfriend, he deserved that.

The warmth of his body was started to wane; tender flesh hardening under your shaky touch. Whatever false hope you had that he would magically awaken was gone. He was dead and you needed to move on. So why couldn’t you move away from him? You softly patted his side one last time, tearfully apologizing to him. Killing him was the last thing you ever had wanted to do, whether he wanted it or not.

Jeon was right about you too, it seemed.

You did fit right in the mafia.

You not only fit right in.

You belonged.

A cramp formed in your gut that had you doubling over in pain, teeth clenching tightly. You didn’t understand how these people could kill so easily. You had done it on accident and you couldn’t even breath without pain coursing throughout your body. Exhaustion pressed down on you, a sharp pain throbbing behind your eyes and never had you wanted to curl up and die as much as you did now. What were you supposed to do? Yoongi wasn’t coming back; that much seemed clear now. Maybe now that he wasn’t forced to be around you he was seeing that he really didn’t feel anything for you. That made perfect sense.

It seemed like that was what was happening between you and Jungkook.

You had angered the only man who offered you protection here; so any protection from Jungkook was slim. Jin was dead and Namjoon or Taehyung were most certainly not options. Jimin was gone too. The only thing left was to beg Jungkook for forgiveness and do whatever he asked to get back into his good favor, but was that any way to live?

Was going back to Jungkook really all you could do?

Jaehwa sat on the edge of Namjoon’s desk, boredly flipping through the various books scattered behind Namjoon’s desk. He lifted his head up briefly, to check on Jungkook. The guy had been out for awhile now and Jae was pretty sure the mission would be completed before he woke up. Seeing no immediate difference in how Jungkook look four minutes ago when he checked on him, Jae went back to his task. A rather promising book had fallen under the desk and he had to crawl under to reach it. He squatted down, huffily complaining about the distance and spluttering at the feel of cobwebs brushing along his face. Stretching his arm out, Jaehwa rolled his eyes in annoyance; his fingers barely brushed the book’s spine. He hopped a bit on the balls of his feet, head smashing against the bottom of the desk.

From his relaxed spot on the floor not too far away, Jungkook slowly opened his eyes, a smile coming to his lips. He had been awake for the last 15 minutes, but had neglected to alert Jaehwa to such. He needed to come up with a plan.

You had purposefully left him, that much was clear. Yoongi was somewhere in the building.

And he needed to make sure you two didn’t meet.

Taking down Jaehwa would be easy, but Jungkook didn’t know how many other men out there were on Yoongi’s side. He needed a barrage of men to take the warehouse by storm. A force so unexpected that no one, not even his own men, would have enough time to come up with a plan. Everyone needed to be scattered, especially you and Yoongi.

Which was why Jungkook had texted the police.

There had been no word from Namjoon or Taehyung and the sounds of gunfire had stopped. He figured it was a matter of time before Jaehwa moved somewhere where he couldn’t see him. Jungkook slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his phone and silencing it before unlocking the screen. A single message lit up his notification.

A message clarifying that he wanted dispatch.

Sending a quick glance to Jaehwa to make sure he was still distracted, Jungkook typed yes and his send. Languidly, he slipped the device back into his pocket and relaxed. Slipping his eyes shut, he smiled, humming softly. Response time to the warehouse only took two minutes and after informing them that two notorious mafia bosses were under one roof they were bound to send over thirty cars. They usually sent four just to apprehend himself; six if it was Tae.

The units would surround the warehouse, cutting off all exits and putting up a five block radius. Teams would guard each exit, a strikeforce storming the main room and throwing out some smoke bombs. In a few hours everyone in here would be apprehended or dead; including you and himself. And all Jungkook had to do was start yapping about his real father and Mr Mayor would have him free by morning. Just like always. With a little more twisting, you’d be free about an hour later and if Namjoon and Taehyung promised to keep you safe, they’d be out within the week on ‘technical issues’. All while Min Yoongi and his men served life sentences, maybe even the death penalty.

Jungkook had this all sorted out. He heard the faint sounds of sirens and he smirked.

He had this all figured out.

Several gunshots rang out down the hall, just outside the door and you flinched with each shot. Whatever scuffle the group was having was going to end soon and they were going to come back and most likely see you. They were going to see and you and they were going to do terrible things to you and they were going to kill you. That was the plain fact.

You curled into Jimin, wishing you could be anywhere but here.

The hall door slammed open, the sounds of shouting and dogs barkings reverberating along the walls. Several people were stomping, and the door to the room was shoved open, a man rushing in. You looked up to see the frantic eyes of Yoongi as he was tackled to the ground by several officers. They harshly pressed his face into the ground, jerking his arms behind his back.

“Yoongi?”

He stiffened, trying to look up at you, “Y/N!?” Yoongi managed to focus his gaze on you. His voice, that had sounded relieved immediately shifted as more officers stormed the room and forced you onto the ground as well, “Get the fuck off her!” He hissed, “You’re fucking here for me, right?!” One of the officers hesitated, looking between you and the sheet,

“She’s bleeding and we’ve got a body, send in an EMT and a Medical Examiner.” He pulled you up, letting you sit. The officer stared down at you, hand resting loosely on his gun. In the background, Yoongi venomously spat out curses, turning his sharp tongue on the men restraining him. You stared at the man in front of you, brows furrowing.

Why did he look familiar?

He moved his hand from his gun, holding it out to you, “You’re safe.” He quietly shushed you when you burst into tears. Gently his placed his hands on your shoulders, ordering the other men to get Yoongi out of there when his voice was suddenly booming; detailed threats hissed between clenched teeth. You moved from the captain, trying to follow after Yoongi, but he held you back. Yoongi was escorted out, his voice clearly heard until he was out of sight. “What’s your name?” he started, “What happened to this man? Did you do it? Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head at the questions; he was asking so many heavy questions. The way he was staring at you was triggering something and you couldn’t stop it. You didn’t understand why either. He sighed softly, hunching over to be eye level with you,

“Who hurt you? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me anything. Why are you letting them do this to you?” That was the same thing that Jungkook had said to you once. The captain smiled at you and all you saw was Jungkook.

The build.

The grin.

The soft rasp to his voice.

It was all Jungkook. He patted your hand,

“I’m Captain Jeon, by the way. Just tell me who hurt you and I’ll make it stop.”

This was his brother.

[ithinkitwastheriver]

This Bridge is Burning

Breathe.

It is a crazy hard thing to do in this moment… but come Hell or high water (and both are here) we must. We cannot think if we don’t breathe. Our brains won’t work if we don’t breathe. Neither will our hearts. We are caught up in a frenzy of photos and Facebook posts, feeding fear, anger, division… raging like (and with) the floodwaters and firestorms. It seems to me that a whole lot of people/groups/industries/policies have a measure of responsibility in how we got to this place. No one of them holds it all. And no one of us has the complete and infallible answer.

My roots are five generations deep in this beautiful, burning state of Oregon. One grandfather logged on mountains currently on fire. A great-grandfather as well, born and buried in a timber town. Another, as a teenager fresh from now-devastated Texas, worked the hay crews east of the Columbia Basin, a region struggling through dry years. My children and grandchildren, his great-great-great grandchildren, are deeply-rooted in ranch country not far to the south. My Grandad was the first to drive a set of doubles (semi-truck with two trailers) up the old historic Columbia River Hwy, now itself an inferno, whipped to unstoppable by beloved Gorge winds.

My ancestors and their industries have a piece of the story that brought us to this place. They did not intentionally set us on this path. No one whose livelihood, whose children’s lives depend on the land would purposefully work to destroy it. As people most often do, they did what they believed to be right and sensible, and what they needed to do to scrape out a simple honest existence. We began to understand the long-term impact of commonplace practices like wide-spread clear-cutting, overgrazing, etc. by living through that long-term itself. Hopefully we learn. The same is true of the impact of environmental regulation. In pure pendulum (and human) fashion, the swing-back has proven to be at least as devastating as the damage it sought to mitigate. No one fighting for environmental legislation – what they believed to be the right answer to erosion, extinction, pollution, drought – understood just what destruction those new restrictions could bring.

Capitalism, at least as it is practiced in the United States, with paid-for career politicians, government subsidies and taxpayer-funded corporate bailouts, has a responsibility here too. Increasingly so, as it surges forward with greedy and undisciplined octopus arms of big-business. But the Capitalist system and those who rule and profit by it have, maybe irreversibly, divided us as pawns in their big-money game. Six massively powerful mega-corporations, owned by a handful of billionaire elite individuals, control the media and the stories we tell ourselves about who is to blame for the hardships we face. We have demonized those “others”- anyone outside of our lived experience, often our neighbors, sometimes our kin.

What is, and has always been, the system’s role in driving us to this place? Some are struggling to call attention to the planning, development and, well, outright gambling that led to vulnerability of flood-plane communities, and not just in Texas. Some have likely been struggling to hold that conversation and to hold elected officials and the developers who fund their campaigns accountable for decades. Here at home people are pointing fingers at environmental policies that pushed loggers out of the woods, the pendulum swinging back. On the “other side” people are desperately screaming about climate change. But who is talking about the lack of profit in the dirty but critical work of cleaning up underbrush or thinning stands of timber, or why corporate interests are importing trees, or milled lumber, from South America, Russia, and ____ because it is more profitable to do so… ? It is a complex money trail, but if you follow it back…  

*sigh*… we rarely follow it back. It seems to be easier, and oddly satisfying, to forward a tweet or a post from god-knows-where. Maybe we are simply too tired...

And so here we are, flooded and on fire. Hell and high water have arrived. Firmly planted in our positions, with our “data” clenched in fists of steel, and our talk shows and Facebook Groups to keep us “informed”, we who have not yet been burned out or washed away rage fiercely at each other from the safety of our screens, pointing virtual fingers of blame. Inter-personal destruction in a time of crisis, when lives depend, literally, urgently, on a helping hand. The answers are much more complicated than can be articulated in a tweet. They are much bigger, and broader, and older than can be answered by people who have never walked the land, or looked into the eyes of those who live their lives enmeshed in and dependent on it. One cannot learn much about impact from a desktop or a smartphone.

We are not the enemies we imagine each other to be.

We are not the enemies they tell us we are.

What changes are inevitably and necessarily coming? We cannot go on like this… Through the grief I feel when people I love feed intense (and ill-informed) hatred for each other, I am trying to remember the words of Grace Lee Boggs, and the hope she embodied for a turning toward a more just and ultimately survivable world. She talked passionately about where we are “on the clock of the world”. Change is inevitable, life is cyclical, circular, evolving. Epochs defined by the Agricultural Revolution, Industrial Revolution, and computer technology have each birthed ways of life previously unimagined. Grace referred to these changes as if marked like hours on the face of the clock of the world.

As she would have asked, where are you?

As the boundaries and borders of my place in the world faded, and I wandered beyond familiar territory, I found this to be true of everyone I met. (I have always known it to be true of those I love – the ranchers, loggers, environmentalists, scholars, hippies, and everyday people in my little world). We are not that different. We love our children, we love our friends, and we hope for a better day. We have a lot of work to do, some of it immediately. It’s going to take a lot of energy, energy that is too often wasted pointing fingers and expanding the divide. We are in this together. We can do better. Go love a neighbor…