#yes i recognize i am not being rational right now. no i do not care

[waterbearable]

vermin mention in the tags bc I'm too anxious to sleep sorry folks!

[back2bluesidex]

Imposter In The Club [A To Be Popular Drabble]

Pairing: Social Media Influencer! Jungkook X Marketing Manager! Reader ft. Yoongi

Summary: The Club was almost boring, until you came to pay him a visit.

Word count: 1k+

Theme: Strangers to lovers au, fake dating au, kind of enemies to lover au, angst, smut, fluff.

Warnings: sexual tension, alcohol consumption, JK being JK

A/N: This is the club scene written from Jungkook's POV.

Masterlist | Patreon (For access to the complete series)

Taglist requests are open.

Minors, I am not responsible for what you consume online. So, act more rationally and stay away.

Chapter index: -

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 |

Or read the full series right away on Patreon!!

Jungkook’s phone almost slips from his fingers and hits the floor when he feels the red-head girl sliding her hand on the path of his thigh towards his crotch. 

He stops her midway. 

Giving her a polite but bored smile, Jungkook confirms, “Sorry, not in the mood.” 

He has been texting Doona for the past hour. In between the lines of ‘what’s the plan for tonight’ and ‘oh I am at a club’, he has been inviting her to join him. 

If Jeon Jungkook is honest with himself then he must admit that he has been infatuated with Doona for a couple of weeks, after their video’s success, now. 

Why wouldn’t he be, though? 

She is pretty, fun to be with, very hot, has a good humor, in the same profession and oh lord…. So damn good in bed!

She also seemed to be pretty interested in Jungkook. 

So.. if something brews… something like what people are assuming, spreading rumors about, where is the harm? 

If Doona takes the hint and joins him tonight, he will ask her out. 

“Then what about a dance?” the red-head girl whispers seductively in his ear. She smells awfully sweet and Jungkook doesn’t like it. He starts getting dizzy. 

He also doesn’t like how persistent the woman is. But if a dance helps him in getting rid of her then he would do it. 

“Kay. cool.” he whispers back, not caring whether she heard him through the thunder of music or not. 

As soon as he stands on his feet, the girl drags him towards the middle of the dance floor. 

She plants both of his hands on either side of her waist and starts grinding on him. 

Even though Jungkook doesn’t like almost anything about her, the alcohol in his system and the groovy music blasting through the speakers make it tough for him to resist the urge of swaying his hips to the rhythm. 

So he lets go. 

Starts responding to the girl's advances and forgets everything for a moment. 

However, soon enough, he feels the presence of another body behind him. Maybe it’s another of his admirers? 

Whoever they might be, they slam themselves on his back. 

And oh… are those boobs? 

Okay then it’s a girl. 

He reaches for the stranger and holds her by her side. Just when he is about to grind on her, she removes his hand and says something in his ear. 

“Jeon Jungkook, can I please talk to you for a moment?” 

Now who is this? Jungkook questions himself as he takes his sweet time to move on his feet and face the imposter. 

It’s someone who seems to be vaguely familiar but he can’t quite recall where he has seen her. 

Nevertheless, he would admit that she’s very attractive. Big eyes, full lips and cheeks and that peeking cleavage? Umm… nice. 

“What?” he screams over the music. 

“Not here. Can we go somewhere quiet?” the woman says and now he is amused. 

It hasn’t even been a minute since the meeting and she’s already seeking a quiet corner? 

“Oh? Already?” he muses but then as he takes you more under the gleaming light, realization hits him hard, “Wait- have I seen you before?” 

You visibly tense under his scrutiny, “no. I mean yeah. Actually-”

“You- that obnoxious employee from Techtonic? Right?” he, now, recognizes you fully. 

“Obnoxious? I am obnoxious? Then what are y-” you flare in anger but then seem to control yourself, “Yes. I am Y/N. You are right. I am from Techtonic. Can I please have a word with you?” 

“No? Why would I spare my precious time on you? So that you can insult me again?” he frowns at your figure. His mood is now completely ruined and he needs to go home. 

You grab onto his hand, “Please. I am here to apologize. I promise.” 

Okay. if you are going to apologize for your shitty behavior then he might actually hear what you have to say. 

So, he looks back, eyes the spot you are touching him and then looks at you, “if I give you a chance… What will you give me in return?” He challenges. 

Jungkook wouldn’t lie. 

You are the perfect excuse to brush off that red-head girl who has been clinging on to him since the moment he entered the club. 

On the top of that - you are amusing. 

You accepted his challenge and told him that you would give him anything he would ask for if you can afford that. 

And Jungkook plans for revenge. 

Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth and insult for an insult. 

“You really came here only to convince me? You had no other intention, huh?” he tries to rile you up. 

But you are one head-strong stubborn woman, “No. What intention would I even have? I fucked things up at the meeting so my superiors are making me clean the mess.”

“Oh? Really? But I think there is something else to it.” Jungkook doesn’t resist the urge of coming closer to your body. 

You smell nice. You smell clean and faintly of coffee. He likes it. 

When his chest touches yours, he loses his sanity only a little. 

Dipping his eyes down on your chest again, he voices, “you want what you watched in that video, don’t you?”

Are you going to say yes? 

If you do.. Then would he take you home? 

He doesn’t think he would think twice. 

“what the fuck? What makes you think I want you?” you scream like the stubborn brat that you are. 

Only if he gets to have you, he would spank the brat out of your system. 

Jungkook invades whatever was left off of your personal space and whispers right into your ear, “If you accept it nicely, tell me the truth whether you got turned on or not, I will give your company a chance.”  

You visibly gulp at his offer. Something changes in your eyes as you reply, “And what if I tell you the truth?”

So… There is a truth to be told. 

He was only taking chances but seems like he hit the jackpot.

“I will schedule another meeting with your company. But I will be declining you all again.” he pushes your button. 

You push him away harshly. So you are not that easy to play with? 

With a flush of anger you question, “so you are just going to use my confession and insult me in my workplace?” 

“Oooohhhh… You are not dumb, I see?” Jungkook is even more amused now. 

“Wh-what? Dumb? You thought I am dumb? Mind you, Jeon Jungkook, I get paid for doing actual work and not because I keep hollering at a dumb computer screen in front of camera.” There you go, again with that attitude.

“And yet you came here to beg me?” he shrugs smugly, pushing you towards the edge even more. 

“You know what? Fuck you and your stupid followers who feed your stupid ego!” you throw your last sentence at him before storming away. 

God! Jungkook can’t remember the last time he had this much fun interacting with a human being. 

He laughs, looking at your amused figure. 

It would be great if he could keep seeing you and pushing your buttons in the worst possible way. 

Well… 

Seems like the Universe granted his wishes in a very twisted turn of events.

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[koibitogata]

sage forest mental institution.

chapter 1: pilot word count: 2.5k note: yes this is a rewrite. i am sorry. also on AO3. here is the link.

Working in Wing F, evaluation and quarantine, allows for you to observe a whole slew of mental disorders. Some make sense to you, and would as well to the layman. Some simply do not, and the shit-grade doctors at Sage Fores are apparently as stupid as they seem and dropped the fuck to be given between the cracks of drainage.

Three new patients come in, along with a cold gust of wind.

The transport officer, Jeremy, offers you his greetings once again.

“’Sup, lil’ bro?” To him, gender is irrelevant, and so is age. You’re not even sure how much older he is than you, or if he is at all, but you’d gotten used to the term of affection long ago.

“Nothing much, Jeremy. Thanks for bringing them in. Need a snack?” You offer, knowing the man to have an endless pit for a stomach.

“Aw shit, you know I do.” So you toss him a pack of three Oreos. The only thing stronger than the man’s lactose intolerance is apparently his love for the cookies.

Four other officers—they have to be new, you’d never seen any of their faces before—bring the new patients to be evaluated into the building, distributing them into their cells.

One patient with light brown hair and baby blues, still in prisoner’s clothes, speaks up. “May I be placed next to him?” His hands, cuffed, weakly gesture to the bearded man next to him.

And with a sharp wham he’s beaten into the ground. Jeremy, still with Oreos in his mouth, is startled.

Something tugs at your gut.

“Who the fuck gave you the right to touch my patient?” You snap, not recognizing the volume and ferocity of your own voice.

The nameless officer, his face now burned into your mind’s eye, opens his mouth, only to stutter.

Jeremy’s hand shoots out between both of you and places his back to his subordinate. You vaguely register the third patient—the one with a shaggy brown mop of hair—help up the one who spoke.

“I’m sorry. He didn’t mean it,” defends Jeremy half-heartedly. You know this guy well enough to figure out that he’s just defending a newbie on the job.

“Not your fault, Jeremy,” you mutter. “But keep him on a leash or something. I don’t care if he beats other prisoners or something, but,” you step closer to look the new officer in the eye, his own orbs glazed over with a hint of fear and remorse, “remember that my job is hard enough as it is. I now have to treat a wound and whatever trauma that person suffered from you.”

The new officer gulps. “S-sorry.”

“Hm.” You keep your response curt so as to avoid any words that might let him think what he did was marginally okay.

You turn back to get a good look at your poor patient. “Sorry about that. What’s your name?” You always preferred asking your patients directly instead of referring to a document serving only to persecute them.

“Brian Thomas,” he croaks out, but not before his eyes flit to your nametag. “I’m fine, I was just caught off guard.”

“I’ll still have to send you to medical later,” you say apologetically. “Here, as an apology.” You pull another pack of Oreos out of your pocket.

The man smiles weakly at you, accepting the cookies. “Thank you.”

This batch of new patients seems to be rather well-behaved and rational, instead of the violent type you get most of the time. They are, after all, being sent to an asylum for the criminally insane.

---

After Jeremy and his subordinates are gone, you settle your patients in with the help of Andrea, a nurse from another wing. In this godforsaken asylum, you believe only her to have a good heart. She was the one who helped you get settled in with this job when you’d first entered 8 months ago.

And as Brian Thomas had wished, you placed him and his pal next to each other. You note that the three of them seem close, which might make your job easier. If you can’t coax something out of one of them, there are two others to try it on.

“It’s only two weeks, and if you’re lucky, maybe just one,” you had told the three men, who all provided you with no noteworthy reactions.

No meds were needed at this point in quarantine, unless the doctor determined that they were in need of it, which was usually in the later stages of quarantine, and usually signified their release into the main asylum.

Administrative work is a blur as always. All work in this gloomy building is to you, and every day is a dissociative fog to you until you get to visit your own patients in their rooms.

The first one you visit is the one whom Brian had requested to be put next to, and you did indeed place them in adjacent cells. His dossier carries the name “Timothy Wright”.

You knock on the door respectfully— a thing you do for your patients in hopes they don’t lose the sense that they’re still a person. This asylum is no cozy home, but if you don’t try to make it one for them, they’ll probably lose their minds.

No response comes from within the room. You take it as an absence of objection to your intrusion, and enter.

“Hey, man.” You include a deliberate casualness in your tone, hoping it’ll help set the man at ease.

The cell includes a simple bathroom cubicle in the corner, complete with a sink and a mirror right next to it. The floor is tiled and the bedframe crickety. On the rare occasion that a patient invites you to sit on the bed with them, you find that the mattress can barely be classified as decent.

Timothy sits on the bed, his attention now captured by you. “Hey.”

You allow a calculated amount of silence between you and him, allowing for him to speak his mind. He does.

“You still got some of those Oreos?” He asks.

This question is not unexpected. “Yeah.” And you toss him a packet from your coat’s pocket.

He catches it with ease. “You, uh…just keep those in your pocket?”

You can recall a patient or two who’s asked you that question before, so you take it as an opportunity to explain. “Sometimes we give these out to patients who’re well-behaved as a reward.” You pause, choosing your words carefully to balance both honesty and a sense of warmth. “But honestly I don’t like that we only give it as a reward. It’s like you’re dogs to be rewarded. Just don’t tell anyone else that I simply give out Oreos.”

You say this as if damn near half the asylum patients don’t already know you for your free Oreos, though they’re all bribed with a free Oreo pack pass to keep it a secret from the asylum. The rest of the staff, save for Andrea, just think you’re nice and happen to give the treats for every single good deed the patients carry out. Though, you’re still careful, lest a single glance at your wing’s stash of sundry Oreos betray you. So you make it a point to buy them from the convenience store outside your home with your own pay, and replenish the stock every day, making sure the stash seems untouched.

Timothy simply nods in understanding, opening the pack to pop a cookie into his mouth whole. Next up is something you don’t expect.

“Want one?” He holds the open pack to you.

“Uh.” Then you laugh. “Why not?” You make sure not to reject, placing yourself on the same level as him. That is to say, lacking a stash of Oreos. Pulling an Oreo out of the packet in his hand, you pop it into your mouth too.

“Thanks, man,” you say through a mouthful of Oreo. After you swallow, you ask his name.

“You can just call me Tim.” You note that even he prefers the shorter version of his name.

“Alright, Tim. If you ever need me, just call me. Okay?”

He provides a simple nod in response, then offers an “okay” in return.

You nod. Everything in his room is in order, and he seems to require no more than just that simple check-in.

The door closes.

---

The next to visit on your list is Brian, who sits on the bed, an ice pack pressed to his cheek with Andrea crouched by his side. She notices your presence, gets up and whispers to you.

“I’ll leave you to it, hun.” She knows you don’t like your patients surrounded by more than one nurse or doctor if necessary, so you thank her silently and turn to face your patient once your colleague is gone.

Brian’s swelling seems to already have gone down, with the darkness of the bruise already fading to a dark green. “You heal quite fast,” you remark.

Straightening up, you hold a hand out to him. “I’m Y/N, a nurse here.” He grabs your hand and shakes it firmly with a slight smile on the good side of his face. “I’m Brian Thomas.” You chuckle. “Yes, I have your dossier here,” you joke, albeit a lame, half-assed one.

“Hey, I’m sorry about what happened earlier,” you begin. “Usually, those guys don’t touch my patients ‘cause they know what happens if they do—I’ll sock them right back— but it seems these ones were new. I’ll see what I can do about it, disciplinary actions or getting them barred from here or something.”

Brian smiles, letting out a huff of a laugh through his nose. “No need. I can see why they act like that. In prison…sometimes it’s necessary.” When that doesn’t seem to reassure you, he adds, “I’ve been through a lot worse. Trust me. It’s okay.”

You’re not reassured, not in the slightest bit. But years of experience with patients have taught you to go along with them. Forcing them in your own direction would do no good for either of you.

“If you say so,” is what your mouth and brain collectively settle on. “Doesn’t mean you should be treated like that, though. Any staff touches you, let me know.” You smile a little at the following thought, “Everyone knows not to touch the patients in my wing.”

That’s not to say you’re the head of the wing. You feel a little ick, even, at claiming that this is “your wing”. But seeing as patients leave the wing happy or even a little better than before, you think it’s fine.

“Are you three friends…?” You ask.

Brian replies. “Tim and I are. The third one, Toby, is new to, uh… us.”

Something tells you not to press it.

“Right then. That reminds me, I’ve gotta get around to Toby. Uh…,” You refer to the third one’s dossier. “Is calling him Toby okay, or should I be calling him Tobias?”

Brian’s eyes darken. “Don’t ever call him Tobias.”

So you enter Toby’s room, and make a mental note to never call him Tobias, because he could be dangerous if you do so.

---

I didn’t expect us to find the one so soon.

---

You enter Toby’s room and make a mental note to never call him Tobias, because he could be dangerous if you do so.

But it seems otherwise to you.

What sticks out to you, more of a concern than even his potentially murderous behavior upon being called his real name, is the bandage on his cheek. While Toby was indeed quiet at first, especially on your first visit, with small, retracted body language, knees pulled to his chin and short, quiet responses, he quickly warmed up.

After countless “yes, no, maybe, I don’t know”s, you insert an innocent, “You can call me any time for anything you need,” and his eyes light up. You think that perhaps he’s just lonely, and anticipate a lot of calls from him. 

And you’re right to do so, with him calling you for every little thing.

Every. Little. Thing.

“Y/N, I can’t tie the robe at the back…,” whines Toby as he half-heartedly reaches and grabs at the ribbon behind his back. 

“Okay,” you laugh, and reach out to tie it for him. And then, gently, he grasps your hand, perhaps to guide it to the ribbon. You’re not allowed to touch patients. But for him, for just this once, maybe you’ll let him. 

But he turns around to face you, brown eyes unreadable. 

“You really mean it, right? That I can call you for anything?”

You’re caught off guard by the whole thing. “Uh…,” You laugh nervously. “Yeah. Yes.” Before you’re about to blabber on in nervousness about why and how he should, he grins, eyes brightening a little.

“Great! I’ll see you later.”

He does, in fact, see you later.

To put it lightly, Toby calls you a lot. To put it bluntly, he calls you for a lot of stupid shit.

“Y/N,” he’d whine, dragging out the syllables of your name, “I’m bored!” So you give him a book. Then, you play a board game with him. Finally, you attempt to teach him biology, which a man his age should really not be marveling at, given the rudimentariness of the content you rattle off.

“Y/N,” he’d whine again, “I’m hungry!” And you’d tease, “You just had lunch, Toby.” 

“But I’m hungryyyyy!” He’d exclaim. “I get hungry easily. And I’m hungry now.”

You begrudgingly pull out a pack of Oreos from your pocket.

And now, it’s the 64th time, at the end of two weeks, and most likely the last time he’ll get to call on you like this. Though you’d usually begrudgingly heed his call and head over with a slight drag in your steps, you decide that today, now, you may as well entertain his silly little questions for the last time.

And so you knock on the door and enter upon his “Come in!”, bracing yourself for whatever nonsensical request he might make. 

A nonsensical request he makes indeed. “Y/N,” he mumbles, fidgeting with his hands. “Can you…uh… turn around for a moment?”

Never turn your back to a patient, not when they’re criminally insane. But today, now, your guard is down, and your brain somehow forgets that you might land yourself in danger.

You laugh, dismissing his silly request as “just a Toby thing”, and twirl around, only exposing your back for a moment. 

One second is all it takes. You only turn 180 degrees, barely a completion of your round.

You hit the floor with a thud.

note: sorry for all the page breaks. i promise it'll get better soon.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

I don’t shiver, it’s just a little piece of me going away.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: +18, MDNI. Please, this shit is triggering, be very aware of this.

Tags: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. SA, drinking, zero self esteem, a lot of triggering reader’s thoughts, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), groping, biting, unprotected p in v, reader feels ugly and worthless, mention of bullying, mention of harassment, mention of toxic friends. Reader has hair, breasts and vagina, wears a shirt, skirt and tights, no other description of her is given.

I wrote this for myself, it is something that happened to me and it briefly describes other episodes that I suffered when I was younger. I do not think it is an experience that is worth telling more than that of others, however I wanted to do it to free myself of this weight, because yesterday was the international day for the elimination of violence against women (I wanted to post it yesterday but I didn't have time to finish writing it), we are in 2024 and all this happened about 20 years ago, I do not feel like great progress has been made since then and I know for sure that I am not the only one and I will not be the last to have suffered this and much worse. I felt like shit when I was 20, this should not have happened anyway. Putting Joel in there is perhaps a paradox but he has always given me security, so he helped me process. Maybe I haven't been able to describe exactly what I felt but it's something. It’s still something.

It is a reflection on my mistakes, on the wrong ways of thinking that were instilled in me from my environment and now thanks to myself alone no longer belong to me. I'm very sorry for the person that I was and I'm very sorry for anyone who experienced SA.

If you have the strength to read, if you find yourself at least in part in what I say, then I hug you tightly.

Title comes from an Italian song that I love very much, the phrase in Italian is "Io non tremo. È solo un po' di me che se ne va".

I'm not tagging anyone because I don't think it's appropriate. Any type of insult will be immediately deleted.

The club is packed, you just got out of the bathroom and are trying to get back to your friend. The lights of the club are shooting in your eyes, the crowd is pushing you, you feel a hand grab your shoulder, you turn and see him. A gorgeous guy. He asks you if you want a drink.

You're already drunk but at this point what does it matter, if someone like him offers you something you accept.

You reach the counter, he orders a drink, turns to you, and you instantly hang on every word he says as you chat briefly.

“you look pretty” he says and you giggle, gulping down the drink to give yourself courage. “Shall we go out?” he asks and after 6 drinks plus the one he just offered you you say yes. Again.

"I'm going with him," you giggle, approaching your friend.

"God, he's so hot! Okay, I'll see you outside, take care," she replies, slurring her words.

You shouldn't, you really shouldn't go with this guy. Your head is fuzzy, clouded by alcohol, your legs are soft and your mouth is mushy. You feel like you are speaking softly, but in fact your voice is high, out of control. It always happens when you're too drunk, you should recognize it as a warning sign to do absolutely nothing but stop, drink some water and wait on one of the club's small sofas for the evening to end.

You can't think rationally and neither can your friend, as drunk as you are, who is talking to a guy at the bar.

Everyone's hope is to be noticed, right? To be seen, appreciated.

You were never anyone's first choice, and this disappointment, this feeling of always being neglected, makes you hate yourself. Why was I born this way, you always tell yourself, why do I have this face, this body, these limbs. Why can't I be graceful and lovely like every other girl. And this guy who had just asked you to go outside was the hottest guy who had ever spoken to you.

Tall, dark hair, eyes as black as night, a slight beard on his perfectly chiseled face, prominent nose, a dimple that opens on his cheek when he smiles. He checks all the boxes on your list.

His deep, mellifluous voice convinces your altered mind that there is nothing wrong with secluding yourself with him-when does it happen again that someone so perfect talks to you?

The awkward, insecure, never enough you. The girl who was bullied all her teenage years, called ugly and fat, the girl who was told no one would ever fuck her.

Not true, you want to scream.

It's not true, I can be seen too.

Me too, even if you see your ungainly and unattractive body.

Me too, even if you are convinced that there is something deeply wrong with the way you look. Me too, even if I don't believe it either.

So you go out with this guy, who takes you to an alley near the club.

He chose you. And he is beautiful in an impossible way. And you feel like the universe has finally provided something for you, something enticing, something that makes you feel alive.

Sure, this alley is dark and dirty and inhospitable, but so what.

It’s not like you expected something pretty overall. You deserve nothing. You know.

A quick shag, an ounce of attention, a musty filthy wall he slams you against, the smell of piss from the street, that’s what you get.

As he puts his hands on you, you think it's unreal, that maybe you're hallucinating drunk.

You don't even know who he is, you only know that his feverish touch explores you, his impassive gaze scrutinizes you as he smiles at you. You are too drunk to notice how meanly his mouth is bent, how laid his smile is, the spark of evil in his eyes.

He's touching you, and that's enough.

Joel. He’s Joel. Assuming that’s his real name.

The prince who has come to rescue you from your inexperience.

The one who took you out of the shadows.

If you were clear-headed you would see that it threw you into an even worse swamp.

You say nothing when he lifts your shirt and pulls down your bra, exposing your nipples to the cold. You don't react when he takes off your skirt and pulls down your tights and ravages your panties, not a word when he enters you furiously with his fingers calling you a slut, it almost feels right to you that he takes what he wants from you without even asking if he can do it. The pain, the distasteful stretching of his big calloused fingers, it’s what you deserve. You’re standing there barely holding on with him and that's enough. He doesn't care if you’re well, doesn’t care to remember your name, your body is his for tonight and his hands are demanding, rough, unkind and you think it's okay, after all you said yes before.

His fingers suddenly come out of you, you'd almost be relieved if you didn't know it wasn't over.

Kneel down he says, and shoves his cock down your throat like it's his right to do so. You breathe hard through your nose as he fucks your mouth, taking a fistful of your hair, while his huge shaft hurts your jaw, your eyes water and mascara runs down your cheeks.

He's not what you imagined. He's not a prince. He's just another man.

Like everyone you've met so far, not at all interested in respecting something about you, but rather in making you think that accepting what they do to you is okay.

He lifts you up and slams you against the wall again, you’re half naked with your clothes crumpled around your body, your face wet, your throat dry. He drags his index and middle fingers against your folds, his other hand grips your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. He holds you in place while you just want to collapse on the floor like a puppet and be done with it. Instead he invades you in an instant, pushing his shaft inside you, brutally stretching the walls of your cunt, whispering loathly how wet you are, a total slut, a nice toy for him.

But yet again, If you're pretty enough to get a guy like him hard then it's okay, right?

You just have to wait and this will become good for you too at some point, right?

It’s only a matter of time. But it doesn't change when he bites your skin, down your neck and all the way down to your cleavage, it doesn't change when his rough, calloused hands grasp your tits as if they were his property, twisting and pulling your nipples to get them pebbles, it doesn't change when he makes you lie on the cold, dirty pavement and towers over you with his weight repeatedly sinking into you cruelly, his balls slamming against you, his mouth latched on your hardened bud sucking and biting ruthlessly on it.

It’s you that's wrong, it's your cunt that's done bad, maybe you never knew but you're actually frigid and you don't know how to welcome a prize like his big cock inside you.

It burns in your core, it’s unpleasant, terrifying, it feels like a blade cutting you in half.

You should feel grateful as his hands claw and touch you all over and his tongue slides lasciviously over your neck, leaving a trail of drool on your skin.

You should be okay with being naked in the dark in a dirty, public place, so wrong, so forbidden because the most handsome guy you've ever seen decided you must be.

It doesn't seem fair to you but that's only because you were under the illusion that you could receive something other than humiliation.

He was all smiles and compliments before, well dressed, perfumed, polite, as soon as you were alone he became a walking nightmare.

Everything about him disgusts you, you disgust yourself, the taste of him at the back of your throat makes you gag, your eyes sting like a million needles, his voice paralyzes you, the smell of whiskey on his breath makes your head spin.

The alcohol fog makes you helpless, unable to say anything.

You feel him rattling on you, inside you, his heavy breathing creeping on your skin but his harsh, thick voice seems to come from afar, muffled, as if it doesn't concern you while he continues to mutter lewd words into your ear.

Tears stream on your cheeks, sobs remain choked in your throat.

Your bruised skin, your sore body, the sense of emptiness that grips you, everything you thought you wanted disintegrates in front of your disbelieving eyes, his heinous cock so painful inside your violated cunt, everything reminds you that you are not entitled to anything, that after all it's your fault.

Eventually your mind totally disconnects from what is going on.

He groans draining his orgasm inside you, his hands clamped on your tits as he released his spending in the most hidden and private part of you.

You’re clenching on his cock and that’s the most horrible thing you’ve ever felt, your body reacting, probably more out of self-preservation instinct, to get everything over in order to run away from this man.

Like a glass smashing on the ground, you shatter under it, the wholeness of you squandered.

It’s the worst thing that ever happened in your life.

Much more than when your supposed friends recorded a song together to insult you, much more than when the same people threw a pie in your face while everyone pointed and laughed, much more than when your middle school classmates groped you thinking they had the right to do so just because they had suddenly grown bigger.

There’s nothing worse than feeling like a plastic doll, a disposable body, a human waste only good for cum dump.

He gets up muttering some obscenity that your brain doesn't even register.

You look around and realize you are standing near the front door of a building. You wonder if anyone saw and did nothing. You wipe away your tears, you feel a trickle of his cum slide down your thigh and a terrible nausea grips your stomach.

Your tights are runny, your makeup is smudged, your clothes are wrinkled.

Your soul is empty.

You clean yourself as best you can, dress in silence, you don't even look him in the eye, you've never felt so sullied as you do now.

You walk towards the entrance of the club and see your friend, she comes towards you “what happened?” She asks.

“Nothing” you answer her “everything is okay” It's a talk you can't even begin to have.

You don't shiver, it's just a little piece of you going away.

[synthwavecryptid]

lifeline's anon here (you know, the same one that keeps sending you asks fangirling about him). i am sorry to hear about the insurance, and about your family dog :( i have no idea how patreon works, so i can't offer any advice regarding that.

however, i can offer you this (i warn you english isn't my first language so please forgive any mistakes. also please do not mind me not using star wars' cursing or time-related wording). i hope, at least, it cheers you up a bit!

Would my love be enough, I would tear apart this world without a place for your smile. (Would my love be enough, I would carve it with my own bloodied hands).

[After witnessing a wedding planet-side, and being told that, as clones, they can't get married, Toast's hurt is spilling all over - even if he masks it. Ashe decides to do something about it.]

To anyone else, Toast seems the same. The whole day, all he's done is yap away in that happy attitude of his, zooming in and out of the camp, offering a helping hand to whoever needed it. Apparently forgetting the whole wedding debacle that occurred earlier, no trace of sadness in his expression whatsoever.

But Ashe, much to his dismay, can recognize the tension in Toast's shoulders, the way his smile tries to hide still an edge of hurt and disappointment. It's ridiculous, of course: clones aren't made for love, and much less for grandiose weddings as beautiful as the one they'd witnessed while patrolling the area.

Seeing Toast trying to get past his own feelings in the matter nags at Ashe. Identical their faces might be, but where he couldn't care less about any other clone's sadness, Toast's makes his chest contract and his hands twitch, an instinct he's tried to bury many times surfacing and demanding he fucking fix-it.

As if there's any fixing it, when it comes to them.

Clones are property of the Republic. They're soldiers to die in place of everyone else, because their lives don't fucking matter. Not like natborn's do.

And even knowing all that, Ashe still itches to make it right. As if Toast's hurt makes the world as painful as a blasterbolt to the heart; a sensation he can't ignore, as if it's bleeding out all over him, as if it's coming from his own damn self.

"Ashe! Shift's over. Go eat, or go find your loverboy. We'll meet tomorrow sharp at six in the morning to go over the briefing for your new mission."

Ashe frowns. "Yes, sir. I'll warn Toast."

"Good. Now get going!"

Toast's mood probably hasn't escaped their Captain's notice, either, if he mentions him so brazenly. Ashe takes a moment to internalize how furious it makes him, the thought of Toast's pain visible for anyone to see, spilling from his soul like an open wound.

Toast should still have half an hour to go before his shift is over, and it gives Ashe time to get rations for both of them to eat together. He makes haste, because while he doesn't care about his own ration's flavour, he wants to get Toast his favourite. It might get a genuine smile out of the guy, and Ashe - well, at this point, bleached streak to match Toast's hairstyle and all, can't deny loving him at all.

The idea that's been niggling him since he had to pop Toast's bubble about marriage surfaces again, tempting him. (Spikes of fear threatening to pierce him, a vibroblade at his neck that hasn't broken skin yet). He attempts to drown it, outrageous as it is.

But he can't.

(Fuck.)

Ashe is still thinking about it by the time he arrives at their camp tent, and thinks about it some more by the bedrolls Toast pushed as close as possible.

He sighs, and grumbles, and feels a hesitation, a semblance of fear before he pushes it down. If he's doing this, it's for the only person he's living for, reluctant as he tries to show himself to it.

His hands don't tremble when he puts down Toast's ration bar, and the second they do, Ashe stills them before taking a deep breath and continuing on.

He unclips one of his pauldrons.

And immediately thinks it would be easier to get gunned down than to offer it to Toast.

But fuck if he isn't going to do it.

If only because he knows, as intrinsically as he knows his blaster, that Toast will be fucking delighted by the gesture. What it means. What it will mean for them, and what it spells about Ashe's own feelings for him.

Vows, official register, a grand festivity to go along with it; they can't have any of that.

But they can have this.

He leaves it by the ration bar, both of them on top of Toast's side of whatever their bedrolls have become.

And waits.

[...]

PS. hope you liked it! i don't know if i wrote ashe well at all i am Very Nervous lmao. anyways. i hope things get better! maybe part 2 sometime about toast's reaction and how they suck face afterwards lololol

Anon my brain is made of scrambled egg presently but please know I am going bonkers bananas over this and want to frame it on my wall, I am so incredibly in my feelings over someone liking my goofy ass characters so much

I LOVE it, I am holding them both so tenderly, this is amazing and I will not be normal about it, thank you so so much 😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Don Moynihan at Can We Still Govern?:

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last four years operating on a couple of assumptions: a) that there was a good chance Trump could return as President and b) that his return would dramatically alter the administrative state. As someone who studies public administration, I figured there was some obligation to communicate those risks. Now that Trump will, in fact, return, I want to summarize what are the most likely outcomes based on my prior writing. Doing so also forces me to make predictions, which is a good practice for being explicit about expectations in the present, and being humble about what I will get wrong when I look back at these predictions at some point in the future. And trust me, I would really like to be wrong by overstating the damage to come.

Trump will reinstate Schedule F, the Executive Order that will allow him to reclassify federal civil servants to be political appointee, and then to fire them. Trump cares intensely about controlling both his own appointees and the bureaucracy, demanding loyalty from them, and being able to dismiss them when that loyalty is not shown. His disdain for the administrative state is both deep and personal, not abstract or rhetorical. He may seek a court judgment to overturn the Biden rule to constrain Schedule F, but if that is not successful, a new rule will likely be in place within six months of his inauguration. By that point his appointees will have identified a) which employees will be reclassified, and b) who will be fired. Some more specific predictions:

I expect 50,000 will be the minimum number of career officials to be reclassified (we currently have 4,000 appointees, so, yes, this is an enormous change).

The initial wave of firings will be much less, say, in the realm of 1,000-2,000. Why? It is more rational for the administration to scare the bureaucracy into submission, and then use their capacity to get things done, then it is to engage in mass firings and then realize they don’t know how to run the government. Call this the “heads on pikes” strategy.

The number of Schedule F appointees will be proportionally higher in agencies that are viewed as liberal leaning (think HHS, Education, regulatory agencies), and lower in agencies viewed as more conservative (e.g. Customs and Border Patrol). It will be higher in agencies with a legal focus, e.g. DOJ, than it has historically been. Trump will especially target General Counsel and other legal positions in the government.

Once the initial round of firings has taken place, it will be used more selectively to remove public officials that Trump’s actual appointees have disagreements with. “Resistance” which might take the form of suggestions that the administration follow the law, will be grounds for dismissal.

There will be a court case seeking to overturn Schedule F, but this Supreme Court will suddenly forget the major questions doctrine and decide that the President has the right to put in place the biggest change to the civil service system since it was created in the 1880s.

What I am outlining assumes a relatively rational President that still recognizes and values administrative capacity. In other words, I see this as a best case scenario. But people around Trump (such as Vance and Musk) have called for broader purges, and Trump himself does not really care for competence. If they decide to make a gutting of public employees a central theme of their administration, the outcome could be much worse: hundreds of thousands of reclassifications and firings. I don’t think that is the most likely outcome, but neither is it unlikely.

A second Trump term will still be chaotic, but more competent. In his first term, Trump really did face resistance, as much from his own appointees as much as from the bureaucracy. The type of appointees in a second term will be much less like John Kelly or Jim Mattis — people with a lot of public experience who see serving the President as a public duty — and more like Russ Vought or Stephen Miller — smart and capable appointees who know how to manage the bureaucracy, and are either personally loyal to Trump or see him as the best vehicle to achieve their shared goals. As described above, Trump will have new tools to quash dissent within the bureaucracy. So, I expect that a second Trump term will enable him to achieve more of his goals, even as I also think this will result in worse public services. For example, expect a general gutting of regulation. This does not mean that Trump will revert to being a normal President, albeit one with far right goals. Trump appears to enjoy the chaos and has little interest in governing. Some of the appointees he attracts and favors will be the same. Some of these are also big egos — think RFK Jr. or Musk — who will fall out with Trump at some point. So the chaos will not disappear, but that does not mean that the government as a whole is not changing in dramatic ways.

Trump will bring a new era of corruption to government, which will largely go unpunished. A feature of Trump’s Presidency is that he has not abided by norms to reduce conflicts of interest between his public and private roles. He has more business interests than he had in his first term (notably in social media and crypto) that foreign governments can use to curry his favor, or threaten his net worth. He will not set aside those interests. The potential for corruption goes beyond Trump and can take different forms.

Trump will engage in a mass pardon of people who broke the law to serve him, including those who attacked Congress on January 6.

A huge proportion of federal money goes through the contracting process. The chances that a lot of federal dollars will now go to Trump supporters has increased.

Musk faces regulatory oversight of his businesses from the federal government, and benefits from federal contracts. Giving Musk, in turn, oversight of those agencies as an efficiency czar generates even bigger conflicts of interest than those of Trump. It may be that Musk loses interest in this role, but even having some sort of advisory role allows him to pick up the phone and make suggestions about which regulator should be fired. Other major donors are in the same position.

All of this, featuring quid-pro-quo exchange of money, influence and power, or clear conflicts of interest, satisfies what most people understand to be corruption. But it turns out we were relying mostly on norms and not rules to rein in Presidential malfeasance. The Supreme Court has offered Trump broad immunity in his presidential office, and Trump does not have to run again. With acquiescent General Counsels and Inspectors General, and terrified bureaucrats, there is little reason to expect constraint at this point. Since much of what I described might be in a grey area that does not violate the laws in obvious ways, I expect actual prosecution of corruption will be rare. Trump will control the DOJ, who are already planning to end their investigations of him. His appointees will dominate the courts. The worst stuff may be the legal stuff, or what we come to accept as legal, happening out in the open. As we come to accept it, we accept a degraded version of ethics in American governance.

[...]

Government institutions will become more aggressively authoritarian. This will not occur uniformly. Regulatory agencies with enforcement responsibilities will withdraw from challenging businesses. Some, such as the IRS or DOJ, may use enforcement powers selectively, setting aside the principle of equal treatment before the law in order to target the President’s enemies. And some coercive power will be deployed on the streets of America. This includes the DHS targeting immigrants, with massive round-ups and camps, supplemented with support from National Guard and local police (at least in red states). If people protest, Trump will be ready to deploy the military to subdue dissent. Some may welcome the images of armed officials engaged in the use of force. I suspect for many others it will become the defining and illegitimate face of government power in the coming years.

[...]

And the public may simply disagree on what constitutes failure. Advocates for Musk have pointed to Twitter as a reason why he should be put in charge of government reform. He cut staffing to the bone, and the app still works. If your only goal is cutting costs, Musk’s tenure at Twitter has indeed been a success. And for Musk and Trump fans, the experience may even be better. But Twitter is worth a fraction of its former value, and the experience is bad enough that many have left. The polarized response to Musk’s Twitter could mirror how the public assesses the Trump attack on government. The federal government will not suddenly collapse, people will be fired, and Trump supporters will be happy. For others, the shortcomings of Trump’s approach will be obvious from the start, even if the direct effects take longer to present themselves to the mass public. But a split electorate is not enough to change Trump’s approach, anymore than it was to cause Musk to change course with Twitter.

In the long run, the Republican Party, and not Trump, will face whatever penalty emerges from those failures. Republicans may want to look at the Tories in the UK, who were riding high after the Boris Johnson election victory, but who took a historical beating when Johnson departed, and the brand of the party had been deeply tarnished. But currently, there does not seem to be a constituency within the Republican Party for good governance. In some spaces, failures may be difficult or impossible to unwind. Government capacity is like reputation: it takes a long time to build, but can be damaged relatively quickly. Potential public employees are likely to be skeptical about a career in the public service even after Trump departs, because that choice now involves some risk of working for an authoritarian who could fire you for simply doing your job. In some policy areas, such as the environment, the damage done in the next four years may have a meaningful long term effect on how habitable the planet will be for our children that cannot simply be reversed by a more competent administration.

[...] Anti-institutionalist politics will extend beyond the federal government, and the use of formal powers. The MAGA movement has an uneasy relationship with institutions. Their politics is defiantly anti-institutionalist. But unlike more traditional conservatives, they show little inclination for smaller government, and greater interest in using government power to achieve their goals. In 2022, I wrote a paper that tried to map out these contradictory tendencies, entitled Delegitmization, Deconstruction and Control which spoke to the strategy of the movement: attack institutions you don’t control, deconstruct those that you do, and exert close control once you have them. These institutional attacks will extend beyond the federal government, and include higher education, and the media, the nonprofit sector and private companies. For example, philanthropies seen as unfriendly to Trump could have their tax status investigated. In particular, I am worried about the many ways federal officials can use resources and power to politicize what is taught on campus. To a greater extent than in 2016, I expect more institutional accommodation of Trump, rather than institutions advertising themselves as sites of resistance. This is in part because of the threats Trump has made, but also because his worldview has had 8 years to gain support among Trumpists who have perfected their critique of those institutions. For example, DEI was already on the back foot in higher education, whether Trump won or lost. Now higher education institutions have stronger incentives to respond to that critique. While federalism serves as a natural check on federal executive power, grants and waivers can be used to influence state and local governments. But it is also the case that there are other forms of power that are not formal. Trump has created a movement where intimidation of public officials has become the norm. The use of terror as a governing strategy will continue. Federal public servants will be publicly attacked by the President and his appointees. They were during the first administration. The difference now is that many of those attacks will lead to, or be used to justify, firing those officials. Public officials at the state and local levels seen at odds with Trump can expect the same treatment, joining the host of librarians, teacher, emergency responders, public health and election officials, who have come to experience terror as a feature of their jobs.

The tyrannical Trump Administration’s 2nd go-around will drastically alter the administrative state and turn civil service into a politicized spoils system.

[tatyanapossamai]

I decided it's time to write my thoughts to the world so if something ever happened to me one day people will know what I am all about.

Also I will have a place where I can feel however it it's I feel without being invalidated.

Which brings me to my first subject.

The importance of empathy and validation how your partner feels In a relationship. This is essential. It's amazing how hard it could be for some . Yes most of the time it is not intentionally. So if your partner has told you about it please try to change your ways. It actually makes the other person traumatized. Meaning they will need to heal. It makes the person feel diminished or unimportant.

Many times if not most it's done unknowingly but it's extremely Important to be aware of.

1. Be self aware when it is happening and what your doing to cause it. It's hard to recognize sometimes.

" It wasn't that bad, you are over reacting"

2. There are many types of ways to invalidate :

Inatentive imvalidator: don't listen or pay attention to what the other is saying which is very important to them to the person speaking.

Belligerent Invalidators: Their M.O. is to rebuttal rather than listen, and put their energy into making their own case instead of seeing things from their partner’s perspective.

Owner of the Truth Invalidators: Lastly, there are the reflexive “that’s not what happened” invalidators who pride themselves on being rational and who sincerely believe that their subjective experience is the yardstick of all others. If it didn’t happen to them, it is not a thing. A kissing-cousin of codependency, this type of invalidator will often follow up their original invalidation by explaining to you how you, actually, are the one with the problem.

Example of a Truth Owner in Action:

Them: “I am feeling really invalidated by you right now.”

You: “I am not invalidating you. You were just telling me that your day was hard and you’re feeling overwhelmed, and I know for a fact that you shouldn’t be feeling that way because it wasn’t that bad. You just need to get more organized. You’re overreacting.”

______________________________Good times, right? Yes, there are so, so many ways to invalidate someone. This is just a small sample of the many ways, shapes and forms emotional invalidation shows up in relationships. There are many more. Not sure what kind of invalidator you might be? Ask your partner. I’m sure they’d be happy to tell you.

So: What is “validation?” To validate someone means that you help them feel understood, accepted, and cared for by you. It requires empathy. Empathy is happening when you really get how they see things, and that you support them in their perspective — even if you do not share their perspective. 

Because empathy is such a foundational skill in so many areas of Love, Happiness and Success, the development of empathy is often a big part of what is happening in emotional intelligence coaching, personal growth work, as well as marriage counseling. Empathy requires intention, but it’s incredibly powerful when you start really getting it.

This is super important in relationships because validation is a cornerstone of emotional safety. And emotional safety — feeling like you are accepted and valued for who you are, like your thoughts, feelings, and preferences are important to your partner, and that your relationship is loving and supportive — is the foundation of a happy, healthy relationship.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

@your-url-is-problematic

Okay so I can't properly tag you but here's my best attempt at answering right now.

1) creating distance where I can between myself and the biggest of my feelings. Sometimes in my less healthy moments, this looks like dissociation or "turning off everything" so I have the space and time to do what needs doing without feeling all kinds of ways about it. Sometimes it looks like using my med management routine to it's fullest including as needed stuff to support my neuro chemistry through pain. Sometimes it looks like cycling through distress tolerance exercises long enough to think through what I'm feeling and what it means to me. Sometimes it looks like failing to do any of those things and having a nice little mental breakdown because something mildly inconvenient happened, then once I've cried myself out, saying to myself "**yes**, all those feelings are valid, **and** I still need to get back into my routine again, so what would it look like to make that happen?"

2) learning about cognitive distortions, what they feel like for me specifically in my brain, and what it means about my life when they start to appear more often than usual. I tend towards all or nothing thinking and mind reading when I feel emotionally unwelcome/rejected by people I care about. I tend towards filtering when I'm experiencing depression or self-harming/self-blaming cognitions. And I tend towards emotional reasoning when I am feeling afraid or anxious. Knowing these things helps me not only identify what is going on in my head, but what feelings may be accompanying those thoughts, whether those thoughts have rational, irrational, or misdirected triggers, and how I want to actually move forward.

3) learn to ask myself what I need and what it could look like to seek out having that need met, either by myself or by someone else. Am I eating enough? (Rarely) Have I been managing my pain effectively? (LMAO) Have I been communicating with my partner when I feel overwhelmed or when I need help? (Making progress!) Have I been seeking supervision at work? (Usually) Have I talked to my friends recently? (Forming habits here!) When was the last time I experienced joy/appreciation/comfort? (Try to set aside time daily, but at least weekly - mmmm potato leek soup...) Basically, I try to live my life for myself and my well-being as an active process, recognizing that it can be easy to lose track of myself in amongst my commitments and responsibilities.

4) Ask for help, even when I don't know what help I need yet. This is....hard. It doesn't feel good as someone with a history of being condemned for needing things from others, let alone a history of being taken advantage of by those I needed to rely on. I often feel afraid and angry and confused when I try to do this, and end up having to do a lot of self-soothing/distress tolerance in order to get through it. I usually cry a lot after. It feels a little safer every time it works out though, and the more I get to a place where I know who I can trust with these asks and who I can't, the better I feel about it.

5) this sounds really silly and it kinda is but like. I bought a bunch of double sided whiteboards and hung them up in every room of my home with a short list of routine care tasks that room needs to stay clean and cared for. It lets me wander into a room, pick a task randomly off the list, do it, and wander out, rather than say going on hours long cleaning binges that leave me exhausted and overwhelmed. Or conversely going months without cleaning anything because I can't think enough about how to break down the project. I used goblin tools to make the lists even which was really nice.

6) sometimes you just don't manage to navigate things effectively. You try your best. You put your all into a situation. And it still FUCKING SUCKS. So you sit down. You cry a lot. If you're me, you maybe chain smoke an entire pack of cigarettes. You smoke some weed and howl at the moon. And when you're too tired to move, you go to bed and sleep it all off. Then you wake up the next day and you make a 1, 2, 3 list. The 1st, 2nd, and 3rd thing you need to do in order to feel like you have your shit together that day. Start with thing 1. If you finish, move to thing 2. If you finish that, move to thing 3. Go to sleep and promise yourself you'll keep taking steps forward tomorrow. If at any point you get stuck, take a break, take a nap, and let the place you got stuck become your new thing two the next day. Thing one is to tell yourself that you're content you got as far as you did, and you are allowed to be at peace with that. Repeat this as needed until you feel capable of "continuing to walk" without having to force one foot in front of the other.

7) forgive yourself for the past. Even when you don't. Forgiveness is a skill. Keep doing it until it feels like it's working.

8) grief is made up of many feelings, and you have to let yourself feel all of them in order to get through it. Sometimes that means letting yourself cry. Letting yourself scream and yell and tear up photos of people who hurt you. Letting yourself go numb for a bit. Letting yourself laugh. Letting yourself want to be wanted. It's gonna look different for everyone, and it's gonna even look different for you each time. That's okay. Feel, breathe, say "yes, and"

9) i have been in weekly therapy since I was 17. I don't think I would be here without that. I have had bad therapists, amazing therapists, and therapists that were...fine, I guess. I learned how to take what I needed from the process, regardless of what they brought to the table. Being able to talk through my thought processes with someone, and get feedback (even when that feedback was shitty lmao) has always been really helpful for me in getting through bad times, and making the most of good ones. It helps that I have a lot of knowledge about the process and field at this point in my life (in and out of mental health care at various levels of intensity for nearly 20yrs now, on top of my work in the field) and know more or less how to create a safe therapeutic relationship for myself, including managing my risk of being. You know. Forcibly institutionalized again.

10) I am fortunate enough to be highly educated and qualified in a field that is desperate for staffing, and got hired immediately out of my graduate program by an employer that actually pays a living wage in the current economy. It demands an intense amount of work and commitment from me, but in exchange, my wife gets to be stay-at-home and focus on caring for the house, her unpaid labor organizing work and hobbies that she is passionate about, and caring for needs of mine that I have trouble tracking and keeping up with. We are literally a one-income family, with my wife essentially only working small gigs for pin money. It's not always easy, and we do sometimes find ourselves pretty tightly budgeted, but as compared to households where everyone is desperately working as many hours as possible for too little money with not enough time for themselves let alone each other, it would be pretty fucking disrespectful of me not to acknowledge how much of what I do for myself stems from the fact that I can pay my family's bills on my own income without working more than 40hrs/wk. Getting to this point wasn't easy? I was literally homeless and living in a tent for part of my last year of MSW lol, but like. Being capable of doing it at all is a privilege, and it has opened the door to even more privileges in life. I think a lot about how important it is for people to have access to college educations, technical training programs/apprenticeships, and other professional skills development opportunities in order to allow for economic enfranchisement. We all kinda get shoved towards the same "high value" degrees these days if we talking about whether or not we want to pursue career development, but there are so many fields whose numbers are dwindling at alarming rates that mean newcomers are able to negotiate their value really effectively (think plumbers, electricians, and other skilled laborers, certain medical care fields, etc). Unionization helps enhance this and support you in advocating for better labor conditions and compensation. I'm really proud of my wife and her work on labor advocacy, as much as I am on the work we do together for community care. It's important to me that one of the things my job allows me to do is support her in her work despite its tendency towards being uhhhhhhh real badly paid. It would be a lot harder for us to contribute our (and especially her) time to labor work the way we do if we relied on her to use her time to earn our bill money.

I don't know if this all is really an answer. It's....certainly not going to be everyone's answer. Life isn't perfect for me, and there have been several really difficult days recently that I have struggled with. I have especially been struggling lately with feelings of anger and frustration that certain people from my past who did me harm seem to have "gotten away with it" which is.....something I'm processing. Like. To go back to the cognitive distortion piece, I don't think that's really true? Like it *feels* true because "oh well nobody knows what they did to me and they get to go through their life not being perceived as someone who did me real, violent, and intentional harm" but like. That's not the same thing as "getting away with it. For one thing....I got away from them. Far away. They can't hurt me any more than they already have. Isn't that consequences enough? My life is absolutely better than it ever was while they were in it, and isn't "living well the best revenge"? I'm not the person I was anymore when they hurt me, in that I have better boundaries with those in my life, a stronger sense of self, and a clearer understanding of what it means to be truly loved. Maybe that's enough? Sometimes my wife still has to hold me when I wake up screaming from the nightmares, and I usually can't get back to sleep after but....I usually sleep without them. That doesn't always feel like enough, but sleep has always been hard for me, so any progress feels like a blessing.

So. I guess the answer is that. I don't really *deal* with the unfairness of it all. I just. I acknowledge it. I let myself be angry about it. I grieve it. Sometimes, that's enough. And sometimes it's not. I just. I don't expect it to be any more or less than it can be for me. I forgive myself for the moments when I *do* expect too much or too little of myself and my situation. I remind myself that it is *always* my choice whether or not I keep putting one step in front of the other. I don't *have* to. I *choose* to. Every time. If I'm not ready to make that choice, I don't. But I do ask myself what it will take to get to the point of being ready. Because while, yeah, it's my choice. The alternative is giving up. And I learned a long time ago that, suicidal as I have been in my life, final endings, giving up, it's not....me. I want to be me. And to do that I have to keep going. Even if that scares me sometimes.

Sometimes you choose to want to keep living. To keep walking. Even when that's hard. Even when it hurts. Even when you can't begin to picture what that will look like yet. You choose. You walk. And you realize that everything in life is temporary. The good, the bad, the beautiful, the sorrowful, the difficult, the straightforward. Nothing lasts forever, and whatever slows your steps will pass one day too. Your feelings about each moment matter, but ultimately they're temporary too. You'll experience other emotions someday, and then the same ones again, and then more emotions still. Life and the world keep turning, whether we like it or not, and we can choose to keep walking, we can choose our pace, we can choose when to take a break, and when to mourn our pain and griefs, and when to celebrate our victories and joys. Life is many things. Unfair is only one of them.

You know. I have been through a lot in my life. I have had a lot of horrible things done to me by people I trusted. I have had to start over more times than is fair. I have often heard the voice in my head sob and scream and kick it's feet that it's just not fair how hard I have to work and how much suffering I have to endure to get the bare fucking minimum of life needs met and I have held that inner tantrumming child in my arms and reassured it that of course, they're right, it's not fair, it never was, it never could be. And yet we must hold hands together and walk on anyway.

So we do. We sniffle and cry and keep walking, hand in un-fucking-loveable hand for years. Decades at this point. Sometimes things get better. Sometimes they get bad again. Sometimes we have to sit down and take a break to cry some more before we can keep walking because it hurts so much and it's so unfair. But we do keep walking.

I don't know what the future holds for me, and I can't pretend the present is perfect. The night terrors still wake me up crying and begging some days when I wish I could think myself healed and unaffected. Sometimes I hold child-me close and whisper that we'll be okay, as long as we're together, even though I have no idea if it's true.

I am not the people who hurt me though. I am still kind. I am still walking. I am still growing and changing. I am still loved even when being loved is hard. I still love even when loving feels dangerous. I still accept and learn my flaws, my vulnerabilities, my needs, my strengths, my blindspots, my selfhood, my wholeness, even when those things are hard to sit with. I have learned what it means to ask for and accept help, and what it means for help to be the kind you need, not always the kind you want. I am learning to find peace in my imperfections while still seeking and striving for growth.

I don't know who I will be ten years from now. But I know that it's important to me that I be a continuation of myself. That I never leave myself behind even as I never hold myself stagnant. I am learning what it means to dance through that kind of change, that kind of forgiveness, that kind of hope.

I wish I had real answers to life. I don't. But I know that I will wake up tomorrow, climb to my feet, dust off my walking boots, and take a few more steps into the future.

[tonaken]

Lost_ USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

FIA'S NOTE_ this piece is my contribution to @misss-chrisss’s getaway collab (thank you for having me <3) Yes I’m soo fucking late, and i’m sorryyyy but i just got back from being shadowbanned and being drop kicked in the face by college 😐 But yeah, I hope y'all enjoy this passionate, heated session with big Ushi baby on a summer night in Cancun (it must be niiiceee😭)

WARNINGS_ MDNI, USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI x fem!reader, reader is black coded, but anyone can read, AU where reader is a food blogger and Ushijima is a restaurant owner and a fanboy, alcohol consumption (nobody gets drunk tho), smut, implied protected sex (see? be like them), nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), implied multiple rounds, Ushi is nor a dom nor a sub, just a man who wants to fuck you and has a bit of an oral fixation

W_C_3.4 k words

A beach house on the seashore, sticky, sandy skin, a swaying palm tree. A perfectly browned crème brulée. A delicately seasoned lobster. A slew of intricate cocktails. Your week in Cancun was proving to be nothing short of your expectations. Fun, a bit reckless, definitely free. 

Everything was being documented on your Instagram page. Stories upon stories of your whereabouts, outfits, friends, and, obviously, food. After all, that’s what the majority of your followers were there for. Also the spectacular beach shots and the exclusive parties were appreciated; it all played into the rich life fantasy that was always beneficial to portray. 

You’re known, you’re popular. Definitely not a Hollywood actress or a sold-out-concert superstar, but notable enough in your niche, in the realm of food blogging. Your food pictures have definitely clogged Pinterest at some point in time and a few restaurants have surely benefited from your reviews, your blog posts aesthetic, yes, yet concise and accurate.

So it’s not exactly a surprise when food magazines ask of you, a stimulating interview coming out of your collaboration. Or when a publishing company wants to have you advise future readers on the best eating spots in some European capital. Or also when a restaurant invites you personally to taste their cuisine, much like now.

The pretty invite stays projected on the screen as your eyes scan the pixelated words. It’s three am, but the muted ping of your phone was a temptation too big to resist. It’s an email from your manager forwarding you the message from the establishment, a popular one, it seems. You briefly imagine her excited tone behind the numerous exclamation points that accompany the few words of introduction. 

You shouldn’t be doing this. Cancun is your vacation destination. Where to relax, unwind and rejuvenate. And yet, here you are, chewing on your bottom lip in contemplation. But then your eyes set on the final line of the invite; your brow arches in surprise. Dinner with the restaurant owner? 

It’s not your preferred way to go about things, really. You’d much rather get to know the restaurant in its most organic form, how it usually is. You’re aware of the preferential, VIP treatment you get when you’re recognized, using the surrounding tables’ situation as a true gauge of customer service. But when, out of curiosity, you search your host, you don’t really care anymore.

It’s a bit embarrassing to fall for looks when it comes to rational decisions like these, but the striking beauty of the man before you is undeniable. Maybe it's the aloof aura that surrounds him, heavily set in the straight line of his lips. Or the wide shoulders that seem to struggle with the space inside his tailored shirts and blazers. 

But when he’s there, right in front of you, looking down at you with a small, curt smile, arm outstretched in invitation, you get it. It’s everything, to be honest. He moves with confidence, not of the arrogant genre, but more of the matter-of-fact type: things need to be done this way, so he does them like that, no doubt in his mind. 

He’s a strict man, you can tell. He walks with a stiff stride, a bit too statuesque to be spontaneous. He pulls out your chair with a smooth movement though, silently helping you, to then sit down in his own chair. And when he looks up at you, finally, you might add, citrine eyes shine under the lamp that hovers over your table. He looks oddly comforting, much more innocuous than his straight expression might suggest.

He’s much more awkward than what you pictured him to be, odd silences sometimes slipping into the conversation and settling for a few beats before a shy word of his comments on the food you’re about to eat. That’s when he glows, you realize. 

He’s in his element, all discomfort gone from his expressionless face. He describes to you each and every ingredient, almost weaving intricate and picturesque explanations. Just almost, though. He falls short when he catches himself getting too carried away in the shiny glaze of the caramelized side greens. He’s quick to gain the sliver of composure lost, falling back into his routinely simplicity and straightforwardness. 

He, to your surprise, looks at you with almost childlike curiosity as he raises his eyes once again, and the prettiest smile is set on your glossy lips. He can’t tell, but it’s most definitely the first genuine one of the night. It’s laced with an odd mix of amusement and endearment with a faint dash of hazy, wine-induced attraction. He doesn’t see all of that, the fact that you are actually before him has just sunk in; his mind is elsewhere.

Ushijima Wakatoshi has known you for some time. He’s never been one to care about food bloggers and critics, tending to have a very negative opinion of them, their arrogance and unthankfulness often slapping him across the face. So when he reads your interview in one of the top food magazines, he’s pleasantly surprised by your demeanor. Humble, down to earth, mature, likable. It’s a breath of fresh air, really. 

And that’s where it starts. Binge reading your blog posts, that is. Poised but straight to the point. Never unnecessarily rude or harsh. Analytical but not complex. It’s almost enlightening, he gleans. 

He subscribes to your newsletter, ready for each and every update, virtually following you across the globe as you taste and record your travels. He finds it really interesting how you seem to bleed beautifully into your writing; it’s almost like reading a diary at times. And Tendo finds it downright hilarious to repeatedly catch his workaholic boss swiping on his phone, tall man tucked in a secluded corner. And every time he passes by him and throws a glance, he’s, obviously at this point, on your website, brows tense in deep focus. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi calls it pure and simple admiration. He respects your work, and finds your rise very inspirational. You struggled and worked to be where you are, just like he did. You have something in common, that’s why he likes, no, thinks highly of you.

It definitely has nothing to do with the way his eyes always fall on your dainty hands as you gesticulate in that one TikTok of yours. Or the apples of your cheeks that almost seem to explode when you laugh at a funny anecdote in your Vanity Fair interview on Youtube. Or the gentle curve of your waist that flows down into your hip in the dress you walked in with. Ushijima is a man who simply admires you, nothing more.

He just, for whatever reason, wants to keep it under wraps. So it’s convenient - or providential, if you will - when one of his employees approaches him with your instagram profile open on his phone. His eyes twinkle at the realization that someone he knows is aware of your name; it makes him oddly proud of you. But he doesn’t say anything, he just observes Goshiki babble and ramble about your work and your fame, as if his boss weren’t already aware of such basic information. Yes, basic. At least that’s what Ushijima, a dedicated fan of yours, thinks.

But he doesn’t bat an eye at the little, useless introduction he’s given; he maintains his stoic façade. He may slip when he’s told that you’re staying in Cancun for the week. And at the suggestion of inviting you over he gives his sturdy approval, one that Goshiki interprets as simple determination, not excited, hopeful, impatient expectation. It’s Tendo who sees right through his friend, grinning bemusedly at the almost feverish planning of his boss. 

Ushijima sits down and plans a personalized menu for you, jogging his memory regarding your culinary likes and dislikes. He directs the little rearrangement of his restaurant, wanting to set the scene to something private and intimate, a little warm haven limited to the two of you, regardless of the sea of tables that will surround you. He even supervises the formatting of the virtual invite you’re sent, insisting to use one font over the other. It’s more appealing, he explains, even if, in reality, it’s the same one over on your blog, your favorite, he recalls. 

First impressions matter, that’s what he says when he’s asked why such sudden changes take place. And even if his employees believe him, Tendo giggles behind his back.

He outrightly laughs when his friend flatly complains on the phone. Cufflinks are too formal, but a tie would be uncomfortable when eating. This is Ushijima’s debate, a silly one in Satori’s mind. But it’s a dilemma, a big one. One that has his shoulders droop and his forehead crease; one that has his hand scratch his chin and his mind race.

Their friendship is strong, with a deep understanding lining the bond, so when he’s given the advice to just be himself, Wakatoshi’s heart knows it’s sincere. On that evening, he approaches his restaurant with an odd sense of peace, the usual self confidence brimming from every step. He talks to his staff and encourages them, words succinct yet truthful. That’s their boss’ personality, and they appreciate the effort.

Everything seems to go to plan until he’s caught zoning out. Often. His eyes set on the way you grab hold onto your camera lens, almost maniacally adjusting focus and exposure. You’re a perfectionist, and he appreciates that, maybe a bit too much. So when you look up and ask him the ins and outs of the dish before you, he has no answer, torn out his little fantasy and pulled back on earth. 

You take it all in stride, smiling warmly and repeating the question. You’re so gentle and polite that he finds himself feeling warm with juvenile embarrassment when answering you. He finds the whole exchange mortifying, you find the light blush on his cheeks adorable.

He thinks he can brush off his little blunder, but then Ushijima hyperfixates on the concentration in your eyes, unwavering and deep. It shines on your face, settles in your stance, anchors you to the ground. It’s mesmerizing, the entirety of you is. He lets his gaze drop, pupils rolling off the slope of your shoulders, down to the swell of your calves, until he slips deeper and deeper into his mind.

And over dinner, when you’re sitting opposite him, he gets distracted by the littlest things you do. He listens to you, even if he’s completely enraptured by the delicate twist and pull of your lips when you ask him to pour you some wine; or how your head tilts back to down the alcohol; or the slow, almost sensual, flutter of your lashes as you savor the distinct flavor. He’s lost in you.

And after many sincere compliments and a myriad of thanks, lingering touches dance along your waist as he takes you outside; he’s grown tired of just looking at you. A whiff of your perfume wafts into his nostrils, and he hates to admit that it stirs something deep within. But the nail in the coffin is probably the view of your ass swaying in the fabric that falls over your thighs. He has to get into action.

So when you gush about the beautiful view of the dark ocean, the gentle breeze chills him down his spine as opportunity peeks on the horizon. It’s quicker than a heartbeat, than the bat of an eye, and an offer tumbles out of his mouth, unrelenting underneath the sparkling stars.

You turn around, voice stuck in your throat, and a heat rises up your skin. It crawls from your neck to your face, from your belly to in between your thighs. He’s serious, oddly more than before. The look in his eyes is heady, deep and brazen. He’s probably never wanted anything more. Your lips part, and your answer spills from in between, shaky like the plume of a flame, but searing like its core.

And maybe the view from his place is much better indeed, but you don't have the chance to appreciate it, at least not while his hands hold onto your face and his lips press against yours.

It’s all so rushed: the clatter of his keys jamming into the lock; the way his leather shoes try to avoid your strappy heels as you kiss your way to the bedroom; the soft puffs of the pillows being thrown off the bed to make space for you. 

He’s much more careful with your body. His hands dance along your sides, now resting on your waist, then going up to caress your back. And he never breaks the kiss, dragging you into a wonderfully consuming apnoea, a lack of breath that almost tingles, one that flows through you as pure desire. 

And when he parts from you, lips glossy and flushed, he smiles at you, panting, breathing in your mouth, as you do with him. It’s as if oxygen weren’t an option, forgotten in the addicting dance your bodies are initiating, a rhythm that has you only needing each other.

Yes, because when he has you sit up to unzip your dress, all he wants is the warmth of your skin, so he kisses the crook of your neck lovingly, taking his time with each peck. Absolutely, because when he slips the thin straps off your shoulders, all he needs is to feel you in his hands, so he drags his palm along your sternum as the flesh of your breasts spills from his fingers. Without a doubt, because when your panties come off and a thin, crystalline web of your arousal breaks, he dies to have a taste of you, to bury himself in between your thighs. So he fulfills his wishes.

It’s astonishing how a man of such limited, direct speech can be so gentle and shy with his tongue. He suckles on your clit carefully, molding his lips against your folds with a feather touch. Even the wet noises are so subdued, drowned by your whines that ask him to put more pressure into his licks. And luckily for you he listens, large, large hands grabbing on the flesh of your hips to get you even closer, to feast on you properly.

The same hands seem uncharacteristically clumsy when they unbutton his shirt, excessive haste eating at his usual nonchalance, having nimble fingers fumble with fabric, losing their usual dexterity. Yours lay on his in silent reassurance, and it’s with silent surrender that he lets you strip him, faces getting close again as you uncover the body that had teased your mind in the last few days.

He sighs when you quickly brush over his nipples. He groans when you trail your fingertip along the valley of his chest, to the plane of his abs, down into his happy trail. He gasps when you unbuckle his belt, the cold metal briefly pressing against his skin. He moans when you reach into his pants to wrap your hand around him. He doesn’t know what makes his knees tremble more: the feeling of you stroking him or the eye contact you hold with him, heated and unfaltering. 

It’s not something that worries him too much though, not when he pushes you softly into the bed, the cloudy comforter framing your parted thighs. You smirk at his impatience, because it mirrors yours. It drips thickly from his skin, it permeates the air.

Soon enough the same air gets coursed through and through by the noises you two make. Moans and whines, groans and grunts, the rustling of the sheets and the slaps that echo when you become one. He quickly drapes over you, lapping at your pulse softly, before he descends. He detaches from you, hovering over your heated skin with equally warm puffs from his mouth. His breath snakes into your pores and settles under your skin, making you shiver and sink, lower and lower into yourself. You feel mad.

All you can do is feel. Feel the head of his cock kiss your sweet spot deep inside you. Feel the dull ache that builds low in your belly. Feel his strong hands roam and grab, squeeze all they can.

He rests your thighs against his body, calves light on his shoulders, laxed ankles dangling over his back. And there he lays a kiss, so silky and intimate that your heart clenches at the act. His fingers skim up your leg loosely, tickling the sensitive skin, making him smirk at you squirming. He ‘s taking his time; he has so many things to do to you.

And even when used condoms litter the floor at the edge of the bed he’s still lost in you, slowly grinding into you, body slumping over yours, consumed by ecstasy, consumed by you. He molds you against the mattress with his weight, broad chest pressed against your shoulder. Your head falls in the pillow to then rise after a few seconds, just to admire the way he licks his lips as he takes in the way your asscheek claps in this position. 

His gaze grows dark when his wild eyes rest on your collar bones, bitten and moistened by rough, growly kisses. But then the smallest of whines slips from you and his attention is on your face, lost and turned almost delirious from the driven rock of your bodies. In this state, eye contact is too much for you; and when golden green irises turn black, you turn away, hoping for the peace of the sea to calm you down.

Dark, thick waves hit the sandy shore like his hips, heavy and persistent. They roll against you, charged by the winds of unspoken words and concealed longing; they approach you with ever increasing force to then lull when he pulls away from you, just to do it all over again.

He’s strayed away, finding himself drowning in the way your body bounces at his thrusts, the moonlight casting the prettiest of shadows on your skin. He never grows tired of you trembling against him, the face of pleasure dismissing any trace of control from your limbs. He’s addicted to your swollen lips, the ones that moan his name, encouraging him to give you his all.

In the wantonness of his high, in the disregard of the moment, he calls out to you, a husky and deep grunt spoken against your mouth, spilled on your tongue, swallowed down your throat. Your arms fly around his neck while he releases his tension in thick, white spurts, and in the wake of a final orgasmic shiver, your warm hand smooths down his spine. 

The hazy, distant sound of the ocean acts as white noise as you both regain composure, panting breaths getting lost in the salty breeze that flows through his linen curtains. His chest heaves in the dim room, sweaty skin catching the light of the now-on lamp next to the bed. 

You chuckle when he lazily discards the third or fourth soiled condom to the ground with a loud huff. And when he asks you what’s so funny, you laugh at the puzzled look on his face; he looks so serious. He’s back to his normal self again.

But then he scoots closer, pulling your sticky body into his, and as his muscular arm lays comfortably in the curve of your waist, your head sits peacefully on his chest. He presses a kiss on your forehead; it’s probably a silent ‘thank you’, one he doesn’t find the courage or the strength to say, one that you’d love to reciprocate with a spoken declaration. But in this particular case, it’s not needed.

You both bask in your afterglow, each one aware of that fizzling excitement that you both have to let go in favor of harsh reality. So you make the most of the moment, whispered conversations filling the little space between the two of you, hushed giggles laughed into the pillows.

Buried in sheets that need to be changed and heaps of rumpled clothing you understand each other, you find one the other. He’s lost in you, you’re lost in him. Both lost together.

Reblogs and comments are appreciated!

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© 2022 tonaken | do not repost, modify, copy or claim

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Fury

Prompts: Could we get a sequel to rage? Because I really enjoy batshit Roman and Logan, along with supportive Virgil and Remus. Preferably Patton and Janus continuing having their head in their asses, and Roman and Logan knocking some sense into them. - anon

Both Roman and Remus give tank vibes (in the RPG sense) to me, and also tend to have self-destructive issues. Could I request a fic or AU where both of them keep trying to take the hits for everyone else, and tell each other "you need to stop getting hurt" but can't recognize it in themself? And eventually the rest of the group sits them down and goes "we love you, we want you to be safe, please don't do this?" - anon

May I please request some c!thomas angst? Maybe some my-sides-are-arguing-and-it’s-getting-painfully-overwhelming flavored? - anon

I am way late, I know, but Thomas's birthday is tomorrow, from my timezone at least, so something centered around character him would be lovely (especially in your awesome writing!!) Maybe something with the sides showing the their love for him and/or him expressing it back somehow? I think their relationships can be so cute but from what I've seen people don't often write about them sadly. Thank you for considering this, and extra thanks if you write it! (Ps: sorry this was long 😅)

happy b-day thomathy sand dollar

Read on Ao3 Part 1

Warnings: some allusions to manipulation and guilt tripping

Pairings: logince, platonic or romantic i don’t care

Word Count: 5278

His ears are ringing. That’s funny. They don’t normally do that.

His ears are ringing. That’s funny. They don’t normally do that. Maybe there’s a bell going off somewhere. Or there are sirens driving by outside. No, no, this is a bit too high-pitched for that. What was it that Logan called it again? Oh, right. Tinnitus. That’s what’s going on. Wait, does he have tinnitus? He doesn’t think so. He keeps his headphones on a reasonable volume thanks to Logan anyway, it’s not normally quick onset like this, is it?

“All I’m saying is—“

“All you’re saying is we completely disregard the progress we’ve made in favor of sliding back into patterns of thinking that have done nothing but harm us, yes, I can see why you think this is a perfectly rational course of action.”

“That’s not what I’m saying! Stop twisting my words!”

The ringing is getting worse. His temples start to throb. He doesn’t remember that being part of Logan’s description of tinnitus. Maybe that isn’t what this is. But then what could it be?

“Janus, if you don’t have anything useful to contribute—“

“Wow, perhaps I should’ve imitated you again, then I would be listened to, right?”

“Hey! Not cool, you slippery snake, that was out of line!”

“And you never color outside the lines, do you?”

He blinks. That’s funny. He thought he was looking up at the Sides. Why is he staring down at the carpet? It’s a nice carpet, though, so maybe he doesn’t mind looking at it. There’s a stain there. Did he spill something?

“Kiddos, kiddos, let’s all just calm down now. There’s been a lot of aggression from both sides, so let’s just—“

“Both sides?”

“There are more than two of us talking, Patton.”

“Both sides of the argument, Logan, that’s what I mean. So let’s all just take a deep breath and—“

“Are you kidding me? He’s the one who’s insulting us! We’re just standing here!”

“You aren’t just standing there, you’re disagreeing with him.”

“And disagreeing is enough to be insulted and degraded like that?”

“Wow, Roman, so sensitive. There’s no need for you to get so upset.”

“Yeah, kiddo, you just need to calm down. Then we can talk about this calmly and rationally, just like Logan wants, okay?”

“You realize we’ve tried that already, right? That’s how we started this conversation!”

Someone snorts. “You remember three years ago when we started this conversation?”

“I believe it’s only been about thirty-five minutes.”

“I was exaggerating for dramatic effect, L.”

“Ah.”

“But Roman, you aren’t being very open-minded about this.”

His chest hurts now. Why does his chest hurt? Is it because he’s thinking about how long it’s going to take to clean the carpet? It’s not that bad of a stain. It must’ve just been tea he spilled. Or juice. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he spilled some juice and he has to clean it up. If he could move, he would go and do that. He should go and do that now. 

But there’s something he’s forgetting. 

“You have to try and compromise, Roman, that’s the only way this is going to resolve amicably.”

“Come on, kiddo, you’ve done so well with it before, just calm down and then we’ll keep going, okay?”

“Well, I’m not sure I can wait that long, as long as he’s not about to fire off on all cylinders…”

“Janus, just be patient with him.”

A sharp pain shoots through Thomas’s chest and an ache blooms on his cheek. 

Right. 

Right. 

He’d been having trouble deciding whether or not to go to one of his friend’s gallery openings. It was on a day they were free, by design, and they should be able to go. But the reason that day was free was because they’d arranged his schedule so he could have a free day, absent of any obligations or work requirements. If he went to the gallery opening, it wouldn’t be a free day anymore. 

Right, right, that’s why everyone’s so mad. 

Thomas winces as he feels a hand rub against the warmth on his face. His eyes still haven’t left the carpet, head pounding and chest aching. They’ve been fighting for—oh, what was it that Logan said, over half an hour now? And they’d made no progress. 

Because Roman had suggested that one two-hour commitment might be nice since it was something Thomas would enjoy anyway and supporting his friend would be nice too, but Janus had doubled down on this being a free day and Patton had agreed that it would be wrong of them to go to make themselves feel better and—

“Holy shit, Princey, that—that looks bad.”

“It’s fine.”

Patton sighs, disappointment strong enough for Thomas’s chest to ache with renewed zeal, “Roman, you don’t need to be so dramatic.”

“Faking a bruise? Really?” The condescension and scorn in Janus’s words make his stomach turn. “Next you’ll be telling us you need time to ‘recover’ before we can continue.”

Thomas feels cold. It isn’t cold in his apartment. Why does he feel cold? It is always cold? He tries to open and close his hands but they won’t respond. That’s weird. 

“Hey, assholes, why don’t you back off for a second?”

“Language!”

“Not the time, Patton, now shut up and let Roman be.”

“My, my, Virgil, how rude. You shouldn’t talk to your father like that.”

“We’re all the same age, you dick!”

There’s a shocked inhale. How did Patton manage to breathe in so sharply? He should try it to see if it’s possible. 

“There’s no need for such rudeness, Virgil, look what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done? What about what you’ve done?”

“I’m not the one shouting!”

“You’re shouting right now!”

“But we didn’t start it, Virgil, you know that—“

“Actually, if we’re counting ‘who started it’ by who devolved into petty insults and making things personal, I believe you did start it.”

“And I’d never dream of disagreeing with you, Logan, what kind of monster would I be if I did that?”

Try as he might, he just can’t mimic the gasp Patton did. Why not? His chest doesn’t want to expand. That’s annoying. What if he needs to breathe?

What if he needs to breathe?

He needs to breathe?

He needs to breathe. 

Oh. 

Oh, no. 

He needs to breathe. 

The realization of what’s going on slams into Thomas. He can’t breathe. He’s not breathing. His head is pounding and his chest is aching and his face stings and his ears ring and he can’t breathe. 

He can’t breathe. 

“Hey.”

The noise of the room dulls out into a soft mumble as someone speaks into his ears. 

“Hey, Tommy-Boy. Thomas. Thomas.”

Remus. That’s Remus he’s hearing. 

“Sure is, Thomas. Just me. You’re not doing so good right now, and that’s okay, but I’m gonna need you to focus on me for a moment, ‘kay? You’re doing great right now, just stay with me.”

Remus. Remus. He can hear Remus. Remus’s voice is soft and careful and he grabs onto it with both hands. 

“That’s it, you just stay with me here. I know breathing is hard but you gotta take a breath, okay? Go slow, then it won’t hurt so much.”

Remus begins to guide him through breathing. This is good. This is fine. He can do this. 

“You sure can, Thomas, you’re doing really good. Just another slow breath, okay? That’s all you gotta do. Just like that.”

Thomas closes his eyes and draws another slow breath in through his nose, out through his mouth. It stings a little as it hits the back of his throat but Remus shushes him carefully. 

“It’s okay, Thomas, just keep it nice and slow. You’re doing great, just keep coming out of it for me. Shouldn’t be too hard, you’ve done it before, yeah?”

What’s happening? What’s happening to me?

“Your Ego is taking the brunt of the battering that’s happening right now,” Remus explains softly, “so you’re not feeling too good. Roro’s doing his best to keep the worst of it away from you, but there’s only so much he can do while he’s getting treated like this.”

His mind drifts to the throbbing in his cheek. 

“Yeah, that’s a bruise. Not on you, on Roro. It’s okay, Thomas, you’re okay. Just keep breathing and come out of it, okay? This is temporary, it won’t last forever.”

After what seems like forever, but can’t be longer than a few minutes, Thomas finally takes a deep breath that reaches all of his lungs and blinks. 

Wow, okay, his neck is sore. How long has he been staring at the ground? He winces, rolling it around a few times before looking up at the rest of the room. 

The Sides are looking at him. Some of them look sympathetic, some of them look curious, some of them look annoyed. At him?

“No, Thomas,” Remus says, still speaking softly, “not at you.”

“You got overwhelmed,” Virgil says, usual growl softened to a low rumble, “that’s all. Sorry it took me so long to notice.”

Thomas shakes his head. “I, uh, that hasn’t happened to me before. Not like that.”

“My guess is that having all of us—“ Logan motions around the room— “arguing like that was…doing the equivalent metaphysically ripping you apart.”

Thomas winces. “Yeah, that, uh…mhm.”

“My apologies for not noticing sooner.”

“No, no, you guys were…busy.”

“'Were,’ yes,” Logan says, a little sharper, before turning to address the others, “but we’re done for today.”

“What?” Patton blinks. “But we haven’t come to a decision!”

“That is correct,” Logan continues, the chill in his voice making the hairs on Thomas’s arm stand on end, “but we will not make a decision at the expense of Thomas’s well-being. Ergo, we are finished for the day.”

“And you get to make that decision all by yourself, do you?”

“He’s not by himself,” Roman says lowly, turning to face Patton and Janus, “I agree with him.”

“Well, there’s a surprise.”

“Me too,” Virgil growls. 

“And me.” Without waiting for anything else, Remus stretches his arms out—Thomas hides a gag—and grabs Patton’s shoulder and Janus’s elbow. “Bye!”

Virgil rolls his eyes a little fondly as the three sink out, shooting a look at Thomas. “You gonna be okay if I leave?”

“Y-yeah, Virgil, uh, thanks.”

Virgil tips a lazy two-fingered salute as he sinks out. Logan glances at Roman. The two exchange a look and a nod that—okay, Thomas is missing something here. But then Logan turns to him and his expression softens. 

“Do you want one of us to stay with you for a little while?”

Thomas rubs his arm, trying to get the goosebumps out. “Um…”

“Let me,” Roman says softly, “I can help, if you want. Seeing as it’s…well, me that’s hurting.”

“It’s not your fault, Roman.”

“I didn’t say it was.” He takes a step closer. “But I am the part of you that’s hurt.”

Thomas falters and Logan nods carefully. 

“Roman will take care of you,” he promises, “or…perhaps you will take care of each other.”

Thomas looks between them. “Will you two…explain? Later, maybe? You seem…something feels different.”

Roman huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Later, Thomas, we will do our best to explain. But for right now, why don’t you take care of yourself?”

“Okay.”

Logan smiles, a soft thing that he hasn’t seen in a long time, and sinks out. 

“Thomas,” Roman says, his expression still soft and compassionate despite the—ouch, despite the huge bruise on the left side of his face, “can I come over to you?”

“Uh, yeah, buddy, you can do what you want.”

“Thank you.” Roman walks over to him and whoa, okay, that’s a bit weird. Yeah, he knows the Sides can move and stuff, but he’s not normally this close to them. “Thomas?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

“You sure?” Roman tilts his head and frowns. “You seem a bit…well, discombobulated.”

The memory of the ‘discombobulate’ clip from that one Sherlock movie springs unbidden into his head and he can’t help but giggle at it. Roman smiles with him. 

“What?”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just…discombobulate.”

Roman throws his head back in a louder laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to discombobulate you.”

“That’s such a good word.”

“What, discombobulate?”

“Yes.”

“I have to say it in the accent, don’t I?”

Thomas screws up his face and puts on the worst posh British accent he can think of. “Discombobulate.”

“Discombobulate.”

“That’s it!”

Roman shakes his head, still laughing. “RDJ would be proud of us.”

“We’ll put it on the list of things to do if we meet him, right?”

“When, Thomas,” Roman says grandly, his hands sweeping up into his normal dramatic gesture, “when we meet him.”

“Yeah, okay.”

At the quietly resigned note in his voice, Roman softens, the brazen grin going back to something a little kinder as he stands up and nods to the couch. Thomas goes, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. After a moment, he feels the couch sink as Roman sits next to him. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“What is there to talk about?” Thomas groans and flops back onto the couch. “If I go, I’m either being selfish and doing it to make myself feel better, or I’m putting someone else’s wants above my needs again. Or I’m being selfish by staying in and not going to support my friend, or I’m taking care of myself regardless of how bad I feel about not going.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Roman chides lightly, “I meant do you want to talk about how you’re feeling right now.”

Thomas blinks. “I…um…”

“I’m your Ego, Thomas,” Roman says when Thomas can’t find any more words, “I’m the you that gets hurt when things go wrong. I can tell you what I’m feeling right now, but it might help more if you do it.”

“Um…well, my face still kind of hurts.”

Roman nods encouragingly. “What else?”

“My chest feels…heavy? Almost like there’s a weight attached to it?”

“Mhm.”

“And, um…my ears are still ringing. I can’t…it, um…it’s not good.”

“Here,” Roman suggests, prompting Thomas to sit up a bit, “cover your ears with your hands and drum your fingers on the back of your head, just here.”

Thomas tries, a little doubtful, only for the soothing taps on the back of his head to banish the worst of the whining from his ears. His eyes widen and he looks up at Roman. 

“Better, I take it, yeah?”

“Yeah, loads better, how did you…?”

“Logan,” Roman says, “he and Virgil—since they’re both part of the Left Brain, they can get into feedback loops with each other and I don’t know if you know this about Virgil, but he really likes to crank the volume on his headphones.”

Thomas shudders. “I can imagine.”

Roman chuckles. “So…Logan taught me how to cope with it and it helps me when Remus and I are bleeding too much.”

“Wait, what? You bleed?”

“Shh, shh, not like that, calm down. Just ‘cause we’re both Creativity, sometimes when we get excited we tend to, uh, the lines between our parts of Creativity can get a bit messy.”

“So it…doesn’t hurt?”

“No, Thomas, it doesn’t hurt.”

Thomas accepts it with a nod. They sit on the couch in silence for a bit, as the throbbing pain begins to ease and they can relax into the cushions. Thomas glances over to see the bruise fading away from Roman’s cheek. His eyes are closed and he looks…peaceful. 

“I’d tell you to take a picture,” he says out of nowhere, startling Thomas, “but you see our face every day, don’t you?”

“Sorry, I, um…”

Roman chuckles. “It’s your face, Thomas, you’re allowed to look.”

He cracks an eye open when Thomas stays quiet. 

“Or ask me any questions you have.”

“What…happened?” He shifts a little closer on the couch. “You and Logan and Remus, you…last I remember, you were all a bit…”

“At each other’s throats?”

“Yeah.”

Roman sighs, some of the peaceful energy slipping away and for a moment, Thomas wants to retreat the question, try and give some of it back, but Roman speaks. 

“We had a talk.” He shifts. “Or, well…talking was involved. Basically, we went to a rage room Remus made.”

“A…rage room?”

“A room full of things designed to be broken so you can let your anger out.”

Thomas blinks. That…doesn’t sound like the Roman and Logan he knows. Remus, sure, but…these two? “…why?”

Some part of him bristles and the question and he winces. 

“Sorry if that was rude, I just—“

“No, Thomas, it’s alright, I don’t mind telling you.” Roman sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I just—the last time someone asked me that question, it wasn’t with the same—they didn’t ask it like you did.”

“…how did they ask it?”

“The same way you would ask someone why they still wholeheartedly support the Harry Potter franchise even after all that’s happened and the new game has been announced.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “Wait, who—“

“One question at a time,” Roman laughs, sitting up a little more. “Logan and I went because Remus and Virgil suggested it. And they were right, it did feel good. We, uh, had a talk before and realized we were more on the same side of things than we thought. It was nice. A good bonding experience.”

Despite himself, Thomas smiles. “Baby’s first act of civil disobedience?”

Roman grins. “Exactly. Ooh, I should look for Captain America’s shield next time. Really beat the toast out of some anti-homeless architecture for flavor.”

“I’m sure Logan would be down with that.”

“Me too.”

They laugh for a moment before Thomas swallows. “…so who…?”

The last of the humor disappears from Roman’s expression and he sighs. “I’m not telling you this because I think it’s your fault, I’m telling you this because you asked for it, okay?”

“Uh…do you want me to un-ask for it?”

Instead of the laugh he thinks he might get, Roman just sighs again. “No, Thomas, you…you have a right to know. It’s your Sides that are the problem.”

Thomas sits up a bit more as Roman turns to face him. 

“Can you answer me one question before I tell you? Honestly?”

“Yeah, Roman, I can.”

Roman hesitates. “Do you…do you think Patton and Janus treat me or Logan fairly?” 

Thomas blinks. And blinks. And blinks again. Not the question he was expecting to have to answer. 

Do they?

Roman is…well, Roman isn’t really shy about what he wants, is he? He’s loud and extravagant and insists on things, so…

Wait, is he?

Thomas furrows his brow. 

The last time Roman wanted something it was…the callback. And he didn’t—the whole point of that was that he sent Thomas to the wedding. Which he didn’t want. And then with the wedding, he…well, after the wedding he didn’t do much. That was Patton and Janus fighting. 

But hasn’t it always been Patton and Janus fighting? The two of them disagreeing over what was going on? What Thomas was doing? Since when did Roman come into it?

The last time Roman stood up for what he wanted until Thomas shut it down was…was…

Guys and Dolls. 

And then Janus had impersonated Patton. And then there had been the wedding. And then—and then—

And Logan, gosh, what happened to Logan? 

They’d excluded him from the trial, Janus had impersonated him so many times, they’d…

Oh, god. 

Roman is still looking at him, waiting for an answer. 

“No,” Thomas whispers, “no, I don’t think they do.”

The sudden wave of relief that crashes over Roman takes him by surprise, especially when the bruise suddenly vanishes and the pain fades. Another smile comes to his face but it glows now, it looks—Roman looks at him and smiles and Thomas smiles back. 

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” Roman murmurs, still smiling, “thank you, Thomas.”

He nods. 

“So…Logan and I were talking about that, and uh, we got…a bit frustrated.”

“I think that’s fair.”

“And then Remus and Virgil heard what we were talking about and they suggested the rage room.”

A bit of dread curls in Thomas’s stomach. “Did…did Patton and Janus…?”

A darkness flitters across Roman’s gaze. “They weren’t the most receptive to the idea.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it,” Thomas says bitterly, “they’re my Sides.”

“Yes, they represent part of you and how you think, but you’re not completely responsible for them.”

“So what do I do? I don’t want them to be mean to you! If you—if you need something, I should listen to it!”

Roman just stares at him, a soft smile playing on his lips again. 

“Oh.” Thomas’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“In a roundabout way,” Roman says quietly, “I think I’ve just done what Janus has been pushing you to do. Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll try,” Thomas promises, reaching out as Roman rests a hand on his shoulder, “I promise, I will.”

“That’s the spirit.” His mouth curls up higher. “You know what I think we should do now?”

“Watch that discombobulate clip until I can’t stop laughing at it?”

“You read my mind.”

“My mind.”

“You’re in charge!”

As soon as Remus sinks them into the Mindscape, he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. Into battle. 

“Remus!” Patton crosses his arms and glares at him. “That was inappropriate! We do not sink other Sides without their permission!”

“You’re fine, Dad-bot, you’re not hurt.” Remus flicks a speck of grime from his sash. “Besides, I was helping Thomathy, doesn’t that count for something?”

“Oh, sure,” Janus drawls in that voice that never fails to set Remus’s teeth on edge, “you did just what we wanted, how very good for you.”

Remus grits his teeth. “Like you can talk.”

“Oh, but I can.” Janus grins and his teeth glimmer. “Quite well, in fact.”

“We were in the middle of a conversation, Remus, you can’t just sink us mid-conversation!”

“Wrong!” Remus bounces up and down on the balls of his feet. “You were in the middle of being giant whale penises to Logan and Roman. I was in the middle of trying to keep Thomas from dissociating so hard we ceased to exist. We are not the same.”

“You don’t need to exaggerate, Remus.”

“He’s not exaggerating,” Virgil says, appearing next to Remus, “that was bad, you guys. Like, really bad.”

“Mm.” Janus fixes him with a look. “Bad enough that you didn’t notice it?”

Virgil glowers. “Yeah. If it’s bad enough that I can forget Thomas exists, that’s how much he’s out of his head, me, the literal embodiment of worrying about Thomas, then yeah, Janus, that’s bad.”

Janus looks at Virgil for a long time, before nodding once. Silent. A concession, not an apology. 

“Well,” Patton says, clearly doubling down, “then that’s even more reason why you shouldn’t have done that, Remus! You know that speaking directly to Thomas like that can be dangerous, just look at what happened last time?”

Remus growls. “What, me showing up? Is that the big bad boogeyman that you think about? Just me? I don’t know whether I should be flattered or insulted.”

“My, my,” Janus says, his voice sharper now, “how polite, Remus, it seems your manners haven’t gone anywhere at all.”

“Oh, I’ll show you manners.”

“Remus,” Virgil says quietly, “don’t, you’ll just do what they want.”

“Yes, Remus,” Janus drawls, “don’t do what we want, we’re the bad guys, remember?”

“Don’t,” Virgil says sharply, pointing a stern finger at him, “you don’t get to play that card. Not now, not after what just happened.” “And of course, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything without your express permission.”

Virgil is saved from having to respond to that when Logan rises up next to him. “Hey, how are they? All good?”

“Yes. Roman is going to stay and help Thomas recover a little more.”

“Good. You okay?”

Logan nods as Virgil knocks their elbows together. 

Their attention is drawn back when Patton straightens up and fixes Remus with a look. “I just don’t understand why you did that. We all could’ve helped Thomas recover, but you didn’t let us make that decision.”

“You did,” Remus growls, “you did make that decision, when you didn’t look at the consequences of your little argument long enough to realize what you were doing. That disqualifies you from helping. Go straight to gay baby jail, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred goat testicles.”

“Yeah, that’s how I remember the game going too,” Virgil mutters. 

“It was going fine!” Patton pushes his glasses up his nose. “You just messed things up like you always do!”

Remus goes still. 

“Is that what you think I do,” he asks in a soft, dangerous voice, “you think I just mess things up?”

Patton falters. “W-well—“

“No wonder Roro’s so fucked up,” Remus spits, making Logan flinch, “if this is who he grew up with. At least Janny’s honest about being a lying liar who lies about things.”

Patton recoils as if Remus has struck him and Janus moves protectively in front of him, glaring at Remus. Remus returns the glare with equal fervor. 

Janus is the first to look away. 

Virgil just shrugs and glares when he tries to look at him and eventually, his gaze comes to rest on Logan. 

“Come on, Logan,” he says, trying for coaxing and missing, “surely you don’t think this is all necessary?”

Logan just blinks. “Do you think my opinion will be valuable in this situation?”

“You’re Logic, aren’t you? What does Logic have to say about this?”

“I’m confused, are you asking for Logic or Logan?”

Janus rolls his eyes. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference is Logic would be able to tell you how rude and inconsiderate you’re being without getting upset,” Logan says, his control over his voice beginning to slip, “I as Logan, however, will not. And I will add that you are being cruel.”

“Oh, for the love of—if this is about—“

“Yes, this is about that,” Logan snaps, “and about impersonating me, and about everything else you’ve done in the name of Thomas when all you’ve been doing is clawing your way into a better standing with him at our expense.”

“You get them, L,” Virgil mutters.

“Logan,” Patton says quietly, a hand on his chest, “I have never—“

“Oh, fuck off,” Remus sighs, “you pressed the ‘skip all’ button, and a shit ton of other stuff.”

“And, in case you’ve forgotten,” Virgil says, “you did just bruise Roman right in front of everyone.”

“You have no proof that was me!”

Remus opens his mouth to snap at him when he feels a familiar tingle in his fingers. “Why don’t we ask him?”

Indeed, Roman rises up into the Mindscape and Logan has to blink. 

Roman is glowing. 

Not just because he’s wearing white, there’s a soft light emanating from him that makes Patton and Janus take a step back. Although judging by the hunch of his shoulders, it’s equally likely that he’s glaring at them so hard they move back. 

“Congratulations, Janus,” Roman says and oh, that’s new, “I think I’ve just gotten what you’ve been pushing for this whole time.”

Janus swallows. “And what would that be?”

“Thomas is going to start listening to himself,” Roman says as he walks toward him, “he’s going to start paying attention to what he wants and what he needs. He’s going to start making sure he’s kinder to himself about that.”

Janus blinks. 

“That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes?”

“Good. Then yes, Janus, you’re welcome.”

Patton clears his throat. “And why are you taking credit for this?”

Next to him, Janus goes white. 

“Oh,” he breathes out, “oh, oh, oh, no, Roman, I’m—I’m so sorry.”

Roman turns to look at Patton. “Because the part of Thomas that wants, that is the loudest about when Thomas needs taking care of, that part that Thomas hasn’t been listening to, is me.”

“Roman is the Ego,” Logan supplements quietly, “and he’s the one that gets bruised every time Thomas gets hurt.”

“Oh, Roman,” Janus mumbles, staring at him like he’s never seen him before, “Roman, I’m—I—“

Roman’s hands tremble where they’re clenched next to his sides. “I know.”

Patton looks back and forth between Roman and Janus, his gaze growing increasingly frantic. “But—but Roman, we do listen to you, we—“

Roman just lets out a mirthless laugh. 

“—you’re always arguing with us,” Patton tries instead, protests growing weaker by the second, “and we—“

“You’re so preoccupied with the fact that you and Janus are agreeing after so long that you’ve forgotten it’s your fault we’re all like this.”

Patton does flinch at that, his mouth open, staring at Roman. 

“It’s true,” Logan says, a little kinder, “you and Janus…when you started to disagree, you split us up. And your disagreement filtered down to all of us. And now that you both agree again…”

He trails off. 

“They’re telling the truth,” Janus says very quietly. 

Patton looks around at all of them. “No…no, no, that can’t be right, it can’t…no—“

Roman’s fists shake. Remus steps forward and pulls him back a few paces, muttering in his ear. 

“Don’t. We’re both bad about taking hits, you’ve taken enough today.”

“He’s not going to understand,” Roman hisses, “not right now, we...I’m done for.”

“You aren’t,” Logan says as Virgil nods, “you’re going to be fine.”

Patton raises his head slowly. His fists tremble at his sides too. “We’ve all had a very hard day,” he says instead of addressing anything that’s happened so far, “so we’re all going to calm down—“

“Aren’t you tired of being nice?”

The room pauses. Roman looks at Logan. Logan looks back. 

“Aren’t you tired of being nice,” Logan repeats, “don’t you just want to go apeshit?”

Roman grins. “Yeah, Specs. I really do.”

Remus cackles with glee and sinks them out.

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[holocene-sims]

next // previous

may 28, 2021 2:00 p.m. newcrest counseling center

[margot] grant, i am very sorry.

[margot] there are so many things i want to talk to you about but i want a few things to be clear, okay? the trauma of infidelity is serious and the way you feel is valid, so do not ever feel like you’re overreacting or that this should be squared away by breaking up with her. the confusion, the anger, sadness...all very rational responses to hurt. and these emotions and the relapsing, all of those things, are not a failure on your part. you haven’t undone years of progress in this moment. it’s easy to feel like a blip in healing is life-ruining but it’s not. you should be proud instead that you recognized the spiraling and were able to recover. it sounds like you knew you were hurting yourself and so you stopped.

[margot] and you should also be proud that you expressed your boundaries with päivi. i know that creating and enforcing boundaries is something you have a lot trouble with. you’ve talked to me about that and how uncomfortable it is for you to use your voice. i, for one, am very pleased with your continued progress. even though you’ve just gone through something traumatic and feel like you’ve gone backwards, i think you’ve actually done yourself a lot of good. you’ve overcome hurdles that have impeded you historically.

[margot] and the other important thing i have to say first is that it’s not your fault that she cheated. you don’t have an explicit explanation from her, so who knows what she’s thinking now or what she thought back in march. you don’t know and of course, it’s almost impossible to avoid wondering about it and questioning yourself, but you can’t subject yourself to that kind of pain. and why? why might that be?

[grant] i'll never figure it out and it’s a waste of my time and energy?

[margot] well, yes, that’s part of it. reflecting is okay but that isn’t reflecting. that’s getting caught up in it. you're right. but what i was really thinking is this…

[margot] you can’t subject yourself to that constant worry about what happened because, well, even if she comes to you and tells you exactly why and that reason is something to do with you in her eyes...you aren’t the one who cheated, so you are not at fault for the infidelity. cheating is a choice and it’s not a choice that you made. if you didn’t cheat, you aren’t at fault.

[grant] but what if it actually is my fault?

[margot] give me an example of what you think you could be at fault for.

[grant] um…

[grant] i don’t know, i guess...the first rational thing i can think of is what happened over the last year. i always want to blame myself and say it’s, you know, i'm a burden or something but i know that’s not fair to myself to say. that’s lifelong trauma talking. but i wouldn’t blame her and i'd get it if recent events were what burdened her.

[grant] you already know everything because i've processed all this with you but...you know, we’d been dating for a couple years, then i found out i have a serious autoimmune disorder and that i needed surgery and that it’d, like, take months for me to recover and i'd probably need supervision. that’s not something i could get in los angeles, not really. päivi offered to let me move in but we both knew it wasn’t going to work with her work schedule and what i needed. so i left, moved in with my grandparents, and so päivi and i were long distance until december of last year. in that period things were kind of a mess. i was not a super available partner because i was not doing well and she was having a hard time with life also. but our relationship was still really, really strong. or i felt like it was.

[grant] i–

[grant] when i think back, i can’t even make a case for that being the reason.

[grant] it was very stressful for both of us but she was the one who encouraged me to leave to take care of myself. she helped pack up my apartment when i left. she came all the way out to michigan by herself when i had surgery to stay with me and my family a few days to make sure i was okay. she was really supportive the whole time and she made it clear she didn’t have a problem with me being a little less available. and then when i told her i was staying here and going to find a new job here, she was okay with that and she said she would like to move in with me. our relationship got even more serious from that point.

[grant] and like i said, i knew she was also having a really hard time because something was going on with her work situation and she was feeling very homesick and even more lonely because she didn’t have many friends in america besides me. i tried to support her, you know? i called her as much as i could and checked in on her often. i used to send her, like, gifts or money for food to try and cheer her up. i couldn’t take her on dates, you know, so i tried to replicate it or i would tell her about all the plans i wanted make when i could see her again. i'm sure i could have done more but she tended to insist i did too much. but i don't know. i mean, last year was, like, the second time in life i've been at absolute rock bottom. i could have been too absorbed in my own issues.

[grant] but that doesn’t seem right either. i guess this being the reason only makes sense in my eyes if the stress carried over somehow, if she was lying to me, or if she has late regrets about things. what i remember from then doesn’t match up with what’s happening now. so i can’t find an obvious reason. never mind. that’s it. i can’t even think of anything else rational unless i'm missing something.

[margot] i know you want to blame yourself but you shouldn’t. even if you could come up with a rational reason, it just isn’t worth it to beat yourself up about it. if you did do something wrong to her or she was unhappy with the relationship, that is something to handle after you address the cheating itself and work on healing yourself. you aren’t there yet, so it’s best to keep that out of your mind as much as you can for now.

[fierceawakening]

Thank you. The experiences I've had with people who've done very, very bad things due to mental health issues are real. Guy who smashed my windows? I'd interacted with him all of once that I know of. But I somehow factored into his paranoia, at least enough for him to choose to repeatedly break *my* window, specifically, rather than someone else's.

Are most people with mental illness more harmful to themselves than others? Yes! Is that an important fact to know? Very much so.

But when we reduce bad behavior to "chooses to be an asshole," we're really not doing anyone any favors. There's a slim percentage of the population that knows they're doing bad things and doesn't care (often justifying it with "that's just life, princess, grow up and kick their asses before they kick yours") but there's a much larger percentage of people who rationalize away their bad behavior as justified or necessary, and so don't see themselves as "assholes" at all.

I don't know if you've been following my blog at all, but I've been weirdly fascinated with the Ruby Franke/Jodi Hildebrandt child abuse case recently. And why it's so fascinating to me is... they talk like therapists or counselors. There's a part in one of the videos where Ruby is about to punish her kid, and the kid is upset about it. She asks "why are you upset? I need to hear your feelings" as if she's going to consider them, but then when he says "my sister did it first" she's like "I hear you, but what I have to consider is that you chose to do the same thing. Which means she didn't make you do it, and which means you behaved inappropriately. So you see, the loving thing for me to do is to punish you."

Why is that fascinating to me? Because you can see the rationalization. She's not "choosing to be an asshole," she's "doing the right thing by my child" because "they've talked it out" and "real love doesn't always look like what you'd expect."

"Choosing to be an asshole" is fairly rare. Most of us will do damn near anything to not be the asshole, and some of the things we do not to be the asshole are bend reality a little so it wasn't us.

Which mental illness of various sorts makes MORE likely, not LESS.

(Also a frequent topic here is my dynamic with my mom. Recognizing that the reason she so rarely DOES take responsibility for things she does quite possibly IS a result of her personality has helped me, because I can go "It makes sense that I want her to say she's sorry, but it also makes sense that she can't, because she experiences the thought of being imperfect as an attack, not as... oh it's Monday." Am I wondering if she's narcissistic out of hate? Not so much. Much more "Oh, if that's true, a lot of things that never made sense kind of do now. And this seems to be fairly predictive, too, which helps me going into interactions.")

So this is nothing new from me, but... the more research I do into the Franke case, the more varied and different therapists and psychologists and other professionals I listen to opining on it, and the more I hear people who don't seem to me to be talking to one another mentioning lack of empathy, possible narcissism, and possible psychopathy... the more I'm inclined to think the way Tumblr sanitizes those concepts really isn't the cutting edge, vanguard, or new paradigm people talk like it is.

If so many professionals have noticed that a disproportionate number of the people who commit the worst crimes have these patterns of thinking... of course we should uplift and help the people who have these patterns and don't commit crimes, but recognizing that they go together sometimes, and having robust theories about, say, why it might be reasonable to ask whether someone who abuses their kids and calls it "the gift of real love" might have or be being influenced by someone who has them.

[rcksmith]

The Agreement part.2 — Kaz Brekker

Resume/Masterlist

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader.

Warnings of series: Convenience/arranged marriage, swearing, mention of fight, mention of death, mention of desire, fluff, sensual, mention of post-traumatic stress.

Warnings of chapter: swearing.

Word count: 4k

A/N: I hope you guys like.💖

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are closet. Love you ❤️

— — — —

“What?!” Your exclamation came out louder than intended, and perhaps sharper than expected.

The salty sea breeze came through the window once more. The smell of salt and ocean invaded the room and for a second it felt like being in a ship's cabin at sea.

Kaz looked at you as if you were some child. Or someone deaf. But if he was swimming in acidic thoughts, he didn't say them.

"Think carefully." His voice was firm and explicit, the ones men use to convince women of something. “You want freedom, don't you? Live your life without having to fulfill a man's whims or your father's expectations. You wants to be able to snow on a ship without having a date to go back and make your own destiny. You want just needing to care what new adventure knocks on your door and what promise of wonders life awaits. It is not?"

How did he figure it out so well in such a short time? Was he too shrewd or were you too transparent?

You nodded, unable to say anything. Perhaps out of perplexity at how Kaz read you so easily. Or maybe the way he looked like an overpoweringly beautiful fallen angel in the moonlight.

“And the only way to do that is to get married.”

You frowned. “As I recall, Brekker, I came here just so I wouldn't have to get married.”

“And it's a stupid plan.” God, you wanted to kill him. “You asked me to have the Dregs take you to the harbor without your father's spies noticing. But it turns out your father's spies already know you're here.”

Your breath was lost somewhere between lungs and nose.

“Since you arrived, the noise from the Crow Club downstairs has become less shrill. And this is not typical criminal behavior. Either they have adopted good manners or someone they know they should fear has joined the Club.” Kaz sat more relaxed in the armchair behind his desk, his dark blue eyes locked on you. “I would bet on the second option.”

“So I came here for nothing?” You were starting to get angry at his beating around the bush. Because you knew it was manipulation. Brekker was laying the groundwork and you understood that.

“I did not say that. Turns out you can never get rid of your father. Not when he's a man with the purchasing power able to buy an entire country. There will always be someone who will recognize you, someone who will find you. And for the right price, the whole world is capable of being bribed. You would run away only to be chased by other spies, other people wanting the reward your father will give to whoever brings you back home.”

Very early on, you realized that Kaz Brekker was capable of crushing dreams as easily as crushing an insect. His destructive power was colossal and you saw all of your desires floating under his palm. Waiting just for him to brutally clench his fist and crush them.

But that's not what he did.

“You'll only get what you want if you follow his orders.” The breeze came through the window once more, ruffling her charcoal hair. “But if you can't defeat your enemies, change the rules of the game.”

“And is that where marriage to you comes in?”

“See it.” His body leaned very gently across the table towards you, it was a millimeter and ridiculous gesture, but it felt like him standing a breath away from you. “What you need is to get married. But marrying someone who doesn't give a damn about what you're going to do, and don’t have expectations of you. Someone who is not interested in home life, family life or Any other things you can offer other than money.”

Any other things you can offer. The night breeze this time was accompanied by an impure, almost obscene scene of the fallen angel in front of you on a bed of black duvets and caustic weather. A moment when the ends of his black hair brushed your forehead and your nose, moving back and forth as followed the rhythm of his hips and…

The sea breeze was gone, taking the obscene image with it and bringing back your common sense. For a second you wondered where that came from! You hadn't been in his presence for more than two hours and the entire compilation of what it was like Kaz Brekker, so far, had frightened you and attracted you in an absurdly dangerous way.

"And are that you came, I suppose." You hoped your voice couldn't give away your impure thoughts from seconds ago. “Do you want us to form an alliance where you receive my dowry and in return I am free from my father's demands and can do as I please with my freedom?"

“Alliance is a very strong term for what we are doing here.” He was succinct, “I would tell you to look at this as a business transaction. A marriage document is still just a piece of paper. And nothing else. Don't get carried away by sentimentalism. Things only have feelings if you want them to.”

Kaz was right, you knew that. For all your belief in true love and the many books romance novels you devoured, you still understood that a marriage could very well be seen as a business translation. It are a sad, cold way to see something so beautiful, but it still true.

“I have no interest in anything other than your dowry and you have no interest other than freedom. So what I'm proposing is something very sensible and objective. When we get married, your father will set you free, and you won't have any husband to please or any other crap. I don't want and don't expect anything from you, I don't care if you're sailing to Ravka or venturing on The Fold.”

“Do you want the money out of greed or despair?”

Kaz took a second to get a better look at you after that sneaky question. You had asked the correct question amid so many banalities and he realized that you were more cunning than you looked.

If he wanted to know your secrets, you also wanted to know his.

“A bit of both.” He was sincere.

“And what do you intend to do with my father's industries? Because you would win them too. And any misdirection could end up reducing my father's empire to nothing, and I don't want him to see the thing he loves most in ruins.”

Brekker heard the feelings in your voice. There was a hidden pang of hurt, but a lot of determination and honesty. You loved your father and understood him, even if you didn't agree with his principles. You had a fair and upright nature and were able to move mountains to get things done the way you thought was right. That was a red flag for Kaz. You were a good person. And he not.

He could never promise you things that go back to a good guy. But he could promise you honesty and justice. Kaz Brekker would never take something from someone the way it was taken from him so many years ago. He was a monster. But never in the same category as Pekka.

“I have no interest in having an empire doomed to fail.” His eyes were serious. “My motivation has always been greed. Why would I sink the company that is capable of making me such a rich man?”

He would have to be an idiot to let such a lucrative business go. And Kaz Brekker was anything but an idiot.

“Would you let me do anything I want?”

“I have no interest in what you don't or do.”

You hesitated for a second, as if remembering another detail. “My father doesn't believe in divorce, and even if he did, I would be pressured to remarry. Do you understand that we couldn't divorce?”

“I have no desire to marry again. And you might as well get other men you want without making a fuss, without your father finding out.” Always rational and objective. Without any inclination to the heart's desires. “There is no room in this world for feelings. Much less in this agreement. If you fall in love with someone you will have to be content with just relating to them, not getting married. And it seems like a small price to pay for so many benefits.”

It was the perfect plan. Did you know that. It was rational, objective and cunning. Something advantageous for both without costing too much. But why did you feel that something could go very wrong? You were a romantic person and you knew you could see things where they didn't exist. The truth was, you would have to leave your heart completely out of the picture.

Just a business transaction.

Brekker seemed to see a hint of hesitation in your eyes.

“It's very simple, Ms. Y/L/N.” That voice that gave you goose bumps hovered in front of you. “You marry me and you still have your freedom, because I don't give a damn about what you do after.”

“20 million from Kruges. Rich.” his eyes gleamed with a deep glow.

“And how do I know this isn't a trick?”

“I don't promise lies.” His firm face was serious “I won't give you happiness, Y/n. Much less love. Love doesn't exist in Kerch. But I will give you freedom, independence, a comfortable life that you are accustomed. And it seems to be much more than you have now.”

You knew you could be making a deal with the devil. Selling your soul to that man with the face of a fallen angel and the aura of Lucifer. But what choice did you have?

You couldn't go back if you sealed that deal. That man would be bound whit you, even by a piece of paper, for a lifetime. Was it worth the price? You didn't care for your father's press to want to be in the management and you had a lot more money than twenty million Kruges. What would you be missing? Your chance to marry one day whit someone you came to love? But if you came home without someone one day from now your father would marry you to a gargoyle. And the way out to flee no longer seemed a viable option.

Yes, it was worth it.

Seeming to see from the glint in your eyes that you've made a decision, Kaz Brekker, Bastard of the Barrel, reached out a leather-gloved hand toward you. His eyes sparkled with a mysterious spark, the scent of male cologne with a hint of danger lurking around the room. And for a moment, you felt a shiver go up your spine and the feeling that your life had just begun.

“Agree to marry me?” He said.

The feeling was that you were about to embark on the greatest adventure of your life. You didn't know what that little stunt with Kaz Brekker awaited you. But you would find out.

“Yes.” You took his hand in a firm, intense handshake that held a million secrets.

A satisfied, victorious smile came to his lips. And whenever Kaz gave him that expression, it felt like seeing the fallen angel that was the reason so many humans sinned. The clouds in the sky shifted, moving out of the moon's path and making the distilled rays of light shimmer more brightly. His black hair and white skin were graced with those bundles, and for a second his beauty was overwhelming.

You held your breath.

Brekker continued to say something, but you couldn't pay attention. Your heart began to race, the moonlight following in his footsteps as Kaz got up from his chair and went to fetch some papers from across the room. You couldn't tear your eyes away from him. His body was taller and thinner than you deduced when he was sitting down. Kaz had long, slender legs beneath black straight-cut pants, his chest was broad and his waist was narrow. For a second, you felt like running your hand over the contours of his body.

You shifted your attention forward abruptly. Focusing eyes on something else.

That was the curse of handsome men. They fooled women and made them daydream. With his underworld god beauty and mysterious aura with a touch of danger, Kaz Brekker was overwhelmingly attractive. And your blood reacted to that. Any woman would have reacted the same way.

“And we'll have to leave tomorrow morning…” he sat opposite you again.

“Sorry, what?”

You turned your attention to his words, not remembering half of what he said seconds ago. Kaz looked at you intently this time, squinting his eyes millimetrically, as if he was trying to guess which paths your mind had wandered in for the past two minutes.

“Your deadline is the day after tomorrow, isn't it?”

"Yes." You got back to the core of the problem once more. “The trip to my house takes a few hours. Half a day if it's raining.”

Kaz had his eyes on the papers in his hands, maybe they were maps or documents, but you didn't feel like craning your neck to see what it was. Leaning over to view the papers meant getting closer to Brekker, and two hours in his presence was enough for you to understand that nothing good would happen if you got any closer. Or maybe you didn't trust your own feelings and emotions.

“This will have to be done very discreetly.” He didn't look up from his papers. “If any rumors about our deal reach the wrong people, your father will hear about our plan. And that meant you will being forced to marry someone else, and me without my money. Does anyone know you're here because you planned to run away?”

You shook your head. “No. I didn't get to tell my friends. But now that the plan is different, I intend to tell a friend that…”

“You can't tell anyone.” Kaz lifted ocean blue eyes to you in an electrifying look that made you shiver.

“And what is supposed to say to my friends?” You felt a pang of indignation.

“That we are in love.”

This time, your breath was gone. The phrase was like pouring gasoline on an old, flammable woodpile. And you were afraid of what might be the match that would set off a fire.

Kaz noticed your reaction and was amused by it. “Just say some nonsense about falling in love with a criminal. It wouldn't be the first time a rich little girl has fallen in love with the bad guy, and I guarantee it won't be the last.”

“And you won't tell anyone about the truth too?” You wanted to change the focus you.

“I don't have to answer to anyone.”

This time you gave a smug smile and crossed your arms in an insolent gesture. “So everyone will think the infamous Kaz Brekker, Dirty Handes and Ketterdam's most dangerous gangster is in love with a rich little girl?”

Kaz narrowed his eyes at your teasing.

“It won't be the first time that the man with a bad temper and dangerous soul falls in love with the little girl. And I'm sure it won't be the last.” You said.

You were provocative, witty and stubborn. You would always hit at the same height and loved to show people that could very well play their game. Brekker unraveled this perfectly. You weren't the kind of woman who would be peaceful, serene, and calm. You wouldn't be like Inej. You would not take his orders and his taunts in silent, contained rage. You were intense. And that was a danger.

Why did he get the feeling you were so much more than he imagined?

“Let's go to your house tomorrow morning. Nine in the morning.” He changed the subject. “I'll go with you and we'll get married.”

"My father must be preparing everything by now." You sighed. “He takes his promises very seriously and I have no doubt that, when I returns, the ceremony scene will be set in the party garden.”

Partly you were relieved about it now. Planning a ceremony are intense and personal. You never really thought about getting married, but you always imagined that if one day it happened it would be the man of your dreams. And you didn't know if you would want to organize a fake wedding. There were certain things that were inevitable to keep the heart from breaking.

“Better yet, the faster the better.”

The two of you discussed some more details of the plan in the next few hours. It was agreed that Kaz would pick you up at nine from your hotel tomorrow, in an elegant hired carriage (which you obviously would be paying for) and the two of you would go to your house in Kerch. For all intents and for all people, the truth would be that the two of you were in love. It was such a typical cliché that it wouldn't be the least bit hard to believe.

And after a while, you two could already show yourself to the world as a couple who barely saw each other. Rich society was full of them: marriage with coldness and distance, where the man has his bets and lovers and the woman her travels and her jewelry. Your father would surely understand and leave you alone. After all, he had gotten a son-in-law to inherit his empire. A young son-in-law with blood for business who would make your father extremely satisfied. However, now the two of you had to look like a couple in love. And the reality of the situation was a secret that only the two of you would take with you to the tomb.

But, that night it was difficult for you to sleep. Anxiety, restlessness and fear gnawed at you like cunning mice, rolling you from side to side in bed, whispering in your ears millions of futures where everything could go wrong. Where not even Kaz Brekker's plans could free you from the clutches of one of your father's suitors.

When the clock struck seven in the morning, you jumped out of bed with unsettling, restless energy. You didn't like feeling helpless and waiting for Brekker to show up was exactly the definition of a princess in trouble. You had to do something.

- -

“What do you mean to get married?!” Jesper choked on his breakfast, and Nina nearly spit out all her orange juice.

Kaz rolled his eyes and continued sorting through the documents on the large round table. He was going to be gone for a few days at most and needed the people he trusted most to take care of business while he was gone. There were a lot of robberies to do and Kaz spent the night crafting and modifying plans for options where he wasn't involved. He had made a list of what needed to be checked at ports and what needed to be resupplied at Crow clube.

The plan was to marry you when they arrived in Kerch and return to Crow Club the next day. Kaz knew he would have to bring you, the two of you would have to stay together until your dowry was delivered to him. After that you could go on any adventure you wanted.

But dealing with the Crows was being more exasperating than Kaz could have expected.

"I didn't even know you had a girlfriend!" Wylan was in shock.

"Nobody knew!" Nina and Inej had their chins on the floor. Matthias was the only one who didn't seem to care so much.

"I didn't know the affairs of my private life were your business." Kaz didn't look up from the papers he kept in folders for the stupid ones.

"But you never said anything." Inej said.

"It was the intention."

"It's with Y/n, isn't it?" Jesper had bright eyes and a gleeful gambling smile stretched across his lips.

Kaz looked up at the boy with chocolate creamy skin, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

“She spent hours in yours office last night.”

"Oh my Santis!" Inej, Nina and Wylan exclaimed at once, eyes wide.

"The daughter of the richest man in Kerch." Wylan said.

"YOUR DOG!" Jesper clapped Kaz on the shoulder with an open palm, a loud laugh echoing and joy filling his voice.

Kaz suppressed the urge to look at the spot where Jesper had touched him. It had been years since he'd gotten over the most brutal aversion to touch, when the mere thought of getting close to someone made him tingle and dizzy with imminent fainting. At 28 years old, Kaz Brekker had proven to be greater than the demons and weaknesses that haunted him, wanting to see his downfall. A man who wanted to defeat Pekka could have no weaknesses. And he prided himself on almost have none of them.

However, offhand gestures made him look at the spot where he had been touched. The sensation brought was not unbearable or nauseating, but strange. And when the situation was skin to skin in a touch that caught him off guard, the feeling was unpleasant. Like a splinter under the skin.

It was easier with people Kaz felt comfortable with, but it wasn't something he cared about. He forced himself to overcome the most brutal aversion just to be a man without weaknesses, no chance of being defeated in a torture, no chance of being defeated by a faint. No for to touch someon.

“I thought you didn't know her in person when I warned you yesterday.” Inej tried to contain her little smile.

“It was the intention. You guys forgot the definition of secret…”

"Boss." One of the employees had entered that exclusive room. "There's someone here wanting to talk to you, Sir." He looked apprehensive.

Kaz frowned. The crow club had no movement at eight in the morning.

"Who is?"

"I think…"

"Will you please let me through!" The female voice sounded outside the room.

Jesper and the rest of the gang were wide-eyed, mouths opening in amusement and bewilderment. Kaz was catatonic. What the fucking hell were you doing there?!

"What do you mean I can't talk to your boss?!" And you continued. “I spoke to him yesterday...Don't give me these arguments, my dad tells his employees to tell people exactly that...I swear if you touch out about me again I will...”

"Fucking hell!" Kaz came out from behind the counter, crossing the living room and opening the door.

He came face to with that scene. A short girl who argued with a bouncer who was triple her height and size. Kaz knew the man was arrogant and macho, and had probably nudged your temper. He would have been amused by the scene if he wasn't abgry that you didn't follow his explicit rules.

“Ray.” Kaz glanced at the bouncer, a steady gaze that made the brute immediately back away from you.

You even gave the man an angry look before heading towards Kaz.

"What are you doing here?!" He whispered angrily.

"I couldn't wait." You wiggled your fingers, a tic of anxiety. “I could barely sleep. It was lucky I didn't show up at six in the morning.”

“That's not excuses. We have a schedule!"

“But I couldn't wait!" You whispered too. “It's visseral. I can't just sit there and wait!”

What an insufferable creature!

"Well, you'll have to learn because…!"

"What are you two whispering back there? “ Jesper's voice interrupted the discussion in whispers.

The two of you turned to the troupe standing in the doorway of the Crow room. Playful, mischievous smiles were plastered across their faces, and you felt your cheeks blush. Kaz and you looked at each other, and in that second of silent complicity, the two of you finally stepped into the roles of partners in crime.

Tagged: @aleksanderwh0r3 @thedelusionreaderbitch @hi-there-x @mell-bell @glowingatdawn @subjecta13-thefangirl @itsnotquimey @thatchampagnebitch @lamoursansfin @lostysworld @s3xymoonman @is-it-really-a-secret

[the-witty-pen-name]

Deadbeat Pt. 3

Lee Bodecker x F!Reader

18+ ONLY 

Warnings: age gap (reader is 21), smut, cursing, abandonment, infatuation, cheating/divorce, angst, mild housewife kink, mentions of prostitution, mentions of alcohol, corrupt official 

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary: You work at the bar at the edge of town, the Sheriff is going through a divorce and needs to rent a room.

A/N: I’m terrible at writing summaries and I’m so sorry about that! I don’t think I would consider this a dark!fic, but it does cover a lot of themes, and topics that are darker than I usually write about- but I think that comes with the territory of writing about Lee Bodecker. I’ll make sure to update the warnings for each chapter and do not read if you are underage. I also ignored canon for this one.

This is unedited, and I missed anything I should include as a warning let me know! This chapter introduces some new plots and conflicts, so it jumps around a little more than the previous ones. 

I hope you all enjoy!

I also am having some writer’s block with my Obi-Wan Kenobi miniseries I was working on, so expect Part 3 sometime Sunday hopefully! So sorry for the delay on the final chapter. 

Tags and Requests are OPEN 

Part One // Part Two 

Henry Curtis was one of the most infuriating people Lee had ever met. Curtis was a writer for the Columbus newspaper and constantly pestering the Sheriff. Curtis seemed to have a sixth sense for whenever the Sheriff did anything. He was desperately trying to catch the Sheriff doing anything but so far had remained unsuccessful. Curtis was the biggest obstacle Lee faced in winning re-election. The man would show up out of nowhere, pen and pad in hand ready to find anything that would be enough to keep the Sheriff out of office.

Maybe Curtis was just doing his job, but Lee always felt like it was much more personal. It was probably just his own resentment of the man who was just doing his job. But the man didn’t have to be so goddamn invasive. When the Sheriff had devised his plan on offering to rent a room from you, he was so tied up in his own mess of divorce and his somewhat confusing feelings towards you he had completely forgotten about the press. They would have a field day with the divorce alone, but now on top of everything else, Lee knew he should be more careful.

Lee always had to be careful, especially if he was meeting Leroy Brown. Lee would make sure he drove way out of town, and always insisted they met at a different location every time. This would infuriate Brown but Lee was the only lawman he had working for him. Sometimes Lee would drive several hours out of the way, always at some deserted ghost town or some sad excuse for a diner or a bar. Always somewhere no one would recognize him.

Lee lied to you and told you he and a few of the deputies would need to drive out of town for a stakeout when he needed to meet with Brown. It was one of those nights, sitting in the cruiser with the headlights off, as he parked in an abandoned parking lot almost two hours out of town.

He had been able to put this off for a couple weeks, lying about other legitimate jobs getting in the way. Honestly, it was because he wanted to one, avoid anything that would cause suspicion from Henry Curtis hearing he was back in town and two, he was selfishly allowing himself to just spend his nights at his new home, spending all the time he could manage with you. It was like being in that little white house was a place where he could let himself be delusional, and time spent with you was what his life actually was, not this mess he was currently dealing with. He wanted out.

Lee knew he wasn’t a good man. He knew that his laundry list of offenses had tarnished his badge a long time ago. He knew what he was doing, and before he never cared. Now, he’s thinking about how his actions could affect you. You were innocent, unaware of everything he was stuck in. He knew you weren’t stupid, and he was sure the town knows some about his corruption. But now, he couldn’t rationalize away his actions for any reason when it came to you. Janie? She didn’t care and would encourage it. She’d be in on it too. She’d have no problem lying to ladies at Church or starting other rumors to keep the town talking about anyone but Lee. She was as power hungry as he was sometimes, which could be a testament as to how their loveless marriage held together for so long.

***

“Hi, I’m looking for a Ms. (Y/L/N)?” the man asked when he approached you, talking a seat at one of the barstools.

“Who’s asking for her?” you asked raising an eyebrow.

“I’m Henry Curtis, I work for the Columbus Dispatch.”

“The newspaper?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why are you looking for her?”

“I’m doing a story on her mother’s marriage to Harvey Tucker.”

“She’s not here tonight. But I can let her know you were here. Do you got a card?”

The man pulled out a business card from his wallet and slide it across the bar. You picked it up and read all the information before putting it in the pocket of your apron.

“Seems weird for the Columbus paper to want to do a story on that a month and a half after it happened,” you said skeptically.

“We did cover the story when it happened,” Curtis informed you. “Doing a follow up since the story broke about his wife missing.”

“Missing?” you ask. “Do they know what happened?”

“Robbed the bastard blind and then ran apparently,” Curtis said casually looking past you at the chalkboard on the wall. “Scotch, neat.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, grabbing the bottle from the shelf. “Has anything else been found out yet?”

“Not yet, that’s why I’m here. Checking in to see if she’d come back here because I heard Ms. (Y/L/N) still lives around these parts.” He then pulled a newspaper out of the inside pocket of his coat and started flipping through the pages.

“She has another kid too, right?” you asked, playing dumb. “A boy, I think. Do you know where he is?”

“Couldn’t say,” he sounded very indifferent, “Most likely went with her but who knows? I went to the Sheriff’s office to see if they knew anything but the Sheriff wasn’t there.”

“That’s too bad,” you say. “I’m sure Sheriff Bodecker would help you help if he can.”

Your statement made Mr. Curtis chuckle, but you didn’t follow up on it. You were just focusing on getting as much information about your mother and brother as you could.

“Speaking of Mr. Bodecker,” he began, “I recently saw his wife is getting remarried. Saw the announcement of the engagement in the paper.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” you respond, skeptically. You didn’t know why but you didn’t trust this man. It was something in the tone of his voice, or maybe it was just how he held himself. Very polished, a suit and a nice dress jacket. He looked very out of place in this town, and this little bar.

“You familiar with the Sheriff at all, miss?”

“Not too well,” you shrug, “Haven’t had any run-ins with the law myself.”

“Not even a speeding ticket?” He asks, only a little condescendingly.

“Can’t get a speeding ticket if you don’t have a car,” you point out.

“Touché,” he chuckles before taking a sip of his drink.

He doesn’t ask you anymore questions, and when he leaves, he gives you a five-dollar tip.

***

Lee receives his cut from Brown. There was nothing new to report on that front and his meeting went by smoothly. All Lee had to do was to turn a blind eye, and make sure the rest of the department stays unaware of the brothel’s existence. Brown always insisted on meeting with him, wanting to know what the Sheriff’s department was investigating and making sure his businesses stayed under the radar. He felt sick, and is preoccupied with the fact he has an envelope of dirty money in the cruiser’s glovebox.

It’s around midnight when he pulls up to the house. He expects that you’re already asleep, but he notices the lamp is on in the living room. He takes the money out of his glovebox and tucks it away into the inner pocket of his jacket. Coming inside, he finds you on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the business card Mr. Curtis had given you. You face is stained with dried up tears, and you still haven’t even changed out of your work clothes.

“What’s that?” he asks, the sight of you breaking his heart. He winces because he comes off a lot harsher than he meant.

“Some reporter came while I was at work wanting to talk to me,” you explain softly, you sound exhausted. “Wanted to talk to me cause he’s doing a story on my mother. Apparently, she’s on the run from the Columbus police.”

You extend your hand to give Lee the card. He feels his jaw clench when he reads the information. “What happened?” he asks, taking a deep breath and sitting down next to you.

“I pretended I wasn’t me,” you say, another tear rolling down your cheek. “He came in asking for me so I said I’d pass his card on. I didn’t want to tell him who I was because he didn’t explain why he was looking for me at first. I don’t know- just scared me. I’m more upset about the news itself than him.”

“You did the right thing,” Lee said softly, placing a hand on your shoulder comfortingly. He was angry, but he didn’t show it. It worried him, fucking Curtis snooping around this close to you. It made him feel protective, wanting to shield you from the whole ordeal. He had been on the receiving end of unsolicited attention from the press and he knew how ruthless they were. He knew this wouldn’t be the only time Curtis would try to get in touch with you. He’d find out where you lived, he’d continue to show up while you were working- the whole nine yards. He didn’t want you going through that.

Curtis talking to you also made him incredibly paranoid. It was his two worlds that he desperately wanted to keep apart were colliding. He knew it was impossible, but he so wanted to keep you separated from the other part of his life. It wasn’t who he wanted you to see. Hell, he hasn’t even been here for a month. It wasn’t that he wanted to keep you in the dark, at least that wasn’t entirely intentional. Actually, he wasn’t sure, maybe it was intentional. However, it wasn’t just you he wanted to hide aspects of his life from. He wanted his involvement with Brown and others hidden from every goddamn registered voter. You were no different, he tried to rationalize. But that wasn’t true. These feelings he harbored for you, were getting worse. He needed to unwrap himself from this situation, and for the sake of you finding out he was a shill, keep you away from that asshole. He didn’t want to let himself think about how the way you look at him would change.

And here he was, making the situation all about him. It was in his nature.

“He’s just going to show up again if I don’t call him,” you say, wiping your eyes. “Maybe I should just call him in the morning. Just be honest and say I don’t know anything. He can keep coming around but nothing is going to change.”

“I can take care of it,” he says. He couldn’t risk you talking to Curtis again. For all he knows, Curtis would tell you all about the story on the Sheriff he’d been trying to confirm for years. Lee knew he couldn’t let that happen. He fully intends on telling you, but how the hell do you bring that up? ‘Hey doll, I’m also on the payroll of every pimp and bootlegger in a ten-mile radius, just letting you know.’ It wasn’t going to come up, unless Curtis tells you about it. He’d be hoping to pull himself out if it, show you how you made him want to be better.

For now, he settles for comforting you, and just being there to take care of you. Make you feel better. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and lets you cry into his chest. He sighs, kissing the top of your head in a friendly way and you curl up against him. Under different circumstances, you probably wouldn’t have let yourself do this- show your vulnerability or allow anyone to comfort you like this. But it was all the events of the past month, your mother leaving, everything, just all hitting you at once, and you were happy you weren’t alone.

In the morning, you wake up on the couch with a blanket over you. You see Lee asleep in the chair, and you realize he stayed with you all night. It makes your heart flutter. You pull the blanket up over your chin and close your eyes again. You felt surprisingly well rested. The stress and worry were pushed to the back of your mind long enough to let you get some sleep. It still lingered in the back of your mind, but you reminded yourself that for now, there was nothing you could do. You had the day off, and you let yourself have a little longer time to sleep in.

You woke up to the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of sizzling on the stove. When you opened your eyes, Lee was no longer in the chair. You sat up and looked toward the kitchen, where you saw Lee with his back to you while he worked with the pans on top of the stove. The portable radio was positioned on the counter, and it was playing at a low volume, so it wouldn’t wake you up.

“Hey,” you say softly, still waking up as you walk into the kitchen.

“Morning, doll,” he says, glancing back at you for a moment. “How’re you feeling?”

“A little better,” you admit, grabbing a mug for yourself out of the cabinet. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, savoring the smell before making it how you usually take it. “Thank you for sitting with me,” you say honestly, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he says with a small grin. “I just wanted to help.”

“I really appreciate it, Lee,” you reiterate your thanks, hopping up to take a seat on the counter, watching him cook breakfast. “Didn’t know you knew how to cook,” you joke, making him chuckle.

“I’m full of surprises, sweetheart,” he smirks, making you feel flushed. You take another drawn out sip of your coffee to try to distract yourself. You watch his arms, and his hands as they maneuver and flex when he cooks. You imagine how they must feel, your eyes focused on the veins. You bit your lip and it reminds you of the dream you had a little while back when he first moved in. You imagine him stepping in between your legs as your propped up on the counter, his hands gently gripping your thighs and-

“I’ll get it,” you announce hurriedly as you hear someone knock on the front door. You hop off the counter careful to not spill your coffee, and head to answer the door. Lee watches you bounce out of the room, fixing your hair as you go and you don’t catch his smile.

“Arvin,” you say surprised, stepping out onto the porch. “What are you doing here?” you ask, with a small grin. You’re confused but nonetheless happy to see him.

“You look like you’ve been crying,” he observes, concern written all over his face.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say dismissively, “Just last night I was thinking about my ma and everything. Just had trouble sleeping is all.”

“The Sheriff didn’t do anything?” Arvin asked in a hushed tone, looking over your shoulder to see if Lee could hear you two.

“No, nothing, he’s been perfectly fine,” you say coming to the Sheriff’s defense. “I know you and Ms. Russell are worried, I know how it must look- but Arvin I swear he’s just my tenant. He’s been nothing but a gentleman.”

“Just making sure,” he says, letting it go for now. “Lenora asked me to bring these by for you.” He hands you the glass baking dish that you can see is filled with homemade cinnamon rolls. “She’s been practicing making all kinds of baked goods for when the Church does that bake sale and has me running all over town giving it away cause me and Uncle Earskell can’t keep up with it all.”

“Tell her thank you for me,” you say with a smile, “And I’ll bring the dish with me to Church tomorrow- give it back to her.”

“She misses you I think,” Arvin says sheepishly, pushing his hands into his front pockets. “I mean- I do- I think my whole family does- we all do. I’m sorry my grandmother hasn’t asked you over in a while…”

“I understand,” you nod. “Reputation is an important thing.”

“I just didn’t want you to think it was because of us,” he says looking down at the porch, his eyes fixed on a loose board. “You know how she is- everything no matter the context is somehow a sin. Scared to death of her own shadow…”

“I know you’re not that resentful, Arvin Russell,” you chuckle and he relaxes. “And I don’t hold any hard feelings towards anyone in your family- you all have always been good to me.”

“Well, um,” he says awkwardly, looking like he was holding back from saying more. “I got to hit a couple more houses before I head to work, so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at Church?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Oh- I wanted to let you know,” he says, turning around as he’s already heading down the front steps, “The principal down at the high school is looking for secretaries- Lenora heard and thought you might be interested. It pays like $35 a week, I think. You should call Linda Carson; I think Lenora said- that’s the woman who’s in charge of hiring people, I think.”

“I’ll call the school first thing Monday morning,” you say, grin stretching from ear to ear. Arvin nods and says goodbye again. You walk back into the house like you’re on top of the world. You couldn’t contain your excitement. That job if you could get it would be a dream. You’d be making so much more than you’re already making. You were so excited.

“You’re in a much better mood than when I last saw you,” Lee jokes. He’s sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper while he eats his breakfast. You notice that he made you a table setting- brought your coffee over and everything. You place the baking dish in the middle of the table and sit down.

“That was Arvin,” you say happily, and Lee feels his heart sink into his stomach.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, trying to not let on how his heart feels like it’s crushed. He knew it was only a matter of time before a boy would come around- whether it be Arvin or someone else your own age.

“Well, first he was just dropping off baked goods Lenora made,” you say gesturing to the dish on the table. “He’s going around to everybody, I guess. He mentioned the high school is looking for office secretaries- Lenora wanted me to know. Thirty-five dollars a week! I’m going to talk to Linda Carson about it Monday morning. Can you imagine? I could get a secretary job.”

Lee feels just a crash of relief wash over him. He’s so happy that you are looking at a new job. You deserve better than that bar. He knew you deserved the job just as much as any of the other candidates. You work harder than anyone he knows.

“That’s fantastic, sugar,” he replies. “You deserve it.”

“Do you think I have a chance?” you ask, feeling a little self-conscious- you knew you weren’t as experienced as other candidates would be for sure.

“Of course, I do,” he says, putting down the paper to give you his full attention. “I feel like you getting this job is a definite. There’s no doubt about it.”

“You’re just buttering me up,” you scoff, finishing up your food, making him chuckle. You may have also seen his cheeks redden, but you couldn’t say for sure. You finish off your coffee, and then bring you dishes back to the kitchen, leaving them in the sink. Lee turns his attention back to his newspaper and you head upstairs to get ready for your day.

When you head upstairs, Lee notices that you took the radio with you- and he could hear you were listening to music from upstairs. He decides before it’s too late to ring Mark Cunningham. The line rings a couple of times before Mark answers.

“Cunningham.”

“Morning, Mark. It’s Sheriff Bodecker,” he smirks.

“What can I do for you Sheriff?” he asks, the sound of shuffling paper comes through as well. Most likely flipping through the paper.

“I wanna call in that favor you owe me,” he says, casually pacing the living room, holding the receiver up to his ear and the base of the rotary phone in the other.

“Of course, Sheriff,” he says. A while back, Bodecker busted the principal making moonshine in his old barn that was at the end of his property. Lee looked the other way and was waiting for the right thing to call in a favor for.

“I want you to hire (Y/N) (Y/L/N) for the secretary job,” he says, looking to the stairs, making sure you aren’t coming. The music is still playing loudly from upstairs so he determines he’s still got time.

“That’s all?” Mark asked surprised.

“That’s all I want from you,” Lee replies. “I expect you can make that happen?”

“Without a doubt. When can she start?”

“Still have her come in for an interview. I don’t anyone else knowing I called you about this- including her.”

“Done.”

With that, Lee hangs up the phone, feeling really good about this decision. He knew how much that job meant to you- he could see it in your eyes and how excitedly you talked about it. He can’t wait to see you when you find out you get the position. He knows it’s going to make you so happy. He knows you’d be a fantastic candidate, but this just eliminates any doubt. He reasons that there isn’t much difference, since you were very likely to get it anyways. He just had to make sure.

He can picture you know, coming home from the interview- excited to tell him that you got the job. You’d be so excited you’d jump up and hug him tightly, just so overjoyed that you let your feelings take over. You’d wrap your legs and around his waist and he’d hold you up by holding the back of your thighs. You’d wrap your arms tightly around him and bury your head in the crook of his neck. You’d lift your head up to look at him, embarrassed at your actions and then he’d press his lips to yours. You’d gasp softly, but your lips would melt against his own and your arms would wrap tightly around his neck. He’d walk forward, pressing you up against the wall and he’d kiss your neck mumbling praises of congratulations against your skin as his name falls from your lips at how good he’d make you feel. It’s almost unbearable how bad he wants you.

He heads to him room to get ready for his day, but his mind is still clouded with thoughts of you. He thinks about how much he wants nothing more that to just pin you on his mattress. He wonders if you know how crazy you make him. Sometimes there’s something in your eye that makes him think you want him too, but he’s not sure. His better judgement holds him back from everything he wants to do. He thinks about how it must feel to have his head right in-between your thighs. Back in the kitchen together, he wanted to just get on his knees and worship you. The feeling of them pressing against him as he sucks on your clit and runs his tongue across your folds.

Serval hours later, he can’t shake the thoughts, even sitting in his office at the sheriff’s station- working on a Saturday yet again. He’s cooped up in his office, unable to get through any of the paperwork that has piled up on his desk. He’s thinking about you, again, but in this daydream, you’re bent over his desk- because you came by to see him on your break from work at the school. His office door locked and his blinds pulled so he can bend you over and take you right there- rough and fast, sending you back to work with a feeling of him still there between your legs well after you’re back at your own desk, still sore from the encounter.

“You got a visitor, Lee,” the intercom on his desk lights up.

“Send ‘em in,” he responds back, shaking his head to snap out of it. He needed to get a grip.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” you say, walking into his office. His eyes widen and he wonders if he’s still day dreaming. He discreetly pinches himself. You’re actually here, standing in his office, while he looks at you dumbfounded. Part of him would think he manifested it if he was a man of any faith. “You forgot this,” you say, putting his wallet on the desk. “You must have taken it out of your back pocket before falling asleep in the chair last night. It was laying on the coffee table. I figured I’d stop by with it while I was coming up this way anyways.”  

“You’re a doll,” he grins, putting his wallet in his back pocket. “What are you doing?”

“I took the bus to the library to return some books, and now I’m going shopping for something to wear when I go in for an interview since I have the day off to go,” you explain. “I’m also probably going to get lunch after that before heading back home. I just didn’t want to be home in case that reporter stopped by. I’m not ready to talk to him yet.”

“I can take care of it,” he says, “He’ll make his way over here soon enough. I can talk to him.”

“You would do that for me?” you ask, the relief evident across your whole face.

“Yeah, I can talk to him, let him know you gave a statement here,” he says. You nod. “You know as much as he does, so it doesn’t matter if I tell him you don’t know shit or if you tell him.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you sigh, so relieved thinking that you won’t have to hear from Henry Curtis again. “If he tells you anything about them… will you let me know?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” you say, hurriedly walking over behind him and quickly hugging his shoulders. You then are back by the door again before he can register the gesture. “Are you going to be home tonight?” you ask, your hand on the doorknob.

“Not until late,” he says reluctantly, and he can see the disappointment on your face- unless his mind was playing tricks on him.

“Okay,” you say finally, “Um, I’ll see you later then.”

“Bye, doll,” he says when you walk out of his office.

Are you going to be home tonight? Your voice lingers in his head. It was such a harmless phrase that could’ve just been one of curiosity. Maybe you were just asking because you were thinking about what you were doing for dinner. It most likely just meant nothing. But, the look on your face when he said no makes him think otherwise. Did it mean you cared? That you wanted to spend time with him? You wanted to see him and be with him as desperately as he needed you perhaps? Just the phrasing itself makes his brain feel like putty. It’s like you’re waiting up for him. It’s like you share the house in a way that’s much more than just him renting a room from you. It’s like you’re his and he’s yours. It’s like saying our house… our home. The question was so intimate and implied so much more about how you saw him and what he was to you. He knew seeing him as how he saw you was next to impossible, but you saw him as more than the Sheriff and more than just the jerk living in your house.

Part Four

 Taglist:

@scar-is-bi @jiminlife2k18 @asylummaniac01​ @rosalynshields​ @charmed-asylum @jamesbuchananbuckybarnes1917 @alexandrathegreat3

[thebrochtuarachs]

All That Was Good 

A/N: One of my many versions of "What if Jamie and Claire both passed through the stones before Culloden?" stories. This came about just this weekend and my brain would not stop until I wrote it down and shared it with you all. I know the 20-year separation of Jamie and Claire is one of the most used plots in the Outlander-verse (I, for one, am all for it) so here's my wee contribution to it! I'm bad at summaries but hope you like this wee one! As always, your comments and suggestions are very much welcome.

AO3

xxxxx

This cannot be it.

As their hands moved closer together to touch the stone, Claire’s heart was feeling a million emotions but her mind was clear with just one thing - Jamie.

This cannot be it.

In the three years they’ve been together, neither of them could’ve known just how much they’d mean to each other, depend on each other, care for each other, let alone, love each other - so deeply and passionately that they were willing to change history if it came to that.

This cannot be it.

“Goodbye, Claire” she felt his breath and lips in her temple as he pulled her closer to him by the waist, desperately trying to keep themselves together for as long as they could and engrain the memory of their bodies molded as one. And in the middle, was the miracle they prayed and hoped for who will never know his father and grow up with a family he deserved.

This cannot be it.

Her fingers can almost feel the roughness of the stone surface and the journey that will follow after. She wanted to turn her head and see his face one last time, beg him to release her from her promise and let her stay in this time. But time was running out. In the last seconds, Claire made her wish known again and again.

Me. Jamie. Our Baby. Our Family. Anywhere. Anytime. Together.

Me. Jamie. Our Baby. Our Family. Anywhere. Anytime. Together.

Me. Jamie. Our Baby. Our Family. Anywhere. Anytime. Together.

Claire expected the deafening buzz that usually came with the stones - but what was new was the blinding light that suddenly seemed to emit from it. She wondered if Jamie could see it since he couldn’t hear the buzz and she  got her confirmation when she heard Jamie exclaim a “What in the devil..?!” just before everything went black.

----

The journey to the stones is never easy. It feels like you're being taken apart and then weaved back together. It really takes a toll to the body.

Claire stirred to someone stroking her hair. Once her mind was a little bit more awake, she took a mental stock of herself. She felt whole, alive, and for some reason, she was sitting in some armchair with her head laid down on the table.

She slowly opened her eyes, cautious just in case she got affected somehow by the last light she saw and to prepare herself to know the aftermath of this trip.

“Thank Christ!” was the first sound she heard. “Are ye alright?"

Her mind raced, she needed to respond. In another effort to finally face her reality, she lifted her, fully opened her eyes and saw the two most worried ocean eyes boring straight into hers.

Her eyes widened at the sight before her. Impossible.

“Ja - Jamie?” she softly called out, a hand unsure to touch his face.

“Aye, tis me, Claire. Do ye remember me? I was afraid you wouldn’t recognize me” he replied.

“Jamie, oh my god!” her dizziness forgotten, she quickly stood up as Jamie did too and they held each other so tightly she was sure she couldn’t breath.

She pulled away and started inspecting every part of him she could. “Are you alright? What happened?!”

“I don’t know. All I remember was I brought ye to the stones, we we’re about to touch it when a light beamed through. Next thing I knew, I woke up leaning by that shelf, wearing this clothes, and saw you passed out here.”  Jamie shared.

“So you did see the light too! I haven’t experienced or seen that before so I thought it could’ve been just for me but...here you are.”

“Here I am” he said simply.

As their dizziness wore off and their mind became more rational, they needed to investigate fast on where and when they were.

Claire was wearing a white sleeveless shirtwaist dress, almost similar to the one she was wearing the first time she went through the stones, while Jamie was wearing a navy blue knitted shirt tucked in light brown fitted trousers.

They were definitely not in the 1740s anymore.

They were in an old scottish cottage, though obviously renovated and restored, with most of the items inside looking museum grade. A sign hanged up wrote “Old Leanach Cottage” and below it in smaller letters were the words “Culloden Moor” .

They were at Culloden.

Lastly, together they gravitated towards a notebook, a visitor log, and found that the year was 1948.

They were in Claire’s time.

Stunned and a little bit confused, Jamie and Claire looked at each other as the shock passed through them.

Impossible, indeed.

Claire and Jamie had more questions than answers and the place they currently were seemed different that what Claire was used to so both of them are pretty much out of place until they knew more about their present lives.

“Whatever this is, whatever has happened” Jamie’s firm voice broke the ice. “We’ll figure it out together.”

“Okay.” Claire replied. The unknowns were endless but with the strength of having Jamie by her side, there was nothing much to fear. “Of course” Claire nodded surely and then leaned her face to Jamie’s for a single deep kiss.

There’s always something that stirs between them whenever they kiss and they both smile at the fact that that feeling hasn’t gone away. Whatever they need it to be, it will be that. And right now, this kiss was a kiss of love, gratitude, comfort, and security.

Just as they were to pull away, they heard voices outside the cottage call for them.

“Jamie, Clare, are you guys finished?” a man’s voice asked.

Surprised by the interaction, Jamie’s first action was to protect Claire. His hands automatically reached out to his side where his sgian dubh always reside but he grasped for nothing in the air. Another reminder that they were in a different time.

“Jamie, those voices…”

“D’ye know them, Sassenach?”

Claire shook her head. Her mind was swirling - the voices we’re so familiar, she was sure she knew them - but she couldn’t put a name or a face.

“Come on, you two! Chop, chop! We still have a 3-hour ride ahead of us.” a woman’s voice followed.

“Should we just head out and see?” she asked. Jamie shrugged in agreement, took Claire’s hand, and led them out of the cottage.

Nothing could’ve prepared either of them for what was to happen next. They were both frozen in place as a couple turned around and in front of them is Henry and Julia Beauchamp.

“There you are!” Julie exclaimed. “What took you so long? We thought you’re only signing the visitor’s log book”. She noticed their confused looks, and slowly reached out a hand. “Are you guys...okay?”

Without another thought, Claire gravitated towards her parents and pulled her mother to a tight embrace and cried.

“Mama” Claire said softly.

“You haven’t called me that in a long time” Julie replied, hugging her daughter back. She pulled her daughter back when she felt a wetness in her shoulder. “Why are you crying?”

Claire didn’t reply but went to her dad and hugged him just as tight.  “While I do love this,” Henry began, “I’m not sure what’s going on.” He patted her back, “Claire?”

“I’m sorry, I…” Claire started to think of an explanation while wiping her eyes and fixing herself up. “I just missed you so much”

There was so much more she wanted to say, just in case this was all a dream, but her last words summarized what was at the core of it all.

“I know, we missed you guys too. It’s been almost a month since we got together and this is a little overdue. Do you think you can make it back the car, though? I really don’t want to miss lunch.” Henry teased.

“Let’s go! I don’t want to be late. You know how strict Brian and Ellen are with the lunch schedule. Last time we missed it, there were hardly any food left.” Julia followed.

It was Jamie’s turn to feel more disbelief. “I’m sorry, what?” He didn’t know how we found his voice but, at the moment, his mind had  life of its on and the words came flying out.

“What do you mean ‘what’? We’re on our way to see your parents at Lallybroch, James.”

[yournotsolocalcryptid]

Just Someone You Used to Know

part 1/? | from this ask

NEXT (Lost In Thought and Lost In Time)

Summary: Your childhood friend Billy (whom you thought was dead) turns up at a hospital and you get a call about it.

pairing(s): Billy/Four x Gender Neutral!Reader

Warnings/authors notes: the request was for Hurt/comfort and while there's not a ton of that in this chapter there will be elements of it and also a lot of other things. angst, fluff, a lot of emotions going on here. swearing. poor writing skills, barely proofread/edited. this will be a multi-part fic, tho I don't know how many yet.

word count: 2.3k

Your phone lit up with a call from an unknown number which you promptly ignored and continued with your day as you figured If it was important they’d leave a message, which they did. When you had a free moment you grabbed your phone clicked on the message.

“Hello, is this Y/N?” said a voice you didn't recognize “I’m a nurse and a man was just brought in having sustained some injuries. when we asked him if there was anyone we could call to be with him he said your first name and listed this number. He had no forms of identification but he said his name was Billy.”

This made you stop cold. The nurse continued but you weren’t quite hearing what she said. Your mind was reeling. Billy? Your Billy? Surely not, you must’ve misheard or maybe the nurse did, or maybe the nurse misspoke and had really said “willy” or the man just spouted random numbers in a delirium caused by his injuries that happened to make up your number. That must be it because Billy is dead. Your Billy died several years ago. You attended his funeral and had mourned him with your whole being every day since.

You relistened to the voicemail to clarify you hadn’t misunderstood and there it was clear as day Billy. You ran a hand over your face and tried to focus as the voice continued, stating the name and address of there they were as well as what floor and wing of the hospital which you wrote down. You stared at the address. The rational part of you said not to go. Not to get your hopes up because Billy will not be there. Billy is in the cemetery a few miles from where you were and yet... and yet everything else in you was screaming at you to go. You knew he wouldn’t be there and you’d be heartbroken all over again but there was a man, an injured man who may not be your Billy but who needed someone nonetheless. After staring at the address for what felt like an eternity you stood abruptly, put your shoes on, grabbed your things and swept out the door.

When you arrived at the hospital you went to the desk in the correct wing and on the correct floor (you triple-checked) you stated your name and explained how you got a call about a man named Billy. The woman at the desk checked a few things and clarified your name before directing you to the waiting room. You made your way to a chair and sat on the edge of it bouncing your leg and fiddling with your fingers. You were anxious, very anxious, and your mind was racing. After a few minutes, a nurse walked in and called your name, you stood and went to her. She leads you down a hallway and stopped outside a room.

She turned to you and said, “He has a fractured wrist, face lacerations, lots of bruising, and we had to take him to surgery to stop some internal bleeding. He’s probably still asleep from the procedure but he should be all right and should no complications arise he should be about to go home within the next few days” you nodded, your eyebrows knitted together “would you like me to come in with you?” she asked and you shook your head, no. she nodded briefly and said, “I’ll be at the nurse’s station we just passed should you need anything and please press the ‘call nurse’ button when he wakes up” then she smiled warmly and went on her way.

You turned to face the door and placed a shaking hand on the handle. You took a deep breath and opened the door.

The first thing you saw when you opened the door was the beautiful blond man you’d once known lying in the hospital bed, covered in cuts and bruises and unconscious. You went to his bedside unsure of what to feel. Your heart swelled a little when you saw him, but you were also scared and hurt and confused and angry. You reached out a hand and brushed some hair out of his face, almost as a way to confirm his existence, to confirm he was actually there and you hadn't lost your mind.

As your fingertips made contact, your eyes dropped shut and your lip quivered. You retracted your hand and collapsed onto the floor as sobs tore through your body, your mind swirling with questions. How was he alive? Why did he tell them to call you of all people? Where has he been this whole time? How could he have faked his death? How could he have put you through that? How was he back?

After a while, the sobbing and tears subsided and a certain numbness took over you as the questions faded to be replaced with memories. Memories of Billy danced through your mind as you sat on the floor, cheeks streaked with the tears you hadn’t bothered to wipe away. Billy was your best friend and your first… everything really. First kiss, first love, first sexual partner, first heartbreak, first death of a loved one- or so you’d thought anyway, the first person you’d ever mourned and now, the first person you’d ever known to somehow return from the dead. Billy and you had what seemed like a complicated history, friends to lovers back to friends but he had been your person in every way. He was the one you went to about everything and you were his. His “death” had crushed you. But now, he was just someone you used to know.

You were brought back to reality by shifting in the bed before you and the sound of a sharp intake of breath. You glanced up and saw Billy looking at you, his face twisted in pain and his casted hand holding his ribs. He had clearly tried to sit up on his own. You stood and pushed him back down. With one hand still on his chest, you reached for the button to call the nurse. As you did you felt his unharmed hand cover yours and you froze. You could feel him looking at you but you couldn't get yourself to look back. You heard the doorknob rattle and you pulled away from him, wiping your face on your sleeve and turned to see the same nurse as before entering the room. You gave her a quick, tight smile and sat in one of the chairs near the bed. Over the next several minutes as the nurse checked in with Billy you sat numbly. You saw Billy glance your way once or twice but you paid no attention. You just zoned out. When the nurse turned to leave you shot her another quick smile.

Once the door closed behind her, you saw Billy open his mouth to speak up you held up a hand to stop him. The two of you sat in silence for a long while as you wrestled with your emotions. Your heart telling you to go to him, be happy he’s back and love him, your mind telling you to scream, yell, chew him out because how very dare he hurt you like that? and your body was telling you to just break down again.

After a long while, choosing your words very carefully, you said, “did you have a good reason?”

Billy gulped, knowing exactly what you were referring to “yeah, love. but I-” you held up a hand again and he stopped again instantly

“I am so pissed at you right now. I can’t-” you took a deep breath “I accept that you had a reason but I lost my best friend, my-” you paused “I lost everything when I lost you and now you’re here. And I’m so fucking angry but also… you’re here. You’re actually fucking here and shit… I’m so mad at you. How fucking dare you”

Billy was silent, staring at his lap

You sat in silence again. Both unsure of what to say or do or feel. Both aching for each other, having missed the other dearly. As upset as you were, Billy was actually here. He was right there, just a few steps away and you just couldn’t help yourself. You stood and his head whipped toward you. You went to his bedside and gestured for him to scooch over, which he did with a puzzled look on his face, and you lay on your side next to him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I missed you” you whispered as you gently played with his fingers on his non-injured hand.

Billy leaned over, placed a kiss on your forehead, and said “I missed you too, love”

Before long you had both dozed off and you slept more peacefully than you had in a long while. Since Billy’s death actually, but you couldn't bring yourself to remember that just yet.

After a while, you weren’t sure exactly how long, you were woken up by Billy poking at your forehead and whispering your name. You batted his hand away and glared at him

“What?”

“I need to wee and you’re on me”

You sighed, swung your legs over the side of the small bed and sat up. You stretched and stood. Ben groaned behind you and you turned to find him struggling to sit up as he had before and once again you went to him but this time you helped him up. As he went about his business you decided to head to the nurses station for a stretch and to see if the nurse you’d spoken to before was still here. She was and for that, you were grateful as you had some questions.

You spoke to her about Billy and his injuries and care. She said he seemed to be doing well when she saw him earlier, that his injuries were not too extensive and the surgery for the internal bleeding was as minimally invasive as was possible and that while he would be good to leave the hospital very soon (tomorrow or the day after depending on her next check-in with him) he would need to be released into someone else’s care to keep an eye on his recovery and so on. Then she said,

“I assume that would be you”

“Me?”

“You”

You gulped and took a form she was holding out to you. Taking care of Billy... Living with Billy through his healing process… as much as you’d missed him and as much as your heart ached for him you were so afraid he’d leave again. What if he used your help then bailed? No, not Billy. You told yourself. Yes he left before but he’s not a user and he said he had a good reason for what he did, and because it was Billy, you believed him.

“You’ll both need to sign it agreeing that he is in your care for the hospital to feel good about letting him leave this early but of course we can’t make you guys sign it or technically make him stay”

You nodded “I’ll talk to him” and you started to drift off to his room still staring at the form

“I’ll be in shortly before the end of my shift and again tomorrow morning”

You nodded again even though you were nearly at his door already and it was unlikely she could see such a subtle movement of your head from there.

You stepped back into his room and found him back in bed.

“What’s that?” he asked pointing at the paper in your hand

“A form” you said still lost in thought and drifting toward his bed. When you got close enough he reached out and snatched it from your hands.

“Release form?” He questioned his eyebrows scrunching together “I, the undersigned, agree to be released into the care of..” he stopped reading and looked at you “what is this?”

“They think you’ll be all ready to leave the hospital possibly as soon as tomorrow providing you have someone to keep track of you, which they assume will be me”

“Well, yeah. why wouldn’t it be you?”

You opened your mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words to express everything going on in your head.

Billy set the form down and reach out to you with both hands. You took his hands in yours and he pulled a bit so you tipped onto the bed and he pulled you into a tight hug. “I’ll explain everything, where I was, what happened to me, why I-" he paused "everything. I promise. But not here, not now. I fucked up by not telling you about all this as it happened and I’ve regretted it every day since”

You pulled away from him and grabbed the - now slightly crumpled- form from where he’d placed it on his lap and left the room. Billy watched as you left, confused and scared but then you swept back into the room, with a pen in hand and you signed the form. You handed Billy the form and the pen and said, “I’ve gotta go home, see you tomorrow” and you left again leaving Billy in a bit of a daze.

When you got back to the small place you called home, you got nervous. Billy had been your best, well… everything for so many years, he’d seen you at your worst and your best and he’d seen your home in greater disarray than it was now and yet you were nervous about him seeing your life like this. So you cleaned and tidied until you couldn’t think of anything else to dust or move and when you finally went to bed that night you dreamt of Billy. A mix of fact and fiction intertwined in your brain as you slept fitfully. Happy turned to sad, sad turned to confusing and confusing turned to scary until you awoke with a jolt.

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