#but none of them carry blame because the computer made the decision! and the guy who made the computer responsible for the decision

[couriers-mile]

I don't buy into the idea of an AI-driven techno-utopia in our near future because the computer doesn't have arms.

The computer doesn't have arms so if it solves world hunger it's really relying on humans to do the work of putting the computer's master plan into action

and the thing is, all the rich guys who don't want to help other human beings because it's not profitable will STILL BE HERE and still be in control of the resources that could feed and clothe and house everyone

and I really don't see them changing their minds and letting people just have those things after decades of perceiving the entire food and clothing and housing distribution system as their sole discretionary property just because a computer was the one who told them it was a good idea this time

and I don't think the computer can solve for X if X is "make the capitalists all of the profit WHILE ALSO solving world hunger and homelessness without any rich man ever having to give up a single penny" because that's like dividing by zero.

[jackuswritus]

Hidden Places

Everybody had a hidden place when they were younger, right?

Those overgrown clearings that laid off the beaten path of other parks, past all those manmade mulch pits and nauseatingly bright plastic playgrounds that always overheated in the summer sun. They were hard to find, and always required a bit of finesse to travel through, but the sense of ownership and independence that they came with was always worth it. It was like unearthing something sacred, something that nobody had ever laid witness to.

Ours was a little less picturesque, of course. The various blunt wrappers and capri sun pouches that were strewn about quickly dashed our fantasies of being grand explorers mapping out uncharted territory. On top of that, the actual scenery wasn’t particularly beautiful on its own. The only thing resembling a source of life was the thin trickle of brown, diseased-looking water that cut through one of the ditches we jumped across. You got the sense that it was an area left unexplored for good reason. None of us were particularly picky about that, though. As teenagers, we were just glad to have some semblance of independence.

As well as a discreet place to get high.

Looking back now, the fact that we managed to keep it so well-hidden was pretty impressive, especially considering that our activities down there were anything but. We mostly just sat around, picking at various bits of dead and decaying nature, laughing at whatever dumb shit had happened earlier that day. It was typical teenage boy behavior, just moved to a more rural location. The only thing that really changed was that we didn’t have to worry about keeping our voices down quite as much. After all, we all felt pretty secure in assuming that we were the only ones out there. Still, there was one reoccurring trend that I couldn’t help but notice:

No matter what, everyone always seemed to leave before the sun went down.

It wasn’t one of those cliché unspoken rules, mind you. Most of the kids that frequented the spot usually just had other stuff to do, whether it was studying for a test the next day, worrying about upsetting their parents, or just plain wanting to go home. Everyone always seemed to find a reason to leave before the golden hour was up. I’m sure that a handful of us were genuinely afraid of staying there after nightfall, but nobody would ever admit to something as shameful as that. Not to a group of vicious adolescents, anyway.

There was only one kid who pointed it out. That was Mark.

He was a weird one. The sort of guy that exists on the fringes of your friend group, not really tethered to any particular person, coming and going as he pleases. The only other place we saw him outside of the meeting place was school, and that was it. He definitely made his presence known, though. His fixation on the dark and morbid gave him something of a reputation with his classmates, teachers, and (especially) guidance counsellors. He would always draw a crowd in the school computer lab, playing videos with titles like “REAL GHOST FOOTAGE CAUGHT ON TAPE” and “CRYPTID SIGHTING NEVER BEFORE SEEN” with a barely restrained sense of glee. He seemed to revel in the discomfort of others, the same way that teenagers often enjoy getting an immature rise out of people. It followed, then, that he would be the first to suggest exploring the meeting place at night.  

Everyone he tried to rope into his expedition responded with either indifference or outright disapproval. It seemed that everyone had some kind of excuse to avoid going back after night had fallen. Some were able to mask their fear with a façade of aloofness and casually dismiss the whole thing as a waste of time, while others couldn’t help but let it slip. He didn’t seem to mind, though. If anything, he felt a sense of distinction, a sense of pride, at being the only one brave enough to do what the others couldn’t. It was all he could talk about, spouting off disjointed conspiracies to anyone that would listen, or anyone unfortunate enough to walk too close. I still remember him pulling me aside the day before he was supposed to venture out. By that time, the whole school was aware of the reputation that he had. It followed him around, dispersing whole crowds of people and reducing boisterous conversations to barely audible whispers. His eyes were sunken and hollow, but you could still see something behind them. It was like he was being possessed, compelled by something greater and more awful than even he could comprehend.

“Somethings out there, man.” He whispered, as if guarding a terrible secret, “And I think I’m supposed to find it.”

That was the last thing he ever said to me.

I think that, deep down, everyone knew what had happened when he didn’t show up to school the next day. It was just a matter of who wanted to believe it. Some struggled to keep up a sort of misplaced optimism, while others simply refused to accept that something terrible had actually happened. Nobody wanted to shoulder the burden of witnessing a tragedy unfold, knowing that they might have been able to do something to stop it. A quiet sort of tension gripped everyone, and the pressure only mounted with every passing day. Rumors were spread, fights broke out, kids had to be dragged, weeping and hysterical, out of class.

It wasn’t until the last search party was called off that things started to die down.

The police chalked it up to an avoidable tragedy, using it as leverage to keep impressionable teens from causing trouble at night (as well as impose a strict curfew). Nobody wanted to argue, regardless of whether they agreed with the decision. Of course, it wasn’t like there was an eager queue of explorers ready to follow in Mark’s footsteps. For most people, the collective trauma surrounding his disappearance was enough of a reason to never look back, to move quickly and stay under the shelter of the sun when traveling. I wish I could say the same. I wish I could say that everything that happened was enough for me, that I could put Mark’s memory to rest and come to terms with the fact that he was gone. But I had my own separate burden to carry, my own terrible, secret reason that I could never hope to forget.

It was that he was right. There was something in those woods.

A week after Mark went missing, I found myself back at the meeting place. Even with the vice grip of fear beginning to tighten around the town, I still couldn’t pry myself away from the memories that resonated there. Even back then, I knew that nothing would be the same, that the sense of community that this place once provided was about to be torn away. In a way, I guess I was there to say my last goodbyes to all those memories; To lay them to rest before they became too painful to hold on to. The tears flowed freely. Loudly.

The sunset seemed to sneak up on me, despite being so gradual. As those rusty colors began to drench the world around me, I was confronted with the bittersweet reality that they had lost their meaning. What once struck fear into our hearts and left us scrambling for the safety of home had only a sliver of its former power. As depressing as it was, it was a fitting close to that chapter of my youth. I was almost ready to leave those ghosts behind, to dump them with the rest of the waste and refuse that had been scattered through our makeshift meeting place.

It only took several minutes for night to fall. While I had the advantage of being familiar with the various ins and outs of the clearing, that thick, murky blackness was all it took to leave me fumbling my way through. I could still make things out, vaguely, but the unfamiliar shroud of the night rendered them completely alien to me. The first pangs of anxiety were beginning to set in, as well as a distinct sense of annoyance. All these years of coming back here, and they still somehow weren’t useful here? Against my better judgement, I found myself nervously laughing at the idea that the real reason why nobody stayed out past dark was because of how damn hard it was to navigate. I stayed there for a while, chuckling as I tried to quiet my nerves.

Something shifted in the bushes beside me.

I wish I could say that I hadn’t seen it, that it had been a product of my own cowardice and paranoia. After all, in the unfamiliar murkiness of the night, anything could have been out there. It could have just as well been a stray animal or broken branch that sent me running. Still, no matter how much I wish that were the case, I wasn’t afforded the luxury of unknowing, of blaming my imagination for what had happened.

I don’t think my mind was capable of imagining what I saw.

It walked like an animal, made to stand on its hind legs for someone else’s cruel amusement. Every step seemed to cause it pain, forcing its body to contort and twist in different directions, directions that living things weren’t supposed to bend. It was emaciated, gaunt, pale, as if there was just enough life in its body to keep it staggering forward. Bones jutted out, barely covered by its own horrible, pale skin. I didn’t dare look at its face, but the faintest trace of a gaping jaw could be seen dangling and flapping with every movement. I was paralyzed, every part of me freezing up in anticipation of the fate that awaited me.

It wasn’t until a noise escaped its mouth that I started to run. It was a wail of agony, a cry brought on by the inherent pain of its own existence. No matter how far I ran, it still seemed to echo through the trees. Every muscle in my body burned as I flailed my way through dead foliage. I didn’t dare to look behind me, both for the fear of being slowed down and for the fear of seeing it again.

Thankfully, I didn’t see it again. Not when I stumbled through a clearing and found myself back on the trail, or when I was questioned by the police for being out so late, or when I finally got back home and collapsed into my own bed. No matter how certain I was that it would come back, it never did. Some days, I think that the dread and paranoia that it left me with are worse than anything it could have actually done to me.

Enough time has passed now for me to know that those memories will never truly leave. The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve heard, they’ll be with me until the end. There’s a sort of peace to that, I suppose. A kind of quiet acceptance in familiarizing yourself with the burdens that you have to carry. Things don’t get easier, but they certainly don’t get any more difficult. Maybe me writing all of this down is part of that acceptance, that familiarity. For all intents and purposes, it seems to be working.

I can almost get to sleep at night now.

Still, there will always be times where the dam breaks. The memories, fear, and trauma surge back in full force, uncontrollable in their potency. Some nights I wake up as terrified and drenched in sweat as I was back then. Some nights I find myself feverishly checking outside, certain that it will lurch back into view at any moment. Some nights that awful sound rings in my ears, drowning out any futile attempt to ignore its presence.

Some nights I swear it sounds just like Mark.

But I know that can’t be.

-end.

[ruffoverthinksthings]

Jane and carlos ship meme can't remember if I already asked for this

You haven’t.

1.Whois the most affectionate?:

Carlos.

Afterlearning that showing affection and vulnerability isn’t somethingto be avoided at all costs, and more so, not being victimized andtaken advantage of by others that just reinforce his Isle-sourcedbeliefs, he just goes all out on showing his friends, hispseudo-family, and especially Jane as much love and affection as hecan.

2.Bigspoon/Little spoon?:

Theyalternate, depending on who’s having the worse day, the worse panicattack, or in the case that they’ve both suffered equally sucky andterrible days, who Dude or their current pet dog/s decides to snuggleup to.

3.Mostcommon argument?:

Carlos’scientific projects, and what he can or can not work on, at home orin the office.

Aftergetting access to proper education, professional mentorship,communication with his fellow inventor peers, scholarships, researchgrants, and most importantly, a lifetime membership at the HandyDandy Hardware store franchise, sometimes even the laws of physicsaren’t enough to limit Carlos’ trying to make his ideas areality.

As he borrows from Adam Savage, “I reject your reality, and substitute my own!”

4.Favoritenon-sexual activity?:

Discussionof their days, what happened, and what will be happening.

Janeenjoys the way Carlos lights up when discussing his latest project,results, and activities, even if sometimes her incredibly advancedthought process and infallible memory can’t keep up with him, andCarlos enjoys knowing that he’s serving as the sympathetic,attentive ear for whenever Jane needs to unload, and boy, does shehave some plenty interesting stories to tell, even if they are rants.

They’reboth all too used to being ignored, or outright being told to shutup, that their issues and concerns were less important than someoneelse’s—the most common culprits were Cruella, and of course,Audrey.

It’sREALLY nice to have someone who just up and listens, no questionsasked.

5.Whois most likely to carry the other?:

Jane.

Carlosheavily relies on mathematics, physics, and Judo whenever he has todo anything physical. And however frail Jane’s mortal body lookslike, she can easily override the “limiters” and becomesuperhumanly strong.

6.Whatis their favorite feature of their partner’s?:

Janereally enjoys Carlos’ energy and sheer enthusiasm when he gets intosomething he really, really, really enjoys, such as dogs,science projects, or some other sort of achievement like an amazingblock in a friendly, non-professional Tourney game with friends.

Carlosloves Jane’s eyes, the one thing that she doesn’t—can’t,really—de-age or attempt to hide just how old, how experienced, andhow many things she has seen over her immortal existence, good, bad,and everything in between.

7.What’sthe first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings forthe other?:

Youcan watch this whole series in Descendants 2. I really don’tagree with many of the writer’s decisions and how they executed it,but I’m too lazy and tired to think up of an entirely differentseries of them getting together.

8.Nicknames?& if so, how did they originate?:

“Dr.de Vil” after Carlos officially gets his doctorate in MechanicalEngineering, “My Little Mad Scientist” because of all of hiscrazy, zany experiments, and “Fae’s Best Friend” when he onceasked, “If dogs are man’s best friend, what does that make me toyou?”

“BabyJane” as an affectionate, playful nickname, “Doggy Godmother”because of how experienced and skilled she is with taking care ofdogs, and “Blue” when Jane explicitly asked him to make up aspecial nickname that only he could use.

9.Whoworries the most?:

Jane.

Carloshas learned that sometimes, there’s really nothing you can do butface whatever impending unpleasantness is coming your way, and thatall the fretting and hypothesizing in the world is better spentactually doing something, objectively and definitively finding outhow a decision/preparations/experiment will turn out.

Thataside, he’s mortal, worrying takes up a lot of his inherentlylimited energy, and Jane has no such constraints.

10.Whoremembers what the other one always orders at a restaurant?:

Jane.Infallible Faerie Memory, baby.

11.Whotops?:

Theyswitch, but Jane takes this role the most.

12.Whoinitiates kisses?:

Carlos.See No. 1.

13.Whoreaches for the other’s hand first?:

Carlos.

14.Whokisses the hardest?:

Jane.Initiation might be difficult and awkward for him, but bridging theinitial gap is kind of like opening the floodgates of affection,love, and messy, slobbery tongue-action.

15.Whowakes up first?:

Jane,by virtue of rarely, if ever actually sleeping, and only for a fewhours if she does.

16.Whowants to stay in bed just a little longer?:

Carlos.All that flurry of activity and thinking in a short span of timeequates to a LOT of forced, necessary downtime, and unlike hissmartphone, you can’t expect him to be completely ready to doa-zillion different functions and programs as soon as you press the“On” button.

17.Whosays I love you first?:

Again,see the Descendants 2 movie.

18.Wholeaves little notes in the other’s one lunch? (Bonus: what does itusually say?):

Jane.

It’susually reminders of things that miss Carlos’ (admittedlyincredibly haphazard and disorganized) record keeping system, butsometimes she just goes on to say how much she loves him, or cutelittle things their pets have done that he might like to know about.

19.Whotells their family/friends about their relationship first?:

Jane,though it’s really easy to do so when your mother isn’tobjectively fucking crazy.

20.Whatdo their family/friends think of their relationship?:

FairyGodmother is super supportive and loving towards Carlos—sometimes alittle too much, as FG has a tendency to overcompensate with the“maternal support towards the boyfriend” because of lingering,unconscious guilt of never being around for Jane as much as sheshould have been.

Cruellathinks the whole thing is an absolute disgrace, especiallysince Jane can’t really get “anything of actual worth” fromCarlos. “Not that a homely face and run-of-the-mill body like herscan nab anyone worth marrying in the first place!”

21.Whois more likely to start dancing with the other?:

Carlos.Excessive amounts of energy that need to be released, yo.

22.Whocooks more/who is better at cooking?:

Jane.She’s had plenty of free time to fill, and even though Carlos doescook, he using his hands to work with machines and computers, notknives and fresh ingredients.

23.Whocomes up with cheesy pick up lines?:

Carlos.

“Youknow, Jane, when I think about us, I can’t help but feel like I’ma nut.”

“Anut? Why?”

“BecauseI fit so well with you, like you’re a bolt, and we were just madefor each other.”

24.Whowhispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear duringinappropriate times?:

Carlos.Look, Jane is not above and definitely into dirty talk, but Carlos isthe one who always feels the need to “shake things up” when Janewould rather they not be shook.

25.Whoneeds more assurance?:

Jane.

Carlosisn’t the picture of absolute, constant self-confidence, but atleast he can’t completely, objectively remember every single timehe has ever felt like he could not do it, and it turns out thatdespite his best efforts and the confidence of others, he couldn’tdo it after all.

26.Whatwould be their theme song?:

Imay have used this before, and my apologies if I did, and also for mylimited song knoweldge, but “Body Image” by TWRP fits them verywell.

Jane’sphysical appearance remains a sore point for the rest of her life—shewas “beautiful” in high school, but what about college? The realworld as a “twenty-something” in as much as an immortal, agelessfaerie can be a twenty-something? How should she look as she, herfriends, and her lover age and grow older?

Justhow much gray should she have on her hair? Should she start changingher appearance to have more wrinkles, extra, unnecessary padding, alittle more stoop to her posture? Is it even fair to be simulating aweakening, failing body, when everyone knows full well she willeternally be a spry spring chicken blessed with divine strength andagility like a Grecian Avian Demi-God?

Regardlessof what she looks like, though, Carlos will always love her.

27.Whowould sing to their child back to sleep?:

Jane.

Carlosdoesn’t really feel like he’s up to the task, seeing as all his“lullabies” were Cruella screaming at him at the top of hislungs, blaming him for all her problems, and loudly saying to hisface, message clear thanks to her facial expression, body language,and tone, that she regrets ever having him.

28.Whatdo they do when they’re away from each other?:

Carlosdoes science, Tourney, and “Guy Things” with Jay, the specificsof which change over time. In their teens and twenties, it’s goingout to town, getting into trouble, and possibly being arrested. Inhis thirties and forties, it’s meetings with the other dads and“with kids or serious, all-consuming careers” adults for thingslike weekend hunting trips, “bad-back friendly” Tourney teams andgames, and of course, embarrassing group bonding events with theirkids, their nephews and nieces, and/or godchildren, and so on and soforth for however long he lives.

Janegoes on with her numerous jobs and duties as a Fairy Godmother in anage mostly without magic, hanging out with her female friends withwhatever activities are “in” with them at the moment, and tryingto immerse herself in the present culture however well or awkwardlyshe can, if only so the inevitable generational paradigm shift of allof society around her gets less surprising and sudden.

29.oneheadcanon about this OTP that breaks your heart:

Carlosand Jane own a LOT of dogs over the course of their relationship. Asyou would expect, none of these puppers ever live as long as Carlosdoes, and it’s impossible for any of them to be an immortal Faelike Jane. Every decade or so, they lose a furry best friend orthree, bury and/or cremate them, and shelve a scrapbook filled withprinted photos and mementos in a special collection with all theirdogs.

Ithappens constantly. It’s inevitable. They know, and willinglyaccept that fact every time they are gifted a new puppy, or adopt onefrom the shelter.

Butstill, every single time, it hurts.

Andno time does it hurt the most, than the first time Jane has to fillin the very last pages of a scrapbook by herself, decide whereexactly it’s going to go in that giant wall of scrapbooks by herlonesome, figure out all by herself whether or not she’s going togo get a new dog, after she buried both her latest pet and herhusband.

30.oneheadcanon about this OTP that mends it:

Weknow from Mulan there’s definitely an afterlife—or enough of aperson that sticks around, that it’s basically them for all intentsand purposes. And thanks to connections with Lonnie, and the gradualweakening of the Magic Ban to the point where it’s really just aset of regulatory acts not unlike the laws governing ownership anddriving of a car, Jane manages to get an opportunity to see Carlosagain, along with all of their dogs.

Janehugs and kisses the ghostly, kind-of-cold Carlos in the middle of asea of dogs, before they both lie down and drown in all theslobbering, yipping, yapping, barking, licking, and tail-wagging,struggling to keep up with all the lapdogs who refuse to share withall the other lapdogs, the dogs that really did not like making newfriends, the ones that were just too eager to be friendly withabsolutely everyone they encountered--

--Alltheir dogs, of all temperaments, breeds, backgrounds, and what haveyou, Jane remembering all of them in infallible, exact detail,holding them in her arms once more, feeling their love and affectioneven if her hand goes right through them, and there’s no warmth, nofluffiness when she tries to pet them, just a muggy, slightlyunpleasant coldness.

Thereunion lasts for hours, the magicians, voodoo practitioners, andspirit callers officiating it having to clock overtime because theyhave just that many dogs, and Jane and Carlos want personal time witheach of their pets, however long each canine wants to be with boththeir owners once again.

Buteventually, even the most attention and affection hungry pup hastheir fill, even the dogs that want play time to stretch for on andon find themselves bowing out, and Jane feels that fatigue settingin, the kind that shouldn’t technically exist, but the power oftrying to imitate being normal and human can bring.

Janeand Carlos stand up, hug and kiss one last time, before Jane moves tothe side with the exhausted or just replaced summoners, Carlos andtheir dogs move to the other side. Hands waving, mouths open inpants, tails wagging, they say their goodbyes, before the latterdisappear, and all is quiet once more.

Janegoes home, and spends quite a long time alone immediately after, andtaking something of a semi-vacation from all her work and duties forthe time after that.

Butsome day, she plans on getting herself a new puppy, changing herphysical appearance once more to a woman definitely old enough to besomeone’s mom but not quite someone’s grandmother, putting out adating ad as she tries to get back in the “market.”

Shedoesn’t know exactly what she’s looking for, but she does knowthat they must love dogs.

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[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Human Resources, pt2

Word Count: Tags: (strikethroughs were unable to be tagged) @supermoonpanda @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @feelmyroarrrr @anyakinamidala @dirajunara @anotherotter @little-study-bug @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @samaxraph99 @anotherotter  @outside-the-government @kingarthurscat @coyote-in-space  Summary: Inspired by the nightmare that working HR for SHIELD would be. Anna Ellis is an HR specialist for SHIELD, and after the Battle of New York, is expected to pass basic field competency. Thankfully she has Coulson to help her out.

I stared at the wall of runners blankly. What the hell did it mean? There were so many shoes. Surely it wasn’t just colour that made them different. There had to be something more significant that made them vary so greatly in price.

“Can I help you find something?” A very perky, very young, very fit woman approached me.

“My employer has deemed it necessary that I learn to run. I suspect I need more suitable footwear than what I currently have on,” I smiled. She looked at my feet and started laughing.

“Yeah, it’s not easy running in heels. Those are pretty awesome shoes though.” She grabbed one of those foot-sizing thingies and directed me to a bench. “We’ll measure your foot first. Running shoes fit differently than heels do.”

I felt a little like Cinderella, if Cinderella were being tortured by the handsome prince. Carrie, as I learned the sales assistant’s name was, disappeared into the back of the store and returned with a large stack of boxes. She handed me a pair of socks and a pink running shoe that I immediately rejected. It took longer than I thought, but Carrie had me fixed up with a comfortable pair of runners and some special socks eventually. The shoes were ridiculously bright blue. I’d fallen in love with them the moment I saw them because the colour was so obscene, and would contrast so beautifully with the dour black and silver of all things SHIELD related.

I continued shopping, procuring the last few items on the packing list Jack had so thoughtfully included, complete with the condescending note on the bottom (SHIELD does not provide mole skin for delicate feet, body glide for chafing, or running shorts) that I knew he’d added just for me. As I was leaving the mall, my eye was drawn to a killer dress in the window of one of the shops. It was black, as all great dresses are, but had some red detailing on the crossover bodice. It had a secret agent vibe to it that appealed to me on both a ridiculous and sexy level. I had to try it on.

It was amazing. I looked like I’d walked out of a Bond movie. It hugged all my great curves, and ignored all the ones I wasn’t terribly fond of. Content that my entire day hadn’t been wasted on Jack’s shopping list, I paid for the dress and headed home to pack. If I was going to spend Monday on a quinjet to the Operations training facility, I was going to have a blowout weekend that required me only to shower and get dressed on Monday morning.

“Erin, that cute blond is ordering us another round.” It was more of a stage whisper at this point. I already was past my sensible stage of drinking. The little black dress had done the trick though. Between Erin and I, we had yet to pay for a drink all night.

“Rick. The dark haired guy is Matt. You suck at names, Anna.” Erin pulled the olive out of her martini and ate it.

“Sure, Pretty and Prettier. Wait. Which one is which? They’re both fine,” I smirked. Erin shook her head.

“This might be easier. Matt is, I am sure, NSA. Rick is giving off a CIA vibe though,” she offered. I nodded.

“I think you might be onto something. And who says we don’t have field competencies? Bah!” I snorted.

Erin had chosen the bar. It was a well-known hangout for members of the various government agencies, but that also meant that all flirting was calculated at discovering for whom you worked, and what your job was, in case you could be turned asset. While SHIELD may not have required me to run at all during my training, they had ensured I knew how to keep classified and confidential information away from the prying eyes of the public and any other agency. It was a requirement of the HR office personnel, as we had level 10 clearance. We needed to know everything about everyone in order to ensure payroll was being made, and benefits were being received, among other things. So no matter how tempting blond-haired, blue-eyed, well-built CIA boys were, I’d had worse temptations and never spoken. Quite frankly, the other government agencies could probably have used some training from SHIELD on interrogation. Because Rick was not the least bit subtle.

“Anna, what was it you said you did?” The blond handed me another gin and tonic.

“I didn’t,” I laughed. Erin reached across me for her drink.

“She’s the acting HR manager for our company, Rick,” she admitted. “We live lives of boring paperwork. Can you blame us for cutting loose on the weekends?”

Rick smiled and slid his arm around my shoulders.

“I’m sure you said which division you worked for,” he prompted. I smiled blandly.

“Well then, shame on you for drinking so much you don’t recall,” I teased. He nodded in defeat and pulled me out on the dance floor. He had a strength in his bearing that was incredibly appealing, and the way his hand spread across my back was confident and reassuring. He wasn’t much taller than I was in my heels, maybe six feet, but it was enough that I knew I would just come to his shoulder out of my shoes, and that made me feel secure. Combined with the alcohol, it was a dangerous combination. He was deadly sexy, I was drunk and had some lady-rage about work going on, and he was holding me just a little too close. I was, in all likelihood, going to make a bad decision later on, but I just couldn’t see myself really caring.

“How about this, Anna, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” He tried to coerce me into telling him my agency affiliation again. I leaned in a closely as I could and brought my mouth right beside his ear.

“Or you know, we could pretend we’re both school teachers, and that come Monday morning, none of this will matter,” I whispered the words carefully, making sure my lips brushed against his earlobe. I felt his hand tense on my back and then relax again.

“I’m not really the school teacher type. Can I be a computer guy instead?” His voice was soft in my ear. I couldn’t help it. I laughed. One of those full body, head tilted back laughs.

“If you can actually come up with the proper name of the job, honey, you can be anything you want,” I grinned. Rick-the-CIA-agent had the humility to blush, making him even more attractive.

“What I really want is to be alone. With you. Right now. Work and intel and assets be damned.” He looked down at me with this smoldering, sexy look that was right off the cover of a trashy romance novel. And even though I knew he was full of shit, my mood about work made me want to do something rash and impulsive. I pulled his face down to mine for a rough kiss. His hand tightened across my back, and the free hand reached my collarbone, dragging his thumb hard across it. He pulled back and dragged me off the dance floor. I grabbed my purse as we made our way past the table and waved at Erin.

I woke up to sun streaming across my face and a terrible case of cottonmouth. I tried to roll over, but found myself pinned under the weight of a very large, very unconscious arm and leg. I turned my head toward the body and tried not to cringe. Right. Rick. He was gorgeous even asleep. I slid carefully out from under his leg, and managed to slowly ease his arm off of my chest. Pulling the bed sheet around me, I followed the scattered path of my clothes to the door of the bedroom and slipped into the bathroom to change. I pulled on my bra and dress, and peered out into the bedroom again, trying to see my underwear. Rather than go digging around in Rick’s bed, and risk waking him, I slipped out into the hall, collected my purse and shoes, and headed out the door for my walk of shame. He hadn’t stirred the whole time.

Rick’s place was actually surprisingly close to mine, so I took advantage of the beautiful morning and walked home, barefoot, my heels dangling from my fingertips. I stopped at a coffee shop for an enormous coffee before continuing down the block to my apartment.

My phone rang as I was unlocking the door. It was Erin.

“Hey lovergirl. How was blondie?” She sounded very alert and perky.

“Exceptional,” I admitted with a contented smile I knew she couldn’t see. She squealed and I dropped the phone. I stepped into my dark apartment and closed the door before picking up the phone and making my way down to my bedroom.

“You sound tired,” she commented.

“I did say exceptional, did I not? I barely got any sleep. Apparently the CIA trains agents to sex the truth out of you,” I snarked. I put the coffee cup on my bedside table and flopped across my bed.

“Good thing you had all that training so you can endure such torture,” Erin’s tone was wry. I laughed.

“Repeated and multiple episodes of torture,” I admitted. She laughed again.

“Well, I’m glad you got to work out your lady-rage. Matt was a dud. He actually invited me to his rugby game this morning.” I could practically see her rolling her eyes. “Rugby. Seriously. Do I look like the kind of girl who wants to watch a Sunday morning Rugby match?”

“Aw, Erin, maybe he wanted more than a one-nighter.”

“Well he got a no-nighter out of it. Ugh. Rugby,” she snorted. I shook my head and closed my eyes.

“I need to get some sleep. Pizza tonight?” I asked.

“Sure. I’ll be over around six.” The line clicked off, and before I could even plug my phone in to charge, I was asleep.

It felt like it was only a few minutes later when I hear Erin banging on the door. I let her in, and took the pizza box from her. We curled up on the couch and flipped the TV on and completely devoured the pizza. I’m not sure what her reason was, but I was starving and hadn’t eaten all day. Before she left, she handed me a small plastic bag.

“The chick at the sports shop I bought my shoes at said I would need one of these, and you never mentioned it, so I got you one too,” she said. It was a glittery elastic hairband.

“What is it for?” I asked, puzzled.

“Your hair, dumbass.” She shook her head.

“No, why would I need this for running?” I clarified.

“Hold your hair off your face, and catching sweat, according to the saleschicky. I just liked the sparkles. It’s like a little fuck you to all the SHIELD black. Go be a star and break in the trainers. I’m going to need all the help I can get, so you have the pave the way.” Erin gave me a quick hug and departed.

I had never been on a Quinjet before, and was surprised at how roomy it appeared to be. I signed in on the manifest and strapped myself in, plugging in my earbuds and turning on my favourite playlist. I was still not feeling back to myself after the epic amount of alcohol I’d ingested on Saturday night, and was determined to sleep the flight away. I barely noticed when we lifted off the ground, and was out before we reached cruising altitude.

Someone shook my shoulder when we landed to wake me, and I gathered my carryall from the mesh compartment beneath my seat and mustered off the aircraft. There was a queue of people waiting in front of Agent Jackson. I stepped into line and waited my turned.

“Anna, here’s your packet. Your keycard for your room is in there. You are in D building on the Quad. Go get settled, find the cafeteria and be out to the track ready to run at 1300,” he dismissed me. I sighed and headed in the general direction he’d pointed me.

The room was small, but more than adequate. I didn’t like the idea of the shared washrooms and showers at the end of the hall, but everyone I’d seen on my floor was female, so I wasn’t going to let it bother me. After unpacking my carryall, I checked the campus map from my packet and headed to the cafeteria. Despite desperately wanting the famous-throughout-SHIELD ‘Academy Everything Burger’, I opted for a chicken salad. With running scheduled right after lunch, I didn’t want anything heavy in my stomach.

“Anna, right? From HR? I’m Kate. I work in payroll.” A petite blonde woman sat down across from me. She had also, wisely, ordered a salad.

“Right, I’ve seen you around. Are you excited for all this?” I asked, unsuccessfully hiding a smirk.

“About as excited as you are, I’m sure. Was it you that got into the screaming match with Fury? I heard someone in HR had quite the conversation with him.” Kate’s smile was knowing.

“No, that was my officemate. She wanted to remind him it wasn’t in her contract. It didn’t go over well,” I laughed. We ate lunch together companionably, and got to know each other as well as we could before we had to get ready for the run. We met back at the door to the dorms and walked to the track together. The rest of our cohort was already seated on the track benches, like a bunch of keeners. I checked my watch. We had five minutes before we needed to be there. They were really eager. Kate and I exchanged a look and slipped into the back of the benches that had been set out. Who I assumed was the instructor was down the field a ways, talking to Agent Jackson. They appeared to be going over a class roster. The instructor turned and headed back toward us.

“How far do you suppose we’ll be running today?” Kate asked me, a nervous edge to her voice.

“My guess is about five kilometers,” I responded, bending my head and whispering back.

“Oh god. I don’t know if I can run that far. Aren’t kilometers longer than miles?” She whispered. I shook my head.

“No, a mile is 1600 metres, and a kilometer is 1000,” I answered.

“Still seems awful far,” she was dubious.

“Ladies in the back! If you wouldn’t mind paying attention?” The instructor’s voice rung over the assembled bodies. I cringed, and looked up, blushing. It was like being in high school again being singled out by the teacher. I looked at the instructor and felt the colour flood back out of my face.

“So you must be Anna Ellis, then?” It was Rick. Rick-from-the-bar. Rick-the-exceptional-lover. How I could have not pegged him as SHIELD, I would never know.

[dothewrite]

I CAN 30000000% IMAGINE YOU WRITING A HANAHAKI DISEASE SCENARIO OKAY CHOOSE ANY HAIKYUU CHARACTER IDEC ITS JUST HANAHAKI GETS TO ME (PREFERABLY FEMALE PRONOUNS AND THE GIRL HAS THE DISEASE BUT THEN AT THE END THE GUY FINDS OUT AND THEY'RE LIKE GOOD FRIENDS OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE )

This. I can’t believe I did this. Basically 10k, and apparently I torture myself for fun. I bled for this thing like some Grecian slave about to get whipped by his master, good god, and I’m still not happy with it, but it’s done, and it’s out. I hope you enjoy. I really, really hope you do.

The HanahakiDisease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient throws upand coughs of flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. The infectioncan be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with thepetals.

“There have beencases where patients have died, yes.”

You can stillenvision the doctor’s face, drawn and tired as he delivered your diagnosis toyou in an empty room that smelled of man and disinfectant. The first hint you’dreceived was how the doctor had handed you your new medication with the ease ofa thousand-day’s repetition, and you knew you weren’t rare at all.

Looking none theworse for wear, you had made your way out of the flooded hospital feeling nomore important than you were when you had entered.

Having thisdisease- having any disease- madework difficult, certainly. The punctures in your skin were awkward to explainat first, but your co-workers had gotten over their steadfast suicideprevention printouts when they had accidentally opened the door to your officeone afternoon to find you keeled over and suffocating. The injection packetscarefully placed in a drawer at your desk had transformed into a lifesaver inthat instant, from its prior purpose for reminding you how damaged you are. Andafter you had taken the afternoon off to save everyone from the trauma ofhaving to make eye contact with you for the rest of the day, they hadn’tbothered you about it since.

Still, it wasalmost alright again. As long as you took your medicine at the instructedintervals, your life carried on in a delightfully mundane fashion. More thanonce, you’ve had acquaintances of yours exclaiming over their cheap Americanbeer at the tidbit- how fascinating your life must be with such a romanticsounding disease! Could you possibly show them some of your flowers? They mustbe stunning.

The only properresponse is to smile, and join in their merrymaking. It didn’t feel veryromantic at all that night when you had been forcibly woken up mid-dream to afit that had left you sore and aching until morning. Your injections kept theinjuries, and therefore blood, away with its material-softening properties, andthat was the single thing you could feel thankful for. Perhaps if it were anyperson other than yourself, you’d think it a beautiful sight too.

There are morningswhere the nights have been particularly painful, and in compensation, you waketo a floor of beautiful cherry blossoms basking in the early rays of sunlightat your feet.

The unearthlyeffect lasted until the clock hit eight, and your trusty alarm reminded youwith its gentle bubbling to take your next injection within the next fifteenminutes.

You’ve gotten usedto sudden pinch in your skin whenever the needle pricks your arm, but there’snever anything pleasant about the strange burn that would course through yourblood like liquid metal until it fades away. There isn’t a green light lettingyou know if it’d worked. You’d simply have to take the bet, and if you’relucky, the petals in your lungs would have softened enough for it not to hurtthe next time your coughing started.

Lately it’s becomea habit of yours to stare emptily at your bank account online. You wonder whyit suffocates you so to consider removing the affliction altogether with thesurgery funds you’ve managed to save up. Yet, the evenings always end with youclosing the webpage, reaching for your next injection and waiting for spring toarrive again in your lungs.

“How’ve you beenfeeling lately?”

Akaashi’s taken toasking you this question each time the two of you come within reasonabledistances of each other, despite your weekly phone calls. You don’t think thathe’s ever quite gotten over the scare when he’d discovered, along with you,that you’d suddenly been bestowed the magical, life-threatening ability tocough flowers. He looks every bit as serious about it now as he did on thatbefore-and-after night.

“I’m doingalright,” you answer truthfully. “Nothing more stressful than bosses withincompetent PAs, but life’s going on just about the same as it had last week,if you must know.”

“Okay, but youtold me about the PA two nights ago, drunk. I meant your body. Have you takenyour injection before coming out tonight?”

“Yes, mom,” youroll your eyes, but you’re smiling, “I have it timed and everything. I’m goingto have to start on the next arm today, I think.”

Akaashi shakes hishead, ever exasperated with the ease with which you discuss relatively seriousmedical issues, and takes your left arm in a gentle grip. He runs two fingersover the light markings that pepper your indoor skin, and although the scarsfaded quickly, they don’t fast enough to escape Akaashi’s firm scrutiny. Hisface falls ever so slightly when he roams over your arm and finds no spare skinleft.

“It’s getting easier,”you add, but your gut twists, “I generally move my schedule so I’m comfortableand alone when it comes around.”

“Alright,” he saysreluctantly, “remember to let me know if you need any help. Any whatsoever.”

“I will,” youpromise. “So cheer up, Keiji, it’s a clear night, and we’re here to party.”

“Party, pffft.” He’s tiptoeing the lineto laughter, so you consider that a victory.

The walk to themassive gymnasium is a quick one. This early in the evening, the sun barelybeginning to dye itself orange, there are scarce people not occupied with workto loiter. The two of you pause at the polished gates, giving a quick wave tothe security guard you’ve rather become friends with, and he unlocks the doorfor the two of you with a cheery wave in reply.

The evening issupposed to be a quiet one, with Akaashi’s upcoming promotion (which means morework) and Bokuto’s upcoming qualifiers next week, there’s not much chance forthe three of you to go gallivanting off somewhere like in the days of yourlong-lost youth, a mere five years ago. Sometimes you find that you miss thosedays when you’re sat at your desk, ploughing your way through paperwork thatseems no more significant in the grand scheme of things than ice cream inwinter. But you’ve got a picture of the two of them sitting by your tired oldwork computer, cheering you with rather impersonal gazes. You feel pride whenyou see the excited gleam in Akaashi’s eyes when he successfully finishes acase, and you lose your voice cheering when you watch Bokuto’s matches and hetoo is roaring in victory; they’re your anchors, and it’s a possessive joy.

Today’s a goodday, and you feel inspired enough to venture that you might have a similar partin their lives too.

Bokuto catchessight of the two of you almost immediately when Akaashi pokes his head aroundthe broad gym doors. He starts to wave, almost dislocating a joint doing so,and you hear Akaashi’s laughter accompanying your own. Although you can’t saythat you aren’t thrilled to see Bokuto each time, what kind of normal personwould be so unreasonably excited to see their friends?

“Guys!!” He hollers at the top of his lungs, possibly afraid that Africa mightnot catch his voice. Bokuto the prospective opera singer instantly gets toldoff by his traumatized looking coach, and you note that he’s looking none toosorry at all.

“Come on,” Akaashitugs at your elbow, “if we stand here, he’s never going to actually make it outof the gym.”

You gesture atBokuto, trying to tell him that you’ll be waiting for him outside the gym asusual, and he nods vigorously. You see Akaashi’s point.

Plus, waitingisn’t so bad, not with Akaashi’s quiet commentary about his office woes, youroffice woes, and the collective woes of the unfortunately born middle class,against a purpling autumn sky. Bokuto’s a quick changer, you have faith.

A happy roarechoes through the empty field all of a sudden, and several birds dart away atthe sound. Noticing Bokuto’s entrance is a poor test of spatial awareness,thanks to his gift at announcing his presence. The two of you turn around justin time to see him skid to a stop behind your bench, not a drop of sweatbreaking on his temple, and his characteristic beam is exactly where it belongson his face.

“Good practice?”Akaashi asks.

“Nah.” Bokutogestures hurriedly, and you and Akaashi get to your feet upon his summoning. “Igot told off a lot today. Couldn’t focus, I think, but can you blame me? I’m super excited for our dinner!”

“Let’s not getahead of ourselves here, you’d be excited even if we went to get Burger King,”you grin.

Bokuto beams somemore at the truth of the statement, and you suspect you’re at risk of goingblind. “Yeah! But this is special, for Akaashi.”

Akaashi stares himdown. “And I’m certainly not having my dinner at Burger King.”

“You’ve changed,man, you’ve changed!”

“It’s calledaging.” Akaashi sighs emphatically. The giggles start to spill over between thethree of you because Akaashi sighing is always a beautiful scene, and it feelslike almost no time had passed at all.

You all pile intoAkaashi’s car, of course. It’s a no brainer, with Bokuto holding the worldrecord for the most indecisive car purchase in history, and you with your wreckof a car sulking in a garage somewhere for repairs. It’s a united decision;besides, there isn’t an excuse good enough in the world not to lounge in apolished Audi when the opportunity arises.

It’s only a shortride, but it’s a happy, lush one that has you humming and sighing insatisfaction as the soft leather rumbles around you. Bokuto in the front seatis valiantly attempting to hold in his delighted howls each time Akaashi spurshis ride on, and alone in the back seat, you watch the life around you pass by.You press the heel of your palm against your mouth to keep in the laughter.

When Akaashi pullsup in front of the entrance of an extravagantlyexpensive hotel, both you and Bokuto share in a collective prayer for yourwallets. Akaashi takes his time unbuckling the seatbelt and hands his keyspolitely to the valet, but Bokuto is the one who scrambles out of his seatfirst. It takes him no time at all, despite being tied and wrapped up in a suitand tie and the whole package, for him to walk over briskly and open your doorfor you. You’re far too occupied with not staring at his let-down hair todecline, and the arches of your feet groan in pain from your pointed heels asyou step out of the car.

“Those are prettyhigh,” he comments, not meeting your eyes either.

You rub your neckawkwardly. “Yeah. I probably shouldn’t wear them the next time we do somethinglike this.”

“No-“ he cuts in,and you’re surprised by how insistent he sounds, “-they look nice on you.”

“Oh… Thank you.”

Bokuto looksmildly conflicted. “I mean, if it hurts, then of course you shouldn’t wearthem. Doesn’t seem too great to be in pain just to look pretty- I’ll carry youhome if it hurts too much!”

The laugh you’reholding in between tightly pressed lips starts to push at your cheeks, and toyour relief, Akaashi steps in looking amused.

“Koutarou, you’rejust digging yourself in deeper.” Bokuto nods in full agreement, equallyrelieved, but looks pleased when you snort with laughter. “Let’s get going,shall we?”

You slip betweenthe two of them, and proffer your elbows to them as gentlemanly as possible.They slip their hands into the crook without hesitation, and the three of youmake your way towards your table like children without a care in the world.

“You look verynice today, Koutarou,” Akaashi murmurs later over his wine.

“Since you told meoff last time for not having anything nice,” Bokuto says, “I had this made.”

You look up from yourfood. “Don’t you have suits for your press conferences?”

“Yeah, I do, but‘Kaashi says they don’t fit me well.”

“You’re twice thesize of a normal human being,” answers Akaashi, nonplussed, “you can’t walkinto a store and expect their suits to fit you without getting them tailored.”

“You have changed, Keiji,” you grin. Bokutocheers when you manage to dodge a well-aimed flick from Akaashi’s wine glass.

“And I’m not twiceyour size. You play volley too!”

“I hadn’t noticed,Mister Wing Spiker. How you manage to fit into your shirts is beyond me.”

“I’ve heard ofsome elastic sports bras for men or something,” you add, “you think we shouldget him some?”

“I don’t need a bra!” cries Bokuto as heburies himself into his napkin.

Akaashi begins tochuckle, and you follow with a poorly hidden snigger. It’s not long untilBokuto’s dragged into the maelstrom of contagious laughter by the ankles, andhis is the loudest of all. It’s a chain reaction, and you laugh so hard thatwine sprays out of your nose (the waiter comes by with a napkin looking veryunimpressed), and although you’ve instantly become their new target, there’s nostopping the ridiculously elated burn that begins to hurt your chest.

Saying no todesserts turns out to be a wise choice. Wine, is a much more acceptablealternative to sugar, and you’re all thankful for the space left in yourstomachs for more alcohol. After dinner activities include some tired, oldscenic view rather than any raucous activity; it’s a well-known place, awaterfront hideaway a couple of streets away from the car. The three of youlook a little out of place with your immaculate do-ups next to the couples andgroups of teenagers in the late evening, but that’s what the Pinot Noir is for.

A small enclosureis all you need, and at nine in the evening with minimal, environmentallyfriendly lighting, the steps leading down towards to where the water breaksagainst bare concrete seems to stretch on for miles on either side of yoursmall group. Akaashi settles in behind you, handing you your drink, and Bokutoshifts to make himself comfortable beside you both.

You’re tempted tolean back just an inch more to dump all your weight on Akaashi’s legs, but youknow how he’d respond: he’d talked your ear off for half an hour about creasinghis clothes the first time you’d done it.

Still, you do itanyway. Bokuto grins at you conspiratorially, almost egging you on, and youstick your tongue out at him and way just to act your age.

“Alcohol certainlymakes us mature, doesn’t it?” says Akaashi dryly.

You’re the firstto laugh, and Bokuto joins shortly after. Your wine swirls dangerously in yourglass as you shake, balanced precariously between tipsy fingers.

“It’s a goodnight,’ you shrug. It’s a shite excuse, but nobody cares.

“It is,” agreesBokuto.

It’s its owncertainty of the universe tonight that Bokuto Koutarou looks beautiful againstthe shimmering lights of high rise buildings. It’s too dark, they’re too happyand you’re too drunk to police your urges in the heat of the moment, and yourquiet defeat takes the chance to transform itself once in a blue moon, back intothe longing that it was born as. Bokuto’s hair is down, a good enough reason initself to stare, and the gigantic billboards, worth only in the colour thatthey exude, paints itself on the slivers of white that dash against Bokuto’sblack hair.

You hope you’restill looking in the general direction of ‘forwards’, because this imperfect,sideways image would be enough to haunt you for several evenings to come. Hispristine sleeves are rolled up on his forearms, almost a sacrament to how muchit probably costs, and Bokuto leans back in a way so casual that it can onlybelong to him. His wine dances on imperceptibly gentle fingers as ink does on acrystal dish, and he looks like a king, admiring his drink.

He brings it tohis lips to take a sip, and you force yourself to avert your eyes.

You can guess thatyour room will look like a florist’s dream tomorrow morning, yet somehow, youcan’t bring yourself to regret looking.

“What do you thinklove is?” Akaashi asks, all of a sudden.

“What?”

He looks asmysterious as ever when you turn around with a frown. Bokuto’s eyes remainfixed right ahead, brows furrowed. You choose not to answer this trickquestion.

“Are you in love,Akaashi?” Muses Bokuto, and he grins at the idea.

“No.”

You sigh into yourglass. Bokuto glances at you, but you miss it with your eyes downcast.

You venture asmall daydream of getting on a boat, and sailing far, far away from yourtroubles, so far that your lungs forget that you were ever in love at all.

Despite your longefforts, there has always been something wild and untamable about the mattersof the heart. You can no more keep what beats in you silent, for love is not aquiet affair, not even unrequited love, and its jail takes your days tomaintain.

“I’d better getgoing.” Akaashi gently pushes you off his legs, and gets to his feet.

“Already?” Youblurt out, but he only presses his empty glass into your hand. Now you havetwo.

“I had funtonight,” he nods, “but it’s my cue to leave. You two enjoy the night a littlelonger.”

Bokuto looksconfused, startled by the sudden announcement, but he doesn’t protest. Althoughit would make it easier on your nerves to follow up with your own departure,you know that there’s no way you’d be able to leave Bokuto alone here. Not evento make it easier on your own nerves.

All the while,Akaashi’s eyes bore into you.

“Goodnight!” Hecalls when he’s almost out of view. You wave weakly, and consider abandoningthe wine glasses altogether for the bottle itself.

He’d expect aphone call when you get home safely, of course. More often than not, you’vewondered how you’ve managed to land as good a surrogate mother as AkaashiKeiji.

“Is everythingalright with him?” Bokuto wonders, “that was strange.”

“He’s fine,” youmumble, “he’s probably just scheming, as usual.”

Bokuto doesn’t askmore.

You carefullyplace Akaashi’s glass to one side, and trace your fingers along the edges ofyour own. Now mostly empty, the little flashes of colour from the skylineparade themselves on the colourless canvas. Your chest is aching all the while,as Bokuto waits for you to feel comfortable enough to speak again.

Always with manyoptions, they tap at your mind. You could talk about the evening, dinner, orhis clothes- even work, or volleyball or anything at all, just to fall intowhat would be a companionable lull. But it would be a discourtesy to fill agift with white noise.

“It’s gettingworse lately,” you begin. Liquid courage can only help so much. “My coughing. Ithink Akaashi wanted me to tell you more about it, rather than sit around andkeep things from my friends.”

“And?” Bokuto askssoftly.

Your head is stilllowered, but you shift to face him a little more with your body. Bokuto,however, is already miles ahead. He already has; attention only on you.

“I… also I decidednot to get the operation,” you say. “You know I’ve been on the fence about itsince I found out. I’m… pretty terrible when it comes to things like these.”

“Operations areserious things,” Bokuto reassures.

Perhaps. Bokutodoesn’t push further than this, giving you some breathing space. He’s beenthere for you whenever he can, you come to a slow realization as you count themoments uncountable, and it makes you lack. The nights, the quick afternoons ofexistentialism and Bokuto’s worried expressions are not easily forgotten, andyou feel apologetic for putting him in such positions constantly.

He’s waiting now,for you to decide that it’s okay to be vulnerable for him.

Little does heknow.

“I’ve been savingup for it since it’s not really a part of my projected expenses, and therearen’t many specialists. I’ve got enough now, and more, but there’s somethingthat holds me back.”

Bokuto fills inyour blanks for you kindly, and without impatience.

“What is it?”

You open yourmouth, and you close it again. “It’s… not something I can say just like this, Ithink.” You gesture vaguely at the sky. “Maybe another drink.”

“If you drink somuch, you’re gonna need to pee pretty soon,” Bokuto says, but his hands arealready reaching for the bottle on the concrete step behind you. You both watchin silence as the stream of burgundy slowly fills the wineglass in unevensplashes.

“Koutarou,” yousay slowly, “if I make it to the bathrooms this drunk, in this outfit, Ideserve a reward.”

“I think that notpissing your pants is a pretty good reward,” supplies Bokuto with a wide grin.

“I’ll ask you tocarry me then,” you answer easily, and Bokuto laughs and agrees like itwouldn’t be any trouble for your struggling little heart.

It’s always Bokutowho’s larger than life, larger than possibility, and his laughter is enough tobrighten several days’ worth of mist, rain, and whatever storms that decide tosettle themselves into your day.

“You’ll be thedeath of me,” you admit, tone fond and warm despite the crisp evening chill.

“There are worseways to go.” Bokuto grins, and all of a sudden you think of the number in yoursavings account, and the photograph of the pulmonologist on your laptop eachevening. The website had been polished and clean, and you imagine your lifeafter surgery to be quite similar in semantics to whatever you’re living now.

Pristine,sanitized, and a weary announcement of the time of death.

“Speaking ofgoing.” You allow yourself a second attempt when Bokuto makes no move to sayanything more. “I think that’s the closest reason why. Why I wouldn’t want thesurgery.”

Bokuto frowns atyour vague suggestion of ‘going’. “Are you worried about the success rate? Ithought that it was a minimally invasive surgery. You won’t be at much risk ofuh, dying, not unless there’s someone who majorly screws up.”

“You’ve done yourresearch,” you say, surprised.

It surprises youwhen instead of the enthusiastic ‘of course!’, or the bashful ‘yeah’, Bokutotugs the wine glass out of your tight grip (unfinished, you note) and frownssome more.

“I’ve doneresearch, and more. It’s a serious thing for you, and you’re a serious thing tome. Of course I’m gonna do all theresearch; I’m worried for you, even if I’m not around all the time like Akaashiis. So don’t you think that I’m okay with you coughing your lungs out all thetime.”

“Technically, it’s not my lungs I’mcoughing out-“

“Aw, shut up,” Bokutohuffs, but you’ve managed to pry a small smile out from him. “Your beautifulflowers, then.”

“You think they’rebeautiful?”

“Not when they’rehurting you. But I guess this whole thing- it’s like one of those things out ofa story, those super old ones with dragons and virgins. It’s romantic in apretty shitty way.”

Bokuto’s neverstruck you as particularly romantic, nor nostalgic for lost tales, but thismust simply be another way life decides to remind you that even you, someonewho thinks they know everything there is to know, miss things in cracks.

Yet, youunderstand his feeling. Sometimes in the mornings, or dusk, in the safety ofyour own room where your injections are always a comfortable distance away, thepetals fall from your mouth without pain and seem to change shades as the sunshifts across the sky.

“I like the purpleones the best,” says Bokuto.

You blink. “Oh,the bellflowers?”

“No, aren’t thebellflowers the really light coloured ones? I mean the velvet looking ones; thereally dark purple petals. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Oh,” you breathe,because Bokuto’s shifted closer and his earnestness glows in his amber eyes.“You’re talking about the gladioli.”

“Yeah!” He snapshis fingers. “Those! I’ve always liked their name, but I keep forgetting it.”

“It’s okay, nobodyreally mentions them.”

“I don’t see themmuch in flower shops though,” muses Bokuto.

“You’ve looked?”This time he does look slightly embarrassed, and you find it endearing in waysthat conjure up a whole new myriad of floral species in your body. “I couldprobably have brought you some if they came up again. You should have told me!”

“No, no,” Bokutoshakes his head firmly. “I’ll keep looking for them. I don’t want anything thathurts you.”

You suppose not.He’s a better man than you are, and although there’s rarely a day that passeswhere you consider your illness ‘pretty’ and nothing else, Bokuto’sencouragement on nights like these somehow imbue you with the miraculousability to talk about it as if it’s nothing more than nature. It would be toomuch, to ask Bokuto to simply continue his fondness for your purple flowers,and forget about the rest that comes with.

“You’ll have towait then,” you tell him softly, “gladioli are summer flowers.”

You don’t evenlike flowers, which is the true irony of all this. You’ve only ever researchedevery different type of flower that you’ve ever coughed up to find anacceptable reason to despite them, but you can hardly do that now. Not whenBokuto wants to find them in flower shops.

“Will you tell mewhat you really meant by ‘going’?” He asks, finally.

“What I meant bygoing…” you murmur. It’s as if the longer you sit in silence, the further timewill stay still. “You… you know I don’t keep the feelings, right? Once I getthe operation.”

“Mhm.”

You can’t deciphera single thing from Bokuto’s pinched expression, and your fingers itch forsomething to crush.

“It’s a shame,”you say, “to have suffered this long and for everything to disappear. Does thatmake sense?”

“Not yet,” Bokutosays. “Like, I kinda get where you’re coming from, but you’re usually reallylogical and rational. I don’t get how you’re not gonna do a surgery that takesaway what could kill you, just because you don’t want to waste your efforts.That just doesn’t make sense to me. Wouldn’t you get a surgery to cut out atumour you’ve had for two years if you got the chance to?”

“That’s the thing.” The back of your eyes burn.“This- my feelings aren’t a tumour.Koutarou-“

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never hatedmy feelings. Never regretted them. Not once. And I never will.”

“Doesn’t it hurt,though?” He asks. His voice is aching, as if it’s his heart that’s blisteredand battered from an unrequited love. For a moment, you forget your ownstruggle and careens into the tumultuous sea that is Bokuto; he wears heartachethat isn’t his own, and it is just so.

You smile, becauseit’s a question asked from kindness, and it’s Koutarou. “Yeah, it does, but I’mused to it. Have you never had a one-sided love before?”

“Not really,”Bokuto admits, “I just tell them when I like them. If they don’t like me back,then I get rejected.”

“Then they clearlydon’t know what they’re about,” you shake your head. “Nobody would ever loseout on a chance with you if they knew how you really are.”

“Right?” Bokuto’s beam is back. “That’swhat I tell them all the time, but nobody seems to believe me. I’m awesome.”

“You are,” youwholeheartedly agree.

He calms down alittle, and looks at you. “And so are you, y’know that? I’m starting to getwhat you’re trying to say now.”

Your smile beginsto hurt on your face. “And what’s that?”

“You wanna keepyour feelings for this person because you still like them.” He pauses. “Okay,wait, that sounds really dumb and obviously, you do, but I mean it like, you want to keep liking them.”

And nothing haschanged. Not the fact that you’re still not getting the surgery, you’re stillsick, and you’re still in love, but your heart doesn’t give a shit about allthat. It incites its own riot against your ribcage, pounding against its ownimprisonment; it wants to be free,like it was born to be, like all love is free and to experience everything foritself in the big wide everywhere.

Now, you knowyou’re no longer insane on your lonesome. You’re not just making any ridiculouschoice and losing yourself to one-sided passions that dictate your life anddeath, because Bokuto gets it.

And is that notwhat we all want in life? To suffer, and to be understood for it?

“Yeah,” you reply.“That’s it.”

Bokuto doesn’t sayanything for a while.

For a man with somany words to say, his silence is more damning than any of the endless hoursyou spend in front of your desk, head empty and soul evacuated from thepremises. When he finally opens his mouth hesitantly, you can’t help but leanforwards on the edge of your seat to catch it.

“I guess I getthis whole thing from both sides now. Of course I still want you to get theoperation and everything, because I’m always worried about your health, but Iget it. Even if I’ve never been hurting like you have before.”

“Thank you,” yousay, and your breath steals a position in your throat when Bokuto takes bothyour hands in his.

“I’m happy ifyou’re happy,” Bokuto tells you. “I’ll support you, no matter what you choose,and I want you to tell me if you’re ever lonely, or really sad, okay? ‘Cuspeople make such a big deal about being brave and letting go and stuff, butthey don’t know what you know. It’s not like I do, like, all of it, but I believe in you. You’re not being acoward and running away from doing the brave thing, ‘cus for you it’s probablyscarier to hold on than to stop feeling, am I right? So I think you’re brave.Really brave.”

Are you? All thetimes where you’d pulled up the webpage, or tapped your clinic’s number intoyour phone, only to let your fingers slip from their place. Those moments leaveyou miserable, knowing that you’re so close, and the only thing that stop youis you, and you can’t take that. Isthis bravery?

Bokuto doesn’tlook so stern anymore. Although your eyes aren’t meeting, he’s watching youflip your emotions through your fingers like a worn card deck, and he takesyour silence as acceptance. After all, you hadn’t said no. If it were anyoneelse, they would have been able to tell that you’d believe him even if he toldyou that the sun sets in the east.

It’s instantlycolder when Bokuto’s fingers fall away from yours.

“I’ll go get ussomething warm to drink. Something that isn’t alcohol.” He grins, but it’sgentle. A nursing smile, soothing an injured deer. “Maybe a cake too, if theysell those by the snack cart.”

“Kou, you’re an athlete,” you remind him, but it’s fartoo late and he’s walking away with a small skip in his step at the idea ofactual dessert.

Still, it’sprobably not too bad of an idea to stop drinking your problems away. At thisrate, it’s not impossible that you’ll end up passed out with your skirt aboutyour neck.

It’s stilldifficult, arguably even more difficult now, to tear your eyes away from hisloosely set hair and the way he walks with the confidence of a man who knowsexactly where he’s headed in life. It’s still a fact that everything’s notquite alright yet, but you feel redeemed enough. The bulk of your burden hasbeen scrubbed away.

A tickle forms inyour throat, and you worry for a brief second that Bokuto might catch youcrying.

However, youdidn’t need to worry about the tears. You’re too distracted by the entireemotional fanfare of yours to notice the familiar sensation of flowers creepingup on you, utterly unaware.

Your first feelingis a damning, fucking, hatred forthis godforsaken disease, unwilling to leave you with a single night’s peace.The second, is a mind-numbing panic that sets into the corners of your visionwhen, after fumbling through your meagre excuse of a handbag, you realize thatyou’ve brought no spares.

You know that you’ve timed it carefullytonight, especially tonight, and Akaashi’s even asked. Calculated to within amargin of error of half an hour, and yet, you feel the petals multiplying inthe dips of your lungs, and you know that it’s only seconds until you’recoughing fully blossomed flowers up your windpipe.

Inhaling, to noneof your surprise whatsoever, is becoming more of a struggle, and you slap ashaking hand over your mouth to muffle the ragged gasps, struggling for oxygenand trying your best not to make a scene.

Your coughing isnever quiet. It’s always a filthy, deathly sound that accompanies thesupposedly elegant petals, and you can feel your capillaries beginning to burstin your cheeks. Your eyes begin to swell when the first fits arrive, and yousee that they’re bellflowers, covered with threads of your own spit.

You disgustyourself.

“Holy shit-“ you hadn’t noticed him returning at all, andBokuto’s audibly short circuiting behind you. Did he manage to find cake? Youhope he doesn’t spill the drinks. “Where’s your shot? Is it in your bag?! Fuck, fuck, fuck-“

You shake yourfree hand at him. Your right is far too occupied with covering your own mouth,although it’s helping with absolutely nothing except for the outpour of yourown saliva, and you gesture at Bokuto to sit down next to you.

Bokuto doesn’t, ofcourse. He almost kicks over the wine as he breaks out into a stressed littledance behind you. “Phone, I need myphone, where the hell is Akaashi when you need him?!”

It’s anexceptionally brutal night, as if the disease had simply lost its temper withyour emotional progress and decided to give you something to choke about.You’re not quite sure what’s burst in you when a sudden coppery tang hits yourmouth, and the smell starts to sink into the back of your nasal cavity untilit’s the only thing you can smell in the air. Your elbows are on your knees,the only thing propping you up and your head is cradled in-between your kneesin an excellent example of in-flight safety.

“He’s not pickingup,” Bokuto gasps, “he’s not picking up.Shit, no shot, no car, oh my god, I’mcalling 911-“

Immediately, youuse your first breath of air to rasp as loudly as you can at him.

“Sit down!”

He does, he does, and that combined with yourimpending doom is enough of a kick up the arse for you. Who doesn’t want to diewithout regrets? And maybe you will, maybe you won’t, but it most certainlyfeels like death, and this is going to be the best excuse you’re ever going toget.

“It’s you,” youtell an absolutely terrified Bokuto. “The one-sided thing.”

“Huh?”

Bokuto’s obviouslychosen a fantastic time to slip into a moronic version of himself.

“Love. You.” You grit. The flowers are slowing,but their size is growing, and the watery liquid pooling around the back ofyour tongue is definitely blood. Without your injection, the petals have becomefirmer, more solid, and it’s enough to scrape a great deal of skin off youresophagus, making the urge to cough stronger. “Idiot!”

And that might bethe last word you ever say, because fully fledged flowers are spilling out ofyour mouth, forcing your jaws wide apart for them to fit through, whole. Youcan feel a stem forming in the back of your throat that scrapes like nailsagainst your flesh, and the horrific image of you pulling and pulling at itlike some fucked up magic trick terrifies you into sobs you can’t properlysound.

Bokuto- he’s the worst person to see you in this state- a slobbering, bleedingmess and there’s nothing you can do to stop everything splattering onto the hemof his slacks.

You can hardlyfeel it yourself when he throws himself into your radius, and crushes his lipsagainst yours desperately.

It doesn’t lastfor long. You’re gagging, and he’s shaking, and you shove him away instantly.Bokuto reels backwards in abject terror as one does, watching a train wreckitself against a sheer rock face, and his hands stretch out towards you, stuckin the middle as he tries to make his mind up as to whether or not to drag youcloser.

“I’m calling anambulance,” he whimpers, and points his phone threateningly in your face,daring you to stop him. “You’re gonna die!”

It’s the stem,it’s the stem! Ignoring his hand, yousteel yourself and shove as many fingers as you can fit into your mouth, andscramble for the end of the remaining flower. It’s the size of your palm, andyour jaw feels like someone poured gasoline onto your neck and set you on fire,but you grip onto whatever you can and pull.

Squeezing youreyes shut makes the feeling ten times worse, but you’re not going to look likea damned freak show, tugging and tugging on what feels like roots that have grafted themselves alongyour lungs.

It lasts minutes,maybe forever, but all you know is that it’s slime, and blood, and a fuck loadof pain when it all comes out of your throat. You can breathe, but with the pain of a thousand needles, andphlegm makes your breaths choppy.

You glance once atBokuto’s traumatized face with red-rimmed eyes, and promptly empty your stomachall over his shoes.

“Oh my god.” Youwipe your face with your ruined sleeve and take a generous gulp of the nearestglass of wine. “I really thought I was going to die.”

Bokuto looks as ifyou really did. You’ve never seen him so pale in his life.

“Ambulance,” Bokuto says weakly, “Ididn’t manage to call one.”

“It’s stopped,”you insist, “please, I really don’t want to end up in another hospital.”

“You could have died! I just- I just sat there anddidn’t do anything-“

“That’s not true!”You fall to the irresistible urge to look away. There was one thing about theentire catastrophe that wasn’t on you, and your embarrassment leaves youfeeling shattered enough to almost forget that the contents of your stomach arestill marinating Bokuto’s loafers. “You stopped my cough. It would have gone onfor a lot longer if you hadn’t.”

“You mean-“ Hiseyes grow to the size of lanterns. “You mean if I hadn’t kissed you, you wouldhave actually died?”

“Er, I… can’t saythat’s not a possibility,” you say into your wine.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m alright now,I promise!” You promise, because there are a dozen other things running throughyour mind that are infinitely more worrying to you than your health. “Wait-Kou, did… did you kiss me because you were… scared?”

It takes severalstunned moments, but Bokuto looks absolutely furious.

You can count onone hand the number of times you’d seen him genuinely angry, and none of thosetimes had been at you.

“We’re goinghome.”

He stands up,blood, mucus, vomit and all, and turns on his heel towards the main roadwithout once looking back.

And what can youdo but follow? Your feet no longer drag but sting, and as you leave your messbehind on the pavement, you wonder if this would’ve all been better if you’dsimply suffocated instead.

The taxi rideserves to be some very awkward twenty minutes.

The driver hadmade no comment when two customers, in the dead of night, asked for a liftsmelling like curdled milk. Bokuto had still held the door open for you, insilence, but his thunderous expression had kept your lips sealed shut and bodyleaned away for the entire ride.

Even now, you onlyfeel as if you’d been wrung through an out of body experience, surreal, andfrom a third person perspective. You remember little more than the first fewseconds and the last, everything in-between a sort of blur of lots of differentfluids mingling on your face. Your worn throat still scratches at you with eachbreath you take as quietly as possible, and along with your ruined clothes andyour furious companion, they slide together into a puzzle piece of utterdissociation between you and your disease.

When you canbarely wrap your head around the entire wreck that was this evening, your fearof Bokuto’s reaction buzzes around in your mind in pulses of static.

It isn’t hisrejection you’re afraid of. You’ve been living with your feelings for so long,and his kind and pained ‘I’m sorry’ is something you’ve taken to envisioningmultiple times a day for practice, its only impact on you now is the gentlecoldness of someone pressing ice against your skin, nothing more. However, youmost certainly hadn’t expected him to be angry.

The car finallystops, and the car seems to rumble even more when it parks itself poorly alonga silent pavement. The very marrow of metropolitan Tokyo fills the gapingsilence of a tuneless ride, and Bokuto’s apartment complex looms ominouslyahead of you.

He turns sideways tostare at you, and gestures with a hand for you to follow. It’s late, and thefoyer is empty of its rich, city-dwelling inhabitants, either already asleep,or not returning home for the night. With each flicker of the lift climbinghigher and higher and its infernal elevator music, Bokuto unwinds his hardedges with each trill of the violin in slow, smooth movements. The loose knotsof his unraveling anger drapes over what remains of the tension between youtwo, and when the elevator dings, Bokuto presses a hand to the small of yourback and quietly guides you forwards.

“Wait here,” hetells you. You stay where you are on his pristine sofa in quilted leather,amazed at how much an apartment can fall so far from its inhabitants. It’suntouched, polished with his superstar salary, and its tidiness is telling ofexactly how much time Bokuto has to spare to spend relaxing in his house.

He reappearsquickly from around a corner, carrying a small plastic case and several wettowels with him. He places the box in your upturned palms.

“I’ve thesespare,” he says, turning the box over with his fingers, “but I don’t know howto do it properly.” It clicks open with a twist of a lever, and you pull out afamiliar looking needle. Bokuto reaches out, tempted to feel the point, butpulls back just before he makes contact. “Can you teach me?” He asks.

“Kou… you havethese?”

“Yeah,” and hesays it like you’ve just landed moons away from the point, “what if you cameover without your shots? I gotta be prepared.”

“Kou.”

“Why- should I nothave? Why are you crying?”

“These are prescription only,” you warblemiserably, “oh, you make things so hard for me. Always.”

Bokuto reaches outwith his sleeve to wipe away the snot trickling down your nose. “Are you madthat I got mad at you? ‘Cus I’m not mad anymore. But I was really pissed off when you didn’t let me call an ambulance, andwas like ‘oh, look I could have died butthat’s okay’ because it’s not okay for me if you did! I’m still supertraumatized, so you’d better not be such a piece of crap for the rest of thenight, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” yousay. And you really are. “I should have thought about your position more. I wasselfish.”

“You were,” henods.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Bokuto Koutarou kissed you.

“But…” you ask becauseit’s driving you insane, “what did you mean by kissing me?”

Bokuto frowns atyour question. “I was mad at that too. Asking me things like that as if I goaround kissing people for experiments. Do you think I’d do that to you?”

“I… uh… no?”

“Good.” He narrowshis eyes. “’Cus I wouldn’t. C’mon man, what do you think it means? It wasn’t a super great one ‘cus you were busydying and I was busy trying not to piss myself and all that, but a kiss is akiss, isn’t it?”

“So you… you likeme? Just like that?”

This time Bokutolooks a bit perplexed. “Why not?”

You huff at him.“It’s not called an unrequited love for nothing, Kou. There’s a whole point tothis disease.”

“Are youdisappointed that I ruined your mojo by liking you back? Really?”

“I-“ fumbling dreadfully,you can feel the tell-tale creep of heat crawling up your spine like a monsterfrom the depths bringing with it the plagues of mortification and disbelief.Now that he’s put it like that, you do sound pretty ludicrous. “I’m not…disappointed. It’s just that… well, people really have, died, from hanahaki.”

Bokuto clicks histongue. “And you’re still alive. It’s a win-win?”

“Yeah, but Inever- you’re reciprocating, likesome shoujo manga, and this feels like something from The Notebook and not realat all! How am I supposed to know what to do if you like me back?!”

“Dude, dude,”Bokuto presses a cool hand against your forehead worriedly, “you’re blowingup.” He hands you a towel, and you press it to your cheeks. “It’s notunbelievable,” he continues, “not all of it. Don’t you think this is all real,at least? The towel? My sexy sofa?”

You laugh, a weaklittle hiccup, but Bokuto looks infinitely pleased with your reaction. “See? Myvolleyball biceps are always real. Besides,” he lets his hand drop down to yourlap, and pushes away the box of needles to make space for his own callousedfingers, “we’ve always been right here next to each other. I know I’m notreally good with feelings and things-“

“-yeah you’rereally freaking dense-“

“-thanks. But what I’m trying to say is-there’s different types of love, right? They taught us that in Lit back inschool, and maybe the line between them isn’t as big as we thought. I’vealways, always, loved you as one ofmy best friends,” Bokuto peers firmly at you then because he’s told you thisbefore, but you’ve brushed him off every single time, “you know that, I tell you all the time. But that’s like, the basis ofeverything to me. I mean, falling in love with someone- it’s never been thatbig of a thing for me. No explosions or background music or anything, just-kinda a push off what’s already there. Do you see?”

Although Bokuto’snot really the most organized orator, he speaks with the conviction of a King.His thought process is absolute, the conclusion certain, and Bokuto’s voicewasn’t designed to wax poetry with his gravelly, scorching sound. It’s a timbrecrafted to ignite embers, come hell or high water. You could have shoved a sockin his mouth and he would have powered through his confession all the same.

“That’s… that’s soprofound.”

“I’m Bokuto,” Bokuto grins. Somewhere abovehis head, there’s a flashing neon sign begging to be framed, announcing hisexistence. “Also I’m not suffocating, so it helps. You’re not too shabbyyourself.”

You roll your eyes,and he sees right through you.

“When did youstart?” You mumble. “Feeling… things. I’ve no context for this.”

“I didn’t sufferor anything,” he confesses, “not like you did.” His face presses closer toyours. “It hasn’t been that long. But I’m not saying that it’s a reaction thingthat just happened tonight. I just… don’t think you noticed. Akaashi did,though. That’s probably why he left early tonight.” He starts to trail off, butsomething catches him just in time. His gaze refocuses, and he grips your shoulderstightly. “But I wouldn’t have done anything to you if I didn’t mean it. I mighthave freaked the fuck out and called the police, but I wouldn’t play with youlike that.”

And you get itnow. It never meant much to him that you didn’t notice. He liked you too, andthat was it.

When the worldhumbles a man, it isn’t up to them to refuse. Bokuto has always been on anotherworldly plane of forgiveness all by himself, untouchable by mortal men’swishes. The facts had finally caught up to you while you took a breather fromthe race towards your unhappily ever after, and had brandished an order tellingyou that you’ve been unfair.

They say that‘love is blind’, with little beyond that, but misery masks with equal skill. You’venever given Bokuto a chance, because nobody’s told you to.

He’s smilingsoftly at you. He’s never believed that there’s anything for him to forgive.

“I’m sorry.” Youoffer it so belatedly that it no longer makes a difference. Perhaps it neverdid, not to Bokuto. “I shouldn’t have thought the worst of you. I… shouldn’thave asked that. You didn’t kiss me because you were scared. I asked youbecause I was scared.”

“I know,” he says.“It’s harder for you too. You’re the one who has to take shots just for likingsomeone who doesn’t like you back. I know. I mean- I didn’t always, but I’vebeen trying to get better at thinking about other people.”

Your heart swells,bloating with a fragrant blend of pride and helplessness. “You’re doing good,Kou. Way better than me.”

“But- that’s notwhat I want, though.” Your eyes follow as he lifts his hand, and runs itthrough your hair. He looks slightly pained, urgent, controlled. “You’ve got alot of problems, you know? And it’s all heavy stuff: one-sided love andvolleyball are kinda on different levels. So, if I can make it easier for you,I will.” The tips of his fingers brush against your temples by accident. You shudder.“We’re all trying our best, and who knows if it’ll work out or not?”

“We’re all tryingour best,” you echo. A wisp of a prayer with no addressee.

“Yeah,” he smiles,“you get it. Even though you usually don’t listen when I say these things.”

“That’s not true!”You protest, but you know he’s right. He knows he’s right. Bokuto’s shaking hishead because he’s right. “Just…” you slowly admit, “not many of the goodthings. They’re… harder.”

He looks at youintensely and opens his mouth with something to say, but changes his mind atthe last moment.

“You gotta trustyourself more,” he says after considering his words, “I think you’re great.Akaashi thinks you’re great. You’repretty great.”

“Yeah, yeah,alright,” you laugh, at a loss with the onslaught of positivity, “what is this,a self-help session?”

“Nah. I mean, ifyou had let me help you in the first place, like, for real, you’d be in ahospital and not in my apartment asking me about my feelings.”

Your brows knittogether and you pull away from his grip. “What’s wrong with asking you aboutyour feelings?”

“It wasn’t thepoint, though!” Bokuto exclaims, “c’mon, we were talking about how selfish youwere being.”

“Yeah, I know already.” You know what no matterhow many times you change the subject or apologize, Bokuto’s never going to letit go until he’s drawn the right amount of contrition from you. “I’m justreally sick of hospitals, and it’s not like they can do much for me anyway.It’s not possible to make the petals softer without preventative medicine, andhonestly, they’d just give up and intubate me, and I hate that feeling.”

“I’d rather see atube down your throat than you dead,” Bokuto says sullenly.

“I would just’vepassed out,” you insist, again, “I would’ve been okay.”

A flash ofexpression startles you, and Bokuto’s fury returns briefly enough to sharpenyour nerves a second time.

“Don’t say you’llbe alright.” His fists are tightening around your shoulders. “Don’t say that.Not tonight.”

His hands areholding you upright, but they don’t stop you from instinctively shrinkingfurther into yourself in shame.

“I’m sorry.”

Bokuto’s chesthitches mid-breath, and his hands release you in slow motion, lingering alongthe lines of your bones before reaching towards the almost forgotten plasticbox. He takes a shot out, and holds it out towards you.

“Will you show mehow to use this properly? Where do I inject?”

“Well…” if itmeans that much to him, “my left arm is all taken up, so it’ll be my right.”You move to roll up your sleeves, and feel a bit silly when you realize thatyou’re wearing a dress tonight, not your usual work clothes. “But… you… Kou,you’re sure you like me?”

“I love you.”

Your cheeks eruptto a magnificent temperature. “I- okay…” Put something into your mouth, andyou’d probably be able to bake pottery.

Bokuto, on theother hand, only grins extra wide.

“Yeah. So, whatabout it?”

You swear thatthere’s steam; your forehead feels a lot more humid than usual. “I mean, if… ifyou love me, and you were the one that I’ve been worked over… technically, Ithink that I wouldn’t need the shots anymore.”

“What do youmean?” He lowers the injection, puzzled.

“It’s an unrequited love that causes theflowers,” you explain, “if… now that it’s requited, I should be alright.”

His brow twitchesminutely at the word ‘alright’ leaving your mouth again, and squirmsuncomfortably.

“There’s no harmin doing one more just in case, right?”

Truthfully, you canhardly blame him for not believing you when it comes to matters of your ownhealth. Akaashi is a very reliable mother, and you’re a pretty terriblesurrogate friend-sized kid.

You sigh, lettingit seep through your teeth like a dragon. “I feel like I should be celebrating-or crying- and not discussing medical repercussions, though?”

Bokuto looks upfrom his examination of your right arm. “Want to date me?”

“Uhm. Uh. Yeah.”

He beams. “Same!Now that we’ve solved that problem, I’m going to jab this in your arm, you’regonna take a shower and we’re going to get some sleep.”

Nothing finds itsway out of your throat. Bokuto cocks his head to one side, a knowing crinkle inhis eyes.

“I’ll check onyou, okay? I’m still kinda shell shocked, so I’m not like, super in touch withmy feelings right now, but I don’t think anything has to change just yet. I’mnot expecting anything right now, and you just puked up like, a whole babyshower arrangement. So take all the time you need. No rush, nothing.” Right.He’s right. Bokuto watches you mull his words over with exhaustion, and cupsyour cheek with one hand and leans in for a soft, final kiss. “I’m still BokutoKoutarou,” he smiles broadly, “and I’m still your best friend. You can count onme.”

And you absolutelycan. Leagues better than any hospital, Bokuto’s smile and cheesy lines can healbones, burns and bruises alike with regular exposure, and your figurative cropsare flourishing as he blinks guilelessly at you.

“I’ll leave it inyour hands,” you answer.

“Okay.” Pleasedwith your acceptance, Bokuto seems to sit taller beside you, and glows a littlemore from his eyes. “You go clean yourself up, I’ll grab some of my clothes foryou when you’re done.” He points towards his guest bathroom down the corridor.“Afterwards, we can give you your medication and I’ll call Akaashi. You canstay here tonight, and we’ll go get you checked out tomorrow. Good plan?”

“Yes, captain.”You raise your hand up in a small salute and Bokuto laughs. He leans in topress a kiss to your forehead, and wanders away to find some spare clothes foryou with a warmth to his face.

You remember toclose the lid of the plastic box before you get up. You follow the trail ofBokuto into an untouched bathroom, sparkling clean, and for a second you’re overwhelmedwith the urge to simultaneously run from its perfection and to make as much ofa mess out of it as possible.

You settle fortaking a normal, sane shower.

The rest of theevening goes unimaginably smoothly, as Bokuto had taken it upon himself to makeyou as comfortable as possible, which meant that he’d left everything you’dpossibly need out for you, and by being so busy doing so, you hadn’t been ableto exchange much of a conversation. He’d forcibly taken the couch, almostshoving you onto his bed in his insistence that you’re the guest, and he’sgonna treat you right, and had zoomed out of the room immediately after.

His bedroom is theonly part of the apartment that feels like Bokuto, and it’s that thought thatallows the tiredness to seep through your muscles, and everywhere you turn,you’re soothed by a familiar scent.

It doesn’tsurprise you either, to find that he’s stuck glow-in-the-dark stars onto hisceiling in the shapes of his favourite constellations.

Tomorrow’s anelusive thing, tonight barely hinging on reality, but as you point out theluminous yellow of a plastic Lupus, you consider that even if the world hasshifted one step to the right, everything in it keeps the same radius. You’restill sleeping over at a friend’s, and you’re still going to the doctor’stomorrow, and the night has still fallen.

Sleep comesslowly, but sooner or later your brain slows to the deep rumble of a starry skyreplica. You fall asleep, and it’s been a long, long day.

Bokuto closes thecar door behind you, and takes your hand before you can object. You’re stiff,fidgety, and he stands right by you in the scorching midday heat until you takeenough breaths to lead the way. He falls into step beside you, letting you pullhim, fingers laced and tightened, through the doors of the hospital.

He has to pull youout of your reverie when the speakers finally call your name, but you get toyour feet without stumbling.

When the doctorcalls ‘come in’ from the other side of the baby blue door, you feel Bokuto bumpinto you slightly when he dodges a quick wheelchair down the corridor. A bravesmile curls itself against your cheeks, and you slide the door open.

This time, it’sokay.

[jungnoir]

in between the lines;

kim namjoon | "I’m a writer and you’re my character and wtf how the heck did you just literally climb out of my first draft?" | 2.1k words. | supernatural, fluff. requested.

a/n: i literally squealed when i got this request because I never get namjoon requests and this one is literally so up my alley, i can’t tell you how much. this reminded me of “W”. this is the song i listened to as i wrote.

He’s not real, he’s not real, he’s not real, he’s not real-

Fuck, he’s staring right at you.

There’s a question in his inquisitive brown eyes (god, you wrote that didn’t you?) that you cannot answer. At least, not at all logically. Because an hour ago when you had fallen asleep at your laptop, head propped awkwardly on top of your desk as you drooled away into sandman land, you had no idea you’d wake to a rather long finger poking at your shoulder tentatively, almost unsure in their movements. You had originally assumed that your roommate had come home from work early and was checking up on you because you had a tendency to fall asleep while working (blame your hyper imagination keeping you awake at all hours of the night), but when you had opened your eyes to come face to face with... well, him, you had promptly shoved him across the room and grabbed the nearest weapon to you. Unluckily for you, it had been a book, but it was a heavy book. If you aimed just right, you could possibly knock him unconscious and have just enough time to sneak away before-

“I’m... afraid I’m about as clueless as you are about how I got here, so I guess there’s no point in asking you how. But where exactly am I?” His voice is smooth, reminding you so very much of the very man you had been dreaming about before he had awoken you. Every rational part of your mind was telling you that you had gone crazy and that there was no way you could write and dream up a man just like that. There was... there was no way. Of course. Right?

“What’s your name? Tell me your name first and I’ll tell you where you are.” “I fail to see how knowing my name changes anything about where we are,” you wrote him as a bit of a smart-ass too, even if he was a polite one, “but it’s Kim Namjoon. Now can you tell me where we are or am I going to have to go look for myself?” There’s a threat in his voice that he’s willing to walk out of your apartment right now and onto those streets, but if you really weren’t hallucinating and this was the same Kim Namjoon that you had written an extensive character arc for over the last three months, then surely, this same Kim Namjoon would not survive in a world he didn’t exist in. You’d seen “W”, you knew what happened when you showed up in a world you didn’t belong in.

You thrust yourself before the towering man just before he can grab the doorknob, and blurt, “You’re in my house.” 

His eyes narrow at you, calculating your next move, just how you’d written him to be. Namjoon was thinker; he made no moves before thinking them over. You wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already thought up an escape plan if you proved difficult or untrustworthy. “Where is your house? Is it in Seoul?” 

“Uh... not exactly Seoul but-” “Did you kidnap me?” He interrupts, shock taking over his face before you can even dream to explain yourself. 

“No!” You shout, sounding none too inconspicuous. His eyes narrow even more. “I mean... No. I don’t go around kidnapping people. And I’m pretty sure I couldn’t carry you even if I tried. I’m just a writer. See?” You hold up your hands to him as if it would be solid proof of your profession.

“Then how am I... is this a dream again?” He moves back some, a hand flying up to his face. His hands brush the rims of his black glasses and he’s tearing them off the bridge of his nose with a noise of discomfort. The backs of his knees hitting the edge of your bed, he falls down into a seated position and places his elbows on his knees, looking none too comforted by the way you cautiously step forward.

You had also written his character very thoughtful and very prone to existential crises, as if to add more to your plate. Why, if you told him that he was simply a character you’d written in a book and that he didn’t exist anywhere out of your imagination, the poor guy would explode. Or implode. He’d definitely self-destruct in some way.

You made your way over to him, his head bowed and his gaze uneven on the patterned rug beneath his immaculately cleaned loafers. When you kneeled before him, his eyes shot up to yours and something akin to hopelessness swept over his expression. One minute, you were writing Namjoon in the midst of a thriller novel as the main protagonist and withdrawn detective. Now he was in your bedroom, seated on a Hello Kitty throw blanket and clutching at his jeans for dear life. He’d usually be able to deduct situations like these fairly easily but... you were strange. Far stranger than anyone he had ever encountered, and you were currently looking at him like a pitiful mother telling their child Santa wasn’t real.

What exactly were you hiding that made you look so lost and melancholy?

“Namjoon... what is the last thing you remember?” You start your first attempt at ordering your thoughts, hand hesitantly coming to rest over top his knee. He flinches at first and you pull your hand back, and oddly... he feels a little less comforted without your touch all of a sudden. 

He clears his throat anyway, “I just remember... I was working on this case I’d been stuck on for weeks,” he begins to recite the opening scene you had been working on before you fell asleep, to make matters creepier, “and I... I received an e-mail of some sort. It said I was the lucky winner of a trip to Cancun. Of course, I didn’t believe it, but the minute I opened it, my computer completely froze. That’s all I remember before blacking out and waking up on your bedroom floor.”

Okay, that, you didn’t write.

What you had written was one of his trusty companions at the police station entering his office and telling him that they had found another dead body similar to the one in the case Namjoon had been working on. That’s how you were writing your story. There was no e-mail or computer freezing nonsense anywhere on your first draft.

Wait. Your draft.

Darting up, much to Namjoon’s surprise, you run over to your desk to click on your laptop, the screen having gone black while you had been asleep. Quietly, Namjoon made his way behind you and looked over your shoulder, curious as to what you were so frantically searching for. You pulled up your documents program, fully expecting the underwhelming one thousand word first draft you had been tirelessly perfecting, only to find a blank document. There was nothing there, as if you had fallen asleep on... nothing.

With lightning fast reflexes, your fingers moved to bring up all the documents and files on your computer, searching for key words, everything. There was currently nothing proving that you had written him, that you had written anything, and it was making your skin crawl.

“What are you looking for?” Namjoon asks, moving in impossibly closer to you. His stunning appearance catches you off guard for just a moment, your eyes locking with his. There’s an undeniable fear in those chocolate irises of his, but they are as concealed as can be. You had written that about him too. 

With a shaky breath, you think over how exactly you can explain your predicament now with legitimately no proof whatsoever. There was no trace of your writing of him anywhere; even the outlines that you had slaved over, bled, sweated, and cried over... they were gone. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I... I created you.”

Just as you expect, Namjoon looks completely unconvinced. “Funny. You look nothing like my mother.”

Ah, and there was the sarcasm again.

But you have no time for that when you’re promptly losing your mind, “Namjoon, listen to me. This is gonna sound wild and unbelievable and if I was in your shoes I’d feel the very same, but I’m telling you the truth through and through. I wrote you. I’ve been writing your traits and your life and your appearance for the last three months and you’re exactly like the Kim Namjoon I made, born September 12th in 1994. You’re a virgo and even though you claim you don’t believe in horoscopes you check yours every morning in the newspaper because your mother believes it and it intrigues you. You build model boats in your spare time and despite what everyone thinks of you, you prefer Kendrick Lamar over Bach and Mozart anyday. I wrote you. Believe me, I made you with my own two hands and every word in my vocabulary.”

He stares. And stares. You can’t even tell if he’s really listening to you because he looks completely out of it.

Then, “So... there is a god. And it’s a girl.” 

Well... that was a very Namjoon response.

“I’m no god, I just wrote you. Like a character in a book, I wrote you. And that bit about your computer glitching? Didn’t write that. Whatever is going on... it’s... it’s far beyond me, Namjoon. I can’t explain it, but something strange brought you here and for what purpose, I can’t tell.”

Very unlike Namjoon however, he nods and doesn’t close in on himself like you’d expected him too. His arms fold over his chest, but he looks at you with a decisiveness that is stronger than you anticipated, and you wonder if maybe he’s just playing you long enough to get out of here and find out the “truth” himself, but you have no choice but to tell him all that you know. You’d mourn over all of your hard work being molded into a real person later. Right now, the man you’d written was here, and it didn’t look like he was going anywhere else anytime soon. 

“Can I know your name then?” He asks, lip twitching a bit when you give him a wide-eyed look in return. You stutter over the syllables of your name but otherwise get it out to him, and he hums, processing it inwardly. He repeats your name on his tongue a few times like a mantra, and sighs.

Clasping his hands together, he’s about to ask you something else, but the door to your room flies open and-

“(Y/N)! You better not be sleeping- oh...” Your face takes on an expression of pire horror as your roommate and best friend of ten years, Jeon Jungkook, stands in the doorway with a lost puppy look in his eyes upon seeing Namjoon sitting atop your desk, a little too close for Jungkook’s comfort. “A dude.” Is all Jungkook says a moment later.

“Jungkook, what have I told you about knocking?” You growl, pushing yourself up from your seat and nearing him. 

Jungkook’s eyes bug a little at your angered glare but his lips turn up into a mischievous smile just as Namjoon raises a brow, “Why? We’ve seen each other naked plenty of times before.”

Your sheer mortification leaves you beating on Jungkook’s chest, desperately trying to get him out of your room, but the extremely tall muscle bunny does nothing but nod his head at Namjoon, “Don’t mean to make the stranger over there jealous, but I and (Y/N) go wayyyy back. You couldn’t possibly understand our bond.” Jungkook’s words get even worse the longer he talks, and you’re very tempted to stuff a sock down his throat and let him choke alone in the hallway.

You look to Namjoon to explain that this is definitely not what he thinks it is, but the older boy is completely unbothered. In fact... he’s even smiling? “You two may go way back, but I’m (Y/N)’s boyfriend, so... I kind of trump you in this little game of yours, don’t I?”

Both yours and Jungkook’s mouths drop in awe, and Jungkook is immediately grinning ear to ear, eyes searching yours with expectancy, “You got a dude?! And you didn’t tell your best friend? How long has this been going on? Are you guys just fuck buddies or is this a relationship for the long haul? Does your mom know about him? Should I tell her-” You manage to shove Jungkook out of the room and slam the door shut and locked, his voice still carrying through the wood but still considerably muffled. When you turn to chance a glance at “your boyfriend”, Namjoon is still all smiles, although he looks a little less smug this time around.

“He’s a cute kid.” “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sounded jealous.” “You don’t know any better, then.” Namjoon finishes, with a very questionably disgruntled look on his face that makes you stifle a giggle.

[sexuallyabused666]

Trauma...PTSD...

Trigger Warning

When an ordinary person thinks about trauma, they may think something along the lines of “head trauma” also known as a concussion.  

When an ordinary person thinks about PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), they think of people who were in combat, who deal with the things that haunt them to this day about what they went through. 

But this isn’t the ordinary trauma/PTSD that I am referring to.  

This is the other, awful trauma, that nobody wishes to have happen to themselves, or someone they love deeply, let alone the PTSD that person, or the person they love deeply has to deal with for..  Goodness knows how long. 

So what I’m about to say, is personal, deep to my heart.  Some things may or may not have been said to another person before.  So I say again: Trigger Warning.  

                                  EXTREME TRIGGER WARNING:  I remember some bits and pieces some times.  Some times it comes through my dreams, sometimes it comes through while I’m sitting at my computer, sometimes it comes through while I’m being passionate with my husband.  Sometimes it happens due to songs I hear playing.  Either way, I’m paralyzed.  In my sleepy dreams, I may twitch or make odd sounds in my sleep.  But my nightmares haven’t consisted of zombies, or crazy sci-fi things like that for a while now.  

Right now, I am remembering being thrown against a wall, told to stay there and be quiet, while he took my clothes off and shoved himself inside of me.  As he groans in pleasure, I cry in pain.  Silently.   I am remembering the first time I drank with other people, I was 19.  It was my worst decision so far in my life.  I drank because other people who were underage were drinking...  At this point, I haven’t touched alcohol since I was 13/14 MAYBE even 15, meaning my tolerance was beyond low.  I drank fireball.  Feeling the hot liquor burn down my throat as the cinnamon flavor stayed in my mouth, shortly following a Tipsy me.  Then more and more shots came my way, and I was drinking too fast.   I ended up blacking in and out, which very quickly followed throwing up.  For me, there is no in between; when I’m blacking out, I am throwing up, and when I’m throwing up, I’m blacking out.  It got to the point where I was dragged into the shower, clothes taken off and forced to drink water and take a cold shower.  Now that, I remember clearly, because there were 2 other women there, both spouses (or a girlfriend of one) of 2 other men who were there. Both sober.  Upset that I made a mess in just about every room in the house.  After the shower, I was fairly unconscious from throwing up so much, and I went into the back room to go to sleep.  At this point of the night, one of the men came out of the living room into the room that I was in.  He kissed me, and then started grinding on my weak body.  Then his name was called, and he got up so fast.  When asked what he was doing, he simply said that he was saying goodnight.  The others shrugged it off, and I went to sleep.   The next weekend, I was invited to play some video games at the same house.  I was expecting a lot of people to be there, but there happened to be only one other person there.  Well, I was stuck.  I didn’t know what Uber was, and I didn’t want to call a taxi to go home.  I shrugged it off, and we started playing a whole new drinking game called “Zombies for Shots”, basically meaning, We were playing Call of Duty Zombies, and every time someone died from getting killed by a zombie, that person who died, took a shot of Mango Rum.  I’m already a Light Weight, and I freak out when Zombies are brought into the picture, which means hesitation and death.  So I got sh-wasted again......  I threw up a couple times, but at least I threw up outside or in the toilet, this time.  He put me to bed, in his bed, and I believe he continued to play the game for a little while longer.  When I woke up, it was pitch black, I couldn’t see a thing, and it felt as if I had the world on my chest.   “Shhhhh” he said “It’s okay” then he shoved himself in me.   He ended up putting his hand around my throat, cutting off the oxygen which made me pass out.  Sadly, it didn’t seem to make me pass out long enough...  when I awoke again, he was still thrusting himself in and out of my body.  How is this happening? I thought to myself. Why?  it hurts so bad.... Tears streamed down my face. The next morning, he took me back home.  My home was on a Military base.  I was brand new to the area, place, people... everyone and everything.  And the worst part is, I came alone; everyone else I was in Training with went to other places of the world, where I was stuck in the states.  I knew no-one, nothing, nobody I could talk to.  Except my boyfriend.   But how was I going to tell this to my boyfriend?  I don’t want to say any names, because I feel as if I’ll be the one to blame in the long run..New girl, and all of the sudden, she’s raped?  Yeah right.  Oh and there was alcohol involved?  She was asking for it! But I wasn’t......I wasn’t at all......  but if I don’t say any names, then he’ll doubt me and leave me, accusing me of cheating on him.  At least that’s what I thought, at the time....  

I left my him, not knowing what to do, how to feel, or what to say......and then my emotions sat, in an awful way..  I began to think that I wasn’t worth anything; my only purpose was to please others.  But I avoided everyone and everything, for a few weeks, possibly a month or two; after work I went home and watched Netflix and chilled by myself in that time I was avoiding everyone and everything.  My roommate and I shared a room, and a bathroom with 2 other women.  My roommate eventually came back and was about to go to the beach..  She asked me if I wanted to go with them and a few others.  My mind said I needed to go out, it’s Friday night, what could go wrong?  Then my gut turned as I said yes and ran to get ready for the beach with my roommate.  I ignored it as I got in the car with her and some of her friends, but I did request shotgun because I do get car sick easily, plus it was nice to not be crammed between 2 men I did not know at all, in the back seat.   The day went smoothly, I ended up making friends with one of the guys, while I went swimming in the ocean.  I did get caught in some seaweed and almost got taken out in a current while caught in the seaweed, but that was only briefly.  Later that day, my roommate wanted to go home, and I was still pumped up from how awesome the beach was, and how cool my new friends seemed to be.  One of my new friends, suggested that we drink after we get back to base, but the 3 of us (my 2 “new friends” and I) were all under age, but my roommate happened to have a fake ID, and tried to get some liquor before she took us all back to base.  Tried being the term, because the area we were at, didn’t accept out of state ID’s, and she couldn’t try it on base, since all active duty members have their own ID after boot camp and the store on base would check your Military ID, rather than your drivers license.   With the failed attempt, we went back to base. Little did I know, one of my new friends had contacted an of-age friend of his, and bribed him to get some alcohol for us.  I laughed and thought it was going to be fun.   That night, I made another friend, who ended up saving my life from alcohol poisoning, who happened to be the of-age friend the others contacted.  “Of-age” suggested to call an ambulance and get me some help, but then I woke up throwing up all over the bathroom, and shortly after, coming-to, but this alcohol was different than anything else I had drank before, and I actually had black outs without throwing up.   In between my black outs, I remember being sat up in the bathroom, then being sat up in the bedroom, then standing up, about to be taken to my room, or so I thought.  “Of-Age” insisted that we stay in his room, where as my friend that I had a nice talk with in the ocean, said that I was okay and that he would take me back to my room, even though none of us knew where my room was; I had forgotten my room number..  “Of-Age” was hesitant but told me to call him if I needed anything, and then gave me his phone number under a silly name that I still remember 2 years later.   After that, I remember struggling to get down the stairs, then I knew I walked a ways, but I didn’t know where.  Then I remember struggling to get up the stairs when he picked me up and carried me to his room.  He had an extra charger in his room, which charged my phone.  I plopped on the floor and started to fall asleep when he picked me up and cuddled me.  Later that night I woke up to him grinding on me.  I turned around to face him, trying to push him away, but he pulled me closer and started kissing me.  His roommate wasn’t there for some reason, and my phone was out of reach....  The next thing I remember, I was on the floor, my pants and panties were taken off, my shirt and bra pulled up to my shoulders, exposing my breasts in a painful way, one of my legs propped up on his shoulder, the other on his thigh/hip.  I gasped in pain.  what is happening? I asked myself, then everything became clear and I began frantically looking for my phone that was pushed away even further than before. NO!  PLEASE NO! My mind shouted.  My vision was still blurry enough to the point where I wasn’t sure where I was, but my mind was sober enough to understand what was happening, and who it was.   Pain pulsed through my whole body as he covered my mouth and shoved himself deeper and deeper inside of me.  stretching me further than I thought possible.  It didn’t end soon enough.  I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout, and most importantly, I wanted to get the hell out of there... he grabbed my hips with all the strength he had, pushing himself further inside of me.  At this point I was limp, but still awake.  Realization sat in that he was stronger than I could ever be.  I could see every muscle in his arms flex, his abs puff with every stroke..... and then it was over, and I couldn’t move....  my body hurt so bad I couldn’t cry...  I may have been intoxicated to the point where my memory faltered when it started, but I was completely sober by the time he was done with me. 

These things, these events, have screwed with my trust for others for the past 2 years.  I hesitate with everyone and everything.  I easily dislike people for how they may treat others, or even how they look.   I have dreams about these things happening again, often.  I’ve gone to therapy, and I’ve done rehab for Alcohol Abuse, when in all reality I didn’t see any other way of dealing with these things before, that I bribed people with my body, money, or other things, to get the alcohol I felt like I needed.  I eventually saw myself as an object/toy for men, and started to offer my body for things I wanted.  Then when I tried to kill myself, I was told that I had more worth than what I gave myself credit for....I was shown how much I was worth, rather than what I was given.   But these events still haunt me.  When I listen to music, I don’t usually hear the words right off the bat; I’ve listened a song for a week straight and I still haven’t figured out what the words are, but at the same time, there are times where there is a song playing, and I freeze where I am and/or start bawling my eyes out, as everything replays in my mind as if it happens again.  There are people (look-a-likes), things, places ext. that may remind me of my trauma.  There are even things that I’VE done, that triggers that memory.  (Which is My PTSD....) One of those, is writing all of this....and even then, I had to stop.  I’m not even done with what I’ve been through.......but I’m done for today....  

I’m sorry if I triggered anyone, I did not mean to, but at the same time, please know: YOU ARE NOT ALONE....  You are loved.

[hildegardepruitt-blog]

Ways to Text Women 3 Usual Oversights You Should NEVER EVER Make When Texting Females.

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Much like sounds that lead a vehicle driver to strongly believe that fixings reside in necessity, there will definitely be questionable audios helped make in conjunction with the install from the inappropriate style year components. I will describe the significant ones to ensure that if you are taking on the task to mount marble floor tiles you have an opportunity certainly not to make the popular mistakes to begin with. You and your kids can see this film without fear from unwanted and undesirable garbage rooted in sensationalism for ratings as well as piggishness. Identifying on your own as somebody who's constantly creating errors wrecks mayhem on an individual's self-esteem. By knowing what these blunders are, you may quickly place them behind you and also get on path to seeing far better end results. Little ones that are actually honest and also feel fine regarding taking care of an oversight seldom criticize others. The fifth error firms create is actually to certainly never take into consideration producing a graphic and identification for their firm. Nevertheless, the expert and mature thing to accomplish is to have up and confess to your boss or even supervisor that it was you that created the error. MISTAKE 3: Replicate or unoptimised material- Lots of satisfied farms feed on the internet that deliver write-ups on numerous topics that have been actually replicated off other sources. Instruments that find an improper activity or even component may be utilized to error evidence a procedure. When I rejected this, I after that believed concerning just how I would write that write-up as well as created a handful of pointers I could utilize those ideas to compose a write-up myself, to ensure brief repeated article generated a tip for me however that won't be duplicating. For more information in regards to yellow pages london (related webpage) stop by our website. Blunder # 1) Acting Needy: One of the most significant keys of attraction as well as temptation is actually a guy that resembles he carries out NOT require a girl. If you was located to your significant other, devoted way too much on the bank card, or did anything which inevitably led to the separation, you ought to profit from your errors. Through preventing these blunders you can promptly alter your sub interaction as well as herewith modify the way folks respond to you. The first payment of the twelve part Merryll Mysteries created its American debut in the spring season from 2008. More mature films that you could have found just before, and now you acquire the chance to view them in High Definition for the very first time. Michael Keaton produced the exact same mistake as Jenna - as well as on a much greater stage - but he really did not shed any type of splits for the mistake. In my THIRTEEN years as a Rhode Island Child Wardship Legal professional, I have actually seen many dads as well as mamas make inane and also stupid decisions during the course from Rhode Isle Little one Custodianship Process. Make a list from the occasions from your lifestyle that you continuously dwell on and also can't appear to let go of. For every celebration, make a note of exactly what your blunder was, what you picked up from this oversight, and something good you possess today as a result of the circumstance. Definitely accept the thought that your kids are actually doing their ideal, and that they'll discover a lot faster concerning their oversights if they are in a setting that approves errors. Perspective what took place as a take in that will definitely strengthen your practices and also habits, thus you won't make the exact same error once again. Acknowledging errors suggests toughness: Being willing to explore, go out on the edge, as well as fail, specifically before others, is a sign of someone that cares about herself and her capability to succeed. Like I pointed out above, my largest oversight after passing was tingling as well as purchasing an auto untimely. Misunderstanding the provider is yet another typical error and individuals need to recognize that this is actually necessary to perform some easy study on the Internet prior to considering a specific provider, due to the fact that typically they might discover themselves in the position from paying out way way too much for the companies they were actually delivered with. Mistake # 5) Tunnel Vision: This is when a male EXPERIENCES as well as PRESUMES he needs to create this exercise along with ANY one specific lady.