#(when my work is stalled I can at least find solace in the fact that I am not him)

[positivelyapunovexponent-good]

Okay SO the professor supervising my research officially made me project leader on one of my pet projects and on one hand I am very honored. But on the other hand I am anxious as hELL because I genuinely really, really struggle with project management. Delegation, communication, sending concise and clear emails on time- all of these are points of weakness that have resulted in me sinking projects I really care about in the past. 

I really don’t want that to happen again. But I’m kinda petrified. I feel like I ruin everything I touch, that I’m really good at starting things but apparently incapable of finishing them, stranding people and ideas and inevitably letting everyone who ever believed in me down. 

Which is not a productive way to think but it is true. In a sense. I have meaningfully, unambiguously fucked up in the past and probably will again. That much is inarguable. But also. I care about my work, and sincerely believe there is something about my idea that is valuable. Worthy of proper exploration. Even if it fails, I want it to fail on its own merits, not because I was so afraid of failing and so paralyzed by executive dysfunction that I didn’t even bother pushing it to see how far it can actually go. 

I guess all that is to say I am excited and scared in equal measure. So... nothing to do at this point but try, right? 

[merakiui]

Apricity

yandere!albedo x (gender neutral) reader art credit - miHoYo cw: nsfw elements, yandere, captivity/restraints, unhealthy behaviors note - please come home to me and take care on the journey, albedo! :D also kindly heed the warnings. thank you!

His eyes are unnaturally pretty. Like twin crystals glittering in an expansive, dismal cave, searching for secrets unheard of within Mondstadt. Somehow you’re always in his peripheral, not too close and yet impossibly far at the same time. The distance is harrowing, terribly so, and Albedo knows it should be nothing short of a coincidence. When he shows up at your quaint stall with Sucrose, claiming to be in need of the exact wares you happen to sell, you pay it no mind. After all, you’ve met your fair share of regulars, and their support is what keeps you afloat. 

But there is more to those beautiful irises than he lets on. Whether it’s intentional or not, you can’t exactly say. You suppose you would rather run into someone as well-respected as Albedo as opposed to an unlikable stranger with ill intent. And it’s always great to see a familiar face, especially when he chooses to peruse your stall rather the others around you. It isn’t all that strange; you’ve even become friends with Sucrose during your short interactions. Albedo has indulged in stiff conversations with you before, but most of them were meaningless. Simple throwaway chatter between two acquaintances. 

Oddly enough, Albedo finds himself wanting more. He doesn’t want to talk about the weather or the transitioning seasons; he wants to listen to you explain how your day was and if you made more profit than the day before that. He wants to stand there and immerse himself in your pleasant voice, ignorant to the hustle and bustle of the people around him. And yet he just can’t. For a variety of reasons that pull him out of the haze of intrigue, you’ll always remain in the background. And he simply can’t bear the thought of that.

It’s rude to deteriorate a relationship that’s only just begun to blossom. If your meager acquaintanceship with him were to wither away into dust, he would feel obligated to keep it going—as if he were simply beating a dead cow with a stick. Although your hobbies differ from his, it’s nothing he can’t handle. A genius must familiarize himself with other areas of study if he intends to craft solutions that are outside of the box.

“Albedo?” 

Your tone is meek and small, tinged with the slightest shiver. Part of him feels bad for lying to you, but you were just so trusting. It’s almost comical how easily you fell into his trap. If he gets to see you in such a delicious way all the time, he’s more than willing to forsake the truth to meet his own desires. A selfish wish, yes, but it’s absolutely wonderful.

“What is it?” 

He eyes you from his spot behind the easel, and even though you can’t see him you can feel his piercing gaze. Like the sun shining brightly in a wintry afternoon, his eyes smolder with unbearable heat and yet his expression is cold with brilliant focus. 

“A-Are you almost done? It’s really cold.” Your bare back touches the wall and you flinch, an instinctual response that makes Albedo’s brow quirk. “And this is sort of...weird.”

“How so?” 

He says that in such a dismissive manner, acting as if your current position isn’t compromising. As if this was a normal exchange between friendly strangers. You have trouble finding your voice in this situation, especially since talking seems like such a chore. You’re worried you’ll say the wrong thing and then it’ll leave a false imprint of who you are on Albedo. But you’ve always been nice, unable to refuse those who are kind in return, and so you’re forced to endure the discomfort that comes with modeling nude for this peculiar alchemist. 

“Think about it.” You distract yourself with a ramble of an explanation—certainly more than what’s necessary, but Albedo doesn’t mind. He finds solace in your voice. “You’re looking at me and I’m...n-naked. And we don’t really know each other. I’m not trying to vilify you when I say this, but I don’t want you to do anything bad to me. N-Not that you would! It’s just—this is really weird. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Hm.”

“And do I have to be tied up like this?” You shuffle in your bindings, fingers scrabbling over the cuffs and chains that jingle like horrible sleigh bells. 

“You were moving too much earlier. I won’t be able to get your anatomy right if you’re constantly fidgeting.”

But it’s uncomfortable, you think, chewing on your lip out of habit.

“I guess I understand. It must be an artist thing, right?”

“You could say that.”

His work on the canvas offers a display that’s just as lewd as the real model, down to the way your nipples perk and harden in the cold. He’s not even close to finishing and that’s a blessing in itself. He could stare at your figure for hours on end, committing every inch of your flesh to memory, and he wouldn’t grow weary. 

“Do artists normally blindfold their models? I don’t really know anything about this stuff, but it’s okay if it helps with the process.”

“I find it to be interesting,” he answers, simple and vague as ever. “It adds a mysterious touch to the finished piece.”

“So you draw the model with the blindfold?” You’re used to gazing upon paintings of flowers and portraits of influential historical figures rather than blatant nudity. “Artists are definitely unique.”

Albedo hums in response, secretly reveling in your naïveté. At the end of the day, you’re just a normal citizen of Mondstadt, who stands behind a wooden stall every single day and happily chats with potential customers. You excel in business, but when it comes to the inner workings of art you’re at a loss. And that makes it all the more easier for Albedo to spin all sorts of wild tales. He fears that gullible nature will harm you in the future, yet there isn’t a threat in sight. Not when you’re here in front of him, no longer confined to his peripheral. And you’ll stay there for however long it takes him to finish this painting. 

It’s a twisted infatuation. Albedo knows he shouldn’t take too much of your time or else he’ll become addicted and it will be impossible to focus on his studies. But he can’t stop himself or his wandering gaze, which trails up your midriff. Higher and higher until he’s staring at your face, eyes obscured behind the soft fabric of a blindfold. Your body is a temple he wishes to worship, and perhaps that’s a sacrilegious thought that ought to have him consider the weight of his emotions. 

And yet you’re far too irresistible. His thoughts are dangerously potent, swirling within his brain like a maddening hurricane. Surely your missing presence in the market won’t be questioned if he were to keep you just a little longer. Longer than the boundaries of sanity will allow, that is. There are other vendors who sell the same things you boast; the economy won’t shatter if you’re not there to provide.

The paintbrush moves along the canvas in even strokes and suddenly Albedo’s mind is wandering between subjects. From art to alchemy, love to lust, and the wondrous crevices in your anatomy that call out to him. The brush stills in his hand. If he’s not mistaken, Sucrose will be stopping by to assist him and the last thing he needs is staining his appearance in a suspicious color. 

“Albedo?” His name rolls off of your tongue in such a delectable way; it’s almost sinful how his thoughts race and race in an endless track. “Are you almost done? My back is sore and the floor’s really uncomfortable.”

“Sorry. This will take longer than I thought.” He sets his brush and palette down, and you listen to his footsteps as they draw near. “Something has come up, but I promise I won’t be long.” 

“Wait. You’re not going to leave me, are you? I need to get back to the marketplace!”

Before you know what’s happening, the blindfold is coming off and you’re locking eyes with Albedo, who peers at you with intense scrutiny. Certainly the look of a genius studying a textbook. You grow flustered all at once, just now coming to terms with the fact that he looked at your body for longer than you’d like to admit. Shyly, you shut your legs to obscure your private parts, but it’s not like that will help the embarrassment that claws its way onto your expression like a persistent beast. 

“You’re better off waiting here.” He shrugs off his coat, draping it over your shoulders as if that’ll keep the dreadful chill away. “As much as I would like to finish this now, I have other work that must be taken care of.”

“I get that, but you can’t just leave me here! That’s practically kidnapping!” you protest, hoping he’ll heed the desperation in your trembling vocals. “At least, that’s what this feels like.”

“I wouldn’t kidnap you,” he says, amusement flashing in his eyes. “You’re too funny.”

Yet he isn’t laughing and neither are you as you helplessly watch him depart. The floor is too cold for your liking and the idea of entrapment settles under your skin like a million maggots feasting on a decaying, chilled copse. Devoid of warmth and carrying an air of measured grace, Albedo doesn’t spare you another glance.

He doesn’t need to. He’ll have all the time in the world to study your body like it’s the finest artwork, and you’ll be powerless to object.

[calpops]

forgotten | c.h.

Its not unusual for your birthday to be forgotten by many; it’s never a surprise to receive last minute, half hearted texts from friends or belated cards from family. It’s always been easy to let it roll off your back when you have Calum by your side. But the first year he forgets your special day, it crushes you.

aka it’s my birthday and I’ll post relatable angst if I want to :)

1.8k words

my masterlist | feedback and reblogs mean the world

Copyright © 2021 calpops. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format (translations included).

* * *

Calum comes home with a heavy feeling in his chest as he notices all the lights are out. It’s only just past eight; usually there would be at least one glowing window lit up by lamp light with you sat with a book in wait for him. Tonight it’s dark and quiet as he enters the house. Soft music doesn’t spill around the corners. The tv isn’t a muffled call to your bedroom. Duke’s paws don’t even click as they come around the corner to greet him. It’s silent and empty and it all echoes around him as he slips off his shoes and goes in search of you.

The bedroom door is closed, no light spills under it. No noise breaks through the wood. His hand apprehensively reaches for the doorknob, trying to be quiet as the night falls on his shoulders. The door softly swings open with a sigh and as his eyes become accustomed to the dark he notices the shape under the covers. You’ve tucked yourself in, a spill of hair on the pillow, arms pulling the sheets taut up around your chin. Duke laying beside you, undisturbed and too uncaring to move from his perch. Calum smiles, soft and serene as he winds way around the bed to kiss you goodnight.

He stops short at the sight of you. Moonlight glimmers against tear tracks down your sullen cheeks. Red, puffy eyes stay tightly shut. Calum’s smile quickly turns to a frown, an ache consuming him as he drops to a knee and reaches gentle fingers out to stroke through your hair. He doesn’t understand why you’re feeling this way but it doesn’t stop him from consoling you. Your eyes flutter open slowly and as you register his presence you bite your lip as fresh tears gather in your eyes.

You pull away from him, bury yourself back under the covers and stay silent.

“Sweetheart, are you okay? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

Calum’s voice is soft and encouraging, trying to coax some words out of you. When you don’t speak, only slightly shake as his hands glide over your arms, Calum feels crestfallen. The silence threatens to swallow him whole. Usually, he knows what’s wrong, can pinpoint the reason for your emotions and pain.

“It’s nothing, okay, it’s just stupid.”

Your explanation is shaken and does little to instill faith in its reason. Calum shakes his head. He wants to tell you that there’s no such thing as a stupid reason for being upset but the words stall in his throat as he tries to climb in next to you but you make no room.

“It’s like this every year. I should be used to it by now.”

Your next explanation further drives Calum to worry. In a snap moment, like a wave crashing over his head, he finally understands. His hand darts to his phone in his pocket, your birthday lighting up the date on the screen. He lets out a broken and uneasy breath as all of the implications try to drown him.

He forgot your birthday. You’ve been alone all day.

“Sweetheart, I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers with a strain in his voice.

He can feel his own tears pooling in his eyes, shame and guilt assaulting all of his senses. He’s never missed your birthday before. Has always been there from the moment you woke up to the minute you fell asleep. You’ve confided your dislike of the day to him multiple times; he’s noted that he’s the only one who remembers. Cards from family come in days late, texts from friends are last minute and half hearted. All you’ve ever wanted, all you’ve ever asked for on your special day is to have him around.

You shudder out a broken breath, shift under the sheets but make no move to let him in or come closer.

“It’s okay. You’ve been busy at the studio. That comes first, I understand,” you whisper so lowly it’s barely audible but it still cuts deep against Calum’s racing heart.

“It’s not okay, it doesn’t come first,” he tries to reassure and tentatively reaches out for you again. This time, you don’t flinch away. He takes it as a good sign. “I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re not the first person to forget, you won’t be the last. It’s always been like this.” You finally shift up and Calum opens his arms for you though there’s little hope in his chest that you might collide into his embrace. It takes you a moment, bleary eyes being rubbed and lip trembling, to get collected. Your gaze meets his. “I’m just glad you’re home now.”

His faith nearly knocks him off his knee as you collide into him and wrap your arms around his neck. Bury your face against the strength of his shoulder. Weep in a small but heart breaking way.

“I’m home,” he repeats and furrows his brows, knowing it’s not enough. His entire chest aches and his eyes burn but he holds his composure, knowing his guilt needs to be put on the back burner for you; it’s small in comparison to the emotions and abandonment that have sat with you all day. “I’ve got you sweetheart.”

He almost promises that he won’t let go, he won’t leave, but a plan burns through the back of his mind and he knows his departure is imminent. He takes solace in the fact you’re exhausted enough to be led back to laying down with heavy eyelids. He murmurs and hums to you until your eyes flutter closed and he’s sure you’re asleep by the sound of your even breathing.

He stands, stretches and keeps his eyes on you for as long as possible. When he finally cuts around the corner of the bed he pats Duke’s head.

“Stay right here. I’ll be back,” he whispers to the old dog, hoping if you wake again his presence will suffice until he’s back.

He’s not gone long. His plan is simple but he hopes it’s enough. You’ve never asked for anything, but the hopes of restoring your ruined day live in petals and icing and charms. He goes back into the house and makes a beeline for the bedroom, gently wakes you and guides you up.

“What are you doing?” you ask as you rub the sleep and leftover sadness from your eyes.

Calum shakes his head, winds his arms around you and helps you to your feet. Your wobbly at first, emotionally exhausted after all of the turmoil. You lean into his side and for the feeling of your warmth against him he’s grateful.

“Trying to make it right,” he answers as he guides you away from the bed and towards the door. “There’s still a few hours of your birthday left. Let me try, okay?”

You nod as you’re led out of the bedroom and to the dimly lit kitchen. Calum walks you to the bar where flowers, some with already dying petals, sit in a vase. A lone cupcake with a candle and flame sits alongside the flowers. A small breath leaves you at the effort. While Calum feels it’s lame, the last picks at the store on the shelf, his heart still hammers at the genuine appreciation in your eyes.

“Come sit,” he encourages as he props a stool around for you. You do as he bids and he looms behind you to softly sing happy birthday in your ear; each line punctuated by a small kiss to your neck, shoulder, cheek, anywhere his lips can reach. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. Make a wish.”

He brings the cupcake and the flaming candle towards you, gentle hands holding it within your breath’s reach. You turn to face him as you take the cupcake, his eyes soften as yours find his. You blow it out in one small huff and remove the candle. The frosting and cupcake are a bit stale but you share the treat with a few soft giggles and a swipe of chocolate to his nose. Though the petals are dying you pull the vase to the center of the counter before turning back to Calum to put yourself securely in his arms.

“I didn’t need the flowers or cupcake,” you start and before Calum can speak any words of you deserving more you continue on. “I just need you.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to the top of your head. His fingers stroke through your hair and his hands come to settle on the small of your back. “I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again. You’ll always have me. Any day. Every day. I promise.”

You nod against his chest, your trust and faith in him infallible even after the day of desertion and misery.

“Then my wish came true,” you whisper as your cheeks blaze at the confession. Calum chuckles as you further hide against him. “You can’t laugh at me. It’s still my birthday.”

And even when the sun rises the next day, birthday long gone and the heartache of being alone starting to be forgotten, Calum wakes you with a surprise. You sit up to see him throwing your clothes in open luggage.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, eyebrows furrowed as you watch him neatly fold and then haphazardly throw garments in the bag.

“Packing your stuff.”

He doesn’t further explain and it prompts a, “why?” from you.

“So you have clothes to wear on our vacation.” He gives you a broad smile as the words roll off his tongue and he reaches behind him to throw papers onto the bed. They settle at your feet and you reach down to retrieve them, blurry words coming in and finally being processed. Boarding passes.

“Vacation?”

“Two weeks. Just us,” Calum explains as he goes back to packing your things for you. “We leave in an hour.”

The time limit pushes you up from the bed, his effort and act of grandeur making you throw yourself into his arms. Your clothes drop to the floor in favor of him bringing you closer.

“That’s more than I could have asked for,” you whisper with a crack in your voice.

Calum only smiles and finally says the words he’d been thinking for so long. “You deserve even more than this. Sorry it’s late. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

* * *

If you’d like to be added to my taglist just let me know!

Tagged: @rosecolouredash​ @who-do-you-love-5sos​ @caswinchester2000​ @malumsmermaid​ @babylon-corgis​ @gosh-im-short​ @feliznavidaddycal​ @loveroflrh​ @findingliam-o​ @flowerthug​ @g-l-pierce​ @cashtonasfuck​ @sc0ttish-wildfl0wer​ @notinthesameguey​ @lukesfuckingbeard​  @treatallwithkindness​ @haikucal​ @wiildflower-xxx​ @egyptiangoldhood​ @drarryetcetera​ @another-lonely-heart​ @megz1985​ @idk-harry​ @wildflower-cth​ @idontneedanyone​ @everyscarisahealingplace​ @myfavfanficsever​ @stormrider505​ @karajaynetoday​ @333-xx​ @calumshpod​ @calumsphile​ @calumrose​ @grreatgooglymoogly​ @calumance​ @ahoodgirl​ @chicken-ona-stick​ @wish-you-were-here-hood​ @hoodhoran​ @wiiildflowerrr​ @saywhatnow07​ @lonelyheart5​ @fallingforyou123​  @youngblood199456​ @kingxnichole​@wontlastimokwiththat​ @hemmingslftv​ @itsagurl​ @in-superbloom @highstwildflower

[storiesbymads]

GIVE IT UP ( tyson jost . )

You find yourself at your ex’s house party despite the fact that you’ve pretty much convinced him and yourself that you hate him. Apparently, he’s not that fond of you either. At least, that’s what he wants you to think.

warnings: smut, hate sex, unprotected sex

wc: 2.6k

add yourself to my taglist + masterlist

It was shocking of how quickly the sweet boy who once would’ve done anything to see you smile turned into the man before you that managed to get a rise out of you without even directly speaking to you.

Granted, most of that was your fault. All he’d wanted was a break, a few weeks, maybe a month apart to think things over. You’d been the one to suggest a full breakup.

“Tys-“ you stopped yourself. “Tyson.”

His pacing stalled, the hand that had been furiously running through his curls fell to rest on his hip as he turned to face where you were sitting on the couch. The couch you’d helped him pick out when he’d first moved into this apartment. The one he’d first kissed you on three years ago, though it was a bit more beat up now than it had been then. It was a faded blue in color now.

“What,” he halfway snapped. The tone of his voice caused you to flinch at his words, which almost sent Tyson into a deeper downward spiral had he not been so desperate to get through this evening without you killing each other.

“You know this isn’t working,” you said. “Not like it used to.”

“Then why are you fighting with me about taking a few weeks to figure things out,” he sighed before moving to sit on the matching ottoman in front of you.

“Please don’t make me say it out loud,” you said. Your jaw was trembling as you didn’t know how much longer you could keep looking him in the eye without breaking down.

Tyson’s hands were quick to start rubbing his eyes, almost painfully so as the heels of them dug in.

“You don’t mean it,” he whispered.

“Tyson.”

“I still love you,” he sighed.

“We had a great run, yeah?” you smiled sadly at him as you picked yourself up off the couch. “I’ll be back to get my things in the next week or so.”

And that probably would’ve been the end of it had Andre not been your best friend. He was, and he claimed, the best guy in your life before Tyson and he was going to stay that way after Tyson.

Sure, parties were awkward but it was nothing you couldn’t get through without a couple girl friends and some distance. And a handle of pink whitney.

“You’re kidding!” you gasped as your old college roommate gushed about her new boyfriend and their bedroom antics. “There’s no way you let him do that!”

“Long time no see, sunshine,” a familiar brown haired swede said as he pulled you into his side by the hip. You could tell the drink in his hand was far from his first based on the slur of his words and the way the snapback was situated sideways on his head.

“Hey, Dre,” you said before pecking his cheek quickly and sipping on the drink in your own hand. Contrary to your usual party behavior, you were only about half of the way through your first.

“Yeah, sunshine,” you heard Tyson say from behind you. The smile on your face wiped away into a scowl within seconds. “Long time no see.”

You opted to ignore him, continuing your conversation with your roommate, Savannah, as Andre left your side to join the beer pong game in the corner.

“Aw, c’mon. It’s not my fault you’re desperate enough to come to your ex’s house party,” he mocked as he shuffled his way closer to you.

“Aw, it’s not my fault your other eye’s just begging for a matching shiner,” you cooed. You could feel his breath against your pulse point as he leaned in closer.

“Think you have it in you?” he asked, voice grovely as it dropped an octave. Scoffing, you pushed away from him in search of anyone else to talk to. You couldn’t stand the fact that he was still able to jump start your heart rate after all these years, especially after all the things he’s said to you after you’d broken up.

You shouldn’t even be going to this part. You wouldn’t be had Andre not literally dragged you into his car with a promise that you wouldn’t even see Tyson, let alone have to speak to him.

“You haven’t been out in months, sunshine,” he said as he pulled out of your apartment complex. “We miss you.”

“You missed me,” you sighed, pulling your head up from where it was resting against the cool glass of the window.

“The team misses you,” he said, temporarily taking his hand off the wheel to pinch your hip. The team minus Tyson, you thought.

The party itself was fine for a while. You’d practically attached yourself to Andre’s side, not that he was complaining. He was just glad to have you in a social situation again. You were actually having fun for the first time in a while playing flip cup with some of the guys. Tyson had practically slipped your mind, another first.

Until he decided to, rather harshly, drag you away from the table.

“What are you doing here?” he rushed out as he clicked the lock on the bathroom door.

“Dre- Andre invited me,” you stuttered. The party was still going strong outside the room and you could feel the bass through the floor.

“God, I haven’t seen you in months and you’re here because my teammate invited you?” he scoffed. The shock in his eyes had since shifted to something more of disgust.

“We broke up, Tyson,” you said.

“Exactly! We broke up!” he said, throwing his hand up in the air. Your eyes stayed glued to the lock behind him.

“I didn’t come here to see you,” you said, though it came out more like a whimper. You swore you saw something crack in Tyson’s eyes before his resolve went back up.

“That’s rich, even coming from you.”

“God, you’re such a dick, Jost,” you pushed past him, wiping a tear away before it had the chance to fall as you unlocked the bathroom door.

You hated him. You hated him.

Thankfully the kitchen was empty when you found yourself there. You weren’t looking for anything, your cup was still mostly full.

How was Tyson always able to find you in a crowd? Even when you were actively avoiding him like the plague, he somehow managed to sneak up behind you and send your head into a downward spiral.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing thinking so much at a party,” an unfamiliar voice said from beside you, pulling you from your daze.

“I’m not-“ you cut yourself off. “It’s just…”

“Whoa, don’t burst a blood vessel,” he smiled at you. His comment was awkward at best, but the soft look in his eyes made up for it. He was cute.

“Sorry,” you chuckled. “I’m Y/N.”

“Jason,” he responded, clinking your red cups together in a fake toast.

Jason, you learned, was a bartender at the Star Bar in downtown Denver. Though, that was a temporary job as he worked on his masters in biochemistry. You ended up telling him a story about the time you found yourself being escorted out of said Star Bar from dancing on the bar.

“If you’ll excuse me, I really have to go to the ladie’s room,” you said, starting to walk past him in the now crowded kitchen before turning back to face the blond. “Would you mind holding my drink?”

“Sure,” Jason said, even going as far as putting his own drink down so that he could cover the top of yours fully with his hand. Maybe this party hadn’t gone completely to shit.

The line to the bathroom was nonexistent and you’d managed to finish your business in record time. You checked your appearance in the mirror before clicking the lock on the bathroom door and opening it to see the one person you really wished you hadn’t.

He pushed his way through, slamming the door and locking it behind him.

“What are you doing, Jost? Let me out,” you said.

“You really think you can come here and flirt with some random guy in my kitchen?” he scoffed. With every word he took another half step closer to you until your back was pressed against the far wall.

“What do you mean your kitchen?”

“Did Dre not tell you? Can’t believe this is the fourth time you’ve been here and you didn’t even know who’s apartment it was. I think that’s a little rude, if you ask me,” he cooed. Four times; he was counting. He’d made a mental note every time you’d been sitting on his couch and he’d been too fucked up about it to do anything.

His knee pushed your thighs apart as his hands found solace on the wall beside your head. You felt the sudden urge to spit in his face. Or to let him spit in yours.

This was much more possessive than he’d ever acted when you were together. Granted, he hasn’t acted the same way he’d been when you were together in the year and a half you’d been apart.

“Answer me,” he hummed. “It’s rude isn’t it.”

You tilted your head to the side in response only for Tyson’s thigh to press up further so that it was resting against your core. You took the sudden close proximity between the two of you to gauge the changes in his features. Most obviously was the beard he was sporting now, he’d never been able to accomplish more than a patch here or there while you were dating despite his best efforts. His shoulders were more filled out now, too, and his curls looked longer. He looked more… mature, if that was the word for it.

“Answer me,” he tutted. “Or am I gonna have to fuck it out of you?”

“You’re a lot bolder than I remember, Jost,” you gasped. There was a definite wet spot growing in your underwear at the rasp in his tone.

“You’re just as annoying,” he said before one of his hands found your hip. His mouth came crashing against yours an instant later, a rough mess of teeth clanging together as he popped the button on your jean shorts. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure I’ll fuck that out of you, too.”

The comment caused a gasp to slip past your lips as he removed his knee so that he could tug your bottoms to your ankles in one fell swoop. His fingers were quick in replacing the delicious pressure against your clit, circling the nub with the pad of his finger.

“Do you still make those pretty little noises you used to make?” he asked, only to pull a whimper out of you not even a second later when he slipped a finger into your hole.

“You’re still a dick,” you moaned as you dropped your head to rest against his shoulder. You bit down on the cotton of his t-shirt to conceal the whimper of emptiness as Tyson slipped his finger out of you so that he could push the band of his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to slip out.

“Yeah? And you’re about to cum all over it.”

The string of profanities that followed from your part were involuntary.

He pushed into you slowly until he was halfway in before snapping his hips forward in one quick motion so that your pelvic bones were pressed together. You hadn’t felt this full since… Well, since him.

“Fucking-“ he hissed. “I forgot how tight you were.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he started thrusting his hips. You would’ve been able to admire it longer had your eyes not rolled into the back of your head. Your hand slipped down between your bodies to rub your clit only to be swatted away and replaced by Tyson’s a moment later.

His name rolled off your tongue like a chant as you felt your orgasm building with each pump of his hips.

“I’m gonna cum, holy shit,” you said.

“That’s right, baby. Cum all over my cock,” he said. The rhythm of his thrusts was getting sloppier by the second and you could tell he was getting close. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where do you want it?”

“What?” you asked, head still very hazy from the impending orgasm.

“I can’t cum inside you—shit,” his thrusts slowed. “Where do you want it?”

“I’m on the pill,” you rushed out in hopes that he’d start fucking you again. The thought alone almost had him falling apart.

“Holy shit, ok,” he mumbled before picking up his thrusts once again. It was a step the two of you hadn’t taken before, and he was dying to see his cum drip out of you.

“Fuck, Tys,” the words came out rushed as your high washed over you. Tyson came soon after as ropes of it coated your walls in hot spurts.

Your senses came back to you as you came back down. What the fuck were you doing? Why did you allow yourself to hook up with the ex you were still pretty sure you hated in a bathroom.

“I-I’ve gotta go,” you said, pushing Tyson off, and subsequently out, of you so that you could pull up your shorts and button them.

“Wait, Y/N,” the flustered, blushing Tyson you thought you’d never see again made an appearance as you threw the bathroom door open just as he tucked himself back into his boxers. The fly of his blue jeans was undone as he chased you out of the bathroom, practically begging you to stop as he followed you out the front door.

“Leave me alone, Jost,” you scoffed as you watched him zip his pants out of the corner of your eye.

“There’s no way you’re gonna go back to hating me after that,” he said. You could feel his cum dripping into your panties as he spoke.

“We made our decision last year. We should’ve left it at that,” you shivered in the open exterior of his apartment complex, silently cursing yourself for thinking a jacket would ruin your outfit.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” a dry chuckle slipped from his lips. “After all of that? After a year and a half of pretending, you can’t admit it?”

“I wasn’t pretending-“

“Like hell you weren’t. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret even mentioning the idea of a break between us. What we had doesn‘t just go away,” he took a step towards you. You could still hear the music from inside his place, though it was fainter now and still half-muffled by the various conversations just past the front door.

“We weren’t working out,” you said, though it came out as more of a squeak.

“You and I both know we could’ve worked on it. We were stupid to let what we had go over nothing,” he said. “I miss you.”

Your resolve was breaking more with every word.

“Jost, what if this doesn’t work?” you asked, allowing him to get close enough to take your hand in his. It was quite the contrast to the way he’d been with you not even ten minutes ago.

“Would you stop calling me that?” his features were screwed tight as he asked. “You only call me that when you’re mad at me.”

“Tyson,” you said, only to be greeted with a knowing look in his brown eyes. “Tys.”

“We’re gonna work out,” he said. “We’re gonna work out because…”

“Because?”

“Because I still love you. And I’m not letting you go again,” his voice had lowered to a whisper and it shook and his forehead was dangerously close to resting against yours. Within the span of an hour, he’d transformed back into the shy boy you’d given your heart to three years ago on his blue couch.

“Ok,” you whispered back, closing the distance and resting your foreheads against each other only for Tyson to bridge the gap completely with a tilted head to plant his lips against your own.

tagged @ptersparkers @annedub @corebore123 @damndunner @kiedhara @watermelon05 @sidscrosbyy @thelionkingpw @besthockeyfics @iwantahockeyhimbo @beauvibaby

[gretavansidecut]

Room to Breathe

Pairing: Josh Kiszka x Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 4,297

Summary: You're out at a crowded bar with the boys and start to have a panic attack from all the sensory overload and your crush Josh helps you through it

Warnings: swearing, alcohol use, general angst, detailed descriptions of sensory overload, anxiety, and spiraling negative thoughts. If you find any of these things to be triggering or otherwise upsetting, please proceed with extreme caution!

A/N:  So I haven't written a fic in like... God, six years maybe? But this idea popped into my head the other night and just wouldn't leave so I figured what the heck, why not give this writing thing another try? I had an absolute blast writing this, and I hope you all enjoy it!

     You held your head in your hands, trying your best to steady your breathing as you took refuge in the bathroom stall. The pounding, brain-rattling music of the honky-tonk was slightly more bearable in the relative quiet of the restroom, but you still found yourself grinding your teeth as the noise was beginning to get to you. Densely packed places were always a challenge; you weren't necessarily afraid of crowds, or claustrophobic, or anything like that, it was more that the combination of the overbearing noise and the feeling of being packed in like a sardine tended to make you a little... Panicky, to say the least. It didn't help that just getting into the bar in the first place nearly gave you sensory overload either. But you weren't about to bail early if you could help it, and you weren’t about to let a little creeping panic ruin a night on the town with the guys of Greta Van Fleet, especially not when Josh was the one who'd invited you to come along. Besides, you could handle a crowded, noisy bar for one night, right?

     The sudden slamming of the bathroom door made you jump in your stall, the rowdy voices of drunk patrons shattering whatever peace you'd had up to that point. You let out a heavy sigh, figuring it was for the best as you'd already been in there for at least five minutes. Any longer and the guys might've started to get worried, or worse, come looking for you. You emerged from your stall, ignoring the drunk people and their slurred conversation to your left as you washed your hands, and then taking a moment to splash some water on your face. Just the thought of going back out into the noise and crowd was enough to make your chest tighten, and you couldn’t help but feel a little pissed off at the current situation. You’d been looking forward to this night out for over a week; a chance to properly spend time with the guys outside of work after doing odd jobs around their studio for the last few months, and you’d especially been looking forward to spending some time with Josh. As much as you hated to admit it, you’d developed a little bit of a crush on him over the course of working at the studio, but you figured there was no harm in dreaming as long as you kept things platonic and professional. He seemed to enjoy your company and laugh at your jokes, and you definitely enjoyed his in return. 

     You let out another shaky breath, taking a few more seconds to steel yourself before heading back out there. You knew this place would be packed, and you’d been ready for it, honestly you had. But today had just been one of those aggravating days, the kind where every little thing seemed to go wrong and rub you the wrong way. And when that happened, the panic would tend to creep in more easily, and with greater intensity. Still, you resolved to hold yourself together as best you could and not ruin the evening, glancing at yourself in the mirror to make sure you were presentable, before turning around and reentering the bar.

     All at once, the blaring music and roar of the crowd hit you, and you couldn't even hear yourself think. There were flashing neon lights hung up on every wall, a few TVs scattered here and there playing some sports channels, and people zipping about all over the place. It felt like your whole head was ringing, your eyes and ears begging for mercy already as you made your way back to the far corner of the room where the boys’ table was. You could eventually pick out Josh's boisterous laughter through the mayhem, and the four of them came into view just in time for you to see Josh lob a pretzel about 4 feet into the air, only for Jake to expertly and effortlessly catching it in his mouth. Danny and Sam both cheered at once, each of them swiftly downing a shot of tequila as Josh shared a high five with his twin.

     "Hell yeah Jakey, ten in a row, that's a new record!" He exclaimed in triumph, grabbing his glass and finishing what was left of his salty dog in one gulp. When he was done, he noticed you approaching the table and his eyes immediately lit up, though whether that was because of you or the sudden rush of alcohol you weren’t sure. Still, it was always nice to see him smile, even when you felt like you were on the verge of losing your mind.

     "Heeey, Y/N's back! Now we can get this party going again!" He slung an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to his side as he grinned from ear to ear. In any other situation your hopeless crush on him would make you nervous if he got this close to you, but after your perilous trek to the bathroom and back a little contact from someone besides a total stranger was more than welcome.

     "Yeah, what took you so long?" Jake teased, popping another pretzel into his mouth. "We were starting to think you'd fallen into the sewers or something!"

     "No, that's what you thought Jake, me 'n Sam were betting they'd run off and joined the circus!" Danny added with a grin, his words slightly slurred from the tequila at this point.

     You swallowed tightly, flashing them a half-forced grin as you shook your head. “Guys, c’mon, be reasonable here, it was nothing like that... What really happened was an alligator popped up out of the toilet and we had a riveting conversation about quantum physics and string theory.”

     The guys erupted into laughter; Jake covering his mouth so he didn’t accidentally spit out his pretzel, Josh cackling to your left, Sam almost choking on his beer, and Danny holding his face in his palm as he snickered drunkenly. Even in your heightened state of anxiety, you couldn't help but genuinely laugh along with them in the moment. After all, even in a stressful situation the guys were still a hoot to be around. They each had their own oddball sense of humor that made you, a fellow oddball, feel right at home with them. And the fact that Josh's arm was still wrapped around your shoulder was pretty nice too. It was almost enough to make the blaring noise and packed-in-like-sardines feeling of the bar bearable... Almost.

     You were able to keep it together enough to have another round of drinks with them, finding solace in a simple vodka cranberry as the guys got drunker and more boisterous. Danny and Sam decided to have an arm wrestling contest, which Danny won quite easily given his drummer's arms, though that didn’t stop Sam from challenging him to a rematch, and still losing, five more times. Then Jake ended up slipping into his Oliver Reed impression, made all the more credible in his intoxicated state, and he began to ramble on about how wild and wonderful the filming of Tommy had been. Josh of course piped in when he could, commentating on Danny and Sam’s contest like a sports announcer and slipping into his own goofy voice as he ”interviewed” Mr. Reed. If this were happening anywhere else, literally anywhere else besides an overcrowded bar in the most overcrowded part of Nashville, you would've been having the absolute time of your life. But instead you found yourself getting more and more tense with each moment that passed by, the pounding noise and mass of shifting bodies behind you making your pulse race and your head ache. Your drink had done absolutely nothing to calm your nerves, and not even the continued feeling of Josh's arm on your shoulder seemed to help, and you were starting to resent the fact that you couldn't even enjoy that.

     You finally hit your limit when you felt the sharp point of someone's elbow jab into the middle of your back, and you flinched hard away from the source of the sudden contact. You could feel Josh’s arm tighten around your shoulder slightly, and everyone's heads whipped around to see a young woman, clearly drunk and looking very apologetic.

     "O-oh shit, I'm so sorry sweetie!" She slurred out, steadying herself on her feet. "Didn't mean t'hitcha! Jus' tryin' to get s'more drinks for my table!"

     The guys all nodded, assuring her it was and honest mistake and she gave them all a smile and a wave as she staggered off towards the bar. You, on the other hand, couldn’t even bring yourself to look at her, your eyes locked on an empty glass on the table as the ringing in your head became unbearable, every nerve and muscle in your body suddenly taut like a bowstring. The guys kept talking, though what about you had no clue, unable to make out what they were saying as your own pulse pounded in your ears. In the back of your mind you thought you could feel Josh's thumb rubbing gently against your shoulder, almost in a soothing kind of motion, but you honestly couldn't be sure right now. Every molecule in your body was struggling to keep it together as you quickly spiraled into a frenzied panic, and the only thing you were absolutely positive was true was that you had to get out of there fast.

     "Hey... You alright?" Josh's voice was suddenly clear and crisp in your ears like a bell, and it was enough to snap you out of your spiral for just a second and address the table. Though the way Jake, Sam, and Danny were looking at you expectantly made you feel like you wanted to run and hide under a rock. If there was one thing you hated more than having a breakdown in public, it was people knowing you were having a breakdown in public.

     "O-oh yeah, I'm good! Sh-she just startled me is all..." Your voice trailed off, and you swallowed dryly as you fought back tears. "I... I'm just gonna s-step outside for a second and get some air, yeah?" You said with a plastered-on smile, doing your best to not let them know anything was wrong as you reluctantly wormed your way out of Josh's grip and made your way towards the nearest door. You pushed your way through the crowd, ignoring the protests as you bumped into several people along the way, struggling to focus long enough to make it to your goal. You could feel your throat tightening, hot tears stinging your eyes as shame and embarrassment crept into your panic stricken mind. ‘Seriously? You couldn't even handle one night out in a crowded bar? You just had to let your sort-of-crappy day get to you and ruin everyone's night, didn't you?’

     Finally reaching the door, you stumbled out of it, desperately trying to catch your breath as you welcomed the sudden rush of fresh air. Unfortunately, in your panic, the door you ended up choosing wasn’t the one that led to the bar's outdoor area like you thought, but the front door, and you suddenly found yourself adrift in the churning tide of rowdy, drunken humanity that was the Broadway strip on a Friday night. You didn't even bother trying to hold the tears back at this point, completely overwhelmed and hyperventilating as you found the quietest spot in sight, an empty doorway on the other side of the bar's front windows, and sank to the ground. You hugged your knees tightly as you brought them up to your chest, shaking as you buried your face in your arms, the blaring noise, blinding lights, and sheer presence of the crowd causing you to shut down on the spot.

     The feeling of a hand on your shoulder jolted you out of your stupor, and you scrambled away from the touch as fast as you could with a startled scream. You were fully prepared to yell at whatever stranger had just touched you, because the last thing you needed right now was some rando putting their hands on you. To your mix of shock and relief, it was Josh's face that you saw, his eyes a little wide as he held up both of his hands in a defensive manner.

     "Easy Y/N, it's just me, it’s Josh!" He said as softly as he could while still being audible over the throng of the crowd. You couldn't find it in you to respond, just staring at him like a deer caught in a car’s headlights as your body started to shake uncontrollably. You suddenly realized there was, in fact, something you hated more than people knowing you were having a breakdown in public, and that was your goddamn crush knowing that you were having a breakdown in public. In the back of your panic-stricken mind you wondered, if you just stayed still long enough, whether Josh would just turn around and leave you alone. You realized just how futile that thought was when he did quite the opposite and extended a hand out to you.

     "It's pretty intense out here. Let's go find a quieter spot, alright?"

     The rest of your body still shaking, you nodded your head eagerly, accepting his hand as he pulled you up off the ground. Once you were standing, he let go of your hand and wrapped that same arm around your waist, pulling you in close to his side as he cocked his head in one direction.

     "You're ok, just stay close to me, I'll get you out of here."

     You hastily nodded again, unable to make words or maintain eye contact as you turned your gaze to the concrete below you and let Josh guide you through the sea of bodies. It felt like you were in there forever, the crowd shifting all around you, and any time you felt someone get too close, your body began to lock up and freeze. The only thing that kept you upright and moving was Josh's arm curled around your side, keeping you grounded as he led you away from the worst of the crowd. Eventually it dawned on you that the number of people around you were thinning out, the noise getting less and less intense as Josh led you up a street and then some kind of steep ramp. A cool rush of air and the sudden smell of water hit your nostrils and you glanced upwards to get your bearings just in time to realize that Josh was leading you over the river on the pedestrian bridge, towards the eastern side of the city and away from the bedlam of Broadway. You were about three quarters of the way over the bridge before he pulled you off to the side, leading you right up to the railing where you could clearly feel the breeze. The cacophony you'd just escaped from was still very much audible from this distance, but you found its volume to be much more bearable now. There was also plenty of room out here, as well as far fewer people, and for the first time since you'd entered the bar earlier that night, you felt like you could finally breathe.

     You leaned forward, bracing yourself against the railing as you took deep breaths in through your nose, before slowly exhaling through your mouth, and you could feel your body ever so slowly start to relax more and more with each one you took. Josh was quiet for the time being, his hand moving from your side to your back and rubbing up and down in a soothing motion while you caught your breath. Despite feeling calmer, the tears were more difficult to stop, anger and embarrassment at yourself nagging you in the back of your mind, unable to shake the feeling that you'd just ruined whatever fun he'd been having that night.

     You felt something soft touch your arm and you looked up to see a packet of tissues in Josh's other hand as he offered them to you, still silently rubbing your back. You happily accepted them, tearing the plastic open and grabbing a couple before reaching up and wiping your face, your breath still hitching here and there as you tried to steady yourself mentally. After a few more moments of quiet you finally heard Josh speak up, his voice soft and concerned.

     "How're you doing? Any better?"

     You bit your lip out of nerves, nodding as you finally worked up the courage to look him in the eye for the first time since leaving the doorway by the bar. You were expecting to see anger, annoyance, judgement; honestly all the things you felt about yourself right now reflected back at you in his face, but instead you saw nothing but sympathy and concern painted across his features. In any other situation you'd be positively swooning over how he was looking at you so tenderly. It was another couple moments before the ability to speak finally came back to you, and you let out a heavy, shaking sigh.

     “Y-yeah I… I’m alright now…. Thanks.” you trailed off, trying to swallow down the shame that had been slowly creeping into your mind. “I… I’m so sorry about this… I d-didn’t mean to ruin everyone’s night.”

     “Ok, first of all-” Josh said in a calm but firm voice, his palm on your back pressing into you a bit more and pulling you closer to him. “We’re not gonna do that tonight, alright? You didn’t ruin damn thing, you had a panic attack and that’s not your fault.” It took everything in you to not star crying again when he said that, though at least this time it would've been because you were touched by his concern and not because you were upset.

     “And second, I should be the one apologizing to you. That street can be really intense if you’re not ready for it, and I should’ve checked with you ahead of time that you were. I never would’ve picked such a crowded spot if I knew that was gonna be an issue for you.”

     You sniffled a little bit, shaking your head as you slowly pulled yourself together. “I-it’s ok, really... Like, normally I can handle crowds and loud noise, but being packed in like that, with everyone bumping into you and all the noise and lights on top of it... that can just be too much for me to handle sometimes, you know?” You watched as Josh nodded along to what you spoke, indicating that he was listening, and knowing that he wasn't going to judge you for how you reacted was helping the residual panic and shame you still felt fade away.

     “And then on top of that, today just like.... kind of sucked, in general. I mean, nothing terrible happened or anything, but it was a whole bunch of little things, one after the other. I totally fucked up making breakfast, my cat threw up on my favorite pair of shoes, I got a parking ticket for a really ridiculous reason, and I have some other work deadlines coming up that’re stressing me out, so I already wasn’t in the best headspace to deal with all of...That tonight.” you gestured your hand back towards the direction of Broadway. 

     "Then when that chick jabbed me in the back it just... snapped something inside me. I-I know it was an accident, and I don’t blame her for what she did, but it honestly startled me so bad, and I just lost it..."

     "I don’t blame you,” he replied sympathetically “That’s entirely too much shit to deal with in a single day.” 

     "And like... I-I know I could’ve asked for a raincheck, but I didn't wanna like, be rude or have you guys think I was blowing you off. Because I didn’t want to blow you guys off! Especially not for something so stupid..."

     "Hey, it's not stupid at all." He replied adamantly, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Those kind of crappy days have a way if wearing you down way harder than you’d think." 

     You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as it felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. You’d been so, so worried that Josh was going to be angry, or that he wouldn’t have understood what had happened, as had been the case for you so many times before. His hand began gently rubbing your back again in a soothing motion, and the two of you slipped into silence for a moment, letting the cool breeze coming off of the river wash over you. Even with the music still pounding in the distance, you could hear the sound of the river rushing under you if you listened closely enough, and so you did, finding the sound incredibly soothing. It was almost hypnotizing in a way, and you weren’t sure how much time had passed before Josh spoke again, but when he did, you were a little surprised by what he had to say.

     “I know a couple smaller clubs on the outskirts of the city we could check out next time. They've still got all the good drinks and music, but they aren’t nearly as intense as that one was.” he suggested, flashing you a warm smile.

     “I mean, don’t get me wrong, those definitely sound like my kind of place. But you seriously want me to hang out with you guys again after that whole mess?”

     “Of course! So you had a bad night, it happens to the best of us. We aren’t gonna hold it against you. Besides, why wouldn’t we wanna hang out with someone as awesome as you?”

     You let out a small chuckle,  a smile tugging at the corner of your lips as nervous blush crept onto your cheeks. “Well, I’m not sure about awesome... but I’m glad to know you guys enjoy my company.”

     “What, are you kidding me?” he retorted enthusiastically, his dark eyes sparkling in the dim lights of the bridge. “You’re absolutely awesome! You’re so nice and welcoming to everyone, you’ve got an incredible sense of humor, great taste in music, and you are delightfully weird!” You were glad the lighting on the bridge wasn’t the best where you were standing, because your face was rapidly turning red as he kept showering you with compliments. 

     “Well, thank you.” You replied somewhat shyly, a grin spreading across your face as you found Josh’s good mood infectious, feeling much more at ease now than you had earlier. In a sudden streak of boldness you struck a small pose, with one hand framing your face dramatically. “But what, no mention of my flawless good looks?”

     You were just kidding around, of course, and Josh knew you were too. But even still, you couldn't help but notice the way Josh’s eyes widened and his smile twitched ever so slightly when you said that, or how he seemed to be blushing if the way his cheekbones suddenly appeared darker were anything to go by. 

     “I mean...” he began with a small shrug, his smile downright sheepish at this point “That’s so incredibly obvious that I kinda figured it went without saying. But they’re definitely a bonus!”

     You let out a nervous laugh, feeling your face burn from the sudden rush of blood to it, and you turned to face back towards the river. You couldn’t keep looking at him when he said that, not when he said it while he had his hand on your back, not when he was blushing while he said it, not when he said it so... so earnestly. You pressed into his side a bit more firmly, and you swore you could feel his heart beating faster in his chest.

     “Yeah, well... don’t sell yourself short, you’ve got a face that could give Errol Flynn a run for his money.” you half-teased, nudging him affectionately in the ribs with your elbow. He let out a small chuckle beside you, his arm still firmly wrapped around your shoulder and he gave your arm a soft, affectionate squeeze in return. The two of you said nothing for a moment, just enjoying each other’s company and touch as you both gazed out over the river, watching the lights of the city twinkle and glimmer on it’s dark surface.

     “Is... is it cool if we just stay up here for a little while?” you asked, suddenly feeling very physically tired after this whole ordeal. “I hate to just ditch the others and leave them in that bar, but I honestly don’t think I could handle going back in there tonight.”

     “Oh don’t worry, a bar is the best place we could possibly leave them.” Josh said with a chuckle. “But seriously, we can stay out here as long as you need.” he assured, giving you a firm hug from the side and flashing you a soft, reassuring smile. “We don’t have to go anywhere.”

     A sudden surge of warmth and fatigue washed over you, and you found yourself leaning more heavily into Josh’s frame, which he seemed to welcome, finally letting your head come to rest on his shoulder. Your eyes slipped closed for a second, and you took a deep breath before letting out a soft, contented sigh.

     “Thank you so much for everything you did for me tonight. I seriously can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” He hummed softly in reply as he leaned back against you, the weight of his cheek suddenly pressing into the top of your head. 

     “Anytime, Y/N. I’ll always have your back.”

[fellintotartarus]

midnight eyes (ralvez)

(gif by the incredible @zhuzhubii <3 )

Summary: On a late night, Spencer thinks about Luke. 1.7k words.

A/N: Ralvez absolutely owns my ass thanks for coming

Warnings: I can’t think of any .. ? Lmk if you see anything please!

-

It’s late. They’re all exhausted beyond belief and it seemed even the plane made a tired landing, jolting them with unpleasant bouts of adrenaline in their sleepy states. Matt gently shakes Emily awake and they all trudge off the plane in the silence that only red-eye flights can produce.

Spencer’s head feels full of cotton as he clambers down the stairs and into FBI headquarters. It’s been days--even before the case started--since he’s gotten more than four hours of sleep in a row and he feels it strongly behind his eyes. The world feels dim and heavy as he walks the final few steps across the tarmac and into the building.

Then Luke passes from behind him, placing his hand gently on Spencer’s back as he navigates the tight hallway and Spencer suddenly doesn’t feel so tired. Luke glances back at him, flashing him a small smile before turning back and Spencer thinks he might not need sleep so urgently anymore. As long as he replays this moment in his head, he can make it home to pass out on his bed.

Luke remains a few steps ahead of him all the way to the sixth floor and into their offices, where everyone quickly throws down their case files and turns around to leave. Spencer drops into the chair at his desk, his head falling onto the surface. He knows he should get up, pick up his head and go home because he’s in imminent danger of falling asleep. He knows if he doesn’t get up now, the three AM jetlag will catch up to him quickly and--

He lifts his head. The whole office has gone, only the dim power-saving lights illuminating the personal effects and case files littering the numerous desks. Spencer looks around. It’s so peaceful. He knows, logically, what lies in all these case files, that it shouldn’t feel peaceful, but he can’t help but relax at the altered state of the room where he spends most of his life.

His eyes drift over to Luke’s desk, lingering on the single picture of Roxy that seems almost out of place on the clean-cut, nearly bare desk. He blushes at the thought of the man who occupies the desk, not even noticing a smile creep onto his face.

Luke was a breath of fresh air to the BAU. When he joined from the fugitive task force, everyone found solace in the newness he brought to the team. Spencer noticed people smiling more. Penelope found a new hobby in giving him a hard time. He was a change of pace for the tight-knit group of tired, jaded agents.

Spencer remembers the first time he noticed Luke, like, really noticed him. He was explaining something for a case. He was used to being brushed off--his quirks were conditional, only to be appreciated when he served a purpose. But as he sat there, explaining a tangent to a room full of people the rambling would be lost on, he turned his head and saw Luke. He was looking at Spencer with the utmost interest that Spencer’s speech sputtered and stalled like an old car. He hadn’t even noticed he had stopped talking until Luke had said “What were you saying, Dr. Reid?”

From that point on, Spencer had a hard time not noticing Luke. It never actively bothered him that people brushed him off and gave him a hard time. It was just a fact of life. But he supposed he never really knew how much he was missing. Now, whenever he found himself rambling past the point of no return, his eyes would drift over to Luke, who consistently looked delighted to hear more about whatever it was Spencer was talking about.

Spencer knew he was in trouble when he found himself rambling more and more just to see if Luke was really interested. In his head, there was no way Luke actually enjoyed Spencer and his infodumps. There had to be a breaking point.

But it never came. No matter how uninteresting or gross or frequent he made his speeches, Luke’s gaze never faltered. During one particularly terrible rant about flies and their reproductive cycle when Luke still looked at Spencer like he was revealing the secrets of life, Spencer thought he must be seeing things. It was only after Penelope gave him a knowing smile that Spencer came to realize it might not be in his head.

So he reveled in it. He let his eyes flit over to Luke’s clandestinely when he spoke, his breath always hitching imperceptibly at Luke’s returning gaze. He ignored Penelope’s pointed looks and settled for seeing Luke’s enraptured face when he closed his eyes at night.

A sound coming from the break room snaps Spencer out of his reverie. He turns to look at the offending noise with heavy eyes and finds the object of his thoughts stumbling sleepily out of the break room. He’s so tired it somehow surprises him when Luke walks over to him, almost as if he thought he would’ve been invisible.

Spencer jumps slightly in his seat and, to get rid of the nervous energy that suddenly overcomes him (and seems to everytime Luke approaches him), meaninglessly shuffles papers around on his desk. 

Luke smiles, pulling up a chair next to him, not knowing that just his proximity would give Spencer a giddiness that would last until next Friday.

“What are you still doing here, genius?” Luke asks, sighing and settling into his chair. He gives Spencer a warm smile when he clears his throat and shakes his head instead of answering.

What is Spencer still doing here? He’s been sitting at his desk for so long without even realizing it. Everyone else went home at least 10 minutes ago while Spencer sat at his desk daydreaming sleepily. About the man next to him.

Spencer is, and he knows this, terrible at having a crush. It practically consumes him. He acts so weird around them, spouting god-awful facts at terrible times, not picking up on any cues, and never doing absolutely anything about it.

So when Luke looks like he’s about to say something, Spencer jumps to fill the silence first. He shoots into a rant about the first thing his sleep-deprived brain can think of, standing in the process.

“You know, a study recently came out that showed that fist bumps transfer half the bacteria that handshakes do and that people should start employing that as a go-to greeting rather than--”

“I thought you were a proponent of kissing,” Luke jokes softly, rising from his chair.

Spencer blushes furiously. “Well, it’s not so much that I’m a proponent of kissing, it’s more that--”

He’s cut off by Luke’s face a mere inches from his, his breath ghosting Spencer’s face. Luke’s eyes land squarely on his, turning his brain absolutely useless. Even more surprising is the look on Luke’s face. A look Spencer had only seen in front of other people, at work, and that he (seemingly mistakenly) assumed had been a front.

“Not a proponent of kissing, huh?” Luke teases, his voice a mere breath.

Spencer’s voice is stuck in his throat. There is no way this is happening, he thinks, so he breathes lightly through his nose so Luke won’t disappear. He hopelessly stutters out a few syllables--none of them make sense--before Luke takes his hand in his.

A touch that would normally send him into mental hysterics now seems to ground him. Why had he never realized he was taller than Luke? Spencer’s eyes meet Luke’s and flicker down to his lips--the lips that were so soft-looking and pillowy he had found himself dreaming of kissing them more than once--before he realizes his mistake and quickly lowers his gaze to his feet.

“Spencer. Hey,” Luke says, using a finger to lift Spencer’s chin back up to a slightly mismatched gaze. Spencer can barely let the eye contact hold out of embarrassment; he’s sure Luke’s gonna tell him off or reject him before he’s ever said anything. He can feel himself tensing and freezing up.

“How many bacteria are transferred in a kiss?” Luke says softly, and Spencer finds himself relaxing at the opportunity to think about something else for a second. It takes him longer than usual, but he remembers the number fairly quickly. 

“80 million bacteria. More if it’s longer, less if it’s shorter, and, obviously one would have to take into account--”

He’s cut off by Luke’s lips pressing firmly against his. Spencer nearly falls over in shock, but once Luke’s bottom lip slides against his, he’s done for. The warmth in his stomach burns, his eyes flutter shut, and he melts into the floor, leaning down the slightest amount and sighing. Luke smiles against Spencer’s mouth and kisses back deeper, bringing his hand up to Spencer’s neck, leaving him stumbling over himself to get closer to Luke.

They remain like that for some time (honestly neither one of them could tell you how long if they tried) before Luke pulls away, out of breath and lips just barely swollen. Spencer almost doesn’t want to open his eyes to face the aftermath of what he’s sure is the best thing that’s happened to him, but the urge to see Luke’s eyes lit up wins over and slowly opens them, shyly creeping his gaze up to Luke’s face.

Luke’s beaming, running his fingers through the curls at the back of Spencer’s head. Spencer smiles back, letting his head fall to Luke’s shoulder.

“You know, for a genius, that sure took you a long time. I thought I would have to hit you over the head or something,” Luke said, his mouth pressed onto Spencer’s ear. 

Spencer feels his face heat against the fabric of Luke’s dress shirt. It took him a long time? Did that mean--

“I mean, I don’t know how many times I thought I had given myself away. When Garcia let it slip that she thought you liked me, I thought she was playing a prank on me because of how I looked at you,” he continued.

Spencer picked his head up. “No way,” he said softly.

Luke chuckled, “What, like it’s so hard to believe? Didn’t Morgan call you Pretty Boy?”

Spencer blushed redder and rolled his eyes.

“I just didn’t think… you know,” he replied.

Luke smiled. “Obviously.”

And, this time, Spencer kissed him.

tagged: @pretty-b0yy​ 

[ayma-nidiot]

“Don’t Speak Their Names” - Shrimpshipping fic Chapter 9

This chapter on AO3 can be found here.

Chapter 9 - Ginger Tea

~29 May~

“This is it, the last day of the finals… And it’s math.” Rex woke up with a groggy head. He had spent most of yesterday studying, and almost instantly regretted it as he walked to the kitchen. “Nothing a little coffee couldn’t solve.”

Ptera cooked breakfast in the kitchen while she listened to her son talk. “Hey, you’re not in college yet. Don’t have more than one cup, young man.”

“Yes, Mom…” Rex thought that his headache would abate with a little caffeine; on the contrary, he felt significantly worse, even before he began to drink it. “Ugh…”

Ptera immediately stopped what she was doing when she noticed Rex turn slightly pale, and placed a cool wet towel on his forehead. “Rex! What’s wrong?”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up…” Rex spoke with his head on the table.

“Then you need to stay home! It’s not going to do you any good if you throw up in the middle of your test!”

“But Mom, I’ve worked too hard to stay home! Just give me some of that ginger tea of yours and some aceta…”

“‘Acetaminophen?’” Ptera spoke as she began brewing her signature tea. 

“Yeah, that’s it! I’ll be fine if I have those things.” Rex started chugging the tea and immediately felt better.

“If you insist… But as soon as you start feeling sick, let your teacher know, okay?” Ptera gave Rex his handbag and a quick kiss on his cheek. “Good luck! Knock ‘em dead!”

“I… think that that the test is going to knock me dead.” Though Rex’s nausea was now gone, he still felt incredibly nervous about how he’d do. He was hoping to find some solace in his boyfriend, but he didn’t see Weevil until after they both arrived at their classroom. “Oh! Hey, Weeves! Where the hell were you all this time?”

“...” Weevil knew he had hurt his boyfriend, and felt ashamed of it.

“It’s your dad, isn’t it?” Rex asked as the both of them took adjacent seats, and waited for their classmates to finish coming in the room. He wasn’t surprised to see Amber sitting at the front of the room, chatting it up with the boys. “I bet his homophobic ass wouldn’t even let you out of the house, let alone to see me.”

“Never mind him. ” The teacher had just arrived, so Weevil knew he had little time left to talk to Rex. “What about you? Do you think you’ll do well?”

“I felt like utter crap this morning, but I think all that studying will pay off.”

“What did you just say?” Weevil grimaced when he heard the first part of that sentence.

“All right, class, the test will begin! Take out only a pencil, a graphing calculator, and a water bottle if you brought one.”

“Oh, um… Hey, the teacher’s coming!” Rex was thankful of this teacher’s presence for once; he wasn’t prepared to explain to Weevil how he nearly tossed his cookies that morning. What he wasn’t thankful for was the fact he left his bottle of ginger tea at home. Oh, shit… I’m really going to regret it…

And regret it he did; about halfway into the test, Rex felt a new wave of nausea hit him. Amber and Weevil already handed in their completed tests and left the room for a break. Smartasses… But I’m… gonna… make it…

Even the classmates who would normally tease Rex noticed how sick he looked; one told the teacher when he went to hand in his test. By this point, almost everyone had handed in their tests; only about five, including Rex, remained. “Mr. Raptor, are you feeling okay? Do you need to go to the nurse?” the teacher whispered.

Rex responded with a much louder voice, “No, it’s okay, Teach! I’ve only got five more questions!”

As the teacher walked away with a concerned look, Rex noticed that, indeed he had five questions… five very long questions. He could already feel his stomach roiling and knew he had to finish fast. Thank the gods that I looked at this exact same question with Mokuba yesterday! Rex thought as he finished showing his work, in barely legible writing.

“All right, you have two minutes left-”

No sooner had the teacher said this when Rex dashed for the teacher’s desk, slammed his test papers on it, and ran for the loo without taking his stuff.

“Oh!” Weevil looked from the book he was reading with Amber just outside the classroom. “Rex! How did it-”

Rex had barely made it to the loo nearby, and Amber dropped the book when she heard Rex blowing chunks all the way from where she stood. “Ooh… That doesn’t sound good. Weevil, I take it you have Rex’s home phone number?”

“Of course I do. His mom is going to be really mad, though… In the meantime, can you go tell the nurse and tell him to come here?” After Weevil let Ptera know what was going on, he entered the loo and knocked on the door of the stall Rex was in. “Hun, are you okay?”

“Does it look like I’m okay, bug boy?” Rex only got those words in before he threw up again.

“Maybe you should have taken the tea with you.”

Finally, Rex felt the nausea ease up, but still had a headache. “I was going to, but I forgot.”

“Sigh… Of course you did.”

The incoming nurse took the conversation out of their hands. “Mr. Raptor, what happened?”

“I… uh… started getting really sick as soon as I finished my math final, about five minutes ago.” Rex hated so many people worrying about him; he already got plenty of that at home. 

“Do you think you’ll be able to walk to my office and rest while you wait for your parents to get here?”

“Yeah…” Rex let Weevil and Amber help him to the nurse’s office. “Though, I’m not ready for the lecture I’m gonna get from Mom and Mama.”

Unfortunately, that lecture Rex received from his parents was the least of his worries. He found his bouts of nausea rapidly getting worse over the coming days, unless he drank copious amounts of the ginger tea. At least I don’t have to worry about finals anymore… Though I’m not looking forward to the college entrance exams.  

Rex made sure to have plenty of ginger tea - and rest - before the ceremony a week later. He thanked himself for it when he woke up the morning of graduation, and managed to endure the walk there without throwing up. Domino High School was the kind of school where all students had to attend the graduation ceremony, and wouldn’t find out if they’ve graduated until the day of. Rex wasn’t too confident on how he did during the math test, and feared he could be retained just because of that class alone.

“To think… that I might fail because of integrals…” he mused as he spoke to Ptera over the phone. “I don’t want to stay behind while Weevil gets to go to college!”

“Sweetheart, you’ll be fine! And I thought you worked too hard to stay home?”

“Okay, okay… I’m already late. Love you, Mom.” Indeed, the ceremony had already

started; Rex hung up his phone and took his spot in the back of the auditorium.

The principal stood at the podium, with the top 1% of the student body behind him. “And now, a word from our salutatorian, Weevil Underwood.”

Oh, man, his dad’s really going to let him have it.  

So Rex said. But despite knowing what his father would do for not fulfilling his wishes, and despite the glares he received from the many students who didn’t like him, Weevil looked very composed. “I am humbled to be this graduating class’ salutatorian, and will be sure to represent Domino High School proudly out in the real world.”

“‘Underwood’ and ‘humbled’ don’t usually go together,” a boy from a different class whispered to his buddy. 

“Nor do ‘Underwood’ and ‘proud.’”

Yeah, but he’s going to have the last laugh when he’s your boss, and you’re the ones who have to get him coffee. Rex made a face at the boys before turning his attention back to his boyfriend, listening intently to his speech, even though he didn’t understand half of it.

Now it’s my turn, Amber thought as the principal allowed her to begin her valedictorian speech.

“Whoaaaah! So the man-eater is our valedictorian?” a boy exclaimed. Because Amber 

had so many male fans in the senior class, it took a while for them to quiet down. Not even a loud “silence!” from the principal could quell them. 

“Boys, boys…” When Amber began to speak, there was finally silence in the auditorium. “You don’t want to be here all night… Or do you? ”

“Ahem.” The principal implied that Amber had gone too far.

“Right, right…”

Say, her manner of speech sounds different today… Rex understood even less of Amber’s speech than he did Weevil’s. But he noticed that she pronounced a few words in an accent he never heard before, and used terms he had never heard, like “loo” and “go out on holiday.” He surmised she was of foreign descent. She’s probably studied abroad, too… Then she’s also super rich.

“And now, the minute you’ve all been waiting for!” The principal sounded cheerful this time. “The distribution of the diplomas!”

Some students who knew for sure that they wouldn’t graduate kicked back and watched the remainder of the ceremony with little interest. Others began praying to whatever gods they believed in, hoping that they would barely squeak by.

Rex was definitely in the latter group. “Come on… I didn’t study so hard this past month just to be held back like a loser!”

Noticing Rex’s distress from how far away he was, Weevil winked at his boyfriend. Don’t worry, hun, he thought as he saw the name on the diploma the principal now held in his hand.

“Rex Raptor!” the principal called.

“Whoa! Raptor actually managed to graduate?” whispered a girl nearby.

“I guess pigs really can fly. Haha!” replied her friend.

The person in question, however, just stood there in awe - that was until the principal called again, “Is there a Rex Raptor present?”

“Y-Yes, this is he!” Rex spoke while nearly stumbling out his chair. He ignored the giggling (mainly from the girls) and looked instead to his diploma - and his boyfriend not standing far from it. I… I can’t believe it… I thought this day would never come! I’m… gonna… huh?

Rex felt nothing but pure elation at his achievement, until nausea struck him so hard that he passed out right on the graduation stage.

[scribeofmorpheus]

Counterpart [2/5]

Pairing: Bucky x Reader x Framework!Steve

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Words: 4k

A/N: Just to clear up any confusion, in the Framework the blip and Thanos’s undertaking never happened. Civil War was between Hydra and what was left of Avengers/Shield and the Sokovia Accords weren’t just about registration but an official order branding Shield as terrorists and reinstating the Winter Soldier Program- it passed. Also, Clint has always been Ronin, Hawkeye doesn’t exist in the framework.

Warnings: This chapter contains depictions and mentions of cheating, has drug use, language, slight NSFW and some angst. It’s a dark series, expect a darker take.

Leave a like, comment or reblog-highly appreciated! ☺  Taglist is open

PART TWO: DOPPELGANGERS

~Avengers Compound

"Grrrrrhh!" Bucky flipped the table in a burning fury.

Wanda and Sam looked on at a loss, feeling completely helpless.

"Hey, Bucky try and calm down," Sam said softly.

"How am I supposed to stay calm when she's out there, helpless and alone, knowing it's all my fault?" Bucky shouted.

Wanda took a small step forward, "Bucky, there's no way you could ha--"

"I'm her partner Wanda. We are supposed to keep each other safe! She isn't here right now and it's my fault!" Bucky bit back.

Wanda folded her trembling hands under her poncho as she took a step back, her eyes landing on the cup Y/N had drunk tea from a few hours earlier. Her eyes were sad but lit with fury.

"You think you're the only one who feels responsible? If I hadn’t been so afraid to get on that damned jet, maybe none of this would have happened!"

Wanda's words stung at everyone in the room, making them all flinch at her sudden outburst. The red mist that accompanied her abilities snaked around her form.

Sam unfolded his hands and held them out to try and calm his companions, "Look, let’s all take a breath. We all care about Y/N. We're all worried. But that don't change the fact that all we can do is wait until we get a ping on her location. Fighting isn’t goin’ to change that. Neither will flippin’ furniture."

Bucky let out another guttural shout and connected his non-metal fist into the wall. When his knuckles removed themselves, they were bloodied and the skin was serrated by the shattered wall plaster.

"We don't have time to wait," Bucky said hoarsely. "Those people we found in the submarine. They all flat-lined once whatever that experiment they were part of was completed. If they're doing the same thing to her--"

Bucky slumped to the ground, his head hanging low between his knees as his hands trembled against fists full of hair.

"Screw this!" Wanda stormed out of the room.

"Wanda, where are you going?" Sam asked.

"It'll be a cold day in hell before I lose another person I care about," she said with a vicious tone. "I'm not gonna sit around here and feel sorry for myself. I'm going to talk to someone who actually can help me!"

Then she disappeared, flying out in a brilliant red streak.

Sam sighed, the weight of leading the team was heavier than he was initially prepared for. He felt just as helpless as everyone else right now. If he couldn't be the leader they needed right now, the least he could be was a compassionate shoulder to lean on.

Sam sat down next to Bucky, at first all that filled the room was this perpetual feeling of nothingness- a distinct absence of sound beside ragged breathing and tree branches tapping on plated glass from the strong howling wind. It was almost as though the wind had adapted to their moods; angry, afraid and confused. Then, after a few minutes passed, Bucky spoke with a shaky voice.

"You were right, Sam."

"About?"

"I kept stalling abut asking Y/N to marry me because... I was afraid."

Sam rose his eyebrows in disbelief, "Were you afraid she'd say no? Because, I can tell you now, we can all see how much she loves you. There's no way she'd say no."

Bucky ran a rand through his hair as he looked up at the memorial portrait of Steve dressed in his first Captain America suit. Next to it were portraits of Tony and Nat and Vision. All their faces smiling and proud. Even though it was a way of commemorating all they'd done, of honouring those who fell, Bucky couldn't help but feel their smiles were mocking him right now.

"It's not that," Bucky said. "I was afraid she'd say yes. How fucked up is that?"

Sam let out a deep breath, "Actually, it ain't that fucked up."

"I just couldn't shake the feeling that if I kept putting off asking her, then I could somehow stop this fucked up world we live in from finding some way to ruin one of the last few good things I have left."

“Fucked up world, huh?” Sam's eyes fell on the wall of portraits instinctively, a bitter taste forming in his mouth. "I get it. People like us, we get accustomed to a certain degree of loss. After a while, we begin to anticipate it."

Bucky’s head fell back onto the wall with a light thud, "Yeah, that's round about it. Guess you and I aren't so different, Tin-can."

"Listen, don't take this to mean I want you to buy me matchin' friendship bracelets or braid each other’s hair but…" Sam's fist tapped Bucky's right arm, nudging the frozen stiff soldier. "If you need to talk to someone, once all this is over, I know someone who can help."

Sam's sincere words caused Bucky to swallow loudly. He hated feeling vulnerable. Despite Shuri's great work at undoing what Hydra had done to his fractured mind, he still had a lot of their training ingrained in him. He was trained to be a lone wolf and despite how hard he tried to let people in, it was still something he struggled with. Perhaps that was an old habit he needed to change.

"Thanks, Sam. I might just take you up on that."

"Good, now get some rest. You aren't no good to me or Y/N if you burn yourself out before we get a lock on her co-ordinates."

Bucky sighed, "Alright. You gonna go after Wanda?"

Sam thought on Bucky's question for a moment, "With her firepower, I think she can handle herself."

Bucky groaned as he picked himself off the floor and offered Sam a hand, "That's not what I meant."

Sam grumbled as he dusted his sweatpants once off the floor, "I know. She's angry. I think all this has brought back a lot of pain she's been keepin’ buried. I think, despite how bad the circumstances are, she needs to have an outlet for all that anger. She needs to burnout."

Sam glanced over at the portrait of Vision for a brief pause and then back at Steve's, doubt clouding his usually clear eyes. "Until then..."

Bucky placed his hand on Sam's shoulders, "You're doing proud by him. Don't doubt that. It's a heavy mantle to carry. Steve left behind big shoes to fill. You're a good leader, it just takes time. An adjustment period."

Sam chuckled wistfully and patted Bucky's hand on his shoulder, "Yeah, thanks Bird-man."

Bucky hummed something reassuring but his eyes were still dark, they made him look lonelier than he probably felt. A part of him still found solace in seclusion and that part of him wanted to be alone with his feelings.

Bucky left the room, his slumped shoulders informing Sam of his state of mind despite his attempts to try and act as though he now had things under control.

Sam looked up at Steve's portrait one more time, "We're a mess without you man."

~Elsewhere

The sound of girls playing in the back yard softened Wanda's mood slightly as she approached the wooden porch. The childish laughter and squeals reminded her of Pietro as a young, energetic boy.

Ever since she lost Vision, Wanda had been thinking about Pietro more and more. There was a darkness looming over her and the only time she felt somewhat like herself was during the small moments she and Y/N would share together. The red hue brightening her eyes fizzled out like a worn-out candle's flame.

Wanda felt heavy. Her heart threatened to sink back into sadness at the realisation that she may very well lose Y/N too.

With shaky hands, Wanda's petite, ring covered fingers rapped on the wooden door in slow repetitive stroke.

She didn't know what she was doing here, or why she had thought it a good idea, but she was here and she couldn’t unring this bell.

When the door opened, Wanda's fingers fidgeted slightly as she cleared her throat -her old accent slipping out between vowels from urgency.

"I- I'm sorry to just turn up here. I should have called ahead, b- but… I need your help."

"Something's happened, hasn't it?"

Wanda nodded.

The door swung open wider, letting Wanda into the house.

The water waved and lapped softly against the edges of the tub, toes curled at the end of the tub as your head tilted backwards in euphoric bliss. Steve's warm chest heaved up and down behind you, your body moving with the strong motions of his chest. His hands working tantalising circles around your lower body submerged under the hot water and fizzling out bubbles. The scented candles flooded your senses, numbing the former migraine that once agitated your brain.

Steve's heated breath tickled your ear as he whispered sweet nothings, causing your fingers to wrap around his nape.

"You like that?" He increased the pressure around his fingers making you gasp and move instinctively into his touch. Water spilt over the tub and onto the floor.

"Mmmm, yes," you moaned, toes curling and uncurling.

A low rumble escaped his lips right when they found the nape of your neck and placed suckling kisses on it.

"How about we take this to the bedroom?" He rumbled lowly, desire saturating each word.

"Yessss," you strained against his surgical touch. It was as though he knew your body better than you did.

Steve manoeuvred your body so you were no longer laying above him and he stepped out of the tub, water dripping from his wet body. His muscles seemingly glistening from the light hitting the moisture dripping off him. He turned around and instantly swooped you out of the tub, marching you towards the bedroom with hooded eyes burning across your equally wet body.

***

The coffee maker gurgled loudly as it filled with dark coffee that probably tasted as strong as it smelled. You reached into the fridge for the jug of orange juice and closed the fridge shut with your bare foot.

Steve was dressed in a three-piece suit (minus the tie) that hugged his frame flatteringly while he read the newspaper with a half-eaten plate of pancakes. A sub-headline caught your attention. It read: ‘Silver-Blue Blur Spotted in Sokovia?’

You poured yourself a glass of orange juice and sat back down on the table, a small tablet running through the highlights of the week.

Several headlines read: ‘Hydra Seizes Stark Assets; Director Pierce Re-Instates Winter Soldier Program; The Iron Maiden's Reign of Terror Continues; Peter Parker Still Missing; Asgardian Queen Hela Threatens War; Mischief in Moldova?’

"The Iron Maiden?" You repeated, unfamiliar with the term.

Steve noticed your brow was arched in suspicion, your lips pursed in thought, small dimples forming on your cheeks.

"Hydra believes Pepper Potts is trying to recruit more anarchists into whatever remains of Shield," he said nonchalantly as he took his empty mug and refilled it with more coffee. "Our drones spotted Pietro Maximoff in Sokovia earlier this week. Which is not surprising since this is the anniversary of his sister’s death."

You shook your head, unable to reconcile what he was saying.

"Wanda's dead?" You whispered to yourself so Steve wouldn't hear you.

Another migraine pinched at the base of your skull, causing pain to shoot through your eye while you reached for the orange juice. Your vision doubled as the pain worsened and you knocked the glass over, one hand bracing against your temple as you hissed.

"Ahhggg!" You yelped.

Steve set his Hydra stamped mug on the counter and rushed to your side, cupping your face in his strong hands.

"Again?" He asked with calm eyes but a disturbed face.

"Y-yeah..." you barely managed to get the words out.

Steve rushed to the bedroom and suddenly the image of you and Wanda sitting on a couch with cups held between your fingers came to life across the room like a projection. By the stove, a man with long dark hair looked out through your window, the smell of burning toast tickling your nostrils. The morning light obscuring his reflection.

You glanced down at your ring and felt an insurmountable measure of guilt, when you looked back up the projections vanished, leaving an ashed taste in your mouth. Your thumb kept rotating your ring like a nervous tick, your eyes frantically flickering from the couch to the stove in search of the ghosts you had just seen.

Questions that couldn't be answered screamed inside you as you started to hyperventilate. Why were you and the Scarlett Witch acting like buddies? Who was the man with the blue and gold-tinted metal arm? Why did all this feel more real than the furniture you were sat on? Why was Steve taking so damn, fucking long to get your pills?

"What is going on?" You said in fear, unable to trust your own mind.

As if on cue, Steve came back out with your pill bottle, one small pill already placed on his outstretched palm. You devoured it thankfully and let out an appreciative sigh as Steve kissed your numbing temples.

Steve pulled out his phone and started dialling.

"What are you doing?"

Steve looked at you oddly, "I'm taking the day off, my wife isn't at her best."

You held up your hand to stop him, "Nonsense, your work is more important."

"Hey," he hushed you as he caressed your cheek, "Nothing is more important to me than you and Sarah. Got it?"

You nodded.

"While I disappoint Pierce for the third time this week, why don't you get dressed and sign those papers we talked about. They're in my study."

You nodded again and made your way, sluggishly, towards the bedroom. Steve's muffled words growing lower and lower until you couldn't hear them all together.

***

"Do you consent to hereby becoming the legal guardian of one Sarah Carter-Rogers?" You mouthed out the question on the form.

You ticked the box yes and signed your name on the dotted line as you had done on countless other legal forms.

"Hey sweetheart, can you help me with my tie?" Steve walked in.

"Sure," you sat up from his desk and fastened his tie.

Steve peered over your shoulder, a proud smile creeping over his face when he realised you'd signed the papers.

"Huh," his smiled faltered ever so slightly. "You used your maiden name."

You were surprised by that, "I could have sworn-" you turned to look at the signature, and lo and behold, Steve was right. "Old habits, I guess."

"Hey," Steve brought your eyes to look into his. "Marriage has an adjustment period, and with your migraines, it's easy for your wires to get crossed. Don't worry."

He kissed your forehead affectionately before wrapping you safely in his arms.

"Now come on Mrs Rogers, Sharon's weekend is over. Let's go pick up our daughter," he said with an enthusiastic smile.

***

The Rolls-Royce pulled up into a small driveway leading up to a moderately sized townhouse. Toy's littered the lawn and an unopened newspaper was still lying on top of an unkempt shrubbery bush, dewdrops from the morning's cold air precipitated over the plastic sheet.

Steve stepped out the car, his hand held out for you as you scooched over the leather seats and took hold of his strong hand.

Out of the house burst a young blonde-haired girl no taller than your knee. Her pink backpack made rattling noises as it swayed from one side to the other with her running motions. Behind her, a tired-looking Sharon walked out of the house, her hair cropped short to the point you barely recognised her. Her cardigan pullover wrapped defensively around her thinning frame.

"Huh..." you squinted your eyes, unfamiliar with Sharon's new look.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

"Nothing, I guess I'm just used to seeing her with longer hair," you revealed.

Steve laughed inaudibly as he crouched down waiting for his daughter to crash into him.

"Sarah, honey don't run!" Sharon shouted after her.

Sarah ignored her mother's words and jumped straight into Steve's outreaching arms, "Daddy!"

"Hey, June-bug!" Steve picked her up into a spinning hug.

You watched Steve lighten up as soon as he scooped his little girl into his arms, Sarah's giggling making the morning seem warmer than it was. In the distance, you noticed Sharon stare menacing daggers at you. You flinched and deflected your gaze to the assorted toys getting soaked from the ticking sprinklers.

A throbbing sensation sent gooseflesh up the nape of your neck as a particularly sour memory returned to the forefront of your thoughts.

 Framework>Data Banks> Memories> Memories synchronised: 55%

Sharon looked worse for wear. Her eyes were puffy with dark circles making themselves at home on her face. Her hair tied up in an unkempt greasy bun. Nail edges bitten from anxiety. She stood on your apartment’s welcome mat, the look of horror pulling her mouth into an O shape as she glanced between you and Steve -a look of realisation. Steve used his large frame to shield your partially clothed body. Uneasy silence like trudging through mud. A few seconds later, the pizza delivery guy walked off the elevator and headed towards the ajar apartment door with a distraught woman staring at the occupants inside.

 You gripped the boot of the car to keep yourself steady. This memory didn't hurt as much as the others. You figured the medication was finally working.

Steve noticed your small movement and set Sarah down to rub your back in slow circles. You nodded your head to signal that you were okay. Sarah hugged your leg causing you to bend down and greet her properly.

"Hey, June-bug, how was the weekend?"

"It was good, we went to a big, big farm and saw horsies," Sarah had a hard time enunciating some of her words, making them sound incomplete.

"Wow! Horsies!" You gasped in an exaggerated tone causing Sarah's bubbly laughter to ripple out in its regular high pitch. You felt your spirits lift from that simple act.

Steve stroked Sarah's head while he spoke to you, keeping her out of earshot. "Hey, I'm gonna go talk to Sharon, tell her the paperwork’s been finalised."

“Good luck,” You blew air out of your mouth and cocked your head to the side, eyebrows rising in acknowledgement of that uneasy task. You stroked Steve's chest, "I'll strap little June-bug here into the car seat."

Steve walked off towards Sharon while you walked around the car with Sarah holding your hand.

When you fastened her into the child seat, Sarah pulled out a pine cone and handed it to you.

"Look what I found!"

“Wow! A pinecone, for me? Thank you, June-bug!”” You accepted the small pinecone. There weren’t many conifer trees nearby for at least a few miles out of the city. Sharon must have taken her far out of the city. "Huh, how far was this farm?"

Sarah's arms spread far apart as she sing-songed, "Faaaaaaaaar."

Without thinking, you pocketed the pinecone and glanced out the tinted window to look for Steve. He and Sharon were having a heated discussion, but they both tried to make everything appear normal.

Sarah glanced over, her smile falling, "Mommy and daddy fighting again."

You tapped Sarah's little button nose, "No they aren't fighting, they're just..." you glanced at Sharon. She was more animated in her gestures than before, pointing and frowning at the car. Steve held one hand up, probably in a feigned efford to calm her.

Speckles filled your vision as another memory burdened your peripheral.

Framework>Data Banks> Memories> Memories synchronised: 58%

Sharon lobbed something glass at Steve's head. He ducked as it shattered on the wall. Your throat had all but glued shut, you didn't have the nerve to get a word in. "Homewrecker!" rang through your small apartment. “Don’t act like things were fine. We haven’t been fine in a long time.” Steve words were cold. “I’m not the one who just got caught with his pants down! How old is she anyway?”

 When the pain subsided and your vision cleared, Steve was already sliding into the car. His jaw clenching but his voice soft as he turned to Sarah with a big smile, "Alright, who's ready for our day at the park?"

Sarah smiled but it wasn’t as animated as before, “Picnic!”

Steve laced his fingers into yours, the tension from his unpleasant conversation making his grip feel slightly uncomfortable. You didn’t say anything though.

***

Steve tossed a giddy Sarah up into the air a few dozen times while you laid out the picnic basket. The park had a few patrols passing through- peacekeepers were a mandatory presence since the Accords branded Shield as terrorists. A few other families were out too. You tried to get in the same fun spirit as Steve and Sarah, but something about how dishevelled Sharon looked haunted you. You began to imagine how easy everything could slip away. How easy you could end up like Sharon. Guilt clawed its way back through you.

When Steve sat down next to you, he placed a kiss on your head and noticed you didn't reciprocate with your signature smile.

"You okay?" He asked.

You kept your eyes on a trail of ants marching towards an open lunch box with grapes, "Are you happy? Despite everything we went through… everything we did?"

Steve got tense, his eyes falling on Sarah with what seemed to be shame. "I'm not going to act like it's been a fairy-tale. People rarely feel complete, especially in our world, given what we do. I was content before you came along. Sometimes being content isn’t enough, you reminded me of what was possible.”

Steve looked back at you, his face lit up as he brought your finger to his lips for a loving kiss, “And, yes, despite everything, I am happy."

You glanced down at your wedding ring, your frown up turning into a numb smile.

Steve drew you in for a proper kiss and all your worries ebbed away. His large, calloused hands sliding along your folded thighs, a guttural moan escaping his throat as you laughed at his hungry kisses.

“We’re in public, Steve...” you pretended to be embarrassed by his publicly affectionate actions, but truthfully the only time things made sense was when he kissed you.

“That’s never bothered you before,” he said with a raspy voice. Then Sarah’s laughter rippled outward from a few paces away, her form looking much smaller from this distance as she blew bubbles out of a small looped plastic wand. Steve groaned with displeasure, “But I suppose you’re right.”

You licked your lips and straightened your posture before feeding Steve a grape.

Suddenly both your cell phones beeped.

You both groaned from the impending disruption of your day off.

Steve looked at his phone and scrolled through a long docket before swearing under his breath.

"They need us back in the field," he said through a clenched jaw. He wasn't amused with the last-minute work call.

Your eyes widened when you read through your own docket, "They've managed to trace the Iron Maiden back to her hideout."

"Call the babysitter would you, I'll go get Sarah."

Steve walked over to Sarah and lifted her onto his shoulders.

You sighed, dialling the number of the babysitter, "So much for my day off."

***

The dark-tinted tactical SUV raced passed several blocks. You were suited up and fastening on your gloves. Your partner Clint sat beside you, checking the edges of his katana. He had yet to fully fasten on his arm-guards leaving the identical bullet hole scars on his palms exposed. There was also a matching sized hole drilled through the katana’s grip, some of the metal bent outward jaggedly.

Like clockwork, the memory attached to those scars rung through your head. You squinted your eyes shut for a moment.

 Framework>Data Banks> Memories> Memories synchronised: 62%

A panorama of open country raced nauseatingly across the speeding car's window. A ‘Welcome to Budapest’ sign on the highway. An ambush. The snipers nest releasing soviet made hollow-point bullets into metal car doors. Clint's sword sliced diagonally across a red-haired woman’s face. A single bullet ripping through Clint's hands that were griped on his sword for the finishing blow. A scream, a painful cry, a worried shout. You tackled your partner to the ground. The red-haired woman making a run for it. Steve throwing his shield. The metal impacting with a spine so intensely it crushed the spinal cord. Defector Maria Hill laying paralysed from the waist down. A shield emblem printed on her right jacket pocket. Clint's hands trembling as you wrap them in bandages, his face contorted in anger as he failed to move his fingers. “She better pray we never cross paths again!”

 "Hey, you good partner?" Clint placed his hand on your back, having noticed your discomfort.

"Bad week is all," you reassured him as you opened your eyes. “You ever going to repair the hilt on that? It can’t be comfortable to hold with the metal bending out like that.”

Clint chuckled and made a fist rigidly with both his hands, one at a time. When they opened up again, several of his fingers moved like iced joints. A painful sneer enlarging his nostrils.

"Are you okay?" You asked him.

Clint fastened on his gloves, "Just cramps. How's lover boy?"

"Always with the deflecting,” You shook your head. “He's… been on edge about something lately. I just feel like something's not… right."

Clint sheathed his sword and pulled his mask out from under his seat, "Maybe it's because you chose not to go on your honeymoon. He is old fashioned after all. Probably all that pent up sexual tension turning into plain tension."

Clint laughed at his jab, you punched his midrib hard.

"Shut up," You looked over the mission brief one more time and then checked your guns. "If this really is the Iron-Maiden's hideout, Romanoff might be there..."

Clint turned stiff at the mention of Natasha's name. His fist-clenching so tight it strained against his leather gloves.

"Good," he said menacingly as he fastened on his mask.

The black SUV's rolled up in an old brick house neighbourhood. You placed your comms unit in your ear and unholstered your gun.

"Look alive people, time to storm a castle."  

You and Clint exchanged a fist bump, the simple action triggered a searing pain to braze through your mind like a cheese grater. You gasped, ground your molars together and banged your head against the leather seats of the SUV. The memory wasn't clear, it was hazy like a half-forgotten dream. An image of a man with long hair, lips pulled in a reluctant smile, flickered in your mind like a loose light fixture. You couldn't see past his top lip, but the thought of him filled you with something you hadn't felt in a long time: safe.

The headache subsided almost as quickly as it came, you blinked several times.

"You good?" Clint asked once more, his serious tone lacerating through you.

You nodded, took a breath and hopped out of the car. Gun out of its holster, you took up tactical positions and stormed the old brick apartment complex in strategic waves of intimidating force. The sound of helicopter blades slicing through the air above drew your attention. Steve was seated inside, fully geared and ready to jump onto the roof.

Over the comms, you heard Clint say, "One with the least take down numbers buys the first round at McCredie’s."

"You're on!" You challenged.

“Easy there, Mrs Rogers,” Steve said cooly. “We know that if you lose this bet, you’re just gonna make me buy the round.”

“Better make sure to send all the stragglers my way then, honey.”

Clint grappled to a high floor, “Hey that’s cheating.”

The sound of Steve bursting through a window filled the comms, “No, that’s just a perk of being married to me.”

You chuckled as you fired off several shots at the enemy.

PART THREE: WHO THE FUCK IS BUCKY?

AFWHI tags: @fangirl-colo @dormousse @smallmarvel @ren-ni @sargentbucket @nikolett3 @wnygirl2012 @jentismyname @evilgeniuslabz-blog @myrabbitholetoneverland @sleepingspacedragon @500daysofbecky @reidreader  

Permatags: @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet @savethehoneeybees

tags:@ladybugsfanfics

[whiskynottea]

The Ripple Effect

Previously Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20

AO3

T/W: Major character death.

Chapter 21. Faith

I opened my eyes to see the two paramedics next to me, and I vaguely realized that I was in an ambulance. The siren was loud, hurried.

I felt dizzy. The pain vibrated through my body, making me want to curl up and cry.

I looked around, searching for Jamie, but he was nowhere to be found. I closed my eyes and thought of his crooked smile, of his slanted eyes full of love.

The image of his body taking the crash’s impact flashed in front of my eyes, pushing every happy memory away.

I passed out again.

--

The hospital corridors around me were familiar, but their sterility seeped in my body; cold, hostile, unsafe. I shouldn’t be in a hospital. Not again.

The stretcher I lay on was moving fast, so fast that the stuff jogged around it to keep up with me.

I ran a hand over my crotch.

Blood. Fresh, crimson.

Not again. Please, please, not again.

I gripped the hand that grasped the stretcher close to mine. It belonged to a bony and tall nurse, her lips a thin line on her face.

“No,” I pleaded. “Not yet. It’s too soon.”

She gave me a compassionate look and nodded, her eyebrows knit together. “I ken, lass.”

She knew. And yet, I could tell by the look in her eyes that there was nothing she could do. There was nothing I could do.

I heard Jamie’s voice in my mind, telling me to have faith. I set my jaw and swallowed hard.

“My husband?” I asked. “He was with me,” I added, tugging at her sleeve when she didn’t turn to look at me.

“He hasna arrived yet,” she said, matter-of-fact. The policeman who called us asked for three ambulances. The other two are still on the way.”

Jamie in an ambulance, away from me. Separated, unable to give solace to each other.

He had to be safe, to come back to me as soon as he could. I needed to grasp his hand and listen to his deep voice keeping the fears at bay. I needed him more than ever, and yet, he wasn’t there.

I started panicking. I was alone, and I couldn’t feel Faith.

“My baby,” I whispered, placing my bloody hands on my belly. “My baby isn’t moving.”

The nurse’s lips had almost disappeared from her pale face, and she looked at me though exhausted eyes, clad in black circles. “We’re taking ye for an ultrasound right now.”

I took a deep breath, and the hospital’s scent invaded my nostrils like an old friend. It seemed to mock me for my failure, for lying on the stretcher instead of running next to it.

The exam room was quiet, dimly lit. The gel on my belly, cold. My side, empty. Jamie was supposed to stand there, by my side, as he had always done.

I fixed my eyes on the screen, waiting.

The black and white recording of the ultrasound had the image of my daughter. Still there, and a bit bigger than I remembered. Curled up, with a tiny fist next to her heart.

Her silent heart.

I clenched my own hands in fists, waiting, hearing my heart beating alone in my body. All alone, waiting for hers.

It couldn’t be. The ultrasound machine might be broken, the volume too low.

The time passed, but there was no movement, no sound. The examination room was enfolded in an eerie silence.

A heart in the making, with millions of beats waiting ahead, hushed abruptly. A muscle that didn’t contract, leaving stalled blood in her veins and arteries.

“Come on baby,” I pleaded, my tears blurring the picture on the monitor. I brushed them furiously away, afraid I would lose the tiny movement that would confirm that my girl was still alive.

A buzzing filled my ears, thousand of wasps around me, their stings painful on my body. And yet, I felt nothing inside. I didn’t want to feel, to think. I didn’t want to accept the realization that was forced upon me.

This wasn’t happening. I had promised to keep her safe. I had told her all would be okay.

The same tired, sympathetic nurse led me to a room, helped me settle on the bed, and administered an IV. Finally, she patted my shoulder with a sorrowful smile. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

I looked at her, lost. My loss. It couldn’t be.

“Dinna hesitate to ring for help.” Her voice was soft and tender, but I felt it coming from miles away. “My name is Crook. Just press the button and I’ll come promptly.”

I nodded, and instinctively ran a hand on my belly. Still there, still full. As if nothing had happened.

I felt exhausted. With my hand still on my belly, waiting to feel Faith, I succumbed to sleep.

--

I woke up in the darkness, my dream still fresh in my memory. Faith had woken me, kicking like a wee fiend. I turned to tell her Da, but he wasn’t there.

Neither was our bedroom. The soft light on the hospital’s white walls blew the dream away. Faith hadn’t kicked.

I waited in silence, barely breathing so I wouldn’t miss her move. But it never came.

My baby was still. My girl’s heart had gone quiet. The ultrasound monitor was working properly.

The only thing I heard was my own heart, breaking. A smashing sound, filling the world with tiny pieces that crashed on to the walls and fell on the floor, ensuring that the shards would never be mended again.

A cry left my lungs before I realized it. It was guttural, inhuman. It tore my throat, running through the hospital corridors, trying to find a way out – to the sky. To her.

But she was too far away to listen.

My womb was full, and yet, I was empty. My soul was lost, somewhere between a baby kick and a cry I would never listen to. I could still sense her, curled up, silent, featherlight. And yet, she wasn’t there.

I had lost Faith, and with her I lost a part of myself.

Sobs started wracking my body, sobs that I couldn’t control, waves of grief crushing upon me, molding my shape, changing me forever.

Mrs Crook came to my room even though I hadn’t called for her. She whispered soothing words that I didn’t hear and injected something in my IV. I wished it was poison.

With both hands cradling my belly, my dead baby, my dead dreams, I cried until I fell asleep. In my sleep, I dreamed of a redheaded girl, running in a field of barley, golden like her skin, looking at a sky as blue as her eyes.

When I woke up, I had almost forgotten what was real and what not. I was almost sure that I had dreamed of the accident, the blood, Faith’s unnervingly silent heart. At that moment, I had convinced myself that all was well, and I looked around, searching for Jamie. That second, that split second, I was happy.

Then I saw Geillis sitting in the chair next to my bed. And I remembered.

“My baby,” I whispered, looking desperately at her, and I felt a fresh wave of tears running down my cheeks. “My baby girl,” I repeated.

Pain; unending, unforgiving.

Geillis, the always sharp-witted Geillis, had nothing to say. She came to sit on the bed next to me, wrapped her arms around my body, and rocked us both, my Faith and me, equally dead inside.

“Jamie?” I asked in a hoarse voice after a while, and she pulled away to look into my eyes.

“He’s okay, he’ll be okay,” she said with a trembling smile.

“Where is he?”

“In the OR. Hildegarde came from our hospital and is operating on his hand,” she said, and seeing my distress, she repeated, “He’s okay. He’ll be okay.”

That didn’t sound reassuring at the least.

“What has happened?” I asked. “Nobody has told me.”

“You crashed on the traffic barrier, but fortunately Jamie had reduced your car’s speed, and the impact was minor. Both airbags opened – ”

“I know,” I interrupted her. “The airbag killed Faith,” I said, and my voice cracked. “It’s a placenta abruption, right?”

“Yes.” Geillis swallowed hard, trying to stop the tears before leaving her emerald eyes. “Jamie would end up with bruises and light injuries like you – ”

I snorted. Light injuries. I had never thought that tearing my heart out would be considered as a light injury.

Geillis looked at me and frowned. “You know what I mean,” she defended herself. “Anyway, Jamie would be okay, if not for the second crash. The car that pursued yours went straight to a head-on collision with the truck.”

“And?”

Why did it take her so long to explain such a simple thing?

“The truck was heavy, thank god, and didn’t move much from the collision’s impact. It’s rear side, however, dented the side of your car. Jamie’s side.” I held my breath, unsure if I wanted her to continue. “Jamie was lucky,” Geillis added hurriedly. “He only got injured on his right side – leg and hand.”

“How bad?” I asked in my doctor’s voice, afraid that if she witnessed my meltdown she would stop sharing the information she had acquired.

“His leg has a deep gash that will leave a mark, but other than that it’s fine. His hand, however, got trapped between the dented door and the steering wheel. We still don’t know if it will ever be fully functional again.”

“His vitals?”

“All fine. Like yours.”

Like mine. Which exactly of my vitals was working fine, I wondered.

“Geillis?” I asked after a while. It was strange that she hadn’t asked any questions. So strange, that it showed how bad things really were.

“Tell me,” she leaned towards me with a smile.

“What happened to the other man? The one who pursued us?”

“He was dead already when they brought him to the hospital. He died at the collision,” she said and frowned, looking at me. “Who was he Claire? What did he want?”

“Randall,” I simply said. “My worst nightmare,” I added, and closed my eyes, wishing the conversation to be over.

Randall was dead. I was finally free. But it was a hard-won freedom, and I didn’t know what to do with it.

A life for a life, I thought, and started crying again.

“Claire,” Geillis said when my sobs quietened. “We need to talk about you.”

“About me?”

“Ye have to give birth, Claire. You can either wait, or we can proceed with the induction today.”

“I want Jamie to be with me,” I said, biting my lip hard to block the tears inside. “I can’t do it without him.”

Geillis nodded, but I saw a shadow lurking in her eyes. “Okay, then. We’ll wait until tomorrow.”

We fell silent, until I spoke again, a few minutes later. “Geillis,” I whispered. “I don’t want to lose her.” 

The dam broke again. I cried in her arms until I fell asleep, grateful for finding a way out of reality.

--

The next morning Jenny had taken Geillis’ place next to my bed.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised, when I saw her. It was a long way from Lallybroch.

“Of all the places in the world, Claire, this is the one I should be.”

She had been crying. Her eyes were puffy and red rimmed, the silver trails on her cheeks shining under the daylight. She held my hand, and then took me in a crushing embrace, as if she was trying to force life back inside me.

“Jamie?” I asked.

“He hasna woken up yet. It was a long surgery.”

I nodded. “How did it go? Did they tell you?”

“Aye, they did. The doctor said his hand will never look the same again, but he will be able to use it, eventually.”

“Good,” I breathed, then hesitated. “Jenny, does he know?”

Jenny shook her head. “I dinna think so. Geillis told me he was unconscious when they brought him in, then woke up crying and calling yer name. They gave him sedatives and he fell asleep. He hasna woken after his surgery, so I couldna talk to him.”

“I’ll tell him once he’s awake,” I announced, setting my jaw. “Was I on sedatives too?” I asked as an afterthought.

Jenny gave me a sorrowful smile, one that wordlessly replied to my question. “They doctor said ye have to go into labor,” she said at last.

“No,” I denied, feeling I’d said the same thing one million times. “I’ll do this when Jamie is better. I don’t want to be alone. He is supposed to be there.” My voice broke mid-sentence, and I stopped Jenny with a raised hand before she could come closer to hug me. Love elicited more feelings than I could handle.

In the afternoon, Mrs Crook came to my room again, rested and ready to start another shift. “Lass,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Nothing will change, ken? Tis better to proceed now.”

“Why isn’t my husband here?” I asked, as if it was her fault that Jamie was away.

“He’s on heavy painkillers. He isna in condition to witness a labour.”

“I’ll wait,” I said, determined. “I’ll wait until he’s better.”

Jenny talked before the nurse could voice her disagreement. “I’ll come wi’ ye, Claire. Better the wrong Fraser than no Fraser at all, aye?”

“But Jamie would want to be there,” I said, crying, as I slowly accepted that he wouldn’t be. “He would want to be there no matter what…”

--

I gave birth to my dead daughter, committing in memory every single minute. I carved every single detail of the process on my heart, while wishing the doctor to tear me apart, to break me into pieces so I couldn’t feel anymore.

She never cried, and never reached for my breast. I belatedly realized that I didn’t have milk to give her yet. But I would have, in a few months. Milk made for her. Useless.

Faith lay in my arms, born and still. A porcelain doll, with my white skin and Jamie’s red hair. With ten fingers and ten toes. With faint red eyebrows laid over closed eyes.

And I sang to her. And I called her by her name. And I wished she would be alive. And I lived, and yet I died.

Jenny had brought with her a light green bodysuit with pink elephants. The evening after the birth she gave it to me with tears in her eyes, explaining that she had bought it a few weeks ago, for Faith to leave the hospital with the clothes her auntie gifted her. We dressed Faith together, brushing tears away only to make room for more to come.

Sometime in the night, Jenny told me that Jamie had woken up from his morphine sleep. I took Faith with me in her beautiful outfit, holding her tight against my chest, and walked to his room.

I walked to him, needing him to hold us both. To listen to him whispering soft Gaelic words to our girl, even though she wouldn’t listen to his wobbly voice. To share the burden of loss with the only person who could really understand.

His eyes were closed when we entered his room. I walked quietly across the darkness to stand next to his bed, but he felt me before I could talk and opened his eyes.

“Sassenach,” he said with a dreamy smile, his eyes darting from me to Faith in my arms.

He looked at me as if I was holding the world in my hands. A second, his own split second, of happiness.

And then, the heartbreak.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no, no. It’s too soon.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, Jamie.” I stood still, cupping Faith’s head, rocking her with my sobs. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry. She’s not here.”

A growl left his throat, deep and painful, but he patted the bed next to him. I sat down, facing him.

“Never say that again, Claire. Never, d’ye hear me?” Tears rolled down his cheeks, but his voice was sober. I dropped my eyes somewhere between his clavicles, ashamed. “Listen to me,” he said, authoritatively, tilting my chin up so I could see him. “Tis not yer fault. Nobody loved Faith more than ye - more than we did. More than we still do.”

He hugged us both then, and in the silence of the night, we made the perfect picture – if someone was far enough to misinterpret the painful tears with happy ones.

Two heart were beating in that room instead of three. And these two, kept a mournful rhythm, one of loss and powerlessness.

Jamie traced Faith’s face with a finger that seemed gigantic, but the way he did it was so gentle, that I thought his bones would break.

“Mo ghraidh,” he whispered, and I knew that this time he wasn’t calling me. “Hello wee one, it’s yer Da.”

And with that, with the same words he used to greet her when she was alive inside me, Jamie broke the last fragment of my heart that had remained untouched.  

We sat awake all night, telling her stories about our family. About what her life would be, if it hadn’t stopped abruptly. About her uncles and grandparents. About her cousin, who had gifted her his little yellow duck to play with, when we would bathe her. About the love that bound us all.

We stayed awake all night, in a tight embrace, wishing the sun never to come out. Wishing that a miracle would happen, and our little family would be whole again.

But the miracle had happened, and we held her in our arms. Ten fingers and ten toes. Two closed eyes, dreaming of a better world.

In the morning, we buried our Faith.

A/N: I know most of you (all of you) think that this is cruel. And that’s because it really is. 

This is a decision I made from the first moment I plotted this story, before I got personally attached to the characters. Did I have second thoughts while writing about Claire’s pregnancy and Faith? Of course I did. But the reasoning for my initial decision didn’t change. 

First, I wanted to write a modern AU of Jamie and Claire’s story as we see it in Outlander/Dragonfly in Amber, and the impact of Black Jack Randall on their lives is detrimental in these books. So, my decision to follow canon had predestined Faith’s future. In canon Jamie and Claire live this death, and carry it with them forever. It makes them who they are. And I wanted this, but I did diverge from canon on a point. I wanted them to mourn their loss together. To hold their baby together.

The second reason is my love for real stories. It’s not that I don’t love happy endings - I do. But the truth is that approximately 1 in 200 births ends in a stillbirth. It’s horrific, but it happens. And these parents without babies keep living, and they go on. I’m not saying that they forget, but they go on. So I wanted to write a story to honor them.

This was the last chapter of this story, but it’s not where this journey ends. Next week I will post an Epilogue, in which we will find Jamie and Claire in the future, and see how their story continued.

Thank you all for reading. Truly.

Epilogue

[takaraphoenix]

The Bible isn’t “pro gay” in the slightest, but it isn’t as condemning as some people make it out to be. My mom took it well, I’m just stalling to tell my dad... you know... “homosexual agenda” in media is something he talks about. Honestly, I still don’t see homosexuality as being ok, I just stopped caring after years of trying to change. I don’t know when I’ll tell my dad, but I do know that I’m dreading it.

Oh, but it is. And that’s the misconception.

It’s pro love, that, by definition already, makes it pro-gay.

It depends on the way you read it.

The cherry-picking dicks decide to take that one line about men lying with men being an abomination and act like that is literally all the Bible has to say as a total. I recently read about that line being a mistranslation though and it meaning to lay with a boy, as in being against pedophilia and not homsexuality, but you’d have to fact-check that one because I only rad it in passing.

And anyway, I kinda doubt they stick to the script about everything, like the shit with with the shrimps and lobsters that you shouldn’t eat and whatever else other ridiculous, outdated rules men put down in the name of God back then.

If the Bible-thumpers would actually stick to every stupid little thing that was deemed bad 2000 years ago, yeah. But this cherry-picking bullshit’s gotta stop. God should be about love and loving all of his creations. That’s the greater good, not to follow the Bible word-by-word like it’s a manual to life. Which it isn’t, especially not to modern life, 2000 years later.

I don’t really get why it is not more obvious that a book written over 2000 years ago is obviously outdated. You can read a book that’s been written 200 years ago and find wildly outdated views in it and have to read it critically and with the time it was written in in mind. And just like every other book, this one too has to be read critically and with the time it was written in in mind.

That’s how my high school religion teacher made me very slowly come around on Christianity at least. Because I used to really truly hate it, mainly based on the propaganda it is used for by homophobic arseholes and partially because of the way it had been taught to me up until that point; as a story-by-story going through it kind of situation. Then we finally started to separate Christianity from the Bible and started looking at the Bible as metaphors and suggestions, not as set-in-stone rules, but as something that should be thought about, metaphors that you gotta think about.

It’s not about the religion, any religion, it’s about the way you use it. And if anyone takes any religion to justify bigotry, hatred and suppressing others, then they are doing religion wrong. Because at its very core, every religion serves the purpose to comfort people. It was created because humans had questions they could not answer and needed the comfort of an answer, some higher power that held everything together, seeking a reason for the suffering they had to endure, solace and shelter and the sense that it will all work out in the end. It was created to be something good and comforting. And abusing it to justify hatred is disgusting.

Maybe this could be a good read on that for you? Maybe if you got some things to rattle Bible-based homophobia, you’ll dread the confrontation a bit less.

Either way, I wish you luck.

[bigbluebarns-blog]

ABLEISM REDUX

Well… There are so many different dimensions of disability that people can be ableist toward those with different disabilities than their own. …And it’s only in the last couple of generations (within my lifetime, at least) that Disability Rights groups have banded together in a common cause (Rather than, say: Rights groups for the blind working only for the blind, Rights groups for Cerebral Palsy working only for Cerebral Palsy, etc.).  Matter of fact, based on my own recollections, I think working together for universal access rights only really got any steam in the 1970s – when I was already a teenager.

Confession time: until relatively recently (like, the last 10 years, or so), as a physically disabled person, I was biased against those with intellectual disabilities, and would get quite insulted if anyone mistakenly thought I was “R

—–ed.”

@theborkplanet IDK HOW TO SEPARATE MY COMMENTS FROM YOURS AND COMMENTS FROM YOURS. HENCE THE CAPS. 

I WAS ALSO BIASED AND PROBABLY STILL AM SOMEWHAT, TOWARD PPL WITH INTELLECTUAL DISABILITIES(ID). I TOO USED THE R WORD. GROWING UP MY EXP WITH PPL W/ ID WERE NEGATIVE OR GROSS, AND NO ONE EVER BOTHERED TO EXPLAIN SOMEONE’S ID TO ME, SO ALL I KNEW WAS NEGATIVE BEHAVIORS EG JO GRABS STUFF AND SCREAMS; NO ONE EVER EXPLAINED HER AUTISM. MOE HAS DOWNS SYNDROME, IS OBSESSED WITH SAYING “BOOBIES” LOVES THE EFFING BEACH BOYS AND FARTS A LOT AND NEVER SHUTS UP; HOW ANNOYING; NO ONE EVER TOLD ME ABOUT PERSEVERATING, OR THAT DS CAN CAUSE GI PROBS SOMETIMES. AL MUTTERS, HE STINKS, AND HE KNOCKED OUT HIS AIDE SO I’M AFRAID THAT AL WILL GET ANGRY WITH ME AND KNOCK ME OUT; NO ONE EVER EXPLAINS HIS CONDITION, SO I GLEAN MY INFO FROM EAVESDROPPING and RUMORS. THE ABLE-BODIED ADULTS DIDN’T BOTHER TO PROMOTE UNDERSTANDING EVEN THO WE WERE ALL TRAPPED ON THE SAME SPECIAL ED BUS, SO THE PASSENGERS WITHOUT ID TALK SMACK ABOUT THE ONES WITH ID. THE ONE TIME I ASK, “WHAT’S AL HAVE?” ABLEBODIED ADULT SHAMES ME FOR ASKING AND BLATHERS ABOUT CONFIDENTIALITY. NOT TRYING TO JUSTIFY MY PREJUDICE; JUST RELATING EXP. I’M ALSO WORKING THRU IT BUT U R RIGHT; NEVER 100% DONE. 

I’m working through it, and like to think I’m getting better (and one huge part of that is learning just how deep and intertwined institutionalized ableism really is, in our societies). But as with being a White woman dealing with racism, I have to remember that it’s a case of continuing recovery, and not something I will ever be 100% over and done with.

Thanks for sharing, @aegipan-omnicorn. You’re lovely.

@bigbluebarns, I don’t personally know anything about suffering racism, being a white american myself. However, I do know a thing or two about suffering ableism, both at the hands of able-bodied people, and disabled people.

People are incredibly social animals and will band together in groups with other similar people. This is natural, and it is good. It can be healing and cathartic to hang out with people who “get it.” But this tendency can also have an extremely dark side, as we see with “isms.” This is going to get long, so I’m going to break it here in consideration of people’s dashboards. Again, I can only speak to ableism and sexism so please keep that in mind.

OMG, I LOVE THESE NAMES AND TRADEMARKS. DID U INVENT THEM?

Ableisms I have suffered at the hands of disabled people:

The Cripple Police™: These are the people who, in an overzealous bid for limited access available, arbitrarily decide who is disabled enough to use a mobility aid, bathroom stall, parking spot, and even sometimes the label of “disabled.” If you are not Crippled Enough, you can be subject to any form of social punishment they deem to be necessary.

I HATE THE CP AND I’M CONSTANTLY REMINDING PPL THAT U DO NOT HAVE TO APPEAR DISABLED IN ORDER TO USE HANDICAP PARKING. IT’S LIKE THEY WANT U TO WEAR A TAG STATING U R DISABLED SO THEN THEY CAN ASSESS IF U MEET THEIR RANDOM CRITERIA.

Example: I used to be able to walk longer distances with a service dog, but was still a high fall risk. My doctor (a licensed neurologist) prescribed me a parking placard so that none of us had to worry (as much) about me passing out in a parking lot where no one could see me, and getting run over. A lovely woman in a wheelchair, who just happened to park in the accessible spot next to me, proceeded to scream at me and my service dog all the way into the store. A manager rescued me by going along with my ruse of knowing him, and invited me into the back were I fucking hid away until they told me she had left the store. It. Was. Scary.

EGAD SOUNDS HORRIBLE. BUT YEAH THERE IS A DISABILITY HIERARCHY

The Born This Ways™ : The experience between people who were born disabled, and who acquired disability later in life, vary a great deal from one another. BTW ableist types actively minimize the experiences of other disabled people, simply because they hadn’t been baptized since birth by xyz. In other words, the suffering was not identical to their own, thus must be invalid.

Example: I became disabled after adulthood, and tried to find solace after being subjected to ableist responses from friends and family members who were unable to cope with the “broken me.” I found lots of great disabled people who helped me, but I also found people who routinely scoffed at my experiences, again informing me that I was not “disabled enough,” and suggested I was being deliberately weak, or histrionic. Sometimes it was almost eerily word for word what my ableist friends/family said. How strange…

I’VE SEEN THE ACQUIRED DISABILITY IS BETTER. TM ADIBS MIGHT IMPLY, “WELL I’M A QUAD, BUT AT LEAST I GOT TO EXP BEING ABLEBODIED; I’LL HAVE EXP U SADSACK LOSER BTWS WILL NEVER HAVE. I GOT TO BE NORMAL FOR A WHILE” MOST OFTEN I SAW IT COME FROM PARALYZED PPL WHO WISHED THEY COULD WALK AGAIN. I WAS BORN WITH CP AND AB PPL ACTUALLY ASKED ME “WOULD U RATHER BE BTW OR AD?” BEFORE I THOUGHT ABOUT IT, I SAID “BTW, CUZ THATS ALL I KNOW AND I’VE HAD IT FROM DAY1 FALSE EQUIVALENCY WHEREAS ADIBS HAVE TO ADJUST” NOW THO I KNOW THAT EVEN I AS BTW HAVE HAD TO ADJUST TO CHANGING SYMPTOMS. DO U WANT 2 BE A TREE OR A MOUSE...UHHH...FALSE EQUIVALENCY ALERT, CAN’T COMPAPARE APPLE N ORANGE.

The Faker Police™: I think anyone with an invisible illness has experience with this one. This is when people who “look disabled” refuse to believe someone who “does not look disabled,” and proceed to treat them as hysterical attention seekers instead of…well, anyone else. These people often practice double ableisms–I have noticed that many also tend to judge Disabled Enough based on mobility aids. Then, they try to chase the “fakers” out of the community, because everyone knows “fakers” are why we have additional burdens added (like further hurdles to access, government aid, etc).

ALSO IF U HAVE AN INVISIBLE DISABILITY LIKE YOURS AND ME ALSO, I SEE THE “WELL EVERYONE GETS DEPRESSED/SAD/TIRED.” I END UP FEELING LIKE I HAVE JUSTIFY THE DISABLING NATURE OF MY DEPRESSION/ANXIETY TO A WEG. 

Example: Before my condition had progressed to me needing a mobility aid, I was already facing discrimination in the workplace. I requested an accommodation to have the crappy fluorescent lights removed from above my desk, as they provoke bad neurological symptoms. You’d think it was a little thing, but when I asked for advice on dealing with skeptical and belligerent management, I met the same reactions in some disabled people, followed immediately by “Fakers like you are why we see knee-jerk reactions like the word ‘no!’ Come complain when you’re actually disabled and need to have a ramp installed! Until then suck it up!”

The Totally Qualified Disability Judges™: This one seems to arise from the natural tendency of people to compare their situations to the situations of others. If they arbitrarily judge another person’s situation to be better or more favorable, then that person is not As Disabled, or Disabled Enough, or Disabled At All. Then, based on that judgment, they try to socially punish the condemned, or to excommunicate them.

Example: Some conditions are really straightforward and don’t vary widely. People with the condition all seem to have similar limitations. My condition is the exact opposite of that. I have the chronic form of migraine disease. Lots of people get migraines, but not all of them have more than 15 a month, and migraines can last anywhere from a few hours to three days. To some people, pain is the most disabling feature of a migraine, to others, the accompanying neurological weirdness is. (Migraines are often proceeded by cortical spreading depression, a phenomenon also exhibited in epilepsy. Just for an example).

So, when people hear what my condition is, they remember that one lady they used to know who had to lay in the dark for a couple days each month, and wonder why the hell I’m in a wheelchair. It doesn’t make sense to them (who cares that migraines don’t make sense to the most brilliant neurologists in the world), so they decide that I just must not be disabled. Or, if I am, it’s hypochondria. 

 I’VE SEEN: YEAH HAVE U TRIED XYZ CURE? IT REALLY HELPED THAT 1 LADY. IF U DON’T TRY XYZ WELL THEN UR LAZY N ALSO PROBABLY FAKING THE EXTENT OF UR DISABILITY?

Fun fact: Internalizing ableism from medical doctors, and from some close friends and family, and THEN the disabled people I came into contact with later, and from whom I seeked guidance, prompted so much self doubt that I had a licensed psychologist work me up for hypochondria and other related psychological conditions. It…turns out that I am not a hypochondriac. I could not find relief from all of these experiences until I encountered a neurologist familiar with my condition, and fellow disabled people who have been around the block, and who are not so embittered by their experiences that they deigned to expose others to the same.

For that reason, I will always be vocally critical of ableism within our community. I will not sugar coat it, nor will I flatter ableist disableds by giving them another name. That goes for my own ableism, too. Now that I have worked through a lot of my own, I can use my aids with confidence and obtain a freedom that is at least emotionally similar to the one I had when I first formed my adult identity (which was as an abled person).

AH YES, IN MY CASE, INTERNALIZED ABLEISM=ANXIETY N DEPRESSION. STILL NOT SURE IF DISABLED PPL CAN BE TECHNICALLY DISABLED BUT THAT’S JUST LINGUISTIC SEMANTICS.

CLEAERLY WE BOTH KNOW DISABLED PPL ARE CAPABLE OF ASSHOLERY.

CAN SOMEONE TELL ME HOW TO BOLD TEXT IN POSTS? #TUMBLR NOOB

For an example of sexism from women, see my post Never Underestimate Old Women, in which an old lady cashier schools us for self-righteous activism.

Thanks for the discussion!

[ktley1986]

My husband isn’t nerdy, at all.  Which is okay because I happen to be nerdy enough for both of us-I love comics, video games, Star Wars, Harry Potter, Battlestar Galactica, etc.  I love all of it, mainly because I happen to know a lot about history and world events and the main theme of history is that people are super shitty to each other, all the time, usually without very good reason.  And once you know that, sometimes the only way to stay sane is to find solace in imaginary worlds-maybe that’s not always the healthiest thing, but at least if someone is cruel in one of those worlds they usually get a satisfying comeuppance, which sadly, rarely happens in the real world.   Now that we’re all suitably depressed, Mike and I were watching The Phantom Menace the other day and he made the grave error in judgement to remark that he “didn’t remember this movie being that bad.  People like it when it came out!” I mean, is that technically true? Yes.  I definitely enjoyed these movies when they came out as a teenager (I was also afflicted with a debilitating crush on Hayden Christensen, which has since died a death of natural causes) and I will stand by that, because I didn’t know any better.  Now with the benefit of experience and foresight I realize the serious damage done to the Star Wars universe and the overwhelmingly potential of what could have been.  Because it’s fresh in my mind after having given an impromptu mini-lecture to my husband earlier, I will explain my problems with Episodes 1-3 of the Star Wars film franchise. The whole Space Jesus thing You know what I’m talking about-the fact that Anakin Skywalker doesn’t have a dad, but is basically just the product of the Force and his long suffering, cipher of a mother figure.  That doesn’t even kind of make sense and it’s so lazy and shitty as to be actually insulting.  Let’s also remember that he’ll eventually become Darth Vader, the ultimate bad guy (and if you’re currently feeling the soft and fuzzies for him, remember he did kill a whole temple full of children.)  He’s such a special snowflake, he’s totally selfless, he’s the most amazing pod racer or whatever, he’s basically Valentina from Season 9 of Drag Race, and she turned out crazy too.  He just needs to compare himself to Selena to make the transformation complete.

Obi Wan to Anakin, honestly.

My problem with that is this could have been a much more interesting story, in the hands of someone who gave a shit about storytelling or the emotional arc of a character.  What if he was just a regular person, who had a dad and a mother who wasn’t window dressing for made up emotional issues later, but maybe he was kind of a reckless dick, then they could have made a more interesting story about how some people aren’t fit to have power, even if they are technically proficient.  It could have been an interesting twist on the idea that all Jedi are totally perfect peace keeping good guys, but what if he was able to convince them he was, but in reality, he was actually a dick?  At least that would make more sense later when he in fact does turn out to be a dick.   The whole Jango/Boba Fett story arc Famously George Lucas had this whole series written out back in the 70’s but the studio was only interested in making episodes 4-6, since the storyline was more cohesive.  I believe that’s true, and I even believe that a lot of the nonsense he put into the first 3 episodes was present in those early drafts, but I can’t be expected to believe that the basis for the clones was Jango Fett, and that his clone son would grow up to be Boba Fett, kick ass bounty hunter extraordinaire.  I get that Boba Fett was a wildly popular character, despite having zero lines as far as I can recall, and getting knocked into the pit of Sarlacc to be digested slowly over a thousand years, he’s my brother’s favorite character, so by default one of mine too, but honestly?  This is endemic of a wider problem in the first three movies in my opinion which is shoe-horning in fan favorite characters rather than making new and interesting ones which serve the story.  Why the everloving fuck is young Anakin making his dirt farmer slave mom a protocol droid?  Does she have a lot of use for translations of over 6 million forms of communication?  Lucas just wanted to take what worked from the original movies and force it into the new ones, although to be fair his stab at original characters did give us Jar Jar Binks, so maybe it’s a good call after all.   Darth Vader’s reasoning for becoming Darth Vader This is where it really hits home for me how much cooler this story could have been-the transformation into one of the most iconic villains of all time was just so lame in these movies.  For one thing, the romance between Padme and Anakin is painful and embarrassing, and this is coming from someone with a fairly comprehensive crush on Anakin.  So much cringe though, seriously.  But making it about him thinking that his wife might potentially die, is just stupid, especially because he ends up choking the fuck out of her.  Again, this is where the story could have been served by establishing him as a bit of a dick from the beginning, instead of a heroic space Jesus type character.  I mean, I am very much in love with my husband, probably irrationally so, but it would take a lot more than the premonition that he might, maybe, potentially die to make me murder an entire Jedi Temple full of younglings. And I don’t even like kids.  And then he just hates Obi Wan for not letting him live his best life or whatever, I mean they could have gone the route of him thinking there was a relationship between him and Padme, although I find the whole turning into an evil warlord over a lady to be one of the tired-est tropes on the planet.  It could have been so much better! Midi-chlorians Just no. So much politics and talk about trade negotiations. Oy! I get that George Lucas doesn’t really get how to write strong female characters, and I guess it’s kind of flattering that he thinks women’s strength is in the political arena, but man I do not give a fuck about trade embargos in the real world, so I definitely don’t give a fuck about trade negotiations in space.  I watched these movies for the first time as a young person and I could not have told you one thing about why the Nemoidians were doing, or what exactly was going on in the space Senate.  The beauty of the original trilogy is that things were simple, motivations were clear and no one had to put anything to a vote.

I don’t think the whole thing is awful-Darth Maul is pretty sick, General Grievous is cool, Christopher Lee is always a welcome addition to any movie, now that I’m older I can definitely appreciate young Ewan McGregor

I need to resolve my feelings about bearded Ewan McGregor

Now I’ve stalled out. Huh.  I know there are probably parts of it that are redeemable, but I can’t remember any, and I can’t be bothered to actually watch it again.  My point being is that it could have been so much better, if they were interested in telling a great story instead of making millions of dollars in merch.  Does anyone else remember all the merch associated with this, you couldn’t even buy a bag of chips without Jar Jar Binks dumb face looking at you.  While this isn’t something I would normally say, but I’m glad that Disney has the reins now, and they’ve already made some great Star Wars movies, sans mention of midi-chlorians which personally leaves me excited again to visit a galaxy far, far away.

My Epic Retcon of Darth Vader’s Backstory

Okay, so he’s just a normal kid, who has a mother AND a father, both of which are fleshed out characters, and he gets selected for Jedi training in a normal, non-mystical space Jesus way.  He turns out to be super great, a special snowflake, blah blah but then (plot twist!) he falls in love with another Jedi, and they have a clandestine affair until she gets pregnant with their baby.  Now, we all know Jedi aren’t supposed to have attachments blah blah, but they never explore what happens if you did, so it could be an interesting way to explore that idea.  So, the female Jedi (which really shouldn’t we get some female Jedis by now? Seriously?) refuses to tell the council who the father is, and she gets banished, without Anakin being aware of it until it’s already over.  She dies in childbirth, totally not the Jedi’s fault, but Anakin doesn’t know that, and that’s why her children are taken away and given to other families.  Anakin either finds out that Obi Wan took his children and that’s why they have their big battle where Obi chops his legs off and roasts the rest of him once he realizes that Anakin is the father and he’s so pissed at this point that he is going to try to kill him.  See, I literally just pulled that out of nowhere and managed to shoe horn a lady Jedi (which this series badly needs, come on!) and no mention of midi-chlorians! Is it a perfect story, no, but does it contain no mention of trade negotiations and Jar Jar binks, yes!

[bluewatsons]

Maria Bustillos, Lester Bangs: Truth-teller, The New Yorker (August 21, 2012)

Every reader, starting from childhood, draws his own map of the world of letters. There is liable to be some outside guidance here and there, naturally. Certain landmarks are supplied to us, say in English class. But teachers aren’t found only in school. As a kid, my chief literary mentor was the rock critic Lester Bangs, who wrote for Creem magazine and The Village Voice in the seventies and early eighties. He shaped my nascent taste, and taught me to read much the way I still read now. And as much as I relied on his irresistible humor and wisdom for advice on how best to blow my birthday money at the Licorice Pizza record store, I sought him out still more to learn about books, in particular the forbidden and arcane books no conventional teacher would ever mention.

Lester Bangs was a wreck of a man, right up until his death in April of 1982, at the age of thirty-three. He was fat, sweaty, unkempt—an out-of-control alcoholic in torn jeans and a too-small black leather jacket; crocked to the gills on the Romilar cough syrup he swigged down by the bottle. He also had the most advanced and exquisite taste of any American writer of his generation, uneven and erratic as it was.

Bangs, who was born in 1948 and grew up in El Cajon, California, had been driven out into the wider world by a complicated, shambolic family: his mother, Norma, was a devout Jehovah’s Witness, and his father, Conway, was an incorrigible drunk. Many imaginative kids who feel trapped in oppressive surroundings find solace, pleasure, excitement, and every other kind of relief in music and literature: in Bangs’s case this tendency was exceptionally pronounced. The community of Witnesses Bangs’s family belonged to believed in an end-is-nigh ideology, and they disapproved of Christmas presents, birthday parties, and education beyond reading the Bible. Here is the root, perhaps, of the seductive ease and fluidity with which Bangs riffed on culture high and low. As the Witnesses equally rejected Coltrane, Miles Davis, Superman comics, and science fiction, so did this rebellious son love and accept them all equally and on the same plane. Bangs’s biographer, Jim DeRogatis (“Let It Blurt”), described Bangs’s nascent rebellion—and his growing sense of the untrustworthiness, incompetence, and hypocrisy of authority.

“The drawer where I kept my Classics Illustrated collection was subject to stringent, arbitrary and rather sudden swoops of censorship,” Les wrote at age twenty. “Things like ‘The War of the Worlds’ by H.G. Wells and ‘From the Earth to the Moon’ by Jules Verne, my literary mentor of the third grade, would suddenly appear in ripped piles atop the ashes when I’d go out to empty the trash into the incinerator on a winter morning. My mother thought science fiction was demented nonsense; all the Witnesses do. They hold that since the Bible never mentions life on other planets, there must not be any, and no one can sway them from their conclusions.”

And yet Norma indulged Lester enough that he seems to have managed a childhood of nonstop reading, listening, writing. “Days home from school faking flu I would put Trane on loud … and stand up on a hassock reading Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Howl,’” he wrote. But there are indications, too, that mother and son were very close. When Bangs found himself broke and washed up, his mother and sister would enclose sawbucks along with the Watchtower tracts they sent him. They had all shared Conway’s disgrace and death: they loved him, it seems, but he died in a fire, drunk and alone, having fled the family in shame.

The adult world outside Bangs’s childhood home bore unmistakable evidence of the same weaknesses he’d discovered inside it. The false Donna Reed visions of a happy, healthy, snow-white America of the postwar years, the disillusionment of the Vietnam war, and Nixon’s downfall; everywhere, the rebellion that had begun to precipitate in the Summer of Love now saturated the air and fermented. Bangs developed a pure hatred of the lies and whitewashings of religion and government, his mutiny balanced against a bone-deep love of the truth—no matter how messy or unpretty it might turn out to be—which he equated with the refuge he’d found in literature and music. In fact, the messier, the more “real” art could be, the better. He talked about this in what might be his most famous review, of Van Morrison’s “Astral Weeks”:

[T]he fall of 1968 was such a terrible time: I was a physical and mental wreck, nerves shredded and ghosts and spiders looming and squatting across the mind. My social contacts had dwindled almost to none; the presence of other people made me nervous and paranoid … [“Astral Weeks”] assumed at the time the quality of a beacon, a light on the far shores of the murk; what’s more, it was proof that there was something left to express artistically besides nihilism and destruction. It sounded like the man who made “Astral Weeks “was in terrible pain, pain most of Van Morrison’s previous works had only suggested; but … there was a redemptive element in the blackness, ultimate compassion for the suffering of others, and a swath of pure beauty and mystical awe that cut right through the heart of the work.

Along with many of his contemporaries, Bangs concluded that if “authority” was not to be trusted—and clearly, it wasn’t—then whatever “authority” detested must be O.K., or probably great. Hence the reactionary excesses of the nineteen-seventies, the chancy legacy of “don’t trust anyone over thirty.” Cocaine: a pure plant-derived substance that wouldn’t hurt you. Government: barely worth ignoring. If the squares were in favor of monogamy, then monogamy must be avoided at all costs, whether it appealed to you or not.

As for Bangs’s audience, the children of those years were far more sheltered from adult culture than they are now. While the rock stars whom we so admired were getting high and indulging their vast sexual appetites, the adults who were in charge of children were hell-bent on terrifying us with tall tales about sex and drugs and rock and roll: take acid and you might throw yourself out a window, certain you could fly, or become permanently convinced that you were a glass of orange juice. The cruel fates of these mythical victims were transparently bogus even to ten and twelve year olds, particularly those whose older siblings were already getting us stoned. Growing up at that time felt something like “The Truman Show”: the young intuited that they might break through the papier-mâché walls at any moment and into the “real world,” which probably really was scary but at least would be real. We sought reliable guides who wouldn’t lie to us, infantilize us, or sugar-coat anything, however flabby and wild-eyed they might be.

Sure there were other magazines and there were other writers. But for a certain cohort of bookishly-inclined kids, there was only one magazine and only one writer. I wasn’t the least bit surprised to learn that my contemporary, the late David Foster Wallace, had dedicated his first co-written book, “Signifying Rappers,” to Lester Bangs.

Bangs, then, was a moralist. He understood that what young people wanted was something still more than to break free of parental bonds. We wanted to know exactly what was being hidden from us. Bangs’s great gift to the kids who formed his most passionate following was the news that this information was available to us; it could be found in books.

It would be difficult to say where the expression of Bangs’s moral universe was clearest, because he’d habitually compress a sublime insight into any old photo caption or throwaway remark, in whatever throwaway piece about whatever throwaway band. But a lot of fans, I suspect, would nominate the aforementioned review of “Astral Weeks” for the honors.

“Astral Weeks,” insofar as it can be pinned down, is a record about people stunned by life, completely overwhelmed, stalled in their skins, their ages and selves, paralyzed by the enormity of what in one moment of vision they can comprehend. It is a precious and terrible gift, born of a terrible truth, because what they see is both infinitely beautiful and terminally horrifying: the unlimited human ability to create or destroy, according to whim. It’s no Eastern mystic or psychedelic vision of the emerald beyond, nor is it some Baudelairean perception of the beauty of sleaze and grotesquerie. Maybe what it boils down to is one moment’s knowledge of the miracle of life, with its inevitable concomitant, a vertiginous glimpse of the capacity to be hurt, and the capacity to inflict that hurt.

All this would send the questing reader straight to “Les Fleurs du Mal.” There was scarcely a book mentioned during Bangs’s tenure at Creem that I didn’t eventually hunt down (including a new edition of Borges’s “The Aleph”; I couldn’t make head or tail of that.)

In this way, a whole generation of kids was led to see “subversive” or countercultural literature through the lens of rock and roll—and also to become attuned to a new kind of critical voice, a voice far more intellectually honest than that of the academic critics. Susan Sontag’s “Notes on Camp” holds itself at a lofty, self-regarding remove from its determinedly hip subject matter, but Bangs never held anything at arm’s length in his life; he was rushing headlong into the sea of the world, arms thrown wide open, to embrace it, to drown in it.

Let’s take “Of Pop and Pies and Fun: A Program for Mass Liberation in the Form of a Stooges Review, or, Who’s the Fool?,” published in Creem in 1970. I was too young to have read this when it came out; I would have read it in one of the thick bound volumes I used to spend summer afternoons with at the library, some years later. This is just to give an idea of the fun that Bangs could provide in such an afternoon, if you were a young teen-age fan fiendishly devoted to the Stooges and their “crazed quaking uncertainty.” Because Bangs had already won you over with his uncannily exact description of your own love of the Stooges: “an errant foolishness that effectively mirrors the absurdity and desperation of the times, but … they also carry a strong element of cure, a post-derangement sanity.”

The perfection of this assessment led you breathlessly through the rest of the piece, which mentioned: Malcolm Muggeridge, the Panthers, the Yips, Holden Caulfield, “I took acid four days ago and since then everything is smooth with no hangups like it always is for about a week after a trip?” (ugh, speak for yourself, Lester); “fantasies of a puissant ‘youth culture,’” “Jimmy Page’s arch scowl of supermusician ennui,” Mountain, Cream, Creedence, “imagine throwing a pie in the face of Eldridge Cleaver! Joan Baez!” “the onetime atropine-eyed Byronic S&M Lizard King,” an MBE returned, “a giant pie stuffed with the complete works of Manly P. Hall,” “that infernal snob McCartney and those radical dilettante capitalist pigs the Jefferson Airplane,” Marxists, A. A. Milne, Mick Jagger (“a spastic flap-lipped tornado writhing from here to a million steaming snatches and beyond in one undifferentiated erogenous mass, a mess and a spectacle all at the same time”), “the bastion (Bastille) stage,” “the oppressor is fat and weak, brothers!”

Artaud, Tinkertoys, épater la bourgeoisie, Ed Ward, the “I Ching,” sock hops, “A.B. Spellman’s moving book ‘Four Lives in the Bebop Business,’” “Trout Mask Replica,” “the essence of both American life and American rock ‘n’ roll.”

“Mark my words.”

“Some peglegged Golem hobbling toward carny Bethlehem,” Porky Pig, “beautiful Pauline Kael.”

It ends like this:

Some of the most powerful esthetic experiences of our time, from “Naked Lunch” to Bonnie and Clyde, set their audiences up just this way, externalizing and magnifying their secret core of sickness which is reflected in the geeks they mock and the lurid fantasies they consume, just as our deepest fears and prejudices script the jokes we tell each other. This is where the Stooges work. They mean to put you on that stage, which is why they are super-modern, though nothing near to Art. In Desolation Row and Woodstock-Altamont Nation the switchblade is mightier and speaks more eloquently than the penknife. But this threat is cathartic, a real cool time is had by all, and the end is liberation.

Don’t even doubt that I looked up every single book, every musical reference, hell every single word I didn’t understand. You bet your sweet bippy, I did.

Bangs openly lamented having been born too late to hang with the Beats, but he loved William Burroughs and wrote about him constantly. Suburban librarians generally hadn’t the faintest clue what was in any of these books (or maybe, just pretended not to) and any curious teen-ager could borrow them freely at the public library, or buy them at a bookshop, head shop, or thrift shop. “Naked Lunch” certainly made a striking contrast with, say, “The Catcher in the Rye,” a book you might be reading at school. I was surprised to find, returning to “Naked Lunch” just a few years ago, how full of sap and hilarity it still is. The funniest thing is that “Naked Lunch” turns out to be a moralistic book, making a better, truer, scarier case against becoming a junkie than whatever nonsense you were liable to be hearing in health ed.

The literature of mysticism and the occult, representing as it did the anti-religious, was also of interest during this time; parents were still attending church regularly. Hence the popularity of unreadable Satanist tracts, astrology, Aleister Crowley, and assorted metaphysicians of all nations. What did the anti-religions have to say? I can still remember the pseudo-mystical mantra-recommendation sung by Todd Rundgren on the album, “Initiation”: “Steiner, Gurdjieff, Blavatsky, and Boooo-dah.” I went dutifully along to the library to investigate and was soon bored out of my tree. By golly, that Madame Blavatsky is a pill. In general, you were liable to get some crackpot literary recommendations from your favorite rock stars. But Bangs could draw the marrow forth even from the metaphysicians. In the essay, “James Taylor Marked for Death,” he wrote:

Number one, everybody should realize that all this “art” and “bop” and “rock-’n’-roll” and whatever is all just a joke and a mistake, just a hunka foolishness so stop treating it with any seriousness or respect at all and just recognize the fact that it’s nothing but a Wham-O toy to bash around as you please in the nursery, it’s nothing but a goddam Bonusburger so just gobble the stupid thing and burp and go for the next one tomorrow; and don’t worry about the fact that it’s a joke and a mistake and a bunch of foolishness as if that’s gonna cause people to disregard it and do it in or let it dry up and die, because it’s the strongest, most resilient, most invincible Superjoke in history, nothing could possibly destroy it ever, and the reason for that is precisely that it is a joke, mistake, foolishness. The first mistake of Art is to assume that it’s serious. I could even be an asshole here and say that “Nothing is true; everything is permitted,” which is true as a matter of fact, but people might get the wrong idea. What’s truest is that you cannot enslave a fool.

Here was one of Crowley’s favorite notions (“Nothing is true; everything is permitted,”), by way of Nietzsche, but Bangs brought it out of occult Thelemist incomprehensibility and into the question of discovering a practical intellectual justification for the satisfaction of every appetite. This was the way the twenty-somethings we admired were living. Why these strictures? What good were they? What if we simply chose to live real life in the U.S.A. entirely unhampered by any of them at all? It took some time, but eventually one inevitably blundered into Nietzsche himself, and asked the old question from a philosophical or logical, rhetorical or moralistic perspective. Was nothing true? Was everything permitted? What was spiritual freedom? Was Kerouac free? Was Burroughs? Was Bangs?

What he was really leading us to was the one true church of intellectual curiosity and open-mindedness. There was subtlety and elegance in his reasoning, generosity, and the best kind of skepticism: the skepticism that turns back on the author himself. This last aspect of Bangs’s writing was the most revelatory to me. It was the virtue I sought most to emulate, then and now.

Indeed no other writer gave me this feeling again so purely until I ran across David Foster Wallace, so many years later, and found he’d learned the very same thing; I suspect he learned it from the same doomed, messed-up, wounded, alcoholic genius of a teacher.

In 1977, Bangs accompanied the Clash on tour, which resulted in an immense three-part interview published in the NME.

Finally [Mick Jones] looked me right in the eye and said, “Hey Lester: why are you asking me all these fucking questions?”

In a flash I realized he was right. Here was I, a grown man … motoring up into the provinces of England, just to ask a goddamn rock ‘n’ roll band for the meaning of life! Some people never learn. I certainly didn’t, because I immediately started in on him with my standard cultural-genocide rap: “Blah blah blah depersonalization blab blab blab solipsism blah blah yip yap etc. …”

“What in the fuck are you talking about?”

“Blah blab no one wants to have any emotions anymore blab blip human heart an endangered species blah blare cultural fascism blab blurb etc. etc. etc. …”

And even though this was meant for kids to read, note that there’s not a particle of condescension in it. That, too, made young people love and trust Lester Bangs with unswerving devotion. Indeed I’ve never swerved once in all these years.

[yuppiefail]

The demographic and economic reasons we should expect more violent white supremacy

“It is possible that Dylann Roof is not an outlier at all, then, but rather emblematic of an approaching storm,” wrote Rachel Kaadzi Ghansah in an amazing piece called A Most American Terrorist: The Making of Dylann Roof which I highly recommend you read in full.

I want to expand a little upon something I wrote recently about white supremacy using Christopher Cantwell, who represented the grassroots movement for violent white nationalism in the VICE documentary on Charlottesville, as an example. In my post I asserted that America’s white nationalists are going to murder more non-whites. The reason I believe this is demographic. Young white men are not doing very well relative to other demographics. They’ve stalled out education-wise, meanwhile every year a college degree becomes more of a requirement for employment prospects, marriage prospects, and social standing. They’ve stalled out regarding social skills, which today’s economy also disproportionately rewards. America has created a large and growing cohort of young white men who do not, and should not, expect to achieve any of the hallmarks of American success that their fathers’ fathers did. They will not get good jobs. They will not get married. They will not buy houses. They will not retire. And they blame women and ethnic minorities for this fact. As their sheer numbers and alienation grow, I believe it would be foolish for us to expect them to retreat quietly into obsolescence.

Between 1979 and 1983 the US lost 2.4 million manufacturing jobs and 270,000 auto manufacturing workers lost their jobs. At the start of the 1980s America employed 450,000 U.S. steelworkers. By 1990 that number was 170,000, and the remaining steelworkers’ wages had dropped by 17%.  declined from 760,000 employees in 1978 to 490,000 three years later. Economist Erik Hurst told Econ Talk Podcast host Russ Roberts that between 2000-2005, the American economy shed four million manufacturing jobs. Coal mining is dead.

In other words, America’s pretty much lost all the jobs that men are better suited to than women by nature of their higher average physical strength and stamina.

One World Economic Forum study shows that between 2008 and 2013 annual median incomes in 26 advanced economies fell 2.6%. Many economists blame automation (plus global trade) for slow job growth and stagnant wages across the developed world.

That income earnings increase nearly linearly with educational attainment is one of labor economics’ most well-established empirical findings. Not only do earnings increase linearly, but today, a college degree is twice as valuable as it was in 1980. In 1980 a BA or higher meant less than 40% more earnings than a high school diploma. Today a BA or higher means 80% more earnings than a high school diploma.

Over the last forty years the gender gap in educational attainment in the U.S. has flipped, according to a recent NBER working paper. According to Hurst, 70% of men ages 31-55 don’t have a BA. Today women graduate from high school more often than men. Women make up 58% of college graduates. Women hold more Master’s degrees than men. There are 135 women for every 100 men in graduate school.

In other words, at the same time education was becoming a requirement for high wages, education rates slowed for men and grew for women.

And at the same time, between 1948 and 1980, America’s workforce changed dramatically. Where our economy was once based on blue-collar work, including factory work, transportation, and farming, in that period white-collar work, particularly professional, technical, and clerical jobs, began to dominate. Combine that with a 1970s recession, which motivated women to work who otherwise wouldn’t, and we’ve seen a decline in men’s wages combined with a rise in women’s professional progress.

Where does that leave men? In Men Without Work, America’s Invisible Crisis author Nicholas Eberstadt found that in 1948, men made up a little more than a tenth of working age (20-64) Americans without jobs. By 2015, however, they made up nearly two-fifths of this population. 

“Low-education men compare their lives to the past and don’t like what they see,” Brookings’ Richard V. Reeves wrote. “Where their fathers got a decent-paying job without a degree, they now can’t. Where there fathers were considered the automatic ‘head of the household,’ today women compete with them in the labor market. And the gender gap in median wages has narrowed. Many white men, especially those of modest education, feel as if they are being overtaken and left behind. So rather than ‘It’s the economy, stupid,; in truth, ‘It’s relative status, stupid!’”

In 2000, 8% of 21-30 year old men with less than a BA did not work at all in the previous year. Today that number is 18%. It hit 18% in 2010 and has stayed there. Just under 1/5 of 21-30 year old men with less than a BA are idle, 90-something percent are unmarried, and 70% of them are living with their parents.

Hurst expects we’ll see a continued decline in the employment-to-population ratio.

In my post about Cantwell, I wrote:

Cantwell is trying to start a race war by telling weak-link whites that they aren’t losers because they suck, but because they’ve been under attack. And it’s working. America’s weak-link whites have long suspected that they’re under attack. They chant about white genocide because they think it’s real. They don’t feel the erosion of white supremacy in America as the natural and right loss of unearned, corrupt power. They feel backed into a corner. And people who feel backed into a corner will lash out violently, and feel justified doing so. Today’s crying and afraid is tomorrow’s church shooting.

Of course the church shooting I referenced was that by Dylann Roof, who recently became the first person the United States of America has sentenced to die for a federal hate crime.

In GQ, Ghansah wrote of Roof:

He found solace in the belief that he too was part of the dispossessed. The embittered white men who feel like they have no real future in the 21st century. Roof knew this fear so well that he even wrote in the manifesto that he finished in jail: “How can people blame white young people for having no ambition, when they have been given nothing, and have nothing to look forward to? Even your most brain dead white person can see that there is nothing, to look forward to? Even your most brain dead white person can see that there is nothing good on the horizon?”

“To understand Dylann, you need to read The Hidden Injuries of Class,” Wachter said. What that book revealed was “how white working-class people in Boston, in South Boston, the more you interviewed them, what came out, especially after a few beers, is how inferior they felt to all the Harvard, Cambridge, bright, educated people.” In Wachter’s mind, Dylann wasn’t stupid, but he felt displaced. It was a case of class resentment. “And here’s the funny thing: If I had a dinner party right here with just white Ph.D.’s, it would not be socially acceptable for me to make any slur to an African-American person or a Hispanic person or a Muslim, but if I refer to poor whites as rednecks—”

“Or crackers or white trash,” I interjected, saying the words he didn’t want to say.’

He grimaced but acknowledged them.

“That would almost be socially acceptable to say those things. It just shows you how alienated they are. And these poor white working-class guys, they must realize this. See? So maybe Dylann’s family is a good example of downward social mobility. And Trump showed us this, that we underestimated how vulnerable and precarious self-esteem is for white, working-class people in this society. They not only see the white elites, but then they see…”

“They see us, black people, coming from behind, eclipsing them.”

Ghansah also wrote about what she’d found researching the white supremacists of today online. “There are thousands of them,”Ghansah writes. “Like Roof, they are brought into the fold because they have found something that explains their laggard social progress to them.”

They are young. They are undereducated. They are “extremely socially awkward,” which disqualifies them from low-education white-collar and service-sector jobs. White supremacy offers them friends. “These young white supremacists call this reversal ‘weaponized autism.’ What once alienated them now helps them relate to others, people like Dylann Roof, over a common desire to start a race war.”

They are “armed to the teeth. They often brag about their arsenals of guns, because these are the guns that will save them in the coming race war,” which they look forward to.

I believe there will be more Dylann Roofs because math means there will be more men who fit his profile. More and more men are dropping out, not getting jobs, not getting married, not buying houses, but instead staying in their parents’ homes reading each other tells themselves what they desperately want to believe, that they are victims. That the women and the blacks and the Hispanics took from them what is rightfully theirs, what their fathers had, or at least their grandfathers: the hope of a job, and wife, and a house without having to learn social skills or go to college.

These men view the erosion of their privilege as an attack. Some of them feel like their very lives are threatened. They are men without a future, so they are men who have nothing to lose. Dylann Roof stood in front of the jurors 573 days after committing his crime and said without hesitation, “I felt like I had to do it, and I still feel like I had to do it.”

Ghansah:

We already know the way out of bondage and into freedom. This is how I will remember those left behind, not just in their grief, their mourning so deep and so profound, but also through their refusal to be vanquished. That even when denied justice for generations, in the face of persistent violence, we insist with a quiet knowing that we will prevail. I thought I needed stories of vengeance and street justice, but I was wrong. I didn’t need them for what they told me about Roof. I needed them for what they said about us. That in our rejection of that kind of hatred, we reveal how we are not battling our own obsolescence. How we resist. How we rise.

We are not battling our own obsolescence. Nothing but war will stop the transition from a farming, mining, and manufacturing economy to one that rewards high education and social skills. But we are going to have to figure out what to do with our millions of Dylann Roofs. Because otherwise nothing but war will stop them from violently revolting against theirs.

The demographic and economic reasons we should expect more violent white supremacy was originally published on

[lovethesouthforty-blog]

Duped

July 30, 2015

 Lesson Learned-Too Late

This story begins with a cliché. No good deed goes unpunished. Should have known better, hence the title.

A few years ago we became acquainted with a family who is now part of our family. The ties are to my daughter, more correctly to her significant other. His dad, third wife and her three children are originally from the southern part of the United States. They have been in the Illinois area for a few short years, having lived a lifetime of excitement here so far.

Their background, from what little I know, would be enough of a story. But it only grows from there. Dad had to leave the south, due to some misunderstandings with folks who might possibly do him physical harm. In less than three years, the family has rented and been evicted from three homes. Dad works, Mom does not, and the three teens are deeply troubled and easily swayed to negative habits of behavior. For all five, there is a daily diet of alcohol, tobacco and weed. The teens are all under 18, and this pattern has been observed for at least three years. Two of the three teens are also adept at stealing things. The example they follow is at the head of the family.

Besides a couple of holiday get-togethers years before, my unfortunate tale begins in March of 2014. The family was going to lose their grip on a house about an hour away, further from the rest of us and further from Dad’s work than was practical. Since we were also having similar issues, it seemed like a good suggestion to allow them to rent our place, at much less than they were paying, and we could get an apartment that was more affordable. Simple enough. They were of the opinion that after getting Dad’s credit improved, they could buy the house from us. This might take a couple years. As it turns out, a couple hundred years would not be enough.

We made a rental agreement, nothing more, and everybody signed. They moved in a couple days ahead of their eviction. In the next few months, Dad was arrested 4 times. Within 3 months of the arrangement, he stopped paying rent. I also discovered, too late to fix things, that they never got the electricity changed to their name, due to an outstanding balance from the house they fled. I am still paying that bill.

Mom still does not work. This was a good chance for her to babysit two grandchildren. Nice idea, except for the fact that she always tagged her teens to watch the infants. Four of the family smoked in the house constantly, and two of the teens had constant tantrums which resulted in colorful language, writing on the walls and holes punched in walls and closets. Needless to say the mothers of the infants sought babysitting elsewhere. The electric and water were due to be shut off, but because of winter the electric stayed on. They were four months behind and made up the shortage just ahead of foreclosure, on a mortgage that was still in my name. They had nothing to lose by stalling. The money for any amount needed- bail, rent money, etc. came from Mom’s mother and father, due to tremendous guilt for parental behavior visited upon Mom when she was a young girl. So for 2014, they were snug at home for Christmas.

We had heard from various neighbors of the activity around the house. Beatings of the boys in the backyard, cars coming and going at all hours, teens smoking and drinking in the open garage, garbage left out. (that bill was not paid either) So our former home was now a place of squalor, drug deals and neglect.

From January, 2015 to March, there was no rent money. We heard that their water was shut off again, and the same was imminent for the electricity. I wrote and delivered two letters reminding them of the rent and timing of payment, used a thirty day notice then a five day notice from the state regarding eviction. Following lawyer’s advice, I filed with the county, took them to court. First court date was early April, second one two weeks later. I was awarded the eviction. They ignored it, so I spent more money setting up the sheriff to legally remove them. Before that could be done, Dad took me to court, trying to overturn the eviction. This court visit deserves its own paragraph.

His lawyer was middle age, white, bald. He shuffled around the courtroom and was directed to stacks of forms by the court clerk. He waived her off and picked what he needed. Dad came in, half an hour late, and met with his lawyer outside the courtroom for a few minutes. They came back in, and a few minutes later we were called. Out of courtesy, I let the lawyer go ahead of my wife and I. (I have done this entire process without a lawyer, but sought the advice of mine by phone and email) Dad’s lawyer went to the plaintiff side of the presentation area, which is clearly marked. He started talking and the judge, thankfully the same one from before, interrupted him. “Who are you the lawyer for?”  “The defendant.”  “You belong over there”, she says. He moves to the correct podium, and starts talking about new information. The judge again interrupts and says have I not ruled on this already? “Do you have a copy of the motion?” “No, your honor, I was not there when it was written.” I have two copies, because Dad made sure I got one by certified mail and regular mail. The lawyer whose name is all over my copies does not bring one to court, and says he wasn’t there when it was written. Judge denies the motion, has to say it three times, because the lawyer keeps talking. She says goodbye to him, three times. He won’t leave. He finally gets the hint.

The next morning, I am BACK on the train to downtown, to pay AGAIN for the sheriff to evict, because due to that waste of time in court I had to cancel the first attempt. So far, $380 spent, and they are still living for free.

The eviction was on July 6, 2015. The family acted as if it were a surprise, the Mom yelling that the lawyer was still working on things, and I knew it…They had made no attempt to find other arrangements. That week I spent $800 for garbage removal and house cleaning, so the bank would accept the “empty and broom clean” conditions of my arrangement. This is a different, softer way to return the property than a foreclosure. It only reflects on your credit for two years, not seven. Also, the mortgage holder gives you relocation assistance, because this process gives them the property sooner and the ability to sell it sooner.

The condition of our former home was deplorable. It can be made presentable but the work it will take would not be necessary, if the home were being lived in and cared for by responsible people. As we finished talking to neighbors that morning, and locked up the house, a service vehicle from our electric provider pulled up to shut off their power. And in the few weeks since, the family has been kicked out of three hotels.

My solace comes from knowing this is behind us, and the assistance given will be used for catching up on medical bills, getting a much needed second hand second car, and to stabilize the checkbook.

The one thing that kills me is there is a TV show recently created that in many ways reflects this family’s behavior, and I did not act fast enough to have this incredible story make money for me.

[repwincoml4a0a5]

As Republicans Cheered Obamacare's Repeal, The Law's Beneficiaries Worried About Survival

On Thursday afternoon, by the narrowest of margins, Republican lawmakers passed a bill to repeal and replace Obamacare. Pleased with their victory, they popped Bud Lights and abruptly took buses to the White House to celebrate with President Donald Trump in the Rose Garden.

Meanwhile, those actually dependent on Obamacare were anxiously wondering what happens next. Some of them were following the action on the House floor while in their doctor’s offices receiving treatment.

The House bill will almost certainly not become law in its current form. But its passage portends a sharp turn away from the patient protections and coverage subsidies that they have come to rely on in Obamacare’s brief existence. The bill dramatically cuts Medicaid coverage, to the tune of $840 billion less. It also undermines the provisions that prevent insurers from discriminating against those with pre-existing conditions by allowing states to seek waivers that would eliminate rules prohibiting higher premiums for people with serious medical problems.

For those who stand to be hurt by these reforms, Thursday left them both fearful about their own medical futures and motivated to act politically.

These are their stories.

Coverage After The Loss Of A Spouse: Marianthe Poulianos, Florida

A self-employed attorney, Poulianos and her two children relied on her husband’s health insurance plan until he died unexpectedly at the age of 41. Her kids were 7 and 10 years old. They all relied on COBRA to get by. When that ended, so did their insurance.

“Obamacare came along at just the right time,” she said. Without it, she would either have had to take a job in a law firm or change careers. But finding a new job with less flexibility would have been tough, since her kids “really needed me.”

Poulianos says her current insurance coverage is reasonably priced with quality care provided. As she watched the House vote, she felt “demonized.”

I’m not sure why I should. I went to school, got married, had kids, worked, employed people, made my children my priority. My husband died and today I feel as if my family is being punished for that. I hear more tragic stories than ours ― people with sick children, pre-existing conditions etc. But I believe that my type of story is part of what’s really devastating and wrong about today as well.

‘I Keep Wondering Why They Want To Kill Me’: Jacqueline Church Simonds, Nevada

In 2010, Simonds began having bizarre, scary health episodes. She was hospitalized for five days but lacked insurance; she and her husband ran their own business, and his pre-existing conditions made him uninsurable. She was able to negotiate down the $42,000 bill, but she still needed her parents’ help to pay the remaining $18,900.

The following year, she became sick again. Her surgeon told her she needed a couple of feet of her colon removed or she would die. When she told the medical staff she simply wasn’t able to pay for such an operation, they informed her about the Affordable Care Act. She signed up for coverage and had the operation. To this day, she remains sick, recently receiving the diagnosis of Crohn’s disease. And she suspects she will need more operations.  

I keep wondering why they want to kill me.

Why are rich people so much more important than I am that their tax cuts are more important than my health? How can people vote to “improve” healthcare, but make themselves immune from the effects? So, you want to know how I feel about AHCA? I am thoroughly, implacably angry.  

I would be out in the streets with a pitchfork and torch, if I felt well enough to leave the house (but I don’t). So I will sit here at my computer and figure out ways to get out the vote.

How Could Christians Do This?: Stacy Jarrell, Florida

“I’m somewhere between totally pissed off and sick to my stomach right now. And I’m scared,” Jarrell told HuffPost shortly after Thursday’s vote. She’s 54 and widowed and petrified about losing her health care. Years ago, she said a doctor misread a mammogram that allowed insurers to label her as having a pre-existing condition. Obamacare came along and gave her solace. She makes under $40,000 a year and gets a subsidy to help purchase insurance on the Obamacare exchange in her state.

As a Christian I can’t understand how these people that claim to follow Christ could support, let alone pass, a law that will kill people. While I believe in a separation of church and state, I also believe that as human beings, moral and ethical people need to take care of those that can’t take care of themselves.

The last thing I’m feeling is resolve. If they think there was a resistance before... they have absolutely no idea how this vote has motivated us.

‘I’m Fucking Terrified’: Bill Petrich, New York

At 21, Petrich was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Treatment was in 2010 and 2011, and Obamacare allowed him to stay on his mother’s private plan. Now 28, he lives in New York and must fend for himself. He has a job as a contractor with no benefits and pays $600 a month for his insurance coverage. It’s a hefty price tag. But it’s a good plan.

Petrich hopes the bill stalls in the Senate. But he’s afraid that Republicans won’t deny the president an accomplishment.

I’m fucking terrified. I can feel the foreboding in my stomach. I’m literally shaking a little bit right now, I was really hoping this wouldn’t pass. I know that, for the rest of my life, I will be seen not as a human being but as a pre-existing condition by private healthcare providers. ...

I already live with a baseline of fear about getting cancer again. Now, it’s terror. Financial ruin at best, death at worst. I’m already imagining a world where I’m starting a crowdfunding campaign to pay for my imagined future treatment.

Medication That Wasn’t Available Without Obamacare: Annie Agle, Utah

Agle, 28, has a rare disease called mastocytosis. She actually receives insurance through her employer, but she’s benefited from the provision under the Affordable Care Act that increased funding for research into diseases. Agle ― who was in treatment Thursday while following the GOP repeal effort in the House ― said that there were several promising medications that weren’t brought to market until the health care law passed because they weren’t considered profitable by the insurance companies.

Under Obamacare, a lot of insurance carriers were forced to present packages and coverage for medications that wouldn’t have even been available to us in the first place. I owe my life now four times over to an immunotherapy drug that didn’t exist before Obamacare and probably wouldn’t have existed without that piece of funding. ...

It’s very disheartening. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that 50 percent of my country doesn’t feel like that I matter or don’t have a right to live. The difference between treatment and no treatment for me is fatality. It’s not a grey area.

Putting Her Children First: Jill Thompsett, New York

In 2004, Thompsett delivered twins at 31 weeks into her pregnancy. Her son and daughter were in the neonatal intensive care unit for six weeks. Her daughter came home with an apnea monitor because of complications with breathing, while her son underwent three surgeries over the next 18 months. Thompsett’s health insurance plan, which she paid for out of pocket, spiked from $600 to $1,200 a month. She had to drop it.

New York state’s child health care plan allowed her to get coverage for her kids. But it wouldn’t be until 2008, when she took a job at the YMCA, that she was able to buy coverage again for herself. When Obamacare became law, the eligibility for Medicaid expanded to higher income levels. Thompsett, earning $23,000 a year and spending nearly every penny on health insurance and child care, qualified.

That the expansion is suddenly endangered enrages her. For now, Thompsett is making doctor’s appointments to take advantage of Obamacare while it’s in place. Down the road, she wonders what will happen to her family if there aren’t protections for pre-existing conditions.

My twins had a very rough start to life, but I am pleased to say they are smart, funny, honor roll 7th graders. ... I now feel like I am living in a nightmare that gets worse with each passing day of this administration. Somebody please wake me.

Chemotherapy During Repeal Vote: Laura Packard, Nevada

Packard, 40, recently moved to Las Vegas and noticed she had a cough. She didn’t have a doctor in the city yet, so she searched around and found someone. After additional trials and visits with specialists, she was diagnosed with Stage 4 Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Self-employed, she gets insurance on the exchanges and had her first round of chemotherapy on Thursday, as Republicans voted to repeal and replace the health care law.

My treatment schedule is eight months of chemotherapy, which will take me right through the end of 2017. If there is still cancer in my lungs, I will need radiation. If the chemotherapy doesn’t take at all, I may need immunotherapy. So there are all kinds of good options in my health, but I may need them in 2018. ...

If Republicans truly believe that Obamacare is some horrible blight on our country, then the thing to do is to work with Democrats to make health insurance better, rather than start with the premise that you need to give the ultra-rich a tax cut and try to figure out how to fudge it for people who need health care to make it the least terrible on them.

‘This Sucks’: Sam Alcabes, California

Alcabes had health care coverage after college through his job in Los Angeles. During that time, he had surgery to repair a herniated disc. When he left his job to attend law school, he was denied health care insurance because of his pre-existing condition. So he entered a high-risk pool run by the state of California, which was expensive and limited in its coverage. After the Affordable Care Act, he got insurance through Kaiser and continues to receive it now through his employer.  

I recently gave notice at my job to move on to other things. Now I am concerned that I will lose my ability to obtain insurance from Kaiser or anywhere else for that matter.

I feel like I’ve played the game the right way my whole life. Luck of the draw on having a bad back.

This sucks.

What Happens When You Lose Your Parents’ Coverage?: Kathryn Poe, Ohio

For the past two years, Poe, 20, has been in the hospital on a regular basis, fighting for her life after being diagnosed with three autoimmune conditions. She’s lucky enough to be able to stay on her parents’ health care plan for now but worries what will happen if she turns 26 and the protections for pre-existing conditions currently under the Affordable Care Act are weakened.

It’s incredibly hard to be positive...when you know that the health care legislation that’s passing is just not in your favor. ... At least in my experience in college, people will talk about it and really will have no idea what the essence of the bill means. Oftentimes [people don’t realize] what the real world ramifications are. People are so focused on this Republican dream of Obamacare being repealed that they forget what the real-life implications are for people like me.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from DIYS http://ift.tt/2peRhv9