#ICI Pilling Box

[gester-tester]

New Style ICI Pilling and Snagging Tester 4 Boxes Operation video, Click to watch and learn more.

[worshipthecrow]

Migraine

Summary: You've had the worst headache of your life, luckily there's always someone to come to your rescue.

Content: GN! ReaderxSylus, Headache, migraine, use of pain medications.

A/n: @sylusdarling I heard your call, I hope you feel better from your migraine and that this pleases you.

Your curtains were closed, the lights were off, your phone was on minimum brightness and you didn't even feel in the mood to use it, practically your apartment was in total darkness, in silence.

Until...

Caw caw

You groaned at the noise, your temples throbbing painfully and the footsteps of shoes outside your room only added to your discomfort.

Your door opened letting in the light, you groaned again and covered your head with the blanket, it didn't last long when someone pulled the blanket from your hands, you opened your eyes and a pair of concerned rubies stared back at you.

"Sweetie?" your temples throbbing, at least his voice wasn't high pitched enough to be a real annoyance but you'd still prefer he kept his mouth shut.

He handed you back the blanket and left your room squinting out the door, no longer hearing any noise you thought he was gone, you closed your eyes, trying to sleep again.

You hissed at the sudden cold in your head, the bed sank behind you and a hand began to massage the base of your neck.

You sighed, your hand went to the icy cloth to move it to where your head was hurting, Sylus' now free hand joined the one already on your neck.

He skillfully massaged the muscles in your neck and head gently, it didn't lessen your headache but it was pleasant, you groaned in protest as his hands released you, the beating of Mephisto's mechanical wings made you open your eyes, the sound of a box and a strip of pills drilled your ears.

Sylus helped you to sit on your bed and held you against his chest while he put a pill on your lips, you opened your mouth feeling the taste of the bitter medicine, you saw a glass in front of you and took it between your hands to swallow the pill with the water.

Sylus took the glass from you, you continued holding the cloth with the ice, this time on your forehead, the massage returned, this time on your pained temples, you leaned your back against his chest closing your eyes.

The pain subsided enough that you were not bothered by the sound of your own voice.

"Thank you" you whispered, you felt a kiss on the side of your head.

"Anytime, sweetie."

[sweet-hedonist]

Impulsivity

Modern Viktor x Fem! Reader

Your chronic pain has you at the end of your rope as you hopelessly search for something to relieve your pain. Help comes from the most unexpected of places: a walgreens at 9:45 pm.

Reader is mentioned to be an art/theater kid and is also disabled like Viktor and suffers from chronic pain. No use of y/n. Also not proofread we die like redacted

Word count: 4.6K

High key inspired by @meownotgood and @gaybybirth because reading their writing made me want to write again. This is the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written and I'm terrified to post it. But I'm being brave! likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! I may make a part 2 depending on how this does. I hope you enjoy!

Pain makes it incredibly hard to think. Even though you're used to it and it's something you feel every day of your life, the burden is still quite heavy. But there is no pity for Atlas, and his shoulders will ache for the rest of time as he holds up the sky without the relief of Tylenol.

So now, you're standing in a Walgreens at 9:42 pm in the pain management aisle, shifting your weight from foot to foot to relieve the pain radiating from your hips to your ankles, trying to pick a topical pain relief gel that will actually work. You've tried most of them here; Bengay, Aspercreme, Biofreeze, Icy Hot, and nothing. Sure, they work for a few weeks but your fucking mutated joke of a body adapts and grows accustomed to whatever you use. The brace you wear on your left knee is itchy and pokes into you through your fleece-lined tights and it's not helping matters.

Giving up on reading the box of Voltaren you're holding, you crouch down to put it back and pick up something else. Your pain-addled brain is piss-poor at making decisions it seems, as the moment you bend, your knee cracks in such a way that a painful heat spreads through your entire body. It was loud too, you know it was. Eyes are staring at you, burning a hole in your head as you wince and grit your teeth against the waves of pain hell-bent on knocking you down.

You feel the urge to collapse, just sit on the floor, and read the labels and boxes there without having to stand, despite how utterly ridiculous you'd look.

"Are you alright?" Your right knee hits the floor as you shift into a kneeling position to look up at the person speaking to you. A long tweed overcoat, a thick red scarf, a cane, nice Oxford shoes, pale skin, worried amber eyes, and tousled brown hair meet your gaze. A man, a very beautiful man is standing a mere three feet from you, eyebrows pinched in concern. You blink a few times, willing yourself to remember how to act like a normal person and not a gobsmacked fool.

"Oh, yeah I uh…" You swallow and gesture wildly to the wall of products, and then visibly deflate "…no there's no way to make a joke out of this. " A laugh slips out, pitiful. You look back up at the man and the corners of his mouth are quirked up at the sides. Thank god, maybe he finds your misfortune endearing.

"They do tend to keep the best products just out of reach, don't they? Nothing at eye level ever seems to be worth your time. Just another cruel joke the health industry plays on the less abled." He looks between the wall of lotions and pills and you, his smile widening.

You smile too, less self-deprecative now and more understanding, "Ah, a fellow health industry hater, amazing. Damn straight, they bleed us dry and expect us to thank them. Greedy schmucks." With one hand on the metal shelf and the strength of your good (better?) knee, you manage to pull yourself into an upright position, even with every nerve in your body screaming at you and your left hip wanting to jump ship, leaving you alone in this sea of agony.

"Just trying to find something that doesn't stop working after a few weeks and also not develop an opioid addiction at the same time." Ah, maybe you could make a few cute jokes that this cuter man will appreciate.

"As one does." He leans both hands on his cane and nods his head conspiratorially. You giggle, you can't help it. Maybe it's the pain-induced delirium or maybe it's because you find the man in front of you incredibly attractive. But who's to say?

"Might I make a recommendation?" His accent is lilting and thick and it feels like every word out of his mouth is wrapped in a velvetine cloth. That metaphor makes no sense, your brain thinks. Shut up, chimes your heart.

"Please. I was about to start considering just chopping off my leg and being done with it." He laughs out loud at that.

"Ah, we've all been there." His attention is pulled back to the shelves and his fingers twitch as he looks for something. He's focused, insanely so, and it makes you feel important, seen. This random stranger, looking for something that will help you with such fervor.

God, it's been a while.

He bends at the waist to grab something off of the second shelf from the bottom and you definitely don't fixate on the way his long fingers curl around a box.

"This is Arnicare. The main ingredient was only legalized here a mere decade ago, it's never failed me thus far." He hands it over to you with a smile. You take it, a little awestruck and make a sincere effort to not freak out over the fact that your fingers brush his own. They're warm, good god.

"Thank you. This is invaluable insider information." You hold the box to your chest in gratitude.

"Of course. Tiger Balm is my favorite but they don't typically sell it in-store due to popular demand. I usually, unfortunately, turn to Amazon to buy it when it's in stock." he continues, putting one hand in his pocket and leaning onto his cane. You nod, making mental notes as you go.

"You are saving my life and my sanity right now. Truly." You pause, and then, with bravery that you didn't know you had-

"I'm (name)." You stick out your right hand, so that way if he chooses to take it, it won't be with the hand using his cane. He stalls for a moment and you fear you've made a horrible fool of yourself, but then he chuckles and shakes your hand gently. You can't get over how warm his hand is, skin soft save for the callouses on his palm and fingertips.

"Viktor. It is nice to meet you." His eyes crinkle as the gentle smile he wears widens.

There's a charged beat where your hands linger a moment longer than what is expected and you laugh it off before letting go. "Sorry, I uh…have been running on far less than the recommended amount of sleep and have been eating meals that do not classify as meals."

"I don't think I have ever gotten the recommended hours of sleep a day in my life."

Your eyebrows shoot up, "Really?"

"Really. I think my blood is 60% espresso at this point. Such is the life of academia." He shrugs as if to say, what can you do?

You look down at the product in your hands, and then back up to him, mind racing in a thousand different directions that all leave you terrified but at the same decision.

"You know, there's a really nice late-night coffee shop in this same shopping complex. Their coffee is the only coffee I confidently drink after 4 pm. Which, is arguably not healthy but, what can you do?" You blurt out, rather impulsively. He's a little shocked, it's clear on his face, but there is still a smile there.

"Are you asking me if I'd like to accompany you to grab coffee at…9:45 pm?" He tilts his head quizzically after checking his watch.

You nod a few times, "Absolutely I am. And maybe it's the fact that my hip hurts so bad and it's prohibiting me from feeling fear but…yeah. Wanna get coffee at 9:45 pm?" He's staring at you incredulously, but it's sweet and amused.

He laughs again, and it's a low, rumbling sound, "I was already planning on getting some kind of caffeine. Sure. I would love to." He's looking at you so intensely, almost like he's studying you. Self-consciousness washes over you suddenly as you realize you've sort of completely derailed whatever he'd been doing.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your shopping or your night…"

He shakes his head as if it were impossible to interrupt, "Interrupt my night? My night full of no plans other than grading papers until my eyes bleed? Alone and without the company of a pretty girl? Ah yes, how dare you come between me and those plans." his tone is playful, sarcastic and the nervousness fades from you as quickly as it came. Your eyes narrow.

"Oh, so he thinks I'm pretty?" You grab your purse from off the ground and start to move backward toward the register, and he follows, adjusting his cane and bag sheepishly.

"He does."

"Good because she thinks he's pretty too." You venture quickly before your brain can catch up with your mouth. It only takes a second for him to catch up with you, strolling through the aisles of a near-desolate Walgreens.

"Lucky him."

The cashier at the counter looks as though they'll fall asleep as they bag your items: the Arnicare and a bottle of dark green nail polish. "I swear I'm not typically this impulsive." You call over your shoulder as the cashier hands you the receipt and you stuff your things into your purse. Viktor walks up and puts his items on the counter - allergy medication and a pack of multicolored pens, presumably for grading - and turns to you while fishing out his wallet.

"Somehow, I highly doubt that." He pauses, thinking over his next words, "Not that being impulsive is a bad thing. I could stand to be more impulsive." It's an apology where there doesn't need to be one.

You shrug, "No offense taken, because you're right. I was...just trying to save face."

"Why?"

"Well…" Why were you trying to save face? "I feel, maybe a professor wouldn't be so inclined to hang out with someone so uninhibited? Some people call me childish." As he takes the small bag from the cashier, you find his eyes again, and they are full of mirth.

"Firstly, not a professor. I'm a PhD student at the University not far from here. We, as TA's, usually get saddled with grading assignments and papers." He walks forward with you, letting you walk through the automated doors first, probably so you can lead the way to the coffee shop.

"Secondly, I disagree. Impulsivity does not automatically equate to childishness. Some people say impulsive, I say driven, or passionate. Spontaneity is life." You stare at him unabashedly as you walk. This man, Viktor, waxing poetic about the benefits of impulsivity on your behalf. He's smart, obviously, but not in a haughty I'm Better Than You way. It's refreshing. And while you may not be a traditional academic, you understand to some level.

The cold bites at your skin, and you regret your decision to forgo a jacket, so you shiver when you tell him, "You're incredibly good at making me feel better about myself. I bet your students love you." He laughs at that - you're noticing that you seem to be quite good at making him laugh - and shakes his head disapprovingly

Then, guilty, "Not when I'm assigning pop quizzes after returning from winter break and calling them out for using AI."

"Ok the AI thing I completely understand, but assigning a pop quiz after a break is just cold on so many levels." College wasn't that cruel to you, but there had been many a quiz that you bombed simply because you hadn't been prepared for them. One or two that immediately followed a break.

The coffee shop comes up quickly and you move to open the door, but he's faster, shifting his bag to his elbow and grabbing the door for you as he quips, "Ah, so I see you would've been one of the students who failed that quiz." He's teasing you, and it's working.

"I can neither confirm nor deny. Although don't look at my freshman year grades. They force the art kids to take two semesters of stats and…it was just a fucking torpedo into my GPA."

"Fair enough." His laugh is quickly starting to become one of your favorite sounds.

The warmth of the dimly lit shop is nice, especially after just being out in the cold. It seeps into your bones and mercifully leeches out some of the pain in your hip.

The shop is small, quaint, and its setup reminds you of a library. Secluded booths and tables with individual lamps on them, bookshelves lining the walls, and everything made out of dark wood. Viktor looks around in awe for a moment, then, "How have I never stumbled onto this place before?"

You mentally pat yourself on the back. It had been a few years ago that you'd found this place. After a bit of an insane night out cut short by a friend getting you kicked out of the bar, you frantically searched for food places open late. This place immediately popped up leading you and your friends to feast on pastries and sandwiches washed down by the most delicious coffee you'd ever had.

"I was just lucky. When you're drunk and hungry, you can find anything." You walk towards the back of the shop, picking out a booth in the corner, "Is this ok?"

Viktor nods, hanging his cane off the table and shrugging out of his jacket. There is a moment where you feel you might keel over right there, but it is through sheer power of will that you remain standing, because holy hell this man is attractive. He's wearing a three-quarter sleeve black turtleneck that clings to his body in a way that's not loose, nor is it skin-tight. You can see the barest hint of something underneath, perhaps a back brace to help with stability. Sitting down in the booth, you try to avert your eyes to no avail, as they roam over the dark brown slacks sitting high on his waist. It's a miracle you're not drooling. Staring down at the red, long sleeve sweater you'd paired with a deep brown skirt, you can't help but think we match.

He sits down slowly, and you recognize the strategy to minimize pain, then folds his hands in front of him. "So, freshman year statistics? I believe you called it a 'fucking torpedo'?"

"Of course you picked up on that."

"Well, you were rather emphatic about it." The smugness is radiating off of him in waves and it stokes the fire in your gut.

Huffing, "Not everyone can be a whiz at math and science. I mean, what are you getting your PhD in?"

It looks like he's biting back a shit eating grin, "Biomedical engineering."

"Oh fuck off."

He releases the hold over the grin he was hiding and you're blinded by it. It absolutely makes sense, in retrospect. His analytical gaze, as if taking things apart in his mind and putting them back together, even just the way he speaks, so sure and confident. Your mouth opens to say something but a waitress decides that moment is a prime opportunity to get your drink orders.

Viktor orders a Turkish coffee and you order a French vanilla iced latte with cinnamon. As the waitress leaves, he wrinkles his nose.

"You call that coffee? It is just sugar. And iced? It's freezing out."

"Oh so first you critique my grade in stats, and now you attack my coffee order? You hate me and want me dead." Your arms fold in front of your chest as you stare at him in mock challenge. His hands shift to rest on his biceps, fingers spreading over the evidently lean muscle there and you fight to keep your breathing steady.

"I retract my statement, I bare you no ill will."

"Yeah you better, me and my sugar coffee will beat the shit out of your boiled coffee grounds." Now it's his turn to raise his eyebrows.

"You mock my drink, a traditional drink from my home country? Now you hate me and want me dead."

A warmth pours over your cheeks and you feel it heat the tips of your ears, all the way down to your shoulders. Something flashes in his gaze that tells you he definitely noticed.

"Touche." It's only a minute more before the waitress returns with your orders, said minute filled with meaningful glances and sitting adjustments on your part, your hip still aches slightly, but it's easier to ignore at this point.

You're mid sip when he fixes you with a stare, hands wrapped around his own drink, and asks, "So I can rule out anything to do with statistics, but what do you do, miss (name)? I believe you referred to yourself as an 'art kid'?"

Ah, the tricky part of explaining what you do to an academic. Not to say you weren't an academic yourself, just…a very different flavor of it.

"Yeah. In college I dual majored in Psychology and Theatre Arts. So I feel like I play both sides of the field, despite how many of the other scientists refuse to recognize psychology as a science." You spit the word as if it were a dagger, still holding a vendetta against your 11th-grade physics teacher who called it a pseudo-science.

"But my real love is Theatre. Whether it be Musicals or Shakespeare, it's my passion. I dialect coach on the side to make extra money, but mostly I love performing." There it was, out in the open. Would he call you foolish? Tell you to get a real career? Get up and leave? Probably not, but anxiety can lead you to places you wouldn't dare venture with a gun.

Pensive, he sits, staring at you with renewed interest, "Your impulsivity must suit you well in that career path, always having to think on ones feet and remain immersed in the moment." You instantly smile again.

"Exactly! There have been so many times when people have forgotten their lines and I've had to come up with something on the fly. It's…exhilarating." There's a certain sparkle that lights up your face whenever you talk about theatre, it's your passion, you can't help it. You only hope it translates.

"I know it must seem silly, pursuing the arts. Hell you're probably going to go on to change the world in a field like 'biomedical engineering'." You muse, leaning your cheek into your hand as you meet his eyes. It flatters him, you can tell, as he shifts in his seat, puffing his chest out slightly in pride.

"While I thank you for your vote of enthusiasm, I do not find it silly to pursue the arts at all."

"You don't?"

"No. I find it inspiring that you are pursuing your dream. I am pursuing mine. We should all chase after what we want." His eyes are thoughtful, kind, and you want to swim in them forever.

A beat, then, "A lot of people have called me stupid. But I can't see myself doing anything else. I know it's cheesy to say, but it feels fated. Like, I'm supposed to be doing this. It's what my atoms traveled billions of years to do." Staring into your cup, you're hit with the intensity of this confession. It's not something you tell to most people.

"And…" he clears his throat, "I think it is the most admirable thing one can do, to follow what you believe your destiny to be." Good god you like this man, you like Viktor. Not just as an infatuation or a crush, you want to get to know him.

"Thank you, Viktor." Another sip of your drink and the sugar spurs you onward, "Do you happen to like theatre? I'm sure an English lit class somewhere forced you to read at least one Shakespeare play. They did always seem to make the STEM kids suffer through classic literature as some sort of revenge for putting us art kids through math." His gaze fixes you to your spot and you find that even if you wanted to, you wouldn't be able to pull away from it. It's hypnotizing and has you pinned with the sheer force of it. You were learning that above all else, Viktor had a quiet intensity to him.

"I have read my fair share of Shakespeare as well as a few greek plays, but I admit, I read them mostly from an analytical standpoint, and not for mere enjoyment or to marvel in the artistry. My favorite would probably have to be Macbeth, though." He takes another sip of his coffee that still has steam curling off the top of it.

You nod approvingly, "A splendid choice. Your aesthetic certainly fits the more tragic, macabre, dramatic plays. Though I could see you enjoying Much Ado About Nothing."

"I…thank you?" Eyebrows pinched in confusion, he laughs.

"No, no it's a compliment! You just have a very…dark acedmia, gothic vibe to you. it…it tracks."

He leans back in his seat, "Gothic?"

"Yeah. it's incredibly attractive don't worry."

…

Wait-

"Incredibly attractive you say?" And he's sipping on his coffee again, watching as that all too familiar flush spreads over your skin again. Damn your mouth.

"You…I…hell-" You sip your coffee in an effort to keep yourself quiet. He's making you bolder, making you feel comfortable, loosening your tongue, beckoning you into the sea like a siren and you're not sure if you'll be able to tread water.

"Hey," his voice is soft, coaxing, "for what it is worth, I too find you incredibly attractive. I'm sorry, I did not mean to make you so flustered." The sincerity in his voice has you reeling. Placing your coffee down, you rubs at your cheeks with your hands.

"Somehow, I find it hard to believe you're that sorry when you seem so pleased with yourself watching me flush." You accuse, somewhat parroting what he said about you denying your impulsivity. Now it's his turn to flush, his pale cheeks turning rosey at having being caught.

A comfortable silence washes over the both of you momentarily as you sit with the confessions that have just been made. Well…it's nice to know that the attraction is mutual. Both of your coffee's were near finished by this point, and there was a part of you that regretted how fast you drank it.

"How is your leg?" He breaks the silence after the waitress returns to take away your empty glasses. You roll your hips slightly, testing the tension and how far the pain radiates.

"Mm, better. Could be worse, it's starting to ebb finally, but I'm still planning on slathering that Arnicare you recommended all over my leg and laying in my bed until the pain finally goes away." You conclude, hoping to God that the Arnicare works as well as he's hyping it up. "Maybe go crazy and light a lavender candle."

He's digging something out of his bag as he responds, "I'm glad it is feeling slightly better. I fully endorse the Arnicare, it has helped me immensely over the years and I trust it will help you too." The waitress returns to drop off the check and it's too late that you realize Viktor had been looking for his wallet as he places money in the little booklet and hands it back to her with a soft, "Keep the change."

You stare at him in mock offense.

"What?"

"Don't what me, you didn't even let me attempt-"

"There was no universe in which I was going to let you pay, so why even entertain it?"

"Let me pay? You are evil." But you're smiling as you slide out of the booth.

"Maybe so." Is all he says as he stands up, readjusting his shirt and grabbing for his coat. Checking your watch, you realize it's 10:45 and you've spent nearly an hour with this man, and yet it feels as though it's only been minutes. Bidding goodnight to the workers, you bothexit the shop and are hit with a blast of cold air.

"Why are you…you did not bring a jacket?" Viktor stares at you as if you've grown another head. "Are you…it is below freezing out!"

You pause, and breathe in the crisp cold air, "I like the cold, it's not so bad, I promise I'm ok." But he's already moving to grab the scarf from around his neck and balance his cane on his arm.

"Viktor-"

"Shush." Your mouth shuts and you let him wind the red scarf around your neck. It smells like him, woody and warm and you know you'll be breathing it in later.

"Bláznivá žena." He murmurs in what you can only assume is his mother tongue.

"Well, that didn't sound very nice." You chide. His hands still as he finishes securing the scarf. Whatever he was about to say dies on his lips as he stares down at you. Despite the freezing air swirling around you, everything suddenly feels warm. And you know how cliche it sounds, but truly, it feels as though the world melts away and you are stuck in this little circle of warmth.

He looks from your eyes to your lips, "Can I-"

"Absolutely." You answer far too quickly. He laughs again, and its lighter than the others, as if a weight has been taken off of his chest and the laugh had been filled with air, just waiting to escape.

He wastes no time in bringing his hands up to your wind bitten cheeks and pulling your lips to his. They're slightly chapped, but warm and sure and soft as he kisses you. Your breath is gone and you realize every cheesy thing you've ever read about kisses is true. It is all encompassing and earth-shattering. If you knew anything about physics you would say that it feels like atoms colliding.

Seconds, minutes, hours, you don't know how long it is before you finally detach. You leave your eyes closed for a few seconds more, basking in the feeling.

"Wow." It's barely a whisper when you finally speak, opening your eyes to find him staring down at you, smiling unabashedly.

"My thoughts, exactly." His hands slips down your shoulders before one of them finds your hand, the other taking his cane as he leads you back to the parking lot. It's nice, just walking hand in hand with him to your cars.

"This is me." You murmur sadly as you come upon your car, parked in the handicapped parking spot. He stops and looks at you in disbelief, and you furrow your brows in confusion. His hand detaches from yours, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his car keys, clicking the unlock button. The car parked directly next to your beeps and unlocks. You'd parked right next to one another and you absolutely lose it, doubling over in laughter.

"Oh my god that is crazy."

"Well, given the fact that we both have handicapped stickers-"

"Nope, shush, let me have this." You turn back to him after catching your breath and hold out your hand, "Let me see your phone."

He obliges, even unlocking it for you before dropping it into your waiting hand. With half numb fingers, you input your phone number and contact info before returning it to him.

"To let you know how well your recommendation works." You smile as you head toward your drivers side door, unlocking it and sliding into the seat so quickly, you leave Viktor stunned. He shakes his head in mock annoyance and walks over to your window, tapping on it until you roll it down.

"Yes?" But he's leaning in and kissing you again, stealing the breath right out of your lungs. When he pulls away, you're left just as stunned as he was.

"Nothing, just wanted to say Goodnight." He walks off, gets into his own car, right next to you, and drives off, all while you're sitting in your car, window still down, and processing what just happened as the cold blasts you.

Wordlessly, you roll up your window and smile uncontrollably.

For the first time in your life, you are thankful for your chronic pain.

[harryhighkey]

hungover with in-ho

headcanons of a morning with a hungover fem!reader and her older bf hwang in-ho

this is different from what i normally do but wanted to try it out, lmk what you think pls!

__________

you would wake up to the aircon a few degrees cooler than normal, but the blanket and sheets are tight around you, so you're cosy. in-ho is very observant and knows you sleep better with a cooler temp in the air but kept warm by bedding. he wanted to make sure you got a good sleep when you finally got in last night so he made sure the room was cool before tucking you in.

you open your eyes and see your water bottle is on the bedside table filled with icy cold water, a box of painkillers sit beside it for the hungover headache in-ho was sure you were going to wake up with after how drunk you were. you take two pills and gulp it down with water. you sigh in relief at the cold water coating your throat and treat yourself to some more mouth-fulls. you think about getting up but you're not ready, instead you drop your head back to the pillow and groan at how hungover you feel.

because you slept in late, in-ho is already up. he's still in the clothes he went to bed in. he's tired from waiting up for you, drinking a coffee in the kitchen. but as he hears the sound of your water bottle being placed down followed by you groaning he comes back to the bedroom. he's annoyed with you. you left yesterday at 2:52pm and had told him you were only going out for a few drinks with friends and would be back in a few hours. then you got home at 3:24am. you'd also completely ignored your phone the whole night, which meant all of in-ho's texts and calls had gone unanswered. you didn't do it on purpose, you were just drunk and having fun with your friends.

"what happened to 'just a few drinks'?" you open your eyes again at the sound of your boyfriend and roll onto your back to see him standing beside the bed. he doesn't sound happy and his face matches his pissed off tone. your voice is whiny and croaky from just waking up as you answer him. "don't be mad at me, i don't feel well." he almost folds. almost. but he's been harbouring over this all night and morning. "i was worried. you didn't answer your phone once. do you have any idea how many times i called? i had no idea what you were doing, if you were safe-" "in-ho, please." you interrupt him, lifting the sheets and pulling them over your head to hide away.

he'd get back into the bed then, determined to let you know last night wasn't okay. he's extremely overprotective when it comes to you, that paired with his control issues had him panicking last night. he grabs the sheets to see your face again but you keep them locked over your head. you both know he could overpower you, so you speak out instead. "you can come under and talk, but you have to whisper under here, it's the one sacred under the sheet rule."

he rolls his eyes and sighs. but because he loves you, he gives into your game. he's still annoyed but your silly act of defiance has softened his resolve slightly. he joins you under the sheets, both of you now laying on your sides and facing each other. you know he's angry at you so you're trying not to laugh at your older boyfriend giving into your playful suggestion. he sees the smile you're trying to hide and then it's his turn to try not to laugh. you crack first, your laugh sounding out and his does right after. you are sunshine to him, even annoyed at you, he finds it impossible to not be lit up by you.

"come here." he snakes his arms around you and pulls you into him, you easily melt against him, your hands coming to his face as you kiss. it's intense, firm but quick. your lips come apart with a smack.

you keep your hands on his face, your fingertips leaving tiny patterns into his skin as he talks. you watch as he frowns again, this time it wasn't complete anger, it was also out of stress. "i was worried about you." subconsciously, his arms tighten around you. you nod. you explain to him what happened, how you honestly just lost track of time. he scolds you for not sending him an update that you would be out late, ending it with a "...i have to know you're safe, baby."

"i promise next time i will." you assure him. "next time?!" he's already stressing over the thought of you out drunk into all hours of the night again.

you distract him by kissing him again. it turns heated quickly, his hands slipping under your shirt.

between kisses and skilful hand movements, you now find yourself under him, topless. "we better get out of these sheets, you're about to do a lot more than whisper, my girl."

it's lucky the aircon is still set at a lower temp than normal because you two build up quite a sweat once you're both naked and you & in-ho spend the rest of what's left of the morning with him buried inside of you.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Same as it ever was 11

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as neglect, bullying, manipulation, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Between your home life and work, you just can’t catch a break. Especially after you draw the ire of your boss.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen ft. Pete Brenner

Note: I'm just tryna get through the week.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The waiting room is excruciating. You find yourself standing more than you sit. Both are torture. Your concern mounts with your discomfort and the more you think of Hansen’s response. He’s a demanding asshole, he told you several times he takes what he wants, but today, he let you go. Even he could see something was seriously wrong.

Funny how you never dread the doctor so much when you’re there for Simone or Malik, but for yourself, it makes your insides knot. You can’t even think of the last time you made an appointment for yourself. That’s probably not good either.

As the doctor examines you and goes over your symptoms, you wince and struggle not to keel over. He’s patient and gentle, treatment you’re unused to. That stray realisation is even grimmer as it sticks in your head.

“Hmm, I’m going to be optimistic and say it’s a bruised tailbone,” he explains, “we can send you for imaging to check for a fracture but it wouldn’t likely be possible today. I’ll call the lab with a request, just to make sure.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” you lean on the examination table, “so what does that mean? Painkillers? Stretches?”

“Rest,” he points at you with his gold pen, “avoid sitting. You want to keep pressure off the tailbone. Lay on your stomach when you sleep.” He tucks his pen in his coat pocket and goes to the cabinet in the corner by the sink, “you’ll want to keep this handy.” He opens the door and slips out a box, “it’ll help.”

As he gives you the box, you consider the image of the donut cushion on the front. The inflatable seat is stuffed into the tight package. You’re not unfamiliar with it.

“Apply ice. Every twenty minutes for the next two days, then two to three times a day should work,” he takes his pen out and his little pad, writing as he talks. “Make your husband do some of the chores.”

You cringe. You nod as you accept his advice. You were just about to argue; you have two kids and a job.

“I’m writing you a note. You’re not working for a week at least. I’ll fax a letter that should be acceptable for the time-off,” he rips off the top page and hands it over.

“Thank you,” you utter again as you look at his chicken scratch. “What is this?”

“Something for the pain and something for your blood pressure.”

“My blood pressure?”

“Your readings are elevated. It could be stress, it could be anything. Right now, I want you to keep track. Measure it and write it down. Come back in a month so we can go over the numbers.”

“Is it that bad?”

“At your age, it’s not entirely unusual,” he assures you, “better we catch it before it’s too serious. You get headaches? Feel tired?”

“Well, I have kids, I’m always tired and yes, they give me headaches sometimes,” you shrug.

“How often do the headaches come?”

“I don’t know, sometimes two or three times a week.”

“Do you have a history of migraines?”

“Not since college,” you answer.

“Ah,” he nods. “Take the pills, icy your tailbone, and stay in bed.”

“Doctor,” you go to argue.

“If it isn’t already a break, you’ll make it one,” he girds, “the lab will call you about your imaging appointment.”

You swallow down his orders. They’re much easier to follow than Hansen’s. And surely better for you. You thank him once more and leave the room, stopping by the counter to give your work address and get your imaging paperwork.

As you get to the car, you unpack the cushion and use the little pump to inflate it. You drop it on the seat and get in. It still hurts like a bitch but not intolerable. You sit behind the wheel and stare. 

You could cry as you go over the appointment. Is it that obvious that you don’t take care of yourself? That you don’t have time? The doctor saw right through you and that brings it all flooding in. You’re barely holding it all together, you’re not sure how much longer you can.

You make yourself start the car and pull out of the lot. You go down to the pharmacy and turn in the script, wandering the aisles as you wait for it to be filled. You take out your phone to check the time. A missed call from Pete and another from Hansen. You don’t have the energy for either of them. Once you have your meds, you have to get the kids.

You claim your prescriptions and start your race against time. Waiting to see the doctor alone took up the bulk of your day. Now you have to get through the rest.

You nearly speed up to the curb of the school, at the tail end of the pick-up as the clock ticks on. You roll around as you see Simone and Malik waiting with Mrs. Guinness. You roll down the window and wave, thanking her loudly as the kids rush to the car.

You get out to strap Malik into his seat as Simone grips her book in her lap but doesn’t open it. You’re breathing loudly as the pain coils around your spine. You muffle it and give her a smile as she watches you. Her eyes dart to the front seat.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Good,” you say as you snap the buckles together.

“What’s that for?” She points to the cushion.

“The seat’s uncomfortable,” you grunt and push yourself out of the back door. 

You shut the door and get in the front. You settle in, clicking in your own belt and fix your mirror. Simone is smart, too smart. She’s quiet as you shift into drive.

“Mommy, mommy! We played a game today–”

“Shh,” Simone interjects, silencing her brother, “mom,” she utter tenuously, “are you pregnant?”

You nearly scoff as you grip the wheel tight. You laugh and shake your head. “Why would you ask that?”

“Well…” she lets her thoughts hang in the air before she speaks to them, “you and dad have been… arguing and you have that cushion.”

“Trust me, I’m too old,” you shake your head, “don’t worry, you won’t be having another little brother.”

“Oh,” she hums, disappointed, “I was hoping for a sister.”

You take a breath. It’s all so complicated but some of it isn’t. They’re going to know sooner than later.

“Look, the cushion is because I hurt myself. I was waiting until we got home to tell you but I fell and hit my bum pretty bad. Got some bruising is all,” you explain lightly, “doctor says I’m good, just need to rest.”

“Mommy’s hurt?” Malik babbles. 

“Oh,” Simone accepts again, “I… does dad know?”

“He’s been working but I’m gonna give him a call,” you fight to keep your tone steady, “he’s gonna have to come home and help me out a bit.”

“Mommy, you can have Donny, he’ll make you feel better.”

“Mal, she doesn’t want your stupid dragon.”

“Sim,” you rebuff, “don’t be mean. Malik, you can bring Donny in to snuggle with me, okay? That’s really nice of you.”

“Ugh,” Simone huffs and you see her roll her eyes in the rear view.

“Sim, do you have enough time between chapters to help with dinner?” You tease. She doesn’t answer. “Oh, don’t worry, I can manage some mac and cheese on my own.”

You flip on the radio and let the music waft through the car, trying to push away the other worries. You are going to have to call Pete but you really don’t know how much help he’s going to be.

🗄️

You pull into the driveway and repress a groan. You’re really starting to feel it. Your legs are numb yet painful. You push yourself out of the car and grab your purse and the cushion, your keys jingling loudly in your hand.

You open the back door but Simone’s too quick. She’s right beside you, waving you off.

“I’ll get him out,” she insists, “the doctor said.”

“I know what the doctor said,” you chuckle, “thanks, Sim.”

Another car door snaps shut from somewhere unseen. You don’t think much of it as other neighbours often get home at the same time. You wait patiently for your daughter to unbuckle Malik as he squirms impatiently.

“About damn time,” the timbre roils in the air hotly.

You almost let a ‘shit’ slip through your lips as Hansen’s voice makes you tense. You squeeze the cushion and look over Simone’s head at him. She lifts Malik down onto the ground and she turns to face your uninvited guest.

“Ew, it’s him,” she sneers.

“Nice to see you too, toots,” he struts up the walk with his hands in his pockets, “isn’t this sweet? Got the whole clan together.”

“What are you doing here?” Simone challenges.

He tilts his head, brows arching, “you know, maybe I should give your mom some time off so she can teach you some manners.”

“Hansen,” you put your hand on Simone’s shoulder and sidle past her and echo the same question, “what are you doing here?”

“I’m actually being a good guy,” he leans around, speaking to Simone pointedly, “not evil at all. Checking in since I sent you off to the hospital.”

You hesitate. That’s not exactly believable. You know why he’s here; to taunt you. At least he has the discretion to try to hide that from your children.

“Bruised tailbone, doctor is sending a letter, I’ll have to take a few days off to recover,” you say cautiously, knowing he won’t like the news.

“A few days…” he mulls with a sour expression, “bullsh–” he stops himself as Malik comes for to cling to your leg, peeking out from behind you.

“Mommy,” your son whines, “I wanna go inside.”

“Tell him to go away,” Simone hisses.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hansen, I gotta get the kids inside and make dinner–”

“You can do all that but you can’t drag your –behind– to work,” he challenges.

“I have a doctor’s note–”

“I don’t f–” he struggles to censor himself, stopping as he waves off his agitation. He exhales and wipes the frustration from his face, “you’re right. You’re in bad shape, it’s plain to see. So where’s the husband? Shouldn't he be here doing the heavy lifting?”

“My dad’s on his way home,” Simone insists.

“Yeah, he’ll be here soon,” you repeat her lie, “to help.”

“Well, he ain’t,” Hansen bounces on his feet, “but I am, so why don’t I help you out, huh? We need you back to work,” he reaches for your purse, latching onto the strap. “So you should rest.”

“Dude, go,” Simone snarls and pushes his arm.

“Hey,” he growls back at her. “I’m helping.”

“We don’t want your help. She’s not at work, you don’t boss her around here.”

“Simone, Mr. Hansen,” you snip, “please.”

“I’m being a nice guy,” Lloyd retracts his hand and throws it up, “she’s the one making this hard.”

You look at your daughter as she sticks her tongue out.

“She’s twelve,” you state.

“Yeah, and what are you? Sixty?” Simone accuses him.

He recoils, his lashes batting violently, “excuse me?”

“Oh my god,” you sigh, “Simone, take your brother inside,” you hold your keys out, “let me talk to him. It’s just work.”

“And the doctor said–”

“Please, Simone, thank you,” you shake the keys.

She sniffs and takes them. She blows a raspberry at Hansen as she grabs Malik and tears him away from your legs. You rub your neck, the donut cushion around your elbow, as you wait, staring at Hansen as he watches over your shoulder.

“Why?” You ask pointedly.

“What? I’m being good. I let you see a doctor for your fucked up booty and now I’m just tryna fill the hole left by that deadbeat–”

“Not in front of my kids,” you say.

“I was polite.”

“You are arguing with a twelve year old,” you shake your head, “please, I will do my best to get back to work. I know you don’t give a shit but I’m in so much pain, I can’t handle this right now. So please, go.”

“Huh, alright, let’s understand something here, you might be a little broken at the moment but you don’t tell me what to do,” he snarls, “that’s the first thing. Second, you put a muzzle on that daughter–”

“Don’t,” you warn.

“That mouth,” he points in your face, “it’s the ass that’s bruised, not that.”

You clamp your lips tight as your nostrils flare. You stand in a deadlock, silently glaring back at your boss. You feel the tension ready to snap. This is the moment where you could fuck everything up.

Neither of you speak, each measuring your next word but almost afraid to say it. A screech of tires veers in behind your car and fills the end of the driveway. You flinch and look past Hansen as Pete’s garish sports car beams back at you.

“Just in time,” Hansen mutters as he turns slowly.

Pete hops out and swings the door shut, almost frantic as his hair flops forward.

“Hey, I’ve been calling,” he puffs and stops short as he notices Hansen, “uh, everything okay? Where… are the kids?”

“Inside,” you eke out, clearing the frog from your throat, “everything is good, alright?” You try to convince yourself as much as your husband, “Mr. Hansen was just checking in. I missed work today. I went to see the doctor about… my fall.”

Pete blanches and nods, giving a guilty glance to his leather shoes.

“Yeah?” He dares to look at you, “you okay?”

“Bruised,” you answer bluntly, “so I was just telling Mr. Hansen that I am fine. I just need a few days to rest. And I was going to call to tell you the same but I had to get the kids.”

“Your wife’s a busy woman,” Hansen interjects, “hard worker. And she speaks so highly of you, bud.” He claps Pete’s shoulder, “you’re a businessman?”

Pete twitches, as if surprised. He looks at Hansen’s grasp on his shoulder but doesn’t shove it off. There’s a moment of recognition in his eye. Men and their ‘business’.

“Yeah, I run a fitness agency. We do equipment and training, aiming to get into the big leagues, you know, furnish facilities on the National scale,” Pete goes into his pitch.

“Ah, fitness, thriving right now,” Hansen slips easily into his role, “you know, I’m not wearing Louis Vuittons because I work in a dipshit office. I invest and I do it well.” He pulls his hand back and puts it on his hip, “why don’t you tell me more about this agency? I’m intrigued.”

You just stare. This has been an awful, painful day and it just won’t end.

“Uh, yeah, sure, come on in,” Pete sputters excitedly, waving him up the drive. “I got all my stuff in my bag.”

“Great, dinner’s on me,” Hansen offers, “for your time.”

“Oh, awesome,” Pete grins, “I’ll just get my bag out of the car. Honey,” he turns to you.

“Uh, yeah,” you swallow as Hansen faces you with a smirk, “right this way.”

You turn and hug the cushion against your stomach, each step tender and tingling. You sense him behind you, too close for comfort. He snickers quietly as you get to the door. You stop with your hand on the handle.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Be good and I will be, too,” he shoots back.

[alicerosejensen]

Requiem

Warning: reader death; mentions of suicide; dark; angst; mentions of alcohol.

Synopsis: Leon is tired of losing those he loves. Another scar on his heart that you gave him when you decided to leave forever.

A/N: I think this is what I can write best. I just actually feel better after posting this.

It would be better to tear your heart out of your chest than to burn and rot from love.

Leon didn’t want to deal with the funeral, but it seems that no one else would have cared about it anymore. And here you are lying in front of him, surrounded by flowers whose velvet petals touch your pale skin. As tender and short-lived as you yourself. You lie in your coffin in complete silence with your arms folded on your chest and it seems that nothing can interrupt your eternal sleep.

Actually, that’s how it is.

So beautiful and calm. Death can't take that from you, but death took you from him. More precisely, you did it yourself without leaving even a short farewell note with “I’m sorry” written in careless handwriting. You left him nothing but bitter memories of the last months.

Leon looks at you without saying a single word. Without you, there is too much Emptiness here, but as you know, the most painful daggers are stabbed in the back by loved ones. Why couldn't you just talk to him when his heart was always open to you? Now he has nowhere to hide from the pain, and Leon would gladly dig himself a second grave next to you or lie down in the same coffin with you - a cruel traitor who so callously trampled on his love, sneakily escaping to another world, and anger really splashes inside him, bursting out with tears.

Claire carefully puts her hand on his shoulder and it seems that he is hunched over from the weight lying on him. Your death... your voluntary departure from life hit him harder than a tombstone. After all, you ran away from him, from this world, into your dreams and into some other world of your own that is so strikingly different from this one. Leon even wonders if you did it? Tears flow down his cheeks against his will, Leon has no strength to restrain them, just like the day he found you there on the bed.

A day that he will curse for the rest of his life...

He knew that it was hard for you, that there were days when you just couldn't get out of bed and put yourself in order. Sometimes he sat you down in front of him and untangled your hair that you hadn't combed for too long, and even took up scissors when combing couldn't cope with tangled strands. He knew that it was difficult for you and made sure that you took your medications, but it seems that everything turned out to be complete shit, because if the treatment would have been useful, then you would be lying on the bed or the couch right now.

Not in a wooden box that costs a lot of money.

Endless suffering that was worse than death for you and you gave up by stopping the fight. Leon hates that day.

In particular, when he realized that you were not breathing.

When opening the door of your small apartment, the prickly evening air hit him in the face with a strong stream blowing from the open window. Then he looked at the lowered window, thinking that you were just sleeping, and did not immediately notice the empty pill bottle on the floor. You were already as pale as you are now, with blue lips, but Leon thought it was just from the cold... not from death. He lay down next to you, gently hugging you, kissing you on the cheek, trying to warm you with the warmth of his body, rubbing your icy palms and whispering various tender words in your ear, trying to gently wake you up. What a fool! Leon has seen so many deaths, but when you lay in front of him, it took him a few minutes for his heart to break forever.

"Princess?" The agitated voice was filled with notes of panic and fear. In the end, he turned pale himself when he turned your silent body.

Humble silence and a damn rude voice. Leon shook you by the shoulders, slapped your cheeks with his palms, trying to force you to open your eyes, but you left without saying the last goodbye. The whole world was like one big sand castle collapsed right in his hands and your body was just a reminder of what connected you to each other. The sound of crying did not subside for a long time in the four walls. Leon continued to hold you in his arms, pressing you to his chest, rocking you as if cradling a small child and warm drops of salty tears fell on your face and lips. Until at some point a hole formed inside him that allowed him to focus his vision on the ill-fated empty pill bottle that caused your death.

His head was lying on top of your head, but Leon just watched and waited without knowing what, because who better than him to know that miracles do not happen.

Like every living soul, you have been fighting for life for a long time, forever stumbling and once falling into such a deep hole that there is no strength left to get out of there. Despair has clung to you from all sides, turning you into a kind of ghost that even pills could not help you find new colors of happiness for later life. In the end, you ended your life path prematurely considering that death is also a medicine.

That's just not necessary to self-medicate.

Perhaps after you die, you decide to wait for Leon on the border of life and death, afraid to cross the final line alone forever. But if this line exists, will he forgive you?

After all, you didn't watch how he drowned his pain in bottles of alcohol, and then organized a funeral, denying Hannigan and Claire help, because they just knew that he was tearing apart and that a loaded gun had long been in his apartment with the safety off. It was worth pulling the trigger once, but then who will take care of you? Leon has not believed in God for a long time and now it's even good because despite your act, the thought that you will suffer after death scares him even more. However, if so, then he was ready to go down to Hell to you.

Leon still has a lot of pain left. He was so tired of losing loved ones. Probably one day he will go through all five stages of grief and accept your departure, leaving himself a slight melancholy and happy memories of which he will be reminded of your things. But it won't be soon. This bleeding wound on his soul will torment him for a long time and only time will turn it into another scar on his heart.

Meanwhile, he listens to the serene memorial service and, just like you, drowns in these gloomy thoughts, because now, despite the hellish training and zombie outbreaks, Leon does not know how to live on without you, so he begs you to just wait for him on the other side.

[azlia-iconoclast]

All that is confirmed will be modified:

the abortion ban that already exist to state level and killed teens on texas because they got denied even in a SA situationa will now be nationwide

ending any chance to integrate minorities and just letting the hate and discrimination run rampant again without institutions to keep watch

allowing states to ban diverse number of Healthcare treatments and medications which go from gender hormones to the morning after pills

tariffs are gonna have backlash and cause countertarrifs ending many of our trade deals and evaluating the dollars

the billionares that backed trump like the ultraconservative Timothy mellon, the heritage foundation with the hyper religious agaenda or elon musk that is obsessed with hating public transport and trans people are going to have free reign to do as they please.

the ending of several institution and more privatization which includes less education subsidies for poor families, help for disabled people, subsidies for Healthcare, the weather system and report, the department of education shrinking and allowing old religious policies, the watch for the compliance of the civil rights act is going to disappear , the department of health is also going to shirk, the watch for compliance for climate change is going to disappear the DEI, EPA, and the ACA will be erased with many more, just to name the ones that are going to affect directly the most

as consequence of the mentioned institutions disappearing hate speech will basically be legal again affecting the culture and the amount of religious propaganda, discrimination while hiring and helping disable people get a job will be legally impossible

completing the genocide in gaza and continuing funding Israel expansion into Lebanon not to mention he's dividing Ukraine in 2 with a neutral zone which will cause a second bigger war because nobody is going to be conformed with that.

the peace attempts that were happening with china over Taiwan and Hong kong are now going to be closed leaving war as only option for the long future

The SCOTUS will now have 5 of 9 Supreme Court LIFETIME seats filled by Trump and the damage will be generational given the justices are young for the lifelong position and all 5 are part of the Christian nationals. Any attempt to undo what trump is going to damage with his policies will be blocked by their majority specially the medical bans and the freedom corporations will now have, so not only our full generation will suffer trump legacy but your kids and their kids

when trump took the confidential documents boxes to mar a lago when he lost last election it made him look to NATO and the 5 eyes intelligence institution (fuck them both hypocrite imperialists) complain for the security risk which means the allies will not want to share intel with the us now that he's back forcing America to have the old interventionist spionage role to get it's own, which will increase world tensions.

whether people voted for trump to punish dems not fulfilling their promises or being part of such mentioned genocides, because they hate the lgbtq and DEI or they really want to go back to the dark ages culturally and socially with christian nationalism ideology, all of them just shot themselves and everyone kids future.

Adieu à jamais Amérique, je croyais que tu changeais mais ceci est ton cœur et ton vrai visage, je pensais vivre ici plus d'un siècle et t'aider à te transformer, mais il est clair que tu choisis la Cruauté. J'ai de toute façon un dernier coup à tirer, si cela se brise au moins je mourrai enfin avant que tu ne commences ton interventionnisme mondial comme dans les années 50 encore.

[arlowthenacho]

*warning for drug use (sleeping pills)*

dreams are hard.

thomas understood that more than most. sleep was just another prison to escape for him--images of his friends corpses coated his subconscious in something sticky and impossible to wash out. no amount of peer-mandated therapy would ever wipe away the faces he saw every time he closed his eyes.

but everyone still seemed to love trying. thomas had gone through every available option to stop his nightmares. white noise, co-sleeping, reading, tea, even avoiding the shucking thing altogether. nothing had worked.

well, nothing but the sedatives.

brenda had found them in a box one of the adults in the haven had packed. the package was a strange mix of letters that thomas couldn't pronounce--diaza-something and valium--but they got the job done. every night before bed, thomas would pop one of each into his mouth and pass out in 5 minutes flat.

his sleep was dreamless, finally a reprieve from the hell his mind loved to make him relive. but unfortunately, all good things must come to an end--that was a lesson thomas always learned the hard way.

as his body got used to the medication, memories slowly started to filter back into his slumber.

it was innocent at first; flashes of lush green grass, the smell of sun-warmed earth, the feel of dirt under his fingernails and on his skin. thomas could practically feel the artificial sun shining on his back, the sweat beading on his brow. it was comforting in a morbid sort of way. he vaguely knew where he was and what had happened there, but he couldn't muster up the energy to care. these dreams were the only ones that didn't feel like purgatory--rather ironic, considering how they came to be there.

then people came into the mix.

a face he couldn't name smiled at him. thomas lifted his hand in a wave before he continued to wander his old home. he made it a few steps towards the east wall before another unknown glader appeared and nodded at thomas. the pattern continued for what seemed like hours until he finally made it to his destination.

the gardens were just like he remembered. they still smelled of damp soil and fresh cut grass, the wind still weaved through the leaves of each plant, the fences still creaked and groaned against the breeze.

thomas took a deep breath in and held it. he would never admit it, but the gardens were the only place he really liked in the glade. it was the only spot that felt like it belonged there.

he took another breath, a lazy grin stretching across the length of his face. god, what a nice break from the world he lived in. no grief or misery, no death or destruction, only the sound of wind whistling through the--

"oi, shuckface! get your butt over here! garden's won't bloody till themselves!"

thomas woke with a scream that could shatter glass.

he felt around the bed, a constant stream of "newt, newt, newt" leaving his lips. he fisted the sheets for another minute before dread settled over him like an icy blanket.

newt died. newt died and it was his fucking fault.

-- -- --

the next night was worse.

thomas had taken 3 pills this time, desperate to return to what he had before. brenda would definitely beat his ass for it if she found out, but thomas could deal with that. all he needed was a good-night's sleep that consisted of nothing but the black behind his eyelids.

of course, nothing ever goes his way.

it started the same as every other. trees and grass and dirt and people. a few offhand waves or nods from unspecified boys as he made his way through the small box of green.

thomas deliberately passes the gardens, not wanting a repeat of last time. instead, he glides to the kitchen and observes the lunchtime rush, lets out a chuckle at the face frypan was making.

he lingers by the tables for a while, watching the residents of the glade talk and eat.

at some point, he senses minho sit next to him. thomas smiles and lets a bit of his weight lean against his friend, who happily returns the gesture. after another moment, minho claps thomas on his shoulder and fully pulls him into his side. they both laugh as thomas lightly shoves him off, the pair just enjoying each other's presence. the moment is soon ruined when a third person joins the table.

its newt.

green veins jutting out of his pale skin, black fluid dripping out of his mouth and onto the wood in front of him. his eyes were pools of black, so dark thomas could see his reflection in them.

his breath caught painfully in his throat when newt began to speak.

"dear thomas," no. no, no, no--"please tommy, please..."

he was reciting his own last words. this couldn't be happening. it felt too real, it all felt too real--thomas couldn't live through this again, he needed out--

"i would follow you anywhere."

thomas woke up a sobbing, screaming, thrashing mess. he had somehow managed to fall of his bed in his sleep, the hardwood of the floor biting into his back. he couldn't find it in himself to care.

the grief in thomas' chest was so powerful it felt like a tangible weight. he could feel it shattering his ribs as he backed himself into a wall and sobbed himself hoarse on the ground.

-- -- --

the third night, thomas gave up on the sedatives.

he figured he would have a nightmare no matter how many pills he swallowed, so he decided to stop fighting and surrender himself to whatever his brain could conjure.

so, when the night reared its ugly head once more, thomas just face-planted into his pillows and willed sleep to take him hostage.

-- -- --

thomas opened his eyes to the sun blinding him through the gap in his window. he groaned and threw a hand over his face, attempting to shoo the light away by willpower alone.

when his efforts proved useless, he gave up and rolled over into what he thought was empty space. it was very much not.

his arm collided into a warm body.

thomas gasped, sat up so fast he nearly have himself whiplash. he heard the person chuckle, something low and gravelly with sleep. had minho snuck into his room again?

"it's just me, love, what's the matter?"

thomas felt like all the air had been punched out of him. newt was in his hut. his newt was in his hut. his newt was in his bed. what the fuck was going on?

"i--what--newt? how are you--what--" the more thomas spoke, the quicker the tears filled his waterline. his voice wobbled and shook, like one wrong move would send him off the edge. newt sat up so quickly the bed rocked.

"tommy? baby, what's wrong, talk to me," newt cupped thomas' cheeks, slowly tilting his face to look at the taller man. thomas sputtered as tears tracked down his face, finally setting the sobs he had bottled up for months free.

"i miss you so much, newt, you don't understand--" newt could barely hear thomas' voice over his bawling.

"oh, baby," newt carded a hand through thomas' hair, softly shushing him and wiping away his never-ending stream of tears. "i'm here now, shhh, im here now, love."

the two stayed like that for a long while. every time thomas would stop crying he would remember who was holding him in his arms and stroking his hair and kissing his forehead and he would start right back up again. newt was patient with him. he tried to comfort thomas the best he could, which eventually proved to be successful when the boy could finally look up at newt without bursting at the seams.

when thomas calmed down, newt guided them both to lay down on the bed. thomas carefully rested his head on newt's chest and let him continue to run his hands through his hair. newt made a pleased sound in the back of his throat and brought his other hand to rub at thomas' back.

after a while, tommy finally allowed all of the tension to drain out of his body. he was a puddle on top of newt, which the man snorted at. the lovers settled into a comfortable silence, which tommy broke with a soft statement.

"i love you, newt. i hope you know that." his whisper was so soft newt almost mistook it for a breath.

"i love you too, tommy. remember that for me, yeah?" newt punctuated his sentence with a lingering kiss on thomas' lips. it was chaste, and over far to quickly for tommy's liking, so once newt pulled away thomas craned his neck up and caught his loves lips with his again.

they stayed like that for what felt like hours, lazily cuddling and kissing on thomas' bed, not worrying about any responsibilities they might have had. at some point his eyes flutter shut, and he falls asleep with comforting hands on his skin.

when thomas wakes up, he feels tingles on his skin and a dent in his sheets.

[self-shipping-doll13]

Sunken Graves

November Prompts

Wc: 2540

Tw: Lawrence Being Creepy, Dead Bird

Veils of cobweb draped over an iron wrought fence, frail threads of gossamer that sparkled with dew.

The entrance gate shrieked as it was forced to gape open. We passed into that shadowy realm. Him, a cheerless psychopomp. Me, the dead soul drifting by his side. Observing things, not interacting with them, on the cusp of an existence but not quite there

The stuffy, humid greenhouse atmosphere I’d been kept in for the last few months had suffocated me. Now the air I breathed in was crisp and smokey. It reeked of neglect, of wet mossy stone and crushed grass. I gulped it greedily, fearing I might never know it again.

Spring was the last time I had been outside. My colour for that season was yellow; buttery streaks of sunlight, melting Easter eggs, Wordsworth’s golden daffodils. Summer grew jaundiced, and Autumn was lapsing into amber pill boxes and The Cure records. A carpet of leaves was strewn over the cemetery grounds, the dying embers of its fire. Ruthless gales scattered them, and made the petals of flowers lain on the graves flutter like injured butterflies. Bent trees stretched their naked limbs out in search of all they’d lost.

As Winter slowly edged closer, the evening air held a chilling bite, and the sky was a dark, foreboding grey, steadily falling into ever darker shades. It was not closing time for a while yet, but as this late in the year, the night fell soon and silently. It was the earliest Lawrence would brave the world of the living. A world of bustle and colour, one that held no place for either of us any longer. Stopping, he stood there, staring out at the bleak landscape with a strange intensity. After a moment, he turned back to me, a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I thought... maybe we could take a walk," Lawrence said to me, his soft voice almost lost in the rustling. He gestured vaguely behind him, towards a dense stand of bare branches. "It's not far from here. Just through those trees, and then a bit up the hill…"

I didn’t answer. Spun up in one of his coats, I was a fly in a spider’s cocoon.

His grip tightened, icy fingers curled around my wrist like a manacle. He led me along with measured steps, and I trailed numbly behind him.

When he first told me of his intention to take me out of the apartment for sunlight and fresh air, I thought it must have been a dream I’d woken up in. As he must’ve thought over it quite carefully, Lawrence also drove carefully. He often cast sideways glances towards my hands, which I kept tucked safely in my lap, in full visibility to keep on his good side. The roads had been slippery and greasy, and beams of yellowy light poured down from early-lit lamps as we’d spilled out into the carpark. Already the day was that dim.

Trail, trail, trail. Slimy wooden benches rotted along the path, which he deviated from, following the footfalls of his own shoes as I followed him. Leaves shifted restlessly at our feet, skirling in the wind. I thought I felt a phantom’s sigh fanning onto my cheeks, the last exhale of a dying man. And I saw it. There, a mound of freshly dug up soil where a plot was marked out with stakes and strings. A new grave, yawning open to receive its victim. There was a kind of twisting inside my rib cage. Briefly, I felt the frantic thumping of a rabbit that had been caught in a snare. Lawrence did notice my discomfort as he brought me away.

“Ah… I like this time of year,” he remarked absentmindedly. He weaved between the tombstones, seeming familiar with the layout. “It’s silent. No one comes here anymore. No one ever bothers me.”

“I think I know what you mean,” I said quietly, through dry, chapped lips. “Autumn was my favourite season.”

“Autumn,” he repeated the word, almost with a sense of reverence, as if it was a sacred thing to him.

“For me it was the colours,” I whispered. “The way everything looks as if it’s burning, on fire... I found this leaf once, from a maple tree, and it looked just like a bloody handprint. With the thin red veins spilling out…” With a pounding heart, I tried to convince myself that there was something grimly freeing in our journey—I was literally close to being free—and perhaps with it, I’d mistake his grip on my life’s thread to be slackening.

“You could always tell…” Yellow Springtime strands were tossed into his pale face as he spoke to me. “That nature was finally being honest with you. Finally honest about dying. No more lies from flowers. Fall is the truth, in all its raw, rotten beauty…”

The sharp twinge of a familiar sentiment hit me, a sickly sweet odour. The stench of all those flowers on all those graves. Flowers are liars, he’d told me.

Why was I beginning to speak just like him?

"Everything just gives up,” Lawrence breathed, in a soft, dreamy cadence. “And the cold helps it all go peacefully." There was a placid smile on his mouth.

A cruel dream this must’ve been, to tempt me with false freedoms.

Shivering, I bowed my head beneath the entangled archway of black branches that formed the true gate of the spirit world. Onwards, we crested a small hill. Lawrence did not like people, and to his relief no signs of life stirred, too daunted by the cold. I should've been glad he wasn’t anxious, pulling me along with a vice-like harshness and clammy hands. But in that isolation, I realised that his unusual confidence was very justified. It would be so easy to hold his hand over my mouth, knock me out, kill and bury me… It was only the dead here, and my scream would have been paid less heed than a crow’s scream. From this new vantage point, the sight of the deserted graveyard felt nearly apocalyptic, an empty husk of land lying defeated under a pall of nuclear winter.

Harsh gusts assaulted me on the way down. We crossed by a path and his hiking boots crunched on the hard gravel, fading to a whisper once we returned to weedy, overgrown grass. "We're almost there. It's a good spot... I think you'll like it,” he told me.

Then, in a secluded area of the cemetery, Lawrence halted again. My trainers squelched into the damp, marshy ground and wetness trickled into my socks.

Puddles swollen with Autumn rain had funnelled into a depression in the land. Charon’s ferries of fallen leaves floated across it, White lichen spotted gravestones that were sunken into the half-buried skull of the earth like a row of crooked teeth. Their ancient inscriptions were long faded, barely decipherable. Iron spikes were impaling a dead end. Overlooking us, a gnarled oak tree reached out skeletal fingers to the heavens.

"You see this place? It’s quiet, just like how I wanted to keep you—away from the noise of the world."

A sobbing tremor rose from within. I gnawed my lip.

“It's... I've had my eyes on it for ages, waiting for the right time to take you here,” he began slowly, his gaze drifting over the old, abandoned tombstones. “It feels so untouched. Private, I guess. like no one's ever bothered to pay it any mind. But I did. I did…”

“Wait, you’ve thought of this for a while?” I was bewildered, it seemed so unexpected for him.

“Y-yeah, a long time.” He rubbed his arm nervously, and then gave a little smile. “I watched you.”

Lawrence was talking quickly, startled, as if afraid he had betrayed something. "From a distance. The first time I saw you, in the park. I just…” He looked away. “Watched from a distance, like an animal watches another animal… You see, it all became so much clearer once you came along. Everything just..." He then glanced back at me, with an odd sense of determination. "It became so much clearer."

I hugged myself. Was that why he’d dragged me out here? To explain himself, to justify it? It was more unsettling that I didn’t recall seeing him at the park. .

“You had such a normal life. You were so normal. But I could tell that underneath there was something…”

“You already found it,” I said, willing it to be over soon.

Lawrence leaned back his head, slowly and silently, staring up at the big sad sky, a plant searching for sun. I wanted to scream into it but I knew that I couldn’t.

“I don’t think so,” he said flatly. “But I will.”

Nothing was real and nothing about this was like two real humans interacting. I was given the impression of two walkers passing each other but never meeting.

Suddenly when I took a whiff of the fresh air it was not so fresh. It stank foully, like the old decaying corpses buried in the damp earth. With trembling hands, I gripped a slate headstone and almost expected it to lower into the sludge. My feet felt heavy like I was being held down by cinder blocks. I shifted, making gross sucking noises with my mucky shoes.

“When I go out, it’s like I can see things around me falling apart,” he began. “Nothing can stop it.”

Lawrence stooped low. When he got back up he held in his hand a ruffled bundle of moist, tawny feathers. Because one of Lawrence’s 27 books contained an encyclopaedia on species of common birds and their physical characteristics, I saw it was a sparrow.

A dead one. It lay lifeless in his palm. Uneasy, I huddled in my borrowed coat. “Yeah?”

He studied the corpse. “It’s a slow degradation. Slowly, but I, ah… feel it… This bird, and you, too. I’ve watched you for a long time. Degrading slowly…”

Lawrence was glaring like a lizard up at me from underneath his eyelids. Mentally he dissected me, piece by piece, as I stood there in my cerements.

“Do you understand me, Jasmine?”

Though I didn’t, I nodded. Before, I might’ve flinched.

But I couldn’t stop looking at the dead bird. There was a sense of profound wrongness in him cradling it like that in his naked hands. Briefly I wondered to myself if he needed to be concerned about washing them after touching animal remains like most people did. Somehow I thought not. Living things perished when forced to be near Lawrence. Flies dropped dead all over the apartment when they were unlucky enough to take shelter inside, though he had not the awareness to kill them. Spiders too, curled up in balls of legs.

It was for the same reason why food would rot too quickly around him, condemning us both to a diet of cheap plastic and grease. Looking at him now, I saw it in the wan pallor of him, in the hollows of his face, and knew he belonged here in this garden of bones.

And maybe now I did too.

Lawrence’s smile was almost hopeful. “That’s good. That’s good… It’s hard to live in a city… Or to just exist at all. Loud, frightening people and busy roads…”

“It’s safer for you to be mine,” he said, and the finality of his words seemed to reverberate off the trees. A minute later, he bit his lip. “But I guess it’s also unhealthy for you to be inside all the time. You need the sunlight to grow, and rain. Or you’ll...”

He trailed off, and then there it was. That meek downcast gaze, like he didn’t just drill right down to the marrow of my bone with those knives. Lawrence put down the dead sparrow, slipping it into a foetid pool. I was relieved that he left it to decompose in the soil.

He had let go of my wrist.

Realising it, I didn’t think of how much distance I could put between myself and him if I ran fast enough. I could never run fast enough. Lost in thought, I knelt to pick up a fallen acorn. It shone like burnished bronze. Or maybe it was the sheen of unshed tears. Wiping them away, I stuffed the acorn into the coat pocket, rubbing my thumb on the smooth sloping shape of it.

“You’re very fragile,” said Lawrence. “That’s why.”

A fine breeze caressed my hair. His long, cool fingers slid through the strands and clasped gently onto my nape, as one might paralyse an unruly kitten.

“When you cry…” Lawrence could have easily snapped my neck. “It’s special. I think you’re most beautiful when that happens. The way your throat constricts, and your cheeks are warm and red with blood… You’re like these leaves.” He captured a stray one twirling and crushed it, frail and rotting to dust in his hand.

“Getting under shoes, being crushed and destroyed. You’re just withering away and you don’t even know it. It’s lovely. I could… I could destroy you, if I wanted to.”

Lawrence’s mutterings ceased.

“Are you happy?” He asked.

The sharp acrid air of the season had sobered me. Now with clarity I looked around myself at the Autumn, at the rejoicing of a hundred thousand carrion feeders.

“Yes,” I decided, all my tears dried out and drained. “I’m glad to be out here… I mean, with you.”

His cheeks flushed and he looked away shyly.

“You’re fragile.” Blissfully serene, he said it again, as if he was close to reaching an epiphany. “It’s strange. I don’t want that to happen to you. At least, not yet…”

A plaintive sigh echoed once more, chasms opening up for me deep down in that hallowed earth. Weak, I wavered into the sickly sweet scent of his jacket.

Lawrence smelled like Autumn and Autumn smelled like him. Only as tender as its cruelty, the burning of the wind stung in my eyes. I wanted to ask him to hug me, or maybe kiss me. Not because I wanted it from him but because I wanted it. The single acorn in my pocket reminded me that I had one wish, and only one.

“Lawrence… I think I’d like to go home now.”

When I thought of home, I thought of burying my face into warm cat fur. The soft, purring vibrations.

I thought of trudging home in the snow in the too-early, late year, Winter darkness, and hanging up my keys.

I thought of the open grave waiting for me.

So I barely even registered what his answer was.

Did it even make a difference anymore? No. Lawrence’s cold fingers clamped around my wrist, and I hurried to keep up with his long strides.

Home, home, home, h-o-m-e. My numb tongue formed around the phantom of the syllables. Suddenly then I thought of hypothermia. Winter was in my path, and I thought of Lawrence’s deathlike enveloping me, submerging me in pale lethargy. Disoriented, the victim would strip until naked. They would surrender, and they would long to lie down, to sleep, to die.

Which is why I got it for my 22nd birthday.

Dividers @/thecutestgrotto

[mjsavocados]

SHORT STORY: AWAKE

Wrote my first short story. Hope you like it. If you don't, that's ok, but please be gentle 😅

1

The man bathed in the warm electric glow of the cascading pixels. They rained down alongside icy droplets while the flurry of overzealous sales pitches fought for his attention. Holographic images shouted catchy slogans and flashed bright neon colors that went unnoticed by the commuters, who parted like water around a solitary figure in a blue jacket. He stood under the evening rain, filtering out the noise from the advertisements hanging above tall skyscrapers until he could hear only one. 

“— the sleeping pod induces a transient state, mirroring an organic form of sleep, giving you eight hours of uninterrupted rest and the possibility to experience dreams.”

“Dreams,” the word rippled through his mind, drowning out the ache in his back like a temporary pain reliever. He had heard of this archaic custom from his late parents. A story passed down to all children. A fairy tale of a restful place where your mind could wander aimlessly. But he never experienced the sensation himself. No one has anymore — not since the introduction of chips that alleviated the reliance on this time-consuming bodily function, expanding human wakefulness to a full 24 hours.

“Dreams,” the word continued to burrow into his mind as the advertisement looped to the beginning.

He activated the chip firmly planted in his skull to check his account balance and compared the small number to the hefty price tag above. Expensive, but possible with a few more shifts and sacrifices.

The hopeful thought kept him warm as he peeled his trembling body from the flashy slogans and joined the rest of the hurried commuters on the way to the station. On his journey home, the man counted and recounted his balances and expenses, checking and rechecking how long it would take to save up for the sleeping pod. The numbers ran around in circles, hitting zeroes much faster than anticipated, leaving his account too quickly to grasp. Yet the man remained hopeful as the thought fell into a loop, repeating the words over and over: “Expensive but possible. Expensive but possible.”

The metal box of a train shook the listless commuters as it whizzed through the streets, exchanging bright city lights for dim, grid-like neighborhoods that spiraled out for miles. His fellow commuters counted and recounted their own balances as lights ran across their eyes, sending signals to and from the chip, completing and extending payment plans to meet their unmeetable goals.

They were all afraid to end up past the outskirts with the rest of the despondent masses forced out of the city every time the quarterly rent increases took effect. They all tried to grasp an expensive dream of their own, all swallowing the bitter pill of failure when they couldn’t make it come true.

The man hadn’t accounted for the quarterly increases in his calculations. Unlike the years before, when he diligently prepared for the oncoming financial woes, he didn’t have the luxury of worrying about housing anymore. This year was different.

The passengers scattered like ants at their destination, keeping their heads low as they avoided the police bots, nagging vendors, and desperate beggars. Despite the late hours, the streets were buzzing as more and more passengers embarked and disembarked from the train, all coming and going to and from their third, fourth, or even fifth shifts.

Their exhausted faces fell into the background as the man walked home. He tuned out the noise, dialing down the connection between his hearing and the chip, and turned up the visors around his eyes so he didn’t have to see the accumulating street trash left to rot in the alleys. All he wanted was to hide in the comforting loop that repeated over and over: “Expensive, but possible. Expensive, but possible.”

“She’s still on the floor,” a voice interrupted his spiral.

Without realizing it, the man had entered his crumbling apartment building, took the shaky elevator upstairs, and arrived in a dusty hallway where his neighbor now peered from her apartment. She was a stocky woman with a gravelly voice and a blank expression, whose unblinking eyes made him uneasy.

“She’s still on the floor,” the neighbor repeated.

“Oh,” the man needed a moment to understand as he turned up his hearing. “Thank you for checking.”

The neighbor waited while the man fiddled with his keys, his hands shaking more than usual, then opened the apartment door and disappeared inside.

“Stress,” the neighbor explained away his demeanor and shuffled away after he was gone.

Inside his unit, the man pressed his ear against the door, listening to the quiet stillness on the other side, satisfied to be left alone. A whisper trickled in from the main room, followed by a dim light from the holographic television, making itself known to the late arrival.

The man quietly pushed off his shoes and walked across the cold, tiled floor into the living area. It was a small space with a narrow bed, barely large enough for two, a kitchenette overflowing with used dishes, and a sprawling window staring out at the bleak sunrise, illuminating the lifeless neighborhood below.

“Hi,” the man spoke softly so as not to frighten her. “I missed the early train.”

His wife lay on the floor, unaware of his presence, watching a loop of infomercials on the holographic screen, selling overpriced items to anyone with a few cents to spare. The pixels reflected in her eyes as she blinked, sluggishly raising and lowering her eyelids. She wasn’t listening to the sales pitches or admiring the enticing images, just passively staring in their general direction, completely unaware when her husband left or returned.

“I’m tired,” she muttered in a quiet voice that sounded agonizing coming from her exhausted lips.

The man quickly shed his jacket and lay next to her. “I found something that can help,” he said, restraining his sorrow. “Just wait a little longer.”

“I’m tired,” she pushed out the words. It was all she could muster after the microchip malfunction that stifled her senses. A tragic accident had left her with an infected scar that had grown from a soft pink to dark red and then to a deep purple.

“The doctor said you have to try to move,” the man swallowed a tear.

“I’m tired,” his wife repeated.

Before the man could say anything else, a notification rushed across his eyes, displaying a notice of a successful deposit for his last shift. He watched the account balance rise with glee, feeling more hopeful than ever about the possibility of reaching his goal. A second notification followed for an immediate withdrawal. The numbers depleted, taking more than the deposit brought in and ripped away his hope with it.

“Thank you for your payment,” a chipper voice spoke in his ears.

“Fuck,” the man jumped to his feet. He hadn’t accounted for the outstanding medical bills from his wife’s hospital visit two weeks ago. A simple checkup cost more than the month’s rent and changed nothing. He had to take out a loan for the medication, but that hadn’t worked either.

He felt the anger boil up inside him — a feeling of rage over the cruel injustice, a feeling of hopelessness since there was nothing he could do except watch his beloved slowly wither before his eyes.

“You can request a new chip,” the doctor had told him. But the price was more than double his yearly salary and impossible to save for. “Try to make her more comfortable then,” the doctor added. “Until you save enough.”

The man angrily kicked his work bag as those memories came flooding back. What use were those doctors if they couldn’t help her? What use was the chip if it was killing her?

“Expensive but possible,” the man tried to burrow into the hopeful thought. “Expensive but possible.”

But the more he repeated it, the more hope slipped away, drowning in a sea of despair and pulling him down with it.

“She’s getting worse,” the man thought.

His heart sped up, pummeling against the rib cage as he tried to catch his runaway breath.

“The sleep machine,” he thought. “She needs it.”

A new notification pinged in his ears, interrupting.

“You free for a gig?” a colleague's prerecorded message rushed through.

The wave of anger subsided as the hopeful thought returned, “Expensive but possible. Expensive but possible.”

“What’s the gig?” the man commanded his chip to respond.

2

“Session complete,” the soothing voice alerted as the transparent screen slowly rose, releasing Charlotte from its cocoon. 

She frowned, blinking her eyes open, unsure if there was a session at all. But the sleeping pod indicated eight hours of rest despite Charlotte’s dissatisfaction.

“Still no dreams,” she thought, swallowing the disappointment as she climbed out of the chamber.

Charlotte’s been using the sleeping pod for two weeks and still no dreams. The manufacturer assured her the results vary person by person, and it was possible she did experience dreams, but didn’t remember them.

“Then what’s the point?” she snapped at the voice programmed to help her.

Charlotte often enjoyed berating the AI systems that took her complaints, determined to make them feel her frustration by talking over them when they tried to provide a solution and raising her voice when they calmly offered a fix.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with me,” she wondered, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror that morning. “Maybe there’s something wrong with the sleeping pod,” another thought overtook with vigor.

“Good morning, Charlotte,” a soothing voice emanated from the walls. “You have three appointments today.”

While the AI assistant read out a list of frivolous tasks and preselected functions for the day, Charlotte counted her flaws in the mirror, nitpicking herself apart as she did every morning. She focused in on the sleepy reflection, trying to decipher the reason for her continued failures, thinking up new bedtime routines to try and new complaints to raise when those failed.

Her high-rise, floor-through apartment accumulated trinkets of all shapes and sizes designed to enhance her mind and appearance, always striving for out-of-reach perfection, always falling short of her expectations and then collecting dust in the corners as new, more expensive toys came to replace them. The sleeping pod was the latest arrival and had already failed to bring its consumer the joy and relief the advertisement promised.

Charlotte was so captivated by her morning routine, mentally noting every one of her imperfections and inventing defects to fix, that it took her a moment to notice the strange repetitions. The AI assistant had fallen into a loop, saying the same syllables over and over, caught in a painful cycle that jolted Charlotte out of her concentration and into a discomforting confusion.

“Machine!” the young woman shouted for help.

A boxy house bot rolled into the room. Its rectangular shape stared at its mistress, waiting to be addressed.

“What’s wrong with it?” Charlotte snapped.

“There appears to be a malfunction,” the bot paused. “I’ve contacted the manufacturer. Repairs will be done this afternoon.”

Charlotte had never encountered a malfunction. Any repairs were done without her knowledge or inconvenience, and until today, she was blissfully unaware that her everyday helpers ever required upkeep.

This unplanned interruption threw a wrench in her daily routine, leaving the young woman without a guide to direct her every movement. It was a novel sensation to be left to her own devices, and she had no idea what to do with this newfound power.

For a moment, Charlotte considered leaving the safety of her home and venturing down to the streets below unsupervised. But as she conversed with the thought, trying to strike a plan of escape, the young woman realized she didn’t know how to get down from the highest floor without instruction, let alone how to make it back up. So, she released the idea and decided to spend the day aimlessly wandering from room to room, determined to find some entertainment.

Time ran slowly as the house bot carried on with its scheduled tasks while Charlotte rediscovered forgotten objects tucked away for safekeeping, flipped through the collection of paper books she thought were decorations, and admired the breathtaking view of the city below.

She wondered about the people on the streets, their pre-ordained destinations, overbearing AI assistants, and the rules that guided their everyday lives. She wondered if they, too, had their schedules meticulously combed through and approved, and if the people they worked for or with went through the same painstaking checking process that isolated her from others.

Charlotte was not permitted to go out alone or speak to anyone unapproved by the AI system outside her family. She infrequently received messages from her father and brother, who were too busy to visit and had locked her up in this beautiful home for her own safety, as they often said.

“Could I visit you?” she pleaded with them just to be dismissed with a promise that someday they would make arrangements they never did. “Could you come visit me?” she would ask, only to be appeased by more hopeful lies and expensive presents.

She watched the blinking city lights, reminiscing about her lonely childhood that led to an even lonelier adulthood, and wondered what life could be like if she ever made it down from her tower.

But Charlotte’s focus broke as the house bot rushed past, heading for the back door. She peeled her eyes from the window, releasing the painful memories, and diverted her attention to the seldom-used entry. “That’s where the visitors come to,” she thought as the bot welcomed a stranger.

Charlotte had never seen or spoken to a visitor, typically delivery bots or people, always directed away from unauthorized machines or humans whenever they came by. But not today. Today, there was no one pulling her away. Today, she would speak with whomever she pleased.

“Hello,” Charlotte said instinctively, when she saw the man standing in the doorway. He wasn’t much older, but the pair of sad, sunken eyes and the heavy lines on his forehead added a decade to his life.

His wet blue jacket dripped on the polished floor, sending the house bot into a frenzy. He looked uncomfortable in Charlotte’s presence despite the warm smile she practiced in the mirror for years, hoping to someday model the welcoming gesture to her distant family.

“Hello,” the man replied, trying to force the corners of his mouth to mirror Charlotte. But the facial expression didn’t come naturally, and since he was out of practice, the smile looked more like a painful wince than a sign of contentment.

Charlotte looked strange to him with her unnaturally smooth skin and shiny hair, resembling AI models from magazine covers and pixelated advertisements. For a moment, he fought the idea that she could be a humanoid, a shiny new invention meant to mimic a woman’s appearance. But the unexpected desperation in her eyes dispelled any doubt. She was a person like him, and he could sense her sadness despite the nice clothes and expensive home.

“Please come this way,” the house bot interjected after cleaning the droplets off the ground. The man nodded and followed it to a narrow closet that housed the AI server unit.

Charlotte watched as he laid out his tools and made the repairs to burned wires, swiftly connecting and reconnecting the pathways, and programming and reprogramming those connections with ease.

Charlotte had never seen the server unit and felt enthralled by the complex process that came so easily to this skilled worker. She felt jealous of his talents, comparing her lack of knowledge and expertise to his and realizing she knew nothing about the inner workings of the machines making all her life decisions.

“How did you learn this?” Charlotte’s timid voice inched into the man’s ears.

He looked up, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t used to talking to his clients directly, often coming and going without his presence known to anyone except the metallic helpers that ran the home on behalf of their owners.

The house bot idled by like a chaperone, subtly moving its mechanisms every time its mistress spoke. The young woman noticed the man’s glance and kicked the helper to leave them be. In response, the house bot squeaked and scattered away while Charlotte spread her smile even further.

“Don’t mind it,” she said, hoping to put her guest at ease.

With no house bot in sight, the man sat up, brushed off the dust to make himself presentable, and searched for the right words.

“School,” was all he could muster in response to the question.

“Oh,” Charlotte blushed, feeling stupid for asking.

She smiled and nodded, holding back other questions, fearing she sounded foolish.  After all, she didn’t really know what to ask.

“You have a nice home,” the man forced out a compliment.

Again, Charlotte smiled and nodded, even if she didn’t agree.

Within a few seconds, the servers lit up, and the AI assistant assumed control of the house. Charlotte felt disappointment burn her stomach. While she spent the day paralyzed by the not knowing, she had hoped that a few more moments of solitude could give her enough time and confidence to make a new friend, and perhaps even devise a plan of escape. But all that potential came crashing down when she heard the words, “Hello, Charlotte.”

The soothing voice rushed from the walls, callously shattering Charlotte’s hope. Her smile withered, leaving her with a debilitating sadness she could no longer hold back.

“Are you alright?” the man asked, catching her reaction.

“Repairs are complete and the payment has been transferred. Please make your way to the back door,” the AI assistant commanded.

The man packed up his tools, haphazardly putting everything away before he was told again. He knew better than to aggravate the machine or overstay his welcome, so he jumped up and rushed for the door. But on his way there, just about halfway down the hallway, something strange caught his attention.

Charlotte watched him freeze up in shock and slowly moved closer, following his gaze across the room to the sleeping pod.

“Do you have one?” Charlotte asked meekly.

The sleeping pod looked smaller than he expected, with a transparent, sleek outer shell around a flatbed for the user.

“No,” the man released the words and turned to Charlotte. “Have you used it?”

“Yes,” Charlotte lit up at the opportunity for a real conversation. “I use it every night. I haven’t had a —”

“No unauthorized users are allowed on this floor,” the AI assistant interjected. “Please proceed to the back door immediately.”

The man glanced one more time at his dream in the distance, nodded at Charlotte, and exited the same way he entered within seconds.

Charlotte watched the house bot rush by and lock the door behind him, listening to the slam echo through her vast, empty home. Suddenly, a rush of loneliness hit her, and for the first time in years, Charlotte couldn’t hold it back any longer. Her legs gave in, and she dropped to the ground as tears streamed down her face.

The nervous house bot whirled and squeaked as it circled the young woman, unsure what to do.

“Are you alright, Charlotte?” the AI assistant asked.

But Charlotte couldn’t respond. Her throat closed up, and the pain of her solitude was too much to bear. She felt a searing hatred for the AI assistant, a violent desire to run into the server room, pull out its wires, and punish it for turning away the only real person she had spoken to in years. She pictured a raging fire spreading through its routers and switches, melting away its panels and cables before finally turning the whole unit into ash. But before Charlotte could muster the courage to raise a hand against her captor, the server door locked closed, separating Charlotte from her dream.

3

The elevator doors screeched open, releasing the man onto the floor of his apartment building. His exhausted eyes bore the stress of a full day’s work. In the distance, he heard a commotion, the thuds, and groans of a family packing up their belongings, the restrained murmurs of a frazzled couple struggling to make sense of their situation.

In the days leading up to the quarterly rent increases, some residents chose to prepare in advance when their finances could no longer meet the living requirements. To avoid the humiliation of an auto-lock on the door for non-payment, they would leave a day early to preserve some semblance of dignity.

As the man shuffled down the hallway, he debated whether to offer a comforting word or a helping hand. Since the day he moved in, he kept to himself, avoiding friendships and confrontations with his neighbors, setting an invisible wall he never crossed. But since his wife’s illness, he contemplated that decision and longed for a friend to share his troubles, for someone to help bear the weight of his loneliness as he went through the motions, slowly heading for the inevitable. But the longer the man contemplated, the more he decided to stay out of the way, leaving the residents to tend to their troubles. After all, he expected to join them on the outskirts soon enough.

“She left,” a raspy voice interrupted.

The man turned to see his stocky-framed neighbor standing in her doorway with the usual stoic expression.

“She left,” the neighbor repeated.

“What?”

“Your wife,” she continued. “She left a little while ago.”

Within seconds, the man was inside his apartment, blood thumping in his ears while his eyes swept over every surface, and the holographic TV played a loop of infomercials to an audience of none. A cold sweat soaked his clothes, and his mind raced with questions: “Where could she have gone? How did she walk? Did she get better? Was she out looking for me?”

The absence of his wife rendered the apartment lifeless and empty. Suddenly, he became acutely aware of the air funneling through the vents, the footsteps of the neighbors above, and the scattering of critters in the walls. The warmth of her presence had dissipated, replaced by a bitter cold that pierced his skin. And for a moment, he feared this aching would never end.

“You should look for her,” the neighbor’s monotone voice inched closer. “She couldn’t have gone far.”

Within seconds, the man brushed past the stoic woman and sprinted into the hallway. Exhaustion and pain dropped from his mind as he charged down the stairs and out into the cold, wet night. With no one else in sight and no direction to follow, the man let his feet guide him along a familiar path to the train station.

His heightened senses scanned every inch of his surroundings, noting every crack he ever overstepped, finding novelty in the familiar streets and buildings. The colors pulsated in the darkness, screaming for his attention as his eyes jumped from light to light. He was drawn to the face of every stranger, silently begging to find his wife’s familiar eyes instead of a disheveled commuter. It wasn’t her. Each time, it wasn’t her.

The man arrived at the train station as the shifts changed. The bots were sweeping, and new vendors were setting up, demanding the man to make a purchase as he slithered through the crowd. A train had just left, and the platform emptied, revealing a solitary figure sitting on a bench. There she was.

“I’m tired,” the wife said as the man approached.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak as his knees buckled, and he fell into the seat next to her.

“I’m tired,” the wife repeated while the man quietly sobbed, burying his face in her lap. He felt a sense of relief coupled with intense worry that he couldn’t reconcile. He couldn’t understand how she had gotten to and from their home and let in a slither of hope he’d soon regret.

“It’s not unusual,” the doctor said when the man called. “This can happen in the last stages of degradation. The chip can no longer synchronize with the neural pathways, and this gives the brain an illusion of temporary control of the body,” the doctor took a long pause before nailing in the coffin. “However, this means that the chip can permanently fail at any moment and trigger a fatal aneurysm.”

The words burned through his mind like wildfire. His wife would soon die, and there was nothing he could do to save her. Nothing he could do to ease her last moments of suffering.

Memories of their life together flashed before his eyes as he desperately searched for a solution. They didn’t ask for the chip, and yet they were saddled with its malfunctions. They followed the rules, taking on more when it was asked of them and now didn’t have enough to pay for this medical imposition. If he had the money, they could have swapped the chip for a new one earlier, but now it was too late. By now, the device had poisoned his wife’s body so deeply that even his wealthiest clients didn’t have the funds to reverse the process.

While he sat there, reminiscing on his worries, the payment for the medical call cleared out his last deposit. The balance fell so low that the man didn’t have enough to account for the quarterly living increases, accurately predicting they would push him to the outskirts with his destitute neighbors. But the money didn’t matter anymore. The dream didn’t matter anymore. Without his wife, nothing mattered anymore.

 The world fell into the background as the man watched the trains come and go. He held his wife’s dying hand, listening to the rumbling of the cars and the screeching of the railways, breathing in the post-rain breeze, feeling no desire to go home where nothing waited for him but the bitter reminder of his wife’s soon-to-be passing.

The man heard the bots cleaning and repairing, working patiently around the couple on the bench. His eyes drifted to a limping machine finishing up an installation of a new advertising display, watching it fold its tools away into its metal belly. With the job done, the bot hurried off, and cheerful voices burst from the new panel.

 “— the sleeping pod induces a transient state, mirroring an organic form of sleep, giving you eight hours of uninterrupted rest and the possibility to experience dreams.”

He watched the glowing pixels, seeing the same images that had captivated him under the pouring rain the night before. The words, embedded in his mind, played long after the advertisement switched to another, taunting him with their message.

“Dream,” the word returned with a fervor.

“Dream,” it yelled louder, pushing through his tears.

“Dream,” it demanded to be heard.

The idea crept up slowly, teasing at first, then latching on, convincing him there was no other way. It solidified into a plan against his wishes, outlining every step with an irresistible determination. He couldn’t fight the order, propelling him off the bench and to his new destination: the only place that might give his wife what he couldn’t.

“Hold on a little longer,” he said, looking into her vacant eyes. “Just a little longer.”

4

The sleeping pod emitted a low hum, signaling a session in progress, casting a white light reflecting on the polished floors. The house bot rested in its charging dock, and the AI assistant kept a watchful eye over the night. Nothing was out of place. Not a dust bunny in the corner or a crumb on the counter. Not a peep or beep of unexpected noise through the windows. The night was silent, and everything and everyone were exactly where they were supposed to be.

Charlotte lay sleeping on the flatbed inside the pod, cocooned under its transparent screen. Her chest slowly rose and fell while her closed eyes showed no signs of rapid movement. Her body was asleep, but she experienced no dreams, even if the machine promised her to.

The AI assistant assessed and reassessed Charlotte’s well-being, documenting her vitals for further inspection. It converted the information into binary data, transferring it through the internal communication systems carried by electrical signals and down the wires to the hard drive controller. But before the recipient could process the information, all power drained from its units, leaving the AI assistant powerless over the house — and Charlotte. In a desperate cry for help, it sent a signal to wake its mistress before its artificial consciousness plunged into darkness.

The sleeping pod beeped, wrapping up the session, and released a hiss as it rolled back the outer shell. Charlotte blinked with confusion. She felt disoriented and jolted into wakefulness, convinced the session was shorter than usual, and the lack of light trickling in through her windows confirmed her suspicion.

“Assistant?” Charlotte spoke into the night.

The house bot woke up at the sound of her voice, abandoned the charging dock, and rushed over.

Charlotte sat up, waiting for a response, but none came. The overhead lights didn’t turn on as she expected, and the low glow of the sleeping pod failed to penetrate the night’s darkness. A panic brewed deep in her stomach, instinct knocking to be heard. She flinched as the house bot whirred and stopped a few feet away.

“What happened?” Charlotte asked.

“I’m not sure,” the bot replied.

The clueless duo stared at each other briefly, listening for any sounds that could explain their debacle. The eerie silence made Charlotte feel exposed and under-protected. The nearest human was ten feet below. But could they even hear her if she yelled for help?

A loud clank shot out of the darkness.

“I’ve contacted the authorities,” the house bot said as it shared its data with the nearest police precinct. By now, Charlotte was convinced of an intruder and didn’t want to attract their attention. She tried to shush her helper, but it didn’t understand, as the bot only knew to help its primary user with household tasks, not to plan around danger. That was the role of the AI assistant currently trapped in limbo, unable to reclaim control and fulfill its ultimate purpose: protecting Charlotte.

“I will investigate the issue,” the house bot rushed into the night before Charlotte had a chance to protest. Internally, she cursed her helpers for failing to do as she wanted, yet desperately longed for their return. Now, more than ever, she needed someone by her side. And after all, they were all she had.

With no one to help her, Charlotte stumbled to the wall, following its sturdy hand as she searched for any semblance of light.

“I’m sorry,” the man’s voice cut through the night.

“Who’s there?” she blurted out without thinking and immediately regretted her action, fearing her sudden response would pull the stranger closer. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she thought, berating herself for the impulse.

Charlotte’s mind ran wild as her heart sped up, desperate to flee if only she could see a destination. Instead, the young woman aimlessly stumbled around in the dark, moving further from the sleeping pod, until she saw a tiny glimmer inching closer. It moved through the air, bouncing light on its polished surface before disappearing and reappearing in the darkness. With each second, it caught the elusive beam and twirled it around before releasing it along its sharp edge, leading Charlotte to realize it was a knife.

Her body froze and her stomach sank, releasing a floodgate of pins and needles that hugged her body tightly as she watched the winking knife crawl closer. The man moved speedily in her direction, clutching the weapon he snatched from the kitchen. As he came face to face with his victim, Charlotte stared at the familiar blade the house bot used to chop and prepare dinners. For years, she had ignored this tedious kitchen utensil, but now she watched it morph from a tool to a threat.

“I’ve disconnected your system,” the man said, looming over her like a shadow. His voice, soft yet shaky, desperately tried to assert dominance while shielding the overwhelming fear bursting through his fragile resolve.

Charlotte was fielding her own mix of terror and rage, feeling an impulse to grab the knife and fight the intruder. But any commands she sent down to her arms were met with panicked silence.

“Please move,” the man gestured to the sleeping pod.

Charlotte followed his orders, shuffling back to the dim source of light while her mind ran all the possible scenarios. He would kill her, she thought. Or maybe he wanted money. Maybe he knew her father and brother and wanted them instead. Maybe he planned it all along, casing her apartment earlier, learning the ins and outs of the security systems, leaving tools behind to return in the dead of night while she slept and creep in to slash her helpless body —

“I’m sorry,” the man said, interrupting her spiral.

Charlotte didn’t know how to respond. All water evaporated from her mouth, leaving a desert desperate to quench a growing thirst.

“Wait here,” he said, putting out his palms and redirecting the pointed knife from her torso to the ceiling, subtly gesturing that he wouldn’t hurt her if she followed his instructions.

Charlotte watched him disappear back into the darkness and pull the knife with him. Her collarbone tensed up and her eyes watered. It was worse not to see her assailant, wondering if he was tip-toeing around her vigilance. She thought about running, leaping into the other room, grabbing at any one of her toys for protection, but couldn’t bring herself to move an inch. Instead, she politely stood by the sleeping pod as she was told, watching the light reflecting on the polished floor, waiting for her intruder’s return.

The house bot whirred out of the darkness, “I was unable to locate the source of the noise.”

But before Charlotte had a chance to exhale her worries, the man returned. And he wasn’t alone. He carried a woman about his age with wispy hair and gentle eyes. She didn’t look at Charlotte or the house bot. “Is she his accomplice?” Charlotte wondered silently, studying the woman’s protruding bones.

The accomplice blankly stared into nothingness as if the intruder hadn’t brought her to a foreign property, carried her up the stairs for hours, and left her to wait in the cold hallway while he executed his plan. She didn’t rush to explain the situation or make excuses for his actions. She merely existed in the tension while the man and Charlotte waited for the other to make their move.

The man was taken aback by the house bot. He didn’t anticipate a separate system for this helper, convinced that the hack should have neutralized anyone standing in his way without cutting off power to the sleeping pod.

“Alert! Alert! Alert!” the house bot screamed in fury. “There is an intruder. I have alerted the authorities. You must leave this instance or risk prosecution.”

“Tell it to step back,” the man pointed the sharp blade with the same hand he used to balance his wife’s lifeless body. “Tell it to step back!”

Charlotte’s eyes darted from the frail woman to the sharp blade. “Who is this creature?” she wondered. “Is she a captive like me?”

“I won’t tell you again!” the man screamed, his face turning red as tears rose to his eyes. His hand shook so hard that Charlotte realized she could knock the weapon out with a single hit. But she didn’t.

“Step back,” she calmly instructed the house bot.

The bot idled, staring at the intruder, momentarily disobeying his mistress. In those tense seconds, it referenced its manual, searching through the obligations and emergency protocols, conferring with the manufacturer’s design before complying. Tired of its insubordination, Charlotte kicked the bot and commanded, “Step back.” It whirred rolled into the corner, keeping a close watch.

The man struggled to keep hold of his wife as her paralyzed body weighed heavily on his arms. Charlotte observed this effort, feeling her fears wither away. She watched as he gently placed the woman on the flatbed, judging their disheveled appearance: the stains on her clothes, the dirt under his fingernails. Charlotte was appalled they welcomed themselves into her pristine home mere hours after paying the man a proper sum for his labor and complimenting his skills. She unknowingly projected her disgust, contorting her face into a bitter frown, pushing down the corners of her lips with such force that it drained all the hard-won beauty from her face.

“You’re here to steal from me?” Charlotte blurted out the accusation.

While the man was preoccupied with his wife’s comfort, Charlotte was overwhelmed with a fierce sense of territoriality over her dominion.

“How does it work?” he asked, running his shaky hand across the buttons.

He lacked experience with the latest gadgets and struggled in frustration to force it to respond to his commands.

“How does it work!” he snapped.

“I’m not helping you,” Charlotte said, after a tense moment of silence. She did not attempt to hide her disdain, wearing it proudly in the face of her captor.

“She needs it,” he hissed, gripping the outer shell and pressing his sweaty hands into its smooth exterior.

The wife lay on the flatbed, with her chest gently rising and falling while her unfocused eyes stared just past Charlotte’s shoulder. Despite the woman’s sickly appearance, Charlotte couldn’t muster an ounce of empathy. Instead, she found herself fixated on the inevitable cleaning process following her unwanted guests’ departure and felt annoyed that her shiny new toy would need a good scrub before she could resume her sleeping cycle.

“I’m tired,” the wife released the words in agony.

The painful syllables flooded Charlotte’s ears, instantly turning down the brewing revulsion. Within seconds, the young woman found her attention switching from inconvenience to a sudden concern for the woman’s well-being.

“She needs a doctor,” she said without thinking.

Charlotte noticed the dryness around the woman’s lips, the pale skin and lifeless eyes, the thinning hair and protruding bones, and the sagging clothes that looked to have outgrown their hostess. The images pulled every facet of Charlotte’s attention away from her frivolous concerns and toward the dying woman in front of her to realize she needed a doctor.

“How does it work?” the man repeated, holding back his overflowing desperation.

“It won’t cure her,” Charlotte responded. “You have to bring her to a hospital —”

“What do you know of the world beyond your castle,” the man said harsher than intended.

Their eyes met: hers, wide with horror; his, bloodshot and hostile. Charlotte rummaged her mind for a quippy response, but the moment she opened her lips to speak, she understood him completely. Shame washed her body as she glanced back at his dirty hands and the woman’s delicate frame, piecing together their predicament. How could they hurt her, the dying woman, and her hopeless caretaker? What could they take from her that the world hadn’t already taken from them?

But before she could speak, the house bot charged forward. Bright lights pierced every window, assaulting Charlotte and her captor. It was the police introducing themselves to the neighborhood.

“Relinquish the weapon and exit the apartment with your hands raised,” demanded the bot. It was sharing its data with the buzzing machines outside, and in return, they provided instructions on how to disarm the intruder.

The house bot inched closer to the man with a menacing whirr.

“Wait,” Charlotte jumped forward, blocking its way. “Wait, just wait!”

The man clutched his knife, ready to fight off the bot and every machine outside if necessary.

“It won’t cure her,” she told the man, trying to avoid violence. “She needs a doctor.”

“Nothing will cure her,” he growled in response, tears streaming down his face. “No one can cure her. Not anymore.”

The house bot tried to push forward, but Charlotte held it back.

“Turn it on!” the man screamed, spitting out his rage as he banged on the sleeping pod.

      Charlotte thought about releasing the house bot on her captor. She imagined herself running to the machines at her windows, letting them in, and watching as they dragged out her intruder within minutes. But a strange sadness whispered in her ear, questioning her anger and annoyance. A hesitation held her back from making the obvious choice.

      “Please step aside, Charlotte,” the bot said, repeating the instructions transmitted by the police outside.

She watched the man, observing the hatred in his eyes — the same hatred she felt for her metallic helpers. She almost admired his bravery, feeling jealous of his dedication despite the obvious, tragic outcome. He was willing to do what she couldn’t. He was willing to fight them.

“No,” Charlotte said sternly, turning her eyes to the house bot.

“Please, step aside,” the bot protested as instructed by the police.

Charlotte let go of the helper and loomed over it with a stoic expression before saying, “Leave.”

Despite the danger, the demands from the police, and its default programming to protect its primary user, there was one thing the bot had to do: obey.

“Leave,” Charlotte said louder, funneling the years of pent-up despair and aggression into one simple word. “Leave!”

The bot slowly backed away, rolling out of the room while Charlotte moved forward, each step increasing the distance between it and the man. She calmly guided the helper out and closed the door, noting the bright, trickling light seeping through the threshold.

      The man watched the exchange in awe, clutching his knife closely, now more afraid of Charlotte than she was of him. The rage had drained his last remaining energy, leaving him hollow, clutching a useless utensil for protection. He was unable to fight her off if she decided to take back her home, unable to protect himself or his beloved if the machines burst through the windows. But they didn’t. They didn’t break their barricades because of Charlotte. And he felt immense gratitude for this kind act.

Charlotte was no longer preoccupied with his presence or threats. She marched to the sleeping pod, adjusted his wife’s frail body, and reset the session to the beginning, programming and reprogramming its settings to account for the user change.

The sleeping pod let out a beep, and the outer shell descended to encapsulate its new patron.

“What’s happening?” the man asked, his eyes running around in confusion.

He didn’t notice as Charlotte brought out chairs for him and herself.

“Sit,” she said. “It’s a long session.”

Charlotte took a seat by the sleeping pod as its mechanism launched into action, mixing and dispensing an odorless gas that filled the chamber. The lights on the small panel indicated the stages of consciousness as the woman inside slowly breathed in the gaseous concoction. Her eyes blinked slowly, growing heavier with each fall and struggling to rise back up. Her muscles relaxed, succumbing to the chemicals in her bloodstream, as her breathing became steady and shallow.

The man looked at Charlotte in disbelief: Why did she help him? What did she want? Did she know something he didn’t? Will the contraption hurt his wife? Does Charlotte plan to hold her hostage to negotiate his surrender? Was it her plan all along to barricade the doors and trap them inside while she executes her a clever ploy —

“Sit,” Charlotte repeated, interrupting his spiral.

The man fell into the chair, his eyes bouncing from his wife to Charlotte, from Charlotte to his wife.

“Why did you help me?” he asked.

Charlotte didn’t have an answer. She hadn’t planned to help this stranger or his guest, nor did she have a goal or destination. But she felt a burning sadness at the thought of this woman’s pain. At the thought of a world that left her to suffer. At the thought of no doctor who could ease her symptoms. And in a way, she felt a kinship with the man who fixed her machines and now stood to break them.

The sleeping pod let out another beep to indicate the user was now unconscious, and the session began.

“I don’t know if it works,” Charlotte said, sadness pouring through her lips. “I’ve never had dreams.”

The man watched his wife’s chest rise and fall. He wanted to reach out and hold her hand but couldn’t. He yearned to lie beside her one more time but couldn’t. He wished to hear her speak, no matter the words, but couldn’t. All he could do was watch her eyes sit under the heavy eyelids that twitched for reasons he couldn't understand, and hope she felt the relief she desired.

“I’m sure it will work,” the man said.

He leaned against the outer shell, placing his head against the thick casing, closed his eyes, and extended his hand to Charlotte. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t speak. But Charlotte understood the invitation, lowering her head and leaning across the shell herself. Her hand found his, and the two lay still, listening to the buzz of the police bots outside the doors, picturing them swirling in a frenzy as they steadied their breaths.

Charlotte allowed her eyes to close, shutting out the world and breathing deeply as the noises subsided, growing quieter and quieter and then turning off completely. Now, she could only hear her own faint inhales and the steady heartbeat as she drifted away. She no longer felt the smooth surface beneath her cheek, the rough hand of the stranger beside her, or the deep loneliness that plagued her every thought. She was no longer in a home that separated her from the world, no longer controlled by soulless machines with no compassion for her wants or needs. She was finally free to go where she wanted. And now, for the first time, she could even see dreams.

[testing-services]

Abrasion and Pilling Resistance: How Fabric Testing Ensures Long-Lasting Textiles

Fabric testing plays a vital role in determining the durability and longevity of textiles. Among the most critical aspects of fabric durability are abrasion and pilling resistance. These factors impact the lifespan, appearance, and quality of fabrics used in apparel, upholstery, and industrial applications. Understanding how fabric testing measures abrasion and pilling resistance helps manufacturers produce high-quality, long-lasting textiles that meet consumer expectations and industry standards.

What is Abrasion Resistance?

Abrasion resistance refers to a fabric’s ability to withstand friction and wear caused by repeated rubbing or contact with other surfaces. Over time, fabrics with poor abrasion resistance tend to weaken, develop holes, or lose their structural integrity.

Factors Affecting Abrasion Resistance

Several factors influence a fabric’s abrasion resistance:

Fiber Type: Natural fibers like cotton and wool have different abrasion resistance compared to synthetic fibers like polyester and nylon.

Fabric Construction: Tight weaves and high thread counts generally enhance abrasion resistance.

Finishes and Treatments: Special coatings or treatments can improve durability.

Environmental Factors: Exposure to moisture, heat, and chemicals can alter abrasion resistance.

Testing Methods for Abrasion Resistance

Several standardized tests evaluate a fabric’s abrasion resistance:

Martindale Abrasion Test (ISO 12947, ASTM D4966)

The fabric is rubbed against a standard abrasive surface in a circular motion until it shows wear.

The number of cycles completed before fabric failure determines its abrasion resistance.

Wyzenbeek Abrasion Test (ASTM D4157)

Commonly used for upholstery fabrics, this test involves rubbing the fabric against an abradant under pressure.

Measured in double rubs, with higher numbers indicating greater resistance.

Taber Abrasion Test (ASTM D3884)

Rotating wheels with abrasive surfaces apply friction to the fabric, measuring the amount of wear over time.

What is Pilling Resistance?

Pilling occurs when fibers on the surface of a fabric tangle and form small, unsightly balls or pills. Pilling reduces the aesthetic appeal of textiles and can lead to premature wear.

Factors Affecting Pilling Resistance

Fiber Content: Blended fabrics, particularly those with synthetic fibers, may pill more than 100% natural fabrics.

Yarn Structure: Loosely spun yarns and staple fibers tend to pill more.

Fabric Construction: Knitted fabrics are more prone to pilling than woven fabrics.

Finishing Processes: Anti-pilling treatments and fabric softeners can influence pilling resistance.

Testing Methods for Pilling Resistance

Martindale Pilling Test (ISO 12945-2, ASTM D4970)

The fabric sample is rubbed against itself or another fabric under controlled conditions.

After a set number of cycles, the fabric is visually inspected for pilling.

Random Tumble Pilling Test (ASTM D3512)

The fabric is tumbled inside a chamber with cork or synthetic materials to simulate real-life pilling conditions.

ICI Pilling Box Test (ISO 12945-1)

Fabric samples are placed in a rotating box, where they rub against each other to measure pilling resistance.

How Abrasion and Pilling Resistance Affect Textile Longevity

Enhanced Durability

High abrasion resistance prevents premature fabric wear, extending the textile’s lifespan.

Pilling resistance maintains the aesthetic quality of garments and upholstery over time.

Improved Consumer Satisfaction

Consumers expect textiles to maintain their appearance and function after repeated use and washing.

Fabric testing ensures textiles meet durability expectations, reducing complaints and returns.

Better Industry Compliance

Many industries require textiles to meet specific abrasion and pilling resistance standards.

Compliance with ASTM, ISO, and other regulatory standards guarantees product reliability.

Cost Efficiency for Manufacturers

Durable fabrics reduce production costs by minimizing defects and returns.

Quality control testing ensures consistency across batches, preventing costly recalls.

Steps to Improve Abrasion and Pilling Resistance

Choose High-Quality Fibers – Opt for synthetic blends or treated natural fibers for enhanced durability.

Optimize Fabric Construction – Tight weaves and high thread counts help improve resistance.

Apply Specialized Finishes – Anti-pilling coatings and abrasion-resistant treatments add longevity.

Regular Testing and Quality Control – Consistently testing textiles ensures they meet durability standards.

Conclusion

Fabric testing for abrasion and pilling resistance is crucial for ensuring long-lasting textiles. By assessing these properties, manufacturers can enhance product quality, improve customer satisfaction, and comply with industry standards. Investing in thorough fabric testing leads to better-performing textiles that stand the test of time.

[narrative-inn]

Chapter 5: THE EMPRESS

Blue wakes up in a bright snow covered forest clearing. They sit up and find a map, a compass and a backpack on the ground next to them. There’s a note attached to the map that reads: Climb the mountain to claim your gemstone. Then use a sled to get to the tower marked on the map. Solve the puzzles to light up your beam. First to light their color, wins. 

The map shows a mountain in the middle, surrounded by forest. You see no obvious environmental clues as to where Blue currently is, but in the bottom right corner is a bright red X over a small pentagon shape: the tower. 

“Find a mountain,” Blue says out loud to themselves. “Can’t be that hard, right?” 

They look around, and over the treetops to the south east, you spot a faint mountaintop. 

“See, on top of things already,” Blue says cheerfully. They start walking but immediately slip on some ice and fall down in the soft snow. You hear a quiet “Ow” from the human shaped hole in the snow. 

—

The scene shifts perspective to show Purple, already on their way through the forest, trudging through the heavy snow. They stop for a moment to catch their breath, leaning briefly against a tree. There’s a sign next to the trail leading to the mountain, reading “Almost there”. 

They’re about to start walking again when a voice calls out, “Help! I’m hurt!” 

Purple’s head turns away from the trail in the direction of the call, hesitating. They look back at the trail and take one, and then two, steps forward before they stop, and turn around and head towards the call.

—

The scene shifts again to show Yellow trudging through the snow away from the mountain trail. They reach their source of the call for help, a figure sitting in the snow, clutching their foot. 

“I’m here to help,” Yellow says and kneels down by the figure. “What can I do?”

“Thank you,” the person says. “I’ve twisted my ankle walking through this heavy snow. Please, do you have anything that would help?”

Yellow takes off their backpack and opens it. Inside is a day’s ration of food and water, as well as a small box. They pick up the box and read the inscription: Heal any damage. 

“I have something,” Yellow says eagerly, and opens the box to find just one pill. 

“Only one? Keep it,” the injured person says. “I’ll be fine.”

Yellow hesitates, before holding out the box to the person. “No, take it. You need it now, and I might not need it at all.”

The person takes the pill and their ankle is healed immediately. 

“Thank you so much,” they say. “I don’t want to be a bother, but would you walk me to my cottage? It’s right over there. “ They point further into the forest.

Yellow shakes their head. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” 

—

Meanwhile, having ignored the call for help from their injured person, Red walks out of the forest and stands in front of the mountain. There’s two paths marked. One path has platforms with railings zigzagging back and forth up the mountain. Next to it is a path that goes more straight up the mountain, but has no railings and in some parts, no platforms at all. Red heads towards the first trail, the safer one. They walk the platforms with ease, avoiding the icy patches, and climb the ladders between platforms at a steady pace. 

—

Back in the forest, you see Green helping their previously injured person up the stairs of their cottage. 

“Thank you,” the person says. “I didn’t want to risk any more injuries.”

“It’s no bother at all,” Green sighs. “Just be careful in the snow.”

As soon as the person is safely inside, Green sets off back towards the trail leading to the mountain. 

—

The scene swaps back to the mountain, where Red has just reached the halfway point. Purple emerges from the forest, and quickly follows Red up the safe but slow path. Not long after, you see Yellow come out of the forest, but unlike the previous two, they choose the straight but dangerous path. You watch as Yellow jumps between platforms and small ledges, having to climb the mountain itself in many parts, no ladders to be seen. It’s a slow process, and the ice makes them close to slipping multiple times. Meanwhile, Red is almost at the top, and Purple is proving faster than Yellow, despite the longer path. 

At the foot of the mountain, Blue comes out of the forest. They are covered in snow, and moving at a surprisingly slow pace. They choose the safer path as well, and as they start walking it, Green also emerges from the forest. They stop at the two paths, looking up at all the other contestants ahead of them, and choose the faster path. Compared to Yellow, Green is able to maneuver the icy mountain much easier and is quickly catching up. You watch as Green even surpasses Yellow on the faster path, just as Red reaches the top of the mountain.

—

The camera zooms in on Red climbing up the last ladder. Before them is a large wooden chest, as well as five sleds tied to a wooden post. They open the chest, and find 5 gemstones, one in each color of the contestants. Red reaches in and grabs their stone, and quickly stashes it in their backpack. They close the chest and bring up their map and compass. Red looks towards the southeast where the tower should be located, and indeed you can spot a structure in between the trees. Red puts the things away and unties one of the sleds. They position it in the right direction and set off down the mountain towards the tower.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Bargain 5

Masterlist

Warnings: financial stress and abuse, coercion, noncon, and some possible unmentioned triggers.

Character: Nick Fowler

Summary: You realise you don't know Nick anymore.

Note: Chapter ended up a bit longer than intended but not much.

As always, I appreciate all kinds of feedback. A like and reblog means so much to me! <3

You kneel on the floor, gathering up the spilled jewelry back into the case. The stickiness dries on your thighs as you work at clearing the mess. You put the box back on the vanity and gather up the small bottles and vials all around.

As you reach for the displaced packet of pills, Nick bends to take it first. He stands and gives a curious tilt of his head. You watch him as you sit back on your heels.

“You don’t need these,” he says as he crushes it in his fist.

“What? Nick those are–”

“I know what they are. It’s bad for you. Fucks with your hormones.”

“But—”

“But?” He challenges as he stands over you, his trousers replaced only with a loose pair of boxers, “we’re getting married, baby. It could happen now or then. Doesn’t matter either way, does it?”

“That… that wasn’t part of the deal–”

“What do you think the deal is, angel? If you’re gonna be my wife, you’re going to fulfill your wifely duties. Completely,” he snarls, “I can be a nice husband. A great husband. So why don’t you put on a smile,” he bends and touches your cheek, “clean this up, and get to bed.”

You turn your face down and issue a wispy, ‘yes, Nick.’

You go back to your work, lining up everything as it was before. You get up and straighten the mirror as it tilts on its frame from your frantic grasp. You look at yourself in the mirror, you see the defeat glisten at the corner of your eyes. You look almost gaunt, like a ghost of yourself.

You know Nick will take everything from you if you let him. It’s an icy epiphany that makes you shiver. You glance behind you as he stands by the bed. He shoves down his boxers and looks down his hard stomach, gripping his length as he pumps it.

“Hurry up, honey,” he taunts as he steps out of his boxers.

Your eyes pinpoint back to your reflection. You drift off into a memory. Of the Nick you used to know.

“It’s fine, I got it,” you wave him off as you tap your card on the machine, “you’ll get me next time, right?”

“I swear, I got money coming in,” Nick says as he accepts his drink from the barista, “I just… I gotta move some stuff around.”

“Really, it’s no biggie,” you smile and take your steaming tea latte, “that’s what friends do.”

“Friends,” he smirks crookedly, “yeah.”

He turns his back as his cheek twitches and he leads you to a table in the corner. You sit across from him, setting your cup down as you’re distracted by the strap of your purse. You replace your card inside and untangle yourself. You’re such a mess.

“So, basic training? Sounds intense,” you hug your hands around the warm comfort of your cup. “A lot more than corporate oversight. I can’t tell you how boring this internship is. And the printer… maybe you can show me how to land a punch so I can get it working.”

“Uh,” he scratches his throat and coughs. He looks into his cup and shrugs, “you know, it’s really not that bad.”

“Made any work friends? That guy I started with, Cole, he’s a bit slow on the uptake so far. He invited half the office to some karaoke party,” you shake your head, “a bit old for an internship if you ask me. And karaoke.”

“Huh,” Nick snorts, “weird. No, I guess, there’s a girl, Mace. She’s… tough.”

“Ooo, Mace, sounds sexy. Are agents allowed to date–”

“Date– no. I’m not… not looking,” he huffs and looks out the window, “not into her.”

“Oh, but you like someone?” You prompt, “is it your neighbour? She’s hot.”

“She’s obnoxious,” he scowls at the street. You watch the stone in his eye and the tick in his jaw. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. She’s obviously not interested.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Maybe if you told her… that’s how I got Curtis. Once I got over all my dumb fear.”

He looks at you. The tension leaves his face and his lips curve just a little. He shakes his head and pulls back, pushing his shoulders wide.

“Like I said, never gonna happen.”

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[wh-da-backup]

lyric scraps 8/1/13

5/23/13 you went to saturday night's party and woke up on sunday's floor

5/14/12 i expected you to speak as i dream i'm sorry understand i say things as a friend and sometimes more than

my noose was your tongue the words were sending out but the connection hung

5/16/12 four years down the road or four years down the drain drawing blood from my veins and pictures of my brain

4/25/12 i'm sick of society how they try to measure sins by how great the tragedy and how small the violins

4/26/12 i'm not the favorite anymore and maybe with good cause i sensed you pulling away from me and i took out my claws

6/6/12 i'll drown in your deluge i'm acting like a stooge got nothing left to lose this point in time

5/20/12 when you feel like you need a brother and the mirrors tell you to kill know that tears run thicker than blood and always will

5/28/12 they call me a fool a inconsiderate ass ya know i go to school but i ain't got no class

4/2/12 i'm going to visit the boy i love he speaks to me through he speaks to me through old sound waves not yet rotten i'm going to visit the girl he loved she speaks to me too she speaks to me too dead voices not forgotten

we killed them slowly as we took over we need their bodies it's only instinct they couldn't handle the situations what killed them slowly and scarred their bodies we have their memories

6/1/12 high school queen bee bitch honey has she seen me? does she think it's funny?

7/5/12 i can feel something restless and waiting inside of me maybe it's anxiety or anticipation or maybe it's pee i count all the liquids in my life face moisturizer and water and key lime juice and an aqueous solution of coffee in the morning

5/30/12 you can say i'm old even without you you smell like a dissection your words are cutting too

5/31/12 our cage arcades our cage arcades

10/5/12 parlons, parlons c'est interdit car il n'ya pas de mots ici

reviens, reviens, c'est vrai enfin que les vrais mots n'importent rien

5/10/12 i wanna be your test drive don't forget your gasoline you can rule what hearts you want to let me be your blueprint scheme demo queen

1/11/13 the sound of your voice can disarm me a cat been picked up by the scruff i've known all along you'd never harm me but i guess it just wasn't enough i guess it wasn't enough

10/9/12 you are not my love you walk around in his clothes you walk around in his face but you are not my love we're dying trying to replace

1/13/13 hey dad too bad your rules are made of bread not iron clad

i heard you don't like my hair too much here, wrong color there well guess what, i can still go anywhere, sit in the boss's chair

5/30/13 pomme empoisonnee je vais te faire rester chante pour moi dans la claire de l'une de tes 8/1/13 reves qui sont vrai

4/8/12 he had it figured out in terms of fairytales

and when he tried for wonderland he didn't think of you

and when you tried to understand

and if you try to follow him you'll just be split in two

4/30/12 she's bleach, she's ice, she's milk and candy queen of tragic hearts like yours she never asked for any trouble shredding flowers on all fours

pills and poultice kicking stomachs underwater leaden petals bite if you dare but make it swift bite all you want but only if

drawing faces everywhere, an audience of millions' stares

6/4/12 i feel like the past year's a waste i know i've traveled the world but i'm worse or the same

i'm sure you've heard that there's plenty of fish in the sea but i hide in my shell; you're allergic to me

3/21/13 sleeping like a beauty queen found the spindle at age 16 decided she would join the team said this is better than any dream

4/6/13 all calmed down and jaded and my scars already faded should i make new what should i do?

4/6/13 music is her sustenance she lives on jupiter and mars

2/18/13 i showed up and the entire party was passed out- now that's what i call the collective unconscious!

april/13 "ex box" i'll put you in a box with my mistakes love letters, memories, old tapes and hopefully in 10 more years i will not sit here playing couldabeen

3/17/13 fall apart but don't fall off

3/18/13 i knew all your favorites and i thought i made the list

you gave me so much but i have nothing left of you

you don't have a clue you don't give a shit do you not even about the few who even deign to talk to you

3/28/13 trust your instincts if he seems like bad news then you better call the papers on him

4/10/12 my body's wooden and man-made am i ripe for the fire am i meant to be saved when i lie there is consequence i lie against my will but i don't want to be a real boy real boys only kill

1/3/12 (poem thing- it was on my phone and i kept forgetting about it)

what drives this endless cycle in our lives? sleep deprivation all work and no play it's only survival in a way

what gives? the story is sad but true my friend it may seem crazy but in the end the lunatic is the one that lives

7/25/13 when i say i've lost my mind can't tell if it's gone or just something i can't find

7/22/13 say so many things at once that for a moment i can forgive and forget myself

6/27/13 and to be honest i think i'm kind of ugly but i don't care and to be honest i think i'd probly kiss you if you were here

and now you're 19, it seems so strange how we would freak out all the time and talk to ease the pain and when we're 30, please don't forget me

5/26/13 sharpened pencil and liar's skin i tried to fight back i got all the guilt you lack i've been taught to let people like you win fuck that

1/21/13 take your medicine (take it with a grain of salt)

your voice of reason doesn't talk here comes the lady made of clock- work, time for your electric shocks

2/13/13 and our time wasn't wasted like i wish i were tonigh

2/17/13 you grew and clipped my wings time and time again you made me learn how to get by on my own mind just far enough to be alright i'm ready

the change will come and will occur and i will learn from changing

5/22/12 i wanna sit in a room for hours and play you all my songs especially the ones about you but not even my closest friends pay attention for very long

3/6/13 the sight of the pacific- california i wrote some words specifically for ya

3/10/13 i refuse to comb my hair more power to my righteous mop i'll put a sign says please don't stare right over your sign says i must be stopped

3/15/13 stripped of the words you hear and now my teeth are bare 3/12 offend because it's there

3/14/13 empty stomach sleep 3/15 i choke on wool, lose count of sheep

3/15/13 i make my promises to break… they're not your dreams to take

lay and lose my head i fall, land screaming in my bed neurapparatus, nightmare plague the cause is rather vague

3/23-24/13 "waltz time" my parents are pretty my sisters are pretty my weird friends from school grew up normal and cool

how come i have to live with my failures, my faults it's like life is in 4/4 and all i can do is the waltz

5/25/13 i stepped on a rose and sprinkled the sidewalk with blood from my toes

3/8/13 "home groan" i dreamed that someday i'd get to walk in the sun but i wasn't even playing outside when it went down

6/16/13 you taught me every lie i've ever known you told me to fit in or be alone but look how i've survived and how i've grown in spite of you

you said i'd reached developmental halt that all the crimes against me were my fault so i became numb bleeding out my shame with only me to blame or so i thought wrong

i will flourish free of your flaws your flaws are not my problem my flaws are not yours to harm me with

6/26/13 i wouldn't call it small talk because you're all talk

let's light up some neural circuits

6/7/13 i had to jump ship, it got too weighed-down to float i took off in the dinghy with the songs that i wrote…

i had to jump ship, it got too heavy to float and maybe we should kiss just to shut up our ghosts i don't care one way or another, but we came so close all those years ago

we'll report back to captain karo on our empty boat

(cause you know whatever happens you know we got her vote)

4/22/13 in this great ablation nation

4/28/13 no one appreciates so we inondate run out and replicate,

overcompensate

-

cry exterminate

we've run out of things to say you're full of air,

flatten like souffle

- if you don't, i may

mere exposure, love you cause you're there

4/23/13 changes of mind come in liquids and pills

you can't even start to tell the difference between a change of mind and a change of heart

6/11/13 we've got lines upon lines of no sleeping and papers for the final review you just seem to keep on keeping but me i just don't know what to do i have no clue

[makethatelevenrings]

Puzzle Pieces // J. Todd x f!reader

Requested? Yes!

Warnings: discussions of pregnancy, allusion to abortion, pregnancy scare, emotions

Summary: You and Jason are doing a last minute grocery run when you walk by the period products and realize that you’re late. You’re never late. One negative test, however, could change everything.

“Jay?”

It was the cadence of your voice that alerted something was wrong. A subtle hitch at the end of his name that sent a wave of icy cold chills down his spine. He turned from where he was collecting a massive amount of cup ramen and stared blankly at the thin box in your hand.

Jason was due to go out in an hour, but the two of you realized belatedly that you were out of ingredients for breakfast in the morning. There were two options: run by the corner store and grab some things or send you out alone in the morning while he slept in.

Jason Peter Todd would have to be six feet underground again before sending you out into Gotham when he knew that all the active vigilantes were fast asleep. If you were venturing out alone, it would be when someone was awake.

That found you two in the corner store near your apartment, snickering and trading jokes over your shoulders as you shuffled through the aisles. You were clad in one of his sweatshirts that practically drowned you in the cotton fabric and some basketball shorts underneath that he’s pretty sure you stole from Steph. He kept a close eye on you, his body inching around in the smallest increments to ensure that, no matter what, he was always between you and the door. He’d be damned if he lost the one good thing in his life.

“I…I didn’t realize, but then I saw the pads and…I’m late.” Panic was evident in your voice and no matter how desperately he wanted to fucking throw up in the middle of the bodega right then and there, Jason needed to keep it calm and cool right now. He quickly placed the ramen cups back on the counter and reached out, taking the pregnancy test out of your hand.

“Okay,” he said simply. One of his calloused hands came up and rested on your cheek, cradling your face. Your eyes fluttered shut at his touch, but he could feel the slight tremble in your body.

Fuckfuckfuck. He was on autopilot as he approached the counter, tossed a twenty onto the plastic shelf, and walked out with a pregnancy test in one hand and yours clasped in the other. Jason wants to say something, the right words or placating phrase that will make this all better but he can’t because he can’t fucking think about anything except for the fact that he will be the worst goddamn father on the planet.

Pregnant. Fucking hell. You could be pregnant. They were usually so careful. You were on the pill and he made sure you took it religiously. How the fuck could you be pregnant? He couldn’t be a dad. Willis had been a piece of shit who beat Catherine and basically fucked off into the sunset, leaving him and his mom to fend for themselves. Jason had been just a kid yet he picked his mom up off the ground when she was high out of her mind. Then there was Bruce…

Jason ushered you into the apartment and nudged you gently towards the bathroom. He made sure to lock up behind you and then slowly walked to your bedroom. He leaned against the doorframe and took a moment, just one single moment, to inhale deeply. He needed to be steady and calm for you. He could freak out later when he was patrolling.

Shit, he needed to be suited up and patrolling the Bowery in an hour.

“Babe?” he asked, his knuckles gently hitting the door. You murmured out a quiet welcome and he slipped in before shutting the door behind him. You were curled up against the tub, staring blankly at the wall, and the test rested on the edge of the tub face down.

Jason sat down on the floor across from you and leaned back against the sink. He stretched his legs out and motioned for you to shuffle over to him. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You dragged yourself across the cold tile floor and settled yourself between his legs, your head resting on his chest. Pressing your ear against the warm scratchy fabric of his shirt and relaxed at the sound of his heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Christ, babe, why the hell’re you apologizing?”

“I don’t know,” you sobbed. “We’ve never talked about it. God, Jase, we’re barely adults ourselves. We’re still trying to figure out how to take care of Merry and Pippin, for fuck’s sake!” You were referencing, of course, the two cats Jason had rescued from a dumpster one night that now slept every night cuddled up against you. Jason had insisted that they were only staying for the night to get them out of the cold.

That had been three months ago and the furry little bastards were currently asleep on top of your pillows.

“Hey, hey.” His lips brushed across the crown of your head as he shushed you. You were shaking in his arms and he hated this. He hated not being able to protect you. Hell, he’s the one that got you into this situation.

“No matter what happens, I’m all in, okay?” His voice sounded weak to his own ears, but you needed to hear this as much as he did. “Whatever you choose, I will support you all the way, you got that?”

“But what if…”

“Sweetheart, you’re the one in control of your body. Whatever you choose will be the best choice for us.”

You fisted the front of his shirt in your hand and bit back a sob. Jason scruffed the back of your neck in a loving gesture, his other arm curling around your waist and tugging you impossibly closer. Jason felt helpless and for a man accustomed to beating the shit out of his problems, he hated that he couldn’t fix this for you.

Your phone started to sing a little chime and you sniffled, reaching over to shut it off. “That means it’s ready. I…I can’t do it.”

He soothed his hand over your hip and kissed your temple. “I’ll do it.”

Truth be told, Jason was terrified. He tried to ignore the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for the bathtub. He didn’t know how he would react to whatever that little stick said. Christ on a handbasket, one little mathematical symbol might change his entire life. He loved being a brother, not that he would ever tell the little gaggle of brats, and he loved being an uncle to Lian, but a father? Could he do that?

There was one thing he didn’t doubt. You would be the best mother in the world. Fiercely loyal, kind, caring, didn’t put up with his bullshit…he could almost picture a toddler on your hip as you smiled at it. But he didn’t see himself there.

Maybe this was a sign that he had tried clinging to his ill-fated happiness for too long.

“Bubs?” Your murmur knocked him out of his thoughts and Jason shook his head.

“Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“‘S okay,” you said. “I get it.”

Jason inhaled sharply and then flipped over the test. His shoulders dropped at the sight of the minus sign and he extended the test to you. You clasped your hands over the little stick and bowed your head.

Silence enveloped the small, cramped bathroom. Jason studied the broken tile over by the toilet and made a mental note on looking into how to recaulk the shower tiles. They needed another bulb over the sink and maybe a better shower head. Hell, maybe they should paint the bathroom. Anything would be better than the garish lime green the landlord thought would make it look “70s mod”.

“I don’t know what to think,” you finally croaked out. You shuffled out of his hold and turned to face him. His head snapped up and he met your eyes, finding them red rimmed with tears clinging to the edges of your lashes. Jason scooted forward and laid a heavy hand on your knee, his thumb rubbing back and forth.

“Talk to me,” he urged. Selfishly, he needed to hear you voice your thoughts because he was fucking terrified that one day he would come home and find all of your things gone. This life couldn’t be easy for you. He needed to stop doing this shit to you. You deserved a better life.

“I think I need some time to process,” you admitted. “Can I…can we talk about this after you get back?”

That sinking feeling in his chest now felt like leaden rock in his gut. He might prefer a crowbar to the chest instead of the dread that currently consumed him.

“I’m not mad at you,” you blurted out once you saw the wounded look cross his face before he schooled his features like he had been trained. “I’m just feeling a lot of stuff right now and I want to be able to think it out before I say something stupid. I’ll be here when you get back. I promise.”

You reached out and touched his cheek. He turned his head to lay a featherlight kiss against your palm and then stood. “I’ll be home by four.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He was off his game all night. Jason nearly got shot twice when he finally called it quits and let Steph and Cass take on the Bowery. Dick had tried coaxing out why he was in a piss poor mood, but Jason merely muted his comms and shoved the little device in his pocket. His helmet sat next to him on the roof ledge, leaving him in just a red domino mask.

It was creeping towards three and the tiniest light began to creep across the horizon. The inky black night sky dominated Gotham still and Jason took a little solace in the fact that he was cloaked by the shadows.

It wasn’t enough to hide him from Bruce.

The large shadow of his adoptive father landed beside him. Jason didn’t bother turning to look at him and instead focused straight ahead at the slowly rising sun. Bruce silently sat next to him on the roof, his legs dangling over the side.

Side by side, just like they had all those years ago when Jason was still dressed up as a traffic light and Bruce had been…lighter, for lack of a better word.

“Pregnancy scare,” Jason finally admitted. He knew Bruce wouldn’t ask, but he also knew that Bruce wouldn’t leave until he got a clue as to why Jason was sulking on a rooftop instead of beating the face in of some wannabe trafficker.

Bruce stiffened just slightly and Jason huffed out a laugh. “Relax, it was negative.”

“I thought you would be relieved,” Bruce said. None of his kids had ever expressed any interest in reproducing. In fact, Alfred had money on them picking up his serial adoption habits. Clark was in on the bet too. Bastards.

“I’d be a shit dad,” Jason grunted. “I’d fuck that kid up in the head and probably leave it out on the streets like Willis.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Bruce said it so calmly. So matter of factly. He said it as if it was the truth engraved in granite.

Jason barked out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, and you’re father of the year, right? You get to bestow that honor on the next asshole?”

There was a slight twitch in Bruce’s jaw, one that no one would notice unless you were one of his family members. His piercing gaze stared out on the city he loved so desperately and then he looked at the son he had lost so painfully.

“You would be an amazing father because you would ensure that you didn’t make the same mistakes Willis and I made.”

Jason sucked in a sharp breath at his father’s soft words. He clenched his jaw shut and shook his head. A gloved hand landed on his shoulder and Jason raised his head, meeting the white lenses of the cowl so many feared.

“You love this city so much that you are willing to go to lengths that I can’t bring myself to do. You do things I don’t approve of, but you do it because you care so much that you feel the pain the people feel. You love deeply, Jaylad, you always have. I failed you as a father so many times. I should have never let you become Robin. I should have never let any of you out in the field. You were…you were just a kid.

But the one thing I will never regret is bringing you into our home and our family. Being your father has brought me the greatest sorrow and immense joy of my life and I would never, ever give that up.”

Bruce pulled away and stood up. “You should go home. Talk.”

Jason swallowed against the growing lump in his throat and nodded. “Right. Thanks. Fuck you or whatever.”

Batman’s lips quirked up at the corner and then he sighed. “Nice to see you too, Hood.”

Jason waited until he slipped back into the shadows before he pulled on his helmet and grappled back to the Bowery. He landed on his fire escape and quickly slid in through the window. His entry disturbed Merry who had been sleeping on the windowsill. The cat hissed at him and then hopped down, probably in search of his brother.

“Sorry,” he whispered to the cat. God, he was so whipped.

“Bubs?” Your tired voice came from somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. Jason closed and locked the window and headed towards you. All the lights in the apartment were off except for the small, single bulb that hung over the kitchen. It bathed you in a warm light, highlighting the tired circles under your eyes.

A lukewarm mug of tea and a thousand piece puzzle was scattered on the table before you, your usual routine when you couldn’t sleep and decided to stay up and wait for him. Jason stripped off his gloves, weapons, and jacket and dumped them on the floor and then he tugged off his helmet.

You loved seeing him right after patrol. Not only were you able to reassure yourself that he was safe, but you also got to see him when he was in his element. Sweat strands of hair curled across his forehead and beads of moisture trailed down his neck before seeping into the collar of his undershirt. His powerful thighs were bracketed by his tactical pants and thigh holsters and you sighed at the mere sight of his legs.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart,” Jason teased. His voice was warm, but it lacked the confidence he normally possessed. You curled your hand around the bottom hem of his shirt and tugged him closer, your lips meeting his in a delicate kiss. His hand came up to cup your jaw and he deepened the kiss.

“I want a baby.” The words spilled out of you faster than you could rein in the thought. Jason’s eyes widened and you cursed under your breath.

“You want…a baby,” he repeated.

“With you. I want a baby with you. Not right now. Not even this year. But, I want a kid someday with you. When I saw that negative, I was relieved and then I was-”

He cut you off. “Disappointed. You were disappointed because for a moment, you thought about it and realized that you actually wanted this. Just not right now.”

You nodded and pushed his curly, sweat-drenched hair back from his face. “A little boy with your eyes and smile.”

“Or a little girl with your hair and attitude.”

“I want that, bubs,” you assured him. “I want it all with you. A kid, a life, a house with a picket fence and two point five kids or whatever the fuck the American Dream is supposed to be.”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he replied in a choked voice. “I’m not a good man, sweetheart.”

Now you stood. You pulled his head down so his forehead pressed against yours and you rested your other hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“Don’t you dare say that to me, Jason Peter Todd,” you said fiercely. “You are the only man I love. The only man I trust. I wouldn’t want to do life with anyone other than you. I want it all, the good and the bad. You do so much for me and for this city.”

Your hand smoothed down the hair on the back of his neck. “Let me take care of you for once. Let me protect you from that mind of yours. I want to have a baby with you, bubs, because I trust you more than anyone that you would love and cherish and protect us with your entire being.”

“I would crawl out of a grave and dip into the Lazarus pit again and again if it meant keeping you safe,” he whispered fiercely.

“I know.” Tears were spilling down your cheeks. “I love you, Jason. So much.”

He clasped his hand over the one that rested on his chest. All of the doubts and insecurities started to ebb away with your gentle touch and soothing words. He burned with the very thought of you filled with a reminder of him. A signal that he was somehow lucky enough, good enough, blessed to be able to worship you the way you deserved.

Jason slid one of his hands under your ass and hauled you up so your legs wrapped around his waist. He scooted past the now cuddling cats and headed towards the bathroom as you laughed and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“What are you doing?” you exclaimed as he sat you down on the sink counter. Jason reached for the back of his shirt and shot you an incredulous look.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Strip, we need to practice.”

The sun emerged from the darkness finally and bathed Gotham in a rare cloudless sky, but it went unnoticed to the two of you. You were, well, busy.

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