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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 2 months ago

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They told her she was just spending the night in Miami.

No warning. No lawyer. No time to pack. Just steel cuffs wrapped around her wrists, cinched tight across her chest, chained to a waist belt so snug she couldn’t breathe. A bus with no food, no water, no bathroom—just a puddle of piss soaking the floor. The guards told her to go ahead and urinate where she sat. She did.

Then they pushed her into Krome.

Krome, the Miami processing center where men with criminal records are supposed to be held—not immigrant women with no charges, no convictions, no voice. Krome, where she and 26 others were stuffed “like sardines in a jar,” forced to sleep on concrete, offered one three-minute shower in four days, and told by guards to pretend to have a seizure if they wanted medicine. One woman actually had a seizure. They came for her. The rest they ignored.

Three people are now dead in ICE custody. Three. In just over a month. Genry Ruiz-Guillen, 29, from Honduras, died January 23. Serawit Gezahegn Dejene, 45, from Ethiopia, died January 29. Maksym Chernyak, 44, from Ukraine, died February 20.

No convictions. No due process. No protection. Just death under fluorescent lights.

And while the bodies pile up, the architects of this system are laughing.

THE ARCHITECTS OF SUFFERING

Tom Homan—now officially Trump’s Border Czar—is no longer just shouting from Fox News panels. He’s in charge. And he’s promising “deportations every day,” vowing to expel millions. He’s pushing to build new detention camps on military bases and at Guantanamo Bay, to outsource incarceration to local jails, and to lower federal detention standards across the board. He wants to hand over human lives to any sheriff with a cage and a budget. This isn’t law enforcement—it’s a national purge.

Kristi Noem is no longer the governor of South Dakota. She’s been promoted to Secretary of Homeland Security, overseeing ICE, CBP, and FEMA. She’s already begun reshaping disaster policy and immigration enforcement with the cold efficiency of someone who never cared about the human cost. She’s toured detention centers abroad and proposed funneling more power and funding into the machine that’s already killing people. This is the woman now in charge of protecting the homeland—and she’s treating it like a battlefield.

And Stephen Miller—the alabaster goblin behind Trump’s first wave of xenophobic terror—is back inside the West Wing as Deputy Chief of Staff for Policy and Homeland Security Advisor. He is not hiding. He is not softening. He is laying the groundwork for mass deportations, family separations, and the total militarization of immigration enforcement. Miller’s strategy is simple: flood the system, break it, and make cruelty look like order.

This isn’t mismanagement. This isn’t politics. This is state-sanctioned human suffering.

ICE has 46,269 people in custody—far above its legal bed count of 41,500. Congress just rewarded them with another $430 million. Detention centers are overflowing. Guards are whispering, “It shouldn’t be like this.” But they keep turning the key. They keep locking the doors.

Because this system wasn’t designed to rehabilitate. It wasn’t designed to deter. It was designed to break people.

And it’s working.

CORPORATE PROFITEERS OF THE GULAG

Akima Infrastructure Protection—remember that name. That’s the private contractor running Krome under a $685 million federal contract. Your tax dollars. Your country. Your name on the invoice. And Akima didn’t just ignore the reports of overcrowding, abuse, and death—they didn’t even respond. Because they don’t have to. In America’s immigration gulag system, accountability is optional, profits are mandatory.

Akima isn’t alone. The privatized detention racket is a booming business. The worse the conditions, the higher the margins. More detainees equals more beds, more guards, more federal payouts. These aren’t just prison contractors—they’re war profiteers in a domestic war against the poor, the brown, the undocumented, and the disposable.

And while three human beings die in government cages in thirty goddamn days, ICE puts out a statement saying they can’t verify the abuse without the women’s names. That’s like watching a house burn down and saying you can’t help unless the flames file a formal request.

What ICE really means is this: unless you hand us their names, we can’t retaliate.

FEAR, SILENCE, AND THE NEW AMERICAN NIGHTMARE

These women are afraid to speak because they know what happens to people who tell the truth in a system built to erase them. Their fear isn’t paranoia. It’s wisdom. Because in Trump’s America, the immigration system is no longer civil. It’s punitive, predatory, and lethal.

And while this slow-motion horror show unfolds behind steel bars and security checkpoints, the rest of the country scrolls past it—too tired, too numb, too wrapped in talking points to see what’s right in front of them:

The United States is running concentration camps again.

Not in secret. Not in shadows. In Miami. In Arizona. In Texas. With full congressional funding. With bipartisan indifference. With the open approval of a political movement that cheers cruelty like it’s patriotism.

And unless we name it, scream it, and rage against it, it’s only going to get worse.

Because this administration has made it clear: they don’t want to fix the system. They want to break more people. Faster. Cheaper. Louder.

And if that means more body bags? So be it. To them, that’s not a failure.

It’s the plan working exactly as intended.

WHAT THE HELL DO WE DO?

We stop pretending this is normal. We stop calling it a “broken system” and start calling it what it is: a weapon.

We hold the names. We name the dead. We say Genry. Serawit. Maksym. Not as footnotes, but as proof that silence is complicity.

We pressure Congress to defund ICE, to end private detention contracts, to shut down Krome and every facility like it. We demand independent investigations, criminal accountability, and media that covers these stories like lives are on the line—because they are.

We support immigrant-led organizations. We raise hell at town halls. We show up with signs, with lawsuits, with cameras, with righteous fury. We flood their offices. We write until our fingers bleed. We organize, we protest, we resist.

And if you’re in a position of power—if you’re a staffer, an attorney, a journalist, a human being with a platform—you use it. This is not a drill. This is not a moment to stay neutral.

The machine is killing people. The people running it are proud of that. And history will not forgive anyone who stood by and watched.

Raise your voice. Wreck their silence. And don’t stop until the cages are empty.

[Bill Adkins]

#illegal #rule of law #immigration #ICE #defund ICE #Architects of Suffering #Krome #Stephen Miller

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ugotnojamzzz · 2 months ago

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Chapter 20

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Synopsis: YN’s turn to feel real dumb.

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 3k

Masterlist

Chapter 19

—

The painkillers made everything feel just a little too far away. Like the world was underwater and Y/N was drifting somewhere just beneath it.

Hoseok sat beside her in the infirmary, hands in the pockets of his slacks, posture easy and unbothered. She envied how relaxed he always seemed. Not in a careless way—no, there was nothing careless about Hoseok. He had this energy, this quiet control that simply seemed to make people breathe easier when he was around.

Everyone liked Hobi.

He wasn’t sharp-edged and smug like Jimin, or infuriatingly unserious like Taehyung, or brooding and perpetually pissed like Jungkook. He didn’t command a room like Namjoon or haunt it like Yoongi. He just fit. Like grout between tiles, invisible but holding the whole damn mosaic together.

Essential in a way most people never noticed until it cracked.

He was…

Something everybody agreed on.

Like—

Pizza.

Yeah.

Hobi was like pizza.

Reliable. Comforting. Universally liked.

Even when it was bad, it was still pretty good.

Pizza.

She could really go for some pizza right now.

…God. What the hell was she thinking?

She blinked hard, trying to shake the drug-induced dizziness. Her brain felt like it had been wrapped in bubble wrap and left out in the sun.

Fucking painkillers.

“How’re you feeling?” Hoseok asked, breaking the silence.

“Like I lost a fight to a wild animal,” she muttered.

He gave her a small grin. “That’s sounds about right.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

Silence stretched out between them—not entirely comfortable, not hostile either. Just… full. Like both of them were stepping carefully over the shards left behind.

Y/N’s head lolled slightly to the side. Her body was buzzy, but her brain—her brain was still crawling over the memory.

The way Soyeon’s hands had been shaking. The wildness in her eyes. The blade sunk into the floor by her cheek.

And the blood.

Not hers.

Someone else’s.

“Is she…” Y/N started, then faltered. She cleared her throat. “Soyeon. Will she be okay?”

Hoseok didn’t answer right away. That alone told her enough.

“She’ll be fine,” he said finally. “Physically.”

Y/N nodded, eyes focused on some distant point down the hall.

Another pause. She dragged her fingers along the wall to keep herself steady.

“Can’t believe she’d blame it all on me,” she said, almost dreamily.

Hoseok sighed. Not annoyed—tired. Heavy.

“She wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“She was thinking clearly enough to go for my throat.”

He didn’t argue that.

“She lost her team,” he said instead, voice low.

Y/N let that settle. The air around her felt thick, like something not fully processed had been stirred.

Hoseok looked at her, then away. He didn’t speak.

Y/N’s vision wobbled for a second. She blinked hard. She hadn’t even fought back. She’d just—frozen.

She hadn’t said that part out loud yet.

And Hoseok—bless him—didn’t try to make it better.

Soyeon had called it a massacre.

Her entire unit—gone. Slaughtered. Left in pieces somewhere in the woods outside Daejong. No survivors. No bodies brought home. Just a trail of blood and the twisted remnants of what used to be partners. Friends.

It wasn’t the kind of violence the Tigers were built for.

The Kim clan were killers, yes. But over the years, the had mostly morphed into businessmen. Professionals. They dealt in leverage, in threats, in pressure applied at exactly the right moment. Violence, when necessary, was clean. Outsourced, more often than not. Gunshots. Hands washed. Suits pressed. Order restored.

But this?

This was something else. This was personal. This was messy. Gory. The kind of carnage the Tigers hadn’t faced in decades—especially not on neutral ground, not during a routine deal and not without provocation.

Then again, this was the kind of thing people would expect from the Ravens. From the mysterious, cold-blooded sociopaths up north, raised on winter and war and the language of knives. Ooooh—scary.

But the worst part wasn’t really the carnage.

It was the silence that followed.

Because no one had taken responsibility.

Not officially.

But the weapons left behind were statement enough.

And every whisper like a compass pointed the same direction. North. Toward the mountains. Toward the border. Toward the brother Y/N hadn’t seen in years.

Toward home.

And now—

Now Y/N’s ribs ached. Her jaw was bruised. Her vision still swam a little from the painkillers coursing through her blood.

But none of that compared to the thing twisting in her chest.

Not guilt. Not yet.

Uncertainty.

Because maybe it was true.

Maybe her brother had given that order. Maybe his silence, wherever he was, meant something.

Maybe this wasn’t just a clan dispute anymore.

Maybe it had already become a war.

Maybe she was bound to see him again sooner or later.

A shiver crept up her spine, slow and cold.

“Maybe she should’ve killed me,” she muttered after a moment.

Hoseok groaned. “Come on, don’t go full drama queen on me now.”

“I’m being serious.”

“Well,” he said without missing a beat, “we wouldn’t have let her.”

She gave a small scoff, eyes rolling.

“Jungkook wouldn’t have,” Hoseok added, and this time his tone had shifted—just slightly. Like it wasn’t a joke.

Y/N groaned, almost on reflex. “Ugh. Him.”

“What?” Hoseok raised a brow. “It’s true.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t have let her kill me,” she muttered, “because he’s saving the pleasure for himself.”

Hoseok laughed under his breath. “You two really know how to set each other off.”

“He’s a dick,” she said.

And maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the way Hoseok’s expression shifted—more thoughtful than amused—but something about her own words sounded shallow now.

“He’s not easy,” Hoseok said. “But there’s more to it than you know.”

“Oh, yes” she rolled her eyes, “I am sure there is the soul of a poet hiding in there, if you squint hard enough, and ignore the felony-level rage.”

Hoseok didn’t take offense. His smile faltered only slightly—something thoughtful replacing it. “I didn’t say that,” Hoseok said gently. “He’s just… wired differently.”

“Mmmh. Yes, ‘wired’ sounds appropriate. Considering the guy’s a fucking robot.” She jerked her arms stiffly and made a beeping sound. “Must… obey… orders… Must… flex threateningly in hallway…”

That did not seem to make Hobi laugh. He shifted in his seat.

“You ever wonder why he’s always on edge?” he asked, more softly now. “Always fighting to be taken seriously?”

Y/N stared at the ceiling. “I figured it’s just… testosterone. And ego.”

Hoseok let out a faint laugh. “That’s part of it. But not the whole story.”

Something in his tone pulled her out of the haze. The room suddenly felt heavier, slower, like the words were leading her somewhere she hadn’t expected to go.

When he didn’t go on, she shifted toward him slightly. “You’re not gonna leave that hanging, are you?”

Hoseok’s mouth quirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“What is it?” she pressed.

Nothing.

“Hobi.”

He looked ahead for a long moment before finally speaking.

“You know, I used to think it was so obvious. That the way they are together… it’d be enough to give it away.”

“Give what away?”

Hoseok didn’t look at her right away. His mouth pressed into a tight line, like the words were there but caught somewhere behind his teeth.

“You really haven’t figured it out?” he asked softly.

“Clearly not,” her brows pinched, “now, spit it out, will you?”

He hesitated—visibly. Rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, like the weight of it had been there for years. Then finally, with a sigh that felt like surrender, he looked her in the eye.

“Jungkook is Namjoon’s half-brother.”

Y/N froze. Her body didn’t move, but her mind did—fast. Pieces clattered behind her eyes like tiles sliding into place.

“Wait—he’s…?”

“Yep,” Hoseok said. “Same father. Different mothers.”

Taehyung’s voice suddenly echoed in her head: “Jungkook is family. A brother, if you will.”

Son of a bitch.

Y/N let the silence stretch for a beat, eyes narrowing as everything clicked into place.

Then she scoffed. “So, let me get this straight—he’s been giving me all this shit about my privilege, bloodline and so-called birthright… and all this time, he’s been Papa Kim’s hidden little cub?”

Hoseok winced, lips pulling tight. “I—wouldn’t phrase it like that.”

“Why not?” she snapped, voice sharper now. “He clearly would.”

“Jungkook was illegitimate, Y/N. You know how that plays around here. Clan politics aren’t kind to kids born on the wrong side of the bed. Especially when the baby daddy happens to be the head of the Kim clan.”

She folded her arms. “Still sounds like hypocrisy to me.”

Hoseok sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’ve seen what Mr. Kim’s like. Namjoon wasn’t exactly smothered with affection growing up—and he was the golden child. Do you think the bastard got treated any better?”

Y/N said nothing. But her mind flashed back—

The way the air had shifted that morning.

The silence.

Jungkook, bowing low before a man who hadn’t even met his eyes. His own father.

Her voice dropped, quieter now—but no less biting. “So why keep him here at all?”

“Oh,” Hoseok said, his gaze flicking to her, expression dimming. “He wasn’t always here.”

He leaned back, arms crossed loosely now, like the memory itself carried weight.

“He was seven. Maybe eight. Showed up without warning, no explanation. Just a quiet kid with sharp eyes and a bruised kind of silence.”

A beat.

“They kept him out of sight. No introductions. No acknowledgment. First few years, he barely left the attic, wasn’t allowed to. Ate all his meals alone—or with Mrs. Shin.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

Mrs. Shin.

Words came rushing back—something the old woman had said weeks ago, when Y/N had pointed out the Jeochong taffy. “I’ve found it’s good to always have something sweet on hand. Believe it or not, your weren’t the first child to shed tears in this house.”

Suddenly, the soft manner she had seen Jungkook act around the older woman made a lot more sense.

“She looked out for him. Defended him when things got ugly.”

Y/N sat up slowly, wincing. Her pulse had quickened, the painkillers losing ground to something sharper. “Ugly..how?”

“Mrs. Kim used to run this house back in the day,” Hoseok said, voice dipped in something like pity. “And let’s just say… she didn’t take kindly to living reminders of her husband’s—bad decisions.”

The image hit Y/N before he even finished: Mrs. Kim, poised like a sculpture, looking down at Jungkook like he was something tracked in on the bottom of someone else’s shoe.

Oh. You brought him, she’d said to Namjoon that morning, her smile brittle and cruel.

Hoseok shrugged. “So, yeah—him getting here was no golden ticket. She made damn sure of that.”

Y/N blinked hard and sat up straighter. “So I wasn’t imagining the bitch vibes.”

“You’ve met the lady…” He exhaled slowly. “She’s not cruel in the obvious way. She’s calculated. I mean—she was always good to me, but with Jungkook?”

He trailed off. The air went still.

“Let’s just say solitary confinement was often a mercy. Compared to being in her line of sight.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

The Hermit.

She hadn’t thought about the card Jungkook had drawn since that night in the Rat Hole.

A lone figure cloaked in shadow, lantern raised against the dark.

At the time, she’d thought it was ironic for a guy like him, all shoulders and biceps.

But now—

Now she saw it for what it was.

A joke.

Cruel, precise, and just close enough to the truth to sting.

A malicious mirror.

The attic. The cold meals. The walls that kept a little boy in and kept the rest of them comfortably out.

And suddenly, the way he moved—always hyperaware, always braced—the way he stared when people laughed like it confused him, the way he lashed out when he felt cornered—it all made more sense.

“And Namjoon?” she asked. “In all this?”

Hoseok’s face twisted, torn between empathy and realism. “Namjoon was always Mr. And Mrs. Kim’s golden boy. Textbook heir. He was too busy being raised to lead to notice the kid locked upstairs.”

Y/N swallowed. “So—he just ignored him too?”

“At first, yeah. Not out of cruelty, though. At least I don’t think so. It was more out of duty. Eomma’s orders.”

Hoseok’s smile returned—just barely. “But the thing is—Namjoon… he was raised to be ruthless—yes, but noble all the same. Eventually, those strong morals drilled into him led him right back to Jungkook.”

His little brother by blood, if not by design.

Y/N said nothing, just sat there, stunned.

He paused. “So when things got bad—really bad—it was eventually Namjoon who started stepping in. Quietly. Behind closed doors.”

He glanced at her, then away again.

It hadn’t happened overnight, of course. Namjoon didn’t wake up one day and decide to be a big brother. It was slow. Awkward. Half the time it didn’t even look like care—it looked like pity. Or duty. But it mattered.

A breath. A beat.

“I reckon it still eats at him. That he didn’t do it sooner.”

He shrugged, trying to shake the weight off.

“But anyway, one thing led to another… and slowly, Jungkook started hanging out with us.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he remembered his early teenage years.

“We were little shits back then,” Hoseok admitted. “Me, Tae… we used to mess with him constantly. Made him the target during archery lessons. Sent him in as bait during kitchen raids—‘cause he was small enough to slip past the staff.”

He chuckled.

“But before long he started pushing back. Hitting the gym. Getting sharper—faster. Until one day, we had to stop messing with him.”

A pause. His smile turned rueful.

“Started thinking twice before crossing him.”

Y/N didn’t laugh. She couldn’t.

Hoseok caught the sour expression on her face.

“You’d think he’d hate this place. Hate Namjoon. Hate the whole goddamn bloodline,” Hoseok murmured. “But I don’t think he ever did.”

Beneath all the cold stares and clenched fists was a boy who wanted to belong. A son who still craved to be seen by the man who never once looked at him like one. A little brother who wished to remain next to his big brother.

“See, Namjoon walks into a room and people fall in line. It’s easy for him. He was raised to lead,” Hoseok said. “But Jungkook? He’s seen as the reminder of a mistake no one wants to claim. He’s got to fight for every scrap of respect he gets. That’s why he’s so tightly wound all the time. He doesn’t get to relax. Not here.”

She thought about the look in Jungkook’s eyes when Namjoon barked orders—tight-lipped and silent, never defiant, but never relaxed either.

And Namjoon, with all his power, never softening when Jungkook stood before him.

One brother raised to lead.

Another raised to obey.

No wonder he was always so fucking angry.

“I reckon Namjoon carries that guilt like it’s stitched into his skin,” Hoseok said. “He knows exactly what was done to Jungkook. Knows the part he played by doing nothing. But he’s also the boss now—or close enough. And you know what they say, the past is a fucking minefield. He can’t fix it without undoing his own authority. So instead… he hands him the only thing he can. Trust. Assignments. Responsibility. A seat at the table—even if it’s always a little to the side—and hopes it’s enough.”

Y/N thought of the way Jungkook had bristled when Namjoon reassigned him. Not just rage. Humiliation.

The sharp tension between them—resentment and reverence tangled like roots.

“It hasn’t always been easy. But that never stopped Jungkook from training harder than anyone. Bleeding more. Earning more scars. Mind you, Jungkook’s not trying to replace Namjoon.”

A beat.

“He’s trying to be worthy of standing beside him.”

Hoseok had seen it. It still happened, once in a while. Namjoon would place a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder—brief, quiet, almost impersonal. And every time, Jungkook would go still. Not relaxed—still. Like he didn’t trust it to last. Like it was a fluke. Like he was still a boy locked in that attic, waiting for the touch to turn cold.

“You said he got here when he was eight,” Y/N broke the heavy silence.

Hobi nodded contemplatively.

“Where was he before?”

He shifted in his seat. “He doesn’t like talking about it,” he said carefully.

She leaned closer. “My lips are sealed.”

A pause. Not because he didn’t know the answer—but because he was weighing whether she deserved it.

But he eventually spoke.

“He—lived with his mom,” he started. “She—wasn’t well, or so I heard. In and out of psych ward, and all. I don’t know the detail but one day she just—”

He lifted his hand slowly, made a simple motion around his neck. Didn’t say the word. Didn’t have to.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

She thought of the words she’d screamed at him just a week prior—“Why are you always so fucking angry? What, did mommy not give you enough hugs as a kid?”

The words rang out in her head like a taunt, like a slap. She remembered the way Jungkook had gone still after she said it.

“That kind of shit?” Hoseok continued. “It doesn’t leave you untouched.”

Y/N only knew it too well. The grief. It wasn’t the kind of pain you healed from. It was the kind you grew around—like scar tissue forming over broken bone. It didn’t soften with time, didn’t fade. It embedded. Lodged itself beneath the skin and rewired everything—how you moved, how you looked at people, how close you let them stand. You didn’t outgrow it. You adapted to it. Built walls around it. Sharpened your edges so no one ever thought to reach for the soft center still screaming underneath.

Hoseok stood, brushing invisible lint from his slacks.

“I’m telling you all this because I trust you,” he said, “not to keep your mouth shut—though that too—but to know better than to turn this into ammo.”

Y/N swallowed. Guilt prickled, low and hot.

“So, don’t go and use that sharp little tongue of yours to twist the knife. Not where he’s concerned.” He paused. “I don’t think he could take it. Not from you.”

She looked away. Nodded once.

“I won’t.”

“Good,” he said, offering his arm to escort her back to her room. “Then we’re good.”

—

Chapter 21

what did you all think??? Is there a single happy, unharmed character? Probably not 👀

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

@mageprincess7

@drunkzseok

@kelsyx33

@jjk970901

@sydneygal3107

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court-jobi · 9 months ago

Text

Unsee

((Banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's work/characters))

Pairing: Bakugou x reader (biker!prohero reader, afab pronouns used)

Words: 5.1k

Rating: T+

Warnings: CH 362 SPOILERS, Pro-Hero! Bakugou x reader, angstttt, HURT/COMFORT, light PTSD, anxious stomach/vomiting, discussions about death, lots of comfort, est.relationship and lots of softness + trauma sharing

Summary:

When you love someone, you love their past, present, and future selves-- even if you were not part of their story for the hills and valleys that have made them who they are. This was the way of heroes: risking it all, even to death. You should know this threat by now, as it's the life you make for yourself as well-- but it's so much harder to keep the mentality when it's your loved ones on the line. You learn the extent of one of the biggest trenches in Katsuki Bakugou's life, and it shakes you to your core.

A/N: since I first envisioned my lil biker! reader, I've had this exact interaction on loop in my head. Making it the internet's problem now. apologies in advance for the feelings I've dumped in this fic. Signed, "Bakugou would hold your hair back" Club President

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on Ao3

Weekday mornings pass by generally uneventfully nowadays, leaving you with not much to do except to wait for calls for hero pickups when the shifts change over. It makes you feel like a bit of a taxi service, but the relaxed vibe makes up for the emergency response times you’re faced with in the dead of night when you get a message from the on-call line.

After a brief stop by your office space to glance at your inbox, you take a lap around the Service Lab in order to catch up with Hatsume.

There’s no one better fit to upgrade your helmet models and even take a special interest in how to bulk up your hero costume in order to protect you better. That’s a revolving topic from Bakugou’s lips as well, so your bringing up the idea wasn’t a foreign one– a revelation that touched you, deep under the professional front you keep here in the office.

Hatsume is highly sought after nowadays. Time in her own lab is where she should be calling home, but given her sporadic interest in all things support tech, she has been prone to taking outsourced Technical Outsource calls for nearby agencies– especially when said agencies employ her dear old schoolmates.

When you join her today, she’s busy talking shop and ropes you right into the conversation by pulling you right into her personal space. As far as subject matter, it’s hit or miss if you can contribute anything to the conversation, though today you’re pleased to see that she's in full ‘Dynamight’ mode.

A favorite topic of yours– and of all the tech assistants in the room. Mei, however, holds a far more casual opinion of Bakugou out of familiarity. They’re hardly on a first-name basis as you are, but hearing her peel back details about the larger-than-life sweetheart of yours is both fun and enlightening to hear.

Through your visits with her over the last year or so, you’re still not one hundred percent sure she actually knows what he means to you, because she barely looks you in the face as you cut your attention over old footage of him across all of her schematics monitors. Had she studied you as much as she studies Bakugou’s shoulder cannons, she’d spot your particular brand of appreciation by the tracing of a finger on your lower lip.

"Yeah it's kinda nice sometimes to jump back to basics with Blasty,” Hatsume drifts into a relaxed state back at her table, “Simple fixes like this -darn thing- hmmmthere we go!- Yep, some things never change! Always smart to figure out how to store more sweat, defer more exhaust. Lil harder now that it used to be, having to worry about the magnets."

“Magnets,” you throw in a word, catching up to her thought process, “What, on his belt?”

“No, those clip into place! The way he complains about ‘em with his gloves though, I should probably look into making them easily detachable, too.. But no, I mean the ones he used to have across his chest, back when we made the first suit edits at UA: Year Three,”

Hatsume keeps a long, archived track record with Bakugou, if her nearby drive bogged down with version files is indication of how many changes she’s made to his hero costume and support items…

“-- because we were trying to offload weight from his arms, I tried to strap ‘em to his torso. Only we learned pretty quick the strength of magnet grade was affecting the charges where it was hitting along his chest.”

"Charges–” you pay more attention now, inspecting what she’s doing. Hatsume doesn’t look your way, but is listening, “In the grenades?"

Do they go off at any second?? You assumed Bakugou’s smaller bombs were pulled in traditional fashion with a pin, as you’ve seen him use them in action firsthand. Hatsume has hard work, if she’s having to check each and every one of those, too…

"Oh! Haha no!" she chuckles brightly, "Sorry hun, shop term: ‘electromagnetic charges’! Each baby bombie has them, even when they’re not in use– but they don’t go live unless triggered. But in the rare event of a preemptive ignition, I didn’t want the chain reaction settin’ off his heart! Couldn’t use the strap anymore after that hoo-hah; too close to the loop device in the ‘ole ticker~"

Now that she’s talking organs, you start to get a pang of nerves.

You know Bakugou’s quirk is biometrically dangerous, but till now, you’ve not worried about the risks it would cause him in that way. Even more, you didn’t know of any internal monitoring device he’d have to check for that sort of activity. Bakugou went to the doc here in this building, when he’s in too rough shape to handle himself. But beyond that, you’re stumped.

"Whyyyy would that matter? What’s inside him, again?"

Hatsume handles the internal wiring of Bakugou's cannons with ease-- now that nothing is connected to an active, explosive vial of sweat. With her outfitted eyes set on the tiny soldering work, Hatsume's got Bakugou’s chart up and briefly flicks it over to the shared screen.

"'Dat one, 'hurr," the a teeny tool in her teeth drops at her need to speak, "I pull a read on his heart monitor whenever I come around to keep tabs on things- same as the core staff here does! Works like a charm with the new heart, now that he's had time to build up muscle around it~"

You look for yourself at the screen as she chatters-- and are horrified at what you find there in a continuous crawl across the screen.

Can't move. You can't breathe.

Can't understand how the hell Mei is still talking with such pep in her voice, when these pictures are taking nearly all of your composure away:

Nothing in your career prepared you to see stills of Katsuki lying stock still and caked with blood.

You're pale as the ghost you're looking at– as gutted as he is in this photo: frozen in time. The archive thumbnails are mostly drone footage, but this much you can see clearly- and wish with everything in you that you could unsee it.

The reference photos on his hero account don't show the extensive medical layover you see here in his technical file. You run through every tiny detail in the stills above you on the screens.

He's incredibly young. The soil around him, plants barely peeking out from the battle-torn ground; it's gotta be the big fight he rarely talks about. It's where he's got certain scars across his arms, chest, and the one cutting across his face; that much he's told you. They’re scars you’ve kissed and shown love and care for in his quietest moments, in which he felt the need to tell you why they stand out more than the others. In that much, Katsuki was honest… but not enough about this.

He never once mentioned organ replacement.

He's never told you his arm was torn to shreds by his own doing.

He never told you he’s living his second chance at life at the expense of another Pro Hero he’d never mentioned either--well, third if you could the brief blip while he was on the operating table after the battle. Didn't flatline for very long, according to these surgery notes, but still...

Surgery notes. Plural. There's many here. Wires sustain his oxygen and bloodflow, putting color back in his face. There's streaks across his cheeks- marred with tracks of soot and old blood, mixing with what must have been tears of pure exhaustion and rage and resolve. Yours sting at your own lash line. Every nerve ending clams up in your body: worse than the wreck that almost put you out of commission.

In your mind, Dynamight’s professional headshot is a flat, grumpy one. No smile to be found, but at least there's a spark behind the eyes.

He's not dead.

He literally brought you a can of coffee this morning.

He stopped you from getting up from the dining table too soon, needing to turn the clasp of your necklace around first because it was 'pissing him off'.

You know he's not dead– but you wish you'd never set foot in this room.

That old coffee's turned to lava in your gut.

"And these boots of his– they make too much noise! Talk about stealth-”

"Scuse- me, Hatsume.."

"--I know he’s not necessarily a known stealth hero, but– hey, when did she leave??”

He may not like how slick they go on when applied, but Bakugou had to admit it, these counterirritant patches were the best dang thing to ever happen to his shoulder blades. Menthol flooding his senses by heat activation, he was feeling better already after his first catch of the day.

After getting the note from Hatsume that his gauntlets were ready to pickup from R&D, he traipsed into her room while texting you. Just a short n’sweet message, hoping that he’d be able to cross paths with you before he’d need to go out again. The messenger app showed you were active within a few minutes ago, but you haven't responded to his messages.

He comes in, half listening to Hatsume’s rant to the staff technicians once again. He catches sight of his file, streaming up at the top of her video wall.

"Ugh, this again?” Bakugou barks out, “What am I, a sideshow to you science freaks?!"

"Hardly when we're the ones you need, Blasty," Hatsume huffed his way, "and besides, I think you better watch who you're talking smack to about this stuff anyway! And it wasn't online for my freaks, anyway. They know your work orders inside and out~ you should be nicer to them!"

You tell him as much, in his more crotchety moments… and you are always right.

Bored of the medical records, he turns to his completed support items out on the reception table, "Then what're you blasting all this shit for? Haven’t had any arrhythmias for months."

“Just because you haven’t had any doesn't mean it’s not a good idea to circle back and check. We can learn plenty from stable periods, just as much as emergencies, ya know!”

Bakugou simply rolls his eyes, throwing a grumbly word of thanks to the technician who brings over the case for said equipment, and starts packing it into place.

Hatsume slips her goggles up her face. Trying to read the Pro Hero before her wasn’t a hard task; he usually deflects when his weaknesses are on full display.

"You want my advice Mr. Murder God?” Hatsume turns more solemn– an attitude she rarely radiates.

“Sounds like you’re gonna give it anyway.”

“I think your teammates outta know what all's happened to you, cuz it sure isn't obvious to everyone. ‘Specially the ones who hang around you all the time… I think it’d be smart if they kept an eye out any emergencies, too- like your transport queen around here– Joyride, isn’t it?"

Katsuki flinched. He turns back from the table -past Hatsume- and centers back up to the full view of the record up on her computer.

He’s not so irritated by its presence anymore… but rather worried about how long it’s been up there, in full view of the room.

"...She saw all this?..."

"Mmmmyea, pretty sure?" Hatsume was already engrossed in her current project, "Was in the middle of your pieces when she came by. She normally doesn’t as so many questions, but she sure was today till she-”

Kaminari slides into the lab -winded and nervous as all getout- nearly colliding with the reception table altogether. He almost hit Bakugou square in the face, since the hothead had turned ready to bust out of the room himself.

"Oh geez, (heh) there you are, Bak- (heh) listen-- your girl's barfing her brains out! You know if she's sick or something??"

Bakugou grimaced and seethed at his own negligence-

"fuuuUUUCK," he hissed rounding the table, before he remembered Hatsume- "YOU, DUMBASS-"

"Scuse you???!"

"TURN THAT SHIT OFF, AND WHEN I GET BACK, WE'RE HAVIN' WORDS-- AND YOU-" Bakugou yelled back to Kaminari, carrier of bad news as he was, "WHERE. IS SHE."

"Bathroom by the rec room- but, hey man, it's locked!!"

Bakugou didn’t take time to listen more as he books it down the hall, making a beeline to where you'd be.

Down the hall just a few corridors away, you hadn’t made it far to take your leave. Bakugou approaches where a couple sidekicks hear you coughing behind a door, and are presently failing to be let in. The sound is heart-wrenching, hearing you sick, but he’s in full protective mode and ready to take out the door himself if need be.

He’s breathing hard, and scares them as he snaps and points harshly for them to move. They do, but not without one of them looking soured that he's getting in their face when they were only trying to help.

Coming to the door, Bakugou tries the handle despite Kaminari’s clear warning that it is indeed locked. He immediately rears up to bang his announcement, but rotates that fist to use just knuckles and taper his knocks down to a reasonable level. He's no less frantic in speech though, calling for you hoarse and breathy -mindful of his audience, only at first-

"Joyride...hon', it's me. Open up."

You're crying on the other side, but gasp when you hear him speak. An urp of a gurgle hits you in the quiet that follows, then another stomach-churning cough.

The rant of expletives that runs through his mind is enough to turn Bakugou’s own stomach... He palms his face for a minute, before letting his forehead drop to the door and speaks again.

"I can't help you if I can't see you, sweet’eart. I… know I got a lot to answer for."

The chances of him greeting a furyless version of you all gone, Bakugou accepts his fate.

"-And I figure if you're gonna yell at me, you should do it to my face. Please open the door."

After a sniffle and an incredibly uncomfortable beat of quiet where Bakugou is staring at the doorknob below him -gripping it in wait to open the second he hears the upper safety lock move-... he finally does, the moment you release it.

Bakugou steps in the single stall room -deftly fast- then locks it right up behind him. The girls on the other side fuss again, but he doesn’t give a spare thought to their efforts.

Down on the floor, not even fully sat back yet from your reach to catch the door, you're the most miserable sight. Stuffing a used-up paper towel that’s in reach by your stash, you're folding the unsoiled side to try and clear off your face and blow your nose for good measure.

What's worse, you can't bear to look at him.

With a careful sigh, Bakugou knows he's got a world of explaining to do- but has a greater worry over your slumped self on the tile floor. He’s seen you with the flu, and you weren’t this sick.

"Baby–"

One word and you're crying again, head down into your knees. Bakugou can only imagine what headspace you’re in, and the list of what he thinks he can say to console you is now down to zero. Actions it is, then.

Bakugou kneels down, swiping your hair back into a rough pony by teething off a hair tie from his wrist to secure it. Just in case you feel sick again, it wouldn’t hurt, he reasons. Once freshened, he takes away your trash bucket next without a word. Collects all the used bits of your attempt at cleanliness into the trash, barely a care for how many there were to clean up. Whatever he’d need to do -whatever you’d allow him to do- that’s how he’s determined to serve.

Finally, he shifts from a kneel to a sit. The blonde crisscrosses his stance under him, bringing you by both arms to pull you forwards, into his lap.

At first you're confused at his hands' insistence, but since he's made himself in prime position to hold you, he's glad to see you fall to the open invitation even in a dire time like this. A little shaky, but still you clamber over to his lap on your knees until he can get you settled the rest of the way himself.

Chest to chest, legs astride him, he'd hoped he'd catch a better look of your face as you came over-- but no such luck as you duck your head in. His chance at helping you remains though, as you’re holding him tight around the neck and shoulders and clearly aren’t averse to him. Frightened enough for one day -maybe even a lifetime- Bakugou lets you cling on, and simply holds you tight in return.

All that matters to him is that you're positioned as close as humanly possible. Protected. Safe to cry and ready to just absorb it. He knows it's what he deserves, and considers himself your personal sponge.

To your hiccups making you jump against his chest, he just pets through your hair quietly hushing you to stillness.

"I'm here." He takes a tepid breath. "I’m not there, baby, I'm right here."

You stutter, but simply try to control your own breaths.

"i--... I'm so.. so.. 've never been so upset.."

"I know."

"I feel so'sick.. y’looked–"

The impulse to kick aside that damn puke bucket is raging within him-- but knowing your possible need for it, he brings it close instead.

"I know, babe.”

He'll get you set before you head out on patrol today. If you ever settle… but for now, he's focused on the one thing he can control, and that’s getting you as comfortable as possible.

From here, you can't look at him, but you can look straight ahead- which shows you Bakugou's full back in the mirrored wall. The movement when he breathes, his neck craning as he lowers his head to sink over your shoulder. How you're being held so tightly it shows in each muscle group.

You can't see it, but feel it: cold breath blown from his lips, to comfort onto your heated neck. Bakugou's lifted up your haphazard ponytail, trying to introduce some cool touch to you in this small space.

You gather it's an apology, done his way-- seeing as he's unintentionally created this catastrophic response in your body.

As you've told him in your most private moments, you've only really felt this raw outlash of emotion in the workplace once before: the day you found out your sweet brother in arms, T’challa, passed away so expectedly. You suppose that's why this is jarring you so strongly now; losing him was the first major loss in your life, years before you met Bakugou.

This is so different, but all the same. A core figure in your support system- your inner circle– here one minute and gone the next. This was the way of heroes. You should know it by now, but it still breaks your tender heart. Even looking at snapshots of Katsuki at his lowest has you heartbroken and shocked.

You're a dichotomy of strength: tough enough to ride headfirst into a mission, but also prone to such intense emotion in your most private moments that you retreat into yourself and deal with an anxious gut all by yourself. Anything to protect the image you keep.

Only today, that exterior means nothing to Katsuki. Not when he alone can try and hold you back together while you try and fix yourself enough to speak coherently.

He's been holding himself together solo for far too long, too; you’ve known this from the first day he out and out confessed ‘I’m bad at this’ when he asked to simply hold your hand in public. You can feel it in your conjoined breaths, cycling back and forth for comfort. He’s unsettled, too– his new heart’s going far too fast.

“Did you actually die out there?” you manage in broken whispers.

Tell me I just thought the worst.

“... I did,” Bakugou answered calmly, “But I didn’t wan’ you to see how. Not alone.”

“Would you have shown me? Ever?”

“Doesn’t exactly come up at the breakfast table, angel.”

‘But it should have by now.’

Bakugou senses the retort and simply pets through your hair again, another apology written by touch.

“But… I coulda picked any other time, by now. You know everything else. I swear.”

Everything meaning injuries, you hope to God… “No more?”

“No more surprises. I promise.”

Secure enough to take a deep inhale, you try to lift your sights heavenward.

Such a sobering thought you have to operate in on the daily, knowing hero work is among the deadliest professions. You could lose your best friends at any time, anyone you love. In that vein, you are trying your best not to be selfish with your need for Bakugou’s safety…. Yet you still hold that small hope that as long as you have each others’ backs, you have a shot at staying ahead and staying alive- together.

Back then, you didn’t know each other. Katsuki Bakugou lived an entire life before he met you, one you were still learning.

"I didn’t know how bad it was for you…” you remember the site of the attack, what surrounded him- or rather, what didn’t. So much of that battlefront had been laid low. That told you as much as the injuries, how bleak everything looked.

Bakugou takes a centering breath himself. His grip on you never lessens.

"It was the worst day of my life,” he shares, “I fought the world's greatest villain. Almost watched my hero die… Almost lost my best friend, all on the same day. Bad memories all around, for all of us."

Memories that seep into sleep.

"S'that what you dream about? When it gets bad?"

Taking the shot at Shigurake, sent flying back by his own ricocheted blast, giving it all- fruitless as it might have been in the moment when every bone in his body felt like it was bleeding out of every pore.

You know somewhere in that event, the best friend Katsuki speaks of must have been on the brink of death in an emotional full-circle moment, for he never speaks ill of him in all the ways that matter. He’s a dork, but he’s his dork. You identified their relationship as special from the moment you’d met Izuku Midoriya but… in a deeper way than you’d found the words for yet. They’re twin stars, bound by something stronger than you even think you share with Katsuki some days. Or maybe it’s just different– not one bond that’s better than another.

You've heard him waking in a panic those nights: how he calls for Izuku, and wakes up in tears. Even in recent months, he doesn't always explain why he’s crying, only that he wants to bury it for the night… and that you help him do that.

On the subject of those nightmares, today’s discovery of that era of Bakugou’s past becomes painfully clear.

And so, he answers honestly, "...yeah."

“That’s so scary, Katsuki. You were so young.”

He feels around with one hand between your crammed bodies- for yours. Your head's still hung over his shoulder, but you crane back to watch what he's doing.

He puts it in place over his heart, forehead knelt to yours.

"Here. This is me, now."

The heartbeat under your palm is strong- a little fast, at the moment.

"They asked me if I’d do it again, if given the chance. N’for the longest time, I woulda said ‘yes’. That’s what I figured heroes say, in the face of the unknown.”

Before you can let that thought gut you again, you feel Katsuki press his thumb in one singular spot: your empty ring finger.

“But I faced the unknown. It was– really light, actually. But all I wanted was more time. I wanted the time to say words. Say more, or- do more. I had to make it right to the ones who mattered. I’m still trying to make it right. And I was given that chance to raise hell, and won. So when I see that shit, I’m grateful. I’m stronger now because of what happened then.”

You look to his face now; the older, stronger, seemingly immovable version of that younger self that still makes its appearance when he’s more pensive. He is still stuck on the look of his thumb where your third knuckle should be…

“Looking at it today though, there is more that war gave me than just making me the hero I am now.”

You press into his heart, “What’s that?”

“If I’d stayed dead,” he treads carefully, “I wouldn’t have you. I wouldn’t have someone who– cares for me, like you do. Who would care about that shitty kid who just barged ahead, even with warning signs going off everywhere.”

With a raise to kiss your hand, Bakugou lets his voice go raspy.

“You looked at that idiot and threw up- all because you cared,” he sniffs with a laugh, “Got a second chance at life, and got a complete knockout who gives a shit about me.”

Abrasive but honest; you laugh in full force. The odd thought passes you: why people watch gory, scary movies for ‘entertainment’ makes no sense to you. If they want horror, just take a gander at a pro-hero’s medical file.

You cradle Katsuki’s head in for good measure and lay an appreciative kiss on his head.

“Of course I give a shit,” you say hoarsely, “tho I prefer to say things like that with honey than vinegar, Kats.”

“Yeah, I know ya do… I count on it.”

When you hug him now, it’s a gentler connection. Bakugou still rubs his hand up and down your back, but out of affection instead of dire comfort.

Finally you feel assured enough for now: you reconciled his past enough to have confidence in his present. He’s bold and never short of giving his all, but to know he acknowledges this living on extended time and has a unique appreciation for the cornerstones around him gives you calm again.

Bakugou truly is your hero– who you know will drop everything to make sure he protects what’s closest to him first and foremost.

When you sniffle and lick at the corner of your mouth, it still tastes sour and you finally register a pang of self awareness. You have to smell foul talking so close to him right now.

“I shoulda thought about gum or something..-sorry.”

“Would you stop,” Bakugou droned, taking out your insufficient ponytail now that you finally seemed settled, “I’m with you just about every morning the second you wake up, and I don’t give a fuck.”

Sweetly you silently thank his efforts with a sweet nod to how he put the hairtie back on his wrist. “Still, don’t mean to make it your problem.”

The hint of a smirk starting to come back to his face, you couldn’t completely eradicate his worry with one little bat of the eyes.

“You are my problem. One I’m happy to fix up when I break it. We’ll get you freshened up when you’re ready. And only when you’re ready.”

You notice your position now on the floor of this bathroom and find it endearing how he managed full cuddle mode in such limited space. Surely the locked door was the straw that secured this.

But the knock was sure to halt it–

“Hey man, leave them alone!-”

“Um, hey ‘Joynamight’?~” Kaminari tested from the other side, “Haven’t heard any hurling in a while, are y’all good?”

“We’ll be GOOD when I SAY WE’RE GOOD!” Bakugou fired back, “HOLD YOUR DAMN HORSES, SPARKPLUG!”

Muting all laughter at the old school rivals was a challenge, but you did so while trying to gracefully detach from your loving partner. He let you with a steadying set of hands to yours to help push yourself up. You offer him steadying arms to pull him back up as well before putting your trashcan back to where it belonged.

A rinse of your mouth later, you fan your face as best you could in a last-ditch effort to look like you haven’t been bawling like a baby. While he awkwardly stood to the side to give you a minute, you caught Bakugou thumbing at his waterline, too, with a stiff upper lip to get himself back in business.

Once you rejoined him for a last hug, he readily accepts you with a rush of kisses to your forehead– just how you like it. It’s the mushiest he gets with you physically– guaranteed to get you back to your happy-go-lucky self. Once done, he smirks back at you pleased, petting your hair perfectly back into place.

“You good?”

“I’m good~”

“OKAY, WE’RE GOOD, SHITTY HAIR!”

“Hey I was the one tellin’ him to lay off you guys!!”

“YEAH AND I CAN HEAR YOU SNICKERING FROM HERE.”

“Damn, for a guy with hearing loss, he sure can pick you out pretty well-”

Bakugou finally swings the door open, pissy as usual, “I HEARD THAT!!”

While Kirishima and Kaminari jog on, Bakugou pockets his hands and holds back for you. Once you exit, you figure you better brave a trip to the kitchen and make a round 2 of breakfast.

“Something easy, ok?” he warns gently.

“I will. Won’t go fainting on ya~”

Knowing you’ll be on the roads later, Bakugou will impress a stable diet on you more than most.

“And no coffee.”

“Well, tie my hands completely, why doncha, Dynamight?” you sigh dramatically in the doorway.

He takes your chin in a bossy move, “Hey- m’lookin’ out for you, dummy.”

He sounds gruff and looks like he means it in the coolest of ways… but you hear everything in between the fussy brows and piercing eyes:

I care about you-

I’m sorry-

I know you’re this way because of me-

Never again-

Find me if you need me-

I love you- I love you- I love you-

“I know you are, Blasty~”

“UGH, she’s still calling me that shit too?!” Bakugou recoils further, shooting daggers down to the Tech Room, where he knows Hatsume is the one who fed you that old nickname.

You giggle as he stomps away, but he still throws back a last threat that you need to drink a fucking water before you go the fuck anywhere.

#bakugou katsuki #bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha fanfiction #mha #bnha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou angst

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xiaosonlybeloved · 1 year ago

Text

Our Love is Six Feet Under- Nakahara Chuuya

featuring: Nakahara Chuuya (bsd), gn!reader (no pronouns mentioned) warnings:- angst throughout, major character death, major light novel (stormbringer) spoilers!! a/n:- my, my, this idea has actually been rotting in my brain for over a month and its my longest fic till date. i loved writing it i hope u guys like it too <33 heavily inspired by 'six feet under' by billie eilish

wc: 3k || masterlists

You feel like you’ve been through worse than hell and back when you drag your eyes open. It doesn’t take you long to assess your situation and remember what had happened to you in the first place to get you attached to a hospital bed with various machines around you.

You promptly wish you’d rather have died instead, or never woken up. Not having had to deal with the pain that stabbed your heart like a thousand serrated, unforgiving knives would be a million times better than being alive. It would have been so much better than being the only survivor.

Technically, you should feel no personal guilt over the Flags’ deaths. Its not like you had been hired to protect them, and what you had been paid to specifically do is the only thing that matters when you’re an assassin. Especially when the Port Mafia is the one who outsourced you. The blame of their deaths could, in no way, be pinned upon you.

Having feelings is what gets someone killed in the world you live in, a dark world in the deepest shadows of the city. Having an ability is no reason to be confident of yourself, not when the country is littered with ability users everywhere. And yet having an ability as unique as yours is how you managed to save yourself from the certain death brought upon you all by the King of Assassins.

It was supposed to be another normal day, right? You were off-duty, so you were hanging out with the Flags at the usual place, who you had become ‘acquainted’ with over the past few months of working together, Mori’s orders. If you could dare to curse yourself and them by calling you guys friends, you would. One of them, possibly the one you were closest with, had left for some mission with a foreign investigator, long story. So you were chilling out with the others, playing billiards and all that stuff.

If someone had told you that would be your last memory together, you would have atleast clicked a picture for keepsakes. Or you’d have cherished the moment more, rather than treating it so casually. After all, you never know the value of what you’ve lost until you’ve lost it.

In the present, you shut out your emotions- they’re too much of a storm for you to be able to deal with. The grief at their deaths, the horror at the memory of the sight, the overwhelming grief- you needed a break. You slipped back into unconsciousness, a weight lying heavy on your chest that would surely never leave you until you die.

********

The funeral seems much too loud and way too quiet at the same time, or perhaps thats just your thoughts. You’re silent in the shadows, yet again, watching the processions and the choir wordlessly. You don’t speak anything. You don’t think you have the right to.

You haven’t dared to talk to Chuuya, or even approach him. He was the only member of the Flags who was not present when Verlaine struck, and thus the only one alive. He was incredibly close to them, you know, because you yourself were close to them, to him. Barely anyone had spoken a word to him, not even the boss. His aura was such that if you even dared to approach him, you’d probably either have your lungs squashed by gravity, or his own carefully crafted facade would break down.

If, as someone who wasn’t even part of the Port Mafia or the Flags, you had been affected so badly, how was Chuuya coping? Was he? Yet, out of habit, you can’t help but keep an eye out for him. Silently, selfishly even, perhaps you’re hoping he can find it in himself to forgive you.

The foreign investigator has shown up again, looking much too cheerful for someone entering a funeral, and goes straight to Chuuya. You can feel that he’s pissed off, but a few words from Mori, and Chuuya stands up in a forced manner, going to leave with the detective.

You manage to meet his gaze finally, but you don’t think you’d ever be prepared for it. His eyes bored straight into yours, eyes that had once looked at you with mirth and laughter, and dare you say it, love, eyes that were always an open gateway to his emotions. They held nothing but silent accusations, hidden anger, all pointing their sharp ends towards you. Not a single friendly feeling.

Not a word is exchanged as he walks right past you, but there’s no need to. You’ve gotten the silent message he’s sending you crystal clear- he will never forgive you for this.

You think you deserve it fully, you understand. Even now. How twisted, really, but you got it. When he lost the Flags, he lost a part of himself too, but he still remembered you. And remembering you was a constant reminder of them, of your failure to save them, of the pain that came with.

Though it hurt you, you knew that distancing yourself from him was the best thing to do. If you pursued him again, there was no telling what he might end up doing, but it certainly wouldn’t end well. Chuuya likely knew this too, and he clearly didn’t want you to come back. So you wouldn’t. This funeral would be the last time you associated with the Port Mafia, and thus Chuuya, even if it hurt you to do so. But again, considering feelings is what gets you killed in this world, and you’d rather not die so soon, although you actually don’t mind.

And well, what did it matter if somewhere, sometime, Chuuya secretly wished you’d ask him to return?

********

Visiting their graves has become a monthly thing to you, due to your inability to let the past stay in the past. Perhaps its your own, guilty way of attempting to make amends, perhaps its your way of keeping their memory engraved in your mind, perhaps its to ensure that they aren’t forgotten, even if you know well they will never be. Deep inside, its a way for you to mourn the dead, as well as the loss of the living.

You bring flowers every time, stay a while, occasionally leave something for them. Sometimes, you talk to them, sometimes you apologise over and over again, sometimes you stay silent, letting your thoughts still for a while. If nothing else, you just stared at the small rose plants that were growing there, one behind each of the five graves. It always amazed you, that such a delicate flower could grow in such a barren place. It sure seemed like they’d be blooming soon, and whenever you visited, you always made sure to check on them.

Time passes, but the wounds do not heal from inside, they just scab over, concealing the pain at first glance. You’ve gotten better at hiding it, yes, but that does not make it any better. You’ve become stronger, risen in rank as an assassin, honed your skills further. You’ve become reputed for carrying out your tasks in a swiftly lethal, unclouded way that left no traces. Almost a year has already gone by since the incident, and you still havent forgiven yourself. Nor has Chuuya.

That’s why, on their death anniversary, when you feel his cold gaze on you for the first time in a whole year when you were at their graves, you don’t hesitate to get up and start to leave. It’s best for him to not see you again. You’ve cut off all contact with the Port Mafia, except for when you occasionally got hired by them, and even then you finished it quickly, wasting no time. Interacting with no one.

So that’s why it surprises you, when he holds up a hand, walking past you to lay the flowers on their graves. “You can stay.” He speaks emotionlessly, not looking at you. He sounds older, more mature, which was to be expected, you supposed. You remain standing where you are for a few moments, not facing him as he walks over and sits behind one of the graves. “As long as you aren’t doing anything wrong, of course.” He adds. At that, you sit in front of the grave he’s leaning against, replying quietly with a “No, I was merely paying my respects.”

It was anyways evening when you came, soon, the moon starts its ascent through the sky, as silence settles between the two of you. Not a word is exchanged between the two of you as you sit on opposite sides of the same grave, in each other’s company. The only people who could truly understand each other’s pain and suffering.

You settle for silently staring at the roses. Small buds have formed, but they don’t look well- its as if the whole plant is starting to wilt, little by little. They haven’t flowered even once yet,and you wondered if those roses would bloom before the plant died. Could they? After all, the weather was changing- it was raining more often these days. Maybe they couldn’t take it. Even now, a light drizzle had started as you sat, but it took you some time to realise, because you didn’t feel the rain at all, only noticing the faint red hue around. You didn’t mention it, nor did Chuuya.

Perhaps, whatever once could have been between you and the guy opposite you was symbolised by those roses- it could have bloomed, if given the chance, but life abandoned it, left it to wilt in the aftermath of the storm. Any possible chances for you two were like the beloved ones who had left you now- six feet under the ground, dead, marked by a grave. This was merely the hand that fate dealt you, you had no choice but to accept it

********

“I can’t see the moon tonight.”. You murmur, almost to yourself, as you remain seated against the graves. It had been years, and even till now, neither of you had stopped coming to the grave to pay your respects, you arriving first every time and waiting for him. Your own visits weren’t monthly anymore due to life, more sporadic, but you still did visit from time to time, and you know Chuuya did too. And every year, on the fateful day that the incident happened, both of you never failed to show up, at the same time. Sometimes you exchanged a few words of greeting, a line or two about life. Other times you sat in silence till the moon’s glow started to dim, leaving as noiselessly as you came. Over time, this became your and Chuuya’s last remaining shared tradition out of all those that used to exist, your last link to each other. Seems like none of you was truly able to stay away from the other after all, huh?

“Say, Chuuya, next year, can you check for me whether the moon is visible or not? I feel like there really is something different about it on this day.” You ask him. He curtly replies, “Yeah no, you can do it yourself when you come back here. There’s no big deal about it anyways.” There’s no real bite in his words though, but it still saddens you. You wave it aside though, as you stare at the rose plants, like you always do.

Over the years, those roses have wilted, died, and new plants have grown in their place. Not a single one of them ever bloomed though. You want to ask Chuuya to check on those plants next year too, but you don’t.

Tired from your day at work- it was more hectic and dangerous than usual- you lean against Chuuya’s shoulder. He remains motionless- he doesn’t push you away, but he certainly doesn’t pull you closer either. This is another thing you developed over the years- if either of you felt like you needed a shoulder on that day, the other would offer it. And you wanted to do it one last time.

Eventually, you two get up and brush yourselves off, preparing to part ways. You can’t help but let your gaze linger on Chuuya’s for a second more than usual as you open up your umbrella- it always does rain on this day, but today it seemed a bit gentler yet stronger- as if the skies were quietly lamenting over what was to come.

Right before he left, he quietly spoke, the whisper floating between you. “Don’t think everything’s alright between us, because it isn’t.” He always does say something like this before he leaves every time, and again, there’s no real bite or meaning behind those words, just a formality he wishes to continue.

You let a sad smile rest on your face as you gazed at him, before responding, “Don’t worry, I know.”

“Take care, Chuuya.”

As you started walking off alone, feeling Chuuya’s eyes still on you, ensuring your safety like the gentleman he was, you wondered if you had truly tied all the remaining loose ends of your thread of life, or did you still have regrets? It was very likely- no one could say they died without any regrets at all. And besides, no one’s end was written in stone, unless they carved it themselves. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was ever all too much for you.

The next morning, you call your boss to let him know that you’re ready to take on the mission. It was an important one, involving both a long period of infiltration for gathering valuable intel, and then the assassination of the target at the end. It was a high-risk mission too, but you were used to those, weren’t you?

Why would this mission be any different?

*********

Another year rolled past. This year, Chuuya hadn’t been able to visit the graves at all after the first two-three months because he had been sent overseas for a long-term mission. During the months he’d been in Yokohama, he hadn’t caught a glimpse of you- of course he hadn’t, he made sure to avoid the days you came, preferring to merely see the traces of yourself you left and leaving his own. After that he only got the chance to return there on their next death anniversary, and even for that he had to fight tooth and nail. He was a man of actions, and he would never be the one to break the tradition.

But he’d never imagined that you would break it either. You too were a person who valued actions, or had you changed over the years?

His sharp eyes scanned the graves cautiously, but there was not a single trace of you. The only life around were the rose plants, not a soul in sight.

Rage, resentment and hints of sorrow bubbled up in him, taking him by storm as he strode over and angrily sat down by one of the graves. He was silent the entire night, letting his rush of emotions subside, staring at the gates as if he was expecting you to suddenly pop out. He stared at the moon, and at the roses. Did you not notice that they were about to bloom when you last visited? Because they were in full bloom that night, for the first time in years, delicate, fragrant petals shining in the moonlight. The moon, too, looked beautiful that night, a full moon surrounded by clouds. It was raining, heavier than usual, but the moon was never hidden. A memory entered his mind- last year, you had asked him to check whether the moon was visible this year.

“Well, it’s visible, and it sure is beautiful, but you didn’t even show up. Why?” He bitterly spoke out loud.

In the soft blowing wind that accompanied the rain, a stray lone rose petal lying on the ground gently floated in air, appearing as ethereal as smoke. He rose up to leave- you clearly weren’t showing up- eyes following the petal as it blew about, landing on a grave not of the Flags, but right beside, almost as if the deceased had specifically asked it to be there. It seemed relatively new too, for he hadn’t seen it the last time he’d been here. He walked over to it, to read what was written on the gravestone.

A moment passed, then another. And another. And Chuuya doesn’t know how long he spent there, kneeling in front of it. He was slowly getting drenched, because his ability had deactivated itself at some point of the night, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the neatly written words staring back at him, taunting him.

At some point, he understood why he was alone that night. Why you weren’t there to give him company, solace that night. It was because you couldn’t, and so you’d left whatever remained of yourself there, beside him, beside them, eternally. He just hadn’t known.

He could barely breathe, he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to, because his chest felt so heavy then. Eventually, he noticed where the petal had landed- it was a small letter, slightly wet and yellowed, kept in such a way that the rain wouldn’t destroy it. Someone must have kept it there on your request, and so he took it out, eyes taking in the faintly smudged but still intelligible words.

‘I’m sorry, Chuuya, for everything. I hope you can forgive me someday, even if I myself never could. Thank you for staying with me, for existing.

-Love, [Y/N]’

A silent tear slipped out of his eye, then another. “Idiot.” he whispered, voice cracking. “You’ve always been too hard on yourself. I think I forgave you a long time ago, I guess I just never wanted to acknowledge it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being too late.”

“And don’t worry, the moon looks beautiful tonight, and so do the roses. They’ve finally bloomed. I think you would have loved to see them, wouldn’t you?”

this took me ages to write, but i hope u like it hehehe anyways votes, reblogs and comments are really very much appreciated <333

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skyovereuropeldkde · 2 months ago

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The reckoning for the crimes of coronavirus is in full process! Yesterday, President Trump signed an executive order banning federal funding for gain-of-function (GoF) research. Tulsi Gabbard, the Director of National Intelligence, said five days ago that she, along with Bhattacharya and RFK Jr., was investigating the GoF and the global US-funded biolab network, including Ukraine. So we have confirmation that the nefarious USAID biolab network and the USAID PREDICT project are under scrutiny. Trump and his team have achieved their goal. They already know where it's going. And that's just part of the public disclosure.

Trump and his team know that this will be considered a crime against humanity for those involved, as was the case with Hunter Biden, Soros, Metabiota, Ukraine, the CIA/USAID, etc. Now it's just a matter of ensuring justice is done and preventing something like this from happening again in the future. History of Gain-of-Function (GoF) 1947: Military launches bioweapons research 1969: Nixon bans it 1973: Bioweapons Charter bans it 2001: Patriot Act allows charter violations 2014: Obama outsources GoF to Wuhan 2025: Trump bans GoF The video was recorded yesterday when Trump signed the ban on bioweapons research in the presence of Secretary of Health and Human Services Robert Kennedy Jr. and NIH Director Dr. J. Bhattacharya. What I found most interesting was that the military justified their GoF research with “dual use,” i.e. the possibility of developing vaccines, but this never worked out.

#President Trump #Bhattacharya #RFK Jr.#Crimes of Coronavirus #Do your research #Question everything #Be wise

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sophia99 · 13 days ago

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Which Cybersecurity Services Are Most Effective for Preventing Data Breaches?

In an age where data fuels decision-making and digital operations dominate the business landscape, the need for robust protective mechanisms is non-negotiable. Enterprises, regardless of size, are under constant threat from cybercriminals who exploit vulnerabilities to access sensitive information. To thwart these threats, Cybersecurity Services have evolved into a complex ecosystem of tools, protocols, and expert strategies designed to detect, mitigate, and prevent data breaches.

Among the most effective Cybersecurity Services is Managed Detection and Response (MDR). MDR combines advanced threat intelligence, real-time monitoring, and rapid incident response to identify and neutralize threats before they escalate. Unlike traditional antivirus systems, MDR is proactive, adaptive, and often employs artificial intelligence to learn and evolve from each incident, reducing false positives and improving threat accuracy.

Security Information and Event Management (SIEM) is another indispensable solution. SIEM platforms aggregate and analyze data from various digital touchpoints, offering centralized visibility into a network's security posture. Through pattern recognition and anomaly detection, SIEM helps organizations respond swiftly to unusual behavior, minimizing the window of opportunity for attackers.

Endpoint Detection and Response (EDR) solutions also stand as a critical line of defense. These Cybersecurity Services continuously monitor endpoints, devices such as laptops, servers, and mobile phones for suspicious activity. EDR not only identifies threats but also provides detailed forensics to understand the origin, method, and impact of each attempted breach.

To reinforce internal barriers, Identity and Access Management (IAM) plays a crucial role. IAM systems enforce policies that ensure only authorized users can access specific resources. With features like multi-factor authentication, role-based access control, and session monitoring, IAM helps eliminate the risks posed by credential theft and insider threats.

Complementing these digital fortresses is penetration testing, a simulated cyberattack used to uncover exploitable flaws in an organization’s security defenses. This proactive approach allows IT teams to identify weak links before cybercriminals do, reinforcing overall resilience.

Equally vital are Cloud Security Services, which protect data stored and processed in cloud environments. With businesses rapidly shifting to hybrid and multi-cloud infrastructures, these services offer encryption, workload protection, and compliance tools tailored for cloud-native applications.

Beyond technology, Cybersecurity Services also include employee awareness training, an often underestimated yet highly effective deterrent. Human error remains one of the leading causes of data breaches. Empowering staff with knowledge about phishing, password hygiene, and social engineering techniques significantly reduces risk exposure.

Ultimately, preventing data breaches demands a layered security approach. No single solution is infallible. When combined, however, these Cybersecurity Services create a robust security posture capable of withstanding both common and sophisticated attacks. Organizations that invest in a comprehensive cybersecurity strategy are better equipped to safeguard not only their data but also their reputation, client trust, and operational continuity.

#order processing #outsourcing #business #technology #finance

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the-chosen-fanfiction · 3 months ago

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John the Apostle | Anointing Hearts | Romantic

Whilst selling his father’s oil at Capernaum’s synagogue, a chance meeting blows the younger Son of Thunder away.

Requested by Anonymous

The day cannot get any brighter for the family of Zebedee; a new batch of their much-anticipated olive grove has been pressed and made into fresh oil, ready to be sold at the synagogue. Humming an excited tune, Zebedee walks in front of the cart, leading it carefully across the streets of Capernaum, making sure that the jars are secure. His sons both walk behind it, each on one side, keeping an eye on the olive oil as well, both of them proud of their father for finding such renewed purpose in his life.

“This is all going so much better than any of us could ever have expected,” Zebedee says over his shoulder, “The third batch within a month…” It has been tough labour, but also honest and satisfying. The grove has been a good purchase, and after offering the trees some extra love and care, they are thriving like never before.

John smiles at the content mood of his abba, glad to be part of the journey. The fishing industry had been his passion for as long as the younger Thunder could remember, but now that he’s found a new calling, it is almost as if the middle aged man is experiencing a second wind of youth, tackling each day with as much energy as an adolescent in the prime of his life has. Frankly, it is endearing to see.

The brothers push the cart towards the synagogue as their father gently guides it to go around the bend, rabbi Yussif already awaiting their arrival. “Ah, shalom shalom,” he greets them with his usual soft demeanour, stepping closer to aid them in getting the cart into place. A few teenagers head towards it at his gesture, starting to assist in unloading the jars. “It is a beautiful day today, isn’t it?”

“It simply couldn’t be better!” Zebedee muses, gesturing at the sky. “Praise Adonai for a wonderful sunny day as well as a ripe harvest. You rabbis have been making good use of your local resources lately.”

Yussif smiles a bit. “What can I say? It’s cheaper than outsourcing. Besides, it is not like you can deliver the same amounts that we used to order from Jerusalem.” His smile falters a bit as he realises how that might have sounded. “I didn’t mean to come across as ungrateful or dissatisfied. I know that you have been working on this grove so hard. It is more difficult with only one man to do the job instead of a few dozen, like they do in the bigger cities.”

“Ah,” Zebedee smiles. “No harm done. If I’m lucky, my boys are sometimes around to help me out.”

“I see,” Yussif replies, “But their main calling is more important, yes?”

The middle aged man lets his gaze alternate between his two children and sighs, planting his hands on his hips proudly. “Always.”

He claps his hands and gestures at the Thunder brothers. “Come on, you two. Why don’t you help them unload the jars whilst I talk about our payment with rabbi Yussif?”

The sigh that leaves the two is only feigned and playful; they gladly help out by lifting the heavy jars of oil from the carriage and handing them over to the errand boys bringing them to the basement, where they are kept for later use. Finding it polite to help out, both John and James carry the jars inside as well, descending a small flight of stairs in order to put the oil in the storage room below, then heading back up again to repeat the process.

The cart is nearly empty and John lets out a sigh, wiping his sweaty brow before lifting another jar into his hands. It is not as heavy as the previous one he carried, but he has to put effort into it nevertheless. Carefully, he walks down the stairs into the basement, rounding the corner to put the jar with all the others.

He cannot see it happening, nor that there is something there— Or rather someone. He collides jar-first with a person turning out of the storage room, a sharp gasp leaving them. Only when he releases the container out of instinct to catch himself on the wall, John realises that he’s run into another person.

The jar falls to the ground with a crash and for a long beat, he stares at the shards of clay amidst the translucent green of the oil. After a few moments, he looks up at whomever he ran into, and his breath is immediately taken away.

Flushed with embarrassment, you pull your veil a little tighter around your head, the list of notes you had been collecting now steadily soaking up oil as it lays on the ground. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” you breathe, letting out a nervous sound as you begin to apologise, “I wasn’t looking where I was going—”

“—It is my mistake, really, neither was I—” John suddenly finds his voice. He swallows hard as he takes you in; a young woman with (e/c) eyes and (h/c) hair peeking from below your veil. It seems that you were taking inventory of the newly received batch of oil, now minus one jar. Your face has turned pink as you look down at the shattered jar. Letting out a noise, you hide your cheeks in your hands.

“Goodness, this is such an action for me. Don’t worry, I’ll get it cleaned up.”

A few of the errand boys have already witnessed the commotion and are on their way with rags and water in order to prevent the liquid from seeping between cracks too much, and you crouch down to help them out, not caring about the fact that your dress gets stained in the process.

John snaps out of his frozen state, quickly starting to aid you as well. You look up at him with an apologetic smile, the sight of which makes his heart skip several beats inside his chest; there are little specks of light in your eyes and your smile is just so dazzling— “I’ve got it, thank you,” you breathe, “This is all my mistake, so let me clean this up. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do.”

The younger son of Zebedee shakes his head. “No— No, we are both equally as guilty, if anything.”

“Ugh, they aren’t going to like this one bit,” you mutter, “I’m such a fool.”

“Hey,” John says with a firm voice, “I just said that we both have part in this. It was just a little accident, nothing more.”

You hum and bite your lip. “Spilling sacred oil meant for Adonai is not that little of an accident, I fear.”

“Adonai knows our nature and won’t hold it against you. People make mistakes. It happens, you don’t have to stress out about this so much.”

Letting out a sigh, you look at the stranger in front of you properly for the first time. He has a kind smile on his face in an attempt to reassure you, of which the sight makes your heart flutter inside your chest. He’s cute, you think to yourself, trying to instantly get yourself out of it. Pull yourself together!

“Thank you,” you muse, “For not being mad at me.”

“Of course,” he replies. “Uh… My name is John, by the way.”

You curtsy at him. “I’m (Y/n),” you introduce yourself. He smiles at the sound of it. He likes that name a lot. “Once again, I’m so sorry for ruining your hard work. These batches cost so much time and effort to make. Of course we will pay you for this jar as well, don’t you worry about that.”

“I wasn’t afraid that you wouldn’t.” John murmurs, smiling at you a little, attempting to not gawk at you. After all, you’re one of the most beautiful women he’s ever laid eyes on. “You seem like an honourable woman.”

You blush a bit at that, humming a soft smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. I’m just trying my best for Adonai, you know?”

“And humble, too. God-fearing.”

“And very clumsy,” you say with a sigh, cleaning up the last bit of spilled oil. “I feel like such a ditz.”

John reassuringly shakes his head. “I didn’t think of you as one. Don’t be so hard on yourself, (Y/n).”

The two of you have a moment of long eye-contact. Your heart flutters at the sight of his hazel irises and you bite your lip to keep from growing too shy.

Clearing your throat, you shuffle back and forth a little. “Anyways, thank you for selling to us. I’ll be heading back inside to get myself a new roll of parchment.” You walk around the younger Thunder with a hurried: “Shalom shalom,” hiding your bashfulness.

John looks after you with a sharp exhale, the scent of your perfume making his head spin. Once you are out of sight, having ascended the small flight of stairs, he closes his eyes with a heavy sigh.

He doesn’t see you again that afternoon, no matter how much he hopes to catch a glimpse of you, but you haven’t returned to the basement yet by the time his father returns from selling the anointing oil after bargaining with Yussif. There is a disappointed sound that leaves him when Zebedee walks out with a large grin on his face, but it soon falls into a frown.

“What, not happy with your abba making some good money for the ministry?” Big James remains one step behind them as Zebedee pats his younger son on the shoulder in an attempt to cheer him up.

“Ah, that’s not it. It’s just…” he comes up with an excuse, “I dropped one jar by accident. The synagogue paid for it anyways, but still. It feels a bit bad in some way.”

“It’s not about the oil itself, my boy,” reassures Zebedee, “But what will be done with it and how it will be used in the service of Adonai.”

Forcing a smile on his face, John hums and pretends to be more relieved as they set out back home, where Salome eagerly awaits them to hear about how things went for them. However, the rest of the day and these that follow are full with images of your smile and the way you had blushed, your presence clouding John’s mind, allowing him no space to think of anything else.

—

A few weeks later, the heavens are chucking it down like there is no tomorrow. When it comes to rain in the region, it is either all or nothing, and the streets have formed shallow puddles where the ground is too arid to soak up all the water properly. Sandalled feet find their way across the roads in spite of it, cloaked by a roughly spun hood.

When John hears a knock on the door of their home, he doesn’t think much of it. Opening to greet whomever is visiting them at this time and in this weather, he stands on the threshold with a slight frown on his face.

“Can I help you?”

“Shalom,” your voice sounds, and for a moment, the youngest son of Zebedee thinks his ears are playing tricks on him. No, there is no way that you’ve shown up to his doorstep, let alone in a deluge like this. He must have been daydreaming about you too much… “Is your father home?”

It still sounds like you, but he is certain that it isn’t you. “Yes, he’s in the back of the house.” He steps aside to allow you entry, watching you cross the threshold into the home.

When you remove your hood, droplets of water falling from your cloak, he realises it is indeed you.

“It’s you, from the synagogue!” he exclaims, causing you to softly smile.

“Right,” you breathe, “I was wondering if your father could sell us more anointing oil. Usually my brother is the one who makes the purchase, but I felt so guilty for running into you the other day, and I simply couldn’t let him go visit your family in this weather…”

John frowns. “Your brother?”

“Rabbi Yussif.”

He gulps hard. “He is your brother?”

You laugh softly, and in he way your eyes glitter, it suddenly hits him. There is an undeniable similarity in the smiles of you and Yussif, and for a second, John feels stupid that he didn’t realise it in the first place.

“Of course, how silly of me. I could have known.”

You shrug and smile. “Not at all, John. It is usually the response I get from people, that they never connected the dots. We don’t look that much alike unless you know we are related.”

Realising that he would have to ask Arnán for your hand in marriage makes John a tad nervous, but at the same time relieved. He is well aware that your abba has been showing an increasing interest in Jesus, so he might as well use that to his advantage… It would definitely make things less complicated.

Zebedee shows up before the two of you can converse any further, but John suddenly feels incredibly elated, hoping that he will get to know you better in the coming weeks now that he knows that you are the sister of one of Capernaum’s Rabbi’s and will thus be around, seeing that they have struck a deal regarding the anointing oil.

Upon ordering the amount of oil you’ve come for, Zebedee smiles at you. “I think I’ve got that exact amount somewhere in the back.” He says, then looks at his youngest son with a small smile, “I think John here can carry it back to the synagogue for you, right boy?”

The younger Thunder blinks in confusion. “Huh? I—I mean— Yes!”

Chuckling, the middle-aged man heads for the other side of the house, where he has a few jars of oil ready for sale. When John looks at you in slight bewilderment, the way you’re smiling at him makes his heart soar.

“Thank you for your help in advance,” you muse, softly adding: “John.”

You head after Zebedee into the back of the house to get the oil, and it takes him a moment to realise you’re speaking to him. “Of course! The pleasure is all mine, (Y/n)…”

He watches how you interact with his father, getting the right amount of money from your satchel upon weighing the anointing oil, and as soon as the deal is finalised, he smiles, approaching his abba to grab the jar of oil.

He’d carry every jar of oil in the world if it meant spending more time with you. John senses that something beautiful might come from helping his father run this business.

#the chosen #reader insert #the chosen x reader #chosen x reader #john x reader #john the apostle x reader #john the apostle #john the beloved

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brotrustmeicanwrite · 11 months ago

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I fucking hate AI but heavens would it be useful if it wasn't such an unethical shit show

First, just to be clear, I'm talking about actually using AI as a tool to support your writing process, not to generate soulless texts made from stolen data instead of writing yourself.

Back when ChatGPT first became available it was still pretty useless so I had a lot of time to learn about how it's made, how it works and the ethics of it before ever touching the technology. I decided pretty quickly to never use it to generate text (or images) for actual writing and art but I still wanted to experiment with what else it could do (because I'm a nosy bitch that needs to know and poke everything).

And HEAVENS was it a blessing for writing with adhd

The last time I wrote more than 200 words in a day (outside of school work obviously) was 7th grade. I wrote over 8k just in notes the day Google's "Gemini" (formerly "Bard") became available to the public.

In order to not jeopardize my existing work I decided to make a completely new story with Bard's help that wasn't linked in any way to anything I had made before. So I started with a prompt along the lines of "I need help writing a story". At first, it immediately started generating a completely random story about a green tiger but after some trial and error, I got it to instead start asking questions.

What do you want the theme of your story to be?

What genre do you want to write in?

What time period do you want your story to take place in?

Is there magic?

Are there other sentient creatures besides humans?

And so on and so forth. Until the questions became extremely specific after covering all the bases. I could tell that all I was doing was essentially talking to an amalgamation of every "how to write" blog and website you've ever seen and telling it which part I wanted to work on next but it still felt great because the AI didn't actually contribute anything besides a few suggestions of common tropes and themes here and some synonyms and related words there; I was doing all the work.

And that's the point.

Nothing in that exchange was something I couldn't easily do on my own. But what happened was that I had turned what is usually a chaotic mess of a railway network of thoughts into a clear and most importantly recorded conversation. I can sit down and answer all those questions on my own but what usually happens when I do, is that every thought I have branches out into 4-7 new ones which I then attempt to record all at once (which obviously doesn't work, yay adhd) only to end up lost in thought with maybe 20 lines of notes in total after 6 hours at the table. Alternatively, either because I get bored or just because, I get distracted by something or my own thoughts about a different unrelated topic and end up with even less.

Working within the boundaries of a conversation forces you to focus on one specific question at a time and answer it to progress. And the engagement from the back and forth is just enough entertainment to not get bored. The six hours I mentioned before is the time I spent chatting with what is essentially a glorified chatbot that day, way less time than what I spent on any other project, and yet I have more notes and a clearer image of the story than I do about any of my real work. I have a recorded train of thought.

In theory, this would also work with a real human in a real conversation but realistically only very few people have someone who would be willing to do that; I certainly don't have a someone like that. Not to mention that someone doesn't always have time. Besides that, a real human conversation involves two minds with their own ideas, both of which are trying to contribute their own thoughts and opinions equally. The type of AI chat that I experimented with, on the other hand, is essentially just the conversation you have with yourself when answering those questions, only with part of it outsourced to a computer and no one else butting into your train of thought.

On that note, I also tried to get it to critique my writing but besides fixing grammatical errors all that thing did was sing praises as if I was God. That's where you'll 100000% need humans.

tl;dr writing with AI as an assistant has basically the same effect as body doubling but it’s an unethical shit show so I’m not doing it again. Also I forgot to mention I did repeat the experiment for accuracy with different amount of spoons and it makes me extra bitter that is was very consistent

#expect follow up additions bc I never manage to get all of my thoughts down on a topic in one post even when I write it over several days #do not use AI if I wasn’t clear enough #do #not #use #AI #writing #writers on tumblr #creative writing #writeblr #authors of tumblr #tumblr writers #writer on tumblr #writers #writer problems #oc

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youcouldmakealife · 8 months ago

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Stuff That Helps Me Write: Procrastination Busting (Novelty Edition)

So, last week I was talking about the interest based nervous system versus the importance based nervous system, and how people with interest based nervous systems are driven by urgency, novelty, challenge/competition, and interest, versus the more common importance based nervous system, which is driven by importance (to yourself or to others), rewards, and consequences.

I don’t know whether ADHD or autism has a larger impact on my life — they often impact different areas, and they frequently compensate for one another in the areas they do overlap, when they aren't forming an unlikely alliance hellbent on my destruction. But my writing process is 100% run by ADHD. So because these tips are the ones that work for me, and my writing process is, top to bottom, ADHD as fuck, they’re probably going to be pretty heavily slanted toward ADHD peeps, though of course YMMV.

Tackling novelty first, because, well, of course I am. This can also appear as ‘novelty/creativity’, but honestly, I think that’s a little redundant: doing, say, a creative version of a task is simply injecting novelty, and I think novelty is a much easier concept to understand for most people than creativity is. Novelty can be boiled down to single words we learn the meaning of at a young age (new! Different!), whereas creativity has fifteen different definitions, every single one of which might spark debate. So for our purposes, I’m sticking with just novelty.

Here are some ways I inject novelty into my writing process:

Roll the dice.

This doesn’t have to be dice, though the 20-sided ones are absolutely great for this. You can use decks of cards, random number generators, slips of paper, whatever — one of the best ways to make yourself do a bunch of shit you don’t actually want to is to attach those tasks to numbers (or colours, or suits, or whatever), and let fate decide. This can work in a lot of ways: you assign each task to a number, say, or you roll the dice on how long you have to work on it, or what order you’re doing them in, or whatever. I tend to be much more chill about doing a task when The Dice are the ones telling me to do it. It’s stupid. It works.

Roll the dice (pt 2)

This is also a fun way to create prompts: say each number is a character. You roll the dice: okay, I’ll write about David. Now I’ve associated the dice with a word, or a concept, or whatever. Okay, David and touch. Insta-prompt, no creative thinking required.

Prompts

Speaking of prompts and lack of creativity: I have tricked you all. Oh ho ho. You think you are getting a fill to a prompt you want to see (and, admittedly, you are, as long as I haven’t wandered off course, which cannot be guaranteed), but in return I am getting writing ideas without actually needing to have them! I don’t think I would be able to write 100+ stories a year if I had to think up every single idea myself, but if you outsource the creativity — well, win-win. Someone gets their prompt filled, and I get the spark of inspiration I need to fuel my writing.

Obviously this one needs to be adapted just a bit for other scenarios, but you can gather inspiring things (lines from books, poetry, lyrics, whatever) for future inspiration, you can look for online writing prompts or tell yourself you’ll write to fill a category (senses, say, or seasons, or elements, etc etc). Basically, if you don’t know what to do, forcing yourself to respond to a prompt, or follow a theme, often provides just enough constraints for creativity to happen.

When you’re stuck, move on to something else

It’s very common productivity advice to focus on just one thing and do it start to finish before you move on to the next. Don’t do it.* It’s a trap.

I do agree with the ‘one task only’ advice inasmuch as multi-tasking… doesn’t actually exist (if we’re talking something like ‘writing and listening to music’, or ‘doodling during a lecture’, that can go great, but that’s not really multitasking, so much as adding complementary stimulation. If you’re trying to, say, write an essay during a lecture, at least one (and probably both) of those tasks will suffer.) but beyond that, no.

It’s probably great advice if you’re neurotypical but I genuinely cannot think of a worse suggestion for anyone with low frustration tolerance and fucky dopamine. I hit an obstacle in that ‘just one thing’ I am doing? Cool, great, guess it’s time to stop doing it forever.

If you’re working on several different things (especially if those things use different skills and/or headspaces), when you get stuck on one, you can pivot to work on something else and let your subconscious do all that cool underrated stuff in the background, and maybe when you return to it you’ll have figured out a way around whatever your obstacle is. And even if you haven’t, at least your frustration tolerance will have been reset.

If the project you’re doing isn’t working for whatever reason, especially if you’re growing frustrated (nothing good ever follows after the point you snap at your blameless computer), do something else, and come back to it when you’re in a better headspace. Some things you have to muscle through for various reasons: say, you procrastinated on it and it’s due tomorrow. But most things you don’t. So don’t.

*I’ll straight up say I can ‘do just one thing’ for longer periods with less stress now that I’ve been medicated, but it was an awful, painful process when I wasn’t, so I still don’t really recommend it for those who have fucky dopamine.

Do! Multiple! Projects!

Yes, this can bring us to the ‘start 17 projects and finish none, don't you dare look at my WIP folder’ ADHD trap, but there’s a pretty good place between extremes. The main reason I work on multiple series at a time (plus outtakes!) is so that if I’m stuck on one, or it’s not inspiring me, or I’m just not in the right mood, I don’t have to stare at my blank screen feeling like a complete failure, I can just scoot on over to work on something else that's calling to me. Do I always do the most important thing? Or the one that’s due next? Or even the one I want to work on? Perhaps not, but I do spend the vast majority of my writing time actually writing, which is more than a lot of people can say.

It helps to have projects in different areas of your life and different stages of completion, for extra variety (and therefore novelty), just beware the ‘I have 5% left of this project to do, shouldn’t take more than 7 years’. When you do reach that final stage, that is when it’s a good idea to get laser focused on ‘just one thing’.**

**Big caveat with the above tips on NOT focusing on 'just one thing' is that I’m specifically referring to ‘typical’ tasks, not hyperfocus. If you’re hyperfocusing on something, and it’s not hurting you (ie keeping you from feeding yourself, basic self-care, sleeping, genuine obligations, etc), you ride that high as far as it takes you, baby. The ability get 5 days of work done in 5 laser focused hours would cost a fortune if they could replicate it, by all means use it to your advantage. But you do need to rest and recharge after: it drains the hell out of your mental resources and cannot be depended on indefinitely. It’s the very best tool in my toolbox. If I use it without allowing myself to recharge I will lose access to it indefinitely.

Change something about the process

It doesn’t need to be a big thing. I can switch from using my laptop to writing by hand. Or write in my bedroom rather than my office. A lot of my internal resistance to tasks is ‘this is boring’ — I’m lucky that doesn’t often happen with writing, because it’s inherently interesting to me, but sometimes you’re just stuck, and a change of scenery, of tools and equipment, of context (say, go write the POV of another character if you're stuck on a scene) is enough to shake the blah. I’m going to go into that in a lot more detail when I hit ‘interest’ and ‘challenge’ because those are both great things to inject when things have gone stale, but a lot of the time, it doesn’t matter what the change is: the fact there was a change is enough.

#stuff that helps me write #writing talk

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