#Redundancy in Labor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daosies · 10 months ago

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when you get injured

sylus, xavier, rafayel ♡ gn!reader

warnings: alcohol (sylus), graphic depictions of violence, sylus is his own warning he's so freaky (but hes so fine), major story spoilers (all three), blood, mc is the protagonist but gender neutral, lowercase intended

notes: MISTY INVASION GOT ME

sylus always looks forward to your calls.

he likes listening to you ramble about the little nothings of your day, the mindless white noise that echoes from your end whenever you get lost in thought.

more often than not, sylus isn't satisfied with just that. sometimes, he wishes he could witness your expressions for himself rather than through the chirps and retellings from mephisto, to narrow the distance between the two of you.

clink! he lifts a glass of whiskey up to his lips.

sylus eyes his phone before taking a sip, gaze beginning to drift around the vastness of his bedroom. warm lamps illuminate the corners and his attention redirects towards the various plushies that line the shelves.

ever-so slightly, the corners of his lips break into the subtlest of smiles.

his gaze returns to the phone.

later than usual, sylus thinks, staring at the pretentious (according to you) grandfather clock in his room. tick, tick. its tempo mimics his heartbeat, the steady rhythm falling into place.

sylus's days are redundant—they have been for quite a while—but what he always looks forward to is your calls, which always come at this time.

except for today, it seems. even though you're not obligated to call him, and you never told him that these calls would become a regular occurrence, sylus has grown expectant. terribly so.

he takes another sip of his drink, eyes darting back and forth from his phone to his wristwatch.

sylus would like to maintain his image as an independent, mysterious alpha; but you—oh, you—have a knack at dismembering him, at taking apart the chambers of his heart and weaving yourself into its tissue. you tattoo yourself into his skin, permeating into his existence without ever realizing.

you've always been a little cruel. sylus likes that about you.

tick, tick. he half-considers calling you first. when it comes to you, sylus has nothing to lose—from the crimson of his irises to the crimson of his blood, he's surrendered everything, offering all that he has in a ferocious, lovely organ that goes, endlessly: thump, thump, thump...

he thinks of your fantastic beauty. the tempo stutters.

tick, tick. ring! sylus reaches for his phone within an instant, not caring about luke and kieran's spiel about how a "real charmer" would wait for the phone to ring multiple times before picking up. but sylus doesn't have time to play games like that—he wants to hear your voice and he wants to hear it now.

"so, you finally decided to call, hm?" sylus asks, swirling his drink leisurely. he brings the glass up to his lips, unable to contain the way a smirk breaks out onto his face, the way you do so much as exist, the way you radiate and oh, the way you seek him out!

sylus thinks he's never felt so satisfied before, with all that he's ever achieved, you just might be the greatest of them all.

and he hasn't even achieved you yet. he thinks he never will; you've always been volatile, wildly beautiful and wildly free. again, sylus likes that about you.

you don't respond. sylus sets his glass down on the table, unbothered, smirk still fixed onto his lips. that is until he hears a loud crash from your end, the sound of labored breaths following soon after.

"[name]?" sylus calls, standing up immediately. his whiskey remains forgotten, free hand reaching for the leather coat draped across his chair, the fabric still stained red from earlier events.

sylus has no time to worry about how he presents himself, because before you can even utter another word, he's racing out of his pretentious (according to you) mansion and swinging a leg over his motorbike.

the steady tempo of his heart begins to race, beating the rhythm of the grandfather clock that, endlessly, echoes tick, tick... sylus attributes its consistency to the fact that the grandfather clock, in all its glory, has never had the pleasure of knowing you.

if it did, then its flow would be disrupted, its rhythm would stutter and leap, and sylus knows this fact all too well because it's happened to him. because it's happening to him.

thump, thump-thump... "[name]," sylus calls. he says your name just to say it, to feel its syllables on his tongue, to swallow the sound and let it reverberate throughout his chest, easing the spasm of his heart and the fracturing of his ribs.

"[name], talk to me," sylus says, the steadiness of his voice starkly contrasting the tremble of his irises. "[name], i'll be there. count to three?"

one. he revvs the engine.

two. his fingers tighten around the handlebars.

three. the tempo of his heart goes, achingly, thump-thump-thump, thump... for a second, the sound changes. for a second, the sound shifts and utters, in the softest of timbres: you.

black and red tendrils spew from the ground below you, wrapping your figure in a tender embrace whilst the sound of an engine rings throughout your ears.

smoke envelopes the room, your vision becoming blurry while the tendrils shrink away, their absence filled in by the warmth of calloused hands.

sylus lifts you up, pressing your head against his chest before whispering, "go to sleep, darling. it'll all be over soon."

when your eyes lull back, and your body falls limp, sylus goes mad. his hands never leave your figure, his evol forming limbs to strangle your opponent, watching the way they writhe and scream without ever tearing his gaze away.

"report," sylus demands, talking to no one.

"after finding out [name] was closely associated with you, boss, this person tried to get some information about you." still, someone responds.

sylus chuckles. "two corrections." he steps towards the suffocating person, crimson gaze trailing theirs and landing on you. when he notices this, sylus clicks his tongue, tightening the tendrils of his evol and forcing the perpetrator to look away from you.

tenderly, sylus caresses the side of your face, as if to brush away that person's distateful gaze.

"[name] and i are more than just close associates," sylus continues with his previous statement, holding you closer towards him. he finds solace in the way your chest rises up and down, reassuring him of your vitality, your incomparable radiance.

"and," he says, retracting his evol. the person falls to the floor with a harsh thud, and sylus merely tilts his head in the direction of the body, commanding the twins to clean the corpse up.

"that isn't a person. it's just some pest. kieran, don't make that mistake again."

luke snickers.

kieran straightens up, mop in hand. "yes, boss!"

only when your breathing steadies does sylus's heart return to its regular rhythm, matching the pace of the pretentious grandfather clock.

you've taken his bed (he's given it, really), and sylus doesn't bother pulling up a chair; sinking to his knees as he gazes at you fearfully, reverently. his hands come up to cover yours, elbows digging into the mattress. the warmth of your skin mixes with his own.

you've taken his bed, but sylus thinks that that's only one of the many things you've taken. you've taken his mind, his heart, him. you've taken all that he's got to give, all that he's ever fathomed of being his.

"you're always so cruel," sylus mutters to himself, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

(but, i love that about you, he thinks.)

your head and side are wrapped with bandages, tended to by sylus himself. he doesn't trust anyone else—not even luke or kieran—when it comes to treating you; you're too delicate, too fragile for a place like this.

sylus's gaze remains fixed on the bridge of your nose, the cracks of your lips. sweat trickles down your forehead, your brows furrowed from discomfort and nightmares plaguing your sleep. he reaches a hand to brush the sweat away, grazing across your skin until your brows ease up, until your expression drifts into that of contentedness.

oh, you're beautiful. ethereally so.

(you don't belong here.)

still, sylus's hand traces over yours. he feels the callouses adorning your palm, marred by your work as a hunter. filling the gaps of your fingers with his own, sylus's hand locks into place.

(you call it abduction. he calls it love.)

whenever it comes to you, xavier is on high alert.

he's always hyper aware of your location, your status and your surroundings. whenever you fight wanderers together—as partners often do—he's always thinking of you, of ways to redirect everything towards him, of ways to get you as far away as possible.

for the longest time, xavier thought that that'd be enough. he thought that, so long as you're okay, he doesn't care about what happens to him, about what happens to anything. he's always thought that, really. here and philos alike.

"xavier!" you yell, and before he can even react, your figure comes colliding with his, arms wrapping tightly around the back of his neck as the two of you tumble towards the ground.

he doesn't know what went wrong—was it his clumsiness? was it his arrogance? he had always thought that, so long as you were safe, nothing else mattered.

but xavier had never thought of a situation where he was the one at risk, where he was the one who needed saving. he had never thought that you'd be the one to sacrifice yourself, because, ever since he met you, xavier identified himself as a sword, as a weapon at your disposal.

he is your weapon. he is yours.

xavier's hand comes to the small of your back, feeling the blood seep in between the gaps of his fingers. his breath falls short of escaping, shrinking down his esophagus and bringing everything, from the race of his heart to the warmth of his face to a standstill.

primal instincts take over. xavier fights with tooth and nail, forgetting all that he's learned from his swordsmanship classes—but oh, never forgetting his time with you—while his grip around your waist tightens.

his movements are quick and wild as he slices through each wanderer with the efficiency of a machine, running on a code that prints out, endlessly, you, you, you.

after everything has been eliminated, xavier reaches for your neck, searching desperately for a pulse. after confirming that it's there, he teleports away to the nearest hospital, free palm pressing into the center of your wound.

xavier's scared. he's scared you won't make it. he's scared he's failed you. he's scared of a lot of things, really.

when you're wheeled away in a stretcher, tended to by a whole team of medical professionals, xavier's left yearning and waiting, clinging onto nothing but hope and a fragmented memory of you. he's always yearned—back in philos and here, now—but it's a little different this time.

you've always been out of reach, like you were a star and he, an observer. but now, you're so tangible, so delicate and so fleeting despite being right there.

xavier feels like you could disappear within an instant, and he wouldn't put it past you to leave this life behind, to restart anew somewhere else. with someone who was a little stronger than him, a little less selfish.

he's selfish. so what?

you evoke something primal within him, something that makes him forget his etiquette classes and his time at the academy, wasting away at textbooks and duels. you make xavier burn, wildly, fantastically, like a flame—like a star, even.

you make him feel unlike himself, because xavier's used to being calm and collected and oh-so drowsy, but when it comes to you, everything changes. the world reinvents itself anew and presents itself, fogged in a pink lens, as something lovelier than before.

xavier resigns himself to one of the many chairs of the waiting room. he buries his face into his gloved hands, not caring about the messiness of his appearance.

when he closes his eyes, all he can see is your limp figure. he opts to stare at the television screen instead, the reports of the news appearing mute to his deafened ears. xavier swallows thickly, mouth feeling terribly dry, wrapped around the shape of your name. it waits.

a couple hours pass, and a nurse appears to fetch him. xavier says nothing, tongue still stuck in time.

only when he enters your room, and listens to the repetitive beep of the heart monitor, does his mouth free itself from its prison, liberating itself to utter, in the faintest of whispers, "[name]..."

you don't stir awake. xavier's fine with that. he pulls a chair to your bedside, and he sits, and he stares. periwinkle eyes trail across your features, tracing them like a sculptor, desperate to reshape the bandages and gauzes that cover your abdomen.

xavier wishes he could crawl into your body and steal all the pain for himself.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him, the kind of instinct that is only ever sung about in epics and myths and tragic, star-crossed plays.

he reaches forward, bare thumb coming to graze over your cheekbone. you're quiet, too quiet, and xavier's paranoid. too paranoid.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him. it takes over xavier's eyes and it trains them to fixate on you.

your image slips into his sight, swallowed greedily by xavier's pupils, remembered fervently by his mind. while his hands cannot have you, xavier compensates with his eyes, desperate and mad and oh, so lovely.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him. it's primal and it's primitive and it's hungry.

xavier forfeits his beloved sleep in order to watch over your heart monitor, to watch over your heart.

even when all the lights shut off, and when the device's beeps blend into the white noise of the hospital room, his periwinkle gaze never leaves your figure, adjusting to the darkness and finding solace there.

(a star has landed on earth. it's guided by a great, irrevocable instinct. it's primal and it's primitive and it's hungry.)

once more, xavier's mouth wraps around the shape of your name. it utters, in the softest of timbres, "[name], i love you."

although you aren't awake to respond, xavier is content with just this.

(a star has landed on earth. it stayed because it found you.)

"[name]," he whispers again, finding comfort in the familiar syllables, "i love you." maybe, saying it will make it realer than it already is. maybe, saying it will satiate his soul, providing him with enough sustenance to feast on for the next century or two.

maybe, xavier just calls your name to feel its syllables on his tongue. because he likes the sound of your name. because he wants to hear it, in whatever capacity, whenever he can.

maybe, it's just a great, irrevocable instinct.

whatever it is, xavier is content. he stares at you, and he feasts.

it always goes like this: with rafayel chasing after you.

you have a habit of leaving him behind—rafayel thinks it's just in your nature.

you give him a taste of everything before leaving him with nothing, and even though rafayel hates, hates you for that, he can't help but want everything again.

(he had everything, once.)

"[name]!" the scream that erupts from rafayel's throat is raw, marred by a desperation and anguish that travels across lifetimes. rafayel can't lose you—not again, not like this.

"raf—" you're interrupted by a violent cough, blood spilling from your lips. "just go!"

and there you go again, in all your selfish glory, in all your inconsiderate and shameless heroism. do you like watching his expression drop into that of utter horror, when all he's ever wanted was you?

he can never get his way.

"ugh," he mutters to himself, voice cracking at the end. "i just hate you, you know!?" your gaze is preoccupied by the giant wanderer that looms over your figure, its attention belonging wholly to you.

rafayel has the audacity to be offended. hello? he manages to think, despite all the fear and anxiety. why's it not looking at me? i'm right here!

you aim your gun at the wanderer's head, and rafayel almost wants to laugh. to think you're fighting close-combat with guns—wow, what an accomplished bodyguard you are!

rafayel is half-considering finding a new bodyguard now, because it looks like his current one isn't too bright in the head.

rafayel hates the way you go around, saving everyone, saving everything. he hates the way you save and the way you forget, the way you go around picking up more strays whilst forgetting your first one.

rafayel hates you. he hates you. he hates you!

despite all the pain and soreness in his (self-proclaimed) delicate limbs, he rushes forward, daggers in hand while fire vomits from the ground. rafayel hates you, sure, but hate and love are lawfully wedded, tightly intertwined and fueled by one another.

rafayel hates you. he hates you. but oh, he loves you. he loves you in the way he's willing to let you keep that heart of his, the way orpheus loved eurydice, the way he did everything and anything, only to catch a glimpse before losing it all.

he charges in front of you, occupying the wanderer while you take a couple steps back. rafayel half-wishes you'd run. he half-wishes you'd turn and abandon him so he could find it in himself to abandon you. you did it once before, so why can't you do it again?

when bullets stop flying, rafayel wonders if you left. he wonders if it's really over. so, he looks back.

you're still there. this time, you don't disappear. your eyes meet his, and somehow, you find it in yourself to smile.

he wants to cry.

"rafayel, let's resonate!"

and oh, you're otherwordly. you're so, so gorgeous. it's in the flame that dances across your irises, the determination that settles into your features.

you're so beautiful it hurts, because rafayel hates the effect you have on him, the way you go around enchanting everyone, everything!

when crimson blood trickles down your face, staining your skin a violent red, rafayel thinks you're sublime. he feels insignificant in your radiance, in your marvelous existence, your marvelous world.

"fine, let's!"

your hand locks with his, and rafayel hates the way his heart skips a beat. he hates the way yours didn't. he hates the way he's the only one overthinking these things, the only one who remembers after all this time.

the world is engulfed in flames. and rafayel spares you a glance, your skin illuminated by the warmth, flickering in and out. the wanderer disintegrates into ash, leaving nothing but a measly protocore for all the suffering it put him through.

your eyes fall back. instinctively, rafayel reaches a hand out, catching you in his arms despite hating the way you contort his limbs, the way you make him trail after you like a madman.

he is anything but a madman—in fact, rafayel is perfectly normal.

still, he cradles you in his arms. blood trickles from the side of your face.

"you're not the only one bleeding," rafayel mutters bitterly, feeling lightheaded himself. "who do you even think you are?"

his thumb comes to brush your chapped lips, wiping stray droplets of blood from the dried skin.

you're ethereal. rafayel will never admit that outloud. not like this. but, he thinks that you're something akin to a grecian statue, reflecting all that is lovely and all that is mortal.

rafayel thinks that, when you were crafted—long before this current incarnation—you were crafted with the most delicate of touches, the loveliest of visions.

he looks at you, and he wants to create. he wants to waste away at his canvases, wild and fanatic and looking over his shoulder, wondering if you'll still be there when it's all over.

knowing your nature, you won't be.

still, rafayel can't help but dream. dreams can change the world, after all. dreams are what led him back to you.

his thumb reaches for his own lips. he kisses the skin and he weeps.

rafayel hates you.

he hates you so, so much.

he shrinks into your figure and he follows your heartbeat, the sound so, achingly familiar.

when you regain consciousness, it's in rafayel's studio. your figure is drowned in pearl-white blankets, your wounds wrapped tenderly with fresh bandages.

"good mooorning, sleepyhead," rafayel says, not facing you. his hands are occupied with a brush and palette, head craned upward to fully take in the canvas. "some bodyguard you are, huh!"

"rafayel!" you quickly exclaim, trying to stand up. rafayel is quick to turn around, setting his palette down to wag a disapproving finger at you.

"nuh uh! don't get out of bed! get some rest! and oh, don't even talk to me! not until you've apologized for doing all that dumb, fish-brained stuff!"

rafayel looks back. you're still there.

in this life, rafayel thinks he has everything.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #xavier x reader #sylus x reader #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x reader #lnds x reader #rafayel x mc #loveanddeepspace #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #xavier love and deepspace

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majestyeverlasting · 6 months ago

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Hellooo, can I please request a Joel miller x reader oneshot where the reader had a really bad day at work and she’s calling him from the bathroom crying and he immediately rushes to pick her up? 🥰🩷

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

Pairing Joel Miller x Female Reader

Summary A disheartening setback at work leads you to call Joel, who always knows exactly what you need [fluff, 1.6k].

A/N Thank you so much for this request and your patience, anon! Really enjoyed writing this one.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Hi, are you busy right now?

A heavy exhale is freed from your chest the moment you hit send. It’s quiet in the bathroom except for the rhythmic drip of the leaky sink faucet. Muffled voices arise from the hallway as people pass by, some preparing to commute home. Warm tears stream down your cheeks.

No sooner does your phone vibrate to life, a picture of you and Joel at McKinney Falls filling the screen. There isn’t much time to compose yourself before you press the accept button with a shaky thumb.

“Hey, sweetheart. Got done early today, we’re cleaning up the site,” Joel greets, wind in the background. Tommy’s voice emits from nearby as well, followed by rowdy, cackling laughter. “Hold on a second, lemme get someplace quiet.”

“Okay,” you murmur.

There’s shuffling on his end of the line that eventually subsides. It’s still worth clinging to even though he’s miles away.

“Sorry about that. Everything alright?” Concern dances around the edges of his words. You can tell he’s trying to keep them from being consumed.

After Sarah moved out for college, he’d gotten better at accepting that every phone call he received from her didn’t automatically mean trouble. Most of the time, she simply wanted to catch up now that she lived two hours away.

However, the opposite was true between you and Joel. Nowadays, you spend so much time together that there’s seldom a need to talk on the phone. The fact that you were calling him, from work, no less, meant something was up.

You swallow the lump in your throat, but it doesn’t do much for the wavering of your voice when you finally speak up again, “Just wanted to hear your voice.”

Your subsequent sniffle makes him grow still. You can see it through the phone. It’s in the way he doesn’t immediately respond, gears undoubtedly turning in his head.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.” There’s a gentle, almost melodic quality to his voice that makes you wish you could lay your head on his chest and feel the rumble of his words.

“Today’s just been a lot,” you tell him. “You know Alexander, the Bulletin’s editor?” He makes a small sound of affirmation. “It wasn’t his decision, but he pulled me aside to let me know my feature has been put on hold for further revision.”

Relaying the news makes fresh tears well in your eyes. Over the past few weeks, Joel has watched you pour yourself into each stage of constructing the story to do the subjects justice—the meticulous research, heartfelt interviews, and late nights perfecting every draft.

It was a labor of love, a piece that sought to illuminate the struggles of longtime Austin residents, artists, and small business owners navigating the challenges of gentrification and displacement.

“Something about it being redundant.” Which, for all you knew, could be higher-up code for we don’t want this stepping on the toes of donors with deep pockets.

“You’re kidding,” Joel grouses, disappointed for you.

You shake your head even though he can’t see you. “I wish I was,” you breathe. “Redundant, yet they’ve got room for age-old dieting tips and holiday gift guides every year,” you say, voice wavering.

“I know, I hear you. I’m so sorry, baby,” he soothes, releasing a heavy sigh. “At least it hasn’t been canned entirely. That’s worth something.”

He’s right, but it still feels like a slap in the face considering all the time invested. From you and everyone who shared their story.

“It just sucks,” you sniffle. “I didn’t get enough sleep last night, and now I feel even worse.” A dull ache has settled in your temples.

Shuffling arises on Joel’s end of the line again, and you remember that he’s still on site.

“I’m sorry. You can go if you need to.”

Instead, he comes back with, “Hang tight, okay? Gonna come get you.”

When you bite your lip instead of responding, he keeps talking, “Should be there in twenty, give or take.”

As appealing as it sounds to be whisked away, reality is quick to set in.

“No, it’s fine, Joel. Tommy and the guys need you. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t good for it,” he replies.

•••

Outside, you’re met with a relaxed breeze and the dwindling warmth of downtown, where the sun eases towards the horizon. A few tourists mill around, men and women in business casual stride by with messenger bags. At Joel’s truck, which is parallel parked across the street, he gets the door for you. An 80s station plays low on the radio, Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run faintly recognizable.

You watch as he rounds to the driver’s side in that relaxed stride you love. He looks handsome despite his mused hair and the specks of dried paint on his shirt. When he climbs in, you’ve taken notice of the ice-cold raspberry tea in the cupholder closest to you.

Along the way, he’d stopped and gotten it from the cafe you and Sarah frequented whenever she was visiting from school. You only went alone as an occasional treat, but he knew how much you liked it.

A smile buds on his face when you pick it up and take a grateful sip. There’s a softness to his gaze that makes warmth bloom in your chest. With him, even the little things seemed to say, I see you.

When you extend the cup his way in a silent offer, he waves you off. However, curiosity gets the better of him after he pulls off the curb. “Guess a sip won’t hurt.”

For the first time in what feels like hours, you smile when Joel hums at the flavor. For a moment, it doesn’t feel like the world is ending anymore. When he places his hand on your thigh, you intertwine your fingers with his, and he gives your hand a squeeze.

A comfortable silence settles between you. It isn’t until you’ve left downtown that Joel speaks up again, voice measured and sure, “Your story will get out. Those guys know good journalism when they see it, and they’re gonna have to run it.”

You glance over at him, your lower lip caught between your teeth as hope kindles in your chest.

“Hell, I’ll make my own publication if that’s what it takes. The Miller Times.”

A chuckle bubbles out of you, but you could cry at the same time. For an entirely different reason this time.

“I could get in trouble for going to a different publisher,” you remind him, running your thumb over the back of his hand as a small smile plays on your lips. “I’m on staff.”

“I know, honey.” Joel squeezes your hand, a playful glint in his eyes. “Admit it, though. You thought about it for a second. The Miller Times has a nice ring to it.”

He can see you fighting against your growing smile. “It’s alright.”

“I’ll take that,” he concedes. Then, a greater air of sincerity settles over him. “What’s that one saying—setbacks are setups for something better.”

You nod, gazing out the window as you turn into his neighborhood.

“Don’t let this weigh you down.”

You felt worlds lighter with him.

•••

The warm spray of the shower feels so good against your skin that you remain under it even after the day’s troubles have washed away. Three months ago, you would’ve had to use Joel’s body wash, but your products and belongings had since made their way here. Some, he bought because he knew you’d be around, and others—namely, clothes—that migrated from your apartment.

The word home has lost its shape in that regard. Not in a detached way of not belonging in any one place, but in that Joel’s house had begun to feel like just as much of a home as your cozy one-bedroom a few miles away.

When you finally step out of the shower, a towel wrapped around yourself, you can see straight into the bedroom, where Joel is stretched across the bed. The sound of the shower door closing prompts him to sit up with a low grunt. You offer a shy smile upon meeting his gaze.

“Promise I’m not creepin’ around,” he says, standing to his feet. “Just wanted to see if your headache was gone. Can bring up some Tylenol if you need it.”

“It’s fine. I feel better now,” you assure. With a satisfied nod, he turns to leave with the intent of giving you space, but stops in his tracks when you speak up again, “You’re allowed to creep around if you want. I don’t mind.”

Joel saunters into the bathroom doorway, propping an arm against the frame. The motion causes his bicep to strain against the sleeve of his shirt. Getting to see you like this, the intimacy of it all, always makes him feel grateful and warm.

“Oh, yeah?”

“You’re the boss,” you lilt.

With a low chuckle, Joel pushes out of the doorway and moves to stand behind you. You stare at your joint reflection as he rests his large hands on your hips, then leans down to press a delicate kiss to your bare shoulder. His frame is broad and rugged behind you, but his eyes are kind.

When you rest your hands over his, he presses a second kiss to the crook of your neck. Then another just beneath your ear. His lips are so soft and warm against your damp skin that you can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine and makes you press back into him.

“I like you like this,” he whispers. “Relaxed…smiling.”

Now that you’re in his arms, it’s hard to imagine having stayed at the newsroom. With the meetings, chatty colleagues, and constant blue light. It’s quieter here with Joel. The world at large has disappeared while your smaller one keeps turning.

“I didn’t realize how much I needed this,” you admit.

But Joel did. He always did.

Thank you so much for reading. Like, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. I promise I see them all.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel x reader #joel x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #tlou hbo #pedro pascal

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thydungeongal · 11 days ago

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Anon because I don't want to get into an internet fight over this, but I think the way to think of genAi is as a labor rights issue, not a copyright issue, because copyright is not the friend of anyone who isn't a massive corporation or a copyright attorney, so attacking AI on those grounds is always going to be ideologically shakey (at best). In other words, I agree with you, but I think the copyright stance is one that people can engage with without fundementally challenging the capitalist system, so it attracts people who aren't willing to go that far.

Absolutely. I think AI very much is a labor issue and it's shaping up to be the defining labor issue of this generation, with it leading to mass redundancies in industries that were previously considered safe from automation on account of being "white collar" jobs and therefore the idea that those jobs would or could ever be automated was seen as beyond the pale. Anyway the thing is that just like those icky blue collar workers whose jobs have been increasingly automated for years, those white collar workers are all also working class. So like. Organized labor action is going to do a lot more good than becoming luddites on the internet.

#thydungeongal answers #genai

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aereasrage · 1 year ago

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The Favorite pt. 3

summary: Most curiously, princess reader’s children seem to bear a striking resemblance to a certain prince who is not her husband…

cw: codependent mother-daughter relationship yk the drill, pregnancy, childbirth, religion, gaslighting, incest, masturbation, blasphemy, unprotected sex (i feel like that might be redundant because is there any other way to fuck in medieval times?), jace and reader being westerosi romeo and juliet

notes: honestly, the ages in hotd are so confusing that most of the charts/breakdowns i’ve seen make very little sense so for the purpose of this fic, i’ve just decided to age everyone up a lil so jace is intended to be around 19-20 years old as is reader. also for jace x reader purposes, rhaenyra never left for dragonstone, though her and daemon still married and had their children.

part 1 | part 2

word count: 4.1k

Each time you were pregnant, Alicent found herself so filled with worry that she went to the sept daily to pray. She spent much of her time at your side, sharply commanding the servants to care for you in a way which would meet her meticulous qualifications. She wore her hair braided up simply, her clothing free of embellishment save for her golden seven pointed star; appealing to the Mother in humility, not to take her daughter away from her.

You were with child again, your third. Your marriage to Aegon had indeed been fruitful, for you were blessed with two sons, Aemon and Baelon. Both born healthy and squalling with...dark brown hair. But though Alicent had been briefly taken aback by how your sons looked, she quickly regained her composure. She would not dare suspect you of being anything but loyal to Aegon. She rationalized any unsavory possibilities away, for there was no reality she could fathom in which you would be unfaithful to Aegon, no reality in which you would stray from your mother's guidance so much. She had even watched you complete your duty with resignation and obedience, how could she ever see her sweet daughter as being a whore?

Alicent had been at your side throughout your labors, too anxious to be anywhere else. When she had seen you hold your firstborn son in your arms, teary eyed and thanking the Mother, she knew could never think so poorly of you. Your face, she was certain, was the very image of the Mother.

Rhaenyra, however, was not convinced. The way her eldest son looked at you, seemingly gripped in a trance when you were near, the way his hands twitched slightly whenever you were within grasp coupled with your children being born looking exactly as her three brown haired boys did...it was quite funny to her, honestly. So much grief over her sons and now with you having what were obviously her grandchildren, not a single word. She liked you well enough and obviously she had no intentions of putting her own grandsons in danger but she simply wasn't going to let the situation rest without pointing out the hypocrisy.

At the end of a small council meeting, the lords filed out of the room but Rhaenyra stayed behind, her gaze fixed on Alicent. As the room emptied, Alicent begrudgingly stayed behind as well, having a vague sense of what would come next.

"I wished to congratulate you on becoming a grandmother once more," Rhaenyra started. "Though I do wonder if this will be the time my sweet sister bears a child who resembles her husband."

Alicent drew a sharp breath, steeling herself. Immediate anger would only draw further insult. "What you insinuate is filth."

Rhaenyra could only laugh at how deeply Alicent's delusion went. "Come now, Alicent. Even a lackwit could answer the question of your grandsons' parentage. I seem to remember your mind being sharp enough to make suppositions on the father of my sons. Have you not opened yourself up to this?"

"My daughter is a good wife. She is not so slattern to find herself in bed with your...son while being married to mine." Alicent restrained herself from saying what she truly wished. She would not stoop so low and open herself and her daughter to attack.

"Really, Alicent, how long do you think you can keep this up? Who do you believe you're fooling?"

"Their grandsire's hair was dark brown in his youth, my daughter's hair is an auburn, a reddish brown just as mine is," Alicent stated indignantly and all Rhaenyra could do was stare blankly back at her. This couldn't possibly be the woman so fixated on the truth of her sons’ paternity, couldn't possibly be the great devout of the seven, the woman devoted to the virtues of duty and honor and sacrifice. She wasn't sure why it surprised her so much, it wasn't as if she didn't know those spiteful fanatics were all hypocrites. But somehow, given the way Alicent was with her children, she believed that she'd at least have shame enough to try and cover it up, have the children fostered away from King's Landing, stripped of their names, forgotten. Instead, Alicent was standing more firmly on her daughter's virtue and the parentage of her grandchildren than even Rhaenyra had for her boys. Even Rhaenyra did not fool herself as Alicent did.

She had originally planned to offer a marriage again, thinking that Alicent would be tempted to concede this time but seeing that look in her eyes made her second guess. Alicent was truly too madly in love with her youngest daughter to acknowledge what was right before her. She would never agree to annul the marriage between her and Aegon, she'd never sacrifice her daughter's virtue in the eyes of others even if it would spare all of them the grief of perpetually silencing the tongues that would wag at the sight of Aegon's brown haired sons. She believed in her daughter’s absolute perfection and she’d hear nothing that contradicted it, even if it was meant to help her. Rhaenyra left the room, there was clearly nothing more to say if this was how Alicent insisted on handling things.

Your mother believed you to be immaculate. Your siblings followed suit. If Aegon himself had any doubts as to your loyalty, he did not feel them worth speaking. You got the feeling all that mattered to him was keeping your affection. When he entered your chambers for the first time since you had gone into labor, as you held Aemon, rocking him gently to sleep; Aegon envied the child who, after taking over your body for so many moons, was taking his place in your arms until you commented on how like him the babe was. You had been thinking of him as you looked down at your son, it occurred to Aegon that you’d always think of him when you saw your son. Although the head of dark brown hair sent a wave of confusion through him, he believed in your love of him more than he believed his eyes. How could you be untrue to him? You spent most of your time outside of him in the sept or with your mother or sister, helping mind her children. Aemon and Baelon were his sons, two little creatures who served as symbols of your lasting love of him. How could they not be his with the affection you gave to them? With how lovingly you stroked their heads and dubbed them “as willful as their father”?

To everyone, you were the image of an exemplary wife, daughter and princess. You went to the sept at night before you went to bed, to pray to the mother, to thank her for the health of your children. You cared for your children until the late hours of the night. Unlike your parents and siblings, you slept in the same chambers as your sullen, drunkard husband most of the time and brought him cheer as well as incentive to behave himself at least somewhat. You obeyed your mother, brought comfort to your sister and served the realm with a stiff upper lip.

But while there was truth to your reputation, there was also truth to Rhaenyra’s interpretation of you. Your mother may have thought you to be “not so slattern as Rhaenyra,” but the truth was that you were exactly as slattern as her. When you visited the sept at night, with your ladies waiting outside the door, as you “wished to feel the presence of the Mother unfettered,” you were actually meeting Jace who compelled you there each night.

That night, Jace parted himself from the shadows of the sept as he watched you trail in. “How lovely you look, you almost seem pure in the light of the sept,” he grinned. “Don’t tease, my prince,” you huff. Jace watched you cross the room to meet him, his eyes fixed on you steadfastly. He’d said it in jest, but it was true, you looked the very image of innocence, it was not a wonder you were able to have his children without consequence. His hands went to your small bump as you closed the distance between the two of you. Another of his children.

A surge of jealousy went through him each time he remembered his children were being called sons of Aegon. It filled him with the urge to stake a claim to you. He would have you for his wife someday, he would have his children at hand, his heirs. But not tonight. Tonight, all that he could have was your body and in reparation, he fully intended to take his fill.

He brought you to your knees before the altar, lighting a candle before hiking up your dress behind you. “You must have told your mother you’ve come here to pray. We mustn’t disappoint her,” he murmured as his hand reached into your smallclothes. “I shall lead you in your prayers, aunt. We both have much to repent for.”

He was unsurprised to find you wet but it still brought about a low groan of satisfaction. Evidence between his fingers of his hold on you. You could feel him stiff against your back. “Start with the Mother, she’s blessed you most, hasn’t she?” His voice, slightly breathy with ill concealed arousal, sent a thrill straight down to your cunt which squeezed around nothing as Jace continued to gently stroke your clit. “Gentle mother…comfort of all our ills…” you began, taking a shuddering breath as you tried to concentrate on humoring Jace.

He tsked. “You’ve become so slack in your orisons, what would your mother say?” his touch becoming slightly firmer, only just barely quicker, more desperate. “Gentle mother, comfort of all our ills, thank you for our children. Protect them in your arms, despite our hubris and forgive us our lusts. Grant us your mercy.”

You swallowed a desperate cry and continued. “Father above, may you…” your thighs quivered, you were fighting the urge to simply lean back into Jace. “May you judge us justly, give our family the strength to find justice for those who would harm us.”

Jace kissed your temple, a soft gesture that felt almost befitting of such a place. “That is a lovely wish, it becomes you, aunt. Now what shall you beg of the Warrior?” His hips had started to brush against your back gently in rhythm, seeking to quell his already drooling cock straining against the confines of his breeches.

“Brave Warrior, should ever our realm come to war again, may our men be loyal and brave enough to protect us…” you slurred out quickly, the entirety of your focus narrowed down to Jace’s fingers which pulled back every time you pushed your hips forward seeking relief. The worst part was that he was so tightly pressed to you that any movement you made drew a pleasured sound from him, even as you struggled for more of his touch. “Bring our realm to victory…Jace, please.”

He laughed behind you, seeming to have genuine fun teasing you. “We’re not done.” He slid two fingers inside easily, taking a painfully long time to work up to a speed that made you squirm. An unintended moan broke free and Jace paused his ministrations, tugging your hair gently so that you'd turn to meet his gaze. "If you cannot even be quiet in a place of worship, I'll stop." There was a flicker of humor in his eyes but his face was a mask of seriousness.

You nodded obediently, silently cursing him for not being too horny to keep up this strict septon act. You leaned forward for a kiss but Jace evaded you, cupping your cheek in his free hand. "You have more prayers to recite, sweet aunt."

You groaned softly. "I pray for the protection of the maid, should my child be a princess...I pray that you would protect her innocence, keep her safe. I beg forgiveness for my own sins against your domain...for....for I have allowed myself to be seduced."

"And the Crone?" Jace intoned, softly amused at the state he was working you into.

"From the Crone...I beg for guidance, I plead her wisdom to help me overcome temptation." That one made Jace grin, you could hear it in his voice.

"You may beg for her wisdom but I believe you've already made up your mind." This time he let you roll your hips forward into his hand, matching the pace of his fingers as you sought attention for your neglected clit. He even brought your face back to his for a long kiss.

Suddenly, he pulled your small clothes off entirely, shredding them to rags. You braced yourself on the altar, your fingers sticking in the warm, dripping wax of the melting candles. Jace spread your legs with his knees. When he saw the way you were wet down to the inside of your thighs, he could only moan. "Gods," he murmured, it was a shame he didn't have the time to eat your cunt out properly and fuck you. His cock jolted slightly in his pants as he spread you out to admire you fully.

"Don't...." you whimpered, hurting for his cock inside you at last.

"Don't what? Don't admire what a mess you've made, aunt? Don't tell you that your cunt is begging me to use it again?" Jace laughed.

You screwed your eyes shut, bowing your head as you knelt, waiting for him, utterly defeated. In a place where the gods paid thrice as much attention, you were to bear witness to your own moral turpitude. Jace always loved that moment, when your frantic desire and guilt for the values your mother instilled converged; when your heart ached at the depravity of your own actions but you still knew that desire would win, as it always did and always would. You would almost try to hide from your own wanting, surely your mother had also taught you it was unseemly for a woman to have such hungers but that, obviously, did not draw them back from whence they came. In your heart of hearts, you knew you were born hungry and wanting, Jace was the only one who would allow you all that you could devour.

Such a beautiful sight. It was only then that he slid his cock inside, a surprised cry leaving your pretty mouth when he was only half inside. He paused just as you clapped a hand over your mouth, head still bowed in silent prayer that he should not decide to stop. Mercifully, he didn't. Couldn't, rather. He was sure it would have killed him to stop. He began to push deep into you, meeting slight resistance from the tight space despite how many times you'd taken it. A pleasant sting came about as he stretched you out slowly. As he entered you fully, it came to mind to rub your clit as it throbbed for attention but you simply couldn't. You were stalled, miring in the overwhelming sensitivity of that moment.

Every detail, every curve, vein and divot of his cock was gliding right over the tender spot inside that made you want to weep. You were too sensitive and pent up for so long, it happened every time, you got too close to the edge too quickly. Your breaths came quick and shallow, your brain going to madness. It took so few strokes for you to come undone that Jace himself was not even at the edge yet. You muffled your cries in your hand, your cunt all but fluttering around Jace's cock. A few stray tears ran down your face as Jace gently forced your head up again so that he could admire your expression. "Too fucking easy," he said but so softly it did not even sound mean.

You tentatively removed your trembling hand from your mouth, putting more faith in your voice than you ought have. "Please, more," you begged, your voice a cracked whisper. You were no longer pretending, here of all places with him of all people, there was no longer any need to be the vision of purity in flesh.

"Utterly consumed and still begging for me...that is how I like you, aunt." Jace's hands found your hips, his own snapping forward to thrust into you deeper, quicker. Thankfully, the silk of your gown prevented your skin from rubbing raw on the stone altar but you'd had to abandon your grip on the slick stone, instead relying on the floor to hold you up. Jace let out quiet, restrained moans at the feel of you. He would surely not be able to keep his pace and last much longer, but it did not seem to matter for your body was so alight with stimulation that you were a hair's breadth from cumming anyway. When you'd tried to touch your own clit again, even your own gentle touch, you'd flinched and trembled from overstimulation.

Jace kept a brutal pace, panting like a beast in heat. You came, a painful orgasm racking your body. The warm, wet squeeze of your pleasure, of your cunt trying to draw him deeper was eliciting the most deliciously ill concealed moans from him. He pumped in and out of your hole, his breaths stuttering. Your hand was still over your mouth to contain the whorish moans that would serenade the entire sept if allowed. Just as you thought you'd collaspe in a heap onto the ground, Jace finally came, pumping cum deeply into you in slow pulses. You could feel his body twitch where your bare skin met. Cum continued to flow for several more seconds, your dazed mind was both exhausted and impressed.

When he finally finished, he lingered for a moment inside you. He wished to have you for the whole night, to have you for every night. To steal you away from standing at the side of green cloth and sullen faces; to put you in the true colors of your house as his queen. He knew, like Rhaenyra knew that your mother would never agree to an annulment and it was her who ruled you. It was only when Aegon was sent to the seven hells that he could steal you away and wed you. It was only then he could speak the truth of his children without fear.

That wasn't tonight. Perhaps it would not even be after the birth of your third child but Jace was something your brothers and your mother were not. Patient. He would play the game, he would bide his time, he would plot and plot and plot. He could be as his mother and pretend.

When you parted from him, you returned to your chambers, finding a drunken and weepy Aegon. You had so wanted to have a bath and a nice sleep but it seemed you'd have to soothe your elder brother instead. You sat on the bed, not bothering to even ask what was wrong with him this time, it was always something or another and none of it really mattered by morning. You brought his head into your lap, though you smelled distinctly of sex, your brother must have believed it came from him for he accepted your comfort without question. You stroked his hair and let him drone about Aemond’s jabs as Jace’s cum seeped out of you, wetting the inner lining of your dress.

You and Aegon had only slept together a handful of times, not that he knew as much. After the first couple of times, you came to know how to prepare yourself for the gods only knew that he wouldn’t. Aegon’s desire for you was sporadic in your first years of marriage, you didn’t know when he’d appear in your chambers seeking your body. So, you’d lay back in your bed, touching yourself to the thought of your pretty nephew. Making yourself wet, relaxed and ready so that things would go along without irritation should he appear. Would that your mother had wed you to Jacaerys, you would have done your duty with gladness and ease but you knew how your mother was and what she expected. You couldn’t fault her so much for it, her intentions were only to keep you with her and within her protection. Thankfully, though as Aegon grew, he became more and more of a drunkard, only occasionally being able to even make it to your chambers at night and being satiated into sleep with only a bit of appeasement. He was never the wiser about whether he had or had not bedded you.

It hardly mattered. He only wished for reassurance that you still loved him and thought best of him and in your arms, he believed he’d found it. His limp, weepy affection was suffocating but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave your brother without comfort when he was upset, unfortunately. In the morning, you were glad to untangle yourself from his sweaty body to bathe and dress for the day. Your maids eyed the light bruises at your hips sympathetically, believing they came from your husband, still snoring in bed. You paid them no mind, though it made you feel a bit guilty, it was all the better for everyone to see you as a suffering and dutiful bride. Better for them to think Aegon bedded you, demanded much of you even as you were with child. A princess quietly suffering was as saint-like as a woman could be in the eyes of lords. Let it be told that you did your duty. Such was the only way you’d ever have anyone fight for you and your children.

Months later — months of secret meetings and muttered prayers later, you went to your birthing bed with your mother at your side. She was trying to soothe you but the sheer terror in her eyes didn’t match her calm words. Still, you were glad to have her. Even if you told Jace you belonged to him and even though the lords of the realm said you belonged to Aegon, you truly belonged to your mother who cared for you in all things. Whose love of you would drive her to madness should you perish in childbirth. It was a comfort that preceded your capacity for romantic love, it was something formed in the womb, when hers was the only voice in the world.

This birth was your longest yet, stretching from starless morning sky to the middle of the next day when the sun hung high in the sky. Alicent’s fervent prayers as she held your hand were only broken by the birth of your child, who was smaller than your others but dubbed a healthy girl by the maesters. It didn’t seem as though Alicent truly cared much about that, she was simply relieved you had survived the undertaking. The instant the maester took the babe to examine for any imperfections, she leaned down at your bedside and held you tightly. “Oh, my sweet girl. You’ve done so well.”

When the maester handed the softly fussing child back to you, you noticed a thick tuft of silver hair in her head of otherwise dark hairs. You noticed it captured Alicent’s eyes too. She smiled, silently pleased, believing that this would end all allusions to bastardy. If there had been any doubt in her heart that she was able to acknowledge, it was all soothed at the sight of her hair. The babe cooed softly, lying at your breast, stealing your heart away completely. You loved your boys but with a mother like yours, how could you be anything but enamored with a daughter of your own?

“What will you name her?” Alicent asked, watching you hold her granddaughter proudly, pushing your sweaty hair out of your face.

“I shall name her Viserra, I think.”

“That’s lovely.” Alicent smiled, coasting on the sheer relief of your survival. You could have told her you wish to name the child Lickspittle and she would only nod blissfully. “You’ve done so very well.” She seemed near tears.

“Oh, mother, don’t cry.”

She wiped at the tears steadily falling from her big brown eyes. “I cannot help it. I wish to protect you from all things and bearing your child is solely in the hands of the gods but my girl is so strong. I am truly proud, truly grateful.” She knew what it was to marry and to stand alone even in marriage. You wore it well, better than even she had. She never cursed Viserys for it only made him harder to live with if she did but in your birth and his neglect of you, she bore a resentment deep as the sea and long as the red waste. If he was to favor one of his daughters, should it not be you who was never once a thorn in his side? Who honored him even as he slowly forgot your name? If a daughter could be a worthy heir in her eyes, it was you who should have been chosen. That thought became another bitter seed of resentment piled onto the many she’d already buried. She could only hold you.

There was truth to the notion that she feared for all of her children but truly, it was mainly you she feared for. The only loss she could not recover from. She could never have tolerated your marriage to one of Rhaenyra’s bastard boys, the anxiety alone would send her to her death. Still, there were other dangers that awaited young girls in the keep, even princesses…even queens. She wished to shield you from all of them but to that end, she would need to continue building allegiance. Never again should she be delicate, never again supplicating to the wrong person. Her daughter would be queen with hundreds at her side, in service of her honor when the time came, even if it came to bloodshed.

#alicent hightower x reader #alicent x reader #hotd x reader #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #jace x reader #jacaerys x reader

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treacheryinblue · 6 months ago

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「 ON DISPLAY 」 noah sebastian ⨯ f!reader

▷ chapter one

noah is your neighbor and your new favorite view thanks to his lack of curtains. you're pretty sure he prefers it this way. but the man you've created in your imagination is nothing like reality and you soon find yourself falling prey to a past lifestyle you had been desperately on the run from. trigger warnings : language, eventual smut, violence, mention/flashbacks of abuse, alcohol and drug use, sexual harassment/assault (nongraphic). word count : 6.2k comment to be added to the tag list for future chapters!

masterlist

“Goddamn. This apartment just got so much better.”

Your mouth fell agape after you followed your best friend’s gaze until you were both staring across to the window opposite of yours. With only a narrow walkway separating the two apartment buildings, it gave you a perfect view into the curtainless home.

A man stood in the living room, shirtless, his torso of tattoos on display for you to gawk at. Your eyes trailed the bits of bare skin slowly, pausing just where his black athletic shorts sat low on his hips. He was doing some stretches that you immediately recognized as yoga poses. Not your workout of choice but who were you to judge when your breakfast that morning had been a stale bag of Doritos?

“Fuck…I didn't know yoga could be so hot.”

Both you and Melinda - Mel - took synchronized steps closer before kneeling onto your couch, elbows resting on the back ledge for comfort.

“Should we be watching him like this? I mean…doesn't it make us kinda creepy?”

Mel shrugged, her palms shifting to cradle her chin as she stared adoringly at your way too hot neighbor. “Nah, it's fine. It would only be creepy if he was watching you work out.”

“Sounds a little hypocritical.”

“He's the one half naked in front of an open window!” She motioned dramatically to the lack of coverings on the floor to ceiling windows of his apartment. “He's asking to be watched.”

With a roll of your eyes you could only laugh, head shaking at your friend. You weren't going to touch on that specific topic with her because Mel could be rather sensitive at times. The last thing you needed after enduring the stress of moving was to have a petty argument break out.

“Shit, I gotta go. I'd love to sit and watch this absolutely stunning show all day, but Madam Roslyn needs her brat’s dry cleaning.”

Your nose scrunched at the mention of Mel's boss. She used the term ‘Madam’ in mockery towards the horrid woman, although that's how Roslyn preferred to be addressed. She clearly didn't view it as laughable as the rest of the city did when referring to a millionaire with two ridiculously evil twins.

“Tell Satan and Lucifer ‘hi’ for me.”

“You do know that's pretty redundant, right?”

“Yeah, but I don't care. It gets my point across.” You waved her off with a motion of your hand before bringing the same hand to your lips to blow a kiss in her direction.

“Bye, bitch! Let me know if you go fuck your neighbor!”

The request didn't even warrant a response because of how unlikely that scenario actually was. Mel knew this too. She had begged you on many occasions to go out and 'stretch your legs' again aka spread them for whatever guy looked your way at a bar, and each time you did exactly the opposite. That wasn't a mistake you were going to make again. Too many scars still lingered from last time – physical and mental.

After Mel securely closed your front door you allowed your attention to shift back out the window. Although this time when you looked out a pair of eyes were staring back at you. His hands were on his hips, his breathing slightly labored, both of you holding the other's gaze for a beat too long. Your eyes widened and you froze as you were caught in the act, but the guy only did what you could assume was a laugh from so far away, his hand then lifting in a slight wave.

You dropped down to your couch suddenly so you were no longer visible. Your heart hammering away violently within your chest. Dammit. How fucking awkward.

X X X

Days were long and the nights even longer. You had managed to pick up a couple of jobs to help ease the financial burden of moving despite the hefty amount of cash stashed away beneath a pried up floorboard in your closet. It wasn't the greatest hiding place but you didn't want to risk such a large sum of money randomly going into your bank account. You feared it would trigger an alert of sorts to those you were better off without. The feeling of having to hide was exhausting and you wished more than anything that things didn't have to be this way.

If only you had been smarter. Less naive. Not so gullible.

You yawned as you kicked your shoes off after a tiring day of being a personal errand girl for an old man that simply went by Red. Mel had helped you get the job through her connections with Madam Roslyn and the man reminded you of your grandfather when he had been alive and well. It was an opportunity you hadn't been able to pass up. The pay was decent and he was kind enough to give you the main holidays and most weekends off. What more could you ask for in the bustling city?

Unfortunately, his generous pay still wasn't enough to keep you afloat and comfortable in your new life. Never would you go back to skipping meals or clinging to someone because of the way they ‘took care’ of you. You were determined to do it on your own.

“Shauna said you can get a job with her!”

There was a fury of noise in the background of wherever Mel was, leading you to believe she had agreed to stay later with Madam Roslyn’s little terrors. Thank god you had gotten a better deal with Red’s assistant gig. Mouthy children were not your forte.

“The Shauna who works at that one club? The one with black velvet walls?”

“Wait…how big are your tits?”

You paused from tugging your shirt off to look at the phone as if your best friend could see your expression from across the city. Your unamused face was from both her knack of ignoring your questions and also asking some ridiculous ones of her own.

“Okay, whatever, doesn't matter. You're hot and have a nice ass.” Mel quickly covered as if her question hadn't caused hundreds of others to arise.

“What the hell kind of job is this? But I can't leave Red anyway, not after he talked to me all day today about how his grandkids never visit anymore. Shit is depressing.” You scurried around your room while changing into your comfortable attire for the evening. Oversized tee, pajama shorts, and fuzzy socks. It didn't matter what time of the year it was because your feet were always freezing.

“That's the beauty of it!” Mel squealed in delight from the other end of the call. “It's a nighttime gig. I think she said she goes in around eight and gets off at two –”

“In the morning?!”

“I know you aren't worried about getting your beauty rest. I've seen you party all night and rally for work with fifteen minutes of sleep on the bus.”

Okay, she had you there. You were the queen of functioning with little to no sleep. It was both a blessing and a curse.

“Maybe. I guess. I'll have to see what kind of availability I'd be able to give.”

With one hand carrying your phone and the other clutching a box of crackers, a pack of cheese tucked into your elbow, you came to an abrupt halt in front of your couch. Right across the currently empty sidewalk was your hot neighbor…naked…with a girl pressed against the glass. Her back was to you and her legs wrapped securely around his hips, that of which were currently ricocheting between her thighs at a rapid pace. Your eyes widened, the words you had been about to speak to Mel dying on your tongue to leave nothing but the sound of her trying to grab your attention.

“Hello? Helloooo?”

“He's fucking a girl right now.”

“What? Who? Oh my god! Hot neighbor?!”

You nodded, and even though Mel couldn't see you she still erupted in excitement as if she was standing right beside you and witnessing the act as well.

“What does she look like? Is she hot too? I bet he bags all the tattooed baddies.”

“All I can see is the back of her head and her ass, Mel. I don't know.”

The phone in your hand was set down after you switched it to speaker, your “girl dinner” also dropping to the couch to be tended to in a few. You were frantically trying to close your curtains to give him some privacy whether he wanted it or not, but your sudden movements must've somehow garnered his attention.

Just as you were about to fully close your curtains his head tilted in your direction, your eyes meeting again just as they had a few days prior, but this time over the unaware girl’s shoulder. And just like then, you froze. His thrusts slowed to a pace that you just knew had to be agonizingly torturous, though you could tell by the rippling of the girl's ass that he was still being rather rough. A faint smirk tugged at his lips…or what you assumed was a smirk due to the distance between your windows. No, you were pretty sure he was smirking at you. Had he even been waiting for you to appear and see the show?

Okay, so hot neighbor was smug as hell. You couldn't say you were surprised by that. Just the eye contact you two held was enough to drive a warmth through the entirety of your body, more specifically right between your thighs. A chill even radiated down your spine despite your flushed skin and you briefly found yourself wondering what it was like to currently be that girl pressed against his window.

“Flash your tits! Maybe he’ll invite you over to join!”

“Melinda!” You hissed, the screech of the curtains finally coming together to block out the scene interrupting your scolding.

“Fuck. This guy has got to get some blinds or something.”

Later that night while in bed, your hand had drifted down between your thighs to help ease the tension that had grown rather quickly all thanks to that damned smirk.

X X X

There were times when you were alone that you let your thoughts get the best of you. Your overthinking had become less and less controlled until it ate you up, leaving your cuticles in tatters and the constant sound of your foot tapping against the hardwood floor had become the soundtrack of your life. You were terrified constantly. There were so many things that could go wrong that you were truly just waiting for the pin to drop because you knew it would eventually, it was just a matter of when.

When would you be found? When would you make the single dumb decision that would change your life forever? When would you end up six feet under at the hands of the people you were once involved with?

Living with these thoughts day to day wasn't healthy. You knew this. You didn't need to pay some $500 an hour specialist to recite the obvious, nor did you need to sit around in a circle and reveal your deepest thoughts to strangers in a support group that only had fake sympathies to offer. This was something you could handle on your own, or so you liked to constantly remind yourself. If your past had told you anything, it was that you couldn't rely on anyone but yourself anyway.

You took in a deep breath, held it, and then slowly exhaled while counting backwards from ten. The trick didn't work as well as it used to but you were still hopeful with every attempt. It was your first day off in over a week and while your body desperately needed the rest, your brain was still going a million miles a minute. There was a bottle of overpriced wine you had yet to touch that was living in your fridge, that of which could easily take the worries away, but you resisted. That was only a temporary fix.

As you shifted your position on the couch for the first time in two hours, you couldn't stop your gaze from drifting out the window. Most of the time he was never there, obviously off living his life to the fullest and unconcerned about you, the strange woman who creepily watched him. But much to your surprise, there he sat. He appeared to be alone from the glimpse you took, his long body spread out on his couch in a mimic of your own. Maybe he felt your eyes on him or maybe he had been curious about you as well because after only a couple of seconds his head lifted and angled perfectly for where you sat.

Like every time before, he didn't shy away from your stare. You decided to follow his lead and not look elsewhere either. You could even feel the faintest smile appearing over your lips, a friendly acknowledgement that you saw him and also saw him seeing you.

Hot neighbor’s eyebrows pulled together slightly and his head nodded upwards, a curious expression working over his features. You figured he wanted to know what you were doing, so you promptly lifted your book so he could see the spread pages. It wasn't like he had to know that you hadn't flipped a single one in a good hour. He nodded, his face now reading as impressed. A brief moment later and he was exchanging the same information with you, allowing you to see the notebook and pen held within his hands. A writer? How interesting.

It was amazing what could be communicated without words.

Long, drawn out seconds later, you both returned to your own lives, but you still occasionally found yourself glancing to his curtainless window.

X X X

“H-O-T-T-O-G-O! You can take me hot to go!” You loudly sang with the group crowded into your apartment, all of you tossing your hands up along with the lyrics in the way Chappell Roan had bestowed upon you.

Surely you would get a fine for being so loud but you and Captain Morgan couldn't care less. At that moment you were having the time of your life for the first time in months and that's what was important to you. Not work. Not the dark cloud looming over your head. Nothing but having the best fucking time before reality set in.

Mel danced up against you as you ground your hips into Dean, one of your other friends who always had the best manicures and didn't know what a “full length shirt” was. If he wasn't showing off his abs then what was the point of life? All his words.

“Order up, I'm hot to goooo!” You tossed your hair around and dragged your hands along the length of your body, paying special attention to your chest and hips - both of which were accentuated in the dress you wore.

How had you ever thought throwing a “house warming” party would be a bad idea? God, sober you was such a fucking drag sometimes. Parties were fun as hell and you made a silent pledge to yourself right then to have them more.

As your fingertips dragged along your thighs, hiking the hem of your dress up a bit in the process, you felt your body becoming abnormally warm. Alcohol always made you flush but this was a different sensation, one that had only recently become known to you. You wanted to look around your apartment because you would've sworn he was in the same room as you, simply watching you dance and have a good time. No way could his stare be this powerful from all the way in the apartment building opposite of yours.

But alas, you were wrong.

Your glitter dusted eyes drifted to your window where twinkling lights had been hung. You could just barely make out the image of his silhouette across the walkway, one hand in his pocket as the other arm rested against the glass above his head. Thanks to his eyes acting like actual fingers, you didn't need to question the possibility of what he was focused on. You could feel every trace along your heated skin.

Although he was a distance away, you were imagining that he was right across the room. Watching you. Devouring you. Dean wandered off to join a duo he excitedly greeted as they walked in, leaving the front of your body on full display for hot neighbor. Your hips continued to sway while your hands trailed along your body, one paying special attention to your breasts as the other slowly lowered back down to where the short hem of your dress rested at the top of your thighs. You imagined him licking his lips and raising his eyebrows for you to continue, silently challenging you to put on more of a show for him.

It didn’t matter how many people were in your apartment and could see you because everything you did in that moment was for him and only him.

Ever so slowly your fingers dipped beneath your dress to trace along your inner thigh to tease him, and also yourself in the process. You didn't think it was possible for his gaze to become even heavier but you swore it drank you in and swallowed you up. The hand on your chest pushed up against your breast and your fingers dug into the ample flesh, threatening to tug the fabric down and bare yourself to him. Every inch of your body was aflame, your nerves screaming to be touched by his heavily tattooed hands you had daydreamed of on more than one occasion.

You had no idea what it was about this man that had you in such a chokehold. Everything about him was unknown to you, yet you still craved him. Maybe even more than you had ever desired anyone before.

The sound of your name being repeated pulled you from your trance until you had no choice but to rip your gaze from his. The music blasting through your apartment came flooding back in and you were suddenly aware of where you were again, as well as all the people surrounding you. Thankfully it didn't seem as if anyone had noticed your little bout of hypnosis.

“We need towels!” Mel was calling to you from over the music, motioning towards the kitchen where an obnoxiously drunk guy appeared to have knocked over an entire bottle of Tito’s Vodka. The liquor was puddled on the floor, shards of glass glistening in the liquid it previously housed.

“Son of a bitch,” you grumbled before yelling back to Mel an explanation of where she could find some spare towels. Maybe you should've gone to clean it up yourself since you were the host but you were eager to get back to the eye fucking you had been participating in with hot neighbor. Unfortunately, when you looked back through the large windows, his apartment was empty.

X X X

“I feel so ridiculous,” you murmured to yourself beneath your breath, following the statement up with a heavy sigh. For the tenth time you tugged at the tiny black skirt you had been provided to wear, the hem riding up your ass and cupping your cheeks in a suggestive yet desirable way. Maybe Mel had been right when she said you had a nice ass. Too bad it had taken your physical discomfort for you to realize this.

A blonde woman that appeared to be a few years older than you glanced your way with a snarky grimace, her eyes then rolling after taking you in. You tried not to pay any attention to her as you adjusted the straps of your top, as well as your breasts that were popping out. You had been told to wear your best bra, which you had, and now you could see why the request had been made. The uniforms at Nocturnal left very little to the imagination, but at least you were still wearing clothes.

You couldn't say as much for the red head that was sauntering around the dressing room with her tits out without a care in the world. Damn. How were you supposed to get that amount of confidence? It wasn't that you were insecure, but being in the sort of relationship you had previously had definitely done a number on your mental state. You had been conditioned to believe that showing your body for anyone but him was one of the biggest sins. Amongst many other things but you had been trying very hard not to allow your thoughts to drift to those dark places. Something as simple as a v-neck t-shirt had earned you a reprimand on more than one occasion.

“You're the new girl, yeah?” The attitude-filled blonde questioned while swiping eyeliner along her lower lash line. You glanced at her through the mirror you stood before, responding with only a slight nod. Her eyes looked you up and down again, a throaty laugh following her heavy gaze. “They're just going to looove you. New meat.”

“Shut the hell up, Charlotte. Why do you always have to be so catty with the new ones?”

Shauna came strutting into the room at just the right time to prevent you from making an enemy on day one. She stood at your side, one hand on her curvy hip, the other resting upon your bare shoulder. The snarky blonde that you now knew as Charlotte simply rolled her eyes in the same exaggerated fashion again, a manicured hand waving in dismissal to Shauna.

“Don't mind her,” Shauna leaned in a bit closer to you as if she was telling a secret but the volume of her voice never lowered. “She's just bitter because she doesn't get good tips anymore after her botched boob job. She's scared you'll take all of King’s attention. Not like she ever really had it to begin with.”

You couldn't stop yourself from laughing despite your attempt to stifle it. Charlotte shot a glare at you, her fist tightening around her curling iron that she was using to touch up portions of her hair.

“Oh, please. She's clearly not experienced enough to draw his eye. I'm not worried.”

“Who's King?” You looked back and forth between the two women, your confusion beyond evident. Charlotte again chuckled, her tongue swiping over her plump lips while giving Shauna a look that read as 'seriously?’.

“As I said, I'm not worried.”

“So grouchy,” Shauna whispered while giving your shoulder a squeeze. You couldn't help but to notice how they both ignored your question. “But you look amazing! I knew you'd fit right in around here.”

“What did she mean by all of that? Who's going to love me?” As far you knew, this was supposed to be a simple waitressing gig at a club. Sure, there was a room towards the back that housed the nude dancers but you had made it very clear that wasn't going to be your area.

Shauna smiled kindly at you, soft laughter emitting from her. “She probably just meant the regulars,” she explained as she took your hand and began to lead you out of the dressing room. “They're the best tippers and are always on a first name basis with the girls. A few can get a little handsy but they know the servers are off limits. They have to go to the back rooms for that.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in further confusion but you didn't dare voice your questions. While you weren't naive when it came to this sort of “scene”, you also weren't well versed in it. All you really knew was what you had seen from movies and read in your books, as well as the conversations you'd eavesdrop in on between your ex and his pals. Never did you think you'd actually be a part of any of it.

Shauna dragged you along to the bar off to the side. The music was loud enough that you couldn't even hear yourself think, so you had no idea how you were supposed to take drink orders in this place. Bodies were already piled in, all of them dancing and swaying to the music, tabletops filled with those enjoying the scenery and atmosphere. Nothing too out of the ordinary so far in comparison to waitressing jobs in the past. Those had been at family friendly restaurants, but how different could it really be?

“I'm going to start you off with a couple of lower tables, okay? Only until you get the hang of it.” Shauna had her mouth close to your ear as she explained things, aiding in your inability to read her lips well enough.

“I'm just taking drink orders, right? It can't be too bad.” You shrugged, a notepad and pen now in your grasp that she had passed your way. Shauna side eyed you with a smile and a slow nod of her head, silently communicating that she wasn't too sure about that.

“Only thing you really need to know is that you've gotta smile and be friendly! These guys aren't dropping hundreds of dollars to be served by a witch with a stick up her ass. No matter how nice it may be. They like attention and thinking they have a shot with you, even though they have zero chances.” Shauna’s laughter continued as her eyes traveled along what appeared to be business men along the opposite side where the more private booths were located. “But like you said, it can't be too bad, yeah?”

Oh, how wrong you had been. Only a couple of hours in and your feet were already aching, your black top damp and chest sticky from the drink you had recently spilled on yourself, and your frustrations were rising by the minute. It didn't help that Charlotte had decided to steal one of your main tables, leaving you with only one, as well as a couple of small bar tops. Despite your overwhelmed demeanor, the club never stopped filling. More and more bodies pressed together and you swore the music had also been cranked higher, the lights dimmed red to further set the vibe. Fuck, you were going to crash and burn on only your first night.

“Hey!” A whistle garnered your attention, your head quickly turning to the bartender whose name you still hadn't caught. “Can you take these to VIP?” He slid a couple of glasses your way and then began to take the order of another patron before you could even reply. Your mouth opened and closed in an attempt to explain that you weren't serving VIP that night. You didn't even know where the hell VIP was.

“Up those steps and to the right!” The same red head from the dressing rooms earlier sauntered by you while carrying a tray of empty glasses that she quickly disposed of and replaced with fresh drinks. She was no longer naked, instead adorned in the same uniform as every other waitress.

“I…Shauna told me to stay on the lower levels,” you tossed back nervously, shaking your head.

“Look, we're swamped! Just take the drinks up and then I'll take VIP again after I drop these off. Easy!” Then, just like the bartender, the red head was disappearing before you could respond.

You looked at the drinks, the winding stairs that lead to the VIP level, and then back to the drinks. The glasses were already starting to sweat so you knew you had a narrow window before they became too watered down. With a deep breath, you snatched up the drinks and strutted towards the steps with as much confidence as your exhausted limbs could muster. Which, honestly, wasn't much.

One step was cautiously taken after another, the music fading the higher you ascended. You sighed in relief when your ability to hear just yourself again resurfaced and you suddenly realized why VIP was so sought after by all the waitresses. You knew it couldn't be solely because of the tips you were likely to secure. It was also the peace of mind.

VIP was darker than the lower levels because the lights shifting through the space never angled correctly to douse it in much color. You figured this was done with a purpose. The back perimeter was lined with black leather sectionals, glass tables centered in front of each one, and there was a railing that allowed patrons to overlook the lower level. Since this wasn't a very party-heavy area, you couldn't help but to assume it's where business took place. You had been in spaces like this many times before finding your way to this city. The thought made you uneasy because “business” sometimes meant paperwork and meetings, but it could also mean something more violent.

Three men sat off to the right, two of them smoking cigars while the other fidgeted with something in his hand. A coin, by the looks of it. Silence overtook them when one noticed you, his eyes immediately raking over your body. It felt nothing like it did when hot neighbor did the same. Both were strangers but there was something about this particular unknown man you didn't care for. He was older, which wasn't the problem, it was more so the dead look in his eyes.

“My sincerest apologies for the delay, gentleman,” you smiled while laying it on thick.

“Where's Dana?”

The man to the right spoke up, his disdain towards you quite obvious. You figured Dana was the red head you had spoken to at the bar, or so you were going to safely assume. “She’s briefly tied up with another table. She'll be right back with you. Until then, can I get you anything else?” You forced a smile, the sweetest possible in the moment.

“Yeah,” the same rude man took a swallow from his drink and then motioned for you to step closer. “Come here. I haven't seen you before. I'd remember.”

There was no hesitation in your motions as you closed the space between yourself and the man, no matter how uneasy he made you. Nothing had happened to make you believe he was outwardly dangerous, although you could see right through him. You knew he was the type that liked to destroy others. It was written in his eyes and the $20,000 watch hanging from his wrist.

“What's your name?”

Shit. Shauna had told you earlier to make up an alias for yourself and you had been too caught up with actually working that you had forgotten. She explained it was for safety but also because it could be fun to play someone else. You didn't tell her you were already doing as much and it wasn't nearly as fun as the club assumed.

“Genevieve,” you slowly drawled. The name of your late grandmother. Oh how she’d get a kick out of this.

The man smirked through a cloud of smoke, his lifeless eyes again looking you up and down. “Genevieve. How beautiful.” He was suddenly reaching out for you, his hand grasping your wrist to pull you closer. Keeping a hold of your wrist, he set his drink aside to free the other so he could grope along your hip and down the side of your exposed thigh. You softly gasped in shock but you didn't jerk away like your mind was screaming at you to do. Instead you stood frozen, fear shuddering through your veins.

“Hasn't the boss and his right hand already warned you about touching the servers?” One of the other men laughed as if you were nothing more than an object for their enjoyment. In their eyes that's exactly what you were.

Dead Eyes kept his focus on you, his rough fingertips still trailing your thigh. “Fuck the boss and his little bitch boy. What's his name? King? Kid thinks he runs this place.”

Tears threatened to well in your eyes but you refused to let your fear show. That's what men like these wanted. They craved to feel the power they held over others, but especially women. It made them feel special in their minuscule lives. In reality, it made them weak.

The man you stood before halted the motion of his hand just as it grazed the back of your thigh and threatened to disappear beneath your already barely-there skirt. His eyes were now looking past you, annoyance showing in his hollow gaze before his hand fell from your body. He dropped your wrist with a force while simultaneously pushing you back an inch.

“You were already given a warning, Marcus. Two, if I remember correctly.” A new voice greeted your ears, yet you were still too frozen to turn and see who it belonged to. You could feel his eyes, though. It was so familiar. Heavy. “But here you are, still harassing the staff.”

A figure stepped around you, gently nudging you back a few more steps. He was much taller than you with dark hair, his outfit black on black, at least from what you could tell from behind. There was something about him that commanded the attention of the room and you were more than willing to give it to him. So much that you hadn't even noticed the way he was leaning closer to the man now known as Marcus, his body slightly bent and an extended hand holding something to the repulsive man's neck. A peek to the left and you could just barely see the black splotches of ink that covered his own hand.

“Why do you insist on touching what doesn't belong to you?” His voice lowered, the words being hissed in a threatening manner. “Don't make me remind you again just who here is the real bitch boy.”

Marcus murmured something that sounded like an agreement, maybe an apology, which was apparently enough for the man because he stood back to his full height and then closed the knife you hadn't previously realized he was in possession of. As he turned to the side you could see the bright red line of blood that was sliced into Marcus' neck - his punishment. The wound was shallow, definitely not deadly, but you figured it got his point across.

The man was then facing you and you slowly raised your attention to him. Your breath caught in your throat and recognition flared in your eyes. You were sure the brief shock you saw in his gaze mimicked your own, though his was fleeting and quickly returned back to the hardened glare.

Hot neighbor.

“I'll be sure to mention to the boss that we had a talk tonight, gentlemen.” The man spoke to the small group without so much as a glance back to them. His attention was too focused on you, his hand placed on the middle of your back to help guide you around and towards the spiral staircase. You assumed he was going to leave you once you began your descent but he was right on your heels for the entirety of the trek, only pausing once you nearly reached the lower level.

Lightly grasping your arm, he gave a gentle tug to bring you closer before you could scurry away. “I think a 'thank you’ is in order.” You could hear the smile in his voice, as if this situation was amusing to him. Maybe it was. You knew next to nothing about him so it wasn't as if you could truly gauge his reaction.

“I didn't need your help,” you fired back. You didn't like to be told what to do by men on a power trip. Not anymore. “I could've handled it myself.”

“Really?” His smile widened and his posture dipped so your eyes could better meet through the darkness. “Because it looked to me like you were a frightened deer caught in the headlights. Very consistent for you.”

At least he was admitting that he knew who you were without truly saying it. You had given him the same look from your apartment window on multiple occasions now.

You remained silent, your eyes burrowing into his instead of trailing along his face like you desperately felt the need to. For reasons unknown you wanted to memorize every little detail and carry the memory with you forever. It didn't matter that you knew you should be somewhat afraid of him after the physical threat he placed upon Marcus. The idea of him doing the same to you never even crossed your naive mind.

When you still didn’t respond, but also refused to back down, he returned to his full towering height over you and dropped his smile. It was like he had pulled a mask over his face to be whoever it was Nocturnal expected. But what did you know? This could be the true version of himself instead of the one you had been witnessing from your window for over a month.

“Run along, little deer,” he gently spoke, his tone condescending, just before disappearing back up the spiral staircase.

CHAPTER TWO

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

Text

Worker misclassification is a competition issue

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/02/upward-redistribution/#bedoya

The brains behind Trump's stolen Supreme Court have detailed plans: they didn't just scheme to pack the court with judges who weren't qualified for – or entitled to – a SCOTUS life-tenure, they also set up a series of cases for that radical court to hear.

Obviously, Dobbs was the big one, but it's only part of a whole procession of trumped-up cases designed to give the court a chance to overturn decades of settled law and create zones of impunity for America's oligarchs and the monopolies that provide them with wealth and power.

One of these cases is Jarkesy, a case designed to allow SCOTUS to euthanize every agency in the US government, stripping them of their powers to fight corporate crime:

https://www.americanprogress.org/article/sec-v-jarkesy-the-threat-to-congressional-and-agency-authority/

The argument goes, "Congress had the power to spell out every possible problem an agency might deal with and to create a list of everything they were allowed to do about these problems. If they didn't, then the agency isn't allowed to act."

This is an Objectively Very Stupid argument, and it takes a heroic act of motivated reasoning to buy it. The whole point of expert agencies is that they're experts and that they might discover new problems in American life, and come up with productive ways of fixing them. If the only way for an agency to address a problem is to wait for Congress to notice it and pass a law about it, then we don't even need agencies – Congress can just be the regulator, as well as the lawmaker.

If there was any doubt that Congress created the agencies as flexible and adaptive hedges against new threats and problems, then the legislative history of the FTC Act should dispel it.

Congress created the FTC through the FTCA because the courts kept misinterpreting its existing antitrust laws, like the Sherman Act. Companies would engage in the most obvious acts of naked, catastrophic fuckery, and judges would say, "Welp, because Congress didn't specifically ban this conduct, I guess it's OK."

So Congress created the FTC with an Act that included a broad authority to investigate and punish "unfair methods of competition." They didn't spell these out – instead, they explicitly said (in Section 5) that it was the FTC's job to determine whether something was unfair, and to act on it:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

The job of the FTC is to investigate unfair conduct before it becomes such a problem that Congress takes action, and to head that conduct off so that it never rises to the level of needing Congressional intervention.

Now, it's true that since the Reagan years, the FTC has grown progressively less interested in using this power, but that's broadly true of all of America's corporate watchdogs. But as the public all over the world has grown ever more furious about corporate abuses and oligarchic wealth, governments everywhere have rediscovered their role as a public protector.

In America, the Biden administration altered the course of history with the appointment of new enforcers in the key anti-monopoly agencies: the FTC and the DOJ's antitrust division. But more importantly, the Biden admin created a detailed, technical plan to use every agency's powers to fight monopoly, in a "whole of government" approach:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/party-its-1979-og-antitrust-back-baby

Now, this can give rise to seeming redundancies. Take labor issues. The NLRB is a (potentially) powerful regulator that had been in a coma for decades, but has awoken and taken up labor rights with a fervor and cunning that is a delight to behold:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

At the same time, the FTC has also taken up labor rights, using its much broader powers to do things like ban noncompetes nationwide, unshackling workers from bosses who claim the right to veto who else they can work for:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/02/its-the-economy-stupid/#neofeudal

But the NLRB doesn't make the FTC redundant, or vice-versa. The NLRB's role is principally reactive, punishing wrongdoing after it occurs. But the FTC has the power to intervene in incipient harms, labor abuses that have not yet risen to the level of NLRB enforcement or new acts of Congress.

This case is made beautifully in Alvaro Bedoya's speech "'Overawed': Worker Misclassification as a Potential Unfair Method of Competition," delivered to the Law Leaders Global Summit in Miami today:

https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/Overawed-Speech-02-02-2024.pdf

Bedoya describes why the FTC has turned its attention to the problem of "worker misclassification," in which employees are falsely claimed to be contractors, and thus deprived of the rights that workers are entitled to. Worker misclassification is rampant, and it transfers billions from workers to employers every year. As Bedoya says, 10-30% of employers engage in worker misclassification, allowing them to dodge payment for overtime, Social Security, workers' comp, unemployment insurance, healthcare, retirement and even a minimum wage. Each misclassified worker is between $6k-18k poorer thanks to this scam – a typical misclassified worker sees a one third decline in their earning power. And, of course, each misclassified worker's boss is $6k-$18k richer because of this scam.

It's not just wages, it's workplace safety. One of the most dangerous jobs in the country is construction worker, and worker misclassification is rampant in the sector. That means that construction workers are three times more likely than other workers to lack health insurance.

What's more, misclassified workers can't form unions, because their bosses' fiction treats them as independent contractors, not employees, which means that misclassified construction workers can't join trade unions and demand health-care, or safer workplaces.

Contrast this with, say, cops, who have powerful "unions" that afford them gold-plated health care and lavish compensation, even for imaginary ailments like "contact overdoses" from touching fentanyl – a medical impossibility that still entitles our nation's armed bureaucrats to handsome public compensation:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/27/extraordinary-popular-delusions/#onshore-havana-syndrome

Cops have far safer jobs than construction workers, but cops don't get misclassified, so they are able to collect benefits that no other worker – public or private – can hope for.

Not every employer wants to cheat and maim their employees, of course. In Bedoya's speech, he references Sandie Domando, an executive VP at a construction company in Palm Beach Gardens. Domando's company keeps its employees on its books, giving them health-care and other benefits. But when she started bidding against rival firms for jobs funded by the covid stimulus, she couldn't compete – two thirds of those jobs went to other firms that were able to put in cheaper bids. Those bids were cheaper because they were defrauding their workers by misclassifying them. Thus, publicly funded projects were overwhelmingly handed over to fraudulent companies. Fraud becomes a fitness-factor for winning jobs. It's a market for lemons – among employers.

Employee misclassification is a pure transfer from workers to bosses. Bedoya recounts the story of Samuel Talavera, Jr, a short-haul trucker who worked for decades in the Port of Los Angeles. For decades, his job paid well: enough to support his family and even take his kids to Disneyland now and again.

But in 2010, his employer reclassified him as a contractor. They ordered him to buy a new truck – which they financed on a lease-purchase basis – and put him to work for 16 hours stretches in shifts lasting as much as 20 hours per day. Talavera couldn't pick his own hours or pick his routes, but he was still treated as an independent contractor for payroll and labor protection purposes.

This lead to an terrible decline in Talavera's working conditions. He gave up going home between shifts, sleeping in his cab instead. His pay dropped through the floor, thanks to junk-fees that relied on the fiction that he was a contractor. For example, his boss started to charge him rent on the space his truck took up while he was standing by for a job at the port. Other truckers at the port saw paycheck deductions for the toilet-paper in the bathrooms!

Talavera's take-home pay dropped so low that he was bringing home a weekly wage of $112 or $33 (one week, his pay amounted to $0.67). His wife had to work three jobs, and they still had to declare bankruptcy to avoid losing their home. When Talavera's truck needed repairs he couldn't afford, his boss fired him and took back the truck, and Talavera was out the $78,000 he'd paid into it on the lease-purchase plan.

This story – and the many, many others like it from the Port of LA – paint a clear picture of the transfer of wealth from workers to their bosses that comes with worker misclassification. The work that Talavera did in the Port of LA didn't get less valuable when he was misclassified – but the share of that value that Talavera received dropped to as little as $0.67/week.

Worker misclassification is rampant across many sectors, but its handmaiden is technology. The fiction of independence is much easier to maintain when the fine-grained employer-employee control is mediated by an app (think of Uber):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

That's why those scare-stories that AI trucks were going to make truckers obsolete and create an employment crisis were such toxic nonsense. Not only are we unlikely to see self-driving trucks, but the same investors that back AI technology are making bank on companies that practice worker misclassification through the "it's not a crime if we do it with an app" gambit:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

By focusing our attention on a hypothetical employment crisis that will supposedly be caused by future AI developments, tech investors can distract us from the real employment crisis that's created by app-enabled worker misclassification, which is also the source of much of the capital they're plowing into AI.

That's why the FTC's work on misclassification is so urgent. Misclassification is a scam that hurts workers and creates oligarchic power – and it's also a mass-extinction event for good companies that don't cheat their workers, because those honest companies can't compete.

Worker misclassification is having a long-overdue and much needed moment. The revolutionary overthrow of the rotten old leadership at the Teamsters was caused, in part, by a radical wing that promised to focus the Teamsters' firepower on fighting worker misclassification:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/19/hoffa-jr-defeated/#teamsters-for-a-democratic-union

This has become a focus of labor organizers all around the world, as worker misclassification-via-smartphone has infected labor markets everywhere:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/22/kropotkin-graeber/#an-injury-to-one

Bedoya's speech is a banger, and it reminds us that labor rights and anti-monopoly have always been part of the same project: to rein in corporate power and protect workers from the insatiable greed of the capital class:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

#pluralistic #automation panic #automation #scotus #market for lemons #worker misclassification #ftc #competition #antitrust #trustbusting #ftc act #ftc 5 #unions #labor #jarksey #alvaro bedoya #nlrb #whole of government

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publicdomainreview · 5 months ago

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Typical winter's day in this entry for #February in the Labors of the Months section from the Très Riches Heures (15th.c). Some peasants get warm by the fire, another chops wood + another leaves for market. Above, an arguably redundant Phoebus... https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/labors-of-the-months-from-the-tres-riches-heures

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nanamineedstherapy · 11 days ago

Text

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

A New Couple is in Town Elrdrich King!Haibara x Galatic Emperor General F!Reader F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento F!CHRO Reader x Higuruma Hiromi A/N: Haibara's Ending is Finally Here Part 2 Previous Chapter 26 - The Empress Is Bored - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Chapter 26 - The Empress Is Bored - Part 2

Internal Mind Mapping Sequence: Fragment 001

Anyway.

Here's how I became the punchline of God's longest-running joke.

It started, obviously, with the cheating.

No lipstick, no accidental touches, no gut-wrenching mistake with a stranger.

Not even fun cheating.

Not even “oops, I tripped and fell on his dick” cheating.

No.

My two dumbasses—Gojo and Nanami—my husbands—plural, yes, we don’t do small—cheated.

With each other.

That was the joke.

Like I wasn’t even enough emotional labor to split between two grown men with the combined communication skills of a teaspoon.

I wasn’t just insufficient.

I was obsolete.

Redundant emotional labor in a throuple where I was supposed to be the glue.

I was the axis they bent around, until they didn’t.

Until they folded into each other like I was a misprint in the plan.

So I divorced them. Quietly. Legally. One of them cried. (I won’t insult your intelligence by saying who.)

Kicked them out without even any alimony from me.

But the universe?

Oh, she wasn’t done clowning me.

Because it wasn’t enough to shatter a woman mid-pregnancy with twin gods.

No, that would be mercy.

Instead, I got a tragedy arc.

I gave birth half-conscious, spine shredded from the inside out.

Pelvis cracked open like a cathedral floor mid-earthquake.

No cursed energy to patch it up.

Just a body that couldn’t scream loud enough for how much it hurt.

I woke up paralyzed.

No legs.

No safety net.

No Megumi—he didn’t exist in my universe.

No Haibara either—I only knew the name because Gojo used to mutter it in his sleep sometimes, like a prayer or a punchline.

I don’t know which.

I had nothing. No sorcerers. No clan. No family—I lost them long before, around the time I refused to keep being their punching bag.

Toji had helped me once, years ago.

Neighbour. Not friend. Not savior.

Just someone who happened to hear the screaming through the wall and did something about it.

He didn’t stay. He couldn’t. And I didn’t ask.

Then Sukuna came.

Not this world’s Sukuna.

Not the pining, reincarnated half-curse of this world.

Not your suave, half-possessed martyr with tattoos and trauma.

Not yours. Mine.

The real one.

Original flavor. Bloodborne eyes like extinction.

The Shibuya-Shinjuku one.

He saw my infants as threats—cosmic anomalies, living errors. Wanted to turn them into cursed objects like collectible sins. Said they smelled too much like their fathers. Said they'd unravel the world if left unchecked.

He wasn’t wrong.

But I didn’t care.

And what happens to the girl who never belonged to anyone?

Who grew up invisible, disposable, until two gods in human skin offered her something resembling permanence?

What happens to her when those same gods choose each other, die anyway, and leave her behind with nothing but their howling offsprings, and a body that won’t move?

She survives.

Barely.

I didn’t scream when they told me—not when I woke up, paralyzed, staring at two twins with split-colored hair like their fathers and no features of mine.

About Shibuya. About Nanami.

I remember blinking. Just once.

The doctor asked if I understood. I said yes. I didn’t.

Sukuna chased us like a bloodhound on meth.

But I still had hope.

Gojo was just sealed.

He would come.

Of course he would.

He was late for everything.

Maybe he’d bring those glitter-stained flowers for the kids and a new switch for me.

Say sorry. Laugh and say it wasn’t real, that he’d fix it, that we could fix it even if not me.

I’d even take him back. For the twins.

He’d be here for their Omiyamairi. Their Okuizome.

Might try to feed the babies actual sweets or make a joke about their first meal being takeout sushi.

Instead, he didn’t even come to see his fucking kids.

Then, on the day of his fight, I sat in a wheelchair with Kaito on my lap. His small fingers curled against my sleeve, gripping tight without understanding why.

I gestured toward the screen—toward his father.

Kaito didn’t smile. Didn’t react. No flicker of recognition crossed his face, no warmth sparked in his eyes.

But he latched on.

Emi had stopped crying.

She wasn’t watching the fight.

She was watching the colors—watching the way his purple bled across the screen like a storm unraveling.

The sound of the broadcast droned on, but it felt distant.

Felt hollow.

Because neither of them knew.

Not really.

But I did.

I knew he’d come.

Then I saw...

He died.

Not for me.

For the children, probably.

I tell myself that sometimes. On good days.

The twins wouldn’t latch. They just cried.

Like they were waiting for fathers that would never come home.

And I?

I waited, too.

For something to make sense.

For the pain to mean something.

For their bodies.

Because here’s the part people don’t get.

Yes, I left them. Signed the papers. Threw them out.

But love doesn’t die on command.

You don’t scrub it off like a curse mark.

I loved them both.

Inconveniently. Entirely.

And in losing them, I lost the last part of myself that had ever wanted to live like a human being.

Slowly it sank in—the fuckers died.

One in Shibuya, one in Shinjuku.

Both exits so cinematic they might’ve been choreographed by the fates themselves.

Like they needed their deaths to mean something, as if I wasn’t already bleeding significance enough for all three of us.

I didn’t even get to stand while I was left holding the twins. Literally.

Then Sukuna, once done with Yuta, Yuji, and whoever else bled loud enough to entertain him, turned his gaze on me.

No—worse.

On my fucking kids.

You think you know fear?

Try being paralyzed, holding two premature gods in your lap, while a man made of ancient famine and planetary-level ego sniffs the ground like your children are rot he’s owed.

Gojo and Nanami were gone. I had “divorced” them, sure. Signed the papers. Said the words. But love doesn’t dissolve in courtrooms. They were the only ones who made me believe I was human, once. Not an accessory. Not a mistake. Just… a person. Held. Kept.

And now they were gone.

And I couldn’t even walk.

The twins wouldn’t latch. They screamed day and night.

Their cursed energy flared every time they cried—which was often—until it was thick enough to set off seismic sensors.

They were 3 months old and already emitting energy levels that made grown sorcerers sweat.

They didn’t know how to turn it off.

I didn’t know how to teach them.

Only their fathers could’ve taught them.

So we hid.

Because that’s all I could do.

In bunkers I built before the world went to shit—paranoia pre-dated my grief. I was a trillionaire before I was a widow. CEO of the most powerful gaming-tech and AI firm on the planet. Every bunker had a fake floor under a fake life under a decoy firewall with a heartbeat monitor keyed to my pulse.

It wasn’t enough.

Sukuna hunted like it was instinct. Something primal and unspeakable. His cursed technique could sift through satellites, sniff out despair like blood in water.

My tech failed more every week. His rage didn’t.

We made it two months in Bunker-016 before the kids blew a hole through the ceiling with an emotional surge.

Keiji died that day.

He’d been with me since the IPO. My shadow.

Former assassin turned jujutsu bodyguard. Always in a suit, always two steps ahead.

He didn’t flinch when I screamed.

Just threw me in the emergency evac chair, handed the twins to me like they were just briefcases, and told me not to look back.

I didn’t listen. I saw him fight. I saw him die.

I remember his shoe landing sideways like it didn’t know he was gone.

After that, I stopped sleeping.

We moved every three days.

Ate protein sludge. Hooked up nutrient bags to the babies’ feet when they refused formula.

My back rotted inside out from bed sores.

I couldn't lift my legs anymore without throwing up.

I started hearing things.

People whispering in vents.

Nanami humming in empty hallways.

My own voice, echoing from the baby monitors.

I stayed alive for one reason: they couldn't.

Not without me.

The thing about trauma is—it doesn’t kill you. It eats your morality first.

So when the tech started failing, and the walls felt thinner, and the kids’ energy cracked through steel and firewalls, I stopped hoping for rescue.

I started engineering it.

We had tech prototypes I wasn’t allowed to sell. Neuro-linked exoskeletons. Black-budget AI surgical units. Brainwave readers that could write code straight from trauma responses.

And I used them.

I injected stem cells from my own spine into carbon wiring. I mapped my neural pain responses to synthetic muscles. I fused nerve endings to military-grade bionics with duct tape and threat models.

I dissected cursed spirits.

I kidnapped criminals. Sorcerers.

Anyone strong. Anyone desperate.

I told myself they were volunteers.

I stopped asking for signatures.

I cut into the skull of a philosopher who used to write treatises on AI ethics—uploaded his brain into a memory chip just to get his notes on godhood.

I wired my chair to my spinal cord.

When the machine walked, I screamed.

When I screamed, it walked better.

Eventually, I didn’t scream anymore.

Eventually, I stood.

On legs made of synthetic nerves, grafted metal, and everything I had once sworn I’d never do.

I wasn’t a mother anymore.

I wasn’t even a person.

I was function. Firewall. Empire.

In under 11 years, I pushed the planet’s tech forward by 80.

My bunkers were invisible to satellite.

My AI could read intent before people formed words.

Every person who even thought of harming my children triggered kill protocols in servers buried beneath extinct volcanoes.

The twins grew up learning not to cry too loud.

And Sukuna?

I fought him for years.

Sometimes it was a chase. Sometimes a massacre. Sometimes a cold war with no witnesses.

Until one day, he just stopped.

Shaved his head.

Sat cross-legged in the dirt.

Called himself a monk.

Never spoke again.

I don’t know if I broke him.

Or if he just looked at me and saw a mirror.

Now I rule an empire built on dead men. My men.

Every living thing is tagged and tracked.

Every AI and satellite on the planet carries my grief in its code.

I don’t let my children out without armed shadows and androids.

Call me Darth Vader if it helps. He lost his legs too. But he still needed a master.

I didn’t.

He was a coward. And I wasn’t stupid.

I was the final girl. But the story didn’t end.

Because morality’s a luxury for people who aren’t prey.

So—naturally—I snapped.

I’m not proud. But I’m upright.

I went from disabled mother of two to biomechanical Emperor-General in… what? Eleven years? Tops?

Then came Haibara.

Not your Haibara.

Not sunshine-in-a-body, not the tragedy people romanticize postmortem.

Not the Haibara who dies like a prayer someone forgot to finish saying.

The main monster.

Born in a fractured timeline and carved out of nuclear grief.

Not yours. Not mine. His. Another reality.

Naturally strong. Immortal. Looks like heartbreak in boots. He watched his own world rot and decided love was real, but governments were optional.

In his world, Gojo died during childbirth. Never developed Six Eyes.

Never even opened them.

And the version of me from that world? Was born a Nanami.

Kento was never born.

She inherited the mantle.

She married Haibara—that Haibara.

They were gods and knives in love.

But his technique wasn’t meant for humans. It was… eldritch. A living thing.

A curse that grew teeth and memory.

It gave him power, yes, but also bloodlust.

He turned when he started noticing that the people had gotten desensitized.

She saw it coming.

Tried to kill him before the spiral finished.

Died in his arms, whispering that she loved him more than anything.

He never forgave Nanami.

He crossed timelines looking for another chance.

Looking for her. Or something close.

And then he found me. Scarred. Mostly-machine. Fully armed.

He looked at me—cracked bones, AI-stitched spine, babies on my chest, blood still drying—and just said, “Yes. That one.”

Like I was a feral cat hissing under a war machine, and he thought, “wife material.”

And I let him. After he spent 11,000 years convincing me.

Because when the world tries to eat your babies, you grow fangs.

He didn’t love me like he loved her.

He loved me beyond her.

Beyond himself.

Not a rebound. Not a substitute.

He isn’t loyal to any version—only to me.

Only to this twisted, vicious, bionically-wired echo of who I was supposed to be.

He wants this insanity, because it’s his.

And I loved him, too. In the way only people who have stood inside annihilation and screamed back can.

You don’t understand what “I’d do anything for you” means to him.

Most people mean “I’d take a bullet.”

He means "I rigged their bloodstream with nanobombs in case you get nervous."

He means "The planetary death toll was acceptable."

And I let him.

Because I stopped thinking in morality.

I started thinking in survival.

So yeah. I became her.

The woman who built an army of AI-controlled exosuits. The woman who made the planet’s tech curve scream 80 years ahead because she wanted her kids to walk in peace. The woman who cracked time, spat on quantum laws, and turned grief into architecture.

I broke time. Stole quantum blueprints. Hacked grief into architecture.

But people forget—

I wasn’t always like this.

I used to laugh.

Bake cookies.

Be afraid of the dark.

Now I own it.

Because the rent’s due.

And I’m the fucking landlord.

And this version of me—the girl in this reality?

She's soft.

She has friends.

She wears hoodies with pixel mushrooms on them, makes jokes about capitalism, and thinks heartbreak means crying alone in a bathroom stall.

Adorable.

I wonder if she'll survive what I couldn't.

Or worse—what I became.

So yes. We built a life.

The kids call him “Dad.”

I sent androids to drag Toji out of his feral exile.

They brought him in like a wounded wolf with a job to do.

Because you can’t trust humans. But machines?

Machines remember the mission.

A machine knows loyalty if you treat it right.

Humans would take it as entitlement.

I know something isn’t right with me.

But it’s what’s kept me alive.

And then…

Haibara fell.

Not in battle. Not in glory.

He got sick.

Cell death. Neuro-splintering. A slow-motion unravel.

I cloned him. Again. And again. And again.

Every iteration collapsed.

Too unstable, too sentient, too aware.

He fought sleep.

He fought regeneration.

He fought death.

So I put him in a deep cryo-coma. 15,000 years, suspended.

Waiting.

While I hunted for a cure across the multiverse.

Remaining clones were coded to search for resonance.

To ping me when a solution emerged.

But they degraded. Snapped. Went insane enough to end planets.

One found your world.

This soft, sweet, idiot timeline.

That clone wasn't even supposed to interact with her; he was coded not to.

She’s a version of me, yes—but one with hope. Joy. People. Friends. Megumi.

He was coded to observe and report.

But he fought his code, his biology.

Something no one walks out alive from me for.

He fell in love.

My creation betrayed me for her.

And when I looked at her, you know what I thought?

That I wasn’t jealous or even sympathetic.

I just pity her.

weak.

Weak girl.

Wearing my face.

Soft hands that never held death.

Eyes that never saw gods bleed.

I pity her. Not because she has him.

Because she never had to earn him through hell.

So I woke my Haibara. The true one. The god-sick original.

And now I’m here.

In your perfect little rotting world.

To replace you.

I will not leave until he lives.

Even if I have to wear her face, her name, her memories.

Even if I have to slit every version of myself open to find a cure.

Switching places through dimensional bleed is effortless when you’ve had 50,000 years to perfect it—when time is no longer a constraint but a well-worn path, carved into existence by the weight of your own inevitability.

It’s not skill anymore. It’s instinct.

And when most of your body is machine—wires woven with memory, circuits infused with the echoes of thousands of choices—it’s less about movement and more about placement.

You don’t slip through the cracks in reality.

You decide where the cracks will be.

And when you’re smarter than God, the universe stops being a question and starts being an answer you’ve already rewritten.

Even the clone thought he was the real one.

I let him believe it.

Let him love her like she was me.

Then I killed him. Your Haibara.

Clean. Tactical. Necessary.

Her Haibara died with your face in his hands.

But my version of him?

The true Haibara.

He’s… still sick. Still dying. Still strapped to a bed of code and cryo-fluid. Still fading.

And I’m running out of timelines.

So now I’m here.

In your perfect little rotting universe.

Laughing like a cat who already ate your kids.

And I will not leave until he lives.

Even if I have to break every law of reality and ethics to do it.

Even if I have to erase every version of myself to make it happen.

You don’t understand.

You think I’m trying to play God?

No.

God’s slow.

God has feelings.

God lets children die and calls it “mystery.”

God lets infant animals get raped by man and calls it “karmic debt.”

I’m just the only woman in the multiverse smart enough to fire him.

Because now?

Now I am something else.

And the universe better pray it does not meet me again.

Because the compatible human is here.

---

POV: Alt-Her from this Reality

After asking for him, you’d promptly passed out again.

Shoko had told them it was normal—expected, even. She’d used phrases like delayed neural synchronization and cognitive whiplash . Coma-brain, she’d called it, with a shrug and the same weariness you’d once admired in her.

So they’d filtered out—Gojo, Nanami, Fushiguro, Mom—all of them. Off to eat, take meds, pee. Do human things. Small, necessary rituals to soften the edges of grief.

Now the hospital hums with a silence that isn’t peace.

It’s maintenance-mode silence. A kind of stillness that doesn’t cradle but waits. Like a waiting room at the edge of the universe. Cold. Fluorescent. Too clean. Too white. Like it’s been scrubbed of the people who were here a minute ago. Like even their ghosts were disinfected.

You're awake. Barely.

Your skin itches beneath the sheets. The babies are asleep. Your mouth tastes like old pennies and blood suppressants. Somewhere under the hum of machines and far-off doors, the air hurts. It presses in on you—not with weight, but with emptiness.

Something’s missing.

The kind of missing you can’t name. Not a thing. Not a person.

A presence.

You feel it like a skipped heartbeat.

You’re not alone.

“Hey.”

The voice comes from just beyond the curtain. Familiar. Casual. Low.

But off.

Sweet in the way knives are—gleaming before they turn.

“They told me you were alive,” the voice says. “But I didn’t believe it until now.”

Your breath stutters.

“…Hai?”

He steps in before you can ask again.

Same crooked grin. Same tired eyes. Same bastard-sweet voice that used to hand you candy after tests and call you “cookie” like it was a prayer and a joke.

He looks… almost right.

Like a photo printed with just slightly off colors. Like someone wearing his face through a lens with 1% distortion.

Still—your body moves before your brain catches up. You wrap your arms around him, IV lines tangling, and whisper, “Where were you?”

He hesitates— just enough. Then a soft pat on your head, awkward and worn-in. “There there, lil cookie.”

You want to cry. Or maybe scream. Or maybe just hold him until the hole in your chest stops bleeding.

“I lost my phone,” he mutters, still patting with one hand. “There was this, uh… train thing. Fire. Real dramatic. But I��m here now, okay?”

“I was awake,” you whisper. “Hai—I felt everything. And you weren’t here.”

You pull back. Look into his face.

You’ve never hugged Haibara like that before. Never needed to.

He always came when you called. Always.

But something inside you feels hollow.

Like something already slipped away.

And maybe you do believe him. Just for a second.

Because you need to.

“Can you help me get to the bathroom?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says too quickly. Like he rehearsed it.

He slips his arm around you—strong, stable. Too strong. Haibara was fit, sure, muscular even, but he wasn’t this—not impenetrable, not precision-guided like a tactician trained to navigate you like a liability.

You chalk it up to adrenaline. Shock. Hallucination. You’re recovering. The brain makes ghosts out of anything it can.

The walk is short. Your legs are jelly. The walls tilt like a dream’s ending.

He drops you at the bathroom door and gently shuts it. “Yell if you need me,” he calls.

You nod, then stumble toward the sink.

Turn on the faucet.

Cup your hands.

Cold water. Anchor.

You look up into the mirror.

And freeze.

There’s someone behind you.

It’s not a reflection.

She has your face—but sharper, older, wrong. Her hair’s styled with surgical precision, like war dressed up for a funeral. Her skin’s paler. Lips darker. She stands wrong—the way predators do when they know you can’t outrun them. She's dressed in matte-black biotech armor, half AI, half curse-metal. Her eyes glow faintly at the seams. Her presence hums.

Not kind. Not you.

Behind her, you spot him.

Toji.

Leaning against the wall like this is casual. Like he didn’t die more than a decade ago.

“Hi, kid,” he says.

Your breath disappears.

But something is wrong, he looks younger than the age Toji died in.

You were with Megumi and his mom on Mount Asama when he scattered his father’s ashes.

“Mr. Fushiguro?” you croak.

He shrugs. “Zenin. Never married.”

You don’t make it to the door. Your legs barely twitch before—

CRACK!!

Your face hits the mirror.

She slammed you. Once. Hard. Glass shatters like regret into your mouth. The sink blooms red.

“Be fucking careful,” Toji snaps, stepping forward. “She’s pregnant.”

“I was too!” she screams.

The sound rips from her throat like it’s been waiting 10,000 years to leave.

Toji flinches. Toji. Flinches.

You slump—but she catches you. Gently. Cradles you like broken glass. Not a stranger. Not a killer.

Like someone holding the version of themselves they lost a long time ago.

She presses her forehead to yours. Your blood streaks down her face like warpaint.

Then she stands, straight.

Turns to him. Calmly.

Her voice is scorched earth. “This little trauma-club dropout in the hospital bed? She’s not your kid. I am. I was your failure. I was the mess you left. So don’t you dare come here acting like Father of the Fucking Year.”

Toji scoffs like he’s tired. “I’m not your father. I didn’t raise you, Little Ghost.”

"Little Ghost" sounds like a curse he can’t exorcise.

Like her or even your name never meant anything but afterthought.

She doesn’t scream again.

She just holds your unconscious body tighter.

Because even though she's the one who broke you—

She still remembers what it was like to be you.

Before she lost her Nanami and Gojo.

Before she became the villain in every mirror.

Before the future turned her into this.

And outside, beyond the layers of sterile rooms and AI-monitored corridors, your Haibara is already dead.

You just don’t know it yet.

But your body does.

And somewhere deep in your nervous system, a scream is still waiting to surface.

“No shit,” she hisses, stepping between you and Toji’s gaze like a guillotine.

“But you could’ve helped when Sukuna was after us. But you didn’t. So now you don’t get to pick her. You don’t get to nod at her like she’s something earned. If you even look at her again, I will drop you into a pocket reality made of fucking child support collectors and fish sauce. Do not test me."

Toji lifts a brow. Shrugs. “I’m not interested in raising kids. Never was.”

“You should be interested in obedience,” she snaps. Her voice turns jagged, staticky—like a radio tuned to war crimes. “You're lucky I even brought you here. Her version of you died during an escort mission with a bleeding-out middle schooler. You owe me for killing the Zenins and making you clan head. You owe me for fixing you.”

He steps forward, slow. “You planning to stay long?”

She smiles—sweet, lethal. “Long enough to sterilize this timeline of mistakes.”

And then Haibara steps in again, hers.

He lifts the unconscious girl in his arms like she’s a thing to be stored, not saved. He glances at her face with an eerie kind of reverence. Then hands her off to Toji, who’s already dragging her away.

“She’s lighter than you,” he says once Toji’s left with the girl. “She doesn’t even flinch the same.”

She tilts her head. Not smiling. Not blinking.

“Do you miss her, Yu?” she asks softly. “Or your old one?”

He grins wider. Shows teeth. “I don’t even remember their name.”

She beams. “Good boy.”

Then she kisses him. Fast. Wet. Claiming.

It's not about passion. It’s about property.

He kisses back harder, hunger deep and ugly in his throat.

Toji grimaces from outside the window, loading the girl into a chute.

She breaks the kiss and licks Haibara’s bottom lip, slow. “You are so cute.”

He picks her up in one smooth motion and puts her on the counter, “I’ll show you cute.”

Her breathless laugh is interrupted by his kisses.

---

The bathroom is silent now, just her. She pulls gloves over her fingers, wipes down every surface. Then steps into your place.

Literally.

She changes into a similar hospital gown like you were wearing. Tears it in the same places. Reapplies your bandages with identical pressure. Stuffs her ankles with gel weights until her feet swell just like yours had at 34 weeks. Adjusts the tension in her face with microcurrent pulses until her expression settles into the same coma-soft, sleep-deprived weariness.

Even the bruising under her eyes is correct.

She stares into the mirror.

Practices your breath pattern.

Matches the little hiccup in your inhale, the flutter when you whisper “Hai?” like he’s still yours.

The hair is next. She deliberately tangles it. Pats it flat on one side.

Adds the glint of old dried blood in places Megumi’s mother didn’t reach.

She even copies your limp.

Every step she takes toward the door is a performance. But her audience doesn’t know they’re watching a replacement.

Not yet.

Haibara comes back in like a sentinel.

He tries to kiss her again, this time trailing lips down her collarbone, but she pushes him off with two fingers and a narrowed eye.

“Later,” she mutters.

He grins like a good dog.

He’s copying this world’s Haibara a bit too well, and she’s still deciding if she likes it or hates it or can pretend it’s roleplay.

They step into the waiting room.

You—not you—walk through the hospital doors like nothing’s changed.

Like you weren’t dead. Like you didn’t just beat another version of yourself into unconsciousness and dump her with Toji, who may or may not betray you for her.

The air smells like flowers someone left in case you didn’t wake up.

The kind of funeral-ready lilies that rot if ignored.

Gojo’s already there.

Perched on the armrest of a hospital chair, one leg bouncing like he’s forgotten what stillness feels like. His glasses fogged, sleeves soaked—he’s been crying into the crook of his elbow like a child. Or a man who never stopped being one.

He sees you.

And he breaks.

“Baby—” he chokes. His body moves before his brain does. Feet stumbling. Voice too thin. A shadow of his old cocky rhythm.

He crashes into you.

You let him. You fold your arms around him exactly as she would—exactly how he remembers.

But your muscle memory isn’t love. It’s just repetition with blood.

He clings like a drowning thing. Wraps his arms around your waist like he’s trying to fuse his ribs to your bones.

“I thought—I thought I lost you,” he whispers, voice hoarse with guilt. “I could’ve stopped the hit. I couldn’t—fuck.”

You reach up. Take off his sunglasses. Fold them carefully and tuck them into his hoodie pocket.

You stroke his back like she would’ve.

Like you did in another life to your Gojo when he came home tired from missions.

You clock the change in his gait, the looseness in his grip.

The way he smells more like dried sweat than six eyes.

He’s gone soft around the edges. Or maybe he was always soft.

“Oh, Satoru,” you coo sweetly. “You never know anything.”

He laughs. Wet, broken. Doesn’t realize that was an insult.

Across the room, Nanami stands stiffly.

Collar slightly skewed. Hair longer.

There’s a new scar above his temple, but his eyes—tired in that way that makes you wonder if he slept standing upright at the door.

He gives a slight nod. “We’re…glad you’re safe.”

You smile. Soft. Sweet. Razor-sharp.

“I am. Now.”

You study him like he’s an equation with missing variables.

There’s a blankness in your mind where his image should be.

Like something’s been redacted.

Your heart trips over itself trying to recognize him, but there’s nothing.

No scent memory. No sensory trigger. Just a phantom ache.

It pisses you off.

You stare at him longer than necessary.

Try to memorize him now, in this light.

The line of his jaw.

The angle of his watch.

The slight flinch in his eye when Gojo holds you like he already lost you.

Your smile is flawless. “Kento,” you say. “You look tired.”

And somewhere behind your voice, behind your pulse, behind the noise of Gojo sobbing into your gown—

Their wife bleeds in a car with Toji.

Unconscious.

Forgotten.

Unaware that her life has already been stolen by someone with her face, her memories, and a hunger to burn this timeline clean.

Haibara—the imposter, but yours—lurks by the fruit basket someone brought. He’s sipping from your mug like he’s earned the right. Sits too comfortably in your chair. His back leans against the sunlight like it’s an accessory he designed.

When no one’s watching, he winks at you.

But you see it—the tightness in his grip. The way his fingers wrap the mug like they’re waiting to crack bone. You don’t wink back. Not here. Not yet.

He’ll get his reward later.

You let go of Gojo.

Megumi hovers near your hospital bed, stiff. Watchful. His arms crossed, body angled protectively—toward you or away from everyone else, you're not sure.

He looks at you like you’re holy. Or fragile. Or both.

“You should rest,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “I’ll manage. You’ve done enough, Megumi. You always do.”

His shoulders lower. Like you handed him absolution for a sin he never confessed to, for something he never said out loud. Like he’s still waiting for the punchline of your survival.

Nanami’s now holding a paper bag. Artisan kimchi, most likely. Your craving. The one that made your hands tremble at midnight, the one that gave you nosebleeds and hallucinations and that blood-pressure spike that almost took you and the twins both.

But then in your time, he never handmade it for you.

He sets it down gently. Comes closer.

You clock the way he studies your stomach—tight and swollen under the gown, distorted with movement. For a split second you wonder if the AI is mimicking the cursed signatures right. Then one of the twins kicks hard enough to visibly ripple your side. He flinches.

Perfect. It’s working perfectly.

“Still active,” he mutters, clinically.

“Still yours,” you reply, flat.

He blinks, eyes softening just slightly. His jaw shifts—tiny micro-expressions that once made you feel chosen.

Now they just feel like camouflage.

Like he’s searching for a version of you he thinks is still in there.

Nanami reaches out as if to touch the bump, then stops himself.

Too late. You’ve already noted the hesitation.

A timeline ago, he would’ve kissed your belly, whispered something about happiness, and pressed his forehead there like it held absolution.

Now?

You turn your head. Look away.

Quiet falls.

Deliberate. Heavy. Uninterrupted.

You let it stretch.

Let them believe the silence means peace.

Let them believe that the coma mellowed you. That pregnancy softened you. That this whole ordeal bleached the violence from your bones.

Let them dare to dream.

And then, in the gentlest, most honeyed tone your throat can manage—

“Anyway… now that we’ve all cried and trauma bonded… I want a divorce.”

Silence.

The word is a guillotine.

Megumi looks alive for the first time in his life.

Gojo’s smile freezes. He blinks like you’ve just spoken French. Or Latin. Or poison.

Nanami’s jaw tightens so hard you hear his teeth creak. “This isn’t funny,” he says, voice low.

“It’s not meant to be,” you reply lightly, already walking toward the bedside chair to sit over it like a queen shedding armor. “You’ve had your fun cheating, I’ve had my fun forgiving. Now we’re all bored, aren’t we?”

Gojo’s hands rise, twitching. “W-wait. We talked about this. You said you forgave us. We didn’t even—”

“Oops, forgot that part. Should’ve taken it in writing,” you interrupt. “Like you both forgot me when you fucked each other behind my back. Or next to me. Either way, you lost your vote.”

Nanami steps toward you, controlled. Measured. Calculated. “Darling, this is emotional whiplash. You just woke up. You’re not—thinking clearly.”

You turn, smile like a blade unsheathed. “I am. I’m thinking clearly for the first time since I married you two. And I’m done.”

“But we’re—” Gojo’s voice cracks. “We’re a family.”

You laugh.

Not cruel. Not mocking. Just a little too amused.

“Yeah? A family where I do the childbearing, the espionage, and the emotional laundry while you two do psychological foreplay in hotel suites until your sudden and violent deaths? No thanks.”

Gojo sinks. Drops into a chair like the weight of your words knocked him out of the air.

Nanami stands frozen. But the fracture is in his eyes now. The slow crumbling of whatever plan he thought he had to win you back.

“I’m moving in with Haibara and Megumi,” you say airily, checking your phone. “Shoko cleared me. Your services are no longer required.”

Haibara throws up a triumphant peace sign behind them. High-fives Megumi, who immediately glares like he wants to press charges. He’s still trying to figure out where the hell Haibara’s even been.

“You don’t mean this,” Gojo whispers. His voice is shaking like a streetlight in wind. “Please, you can’t mean this.”

“I do.” You grin. “I mean every syllable with my whole spine.”

Nanami moves closer, slow.

His voice dips—gravel and steel. The one he uses before an interrogation. Before a clean-up.

“Darling,” he says. “Think carefully.”

You tilt your head. One hand on your belly. The other already dialing the next life. “Think carefully before what, Nanami? You raise your voice? Raise a hand? Try it.”

A long pause.

He doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because no matter what happened, one thing was absolut, Nanami or Gojo would never hit you physically.

You said it to hurt him, to make him think you’ve lost all faith in him.

Because you're not the soft girl with ambition in her eyes anymore. You’re a god in skin.

You turn to Megumi. The only one who still looks at you like he sees something worth protecting.

“Megs, sweetheart?” you ask softly. “Can you take me home? I’m exhausted.”

He blinks. A little stunned by the intimacy of your tone, still echoing from a childhood when you bandaged his knees. “O..of course.”

You nod toward Haibara. “Yu. Grab the bags.”

Haibara sets down the mug. Slings both bags over one shoulder like a victory banner. Leers at Nanami and Gojo on the way out like he’s won a prize in a war he wasn’t invited to.

And as you pass them, you murmur with the softness of a lullaby—

“Try not to cry too hard. You’ll ruin the hardwood.”

---

Later that night, Gojo is on the balcony, half-drunk. Crying into an old bottle of aged sake he once saved for anniversaries.

It tastes like ash.

Like melted sugar.

Like you don’t want him anymore.

Inside, Nanami still stands in the kitchen.

Shirt unbuttoned. Pulse jumping in his neck.

He hasn’t moved since you left.

He’s still staring at the door.

Like if he stares long enough, you might come back.

Or maybe he’ll see you step out bloody, limping, begging for help.

Because somewhere, in some locked wing of the hospital, one question still hangs in the air:

Did they bring the wrong woman home?

And if so—

Where is the right one still bleeding?

---

Next Chapter 27 - Counterfeit Gods & Pregnant Lies - Part 1 - [Tumblr/Ao3]

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