#and god forbid the doctor say I need to spend money to get better

[honeysunchild]

Parents really will have kids on purpose and then spend the next twenty or so years punishing that child for being alive and having needs

[hellyeahsickaf]

The way addicts and chronically ill people are dehumanized is so exhausting

The normalization of this shit in medical and casual settings is genuinely mind boggling. Addicts and disabled people go through so much bullshit. I've dealt with many fucked up doctors when I just needed help

I had a kidney infection, some months back. This is always extremely medically urgent, and I was likely only hours from sepsis. I went to the hospital reporting my pain to be a 9/10. 9 because my 10 was gallstones. I experienced severe malpractice at the hospital and the doctor reported exams that never occured and false information while making me wait with nothing more than tylenol to hold me over (didn't touch the pain) and bring my fever down but that's a whole other story

They did however, deny me the pain medication I needed until it was time to go home. I'm deathly allergic to NSAIDS, but that's something an addict might say so they witheld pain relief because they'd rather me suffer just in case I'm a different kind of sick. An entire night, maybe 6 hours in the ER and they couldn't give me anything, not a small dose of morphine or one norco even a few hours prior to take the edge off of the pain while I was curled up shaking and crying. Just in case I was an addict looking for my fix, and my suffering was just withdrawals and good acting. In that case maybe I deserved it and should be denied my humanity. God forbid in that case I'm so desperate to alleviate unbearable withdrawals that I spend all night in the ER crying. Not the first time I've experienced red tape just to get relief from excruciating pain

But whatever. As per protocol I was asked to follow up with my pcp. So a few days later I called to set an appointment, but I'd also run out of norco and desperate to relieve the pain I asked if I could be filled even enough for a few days, until the pain was bearable. I had difficulty walking, laying down, and I again, can't take most pain relievers. The receptionist was nice and understanding, actually got me in touch with the doctor because she wanted me to be able to get my refill. Probably heard the pain in my voice even. She believed me

She transfers me over to the doctor and I tell him I'd like a follow up and ask if he could fill my painkillers. I would've acceped a no from him, I just needed my follow up. He asked about my condition, I told him my diagnosis and how much pain I was in

And he laughed.

Got a real hoot out of it, like he had me all figured out. Like he caught me trying to cheat the system. I must be trying to get high or make some money with a few days worth of norco as i'm nearly in tears from the pain even while calling

He tells me through his laughter "I don't prescribe painkillers for 'kidney infections'" saying it with a mocking emphasis on those words, as if I'd said "stubbed toe". Follows with "Yeah haha, bye." and hangs up on me. No follow up like I called for. Needless to say I no longer have a pcp but truly if he thought I was an addict trying to take advantage of him he should have still treated me professionally. Maybe not cackled when I said my pain was excruciating for a start

I just don't understand why the hell so many doctors can be so apathetic to people's suffering. Addicts deserve better and so do disabled people- whether you think they're addicts or not. The assumption that we're lying, trying to trick them and are feigning pain to do it is disgusting, listening to your patients is so important. And if that were the case they could have some sympathy and ask themselves what it would take for someone to go those lengths, take such drastic measures and go through that trouble to obtain those substances.

Addiction is not a moral failing. Many disabled and chronically ill people unfortunately rely on medications that have addictive properties. About 80% of heroin addicts first misused prescription drugs. However only about 4-6% of those addicted to prescription drugs switch to things like heroin. And instead of help or compassion for people who just need help (addicts or not), they just figure we're one in the same and treat us like subhuman degenerates, leeches on society. And I think people need to change how they view addiction. Doctors need to change how they view addiction

[angry-geese]

Favourite Worst Nightmare

Secco x Reader and that gross green guy i guess >:(

Warnings: sfw. Mentions of violence and injury but nothing too graphic. A little suggestive towards the end. Gn!Reader

Notes: ehhh idk what this is but I feel like i should apologize for it. Reader ends up running a job for Cioccolata and Secco and survives the encounter

Part Two

There were very few things you hated more than running packages for Unita Speciale.

As a courier, you were one of the more replaceable- albeit necessary- parts of the gangs; the gears that kept the machine of Passione running. To put it lightly, this was never a life you wanted. When you came to Italy you never planned on spending the rest of your days as a half-rate mobster.

Technically, you worked independently. You didn't fall under the jurisdiction of any specific group. It was a fancy way of saying you were on your own. God help you if you accidentally pissed someone off because no one was coming to your rescue. Considering you could be targeted by warring gangs for running packages, you hoped the pay would be decent.

It wasn't.

Italy's underground wasn't how you expected it to be. It was harsh- you knew it'd be like that- but nothing like the mafia movies you watched as a kid. As cheesy as it sounds, they were still people, each with their own stories to tell. Being in your position, you listened. It was safer to play along and make friends than become the enemy of your worst nightmare. Jobs for smaller groups were typically safer but didn't pay enough to survive. Those with more reach- specifically ones closer to the boss- paid better.

From the outside, the building was unassuming. It was once an apartment complex- still is, technically- but only two people live there. Long ago it was designated as a hideout.

You've never spent much time at the place. You weren't often desperate enough to take their jobs. People talked. It's reputation was not unknown to you. You were well aware of the doctor and his... whatever the hell the other guy was. Assistant doesn't feel like the right word, and pet- however fitting- seems a bit dehumanizing. Though maybe it should. You've been warned these two were dangerous.

The sooner you get this over with the better.

You knock in the pattern Passione uses to identify other members. Two-three-two.

A set of unblinking purple eyes stares at you from the crack in the door. Part of you is glad its him who answered the door and not the other one. Your meetings with them have been few, and only in passing. These are not people you want to give the benefit of the doubt. Physically, Secco isn't very imposing. But beneath Oasis is lithe muscle that could drop you in an instant.

You pull the package from you bag, offering it to him.

"What is it?" He asks.

"A parcel." You say.

You know better than to open it, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't tempted to. It's likely money. Which you could use, though they'd notice it missing before you could even leave the city. Someone seemed to want it- evident by the man who attacked you. Clearly you won, but you didn't come out unscathed.

"Let them in." Someone says from the other room. It's faint, but clear.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand.

The room is sparsely furnished, with a single leather couch and coffee table, and blank walls. If you hadn't been told someone lived here, you would think the place was empty. It's sterile, white, and clinical in every sense of the word. At least get some decorations or something. You may be a mafioso, but you at least make your apartment look lived in. They don't seem to take interest in creature comforts the way you do.

The door seems to echo in the room as its shut. You take a few stiff steps forward, stopping just a few feet from the entrance. Its then the other man appears- covered up to his elbows in blood. He has the gall to look rather annoyed.

"You brought a gun," Cioccolata circles you, "cute."

"It's nothing personal, Signore." You say. "I need to defend myself."

"Are you not a stand user?" He asks.

"No."

It feels safer to lie. Maybe he'll go easier on you. Having gained one rather recently- and then never using it- meant you didn't have the best grasp on your abilities.

"Sit," he switches out his gloves for a new pair, "I'll stitch up that wound."

"That's not necessary."

"Consider it payment," he passes the package off to Secco.

Despite everything within you telling you to run, you sit. It's only a stab wound, though you should get it checked out. God forbid it gets infected. Someone like him doesn't do good deeds, but nothing about this strikes you as dubious. Often times people offered you smokes or drinks in return, this isn't too different.

He doesn't numb the wound before stitching it up. It hurts, but not bad enough to say something. Part of you is alright with that- he didn't drug you. That thought is comforting.

Those unblinking eyes stare up at you from your lap. Secco's hand not-so subtly reaches into your bag, pulling out a stash of chocolate you meant to save for later. The two of you lock eyes.

"That's a weird looking dog." You don't really mean to say it out loud.

He sits by your feet, gnawing on the sweets, rubbing up against your leg like a cat. As uneasy as it makes you, you fear his reaction if you ask him to stop. It wouldn't kill you to suffer through a few minutes of this. Pissing him off might.

"Secco seems to like you." Cioccolata mentions.

You're not sure how you feel about that. It doesn't seem quite so innocent.

"Those sutures can come out in a week." He says. "I'm sure you know the drill; don't get them wet, keep them clean, don't tear the wound back open."

You gather your things and leave.

Maybe that job lured you into a false sense of security.

If they wanted you dead, you would be. The reasoning seems sound enough in your head.

You'd go on to run more packages for them.

The pay was decent enough. Nobody else tried to mug you. People in general gave you a wide berth. For the most part, you were left alone. Whether they had something to do with it- or if it was just rumors- you'd never know. You didn't question it. To be the one who looked the mad doctor in the eyes and live was reason enough. Your situation was far from good, but you were a long stretch from being at rock bottom.

It became a routine for you. Your run wasn't long, and it wasn't in a shady part of town either. Get to a pickup point, deliver the package, try not to die. You got comfortable.

Secco opens the door before you can even knock. He seems to have a sixth sense for whenever you're around. He does his usual act of raiding your bag for sweets- of which you make sure to keep a small stash of. It keeps him occupied, and usually far away from you.

You sit while Cioccolata finishes up whatever he's doing in the basement. Don't question it. Those definitely weren't screams. You should know better than to go poking around where you don't belong. Despite growing used to the sterile nature of their apartment, the basement brought up a visceral fear in you.

Secco practically climbs into your lap. Despite not being too imposing physically, he's heavy. You absentmindedly scratch his head while you wait.

"Stay with us," Secco runs his icy hands up your sides, squeezing the fleshy parts of your hips. His grip is strong, and only tightens when you try to squirm away. He grows tired of you struggling, and pulls you up into his arms, heading towards the basement.

[ladyalienist]

Health, size, and honestly fuck everything.

I wouldn't want to write this post, but here we are. I mean, this is the most anonymous I can get.

In January 2020, before this whole Covid mess started, my head started spinning at random.

It was slightly uncomfortable, but I could do stuff while slightly uncomfortable. I'm used to doing stuff while in pain.

In March 2020 I received an endometriosis diagnosis - after thirteen years of pain and bathroom gore one week a month, five different oestrogen pills that worsened the situation (to this day, I haven't spent ONE DAY in my adult life without taking some hormonal pill) and TWO YEARS OF ME SAYING "I have endometriosis, I have every symptom, PLEASE HELP ME!".

Finally I had a therapy that made me feel better - no more The Shining blood-in-the-corridor scene! No more pain! Just follow religiously the regimen of progesterone and supplements for the side effects and you'll be fine! Still fatigued as fuck, still suffering from dyspareunia, but who cares.

My head kept on spinning at random. I didn't bother.

I don't go to the doctor unless it's extremely necessary. It's not a matter of money - my country has free healthcare, thank you very very much - it's about how I was treated. Not listened to, my problems overlooked, diagnosed at best with "fat" and at worse with "maybe it's all in your head, sweetie", the very few time I was in for somethig that couldn't possibly be reduced to "fat" the exams were invasive and painful and included screaming at me for flinching. And then a "lose weight, anyway".

I won't go on and on with rambling about my misfortunes with doctors, but anyway, in late June my head spins a lot and it's not just being slightly uncomfortable, it's "I'm risking to fall and hit my head every morning when I get up and I can't do shit". I go to my doctor this morning.

This woman who had me as a patient for about a decade makes her visit and assumption - not that important, it's not the point - prescribes me more in-depth exams and one medicine that should help, and then proceeds to tell me "you must really be sick to come, you're not the type who ever goes to the doctor". Yeah ma'am, maybe if you had listened to me when I came the first two times I'd trust you better. Then she sends me to a very kind nurse who needs some information to make a new file about me. Including height and weight.

Based on BMI I am obese. And I am fat. Like, I'm a really big and intimidating sturdy woman. But I have unbreakable bones and a strong build and even when I'm not doing any sports I can still lift most of my friends up and spend a whole day marching. I am undeniably fat and I'd need to lose weight, but I'm far from being the kind of obese most people imagine when saying the word. Like, many people including males in seeing me genuinely don't think I'm in any way medically problematic.

BMI is shit. It's shit on so many levels. Everyone knows that. Yet the nurse kinda frowns, she didn't expect those numbers.

I go out from the doctor. It's a nice, sunny day.

I am thinking about killing myself once again.

I think about all of the desperate work I put into learning how to take pleasure from food and still eating healthy - once a week I have pizza. Once a week I might have a sandwich with a bit of mayo or a sushi lunch. No soda of any kind. Some biscuits at breakfast because in my culture breakfast is carby and sweet - but my breakfast is overall not that big deal. I don't drink alcohol. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. I try to be intuitive and follow the needs of my body. I take long walks whenever I can - if I can't it's because university is a fucking full time job nobody ever recognizes and I get TIRED.

I'm fat and no amount of salad can change that. My weight stayed the same for seven years after school no matter what and how much I ate. Science is telling us that size is 90% genetics and epigenetics and diet culture is killing people.

I tried to learn how to enjoy eating and how to do it in front of other people and how to share. But now I'm having thoughts about how much I need to lose and how to do - no more weekly pizza? No more sushi? Never again? A sad sad life of counting calories and going back into massacring my body in sports the way I did when I was a teenager? Or maybe I could finally fit (haha) the criteria for bariatic surgery, so I can have exactly one slice of pizza per week and be satisfied with it for the rest of my life. Still a bit sad but fine, I guess. I wasn't meant for pleasure anyway.

I think about how people were grossed out by my body and mocked and ridiculed me and whoever looked like me. Thin was the price to pay for being free to exist, for being at least a girl/woman - not even a person, misoginy still counts, but a girl/woman. A fat girl, a fat woman, is less than that, she's scum.

I think about how the men (boys actually) I partnered with were delighted with the fact that they could hit me and be rough - I could take the pain and no serious damage was ever done. But fucking me and hitting me did not make me their girlfriend. Their reputation could be ruined, God forbid. The very first male friend who didn't actually bother about being seen in public spaces with me... well I met him at 20, exactly 20, it was my birthday.

I think about the repulsion I feel in the morning when I shower and I see and feel my naked body.

Yesterday a friend of mine, a friend of mine who says I'm beautiful, who calls me "hottie" on a regular basis, and I were drinking a cocktail. She took a picture of me for Instagram and I was OK with it. Now I think about how people might see me and feel the same repulsion. I get them.

I think about a woman my age who just died in my country because of bariatic surgery. She went under and never woke up. She was just like me, big and sturdy but healthy, happy. She had a boyfriend and friends - one friend in common with me indeed - but the job market wanted her to be skinny. So she died.

I raise my gaze and see a man, his lower abdomen so bloated it hurts to watch, slowly walking to somewhere. I don't want to blame a guy who has done nothing but exist, but... has he ever thought about his body in the same terms I think of mine? Look at his slow slow walk... entirely different from my fast and nervous pace, the one that has my acquaintances and friends screaming "where the fuck are you running please wait for us short-legged people you valkyrie", fast and nervous not only because I have places to go but mostly because I have calories to burn. Does he know that fast walking makes you healthier? He doesn't seem to know. Health for him is a non concern.

I'd deserve a healthcare system that does something for me. What I have is ineffective measures for serious problems and a useless culture that would rather have me die in an unnecessary surgery than just reconsider it's priorities. Tell that woman that it was for her health. Please, go on her grave and tell her.

I get to a bar.

"Good morning, may I have a coffee cream, please?"

My head has not stopped spinning yet.

[tempestsreach-blog]

Fuck Diet Culture

This is going to be long.  It’s going to be rambly.  It’s going to be sad.  It’s going to be angry.  There’s going to be language some people don’t like. I can’t NOT talk about it though. 

Fuck diet culture.  Let me say that again.  Fuck. Diet. Culture. It has taken such a huge chunk out of my life.  I have lost pieces of myself I’m not sure I’ll ever get back.  The only way to heal is to go through.  I can’t go back.  I have to move forward.  But I can’t do it quietly.  I can’t hide.  I can’t live in the same shame I’ve spent the last 40 years in.  Literally.  40 years of my life wasted to this.  I can’t bear to live the back half of my life in the same way.  What the hell is the point? I’m not going to write this in any particular order because all of the thoughts and feelings swimming around are snapshots of things in my life that diet culture has broken in me or stolen from me. A lot of you aren’t going to agree with me.  That’s okay.  Truly.  This is about ME.  This is to help ME heal.  You can talk to me about your struggles, your diets, your ups and downs, your successes and whatnot.  I am here for you in all of it. But I won’t diet with you anymore.  Never again.

Currently I am having severe knee pain.  One knee is worse than the other, but both are bad.  I should go to the doctor.  I should have gone to the doctor years ago for it.  Want to know why I didn’t?  My weight.  I have injuries from overuse and over exercise and I am terrified that I am going to go to the doctor and the first words they’re going to say are “Well, if you lost 20, 30, 40, 50 pounds, it probably wouldn’t hurt so much.” instead of listening to me, examining me, scanning my knees and HELPING me.  I don’t feel this way irrationally.  This shit happens.  I am in pain.  I don’t know how to get help without being told to go on another diet that will not work.

Because diets don’t work.  Not long term.  I am excellent at losing weight!  I’ve done it over and over and over.  Then I stop restricting, counting, starving, and pushing myself.  Then my body says “What the fuck were you doing?” and puts it back. I lost the ability years ago to know whether I’m actually hungry or not.  I eat too fast when I do eat because if I snarf it down super fast I can get it in before my brain says “You’ve had too much.  Did you count those calories?  How many miles on a treadmill will you do to make up for that?  Did you actually earn this meal?”

Every time.  Every meal.  Every morsel.

I have never been officially diagnosed with an eating disorder.  Only been told by therapists and psychiatrists that I definitely engage in disordered eating.

No shit.

Every diet under the sun.  Cabbage soup.  Phen Fen.  Weight watchers (MULTIPLE TIMES), TOPS, Noom, My Fitness Pal calorie counting, intermittent fasting,  and every whacky bullshit thing in between promising results.  I’ve purchased fancy scales.  I’ve even tried one that wouldn’t show you your weight, but the color of your progress in the app.  Here’s a hint… if you gain, your color is black like death.  I’ve failed a million times and I’ve blamed myself.  I am the failure.  So I hate my body a little more every day and I stress about how I’m going to NOT pass my disordered eating and my food issues onto my kids.  My stress levels are through the roof and 98% of it is diet culture related. What the fuck is that about? Every time I start a program I hit it hard.  Last time I tried anything involving tracking or counting I was so starving by the time I got home from work that I almost ripped a child’s head off (not literally OBVIOUSLY) but I screamed at her at the top of my lungs because she hurt my feelings.  It wasn’t until after finally allowing myself to eat another morsel of food that I realized I was hangry.

Why is living in a larger body not acceptable?  We all talk about diversity and equality as though we believe it with our whole hearts, but that doesn’t cross over to fat.  Or skinny if we’re really being honest.  How many times have you heard or seen online “Oh my god, she’s so skinny.  Feed her a damn cheeseburger!  She looks anorexic.”  I know I have.  I know I’ve said those words.  I will punch myself in the gut if I ever say them again.  

Every body is different.  We are supposed to be.  Let’s not BLAME genetics like it’s a bad thing.  Let’s realize that it’s what nature has intended.  My father is over 6 feet tall and a large man.  He’s just a big man.  He went on Nutri System when I was young, lost a ton of weight, and put a bunch back on over the years because he is a big man.  My mother was not tall, but was always large.  I hated her body because HER PARENTS told her all the time she was fat and unworthy and cautioned me not to grow up to be like her in any way.  Even when she was poor and homeless she was still large.  That was the way her body was.  I wonder how different her life might have been if the size of her body hadn’t been a factor in the way she was raised or treated.  How might that have made my life different?

I know a lot of you are probably rolling your eyes at me right now about being vocal about another health plan or saying to yourself “just because you have trouble with diets doesn’t mean they don’t work”  I know there are people close to me thinking “She just always gets excited when she discovers a new diet, that’s probably what this is.”  NO.  

This is me finally realizing that I can heal and healing doesn’t mean I need to weigh 157 pounds. (That’s the weight limit for women my height to enter the air force when I did in 1992) This is me finally realizing that I’ve been lying about the weight on my drivers license for 30 years because gods forbid anyone saw my real weight on that document. This is me realizing that I’ve spent my life trying to live up to other people’s ideals of what I should look like because I assumed they wouldn’t like me otherwise. This is me realizing how much unintentional harm I could have been doing when sharing another diet, another idea, another bout of “well this is working really well for me!” with people I care about. This is me realizing how much damage I’ve been doing to myself living with this level of shame for 40 years. Hiding what I’m doing.  Suffering in silence.  Hiding food. Restricting.  Binging.  Over exercising to compensate.  Spending money on one last diet.  Spending emotional energy on one last hope. We were in Las Vegas for what was supposed to be a fun vacation last week and I was so hot and miserable and so steeped in hating my body because my painful knees were betraying me that my internal monologue was a never ending loop of “I’ll hit weight watchers REALLY HARD when we get home and get rid of this weight, then I’ll figure out my knees and work on maintenance” Let me say that again, clearly.  I struggled to enjoy my vacation because I was obsessing about restricting food AFTER my vacation. One last time.  One last meal.

BULLSHIT.

We walked by shops with weird and pretty fashion dresses. (I freely admit I don’t understand fashion) the husband and I would both point out ones we thought were pretty.  My brain would get stuck on “Yeah, but they don’t make them in my size” or “Yeah, that would NOT look good on me.  It looks fine on that size 0 mannequin”  Pretty on other people.  Other people are pretty.  Not me. Diet culture is pervasive and all consuming.  In big ways and little ways.  I’m 5 ft 9.  I’m not a tiny person at any weight.  I’ve always been told I’m too big.  Even when I sit, I slouch a little and/or tuck my legs and feet up under me to try to make myself appear smaller and less invasive.  This is subconscious.  I don’t always realize I’m doing it until my knees remind me. Most of my life has been things that get in the way of my diets.  “I should start the diet today, but it’ll have to wait until next week because so and so’s birthday is this week and I want to be able to enjoy that.”  or “It’s late fall, I should just start now but first there’s my birthday, and then Thanksgiving, and December happens and there’s all kinds of treats then.  Better wait until January, but not the first because that’s new year’s...maybe the following Monday.” or the ever popular “I already had a bad eating day today, I’m a failure.  Why bother?  Fuck it.  I’ll try again tomorrow.”  That one was always followed by binging because of the last supper mentality.  If I’m starting a diet tomorrow I better eat EVERYTHING NOW. This is how I’ve lived my whole life.  The time not spent dieting was just the time in between diets where I was planning my next diet.  So much life wasted.  The only time I was not actively dieting or planning the next diet or suffering from “I’m just too exhausting to put effort into food right now” was during my 4 pregnancies.  I let myself eat whatever and whenever because I was nauseous all the time anyway and something in my brain made me fuel my body for the babies. When the youngest was born and the on call doctor who delivered her told me I was too fat to have my tubes tied I definitely started planning diets again in that moment.  I believe now, years later, that my diet and diet culture ruined mind and body is part of what kept me from being as successful at nursing the kids as I wished I had been.  I assumed my body was broken and not good enough for my babies.  The last time I lost a LOT of weight it was because I didn’t want to ruin someone’s wedding pictures.  True story.  This was nothing that person felt or anything they told me.  IT’s what my brain said to me.  It’s how I de-valued myself.  There are very few current pictures of me now because I’ve been stuck in a place where I feel shame when I see them. When I’m dead, memories and pictures are all my kids and grandkids will have, and I hate myself too much to let anyone take them. That’s not okay.

I dream about food.  I daydream about food.  Food I “shouldn’t” eat.  Food I “should” eat.  When to eat.  When not to eat.  Every spare ounce of energy is spent thinking about food or hating myself which leads to more thinking about food. I am not in a place where I can prepare dinner for my family right now because it’s too hard to put that much energy into food.  I force myself to pick the recipes from the app and get the shopping done via instacart so all anyone else has to do is pull up the recipe and make the food.  If I’m looking at the ingredients or trying to prep anything I stare at every individual thing debating whether or not I “should” eat it.  This is going to take me a long time to break free from.  Today I finally feel like I CAN break free. There is nothing wrong with being in a large body or a small body.  Food is not good or bad.  Food is food.  I have to say these things.  I have to repeat them to myself or I fall down the rabbit hole again.  None of this is work anyone can do for me.  I have to live it.  I have to work through it.  I have to figure it out. If you read this far, my statement stands.  If you’re on a diet, I will listen to your woes and hold your hand and I will not judge you for it.  This was very hard to write because I am certain some of you who believe in diets, ways of life, and wellness eating may block me now because I spoke my mind.  I’ve clung so tight to the people I love and refrained from being honest and speaking my mind for fear of abandonment.  I’ll have to live with it if that’s the case here, because people sometimes need to do what’s best for them.  Airing this out is one of those things for me.  It’s a scary thing for sure. I also want to say that I’m happy for this to lead to discussion.  I’m not going to shut anyone down for wanting to talk to me about this.  I am always open to learn new information and see different perspectives.  Just know that if I’m emotional and feeling a lot of strong things about how my life has been up to this point, and I am entitled to believe what I believe just as you all are.  I’m happy to share sources and books I’ve been reading on the subject.  They are not diet books.

Here’s to doing better from here on out.

Here’s to finally being free.

[shintorikhazumi]

I Have Two Sisters?! Chapter 1: Three Sisters and The Bastard Father (An LWAxRWBYxStarira Crossover)

A/N: What’s crazier than me writing a crossover I can’t get out of my head at 2am while still having multiple wips?

Writing a three-way crossover until 3am!!! (Ended at nearly 5am tho)

GAHHHHH.

Btw, this is a non-magic au. So Diana has no magic, and Weiss has no… semblance. Yes. Because the world of RWBY always goes “???!! OHMG, magic?!” Quite ironically. They become impressed at people turning into birds, but never flinch at Ruby who can separate herself on a molecular level. Sure.

I’ll be updating this sporadically, tbh. The updates will be as random as the coming of this idea. I do like it a lot, so I look forward to working on it. Just have to prioritize the wips.

[DO CHECK OUT THE END NOTES FOR SOME OF THE AU DETAILS AND BACKGROUND]

Still, I couldn’t let the concept pass me by so…

Enjoy?

~Shintori Khazumi

  I Have Two Sisters?! Chapter 1: Three Sisters and The Bastard Father

  The wind blew strong outside, rain water cold against her bleeding cheek. The numbness was her only relief from pain nowadays. She’d lost count of how many bruises she’d gotten this week. If only her mother hadn’t passed… If only she hadn’t had a bastard of a father.

Then maybe Diana’s life would have been much better than the shell that it now was.

He left her and her mother just as she turned three, the only support she got in the form of random gifts and her financial needs. Her father was nothing of a father. The man that… helped make her was never there. He never showed he cared. Everything he gave her felt obligatory. She hated it. Heck, she didn’t even know his last name, much less remember what he looked like. She did try looking it up at some point, but it seemed as if he was some kind of bigshot she couldn’t name.

Neither her mom nor her aunt had divulged his identity, so she had long since drew a blank to the man’s identity. All she knew was that his name was ‘Jack’ or something of the sort. She had long since adopted her mother’s as it didn’t feel right to take the name of a man she never knew.

All she knew was that he was the cause of all her sorrows. That wretched man had left her and her mother to fend for themselves. Even though her mom was of a strong, well-known medical lineage here in Britain, the fact that she had gotten pregnant out of wedlock labelled her as a shame to the Cavendish name, and she had been cast out to a vacation home in the outskirts of the foreign country, Japan.

After her death, however, the women who Diana now saw as practically witches with how cruel and evil they were decided that because their blood ran through her, took over their small land that she and her mother had cried blood and tears to call their own, and exploited the underage girl, believing she might be of some use as a pawn at the very least, for the sake of the Cavendish name.

And she was. For some time, until she had injured her arm, and was no longer capable of becoming the kind of doctor they wanted her to be, her hand slowly losing its immaculate dexterity, becoming constantly shaky, rendering her as only half the worth she originally was, and thus completely useless besides being their punching bag. Quite literally.

Diana Cavendish found herself spending the better part of her life being abused, and hiding in tool sheds, and escaping her dreaded household at every waking moment, just as she was doing right now.

She hardly believed in any religion, but she found herself always praying to get away from this hellish nightmare. She’d hope that even if she only had a jerk of a father, he’d soon realize that she was his flesh and blood that needed saving.

A hard knock came on the wood of her shed’s door. She flinched, no sound escaping. Had they found her?!

“Miss Cavendish? Miss Diana Cavendish? Are you in here?” An unfamiliar voice called for her, bold and confident sounding, but with kindness and worry interlaced. She felt like it was someone she should respond to. The situation felt like it was some kind of divine calling she should answer.

With legs shaking, she stood up, unlatching the bar that held the door closed and stepping out into the now late night that reeked of hot pavement, rain having stopped while she was lost in thought.

A police officer, clad in uniform and raincoat smiled at her in pity. She was both grateful for- and hated- that gaze. She wished it had come sooner, but at the same time, she disliked being thought of as sad and pathetic.

“Your aunt and her family have been arrested, Miss.” Her ears perked up at the voice and the message they conveyed. Looking up from the ground, she stared into the truthful eyes of the cop. “You’re safe now.”

And she truly hoped she was.

  //-//-//-//-//

  “Weiss.”

At the mention of her name from that familiar voice, she rolled her eyes internally, holding in the urge to snap at the man she called ‘father’.

“What.”

Maybe her control wasn’t as good as she thought.

“Don’t give me that tone. I know you hate me, but I am still the one that raised you!”

“You mean, you’re the one that paid for me.” The ex-heiress pointed out. Her father gritted his teeth, frown deepening as he stepped forward in an attempt to exert his dominance.

Weiss only raised a brow in challenge.

“Anyway.” Jacques continued. Weiss would have smirked as he neither acknowledged nor denied her statement, but she felt it wasn’t the best time. “You are yet to turn twenty, and as you aren’t considered an adult yet-“

“But I’m nineteen, father.” Weiss stated, confused, her raised brow now raised in question. “I’m of legal age, to drink even.”

“Not in Japan you aren’t.” He replied with a smirk so evil, Weiss would have loved to slap it right off if her mind wasn’t thrown in a state of emergency, dreading whatever plans her father had. Even if she wanted to do as she pleased, she couldn’t completely go against him as she was at the moment. Their family name was too widespread and known in the business world, and she feared the consequences of running away from her father who currently had her safety- and practically her life- in the palm of his hand.

“What are you planning.” She narrowed her eyes at him, fearing for the worst, but expertly masking that fear.

“I’ll be sending you away, just as you’ve always wanted. I’ve prepared you an apartment close to a school of my choice to pursue the arts as you so strongly desired,” He spoke in a mocking tone. “And I’ll let you have your way there.” He ended with a smile that sent chills down Weiss’ spine. It sounded too good to be true, her dream being accepted like this. It was like a carrot on a stick being waved in front of her, only to always be out of reach.

“What’s the catch?”

“Catch? My, Weiss, my child, are you questioning your father’s benevolent heart?”

“What’s there to question?” Weiss shot back. “You don’t have one, now do you?”

She grinned at her little victory as she watched him gnashing his teeth, clearly seething in anger. Her smile dropped however as he gave her his own.

“I mentioned Japan’s legal age before.”

And Weiss already knew what he meant.

  //-//-//-//-//

  Life in Seishou had been the dream. Her first two years of high school were the peak of her life, she’d proudly say. She had wonderful friends and comrades who battled side-by-side, pushing one another to greater heights, and… she had someone she adored just a little more than friendship allowed. She had never admitted it, though. Then, a school back in Paris, the place where her mother had blossomed as an actress in the past, offered her a scholarship as an exchange student there.

And like she always did, Claudine excelled. So much so that multiple colleges offered her full rides to attend their institutions. Even highly prestigious universities. Her opportunities were broad, her future looking bright-

-And then news came. Her mother had fallen terminally ill.

She had to go back. She had to see her. She had to be by her side as long as possible.

She had to repay her for the love, for the dream she had given Claudine. She had to be the family her mother had been for her in the absence of a biological father she never knew, and the loss of her adoptive Japanese father at an early age. The lack of a male figure in their family was no cripple to Claudine, but she also missed the presence of the man she knew as her papa. She knew her maman missed him too.

So she had to do this for her mother.

She had to… in the event that… she’d lose her soon as well.

God forbid, Claudine prayed.

She had to return to Japan, study and… get a job, find some way to help her mother pay the increasingly expensive hospital bills, their little family’s saved money steadily disappearing.

She wondered if she should just drop school all together and apply for a troupe. Earn both money and experience.

She had enough rapport both in Japan and France. She could probably get enough opportunities, and she would succeed like she always had…

But…

There was something she wanted to see through, going into university.

When she left for Paris, she had gradually lost contact with all her friends, the culture slowly choking her time, eventually disconnecting them from her.

She’d receive and return the occasional message, but… things were different. She knew she’d drifted apart from everyone.

So, when she found out that they would all be attending the same Arts Institute, and when she had decided to return to Japan for her mother’s sake, she believed it wouldn’t all be that bad if she could apply for a scholarship to the same place, and possibly rebuild everything that was slowly crumbling away.

She wanted to be with everyone again.

And though she believed herself capable of attaining what she wanted on her own, she might require a little assistance from a miracle.

…

And a miracle- could she call this monstrosity of a situation that?- came in the form of a letter that had documents that signified she was the daughter of some ‘Jacques Schnee’ currently undergoing some sort of trial, and because of this, some of the accusations led to the revelation that he was neglecting a daughter, not sending support, and now as some form of bribery and compensation or whatever, he had paid the court to shut up about it if he took responsibility for her now.

Claudine scoffed in disbelief and utter disgust.

So this was her damned biological father? Some apparently bigtime tycoon who slept around and left a woman to fight for herself while carrying his- Claudine would suppose she was now an- illegitimate child.

This… was certainly news she’d never have expected in a million years.

She laughed mirthlessly at it all.

Well, at least her financial crisis had been averted. For better or for worse… she hoped it wasn’t the latter.

One upside was that she now had a clear ticket to that university she wanted to get into, it seemed. Her ‘father’ had taken the liberty of enrolling her there coincidentally. At least he could do something right, Claudine guessed.

“Well… I suppose it’s time to pack.” She sighed falling back onto her current apartment bed, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn’t so bad, maybe. Her newfound reality.

“Japan, I’m coming home to you.”

  //-//-//-//-//

  Diana glared at the letter in her hand angrily. There, in neat script, she saw the name of the man who had caused all her misfortune.

‘Jacques Schnee.’

“I want to hate you for as long as I live…” She gripped the paper so hard, creases were forming and the agent currently assigned to her worried she’d rip it into shreds. “What is this garbage? And why am I… Why can’t I… refuse… this ugly form salvation…” She choked on her sobs, a hand sympathetically rubbing her back.

“Let’s get you ready, Miss.”

Diana nodded in agreement.

-----

All her bags now in her hand after being dropped off by the cab driver, she stared in awe at the slightly modest, but clearly high-end house.

What the hell, did her dad just get her a house?!

Regardless of its size, couldn’t he have… like… gotten her an apartment or condo, at least?

How rich was this asshole father of hers? Was money the only good thing about him? Not that even that was necessarily a good thing.

With a groaning sigh, she unlatched the gate, walking up the little pathway. There were small flowerbeds already present around the yard, and decorations were tastefully placed.

It at least looked the part of cozy.

Once she got to the door, however, angry sounds coming from inside made her question that.

-Wait. This was her house, right?

Why would sounds be…

In a panic, she unlocked the front door with the key that came with the letter, bursting through it like a mad man, blue eyes flickering about the room, shocked to see two pairs of eyes, wide and intense, staring back at her with equal surprise.

“Who…”

“Oh, this is just great!!!” One with hair as white as snow exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air in clear exasperation. “Now we have another one!” She began marching around the room, palms rubbing her face aggressively and scratching through her hair. “That little fuck-“

“-Language.”

“Shut up! I don’t even know who you are, and why you were in my house when I arrived. And you say you aren’t a burglar or whatever, but what is up with your sword play? Even if you were using the curtain pole. Are you some kind of spy or assassin the corporation has sent to finally get rid of me?”

“First of all, this is my house, not yours. And you came at me with a rapier!” A silver-gold blonde replied in equal stress. “You could have killed me!”

“I would never!” The first girl gasped with faux emotion. “At most, you’d lose an ear.”

“Umm…” Diana remained awkwardly fidgeting at the door, her usual bravery and confidence lost in the moment of shock.

“What.”

“I- I am simply here because… apparently my father purchased this place for me.”

Two pairs of eyes blinked once. Twice.

Then realization overtook them.

“Did you just say… father?” The golden-haired one stepped closer to her, a lot less hostile, but still aggressive looking.

“I- Um… yes?”

“Father… you say.” The lady with a rapier in her hand now approached Diana too.

These women were frightening, dear Lord. Diana slowly backed up, but stopped as her foot hit the bags she’d dropped in her frantic moments earlier.

“Can you tell me the name of this… ‘father’ of yours?” Rapier lady asked Diana who was beginning to wonder if she should look for a weapon to defend herself with.

“S-sure. His n-name is…”

“…”

“…”

“Is?”

“Fuck.”

Diana was not one to curse, but it surprised her that she did.

But she couldn’t help it, now could she? After all, her mind had been wiped clean as a white slate. A mental block was not what she needed right now, but just about anything involving that man seemed to bring about her misfortune.

At least the hands by which she’d die her early death were from very beautiful women it seemed.

She liked women, at least?

“Excuse me, um… are you alright?” Miss Golden hair was now very safe-looking and welcoming, Diana subconsciously stepped closer towards her.

“What is up with you? I just asked a question.”

“Perhaps, if you placed the sword down, and looked less like you were trying to murder her and look like you were willing to hear her out…”

Diana expected another heated retaliation, so it was a pleasant surprise to see the other woman sheath her weapon, and place it gently on a plastic-covered couch, clearly brand new.

“There. Happy?” She asked, glaring at the woman now gently holding Diana’s hand- and when had that happened?!

With a nod, the girl turned to Diana and asked again. “What is your father’s name. If you could tell us.”

Huh. She was a lot kinder than Diana had initially taken her for.

“I apologize. I can’t… remember at the moment. I- He hasn’t been around… for me until this point. I just… learned his name a few days ago but…” She hung her head in defeat, apologizing all the while. “Sorry I’m of no assistance to you…”

“No, it’s alright. Isn’t it?” The question was clearly not directed at her as she could only hear a grunt from the other side of the room.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Would your father’s name happen to be Jacques?”

At this, Diana lifted her head, another shocker delivered to her, hearing the familiar name, the cogs in her head clicking into place.

“Yes! Yes, that’s it! Jack, or Jacques or whatever. Snee? Shuni? Schee? I don’t quite remember, but something along those lines.” Diana found herself enthusiastic towards the prospect that some of her questions might be answered.

It seemed the other two shared the same sentiment.

“It’s Schnee.” The white-haired lady corrected, eyes furrowing, anger building up once more. “And… THAT BASTARD OLD MAN!” Grabbing her rapier she swung it around, probably to vent her anger. “He set me up! And what’s more…” She whipped her head about to carefully look the other two people over.

“What is it?” Diana said in a voice quite small.

“Seems he had big secrets to hide.” She sighed. Turning to the initial enemy she had, now turned… stranger? She wasn’t sure they were allies at this point, she stated rather than asked. “I guess it’s the same for you?”

The woman beside Diana nodded, expression looking a lot stiffer than her gentle demeanor as she dealt with Diana earlier.

“I see. I can’t believe this situation.”

“What do you me-“

A voice beside Diana delivered her fourth? Fifth? Sixth?- she’d lost count- Shocker of the day.

“Sisters. It seems we’re… sisters.” Turning to Diana, she held out a hand for a shake. “I’m Claudine.”

“I’m Weiss.” Was the grumble from the couch the woman had flopped on top of.

“…O-oh!” Breaking her stare from the hand, she looked into rose-red eyes. “And I’m-“

And the world suddenly turned black.

‘Hello, My Name is…

[Diana Cavendish]

[Weiss Schnee]

[Saijou Claudine]

-And it seems as though…

I have two sisters?!

  A/N: If you’re asking, yes. Yes, Diana fainted.

Here are some details for this AU btw:

I’ve decided to make Jacques a half-Jap, half german.

So all of them have a quarter of that blood.

Diana is half brit, quarter jap, quarter german

Weiss is ¾ german because of her mom, and ¼ jap.

Claudine is half French, ¼ german, ¼ jap.

Also, if you want to know their ages, and their order, I decided it this way, and let me just quote how I typed it out in the raw idea draft.

“Diana April 30 16yro in anime 2017+3yrs (2020) she's 19 too omg jahahahaha (wrote this coz I’m currently 19 and was amused)

Clau august 1, 2001 19 at present

Weiss Currently 19 (in volumes 5-6) may 15th lmao hahsha. Perfect!!

Wtf Diana was the oldest? Hooo boi. I did expect and want Kuro to be youngest tho, tbh.”

Why their ages are pretty much the same will be mentioned next chap.

And that’s how it went. Decided with Weiss being the legitimate child coz Jacques was the only canonically mentioned dad between the three girls as far as I know. Or I just didn’t search enough.

But come on. I wouldn’t pass at the chance to beat up the dude in a fic so… hihi.

Feedback is super appreciated!

Thank you for reading!

~Shintori Khazumi

[officialthiamlibrary]

Got any canon fics set post 6B?

Here you go! A mix of older fics and some within the last month, I hope you’ll enjoy them!

Ocean Front Property and Yoda Wisdom by Diary (Teen | Complete | 1.3K) Tags: Frenemies, angst and feels Summary: Post-canon. Theo has issues, Stiles cares about Liam, and these facts interconnect. Complete. A Peek Inside: “I still don’t like or trust you. Okay, I never will. But you’ve been good for him. And I gotta admit, seeing you in love is an interesting thing.”

Hold Me. I’ve Lost My Anchor. by SterekShipper (General | Complete | 5K) Tags: Hurt/comfort, angst, there is a second fic that follows this one Summary: Once again Liam and Theo had been in a fight. There was nothing unusual about that. It happened all the time. It was a natural part of their relationship. This fight however, had a different ending. A Peek Inside: It was just a fight. There was never a reason. Not really. Their relationship consisted of bickering and playful jibes. A bond had formed the night of the hospital. The night Theo had faced the Ghost Riders head on, fully intending to sacrifice himself. All to save him.

Stones by cherrysprite (General | Complete | 2.6K) Tags: First kiss, Theo introspection Summary: Theo begins to find his place as a normal nineteen year old with an accidental rock collection. A Peek Inside: One day, he sees a man sitting outside that said cafe, playing his guitar softly while people walk past without a second thought. It’s one of the more jarring parts of Theo’s detachment, he realizes. If he were normal, he would be able to grasp how people managed to pick up on hobbies and skills. It was like Mason and his love of reading, Corey and his talent with writing, and Liam spending his weekends playing lacrosse or working out. He just always finds himself perplexed at how they’d each figured out that what they were doing was good to them.

in the hospital after the war by snaeken (General | Complete | 1.5K) Tags: Summary: "I can wipe the blood off my own face, Liam," he snarks, mainly because he doesn't know what else to do; because it's comfortable, familiar, as far as the two of them are concerned. He doesn't pull away though. "I know. But I want to." Liam looks up at him, ocean blue eyes boring into his own. Theo's breath would probably catch, if he was breathing at all. "Let me." A Peek Inside: The hospital is, well. A bit like the aftermath of a warzone. Doctors and nurses and deputies everywhere, armed with handcuffs and body bags, making arrests and treating the wounded; Theo's own wolfsbane-laced bullet wound in his shoulder was treated by Deaton, while Liam regrouped with his pack and had his own wounds treated by Argent.

it’s you, sweet baby by axebastard (Teen | Complete | 1.9K) Tags: Pining, getting together Summary: In which Theo eats a s'more for the first time and Liam isn't quite as subtle as he'd like to be. A Peek Inside: Theo blinked, one corner of his mouth twitching. So Liam was inviting him somewhere. On purpose. He didn't know whether to feel honored or suspicious.

To Take One’s Pain by Endraking (Teen | Complete | 2.5K) Tags: Minor character death, angst, sick children Summary: Liam wanders the Hospital as he does a sweep. Memories come back to him about Theo since the chimera hadn't been seen since Gabe died and Monroe fled. While walking the halls, Liam learns something that will change his perspective about Theo. A Peek Inside: Liam walked the halls of Beacon Memorial Hospital.  It wasn't that long ago that it was a battleground and not a place for the sick and injured to heal.  Memories of those times, memories of hunters killing supernaturals, memories of the Riders, memories of the chimera and the Dread Doctors pull him to wander the halls.  He's not a patient though he would garner a little less attention if he put on one of the hospital gowns.  The lights were dimmed, something the hospital did either to save money or remind some of the more active patients that it was indeed nighttime.  He moved down one hall to the next, walking up the stairs and repeating the process until he makes it to the roof.  Then he hopped into the elevator and repeated.  He was making sweeps of the hospital, but it wasn't from any present issue but his worry over his stepfather.  Doing sweeps in the preserve was one thing but it was almost too easy for the pack to forget that things attack the hospital regularly and Melissa and Dr. Geyer were right in the line of fire.  That brought him to the halls, but his mind was a million miles away as he wandered to the morgue

i know all sorts of things i don't believe by eneiryu (Explicit | Complete | 80K) Tags: Post finale, Theo Raeken centric, getting together, pack dynamics Summary: So, anyway. That’s how Theo becomes pack-mom to Scott’s merry band of supernatural misfits. A Peek Inside: Scott gets this narrow-eyed look like he knows what Theo’s thinking, but humors him regardless, “I was hoping you’d agree to stay here, help protect the town.” (...) “Okay,” Theo blurts out, cutting him off before he can speak, suddenly irrationally afraid that Scott‘s going to take it back, say nevermind, forget it, “Just until you find Monroe, right?” Scott nods, still looking perturbed but thankfully silent, “Okay. I’ll stay until then.”

you want me to hold your hand and kiss it better? by xxDreamFilledEyesxx (Mature | Complete | 3.9K) Tags: angst and feels Summary: Set after the Teen Wolf series finale: After taking Gabe's pain away, Theo thought Liam might be glad to see that he cares, so why has he been acting so strange? A Peek Inside: A few feet away stood Melissa, her face covered in pity for the life the boy on the floor had lost in a war that wasn’t his to fight. Theo's heart skipped a beat as his gaze turned to the person standing next to her. Liam.

Sun Is Up, I’m A Mess by IThinkWeHaveAnEmergency (General | Complete | 5.1K) Tags: College, mutual pining Summary: Liam transfers to San Francisco State and on his first day, runs into a face he hasn't seen in a long time. A Peek Inside: Liam steps closer to the man he hasn't seen in almost two years, his campus security guard uniform clear.

A Chimera’s First Heart by Auddieliz09 (Mature | Complete | 22K) Tags: Mild smut, first kiss Summary: Theo wouldn’t go so far as to say that everything is perfect in the months after the War, but, for him, it’s just about as perfect as his life can get. However, when someone from his past shows up on Scott's doorstep, Theo's life takes a new turn. But will it be for better or worse? A Peek Inside: When they left the hospital that night, Liam had looked at him in a way he never had before. Like he was seeing Theo for the first time without his past hanging over him. He was seeing Theo for the man he was trying to become. A man worthy of being his friend, maybe more. Theo became an official ally to the pack and began to hang out with Liam and his friends.

five punch knock out by I_write_fanfiction_sometimes (Teen | Complete | 2.4K) Tags: 5+1 Summary: Five times Liam asked what he was doing, and one time the answer was 'being happy' A Peek Inside: Theo squeezes his eyes shut and barely holds back a groan. Mint foam drips into the sink from the handle of his toothbrush and burns around the edge of his mouth. Of course it had to be Liam. Fucking Mason wouldn’t ask questions, he’d just walk right back out. Somehow though, Liam has decided he wasn’t scary.

Change of Plans by never_love_a_wild_thing (Teen | Complete | 69K) Tags: Fake relationship, light angst Summary: When Hayden breaks up with Liam minutes before his very public proposal was planned, Theo steps up to save him the embarrassment of being rejected in front of the pack. In order not to disappoint their Alpha, Theo and Liam decide to carry on faking their relationship until they can think of a good way to end it and keep everybody happy. In which Theo is crushing hard and neither of them plan things out well enough (or at all, really). A Peek Inside: Theo opened his mouth and then shut it quickly. He had argued with Liam over Hayden too many times to think that it was worth it anymore. “I just think that you should maybe figure out how she feels about it before you go and ask her to marry you in front of your entire pack,” he said.

Only you can look at me the way you do by merrythoughts, ReallyMissCoffee (Explicit | Complete | 57K) Tags: Smut Summary: But Liam knows that tonight's gonna be one of the nights where he caves in and he doesn't care. A Peek Inside: They hadn't turned up anything so why not blow off some steam and then check back later? Scott'll never know the difference.

The Truth Will Set You Free by tabbytabbytabby (Teen | Complete | 1.6K) Tags: Light angst, misunderstandings Summary: Theo realizes he has feelings for Liam, but before he can tell him he sees Liam with a girl from his class and assumes they're dating, and that Liam could never be interested in him. He makes a decision to help himself find some peace, but first, he needs to tell Liam how he feels. Liam's response surprises him. A Peek Inside: A normal morning in mid-March, standing in the Geyer’s kitchen, watching as Liam tried and mostly failed at making pancakes. He’d stood there with pancake batter all over himself, looking sleep-rumpled and adorable and the thought just struck Theo so suddenly.

The Curse of Batman and Robin by songbvrd (No Rating | Complete | 10K) Tags: Bodyswap Summary: Liam and Theo are friends. Sort of. They live together and spend a lot of time together, but they also fight. Constantly. When a body swapping curse leaves them having to pretend to be each other, shenanigans ensue. A Peek Inside: It never lasted, because as annoyed as he was by Theo, he did also like him. He would never tell him that, god forbid the already painfully egotistical chimera get another boost on his account.

The Big Bad Chimera by OTP_fandom_shipper (Teen | Complete | 643) Tags: Fluff Summary: Theo falls asleep on Liam's shoulder, so he takes a picture. Needless to say, Theo is not very happy and wants it deleted. Que the "wrestling" session in the living room. A Peek Inside: Theo arrived back at Liam’s around 5:00. The beta’s family had been gracious enough to let Theo stay with them after they found out that he had been living in his truck. He did get a job not too long ago since he had graduated high school and wanted to make his own money. He was saving to get a place of his own. Theo didn’t want to stay too long with the Geyers.

Touch my neck and I’ll touch yours by voices_in_my_head (Mature | Complete | 7.3K) Tags: Pornstar Theo Summary: ""And you, Theo, what did you do during the week?" Scott asks, clearly trying to bring him into the conversation, which no one has done aside from Liam (they talked about the new The Good Place episode, because surprise surprise, Theo got addicted to Netflix once he found out what it was) and Corey (who actually seems to enjoy Theo's presence and Liam knows they've hanged out just the two of them. Which he obviously is not jealous about, pff, why would he be? Corey has a boyfriend. ... And Liam isn't interested in Theo that way, obviously.) Theo smirks before answering, to which Liam's heart does a slight jump, hoping that no one noticed or, if they did, will be kind enough to pretend otherwise. "I did a porno."" A Peek Inside: Liam isn't entirely sure how he feels about it. Theo seems to really have turned a new leaf, and Liam is pretty sure he would have died in the hospital if he hadn't been there, but he also can't forget the way he played them all, the way Liam almost killed Scott because of him.

[himbowelsh]

your fics are amazing ❤️ can i have anything about baberoe but julian also appears in the fic🤣? thank you so much ❤️

This is probably way more than you wanted, doll, but here you go!!

It’s been a long time since Gene picked up a late shift at Smokey’s Bar. Longer than he’s proud of, really. Medical school don’t pay for itself, even on a scholarship, and it’s a stretch to think that changes on an intern’s salary. Just because his daily routine is filled with a lot more triages and tracheotomies now doesn’t mean he’s forgotten where he came from. 

Hell, Gene spent two years in this cozy backstreet establishment, serving drinks well into the midnight hours with his textbooks stashed just below the counter. The job at Smokey’s was the only reason he could afford an apartment at the time; without it, he might not‘ve even had a shirt on his back. The regular crowd was always great, the bar’s owner was a true gentilhomme, and there was no hard feelings when Gene left to start his internship. Smokey accepted it with grace, and everybody wished him well.

Of course, if he’d known he’d be back just a few months later, he’d have protested the going away party.

“You’re a real lifesaver,” Smokey declares as Gene steps back behind the familiar counter. “Skinny’s out tonight — something about helping his Granny with her pet cat, which I’d be glad to believe, if I didn’t know for a fact his Granny lives across the country — and we called Blithe about ten times, but no answer there.”

“It’s no problem.” Gene offers his old boss a thin-lipped smile, running hands hands lightly over the oiled bar top. It’s been a while; best to get the feel of the place before the night rush arrives.

“It is, though, Gene. Big favor you’re doing me. If you ever need anything —“

“Don’t worry about it.” Maybe in two years he and Smokey got past the point of “boss and employee”. Gene wouldn't call them friends, but they’re close enough. Helping out a friend is just what you do, and you don’t complain about it. “I’m happy to be here. Missed these old walls more than I realized.”

Smokey barks out a laugh. “Yeah! See it every night, and you get tired real fast.” The bar door rattles open without warning, ushering a familiar crew — half a dozen guys, all with the same swagger and grins on their faces. “Same old ugly mugs each night, too!” Smokey exclaims, brightening like the sun’s come out at midnight. “Not sure why we let you guys in at this point!”

“You’d go broke without us, Smoke!” Bill Guarnere’s voice is loud as ever, and as rowdy as Gene remembers it. “You know we pay half the bills ‘round here.”

“Lose us and you lose your nightlife too,” Floyd Talbert adds with a grin, already stripping off his heavy jacket. 

The atmosphere is familiar; every corner is known, and fondly remembered. Across the room, a 90s rock beat pulses from a pseudo-modern jukebox, all but rattling that side of the building. Smokey’s has got a dance floor, a pool table, a dartboard... everything a person could need for a rowdy night out. “Except the dancers,” Smokey said once. “We tried to put in these nice cages, but seems like you need permits and all that. Why waste the money when Luz gets up on the tables after a few drinks for free?”

It’s a respectable place, and a cozy one. The city will never feel like home — home to Gene is warm air, thick as honey against your skin, the symphony of the bayou floating around you like zydeco in the night air — but Smokey’s is close. The closest Gene feels anywhere in the city, and he’ll take what he can get.

Gene settles back behind the bar, and falls into the familiar dance; he still remembers all the steps, and hasn’t lost his touch yet. Smokey’s isn’t a cocktail place; Gene’s job is generally restricted to serving up beer and chips, with the occasional harder drink coming in. He can toss together a good whiskey sour, and his Dark and Stormy’s are excellent, so he’s been told. It shouldn’t be this easy to pick up the old rhythm again; his days since leaving Smokey’s have been filled with nonstop work. The nights he isn’t on shift, he spends studying, memorizing so many conditions and treatments that there shouldn’t be room for anything else. The brain works in mysterious ways, though. This old job carved grooves into his memory, and he slides back into them now without even having to try.

George Luz grins at him, loudly proclaiming how good it is to have Gene back. “Place just wasn’t the same without you, Doc,” he declares, and a round of cheers from Luz’s group echo their agreement. Muck and Malarkey team up on him, pestering him about how work at the hospital is going. Gene suspects they’re only in it to hear the stories every doctor acquired over time. He humors them with one about a man who’s ent swimming in the buff, ending up with a fish stuck where no fish should ever be. Offhandedly, he tacks on a mention about the frequent cases of alcohol poisoning they get in the ER. Plenty of gory detail to go into there. From the grimaces on the duo’s face, and the way Muck eyes his third beer of the night warily, they definitely get the message.

A ruckus near the dance floor rings out, distracting Gene from mixing a whiskey-and-lime. His hands fumble with the bottle; it nearly slips from his grip, but he catches it without looking. The commotion is much more interesting. some spaghetti-limbed kid, all deer-in-the-headlights, is squared off against Roy Cobb, who’s already had one drink too many. Flushed and surly-eyed, Cobb steps up into the kid’s face, rearing up like a pissed off moode.

“You think I can’t hear you? What, you think no one in here hears you running your mouth?”

“Christ, buddy, I didn’t say a word about you!” the kid replies, stumbling back a clumsy step. “Why don’t you siddown, huh?”

“Don’t need to sit down, don’t need you to tell me —“

Now, Smokey’s isn’t the sort of place where fights break out as a rule; sometimes men get a bit riled up, but it rarely turns ugly. When it does, they’ve got Bull on hand to break up any fight before it can start, and probably break some costly furniture in the process… but it’s Bull’s night off. By now, the rest of the bar’s taken notice of the fight. Tension thrums through the room like a live wire, sparking off and just itching to catch on something. Everyone’s watching them, and no one’s looking towards the other side of the room. Gene does, and he spots the kindling.

Bill Guarnere, fists clenched and face red, is slicing straight through the crowd. At his heels is another kid, gangly, with a mop of messy ginger hair; he looks twice as pissed off as Bill, but doesn’t wear it quite as threateningly.

Gene moves forward without a sound, setting his drink on the table. In a few seconds, the situation’s gonna get three times worse. Better snuff it out before they get the chance.

“Cobb.”

Gene’s the quiet sort by nature — but when he wants to, his voice can ring through a room, cutting over shouts and curses as clear as a roll of thunder. Before he spoke, he might as well’ve not even been in the room. Suddenly, every eye’s on him, and Smokey’s is silent. He braces himself against the bar, red-hot gaze trained on the troublemaker. “Come here.” One hand gestures Cobb over; it’s not a suggestion. “Free drink for your trouble. Sit down, we’ll talk.”

“Don’t need to talk,” Cobb replies, voice dropping low and rough. The kid takes the opportunity to remove himself from the situation, scurrying back to his friends’ side. Bill Guarnere claps him on the shoulder, and sends a glance towards Gene; his nod, short and grateful, is all it takes to finish the threat off. Reluctantly, with the tension broken, Cobb trudges towards the bar and accepts the beer Gene slides towards him.

“Now,” Gene says, strictly business. “What’s goin’ on with you? You tell me, I’m here to listen.”

Offering an ear to a drunk’s sorrows is always a shot in the dark. God forbid Cobb disappointed. Gene ends up spending the next forty minutes listening to Roy Cobb’s woes about his job, his girl, and everything in between — until his last drink’s done, and he’s vented enough that he no longer seems ready to snap. Gene calls the taxi for him, and sees him out.

It all goes smoothly after that. Not an interesting shift; for his first time back, and probably his last time, Gene’s a little let down. At least on his last night there was cake. Tonight, all he gets it a thank-you text from Smokey, complete with copious emojis, and a few “see ya, Gene!” and “thanks a lot, Gene!”s at last call. Once all the patrons have cleared out and the bar’s gone dark, Gene lingers in the doorway for just a minute before locking up. Just one more minute… and then he’ll say goodbye to the old place. For good, this time.

“Aw christ, Julian, my goddamn shoes!”

A shrill voice echoing from around the corner… kind of kills the moment.

Uncertain, Gene lets the door fall shut, and hastily turns his key in the lock. Something about that voice is familiar, but he can’t put a finger on it. There’s no one else in sight, not even any stragglers from closing time… but as he tucks his key in his pocket and rounds the corner, the source of the disturbance makes itself painfully clear.

Some idiot is sticking ass-first outta the dumpster.

“No!” The idiot’s friend exclaims, bouncing on his heels as he tries to grab hold of a thrashing, sneaker-capped leg. “Get out of the — get out — this ain’t my job! Do I look like your mother to you?”

“Ain't my kink, babe,” echoes a voice from within. One second later, and the set of legs vanished completely; the dumpster consumes its victim, leaving nothing behind but a loud rustling, and the clank of limbs against metal.

I don’t want to know, Gene acknowledges, weighing the situation like a detective at a crime scene. I don’t need to know. It’s late. I’m tired. I’ve got a shift in twelve hours.

“Everything alright here?” he blurts out, before god-given common sense can talk him out of it.

The friend turns on his heels, with a soft grunt of surprise. Immediately, Gene realizes why he sounded so familiar — the head of messy red hair is familiar, as are the lanky limbs and the telltale freckled Irish skin. Bill Guarnere’s buddy, in the flesh.

Since it’s definitely not Bill in the dumpster, Gene’s got a good clue who it is.

“Your buddy’s recovered well,” he observes, crossing his arms, “from the mess earlier.”

“Huh? Yeah! He, uhh — shit, he sure has. We don’t make a hobby outta this, you know.” The kid goes to run a tired hand over his face, then seems to think better of it. There’s a puddle of liquid near his feet, with the telltale sheen of half-digested liquor. His eyes are haggard, mouth twisted up like he’s not sure whether to laugh or scream. Maybe it wasn’t an awful night for Gene, but someone’s clearly taking the brunt of it.

“I hope not,” he observes, cocking his head slightly at another thud from inside the dumpster. “Strange sorta hobby.”

“It’s just that Julian — well, he’s an asshole, right, and he ain’t used to drinking like the rest of us — lightweight. You know how it is. He don’t have any rights.” As if to emphasize the point, the kid aims a kick at the side of the dumpster. From within, Julian yelps. “We try not to give ‘im too much, but he was real rattled from the whole thing, so we thought —“

“I remember.” Gene distinctly recalls Bill Guarnere’s unusual order, and the effort it took for him to remain stone-faced through it. “Vodka schnapps.”

“Yeah. A fuck-load of ‘em.” The kid offers up a smile, crooked and half-desperate. Whatever the hell his heart does in the moment, Gene isn’t prepared; it feels like a mini heart attack. To cover up, he hastily turns his gaze back on the dumpster again, making out like he’s more concerned than he really is. “I was gettin’ ready to call an Uber, but my phone — if some jackass hadn’t tried snatching it outta my hands, and then not let go ‘til it went flying —“

“Blamin’ me? Babe! Butterfingers!”

“Shut up, you!” Butterfingers Babe aims another kick at the dumpster’s side. This time, Julian shouts . His friend doesn’t seem a bit concerned. “Just find the damn thing!”

“You got an iPhone 6! ‘S right where it belongs!”

“You wanna buy me a new one?”

Julian has to pause, like he’s genuinely considering it. Butterfingers Babe taps his foot. Eugene crosses his arms and waits.

“Like hell,” Julian finally declares, and a new round of thunks echo from within the garbage can.

“Okay,” says Gene. That’s all it takes to get Butterfingers’s attention back on him, like for a moment he’d genuinely forgotten Gene was there. As soon as their eyes lock, though, the kid flashes him a smile like Gene’s never seen before — downright fluorescent, definitely lit up by liquor, but something more, too. Gene’s never smiled like that at a stranger; hell, he’s never smiled like that in his life, and definitely never had one sent his way.

It takes a minute for his thoughts to snap back on track again, still wavering dangerously, like the kid’s grin has shot the wheels right out from under him. “Okay,” he says again, clearing his throat. “Uhh, if you want, I can just call you a ride.”

“Nah, that ain’t your job. Thanks, but you don’t gotta —“

“I don’t mind.” Gene shrugs, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans to hide them from the biting cold. “Don’t actually work here anyways, so…”

Butterfingers Babe’s brows furrow. Slowly, he tilts his head.

“You mean, you… just walked in and started pouring drinks, then?”

It takes an inhuman amount of effort for Gene to hide a smirk. “Yeah. Call it a hobby.”

“You can do that? Holy shit.” The kid stamps his foot on the ground, turning to the trash can as if genuinely forgetting that his buddy can’t react back at him. “Did you hear that? Julian! We could take over a bar for real!”

“Always been your fantasy, babe, not m— ahh , god dammit, there’s a rat!”

As the eight circle of hell echoes from inside the dumpster, Butterfingers turns his wide grin back on Gene. “So, how do you even — like…” As his words trail off, his smile calcifies at the corners, before crumbling away. “Hey, you’re yanking my chain, arentcha?”

Now Gene really can’t help it — he smiles, quick and unashamed. “Sorry.”

“You really got my hopes up.” He doesn’t look too upset, though, even as he drags a hand through his struggle hair and shakes his head. “Damn. New plan, Jules.”

“Call,” shrieks Julian, “the police! The army! Satan!”

“Must be the name of the rat,” Gene observes sagely.

Butterfingers crosses both arms over his chest, and takes a step back, bracing against his heel. Gene mirrors the casual posture. The both watch for a few moments, enjoying the show, as Julian apparently wrestles with one of Philadelphia’s notorious cannibal street rats and emerges victorious from the fray. At last, he breaks into fresh air, exploding from between bags of garbage like the parasite in Alien . His black hair is a scruffy mess, there are scratches on his cheeks that he’ll definitely need some shots for, and when he thrusts his arm into the air, a banana peel dangles from it.

“I found it! I found your goddamn phone!”

“Amazing,” Butterfingers drawls. “Now can we get outta here before my nose freezes off my freakin’ face? All the booze in the world can’t make tonight warm.”

Julian makes a noncommittal noise, and suddenly vanishes back into the garbage bag abyss again, like someone’s grabbed his leg and pulled.

“For chrissakes , Julian!”

“He always like this?” Gene can’t help but ask. “I mean… has he done similar stuff, in the time you’ve been…” Butterfingers stares blankly at him. Gene gestures vaguely, as if that stands a chance of making his meaning any clearer. “I mean. Not to be rude.”

“You ain’t being rude. He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, but…” Gene clears his throat, intensely uncomfortable. “Did he do this on your first date, too?”

“Dating?” The word escapes the kid’s mouth in a squawk loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Gene jumps, and scrambled to regain his composure; in that time, Butterfingers has already doubled over, wheezing. “Jesus, Julian, didja know we’re on a date?”

“No kidding,” Julian calls from inside the dumpster. “Y’gotts tell me these things, Babe.”

With two drunken strangers laughing in his face at three in the morning — one of them hanging out of a dumpster — Gene suddenly feels like the fool. To be fair, what else is he supposed to think — hearing Babe, Babe, over and over again?

“My name’s Babe,” the Babe in question clarifies. “I mean — it’s really Edward, but everyone calls me Babe, even my ma, though she says —“

“No one cares,” says Julian. “Now goddamn help me, huh? The rat’s comin’ back.”

Suddenly, ending this encounter as soon as possible— and saving whatever dignity he has left — is more tempting than a twelve-hour nap. Gene gestures towards the struggling Julian with renewed eagerness. “We should probably —“

“Yeah, we really should!” agrees Babe, spinning back around again. Only then does Gene feel comfortable getting closer. Somehow, with lots of trial and error, they each manage to seize hold of one of Julian’s gangly arms. With a great tug, they haul him out. He ends up sprawled on the pavement, a lot worse for wear, but with an iPhone in his hand.

“Ha ha,” he declares, and, victorious, flops backwards onto the filthy ground. “Ha ha ha, ha. I did it.”

“Sure did, buddy,” Babe agrees, snatching the phone out of his hand. His nose crinkles as soon as he’s holding it; too quickly, he tosses it back down onto Julian’s chest, wiping his hand off on the rear of his jeans. The alleyway isn’t that well-lit, but when he looks back up, Gene catches a spark of hope in his eyes.

“Hey, y’know, I don’t mean to ask —“

Gene’s already ordering the Uber. “It’s no problem.”

Grateful, Babe gives him his address, and tucks his thumbs in his pockets as Gene sends the order through. When Gene holds up the phone for his inspection, he huffs in relief. “Twelve dollars, huh? I’ll pay you back.” He goes pawing through his pants, urgency increasing when both pockets turn up empty. “Shit, I mean — when I come back again, some other night, I’ll —“

“I won’t be here.” In spite of himself, Gene feels a stab of regret. “Actually don’t work here, I was just filling in tonight. As a favor to Smokey.”

Babe huffs a laugh, and it inflates Gene’s chest, warming him in spite of the bitter January chill. “That’s real great of you.” Babe runs a hand through his hair again, almost awkward, though the way he bounces on his heels dulls any tension between them. “I mean, I still feel bad —“

“Uber’s coming in two minutes,” Gene observes.

“Right! Umm, umm, ya know what —“ Babe snaps his fingers, then suddenly lunges forward, gesturing towards the phone in Gene’s hand. “My number! Is that okay? I could give you, and then, we could just —“

“Sure,” Gene says, in the same second as Babe blurts out, “Yeah?” They blink at each other for a second before Gene echoes, “Yeah,” and Babe exclaims “Sorry”, still at the same time.

As Babe claps a hand over his mouth, he can’t seem to help snorting. “Jesus Christ, I’m a lot better at this when I’m less sober — swear to you, just gimme the chance to prove it. My number, it’s 215—“

Gene’s quick fingers tap the number into his contacts, despite the chill gradually creeping its way into each digit. He titles the contact “Edward”... and then, after a second thought, adds “Babe” in parentheses. Just to keep from mixing him up with Cousin Edward from Lafayette. 

A sleek grey car sidles up to the curb. Gene checks the license plate and nods towards it. 

“That’s your ride,” he says, and the weight of parting presses down against his chest until his ribs creak beneath it. “See you… around then, Edward.”

“Edward?” A squawk like that has no right to sound damn charming . “Aww, c’mon, what’d I just say —“

“Save ‘Babe’ for the second date,” Julian advises, still flat on the ground. His friend aims a precise kick to his ribs; grunting, Julian jolts upright, only to be hauled to his feet by Babe’s grip on the collar of his jacket. They lead each other forward, both stumbling over their own feet — though for Babe, that might be just the effort of leading his friend along. Or the vodka schnapps. Hard to be sure.

At the last moment, Babe looks up through the Uber’s brightly lit window and raises a hand to Gene. Gene waves back, half-smiling, until the car pulls away.

Left alone on a street corner at well past three in the morning, he sighs and tucks his phone back in his pocket. It’s an ungodly hour; he’s got work tomorrow; his schedule can barely accommodate his body’s inconvenient need for sleep, let alone falling in love.

But maybe, just maybe, Gene can fit in a few extra shifts at Smokey’s sometime soon.

[aziraphaleandcrowley]

Tldr: me word vomiting lots of random emotions and thoughts I’ve been having about my life. Would put under a read more but tumblr mobile is shite. Ignore if you wanna, I just needed to throw this into the world cos I’ve been so socially distant from everyone in my life that I haven’t spoken to anyone about this, and I’m not sure I would’ve even if I actually replied to my friends more than once in a blue moon

...............................................................

Me: honestly convinced I’m never gonna find romantic love cos I’m ace and probably aro - at the very least I’ve never been attracted to/interested in someone enough to want to date them and the whole being sexually attracted to someone and looking a people and wanting to have sex with them sounds fake and doesn’t resonate with me at all.

Me: is theoretically a very sex favourable and positive person but the idea of sex with someone I’m not dating is just so weird to me but damn do I wish there was someone who knew me and my likes and dislikes to be intimate with

Me: is super duper disappointed to not experience love/sex but is simultaneously doing literally zero to create opportunities cos I just don’t speak to anyone outside of my family and colleagues, and the one single guy I had any interest in at work is gay and has left.

Me: reads fanfic constantly and I’m now wondering whether it is beneficial in distracting me from my loneliness or enhancing it. I think both. I think I need a break from fanfic at the very least but honestly don’t know what I’d do without it cos it’s been my go to hobby for so many years and I legit read for 30+ hours a week and that’s soo much time to fill???

Me: really doesn’t want to have kids in the future cos I don’t understand kids in the slightest and pregnancy is terrifying and I still feel like a child myself and I know this is something which may change in the future but I don’t think so and my mum bringing up wanting grandkids on a near weekly basis recently is kinda starting to put me on edge cos I’m already starting to feel like a disappointment cos I’m an only child and I’m the only opportunity for grandkids - which I know is ridiculous but it how I feel and that’s valid

Me: with my grandad in hospital (he’s gonna be fine, he would be out of hospital if he actually did what the doctors and nurses said about doing exercises etc) it has made me think about the family I do have which is: my mum, my dad, my grandad and my uncle. That’s it. I have two other uncles and several cousins etc who I see maybe once a year but they don’t really count.

Me: has a handful of really amazing friends who I haven’t spoken to in months and I don’t even really know why. They’ve all messaged me and I just havent replied. I’m not trying to actively push them away like I did with a friend in the past who I just felt drained with in the end whenever we interacted, but honestly every time I get a message I just feel exhausted at the prospect of ongoing social interaction. And it’s silly cos I know exactly the kind of thing I could message people about to start a conversation, like I could talk to Emily about finally watching Hamilton and how it’s been two weeks and I’m still listening to song on repeat and how she was right about how good it is and yet it’s been a week and a half since I’ve thought about sending that message and yet I haven’t and just uggghhhh @me

Me: is horrified by the idea of being alone for life romantically, and knowing that between my ever dwindling family and me not talking to my friends that being alone if more likely that I ever want to think about

Me: wants to live a happy life of my own but don’t know how to. I want to move out but can’t afford to on my own and it’s super impractical when I can live with my parents for £20 per week for food. But god forbid if anything happens to one of my parents I’m gonna be stuck at home forever cos I have so little family and my parents have literally no one else to turn to.

Me: wants to do a masters in gender and sexuality studies writing about representations of asexuality on screen but I know I could write and entire book which would be great for phd level but I missed the deadline to apply cos June was crazy and all I’ve been doing recently is working 6 days a week then working on my car for a day before working another 6 days. And even if I did a masters and maybe eventually a phd I have no idea what I’d actually do with it? I have so little ambition for anything right now and the future is just a void of mystery in which I don’t even know what I want???

Me: is starting to think I might actually be kinda depressed. I’ve thought it on and off for longer than I’ll ever admit but I’d do quizzes online and they’d say I wasn’t so I didn’t really think too much more about it (and yes I know an online quiz is shit and means nothing but there’s no one I would want to talk to about it cos I feel like I have to be strong for the people around me and shit but yeah). I know I’m not happy, but that doesn’t necessarily equal depressed. All I know is I’m uninspired and I feel kinda empty. Doing stuff I do enjoy, if I actually do it, just makes me feel tired half the time so I end up trying to nap instead but then I don’t sleep great either, waking up in the night or when my dad is getting ready for work so I very rarely get a solid 8 hours of sleep. I’m irritable a lot too...

Me: even if I am depressed what does it matter? Like it does matter ofc, but my mum is on media for depression and it’s taking her weeks to get an appointment with the doctor to try and get a different dosage. I’m not a danger to myself or others, I’m unhappy, but who isn’t with COVID going on and there are people who need mental health services more than me. Which is really hypocritical of me to say cos I’ve told my best friend so many times that trauma and mental health etc aren’t competitions of who has it worse but it’s the truth. Also my mum and colleagues access the only mental health resources in town and I do not want to deal with interactions with people I know whilst trying to improve my mental health.

Me: I don’t know how many times I’ve said it in posts like this but something needs to change. I was set on a good course at the start of the year. I was getting out, socialising, doing new things, inspired to cook, learn to new music and change my lifestyle, and then COVID happened and since all of that has slowly drained away and I need to find a change to revitalise that. I’d hoped getting back to having driving lessons and working on my car would be a start, and to be fair it’s been less than two week since I restarted doing that, so maybe I can find a new spark of inspiration still. Within a couple of months I will pass my driving test. Hopefully it won’t take much longer than that to get my car finished and on the road (hopefully it’ll take two weeks to finish putting the rear end back together so we can finally get my car back on four wheels, then it’s just lots of little jobs which hopefully won’t take too long). The weather is supposed to be decent this week so I might work up the effort to go for a walk down the fields which always seems to relax me a little. And the cinema reopens at the end of the month so I’d finally have an excuse to get out of the house (I know COVID is not over and things should not be going back to normal any time soon, but I need to do something other than go work for 4 hours everyday and spend 90% of my time at home and most of that time in bed because I have nowhere else to go). I don’t know what else I can be hopeful for in the coming weeks but that’s a start and just listing them out here has made me feel a little better so.

I keep thinking about Patrick from Schitt s Creek, leaving his hometown to escape a life which didn’t fit him and finding everything he needed in a tiny town in rural Canada, and wishing I could do the same, but I know I’d just end up even more alone because I am not a social person in the slightest and don’t kno how to be despite knowing that me making changes is the only way to improve myself.

And then a line from Hamilton about death is easy, living is harder, and I want to make it abundantly clear that I do not in any way, shape or form want to die, but living is hard and I have an easy life. I have enough money that I was able to loan my dad the money to buy a car, and still have more savings after that than he does, I have a good that if not particularly well paid I do enjoy and I’m good at, my family live me in their own way, even tho I feel that part of my social distance and reluctantance towards others is because no one in my family is particularly socially inclined.

Maybe I just really need a hug.

I don’t even know where I’m going with this anymore but I just had so much build of of words in my brain that they had to go somewhere and this has turned into my go to word vomit place

Things will get better. I don’t know when or how but they will. But they won’t if I don’t get enough sleep for a starters. So off to bed I go. If you’ve read all this thank you, I guess, for listening cos I’m not sharing this with anyone irl just yet. And I’m sorry this is so long but tumblr mobile doesn’t let me put in a read now but I want this out in the world even tho no one will see it

[notmyrick]

General Arc 3

/She had a Rick once, but she also had a Diane. Then she had a Beth. / Roxanne came back from a small business trip cross country and was in front of the house in Michigan. It's been only 3 months and she opened the door to the one-story house. As soon as she opened it a little blonde tornado came running at her screaming her name. She jovially picked her up and spun her around before placing her back down. "Missed me I see." She smiled at the child. Beth nodded and dragged her to the living room to show her what she was reading. The redhead nodded her head as the child rehashed the entire child's book to her. "You're welcome." A male voice said as he dropped her luggage on the floor of the living room. She looked a Beth and said," Truly, poor service, when did we hire this rude butler of ours?" Beth giggled as she ran up to her father and asked politely to take her luggage to her room. Rick glared at Roxx as he couldn't refuse his daughter and lugged the rectangular storage to her room. She high fived Beth in the process. Diane came out and smiled at both. Roxx got up and hugged Diane, before asking about her day. At dinner she dropped the figurative bomb on them. "We're moving to Washington." After a heated discussion when Beth was asleep, they (mostly Diane) caved in, and they were off to Washington with a two story house in the suburbs. /She had a Rick once, but she also had a Diane. Then she had a Beth. / The transition was smooth and to be honest, the relationship between the three was at an all-time high, until Roxx got busy with work again. Although Beth didn't witness her biological parents fighting, she still suspected something wrong. When Roxx was gone for relatively long periods of time, Beth would notice some tension between her parents, but couldn't figure out why. The redhead herself was tired. After a long day at work, or after a company trip, or some government bullshit she somehow got tangled into, she would come home with a 50/50 chance at either coming home to a loving family or be a mediator between Rick and Diane. In addition, she tried to distract Beth as much as possible from her parent’s arguments. Typically they try to do it when she's asleep, but some arguments were spilled over to the next day, god forbid the rest of the week. It was one of those arguments that bled to the next day when Roxx finally got a day off. She was tired but could hear the angry whispers of the two in the adjacent room. She got up and dragged Beth away from the house informing the two of them of their departure. She refused to play mediator today and decided to be the fun-loving aunt for Beth. Rick and Diane can have a brawl at the house as she distracts Beth. "Why do mommy and daddy always fight?" She asked. The redhead sighed, this child was either perceptive as hell or Diane and Rick suck at hiding their arguments around her. "People in general fight over disagreements, big or small. This is common, unhealthy, but common. It will be fine; your parents love each other. They can sort things out." She replied. "They don't fight as much when your around though? I mean maybe in the beginning, but in a few days, everything is fine, and we are one big happy family again!" The older woman didn’t give her a reply. She knew Beth was smart enough to understand her own words. "Where are we going?" the child asked. "Visiting some friends." She took Beth to a hospital dedicated to army vets. Due to her political, government bullshit, she invested into a hospital for Veterans for whatever reason. She watched as Beth filtered through the vets making each one smile a bit brighter. "And this limb right here, your aunt gave me!" "No way! How? Did she grow a leg for you like a lizard! I learned from my dad  that a lizard can grow its tail back when it's cut off!" The army vet laughed and told Beth multiple stories how Roxx and her "friends" helped each person in this hospital. Roxx rolled her eyes, she just threw money at morally ethical geniuses. They weren't her friends, but employees. However, she can still see the joy and happiness all these vets feel toward her and the staff here. She brought Beth along so she can be in a happy and carefree environment. "I've decided! I want to become a surgeon so I can help just like my aunt!" Beth proclaimed. Roxx smiled walked up to Beth and gave her a hug, not letting her out of her arms even as they walked home. /She had a Rick once, but she also had a Diane. Then she had a Beth. / The fights got worse and Roxx was tired of playing mediator. The long business trips she dreaded became her savior from coming back home to another argument between Rick and Diane. She only came home to spend time with Beth as a momentary distraction for the both. Rick and Diane started yelling at her to stay out of their arguments or start blaming her for not meditating between them. She got so many mixed signals that it caused her to break down more than once in her office. She spent more time with Beth at the hospital because that seemed to be their safe haven. Beth's interest to become a surgeon grew and she grew rapidly smart under her colleagues. Since they have been spending more and more time at the hospital, Roxx also got interested in the medical field and learned from them as well and befriended some the of nurses and doctors. One night got particularly bad at home. It was late night and Beth was asleep. All three were in the living room with a dim light casted over them. As usual, Rick and Diane where whisper arguing while Roxx tried to diffuse the situation with a different tactic other than booze. "You are never home anymore, you're always drunk, and when you do come home it's in the early hours in the morning!" "Where I go, what I do, it's my business! You're not my guardian, you are my wife, and I don't need to tell you what I am doing with my life every second of every day!" "It is because I am your wife that I have the right to know!" "Well it is my right to choose if I want you to know or not!" They finally bothered to looked at the redhead wanting to put her cent in. She looked at both, tired as all hell. "Okay, let's - on second thought, let me be Paris and we will all agree on a compromise. Sound good?" Initially she wanted to say, "let's all calm down", but she knew that just adds fuel to the fire and she really didn't want Beth to wake up. They both gave her a look. Really, this is where they agree! She had to pick a side for this argument to end because of the 2:1 vote they implemented way back when. She was not going to pick a side because the fighting only got worse. She tried to mediate between them again. "Fine! You want sides, then I'll be Switzerland. I am not picking any of your sides!" "So typical of you to be "neutral" Roxx." Rick said. "And what does that mean?!" "You never "pick" a side because it never concerns you. You say you want to help us, and self-proclaimed yourself as a "mediator", but you haven't done anything!" Diane also argued. Fuck being Switzerland, she'll be Germany! A war on both fronts! "Excuse me!" "Yes excuse yourself, just like the last time and the time before that, you have an entire list of excuses you've used under the guise of compliancy and compromise!" Diane continued. "Son of a bitch, you know what! Both of you are in the wrong! Diane, I have told you time and time again how Rick is, but you never heed any of my advice, you think because you’re some top-grade psychologist you know the human psyche better than anyone! Well news flash, Rick and I don't fit your cookie cutter mold! You're trying to fit a god damn square in a circle! And you, Rick, should know better than anyone else how it feels for their spouse to be gone for copious amounts of time! Coming back at ungodly hours, having so little contact with them to the point you look for someone else to fill the void. For fucks sake, you got lonely, banged this bitch, and got hitched! Only until you realized you were going to be a father that you told me! And it wasn’t even on your accord, you told me mid argument to piss me the fuck off!" "Did you ever thought of how I felt moving across the damn continent for YOUR job!" "I ASKED you! You had the option to say no!" "And what! Wait 5 years for you to come back!" "The ONLY reason we stayed 5 years in Michigan was because YOU banged Diane and had a child! The most time it would've taken for my trip was 2 years max!" "2 years for you to bang your coworkers while I'm in Seattle!" But that accusation was drowned out when Diane began to talk. "Don't you dare blame me! I didn't just go to the bar, saw the first man there, and seduced him!" "Might as well done it! As soon as you figured he was "married" you plotted to remove me from the equation!" "Your so called "marriage" wasn't even real! And by Rick's stance at the time, your relationship was hanging by a thread, if not already cut off!" "And so you thought "this motherfucker is single, well why don't I spread my legs and tie him down by his dick!” Did you honestly thought you could've had a Hallmark ending!" "Whoa, wait a fucking second! I never said my relationship with Roxx was hanging by a thread! I was pissed and I was angry, and all I wanted to do that night was get drunk!" "So you went to the bar with a hot blonde psychologist!"  "I went to the bar alone! I met with Diane by accident! I was already drinking by the time she recognized me! She also had a rough day so I bought her some drinks-" "Don't you dare say you bought me drinks out of courtesy, I saw you eyeing me through our entire conversation and you were sober enough to know what you’re doing!" "Stop! You cannot play innocent with me, princess! I know you calculated your fucking encounter with Rick so don't even try! Then you, Rick, thought with your dick and blew a load in her!" The conversation took a turn for the worse, opening up multiple cans of worms. "FUCK YOU, admit this is all your fault!" Rick exploded. "You KNEW your job was going to take long nights in the office! And you knew Rick was going to be lonely for majority of the day! You set him up for separation anxiety!" Diane jumped in.  Rick and Diane ganged up on her, alternating their arguments so she couldn't get a word in. "Not only that, but every god damn time I went to your office, your receptionist ALWAYS said you're TOO busy to see me!" "You ignored him for essentially a year! In addition, all our arguments are about YOU!" "Whenever there is an argument, you are the first one to dip out!" "You grab MY daughter early morning and don't come back till dinner time! You are never present in our arguments! It is not only Rick and I that have problems. We also have problems with you!" "You only come to us individually to play "angel" and get us to trust you more, not each other!" "You call me a manipulator, but you've been orchestrating this entire marriage to fail!" "If you weren't here we would not have these arguments! We wouldn't have these conflicts! We would be living happily with our daughter Beth!" "GET OUT!" Roxx yelled, anger contorting her expression. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" "WE ALL LIVE HERE DIPSHIT!" "WELL, GUESS THE FUCK WHAT, THE HOUSE IS UNDER MY NAME, UNDER MY PROPERTY, UNDER MY TAX PAYABLES. SO, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT. BOTH OF YOU!" Rick threw his hands up in the air and walked out through the garage, while Diane left through the front door. Both left in their respective vehicles to find shelter. Roxx stumbled to both exits and locked the door behind them when she saw their vehicles leave. As soon as she accomplished that, she collapsed. Ugly broken sobs ripped from her throat while she dug her nails to break her skin. She tried to stop the sobs by slowly decreasing her intake of oxygen. Her hands trailed from her shoulder to her neck as she wrapped them around her flesh. It was working, but the tear production increased. When the tears ran down her face, over her hands and soaked her neck she started clawing the tear stains in disgust. She crawled herself to a dark corner where the light wouldn't hit her as she broke down as her breathing increased. Her heart wouldn't stop beating and it annoyed her greatly, she wanted to feel pain, she wanted to numb herself, she wanted to die. However, at the same time she wanted comfort. And she was uncomfortable when she curled into a ball. She knew that being curled up into the ball was her safest position when she broke down, but she wasn't in the sanest of minds right now. She felt more comfortable twisting her limbs in odd directions, uncomfortable positions, dangerous arrangements. The feeling that her bones may snap felt comforting. Like she was a marionette on a string and once that string was cut, it will finally be free. She didn't like the pain in her heart, but she knew it was just chemicals in the brain making her believe there is pain in the heart. She was healthy, but at the same time she was not. She banged her head against the wall wanting her brain to stop fucking around and make her function normally. However, the pain she was in was translated in the brain like serotonin. It felt good. It felt nice. She cried some more knowing this was not normal, but it felt right. She was about to hit her head harder against the wall when some mass stopped her. "Please... please... Aunt Roxy stop hurting yourself. Don't... don't leave me as well." As if a lightbulb went off in her head, she grabbed the small mass into a hug and clung onto her like a life preserver. Roxanne held her gently and finally felt the pain of her own ministrations. Her head was dazed, her neck was scratchy and red, her shoulders were slightly bloody for breaking skin, and her limbs were sore. She barely recognized the clock hanging over head. 3am.

[the-gay-cryptid]

I Love My Mom, But-

I was thinking about intrusive thoughts lately. How they interact with me. For the most part I don’t really struggle with them, which is fortunate. They prefer to take the more typical form of “what if you just slammed on the gas and went top speed” or “what if you murdered your family? How would you do it?” and while the thoughts are certainly startling in the moment, I learned a long time ago that they don’t define me. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but it helped that I had an obsession with psychology and a brother who shared that fascination and never feared to share his thoughts and reflect on them as they were: mere thoughts.

 But in recent years, they’ve learned. They still tell me I should sneak out. Or steal that makeup palette. But every once in a while, they choose to be subtle.

 Just some soft passing notes on how I’ve barely put effort into searching for scholarships. Or a little observation that I haven’t learned a lot of basic skills necessary for adulthood. And more and more, these subtle intrusive thoughts sound like my mother.

 I think horrible things about myself, and more and more it has ceased to be my own voice, and instead become hers. But who does that say more about?

 My counselor, a lovely woman named Mae, tells me that what people say about me is more of a reflection of them than me. My mom telling me I’m being lazy isn’t actually indicative of my effort, but of my mom’s own fear and anxiety about my future. My anxiety, and intrusive thoughts by extension, are nothing more than the internalized concerns of other people about themselves. So what does it say when the voice that tells me I look fat, that I’m over reaching my abilities, that I can’t make it, is my mom?

 She’s not a bad person. No more than the average person is anyway. 

 I forget her name, but in the aftermath of the holocaust, there was a woman who proposed that there is no such thing as someone who is “good” or “bad”, but that all humans are born with equal ability to commit atrocities and kindness. It was a scary thought at the time, because it meant anyone could become like the Nazis, and it was much more comfortable to simply dehumanize them and pretend that they were born evil. 

 My mom is a good person in terms of generics. She is not racist. She strives to employ and work with people of color. She’s far from sexist. She instilled in me a strong belief in equality of the sexes and she is deliberate in and out of work to uplift women. She is not homophobic or trans phobic. She struggles to understand sometimes, but she tries. She is not dismissive of mental health. She is the one I go to when I have anxiety attacks, and she’s the one who suggested I go to counseling for it, and she tries to accommodate me when my mental health gets to be too much.

 But she’s not perfect. No one is, but sometimes her flaws are so glaring it’s hard to see much else.

 My freshmen year was the first time I had an anxiety attack. I remember it had to do with my algebra grade. I remember standing in my parents room as my mother stared my down, her mouth pressing into and ever thinning line as she waited for any kind of excuse. By then I’d learned it was best to apologize. So I said “I’m sorry.” she demanded to know what for. I didn’t know. So I said “I’m sorry I’m failing.” She grounded me. I was grounded most of freshmen year.

 I went to my room with my eyes burning and my hands shaking. I sank onto the floor with my back against my bed. The metal frame dug into my spine and hurt, but it kept me grounded so i pressed harder and harder. I curled up, knees at my chest and nails pressing through my sleeves as i tried to catch my breath. I couldn’t cry. I wasn’t supposed to cry. It would make her angrier. I wasn’t allowed to feel bad for something that was my fault. I couldn’t be upset with her because I’m the one who fucked up. It’s my fault she was mad and I didn’t deserve to be upset.

 She I sat shaking and whimpering and biting my lip and fighting the rising scream in my chest until it began its decline and I could breathe. My breaths were still violent and much too fast and I was dizzy and my chest hurt and vague descriptions of heart attacks stumbled around my head. Logic and reason were fast and frantic and broke like waves against the concrete fact that I was a bad student. A bad daughter. A bad person.

 My parents found me curled like that, unable to move. My dad handed me a rolled up towel, I don't know why, but I clutched it to my chest and bit down on it and strained screams through my teeth while they watched. When I finished, when I finally could move, I was still shaking. Everything buzzed and felt weak, like the time I’d run a mile in gym class with too much enthusiasm.

 Dad held my shoulders, rubbing my arms a little too hard. But that helped. The certainty of him being there. Mom sat on the bed and waited. 

 “I think you just had a panic attack” Dad said gently. I nodded. That fit. Those words were a good descriptor.

 “I couldn’t breathe.” the words come out shaky and slurred. Some of them had to be forced. “I couldn’t move.”

 “Now that you’re calmed down,” Mom said, “we need to figure out what to do about your grades.” I was not calm. I felt scraped out and sick, but I wasn’t allowed to.

 I looked up what an honors class was, because despite telling me what a good thing it was, no one ever actually bothered to tell me what it was. Then I suggested that maybe I shouldn’t take an honors math class, considering that I wasn’t suited to math to begin with. Mom wouldn’t let me.

 I had a lot of anxiety attacks after that. Always school related. Always after conversations with my mom. I dreaded Monday mornings when my mom would receive and email with my updated grades. I hid in the bathroom until it was time to go and would try to avoid telling her bye, because then I’d have to face her. 

 One morning I didn’t have a choice. I met her in the kitchen, and she went off. She didn’t yell. Mom never yells. She is just..stern. Just an even tone telling me I was being lazy and irresponsible and she was spending a lot of money to send me to this school and i was wasting it. I said sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. She said sorry wasn’t good enough. I promised to do better, I promised I’d study more, I promised to talk to my teachers, do extra credit, ask for help. She said she didn’t believe me.

 Then she threatened to pull me out. She said maybe I wasn’t ready for such an advanced school. And that if I was just going to waste her money, she was going to pull me out because she was not spending thousands of dollars just so I could fail. I remember sinking down to my knees, begging her not to make me leave. I loved my school. I loved my friends. I loved my teachers. 

 She told me to get the hell up. She glared down at me and told me to stop crying. She watched as I nearly made myself sick crying, and then said she didn’t want to look at me right now and left for work. 

 I got up and went to the bathroom. I drank several glasses of water, cleaned my face, and did my makeup to hide how red my face was. I don’t think I talked that day. It hurt too much.

 It would take several more groundings, lectures, and anxiety attacks for us to finally realize that I didn’t know how to fucking study. Then it was all about getting mad that I never asked for help. Then it was more apologies and thinking to myself about how if I admitted I was in a bad enough place to need help, she might have thought I was a failure.

 The anxiety continued. My teachers were good people though, and let me retake tests. My dad taught me how to study. My mom grounded me when I slipped. 

 When I started being too scared to order my own food, or talk at the doctor, or meet new people, they got worried. When I was scared to speak, they worried. When I had to hide in the bathroom and wait for the shaking to pass at least once a week, they really worried.

 Mom was the one who took me to Mae. she still took the lead and told Mae what was wrong with me. But she also suggested I might do better in one on one sessions instead of sitting there with my parents.

 One day, driving back from one of these sessions, she asked me if she was a cause of my anxiety. I’d always blamed school related stress and meeting new people for it. But I looked at her. And I thought about how many times she’d told me to stop crying. All the grounding. The threats to take my door. The guilt trips. The dismissals. The way she cried when my older brother told her how her disciplining methods hurt him. How my brother became the ungrateful one. The one who lacked any compassion for his own mother. 

 “No.” I lied. “You’re not.”

 Things got better, I think. She recognized my anxiety. She still causes most of my anxiety attacks, even indirectly.

 And now I’m in a place to examine our relationship. I love my mom, and she loves me. But she loves me the way she knows how. And she’s never hit me. She’s never intentionally caused me grief. She’s only hurt me because she thought I needed the push to succeed. She puts weight on school and scholarships to encourage me. She knows that encourages her. She doesn’t know that what encourages her hurts me. She’s not to blame.

 Even if I have told her it hurts. Even if I’ve grown in confidence enough to tell her when she’s hurting me. Even if I’ve asked my dad to explain that her throwing her stress on me only helps her. Even if I’ve begun to realize all the ways she accidentally manipulates me. She’s not to blame.

 Mom works hard. Mom’s just trying to help. Don’t tell Mom she’s the reason your hands shake. Don’t hurt Mom’s feelings by telling her that she’s made your brain fucked up. Don’t hurt Mom like she hurt you. Mom gets to throw her stress on yours, and if you tell her that what she’s doing is wrong she’ll feel bad, and God forbid she feel guilt. Don’t let Mom know she’s imperfect. 

 So my Mom is the voice of my intrusive thoughts. And she’s the primary origin of my anxiety. And she’s the reason I hate my body. And she’s the reason I’m scared of school. And she’s the reason my villains are mothers. And she’s the reason I’m in counseling. And she’s the reason I think it’s bad to cry. And she’s the reason I’d rather crash and burn in secret than admit I need help. And she’s the reason I doubt every choice. And she’s the reason I think I’m secretly a bad person. Only bad people hate their mom sometimes.

So who’s fault is it that I always say “I love my mom, but..”?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve been saying for a while that I wanted to talk about my relationship with my mom. so here it is. I’ve thought before that maybe it counts as abusive, but I really have no fucking clue because I can’t trust my judgement about her. I don’t know how much is over exaggerated anxiety or accurate perception or idolizing her because she’s my mom.

I think the best way to sum up our relationship is just confusing and probably unhealthy. not that I’d ever tell her that. not that I could. my brother did once and then I had to deal with the after math of my mom crying so much and my brother being forced to apologize.

so yeah. it’s ~complicated~

Now I feel like a piece of shit and would greatly appreciate anyone sending me nice messages. I’m gonna go take a bath to calm down.

[anarcho-smarmyism]

You have BPD? Shit man, that sucks. I dunno. I refuse to deal with that stuff. Threatened to quit my hospital job if they ever floated me to psych.

I understand why a lot of doctors and therapists don’t wanna work with people who have personality disorders. I don’t want to work with people who have personality disorders. Unfortunately for me, I have had no choice but to do so since I was a child, because almost everyone around me had some sort of issue like that. Or addiction. Or at the very least, some kind of deep-seated trauma from childhood because child abuse is, in many places, the rule rather than the exception. It’s a sad and terrible way to live, but the fact is that many people live their entire lives this way. Most of my loved ones have. But they are still people and they are still capable of learning to be better. The reason they don’t is that 9 times out of 10 they are denied the tools to do so, and when they inevitably fuck up somehow, everyone treats them as though they were lying about self-improvement the whole time.

I have seen the damage done to families when doctors refuse to accept the possibility that we actually can be genuine in our attempts to improve ourselves, when they refuse to even give us the time of day so we can pay them to help us try. Narcissistic men who are mistreated by doctors and then go and spend the rest of their lives convincing codependent women that psychiatry is fake, a way to manipulate them, a way to pump money out of them for being “zombies on medications”. Addicts who walk in looking for a way to save themselves and are turned away because they also have mental disorders and at the end of the day, it just isn’t worth anyone’s time and money to treat someone who probably won’t get better within 5 years. Battered women who show up looking for help and are sent back by the police and by the doctors who treat them, over and over, because to break the cycle would be a liability, or god forbid, charity work. Children separated from their families, thrown into foster care to fend for themselves, shuffled between family members like pieces of a board game that annoy everyone with their too-many backpacks full of clothes and books and favorite pillows. Men in their forties, uninsured tweakers, killed by their own doctors because they didn’t do the tests they needed to, and the medicine they gave him caused him a brain hemorrhage, and when he complained of a headache they sent him home with a $400 Advil. 

The shitty system isn’t your fault. The fact that you would quit your job before you even tried to help people like me is. In my opinion, this sort of shit goes against that promise doctors allegedly make at some point to never cause harm to a patient if they can help it, but as usual, no one is actually asking my opinion on how doctors treat patients. At the end of the day, I am still a recovering borderline, and I will be for decades at the very least. This could all just be manipulation, after all, I might not actually give a fuck about anything, I say no matter how much I seem like I do. I might be making all of this shit up for attention, even though I’m not (and I know that most of the people I’m talking about wouldn’t even care that I told these stories this publicly, so long as I don’t mention their names, because that’s how common this shit is.). You have the right to refuse to treat patients if you want to. I don’t know. I’m supposed to finally be scheduling a meeting with a therapist, after trying to go through state-provided services for the last 3 or 4 goddamn years of dealing with doctors like you, who are always just trying to give me mood stabilizers and shitty ineffective anxiety medications and antidepressants that cause manic episodes, even when I tell them I know for a fact it won’t work. 

So yeah, I’m trying my best to be “high functioning” and “sympathize with your point of view” right now, but it is really, really difficult.

[artificialqueens]

Withstanding The Test Of Time Ch5 - Shalaska - pureCAMP

A/N - I’ll be honest, I’ve entirely forgotten how to format fics on account of the fact that it’s been so long since I submitted. Nonetheless I’m here!! I’ve been a busy bee with school (year 11 woo - not) and mental breakdowns and periods of horrific self doubt but pffft that doesn’t matter.

It’s been a long time coming so here she is!

Irritatingly enough, Alaska had been true to her word. The party was small enough that the place wasn’t overwhelming, but large enough that Sharon could blend in, unnoticed, with nobody paying any attention to her.  She had dug out an old black ensemble that she had often wore when she went clubbing, pairing it with the darkest makeup and the largest heels she could find. To add a little bit of insult to injury, she had even taped over her timer again - the large ‘Alaska Thunderfuck’ was obscured by some offensively-matching black electrical tape.

  Sharon’s first port of call was to grab a drink, in an effort to find something to do with her hands and to avoid talking to anybody. She wanted a beer, but there was no such luck - she ended up content with a vodka and coke, surveying her surroundings.

  It didn’t take too long for her to find Alaska, what with the bubbliness she seemed to be overflowing with. She was in the same dress as she had been that afternoon, making her way around the room to graciously accept everybody’s congratulations. At least, Sharon thought to herself, they only really cared about Alaska. The last thing she wanted was a congratulations on caving to her fate.

  At that thought, she started to regret showing up. It wasn’t like she was going to have fun tonight. She might as well have stayed in Alaska’s home, spending her money on cheaply made horror films to pass the time until her new wife came stumbling home. That would’ve been preferable, but she was here now.

  Eventually, she decided to just use her phone as a crutch. Instagram was looking exciting, full of people who had better bodies, better lives and more money than her… Facebook was as bad as ever, with the baby bullshit… Twitter was filled with promotions for a movie she didn’t want to see… but it was fine. As long as she kept her head down, and pretended she was interested, no one would approach her.

  Her phone buzzed, the distraction as unwelcome as her boredom.

  Bianca: We need to talk

Bianca: Call me.

  Sharon rolled her eyes. Bianca had been a safe haven to Sharon for years, but she was beginning to feel as though the older woman only cared about her when she was of use. After all, Sharon was one of the few who was willing to get arrested for the cause, but that didn’t seem to mean anything outside of protesting.

  Stepping outside, she dialled the number, stretching her sore arm as she did and attempting to copy the exercises the doctors had told her to do.

  “So?”

  Sharon frowned. “Huh?”

  “Your timer? Did it go off?”

  Of course. With a huff of annoyance, Sharon rolled her eyes. “Why thank you for asking, Bianca, I am recovering well after being hit by a fucking car. Not that you seem to care, of course.”

  “Get over your attitude, kid. Did your timer go off?”

  “Yes, it did.” Sharon said shortly. “Is that the answer you want? Or do you want me to go into detail about how madly in love I am with my new soulmate, hmm? How deeply I regret joining your movement because now I know the feeling of true, real love, yes?”

  “Sharon, listen to me-”

  “No, Bianca, you fucking listen to me for once.” She said hotly, getting worked up. “I’ve done enough listening. I’ve been arrested for you, because I believe so strongly in our cause that I think it’s worth it. I was hit by a car - an actual fucking car - trying desperately to escape my fate because I was so upset that I’d have to succumb to the laws I’ve been fighting against with you since I was a fucking child. Today was the worst day of all, because it finally fucking happened. And I’ve had not an ounce of support or sympathy from you, all because your fucking timer will never run out, so you don’t care how it feels for anyone else. It feels like a trap, Bianca! It feels like someone has their hands around my neck and I can’t get out and not a goddamn word of support has come from you. I need you right now. I need somebody who will understand the desperation I’m dealing with. I was stupid enough to believe you’d care about me, and that you’d reach out. But you don’t, do you? You care about your fucking protests. And that’s it.”

  “Sharon-”

  “No.” Almost out of breath from her rant, Sharon decided to just end the call. “Fuck you.”

  Thanking anyone above that she had remembered to take the purse that contained her cigarettes and lighter, Sharon hurried to fish one out of the packet and lit it, bringing it to her lips with a sigh of relief. As she released the smoke, tilting her head upwards, she noticed Alaska was stood a few feet behind her, looking awkward.

  “Want a cigarette?” Sharon offered, slightly uncomfortably.

  Alaska, predictably, shook her head. “No, no thanks. I don’t smoke.”

  “Of course not,” Sharon took another drag. “You value your lungs, probably.”

  The blonde didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and she brushed off the comment with a shy smile. “That didn’t sound too good.”

  Sharon huffed. “She didn’t deserve all the years of my life that I gave to her. Then again, neither do you.”

  Alaska looked at the floor.

  “It’s nothing against you…” Sharon added, suddenly feeling a stab of guilt. “It’s this whole soulmate bullshit… like, I don’t know you. We don’t know each other. But all of a sudden I’m supposed to be yours for the rest of our lives.”

  “I know.” Alaska said quietly, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “You’ve made your views clear, Sharon. If you stopped to listen for one second, you’d realise that I haven’t tried to force mine on you. Am I upset? Of course. Have I tried to make you fall for me? Not even close.”

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “I don’t need this. I don’t know why I came out tonight-”

  “I don’t know why you came out tonight either!” Alaska exploded, angrier than Sharon had expected she could look. She usually came across as calm and collected, but not anymore. “What do you want from me? I’ve done all I can. And you know as well as I do that we’re soulmates because there’s something inside each of us that the other is going to fall for. You’re only hurting yourself by denying yourself that love.”

  “You soulmate-worshippers are all the fucking same.” Sharon spat, stubbing out her cigarette against the wall. “God forbid anybody have a different view to you, right?”

  Alaska scoffed. “A different view is one thing, Sharon, this is a matter of fucking fact. You’re the close-minded one here, not me.”

  She stalked off back into the party, clearly more than aggravated by their conversation. Sharon stubbed out her cigarette a little too aggressively into the wall, cursing as her fingers scraped against the rough brick. Sure enough, it had drawn blood.

  Childishly enraged, Sharon stamped her feet against the floor and left, deciding her chance her luck and walk to her new home. She had never been the best at controlling her impulsive anger, but she soon came to realize that she had bitten off her own nose to spite her face. In leaving the party, she had only cut herself off from an evening of potential drunkenness and dancing, and it wasn’t going to affect anyone but her. Alaska didn’t give a shit if she was at the party or not. But here was Sharon, stalking angrily down a road she didn’t recognise, hoping she would end up in the right place.

  Ha. What a painful metaphor for her life.

  Is it me? She wondered. Sharon had always been unpopular, a trait that came with being gay and weird and anti-soulmate in a world that revolved around the perfect marriage, but that had only followed her into adulthood. Her friend count had dwindled from a meagre three to a pathetic two, and even that was a stretch. Courtney wasn’t really a friend - she’d have nothing to do with her if it wasn’t for her marriage with Willam. Her relationship with Willam at present was rocky at best, and she’d just lost Bianca. Sasha was sweet but just a coworker - again, somebody who would never give her the time of day if they weren’t otherwise associated with one another - and that left Alaska. Alaska, her wife, who had hit her with a fucking car at the start of a clearly beautifully blossoming relationship.

  Sharon was angry. Far too angry. It was all her fault, and she knew it. Her own parents hated being around their miserable excuse for a daughter, and it was no wonder. She was going to be as shitty a wife as she was a friend.

  It wasn’t long before Sharon had to admit that not only was she a shitty person, a shitty friend and a shitty journalist, she was also a shitty navigator. In her anger, she had walked too far to turn back, but not far enough to recognise anything. Something told her she had taken a wrong turn - or many wrong turns - and she was pretty much hopelessly lost.

  She didn’t want to concede. It was only made worse by the fact that she picked up on the first ring.

  “Sharon?”

  “Where the fuck do you live?!”

  Sharon’s demanding tone caught Alaska by surprise. “What?”

  “I said, where the fuck do you live?”

  “Where are you?” Alaska had the audacity to sound concerned.

  “I don’t fucking know, Alaska. In case you didn’t get the message, I’m lost.”

  Her aggression was uncalled for and Sharon knew it, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. Alaska was probably the only person who could help her, and she was still spitting in her face as she begged.

  “Alright, I’ll come and get you. Stay put, and stay on the phone.”

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “Great idea. Drunk driving.”

  Alaska huffed, clearly irritated with her impertinence. “I’m not drunk, I haven’t drank anything tonight. Look, do you want my help or not?”

  Sharon bit her lip.

  “Thought so. Where are you?”

  As Sharon opened her mouth to snap back, Alaska cut in.

  “And don’t give me any ‘I don’t know, I’m lost’ crap. Look around, tell me what you can see, and I’ll come find you.”

  Letting out a sigh, Sharon deflated, feeling the anger in her chest dissipate into a bout of hopelessness and low self-esteem. “Uh… there’s like three Indian takeaways opposite me… I don’t fucking know, it’s dark. There’s a bank?”

  There was a pause. “Sharon, are you on Lilibeth Street?”

  She shrugged, and then realized Alaska couldn’t see her. “I don’t know! If I knew, I’d tell you!”

  “Go find the bus stop, if it’s Lilibeth Street then it’s next to the bank.”

  Sharon did as she was told. “Okay, yeah, that’s where I am.”

  “Jesus fuck, Sharon, how did you wind up there?”

  “I wasn’t thinking! I wasn’t looking, I don’t even know where you live so I had no idea where I was heading. Can you just hurry? I’m not feeling this area. Semi attractive woman alone at night in a place like this doesn’t feel so good.”

  She paused and corrected herself. “Passable looking woman.”

  Alaska ignored her, though Sharon swore she heard the fragmented beginning of a sentence, as though Alaska was going to argue. Instead, she simply stayed on the line, the sounds of traffic faint in the background indicative that she was true to her word and already on her way.

  “Just stay put and you’ll be okay.”

  Yet again, Sharon rolled her eyes. “Where else could I go?”

  “Not the point. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Both of them remained on the call, although neither spoke in the fifteen minutes it took for Alaska to drive from the party to Lilibeth Street. Sharon hadn’t realized how long she had been walking for, the anger having blinded her rational senses, but it had to have been a decent amount of time. She was embarrassed to have given in and asked for help, so embarrassed that she couldn’t even think of anything nasty to say down the phone. That was new.

  It was Alaska who broke the uncomfortable silence as Sharon spotted her car pulling up a few metres away.

  “I can see you! I won’t hit you this time, come over.”

  Sharon should’ve laughed. It was funny. But her bitter, resentful side took over and told her to cling to the tattered shreds of her pride. She ignored the joke, pushing aside Alaska’s attempt at a truce, and hauled herself into the passenger seat without a word.

  “Sorry it took so long.” Alaska said. “Weaving through everyone wasn’t so easy. Everyone wanted to talk to me.”

  Sharon snorted derisively. “Must be nice. Can’t say I’ve ever had that problem.”

  “Be thankful,” Alaska tried to make light of Sharon’s negativity, still unsure of how to deal with her. “It’s exhausting.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Sharon replied. “But having friends is better than having no friends, surely. I mean, face it, you don’t deserve me.”

  Alaska recoiled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong.” Sharon told her. “I know we argued earlier, but you’re still lovely and all that shit. I’m talking about how I’m the world’s biggest asshole and I look like the before picture. You could do better and you know it.”

  They lapsed into silence. Sharon had tried to sound nonchalant, if slightly disinterested, but she hadn’t succeeded. An atmosphere of awkwardness settled around them as it suddenly seemed far too clear that her words were laced with insecurity and hatred, rather than a punk defiance.

  Finally, Alaska managed, “I can’t believe you think that.”

  The car had come to a stop outside a house, which Sharon realized in the darkness was their house. Alaska parked but made no effort to get out of the car, letting the light come on and illuminate their over-tired faces.

  “Do you - do you really think I could do better?”

  Sharon frowned. “You think you couldn’t?”

  “No, I mean…” Alaska waved her away. “You don’t see…? God, Sharon, when I first saw you… other than lying unconscious in the road, I mean… the first thing I thought was that you were really beautiful. You don’t see that?”

  The compliment made Sharon feel strangely uncomfortable for reasons she didn’t understand. She squirmed slightly, sure she was blushing unattractively.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever been the prima donna.” She muttered. “Lousy job, lousy income, lousy life. I’m not exactly every woman’s dream.”

  Alaska looked deeply at her, genuine hurt visible in her doe-like eyes. How did she have the ability to look at Sharon like that? Nobody looked at her like that. She possessed a kind of gentleness and beauty that Sharon didn’t understand or recognise. She looked as if she was genuinely perplexed by the whole conversation, and Sharon was frustrated that she didn’t get why.

  “You don’t need to be every woman’s dream, Sharon. That’s impossible. You… You only have to be my dream woman.” Her voice was impossibly soft.

  Sharon looked away. “Don’t do this. Don’t pretend like I’m what you were fantasising about as a teenager. I know that’s not true. I’m not anybody’s dream woman, not even yours.”

  Alaska shook her head, somewhat defeated. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  They walked in silently, ignoring the awkwardness that had been created by their conversation. Sharon followed Alaska, still slightly unsure of the layout of her new home, praying she wouldn’t have to sleep in the very bedroom she had allowed herself to sob in earlier. Agreeing to the marriage was something - but sleeping in the same bed was another thing entirely.

  Sharon nearly melted with relief as Alaska opened the door to a bedroom she hadn’t seen before. “This is the spare room, you can stay here if you want.”

  It was small, but still a decent bit bigger than her old bedroom. In the centre of the room, Sharon recognised her old duvet and bedding, neatly laid out on the bed as if it had been there the whole time. Once again, she was touched by a gesture that seemed so small yet was so thoughtful. It seemed wrong that Alaska had been so kind. Sharon didn’t deserve any of her kindness.

  “I figured it would make you feel more at home.” Alaska smiled weakly. “Goodnight, Sharon.”

  Sharon nodded, unable to bring herself to say it back. Her first day as a married woman ended as it had begun - curled up in bed, desperately unhappy.

  -

  Sasha offered nothing but a friendly smile as Sharon took her seat at the desk, remembering their conversation from the previous workday. Under the law, Sharon was legally entitled two weeks away from work, in order to celebrate her new marriage and allow time for a honeymoon, should she choose to go down the traditional route of many. Perhaps a little childishly, in her attempt to prove that she was not happy about her marriage whatsoever, Sharon had set her alarm and headed into work purely to get away from her new home.

  “Hey, Sharon. How’s your weekend been?” She asked conversationally.

  Sharon scowled at her computer screen, irritated by the email notification that had just appeared. “It was okay. I fucking hate having emails first thing in the morning, don’t you?”

  Sasha laughed. “Definitely. Who is it?”

  Sharon clicked the little bubble.

  Sharon, Please come to Board Room 2A at 9.30am today for a meeting to discuss the changes to your monthly pay. If you are unavailable at this time, please reschedule as soon as possible.

Yours,

Agnes Moore

  “What…?” Sharon frowned, rereading the message. “It’s from Agnes. Apparently my wages are changing.”

  Sasha pulled a face. “A promotion, maybe? You deserve it!”

  “You’re probably the only person in this office who thinks that.” Sharon snorted, not missing how the office bitches were glaring at her from across the room. “Isn’t it crazy how you can get hit by a car and still receive less sympathy from your coworkers than they’d give a dead badger. I love working here.”

  Sasha giggled, far too used to Sharon’s grim sense of humour. “At least you have Agnes. She’s nice, it’s Trinity you want to worry about.”

  “Right,” Sharon agreed. “Well, I’ll let you know whether they’re firing me or not. This should be fun.”

  She ignored the stares of the others as she walked through the office, heading for the elevator. Despite her pessimistic attitude, a new kind of resolve had taken hold of Sharon overnight, and she felt the overwhelming urge to try and prove herself. After all, the reason she was in so much debt was owing to the fact that she had been to college in order to study her dream profession, and was working her way up to getting there. It didn’t matter that she had been an intern for so many years, silenced at every opportunity. With her freedoms outside of work suddenly limited, Sharon wanted to prove that she could make her way up on her own.

  An idea had struck her as she lay in bed that night, thinking too much about everything and nothing. If her bosses agreed to it, it could be the first step in the right direction - a small pay-off towards everything she had been working for. She’d lost her independence through her marriage and lost her passion for her cause through Bianca - she wasn’t going to lose this, too.

  Both Agnes and Trinity were seated at the table in the meeting room, watching her through the glass walls as she made her way towards them. Breathe, she told herself. You got this.

  “Ah, Mrs Needles.” Trinity welcomed her as she sat down. Sharon tried to suppress her wince at the title of Mrs. “So glad you could make it. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Sharon bit her tongue, forcing herself not to do anything rash. “We do?”

  “We do, surprisingly.” Agnes replied, her tone much warmer than Trinity’s. “We’re aware that over the weekend you got married, meaning you’re now entitled to the marriage bonus as well as an extra $15k per year. Any articles written will now be shared alongside the others on the company twitter as well as just on the website, guaranteeing they will reach a wider audience. We need to discuss your accounts and your position within this company before we grant these to you, however. There has been talk about promoting you to a proper journalist within the company.”

  Sharon’s mind was reeling, bombarded with too many facts at once. Marriage bonus? Extra pay? A promotion? She didn’t really know how to make sense of it, and continued to sit quietly, dumbly staring at her bosses across the table.

  Part of her wanted to laugh at their lack of tact. If promoted, she would be a ‘proper’ journalist. Of course, it hadn’t been just the others in her office that had viewed her as the help. She had been the coffee girl for longer than anticipated, and more so the coffee girl than the girl who wrote shitty articles about bland topics.

  “Okay…” She said finally, crossing her hands in her lap. “I’m willing to pretty much accept everything you say at face value, but I have to ask about this promotion. I’d like to know what has been holding me back for so long. I’ve been with this company for a while.”

  Agnes and Trinity exchanged a look.

  “Well, Sharon, as you know…” Trinity began, her voice cloyingly sweet. “We’re a company that express a multitude of opinions on a multitude of topics, and everything goes. However, as far as the ethos of the workplace goes, many people within the team felt as though you weren’t quite as experienced as those you work amongst. Of course now, with these new developments, you’re much more suited to the position.”

  Irritatingly, Trinity used so many pointless buzzwords that it took Sharon a while to figure out what she was actually saying. When she realized, however, she was sure she was wrong. If not, she needed to hold her tongue even more to keep back her rage.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Sharon said, staring her dead in the eyes. “Are you saying I’ve been held from the position due to being unmarried?”

  Both of her bosses shifted uncomfortably. “It’s complex, you see,” Agnes tried. “Not all decisions are made by us, and some of those above feel that-”

  Sharon cut her off. “It’s a yes or no question. One word will do.”

  Trinity pursed her lips, clearly slightly pissed at the interruption. “Yes.”

  Sharon smiled widely. Spite, as she well knew, was an excellent motivator, and it would definitely work in her favour this time around. If she played the game right, things could go well for her.

  “No worries, I completely understand,” She said, with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Actually, I had an idea for an article that could be written as my first proper debut. I won’t give anything away, of course, but it’s the story that we never hear.”

  Agnes frowned. “What do you mean? We aim to please and intrigue our readers, not to put them off with something they don’t want.”

  Sharon shook her head. “No, that’s the beauty of it. It’s the story we’re not being told. No other company is publishing this story, which means we’ll stand it. Like it or hate it, people will want to read it because it’s new and it’s different. If you’re willing to agree to this promotion, I’ll write it.”

  It was too good of an offer to pass up, and Sharon knew it. With a handshake and the promise of a few more emails - oh joy - headed her way, she had sealed herself a promotion, a pay rise, and the chance to write an article that could potentially get her fired.

  It was a little more than thrilling.

  She was suspiciously chipper when she returned to her desk, prompting Sasha to grill her within an inch of her life about every detail of the meeting. Her friend had squealed with excitement, attracting the attention of the others.

  “I can’t believe they think you’re worth paying as much as us.” Pearl commented, her nose turned up at the very idea.

  Normally, Sharon kept her head down and her mouth shut to avoid trouble, but she simply couldn’t any longer. “Pearl, I can’t believe they think you’re worth paying.”

  The death glares were worth it. Sharon turned back to her computer, trying to suppress her laughter. Sasha had made no attempt to quieten hers, which wasn’t doing her any favours.

  Sharon felt a strange rush of adrenaline as she opened up her document, tentatively trialling a headline. It could be changed, of course - everything she wrote would be heavily revised and edited to ensure that it was perfect, but it was a good start. Whether or not her bosses liked it, she would soon find out.

  In bold letters, the blazing headline, “Protesting Marriage Laws - The Story You Don’t Want To Hear” stared back at her. It would be a controversial one, for sure. But she was Sharon motherfucking Needles, and she had never shied away from a controversy before. There was no reason to start now.

  That’s right. I’m the protagonist of this jumbled up mess you are about to see. Or the antagonist, if you prefer. I present to you, the story that you don’t want to read.

[taesthetes]

solace.

noun : comfort or consolation in a time of distress or sadness.

sometimes, all you really need is someone who listens.

pairing: kim taehyung x reader genre: a dash of fluff, a pinch of angst type: coming of age / college au word count: 2,005 words warnings: none author’s note: this is completely raw and unpolished, and it contains some of my most personal thoughts and struggles. i’ve been dealing with writer’s block for the past few months, and this is just a part of my process to regain motivation.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Taehyung finds you on the terrace of your dormitory, leaning over the railing with your face tilted towards the stars, eyes closed and the wind gently kissing your cheeks. Standing from the doorway, he gazes at your still figure with a tender smile quirking at the corner of his lips and a certain fondness that the two of you haven’t pinpointed yet, yet everyone else understands.

You are wearing a pair of loose black shorts, flip flops, and a ratty, old, oversized t shirt emblazoned with one of the nine clubs you had signed up for in your freshman year of high school and never actually bothered to show up for once you realized you were a little too enthusiastic and had too much on your plate to handle. Your commitment towards that club did not stay, but the shirt still did. Hair swept up into a loose bun held up by a pencil you had grabbed in random, the small tendrils that fell out now frame your face, tickling your skin lightly. The tip of your nose along with your cheeks begin to turn rosy as the wind nips at you, and your eyelashes flutter softly.

Taehyung thinks you look absolutely ordinary, yet in that itself, absolutely breath taking.

It is quiet at this time with the occasional sounds of cars passing on the nearby street and a plane with a red-eye flight overhead. The lights for the soccer field have been turned off, and the grassy area now empty as the players have finished their practice. The soft murmurings of passing students on the ground floor barely reach your ears.

In this instance, nothing matters. Time is a foreign concept, and you have put a halt on measuring your day out in sections and intervals carved out by the two hands of a clock. Instead, you try to take back that control, taking back all that power you had put into an inanimate object and older generations who pounded into you the thought that receiving that diploma in a respectable field of study is all that matters, that getting a nine to five job is all that matters, that getting a boyfriend is all that matters, that having children is all that matters, that your dreams do not matter if they don’t involve any of the things listed above.

But the pressure and expectations ebbing away at your state of being become unbearable and restricting, clawing at you to let them back in. You struggle in the battle, a heavy weight pushing further down on your chest, rib cage bending to the point of breaking, a billion thoughts clouding up your mind, your breath escaping between your teeth in uneven increments, and you find yourself careening out of control so rapidly that you force yourself to snap your eyes open, chest heaving up and down.

Growing up is nothing like your childhood self had naively believed it was. The adults who taught you to dream are the same ones who now call your aspirations silly and foolish, belittling your dreams into something they deem more acceptable.

Your arms come up to hold your head in your hands as you even out your breathing, hoping to regain a little bit of control. The tiniest droplets of tears are tangled in your lashes as you murmur out words of frustration, biting down on your bottom lip hard in the end.

Taehyung finally makes his presence known, walking towards you with a quiet “hey” which you return with a tired smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. A seed of worry for you plants itself into his heart and grows as he gets closer and closer to you. He finally reaches your side, gently brushing away the unshed tears in silence before mimicking your stance with his elbows resting on the barrier and nudging your shoulder gently.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Choices,” you answer simply.

“What kind of choices?”

You quietly contemplate in thought before responding, “The right ones. Whether I’m making the right choice based on the expectations of others or the expectations of my own.”

“Do people’s opinions really matter that much to you?” Taehyung wonders.

“They matter more than they should to me,” you sigh, your hands coming up to absentmindedly play with the short sleeve of your t shirt.

“Well, why should they? You’re the one who has to live with your choices, not them, so do whatever the heck you want. It’s your life, your choices.”

“I know,” you sigh, “But it’s easier said than done.”

“How so?”

You think for a moment before answering, “You want the short version or long one?”

Taehyung hums quietly. “Whichever one you want to tell me.”

Staring at him curiously, you’re silent for several seconds until the dam finally breaks and everything comes bursting out.

“I try, I try so damn hard. But sometimes, it just isn’t enough. And I get so tired. God, I’m so tired of the questions and the people prying into every inch of my life. And every single time, they ask about the same things, already ready to judge. I’m so tired of not being good enough.

‘Of course, study what makes you happy. Oh, but you need to be successful. Pharmacy is good. Or how about being a doctor or lawyer?’ ‘Oh, you want to be a writer? Huh. That’s not a really stable job…’ ‘An artist? Where do you plan on living?’ ‘Art history? Where are you going to get the money to even put food on your own table?’ ‘Criminology? What kind of job can you even get with that?’ ‘Do you really want to be spending the rest of your life paying off student debts?’ ‘Ah, so you decided on Engineering now? That’s an impressive major! That’s a good choice you made.’ Why do adults teach us to dream when we’re little only to shoot us down in the future?

“Why are they so fixated on whether or not I have a boyfriend? On how many kids I want? ‘So, do you have a boyfriend yet? No? Well, what are your plans for having kids? Oh! I know someone who’d be perfect for you! I’ll set you up with my friend’s son. He’s a premed major and very smart. He’ll be able to provide for your family.’ Oh, but god forbid when both of those clash, and then it’s still your goddamn fault.

‘Your grades are slipping. Why are you slacking on studying? Is there a boy? I told you having a boyfriend is distracting. Focus on your studies.’ Why do they ask such contradicting questions? Why am I suddenly deemed broken in their eyes when I don’t have the right answers? When I don’t have the answers that they want to hear?

“It’s hard trying to be good enough. It’s so damn hard trying to hold onto your sanity when all you do is lose control and then have to play pretend that you didn’t.”

You end your outburst, tears of anger prickling at the corner of your eyes and you harshly brush them away. You exhale shakily, hands clasping together tightly as your shoulders shake.

“But you are already good enough.”

“What?” Your head whips up to meet Taehyung’s gaze.

“You are already enough,” he repeats, holding your stare steadily. “You are already good enough. And you—and no one else—are in control of your own life.”

You scoff, laughing humorlessly, “No offense, Tae, but that’s the biggest lie I have ever heard. I’m never going to be good enough. There’s always going to be someone better than me, but I have to keep pushing myself because I’m supposed to try and be good enough. It’s like pushing at a glass wall until it breaks, until you break, and then all you got is blood on your hands and a mess to clean up. You push until you snap. And when you go too far, it’s irreversible. You can try to put the wall back together, but there’s still cracks and chips in there.”

“But when you do put the wall back together, it’s stronger now because the glue that’s between every crack makes it sturdier and stable. Yeah, it might be a slow and tedious process, but you’re gonna get there.”

You bite back a smile at his logic. “That might be true, but face it, Tae. We’re all just part of a societal system built by older generations that basically controls us. We go to school, learn the shit that society thinks is important, get a job, then work until we drop dead.”

“That’s a rather morbid way of looking at life.”

You shrug. “I’m just being realistic.”

“Well, what about right now?”

“What about it?”

“You’re in control right now.”

You let out a noise of incredulity, and Taehyung gives you a look. “You are! You chose to come up here and look at the stars. The little choices you make all add up still. When you’re eighty years old, are you gonna remember what Professor Lang droned on and on about in class today or are you gonna remember choosing to star gaze with a really cute boy and having a nice conversation?”

He bats his eyelashes at you exaggeratedly with a teasing grin, and you let out a laugh. A genuine laugh this time. It sounds too loud and too obnoxious for you, but Taehyung thinks it is the prettiest sound he has ever heard. And all he knows is that he wants to be the cause of it in the future.

“I suppose I’ll remember the really cute boy who’s trying his best to fix my problems.”

Resting your head on the palm of your hand, you turn to him, admitting softly, “I come up here almost every night, hoping to find some answers. I even Googled up some breathing exercise that’s supposed help me take control of myself. And I couldn’t even do it. I couldn’t clear my head enough without starting to have a panic attack.”

Taehyung stays quiet for a moment, the silence overtaking the atmosphere for a brief period until he says, “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Just close your eyes, and focus on your breathing.”

“I already tried that.”

“Please. Please try it one more time.”

Tentatively, you do as he says, and your eyes flutter close.

“Now inhale.”

You inhale.

“Count to five. One, two, three, four, five.”

You count with him.

“Now exhale.”

You exhale.

“Count to five. One, two, three, four, five.”

You count in your head.

“Inhale. One, two, three, four, five. Exhale. One, two, three, four, five. Inhale. One, two, three, four, five. Exhale. One, two, three, four, five. Inhale. One, two, three, four, five. Exhale.

“Focus on the sound of my voice.”

And everything gradually becomes muted. Your mind is quiet, shut out and void of your anxieties and uncertainties for the first time in a long time. The thudding of your heart soon beats to the same rhythm of the drumming of his, and you can hear Taehyung softly breathing next to you. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Your breathing soon matches up with his. And in that moment, there are simply two human beings in synch, untouched by the rest of the world.

Your feet are still planted firmly on the ground, yet you somehow feel miles, kilometers, light years away, your body soaring through the vast expanse of infinity and space. You are floating, slipping amongst daydreams and veracity, finding yourself lost yet not wanting to be found. But precipitously, you feel yourself trembling, teetering on the edge of orbit and millimeters away from traversing into another trajectory into destruction.

But then, this time, there’s Taehyung right next to you, a steady lifeline amongst the chaos and pandemonium.

This time, you don’t lose control.

Somewhere in between, your hand slips into his, and he holds onto you tightly.

And nothing else mattered.

It was simply you and him.

And for now, it was enough.

[secret-captain-swan-blog]

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 60928/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8 // Ch 9 // Ch 10

Read on: Ao3

“Emma no-middle-name Swan,” Belle announces, as she fills up the screen on Emma’s phone. “I have the greatest beyond greatest news for you.”

It’s Friday night in Emma’s apartment. Facetime is open, her phone propped up by a stack of books on the coffee table as she drinks a mug of tea in her pajamas. Her hand is wrapped in a complex bandage. Killian insisted on having her stop by a clinic on the way home from the farm. The doctors had assured her that she didn’t need stitches for the cut on her hand, but they did some testing to make sure it hasn’t been infected and then gave her a butterfly band aid to keep it together. Killian had then set off to his evening shift, after Emma reassured him for the ninetieth time that she actually fine and he didn’t to fuss over her.  In turn, she headed back to her apartment to skype her best friend.

Who apparently has the greatest news.

“Tell me,” Emma says, pulling her grey blanket around her and smiling at the camera.

“I got a grant to do a bit of research in London at the end of the month,” Belle tells her. “I’m coming to Europe! And you have to hang out with me.”

Emma bursts into a huge smile. She doesn’t realize how much she’s needed her best friend until now. Killian’s been great, more than great. But Belle is her soul-sister, the only friend she’s ever managed to make. And she’s going to see her in person. They’ll be able to talk, really talk. And see London.

“Belle, this is amazing!” Emma ooes. “I’ll book my trip there right away. Do you think it’s cheaper to fly or take a ferry or a train? What days are you getting here?’

Emma dives to grab her planner off the coffee table and starts to pen in the dates as Belle lists them off.

“Wow,” Emma exclaims, running her hand through her hair as she stares fondly at the newly penned dates in her planer. “This is really going to be amazing. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I know,” Belle says, “You’ll be able to tell me everything about your little schemes and teaching foreign undergrads and your thesis and oh, yeah, the boy.”

“What boy?” Emma repeats.

As if she doesn’t know who Belle is talking about.

“The opera boy,” Belle says.

“Oh, him,” Emma says.

Who else would it be? Killian is her only friend in town, if she didn’t count the Queen of Misthaven. And maybe Professor Hood.

“Killian,” Emma tells her, “His name is Killian.”

“Hmm, now tell me about him,” Belle prompts. “Have you seen him again?”

Ugh, Emma is totally not ready to talk about him. About earlier.

“I mean we hang out most days a week,” Emma explains, hiding her blush in a gulp of tea.

“Oh, do you?” Belle asks, flashing a cheeky smile.

“He’s been showing me around,” Emma tells her, rolling her eyes, “Taking me to see different parts of Misthaven, going to the opera with me, teaching me how to horseback ride- just normal stuff.”

“Teaching you how to horseback ride? Shut up, Emma! That’s super romantic,” Belle ooes.

Emma ducks her head, her blush unable to be blocked any longer.

“Emma,” Belle gasps, “I’ve never seen you make that face before.”

“God, I know, Belle,” Emma mumbles.

“Did you kiss him?”

Emma doesn’t reply.

“Emma Swan! You kissed a boy!” Belle squeals.

“It was just a one-time thing,” Emma says quickly.

“No, no,” Belle says, “You like him. It’s not allowed to be a one-time thing. I forbid it.”

“You can’t forbid it,” Emma says, “I am a strong independent academic woman and I don’t need a man.”

“Obviously, you don’t need a man,” Belle says, “But the marriage plot isn’t about women needing a man. It’s about women making choices that make them happy and fulfilled.”

“My thesis makes me happy and fulfilled,” Emma protests.

“Yeah uh huh,” Belle laughs, “I wish I believed you.”

“I’m not doing any dating until this dissertation is turned in,” Emma sighs, “No matter how much I might be secretly in love with my Misthaven best friend.”

“We need to have a serious conversation about this at some point. In London, shall we?” Belle tells her, “But until then, don’t hurt that boy too much.”

Emma rolls her eyes.

“No, I’m serious, Emma,” Belle tells her, “He obviously likes you a lot. Be careful with his heart.”

Emma runs her good hand through her hair.

“I will,” She vows.

“What about you?” Emma asks, trying to change the subject.

“What about me?” Belle asks.

“How are things for you? Boys?” Emma prods.

Belle sighs, “Delightful. But complicated. Delightfully complicated? I’ll tell you all when we are in London. I can’t explain here.”

“Fine, whatever. I’m glad you are coming to Europe, you loser. Or else I’d never hear all your gossip,” Emma laughs.

“And I’d never have the opportunity to persuade you to stay with your boy,” Belle teases back.

“Ugh, okay. I promise I’m booking my ticket soon,” Emma tells her, “But I should probably sign off now. I’m going riding with the queen tomorrow and I need my beauty sleep.”

“Oh, horseback riding with the queen,” Belle says in a horrible British accent.

“She has a Misthaven accent, you goon,” Emma tells her.

“Oh, horseback riding with the queen,” Belle repeats in an even more atrocious Misthaven accent.

“I’m hanging up with you,” Emma says.

“Alright, let me know when you buy that ticket, will you?” Belle says, “And seriously, girl, don’t be afraid to kiss that boy again.”

“Bye Belle,” Emma laughs, turning off her phone before her friend can give her any more advice.

It’s the next morning when Emma finds herself astride a horse. Again.

Seriously, she never expected her dissertation research to involve so much horseback riding.

But it seems that Prancer is even better behaved than Blaze was, so that’s something. Clearly someone has been riding this pony even though Princess Emma isn’t.

Which brings about the worst part: this pony is tiny.

Seriously, the poor thing was made to carry around 4-year-old Princess Emma, not 25-year-old Fake Princess Emma. What if she squishes the poor thing and it dies? Then the queen will hate her and never give her the money? This is such a mess.

“Do you ride often?” The queen asks her. She’s astride her mount, a large, dark horse named Diego.

“No, not at all really,” Emma says, “I had a lesson with a friend yesterday and it didn’t go very well.”

Emma raises her hurt hand.

“Oh you poor dear,” The queen exclaims, “Are you quite alright now? Is this frightening?”

Emma shrugs, trying not to say, “Get me off of this fucking horse.” Because honestly this pony is too tiny to be scary.

“Oh no, I’m grand,” Emma says, smiling kindly. “It’s so nice of you to take me out to ride.”

And it’s true. The forests here are very well maintained. Clearly the queen employs an extensive grounds crew. While the Du Bois forest was wild and whimsical, the Royal forests are neat and regal. There are tall trees that must have been there for centuries of Nolan rulers. There are ancient looking fountains, classical statues, and strategically planned flowers in color schemes. Emma is refined enough to appreciate it, but she thinks she prefers the enchanting feel of the Du Bois woods better.

And then there is the horses themselves. They are kept in tip top shape, groomed, well, preened more like it. Each horse has identical neat manes, saddle pads with the royal crest on it, and shiny saddles. If anything, Emma feels underdressed in her cable knit sweater and ankle boots that she picked up from the New Look in Old Town. If she ends up getting asked to ride this often in Misthaven, she’ll likely have to invest in some actual riding boots. She can’t believe it. Her, Emma Swan, foster-child-orphan-fraud, buying boots just for horseback riding.

“So, what does your mother think about you spending so much time with the Queen?” Mary Margaret asks, “I know I’ve been mentoring you a bit, but I hope she doesn’t feel like I’ve replace her.”

Emma stops her horse. It’s a conversation that they definitely should have had before now. But even in a situation like this, even when her whole deception relies on her being an orphan, a ward of the state, she hasn’t brought it up yet. It’s still a secret she guards carefully. She always has. It even took Killian a few weeks to coax it out her, Belle even longer.

But it’s got to come out at some point for this whole thing to go any farther.

“I don’t have a mother,” Emma whispers, her soft words echoing into the chattering forest, “Or a father.”

She tries to brace herself for the pity in the Queen’s face. That’s Emma’s life, always the subject of pity. The emotion is raw across Mary Margaret’s visage- grief, sympathy, and a hint of hope.

Oh. It’s that tiny glint of hope that Emma recognizes in her eyes that lets her know that she is really deep in this.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” The queen murmurs.

She reaches out to take Emma’s hand, despite the horses. It’s a solemn moment. To be honest, Emma’ a little annoyed by it. She’s not in the mood to relive her sad story. She doesn’t want to think about the trauma of growing up moving from house to house. Emma just wants to enjoy the gorgeous autumn weather and the daunting task of horseback riding.

But then again, this woman watched her family and friends get murdered. She lived in secrecy and exile for years. Maybe Emma can reveal a bit of her hardship to her.

“When did they pass?” Mary Margaret asks and Emma has to try not to roll her eyes in front of royalty. Because oh my god. This lady is totally fishing. She has it bad.

But maybe it’s more than that. The Queen also lost her family. They have that in common.

“I don’t really know,” Emma tells her. “I was found in an airport when I was three. They could be out there, but clearly they have no interest in me.”

“Emma-“

And Emma truly hates everything because just like with Killian, when she told him everything, it’s not a story she can tell without turning into an emotional, vulnerable, sobbing thing. This story is part of her neat little wall of bottles. And well, un-corking the bottle, is like un-corking a heaping grossness of emotion.

“Like people forget their water bottle in airports, and sometimes their winter gloves. But when they forget their luggage or their cellphone or some valuable, they go back and get them. So clearly I wasn’t valuable to anyone. Not to my parents. Or Aunts or Uncles. Or Grannies. Or whatever. And it’s taken my whole life to feel like I’m valuable to anyone.”

Queen Mary Margaret sees the unshed tears in Emma’s eyes and dismounts her horse. She gives Emma a gentle nod, and Emma slides off her mount. The mud squishes underneath her ankle boots. She looks down at her hands.

“Do you feel valuable to people now?”

Emma nods.

“To my best friend, Belle. She’s the first time I felt like I could trust anyone truly. Like I actually had a friend entirely on my side.”

She grits her teeth because she isn’t sure she’s ready to say it, but adds, “And Killian.”

“Killian Jones?” The queen grins.

“Yeah,” Emma says, “Him. He’s really great and I care a lot about him. Which is weird for me to care about other people. Sometimes caring for myself seems like a full-time job. But yeah.”

“And you like him?” The queen prods.

Emma sighs, “I don’t know. Maybe? The fact that I’m even saying that is impressive. I don’t like people. I just like surviving.”

The queen takes a step forward and puts her hands on Emma’s shoulders.

“You should know that you are valuable to me,” She says, her voice firm.

Emma swallows a sob that tickles her throat.

“I know I’m a crazy queen of a tiny country that swooped you up under my wing, but you matter to me. I really care about you, Emma.”

Emma wants to run for a moment. Because this is like Ingrid all over again. Because this whole thing is super fake and Emma has become the master manipulator she never wanted to be. Because Mary Margaret can’t actually love her, she just loves the idea that she’s her daughter. Because once someone cares about her, then they have infinite power to break her.

But for the tiniest flicker of a moment, she feels something stir inside that she’s never felt so entirely before. She feels like she has a mother.

And somehow she closes the space between her and Queen Mary Margaret. Here they are in the middle of this random ass fairy tale forest crying together as fake-mother-and-daughter and Emma knows this isn’t her thing. But it feels right. And recently she’s discovered that she can feel things she didn’t think she could feel before. So she hugs her, and lets her snot stain the sovereigns’ elegant riding jacket, and lets herself for the second time in two days, take a risk and feel something for someone.

“Have you ever cantered?” The queen asks, decades later, when they pull away.

“Uh no,” Emma replies.

“Would you like to learn?”

“Sure I guess, but I’m a little worried about my hand,” Emma murmurs, raising her gloved hand, that’s a little chubbier with her complicated bandage.

“You’ll be fine. Come on, get back on your horse. Let’s go.”

Emma remounts Prancer. Luckily, the pony is so tiny she doesn’t need a mounting block.

“Now, take up your trot,” The queen says, as she begins to bob up and down as her horse takes up its uneven rhythm.

Prancer and Emma follow. She tries to remember Killian’s instructions the day before on how to post, using the momentum of each stride to rise up and down.

“Alright, now give Prancer another firm squeeze,” Mary Margaret tells her, demonstrating on her own horse.

Emma thumps her legs against Prancer and the pony switches to a smooth, faster motion. Emma’s face breaks out into a smile. There is something so freeing about this. She feels connected with the horse, the world around her.

Suddenly the forest trail gives way to a valley, it’s nestled between two mountains, but it’s all open field. Emma’s heart skips a beat because there is something achingly familiar about this field, this valley. It’s like she knows it. She can’t know it. She’s never been here before.

It’s probably some fake déjà vu. She probably hiked in a valley similar to this with Killian. She probably saw something like it with Belle during their road trip to DC during college. Something, anything.

She pulls on the reins and slows the horse the down. She shoves the thought into a bottle, into the wall. But dang it. She’s getting worse at the wall thing. She’s getting worst at bottling things up.

“Are you okay?” The queen asks.

“Yeah,” She replies, “it’s all just a little overwhelming.”

“It’s okay, Emma, we can start slow,” She tells her.

Start slow. She breathes out and in. It sounds like a solution to more than one problem.

She glances at the queen who gives her a warm smile. Emma smiles back.

Trust. Emma thinks that the word. That’s why she’s having trouble bottling things up. She’s starting to trust people.

Emma and Queen Mary Margaret finish their ride an hour later. A groom meets them at the stable doors. He helps them dismount, before whisking the ponies away to be untacked and cleaned.

“Would you like a cup of tea before you head home?” The queen asks.

Emma nods, “Sure.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Mary Margaret tells her, “I so want you to see the house here. It’s the one that was meant to be my daughter’s.”

Emma remembers this. Princess Emma’s future home in the Southern Valley. Except there is no Princess Emma, so the house sit ominous empty.

“I still have a few staff who keep it running, of course,” Mary Margaret adds. “It’s a nice place to go to pepper up after a long ride.”

Emma smiles. They walk through the gardens up to the entrance. While these gardens are more subdued compared to those at her hilltop palace, the plants are still well cared for, flourishing in autumn colors- oranges and soft reds. Clearly the grounds are well taken care of.

“The library here is very nice as well,” The queen explains. “It’s bit more subdued than the library at the Summer Palace, but it’s cozier I think.”

Emma grins, already anticipating another book filled room. She wonders if this one will contain any secrets about Misthavian fairy tales. Her fingers already begin to tingle at the thought of all the books and worlds that they open up.

“Oh, Regina, how lovely to see you,” Mary Margaret remarks suddenly, as they watch a tall, elegant woman walk through the gilded doors out into the garden.

There is something incredibly familiar about this lady. Emma’s sworn she’s seen her before.

“Your Majesty,” The woman replies, giving a small curtsey to the Queen.

“Emma darling,” Mary Margaret says, “This is my dear friend, Prime Minister Mills. Regina, this is my friend Emma.”

The Prime Minister gives Mary Margaret a sharp look, raising one eyebrow incredulously.

Emma shifts uncomfortably, “Nice to meet you Madame Prime Minister.”

She puts out a hand. The woman gives it a dubious look, but shakes it.

“Please to meet you as well, Miss…” The woman waits for Emma’s reply.

“Swan,” Emma tells her, “Emma Swan.”

“Emma is an opera aficionado,” Mary Margaret explains. “And a literature Ph.D. from the states. She’s working on a research fellowship here.”

“From the states?” Regina repeats.

For a moment Emma is lost as to why this woman hates her so much. They’ve only just met. And she’s like the Prime Minister of the country and Emma is just a nobody.

“Can I speak to you a moment, your Majesty?” Regina requests, “Alone.”

Emma cringes as she watches the two step into the building. Emma sits down on one of the stone steps in the garden, bending over to wrap her arms around her legs. All of a sudden, the autumn air feels chilly.

All of a sudden, the feelings of trust that Emma felt so strongly before flicker before her. She wants to believe that she can trust the queen, but well, she’s been through this so many times before and she knows what’s going to happen.

As Emma holds herself together through the cold, she imagines the conversation going on inside the house. The Prime Minister is probably convincing the queen that she is delusional. She’ll explain how Emma is obviously a fake. I mean it’s ridiculous to be true- a girl named Emma who is from America, who loves literature and goes the opera. It’s like someone created to simply manipulate the queen into believing that it’s her daughter. And Emma knows it’s all true. She is the perfect person because it is all true. But that doesn’t prevent the tendrils of worry from wrapping their way around her stomach. What if the Prime Minister convinces her that she’s an imposter?

The jig is up, is all Emma can think, as tears threaten her eyes, her worries swimming before her. She’s going to be deported for impersonation. She’s going to be sent back to Duke and never finish her thesis and she’s going to go back to being a lonely-ass foster child with no friends and no prospects. God, she’s so stupid. She never should have trusted anyone. This happens every time she does. Why did she even think-

“Emma?” The queen interrupts.

Emma looks up at the sovereign, who sits down beside her.

“Oh, sorry, you shouldn’t have to sit on stone, you’re like a queen and-“

“It’s not a bother to me,” the queen says, “abet a bit cold.”

Emma chances giving her a smile.

“Is everything okay?” She ventures to ask.

“Regina,” The queen says softly. “Prime Minister Mills, that is. She worries about me.”

Emma is silent. Her stomach still fluttering with worry, the tears from earlier still stuck her in eyes- not yet shed, not yet dried.

“You must know, I suppose, that I’ve had a problem over the years. I don’t like giving up hope. And because of that, I’ve convinced myself that a variety of imposters were my daughter,” she admits. “I’m not proud of it. I know I’ve made myself into a fool in front of the kingdom and I know that Regina is just trying to prevent that from happen again.”

So, Emma isn’t wrong. Regina is on to her. Regina did just try to talk some sense into Mary Margaret. Which granted, to honest, Mary Margaret probably does need some sense talked into her at some point.

“But I told her that it’s not like that with you,” Mary Margaret says and Emma looks up.

She still doesn’t know what to say, some she swallows and raises her eyebrows and widen her eyes, hoping the expression will beckon a response out of the queen.

“I told her that you’ve become something of a mentee to me. That we share a love of books and culture. But regardless, that you’ve lived a life where people have left you. And I’ve lived a life where people have manipulated me and used me. Maybe our friendship is something that is purely healing for both of us.”

The tears that been threatening her eyes start to trickle down a little. Just the day before Emma vowed to cry less, but clearly that isn’t happening. This is now twice in just one outing.

“I told you that you are valuable to me, Emma,” the queen says, “And I wasn’t lying. You are valuable to me.”

Emma sniffles. The word trust echoes in her ears from earlier. A wave of something, some emotion, rolls over her. She’s right to trust Mary Margaret. She can’t believe it, but she is. She’s not like Ingrid or someone from her past who is going to desert her. She’s actually going to stand by her when it counts. Emma’s heart swells a little.

“It’s cold out here, isn’t it?” The queen says suddenly. “Let’s go inside, shall we? Find that cup of tea we discussed?”

“Yes,” Emma manages.

As she stands up, the queen pulls her into a hug and Emma feels herself melt a little. Then they walk inside and the queen talks to a servant and asks them to prepare for them tea in the library.

The library, it turns out, is Emma’s new favorite she’s seen in Misthaven. It’s not as big as the university one, or even the Summer Palace library. Instead, it’s circular and cozy. There are tall windows around the room and the ceiling is painted like the night sky. There is a crackling fire and blue armchairs. Emma has always assumed she’d be a Ravenclaw and this here is exactly how she’d imagine the common room.

They sip their tea together, munching on fresh pumpkin scones, as they discuss books they’ve read and horses and autumn, until the late afternoon cusps on evening. The October sun sinks slightly low in the sky.

“I suppose I should return home,” Emma says.

“Yes,” The queen responds, “I’ll call the car for you.”

“Do you mind if I grab a few books while I’m here?” Emma asks. She wonders if this library will have any more interesting fairy tales volumes.

The queen gives her a smile, with a slight twitch in the corners, “Help yourself my dear.”

The sovereign leaves the room as Emma takes to the shelves. She finds that many of the books here are Princess Emma’s own books. There are many more children’s stories than she’s seen in the Queen’s collection. Despite this, there are still a decent amount of fairy tales scattered through the shelves. Emma helps herself to a pile of books. She finds a volume of Dutch fairy tales that look promising. She’ll have to translate it, but that could be an adventure of its own. The she discovers a book of literary criticism on fairy tale based literature, which is pretty weird to find a kid’s library, but whatever. She adds it to the pile. Then finally, she comes across a thin hard covered book with an black cover embossed in gold reading, “Misthaven Fairy Tales.” Emma flicks open the cover to see an inscription from the queen herself.

“Shall you stop by on Tuesday for tea, as usual?” The queen asks, returning to the room.

Emma hastily shoves the books in her tote bag. She knows she has permission to take books, but this last one seems intimate. She didn’t get a chance to read the inscription, but she has this feeling as if she’s stumbled upon something precious. She nods, “And I’ll bring some things to study after if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, darling,” The queen says. “Thanks for joining me for tea and a ride today.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” Emma says, offering a shy smile. “And for all the kind words.”

“Hey, I think you might be glowing,” Ruby tells Killian, as they swap shifts.

“I’m not glowing,” Killian tells her, though he can feel a blush creeping up his cheeks to the top of his ears.

“You are. Are you pregnant?” She teases, as she tosses her hair up in a ponytail.

He rolls his eyes. Then smiles, because he’s clearly taking up Emma’s mannerisms.

“So did you and Emma bang?” Ruby asks.

“Ruby, no,” He says, “I would do no such banging with Emma.”

“Okay fine, did you and Emma make love?” She says it super dramatically, mimicking his accent.

“No,” He snorts, “We kissed. That’s all.”

“You kissed? Killian that’s great!”

“It was just a one-time thing,” He shrugs.

“Uh huh,” Ruby grins, “That’s how those things always start.”

“Honestly, I respect Emma and if that’s what she wants-“

“Oh please. One kiss from you and I bet she’s dreaming of another.”

“Whatever Rubs,” Killian groans.

“You can doubt me if you want, but I bet you are going to get laid before Christmas,” Ruby remarks.

“It’s just October.”

“Exactly, I’m giving you a wide berth just to be safe.”

“Maybe never say wide berth again,” Killian replies, as he exits the bar area.

“Hey, I did say you were glowing!”

“Good bye,” Killian says, turning promptly away from his ridiculous friend.

He heads out of the bar and into the heart of old town, smiling as he feels the autumn sun on his skin, his eyes adjusting from the darkness of the bar. He knows that Emma is off with the queen and he probably won’t hear from her for a couple hours. But he can’t stop thinking about her and that kiss. It was like everything he dreamt about. And better. God, she’s a marvel.

He decides to wait for her return by finding a book to read. For such a literary city, Misthaven has a woeful number of bookstores. Which of course is even more reason for him to want to open his own- he’ll definitely have the market. So instead, he heads towards one of the many charity shops in town. They’ve been his favorite place to find books, since he arrived in Misthaven years ago. What is the point of spending a fortune on books, when he can adopt orphaned ones for pennies?

He turns into his favorite shop along high street and walks inside. After nodding at the woman at the counter, he heads straight to the back where the books are. As usual, the section is stocked full of paperback mysteries and romance novels. Not that Killian doesn’t like these kind of books, or looks down upon them, but today he wants something classic. Emma is so well read, and while Killian knows that he isn’t too shabby himself, he feels the need to prove himself regardless. He studies the shelves and eventually decides on Jane Eyre. He’s never read it before, but knows enough about literature to think that the gothic themes might strike a nice autumnal tone.

He purchases the book and heads outside. It’s nice enough that he can take a seat outside Mamie’s, reading and drinking coffee in the autumn air. He’s drawn in immediately by the young foundling girl and her lonely childhood. He knows a thing or two about lonely childhoods. He’s so entranced in the book that he startles when his phone rings.

“Hello?” He asks, frowning at the unfamiliar number.

“Is this Mister Killian Jones?” A voice asks with an English accent.

“It is,” He answers.

“I’ve got some new for you,” The voice replies.

And the news makes Killian drop his phone.

Tagging some pals: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill@kmomof4@kiwistreetswan@princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story@shady-swan-jones@katie-dub@1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob@midnightswans

[lemonsareyummymmm]

Rant

I hate schools. No it's not the fact they make us get up at ungodly hours, even though that is the part of the rant I'm about to go on. I hate it because of what it does. The system is flawed. Children are destined to fail if they don’t shape their thoughts to the systems. The teachers aren’t really there to do anything except be warm bodies, and most take that role without complaint. Others stay up slaving for minimum wage. That's a different rant though. They cause children to have anxiety, depression, and they don’t pause to think maybe their doing this wrong. They keep going. If your feeling depressed, they say to 'just talk about it' but then what? Bullied? They don’t do anything and then they become surprised when school shootings happen or kids kill them self. They don’t care. Students are profit, and that's it. They even neglect scientific studies on how it could help if they changed their ways, but who cares right? Were just kids, we cant have- god forbid, OPINIONS OF OUR OWN? They tell us to stay fit, but then load us with hours of homework and make us sit still all day. They tell us to focus, but make every day a repeat. They tell us to follow our dreams, then make it seem like they're impossible and do nothing to improve them. Of course, no one will care, right? Were just money. Can can solve the question yet? Stop the rope from hanging him by his neck? Hm school? Why don’t you grow up and see that we aren’t machines made for money. We're people. Complex creatures who feel. You can't expect us to keep up, we're CHILDREN. Stop making us machines. Stop shaping our beliefs. Stop making us feel as if we don’t have opinions. Stop making us hate what we are. Kids. "Oh but kids need education!" Yes because I'll need to know how the periodic table if I want to be a carpenter, lawyer, doctor, vet- oh wait.. I wont! Oh and don’t get me STARTED on the standards and grades. You spend pre-k learning ABC's and how to use scissors, kindergarten for 1st grade 1st for second, so on. What happened to learning ABC's and how to spell your sight words in kindergarten? And people complain this generation is growing up to fast. Maybe if you wouldn’t make us KAREN we wouldn’t!

But what would I know? I'm just a kid! We don’t have correct opinions! We don’t know facts! I'm just a stupid kid. Aren’t we all? It's not like I care now

"This part of me who wants a simple right or wrong." What, right or wrong? That's all were conditioned to know. There is no in between. Your either right or wrong.

"I feel that everything I choose will always be false." We're taught 'simple' things. What then? We get told.. Wrong. And you cant go up and just ASK for help- psh. And get taunted about not knowing the easy stuff? It's better to just cheat. No need to ruin your reputation.

"So today, this homework, about me, a blank sheet.." What about me? You don’t seem to care about my personality. My likes and dislikes. I don’t have time to do hobbies with all you put on me. I cant write a paper about myself, the only reason I have hobbies is because of Corona. I could usually only write a SENTENCE summing me up. Or a repetitive paragraph.

"Saying how were sad, saying how were lonely." We do talk to people, but they don’t do anything to help. Then they act so surprised when we kill ourselves.

"Can you even read the blackboard written as clear as can be? Can you even read his mind see that kids lost fantasy? Can you even find the one dyed his red heart to black?" Woo this is getting long.. Kids aren’t always complicated. You can read us pretty well. So why not use that? Why not make sure that one kid who looks confused in the back understands, or the one who is always sitting alone is alright? You destroy our fantasies, and cause us to be something we aren’t. It's not us.

"Can you even stop rope from hanging him by his neck?" 'Can you even stop the kids from wanting to die?'

"Did we really choose it right saying were okay this way?" Did we really choose it right saying that the system is right and isn’t corrupt? My view is fairly obvious.

"Its not like I care now" Why would we care? We aren’t engaged.

"Behind the power and guards I put up. I hide. Knowing they had long died." Behind the smiles, and friends I have I hide, knowing they will all die. the fake smiles to let people know your alright, and the friends who help each other out.

"Saying let me just leave, saying someone kill me!" Let me just leave the school, let me just stop existing. It’ll be better that way, I wont be stressed, anxious, depressed.. No more wrong answers.

"Can you even scream the dreams you swore would never go out" Can you even bring back the dreams school killed in you?

"Who was the one who let my hopes just curl up die?" It was the system. Hopes don’t exist in it.

"Why don’t you grow up and see?!" According to elder-people, we ever grow up. So, I cant grow up in your eyes, but I do see. You just don’t listen.

"What the hell is growing up and tell me when will I be?!" What do we classify growing up anymore? Getting older or maturing?

"Can a SINGLE person out there just EXPLAIN it to me?!" Can someone please explain to me WHY THE SYSTEM is this way? A single person? I'd be willing to debate it. Please explain. We can discuss it in a civil manner and have a good ol debate, but I want to understand why.

This concludes my Ted talk.