#don’t want to lose touch with some of you because of the staffs inability to block bots

[mxpseudonym]

Permission

Pairing: Tommy x Fem!Reader 

Summary: Tommy helps you with your nerves about attending the family meeting by building up your... stamina? The logic is sound 🤔

Length: 4593 words (allegedly)

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, cursing, orgasm denial, dirty talk, Dom/sub

A/N: Shout out to all of the anxious hoes that would love Tommy to give you all of his attention 😏

--

The amount that Tommy Shelby loved you was beyond what either of you had expected. There were few things he wouldn't do for you- the meek, proper church girl that Polly set him up with. Polly said he could use some sweetness, but Tommy saw things Polly couldn't.  

When you asked Tommy what made him finally ask you to dinner, he revealed it was the way you didn't cross our chest when you walked into the church. You didn't sing the hymns, either. But you went to confession and wrapped your rosary around your wrists a bit too tight.  

"You sin, love, but you don't feel all that guilty about it, do you?"

That seemed like ages ago now, but perhaps it was because your eyes were rolling back, and time itself seemed ridiculous yet oppressive.  

"Sweetheart," Tommy's voice snaked its way into your head. His rich Brummie accent did borderline dangerous things to you. "You remember the rules?"  

Tommy brought you back into his office, where you were losing your mind for the third time that day. You woke up with Tommy's head between your thighs. He brought you near the most perfect completion but stopped before you could get there. You were dazed by the decision, but nothing came between you and being good for Tommy. Even when he pinned you against the wall in the hallway after breakfast. Your wrists were above your head in one of his hands, and a knee was hooked around Tommy's waist as he pushed two fingers in you. Even then, with your body on fire with desire and embarrassment that the staff of Arrow House could hear the consequences of your inability to stay quiet, you were good. You followed the rules.

And now, you sat with your legs over the arms of a chair in Tommy's office. Your blouse was pulled open to expose your hardening nipples, your skirt was pushed up around your waist, and your knickers were on display. You circled your sensitive nub at the apex of your thighs over the blue silk at the pace of Tommy's choosing. Currently, that meant slow, feather-light strokes over material added friction that was making you salivate.

Of course, you remembered the bloody rules. You nodded with your bottom lip between your teeth.  

"Ah, ah. I know how smart and capable you are, sweetheart. Use your words, love," Tommy encouraged from behind you. It wasn't fair, the way he skimmed his fingers over your bare shoulders, lighting up your nerve endings. His palm flattened over your clavicle, then came up to wrap around your throat. There was no pressure, just the faint reminder of all the times he'd controlled your breath. The memories made your hips jerk in a tight motion.

"Good girls use their words."

"Y-yes, I r-remember the rules," you stammered instantly. Tommy's thumb stroked the column of your throat. He felt you gulp down your brewing pleasure. 

"What are they?" Tommy asked. You so wanted to ask if he needed help remembering his own doing, but his hands were warm and distracting. They cupped your breasts and pinched your nipples, one at a time, then simultaneously.  

"I, I can't, fuck," you swore, cutting yourself off for a moment. Tommy paused what he was doing. He was a little mean today, but he didn't want to sabotage his sweetheart from thinking straight.

"What was that?" He tried again.  

"I can't... I can't cum without p-permission. A-and... I have to be, oh god.... good girl," you recited the guidelines you were given that morning the best you could.  

Tommy smirked. He loved seeing you like this. You could reach a point where you'd let go, and desire would take over, leaving no room for shame. Beyond that, Tommy knew you were nervous about presenting a damn good strategy at Friday's family meeting. If you could push away embarrassment in the bedroom, you could do it there too.

"That's exactly right, and you're so good right now," he said, kissing your cheek. He pulled back to whisper in your ear. "Especially when one of the boys could come in right now and see you spread out just like this."

"Tommy,"  

"I might not even let you stop. You'd do it, wouldn't you? Show off your wet cunt if I wanted, hm?" He asked. You didn't want to admit it, but you broke down and nodded. Tommy reached down and put his hand over yours, guiding you to press a little harder against your swollen clit and go a bit faster. "Tell me, sweetheart."

"I would- I would show it off for you," you whined. Tommy smirked and kissed your cheek again. He knew how embarrassed you were about saying the filthy words, but he also knew how much they turned you on.

"Show what off?"  

"My, my c-cunt," you said quietly, but it was enough for your hips to buck. Tommy swiveling pace was getting to be too much. He hummed in your ear.  

"Whose is it?" He asked. You were in agony. You could feel yourself dripping between the valley of your bottom and vibrating against your joined hands. You had to stop soon.

"Please, Sir," you panted, "it's y-yours. Your cunt."

Christ, he could have you right then, forget everything that he wanted to accomplish. But he craved to hear you more desperate and aching.

"Good girl," he said, kissing your temple instead. Tommy stopped your fingers, making your hips jump to gain contact again. "I've got a meeting, so I'll have to send you home."

"But," you started, but Tommy gave you a warning look when you looked up at him. Good girls didn't make Tommy repeat himself when he'd already made up his mind. You pouted and looked away. "Yes, Sir."  

Adorable, he thought. He really could just bend you over right there. Tommy gingerly guided your legs down from the chair, then handed you his handkerchief. If you weren't so dazed, you would have been mad. Again, no relief. Tommy brought you a glass of water and kissed you.

"I'll be there for dinner, alright?" He watched you nod, taking a sloppy drink with trembling hands. He almost felt bad. "How are you?"

"I want you," you said softly. "I want more."  

"You will, sweetheart, you will."  

Xx

You were useless. Not every day, but in the time between Tommy sending you home in one of the cars and listening to him enter the foyer from the dining room. Your brain was mush. There was no concentration on anything, but if you tried to be idle, your hands had to fist the hem of your skirt to not touch yourself.  

Tommy came into the dining room and looked you over. You'd freshened up your make up in your need to move your hands and put on some perfume you knew Tommy liked. But he had more self-control than any person you knew. Nothing was going to help you find sweet relief outside of Tommy, allowing it when the time was right.  

"Welcome home," you greeted him, your breath still shaky. Tommy approached your chair and cupped our cheek. You were already feverous. Regardless, he placed a gentle peck on your lips. Hearing you say 'welcome home' was his favorite part of the day.  

"Did you get anything done, sweetheart?" He asked, already knowing the answer. No. Mary, the head maid, brought in wine, nodded to Tommy, then left. He'd called already to hold off dinner until you both retired to the bedroom. You were in no condition to eat, he knew. It would only make your stomach upset in your tense state. Satisfaction came first.  

Tommy filled a glass half of rich red wine, then leaned on the edge of the table next to your chair. He brought the glass to your lips for you to drink.

"What have you been thinking about all afternoon?"

You knew what he wanted to hear. He wanted you to say those words.

"You touching me. You inside me. Your...cock inside my," you paused and took more wine, "my pussy. Y-your pussy."

Tommy looked at you with pride that made everything worth it. Though you said the words just above a whisper, you were extra obedient today, above and beyond. He'd reward you soon enough.

You were ordered to stand, and you jumped lightly at the scraping from your chair being moved away. Tommy's hands moved to your waist as he pressed his back against you, his hardness evident even while clothed. You knew what was coming. He was more creative than people gave him credit for. Tommy's ability to talk with authority entered the bedroom.  

"Well, well, aren't you just a little whore today?" He asked, and you whimpered. Tommy's hands skimmed over your body as he found the row of buttons keeping your skirt up. "Ready for me to have you anywhere, in front of anybody. I could fuck you in the streets, let everyone see who you belong to, and you thank me for it. I could finish all over your pretty face and have you show all the maids and not let you come tonight. You'd thank me for that too, wouldn't you?"  

Tommy chuckled as you nodded but also let out a gasp at the dangerous possibility. Your skirt pooled around your shoes now, and Tommy had you step out of it and kick it aside. Your blouse and slip joined the fabric on the floor.  

You were left in the lingerie that he bought you with his initials stitched on the insides. You belonged to him. Tommy didn't tell you, but he bought them when he noticed you liked having him near to help with your composure. You were anxious about many things, especially after the war. Tommy buying underthings and saying, 'I want you to think of me against you when you wear this under those dresses,' seemed to give you a bit of peace almost immediately.  

"Do you want to come?"  

"Yes, please."    

Tommy dragged his nails up the backs of your thighs, making you clench your hands at your sides. You squeezed your eyes closed when he had you lean forward, your hands flat on the table, and exposing the darkened crotch of your silk pastel shorts. It wasn't lost on you that anyone could walk in at that moment, and if nothing else, they were undoubtedly listening in.  

Tommy took a deep breath. Between your whimpering and visible want, he was on edge himself. But before going further, he needed a taste.

You gasped at the kiss placed over the damp silk that was clinging to you now. A deep moan came from you when Tommy licked the length of you, pressing between your lips. Your hands pressed harder against the wood when he pulled your shorts aside and repeated his actions. You let out a sob. You were so close already.  

"Sweetheart, you're not going to come, are you?" Tommy asked, though his whole focus was on how good you tasted, and how constant your wetness was.  

"No," you sobbed again. Tommy's fingers pulled your folds apart to make way for his tongue dipping in, circling your entrance. You were pink and swollen and so sweet.

"Why's that?" He asked, moving away when your hips tried to push back for more.  

"B-because... I don't h-have permission." Your ability to form sentences was dwindling as all effort went to digging your nails into your hands to stop your release.  

"And if you come before I say, I'll take you over my lap and give you 25 spankings, isn't that right? And if you lose count?"  

"We start over." You always remembered the rules. Tommy's lips wrapped around your clit when he hummed, satisfied with your answer. You cried out and felt the tears leaking from your eyes from the overwhelm.  

"But that's not going to happen, is it?" Tommy asked, finally pulling back and letting you have a few moments to collect yourself. "Because you're going to earn it."  

"Yes, sir."  

You were guided to full standing again. Tommy nudged your chin with his knuckle, making you look at him. He kissed you so you could taste precisely what he did, and know why he couldn't get enough. You clenched your hands once again. His caresses alone could make you drunk on an average day, let alone one so intense.

When he pulled away from you, he wiped a fresh tear from your cheek. Tommy didn't like seeing you cry, but you needed to shed a few tears to release some tension. Still, he had to make sure.  

"You remember the words if you need to slow down or stop, don't you?"  

"Yes," you sniffled. "Pear for slowing down and apple to s-stop."  

"Good girl," he said quietly, sending warmth to your heart. He stroked you your cheek. "Are you okay right now?"  

"Yes, sir." You were still pressing your thighs together in need. "I'd like to earn it, Sir. I like being your whore."  

Tommy's eyes darkened, and he knew his own underwear was likely ruined as his cock jumped. With makeup smudged on your cheeks and filthy words falling from your lips, you were as beautiful as Tommy knew you to be.  

"On your knees."  

He moved to the head of the table, stripping until he's only in his underwear as well. Finally, he sits like a king on his throne. And like a king, he beckons, and you crawl on command. He resists palming himself as he watches you, hot with humiliation mixed with the willingness to do anything for your relief. It would be too much.

When you reached him, you kneeled between his legs and clasped your hands together. Touching before given permission was against the rules. Tommy pulled his cock out of his shorts and watched you lick your lips. He could never believe that this was your favorite part.  

"What do you want, love?" Tommy asks. Your eyes travel from his cock to his eyes. He always made you say it.  

"I want to taste your cock, Sir. Please let me," you begged, no stammering this time around.  

"Go ahead."

Whenever anyone commented on how naïve they thought you were, Tommy always laughed. Mild-mannered, sometimes easily flustered, of course. But naïve? Never. You always knew just what you wanted. A greedy sinner like the rest of them. And here you were, proving him right once again as you made him clench his own fists when you kissed down the base of him to pull his balls into your mouth.  

You look up at Tommy through your lashes as you kiss his shaft again. But as much as the sight made his cock pulse, you weren't getting any sort of upper hand. He tsked you.

"Are you being lazy, little one? I thought you wanted to earn it," he taunted. He saw the flash of fear in your eyes as you were reminded that your release was on the line. "Give it your all, sweetheart. Use that pretty mouth of yours."  

And you did. You took Tommy in your mouth, humming when you tasted the salty precum leaky from the tip. You licked up the side of him and ran your thumb smoothly over the head, earning a hiss. Taking a deep breath, you swallowed him whole, pressing your nose into the coarse hair at the base of him. Tommy grunted and grasped the arm of the chair to stop bucking up into you to roughly.  

"That's it, love," he groaned as you hummed. Tommy placed a hand on the back of your head, holding you there for a moment longer. You choked but held still, quickly getting used to it before he let you up. Saliva spilling down your chin when you gasped for air, but you gathered yourself enough to keep stroking. Tommy looked into your eyes, and you trembled. "You want to come so bad, don't you?"  

"Yes, I want it, Sir," you pleaded. Tommy guided you back down on his cock, moving in rhythmic motions as he thrusts into your throat.

Tommy was the first man you'd ever done this with, but he was a responsive lover, and you were a people pleaser. There was no room to argue the amount of instant gratification you got when you were on your knees. You were dripping down to your thighs at this point. Nothing did you in like the sound of Tommy grunting because of you.  

He's almost in a trance at how good your heated, wet mouth feels on him. How obedient you are, clutching the cloth of his shorts as you take him. How unbelievable it feels when he hits the back of your throat, pushing a bit past it still. You're panting when he lifts you off of him with care. His own breath is shaky. He lets you both have a minute.

When Tommy looks down at you again, he can't suppress his groan. So messy with your tear-stained face, lipstick smearing as far as your cheeks. But so needy. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, ready for more.  

"Stand up and take this off," Tommy said, motioning to your lingerie. You did as you were told, but left your garter and stockings because you knew he liked you this way. "Bend over the table again, love. Hands-on the surface."

"Y-yes, Sir," you said, voice raspy and thick with anticipation. Tommy removed his own shorts, his eyes never leaving your leaking, swollen cunt. So fucking pretty.  

"Open yourself up, sweetheart," he told you. He wanted your legs spread, but you were eager. There was an unavoidable degradation that came with being exposed like this, but you were frantic. You reached back on your own accord, letting your chest press into the table while you spread your cheeks for Tommy. He watched your lips peel open, revealing those pink walls once again. He saw you clenching, ready for him. He'd remember you like this forever.  

"Please, Sir," your voice cut through his thoughts. "Tommy, I... n-need it. Please... I need you to fuck me, please... please."  

Fuck. Tommy took another breath before approaching you. He skimmed the edges of your cunt with the head of his cock. Your mouth dropped open, and your eyes squeezed shut.  

"I'll give it to you, love." Tommy guided himself to your entrance, but you whined and pushed back against him. A smack came down on your fleshy bottom, clearing away some of the lustful haze you were in. You let out a sob. Every contact Tommy made was going straight to your core. "Do you not want to come?"

"I do! I'm sorry, Sir."

"Keep being good," he said.  

Now, this was the actual test. When you were well stimulated, you could come when you felt Tommy push into you to the hilt. And now you were more than well stimulated, borderline overstimulated, and in a deep state of desperation. Your fingers flexed, still holding yourself open. Tommy ran a hand over your bottom and up your back, pausing between your shoulder blades. Heavy and firm, he kept you in place with one hand and guided himself into you with the other.

You let out long, continuous moans as he moved steadily into you. Too fast, and he would be done before you. You fit around him like a heated velvet glove, so wet that it was easy.

Tommy moved his hands to your waist, watching himself slide out of you, shiny with your juices, then rolling his hips forward again, spreading and stretching you to around him.  

Your legs are shaking, and your forehead, damp with sweat, is pressed into the table. You've quieted, focusing on your breath as Tommy finds a satisfying rhythm. The little focus you have left is holding yourself together.  

Tommy knows you're trying. He knows that you only have a little left in you. If this was another day, he'd use that to his advantage, forcing you into a humiliating punishment. It was your idea that one. It had been a surprise to him, but he was happy you dared to bring it up. But today, he was going to reward you.

"Talk to me, sweetheart. What do you want?"

"T-tommy, please...I'm your whore... w-want your cock to... make me come... Sir... more please," You laid out a choppy request between weepings. Tommy leaned down and kissed up your back until he hunched over to speak in your ear. His strokes were getting faster, but still long and deep, a snap of his hips, in the end, to make sure you felt all of him.  

"You sound so pretty when you beg. You're being a good girl for me, hm?" He accepted your whimpers as confirmation. "Good girls get to come, don't they?"

"Uh-huh," you were to eager to speak. Tommy pressing against you, the force of his pace, his praise was making every piece of praise and want knot in your lower belly to add more wetness and sensitivity.  

"Come all over my cock, sweetheart, and don't you dare make yourself quiet about it."

Every moment since that morning was coming to you now. All of the waiting and anticipation washed over you. You could vaguely hear your cries, as colors you'd never seen before flashed before your eyes.

"That's it, love, let go." Tommy encouraged. Your grip around him was almost painful. He kept pushing into you, milking you through it. You tensed and shook on the dining room table, your hands now fists next to you as you succumbed to your orgasm that was so good it was almost painful. Tommy pulled out of you and moved you onto your back.

He never planned on just giving you one release, and he was going to finish his inside of you, but he needed to collect himself for that. Tommy kissed you deeply, swallowing the moans that were falling from you. He pulled away again, but this time to find his way between your legs once more.  

It was sloppy and soothing and so fucking impossible. Your head lulled back onto the table, shoulders pressing down as your back arched. His tongue stiffened and pushed into you, making you cry out in a way that would have sounded pained if you were following it up with a string of swears and 'oh god, yes.' He licked you clean, just to make way for the new rivers of come pouring from you. It was the gentle suction of your clit, careful not to overstimulate, that pushed you over once again.  

Tommy stood, licking you from his lips when he looked down at you again. Your eyes were glossy, calmer from the relief, but still desperate. He kissed up your stomach, making a detour to take your breasts in his mouth.  

He was so good at leaving himself everywhere, you thought. Tommy's hands felt like they touched every part of you all at once. You could smell his cologne, cigarette, and sweat that was so familiar. Your hands ran through his hair, and when he kissed you again, all you could taste was a mix of you and him.

Tommy was in you again and knew he wouldn't last much longer. But you were still quite the mess. You were still tight around him, and Tommy swore he could feel every quiver as you took him. He was faster this time. On your back, it was easier to find that sweet spot inside of you.  

"Tommy," you gasped, your eyes rolling back as he hit it steadily. Tommy pressed a finger on your engorged clit, tapping it teasingly. But it was all you need for your hips to buck.  

"That's right, let me feel you again."

He pushed you up the table and climbed onto it himself. You didn't have the frame of mind to think about climbing on the furniture as wrong. All you knew was Tommy wrapped your legs around him and kept stroking through your orgasm. His arms went under your shoulders, anchoring you as he didn't let up. His hips rocked and snapped hard against your pelvis. He moved deep in you, your pelvises flush against each other, allowing each move to brush your clit.

One orgasm flowed into another. There were waves of it, and you stayed continually trying to catch your breath while your legs wrapped tighter and higher around Tommy. He grunted in your ears, telling you how tight you were, how slick you were, how good you were. He couldn't get enough of your sounds or your body, your cunt, his cunt.  

You cried out when his movements got rougher. Tommy ground into you hard, letting his grip on you tighten. He's wanted you just as much as you've wanted him all day. You're soft against him, hot and snug too. You're perfect. And the sounds you're making, new ones that he'd have to remember to get you to make more of, were perfect. The way your hips bucked against him, while his tongue ran over yours, cracking his resolve, was perfect.

You were still making those fucking noises. He releases, covering your insides with thick ropes of come.

"Fucking hell!"

You lay panting against each other, minds swirling yet empty. Tommy rises above you, looking down at your worn face. You're crying steady tears of relief and he kisses them away.

"Satisfied, sweetheart?"

"Yes, Sir."

Tommy pulls himself together first, not minding that he was shirtless, and his trousers hung low on his hips. He took the extra step of making sure you had your slip and skirt on, though. He knew that you'd be too flustered when thinking back at this night if you ran into the staff naked.  

When you're safely in your bedroom, Tommy fully embraces you. He knows you're tired, but he has to make sure he takes care of you. He knew how upsetting it could be for you if he didn't take his time reassuring you after shoving you so far out of your comfort levels.

He leads you to the bathroom, starting a warm bath before he strips you, this time taking extra care to undo the straps on your heels and your stockings.  

"You were such a good girl today," he tells you between kisses. You nod, only able to sniffle and lean against him. "I had Mary send for your favorite dessert. Would you like that?"

"Mhm," you hummed. Your stomach was already rumbling, so Tommy made the bath quick. He used the soap you liked, the one that smelled like lavender, and washed both of you off. It was your job to put on lotion while Tommy pulled your pajamas from the drawers. He put his on quickly, then had you raise your arms to slide the dressing gown over your head.

"You were strong today," he said, giving your cheek a kiss.  

"I was?"

"You were," he confirmed it. He saw you internalize the adjective in your eyes and let a soft smile come to your face.  

"I was." You nodded. Dinner was had at the small leisure table in the corner of the room, while Tommy told you funny stories about his day. You were too tired for much else but did let Tommy put on a record and sway with you before bed. You rested your head against his chest with a sigh. "I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart."

[genevievemd]

Love You Home (2/5)

Chapter 2: Fear

A/N: How are we feeling after chapter one? Ready for more pain? Cause this is just more pain. But I do gift you the joy of Ethan x Harper friendship, also some fatherly love from Naveen. And a nice cameo of Dr. Tanaka and Bryce.

Also let me know if you catch the Grey’s Anatomy easter egg, an ode to Mark and Lexie that I managed to sneak in there - rather painfully, it may be slightly ooc but it was just too good to pass up. It also ties into the flashback that happens next chapter. (Which is how i justified it being ooc lol)

Buckle up, fam jam. Grab your tissues and emotional support items. She’s a long one. 

Pairing: Ethan x MC (Genevieve McClure)

It isn’t fair, to be in this position again. Standing behind a closed door, watching through a tiny window as his colleagues rush to save Genevieve’s life. 

Ethan did this a year ago - in a different hallway, on a different floor, with a different assailant. But the feeling was the same. The hands of fear squeezing his throat until there’s no air left in his lungs. 

It’s excruciating. Being on the outside, watching and praying that she won’t be ripped away from him. That his entire world won’t crumble in the next five minutes. 

He takes a breath and looks through the window again. Naveen is there now, his mentor’s eyes wide with terror at the sight before him. Even from this distance, Ethan can still see her covered in blood.

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” a small voice breaks Ethan out of his fog. He forgot Sienna was with him, that she was the one to pull him out of the ER and into the hallway. 

“I, uh… I don’t know.” 

“What happened?” Dr. Varma’s voice comes from behind them, standing there with the rest of Genevieve’s friends. They all look as terrified as he feels, all love Gen just as much as he does and it’s a small comfort knowing he’s not alone in his fear. 

But they’re all staring at him, as if he has the answers and he doesn’t, not this time. All he has now is a crippling, gnawing anxiety blocking out any rational thought he could have. Sienna must see his inability to answer Jackie’s question, quickly stepping in the tell them what’s happened. 

At least last year he could still think straight, last year he was able to stay focused on finding a way to save her life. But not now. He’s too in love with her now to do anything but think about the dreadful notion that Genevieve could very well die on him. Before he has the chance to propose, before he can profess his love and commitment in front of all their family and friends, before he can watch her belly grow and they bring a new life into the world, before they buy a house with a yard for their kids to play in, before he can witness her surpass him as one of the greatest diagnosticians in the country. 

He’s never wanted anything in his life more than a life with Genevieve. 

Ethan’s about to look through the window again when the doors fly open and Naveen steps in front of them. His face is full of sorrow and fear, another reminder that Gen is so overwhelmingly loved by everyone in the hospital. 

Naveen looks at them for a long moment, meeting Ethan’s eyes quickly before turning to the group of residents. “You’re no good to Dr. McClure or your patients just standing here. Dr. Greene and Dr. Trinh, I need you to take over Genevieve’s patients. Dr. Varma, run up to the diagnostics office, tell Mirani and Mendoza what’s going on, that they’re going to have to handle the transfer patient from Hartford Hospital on their own, and to not page Dr. Ramsey under any circumstances. If they have a problem they can page me. After that I want you all to get back to work. We’ll let you let you know if anything changes.”

It’s rare that Banerji uses a commanding voice, so rare that it takes Gen’s friends all but one second to straighten up and leave. Bounding down the halls and away from him and Naveen. 

Ethan takes a breath, trying to steady his shaking hands before he looks at his friend. “She was going home to grab her dress. She forgot it by the front door this morning. I shouldn’t have let her leave...If she didn’t, if I was with her -” He can’t bring himself to continue, to hear his voice crack with emotion for another second. 

This isn’t who he is. He doesn’t get emotional, doesn’t get lost in feelings and things that are out of his control. But Genevieve has always brought out a different side of him. Even now, when she’s probably half dead and lost to him forever, her influence is just as strong as ever. 

“You can’t think like that. You couldn’t have known, no one could have known.” 

“The paramedic said she didn’t even make it to the car. She was right outside.” 

“Genevieve is strong, she made it through before and she’ll do it again.”

Ethan nods, keeping his gaze focused solely on the grey linoleum. He wants to believe that, believe that she’ll come back to him, that this isn’t the end. But it’s proving harder by the second, the longer he waits for answers the more difficult it is to believe she’ll survive. 

His fingers reach into the pocket of his white coat, gripping the ring box tightly in his hand. “I should’ve asked her already. I’ve had the ring for weeks. I shouldn’t have waited.” 

“You wanted it to be perfect. And it will be. Once she’s recovered and -”

“I can’t lose her, Naveen.”

“You won’t.” Naveen pats him on the shoulder, but it does nothing to sooth the ache in Ethan’s heart. “Come on, let’s get out of the hallway and go sit in the waiting room. I’ll stay with you.” 

He doesn’t want to move, he wants to stay where he is. He can see her from here. But he concedes, letting Naveen lead him into the waiting room. 

They sit for what feels like hours, Ethan’s gaze never leaving the direction of the emergency room. In reality he knows its only been minutes because Harper quickly emerges with Bryce and a few nurses wheeling Gen in with them. She’s saying something to him about internal bleeding and a punctured lung, but the rest gets lost in the deafening pounding in his ears. He’s can’t focus on anything but Genevieve, somehow looking smaller than normal against the red stained  sheets draped across the gurney. 

“Did you hear me?”

“What?” Rather reluctantly Ethan tears his eyes away from Genevieve to see Harper now standing in front of him. Her brows are knit together in concern, he’s not entirely sure if its concern for Gen or for himself. “No…”

“Go say goodbye, just in case.”

Ethan nods wordlessly, running over to Gen’s side. She’s still unconscious, face pale and almost lifeless. He can feel the air leave his lungs again as he takes her in. She’s battered and bruised, her gorgeous blonde hair caked with blood. There’s a gash on her forehead, just below her hairline, dark and red. 

He tentatively brings his hand to her cheek, fingers lingering on her skin. She’s almost cold to the touch, like her warmth has been sucked out of her. Her ever radiant sunshine eclipsed by the hands of death.

Ethan can feel the unfamiliar burning behind his eyes, the tears rushing back, as he holds her face in his hands. “Don’t you dare die on that table, Rookie. Do you hear me? You fight like hell and come back to me.” He knows they’re all watching him, he can feel their eyes on his back as he looks down at the woman he loves. Ethan lowers his voice to nothing more than a whisper, ensuring that only Genevieve can hear him. “Remember the house with the yard and the two kids...that I want to marry you. Don’t give up. Come back to me, Genevieve. Please, we’re meant to be.” 

Ethan stares at her for another moment, trying to commit every feature of her face to memory. 

Just in case. 

He takes a breath and leans down, gently placing his lips to Genevieve’s forehead. He’s not sure if she can hear him, if she even knows he’s there. But a small part of him is screaming that she can, that she knows. That she’ll hear his pleas and come back to him. “I love you, Gen. I love you. I love you.”  

“We have to take her now, Ethan.” Harper brings her hand to his shoulder, gently pulling him away from Genevieve. 

She gives him a small smile, a nod of determination before she, Bryce and the nurses disappear behind the doors to the OR hallways.

Ethan turns back to Naveen, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sits in the chair beside him. The fear is coming back, rising up from the pit of his stomach. He falls forward, resting his head in his hands. He lets out a ragged sigh as Naveen runs a comforting hand down his back. 

“Dr. Banerji?”

They look up to see a bewildered intern, standing awkwardly in front of them. 

“What is it?”

“They, uh, they told me to come find you and tell you that they just brought in the guy that attacked Dr. McClure. He’s in the ER with the police.”

Ethan feels the anger consume him, his veins erupt with a fury unlike anything he’s felt before. His feet move before he realizes what he’s doing, burning a path towards the ER. 

“Ethan, where are you going?” 

He can hear Naveen call after him, his foot fall a mere second behind Ethan’s. But he ignores him, pushing the doors of the emergency room open. 

“Where is he?” He all but barks at an unsuspecting nurse, the rage he feels fueled even more by the confused look on her face.

“Who?” 

“Who the fuck do you think I’m talking about?” 

“Ethan, leave it be. Let the staff and the police handle this.” Naveen reaches for him, grabbing his arm like his father would as a child - trying to keep him out of trouble, keep Ethan from making a mistake. 

He swivels his head, taking in every trauma bay and every patient that’s admitted until he finds his target. They’ve put him in the same bay that the paramedics used for Gen and it like adding kerosene to the fire burning him from the inside out. 

Ethan makes to the trauma team in record time, bounding across the still crowded ER in seconds. He’s not entirely sure what he’s about to do - punch him, wring his neck, drive a scalpel though his heart. Anything is better than letting the man who put Genevieve at deaths door breath for another second. 

“Woah, Woah, Woah.” Tanaka flies in front of him, grabbing Ethan’s fist before it can make contact. “Ramsey, he’s high. He’s hallucinating. He has no idea what he did. Back off.” 

“Back off!? Genevieve’s in surgery, she could die because of him.”

“And punching him in the face won’t change anything.” Tanaka stares him down, matching Ethan’s fury. “Get out of here and focus on your girl.”

“He’s right, son.” Naveen is behind him again, with another fatherly hand on Ethan’s arm. “Let Tanaka treat him. He’s covered in her blood, he’s not going anywhere. Focus on Genevieve and let the police handle this. Go.” 

Ethan looks between Naveen and Tanaka before turning away, loudly knocking over a tray of supplies before he walks out of the ER. 

————

4 months ago...

He can hear her laugh from halfway down the hall. That singsong in her voice so recognizable, he’s certain he could easily pick it out in a crowded room.

Ethan lets curiosity get the best of him, following the sound until he finds her. She’s in her elderly patients room, the one they rounded on that morning. Her back is to the door, looking down at the chart in her hand.

“Does he work in the hospital?”

“You’re really not gonna let this go are you, Mrs. St Clair?”

 “No.” Lottie smiles brightly at Genevieve, her eyes gleaming with mirth. “It’s that criminally handsome attending from this morning, Dr. Ramsey, isn’t it?”

Ethan smiles to himself as he sees Gen look up quickly, her head tilting ever so slightly. “How did you know?” 

“I saw the way he looked at you. It was the same way my Edward used to look at me.”

He can’t see Genevieve’s face but he know’s she smiling. The small one that starts at the corners of her mouth, the one where she has to look away to keep from blushing. 

“Do you love him?”

“Yes, very much.” She looks back down at the chart in her hands, “How long were you and your husband married?”

“Almost 55 years when he passed.”

“Wow.”

Lottie smiles mischievously again, “Indulge an old woman for a moment would you?”

Gen laughs, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sure.”

“How long have you two been together?”

“He’d probably tell you one year, but I say it’s closer to two. There was a lot of back and forth at the beginning, but I still count it as being together. There was no one else for me.”

“Would you marry him? If he asked?”

His breath catches at the question and it startles him for a moment why he desperately needs to know the answer. 

“In a heartbeat.”

“Does he know that?”

“I think so. But he’s said in the past that he wasn’t sold on the idea of marriage. Which I’m okay with. As long as I have him, I don’t need a ring.”

Lottie hums, “You know, when Edward and I first started dating, he said the same thing. Then one year later he got down on one knee. I teased him for years about it and he would always say ‘Lottie, when you meet the love of your life, everything changes.’” 

Ethan smiles, walking away before Gen can realize that he was listening. He’s not ready to hear a weeks worth of teasing about how he was absolutely eaves-dropping when he’s always so quick to call out others for doing the same. 

He walks back to the diagnostics office, fully intending to focus back on the team’s case and ignore beating of his heart. It hits him, as he steps back into the glass-walled room, that if he believed in such things as fate and destiny, it would so clearly show that Genevieve’s the one. The love of his life. His future. 

He wants everything with her. All the things he’d always deemed trivial or foolish. Things he never thought were in the cards for him. Ethan wants them, with her. More than he’s ever wanted anything. 

————

It’s hours before he sees her again, once she’s out of surgery and safely in a patient room. The halls are dark, night falling quickly over Boston. Ethan looks down at his watch as he makes to Genevieve’s room. 

Right now, they should be sitting in his box at the opera house. Listening to the final beats of the music as he prepares to get down on one knee. Right now he should be proposing instead of walking into her dimly lit hospital room and seeing her hooked up to machines.  

Ethan slowly walks over to her bedside. She’s breathing on her own, which is a good sign, the gash on her forehead stitched up. The blood is gone from her face as well, her porcelain skin no longer hidden beneath splotches of red. 

“Christ, Gen…”

He takes her hand in his, thumb running across her now bruised knuckles. A small desperate laugh leaving his lips as he realizes they’re defense wounds. His vivacious and fierce love did her best to fight off her attacker. But her fingers feel like ice, cold and frail. Gen’s hands are always cold, something he teases her frequently for, but this feels different. It feels deathly. 

The thought of her still being so close to death sends another wave of trepidation over him. 

There’s a knock on the door and Ethan turns to see Harper with the scalpel jockey behind her. “She made it through surgery. It was touch and go, but -“ She stops suddenly, no doubt seeing the anguish written all over his face. “Ethan,” 

He clears his throat, doing his best to swallow back the tears that are once again burning him from the inside out. “Thank you.” 

Harper turns to the resident behind her, “Lahela, go update your friends.”

“Sure thing.” He disappears quickly, running down the hall. 

“She’s going to be fine.” Harper gives him a small smile, walking fully into the room. “You picked a strong one.”

Ethan lets out a wry laugh, she isn’t wrong. Genevieve’s determination and strength are one of the many things he loves about her. 

“Naveen told me you were planning on proposing tonight.”

“Has he told the entire hospital?” Ethan rolls his eyes with a deep sigh, he had explicitly told Naveen to keep his plans to himself. 

“Probably, but we’ve all made sure not to let it slip in front of Genevieve. I have to say, I never thought you were the marrying type.”

“Neither did I, but Gen is -” Ethan sits in the chair next to Genevieve’s bed, running a hand down his face. “She’s the love of my life, Harper.” He falls back against the chair, no longer able to hold back the tears that have been just under the surface all day. 

“I know.” Harper moves to sit on the arm of the chair, a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “The hardest part is over. As long as she makes it through the night, I expect a full recovery.” 

Ethan closes his eyes for the briefest of moments, taking a deep breath to settle himself. “I have to call her parents.” 

“We can have a nurse do it.”

“No, it should be me.” He moves to stand, with every intention of getting up and out of the room but he feels frozen. His eyes falling back onto Genevieve. 

Ethan closes his eyes again, reaching down to a place he hasn’t been to in a long time. A place where he can hide his emotions and focus, where his walls are sky high and protective. A place that Genevieve had long since demolished. 

“Take a second, Ethan.”

He shakes his head, leaving the room without a second glance. “I’m fine.” 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: how are we feeling after that? lol you still have a whole chapter and a half of angst after this before we get to the fluff. And just know, I am delighting in your pain, its bringing me joy lmao - Sara <3

tag list: 

@queencarb, @overwhelminglyaquarius, @me-and-my-choices, @schnitzelbutterfingers, @crazy-loca-blog, @a-crepusculo, @drakewalkerfantasy, @ohchoices, @adrex04, @udishaman, @drariellevalentine, @custaroonie, @archxxronrookie, @terrm9, @maurine07, @openheartthot, @gryffindordaughterofathena, @aworldoffandoms, @caseyvalentineramsey, @dulceghernandez, @elwetritsche75, @emotionalswift2, @thegreentwin, @starrystarrytrouble, @utterlyinevitable, @angela8754, @fireycookie

LMK if you want to be added or removed from the list :)

[rosy-cheekx]

"Don’t do that. don’t shut me out” and / or “We can talk through the door” - from the trauma sentence starters :)

Okay so this started as a one-off but, as usual, it spiraled outwards! The actual line will be in the next chapter. (That’s right, this bitch has two chapters! AND A PERSPECTIVE SHIFT)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201191/chapters/69105681

-

It had been hard for Martin to adjust, after the Lonely, after the months of spiraling into the quiet, cold dark, imprisoned in an ever-expanding labyrinth of his own isolation. A therapist he had years ago told him it takes three weeks to manifest a habit, and in the months without his mum, without Jon, Sasha, Tim, god without even Elias to irritate his last fraying nerve, he had time to form hundreds of new habits, his habits of loneliness.

When Peter had given him Elias’ old office, under the guise of space, focus, and mental health (Martin could spit at that looking back, the cruel irony), the room had been rearranged. The desk, which had previously sat in the center of the room, with two slightly uncomfortable chairs positioned in front of it, chairs Martin had been eager to burn in celebration of his new space, had been rearranged. The room was starkly empty, the chairs removed on his behalf, and the desk had been moved to the side of the room, out of view of the door and in fact behind the hinges, so the door swung open in front of his desk, blocking anyone who may sneak a peek in his office a view of him at work. After a while, it was natural to be in the corner of a room closest to the hinges; where the coatrack or a rubbish bin would typically be, there instead was Martin Blackwood, comfortable, solitary. Alone.

The habits expanded outside of the office. Soon enough he was shopping at markets in the quietest hours: during the airings of football matches, at the early-morning markets, at two in the morning because he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get warm under his duvet. His warm conversations with cashiers and barkers turned to solemn nods and gruff thank-yous, the refreshing smiles they associated with the sweater-clad figure reduced to slow blinks and nods of acknowledgement, and then not even that. They didn’t even wonder what had happened to that nice auburn-haired man who worked “down the street at the old spooky building, did-you-hear-about-those-worms?” Even takeout was too much to bear. The nights where leaving his flat was unconscionable, his delivery requests would always add, “leave outside the flat, tip is under the doormat.”

His neighbors didn’t remember him after a while. Mabel, the kind woman who lived across from him, introduced herself to him, asked when he moved in. Eventually she stopped noticing this new auburn man she hadn’t seen before. Hadn’t seen at all, actually. No one lived across the hall from her, not in her memory. And she had an excellent memory, didn’t-you-know? It was all those crosswords.

Martin started locking his doors. That had been after Jon had returned. He knew that distinctly. Most of these habits loomed over his life slowly, like an ever-expanding fog, until he didn’t realize where they had begun, but the doors? That was a choice.

He wasn’t one for locks overall; his childhood home had forbidden them, save for the exterior doors. It hadn’t bothered him back then, though, and as he grew up and out of the shadow of his mother it never occurred to him that he could just shut people out like that. So easy, so simple, but so unnecessary for so long. Martin was the one breaking down those barriers, especially at the Institute. Getting Sasha to talk about her anger when they first moved into the Archives, her quiet confession that she had wanted that job for so long, had been told by Gertrude she was a promising candidate. That had been fixed with a cup of tea and the promise that he would support her if she wanted to quit, but that it seemed like Tim needed her, Jon too. Getting Tim to open up about Danny, his sorrow that had been simmering so long under the surface, a grief Martin didn’t quite know how to fathom. But he tried, with comforting touches and warm voice, trying to ease Tim back from the precipice over which he had been hovering. Not enough. Never enough. Even Jon had begun to be kinder to him, after Prentiss, after Martin had proven he wasn’t a waste of space in the Archives, begun to be honest and open about his take on the weird things they experienced here. He had even texted him rather frequently, towards the end, updating him on his trip to America and of the occasional sights that caught his eye (‘In Pittsburgh they put chips on sandwiches and salads, Martin, look at this! Image_0102 attached’ Even in text, his grammar was impeccable.) But after Jon recovered from his coma, lapse with death, whatever it had been, Martin had been too far gone. He couldn’t risk Jon bursting in, bothering him, worrying and fussing. So he’d called in a locksmith to install the simple bolt, enough to stop a distracted, harried Archivist (who had never quite learned it was polite to knock) from bursting into his office at all hours.

But after all that, after the Lonely and Peter Lukas and “look at me and tell me what you see,” it was hard to break the achingly comfortable habits. For the first few days in Scotland, Martin didn’t really remember what had happened. While out of the domain itself, he was still trapped in its cloying embrace, and everything felt too real, too looming, too much; it had been easy to slip into silence for hours in Daisy’s safehouse. Too easy to pull the fog around him and watch himself sit, drawn up behind the door, as he watched and listened and waited for Jon to forget about him. It had never happened though. No matter how many hiding places he found, cold and dark and solitary, Jon always found him, blanket and tea in tow (always a little too sweet for Martin’s liking), and his scalding embrace was enough to drag him back to reality, shivering and sweating, whispering apologies.

-

They needed supplies. Daisy had left behind plenty of MREs in her pantry, stuff they could theoretically rely on, but it was all very basic nutritionary needs and both Martin and Jon were vegetarians, (more or less, Martin had stopped eating red meat as a teenager and Jon entirely after working in the Archives) and the dehydrated pasta alfredo was gone, seemingly the only vegetarian item in Daisy’s stock. Martin hadn’t even tried to touch the canned fruit, the orange-yellow of the peaches haunting him.

Martin suspected it was also a desperate attempt for the pair to practice feeling normal again. To be just two friends? Companions? Coworkers? Boyfriends? people stocking up their fridge and going on with a normal, non-horror filled life. A secluded, bare safehouse was certainly not helping them adjust any quicker, though neither man had dared leave quite yet, be it the risk of losing what little security they had accrued here or the inability to leave the other alone quite yet.

“Is-Do you know if it’s busy today?” Martin had asked, trying desperately to shape his voice into calm curiosity.

Jon considered the question for a minute, expression soft, and dear lord Martin wasn’t sure he would ever get used to the way Jon’s shadows seemed to darken and solidify when he Learned, his whole form shifting in and out of focus imperceptibly like the background was blending into him and not the other way round, the way Martin was accustomed.

“Mm, not bad. No one interesting. A couple families shopping for the week, twelve customers, four employees, total-oh, fourteen, mum and son just walked in…” Martin’s eyebrow was raised. “Ah,” Jon cleared his throat. “Sorry. Fourteen people. If that’s too many, I can go by myself, you know. I’m not going to force you.”

“N-no, no. I should go. Exposure therapy, right?”

Jon had smiled warmly and tentatively rested a hand on Martin’s shoulder, before sliding the hand, scarred and calloused, to squeeze Martin’s own cold one.

-

The grocery was small, a locally run place playing tinny jazz through the speakers. As Martin stepped through the doors with Jon, he was struck by how warm it was in the store. He could feel the prickle of anxiety burning under his skin, bringing a flush to his cheeks. He could hear the whine of the electric lights piercing his skull and settling behind his eyes. He gripped the trolley’s handle tight, firmly keeping his eyes forward. He was fine, he could do this.

Martin was not fine. They had worked their way through the aisles quickly, Jon using his Knowledge to figure out where every item they needed had been located. Martin was on autopilot, quietly steering the cart and flinching when anyone came to close to him. The heat of life was radiating off everyone in the store, even Jon, and it was scalding, blinding, debilitating. He hadn’t noticed Jon asking him a question until, Jon carefully, gingerly, brought his hand to hover near Martin’s cheek, not touching, just waiting for a response.

“Martin?” he heard distantly, calling him back to reality, where fog didn’t drift over the aisles and the soft rush of waves didn’t echo in his ears.

“-mm?” The hand was gone, his skin tingled with the rush of cold returning to his face. He wished it would come back, to hold his face and promise it would be alright.

“I was wondering what tea you wanted to buy? I’m no expert and I know you have your preferences. I miss-” Jon cleared his throat. “I’ve missed your tea in the Archives. All the staff drank coffee after you left. Disgusting.”

Tea. This was something Martin could do. He took a step away from the trolley, his life raft, and studied the aisles, trying to will his mind to focus.

Tea, tea, tea. Rooibos and chamomile for sleepless nights. Herbal for variety. Jon likes caffeinated teas. Maybe some chai? That’ll be good when it gets really cold…god how long will we be here? Through winter? Forever? He could stay here forever if it meant Jon was there too.

He grabbed a couple of boxes of familiar brands, throwing them in the trolley, as well as whatever felt familiar, what he’d usually pick up.  

“I thought you didn’t like oolong.”

Martin frowned, glancing down at the box in his hand. “I don’t. Uh, force of habit I guess.” He set the box back quickly, as if it was burning his hand. “M’mum liked it so I would pick it up for her. Guess its been a while…” he trailed off, uncertain of what he was about to say. He’s bought tea since she died, hasn’t he?

He thinks back, through all his months in Elias’s office and at home.

Oh. Guess not.

Had he really not drunk tea at all? God, he had really changed more than he thought under the influence of Peter. Tea had been such a staple of his life, his personality, he was the one dragging Jon and Sasha and Tim to teahouses for his birthday and insisting he make a cuppa for everyone on the days that felt too dark. The last time he could remember holding a warm cup of tea in his hands was when he was sitting at Jon’s bedside in the hospital, reading him Keats in the desperate hope he would hate it so much he would wake up, even if just to scold his assistant.

Martin knew serving The Lonely had changed him. But here, in the aisle of a Scottish grocery, he was realizing how entirely debased he had become. Was he even Martin Blackwood anymore?

Martin blinked to see the grocery around him cloaked in fog. No, that wasn’t right. He was cloaked in fog. The world was a pale blue-grayscale, slightly translucent. He hadn’t been here in a while but the cool balm over his anxiety settled like cool cloth and he felt distantly quiet. Calm.  He left the store in a haze and began the slow trudge up to the safehouse. Jon wasn’t here in this place, which was probably for the best. Martin couldn’t hurt him here, couldn’t burden him with whatever pesky emotions he had felt in the grocery, whatever they had been. They were a distant memory now, oolong and guilt.

-

By the time Martin had hiked up the hill to the safehouse, he felt safe enough to leave the Lonely, and felt the cool numbness drift off him like steam as the world sharpened around him. With the world came the sharp sting of his realization came with it; the understanding that he wasn’t the same person he had been when he had said goodbye to Tim, Melanie, and Jon, and certainly not the same person he had been when he had backed through the doors to the Institute and let that dog in, what felt like decades ago now.

Martin Blackwood let the door swing shut behind him as he made his way inside, hearing the rumble of Jon’s car rolling up the gravel driveway. He moved quickly through the house, looking desperately for a place to escape as he heard the faint call of his name outside. He couldn’t-he just couldn’t talk to Jon right now; he didn’t know how to explain how betrayed he felt and by on fault but his own. The closest room was the bathroom, dark and clean, and pressed back against the door as he clicked the door shut, turning the latch on the door.

Click.

The bolt slid into the mechanism of the door frame, and that sound was what sent Martin spiraling.

he was alone he was alone he was alone.

[comradelionheart]

This is where I feel safest.

In the blueness of this site, held in comfort as if under my blanket of soft fur.

No one here will ever know who I am or the people I speak of. No one can find me here. I have a questionable habit of running off to avoid being witnessed when I fail or am in pain, and this is where I run to. It is luckily not a boy this time. Well, it’s sort of that too, but not predominantly.

I haven’t shut G out this time. When I thought I’d lost my shot at the job I deleted my WhatsApp and all other social media, and refused to surface until I was willing to face people again. This isn’t unlike when I graduated college uncertain of what to do with life next and just... vanished. I’d a pretty promising presence on Facebook that could potentially have introduced him and I sooner, but I guess life unravels at its own pace and nothing can force it to go sooner or slower. I’ve grown rather accepting of failures because I have unfortunately grown accustomed to them. It’s almost like I expect to meet with resistance or failure each time something nearly works out and in this case I can’t say I willed it upon myself. I literally tested positive for TB. Which is amusing since those are my ex’s initials, and is yet another TB which seems to be hampering my progress. 

Dry humour is what I’m best at if I’m being my authentic self. I must unfortunately smile and wave because I’m a woman and need to be likeable to get anywhere in my line of work. That isn’t to say I’m a sociopath or hate people. I just wish I didn’t have to pretend to be interested in their lives and feign amusement at their not so novel ideas. Pretty sure I’ve not so novel ideas too, but I don’t need to be indulged for the sake of my (not) fragile ego. Anyhow.

I applied for this job early in the year and didn't expect to hear from them (because the first few years of my work life had me flailing and coping with depression instead of steering my career, and I know I shouldn’t grudge her for this but I do). But I did hear from them. And everything went through. Including 3 rounds of aptitude tests and a personal interview (which I thought I bombed but didn't somehow). Until I tested positive on a skin patch test for TB. Why do these stupid standard sets of tests get prescribed world over? Honestly, if I’m ever supreme leader of anywhere I will ban standardised tests. Not in the way that I say medicine is a sham, not at all, but in the way that WE LIVE IN THE THIRD WORLD AND WILL OF COURSE HAVE TAKEN THE BCG OR HAVE BEEN EXPOSED TO THE BACTERIA AT SOME POINT BUT IT’S NOT NECESSARILY EVER GOING TO BE ACTIVE SO USE A BETTER AND MORE CONTEXT SPECIFIC TEST INSTEAD OF GIVING ME ANXIETY AND EXISTENTIAL CRISES LIKE THESE, JFC. 😭😭😭

But I’ve taken the other test and that’s also got the drawback of being unable to differentiate between inert and active TB. So I took an HRCT scan. I’m so sick of running around hospitals, there’s a literal virus in the air. But Monday is when I’ll know the medical verdict. And then there’s the whole security check process. I hate when this happens but I’ve lost so much time to grief, I simply cannot sit around moping any longer. 

Earlier this year I interviewed with the **. I was given a verbal confirmation and had a text message implying an offer was made to me, because I received an acknowledgement to my acceptance of an offer. If I was the person I was in 2014, I’d have kicked up a fuss and made sure that offer was honoured, but 2021 me knows that working with bosses who go back on their word slyly and cave to nepotism usually need their cocks sucked. And I’m not only incapable of that, but have also dealt with enough workplace harassment elsewhere to be adamant about a brand at the risk of my mental health. But really, he can go suck it because I have confirmation from staff that he is EVERYTHING I read him to be. I’m not intuitive or anything, I just read people very well because I was hurt so bad by them (repeatedly since childhood) that reading people became a thing I did for survival. My sharp instincts serve me well, but are a trauma response. I am very self aware too, yes.

I then interviewed and got through an NGO that was willing to pay me 24L. I turned it down because the founders were running around like headless chicken with their inability to distinguish PR from Marketing Comms (me) from Marketing for business development. I know I was being paid a lot of money, but I will not kill myself performing all three functions while being acknowledged for just the one on my offer letter. I’ve learned to value my labour capacity and assert myself in the economic and political spheres. 

Personally though? I sometimes still think I’m a romantic pushover.

But this is about work because I need to weep a little before being calm about how this year has treated me. Especially since I’m maintaining a cool demeanour in public and literally hate sharing things I’m burdened with. Idk man, it makes me feel vulnerable and I don’t like feeling like I’ll get a knife twisted in the spot that's most sore. I AM SCREAMING BECAUSE I HAVE LET G WITNESS ME IN PAIN THIS TIME INSTEAD OF RUNNING AWAY and will someday file copyright over An Enduring Romantic because that’s very honestly me. But ofc it isn’t going to be the legal Copyright, just the sham notice like the one I’d sent him to up his Instagram game. Or he could just operate my Twitter and I’ll run his gram. It’ll even feel natural.

Sometime around May an environmental journal asked me to come on board. Work from the office at the height of the pandemic with no travel compensation and very little money. I turned them down. Then came II**. Which I again turned down because they wouldn’t pay market rate for skills I’ve perfected in 4 years just because they wanted 8 years experience on paper for my quotation. I will do a lot for causes I love, but I also really enjoy being paid fairly and acknowledged for the value I bring to the table.

Then came the start up in Del. Which I turned down because the uncle running it in his wife’s name expected 24*7 labour availability for 12L with no health insurance.

The latest in my list of things I’ve turned down is the ** Gov. Which I can obviously go back to since my reason for turning it down was another job, but 14 days of leave all year? 7 day work week if needed? Hell no. I enjoy having labour rights. But also when I told the dude I’d be reporting to if I accepted that I cant accept due to covid concerns his reaction was “sure, send me an email so we can start looking for someone else immediately.” Like.... we just had a second wave, what if something was wrong? I wouldn’t risk losing my job because they expect work even if I were hypothetically coughing up blood. So best not to touch with a bargepole. Now I’m less sad, but also really hope the TB results are negative. This job I want and have said yes to ticks off all of the boxes in my head and I will truly be disappointed if I lose it to disease paranoia despite being completely suited and picked for the role 😞

Just to be on the safer side, I have taken one last shot at achieving my goal of ‘learn how political systems work so you know what you’re talking about first hand in that PhD.’ I hope my Plan A works out instead, though.

Since I’ve brought him up in this, it will be interesting to note that a year ago I did the erstwhile unthinkable act of cutting a friend of for attempting to steal a man I love. A year ago to the date, literally. Funny how this year is more calm, but I was maxed out on endorphins from him last year. Until this March even, if I’m being truthful. I don’t regret cutting her off.She crossed a vvvv red line. ALL my other friends are celebrating. They detested her. 

Another thing that happened last year was me letting him know that I only get hotter with time, but along with this work drama I have also had a run in with intense grief which I thought was a mood disorder (because it was intense, I mentioned?), cholesterol, thyroid, sugar addiction and now, le TB (PLEASE BE A FALSE POSITIVE YESU KRISTU HALP). So needless to say, I haven’t been most fabulous and undergone my physical transformation and these mental health struggles (are getting better now) strapped me to my couch along with the pandemic and its many lockdowns. I have also not studied for the GRE because I’m stimulus seeking via social media and fear of sucking at math has kept me locked in place. I still have a lot to work through on this front and would really like to make his cover right too, but my creativity isn't working and I keep fucking it up. I am not as spectacular as I was last year. The separation has also weathered my dazzle out a little and while I’m living with it, I still have small waves of sadness that show up once in a while.

I might have also accidentally flirted with someone into falling for me. It was all fun and games and for my pride, but now I’ve to gently let them down since I’ve cold feet and am chicken. Because I’m as emotionally unavailable as a streetlamp. Is this why they call me a Gurgaoni fuckboi?

[pcgued]

[ MADELYN CLINE , CISFEMALE , SHE/HER ] do you hear [ CANE SHUGA BY GLASS ANIMALS ] coming from the beach ? oh, that has to be [ SIENNA DAYTON ] . they are a [ TWENTY TWO ] year old [ WAITRESS ] from the outer banks, and they’ve been living there for [ SEVENTEEN YEARS ] . they were chosen to be on the show because they are a [ POGUE ] , but really , i heard it’s because they can be [ IMPULSIVE & CAPRICIOUS ] . if you get to know them though , they’re pretty [ PERCEPTIVE & UNINHIBITED ] . they might become a quick audience favorite due to their [ INABILITY TO LOSE AT BEER PONG, UNKEPT BRAID FALLING DOWN HER BACK, LIPS CHAPPED AND RED FROM GNAWING AT THE SURFACE.  ] .

hi babes ! i’m may , and i am SO THRILLED we are finally open again !! meet my lil white trash baby sienna , and like this for plots !!

name: sienna lee dayton

age: 22

pronouns: she/her

sexuality: bisexual

occupation: waitress

starsign: gemini

pogue or kook: pogue 4 life

–> background !

sienna never had the best home life. she moved to the cut when she was five years old after her dad left her mom , and the lack of steady income forced them into a run-down mobile home

it was a better situation overall, considering how verbally and sometimes physically abusive her father was to her mom, and even at a young age she knew that it was fucked up

after they moved, her mom started working two jobs – grocery store by day, bartending by night – leaving sienna to step up and practically raise her younger brother (younger by two years).

this caused a really strained relationship between sienna and her mother, but also forced her to grow up very, very quickly.

she was a good student and always studied her ass off, knowing if she ever wanted to attend college, her grades had to be perfect. there was no way she’d be getting in without some kind of scholarship.

however, after graduating high school she put college on the backburner – opting to stay in town, continue to help her mom & brother out on the money aspect of things.

she’s been working at the same restaurant since she was seventeen, and though her tips aren’t as great as they used to be, she has tons of regulars from around town who make the job worth it

when she heard about the show rolling into town, at first, she was absolutely against it. why would anyone want to be seen on tv, coming from somewhere like the cut?

but as she looked at their run-down home and her mother still struggling with income, she knew the fame and notoriety that might come from the show would somehow help with their situation. right?

–> pogues vs kooks ! (PRE-season 1/2)

as for the pogues vs kooks situation – fuck the kooks.

she didn’t always feel that way, though. for a while, they seemed almost alien-like to her – a different breed. people with absolutely no sense of what it’s like to struggle, to wonder if you’ll get to eat dinner or not that night.

as she grew up, though, she saw them for what they really were (in her eyes at least) – greedy, selfish, air-headed, assholes.

it all started when she decided to sleep with a kook at a party her senior year – she was drunk, he had been all over her in hidden hallways where no one could see, so why not, right?

when she went to school a few days later and found out pictures had been spreading around, of her, it lit a fire of pure anger in her that she had never felt.

despite reporting it to the staff, no one would confess where the pictures originated from. it was her word against someone else’s. and who would believe a white trash pogue over a kook with a lawyer daddy, right?

if you ask sienna, she isn’t ashamed of being from the cut anymore. it raised her with morals, values, respect, and an appreciation for the simple things in life. if anyone wants to talk down to her, she’ll listen with fists ready to fly.

--> life after season 1 & 2.

sienna did everything she could to lay low after the first season ended. staying off social media, not going into big gatherings, choosing to shy away from group or individual interviews.

she used the money to help find a better house for her mother & brother, and opting for a small apartment for herself.

she was still serving tables at the restaurant, keeping in touch with the other cast mates.

season two, she stayed to herself for the most part, even opting to leave the show for a week. she figured she was there to have fun and found no reason to get involved with the drama the second time around.

however, laying low during season 2 was apparently not a good move. she didn’t make nearly as much money in the end as she did in the first season, with the producers claiming she “didn’t bring much energy or drama to the show anymore”, and almost choosing to let her go.

knowing she needs to step things up if she wants to continue supporting both herself and her family, she is coming into season three with claws ready and head held high, ready to bring season one sienna back -- only ten times as hard. 

–> personality !

(-) impulsive - does not think before she does or says something , ever. she’s more of a “better to ask for forgiveness than permission” kind of person

(-) capricious - she is moody as hell. one minute she might be laughing and joking and the next she might be ready to throw hands. just tread carefully

(+) perceptive - despite everything, she’s a very understanding & thoughtful person once you get past the layer of ‘i don’t give a fuck what you say’. she’s always questioning the deeper meaning of things

(+) uninhibited - will say what she wants, when she wants, however she wants. if she hurts your feelings & you’re someone she cares about, she’ll probably apologize later or give u a hug or something after. otherwise? she doesn’t care. very opinionated and very vocal

pls like this for plots bbs

[tierneysinclair]

“Nobody’s ever been arrested for a murder; they have only ever been arrested for not planning it properly.” ― Terry Hayes, I Am Pilgrim

Basic Information

Full name: Tierney Sinclair Pronunciation: Tier-Knee Sin-Claire Nickname(s): Not if you like to live. Tierney doesn’t do nicknames. Tierney is the only name he’ll answer to. Birthdate:  September 8, 1979 Age: 40 Zodiac: Virgo Gender: Cis-Male Pronouns: he/him Romantic Orientation: Straight Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Nationality: American Ethnicity: White Current Location: Miami, Florida Living Conditions: Tierney lives in a small apartment above his new garage. It’s nothing fancy and that’s the way he likes it. Well worn couches, outdated kitchen appliances, wear worn towels. He doesn’t live in the slums but owning only new things has never been a part of Tierney’s lifestyle.

Background

Birthplace: Las Vegas, Nevada Hometown: N/A Social Class: Presents as lower-middle class but has enough money in the bank to be upper class if he really wanted to be. But he never will. Educational Achievements: None. Tierney never went to school. By the time he was released for the testing facility it was too late and too hard to get someone like him caught up. Sporadically home schooled by staff and other people Tierney isn’t the sort of person you want on your trivia team. He struggles with complex math, history, and all other assorted ‘average school knowledge’. Father: Unknown Mother: Unknown Sibling(s): Unknown Birth Order: N/A Pets: None Previous Relationships: Nothing lasts longer than a night. Do one night stands count? Arrests: A lot. By the time Tierney aged out of the foster program he’d been arrested more times than he had fingers and toes. Nothing major, minor mischief and petty theft. It wasn’t until he was picked up by the Syndicate that he started doing bigger crimes. And by then he had the support network to not get arrested. Prison Time: Surprisingly, not a lot. Accumulated, no more than a few months. It pays to have friends in low places.

Occupation & Income

Current Occupation: Hitman for the Blackburn Syndicate & Freelance Motorcycle Restorer Dream Occupation: None. Tierney has a limited view of both his life and the world. The idea of having a ‘dream’ anything is a foreign concept to him. Past Job(s): He was boy once at a greasy diner once. When they found out he’d lied about who he was a week later he was fired. Chicago wasn’t kind to kids with rap sheets and level five rankings. Falling in with the Syndicate has been the only ‘real’ job he’s ever had. Spending Habits: Tierney is a very frugal person. He buys almost everything second hand or used and very rarely spends it on anything new. The only expensive things he owns are his bikes and a flat screen TV. Tierney’s not ashamed to admit most of his money gets spent on bike parts anyways. Debt: Never. Credit cards mean government ability to track him. And being in debt t other people is a one way trip to being killed over it at a later date. Tierney repays any debts he can’t avoid as quickly as possible, but he tends to avoid accruing debts as much as possible. Most Valuable Possession: Some people might say it would be his bikes, and from a purely financial stand point it most definitely is, but according to Tierney it’s the Blackburn Syndicate, hands down.

Skills & Abilities

Physical Strength: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney works out twice a day, every day, no exceptions. He needs to be in top physical condition for every job and now it’s just become a part of his daily habits. He’s supremely strong in his own right but mix his powers in with it and a supremely dedicated force of will he could probably lift a car above his head.

Speed: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney isn’t the fastest hitman on the market but he’s perfectly capable of darting in and out of a situation with speed. It’s part of the job to act quickly and what he lacks in sheer speed he knows he more than makes up for elsewhere.

Intelligence: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney never went to school. What schooling he did get the few years he had between testing and aging out was sporadic at best. He’s not ashamed of his faults but he doesn’t go around talking about them much either. Besides, being able to recite the presidents holds no bearing on his life choices so...what’s it matter? Tierney knows how to do his job exceptionally well. What Tierney doesn’t know ranges from complex math to the English Oxford Comma.

Accuracy: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney’s powers require a certain degree of needed accuracy coupled with the fact he’s exceptionally talented with a range of deadly weapons. He prides himself in hitting exactly what he’s aiming at every time. Sure, he misses, but that usually because his target makes an unexpected move before he can account for it.

Agility: Above Average | Average | Below Average

He’s getting older, he won’t lie about that, and that’s starting to show. Tierney is less likely to look like a stunt double these days. No somersaults or daring roof top leaps happen these days. Besides, it’s more dramatic to sweep in like an avenging angel and sweep out just as quickly. Agility is good for running away. But you only run away when you get caught. And Tierney never gets caught.

Stamina: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Tierney’s powers are tied directly to his stamina. It’s taken him years and years of practice to build up the stamina he has now. He can use his powers for hours before he starts to feel winded and hours more before he gets tired. (Unless he goes for the super taxing activities like lifting buildings or psionic explosions.) It’s perhaps his greatest strength, his ability to keep going when others weaker than him might stop.

Teamwork: Ciara Sawyer is his go-to partner. Hell, most would call her his only partner. He doesn’t like working with other people and tries very hard not to do it. He will when he must but he’ll be begrudging about it the whole time. Talents/Hobbies: Motorcycles, Lockpicking, Murder Shortcomings: His sense of justice, the inability to kill someone who isn’t involved with what he’s doing. It’s a bonus he can erase minds when he wants to. Anyone who knows Tierney from work and outside of work knows he has a severe weak spot for his gang. Touch a hair on their heads and he tends to lose focus. Languages Spoken: English Drive?: Yes. A MV Agusta Brutale. Jump-Start a Car?: Yes Change a Flat Tire?: All the time. Ride a Bicycle?: No way. In hell. Swim?: Not because he likes to. Play an Instrument?: Nope Play Chess?: Yes Braid Hair?: No Tie a Tie?: Yes. Of course! Pick a Lock?: Oh hell yeah. With his mind. Cook?: Yes, but not well.

Physical Appearance & Characteristics

Faceclaim: Joel Kinnaman Eye Color: Brownish/Greenish Hair Color: Ashy Blonde Hair Type/Style/Length: Average/Well Kept/Short Glasses/Contacts?: None Dominant Hand: Right Height: 6′ 2″ Weight: 187lbs Build: Athletic Exercise Habits: Two session, morning and evening. Every day, two hours. With intermittent practice in between with others. Skin tone: Fair Tattoos: Left shoulder reaching to just below his elbow, spiders out to cover some of his chest and back. Got it to cover up an old gunshot scar. A faded string of numbers on his right arm (080879-58-05). Piercings: None Marks/Scars: Tierney is covered in scars. From battle wounds to childhood scrapes, to remnants of his life as a test mutant. Most can be found on his chest and back but part of why he wears pants and sleeves is to hide the others. Don’t want his identifying marks to get out and doesn’t like explaining to others what happened to him in order to get that many scars. Clothing Style: Dark colors, long pants, long sleeves, deep pockets. Usually a coat when the weather allows. The more places to hide the things he needs to work the better. But he cleans up well, he has plenty of suits in his closet too. Usually second hand stuff, the only time he buys something fancy is when he’s on a job. Jewelry: A set of dog tags labeling him a level five mutant. Nothing more. Allergies: None Diet: Average. More fast food than probably healthy. Physical Ailments: Stiff knees. Jumped off a few too many building in his younger years. Spent too many hours kneeling behind walls after that. They don’t bother him much but anyone with eyes can see they’re stiff. His left shoulder is also stiff, he favors it. Perhaps on of his worst gun shot injuries to date. It haunts him. And aches when the weather changes.

Psychology

MBTI Type: ISTJ-A (The Logistician)

ISTJs are often called inspectors. They have a keen sense of right and wrong, especially in their area of interest and/or responsibility. They are noted for devotion to duty. Punctuality is a watchword of the ISTJ. As do other Introverted Thinkers, ISTJs often give the initial impression of being aloof and perhaps somewhat cold. Effusive expression of emotional warmth is not something that ISTJs do without considerable energy loss. ISTJs are most at home with "just the facts, Ma'am." They seem to perform at highest efficiency when employing a step-by-step approach.

Enneagram Type: Type 6 (The Skeptic)

The committed, security-oriented type. Sixes are reliable, hard-working, responsible, and trustworthy. Excellent "troubleshooters," they foresee problems and foster cooperation, but can also become defensive, evasive, and anxious—running on stress while complaining about it. They can be cautious and indecisive, but also reactive, defiant and rebellious. They typically have problems with self-doubt and suspicion. At their Best: internally stable and self-reliant, courageously championing themselves and others.

Moral Alignment: Lawful Neutral

A lawful neutral character acts as law, tradition, or a personal code directs her. Order and organization are paramount to her. She may believe in personal order and live by a code or standard, or she may believe in order for all and favor a strong, organized government.

Temperament: Choleric

Cholerics are extroverted, quick-thinking, active, practical, strong-willed, and easily annoyed. They are self-confident, self-sufficient, and very independent minded. They are brief, direct, to the point, and firm when communicating with others.

Element: Earth & Fire Emotional Stability: Stable Introvert or Extrovert?: Introvert Obsession(s): Motorcycles. Tierney doesn’t know a lot outside of how to kill someone and get away with it. But he knows practically everything there is to know about motorcycles. How they work, how the break, how to fix them. Everything. Some would call him obsessed but Tierney calls it laser focused. Compulsion(s): Protecting his family. It’s what’s on his mind in every situation. All of his actions are dictated by this fact. Even for decisions that aren’t going to impact the Syndicate are measured against this need. It’s never occurred to him that it might, in fact, be a problem. It’s just natural. Phobia(s): Mutant testing facilities. It’s irrational, especially now, to be afraid of getting taken back to the white walled hellscape he grew up in. But he is. He scrubs his name clean where ever he goes and actively avoids anyone in a lab coat who starts asking questions. He even takes down fliers asking for mutants to ‘willingly’ submit to testing. He doesn’t talk about those years for damn good reasons. Addiction(s): None Drug Use: None Alcohol Use: Often Prone to Violence?: Always Prone to Crying?: No Believe in Love at First Sight?: No

Mannerisms

Accent: Depends. A bit of a hodgepodge of Boston and Midwestern. Tends to adapt to the common accent after a while when staying in a place for a prolonged period of time. Speech Quirks: None Hobbies: Motorcycle Repair, Motorcycle Rebuilding Habits: Spinning things in the air when he’s concentrating. Leg bouncing. Ordering more food than he can eat so he has left overs in the fridge. Nervous Ticks: Rubbing his nose and spinning objects in the air at high rates of speed. Drives/Motivations: Protecting his family. Fears: Losing his family, someone dying on him, being taken back in for testing. Sense of Humour?: Dry. Like the desert. Do They Curse Often?: Like. All the time.

Favorites

Animal: Bear Beverage: Heineken Beer and/or Black Coffee Book: None. Tierney hates reading. Color: Deep Green Food: Ciara’s Flower: None Gem: Emeralds Mode of Transportation: Motorcycles Scent: Fresh brewed coffee, rain on the horizon, motorcycle oil, pizza grease on your fingers Sport: Football and Hockey Weather: Rain Vacation Destination: None

Attitudes

Greatest Dream: End mutant testing. Tierney sees nothing productive in the act and goes out of his way to end it whenever and wherever he can. Mutants are people. Not lab rats to be poked at or taken away from their families. Greatest Fear: Losing one of his family and being taken back for mutant testing. Most at Ease When: Elbow deep in one of his bikes with of his closest friends lounging on the couch across the way. Least as Ease When: He doesn’t know what’s going on around him. When his plans has fallen through and he’s no longer in control of what’s happening around him. Worst Possible Thing That Could Happen: Alma being murdered. Biggest Achievement: Taking out the president of the company that held him as a test subject when he was a child. Biggest Regret: He has exactly Eleven. Eleven deaths that weren’t supposed to happen but did.

[bladekindeyewear]

Bloggin’ bout HS^2′s second upd8 continued.  > (==>)

And it had felt so real, almost like he could have reached out and touched him--

--Yeah, the next page is gonna be BGDirk just standing there like I saw before I read the update, right?

> (==>)

> (==>)

Two pages. Close enough.

> (==>)

Hah!  Get fucked, Dirk.  (Even if you’re supposedly one of the better Dirks.)

> (==>)

Yep, all see-thru and everything.

DIRK: You passed out in a puddle of your own drool. And what the fuck is that on your face? JAKE: My face? What do you mean on my face? DIRK: The moustache, Jake. Who’s idea was that. JAKE: Oh! You dont like it? DIRK: I didn’t say that.

Oh come the fuck on.  He looks good in a mustache, Jane-influence or no Jane-influence.

DIRK: We’ve had this conversation before, dingus. I’m you. And I’m me. But I only exist because of your powers. The fact that I’m manifesting here, in the new universe, outside of a dream, is evidence in itself for just how absolutely boned you are.

Now what exactly do you mean by that last part?  How is this a sign of trouble?

--Is it because this Dirk thinks he’s needed?  And therefore shit will be going down?

DIRK: You’ve been a useless sack of shit for two decades. I’m here to kick your ass back into active duty.

...Hm.

I mean, Jake MIGHT be able to help stop this stupid goddamn war, but this IS Dirk trying to help him, so...

JAKE: And what side am i supposed to be fighting on? for jane or against her? DIRK: Against her. Obviously. What the fuck, dude.

Pffff.

JAKE: But you were the one who wanted her to run in the first place! You wrote her bloody speeches! DIRK: Yeah, I did. And every single one of them kicked ass. I wanted Jane to be the democratically elected president. Not a cake-slinging Jeff Bezos with a great rack.

Pfff.  I mean, you didn’t do a great job the first way, either.  It’s heavily implied things in Canon-land were about to go to shit too.

Not as FAR to shit, nor as quickly, but still to shit.  So, really, how DIFFERENT is this from the way you wanted it done, Dirk?  How can you claim this isn’t half YOUR fuck-up too?

DIRK: Don’t worry about it. The point is, you have a chance to make a difference. You’re in the perfect position to infiltrate her operation.

Oh hell no.  Don’t send him back in THERE you utter horse’s ass!  How could THAT be good for his mental health!? What the fuck about Tavros?!?

DIRK: That’s horseshit and we both know it. Jane would take you back in a second. She loves you.

I think Jane’s definition of “taking him back” would be a bit broader than his body or soul could fucking afford.

> (==>)

Eugh.  You really liked the Condesce’s way of doing things right down to her style, huh?  To think you used to love the spoon.  Is that a fucking spork?  Is that zilly Battlespork your go-to weapon now?

Also, it took me a moment to realize those green and orange silhouettes were Jake and BGDirk.  I was a little like “how did Rose get here?!?”.

> (==>)

Have I mentioned how good all this art is?  So much attention being paid to the use of color, to making everything look so soft and streamlined?

Looks like she’s going in for at LEAST a hug.  And the art style might be mercifully light on showing us indulgent details of just how asset-laden Jane is supposed to be.  Shots of Jake’s manly bod aside, something in me doesn’t like the traditionally-sexualized stuff pushed like that in a canon that’s been light on it for so long...

> (==>)

Oh, that... THAT looks fake.  Or like, she’s about to turn around and happily wail on his ass or something.

JANE: Boo hoo hoo! Oh, Jake! Something awful has happened! JAKE: It--it has? You mean more awful than usual? JANE: The opposition has taken Tavros, Jake. They’ve finally shown their true colors. I knew it was only a matter of time before they attacked our family directly!

.....Ah.  Well, that explains it.  She’d never cry like that about HIM returning AFTER STEPPING OUT ON HER.

It’s then that Jake realizes that Jane isn’t mad because she’d never realized he was gone.

Poor pages, huh?  All their most dramatic gestures always undercut.

...It seems like we might see Candy kind of resolved in less of a fucked-up worldstate after all, at this rate?

She seems to have forgotten that she’d been cross with him the last time they met, because now that Gamzee is gone, there’s no one left to talk to.

It’s true. Gamzee’s absence always improves things.

> (==>)

All of it is made worse by the occasional wry glint in her eye, or moment of self-deprecation in the slant of her mouth. It reminds him of the Jane he used to know. Or the Jane he thought he used to know.

Ambition is a hell of a thing.  Seems like she’s drunk of it almost as deeply as Prince Dirk.  I’d imagine this could be a pretty consistent thing with really active Life players when they get actual power, huh?  The way it just gathers to Life players in all its forms -- power over others, status, wealth -- it’s easy to start to leverage it in ways that constitute abuse of power over others from a Riddle perspective.

At first Dirk stands at Jake’s elbow, a one-ghost support staff, before he appears to lose interest in Jane’s rant and wanders off across the office, reading the spines of books and spending way too long staring at a startlingly phallic piece of installation art,

--PLEASE let us see it.

, the provenance of which Jake doesn’t know, but could hazard a guess it wore a codpiece.

Nope, never mind. Interest lost.

> (==>)

Then he settles on Jane’s desk, propping his ghost butt there and sort of just...well. Here’s a picture of what he does.

Um.

Where is this going?

> (==>)

Oh, so the BEST option, then.  :D

Okay. That’s a bit of an exaggeration.

Boooooo.

> (==>)

--Alright, forgiven.

he’s thoroughly exhausted from attempting to pay attention to his supervillain wife while trying not to look at the crotch of a ghost man from his brain.

...Okay, hold up.  BGDirk, are you trying to steer him into doing this for self-indulgent, non-comedic purposes? Or is this a bit of Prince Dirk in there?  (I mean... I can’t definitively say Jake wouldn’t have wanted this.)

And I’m still wondering how all of this is going to be relevant.  IF it’s going to be relevant.  Despite promises to the contrary that are seemingly being ignored.

> (==>)

DIRK: All according to keikaku.

Fuck you.

JAKE: i really didnt think id fall off the wagon so quickly. I dont think being here is good for my emotions to be honest. DIRK: Yeah, probably not. But that’s okay. They don’t matter. JAKE: Oh.

Yeah, Dirk, you suck at this more than you know.  This ain’t going to go as well as you “hope” I don’t think.

DIRK: Don’t know anything about stiff lips, dude. But that’s not what I mean. It’s not because you’re a man. You’re a god. JAKE: Oh right. That. DIRK: The world comes first, even at the expense of all your relationships and personal happiness. That’s what being a hero means. JAKE: I guess...i never really thought about it like that.

You’re also not guaranteed to be fucking right, you know.

There are definitely dichotomies where what was best for the world wasn’t best for the person, so far, and vice versa in Homestuck.  But Dirk’s taking his anime-flavored principles as gospel as usual, and ignoring, oh I dunno, the impact of the heart in all of this.  Some people, ESPECIALLY JAKE and other Pages so far, CAN’T operate at their best until they’re at least reasonably healthy and sure of themselves, and investments to that effect are essential to letting them slowly realize their full potential.  Brain Ghost Dirk is likely making the same goddamn mistake he made with his overbearing Dirkbot back on Jake’s island.

> (==>)

DIRK: Think what you want about Jane, but at least she realizes that none of you can ever be normal, and she never bothered to try. Can it really be a god-complex if you’re actually a god? DIRK: People like us don’t get happy endings.

...Yup.  This is the fucked-over part of Dirk’s worldview coming in full play, here.  And he believes in it so strongly that he couldn’t even fucking leave NON-CANON alone anymore.  Fuck.

JAKE: Thats bleak dirk i dont think i could possibly believe that!

Mmmhmm.

DIRK: Yeah. That’s probably more a Dirk thought than a Jake one. I told you, it’s hard to tell sometimes. JAKE: Is...is that really how dirk felt the whole gosh darned time?

Mmmhmm.

> (==>)

Last page of the upd8.  Well... all I can say is, it’s a good thing he’s a fucking ghost here.  And half Jake, at that.  At least that can limit the damage.  Hopefully giving Jake just enough of a kick in the doing-something direction without being so overbearing that he makes things worse, making for a balance of...

...Wait.

Wait, is that why we’re here?

Maybe that finally makes some sense of all this.  Of this cut, of this small violation of that last sentence in Meat, of--  ah, yeah, I might be on to something here!  Only maybe, but still--!

We’re quite possibly bearing witness to a realm of influence where, through measures outside of his control, Dirk has a balanced impact.  Where this same ideology of his, tempered by Jake’s hopeful mindset and Dirk’s inability to take direct action, might just manage to make things better and actually make everyone happier by the end, while solving Earth C’s fucked-up Candyland state at the same time.  It’s possibly to show the readers (through the lens of a Hope player specializing in positive possibility) that Dirk, had he been restrained, COULD have had a positive impact, even at the same time that we’re shown Prince Dirk at his soul’s most overblown and heinous.

And, if we want to be optimistic..... perhaps this’ll show Dirk, too?

Canon and Non-Canon may not “meet” again.  But that doesn’t stop Dirk, via this fragment of his multiverse-spanning soul, from seeing Non-Canon.  From seeing how well things COULD have worked out, had he held back.  And if we keep cutting like this -- back and forth between the “real” story and these events in Candyverse -- perhaps the moment at which Brain Ghost Dirk realizes what he’s accomplished, realizes how much better things are because he could hold back, will coincide at the end with Prince Dirk finally, belatedly, realizing just how fucked his plan was, and understanding at the very, very end why he has to fucking die?

THAT would be interesting.

I guess we’ll see?  Talk to y’all next upd8.

[tarithenurse]

Agent of Hope - 19

Your world falls into ruin together with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcements Logistics Division when you find out that your boyfriend isn’t one of the good guys. Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents: Hmmm...weapons, fluff, dealing with trauma, mention of rape, masturbation, violent reaction, difficult choices, more fluff, and kissing. A/N: Thanks to all of you who like and especially reblog <3 On a second note: been looking for houses (need to move out of my parents’ place with my husband bc omfc).  Also that GIF just is epic.

19 - An offer you can’t refuse

…   Romanoff   …

The tinny jingle from the Goldfish commercials doesn’t cause hesitation to the hands moving rapidly to find and connect the right parts needed in the task of assembling three different guns. Only when the last weapon is locked (and loaded) does Natasha spin the cell phone on the table with a frown. Unknown caller, but the small dots in the corner indicate that Jarvis is tracking down the number already and will have an answer in three…two…one…ugh! Langley.

“Afternoon.” The tone is flat enough to show the lack of enthusiasm without being downright rude. “What more does Langley want post-hearings?”

She can almost hear the crooked smile. “Hrph…I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, miss Romanova.” The twist to the last name sends shivers down the former Russian’s spine but the familiar voice continues. “I’m agent Ross…we met during the hearings…?”

The silence is allowed to reign in an attempt to get the man to talk, maybe say too much. Meanwhile, Natasha brings the Glock 26 behind the back and starts to dismantle it, counting the seconds it takes before every piece of metal is spread out on the couch cushion behind her, careful not to lose the pins or the little spring for the trigger.

“Miss uhm…miss Romanova? You there?”

Nervous. Not enough. “…yeah.”

“Good! Good. Yes…” Some paper rustles through the line. “Right…I know the hearings’ve been long and prob’ly bothersome,” agent Ross hesitates to allow for some comment but gets none, “s’I can completely understand and respect if y’aren’t interested, however…I believe that you may ‘ave information that could be of benefit to u- to the Agency, I mean, in terms of filling some gaps. Erm I think…what I’m trying to say’s would it be possible for you to – off record – have a look at our older intel?”

Wait…waaiit…one more second. An intake of breath is Natasha’s cue. “You want me to shed light on old cases that’ve gone sideways?”

“Well –“

“You think either SHIELD, Hydra, or maybe my former handlers could’ve botched it for you guys?” By now the short agent’s sputtering in embarrassment, maybe hoping for the weak protests to soothe any slights the insinuation could have caused. “Send me a top ten and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Really?!”

Yeah, why would I? Simply put, Natasha hates being out of the loop, and the spy in her is aching for the chance of (legally) getting hold of CIA intel. More than that, though, she’s learned the hard way how precious the currency known as “favours” are. Owe someone something? They’ll have a hook in you forever. Someone owes you? It can be the difference between life and death. An IOU from a CIA agent…that could be handy.

“No promises I can actually tell you more than y’know already.”

Movement behind her makes the Avenger turn her head, a smile already curving her lips at the presence of [Y/N] who eyes the weapons (and parts) cautiously.

“Oh, no! That’s okay, no worries!” An idiot might refuse the tentative offer and Ross is far from that. “I’ll compile the files and get them to…you…uhm…”

“I’ll text you an address.” A slightly oil-greased finger hovers over the phone already. “Bye, agent Everett Ross.”

…   Rumlow   …

The fly circles the room a few times before finally settling on the person in the corner, climbing across brown-stained jeans in short sprints before reaching the lax hand and taking off again. Next time the insect lands it’s by the dried spatter on the wall where the bullet had made a small crater when it exited the skull of…who was that? A glance at the pens and the old-fashioned glasses makes Brock guess at some dusty field of expertise like history or literature. Whatever it had been, the man had decided it was better to risk it all and go looking for Hydra on nothing but a rumour.

“Don’t mind zat,” Strucker dismisses the sight easily, “ze interesting zing is zis.” Careful not to touch, he points at the darkened veins and (with the help of a metal rod) the unnaturally blue eyes. “Ze experiment was quite a success, my friend. We are able to channel ze power of ze weapon into humans.”

“They all end up like this so far?” The eyelid hasn’t lowered again, so the endless glow of space is staring blindly at Brock no matter where he moves. “A bullet in the brain? Why did he get that?”

Chuckling softly, Strucker wipes the little stick in a handkerchief which he folds before depositing both in a pocket. “Zis man gained immense strengz but lacked control.” Oh. “Perhaps zere is a stronger connection between the state of mind and ze results zan we anticipated. We are now looking for actual volunteers.”

…

Fuck. However Loki did it remains a mystery still, but Brock won’t give up the hope that it will be possible to figure out how to control another person with the staff. Damnit, he’d seen the bit of salvaged footage and read the debriefs portraying the events when the Asgardian came to Earth and brainwashed top agents in no time.

The results of Strucker’s and his team’s work is vital both for the promotion of Hydra’s scheme…and to get anything useful from [Y/N] when she will get back again. I’ll be damned if it kills her. Brock’s all too aware that his craving for the ex-girlfriend wouldn’t be condoned if anyone knew – to be fair, he doesn’t quite like it himself because it makes him feel like he isn’t in control of his own damn mind. Every dream is either about missions and kills, sending adrenalin pumping through his veins, or they feature every detail of [Y/N].

The little smile when she was lost in thought. Her spine curving to jut the breasts upwards, skin subtle under Brock’s hands. Remembering the teasing hitches in her breath on a sunny morning, light filtering through the windows to catch in her hair as they made their bed creak together a lifetime ago.

“Godfuckingdamnit!”

Already, an erection is pressing painfully hard against tac-pants and Brock shoves a fist down to reposition the stubborn cock only for a new memory to appear the moment his fingers close around the shaft. Shea-butter mixed with sweat on pebbled nipples…perfect taste. There’s not much room to move the hand, but at least the pants are easily opened allowing for longer strokes.

The speed accelerates with each recollection, fist tightening and twisting while the echoes of [Y/N]’s moans are replaced by cries tearing from her throat when he took her with force. Fuck, it was so good, the man admits to himself, the struggle…oh yeah…the…the control. Breathing laboured, Brock has to lean against the wall, unable to stagger the last few steps over to his cot. She’d begged and pleaded, and he had been the one to grant her peace…or not.

He grunts as he comes. White stickiness spurting between his fingers, adding to the blurry haze from the inability to focus on anything else than the rush thrumming through the veins. It’ll be a short reprieve before the need returns like an endless hunger that nothing can sate. One thing can. But [Y/N] isn’t here, she’s tugged away somewhere with the fucking Avengers and that makes it all a million times worse because to think that Romanoff or maybe even Steve get to be close to her. Get to touch her, smell her.

It stings pleasantly when the hand connects with the drywalling and the structure behind it, thin strings of cum hanging from the torn plaster. At least that clears Brock’s mind a bit.

…   Reader   …

Lying awake all night, it’s almost a relief to sense the grey dimness take over the room and allow the outlines of furniture to stand out – not even Natasha’s steady breathing has been able to calm your mind after the hours of training spent to tire out your body at least. Why this time?! You’ve spent more than enough nights trying to escape nightmarish memories and negative thoughts but this…this issue is different and you’re happy with the decision you’ve made. I should just tell her.

It’s almost possible to make out the contours of Tasha against the white pillow, darker hair spreading like a halo of smoke. You know she sleeps lightly. Brushing your lips featherlight across her cheek, and she already turns to find your mouth with her own. Sweet and lazy kisses, a single tug to your bottom lip. Morning breath is a non-issue when she invites you into a bubble of gentle safety. Home.

“Morning, babe.” Her fingers tease the shortest hairs in your neck. “You’ve managed to sleep at all?”

There’s no reason to answer, just plant a peck on her nose. “I’ve made up my mind,” you offer as consolation, “and I hope you’ll understand why it’s important to me.”

The love never disappears from the touch while she sits up against the headboard. If it was light enough, you think you might see cautious interest mingled with concern in her eyes because Tasha isn’t as good as hiding it as she thinks she is. That’s a secret though.

“Okay…” She drags you onto her lap, straddling her so the strong arms can wrap around your waist. “Is it about the call from Ross?”

The scent of shampoo still clings to her hair as you bury your face in it, happy to talk into the red mess. “Yes, but mainly it’s about wanting to do what I can.”

Of course your reasoning isn’t perfect, but Natasha doesn’t interrupt even once as you explain how you want to do your part to support the hearings and the new request from the CIA by giving a testimony. Gifted or not, at least there’s information about Brock that can be of use and it seems someone else than just the Avengers are trying to clean things up…hopefully that includes tracking down the people that can be identified to Hydra through the data dumped on the net the day SHIELD fell. You promise to keep the ability secret to anyone outside of Natasha and her friends...admitting that you’ll have to be careful although you’ve got the most convincing cover to any strange phrasing “thanks” to what Brock and his people have put you through while in their hands.

The colours have returned to the world by the time you finish explaining. Dusty lavender heightens the rosy cheeks of the woman looking at you with a serious expression that makes your stomach knot. I have to do this. It’ll be hard as fuck, but it feels right. Feels important.

“I’ll let him know,” Tasha whispers, pulling you in for a tight embrace, “and I’ll be with you all the time.”

[migleefulmoments]

"That’s because she’s a toddler that stomps her foot and throws a tantrum when she doesn’t get what she wants or the attention she feels entitled to for doing absolutely nothing meaningful with her life." Hahahahahaha, Abby talking about herself again. This miserable woman has some serious psychological issues if she can't recognize that what she is describing is her own pathetic attitude and existence. It really is woeful behavior, Abby. For the love of god, stop and employ some introspection.

I’m always amazed at her complete lack of introspection and her inability to understand who is doing the feet stomping and attention-demanding but I’m more floored that the tinhat enablers can’t see it. The endless narcissism memes and quotes posted without an iota of irony by Leka, Cassie, and Flowers are frankly baffling. How can they not see it? 

I suppose Mia could be a stomping toddler princess-we would have no way of knowing because we hardly ever hear her speak and we certainly do not get to hear her thoughts and feelings about life. The only time we get any access to anything that might resemble a thought or feeling is when a friend reblogs��s social media post from her private IG. It’s super rare and we have never seen anything resembling a “toddler princess”.  To get from a smiling photo of Darren and Mia on the red carpet to “she is stomping her feet and making demands” one must believe a long, fabricated backstory created purely to fulfill Abby’s fantasy-a fantasy that is rooted in deep-green jealousy rather than anything real.  

Mia is well-liked by her friends, her bar staff, and Darren’s friends, coworkers, and peers. We know this because they post it on social media. People write really nice -and often very specific-comments about what they like about Mia or what she brings to their lives. Abby, on the other hand, spends her days raging over Darren maybe might possibly could ogle men on the Hollywood set and that would be someone’s fault-ok it would be Ricky’s fault. She’s angry about Darren’s new home-shocker, she doesn’t like it. She’s pissed that D-Criss News reports Darren’s life like it happens aka she doesn’t scrub her blog of all mentions of Mia and/or Photoshop her out of pictures like DACN does. The only one demanding respect is Miss Abs who was quite angry after being called out and argued “I am the one who constantly tries to explain his actions and constantly tries to assert my opinion”

There is only one person stomping her feet and making demands and her name starts with “Abby”. 

“I was just saying to a good friend, with SK, my patience has expired. And that’s how I feel about everything involving d and this tragedy. At least if he was working there would be a distraction. It’s May. We’ve gotten one night about d. One. The rest have been overshadowed and that includes his 3 awards.

And if my patience has run out, imagine how d&c feel. I just wish I knew how we got here. It’s my worst nightmare times a thousand, maybe a million. And I’m disgusted with everyone surrounding him. And angry. Very very angry.

Please may he win. If he wins, this will just be a difficult bump on a long road to the finish line and victory. Please, please, please. This can’t be his life. Because he’s not living”.(X)

“...your one sentence resonates, “fans of d who want him straight see M as the only one who makes him straight…”. That’s not a me problem. That’s a them problem. That’s pathetic. Essentially, what you are saying, and truly what I believe so we agree, they support m because they realize without her d would be allowed to be his queer self in love with another man. And that truth petrifies them.

And this fandom, in which I am a loud voice, points out every damn flaw and they hate it because they know they can’t erase it. So they counter by praising that worthless, vile, malicious, greedy woman. And bullying us. And creating blogs to hate us.

And yes a side effect, m gets same increased praise because of it. And that’s a negative. But we also make her life hell but continuing to publish facts. And we scare the fuck out if her fans. And I have no intention of stopping. Because the truth always comes out in the end. M will lose. Maybe not today or even next year. But in time. And I will take pride in knowing I was a massive thorn in her side and played a part in her demise.

D is going to win. And I will see it happen.

Love this gem of demands 

You know what I miss?

D having projects that I was excited about and looking forward to.  The ONLY one he has upcoming that i am remotely happy about is M/idway, and that makes me sad in many ways as that is the direction his career should be going and instead it has stalled.

Instead, this entire year was things I do not care about and I am not interested in.  

SK? No thank you, not only do many (not all) use him mercilessly, but everything they touch, whether professional or personal, is the PBB show.  And while I appreciate his loyalty, i really do, and I understand he is an owner, he has grown so far beyond them, this should not have been a primary focus of the entire first half of the year.

R/oyalites?  That one is hard no for me. first we have the Jumping Jackass as executive producer. Need i say more?  Of course I will.  It is also in a format i found wholly uninteresting and is being written by 2 people that i don’t believe have grown beyond their college years.  In addition, i think it will be used as a vehicle to promote ass kissers, but that remains to be seen.

TB?  Nope, have not even watched it in its entirety more than once.  A commercial for a food chain i don’t like and that supports Donnie as the ONLY acting he has done until just recently seems like an utter joke.  I recognize it was well done, but not when it is the only thing. Commercials and ads should be supplementing his acting career, not be his entire career.

EF? I should be excited, i have a ticket. But to see who?  6 weeks from Saturday and not even D is confirmed as performing.  And even if it is an amazing line up, RR and PBB have their fingerprints all over it and pull focus. (future Abby LOVED Elsie this year) 

I WAS excited about CG music, but what happened there?  They started a fan club, promised an EP and nothing.  Instead C/huck has released his own album and included at least one song that was supposed to be on the CG EP.  

Fine, there is CIM, that was fun, but fleeting. So i guess I was happy about this.  Wonder what happened to the video?

I think this is the thing that makes me almost more angry than anything. Fine, they forced him to marry that woman, and that breaks my heart and is near impossible to watch. I hate every second of it.  But not only do I have to watch that shit show nearly everyday as their life may as well be a reality show, there isn’t even the work to use as a distraction.

I assume and hope there is a plan and this is temporary. I do.He deserves so much better than what has happened in 2019.

Sorry, in a glum mood and this is what happened.

[xechoecho88x]

You Are To Me

Prompt: 

A: “If you do this, you’ll die!”

B: “If I don’t, thousands will die. I’m not more important than all those people.”

A: “You are to me.”

Pairings: Royality, Analogical

TW: Some violence, some injuries, fighting  (Tell me if you want anything else added)

-NOT GRAPHIC-

--

Roman ran through the Imagination, breathing hard. He was covered in bruises, scratches, and cuts, his hair was messed up and smeared with dirt. He gripped his sword so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. 

Roman cursed as he turned sharply, trying to lose his pursuer. He fell into the mud, staining his white outfit. He scrambled up, eyes widening as he caught sight of the creature who was attacking him. 

She was grotesque. Venom dripped from her long fangs and her beady black eyes seemed to stare into his soul. She looked similar to a dragon, except not the kind from Dragon Tales, or even the one from Cinderella. No, this dragon was simply terrifying. She had spikes that were needle-sharp and thin, covering her body. When this dragon was little she looked more like the dragons from How To Train Your Dragon. During this time, Roman had “lovingly” named her the Dragon Witch. 

As the dragon grew, she grew more and more out of Roman’s control. Now the Prince had to protect the emotions and aspects from her. This involved fighting tooth and claw, literally in the Dragon Witch’s case, figuratively in Roman’s. As that was his sworn duty as protector and ruler of the Imagination. 

The witch readied her staff and shot a beam of magic toward Roman. The creative side panicked and disappeared back to the Mind Palace, back to safety. Abandoning his post as protector of the city of emotions and aspects.

Roman collapsed to his knees in fear as he reappeared back in the Mind Palace common room. He was shaking, and if tears were leaking from his eyes, he’d never admit it. He was so close, so close, to being hit by whatever spell the Dragon Witch had casted. Who knows? That spell could’ve been fatal. He closed his eyes in hopes of calming himself from his near-death experience. However, it seems that Patton had been making his way through that room in order to reach the kitchen so he could start making dinner for the sides. 

“Roman? Kiddo?” Patton asked nervously. He shifted from leg to leg as he stared down at the seemingly injured side.

Roman’s eyes snapped open. “Padre!” he exclaimed gazing happily at the moral side. 

Patton helped up the princely side looking over his mud-stained clothing and various scratches with concern. He quickly left the other side as soon as he was back on his feet. 

He returned quickly, or maybe it seemed that way to Roman, he was kind of spacing out at this point, regretting abandoning his subjects. Patton lugged a First Aid kit along with him. 

Roman blinked and suddenly he was on the sofa, the top of his muddy uniform thrown off to the side. Patton knelt before him, wiping his wounds with disinfectant. Roman hissed in pain, feeling the sting of his cuts. 

“How did this happen, Ro-ro?” Patton asked him gently.

Roman shook his head. “I-I have to get back.” Roman muttered. “I was dueling the Dragon Witch, I need to save the citizens of the Imagination.”

Patton blinked. “You can save them later, I’m sure they can deal with it for a little while longer. You’re only one side.”

“They can’t!” Roman exclaimed, getting up from his spot on the couch in agitation. “I’m the only one that has a chance! Now…” Roman looked around for his sword and his uniform. 

“Roman.” Patton said, looking into said Side’s eyes. “Rest.”

“Patton! I-” Roman exclaimed in exasperation. Then suddenly, his eyes seemed impossibly heavy. “You didn’t…” Roman muttered sleepily, appalled that Patton wouldn’t listen to him. 

“I’m sorry, Roman, but you need to rest.” Patton said, eyes dimming from the glowing it was doing previously.

Patton had many powers as leader of the “light” sides. One such was the ability to cause other sides to fall asleep. 

Roman’s world went dark. 

When Roman re-awakened, Logan sat in the armchair next to the couch. The logical side studied him for a moment before getting up from his seat and walking over to where Roman was resting. “You’re awake.” 

“No thanks to Patton.” Roman grumbled. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not long enough!” Patton called, once more, from the kitchen. The sound of running water made Roman deduce that Patton was washing dishes. 

“About an hour.” Logan stated. 

Roman scrambled up into a sitting position. White-hot panic shot through him. He’d been away from the Imagination too long! What could the Dragon Witch have gotten up to when Roman was resting?

Logan looked down at the Prince in concern. Roman was almost hyperventilating at the idea that he had failed to protect the citizens of the Imagination. 

Virgil then appeared on scene. Walking in from the kitchen, it was likely that he was helping Patton clean the dishes. The emo nightmare crouched in front of Roman. “Breathe” He said, staring directly into Roman’s brown eyes. 

Roman nodded and closed his eyes, regulating his breathing pattern. But now, Roman was itching to run back to the Imagination, ADHD kicking in at the best moment possible. 

“Roman.” Virgil said, to get the flamboyant side’s attention. He clearly noticed Roman’s fidgeting, despite it starting only a second before. “We’re going with you, to kick that b-witch’s butt!” 

Roman felt deeply touched. “I would gladly welcome you all, however, it is too dangerous. I simply cannot condone this. I don’t want you all to get hurt because of my inability to solve my own problems.” 

Virgil simply scoffed at Roman. “We’re not going to get hurt. And even if we do, it is no way your fault. I mean, we chose to go? Hello?”

Patton poked his head in the common room, again. “First, Ro, eat your dinner. You were asleep while the rest of us ate.” Interjected Patton. 

Roman glumly accepted. However, he was NOT going to just “let the other sides join him on his quest to defeat the Dragon Witch”. They didn’t understand. They didn’t realize that she was much more dangerous than what Roman had made her out to be. He didn’t want them to know how hard it was to defeat her every time. How he was never quite able to kill her. 

After Roman had finished the spaghetti that Patton had lovingly made for him, he stated that the others were not allowed to join him. 

  “Isn’t there strength in numbers? Logan?” Patton asked in counter to Roman’s previous statement. 

“Statistically, the chances of winning are much higher with more people to help.” Logan answered in agreement. 

Roman sighed. He didn’t want to give this up, because he didn’t want his fellow sides to suffer at the hands of the evil Dragon Witch. But he knew that they were too stubborn. The chances of them making it out with minimal injury were higher if Roman gave them instruction, weapons, and armour. “Alright, come to my room.”

Patton’s eyes immediately brightened and he scampered up to Roman. Logan smiled in satisfaction and Virgil gained a look that seemed to say, Of course you gave in. I knew you would. 

Roman’s room held an assortment of different armours and weapons, not just swords. However, most did not seem to fit what Roman considered that they needed. He summoned a highly protected piece of armour. The inside was padded with kevlar and it covered everything up to the user’s head. The design was rather simple, something you might expect from a cartoon depicting a medieval knight’s armour. The design also held light blue accents. The helmet was somewhat similar to a samurai’s helmet. However, it wasn’t as fancy, more protecting than anything. The helmet also had a clear visor that slid down over the face. This could be used to protect against flying materials and as a defense for your face. Roman handed the armour to Patton. Roman received a confused expression back. 

“Wear it.” Roman grumbled, “You’ll have a lower chance of dying.”

Patton nodded and slid on the armour. 

While he was putting it on (armour takes a long time to put on, there are many pieces and it can be difficult to maneuver), Roman summoned another set of armour. This one was much more practical. Moving in this piece would be much easier. The chestplate, shoulder pads, arm gauntlets, and boots were constructed out of a magnesium-based alloy. This alloy is known for being lightweight and strong. The rest of the armour was stylized kangaroo leather. The armour was mainly black with indigo accents scattered throughout. The helmet seemed to be based off of a Roman Legion helmet. This allowed the front of the helmet to be open. Roman handed this set of armour to Logan. It was entirely based off of his personality, practical, but effective. 

The next piece of armour was almost a combination of the last two. The design was very clearly based on what samurai armour looks like. The armour was functional, but protective. The tassets, spaulders, gauntlets, and chestplate were all constructed out of a titanium alloy. The rest was made from a thick leather. Small spikes constructed of steel stood up on the armour. The armour itself was mainly black, however, the straps and small details were violet in colour. The helmet that accompanied the armour was matching, unlike the other pieces of armour. The helmet was the same titanium alloy that was used on the armour with the same steel spikes sticking up from it. The helmet was painted black. The horn design on the front was much smaller than most samurai helmets, this was supposed to help maneuverability. The horn was balanced and was violet in colour, as Virgil’s colour scheme normally was.  

Roman tossed the armour to Virgil and got to work summoning weapons for his friends. Patton received a shield and spear. The spear was to keep enemies far away from him and the shield was to protect him due to his armour disallowing free movement. Logan received a crossbow and a quiver full of arrows. Roman saw that fitting because of Logan’s precision and ability to make quick movements. Virgil got dual katanas. The skill needed to control both at once was large, however, Roman had full confidence in Virgil to be able to use them. Roman handed each weapon to its corresponding side. Roman then spun around and grabbed his own katana. 

The other sides were familiar with his sword, but not in it’s blood-stained state. Patton let out a small gasp at the sight, Virgil took a step back, and Logan simply inspected the sword, no doubt determining how dangerous the upcoming battle will be. 

Roman narrowed his eyes, “Let’s give that Dragon Witch what is coming to her.”

Roman stormed through the portal into the Imagination with his fellow sides trailing him. Patton glanced at Roman once they stepped through, concern lacing his eyes and tone. “Ro? Where’s your armour?”

Roman spared him a glance, he was wearing what he usually wore in videos and such. “My uniform is lined with dyneema.” Came the concise response. 

Logan nodded with understanding. Dyneema is known for being one of the strongest fibres and is said to withstand knife (and possibly sword) stabs. 

“It doesn’t matter right now, we have to save my people and defeat the Dragon Witch. Logan and Patton, stay more at a distance, Virgil, I think you’ll be able to land a few hits, I will join you at close confrontation. This isn’t going to be some easy fight, this will be physically and mentally trying. Do as I say, and try to keep out of trouble. Good luck.” Roman told the others. The feeling of dread was heavy in his stomach. He hoped with all of his might that they would all come out unscathed. However, that hope could not possibly be a reality. Roman did not expect to come out of this battle alive. 

The sides walked quietly through the Imagination, Virgil and Patton being racked with worry and suspense, Logan and Roman planning and checking their materials. Roman suddenly came to a stop and put his hand up, signalling the others to stay quiet and stop. He quickly glanced around the tree he was hiding behind.

The Dragon Witch had her back faced toward them. She was located in a clearing, seemingly resting. Roman had to admit, the sight was almost beautiful. She was surrounded by flowers and sunlight leaked through the canopy to form a spotlight around her. The Dragon was lying down and seemed very peaceful. Her black scales glittered in the sunlight. The scene was almost picturesque, Roman almost hated to ruin it, but he knew how much terror and destruction came with the half asleep witch. 

Roman looked to his friends with pain clear in his eyes, “On the count of three.” His friends nodded solemnly. Virgil glanced at Logan and gave him a quick kiss. Roman almost felt sick. Virgil was saying ‘goodbye’ in his own way. In that moment, Roman made the decision that his friends would come back alive. No matter the sacrifice. No matter what. Roman couldn’t take this away from them.

The tension leaked from the Dragon Witch’s shoulders. Roman took a deep breath and let it out. “Three.” He whispered. Logan’s eyes narrowed. He met Roman’s gaze and gave a slight nod. 

“Two.” Regret pooled in Roman’s stomach. Why was he putting his friends in danger again? Virgil gave him a small touch, reassuring the Prince. Virgil tensed, getting ready to move as soon as Roman said so.

“One.” In a split second, Roman and Virgil had launched themselves from their hiding place. Roman had caught Patton’s gaze. Patton gave Roman a smile. Roman knew that meant that Patton put all of his trust in the regal side. 

Fueled with new determination, Roman leapt into the air to land a blow against his enemy that he had known most of his life. This was the battle of Roman’s lifetime. 

At first the battle had gone in the side’s favour. Roman had been pleasantly surprised, but soon enough they started to lose. Virgil and Roman had landed a few good hits against the Dragon Witch, but soon enough she was awake and was fighting full-force. Thankfully, she couldn’t find Logan. He shot many arrows at her that she had not deflected. 

She shot spells out. Roman had managed to avoid them thanks to Patton and his shield. Virgil was not so lucky, however. He had been trying to use his shadow magic to deflect the Dragon’s magic but she had easily overpowered him. Virgil fell. Patton let out a scream. 

Roman’s eyes widened, this what he was trying to avoid. Logan had quickly grabbed Virgil and both disappeared from sight. The Dragon Witch turned and stepped even closer to the city. Panic and fear fought for control over Roman. 

“Patt, can you distract her? I will attack her whilst she’s occupied.” Roman planned quickly out loud. Patton gave a determined nod. Then he slipped away, toward the Dragon Witch.

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing!?? Roman’s internal mantra screamed at him. He positioned himself behind the Dragon Witch. Patton was dodging her attacks and even landing a few blows. Roman felt strangely proud of him. 

Roman stabbed her in the back. The Witch roared in pain and threw him backward. He slammed into a tree and his vision blurred. Logan was suddenly standing in front of the Dragon Witch, distracting her even more. Virgil was swiping attacks against her. Patton rushed over to where Roman laid. 

“Ro?” Patton’s voice shook. 

“I’m fine.” Roman said struggling to get to his feet. Patton offered his hand, looking over Roman’s injures. 

The Dragon Witch suddenly flapped her wings and took to the sky. It was a strategic retreat and was perfect for the sides. Virgil glared up at her as she flew away. Logan and Virgil then walked over to where Roman and Patton were standing. 

“You okay Princey? That was pretty brutal.” Virgil said with some concern, clearly holding back his emotions at the moment. Roman suspected it might be in case they overpower him. 

“I’m fine. I actually have a plan on how to defeat her. Logan, Patton, weaken her down. Then Virgil will capture her with his powers, and I will deal the final blow. How have the armours been holding up?” Roman explained and asked quickly. 

“It might work.” Logan said thoughtfully, “The armour has been very protective and I assume has been working.”

Virgil made a noise of agreement. “I won’t be able to hold her very long, so we will have to act quickly.”

“Not a problem.” Roman agreed. “Now, we have to find her quickly, in case she recovers.”

“She’s at your castle.” A new voice informed him. 

“Ah, of course.” Roman said, ashamed he hadn’t thought of that sooner. “Wait, who are you?” Roman asked as an afterthought, suddenly questioning the information’s credibility. 

Remy stepped into the light. He grinned. “Hello, your Highness.”

“SLEEP!” Patton cried excitedly, giving the aspect a large hug. Remy smirked and returned the hug. “Hey pop.” He said nonchalantly. 

“Let’s go.” Roman instructed, determined to end this once and for all. 

The sides had gone on a short trek to Roman’s castle. The Dragon Witch stood atop setting fire to surrounding buildings. They had immediately leapt into action. The plan quickly took a turn for the worse. Logan and Remy had ended up in the Dragon’s vile claws. 

Virgil was trapped in a spell, unable to move or speak. Let alone try to cast a spell on the Dragon Witch. 

Roman turned to Patton in desperation. “I have to attack her.” Roman informed Patton. 

“N-no you don’t!! We can come up with another plan!”

“I have to.”

“B-but, if you do this, you’ll die!”

Roman looked at Patton, sadness clear in his eyes. “If I don’t, thousands will die. I’m not more important than all those people.” The Prince gestured over the burning city, eventually landing on Logan, Remy, and Virgil. 

Patton’s eyes filled with tears. “You are to me.”

“I’m sorry Patton.” Roman whisphered, leaning in and giving Patton a quick kiss. It was intimate and full of love. Patton desperately clung to the belief that it would not be their last. Roman smiled at Patton. He was struck by the realization of how it echoed Virgil and Logan earlier. 

“I will see you later.” Roman firmly disbelieved in ‘goodbye’s. 

Patton nodded, his face felt wet. Roman would return! He had to! But, in reality, Patton was entirely unsure. 

Roman charged. The Dragon Witch had dropped Logan and Remy in order to duel Roman. They dropped with dull thuds. They were now locked in combat. 

Roman was landing plenty of hits on the Dragon Witch. She was also landing plenty of hits on Roman. He was now bleeding from multiple wounds. But she had dropped Virgil as well. He quickly recovered and slammed the Witch with a spell. Roman took the opportunity to slice her head off. 

The Dragon was quick and stabbed him through the stomach with a claw. But fell to the ground, dead a split second later. 

“Roman?” Patton asked slowly.

The world suddenly blacked for Roman and he collapsed to the ground in pain and blood loss. Patton’s scream was lost on his unconsciousness. 

In the dark side of the Mind Palace, Remus let out a small gasp. Deceit ignored it, the Duke always faked hurt, or made odd sounds. He stopped ignoring the ‘darker’ half of creativity when his voice warped. “Roman.” Remus said in pain, deadly serious.  

The splitting of creativity wasn’t perfect. If one side was in extreme pain, the other could feel some of it. Deceit stood up quickly. “What happened?” He hissed. As self-preservation, Deceit protected all of the sides. 

“He’s… really hurt.” Remus said quietly. That scared Deceit, Remus was never quiet. “No one hurts my brother but me!” Remus suddenly screamed. The Duke grabbed Deceit’s hand and teleported them to the light side of the Mind Palace. 

The Light Sides were clearly in disarray. Logan was tending to Virgil and Remy, bandaging wounds and putting ice on their bruises. Pieces of various types of armour were scattered over the floor of the room. Patton was kneeling next to the couch, holding some gauze. Roman was lying on the couch, clearly unconscious and bleeding heavily from multiple wounds. The injury of main concern was his stomach. He seemed to be bleeding the most heavily from that wound and that was where Patton was now pressing down the gauze.

Remus let out a sound of distress and fell to his knees, staring at his twin. His older brother was not supposed to get hurt! 

Deceit rushed over to Patton and was suddenly helping Patton with Roman’s wounds. “What happened?” Deceit questioned.

“The Dragon Witch, she’s never coming back.” Patton said. 

Virgil sat up, “She better not.” He waved away Logan, who was trying to get him to lay down. The anxious side walked over to Remus and gave him a quick hug. Virgil was trying to be reassuring. It worked somewhat. 

Eventually, all of the sides were surrounding Roman, staring down at his unmoving body. Suddenly, his eyes creaked open. “Did someone die or something?” Roman said, still half-asleep. 

“I would hope not.” Virgil said. 

Roman’s eyes widened and stared at everyone looking down on him. “When did I become so popular?”

“When you almost died.” Deceit said. Roman jolted in surprise suddenly realizing that Deceit and his twin were standing there as well. Roman leaned in toward Remus, arms outstretched for a hug. 

Remus leapt into the hug, tears leaking from his eyes. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” Roman closed his eyes surrounded by his best friends and (maybe) boyfriend. “I am too.”

--

Cross-posted on AO3 and Wattpad. Enjoy~

[chuffyfan87]

Hiding. Part 58a

Cowritten with @disastrousintention. Trigger warning for discussion of neglect.

-x-

As soon as visiting was permitted the next morning Charlie was waiting outside intensive care, a single red rose in his hand.

He didn’t expect her to be awake so got the shock of his life when he walked in.

She smiled, her eyes sparkling as she saw him. "Hi." She whispered.

He smiled, “Hello gorgeous.” He stepped closer, “I wasn’t expecting you awake.”

"Was hungry."

“Have you eaten?”

"Not yet." She frowned.

“Do you want me to sneak you in a kitkat?” He smiled, handing her the rose. “What’s with the frown?”

"Tried to eat." She glanced towards the floor. "Went wrong."

“What happened?” He sat on the edge of the bed and touched her cheek.

"Didn't want help." She admitted, her cheeks blushing.

“Would you like me to help you?” He asked.

"Only you."

He nodded, “I’ll go and grab you some breakfast, ok?”

She smiled in reply.

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I love you.”

She wrinkled her nose. "Love you."

“You know the twins did exactly the same the other day.” He laughed gently.

"What?"

“Wrinkling their noses up when I kissed them.”

"Oh." She blushed again.

“I never thought I’d see you blush again.” He kissed her cheek before heading to grab her breakfast. He came back with two weetabix and milk with a bit of sugar.

Seeing the sugar, she gave him a mock glare, the corners of her mouth tilting up in a tiny smile.

“You need the energy.”

She tried to push herself up ready to eat but couldn't.

He helped her, putting the bowl and drink down on the side.

She felt so embarrassed at her inability to even sit up for herself. She tried to take her mind of it by changing the subject of the conversation. "Kids OK?" She asked.

“I guess. They’re struggling a little, missing you a lot.”

"Miss them too." She sighed, her eyes watering.

“I didn’t expect you to be talking. They said you might not be able to.”

"Still can't move." She sighed.

“Not yet, no. But next week might be a different story. You had a significant trauma, you need to give yourself time to recover.” He smiled, “Ready for breakfast?”

"OK."

“Have the doctors explained to you what happened?” He took the bowl and the spoon and gave her a mouthful.

She tried to speak and ended up choking on the cereal instead.

He patted her back. “Been a while since you’ve choked on anything.” He replied, a hint of innuendo in his words.

She may have been fighting to clear her throat but she still rolled her eyes at him.

“I wasn’t been rude then. You’ve clearly got the rude mind.” He smirked and gave her a drink of water.

"You're rude!" She giggled once she'd managed to swallow a couple of mouthfuls of water.

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Have the doctors explained what happened?”

"No."

“Would you like me to explain what I know?”

"Yes."

“You went into labour at home, began to haemorrhage severely. You were losing blood quicker than they could pump it into you. You died. Several times. Eventually they managed to stop the bleed but because of the trauma, they put you in an induced coma. They told me to prepare myself for the worst. That you weren’t going to make it and if you did, you may be left disabled because of the trauma was so severe on your body.”

"Peter was there." She could remember tiny fragments.

“He was. He was terrified.” He sighed. “What else do you remember?”

"Arguing."

“Arguing? Who were you arguing with?”

"Megan." Duffy's brows knitted as she tried to piece things together. "The baby was coming." She chewed her lip. "Too quickly."

“Far too quickly.” He smiled sadly, “You waited for me.”

"Had to."

“Why?”

"You had to be there." She asserted.

“You risked your life so I could see our son being born?”

"To make up for Peter." She explained.

“I held Peter when he was first born though.”

"Not the same."

“I knew Peter was mine."

"Ours." She smiled.

“I always knew, deep down.” He smiled. “And when I found out you were in labour with him, I just had to get there.”

"You were outside? The whole time?" She asked in disbelief.

“The whole time.” He repeated back.

Duffy was utterly stunned, momentarily speachless at the revelation. "You told Megan."

“Told Megan what?”

"Peter could be yours."

He nodded.

"Why not me?"

“Because I... I didn’t want you to think I was stupid...”

"Stupid?"

“Believing I could have something so precious with the woman I loved.”

His hand was resting on the bed next to hers. She managed to move her little finger enough to brush against one of his fingers.

He smiled as he felt her little finger against his hand. “Whatever happens, we have each other. That’s all that matters. You, me and our absolute chaos of a family.”

"When can I see them?"

“The children? Whenever you feel up for it.”

"Soon. I miss them."

“I’ll arrange for the children to come and visit.” He smiled, “Duffy, I need to tell you about your mum...”

"My mum? What about her?"

“She had a minor heart attack yesterday.” He sighed, “It was partly my fault, we had words.”

"What?!" She exclaimed, panic stricken.

“Your mum’s fine, I promise.” He touched her cheek, “Overnight observation. She’s complaining but that just reminds me of another Duffin woman.” He smirked.

"I don't complain!" She pouted.

“Hmm..” he kissed her lips.

"What happened?" She asked.

“She said things about Emily that I didn’t agree with!”

"What things?"

“That she’s dim. Doesn’t have much going for her. Then Emmy wet herself on me.” He sighed. “She isn’t dim. I wish people would stop calling her that.”

"She said what?!" The anger was clear to hear and see.

“Hey hey. It’s ok. Your mum has a different way of saying things. It’s just she’s concerned. Wants what’s best for Emmy. She doesn’t always say the right things in the right way.” He rubbed her arm a little trying to reassure her.

"No, it's not OK!" She fired back, her anger consuming her as she tried to move. She wasn't sure what she planned to do if she managed to get up but she felt the need to do something.

“Duffy, baby. Calm down please.”

"No!" She let out a scream as pain tore through her.

“Baby, please.” As she screamed, he asked; “Where's the pain?”

The scream had alerted the attention of staff outside who came dashing in.

“She’s in pain and I don’t know why.”

Duffy held her stomach and right side, the pain causing her to be unable to speak.

“Baby?” He was scared. Not sure why she was in pain.

"Hurts!" She managed to gasp.

"I'm going to get the doctor." The nurse ran from the room.

“Deep breaths baby.”

She tried to do as he said but the pain was almost overwhelming.

The doctor came in and ushered Charlie out of the room.

Several long minutes passed before the doctor came outside to speak to Charlie.

“What’s wrong? Is she ok? Why’s she in pain?”

"We've given her some more pain medication. That seems to have helped for now."

Charlie nodded. “Thank you.”

"She needs to rest but you can have a few more minutes with her first."

“I’ll only be five minutes, I promise.”

"OK. I'll leave you to it."

“Thank you.” He took himself back to Duffy.

"Hi." She whispered sleepily as he walked back in.

“Hi sleepy head.”

"What happened?"

“You started to experience pain.”

"I know. Why?"

“I don’t know. You got worked up about your mum.” He sat on the edge of the bed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Need to talk to her." Duffy's voice was becoming weaker, the pain medication having a mildly sedative effect in her weakened state.

“And you will. After a sleep.”

"Not tired." She yawned.

“Say that again without yawning.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

He stuck his tongue out in response.

"Cuddle while I sleep?" She asked. "Have missed you."

“I’ve missed you too.” He smiled shyly and nodded. “Budge up then.”

"Need your help." She replied, sighing with frustration.

[rkxsungwoon-blog]

☆ mga5 auditions ; june 14 ; hanlim multi art school ! — part four; extra skill demonstration: balloon animals can’t feel my face - the weeknd on electric guitar ( 1:02 - 3:19 )

once the interview concludes, the staff ask sungwoon to demonstrate one of the special skills listed on his form. “you’re not sick of me yet?” he jokes. after how long his interview was (largely due to his inability to stop talking), he wouldn’t be surprised if so. regardless, he’s eager to get started; he hasn’t been lugging around his guitar and amp all day for nothing, after all. there were other things he could’ve done for this segment, other directions he could’ve taken this, but at the end of the day, sungwoon keeps coming back to music. it would feel strange to spend so much time talking about his band without demonstrating any band-worthy skills, and he did piano last year so the guitar it is. for all his confidence, he’s maybe not ready to break out his screams on national television yet.

but as he starts setting up, one of the staff members nearby ask him about the ‘balloon animal artist’ skill listed on his form. sungwoon winces and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, his mind flashing back to those horrible first months in seoul when he worked intermittently as a birthday party entertainer. he doesn’t want to say clown, but… you know. it is what it is. he never wants to do anything related to it again, but the staff look mildly interested in the skill—and someone happens to have one of those long balloons on them—so sungwoon reluctantly decides to give it a go.

and he’s proud of his lung capacity, thanks, but no matter how many times he blows into the balloon, it doesn’t grow any larger. he’s not sure why; this isn’t supposed to happen. how the fuck is he supposed to make a balloon animal if he can’t even blow up the balloon? “hold on, hold on. give me one second,” sungwoon mutters when he comes up for air. “i can do this.” but the balloon doesn’t swell whatsoever. his face reddening from the effort, sungwoon turns away from the cameras and the staff so they don’t catch the truly ugly expression as he fights a losing battle with the balloon. what the fuck is wrong with—

“there’s a tear,” he says suddenly, pulling away. sungwoon presses his finger to it and grins triumphantly. “aha, the balloon is ripped… that’s why i couldn’t blow it… up.” what an awkward thing to say out loud. “guess i’ll just have to stick to the guitar and show you my balloon artistry skills some other time!” one of the staff reach forward to take the defective balloon, but sungwoon shakes his head and disposes of it himself. it’s probably full of his spit; no need to make anyone else touch it.

well, struggles with the balloon aside, he can’t wait to get his guitar out. bebe’s been a loyal companion since his days with line array. when sungwoon settled on showcasing his guitar skills, he’d almost gone with the acoustic guitar over electric—but figured a lot of people would be heading in that direction. the electric guitar is something a little different, though a little more troublesome as well. sungwoon isn’t entirely happy with the amp he brought, but it had to be small enough to carry (without minhyun’s help) so it’s the best he’s going to get. it’ll do fine for the day’s purposes, though. he won’t be breaking into a full empty enigma set here.

“i’ll be playing ‘can’t feel my face’ by the weeknd on electric guitar for you all.” it’s an arrangement he personally likes a lot, so sungwoon hopes others will as well. one of his favorite pastimes is to rearrange and cover songs on the piano or the guitar. a bunch of them are posted to his youtube channel, but others he just works on for his own satisfaction. this is one of them. it was never really intended for an audience, but he thinks the song is recognizable enough that it could be fun.

once seated, he begins to play, his head moving along with the music. it’s all he can do to keep himself from singing along to the song. sungwoon loves this part of performing almost as much as he loves to sing; creating music out of nothing, handling your instruments in a way you know no one else can. he’s always felt powerful on stage, untouchable, and this isn’t—the same thing, but he can sense a little of the same feeling now. this is what he means when he says he’d like to stay in a band if possible. nothing else gives him the same thrill.

sungwoon loses himself in it as he comes to the second chorus, improvising as he finishes off the song. he basks in the afterglow for a couple of seconds before climbing to his feet and bowing to the staff one last time for the day. “thank you for listening to my performance!” he would’ve liked it to be longer, but just getting to play one song is probably all he can ask for. they give him some time to pack away his guitar and amp before informing him of the twenty minute break, and sungwoon thanks them once again before heading off to look for minhyun.

not that he and minhyun do anything exciting during their break, but the companionship is (dare he say) nice. sungwoon makes a quick stop at the bathrooms before pulling out his lunch—a hastily packed sandwich he made at four am while having a short existential crisis. he grabs a coffee as well, because though he hates to admit it, some fatigue is beginning to set in. he runs into hyojin, briefly, and the two manage to squeeze in a quick chat about the auditions. sungwoon is a little surprised to see others he knows at the auditions, and at this venue of all places, but he supposes it makes sense. everyone has a dream.

he spends the rest of the break messaging the empty enigma group chat, asking how their auditions went. sungwoon wants to physically be there for his friends so badly, to cheer on or comfort as required, but all he has are his words and his screen. he shares the funny story about his disaster lunch and trades a few memes with kenta back and forth. daniel’s contribution worries him a little, but as much as sungwoon wants to ask him about it, he decides that might be better face-to-face.

twenty minutes are up all too quickly; he barely has time to send a ‘be back later’ message before they’re brought back to the practice rooms and sungwoon is forced to face the final boss.

dancing.

here goes nothing (everything).

[jedimaster941]

A Declaration of Lost Independence

A Declaration of Lost Independence

As we get older, as we live life, like stone eroding under the power of crashing waves, our bodies break down. And as our bodies break down, we become more and more unable to do things. Sometimes not to the standard we once did, and sometimes we lose the ability completely. We lose things that bring us joy, and we lose things that bring us to life. Whether it be slowly or quickly, we all lose our independence. Aging is something, like it or not, we have all signed up for. We will get older, our bodies will break down, and we will lose our overall independence. It’s not ideal, but we understand it to be true.

For Chronically ill people, however, we can lose our independence rather suddenly, and it has absolutely nothing to do with natural aging. If someone aged 78 years has trouble walking, getting dressed, or going to the bathroom, very few would question it. But imagine you are 28 years old and you have the same difficulties. Think of how you would feel. In this article I will discuss the ways in which people with chronic illness lose their independence in the areas of physical, mental, social, and dietary, and the toll it takes on us when the things that we should be able to do becomes out of reach.

*This post features responses from chronically ill patients whom I asked…*

------------------------------

Physical

Loss of physical independence is the area that most people think about when illness takes over. It is at least the most public. People see wheelchairs, walkers, canes, crutches, and handicapped placards. They are also readily aware when someone takes a little longer to stand up, when they have trouble buttoning a shirt, or their handwriting becomes illegible. If someone gets to know a disabled person well enough they may also become aware of PIK lines, feeding tubes, and colostomy bags among others.

When someone is chronically ill/disabled their bodies are the primary victim of their disease. In one way or another, our bodies are malfunctioning. As my primary care physician said to me once, “We are all getting older, you're a just doing it a lot faster”. (If anyone is curious, I did not take offense, I appreciated that he acknowledged my illness and my lack of certain abilities)

Our independence is very much directly lost in these examples. We lose the ability of climb stairs, walk short distances, wash ourselves, cook food, and one I’d like to discuss a little more, exercise.

Doctors and online experts tell us we need to exercise. I can’t disagree with that. Exercise is important to keeping what we have left tip top. However, when we can’t climb stairs, walk short distances, or wash ourselves, how do you expect us to get the the gym to do some Cross Fit? I know for me, exercise of any kind hurts and has lasting effects. Some of my readers may remember how not long ago I walked a peppy poodle for half a mile and my legs hurt for three days after. This wasn't from being out of shape, this was due of my condition. Yes, exercise, but understand sometimes it's more harm than help.

I used to be a distance runner, a golfer, and could give the best piggy back rides. Now, due to Ankylosing Spondylitis, I can’t do any of that. And believe me when I tell you, that hurts me mentally as well.

Mental

With chronic illness and disability there comes a mental toll as well. Both in the areas of cognitive ability, and depression.

First, let's touch on cognitive ability which will then (as all of these sections do) we will move on to depression.

I imagine many of my readers are already well versed in the words and terminology used in the discussion of chronic illness. However, if you are new to this world, let me share a term that I, and all of us use probably on a daily basis: “Brain Fog”.

Brain Fog is exactly what it sounds like, a thick layer of fog on your brain. You know how hard it is to see through a covering of fog? Now, imagine that fog is in your head and your brain is trying to see thoughts, feelings, and ideas through it. It’s not easy and often things are lost.

Brain fog is caused by pain and the inability to actually shut down and rest. When people go to sleep their bodies and minds go into power saver mode to recharge, refresh, and do diagnostics checks. However, what happens when you drink caffeine, or you eat a big meal before bed? Well, if you can sleep, your body has now been given other things to work on. The caffeine makes your heart work harder, and your body needs to work to digest that big meal. So what happens? You don’t wake up rested because your body never actually got any rest. The same thing happens every night for people with chronic illness, but without the caffeine and steak dinner. In my case, with Ankylosing Spondylitis, my body is always working to fight off a foreign invader known as the lining between my joints. (I guess it’s actually a domestic invader) For most of us, because of constant pain, we can never get comfortable and even when we do sleep, we aren't actually resting. This lack of true sleep causes our brains to process at a diminished rate limiting our abilities to remember, problem solve, and function.

When I go to the doctor, I bring my wife. Not because I need a supportive hand, but because I need a partner and coach to help me tell the doctor what I need to say, and then remember what the doctor tells me. There have been times I have come home from an appointment solo and either forgot what treatment we discussed or, through my fogginess, made up something completely different because I could have sworn the doctor said she wanted to try bloodletting. (Or was it Methotrexate? I can’t remember) Although I love my wife, and I will always welcome her to join me at an appointment, I'm 37 years old, I shouldn't need someone to be my brain while the doctor checks out my body. While I am not depressed about this, this loss of mental and physical independence can also lead to depression.

I used to run, and I loved running. When my health got worse I took up walking long distance. However, only a few short years later, I couldn't even walk short distances without great pain and weakness. I was 34 the last time I walked with any kind of purpose. Far too young to lose so much ability. When I see people out running, or I drive past the local health club with overly large windows, I get sad longing for my glory days. When I watch American Ninja Warrior I’m sometimes heartbroken. Believe it or not, I used to be able to do stuff like that. It’s crushing to think that somebody actually has the freedom to wake up in the morning, pop up out of bed, and then think to themselves “Well, I think I will run 10 miles, shower, go to work, spend an hour at the gym, play with my kids, and then get 8 hours of restful sleep before doing it all over again.” Here I am thinking, “I hope I can get out of bed.”

Chronic illness can take a great toll on our mental state and subsequent independence.

-------------

Diet

With the chronic illness life, more often than not it seems, comes a list of dietary restrictions. 90% (not actual figures) of life comes from our gut. What we eat and drink. Other than breathing and IV treatments, it’s the only way anything gets into the factory known as our bodies. So, there is much stress put on us by our doctors, friends, family, TV, and the woman on the corner to eat right to better our condition. And not everyone is wrong. There are certain things that improve or worsen our condition. We will listen to the “experts” and try certain things. Excluding things like sugar, dairy, nightshades, and gluten. Or “fad diets” like Paleo, Keto, Vampire, or Atkins.* We might even try Kale! Many of us will try anything if it means we reduce our pain and get a little life back. But, the more foods we give up, the more independence we lose.

Personally this area has been my biggest struggle. Two years ago I went dairy free at the suggestion of a nutritionist, and one year ago I totally cut out sugar. And, I won’t lie, excluding both of those have been fantastic for me! I may not always notice the improvement, but if I happen to slip up on purpose of by accident, I certainly notice then. I am solid and confident in my sugar free/dairy free life, and for the most part I am happy.

However, this does not mean everything is butterflies and unicorns. I still struggle as I’m sure many many of my chronically ill brothers, sisters, and non-binary siblings do. Two examples: My birthday, and the ice cream aisle. On my birthday my co-workers wanted to know what to get me for my party. Typically the birthday treat is cupcakes and fudge. Hello sugar and milk! After much thought, I received the treat of peanuts and pickles. (And I didn't complain) However, it didn’t mean it didn't hurt. My co-workers needed to avoid yummy delicious treats because of my AS. They were supportive, but it didn’t mean I didn’t feel like a party pooper. As for the ice cream aisle, they have dairy free ice cream, and they have sugar free ice cream, but as a friendly store clerk told me, diary free & sugar free ice cream isn't ice cream. I'm out of luck there.

When it comes to dairy and sugar, I have lost my independence. People need to accommodate for me. Oftentimes meaning they might miss out on what they want. When my school does nacho day, frozen custard day, cookie day, etc for staff wellness days, I’m the only one not well. I could tell the people that sorry I can’t eat this, but that opens me up to feeling bad for making them feel bad.

Or when you need to find out if a restruant is accessible. Many would think that with all the handicapped parking spots all places would also be accessible. This is not always true. I have seen places where the "accessible" table is in a door way or up against a wall. The freedom to go to any restaurant one wants is never a guarantee.

When friends want to go out those of us with diet restrictions need to be “that guy/girl”. The one who has hard opinions on what we can eat. Ever stand behind the person at Starbucks who insists on soy milk and Stevia? Have you ever thought “Just take your coffee and drink it! You're holding up the line!” Yeah, that’s us, the ones holding up the line. Doesn't feel good.

We are jealous of those people who can eat whatever they want. Go to any restaurant, order anything off the menu, and even have dessert. This isn't about gaining weight, it's about being able to get out of bed in the morning.

Social

The next topic of how we lose our social independence ties into the three topics above and any others I have not mentioned. Humans are meant to be social. We aren't bears where we can just crawl into our cave and sleep for a few months. If any human crawled into a cave, nobody would be friends with them. Why? Because interacting is one of the standards of human life. We need other people! Sure, there are the mountain folk who go out, kill a deer, make clothing from it, light a fire and live their life in seclusion. (And there is nothing wrong with that) But, most humans need other people to cook our food, make our clothes, work on projects, drive us, and socialize purely for fun. The problem is, for many chronically ill people, getting out of the house and socializing sounds equal to climbing up and living in a mountain.

We are exhausted! Chronic illness takes a lot out of us! Every day can be a struggle to move, breathe, think, and complete other daily activities. Showering can be one of the most difficult activities for some. Doing laundry is pure hell! When most people hate it for the fact they have to do it, for me, folding makes me want to die! Seriously, I don't fully know why, but it hurts so much and takes so much out of me. After doing everything we have to do, we don’t have energy left for what we want to do.

I come home from work, my shoes come off, and I’m done! Very little is going to convince me to put my shoes back on and go out with friends when all I want to do is sleep. Because of this, many chronically ill people are forgotten. We bail on friends two or three times, and they just stop inviting us. But, then we have a good day, we are ready to accept an invite. Do we take it? No. Why? Because, we feel good now, we don’t know if we will feel good later.

Chronic illness symptoms can come in waves. We can have good days (or at least the start of a day) but then we drop. We don’t always know why we drop, but our feelings and mood are in no way guaranteed. So, we don’t risk it. It’s far better to be at home near our bed than 30 minutes away with a group of people you will need to apologize to for leaving early. Declining the invite or simple ghosting is far easier and less harmful to our psyche.

-----------------

Chronically ill patients lose all sorts of independence. We can not truly live free with AS, Fibro, EDS, POTS, Lyme, MS, ME or one of the many other chronic illnesses that totally sap us of life. We are not free do do as we like.

While others wake up and get to choose between running, biking, partying, fixing cars, eating amazing food, and/or playing with their kids. We wake up and.. well.. that's it.

In closing. If you know a person with a disability/chronic illness try to be understanding of their limitations. Don’t give them a hard time when they can't do everything you want them to. Our lives are hard enough dealing with all the independence we may have lost.

*I might have made up one of these diets

[hislittleflower-throughconcrete]

I’m gonna rant about disability services at private Catholic schools for a second

I will preface this by saying that this is my experience at both of the Catholic schools I attended growing up. If I am generalizing please correct me, let me know, but I believe this problem is pervasive in most private Catholic schools (probably not just Catholic private schools, but all private schools, but I’m not touching on that right now.)

My brother’s kindergarten teacher was the first person to identify that he had ADHD. My parents took him to the necessary doctors/professionals so see what they could do. However, the school that he (and I, as well as all of my siblings) went to only had one lady who acted as a “resource” for kids who were struggling. She was a mom, I don’t know if she had any training at all to deal with learning disabilities - I honestly think she just took kids out of class to give them extra time to practice certain reading and math skills. Because none of the teachers were trained in dealing with kids who had ADHD (let alone learning disabilities or special needs, which my brother didn’t have) there was a point where I, a 5th grader, got called out of my math class to come into his 2nd grade classroom to comfort my crying brother as the teacher said impatiently, “you deal with him.” That was when my parents decided to put him in public school because they had the resources to actually accommodate my brother.

Fast forward to high school, this time concerning myself. I was in and out of high school due to depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, and an eating disorder. After the first hospitalization, I get back to school and discover that I am required to make up all of my work. All of it. At the same time as trying to complete the current work being assigned. I was so stressed and already a perfectionist that I went back tot he hospital for anxiety-induced suicidal urges directly related to being so overwhelmed with my life. This happened at least three other times - where I was hospitalized due to my inability to cope with my own deteriorating mental health on top of all of that work. My mom and I repeatedly explained this to my high school’s “school counselor” (again, not sure if this lady had any training at all, my school was notorious for hiring unqualified people just because they were good-hearted and faith-filled individuals). She and all of my teachers maintained that I must make up all of my work, months and months of tests, papers, projects, and even busywork. When we asked why this was so even though it posed a serious risk to my, ya’know, life, they said that at that present moment, too or three other students had been out “sick” for months at a time (one had mono and one had had a concussion) and if I got an exception it wasn’t fair to them. In other words: Justice, not Mercy. The fact that I could die from “some stress” never seemed to penetrate their consciousness. I distinctly remember my “guidance counselor” (as I sat in her office weeks into my summer break catching up on work from the previous year) saying off-hand when I mentioned the stress, “well, we can’t all take a vacation every time life gets too hard.”

Fast forward to college. We heard about this “disability services” thing during orientation. I looked closely at whatever pamphlet I had been handed, and it listed mental health issues as disabilities. What? My mom and I decided to check it out, saying “it would be really cool if I could have someone at this big college to talk to and goto if I am struggling with work,” thinking that that was all she could offer me - things like tutors and advice. After providing the hospital and doctor records to disability services, I find out that I qualify for extension for assignments, excused absences, extended time on tests, modified or completely excused assignments, and more, because of my mental health issues, without any professor allowed to ask me why other than “a disability-related reason.” They also appointed a disability services advocate whose job was to go to bat with my professors for me if they did not comply.

To say that we were floored would have been incorrect. I wasn’t floored. I just didn’t understand. I felt I was cheating. I didn’t even know this was allowed. How was this fair to the other students? “You have a disability, this is to allow you to do as well as someone who doesn’t have this disability.” You mean I just don’t have to suck it up and deal with my problems on my own time? I have a disability? What?

Okay. There are two points to this post. One is the obvious: Catholic schools, you are losing the opportunity for children with disabilities to be formed in the faith. Like it or not, the majority of parents and families aren’t the ones who teach the faith to their kids - either they learn it at Catholic school, or just don’t learn it at all.  I am aware this issue is heavily tied to funding, HOWEVER: disability services shouldn’t be this nifty add-on to a school, a novelty or a selling point. They should be a fundamental, integrated part of allowing students of all abilities to have the opportunity to be educated in their faith and a faith-filled environment. Parents should not have to choose, as my parents had to, between having their child grow up educated in the faith or actually being able to learn and be treated appropriately by teachers who understood him. (Yes, he still did CCD, but no, the CCD classes did not have disability-educated individuals teaching it - shocker. How much did he retain from it? A few weeks ago, he asked me what Pentecost was.) 

The second issue is more tied to my experience. You are damaging people’s perception of God and His Love. You are saying that those of disabilities - those same people Jesus healed and released from their pain and struggles in the Gospels - aren’t important enough to be accommodated using a basic section of the school’s budget. This may be controversial, but part of me thinks that a school shouldn’t exist at all if it doesn’t have the ability to accommodate children with physical, intellectual, psychological, or developmental disabilities - yes, even and especially Catholic schools. I had a severely damaged faith as a result of the attitude of my school - yaknow, the ones who taught me about God and Jesus. I graduated high school hearing about “mercy,” and hating the whole concept. I seethed every time I heard the prodigal son bible reading, because I hated the fact that the wayward son was allowed to do that without any punishment. I didn’t understand mercy and it made me angry. Everyone deserves justice, I thought, and mercy is the opposite - a hall pass for the weak and undeserving. I punished myself through self harm every time I got less than an A on a test, every time I said something stupid and felt embarrassed. The self-harming and perfectionistic inclinations were mine, but the importance of justice was fed to me by them. Self harm and suicidal ideation were listed as sins against the commandment “Thou Shalt Not Kill” without any mention about exceptions, or what to do if you felt that way. A teacher told us that the worst sin of all - above rape and murder of children - was desecration of the Eucharist by receiving it unfaithfully. I abstained from the Eucharist for years because I couldn’t stop cutting or disordered eating behaviors, and I was in a constant state of mortal sin (I thought) so I couldn’t receive. No one on staff was educated enough on mental health disabilities to point out that saying things like eating disorders, cutting, and suicidal ideation were sins could result from an illness, a disability, that was not being addressed. I told priest after priest that those were my sins, and to be fair, most asked if I was in therapy, but only one mentioned to me that he didn’t think that my cutting was “completely” a sin, that the guilt was reduced due to “addiction.” But I quickly disregarded that comment, because I was not giving myself a free pass. God deserves Justice - the least sin in His eyes breaks the whole Law. If an action hurts someone else or hurts God, the offended party deserves justice. Not excuses for weak people. Justice, not Mercy. 

But college was also the same time I was actually introduced to having a personal relationship with Jesus. The first time I confessed to a priest who immediately said that I was so, so wrong in my understanding of who God was and what He wanted of me. He rejoiced in me. In me. His unconditional love did not excuse my sins, but heal them. His Mercy was not a free pass of pity at my weakness, but the bandages in which He used to bind up my wounds. If I had learned about Mercy before this, it was not in this way. I was taught through actions, if not the words themselves, that justice for others was worth more than mercy on me. And even now I am stunned every time I am “ given a break.” Because that’s what it feels like, bosses and professors who accommodate my disability - them being generous. Not my basic needs being met.

Love the least in the eyes of the world, Catholic schools. Do better. Don’t consider yourself inclusive after building some wheelchair ramps and asking a parish mom to come in on Wednesdays to help the kids who “just aren’t getting it.” Work with families. Hire trained staff members - plural - who are equipped to deal with a wide range of disabilities, including learning disabilities, mental health issues, autism, and Down syndrome. The souls of all children with disabilities whose parents want their child to grow to know Jesus through their schools hangs in the balance. 

@patron-saint-of-smart-asses @catholicamputee @alwaysabeautifullife @hissaltandlight @tinycatholicbean and @ all other tumbler Catholics who either have a physical/mental disability or are parents of a child with one.

[thegrimllama]

Dress

Do you guys remember me telling you about the Dress fic?  Well you can thank @cannon-fannon @shesamarshmallow @dabvers for encouraging this nonsense.  

Read it HERE or below

It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.  There were rules in place, guidelines that she and Kara had hashed out over two bottles of wine (alien, for Kara) allowing them to keep this casual, simple, secret.  It was easy at the start, fuelled by alcohol and lust, taking over their intimate moments before the sun rose and settled them back into their platonic roles.  Months of late nights and sneaking home.

Lena glanced around the room, smiling when she made eye contact, eyes locking momentarily onto each person filling the room.  Instinctively her eyes sought out Kara, her body encased in a sinfully sweet cocktail dress that mirrored the colour of the cape that she wore on a daily basis.  She sipped her wine, dropping her gaze as Kara looked away from James, catching her appraising gaze.  Lena cursed her accelerated heart rate, she cursed Kara’s super hearing, because of course Kara knew Lena’s train of thought.  She always did.

Lena’s wine glass was still half full, meaning a quick escape into the kitchen was off the cards, so instead, swilled her syrah.  

“Congrats on the award, Luthor.”

Lena smiled, accepting a side hug from Alex.  She hissed lightly, Alex’s hand landing on a particularly tender spot on her ribs.  She flushed with want, pushing the vivid memory of Kara’s mouth latching onto that spot, to the very back of her mind.  

“Thank you, Agent Danvers…”

“Alex, please…”

Lena nodded, “Thank you, Alex.”  Lena glanced over her shoulder to the spot by the curtain where she last saw Kara.  Her best friend was still leaning against the back wall, clearly still trying to politely entertain James while discreetly watching Lena from the corner of her eyes.  

She smirked and brushed her hair across her shoulder as she turned back to Alex.  She could almost feel the heat of Kara’s gaze on her exposed back, she knew this dress was a good idea.  

The party wound down in the early hours of the morning.  Lena’s colleagues and investors were the first to vacate the ballroom, her friends, minus Kara, filed out shortly after, when the music was turned down to a minimum.  The high ceiling echoed the sound of high heels against the hardwood, perfectly in sync with the heady beat of the song whispering through the speakers.

“Lena?”

She sighed, leaning into the hand that slid onto her shoulder.  Kara’s voice was deep, soothing, bringing back memories of early mornings and hot nights, tangled in sheets. It wasn’t unwelcomed, but rules were rules.  They were in public.  Anyone could see them here.

“I booked a room upstairs.”  The words slipped from Lena’s lips before she had a chance to turn around.  She felt the pressure of Kara’s hands turning her on the spot, “You’re more than welcome to stay, if you’re too tired to catch a cab?”

Kara tilted her face to the side, scoping the room discreetly, “It is very late.  And that dress… Looks a little complicated.  Are you going to be okay getting into your pyjamas?”

Lena fought the shiver that was building from Kara’s fingers trailing down her spine, “I think I’ll manage, but I think I would appreciate having a friend there, just in case…”

Kara hummed and picked up Lena’s clutch, “Shall we?”

Lena led Kara to the elevator, smiling politely at the few staff still milling around the lobby.  She was almost self conscious of the heaviness hanging between her and Kara as they waited for the elevator, terrified that if anyone got closer, they’d break the bubble that was slowly building.  

The minutes dragged on, Kara’s hands fiddling with the two clutch purses, while Lena crossed her arms, willing herself not to give in to the urge to touch Kara.  She heard Kara sigh with relief as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open, slowly enough to make Lena wish it would just hurry up.  She smirked, Kara hit the close door button, three times in quick succession, stepping back with a whine as a family of four rushed into the elevator, thanking Kara for holding it.  Kara sood against one wall, clutching the two purses in one hand, the other had a firm grip on the support railing of the elevator.  Lena smiled from the other side of the elevator, knowing that there were definitely going to be indentations on the bar when Kara finally released her grip.  The family exited on the the third floor.  The doors slid shut and the cabin wobbled with the speed of Kara moving to pin Lena to the wall, “Do you know how much I wanted you tonight?”

Lena sighed, exposing her neck to Kara’s roaming mouth, “Judging by your inability to wait until we’re in the confines of our room…”

“It’s this dress… You know how I feel about you in a backless dress…”

Lena chuckled, slipping her arms around Kara’s neck, “Why do you think I bought it?”

“Because you’re a tease?”

She slipped out of Kara’s grasp and moved towards the opening doors,  “So you could take it off, Kara.”  She barely made it three steps down the hallway before Kara caught up with her, their subdued giggles echoing through the hallway.  

Lena stumbled into the door, one of Kara’s hands attentively tracing the curve of Lena’s hip, the other holding the clutch steady so Lena could remove their room key from the depths.  Her hand shook, encouraged by the whisper of Kara’s breath against her neck.

“Having trouble with the key?”

Lena pressed back into Kara, ignoring the groan from behind her, “You’re certainly not helping.”  

She swiped again, the light on the lock flashing red for a second time, Kara took her hand and steadied it as she assisted with unlocking the room.  The green light flashed, prompting Lena to swing the door open.  

She laughed, feeling her back hit the now closed door of the hotel room.  Her hands tangled in blonde hair, Kara’s lips finding the pulsepoint on her neck, sending Lena into a daze.  “Kara…”

The sensations on her neck ceased, Kara’s eyes locking onto her own, the silence of the room deafening as Lena felt herself slipping further into… whatever this was.  It was moments like these, in the dim lamplight that made Lena wonder, maybe… just maybe she wasn’t the only one falling.  

***

Kara brushed a trickle of blood from her lip, chest heaving as the dust and rubble settled around her.  She glanced over at Alex who was watching three aliens being loaded into the back of a DEO van.  She brushed the debris from her shoulders, standing painfully in the middle of the small crater she’d created during the fall.  “Danvers, a little help?”

Alex turned back, noticing Kara’s grazed legs and bruised face, she sighed and jogged to the nearest van to retrieve a rescue rope.  She planted her feet, tossing the other end down to the not-so super hero.  Kara climbed quickly, knowing that she was still quite heavy, even when solar flared. Collapsing next to her sister, she fought off the DEO medics, who were attempting to clean some of the blood away, “I’m fine.”

“You’ve solar flared, Supes… That’s the exact opposite of fine.  You were reckless,” Alex huffed.  

“Maybe that’ll deter any jerks trying to go after Miss Luthor again,” Kara winced as she sat.  “I don’t wanna sit in the sunlamps.  I had dinner plans…”

Alex laughed, “Well Supergirl, unless your date has some solar lamps at his apartment you’re not going anywhere…”

Kara grumbled and followed Alex back to the second van, “It’s not a date, and she definitely does.”

Kara watched the recognition dawn on Alex’s face, “At least come back and change.  I’ll drive you there myself.  First, we’d better call because she’s probably losing her mind right now.”

Kara rolled her eyes and reached into her boot as the van began the short drive back to the DEO.  Sure enough, there were four messages from Lena.  

LL:  Okay, that looked painful, I’ll charge the lamps.

LL:  Why the hell are you not getting up?  

LL:  I stg if you’re dead I’ll fucking kill you

LL:  Are you bleeding?? HAVE ALEX CALL ME

“She wants you to call her,” Kara said, tossing the phone to Alex.  She accepted the chilled water from Vasquez, who nudged another at Alex.

“Girlfriend worried, Supes?”

Kara choked on the water she was sipping, spraying a small amount onto an indignant Alex, who was dialling Lena’s number.  “Just a friend.”

“Lena, hey!  Yeah, she’s fine…”  Kara found herself wishing back her super hearing when Alex laughed, “I know, I know… You can…  I’ll have her there in an hour.”

Alex tossed the phone at Kara, who fumbled with it a few times before it hit the floor of the van by Susan’s foot.  “You owe me.”

***

Kara was still aching by the time they arrived at Lena’s apartment building.  Alex offered to walk her up, but she shrugged off her sister’s concerns and made her way to the elevator gingerly.  She fished her key from the back pocket of her jeans and swiped for the penthouse.  The elevator was jarring on her aching bones, but she knows for a fact that she’d never have made it up the stairs.  The elevator opened directly into Lena’s foyer, where Kara found her best friend standing with two glasses of wine and a soft smile.  Kara stepped forward, accepting the glass, thankful that her weakened state would leave her susceptible to the effects of the wine.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just… a bit sore.”  Kara followed Lena into the apartment, eyes firmly fixed on the way her silk dressing gown clung to her curves.

Lena glanced back over her shoulder, holding a hand out, “Come into the bathroom.”

Kara reached out and linked their fingers together, squeezing Lena’s hand, revelling in the fact that she didn’t need to hold back.  

The large claw foot tub that was the centrepiece of Lena’s bathroom, was filled with bubbles releasing a soft aromatic fragrance into the room.  Kara knew that every single one of her muscles was going to relax the second she sunk into it.  She pulled Lena in close, her hand brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen out of the pins holding Lena’s hair back.

 “You are… the best friend an alien could ask for,” Kara said.  There was something about the wording that was sitting heavy in Kara’s chest.  Maybe she was overreacting.  It could have just been a side effect of the solar flare.  But looking at Lena’s downcast gaze, she realised that she was very wrong.

“I know, now get in there.  I don’t want the water getting cold.”

Kara nudged the silk off Lena’s shoulder, “You’re coming too, right?”

“I’m just getting the wine.”

Twenty minutes and a bottle of wine later, Kara had pulled Lena up onto her chest, trying to feel as much as she could while she still could.  As much as she hated feeling so powerless, there was an upside to a solar flare.  Every nerve on Kara’s body was on edge, tingling at the touch of Lena’s fingers, burning at feel of Lena’s lips on her face.  

The bubbles had long dispersed and the water was beginning to cool, but Lena was still here, still pressing kisses along Kara’s jaw, still proving to Kara that she definitely wasn’t the only one who’s heart was already in danger.

***

Is Lena Luthor Off The Market? Turn to page 12 for more

Kara scoffed as she glanced at the cover of the new CatCo magazine, of course they were going to jump on that.  James frowned at her following her line of sight, “Look, Kara…”

“No, I get it.  She’s a public figure, and I know you have free reign with CatCo at the moment, but don’t you think printing this without her go ahead is risky?”

“Either we jump on it, or someone else does.  This way, Lena has more of a chance of keeping this boyfriend a secret…”

Kara laughed loudly, startling Eve into dropping her stapler, “Secret boyfriend?”

“Well we’ve had no confirmation from her about whoever he is, so secret works.”

Kara shook her head, handing Jakes the cover, “Can I at least see the story?  Who wrote it?”

“Annika from social.”

James shuffled a few pages around before handing one to Kara, sure enough one corner of the page was filled with a candid picture of Lena, exiting her town car, a large pink circle highlighting two small bruises visible on the side of her neck.

“Seriously?  You’re running this picture?  Of our boss?  Our friend, James…”

James shrugged, “I tried to reason with Snapper, but he had a point.  The public want to know, and if we don’t run the story, we lose readers to other publications.  Why are you so defensive about this?”

 “Because it’s Lena!” Kara quickly skimmed the article, which dropped several names of male celebrities and CEO’s, trying to work out a timeline.  The smug part of Kara knew exactly where those hickeys came from, she knew who was responsible for the magnificent smile on Lena’s face.  She also knew that that twinge of jealousy bubbling away in her gut, was not normal best friend behaviour, and she was either going to have to get it under control, or she was going to have to have a much needed conversation with her best friend.  

***

Lena fell back onto the bed, gasping for breath made worse by laughter.  Kara joined her not long after, complaining about the absence of their pillows, which had somehow ended up on the floor.  Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy knot, cheeks flushed pink.

“You’re the one that tossed the pillows in the first place,” Lena chuckled, nudging Karas shoulder.  Kara whined and rolled back on top of Lena, attempting to reach the nearest pillow.  

“Get off, you’re sticky and sweaty and disgusting!”

Kara laughed and rubbed her face into Lena’s neck, “You weren’t saying that five minutes ago…”

Lena rolled her eyes, “Five minutes ago you had a hand between my legs, big difference.”

“Oh, so I should…”

Lena squirmed as Kara slipped her hand down her side, “I’m sensitive!”

Kara laughed harder, rolling off to the side, pulling Lena on top of her, “I’m teasing.”

Lena stared at Kara for a few seconds, “Should we talk…?”  She watched the acknowledgement flicker across Kara’s face, the straightening of her mouth looking more like Supergirl than Kara.  

“If you think we need to talk…”

Lena rolled onto her side, body still flush with Kara’s, legs still tangled awkwardly, “I think…. No, I know… I need to talk.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, knowing that this conversation was only going to end in one of two ways.  She didn’t want to get her hopes up, but the way Kara was looking at her?  The way Kara touched her?  Surely there was something to it.

“We’ve been doing this for nine months, Kara…”

“Nine months, this Friday…”

Lena snorted, “I’m being serious…”

“So am I,” Kara replied.

“Anyway… What are we doing?  This was only meant to be temporary…”

Kara shifted onto her side, “You want to stop?”

There was a moment of silence, thick and deafening, leaving Lena biting her lip, searching for words.  “I don’t.”  The relief was apparent on Kara’s face, but quickly replaced with her blank Supergirl mask.

“I’m sensing a but…”

“Very good, Obi Wan,” Lena quipped, attempting to lighten the mood slightly.

“Serious Lena.”  Clearly, it hadn’t worked.

“I don’t want to just be a booty call.”  She huffed out a breath and continued quickly, before Kara could get a word in, “I want you tonight, I want you tomorrow… I want to kiss you in the street… Hold your hand in public, with our friends… If it’s too much… If you just need me as your best friend, then tell me now, because I can’t keep this up if my heart is just going to end up broken.”

She looked up, Supergirl was gone, Kara’s soft smile back in its rightful place, “That’s good to hear.”

“It is?”

“I don’t want you to just be my best friend.  We’re not temporary, Lena.  We never were.  You were never just a notch on my bedpost,” Kara answered.  She pulled Lena down for a kiss, pouring every bit of contentment she’d felt over this discussion into it.

“Good.”

“Does this mean we get to celebrate our nine month anniversary?”

Lena laughed, “I’ll even got dress shopping.”

[childoftheempire]

a sense of adventure 2/4 (DJxOC)

Part 1 / Part 3 / Part 4

The other man crouches down near me. He also checks for a heartbeat, without success. “He must’ve collapsed during the last fireworks. He had a heart c-c-condition, I think.” He delicately closes Mr Rosario’s eyelids. 

I feel the blood rushing in my ears. With Mr Rosario dead, I must find a new way to earn the money to travel back to Coruscant. I can easily afford the trip but I need to be able to survive without working for a while. I turn to look at the strange man. Suddenly the thought occurs to me that if someone finds us both in the room, looking at the wealthy man’s corpse, I can get into trouble. The man looks suspicious enough and many people don’t like girls like me. 

Obviously, the man has reached the same conclusions. He stares at my necklace with great concern. 

“Who gave you that?” He gestures at the piece of jewellery. 

“It’s not mine, Rosario lent it to me,” I say. “Costs a little fortune. I should leave it here; I don’t want any trouble.” 

The look on his face is priceless. “What? You can’t pass an occasion like that. Keep it or sell it, whatever, and if you don’t want it, give it to me! I thought the Pearl would have a little more b-b-brain behind the pretty looks!” 

“Yeah,” I say angrily, “but I’m not a thief! What’s the point of working so hard if you get sent to jail?” 

He smirks a little at this. “Oh, but jail is not as bad as you think it is, believe me.” This is it, I should leave as soon as possible, get as much distance as I can between that man and me. I get up, turn back on my heels and leap towards the door. I grab the handle and push as hard as I can. The door opens, but I hear a ting behind me and it suddenly closes, knocking me on the ground. I have to get up but the world is spinning too much. I fall back on the soft carpet, cold metal pressed against my forehead.  

“Don’t do this with me, doll,” the man growls. “Wouldn’t want your pretty b-b-body lying cold near Rosario’s.”  

I whimper a little; my head has collided with the durasteel lining the door. The room slowly stops spinning around me and I start to shiver. 

“Getting cold, huh? Fancy me warming you up?” he asks, his eyes glinting, his left arm landing high on my thigh as his right one holds the handgun. But this is a game I can play. 

“Only if you’ve got enough credits, darling,” I answer, trying to make my smile as mischievous as possible. 

I am used to this. I have seen all types of men, all have different ways to flirt with me, and I usually keep my head clear enough to answer back the way they unconsciously want me to. But this man is different. For a reason I am yet to find, his feral look troubles me and I struggle to think clearly. I know I have to think quickly, but the heat of his hand makes my thoughts dance in my head and I am unable to grasp one. A little unsettled at my inability to think coherently while staring back at him, I try to focus on his clothes. Judging by the state of his coat, the man probably sleeps in the streets.  

“Is that a promise?”  

The gun reminds me that I don’t have much choice if I don’t want my brains spilled on that beautiful carpet. “Sure,” I say. “But I doubt that you could afford it.” 

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, finally removing the gun from my skin. 

I straighten up, then make the move to reach for my dress. What did I just bargain for? I try to think back on it, straining to fight the dizziness at the mere thought of his hand on my bare skin, when we hear voices in the corridor. 

“Anyone there? Open, it’s the police!”  

I look at the man in alarm, so afraid that they are coming for us. 

“How do they know?” I whisper, my voice shaking. 

“Rosario probably had a health chip somewhere. It’s common here; it alerts the police if you’re dead or about to die.” The man does not look concerned at all. I hear a knocking, but it’s not on the door, and a few moments later a muted low voice answers. “What do you want? No, I’m not dead!” 

The man lets out a little laugh. “It’s Firenze! They’ve messed up the rooms, l-l-like me. Get dressed, they’ll be coming here just after.” 

“Right,” I mumble. I fetch the dress and begin slipping it on. “So, how exactly do you plan to get out?” I ask a little angrily, retrieving my purse. How can he stay so calm? 

He doesn’t answer but leads me to the smaller bedroom. He crouches down at the right side of the bed, turns the lower drawer button in a full rotation then pushes it hard. Behind us, the bookshelf slowly moves to the right in a deep rumble, leaving a hole leading to the darkness. The man steps into the hole. Full of surprises, indeed! Secret passageways are often only known to the staff of the hotel; they are very useful in case of emergencies. “Come on, it’s going to c-cclose in seconds,” he tells me, without looking back to see if I am following him. I hurry after him.  

Moments after I go in, the bookshelf returns to its initial place and we are left in the dark. “My heels!” I murmur. “I’ve left them in the living room!” I bite my lips, ashamed. How could I have forgotten my shoes! But the man only shakes his head. “It’s too late to get them. You’ll have to go barefoot.” A twinkle shines in his eyes. “But I can carry you, of course.” I don’t answer. 

The ground is uneven and littered with unknown objects, some bearing a striking resemblance to a cluster of broken glass bottles. A few feet before us, there is a junction. The left corridor is lightened and the door can be seen. The right one, however, is plunged in darkness and seems to be descending. “Where to?” I ask. 

“To the right,” he answers without any doubt. “But mind the stairs. They’re made of wood and full of s-s-splinters.” 

“Wood stairs?” I echo, slightly surprised. I have not seen those for at least a decade. Stairs have been made of durable materials for millennia, and lifts are even more common. 

“Historical b-b-building, remember?” he answers, then walks forward. I can only take one step when I feel something piercing through the skin of my foot. “Damn!” I say, quite unnerved at my forgetfulness. Stupid heels! If only they had been comfortable shoes, I would not have felt the need to discard them. I cautiously examine the ground with my other foot, but my toes only meet broken glass. Walking there without shoes would be a very stupid idea. I am sure the man has taken this way on purpose. “Hey, you!” I call, my voice trembling ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t mind to be carried.”

“Now, that’s something reasonable,” the man says, his tone delighted. There is now enough light for me to make out his broad silhouette. He turns back on his heels and ascends the few stairs. When he is near enough, he lifts me from the ground as if I were a paper doll, and I look away, afraid that he will see the heat rising to my face as his hand rest at the small of my back. I lock mine behind his collar, careful not to touch his skin and he begins walking down the stairs. 

“You smell horrible,” I say. It is true, though he mainly smells of gasoline and fresh paint. 

“Hey, I can still d-d-drop you here,” he says in an offended voice, but I can see the whiteness of his teeth as he smiles. 

“What’s your name?” I ask. I hate when people know me but I don’t know them. “You can call me DJ,” he answers, without hesitating. 

It is obviously a fake name but I don’t press the matter further. After all, he only knows my own scene name. When I leave this place, Jezebel, the Pearl of Canto Bight will only be a memory. 

The silence stretches a little. I only hear the sound of DJ’s footsteps on the wooden stairs and the sound of his breathing. 

“So, what about Firenze? You weren’t about to kill him, were you?” I ask, hoping to break the awkward silence. 

He laughs. “If only! The man’s a bastard. Broke my hand last time we played poker.” 

Mr Firenze is also a very wealthy firearm company shareholder. I am a bit intrigued by the fact that a man like DJ would play cards with one of the richest man in the galaxy. “You played with him? How so?”  

“That was about a year ago. We’d been doing a con t-t-together, but he kept whining like a little girl, saying that he was afraid to lose whatever influence he had on the market. One day we were playing together, and I pulled a little trick on him. He must’ve have been tipped because he saw right through me and broke my hand right there at the casino. Bastard! As if his little c-c-credits meant anything to him! He’s got enough money for a lifetime or three.” 

“So you wanted revenge?” 

He nods. “I’d been away for a year, but I came b-b-back last week and he was there, so I thought, here’s my chance. I only wanted to scare him a little and maybe lower his benefits by a f-f-few zeros.” 

“It’s not like he even needs it anyway.” 

“Parties cost a lot, you know.” 

“Yeah, and all the money flowing here makes my head spin.” 

“But you live among them.” 

“I’m so disgusted when I see all those gold chandeliers and linen towels. How can the people here look at themselves in the mirror while children are starving right under their eyes? This planet’s a mess.” 

“And that’s the difference b-b-between me and you. Right, that’s a lot of money, but there’s no need to be ashamed of it if you’ve earned it fair and square; and if you haven’t, then it’s your business!” 

“Okay, but what about the dying people? It’s just not right to throw elaborate parties when others barely earn enough to feed themselves!” 

“Yet here you are, wearing a diamond necklace, in your designer dress. Tell me you’d rather be sweeping the streets c-c-covered in dirt.” 

Cannot he see it? It is not fair to earn that much! “That’s not the point!” I cry.  

“It is the point.” 

“Yeah… I don’t know, that much money feels indecent to me.” 

“But you need it, and you wouldn’t throw it away if someone handed it to you on a g-g-gold platter. You’ve got to face the reality, doll. People like you, they’re damn hypocrites.” 

“Why?”  

“You blame rich people because they have money, but you want to be rich yourself.” 

“I don’t want to be rich!” I protest loudly. “I only want enough money for my family.” 

“Sure, b-b-but your family will want money too for their friends, and their friends will want your money for their own friends. In the end, it’s all the same: the wealthier, the better. Besides, I don’t know any poor people down here who d-d-doesn’t dream of winning the jackpot.” He grins a crooked smile at me.  

“Anyway, it’s not fair to show off,” I pout. 

“Life’s not fair, sweetheart.”  

He has a point.