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auliasbookcorner · 1 year

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Review: Reasons To Stay Alive by Matt Haig

Book 19 of 2022

Start Reading Time: 20 November 2022

Finish reading Time: 28 November 2022

Page Count: 256 Pages

TRIGGER WARNINGS: DEPRESSION, ANXIETY, MENTAL ILLNESS, SUICIDE ATTEMPT, ALCOHOLISM, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS

It's very telling that I read this book right after finishing the whole Beartown trilogy, huh? LOL, JK I love that series so freaking much. Well, yes, maybe it's kind of a small cry for help, because I was not doing very great around the time that I decided to read this book, but it's also because it's our book club's pick for November.

Yup, you read that correctly. I am now a part of a book club called The Drinking Page Book Club, and that means that I will be reading a lot more books, including the ones that are picked by other people that I may not have picked myself, so look out for the reviews of those books. I think it will be a very interesting experience.

By the time I'm making this review, it's already nearing New Year's day and I'm very much in the holiday mood already, so it will be a very short review. I also have one book to review, and two full books, our book club's picks for December, that I have yet to even touch yet, lol. But I promised myself I would finish making the reviews today, so I can spend the rest of the year reading. PS: I blame The Winners for my procrastination, because the book hangover from it is so REAL.

Anyway, to give you my honest opinion about this book, I think this book is a great reminder for a depressive like me, of what we have in this world that will keep us alive, despite all the pain. There are a lot of things that I related to in the book, and I was so happy that someone had so eloquently described how depression and anxiety feel like. Never before have I feel like a book understands my pain so well and to know that the author felt the same was both comforting and sad. It's so comforting because I realize I'm not the only one who felt like that, what a blessing it is to be able to cry to this book, to know that someone out there understand this pain and that i'm not alone, that we're all crying and suffering together, but it's sad because Matt was in so much pain like I was.

Reading about Matt's dark times was a little bit triggering but also necessary for me, especially reading about him talking about the things that help him overcome the illness. It even felt a little like a form of therapy for me. And it's also great to know how someone who was struggling with depression and anxiety like me is striving in the world, like Matt is. He's an inspiration and I'm proud of him.

However, there are also parts that I find it hard to relate to. Which is fine, because Matt had prefaced the book by stating that depression can look different for other people, it doesn't mean that one's depression is not real or not as severe, it's just different for everyone. The part that I can't relate to the most, and this may just be me since I'm nothing but a broke ass loser, but when Matt said he was depressed even though he was in Ibiza, which is one of the most beautiful places on earth, with his girlfriend and future wife, I was a little bit confused and, honestly, a little mad. Here I am, broke, single, and stuck at the office all day, going to sleep at 9pm, and spending all my weekend all alone in my bed, it just feels right for me to be depressed. It felt like something that would naturally happen to me. But to be with the love of your life in IBIZA??!!! He was living the dream, and to a loser like me, who can only dream of having what he had, it felt like an insult, lol.

But, I do understand that depression is not something that can be cured by money or beautiful places, or even the love of your life. It's just a little baffling for a loser like me to read that because of how good he seemed to have it, theoretically speaking. And maybe it's hard to compute in my loser brain, because I literally work everyday and stay home every weekend to save money, so one day I too can travel abroad to beautiful places and finally be happy, so to know that you can be in paradise but still depressed is kinda crushing that dream. But maybe the lesson here is that, if we can still be depressed in paradise, maybe we can still find happiness away from paradise too.

Also, another thing that I don't really like about the book is that many of the chapters or essays here read or feel like something straight out of thoughtcatalog.com, and some are just lists of things that I can not relate to. Although there are some very good chapters, and some lines are excellent and I learned a lot from this book and it helped me and made me feel hopeful, a lot of parts of this book may better be omitted from it. For example, we understand how much you love Grahan Greene, Matt. You don't have to repeat it a hundred times. (I know, I'm one to talk, I literally cannot make one book review without mentioning Backman, Sanderson or RF Kuang, but I maybe won't be mentioning it a lot in my book, if I were to write one)

Having said all that, I like that Matt included the list of books that helped him and books that he liked, and I also like how he mentions reading as a form of medicine for him, because it is a medicine for me too. There are a lot of powerful quotes from this book, and helpful advises, as well as interesting insights about depression and anxiety that make give this book worthy of 4 stars.

Here are my favorite quotes from the book:

"When you are depressed you feel alone, and that no one is going through quite what you are going through. You are so scared of appearing in any way mad you internalise everything, and you are so scared that people will alienate you further you clam up and don’t speak about it, which is a shame, as speaking about it helps. Words – spoken or written – are what connect us to the world, and so speaking about it to people, and writing about this stuff, helps connect us to each other, and to our true selves."

"Time heals. The tunnel does have light at the end of it, even if we aren’t able to see it. And there’s a two-for-one offer on clouds and silver linings. Words, just sometimes, can set you free."

"MINDS ARE UNIQUE. They go wrong in unique ways."

"There is no right or wrong way to have depression, or to have a panic attack, or to feel suicidal. These things just are. Misery, like yoga, is not a competitive sport."

"The weirdest thing about a mind is that you can have the most intense things going on in there but no one else can see them."

"I wanted to be dead. No. That’s not quite right. I didn’t want to be dead, I just didn’t want to be alive. Death was something that scared me. And death only happens to people who have been living."

"The word depression makes me think of a flat tyre, something punctured and unmoving. Maybe depression minus anxiety feels like that, but depression laced with terror is not something flat or still. (The poet Melissa Broder once tweeted: ‘what idiot called it “depression” and not “there are bats living in my chest and they take up a lot of room, ps. I see a shadow”?’) At its worst you find yourself wishing, desperately, for any other affliction, any physical pain, because the mind is infinite, and its torments – when they happen – can be equally infinite. You can be a depressive and be happy, just as you can be a sober alcoholic. It doesn’t always have an obvious cause."

"If you have ever believed a depressive wants to be happy, you are wrong. They could not care less about the luxury of happiness. They just want to feel an absence of pain. To escape a mind on fire, where thoughts blaze and smoke like old possessions lost to arson. To be normal. Or, as normal is impossible, to be empty. And the only way I could be empty was to stop living. One minus one is zero."

"But actually, it wasn’t easy. The weird thing about depression is that, even though you might have more suicidal thoughts, the fear of death remains the same. The only difference is that the pain of life has rapidly increased. So when you hear about someone killing themselves it’s important to know that death wasn’t any less scary for them. It wasn’t a ‘choice’ in the moral sense. To be moralistic about it is to misunderstand."

"I had a mother and a father and a sister and a girlfriend. That was four people right there who loved me. I wished like mad, in that moment, that I had no one at all. Not a single soul. Love was trapping me here."

"Here is Professor Jonathan Rottenberg, an evolutionary psychologist and author of The Depths, writing in 2014 words that are strangely comforting: How will we better contain depression? Expect no magic pill. One lesson learned from treating chronic pain is that it is tough to override responses that are hardwired into the body and mind. Instead, we must follow the economy of mood where it leads, attending to the sources that bring so many into low mood states – think routines that feature too much work and too little sleep. We need broader mood literacy and an awareness of tools that interrupt low mood states before they morph into longer and more severe ones. These tools include altering how we think, the events around us, our relationships, and conditions in our bodies (by exercise, medication, or diet)."

"A HUMAN BODY is bigger than it looks. Advances in science and technology have shown that, really, a physical body is a universe in itself. Each of us is made up of roughly a hundred trillion cells. In each of those cells is roughly that same number again of atoms. That is a lot of separate components. Our brains alone have a hundred billion brain cells, give or take a few billion. Yet most of the time we do not feel the near-infinite nature of our physical selves. We simplify by thinking about ourselves in terms of our larger pieces."

"But depression is a kind of quantum physics of thought and emotion. It reveals what is normally hidden. It unravels you, and everything you have known. It turns out that we are not only made of the universe, of ‘star-stuff’ to borrow Carl Sagan’s phrase, but we are as vast and complicated as it too. The evolutionary psychologists might be right. We humans might have evolved too far. The price for being intelligent enough to be the first species to be fully aware of the cosmos might just be a capacity to feel a whole universe’s worth of darkness."

"Bad days come in degrees. They are not all equally bad. And the really bad ones, though horrible to live through, are useful for later. You store them up. A bank of bad days. The day you had to run out of the supermarket. The day you were so depressed your tongue wouldn’t move. The day you made your parents cry. The day you nearly threw yourself off a cliff. So if you are having another bad day you can say, Well, this feels bad, but there have been worse. And even when you can think of no worse day – when the one you are living is the very worst there has ever been – you at least know the bank exists and that you have made a deposit."

"When you are at the lowest ebb, you imagine – wrongly – that no one else in the world has felt so bad. I prayed to be those people. Any of them. The eighty-year-olds, the eight-year-olds, the women, the men, even their dogs. I craved to exist in their minds. I could not cope with the relentless self-torment any more than I could cope with my hand on a hot stove when I could see buckets of ice all around me. Just the sheer exhaustion of never being able to find mental comfort. Of every positive thought reaching a cul-de-sac before it starts."

"I didn’t totally fit in. I kind of disintegrated around people, and became what they wanted me to be. But paradoxically, I felt an intensity inside me all the time. I didn’t know what it was, but it kept building, like water behind a dam. Later, when I was properly depressed and anxious, I saw the illness as an accumulation of all that thwarted intensity. A kind of breaking through. As though, if you find it hard enough to let your self be free, your self breaks in, flooding your mind in an attempt to drown all those failed half-versions of you."

"If you are a man or a woman with mental health problems, you are part of a very large and growing group. Many of the greatest and, well, toughest people of all time have suffered from depression. Politicians, astronauts, poets, painters, philosophers, scientists, mathematicians (a hell of a lot of mathematicians), actors, boxers, peace activists, war leaders, and a billion other people fighting their own battles. You are no less or more of a man or a woman or a human for having depression than you would be for having cancer or cardiovascular disease or a car accident. So what should we do? Talk. Listen. Encourage talking. Encourage listening. Keep adding to the conversation. Stay on the lookout for those wanting to join in the conversation. Keep reiterating, again and again, that depression is not something you ‘admit to’, it is not something you have to blush about, it is a human experience. A boy-girl-man-woman-young-old-black-white-gay-straight-rich-poor experience. It is not you. It is simply something that happens to you. And something that can often be eased by talking. Words. Comfort. Support. It took me more than a decade to be able to talk openly, properly, to everyone, about my experience. I soon discovered the act of talking is in itself a therapy. Where talk exists, so does hope."

"AS DR DAVID Adam says in his brilliant account of obsessive compulsive disorder, The Man Who Couldn’t Stop: ‘Only a fool or a liar will tell you how the brain works.’ A brain is not a toaster. It is complex. It may only weigh a little over a kilo, but it is a kilo that contains a whole lifetime of memories."

"I suppose, in the absence of universal certainties, we are our own best laboratory."

"People say ‘take it one day at a time’. But, I used to think to myself, that is all right for them to say. Days were mountains. A week was a trek across the Himalayas. You see, people say that time is relative, but it really bloody is."

"Anxiety and depression, that most common mental health cocktail, fuse together in weird ways. I would often close my eyes and see strange things, but now I feel like sometimes those things were only there because one of the things I was scared of was going mad. And if you are mad, then seeing things that aren’t there is probably a symptom. If you are scared when there is nothing to be scared of, eventually your brain has to give you things. And so that classic expression – ‘the only thing to fear is fear itself’ – becomes a kind of meaningless taunt. Because fear is enough. It is a monster, in fact. And, of course – ‘Monsters are real,’ Stephen King said. ‘And ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.’"

"LIFE IS HARD. It may be beautiful and wonderful but it is also hard. The way people seem to cope is by not thinking about it too much. But some people are not going to be able to do that. And besides, it is the human condition. We think therefore we are. We know we are going to grow old, get ill and die. We know that is going to happen to everyone we know, everyone we love. But also, we have to remember, the only reason we have love in the first place is because of this."

"It’s just a shop you have been in, on your own, five hundred times before. Get a grip. Get a grip. But on what? There is nothing to grip onto. Everything is slippy. Life is so infinitely hard. It involves a thousand tasks all at once. And I am a thousand different people, all fleeing away from the centre."

"‘You’re getting there,’ said Andrea. ‘Yeah,’ I said, and tried so hard to believe it. ‘We’re going to get you better.’ It’s not easy, being there for a depressive."

"THEN ME: I so want to believe that you exist. That I don’t kill you off. NOW ME: You didn’t. You don’t. You won’t. THEN ME: Why would I stay alive? Wouldn’t it be better to feel nothing than to feel such pain? Isn’t zero worth more than minus one thousand? NOW ME: Listen, just listen, just get this through your head, okay – you make it, and on the other side of this there is life. L-I-F-E. You understand? And there will be stuff you enjoy. And just stop worrying about worrying. Just worry – you can’t help that – but don’t meta-worry."

"2. Things aren’t going to get worse. You want to kill yourself. That is as low as it gets. There is only upwards from here."

"3. You hate yourself. That is because you are sensitive. Pretty much every human could find a reason to hate themselves if they thought about it as much as you did. We’re all total bastards, us humans, but also totally wonderful."

"4. So what, you have a label? ‘Depressive’. Everyone would have a label if they asked the right professional."

"7. Ignore stigma. Every illness had stigma once. We fear getting ill, and fear tends to lead to prejudice before information. Polio used to be erroneously blamed on poor people, for instance. And depression is often seen as a ‘weakness’ or personality failing."

"8. Nothing lasts for ever. This pain won’t last. The pain tells you it will last. Pain lies. Ignore it. Pain is a debt paid off with time.

"9. Minds move. Personalities shift. To quote myself, from The Humans: ‘Your mind is a galaxy. More dark than light. But the light makes it worthwhile. Which is to say, don’t kill yourself. Even when the darkness is total. Always know that life is not still. Time is space. You are moving through that galaxy. Wait for the stars.’"

"10. You will one day experience joy that matches this pain. You will cry euphoric tears at the Beach Boys, you will stare down at a baby’s face as she lies asleep in your lap, you will make great friends, you will eat delicious foods you haven’t tried yet, you will be able to look at a view from a high place and not assess the likelihood of dying from falling. There are books you haven’t read yet that will enrich you, films you will watch while eating extra-large buckets of popcorn, and you will dance and laugh and have sex and go for runs by the river and have late-night conversations and laugh until it hurts. Life is waiting for you. You might be stuck here for a while, but the world isn’t going anywhere. Hang on in there if you can. Life is always worth it."

"So why do we bother with love? No matter how much we love someone we are never going to make them, or ourselves, free of pain."

"If, as Schopenhauer said, ‘we forfeit three-fourths of ourselves in order to be like other people’, then love – at its best – is a way to reclaim those lost parts of ourselves. That freedom we lost somewhere quite early in childhood. Maybe love is just about finding the person you can be your weird self with."

"Depression, for me, wasn’t a dulling but a sharpening, an intensifying, as though I had been living my life in a shell and now the shell wasn’t there. It was total exposure. A red-raw, naked mind. A skinned personality. A brain in a jar full of the acid that is experience. What I didn’t realise, at the time, what would have seemed incomprehensible to me, was that this state of mind would end up having positive effects as well as negative effects. I’m not talking about all that What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger stuff. No. That’s simply not true. What doesn’t kill you very often makes you weaker. What doesn’t kill you can leave you limping for the rest of your days. What doesn’t kill you can make you scared to leave your house, or even your bedroom, and have you trembling, or mumbling incoherently, or leaning with your head on a window pane, wishing you could return to the time before the thing that didn’t kill you."

"This isn’t a question of strength. Not the stoic, get-on-with-stuff-without-thinking-too-much kind of strength, anyway. It’s more of a zooming-in. That sharpening. That switch from the prosaic to the poetic. You know, before the age of twenty-four I hadn’t known how bad things could feel, but I hadn’t realised how good they could feel either. That shell might be protecting you, but it’s also stopping you feeling the full force of that good stuff. Depression might be a hell of a price to pay for waking up to life, and while it is on top of you it is one that could never seem worth paying. Clouds with silver linings are still clouds. But it is quite therapeutic to know that pleasure doesn’t just help compensate for pain, it can actually grow out of it."

"I read and read and read with an intensity I’d never really known before. I mean, I’d always considered myself to be a person who liked books. But there is a difference between liking books and needing them. I needed books. They weren’t a luxury good during that time in my life. They were a Class A addictive substance. I’d have gladly got into serious debt to read (indeed, I did). I think I read more books in those six months than I had done during five years of university education, and I’d certainly fallen deeper into the worlds conjured on the page."

"There is this idea that you either read to escape or you read to find yourself. I don’t really see the difference. We find ourselves through the process of escaping. It is not where we are, but where we want to go, and all that. ‘Is there no way out of the mind?’ Sylvia Path famously asked. I had been interested in this question (what it meant, what the answers might be) ever since I had come across it as a teenager in a book of quotations. If there is a way out, a way that isn’t death itself, then the exit route is through words. But rather than leave the mind entirely, words help us leave a mind, and give us the building blocks to build another one, similar but better, nearby to the old one but with firmer foundations, and very often a better view."

"‘The object of art is to give life a shape,’ said Shakespeare. And my life – and my mess of a mind – needed shape. I had ‘lost the plot’. There was no linear narrative of me. There was just mess and chaos. So yes, I loved external narratives for the hope they offered. Films. TV dramas. And most of all, books. They were, in and of themselves, reasons to stay alive. Every book written is the product of a human mind in a particular state. Add all the books together and you get the end sum of humanity. Every time I read a great book I felt I was reading a kind of map, a treasure map, and the treasure I was being directed to was in actual fact myself. But each map was incomplete, and I would only locate the treasure if I read all the books, and so the process of finding my best self was an endless quest. And books themselves seemed to me to reflect this idea. Which is why the plot of every book ever can be boiled down to ‘someone is looking for something’."

"One cliché attached to bookish people is that they are lonely, but for me books were my way out of being lonely. If you are the type of person who thinks too much about stuff then there is nothing lonelier in the world than being surrounded by a load of people on a different wavelength."

"It is a dark, intense book. But when you are feeling dark and intense these are the only kind of books that can speak to you. Yet there was an optimism too. The possibility of redemption. It is a book about the healing power of love."

"The best way to beat a monster is to find a scarier one."

"I was starting to find that, sometimes, simply doing something that I had dreaded – and surviving – was the best kind of therapy. If you start to dread being outside, go outside. If you fear confined spaces, spend some time in a lift. If you have separation anxiety, force yourself to be alone a while. When you are depressed and anxious your comfort zone tends to shrink from the size of a world to the size of a bed. Or right down to nothing at all."

"Stimulation. Excitement. The kinds found in new places. Sometimes this can be terrifying, but it can also be liberating. In a familiar place, your mind focuses solely on itself. There is nothing new it needs to notice about your bedroom. No potential external threats, just internal ones. By forcing yourself into a new physical space, preferably in a different country, you end up inevitably focusing a bit more on the world outside your head."

"I had reasons to force myself to be strong. To put myself in situations I wouldn’t have put myself in. You need to be uncomfortable. You need to hurt. As the Persian poet Rumi wrote in the twelfth century, ‘The wound is the place where the light enters you.’ (He also wrote: ‘Forget safety. Live where you fear to live.’)"

"While we know it can happen to anyone, we can never be told too many times that it can actually happen to anyone. I remember sitting in a dentist’s reading an interview with Halle Berry in which she was talking openly about the time she sat in her car, in a garage, and tried to kill herself via carbon monoxide poisoning. She told the interviewer that the only thing that stopped her was the thought of her mother finding her. It helped me, seeing her smiling and looking strong in that magazine. It may have been a Photoshopped illusion, but whatever, she was alive and seemingly happy, and a member of the same species as me. So yes, we like stories of recovery. We love the narrative structure of rise-fall-rise-again."

"Also, one of the things depression often does is make you feel guilt. Depression says ‘Look at you, with your nice life, with your nice boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/ wife/kids/dog/sofa/Twitter followers, with your good job, with your lack of physical health problems, with your holiday in Rome to look forward to, with your mortgage nearly paid off, with your non-divorced parents, with your whatever,’ on and on and on."

"Wondering if every thing we have wanted in our lives has been the wrong thing. Wondering if the smartphones and nice bathrooms and state-of-the-art TVs we thought were part of the solution are part of the problem. Wondering if, in the board game of life, everything we thought was a ladder was in fact a snake, sliding us right down to the bottom. As any Buddhist would tell you, an over-attachment to material things will lead only to more suffering."

"It is said that insanity is a logical response to an insane world. Maybe depression is in part simply a response to a life we don’t really understand. Of course, no one understands their life completely if they think about it. An annoying thing about depression is that thinking about life is inevitable. Depression makes thinkers out of all of us. Just ask Abraham Lincoln."

"People often use the word ‘despite’ in the context of mental illness. So-and-so did such-and-such despite having depression/anxiety/OCD/agoraphobia/whatever. But sometimes that ‘despite’ should be a ‘because’. For instance, I write because of depression. I was not a writer before. The intensity needed – to explore things with relentless curiosity and energy – simply wasn’t there. Fear makes us curious. Sadness makes us philosophise. (‘To be or not to be?’ is a daily question for many depressives.)"

"So. Even if depression is not totally overcome, we can learn to use what the poet Byron called a ‘fearful gift’. We don’t have to use it to rule a nation, like Churchill or Lincoln. We don’t even have to use it to paint a really good picture. We can just use it in life. For instance, I find that being grimly aware of mortality can make me steadfastly determined to enjoy life where life can be enjoyed. It makes me value precious moments with my children, and with the woman I love. It adds intensity in bad ways, but also good ways."

"(Depression is also) Smaller than you. Always, it is smaller than you, even when it feels vast. It operates within you, you do not operate within it. It may be a dark cloud passing across the sky, but – if that is the metaphor – you are the sky. You were there before it. And the cloud can’t exist without the sky, but the sky can exist without the cloud."

"THE WORLD IS increasingly designed to depress us. Happiness isn’t very good for the economy. If we were happy with what we had, why would we need more? How do you sell an anti-ageing moisturiser? You make someone worry about ageing. How do you get people to vote for a political party? You make them worry about immigration. How do you get them to buy insurance? By making them worry about everything. How do you get them to have plastic surgery? By highlighting their physical flaws. How do you get them to watch a TV show? By making them worry about missing out. How do you get them to buy a new smartphone? By making them feel like they are being left behind."

"To be calm becomes a kind of revolutionary act. To be happy with your own non-upgraded existence. To be comfortable with our messy, human selves, would not be good for business."

"Life is the people who love you. No one will ever choose to stay alive for an iPhone. It’s the people we reach via the iPhone that matter. And once we begin to recover, and to live again, we do so with new eyes. Things become clearer, and we are aware of things we weren’t aware of before."

"ANXIETY IS THE partner of depression. It accompanies half the cases of depression. Sometimes it triggers depression. Sometimes depression triggers anxiety. Sometimes they simply co-exist, like a nightmare marriage."

"‘anxiety is the dizziness of freedom’ – Søren Kierkegaard"

"@HHDreamWolf Suicide may lead to my friends and family becoming depressed, I would never wish depression on anyone. #reasonstostayalive"

"Feeling. That is what it is about. People place so much value on thought, but feeling is as essential. I want to read books that make me laugh and cry and fear and hope and punch the air in triumph. I want a book to hug me or grab me by the scruff of my neck. I don’t even mind if it punches me in the gut. Because we are here to feel."

"I want life. I want to read it and write it and feel it and live it. I want, for as much of the time as possible in this blink-of-an-eye existence we have, to feel all that can be felt. I hate depression. I am scared of it. Terrified, in fact. But at the same time, it has made me who I am. And if – for me – it is the price of feeling life, it’s a price always worth paying. I am satisfied just to be."

"So, what’s the way out? How do you stop the endless wanting and worrying? How do you get off the treadmill? How do you stop time? How do we stop exhausting ourselves worrying about the future? The best answers – the answers that have been written and recorded for thousands of years – always seem to resolve around acceptance. Schopenhauer himself was greatly influenced by ancient Eastern philosophy. ‘The truth has been recognised by the sages of India,’ he said. Indeed, his belief that abstinence from worldly pleasures is the answer to life, is something he shares with a lot of Buddhist thinkers. But Buddhist thought is not as negative or miserable as Schopenhauer. With Schopenhauer all this asceticism is a bit self-punishing, a bit full of self-loathing, which is unhealthy and counter-productive. A world full of people hating themselves is not a happy world."

"Indeed, a lot of the Dhammapada, chief among the Buddhist sacred texts (being a record of the Gautama Buddha’s teaching), reads like an early self-help book. ‘No one saves us but ourselves, no one can and no one may.’ In Buddhism, salvation is something that is not external. To be happy, and at peace, Buddhism says, we have to be vigilant, aware of ourselves. Mindful. ‘As rain breaks through an ill-thatched house, passion in the sense of suffering will break through an unreflecting mind.’"

"One thing I do understand, though, is that more is not better. I am not a Buddhist. I find all strict and certain guidelines too scary. Life is beautiful in its ambiguity. But I like the idea of being alert to ourselves, of connecting to the universal rather than living life on a see-saw of hope and fear. For me personally, happiness isn’t about abandoning the world of stuff, but in appreciating it for what it is. We cannot save ourselves from suffering by buying an iPhone. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t buy one, it just means we should know such things are not ends in themselves. And compassion. That’s another thing I like about Buddhism. The idea that kindness makes us happier than selfishness."

"To be selfless, while being mindful, seems to be a good solution, when the self intensifies and causes us to suffer. Being good feels good because it makes us remember that we are not the only person that matters in this world. We all matter because we are all alive. And so kindness is an active way in which we can see and feel the bigger picture. We are ultimately all the same thing. We are life. We are consciousness. And so by feeling part of humanity, rather than an isolated unit, we feel better."

"How to stop time: kiss. How to travel in time: read. How to escape time: music. How to feel time: write. How to release time: breathe."

"TIME TROUBLES US. It is because of time that we grow old, and because of time we die. These are worrying things. As Aristotle put it, ‘time crumbles things’. And we are scared of our own crumbling, and the crumbling of others. We feel an urgency to get on because time is short."

"But we kind of know that turning life into a desperate race for more stuff is only going to shorten it. Not in years, not in terms of actual time, but in terms of how time feels. Imagine all the time we had was bottled up, like wine, and handed over to us. How would we make that bottle last? By sipping slowly, appreciating the taste, or by gulping?"

"But when I was at my lowest points I touched something solid, something hard and strong at the core of me. Something imperishable, immune to the changeability of thought. The self that is not only I but also we. The self that connects me to you, and human to human. The hard, unbreakable force of survival. Of life. Of the 150,000 generations of us that have gone before, and of those yet to be born. Our human essence. Just as the ground below New York and, say, Lagos, becomes identical if you go down far enough beneath the earth’s surface, so every human inhabitant on this freak wonder of a planet shares the same core. I am you and you are me. We are alone, but not alone. We are trapped by time, but also infinite. Made of flesh, but also stars."

"Nothing makes you feel smaller, more trivial, than such a vast transformation inside your own mind while the world carries on, oblivious. Yet nothing is more freeing. To accept your smallness in the world."

"Kurt Vonnegut was right. ‘Reading and writing are the most nourishing forms of meditation anyone has so far found.’"

"Don’t feel guilty about being idle. More harm is probably done to the world through work than idleness. But perfect your idleness. Make it mindful."

"Understand that thoughts are thoughts. If they are unreasonable, reason with them, even if you have no reason left. You are the observer of your mind, not its victim."

"Beware of the gap. The gap between where you are and where you want to be. Simply thinking of the gap widens it. And you end up falling through."

"Read a book without thinking about finishing it. Just read it. Enjoy every word, sentence, and paragraph. Don’t wish for it to end, or for it to never end."

"If someone loves you, let them. Believe in that love. Live for them, even when you feel there is no point."

"Don’t believe in good or bad, or winning and losing, or victory and defeat, or up and down. At your lowest and at your highest, whether you are happy or despairing or calm or angry, there is a kernel of you that stays the same. That is the you that matters."

"Read Emily Dickinson. Read Graham Greene. Read Italo Calvino. Read Maya Angelou. Read anything you want. Just read. Books are possibilities. They are escape routes. They give you options when you have none. Each one can be a home for an uprooted mind."

"Remember that the key thing about life on earth is change. Cars rust. Paper yellows. Technology dates. Caterpillars become butterflies. Nights morph into days. Depression lifts."

Lastly, I remember Fredrik Backman once said that none of the authors of his favorite books ever said that writing is easy, oftentimes the authors said that writing the books took so much out of them and it was so difficult writing it. I can definitely tell that it wasn't easy for Matt to write this book, to revisit those dark, dark times so others can read it and learn from it and maybe even feel comforted, like I did. For that, I salute Matt and grateful for him for making this book, despite all of my criticisms. I really appreciate all of the pain and effort that goes into the making of this book, and I'm sure I will reread and come back to a lot of the quotes from this book from time to time.

WRITING STYLE - ⭐⭐⭐

ENTERTAINMENT LEVEL- ❤️❤️❤️❤️

BOOK COVER DESIGN - ⭐⭐

OVERALL BOOK RATING - ⭐⭐⭐⭐

#reasons to stay alive #book review

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alldrinkingaside · 1 year

Text

MARCONI INVENTED the First Long-Distance Wireless. I NEARLY Destroyed One!

Guglielmo Giovanni Maria Marconi, who is credited as the Inventor of the Radio, was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1909. Radio Shack opened their doors in 1921 and closed them in 2015. Jim Anders received a DIY Radio Kit circa 1960. Something like a Mr. Potato Head, it was a box that contained all the parts necessary to build your own radio from scratch: Spools, Wires, Screw, Control Knobs, Gizmos, a Ceramic Filter, Nuts and on and on.

I should have been given a Mr. Potato Head instead. It would have been more my speed. I knew nothing about electronics then, and not a whole hell of a lot more about electronics now.

"You alone can do it, but you can't do it alone" - Dr. Ron B

This Quote by Dr. Ron became something like "When I tried to stay sober alone, I wound up drinking alone" for me. I knew how to drink. My Resume included a 50,000-drink history. I drank every day for 30 years. If I was sick, I drank a pint or more of Blackberry Brandy, my self-prescribed cure-all. My only respites from drinking during all those years were during my increasingly more frequent and progressive hospital visits for alcohol poisoning.

"You alone can do it, but you can't do it alone" - Dr. Ron B

I could and did get drunk alone, but clean and sober? No way, Jose. No way, Dr. Ron.

My experience has shown me that my addicted brain will continue to lie to me long after all alcohol and other substances have left my body. Effects upon behavior, thoughts, memories, dreams, actions, wishes and emotions (however you may wish to experience and describe it) will linger long, long after you taper off or go cold turkey. It seems Addiction stands waiting for you to let down your guard so that you may once again become entrapped by it.

A brain changed by years of drug and alcohol use needs to stay connected to the human race or the hamster wheel of addiction may hypnotize you back into its futile spin.

If you wish to think that you are somehow different than the multitudes who have preceded you, proceed with caution. When I thought that way, multiple relapses followed.

I am reminded here of "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" by Paul Simon. To refresh your memory, one Stanza goes like this:

"Slip out the back, Jack

Make a new plan, Stan

You don't need to be coy, Roy

Just get yourself free

Hop on the bus, Gus

You don't need to discuss much

Just drop off the key, Lee

And get yourself free."

Recovery is just like that, but instead of "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover," it's "50 Ways to Live Life Sober" and all 50 Ways are with the help of others.

For my third and final time (today): "You alone can do it, but you can't do it alone" - Dr. Ron B

With your little old self, you might start with Mr. Potato Head and work your way up to a DIY RadioKit. But if you're anything like me, when it comes to Recovery from Drugs and Alcohol, my simple recommendation is NEVER DO IT ALONE.

*****

Check out my NEW Non-Fiction, BECOMING UNBROKEN: Reflections on Addiction and Recovery (Find it on Amazon, Book it here): https://lnkd.in/dkF767RT

Or immerse yourself in my Descent into Addiction and eventual Recovery in my Autobiographical Fiction, ALL DRINKING ASIDE: The Destruction, Deconstruction & Reconstruction of an Alcoholic Animal (Find it on Amazon. Book it here): https://lnkd.in/esP83n-c

#alcoholism #addiction #recovery #books

I hope you enjoy BOTH of my BOOKS on ADDICTION & RECOVERY! (Print & Kindle Versions of Both are Available!)

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volleychumps · 3 years

Text

« Progressive Rivalry

Omg I love your blog 🥺 could I get a scenario or one shot with iwaizumi or Sakusa (or honestly any character you’d like!) where u run into each other at every tournament and it started out as a bitter rivalry but then they got rly worried bc u got hurt and they’re like “why do I care!?” Does that make sense? Ahaha 😅

~ just why do you keep running into the guy you hate most, especially when he equally hates your guts as well?

format: One-Shot

genre: fluff

- includes: Iwaizumi Hajime

Warning(s): swearing, slight mention of blood, enemies to lovers trope

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

“Oh look, my best friend’s here.”

“Fuck off.”

A sarcastic grin tickles your lips as you place a hand over your chest, pouting mock-affectionately as the dark haired spiker wipes at his sweaty neck with a damp towel. You adjust the gym bag on your arm as the rest of your team begins to warm up, already used to this turn of events.

“Aw, Iwa! You always manage to warm my cold, dead heart. If you have a crush on me, just say so. Are you some kind of stalker?”

“Hah? A stalker? You wish.” Iwaizumi stands as the red-headed one and popular brunette behind him stifle their amused laughter into their fists. “Who would like looking at your ugly mug all day?”

The spiker’s failed attempt to intimidate you with his height had your smile widening in challenge, the insult not hurting a bit. In fact, you lean a little closer, fake sniffing as if he had genuinely hurt your feelings.

“Yep. I definitely want this temperamental six year old in the body of a seventeen year old to show an ounce of interest in me. How’d you know?”

“How can I not show interest in things that perturb me?”

“So you are interested.” You wink. “Don’t hurt your pretty little head over using words that are too complicated for your brain.” You lean around him to shoot a sweet smile to his teammates, ignoring the flash of irritation across Iwa’s face.

“Issei, Oikawa, Hiro!” You flash a thumbs up, your pretty smile almost blinding. “You guys were cool.”

“Y/N-chan~ you’re such an angel!”

“Angel my ass.”

“Oh. You’re still here.” Your voice falls dejected as Iwaizumi gains an irk mark on his forehead. Glancing back at your team, you smile and wave at the other three. “Gotta go warm up, cheer for me!”

“Good luck!” Matsukawa calls after you, merely grinning when Iwaizumi shoots him an irritated stare.

“Not gonna wish the love of your life a good game?” Hanamaki questions, already beginning to walk off while smirking into his water bottle as his dark-haired friend merely scoffs. The teasing from his trio of “friends” wasn’t anything new.

“I don’t think that thing is capable of loving.”

“Yeah yeah, you love her, we get it.”

Iwaizumi groaned inwardly, sitting down tiredly on the bleachers to rest up as your team littered your side of the net. His jaw clenched when you offered him a lazy wave, kneeling slightly in your position as a libero.

There were many things Iwaizumi had could say about your character or even the irritating smile on your lips at his blatant annoyance, but he couldn’t deny how well your team mixed. Oikawa whistled lowly as Hanamaki absently mentions to Matsukawa about how the other team hardly stood a chance.

Iwaizumi blinks, feeling a pit of annoyance in his gut as the boys in the stands whistled at every save you made, the pit deepening even further at the smile you cast in their direction.

“You’ll get frown marks Iwa-Chan!”

“Shut the hell-”

“Oh shit! Y/N!”

Iwaizumi’s head whips back in the direction of your match at the sound of Hanamaki’s exclamation just in time for the collision.

And then his breath caught in his breath so abruptly he almost choked.

You clutched your ankle, teeth biting so deep into your lip so hard Iwa swore he could see a bead of blood as you withheld an obvious wail of pain. Your teammate knelt by your side with a hand clamped over her mouth in shock, Iwa being able to make out from your teammates’ panic that someone had accidentally shoved you so hard to the side you swore you heard your ankle snap in an attempt to stabilize yourself.

“Y/N-chan!”

“Is she okay?”

But Iwa wasn’t listening, all distaste for you seeming to drown out of his system as he wondered,

wondered why the hell he cared so much about the girl who tried her hardest to get under his skin. Your witty retorts, your wide grin, the softness of your irises, and the pang in his chest every time you jokingly bumped your shoulder against his in passing-

that same girl who’s cheeks were now shining with spilled tears causing him to rise to his feet.

“Oi Iwaizumi, where are you going?”

He didn’t spare a glance to your teammates as they silently made way for the wide-shouldered spiker, dark eyes assessing the damage as he bent down, swooping you up into his arms as if you hadn’t weighed a thing. He ignored the stares and wolf whistles from his team as he hurried out of the gym and in the direction of the infirmary towards the specialists who were trained for these events, heart tugging at the sound of your whimpers.

“I’ve had dreams about this.” You mumble, eyes clenched shut as tears built up on your closed eyelids, arms wrapping around his neck tighter as you buried your face in his neck. “Please be hot, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“You’re still joking at a time like this?” Iwa’s voice cracks at the proximity, wondering why on earth his chest was pounding in his ears as your eyes shot open. Immediately, you begin to squirm, your face heating up as Iwaizumi continues his hurried stride, barely sparing you a glance.

“You’re taking me?”

“No.”

“Don’t be sarcastic with me!”

Iwaizumi leans his head in the opposite direction, away from the volume of your voice, but he couldn’t stop the slight tilt of amusement on the right side of his lips as you seemed distracted by the obvious pain in your ankle. Mission successful.

He ignores your protests to set you down, frowning at your claims to wanting anyone else to have taken you. Even the brunette one.

“See, now that’s just plain insulting.” Iwa’s eyes narrow at you as he finally sets you down on one of the cots, about to walk off to find the doctor before a hand weakly tugs at the bottom of his jersey.

“....I think they’ll come soon. Can you...just stay? Just until they come?”

Iwaizumi blinked. Then blinked again.

Iwaizumi clears his throat, recovering from his shock before pulling up a stool and grabbing a nearby first aid kit. He tilted your chin up with his fingers, his gentle touch causing your cheeks to flare up as your eyes took on a vulnerable edge.

“Why do you hate me so much?” It was genuine curiosity, anything to alleviate the strange heaviness in his chest when he acknowledged that fact that you despised him so.

Your eyes widen at the sudden attack, wincing a little as the cotton pad dabs at your lips, soaked in alcohol. “Why do you?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Oh-”

“I just think you’re annoying as hell.”

“Well I think that not a single thought goes on behind those pretty eyes.”

“So you think my eyes are pretty?”

The silence is heavy as you shake your head no quickly, causing Iwa to click his tongue and scold you to stay still as he keeps his eyes trained on your-

oh god he’s looking at your lips.

“Yes.” You’re almost whispering, shyly avoiding his widened gaze as you lean away from him.

He stumbles over his words at your direct response, unprepared for the way in which you lean a little further back, eyes nervous and not at all the sarcastic gleam he knows as he swallows back the lump in his throat.

“Well,” and then his hand is cupping the side of your face as he tugs you closer, confusion swirling in his head as his heart surges him forward, practically mumbling against your lips in a daze before he could stop himself.

“I think you’re prettier.”

He wanted to smirk at how he could practically see smoke puff out of your head.

“Even if you hate me?”

“I’m honestly not sure I ever did.”

The distance is closed by you, a hand coming up to run your fingers through his dark locks as his thumb strokes your cheek, lips moving feverishly together as you attempt to pull back-

If he let you go, would you go back to hating one another?

only for him to kiss you back even harder as if he was satiating some sort of hunger, a smile growing on your lips before a shot of pain shoots through your leg, bringing you back to reality as you whine against his lips. Iwaizumi gasps, ignoring your giggles and assuring words that you’re fine, carefully laying you down on your back while elevating your ankle.

“Y/N.”

“First name basis? Look at us skipping all the necessary steps.” you tug your hair out of it’s knot, attempting to redo it with a hair tie between your lips as the pain in your ankle falls to a dull throb.

“What did....are we...?”

“Does the Iwaizumi Hajime want to know if we’re a thing or not?” Your smile has his cheeks flushing, stare becoming irritated.

“Oi. Nevermi-”

“Yes, idiot. Now run along and fetch my things, will you?”

He rolls his eyes at your playful wink, ensuring your injured ankle was positioned properly before beginning to exit the infirmary-

“And Iwa?”

“What is it, doll?”

Your chest leaps at the nickname, Iwaizumi beginning to smirk at the change in expression on your face before you clear your throat.

“Thank you.”

It was one of the most sincere things you had ever said to him.

Your unexpected boyfriend kissed you on the lips a second time after a few strides, any confusion within him seeming nonexistent as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The way you gazed up at him had his chest doing somersaults, wondering if you were both just denying the attraction you felt towards one another before fate took its turn.

“Nah, I should be thanking you.”

“For what?”

“Hurting your ankle-”

“Get out.”

Iwa’s feeling like an idiot with the lilt to his lips when the door slides shut and something hits the door where his head would have been, the slight smile fading back to his usual scowl at the sight before him.

His three friends had identical grins on their faces, Matsukawa holding a #1 fan balloon and Hanamaki decked out in merch from your school. He narrows his eyes at the bouquet of flowers tucked behind Oikawa’s back. All obviously from the themed store of the tournament.

Guess he didn’t need to worry about whether or not you would enjoy his idiotic friends’ company.

“So you're whipped. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Whatever.”

“Iwa, where are you going?”

“...to go get her things.”

“You so love her.”

“Shut the hell up and don’t enter her room until I get back.”

It was only when the dark-haired spiker turned the corner, looking behind and in front of him before his back hits a nearby wall as he attempts to calm his heartbeat, swearing he had never felt such a wild surge of energy through his veins as his lips tingled with the taste of you. He sighs, touching the hair tie that he stole from you when he kissed you a second time from within his pocket, wondering just when his hatred melted into the exact opposite.

He was so whipped.

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

General works: @takemetovalhalla @faesbae @savemesteeb @dreebbles @yams046 @let-me-have-my-own-name @deadontheinsidebut @lifeisntjustblackandwhite @curiouslilbeast @aprettyfruit @wisepandaslimeland @h0ngh0ngh0ng @lmkjimin @orangegiraffe7 @dai-tsukki-desu @kac-chowsballs @spikertrash @yamaguwuchi @lord-suneater-explosion @holaaaf @babyybokutoakaashi @lexysclubhouse @disneyloving-muggle @kuuuuroo @theonep1ece @that-chick212 @mjoork

Hi all! How are you lovelies doing? I’m going to be on here more often, thank you for 9k and your patience with me has helped me so much! This was one of my requests that I wanted to use to slide back into the swing of things, so I hope you enjoyed! <3

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elysianslove · 3 years

Text

poly relationship with megumi and yuuji

requested by anon; poly relationship headcanons with megumi, reader, and yuuji, exploring how their relationship works and the dynamic between them, romantically as well as sexually.

pairings; fushiguro megumi x reader x itadori yuuji

genre; fluff, smut

warnings; mentions of nsfw (poly nsfw, threesomes, some dom/sub themes, etc)

note; megumi and yuuji are both aged up here!

there are many different routes to go with this, like being in a relationship with one of them first and then exploring the possibility of including a third party, but i’m gonna go with the one where you three just decide to date

how it happens: it was very obvious yuuji liked you, and even more painfully obvious megumi liked you. yuuji went out of his way to constantly show it, greeting you with a louder voice than others, hugging you tighter, buying anything that reminded him of you and then gifting it to you, inviting you out in the middle of the night for a food run. with megumi, though, it was a lot more subtle. it’s in the small glances he’d gift you, the smile he’d offer only to you, the blush of his cheeks any time your name is mentioned, your closet drowning in his oversized clothes he’d let you borrow. and while you didn’t really catch on until after a while, they recognized their feelings for you in each other

and so they planned to confess. each had a bouquet of flowers, both your favorites and lumps in their throats. yuuji looked like he was about to shit himself, and megumi looked like he’d seen a ghost. it was, to put it simply, hilarious.

by the time they came to confess, you’d put two and two together, but seeing them gave you a huge reality check. they confessed, yada yada, and before you knew it, when they’d asked, “which one of us?” you said, “both.” it was a no-brainer type of question, one where your mouth moved before your mind could properly process.

you and megumi were both like ??? at your response but yuuji straight up went “aight both it is” completely unfazed.

at first, it actually goes a lot better than you’d expected? they’re both a little shy and it is a foreign thing for both of them, so they just tread lightly. neither of them make a move to kiss you for a really long time, so at the beginning it’s just dates upon dates, some physical shows of affection like hugging and cuddling.

when you kiss, it’s like a band snaps. you’re sitting with them on your living room couch, sandwiched between them as a movie plays on the tv screen. you’re holding onto each of their hands, with yuuji’s head on your shoulder. it’s one of those days where neither of them are really thinking about the dynamic, just reveling in being with you. you’re not sure where the urge or the courage came from, but slowly, you mutter, “can i kiss you two?”

yuuji immediately sits up and faces you, eyes a little excited, and although megumi stares ahead, his hand in yours tightens.

“you really wanna kiss me?” yuuji asks, and megumi has to correct him and say, “us.”

since yuuji seemed more comfortable with the idea, you kiss him first. he feels just as excited as he seems, and he kisses you passionately, as if making up for the past few months. it leaves you breathless when you pull back and turn to megumi to kiss him next. the other boy is already breathless from anticipation, and when you kiss him, it’s a stark difference to yuuji’s kiss. where yuuji’s felt feverish and intoxicating, megumi’s is serene and dizzying. his lips move incredibly slow against yours, allowing you to breathe him in as properly as you can.

as soon as you pull back, megumi’s saying, in a low, sultry voice, “again,” pulling you in for another kiss where you can hear yuuji’s loud whine of “no fair!” as he latches onto you from behind.

your dynamic with the two strengthens insanely after that. there’s no air of nervousness or tension between you three. the relationship flows a lot better than it did before.

generally, there isn’t much jealousy between the two boys. unless it’s harmless teasing and playful jokes, they don’t fight for your attention. when one is more available than the other, they don’t really hold a grudge about it either. but they won’t like it if you go on a date specifically with one of them only, unless they were busy you know? like the three of you are dating, so inclusion is necessary.

speaking of, you once asked if this relationship meant that yuuji and megumi are dating too, technically. at first, they both shook their heads and were like absolutely not we just both happen to be dating you. but in the heat of the moment, once, while in a heavy make out session with you with their brains all fuzzy, they kissed. and they liked it. but they never spoke about it since, even though you like to bring it up any time one of them even considers teasing you

yuuji is all about loud actions. he is the one you go to when your day has been a little too bad, and all you want is someone to hold you. he gives 10/10 hugs.

megumi is all about subtle actions. he is the one you go to when you need someone to listen to you vent, even though he doesn’t give that good of advice. neither of them do tbh. but megumi’s an amazing listener than likes to hold your hand throughout and give you a proud kiss on the forehead after.

okay nsfw time 😼

the requester asked for something specific, but before i get into that, imma talk general

at first, they didn’t really know how to go about it, so they just took turns with you? if that makes sense? they’d alternate between who goes first each time. but then the flow started to get a little less messy, and they were both a lot more comfortable with being with you at the same time, paying attention to all of you, you know?

yuuji loves, loves, loves to go down on you, and while his face is buried between your thighs, megumi’s paying the upmost attention to your breasts, fondling and licking and sucking and biting.

it used to be weird to be together while you pleasured them both, but then they got accustomed to it, even to the point that the thought of it aroused them. it didn’t matter who’s fucking which hole to them, since they didn’t have a preference really. and a lot of the times, you’ll suck them both off at the same time, and it’ll be really lewd and really messy and obscene and it used to be a big deal but not anymore, not when you looked this pretty with your mouth stuffed with one dick and face caressed by the other dick.

okay so the specific thing: sub yuuji. both you and megumi absolutely adore ruining him. it’s a balance between overstimulating him and edging him. you love overstimulating him to the point of tears and dry orgasms, where he has nothing left to give but you keep going, and going and going. it’s such a pretty look on him, with his chest flushed and his abs taut ad rolling, his thighs and arms twitching and endless sobs leaving his lips, a stream of fat tears rolling down his pink cheeks. megumi, on the other hand, loves edging him, tying him up and restraining him so he can’t move, can’t touch, can’t flinch away, and edges him until his dick is leaking an insane amount of precum, until he looks like he’s on the verge of passing out, until he’s flinching away from any touch because it’s outright painful. and when he cums, oh god, with your mouth latched onto his nipple, biting roughly, and your hand in his hair, megumi’s hand relentless on his dick, he’s the most beautiful, with his hips shooting up and pain filled screams echoing around the room. he cums, and cums, and cums, and you don’t think he’s cum this much or this hard before. megumi has such a sadistic, gleaming look in his eyes, and it excites you to your core.

doesn’t mean they don’t like to play with you too, and that you and yuuji don’t have your fun with megumi as well. but essentially, after discovering just how good of a sub yuuji is, it’s impossible to not want to explore it more.

okay nsfw’s over

they love being all cuddled up with you in bed, and 9 times out of ten, if you’re not it, megumi’s the small spoon. he loves to lay his head on your chest with your hands cupping his head and threading through his hair. and he won’t admit it, but the feel of yuuji’s sturdy chest and strong arms around him from behind is really comforting.

sometimes yuuji’s the small spoon too! but he usually forces his way in between you and megumi tbh

when you’re the small spoon, you’re drowned in their figures. just sandwiched between them. on cloud nine. in heaven. the absolute dream

so yeah! being with the two of them is both really fun and filled with really serene, loving moments. they know how to love you with their all, and you’re the happiest you’ve ever been

end note; despite that being really long i feel like i missed a lot idk why. but i really, really hope that the requester and everyone else enjoyed this!! love you all <33

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen headcanon #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk headcanons #itadori yuuji x reader #yuuji headcanons #itadori yuuji smut #megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi smut #fushiguro smut #fushiguro x reader #itadori x reader x fushiguro #yuuji x reader x megumi #poly relationship #jjk poly

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luimagines · 3 years

Note

oooh i have an idea, how would dear reader reacts to the chain's secrets? they could be canon like wolfie being twi, or something you headcanon!

Masterlist

I procrastinated on this one admittedly because I had no idea where to take it but after writing out a list and appointing a secret to each boy. I have it done.

Some things are definitely headcanons.

Part one will include Hyrule, Sky, Warrior, Four and Wild.

Content under the cut!

Hyrule

The battle wasn’t necessarily hard to deal with- the monsters weren’t difficult to deal with and there weren’t a lot of them to begin with.

You slashed, dashed and kicked every enemy away from you and watched as they fell to your blade. Every new step revealed a new purple cloud as you danced around the battle field.

You saw Wild and Twilight fighting back to back with practiced ease and handling it as well as you were. Warrior and Sky was side by side closer to Time and Legend than the rest of the group was and Four and Wind were up in the trees striking the enemy down at a distance and no doubt scheming something while the going was easy.

The only one you had no idea where he was, was Hyrule.

And that didn’t take a lot to dive into your brain and wriggle uncomfortably until your own insecure thoughts pushed you to go look for him.

Between the monsters and the land mines of purple smoke, it was a little difficult to find him.

But when you do- he does something you don’t fully understand at first.

You manage to run into him in a clearing, but he doesn’t notice you at first. Instead, you see him take his sword and run it through his palm. His blood coats the length of his blade, and it drips down his hand onto the grass below.

He watches the monsters in front of him and dances for a minute around them before he takes a breath and kills them effortlessly.

You frown and step toward him. “Why did you do that?”

Hyrule jumps higher than should be physically possible and doesn’t catch himself on the way down. He falls flat on his butt and looks up at you with wide and startled eyes.

“Are you ok?” You kneels next to him and go to take his injured hand. “What on earth were you trying to do?

Hyrule jerks his hand back like you’ve burned him and you see the magic flow through the air around his wound- closing it like it never happened.

“Link?” You frown again and slowly place your hand in your lap. You’re confused and a little afraid for him. You know that blood magic is taboo for a reason and is typically avoided more often than not because of its’s dark nature- but you never thought Hyrule of all people would dabble in it.

“I’m fine.”

“Link.” You stress a little more. “What were you trying to do? I didn’t think you were capable of blood magic... At least you don’t usually use those kind of spells. Is that why you fight on your own for a while each time?”

“I’m not using blood magic.” Hyrule frowns and stands abruptly.

“Then why-?”

“It’s not important.”

“Hyrule, you’re hurting yourself. I’d say that that’s pretty important.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t make me get Time.” You threaten. “I’ll get Legend too. I bet they’ll get some answers out of you.”

“You won’t just drop it, will you?” He sneers

“Nope.” You stand and cross your arms. “What were you trying to do?”

“I was just checking something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like if a curse would work or something?”

Hyrule tenses and he crosses his arms- instantly looking away from you.

“WERE YOU ACTUALLY TRYING TO CAST A CURSE?!” You screech.

“THE CURSE WAS CAST ON ME!” He yells back.

You both still for a moment and wait for the forest to show any signs that others might have heard you.

The sounds of distant fighting continues and after a minute of waiting some more, no one shows up to check on either of you, so you’re safe.

You turn back to your companion and furrows your eyebrows. You lower your voice just above a whisper just in case someone might be on the way but now you need answers. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He scowls- a face you’re not used to seeing on him and throws his arms down his sides in anger. “Back home, Ganon cast a curse on me. The monsters need my blood in order to resurrect him and I can’t risk letting any monsters from my time getting to me. I need to check if the other monsters will follow suit.”

You blink, not expecting that answer but your anger flares up regardless. “So you go out on your own to check this curse because your blood is needed to resurrect hatred incarnate? What if you’re overpowered? What if they do react to it? How are we supposed to help you if you’re alone?”

“It’s my problem to deal with. I don’t need-”

“Shut up.” You scowl and grab him by the shoulders. You shake him roughly for as long as you speak. “We are your friends! We care about you! We don’t want to see you hurt! We’re going to help you! Whether you want it or not- we’re not to let you deal with this alone. Not while we’re here.”

“Stop shaking me.”

You let him go.

“I won’t tell the others because I know you wouldn’t like that.” You say. “But this stops today. You hear me? None of us are just going to let these freaks near you and this is not necessary while you have a whole team of heroes just as pissed about the situation as you are. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“How clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.”

Sky

Sky wakes up one day with a far away look in his eye which immediately puts you on edge.

Not only that but to make it worse, he doesn’t stop looking at you.

He looks scared.

Every five minutes you swear you catch him looking in your direction only to look away in haste when you look back at him.

No one is saying anything and it doesn’t help your paranoia.

With some people walking ahead you, you step back and take a spot next to Sky. You notice that he’s tense and walking robotically, and trying to match your pace. “Dude, what’s up? You’re freaking me out.”

Sky trips over himself and finally looks you in the eye. “What do you mean?”

“You woke up like you saw a ghost. You’ve been looking over to me every five minutes and even now you look like you want to sprint away from me. Did I do something?”

“I.. Ummm...” Sky stutters for a minute before swallowing whatever lump was in his throat. “I just had a dream... is all.... I’ll get over it.”

“I’m assuming it had something to do with me then.”

“No, not exactly.” Sky’s quick to speak even if you can see the beginning’s of sweat collect on his brow. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Want to talk about it?” You tilt your head. “It looks like it really shook you up.”

“Oh, um, I-”

“Maybe you died and Sky freaked out.” Legend pushes you forward and away from Sky. “He doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to.”

“Ok, my god, Legend slow down! Not everyone is as emotionally constipated as you! Talking about things is healthy and important!” You shout over your shoulder, trying to dig your heels into the dirt with little to no luck.

Legend seems a bit stronger right now that he usually is, you bet it’s his power bracelet.

If Sky actually looks a bit paler at Legend’s claim than neither of you notice.

The day passes a little calmer after that, Sky seeming to have calmed down enough to not be so weird and it something you’re quick to forget about.

By the time the afternoon hits, a bunch of dark and foreboding storm clouds roll in.

Somehow, Sky manages to find it in himself to walk next to you again and does his best to stay close.

You don’t mind it and even jokingly pull his sail cloth over your head when it begins to rain on your group. It’s not particularly strong and there’s not a lot of options to rest and take cover, so you bare with it. Sky lets you keep the sail cloth over your head surprisingly.

But then there’s thunder and you see lightning in the distance and bite your lip. “Maybe we should hunker down or something?”

The rain goes from gentle drops to a down pour within seconds and the group runs a bit to gain as much cover as you can in the nearby tree line.

Sky pushes himself in front of you and shoves you behind him with enough force that you’re fully knocked over. In one fluid motion he lifts the Master Sword skyward and charges the blade, tossing it away from the group in a glowing blue arc. It cuts through the grass and even splits the first tree it strikes in half before dissipated into the air.

You would have been struck by lightning if he didn’t do that.

“Sky?” You get up and try to wipe as much mud off of your pants as you can. “Are you ok? How did you know that would happen?”

Sky gulps and takes a deep breath as he looks at you with wide eyes and understanding. “I saw it in a dream.”

“Oh...” You gasp and reach out to him shakily, putting your hand on his shoulder. “You have dreams then?”

“Yes.” Sky looks at his sword and hesitantly puts it away. “Sometimes.”

“Ok then...” You nod and look around the group. They’re all in varying stages of shock, surprise and concern.

Everyone is looking at Sky.

“We need to get out of the storm.” You say in lieu of changing the topic. ” Who knows if there’s more lightning on the way and there’s a lot of metal within the group.“

“Right.” Time nods and does a not so subtle double take in his attempt to leave it be. “Let’s go.”

You nod back and nod once more to Sky and wrap your arm around his shoulder. you lead him forward and lean into his space to whisper into his ear. “Thanks.”

“I’m just glad I made in time.”

“We’ll talk later ok?” You smile in hopes of alleviating some of the tension. “I have some questions if you’re willing to indulge me.”

“I suppose it’s only fair.”

Warrior

“He’s a cute kid.” Warrior mentions randomly one day.

You startle and jump, nearly dropping the image. You scramble to catch it and successfully do so after playing hot potato with yourself.

“Warrior, a little warning please.” You sigh and attempt to clean your finger print smudges on the glass. “But yeah, my little brother is cute. I hope he stays that way.”

“I don’t think you have much to worry about.” Warrior shrugs. “He grows up to be a fine and upstanding young man. Good looks run in the family. ”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Thank you, I’m sure they do.”

Warrior comes to stand next to you and gently turns the glass over to see the image better.

“Warrior?”

“Hm?”

“Am I doing the right thing?” You sigh.

“What do you mean? I’d say you are. Sacrificing yourself for the good of a better tomorrow- for your family- for your loved ones- but that’s not what you’re talking about are you?” Warrior lets you take the image back.

“But he’s so young... and I’m supposed to take care of him.” You gulp. “I just want him to be safe and sound and healthy but I can’t really do that from- from... I’m here instead.“

“Well... no said it was going to be easy.” Warrior offers lamely.

“What if he grows up to hate me?” You clench the glass tighter at the thought. “I just abandoned him, didn’t I? Oh my god-”

“Hey. He loves you.” Warrior takes your shoulders in his hands and shakes you somewhat. “He admires you greatly. You’re his hero. He looks up to you even now. He’ll understand when the time comes.”

“Even now?” You sniff. “What does that mean?”

“Years have passed and he hasn’t stopped looking up to you and how you did everything you could for him, for Zelda and he’s trying to make you proud-”

“Warrior he’s five, how do you know this?”

His mouth shuts with a click of his teeth.

“Warrior.”

“Um... I... He...”

“Link.” You pocket the glass and face him head on. “When did you meet my brother?”

He stares at you for a moment and deflates. “During... during the war of my era.”

“...What?”

Warrior hisses and brings his hand to scratch the back of his neck. “He showed up around the same time that Wind did but he talked about you.... and I guess you talk to him about me because he wasn’t really surprised at what was happening.”

“How old was he?” You bite your lip, already dreading the news.

“Older than me actually.” He offers with a tight smile. “I never asked him but if I had to guess I would have put him in his mid twenties. The oldest Link to start his adventure compared to the rest of us...”

“But he still...” You deflate as well and hug your arms around yourself. “He still has to go doesn’t he? I can’t save him from it. Even now, I... I can’t- I fail him in the end then.”

“He doesn’t see it that way at all.” Warrior catches you before you fall to your knees in despair. “He admires everything you’ve done for him, everything you’re currently doing. You kept him from danger for as long as you could- until he was old enough to take on his destiny. That’s more than any of us could say.”

“I don’t want him to go through any of it though.” You sob and lean into Warrior for support. “That’s my baby brother Warrior- how am I supposed to be ok with this?”

“I don’t think there is a way.” He admits. “Nor do I think you should be.”

“I can’t keep him from it.”

“But you can and have been postponing it.” Warrior rubs circles into your shoulder as you cry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you even more.”

“I miss him.”

“You’ll see him again.” Warrior grips you tightly. “He also did very well all things considered. He became an older brother to me and to Sprite and Wind... I don’t think Wind has figured it out yet that your brother and Lucky are the same Link though.”

You sniffle and calm down slightly. “Was he awesome?”

A laugh is startled out of him and he chokes on the snort and cough that tries to leave him at the same time. “I’d say he was better than me... And he claims to have never held a sword until then.”

“Good.” You nod. “He’s the best brother in the whole world.”

“Yeah, he was.”

Four

You’re walking on a random trail as the day dies down and you’re partner is Four for the hour.

The sun rests behind you comfortably and you talk about the different weapons from each others Hyrule. You’re no smith- but you do think it’s an interesting process and try to take notes where you can.

As you trade your notes and laugh at the more ridiculous stories from one another, you look down and notice something weird with Four’s shadow.

It almost looked like it was laughing along too... in the opposite direction that Four was looking in. But you blink and it’s as if it never there.

Maybe you’re tired.

You have been walking all day and perhaps it was a trick of the light.

You don’t think on it too much and go back to talking with your friend.

Hours later-you’d think that it would be the end of it but it isn’t.

In fact, you can’t sleep. And the way it moved was different than it should have been and the more you look into the memory there more obscurities than there should be. Not to mention that Four gets weird around shadows or whenever they are mentioned.

You stare up at the star filled sky as you think about the incident.

“I’m telling you I think they saw me.” A new voice says.

You’re thrust into the moment and attune your hearing to the direction it came from.

“I think you’re thinking too much into it. How could they have seen you?” It’s Four.

You close your eyes and roll over in the same direction, pretending to still be asleep.

The voices take a minute to pick up again when you do that.

They were watching you.

“They stared at me for a solid minute- how did you miss that?” New voices hisses.

“They were laughing-”

“You were laughing, you love sick fool. They looked at me. They saw me. I’m going to blow the secret and you’re not even listening to my warning.”

Your eyes snap open and you push yourself up as quickly as you can.

You instantly spot Four sitting by the fire, but you’re not surprised by that. What really takes your attention is the new person next to him- who looks uncannily like your friend.

But with purple hair...

And red eyes...

And darker skin...

“Four what the hell?” You blurt.

Four responds quickly and as intelligently as he can manage. “Uhhhh...”

The person next to him curses and runs a hand through his hair. “I told you. I told you. I told you.”

You lock eyes with the new guy and introduce yourself.

He huffs and crosses his arms, his face darkening slightly- or again- maybe it was a trick of the light. “I’m Four’s shadow.”

“His... shadow...?”

“Yes. That’s what I said.”

You nod, wide eyed before turning to Four with a million questions in your eyes. He can see it and holds his hand up to his mouth, pressing his knuckles harshly against his teeth as he waits for them to start flowing out of your mouth.

“Love sick fool?”

“Shadow you snitch!” Four screeches and takes a swing at him.

His cry is loud enough rouse some of the others but only really wakes up two of them. You stare tensely as Time and Legend sit up fast enough to nearly throw themselves into the fire as they turn to Four.

“Sorry.” You whisper yell to save his honor.

Shadow is nowhere to be found.

Time and Legend turn to you as the only other one awake and each raise an eyebrow in tandem.

“Ni-nightmare. I yelled. I’m sorry.” You try to act like you just woke up as well and try to hunker down into your blankets.

Time sighs and wipes his eyes. “You ok?”

“I will be.” You try to smile but you’re too nervous and it comes out more forced than it should- but perhaps that helps you sell your little fib.

Legend for his part glares at you before he sits down with a solid thump and throws himself dramatically back into his bedroll.

No words are exchanged between you two.

“Everything alright Four?” Time yawns as he also begins to lie down again.

“Yeah. All good here.” Four laugh nervously and waves him away.

Time nods, no longer paying attention and slowly... nearly half an hour later, you see that the two of them have fallen asleep again. Thankfully neither of them seem to realize that it didn’t sound like your voice at all.

Shadow appears again from somewhere and takes his spot next to Four. “Nice going.”

“Shut up.”

“Four, I have questions.” You sit up and make your way over to the two of them.

Shadow raises an eyebrow. “What’s there to explain?”

“Everything?”

“Ok. Ok. Both of you, don’t start. You caught us fair and square. Sit down.” Four sighs and gestures to the other spot next to him. “It’ll take a while.”

“Done.” You grin and nearly run over a sleeping Sky in the process. “Tell me everything.”

Wild

“Has anyone seen Mr. Champion?” You glance up after doing a supply check through your bag. You’re running a little low on rations and know the resident cook usually has some to spare.

But you haven’t seen him in a while.

“Didn’t he go to get fire wood?” Wind tilts his head.

“Wasn’t that at least an hour ago?” You respond, furrowing your eyebrows as you think about it more. Where did Wild go?

“He hasn’t come back yet?” Warrior sits up straighter. Now the rest of the group is a little more aware of their missing member and each start subconsciously checking the tree line as if he were about to come back that very second.

“I can go look for him.” You offer, standing up. “Maybe he got distracted. We are in a new area.”

“Oh great, he could be miles away and we’d never know.” Legend groans and throws his head back. “Just what we needed.”

“Have a little faith Vet.” You snort. With a quick jump and skip over the supplies, you begin to leave the camp behind. “Try calling him Wind, I’ll see if I can go find our missing chef before dinner.”

“Please do.” Time nods. “We’ll start a full search party if you’re not back within the next hour though. It’s getting too dark.”

“Noted.”

“I could find him faster.” You hear Twilight say but you’re already too far away to back down now.

Truthfully, you have no idea where to start- but you imagine that to find Wild- one must think like Wild.

You pick a direction and stick with it.

At some point maybe fifteen minutes in you reach a small creek and begin to follow to stream upwards.

It’s really more like you’re taking a hike than searching for your friend and you begin to feel a little stupid even if realistically there’s no other way for this to be done.

That is- until you see him anyway.

He’s seems to be frozen in place, staring off into the distance with his hands still held mid air, gripping the canteen he appears to have been filling up.

It confuses you and you stand there staring at him to move- to blink- to do something. But he doesn’t. “Wild?”

No response.

“Champion?” You call a little louder and begin to tip toe a little closer to him. You’re afraid that even the slightest snapping of a twig would break whatever spell he’s under and you don’t fancy a violent reaction out the man who can easily blow the whole area up with little to nothing.

But still no response.

“Link!” You hiss and eventually reach his side. He hasn’t once turned in your direction or even acknowledged your presence and you begin to doubt that he’s even conscious.

His eyes are open and he’s knelt beside the creek but maybe he got hit with some magic or something- you don’t know.

You gulp and place a hand on his shoulder. You shake him lightly but when that also proves to not do anything you begin to shake him more and more until you nearly throw him over-but he does not react at all.

“Oh boy... What on earth happened to you?” You bite you lip and begin to look around. He’s too heavy for you to carry on your own and also too far away to yell for help or assistance.

You should have dragged Twilight with you.

Suddenly he takes a deep breath and blinks rapidly, shaking himself back into the present.

You freeze and tense up considerably as you watch him come back to himself.

Wild stretches and looks up at the sky before standing up. “Twilight’s not going to like this.”

“No. I don’t think so.” You reply.

He freezes as well and looks at you by only shifting his eyes. “How long were you here for?”

“A while...” You admit. “Maybe fifteen minutes. You were gone for over an hour. I got worried.”

“Oh. That’s not so bad then.”

“You ok?” You gulp and slowly drop your shoulders from your ears and unclench your fists.

“Yup. Peachy.”

You nod and continue to lower your guard- not trusting this one bit. “May I ask what that was?”

“Just a memory.” He shrugs and tries to walk past you.

“A memory?” You frown and turn on your heel to follow him. “A memory? I shook you head enough to nearly throw you into the water and you claim it was because of a flashback? I’ve heard of disassociation before but I think this is more like astral projection through dimensions. You were completely gone!”

“It happens from time to time. Nothing to worry about.”

“What if something came up behind you and killed you?” You argue. “I’d say that’s something to worry about. Does this happen often?”

“Everyone once in a while. Maybe once every other month. It depends really. It doesn’t happen as often as it did in the beginning though.” Wild admits and gestures for you to follow him.

You do- but you keep asking him questions.

“So this is normal?”

“For me? Yes.”

“For you?”

“I...” Wild hisses slightly as another thought comes to his mind. “I never told you did I?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about but I’m going to assume that no, you didn’t.”

“I get memories from my old life from time to time when something triggers them. I used to have amnesia but I’ve got most of the my memories back at this point... By now it’s just filling in little blanks.” Wild shrugs. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh...” Understanding calms you somewhat. At least it’s not a magic spell or anything. “How did you get amnesia? Do you remember that?”

Wild stops in his tracks and looks at the ground momentarily before looking up again and walking forward. “I died.”

“I’m sorry what?”

“I died.”

“Huh?”

“I. Died.”

“WILD!” You tense up again and follow him without hesitation. “What do you mean you died? Did you heart just stop or were you like blow up or something- Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I’m being super insensitive right now, aren’t I? But I don’t understand! I don’t- Wild- Link- you can’t just drop a bomb like that. Are you like a ghost or something? No. Wait. You can bleed and I’ve seen you crash into more walls and rocks than I care to admit.”

“This isn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting.” Wild frowns and cuts you off.

“ArE YOu oK?!”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“But that’s not what I mean- How can that even make sense-”

“Where did you think I got my scars from?” Wild cuts you off once more with a barely restrained snort as he bites his lip.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m fine I promise.”

“Wild nooo....” You whine and Wild thinks for a minute that the information upset you so much that you’re going to cry. “Who did it? I’ll kill them with my bare hands. Who hurt you?”

Wild comes to a full stop again and sighs. Deep and tired but he tilts his head and offers you his hand. “Do you want the short story or the long?”

“Long story please.”

For the first time since this conversation started, Wild smiles even if it’s faint and subtle. “Alright, let’s take the scenic route back. This might take a while.”

Part 2

#linked universe x reader #linkeduniverse #linked universe #is my personal plot line growing #maybe #maybe not #those you have been following for a while will take Warrior's call back for what it is #can't fully break away from god given duties can you?#Link is no exception #also #Apparently Sky gets prophetic dreams #i've never played skyward sword #but I've been meaning to get it for the Switch #so soon!!#Maybe Sky will be easier to write after I play it

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lustbile · 3 years

Text

The Journal

TenxReader

Word Count: 7.3k+

Summary/Warnings: Smut with plot, semi public, a lot of biting, mentions of supernatural and just general weirdness, and small amount of blood play

Apart of the Club X series: Masterlist (can be read alone or within the series, but unlike others it might just be the slightest amount confusing)

“So that’s what you’re into now,” your best friend’s voice is bored and distant, her task of wiping down the bar that stretched out in front of her taking a majority of her attention away from the babbling you’ve tried to subject her to since you entered the empty restaurant only about 20 minutes before, “weird demon sex clubs?”

—

“Ah ah, I never said they were demons,” you correct quickly, the thought of defending yourself never crossing your mind as you petulantly slap your hands against the polished wood, “I just said it was…. weird.”

“Weird is an understatement,” she scoffs quietly as she turns to dip her dirtied rag back into the bleach water and ring it out, “I mean look, I’ve always been supportive in the witchy stuff you’ve been into but this…. is a bit much.”

“I don’t see how this is any different than any other thing I’ve read into.”

“Oh you don’t see?” you finally manage to pull her attention towards you as she harshly slaps the rag back onto the wood with a stern glare pulled on her pretty features, “you’re talking about vulnerability and abandoned warehouses and public sex. That last one is definitely new.”

You fully expected this type of response, only hoping she’d be busy enough that you would dodge the motherly scolding she liked to give you when you pitched your schemes to her with your eyes wild and wide, but nevertheless, she was completely right.

It came from an old book, tattered and torn from being flipped through one too many times, that you found at your favorite antique store. The store itself was already notorious with your tight inner circle of friends as the creepy shop that was corrupting your brain, a constant taunt being that the little old woman that ran it was the actual devil and she was just waiting for the right time to jump you and eat you whole, but this did nothing to stop you from visiting at least once a week.

But the book, it was different from any other you had found. It was completely handwritten, including amazingly done sketches in a deep unfading ink, and spoke of outlandish things.

Some were easily brushed off, like a murder that happened in the 50’s that was known to stay in the mouths of the older folks, both to them and the book it was widely believed to be the doing of some long tongued and wild eyed creature, until a local sweet old man admitted on his deathbed that it was instead his one crime of passion.

He had been a young soldier that snuck into his lover’s room one night, and upon learning that she was to marry a nice lawyer the day after he was meant to deploy, his mind went blank and his hands were carving out her heart. He luckily escaped any questioning after being shipped off, and once he returned home he captured the heart of a pretty young girl and lived out a long life sitting on top of a horrid truth.

So yeah, stories of those sorts, having been solved in your lifetime, meant very little to you, but the one you were going on about now, meant the world.

The writing looked like it had been put down by a panicked chicken rather than the woman who’s name was written neatly in the front. It lived in some of the pages towards the back of the small book and spoke of a dark club. Club X.

She went on and on about stumbling across the club purely by accident, and meeting another woman with glittering eyes. Graphic details of being taken in the middle of the dance floor with a million eyes looking but not fully seeing her as she fell apart against a dancing and eager tongue made your heart thump lodged in your throat. But the more and more she visited the club, the more incoherent her words became, but towards the end the writing had become stained and obscured by a deep brown stain, before it stopped altogether.

Thankfully, the details of where the building was was completely visible regardless of being the thoughts of a mad woman, and with a lot of thinking and staring at the town map, you’ve come to believe that you knew exactly where the mysterious club stood.

Only a street down from the restaurant you sit in now.

“Listen, I know it sounds ridiculous, and it probably is, but what’s the problem with just going to check right?” you scramble to pull the delicate book from the bag that sits in the stool beside you as your friend moves closer and closer to where you sit, laying it flat to show her the page you’ve had bookmarked since you read it, “and look at the name she puts, I think it’s the man who ran it and it’s a long shot, but maybe he’s still alive, or if not maybe some family is! Right here, Asm-“

“Don’t say it again,” she’s quick to interrupt, sliding her free hand to hover above the page you’ve glued your eyes to, “I don’t wanna hear any old man names, especially that one it gives me the ick.”

“It’s just a name,” murmur to yourself, but move to put the book away regardless, “but anyways, I have something that most people who were going to the club didn’t, knowledge of what exactly I’m walking into. I can just go and look around, worst things worst its still a freaky sex club and I just go home, but I’m willing to bet this lady was just off the shits and its just an empty building with some funky vintage beer bottles that you can add to your collection.”

You feel like you’ve won an award you weren’t even trying to compete for when she finally breaks out into a soft smile. The huff that leaves her chest is endeared, and you swear your heart began to vibrate when she reached to run a gentle thumb across the swell from your cheekbone.

“Fine, do what you want, but if the bottle isn’t completely intact when you find it I don’t want it.”

“So you’re not coming with me?” your head tilts to the side in confusion as with things of this nature in the past, she’s always followed along to ensure that you didn’t do anything to stupid. You never felt like the company was fully necessary, but it was appreciated regardless.

“Baby, as much as I’ve enjoyed your info dumping you’ve done tonight, the other person that was meant to clean with me had to leave early with a stomach bug so I’m busy pulling a clean up job that’s truly a job for about five people. But you seem to really believe in this little adventure of yours,” she leaves the rag in a damp mass next to the stack of dirty glasses beside you to take your hands in her’s, her slightly wrinkled fingers are still warm and the way they lace with yours makes you feel like nothing in the world could hurt you, “besides, you’re as smart as a whip and I know you have me on speed dial. I trust you.”

——

You no longer love the feeling of being trusted.

When your friend had given you the heartfelt speech only a little over half an hour ago, you felt like you had been put on a nice pedestal before she handed you a cookie with a pat on the head.

Now the “cookie” had turned to rot in your belly and you were faced with your own perfectly dreamed up reality.

It was already late by the time you had walked into the restaurant your friend works at, the sun already setting and the last few customers gathering their things and paying the bills, so once you got her stamp of approval and we’re heading out the door, the only light left was a bright and full moon, and flickering street lights.

You took your time walking in the direction that your book and personal sleuthing had pointed you in, the closer and closer you got to the one warehouse in town that seemed to never be bought back from the city, the knots in your belly pulled tighter and tighter.

But regardless of the almost painful twist in your gut, you surprisingly almost missed the building in its entirety.

It was as if your entire being blocked out the thumping bass that shook the sidewalk and the blinding red light that spilled from beneath the entrance and out the fractured windows. Your brain trying to force itself from entering the building you spent so many weeks trying to locate.

But the way your heart thuds in your chest when you stand in front of the entrance is something you couldn't even pretend you didn’t feel.

Your tongue digs into the side of your jaw, and you're confused at the feeling of warm tears burning at your waterlines. It’s exactly the way the owner of the journal described it in her manic writings, weirdly exact considering the other stories that surrounded it that dated it back far before you were even born.

You want to go in, the shaking steps your legs take is evident to that, but the tense muscles of your shoulders and stomach makes you hesitate and even grumble out into the air.

You almost jump out of your skin when you hear a shuffling to your side, your throat tensing when you look over, and are put slightly at ease when you see two men who you assume are acting as some type of security. You almost expect them to look up and ask you for some type of ID when you’re being very weird and blatant about your presence, but they seem too preoccupied with the dim screens of their phones and the way they lean forward at different times as if they’re waiting for someone.

Your hands are shaking slightly as they scramble down to grab for your bag, desperately looking for something to occupy you to walk by them without being even more weird, and when your fingers wrap around the flaking leather that binds the book, you grab it like a lifeline.

Your fingers flip through the pages with perfect muscle memory as you trip up the few steps that lead to the door, the tabs you carefully placed on the first page mentioning the club not even necessary with the way you could find the page even in your sleep.

You subconsciously hold your breath when you walk past the two men, almost as if the book is instead something wildly illegal and you're trying to sneak past your parents, and your washed with a temporary wave of relief when you pass through the doors without even a glance from the two.

Though the relief is stolen from your bones the second your feet touch the floor of the club.

It’s as if you’ve entered a place you’ve known your whole life, and from the amazing descriptions from the woman in the past, its not a completely surprising feeling.

But another part of you feels like this is the first time you’ve seen human beings in the flesh.

You can't help but to feel like you must look like an absolute nerd as you pull the book up to your face as you start to survey the club, but thankfully the book told at least one truth, and many of the club goers are too busy grouping and grinding against one another to even acknowledge your existence.

More truths come to light as you flick your eyes between the pages and the walls.

The bar is still tucked in the same far corner as she described, the flittering red and blue lights making it feel like a beacon of calm regardless of it being surrounded by drunken forms and its intimidatingly pretty bartender.

The dj is just a stoic and unimpressed looking as the one from so many years ago as he subconsciously bobs to the beat that he creates as he messes with the nobs and switches in front of him. He’s actually so similar, you wonder if you were right and the owner did have family floating around, and maybe the dj is one of them.

You stumble further into the room as you pick out small details she wrote about so lovingly. Your legs carry you to the back of the building as you smile at the sight of the wine stain the writer claimed to have created when her lover shocked her with a playful bite to the neck.

You almost feel like the universe is gifting you everything you could have possibly asked for when you see the loose board that she said a friend of hers would always trip over, and electricity zips up your spine in excitement when you spots the large painting that still hangs over the booth she claimed as her favorite, and she meticulously sketched out next to a paragraph about what she thought the artist was feeling.

All these things though, lead to the things that make your jaw hang slightly open.

The large balcony above you is larger than you ever imagined. The hundreds of bright red carnations she loved to sketch drip from the golden bars like water, and the black velvet curtains that hang over the room it leads to look heavy enough that they suffocate someone if they fell.

She seemed so intensely in love with the place you stand in, and the woman she met there, and those emotions were more than evident from the way the recreated the energy of the club with her words and art. Which only tips you towards the part that caught your attention perhaps the most.

It was exactly where it was meant to be. Just below the balcony that hangs high on the wall, gaping wide and dark like the mouth of a hungry monster coaxing you to enter its throat. The only issue that you can see being the hanging rope that blocks you from entering, but with only shining bright clasps holding it onto hooks on the walls, you don’t think you're above sneaking past it with little guilt.

The hall was the one thing that taunted you the most about the story the woman spun in the little worn book. The empty and dark vass space being something that coaxed her as well, but unfortunately for you, and maybe her as well, the parts of her journal that began the tale of her passing the temping rope, was the exact spot that was stained with bleeding ink and a suspicious brown color.

You survey the space around you, looking for anyone that could possibly be a worker or just a stickler for the rules, but seeing as everyone in your range of vision was attached by the mouth on someone’s neck or sloppy lips, you figured you were in the clear.

You drop the book gently back into your bag before you step slowly forward. Your heart feels like a wild animal trying to break out of the cavity of your chest, and it feels like your intestines have been successfully replaced with writhing worms that are desperately trying to reach your gut. You feel heat traveling up your chest and neck, and as you get within a few feet of what feels like the end of your life, your body begins to shake.

If you had the ability, you would have screamed, and if you had the strength, you would have fought back. But right when you're about to reach the threshold of the hall, and right when you feel like your legs are about to collapse from underneath you, strong fingers clasp over your trembling mouth, and an arm wraps tightly around your waist.

You’re turned faster than you can blink, the sudden motion making your brain swirl in your skull and making you go lightheaded and dizzy. And while keeping their hand clasped tightly over your mouth, the person that cages you in slams your back into the cold wall and knocks the air from your lungs.

The eyes that meet you are cat-like and dancing wildly, the grin the man you're faced with now smiles at you wickedly, and when your hands dart up until your nails dig harshly into the skin of his forearms, his smile only widens.

“Now,” he starts, the remains of a chuckle shaking his chest and his words slightly, “what exactly are you up to?”

You wait for a moment for him to release you from his hold, and when after a minute or so he still hasn’t budged, all you can offer in response is an annoyed arched brow.

“What?” he has the audacity to ask with taunting sincerity, “you thought you were smart enough to go wandering around, so you should be smart enough to figure out a way to talk around my hand right?”

It’s with immense irritation that you realize the two possibilities you’re faced with.

From the book you know about the weird concept of soul mates or whatever they were meant to be. The woman and the mysterious dancing girl she met so many years ago, and similar stories from the friends she met during her many visits to the club who had almost identical tales that she had to recount.

So with that information you know the possibility of this grinning man being your person is high, but your person or not, he was lighting a fire in your chest regardless.

You don’t think or even weigh the negatives before you send him a hard glare, and you show very little hesitation when you push forward to sink your teeth into the first finger you can catch.

His yelp is covered by the blaring music, but you hear it loud and clear before he reaches his free hand up to pinch at the bridge of your nose to pull you off like a rabid kitten.

“You know what I’m up to,” you huff petulantly as you lean back into the wall with your arms folding over your chest, “or at least I’d assume you’d be smart enough to use your context clues right?”

His lip curls when he glances back up to you as he pets at his now bruising finger, but even with the thin veil of irritation on his pretty features, you can tell he enjoys the sarcastic tone you’ve adopted.

“Yeah you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he bites back as he steps closer, crowding your personal space and pushing his chest tightly against yours, “you’re lucky I’m who caught you and not boss man.”

“Boss man?” you ask, trying not to show you excitement over him spilling the treasured information about the club that you want so desperately.

He doesn’t answer you verbally, and the sly wink he throws at you shocks you more than you would like to admit, but when he tilts his head back quickly you don’t hesitate to follow his line of sight to the edge of the balcony.

If it weren’t for the thin wires of light that create hatching over his eyes and mouth, you probably would have missed the masked figure that leers at you from over the railing. His hands and shoulders are covered by the masses of flowers, and the hollow black where he hides his eyes stares down at you two with a look that you assume is annoyance and possible curiosity.

The moment you two look up, the figure jerks back. Your eyes flick quickly between him and the man in front of you, and from the bratty grin he wears as he looks up, you feel as if the masked man didn’t have any intention at being caught.

You get lost slightly in staring at the man pressed against you, his teeth that look sharper in the red lighting and his eyes twinkle in mischief, and even with the obnoxious start to your interaction, you’d be lying to say you don’t find him beautiful.

It takes you a second to regain your senses, tearing your eyes away from the fascinating side profile of the man, but when you glance back up to the balcony, the mask man has retreated back.

“He doesn’t like much when we take people back there before they’re ready,” he attempts at an explanation as he turns back to you, and seems unfazed when he misses the mark and just confuses you further, “he let the two goons outside have a little exception, but that's because they don’t know how to go easy y‘know.”

“No,” you shake your head at him with a quiet scoff, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you know more than you think,” his voice drops as he speaks now, and as he speaks he reaches out his hand to hold himself propped against the wall next to your head while his other hand moves to run gently up the side of your neck, “I mean, you know who I am at least right?”

“I have an idea,” you admit with a huff, but you also admit to yourself that this probably means you won't be getting into the hall. You do mentally jot that down as a loss, but decide to take the man pressed against you as a win and you reach to grab at his shirt in retaliation, “but you could at least give me a name to work with.”

“Hm, I didn’t expect you to be one for such formalities,” his head tilts in amusement at his own words, and the action nudges the tip of his nose into yours and makes your heart flutter up into your throat, “but you might as well know the name of the man you’ll be destined to fall in love with.”

You roll your eyes hard enough for them to start to ache, and he quietly laughs and moves to press his nose into the soft flesh of your cheek as he feeds off your annoyance.

“Ten,” he answers quietly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he moves to whisper the syllable in your ear, and you never thought that with just one word he’d have a shiver rushing up your spine.

You respond quietly with your name, but the word comes out strained and rushed when he begins to nibble on the lobe of your ear and pushes his knee harshly between your thighs.

Both your hands now hold tightly onto the sides of his shirt, and when his lips move to trail against the side of your neck that isn't enveloped by his hand, you tug roughly at the fabric and your back arches slightly away from the wall.

His tongue is hot when he lays it flat on the center of your throat, and when he swipes it up until it flicks against the end of your chin, you can't help but cringe slightly at the feeling regardless of the way it makes heat pool in between your thighs.

The wicked grin on his face never falters, it only grows wider and more hungry when your eyes meet again, and with his staring so deep that you fear he may be collecting every ounce of your soul, you two have a silent agreement on the unnatural waves of electricity that connect you.

When his lips finally land on yours, it's the roughest and clumsiest kiss you’ve experienced. Both of you fight each other with hungry and eager tongues and the way your teeth gently knock together has your skull rattling in a way that, if you weren’t so hell bent of devouring each other whole, you’d probably have to take a breather.

Your hands reluctantly release the wrinkled fabric of his shirt, and in a desperate attempt to stay occupied, they shoot up the tangle tightly into his hair. You admit, you probably tug harsher on the strands than you probably should, but the groans he pours into your mouth, and the way his hips rock roughly into yours, has you tugging again and again.

He presses you further and further into the wall, and without thinking your hips begin to kick and tilt down until you're grinding harshly and sloppily against his tense thigh.

You let out a quiet whine that's muffled and garbled by his moving at the feeling of him pressing his thumb gently into the dip beneath your jaw, and pressing into your jugular. The sound is followed almost immediately by a small yelp when he latches his teeth to your bottom lip and gives you a stinging bite.

You’re frustrated almost immediately with the lack of friction you can feel from the layers of clothing between you, and now the slight shooting pain from the tensing skin between his teeth, you can feel the impatience in your belly crawling up and invading your chest and throat.

He’s quick to pull away when you retaliate with your own nipping bite to his top lip, your teeth still sinking down when he does and making his sting probably just as much as yours. And when he eyes you as his eyelids droop down into an accusatory squint, you assume he’s not used to getting a taste of his own medicine.

He mutters something to himself about your feistiness, and a sly comment about how he shouldn’t be surprised as he was expecting to get a handful, but he gives you no time to make a snide comment or even question about any of the words, before his fingers are closing firmly but loosely around your neck.

He keeps you rooted in the spot that you stand, the only change in your posture he allows is pulling you slightly away from the wall, just wide enough for him to slink behind you and tug you roughly back into his chest.

“You like poking around into business that isn’t yours?” he asks rhetorically as his free hand reaches around your shoulder to push past the neckline of your shirt, and right as he pressed down the center of your chest and his fingers brush the bottom of your rib cage, his fingers curl and he starts to drag his blunt nails up your sternum as he continues, “need to know and see every single little thing right? So… what’s the harm of being on the other side of it for once?”

“What are you on about?” you as sharply as you try to turn your face towards him the best you can, but his hand tilts under the bottom of your chin until your head is forced to lean on his shoulder and he’s nothing but thrilled at the way it makes you struggle.

“To be seen, or not?” he presses his lips back against the shell of your ear, and the way he whispers roughly makes you shiver again as your thighs press tightly together, “you know what I mean, and you know the answer I want, but its all up to you in the end.”

The electric and slightly humiliating buzz of being seen in a mass of bodies committing the same sins as you was something the woman in the book went on about frequently. She mentioned that there were a few times where she and her lover snuck off to get alone time of course, but the almost blinding pleasure that came from being worshiped by not only one person, but the eyes of an entire room, was addictive. And you wanted just a taste.

You grumble in response, the idea of admitting to the already confident man that you did indeed wanted the same amount of attention as he did made your chest burn even more than it already was, and you’d rather take your chance with his terrifying looking boss than to give him the satisfaction of your verbal confession.

He seems unaffected by your nonverbal confirmation, the way you press into him as his hand wraps around your waist again and creeps down to the button of your shorts, and your own hand grabbing onto the sleeve of his rolled up long sleeve shirt to guide him to undo the clasp or just dip below the waistband, is enough of an answer for him to know.

He chooses to pop the button, and once he has the zipper pulled down enough that he can work with, he begins to shove the worn denim down your hips along with your underwear until they are wrapped around your knees and he can push his fingers roughly between your thighs.

You try to clear the fog that he creates in your mind from his teasing fingers long enough to reach your free hand back to give the same treatment to the dark jeans that wrap tightly around his hips and thighs in a way that had you mentally drooling from the moment you got to get a full look at him, after he ambushed you of course.

You’re not sure how he undid your shorts so quickly without being able to see, but as you fumble and scratch your nails against the sensitive skin of his hip, you give yourself the benefit of the doubt seeing as your trying to work while his middle and ring fingers tease over your entrance and the heel of his hand presses clumsily into your neglected clit.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t give you any benefit of the doubt. He at least has the decency to press his lips across your cheekbone and temple to muffle his quiet laughs, but to make your task even more difficult, his fingers shallowly curl up into you just enough to make you twist and curl.

Once the button of his jeans finally releases, you instinctively let out a huff and sink your shoulders back into his chest as you reach past the fabric to wrap your hand around his stiff length and pull it from the confines until you can press it against his lower belly. And you get just one tally on your side of the boards you’ve created in your mind when his amused laughs devolves into pleased grunts and tilting hips.

“Please,” you start quietly, trying to rock more against the parts of his hand that press against you while running your palm up and down the length of him and smearing him with his own pre come, “I can tell you’re just as impatient as me.”

He swears in your ear, using his hold on you with both hands to shift your hips up and pull you closer before he clears his throat to speak, “well could you imagine, looks like we are a match made in heaven.”

“More like hell,” you retaliate, digging the heel of your own palm into the skin just below the tip of him to egg him on even further, “but either way, that's the point isn't it?”

“I should have expected you to be just a little bit of a smart ass,” he mutters a half hearted complaint, but he only contradicts his own words when he pushes your hips away enough for you to guide him between your thighs and to glide against the arousal that spilled from your body and his hands spread messy along any available inch of skin.

He thrusts smoothly against your back a few times, bringing his arm down to guide him towards your entrance painfully slow, but when you let out a gravely moan of his name, he cant deny himself for any longer, and he’s sinking into you until your eyes start to gently flutter.

Once he’s seated inside you, his hand tenses slightly tighter around your neck, and when you both start pushing towards each other to meet in the middle of your thrusts, his other hand takes the opportunity to map any inch of you he can reach.

He gropes almost painfully at your chest, traveling over your stomach and up your shirt to dig his fingers into your skin until you swear he’s tattooed his finger prints onto you, all while nipping and lapping at the skin of your jaw and neck.

No one immediately in front of you is watching, they’re all in their own worlds of flesh and saliva, but you can still feel eyes of someone on you. His first and foremost as they burn holes into the side of your skull and glance to watch where you push back against him desperately, but there’s another feeling you get of being seen and studied thats so intense that you’re a little shocked when you chance a glance up and see that whoever the masked person was from earlier wasn’t there at all.

So no, you have no idea who, or what is watching you right now, but you can feel the unusual heat it stirs in you as your body flutters around him as he fucks you sloppily. You feel a deeper relation to the woman that owned the book that still rests in the bag that feel unceremoniously from your shoulder when he first put his hands on you, and you hope that maybe you’ll eventually slip into the life of bliss that she meticulously wrote about and possibly learn what happened that demolished the stories that lived in the back of the journal.

You could feel the pleasure crawling up your spine like a monster out creature, your panting breaths tipping the man that works you over off to this even though you’re sure he was already aware before you were, and you think your legs are back to the edge of collapsing when his creeping fingers dance along the expanse of your stomach to find their place back between your thighs.

Your back stiffens at the first touch of his rolling finger on your clit, and your head tilts even farther back onto his shoulder than he already had it. He doesn’t seem interested in coaxing you to your finish slowly, at a pace that would have mercy on your melting mind and shaking form, but he instead abuses your clit until your whimpering out and stumbling and stepping slightly on his toes.

You feel like you’re waiting out the suspense of a horror film that’s score is too obvious to the incoming jump scare. You tilt your neck in a way that seems normal to him, but in reality your trying to feel the many rings that decorate his fingers with the delicate skin of your throat to test if any of them could possibly be sharp enough to cut you and draw blood. You know what blood means to him, and you know it's something he’ll have to do soon if he truly can feel how close you are to the edge.

You feel like you’re floundering a bit, confused from the possible deviation from the story you’ve committed to memory. Was there any chance in this world that this wasn’t your person?

You push this thought away as soon as your panicked mind can construct it though, because there’s no way the spell that it feels has been placed on you would be there if that was the truth, and your body is heated almost like a furnace, but you suddenly love the idea of being burned by him.

You pull in a gasping breath of air that pierces through the music and grunting that rattles in your ears, the taste of your orgasms dancing on the back of your tongue and your back arching so harshly you fear that one of your muscles might seize up and cramp. And right when you feel his hips start to stutter in tandem with yours, and when you’re only seconds from blabbering out mixed syllables that you could only hope would come out as a coherent question, you feel it.

His teeth latch onto you again, his canines not sharp enough to make a clean cut as they dig into the muscle of your shoulder, but his determination is strong enough.

It burns painfully, and makes hot tears well up in your eyes, but almost embarrassingly, is the exact thing that pushes you scrambling over the edge.

You feel like it hurts to breathe, your lungs so focused on letting out puffs of air and broken moans that they can't seem to remember how to bring oxygen in, and your eyes roll for a completely new reason for the man and much more painfully.

It’s when you feel him start to suck the rushing blood from your newly christened wound that you also feel the rumble of his groans against your skin and feel him start to come inside of you. His fist tightens again around your neck as he pushes aftershocks through your nerves with his own orgasm, and with flying hands you grab at both of his wrists, not to ask in any way for him to ease up, but from a sudden wash and need to hold onto him possibly until you die.

He lets you collapse to the floor once he pulls out, but he follows your sinking form and sits alongside you and partially underneath you as you both try to catch your breath.

The club scene in front of you is now blurs of flashing lights and abstract writhing forms, and if it wasn’t for the zaps of energy you feel from every brush of his finger tips, your brain would probably be too muddled to register him fixing both your clothes and his.

You become just slightly more aware when he shifts your body against him enough to grab at the strap of your bag with the heel of his shoe, and you try to sit up faster than necessary and give yourself a small head rush when he pulls it to himself and flips it open.

“You seemed a little weirdly unaffected by the whole,” he flails his hands in front of you for a second as he speaks, and your lagging mind takes a second to catch up with his attempts at implication, “not the fucking part clearly,” he teases, “but the leading up to it. The meeting part and all.”

“I know what this place is,” you admit, and if your legs had gained just a bit more strength you probably would have stood and requested a glass of water just from how gravely your voice had become, “I knew I was probably going to run into you.”

“But you weren’t looking for me,” he tries, and fails, at hiding the slight edge of offense his voice shows, “if you knew I was here why didn’t you look for me?”

“I didn’t worry about it,” you say, warming up a bit again in the fear that it may have come off slightly rude, “or, like, I mean I knew you’d be able to find me easier than I could find you. I was more interested in finding answers.”

“Answers to what? You said you knew this place, or at least what it is?”

“Well I only know the basics,” you shift in his hold, knocking his hands away as they sift through your bag, and grabbing blindly until you can pull out the book, “I found this journal and it-“

“A journal?” he asks in a volume that could have been obnoxiously loud if it weren’t for the thumping bass that shook the floor beneath you, and pulls the small book from your hands.

“It was written by a woman who came here a long time ago,” you explain, deciding to not take offense to his rough and grabbing hands, “I found it and tracked the club down, I needed to see if it was real.”

“Oh it's real alright,” he laughs as he starts to flip through the pages, stopping for a moment to smile at a simple sketch she had done of a cat that she said lived in the back alley, “hey wait I think I know this name, and these people.”

“What are you on about?” you ask with a scoff as you tug the book from his grubby fingers, “you can’t possibly know these people, this was written in like the fifties. Stop pulling my leg.”

“Oh I see,” he smacks your thigh playfully as he leans over your shoulder to glance at the first page that mentioned anything about the date, the ink clear enough to read 1953 in the swirling handwriting, “you think you know everything.”

“I do know everything, fuck you,” you glare playfully at him over your shoulder, “or I would know, if you’d let me go into that weirdo hall.”

“No hall, for now at least,” he sighs, the gears in his head turning as he thinks of the next thing to say, “but you know, time doesn’t exist the same way here, the woman who wrote this probably didn’t know that at the time, so I’m not surprised you don’t either.”

“What do you mean time doesn’t exist?” you look at him as if he’s grown a second head, but do you really have the nerve to question him like that? Considering that entire concept of the club you are very aware of its existence now, a time situation shouldn’t be the most shocking should it?

“Well, it's hard to explai-“

“Then don’t explain it,” you almost jump fully out of his lap at the deep voice that rattles above you, and both him and you look up at the figure that looms over you now.

The man is tall, his black hoodie looking weird in contrast to the clothes of the other club goers, and with a squinting observation and a familiar and annoyed sigh from the man seated behind you, you realize you’re being stared down by the mysterious entity that is the DJ, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket in annoyance.

“Huh?” Ten lets out more in the form of a noise than a word, as his arms wind tightly around your form.

“I said don’t explain shit,” the man begins to tap his foot in irritation as he speaks, and you wonder if he’s aware that he’s in rhythm with the song that surrounds you, “you need to chill out with the loose tongue, its bad enough we have the big mouths outside.”

“I wasn’t gonna go that far,” Ten sounds reminiscent of a scolded toddler, and considering the man is hindering you from getting information that you wanted so badly, you can feel yourself mirroring the pout he wears, “I know what I’m doing alright man? Why are you over here anyways, shouldn’t you be at your little booth minding your business.”

“No one minds their business over at that booth, and you should know that better than anyone pervert,” the words are sharp, but the curl to his lips and the underlying playfulness to his tone tells you the likeliness of them being friends is high, “anyways, I know we don’t follow any regulations or anything here, but I’m still gonna take a fuckin’ break or two.”

“Well breaks over,” Ten reaches out a hand to playfully swat the man away, “I didn’t wait this long for you to just interrupt my bonding time with my person alright?”

“Alright, alright,” he finally starts to shuffle away, throwing one last comment about Ten being bitter his person showed up first over his shoulder with a grin.

“What a loser,” Ten starts, looking at you playfully and rolling his eyes, “too bad he’s like my best friend or whatever.”

“You seem to have a lot of fun around here don’t you?” you take a shot at voicing your observations, your heart fluttering in a completely new way at the warm smile he shoots you.

“Just wait a see, my love. Just wait and see.”

#nct smut #ten smut #chittaphon smut #nct imagine #nct series #nct fic #ten imagines #ten oneshot #nct oneshot #kpop smut #wayv smut #wayv imagine #wayv oneshot

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ilariyalavorowrites · 2 years

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Delirious Happy Endings (Part two)

Imagine: Imagine being in a coma in which you live out the perfect life which is influenced by the message you left on Connor Rhodes’s voicemail finally admitting the true depths of your feelings during which a car collides with your parked car which results in the coma.

Warnings: Car Accident, Blood, Hospitalisation, Coma induced fantasies, angst with happy ending

Pairings: Connor Rhodes x Reader

Word count: 1,020 words

Universe: Chicago Med

Reader gender: Female

Author: Ilariya_Lavoro writes

Part 2 of 4

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The hands adorning the clock face ticked by at an agonisingly slow pace. Each minute felt like an hour, each hour felt like a day and a day felt like a lifetime has passed you by. Being on the other side felt bizarre. For a moment, the thought that you were still trapped in another dream crossed your mind but it was dashed as soon as a familiar face entered your room.

The mere sight of Maggie was both a welcomed one, along with a cold shower of reality raining down. This was the real world. You were single, Connor was gone, left to ventures unknown. This was the dream that your mind had cobbled together giving you what you wished had been possible. A happy, fulfilled healthy relationship with someone who had never truly seen you beyond an escape.

It was time to accept the truth that Connor Rhodes was never coming back, especially not for you. You had never been the one nor had he had the one that got away. There had never been anything there to begin with. Your crush had simply spiralled out of control, this was literally your wake up call.

Maggie had long since left, you were again alone with just your thoughts. You’d had a number of visitors throughout the day, both friends and colleagues alike. All happy to see that you were awake. Various doctors had in and out of the room, poked and prodded you whilst carrying out the necessary tests to gauge how you were recovering and the likely extend of the damage that might have been levelled your way before you had awoken.

All in all, it had been a rather sobering experience. You were not the ideal patient, regardless of the medical stored within your brain. You doubted that you’d be trapped in this tiny room for much longer as neurologically speaking you were relatively sound. There did not appear to be lasting damage to your cognition or memory. However Dr Abrams, Sam was not ready to sign off on you just yet.

You could fully understand his hesitation, he was one for taking unnecessary risks especially when it came to cases of possibility of traumatic brain injuries. He had been professional throughout his examination with his own brand of blunt honesty that you loved to see in action. You hadn’t expected him to come to see you in this capacity, given your on-going working relationship as mentor and mentee. This warmed your heart. This was a man who rarely showed any part of himself, who kept the line between personal and professional clearly visible at all times. His guard had been temporarily lowered in the wake of the accident.

“I’m happy to see that you are both awake and doing well, I can’t lose my best student. All the time training you would have gone to waste. This world needs more neurologists” He had quipped with a twinkle in his eye and a bone dry humour that most would not get before he left the room to continue on rounds.

It had brought a tear to your eye and nearly caused you to rip a few stitches when you had burst out laughing. That man was unlike any other doctor that you’d worked under before. It had lifted your spirits momentarily but your mind kept torturing itself by wandering back to elusive Dr Rhodes.

Your eyes had been fully opened, allowing you to process each and every decision you had made up until and including the moments before that car had slammed into your own. It had instrumental, becoming a tool to kickstart your future. One that didn’t include nights moping around your flat, waiting for Mr Right to enter your life. You shouldn’t be the one left at the wayside, simply waiting for a sign, for a text or a call to come shooting out of the blue. You deserved more than that.

It was time to move on, live your life to fullest and find someone who could truly make you happy. Someone that you looked forward to coming home to at the end of each and every day. You could faintly make out the voice of your nurse in the hallway outside your room as she spoke to someone..

“Visiting hours are almost over, I’ll check to see if she is happy to see you. She’d had a barrage of tests, I don’t doubt it’s taken it out of her. I’ll be right back” Her warm bubbly nature bleeding through into the words. She had been doing the job long but she was keen and trying to do what was best for her patients. She had twigged you as the younger version of April or Maggie, with time and experience she would grow into a nurse that any doctor could rely on without a shadow of a doubt in any given situation. The door creaked open.

She poked her head around the now open doorway, Her dark red locks bouncing around, given her innocence that made you smile, whilst at the same time make you feel a tad older than you already were. “Would you be up for one more visitor?” She politely asked, never disclosing their name.

You stiffly nodded, curious at the identity of whoever waited in the hallway. As quickly as she appeared, she pulled herself out of your room and back out in the corridor.

“You won’t have long, twenty to thirty minutes tops” You heard her speak, muffled by the wall between the two of you. The sound of shoes clicking against the laminated floor as she walked towards the nurse’s station at the other end of the ward then there was silence. As you waited for your visitor to make their presence known. It was the longest few minutes you had experienced in the last few days. It was tortuous but you waited lifting our gaze, staring at the entrance. Almost willing it to open, to reveal themselves.

The door handle depressed, as it was pushed down before the door creaked open as it was pushed inwards.

#connor rhodes imagine #connor rhodes x reader #connor rhodes #chicago med imagine #one chicago imagine #chicago med #reader inserts #canon x reader #angst heavy #Short chapter to tide us over till the next one

47 notes · View notes

confinesofmy · 2 years

Text

a few days ago i asked “hey does anyone want to read the semi-organised scraps of my abandoned wip where kendall overdosed in early season two, had a really bad series of seizures, and basically got thrown into a new york penthouse “for his own good” to “heal” “away from public scrutiny” but then just stayed there, trapped, until his dad died and his siblings discovered that he wasn’t in a catatonic state in some facility upstate like they thought but instead, like, in solitary confinement on the upper west side in a stripped out apartment with no way of contacting the outside world?”

well, here it is. 🙈

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there are content warnings sprinkled here and there but for the most part this is exactly what it says on the tin. i thought it was too bleak to continue writing or put on ao3 but however bleak you’re imagining it from the description is probably just about right. it’s not that bad.

thanks everyone who said they were interested in reading, btw! i hope you enjoy.

okay, so, i waffled on... pretty much every facet of this, all the time. almost everything i publish contains 200 secret AUs that no one ever sees but me, so this is going to read like a fever dream, maybe? there will be endless contradictions.

i've actually never shown anyone an unpolished piece of fiction writing outside of creative writing "drafts" in school that i reverse-engineered from finished works to make it look like i was doing drafts the way my teachers wanted me to. so in lieu of any known standard of formatting for this, it'll be notes first, then fic fragments, but feel free to skip around obviously. including the notes is probably a completely unnecessary intimacy on my part but they inform the writing immensely so i don't feel like this sprawl is complete without them.

notes wordcount: 1,628 fic fragments wordcount: 6,482

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NOTES

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disclaimer for the viewers at home: any medical stuff about status epilepticus and the treatment plans is heavily researched but that does not mean it's accurate, both bc i'm no expert and bc kendall's care is open to manipulation. by that i mean that if logan wants him to stay on benzos forever then that's something he can make happen and something that would be communicated to kendall as necessary, even if it isn't. but i feel obligated to say some quick (ish? not really, sorry) things about status epilepticus just so you have a frame of reference for it outside of the context of fiction.

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so, status epilepticus is a seizure lasting longer than 5 minutes or a series of seizures that occur too close together to allow adequate recovery between. it is most common in children and elderly populations and has a vast variety of causes. in kendall's case, his generalised tonic-clonic SE is caused by snorting too much park coke (cocaine insufflation specifically is actually v unlikely to cause SE but oh well) and i think it probably lasted less than an hour total, which sounds long but for SE it really isn't.

the main factor in recovery from SE is etiology. if SE is a symptom of something more serious, like a brain tumour or an infection or drug-resistant epilepsy, you're obviously more likely to have a worse time recovering. in kendall's case, his GTCSE is coke-induced, and he's 39 and in good health, so realistically, 6 months down the line he probably wouldn't have the lingering symptoms he's implied to have in this narrative premise, from what i understand.

something that i waffled on was making his GTCSE refractory (drug-resistant). this complicates treatment during the continuing seizure/s, which in turn complicates outcome and recovery, and could explain kendall experiencing lingering neurological symptoms like speech apraxia, chronic headaches, personality changes, etc. it was at about this point in my research that i realised i was getting a little too bogged down in neurology and decided to leave it up in the air, which is very annoying after that much research. but regardless, i settled on: maybe kendall's lingering symptoms are neurological, maybe they're psychological, who knows.

another specific point of contention was kendall's speech patterns, during and after recovery. i did a bit of research into acquired apraxia of speech to help me write accurate speech patterns but the whole topic became this kind of no man's land. if his GTCSE, refractory or otherwise, caused a traumatic brain injury, that could manifest as, like, anything. if i could only research one more topic for the rest of my life, it would probably be TBIs simply because the sky's the limit on how their symptoms can manifest. so once again, psycho, neuro, it's both, it's neither, who knows. i hesitantly decided his speech difficulties would be one (or two or three) of like ten categories of speech dysfunction but honestly never did quite settle it.

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for point of reference, i think this might be the penthouse apartment that i reference in this fic except in my fic it has balconies. trying to find the perfect apartment in new york w a budget of 100 gazillion dollars is like, weirdly difficult. strange city.

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also the short conservatorship comments in the notes are only somewhat researched but if there's one thing we learned from the free br*tney situation it's that conservatorships' rules are often open to wild interpretation in reality, as well. :(

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all! that! aside! here's the original notes.

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content warnings for abuse, isolation, substance abuse, basically everything you'd expect but also some descriptions of really distasteful twitter-variety ableism re: seizures

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Okay so Kendall is basically abducted and imprisoned by his dad who takes advantage of Kendall's isolation to enact cruelties upon him. Things are very bad for Kendall.

Eventually the family finds out where he's been the whole time. This coincides with his father's... Death, probably?

Someone new takes over his conservatorship. Kendall has to relearn how to be a person.

He's okay. Presumably his conservatorship ends but then again maybe not.

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48 hours in Icelandic rehab. A few days of helping out daddy. He gets fucked up before an event and winds up experiencing a series of seizures in public.

He wakes up in the hospital in bad shape, experiencing coke withdrawal and neurologically out of sorts. A doctor tells him his dad's setting something up and he'll be able to leave soon.

He's transferred to the apartment. Insert bad times here. His dad occasionally visits and is sometimes physically abusive. He mostly recovers from the seizures but thinks some things will never be the same.

Maybe his dad dies? His siblings find him. They tell him they had been told he was in a coma or that he was in some facility unsuccessfully relearning how to, like, breathe and blink.

His guardianship and conservatorship are either A.) nullified now that Logan is dead because he refused to name a beneficiary to it and had Kendall's doctor doing assessments every 90 days with instructions to stop approving the guardianship if Logan were to ever lose control.

B.) He is inherited by a family member who claims to want him emancipated but sabotages the court case so they can keep him under their thumb. Or maybe they do emancipate him. Or maybe they don't, but it's not a control thing, it's a genuine act of caring.

C.) He gets a public guardian who encourages him to seek emancipation or, alternatively, is just a neutral public servant who truly wants to accommodate his needs.

D.) Nullified bc Logan paid lawyers in advance to bail Kendall out ASAP if Logan isn't the conservator anymore.

Whatever the case, Logan's dead. Kendall's not going to be getting any more visits from him. Kendall's allowed to go outside when he wants. He's allowed to buy things from stores. He can go out to eat. He can talk with people he knows on the phone or in person.

Recovering from his seizures was a long and difficult process but recovering from his year/s? in the apartment isn't going to be much easier.

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The day of the party it's probably been about 10 days since Kendall did the manslaughter.

The partygoers who witness/record Kendall's seizures don't actually know who he is, so most of the original videos hit the web as like "guy has seizure at nyc houseparty" and like a snapchat of Kendall seizing and then the phone slowly panning to a guy making kind of the 😳 face or maybe like a tiktok of Kendall seizing with the "he need some milk" audio

The videos go kind of viral, at least viral enough that there are hundreds of permutations of them out there. A caramelldansen remix, memes galore. Kendall's identity is leaked in the early stages of it going viral, before the PR teams had identified the videos, so the main spike comes from Kendall-specific memes like a remix of the Iceland interview: "I saw their plan, dad's plan was better b-b-better dad's plan was better" interspersed with clips of him convulsing at the party.

Meanwhile, Kendall's drifting in and out of consciousness, completely out of it when he is awake, his level of possible neurological damage completely up in the air.

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Oh btw Greg puts him in the recovery position against his kitchen bar while he's convulsing and he 100% dislocates his fucking shoulder because of that.

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New York Presbyterian

Neurological screening exam, blood tests, toxicology screening, an EEG, lorazepam 4mg 2 or 3 times, then levetiracetam after the seizures cease. Continuing levetiracetam prescription after, but probably not as a medical necessity.

40 minute long seizure, continuous video EEG for 24 hours, first MRI after the seizure stopped, a second (third?) three days after

Speech language pathologist, maybe assistive tech like a pecs board. Neurologist. Physical therapist?

Immediate after-effects exhaustion, headaches, vomiting, light and noise sensitivity, memory loss short term and long term, difficulty reading and thinking and speaking, confusion, mystery bruises, achiness, personality changes,

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It's honestly easier to list Kendall's privileges than to list all his limitations of freedom.

He's allowed to go to the bathroom by himself, usually.

He's allowed to bathe by himself, usually, but if he takes too long someone's coming in to fetch him. He's no longer allowed to sit in the shower for hours like he sometimes had at first.

He's allowed to feed himself and is allowed to use a spoon and fork with supervision.

He's allowed to sleep with no direct supervision for the most part. Random check-ins happen but they're sporadic.

He's more or less allowed to choose a room to be in during waking hours.

He's allowed to read the books that are in the apartment.

He's allowed to get food out of the fridge so long as it's not an unhealthy interest. He can get a snack but he's not allowed to binge.

He's allowed to request groceries and he's allowed to request meals. Doesn't mean he'll get them.

He's allowed to ask for non-food items but it's a rare thing to actually get approval on those. Books are the most likely to get approved.

He's allowed to ask permission to make supervised phone calls to certain people and private calls to Logan.

He's allowed to wear a watch that he asked for early on, the only signifier of the passage of time aside from the location of the sun and the staff changing.

He's allowed to choose his own clothes. This list is short enough that I guess that bears mention.

He's allowed to work out in the at-home gym after he finds out that it exists but his handler can make him stop if it seems inappropriate.

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FIC FRAGMENTS

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In his new apartment, Kendall is closer to the household staff than he's ever been before.

It's not real closeness. He's not friends with them, he doesn't really talk with them, not like friends talk. But they're the only human faces that he sees, other than his father's. They come and go on their own schedules, something he's not yet allowed to do, and they bring him things from the outside world.

For the first time since childhood, Kendall really takes a moment to consider himself from the help's perspective. His forced house arrest, his quiet despondency, his one and only visitor.

These people, some of whom live with him in the apartment, some of whom he's never quite learned the names of, know things about him and his father that would make headlines for weeks. They have to, as close to it all as they are.

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After a couple of days of doing his little song and dance to support daddy and prevent a hostile takeover, Kendall, seeing no end in sight, descends into a huge bender.

He killed a guy, he relapsed, his ex-wife doesn't want him around his kids for a while, he lost all leverage he had against his dad, he let Stewy down. He feels hollowed out and empty, a puppet with his dad's hand up his ass. So why not do all the drugs he can get his hands on? What's it matter at this point?

He winds up experiencing a major medical event in front of a bunch of people and needing to be hospitalised both to recover and to detox. After that, instead of going back to lifelessly working for daddy while trying to find his way into a medical coma, it is determined it would be for the best if Kendall just disappeared for a little while, just so he won't embarrass the family any further.

The place he's sent isn't rehab. And it's not really an institution either. He does not have the words to describe it.

He's not allowed to choose anything. He's not allowed to be completely alone in the kitchen. It's rare to be left alone in the den. If he spends too much time in the shower, first someone knocks and then, if he doesn't come out, they unlock the door and pull him out. Not unkindly. It's all very clinical, routine. Like he's a child who can't be unsupervised or he'll get into trouble.

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He thinks there might be cameras.

He sneaks into the kitchen one day to make a fruit plate, managing to avoid the attention of that day's minder. After he's done slicing some strawberries he finds himself looking at the knife, the little flecks of flesh and the red stains lingering behind. He's not sure how long he looks at it before quietly washing it and returning it to its place.

The next day, it's gone, along with the entire knife block. The next time he opens the cutlery drawer, he discovers the butter knives have also disappeared. The man who was watching him that day is also gone and Kendall never sees him again.

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He has to ask permission to use the phone. Then usually the person he's asking has to ask someone higher up, maybe then they also have to ask someone higher up. Kendall is beneath them. Kendall is beneath everyone.

When he gets permission, maybe half the time (and he starts asking less and less), the number is dialled for him. The first time he had been knocked so off-kilter by having to wait for permission that when the other person picked up he didn't know what to say and ended the call.

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He gets visits from a lifestyle coach and a masseuse every week. He thinks they might think he's people, at first.

Their first visits were both a surprise, a simple, "Kendall, the lifestyle coach is here," was his first awareness. He'd spent the morning in a dull haze sitting silently on the couch after he'd finished the breakfast he'd been given.

The lifestyle coach, Pete, knew his name already and seemed to be under the impression that Kendall was looking to fulfill a fitness goal after a health scare. He asked Kendall questions about his diet and exercise levels, Kendall half-heartedly answering that he's been having difficulty eating and that he used to exercise more.

From there, they move on to abstract questions that Kendall doesn't know how to answer. "What are you looking to get out of this experience?" is the first.

"Uh. H-has anyone talked to you? Any of my, the team?"

"I got your intake form so I know you're interested in maintaining a healthy diet and exercise level and I know we'll be doing some physical therapy with your shoulder but I was wondering if you had any other specifics in mind? Anything you'd like to prioritise?"

Kendall blinks slowly. He thinks this might be the first real human conversation he's had in weeks. The first conversation where the other person doesn't know that he's broken. He barely knows how to navigate it.

"N-no, just that... Will be fine."

Pete looks him over, takes in his hunched shoulders, his downcast eyes, his hands gripping the couch cushions on either side of him.

"Okay. So Kendall, tell me a bit about yourself. What are you into?"

Kendall thinks about making some shit up but he's too tired to lie directly. He barely has the energy to speak at all. His mind slips around, trying to find something, anything.

"I used to like listening to m-music. Hip-hop. Uh, and rap," he says. He had kind of hoped more words would come after that but he couldn't think of any so he just closed his mouth.

"Oh cool, that'll be good for workouts," Pete says and smiles encouragingly in a way that Kendall would've found condescending before but now finds genuinely comforting.

"Yeah, I guess," Kendall mumbles, averting his gaze to the carpet. He hasn't had his phone since he was at the hospital and doesn't think he'll ever see it again. There aren't any TVs or computers in the apartment either. He's not really allowed to listen to music.

Pete must get that Kendall's not going to do any better with more questions because he stands up and says, "Alright, great. So do you wanna show me your gym?"

Kendall didn't know there was a gym. He looks to the guard posted by the door, trying to communicate that, and is thankful when the guard turns, purposefully walking down the hall. If Pete notices, he doesn't comment.

When they reach the gym, Pete requests that Kendall do some range of motion exercises so he can take a look at what he's working with. The first one is just standing.

"So does your back hurt?" Pete asks casually.

"Sometimes." Kendall answers. He hasn't really thought about it.

Pete steps forward and asks, "Can I touch you?" clearly expecting a quick answer right before he does. He freezes awkwardly when he doesn't get it.

"Oh. Uh, yeah." Kendall answers after a couple of beats.

"So, it was your right shoulder, yeah?" Pete places one hand on Kendall's right scapula and the other on his right delt, cupping the muscles carefully. Kendall sucks in a sharp breath, feeling unpleasant sparks of sensation where Pete's hands rest.

After a short pause, Pete continues. "So aside from a little bit of remaining joint instability, you're also keeping your shoulders rounded and what this is doing is putting a lot of stress on your joints and muscles and in the short term that causes shoulder and back pain, which leads to the muscles tightening up further. It's kind of a self-perpetuating problem. Today's bad posture becomes tomorrow's injury. Add in that a dislocation makes you vulnerable to more dislocations and you've got a real problem here." As he speaks his hand dances up and down Kendall's back, tracing muscles from the small of his back to his shoulder and above. Kendall feels like he's going to jump out of his skin but tries not to show it.

"This is where your shoulder should be," Pete says, gently manipulating Kendall's arm up and back, then adjusting his elbow to line up with his shoulder. "Does that feel better or worse?"

It feels like Kendall's at a meeting. Or at a gala. It feels like he's showing off for his dad, trying to be as tall as he can make himself but it's not tall enough. His eyes sting with tears and he tries to blink them away before Pete can notice.

"It feels fine," he croaks.

"That's good. That's a really good sign," Pete pats his shoulder lightly and then thankfully backs off.

From there they do more range of motion exercises, Pete occasionally correcting Kendall's form and pointing out areas they can work on. It's been years since Kendall's had a trainer and he finds the whole thing unexpectedly overwhelming. No one's paid this much direct attention to him in... Maybe months, actually.

Pete guides him through a few strength reps, taking note of his strengths and weaknesses and then hands him a bottle of water and tells him he can stop for the day. Kendall starts drinking just to have something to do.

"Alright so I think weekly appointments are going to work out perfect with your current fitness level. I'll email you some exercises I want you to do before our next appointment and in the meantime I want you to keep me up to date on how you're feeling, we don't wanna move too fast, okay?"

Kendall nods, unsure how much any of that is going to apply to him when he's not allowed to call people on the phone without permission.

Pete also gives him a food guide printout to follow, telling him to modify it however he needs so long as he eats.

"You're going to be building some muscle so your eating needs to reflect that. You said earlier that you've been having some trouble with eating so really I'd say just try your best to eat whatever you feel like you can. If it's healthy that's a bonus, if it's not that's okay."

Kendall nods again and murmurs his agreement but is once again thinking about the contrast between the level of control over his own life that Pete thinks he has versus the amount he really has. He guesses he could tell him, surely Pete's going to have to sign an NDA anyway. But then wouldn't he be just another person who treats Kendall like a zoo animal? Maybe it would be easier that way.

"You did good today," Pete's voice breaks through his thoughts. "We're gonna have you back in shape in no time."

The compliment hits way too hard, sending a thrill through him that he ignores entirely. "Thank you," he says gruffly.

"Anytime. See you next week, dude."

And with that, Pete's gone, and Kendall's back to finding a nice spot to look at on the wall until someone makes him stop.

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content warnings: suicidal ideation, and like. light incest. (kendall gets an inappropriate erection. :/ )

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Here's a thought. Maybe Kendall thinks it's for his own good. Maybe he's grateful that even now, when he's tried to kill his dad and ruin everything, when he's fucked himself up so bad that he can barely even string words together, that his dad is still willing to take care of him.

He's placed in the apartment and notices that he's never left completely alone and he thinks that it's probably safer, that there's someone watching him to keep him from hurting himself any further. He notices the lack of sharp objects and that no one ever gives him his phone back so he can't call anyone to get him drugs, notices that there isn't any alcohol in the apartment. The doors to the balconies and the elevators are locked at all times and he isn't given keys. He thinks about the care in such gestures, that his dad's going to help keep him in line no matter what.

He can't leave and maybe that should frighten him but he imagines what leaving would look like. His shaky hands and his stuttering speech, embarrassing his family by simply existing where people can see him. There's no real reason for him to leave anyway, he's burned bridges with everyone at this point and he's afraid of what he might try if he did get loose. Best case scenario he'd go to Waystar but it's not like he can work, not like this.

He's been wanting to die since the moment he pulled himself out of the water and clawed his way up the riverbank but now when he's come closer to death than ever before his dad has rescued him and told him to live. This is probably the kindest thing his father's ever done for him.

Every morning when he's gently awakened to be brought to the kitchen island to sit until he finishes eating, he thinks of it as his father encouraging him. During his physical therapy sessions when he's sweating and panting and nearly crying from pain. During his speech pathology appointments when his stutter is unignorable he clings to the fact that his dad thinks he's worth the trouble of fixing.

When his dad finally comes to visit for the first time he finds it all boiling over and he almost runs to his dad to hug him, murmuring "thank you, dad" again and again with barely any mistakes because he's put so much preparation into finally having this moment. He feels arms wrapping around his back and he starts crying, sobbing, and his dad holds him through it and presses a kiss to his temple and he thinks he's never felt so loved.

His dad's visits are infrequent but treasured. Kendall doesn't really know why he visits at all but he always tries to tell his dad about all his recent progress, words sometimes muddled or halting. Unlike when he was little, his dad doesn't get mad at him for his stutter now, he just listens and occasionally murmurs encouragements. Before he leaves they always hug and after the first time Kendall doesn't cry anymore he just relaxes into it like a warm bath.

One day he does the most humiliating thing he's ever done in his entire life. He can't help it, he doesn't know why it happens, but it does. His dad is hugging him goodbye, rubbing his back through his thin t-shirt. It had been a great visit, he'd made his dad laugh and aside from his stutter he'd only mixed up his words a few times throughout the visit. But something goes wrong as he feels his dad's fingers firmly tracing the outline of his shoulder blade, there's some kind of misfire in his stupid, broken brain, and he feels himself start to harden in his sweatpants.

He rips his hips back and pulls out of his dad's arms stuttering out apologies as he turns away and tries to hide his shame. His face feels like it's on fire.

After a long pause, he hears his dad say, "It's okay, son. I'll see you next time." and the shame slips away like sand. He's forgiven, even for this. The promise that his dad will return feels like absolution.

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Here's another thought, Logan moves Kendall into his penthouse duplex and whenever anyone visits he arranges for Kendall to be on thrice the benzos he's prescribed. Anyone who visits think he's turned into a drooling incoherent vegetable and feel uncomfortable looking at him.

Maybe even after he's out and Logan's dead, that idea still slips out sometimes bc the siblings prefer it to the truth, that Logan abducted him, drugged him, and abused him, while they watched.

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content warnings: substance abuse, smth like an overdose, seizure pov, more descriptions of really distasteful twitter-variety ableism re: seizures

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s02e02 Kendall does too much park coke at the party and has a prolonged series of seizures. His dad makes sure he's "taken care of."

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It's been ten days since he crawled his way back to Shiv's wedding for an alibi that didn't matter.

Kendall's walking out of Greg's bathroom for the third time that night, coke still dripping down his numb throat. A bad feeling hits him, inexplicable but so intense he can't ignore it. The polar opposite of the high he's expecting.

He looks around the room like he can find the source. Takes an inventory of his body. There's nothing. Just a disconnected sense of impending doom that he can't shake.

He grabs another beer, starts scouting the crowd. Maybe someone here can fuck the feeling out of him.

Greg sneaks up on him, his freakishly huge hands on Kendall's shoulders, pulling him back down to earth. Starts talking about his back pain. Within a minute, Kendall's drifted back into the welcoming embrace of the party.

He drifts aimlessly, coke making the bass in the techno music feel like it's thrumming in his bones. He's becoming less sure that a fuck would even fix him, the feeling of dread still at full intensity.

He's walking to the open plan kitchen to sit down on one of Greg's few pieces of furniture when a spike of pain splits his head in two and he feels every muscle in his entire body lock up. The last thing he sees is dozens of pairs of ankles, sideways from where he is on the floor.

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[ID: A 15 second LiveLeak video entitled, "Guy Having Seizure At Nyc Houseparty." A group of people in an apartment surround an unconscious man on the floor who is convulsing. A voice from off-camera shouts, "Should we call 911?" End ID.]

[ID: A 6 second Snapchat video. Caption reads "this party craaaaaazy 😳😳😳" Loud techno music is playing and a lot of people are talking. A man is lying on the floor having a convulsive seizure while people nearby dance. The phone's camera switches to the front lens and we see the blond young man taking the video widen his eyes apprehensively as he takes a drink. End ID.]

[ID: A looping TikTok video of a man having a seizure at a party with the "he need some milk" sound. End ID.]

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Kendall wakes up on the floor, Greg crouching over him, his head throbbing with pain and his mouth full of blood. He tries to speak and discovers that he can't.

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Kendall wakes up and holds onto consciousness by the skin of his teeth. Everyone is yelling. The lights are so bright and he realises he's looking at a ceiling. Someone's putting glue in his hair and his head feels like it's going to burst.

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Kendall wakes up alone in a hospital room and feels like if he could just reach up and press his hands against his head maybe the pain would stop but his arms are too heavy and he's worried if he moves them they might shatter.

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Kendall wakes up in a hospital room and there's a woman standing beside him. He tries to ask what's happening, where he is but all that comes out is "What?"

She looks at him and smiles like she understands what he meant.

"Hello, Kendall. I'm Nurse Lisa. You're in the hospital because you had a series of seizures but you're going to be alright now. Your cousin is here and the rest of the family is on the way and we're gonna do everything we can to help you, okay?" she says. His attention waxes and wanes as she speaks and he thinks he catches about half of it.

"My head...?" he asks, running out of words before he's finished.

"Your head hurts? That's common for the type of seizures you had and it looks like you bumped it when you fell. We're gonna get you an MRI later just to take a look at things." She smiles reassuringly at him.

"Right," he says, without really meaning to. He feels like he's in a dream.

The woman starts saying something, voice soft, but he can already tell he's passing out and he doesn't understand any of it.

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Kendall wakes up alone in a hospital room. He feels like he's been hit by a bus and his mouth tastes like copper. He's also doped to the gills, he can tell.

He runs his hands carefully over his body, looking for an injury to explain this. He finds more spots that feel bruised than he can count but nothing else. Eventually he notices there's wires stuck to his head. As he investigates them with his fingers, one of them pops off. It's an electrode. He wonders if they've given him electroshock therapy.

He's still examining the electrode when the door opens and a man in scrubs walks in.

"Hello, Kendall. I'm Nurse Charlie, you're at the hospital. How are you feeling?"

Kendall tries to shift focus so he can understand. Eventually he manages to croak out, "Gad."

His brow furrows. That wasn't right. Why did he say that? He tries again. "Bad."

"Can you tell me more?" Charlie asks.

After an uncomfortably long pause as he tries to find the words, Kendall says, "Hurts. What happened?"

"You had a series of convulsive seizures that we think were drug-induced and we had a tough time getting you stable. Now we're just monitoring you to be sure you don't have any more seizures. You've been here for about 15 hours."

"Where's my dad?" Kendall asks, these words coming easier than the others.

"He came earlier but he had to leave. Do you want to see if we can call him?" Charlie asks.

Kendall thinks about how fucked up and weak he feels and how hard it is to talk. Thinks about how his dad must have responded to learning that this happened because of Kendall's addiction.

"N-no."

"Alright, that's fine. I'm just gonna get that back in place, okay?" he says, gesturing to the electrode that Kendall forgot he was holding. "We need to get a good look at your brain waves so we don't miss anything important."

Kendall falls back asleep as the nurse is reattaching the electrode.

⠀

When he next awakens, Greg is there, sitting next to his bed and seemingly texting. Kendall's head hurts less, or maybe it just hurts different.

"What pay is it?" he asks, nearly startling Greg out of his chair.

"What?" Greg asks.

"What pay- What..." Kendall trails off. Why can't he fucking talk? "What day is it?"

"It's Wednesday, technically. Are you okay? I thought you were gonna die, they kept asking me how much coke you did and I didn't even know. Do you think everybody's gonna be mad at me for buying it for you? I didn't know you were gonna do that much."

Greg keeps going but Kendall doesn't really hear him. His mind's caught on Wednesday. Wasn't it Monday? How long was he asleep?

"Greg." Kendall interrupts.

Greg's mouth claps shut. After a short pause he says "They told me to call Karolina if you ever woke up. Are you good, should I go do that?"

Kendall opens his mouth but then thinks better of it. Nods instead.

While Greg is gone, Kendall takes stock of himself. He's sore, all over. His muscles feel wrung out. His head is killing him and when he finally gets his aching arm up far enough to feel around, he finds a lump on the back of his head and nearly screams with how much it hurts to even touch it.

He zones out for a while, mind slipping around as he tries to process what's happened. Was this an OD? He can't remember how much coke he did. It was probably a couple grams. But he's done more before and he'd been working his tolerance up since before the wedding. It doesn't make sense.

Karolina walks in, high heels clacking against the tiles. She sits down where Greg had been.

"So, Kendall. How are you feeling? Do you think we can talk?"

Kendall moves his tongue around for a moment, trying to speak. As Karolina opens her mouth to say something, he finally manages.

"Is dad m- m-" he swallows, tries again. "Is... dad... angry?"

Karolina's lips purse.

"Well, he was worried about you. Did Greg tell you about the videos?"

Kendall shakes his head.

"Well, apparently some of your guests decided to film you during your episode. They didn't actually know who you were but, unfortunately, Twitter put it together pretty quick and you were trending for a few hours. Now we're trying to spin it as you having epilepsy, see if we can win some public sympathy."

"Do...?" he interrupts.

"No. The doctors did some tests and they're pretty sure it was just the cocaine. They have warned us that you might develop epilepsy as a result of this event though." Karolina pauses, straightening her skirt. "Your father's arranging a place for you to stay while you recover. He doesn't want you in the public eye until you're well."

"When?" Kendall asks.

"We don't actually know. Could be weeks, could be months, or..." Karolina shifts minutely in her chair. "The doctors are going to want more tests so we can get a better idea but we've been told to be prepared for anything."

Kendall's eyes start burning before she's finished and by the end he can feel tears streaming down his cheeks. His face crumples and he lifts his hand up to cover his mouth. Karolina stands up and awkwardly puts a hand on his shoulder.

"There's no reason to assume the worst yet. You're going to have around the clock care for as long as you need it and you've got one of the best medical teams in the world. You'll be taken care of, Ken."

She stands there for a moment longer before she realises he's going to keep crying and leaves.

⠀

After she's left, he tries talking more. Speaking takes a long time because it's hard to think of words and how they fit together but it's also hard to make his mouth move properly. There are some words he can't say right, no matter how much he tries.

He assumes the headache and the muscle soreness will fade with time but what if he can never talk normally again?

Roman had told him he'd be fucked as soon as he wasn't any use to dad. Kendall had believed him. Now he literally can't say the word "business." That's how useless he is. He looks down at the open weave hospital blanket in his lap and suddenly he's tearing it apart, forcing his fingers between threads and pulling, yanking until the tear becomes too wide for his wingspan and then starting again on a new section.

When he's done the blanket is a complex tangle of string and his arms feel like the muscles are falling off the bones. He does not feel any better.

⠀

When Kendall gets out of the hospital he's still dealing with his new meds' side effects, constantly doped on the benzos and still fucked up from the seizure, the hospital stay, the disjointed things he's heard from Gerri, Karolina, Jess, his siblings. He's in shit shape and when he's summarily shuffled into a Hell's Kitchen penthouse he's really too stoned to argue.

His health aide tucks him into bed and that's the last he knows until he wakes up the next morning and his dad is sitting in the den reading paperwork.

His dad explains that Kendall is single-handedly destroying the family's reputation. The bear hug and now this? People can smell blood in the water and they're paying a lot of attention to the family at large and it's only so long before they do the math on Kendall's relapse and that K-holed moron's demise.

Ken needs to keep his head down, for the family's reputation but also for his own health. He could have died. Watching that video of him, writhing around, blood frothing out of his mouth, surrounded by disaffected druggies debating whether they should even call a fucking ambulance? It had made Logan sick, to see his son, who he had always loved so dearly and had such high hopes for, brought down so low.

Kendall's made it very clear he can't be trusted to stay off drugs and Logan is furious that Greg sourced for him. But if even that hapless little fuckstick could be swayed to give Kendall enough coke to kill himself, the solution is obvious.

Kendall needs to sit tight, no outside contact, until the whole thing blows over.

He'll have a physical therapist, a doctor to fix his voice, and a shrink to fix whatever the hell is wrong with his fucking head. They'll all be carefully vetted, so there's no use asking any of them for anything.

Kendall's also going to lose some privileges. He needs to keep things clean while he recovers. No leaving the apartment while he's like this. No need to look at the news or call anyone to bring him drugs, so no phone, no TV, and all of his financial accounts frozen. Logan will take care of anything he needs.

Kendall breaks down. Not because he feels trapped or like he's being treated unfairly. What breaks him is that he's been such an embarrassment to his dad and put his dad through so much worry, done so many unforgivable things, but Logan is still looking out for him. Still willing to see to it that he's taken care of.

He clings to his dad, shaking and sobbing, until Logan has to leave and carefully peels him off. He leaves him with the simple statement, "I love you, son. I'm gonna take care of you."

Kendall tries to return the I love you, words halting and slurred, but his dad stops him with a squeeze on his shoulder and a shake of his head, and then he's gone.

⠀

When his dad finally dies he expects to be inherited, not as a ward, but as an object. He doesn't know who it will be or what will happen to him. It scares him.

⠀

When their dad does die it's revealed that Kendall is inheriting the most shares or whatever. No one quite knows where he is other than a facility somewhere. When they find him, they're shocked.

He's skinnier. But softer. He looks healthier. But there's something deeply wrong. He's skittish, he seems slower mentally, much more sweet and shy like he was when he was really young. He cries more and not just because he's grieving. His hair is longer than it's ever been before, framing his face and long enough he has to tuck it behind his ears to keep it out of the way.

It seems like he's been holed up in this apartment, with no TV, no phone, and a bunch of other shit missing, since he was first hospitalised. There was never a facility. He thinks the raisin is still president and he doesn't know that he's 40, almost 41.

They send him for health check-ups. Find out that he's been seeing several specialists on a weekly to monthly basis the entire time, even a psychologist who refuses to communicate with them. He's in perfect health. No brain damage, no lingering physical effects aside from his stutter but it sounds like the stutter he had when they were kids so it's hard to tell if it's from the seizures or if it's just regression.

But he can't function if there's a TV on nearby. He frequently needs to be reminded to get out of the bath otherwise he'll just stay. If meals aren't scheduled he doesn't eat. He panics when he has to leave the house and doesn't try very hard to hide it. Or maybe he's just bad at hiding it now.

He's scared of crowds, startles easy. Frequently anxious in general. After two weeks he works up the nerve to ask if he can move back into the apartment. It's the biggest request he's made yet so they say yes after consulting with his new psychologist.

He moves back. Doesn't request any changes to be made to the apartment. He wants his Walkman and headphones but no phone. They get him set up with a landline phone but even then he eventually asks that the ringer be turned off and they usually have to call Jess to get in touch with him.

Rava visits frequently. She had wondered if he was dead and they'd just covered it up. Apparently at some point their divorce had gone through with all her concessions met which while at first it had relieved her eventually when no contact had been made had become a source of worry.

She tells him the kids have missed him and he's inconsolable. She holds him until he's asleep on the couch and tries not to descend into despair herself. She tries not to think about how she's going to explain this to the kids, knows that that's a question for their psychologist. Maybe his, too.

The next time she visits she's told them that their dad is feeling better but he's still sick and Sophie and Iverson have made him a get well soon card. He cries for a little while after she gives it to him but not as bad as before. She broaches the idea of bringing them next time and he panics and says no.

"I-I don't think that, that they sh-should see me. L-like this."

"Like what?"

He opens his mouth but no words escape. Fresh tears spill over his cheeks as he pulls his lower lip between his teeth and bites, viciously.

She pulls him close, runs a soothing hand down his back, and tells him that they love him and miss him and they'll understand if he's different now, whatever that means.

"They want to see their dad, Kendall. Nothing else matters."

"Y-y-you wouldn't say th-that. If you knew w-what. What I've done."

She asks him to tell her and he breaks down. She's persistent, knows that he wants to see the kids, she asks if he's told his therapist. He nods and she suggests they book an appointment together to discuss his hang-ups, because, as she tells him, seeing the kids would be good, for him and for Sophie and Iverson.

He wants to discuss it with his therapist first, so they agree to wait until he has. His new therapist, who he's been seeing for two months at this point, thinks that if he wants to tell Rava about the car accident and about his father's abuse then he should, and so she agrees to mediate.

He decides to tell her about his dad first, selfishly. He doesn't think she'll want to talk to him ever again after she learns about the waiter and he doesn't think he's ever going to tell anyone else about what his dad did so she's his only chance to ever tell someone who will really understand.

He also, and his therapist doesn't necessarily agree with him, thinks that if Rava does allow him to have a relationship with the kids in the future, she should probably know, that-- That he spent over a year waiting by the elevator for his father to visit and hopefully not hit him. But if he did hit him, that was fine too, because Kendall was that desperate for attention. That desperate to feel useful, needed in some way.

She should know that, sometimes between visits, he would grab at himself, his chin or his shoulder, and grip to the point of bruising just to feel an echo of his father's love. She needs to know about the times his dad had been irritable and Kendall had intentionally frustrated him so they would have more time together, after his dad took out the day's stress on him. He doesn't think it would be right, for him to see her kids, their kids, without her knowing how sick he had become.

Between his stutter and his occasional meltdowns he doesn't think he can tell her with words even if his therapist helps, so he painstakingly writes two confessions, one about his dad, one about the waiter.

After his therapist explains, he hands her the one about his dad, ashen-faced.

She starts crying early, a hand over her mouth. He joins her, stressed and scared and wishing he was braver. He turns away to try and compose himself, not wanting to seem like he's looking for pity, but he can still hear as she gets progressively more upset.

When she's done she blows her nose and starts delicately drying her face of still-dripping tears. His therapist asks if she'd like to share how she's feeling and she lets out a hysterical mix between a sob and a giggle that makes Kendall duck his head in anxiety.

"Can I touch you?" she asks and he nods. She puts her hand on his shoulder, putting slight pressure until he's facing her, eyes still averted.

"I'm so sorry that happened, Ken. I'm so sorry it took so long for us to find you. That you had to suffer like that, all by yourself." Rava delicately reaches for his hand, interlocking their fingers together loosely and placing her other hand on top. She continues, "But I'm really glad that we found you because now we can help you recover from what happened. Whatever that recovery looks like. We all just want you to feel safe and comfortable."

She pauses, controlled breaths the only noise she makes for a moment.

"I don't think the things that happened with your dad were your fault, or that you did anything wrong. You were put in a terrible position that most people couldn't imagine in their worst nightmares and you did your best to get through it in one piece. None of what I just read makes me think you shouldn't be around the kids. It did help me understand how desperate you must be to see them and I can tell how much you don't want to do anything to hurt them. But you're not disgusting, Ken, you're not going to hurt them by being near them. They've missed you so much, the whole time. All they want is their dad back."

Kendall lets her words wash over him, pretends the second letter isn't burning through the couch cushion beside him. She doesn't blame him. She doesn't think he's disgusting. She still thinks he should see the kids. She wants him to feel safe.

⠀

#adam talks too much

35 notes · View notes

pinkoptics · 3 years

Text

AU-gust 2021 Prompts

3. Hipsters / 16. Hippies

Erik detests hipsters and hippies and, to be honest, isn’t even sure what the difference is, nor does he particularly care. The things he will do for Charles…

Modern AU. Still have powers. Grumpy Erik. Adorable Charles. Meet Cute. Silliness.

3392 Words

Erik hated everything about this place.

Absolutely everything.

He could write a dissertation on its failings, which were abundant.

Its first sin was being directly across from his apartment building. When he looked out his window, he saw it. When he stepped out of the lobby doors, he saw it. When he pulled his car out of the parking garage, he saw it. It was an unavoidable part of every single day of his life.

Its second sin was what it had replaced. Previously, there had been a diner. A kosher diner. A diner that had tasted like his childhood. It had been a hole in the wall, never looked quite clean, but the coffee had been strong enough to caffeinate an elephant and the food almost as good as his mama’s. Most people had passed it by. Just another slightly dingy New York eatery that you didn’t give a second thought. Quiet. A refuge for those in the know. Then came the hipster gentrification, ruining not only his precious diner, but the neighbourhood in general.

Its third sin was its name. Plant. In and of itself the name ‘Plant’ was harmless, inoffensive. Just a word. It conjured images of a vegan eatery, bistro, restaurant, or maybe if taken 100% literally, a store that sold plants. All of which would have been fine. He had nothing against plants and, sure, he ate meat (kosher meat), but happily ate vegetarian dishes as well. But no, it was not a plant store or even a vegan eatery, it was a vegan coffeehouse. Coffee came from plants, Erik knew this, so the name passed on that technicality, but it did not scream ‘coffee.’ Why not ‘Bean’ if it needed to conform to the trendy one-word-naming that had for reasons unknown come with the gentrification. It was couched between ‘Table’ (a restaurant) and ‘Sweat’ (a boutique gym). Plant did not equal coffee, and that knowledge crawled under his skin every time he saw the stylized lettering.

Its fourth sin was the coffee. Erik wasn’t particularly picky about his brew, whether at home or out. Cheap diner swill, the finest Italian espresso, the Keurig at the office, the ridiculously expensive machine that produced the perfect cappuccino at Emma’s apartment, whatever. Plant’s beans were fine as beans went, the roast satisfactory, but then ruined with its accompaniments. They carried a variety of ‘mylks.’ Yes, with a ‘y’. He preferred lattes, and would have been fine with oat or almond— if only it was spelled with a fucking ‘i’. Every time he saw the pretentious letter, he felt the urge to take a sharpie and commit as many acts of misdemeanour graffiti as necessary until all the ‘y’s were gone.

Its fifth sin was its staff. He could have tolerated their always sunny dispositions (even if it were literally impossible for any customer service employee to be that happy all the time). He could have tolerated their ridiculous hipster (or was it hippy?) apparel, moustaches, beards and hairstyles (what was even the difference between the two?). What he could not handle was the way they called him ‘friend.’ Every. Single. Time. He could count his friends on one hand and none of them worked at Plant. Their ‘peace, love and joy’ vibe made him grind his teeth and wish he had a mutation that would allow him to send them back to the 1960s.

And yet…

“Good morning friend! Amazing day, right?” It was, in fact, pouring so hard the streets were borderline flooding. “Usual? Or do you want to try—”

Erik had long ago learned to immediately tune out the suggestions, but was sure he caught the word ‘sage.’ Who in their right fucking mind wanted sage in their coffee? Yes, he was inside the loathed establishment wasting precious brain cells wondering why anyone felt the need to mess with the simple perfection that was coffee and milk. Yes, he was there often enough that the employees knew him on sight. Yes, he had a usual order.

It wasn’t his fault.

It really wasn’t.

It was the fault of a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

This shouldn’t have been the case. The whole thing was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. The entire story more at home on the W Network or Hallmark, than in his very real, not-a-rom-com, life. And yet, here he was, having his 24th latte with mylk in a row and questioning his very sanity.

It had all started, just over a month ago, directly in front of Plant. To this day, Erik wasn’t sure whose fault it had been. He’d been on his phone, eviscerating a junior partner for a monstrous fuck up, and so livid that he was not at all paying attention to his surroundings. The blue-eyed man he’d run into, however, had claimed equal distraction, so perhaps the blame rested on both of their shoulders.

They had crashed into each other— papers flew, his phone flipped through the air and they ended up in a heap on the sidewalk, Erik atop the smaller frame beneath him. Already late for work, already pissed off with the junior partner beyond reason, Erik had been ready to re-direct his anger and tear whoever it was a new one, when the aforementioned blue eyes had arrested the words in his throat. He had admitted this to no one. Hell, he barely admitted it in the sanctity of his own mind because he was not a 12 year old girl, but a senior partner in one of the most prestigious architecture firms in New York. He did not go soft over a pair of gorgeous eyes (except, apparently, that he did), particularly when he hadn’t even seen the face that went with the eyes, which could have been grotesquely unattractive (it wasn’t).

The mouth that went with the eyes was absurdly red and absurdly kissable. The face angelic. To his eternal, internal embarrassment he had thought that exact word— angelic. He wished he could have blamed his temporary insanity on hitting his head, but having fallen on top, he couldn’t. If anyone had a concussion it was the ocean-eyed, ruby-lipped angel man. The ruby lips had spluttered apologies in a gorgeous British accent (not something Erik had until now found to be a turn on) as they scrambled off each other, righting clothes and belongings.

“Your phone!” the man had moaned. “Is it all right?”

The screen did appear to have a crack, but in another moment of lunacy, Erik pocketed it before the Angel could see and muttered something about it being fine. Instead, Erik helped him to collect the papers that had fluttered every which way, including the road, where they were already being demolished by a steady stream of vehicles.

“I hope those weren’t important.”

The man laughed, it was a very nice sound. “Not as such, no. I’m sure my students will be delighted to hear that their papers were torn asunder. They already mock me for printing them at all. I could mark them on my laptop like a proper 21st century individual, but there’s something about the feel of paper and pen that I just cannot let go of. It’s— and, as I go on and see your expression, I realize a simple ‘no’ likely would have sufficed.”

What did he see in Erik’s expression? A man besotted? Enamoured? Smitten? Any other number of words he had never used in regard to himself or anyone else in his entire life? Fuck. Erik tried to school has face into its usual disdain for the world and ninety-nine percent of the people in it, but if he was as in control of his facial muscles as he was of his thoughts, he knew he was failing miserably.

Erik handed him the last of the papers they could possibly retrieve. “I agree— about the pen and paper, I mean.” He did. As incredible as design software was these days, he always started on paper. The precision needed to draw the perfect straight lines and angles of a new building gave him a feeling of immense satisfaction in a way little else did.

“Oh, well, glad I’m not the only one who hasn’t forsaken the old ways.”

His smile.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Erik cleared his throat. “Let me buy you a coffee.”

Had he just said that?

Traitorous voice.

Was he gesturing at Plant?

Traitorous body.

He’d never been inside. On principle. Apparently, principle flew out the window for charming British men with cornflower (cornflower?!) blue eyes. The man blinked those eyes, as though not expecting the kindness.

Erik gestured at the papers. “I’ve clearly set your work back and I’ve ruined your—” cardigan. Erik blinked as his clothes came into focus. The man he was suddenly, desperately, attracted to was wearing a baggy, grandpa cardigan. Erik began to wonder if he had never woken up that morning. Maybe he was still in bed, across the street. Maybe this was a fever dream.

“Oh! I’ve dozens more just like it. It’s nothing.” He swatted ineffectually at the dirt covering one sleeve.

“Please.”

The man cocked his head. “Well… all right.”

So Erik had. In the end it had been a tea, not coffee. Earl grey with mylk. The interaction had ended there, awkwardly. Most likely his own fault. He didn’t do flirting with random strangers he’d just plowed into on the street. He didn’t generally do flirting at all. Moreover, he was now very late and had the junior partner’s fuck ups to fix before this afternoon’s meeting with their client. So, he’d left, stumbling over his goodbyes.

The day that followed hadn’t afforded much opportunity to think on the chance encounter. Not with employees to castrate and clients to placate. It wasn’t until he was home, looking out the bank of front windows at Plant that his thoughts drifted back to Blue Eyes. Which was, unfortunately, what he had christened him in his head because he’d never gotten the man’s name. Erik had gone to bed, mind clouded with thoughts, dreamt of him, and woken up with those same thoughts. Emma had always said his was one of the most disciplined minds she had ever encountered.

So much for that.

It was only a complete loss of that discipline that could possibly explain why he’d unnecessarily crossed the street the next morning and entered the obnoxious establishment for a second time, without even a moment’s hesitation. His eyes had immediately scanned for a mop of just overlong brown hair (yes, he’d noted that too, as well as just how much he wanted to run his hands through it). When they’d landed upon said hair, curling delightfully upon Blue Eyes’ forehead, Erik had been genuinely surprised. This clearly made the man a Plant regular, which should have been a point against him — a massive point — yet here Erik was, seeking him out regardless. Blue Eyes had looked up at him then, gifting him with a smile and acknowledging him with a nod, before returning to a set of what Erik had to guess were re-printed term papers.

Such was the story of how Erik had become a regular customer with a regular order.

Most days Blue Eyes was there before he came in, sometimes working on laptop or in a notebook, other times reading a book or a journal. Erik had caught a title once — The Oxford Journal of Genetics — which led him to conclude, that along with clearly being a professor, this proved the man must have a brain to back up the looks. Another point in his favour, as Erik had no patience for stupidity, no matter how pretty a package it came in.

Erik’s day was such that he usually needed to take his order to go. The few days where he could scrape together a few extra minutes, he grabbed his own table. He hadn’t once attempted to kid himself that it was because he enjoyed the ambience— that level of denial would have been absurd. No, it was clearly so he could spend a few extra minutes trying to stare, in a way that wasn’t blatantly obvious, at his… crush. Crush. He might as well think the word because that’s what it was. Only days after meeting him, Erik had caught himself, pen poised, about to doodle hearts on his notepad at a meeting. The mental pinch and knowing look Emma had sent his way had made him extra testy for the rest of the day. The wide berth everyone but Emma had given him was a testament to that.

And yet…

He never approached Blue Eyes. They exchanged nods, occasional hellos, but never anything more. Out of all of his out of character behaviour — and there was a lot of it at this point — this rattled him most. Erik had a reputation in professional and personal circles. He was confident, forbidding, occasionally arrogant, and brazen in pursuing designs no one else thought possible to execute. Erik went after what he wanted in life with borderline fanaticism.

He did not sit and observe from afar, mentally warring with himself, while also berating himself, for not having the balls to ask to join him, or buy him another tea, or inquire as to what he was reading. There were any number of conversational openings, but 24th latte in, he still hadn’t taken any of them. With each passing day the side of him that decided against it (or ‘chickened out’ as the nastier part of his mind supplied) became stronger and stronger. Blue Eyes hadn’t engaged with him either. Maybe he wasn’t gay. Maybe Erik wasn’t his type. Maybe he was already in a relationship. The chances that he was being just as melodramatic as Erik was being in his own head seemed slim. So, Erik continued to act foolish — alternately wondering how long he would continue to do so and how good a kisser Blue Eyes might be with lips like that.

It was on latte #26 that everything changed— no thanks to Erik.

He had decided to sit at a table that day and engage in his usual ‘I’m staring but I’m not staring’ routine. He was in the ‘not-staring’ portion, scrolling through his emails without really paying attention to any of them, when he was startled out of it by the chair across from him suddenly becoming occupied.

Blue Eyes.

“I can’t take it anymore.”

“Wha—”

“You come in here every day. Every day. Sometimes you stay, sometimes you don’t. It’s baffling because there is one thing I know for certain— you hate it here. No, you loathe it. And, there are literally dozens of other coffee houses within walking distance. You clearly don’t belong—” Blue Eyes gestured up and down at what was likely Erik’s three piece suit, then at Plant in general, where there wasn’t a single person so much as sporting dress pants. Erik counted at least two man buns, one head of dreadlocks and a form of baggy pants Erik didn’t even have a name for. “—and I am fascinated by things that don’t belong. Things that don’t make sense. Puzzles. You don’t make sense. There is no way the coffee is that good. And yet, here you are. Oh! Where are my manners? I’m Charles.”

Blue Eyes — no, Charles — extended his hand across the table and, reflexively, Erik took it, shaking it gingerly.

Charles laughed. “I don’t bite. I entirely talk too much, ask anyone, but I don’t bite.”

Erik rather wished that he did.

“How did you— my suit?”

Thankfully, Charles seemed to follow his meaning. “Oh no, the suit is only corroborating evidence. As is the way you look down your nose at everything in here. It’s your mind.” Charles tapped his temple. “Telepath. I swear to you I haven’t dug any deeper than the surface swirl of utter distaste for this establishment. Then I’d know, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t be here asking.”

Telepath. Blue E— Charles was a mutant. Erik was fairly certain his knees went a little weak. Good thing they were sitting. However… what on earth could he say? ‘I’ve essentially been stalking you’ hardly seemed like an opener that was going to get him where he wanted to be. Erik cleared his throat, buying time, as those keen eyes continued to look at him expectantly. While Erik wasn’t verbose, he also never found himself at a loss for words, except for here and now, where the truth was exceptionally embarrassing.

His pause, it seemed, went on too long because Charles jumped back into the fray. “Good lord, I’ve ambushed you, haven’t I? Clearly, you don’t have to answer the mad man who mowed you down on the sidewalk and then ambushed the peaceful solitude of your morning coffee. I apologize and will bugger right off if you tell me to. However, if it helps any, I don’t like it here either. It’s trying too bloody hard to be ‘on trend,’ isn’t it? For a cultural subset who pride themselves on not being pretentious they’ve entirely failed, haven’t they? And, I’m English, I know pretentious.” He laughed self-depreciatingly at that.

A beat for his mind to catch up to the second verbal barrage and Erik finally had a response. “If you like it as little as I do, then why are you here?”

Charles’ mouth formed a perfect little ‘o’ of surprise. He scratched the back of his neck and, for a moment, looked everywhere but Erik. “Blast. I’m caught, aren’t I?”

His cheeks reddened adorably. Since when did Erik find anything adorable? Since now, apparently. This man broke all of his rules.

Charles gave an adorable (christ) little shrug of his shoulders. “I suppose I best come clean.” He looked Erik squarely in the eye. “You’re gorgeous. You bought me tea. I came back thinking I’d ask you out. But you’re so… I lost my nerve. Have been doing the same daily ever since.”

“I’m so… ?”

The cheeks reddened further.

“Entirely too gorgeous for me.” Charles gestured at today’s grandfatherly cardigan. “Besides that—”

“You’re perfect.”

Fucking hell. When had his mind decided to say things without his permission?

It produced another, adorable, surprised little ‘o’. “I’m sorry— What?”

In for a penny…

“I had never set foot in Plant before we crashed into each other. Never would have because I do hate everything about it. Everything except you, who I thought were a regular—”

“I thought you were a regular.”

“— and wanted to ask you out.”

“I’d never been here before ei— you wanted to ask me out?”

They stopped, collective words sinking into respective minds.

Charles threw his head back, laughing. “If I didn’t know better—“ He tapped his temple again. “— I’d think you’re having me on.”

His laughter was infectious and Erik found he was smiling despite himself. He gave his own little shrug. “I don’t lie.”

“No, you don’t, do you? I can’t believe we both—”

“Me either.”

“This is too much. Wait… Why are we still here?”

“I’m sorry?”

Charles leaned forward and plucked Erik’s latte with oat mylk from his hand. “Can I buy you a coffee? A real coffee? Where they know how to spell the word milk? At the cafe I actually frequented before I began co-starring with you in a romcom so terrible my sister wouldn’t even watch it?”

He was already standing up, as if assured Erik would say yes, which every single bone in his body was blaring loudly for him to do. It didn’t seem to matter to any part of him that he would be blowing off work, a thought he discarded as quickly as it appeared. Just another out of character thing to add to the list. He followed. “I’m Erik, by the way.”

Charles looked back, as he collected his belongings, and grinned sheepishly. “I know.”

That was the last time Erik set foot in Plant until exactly a year later. He ordered latte #27 with Blue-Eyed Charles on his arm, after having crossed the street from their apartment, to celebrate their first anniversary. As Charles smiled at him over his Earl Gray with mylk, Erik found he couldn’t quite hate the damned coffee shop as much as he had before.

#cherik #cherik fanfic #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #pinkoptics fic #au_gust #augustwritingchallenge

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