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fruggo · 3 years

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Hello ! I saw the enemies fo lovers things and I wanna request if possible

“ rich coming from the guy who tried to kill me three days ago. “

With frank if you would and thank you

yessirrr i love frank sm it’s not ok. also umm i may have accidentally written friends to enemies to lovers or something idk. and though i wouldnt necessarily call you friends at the start, you werent really enemies yet???? idk🐸just ummm yeh i love frank

also help how do i not go overboard???? i feel like i made this way too long, please help and i am sorry

warnings: canon-typical violence, swearing, frank being a bastard but then you’re like awwww he’s a cute bastard aaaaw

Things were weird with Frank, and they always had been from the moment you stepped foot in the Entity’s realm. He always tunneled you relentlessly, and that made you think of him as a big asshole, but there were some strange details tacked onto the sentiment that greatly confused you, should you think about it for more than three seconds.

Sometimes, it seemed like he went easy on you in chases, like he put in no effort. He would chase you for a while, let you waste his time, and then leave without even getting a hit on you when he definitely had the ability to.

And you hated saying this, but when he handled you, it almost felt…gentle. Granted, he was a killer, and his job was to murder you, but your experiences with him did not quite line up with those of the other survivors.

They always described trials against Frank as “stepping on legos in the middle of the night” or something akin to that. You never felt like that, though—when he chased you, it felt fair. Almost as if he played nice with you. And more often than not, the killer would let you go when he caught you. The reason remained a mystery to you until quite a bit later.

This trial, Frank was in 100% bastard mode. You had begun to think of his trials as quite easy due to his seemingly calm nature around you, so you were rather caught off guard when he downed you in the first 30 seconds of the match and tossed you onto a hook, no gentleness whatsoever.

You wanted to yell at him and ask what the fuck was wrong with him until you realized this was his fucking job, and this is how he should have been treating you all along. Maybe you had just been imagining it all, but you could have sworn he used to leave you alone more than this. Something just felt different.

After you were unhooked, he went for you again. And again. And then you were dead, completely wiped out of the trial. Frank had demolished you with no remorse.

You knew it was silly to feel betrayed, but you really couldn’t help it. In such an insane and hellish place, anything that could be even remotely perceived as kindness seemed like so much more of a big deal than it truly was. So Frank’s supposed “gentleness” with you had felt somewhat like a friend doing you a selfless favor. Of course, it was not a selfless favor, and it was certainly nowhere near kindness, because he was still a killer chasing you with a knife, but your standards had really lowered in this place.

After that trial, you were back to hating Frank for tunneling and bullying you (like you probably should). You began to understand the survivors’ saying about the legos—and you hoped that Frank would step on some legos too, because he fucking sucked sometimes.

And for a while, that’s just how it was. You nearly forgot how he used to go easier on you, and how you used to do okay in his matches. Now every time you were pit against each other it just felt like you were being stuck with a bunch of pins; you never had any time to breathe or rest or do literally anything. He just went after you until you were gone, and there was next to nothing you could do about it.

Everything changed very suddenly during a trial at Ormond.

You were expecting the same old routine with this asshole—chase, blah blah blah, die. You hardly had energy to fight back anymore.

So when he arrived out of breath at the killer shack, somehow knowing you would be here, Frank was surprised to find you relaxing under the window with your arms loosely crossed, a disapproving scowl upon your countenance. It was enough to make him hesitate in his tracks.

You let out a deep breath, refusing to break eye contact with his mask; you kept up that menacing frown for as long as you could, trying to make him feel guilty (who knows if it was even possible for him to feel guilty? But it was worth a try).

“Just kill me,” you said, voice steady and seemingly unbothered. Underneath the surface, you were trembling, but you stood your ground. “That’s what you’re gonna do, isn’t it? You’re going to chase me until I’m miserable and kill me off as soon as you can?”

Frank went still, not even fidgeting with his knife like he usually did; he was intrigued by your sudden confidence.

You went on. “I’m really sick and tired of you, you know that? I’m sick of you and your bullshit. Why can’t you treat me like everybody else? At first, you went easy on me. Now you just torture me with your stupid mind games, and frankly, I’m sick of playing! I’m done with you—I don’t care anymore! Just kill me, and I’ll get out of your way, okay asshole? Mori me if you want. I don’t give a shit.”

You put your hands up exasperatedly, fully expecting him to take the offer and just send you back to the campfire right then and there. But the man sighed, pocketed his knife, and sat down right next to you as if this were a normal thing for him to do.

You scooted a few inches away out of instinct. Frank noticed, but he chose not to say a word about it.

It was a long time before he said anything, and when he finally did, you wanted to punch him so bad.

“It’s complicated,” he mumbled. And that was all.

Oh, yeah? It was complicated? You scoffed, hanging your head with a bitter smile. “Oh, okay. Sure.”

Silence again.

Awkward, suffocating silence.

And then Frank got up and left. You were unbothered for the remainder of the trial, not even a scratch or bruise on your body.

Sometimes you simply did things, and you didn’t know why. This thing that you just did was irrational, stupid, unplanned, unwise, and everything in-between, and you knew it was, but frequently you just had no impulse control. Perhaps it was the Entity’s influence, or maybe you had always been this way—you couldn’t really remember.

How did you get here again? Why were you laying on the ground? And why did your leg hurt so fucking much?

Oh, yes. Yes, yes, you remember now.

Funnily enough, it seems as though the Entity, along with certain killers, did not like it when survivors tried to enter their side of the forest! But you did it anyways, and it appeared that you had suffered the consequences. It’s not like you had put much thought into it; where was the point in that when nothing mattered anymore and you were stuck in an endless cycle of death?

You remembered entering the killer’s woods, looking around, and doing…something. What was that something? You couldn’t be sure, but then you remembered somebody coming up to you and probably definitely hurting you. Yep, your leg definitely was in a lot of pain. You couldn’t even look at it. Did you pass out for a while? Maybe. How long were you out for?

You lay still there for a while, thinking. Man, it really hurt, and boy, were you miserable. Maybe more miserable than you’d ever felt here. The Entity normally healed wounds immediately, but perhaps you had just angered it so much you deserved to suffer.

Oh, dear! You seemed to be passing out at this time. Yes, that was almost certainly what was happening. Black spots danced across your eyes as your body began to feel distant and numb, but you didn’t feel very worried about it. In fact, you felt like making jokes right now, but you had nobody to make jokes to and you probably couldn’t even speak.

Just as you began to accept it, there was a strange thumping sensation vibrating through the ground growing closer…and closer…

Footsteps! That’s good!

Oh. Not if it’s a killer. That’s not good, probably.

But you had no way of protesting when you felt yourself being picked up, because those black spots in your eyes were dancing a lot faster now, perhaps something akin to an Irish jig, and you also couldn’t feel your limbs.

Then you were fast asleep again, dreaming of Irish dancers who were actually big fluffy cloud people wearing leprechaun clothes. Nobody but you would ever know this, and it was going to stay that way.

On the bright side, it made it a lot easier for your rescuer to carry you to safety like this.

When you awoke once more, you were horrified to find yourself in the Ormond lodge of all places. You knew immediately what had happened and were determined to escape as soon as possible.

Your injured leg proved to be a huge problem, however, and you collapsed the second you attempted to find freedom. Trying again, you collapsed once more, and probably maimed yourself further in the process.

Hearing the commotion from the second floor, your least favorite member of The Legion descended down from the main stairs, refusing to look directly at you even as he scooped you up and plunked you (gently) back onto the couch, which was rather comfortable (not that you would ever tell him that).

So he was playing it cool, huh?

Okay. You could play it cool, too. You were cool. Smooth as butter.

No. You really couldn’t be cool in a situation like this, and plus, your mind was still a little woohoo since whatever accident had occurred. Suddenly you blurted out, “Frank, I hate your guts.”

And he had the audacity to laugh. He laughed at you! He did the man chuckle thing, as if what you were saying was funny. No! You were completely serious! You did hate his guts!

Perhaps your face showed how upset you were, because he started to apologize (still laughing).

“Maybe you should go back to sleep,” Frank said after calming down a bit.

No. You couldn’t go back to sleep. You did not want to experience dancing cloud people dressed as leprechauns ever again in your life, for the rest of eternity. Never again.

So you shook your head violently, refusing to give an explanation, which just provoked Frank to anger all of a sudden. If you went back to sleep, he could have some alone time while the rest of The Legion was gone. He kept pushing, and you kept resisting, and he pushed and you resisted, until finally he gave up and let you off with a warning. If you made him mad again, he was throwing you out in the snow.

Fine with me, you said. Okay, I’ll do it right now, he said. No balls, you said.

So then Frank casually went to scoop you up in his arms again, and you started to freak out and beat your hands against his chest until he put you back down. He was was awfully mindful of your hurt leg for someone who was about to throw you into the snow.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please don’t throw me out,” you fussed. You thought he wouldn’t actually do it. You didn’t know it, but you were right—he was just messing with you because it was funny seeing you scared.

After a bit more griping back and forth, Frank began to grow concerned about your leg. He didn’t know how to bring up the topic because things were so odd between the two of you; this was your first interaction since the brief encounter in the shack. But he swallowed his pride, because the wound seemed to be getting worse by the minute.

“Hey, do you want me to, uhh…get some supplies?” Frank asked awkwardly. When you didn’t understand, he continued, “Your leg? It looks like it hurts…I could fix it if you want.”

You barked out a laugh at his words, unbelieving of this shift in attitude. “Rich coming from the guy who tried to kill me three days ago,” you snickered, genuinely finding it amusing.

Frank took offense. He was trying to be nice for once, and you thought it was funny. And his situation really was complex, whether you chose to believe it or not. Maybe he should just tell you to get it off of his chest.

“Listen,” he said, voice laced with seriousness. “When I told you things were complicated, I meant it.”

Sensing the mood change from his tone and body language, you stopped smiling and decided to pay attention to him. Just this once. Never again. After this you could go back to hating him.

Frank continued. “The Entity was going to start…well, hurting me, if I didn’t start doing better in trials. I really didn’t want to sacrifice you, which is embarrassing to admit, but I’ll say it. And I don’t think it liked that.”

You were surprised. And also relieved that you had been right all along—he had been going easy on you at first.

“Why me, though?” you asked, confused. “Why wouldn’t you want to sacrifice me? What about the other survivors?”

If the slight tilt of his head at your question didn’t answer it for you, the way he started tapping his feet and cracking his knuckles so nervously did.

Boy, if looks could kill, you would have died instantly at the scowl Frank sent your way; you grinned pridefully at the realization that this man was down bad. You couldn’t see the expression behind his mask, though, which Frank was thankful for.

He hated every second of this, but you loved it. You reveled in his embarrassment.

Leaning forward on your hands, you begged, “Tell me more! I want to hear all about your feelings for me.”

“I could stab you right now, you know that?”

“But you won’t. You liiiiike me!”

“What are you, eight years old?”

“No, but I am severely injured and have lost a lot of blood so I am not necessarily in the right headspace at the moment.”

“You make a fair point.”

“So tell me! What’s your favorite thing about me?”

“Your ass.”

“No, really.”

“Okay, your ass and your hair.”

“You know what, Frank, I still hate your guts.”

“No, you don’t.”

You paused for a moment. It was probably the blood loss talking, you decided later, but you said, “No. Maybe I don’t.”

#:) i kinda rly like this ahaha it was fun #i hope it’s okay <3 #fruggo writes #requests #enemies to lovers prompt #frank morrison x reader #frank morrison #the legion x reader #the legion #dbd x reader #dbd oneshot #dbd writing #dead by daylight x reader #dead by daylight #dbd #dbd frank

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liltaz-asatreat · 2 years

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MAGNUS >:D also devo for the character bingo !

*jumps out from behind a rock* MAGNUS!!!

Lol

You can find the ask game here!

For Magnus:

I would say he's cool looking, but I picture him looking more like a dork than anything fjdlahflajdla

And honestly, Travis and Griffin did a pretty good job of exploring the depth that Magnus had, but I feel like there's still more they could have explored like, my biggest question re- what the FUCK is the difference between being a "good person" and a "good man", Travis, for the love of God you're giving me nothing to work with here, and all you showed there being different between Stolen Century Magnus and Campaign Magnus is that he was a little bit more of a shit and a little bit more self absorbed. That's not nothing but it's also nothing, you get me??

God 🙄

Also, Travis gave like, a hundred different origins for "Magnus' budding protection instinct" like, bud, you gotta settle on one and maybe explore than further, and if it turns out he's just Like That, that's fine, but you don't have to make a reason every cycle and past memory about This being The Moment lol

Also would have loved to see how he forms friendships and bonds with people and the mechanics of how he operates when he isn't protecting someone, being a goofball, or reminiscing on trauma. Like, his friendship with Carey or how he connected with Julia or LITERALLY ANYONE THAT ISN'T MERLE AND TAAKO (though I recognize that that's just how it is when the other characters aren't the main characters gjdlahflajdla but still lol)

Also, while he is a goofball and rather non intimidating when he's not trying to be, I think I would still be kind of afraid of him? Which is why there's only a slash lol Like, I think because of how big a dude he is and how I feel like he's comfortable taking up space and being Present would make me feel a little intimidated upon first seeing him and meeting him, but then I would relax pretty easily after getting to know him. But then I would probably also go back to being intimidated the first time I saw him angry at someone or doing something where he is trying to be intimidating

And for Devo:

I already pretty much gave the reason why I don't have much to say about him/the Ethersea characters in the last post with Amber and touched on how he was done dirty by some of the fans while talking about her too, but most of the posts I've seen about him were chill too, so that's why that's also just a slash lol

And the reason why I put a slash through wasted potential is because, while I think Travis played him really well and he's a really well thought out character, I feel like he didn't show a lot of character growth until the very end. Like, he went from being really timid to being more sure of himself very quickly which is great, but he stagnated a long time on pissing off literally everyone, and he only saw it as a real problem once before the end, and that was with the bar fiasco when they went to go talk to Shret, and I thought that was going to be The Moment, but then he went back to doing literally the same thing which I know progress isn't linear, and that's honestly why I wish they had stuck with Ethersea longer because he wasn't done cooking! He took a good hard look at his life and was learning, and he got done dirty by the fact that they ended his story there. Which, I get why they did, 100% but like, while I could see Amber and Zoox's storylines being wrapped up, Devo's was only just finally beginning to open up, and that's where most of my feelings on the wasted potential come from tbh. He needed a lot more time to grow as a person which is fine, but now we're supposed to take it on faith that he did in the very last episode??? And they're probably not going to come back to him to follow up on that??? Really?????

Makes me a little upset to think about >:(

#thank you for sending this in!! :D #ask game #Gab gabs #taz balance #taz ethersea

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trans-cuchulainn · 3 years

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What are the major details that confused you about the Hound blurb? The major one that stood put to me was the "way of the farmer opposed to the sword" thing which felt very...un-Cú Chulainn. Also, if you don't mind expanding further, which details didn't you question/be confused by?

and also for anon:

okay so it is like. 2am so there are not going to be any sources here but i can't sleep so here goes!! i will go through this blurb line by line and give youse my thoughts

In 50 BCE,

reasonable. this is roughly the right time period for when the ulster cycle is set. maybe marginally earlier than i'd place cú chulainn, but i'm talking a few years, nothing to get worked up about.

Morrigan, the goddess of war,

fine. normally i'm wary of pantheonising impulses with regard to irish characters (almost none of them can be identified as a god of anything in particular, it doesn't work like that) but tbh the morrigan is like, the most plausible exception to that, so whatever. normally her name has the definite article attached to it because it's kind of a species term as well but whatevs.

has become restless as a long-lasting peace settles over Ireland.

dubious. closest i can think of to peace being reference in any texts is togail bruidne da derga talking about conaire mor's reign being like, prosperous and peaceful and whatever, and even there you've got díberg (plundering/reaving) which is what eventually fucks him over and starts the otherworldly hell spiral situation. that's roughly the right period here but conaire's doom proves you don't have to do much to nudge peace into war, and connacht and ulster are at each other's throats for years before cú chulainn comes on the scene anyway

Deciding the time of peace must end, she chooses Setanta, the nephew of the king of the north, to become her ward.

hmm. i mean. like, this isn't the WEIRDEST choice they could have made. it's still completely made-up, don't get me wrong -- cú chulainn has a lot of different foster parents in different texts and they don't agree with each other but none of them ever mentions the morrígan. but like, they do have a connection of some sort, as evidenced by their conversations. and there's that one moment in the r1 boyhood deeds where little cú chulainn is out on the battlefield and hears her (not sure which name is used here) calling out to him and it like. motivates him to do some deeds or whatever, and i guess you could extrapolate that into some kind of teaching capacity.

so like. could be weirder. if you're gonna pick anyone, you could do worse. still seems weird to me! but not on its own a major issue, i could get past this and consider it a Fun But Unorthodox Creative Decision

(the fact that she tries to seduce him in the táin probably wouldn't get in the way of this considering sleeping with his teachers/foster-mothers is far from unheard of where cú chulainn is concerned)

After a young Setanta slays the demon-hound of Cullan, he becomes known as Cú Cullan—The Hound of Cullan.

weird spelling choices, they could have at least bothered to use the genitive properly. also the hound isn't a demon, it's a ferocious watchdog -- making it sound all Otherworldly and Hellish like this kinda confuses the issue of why he would need to take its place. he needs to take its place because the cattle and people still need protecting because it is a watchdog!! but whatevs, again, it's a brief summary so they can't exactly give us all the details and this is not actively objectionable

As Cú Cullan grows older, it is apparent that an extraordinary power lies within him … and a great darkness.

ugh boring. this makes it sound like he's going to be ~tortured~ and angsty about it. give me an unapologetic murder teen please. is the ríastrad dark? sure i guess, if you're going to be boring about it. it's more like, grotesque neon in my head

When he chooses the quiet life of a farmer over the sword,

this would fucking never happen on like five different levels. obviously like anyone who has ever read anything about cú chulainn can see that this is not in his nature. he is never going to choose a quiet life. this is the kid who tricked his way into taking arms before everyone thought he was ready. also juxtaposed with the "darkness" comment makes it sound like he would Angst his way into this quiet life which. again. have you seen this kid. he is an unapologetic murder teen

the only thing i can think of that might make him temporarily want to walk away is connla's death which... depends where you position that in the timeline really, he does seem a bit fucked up by it and maybe he'd want a holiday although i can see that lasting precisely 5 minutes before someone pissed him off enough for him to murder them. but if he's being raised by the morrígan i can't see him going to train with scáthach so then he'd never meet aífe and therefore connla would never be born so that wouldn't happen. so like. whatever.

but also like. he would not become a farmer. he just wouldn't! it doesn't work! the ireland of the stories is super hierarchical, right? and this blurb has already fucking told us that he's the king's nephew (canon) so we can tell that being a farmer is Not His Place. when we see upper class figures becoming menial labourers in texts, like in cath maige tuired, it's because Things Are Fucked, Shit's Gone Wrong. people don't just decide to change their entire social class on a whim lmfao

if cú chulainn really wanted to turn his back on being a warrior he could probably make recourse to certain other Suitable Professions ... his grandad's a druid so he might have a route into that, though his dad's not so that might fuck things up a bit bc it's one of those things that's usually inherited. he does give "wisdom" in at least one text though and we also know he can write (he carves riddles in ogham in the táin) and he composes verses on various occasions so idk, maybe something in a poetic direction, though again, usually requires two generations of inheritance to be a real poet and not just a lower-class bard. warrior's kinda the main thing he's got open to him tbh. but farming? i'm not a legal expert but as far as i'm aware based on what i have read, that would fuck shit up

more likely an upset cú chulainn would just go off in search of an adventure somewhere conveniently far away until he'd calmed down (alba, or the tyrrhenian sea, or -- if we're going to get early modern about it -- somewhere like india, which frequently gets thrown into the texts with absolutely no cultural context and it's always hilarious)

Morrigan, angry at the betrayal,

of the entire social order, yes,

instigates an invasion of his homeland

i mean. if they intend this to be the táin then.... táin bó regamna does kinda make the morrígan responsible for it? not in the sense of triggering the pillow talk argument that it's in the book of leinster -- it's her getting up to her usual cow-nicking behaviours for shits and giggles. [note to readers: it is probably for more than shits and giggles but did i mention it's 2am]

but all in all, not particularly out of character that she would be at least some way responsible for this so i can vibe with this. echtra nerai also supports the TBR explanation with her fucking around with otherworldly cows and pissing people off so, yeah, whatever. the morrígan engineered this. sure.

and Cú Cullan must challenge fate itself

this is probably a controversial stance but fate feels like a difficult concept to apply to medieval irish texts. like are people sometimes Doomed? yes. there are prophecies, there are gessi, there's all manner of otherworldly fuckery that can trip you up. is that the same thing as fate? no idea. considering cú chulainn comes out alive from the táin though and his doom prophecies don't catch up to him for like, at least another decade, maybe 16 years depending on who you listen to, hard to see how that would apply here

to keep the goddess at bay.

again like she IS causing fuckery in the táin but also it's like... one time. really not the main character. but she or maybe just some crows, hard to say, do get implicated in the death tale so maybe they're doing what people often do and conflating the two? even though there's like 10-16 years in between them?

anyway as you can see i don’t think it’s wholly terrible / i’m not completely thinkshaming it. like, having cú chulainn raised by the morrígan is unorthodox but it could be a fun and creative direction so i don't object to it. making cú chulainn get sad about murder and choose to be a farmer is just fucking laughable tho, and makes me doubt their characterisations in general. so that's offputting and would probably make me think twice about buying it, if that had ever been on the cards.*

and of course sure, their cú chulainn can be a Sad Boy Who Likes Sheep, but that means he's not the cú chulainn of medieval irish lit / irish myth, because that cú chulainn is a feral murder teen who keeps killing his friends and also is way too high social status to ever be a farmer, and whose only relationship to livestock is as the watchdog who kills anyone trying to harm them (which is an important role on a farm! but like. not the same thing as Being A Farmer. mostly because it involves more murder and is essentially just an extension of his role as a warrior. or rather the other way around. he promises to protect mag muirthemne as a watchdog and this like. gets extended into him becoming its sole defender)

this has been my analysis of this blurb i hope you enjoyed it

it's now 2.30am i should try and sleep now that i've exorcised a few thoughts from my head

*as i mentioned in the tags of my other post, i don't tend to read graphic novels due to disability stuff. they're much harder for me to understand and follow than prose, to the point where some are incomprehensible, so i don't really enjoy them. there are a few i've read, but they tend to be short ones, and i'm usually not reading them in order, just admiring the art separately from the text. so it's unlikely i would read a graphic novel of this size anyway.

#cu chulainn #hound #hound graphic novel #answered #oddnub-eye #anonymous #irish mythology #medieval irish #tain bo cuailnge

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genshin-obsessed · 3 years

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I dread everything about school, sure, I got some friends. But that doesn't help ease the pain of having a mental breakdown the night before school starts.

I've given up trying to ask my mom or dad if I could get a day off, my mom wouldn't allow me since my dad won't let me. My dad has said he only cares about my education, so I don't see the point in trying anymore.

I envy people who have a mental break day where they can skip school/work. Even in the weekend I can't get rest without thinking about tomorrow. I had a breakdown last week and ended up being yelled at by my dad. Now I really don't think he cares about me besides getting an education.

I already plan on getting an actual job, started a business, how much longer do I have to suffer before I can just get a day off? Or when will I ever be good enough for him?? I'm trying to do things that make me useable enough for society, even though my grades are fucking failing and I can't stop lashing out on things.

These things don't matter anyway, he'll just end up telling me again "and I don't want to go to work" then WHY THE FUCK DID YOU GET THAT JOB?? fucking peice of shit, he doesn't care about my mental health unless it makes me unable to be a working citizen and get an education.

I'm so fucking tired, I'm trying to keep everything in, but I'm so afraid. I'm so afraid that something will happen that I can't control. I don't want to hurt someone again, but I don't know how much longer I can keep it all in.

I just have to suck it all up, going to school like nothing happened, again. My suicidal thoughts have started to come back, my anxiety has been worse and worse, and I feel like relapsing again.

The only reason I don't self-harm anymore is so I don't get put into a mental hospital again. But if I end up not keeping all these urges and thoughts away then I'll just end up in the mental hospital or worse, an actual prison. The mental hospital felt like a prison anyway, which is why I'm scared to tell any teacher or adult at my school.

It's also 1am, and I shouldn't be bothering anyone with this. I can't bother my sister, she has to get enough sleep to go to work, and with how much little time I get with her now, it's just like when she was in college and i had nobody. My parents are useless in this situation, because my mom would just get yelled at by my dad for suggesting me staying home. And talking to her feels so.. uncomfortable. My dad is just a no. There is no talk about my mental health, if I'm feeling sad, I'll just have to deal with it.

I'm stuck, I don't know how much longer this will last, but probably for a couple more years.

I wish I could easily take my life away, there is hardly anything I want in life anymore.

Just a note before I start: I made a new tag for anyone to block because I’m gonna allow more serious topics with it. I’ll go with the regular tw tags as well, but this one is just one big tag: 🐚— vent

Right, onto you anon. I wanna start by saying I am so, so sorry you’re going through this. I understand, my mother was extremely hard on me in school. She rarely let me take breaks off of school and kept his idea that I had to attend almost every day to be a good student and to have a good education.

Even in college, both of my parents are pretty hard on me to take “good classes” and not “waste” my time. I don’t think many parents understand the stresses of school and it makes it hard for them to understand how terrible those days can be.

The school system is all messed up. Learning subjects that most of us won’t use- unless you’re choose a job in that particular field- teachers pile on too much homework, everything is just memorization at this point, and it gives us little time to relax. The way some teachers even assign homework makes it hard for us to even relax on weekends, which is why we have them. You really only have summer and even then, some parents force their children into extra activities then.

You feelings are valid. 100%. You’re allowed to feel exhausted, especially when you’re not getting any breaks. Getting through high school is the probably the only thing that’s really required for most jobs. But having a college degree doesn’t mean you’ll be rolling in money. It just means you can have a more secure job but by no means guarantees success. Parents don’t realize that.

For you, especially, it’s all building up. I’m sure you already know this to. Holding it in 100% won’t help. The stress also seems to be affecting your school work and it’s making it harder to pass classes which just leads your parents to lash out. It’s a vicious cycle that just doesn’t stop. And the only way to really stop such a thing is to take a step back, but you’re not even allowed to do that.

I think the attempt to please your dad’s ideals is also adding stress. You want to be good enough, and that’s understandable, but sometimes parents project what they couldn’t do onto us. Sometimes, it’s never enough because at the end of the day, they’re not the ones who could accomplish that. I’m sorry to say that and I hope it doesn’t upset you further, but maybe you should try doing this for yourself and not him. Some parents will never be happy- as sad as it is to say that.

I’m glad you don’t self harm, and I’m really proud of you for breaking away from that. Yes, it may just be to stay away from the mental hospital, but I’m still happy you’re staying away from it. Although, I would recommend talking to someone about this, other than me of course, because I can’t do much for you, unfortunately. I can only listen and offer a bit of advice.

Though you don’t want to stress out your sister, it seems like she may be the only one you can kind of trust. Maybe if you’re of age, you could try talking to a therapist or meeting with a school counselor/therapist. They may be able to actively help you, maybe even working with some of your teachers to lessen the workload. Either way, they’ll be more helpful than me.

I want you to know you’re doing an amazing job though. You’re still going after all of this and I know it seems bad, but I know it’ll get better. I know this isn’t much, but I’m very proud of your resilience.

If anything, when you’re on your own and in college, you can 100% take a break and you’ll definitely deserve it. But I do want you to try and talk to somebody you find you can trust. Or try to reach out for help, because something like this can’t be done alone.

There is one thing I think you want and that’s to be free from all of this. School, your parents, the exhaustion, the stress, and so that can be your goal. Though these days will show up often, maybe the idea of being free from all of this while still being able to live a happy life can be that push you need. I’m not sure if you’re able to move away for college, but I would recommend you do that. It’s a little difficult to be on your own, but you’ll get to choose how you live.

I know my response was kinda all over the place, but I really hope it helped anon💖💖 you’re always welcome to come here and talk to me if you’d like. Maybe about school, homework, just to vent, or chat! I would like to hear how you’re doing too 🥺💖

#🌸─ pocket tries #⊱ ─ anonymous #🐚— vent #tw: mentions of self harm #tw: suicidal thoughts #serious #tw: self harm

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bucky-iss-bae · 4 years

Text

Never Hold Back (Peter Hale x Reader)

Requested by Anon - Okay so this request I kind of got attatched to because I am constantly being told to ‘Shh’ when talking about something I’m passionate about, I’ve leart to keep things to myself, but when I got this come through i had to write it straight away. Its 3am, I have work in the morning but I accidently wrote 2000 words lmao.

The Request: Reader throughout life has been told she's annoying and talks to much, and one day she's talking about something and Peter kind of snaps at her, so she stops talking but it breaks Peter's heart when she explains she understands.

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Pairing: Peter Hale x Reader

Warnings: Self Doubt

Word Count: 2000ish (oops)

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Being someone with such a big personality, so much passion and love was sometimes both a blessing and a curse. But growing up, timelessly being told to ‘shh’ when talking about something you cared about, something you got a bit too excited for, something that you were passionate often made you want to stop talking.

It was an endless cycle, getting comfortable to talk freely to then be told to be quiet. Your parents growing up, although they listened, there was always that being told to be quiet, to stop talking. Siblings constantly telling you that you talking so much was annoying. Teachers and Peers the same. Getting called out on in class for the smallest whisper knocked you down.

Small constant comments knocked you down, it was horrible. But it’s always been there in your chest, the excitement you get with certain topics, if you know something, you want to share this. If you’re happy about something you want to share it, almost immediately regretting it because people have a habit of shitting on a good mood.

When working you learnt how to almost control the fact that you talked all the time, you had to be careful of what you said and to whom you said it to. You sometimes feel like you should’ve gone into something like sales because apparently, they’re all good talkers, but you weren’t you just liked to talk, loved to express happiness and passion on certain subject. For example, your favourite film was something you could just talk about all the time, it was something you got so excited about, something you loved to analyse and dig deeper about.

You found the people in your life that you could talk about anything to, it was amazing knowing that the pack that you surrounded yourself with loved to hear you talk, built up your confidence again. But the after effects of growing up, constantly being told that whenever you spoke about something you’re passionate about was annoying, being told every single day to ‘shh’, oh be quiet, or even those not listening to you and you saying something that made you so happy for you to be met with silence after. That always stuck with you, and that still stops you from pouring your heart out. But the sad thing is, sometimes it doesn’t, and sometimes you’re taken back to that horrible feeling you grew up trying to get rid of.

It was late and you were at the loft, everyone met up here every now and then, and although you weren’t any supernatural of any kind, you had that nurturing side of you that became the pack mom. The reason why you were still sat there was because a re-run of your favourite tv show was on, only yourself and Peter were there.

Peter was a weird one. He was quiet unless being dramatic, but he knew everything about everyone. Although he was quite a bit older than you are, he didn’t always seem it. You had grown a liking towards him, one that you couldn’t quite control, it became a problem. It meant around him you wanted to be yourself, you wanted to be the person that you love to be, you wanted to talk to him, tell him about your day, tell him about the good and bad that happened at work. He became someone that you wanted to show yourself to the most, but you always tried to hold back. Until you couldn’t.

Sat watching TV was surprisingly relaxing although you were supposed to be on your way home, a day that just tore you apart, it was the small things that made you happy.

“I just love this” you started to gush, “Like I haven’t watched this in so long, and it was literally my favourite let me tell you, and it’s like whenever I watch it for the first time in a long time, all the feelings just come back, and all the excitement and ugh, I love it” You grinned smiling at the TV,

You heard Peter mumbling something under his breath, “Do you ever shut up?” He growled out.

You stopped for a moment, your heart hammering in your chest, not expecting him to come out with that. Do I ever shut up? You felt your chest constrict slightly, do you ever shut up? Do you? Do you annoy people that much that everyone just has a habit of telling you to shut up?

“Um… I’m just…” your voice cracked slightly, betraying you, why did this one comment have to take you over the edge, the one comment given to you by the person you do want to spend all your time to, and the person you do always want to talk to. You would think after second guessing your whole life when to talk that you would know better, “I’m going now” You whispered untucking yourself off the couch and refusing to face him, he would see the tears pooling in your eyes, he would have something to break your heart ever further. Because although it’s the small things that make you happy, it’s also the small things that can break you in half.

You got up with your things and quickly walked out,

“Y/N, Y/N” Peter called behind you, shock clear in his voice.

He didn’t expect for you to get this upset, he just wanted to create distance between the two of you, wanted you to hate him the same way everyone else did. Not treat him with the kindness and generosity that you do. The type that makes you deserve the world.

You ignored Peter and started making your way downstairs to get to your car. He missed the lift, but his speed let him get down there quicker, standing outside the lift,

“I’m sorry for hurting you like that Y/N, I didn’t mean it”

“It’s okay Peter” You shrugged giving him a tight smile although the tear stains on your cheek broke his heart in two, “I’m used to it. I should’ve known better”

You walked past him and unlocked your car as he chased after you, “Used to it, what to you mean… Y/N, what do you mean used to it?”

He tried to shut your car door before you could get in but was too busy thinking about why she would be used to that sort of behaviour. This is Peter, he’s a prick, he wants everyone to know he’s a prick, but he wants you to know he’s a prick. But why would anyone else treat someone so good like this.

He went around and got into the passenger side, “Hey, hey, I’m sorry” he said grabbing your chin to make your look at him,

He saw the look in your eyes, the heartbroken look, the red rimmed eyes, and the tears on your cheek, he wiped a few away with his thumb, “I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to hurt you Y/N, I would never mean to hurt you”

You shook your head, “Peter don’t you get it. I’m used to it. I should be at least. So I don’t know why you saying that hurt. But my whole life, my whole life being told to be quiet, to stop talking, to not being listened to, to be told that I’m annoying whenever I get excited about anything. I should be used to it, so hearing it from one extra person makes me realise Peter that I need to reign it in”

It broke his heart to hear that, to hear that you had people constantly talking bad to you just because of talking.

“Are you kidding me Y/N? You treat everyone with so much love and respect, why would anyone ever treat you with less?”

“You tell me Peter?”

“Well… I treat everyone the way they treat me aside from you. I done that because you treat me with so much kindness, none of which I deserve, I don’t get why you don’t resent me like everyone else, why you treat me differently. I want you to hate me Y/N, because I’m getting too close to you”

You couldn’t help but scoff at that, “Peter, yeah I treat everyone with respect and kindess because everyone deserves it. But come on. This is me, everyone knows I talk to much”

“You talk to much? Sweetheart, I am the king of talking too much. Everyone knows I love the sound of my own voice, and you should to, I know I do”

“Yeah, Peter, look at you, why would anyone tell you to be quiet, why would anyone call you annoying. You would rip their throat out”

“I’m not sure if you’re aware Y/N, but all the pack call me is annoying. But forget about me for a second, I just, I didn’t mean to tell you to shut up, or to stop talking. If it were up to me I would listen to you talk forever, god I could never get sick of your voice. But I needed to find a way to push you away, for you to hate me”

You shook your head at that, “I could never hate you Peter” You whispered, “And I promise, I’m fine”

“No you’re not. You need to know that I mean what I’m saying right now. You need to know that I see the look you have in your eyes when you talk about anything that makes you happy. The shine that you have when you talk about your favourite food, when you talk about something funny that happened in your day, or a new song, or ever like upstairs, talking about your favourite TV show, I could sit here and just listen to your beautiful voice go on and on, because you are not annoying Y/N.

You’re the person that treats me like I mean something, you’re the person that makes me come to these pack meetings just to hear your voice, to see your face. You’re the person that is so smart that I could listen to what you learnt and the theories you’ve come up with because they’re right most of the time. You’re the person that I always hear and listen to, when no one else does. I love your voice, I love everything about you, and I hate that I’m not compatible with you to show this to you every single day, because you need to know your worth sweetheart.

You need to know that every time that someone has told you to shh, that they should be the ones to shut up, that you should stand tall, and not ever let anyone put you down, not someone like me, not anyone ever. Because you’re too good for this world and too good for me no matter how much I want you. But I need you to know how perfect you are, and how you should allow yourself to talk, all the time”

You stared in awe as he spoke to you with so much sincerity in his eyes, his hands cupping your face. The nicest words that anyone had ever spoken to you, yet you still had doubt, the voices in the back of your head.

“You don’t mean that Peter, why would you want someone annoying like me?”

He let out a small chuckle at that, “Don’t you get it Y/N, it’s these qualities that you deem imperfect that make you perfect. You’re not annoying, and to me you never will be. Instead you’re just this ball of perfection that is too good for the world. And I just love that about you Y/N”

“You mean it?” you whispered, different tears reaching your eyes this time,

He smiled and nodded, “Why do you think I stuck around for huh? It wasn’t for anyone else except you”

With him saying that you didn’t think before leaning forward kissing him.

You took him by slight surprise, but he was quick to deepen the kiss. Quick to pull you closer.

“Fuck, if I knew you felt the same…” He whispered, “I’m so sorry for making you cry, but I promise you that I will do my best to make it up to you”

“As long as you’re not unnecessarily mean to me again, I’ll take you up on that offer”

“God no, if I knew you wanted this, I never would’ve tried to push you away. I never would’ve been the Peter that everyone else knows.”

You chuckled at that, shocked at how quickly the events had changed, hearing Peter say everything you’ve ever needed someone to say to you, having the man who never shares his feelings, his emotions or thoughts pour his heart out to you for you meant more than both of you could ever realise.

He felt bad at how he hurt you, he hated the emotional pain you had gone through. All he wants to do is fix that and show how much he loves you, how much he cares, and how much he loves to listen to you talk, because he wants to listen to you. All day every day. Listen to you sing and talk and to share his own confidence to build yours entirely up because god knows you deserve it.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed, any more requests send my wayyyy (I promise I am good at writing and do make sense, I’m just tired and got a lil excited for this lol)

#Peter Hale #peter hale fic #peter hale fanfiction #peter x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf fic #teen wolf fan fiction #peter hale imagine #Peter Hale Request #Request #Peter Hale x Reader #Peter Hale x You

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bre-meister · 4 years

Note

I need some pre married/family angst

this is early relationship so pre-family and pre-married Cleon. I hope it’s angsty enough I kind of got distracted while writing to fight a huge ass hornet in my room ( I was super terrified ngl). This was such a journey for me to write that I don’t even have an official title for it like I normally try to do lol. This has also taught me that I need to work on angst that is not “person A and Person B fight”. Sorry for the rant here's the actual work:

Claire was mad. No, Claire was beyond mad. Claire Redfield was absolutely furious. Her rage was so blinding that she couldn’t even be bothered to apologize to the nice looking doorman as she barreled through the lobby of the apartment building of the object of said anger. She was sorry - felt the apology in her bones as soon as the smaller man began to cringe and cower slightly in her presence - but again, her anger prevented it from passing her lips.

Secretly, she did take a little pride in the fact that, as she entered the elevator, a young-looking couple decided to “wait for the next one” instead of sharing with her. It gave her a little more time to stew in her anger - pulling from the depths of her soul, every time that she had said it was okay even when it wasn’t - before she came face to face with him.

“What the hell Leon!”

The door to his apartment opened with such force that if circumstances had been different, she would have been worried about possibly putting a hole in the wall. Alas, her attention was not on the wall, but instead on the man lying on the couch in front of her. Leon was clearly either drunk or hungover. Although considering what she’d heard from both her brother - half the reason she was here in the first place - there was a distinct possibility it could be both. Claire wasn’t sure that could actually happen, but if anyone could make it a thing it would most definitely be Leon S. Kennedy.

All that came out of his mouth was unintelligible garble mixed in with a few pained groans. Claire took pleasure in that for a moment and allowed it to further stoke the flames inside of her. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was about to do. She’d kind of just gone on autopilot after getting. Chris’s concerned texts. Apparently, Leon had been ghosting everyone over the last week. So, there she stood, upset and silent until Leon made the mistake of finally speaking real words.

“Red,”

Claire didn’t let him finish. She exploded,

“No! You don’t get to do that, you hear me? You don’t!”

Claire moved towards the couch and yanked off the blanket covering Leon with more force than was probably necessary. The blanket had apparently been completely wrapped around him and, in his current state, that was enough to cause him to tumble to the floor. He let out another grunt of pain as he landed but Claire didn’t care.

“Get your ass up.” Her voice had calmed, steadied to an even tone. Her anger no longer manifested itself in yelling, but instead as a low growl behind her words.

When he didn’t make any effort to move, she said it again,

“I’m not asking Leon. Get up.”

He finally did as told. Standing he slowly moved to the small kitchen behind the couch. There he found a glass that looked somewhat cleaned and began to fill it with water.

This wasn’t the first time that Claire had been there to pick up the pieces whenever Leon fell apart. Safe to say, those instances had never quite played out like this one and Leon was a little jarred and, admittedly, a little afraid of what the red-headed woman might do.

They stared at each other as Claire gave Leon a moment to swallow the little bit of water that was left in his glass. When he sat it in the sink and she remained silent he let his impaired brain convince him that meant he should speak.

“What’s your problem? Chris piss in your Wheaties this morning?”

The look on her face caused concern. The laugh that followed chilled him to the core. Leon S. Kennedy had faced down and won so many B.O.Ws that he had lost count but at that moment as he looked across the room at a laughing Claire Redfield, he knew that he had quite possibly signed his death warrant. He also knew that if this truly were how he died, several people would help her cover it up, and frankly, he couldn’t blame them.

“My problem?” she continued to laugh, “What’s my problem?”

Leon was getting a little nervous. In yet another mistake, he even let out a few nerve filled chuckles himself.

“No, you don’t get to laugh! This isn’t funny,” and yet she was still laughing.

Leon was not.

“Do you know why this isn’t funny? Because I don’t think you do.”

He couldn’t have answered even if he wanted to - Claire cut him off as soon as he opened his mouth to fumble through some bullshit excuse.

“You don’t. I know you don’t because if you did you would have had your ass at the restaurant last week, Leon!”

Leon felt his stomach drop. Oh no. He really had fucked up this time.

“Sherry’s birthday.” He felt more than heard the mumbled words slip past his lips.

“Ya, Sherry’s birthday,” Claire turned around to finally close the door and Leon took the opportunity to sit down in one of the few chairs at his tiny kitchen table.

“You know, I was okay with this when it was only me you were fucking over. I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was. I told myself over and over that it was fine, you needed this time, you needed me and I was more than happy to give it to you - everything. I give you everything! But it was okay because you were always there for me too. Most of the time at least. And I get it, Leon, hell I get it more than probably anyone else. What we went through was hell, no one should have to go through that once let alone as many times as you do. But I was there too, I have to deal with that shit too. Sherry has to deal with that shit. She was Twelve Leon.”

“I know -”

“Then where the fuck were you? This was all she wanted! All she asked for for her birthday was for all three of us to be there, together and you couldn’t even get your shit together enough to give that to her. No call, no text, not even a half-assed excuse just nothing. The hurt and disappointment on her face - I’ll never forget that Leon. And to top it off, I had to cover for you and as much as I love you,” she saw that way his whole body seized up at her words, “I’m tired. I refuse to do that anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Claire.”

Claire pulled at her hair which, for once, wasn’t in its usual ponytail.

“Stop! It’s always sorry with you. For once could you just stop!”

“Stop what? Tell me what I have to do to fix this.” He was desperate. He didn’t want to lose her or Sherry. The idea of that - of finally being completely and utterly alone - was almost too much to bear.

“For starters stop making promises if you know you can’t keep them. Stop overcommitting yourself. Stop overworking yourself because that’s always how you get this way in the first place. And stop looking like that.”

“Like what?” he was a little puzzled. He may have also been on the verge of tears but, if anyone asked later he would deny it vehemently.

“Like...like I just killed your puppy or - or like I’m taking away everything from you - it’s making it really hard to stay mad!”

In any other situation, he might have laughed at that but he had sobered up enough between when Claire had burst through his door and now. Now, he really did feel that Claire leaving here like this, Sherry being disappointed with him - that truly was as if everything were being taken away from him.

“I’m sorry. I - I don’t know how to make you believe that I am, but I truly am sorry. I would never hurt you, Claire. I would never hurt Sherry.” He was pleading at his point. He didn’t know what else to do.

“But you did. You hurt us Leon, and I’m not saying that I won’t forgive you, but it’s going to take some time. You fucked up and your usual ‘sorry’ isn’t going to fix it when we always end up in the same cycle again.” She sighed and as the air left her body she could feel all of her anger leaving as well only to be replaced with immense sadness and disappointment.

Claire turned and walked towards the door. A small clang echoed through the silent room and, although Leon couldn’t see from his spot in the kitchen, he knew that Claire had dropped her spare key on the table next to the door.

“Wait! Claire, please, don’t.”

“Don’t what Leon?” She didn’t turn around, she knew she wouldn’t be able to leave if she did. So, head down she gathered her strength and continued,

“Don’t leave? Give me a reason to stay then.”

“ I love you.” It came out in a soft whisper.

Those three simple words - the first time he had ever said them to her in a non-platonic way. They made her heart soar and ache, both at the same time. She’d imagined this moment a lot but never like this. Never at the end of a fight that had been building for a long time. Never with her back to him, preparing to leave. Never with him sitting in his kitchen, a mess, crying in a way she’d never seen from him. Never like this. And, as much as she wanted to stay…

“ I love you too Leon. But that’s not what this is about. Call Sherry, she deserves to hear from you why you couldn’t do this one thing for her.”

With that, she left. With her, Leon felt a part of him leave as well.

The tears turned to outright sobs as he collapsed on his kitchen floor - dirty. The floor was dirty. He was dirty. He hadn’t cleaned or showered in a while but it was kind of fitting. His apartment was dirty, his clothes were dirty, his body was dirty but he was dirty in a way that was deeper than just the physical sense.

He’d let them down. The only two people in this world that he still gave a damn about. The only two people he would try for.

Then why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he pushed himself harder? In the same sense, why hadn’t he taken a break when he had pushed too hard. Why hadn’t he tried harder to stop her? Why hadn’t he?

There were too many questions. If he left himself to ponder them for too long he’d never get up from this dirty kitchen floor and he couldn’t afford to stay here forever. He had business to attend to, phone calls to make.

First, to his job. Claire was right, he needed to stop overworking himself and he’s acquired more than enough hours to take some time off. Then, to Sherry, because he owed her an apology in more than just words. He only hoped she would allow him to make it up to her.

He wanted to call Claire - show her he was trying, that she was right and he would do better. However, he knew that would probably only make things worse. She always gave him the time he needed, now it was time for him to do the same.

But before anything, he had to get up off the floor. The floor was dirty. He was dirty. Leon was tired of the blood and grime that seemed to fill almost all of his waking hours as D.S.O Agent Kennedy. He decided he wouldn’t let it follow him home anymore. So, Leon got up.

On his way to the bathroom he passed by the bowl he kept on his front table by the door. It was a housewarming gift from Claire who knew he was always misplacing his keys and yet never making an effort to get more organized. Always looking out for him, his Claire.

Leon wouldn’t even let himself question if there even was a ‘his Claire’. Not that he owned her, no one could ever own Claire Redfield. But, looking at the two keys laying together in the bowl, Leon couldn’t help but think they were the same - a matching set. One complementing the other in a way that, while they were separate, they were still part of the same.

Yes, Leon Kennedy got up and as he looked at his dirty face in the mirror, he turned the faucet on because he was tired of being dirty. He was ready to get clean.

#Cleon #Cleon fic #Leon Kennedy #Claire Redfield #claire x leon #Claire/Leon #angst #resident evil #i wanna make my angst better so please hang with me until i do #sry for the long wait #sry again for the long ass rant at the beginning im super tired and it's kinda late but I wanted to post anyway #lol i'm doing it again

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the-hopeless-haze · 4 years

Text

Somebody Hurt Me Too Deep (Being Alive Ch 14)

Previous Chapter

A/N: I AM BACK omg ok like I’ve been through it in the last month..... yeah. This was of course based on “Being Alive” but also “champagne problems”... thank Taylor Swift for any emotional distress I cause :)

CW: talks of mental illness, brief mentions of past trauma and car accidents

Taglist (thank u all for reading ily): @caked-crusader @thatesqcrush @law-nerd105 @blackeyedangel9805 @moon-river-drifter @the-baby-bookworm @dianilaws @xecq @lv7867 @arabellathorne @teddybluesclues @averyhotchner @houseofthirst

“Carino? I’m home,” Rafael says as he steps through the apartment door, placing his briefcase down on the recliner. It was only 3pm, early for him to be finished with work for the day, but he had been getting out earlier recently to accompany you to physical therapy appointments. You were doing well, at least physically. It had been a long six weeks, but today might be the appointment that cleared you to go back to work full-time and maybe get out from behind the desk a little.

Mentally, though, it was a mixed bag. Some days were easier than others, and that was to be expected, but it was hard to tell the squad you were doing better when you couldn’t even bring yourself to text them back. Still, he pleaded otherwise, said every day was a new day and carried on even if they didn’t believe him.

Today, though, today was the turning point, he could feel it. You were doing so well, and eventually, your brain would have to catch up with your body. So tonight, he booked a reservation at a restaurant… not any restaurant, but the Cuban restaurant he took you to the night you asked him out and he barely used your first name and he swore he hated you with nearly every fiber of his being.

Right. As if he hated you even then.

You’re in a good mood, albeit not as elated as he hoped, but the physical therapist approves you for work but to “take it easy” and you’re laughing at his wry remarks and squeezing his hand in the back of the taxi on the way to the restaurant. His nerves almost dissipate, but they don’t. And maybe that should’ve been his first sign that tonight was not going to go as planned.

Rafael was never a superstitious man, but you order the same dish you ordered the first time he took you out, and he can’t help but think this is a sign to push forward.

“Oh, fuck it,” Rafael murmurs, a surge of anxiety overcoming him. “I was going to wait until after dinner… but…. I have something I want to ask you.”

And just like that, your face falls, but Rafael can barely take that in, he just keeps talking, his mouth moving faster than the neurons in his brain that tell him to stop, now isn’t a good time.

“I love you so much, (y/n), and I know these past few months have been so hard, and this isn’t the way either of us have wanted this year to start, but… we got through it together. I never thought I’d be in a position in my life, with someone who I love… that I’d be willing to do this, but… (Y/n)... will you marry me?”

You don’t say anything for a few seconds, but it feels like hours, days, months. “Can you get up off the floor, Rafael? You’re embarrassing us,” you finally say hollowly, and it’s true, the whole restaurant is stopped in their tracks staring at the two of you. Rafael couldn’t possibly care less, though, he couldn’t comprehend anything that was going on - he was just thinking “well, she hasn’t said no…” and then you’re getting up, throwing your napkin on the table, shaking your head, saying “I can’t do this.”

Rafael gains some of his senses back, enough to follow you outside into the tempering late February air. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, Rafael, I don't,” you say stiffly without turning around to face him. “I’ll get my stuff in the morning. I need to be alone right now.”

“I just… I didn’t know you weren’t happy,” Rafael says, his voice breaking, and that gives you enough impetus to turn around.

“You didn’t know I wasn’t happy? Goddamn, Rafael, do you even live with me? I’ve been unhappy for months.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you know?”

“Jesus, (y/n), maybe because I’m not a fucking mind reader?”

“Right. You honestly thought we were in a good enough place to propose tonight?”

“Obviously! Or I wouldn’t have done it!” he snaps. “You honestly think we’re in a bad enough place that you couldn’t say yes?”

“Obviously! Or I would have done it!” you throw his words back at him, and god do they sting.

“You never told me anything. You just withdrew.”

“Yeah. Maybe that should’ve been a sign. Look. I’m moving back home. I was going to tell you tonight.”

“What? Is that all it was? (Y/n), if you want to move back, I could work something out--”

“No. No, you can’t, Rafael. You’ve never been able to work anything out in your life because you’re too scared to! You just operate on fear - and this is no exception. You thought I was going to die six weeks ago and that’s the only reason you’ve been acting this way, and I’ve been slipping away recently and you’ve just been trying to consistently deny it so you just get on one knee and think that’s going to solve everything, think that’s going to make me stay. That’s not how it works! I’m not happy. I need to go home.”

“Oh no. You know what it is? You’re afraid. Don’t try to put this on me. You’re the one who’s walking away. You’re the one who’s running back home.”

“Fuck you, Rafael. Your family is all here. Mine isn’t. My brother’s getting a job for the first time, my mom just got on disability, I miss my dad… I’ve spent too long here. I’ve spent too long with you.”

“What happened? What the fuck happened?”

“What the fuck happened every other time, Rafael? You’ve gone through this plenty of times before.”

Rafael scoffs, shakes his head, leans against the outside of the restaurant. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m fucking sick, Rafael!” you’re screaming now, your cheeks turning red, your eyes leaking angry tears. “All this time, since the accident, I’ve been fucking drowning and you didn’t even notice!”

“Sick?”

“Depressed, Rafael. Anxious. Liv wanted me screened before I came back and the therapist said so. AGain. For the fucking umpteenth time in my life. But this time, I thought I had someone who cared--”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know if you didn’t tell me?”

“Couldn’t you see?”

Rafael shakes his head slowly, but now it comes back to him, all these subtle signs, the days you wouldn’t make it out of bed until 3 pm, all the days and nights you spent staring listlessly at the walls, the inability of anything he said or did to make you feel better. But it came and went, and Rafael just took it as you being upset sometimes at the limitations placed on you by your injured leg. Never did he think there was something more serious going on. Or maybe he just didn’t want to think that, and he ignored every signal.

“I’m sorry, (y/n),” he whispers, but he knows that’s too little, too late. Both of you were at fault - that was clear to him now - but was it clear to you? “I really didn’t know.”

“Evidently,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“But you can get help. We can work this out.”

“I just… Rafael. I’m not ready. You of all people should have some sympathy for that.”

Ouch. You were going for the jugular now, hurting him where only you could, rejecting his proposal, leaving him crestfallen on one knee in the middle of a restaurant, but somehow your words hurt worse. Anyone could reject a proposal. Only you could psychoanalyze him and hurl the worst remarks his way, things no one else would be able to come up with.

“Then okay,” he sighs. “We won’t get married yet, or ever, if that’s what you want. But you really want to throw this away entirely?”

“I don’t know, Rafael. I don’t. Look, I’m sorry too. I just… I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Do you think… do you think maybe--”

“I don’t know,” you say firmly. “I don’t even know if I really want to go back home. I just know I don’t want to live like this anymore, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“But it isn’t going to drop. I just fucking proposed. I’m in this for the long haul. And fuck it, if you want to go back home, I’ll work it out.”

“This fake optimism isn’t you.”

“This lack of optimism entirely isn’t you! What happened to the woman who got through some of the worst shit imaginable and landed on her own two feet? You got into a car accident, (y/n). You lived! You should be thankful, not sitting here sulking like your world’s gone to shit.” Again, his mouth moves too fast to register the look on your face as it falls, and tears start to stream down your face. He can’t stop but push it further, hurt you in retaliation.

“Seriously, Rafael, how insensitive can you be? I tell you I’m struggling and you invalidate my feelings? Fuck off.”

“I didn’t mean--”

“Why’d you say it then? You know what, I’m done. Goodbye, Rafael.”

“But--”

“No. Give me space. You owe me that.”

He does. And god, it hurts to watch you walk away, his abuelita’s ring burning a hole in his pocket when it should be on your finger. But maybe.... maybe this isn't the end. Maybe all you need is space.

Maybe Rafael's wishing on a pipe dream. He doesn't know anymore. All he knows is the sting of this pain.

-----

You walk alone in the dark, your leg still aching slightly, and you just feel like utter shit. You can’t remember ever feeling quite this low, but you can’t remember feeling rage like this, either. No one’s hurt you like Rafael.

But that’s because you loved him enough to let him.

You still love him even now, but spending day in and day out with him coddling you, you couldn’t handle it. And maybe you should’ve acted like an adult and told him and stopped pretending everything was fine when you knew it wasn’t. If only you weren’t so fucked in the head, right? Just how it always went, your life, cycles of feeling fine and cycles of feeling like you’re scraping at the bottom of a barrel for a will to go on. And yeah, sometimes even you would question why you were taking this so hard - so what, it’s a car accident, you were lucky to have lived - but Rafael didn’t understand and you didn’t know how to make him. How were you going to get in a passengers seat again without having a panic attack? Would your leg ever fully heal? You’d wasted six weeks staring at the walls of Rafael’s apartment, doing menial paperwork for Olivia that anyone could have done. How could you not feel entirely worthless? And then for Rafael to make it seem like you were overexaggerating like you should just get over this… you hated him.

But you didn’t, really. You know deep down he’s just angry the night didn’t go the way he wanted it to, with you promising to be his for the rest of your life. Still, rage is a truth serum of sorts, like cheap wine, and it makes you wonder how deep that resentment runs. How could he not notice you were upset, though? That’s a hell of a blind eye to turn.

At least back home you had Ben if nothing else.

But here, you had everything else. The squad, your career, Rafael… You couldn’t even begin to think about marriage right now - Lord knows Rafael isn’t ready either - but did you really want to throw in the towel? How do couples move past a rejected proposal, though? Hadn’t you hurt him deeper than anyone else could have? And would he ever figure out how to propose again?

Maybe to someone else, you think, someone who didn’t have all these fucking issues.

Before you know it, you have a cigarette in your mouth and a lighter in hand and you’re leaning against the side of a convenience store, watching girls walk by in stilettos hanging on to their men or giggling with their group of friends, the taxis blurring past. Then you realize you broke the first promise you made to Rafael: you bought cigarettes in New York.

Had he really wanted to collect on that promise? It wasn’t like you were addicted, it was just a stupid habit you started in high school to take the edge off, but you supposed some people had the inclination to start and never stop, but you always could when you wanted to.

Your vice wasn’t cigarettes, no, it was love. You gave all you could to whoever would take it because you were so used to people wanting nothing to do with you since you isolated yourself due to your past trauma. Once you got to college, you refused to hide in the background, and you took chances you weren’t used to taking and loved in color, you loved until it made you blue when the boys would cheat or your so-called friends would find different cliques.

You were still like that, albeit in so much a desperate way, and you had been loved in return, now, not just by Rafael but by the squad too - even if you had your squabbles. You loved them to death and back.

But friends were easier to keep than lovers.

Maybe it is scary to think Rafael was going to be the end. That he’d be the last man you ever kissed in love or passion. That you’d be the last woman standing in his long list of ex-lovers - the only one who didn’t get crossed off.

How do you love someone that much? You always said you wanted that, but the thought always terrified you anyway, and maybe it’s why you did push people away when they felt too close because you felt like you didn’t deserve it, like you were still atoning for some sin you didn’t remember committing but you still feel guilty for all the same. You wonder if Rafael feels just as guilty.

You inhale the smoke, feeling the familiar, carcinogenic burn in your throat, causing yourself pain to cause Rafael pain only to cause you pain in return; an endless cycle of hurt.

With ambivalence, you put your cigarette out and hail a cab, and tell him to drive you to your apartment which you haven’t seen in weeks. There’s dust on every surface, it’s freezing as hell, and you don’t know how you’re going to sleep tonight, alone, so you light up another cigarette, sitting solitary with your nerves running haywire underneath your skin. What the hell were you going to do now?

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba x you #rafael barba

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royalty-subway · 3 years

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Hey, it's the superpower themed thirsty anon here. I just want to ask smt today rather than updating d.d requests. So my question is: how can you gain aspirations to write so many headcanons per day? What gave you the motivations?

Oof. Well, it’s kind of a long story. And they’re multiple reasons for my “motivation”.

But basically, these twins are pretty much my “comfort characters”. Like, I always think about them and they always bring comfort into my life. Despite one set of twins not having the greatest community back then (from what I heard) and the other set just not being loved at all. And I have this constant need to post something. At least once a day. Not to say if I don’t, then I’ll think that everyone will hate me, since surely it would be a no brainer to think that I’m probably busy with something.

I'm willing to explain this further, or the full story, but I feel like it would be upsetting to read. So I’ll leave a warning since it does handle serious subjects. It mentions a bit about my past and how I got to this point. So continue with caution.

To understand my background a bit more. I remember at one point; I used to make content for another community. For nearly two years, all I did was animate constantly for this community. I took no breaks. I just constantly work every day. I used to enjoy animating since it gave me joy at first, but the thing is; I was kinda pressured into doing so later on. By my “best friend” (at the time) and by my fanbase. My “best friend” at the time was a real piece of shit towards me but no one knew. I always featured them in my animations despite how they would constantly pressure me into doing things. And whenever I tell them “no” (which was always), they'll have a massive temper tantrum. Like, they’d threaten so many things like how they plan to kill themselves, and that it was all my fault. And I put up with this for about 2 years because they were the only person that would actually talk to me. No one else gave a damn about me. I only had them at the time. Until they finally got exposed for their behavior by another user, it turns out they were harassing many female users (all underage), just like what they did with me. So I cut ties with them.

And I had a massive burnout and I pretty much hit rock bottom after that. To keep it short, I really didn’t feel like doing anything or even existing. I just didn’t see a point since I was deeply hurt by many people. But yet again, it felt like freedom. I was finally free from the cycle of repeating shit every single day. Animating every single day while fearing my “best friend” would pull something that would upset me. But… this feeling of making content still stays. I still feel guilty for not making content for that community. But I was also disgusted by the community’s behavior. Like, there’s a lot of drama in that community. Like A LOT. I’d say about 99% of the content creators in that community are actual pedos or extremely immature (like they don’t act their age). Even the top tier popular content creators are pedos (basically, those with power). And the fanbase DEFENDS those people which it’s absolutely disgusting. Like, they always give shit to the victims and they let pedos run free into the community. I wish I was exaggerating with all that, but I’m really not. And this actually upset me. I wanted to leave so badly. But I didn’t want to disappoint people and my current friends. So I just “faded away”. As in, I didn’t bother making any content for the community at all. I just wanted to leave that life behind.

And again, I felt like absolute shit for years. And I still kinda do. But I think around November 2020, that’s kinda when I started to like Sordward and Shielbert more. I had Pokemon Sword for a while (but the constant animating from my past didn’t let me play the game much) and I just started to play it again at that time. And for some reason, it sparked something within me. Like, those two legit gave me comfort. Despite no one even liking them in the slightest. They practically saved my life if you think about it. They pretty much gave me a reason to live a bit longer. And if it weren’t for them, I would’ve never come across the existence of Emmet and Ingo; who also gave me comfort. I would probably still be miserable if I never came across them. And I constantly think about them.

Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of other comfort characters aside from those four. But for some reason, they just stayed with me. I don’t know why, they just do. And at one point, I thought “what if I made an account dedicated to them? Like writing random headcanons or something? Or make an AU of some kind where they meet each other?”. I had that idea for months but I thought that it might be a stupid idea and that it wouldn’t get much attention (plus, I had THAT old life with me so...). But I finally created this account around September 2021 and started from there. I wanted to at least draw or write stuff for fun. Because I like to create stuff. And I didn't want to annoy my friends with this-

And so, here we are.

Basically, these characters pretty much give me comfort. I do genuinely care about them, despite them being fictional. It’s either that I think about them or I think about depressing stuff. And the need for making content is still there because I like to create content in general. But currently, I don’t wish to continue the life I had before; I don’t want to make content for that other community I used to be in. And making these headcanons generally helps me forget about all that (well, a bit, you can’t exactly erase memories). As a coping mechanism, I suppose. The request or headcanons in my inbox does get me to think about these characters more and I generally like writing for them. It could be wholesome, cute, angsty, funny stuff or whatever, really. I even wrote and drew a few things before making this blog for practice reasons.

I get that I could’ve just said “these characters give me comfort and I like to make content”. But I feel like if I were to be more specific, then people might understand my situation better. As in, it paints a different picture if I explain everything than just say “I like twins”.

I mean, I’m sure that later on I’ll stop posting as much as I do now. But that’s in the future. Now I’m just a bean burrito.

#pokemon #pokemon sword and shield #pokemon black and white #ask #shielbert #sordward #emmet #kudari #ingo #nobori #subway bosses #subway masters

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alovevigilante · 3 years

Text

A conversation with self. By: Kari Keillor

me: well, all I know is that I think about a lot of things both consciously and subconsciously that affect my feelings and mood in my present moment. And when I internally discuss things that are hurtful, like reminding myself of people who don’t value or appreciate me, or, have treated me poorly in the past, I tend to get upset … within myself. Does that make sense?

Bigger Me: sure, cause I’m you. But let’s clarify for all those who aren’t. You’re saying that you think about things that are not kind about yourself, or, better put, you choose to recall things that don’t serve you for a better outcome.

me: yes. And for clarity’s sake, I’m going to call my higher self, “we” since I’m connected to everyone, and everyone is a more fair consensus, than just me.

Bigger Me: agreed. We, are “we” from here on out.

me: cool.

Bigger Me: ok, so now we can refer to “you”, Kari, as “you”, and ourselves, also a part of you, as “we”.

me: yeah.

Bigger Me: got it. Now, where were we.

me: In me! But more figuratively you were clarifying being “we”.

Bigger Me: right. Ok.

me: Listen, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but if you are upset with me, and thinking negative things about me in our head, maybe you need to square things up with you, first, and not me.

Bigger Me: right, we agree. But we, remember, are a facet of you. So, we will aid in the squaring up.

me: and yes, it doesn’t escape me that I feel insane sometimes, and I’m talking to myself in my online journal.

Bigger Me: Listen Kari, we experience what you do, so let’s save the judgement and just continue chatting til we feel better. Deal?

me: Deal.

Bigger Me: Ok, let’s begin by saying that we’re your support team. We’re a part of you, but also connected to everyone else too. But we are here for you whenever you need us, and even when you think you don’t.

me: Thank you. I appreciate that.

Bigger Me: Great. So since we’re your internal guidance, we want what you truly want. And it’s your choice as to what energy we guide you with, since your filter will only allow whatever energy you’re ready to accept. And you are the person we’re focusing on right now. Make sense?

Me: Go on…

Bigger Me: alright, we believe you’re seeing yourself and other people in a not so great, kinda “eh” way. You believe you are mostly disliked by all who know you, and you review that frequently in your mind. We aren’t saying it, you are. But we’re all experiencing the energy of your opposing thoughts to what and how you truly are.

Me: yes. I’m not always down with people these days. Especially myself.

Bigger Me: …yes… and you are missing people being kind to you. And since you’ve alienated yourself from all those people in the physical, you are not being kind to you, by thinking about all the ways you have perceived and experienced the proof of your beliefs that you are not liked.

me: yes. I tend to be reactive to the energy that I perceive they are emitting to me.

Bigger Me: ok, right. Fair enough.

me: I usually am.

Bigger Me: well, since we are a facet of you, we agree.

me: yes! I knew there was a reason I enjoyed talking to you. But what happens when you like people, but you don’t agree with their interpretation of you, meaning me? That discord is hard to overcome, especially when their opinion is how ass I am.

Bigger Me: well, that’s just the thing.

me: what is?

Bigger Me: well, if that resonates, that’s what you need to look at. That’s how you may feel about yourself. If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t affect you as much being labeled as that, because it wouldn’t be near to your higher vibrational state. But if you are close to agreeing with that ass statement, you’re gonna inevitably feel it.

me: damn…

Bigger Me: yeahhhh! Shit!

me: ok. Unfortunately I can’t get further away from the feeling of ass to experience much else right now, cause that’s all I’m replaying over and over in my head as of late.

Bigger Me: we know. That’s why we’re discussing. We think the thing to do is become in solidarity with the truth of the matter, and that is that you’re actually a loving, good person.

me: “unconditional love” is a little too lofty of an energy to leap to from where I’ve been recently and currently reside. I’ve been taking up a seemingly permanent residence in ass gulch, especially after I think about things about my past that support the hypothesis held by others and now by myself, that I suck.

Bigger Me: yes, we feel it.

me: so you see where I’m coming from then?

Bigger Me: of course we do. We’re you.

me: right. I keep forgetting…

Bigger Me: well, you’re currently writing about how people think you suck, thereby focusing on that, and reexperiencing the feeling of it. And we gotta say, we all hate it.

me: yeah. Me too.

Bigger Me: right! So, in short of getting a frontal lobotomy, maybe the path of least resistance would be to be more aware of what we’re thinking and what kinds of thoughts we entertain from here on out.

me: listen, that’s too tall of an order for me to do all the time. One can go insane and argue that I already have by writing this conversation with myself, let alone get lost in the minutiae of paying attention to every little thought I have ever. Also, I don’t have many friends left in which to share all this with.

Bigger Me: well, considering your current energetic state, we venture to say that that’s probably a good thing.

me: how so?

Bigger Me: well, you wouldn’t want to pass this ass to someone else, would you?

me: no. They may catch it.

Bigger Me: right. So going back to what we normally discuss, becoming more of yourself is cool and all, but your issue is when you bring the new “you” to the old energy, it’s not jiving so well. Because when you finally go back to interact with the other people that share your world, you become fearful that you will be rejected for it.

me: is that what the issue is?!

Bigger Me: well, we are a part of you, but we are also a part of everyone else too, so we have a slightly bigger perspective…

me: ok. Well, what about the people who don’t like me? Sometimes I construe their behavior as less than kind towards me, on purpose.

Bigger Me: seeing the world through the fear filter will garner that reactive, defensive energy. You will keep finding proof of your thoughts and beliefs, and you’ll keep creating situations for you to defend yourself. It’s a vicious cycle. The next time you feel defensive in a situation try this: when you feel attacked, go to a place in your head where there’s no argument, and no insult to fight against.

me: I can’t go there in my head immediately! People will think I’m nuts, or a pushover if I start talking about the calla lilies being in bloom as an answer to their insulting everything about me.

Bigger Me: can’t be any worse than what you perceive people think of you already. What do you care?

me: well, unfortunately I do.

Bigger Me: that’s the whole issue.

me: you have to at least be in the same reality as they are, don’t you?

Bigger Me: well, if you come from the preexisting, already established reality of insult and abuse, which incidentally always stems from fear of inadequacy, then you will continue the chain of abuse by accepting it. But, if you choose to have a filter of love, the weird stuff you claim people do and say to you won’t even register to you as such. Your filter in turn wouldn’t resonate or pick up the insult, or, if it does, you won’t care. Cause love overrides it. You end up filtering anything not love, out.

me: oh. I guess I never thought of it like that before, or I have, but I forgot.

Bigger Me: that’s why we check in.

me: let’s just say, that i say something kind to a jerk fach, and they gut punch me, are you saying I won’t feel it?

Bigger Me: well, first of all, you’ll feel it. And thereafter every time you think about it. But if you were to accept the energy of love you’d only have to experience the pain once, if that was the case. Also, if you were in the love energy, you wouldn’t label them as a “jerk fach” to begin with… and probably not have been open to being in the position of being gut punched, either physically or emotionally. In that case that’s still you choosing to hold and engage in some “not so great” energy. And that’s not love.

Secondly, people who are primarily choosing to experience and live in the energy of love aren’t usually around people who don’t, because the two energies don’t resonate. If they do happen to cross paths, which can sometimes occur, it doesn’t usually last for long. Everyone needs to, and will experience and be exposed to both contrast and love depending on life’s circumstances. There’s always a choice presented in every situation.

me: ok, but what if someone labels you as a jerk fach, and then gut punches you for no apparent reason…

Bigger Me: then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Until then, don’t focus on the negative eventualities that are most likely not probable.

me: got it.

Bigger Me: Kari, you are a loving person. We appreciate your willingness to be open about your life, and wanting people to understand that everyone has an internal monologue that they are playing out both in their heads, and in their lives according to how they feel. You deciding to be honest about yours, is beneficial to the whole of all of us, regardless of who reads this or not. Because just the mere creation of the energy is enough to create a catalyst for change. It’s out there, and we are too. Life is how you decide to perceive it. Deciding to explore your feelings and your thoughts that aid in how you feel is a fast track to developing a way to your happiness. This is for anyone, including you. So, be you, and don’t worry about how you are perceived and treated by others. Because when your sole focus is love, that is all you’ll see and experience.

me: thanks for caring.

Scene.

#choose love #love matters #self reflection #self love #selfworth #self esteem #self improvement #self care #self development #love manifestation #a conversation with #myself #a love vigilante #guidance #intuition #love #me #selfie #selfie development

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jasparagus-the-goblin · 3 years

Text

April 23, 2021

Should I start on the bad note or good note? I suppose bad so we can relieve our stresses with the good.

So last night I realized I needed my uniforms for work to be washed because I work the next day. I only get two shirts so laundry is a constant task. Sometimes my mom likes to wash them for me with a load of her own clothes so I’m not over-washing or wasting water, so my dad told me to place the clothing on top of the washer. Now, before my mom and I left for work she mentioned she was beginning to wash a load of towels so no laundry would be done when we were gone so she could shower when she got home. I also had this thought in my head while I was pondering this task. I figured if she didn’t wash them, I can just do it in the morning when I wake up; no big deal! Except apparently it was. So I heard her come home late in the night (because whenever she gets off late my brain just wakes me up to eavesdrop to hear what shit she’s saying now), and she was already mad because my dad had accidentally left his phone in the car for an hour, leaving him unreachable. Slightly understandable, but she overreacted. That’s a whole other story, this blog is for me, not analyzing my parents’ toxic marriage. So naturally, when she sees my uniforms resting on top of the washing machine, she gets even more upset and proceeds to come into my room and put them back in my basket, slamming the door on the way out. (Good thing I’m good at pretending to sleep). Honestly, none of what she did or said really phased me at the time, I was half asleep and desperate to return to my previous state of unconsciousness.

This morning I woke up and set about doing my laundry, as I was told to do MULTIPLE times in the past. She explicitly gave me specific times I can wash my clothes: between the time I get up (6 in the morning) and 4 in the afternoon. I shouldn’t even have gotten in trouble for not doing it when I got off. So the load is almost done, it’s on the spin cycle, so it makes some rocking noises, waking my mom up. She comes storming out of the bedroom and goes off on me. I won’t be too explicit in the details, but one of the things she did included slamming my school laptop shut (school-owned, not paid for) and tossing it into the wall beside me. Because she got woke up. Sorry your marriage is crumbling because your an insecure, manipulative, controlling, hypocritical bitch but you have no right to take it out on me.

On a brighter note, there’s this guy at work I really want to hug. Like, I wouldn’t even call it a crush per se, I just want that physical contact, and maybe one of his hoodies. And here’s why. The guy smells so good. Like, (I work at a pizza place) and I’m at the cut table, surrounded by pizza and grease, I’m sweating off my ass since I’m right by the oven, and he comes in from taking out the trash and just from like a foot of distance between us I could smell his cologne or whatever. And it was so good. Call me creepy or whatever, but peoples’ “scents” tells a lot about who they are. Maybe it’s a further adaptation of my introverted observation skills, but if a person smells good, chances are they have an excellent personality. And he’s adorable too?? Like I made him his order of wings and he walks up to me with little grabby hands and this soft look and says “gimme” and I fucking blushed. (Thank god we have to wear masks). I even had a conversation with him sort of, stepping right outside the border of small talk and I don’t really socialize with my co-workers (social anxiety and I don’t want to fuck up my job). In his presence, I also feel really masculine which is super euphoric, so I can’t tell if I’m (sort of) attracted to him or if I’m just jealous. The curse of being a pansexual transmasc person. In short, being in his presence made me feel good, though it could simply just be that I enjoyed being in the same proximity as one of my peers, seeing as I hardly leave the house and do virtual school. So based on this reasoning, I gotta gather more evidence. Which requires more interaction. Which I’m excited about but also dreading. Why is social interaction so obnoxiously hard? Like it’s so hard to find things to say.

#angst with a happy ending?#online journal

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inquartata30 · 4 years

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WIP Wednesday

tagged by @natsora so you know who to blame

tagging @dr-ladybird @1esk19 and @foofyschmoofer no obligations

Aella was nineteen when she blew up a skyball. It wasn’t on purpose and luckily no one was hurt and the coach just called her dad. She was excited because it meant her biotics were starting their spike to their grown up level and now she could move up to the same league as her sisters. She’d thought her dad would be excited, too. Which, okay, she was, but not all the way. Like she was disappointed and trying not to show it, but her dad had never been good at hiding her feelings. Aunt Cora called it ‘wearing your heart on your sleeve.’ Aella didn’t want her dad to be disappointed in her.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked when they were outside the field complex.

Thaia jumped like her mind had been somewhere else. “No! You did nothing wrong. Well, the ball might have a different opinion, but it’s an inanimate object.” She reached out and slung an arm around Aella’s shoulders and drew her close.

Aella basked in the comfort and security. Whenever she was with her dad, she felt safe. Like nothing could ever hurt her and it’d been like that for as long as she could remember. But she still wasn’t sure why her dad looked upset, so she asked.

Thaia winced. “I’m not upset, either.” She surveyed the area around them and sighed. “Let’s find someplace out of the way and I’ll try to explain.”

It happened that ‘someplace out of the way’ was one of the places Aella loved—being on a work skiff outside the Nexus, where she could pretend to be flying her own ship. Atapalai Shipyard dwarfed the closest Nexus ward, buzzing with activity no matter the time in the Nexus’s day/night cycle. Countless work skiffs flitted throughout the dry docks, and swarms of workers in EVA gear were barely visible in the skeletons of the two new dreadnoughts currently under construction. Docks 5 and 6 held rows of new fighters, departing one by one and zipping to the Nexus docking ring where their carrier awaited. They had to be fighter pilots and not construction crew because each one pulled a fancier move than the one before it had. Crew didn’t compete like that, but pilots did. Aella had learned that from Aunt Lisana.

Thaia’s grumbling was further confirmation. “Fucking pilots fucking around in the shipyard. Goddess forbid they not show off for five fucking minutes.”

A fighter spiraled toward the nearest carrier, adding a series of flips on the way that were the most breathtaking yet. Aella wondered what it would be like to fly a fighter.

Hanging in Docks 3 and 4 were a dreadnought and a cruiser undergoing repairs—the dreadnought was older, a converted Ark that’d taken a beating during the recent engagement over Kadara. Though scratched and scorched, the name painted on the older ship’s hull was still readable: Leusinia.

Aella remembered a story Drack had told her about her dad, one that’d happened before she was born. The one where her dad, Aunt Cora, Aunt Janae, and Pathfinder Sarissa had blown up kett shuttles using only their biotics. When Drack had told the story, there’d been awe even his voice and it took a lot to impress Drack. “It isn’t often you run across an asari who can blow up ships, so when you do, you’d better hope they’re your friend.”

“My dad! You’re talking about my dad! My dad is your friend!”

“She’s not just a friend. She’s family.”

Then Aella remembered why they were out here. “What’s the problem with my biotics?”

Thaia sighed and made a course adjustment. The skiff headed toward Dock 5. “I’d hoped your biotics would be like literally anyone else’s in the family. Your sisters, the aunts you never knew, your granddad. Just not mine.”

“Why not? Yours are really strong.” How could someone not want strong biotics? Matriarchs were the strongest of them all and one of the reasons why they were so powerful.

“Yeah, but they’re explody. When I was a kid, we found out when I blew up a kikama by accident. I was just a year older than you.”

“I’d like to explode a kikama.” They were, in Aella’s opinion, the worst vegetable in existence.

“While supervised and in a biotic gym, yes. Kikamas are gross and deserve to be exploded.”

It still didn’t make sense that somehow Aella’s biotics being like her dad’s wasn’t a good thing. “Why don’t you like your how your biotics are? You blew up ships! Well, drop ships but they’re still ships.”

Thaia laughed, short and quiet. “I like them plenty.” Then her laugh faded to nothing and they were right next to the Leusinia, where a hole had been punched through the hull. She muttered something about Deck 12 being a persistent weak spot before she finished replying to Aella. “But I don’t like my biotics when I have to use them as a commando, fighting against other people. On other people.”

It didn’t take much brainpower to figure out why explody biotics used on anything other than inanimate objects would be bad. “Oh. Oh, gross.” Then another question instantly sprang up, partly because Aella was curious and partly because she didn’t want to think about the gross stuff anymore. “How come you didn’t throw up all the time? And I know you didn’t because commandos don’t throw up.”

Thaia laughed and it made Aella feel better. “It’s called detachment. Sorta like separating yourself from what you have to do. Staying detached like that all time would fuck you up, but for short periods of time, like in combat, it keeps you alive.” Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “And it keeps you from throwing up in front of squadmates who’d give you shit for decades if they saw.”

“Okay, so I won’t be a commando. Then my biotics being like yours won’t be a bad thing.” She didn’t want to be a commando, anyway. Not like Zahra did. Aella was pretty sure she wanted to be a pilot, but when she’d mentioned it to Granddad, she’d told her, ‘Might want to keep that to yourself until you’re absolutely sure. You know how commandos are about pilots.’

Aella kept it to herself. She was only nineteen, so her mind wasn’t entirely made up.

Thaia sighed, changing the skiff’s course so they were now going toward one of the new dreadnoughts. It was curved in all the places the old one wasn’t, graceful instead of sharp. “I was hoping all of you would avoid it, but I guess you were the unlucky one.”

“It isn’t unlucky to be like you.” Aella glared at her dad to make sure she understood how wrong she was. After Thaia looked at Aella, it took her a second to catch the glare, and then she laughed again. “You sound like...” Just like that, the laughter died.

“Like?” Because the only thing that killed laughter that suddenly and thoroughly was something from before the kett attack on the Nexus. Aella didn’t know enough from before, but it felt like everyone else did and it wasn’t fair.

Thaia barely got the answer out, strangled at the end. “Your mother.”

Aella knew the look on her dad’s face. It was like when she’d seen a sunrise on Aya, everything kind of muddy and dark before light stretched out and touched everything and you’d wanted to smile, too. That was when Aella realized just how much her dad loved—loves—her mother.

Then the brightness disappeared and everything about Thaia slammed shut. And that was when Aella realized how much her dad missed her mother. It’d been over eighteen years since she’d been exalted and nothing had faded.

#tag meme #tessera au #tessera: the darkest timeline #it all hurts all of it

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gyromitra-esculenta · 4 years

Text

Even If the Waters Rise 2/3

Shadowrun inspired Mermay part 2 out of 3 - this thing turned into a monster because this here is like 9k words. Also, contains anime fights, and too competent people. (Honestly, like 95% of teams I ran would fuck up this scenario spectacularly).

Also, warnings for the whole planned thing: blood, gore, and violence; cannibalism (human on metahuman); questionable jokes and questionable totem choices; ambiguous relationships; referenced limb loss/cybernetics/etc; mating cycles.

The whole inside of the sub stinks of the cigar smoke.

The ventilation system manages to get rid of the smoke itself, but the reek remains. Jack would call bullshit on Jesse's insistence it's a vital part of the ritual - the justification itself a steaming load of bullcrap.

Point is, even if he's pretty sure that's the fact, he won't, because he doesn't know enough about the subject to not make a fool out of himself. He finishes fitting the exo jacket and does a cursory check of its mobility and the armor plates layered over it.

The next is the pistol and the rifle, both at full capacity, unlikely he will end up needing another power unit for either of them. The hip pack holds eleven demo charges and the pad, Jack threads the cable with the plug under the armor and leaves it hanging for now.

"Much longer?"

"Nah, about finished," Jesse answers without opening his eyes and takes another deep drag of his cigar. Seeing this, Jack feels almost nauseated in his stead.

The visor clicks neatly into the sockets of the frame, integrated jack connecting immediately. He plugs the pad cable into the remaining port. The tactical overlay reloads, feeding him new data.

"Som, want to ride tonight?"

"No, thanks, I'll go through the tac, I have an idea what we'll find and I'd prefer not being flooded by your sensory output."

"I'm feeling a bit bloodthirsty, anyway."

"Don't you always." Sombra flashes his display in response. In time for Jesse to turn around in the chair as the coyote fades back into existence on the serape.

"And done. We're in the clear from this side. I have the entire array down to a pat."

"No good if anyone with a moderately adequate sense of smell can, and will, smell you downwind." Jack rolls his eyes while putting the face mask on.

"All part of the process."

"Sure. Not dragging your sorry ass back."

"Dude, it's going to be the other way around."

"Even if," Jack grabs the rim of the hatchway and pulls himself up, bracing against the railing and leaning back inside, "it will be your fault alone."

"There's a ladder for a reason, dude, you don't need to show off yet." Jesse hands him the drone he sets off flying right away. The thing veers away and gains the altitude with a subtle whizz of its rotors. Sombra will keep it at a distance until Jesse does his thing.

"See if I pull you up now. Genji?"

"Waiting for the signal." The reply comes on the spot, the voice metallic even through the comms.

Jack jumps off the sub, landing softly on the shore. The wall is at least four meters tall, four and twenty according to the display's measurements. His fingers dig into the concrete as he scales it - feels like nothing - the boots keep his feet anchored to the surface. On the top, he surveys the area. No-one is standing guard, probably too lazy and too comfortable with the alarms set up, the only thing to worry about another gang or triad wanting to move into their turf as unlikely as it would be considering the current power balance. But then, with the worth of one facility and the specialists in the trade involved, probably everyone gets a piece of this pie to not upset the supply chain.

Jack lets down the rope, waiting for Jesse to clip it to his harness before he pulls him up.

"You need some kind of diet."

"You're the only one complaining. There's just a lot of me to go around. Love handles are a thing, you know?" Jesse wheezes, finally joining him on the wall. "Thatta way," he points to the closest building. "Cover me while I negotiate."

"Don't die on the way."

"You're just jealous I got some healthy fat on me."

"The only person insisting it's sexy is your recurring ex, and that's because it gives you higher blood volume."

"Wait, dude, seriously?" Jesse looks up from the spot Jack let him down.

"No idea. I'm making it up as I go."

"Well, shit, you really had me consider dieting for a sec there."

"Should've kept the charade up." Jack lies down on his side at the top of the wall, the rifle held precariously with no additional support. Its matte coating disperses the light. "I have fov. Go."

"You expect me to run?" Jesse snarks holding down his hat - incidentally running - stopping a few steps from the building, more a shed than anything else.

"Kind of." Jack centers the reticle on him, noticing the coyote is gone, again. Which doesn't bode well. "Where's the friend?"

"Working, shush!"

Jesse plops down, cross-legged, the prosthetic hand in his lap, the other holding something close to his chest - probably one of his amulets - and Jack briefly entertains the thought of shooting the stupid hat off his head just to make a point. In truth, keeping half his attention on Jesse allows for a smooth feed of environmental data from the surroundings, and if anything goes wrong, though magic, the spirits usually go down well enough when treated with sufficient amounts of very mundane munitions. His are several grades above that.

"The fuck is it...?"

The spirit forming out of the wall in front of Jesse looks nothing like any other he had ever seen before, standing as tall as a troll, a mass of mangled flesh and fur sloughing off its skeletal frame in gag-inducing half-liquid scraps. The half of whatever is supposed to cover its maw is missing, showing off the strange shape of the skull and the frankly terrifying fangs from between which bubbling drool dangles.

It roars soundlessly and Jesse shudders, breaking the first amulet.

The spirit moves forward, sluggishly, against the invisible force pushing it back. Jack puts his finger on the trigger, wondering if he'll even notice the entire thing going south fast enough. If he doesn't, well, Jesse's in scalding water.

Jesse discards remnants of another focus.

The moment Jack's half a mind to light the ugly motherfucker up, a flash of grayish-brown jumps to the spirit's back. The coyote sinks its teeth into the spirit's nape and closes its jaws, twisting. Jack swears there's some kind of cracking sound that's not a sound at all. The rest of the rotting flesh dissipates and the bones burn before following suit.

"Okay, done," Jesse spits to the side, disgust clear in his tone. "All were bound to this one."

"Jesus. What was that?"

"Bad Ainu spirit, powerful," the answer is surprisingly somber. "Feral."

"Tells me nothing." Jack slips off the wall, the drone navigating overhead filling in the gaps in the tactical overlay with new data, finding and pinpointing heat signatures.

"Corrupted bear spirit, someone brought it inland. Nasty stuff, dude." Jesse pats the coyote. Predictably, it snaps at his hand, and he pulls it back with a quiet curse - staring the coyote down until it turns and walks away, unbothered. "Anyway, the one who set it up is gonna feel it, but the further away they are, finding out what that was will take longer."

"No change of movement patterns so far. Genji, take over 'Love Handles' here," Jack snickers at the indignant look Jesse directs at him. Genji confirms, his marker shifting on the display. "I'm moving along."

He follows by the wall, the sparse lamps providing enough contrast to shadow to have him blend with the surroundings. The complex itself - if it even could be called such - was not built with defensibility in mind, but rather adapted for the utility away from the prying eyes. It had to be a port before, maybe even a regular fishing dock, the layout betrays it with the repurposed boat sheds corroding in the sea air - the wall ending abruptly obviously there to protect from the wind and the waves coming in from the side.

Jack departs the relative safety of the wall towards two vehicles parked sideways in relation to the main building where the heat signatures congregate. One is an armored personnel transport, the escort most probably, the other a massive truck with a refrigerator. He takes two charges out of the hip pack and changes the frequency on both of them. The first one goes under the truck, just behind the join with the cabin, the second under the transport. All while keeping his attention on the lone signature exiting the building.

Jack clips the rifle to his back, focusing on the hostile. A smoke break, judging by the movements. Slowly shifting his weight, Jack moves into the position, tracking the motions of the enemy. The tac display flicks between the straight visual feed and the heat map.

Ten meters, turning away from him.

The smell on the air is stronger this close to the building; the mixture of the toxins in the blood is palatable on his tongue here, kicks off his fight-or-flight instinct and the adrenaline floods his system. And for Jack, it's always fight, never flight. The first limiter is off, an overkill, but he doesn't care.

He springs from behind the transport - jumping as the hostile is turning - left palm grabbing their forehead, right fist coming to stop in their nape with a crunch.

His feet hit the ground in front of them and he shoulders the weight, lowering the soon to be a corpse man down. The dropped cigarette still smokes. With a smile, Jack puts one explosive in front of the wildly moving eyes.

"Damn, that's cold even for you," Sombra whistles.

"I'm in a bit of a mood." Jack pulls the rifle into his hands and puts his back to the wall. "That's Arasaka gear."

"Adding their chatter to the monitored."

The display flickers, overlaying structural scan on the tac. Jack glances at the sky - the drone is nowhere to be seen. As it should be.

Genji and Jesse both catch up, sheltered by the vehicles.

"Genji, upper floor. 'Love Handles', find somewhere else, demos underneath."

"Where?" Jesse's heat signature unmistakably turns around with one arm outstretched.

"Go for the fridge. Two inside." Jack takes a deep breath and turns, walking inside with the rifle braced against his shoulder, trying to not be too quiet about it, as if he's the unlucky guy outside.

Five in the room past the corridor, visibly relaxed - four at the table, one lying down. Three on the level up.

"Genji."

The command is followed by a crash above and a scream. Jack falls into a crouch as soon as he gains the visual on the four hostiles turning to the metal staircase on the other side of the room.

The recoil on each shot is cushioned by the exo jacket. Mostly.

On the tac, the fifth one is scrambling in the corner to get up. One from the upper floor gets halfway down the stairs before Genji is on him, pushing him down to the ground, his katana sliding in easily at an angle between the shoulder blades. Jack rushes inside the room - flipping his own direction with a foot planted in the floor past the doorframe - the butt of the rifle slightly off balance as he fires. This one, he's going to feel in the morning.

The plasma projectile rips the meat off the target's throat.

Genji nods once, rising. He flicks the blood off the blade.

"See if you find any paper trail, I'm going..." There's the unmistakable sound of Jesse's revolver going off in the distance. Jack's not worried, not really, he had seen this thing vaporize someone's midriff once.

He shrugs and throws two charges at the opposite walls of the room, down to six now, and backtracks outside, leaving Genji to go through anything that may be in the open.

"Jesse?"

"One's inside."

"There's no-one inside."

Unless... The cold room. Someone went into the freezer. One big heatsink on the tac. Anyone outside would show.

Jesse is leaning against the corrugated metal, revolver in hand, few paces away from the body lying face-down - unarmored, precise shot to the back that blew out half of the chest on the way out, judging by the spray.

"Follow. Som, can you...?" Before he finishes, the drone does a dive fly-by by the entrance, returning to the sky after.

"Clear. Closed shut."

Jack shoulders the rifle. The smell of blood and meat is stronger here, will be worse inside - something about it always sets him off. The building's layout is as simple as it gets: built around the freezer block with a small makeshift separate space to the side to provide for temporary living arrangements.

"Jesse, check it out." Jack walks to the freezer's door. The lock panel shines with glaring red. He moves aside to let the drone pass - unholsters the pistol as Sombra connects to the door's interface. They open with a quiet hiss, expelling clouds of frigid air.

The smell is horrible, hooks into his brain. The urge to kill something - someone - anything - is unequivocal.

"Clear."

Jack rounds the doorframe, pistol at the ready. Rows of tables, singular iceboxes, all the equipment needed for the processing.

"At least a dozen..." The tails being bled in the beginning stage hang from the ceiling in the back. One sways minisculely. "Fifteen."

With deliberate slowness, Jack makes his way towards it - focused on the back area, cursorily glancing at the compact cooling units - nothing unexpected: hands, organs, two heads probably to be sold as centerpieces, all partially treated already.

"Found you."

A bit of a shoe is poking from behind one table. He smiles. The man flinches with his whole body when he sees him. Any other place, any other situation, Jack would consider him a non-combatant unless otherwise provoked into action. But here, surrounded by all the evidence...

He wants - needs - to kill something.

He barely listens to the jumble of the language he doesn't understand, could ask Sombra for a precise translation, but he doesn't care. She provides some, anyway.

"Says they were forced to."

"He's lying."

"No shit," Sombra chuckles.

For a brief moment, Jack considers his options. In the end, he pulls the trigger. The pistol has a substantially lower yield than the rifle - it still very well could dislocate the joints of someone unaugmented - and a limited use against heavily armored targets. Against anyone unarmored, it kills as well as anything else, leaving behind burnt gore.

The smell of seared meat, keratin, and fat does nothing to hide the odor of the toxins from the remains of dead mermaids.

"We have a transport incoming," Sombra pulls the drone from the freezer. "Nine minutes for a clear exit."

"Jesse, Genji, grab what you have and clear out." Jack listens for the confirmations while deploying the remaining charges inside the cold room. He wants everything in here vaporized, with no exceptions.

"Five minutes."

"I know, Som, you put the clock on the tac."

When outside, Jack breaks into a sprint - there isn't a reason to hurry that much but the exertion helps to work the adrenaline out and push the smell from his lungs. He scales the wall and jumps over it.

"Three minutes," Sombra speaks, the tone making him think she might be working now on her nails - ridiculous, but he can't help a chuckle at the image it provokes.

"I know." Jack pauses on the top of the sub to grab the drone and pass it below before he slides inside into his chair. He puts the rifle braced between his legs and sinks forward, bending his knees. "Floor it, 'Love Handles'."

Jesse does, muttering something along the lines 'I see this is what we're doing now' as Jack digs the pad from the pouch - waits a moment before keying in the frequency. The sub shudders, punched by the crump following the demo charges going off on the surface, and just like this, it's time to crash.

"It all reeks of your shit cigars."

Jack does a double-take, looking above the back of his chair at Genji sprawled over the boxes. Genji, who shouldn't be here with them.

"It's good tobacco and they're expensive!"

"I'm bred and born Yakuza, I know my quality drugs."

"Genji," Jack begins carefully, "You left your ride there?"

"No. I walked."

"You... what?"

"Walked."

It's beyond ridiculous.

"How...?"

"Thirty-two hours, to be exact," Genji interrupts the question Jack's been formulating. "A pleasant hike."

Jack decides he's not going to question it anymore. The only downside is he will have to listen to them bicker about meaningless drivel for hours. The other hindrance being the obvious fact he has to peel the armor and the exo off in the front instead of in the back, behind the seats. He manages.

The third unobvious drawback: with three people more-or-less breathing, the temperature rises to levels comparable with a sauna.

State-of-the-art, his ass.

The riveting bickering Jack can tune out as the combat high fades and his system goes into the post-adrenaline crash, leaving him slightly shaking and nauseous - tired and heavy - drifting in and out of bouts of light sleep. When they finally arrive, both he and Jesse look like boiled rats while Genji is no worse for the wear.

It makes Jack think how much - and if anything - is left of Genji himself, with the work he had done on him easily exceeding whatever Jack had, and Jack himself is teetering on the edge. And if Genji runs off a BTL, it's not his fucking business, so he had never asked, and neither had he asked about why - and how - nothing past the part of his head and the upper chest buried in the metal remains. They aren't both that much different, after all.

But that aside, he has about enough energy left in him to slap McCree's stomach flab - ignoring the smirking 'you're only doing it 'cos you're green with envy' comment as it wobbles - and stumble to the temporary bunk, burying himself under the flimsy covers. If anyone's going to bitch about him not helping with the unloading, they can bitch about it later, preferably tomorrow, and, anyway, he's been the one doing most of the work, so they can suck it.

He wakes up too cold, with the shoulder bruised and giving him hell.

Going by the light, it's late afternoon. His gear is laid out on the tables, as is the carry-on he had left before the departure. Jack considers a swim against Jesse's earlier advice, but a spiny back that flashes him in the distance finally dissuades him from the idea. Pity. Quick shower it is.

The rest of the evening he spends putting away the equipment back in the containers first, later scanning the data for Sombra while eating.

"The security was lazy and too lax, they had to have been operating there long enough to grow complacent."

"I'm not so sure about it. From what I've seen," Sombra murmurs, "they might have bet too much on the magic, it was good."

"According to Jesse." Jack pauses with the fork full of the awful reheated mush when she ‘ohs’ suddenly. "What?"

"I think we've hit the jackpot."

"Elaborate?"

"With a bit of luck and time, with this info, I think I might be able to pinpoint the fleet that has been supplying this plant, among the others. We hadn't found one of those in two years."

"Full-on naval run? Fun."

"Trying to appear disinterested? I know you secretly got a boner."

"You know me so well," Jack laughs. "By the way, where are you now?"

"Frisco. You'd like it here, half the time feels like you're breathing water because of the fog."

"My kind of city."

"The views aren't bad either. Have fun tonight once in your life, okay?"

"Why would I...?"

"Trust me."

Her thoughts fade, leaving him perplexed as to their meaning. At least until Jesse barges in some fifteen minutes later.

"We're going drinking, dude, and I don't take no for an answer."

"No."

"Oh, c'mon, dude, it will do you good."

And, frankly, Jack does not understand how Jesse manages to talk him into it - the word 'chaperone' might have been mentioned in the passing - but after two drinks and an hour or so on the dance floor, he does feel relaxed and wired at the same time as he navigates back to the bar. Genji is still nursing the same scotch, slightly emptier than before. Probably that one glass is enough to keep him buzzed for the duration of the entire night, what with the amount of the actual blood he has in his system. Jesse and Lucio are talking animatedly. Jack takes the free stool and flips through the pages of the price-list built into the bar, stopping on the more interesting cocktails.

"Bloody Mary. The other menu."

The bartender looks at him quizzically.

"You don't look like one to enjoy the more sophisticated drinks."

A rather quirky and unfitting word to describe what is basically a cocktail catering to vampires that are apparently a welcome clientele in the club.

"Hey, dude, JJ, he's a freak," Jesse yells from the side over the music, "but he's our freak, so give him what he wants, would you, dude?"

It turns out to be watered down blood with hardly any trace of alcohol in it and a celery stalk thrown in, served in a wine glass with some damn goofy bats on it. Way to stay inconspicuous - Jack snorts before taking another sip, surprised at how agreeable the concoction is. The flavor spills on his tongue and teases the sense of smell, not quite there yet, has him drink the rest of it in one go as he chases after the climax of the taste, and leaves him waiting on the last drops. Licking his lips with a sigh, Jack places the glass back on the bar counter.

Only now he notices the place next to him has been taken in the meantime.

"The same, again, JJ." The man has a deep voice and an eye-catching cybernetic, high grade. Definitely a designer shell on it built for aesthetic value.

"Change the water for ninety-proof, would you?" Jack nods at the bartender. The alcohol adds a layer to the impression, biting where the taste of blood fades. Jack shifts his attention back to the man, and the suits lounging nearby. They fit in the awkward way any corpo rat in a place like this would, if not for their attentiveness. "Counting on something, rich boy?"

Metal fingers grip his jaw, turning his head to the side, put the pressure in, the grab far too familiar in how it applies the force to the bone.

"Those are some fine cock-sucking lips, pity for them to go to waste."

As his eyes drift lower and stop at the rich boy's crotch, Jack catches himself on the fact he's considering it. But the thing is, nobody touches him like they own him, except for Gabriel - because Gabriel does own him. There's something vicious and cruel winding up in him.

"Say what, rich boy, you beat me," Jack flicks his eyes visibly towards the stage, "you get them."

"Even better without the teeth," the rich boy laughs, nodding to the bartender, and the hand is off. Oh, it's a risk Jack's willing to take because there's a point to be made.

"Put it on the ice." He gestures to the drink and hops off the stool, moving towards the stage without looking back, knowing he's being followed. The lights and the music change, people knowing the club's gimmick move back from the marked spot and pull the stragglers with them.

Jack jumps over the rising waist-high barrier and stops slightly off the middle of the ring. He turns around and rolls his shoulders, the right still sore and hurting. Somehow, Lucio is already on the stage chatting up the DJ. The rich boy gets right in his face. Smirking.

"Your bitch ass is mine."

"Sure."

All the lights not focused on the ring and the stage go out.

Jack dives under the first swing. The second one he sidesteps, it's his turn to smirk as he judges the technique and the speed, the coiled spring in him ready to snap. There’s momentum behind the punches, but the speed and the precision are lacking. The footwork is not especially good, either, but the rich boy might feel cocksure because the pure mass and strength probably won him some scuffles, not to mention the monkeys at his heel. To pass the real judgment, though, he does have to get hit.

Jack fumbles partially the next dodge, the fist connecting with his face carries a surprising amount of force behind it even as he's moving away from it - the hand is not only for show, it seems - the second jab comes abruptly. As he hits the floor, the thought he's not the only one to con this fight is unexpectedly exhilarating.

Goddamn fucking McCree screams 'five hundred on the blondie' from the side.

Jack rolls away from the punch that leaves a dent in the spot he had occupied a moment earlier. He pivots on the ball of his hand evading the following hit and jumps to his feet. This would do some serious damage. The stakes just got higher.

Jack licks the blood off his lips, the taste now undiluted, coppery, wipes the rest of it with the back of his hand, smearing it and smiling widely.

"That one's a freebie, enjoy it while it lasts."

The punches come reliably in pairs, the cybernetic hand is favored over anything else, probably at the cost of other techniques.

The coiled spring snaps, and Jack goes into the offensive, dancing out of the way and turning. The first punch misses him completely, the second one catches the sleeve of his jacket as he puts his elbow with the added momentum of the movement below the joint - skirting under the other hand immediately to find himself at the rich boy's back. He plants a foot on his ass and pushes, sending him tumbling to the ground. The surprised look of someone who just realized they bit off more than they can handle is a cherry on the top of the fucking cake.

Jack, swaying to the rhythm of the music, waits for him to get up. The flash of anger - closer to rage - at the obvious disrespect fuels his interest in the fight. He baits the guy two or three times - gets away in the last moment driving home the point he's untouchable until he allows it - watching the rich boy’s coordination and control go to shit.

It's a dangerous kind of game, pushing the opponent until they feel cornered and lash out, but the rush makes up for it.

Jack meets the rich boy in the middle as he changes his approach from evasion to the offense; goes for a quick jab below the ribs followed by a hit below the jaw. He deflects the grab aimed at his head - the fingers close around his forearm - he drags the hand holding him in front of the rich boy's chest while turning on his left foot and throws his other leg up in with a half-turn - hooking the ankle behind the man's neck.

Then, he brings his leg down with force, noting, again, the sheer surprise on that face - the grip on his arm seizing and taking with it the sleeve of his jacket and leaving the synthskin under it scraped by the fabric.

Jack puts the knee in the rich boy's nape as he lies. With the cybernetic trapped under him and his left arm twisted, he is in no position to try anything, especially when Jack adds more pressure to the wrist. He leans down, chuckling, bringing his lips closer to the man's ear.

"Who's the bitch now?"

He gives the arm another cautionary shake before he jumps off the rich boy's back and leaves the ring. At least, compliments due where they are, he knows when he's beaten and doesn't follow to make a scene.

Back at the bar, with Lucio fretting over his face, Jack finishes his drink. Genji is already gone, and Jesse’s nowhere to be seen - until Jack catches the sight of him leaving the club with a bob of white hair on his shoulder. Fucking moron. If Jesse turns up later as a vampire or a desiccated corpse lying in some ditch, it's not Jack's problem anymore.

He hisses briefly as Lucio sets his nose proper and dabs it one last time with a tissue for good measure before making his way back to the stage. Time to get going, he can feel the interest of the spectators in him growing. Jack waves the bracelet at the reader. It blinks red. His tab is paid.

Maybe Jesse, with the money he made off him.

Outside the club, Jack briefly considers catching a cab before his eyes land on the luxury car one of the suits from before is leaning against.

Fuck it.

It's the night of poor decisions all around, Jack thinks as he strides towards it.

"Move," he barks at the monkey, not waiting for the tensing man to comply before he opens the side door looking inside. The rich boy puts away his phone and the other suit aims at Jack's head with the handgun. "Send the monkeys away, or have them sit in the front."

Their displeasure is visible and only serves to heighten Jack's amusement, more so when the rich boy nods. He gets in, gives the approximate address of the dock, and the car starts rolling down the street to join in with the traffic.

"One rule. You touch me only when I tell you to."

He makes quick work of rich boy's pants and grips the already half-hard length in his hand - looking up with a clear warning on his face before he goes down on him, feeling the cock properly fill out and become rigid between his lips. Makes sure his teeth scrape against the skin. He pulls away when the hips under his palm start to jerk with the motions and swats with a warning growl at the hand reaching to hold him in place.

Still kneeling on the floor, Jack strips out of both the jacket and the shirt underneath in one go, throws them to the side. Unbuckling his belt, Jack moves to the opposite seats, braces against the back, and looks over his shoulder.

"Need a special invitation?"

The inside of the car is too small for anything like this - for both of them - Jack delights in how it puts the rich boy in an awkward position. A moment later, he has his face pushed into leather and a hand fumbles with his pants. He hisses first at the burn, the cramping pain deep inside rips an aborted whine out of him - cold metal planted between his shoulder blades keeps him down, not that he minds.

Jack’s fingers rip up the upholstery.

Greedy and selfish, it's what the rich boy is, as is Gabriel himself, but how the same quality differs so intricately between the two of them is something illuminating in its simplicity.

The rich boy takes and tries to assert his dominance when he has none, whereas Gabriel knows Jack belongs to him and Jack knows back he himself is, in a way, his prized property to be taken care of - the bullet to be fired at whatever Gabriel wishes him to destroy.

The sex is barely satisfying and ends too soon with the rich boy falling against his back - Jack shoves him off unceremoniously and tucks himself back into the pants - but it manages to scratch the itch he didn't even know simmered under his skin for the whole evening.

"Save it," Jack nips in the bud whatever the rich boy wants to say as he gathers his clothes from the floor. "No matter what mommy and daddy let you play with, you can't afford me."

He puts the period on it with a slam of the door behind himself.

The lone security guard at the gate with maybe a tad too secretly amused expression on her face buzzes him in. Jack doesn't worry about giving out the location, no-one with any sense tries to get too deep into the seaside properties, and tomorrow he's gone from here, anyway.

In the morning, flowers wait for him at the gatehouse: a basket overflowing with white, gold, yellow, and blue. The card attached holds an unsigned phone number. He pockets it.

"Keep the flowers."

"What am I supposed to do with them?" The guard sounds offended, her face scrunched in something between offended and bewildered.

"Eat them?"

"You don't eat flowers."

"Artichokes?"

"That's one flower, and it's green."

"Fair. Leave them, throw them out, I don't care."

"The basket's nice, don't want it?" The guard leans on her elbows, thinking. Jack lifts his carry-on up for her to see.

"That's all I travel with."

He leaves her still pondering the flowers to catch his train moving inland - a first-class ticket and the whole compartment to himself, all booked by Sombra. Sometimes Jack wonders if she ever sleeps.

The itch is back with a vengeance, and he taps an anxious rhythm into his knee. An hour before his stop he realizes it's another episode coming, the prickling shifting deep into the bones, yet on the verge of becoming an outright ache above the everyday static of pain he can keep under the edge of his awareness. Just his fucking luck.

Until now, it's been possible to navigate around the days he got reduced to jittery nauseated mess hardly capable of logical thought and any movement besides dragging himself to the bathroom, maybe back if he didn't collapse on the way.

Keeping from lashing out is taxing.

It disconcerts Jack more Gabriel will witness him in this sorry state than Gabriel seeing the bruises and other marks left by someone else on his body - at least on parts that were still his body and not artificial filling for what he had lost. The need to back out of the earlier-than-usual meetup and the sudden surreal hope that maybe Gabriel will fuck him through it contradict - he doesn't even know if either is a viable option, each for a set of different reasons.

He's paler than normal when he steps off the train.

By the time he reaches the hotel he's sweating and breathing shallow, the pain in the imaginary joints rising well above the threshold and crashing in waves rolling over to his chest and stomach. His fingers swipe over the keyboard, too uncoordinated - sending the customary text. Getting the reply only acts to exacerbate his anxiety and question the reason to arrive. The hesitation proves to have substance when he notices two suits standing guard in front of the door, an ork and a bluish-skinned elf.

"She's waiting for you," the elf addresses him.

Against his better judgment, Jack enters the suite, ready for... For what, he has no idea, just hopes his clenched jaw radiates apprehension rather than anything else - a tall order, he knows.

'She' gets off the sofa with a strange flowing quality, at least Jack suspects so. The wide-brimmed hat decorated with dark fabric shaped into flowers hides her frame behind a veritable veil of darkness from behind which only two glowing mismatched eyes are visible.

"Gabriel can't make it." The voice is without a doubt feminine. She circles him once, observing him like some exhibit on a display. Jack feels anger floating to the surface at the unwelcome scrutiny he's subjected to. "Fascinating," is the ending conclusion. The gloved hand emerges from the curtain of darkness holding a familiar object.

A pillbox.

"This is a new formula that should be more effective in treating your unique condition, you should start administering it immediately." Her tone is flippant and uncaring. "I am told you are careless with taking the medication as recommended."

Jack grabs the box from her hand; the gloved finger his hand brushed against is either ended in an elaborate manicure, or tipped with a claw.

"I don't see how's that any of your business."

"I am, after all, the one manufacturing it. I would hate to see my work go to waste."

Without another word, covered by her own bubble of darkness, she glides to the door, leaving Jack alone and glaring at the pills.

The temptation is there, enticing and futile. He made the mistake once, he's not going to repeat it.

The first time, popping the pills one after another for a brief relief from the hurt: the few seconds of bliss when nothing ached forgotten immediately after when the pain slammed back into him without warning - screaming in frustration when there were no more left to take. The first time was the worst, the rest he just suffered through.

His fingers shake when he sets the pillbox down on the table - the dancing twitches playing off the connected nerves sending out random signals in confusion.

Jack stumbles to the bathroom and sinks to his knees. Forehead resting on the cool raised edge of the tub - terrifyingly conscious of every single inhale and exhale - skin clammy and cold and hot. Slowly, he sets the parameters, stopping each time he has to swallow the tasteless saliva gathering in his mouth.

He almost gives up twice: once before finishing the setup, the second time as he's trying to undress himself - the drive to just curl up on the floor barely losing to the prospect of some relief.

Sitting on the rim with his feet submerged in the water, Jack plugs into the pad.

"Som?" He reaches out after wrestling his thoughts under some semblance of control. When she nods back, he concentrates on the memory. "I want to show you something."

She pulls it up and watches while Jack smiles, feeling the wave of emotions and sensations wash over him. The dragon glides in the water again.

"Wow. That's why you purged the drives?"

For a moment, he loses track of his thoughts.

"Yeah."

"You sound strange, I know Gabe couldn't..." There's a shift in her voice and her distress banishes the rest of Jack's control sending it spiraling as he clenches his jaw. "Your cortisol levels are off the charts, as well as... Why didn't you tell me you're in so much pain, I'm sending something right..."

"No!" Jack interrupts her, too sharp and sudden. "No," he repeats after a deep breath. "It's normal. I just have to... It won't help."

"Jack."

"It happens. Flare-up. It will pass. Just... could you loop it for me? The dragon?"

Sombra stays silent for seconds ticking away before the scene plays out again in his mind.

"It will stop when you unjack."

"Thanks, Som. I mean it."

"I know. Fuck. This isn't right. I'll work on it."

"It's okay," Jack slips into the water, the momentary temperature shock providing a short respite before the nerve endings become accustomed. "You did what you could."

"Hang in there."

"Thanks."

He sinks to the bottom.

Arms wrapped around knees, Jack lets his mind flow with the memory. Under the surface, shortness of his breath makes no difference and the saltiness of the water flushes away the horrid taste in his mouth. Almost enough to keep thoughts from forming- coast over the waves of pain. Between this, and the moments he relives, time becomes meaningless, counted only by the steady movement of his chest.

The sensation that shouldn't be there sends him spiraling into confusion and panic - a brush against his back becoming a grab - breaking the layer - drowning.

While trying to fight off whatever - whoever - it is, and coughing out the water, his hand catches on the cable and rips the plug out. Only when something puts pressure on the bone below the hinges of his jaw, Jack realizes he's lying down and grabs at the arm holding him.

"Stop struggling."

The voice and the command register slowly, and when they do, he lets his palms fall away from Gabriel's hand. His head is turned to the side and the vertigo of the renewed connection provokes another wave of nausea Jack protests with a whine.

"How many times?"

He has to hear it twice with the fingers digging into the vulnerable points of the bone emphasizing the words for the question to parse.

"Eight... ten?" Jack licks his suddenly dry lips, tracking with his eyes the syringe Gabriel holds with his other hand. "..'s not going to help."

He had not needed to talk during any of the previous episodes and he winces hearing his own slurred words, more than he does at the prick of the needle and the numbing cold propelled by blood crawling from the injection site in his neck. The freezing pain is almost the polar opposite of the sensations thus far - he panics, again, trying to fight off the unmoving hand until the ice sinks its teeth deep into the marrow and shoots through his brain as he jolts on the bed with a scream before he blacks out.

When Jack comes to, the light is too bright, the contrasts too strong, and it floods his vision even through the clenched shut eyelids. He's hot, far too hot, the back of his head is damp - warm hair sticking to his neck, slicked to his forehead and temples with sweat. What is worse, whatever he's lying on - and under - is coarse and abrasive, even the minimal friction caused by his chest rising and falling with each breath is nigh unbearable.

Moving his arms proves to be an exercise in futility with how sluggish and weak they feel. Through the cotton fog swirling in his mind Jack wonders about the malfunction - how much the limbs are fucked if they refuse to cooperate with the nerves, the intent itself should be enough to prompt the action - or is it him who's fucked with the neural pathways misfiring.

He manages to kick the sheet down, it's enough to get it past the hips. The synthskin's not reacting to whatever's going on – otherwise, he'd go crazy from this. The cool touch on his stomach makes Jack jump in place and groan as the surprise forces his eyes open.

Unsticking the tongue from the roof of his mouth requires some work.

"Why are you here?" Is what Jack intends to say. What makes it out instead is garbled and croaking.

"You were experiencing a toxic hormone buildup," Gabriel replies like that's the answer to his question.

"...what was?"

"Artificial hormones to counteract, and stabilizers."

"Huh?" It's even harder to focus with the fingers gliding in slow circles over his skin - soothing - almost enough to forget the discomfort. "Would pass, normal."

There's no response, of course. Jack licks his lips. The points where Gabriel put the pressure when he held him down still hurt. Funny how he can recall only one other time something like this has happened.

He had his arm blown off and caught several slugs with his side. It had been his own fault, probably, and Gabriel had a discernible aura of anger and irritation to him when reaching for the hand and lifting the shirt to check on the stitched injuries. And being manhandled like this didn't sit well with Jack, yet. Ended with him pressed against the wall, Gabriel's hand on his throat - fingers digging into the bone and his knees going weak - and mind-blowing sex. The first fuck of his new life, and no questions asked.

"We could talk?" Jack suggests, finally able to see in the dimming light. "Don't think... I'll remember it, anyway," he adds when it obviously falls on deaf ears, but Gabriel's always like this, this being this, no explanations, no nothing. It bothers him now, surprisingly, between feeling like a wet cloth, the fuzz, and Gabriel's aloofness.

Eerily, brings up the same mean streak as before.

"Did you... you and him, did you fuck?"

The thing about Gabriel is, he never lies. Just doesn't answer if it's inconvenient. The palm lying flat on his stomach, now motionless, gives merit to the question one way or the other.

"We had... a relationship, of sorts."

But Jack gets his answer and it fucking hurts to hear Gabriel say it. Must be the hormones. The curiosity, too, because for years he had managed to not give a fuck about it all until now.

"What was he like?"

The chuckle has him turning his head to confirm its actuality - the plug catches on the cloth - he's still jacked in. The cool air on his wet hair sends shivers down his spine as Gabriel puts away a book, a paper one, to help him move to rest on his side.

With the bent arm trapped underneath, it's almost bearable. The pillow remains damp and warm.

"Impudent and fearless, the two definite qualities of his."

"Got it. Stupid and bitchy." The irony of basically badmouthing himself does not escape Jack. "Sounds like someone I know."

"Does it, now?"

"He's dead," Jack blurts out, the words following thoughts without a moment's hesitation, tumbling out one after another with no consideration. "I'm the one in here. If he comes back, it's not going to be him."

Gabriel tips his chin up with his thumb.

"Impudent and fearless, and so very clever, too clever for his own good. At least, with you, I can hold a conversation."

It's Jack's turn to chuckle.

"You could. If you ever talked to me. You're only talking to me because I won't remember it, remember? That's what you think."

"Probably."

"That's. Fucking. Cruel."

"Or maybe because you are asking now."

"I don't ask because you never tell me shit." Jack's sure his weepy frustration - and the emotions all over the place - can be easily read in his voice. "Who was he to you, anyway?"

He's steeling for the punch when Gabriel appears to be mulling the question over in his mind, his thumb tracing Jack's lower lip.

"Someone special." It hurts. He should fucking stop doing it to himself. "And, so are you. Both alike, yet unique in ways you could never comprehend."

"Maybe I could. But you won't tell me."

"No." The finger leaves his lips and travels down along his throat, past the dip between the collarbones.

"See. Herein," Jack laughs at the word, giving in to the fog, lightheaded as if drunk, "lies the problem. You never tell me shit."

"It is for your own good."

"Bullshit. You don't want to deal with the fallout, do you?" The last part barely makes it out of his mouth before Jack flinches at the touch with a high-pitched inhale cutting off anything else he wants to say. Fuck. That's one way to end the conversation. He's really fucked up if he didn't notice he's fucking hard since some point in time - and Gabriel is taking his sweet time too, teasing with his hand - it's not enough, and Jack reaches out to pull him closer barely registering his limbs finally cooperate with him. "Fuck. Don't... please."

He's choking up on words. Gabriel shifts to lean over him, continuing the deliberate motions with no intention of letting him finish, and his desperation is growing, punctuated by small sounds of distress slipping out as Jack digs his fingers into his back. The sensation of being filled arches his spine - it doesn't feel right - not wrong - just not right - but he clings to it with a needy whine and jerking hips - trying to pull the body above him closer, giving up any kind of control in lieu of chasing the denied pleasure.

The first rolling wave has him biting on the fingers between his teeth - toe-curling as it spills down the phantom nerves and runs back - still not enough, and he pleads with the whole of himself for release only to be rebuked with Gabriel's voice in his ear leading him through it. Again and again - until he's a crying mess gasping for breath and begging for Gabriel's mercy - and when it is granted, he's unprepared: coming with a soundless scream caught in his throat and his back taunt like whipcord before sinking under the surface into the depths.

Pliant, shaky, and raw, is how Jack feels waking up tangled in sheets; still too warm but not burning hot anymore, sticky with old perspiration and damp with fresh sweat. Alarmingly... lucid. The light speaks of early morning, or that peculiar breaking moment of the evening. Either way, it no longer pains his eyes.

The itch in his bones lingers, but gone is the urgency - and the memory of yesterday redefines his concept of mind-blowing.

Parched, Jack sits up looking around - feels his heart fall before he spies Gabriel sitting on the covered balcony, working, as usual, judging by the screens surrounding him, but Jack will count his blessings because Gabriel wasn't even supposed to be here according to that woman that has his skin crawling even now when he thinks about her.

He slips out of the bed, standing on wobbly legs.

The sheet feels too coarse around his waist and he discards it, walking the rest of the way naked. The artificial breeze feels wonderful on his skin. Jack halts in front of Gabriel - trying to grasp the vague recollection of... actually having a conversation with him.

"We talked," he blurts out at the questioning gaze of black and red eyes, surprised. "Yesterday."

"Yes." Gabriel holds out his hand in an invitation to him.

"What did we talk about? Was it important?" He waits for a rebuttal and laughs when Gabriel remains silent, puts his palm in Gabriel's waiting hand, and lets himself be pulled to sit on his lap, conscious in an instant of the fact he's ruining one of those ridiculously expensive suits just by touching it. "It was important. But you won’t tell me what it was, will you?"

"No."

There's a glass pressed to his lips and Jack eagerly drinks the water in big thirsty gulps, some of it dripping down his chin; he stops Gabriel from taking it away before he finishes all of it, and then just leans against him with his cheek cradled to his neck. He winces at fleeting nausea when Gabriel plugs his jack in, but, even so, the mood settles soon into comfortable silence - and he had learned to treasure those rare quiet moments with Gabriel. There's just something bothering him, more humorous than anything else.

"You know," Jack finally gives voice to it, "I'm willing to bet my meager possessions you actually knocked me out with an orgasm."

"You would lose them in the wager."

"Oh. Fuck. I was being only half-serious."

"You should be 'half-serious' about your health."

Straight to what Gabriel considers being the issue.

"It has always passed before, so that's..."

"Then you would notice those 'episodes' of yours are regular and take place approximately every five months."

Jack winces at the unusually irate note in Gabriel's voice.

"They do?"

He feels that sigh with his entire body.

"At the moment, the foremost concern is finding an adequate formula to mitigate the unaccounted symptoms. You will sign in with Sombra every day so she can gather current metrics."

"If it happens in five..."

"I accept no objections.”

Jack turns his head so he can look over the screens in the air - most of them blurred with personal encryption, and probably nothing he would even understand - but he notices one static picture with live readable feed and his stomach plummets for a second.

The perfect explanation for Gabriel's general disposition.

The rich boy.

And Jack has to breach the subject, somehow. Because Gabriel won't. He shifts and points to the holoscreen in question.

"Are you... Are you angry about it?"

"I am irritated by your negligence."

"And this?"

"It is of no consequence. It's understandable," Gabriel continues without missing a beat, "that you would find other sexual partners."

The dismissal should put him at ease, not threaten him with the inexplicable urge to cry.

"Tell me I'm not allowed to."

"Would that change anything?"

"If you tell me I'm not allowed to," Jack pushes his face into the crook of Gabriel's neck in some form of trying to hide away from the tumultuous swirl of emotions it brings up, "then I won't. Please, tell me I'm not allowed to."

Fucking pathetic for a grown man, to fight against tears and fail, but it's what happens when Gabriel remains silent on the subject, and Jack tangles his fingers in black fabric, the stifled sobs raising in force. Fucking pathetic, losing it over a thing he always knew. And fuck hormones for making him feel shit - now he would take the pain over this complete mess. And fuck Sombra for telling Gabriel on him.

And, honestly, fuck himself for harboring some kind of misguided hope against any logical rationale, Jack notes with the angry spite. Angry is often better, but now, it's not helping at all. It only makes matters worse.

Slowly, he drifts off into a fitful sleep, waking only when carried: by his own hand slipping loose off his lap. Gabriel lowers him into the water, the temperature slightly higher than his usual.

"There are other matters I have to attend to." The words are accompanied by the palm lingering on his cheek and the thumb tracing the arch of the bone before Gabriel moves away. Jack waits for the sound of the doors closing behind him. He's just tired as he sinks below the surface.

What the fuck is even his life?

#sometimes I write #r76 #reaper76 #jackande #mermay #doom76

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