#twelve days until my next psych appointment

[squishier-than-thou]

ravioli

[wri0thesley]

A Well Rounded Education (1): Suspension (Fem!Reader x Toji Fushiguro, 5k)

series synopsis: You are a teacher’s aid to teacher Gojo Satoru, training to be able to take over your own class next year by shadowing and helping him out. Gojo does not make things easy for anybody.

chapter synopsis: One of your favourite students has been suspended for fighting, and Gojo has palmed off the meeting with his guardian to go through all of the paperwork and facts and conditions on you. “Don’t worry,” Gojo says. “It’ll be Megumi’s sister, she always takes care of this kind of stuff!”. Gojo is wrong.

NSFW. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. dom/sub dynamics, light fearplay and predator/prey elements. piv sex.

(a well rounded education m.list and navigation)

1.

“I’ve got all these other parents to deal with,” Gojo whines at you, pushing the papers into your hands. “And I hate paperwork, and I don’t have time to meet with Megumi’s family today – hell, if it were up to me, the kid wouldn’t even be suspended! Those guys had it coming!”

Gojo is not a very good teacher. Both of you know that – no matter how justified – violence never solves violence. Gojo, you think, would let these kids fight it out in an arena instead of solving things like an adult. You heave a large sigh as you look down at the papers detailing Megumi Fushiguro’s three-day suspension for fighting during school hours.

You’d seen Megumi before he’d gone home. He hadn’t had so much as a scratch on him; his face set in a frown, his arms crossed, his eyes downcast. You’d sighed at him and asked him if he was alright, and he’d shrugged.

He’s not a very talkative boy at the best of times, and you suppose that the suspension and the fight and the mini uproar it had caused in the school aren’t helping be any more verbose. You’d said goodbye to him and said that you hoped he thought about what had transpired today, your heart aching a little bit that you couldn’t be any more help to him.

You’d seen the three boys Megumi had got into a fight with, too. They had not gotten off so scot-free – they were bleeding noses, scraped cheeks, bruised eyes. At the very least, you don’t think any of them will get on Megumi’s wrong side again.

Gojo has to meet with all three of their parents tonight to give them the full story of why their children are so roughed up and what’s being done about it; a position that’s been doled out to him, you’re sure, because Principal Masamichi blames him for the incident and is punishing him. You can’t deny that seeing Gojo actually get punished for something is nice, but--

“Won’t they be mad to see me instead of you?” You ask him, biting your lip. “I mean . . . you’re his teacher. I’m just your aid.”

“Oh,” Gojo’s eyebrows rise behind his glasses. “No, it’ll be Megumi’s sister who’ll come, she’s a sweetheart! She’ll nod at you and say mournfully that she’ll talk to him and you’ll give her the paperwork, and that’s all – job done! Honestly, if I could palm this off on you and talk to Tsumiki instead, I’d do it in a heartbeat--”

“This is your job,” you tell him, exasperated, and he laughs wide and open. You’re not really supposed to get like this with him – if he were any other teacher, you’re sure that the exasperation and sighing and half-snapping you do would have had you thrown out of their class – but Gojo treats your irritation with him as if it’s the funniest thing that has ever happened. “You’re supposed to be good at dealing with this kind of thing!”

He shrugs.

“You’ll be fine!” He tells you, again. “Honestly, this isn’t the first time this has happened with Megumi and it won’t be the last. That kid’s got a right hook that could knock out an elephant!”

You do not ask him how he knows this. Asking too many questions of Gojo is always flirting with danger; you never know when his mouth will flash into a grin and you’ll suddenly be barraged with a flood of words and stories that don’t quite make sense and never seem to have a concrete end. But you can’t resist one last question – just in case it comes up. After all, it seems that Gojo has spoken to Tsumiki enough times for him to at least kind of know her--

“His sister?”

Gojo looks at you, and for a moment the shroud of capricious energy lifts from him, and he seems entirely serious. You’ve noticed this particular change in him only a few times – and often, those times have been about the more difficult backstories of students.

“His father isn’t around very often,” he says, eventually. “He’s some kind of something or other, Megumi never really says, but whatever he does, there’s a lot of travelling involved. Tsumiki’s his older sister – she’s twenty one, and she’s been more of a parent to him than it seems like his dad has.”

No wonder Megumi always seems suspicious and tired of Gojo. Something about his flighty nature probably strokes the back of Megumi’s psyche, where annoyances about an absent father are kept. You sigh, turning away and shaking your head to rid yourself of the idea of psychoanalysing the students.

“Alright,” you say wearily. “I’ll talk to Tsumiki.”

2.

You’re nervous as you set up for the meeting. You know Gojo had said that this would be easy, that Tsumiki was very sweet and would probably apologise to you for Megumi being a problem – but still! This is the first time you’ve ever met any of your students’ guardian figures in any capacity. You feel kind of bad that it had to be for this kind of news, actually – ordinarily, you like Megumi a lot. He’s very intense and serious and clever, and you think that he has a bright future ahead of him when the trials of being a twelve year old boy finally are over – but this meeting isn’t for saying things like that. This meeting is for giving details of the three day suspension that Megumi has gotten for – you check the paperwork again – fighting three boys by himself on one of the sports courts, making them bleed and . . . breaking one of their arms? No wonder Gojo had seemed so miserable at the thought of meeting with the victims’ parents.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, making sure that it still sits as neatly as you’d arranged it that morning. You check the clock to see you still have two minutes before anyone is due – you discreetly check your lipstick in a compact mirror (yesterday you’d had it on your teeth and you hadn’t realised until Mai had pointed it out with a laugh in her voice), smooth out your pencil skirt, tug at your stockings to make sure they’re pulled up and not wrinkling about your ankles . . .

And then, you wait.

The clock is straight across from you, so you’re able to see as Tsumiki is five minutes late, and then ten minutes late, and then fifteen. The tick-tock echoes in the room as your leg bounces against the floor, anxiety making you want to gnaw all of the carefully applied lipstick off of your mouth. From what Gojo had said, this doesn’t sound like Tsumiki at all – you’re just about to give up and pack all of your things away, figuring maybe she’d called into the office to say she couldn’t make it and telling you had been neglected, when the door slams open.

You rush to your feet, your sensible heels clacking on the ground.

“Miss Fushi--”

Your voice peters away.

The person stood in the doorway is, you’re certain, absolutely not Tsumiki Fushiguro.

For one thing, it’s a man. For another thing . . . well. You’re not entirely sure that a man with that expression on his face would ever be described to anyone as a ‘sweetheart’. Your frightened eyes linger on him for another moment, really taking in the broad shoulders and the muscles and the hair falling over his face, the dark, green eyes that are glaring at you like you’ve interrupted something very important. There’s a scar by his mouth that you also do your best not to stare at, just in the same way you avoid staring at how the form-fitting t-shirt he’s wearing clings to a muscled abdomen.

“It’s Mr, actually,” he says, which seems absurd in the face of him, standing there. He raises one eyebrow at you. “You were expecting my daughter, right?”

(You don’t know it, but Toji Fushiguro has gotten a read on you in less than a moment. He’s seen the wide eyes and the pretty mouth and the neatly appointed outfit, the pencil tucked behind your ear, the slightest tremble faced with his imposing presence – the fear as you’d seen the scar and the smoulder and the body. You’re adorable.)

“I . . . uuh--” Your cheeks are hot. You nod, weakly, and he walks into the room proper, the door swinging shut behind him with a deafening click. There’s danger in every one of this man’s movements, like a wolf who has finally cornered a little rabbit. You are feeling inexorably like prey, at this moment in time.

“I was expecting a man,” he says, shrugging. He sits at the chair in front of Gojo’s desk, pulled up just for him. He looks huge in the classroom; his shoulders too wide, his biceps bulging from the sleeve of the shirt. You don’t think this man was intending to be in a school classroom right now. “I guess you’re not Mr Gojo, huh? Gotta say,” he shoots you a grin that’s dangerous, everything about him is threatening. “I much prefer this development.”

“Oh,” you’re blustering, and it’s so cute. You sit back down in the chair with a quiet displacement of air, agitation in your fingers as you rake through the papers on the desk. Said desk is incredibly messy; Toji doesn’t think it’s yours. He ought to feel mad that they’ve palmed him off on some little assistant who’s probably not even fully qualified yet – instead, he’s watching your hands trembling and your teeth nibbling on your pretty mouth. “Y-yes, G-Gojo’s dealing with the parents of the other party--”

“My kid got into a fight, yeah?” He asks. “Decked ‘em pretty good, from what I heard.” You wince at his words, and that’s cute too.

“Megumi’s a good boy,” you say. “He’s just . . . got his own sense of justice, I think.” You look down at the papers, and your eyes seem to focus, back in a more comforting zone. “He’s been suspended for three days, and when he comes back, he’s on probation.”

“What’s that mean for him?” Toji asks, promptly, though something about the way he says it suggests to you he doesn’t really care. There’s a lightness, an airiness in his tone that sets you all off-kilter.

“It just means we’ll probably keep an especial eye on him. He’ll get a report that’ll need signing off on at the end of every period, someone will check up on it--” You see one of Gojo’s scrawled notes in the margin of the paperwork. You wince. “I’ll be in charge of it, actually. Making sure everyone’s happy with his behaviour for a few weeks--”

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

The question makes you jump. You’re like a doe in headlights, looking up at him. You blink slowly.

“I—I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Mr Fushiguro,” you say, prim. That’s cute, too. He likes breaking prim and proper things like you. “I’m—I’m doing my training. I’m working as an aid here for a year, and then I’ll be qualified to be in charge of my own class.” There’s a hint of pride in your words, there.

“Toji,” he says. “That’s my name. You haven’t gotta call me ‘Mr Fushiguro’. I’m not tryna’ be pushy,” but he’s inched forward. His elbows are resting on Gojo’s desk, in front of you – he rests his chin on his folded hands, sharp eyes regarding you as if you’re something he wants to devour. “Y’just look tense.”

“This is the first time I’ve met a student’s parent,” you admit, though the minute it’s left your mouth you’re regretting it. Like you’re admitting to some kind of weakness. This close to him, you can see there’s a dark red stain on one of his wrists, like dried blood. Your stomach is tying itself in knots. It’s not helping that his forearms are so big, ridged with muscle.

“That so?” His eyes gleam. “What d’ya think of me?”

You don’t actually need to answer him. He can see it in the way your eyes keep nervously skimming over him. The way your lips are shining in the light. The bob of your throat as you swallow.

“Mr Fushiguro--”

“I told you to call me Toji,” his voice is almost mocking. You watch him lean over the table like you’re somewhere far away from the action – watch his hand reach out and cup your face, calloused thumb brushing your cheek, like you’re a ghost in the corner of the room. His palms feel like they’re burning hot. “You’re tremblin’, little lamb.”

You had thought you’d felt like a rabbit – shy, ready to run at any moment. But the moment his hand is on you, you’re docile – too scared to scamper away. You suppose you are like a lamb, staring a wolf straight on in the face, too stupid or too pliant to use your common sense and run.

“I . . . I shouldn’t,” you say, voice trembling just as much as the rest of you. Toji’s smirk hasn’t left his face. You’re saying you shouldn’t, but he just bets if he reached further down and unbuttoned your blouse, your nipples would pebble for him – he just bets there’s a wet stain on your underwear, right now. He can always tell when someone’s turned on by the idea of playing with fire.

“I wouldn’t mind spendin’ a few weeks with you in charge of me,” he muses, and then chuckles humourlessly, correcting himself. “Sorry. Lemme rephrase that. I’d rather be in charge of you, but--”

Oh, he sees that. The little flash in your eyes, an imperceptible contract of your shoulders. If you weren’t behind the desk, he bets he’d have seen your thighs press together too. Girls like you are just so fucking predictable, and he loves it every single time. There’s just something that’s so much fun about breaking them – making them submit, admit that him being so close with the scent of something-that-might-be-death clinging to him turns them on like nothing else. Your attempts at being haughty and polite and proud have just made the stirring between his thighs harder to ignore. You’re such a cute, neat, demure little thing – by the end of this meeting, he’s going to have his way with you, you bet.

“M-Mr Fushiguro,” you say, trying to wrest back control of yourself – honestly, he’s pissed you aren’t listening to him, but the title’s kind of endearing. You’re trying so hard! Pity you’re going to lose all of your manners when you’re bent over this desk with his cock inside you. You haven’t even moved your face away from his hand. “I-I have to give you these papers.”

He stands up, pulling his own touch away from your cheek. Stretches. Your eyes are drawn to the brief expanse of his stomach, just above his trousers – the dark line of hair leading down to . . . Oh, God. You shouldn’t have thought about that. The grin on his face is cocky, and you know that he knows you were looking.

“I’m just gonna throw ‘em in the trash, sweetheart,” he says to you. “Now. Let’s talk about the elephant in the room, yeah?” He steps closer to you. You totter to your feet, half-unsure, half driven by the low ache between your legs and the thrum of desire that’s been reverberating through you since the moment he’d carelessly thrown out how much happier he was to see you than Gojo. You have to tilt your head up a little when he comes closer. You’d thought you realised how massive he was when he’d walked through the door, but that’s nothing compared to how his size seems to dwarf you. Every unkind thought you’ve ever had about your body or your face seems to have gone out of the window as his heated green gaze hungrily drinks you in. You know it’s the stare of some predator who’s going to devour you, and you still feel transformed. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand idly comes to the top of your blouse buttons, a finger brushing the place in your throat where your pulse is beating its unsteady rhythm.

“Whaddya say, little lamb?” He grins down at you. “Gonna let yourself be caught by the big bad wolf?”

You’re supposed to be telling this man about his son’s misbehaviour, giving him all of the paperwork that Gojo had thrust at you, getting him to say he’ll talk to his kid and try and make sure that it won’t happen again. You shouldn’t be tipping your head back further, letting his fingertips lodge dangerously in the hollow of your throat, flirting with the place where your windpipe is. You shouldn’t be breathing out, all of your pretty prissiness and good morals and pride disappearing where you stand in the face of one of your students’ really hot dad.

“Yes,” you breathe.

And Toji wastes no time.

3.

He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning your blouse; just drags his hand down, and the buttons pop off, scattering on the floor. You gasp at the show of strength, and Toji is still grinning, clearly enjoying that you’re admiring him. His hand pulls at the fabric, until your breasts are fair falling out of it, the blouse wrestles off your skin.

“You’re wearin’ something like this at work?” He asks you, giving a tug to the gore of your bra. You hadn’t done enough washing this week, and the one you’re wearing is all filmy white lace. “Almost like you knew I was comin’ huh?” His grin is crooked. You tremble as you reach behind you, undoing the clasp – and for that, you get a murmur of ‘good girl’ that has your knees turning to jelly.

He whistles as the bra drops from you, his gaze admiring. He takes in the spill of your breasts, the little peaks of your nipples. He takes handfuls of them, squeezing them in his big hands, his fingertips digging in so painfully you can imagine that you’ll have bruises in the shape of his fingers tomorrow. The idea doesn’t disgust you.

He lowers his head to kiss you. He’s not gentle with you for a moment – his teeth immediately nip at your bottom lip, kissing you hungrily like you’re the first taste of sugar for a man who’s lived on nothing but bread for months. His tongue licks at your lips, begging entrance – dancing against your own when you helplessly open those same lips, demanding in the exact same way Toji is.

He pinches your nipple between thumb and forefinger, delighting in how quickly the bud hardens. He rolls it between them, toying with it, enjoying the soft noises you make that get caught in his mouth. If he wasn’t kissing you, he thinks, you’d be bleating like a lamb right now. Huffing and whimpering. When he finally gets his cock in you, he’ll have to remember to clap a hand over your mouth so you don’t attract too much attention.

Your other nipple is given the same treatment, hot lightning bolts of pleasure ricocheting from the touch of Toji’s calloused fingers to the spot between your legs. You’re grateful for how solid Toji is – if he were any less so, you’re sure you’d be buckling over where you stand.

He pulls back with a final, marking nip to your lower lip, almost hard enough to make you bleed. You whine, and a dark chuckle spills out of his lips in response.

“Toji,” you whimper as he pulls away. You miss the feel of his body pressed against yours like a physical ache. His hands encircle your thighs, pushing you up onto the edge of Gojo’s desk, clever fingers already pushing your tight pencil skirt up so it’s bunched around your waist.

He kind of misses ‘Mr Fushiguro’ now it’s gone, but the sight of your stockings digging into your thighs soon chases the thought from his mind. He guesses your skirt is more than long and tight enough to make sure nobody gets a glimpse, but oh . . . that you’d be walking around all day, like that, with nobody to fuck you silly--

He can’t help but let his hands knead the soft skin, the flesh, his thumbs imprinting so hard in the plush that you squirm. He’s pressing your thighs apart, now – revealing the modest underwear, the soaking wet patch where he can see the outline of your plump labia lips.

With your legs spread, he can smell how turned on you are. Oh, yeah – he knows your type, alright.

“Ain’t you cute?” He says, chuckling. “You really want me to do you over this desk?”

“You can’t leave me like this--” Your voice is reedy, breathy, almost petulant – at another time, he’d make you beg for it. He’d take his time over you. But although the idea of being caught fucking the cute little teacher’s aid is briefly appealing, he doesn’t really want to make a whole load of trouble for himself when his cock is practically begging to be sheathed inside your wet holes. “Please--”

It’s the please that does it. It’s always the ‘please’ that does it for Toji. He chuckles, smirks, crooked grin – all of it feels like it’s mixing together in your mind, your throat very dry as nothing seems to matter right now except the fact that your sex is practically pulsing with how empty it is, and you think that the hot hard stiffness pressing against your thighs would really help alleviate some of that.

“Aww,” he says, fiddling with his zip and underwear, grabbing his cock and giving it a cursory pump just so you can admire the sheer size of him. “Don’t worry, little lamb. I’ll give ya what you need.”

He gets what he wants. Your eyes, as big and dark as the eyes of a doe – the soft choke of breath as you get to see the size of it, so big his own fingertips don’t quite meet. It’s the kind of cock that could ruin you for somebody else – and you’ve had sex before, of course, but you’ve never taken anything quite like that--

“That’s cute,” Toji murmurs, pressing forward, nestling his slick cock-head between your soaking wet thighs. “Wish you could have seen what a picture your face made just then. Afraid I’m gonna tear you in two?”

He might – he might, you think. But you pout at him and Toji’s cock throbs, as he glides the slick glans through the mess of your arousal, wetting himself even further. Your breath hitches, your hips doing a cute little jerk as it brushes your swollen clit. He can’t help himself but swirl the head over it some more, making your breath catch and whine, bleating like a little lamb--

He sinks his hips forward, and your fingers flex on the edge of the desk, knuckles white, at the relentless sear of his cock driving you open. You feel so stretched out, and he’s barely a third of the way in – he can’t help but watch your expression. He always likes to see someone the first time they’re impaled on his cock – the glassy eyes, slack jaw, the pleasure-cum-pain in their faces. He wants to take a picture of you and keep it in his wallet so he can pump one out to the sight of you when he’s on business trips and too busy to go out and find himself a hole to fuck.

“How’s that feel?” He asks you, so soft and low that you barely catch it. Another slow inch. He lets you feel every ridge, every vein, every bump of his shaft. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

“F-full—” you gasp.

“I bet,” Toji replies – and then, he bottoms out inside you. His eyes look down to where the two of you are joined; the slick fluid leaking out of you, all heat and needy. “You fit me like a glove.”

Your cheeks heat at the compliment, at the lewd way he’s looking at your spread open cunt – the way your hole is fluttering around him, the peeking pearl of your clit. He’s studying you like he wants to learn you by heart.

“Head’s up,” he says. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

You’re about to open your mouth, and ask him what he’s doing right at that moment if he hasn’t started fucking you yet – but then, he’s dragged almost the entire length of his cock out of you in one savage thrust and is immediately spearing it back into you, his pace brutal. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, your back hitting the solid, flat surface of Gojo’s desk so that you’re flat out with your thighs wrapped around Toji’s hips.

If he weren’t so entranced by the feel of your walls fluttering around him, trying to suck him in further and deeper, so tight that you’re basically a vice, he’d grab you by your hair and force you to stay seated whilst he fucked you. But right now, you feel so good that all he can think about is his own release. The wet sounds of his cock gliding in and out of you, the squelch of your arousal and slick making every pump easier and easier. You feel so good. You’re tighter than he even imagined you could be, so good that he kind of wants to take you home and have you take up permanent residence in his bed.

You’re moaning, your back arching with every one of his thrusts – taking it admirably. There’s pain in your moans, yes – he supposes he could have prepared you better, had you come on his fingers a couple of times, if time were not of the essence – but they’re the pained moans of someone who likes to be hurt a little bit.

With every rock of his cock inside of you, he hits some new spot that you’ve never had stoked before, makes the heat and need inside of you swim just a little bit closer to the forefront. You don’t even notice you’re moaning and whining until a big hand slaps over your mouth, rough, hot palm against your lips, smearing your lipstick.

“You’re gonna be a good girl and stay quiet,” Toji says to you, through those savage thrusts of his cock inside of you. “You don’t want your . . . your fuckin’ . . . anyone walkin’ in on you being railed by your student’s dad, do you?” You shake your head, but he feels the throb of your cunt around his cock, the way your walls contract, and he adds it to the store of things he’s learning about you. Always the quiet ones, right? Always the proper ones who look as though they’ve never even seen a cock--

The feel of him inside you is absolutely dizzying, so much and so full that you can no longer think. His cock batters against a certain place in your channel, a textured wall – and before you know it, everything is going dizzy and black and white like exploding fireworks, your chest bursting into heat, your inner walls getting so tight around Toji as you come that he thinks you’ll be the one to fucking break him.

Oh, you’re adorable, creaming on his cock – the slick gush of your arousal around him, the dreamy cast in your eye, the fact he can feel you drooling against his palm. He increases the speed of his own thrusts, chasing his release through the weak aftershocks and smaller pulses of you around him, through the over-sensitive squirming of your cute little cunt, the fact that tears are pooling in your eyes at how much everything is suddenly feeling--

He groans and the hand still clinging to your thigh is suddenly pressing so hard you think he’ll snap your bone, ragged breath;

“Fu—fuuuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna take it all, that’s right, good girl--” in between belaboured, ragged pumps, his cock twitching as he manages to pull out at the last moment and his release spills all over your thighs, luridly glistening wet in the overhead fluorescent lights.

That’s another moment he’d take a picture of, if he could.

He’s not the kind of man who waits around. He gives himself ten seconds, to catch his breath, to admire your plush thighs painted with his come, before he’s tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping zippers and doing buttons. He shoves his hands into his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet for a second – double checking he’s left nothing of his in the classroom.

Yep. All clear.

He turns to leave, air of cocky confidence back – you only just see the shifting muscles in his back as he turns to go, leaving you where you are. You’re lucky he’s so tall, or you’d probably barely have seen him in front of the door frame (you didn’t even lock the door, anyone could have walked in at any time! You don’t even want to know what Gojo would say if he’d walked in to his aid being fucked like a slut across his desk).

“W-wait,” you say, weakly, still sprawled over the desk with his come cooling on your thighs. You manage to prop yourself up on your elbows, but your entire body feels like it’s just taken a battering. He takes a look back at you from the door, dragging a big hand through his hair, his crooked grin still on his face. You look so pretty like that – all fucked out and messy, the shine taken off of you. “T-the paperwork--”

You’re not sure where said paperwork is. Underneath you, maybe? You hope it didn’t get soaked.

“Told ya’,” he says, dismissively. “I’m just gonna throw it in the trash. Thanks for the fun, sweetheart. See y’around, huh? I should do stuff for the kid’s academic career more often.”

The door slams shut behind him.

[hide-the-cutlery]

The next two days are going to suck.

I’m out of pills. Well, not completely out. I have about 8 of my anxiety pills left — to last me 3 weeks. I’m supposed to take 3 a day. So I have those, and some otc pills that take me out of myself a little, but I have to be careful with those, because, for me, they can trigger panic. I can pick up my pain meds in 2 days, but they usually makes me puke. I thought I was doing better this month with my usage, but I guess not. Then there’s more anxiety pills that supposedly help with my alcohol cravings, which aren’t a controlled substance, so I can probably get those next week. None of this really matters, because I don’t have shit now.

I’m so medicated. Even if I took everything as prescribed, I’d probably be an incoherent mess. I’m a master manipulator with doctors, which I’m simultaneously proud of and ashamed of. I know how to get what I want, within reason. It’s all about building a rapport with them and finding that sweet spot where they believe you need what you’re getting and never trying to push for more. I tried a few times to get another of my anxiety pills a day, but my psychiatrist pushed back and changed something else instead, so I knew I had to drop it.

What boggles my mind is that I’m a fucking alcoholic (addict), and these medical professionals still throw potentially dangerous, addicting medication at me. What pisses me off is how much they don’t listen. I saw my psychiatrist yesterday and brought a list of things I wanted to talk about with him, since the appointments go so fast. I wanted to explain my racing thoughts keeping me from completing simple tasks. My complete lack of impulse control. My delusional beliefs that the universe is trying to get back at me for being a shitty person. That I’ll stay up all night (sometimes for 2-3 nights in a row) and do things like clean. Even if I lay down, turn off everything, and pray for sleep, I just can’t. The fact that I didn’t finish my cleaning (or whatever I started) gets in my head and makes rest impossible. His solution? Let’s increase your seroquel again.

Scary things are starting to happen. Sometimes I go on a “bender” in a store(s), and I don’t remember when, how, what I got, etc. My memory needs to be jogged sometimes. This past time I got twelve bottles of body wash, for a total of 29. And that’s not including hairspray, hair gel, hair accessories, dry shampoo, lotion, makeup, nail polish, and a fuckton of clothes. I am out of control. It’s funny — I want to lose a little more weight (I just lost ~25lbs), but then all the clothes I’ve acquired won’t fit, so the fruits of my labor will be spoiled. I’ll have to start over. That is literally my thought process, and it’s so fucked. Stores know me. They watch me. They follow me. They know my fucking name and know what I do. And honestly, I just don’t care. I mean I care because I don’t want to get caught again, but the odds are seemingly in my favor. Even the LP woman where I actually got the cops called on me said “we’ve been watching you a long time, but you’re too good.” Not saying that as something to brag about, just recalling what happened. Also, I recognize when someone is trying to manipulate me. She was trying to get me to confess to other things because what they must have had on me would never hold up in court. I am not stupid. I don’t know what I did that time to allow them to catch me, but clearly I slipped up somewhere. Either that, or they just went with it, hoping I’d confess. Which I did. I cooperated; hopefully it helps me in the end. I was watching trashy tv this morning, and a woman mentioned she went to jail for two months for petty theft. The host of the show even seemed shocked by that. Maybe she had priors or other factors that played into it. But yeah, I can’t go to jail! It’s not an excuse, and if you look at my actions alone, yeah, maybe I deserve to go to jail, too. But (prepare yourself for some massive excuses) I’m sick. I don’t do it because I want material things. I don’t think I am above the law. I’m not trying to make some pathetic stand against capitalism. I just can’t control my impulses, and I’m sick. I’m working with my therapist, my psychiatrist (at least I make an effort to), and some women in AA to get help, and nothing is working. I thought after I got caught, I’d stop, and for a while, I did. But that apparently wasn’t enough, either. It’s a compulsion — fighting it is futile. It actually started out as excessive spending, but I ran out of the means to keep that up, so now it’s this. I know it’s because of my issues with addiction and mental health. I don’t see it any differently than drinking, drug use, sex, or whatever. It’s an alternative to drinking. I can’t do that anymore, so this filled the void. Every time I have spent money excessively or done this, I haven’t been drinking. The object of my addiction (for me, at least), bounces around until I can’t do that thing anymore, and my brain holds up a sign that says NEXT in glowing, red letters. Like a “no vacancy” sign at a shitty motel.

I know before I went on that little tangent, I was listing some things that are scaring me. Sometimes, after I wake up, I’ll check my phone and find that I tried to write, but it’s total jibberish. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing time. I don’t know where the days go; I wake up and (try to) go to bed. I’ll start to do something, my mind will go blank, and I won’t remember what I was doing. I’m stumbling all over the place. I’ll try to have conversations (usually in the morning), and I’ll be able to hear myself slurring. I seem to talk without thinking. An example: I’ll be in a room with only one other person, talking to them, but it will feel like part of myself has separated from me and is screaming “You LIAR! Shut the fuck up! That’s not true and you know it. Quit pulling things out of your ass and tell the fucking truth. Drop the whole facade; you have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, nor do you believe what you’re saying. You’re pathetic. Spineless. You’re fake.” I swear I couldn’t pick myself out of a lineup sometimes.

I feel that third presence with me frequently, but recently it hit a new level of intensity. I had a few job interviews a couple weeks ago and I found myself exaggerating the truth so much that it made me feel uncomfortable. All I could hear in my head was “LIAR LIAR LIAR”. (And forcing myself to make unwavering eye contact made me feel ill.) I tried to tell myself that’s just how interviews go, and that they weren’t really lies at all, just maybe a few embellishments, but I cannot listen to myself when I’m being rational. Irrationality is really all I know lately. I ended up taking a position with a company that seemed sketchy as hell, but I was desperate. I’m tired of being broke and needed the money so badly that it would have been absolutely foolish of me to decline the offer. The me who showed up to those interviews and got hired was not the me who showed up on the first day. The embellishments and feigned self-confidence were gone — all that was left was pitiful, anxious me with one foot out the door in case I had a panic attack and who won’t look you in the face, much less make eye contact. The more and more I learned about the position and the company, the more I wanted out. It turned out to be door-to-door sales, which was not how the job was described in the interviews. If there ever were a job that wasn’t for me, that’d be it. The leader of my team obviously noticed and basically let me quit. So I’m back to being unemployed. Oh well, it was a life lesson. I’m also back to being broke (not that I ever wasn’t). I didn’t even get paid for my training! I’m doing worse and worse things to get a few bucks here and there. It’s shameful. I would have declined the position on the spot, but my family is pushing me so hard to go back to work full time that I couldn’t in good conscience say thanks, but no thanks. I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t think I’m ready. Sadly, you can’t look at someone and see what’s going on in their mind. If they could do that, I’m pretty sure they’d back off. I’ve been telling them I have to make my own decisions, and my priority is getting some help with my mental health. That didn’t really go over well. They think I’m capable because I had my shit (somewhat) together a few years ago, but it’s not a few years ago anymore. I’m still recovering and struggling. The tension in this house is almost tangible, and it’s completely my fault. Well, it’s my fault in the sense that I’m not where they want or expect me to be. It’s not that I don’t want to work or contribute financially. I do. I want a normal existence, but “this life I loathe is in my way”.

So because of all this, I’ve decided to look at getting a complete psych evaluation. I’ve never been given any kind of diagnoses aside from issues with depression, anxiety, and substance abuse. I know that’s not all that’s going on. I’ve had potential diagnoses thrown around like bipolar disorder, BDP, OCD tendencies, suppressed memories of trauma... I’m sure the pills don’t help (“but it sure is funny”). I take them because I can’t handle day to day functioning. Every day it feels like there’s a crisis, and I’ve felt this way long before I ever took a swig of vodka or popped some pills. When I discovered those things, nothing seemed as intense anymore. I stopped jumping at my own shadow. No wonder I’m an addict.

[poeticandvaguelysweet]

Prompt #191 - Charlie and Personal Struggles

ANON: please write something about Claire and Owen meeting Charlie’s boyfriend

Not quite meeting her boyfriend. But, this is an idea I’ve had in my head for probably a year now. I just never had the motivation or the finishing pieces to complete it. 

It’s so nice to write 5k of a fic and not feel guilty about my thesis. You have no idea. 

AO3 - C&E Index

CHARLIE AND PERSONAL STRUGGLES

She met her husband in the driveway of their two-storey three bedroom home three minutes past twelve o’clock. It was exactly as they planned, Owen winking at her as he crossed the distance between them, his large hands reaching her narrow hips first.

He kissed her like he was starving like their skin hadn't touched in weeks. Claire would have argued that it had only been days, the two of them more cautious now that their daughters were 16 and 11 than what they had ever been when they were toddlers.

It was lunchtime on a school day, the exact reason why Owen and Claire were kissing on their front lawn, her husband's impatient hands already sliding into the back of her tight slacks.

No one was home and when her after lunch appointment was cancelled Claire couldn't help but keep the extra hour free, allowing her two hours to meet her husband at home, fuck him and enjoy an easy lunch before returning to work.

The girls were supposed to be none the wiser.

The house was quiet when Owen unlocked the door, his wife giggling behind him as her small fingers wrapped themselves around the belt loops on his pants. They moved inside as one, Owen twisting in her grip to kiss his wife again. This was what they needed. Middle of the day serenity to bask in the other. Never had they struggled to find time for each other but once the girls started to get older it had become increasingly hard to ship them off to their grandparents for the weekend. They started living for cancelled meetings and weekends filled with teenaged plans.

Owen and Claire thought they were safe in broad daylight, house empty for another four hours before Charlie and Elliot were due to walk in the door, heads heavy from their day full of learning.

Her husband tugged on her hand, turning them to push his wife against the wall that separated the living room from the hallway. Claire couldn’t believe the need she had to wrap herself around him. Their bedroom had long been reclaimed taken from sleepless child filled nights. Elliot still sought out a cuddle before bed, happily bringing her parents a book but she no longer stayed tucked within their sheets. Charlie came and went as she pleased, often sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed while her parents brushed their teeth. She used their bedroom like she should have been using her psych appointments; not that Owen and Claire would ever turn her away. She read essays, sought schoolyard advice, conversed with her mother in French just for the practice leaving her father dazed and confused and pointlessly rambled to those who listened before they sent her off to bed.

They had gotten their space back but not the freedom to do as they pleased behind closed doors. Elliot, age eleven, slept through the night but still knew nothing of personal boundaries. Owen, in his age, felt more conscious having sex with his wife when there were teenagers in the house as opposed to toddlers. So, they waited until they left or any other opportunity of an empty nest.

They were supposed to be alone.

‘Get out.’ Owen growled, snapping Claire from her lust-filled revere. It took a second for her eyes to focus before she realised he wasn’t growling at her. Claire stilled, arms slipping from Owen’s neck to grip at his waist. She focused on the feel of his khaki shirt under the pads of her fingers as her heart thudded in her chest.

‘Dad?!’ Charlie’s voice shrieked as Claire let out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding.

‘Now.’ His voice boomed, hand flexing on Claire’s hip. She found courage in the sound of her daughter’s voice, sure there wasn’t an intruder in their house, to peek around the corner into the living room.

Charlie was standing, seventeen-years-old, in front of the couch and shrugging her school blouse back over her shoulders as her fingers blindly fiddled with the buttons. It took a second for another head to appear, brown hair ruffled, face sheepish. Charlie had been caught red-handed playing hookie with a boy and the heat was radiating off Owen in waves. Claire could feel his muscles tense, the man using all his willpower to not lunge across the room.

‘Markus,’ Charlie sighed, voice agitated. ‘You don’t have to go.’

Owen scoffed, breaking away from his wife as he stepped into the living room, Claire clinging for the last shreds of his control. ‘Oh no, he does.’ He told his daughter, levelling the girl with a hard stare as the boy beside her shrunk. ‘Out,’ Owen threw his arm towards the door ‘before I throw you out’.

Charlie shoved at the boy’s shoulder, wrist rolling before she shook her hand through her hair. Markus moved, head down as he rushed for the door. Owen stepped in front of him, hands rolled into fists at his side. Both Claire and Charlie knew he wouldn’t touch the kid. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing, Charlie?’ He aimed his question at his daughter, looking right over the boy’s head as he glowered.

‘Oh, so you can come home and play hookie in the middle of the day but I can’t?’ She asked hip cocked as she stood defiantly. Between the two of them, Claire could see they were playing with fire. Charlie was a ticking time bomb ready to go off and the fact that they hadn’t caught her doing this already was surprising. It had all been a matter of time. And Owen, he didn’t want to see his daughter like this or know it was a possibility. Claire was sure Charlie and Elliot could grow into their thirties, marry and have babies and Owen Grady would still think their bodies hadn’t been touched.

‘Let the kid go, Owen.’ Claire stepped towards him, her hand gently squeezing his forearm.

Charlie climbed over the couch, narrowly avoiding both her parents as she escaped towards the stairs. ‘Fuck you.’ She yelled over her shoulder, heavy feet banging on the stairs as she ascended.

Markus slipped out the door, catching his escape as Charlie distracted her parents. ‘I’ll call you later, Char.’ It took the last of Owen’s withering control to not chase after the kid who went sprinting down the street.  

Owen turned, shoulders straightened as his hands still remained in tightly wound fists. He took four steps towards the staircase before Claire stepped in front of him jumping up on the bottom step and spreading her arms across the gap there. ’Stop.’ She demanded. ‘I need you to take ten minutes to breathe before you go up there ranting and raving to that girl that she shouldn’t be and can never have sex.’ Claire didn’t pull her eyes from his, they had been together for eighteen years. Nothing was going to make her back down.

‘Claire,’ He breathed, sighing her name gently. ‘She’s seventeen.’

Claire nodded. ‘I’m sorry, how old were you when you started luring girls into your bed?’ She asked, cocking a brow and already aware of the answer. He and Charlie were one in the same. Claire didn’t need to comment on the irony of catching them in their house instead of his. ‘This scares the shit out of me too but you can’t go in there telling her what she is doing is wrong. It’s not advisable but if we go against her on this, Owen, it won’t be pretty.’

He shook his head, hands on his hips as he took a step back. Owen couldn’t do this. It was out of his thought processes. There was no way he was going to be able to look at Charlie and have this discussion with her.

Claire sighed, eyes rolling as she dropped a hand to her husband’s large shoulder. ‘Go cool off, caveman. I’ll talk to her.’

They couldn’t just ignore what they walked in to. It was twelve in the afternoon and Charlie was supposed to be at school. That was a matter Claire wanted to deal with first before broaching the subject of why they found their daughter sans shirt and if she was being safe.

She knocked once on Charlie’s closed door, Claire sucking in a deep breath before she pushed it open. There were days when she lost sight of her children’s growth. It was so easy to think back to when Charlie and Elliot were just little girls in need of bottles and diaper changes. It was hard to think of them as grown-up, ascending into adulthood as the years started to quickly pass them by.

One minute Charlie was begging for the book and the next she was shouting for Claire to go away.

‘I can’t.’ She told her daughter, addressing Charlie’s third shout of ‘leave me alone’. ‘You need to go back to school.’ Charlie had her back to Claire, curled up on her bed, legs tucked to her chest as she faced the wall.

‘You seriously cannot send me back there.’ Charlie whimpered, shoulders shaking as she let out a sob she couldn’t contain. Claire was concerned immediately. In the living room Charlie had been furious and now she was crying, the sound desperate in the back of her throat.

‘Charlie, you can’t just skip school.’ Claire asked, crossing the room slowly before she sat on the end of Charlie’s bed, legs crossed, shoes discarded on the floor.

‘I’ll be a laughing stock!’ Charlie whimpered half on a shout as she sat up, pulling her legs deeper into her chest as she pushed herself against the wall. The space between them increased as Claire watched the girl with concern. She asked a soft ‘why’ hand reaching out to touch Charlie’s shin. ‘All those assholes said I’m nothing if I’m not having sex.’ Her eyes watered, shimmering blue as she glared at her mother. ‘What the fuck do I care?’ She scoffed at herself, knowing her mother’s next question. ‘I planned to get caught.’ Claire gave her a puzzled look, head tilted, brow raised. ‘I heard you and Dad talking last night. Making plans to come home today. I thought, if I got caught and dad scared Markus off then I would have an excuse to fight it off a little longer. He’ll be too scared to touch me now.’ She shrugged, drying the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Claire grinned. She knew Charlie was cunning, knew the girl couldn’t possibly have been stupid enough to get caught. But, then again, on a typical day, Charlie didn’t know they came home for a rendezvous.  

‘Baby, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. These other kids, they can’t pressure you into it.’

Charlie nodded, tears bubbling again. ‘I just want them to leave me alone.’

‘You’re not ready.’ Claire offered, nodding softly as she waited for Charlie to agree. Instead, her daughter burst out into tears again.

Charlie shook her head. ‘I’m ready.’ She told her mom with a confident voice regardless of the shake in her voice. ‘I just don’t want to. I’m not interested. Is there something wrong with me?’

‘I read this book in college. It was a philosophy text and God knows why I had even picked it up in the first place. But, it taught me some things I know I have shared with you before but I want to share them again.’ Charlie knew what was coming as her mother shuffled forward and squeezed her hand. ‘You can’t help the things you feel, Charlie, only the things you do. That's what feelings are, that's why they’re called as such; because you feel them, they rise in your body and cause a storm in your head. You don’t think them into fruition. What counts,’ she squeezed Charlie’s hand harder, ‘is what you do with that emotion’. Don’t ball it up and throw it at your sister. Don’t take it out on the kids at school. Don’t hold it in until you’re blue in the face and screaming at nothing in particular. Don’t suppress your happy because you’re guilty. Live. Love. Laugh it out as all those home decor slogans say. God. How many times had she heard her mother say that in her lifetime? She hadn’t heard it much but in seventeen years the lesson popped up more than once.

There had been a time a few weeks after Max passed when it really sunk in that the little boy wasn’t coming back. It was when their minds started to adjust but their bodies couldn’t keep up. Charlie had howled, gut-wrenching cries that sent both parents barrelling into her room. She couldn’t see much through her tears and the dark light but she would never forget catching her mother practically falling through the doorframe. Claire had sunk into Charlie’s bed immediately, pulling the girl into her arms to try and fix her aching heart before she knew what was wrong. Owen; confident that his wife could solve the issue, when and popped his head into Elliot’s room comforting the little girl who had woken up with a fright.

Charlie forgot about Max for a split second before she went to sleep and when she remembered her guilt was immense. For a second, Charlie had been happy and couldn’t forgive herself for feeling so.

They didn’t realise until they lost Max that they had an emotional child on their hands. Charlie had always been so good at hiding it, never giving away her weakest hand until it was ripped from her, leaving the child bear.

That was the first time she remembered her mother wrapping her in warm vanilla scented arms and telling Charlie that it was okay to feel. It was okay to be angry and sad and a little hopeful that the happy would return. What mattered was the way Charlie used that emotion. She needed to be happy and Max’s memory could forgive her for that.

It was also the night before Charlie first noticed her parents put on a fake smile. They forced themselves through severe emotions when they felt it wasn’t appropriate for their children to see. That wasn’t to say she never saw her mother or father cry. She had, more than once in that first year and every year after that. She saw them fuming with anger and dancing around the living room joyous. Charlie knew her parents as complex emotional beings who struggled just as she did to pick and chose how she let the world see those feelings. It was comforting to know there was a dysfunction there between them, shared genetically.

‘If you don’t feel like it, Charlie, that’s okay. You’re not hurting anyone.’ Claire offered, squeezing the young hand off her daughter who only continued to shake her head.

Charlie had never before fallen victim to peer pressure.

‘Molly said there was something wrong with me if I didn’t like sex.’ She looked at her mother the way helpless animals did. There was nothing Claire could do or say to bring her daughter in from the rain.

These kids were wrong and that was hurting both Charlie and Claire enough as it was.

‘There are plenty of people who don’t like sex, Charlie. It’s perfectly normal. These kids, honey, they are kids. They don’t know anything about the world.’

Charlie scrunched up her face, eyes squeezing closed. ‘How could it be normal if it’s everywhere. You and Dad go at it like … like … rabbits!’ Claire felt her cheeks burn. Owen was right, they weren’t discrete enough. ‘I can’t watch TV without seeing it. Mom, I don’t think I ever want to have sex. I don’t think it’s gross or it’s stupid or that boys have cooties. I just don’t want to. Why does it have to be this massively regulated part of society? Why do they shove it down everyone’s throats? It’s so fucking stupid.’  

She was struggling for what to say. Nothing was placating Charlie. She was only getting more agitated. What was Charlie trying so desperately to tell her that she didn’t have the understanding to comprehend.

‘You’re only seventeen, Charlie. You’ll meet someone one day and maybe it’ll all make sense to you.’ She praised herself on the ‘someone’, trying to communicate to Charlie that the world wasn’t always the prescribed norm of heterosexuality. Hell, both of her daughters had taken place in Lorna’s wedding when she married their new Aunt Kate. They were being raised in an accepting home. No one was going to think twice if either girl was interested in the opposite sex.

‘What if it doesn’t?’ Charlie quizzed, intense eyes staring holes into Claire’s weak statements.

Claire shrugged, ‘It will’.

Charlie shook her head again, red hair licking flames across her face. ‘You’re not listening to me.’ Her tears were hot on her cheeks, fresh as they slid across her skin.

‘Explain it to me then. Plain and simple.’ Claire asked, desperate to understand what was going on in her teens head. Charlie never cared about another persons opinion unless it was negative and not entirely deserved. She got into too many fights that way. It was rattling Claire how much her daughter was affected by this.

‘I don’t like the boys at school … or the girls … I’m not attracted to anyone and this dumb ass bitch is sitting there telling me I’m nothing because I don’t want to do the naked pretzel with these morons who only want to go share with all their friends what pussies they’ve seen. Nothing is a fucking secret at that school. I kid you not, Mom, I could draw you a diagram of everyone who has fucked someone else. And they want to pressure me into that party? Are you kidding? I feel like shit enough already because I-just-don’t-want-too and I’ve tried.’ Claire had her head in her hands, sigh heavy from deep within her chest no doubt at Charlie’s language than anything else. ‘I just needed to get caught so you and Dad could … I don’t know … ground me … never let me within ten feet of a boy. Banned from parties until I’m twenty-three. Something that gives me a legitimate excuse to stay away from these dick weeds before I’m forced into something I will regret. Please, Mama?’ Claire didn’t miss the way Charlie said her name like she was a little girl again, turning wide wet eyes on her mother in a desperate plea.

She had to be proud, first, of the daughter she raised strong-willed and understanding of her own personal struggles. Charlie knew she was going to regret whatever she did if left alone with a boy and pressured into having sex with him all to appease a certain group of girls at school. There were no teachers they could talk to on this, no principle meetings. Charlie rather melt right into the floor before that happened. Hell, she rather be caught, shirtless, boy on top of her by her father than go to her teaching faculty.

She was resourceful, Claire would give her that.

It was the deep seeded emotional distress that was throwing Claire off. The desperate need in her daughter’s eyes to be helped beyond what was happening in the schoolyard. ‘I want you to go talk to Aunt Lorna about this.’ Claire offered, at a loss of how else to help Charlie. Her sister-in-law struggled with her sexual identity for years. Claire hoped she could help.

Charlie nodded. ‘Am I grounded?’ She asked, winking softly as she laughed through the still wet tears on her face.

Claire nodded, a grin spreading across her cheeks as she leant in. With a forceful tug, she pulled Charlie into her arms, girl collapsing into her mother’s lap as she wrapped herself around Claire. ‘You know, Dad’s going to ground you for real?’ Claire asked.

Charlie nodded. ‘I don’t think I want him to know the truth. He’ll go full Hulk and I’m too tired to deal with it.’ She sighed, revelling in the touch of Claire’s hands through her hair. ‘Mom?’ Claire hummed. ‘Markus is a good guy. He’s actually my friend. He kinda knows that I didn’t want to do it. Just not that I was planning on being caught.’

Claire chuckled, ‘Oh baby, he’s never going to be allowed in this house’. She kissed the top of her daughter’s head unsure of how much she trusted Markus’ good qualities. ‘Can’t he just lie for you? If he’s such a good friend?’

Her daughter shifted in her lap, ‘I’ll save that for Plan D’. It worried Claire to hear her daughter had accumulated four plans. How many of them had she gone through in order to evade these girls pushing a socially expected norm on her?

‘Charlie.’ Claire started, voice stern. ‘I want you to own who you are. You’ve never once faltered in doing that and I don’t these other kids to break that streak. You are an amazing young person and I am so proud to be your mom.’ She squeezed Charlie to the best of her ability, the girl’s head in her lap. ‘These people are temporary. One day you won’t even be able to remember their names. Don’t work so hard to make them like you. Your education is far too important for that.’ Charlie nodded. ‘Have you been talking to Dr Larkin about this?’ She shook her head. ‘I think it might be worth your while to see what she has to say on this.’ The girl hummed, promising to bring it up at her next appointment.

Charlie Grady had been seeing a shrink once a month for nine years. Their sessions started out as more frequent affairs but once they sorted the base issues of Max’s passing Charlie’s doctor didn’t think she needed to come in as frequently. In fact, she had stopped going all together for a year a little while ago until she started getting into fights at school. Claire didn’t like the idea of her daughter having a permanent shrink but the need was there for Charlie to have someone to talk to. For the most part, it was working.

‘Do you want me to go for a walk or something so you can Dad can still have your lunch break? I can stay in my room, put my headphones on?’ Claire chuckled, sound catching them both by surprise.

‘I think the mood is ruined.’ She brushed the hair off Charlie’s cheek, giving her daughter a reassuring smile.

Charlie frowned, ‘Sorry’.

‘It’s okay. You come first.’

‘Well,’ Charlie started, confidence sliding back into place. This was the daughter Claire knew well, her bright, entitled, opinionated child. ‘It’s not okay. Just because I don’t want to have sex doesn’t mean you and Dad shouldn’t. Maybe I can take Ellie to the park on the weekend or something. I’ll do it whenever. Just let me know.’ She offered, smile generous.

‘I’m not going to start telling you when your father and I plan to have sex, Charlie, but thanks for the offer.’

The girl shrugged, ‘You’re not that subtle anyway. I can take a hint.’

Downstairs a door slammed, a loud reminder that Owen was still in the house and fuming over what had happened. It was only a matter of minutes before Charlie’s bedroom door opened again, Owen standing in the doorway. He was fighting every urge in his body, every want to raise his voice and go ballistic. He wouldn’t. Charlie knew that.

‘I don’t care what your mother has said. But, boys, Charlie, not happening. I don’t want them in my house, I don’t want them near you and I especially don’t want them near your sister. You’re banned. I can’t control what you do when you go to college but you’re not having sex while you’re still living under my roof.’ He was red in the face, fists still curled into angry hands.

Charlie nodded. ‘Okay.’ She agreed making her father double take as he stared at her.

‘Just ‘okay’? You’re not going to fight me on this?’

She shrugged, ‘You’re right. Boys are stupid and irresponsible. I should wait.’ She could feel her mother trying to suppress a laugh, Charlie dead serious as she looked her father in the eye. ‘One question though?’ He nodded, waiting. ‘What about hockey? And karate? Am I allowed to be near boys when it regards sports? Because that’s kind of unavoidable.’  

Owen nodded, agreeing with Charlie’s statement. Her sports clubs were filled with boys her age, her teams unisex for most games. He couldn’t control that. ‘C’mon, get in the car. I’ll take you back to school.’

Claire spoke before Charlie could shake her head, ready to beg and plead with her father. ‘Ah, no. Actually, I forgot it was pupil free day today.’ She lied, Owen accepting it freely as he nodded.

‘It won’t happen again, Dad.’ Charlie promised sitting up as she offered him a weak smile.

Claire had no reason to doubt her daughter. Charlie had been tricky in the past, she liked to lie and misinform but this was something she was being honest about. They wouldn’t catch her again and Claire had peace of mind that her daughter would always be safe when out alone.

Owen only nodded, the same nonverbal thing his father did. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Come dinner time he and Charlie would be back to being best friends, the afternoon's events completely forgotten.

She would tell him one day when they had some time to themselves to address the issues their daughters were facing. For now, Charlie’s personal struggles would be safe with Claire. If she didn’t want to raise it with her father her mother could honour that for a little while. It wouldn’t make Owen think of her any differently. In fact, he would probably be pleased to hear Charlie wasn’t interested in the hormonal rush everyone else was feeling. He’d probably reward her; buy her car or pay for that overseas trip she was desperate to go on.

For now, she was still their little girl. Both parents bruised and wounded at the coming realisation that she wasn’t so little anymore.

[fairylaughing]

Klance Fluff Week Day 5: F.I.N.E.

Summary: It's been fifteen years since they started fighting Zarkon, three since they defeated him and returned to Earth, and just over 16 months since Lance's first break down.

Klance Fluff Week Day 5: Feelings

Okay, but like, how to do this prompt without angst? I gave up, there’s both angst and fluff, so it’s maybe more h/c? Deal with it.

Established Klance, about 15 years after series. Very minor season 2 spoilers, but if you haven’t seen it you probably won’t even know. depressed!Lance, head-canoning Keith as lactose-intolerant

Sorry I'm late by a day, today's and tomorrow's will both be posted tomorrow!

Trigger warning for depression/suicide attempts (non graphic/specific).

F.I.N.E.

Fifteen years. That isn’t that long in a person’s lifetime on the large scale of things, but for the members of Voltron it felt like a lifetime ago since they’d started fighting Zarkon. It had taken them twelve years to defeat him and return to Earth. The first two years on Earth had gone by in a blur of parades and diplomatic tours and weddings, but now that it had all settled down, Lance and Keith were trying to settling down together as a couple. Keith was managing it fine, surprisingly, but Lance wasn’t handling it quite as well.

Keith was an instructor back at Galaxy Garrison, preparing young cadets for their explorations into space. At first Lance had been working with international diplomacy agencies, since he was bar far one of the best recognized paladins of the team among visiting aliens (he’d probably attempted to Captain Kirk at least half of them), but lately he’d let the others do more of those appearances, and the aliens visiting Earth were less concerned with meeting the paladins of Voltron and more concerned with meeting the leaders of Earth.

That was alright by him. It was alright by Keith too. Lance was in no shape to deal with people day-in and day-out. He’d had a couple of melt-downs, and a scary spell where he wasn’t eating or sleeping and ended up fainting during a celebratory anniversary gala, and overall he was sick. Lance was sick not in body, but in mind. This was something they didn’t know how to fight, they hadn’t had time to deal with this sort of thing in space, so it built up, trauma layered upon trauma, but now it followed him everywhere. There was a black dog haunting the shadows wherever he went. It was so strange for someone as upbeat as Lance to have succumbed to this, but perhaps it was just because it was his fake-it-until-you-make-it attitude that had caused his psyche to crumble. They had all been through terrible things that no young person should have had to endure, but while Keith, Pidge and Hunk had weathered the storms, Lance had let the rain in until he was a sinking ship.

They were taken care of. They were heroes and so they were taken well care of financially, Keith and Lance had come together during their time as Voltron and they had remained so on Earth, purchasing a comfortable house for themselves with a large yard. Lance’s family had loved Keith right off the bat, and, although Keith’s dad was a little more reluctant to accept Keith’s sexuality, they had worked it out and he had come to really like Lance. In fact, Keith swore that his dad liked Lance better than he liked him.

Nowadays though? Nowadays all Lance felt like was a burden.

“I’m just getting groceries,” Keith said, pulling up their car in front of Lance’s counsellor’s office, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”

“I’m fine,” Lance said stiffly.

“If you don’t like this one we can find you another.”

“No, it’s okay,” Lance sighed. This was his third counsellor this year. No one on Earth seemed equipped to deal with him, but perhaps that was because no one else on Earth had ever spent twelve years, twelve very formative years, in space fighting a rebellion against an evil emperor. “Just come get me when you’re done?”

“Of course,” Keith said, “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Lance didn’t believe him. Lance knew he was just doing it out of obligation, because Keith had married him before, when he was like he used to be. No one wanted to deal with him now, driving him to and from appointments, harassing him to take his meds, making sure he didn’t self-medicate, asking him how he was feeling, and listening to his senseless rambling while his eyes streamed. The counsellor was paid to do that. Of course, Ella was good about acting like she didn’t. Sometimes Lance could pretend that she actually cared.

Ella was only perhaps a decade older than Lance, in her mid-forties, but she carried herself with such dignity that she seemed older, a wealth of wisdom in her body. Her office was filled with bits of art work and quotations she liked, a zen writing board, yarn projects that she was working on, and a mess of houseplants across her desk and one long ivy-like vine that wrapped all the way around the room, awkwardly pinned up so that in enveloped the otherwise institutional space. Lance flopped onto the couch, immediately reaching for the soft crochet blanket on the top so that he could bring it between his fingers and ground him into the space.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional?” she asked.

Lance gave her a bitter grin, “Yup.”

“Let’s get started then. We’ll do some breathing, get you settled, and then we’ll try to figure out how you’re really feeling.”

___

‘Grumpy’ the large cardboard square read with the appropriate yellow emoji. ‘Happy’, ‘Hip’, ‘Hurried’. Lance flipped through the cards, so many emotions streaming through his mind that he couldn’t pick just one, he didn’t know, he couldn’t choose. Eventually he settled on ‘Overwhelmed’ because it was the closest. He held it to show Ella.

“What’s overwhelming you?” she asked gently.

“I-I don’t know. Just… just… all of it.”

“That’s okay, just let yourself be overwhelmed then.”

___

Lance was overwhelmed, and then Ella walked him through some exercises, forced him back into his body, grounding him, but not going as deeply as she usually did, as if she sensed that today he was especially bad. Lance was especially bad today.

Keith was already waiting outside her office and while Lance booked his next time with the receptionist Ella took Keith aside. She handed him something, a book?

The ride home was quietly domestic. What was for dinner tonight, tomorrow’s agenda, when were Pidge and Hunk coming over to visit again… this weekend?

Lance couldn’t take it, “What did Ella give you?”

“Oh, it’s a mood book. Y’know, like a desk calendar, but with emojis. She wants you to pick one every morning when you wake up and every night before you go to bed and write it down.”

“This is useless,” Lance spat out.

“It’s easy though, you just have to pick a mood.”

“I mean all this counselling crap is pointless, it’s just covering up the problem, I’m barely coasting along, I’m a burden.” Lance’s words began to pour out, along with his tears, “I’m a stupid, useless waste of time, of space. I’m a waste of fucking air and oh God, I’ve fucked up everything and everyone I’ve ever laid my hands on. I’m so sorry I put you through all of this Keith, you deserve so, so much better. You should just let me go, leave me here. Pull over now and put me on the side of the road, in the ditch with the rest of the garbage!”

“I want nothing more than to pull over,” Keith said, “And to wrap you up in my arms and hold you forever.”

“You don’t mean that,” Lance screeched, “You’re just saying that because you feel like that’s what you’re supposed to say. You don’t need to.”

“I mean every word,” Keith gritted out, catching Lance’s eye in the rearview mirror. “I can’t pull over just yet, we’re on the freeway.”

Keith took the first available exit and, in a move that would make the stunt drivers of The Fast and the Furious jealous, he pulled off to the side of the road in a spot too short for most vehicles without his quick manoeuvring skills.

Lance burst out of the car onto his hands and knees and began to dry heave from stress. This was not unusual for him; stress went straight to his stomach.

Eventually Lance finished and Keith, picking up the metal water bottle from the cupholder, exited the driver’s side and joined him at the side of the road. He opened the bottle and offered it to Lance who took a large sip, swished it, and then spat it out. Then he took a real drink of water and shut the bottle before returning it to Keith. All this time he wouldn’t make eye contact, staring at some unspecified place just past the ditch. It was a pile of dead weeds trimmed with old, dirty, snow. They hadn't had any fresh snow in weeks and that crap at the side of the road, although not melted, was ice hard and blackened with car exhaust and grime. There was nothing pure about that snow, just as there was nothing pure about Lance.

“I really do mean it,” Keith said, coming up behind Lance.

Keith didn’t touch him. Lance knew he would react with anger, and that Keith knew this so he held back, but he still wanted to be touched. Badly.

Lance shook with uncontrolled emotion.

“Listen,” Keith sighed, crouching down, “I’m not going to lie. This has been hard for me. It’s just one problem after another and I start to wonder how long we’ll be doing this for.” He paused, “But I don’t mind doing it because I love you and I made a promise to be there for you.”

Lance sniffed, “Yeah, back before I fell apart. I’m a wreck now and you can’t want me still.”

“I do,” Keith gently set a hand on his shoulder, tense, as if he expected to be refused, “You’re still you, you’re still the Lance I fell in love with.”

Lance knew he wasn’t though, not anymore.

“How are you feeling?” Keith asked.

“Worthless.”

“You have worth to me,” said Keith.

“I don’t know what you see in me,” Lance replied, bitterly, pausing to look Keith in the face.

“Oh Lance,” Keith sighed, and then kissed him gently, fully, on the mouth. When he drew back he said, “I love you.”

“Okay,” said Lance, not quite willing to accept the love but willing to accept that Keith was stupid enough to love him.

“Can we go home now so I can make you some dinner?” Keith suggested, “I got the ingredients for that creamy shrimp pasta Hunk served us.”

“Can you eat that?” Lance asked, “Cause I’m not sleeping next to you if you get the same thing that happened after Hunk’s dinner party again. That was toxic.”

Keith blushed, and then laughed, “I think I’ve worked out a dairy-free version that’ll hopefully be just as good.”

“Mm, okay,” Lance said, letting Keith lift him from his knees to standing up. He was momentarily dizzy, not that he said anything, but Keith seemed to notice, or perhaps he just wanted to hug him, and took Lance into his arms, resting his head on his shoulder.

Keith whispered into his ear, “I love you, I don’t care if you believe it or not, I know it’s true, so don’t you ever forget.”

“I won’t,” Lance said, “You won’t let me.”

[turnthenextpaige-blog1]

1.2.2018

Dear…

From the moment I woke up today, I had already fucked up.

Its 11:36 A.M., I’m in my pajamas somewhere in the middle of my shipwreck of a bed. My hair is sticking out on all sides, and I’m scrolling through stuff on my phone. My room has two states of existence, and never falls anywhere in between. It goes from either fresh outta spring cleaning, straight to fresh outta a dumpster. I’m not proud, its just how my cookie crumbles.

I hear my mom coming up the stairs. My house (my actual home, not the home I live in at school) is very sound friendly. You can hear most of what is going on in my house at all times from whatever room you are in. My mom coming up the stairs at this time of the day is a trigger that she’s going to come into my bedroom. Not a bad thing, I just get more alert than I was the split second I hear her come left down the hallway.

She knocks, I make some noise, she tells me I had a dentist appointment at 11, I groan. Way to be on top of things. Solid job. But, she also tells me it was able to be rescheduled for 2, so I’m off the hook for that one.

I realize that now I have to go and attempt to be a human, because I failed at my one job already and I’d been awake for a solid five minutes. So I get ready, brush my teeth super well because, aye, I’m going to the dentist, and eat some food.

One thing I hate about growing up and still not being completely on my own is going to appointments. Sure, I know I’ve gone to these places probably about a thousand times before and nothing should go wrong, BUT SOMETHING ALWAYS DOES. And I don’t have my mom there to answer the simple questions that the appointment hinges on. Or, I don’t know that I fucked up until I get home and my mom will say “Well, I needed this. I can’t do this without having that thing you were supposed to get.” And I’m always like, “How the fuck was I supposed to know that I didn’t get the right thing. I’m like twelve.” Even though I go in feeling prepared, and like I know what I’m doing, it would always be ten times easier if my mom was there to just get what she needs so I don’t somehow fuck it up.

I’m an early person. I always get to places early. Being late makes me anxious, and waiting go somewhere when I’m ready also makes me anxious. So I just go. Yeah, I know I did really well with that already, considering I didn’t show up earlier in the day. But that usually doesn’t happen.

Get there early, and there’s tons of parking open in that small parking lot, so amen to that. Wait a few minutes, I get to go to the hygienist I like. Does anyone else have a problem with getting a hygienist that talks to you way too much? Their hands will be elbow deep into your throat, they want you to recite the Declaration of Independence, and all you can manage to do is gurgle and minutely shake your head. I used to have a girl like that. Then by some miracle, I think a scheduling thing, I got a much better one who I’ve had for a few years now. She is a blessing. She asks me all the life questions before her hands are putting metal in my mouth. She asks me if I’m going to get x-rays, because I’m due. And I just think in my head, thanks mom, I’m not an adult now because you didn’t tell me if I could get x-rays or not. I didn’t. Maybe next time.

Everything’s good. She calls in the only doctor who works in this place to do an exam, which is usual. I feel like I have the same conversation with this guy every time I meet him, and he never remembers that we already had it. Yes, I play tennis and my favorite player is Federer. Yes, I know you like tennis as well.

He does my exam, which is basically just checking things over, and they say I have a small cavity. This is not abnormal for me. I cannot remember how many times I have had small cavities filled.  I tried to think of it on my way home and the only one I can solidly remember is the one they kind of messed up. It was in between two teeth, and it was not polished down enough, so it would tear floss if I ever tried flossing. Then there was one time that one filling made the top half of my mouth cold sensitive. They fixed both of those for free, considering they were the ones to fuck them up, and they’ve done a lot of good for me. But the cavities just small things. They’re nothing I need novocaine for usually, just a spot they will catch and decide to fill it so it won’t turn into something. Doesn’t even hurt. Nothing compared to getting your wisdom teeth out. I did that. But that story can be for another time.

The doctor says the stuff about the cavity, and then turns the conversation around. He proceeds to thank me for taking care of my teeth. And in my mind I was like, sir, did you not just tell me I have a cavity that I need filled? Granted, this guy asks me if I had braces every time I see him, so I think he likes my teeth. Do I get adulting points for having my teeth liked by my dentist?

I’m done with the appointment, and have to go back on the 11th to get it fixed. I pay for the appointment, and noticed something with the receipts that my mom would have said I fucked up if I had gone home with that. So, like the total adult I am, I went back and got the right thing sorted out, and went home like a boss.

Then I decided I needed to do work for my winter class I’m taking online. I knew I had something due, and I thought it was an exercise or something that needed to be done. I check the work portal, and figure out that no, it was a quiz on a chapter I hadn’t finished reading yet. But the professor canceled it and moved it to Thursday, combining it with another quiz. God bless, this guy is an actual saint. Sometimes I do think, though, that some college professors (definitely not all) baby us students way too much. Some of them don’t make the students responsible for staying on top of their work, and just fold when enough of them whine and complain. And as a person who tries incredibly hard to stay on her schedule and plan out my time, I just feel like other people don’t know how to do that. Sure, I forgot it was a quiz I had to do, but I would have just taken an hour to finish the chapter and then done it. Not a big deal. But these students be cray, and the professor be babying.

Now, I sit here, writing all of this out before I go and work on some more of my class. Considering it is all shoved into a month, there is a lot to do. None of it is too difficult. I am taking a geography course, one that looks at ethnic and racial geography in America. It is actually quite interesting, but a low level class I’m taking for my psych major, because that obviously makes sense. So, I figured I’d get these thoughts out of my brain, do some solid work and then reward myself with a chocolate covered pretzel and an anime binge.

I’m living the high life.

[soulcrazy2017-blog]

How computer-generated fake papers are flooding academia

New Post has been published on https://soulcrazy.org/how-computer-generated-fake-papers-are-flooding-academia/

How computer-generated fake papers are flooding academia

Like all of the best hoaxes, there has been a serious point to be made. Three MIT graduate college students desired to reveal how dodgy clinical conferences pestered researchers for papers, and prevalent any antique garbage sent in, understanding that teachers might stump up the hefty, until-ringing registration fees.

It took handiest a handful of days. The students wrote a simple laptop application that churned out gobbledegook and provided it as a scholarly paper. They positioned their names on one of the papers, despatched it to a conference, and promptly had it typical. The sting, in 2005, revealed a face that lay on the coronary heart of technological know-how.

However, this is the hoax that maintains on giving. The creators of the automatic nonsense generator, Jeremy Stribling, Dan Aguayo and Maxwell Krohn, have made the SCIgen software unfastened to download. And scientists had been the usage of it of their droves. This week, Nature stated, French researcher Cyril Labbé discovered that 16 gobbledegook papers created via SCIgen had been utilized by German instructional writer Springer. More than 100 Greater fake SCIgen papers had been published by way of us Institute of Electrical and Electronic Engineers (IEEE). Both companies have now taken steps to dispose of the documents.

Hoaxes in academia are not anything new. Mathematician Alan Sokal riled postmodernists with the aid of publishing a nonsense papers article in the primary computer journal. It changed into encumbered with meaningless phrases, However, as Sokal stated, it sounded correct to them. Different fields have now not been immune. In 1964, critics of current art were wowed with the aid of the paintings of Pierre Brassau, who turned out to be a four-yr-old chimpanzee. In a More convoluted case, Bernard-Henri Lévy, one among France’s first-rate-recognised philosophers, changed into left to contemplate his personal understanding after quoting the lectures of Jean-Baptiste Botul as evidence that Kant became a faux, simplest to discover that Botul turned into the fake, an invention of a French reporter.

Just as The scholars wrote a short and grimy program to churn out nonsense papers, so Labbé has written one to identify the documents. He has made it freely available, so publishers and convention organizers have no excuse for accepting nonsense work in destiny.

Krohn, who has now founded a startup called Keybase.Io in the Big Apple that provides encryption to programmers said Labbé’s detective work found out how deep the hassle ran. Teachers are under excessive pressure to submit, meetings and journals need to turn their papers into income, and universities need them published. “This has to be a shock to humans,” Krohn stated. “There’s this whole academic underground where all and sundry appears to advantage. However, they are wasting time and money and adding not anything to technological know-how. The institutions are being ripped off, due to the fact they pay publishers significant subscriptions for these things.”

Krohn sees a hands race brewing, wherein computer systems churn out ever Greater convincing papers, even as Different packages are designed to smell them out. Does the remorse the beast he helped unharness, or is he proud that it’s miles nonetheless exposing weaknesses in the international of technology? “I’m psyched, it’s such a first rate. Those paper modelers are so funny, you read them and can’t help However snicker. They’re total bullshit. And that I don’t see this going away.”

computer

To the outside global, my profession development from Ph.D. to lectureship study like a stellar upward push. Having made it thru multiple precarious years on short and element-time contracts, I arrived at an office with my name on the door and a lectureship at a Russell Institution University. I’m now nearly Three years into the position, with six months nonetheless to move on my probation duration.

Tef: unload the needless metrics and take a difficult have a look at casualisation Sally Hunt

I realize that I’m in quite a lucky role with a permanent lectureship, given the realities of casualisation and brief and fractional contracts commonplace within the current “Sports activities Direct” model of the university. I’ve enthusiasm for my area, And I desire to feature to it in a few way thru my very own modest contributions. But long probation periods maintain returned real task protection – and on occasion, I experience like I’m drowning.

With the Coaching Excellence Framework on the horizon, Teaching is rightly turning into Greater important to universities, while college students are performing Extra as clients and seeking “price for cash.” This means my college requires new workforce like myself to advantage Coaching qualifications, to appoint engaging Teaching tactics, and emerge as educators.

At the identical time, the importance of being excellent researchers has now not diminished. The second one Studies Excellence Framework (REF) may additionally well offer new profession academics a reprieve on the range of posted outputs we’re measured on. But till that’s made clear (and depending on while you joined in the course of the REF cycle), I’m very lots below strain to post and am being measured towards the same inner metrics as my established senior colleagues.

A lectureship has to be an opportunity to develop an educational career, and the process is, of direction, a privilege in many ways. I am given independence and, on paper, a few space to be innovative. But we’re instructed by way of senior faculty that we should be able to balance the needs of Teaching and management and feature 4* Research pouring out of us from day one.

All this leaves me distracted using to-do lists of Coaching ideas or darting among ill-shaped, unrealistic investment bids – and ultimately without the pinnacle space to get writing. As my probation timer ticks down I’m conscious of what’s nonetheless left to illustrate if I am hoping to go this hurdle. And rather than make reasoned plans for writing and Studies, I’m encouraged by senior colleagues to get something out and pick out a magazine which can turn a paper round quick – very much amount over fine.

I’m no longer alone in my worries – I’ve had this same verbal exchange with Other early profession colleagues. It’s also no longer unusual to be informed by way of the ones I work with that “that’s Just how it is.”

I misplaced my activity in academia after having a toddler – now I am caught

academia

I feel that soliciting for assist and time to increase Research ideas as an early career instructional is to admit weak spot, and probably to provide a destiny probation or tenure committee with evidence towards you. My college does provide some beneficial continuing expert development (CPD)-kind talks, on furnish-writing and publishing in high-effect journals as an instance, But my help needs pass past this.

I don’t expect a smooth ride, And I’m not arguing in opposition to scrutiny. But I do wonder if an extended duration of precarious probation is an excellent way to educate and increase the next era of 4* international-main lecturers that the REF seeks to measure. The cease of my probation increasingly appears like a specter in the nook of the room, And that I’m no longer satisfied its need to. It needs to be about placing dreams and being supported by way of your organization to achieve them – which isn’t my enjoy.

Once I’m feeling Greater constructive, I remember that I revel in Teaching and have Research thoughts, and suppose that if I’m able to Simply get via my probation matters is probably distinct. My Greater sanguine colleagues tell me that this is After I’ll be capable of carve out space to think and broaden significant Research. Couldn’t I’ve begun that nearly three years ago?

The Panama Papers are an unparalleled peak of 11.5m documents from the database of the arena’s fourth largest foreign regulation firm, Mossack Fonseca. The data had been obtained from a nameless source by using the German newspaper Süddeutsche Zeitung, which shared them with the Worldwide Consortium of Investigative Reporters (ICIJ). The ICIJ then shared them with a large community of Global companions, which include the Mother or father and the BBC.

papers

What do they display?

The documents demonstrate the myriad ways in which the wealthy can take advantage of secretive offshore tax regimes. Twelve countrywide leaders are amongst 143 politicians, their families and near friends from around the sector regarded to where the usage of foreign tax havens.

A $2bn path leads all of the ways to Vladimir Putin. The Russian president’s kind friend – a cellist, referred to as Sergei Roldugin – is the center of a scheme in which money from Russian state banks is hidden offshore. Some of it ends up in a ski resort in which in 2013 Putin’s daughter Katerina was given married.

Among national leaders with offshore wealth are Nawaz Sharif, Pakistan’s great minister; Ayad Allawi, ex-meantime prime minister and former vice-president of Iraq; Petro Poroshenko, President of Ukraine; Alaa Mubarak, son of Egypt’s former president; and the prime minister of Iceland, Sigmundur Davíð Gunnlaugsson.

An offshore investment fund run by the father of British Prime Minister David Cameron avoided ever having to pay tax in Britain by using hiring a small navy of Bahamas residents to signal its paperwork. The fund has been registered with HM Sales and Customs since its inception and has filed positive tax returns every yr.

A lengthier assessment of the revelations may be discovered right here.

What’s Mossack Fonseca?

It is a Panama-based totally regulation firm whose services consist of incorporating corporations in offshore jurisdictions such as the British Virgin Islands. It administers offshore companies for a yearly price. Other offerings encompass wealth control.

In which is it based?

The firm is Panamanian But runs an international operation. Its internet site boasts of a worldwide network with 600 humans running in 42 nations. It has franchises around the arena, wherein separately owned associates sign up new clients and have different rights to apply its brand. Mossack Fonseca open supers in tax havens consisting of Switzerland, Cyprus and the British Virgin Islands, and inside the British crown dependencies Guernsey, Jersey and the Isle of Man.