#would you believe that i'm entirely sober right now. this is just my brain.

[deputyrook]

Impressions- 2/? Mark Hoffman x Psychic!Reader

(Repost after I accidentally deleted my tumblr 😭)

PART 1.

You're a reluctant psychic. He's a detective. And a serial killer.

(Can I make it any more obvious?)

Word count: 3498

WARNINGS: Gaslightling, corruption, stockholm syndrome, some drug use (painkillers), blackmail, power imbalance, abusive dynamics, overt threatening, general Saw-levels of horror.

this fic is kind of goofy, because I'm writing it for fun and not taking it super seriously! enjoy 💕

“Mark didn’t hit on you, did he?” Kerry asks over the phone, a note of disgust in her voice, “If he did, I’ll kick his ass. Though… you didn't exactly look uncomfortable when you fell into his arms yesterday. Am I wrong?”

Sometimes, you wondered how Kerry could be so oblivious.

You swallow a handful of painkillers before you answer her, washing them down with a swig of stale soda that’s been sitting out on your counter. 

“He's, what, ten years older than us?” You ask, setting down the can and playing with the cord of your telephone.

“That’s not an answer,” Kerry teases, “And he’s early forties, I think. Hey, I won’t stop you. I'll sure as hell judge you, but I won't stop you.”

The events of the prior evening feel surreal now, in the morning light of the next day. Detective Mark Hoffman hasn’t contacted you, and if you didn’t have his phone number saved in your cell, you would have thought the entire car ride had been a bad dream. 

You can’t help but second guess yourself now- had he ever actually admitted to being an accomplice? What if he was just a defensive asshole, and you’d misinterpreted everything again? The doubts creep in, now that your visions have been chased away, back into hiding in the recesses of your mind.

“Not interested,” you mutter. “I wasn’t feeling great last night, you know that. I barely remember getting home.”

Kerry’s tone sobers at that, and you hear her sigh. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I know you don’t like doing that, but we were completely out of leads.”

“And you still are,” you note, “I didn’t dream of anything useful last night, by the way. Total void.” If you’re lucky, you’ll never have another vision about the Jigsaw murders, though you suspect you’ve been plunged headfirst into the thick of it.

The painkillers will keep the flashes at bay, at least for now. The rest will come to you, jumbled and nonsensical, when it’s least convenient.

“Not entirely. But how are you feeling?” Kerry asks. She’s never been the best at heart-to-hearts, or at fielding your psychic nonsense, but you can hear the genuine concern in her voice for you. You wish you could tell her- the killer she hunts is right there, in the office across the hall, she could be in danger- but with the potential risk to both her and you, it’s just not worth it. 

Not unless you manage to get your hands on some hard evidence of Hoffman’s involvement. 

Years of dealing with a surrealist-nightmare-kaleidoscope for a brain had forced you to become patient. You could bide your time and wait carefully until an opportunity to steal some actual proof arose. Until then, you just had to keep breathing.

“Helloooo? Are you there?” Kerry’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry Ally. You know how I get. I called in sick today, but I’m alright. I promise. Nothing some rest and relaxation can’t fix,” you try to smile, but you can’t hide the exhaustion in your voice. 

“Good,” she says, resolute, “I won’t ask you to come in again. Not unless something else comes to you. But I won’t believe he’s dead. Not yet.” It doesn’t take psychic abilities to know she’s talking about Eric Matthews, nor to feel the regret she carries with her, punctuating her words.

“And you shouldn’t. You know my hit rate on alive-versus-dead isn’t always the best.” Kerry hums in consideration at your words, and after you both say your goodbyes to one another, you hang up the receiver of the phone.

Once again, you’re left in the silence of your lonely apartment- save for your cat, who brushes up against your leg with a purr. He reminds you so easily that it’s not just your life on the line, here. Would Jigsaw ever try to test a cat...? Reaching down to scratch behind his ears, you try to consider your next steps carefully.

But all it does is make your head hurt. You pluck an ice pack from your freezer and lay down on your sofa, holding it to your head with a soft groan.

You must fall back asleep at some point, because you’re woken up from a dreamless sleep by the ringing of your phone. You check your home phone, and then, realizing it’s not the culprit, rifle through your bag for your cell.

“Hello?” You mumble into the phone as you flip it open, blinking awake.

“What, were you asleep? It’s the middle of the day,” Hoffman says.

“I called in sick. Got in pretty late last night, and I didn’t sleep the best,” You deadpan. Without being right next to him, it’s easier to keep your cool and not get flustered.

“We should talk. Let’s get dinner,” he says, “Six-o-clock. You know Eve’s Diner? On Newhaven street- with the neon sign?”

Your stomach drops. It didn’t seem like he was just asking you out politely. When was the last time you got dinner with a man, anyway? His tone is so casual that it makes you want to squirm.

“Yeah, I know the place. It's pretty close by, right?” At least in public, he wouldn’t be able to do anything overtly threatening to you. It didn’t seem like there was any use in arguing with him, or telling him you weren’t feeling up to it. He knows your address, and he apparently knows Jigsaw. That's enough to secure your compliance.

“Good. I’ll see you there, then.” And he hangs up the phone.

Your head throbs, but it’s lessened in severity since the morning. You consider taking another batch of painkillers, but decide against it. If you’re meeting Hoffman for dinner, it might be better to stay sharp.

—

The sight of Mark Hoffman, sitting in a diner booth, would be almost comical if it wasn’t so nerve-wracking. He’s stirring some sugar into his coffee, hunched against the wall, his hair smoothed back neatly and his police badge hanging around his neck. He looks tired, you think, but otherwise like a normal, upstanding member of society- if not one slightly too large and too dour for the diner table he’s seated at.

“Hi,” you say, sliding into the booth across from him. 

He nods toward you in recognition, before leaning back in the seat. Mark looks at you, up and down, in silent surveyance. You stare back, studying him in return. Both of you size each other up, like the other is the dangerous one.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” He says, “And after some more thought, I’m not convinced. For all I know, maybe you’re workin’ with John Kramer. That seems more likely than you being psychic.”

Ah. You’ve gotten this reaction before. When someone, with time and consideration, doubles back to doubt your abilities. You couldn’t exactly blame him for that. Particularly for skeptics, it’s a hard pill to swallow that you have access to senses that they don’t.

Being accused of being a serial killer was new territory, however.

“I’m not working with Jigsaw,” you sputter, keeping your voice quiet. The diner isn’t too busy, and you’re seated in a corner away from other patrons, but it’s still public enough that you want to be careful. “Shouldn’t you know I’m not?”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. 

“You tell me. You said there were four. Jigsaw, Amanda, myself- according to you- and so who’s the fourth? If it’s not you.” He sounds impatient. You blink at him, trying to process where he’s coming from. And then, it hits you. He doesn’t know. 

For a second, you consider trying to play it off like you are the fourth apprentice. Maybe then, he’d trust you more directly with information that you could use against him. But then, you re-evaluate. Lying to a mass murderer was probably a bad idea. Lying to a cop was arguably worse.

“Well, it’s not me. But yeah, there’s at leastfour involved that I picked up on. Four main...signatures,” You pause, before continuing. “So that’s why you want me to tell you about what I sense. Even you don’t know what he’s planning, or everyone who’s involved.”

“I’ve been on this case since the beginning. Of course I wanna know. Especially since you’re out here accusing me,” He remarks, taking a sip of his coffee before continuing, “Kerry didn’t act any different toward me this morning. Good. Keeping your theories to yourself was smart.”

“Yes, lest you start actually convincing me you’re not Jigsaw, let me not forget how you threatened me last night,” You mumble, crossing your arms in front of your chest protectively.

“You pouting about it?” He asks, teasing, a smirk just barely edging onto his face, “C’mon. Show me your trick. How do you do it?” He beckons you closer, and you find yourself leaning in across the table. Like you’re sharing a secret with him. 

“It’s not like I’m getting visions of the future, per se,” You try to explain, “It’s more like... hyper intuition. I get emotions, mostly. It’s an extreme version of empathy. Sometimes I get flashes of imagery from the past, present, and future, but it’s usually mixed up so I can’t tell which is which. Mainly, I just trust my gut. Which isn’t often wrong- but my interpretation of what I’m seeing can be off. Has been.”

“Hyper-intuition, huh?” He says, mulling it over, “Tell me something else about me, then. Prove it.”

You swallow uncomfortably. “I uh, need to be touching you.”

Mark raises his eyebrows at you. Before he can say anything mocking, the waitress comes by, filling both of your coffee cups. She takes your orders quickly, as though picking up on the vibe that you both want to be left alone. When she leaves, Mark spreads his hands in a gesture as if to say, do your thing, then.

Gently, you reach out and take his hands in yours. Rough, calloused, and strong. You try not to think about it as you close your eyes, and allow the gate to open for the second time in two days.

The chattering in the diner fades away into the background as your intuition takes hold, clouding out your other five senses like the moon passing over the sun in a total eclipse. First, there’s just darkness. Even the sensation of Mark’s skin against yours fading to a dull buzz. Then, sensations begin to spawn, bubbling up from somewhere else.

From the man seated across from you, you think.

“Strawberries,” you murmur, the taste of fresh, wild berries being the first thing that comes to you, sweet and tart, “I think they were picked wild, by mindful fingers. Yours are older, but never as gentle. Her small hands were always more careful than yours, never crushing the berries like you did.”

It’s a kind, well-loved memory -you assume- the impression coming in easy and unambiguous. The next is more muddled.

“Ah- pain. There’s noise, it’s discordant and loud,” You wince, squeezing Mark’s hands. You tilt your head, trying to make out the source, but all you get is scraps of yelling, fighting, shivering hands, the smell of rain. 

It melts then, into that feeling again. The deep, unending well of misery. Loss, in its purest form. Utter loneliness, vast like an unending ocean.

“It’s like the sun went out,” you whisper, voice cracking. Your heart is breaking. The depth of your pain is nearly unbearable, and it makes you want to pull back and disconnect. “It’s like all the light’s been snuffed from this world. Alone.”

“Yeah,” Mark’s voice confirms, calm, quiet and sombre, “You know why that is, don’t you?”

You frown, hands trembling. The smell of blood rises, pungent and sickening. Blood, blood, so much blood. It smells so strong that you can taste it. Then something else- formaldehyde. The words leave your mouth before you can register what they mean.

“He took her from me,” You murmur hoarsely, a pure conduit for the feeling. Dimly, you’re aware of hands squeezing yours back, too tight.

Then, the rage. The despair. An energy trapped, like a feral animal in an enclosure. Desperate to make things right again, to make the world right, with no way to do it that makes sense.

Trapped, trapped, trapped. Starving. Alone again.

You’re lost in the feeling before Mark’s voice pulls you back.

“He deserved what he got,” he says, and you’re redirected. The sun is still gone, the world is still cold. Justice is a fleeting concept, a principle that isn’t achieved until you make it happen.

The world is so cold without the sun, but he died screaming for taking her. That’s justice enough. 

And then, a finality- a sense of purpose.

"They all deserve it," you say.

You open your eyes, and let go of his hands. Hoffman’s expression is hard to read as you settle back in the booth. The despair still lingers over you, like a chill that’s seeped into your bones.

“That your thought, or mine?” He asks finally. “You must have felt a lot of it over the years. Other people’s pain.”

“Sure,” you reply, “Everyone’s got it. Life isn’t fair.”

“Not unless you make it fair,” Mark counters, “You can’t tell me he didn’t deserve to die like that for what he did.”

“Can you just tell me?” You ask quietly, “So I can get the full picture, no missing pieces of the puzzle. The loss...was your sister? He killed her?”

Mark thinks about it for a second. He looks like he’s going to refuse you, not responding for so long that you wonder if he’s deliberately ignoring you. 

Your food arrives before he answers, the waitress bringing your plates and setting them down in front of you both. Mark's ordered a cheeseburger and fries, the all-American classic diner food; you a club sandwich, though your appetite has evaporated since you've arrived here. And after yesterday, it was barely present to begin with.

Then finally, after you both have started to eat, he speaks.

“My sister’s ex-boyfriend murdered her. Seth Baxter. A sick, abusive fuck. He was convicted, got life in jail. Took a couple of years, but he finally went away for it. Well, he filed an appeal. His new lawyer said that the jury was tainted by the evidence of his history of domestic assaults on women, that the evidence was improperly admitted and ‘prejudicial’ to his case. After five years, the case was successfully appealed... and he went free,” A feeling of disgust and rage twists in you, and you can’t tell whether it’s Hoffman’s or yours.

“So you...”

“Jigsaw killed him,” Mark answers, “Cut him in half. He was already dating someone new when he was picked up. Tell me that's not fair.”

The words hang in the air, and you take them in. You’re starting to learn to read Mark’s face better, you think, because you can detect just a hint of smugness in his expression. You try to determine how you feel about this, but your feelings are still all tangled up in Hoffman’s. Extricating them is difficult.

“So he deserved it,” You say finally, “Jigsaw’s not just a vigilante. He kidnaps people who are- who are addicted to drugs, or who only hurt themselves, and he makes them play in these sick games. It's not right,” You can’t believe you’re arguing the philosophy of Jigsaw with one of the murderers himself. It seems unbelievable.

Mark actually rolls his eyes at you.

“It’s either people who deserve it, or people who don’t deserve their lives to begin with,” He murmurs, “think about it.”

Then you remember the feeling you’d gotten before, at the police station. The deep, dark depths of satisfaction. A kind of beast in the heart, ugly and hungry and grinning. The thought that you might have inadvertently given it some purchase in your own mind freaks you the hell out.

“Easy for you to say,” you whisper, the fear keeping your voice barely audible, “You like watching people hurt.”

Mark doesn’t deny it- maybe he sees no use in doing so, when you already know better. He looks at you coldly, calculating.

“Does it matter?” He says, “Keep your word, and you won’t be on the receiving end.”

You take a sip of your water nervously, looking around the diner. Though still not exceptionally busy, you’ve both nearly finished your food (well, Mark has, you've picked away at yours), and more people are trickling in the door. If you continue to talk here, it may become more difficult to avoid being overheard.

Wouldn’t that be a good thing, for you?

“Let’s finish up,” Mark says, as though he’s been reading your mind, “We can meet up again later. I'm going to ask you more about this mystery fourth person. So keep your eyes open," he pauses, and huffs. "Or closed, I guess."

"And Kerry will be fine?" You ask, insistently, "She's a good person, Hoffman."

"Is she?" He challenges, "she wasn't exactly discreet with Matthews. And she knew he was dirty. As far as I can tell, you're her only friend."

"Oh, and you didn't know?" You snap back, defensive, "If she deserves to be tested, we all do."

Mark stands, putting on his coat. "Yeah. Or most, at least." He replies in agreement.

"Come on," he adds, his hand on the small of your back again. You can't tell if it's meant to be possessive, threatening, or whether he's done it without even thinking about it. Perhaps surprisingly, it doesn't feel as uncomfortable this time around. "I'll walk you home. Wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

--

A worm has been planted in your mind, and it feeds.

Over the next week, you feel more torn than you think you've ever felt in your life. Mark Hoffman's words bore into your mind, repeating over and over, with the echos of his pain piercing through you in random intervals. You flit between feeling angry at the situation you're in, and wanting to go to Kerry and lay it all out on the table, to a strange feeling of camaraderie with Mark Hoffman.

It's a downside you've always had to reading someone, and inviting them in- you feel connected with them, permanently. Once you see through their eyes, and feel what they feel, it's hard for you to just pull away again. A piece of them remains.

It was like you were being tested yourself. By connecting with the worst possible person, you were pushing yourself- how strained could the connection be, how adverse to your own interest, while you still feel like you're on the same side?

You lie awake at night, replaying your conversation with Mark in your mind. Thinking of all the hurt you'd ever felt, yours and everyone's, echoing forever.

Needless to say- you weren't doing great. And the fact that you weren't sleeping well didn't help.

Dreams came frequently after that shared dinner with Mark Hoffman. You dreamt alternately of horrible panic, the feeling of being trapped, and physical pain that makes you wake up sobbing. So many images form in your mind that it's hard to keep track- scalpels, keys, case files, teeth, distorted statues, the smell of antiseptic.

You text it all to Mark as it comes to you. Anyone looking at your text log would think you were both insane.

But still, you tell him your dreams, and he listens. You theorize about the fourth person together, like you're trying to solve the case. You trade tidbits, make suggestions, and rule out others.

You kind of... like texting him.

---

[2:33AM - Outgoing] Just woke up with the image of a blonde woman in my head. I don't know who she is.

[2:37AM - Incoming] could be jill tuck. ex-wife.

[2:39AM - Incoming] Photo Message

[2:42AM - Outgoing] Nope, sorry. Not her.

[2:45AM - Incoming] i thought maybe she was the 4th

[2:47AM - Outgoing] Blonde woman didn't feel like the 4th. Looked like a scientist of some kind? Idk. Wearing a white lab coat.

[2:49AM - Outgoing] I also got a red room with a bunch of pictures. Like Polaroids maybe? Hung up I think. Not sure if it was connected to the blonde woman.

[2:50AM - Incoming] that ones a red herring. already happened

[2:52AM - Outgoing] Ugh

[2:56AM - Outgoing] How long is this going to last?

[2:57AM - Incoming] what

[2:59AM - Outgoing] You keeping me as your pet psychic

[3:00AM - Incoming] you think i'm planning to stop?

[3:01AM - Incoming] you'd better get used to me.

[3:02AM - Incoming] remember. delete these.

[3:04AM - Outgoing] Yeah, yeah. Do you ever sleep?

[3:05AM - Incoming] when i'm not being woken up by txts

[3:08AM - Incoming] lets meet this weekend

[3:08AM - Incoming] I want to show you something

--

--

(author's note: the true dynamic is emerging! and yes, I had to go on a little sidebar on how seth baxter's sentence could have actually been reversed. i'm a prosecutor, I can't help myself.)

TAG LIST: @icarusinstatic @honimello @haven-is-happy @thebrideofcaliban

NEXT CHAPTER

[the-martyrfication-of-the-matron]

hellooooo oml i am like drinking so i might ot be the most sensical rn but hello. helloo

i commissioned you ocne and idk how many comms you get so this might be sooo obvious who i am but !!!! your art is so lovely. its so beautifl. i look at it and i see a painting. i see a visison. i look at the piece you made for me and feel like i robbed you with the costs for how it has shifted and tken a new place in my heart. i look at it so fondly bc how can you make something so beautiful ??? oml the skill and dedication you have put into honing your craft astounds me. it takes my breath away. sometimes i feel jealous for not knowing you bc i wish i could peel back your skin and peer into your brain and learn what churns in your head and how you generate your ideas and just. how much effort goes into making such beautiful things

oml and your writing HHAH. i went into the new lycorris radiata fic prologue recently (i can[t believe you deleted the original chap one i lovoveeed that thing king) (it took me like five attempts to speel king right) and i love the changes. i was writing a review in my notes app about it and i was painstaking lygoing through it all and i think i was liikkek??? 600 words in /?? and my phone had the audacity to nottt translates my notes over when i changed phones as if i haven't been working on my review for a week. fml.

but it is so beaitufl. you write like a fairytale. this issooo embarrassig and i'm gonna wake up tomorrow so embarrassed for sending this and feeling so parascial lmao but your art is truly beautiful. its like a microcosm of everything that makes you you even if i dont know you adn tyu build this tneous connection between the reader and the author and the stry and it leaves me in awe. you wrrite like a fairytale. the description is beautiful the characterisation is awe-inspiring and it creates a little place in my ribs where i think back on it and go wow. ths is the kind of story i will think back on for years to come.

SORRY I AM thteee sappiest drunk everr. we've arely talked this is sooo embarrassing but idk. yiour arrt is so gorgeous and i hope you know that. hope you wake up ever morning and you know you've put something so beautifyl out into the world and there is something who dearly anticipates every next word and who thinks your art is beautiful and your writing has changed somethingi nme. i love avra. i love vyla.d i love every word i've read and i wish i could share that oherently in my original review that i lsot but alas.

i'm so sorry LMAMO this will probably bee sooo weird for you to recieve frma strangero ntumbulr. i so need to sober up but its just so breathtaking. your brain is breath taking. i cannot wait for the day you next update or share art or do anything creative bc your wriitng is beautiful your art is beautiful and i smm sooso grateful you shared it with the world. is so beautiful i cannot help but believe you yourslef must be beautiful bc who else could create the kind of art you do

ok im done now im not reading thiisi ober nd i have no idea how long it actually is LMAOA i wish you the best strangerr. you are the kind of person someone would yearn to know (sorry i probs sound sooo parasocial haaha0 and i hope you are soo well

I’m screaming and crying and throwing up and I’m tearing off my clothes so I can run into the woods and howl at the moon and turn into a canine beast

This is

Everything to me, drunk anon, you are everything to me. I will one day get a printer so I can print this ask out, and I will post a YouTube video of me eating the entire thing, with no cuts, and no audio. Full on mukbang. Because I need this to be a part of my soul. And people will argue that consuming something does not integrate it into you forever but I would rather this be a part of me for only a short while than never at all

This has me feral and insane, you’re so sweet about me and you write in such a poetic prose I need you to write some kind of fiction now.

For this alone I will draw you a thousand pieces of art, using my own blood sweat and tears as my materials if I must. You are everything, Anon.

I wish that review still existed simply so I could read more of your words because if this is you drunk then I cannot imagine how you talk sober.

[psychomoxxie]

Blue Screen Brain Machine

Sometimes I wonder what mysterious power I'm actually running on, when I manage to get though an entire day after yet another night of no sleep (two weeks of insomnia should have been my first clue that something was amiss in the ol' brainmeats department) -- pure spite, would be my best guess. Over the past couple days, I managed to get everyone cleaning and throwing things out. It's been a tornado of activity, in which I found out that the Paterfamilias has by actual count FIVE vacuum cleaners. Can you imagine anyone having five vacuum cleaners? ONE vacuum cleaner, sure. So, Kriss was madly vacuuming away in her area (she's in the living room temporarily -- just call this place Joe's Waystation for the Wayward Wastrels), when it suddenly BURST INTO FLAMES. 

Naturally, it did. 

Of course, Joe tried to salvage it once we managed to put out the flames. Kriss was ready to wring his neck, trying to convince him to just toss the thing, because of course there's no saving it. I told her to just leave him be, and let him tinker with his vacuum from Hell -- it was unplugged, no danger of it spontaneously combusting again, and he'd eventually arrive at the same conclusion -- no point in getting annoyed with him, it's his vacuum cleaner, and the man spent his life building things and taking them apart, after all. He'd figure out it needed to be sacrificed to the Cleaning Gods, eventually. Which he did. Meanwhile, she and I finished up our areas, and got ready for the day. 

Yesterday, Clara brought herself, and her mad cleaning skills -- and my cats. I couldn’t wait. I missed them so much, and it's only been two days. It will really be home when they're here. I kept walking around, picturing them sleeping in this little corner here, perched on that bookshelf there...sunning themselves in the windowsills, enjoying the porch when it's warm out...

There's so much to do. I got a call from the Social Services agency that Martin the Art Therapist works for -- it seems he got me bumped to the head of the line, because the director called me straight away. She is going to have two case workers assigned to me, which is fantastic. Mental health and then SSRI assistance, I believe. It pays to be chummy with the right people in this business, on the other end of it, for all these years. If there's one good thing about having the Brain Cooties in this city, there are a ton of social services available, if you know where to look, are sober, and are willing to be responsible for your med compliancy. And if you know me, I've always been a big proponent of Better Living Through Chemistry. In the 90s, I studied for a degree in Abnormal Psych (which is what it was called at the time, relax) at Colombia and Loyola in Chicago, because I'd spent my pre-teen and teenage years caring for a schizophrenic great-aunt, and dealing with the whims of my diagnosed NPD mother, and figured I had an advantage over most students through the sheer insanity of my family dynamic. Eventually, after several years, I had to quit school to manage my son's care, who had a plethora of mental health and addiction issues -- then eventually took the job with Clara working directly with her mentally ill son. 

What I hadn't counted on was having to deal with my own wonky brain chemistry, and emotional dyregulation. Part of the unspoken deal of having to manage everyone else's serious mental illness is that you can sort of forget your own brain cooties exist. It's been a long time since I've been in a really bad place, mentally. 

Over the years, I've discovered the hard way that self-medicating the Brain Cooties is the road to misery -- both my own and everyone within striking distance -- and self-awareness paired with modern psychiatry is the road to freedom. At least, as close as people with mental illness can get to it. 

Speaking of, as an example; I'm titrating my mood stabilizer/migraine medication, topiramate, up to 200mgs -- right now I'm at 100mgs, so the appetite (and disordered eating behaviors, along with it, HUZZAH) is starting to decrease, which means of course the migraines as well as general irritability are beginning to recede. One always indicates the other with this medication. Topiramate is one Helluva drug -- but worth it in so many ways. I was never meant to be off of it for so long, but when I lost my health care coverage, it was the first to go, because the out of pocket cost is so far beyond my reach it may as well be mined on Pluto. But, it seems to fit into some missing piece of my brain chemistry like a jigsaw puzzle, in weird, seemingly unrelated ways that just make my mind feel calmer. Less prone to flashes of rage. 

The trouble is, it's never quite that simple when it comes to Brain Cooties. I was sending a couple voice DMs to people, because typing out shit is just too much trouble, while phone calls involving actual conversations are just too much of a commitment to the sort of immediate interaction I can't be bothered with, most of the time. Anyway, I played back a message to be sure I got all the information I wanted to convey, and imagine my absolute shock when I heard the playback, and my usually moderated, thoughtful, rather slow speech sounding as if it was being played back to me like a 33-speed record? I sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks. 

This is what's known in the Brain Cootie world as "pressured speech", and it happens when someone is in a manic or hypomanic episode. I experience hypomania, from Schizoaffective Bipolar Type disorder. Hypomania is a milder type of mania, meaning it isn't as severe, and only lasts a few days, typically. Still, I've never heard myself before when in the throes of an episode, and the most disconcerting thing about it was that to me, I sounded absolutely normal in my own head. 

If that doesn't tell you how distorted one's thinking can be while in the grips of one's mental illness, even to a mild degree, then I don't know what will; and my doctors all tell me that I am a remarkably self-aware patient. While my brain might be conjuring quacking noises from the 147 Lake Shore Drive Bus (also known affectionately as the LSD, how appropriate), I also know that it is impossible for the bus to be quacking like a duck, and that it is indeed just my brain playing tricks on me again. Some people aren't so fortunate -- some people take their delusions at face value, which makes their lives a living nightmare that I cannot even imagine trying to manage without medication. 

But I digress. The worst part about the 33-speed record voice messages? Nobody said a thing. And I sent severalmessages to several people in which I was speaking so fast, I was barely intelligible — imagine one of those Telemundo! commercials, only in English. Instead, they just ignored my messages. When I realized what was going on, I covered my ass with a couple of people who mattered with either a version of the truth, or -- if I trusted them with it, the unvarnished version. So, don't rely on other people to clue you in. On that note, over all the years I've been dealing with Brain Cooties, only ONE PERSON has bothered to tell me when I have had obviously pressured speech. One. Which is just one of the many reasons why I generally find People as a whole to be useless. 

It's up to us to get our own shit sorted out. 

I feel like I should repeat that. If you have The Brain Cooties, it is up to you to be responsible for your OWN MENTAL HEALTH. That means seeking treatment, and being med compliant. Unless of course you are at the point where you need a caregiver, obviously. But we aren't talking about that. 

Because my doctors and I have been doing this for awhile, I have a stash of a particular, non-scheduled medication I keep on-hand for when I need to bring my brain down, fast. So, I took that, and will take it for the next week until I'm sure my Brain Cootie Swarm have receded back down to manageable levels. Risperdone is a very powerful, very serious drug that I just refuse to take every day, so my psych team allows me to only take it when the Cooties hit the fan. Were I sicker, or less educated in psychiatry/less self-aware, this of course wouldn't be an option. And if I were to slip and show myself to be irresponsible, I'd end up in the looney bin and having to take it every day, whether I like it or not. So, I don't abuse my privilege. When I need the meds, I need the meds. 

One of the few people I look up to in the world of Brain Cooties, Jared Poore (now sadly retired from social media, and I do hope he's OK), once said; 

"Things like mental illness, crippling neuropathy, epilepsy, and frequent, blinding migraines can’t be dealt with by gentle hugs, prayer and pretty angels, or the fad diet of the week with a basket full of overpriced supplements. Like a lot of aspects of life where you have to make a decision between two options, your only choice is to figure out which one is going to suck less”

The reality is, a lot of these psych meds have side effects that truly suck. They can be gross, embarrassing, inconvenient, even funny, or just fucking weird. But I can guarantee you that 99.999999% of the time, it's far better than the alternative that your untreated brain is offering, if you let it go long enough when you are suffering from schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or schizoaffective disorder. Don't think so? Then you obviously haven't hit Brain Cootie rock bottom, yet. You've never gotten sick enough where you've been held on a 5150 in a locked ward, surrounded by people who talk back to the voices in their heads, and finger-paint with their own shit. You've never gotten so sick, you've been homeless. 

You've never become a danger to yourself or others. 

I have a really hard time taking seriously people with mental or emotional disorders who refuse to get treatment, and scoff at medication. Who give up after trying one or two combinations of medications because "it didn't wooooorkk!!" Most people don't give it enough time, first of all. It takes at least a month for the brain to adjust to a new medication, and only then can you even start to see if it's going to work for you, or if it needs an adjustment, etc. I've been doing this my entire adult life, and I've had just as many bad experiences as good -- I've still not found an SSRI that doesn't make me feel like shit after a few months. But there are new breakthroughs all the time. New drugs. New therapies. And mental health does not thrive on anti-depressants alone. 

Crazy bitches like me don't need to end up homeless, dead, or in prison. And neither do you. Because there's no real limit to where you might end up if you take care of yourself and get treatment. But the options if you let your mental illness go untreated? We already know where that leads. 

So take your damn meds. 

Oh, yeah -- and the next time you hear an otherwise normal-sounding woman suddenly speaking like a 33- record? FUCKING TELL THEM. 

Because there but for the grace of god, my little kumquats... 

If you enjoy my writing, please consider donating to my GoFundMe by following the link below -- I am taking the next year (which likely means two) as I wait for my disability to kick in to write a book on the unique culture, people, and places of Rogers Park, Chicago. I have my first two interview volunteers, as a matter of fact, which is so fantastic! Thank you so much for your support, to all who have donated thus far. I appreciate you so much. XO

[terapsina]

E, N and T from the writing meme reblog (i'm very excited right now😂)

E: What character do you identify with most? Is there a certain fic of yours that captures these qualities particularly well?

Honestly, I don't know. I don't really identify with characters in that way, I've never really seen a character and thought 'they're a lot like me', for me it's always more like 'that's an interesting reaction, I wonder what's behind it' and 'I wonder how they would have reacted in a slightly different situation', and 'I hated that, how do I make them react differently and still make them feel like the character they are?'.

I guess I go in the opposite direction, I try to get into the characters' heads instead of seeing bits of myself in those characters.

I mean I do have the characters I really enjoy writing for but not because I identify with them. At least not consciously (who the hell knows what my subconscious is up to).

N: Any fic ideas brewing that you’d care to share?

Well, I've been talking with @isagrimorie and during that she mentioned how Lizzie might react to Hope having inherited her uncle Elijah’s car collection and never mentioning it to her (her, the person who would murder anyone who scratched Lizzie's blue 1969 Chevy Camaro Convertible).

And my brain basically dropped this tidbit into my lap.

"I'm breaking up with you" Lizzie said, staring at the string of beautiful, beautiful last century cars that her girlfriend hadn't had the decency to inform her about during all the time they'd known each other.

Which, fine, she supposed was fair enough back when they hated each other. But they were friends for two years after that and dating for the last six months.

Hope Andrea Mikaelson was dead to her.

So now I'm ruminating on what I can do with it to expand it into an actual Hizzie fic.

But if the idea gets too long I'm shelving it for after my current Elejah fic is finished.

T: Any fanfic tropes you can’t stand?

A bunch.

Never saw the appeal of Hanahaki Disease fics because the logistics and the ethics drive me nuts (it's not actually unrequited love that's the problem if all the other character needs to do is admit they loved the dying one this entire time, but that means the other character doesn't even need to be telling the truth they just need to be convincing enough for the dying one to believe them, but then that means the healthy character is put in a corner of 'say you love them, even if you don't, because otherwise you're literally letting them die, and then what? you're forever forced to stay with them, otherwise they die?').

Also not a fan of Aliens Made Them Do It and Sex Pollen. Cuz of the lack of consent inherent in those. (I do sometimes enjoy the kind where it starts out with someone accidentally dosed with sex pollen but the person who's sober doesn't take advantage and makes sure that the dosed one is safe until the 'pollen' is out of their system).

[littleoddwriter]

Naughty | Roman Sionis x Male!Reader | Smut

"And last but not least 10, Roman/black mask x male reader (nsf/w again cuz we be horny). I don't have a super specific scenario for this, but it could either be reader genuinely doesn't know who they're talking to and Roman decided to teach them a lesson

Or reader knows *exactly* who they are talking to but is fishing for punishment/a lesson/just being a brat. You're welcome to decide what the lesson is (ideas include idk man spanking, orgasm delay/denial, public (am I thinking of an opposite to the other horny fic we came up with? where reader is not a good boy? maybe,,,,), whatever you want really lol)" @iscariot-rising​

summary; You’re in a mood and seek punishment from Roman to get out of your head for a bit. 

notes; KINKS: Daddy!Kink; Spanking; Sexual Punishment; Consensual, but neither safe nor sane tbh; Coming basically untouched; Slight exhibitionism. Male!Reader; PWP; Lemon; Smut; Using sexual punishment to stop feeling bad/thinking.

Having woken up after an awful night and feeling your mood decline with every thought that tumbled through your brain, you were feeling that need for Roman to put you in your place and make you lose every train of thought possible. Usually a good punishment would get you out of your head and that weird mood, because no doubt it would only get progressively worse the more you dwelled on it. Roman wouldn't punish you if you asked for it, though. He wanted you to have earned it. Fine by you. You would make sure you've earned it, alright.

Roman was downstairs at the club, which wasn't even due to open for several more hours. So you went and joined him there, seeing to whatever he was doing.

When you reached downstairs, you saw a couple of his men mopping the floor. It smelled awfully like bleach. It assaulted your nose for a moment, as you scrunched your face up in reaction to it.

Side-stepping the working men, you went further into the club's area and saw Roman sitting in a booth with Zsasz, cackling about something. There was some blood on Victor's face. That would explain what they've been doing then, and possibly even what they were laughing about.

When Roman finally noticed you coming closer, he sobered up a little at first, then a wide grin spread on his face. It still had some sadistic, sinister touch to it, but for the most part it was charming, happy even.

"Look at you, baby! What are you doing down here, hm?" He exclaimed, still grinning, as Zsasz looked at you curiously.

You sat down next to Roman and playfully smiled up at him. "Oh, you know, I got a little bored all by myself and wanted to see what you were doing."

"Did you now? And haven't I told you not to come downstairs when I'm busy here outside of business hours, baby?" His tone already took on a dangerous edge; so going down here despite knowing you weren't allowed to did pay off. Good.

"Ah, well, I might have forgotten, sorry," you said, not sounding sorry at all.

Roman hummed, his grin slowly vanishing from his face.

"You know I don't like it when my orders aren't being followed," he rasped.

Shivering, you bit your lower lip and grinned cheekily.

"Didn't know that applied to me as well, Daddy."

"Hmmm, you're just being a little shit now, sweet boy, aren’t you? What is it?"

"I'm not! It's nothing, Daddy, I promise! What should it be?" You said, playing up the part of being completely oblivious.

"Do you just act stupid or are you really it?" He rasped.

By then, you knew he had caught on, probably even knowing that you did it on purpose; but his quick temper often got the better of him when you played your cards right. Like right now.

"Now, now, Daddy! That's rude, isn't it? But that's to be expected from you."

You knew that what you just said would make his blood boil, it might have hurt him a little, too, but you were willing to pay that price right now.

Clenching his fists, he fixed you with a fierce glare. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

"Of course I do, Daddy! But y'know, sometimes you really can be a little rude."

"Is that so? Do you hear that Zsasz?"

Zsasz nodded, "I think you should teach him a lesson, Boss."

You were sure that Victor wasn't talking about sexual punishment like you were aiming for, but rather peeling your mug off because he wanted Roman to himself.

"Yes, I believe you're right, I should. Would you be so kind and leave us alone then, Victor?" Roman said, looking at you intently.

Disappointment was clear in Victor's expression, but he got up without another word and left the two of you alone in the club, as the other staff had left by that point, too.

Roman nudged you, "C'mon, over my lap. Now."

Fucking finally!

Swallowing thickly, you shifted and leaned over his legs and laid face-down on his thighs, your chest and stomach pressing against them, while your ass was up for him to do whatever he liked with. He rubbed his gloved hand over your still clothed ass cheeks, seemingly admiring them.

"Count," was his only, huskily rasped, warning before he lifted his hand and let it come down on your right ass cheek, hard.

You yelped and moaned out a "One".

Then again. "Two."

Again. It felt harder. "Three."

This continued on until you reached spank number ten.

Because then, he reached under you and unbuttoned your pants, sliding them down your hips, over your straining erection, and over your butt, situating them right where thighs met cheeks. Your bottom already felt so fucking raw. Roman's spankings were always forceful. As much as he looked like he never lifted a finger on his own, he actually worked out, and it showed in his strength.

You've been hard and aching for the past three spanks already and you didn't know how many he's planned for you to receive. You might come practically untouched, depending on it, because your cock kept rubbing against the cushion beneath you and his thigh. It was driving you crazy before, when you were still clothed, and now, with your dick bared, it would only be so much worse.

All those thoughts were ripped from your mind, as his leather-clad hand came back down on your bare rump again, alternating between the left and right cheek and where he hit. It was relentless.

By the twenty-fith spank, your counting was barely intelligible anymore, as it was caught between shouts, moans and dry sobs.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you figured that his hand must have gone numb by that point, but he kept spanking you. You could feel his hard cock against your stomach, though. So as unaffected as he seemed by all of this, he wasn't it entirely.

At the fiftieth hit, you couldn't control yourself anymore and came all over his thigh and the booth's cushions, sobbing and moaning pitifully, as tears streamed down your red face.

He stopped for a moment, rubbing over your cheeks soothingly, although it only made them burn more.

"Tell Daddy how sorry you are for disrespecting him and for coming unprompted all over him. C'mon," he rasped, his voice even deeper than before.

It took you a moment to even register what he's said. You blinked rapidly, trying to come back to the now. You felt so floaty.

"Sorry, Daddy." It was a quiet, unintelligible mumble.

"I didn't quite hear you there, sweet cheeks. Try again." To underline what he just said, he spanked you twice on each cheek again.

Obediently, you slurred the numbers. He paused again.

"Daddy, I- I'm sorry. 'm so sorry," you mumbled a little louder, your voice shaking.

"'Kay then," he whispered.

Roman then lifted his hand off your ass and helped you to sit up. You were so out of it that you just barely registered the pain it caused to sit.

"Ew, you've made a fucking mess of my suit pants. Ugh," you could faintly hear him complain.

A moment later he had gotten up apparently, as you felt his arms around you. One around your back, under you arms and gripping onto your side, and the other one under your thighs. Then he lifted you up, bridal style.

"Let's get you upstairs and taken care of, my little prince."

Completely out of it, you smiled and pressed your wet, red face into his chest. Your plan had worked out to the best possible result. 

[drethanramslay]

Without You

Pairing: Logan x MC (Lexi Cahill)

Masterlist

Word count: 2.5 K words

Warning: Just a little cursing, here and there and Angst

MC is actually not present in this fic, this is Logan's POV, four months after he had to leave LA

Author's note: I decided to take part in @rodappreciationweek so here is my submission :)) 

Thanks to @choicesarehard @brightpinkpeppercorn and @client-327 for hosting this 💙

Thanks to @mvalentine for pre-reading it❤️��️

Title inspiration: Without You by Avicii (ft. Sandro Cavazza)

Song: Gone by Blake Rose

Forgive me if I make any mistakes.

The rays of the sun spilled through the crack in my curtains, making the white walls a yellow hue. My eyes were bleary and red rimmed. It had just been moments since I woke up and my hangover struck me like a train wreck, a familiar electric pain behind my eyes.

I shouldn't have drank so much.

I moved my head to only see an an empty bed side. Of course she left. Who would want to stick around after a one night stand?

The hazy memories of last night filtered through my head, making me wince. Another night, another rave, another tray of shots and another chick to bang.

You could call it saturday shenanigans but, this was different.

Everything was different since I left her.

All my days just seem to melt away into a haze of alcohol and drugs... Today, tomorrow, yesterday seems to fuse into this neverending torture, an ache which no matter how much I drink or how many girls I fuck, never fucking ceases to hurt. The only thing which can fix this gaping wound in my heart is Lexi.

But she is not here.

And never will be.

So this is how it has been for the past weeks. Me getting inebriated to new extremes just to numb the pain and to temporarily erase the loneliness before I become sober again.

Because when I'm in those intoxicated wastelands, I'm so out of it that I can almost hallucinate her dancing with me. I can almost smell her strawberry shampoo, tickling my nose. I can almost hear her tinkling laugh.

And in my alcohol induced sleep, I dream of her in my arms the both of us fitting together, like two jigsaw puzzles.

I despise being sober. Because when I am In my senses, the entire load of loss weighs down on me, crushing me and suffocating me. The 'could have been's' and the regret are all a heavy burden on my shoulders.

A small part of me is often wishing, praying and hoping that things could just go back to normal but, deep in my gut I know, that nothing is ever going to be the same again.

Nothing is ever going to be the same, now that she was gone...

How much time does it take to get over people?

It may be a day, a week, a month or a year. There is no definitive time span for getting over someone you loved, someone you cherished or someone who was close to your heart.

I think it depends on how much of an impact the said person had on you or how much of a void that person left in you.

I was the wild and carefree guy, with no strings attached and never saw myself being the one to fall in love because... Let's admit it, love is a vulnerability, a weakness which people don't hesitate to exploit.

But fast forward to four months later, I am in the same category as those emotional pussies crying over a breakup.

Being brought up in foster homes made me grow up quickly. Some houses were good and caring whilst some were harsh. And knowing that I am the most cursed person to walk the earth, I was always was stuck with the shitty households.

Don't believe me? I still have those scars from the fights and the beatings.

Growing up in such a hostile environment, taught me that there is no room for weakness or error and that love and feelings are just some fairy tale myth which is made by philosophical fools to give you a sense of hope.

But, hope is a dangerous thing, two side of the same coin. It can make you and break you.

I don't think I would have survived my childhood but... That's when I fell in love with cars.

It holds a special place in my heart.

The way my adrenaline spikes as the pointer on my speedometer achieves unattainable speeds, the way I feel the purr of my engine resound through my entire body and they way it's just me, my car and the open road... Nobody could ever compare to that sensation of freedom.

Well, that was before I met her.

Lexi Cahill.

I admit it started off as a way to recruit her as an informant, a tool to stay out of prison, another heart to break.

But little did I know that life would pull the fucking reverse uno card on me. But, I'm low-key glad it did.

It's been 4 months since that scum bag was thrown into the jail.

Four months since the crew went its separate ways.

Four months since I walked away from her.

I don't want to let you go...

Those words were on a repeat in his head, like a broken tape recorder and her teary eyes and broken expression is forever burnt into his brain. It was so hard to let her go. The one time I found a reason to stay, a reason to fight for, a reason to stop running, life just fucked it all up.

It was a tussle, a war between what my heart wanted and the logical side of me which just left me exhausted.

In conclusion, heartbreak sucks.

I reach for my phone and switch it on to check the time. But my eyes fall on our prom photo which I had made as my wallpaper. It's really stupid how head over heels I'm in love with her.

But it's the truth.

There is a saying that life gives you only one great love and that many people go for years without that.

I was one of the few lucky people to get that at 18.

But life is not sunflowers and unicorns shitting rainbows. It's rough, it's hard with its a mix of ups and downs. But it seems like mine is set to be on the all time low.

Staggering to the bathroom, I heavily leaned against the counter, my muscles flexing as I gripped the edge. My eyes lifted to see my reflection staring back at me.

I look like a hot mess.

This isn't you Logan... My inner conscience said, which eerily sounded like her.

God, I really must be losing it, huh?

Slowly and painfully I started my morning chores, my body on auto pilot. My mind kept on wandering to Lexi. She would be in Langston by now.

Would she be in that off shoulder sweater of hers, her feather tattoo peaking from underneath the sleeve? Would she be highlighting and colour coordinating her notes like she always did?

Would she have made new friends? Or dare I say a new boyfriend?

Logan stop hurting yourself. I said to myself as I visibly cringed at the thought of someone else having their arms around her.

The idea of someone else kissing her soft lips or someone else holding her hands or someone else running his hands along the curvature of her naked back made me equal parts angry and sad.

Angry for you know, obvious reasons but sad for the life I had to leave behind in LA.

God I hate this existential crisis shit... It's to early to question life.

I dragged myself in the direction of the kitchen, the smell of bacon waking me up. I was shirtless and wearing a pair of sweatpants because I was too fucking tired to wear anything else.

"Look who has decided to grace us with their presence."

"Shut up Carl, it's too early for your bullshit." Raven said as she slapped the top of his head.

I shot her a look of gratitude as I sank into my seat and reached for the plate of pancakes.

Carl and Raven were the closest thing to parents for me. Carl was a tough man with huge muscles, around six feet tall but, he was as goofy as a child. Raven was his girlfriend who was hella intimidating. The kohl lined eyes and the floral tattoo on the side of her shaven head made her look fierce. Both of them were in their early thirties and ran the Detroit Central crew.

We three were in a different crew when I was 15 and they really took a liking for me. They taught me everything I know and they are the family that I always came back too.

I dug into my breakfast, eating slowly and savouring the sweetness of the maple syrup.

"Thank god you are atleast eating now." Raven said as she ruffled my hair and turned towards the sink.

I shrugged and Carl picked up the newspaper to read, settling into his seat. Suddenly, the bell rang which had all of our backs becoming as stiff as a rod.

"Were you expecting someone, darlin'?" Raven asked, trying to peak through the windows.

"Don't get up, I'll do it." Carl said as he picked up the gun on the counter and pushed it into the back pocket of his cargo pants.

I was frozen, terrified. I had been very careful in escaping but me being the reckless fool and getting drunk seven ways to Sunday may have tipped them off.

I'm such a colossal dumbass.

I could hear Carl's gruff voice talking but I couldn't peek at the person on the other side of the door. I just sank further into my seat, hoping that it was some lost person and not the FBI.

"Boy this one's for you." He moved aside and the person I least expected to see walked in.

"You look like shit."

"Good morning to you too, asshole." I rolled my eyes.

Colt walked into the kitchen, wearing his trademark leather jackets and dark jeans. His combat boots made a thud sound with each step which made my headache worse.

"Will you be okay, Lo-lo?" Raven asked, her eyes flitting to the jerk standing in her kitchen.

Colt snorted at the nickname but luckily kept his mouth shut.

"Yep Ra. Meet Colt Kaneko. Colt meet Raven and Carl." I spoke at I stood up and put my dirty dishes in the sink.

"Oh you are Kaneko's boy, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"We heard about what went down in LA. Our condolences. He was a great man."

He gave a nod. It was a sore subject for me as well. That night in the alley, I wished I could take it back. I usually am not one to regret what I spew but whatever I said to Kaneko is another burden I'm gonna carry all my life.

"Also heard about your crew busted the Brotherhood? You were the mastermind behind it right?" Carl said as he crossed his arms.

"As much as I would love to take the credit, it was Lexi who came up with the plan." Colt said his eyes darted towards me, gauging my reaction.

"The newbie? Heard she drives like the wind-"

Hearing her name felt like an iron fist clenching my heart. That name will always be the source of my happiness, my cherished memories and my melancholy.

"Colt let's take this to the backyard, shall we?" Logan spoke up, interrupting them.

He walked to the back door and Colt followed him wordlessly. It a sunny day but a cool breeze blew which provided some kind of relief.

I reached to take out two beers from the cooler and handed him one. Colt raised an eyebrow.

"Beer... At ten in the morning?"

I shrugged as I popped the bottle cap off mine. "It's 5pm somewhere else."

"That's true too. Cheers." We clinked the necks of our bottles and took a sip as we sat down on the patio chairs.

I turned towards him. "So what brings you to Detroit?"

"To see your pretty face?" Colt said sarcastically as he rolled his eyes.

I snorted. "Always knew you had a thing for me, pretty boy."

"Always knew that you had an ego the size of Jupiter, dickhead. Some things just don't change."

I sighed. "Can't say the same for me through. Everything is different now."

Surprisingly, Colt didn't mock him. He stared down at the bottle in his hands. "Yeah... I can understand. How are you holding up?" He asked as he turned to face me.

I took a huge gulp of my beer before responding, my eyes staring at the mango tree in my neighbor's back yard.

"Not too good. It's been hard for the last couple of months. Kaneko's death, leaving LA and maintaining a low profile... It's been tough."

Life without Lexi is tough.

"Yeah I can understand. I still imagine pops opening the door to wake me up. And don't get me started on the FBI... bunch of bloodsuckers." He muttered the last part.

I snorted. "I'll drink to that."

"Good thing they are off our backs now." Colt spoke eyeing him from the corner of his eyes.

I scoffed. "Bitch please. They are anything but lazy. They are gonna continue hunting us down till the end of time."

"I meant that we are not the top priorities at the moment. Sure Mona was sent to jail but, a little birdie told me that they are after this 'world class' thief at the moment."

"That's a relief I guess."

"Do you know what this means?" He asked taking another sip of beer.

"It's too early for my brain to function. Come to the point, asshole."

"We are rebuilding the crew, dickhead."

My eyes widened. "No way."

"Yup." He said popping the 'p'. He downed the remainder of his beer before standing up. "I'm done repairing the garage. We have a job in two months and I need a crew for that. I already have Ximena on board and now I'm gonna go over to Toby's."

My mind was swimming. Mercy Park Crew was coming back for good.

I looked up at him, suddenly nervous. "What about Lexi?"

He rolled his eyes. "When I said I'm rebuilding the crew, I also meant recruiting Lexi, dumbass."

Oh god.

She is going to come back.

I was frozen in my place once again. I had often asked myself how I would react if I got the chance to meet her again. I always imagined that I would let out the loudest cheer and dance like a mad man.

But this is reality and my thundering heart was a reminder of that.

"Why are you sitting there with your mouth open like a fish? Go! Get your girl."

And that was it. I rushed to my room, put on some decent clothes and haphazardly stuffed my things into my satchel. Grabbing my keys and yelling a quick good bye to Raven and Carl, I was out and in my 2005 Devore GT.

Reving the engine I took off on the roads of Detroit, heading for the highway.

The window was open and the breeze threaded through my unruly hair, making me feel alive. My hands clutched the wheel and my foot pressed down on the accelerator, speeding through the empty streets.

For the first time, in a very long, the roads which felt like a never ending maze for me, were the very ones which were the path to my freedom.

The path to my happiness.

The path to my Lexi.

I hope you liked it 😊

Logan x mc: @kaavyaethanramsey @openheart @skylarklyon @shadowycreatorpaperopera @pixelberryownsme @magicalshepherdtreeprofessor @anotherbeingsworld​

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[sumisuchan]

Those Who Know

Hey guys, here’s a piece I’m posting for the Bellow Diamond Summer Sugar Bomb Liberate the People 2020 *or whatever it was called. This is also probably going to be my last Bellow Diamond fic, because I’m not quite sure what more I can say about this pairing, but I wrote this because I was a little sad the show didn’t tackle a fusion between them. I hope you enjoy, and here’s the Ao3 link for those who prefer reading there: (Also I love comments!) https://archiveofourown.org/works/24757537

---- 

On that day something had changed.

In hindsight, it seemed perfectly normal. Yellow and Blue were sitting in the garden amongst all of the new plants, mostly flowers, which had been collected from other worlds. It was a community effort. Gems who still traveled to the far corners of the universe were encouraged to bring back anything beautiful with them, which resulted in a garden overflowing with sundry plants and no semblance of unity between them. Most exploded with petals in shades of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet—a competition for the frilliest gown with the most shapely seams. The chaos was encouraged. The garden could be anything. The gems could be anything, and Yellow and Blue sat amongst every color and cut of them, even some fusions.  

A comforting breeze picked up. Blue sighed and leaned back.

“It’s such a lovely day today.”

Amongst all the flowers swaying gently, the gems were sighing, letting go.

“I should probably get back soon,” Yellow said. “I left off when I was just about to put together a whole gem. I was just missing one piece...”

“No,” Blue touched her hand. “Stay a little longer.”

It wasn't the first time Blue had touched Yellow’s hand, made her skin bumpy, but now she wove their fingers together. She had captured Yellow’s entire hand and left her no choice.

Yellow sighed too. She forgot her responsibilities. “All right,” she said, “I'll stay.”

Blue continued holding her hand until the sun lazily changed positions.

                                                              * * *

As soon as the next day, Yellow caught herself reaching for Blue’s hand during inappropriate times. They were at a meeting sitting next to each other, suggesting ways to better Homeworld.

“I think if we make a separate larger building I could go to, I could make even more clouds than what my room can hold, and I know that there are so many gems that could use my help…”

Yellow almost went as far as touching Blue’s pinky. Her fingers had made contact, but as if receiving a shock, Yellow remembered it was a meeting and pulled them away.

White spoke. “Oh, that's a lovely idea, Blue. I know many gems still feel as though they are unwelcome into our rooms, so perhaps they might be more comfortable in a separate building.”

“I can send out a poll about it,” Yellow added.

“Would you please? Now on to the next order of business…” White continued but Blue had reasserted herself over Yellow’s pinky, touching it with the tips of her careful fingers. Yellow’s face felt as though it had caught fire. She couldn't focus.

Whenever they were apart too long, Blue would come drifting back. Sometimes Yellow would hear her singing from the next room, making her hand unsteady as she worked with the tweezers. Blue blurred the hard edges of her room’s clean lines and made the air feel warm, though any newly resurrected gems didn't comment.

Alone, Yellow would still play music. Gems would create and upload songs she could access from her communication device—formerly forbidden dance beats about going out, finding someone, spending an evening together. Yellow patiently sorted the shattered gems’ pieces on beat.

Most of them were vague enough to be about anything or anyone, so when they sang about dancing and dreams, it was easy to imagine taking Blue by the hand and leading her back to the garden. The electronic beats suggested neon colored plants against the black night sky. Maybe they would dance there too, or just sit, or lock their hands together and—

Yellow would stop there. She used to stop before even letting it go that far. Sometimes she might stop before even reaching the garden, before taking Blue by the arm. Yellow would remove herself from the music to stare from the window. The gems would come back apologizing, believing that they had upset her.

                                                               ***

It kept getting worse. During walks, Blue would link their arms together and Yellow's head would swim. Her legs would threaten to collapse. Blue would laugh at her musically, then hold her tight to keep her from falling.

“I don't know what's gotten into me. I feel so overwhelmed.”

Blue patted her shoulder. “Maybe it's the first time you're allowed to feel this way.”

“Feel what way?” They stopped walking. “Don't tell me White's rules were the only thing keeping me together. You don't think I'm—gems don't fall ill, do they?”

“Hmmm…” Blue leaned in, trying not to smile. She pressed her hand to Yellow’s forehead. “You do feel awfully warm, but it could just be your lightning. I've also noticed that sometimes you have trouble paying attention. White has to repeat herself because it seems you’re somewhere else.” Blue took her hand away. "Where could that somewhere be ? Is it always the same?”

Yellow grew hot. Her feet had trouble staying connected to the ground. “Stars—it's happening again. This terrible feeling—what's going on with me?”

“I don't know, but it seems very serious.” Blue was beginning to laugh.

“Don't giggle at me. You don't have any idea how unbearable this is.”

“I'm sorry, Yellow. You're right. There's no possible way I could know what you're feeling. I promise I'll try to be more sensitive next time.” Blue kissed her on the cheek and led her along by her wobbly legs.

                                                              ***

Yellow didn’t leave her room for an entire day, the longest amount of time yet. As the time passed, she slumped over at her desk, listening to music released the day before. These were fast-paced, mostly about fusion. She had to remind herself that it was okay that they mention it.

Only some of the songs were truly good but Yellow listened to all of them, staring out the window. When someone knocked on her door, she only turned around when it opened. It was White.

“Yellow—” The sun had begun to set, but White lit up the purple room with her glow, a perfect night light.

Even with a visitor, Yellow didn’t intend on moving.

“What's wrong?” White said, taking a few steps into the room. “Blue and I haven't seen you all day.”

Yellow turned back to the window. Stories below, gems were out for evening walks, linked at the elbows. She felt warm again. “I don't know,'' she said. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm so warm and dizzy all the time, and sometimes my chest tightens. I wonder if I'm corrupting...”

“Corrupting ?” White came and, like Blue, pressed her hand against Yellow’s forehead.

Where Yellow expected to swoon, she didn't. If anything, having White’s hand upon her head sobered her.

“You are a little warmer than usual. I suppose it could be your lightning.” White sat at the edge of Yellow’s bench, balancing somehow on her long legs. “But your physical form seems fine. Could it be emotional?”

Yellow burned into herself.

“If it is, maybe you should talk to Blue.”

“No. I can't talk to her.”

“You can’t? But I thought you two talk all the time. Oh—” White’s face turned pink around the nose. “Oh, Yellow,” White touched her shoulder. “This is my fault, isn't it? Now that you two are finally free, I'm sure the emotions are overwhelming. I'm so sorry. Have you told her?”

“Told her what?”

“Come now. I won't be upset. You're more than welcome to talk about it.”

“Talk about what? ”

“Yellow! You really don't need to upset me this way. I feel terribly enough for everything I put you both through!” White stood, wrapping her cape around herself dramatically. “Well, you have my blessing. Tell her, please. For my sake.”

White fled, leaving Yellow to holler after her. “Wait! Tell her what?! White! ”

But she had already escaped, leaving a trail of sparkles behind her.

Still, Yellow yelled. “Tell me what I should say to her, please!”

White, however, did not return.

                                                              ***

It was only a while later that Yellow found herself next to Blue at the site of the new Happiness Center, where a team of Bismuths had begun to build. They asked her to hold large objects in place, such as a pillar, around which they cemented. Yellow held a pillar too, watching as Blue lifted the Bismuths and set them down.

She placed one upon the uppermost floor, at her waist. “I never knew how much fun it is to be an elevator. Yellow, why don't you try it? It looks like someone is waiting for you.”

Yellow found another Bismuth at her feet, who gave a shy smile, setting her hand upon the back of her head. “If I could, My Diamond.”

“You don't have to call me that anymore,” Yellow said, lifting her.

Blue was giggling again. “What a good elevator you make, Yellow. How efficient.”

“You're acting like it's difficult.” But there was that feeling again. Blue’s gem magnified angles of sunlight overhead, glowing, making Yellow dizzier.

“Well, I suppose it really isn't,” Blue said, “I just wanted to compliment you.”

Yellow held the pillar a little tighter; she had to. She also looked away, toward the capital, whose new buildings were drenched in colors. They used to be organized in sections, strictly divided along arbitrary lines. Without the full consent of her brain, Yellow said, “You're so beautiful.” Then as soon as it came out, quiet as it was, she covered her mouth, turning to Blue, who was yet again trying not to laugh at her.

“Thank you, Yellow. You are too.”

Yellow returned that evening a mess. Any composition unraveled, she sat at her desk, stared even harder out the window, head full of sappy electronic music as the night flowers opened. She caught them in the corners of her eyes—neon-fleshed and thirsty, because she couldn't observe anything else. There was just her breathing, which she never paid attention to before—painfully alive and full of sweet, floral air. She wanted to keep it, forever. She felt like crying.

The door opened on beat, but even if it hadn’t, Yellow wouldn't have seen the light.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to check on you.”

Blue entered. The door locked out the hallway light as it closed, leaving only the deep purple and glow-in-the-dark flowers. Yellow hurried to turn off the music.

“You don't have to,” Blue said. “I like that song.”

Yellow only turned it down, enough to hear Blue’s skirts rustle to the bench. She hesitated before sitting, but did, her legs pointed away from the desk so they could face each other.

The music thumped gently. “I wanted to tell you that I’m not upset about what you said today. You looked so nervous, but I like it when you share your thoughts.”

“I didn’t want to insult you by saying something inappropriate.” Yellow couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. “Especially something so out of nowhere.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I like your inappropriate, out-of-nowhere thoughts. We don’t have to keep such things to ourselves anymore.” Blue leaned in closer until closing the gap by embracing Yellow. “Aren’t you glad?” Her voice was low in her throat, her fingers trailing up the nape of Yellow’s neck. They could taste each other's shared breathing, Blue in, Yellow out. Out, in, scented of flowers.

“Blue—”

There was something between them they both reached for. Just for a moment, their bodies turned to light, grasping, casting a glow against the neon plants and the star-filled window. Just for a moment, they were huge. Just for a moment, they were green.

Then they popped apart on the floor, Yellow and Blue again.

The force of separating left Yellow lopsided on her bench, tilted with one side touching the floor, and Blue a short ways across the room.

“I'm sorry—I didn't mean—” but she was already heading for the door.

“Wait—!”

“I'm so sorry,” Blue said finally, and left Yellow with her photons buzzing back into place, and a snapshot of herself where Blue had stood.

                                                              ***

The next day, Yellow went to Earth. She didn't tell anyone she was going, nor Steven that she was coming. She simply arrived that evening, apologetically, in front of the beach house.

As Yellow stood there, waiting for someone to acknowledge her, her gem shined over the entire house, bright enough to signal a plane. Meanwhile, gems who used to be hers passed below, pausing as if to bow, but not many committed.

Finally, the door opened. Amethyst came out.

“Uh… Hey, Yellow Diamond.”

Neither spoke.

“Do you need something or... You're just... Standing around?”

Both fought the urge to cringe, sweating profusely.

“No. I'd like to talk to Steven.”

“Umm. Sure. Hold on a second.” Inside the house, her voice could be heard calling, “Steven! Yellow Diamond is here to see you!”

“What?" There were footsteps, nearing the door. "Did she say why?”

“I don't know, dude. But I bet you're in trouble —”

The door opened again, and Steven shielded his face from Yellow’s rays. It occurred to her to cover her gem.

“Hey, what's going on?”

Yellow explained as he walked her to the beach. She told him about her shortness of breath, her episodes of sighing at the windows while listening to dumb techno songs. She told him about her dizzy spells and how her mind always returned to—

“Blue?” Steven asked. He had taken his flip-flops off and dug his feet into the sand. “I don't know. It sounds like you're experiencing some emotions. Have you talked to her about them, or...?”

“It seems that she wanted to talk last night. She came to my room and well... We almost fused. In fact, I think we did.”

“Hmm.” Steven lifted his feet from the sand, upsetting a crab from its burrow. “So you said you feel woozy around her, and you get tongue-tied, and you can't stop thinking about her. And you feel like you can't tell her any of these things?”

“That’s right.”

“And no one else makes you feel this way?”

Yellow glimpsed out to the ocean and the sky turning peach, orange, and purple. “Not even close.”

“Sounds like you might be in love.”

“ What? ” Yellow practically snapped her neck. “I can't be in love! That's ridiculous . I've known Blue forever and—” Her eyes widened. “ Oh, stars .”

Steven unstuck his feet and slipped them back into his shoes. “You came just around dinner time, so I'm going to go back in. I'd offer you a place, but…” Steven took a couple of steps, hands in his pockets, but turned back. Yellow was still having an existential crisis.

“The same advice doesn't work for everyone, but... You should tell her. No matter what happens, it will probably make you feel better, getting it off your chest.”

Yellow’s palpable dread seemed to dissipate. “Thank you, Steven.”

“You're welcome. Good luck.”

The waves crashed as Steven left footprints back to the house. Yellow stayed put, boots in the sand as the tide rolled in. She focused on the color-gradient horizon, forgetting to blink.

                                                                ***

Yellow stayed by the ocean, the waves crashing in and out punctuating the time. The moon rose high over the water, casting a silver shadow upon its surface. Along the beach, a few humans had set a bonfire, and just as it extinguished, Yellow’s communicator rang.

It was Blue.

“Hello?”

“Yellow, where have you been? I checked in your room and you weren't there. And why do you have the video function turned off? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” The ocean crashed again. “I went to Earth, to clear my mind.”

“To Earth? Did you talk to Steven?”

“Yes...how did you know?”

“I had a feeling.” There was a short silence. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Yellow froze for only a moment. “No, I don't mind.”

“All right.” Blue set something down. “I'll be there soon.”

It took a few minutes. Even though their ships were impossibly fast, it still wasn't instantaneous. Yellow, without realizing it, held her breath while searching the stars, waiting for Blue.

The ocean even seemed to slow, meeting the shore a little more gently, and in an eternity stretched over no time at all, Blue arrived. She parked her ship next to Yellow’s and joined her on the sand.

“It's good to see you again,” she said, sitting down. “Thank you for letting me join you.”

Yellow, finally, took a breath. “Blue—”

Blue held her hand.

“I love you.”

There it was. Yellow had finally said those words. Her body caught fire internally, and Blue smiled. She squeezed Yellow’s fingers atop the sand.

“I know,” she said. “I was waiting so long for you to finally realize it. Stars , I've never seen you swoon like that. You looked so cute.” Blue kissed her cheek, painfully close to her lips, and used their proximity to embrace her. “Do I have to tell you that I love you too? Or have you known?”

“I was hoping—”

Blue kissed her, fully on the mouth. She held her a long time before letting her go.

“I'm sorry I fused with you. I mean—I'm not sorry that it happened, but the rules have been laid out for so long for what we weren’t supposed to do that now I'm not sure what you're comfortable with.” Blue kept her from falling. “You felt so overwhelmed. Even this seems like it might be too much.”

“No—” Yellow said. “I'm euphoric.”

“Euphoric? And I didn't even need to use my clouds.”

“Let me kiss you again.”

Blue smiled. “No. Come with me.”

Yellow was a little slow to stand, legs stiff from staying in place for so long, but she followed as Blue pulled her into the ocean. The water was cool as it lapped against her kneecaps, more and more softly the further they went. They stopped about waist-deep, when Beach City appeared as a series of dim lights. The moon was bright overhead, and Blue took both of Yellow’s hands.

“Do you want to try fusing again?”

Yellow held hers firmly back. “I can try.”

“If this is ever too much–” Blue kissed both sets of her knuckles, “I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me everything. Promise you will.”

“I promise,” Yellow said, and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you, Blue.”

“I love you too, Yellow.”

They embraced as the moon moved straight overhead, illuminating the greenish ocean water beneath them.

[blissfulalchemist]

"You took all the pillows so I'm using you as one." + "You are crushing me right now." Red Brooks Bros ♥

Alright here’s a little Brains and Disaster verse for you. Please enjoy your child of a son!

Life still felt out of the ordinary even a year after Eden’s Gate fell apart. There was still a lot to clean up, most of the mess from their savior, and people that needed recovery from that time. The cold winter months didn’t help much with trying to finish putting the pieces all back together, but it did offer a chance for life to feel normal again. Today was one such occasion as Cat waited for the popcorn to start cooking, forced to make it the old fashioned way as no one liked the synthetic butter and it was no longer a good option for her to eat it at this point. It was movie night and nothing was going to stop that from happening even though it was only going to be two of them tonight. 

The blast of cold air hit Cat as Wes stomped through the door brushing the snow off of his coat, goosebumps forming on her exposed skin in the tank top. “Take your shoes off at the door this time Wes,” she called out, finally hearing the popping of kernels. 

Wes came into the kitchen shaking the melting flakes from his hair, a few sizzling as they hit the pot, “Just us tonight?” She nodded giving a light shake of the pot, Cat put her hands warding off some of the droplets that came for her, “Can I pick tonight then?”

“We have time for two,” she looked up to the window seeing the big flakes from the sky, “Maybe more if the snow keeps up like this.”

Wes leaned against the counter picking up one of the cocktail straws they kept around for him, “Might be best. Don’t think John and Raf’ll make it back from where they’re at.” He placed the end of the straw in his mouth.

She shifted the flannel pajama pants letting the folding to shorten them loose, “So long as they’re safe that’s all that matters,” the popping slowed as Wes made his way to the shelves of movies. “How much butter? Or do you just want plain this time?”

“Don’t matter much with the butter,” he looked through movies intently, “Just watch the salt. You made it too salty last time.”

She laughed, “If I remember correctly it was just fine and you asked for more.”

“Nah,” he pulled a few options from the shelf, “that didn’t happen. It was all you.”

She rolled her eyes grabbing the bowls and lemon juice, “Come on I got the bedroom all ready for us.”

“Thought that was a one time thing,” he teased, Cat bumping him into the wall. He gave a small laugh rubbing his upper arm, “Ow.”

“Don’t think I’m not afraid to tarnish your share of popcorn if you keep it up,” she warned, placing the bowls on the nightstand sitting on the edge of the bed. Wes jumped up, fanning the movies out, “You picked out some good ones tonight, Wes.”

He pointed to an Alfred Hitchcock movie, “Say we start with this one,” his finger moving to a musical, “then this one cause know you like it,” he pointed to the last movie, a slice of life romance movie, “End the night with this one.”

She picked up the last one, raising an eyebrow, “Why this one? You didn’t seem to enjoy it last time we watched it.”

He gave a shrug, “With ever’thing seems nice to see normal.”

She smiled nodding, “Then I approve of this plan,” she got up getting the DVD player set up with the movies, still seemed like such a unique find of their six disc player, while Wes got himself settled to sit against the headboard. Cat joined him creating a cushion system with the pillows, one she could use to eventually lie on her side as it always seemed to happen by the end of the first movie. Cat took the bottle of lemon juice, spraying it on her bowl of popcorn, Wes rolling his eyes shaking his head, “Wes, you know this is my thing. You need to stop being so surprised.”

“Not surprised, just weird still.”

She took a bite, “I’d say don’t knock till you try it but it’s even better with the extra butter microwave popcorn.” 

He looked up in thought, “You haven’t been buyin’ much of it lately.”

She slowed her bites, “They say it's bad for you,” she shrugged, “So figure might as well stop eating it you know.”

He looked at her eyes narrowed, looking for any signs of what she was hiding, “You’re the most unhealthy of all us,” he hummed, “Don’t think that’s it.”

“You’re one to talk about being unhealthy,” she poked his stomach, “You hardly eat. If not for us you’d be nothing but bones. Not eating is just as unhealthy.”

He put his hands up in defeat, “Geez calm down. Just an observation is all.” He turned to face the movie again, eyes straying in her direction every now and then. Cat seemed to be her normal self but there was just something a bit different with her, especially with how she answered the last question she asked. Cat deflected like she did when she didn’t want to tell the truth and a lie would be too hard to make believable. By the time the movie was over, Wes got up taking their bowls with him, “Gettin’ a beer. You want some?”

She shook her head, “No. But the ice cream in the freezer would be amazing.”

“Any kind of drink,” he asked again, covering all his bases with her.

“No alcohol for me tonight Wes,” Cat said stretching out along the bed, “Just the ice cream. Oh, and some water.” He nodded leaving her in the room, grabbing what they needed. As he made himself a stronger drink, it started to occur to him that he hadn’t seen her drink at all the last few weeks. The bar was usually a common occurrence but it had been a while since he’d seen her even touch the stuff. He handed her the ice cream, placing the water on the nightstand. She looked so comfortable with all the pillows around her, leaving little room for him. 

He frowned, “Where am I supposed to be?”

Cat looked at the bed, “Oh,” she pursed her lips, “That’s a very good question because I’m already very comfy.” 

He climbed on the bed pushing her back so she was as close as she could be against the headboard, “Now since you took all the pillows,” he lightly patted her stomach before leaning against her, settling himself so his legs wouldn’t be in front of the tv, Cat laughing as he made himself comfortable, “I’m using you as one.”

She rolled her eyes running her fingers through his hair, “Fair is fair I guess. Just be careful okay?”

He looked up to her with his golden sympathetic eyes, “Cramps?”

She didn’t look his way, “Something like that,” she responded as she started up the musical. Her voice filled the room for some of the songs as Wes tried to put pieces together. Something seemed off with her and he was only just starting to realize it, but there were things wrong for almost two months now. Then again, Raf wasn’t entirely himself either, there were a few times he seemed to have drank more than normal, while Cat stayed sober despite having a few drinks. Their diets had changed a bit too, well mostly for Cat it didn’t seem that out of the norm for her husband. 

By the intermission of the musical Cat looked at the clock, “Maybe we ought to call it quits with this one.” She yawned, “Getting kind of tired and I do want to watch the last movie with you,” another sign, she never felt frequently tired unless her mood went way down something that hadn’t been a problem. She patted Wes’ chest, “Here get up I have to go to the bathroom.” Wes watched as she left the room, his brain debating on if he should get to the bottom of this mystery now or….

No, now was the better option. He got up from the bed waiting near the door for her. She walked out, eyes widening in surprise seeing him stand there, cursing under breath as she clutched her chest, “Somethin’s up. Not just with you, but Raf too.”

She took a step to the side, “Don’t know what you’re talking about Wes. Think you’re getting too many ideas in your head,” she wave him off, taking a step forward. 

“No,” he blocked her way into the room, “you two are up to something. I’m gonna find out.” He put his hands on his hips standing straight hoping to intimidate Cat. 

She gave a nod, “Yeah you sure will Wes. Let me know when you do,” Cat pushed past him again.

He let out a breath as he let her take a step, “Didn’t want to have to do this.” He shook out his arms readying himself. 

Cat turned to him confused, “Do what?” She asked before Wes put his arms around her letting her carry his weight. “Wes!”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said, pushing against her a bit.

“Wes! Stop it!” She pleaded, her knees starting to bend as he managed to make himself become more dead weight against her.

“I can’t,” a smile on his face as she came closer to the floor, “Gravity it’s increasing,” he proclaimed in a dramatic voice, as he pushed harder against her arms trying to keep him off of her. 

“No it’s not you jerk!” He opened his mouth to quote more, “And no,” Cat huffed, “the same thing didn’t happen to you the last time.” Catlina finally fell to the floor Wes on top of her, she tried and failed to push him off of her, most of her arms trapped under his body. “Wes,” she whined, muffled by his shoulder, “Get off of me.”

He shook his head, “No.”

“Don’t be such a child,” she tried to roll out from under him, his arms wrapping around her tightly, her breathing starting to become restricted, “Wes! You’re crushing me right now!”

“Just tell me,” he repeated, his hands reaching for her waist to tickle her.

She gasped, “Don’t you dare!” Her chest hurt even more as he made her laugh and squirm under him, “Wesley Daniel Brooks! Stop this right now!”

He lifted his head just enough to look her in the eyes, an exaggerated frown, “Now who’s being mean?” He let himself fall against her, knocking the air out of her, “Just tell me.”

She shook her head, “I can’t!” Her laughing started up again, “I want to but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Not good enough,” her sides were starting to hurt and she felt her arms tire more with each second that passed. 

She laughed, “Okay fine! Fine! But you gotta get off of me first,” he propped himself on his elbows looking down at her, “Like fully off of me so I can catch my breath.” She gave a light push as she brought herself to a sitting position. Wes stood, holding his hand out to her as she took deep breaths, “Thank you,” she said grabbing his hand. He watched her as she smoothed out her tank top and pants, inhaling deeply when she was done.

“So what’s up?”

She pointed a stern finger at him, “You can’t tell anyone else. I shouldn’t even be telling you but you damn near killed me.” She crossed her arms looking to the ground, “I’m pregnant.”

Wes’ eyes went wide, jaw dropping, “What?”

Catlina shrugged, running a hand through her hair, “Raf and I are going to have a kid.”

“Assume he knows right?” She nodded, “This new?”

She bit her lip, a blush coming to her cheeks, “No, not really.” She grabbed Wes’ hand seeing him start to turn sad, “We haven’t told anyone else Wes. In fact, we were planning on telling you next week, then everyone after that.”

He gave a slight tilt of his head, “How far ‘long are ya?”

“Almost three months,” her free hand instinctively went to her lower abdomen, “This is going to sound dumb but we waited becuase there’s a superstition in my family. Tell anyone outside of immediate blood family before three months and you’re gonna jinx it.” She gave a squeeze of his hand, “I’m sorry. I really wanted to tell you but I wasn’t sure how far that superstition went and I,” she shook her head, “I didn’t want anything bad to happen.” She looked up to his eyes, “I’m really sorry Wes. You’re the first person I’ve told other than Raf if that makes you feel any better.”

“Not even your dad or sisters,” he asked.

She shook her head, “No. We just started to get a better relationship going and I don’t know it seemed like too much to drop on them.” She glanced away from him, “How do you feel about it all though? Now that you know.”

“Bit sad you didn’t tell me sooner,” Wes took a breath, “but real happy for ya both. Truly. You always wanted this and it’s happening.” Cat smiled nodding, her eyes filling with tears, “So long you both are happy, that’s all that matters.”

Cat pulled him into a hug, “Thank you Wes. Next time you’ll be better kept in the loop, I promise.” He hugged her tightly lifting her from the ground briefly before putting her on the ground, “But Wes,” he looked at her serious expression, “You can’t tell anyone else. Don’t even let Raf know that you know. Act as surprised as you can when we tell you and John next week. Got it?” Wes gave her a smirk smiling, Cat holding out her pinky, “Promise me.”

Wes wrapped his pinky around Cat’s looking her dead in the eye, “I promise.” She nodded walking back to the bed, “So you gonna name ‘em after me?”

“Wes we don’t even know the gender,” Cat answered rolling her eyes as she made a spot on the bed for herself, Wes following suit.

“Wes could be gender neutral,” he argued.

“Wes Estrada dos Santos doesn’t really have a nice ring to it does it?” She laughed, letting herself lay against him.

Wes hit play on the movie, “I mean, could make it work.”

Catlina rolled her eyes, groaning, “This was a mistake already,” she looked up to him smiling, “Telling you that is.” Wes chuckled, keeping quiet as the movie started.

“Wait,” he said softly, “This mean I’ve to plan a shower now?”

[useless12sstuff]

Short stories #3

. 3 Above and Beyond

Trudging through the woods, I try to place the majority of my weight on my makeshift cane. Squinting my eyes, I try to keep sight of my path. The moon is of barely any help. If I had known it would be dark I would've snuck out a torch. Pulling my coat tighter around myself and wishing, not for the first time, that I should've worn something warmer above my hospital gown. I buried my nose in my scarf and yet, the crisp air still burned down my lungs. If my cigarettes don't kill me first, the cold certainly will. 'You shouldn't be here', the guilty part of my brain whispered. I squashed that thought down just like the leaves under my feet. Silly Linda, I scoff. She thought she could keep me in the ward by locking the door. Well look now, I jumped out the window. Well the pangs in my leg are almost making me regret. Almost. Oh whatever. To hell with Linda and her false pretenses. She can act sweet and coy all she likes but I know she wants me dead. Not more than I do but it is a mutual sentiment that is reciprocated. She's far too young anyway. A bit naive and very gullible. Very overconfident too but she is under the assumption that she's being 'smart' and 'sharp' and that an old, miserable midget like me won't be able to see right through her. An absolute fool. I despise it here.

I hobble my way to my usual spot, a clearing somewhere in the middle of the woods. The crescent moon stares down at me, as if judging. Sitting down on a tree stump while catching my breath, I pull out a pack of cigarettes that Linda missed and a lighter from my coat pocket. A cold draft rushed and rustled the trees and I held my coat tighter, shivering badly. With numb hands I light a cigarette and hold the lighter close, the tiny flame giving me a semblance of warmth. Sigh. I wouldn't want the fluid to run out. I pocketed it, closed my eyes and enjoyed my cigarette. Deep inhale and then exhale. Inhale and exhale. Finally, some peace and quiet….

…. Which did not last longer than twenty minutes. A sharp, whip like crack sobered me up and I opened my eyes to a terrifying sight. A creature with four faces, more than a hundred wings, taller than the trees, so huge that I can't distinguish the sky from its body. The moon is nowhere in sight. His whole body consists of uncountable eyes and tongues. What on God's green earth is this!? I can't move. Why am I not moving? Its hellish eyes stared me down. The cigarette I was holding had long fallen. I am a stone, glued to one place. I can't tear my eyes off this- this creature. All too soon, it descends and shifts into a shape more recognizable. A man. Dressed in a pure white robe, inky hair curled in every direction, skin the color of rich soil and piercing charcoal eyes, this man would stand out among any crowd. I must be hallucinating. Are cigarettes supposed to make you hallucinate?

"What kind of alien are you?" I asked in a quivering voice.

The man blinked. Then blinked again. Then stared at me long enough to make me wish I hadn't spoken.

"What kind do you think I am?" he smoothly replies, evading my question.

"A shape-shifting one."

He folds his hands neatly behind his back and doesn't reply.

"And who would you introduce yourself as?" he asks. I have a distinct feeling that he's humouring me. Like a cat who caught a canary.

"I, well, I-uhm-I fancy myself a student." I stuttered out. He doesn't need to know where I am from.

"A student of?"

"Life."

The alien smirked. An uncomfortable silence surrounds us, uncomfortable for me atleast. I feel weaker. Sweat beads at my eyebrows. This alien's presence has a weight that is taking a toll on me.

With nothing to do, I whip out another cigarette. I finished smoking it. Then I pull out a second, then a third, then a fourth.

"How long have you been smoking?" the alien asks suddenly.

"A few decades." I say, lighting another cigarette. A hush falls again.

"How do you speak our language?" I inquired, anything to keep the oppressive silence at bay.

"I've been here before."

"Oh?" I ask, hoping for an elaboration.

"Yes."

None came.

"What is it like?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Your planet. What is it like?"

"It is a human's dream come true. You can have whatever your heart desires. Food, clothing, land, companions. It is eternal peace-"

"Sounds like heaven." I interrupted.

The alien's lips quirked.

"Something of that sort. It can be very beautiful or very terrible depending on the person."

"Why so?"

"Would you wish for good things to happen to evil people?"

"No. Not at all."

"My point exactly."

"What is evil anyway? Is evil caused by a difficult life?You know, I've always wondered."

The alien calmly looks back at me.

"Have you had a sorrowful life?" he asks, a curious gleam in his eyes.

"Sorrowful?" I scoff. "I can barely recognize myself in the mirror anymore. A saying goes 'Let a man walk the halls of sorrow. Whatever comes out, can it be called a man anymore?' " I asked.

"Sorrow is either growth or wasted potential if you have not learned. Power on the other hand, man cannot be trusted with power. It is too corrupting." the alien argues.

"I'll have to politely disagree. Power in itself is not corrupt. Power attracts those who are corruptible. Those who took the wrong lessons from their sorrows."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You have become a cynic only because you felt your life was difficult. Your cigarette is proof enough. It kills you, yet, you stick to it. Doesn't that make you just like them?"

"You are not a human. You don't, and maybe, will never, understand the delicate intricacy of addiction. I am not defending myself. I am ashamed but leaving it is no easy task."

The alien hummed," If you believe so. You are quite a melancholic person." he says, matter of fact.

"So I've been told." I smiled self deprecatingly, "Look at me, debating about ideologies with an alien."

The alien smirked, as if he was in on a joke I wasn't. Strange.

I cleared my throat. It felt itchy. Must've been the cigarettes.

"Anyway,how does your planet deal with 'evil' people."

"You need not worry your head over it. Our, ah, justice system is very fair."

"Oh. Where is it located? Your planet that is."

"Not here. It is somewhere above all the galaxies."

That most certainly piqued my interest. I have wished for death on my worst days but on my best days, I've always been a curious bug, too curious for my own good. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Why are you here?" I finally cave in to my curiosity.

The alien side eyes me and replies, "I'm here to take one person home with me. Forever."

A thrill raced up my spine and anticipation settled in my bones. I licked my frozen, chapped lips. Perhaps I am being selfish. I spent my entire life looking for an escape, an escape from everything, my depression, my poverty, my disease, that hospital and its disinfectant smelling wards, Linda, this wretched world. That is an artist's curse. Escapism, they say, is an art too and I am anything but unacquainted to art. I always wondered about what was beyond, a place where no man had stepped. The golden threads of time, weaved into the fine fabric of the universe, permitted this opportunity to occur in front of me. I will take it even if my hands bleed.

I have no family that left, nobody who loves me. I'm bitter and alone. I deserve to be selfish for once in my life. To take a big leap, a risk. Yes, I will.

"Take me with you." I begged. "Please."

"Why should I?" the alien replied, staring right in my soul.

"You came for me. I know. If you didn't you wouldn't have landed here." I say, hopefully.

"And if I say that is false? What else would you offer?“

"I can offer you beauty and art. I can create for you."

"We have many of those."

"There will ever only be one like me. Just like there is only one artist like them. Themselves only."

Silence enveloped us again while rejection stung my chest again.

"Allow me to prove myself." I plead.

The alien looked at me, questioning.

"Look in my mind, see all that there is." I say determinedly. And I let him in my mind, let him see the world through my eyes and feel what I felt. I let him see my arts, my music, my poetry, my paintings that I crafted lovingly with my aged hands. I let him see what a human sees, something I know that he had never witnessed. Then I revealed my sorrows. Hopefully humanity would appeal to it.

With a pull he left my head. My eyes burned and I felt a blood vessel burst. I dry heaved on the dead ground but the nausea still lingered. I am glad I was seated or my knees would've buckled and I would've been an undignified heap on the floor. All the while the alien just stared and stared. I am getting sick of his staring too.

Once again, I broke the silence.

"I will paint your skies," I continue, hesitantly, "and your buildings and walls. I will write for the children and even for the old. Just please, take me. I'm exhausted ."

My eyes burned again, unshed tears waiting for release. I avert my eyes and let out a sigh. I feel heavy and my shoulders slump. Unexplainable exhaustion overcomes me and my temperature keeps rising, beads of sweat rolling down my face.

"If," he began,then stopped. It was the first time in our entire conversation that I saw him hesitate.

"If," he continued, "if I were to ask you to scream your wish at me, what would you fear more; your echo or my answer? “

"My echo", I reply instantaneously.

"Why?"

"Because it would mean you have declined."

"Hmm. Recite a poem for me."

I gave a shaky, hopeful smiled and offered him my words:

My river by the oak tree

has turned molten gold again,

as the glowing orb of light and life surrenders to the sapphire sky.

The cotton clouds float in shy, pink circles

While the rush of the river awakens a memory I had long forgotten,

When this same tree once bore luscious flowers,

Their scent wafting lazily into the cool breeze,

While I sat and reminisced about the possibility of other lives in the universe,

Under the wrinkled, silver moon.

Silence hugged us again while the impact of my weakened voice lingered in the air.

"Do you believe in other lives? Aliens and such?" he questioned.

"Yes I do, I mean you are here so that confirms it too."

"You are a funny one. No one has ever mistaken me for an alien." it grinned, crooked, as if a gesture it wasn't familiar with.

My body went cold and tremors shook it to its feeble core, my breath coming out in shallow pants. My eyes shut down of their own accord. The entity then spoke with a voice that might have held the weight of a thousand suns,

"Beyond the stars we go."

[notsiriusatall]

What if I'm Someone I Don't Want Around?

He laughs at the door as it slams, any emotion or scrap of warmth dying inside of him as soon as it had surged forward.

“Don’t know what I expected.” 

Sirius glances at Grim who has now crossed to the door and is pawing at it. They’ll find him in time. He’s got food.

The fraction of a reason he had left has just slammed the door in his face. Sirius doesn’t really see a point in carrying on any longer. 

He should’ve bought a gun, like he’d planned before. But Sirius had chickened out, like always. He wasn’t strong enough to do this, he wasn’t strong enough to finally bring the people who still care about him for some stupid fucking reason some peace.

That changes today. 

He looks at the vodka bottle in his hands, excepting to feel something, anything. Nothing comes beyond the numbness, no fear, no regret, no fleeting memories of Doe, no shame for the way her face had looked, no guilt for having the last time she saw him be this time….a little guilt. Maybe he shouldn’t…

Sirius shakes his head and unscrews the bottle. He takes big, gulping drinks, as much as he can stand at once, choking slightly as the burn slides down his throat. The bottle is gone and he doesn’t even feel drunk, so he opens the freezer and gets to work on a second, downing half of it before he feels the familiar feeling of drunkenness spreading from his brain all the way down to his toes.

Numb. This shouldn’t even hurt.

He takes the empty bottle and knocks it against the kitchen island, barely registering Grim’s noise of concern as the bottom half of it shatters.

The broken jagged edges of the bottle catch the overhead light and sparkle, and Sirius feels himself swallow hard. He takes a deep breath and is surprised his hands are shaking as he raises the sharp end of the bottle to his right wrist.

It’s not going to hurt. It’s just going to be like falling asleep except he doesn’t have to wake back up. It’s going to be over soon, even if it hurts. 

Soon he’ll finally feel nothing. Soon he’ll finally be nothing.

They’ll be safe. It’ll be worth it.

He drags the glass across the delicate skin of his wrist, horizontal first, a test. The red of his own blood is shocking and Sirius takes a breath in, waiting for the pain, the sting of his skin tearing-but nothing comes.

Is he dead already? Is this how it ends? He laughs despite himself. Of course even the ending of his own life wouldn’t go according to plan. He digs the glass in deeper, feeling something close to satisfaction as he makes himself bleed. Sirius isn’t shaking anymore. He knows what he’s doing is right.

That is, until a wet nose pushes against the elbow of his uninjured arm.

Sirius’s eyes find Grimm, who barks softly, and pain shoots through his arm as his vision blurs out. In an instant, he’s realized what he’s done. In an instant, he realizes he’s made a mistake. 

He wants to live. He’s not entirely sure why, and he doesn’t even know if he needs a reason, just that the want to keep breathing is there and stronger than it’s been in months. 

“Grimm-”

Sirius catches himself on the kitchen counter, breathing hard from his nose as the glass bottle falls out of his hand and shatters beneath his feet. He’s able to right himself and vaguely registers his dog barking louder and louder behind him, pressing his body against Sirius’s and whining softly when his good arm absentmindedly touches soft black fur. 

“Help.”

Sirius isn’t sure who he’s speaking too, but saying it out loud seems to motivate his body to cling harder to the counter. He pushes himself down towards the sink and grabs the dish towel Doe had laid out.

Doe. Fuck. If he survives this, she’s going to be even more pissed at him, if that’s possible. And if he dies….

Sirius doesn’t want to die. He wants to be able to tell her loves her again. He wants to mean it even more. 

Sirius wants to hear her say it back. 

He gasps as more pain shoots up his arm when he pushes the dish towel to the open wound. The light blue fabric is quickly muddied by the color of his blood and instinctively, Sirius knows this isn’t enough. There’s only one person who might be speaking to him who can fix this.

Thankfully the phone is right next to the couch on an end table, and as Sirius makes his way towards it, able to stand a little straighter due to the surge of adrenaline, it rings.

It's always been like this between the two of them, ever since they’d made their first blood oath in 6th grade. They’ll think hard about the other and within minutes there will be a phone call, or a random pop in, or they’ll pass each other on the street. James said it was coincidence, self fulfilling prophecy, a bunch of other smart science-y stuff, but Sirius knows better.

Its a magic that the two of them share, something they’ll never fully be able to explain but at the same time, each understand. 

“James-?”

Sirius’s voice doesn’t sound right, even to him. It’s too hoarse, raw. Someone else’s. He hears James hear it too when his best friend breathes in sharply. 

“Siri-are you-what’s wrong?”

“I did-I did something really stupid.” Sirius hears his voice crack and he’s crying before he can stop himself.

“Please come.”

“I’m coming. What’d you do?” 

“I...I’m bleeding, James.”

The phone line crackles, Sirius thinks vaguely that James must be covering the receiver.  

“Okay, okay. Can you-do you have something you can stop the blood with?”

“I-” The room tilts and Sirius sinks to the floor, the digital handset clutched in his grasp-his lifeline.

“I don’t wanna die.”

He whispers like it’s a big secret, cause it honestly is. Saying it old loud makes Sirius’s will to live that much more real, it makes the blood he’s losing all the more dire.

“You’re not gonna die, Sirius. You’re not dying, understand?” James is doing a poor job at hiding his panic and Sirius just nods against the phone.

“I’m coming right now. I’m on my cell, okay? I’m staying with you.”

“I really messed up.” 

“You didn’t, bro. We can fix it. I can patch you right up.”

Sirius shakes his head.

“James, I messed up.” 

He doesn’t just mean hurting himself. He doesn’t even just mean any of the things he’s done in the past twenty four hours. He’s messed up and he has been for months and months-and he doesn’t even know how to fix it. 

“Hey-hey, hey, stay with me, Sirius. You’re okay. You didn’t mess up.” 

“Would you be better without me?”

He hates himself for how childish his voice sounds, how stilted and tired his speech is, for the panic laced even in James’ breath.

“God, Sirius. No. Of course not. Quite the opposite.”

He hears James get into his car and start the engine. 

“I’ve got a towel.”

“A towel?”

“For my wrist. Where I’m…”

Sirius can’t finish his sentence, shame sobering him. For fifteen straight seconds, all he hears on the other end is the sound of James driving.

“You slit your wrists?”

“....just one.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Panic shoots through him and another surge of adrenaline spikes up.

“You can’t. Please, James. You can’t. I can’t go- they’ll-”

“Hurt you? Sirius.”

James’s voice is tender towards him when it should be angry. Gentleness he doesn’t deserve. Fleetingly Sirius realizes just then that if he makes it through this, he’ll never be able to repay James.

“I can’t-” His voice breaks off into a sob and he feels his breath start to get short. All the things his mother drilled into him for years seep into his brain. Hospitals are only there to take you away from me. 

They just wanna hurt you.

They won’t believe you. No one will believe you. 

Anything they do to you will hurt more than what I do.

If you loved me, it wouldn’t hurt. 

Why can’t you just be good?

You don’t need anyone but me. You won’t need anyone but me. Remember that. 

If you’re hurt it’s your own fault.

It’s your fault.

It’s your fault.

It’s always going to be your fault.

“Sirius! Sirius!” 

He squeezes his eyes shut hard, trying to stay present, trying not to fall backwards, trying not lose himself more than he already has. He presses down on the cut on his arm and cries out in pain, but the sound of himself brings him back. He feels something wet on his elbow again, and when he looks over, Grim is right next to him. Sirius lets out another sob and clutches onto the dog with his good arm, the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear. 

“Sirius!”

James is screaming his name into the phone, almost hysterical. 

“James-no hospital.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I’m sorry-”

“No, it’s okay. You just scared me, man. It’s okay. I’ll try to make it so you don’t have to go, okay?”

“Okay. Are you here?”

“I am so close, buddy. I am so close.”

Sirius hears the sound of a horn blaring as James accelerates. Grimm whines beside him and Sirius start to pet him.

“Was that Grimmy?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“He keeping you company?” 

Sirius can hear the fear in James’ voice still, but he can tell he’s trying to calm down for his benefit. 

“Yeah. James?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really scared.”

Sirius can’t ever remember saying that out loud. Not to James, not to anyone. He’s thought it more times than he can count, increasingly so since everything fell apart eighteen months ago. But he’s never let himself think about it for more than a second. He didn’t dwell, and he definitely didn’t say it out loud. Sirius had learned very early in life that showing weakness, being afraid, doing anything other than laying there and taking it was a good way to get hurt. But here he was, more hurt than he ever could’ve imagined, and beyond the point of pretending otherwise.

“Me too, Siri. But it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You have to be okay.”

Grimm nudges his arm, gets him to keep petting him, keeps him tethered to the life he’d been so determined to leave. James keeps reassuring him in his ear, and Sirius keeps repeating okay every minute or so, not sure of what’s being said, only registering soft black fur beneath his fingers. Soon, Sirius hears a car screech to a stop outside.

“I’m coming up, Siri. I’m here. Is the door unlocked?”

“...yeah.”

He can feel his pulse in the cut now, but he doesn’t think it’s bleeding as much. Sirius shifts so he’s sitting up more against the wall, clutching Grimm with both arms now, suddenly terrified about what’s going to happen when James walks in.

Normally, Grimm greets visitors at the door, but he doesn’t move, letting out a short warning bark when the knob starts to turn.

“S’okay, boy.” Sirius mumbles, shifting more, realizing as he’s trying he doesn’t have the strength to get up. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall, opening them again when he feels a hand cup his face.

“Hey.”

When he looks into James’ dark eyes, filled with concern, Sirius loses what he has left. He releases Grimm and throws himself at his best friend, holding onto James with strength he didn’t know he had. He relaxes as he’s held, sobs stealing his breath as James rubs circles on his back. He’d found him in rough shape a handful of times before, but it’s never been like this.

Sirius hopes it’s never like this again. 

“Let me see your arm.”

It’s only when James speaks that Sirius realizes he’s been crying too. He pulls away, his hand on his uninjured arm still gripping James’ bicep. James gently pulls the towel away and breaths a sigh of relief. 

“Alright, Pads. You didn’t get deep.”

Sirius’s eyes work double time and search James’ expression. 

“What-what does that mean?”

James’ offers him a watery smile.

“You’re gonna be just fine. No hospital.”

Sirius breaks down again, relief flooding him as James readjusts them so Sirius can lean against James properly, his arm around his shoulders keeping Sirius on Earth. Grimm puts his head in his lap.

“I’m not gonna die?”

“You’re not gonna die. Not on my watch.”

They sit there for what could be forever, Sirius quietly crying into James’s chest/armpit, letting years of pain out on the floor of his living room. When he’s done, James lets the silence surround them, reaching over to scratch Grimm behind the ears as Sirius’s breath turns back to normal.

“I have to ask you, Siri.” 

Sirius nods against him, not moving his head up to look at him even though he should.

“I know.”

“How much did you have to drink.”

He lets three heavy seconds pass before he has the guts to answer.

“One and a half.”

“Drinks?”

“Fifths.” 

James sucks in a breath. Sirius wants to cry again, realizing how consistently he’s been letting James down. He pulls away, lifting his head up even though it feels far too heavy.

“I...James. I need help.” His voice cracks but he pushes through.“Please.”

James nods twice, standing and pulling Sirius up with him.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll get you help. Let me bandage you up first.”

He drops Sirius off on the couch and disappears into the bathroom. Grim jumps up beside him and whines again. Sirius reaches for him but he touches something else soft first. The blanket Doe had slept with. Without thinking, without caring, he wraps it around himself, wrapped even around his head. He breathes her in, tears streaming down his face again.

He has to see her again. He has to tell her he’s sorry. 

And he will.

He’s asleep before James even finds the first aid kit,he’s completely exhausted. His sleep is mercifully dreamless and for the first time he can remember, Sirius is looking forward to waking up.

[hottmessexpresss]

**Trigger Warning** Those who are sensitive to topics such as: drug-use, over-dose, and language/descriptions/scenarios involving drugs and drug activity, please do not continue reading, or read at your own risk**

I remember I was in the parking lot of a 24 hour fitness in Bakersfield, Ca. I remember distinctly feeling like I was wrapped in a warm, weighted blanket. My breathing was shallow, but it felt "nice". I felt as if some large fluffy llama was sitting directly on my chest. Oddly enough, I felt at peace...and I felt very, very, sleepy. I didn't feel scared. I felt "whole" for the first time- I felt...happy.

Unknown time had lapsed and I woke up with vomit all over my shirt. I was dazed and confused, and blisfully unaware of my surroundings. I came to, and the passenger next to me was crying and repeatedly saying, "I don't want to go to jail. I don't want to go to jail."

That was my first and only opiate induced over-dose, and before Narcan has been heavily encouraged and issued. If you think that was enough to scare me, you're dead wrong.

Fast forward 6 years, give or take...and here I am sitting in the hospital watching my husband writhe in pain. He just had a total shoulder replacement surgery for a second time, at 42 years old (that is considered "young" for this type of evasive surgery.) My husband never shows he is pain, and has been dealing with this pain for over a year. Doctors never took him seriously. He didn't "look" to be in pain, and his physiological responses didn't "show" he was in pain. Often, there was frustration. Anger. Resentment. Not a soul believed him, and he had accepted he was going to have to deal with it for the remainder of his life. My husband served 21 years in the United States Military. His body is proof of what men and women can endure ensuring our freedoms are protected.

My husband has said, "If it weren't for these junkies, I wouldn't have to be jumping through hoops to be taken seriously." It didn't offend me. It didn't hurt my feelings. With the recent (but not new) opiate epidemic, my mind has been reeling with questions, thoughts, and residual pain. How* do we as a society, fix this problem? What can be done to HELP? What types of out-patient, low cost programs could make an impact in communities of these (addicts) people?

Drugs do not discriminate. When I was detained by the oh-so-lovely, Bakersfield Police Department back in 2014, I was treated as less than a person. "How long have you been doing drugs??? You're too pretty and young to be a tweaker." I was humiliated. I sat in silence, and in that moment "they" had won. I wanted to tell them....."If you only knew me.....if you only knew my story....my amazing, loving, parents...my upbringing, my home...my college education....." but to them, I was just 'another tweaker,' and another case number to report on. The stigma is there. I've seen comments on numerous facebook posts, "tweakers deserve to die." But my friends, they do not. If it weren't for the passanger in my car 6 years ago (even if it were for selfish reasons...AKA not going to jail) I would not have had my beautiful babies, and I would not have had a fighting chance to change my life in a productive and meaningful way.

Not even a full 24 hours after surgery, my husband's nerve block started to wear off. We paged his nurse for relief......and what happened? The on-call resident had a nurse bring my husband Tylenol. Tylenol. After a major surgery. I was offended, and in that moment, I felt embarrassed. There are people out here in this world in legitimate pain. Because of the sudden intensity of the current opiate epidemic, they (pain patients) were forced to taper off of their medication completely, or cut back harshly on their medication. Is this the right thing to do? Is this fair to those battling pain daily with the medical records to back it all up? This is where most addictions can start. "It's a prescription by my doctor... so it's fine." I can bet most do not abuse them, because of course, they need them. But there also people out in this world with emotional pain.

The first time I tried Oxycontin, I felt the effects relatively quickly. Battling depression since 12 years of age, I was dealing with my parents divorce and remarriages, new family dynamics, being a fat, and bullied nerd....I never took medication long enough to know if it would be helpful to me. So in that moment, naiive to what was to come, not knowing my genetic predisposition, I thought to myself, "so THIS is happiness....THIS is what "normal" feels like." And so began my endless and bottomless search for that euphoric happiness, and my self-medication began.

My husband was finally given an Oxycodone 11 HOURS later. It was horrible seeing his face knowing he was in unbearable pain. "We're giving you two doses of Oxycodone, Mr. Steele." My ears. I heard the name, and I knew it all too well. A former best-friend of mine; one whom I loved more than myself and loved more than anything else in this entire world at one point. The word itself, triggered me. Almost 6 years of being free and clear off that shit, and the word alone sent my neurotransmitters firing rapidly and excitedly. My brain started to illict a chemical and emotional response... to a fuckin' word*. I started to feel anxious. Uneasy. Worried. Angry. Jealous. To those who have never been addicted to drugs, this probably sounds absolutely CRAZY to you. How can someone be jealous of someone in legitimate pain and taking pain pills? Well, someone who had once before been EXCITED to fracture her thumb knowing she was getting pain pills (me). I knew* my husband needed them. I knew he had a legitimate reason to need them-but I felt* out of my mind. That* is addiction... That* is your brain fighting against the rational fibers of what is "normal". After addiction sets in, your brain under goes chemical changes. Your "Hedonic Set-Point" of happiness is altered and flipped the fuck upside down. You become addicted because you realize that the intense euphoria and happiness, that warm, fuzzy feeling in your stomach, the rush to your head...have all caused a peak beyond your "set point" of euphoria. You crave it, and you NEED it just to even function and feel "normal" If you don't use (drugs), your entire body shuts down and you become so sick (the flu times 500). So you continue to use and abuse anything to reach the level of "normal" (and beyond) in order to not feel like a depressed piece of shit. Rock bottom hits (whenever and however that is and may be, and some will never experience the same rock bottom) and you get clean, and your "hedonic set point" is reset and now, unrealistic. You soon realize you will never* feel that level of happiness again (sober). Social context, and psychological predispositions can trigger a response in your brain to want to achieve that chemical, unrealistic level- over and over again.

Recovering addicts face this day in and day out, and in this case, recovery** is a CHOICE. No one wakes up one day and says, "you know what? I'm going to steal from my family and act like a reckless fool and ruin my normalcy and fuck up my entire family (and my fuckin' credit score) Addicts can do bad things, but that doesn't make them bad people. They are the walking wounded. In the words of my favorite author, Charles Bukowski, "we don't even ask (for) happiness, just a little less pain." A close friend of mines addiction was so deep, she lost custody of her child and lost sight of everything she once loved. No one in their right mind* would EVER jeopardize the relationship and well being with their own flesh and blood. People who weren't addicted could never phatom this scenario, but addiction is* ugly. She passed away almost two years ago, leaving her daughter and family behind. Again, addiction can be so powerful and it trumps all things good. Addicts become selfish. Because they only care about themselves and their next fix. Unless they get the proper intervention, have kick ass insurance, and the will and reason deep down to stop, they won't. That's why in NA, they say some people's only way out of addiction, is jail, institutions, or death.

I feel embarrassed sometimes to admit any of this. Those who knew me in my active addiction phase, constantly said, "where* is Katelyn? Where* did she go? This is not* the Katelyn we know and loved..." Addicts have to first admit they are powerless over their addiction. Along with this, comes a mountain of shame, guilt, embarrassment, shame, and a total slap in the face of everything* they were covering up during their abuse. We have to essentially re-learn how to live life again. How to cope with underlying mental illness, how to cope with triggers, how to live day to day without their former best friend.

I wish deep down I wasn't this way. I wish deep down the muffled voice subtly nagging at my brain would stop. I wish i knew better. I don't feel this hardcore temptation anymore. In the beginning, everything felt "unfair" and life kept throwing punches at me and I struggled to handle them. I blamed others for my addiction and carried around SO much anger. One day, it clicked. No one forced me to do anything. Only I was to blame. I was responsible and accountable for what happened to me, and only I was responsible for changing my behavior. It was hard. Most of the time, it felt virtually impossible to stop. If any addict could take a magic pill to end the cycle and to start their lives over, I'm betting some- if not most, would. This blog isn't a debate on whether or not addiction is a choice. I could sit here and debate with anyone all day on this subject. This entry is merely pointing out a basic and yet complex struggle one can face years and years down the line during their recovery. I look back and feel accomplished. I overcame something not everyone has the privilege to escape from. Being clean, I was able to rediscover myself, reevaluate goals, mend relationships, and lead a meaningful life. I found my soul-mate and have two amazing babies. My hope for anyone struggling with addiction is to overcome. Take advantage of any and all local resources and dig deep down to find the desire to want to stop. It might take you more than one attempt to get clean. In NA, they mention over and over to never feel like relapse isn't possible and that it "won't happen" to you. Because it is possible. It can happen at any given moment, and there is always a chance of giving in to the demons you have worked so hard to manage and control. Make the concious choice to NOT give in to the monster, no matter how tempting it could be. You are loved. You are worthy.

"Just for today, my thoughts will be on my recovery, living and enjoying life without the use of drugs. Just for today, I will have faith in someone in NA who believes in me and wants to help me in my recovery. Just for today, I will have a program. I will try to follow it to the best of my ability. Just for today, I will be unafraid. My thoughts will be on my new association's- people who are not using and have found a new way of life. So as long as I follow that way, I will have nothing to fear." (Narcotics Anonymous, text)

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA)

1-800-662-4357

NA (Narcotics Anonymous)- find NA meetings and local resources for recovery.

http://m.na.org/

[bluewatsons]

Diana Rehm, Inside Addictive Treatment, DianeRehm.org (February 11, 2013) [continued]

Diane Rehm: And welcome back. Let's open the phones now, 800-433-8850. First to Central New Hampshire. Good morning, John.

John (caller): Good morning. I'm one of those -- I'm affiliated with AA and have been for a long time. And it's been really interesting to hear your speakers today because I fall into that category in the program they call high functioning drunks. And I spent 20 years going to lots of different meetings. And because I had not had all those hard negative consequences they were talking about, I hadn't lost a job, I was, you know, continuing to meet my goals. I hadn't gotten any DUIs, I drank following sort of a set of rules and yet I knew I still had a problem. . . But every time I went to an AA meeting in different groups and different states over 20 years I kept feeling like I didn't fit. And there weren't really the tools for me to make use of to address my high functioning -- you know, my drinking and addiction-based thinking. The AA's really good at putting people with a lot of problems that have had -- you know, that are in there true bottom stage and helping them climb out of that and having meaningful lives. . . But it seems to me that what ended up working for me, and I've been sober for seven years...

Diane Rehm: Congratulations.

John (caller): ...is that in the process the first thing you do is stop drinking, and then you're dry but you're not sober. And it's only through doing all the steps it seems to me that the anchoring process in the whole thing is based on relationships. And as far as most of the people that I know that are sober started like me and had a connection with somebody -- a meaningful personal connection with somebody who had some sobriety who could shepherd them. And in the program, we often called that a sponsor, but it may not be your actual sponsor. It may just be someone else that's in the program.

Diane Rehm: Sure. Sure.

John (caller): And then from that relationship you trust their judgment that they've accomplished something that you haven't. And then you accept a spiritual relationship. And it's from that acceptance of a true spiritual relationship that you actually get the help that -- to be sober.

Diane Rehm: All right. John, thanks for calling. That word spiritual may put some people off some programs, Anne.

Anne Fletcher: Well, yeah, it's what I said earlier. It's great when it works but it doesn't work for everybody. And it's not, you know -- Bill Wilson who found -- co-founder of AA never says that AA was the be all and end all. He said, you know, that he did not expect -- he doesn't like -- he didn't like dogma and that we found an approach that works for us, is what he said. And if you can find some other way then do it your way. So...

Diane Rehm: Here is an email from Nichole titled "My Father and Addiction." She says, "I know many inpatient programs will not accept alcoholics until they have been alcohol-free for at least a month. My father, a veteran, had to leave the State of Michigan to find an inpatient program to accept him. I feel this is a problem many are unaware of. Unless somebody wants to be a part of religiously affiliated program such as AA, there are few options." Dr. Seppala, is that a prerequisite at Hazelden?

Marvin Seppala: No, not at all. In fact our programs provide detoxication services and all medical and psychiatric services necessary to initiate treatment for folks. It would be an unusual setting that would require that sort of detoxification take place before initial care.

Diane Rehm: Dr. Seppala, tell me how much and, shall we say, an ordinary perhaps three-month stay at Hazelden can cost? And does insurance cover any or all of it?

Marvin Seppala: Yeah, I'm better off describing a one-month stay because that's a more common stay in our residential site and it would be 25 to $30,000. It's extremely expensive and that's why we describe it as tertiary care requiring good evaluation to determine the appropriateness of that level of care. When people don't meet, you know, the necessary requirements for that type of care, we'll send them to outpatient which is going to be more in the range of 5 to $7,000 for...

Diane Rehm: And does insurance cover any of it?

Marvin Seppala: Insurance covers both actually, both residential and outpatient care, but not all insurance. And what we've been seeing in the last year or so is that insurance is really limiting access to treatment of all types, both residential and outpatient in trying to -- on an outpatient basis where it is much less costly, even there to limit the length of time people could be involved. And when we discussed earlier that these are chronic illnesses, we need to be involved on an outpatient basis long term to help folks. . . And the entire treatment field and the insurance industry hasn't really recognized that and provided the type of care and structure necessary for that yet.

Diane Rehm: Anne, is that amount he mentioned typical of what you found?

Anne Fletcher: Yes, of the high-end kind of programs, yep. I found one program that I visited more kind of a celebrity rehab type place. It was really interesting. It was $38,000 whether you stayed one month or three. And actually it was quite a bargain for three months. And the reason they did that was because they wanted to encourage you to stay three months because the outcomes were much better for the people who stayed three months. ... But there really isn't -- this was a quote from one of the experts in my book -- there isn't any supporting evidence for -- I believe the way he said it was a short term burst of treatment that removes you from reality, that puts you away -- takes you away from your regular life. Yes, there are those few exceptional cases where somebody has a severe psychiatric problem. They can't stay sober. They've tried outpatient treatment many, many times. They may be suicidal and they do need to be removed from reality. But for the most part there isn't evidence supporting that model where you take people away. ... And, you know, there -- people don't realize, they don't -- just this knee-jerk reaction that you need to go away for treatment. You know, not only should people give more thought to outpatient treatment -- and by the way, there's no evidence that paying more money gets you better treatment. There are very good -- I found some very excellent community-based outpatient programs that had more state-of-the-art treatment -- now I'm not saying there aren't very good expensive programs out there, because I found excellent ones that were. . . But I also found excellent, very inexpensive, as I said, community-based programs that had masters-level therapists -- masters-degree level, that had very comprehensive programs that addressed the psychiatric and psychological needs as well as addiction needs, nutrition, getting people back to school, a whole life kind of approach.

Diane Rehm: So, Beth, what about the cost of a program like yours on an inpatient basis?

Beth Kane-Davidson: Oh, you mean -- for our patient, it's outpatient and so...

Diane Rehm: All outpatient.

Beth Kane-Davidson: Yeah, all outpatient. And of course that is less expensive. Our outpatient program runs around 4 or $5,000 for the intensive part. And then what's been brought up is, to me, the most critical part is the continuing care. We have continuing care which used to be in the old days a set time. You know, you would do 25 sessions. Now we've switched to open-ended. We want -- people need to come back, they need to stay engaged in treatment, they need the continued support.

Diane Rehm: And to what extent do the insurance companies step in?

Beth Kane-Davidson: They do step in. We have contracts with almost all of the insurance companies but I do echo what was said earlier. We getting a squeeze on our end. And we do have to get preauthorization and then continue authorizing the session so it's not like you just get a blanket, do what you need to do.

Diane Rehm: I see. Yeah.

Beth Kane-Davidson: And it goes back to, you know, this is a very complex treatment that we have to give. And so we do have to look at the individual and we do have to work within, you know, the perimeters of the insurance and what they're saying and what we need.

Anne Fletcher: But again we're talking, you know, about severe, severe cases much of the time. That's a small percentage of the people with substance problems. We also have not talked at all about seeing an individual therapist. Now most psychologists don't have training -- and physicians in addiction treatment and that's unfortunate. They don't receive that training in school. But you can find them, and I talk in my book about how you can find doctors and psychiatrists and psychologists with special training in the field to work with one on one. That's how I overcame my drinking problem, working one on one with a psychologist who had addiction training.

Diane Rehm: What's...

Anne Fletcher: And my insurance paid for it.

Diane Rehm: ...what's the difference, Dr. Seppala, of treating an alcohol versus a drug addicted individual?

Marvin Seppala: There are some differences specific to the type of substance that people use, but there's also remarkable similarities. We understand the neurobiology of addiction in a tremendous manner now than we did 20 years ago even. And it reveals the two aspects of brain function are dramatically altered. First, the reward center has been altered in a way that the person wants to continue to use the drug at a subconscious level. Drive states have been reprioritized so that in severe addiction people will risk their lives to get that drug and keep using or get alcohol and keep using. ... Even survival itself dropping down in priority secondary to the drive to continue to use that drug. In the prefrontal cortex where executive functions take place where we make decisions, think things through, look at the future has been altered in such a way that we can't recognize what is going on. We can't see the consequences. . . So even though I agree with many of the points made by Anne in her book, and she does help to describe a lot of the problems facing the addiction treatment field as a whole, she hasn't really described this function that we know from a neurobiological basis that limits people's own recognition of the problem and thus can undermine their attempts to seek treatment, let alone to get good treatment.

Diane Rehm: So it depends quite often on the people around you.

Marvin Seppala: It sure does. You really need people that care about you, that love you or even just a judge that knows you because of an illegal act, or an employer that's going to say, hey you need treatment. Hazelden did some studies actually almost a couple decades ago now, where they looked at how and why people enter treatment. Over 95 percent of people are coming in because of someone else in their life requiring that they address the issue. ... And they also -- we also looked at, you know, who did better, those that came of their own accord, which was a small group, versus those that were there because someone else insisted. And actually those folks that someone else insisted had slightly better outcomes than those that were there of their own accord, which we found to be unusual. But it's just what the numbers turned out to be.

Diane Rehm: Anne.

Anne Fletcher: I look at the literature of somebody who did a big, like, international look at the literature on kind of forcing people into treatment. And he said it's actually a huge national social experiment that we're engaged in in this country because we really don't know whether it helps people or harms people. But the most important point in all of this is by focusing on a small segment of the population, that's people with severe addictions, only 1 percent of the population in any one year has the kind of severe alcoholism that we think of as Nicholas Cage in "Leaving Las Vegas." Only 1 percent of the population. . . Most people with addiction don't have that kind of severe addiction, and that's what we're focusing on when we talk about people that we're talking about. More people would be helped if we had a broader approach, a less narrow approach to addiction.

Diane Rehm: And you're listening to "The Diane Rehm Show." Let's now go to Jefferson, Ind. Good morning, Terri.

Terri (caller): Good morning. My question is about my brother that's 43, and he's been doing drugs since he was a teenager. As a family we sat down and had an intervention with him and he actually was honest and said he was doing crack cocaine, and told us that we were enabling him. So we cut the cash off from him and a place to stay and dropped him off at a homeless shelter and was hoping that that would be his bottom -- his rock bottom. And actually he's been there for almost two years now. Actually he's homeless from the homeless shelter. So I guess my question would be what would be our next step?

Diane Rehm: What would you say, Beth?

Beth Kane-Davidson: I'd say look into the resources in your community. I think the point of individual addiction treatment counselor, therapist is a great way to go. Somebody that knows addiction and then can help you all figure out how to connect him to someone in the community that can begin helping him.

Diane Rehm: Dr. Seppala.

Marvin Seppala: Yeah, I would echo that. I think an initial evaluation's really essential and gaining some of the resources in the community rather than just a homeless shelter. He needs treatment of some sort to begin to examine the relationship that he has with drugs of abuse and look at some skills to get sober and stay sober.

Diane Rehm: Anne.

Anne Fletcher: There's not a simple answer to this question. it's very hard and sad as a family member when you're in a situation like this, and I feel for you. And I can't give you a simple answer. In both of my books I do talk -- and I have resources for family members -- but I'm going to give you one suggestion. One of the things that I found in doing my research is that there's a huge gap between science and practice. What the research shows to be effective and what's actually going on in many treatment programs in this county. And I only found one out of the 15 programs that is using scientifically-based family approaches, working with the family. ... They're doing a lot of psycho educational workshops educating families about addiction, the disease of addiction and, you know, talking to them about that. And kind of sitting around and talking about things you can and can't do to help the addict. There's a lot of focus on going to Al-Anon. And that's another 12-step-based group for families. And it does help families. There's research that it helps the family member but there's kind of this feeling that you can't really do anything to help the addict or get the addict into treatment. And that's not true. ... The CRAFT approach, which I mentioned earlier, which was developed by Dr. Robert Meyers, there is a book that I'm going to recommend, somebody's else's book called "Get Your Loved One Sober." And that has specific research-based strategies for family members of a loved one. "Get Your Loved One Sober," and that is published by Hazelden. And that is something that can help people with a loved one with an addiction, people who feel helpless like you.

Diane Rehm: And one last question. Terri said that they tried an intervention. Does a professional need to be present for an...

Anne Fletcher: CRAFT has been found to be far more effective than interventions in helping loved ones and getting them into treatment than interventions. Statistically I think it's 70 percent more effective. No, I know what it is. Seventy percent of people who participate in CRAFT in the research studies go into treatment. And those numbers are much greater than people who participate in intervention. It's striking. It's just striking.

Diane Rehm: Well, clearly lots of possible outcomes here, lots of resources. We'll have some of these listed at our website drshow.org. Thank you all so much. Anne Fletcher, her book is titled "Inside Rehab." Beth Kane-Davidson. She's at Suburban Hospital, John's Hopkins Medicine and Dr. Marvin Seppala of the Hazelden Foundation. Thanks for listening, all. I'm Diane Rehm.