#got overwhelmed by the possibility of having to fucking. supervise the whole place. even with yessie to help

[automatonknight]

lone star shine down on my hometown

id: a digital greyscale drawing of kurier-she’s white and has long, dark, graying hair as well as a beard. she’s visible from her head to her chest. she’s wearing a cowboy hat, a plaid, unbuttoned shirt over a white tank top and a simple, black eyepatch over her left eye. the background is solid black with a lone, white star shining right above kurier’s head, they’re looking up at it with a sad expression. end id

#art #fnv oc #BOO FALLOUT JUMPSCARE GRAAAAAAH #anyways this is boston kurier/kier and they're SAD!!! #i was thinking about them recently and well i think they'd feel a teeny tiny bit (crushingly) guilty about leaving the mojave because they #got overwhelmed by the possibility of having to fucking. supervise the whole place. even with yessie to help #so he ran away. to boston and got a boy best friend (nicky) and he kind of feels BAD but also not really beause this is much better for him #like. mentally #he's conflicted and he probably bawls his eyes out to nick at one point #i think she'd be also a little scared to tell him at first? y'know. worried he might judge #so she lets her feelings marinate for a few years (bad) and yeah!!!! #this one's kinda messy too but well erm ^__^ i didn't feel like spending three morbillion years on this+ it has it's charm like that #the song kindaaa fits but also kinda doesnt?? #honestly i don't think she ever wants to go back to the mojave. why am i talking like i'm speculating this is my own character #but it gets sentimental sometimes.....mostly about arcade and yessie and ede probably #AND DELILAH....and delilah hi Peep if you're reading this #yeah but i don't think it would ever. go back even though it probably could #GABRIEL'S MEDIOCRE EXPLANATION OF HER OC'S BACKSTORY JUMPSCARE BOO!!!

[blackradandmad]

why blippi is rotting yr children's brains

preface: i literally expect no one to read this. it is an essay length, strong opinion piece critiquing a niche youtube-based children's show that i don't expect most of y'all to even have knowledge of lol. but like, i promise that even if you know nothing about what i'm talking about, in my incredibly, super humble opinion, it's a good piece of writing and interesting nonetheless. anyway if you read this whole thing for some reason yr really hot and we should kiss.

i thoroughly vet everything my child watches before he watches it, episode by episode. and we rarely watch youtube for entertainment; we usually just look up educational videos when he has a question about something and wants more detail than i can provide him. and that's mainly because children's content on youtube is so fucking troubling and distressing. i don't judge parents who give their children a tablet at a restaurant at all bc i've been there and sometimes it's easier on everyone to just put on a video and avoid a giant scene, but i do judge parents who just leave their children alone with youtube kids on autoplay.

take stevin john, a literal millionaire who got famous from dressing up as a silly character called blippi and going on tours of places like aquariums, zoos, construction sites, etc and posting it on youtube. this has branched into a whole empire of blippi videos, hulu shows and specials, live shows and tours (that he outsources to another character actor), merchandise and so on. this 30-something year old man cites his main influence as being mr. rogers, but i question if he's ever even seen an episode of that program.

mr. rogers had no background in early childhood development or media production, but he revolutionized the world of children's media, because he respected his audience and didn't shy away from real world situations, all while creating a show with an enormous heart. mr. rogers begins his episodes by inviting the viewer in, literally changing his attire to be more comfortable, and talking about/doing things he genuinely cares about. whereas mr. rogers calmly and maturely addresses the viewer, blippi puts on a high pitched, contrived voice, interjecting every other sentence with a forced exclamation such as, "teehee! we're having so much fun!"

i don't find it a coincidence that john (blippi) is a veteran, either. his videos are completely devoid of the absurd, abstract, childlike thinking that makes children's media fun, creative, and entertaining. his thinking and process is methodical, devoid of emotion, and very superficial. this line of thinking clearly shows the kind of creative sterilization and emphasis on sameness and conformity instilled in the military. blippi simply observes things and interacts with them in a stale, matter-of-fact way. "this ball is purple! this ball is pink! anyway... what's over there? teehee! a car! vroom, vroom!" objects are colors, toy cars don't do anything but drive, curiosity is simply not encouraged.

he uses the "it's educational!" excuse to hide the fact that his show lacks everything that makes media a valuable resource for children to consume in the first place. further than identifying colors, numbers, and the occasional letter or shape, there is just this total lack of children's need for social and emotional development. when mr. rogers breaks the fourth wall to address the viewer and let them know they're special, it feels authentic and natural, because we've spent the last half hour building whole worlds with diverse characters and unique stories in a pretend neighborhood, learning about and enjoying different musical instruments, being exposed to and making friends with (even if parasocially, it is still a real bond to children when done properly) children who are similar to us in character regardless of physical or environmental differences, feeding the fish, making art together, and so on. when blippi tells the viewer, "you are very special, and i enjoy spending time with you!" it falls completely flat and feels unearned, because the last half hour was spent running around a soft play center pointing at bright, colorful objects, visiting interesting locations like farms or fruit production factories while failing to acknowledge the humanity of the humans actually working there (everything is machine or product focused; the human workers are simply an extension of the machine), learning "fun facts" about elephants that just list attributes of elephants, not taking the opportunity to inform the viewers of elephants' intelligence, or diet, or matriarchal society. it is a loud, sensory overwhelming display of a man so disconnected from the social and emotional needs and desires of children that he assumes they're stupid, easily entertained idiots who only need some silly dances and fast-moving cartoon graphics to give their attention (meaning time and desire to purchase products meaning $$$). john clearly views his audience as a means to gaming the algorithm and ultimately a paycheck by the hollow way he addresses them.

the show is so narcissistic, so focused on all the fun blippi is supposedly having, but he lacks any of the character traits that make individual children's show hosts memorable, so much so that he was able to have someone else who doesn't even vaguely resemble him dress as blippi and impersonate him and host the show or appear at live shows, and it went unnoticed by most of his toddler and child audience. the show is so formulaic and the character of blippi is so unmemorable that instead of taking the blue's clues route of developing a story of the host leaving for college and his brother now stepping in, or making some sort of believable excuse for the change in actors, they can simply swap him out with some random guy and not acknowledge it at all. although a comedy show for older children, the amanda show in no way could or would try to replicate the show with the same name but swapping out amanda bynes with a random teenage girl who is clearly not amanda bynes. it's weird and nonsensical and shows that his character is so much of a farce put on for a paycheck that not even his dedicated audience is affected or even cares when he is replaced by a random, unknown person.

this is completely garbage content made by an opportunist with no experience with children who saw his nephew watching children's youtube content, took it at complete surface level and still hasn't realized that while children's content only looks and feels so easy, entertaining, and enriching because it is so hard to do well. even with outsourcing his music, that aspect of the show still sucks. famous and successful children's musician, raffi, is known for his song describing the life of a little white whale, called "baby beluga." it opens with a calm strumming of his guitar, followed by the lyrics, "baby beluga in the deep blue sea/swim so wild and you swim so free/heaven above/sea below/and a little white whale on the go." is it silly and kind of pointless? yes, but the point is that he is captivating children and showing them the fun of listening to music, dancing, singing, and appreciating art. the "excavator song" featured in an episode of blippi about construction vehicles opens with what sounds like a default garageband loop and the flatly sung lyrics, "i'm an excavator/i'm an excavator/hey dirt, see you later/i'm an excavator." i don't feel i have to meticulously analyze the aforementioned lyrics; the stark contrast should speak for itself.

i have a million more criticisms about both blippi specifically and youtube children's content as a whole, but this is already so long and i doubt many people will get this far anyway. it's an issue i was completely apathetic towards until i had my own child and had to wean him off these kinds of junk food shows because i realized the fast-paced visuals and bright colors and repetitive songs/lyrics were putting him in this spaced-out, fugue state, and he thought he could demand this show or that show whenever he wanted. the moment he started regularly yelling things like, "watch! cars!" or "no! click it!" i knew i had to be a lot more invested in the things he watched even if just for entertainment or as a soothing message. i showed him an episode of mr. rogers yesterday and feared it would be too slow to hold his attention, but he was mesmerized, greeting and interacting with mr. rogers verbally, asking me, "what's that?" to different objects on the screen. since purging this low-brow children's entertainment, he has had a noticeable increase in attention span and concentration, can focus on a task for longer amounts of times, is more likely to "read"/look through books without me initiating it, and doesn't throw a fit when the tv/my laptop is off.

i just know that for me, growing up with so much unsupervised internet access definitely led me to real-world pain and consequences, and it seems like now children are born with an iphone as an extension of their arm. if my child is going to be consuming videos, i'm definitely supervising every second and am going to be highly critical of the videos and the credentials (or lack thereof) of the creators and team behind it. but i also know, from pure observation admittedly, that parents letting youtube kids autoplay parent their children for hours at a time is not an uncommon occurrence. and it worries me that a generation of children are being raised on videos that rely on being as loud and bright and superficially enjoyable as possible. what's the use of a child knowing their colors and alphabet if they don't know how to treat people with kindness and empathy and respect? there is something wrong for a children's show host to plug the spelling of his name at the end of his videos ("well, that's the end of this video. but if you wanna watch more of my videos, just type in my name! can you spell my name with me? b-l-i-p-p-i!") after essentially rotting his audiences' brains for a half hour. there's something so insidious about the prioritization of naming different parts of construction vehicles over honest depictions of and conversations about dealing with feelings, or why someone with autism may act differently than you, or what to do when you feel lonely, or ways to make art and express yrself creatively. also, not to mention the blatant police propaganda and outright worship is seriously jarring; as a black mother to a visibly non-white child, i cannot sit there and watch blippi show kids how to be a bootlicker for the shittiest profession on earth, but that could be a whole essay in and of itself.

anyway, thanks for reading, if yr looking for quality children's content, i recommend, in no specific order: mr. rogers, sesame street, the electric company, molly of denali, daniel tiger, bluey!, blue's clues, the odd squad, word party, trash truck, puffin rock, uhh... that's definitely not an extensive list but that's just off the dome!!! ok bye y'all <333

#lil rambles #long post t #idk why it's formatted like this ig cos i copy pasted from my fb? #whatever anyway idk why i waste my writing skills on shit literally nobody else but me cares abt #blippi #children's television

[seeminglyseph]

12, 33, and 39 -- character solidifying asks for Rain

12. How does their education and intelligence – or lack thereof - reflect in their speech pattern, vocabulary, and pronunciations?

Rain's speech patterns are largely influenced by reading and writing as a preferred method of communicating thought. He pronounces some things a little wrong if it's a specialty and he's got kind of an immovable accent so when speaking another language even if he gets the grammar right there's a good chance it takes a second to process. Like hearing someone speak perfectly fluent Japanese in an indisputable Dutch accent. He's trying, but he lived in one isolated place all his life, and while it was a trading town it was also an ex-refugee mixing pot of survivors from a collection of smaller cultures making his regional dialect so specific and also influenced by multiple sources that no matter who he is talking to, outside of Haven he has an accent of some sort. He's gotten used to the idea that he doesn't know the right way to pronounce things so he either will give the effort where it is due or if he's corrected, but also like... that one post of the russian woman exclaiming 'oh I'm sorry in english you need me to specify The car. In russian we fucking understand which fucking car I mean when I say car.' Chances are good that even though Lucio knows the same language as Rain, they also absolutely are not and Lucio thinks his southern is 'some weird hick fringe group' and Rain thinks Lucio's southern is 'bandit lord' or 'smells like new money dresses like fake royalty' as one might say. Neither of them know the correct pronunciation of the high level words only ever read and never heard. But Lucio will argue with you that the mispronunciation is correct "It's spelled 'eppy-tome'!" and Rain will get embarrassed and remember every single time he said "eppy-tome" out loud and possibly spend the rest of the night obsessing over whether or not people have been laughing at him this whole time or not.

All this to say Rain speaks fairly formally however his dialect tends to lead to casual sounding language used formally? While he may be book-smart fluent in other languages chances are he hasn't had many people to actually talk to in it so it would take a period of familiarization. (Even then, he's probably more formal in speaking Vesuvian or whatever 'cause book learning a language rarely teaches casual use. and he does know how to talk casually with friends in Haven's dialect, it's just in his native language he sounds like a book nerd, and in foreign languages he sounds unsteady formal and a bit blunt. Though blunt is by accident because he isn't always sure the words to put things in a subtle way, he usually tries to combat this by just being quiet when he isn't sure. It makes him look more mysterious than anxious. '"Better to look stupid than to open your mouth and prove it" my ma used to say.'

33. Do they drink? Take drugs? What about their health?

He does drink in a casual social way, as well as in a way where low alcohol beverages are fairly normal to just have because the alcohol or fermentation kept it safe or gave it flavor or something... but sometimes he can drink to excess either to try and make himself comfortable in the social situations he craves to be in, or as a way of escapism when he feels moody and overwhelmed with thought. I think some level of mind altering drugs would probably be used in meditation sometimes 'cause he's like a wizard guy who does wizard stuff in his wizard tower but also probably he'd do shrooms once or twice at a party 'cause they party hard at Haven. He's a young warrior and a hunter, sometimes surviving means getting absolutely fucked up and maybe there's an orgy. he's like 24, he likes to act mature but sometimes also he is young dumb and full of cum 'cause getting outside the constant supervision and expectations of his parents and going a little wild with the right encouragement.

Health wise though he works really hard to be healthy, though he doesn't really have to add a lot of extra work or effort to it besides a few exercises and stretches and meditations in the morning and before bed. He leads a fairly healthy lifestyle by habit though he could learn to indulge a bit more. He maintains muscle mass and such with protein and carbs and vegetables and hunting regularly and helping farm and other necessary manual labour. He is perhaps pushing himself to fatigue but his youth gives him the illusion he can maintain this and a full study of the magical arts and manage his household full time. He will eventually hit a plateau in studying which will free up some energy but for now he's secretly exhausted 90% of the time.

39. What do they like to ridicule? What do they find stupid?

Lucio. And Lake, but mostly Lucio because he's trying to be nicer to Lake because a lot of stuff he believed was wrong but also Lake makes it very difficult to be loved so it all tends to roll back to Lake's useless bandit husband. There may be some growth necessary there but it's on all parties. Lake to allow himself to trust, Lucio to improve as a person and prove himself useful and worth of respect, Rain to be able to forgive and understand his position as both victim of his parent's abuse and tool used by his parents to abuse Lake. They could probably use a therapist. But as Lucio's fallen into a habit of hedonism and indulgence, Rain finds it to be annoying and a sign of weakness due to his own high standards for himself and his position as leader of his household. He tends to find unfounded ego very annoying, though he himself can be guilty of it himself from time to time. He has been guilty of worse than hypocrisy.

#rain caliburn #ask meme #caliburn au #redesigning the character in my mind a little around what I want to express in a character #I ended up rambling a lot but it was really fun to explore the character through these questions #it's really helping me figure out who I want him to be and also is just really fun writing experiment #yeah it's not prose but the first step to writing is to start writing #so if I start writing nonsense maybe I'll start thinking of stuff that would be cool

[greenbergwrites]

all the possessive criminal bucky

y’know what would make Bucky livid/possessive as hell?

Someone walking in on Steve when he’s not there.

Like, maybe Bucky’s coming back after a long day dealing with shit and he’s ordered Steve to ready himself. Or maybe Steve wasn’t specifically told not to touch himself and he indulges in a little alone time.

Either way, there’s Steve in their bed, in nothing but a collar and one of Bucky’s shirts. A vibrator in his ass and a slick hand on his cock, his lithe body writhing gorgeously as he pleasures himself, cheeks flushed pink and his lips bitten red.

He knows he’s not allowed to come, not without his Master’s permission, but that almost makes it better. He has to keep stopping, pausing in his indulgence to keep himself from disobeying. Once he’s gotten hold of himself, he’ll start again.

Just–Steve edging himself for ages, waiting for Bucky to come and play with him.

By the time Bucky does arrive, Steve’s completely lost in a world of sensory pleasure. The bedclothes are rumpled all to hell from his wriggling, his hair’s a sweaty mess, and Bucky can see the flush of pleasure all over his body, the light sheen of sweat covering him. His eyes are closed, mouth slack from pleasure.

His little cock is so hard. There’s a mess on his belly and more dripping from the wet little tip, his boy’s small length flushed so deep a red it almost looks purple. Bucky knows from experience that it will be so very sensitive when it looks like that, knows that if he were to climb onto the bed and push Steve’s thighs apart, take that pretty little cock into his mouth, that his boy would sob and cry and claw at his shoulders, would beg him, plead both for the torture to end and for his Master to never stop.

He knows the exact sounds Steve would make if he was just a little rougher than that sensitive little cock could take, the gasping little cries, the way his boy’s body would move and contort, fingernails digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises.

“Too much,” his baby would cry, has cried many times before, breathless and sobbing, tears on his cheeks and trembling all over. Perfect in every way. “Too much, it’s too much, no, no–”

And Bucky always pulls off, pressing soft, sucking kisses to that perfect little cock. So small just like the rest of his boy. He loves it, loves that his boy is so very small all over.

“You can take it, baby,” he would murmur, still kissing. Nuzzling close and licking his most sensitive spots just to hear another overwhelmed sob. “You can take it. Be my good little boy now.”

He’d take it back into his mouth and listen to his boy’s cries start anew, a sweet song that he never tires of.

Here, now, Steve hasn’t turned the vibrator back on, but it’s still deep inside him, keeping him full as he touches himself lightly. Petting his cock, running light fingertips over himself, the way his Master does to him sometimes. His thighs tremble, body contorting and he takes his hand away to fist in the sheets as pleasure sparks through him. He bites his lip to keep himself from crying out, but as soon as reaches trembling fingers back to his cock, he loses the battle.

A pleasure-drunk sob bursts out of him as he arches, nails scraping along the inside of his thigh. It turns into a quiet, aching keen as his other hand wraps around his throat, pushing the collar further into his skin.

“Master,” he begs softly, lost in his fantasy as he touches his cock again. “M-Master, please.”

It would be the perfect thing to come home to, except–except, there’s someone else in their bedroom, just standing halfway between the door & the bed, watching his boy. Steve’s so lost, he doesn’t realize that he’s not alone. He’s too caught up in his own pleasure and thoughts of his Master playing with him.

The man takes a step toward the bed like he means to touch Steve, and Bucky snarls, the sound near-feral as it tears from his throat. Before he can even understand the movement of his own body, he has the guy by the throat, dragging him out of the room in a grip meant to hurt. A grip meant to kill.

Bucky slams him against the wall across from their bedroom. The guy looks disoriented like he’s coming out of a dream, and Bucky doesn’t really blame him. Steve is a vision when he gets like that, but he’s Bucky’s vision, his boy, and no one gets to see him like that unless Bucky allows it. Unless he’s there to protect Steve.

The idea that this guy was alone with Steve when his boy was so vulnerable, the idea that anything could’ve happened while he wasn’t there, makes his whole body shake with fear and rage. His grip tightens until the guy is clawing at him, unable to breathe. The panic in his eyes satisfies Bucky down to his bones.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” He growls and the guy’s at least smart enough to know he’s in serious shit.

He tries to shake his head, tries to speak, but he doesn’t have the breath to do it.

Bucky thinks about ending him, right then and there. He’s mad enough to do it, filled with a protective rage that only Steve could ever inspire inside him.

But then a soft, tremulous voice asks, “Master?”

Bucky turns to see Steve clutching at the doorframe. He leans his forehead against the wood, his gorgeous blue eyes wide and hazy and scared. There’s a slight tremor to his body–a combination of the pleasure of moments before still wreaking havoc on him and the fact that most of his smooth, pale skin is exposed to the cool air.

Bucky turns back to the man, the possessive fire flaring up when he sees him stupidly taking Steve in, his eyes roaming when they have no right to. Smacking the side of his head, Bucky forces the man’s gaze to him again.

“It’s your lucky night,” he hisses. “I don’t make it habit of killing men in front of him. But you listen close: I don’t care what the fuck you needed. Don’t care why you were in there. But if you ever–ever–come near him again, I’ll feed you your own eyeballs. You got that? You stay the fuck away from him.”

The guy nods frantically and Bucky lets him go, watches as he scrambles to get as far away from their bedroom as possible. When he’s gone, Bucky takes a minute to get a hold of himself before turns around. 

Steve reaches for him as Bucky steps closer, bending just enough to cup Steve’s thighs and lift him. It’s only when those slim thighs are around his waist and his boy’s arms are around his neck that he feels better.

“Was I bad?” Steve whispers.

“No,” Bucky says immediately. He touches Steve’s cheek, caressing it gently. “No, baby. That wasn’t your fault.”

He carries Steve back into their bedroom, shutting the door behind them, seeking out a deep kiss as he makes his way to the bed. Steve opens for him so easily, moaning sweetly and clutching at him tightly as Bucky plunders his mouth. So eager and sweet, so utterly submissive that it only fuels the fire still raging inside him, a fresh way of protectiveness flaring up in him.

His original plan for the night had been slow and teasing. He’d wanted to make his boy whine and cry, wanted to make him beg. He was going to make Steve earn his cock, but that’s not the case anymore. Now, he can’t get inside his boy fast enough.

I can’t decide if he’d be slow and tender or fast and rough. 

He’d probably waver between both, starting off rough and fast and only slowing when his orgasm starts to draw near, trying to draw it out and make it last. Alternating between sweet kisses and possessive bites on every bit of skin he can reach, between sweet reassurances that are more for him than for Steve and possessive promises like, “no one gets to touch you but me,” and “you’re mine, baby, you hear me? mine” and “I wanna kill him, baby. I wanna find him and end him for even thinking he could touch you, have you.”

Steve thinks he should probably be afraid of that last one, but he’s the exact opposite. His Master is promising to protect him and that only makes Steve love him more.

It’s only later--much later--when they’re in the bath together, that they really talk about it. Bucky holding Steve close, running fingers through his wet hair, kissing his forehead.

“He almost touched you,” he says again, but this time, his voice is raw with panic for something that never even happened. 

Steve, despite the close call, isn’t worried at all. He might be later, but it’s impossible now, with his Master holding him close, keeping him safe.

“But he didn’t,” he replies, trying to reassure his Master with soft touches.

Bucky kisses his forehead again and then between his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, the tip...making his way down to his boy’s sweet lips and taking them in a long, tender kiss.

“He won’t,” he promises, when he can stand to stop. “Nobody will.”

They don’t sleep that night until Bucky’s had someone come in and install locks on the door. 

I just imagine Steve with his damp hair, collar on his neck, dressed only in one of Bucky’s big shirts, drowsy on the bed while Bucky supervises the installation.

At one point, he gets impatient. Sits up, the shirt falling off one shoulder to reveal pale skin and a tempting collarbone, the hem riding up indecently on his thighs, and he’s sleepy and pouting severely.

“Come to bed,” he begs.

Bucky comes closer, standing at the edge of the bed as Steve goes up onto his knees and touching his Master’s chest as Bucky takes his face between his hands, tilting it up for a tender kiss.

“We’re almost done, baby,” he whispers, and then kisses his boy again, satisfaction rocketing through him when Steve moans and scoots a little closer, fisting his clothes to keep him in place. “We’re almost done. Be good.”

It takes several more long kisses before he can convince Steve let him go and even then, the only reason he manages it is because his last kiss is so deep and hungry that it leaves his baby kiss-drunk and dazed.

When the locks are finally installed and they’re left alone, Bucky comes to bed with two sets of keys; one for him and one for Steve.

“From now on,” he says, as he gathers Steve close, “you lock the door when you want to play with yourself like that. Understand?”

Steve’s already half-asleep, snuggled deep into his Master’s embrace and finally able to drift off. He sighs his satisfaction when the strong arms around him tighten their hold.

“Yes, Master,” he murmurs sleepily, before he’s gone completely.

Bucky kisses his forehead again and tells himself that it wouldn’t be fair to roll the lithe body in his arms over and wake his boy again so soon with his cock.

Later, he promises himself.

#nani asks #greenberg replies #criminal bucky barnes #possessiveness

[pyro-yoshi]

Demonic Possession Style - a Walking Dead sick fic

You know how I’m all about OC sick fics? I still am, don’t you worry. Its been years since I’ve written a puke without plot for a fandom. Well, I broke that streak and wrote some fan fiction. I felt the internet needed some Walking Dead emeto, so I wrote this. Negan gets super sick and profusely pukes his guts out all over the place, several times, and his fellow Saviors take care of him. The amount of puke is fairly exaggerated, as Negan throws up A LOT. Likely more than is humanly possible. Why? Because I am into that.

This is pretty long. At a little over 5000 words, I do believe this is the longest sick fic I’ve written. I enjoyed writing it, hopefully you’ll enjoy reading it.

He’d felt a bit off all day, but it wasn’t until he disemboweled Spencer that Negan felt a sharp stabbing pain in his own gut. If that wasn’t ironic he didn’t know what was. Perhaps it was some sort of phantom sympathy pain, but then again the very idea of that was stupid.

Just like Spencer.

Negan would be the first to admit he was a cocky bastard, but he absolutely couldn’t stand people like Spencer, overly privileged shits who skated through life using their good looks and daddy’s credit card to get whatever they wanted. Having to talk one on one with Spencer was bad enough, but once he’d expressed his wish to kill Rick and takeover as the new leader of Alexandria, Negan had officially had enough of him and offed him right there in the street.

While tormenting Rick was one of Negan’s favorite hobbies, he also harbored a fair amount of respect for the ex deputy. Rick Grimes was a natural leader, he organized people, and most importantly, he was a go getter. He got shit done, and Negan liked that. Plus, he liked Rick’s kids a lot. Carl was a badass, and baby Judith was the cutest damn thing he’d EVER seen. Earlier in the day, he’d spent a good half hour cradling Judith, bouncing her on his knee and being silly with her while Carl kept his one remaining eye intently trained on him.

But Spencer, that asshole, wanted to murder Rick and leave Carl and Judith without a father, and Negan simply wasn’t going to tolerate that bullshit.

He felt a twinge of nausea as he watched Spencer drop to his knees, holding his own intestines in his hands. It wasn’t the blood and guts that was bothering him. Living in a post apocalyptic world, nobody batted an eye at bloodshed anymore. Killing people was just a part of life now.

No, this was something else. Before Spencer had approached him, Negan had made himself at home in Rick’s residence and cooked a massive amount of spaghetti for himself and his guests. Olivia hadn’t eaten a single bite, Carl had just picked at his and Rick didn’t even show up. Rude. Negan wasn’t the type to let food go to waste, especially not now, so he’d eaten almost the entire pot himself. He ate all of the rolls too, and washed it down with a couple glasses of lemonade. He’d probably just eaten too much.

More abrupt, intense pains almost made him wince, but he brushed them off. Instead, he stood over Spencer, who was rapidly bleeding out, and addressed the crowd of Alexandrians who had gathered around him.

“Look at that! He did have guts after all, they’re right there! I’ve never been so wrong in my life!”

The crowd stared, but nobody moved. They wouldn’t dare try anything, not with Arat ready to unload her pistol into anyone dumb enough to do something drastic.

“I just did your community a favor!” Negan ignored the horrified looks some people were casting him and continued. He motioned to Carl, who was glaring at him from his porch. “Kid, that douchebag just told me he wanted to kill your dad. Now I don’t know about you, but I think that’s really shitty.”

Turning back to the crowd, he carried on, ignoring the stomach pains and slight nausea he felt. “That’s right people. Spencer the dickless there wanted to take out your fearless leader! You should all be thanking me.”

A stronger wave of nausea took him by surprise, but he played it off and continued swaggering around Alexandria, Lucille in his hand as always. He supervised as his men wandered in and out of various homes and took whatever they felt like taking in addition to picking up this week’s offering.

Under normal circumstances, Negan would be bummed that he wasn’t going to see Rick on this visit, but as time wore on, he found himself caring less and less as he gradually began to feel worse. He could somehow still taste the spaghetti, and he felt overly full and excessively bloated, which left him in a great amount of discomfort. It got to the point where he almost sighed in relief when his men decided to load up and go back to the compound.

The drive from Alexandria to the Savior's compound was usually an hour there an hour back, a little more if they had to clear walkers from the road on the way.

Negan wasn’t sure if he’d make it through the whole drive home. He was in the passenger seat of the front most truck, and he’d long since given up trying to get comfortable. No amount of position shifting seemed to ease his rapidly growing queasiness, and rolling down the passenger window to get some fresh air hadn’t helped worth a damn. He sank down into his seat and sighed as he placed his right hand on his upset, overly bloated stomach. The truck driver gave him a questioning glance but didn’t pry.

To say he felt like dogshit was a massive understatement. Every bump in the road made him feel even worse, and by the time he arrived back at the compound, he felt well and truly sick. He felt bad enough that he let his guard down and dropped the sarcastic, confident personality he usually displayed in favor of being quiet. He thought back to various times he’d been sick with a stomach bug or food borne illness in the past, and those instances had all started with bloating and sharp abdominal pains.

He felt hot and feverish in addition to feeling sick, and as he stepped out of the truck, a dizzying wave of vertigo washed over him. He groaned softly and Lucille almost slid from his grip.

He was definitely sick, no doubt about it. All he wanted was to retreat to his room and curl into a ball of misery on the bathroom floor. He knew that’s what he’d end up doing, as he was really starting to feel like he was going to puke. He wasn’t the type to fight it, he’d much rather get it all out and feel better, at least temporarily.

Of course, Negan’s escape plan was thwarted. He had only made it several yards away from the trucks when Simon came out of nowhere and flung his arm around his shoulder.

“We’ve got a problem, and I know you’d want to hear this from me. We’ve got a snake in the nest.”

Negan looked at him, but it took him a moment to find his words. “What happened?”

“I caught said snake, Toby, trying to leave us with weeks worth of stolen food. He stole from all of us and thought he could get away with it! Unfortunately for him, I’m exceptionally good at discovering pests. We decided to heat up the furnace to teach him a lesson. Dwight’s getting the iron ready, but being the big man himself, you get to do the honors.” Simon explained.

Before Negan could protest, his right hand man lead him into the factory. Arat followed, and everyone else trailed behind them on her command. Truthfully, ironing Toby’s face was the last thing he wanted to do right now. With every step he took, he was hit with an intense nausea peak and came closer to losing it. At this point it wasn’t a matter of if he was going to throw up, it was when. He knew he had a 100 percent chance of seeing his lunch again, and probably soon at that because he felt like he could hurl at any second.

Simon lead him to the railing of the balcony overlooking the common room, and he felt acid creep up his throat as he looked down at the crowd of his lieutenants and workers below. They were all kneeling and bowing like usual, save for Dwight who was heating up the iron, and Toby who had been stripped to his underwear and bound to a chair. Normally Negan relished the sight of his loyal cohorts bowing to him and loved leading them in a charismatic manner, but today he just wasn’t up to it. He straight up felt too sick to give a traitor the iron.

Alas, he couldn’t not do it either. Toby had to be punished, but Negan wasn’t going to bother with taunting. He’d wordlessly give this guy the iron, then lock himself in his ensuite bathroom and spend the rest of the day puking his guts out.

He sluggishly descended the stairs, and he could feel everything in his stomach unpleasantly sloshing around with each step. He stopped in front of Toby, but another wave of vertigo hit him and he had to shut his eyes and brace himself with Lucille to avoid falling over.

Toby was panicking, as victims of the iron always did. He looked up at Negan, pleading.  “I-I’m so sorry sir! I’m stupid, I’m an idiot, I’m a fuck up, just please don’t do this! I’ll never break a rule again! I swear! Please!”

Simon grinned manically and leaned over the bound man. “Toby, Toby, Toby. It sure is a shame it had to come to this, because before your fuck up today, you did a good job here. I liked you. But, you must be a lot dumber than you look if you thought you could get away with that. The thing is, we don’t take too kindly to thieves around here.” he spoke in an upbeat manner, but the aura of threat was there clear as day.

Dwight removed the glowing, red hot iron from the furnace with a long metal pole and extended it to Negan. Toby, who was near tears from the anticipation of that nearly molten metal being pressed to his face, was practically howling with fear.

Negan didn’t take the iron. He was overwhelmed with nausea, and he could taste the acid that was threatening to shoot up his throat. Lucille was limp in his grip, his mouth flooded with saliva and he moaned as he a felt a hot, burning sensation rapidly start spreading through his gut. That could only mean one thing. He was going to puke, right here, right now, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

His followers had suspected something was off upon noticing how quiet he had become, but by now nearly everyone had realized that something was amiss. Arat cocked her head and gave him a questioning look, and many others followed suit.

Simon turned away from Toby and rose a brow at Negan. “What’s going on with you? Is there something I should know about?”

“I..I...oh fu-” Negan was cut off mid sentence by a retch. He felt his stomach contract and before he could even move, a torrent of vomit gushed from his mouth, missing Simon by an inch and hitting Toby square in the chest.

“Holy fuck! What the hell Negan?!” Simon leapt back to avoid getting nailed. Several other people flinched back as well, and even Arat looked shocked.

Toby audibly cried out in revulsion as the chunky brown substance slid down his torso. “Oh god! He just puked on me!”

Negan clamped a hand over his mouth and turned away from the man, but it was no use. Puke spurted from between his fingers and dripped down onto his nice leather jacket before he gagged again and completely lost control. Lucille clattered to the ground as he puked all over the floor, splashing the feet of one of his guards as he did so.

Dizziness swept over him and caused him to lose his balance. He dropped to his knees and moaned as he clutched his stomach with both hands. A second later he erupted with more chunks, making the pool in front of him bigger. Another copious wave comprised of spaghetti, rolls, lemonade and everything else he’d eaten came up, and before he could even recover from that he vomited again.

Everyone was staring at him in shocked silence, and no one wanted to go near him for fear of getting puked on.

Negan’s eyes were starting to water from the force of his retching, which he found humiliating. He wasn’t embarrassed about throwing up in front of everyone, because he couldn’t help it. However, the idea of involuntarily crying in front of them was very off putting. He was given a second to catch his breath before his stomach lurched and he continued to puke profusely on the concrete floor. Just when he thought he had nothing left inside him to bring up, he’d be proven wrong seconds later.

A flash of light suddenly brightened the room, and he realized that someone had just taken a picture of him. He didn’t have time to be angry about it though, as an agonizing jab of pain tore through his abdomen. He retched noisily as a small amount of putrid tasting liquid flowed from his mouth, and it was immediately followed by a mouthful of something that tasted even worse.

This was pure agony, Negan wouldn’t wish it upon his worst enemy. Sure, he’d eaten a lot, but this was ridiculous. Was he actually going to puke himself to death as everyone looked on in horror? Were his actual guts going to come up next? He briefly wondered which of his organs he’d see first.

Fortunately he never got the answer to that question. When nothing else came up after thirty seconds, he figured he was finally done. There was a lingering string dripping from his mouth, so he spat it into the lake of puke in front of him.

“Fuck,” he exclaimed. It was all he could think to say.

When he looked up, the first thing he saw was Eugene looking at him. The portly scientist was holding a camera and gazing at him with his usual stony faced expression.

“I apologize for the photography,” he began. “However, I must admit that I am thoroughly, utterly, downright impressed by what you just did. Never in my entire life have I witnessed someone throw up like that. Hell, I didn’t even know it was humanly possible for so much vomit to come out of one person. Thus, I felt it was necessary to document it in the name of science.”

Negan truthfully didn’t know what to say to that. For once, he was at a loss for words. Then again, he did see Eugene’s logic. If he didn’t feel absolutely godawful, he’d be impressed with himself too. He scanned over the damage he did and realized Eugene was right. He had produced an insane amount of puke. Not only did he basically destroy the floor and Toby, it was all over himself too. It was on his jacket, his right hand, his pants and his boots.

As he knelt there, the situation was quickly becoming awkward because everyone was still silently staring at him. He felt someone grip his arm and help him up, and he wasn’t surprised that it was Simon. Of course it was. Negan could always count on him.

Arat stepped up next. “What the fuck are you all staring at? Back to work!” she commanded firmly. At her order, people began to disperse.

She stalked over to Toby, untied him, then pushed him down and threw a mop at him. “Clean this shit up.” she motioned to the huge mess Negan made. “If I’m not satisfied, you’re losing all your points.”

Despite feeling outright terrible, Negan smiled at that. He could always count on Arat and Simon to take charge and get stuff done. Not only that, but people listened to them.

Negan was rather unsteady on his feet, but he insisted that he didn’t need any assistance. He wasn’t an elderly woman who needed help crossing the street, he was a grown ass man. He could take care of himself. Still, Simon followed him anyway to make sure he didn’t pass out, which Negan was secretly grateful for. He’d never admit it though.

Once they arrived at the door to Negan’s bedroom, Simon addressed him.

“So, I’ve got to ask,” he began. “Should I head down to Alexandria and pick up that priest? The one with the creepy smile? Father Gabriel, right? I think an exorcism might be in order, because that was seriously some demonic possession style level shit back there!”

“Simon, I feel like shit that took a shit, ate said shit, and puked that shit right back up. That’s what I feel like right now.” Negan ranted. “But if I suddenly start speaking ancient Latin or bringing Rick supplies instead of taking them, then by all means, summon the preacher.”

His mind flashed to Rick, and he wondered what the man would think of him now, pitifully sick and covered in his own vomit. Rick would probably get off on it, or at least laugh hysterically. Maybe he’d even swipe Lucille and use her to put Negan out of his misery.

He sent Simon to find him some anti nausea medicine, or at least some Pepto Bismol, then slunk into his room. A hot shower was in order. When he wasn’t feeling well a long hot shower usually made him feel better, even if the relief was only temporary. He rinsed his mouth out to get rid of the acrid puke taste, then strode over to the shower and cranked on the hot water.

A scalding hot shower followed by a nap sounded like heaven. Hopefully he’d feel a little better afterwards, or at least well enough to drink some water. He didn’t want to get dehydrated. He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and was taken aback at how pale he was. He almost looked dead. Maybe he should have Simon fetch Father Gabriel after all.

He chuckled weakly at the thought of himself tied to a bed as Gabriel stood over him, thrusting a crucifix in his face and shouting “DEMON! Exit this man’s body! The power of Christ compels you! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!” It would be pretty badass.

The water coming from the shower was so hot that steam was rising from the shower head, but that’s exactly what Negan wanted at the moment. He stripped off his soiled clothes and stepped in. Once the water hit him, he relaxed and felt a tiny bit better. He’d be fine in no time.

The shower had helped for all of twenty minutes. The relief he’d felt gradually faded away once he’d shut the water off, stepped out and changed into clean clothes. The nausea slowly came crawling back, wrecking havoc on his insides once more. It wasn’t long before he felt genuinely nauseous again.

At the moment, Negan was sitting on one of the small couches in his room with his head in his hands and a plastic bucket between his feet. As sick as he felt, he was stuck in that awful limbo where he wasn’t sure if he was going to throw up or not. He considered using the old finger down the throat trick but wasn’t sure if it would help much. Chances are he was going to feel absolutely terrible until whatever was causing this was filtered out of his system.

There was a knock at the door, and before Negan gave permission, it swung open to reveal Simon and Eugene.

“Hey buddy! How are you feeling?” Simon beamed at him.

Negan only groaned in response. A pink object was thrust in front of him. It was a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

“Here you go. Pepto Bismol, just as requested. I even got you a wine glass so you can drink it in style.” Simon added.

Eugene, who was holding a container in his hands, stepped towards Negan.

“It is my understanding that you likely cannot retain food and will not be able to for roughly twelve to twenty four hours. However it is imperative that you stay nourished, so I have taken it upon myself you offer you some leftovers. Sardine macaroni, made by yours truly.”

The scientist removed the lid and held the steaming bowl out to Negan.

The yellowish grey macaroni was loaded up with shriveled, oily sardines and the occasional fish eye or fin sliver here and there. Negan stared at it with repugnance for a second before the overwhelming fish smell coming from it flipped the switch on his nausea and triggered another vomiting episode.

Negan gagged and bent forward as he threw up all over the floor between his feet, somehow missing the bucket completely. Acting quickly, he picked it up and held it in his lap, getting it in place right in time to send another wave of puke splashing into it. He just barely got it all inside.

“Damn. How do you have anything left inside you?” Simon commented as he looked on with amusement. The expression on his face implied he was enjoying the show, perhaps in a very inappropriate way.

Eugene gave him a strange look as he realized that the lieutenant seemed overly interested in watching the lead savior puke his guts out. He couldn’t decipher why someone would get exited about that, but then again he had many odd quirks of his own.

Negan was too busy throwing up to notice that, so he responded by raising his middle finger at Simon. It was all he could do at the moment. His whole body lurched as an agonizing retch tore through him and more brown liquid poured from his mouth. By this point it was all liquid, except for a few solids that had been lurking in the very bottom of his stomach. It tasted truly awful and burned his throat as it came up. He heaved twice more before he was done. He had filled the bucket about a third of the way, and set it on the floor when he was sure no more was coming.

He flopped back and let himself sink into the couch. There was no word in existence intense enough to accurately describe how bad he felt. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he somehow felt even worse than he had before. The nausea wasn’t subsiding, his throat felt like it was on fire, his head was pounding, his eyes were watering and he still felt dizzy as well. He shut his eyes and remained silent for a minute before finally speaking.

“Eugene,” he began, gesturing at the offending bowl of sardine macaroni, “Get that shit away from me, or else I will projectile vomit all over you and you’ll be washing my lunch out of that fine mullet of yours.”

Eugene, not wanting to risk damage to his hair, promptly closed the lid on the bowl. “Fair enough. Sardines are a very particular brand of acquired taste. But if you ever change your mind, the offer is still on the table.”

“I think my face says it all when I say I’m a bit confused. Tell me, what would possess a sane man to think that sardines belong in mac and cheese? Why would you do that?” Simon asked him in a bewildered fashion.

“Because I like sardines.” Eugene explained. “Wether you find them palatable morsels of mercury infused goodness or downright appalling is irrelevant. Because at the end of the day, I did not make this for you.”

“Hey! One of you two assholes want to get me some water? Or are you just going to let me die?” Negan piped up from his position on the couch.

As if by magic, the door opened up again, this time signaling Arat’s arrival. She was holding a couple bottles of spring water. She looked from Negan to the partway full bucket to the puke on the floor and cringed a bit.

“You look like shit,” she said bluntly. “You’re not going to die on us, are you?”

“I might, Arat. I might. I am completely fucking out of commission. You’re in charge until I get better. These two,” he gestured to Eugene and Simon, “are going to take care of me.” Negan explained. He was laying on his back now, with half closed eyes.

Arat blinked in surprise. “Really?”

Negan nodded. “Go ahead. Pick up Lucille. Just remember to treat her like she’s your best friend in the whole world, and everything will be great. She’s a fickle mistress. She won’t tell you if she gets thirsty, so that’s up to you to figure out.”

The woman walked over to where Lucille was propped up against the wall. She picked the bat up, gave it a few test swings and smiled.

“Nice. I can see why you love her so much. Don’t worry, I’ll treat her like the magnificent lady she is.” Arat complimented. Though what she didn’t say was that she planned on referring to ‘her’ as ‘him’ or ‘Adrian’ as long as the bat was in her hands. She swung Adrian over her shoulder and gave Negan a bottle of water. “Here. Get better, and don’t die. This place needs you.”

With that, she turned and sauntered from the room.

The cool water felt amazing running down Negan’s irritated throat. He could feel the cold travel down his throat and spread through his stomach. Unfortunately, the euphoria was quickly replaced by nausea as his body swiftly began to reject the liquid.

“Oh god fucking damnit.” He bolted upright, swiped the bucket from the floor, and promptly threw up all the water he just drank.

Eugene awkwardly stared at Simon, who was starting to fidget as he watched Negan puke up all the water. It dawned on him that the other man was not repulsed, but aroused, which puzzled him greatly. He chose not to comment on it for the time being, but decided to amuse himself with a little experiment. He took the bucket away from Negan, who collapsed back onto the couch.

“Caring for others is not exactly my forte. I’ve always stayed in my own lane, and looked out only for me, myself and I. You could say that I’m selfish and be correct in that assumption. However, you have provided me with safety, shelter and all the ingredients I need to make my infamous sardine macaroni. Thus, after I dispose of the rather revolting contents of this pail I am going to scrounge around for some books. Medical books, to be precise. After reading up on the subject, I will do my best to lead you to a speedy recovery.”

Negan felt far too bad to even consider protesting as the scientist left the room, leaving him alone with Simon, who was doing his best to hide the very obvious hard on he had. He’d never hear the end of it if anyone found out that he got off on watching Negan vomit. He deliberately thought about unpleasant things, such as Fat Joey doing jumping jacks naked, to ward off the arousal. It worked.

Like Eugene, Simon wasn’t exactly the world’s best care taker. But, Negan was both his boss and his best friend, so he was going to try even though caring for people, or even just being nice, wasn’t in his nature. He practically had to drag Negan off the couch and onto the bed, as the other man wasn’t putting in any effort what so ever.

“You are way heavier than you look.” he panted as he dropped Negan onto the bed.

Even though he felt worse than he’d ever felt in his life, Negan managed a small snicker. “I wanted to see if you’d actually pick me up and carry me.”

For the next half hour or so, he remained sprawled out over the bed as Simon stayed with him and made sure he was alright. He laid motionless, completely unmoving until the urge to puke wormed its way back yet again. He didn’t even curse this time.

Actually getting up and walking into the bathroom was going to be the difficult part. He had no energy at all, as even moving his head was a strenuous task. By the time he managed to partially sit up, it was already too late. He clasped his hand over his mouth, but it did nothing to stop the acid that was starting to rise. He retched and yellowish bile cascaded over his fingers and onto the white T shirt he was wearing. Having accepted defeat, he rolled onto his side and puked all over his bedsheets. He didn’t even try to get off the bed. Well past the point of caring, he simply laid there as waves of bile gushed from his mouth. In the midst of heaving he heard a sharp gasp come from beside the bed, then what sounded like no followed by a string of obscenities.

Negan dry heaved a couple times, then moaned and curled up into a ball. He didn’t even care that he was covered in his own vomit for the second time today. Nor did he care who saw him or who knew. He, the big bad wolf, had essentially been reduced to a defenseless pup and he felt too shitty to give even a fraction of a crap about it. Hell, Rick could be standing over him, Lucille in hand, about to give him a taste of his own medicine and he wouldn’t care. That’s how awful he felt. The nausea was finally beginning to recede a little, but he was in a lot of pain due to the sheer amount he had thrown up over the past couple hours. He thought he may have broken some sort of world record. He felt like he had at least a dozen acid tipped knives stuck in various places around his guts and throat. Even breathing hurt.

“Am I dead yet?” he groaned hoarsely. His voice was somewhat muffled as his face was buried in one of the pillows.

“No.” Simon looked flustered but also concerned for Negan’s well being. He awkwardly shifted position.

“How about now?”

“No.”

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you just cum in your pants?”

“.......n....yes.....”

“I knew it.”

Simon wasn’t a prudish or easily frazzled person, but he suddenly found himself unable to look at Negan and wished that a walker would sneak up on him and rip his throat out.

“I don’t blame you,” Negan said deliriously. He was so exhausted and worn out that he was falling asleep despite the intense pain. “Because....”

He trailed off for a second, on the verge of sleep.

“....every fucking thing I do is hot.”

#emetophilia #puking #sick fic #The Walking Dead #negan

[christophercori]

Starting Over (And over, and over)

03-06-17

It feels as if the last 6 years of my life have been narrated by the theme of “starting over.” As a hopeless optimist. I’ve always been inclined to look at my repeated run-ins with turmoil, both external and internal (but all largely self-created), as opportunities for new beginnings. At this point in the game however, I find myself coming to grips with a probably healthy dose of realism and I’m finally ready to admit how terribly fucked-up these past few years have been.

As I embark on this emotionally trying journey of reflecting back on all of the peaks and valleys which have lead me to where I am and where I may be going, I daydream of writing this as if from some point in the future-a successful and proud version of myself. But the “reality” of the situation is that I am incarcerated and more or less nerve-wrecked, awaiting the day when I am released to the “streets”, to start over once more. While I can’t wait to move on from this place, there’s no denying how nearly paralytic it is, processing multitudes of divergent visions of possible futures and how it’s all going to come together when I get to it. Sure, I’m very confident that it’ll all shake out in my favor, as I am very in touch with my talents and capabilities. I have a strong support network and some incredible like-minded friends and mentors, but still there is that element of unrest and uncertainty which, at times, can be absolutely suffocating Before we get ahead of ourself here though, we’re going to take a trip back in in time.

So where does the downward spiral begin? Somewhere toward the latter half of my teen-age years, I think. The year is something like 2011, but we could probably go back even further. I would have been about 19 going on 19, and this feel like a decent enough place to start our tale. By this point I’ve already had one stay in the Psych Ward at South Nassau Hospital in Long Island after an intense LSD experience, but I’d ironically classify that misadventure as part of the “good times” before things really started to go south for me. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I don’t know what happened to me; how I “fell off”, or lost my mojo, but we’re getting to it, I promise.

So, it’s almost spring 2012 and we’re coming out of what was for me a very fun winter and holiday season (details to be added in the expanded version). In spite of my recent dismissal from a temporary office job at an advertising firm, which I was really praying would become permanent, I’m still having the time of my life, gallivanting out on the streets of NYC with an eclectic group of misfits like myself. After many nights of hard partying, dropping in on various “New Age” events and “breaking night” for days on end, it’s almost spring and I’ve been unemployed for a few months. I’m not totally broke, I’m staying with my father and he’s not putting too much pressure on me, but it all comes to a screeching bait as I come home at dawn after a long night of riding around in the back of what turned out to be a very expensive cab ride, over the duration which we made pit stops to visit various characters around Brooklyn and Queens while tripping on magic mushrooms. It just so happens that this particular morning I’m also to supposed to take a ride to Philly with my Dad and while he doesn’t comment on my 7am return home, he does make mention of my disheveled and fatigued state, being fairly exhausted and irritable from the comedown off the nights Indulgences. I somehow interpreted this to be part of one of his many efforts to control my life, and proceeded to fly into an impulsive, violent frenzy. My already fragile psychological state fertile ground plenty for any rebellious feelings I was already harboring and it probably did not help that only moments earlier I had ingested a synthetic stimulant, commercially known as Vyvanse, in effort to replace the sleep I had foregone. Needless to say, none of this did much to work in my favor, and in fact, I could not regret the proceeding events any more.

So, here I am delivering a swift “fuck you” to my Father, storming downstairs to the 2nd floor apartment; slamming the door and locking it behind me. Not after a beat or two, my Father is on my heels, trying to make his way in after me, demanding I unlock the door which I am refusing to do while simultaneously snarling, screaming and cursing.

Eventually, be shoves his way in with a few forceful slams of his shoulder, only to he met by me in the midst of a complete meltdown, kitchen knife in hand. I’m not going to sit here and try to convince you that I’m not “crazy”, but in the moment, I had formed in my mind that my Dad had become some major threat, some evil controlling extraterrestrial who I needed to keep from doing I’m-not-sure-what to me.

As he makes to cross the threshold to meet my psychotic knife wielding self, I find myself summoning strength from the depths of my being to toss this man, like a sack of potatoes and hold him up against the wall by the throat with one hand and the knife very close to his face with the other. Fortunately, he made a huge fuss and called out loudly enough for our tenant, at the time, to call the police, who arrived quickly due to the station’s location literally at the end of the block. As they were coming up the stairs to evaluate the situation, I released my Father, ran to the kitchen and turned up all of the burners on the stove, thinking I’d somehow go down in a blaze of glory or at least make a big enough mess in doings so, and that I most certainly did in the end the policemen got the better of me. Once handcuffed and after speaking to my father, they shuffled me into the awaiting ambulance and off to St. John’s hospital for a psych eval. There it was determined that I needed some time to cool off and be experimented on like a guinea pig, while the doctors gave me the privilege of sampling a whole Easter-basket of coma inducing psych meds. After a 72 hour hold I was transferred to Mercy Medical Center in Long Island where I’d spend the next 6 weeks fucking unappreciated suicidal Lesbians and mid-life crisis-ing housewives.

I connected with some other wayward youths and interacted with some true “crazies”, but in the end my Insurance ran out and my Father had to threaten to sue the hospital to get me released. Apparently, they were trying to push the Idea that I was a lot more ill than I actually was instead of acknowledging that I was, originally, simply freaking out on drugs, not hearing “voices” or receiving “secret messages in the newspaper”. My oppositional defiance at the time probably didn’t help, nor did my apparent anger and threats to the supervising “shrink” for keeping me locked up and experimented on, when all I really needed was some good sleep and sobriety.

Sadly, leaving the hospital was the real beginning of a decline for me, as those zombifying medications they put me on kick-started what would turn out to be one of the most excruciating and debilitating depressions of my life. This would go on to last for a better part of the remaining year and cost me dear friends, a relationship and a network of invaluable connections.

Soon, the summer came around and by then I was several months into sleeping most days away, avoiding eye contact and conversations about what I was up to and had pretty much resigned to burying myself under unanswerable philosophical questions, mainly to the tine of “when am I going to snap out of this?” and “will I ever feel happy, or even OK again?” I tried to find some work in my neighborhood and was briefly employed a hipster shit-head who thought he was the first cool person to ever discover my neighborhood (which had been amazing eons before he dragged his ratchet ass through) who happened to run on of the concession stands, serving food and drinks on the beach. Of course, the genius of this guy led him to hire way too many of his equally too-cool-to-fucking-exists friends and found himself having to make up some lame excuse as to why he had to let me go.

This did little to improve my condition or build my confidence and I walked away feeling burned and even more adverse to dealing with people; especially those who seemed to have no idea, sympathy or at least consideration for what I was going through. Much of the rest of the summer was spent on my porch watching happy people go by, longing to be in their shoes and envying them just the same; reading old paperback novels which I dug up out from underneath years of stored junk in one of the spare, unoccupied apartments where my father kept his tools. Somewhere along the lines I made an attempt to volunteer at a local outdoor “festival” at the marina in my neighborhood, but I was far from “in the right place” for it. I had been out of the loop with the cast of character who I knew would be there and the whole time I was working the grill to cover my mission I was sick to my stomach that someone would recognize me and try to start up a conversation, outing me as being less than my normally exuberant self. After my shift, I wandered down on of the “Boatel” piers to smoke some pot with the kids who were also volunteering and make an attempt at conversation. I was totally out of sync with these people. They were still flying high on the “magical mystery tour” and I was back down on earth, consumed by anguish and totally lost. “What’s happened to me?” I often asked during this period. At some stage I was passed a sandwich baggie full of what looked like some very ill cared for magic mushrooms (I knew what healthy ones looked like, having grown them myself), I decided to go along with it, in spite of knowing that I was absolutely not in a good place to be partaking in such indulgences.

Shortly after swallowing them, things got weird and I felt the overwhelming urge to get the fuck out of there. All of my insecurities about not really feeling like I should be there in the first place were now amplified a thousand fold and before I could run into familiar, now while super-fucked up, I knew I had to split as fast as I my legs would carry me. I staggered over to my bike and left behind the cambro I had borrowed from my grandfather without so much as an afterthought. Somehow, I managed to book it through a neighborhood which now seemed ready to swallow me whole, to the beach where I would fling myself down on the sand, hyperventilating and crying out to whatever God could hear me, to make it stop. Unfortunately, the feelings of absolute terror would not subside for several hours and when I did finally make it back into my house and up to my bedroom, I would spend the remainder of those horrific infinite hours jumping at ever creak and squeal of our ancient wood-framed house. At every slight tremor and strong wind, I was certain I heard my Father’s footsteps coming down the stairs to confront me and admonish me for some thing or other, only to discover me wrecked, yet again, and beat the shit out of me, or throw my ass out on the street This never happened of course (at least not on that night) but, over the course of those endless hours of inner torment, I was certain it was about to come to life at any given moment.

It could probably do without saying that I had experienced the worst trip of my life on that night and when morning finally came and things started to feel even a little bit “normal” I swore to myself that would never do even a little bit “normal”, I swore to myself that I would never do psychedelics again. While I haven’t since that memorable moment, my feelings have changed as I have found my way back to myself in recent times. I’m sure this may come off as a little confusing, but as we carry on, perhaps it will come to make a little bit more sense.

I don’t want to get too off topic here but, I’d like to clarify that I have a deep respect for psychedelics and have since concluded that they should he used very carefully as a religious sacrament, a tool for philosophical research, or scientific experimentation. I however, learned the hard way, in so much as they are not suitable for recreational purposes. There are other out there who may disagree with me and other who will also subscribe to this ideology, and I don’t want to paint the wrong picture here.

As a teenager, I completely and irresponsibly abused these sacred “tools “ Given the opportunity to do it all over again, or when I revisit these things again in the future, I’ll do things a lot differently from how I’ve done them in the past. I absolutely recognize who in my case, my impulsive use of psychedelics or any other substance for that matter, led me to some dark places and cause sometimes irreparable damage in my life or at least some great turmoil – Turmoil being a major theme of this body of work and something l’m trying to keep out of my life moving forward. All of this being said, let us return to the somewhat chronologized chain of events from the past, leasing up through to the now and possibly beyond.

So, I want to apologize in advance if this segment causes any confusion for y’all. It probably should have been placed before the marina festival scene, but hopefully some gracious editor will fix it all up in the final incarnation of this epic tale. Petitions for forgiveness aside, it’s still summer 2012 and I’m toiling in obscurity, barely keeping myself from taking a long walk off a short plank and at some point I’m in Brooklyn with my partner In crime Mike, who is attempting to snap me out of my funk by taking me out on the town. We start off at a warehouse living space with a couple of other cool scenesters who are “on the level” and end up on a quest to Bensonhurst to pick up mushrooms for everybody, from a deal who also attempts to sell us crack-cocaine, and proceed to spend the rest of the night having a hilarious and hallucinogenic time trying to make it back to the place we started out in, which lead us to spin circles around it, ending up in every other neighborhood than the one we needed to be in. Our travels consisted of a hodgepodge of foot and subway travel, and at various times we’d give up or stop to light a garbage can on fire.

Eventually, we post up in a perk to watch the sunrise and enjoy what’s left of our “visions quest”. I catch the tail end of some beautiful geometric visuals and I find myself wishing I were along so I can enjoy them in their entirety, instead of being strung along by my fiercely determined companion who can’t seem to accept that our intoxication is the cause for our inability to properly navigate. Just as I’ve nearly managed to convince my friend to just chill and “be here now”, we find ourselves walking through an industrial neighborhood whose street are lined with 16-wheelers. To me, they look like some type of intergalactic shuttles.

It’s then that I decide to become a truck driver. If I can’t do anything else, at least I can get paid to travel across the country in search of myself. Days later I announce this to my parents, sans psychedelic influence, and they agree to pay for me to take truck driving lessons towards my Commercial Driver’s License. When it comes to anything that might make me some money and keep me out of trouble or make me feel better in a healthy way, they can turn out to be very supportive folks, contrary to the enemy I’ve felt they’ve been at various points.

Now, before we get too far ahead of ourselves, or any further out of order, it might not hurt to mention that- somewhere between my psychedelic epiphany and the parentally sponsored truck driving lessons, I take a trip to Miami with my then-girlfriend of nearly 4 years. She was 2 years older than me and we started dating while she was graduating and I was still attending the same high school. We had been through a lot together and I guess after so much, she had more than enough of my wild and crazy antics, and contrasting deep, dark periods of hopelessness.

And so she waits until what couldn’t have been the most inopportune moments in history, to break my heart, tear it out of my chest, stomp on it, light it on fire, and then toss it into the river to shit and piss on it thereafter. I mean really, who in God’s name waits until they are on vacation in Miami to break up with their significant other? I mean, are you fucking kidding me? I don’t know what this girl was thinking, but it couldn’t have been in any more poor Judgment, or in the very least, bad taste. Mind you, she could have waited till the plane ride home, like any street wise floosy would have done, but no. She lets the cat out of the bag on the second night of what’s supposed to be an epic getaway where we fuck and party our faces off creating memories for years to come, or so that’s the fantasy I was always sold about “doing it right” in the sunshine state. Anyway, we’re two days into our beachy getaway, I’m already halfway to jumping off a bridge in my fragile state that summer, and she decides to not only hit me with “I don’t think this relationship is right for me anymore”, whining about how she’s never been with anybody else, but that she’s already got somebody lined up to explore with! Oh, the audacity! As if the news couldn’t I already be bad enough. Imagine that. You’re experiencing the most unprecedented depressions of your life thus far. you’ve isolated yourself from just about your entire social network and thus have no support system in sight to lean on, and you find yourself on the ideal dream vacation, miserable with the absolutely most insensitive and common sense deficient bimbo, who you thought was supposed to be your intelligent, compassionate girlfriend, but has now chosen to break up with you on day 2 of your 6-day long excursion. She carry’s on to make no effort to fake it for the rest of our stay and refused to cut It short because it would be a “waste of money”.

Jeezzus Christ! I mean I know that at the time I was a broken, sad little hitch boy, but come on! If I could go back, I’d slap myself. Why didn’t I “man up” (whatever that means) and get the hell out of there? Shit, if I was anywhere near as strong as I am now, I would have grabbed my things, found another hotel room and myself balls deep in some new broad, faster than two shakes of a lamb’s tale (how fast is that anyway?). But, no. That’s not how this story goes, I’m ashamed to say. Nuh-uh. This sorry motherfucker rides out the next days drinking himself into oblivion and having mediocre pity sex with a girl who’s made it clear she’s no longer in love with him. How pathetic. It’s here, at this point of out epic where I firmly believe we find one of the major influences for a following series of unfortunately catastrophic events which would also revolve around mtysle and other young women with increasing volatility and regrettably, violence.

I guess the trauma of being so violated by someone or anyone who I would make myself so vulnerable too, resonated deeply enough within me the first time around, that I would go on to not only promising myself I would never be so emotionally effected ever again (at which I failed), but would also respond to the disappointment, disillusionment, and general manipulations and trickery of women, specifically of the youthful persuasion with greater retaliation, each time. I want to make it clear that I do not intrinsically hate or have disdain for women at all. In fact, I can’t get enough. I may even be addicted, but I’ve found that I need to stay away from a certain type of whacked out, New-Age, “male-hierarchy” hating, so-called feminists, who love to be nasty sluts in the sack, but then think it’s OK to turn around and play the victim, as if the world owes them something for being born female.

No I probably shouldn’t be so harsh on the young and inexperienced. They, themselves can’t truly be held accountable because they’ve been brainwashed by this backward ‘‘politically correct” (excuses me while I vomit) popular culture, but damn, where have all the elders gone? Who’s raising these bitches? Ooh wait, I know: this is what you get when you cross an oversaturation of mass-media with the mind-control of the nauseatingly ultra-liberal universities who’ve overtaken our nation, who now apparently think they are above free-speech. All that however, is a can of worms for another day and we ought to be getting back on track. The short version of it is that these confused “young-ladies” can’t really be held to a fault because it’s society overall who has dropped the ball. This philosophical understanding though, doesn’t make their actions OK or the pain they cause any less real, but there’s more than half a chance I hurt them in some, or plenty of my own ways just as well. After all it takes two to tango, and it’s rarely that either party is entirely guilty or innocent. It’s usually a mixture of both on either end.

In my case, it’s taken foolishly repeated run-ins with toxic relationships and overboard reactions to finally “get it right” on some level. I may still have a way to go yet, but I can tell you how I handled each rejection or separation with increasing stubbornness and vengeful retaliation was exactly the wrong way to handle these situations. Does this make me a psycho by nature? Probably not. A little unstable. There’s a good chance. Or maybe I’m just an extremely sentimental and sensitive individual who processes emotion with incredible gravity and has a more difficult go of it, keeping them in check and mastering these aspects of my character in ways that work to my benefit rather than my detriment.

Had I a stronger network of friends to bounce things off of and let me know I was “buggin” or to help me see the “signs” and avoid a lot of sorrow, I probably would have saved myself a whole world of trouble. Unfortunately, this has not been the case during these years during which, for whatever reason, I had buried myself under a blanket of isolation. Whether it was a result of chasing people away, losing touch, or just dealing with shitty people who never cared for me in the same way I cared about them in the first place, I’m not sure. Another theory as conceived by my Father sounds something like me not slowing down enough to patiently let the right friendships mature and blossom at a rate which was comfortable for them.

After much reflection, I have come to see the truth to his words, insomuch that my hyperactive, lightspeed ahead nature can indeed work against me.  I’ve since come to see that it could be a combination of all of the above, and more influencing my social dysfunction, but I’ll have to favor my Dad’s assessment, complimented by a dash of my own summation of “caring for the wrong people’ or at least those who aren’t capable of reciprocating the depth of my love. This basically cuts out a majority of my self-centered materialistic generation as candidates, limiting me to the few select individuals who have been in my life through thick and thin. These folks are largely between the ages of 35 and 60, and while I’d be a liar if I didn’t crave some like-minded homies closer in age to myself, I’m at the point of just accepting it for what it is, while retaining a sliver of hope that my “peers” are out there somewhere. There’s been times when I’ve become very discouraged and have resolved to throw all expectations out the window in order to avoid further run-ins with disappointment, but I’m doing my best to maintain a more optimistic outlook; keep the dream alive, ya know? And speaking of dreams, I was just thinking about the irony of how I used to pride myself on “making dreams come true” and while this may have been the case at one point or other, it seems like my recent history suggests that I’ve been regrettably stellar at bringing nightmares to life, with me acting out as the main character, naturally. I aspire to break this cycle, and while I feel I’ve grown passed it, traversing as much ground as I’ve been, only time will tell.

Anyway, and all anecdotes aside, which I can almost guarantee we’ll come back to again and again as we go, I do believe there was some story telling afoot and I’m thinking that it may do us well to get back to that.

[lilyleely]

The Other Woman (Part 4)

Title: The Other Woman

Pairing: Jensen x Reader, Jensen x Danneel

Summary: You were a good girl. So how did you end up as the other woman?

Word Count: 3894

A/N: Thank you for the overwhelming responses on the previous chapters! Your sweet messages brightened my weeks <3 As always, I don’t mean Danneel any harm, no hate for that lovely lady. If you’d like to be added to the tag family, just hit me up! 

Tags: @nanie5 @supernatural0826 @padackles2010 @holdyourselfinmyhands @remybosslika @jensen-gal @barricade-ghost @son-of-a-horse @just-another-busy-fangirl @mrstheorossix3 @tas898 @darkx143 @emilypkuzu @sortaathief @anokhi07 @to-the-starss @relationshipyard @isabelaelisa @hibaabdo @artprincessbree @anxuanpham @trashytears @lalakawe @but-like-dean-tho @evelinakikoum @skathan-omaha @soobi89

MASTERLIST

“Jared! Misha! What are you doing?!” a yell came like a booming bark, startling the three of you like scared rabbits.  Misha froze, Jared’s smile faltered and you turned to face the person responsible for such reaction.

Much to your surprise, Clif Kosterman stood before you three, strong and tall as ever. He was Jensen’s bodyguard and you had only every spoken to him at parties where he was forced to be pleasant.  You knew he did not earn a reputation as a cold man without a reason.

His gaze fell like an act of violence; you swore the look you got from the man could be the definition for glaring. Misha stuttered out, “No-nothing! Jared and I were just showing Ms. L/N how to – “

“It’s no longer L/N, Misha. With all due respect, you shouldn't be dragging her out here without informing me,” his tone ice cold.

Wait. Why are all of them here suddenly? You were trying to put the pieces together in your head. Last you remembered you did not need anyone’s permission to roam about your own property.

You cut your self-debate short to focus on what Clif was saying, feeling guilty for the other two. Awkwardly, you stepped forward in front of Misha and Jared with an apologetic expression.

“I-it’s not their fault. I agreed to this, really!” you defended the two. You were timid in his imposing presence. His icy cold gaze fell back on you, unlike his friends, he didn’t let up with the harshness.

“Sorry, missy. I’m afraid you cannot be running off shooting guns without proper supervision”

“Wha – “

“Come on now, Cliffy. You didn't think we were capable enough to take care of one girl?”

“Don’t call me that!” You swore you saw a vein ready to pop on his forehead. He ran a hand down his face and sighed exasperatedly. “Even so, missy here cannot be put in any situation that may harm her. She’s a girl for goodness sake. Who in their right mind would – you know what I’m not gonna argue on this”

“Anyway, I’ve been looking for her for a good hour now. Next thing I know I find her shooting off cans with two idiots.”

Jared tried to defend himself but only done himself cut off by Clif’s glare, daring him to speak up. Here you are, feeling awkward again. You messed up, somehow. You had gotten Misha and Jared in trouble, surely Jensen would find out about. Which adds up another reason for him to hate you for.

“Mr. Ackles’ looking for you, missy” Clif stated.

“J-jensen?” Your eyes snapped up in shock. No way?

“No, Alan Ackles I mean”

Why is everyone here?!

You had barely enough time to register what happened when Clif escorted you back to the farmhouse.

How lovely, you thought.

Jensen, your adulterous husband you did not wish or want to see, was there in the living room with his father.

“You either consummate the marriage or I’ll look for another heir!”

There goes your chance of having a simple conversation with your father-in-law.

Those words rung in your eyes and you swore to Chuck you could feel your pulse beating in your eardrums. Jensen’s father had never shown you any ounce of malevolence and you thought he could never harbor any ill will. The same man you had imagined sat in your living room’s couch, his face red and contorted, his mouth curved in a snarl, and Jensen was clenching his fist. The living room felt cold, the feeling not unknown to you.

You made a mistake of letting out squeaking in fear at such an intense scene, surprised and taken aback by the look in the Ackles’ heir, a murderous glare, at his own flesh and blood.

Two sets of eyes landed on your figure in the back doorway by the kitchen. Alan softened his gaze just a tiny hint, sympathetic at your justifiable fear and Jensen rolled his eyes in annoyance. If his luck could get any worse, Danneel would strode in through the front door and then, why the hell not everyone from the firms. Just fan-fucking-tastic!

“I uh, I’ll prepare dinner” you managed to stutter out, instantly busying yourself in the kitchen to avoid any confrontation.

You pursed your lips, you had been just as unenthusiastic as Jensen had been about your arranged marriage and he had yet to hear your thought on the matter. Sure, you’d clam up if you had the chance to talk to him, but you still you thought you had been obvious with your clearly disturbed body language.

It wasn’t like you were hopping to cling to his arm and steal his money, not that you needed to anyway. You were doing fine alone, with man or not. All you wanted was to be happy with your future husband and wishing he at the least would make an attempt to make you feel less like a greedy devil and more like an equally uncomfortable party. You would have given anything to have him marry Danneel, everything it took to save your poor heart from breaking at his disgust for you.

He hated you. His orders to his friends had been enough proof. You were a problem to him, an obstacle in his pursuit of happiness.

It made your heart ache.

You, the one thing that stood between him and her; the unwanted wife; a pest, a replacement.

And all your life you would be unhappily married to him, Divorce was not an option in your position.

All you ever wanted was to love and be loved in return.

“I won’t touch her,” he spat, words like venom. “She wouldn’t want me either, I’m positive.” He glanced over to his father, likely sick of seeing you in his line of sight. You tried your best to drown out their conversation, to occupy your mind with your task in hand.

Okay, now to cut the mushrooms, then wait for the pasta to be cooked, then maybe i should perhaps make some tea? Or would they prefer coffee. Oh who am I kidding.

You felt your knees tremble to hold yourself upright. Alan shot his son a look, one with too many words unspoken. He sighed. “You can’t run from your problems, son”, his voice still willed with conviction, but a little softer in your presence.

Jensen scowled. “She’s not a problem, she’s a pest” irate muttering came from his lips.

“Don’t speak ill of her that way!” Alan almost yelled. You froze in your action, eyes blinking in shock at the words rolling out of your husband’s lips. You could feel tears slowly building up in your eyes

“You’d throw everything for one girl?!”

“At one point of your life, you would be happy that I would. I’m not the villain; you sit in your meetings with the L/N’s and all those idiots knowing nothing. This isn’t my fault. I get to be mad!”

“You’re being foolish, Jensen!”

Jensen grit his teeth, he was getting nowhere with his father. He abruptly stood up, his knees bumping into the coffee table making it skid back a little. He threw a glare at his father’s direction once more and stormed off upstairs. You were now left with a red faced Alan Ackles who was not yet done lashing out at his son.

You wanted to leave, run out that back door and into the quiets of the open field, but he was your father-in-law, it would be rude to just walk out like that.

Alan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and rubbed the tension between his eyes and his voice became tired. He had argued for so long and this argument was an explosion bound to happen and left overdue, you knew that.  You turned off the fire on the stove and poured a cup of tea and carefully trotted your way to the living room.

“Have some tea, sir.” You placed the cup down on the coffee table, the whole time your eyes on the floor. Alan noted the way your hands shook in the aftermath of the confrontation.

“I am sorry you have to endure all this.”

“I… it’s alright, sir.”

The man took a small sip of his tea before releasing yet another sigh, his eyes boring holes at the wall across him. You have taken a seat at Jensen’s previous seat and nervously drummed your fingers on your knees. You didn’t know whether to pity the man or yourself.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I apologize for coming here unannounced and requesting to meet you all of a sudden. My head’s not clear right now, I’m afraid I’ll have to postpone this talk. How about next week, over tea?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll look forward to it”, you replied, giving him a small smile to reassure the man.

He gave you a somber smile, you knew he was as understanding as he was trying to be given he had no real understanding for your situation. He felt the air between you two grow awkward and chose to dissolve the thick tension.

“How are you liking Texas? I heard you’ve always been the city girl, how do you like the change of scene?”

The sudden shift in casualty needed you to have a second to reestablish yourself before answering as evenly as possible. “There’s little to hate here in Texas. I especially enjoyed the company of the several deer that likes to pop up”

He tried to laugh at that. Slowly and carefully placing his cup back on the coffee table, he stood up and faced you. You too stood up with him, holding both of your hands at the front.  “I better head back to my wife now. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Ackles”

You flinched at the words, but took strides with the man out the front door with as little frigidity in your shoulders as possible. It was not easy hearing your new last name. It was not easy adjusting at all.

Bidding a final goodbye, you watched Alan Ackles get into the backseat of his car, Clif at the drivers seat. Alan waved goodbye as the car pulled out of the driveway. You let out a long sigh, your shoulders slumping down as a wave of tiredness washed over you.

It was almost a blessing to see two brown haired men still at the back of your house. Jared was propped against the railing, arms crossed in front of him, the toes of his right boot clicking on the floor behind him while Misha on the other hand sat on the small steps; both of them conversing quietly.

You cautiously approached, hoping you wouldn’t be robbed of having a decent company again. The coast remained clear. At hearing your footsteps, both men turned to your direction and took sight of your form.

Misha instantly got onto his feet, a grin on his face as he went for your hands.

“Hey, you alright?”

You gave him a nod, and his expression went form worried to bright just like that. Jared came over and patted your shoulder, reassuring you, “We know Jensen can be a dick sometimes. He’s just pissed and I promise he’ll come around eventually.”

“I’m not so sure of that.” Misha let your hands escape from his hold and you tucked them in your pockets. “I’m sorry if I got you both in any trouble. Really. I’ve already come to terms that I am not who he wants me to be. I know that I’m unwelcomed and if you feel like you are obligated to make me feel better, I-I’d rather you not. I… I don’t want to be pitied and I don’t want you both to be troubled –“

“Why are you so afraid of Jensen?” Misha questioned.

“What?”

Misha crossed his arms and stood straight, his voice was not accusatory but rather genuinely puzzled. “You act as if he’s going to chop my head off if I talk to you, which I’m doing because why not and I’m not an ass like he is.”

Jared let out a small laugh from the side. “Jensen is the least of your worries, Y/N. If you had anyone to fear, I’d say it would be Clif.” The corner of Misha’s lips pulled upwards into a smirk, as if by Jared saying this he had come to a mischievous revelation.

Jared went back to leaning on the railing, and repeated what Misha had questioned you. “I don’t know why you’re afraid of him, honestly.” This time adding on, “He cried watching Marley and Me”

This took you aback. Jensen? It was practically impossible to picture the sight of him wiping tears out of his eyes while watching a movie on a dog’s life.

Misha nodded at Jared’s words. “But, like I said before, Jensen’s not that bad if you get to know him. He’s just…”

“In love with someone else?”

Misha quickly added, “- upset.”

“It’s okay, guys. I know he loves Danneel… I understand he’ll put her above me no matter the situation, but to even be seen in his eyes as something other than a nuisance is what I hope to get. I simply am not asking him to love me; I know that’s childish. I’m not asking him to like me either. I just want him to know I didn’t want this to happen as much he did. It’s just…it’s not fair.”

Both men frowned at the way your voice cracked. Misha made it a mission to make you smile the rest off the evening

Night had rolled over Texas quicker than you wanted it to. Misha and Jared stayed for dinner for a while, all the while commenting what a good cook you were as they devoured their food.

You bid them both good night and sadly watch as their car drive past eye view.

You walk back through the front door and closed the front door quietly. Turning back to move to the kitchen, you haltered in your steps as you saw Jensen descending the stairs. His eyes glanced up at yours and he rolled them as he saw you standing there frozen.

He made his way to the kitchen to grab a drink from the fridge.

“Jensen? I have dinner ready, would you like some?” your voice small, testing the waters.  

“I’m going out” his answer came short behind his mug. By now he was leaning back on the sink, one hand holding his mug, the other across his abdomen.  His eyes were carefully watching your movement.

You nodded at his answer. You figured you’d do the dishes later when he left and chose to sit yourself on the couch. Finishing his drink, he placed the mug at the sink and made his way out the front door and slammed the door behind him.

You had been busy entertaining yourself with the usual few cats that came near your house, mewing for food. It had become a daily night routine to come out here to feed them, watching them slowly going forward towards the food, eyes and body wary of you. It had taken you time and lots of food to earn their trust, enough trust for them to let you pet them on your lap and be comfortable enough with your presence.

You had spent the next few hours playing with the cats, not realizing what time it was. You checked your watch and realized it had turned 1 in the morning. Gently you placed the cat that was soundly asleep on your lap onto the floor and wished them goodnight. You walked back inside. Walking your way up to your bedroom, you thought of how Misha’s laugh and Jared’s chatters had kept you company all evening and now that it was gone, you could feel your dreadful reality creeping back.

You’d go right back to being nothing but a decoration – someone pretty to sit by Jensen’s side.

You deserved a shower, a time and place to think about what your life was to become and had become already.

You peeled off your clothes, kicking them off to the side as you turned the water on, turning the knob towards the warmer side. Body soaps and shampoos lined a shelf. Perhaps it was the result of your lavish upbringing, but you couldn’t get enough of soapy bubbles. A habit of pouring too much in a bath or too much on a loofa would usually have your mother scolding you at home. You figured you deserved to enjoy something in this marriage and apparently soap is that something.

“You’re going to be okay,” you scrubbed your arm, trying to console yourself. The water poured down, dripped by your side, as your mind faded into dullness and everything is nothing but a foggy illusion.

Afterwards you ran your hand through your soapy hair and hummed, content. If you could live in the solitude and warmth of a shower, you would never leave.

As you enjoyed the sensation of the steamy water calming you down, a grim thought filtered through you mind.

You had known your job here was to produce an eligible heir for the firm, but you hadn’t thought about what it took to produce an heir.

Of course, you knew how.

It just didn’t hit you until now.

You cheeks blew up red as you thought about it. You and Jensen…

You and your husband.

Lord have mercy on your heart.

You decided to turn the water colder and put your entire face under the water, in hopes the coldness would wash away all the images of you and him entangled in bed together.

Was he going to take you without your consent? You had never even kissed before your wedding day and yet…

Your sister would probably tell you to kick him in the face if he tried to force you into anything. Your parents would tell you it’s all business; that you should just get it over with. Play your part.

The traitorous romantic in you played scenes of tender caresses and hearts fusing into one, bodies moving to the rhythmic sounds of murmurs of sweet nonsense; saccharine kisses peppered between heated embraces. You tried to push those thoughts away – so silly, hopeless and dangerous to your health. He would never look at you the way he looks at Danneel, he’d never kiss you like her, and never love you like he did her.

He’s probably with her now.

You wouldn’t be surprised if he had indeed escaped into the arms of the brown haired beauty. Had you another lover, you would want to be with them as well, but you were a good girl.

You wrapped the plush towel that was left in your bathroom around your body. Even after the water had stopped, the air was steamed around you. Your soaking hair dripped on the tiles beneath your feet as you made your way back into the bedroom.  The vanity was not far and your vanilla lotions would help you ease you into a peaceful sleep tonight.

You just hadn’t expected there to be another body in your bed.

It certainly wasn’t there when you had entered the shower.

His eyes were close, features much softer in sleep. The lines that usually creased his brow replaced by his youthful appearance,. He looked peaceful. He must’ve fallen asleep waiting on you, noting he still had his shoes on.

That sounded unlikely. Seemed crazy.

Unsure, you cleared your throat and slowly approached the sleeping figure, clutching the towel close to your body. The last thing you wanted was to drop your towel in front of this man. You didn’t exactly want an audience as you got dressed.

“Um…” You were standing by the bed, far enough to run but close enough to poke him with the tip of your index finger. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t shift and you silently cursed whichever God up there for putting you in this position. You held yourself and you poked him harder than before. All he did was swatting the air lazily and groaned. You let out a breath and spoke louder, “Jensen!”

His eyes snapped open and slid your way, his lips instantly cast downwards. You took a few steps back and clutched the towel tighter; thankful it covered enough. You tried to sound not so nervous under his hateful squinty glare, “I’m sorry, could you, uh, excuse yourself for a moment? Please?”

He shifted his gaze elsewhere and threw his legs over the side of the mattress, “This room was mine before it was yours.”

A blush crept up your neck and you tried to muster some strength to not stutter in front of him, “I under – “

“I’m going to leave, so don’t bother trying to act high and mighty about yourself,” he waves at your pathetic attempts at standing up for yourself and you moved to the vanity as he left the room. Your heart was beating wildly, loudly; you were sure he may have probably heard it too. You took a deep breath to calm your nerves and made a quick job of moisturizing your skin before throwing on an oversized t-shirt and comfortable shorts.

You went to the door and peeked your head out, looking for him in case he was still there. He brushed past you, opening the door and kicking his boots off near the foot of the bed and stripping off the top he was wearing.

You crossed your arms and remained at the door, away from his hostile presence.

“What are... what are you doing?”

He threw you a look. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m going to sleep. In my bed. I’m tired.”

You resisted the urge to sigh; you’ve been doing that too much lately. You couldn’t possibly sleep next to him. “Where am I supposed to sleep exactly?”

He shrugged, not caring to look at you now. “Anywhere you like. I don’t really care”

Nervously, you stepped forward, hesitant to get on bed just yet.

“No one is stopping you.”

Your eyes widened, “I, uh, I…“

He rolled his eyes, grimacing, “Listen, I don’t care what you want. I’m going to bed. You can sleep on the floor or on the bed. I’m not going to throw myself on you regardless what my father thinks I have to do.”

Well that gave you some form of reassurance as you slid under the blankets. You pushed yourself as close to the edge as possible, far away from him.

He flicked the light switch by his side of the bed, the only light on in the bedroom, and you were left to linger your thought. The dark of the room helped you pretend he was not there but it took only a slight readjustment on his end for you to be reminded that he was there.

Your heart rate was up, face red, and your nerves were bust.

What if I accidentally rolled over? What if I fell off the bed? What if he snored? Would he say anything in the morning? Would he even still be here in the morning?

You can kiss that good night’s rest goodbye.

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