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kunikinnie · 2 years

Note

Hi Hana!! Congrats on 300 followers!! When I saw your event, I admit I was buzzing with excitement I couldn't help it, I love the idea of it ><

Anyways, for your event, I would love to request Dazai please with his short story Thinking of Zenzo, it's one of my favorite short stories of his <3 You'll be able to find the translation at @/bsd-bibliophile 's website, the short story is bundled with other short stories in Self Portraits

Thank you so much for sending this! I'm glad you like the prompt of this event HAHA I wasn't too sure of how I'd go about this since Dazai-sensei and BSD Dazai strike me as very different in character, but this what I tried to do HAHA I really felt like I just copy-pasted it but o well

Wet Snow based on Thinking of Zenzou (善蔵を思う)

300 Followers Event Masterlist (still open for requests!) Summary: Dazai explains to Atsushi why he hasn't shown up at the Agency recently Genre: mild existential angst, character study? Word Count: 3.3k Warnings: some profanity, perhaps mental health issues, unedited, probably ooc A/N: I’m willing to guess that canon BSD Dazai didn’t really have a normal childhood, that he was a stray dog from the get go. But here I decided to give him a normal head start in life because I just wanted to be able to stick to the OG story/prompt of this fic ehe. Contains very minor references to Dazai-sensei’s novelist daughter who I made to be BSD Dazai’s mother here, since canon BSD does like flipping relationships here and there. Given the content of her writing, it makes sense anyway so yeah. Also contains minor references to a character from No Longer Human and some stuff from Notes from the Underground by Dostoyevsky (although it's already in the title lol)

Sorry for not telling you sooner, Atsushi-kun, but I’ve been out these past couple of days because of a reunion. No, it’s not about to happen; it’s already done. Just going to wait it out a bit longer until I feel like going back to work. You know how it is.

You can explain that much to Kunikida-kun for me, right? Aww, thanks a bunch! I’m lucky to have such a kind and understanding kouhai.

You might be wondering why I’ve decided to contact you instead of Kunikida-kun directly. Well, you could say that I’m hiding from him. I promise it’s because I’m reflecting on what I’ve done to him like any other good man would. Don’t doubt me on that, will you? I’m just preparing my soul and ears before receiving my due punishment. Who doesn’t repent when one sins? But as I am a sinner I’m bound to stumble and make the same mistakes again.

If he hasn’t figured it out already and complained to all of you about it, then let me explain what I did - it was an honest mistake, I swear.

I was lounging in Kunikida-kun’s place when someone knocked on the door. No one knew I was there - not even the owner himself - which made me a bit wary about confronting anyone at the doorstep, especially if it were a deliveryman who needed his signature. But I looked through the peephole anyway and if it was someone I can deal with by myself then I’ll gladly open it. It was an older woman in trousers and a loosely-knitted cardigan - probably someone hoping to sell something. Alright, I decided, I’ll open the door for her.

“Excuse me sir,” the elderly woman said, her voice just as grating as the wheels of her metal cart. “Would you be interested in any of these?”

There were potted plants of various types in her wagon. They were the plain and boring type of ornamental plants that only plain and boring people would bother to maintain, so naturally I had no interest in buying any of them. But being the gentleman that I was, I played along this grisly old woman’s charade.

“Why does a lovely woman like you sell these woeful little things?”

“It’s for our retirement home. A little cash goes a long way for old folks like me, don’t you think?”

Retirement home? Alright, I’ll believe it - that’s what I told myself. But no matter how much I think about it the conclusion I arrived at was the same: it’s a scam.

Aside from her faked aging voice, her clothes were too new and modern compared to what a local grandma would wear. She also looked too energetic and full of life to be among the old folks who stay in retirement homes - if you ask me, Kunikida-kun has a better chance of fitting in with the jaded pensioners than she did.

Not to mention the very fact there wasn’t a home for the aged nearby at all. The closest one I could think of was at least two or three train stations away. Catching exhausted homeowners at this time of the day must have been part of their strategy as well.

“Won’t you spare a little money for charity, good sir? They’ll bloom soon - wonderfully bright little flowers. Some color to liven up your apartment.”

I could have said, “oh no madam, this isn’t my apartment, thank you for the offer,” but the way she pushed her voice and body toward me had somehow convinced me to indulge her further.

“How much would a little money be, dear madam?”

I don’t remember exactly how much it was, but it was more expensive than three consecutive meals at the best seafood buffet near the port. This is definitely a scam; how could those shabby bushes be worth that much?

I was about to refuse her when I received a text message. It was from Kunikida-kun.

Once I drop these files in my apartment, I’m coming over to yours to kick your ass for skipping work again today.

Oh no, he’s coming.

For some reason, I decided to hand over some cash. It was probably much more than what she had mentioned since she had muttered something, but I was in a hurry to save myself and chose a random pot. “Keep the change.”

She might have bowed low with a bright smile or victorious smirk - whichever it was I wasn’t able to notice. After I hurriedly shut the door and dragged the thing somewhere near the window, I planned my escape and prepared my belongings.

Only then did I realize the wallet I took money from wasn’t mine.

I know what you’re thinking: “Dazai-san you intentionally paid with Kunikida-san’s money because your wallet was empty!”

That is somewhat true. But no I did not intentionally choose his wallet over mine. I was just so used to having his wallet in my coat that I didn’t even think about it! Naturally, mine had barely anything in it, so my brain must have subconsciously chosen the one with enough cash in it. It’s as simple as that. It’s an honest mistake, I tell you!

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to clear that up with him yet. I planned to tell him the day after (since his anger would have significantly subsided by then) but something unexpected happened that very night of my blunder.

I bumped into one of my old childhood friends - although I suppose calling him a friend is a bit of a stretch.

I’m not sure how he recognized me. I’d left my hometown during middle school, and I hadn’t been particularly close with anyone at all. Perhaps it was because I bore so much resemblance to my aging mother’s face that those who lived there would have instantly made the connection.

“We’ve been wondering what had happened to you, you know?”

Despite his jovial greetings, I could tell he was criticizing my appearance. You must have thought the same things he was when you first saved me from that river, didn’t you? Well, I’m used to it. It’s not exactly what “normal” people look like, right? Bandages and a shaggy coat - normal people of my age wore clean business suits like this friend of mine did.

“Say, why don’t you join us this Friday night?”

“Friday? So soon?”

“I know it’s quite the short notice, but there’s a reunion scheduled for our middle school batch tomorrow. I’m sure the others would love to see you even if you weren’t able to graduate with us.”

A part of me knew it was just a formality on his part; he wasn’t actually hoping I’d agree. He happened to see a familiar face and wanted to confirm his identity in order to satisfy his curiosity and be able to share with his girlfriend “guess who I saw today!”

But the other part was intrigued - excited, even. As far as the world was concerned I was an ordinary child in an ordinary school in an ordinary town before I suddenly vanished - before I met that devil dressed in a white coat. No one in that part of the country knew what I had become and had preserved the image of the mischievous imp that had been the greatest source of my mother’s headaches.

Could I really become the man I had once envisioned myself to be, even if just for one night?

Without thinking, I had accepted his offer and asked for the details of the event. It wouldn’t be held in my hometown but in a relatively larger city nearby. You don’t need to know exactly where I grew up, but just know that I’m from the North.

And as a child of the North, I’m more familiar with the harsher winters than those of Yokohama. My thickest coat wasn’t nearly good enough for its chill, nor were any of my formal suits in any proper shape or form.

I’m sure that you’re thinking, “you don’t have to worry about it too much, Dazai-san. Your handsome face makes even the dirtiest rags shine!” Why, thank you Atsushi-kun! I am quite flattered. But I studied in an all-boys’ school, you see, so I needed to make the extra effort to look nice.

Why all the effort? Now that I think about it, it wasn’t necessary at all. No - it was flat out a stupid idea. I had spent money to rent the finest coat and even bought a new suit (simple but of good quality and still fashionable). It cost more than I could afford, so all my meals for the next few months will all appear on the Uzumaki’s tab.

But to appear as someone successful doesn’t necessarily require exceptional clothing. I could just wear what I usually wear to work, have it ironed out a bit and simply claim that I had just come from an important mission. Forgive the frazzled appearance, but despite my busy schedule I did my best to attend. Inflated half-truths are my specialty and a small gathering such as this with people I’m sure I’ll never meet again wouldn’t be much trouble for me at all.

I must confess that I simply wanted to wear something like that. When I was in the mafia I did not care at all how I looked, but now that I had no money the vanities that plague all men ailed me. I worried about what these ordinary folk would think of me and I had hoped to at least prove that I had indeed become a king rather than a stray dog lurking in the streets.

If only I could describe that feeling when I had finished dressing myself up. It was only a simple black turtleneck under a dark brown suit and maroon overcoat, but I had felt like I resembled an actor like you thought I was. Maybe it was the hair - I pulled it back a bit - anyway, I think I’ve been rambling on for too long.

Now that I’ve gone this far, I see I’ve made another stupid decision: telling you so much about myself. Forgive me, Atsushi-kun. I don’t know why I’ve been going on either. But I suppose now that the story has been laid out you wish to know its conclusion. Alright, then. I’ll finish what I’ve started.

Needless to say but since I couldn’t calm down from the excitement turned anxiety, I didn’t even bother showing up at work. Why has it turned into anxiety? That, dear kouhai, is what you call the effect of being slapped hard in the face by reality.

I could go on about my delusions about impressing my batchmates, but it’s just not as easy as it is. You see, there’s at least one of them who could see right through me. No matter how convincing my lies were he never fell for them and understood that they were nothing more than the grand illusions of a master conversationalist. My preparation could have been for nothing. Heck. It could have even made things worse. For sure they’ll be telling friends and their friends’ friends about the youngest son of my mother’s suddenly revealing himself after a decade. But if that one person manages to ruin everything, then they’ll only ridicule me for the fool that I am. Never mind if they find me intimidating or pitiful or something else. I just don’t want to be laughed at.

I don’t find shame in being a detective for the Agency at all, just to be clear. In fact I’m very proud of my profession and the people I work alongside with. It’s just that I’m afraid that they’ll find out the name Dazai Osamu. Yes, that’s right. It’s not my birth name. It’s a name I chose for myself when I was picked up by that devil, and so it shall forever be tied to him no matter how hard I try. If you’re wondering why I don’t use my “real” name now… let’s just say that that name is forever tied to my mother and the family she tried so hard to raise by herself. I can’t bring myself to burden her any further.

Anyway I had planned to present myself as something else. Something more normal. And so came the awaited day. I had taken a train to that city in the morning and arrived late in the afternoon. By then the streets were already buried in the snow. Its coldness held a warmth I hadn’t expected at all; it was inviting and familiar like the father welcoming home his prodigal son. Yes. I suppose that was why I had been so adamant yet anxious about this gathering. I thought I could make her proud.

The site they chose wasn’t too shabby nor too extravagant either. It was appropriate at best, but I’d be lying if it didn’t have a certain charm. Very old school Japanese sort of building - it felt like I was a writer attending his very first socials.

For all the intelligence gifted to me, I haven’t the slightest clue what it meant to be a normal human being in times like this. Years in the agency and things like this aren’t new at all, yet as I was about to present myself as “myself,” I felt like I had opened a window in me somewhere I wasn’t aware of and strangers could peek in and see through it clearly. It was strange; I hadn’t felt like that in who knows how long. But that’s alright, it’s manageable. As long as he doesn’t show up.

But he did.

I was busy exchanging pleasantries with a few of those who I at least held the slightest memory of when he appeared. Whatever illusions I fed them they gobbled up like mutts and I thought myself to be in the safe zone. But as soon as I saw his face I felt weak, the fear I thought I had lost long ago had resurfaced, and I just wanted to run away and hide. Ah, my grand efforts have come undone so easily!

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Shuu-kun.”

He had this monotone way of talking that was painful to hear. It wasn’t that his emotions were unreadable or that he was being sly and dishonest. Rather, it was that he was so honest about what he felt that there was nothing to read in between the lines. It is honesty that I love yet despise at the same time. For one thing, it builds trust. On the other hand, it cuts wounds deeper than any other psychological weapon possible. But I suppose that is the nature of the truth.

I had felt threatened at his cordial greeting that my mind had been scrambling to find a good reason for being untruthful. Without second thought, I downed my first glass of expensive sake.

“Same here,” I said in as friendly a tone as possible.

The others were talking amongst themselves, occasionally asking me or him questions about nothing in particular. But no matter where the conversation went I could feel his eyes on me.

I didn’t dare look up to meet them since I was afraid of what I’d see. Anger? Disgust? Pity?

Agh. I just wanted to get out of there.

But the taste of such fine liquor had glued me to my seat. The warmth I saw in the cold snow that tickled my skin was now flowing in liquid form beneath it. Before I knew it, I had drunk beyond my capacity. You know what I’m like when I’ve gone too far with the alcohol, right? That’s not a farce, I can tell you that much. But for the first time the liquid had loosened my tongue to an extent farther than what I had intended, farther than what I had thought I could go.

“You haven’t talked much since I came,” said he, the bane of my existence. “What about your own business? How’s it going? I’m sure someone as bright as you has made it quite far ahead.” Everything he said had annoyed me. Each and every word, each and every syllable in that oily voice had triggered something in me.

“Shut up.”

I didn’t know why I had said that. I didn’t know why I had thought of saying it - maybe I didn’t - but as quickly as his smile fell, so did the energy in our immediate surroundings.

“I think you should have some water-”

“I said shut up, asshole.”

There was a multitude of other words and embarrassing things I threw at his direction then to no one in particular that night. The shamelessness I had been cursed with then had brought me more shame now than ever before, and I’m afraid I’ve sobered enough to know not to reveal anything further. I still hope you don’t look down on me like those idiots did, okay, Atsushi-kun? I’m sorry if I’ve betrayed your expectations, but this is who I really am. I can at least be honest about that. Then again, I’ve willingly bared myself like this to you so you’re the one with the right to judge me. I don’t ask for your understanding, only forgiveness.

After my sharp tongue slashing the hearts of innocent men at an innocent gathering, I stumbled out of the venue alone and fell face first into the snow below me. It was cold. The snow wasn’t warm at all.

But I wasn’t totally wrong either. Snow, when warm, turns wet. And wet snow had clung to every inch of my shivering body like the guilt and shame that I’ve been carrying since the day I was born.

I’m not sure how I made it back to the hotel, but maybe some good Samaritan was passing by (or for some reason, one of my former classmates) and took pity on the fallen, misshapen form. I might have sneered at their faces and played at their patience with taking me to my room, but all the same I was dragged back into reality. My hangover has never been worse and my throat was dry. The moment the fog in my mind had cleared, however, the sins of the past night had come back to bite me. Who knew a single affair could bear this much damage?

But I only have myself to blame. I wasn’t acting rationally. I wasn’t acting normally. I had manipulated and lashed out at the man who was the first to really see me for who I was and accepted me regardless.

I’m still here in the hotel room, ruminating on my sins. See? I told you I really was repenting. Did you believe me? If you didn’t, I don’t blame you. But if you did, you’re a scary one, you know that?

I’m sorry for burdening you with all this. As your mentor, you should be the one doing the rambling and I the listening. This is really just proof that there’s something wrong with me, no? I can promise you that I’m trying my best, though. I’ve made that same promise to someone important too and I haven’t failed it yet (at least I think I haven’t). Thank you if you’re still there, listening.

I just received a text from Kunikida-kun. I’m 100% sure it’s about the bush. Did you tell him already, or did he figure it out himself?

…ah. Well, I wasn’t expecting that.

Do you know what he said? He said he’s thankful for such a steal. Steal? Where? I didn’t steal anything. Turns out the shrubby little bush were hydrangeas, due to bloom this spring. How did he know that? Ah, how could I expect any less from our resident nerd! Hmm. If he’s that grateful, I suppose I can get away with a few more days to myself.

So that woman wasn't a fraud after all. Interesting. But I believe someone once said that people who make a living selling things tend to lie even if they don't need to. That must be the case, and a burden has lifted off my shoulders.

Now I can rest easier, armed with a small flame in my heart to endure this harsh winter. Fate sure is merciful, isn’t she?

#bsd #dazai osamu #bsd dazai osamu #bsd fanfiction

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isthisthingeven0n · 4 years

Text

i’ll marry you someday : j.w

brief summary: jeff hopes that someday he’ll marry you, but after an accident that lands him in hospital, he’s more certain than ever

word count: 2.5k (i kinda went off on this) requested: yes by the sweetest anon. i adore this idea and cause i’m super dramatic well, you’ll see warnings: mentions of a car crash, some graphic descriptions. nothing too threatening, but if these are sensitive topics please read at your own discretion or miss this one (your wellbeing matters more than anything!)

* masterlistin’ / masterlistin’ 2.0

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website know it hasn’t been approved me unless specified. all rights reserved. - i have to start doing this as I had some shit on my other blog with plagiarism)

DO NOT STEAL MY WORK - IT IS ALL MY OWN WRITING

“You know, I’m gonna marry you someday,” Jeff mumbles as you curl up against his chest as you struggle to keep your eyes open long enough to focus on the film.

“That so?” You whisper, looking up at him as he smiles down to you, his fingers gliding through your hair as you hum in content.

Jeff nods, unable to hide his grin as your eyes close.

It’s true though, Jeff really means it when he says it. Even if you think he’s just joking around. As a matter of fact, in all his life, Jeff has never been more certain about something. That being with you, and spending the rest of his life alongside you, and only you. After everything he’s been through, the consequences he’s faced from his actions you’re just a ray of sunshine.

You didn’t care about his past, the things he once did. He’s grown, matured as a person into someone you want to be with and love him regardless.

Standing in the doorway, Jeff’s bags pile up outside whilst Todd patiently waits for his friend to depart from his house. If only it were easier said than done.

“Do you have to go?” You pout as your arms remain around his waist, not wanting to let go.

Jeff chuckles as he glances behind you, seeing Todd filming on his camcorder in the pathway. “I’ll only be gone a few days, baby.” Jeff reminds you, hearing you sigh loudly as your hands begin to slip away from him.

“Just, stay safe.” You nudge his arm as he picks up his bags before leaning down and kissing you softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He blows one last kiss to you before walking out from your house, leaving you with Nerf sat by your side watching his Dad get into the passenger seat of Todd’s car.

“You really love her, don’t you?” Todd speaks up, noticing the way Jeff looks at you as if you’re the only person in the entire world.

Jeff can’t help but think of the ring he’s picked out and reserved at the jewellers, a quick pitstop on route to his and Todd’s destination. “I do, Toddy.” Jeff sighs as they pull away, moving further away from you, but closer to the next step in your future.

“So, airport?” Todd looks over to Jeff before returning his attention to the road.

Shaking his head, Jeff points to the left hand turn coming up, the opposite direction. “I just wanna make a short stop first.” Jeff states as Todd turns the car, and as they follow the road Jeff can see the old shop sign.

Feeling his heartbeat quicken pace, it isn’t something that goes unnoticed by Todd. “We going where I think we’re going?” Todd asks with a hesitant smile before Jeff points at the shop whilst Todd parks up just down the road.

“Yeah.” Jeff runs his fingers through his hair as he opens the passenger door, hearing Todd mutter his name as his right leg hangs out of the car.

“This is it, huh?” Todd chuckles, an attempt to hide his nerves for his friend. “You’re gonna ask her?”

“I really am, Todd. Got it all planned out.” Jeff states, feeling that familiar sense of uneasiness return to his stomach as he climbs out fully, his arm resting on the top of the car as Todd remains in the driver's seat. “Gotta say, I’ve never been more certain of anything.” He admits before turning away from the car, crossing the street toward the shop in question.

Whilst Jeff is crossing, Todd’s fingers tap on the steering wheel, humming to himself. Yet, Jeff doesn’t make it across the road.

Glancing through his rearview mirror, seeing a car speeding down the narrow street, shortly followed by a sharp break and a loud thud.

“No, no.” Todd mutters, feeling everything play too quickly for him to process. “Jeff?!” Todd yells, looking behind his car to see the small car in question with the window smashed as the driver crawls out, coughing violently.

A few shop owners and customers gather around behind the driver's car, some converse whilst others call for help. “Is he alive?” Todd hears one lady question whilst another bends down, her feet sticking out from behind the car as Todd hesitantly walks closer.

Fearing the worst, Todd took a deep breath as he moved between the gathering crowd to see what his fears be a reality.

“Jeff? Buddy?” Kneeling down, Todd couldn’t stop his hands from shaking as he reaches out as blood dribbles from Jeff’s mouth as his eyes remain closed. “Has someone called for some help? Fuck!” He looks around, desperation lacing his tone as faces blur together whilst blood coats his face and exposed limbs.

“An ambulance is on its way.” Someone speaks up, resting a hand on Todd’s shoulder with a sympathetic smile.

“You’ll be okay, buddy,” Todd mutters, forcing back his tears as Jeff’s limps are splayed out, lifelessly.

You couldn’t process the phone call as it came through. Part of you thought it was a sick prank call until you heard Todd’s hushed voice down the line, loud enough to understand without it cracking.

David picked you up with Natalie, understanding you were in no fit position to drive.

No words were exchanged as you sat silently in the passenger seat, thinking about what Todd had told you. He hadn’t even left town, they were making a pit stop and some sick fuck was speeding.

Tearing the images from your mind, you open the car door and rush inside without checking your friends were close behind.

“Is Jeff Wittek here?” You ask bluntly, remaining emotionless as you bite your lip, holding back a sob.

The receptionist looks up at you before averting her attention to her screen. You wait painfully as she types into the system, now aware of David and Natalie either side of you. Natalie rests her hand on your forearm, squeezing it lightly as a single tear spills from your eye.

“He’s in room 207. Turn left down the hall, and three floors up.” The receptionist tells you and before she can ask if you need anything else, you’re gone.

You can’t keep up with your own feet as you race to his room, a distortion of voices play as Natalie and David converse as they try to catch up to you, but you’re oblivious to everyone else.

Slowing down, you can see someone hunched over on a seat outside of a room. A tuft of brown hair, slouched form and his hands clasped in each other.

“Toddy?” You call out weakly, seeing him rise to his feet and rush over, engulfing you in a tight hug as you sob against him.

Natalie and David hang back as Todd focuses on Natalie with watery vision. “I’m so sorry, Y/n.” Todd mumbles into your hair as your whole body shakes. “He, he just wanted to get something. I should’ve gone with him.” Todd rambles, but you lean back, shaking your head to him.

“It’s not your fault, Todd.” You tell him bluntly. “Do not blame yourself. It was an accident.” You breathe deeply as you force yourself to look at the door number behind him. “Is he, is he awake?”

Todd scratches the back of his neck as he takes a hold of your hand, guiding you closer toward the room. “He’s still unconscious, but he’ll be alright,” Todd tells you, but you can tell there’s something else. “but he got hurt bad, Y/n.”

Taking a shaky breath, you nod. “How bad are things?”

Shutting your eyes, you wipe away your tears forcefully as you listen to Todd listing off Jeff’s injuries. Two broken legs, fractured ribs, a collapsed lung. He was lucky to make it out alive.

“Can I see him?” You question quietly.

Todd opens the door and guides you inside to the room where Jeff is being monitored.

As you lift your eyes up, the sight before you breaks your heart.

You listen to the sound of his monitor beeping as various tubes are connected to him. Discomfort is worn heavily in his face, despite him being unconscious as stitches line his cheeks and forehead. Bruises are starting to form across his exposed skin, but the damage evidently lies deeper than that.

A sob wracks through you as you cover your mouth, muffling the sound as you fall to the ground.

“It’s okay, Y/n.” Todd hushes as he helps you to your feet. “Jeff’s strong, we know this.” He reassures you as you step closer toward your boyfriend, sitting beside him.

Reaching out, you rest your hand alongside his.

Both you and Todd sit in silence until visiting hours are over, and at this point, you can feel your entire body is numb. You didn’t want to leave him, you didn’t want Jeff to be alone in that room, left in pain without anyone by his side.

Two days you were sat in the room, sitting in silence beside him as Doctors and Nurses passed by. Checks were made, vitals were monitored and silence was a frequent friend.

You saw many faces, most with sympathy etched into their smiles as they tried not to focus on the damages covering Jeff’s body or the tiredness lining your eyes. It felt like an ongoing cycle, just waiting for any kind of update.

Everyone was just waiting, waiting for him to wake up. And after three solid days of waiting, sitting by his side for as long as you were allowed to, Jeff started to stir in the bed.

“Where the fuck am I?” He mumbles, and you quickly jolt up from sleeping at an angle on the plastic chair beside his bed.

“Jeff?” You call out, blinking rapidly as your vision begins to focus on his confused expression as he winces. “Oh thank god.” You reframe from wrapping your arms around him, knowing he’s still fragile. “I, I’ll go get someone, I’ll be right back.” You tell him quickly as you rise to your feet, finding the first Nurse to pass you by.

Whilst you talk to a nurse, Jeff looks around the room as the events of that afternoon replay. He remembers seeing a blue car speeding toward him and being on the ground with faces surrounding him. But after that, everything is simply blank.

Jeff watches as you walk back in, your angelic smile plastered across your face as bags wear heavy beneath your eyes.

Sitting beside him, you rest his hand in yours as the Nurse checks his vitals and explains exactly what has happened to him. As you listen to the Nurse, you feel Jeff faintly squeezing your hand, letting you know he can feel you beside him.

“So, I got hit bad, huh?” Jeff tries to joke but winces at the pain spreading across his ribs.

“Take it easy, babe.” You remind him as he lies back down, letting out a strained sigh.

“Seen worse in jail, let me tell you that.” He continues his efforts to make you smile, even if tears fill your eyes as you focus on him, how casts cover both legs and bandages across his stomach. “Hey, Y/n, I’m okay.” He reaches out as you lean closer toward him.

Feeling his hand rest across your cheek is enough to comfort you as you let out a shaky breath. “I know, I just, I don’t know what I would do if you were,” You struggle to finish your sentence as Jeff wipes away your tears that fall.

“Don’t think ‘bout that, baby.” He hushes you, peering over your shoulder to see Todd leaning against the door frame. “If it isn’t my saviour,” Jeff calls out and you laugh lightly, leaning back as Todd walks in.

Rising to your feet, Todd hugs you lightly as you pass him and exit the room in search of the bathroom.

“Hey man.” Todd sighs as he sits down, taking your seat temporarily whilst you’re gone. “Good to see you awake, you, you had us worried for a moment.”

“Just a moment?” Jeff raises an eyebrow, ignoring the bruising around his eye and the stitches below.

Todd shakes his head as he reaches into his pocket, taking out a small velvet box. “I, I picked this up, thought you might want it.” Sliding the small box across the bed, Jeff hides it underneath the covers of the hospital sheets.

“Thank you, Todd.” Jeff smiles, and Todd simply nods as you return.

“Did I miss anything?” You call out as Todd stands up, moving away from the chair as he shakes his head.

“Nothing too eventful. Good luck getting him to pee for the next few months though.” Todd laughs, nudging you lightly as you roll your eyes, missing the wink he sends Jeff.

For the next few hours, you just sat with Jeff as the Doctors explained the next step in Jeff’s recovery. It wasn’t going to be easy, and you understood that there would be hard times, but you weren’t going anywhere.

“Thank you, Doc.” Jeff speaks up, processing everything he’s just been told.

“Looks like you’ll be my bitch for a while, huh?” You tell Jeff, hoping to see a smile cross his lips to ease the pressure of the detailed recovery process.

Jeff chuckles, looking up at you as you keep a smile on your face. “You’re seriously something else, Y/n.” Jeff shakes his head, watching as you shrug a shoulder. “You know, I’m gonna marry you someday.” He reminds you, and you laugh lightly.

“I know, baby. You tell me almost every week!” You smile brightly, but Jeff shakes his head as he reaches into the sheets, taking a hold of the velvet box.

“I really mean it, and, and I know this isn’t probably the way I envisioned it. And I can’t even stand, let alone get on one knee right now, but,” Taking a deep breath, Jeff reveals the diamond inside of the box, looking up as your lips part.

“Jeff,” You start, but Jeff shakes his head.

“Y/n, you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You, you’ve seen past all the shit in my life, you’re willing to help me through this and wheel me everywhere for possibly months. I can’t imagine being with anyone else, and I don’t want to.” Jeff reels off all of his thoughts as you remain in a state of shock. “So, Y/n Y/l/n, will you marry me?” He finally asks the question, feeling his heart pause as he awaits your response.

“Yes.” You mumble, nodding as you rise to your feet, leaning closer and kissing him passionately. “Yes, yes!” You laugh excitedly as you sit back down, letting Jeff place the ring on your finger. “So, this is it, huh?”

“I told you, baby.” Jeff smiles brightly, fighting through the pain as his monitor continues to beep at a slightly rapid pace. “I’m gonna marry you someday, and that’s a promise.”

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smol-and-grumpy · 4 years

Text

EUPHORIA - Chapter 13

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: He’s Dean Winchester, owner of a shady night club. She’s a journalist who has been asked to write an article to expose the indecency and debauchery that’s going on behind closed doors. But he’s also Dean Winchester, the boy who sat next to her in class. The boy who was too cocky for his own good.

Chapter Warning: Flangst, NSFW

WC: 2974

A/N: This chapter fills my ‘choking’ square for @spnkinkbingo Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons <3

This series is two weeks ahead on patreon!

Series Masterlist ~ SPN Masterlist

Become a Patron ~ Buy me a coffee

Dean carries her over to the bed in the room they are in, with them still connected, making her sit on his lap as he wraps his arms around her body and rests his head on her chest. His fingers stroke up and down her back and she does the same to him. Tiny hands travel up and down his sweaty back, fingers stroking at the short hair on the back of his neck.

He revels in the touch, never realizing that he felt touch-starved all this time.

“How are you feeling?” Dean looks up at her and his heart blooms when he sees her smiling.

Y/N leans down, kisses him and he cranes his neck to reach her better. Her lips are soft and tender. His taste still lingers on the tip of her tongue.

After a while of coming down from their high, he lifts her off his lap and she whines at the loss of his dick inside of her. The wet squelching sound is lewd and loud. Dean pulls her close to kiss her temple but he pushes himself away after some time, leaving her there to pick up their clothes.

He quickly pulls his shirt over his head, gets back into his underwear and pants because he wants to get her into the apartment as soon as possible. Dean walks over to her, tells her to stand up and drapes his jacket over her naked body. He holds out her torn dress and shoes for her, telling her to hold on to it and picks her up into his arms.

Her eyes are almost closing when he makes his way up to his apartment and she nuzzles closer into his chest.

In the apartment, he sits her down onto the couch, making her drink water while he walks into the bathroom and draws a bath for them.

Dean gets her into the tub, making her sit in his lap as he begins to rub and stroke her whole body. He starts to massage the knots out of her shoulders. He’s hard again, but that’s unavoidable in her close vicinity.

He sprays kisses on the nape of her neck and makes a path to her shoulder, “How are you feeling?”

She tilts her face, leans her head against his chest, “Good, I’m very tired,”

Chuckling, he kisses the top of her head before he moves himself away and gets out of the bath and lifts her out too. Dean wraps her up in a towel, sits her on the closed toilet lid and they brush their teeth. He leaves her to finish her night ritual and goes out to look at his phone. The party’s still going on downstairs. He hears the music faintly.

Dean sees Cas’ message, notices that he had sent him a link. When Dean clicks on it, it takes him to a news website where a photographer uploaded the pictures from the party. They’re so quick, it blows Dean's mind. He clicks through pictures, sees a couple of him and Y/N in the background. He smiles, moves his phone to the nightstand and goes back into the bathroom to see if she’s finished.

Y/N applies cream to her face, and she’s watching him through the mirror. She’s still naked and so is he, smirking when she notices his boner.

Dean moves forward, kisses her shoulder, “Come on, let’s go to bed,”

She turns around, nodding, and Dean picks her up, carries her over, slipping into the bed next to her.

He lies awake, listening to her breathing, listening to her heart beat. It’s easy, he thinks, easy to take care of her. He never knew he wanted that. That he wanted to take care of anyone except Sam. He saw sex as a way to release his stress and never cared about what comes after, to be honest, but he likes this. Likes the intimate moments when they recover together. Dean doesn’t lie when he thinks it’s even better than the act itself, and that is totally new to him. It’s not bad. No, he thinks it’s great.

Dean wakes to a vibration sounding loud from the nightstand and he quickly untangles himself from her limbs, rolls away gently so as to not wake her up. He takes a look at the caller ID.

“Cas?” He whispers, tries to keep his voice down.

“Yeah, we have a situation. Meet me at the entrance?”

Dean looks at the clock on his nightstand, sees 4.38am on it and releases a deep sigh, “Yeah, I’ll be right down,”

The mornings are chilly in the city and Dean pulls the zipper of his sweater to the top. It was hard leaving her in his bed. He hopes that she won’t wake up and notice him missing.

Dean walks around the corner to the front and Cas’ already waiting with one of the security guys.

He doesn’t need to ask what’s going on because he sees it, sees the paint along the wall. It’s bright red, almost blinding him. A stark contrast to the grey of the morning.

The red paint is fresh. It’s still dripping down the walls.

“Fuck,” He mutters under his breath and tries to not step into a puddle of paint, “When did that happen?”

Cas shrugs, “We don’t know. Must have happened between closing and now,” The dark haired man is still dressed in his tux, “We finished cleaning up inside and when I was on the way home I saw it,”

Between closing and now. That’s a two hour window.

“Have you two looked at the security cams?” He asks into the round.

“The security cams have been tampered with. There’s no footage whatsoever.”

“Fuck,” Dean’s shouting now.

“You think it has something to do with the emails?” Cas asks, a look of concern on his face.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, shaking his head.

Dean really doesn’t know. There have been threatening emails for a year now, but he doesn’t keep track of every one of them. He even knows the source of some of them. Other club owners in the close vicinity who are jealous of Dean’s success but he’s never fallen victim to any kind of damage before. This is totally new and it pisses him off.

“Right, report it to the police, do whatever you have to do, okay? Get someone to clean up. I want it gone by the time we open up again,” Dean turns around, doesn’t wait for an answer.

He’s fucking pissed and punches at the elevator wall when he steps in. He takes a ride back up to his apartment with his eyes closed. Dean knows that he should deal with it but he’s really not in the fucking mood. He’s riding on a fucking high and he won’t let this incident disturb the calm.

Before he gets back into the apartment, he takes a couple of deep breaths, wills his body to stop trembling.

Inside, Dean peels himself from his clothes and slips back into bed, gets under the covers and presses his body to hers for some warmth. He buries his face into the back of her neck and she stirs.

“Shhhh,” Dean hushes, draping an arm around her to weigh her down and hold her still.

It’s not long before he falls asleep again.

Y/N wakes up to Dean snuggling close to her. She feels his warm breath on the back of her neck, feels his heavy arms around her body.

She blinks a couple of times, yawns and rubs at her eyes. Gently, she rolls herself out of his embrace and Dean grunts at the loss of her in his arms. Her body goes rigid and she watches him from her standing position, holding in her breath. She exhales when she sees him burying his face back into the pillow, his lips are slightly parted, snoring a little too.

It’s actually ridiculously cute. He looks so peaceful and soft. She has a hard time tearing her eyes from him.

Taking a couple of steps, she feels that she’s still sore but it’s not as bad as she thought she would be, so at least there’s that.

Oh god, he made her come so many times last night and he was rough with her. To her own surprise, she was totally okay with it, even welcomed the sensation of being at his mercy. This has never happened before in her life. She doesn’t even think she laid so much trust in Cole. Maybe it was because Dean asked several times if it was okay for her, he made sure that she knew that she can say stop anytime, and she believed and trusted him that he would have stopped when it would have been too much for her to handle.

She went into it relaxed. Her body was willing to accept it and didn’t put up a fight, and so her muscles aren’t as sore as she thought they would be.

Inside the bathroom, she takes a look into the mirror, grinning at herself for the first time in years. Usually, she only frowns at her own reflection. Y/N takes her time, washes her face, brushes her teeth and tries to right her hair.

When she sits down to pee, she feels a blob of his cum running out of her and she squints. Her pussy’s wet and it tingles at the thought of what they did. She can’t help it. Dean really does this to her. He’s awakened all the things that she thought she’d never had in her. She was never a sexual person per se, but now she’s got a taste of it and she wants more, which is really bad, isn’t it?

No, she decides. It’s not bad to know what she wants. It’s not bad that the person she wants wants her back. Because he does, doesn’t he? Dean said he cares for her. She likes that. For the first time in her life, someone really does care about her.

Y/N walks out and searches for her phone. She finds it on the kitchen counter where she left it before going down to the party. There are three missed calls. One from her probably future landlord and two from Jody Mills.

Shit.

She was supposed to call the woman back but she forgot in all the haze of the break in, and then there was no time because of the party and ugh.

Y/N wonders why Mrs. Mills didn’t leave a message though, but she can’t dwell on that. She has to call her landlord first, seeing if she is getting the apartment or not.

She got the apartment and is doing a victory dance butt naked in his apartment, but at that moment, she doesn’t really care. Things are really starting to look up for her and she seriously can’t be more happy about it.

Turning and twisting around, she stares right into the Dean’s face, who’s very awake and very much grinning at her, with his tousled hair and the back on his head propped on a pillow. The lower half of his body is covered by the sheets but she can see from here that he must at least be half hard. Her body goes rigid and she stops her dance mid-motion. She looks down, trying to avoid his gaze by staring at her toes.

“Oh, no, don’t stop on my account,” He says, his voice is gravelly, very deep from sleep.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” She scoffs and turns away, places her phone back on the counter and turns to stroll towards the bed. She’s probably visibly flustered, at least her cheeks feel warm.

Dean chuckles, “No, of course you weren’t.” And then he adds, “But there’s something wrong,”

Her eyebrows rise up her forehead, “What?”

He grins, wide and white. And it’s damn smug too. He looks younger like this. All playful eyes and cocky smile. It reminds her of high school Dean, “You’re dancing over there instead of in my lap,” He pats his lap to emphasize it.

Y/N rolls her eyes and Dean laughs.

“No, seriously,” He says, “What are you so happy about?”

It’s her turn to grin when she’s standing at the foot of the bed. Her hands go to grab at the sheets, pulling them down and she watches as Dean’s cock springs free. It twitches at the feel of cooler air around it.

Dean’s eyes go darker, and the grin on his face disappears when he watches her climb onto the bed, crawling towards him on all fours.

She slots herself in between his thighs, spraying kisses on his skin. Dean bites down on his bottom lip, his hands balled into fists on the side of his body.

Her mouth gets closer to his dick and she sees it twitching visibly. She sticks her tongue out with a grin before the tip of her tongue tickles at his ball sac.

“Jesus, Y/N,” He groans out while she giggles.

Licking at his balls, she takes one of them into her mouth, sucks at it and strokes her tongue against it. He has a hard time controlling himself; his knuckles are turning white, she notices.

“Come on,” He almost whines, “What was that all about, huh?”

Grinning, she licks up his shaft, the tip of her tongue playing with his sensitive string, “I got an okay to move into my new apartment,” She says, still smiling before her lips quickly sealing around the head of his dick. His taste fills her up immediately. It’s salty, kind of bitter but delicious on her tongue.

“Wha— Holy fu—!” Dean groans out audibly. She watches him throwing his head back and closing his eyes.

Y/N bobs her head, hollowing out her cheeks, and takes him in further. She retches and chokes, drool seeps out of the corner of her mouth. She hears him cursing above her.

“Get on it, I want you to ride me,” His voice is hoarse, his hands grabbing at her arm to pull her up.

She sits on him and grinds on his slick dick, her folds parting, rubbing herself up and down his shaft and Dean’s hands find her tits, kneading and twirling his fingers around her erect nipples.

“You’re a fucking tease,” He whispers as one of his hand smacks down on her tit, making her arch her back and grind on his dick harder, “When will you move?”

Why does he have to talk about that now? It blows her fucking mind.

Lifting up her hips, she positions his dick to her entrance and sits down slowly, moaning out as she goes, “Fuck,” She has to close her eyes briefly. His dick always fills her so fucking good.

Dean’s hands are on her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh on the side of her waist when he feels him bottoming out.

“He needs to clean it first. I should be good to go in two days,”

Y/N rests her hand on his chest when she starts to ride him. She grinds down on every downthrust, taking him even deeper and it tickles her cervix. It’s a sharp pain but not necessarily a bad pain. It’s actually more pleasure than anything else, “Oh god, you’re so deep,”

His hands are firm on her hips at first but Dean moves them up, cupping her tits in between, kneads them roughly and spanks down on them once more before he locks his hand around her throat.

“You’re close, ain’t that so? I can feel it, baby,” His voice is low, she feels the bass of it vibrating in his chest that’s underneath the palms of her hands, “Look at me,”

“Uh-huh,” She bites on her lips. She blinks, preventing her eyes from closing to be able to look him in the eye.

Dean’s eyes are dark, and he licks his lips as he watches her coming undone above him. The grip around her throat tightens and there’s not enough air in her lungs. She starts to whimper.

“Keep on riding, baby,” He coos, “Come on my cock. That’s it, keep on going, you’re doing so good,”

She resorts to grinding because riding seems to be too much right now and oh god, his pelvis rubs so good against her clit.

“Fffff—” She bites down on her bottom lip harder, not sure if she draws blood but she tastes copper in her mouth.

“Christ, you feel so fucking good,” Dean whispers, “Good girl, keep going,”

She comes with a shout but there’s nothing coming out of her throat, she feels light headed, her body trembles above him and the only thing keeping her upright are Dean’s hands around her throat.

Dean’s grunting and his arms are shaking as he lets go of her throat, pulling her down to him. She buries her face in the crook of his neck as he bites at the place where her shoulder meets her neck, painting her insides with his cum as he does it.

They stay connected a little longer, with Dean spraying kisses all over her face. Her forehead, her eyes, his hand steadily stroking her back, while he kisses him below his ear and breathes in the scent of him. She loves how he smells.

The silence is deafening and he hasn’t asked more about her move. Dean’s suddenly reserved and she doesn’t know what’s wrong.

After a while Dean stirs underneath her, kisses the top of her head before he whispers, “Come on, let’s take a shower, you have to go to work soon,”

Y/N doesn’t say anything to that. She lets him pull her along and carry her into the shower with him.

Chapter 14

#euphoria #spnkinkbingo #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #nathalie writes

211 notes · View notes

fatalezr · 3 years

Text

Secret State - Part 6

"A new strategic partnership?"

Kate read the screen out loud over Rebecca's shoulder, startling her. She did not realise that her colleague was behind her.

"Sorry, just reading something" Rebecca replied, broken from her thoughts.

"All good," Kate said, "fancy some lunch?"

'Sure" Rebecca said, minimising the Financial Times website she had been looking at, "let me go to the loo first". She took her time walking to the toilet and thinking about the article. The Financial Times had a small article that caught her eye that morning about a senior member of the Cabinet proposing a new strategic alliance between Britain and Russia, to "further and build on the arrangements agreed in last week's energy summit". Details were sketchy but it looked like Russia was asking the UK to withdraw from NATO and sign a comprehensive trade deal that would make it replace the EU and USA as the most important of British allies. Rebecca couldn't quite believe it - was this the end game? Was this what all this was about?

The paper had shown the most senior members of the Government together, the rotund Prime Minister with a blonde mop of hair and a seemingly-clueless look on his face in the centre, flanked by the Chancellor, a tall Asian man, smartly dressed and his foreign secretary, a blonde woman on his right. On his left stood the Home Secretary, a few inches shorter than the Prime Minister and sporting slicked back greying hair with his arm around him, reminiscent of their much publicised childhood together at Eton. The PM had subsequently beaten the Home Secretary in a leadership contest many years later but the two had apparently repaired their relationship. To his left stood the International Trade Minister, a short Asian woman with an apparently fiery temper but who was getting credit for bringing the Russians to the table. Was one of these members involved? These were all questions she needed to ask George, but a break with Kate first would be welcomed.

There was something different about Kate today she noticed, and she saw her colleague had makeup on, including a dark red lipstick. "Is it date night?" she asked her.

"Bec, whenever I go out, it's always date night" Kate replied, winking at her.

Rebecca's interest was piqued. "So who's the lucky guy?"

"Who said it was a guy?" Kate said, before chuckling to herself, "someone new, I'll let you know how it goes".

Rebecca sighed and shook her head. They ate a sandwich and joked together and Rebecca started to relax, the upcoming evening's activities far from her mind. There was some awkwardness as Kate asked about Marcus. Rebecca smiled and said all was well but that the incident at London Bridge had naturally led to a lot of overtime being called on patrols to make sure it did not happen again.

"I found another unexplained body," Kate said, finishing her drink. "Another national security thing, outside that Passion nightclub in Vauxhall" Rebecca's ears pricked - this was another one of hers, the bodyguard of Colonel Umarov. "I asked the Superintendent if we can look into them but I think he's got a new case coming up for us".

"What's it going to be?" Rebecca enquired. She was intrigued to move on from the Mulvaney case and be launched into a new investigation.

"From what I've heard, maybe something to do with corruption," Kate said, "could be an interesting one. I reckon we're finding out about it later". DSI Sullivan had scheduled a meeting for 3pm that afternoon in the conference room with his Detectives - Rebecca suspected this would be the subject.

"They're not turning us into AC-12?" Rebecca joked.

"I doubt it will be that exciting - we leave all the intrigue and shooting to our personal investigations" Kate responded, winking back at her.

------

"As you can see, this is a delicate situation".

Detective Superintendent Sullivan was surveying the stunned looks on the faces of his detectives, Rebecca saw. They all looked lost in thought in their own ways. Kate had her face screwed up and was looking off to the side, Oli Afidi was stroking his newly-grown goatee and Tim Warren sat with his arms folded. Rebecca looked perturbed too, but she suspected in a slightly different way to the others.

"Any questions?" DSI Sullivan added.

DI Warren looked up. "Sir" he said, being respectful to his boss, "may I ask why this investigation is falling to us? Would it not normally be under the purview of the National Crime Agency or even dare I say, the Security Services?"

"It's a valid question" Sullivan responded, "my understanding is there is some concern about how impartial those agencies can be. We're seen as a more....neutral influence. None of us here was a political appointment, therefore we can investigate without prejudice".

Warren nodded and returned to his thoughts. Rebecca was lost in hers too. Sullivan had revealed that the Commissioner was asking them to look into the possibility of corruption within the most senior levels of government. It was a far cry from the criminal underworld they were used to investigating and all of them knew it could be a high-profile investigation with the possibility of great embarrassment if they made a wrong move. Sullivan said the request had come from the Commissioner - hadn't she gone to school with the Chancellor? And what evidence were they launching this based on? Sullivan had only said that serious allegations had been made but was unable to provide more detail. She decided to ask a question.

"Sir, are we expecting to find something? Couldn't this just be a big investigation into nothing at all?"

"I can't say, DC Davidson" Sullivan admitted, "but the Commissioner has asked us to investigate and look into government affairs and so that is what we shall do. We'll do a thorough look at financial records, business dealings and the like and if we find nothing, that's what we shall report".

Rebecca was satisfied by his answer - Sullivan was nothing but fair. However, the timing of it was suspicious given recent activities by the Russian state. She wondered if George knew of this all.

"DI Warren, DI Belmont, I'll let you start work on an investigative strategy" Sullivan said, "we'll reconvene on Friday to discuss".

They both acknowledged his request and he left the room. The team leaned back in their chairs for a few seconds until Tim Warren got up and straightened his suit jacket. "Right," he said, moving to a whiteboard and writing the names of the cabinet ministers across it, "let's begin, shall we..."

------

"Maybe I should leave the two of you in peace?"

Simon Selwick sounded a little unsure. He was not alone as he entered a dressing room in one of his private clubs in Soho that Rebecca was using to get changed. Rebecca checked that the satin robe she had been lent was covering her before looking at the guest who had entered with him.

"Good evening Miss Davidson" George said, "I hope I'm not intruding at an inopportune time".

Rebecca smiled. "It's all OK Simon" she assured the club owner, "I know him". Selwick bowed his head and shut the door while George hung up his coat on a chair and sat on it. Rebecca returned to look in the mirror and carefully styled her hair.

"You look beautiful," George told her.

"Just doing my job" Rebecca replied, trying to make light of the situation. In truth she felt nervous. Who knew what might unfold? She knew that she would be going with Arkady Romanov to Wembley and that at some point he was going to sneak away and she would have to follow him but the lack of detail to the plan made her uneasy. What if there was security? What if they found her spying? She tried to turn her mind away from it and on to other things. "Do you like football, George?"

He chuckled. "I'm a diehard fan of Hartlepool Town, Miss Davidson". He chuckled some more. "I must confess though, you're more likely to find me at the Henley Regatta than on the terraces".

Rebecca smiled. "We got put on a new investigation today" she told him.

"Really?" George sounded curious. "Do tell?"

"We're being asked to investigate the possibility of corruption within the Cabinet".

"You are?" George sounded surprised, "and why are you doing this?"

Rebecca shrugged. "Allegations were made, apparently. Direct orders from the Commissioner this time. You don't know anything about it?"

George frowned. "No, Miss Davidson. Unfortunately not. You say it was a direct order from the Commissioner?" Rebecca nodded and George stroked his chin, thinking hard.

"Did you see the story about the strategic partnership in the FT?" she asked him.

"Yes" he said, "most concerning. Dame Lucy's been trying to get a meeting with the PM but his private secretary doesn't want to take us. I sense they are worried we might go in and spoil the thing. Hear no evil, see no evil, of course".

"Do you think it's all connected?"

"That would be a sensible conclusion, but we must be careful Miss Davidson. I've no idea who might be involved. We must tread carefully at all times". He paused. "Are you going to be armed tonight?" Rebecca nodded. George bit his lip. "Tell me about the plan".

She ran him through the evening. Romanov would pick her up from Simon's club in 30 minutes and take her to Wembley to his own personal executive box. She would watch the game with him and if he moved off, make her excuses to join him. She could note anyone he met and report back at the end of the evening. She paused. How would the evening end? Would Romanov want her to go home with him, and if he did, how would she get her way out? She shrugged it off. She could find a way, she told herself. The main thing that worried her was having no phone with her, no means of communication to the outside world - it was one of Romanov's stipulations that Simon had told her about.

George listened politely. "OK" he said finally, "a good plan". He paused. "Rebecca....be careful, please". There was genuine concern in his voice that she did not recognise. She put down her eyeliner pencil and went over to him and hugged him. He embraced her back and Rebecca realised it was the first time they had ever done that. He broke off and smiled at her. "Remember, give England a cheer for us all, yes?"

"Of course," she said. He stood and put on his coat, giving her one final look before he left. Rebecca took off her robe and admired the new red bra, knickers, suspenders and some dark stockings. She put her gun, her suppressor and a spare magazine of ammunition into her suspenders before donning a black V-necked cocktail dress that fell to just above her knees. It sparkled in the lights from the mirror and gave a tantalising view of her neckline. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes to spare.

She passed the remaining time in silence, taking a final trip to the bathroom and then waiting patiently for the knock at the door from Simon Selwick. It arrived on time and he led her out of the club to a black Mercedes with blacked out windows. A driver opened the back door and she stepped in to see Arkady Romanov wearing a dark blue suit with a white shirt that was open all the way down to his chest. His hair was cut short and he had an untidy but short beard on his face. He smiled as he saw Rebecca, taking her hand to help her into the back seat and then kissing it.

He said some words in Russian to his driver and kept hold of Rebecca's hand as the car pulled away. Rebecca smiled back at him, pretending to enjoy the touch. He did not speak to her during the journey, preferring to spend most of his time looking out of the window and so Rebecca stayed silent too. It was not a quick journey from central London out to Wembley so she allowed herself a chance to let her mind wander and relax. She started to ease into the situation. The car was very comfortable and smooth, and she smiled as she saw the lights of the city all around her. She felt beautiful in her dress and could almost imagine she was on her way to a film premiere or fashion show rather than a football match.

"Is very pretty yes?" Romanov's deep voice cut through her dreams. He was pointing out the front window towards the Wembley arch that was now visible, lit up in brilliant white.

"Yes," Rebecca turned to him and smiled, "yes it is".

"Almost as pretty..as you" he said, finding the right words and she chuckled. She squeezed his hand a bit more and he smiled back at her. "We are close. Stay with me". He gave some more instructions in Russian to the driver. The car wound it's way closer to the stadium and Rebecca looked at the range of fans walking towards the ground, most wearing thick coats or hoodies but with an England jersey clearly visible over the top, some dressed in more neutral colours and even a couple of fans wearing full chain mail and dressed as St George. The car sped past them all and took a turn into an underground parking lot. They were flagged down by a couple of security guards but the driver spoke to them and the car was allowed to continue.

They parked and as they stepped out of the car Rebecca heard the sounds coming from the stadium that was almost on top of them. The music and announcements from the PA system echoed around the walls of the parking lot, as did the chanting of some fans who had arrived for the game. "Come" Romanov offered Rebecca his arm and she gladly accepted it, seeing the driver was staying with the car. Romanov walked her up a flight of stairs and she saw she was now right outside Wembley at a private entrance. She even thought she spied the English and Turkish team buses parked nearby. There was a flash to her side as a photographer took pictures and a young man with a notepad walked up behind the photographer.

"Mr Romanov!" he called, "Mr Romanov! Are you trying to sign Patelli? Is he heading to the Emirates?" He was evidently a journalist.

Romanov chuckled. "Come on England!" he said back to the journalist, raising his arm in a fist and ignoring the question. "Come on England!" he said, this time to Rebecca.

"Come on England!" she repeated and they both laughed. They continued past the journalist and into the stadium. The air outside was cold and Rebecca was grateful for the heat as they entered. They were in an atrium that was packed with smartly-dressed men and women. A waiter wearing white offered them both a glass of champagne and Romanov took two glasses, handing one to Rebecca. She held on to his arm as he walked through the crowd of people, stopping every now and again to shake the hand of someone he knew. Rebecca looked around the crowd - she recognised some people as famous heads of business, there were a couple of actors and a few former footballers in the room too. She kept a tight grip on Romanov as he stopped and said words with a few people in Russian before he laughed and slapped one on the back.

She looked up and saw Romanov nod discreetly to someone at the side of the room. She couldn't quite make out who it was but they were wearing a grey jacket and high-necked jumper underneath. The grey hair looked familiar and as the man moved around the room she caught another glimpse of his sharp face and recognised him - it was Colonel Umarov. Her mind raced. What was he doing here? Hadn't he gone back to Russia? If he was visiting again, it was certainly not on official business.

Romanov weaved through the crowd and to an area with some elevators. They took one up 3 floors and stepped out into a plush but thin corridor that looked more like it belonged in a theatre than a football stadium. The entrances to the executive boxes were every few yards along one side while on the other the windows were full length and glass, showing some of the skyline of London and the buildings around the stadium. Rebecca could hear the chanting from the terraces above and below them. There was movement all around, with guests entering their boxes, the sound of cheering and excitement within them and waitresses moving in and out of the boxes carrying trolleys with food that came from behind a set of double doors she presumed led to a kitchen.

Romanov's box was near the halfway line with a spectacular view of the pitch. There were seats outside for those who wanted to join the crowd but also black leather sofas and a small bar inside the box. As he entered, a group of men already within cheered. Rebecca recognised more faces - some of the young members of the Arsenal team were here, but there were also some older gentlemen she didn't realise who did not rush to greet him. Some of the players hugged him, others gave him a hand but Romanov spoke to them all, some in broken English. "Tony - look after self tonight" he told one boy. "Harry - score me many goal this weekend!" to another. He moved closer to two older men sitting in black suits and shirts and looking uncomfortable in their suits. He spoke softly in Russian to them. One shifted in his seat and as he did so, Rebecca spied a shoulder holster and gun underneath his suit. They were evidently security of some kind and with another older man with greying hair. Rebecca heard Romanov refer to him as Mikhail and the two shook hands warmly before he returned to Rebecca.

He led her to a sofa at the front of the box with a view of the pitch. "Stay here" he told her gently and he grabbed another glass of champagne to give to her. The stadium filled up as it got closer to kick off and the young boys from the box started to put on coats and head to the outside seats, presumably soaking up the atmosphere, most with dreams of playing there and winning trophies at the front of their mind. Romanov returned to her and sat next to her on the sofa, putting his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into his chest, trying to look and feel relaxed about the situation.

There was a large roar from the crowd as both England and Turkey's football teams stepped on to the pitch. Romanov applauded and shouted his approval and Rebecca sneaked a glance behind him to see the man named Mikhail and his security still in place, stony faced and unmoved by the match in front of them. Romanov hummed 'God save the Queen' but did not stand and so Rebecca did not either. She kept thinking about Umarov - it must surely be connected. It was no coincidence that he was here too. She thought about how she could follow Romanov when he excused himself to go to the meeting and wondered who else might be involved. Most likely the man called Mikhail at the back of the room, but what about others? Was Umarov in another box with more members?

The match began and she tried to appear attentive to the game. Romanov seemed invested - his love of football was genuine. He occasionally cried out when there was a chance and threw his arms up in disgust if he noticed a player missing an open pass to someone. He kept putting his arm around Rebecca and looking down at the cleavage she had created. The first half finished with the scores level at 0-0, both teams having largely cancelled one another out.

The younger men outside returned inside to continue laughing and drinking during the interval, some making polite conversation with Romanov as best as they could with them being unable to speak Russian and him not much English. Several gave glances towards Rebecca but she kept quiet and sat next to the man - it was clear to others that she was there with him and she sensed they knew that it meant she was off limits. Waiters came in serving canapes but Rebecca declined to eat - she knew that the meeting would have to take place in the second half and she had a knot in her stomach just thinking about it. She kept trying to glance at Mikhail and his security but they stuck to a fairly rigid position near the bar, the older gentleman occasionally sipping on a pint of beer.

Rebecca glanced at Romanov and saw him checking his watch. He seemed a little restless. She pulled on his arm and he turned to her. "Happy?" she asked him innocently.

"Very happy" he said, smiling back at her, "but must go - stay here".

"You don't want company?" Rebecca said. She subtly reached her free hand and rubbed it across the front of his crotch. She saw his face explode into some pleasure before he eased it away. He considered it for a few moments.

"Maybe walk with?" he suggested. Rebecca nodded. "OK. We walk" he said, standing and helping Rebecca up with him. She watched as he shot a glance in the direction of Mikhail. Romanov left the box with Rebecca as the teams re-emerged for the second half. He held her hand tightly and Rebecca sensed he had some nerves too. He led her back through the atrium area towards the double doors that led to a kitchen and as he did, Mikhail and his two security guards also emerged from the box.

"Arkady," she heard the older man say. His voice was gruff and damaged. Romanov did not hear him and pushed through the doors. It did lead to a stainless steel kitchen where staff in white uniforms were beginning to clean down for the evening. Romanov walked through to a set of doors at the other end. It led to a service corridor of some kind, decked in only concrete with stairs going up and down and a lift that could be used to bring supplies to the kitchen. "Arkady!" Mikhail's voice rang out again as Romanov and Rebecca reached the stairs. Mikhail began speaking in Russian but gesticulating at Rebecca and she guessed from his tone that he did not think it appropriate for her to be joining him.

Romanov replied in Russian, trying to calm Mikhail as they all climbed the stairs. They looped back around on themselves to lead to an upper floor with a couple of black doors on either side. Romanov turned to go through the one to the left but Mikhail put his hand on the door to stop it opening. He stuck his finger in Romanov's face and spoke sharply to him.

"Sorry - must go...alone" Romanov said, turning to her. "Downstair, wait. I come". He kissed her on the cheek before jerking upright to attention and saluting. Rebecca was taken aback but soon noticed why. From the other door emerged Colonel Umarov, flanked by an older man and older woman, all smartly dressed. Two younger male and one female wearing dark suits with white shirts were behind them, looking round and Rebecca noticed they had holsters with guns at the side of their trousers - evidently security for the individuals they were with. The female was particularly imposing at over 6 feet tall with short cropped blonde hair and a mean look in her eye. She kept a gloved hand on the butt of her gun at all times as if ready and expecting to pull it at any moment.

Umarov looked at the group in front of him and nodded. He stepped towards Romanov but then turned sharply to look at Rebecca. She felt herself cower as his bright blue eyes seemed to pierce her and look her up and down. He had an imposing presence and that long face seemed to constantly be in thought but showing no real emotion. Romanov offered him a handshake and some words and Umarov nodded some more. He carried on past the group and opened the door to the room. Rebecca chanced a glance inside and saw it led to a short corridor. Her mind whirred, wondering how to penetrate it. She tried to memorise every detail of Mikhail and the individuals with Umarov. He held the door open as the group filed in and Mikhail opened a purple curtain at the end of the corridor. Rebecca heard him say "Ah, hello sir, good evening" in his rough accent to a person inside. She frowned - why was he speaking in English? Who were they meeting?

She realised that Umarov was still staring at her and now it was his turn to frown. Rebecca wondered if he recognised her from the nightclub Passion. She was sure she looked different and he would only have glimpsed her face that night. She decided to go and started to walk down the stairs when she realised one of Mikhail's security men was walking with her. He had a round face and short hair in a military style. "Hello," she said, smiling at him.

"We go back down," the guard told her. Rebecca nodded. They walked back down the stairs through the kitchen and into the lobby that led to the boxes. Rebecca could hear more chanting from the stands - the game had evidently restarted. She didn't like the way the guard was staying so close to her, as if watching her every move. She spotted the toilets on her left.

"Bathroom?" she said. The guard looked displeased but nodded. Rebecca went into the ladies and shut herself into a cubicle. She needed time to think. She needed to get upstairs again and find a way to either get in the room or find out who was in it. She heard some noises outside the bathroom. There were shouts in Russian. She listened intently. She heard the voice of the guard who had escorted her and another male voice, who sounded like he had been running. Whilst they spoke quickly, Rebecca heard the running one say something that made her heart almost stop beating.

"MI5". It was unmistakable. How did they know?

"MI5?" the guard who had accompanied her said.

"Da" came the reply. Rebecca swore in her head. She was trapped in the bathroom. There was no way out other than the door she came in. She quickly raised her dress and grabbed her Walther P99 and suppressor from the red suspender belt she was wearing. She assembled it as quickly as possible, then took off her shoes, dropped low and crawled out of the cubicle she was in. She disappeared around a corner in the bathroom just as she heard the main door opening.

She heard two sets of footsteps as the guards came in. She chanced a look. They both had guns raised at the cubicle door, long suppressors attached to the end. "Come out - now" one shouted. There was a pause as nothing happened.

Pfft-pfft-pfft, pfft-pfft-pfft. She heard their guns softly fire at the door and a pinging sound as their empty casings hit the tiled floor. They were trying to kill her, she realised, either knowing she was a spy or not caring who she was. She steeled her nerves and swung round the corner from her hiding spot.

Both men were still looking at the cubicle door with it's holes, guns raised. She was behind them both and her gun found the back of the one who had accompanied her. Pfft-pfft. She fired twice into his back and immediately turned to the right to the new guard who had joined him. Pfft-pfft. Both men cried out and slumped to the floor. Rebecca did not hesitate and fired pfft, pfft, into both of their heads before they could react further. There was an "oooh" sound from the terraces and she suspected someone had just come close to scoring.

Rebecca listened intently at the bathroom door to see if anyone was around. She heard nothing and tucked her gun back into the front of her suspender belt, the suppressor warm against her skin. It looked bulky and out of place but she knew it was better than keeping it in her hand. There was an 'out of order' cleaning sign that she spied just inside the door and she left it outside of the bathroom as she exited to the atrium again. She hoped that no-one would need to find them there before she could reach George but Selwick had specifically told her that Romanov never wanted his girls to have a phone with them. She would need to find another way to get a signal to him.

She took a glance towards the lifts. She could probably escape now, she knew. She could get free of the stadium and away before anyone discovered the bodies in the ladies toilets but something made her stop. The mystery of the man that the Russian cabal was meeting was too great to resist. 'What would Kate do?' she asked herself and remembered how her colleague had intentionally got herself kidnapped by Mulvaney's gang earlier that summer. She looked above her and tried to imagine the layout above. The ceiling above her was high - much higher than she had climbed on the stairs. Above the kitchen it was presumably lower as the doors were in a solid wall. She walked into the kitchen. Staff were still cleaning it down. She noticed a food serving hatch to the right of her and followed the path of it up. It seemed to go up - maybe to the room they were meeting in?

"Excuse me" she said to a young woman her own age, "could you tell me where this hatch leads?"

"Oh this" the woman said. She had a thick Cockney accent. "We 'ardly ever use tha', think it goes to some private room that never got finished".

Rebecca nodded. "Does it still work?"

"Don' see why not?" the woman answered, "why you asking?"

"Would you mind sending me up?" The young woman looked at Rebecca like she was crazy. "I'm meant to be giving a surprise entrance," she said. She hitched up her dress a little to show the top of her stockings and leave the woman in no doubt about what kind of surprise she would deliver.

The young woman looked round. A chef in the kitchen nodded. "C'est bon" he said. "We keep ze customer 'appy". Rebecca took care to make sure her dress covered her gun as she got into the hatch. It was a tight squeeze, and she was almost having to curl up in a ball.

"'Ere goes then" said the young woman. She shut the serving hatch and Rebecca was plunged into darkness. She tried to stay calm and breathe. She was not claustrophobic but the tiny space and darkness created a horrible sensation around her. There was a jolt and she felt the hatch move upwards, rattling a little but supporting her weight up. 'This was a really stupid idea' she thought as the hatch clanked. Where would she even find herself?

After what seemed an age but was probably 30 seconds at most the hatch shuddered to a stop. Rebecca breathed deep and listened. She could hear no noise. Her hands eased the hatch open and she welcomed the light and fresher air in with her. She looked out of the hatch. She was in a small empty room for a kitchen that appeared to not be finished, with nothing except some silver work surfaces around her. She slowly maneuvered her way out, her bare feet finding the tiled floor cold. She crept to the door and listened - there was no noise. She eased it open as quietly as possible - the corridor was empty. There were faint sounds from behind the curtain and she tiptoed towards them on the now-carpeted floor, hardly daring to make any noise. She retrieved her gun from her suspenders and gripped it for security. She checked behind herself regularly, certain that security would be on the other side of the door.

As she edged to the door, the voices became louder. She recognised Mikhail's gruff voice. "I'm not sure I can be ready with contracts" he said in English, albeit a thick accented English.

"What's holding them up?" a posh male English voice responded. Rebecca paused - she'd heard that voice before. Where was it from?

"Council - local council" Mikhail said. He sat nearer to her position, Rebecca could tell.

"Leave that to me, I can pull a couple of strings" the English voice responded. "My timeline is set in motion. I've got the support in the party. Just give the word to accelerate and we can do this Igor, let's not delay".

There was a pause before the quiet voice of Colonel Umarov answered. "And your security services?" he said quietly.

"Not an issue" the English voice answered.

"Not even the spy tonight?"

There was a murmuring in the room. "Spy?" Romanov’s voice was recognisable.

“The woman you brought Arkady” Colonel Umarov said coldly and Rebecca felt a pit in her stomach. “Do not worry, I have dealt with this but it raises concerns, Mr Home Secretary”. The penny dropped for Rebecca as to where she knew the voice. The Home Secretary was a regular fixture in parliament and on the television and here he was, behind the curtain, plotting with the Russians.

“I assure you Colonel” the Home Secretary replied calmly, “there is no investigation by MI5 on records currently and if there is a rogue element, it will be stamped out immediately. Gentlemen, my lady” he said, raising his voice, “I will be the future Prime Minister of this country and when I am we shall forge a new European alliance together and rewrite the rules of democracy. Proceed with your plans, Igor. I’ll play my part”.

It sounded like he was leaving and so Rebecca darted quickly and yet softly on the floor back to the abandoned kitchen she had arrived in. She half-closed the door and waited. Sure enough, the slicked back grey hair of the Home Secretary walked past, humming a tune. Rebecca felt a fury and an anger - she gripped her gun tightly and wanted to finish him there and then just as she had to Assistant Commissioner Locke but she stopped herself. Killing an Assistant Commissioner had been one thing, killing the third most powerful member of the government was something else entirely. She thought of a better target - Umarov. It was clear he was orchestrating the plan. Without him it would fail. She could chop the head off the snake, just as her and Kate had done when they killed Kieran Mulvaney.

There were voices from down the corridor in Russian and Rebecca slinked back into the abandoned kitchen. Slowly the members of the cabal filed past the door, with Umarov the last to pass. Rebecca took a deep breath - this was her chance. She eased the door open and stepped into the corridor, gun raised.

“Hey!” A cry came from behind Rebecca and she instinctively fell to her knees and turned around as pfft-pfft, two suppressed shots were fired above her head from a guard emerging from behind the curtain. She turned and fired wildly in his direction pfft-pfft-pfft-pfft. She saw the shots stagger him and he dropped his gun. She took careful aim down the barrel and fired -pfft- into his neck. Rebecca wheeled around but only saw Umarov and the others running, some shouting.

She picked herself off the floor and tried to aim but the door was slammed shut. She raced to it and opened. Pfft-pfft. She fired more in hope than expectation but Umarov was already running up the stairs and her shots missed his back. She started after him but heard footsteps coming the other way and a guard in a suit burst through the door opposite her own. Pfft-pfft-pfft. Her shots downed him but there was another guard behind him. Rebecca aimed and pulled the trigger -click-. The gun magazine was empty.

“Oh fuck” she said and dived for the staircase to her right just as three bullets were sent in her direction. She fell down the first two concrete stairs but used the momentum to push herself up and she ran down them as fast as her bare feet could move, leaping down the stairs. She rounded the corner to the floor where the original kitchen was but kept turning and heading down. Escape was the only thing on her mind. The pain in her feet from the impact of her running was being numbed by the adrenaline. She was literally running for her life. ‘Keep going’ she thought as she rounded on the next floor down. ‘There will be a door at the bottom - keep going!’. She prayed there was a fire escape.

She rounded the next floor down, not stopping as Russian voices shouted from above her, their heavy footsteps falling on the concrete stairs too. The shouts of the crowd watching the game grew louder. There was a stir, then a huge eruption and a cheer that seemed to shake the foundations they were running down. Rebecca was deaf to it. She spotted a ‘1’ written on the wall of the next floor she rounded on. ‘One more!’ she told herself, forcing herself around the corner to the final set of concrete stairs. As it turned, she saw a sign indicating a fire exit. ‘You can do it’ she told herself, wondering if the crowd's shouts and exhilaration was for her own efforts. She leapt the final two steps and looked for the fire exit.

Crack! As she turned Rebecca saw a flash of black and then felt a searing pain. She crashed to the concrete floor, her head throbbing. She looked up to see the blonde security guard from earlier standing over her, gun in hand. She had evidently hidden round the corner and smashed Rebecca with the butt as she arrived. She tried to stand, to do anything to get away but the woman kicked her hard in the stomach. “Aaah!” Rebecca felt herself cry in pain and the air was knocked from her diaphragm. She tried to crawl but her hands could not support her. She looked up at the woman, who pointed her gun at Rebecca, and saw there was no escape.

Rebecca sat up and slowly raised her hands. She got on to her knees and felt fearful. “Ok, ok, I surrender” she said to the woman. The two men who had been chasing her arrived at the bottom of the stairs, panting and cursing. They raised their suppressed weapons at Rebecca. “I surrender” she repeated, keeping her hands high.

The female security guard chuckled. Rebecca watched as she reached into her jacket pocket and brought out a long and menacing suppressor that she screwed on to her own gun. “No surrender” she said to Rebecca calmly.

Rebecca looked to the guards around her and accepted her fate. She was going to die. Images flashed before her. George, Kate, her parents, her brother and her niece, Marcus. She felt a wave of sadness as she thought of them and tried to reassure herself. ‘I’ll see them again’ she told herself, ‘not for a long while though’. The female in front of her had finished attaching her suppressor and aimed it at her. Rebecca summoned all the courage she could. She would not slouch. She rested her hands on her head and kept a good posture. She would die well, she decided. She shut her eyes and waited for the end.

Pfft-pfft.

#silencer hitwoman #hitwoman #femme fatale #female assassin #silent assassin #story #woman gun #killer woman #secretstate

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sunlightdances · 4 years

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Weights & Dates (Personal Trainer!Bucky Barnes AU)

Title: Weights and Dates Author: Katie @sunlightdances Summary: Personal trainer Bucky Barnes. Wearing those smedium t-shirts. And sweating. Do I really have to say more? Disclaimer: I don’t own Bucky or Marvel. Please don’t repost my work on any other sites without my permission! I’d love for you to reblog this and tell me what you think if you read. It means the world to me. Author’s Note: I have a lot of other WIPs to work on but I had no choice but to write this when it was brought up in the Marvel creators Discord. Thank u for being a bad influence @jbbuckybarnes. ALSO: this was literally just meant to be drooling over what Bucky looks like at the gym (thank u Don Saladino for those gym vids as inspo) but ended up also having FEELINGS. What can u do, you know?

You’re nervous as you walk up the concrete steps to the gym, wringing your hands together as you try to convince yourself that this is a good idea.

It’s January. The time of the year everyone makes a resolution to go to the gym more, so here you are. A fresh gym membership and a session with a personal trainer on the schedule. You want to do this, you really do - you know you’ll feel good after a workout - but you can’t help but be nervous.

You haven’t worked out in ages, and you’re worried you’ll make a fool of yourself. It doesn’t help that you looked up your trainer on the gym’s website after the session was scheduled, and he’s-- he’s so hot. There’s really no other words for it.

So, yes, you’re nervous.

Still, you tell yourself to stop being an idiot and when you get inside, you’re a little calmed by the sight of a bunch of other nervous-looking people who are clearly there for the first time, too.

When you check in at the desk to ask where you’re meant to go for your session, the girl sends you down the hall and into an empty room on the left. “Bucky will be there in a few minutes, he’s finishing up with a group down the hall.” She sends you a quick smile, and then you’re alone.

Feeling fidgety, you take off your coat and put your bag in a corner, and you’re saved from being alone for too much longer when the door opens after a few minutes and a very tall, very sweaty man comes into the room.

You recognize him immediately from the picture on the gym’s website, and oh shit, he’s even hotter in person, especially when he meets your eyes and smiles at you, a crooked slow smile that has you nearly running for the hills.

“Hi,” he says brightly, “sorry to keep you waiting. I’m also sorry I’m disgusting right now,” he says, chuckling, and you almost scoff because hello? Has he seen himself? There’s no way he could ever be considered disgusting.

You introduce yourself, still feeling a little awkward.

“Nice to meet you,” he says warmly. “Let’s sit for a second.” The two of you sit cross-legged on the floor, and you giggle a little as he struggles to lower his enormous frame to sit next to you. He smiles, amused. “So. What brings you here?”

You frown a little. Are you in the wrong place? Didn’t you sign up for a session? Why--

“I meant, why did you sign up for personal training?” He asks kindly, seeing you flounder. “Any particular reason?”

You fidget some more. “Just-- I want to get back into shape. Not--” you shut your eyes briefly, frustrated that you can’t vocalize your thoughts. “I’m not trying to lose weight. I’m happy with my body. I just want to feel better. Stronger, more energy, less aches and pains.”

You’re embarrassed, but he doesn’t look like he’s judging you at all. In fact, if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was giving you a once over, but you shake that thought away. He’s a trainer. It’s his job to assess the situation. That’s all it is.

Standing, he offers his hand. When you take it, he tugs you to your feet, and gives you that grin you’re beginning to realize might actually give you a heart attack one of these days.

“Okay then. Let’s get started.”

You have been training with Bucky Barnes for one month, and you regret every nice thing you ever thought about him.

Sure, you still think he’s the most good looking person you’ve ever seen in real life, but that’s it. He’s trying to kill you, you’re convinced of it.

You’re bent over at the waist, sweat dripping from your forehead, struggling to get in even one deep breath.

“Come on,” he says gently. “You got this. Two more exercises and we’re done for today.”

“I’ll be done forever if I keep going,” you grumble, and he laughs.

“You’ll be alright. Come on. Deep breath, and let’s push through it.”

You finish your workout with some pushups and situps, like always (gets the heart rate going one more time, he told you on the first day), and then you basically collapse on the mat underneath you, arms refusing to hold you up any longer.

He sits next to you, close enough you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Gonna make it?” He asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” you say weakly, “Just leave me here to die.”

“So dramatic.” He stands, offering his hand. “Come on, up you go. You’ll cramp if you sit there too long.”

After ten minutes or so and an entire water bottle chugged, you leave with a wave, and Bucky watches you go, trying and failing not to notice the way your shirt sticks to your back or the single bead of sweat that drips from your collarbone that he can see even from all the way over here at the front desk.

“Dude.”

Bucky turns to see Sam and Steve, both amused, and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“When are you going to ask her out?”

“Literally never.” He turns to leave, but Sam and Steve just trail after him, peppering him with questions.

“Why not?!”

“She’s a client. She doesn’t need me putting the moves on her.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “She’s been looking at you the same way you��re looking at her, man.”

Bucky stops in his tracks, but tries to shake it off. That’s not right. There’s been zero signs. Even the day you were early and he caught you watching him as he finished his own workout on the squat rack-- there wasn’t anything but innocent curiosity in your eyes.

He’s pretty sure.

“Dude, you are so dumb.” Sam says, helping him put the weights you’d been using with him back in their racks against the wall.

“I’m not going to ask her out! It doesn’t matter how--” He stops himself short of saying that it doesn’t matter how beautiful or funny or smart or gorgeous he thinks you are, he just can’t. “She came here because she wanted help, and she trusts me enough to let me do that. So I’m not going to do or say anything stupid just because you two idiots think it’s a good idea.”

Another month passes. You’re almost at the three month mark, and it’s time to renew your membership.

You want to keep training, you’re just not so sure you should keep doing it with Bucky.

You’re-- you’re getting attached. And look, this membership is not cheap. Realistically, you can’t do it forever, and when it comes time to stop coming to the gym, you feel like it’s going to suck.

You don’t know why it feels so much like a breakup, but you’re really doing your best to avoid the subject with Bucky.

“You’re quiet,” he says, before you start your session. He’s putting out some of the equipment, and you can’t help but notice the way his muscles shift in his back, the way his shirt is pulled so tightly-- no. You have to stop, because this is embarrassing. You’re a grown ass woman. Get a grip.

“Just tired I guess,” you say, starting to stretch. You can feel his eyes on you, but not in a predatory way, you can tell he wants to say something, ask something. You hope he doesn’t.

The workout goes fine. Great, even. You can actually tell that you’ve made progress. And you’re proud of yourself for sticking with it. You can tell Bucky is too, the little smile on his face as he sits next to you as you stretch a good indicator.

“That was a good one today,” he comments, “Feeling okay?”

“Shoulder’s are a little sore from the weighted squats, but other than that I feel good.”

He hums sympathetically. “Drink a lot of water and take some pain reliever before you go to bed. It’ll help with the muscle soreness.”

As he turns to start putting some stuff away, you watch him. As his sleeves ride up, you notice a smattering of scars on his left shoulder and you find yourself realizing you know nothing about him.

It’s just a crush. You have no idea who he is other than tall, muscled, and extremely handsome. Also charming, and kind, and generous, and-- no. It’s just a crush. There should be nothing hard about ending your training with him.

“I can’t renew my membership.” You blurt, and he spins around, startled.

“Sorry?”

You shake your head, “I-- it’s been three months and the rate is going up. If I renew I’ll barely be able to pay my rent.”

He frowns. “Is it-- did I do something?” He asks, and it’s so plaintive, so concerned, you want to curl up in a ball and die.

“No! It’s not you--”

“I just--” he runs a hand through his hair, “You’ve been making great progress. And I thought we were getting along okay…”

“We are!” You’re quick to reassure him. “I just…”

He stops you before you can continue, “Wait, it’s okay. You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I get it.” He sends you a smile, but even you can tell he’s faking it.

You’re on your feet quickly, trying to end this awkward conversation before it gets any worse. “Well… I-- thanks, Bucky. Really, I lucked out with you.” You tell him, giving him a grin before shoving your hoodie in your bag and leaving before he can say anything else.

You make your last payment at the front desk, and avoid Steve’s eyes (the owner and Bucky’s best friend, you’ve discovered) when he ends your membership. Somehow you think he knows more than he’s letting on, but you appreciate that he doesn’t ask you about it.

When you leave, you wonder why you feel like you’re giving up on something that never even started.

Bucky’s still in the training room after you leave, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. People end their memberships or don’t renew all the time.

Why does this feel so different?

Because it’s her, his mind unhelpfully supplies, but it’s more than that.

He can’t get over the way you just blurted it out, like you couldn’t wait one more second to get out of there. He goes over every session, every interaction, trying to figure out where he got it all wrong.

One thing’s for sure - he was right, and he never should have let Steve and Sam try to convince him that you had feelings for him.

2 months later

You’re sitting at a table in a restaurant you don’t even like, trying your best not to release the tears that so desperately want to spill out.

You hate that you’re even here - talked into a blind date by your coworker is probably not the smartest decision you’ve ever made, but whatever.

Embarrassed because the waiter has definitely noticed you’ve been alone for far longer than anyone else at a table for two, you’re wondering how to avoid having to tell him that your date isn’t showing before going home.

Just as you’re looking around to find the waiter, you see him at the bar.

His eyes widen, just slightly, before he softens, hesitating before getting off the barstool and heading over to you. You feel the embarrassment welling back up inside you when he gets close enough to speak.

The way he says your name… it’s question and there’s sympathy there.

“I thought that was you,” He says. “Are you okay?” He asks, and you shrug.

You gesture to the chair across from you, and he sits, setting his drink down in front of him before pinning those eyes back on you.

“I guess my date isn’t coming,” you say lightly, and watch as that muscle in his jaw ticks.

“I’m sorry.”

You snort, “Don’t be sorry. You’re not the one who stood me up.”

He looks down, before quietly mumbling, “I wouldn’t have done that to you.”

You must look surprised, but then again so does he, a little bit, like he can’t believe he said that part out loud.

“Do you--” You start, hesitating “-- are you waiting for someone? Or would you want to…” you gesture to the chair he’s sitting in, asking without asking if he wants to eat with you. You have no idea where the urge came from.

You haven’t seen him in 2 months, and you’re starting to think it wasn’t just a crush. You’ve thought about him a lot since you stopped training, and now that he’s right here in front of you, you realize your attraction hasn’t waned. Not at all.

“I’m not waiting for anyone,” he says, a gentle smile on his full lips. “If you’re sure--”

“Even if he shows up, I don’t care.”

He grins at that, and you really can’t believe your luck that he’s here.

After a few minutes and another visit from the waiter, you ask about the gym.

“It’s the same, mostly,” he says. “Sam and Steve still annoy the hell out of me, and I’m still everyone’s favorite.”

You grin. “That’s not hard to believe.”

“You look great,” he says, a little shy. “Seeing another trainer?” He’s teasing you, you can tell, but there is an undercurrent of uncertainty there you don’t expect from him.

“I’ve gone on a few runs and worked out at home, but no. Haven’t been back to the gym.”

He props his head on his fist as he considers you. “Are you sure…” He rolls his eyes at himself, “Are you sure I didn’t do something to make you leave?”

He sounds so genuinely worried, you realize you have no choice but to tell him the truth. He didn’t do anything. It’s the truth, but the other truth is that you thought he was too cute to keep working out with. It sounds like something from high school.

“You didn’t do anything, Bucky. You were a perfect gentleman. That was part of the problem.”

Now he looks confused. Like a cute, confused puppy.

“It was the truth that the membership was getting a little expensive, but I also had a hard time because you’re super distracting.” You wait a beat for your meaning to hit him, and when it does, he reacts nothing like you expect.

He goes a little pink around the ears, but there’s a spark in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. It makes you nervous.

“I-- maybe, maybe had a crush on you and didn’t want to be that girl, so--”

“Wait, you had a crush, or you have a crush?” He interrupts. “Because if it’s past tense, what I’m about to tell you is going to sound so stupid.”

You’re a little in shock. He keeps going.

“I-- I was kinda bowled over the first time I met you.” His accent sounds a little stronger, and you’re relieved that he looks a bit nervous too. “You’re beautiful, and you were nervous, which was cute, but you made me laugh, and--” He stops for a second, probably worried he’s rambling. “I thought I was too obvious about it and that it made you uncomfortable. I thought that’s why you left. And then I was kicking myself for not asking you out in the first place, but I thought it would have been inappropriate because you were still a client.”

“Are you serious?” You blurt.

He laughs. “I’m serious.”

“So this whole time--”

“We both thought each other were hot and didn’t do anything about it,” he says, winking at you. “Really,” he adds, when he sees how skeptical you look, “You should see yourself in those leggings.”

“Bucky!”

“What! Like you didn’t know.”

“Okay, well what about you? Coming in there for our sessions with your cut off shirts and-- your muscles--”

“So, this is officially a date, right?” He interrupts your rambling, thank god. “Because I kinda haven’t stopped thinking about you for the last two months.”

You leave that night with your hand in his, his number in your phone, and a session at the gym set for next week.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader

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charmisticdisappointment · 4 years

Text

A Special New Year. Final Chapter : Marry Me?!

Hey guys! Here's the final chapter. Pretty sure the title gave it away but I hope you all still give it a read and like it.

Please like, share and comment.

Please note none of the pictures used are mine and credit goes to respective owners!

Have a great read!

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It was New Year's Eve. Your brother was putting up the lights and your cousins were off decorating the house. You were helping the ladies at the kitchen. Just when your about to start getting dressed, you received calls from your friends and colleagues wishing you an advanced New Year. Talking on the phone you didn't realize time had passed by real quick. Ending the last and final call, you start brushing your hair. You put on a beautiful red dress you picked while shopping with your sister in law. You make sure you're looking perfect in it. You get some light makeup on and start searching for your earrings which you can't find when you need them.

While lost in looking for those earrings, you fail to realize Chris walking towards you. He holds you quietly from behind and showers you with kisses on your neck. "Hey beautiful."

"Hey Chris. I didn't see you come in", you said, happy in his embrace.

Chris was in a pitch black suit. His hair just perfect as always. Amazing tie, of course. He just looked so amazing.

"I just can't find my earrings", you say getting back to your senses.

"Actually you don't have to search for it"

"What do you mean", you look at Chris confused.

" Its not too much but I got you a present", he hands over a neatly packed box.

You carefully open it to reveal a beautiful necklace and matching earrings. Before you could say anything. Chris brushes your hair off you shoulder, takes the necklace and puts it on you. It looks so beautiful. He helps you with your earrings too.

"You look like a dream Y/N", he says.

"Thank you. This looks beautiful. But you shouldn't have"

"No need to thank me. I just wanted to!"

Not able to hold himself, he just steps forward and hugs you.

"I've got a gift for you too. I hope you like it cause *Y/Niece/N* helped me pick it out". You hand him a small Tiffany box.

Once he opens it he couldn't help but laugh. "You know in my entire career I've never owned a pair of these. About time! Help me out" he asks as he takes his Captain America cuffs and puts them on.

You walk down, hand in hand, making both your Moms smile wide.

"You look beautiful honey!". It was Chris's parents. You'd met them couple of times when Chris took you home to meet his family. They were warmest bunch and you were more than happy to spend New Year's Eve with them. It almost felt like extended family.

"Thank you. Please make yourselves comfortable", you say.

"And your parents are wonderful. Your dad and I already have golf plans", Chris's dad says. "Oh god. Does that mean a double amount of golf jokes". "Most probably" they said simultaneously drowning in laughter.

"Did you like the gift Y/N. Chris spent an entire evening on it. He said he wanted to make it special. And I just can't get him to stop talking about whether you'd like it", she laughs playfully. "I love the gift and its really sweet of you to come down here today". "Chris wouldn't miss it for the world honey", she said making you blush.

The evening officially begins when your dad asks you for a dance.

"Time to show you what I learnt" you say making him laugh.

"It wasn't my idea, entirely your mom's".

"Haha of course. Dance lessons. It wasn't a bad idea after all", you say looking at Chris.

"Don't think I didn't catch that look young lady", you dad says bringing back your focus.

"Oh it's nothing dad"

"It always is nothing Y/N", he said with a wink.

After your first dance, Chris comes by and asks you for a dance.

"I got an eye on you young man", your dad says as he kisses you lightly in the cheek.

Chris slowly pulls you closer and sways along to the music. Chris' silence was worrying you.

"Something bothering you?" you ask.

"You look beautiful Y/N", he said smiling at you.

"Nice save mister. But what's going on on your mind? "

"You'll know in a while! "

"Can't wait"

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Everyone were soon seated at the table indulging in the wide spread your mom had created. Music still playing softly in the background while the other couples swayed until their children interrupted them. Everyone were busy talking about how this year had been and what they're looking forward to in the coming year. Throughout the evening Chris' gaze followed you as to spoke to everyone else. He seemed a little off today, he was definitely worried about something. But put on a happy face and dodged any questions.

It was five minutes close to new year, so all of you gather around in a circle, holding hands as per family tradition. The last one minute and the countdown begins. Its feels amazing having Chris holding your hand and counting, he already feels like family and his parents, it looked like they were having an amazing time too. Three....Two.....One. New year!

Wow that was quicker than you thought. You turn to Chris and give him a tight hug. "Happy New Year!", he wishes you like an excited kid. "A happy new year to you too" you say and give him a soft kiss.

There was one last tradition to be completed. Wishing. Every year, everyone got the chance to tell their resolutions. This always made you nervous. One by one, everyone called out their resolution and it was your turn.

"This year I hope, hope being the keyword here, I hope to make more decisions with my heart. Love more. Accept the ways of the universe. Welcome new friends who are literally now family and less tripping while dancing", you say making everyone laugh a bit.

It was finally Chris's turn to say his resolution out aloud.

"Loving you forever", he said looking at you.

Everyone stood there, not moving an inch, just staring at Chris and then back at you. You just stand there confused and surprised.

"Y/N, I've known you for three months now and I can't think of living without you. You're not only beautiful. You're smart, talented and, yes, a workaholic. We can work on that", he's says making you laugh a bit. You head was close to spinning.

"There is a piece of jewelry I missed out on giving you", he said making you wonder what he was talking about.

*Oh god. Is he talking about a ....* your thoughts were interrupted when he got down on one knee. You looked at your Mom tear eyed and she was on the verge of crying. You look back at Chris and see him holding a beautiful diamond ring.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking and the only thing I can hear is you saying 'Life is Short'. When I have a bad day I want to come home to you. When I have a good day I want to come home to you. You're my home I've been looking for my whole life. I know marriage is a huge step, but I'm willing to take it, with you. Marry me Y/N!"

"So did you write this down", you ask him crying, "Because its something I'd love to tell our grand children".

"So is that a yes??".

"Of course Chris. It is. Yes, a million times yes!".

Chris puts that gorgeous ring to your finger and hugs you. Everyone around is cheering and clapping. Your mother's were hugging each other and crying almost hysterically.

Your brother cheering in disbelief gave your father a $100 bill and asked him "How did you know?". "Dads always know", he said shoving the note into his pocket and congratulating with Chris' father.

Your sister-in-law was trying her best to calm your extremely upset niece as she wanted to be the one to marry Chris :P. And you could faintly hear Miles chant "I don't wike it" for the same reasons while his mother tried to calm her down.

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It was only the two of you in your backyard, watching the stars wrapped in each other's arms.

"Can I have a dance?", Chris asks you.

"I'll never say no. Because this is why we met in the first place!"

You hold onto him like you life depends on it and sway. The cool breeze complimenting the mood. You smiled at the way things had played out. You always tried to control things, it was just how you were. But now, the universe had shown you, that maybe just once by letting your heart take over, everything would fall into place. You were thankful for taking those dance lessons, the ones you thought of backing out from, which led you to meet the love of your life.

For the first time in forever Chris felt at peace, having found his home, who he held in his arms this very moment. He closed his eyes, enjoying your embrace as he swayed you, which helped him control his adrenaline rush. He was thankful he ran into you, hurting you almost on his first day of dance lessons. He was content.

"How do you think Mrs. Rose will react to this turn of events?" Chris asked breaking your thoughts.

"I think major panic attack and main feature in her website about how her dance lessons creates magic" you said making him laugh. "But she's the first person on our guest list for the wedding. We wouldn't be here if she didn't pair us together."

"Definitely. Who knew Mrs. Rose was a visionary"

"Oh I did" you joke making Chris laugh.

"Chris?"

He looks down at you pausing for a while.

"I love you"

He chuckles.

"I love you too dork. Till the end of the line remember!" he says pulling you close as you sway to the music and pulls you in for a kiss.

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The End!

Hope you all liked this series.

Please like, share and comment.

Loads of Love and Take Care!

30 Days of Chris : @jtargaryen18

#cevans #chrisevansimagine #chris evans x reader #chrisevansxy/n #chrisevansfluff #30daysofchris2020

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queen-of-deans-booty · 4 years

Text

Fallen Idols: Part Two

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,129

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

“Did you just give him all that research to do so he wouldn’t be out in the world?” you asked Dean as you finished your glass of beer from the bar you two were at.

“He needs it.”

“Dean, do you fully trust him? If not, you have to tell him. I may not have been serious about braiding Sam’s hair and mud masks, but I was serious about talking about our feelings. It doesn’t have to be a girl sesh, but it is healing to do so.”

“That’s more your thing than mine,” he shrugged.

“You know, I’m kind of scared about Amara and what Zachariah showed us,” you sighed.

“Me too,” he whispered, but you heard him.

“I just don’t want to end up that way. I saw the look in my own eyes, and I didn’t recognize me. It was all her, and that scares the shit out of me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were having dreams about her?”

“I guess I didn’t want you to worry. She talks to me wherever she is, and she says that I need to trust her because she needs me and I am going to need her. She tells me that she isn’t bad, but what I saw… that wasn’t good. It’s the complete opposite of everything she’s telling me that she is.”

“We’ll deal with her when it comes down to it. Who knows, that could be years in the future.” Before you had a chance to come up with a reply, Dean’s phone rang. He answered it with a curt, “Hello” before putting whoever it was on speakerphone.

“Took me a while, but I traced all the car's previous owners,” Sam said on the other line.

“Any of 'em die bloody?” you wondered.

“Nope. In fact—” someone nearby breaks a triangle of pool balls which was loud enough for Sam to hear it. “Are you two in a bar?”

“No, I—I'm—we’re in a restaurant,” Dean stuttered, and you put your hand over your mouth to silence your giggle.

“Here’s your beer,” the bartender said when she brought out Dean’s refill.

“That happens to have a bar,” the older brother said to the younger one.

“I've been working my ass off here.”

“Hey, world's smallest violin, pal, I spent the afternoon up Christine's skirt. I needed a drink,” Dean sighed.

“Actually, you didn't.”

“What does that mean?” you asked.

“The car's first owner was a cardiologist in Philadelphia; drove it 'til he died in nineteen-seventy-two. That Porsche is not, nor has it ever been, James Dean's car. It's a fake Little Bastard.”

“Then what killed the guy?”

“Good question,” Sam sighed.

“I want you to use a, a fine-tooth comb. The evidence is here, we just gotta find it,” Rick instructed one of the crime scent unit gentlemen who just nodded and left to do his job.

There had been another murder taken place at someone’s home. GSW to the head, but no bullet, gunpowder, or gun so it was definitely up your alley.

“Heard you got another weird one,” you commented to the Sheriff as he pushed past you to exit the room.

“Uh, well, it's a little strange on the surface, I admit, but, uh... you know, once you—you look at the facts…”

“William Hill died from a gunshot wound to the head. No gun, no gunpowder, no bullet,” you pointed it out to the nervous man.

“Nope. Nothing strange about that,” Dean shrugged.

“Well there's gotta be a reasonable explanation. There always is.”

“Well what's your reasonable explanation?”

“Professional killer,” the Sheriff whispered cautiously. “CIA, NSA, one of them trained assassins, like in Michael Clayton. You're welcome to look around, but—but these guys don't leave fingerprints.”

“Mind if we talk with the witness?” you asked.

“Be my guest. She's not making any sense! And she's not making any sense in Spanish either.”

“Right,” Dean nodded slowly before you took the lead and led the brothers outside where a police officer was talking to the housekeeper for William.

Pulling out your badge, you flashed it to the officer who just nodded and left the woman alone.

“Consuela Alvarez?” you asked.

“Yes?”

“FBI. Now, uh, you said you saw something in the professor's house. Right? Something in the window?” you asked as you took the officer’s place on the bench next to the woman.

“Estaba sacando la basura. Imiré por la ventana y vi al hombre que mató al Señor Hill!” she exclaimed.

Looking at Sam, you knew he used to take Freshman Spanish, so he was the only one who could talk to her right now since you and Dean didn’t know a lick of English. Getting up, you let Sam take your spot so he could talk to her.

“Uh, Señora Alvarez. Cálmese, por favor. Uh—Uh, díganos lo que vio?” Sam asked as he tried to remember what he learned.

He asked her to tell him what she saw and to calm down since she was a fucking mess.

“Era alto. Muy alto. Y llevaba el abrigo negro largo y tenía bigotes,” she sighed.

“Okay, uh, a tall man, very tall. With a long black coat and a beard,” Sam translated.

“Y un sombrero,” Consuela added.

“Dude was wearing a sombrero?” Dean asked.

“Uh, a hat, not a—a—”

“No, no, no, un sombrero alto,” the woman corrected.

“A tall hat?”

“Oh, like a top hat!”

“Un sombrero alto. Muy alto!” she gasped as she demonstrated just how tall this hat was.

“What, you mean like a stovepipe hat?” you asked. “Like Abraham Lincoln.”

“Sí,” the woman sobbed. “El Presidente Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln kill Mister Hill!”

“Excuse me?” you asked, not believing your ears.

“S-so I go home now?” she asked.

“Uh, sí. Gracias,” Sam smiled as the woman left.

“Abraham Lincoln? The 16th president? The dead president?” you gawked.

“Looks like it,” Sam sighed.

Back at the motel room, research needed to be done because clearly, something was going on here that was worse than you originally thought. Sam did some research on the newest victim, William, while you and Dean went over the video that Jim recorded of Cal’s death to see if there was something that happened to be missed. Dean played the video frame by frame until you spotted something red in the reflection of the car.

“Wait, go back,” you instructed.

“You find something?” Sam asked.

Dean went back a few frames until the figure in red was locked onto the screen. Dean picked up the laptop before turning it around and showing his brother what was discovered.

“It's a freeze-frame from Jim Grossman's video. Are we crazy, or does that look like James Dean?”

“That looks like James Dean,” Sam confirmed.

Dean placed the laptop back in front of him with a sigh.

“So, we got Abraham Lincoln, and James Dean?” you asked. “Famous ghosts?”

“Maybe.”

“Well that's just silly.”

“No, actually, there is a ton of lore on famous ghosts. More than the, you know, not-famous kinds. I'm actually surprised we haven't run into one before.”

“Yeah, but now we got two of 'em? Two extremely pissed-off ghosts?”

“Who are apparently ganking their fans,” Sam said as he looked at his laptop screen.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Professor Hill was a Civil War nut. He dug Lincoln.”

“And Cal must've been a James Dean freak. He spent seventeen years of his life tracking down the guy's car,” Dean added.

“So, you're saying we've got two super-famous, super-pissed-off ghosts killing their... super-fans?” you asked in disbelief.

“That's what it looks like.”

“Okay, but what the hell are they doing here?” you wondered. “Ghosts usually haunt the places they live. I mean, I get Abraham Lincoln at the White House and James Dean at a race track, but... what the hell are they doing in Canton?”

“That’s what we need to find out.”

“You. That’s what you need to find out,” Dean said as he got up.

Closing the laptop, you got up before heading to the bathroom. Sam just rolled his eyes before getting to work. He worked hard to try and find the right kind of information while you went to the bathroom and Dean watched from the sink with a soda in hand.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Sam groaned.

“What?” Dean asked as he walked over to Sam to see what was going on. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“What is it?” you asked as you exited the bathroom. Walking over to the brothers, you saw a website for a wax museum not that far from here. “You got to kidding me.”

Walking into the wax museum, you looked at the very many and very life-like figures which were everywhere. Abraham Lincoln was staring at you as you passed him which gave you a chilly shudder of uncertainty. John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon were also on display as well as some other famous individuals.

“Dude, he's short,” Dean commented. Looking over to where he was, you just chuckled at his comment made towards Gandhi.

“Hey. Gandhi was a great man,” Sam defended him.

“Yeah, for a Smurf,” Dean scoffed just as the director of the museum came rushing down the stairs.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, this is our busiest time of the year,” he chuckled. Looking around the place, there wasn’t a soul left in sight.

“This is busy?” you asked.

“Well, not right now, but it's early.”

“It's four-thirty,” you coughed.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Uh, well, we are writing a piece for Travel Magazine,” Sam took over.

“Yeah, on how, uh, totally non-sucky wax museums are.”

“That's fantastic. A little press, just what we need.”

“Great. Well we're interested in a few of your exhibits, specifically Abraham Lincoln and, uh, James Dean.”

“Two of our most popular displays.”

“They bring in a lot of visitors?” you wondered.

“Yeah, we have our regulars.”

“I don't suppose that, uh, William Hill and Cal Hawkins were regulars, were they?” Dean asked.

“As a matter of fact, they were. Yeah, I heard what happened to them. It's tragic, just tragic. Oh—you—that's not gonna be in the article, is it?” the owner panicked a little inside.

“No, of course not. You know, I gotta tell you, that Lincoln is so lifelike, I mean, you can just imagine him moving around. You ever see anything like that?” Dean chuckled.

“Uh, no,” the owner frowned.

“Well, um, is there anything you could think of that would make your museum... unusual? You know, for the article?” you inquired.

“Well, I'll say. There isn't another place like us, not anywhere. For one, that's Honest Abe's real hat,” he said as he pointed to the wax figure.

“Almost like his remains,” Dean said to his brother which the owner caught.

“Uh, I guess.”

“You wouldn't happen to have any of James Dean's personal effects, would you?” you asked.

“Ooh, yeah. Got his keychain. We got a bunch of stuff, uh, Gandhi's bifocals, FDR's iron lung. This,” he indicated to his leather jacket with a huge smile.

“Who did that belong to?”

“The Fonz. Seasons two through four!” the owner grinned with a double thumbs-up. “But this is nothing. I've been working on a new collection of figures. Stuff that'll really wow the kids. Computer games, cell phones, sexting; They're just fads. I'm gonna make wax museums hip again.”

“Well, thank you for your time,” you said politely before leaving the awkward man and the creepy-as-hell museum. You’d come back tonight when the coast was clear to get rid of the keychain and the hat.

“Yeah, Abraham Lincoln and James Dean, can you believe that?... Why so kill-crazy? Ah, maybe the apocalypse has got 'em all hot and bothered. Yeah, well, we all know whose fault that is… Well I'm sorry, but it's true,” Dean spoke to your dad over the phone. Looking up from your phone, you saw Sam by the door, and you cleared your throat loudly which caused Dean to spin around quickly. “I'll call you later. Bye.”

“What's going on?” Sam asked.

“Did you get the trunk packed up?”

“Yeah, trunk's packed. Who was on the phone?”

“My dad.”

“And?”

“Nothing,” Dean shook his head.

“So, we're just gonna pretend I didn't hear what I just heard?”

“Pretend or don't pretend. Whatever floats your boat.”

“This was supposed to be a fresh start, Dean,” Sam sighed.

“Well, this is about as fresh as it gets,” Dean said as he picked up his jacket. “Now are we going or not?”

“Sorry, Sam,” you whispered before following Dean out the door. Sam watched with a frown, sighed, but then followed nonetheless.

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notsopersonalcharlie · 5 years

Text

Existing Beautifully

Spencer Reid x Reader

Spencer hates being in pictures, but he somehow ends up on a famous photography blogger’s page for "existing beautifully" only these pictures were taken of him naked in the morning light. JJ and Garcia are on the case.

Notes: MGG being a beautiful human really helps my ability to get these out at a timely fashion. photo isnt mine

Garcia typed in her password, JJ sitting against her back desk.

“So I have all the ideas on my Pinterest board. He’s going to love his new room, I promise that much.” Penelope pulled open the website and it opened to her homepage, which was mostly colorful animals, glittery pens, and weird angle photography. So in short, it was Penelope. She moved her mouse to the corner and was about to click when JJ dove for her hand, taking the mouse and navigating to something else.

“Hey! Don’t disrespect my baby like that.”

“Penelope, look at this.” JJ had clicked on a picture of a man’s back, bare and covered with sheets.

“What about it? Don’t tell me you and Will broke up!” JJ hit her on the arm.

“No, look at that bedding and the scar on his neck. That’s Spencer.” Garcia frowned, examining the photo again. They had been to Spencer apartment hundreds of times, several times just so they could make sure he was okay and cleaning up his apartment. Which meant washing his bedding and on occasion forcing him to shower.

“You’re saying you think that’s him?”

“No, I’m saying I know that’s him. Who is this person?” Garcia reclaimed the mouse and opened the page of the person who had posted the picture. It led back to a blog called RightAngels. The name seemed to be a play on words because the page was filled with photos of all different kinds of people. One of the most recent stacks of pictures was of what appeared to be the same person, never showing his face, but it was very clearly Spencer. The name of the stack was Existing Beautifully and the caption was “I want to thank this man for existing beautifully despite what we go through every day”.

“That has to be him.” JJ’s phone pinged and she looked at it.

“Damnit, we have a case. Find out who this is?”

“Legally or illegally?” JJ seemed to actually consider the question.

“Start with legally. I’ll try to talk it out of Spencer. If I can’t, we can start on illegally.”

Spencer was late to the briefing room, later than he usually was considering he could count exactly how long it would take to get from his apartment door to the round room. JJ raised an eyebrow at him, which he ignored, and Garcia started on the briefing.

-/-/-/-

“What have you found out?” JJ asked, sitting in Garcia’s chair. The techie huffed but maneuvered around her friend.

“RightAngels has no public information listed, but this is what I concocted in my computers of potions. The owner of the blog lives in the DC area based off their photographs. There’s lots of distinguishable backgrounds and a lot of shots from protests, which says something about this person. I couldn’t determine the writing style, I guessed that the BAU resident boy genius is the only one who could figure that one out. Someone around Spencer’s age, living in the DC area, and definitely has a day job that involves a camera.” JJ looked curious at that.

“The photos are all shot at different times of day, but all of them are uploaded later at night, which means that they have access to their camera, but they can’t post personally during the day.” JJ nodded and then stood up.

“I’m going over to his place.”

“Without asking? You know that won’t go over well.” JJ stood, considering, and walked out of Garcia's office. They had just gotten back from a case, but the team had fled like rats off a sinking ship as soon as they hit the ground in Virginia. Will would be expecting her home soon.

-/-/-/-

You frowned when there was a knock on Spencer's door. You were waiting for him to get home with the takeout you ordered, but he wouldn't knock. Maybe his hands were full. Spencer’s door didn’t have a peephole, which didn’t make any sense to you because he was paranoid enough about his safety as it was, so you opened the door with the chain on it. A pretty blonde was standing outside, curiosity in her eyes.

“Hi, how can I help you?” you asked.

“Is Spencer home?” You paused. Could this be someone Spencer didn’t want in the house? Or was it one of his friends? He didn’t talk much about work, and you figured the less you knew the better. But you did know all his friends by name.

“No, but I can let him know you stopped by. Your name?”

“Uhm... no need. I’ll catch him tomorrow at work.” She was about to walk away when curiosity got the best of you too. You closed the door, slid the chain, and then opened it again.

“You work with Spencer?” The woman turned in surprise.

“Yes.”

“Are you... Emily?” She shook her head with a laugh.

“No, I’m JJ.” Your face must have lit up because she smiled back at you.

“Come on in. He doesn’t really tell me much about his life, I think he’s worried it’ll scare me off.” JJ frowned when the woman turned and led the way back into the house.

“So you know what Spencer does?” You had offered her something to drink, which she declined, and sat across from her in the den. Spencer didn’t have a TV, just two mismatched couches and an armchair that sat across from each other in a triangle around an old coffee table. JJ was sitting in the armchair and you’d curled your feet under you on the loveseat.

“Uhm yeah, FBI is all he says. Sorry about the prints, I’m trying to organize for a showing.” JJ shook her head.

“You’re here for a reason?” you asked, suddenly realizing she hadn’t exactly had a clear message to give Spencer. She paused and mulled over her words. You waited, Spencer’s pauses usually lasted a few seconds, but his brain was huge and he could get his thoughts together on the fly. You’d never met anyone who could do that. Till Spencer of course.

“A couple days ago I saw something you posted of Spencer on your blog. I found it on Pinterest. I figured it was just someone who looked like Spencer, but-”

“The scar, damnit. I knew I should have gotten better lighting.” JJ’s head tilted to the side.

“Sorry! I was trying to keep it as anonymous as possible. He told me not to post pictures of his face. Said it could be dangerous. Continue. Please.” A smile slid across JJ’s face.

“What?”

“You’re just like him. Perfect for him from what I can tell. He never told us about you. I was coming here to confront him, but you were already here.”

“His apartment is way more conducive to work. I live with two roommates and Saturdays are party nights.” JJ laughed.

“And besides, we talked about not telling the team for a while. We thought about saying something a few weeks ago, four months in, but he had a case and I had to be on call during the New Year, so we missed it by a mile.” JJ leaned back, seemed to survey you, and the nodded.

“I won’t bother you any more. I’ll talk to Spencer later.” You stopped her by waving a hand.

“He’s going to be back any minute now. He stopped on his way home to grab some food. Plus you seem like you have more questions.” JJ smiled.

“Profiler rubs off doesn’t it?” You laughed a little bit.

“He does it to everyone I take pictures of. That’s actually why I started taking them of him. He can’t get mad about it if it’s him.”

“How did you two meet?”

“I was doing shots at a book convention in a bookstore he goes to all the time, the one in Georgetown with the big windows in the front?” JJ nodded, she’d picked Spencer up from there on numerous occasions.

“Well he was just sitting in the corner being a perfect subject so I got some shots and then went to tell him I took them. I have to, some liability thing. He told me his name and I gave him my phone number because I had to get going. He texted me and we talking about the photos and well... we started dating.” JJ smiled at the thought of Spencer sitting in the back of a store and jumping when he heard the shutter of a camera. A key rattled in the door and Spencer walked in toting his satchel and a large brown bag.

“Hey (Y/N)... JJ?”

“She saw some pictures of you online and stopped by to ask about them,” you explained, going to help him with the food. JJ got up and made her way to the door. As she did, she stopped at Spencer and gave him a hug.

"Keep her around." Spencer smiled and JJ left. Spencer locked the door behind her and turned to find arms wrapped around him. He rested his chin on your head and smiled.

"Thank you for existing beautifully."

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #notsopersonalcharlie #charliewrites

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argentdandelion · 4 years

Text

Fatal Anniversary

A celebration of Undertale’s anniversary goes horribly wrong.

Based (loosely) on a true story. ---

September 15 started as a normal day. Slender fingers tapped away at the keys of an old laptop as their owner browsed Tumblr. The user, called “ChromeTooth” on Tumblr, checked out various blogs. She briefly hovered over the name “Garbles” on a blog checker. That veteran of the Undertale fandom often published delightful things. But no: nothing today.

Perhaps I’ll get a like or two. Maybe even a reblog, ChromeTooth thought. She'd been on Tumblr for so many years, but, still, she wasn't popular. But it was only a matter of time until finally people saw the beauty of her posts, and then, then Tumblr would be worth all the time she spent there.

A post caught her eye. Happy birthday, Undertale! It said.

Today is Undertale’s 4th anniversary. I just wanted to thank this game for all I have learned in this fandom. Thanks to Undertale, I’ve learned all sorts of things, like animal byproducts and why Papyrus is probably a better boyfriend than Sans. Thank you, Undertale.

She titled it “Undertale: Thank You” and published it without much effort.

Within an hour, she noticed something strange. Her dashboard, normally so sparse, was stuffed with likes and reblogs. Oh, that’s strange. Perhaps someone really liked one of my posts again?

Danklepham liked “Undertale: Thank You”.

MalayTai liked “Undertale: Thank You”.

Googilex liked “Undertale: Thank You”.

Yeehman99 liked “Undertale: Thank You”.

It just kept going. ChromeTooth sat back in her chair, tilting her head. Perhaps they’ll pay attention to my other posts, she thought. Perhaps this little quirk will mean my worthy posts get the praise they so deserve.

Refresh.

The notes came pouring in. 15 likes, within an hour! It normally took two days to get so high before it petered off forever. And it was all for....“Undertale: Thank You”.

ChromeTooth raised an eyebrow. She noticed a few users, the bolder Tumblrites, had bothered to comment, and opened up the reblogs out of curiosity.

"Sans! More Sans plz" said one user.

"OMG soo good gimme dis stuf" said another.

What are they talking about? I barely mentioned him, ChromeTooth thought. And why would anyone respond to proper English with degenerate text-speak?...and why wouldn't they check out my other posts, too, if they wanted the good stuff?

Bafflement and tension built in the back of her brain. She clicked on the third reblog. "adsfg", they said, and in the reblog's tags: "MMM finally somethin GOOD from her".

"What." ChromeTooth's brow crinkled, and she frowned. "I make good stuff once a week, all the time. What is that user saying?"

She went to the chat window: her friends Cosmet and Vanillaspez were probably active now.

"I have a problem," she started in her messages to the two. "People just keep liking and reblogging this one post, the thank you-post I made a few hours ago. It's so brief and unremarkable that I'm baffled. Do you know what is causing this?"

A pause.

"Ummm..." Cosmet started.

"'cuz tastty. Tasty post. Yum. More."

What? ChromeTooth thought. Cosmet never talked like that..

A little blue pop-up by Vanillaspez's avatar. "Well, at least Vanillaspez can help..."

"More." was the only word in the message. In a few seconds, she saw another: “more”. No period. No capitalization.

Blue pop-up. "more more more".

ChromeTooth grimaced, her hands twitching away from the keyboard.

---

ChromeTooth laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her laptop laid in a corner of the room. If she only booted it up, there she'd see that Tumblr dashboard exploding in popularity, just as she always wanted. But if she got up...it would probably just be the same post. "Undertale: Thank You" over and over. Those little red hearts and green reblog loops, by the avatars of people who have never heard of her before. Check it, maybe it's different, a little voice in her head said. Maybe you'll get what you've wanted for years. Someone like you. Someone who loves those 1,000-word posts, who smiles at enriching, long essays and articles.

ChromeTooth turned over. No. No. It's just the same thing, that same accursed post.

The blue-and-white of the website flickered.

The hibernating computer made a brief crackle⁠—and then fell silent.

---

But she had to check the next morning. She always checked Tumblr in the mornings: some people had irregular hours, or lived at opposite sides of the world. No matter the time, Tumblr's community was always churning, always flicking up some tiny treasure from the great earth of human experience.

Her dashboard had several blue alerts. No matter the update, it always glowed blue, enticing her with its ambiguity. But it was surely something worthwhile: after all, ChromeTooth had set up her dashboard to be as relevant as possible. Those little blue bubbles were a promise: "Come here, and you shall be happy."

Mothersdaughter22 liked "Undertale: Thank You".

MordleyPink liked "Undertale: Thank You".

Jadeanemon reblogged "Undertale: Thank You".

Warugua liked...

Those splinters of broken promises just. Kept. Going. It was more than she had ever faced, stretching the dashboard, uninterrupted by anything else. ChromeTooth held a hand to her head as she hunched over. As she furrowed her brow, a bitterness rose in her throat. She scrolled and scrolled, but it said nothing else. Nothing about that popular essay post from a while back, nothing about that post about ants and ducks and dogs she had spent 12 hours making....

Likes were what she wanted, wasn't it? Those little red symbols...they meant: "I enjoy what you have to say.” “I want to keep coming back."

But that little thank-you wasn't at all like what she typically posted. It was so...minimal. So short and low-effort. Why would it attract so much attention? Why would they do this? The computer’s soft hum grew to a cicada-like drone.

EEEEAAAGKH!

ChromeTooth flinched. "Just...just a coincidence, right? This laptop is really old..." She shrugged the oddity away and returned to the screen.

Her inbox blipped. "A message? Maybe someone has something to say..."

"Sans. Please write morre."

She wasn't going to justify that with a response.

The chat window, too, was quite busy. How had she not noticed it?

Cosmet: "sans. make more. like it."

Vanillaspez: "hey can you make more sans it's the best".

And someone she had never heard of before, some “Jamesneu”, sent a message too: "Undertale: Thank You. Undertale: Thank You." "More more more."

Another message:

"sans MORE!"

Is...is there a way to screen out these people? Chrometooth wondered. I’ve never been so popular as to need that...

Finally there was something worth noting. Her auto-checker told her Garbles had updated!

Garbles's stuff always makes me happy, Chrometooth thought. I could sure use some cheering up. If...only I was...no, no, you'll get there someday.

It was a reblog, from someone who had such high reblog standards. It was:

"Undertale: Thank You."

In the comments: "I just had to spread this :)".

Her computer creaked. Its screen splintered. ChromeTooth straightened in her seat.

A few little pink droplets crept from the cracks in her screen, with a too-sweet, sickly smell.

That's...that's not normal.

A crack.

And her room was flooded with a sludge of fetid pink hearts.

Everyone liked her now.

#Story #Horror Story

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pmddnutter · 4 years

Text

Running a business with PMDD

I suffer from a condition called Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder or PMDD for short, its sometimes referred to as severe PMS although it is certainly way worse than PMS. It has only recently (May 2019) been recognised by the World Health Organisation (WHO) as a unique condition meaning that PMDD will be considered a separate condition to severe PMS, should see more funding and research and allow doctors across the world to standardise their terms. Hopefully leading to more diagnoses and better treatment and understanding.

The WHO defines PMDD as:

“a pattern of mood symptoms (depressed mood, irritability), somatic symptoms (lethargy, joint pain, overeating), or cognitive symptoms (concentration difficulties, forgetfulness) that begin several days before the onset of menses, start to improve within a few days after the onset of menses, and then become minimal or absent within approximately 1 week following the onset of menses.”[i]

PMDD is debilitating, it has caused women to commit suicide. There are no specific treatments for it; for some women hormonal contraception works well, for other antidepressants, and for a handful of women only a full hysterectomy has helped. Whatever the treatments, PMDD is different for different women – it affects us all differently.

PMDD and Me

For me PMDD is that girl in high school that was a bit two faced, smiles to your face when she needs you but when your back is turned pulled that ‘urgh’ face and rolls her eyes to her ‘real’ mates – you know the one I mean.

She is never the same though, some months she can be quite mild and meek, maybe a bit of insomnia and overeating, sometimes a bit grumpy or irritable – kinda friendly but you know that there is a storm brewing. Other months she is in full on Bitch Mode! She makes me believe my husband is having an affair, she makes me eat ALL DAY, she tells me I’m no good, she makes me want to get in my car and drive as far away as possible.

And when you have this whilst running your own one-man band business it’s really bloody hard! As a small business owner hand making you own products you already question yourself pretty much daily; is my stuff any good, why do people buy it, why aren’t people buying it, shall I just jack it in and go back to ‘real’ work full time? So, add PMDD into the mix and I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster and I bloody hate rollercoasters!

With PMDD I get these amazing times of euphoria, exciting manic times where my creativity and enthusiasm are in overdrive and OMG these times are awesome. I come up with some of my best work during this time, my marketing strategies all just seem to work, I love being around people and go out and network loads.

But then I have to crash, and I kinda know I will but I never know how hard. Sometimes I’ll just have a teary day, one where nothing goes right, I miss stamp literally everything and nothing I post on social media is interesting, so no one comments. But sometimes this just lasts 1 day and I don’t even realise until my period starts that this day happened. But other times I crash bad… I just hate everyone and everything, my customer service goes out of the window as everyone is against me. Why bother posting on social media as I can’t make it sound nice or enthusiastic. I spend pretty much all day holding back the tears and my horrible attitude, I just want to stay in bed but I can’t sleep, I eat EVERYTHING in sight and I literally have to force myself to do even the most menial of tasks.

One of the very worst things about these really deep lows is that I don’t recognise myself, I am usually (for the other 2/3 weeks of the month) a really happy and enthusiastic person which is why I sometimes don’t even realise the manic days have happened until the low starts. The lows that scare me are the ones where I don’t want to be around people, especially when you have a house to run with 2 small children and a husband and a part time job. The ones where I just can’t seem to snap out of it, I know I’m in deep, I can’t stop myself saying some nasty things and snapping at those closest to me. The lows where any orders I get don’t matter, they’ll probably just hate it when it arrives anyway so what’s the point making it at all. Any messages I get I just can’t be arsed to reply as the questions are just so inane and pointless, or they’re just moaning at me for no reason – no your order that you placed 10 mins ago won’t be with you tomorrow as I have to HAND MAKE IT! I have to stop myself replying with a message saying ‘won’t you just f*ck off already, you’ll get it when I decide you’re worthy enough to make my crappy handmade sh*t that you probably won’t like anyway and you won’t bother to leave me any feedback even if you do’ (that’s a whole other blog for another time!)

So why am I writing this blog now?

It is now December 2019 and I’ve been trying to write this since PMDD awareness month back in April 2019! At the beginning of the month I had a plan to do some awesome posts about it, create some keyrings, maybe even raise some money. Then it hits… why would anyone want to buy any of my keyrings, I’d be doing the cause a grave injustice in creating such shit products. Believe me, the irony of this is not lost! The irony of the negative thoughts is never lost once I come out the other side, and it’s this irony that delays me getting the help I need. A few days passes and you convince yourself that it wasn’t so bad, it was just you feeling a bit blue for a day. You get on with life, looking after the kids, bury yourself in work; the high is well and truly convincing you that you are absolutely fine and that next month won’t be so bad. But then you notice the date, it’s a few days before you are due to ovulate and here we go again…

I went to my GP in May 2019 as the symptoms were not getting any better and asked to have the hormonal coil fitted again as it had helped me so much before I had my second baby. It was fitted in June this year and I waited the 3 months to see if it would help, it unfortunately didn’t and in October I had one of my worst lows to date. It was horrendous and I booked a GP appointment at 2am after being awake for nearly 48hrs, having eaten god knows how much food, drunk far too much wine and cried at every little thing I watched. I saw my GP a couple of weeks later, obviously I was feeling much better but I am determined to get this thing sorted and she was amazing and we went through the options and I decided on trying oestrogen for the 2 weeks prior to my cycle. I had to giggle to myself when reading the instructions; firstly because I have to rub 1 squirt of this gel into my thigh at the same time every day, and secondly because this is effectively HRT given to older ladies at the time of the change LOL!

Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like this is working for me, I’m 4 days before I am normally due on and the symptoms are back. Definitely not as severe as the October crash but the feelings of annoyance, self-doubt and pointlessness of it all are here, my next step is perhaps anti-depressants, so I’ll book an appointment with the GP and see what the next steps are.

My battle with PMDD and keeping sane for my business continues, even as I write this I am questioning all my plans for 2020. I have/had some great ideas but that little well of anxiety is brewing up again and I’m thinking it’ll just be better/easier to scrap it all. I won’t though, I’ll step away from social media, take some time out for me (although with this comes the Mum Guilt fun) and give myself a good talking to that this will pass and next week I’ll be buzzing and posting non-stop and bugging everyone again! Until next month…

Thanks for reading,

Emma xx

For more information and guidance for PMDD please check out the MIND website here or IAPMD here, or feel free to drop me a message.

You can also download an app to track your symptoms here.

[i] https://iapmd.org/position-statements-1/2019/6/11/world-health-organization-adds-premenstrual-dysphoric-disorder-pmdd-into-the-icd-11

#living with pmdd #pmdd #running a business #mental health

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sgnolivia · 5 years

Text

weird flex— are you okay??

two days into maybe-olivia’s eat-pray-love-crush-enemy-skulls pillage of cleveland, she’s struck by a migraine so searing that she has enough presence of mind to google psnn hesd dyig strook e ? before she’s left twitching in a trash heap behind starbucks.

it’s still light out when her brain stops trying to design, manufacture, and detonate it’s own atomic bomb. maybe-olivia isn’t sure if it’s been three hours or three days. the double chocolate chip frappe she bought t-minus five to blackout (ha!) has solidified on her pants. she can taste seafoam under her tongue.

she stares up at the sky in muted exhaustion.

god, it’s me, she thinks. i would like to invoke my right to choose.

perhaps if the zygote tube had been pro-choice, none of this would be fucking happening.

the lizard takes over all executive functioning at that point, forcibly ejecting her from the drivers seat. when she blinks down at her shirt it’s neon green and has a fun i love chicago! written across a black skyline.

maybe-olivia wonders if she saw the blue bedroom and doesn’t remember it. hopefully the lizard wrote it in the unicorn book.

not that it matters. what’s another forgotten thing in the grand scheme of it all? it’s a fifty-fifty shot she’ll remember anything she’s written in the notebook, anyway. her memory is half a step above melted swiss cheese.

from that point on, every decision is like russian roulette with a gun that’s fully loaded. maybe-olivia has no fucking idea what’s going to set her spinning into a migraine or send her flying off the realm of human existence or remind her, hey, she fucking loves macaroons. it’s a lot of calculated risks and maybe-olivia discovers that she’s very bad at math.

it goes on like this for an indeterminable amount of time.

she tries to balance her world-wide assassination tour with her brain’s need to self-destruct every seventy-three seconds. it is difficult.

after the act of dying her hair a soft brown sends her tripping into a panic attack, shivering violently and puking all over the nice bathroom of the vacation home she’s squatting in, maybe-olivia decides this isn’t working.

the unicorn notebook is full, so maybe-olivia unpacks the glittery purple one she bought to replace it. the pen that lights up was lost somewhere in bolivia so she has to settle for a fatter pen that holds four different wells of ink. she feels traitorous for liking it more than its predecessor.

option 1:

die.

honestly, this is the easiest and most cost-effective route. at this point she’s ninety-five percent sentient machine gun. there wouldn’t be much lost. blackout was set to be decommissioned after operation foxtrot anyway. maybe-olivia would just be finishing what was set into motion a long time ago.

she switches the pen into the blue inkwell and sets up a t-chart.

pros:

no more migraines.

won’t wake up in romanian hostel.

stop randomly puking.

permanently get rid of lizard.

cons:

maybe-oliva sits back in the chair. this list is marginally harder.

agency is exhausting and confusing. some days she’s completely post-verbal and other days she can only speak argentinian spanish, despite having no memories related to argentina. some days she physically can’t wake her body up for more than six minutes at a time. most days she throws up everything she tries to eat.

maybe-olivia wishes she was strapped back into her holding cell in the unnamed facility, twelve floors below the earth.

this transforms her body into a wet chihuahua. it takes four hours to pull her bones back inside her skin and another two just to get off the floor.

jesus, she thinks, and adds keep bones in skin to the pros list.

she ruminates on her death for a bit, losing time to daydreaming about the endless sleep that might await her. none of her training covered the afterlife so this is as much a guess as everything else in her life. maybe it’s an endless blank void. maybe it’s burning in a pit. maybe it’s a another shot. maybe-olivia hopes not. she doesn’t know if her spirit can handle another go-round of this.

but, her brain lizard pipes up, then they would win!

maybe-olivia growls out loud and pointedly tells it to shut the fuck up even if she begrudgingly admits that it has a point.

if she dies, then director howard lives.

this alights something hot deep in her gut. it feels like she has to puke and run fourteen miles at the same time. there’s no way in hell marcus fucking howard gets to live over her. fuck that. fuck that.

and really, doesn’t she deserve that? doesn’t she deserve the right to drag howard out of his villa safehouse, shove a piece of rubber in his mouth, break all his fingers, and ask what her real goddamn name is?

project sisyphyus has been trying to kill her— the real her— for eleven fucking years and they still haven’t gotten it done. she wins, they lose. they’ll have to try harder.

she writes fuck that in the scrawling, bunched together lettering she’s beginning to associate with her own personal handwriting. it’s nice. it feels like she owns something.

fuck that.

if they want me dead, they better fucking find me.

option 2:

get it the fuck together

there are no cons to this. she doesn’t need a t-chart.

getting it together proves to be a con all on it’s own. her brain is a glorified vegetable but it’s all she’s got. it’s not like she can swap it out for a new one. it needs serious repairs though, and short of hooking her scalp up to a car battery, maybe-olivia isn’t sure how to go about this.

google is, though.

and google doesn’t care if she has to look something up four times an hour. it points her towards helpful websites. searching how do i get my memories back and following it with who the fuck am i six times in half as many hours points her to a self-help thread which leads her to a diagnosis forum. she has acute brain trauma, post-traumatic stress disorder, dissociative episodes, panic attacks, and sometimes seizures. also, maybe arthritis. she has to ask google what dissociation means.

maybe-olivia is struck with the overwhelming knowledge that other people know what she’s going through. there are other people who fell head first out of a plane with no parachute and have been hurtling towards the ground for as long as they can remember. sure, they haven’t been tortured and brainwashed and denied the basic human rights that are allocated pretty much across the board but she doesn’t care. she feels connected to these people who live half outside of their skin, wondering the earth like zombies chewed up in the garbage disposal.

they teach coping strategies. ways to fake normal existence so that it seems like they’re living in the same reality as everyone else. how to breathe when her lungs collapse. how to avoid physical contact in day-to-day situations.

a lot of them gently suggest finding creative outlets for her feelings. she tries writing but after penning an expansive four page letter in cantonese only to suddenly forget how to read cantonese, she gives that up.

she decides she isn’t really ready to sift through her emotions. her bodies fucked up instincts are enough without trying to decide if she’s depressed, furious, or anxious on top of it.

google assures her that recovery happens in stages and at her own pace. if you aren’t ready today, try a little bit more tomorrow.

her brain still jerks her around like it’s the worlds most aggressive dog owner and she’s the runt of a teacup poodle’s litter, but it works to her advantage. no one can track her if even she has no idea where she’s going next. the targets come in migraines, in hallucinations, in dissociative fits, but they come and maybe-olivia dutifully follows, even if she can’t remember doing it. it’s admittedly a reckless strategy but if there’s a part of her that isn’t a screaming disaster then she hasn’t recovered that part yet.

she reviews her notebooks every few days, now. they look like they’ve been written by at least four people, one of them being a small child. there’s a variety of languages, handwriting styles, codes, and small illustrations. one page just says fuck licorice in increasingly bold font, fiercely underlined and surrounded by aggressive exclamation points.

it doesn’t do much except reaffirm that she has the minimal amount of control required to be a human being, but that’s okay.

a lot of her problems sort themselves out once a helpful blog post points out that she’s eating about a third of what’s required of adult women. this is mostly because she constantly throws up anything that tastes more flavorful than wheat bread but also because she’s never really had to feed herself before. hunger is just another loud, shrieking signal her body sends at her to inform her that something’s wrong, but it sends fifty of those a minute. how’s she supposed to know where the problem is?

a steady combination of pedialyte, muscle milk, and a bottle of gummy vitamins becomes the solution. she has to set alarms to remind herself to drink them and it isn’t ideal, but it keeps her caloric intake up, and solves the arthritis issue.

it also makes it easier to actually keep the memories she recovers which is a huge win.

that doesn’t mean things are smooth by anyone’s standards, including her own. random things still absolutely kneecap her— a dad yelling at his son, a lawn mower starting up outside the motel, her own abilities blinding her first thing in the morning. but every incapaciting moment gives a clue.

a car backfires on the road and maybe-olivia darts behind a minivan, seeing both the tan metal under her hand and white sand beaches.

239948S462569W

maybe-olivia has never infiltrated a fully-staffed enemy facility on her own before. that’s alright. it can be a learning experience for everyone.

#tw; memory loss #tw; slight gore #tw; severe suicide ideation #t; recovery #t; 1 month post lizard #p; weird flex

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reactingwithexo · 6 years

Text

Hypnosis - Jongin X Reader X Taemin

Summary : You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star. (Friedrich Nietzsche)

genre: ANGST, some fluff I guess, dancer! au

warnings: cursing?

word-count: 2.2K (sorry, I know it is short)

A/N:So, I had this idea while watching Move by Taemin, also it’s been a while I haven’t written for Jongin and it always makes me feel warm inside when I do. So yeah this is a little intro to what might be a ff if you guys want me to continue.Also yes I am using a different type of narrator this time because I wanted to test how it goes, I’m sorry if it didn’t fit, tell me your opinion!

A flash.

"Oh God" I frowned "is this really necessary?"

"Yes, how many times do I have to tell you that?", the guy behind the camera also known as my close friend Jongin said , "this will be in the studio's website, it's important!"

"Yea but there are hundreds of dancers here, can't you just do this amazing friend of yours a tiny little favor and skip my profile?" I pleaded.

"Not when she's as great as she is in what she does,making her one of my stars"

"Awwww you're a sweet teddy bear!" I smiled at my friend.

"Or I just want you to settle down so we can continue doing your profile"

"Rude. Okay" I sat down on the bench. "What do I have to do?"

"For once in your life, stop moving so i can take a good picture of you" He said while he focused on his camera.

"But I thought a good photographer's talent was when he captured the perfect shot while one was in motion"

Jongin reacted by letting out a sigh and looking at me in annoyance.

"...are you getting second thoughts?" I asked with a smirk on the way to my face.

"I am in fact", I gasped upon hearing him say that, faking any sort of sadness "...of being friends with you"

"Oh my God! Forget what I said about you being cute, you're just a heartless teddy bear" I saw him wear a half smile and say "you're just never gonna stop calling me that, aren't you?"

"No, I won't, I thought this discussion had died down when we were in 6th grade?"

He looked at his clock, "Fuck...you are already messing up with my schedule, please help me here, I'll make it up to you eventually"

I decided to give in as I saw he was struggling lately with all the duties it came with being one of the owners of a dance studio "fine, take the picture already"

After about 5 minutes of trying to pose, if you could call it that , as better as I could, it was time for the...interview...

"Interview? Come on, you already know my answers anyways, this would only be a waste of time"

Jongin held a sheet of paper that had the questions and he examined them for a couple of seconds before saying "That's true for most of these, but there is one here that I''m curious about"

"Something you don't know about me? That's unlikely"

"We never know someone else 100% ,love" He said while having one of those moments when he just spaces out while thinking about something.

He indeed was right, I found out soon enough that I didn't know everything about him.

I cleaned my throat to get his attention back, "so ,what is the mysterious question?"

"Oh!" He got back from his daze and shook his head in order to focus one more time before reading "Well, what do you feel when you're dancing?"

"Hmm..", now this was a difficult question, not only have I not thought about it, but I also feared my answer would be as subjective as metaphors are, since there aren't many ways of describing the thing you love the most in a simple way. At least not when it comes to me.

"I thought you wanted to get out of here fast.." Jongin's voice caught my attention while I was still deliberating about the answer to the question.

"Sorry..I was trying to find the words..hm well, I guess I don't really think, I just...stop. It's like a transaction between your feelings and your body, it's being free and trying to get rid of whatever is in your heart and mind, it makes you feel connected with yourself in a deeper way..I feel like I can finally do something well." This was getting me much more emotional than expected, so I stopped there hoping it was enough. I inspected Jongin's reaction and he was focused on writing something down.

"So you feel light,free, connected and..." He thought to himself out loud.And I knew I had the last word.

"Exhausted." I murmured uncousnciously.

Jongin looked up at me, surprised, "exhausted?", he smiled and I wondered why. "What is it?"

"Nothing it's just" he shrugged his shoulders and stared at me "It's a good definition, that's all", his smile faded but before I could ask anything else, he said I could go because there was another profile he had to do.

"Oh okay, do you want me to wait so we can eat afterwards?" "No no, there's no need, I'm doing D.P.G.M's profile after yours and he asked for privacy , I'm already late for it"

"Oh!" I sounded too excited but I couldn't help it "Wait so you're seeing him without the mask?"

"I don't know, why are you asking?"

"Well, if you're asking him questions, he will probably answer those by speaking which means you'll see him oh my god! Let me stay hidden!"

"What? No!"

"Please! I'll buy you food, I'll get more people to sign up here, whatever you want"

Jongin shook his head in desbelief "You're crazy... I said no, respect the fact he doesn't want to show himself, there might be a reason."

"Hm..do you know something about it?

"Even if I did, I wouldn't tell.... now go"

"Bu-"

"No buts, please, I'll call you later"

"Alright..." I answered and made my way back out, I checked to see if Jongin was onto me as an idea ocurred that maybe if I found a spot hidden enough neither of them would see me.

"Don't even think about it! I'm seeing you.." I heard Jongin's familiar voice shout behind me and gave up on my quest, he was right, I had to respect the guy.

But still...D.P.G.M was one of the biggest mysteries of the city, he was so intriguing , here we had this guy, a dancer, one of the best to ever step on this studio, and we didn't even knew how he looked like, since the first time we saw him dancing, he always had his face covered by a mask.

Personally, I liked how he changed the masks according to the type of choreography we were doing that day , some might think it would be scary but I honestly believe it is a way of expanding even more his artistic expression. His dancing was just. Mesmerising. I've never seen someone that lived for the art as he did. He danced anywhere, once he and a few other dancers decided to dance something in the middle of the street while it was pouring, and in the climax of the song he just laid there, covered in water while his body spoke for himself.

Powerful. That was a good way of describing his aura. I have no idea how no one discovered who he is until now, I wonder if Jongin knows something, he basically knows everyone when it comes to dancers and he usually stays awkwardly silent when the subject of DPGM's identity comes up.

God knows how many times I tried to be paired up with him for a couple's choreography, but it just never hapenned.

Later that day Jongin texted me saying the profiles were out on the website.

Rather than checking my own, I went straight to DPGM's, yea when I start thinking about him and all my memories of seeing him dance came to mind, I just couldn't get him out of my head sometimes.

What do you feel when you are dancing?

"I feel life. Every part of my chaotic soul is there on display but somehow that makes me feel comfortable, complete even. As if I am in some sort of transcendent state where I can let myself be, the good and the bad in me, like I’m using the only special and unique thing I have on this earth. Then, the music allows me to experiment another dimension. So in short: dancing makes me feel completely present and completely absent all at once."

I felt that.

All of that.

This was getting stupid, get yourself back together! I can't believe I spent the whole day obssesing over a guy I've never spoken to.

It was time to practice, mom would be home soon and I couldn't risk her seeing me dancing again.

Exhausting, as I said.

The sun was out today.

Damn it, I hate this kind of weather. I am a long sleeve kind of person, and the weather wasn't going to stop me.

Here I was going to the dance studio, Jongin called me sounding oddly cheerful this morning to say he finally managed to get this crazy choreography he was workng at. Oh. And when I say he called me in the morning, I mean 5AM kind of morning. The boy spent the night practicing again.

"This is gonna get you killed one day, you know?" I told him when I saw him waiting to greet me as I got to the studio and we headed to our lockers.

"You know that as long as I'm on stage, I'll be fine" He told me with a cheeky proud smile on his face.

I couldn't help but smile back just because I know how hard he works to achieve what he wants and how meaningful every little step he took was to him.

Jongin cleared his throat as we got to our lockers and said "I have to do something before the first class, I'll see you there okay love?"

"Yea, sure, why are you doing that with your hands? Any girlfriend you want to tell me about? or boyfriend?", I noticed he was doing the classic move he did with his hands when he was nervous, where he rubbed his hands and kept fidgeting with his body side to side.

"What? No I just really have to go, see you in class, bye" He said and walked away fast paced.

Weird. But I know that whatever it is, I'll find out soon enough, it's not like Jongin could keep any secrets from me anyways.

As I opened my closet, an unplaced note fell from the door, catching my attention, hm? Maybe Jongin didn't want to tell me something so he just wrote it down? It wouldn't be the first time actually.

It wasn't supposed to be exhausting, that's disappointing...maybe it's time we talk after I've been running away from this since the first time I saw you. Meet me at 7 in room 10.

Always with love, D.P.G.M

WHAT?

This has got to be a prank. It has to be. D.P.G.M suddenly writes me a note just because I said dancing makes me exhausted? And he's been running away from talking to me? What?

The handwriting wasn't familiar but that didn't mean much.

I took the note and looked around to see if anyone was observing my reaction, I swear I let out a gasp when I read the content of the note. I eventually got to dance class, that was the best place not to focus on this.

By the half of the day I was convinced this wasn't real and that I'm bounded to go into a prank when I get to room 10 by 7.

But still, maybe...

He was a mysterious guy anyways, maybe I wasn't getting what he meant or something.

I fought all my instincts of not going there and decided that so what? There are still a lot of people around the studio by 7, so it's not like it would be dangerous or anything.

Jongin remained with an unusual behavior throughout the rest of the day and I couldn't help but think it was related to the note. Maybe this was something else?

6:45 PM was when my last practice of the day finished.

6:50 PM was when I saw a sleepy Jongin going home to sleep.

6:55 PM was when my mom called wanting me to know when I would get back home.

At 6:59 PM I found myself going to room 10, in the way I heard every type of melody, room 3 was hip-hop, room 5 latin dance, room 6 tango, room 7 was contemporary.

I opened the door to room 10 expecting nothing, oddly enough I wasn't nervous. If anything, I was pissed ff and wanting to know what was going on.

It would be an understatement to say that I was surprised that what I saw was D.P.G.M with his sparkly silver mask waiting for me.

"Why are you so surprised? I sent you a note"

That voice. No. My mind was playing games with me, I am sure.

The guy I thought was a stranger reached for the door to make sure no one was around, turned around in my direction and proceeded to take off his mask.

"Hey" he said with the most dazzling smile as I glared at him, frustration, sadness and some anger taking over my features.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I asked quietly while I felt a few tears form in my eyes.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Also special thank you to the most AWESOME dancers ever @damned-fangirl and @soonyoungthings for helping me with some parts of this, and If I continue the story they probably will have to help me again hehe, So now it’s up to you guys , should this have a part 2? I know it’s not my best but I had to write it. Hope you liked it!

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secretgamergirl · 6 years

Text

The New McCarthyism

Today is International Trans Day of Visibility, which is as good a day as any for me to write about a very serious issue trans people are facing, which really needs more mainstream attention. Trans people are being actively erased from public visibility, in a surprisingly literal sense, and we have been for quite some time.

Back in the 1940s-50s, there was this nasty little thing called the Hollywood blacklist. In theory it was an effort to deal with dangerous spies, but in practice it lead to a massive witch hunt, where anyone who anyone had a big enough problem with would be painted as an enemy of the state, and any denial of such was presented as “proof” because “that’s just what a communist would say!” This was part of a general trend now referred to as McCarthyism to just arbitrarily paint people as “dangerous” and deny them any sort of career or platform to defend themselves. And of course various forms of prejudice piggybacked along on this, with LGBT people in Hollywood in particular being quite paranoid for the decade.

Those lists were backed up with fear of inquisition from specially created government committees, but mainly enforced by studio executives and others holding the reins of power passing around lists of people not to work with, making it nearly impossible for anyone targeted to find employment. The modern blacklist though is much more efficient, preventing those targeted (mostly trans people and those willing to stick up for us) from finding employment or even holding conversations, in a more or less entirely automated process. To explain just how that works though, first we need to have a brief discussion about Twitter.

Twitter represents a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Stand-Up comics use it as a quick way to test new material. Corporations use it as one of many vectors for for making announcements and PR statements (along with very bizarre one on one interactions with people mentioning their products). A lot of people use it as their primary vector for socialization, sending messages to friends, posting personal announcements, party invites, and so on. Some people use it as a news source, particularly those who have a particular special interest, as informal networks passing around story links make it impressively easy to stay up to date on every development of a certain type. Anyone doing any sort of creative work uses it for all their networking. And of course, radicalized bigots use it as a means of coordinating attacks against targets of whatever minority status they have a particular interest in that day. We’ll come back to that point, but allow me a moment to elaborate on the networking.

Personally, I wear a lot of different hats. I’m a game designer. I’m an artist. I’m a writer, of both news and fiction. I’m a professional critic. And I’m an activist for a number of causes. All of these fields depend on networking. And all of these fields have somehow decided that that networking is going to take place almost, or entirely, on twitter. I was hugely reluctant, personally, to ever register a Twitter account, and spent a few very confused years watching my carefully curated network of e-mail lists, message boards, and gossipy industry friends dry up completely. Having properly established a foothold in twitter however, I have lightning fast access to the ability to find work. Within an hour of anyone having the idle thought to ask if anyone out there has experience writing about a topic I have an interest in, that request will have flowed through whatever network is relevant in a string of reposts, landing right in front of me, along with a few quick tools for me to work out if the person making this request is someone I’d actually want to work with and vice versa. Literally every cent I have earned, job I have interviewed for, and update about a cause I’m concerned with has come to me this way, and only this way, since registering a Twitter account. Without one, I’d be completely unable to work in any of these fields.

Unfortunately, as anyone who relies on Twitter for their profession and lacks the luxury of being a white cis man, Twitter has a rather pronounced nazi problem. That is to say, neo-nazi organizations have come to the realization that they will face zero repercussions for using the site as a vector to launch absolutely vicious or even criminal attacks on their targets. As Twitter has made it abundantly clear that no real measures will be taken to address this under the current management, the only real tool available to the userbase is a block feature which prevents direct mentions from a blocked user to display to the user imposing the block (although these messages will still display for everyone else), and preventing the blocked user from viewing their posts (without first signing out or opening a private window).

Enter blocktogether.org, a site where any Twitter user can share a list of everyone they’ve ever blocked with subscribers, refreshing with each new block. If you were to subscribe to my Block Together list for instance, you would instantly block the several thousand malicious trolls I’ve blocked over the years for sending me harassing messages, plua a handful of people I happened to take personal offense to, and you would automatically block the next batch of 100 trolls I weed out of my twitter replies without any further input or notification. The appeal as a stopgap for an essentially unmoderated website is clear, as should be the mental image of a clique of bratty high school children lording The List as an instrument of social power. Note also the handy links to automatically block all newly registered accounts, or those with low post counts.

Originally, typical usage of Block Together involves picking a particular favored celebrity whose list to subscribe to, filtering from your view anyone that celebrity has taken issue with. In 2014 however, in the face of a massive neo-nazi uprising on twitter, a woman named Randi Harper hit upon the idea of writing a script to scan through twitter’s database of users, identify anyone following the majority of a list of known neo-nazi leaders, compiling them into a list which an automated twitter account would then block, updating daily, for a theoretical constantly updated list of every neo-nazi account, which combined with Block Together would preemptively keep them all out. A number of other lists followed suit, using similar logic to target members of other violent reactionary groups.

For a brief window, when Twitter’s neo-nazi insurgency was in its infancy, and individual hate groups and botnet owners were using the site to coordinate, and totally indiscriminate in choosing new targets, these lists were largely considered to be a necessity to make the site usable for anyone working in certain fields, particularly reporters, civil rights activists, game designers, and anyone working in the entertainment industry. As a result, Harper became a minor celebrity, whose personal Block Together list was subscribed to by much of Hollywood, the press, and those in activist circles, as neo-nazis worked out how to easily circumvent the automated list.

Unfortunately, Harper is not a conscientious, responsible, career activist, but a random computer programmer with a short temper and some serious personal biases and bigotries. In particular, her personal list of blocks contains hundreds of trans people, and vocal supporters thereof. Anyone subscribing to her Block Together list, advertised as “almost entirely” nazis, inadvertently blocks a significant trans population. Anyone raising this subject to Harper is also immediately placed on the list, and animosity over the subject once caused her to personally write a post on the reddit board of the very neo-nazis her list was created to thwart, encouraging those sending death threats to her and her son over the manufactured scandal of the day to instead target “Someone that goes on long unstable diatribes, thinks I'm a terf [a term for members of a particular dangerous hate group targeting trans women], yells a lot about Jesse [Singal, another notorious figure in trans circles, with a history of both fetishizing trans women and writing propaganda pieces designed to erode trans people’s rights, and repopularize conversion therapy for trans children].“

This post lead to immediate attacks against every trans person with any notable Twitter presence, along with our extended families, ranging from death threats, to abusive calls to elderly relatives, to coordinated efforts spread possible addresses, e-mail accounts, and phone numbers far and wide to aid in SWAT attacks and similarly dangerous behavior. There was, of course, absolutely no public outcry or acknowledgement of this, as both victims and those inclined to speak on their behalf had already been added to Harper’s Block Together list, which was subscribed to by exactly the sort of media voices who make it a point to raise awareness of such incidents.

Here lies the most obvious danger of this new form of McCarthyism. If a particular Block Together list is widely adopted within a given circle of people, the maintainer of that list can abuse their power, adding the names of those they’d like to see disappear for the pettiest of reasons, those so added effectively vanish from that circle completely, unable to explain what happened. The effectiveness of this is further strengthened by the sheer pervasiveness of these lists, making it unclear exactly which “anti-nazi” list one may have been added to, the intensity of the taboo Twitter users place on objecting to being blocked (bearing in mind that even those of us doing so by hand typically have thousands of trolls whining about having been blocked by us, and the impossibility of distinguishing the name of a complete stranger from the dozen people shouting slurs at us last week), and the fact that a subscriber to a list will not automatically block anyone they manually follow. So, hypothetically, if you were to be added to Harper’s list, and conferred with friends in an attempt to determine why you were suddenly cut off from interacting with the entertainment industry at large, those friends subscribed to that list would be just as in the dark as you.

Harper is far from alone in abusing Block Together in this fashion, and it is alarmingly common for trans people to suffer the most. Long lists of innocent trans people get discreetly added into lists advertised as filtering out misogynists, racists, homophobes, and the just recently, even a list explicitly created to shut out anti-trans bigots had one of its administrators load in a staggering number of trans people in an act of pure frustration and malice.

Often, these lists will note that a certain percentage of those blocked will be false positives, phrased in a way that makes them sound like acceptable casualties of war. A handful of strangers you’d never likely interact with to begin with losing access to you seems like a small price to pay for shutting 100,000 bigots out of your life, after all, but this is completely inexcusable when looked at from the other side of the equation.

As mentioned earlier, for people in many careers, unfettered Twitter access is a basic requirement in order to be able to work at all. As a freelance game designer, the entire industry inadvertently blacklisting you prevents you from ever responding to an open call. A struggling actor can’t learn about potential roles. A reporter can’t pitch story ideas to editors. A freelance artist can’t circulate a portfolio. This sort of thing is particularly devastating to the trans community at large, because we face intense discrimination in face to face interactions. As an unusually large and hairy woman, people find my presence uncomfortable, and routinely immediately reject me immediately as I sit down for any sort of interview. A man who comes across as slight and feminine has similar problems, and non-binary people unnerve potential employers in ways they can’t even put into words. This forces us into creative fields, the gig economy, and freelance work in general, where again, a single petty person throwing our names into a list can completely block off entire career paths along with our means to object.

Additionally, Block Together lists don’t actually have any real impact on combating the sort of mass harassment they’re touted as a cure for. Practically none of those hundred thousand accounts a given list might claim to block are actually active. As there are no real limits to a single person setting up an absurd number of Twitter accounts, those inclined to use the site as a vector of abuse have thousands if not millions of spare, disposable accounts, set up years ago as “sleeper agents,” destined to be used in a one-off flyby attack, and then never used again, at least against the same target, and if they ever run out, registering new ones isn’t a particular barrier.

Even after establishing that the abuse of these blacklists is something to take seriously, dealing with them is a seriously daunting task. The first barrier of course is raising awareness. This very article is bound to have a hard time making inroads with those who need to be made aware of the issue because they’re cut off from so many of those affected. Even once one is aware though, unsubscribing from one of these lists does nothing to undo the damage to those added to it.

Consider for instance the somewhat high profile case of Wil Wheaton (Star Trek: The Next Generation, Stand by Me, The Big Bang Theory, Tabletop). Wheaton is a genuinely well-meaning celebrity, concerned with mass-abuse campaigns, and an avid supporter of Block Together, having circulated his own blocks for some time, and being one of the first to subscribe to Harper’s aforementioned list. Due to the nature of Block Together, subscribing to Harper’s list caused all of her personal petty blocks and odd grudge against trans people in general to propagate to Wheaton, and from there, anyone subscribing to his list, or a list belonging to one of his subscribers.

Having over three million followers and a very good reputation, Wheaton’s list being infected in this manner was absolutely devastating to those spitefully added by Harper, becoming an incredibly far reaching blacklist. Upon being made aware of this situation thanks to a friend sharing an earlier piece on this subject, Wheaton promptly unsubscribed from Harper’s list, and manually unblocked those he was directly made aware had been affected. Unfortunately, Block Together’s functionality has no real “undo” button. Every block Wheaton acquired from Harper remains after unsubscribing from her list, and remains for everyone unsubscribing from Wheaton’s.

The only way for those placed on the blacklist to regain a normal level of access to the site would be to compile a list of those affected by blacklists of this nature (this Twitter account incidentally explicitly follows the best such list its creator is aware of), and for every individual to have subscribed to, really, any Block Together list at any point, to personally run threw these false positives, by hand, unblocking each one. Again, it’s difficult enough to spread awareness of the situation to everyone who would need to take action to remedy it, and said necessary action is frankly a fairly involving task, which for any individual is going to feel like a lot of work for no real benefit, either for themselves, or for the random strangers whose lives they are impacting in a very abstract, single drop in a vast ocean sort of way.

The practical upshot of all of this is that any given person with the ability to market a Block Together list is capable of doing massive, life-ruining damage to anyone who relies on Twitter for their livelihood, instantaneously, at any time, with virtually no chance of it ever coming to light, and even less chance of that damage ever being undone. And this is routinely used by people whose positions make them seemingly the last sort to ever do so to completely destroy the livelihoods of trans people en masse, while also making it nearly impossible for us to even beg for support in the aftermath.

I have no real solution for this problem. The best I can do is plead that you never subscribe to a Block Together list, and raise awareness of this issue, possibly by linking out this article. A lot of people I know, myself included are facing homelessness thanks to the brutal efficiency of this discrimination tactic, and even those devastating results are rendered invisible.

#tdov #trans awareness #discrimination

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mr-gooseyshoes · 6 years

Photo

(ASKS ARE OPEN!!! Version 1.1. The original should be referred to as ‘Version 1.0’. Full size of the regular version [3000x1000] in my Sta.sh!

Feel free to ask these guys questions! Or maybe roleplay with any of them. I have enough spare time for both! 😊

Anything with an asterisk is IRL or other matters involving the character.

‘COO’ stands for ‘country of origin’, ‘COR’ stands for ‘country of residence’.)

Info on each character, prepare for a long read.

🍰 Mr. Gooseyshoes 🎸

Full name: Yvan August Gooseyshoes (Originally nameless, then titled ‘Clumsy One’, then was eventually given his current name.)

Species: Humanoid toon

Height: 4'4 ft

Est. age: Mid-late 20s / Canonical birthday: August 31st / ‘Creation date’: Same day, 1931

COO: France 🇫🇷

COR: United States 🇺🇸

True origin*: (When I decided to play around with my Robloxian’s look, I made the limbs and torso different colors: left arm green, right arm red, torso blue, left leg white, right leg black. At the time, I couldn’t easily determine his gender, but he was undoubtedly male-presenting. This dated back between 2013 and -15, possibly making him the ‘youngest’ member.)

Beginning: Starting off in black & white comics translated from French, Yvan was a mischievous slapstick character with a lack of common sense. He had companions; his cousin Kenneth (can also be called ‘Ken’ or ‘Kenny’), and a rogue clown named Barry. He was the clumsiest of all, and was (and still is!) known to swing large items around, knocking the other two over; this lead to a fight, but they made up later.

(cont.) Despite the antics and mean-spirited remarks the two made at strangers without him, Yvan mostly stuck to jokes and harmless pranks…when he’s not accidentally being hit in the face with planks and canes. There were even colored animated shorts of the three, a series which only lasted a couple of years due to budget problems; the three went their separate ways, until meeting again decades later.

📖 Ollie 🎶

Full name: Oliviero Percy Rigatoni (Originally just ‘Oliviero’)

Species: Humanoid toon

Height: 4'3 ft

Est. age: Mid-late 20s / Canonical birthday: September 18th / ‘Creation date’: Same day, 1971

COO: Italy 🇮🇹

COR: United States 🇺🇸

True origin*: (I drew a picture of a man with blue skin and reddish-pink eyes, somewhat like the current design. The only things that haven’t changed are his hair and eyes. This estimates back to 2011.)

Beginning: N/A (TFW you’re too mentally exhausted to continue writing stories about your own characters. Don’t worry, I’ll get to it!)

⛪ Doug the Dog 🎼

Full name: Douglas Noah Beagle

Species: Anthro dog toon

Height: 3'2 ft

Est. age: Early 30s / Canonical birthday: May 21st / ‘Creation date’: Same day, 1994

COO: United States 🇺🇸

COR: See ‘COO’

True origin*: (In this universe, he’s a toon; but in the real world? He’s an arts & crafts sockpuppet from my old church, hence why I gave him a cross and halo. He doesn’t have his ears, but the hair is there. I also based the sweater off his sock design, making the brown a little darker so it didn’t look weird. Est. 2004-5, making him the ‘oldest’.)

Beginning: There was a drop of Christian faith in the neighborhood. A local church had lost a lot of members over the years, the lack of interest among youth causing too many seats to go unfilled. Thanks to 3 of the churchgoers having a knack for drawing; they passed around ideas back and forth until eventually settling with Doug and his family; his father Harry, his uncle Rufus, and eventually, Roxanne in “Episode 10: Someone I Know Isn’t A Christian. What Do I Do?”. They already had their own website, and Flash animation was all the rage at the time!

(cont.) Was it easy? Not really. But Doug did have fans, even receiving letters from a few of them straight to the church nearly daily. The makers received a lot of attention across the web, the cartoon dog being loved for several different reasons; his important life lessons, his adorable appearance, his kindness, and his relatable nature. Some news: As all 3 animators started raising families of their own, the responsibility of running the series went to younger members so that the original ones could spend time with their kids. (A lot of time passed since 1994. They were 14, 15 and 16 upon starting; the 9 new members are all between 15 and 30.)

📼 Troy ⚽

Full name: Troy Nate Donaldson

Species: Cyclops-esque toon

Height: 3'10 ft

Est. age: 13 years 🔞 / Canonical birthday: December 9th / ‘Creation date’: Same day, 1979 (First televised 1985. Seems he’s been a youngin for an awfully long time…)

COO: United States 🇺🇸

COR: See ‘COO’

True origin*: (Like Ollie, he started off as a drawing; I even drew him with a tornado for a mouth once. The only differences being that I gave him longer hair up front, and a wardrobe unlike his original one.)

Beginning: Two brothers had a great idea for a show; animated figures cross into the real world via portal, walking into the backyard of a human kid named Jesse. Troy would be seen exploring elements foreign to him; such as ladybugs, soccer balls, and the grass being green. Because of time limits, Troy was never given a mouth outside of concept art, which meant not worrying about lip syncing when they had other things to do.

(cont.) Jesse taught Troy how to play 1-on-1 soccer, then taught him how to spell larger words such as ‘dictionary’ and ‘encyclopedia’. The show also had montages of Jesse chasing after the one-eyed people (including Troy), which was a running gag involving disguises and leaving messes behind. The show ended in 1990, 5 years after its first episode, as there was no more of the story to tell. To this day, he is still a child by choice.

📚 Mrs. Donaldson 🍇

Full name: Athena Jessica Donaldson

Species: Cyclops-esque toon

Height: 5'2 ft

Est. age: Mid-to-late 30s / Canonical birthday: April 15th / ‘Creation date’: December 12th, 1979 (First televised 1985.)

COO: United States 🇺🇸

COR: See ‘COO’

True origin*: (I thought of a beautiful cyclops-looking woman. Smart, too. She just popped up into my brain while drawing some art.)

Beginning: Before becoming an art teacher, Mrs. Donaldson was a guardian of her hometown (in our world, that’s like being a cop), making sure no one suffered as a result of crime. One day, she felt that Troy needed to be educated about alternate dimensions, which led her to take him to a vastly different version of America; or more specifically, a human family’s backyard in Tennessee. While the location was random, the weather was just right. Unfortunately, the portal was open for too long, a bunch of Troy and Athena’s people ran out from it with joy, then it closed behind them indefinitely. Due to the fuel inside of the portal wand being extremely hard to find in this dimension, they were gonna be stuck here for a while.

(cont.) They were not ones to panic so quickly; instead, they sought out knowledge and resources from this different Earth. She played the role of protecting these people before, and would gladly do it again. Athena did not star in as many episodes as her son did, her count being 283 out of 294. She also taught morals when not teaching the basics of art, ranging from honesty to sharing. Parents complained about her old outfit, so the brothers had to put her in what she wears now to avoid being cancelled before wrapping things up.

💷 Ken 🚬

Full name: Kenneth Joseph Cross

Species: Humanoid toon

Height: 4'3.5 ft

Est. age: Early-to-mid 20s / Canonical birthday: March 4th / ‘Creation date’: August 31st, 19??

COO: United Kingdom 🇬🇧 (Made by a Frenchman, though.)

COR: See ‘COO’ (Sometimes goes to America, but only to visit relatives.)

True origin*: (Okay, so I thought ‘Why not draw a guy with a large grin/frown?’ I sometimes pictured him in black & white stripes as well, but maybe I’ll use that kind of design for his pre-color days.)

Beginning: N/A

🎭 “Barry The Buffoon” 🔨

Full name: Fionnbharr Patrick Emmett (Originally nameless, then only titled as “The Buffoon”, then was eventually given his current name.)

Species: Humanoid toon

Height: 4'1 ft

Est. age: Mid-to-late 30s / Canonical birthday: May 6th / ‘Creation date’: August 31st, 1931

COO: Scotland (Made by a Frenchman, though. No Scottish flag emoji? Boo. ;n;)

COR: See ‘COO’

True origin*: (I was inspired from watching some cartoon shorts from the 20s and 30s, mainly B&W ones. Plus, I wanted to give this random clown a meaningful role.)

Beginning: N/A

🍮 Buford 🐕

Full name: Sir Buford of Birmingham XIV (the 14th)

Species: Quadruped dog toon

Height: 1'3 ft

Est. age: Bet. 1-5 years / Canonical birthday: September 1st / ‘Creation date’: January 29th, 2003

COO: England 🇬🇧

COR: United States 🇺🇸

True origin*: (I imagined Yvan having a talking dog who truly loved his master, making sure he was happy and healthy. I hope he actually looks like a Scottish terrier, or at least some kind of terrier breed/mix.)

Beginning: Sir Buford was one of the secondary antagonists of a show called “Canines Out Of Line", an ongoing series about bipedal dogs breaking the law, spending money carelessly, and doing things I shouldn’t mention. (equivalent rating of TV-14) Buford was a dog that gained the ability to speak by accidentally eating a dog treat, which his then-owner pulled out of a strange beaker containing unnamed chemicals. It was meant to be thrown out, but Dr. Mecha (no medical degree) wasn’t fast enough. She marvelled at how her pet (at the time) started talking like an Englishman, taking notes on his newfound vocal abilities.

(cont.) Sadly, when word spread around the neighborhood about a talking dog, the COOL blew up Dr. Mecha’s lab and tried to force Buford to join; he refused, and was held hostage. He fought them off, escaped back to his home, and came back to see the female scientist who cared for him still alive, making it a happy-ish ending. Despite that, things only got darker from there. From the start, he was determined to bring C.O.O.L. down, one way or another.

More characters coming soon?

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writing-in-the-tiny-house · 3 years

Text

BookWise Publishing, with Karen Christoffersen

A special thanks to Karen Christoffersen!

www.bookwisepublishing.com

[email protected]

She does free 30 minute consultations!

Become a patron to Writing in the Tiny House today.

patreon.com/writinginthetinyhouse

The following is a transcript of this episode. The complete transcript can be found on the show’s website.

Devin Davis: If you are looking to do a book on your own, then you need to get to know Karen Christoffersen owner of Book-wise Publishing. She assisted me in doing my first two books and she is actually our guest today on Writing in the Tiny House. Hello. Hello. Hello, and welcome to the show. Welcome back to Writing in the Tiny House.

[00:00:49] I am your host Devin Davis, and I am the guy living in the tiny house who is here to show you ways to get that novel written. Even if you are the busiest person in the whole world. And today we have a special guest. And before I do a really big introduction, let's go ahead and meet her. This is Karen Christoffersen. She is a producer and the owner of Book-wise Publishing.

[00:01:18] Karen Christoffersen: Hi Devin. I'm so excited to be able to do this with the Writing in the Tiny House. I thought that the title of your podcast was delightful. And so the fact that you've invited me to be on it is, is an honor.

[00:01:35]Devin Davis: I have known Karen for, forever, it seems. Her son and I are very good friends. And back in my early twenties, when I wrote my first book As Magic Shifts, it was Karen who did all of the heavy lifting to get it published and to produce it and to clean it up and to move all of the moving parts to form this cohesive picture we call a book. And the first book I wrote As Magic Shifts was published under CMS publishing, which at the time was owned by Karen Christoffersen, and then later she moved to Book-wise Publishing. And my second book, The Witch's Pupil was published under Book-wise.

[00:02:25] Karen Christoffersen: Book-wise publishing was started back in 2006 when there was a company called Book-wise and Company owned by Richard Paul Evans, number one New York times bestselling author, and several partners who decided they wanted to create a publishing arm. And they called it Book-wise Publishing and came to me and asked me, because I'm a producer, if I would produce a hundred books for a hundred new authors. As a producer, all we do is start a project and finish it. I was doing television commercials, radio commercials, motion pictures. I was doing all kinds of production as a producer, but I'd done two non-fiction books for Richard. It's a piece of cake, you know, you start, you finish. And so I said, sure, I can do that. And of course, my dad taught me never to say no. He said, just go out and find out how to do it. And so I ended up surrounding myself with a lot of really talented people: editors and illustrators and designers and all kinds of people actively involved in the publishing industry locally and nationally.

[00:03:39] And they made me look very good. And I coordinated everything. And so I've been doing that since 2007, 'cause we started that the second year and after a year and a half, Richard decided that, and by the way, Richard was only doing endorsements. He wasn't doing anything. I was operating the business alone. And after a year and a half, he decided he really didn't want the liability anymore. I'm pretty sure that's why. And besides he had his irons in so many fires at the time, he was just going gangbusters, doing all kinds of things. And he sold it to me for a dollar. The branding alone for Book-wise Publishing was worth $20,000. Plus, you know, there were other parts to the company that had value. And so I said, sure, I'll do that. It did take me because there were a hundred authors and then they added another 50 when they added a program called Write-Wise. So I had 150 authors that I was responsible for producing their books.

[00:04:43]And out of the $5,000 they paid, I only got 1300 to work on their books. So it took me a couple of years to get the company in the black, but obviously not all of those hundred and 50 authors came back and finished your books. So I eventually just continued doing more and more and more until today.

[00:05:07]Devin Davis: Karen has been doing this for more than 14 years, and she has produced more than 500 books, anything from paper back ,to hard back, to board books, to tub books, to eBooks and audio books.She ha s a team of talent that can do it all and can do all of the things. And so she has become a very valuable resource for anybody who wishes to self publish.

[00:05:38] Karen Christoffersen: My goal is to make my authors as happy as I possibly can. So when I put that book in their hands, it's like putting that baby in her mother's arms. It's a moment of just pure joy, and that's what I look for.

[00:05:53]

[00:05:53] Devin Davis: So Karen estimates that the expense of producing a book is about $3,000. My personal estimation is closer to $5,000. And many authors get a book finished, they write it, they edit it and they go through the entire huge process of getting a manuscript ready. And now it's printed, or it is available to order in the ebook form or whatever, they have this finished product, but many of them just don't know what to do next.

[00:06:26]Karen Christoffersen: If we can just get authors atuned to the fact that this is a small business. The startup business is tough and you have to build and you have to stick with it. Well, a book is like that as well. You have to be on there every day. You know, write a blog, do a newsletter. You must have a website. Websites are very inexpensive to do now. The hard part is selling it.

[00:06:54] So if people start off from the beginning, I remember Richard Evans told me, he said if I had started collecting email addresses when The Christmas Box first came out, he said, I've had millions of names, but he didn't start collecting addresses for like 10 years. And so that's one thing that I can't convince enough authors to do is to go out there and start building that list.

[00:07:21] Tell your friends to share. Tell your friends to send this to their friends and ask your friends if you can have their email address.

[00:07:29]Devin Davis: So where to get started. The process of writing a book has so many steps and so many different professionals to bring in on board to the project that it is so easy to lose track of what you need to do. It is easy to lose your steam and it is easy to lose focus. So, what Karen has put together is called the Book-wise Publishing Boiler Plate and she passed this document onto me.

[00:07:59] It is updated regularly. The one that I have was current as of July 7th, 2021. And it goes through and outlines step by step, the different things that you need to do in the writing process to produce a book, to get to that finish line of having a book. And then we move on a little bit to marketing after that.

[00:08:27] So if you are interested in the Book-wise Publishing Boiler Plate document, go ahead and email me. My email is [email protected]. And I will be able to send that to you so that you can see what Book-wise Publishing has put together. As far as that is concerned.

[00:08:49] Karen Christoffersen: One thing I think is really important is that if you are a serious writer, if you're serious about completing a book, you need two books, you need your book, but you also need a journal. And write in your journal every day what you do, whether you write 10 pages, whether you call so-and-so who knows an editor or an agent or whatever is happening in your book life, keep a journal of it because you're going to want to refer back to that sometime. And you will have valuable information that you don't even know was valuable at the time you received it. So two books.

[00:09:29]Devin Davis: Sometimes as business owners and as people who are creative, we failed to see the importance of record keeping. So with different things like this with having your manuscript that you are working on and then keeping track of the things that you did to progress that manuscript that can serve you in many different ways. It can show you, first of all, exactly how you did it so that you can do it again when you move on to your second manuscript. It can also serve as kind of a force to lift you up. If you are feeling down, if you are feeling unmotivated, you can look back to the specific days where you pushed through and did a lot and accomplished a lot, and had a really successful day, as far as production goes, and you can replicate what you did to get past that and to do it again. And so record keeping is very, very important in a small business, not only just the financial side, but also what you have done for production.

[00:10:42] With me, I have my book, well, my two books. I now have two books, two manuscripts that I'm working on. I also have this podcast that I need to keep track of. With the podcast, I don't keep track of all of the notes that I have taken for each episode, but I definitely have a planner because this is a regular release schedule. And so I need to be organized and I need to think ahead.

[00:11:08] And if I ever want to have days off, it means that I need to get things done beforehand to earn those days off or to prepare for them. So with books, I have done the book writing before I know how to do that. And I know the people that I need to get ahold of for the next steps, because I've done that too. And I never did keep a second journal, but I also recommend doing that just as Karen pointed out.

[00:11:36]But also something, another thing that Karen does, and this was surprising to me, Karen has an entire career built around producing and around marketing. And so Karen has spent her entire adult life writing the short stuff, saying impactful things in a very short amount of time, because in marketing, you don't have pages and pages to build or to develop.

[00:12:06] You get to hit them hard and you get to say the important things in a good, meaningful way right away. And so Karen writes the short stuff. With my books, she wrote the blurbs on the back of the covers because she's good at that. And she knows how to do the small things well. And so when she moves on to share with me something else that you will hear here in a second, I was completely surprised and delighted by this little gift that she shares.

[00:12:44] Karen Christoffersen: I was going to read to you just a little thing. 'Cause I don't write books.

[00:12:48] I do a lot of writing, but I don't write books because I have too much work to do just editing. I decided to write as what I call a fictionalized narrative based on true events. And I bring other people in like, you know, the boy in my neighborhood who was my friend and his quote from his point of view, what he sees happening in my life.

[00:13:13] But I thought it might be fun just to read a tiny little excerpt. So I would like your response to these four short paragraphs. You're ready for this?

[00:13:25] Okay. Now I grew up in a trailer in a tiny home and and I had a sister who played Elvis Presley all the time.

[00:13:34] And my big brother, 12 years older than me. He looked like Elvis Presley. I thought Elvis was my brother. And I liked big words. This is when I was five years old. But even when I was five years old, I liked big words. So this is four paragraphs for inspiration for you guys.

[00:13:52]Butch was my friend. He was about 10 or 11, and I was five. Butch had a dog named Gunner. He was a big German shepherd, mostly black, but he had a lot of golden fur in his face and he was beautiful. He was bigger than me, probably twice my size, a happy dog, always looked like he was grinning, kind of like me. Dad called me a grinning idiot.

[00:14:15]Butch had to keep him on a long rope because we didn't have fences. So Gunner had to be leashed when we were at school. And I lived right on Route 66 in Albuquerque, New Mexico. So it was a nasty road. I remember riding the school bus home one day. And as we got to our stop right in front of our trailer park, there was a dark something in the middle of the road, a ways in front of the bus.

[00:14:37]I didn't think anything about it at the time, but when we walked to our trailers, I noticed Butch was looking around and couldn't find Gunner. He called him, and Gunner would always come when he heard Butch call but not this time. And then I knew what that black thing in the middle of the road was.

[00:14:55] And I was sick at heart, sick to my stomach, and didn't know what to do. Butch and his dad dug a hole near the back of their trailer space I remember it was in the spring because the wild flowers were in bloom and I picked a bunch to put on his grave. Butch was pretty stoic. I liked that word.

[00:15:12] It meant strong and quiet-like I loved big words, even as a child. I knew he was hurting, but he didn't have to show it. I liked that. He could hurt inside, but he didn't have to show everybody and make a fuss. At my house, someone was always making a fuss. That kind of quiet strength really impressed me. I wanted to be like that, but I was a girl and girls, well, we're usually not the epitome of quiet strength.

[00:15:40] The role model I had at the time was just the opposite. I remember standing there as Butch's dad shoveled dirt into the hole, singing quietly to myself, "You ain't nothing but a hound dog crying all the time, nothing but a hound dog." It was my requiem for Gunner. He was a good dog, a loyal and loving one. Died on Route 66, just east of Albuquerque.

[00:16:06] And that is my tiny excerpt from my narrative. And I wanted to write it in such a way that my kids would actually read it. And so I bring this up because anybody out there who is thinking about writing the book and thinks they can't write a book. Well, I thought I couldn't write a book, but I I'm starting to think I might be able to, because I read a few of these pieces to my children and they liked them and ask for more.

[00:16:38]Devin Davis: So there you have it. Anyone can write a story. And a lot of us want to write some form of memoir, either for ourselves, for our lives or for a loved one. Like Caroline Nadine Helsing did in one of those previous episodes. And you should. And it is fun to bring focus to the idea of a fictional narrative based on real events and how that can be just fine and a beautiful way to do your own narrative or your own memoir or the memoir of a loved one.

[00:17:14] It can be fun. It can be entertaining. It can be more memorable that way. If you choose to incorporate those elements as well, just as Karen is choosing to do with her own personal memoirs. I know that I will, when I do my own stuff later on in life, I'm not interested in writing a memoir today. But if you are interested in reaching out to Book-wise Publishing, do their website at www.bookwisepublishing.com. And if you want to reach out to Karen Kristofferson herself, her email is [email protected]. It has three Z's in a row. Uh, I will include that email address and a link to the website in the notes of the show.

[00:18:03] Also, again, referring back to the boiler plate document. If you want to get a hold of that, feel free to reach out to me. My email address is [email protected]. And I would be able to send that over to you.

[00:18:18]That's it for today. A big shout out to my patrons who help make this show what it is. If you wish to become a patron, you will get early access to this content, you could get an additional episode every month and you could spend quality time with me over some private chat features in Discord.

[00:18:35] Just go to patreon.com/writinginthetinyhouse to sign up to become a patron today. Also, be sure to follow me on social media. On Instagram I am @authordevindavis, on Twitter I am @authordevind. And thank you so much for listening. Be sure to be on the lookout for next week's episode, where we will be hearing from author AJ Mac, who wrote The Gem State Siege during NaNoWriMo last year. So that is coming up next week. Thank you so much, guys. Have fun writing.

Check out this episode!

#writing #writer #author #fiction #am writing #wip

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