#just obsessing over unpleasant things in my day after work. it's not healthy it's a bad way to live :•(

[fandomsimagined]

Opposites Attract (Scara x Reader x Tartaglia)

Summary: Tartaglia doesn’t really think that his roommate’s girlfriend is a good match for him. She’d be much better with someone else... like himself. 

Pairing: Scaramouche x FemReader, (one-sided) Tartaglia x FemReader

Warning: Slight obsession, pretty toxic relationship, language and slight smuttiness. I mean it’s Scara and Tartaglia? 

A/N: Scaramouche has me in a chokehold right now. The brain rot is real and I'm not mad about it? please feel free to send me your thoughts on this amazing man that I am so ready for to come home!

Tartaglia knows that it's normal for couples to be different, they are different people after all and you know, opposites attract and all that. Still, surely two people need to have something in common right? But for as much time as he’s spent observing the ‘happy couple’, he doesn’t think he’s found a single thing (Y/N) and Scaramouche seem to share. 

Honestly, Tartaglia has been trying to figure it out since the day he met (Y/N) and realized she was in a relationship with Scaramouche. It’s a bit of an embarrassing memory, because he laughed in her face, literally, when she told him. He really thought it was a joke until he saw the tears welling up in her eyes and he heard his roommate berate him for making his girlfriend cry. In Tartaglia’s defense he had been living with Scaramouche for months and he couldn’t recall a single time that he’d heard him mention another person’s name with anything but disgust. When he brought that fact up Scaramouche simply told him that it was “none of your fucking business.”

Thankfully, (Y/N) was quick to forgive him. That was the first real instance of Tartaglia noticing a huge difference in personalities between the two and thinking that they seemed off. Since then he’s had somewhat of a weird obsession with figuring out exactly how mismatched they truly were. 

The second time was nothing special, but he still remembers it as if it were. A pretty boring day at work mixed with a healthy dose of seasonal depression that January usually brought had left him feeling weighed down by the monotony his job held at times. Truthfully he was actually looking forward to going home and picking a stupid fight with Scaramouche over nothing. It was hardly a productive way to blow off steam, but if he were being completely honest the competitive nature Tartaglia had always made him somewhat enjoy arguments. His mood only further soured when he made it back to his apartment and he walked in to see (Y/N) cuddled up on the couch to Scaramouche and him looking as indifferent as ever. 

Tartaglia had made a pretty bad first impression. Sure, they hadn’t had any more unpleasant run-ins since then, still he was enough of a gentleman to think twice about subjecting her to one of their screaming matches that turned volatile pretty quickly. Change of plans then, he’d just walk by and head to his bedroom and be miserable. It was not part of his plan to catch (Y/N)’s gaze and he surely didn’t plan on her asking if he was okay. He reassured her he was fine with a nod and a smile, honestly appreciative of the kind gesture he wasn’t normally met with there. 

The third time actually was a bit special, namely because it was a holiday and therefore more notable of a date. Valentine’s Day to be exact. (Y/N) bounced in happily with two neatly wrapped gift boxes in her hand. He could vividly remember the way her smile fell whenever she presented Scaramouche with the chocolates she’d spent archons knows how long she’s spent preparing. “We literally said no gift last week.”

“Oh, well… I thought it might be okay since I didn’t buy anything-” Her voice was so small and Scaramouche didn’t respond with anything but an exhausted sigh as he took the box from her hands. 

He did pop a small piece of chocolate in his mouth and smirk at the way she perked up at the simple action though. “I'm getting my coat. Be ready to go when I get back.” 

She was smiling again by the time she turned to Targalia and handed him the second, slightly smaller box, “It’s not much, but Happy Valentine’s Day!” 

Scaramouche may have gotten a small smile as he covertly snuck a piece of the candies she prepared. But she beamed when Tartaglia freely gave her praise and eagerly ate a few pieces. She even giggled a little when he let her know that if Scaramouche wasn’t willing to spoil her on Valentine’s Day next year he would do it without hesitation if she promised another box of chocolate. 

After that Tartaglia couldn’t help but start to think that HE would make a much better match for (Y/N) than her current boyfriend. But, by the fourth instance, Tartaglia was absolutely sure. His keys hit the counter with a quiet clink and thud as he threw them haphazardly and grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. He headed towards the living room and stopped in his tracks when he spotted (Y/N) on their couch. She wiped her puffy eyes quickly when she saw him and offered him an unconvincing smile and wave. “You okay?”

“Yeah! I’m fine, I’m just waiting on Scara to get back.”

“Oh okay… he just left you here?” Tartaglia wasn’t sure how to word it without sounding so harsh, but he hoped his soft tone helped. 

“Yeah. He shouldn’t be too long. Funny story, actually, I was supposed to pick up something for him on my way here, but I completely forgot. He just went by himself since it was important and he was already late to get it. I didn’t want to slow him down or anything so it was just best if I waited here.” The chuckle she let out was absolutely pathetic and he winced a little thinking of the conversation that actually occurred instead of her sugarcoated version. “If I’m in your way or anything I can go wait somewhere else though?”

“No, of course not. In fact, mind if I wait with you? I was just planning on watching last night’s game, it’d be way more fun with a pretty girl beside me.” Tartaglia flashed a charming grin and plopped down beside her when she nodded. 

He almost forgot about Scaramouche’s existence until he returned and (Y/N) jumped up, apologies at the ready and waiting the second he closed the door behind him. That left a bit of a bitter taste in his mouth, but not as much as listening to Scaramouche detailing what she could do to properly apologize to him. 

She bid Tartaglia a goodnight with a flustered expression on her face. Cute, even if it was due to a man that he was now sure didn’t deserve to see it. But that was okay for now. Tomorrow would be a new day, a day where Tartaglia would start to open her eyes to the horrible matchup that was her and her current boyfriend. 

Tartaglia’s plan was… working? He was definitely getting closer to (Y/N). Conversations and playful flirting coming easily every time he saw her. Unfortunately his efforts didn’t seem to be driving the wedge between her and Scaramouche that he hoped. He was also starting to get the suspicion that Scaramouche was starting to catch on, if his more frequent glares were any indication. 

His suspicion was confirmed soon enough and his jaw almost hit the floor when he saw them. Tartaglia’s eyes locked with Scaramouche’s, the smug grin on his face let him know that their meeting in the living room was no accident. Tartaglia swallowed hard as his eye drifted downwards to where (Y/N) was settled between his knees, completely bare and bobbing her head seemingly unaware of his presence. 

He should retreat. Turn right around and walk back out the front door and try to forget what he saw, or head to his bedroom and try to rub one out. Still he stayed glued to the floor watching with bated breath as Scaramouche tangled his hand in her hair and yanked her off of him. The whine she let out was sinful and Tartaglia could feel his jeans tighten just a bit, “Come on, Scara..”

“Sorry, baby, looks like we’ve been interrupted.” Scaramouche twisted her head so she could get a clear view of their intruder. Tartaglia’s eyes widened to the size of saucers when they met (Y/N)’s. She seemed to be just as shocked as him and scrambled for a throw blanket on the couch to cover herself, while Scaramouche didn’t bother trying to move in the slightest. Apologies spewed from her mouth like water from an ornate fountain. Scaramouche did very little to hide his amusement. 

“No need to apologize. He walked in on us, and besides, looks like he enjoyed himself.”

Tartaglia watched as her eyes flitted to his crotch and quickly back up to his eyes like she was trying to hide the fact she was confirming her boyfriend’s claims. He guessed it was his turn to apologize, “Sorry, I was just-”

“Just what? Getting a good look before you got off on watching my girlfriend?” Scaramouche chuckled when he saw Tartaglia’s jaw twitch and face flushed. His attention then turned back to (Y/N), “Looks like I was right, huh? I told you he spends too much time fawning over what he can’t have. You know what though… I'm feeling kind of generous today. Maybe we could throw him a bone and let him watch just this once.”

Tartaglia was ashamed of how quiet he was, how uncharacteristically meek he was being. Still, he stayed glued to his spot and watched (Y/N). He wasn’t stupid enough to think that her bastard of a boyfriend didn’t have this entire thing planned. Tartaglia was pretty sure that (Y/N) was just along for the ride, and he could only hold that she might just have some mercy on him. She looked at him and then turned back to Scaramouch, “Umm… I guess that would be okay, if that’s what you want to do…”

Scaramouche scoffed at the relieved look on his roommate’s face and even muttered something on the lines of him being pathetic. Normally, Tartaglia would be ready to fight and defend his own honor, but he did feel pathetic at the moment and he could always punch him after… Then, a wicked grin spread across Scaramouche’s face, “First things first though. If you want something from me, you beg for it.”

#scaramouche #scaranation #scaramouche smut #yandere genshin x reader #yandere tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia #scaramouche x reader #genshin smut

[daydreamlng]

.

#SCREAM I'm so annoyed with things at work. #i don't even know how to articulate it #I've just been fucking exhausted and annoyed at the end of each workday. every day so far this week #i think it's because i don't get to see most of the kids for 3 of the core classes. #i feel stuck :-( and i keep passive aggressively letting off steam to some of my friends at work #and they get it but it's like. there's nothing anyone can do and i know that so i need to knock it off and get over it #:•( #it feels bad. everything is a big feedback loop of bad feelings. bad and hard to articulate. #hard to decompress. going to work on that more this year for real. i can't live like this #just obsessing over unpleasant things in my day after work. it's not healthy it's a bad way to live :•( #whatever #diary #probably delete later i feel like this doesn't make any sense #work

[blackspoon99]

The Sign of Three Pt. 2

Sherlock x Female! Reader

TW: Mention of Blood and Near Death, Spoilers to Season 3!

Part 1

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

You took your seat at the head table and found yourself relieved that you were sat in between Janine and Sherlock. You felt immediate guilt at that thought. Dinner was slightly tense and awkward. Possibly only for you. For the most part, you made small talk with Janine while Sherlock read over his stack of index cards. Little boughs of anxiety kept creeping in the back of your mind as you replayed Sherlock and Janine’s conversation over and over. You peeked over at Sherlock to your right and took a healthy sip of champagne. You decided you would try your best to be present. This day wasn’t about you, after all. Your attention was pulled to the center of the room when a waiter tapped a spoon against a champagne glass.

“Pray silence for the best man”

This was it. You can do it, Sherlock. You watched Sherlock rise from his seat and stiffly fasten one of the buttons on his blazer. He looked unbelievably uncomfortable. You smiled when you noticed Sherlock adjusting the flower you placed in his blazer pocket. The wedding guests applauded and waited for Sherlock to begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends ... and ... erm ... others.” Sherlock blinked several times.

“Er ... w...” Another awkward pause. “…Also”

You looked over at John then at Molly and Greg. They wore the same concerned look on their faces.

“Telegrams” John whispered to Sherlock

“Right, uhm…” Sherlock patted the pockets of his blazer and pants then finally noticed them on the table near his place setting. “First things first. Telegrams.” He lifted up the pile and inspected the first one. “Well, they’re not actually telegrams. We just call them telegrams. I don’t know why. Wedding tradition,” Sherlock muttered quickly. “Because we don’t have enough of that already, apparently.”

You saw John narrow his eyes and turn to Mary. You nervously looked down at your hands in your lap. Sherlock read the first note.

“To Mr. and Mrs. Watson. So sorry I’m unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck and best wishes, Mike Stamford.”

“Oh, Mike,” John said, smiling.

“To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big ...” Sherlock paused and suddenly looked like he had swallowed a lemon. “... big squishy cuddles, from Stella and Ted.” He looked up at the ceiling, blinking repeatedly again. You tried to suppress your laughter. “Mary – lots of love, ...” Yet another pause. “…Poppet” He finished, popping the “t” at the end. Mary snickered.

Sherlock straightened his back and took the next card. “Don’t bugger it up, Sher—” he abruptly cleared his throat and looked straight at you. You tried to hide your laughter. He’d finally gotten to the note you slipped in with the telegrams. Everyone would have heard it was actually quite a nice note if Sherlock had read the entire thing out loud. It read: Don’t bugger it up, Sherlock. Only kidding. You’re doing great. X, y/n.

“Um, special day” Sherlock threw a telegram over his shoulder. “Very special day” He then proceeded to toss each telegram straight behind him. “Love, love, love, love. Bit of a theme – you get the general gist. People are basically fond.” The wedding guests laughed, interpreting it as a joke. Sherlock looked confused, then picked up the other stack of index cards. He began to shuffle through them, clearly trying to find his place.

“Done that. ... Done that ... Done that bit ... Done that bit ... Done that bit ... Hmm ...”

You anxiously looked up at him, feeling the awkward tension in the room.

“I’m afraid, John, I can’t congratulate you.”

Your eyes snapped over to John who looked as shocked as you felt.

“All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.”

You looked around the room at all the wedding guests as some of them began to murmur. Greg and Molly had the same horrified look on their faces. Sherlock continued on.

“Today we honor the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time – one feels certain – our entire species.”

You placed your head in your hands. You knew you should have made Sherlock let you read over his speech. You hadn’t wanted to make him feel nervous or like you didn’t trust him.

“But anyway ... let’s talk about John.”

“Yeah, good idea” you hissed up at Sherlock. He ignored you.

“If I burden myself with a little help-mate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice – it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me.”

You heard Greg snort across the room. This was going south fast. You couldn’t believe Sherlock was insulting John on his wedding day. He must be spiraling. There had to be something you could do to save this. Fake an emergency, maybe? You could at least buy some time that way.

“Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides. It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel.”

Ouch. You tried so hard not to look at Sherlock as you felt your ears burning with embarrassment. You adverted your gaze and focused on not allowing yourself to be hurt by what he’d just said.

Somehow, Sherlock continued. “And contrast is, after all, God’s own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation ... or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot.”

Oh boy. Now Sherlock was going straight to insulting the vicar. The murmuring began to pick up again. You looked over at John, who was now hiding his face in his hands while Mary frowned.

“The point I’m trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet.”

You looked up at Sherlock in genuine surprise.

“I am dismissive of the virtuous ...” He looked to the vicar. “... unaware of the beautiful ...” Your heart stopped when he looked straight at you. Or maybe in your general direction? You looked over your shoulder at Janine, who was smiling. He could have just as easily been looking at her.

Sherlock finally turned to John and Mary “... and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.”

Just when you’d started to doubt him, Sherlock had surpassed all your expectations. He always managed to surprise you, every time.

“John, I am a ridiculous man ... redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I’m apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion. Actually, now I can.” Sherlock turned to Mary. “Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss... so sorry again about that last one.” John laughed. Sherlock leaned back over to you and winked. You smiled and rolled your eyes.

“So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

You found yourself fighting tears. You were not alone. “What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John?” Sherlock again looked rather confused. He turned to look at you. “Did I do it wrong?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” you said quietly.

John stood up and pulled Sherlock into a hug. The crowd applauded. “I haven’t finished yet,” Sherlock said as John released him.

“Yes, I know,” said John

“So, on to some funny stories ...” Sherlock attempted to yell over the applause.

“Can you – can you wait ’til I sit down?” John asked.

“So, on to some funny stories about John,” Sherlock continued as the noise died down. “So, for funny stories, one has to look no further than John’s blog.” Sherlock pulled out his phone. “The record of our time together. We’ve tackled some strange cases, some frustrating cases, and ‘touching’ cases. But we want something ... very particular for this special day, don’t we? The Bloody Guardsman.”

You remembered this case. It was only a few weeks ago,

You, John, Mary, and Sherlock sat in the living room of Sherlock’s flat, completely surrounded by lists, items, and menus for the wedding. You’d initially been surprised at Sherlock’s dedication to wedding planning. The back wall above the couch was a perfectly organized record of everything that needed to be done in the next few weeks down to all the potential fonts for the place cards. Sherlock had even created a to-scale model of the reception venue sometime during his fits of mania. You were no psychologist, but if you were you’d say that Sherlock’s meticulous efforts were all in an attempt to force some control into a daunting situation.

John and Mary were seated at the table near the windows looking over the bridesmaids’ dress options. Sherlock stood studying the guest list on the monstrous wall of wedding planning. You were sitting in John’s chair with your legs hanging over one of the arms, flipping through catering menus.

“Need to work on your half of the church, Mary. Looking a bit thin.” Sherlock spoke from across the room.

Mary forced a smile. “Ah, orphan’s lot. Friends – that’s all I have. Lots of friends.”

You didn’t know anything about Mary’s family except that for unknown reasons, she didn’t have one. She kept her cards so close to the vest, you doubted John knew anything either. “And your friends adore you, Mary,” you said, attempting to cheer her up.

“Schedule the organ music to begin at precisely 11:48,” Sherlock spoke over you. “Sherlock,” you groaned. He didn’t turn around from the wall and continued to fiddle with the clippings.

“Or maybe 11:55, with allowed time for delays,”

“Sherlock,” you tried again. “The rehearsal’s not for another two weeks. Just calm down”

He whipped around to face you. “Calm? I am calm. I’m extremely calm.”

“Yes, I can see that,” you said sarcastically, noting the wild look in his eyes.

“Let’s get back to the reception, come on,” Mary said from across the room, diffusing the tension. “John’s cousin. Top table?”

Sherlock rose to join John and Mary at the table. “Hmm. Hates you. Can’t even bear to think about you.”

You rolled your eyes. You tossed the catering menus to the side and walked over to the table to look over Mary’s shoulder.

“Seriously?” Mary asked, shocked

“Second class post, cheap card bought at a petrol station. Look at the stamp: three attempts at licking. She’s obviously unconsciously retaining saliva.”

“Don’t worry Mary, I’ve met her and she’s the worst. Let’s stick her by the bogs,” you interjected.

“Oh yes,” Mary agreed.

“Pretending I didn’t hear that,” John said, looking down at his phone.

“Who else hates me?” Mary asked Sherlock. He turned around and handed her a handwritten list. “Oh great – thanks,” Mary said unenthusiastically.

“Priceless painting nicked. Looks interesting,” John announced. He’d been looking through inquiries for cases on the blog. It was only a little annoying that he wasn’t helping. “How about this: ‘My husband is three people’? It’s interesting. Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin.”

“Identical triplets – one in half a million births. Solved it without leaving the flat. Now, serviettes.” Sherlock bent down and pulled a tray out from under the coffee table that had two different elaborately folded napkins. “Swan or Sydney Opera House?”

“Wow…” you said flatly. He’s lost it. You bit your lip in concern and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Where’d you learn to do that?!” Mary asked, impressed.

“Many unexpected skills required in the field of criminal investigation ...”

“You’re lying, Sherlock,” you said, teasing.

“I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of ...”

“Sherlock, out with it.” You pressed him further.

“Okay – I learned it on YouTube.”

“Well then, Sydney Opera House, please,” Mary said with a smile.

You turned away, thinking. “Hey, Mary? Can I show you what I was thinking for my bridesmaid dress?”

“Uh, sure,” She replied.

“Great!” you said and grabbed her wrist. You pulled her into the kitchen and closed the door. “Mary, we have to do the thing. Right now.”

“Are you sure, he seems okay-ish?” She said skeptically.

“Okay-ish?! Mary, he’s watching YouTube videos on napkin folding. He’s terrified.”

“Right. You’re right. Okay, you speak with Sherlock while I get John.”

You opened the doors to the living room to see Sherlock sitting on the floor, surrounded by at least 15 napkins folded in the opera house shape.

“That just sort of ... happened,” he said dropping his hands to his side.

“Did you just do that now?” John asked, finally looking up from his phone.

“Okay. John?” Mary started. “I’m about to give Beth a call, she’ll want to talk to you as well.” Mary held her phone up and gestured to the kitchen.

“Oh Beth, that’s right. We’ve been meaning to call her.” John got up and followed her.

You walked over to Sherlock and took a seat on the floor next to him. He reached under the table for more napkins, but you caught his hand and shook your head.

“I think we have enough for now. I actually need to talk to you about something, Sherlock. I’m worried about John.” He looked over at you, listening intently. You lowered your voice and inched closer. “I think all the wedding planning is getting to him. He needs to get out for a bit, I can tell.” Sherlock nodded along with you. “I can’t say anything because he won’t listen to me. He’s just going to think I’m worrying too much. Could you please find him a case, any case? For me?”  

“Yes, yes, of course. You can count on me.” Sherlock whispered. He stood up and carefully smoothed out his suit. John walked back into the room. You got up and silently joined Mary into the kitchen. A few moments later, Sherlock and John walked into the kitchen.

“Er, we’re just going to ... I need, um, Sherlock to help me choose some, er, socks.” John awkwardly fumbled over his words.

“Ties,” Sherlock interjected.

“Let’s go with socks,” Mary said.

“Could be a while,” John said. “We’ve got to make sure they match my—”

“Tie” Sherlock interrupted. John looked back at him, exasperated.

“My coat in there?” John cleared his throat. Mary nodded and John turned the corner. Sherlock leaned in and lowered his voice.

“Just going to take him out for a bit – run him.”

“Good work, Sherlock,” you said with a smile. Sherlock winked at you and walked out of the door. When they were out of sight, you turned to Mary.

“Do you fancy a drink?”

“Let’s go,” She replied.

That had been the end of your involvement in the case of the Bloody Guardsman. You had heard the rest of the story from John. Sherlock hadn’t particularly felt like sharing. Probably because he never solved it. You listened to Sherlock lay out his chosen details in his speech all the way up to Sherlock and John finding Stephen Bainbridge bleeding out in a shower in the barracks.

“Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He’d stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go? Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish – but in all of this, there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?”

You rolled your eyes. Of course, Sherlock was challenging people to solve a case on the spot that he didn’t even figure out himself. You pitied whoever he chose to humiliate.

“Scotland Yard.” Greg looked up from his drink. “Have you got a theory?” Greg stared blankly at Sherlock. “Yeah, you. You’re a detective – broadly speaking. Got a theory?”

This was going to be bad.

“Er, um, if the, uh, if the if-if-if, if the blade was, er, propelled through the, um ... grating in the air vent ... maybe a-a ballista or a – or a – or a catapult. Erm, somebody tiny could … could crawl in there.” Molly cringed. “So, yeah, we’re loo... we’re looking for a-a-a-a dwarf.”

“Brilliant,” said Sherlock

“Really?” Greg replied immediately

“No,” Sherlock said coldly. Ruthless. Greg lowered his head back into his drink. Across the room, you saw Tom whispering something into Molly’s ear.

“Hello? Who was that?” Sherlock asked and looked around the room before settling on Tom. “Tom. Got a theory?” Tom slowly stood up across the room.

Poor Tom looked uneasy. He shifted around for a bit before reluctantly giving his opinion. “Um ... attempted suicide, with a blade made of compacted blood and bone that broke after piercing his abdomen ... like a meat ... dagger.”

Molly wore a look of uncomprehending embarrassment. You looked to Sherlock. He had a look on his face that was a strange mix of smugness and disbelief. “A meat dagger.” He stated.

“Yes,” Tom said, awkwardly.

“Sit down.” Molly hissed. She reached up and yanked Tom down to his seat by his sleeve.

“No,” said Sherlock plainly. “There was one feature, and only one feature, of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson: who, while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life.”

You smiled at John’s proud expression. So that was the point of Sherlock’s roundabout story. It surprised you because when they’d initially came home that day, all Sherlock could focus on was how the attempted murderer did it and why he couldn’t figure it out. It was nice to see he had developed a new perspective.

“The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly-planned murder – or attempted murder – I’ve ever had the pleasure to encounter; the most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware. However, I’m not just here to praise John – I’m also here to embarrass him, so let’s move on to some ...”

“No-no, wait, so how was it ... how was it done?” Lestrade interrupted.

Now Sherlock would have to admit he didn’t solve the case. You smirked. That’s what you get for insisting on embarrassing Greg and Tom.  

“How was what done?” Sherlock asked, attempting to deflect

“The stabbing,” Lestrade clarified.

Sherlock looked down for a moment, then reluctantly continued. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I didn’t solve that one. That’s ... It can happen sometimes. It’s very ... very disappointing.” He looked down for a moment as if contemplating then continued. “Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night.”

A/N: So sorry this is so late! I haven’t forgotten about this series, I promise! I just moved into a new apartment in college and it’s already been nuts!

taglist: @the-chaotic-cow @amoeebaa @sad-bitch-h0ur @scorpios-echos

If you want to be added to the taglist for future updates, go like the post I made earlier about it!

#bbc sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlock imagine #sherlockxreader #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x you #Sherlock Holmes x Reader #sherlock x you #sherlock x y/n #the sign of three #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you

[rebrandedbard]

A little drabble exchange for @theamazingbard that accidentally became more of a ficlet. Threw in a little hispanic nursery rhyme since I don’t know if we have them in english for making pain go away. I tried googling but it was unhelpful. 

TW: Descriptions of blood, drinking it, gross stuff like that. Canon-typical wounds. References to drinking and inebriation.

WC: 2617

Lips Black as the Rose

Featuring highervampire!Jaskier as he tries to figure himself out after being turned. A bit of spice in there. Am I picking and choosing parts of the lore as I see fit? Yes. Is it very sexy of me to do so? One hundred percent. Will I beta this before posting? Oh absolutely not, you know the drill. ‘No beta, we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments’ is my go-to Ao3 tag for a reason.

-

Under no circumstances would Jaskier ever cause harm to another living thing, but the world did not reciprocate that exact philosophy. He’d been chased and held at the business end of many a sword, dagger, lance, and—on several unfortunately memorable occasions—a startling variety of available flatware. Things were rougher after meeting Geralt and having his usual human pursuers overshadowed by the threat of monsters.

Where once a spoon in the hands of a rabid duke would seem a most threatening opponent, Jaskier now found himself on the run from a more literal array of rabid beasts, and he could quote the running speeds the prove that having an extra pair of legs did indeed give certain monsters a leg up, so to speak, on the competition. But then, having no legs at all could prove a better advantage, and such creatures as those often had the additional advantage of long, venomous teeth.

Suffice to say, it was a difficult thing to be a lover in a world of fighters. Particularly when one falls into the company of another presumed lover, only to discover that their invitation to dinner was, in truth, an invitation to be dinner.

A vampire. Young, wine drunk, and foolish, Jaskier allowed himself to be led into the vampire’s den. It had been many years ago, he no longer remembered the details. He only remembered a sharp pain on his shoulder, followed by a woozy numbness, and he awoke in a strange bed, in an inn he did not check into, with his reflection missing from the mirror. He’d run away from home shortly after, fearing a bloodlust that was never to come.

It was a strange thing, being a vampire. After months of research, Jaskier came to no conclusions as to what it meant to be one exactly. He experimented with the content of old myths, touching silver very cautiously, taking delicate bites of foods prepared with garlic. He could cross a river just as well as any man. All in all, there was not much wrong with him, and he wondered what all the fuss was about. Well, there was a bit of fuss in that he could no longer be sure of his appearance, and he’d become more vain than ever, relying on the opinions of others to assure him that he looked presentable. This was a particular bother where Geralt was concerned, for he rarely paid compliments—if ever—and was not inclined to offer opinions concerning such trifling things as fashion or appearances.

Jaskier felt sure that Geralt would have noticed right away, but when their paths crossed again, Geralt seemed entirely ignorant of Jaskier’s dramatic change in biology. Running his tongue over his teeth, he could find no fangs. People complimented him on his eyes, still cooing over how bright and blue they were; and he’d been so afraid they’d turned a ghastly red as in the stories. From what he could tell, he appeared human. He had no violent urges to drain the blood from red-cheeked virgins, nor had he transformed into a bat and flown into the night. Sunlight only burned his skin as much as it had before, though it might have been harder on his eyes. He found himself squinting more in the afternoon, and it was unpleasant hot at times.

All in all, he was relatively normal.

“Such beauty ought to be preserved evermore.” That was what the vampire had told him that night. A great favor, immortality, but he wished he might have been offered a list of instructions to go with it. Figuring things out on his own was exasperating. And though he was not quite compelled to drink blood, there were times when he was … drawn. By curiosity.

When Geralt returned from a hunt, his flesh torn and body bleeding, Jaskier found it challenging to tend his wounds. Many times, he’d almost given into temptation. It did not help that he’d wanted to know the taste of Geralt’s skin long before the transformation. Now, there was an intoxicating layer to the fantasy, and the smell of Geralt’s blood made him hazy, like the bouquet of a strong wine. Or more realistically, the cloud of bitter vodka. If it had been a particularly nasty fight, Jaskier was sure he could taste Geralt’s blood by the smell alone, so powerful it made his nose wrinkle. He could get drunk on the fumes, and it was not always so pleasant.

He never dared try. There were too many things to consider. For a start, there was no telling what the blood of a witcher would do to him—and that was before factoring potions into the equation. Having never fed of blood, Jaskier did not know how his instincts would react, and he was sure he had some animal instinct to him now. He might drain Geralt dry in a matter of minutes, or the taste of blood might make him go insane and start tearing at his surroundings like a mad beast! Or, simplest and frightening of all, Geralt might kill him. So Jaskier kept his secret, never giving in to his curiosity.

But one day, he’d slipped.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted. He clenched his hand and a sharp smell pervaded the air. In sharpening his sword, his hand had slipped. He’d cut the meat of his palm, just above his wrist.

Jaskier was up at once, Geralt’s bag in hand, ready to wrap the wound. He was very quick these days in getting things bundled up as soon as possible. Once the wounds were wrapped, the smell was not as pronounced. He fished out a strip of cloth and had it round Geralt’s hand in a matter of moments, working efficiently with good practice.

Geralt smiled ruefully. “A clean wound, at least. Should stitch itself up by morning.” He chuckled and inspected the wound, his eyes flicking over to Jaskier. “Haven’t done that since I was a child sharpening my first dagger,” he said.

“Did you cut yourself often in training?” Jaskier asked.

“No, not so often. We didn’t waste wrappings on such small scrapes either.”

There was a distracting shadow of red seeping through the cloth. Jaskier scoffed. “So you let it bleed into the open air, did you?”

“We were less inclined to coddle than humans.”

“Coddle?” Jaskier said, raising an offended hand to his chest. “My dear, a dressing is hardly evidence of coddling. If I wished to coddle you, I’d kiss it better and sing a little chant.”

Geralt presented his hand to Jaskier, smirking humorously. “Then do it. I’ve never heard of humans having such power as to kiss wounds better. Would save me a lot of trouble.”

“Erm … ” Jaskier flushed, considering the proffered wound. He nearly made a joke about lacking such power, being no longer human, but he bit it back. To cover his hesitation, he took Geralt’s hand and gently sang the rhyme his nurse used to calm him after a scraped elbow or knee. His tongue rolled musically as he rubbed the dressing carefully. “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana.” Then he bent his head down to kiss the place.

“I don’t see what frogs’ tails have to do with my hand,” Geralt joked.

But Jaskier did not hear him. Instead, he felt oddly fixed in place, a metallic tang on the tip of his tongue. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, and licked at his bottom lip to chase the memory of the taste. As he did, his tongue scraped the end of a long, pointed tooth. He stumbled back unsteadily, muttered his excuses, and fled to the safety of his bedroll across camp. There he sat, writing nonsense in his notebook as though struck by sudden inspiration.

He’d tasted Geralt’s blood. And now he wanted more.

The next few hunts were blessedly without injury. Jaskier found he was able to breathe again. It twisted his gut whenever Geralt went off to fulfill a contract, and his conscience was at odds with this new obsession. He wanted Geralt to come back whole and unharmed. But he wanted some cut, some smallest scrape upon which to lathe his tongue. When he thought of it, he felt a stirring in his gums, and touching the place, he found the fangs had grown in again. It took concentration to hide them again. He took to smiling with his mouth closed after the first incident, and he developed a habit of biting his lips.

When they came to a larger town, Jaskier went straight to the butcher. To quell his growing need, he bought fresh meat, sneaking a sip from the blood dish beneath the draining sheep’s carcass while the butcher’s back was turned. It had the strangest effect on him. Within minutes of leaving the butcher’s shop, he felt light-headed. He felt drunk, in short, and he wobbled his way to the inn, a giggle in his throat.

For dinner, he asked the potmaid to send the loin to the cook and surprised Geralt with it: a small treat to celebrate his recent hunting success. In truth, he wanted nothing to do with it, festering in the shame of his lie. The loin had merely been an excuse: something to keep the butcher busy while he drank his curiosity like some writhing leech dredged up from the water.

It made him drunk. He made note of it in his book and swore that would be the end of things. This odd affair made it easy to forget, his stomach turning in guilt and disgust at the thought of repeating the act. He was fine and healthy without blood, therefore there was no need to partake. He could go the rest of his life perfectly happy never drinking another drop. Until the day it fell from Geralt’s lip.

Jaskier stared at it from across the room. Geralt had just returned from a fight, his eyes and blood black with potion. His armour was scratched up, covered in foulness from monsters unknown, but he was alive and whole, hardly bruised. Jaskier tried to focus on the smell of the guts dripping from his armour. It was still as disgusting as ever, even with vampiric senses to influence his opinion. The wretched blood was still unappetizing. But above it, he smelled a strange scent: sweet, a touch of iron. And there, shining on Geralt’s lip, the wet glisten of blood.

He swallowed hard as Geralt wiped the cut on the back of his hand. The blood smudged along his chin, all the more enticing. His knuckles turned white on the sheet of his bed as he held himself in place. Ordinarily, he would be up on his feet to help coax Geralt out of his armour by now, but he did not trust himself to be so close.

Geralt shed his shoulder pads, looking at Jaskier from the corner of his eye. “It’s a bit slippery,” he said. He inclined his head, beckoning Jaskier over. That was their way. They did not ask things from one another. It was simple routine, and the brief lapse was something awkward to acknowledge.

What excuses could he provide? Jaskier stood on trembling legs and made his way, biting his own lip to hide the fangs he felt beginning to grow. His fingers were clumsy as he fumbled with the clasps, far too close to Geralt’s face. His breath caught, watching a bead of dark blood roll down his lip, over his chin. His lip was stained black.

Geralt had always had nice lips, Jaskier felt. He was always reminded torturously of this fact when he helped Geralt out of his armour. How could one undress such a man without indulging in the fantasy of what came after, even a little? But oh, it was a dangerous line of thought. Now he was bewitched by his senses, his focus single-mindedly drawn to that point on Geralt’s lip. To kiss him now, to lick the blood from his lip—it would be divine. He felt his heart beat faster at the prospect, his hands stalling to unbuckle Geralt’s breastplate as he stared. Just one taste. One kiss was all he wanted.

A hand pressed against his chest, stopping him short. Jaskier startled out of his unconscious reverie and looked at Geralt in horror. He hadn’t—! Had he? His attention flicked between Geralt’s eyes and his lip, and to his relief, the blood remained untouched.

“Not just now,” Geralt said, voice rumbling in his chest. “The potions might paralyze you—at least for a day. Anything lesser would die from a drink of it. It turns my blood to poison.”

Jaskier blinked, edging back. “I … don’t understand your meaning,” he feigned.

Geralt followed him, stepping forward. He raised a hand, caressing Jaskier’s cheek gently. “I know,” he said. “You’re not the best at keeping secrets. I noticed some time ago you stopped aging, and there’s no shadow at your feet, even on the brightest afternoon.”

He swiped his thumb over Jaskier’s bottom lip. Jaskier gasped, his lips parting, and Geralt pushed in. Then, his thumb was pushing Jaskier’s top lip away, revealing a glistening fang. He nodded, satisfied, and stepped back once more.

“You’re a vampire,” Geralt said. “And not a common one either. My medallion doesn’t react to you at all.” He chuckled and added, “As if you could be common by any measure.”

Jaskier turned away, picking up one of Geralt’s shoulder pads. He clutched it to his chest, whether for protection or for comfort he could not say. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was afraid to tell you … afraid what you might say. What you … might do.”

A warm hand smoothed down his arm comfortingly. There was a teasing quality to Geralt’s voice when he spoke. A hand wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, making him nearly jump in surprise.

“In regards to what: the knowledge that you’re a vampire, or the knowledge that you want to kiss me?” Geralt asked, words hot against Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier shivered, the adrenaline of his fear quickly turning to something sweeter. “Both,” he sighed. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, to understand Geralt’s intent.

“You cannot drink of me tonight,” Geralt whispered, “but I can satisfy that other hunger, if you only have the discipline to keep your teeth to yourself.”

“What are you saying, Geralt?” The way Geralt’s hand slipped lower and lower down his front, Jaskier thought he knew. Even so …

Geralt chuckled, nose pressing to the back of Jaskier’s neck. “I’m saying I’m tired of the way you look at me like a man starving and refuse to do something about it. It’s gotten worse. It was bad enough before, waiting for you to make your move, but since your turning, it’s insufferable. I feel like the centerpiece of a banquet, waiting to be devoured.”

“You said I couldn’t kiss you,” Jaskier said, breath coming up short as he felt himself pressed back against a firm chest, a second hand coming up to tug at the edge of his chemise. “I have no discipline whatsoever. And you know that.”

“Well then.”

Jaskier dropped the plate of armour as he was pushed backward. He fell, his knees caught by the edge of the bed. Arms caged him on either side, and above him. Geralt smiled, a drop of blood falling onto the sheets below. He pressed his thumb to Jaskier’s mouth once more, something ravenous in his eyes.

“Well then,” he repeated. “Looks like I’ll have to devour you instead.”

#my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #vampire!jaskier #highervampire!jaskier #showing off a bit of my culture there with the little rhyme #mexican / irish blended household baby! #sadly though I learned the rhyme from spanish classes instead of from my family lmao #such is life #lips black as the rose fic #persie's tag #I TOLD you I'd leave things unfulfilled #suffer

[darlingandmreames]

All the Freedom in the World

(also on ao3)

“Do you ever think about getting married?”

Arthur laughed, the question surprising him. “Me? No. Not really my thing.”

“I used to think the same thing.” Mal grinned at him over her drink. She usually loved gin and tonics, but tonight it was just tonic. Had been for a couple weeks now, and Arthur was starting to wonder. “Told myself I was never going to let myself get tied down like that. I was never going to marry, never going to have kids, never going to have one of those white picket fence houses I’d always hated growing up.”

Arthur nodded in agreement. Sounded like a perfectly good plan to him. “So what changed?”

Mal shrugged. “I met someone.” She looked out across the room to where Dom was chatting up a group of military officers. He excelled at dinners like these, dialing up the charm to a nearly unbearable degree and getting everybody in the room to like him. Mal leaned her elbow against the table and rested her head in her hand, watching Dom with a fond look. “Sometimes you meet someone so wonderful that the thought of not having them in your life just feels wrong. All of those plans I’d come up with for my life, the things I was going to do and see and experience all on my own, changed after I met Dom. I still wanted to do them, of course, that didn’t change. But the thought of doing them alone, doing them by myself, lost its appeal. I wanted to do them, but I wanted to do them with him. It didn’t feel like being tied down anymore, not if it was with him.” She looked back at Arthur with a small smile. “Maybe it won’t change for you, who knows. But don’t discount the fact that it might.”

“Hm. I’ll make sure to keep that in mind.” Arthur took a drink. What Mal was describing certainly sounded nice and he could see how much she loved Dom. How much they both loved each other. The idea of finding that level of happiness in another person, though, didn’t strike him as something he was likely to find. And despite her reassurances to the contrary, it still sounded to Arthur a hell of a lot like being tied down and he couldn’t think of anything worse. What they did allowed for so much more freedom than Arthur had ever dreamed of, and the idea of giving that up- giving it up for one person- sounded both unpleasant and incredibly stupid. “Still don’t see it happening, though. Not for me, at least.”

“Maybe.” Mal leaned back in her chair, going back to watching Dom. “You never know. Sometimes things change, even when you don't expect them to.”

XXX

“D’you ever think about getting married?”

Arthur could hear the alcohol in Dom’s voice. He was speaking slowly and slurring his words, vowels and consonants blurring into each other with little differentiation. Arthur wasn’t sure how long he’d been here at the bar before Arthur’d found him, but he was starting to think it had been quite a while. “Never really something I thought about much. Didn’t have much reason to.”

Dom nodded, picking his glass up and downing half of it in one go. “I knew I’d marry Mal. Knew as soon as I met her. She was-” he paused, hiccupping slightly, “she was perfect, you know? Happiest day of my life was when she said she’d marry me. Told her I’d dreamt…dreamt we’d…that we’d grow old together and…”

Arthur rested his hand gently on Dom’s arm, recognizing the waver in his voice. He’d rushed to the states as soon as he’d heard what happened, abandoning the job he’d been working on, and when Dom had fled the country, Arthur had followed him. They’d been country hopping for a few weeks now, trying to stay out of reach of the authorities. Arthur had taken it upon himself to take care of the logistics, figuring out where they could go and how long they could stay in a place before they needed to leave. Dom had more than enough to occupy his mind without having to think about any of that.

Dom finished off the rest of his drink with a grimace. “How could…how could she do this, Arthur? How could she do this to me? To our children? I don’t…” He dropped his head, voice breaking slightly. “I miss her, god I miss her so fucking much.”

“I’m sorry, Dom.” There wasn’t any comfort in the words, not really, but Arthur didn’t know what else to say. He’d seen grief before, but never like this. The pain in Dom’s voice, in his expression and posture and actions, was almost frightening. Horrifying. Mal’s death had hit Arthur too; she’d been one of his closest friends, more family than anything else, and losing her left a gaping hole in his chest that he wasn’t sure how to fill. But it was different for Dom. He’d lost his world when Mal had jumped, lost a part of himself that Arthur knew he would never be able to replace. It frightened him, honestly, to see that pain. It was something he couldn’t quite understand and he hoped to god that he never did. Love like what Dom and Mal had had wasn’t worth it if it came at this cost. He kept his hand on Dom’s arm, trying to provide whatever little comfort he could as Dom’s shoulders shook. “I’m so, so sorry.”

XXX

“You ever think about getting married?”

“No.” Arthur didn’t even bother looking up as he answered Ariadne’s question. 

“You didn’t give that much thought.”

Arthur shrugged, still focusing on the documents in front of him. This mark had extractor training- Arthur was near obsessive about checking and double checking for that ever since the Fischer job, and it had paid off this time- and there was quite a bit of information for him to go through. “I don’t have to. It’s not something I’m interested in. Never have been.”

“Can I ask why?”

Arthur paused briefly before looking up. “Are you actually curious, or are you just trying to avoid doing work for a bit?”

Ariadne laughed a bit sheepishly. “Both?”

Arthur stared at her a moment longer before sighing slightly. She’d been working diligently for several hours, so he supposed a small break wasn’t the worst idea. “It’s just never been something I saw myself doing. And it’s certainly not common among extractors. This field doesn’t exactly lend itself to long term relationships. Or to healthy ones.” He shrugged again. “Working as an extractor means constantly moving. City to city, country to country, job to job. You don’t get attached. You don’t have the time to and, even if you did, attachments are dangerous. They make you vulnerable and weak. So most people in this area avoid them.”

Ariadne raised her eyebrows. “That’s a pretty cynical view of things.”

“It’s a realistic view of things.”

“Maybe.” She leaned back in her chair. “Still, wouldn’t it be nice? To find someone you could share this with? I mean, maybe I’m just still new to this and naive, but that sounds a lot better than spending your life alone.”

Arthur was about to answer- to tell her that that alone, in his opinion, was the best thing someone could be in this field- when Eames wandered into the room. It was far warmer here in Manila than it had been on their last job and Eames was thriving, wearing a different short sleeve paisley shirt every day, each more hideously garish than the last. Arthur’d been surprised when he’d agreed to keep working with them as Arthur’d looked for jobs where he could continue teaching Ariadne the ropes and get her acquainted with the field more broadly, but Eames had agreed with nothing more than a smile and a casual of course, darling. At the end of each job Arthur kept expecting him to finally jump ship but, six months and five jobs in, he seemed perfectly content at least for now to continue following them. And as much as they bickered and disagreed at times, Arthur couldn’t help but admit that it was a bit nice having a familiar face on each job. Someone he trusted. 

Eames noticed Arthur watching him and winked. Arthur looked down, frowning, and tried to ignore the slight heat in his cheeks. “Alone is what this job requires. Anything else is unrealistic.” He started to go back to sorting through the documents but paused, considering Ariadne’s question again. “Though I suppose it might be nice,” he finally admitted. “Unrealistic, but nice all the same.”

XXX

"You ever think 'bout getting married, mate?"

Arthur looked over at Yusuf with a slight frown, his eyes taking a second to focus. He'd just finished a job in Nairobi and decided to stop by Mombasa to visit before heading off to Milan for his next job. Yusuf had been his usual excitable self and was happy to see him, offering to make them both drinks. Arthur had agreed- which was a terrible idea, he should’ve known better than to let the chemist make drinks- and now they were both sprawled out on Yusuf's couch, piss drunk. Arthur knew he'd regret this in the morning, but his inevitable hangover was a problem for future him. "Bit of a random question."

Yusuf shrugged. "One of my childhood mates got married a few weeks back and it got me thinking, that's all. Not really a common thing in our field, is it? Well, 'cept for Cobb and Mal I suppose, but that, uh," he frowned, "that's maybe not the best example."

"Mm." Arthur hummed in agreement, taking a drink. "Really isn't."

"You ever think about it though?" Yusuf looked over at him. "'Bout getting hitched? You know, if you met the right person or whatever."

Arthur paused, trying to focus on the question. After a moment he shrugged; giving it serious thought wasn't something he was particularly capable of at the moment. "Dunno. Maybe. If it was the right person."

"Yeah I guess it would really depend on-oh! That reminds me!" Yusuf sat up excitedly, swaying slightly as he leaned forward, grinning. "I heard a bit of a rumour."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, staying where he was. The room was spinning already, he didn't need to make it worse by moving. "Oh?"

"Mm. 'Bout you and a certain forger." If Arthur had been more sober, he would've thought up some excuse, some way to talk around the subject, or maybe even simply have denied it outright. But he was very, very much not sober. So instead he just grinned at Yusuf over his glass. Yusuf pointed at him with a disbelieving and somewhat exasperated look. "I knew it! I fuckin' knew it!" He flopped back against the couch cushions, swearing as he spilled some of his drink on himself. "Knew you two had a thing for each other!"

"Fuck off, you worked one job with us."

"Yeah, and you two spent the entire time flirting."

"We were not flirting. I don't think." Arthur frowned, thinking back. Had they been flirting? "Okay, maybe we were a little."

"You were definitely flirting, mate," Yusuf laughed. "So you guys are, uh…?"

"Yeah, couple months now." Arthur gave another small shrug. "It's nice, you know? Having something more than a fling or a one night stand. I like it. Like him." He smiled, mind drifting to when he'd see Eames next. He was working the Milan job as well; neither one of them had outright said it, but he knew they'd both agreed to take the job mainly so they could see each other. It was a small thing, but something about it made him happy every time he thought about it. After a moment his mind caught up with what his mouth had said and he pointed at Yusuf, giving him the most serious look he could muster. "This stays between us."

Yusuf held his hands up in mock surrender. "Not a word." He watched Arthur with a small smile. "I'm happy for you, though, mate. Really. You guys are insufferable together, but in a…in a sweet way, ya know?"

"Fuck off." Arthur took another drink, trying to hide both his grin and the rising heat in his cheeks. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

XXX

“Do you ever think about getting married?”

Arthur accepted the cup of coffee from Miles gratefully. He and Eames had only gotten in the night before and the jet lag was starting to catch up to him. He took a small sip, ignoring the fact that it was still far too hot to drink. Even a tiny bit of caffeine was worth a burnt tongue. “Sometimes.” He shrugged. “It’s complicated though. It’s not legal for us in a lot of places. Hell, even here in the states it’s a crapshoot half the time.”

Miles sat down across from him at the table with a mug of his own, raising his eyebrows. “Legality has never seemed to be much of an issue for you in the past.”

“Fair enough,” Arthur laughed. “This is…this is different though, you know? If we were going to do it, I’d want to do it right.” He shrugged. “There’s a lot that would have to go into it, and honestly, I’m not sure it’d be worth it. Might just end up being more effort than a simple piece of paper is worth.”

“It’s not just a piece of paper.” Miles watched him over his coffee. “That may be all it is physically, but there’s more to it than that.”

“I guess so.” Arthur’s gaze drifted to the dining room. Eames was seated at the table there with Philippa as she drew. She’d given him a sheet of paper and coloured pencils of his own and he was sketching something, pausing every once in a while to look over at what Philippa was drawing with a wide smile and encouraging comment. It was a sweet sight; both James and Philippa had taken to Eames immediately the first time he and Arthur had visited Dom,  and he’d quickly become known as Uncle Eames. He was good with them, kind and patient and just enough of a troublemaker to cement himself as their favourite uncle. Eames looked up, catching Arthur’s eye and giving him a soft smile. It was the sort of smile he seemed to reserve solely for Arthur, with a gentle fondness that wasn’t in any of his others. The look sent warmth spreading in Arthur’s chest like it always did and he smiled back. “Maybe it would be worth it. I don’t know.”

“Hm.” Miles had fixed him with a knowing look by the time Arthur looked back over and Arthur took another sip of too hot coffee, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I suppose you’ll just have to keep thinking about it.”

“Yeah.” Arthur looked back at Eames. “I suppose I will.”

XXX

“Do you ever think about getting married?”

The question broke the quiet pre-dawn silence around them. Arthur wasn’t quite sure what- if anything- had prompted him to ask it. The topic had certainly been on his mind recently- increasingly so, actually- but he hadn't quite intended to ask it. At least not right now. He didn’t feel any panic or surprise as his brain caught up to the words, though. Maybe he should’ve, but he didn’t. Instead he simply nestled further against Eames’ side, seeking out a bit more warmth. They were both wrapped in several thick blankets to stave off the early morning cold and the cup of coffee in his hands helped somewhat too, but neither of those things could quite compare to the feeling of Eames’ body heat.

Eames paused briefly before chuckling. “That’s quite a question for not even 6am." He shifted slightly, making room for Arthur. “I do, yeah. Especially now." He seemed to hesitate. "Do you ever think about it?"

"I never used to." Arthur rested his head in the crook of Eames' neck, staring out at the mountains in the early morning light. He'd always loved the mountains around Lucerne and this hotel had a phenomenal view of them, the balcony facing the snow capped peaks. Eames had been the one to suggest they watch the sunrise this morning, and Arthur had been all too happy to agree. "I never wanted to get married. Always said it wasn't for me. I thought it sounded like such a terrible idea, giving up freedom for one single person. I couldn't imagine myself ever doing something like that. I remember telling Mal that, and she told me that sometimes you met someone who made it worth it." He smiled softly at the memory. "I thought she was full of shit." Eames laughed quietly and Arthur reached across his lap until he found Eames' hand under the blankets, intertwining their fingers. "I think I understand better now what she meant though. Because I did meet someone who makes it worth it. And that freedom I was so set on never giving up? It doesn't mean anything anymore if it's not with you."

Eames paused again, going still. "Arthur, are you asking me to marry you?"

Arthur considered the question for a moment. "Yeah. I think I am." He smiled, the realization dawning on him. That was exactly what he was doing. "I love you, and all the freedom in the world isn't worth it without you beside me. So I'd like to be your husband, if you're okay with that."

Eames shifted, tilting Arthur's chin up with his fingers. Arthur followed the movement easily to find Eames watching him with an expression gentler than Arthur had thought possible. There was such love in his face that Arthur briefly wondered if he'd somehow died during the night and woken up in heaven. "Darling, there is nothing in this world I'd want more." 

Arthur smiled wider and closed the space between them with a kiss. Mal was right: some things really did change. And that was okay.

#arthur x eames #arthur/eames #dream husbands #dreamhusbands #inception #this has been floating around in my brain for like a month #so I figured I should probably finally write it khgkjsdf #local trash goblin writes stuff

[kneamet]

Delusion (3/5)

Trigger Warning: alcohol, drugs

Summary: she was the only girl in his band whose singing he loved so much. She was the person he truly respected. Andy Miles was someone Hank Williams had an unrelenting obsession with.

Chapter three: The house

POV Andy

Andy didn't like cleaning. It wasn't that she didn't like it, it wasn't the least favorite thing to do. Why clean up at all if you're already littering up? It's such a pain in the ass. Not that her home was a complete mess, as Miles would have called it a creative approach to what she loved. It was easier to concentrate on the rhyme when everything was out of place.

Otherwise, she would have noticed that something was standing unevenly or even out of place. Therefore, she did not bother much with the order, trying to do music in her free time, as much as possible, and not cleaning.

It is better to do what you love than to miss the rush of inspiration, which can go away as suddenly as it appeared. Inspiration is one of the most difficult feelings, which is incredibly difficult to achieve. It can be both fleeting and haunt you for a long time.

Andy sighed, shaking her head and feeling her eyes begin to close. She wanted to lie down on the bed and go to sleep, but she knew she couldn't do that, because Don would be arriving soon. And why today? Why on a day when she didn't get enough sleep?

The first eye twitched and she closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, trying to give them a little respite and let them enjoy the pleasant darkness. Clenching her fist so that it was slightly white, Andy opened her eyes, trying to find the jar with her eyes.

His eyes immediately caught on a small wooden table in the middle of the room, on which stood a small, yellow-wrapped, battered jar, the label of which had long since been erased, which was surprising. It was bought not so long ago. Only a week ago.

Her lower jaw began to tremble slightly, and Andy stood up quickly, trying not to fall and swallowing the pills as quickly as possible. They worked very well, giving her an influx of inspiration. After them, you immediately felt that you were omnipotent and could move mountains.

"Fuck”.

Opening the white lid and shifting it to her other hand, Andy swallowed when she found only two pills there. Her hand trembled, and she realized that this should be enough. Maybe for a day or two, but then she'd have to buy a supply of new ones, since she wasn't sure if she really had any jars left on the kitchen shelves.

Putting the small white pills in her mouth, Andy, feeling a great need for them, immediately swallowed them. Her hands stopped shaking, and a bitter taste was sharply felt in her throat, which was not the most pleasant effect and it was better to wash down the pill with something sweet to kill the taste.

Miles, unable to find anything sweet and healthy, and too lazy to go for water, turned her attention to the half-finished bottle of beer and reached for it. Presenting it, the girl's nose immediately caught the yeast smell and she gulped down the remaining drink. The taste made itself felt: there was a sweetness in her throat.

Suddenly, a signal sounded from the window, which was unpleasant to hear on a slightly drunk head.

***

My head was splitting with pain, but these were the first stages of what is usually present after taking the pills. The second stage was that the stomach began to ache with an indefinable pain, but soon it faded and it subsided. The mind was completely cleared of obsessive thoughts and was in full sanity.

With a jerk of her hand, she grabbed her temple, pressing it lightly with her middle finger, as if trying to find a point of pain and calm it down. Or at least make it a little nicer. Although it was possible to get used to this for a long time, or at least just take the pain for granted in order to get the desired effect of inspiration in the future, but with each new time, Andy's mind simply wished that these pills were taken.

Andy inhaled deeply and smelled the smoke-filled smell. The smell of the car mingled with the Camel cigarettes that Don loved so much for their surprisingly mild taste. Although Miles didn't particularly like them, preferring Chesterfield more because of their cheapness and tart taste after smoking a cigarette. The tobacco left a slight bitterness.

She shivered, pressing her lips into a thin line, feeling the second temple begin to ache with exactly the same negative pain and a weightless thud echoing in the back of her brain.

She rubbed her fingers over her temples, trying to stop the sickness, and closed her eyes. She needed to focus on something else. Something that would help her control her thoughts.

"Don, Andy, how are you?" an eerily familiar voice that carried only concern was heard, and a smile appeared on the girl's face. Hank.

She raised her head, seeing the intent gaze fixed on her. Miles nodded her head at him, as if to let him know that she was doing great, and that she was basking in joy. Although it may not have been visible from the outside, but a smile soaked in fake was on Andy's face. She didn't want anyone to worry about her. I've already experienced such moments in my life, stop being a mumbler.

"Not bad," Don chuckled, turning his head to look at Hank, who was getting into the backseat next to Andy. The girl raised an eyebrow, biting her lower lip and pulling a small piece of skin off with her teeth. Leaning back against the chair, Andi straightened her back and focused her gaze on the beige roof panel.

"I'm fine, too," she muttered, watching in her peripheral vision as Williams shook Don's hand and he started the car. Blinking, Andy has a quick thought that Hank is acting extremely suspicious, but it disappears from his mind just as it appears. It's just her imagination under the drugs, nothing more.

The car begins to itch with a slight tremor and soon starts moving. Andy looks at the road, making sure it's a comfortable ride or a rolling one.

"Where are you going to live, buddy?" Helms 'voice rings out, and Miles' eyes flick to the boy. She raises an eyebrow, and Hank gives her a hard, doubtful look. Shouldn't he and Audrey have shared out the budget and what went to whom? Wasn't their divorce finalized yet?

There was a gasp from Williams.

"I think l'll have to stay in a cheap hotel. I don't have much money right now," he ran a hand through his dark, greasy hair, pulling it back a little. It was as if his thoughts were far away and he didn't want to talk about it.

"What about Audrey?"

"She's just fine," the doubt and uncertainty seeping out of the guy's voice was understandable. It was obvious that he was trying to hide it. And Andy didn't particularly like it.

Miles pursed her lips, closing her eyes and carefully trying to control the thoughts that were racing through her mind at an unbearable speed. Hank needed help, though he carefully denied it and decried any such attention to himself.

Her headache had subsided, and now she could think straight, except for the fact that in a couple of minutes her stomach would also be hurting, but that was nothing. Right now, Hank needed help. He needed to show her what Andy hadn't given him last time. She won't screw up this time.

"Your pupils are dilated," a voice said, and the girl didn't even notice how intently she was looking at the guy. Blinking, his vision was back to normal. "Is everything all right?"

She couldn't help but smile. She liked Hank's concern for her. She needed it, feeling completely at ease after being given attention and support. He was the person who really paid attention to her condition and sympathy.

Miles was sure that as soon as she fell ill and lay down with the disease, Williams would immediately put everything aside and rush to her aid, trying to recover from the pain. And such care on the part of the guy she was terribly flattered.

***

"Are you sure it doesn't hurt?" Hank was lightly touching Miles ' bruised arm, where a bottle had broken on stage, scratching her arm and leaving her with no money in her pocket to finish the "performance" at a local bar.

Biting her lip between her teeth, Miles nodded to the air, noticing how quickly the guy reacted to this, trying to touch her skin even more gently and weightlessly.

"It'll do."

"You shouldn't have been drinking today..." he muttered, shaking his head and continuing to touch the cotton wool that was soaked in the alcohol solution.

Andy's brow furrowed. Since when does Hank regret the past? That doesn't sound like him. He lives in the present day and certainly rarely remembers the past.

"Really, who do you think offered me alcohol?" raises an eyebrow Miles. The tone of her voice was very sarcastic. It was evident that she was beginning to laugh at her friend.

***

"Never mind," Andy waved away the question Williams had asked a few seconds ago. Admitting to him that she was using would make her life even more hectic. The care was pleasant, but only in moderation. She didn't want him prying into her drug-and alcohol-related personal life.

It is better to let him remain in happy ignorance than in the treacherous truth. To reveal a secret that she had kept with a loved one since childhood would be wrong on her part, because otherwise what would be the point of hiding it?

The car was twitching slightly. The suspensions were loose, which was especially noticeable in the rear seats, distracting from thoughts.

Seeing that Hank didn't really believe her light, superficial lie, he only gave her a quick, serious look, which was completely out of keeping with his temperament.

"You're staying with me tonight," Interrupting the subject and recalling the previous conversation, Andy looked back at Hank, nodding at him. He was looking at her with a look that clearly wondered why she would think that.

Miles wanted to thank him. She had not felt such affection and awe towards herself for a long time, so every time she felt a manifestation of love, she succumbed to her feelings and she wanted to show that she was addressing a person with the same care.

***

Miles hoped that the guy wouldn't notice the mess that accompanied her house in all the rooms. Although how can you not notice that all over the living room are scattered sketches of songs and crumpled pieces of paper that would be easier to throw away.

However, Andy still didn't touch anything, because very often it happened that she found rhyme and the right sensual lines that would take your breath away, to other lines written on different pieces of paper.

"Don't pay attention to the mess," Andy advised, pursing her lips as Hank's eyes scanned the living room. Andy sighed. No, he had to look in the place where it was dirty and not cleaned up.

Williams raised his eyebrows, gripping his dark suitcase in his right hand and swallowing, turned his attention to the girl, opening his mouth slightly.

"Where can I stay?" He scratched his head, tilting it towards the living room, hinting that he would stay in the living room. This was not such a bad decision, as long as he did not touch anything and did not disturb the creative mess.

"I only have one bedroom," Andy hesitated, nodding toward the living room. She could have given him a place in her bedroom and taken the living room herself, which would have been very decent, but it would have been impossible to sleep on this sofa in the living room, since it was quite hard. "You can sleep there, and I'll sleep in the living room until you can find a place to live in," or until he and Audrey make up.

She knew that the subject of Audrey, a painful subject, was not worth mentioning at all, and it was better to keep quiet about it. Miles knew that they would make up sooner or later, but lately, with the current circumstances, those feelings were disappearing and thoughts of reconciliation were disappearing.

Audrey and Hank were a really good couple, but their quarrels were outrageous. This is what destroyed what they were creating. It ruined their marriage, which was held together by thin threads, ready to break up at any second.

Andy blinked, then turned her attention back to Hank, who seemed to be saying something. His voice seemed blurred in her thoughts. And apparently realizing that the first time he was not listened to, he repeated:

"Are you sure I won't push you?"

His smile was pleasant, and she knew that Hank had agreed to her terms.

In fact, her house was really her very large size. We were happy with what we had enough money for, but sometimes it was really very cramped to live here, even alone, what can we say about two people. How do people get a couple, living in such unpleasant conditions? Andy would never understand them, she was sure.

"I'll sleep on the couch for now, but you can still take my room. I'll make room for you," the girl muttered as she brushed past her friend and opened the white door to her bedroom. It's not the first time she's slept in a different bed. “In the meantime, look around the house."

[neocityfics]

2096: Zodiac

Chapter: Prologue < ❝  Chapter 1 ❞  > Chapter 2

➥ Chapter List

Genre: Cyberpunk inspired, mafia-esque, not-so dystopian, angst, slow-burn

Pairing: Doctor! Taeyong x Reader

Warnings: Moderate cursing, mention of death, vague description of surgical practice, being held at gunpoint

▶ Ambience

Pearl Park is packed with patients. Rarely do I take weekend shifts or visit on Saturdays, but a certain someone left early for additional hours at the clinic. I couldn’t help but follow him especially after yesterday’s events. The thoughts would not let go, an unpleasant growth at the back of my mind. It’s hard to know if I can trust him right now. I need more answers. Last night, he barely gave details, only rambling about how he had to wake up at ungodly hours for today. As difficult as it was, I urged him to go to bed to leave him alone. My own state of being was, and still is, disturbed by what I saw. The intricate design of circuit lines running down in strategic pathways down his arm, the broken-up metallic plates that replaced muscle, the seamless transition from a human shoulder to a mechanical limb, fingers cold to the touch. Something out of The Terminator movies.

There’s something odd about making myself wake early to get ready and coming after Lucas. Saturdays are for sleeping in, I always say to myself, a day to rest. Nevertheless, here I am slowly trailing behind him as he steers through the countless turns on the way to work. His thin light blue scrub stood out against the brown puffy jacket, making it easy to keep my distance without losing track of him. The pit began to form in stomach again. Please, let the destination be Pearl Park, nowhere bizarre. Whoever did whatever to his arm must have a reason to pick on Lucas. Granted he’s very strong and healthy, he’s the perfect candidate... for what? To become a government experiment? No, hopefully not. The top couldn’t give a damn about us, but when it comes to picking on the less fortunate to go farther with their lives in luxuries and power, they do so in under a heartbeat. If they have hearts, that is. It doesn’t make sense though, why would they want to make cyborgs? Or what if some random person just wanted to try their hand in robotics. Some grand experiment in trying to take over the world? Maybe I’ve watched too many sci-fi movies. The endless possibilities thoroughly occupied my head-- but that train of thought comes to a halt when I bump into the clinic’s entrance. Pressing a hand to my forehead and the other hand on the door handle, I steady myself. I’m already here?

Spotting the familiar scrub rounding the corner, I come close behind only to see Dr. Lee shoot a glare at Lucas. “You’re late,” the doctor’s voice raises sternly, “I expect better next time. We have important things to do later.” Later? My shoulders tense. It must mean he won’t join me for dinner with Sicheng. I wonder what kind of work Dr. Lee means. The doctor in question beckoned Lucas, in the middle of removing his coat, towards a darkened room meant for surgery. I sometimes clean equipment in that room, so it doesn’t make sense to meet in there when the clinic has designated meeting rooms. The two men walk inside and the door closes shut, and I stand there baffled. Hoping I could get by without looking suspicious, my feet slowly move closer to the room. All staff members seem busy with other things, some not sparing a glance as they rush stretchers to rooms. Thanks to that, no one questioned my actions, but it still feels risky. My body sticks tightly to the wall as I lend an ear towards the room. Taking a peek would be risky since my head would be visible and blocking light from outside, so I keep quiet and attempt to eavesdrop on their conversation, but to no avail. The bustling clinic muffles the dialogue between Lucas and Dr. Lee. Giving up, I relocate myself to the reception desk where I know they leave out a bowl of candies and chocolate for visitors. A little burst of serotonin never hurt anyone. Right?

▶ Ambience

As I work on a candy of choice in my mouth at a bench near the entrance, Lucas walks close to the reception desk and stops when he notices my presence. For a split second, his expression was shrunken in discomfort. Yet, in a flash, he paints that goofy smile to replace the former visage. “When did you get here? Did you even have breakfast? It’s not even 7:00am,” he shouts despite him standing a couple of meters away. Though embarrassing as it is to see annoyed nurses and doctors look our way, it’s nice to see his fun side come out despite the tension between us remaining thick.

“I’m just here to chat, you know, talk with some of my coworkers. See if anyone wants to hang out after their hours are done. I don’t really have anything else to do,” I lie through my teeth. I could be sleeping, but there’s too much I want to ask about your fucking cyborg arm, is the reality of my purpose here. But obviously, this is a public space, he’s working a job, and this is slowly becoming to feel like an obsession. The last thing I want is to worry about nothing, but I couldn’t help myself. Lucas is starting become more suspicious, I can’t lose him to something dangerous. Without thinking, I stare at his left arm. He’s wearing another long-sleeved shirt under his scrub to hide his arm. Realizing my intense gaze on him, Lucas takes long steps to the bench and sits down next to me, ensuring that his human arm nudged my left arm. It’s definite that he’s uncomfortable. “Sorry.” He shakes his head and lets out a hearty laugh.

A couple of pats on the top of my head remind me of my stiff posture to which I reply by relaxing. Lucas knows how to comfort others. He would’ve been a great doctor. Succeeding him clearing his throat, he softens his tone, “I’ll be at Sicheng’s tonight after my shift. I’ll only have half an hour to eat until I have to go somewhere. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll tell you everything, but today isn’t a good time.”  A pause ensues, the both of us holding our gaze at each other until Lucas breaks out in a grin again. “I’ll pay for dessert, too. My treat!” Nothing like paying for my snacks. There’s no way to win against this man and his kind heart. A short moment passes by after I scan his face. I scoff at his comment, mumbling a ‘fine’ while a laugh escapes and my smile matches his. Just as he opens his mouth as if to say more, a nurse hurries to Lucas asking him to help with getting clean water and towels for a pregnancy in one of the rooms. He leaves immediately after shooting me a gentler smile, my own quickly reciprocating it. There goes Lucas again, I think to myself. But as swiftly as Lucas left, another figure of interest comes into sight at the front desk. And here comes Dr. Lee.

On the inside, I want to trust him. From what all the nurses and staff tell me, he’s a top notch doctor from the best medical university in Seoul who decided to leave South Korea for Japan to join one of the Tokyo hospital teams. Things obviously didn’t turn out so well after 2094, and he’s stuck here in Pearl Park. He seems to be well-off, too, showing up in designer brands you’d see before the disaster. Makes you wonder how such talent ended up in the ruins. Though I feel bad for him as I do with Lucas and his crushed dream, the inexplicable hatred in me keeps expanding and it has everything to do with that damn robot arm. Since last night, it’s been taking up all the space for thought, eating away at me. I wouldn’t have woken up before 7:00am and walked all the way to the clinic if this never happened. Nevertheless, the surreal circumstances in front of me are reality. I suppose now’s my chance to wring out any more information of Dr. Lee since my Saturday schedule is free of activity. It might be best to avoid Lucas for answers given how he dodges my questions regardless of the well-known fact that my curiosity is ultra strong. The first thing to pop up in my brainstorm is the document storage room on the second floor. As an employee of a not so high-end clinic, it’ll be easy to get in. Staff won’t question me going through the second floor and security’s a joke. Of course, there are possibilities of getting caught especially trying to read classified or private information, but it’s worth the risk if I can start to understand Lucas’s situation.

I take to the staircase leading up to the second level, a quick minute up to another floor busy with patients. Today, it seems a lot of them have either a cold or a broken bone, judging by swarm of people by the x-ray room accompanied by the continuous symphony of sneezing and sniffling. Eyeing the room at the end of the hall and taking in a long breath in, I casually make way to the door, weaving through nurses pushing wheeled beds. This hallway is long, I tell myself as clinic members make beelines toward their next destinations and form a difficult sea. Before reaching the door, I peak over my shoulder at the other employees. No one seems to be suspicious, and no Dr. Lee anywhere. Perfect, too perfect. A sign next to the door reads “Staff Only,” making me feel better about what I’m doing. Assistants are considered staff, right? The musty smell of old papers and cigarettes of the room cause me to cough a little. I wonder where to even start when there’s hundreds of files stored in here. It could take all day to thumb through all of these files. Luckily for me, the file cabinets are labeled with categories, albeit some oddly named like pets. I don’t think we have a veterinarian sector or have partnership with one. After a few minutes scanning all the potential cabinets, one catches my eye. Medical staff, the label reads. Dr. Lee’s file must be in there, and to my delight, he was indeed part of the records.

▶ Ambience

With a small gulp, I pull out the bulky, tattered folder as the other files begin to expand and fill the now empty space in the cabinet. Curiosity leads my widened eyes to glide across this important folder containing a book of history and records for each staff member. Confidential. Maybe I’m in here, and Lucas, too, except this seems to be an older record. We probably didn’t make the cut because it only contains Pearl Park medical staff that have been serving for a long time, from before the disaster, in this folder.  Flipping to a table of contents on the inside of the cover, I search for Dr. Lee’s name under Orthopaedic Surgeons towards the back of the pages. That’s definitely him from 2093, a year before the disaster. Handsome, frankly, but ugly for what I assume he’s doing to Lucas. With all fibers of my being, I swear this man is my enemy. Realizing I’ve been holding in my breath for a while, I let out some air and try to release the tightness in my muscles. I continue reading.

Lee Taeyong. Born July 1st, 2071-- he’s the around the same age as me at 25 years old. Graduated from an international high school in 2087. Graduated from a top Seoul university with a PhD in Biomedical Sciences in 2092. So he was done with high school at 16 and university at 21. Started Pearl Park 2093 as a starting job, and of course he still works here due to the disaster. Quite a remarkable career especially having an average of 426 surgeries a year since he started at this clinic. Absolutely phenomenal... that’s at least a thousand surgeries so far, depending on how 2094 impacted his work. Though so young, he certainly has the experience and professionalism to perform surgeries that could’ve been life or death. So perhaps he really is a force to be reckoned with, not some random scientist who just wants to fool around with an experiment. Especially with human life. With this information at hand, there must be a reason behind turning Lucas into some type of mechanical entity. Scrunching my face as my thoughts go into overdrive, I try to come up with a conjecture on this man’s motives. Do I go the route of the worst or the best case scenario? My session of attempted reasoning suddenly ceases as a booming voice hits against the door of the room. I’m not sure what he’s saying, but I burst into action as I rip out Dr. Lee’s page, shove the folder back into the cabinet sloppily, and hide myself behind a tall cabinet away from the door. At the sound of a loud click, I still my whole body, frozen as I listen for any more noise. The door seems to close behind the person with a loud thud. Instant recognition. The person’s voice is, with no doubt, Dr. Lee.

“Why don’t they clean this piece of shit room up, it’s a fucking dump in here... Let’s see.” The opening and closing file cabinets, shuffling papers, and soft, incoherent mumbling permeates the room. No more than a few minutes and he leaves. Before I move from my position, I puff my cheeks and push out the air from holding my breath again for what felt like eternity. Making sure for another thirty seconds that absolutely no one is there, I come away from my hiding spot and examine the medical staff’s cabinet. There’s one more thing that should be checked-- if my file and Lucas’s are in there. If we do have a record and his is missing, this could be an issue and a surefire sign I can’t trust Dr. Lee. Leafing through the files again, to my surprise, there is an updated 2095 folder towards the back of the cabinet for newer medical staff. Pearl Park isn’t considered a big professional clinic to come to. It’s dingy at best, so this comes a bit of a shock. I’d been expecting no records after the disaster as the clinic is critically understaffed. Teeth grasp at my bottom lip, my hands hovering over the binder cover. Here we go. After turning many, many pages, I find the Assistants page and see our names. My file doesn’t look like much as it contains basic information, when my shifts are, and the duties I originally had appointed to me when I started working. According to the list of all employee names, Lucas should be in here, supposedly a few pages after mine. Wong Yukhei. However, there is only remnants of paper stuck to the binder’s rings

Dr. Lee ripped his page out.

▶ Ambience

It feels strange to act like everything’s normal. Here I am, sitting next to Sicheng and Lucas as we make fun of pissy customers at Electric Egg and laughing ourselves silly. While our outside conversation makes me feel a little more at ease, the fact that Lucas’s information could be used for no good is begging to be released from my thoughts. I want to spill so much at this very moment with Lucas right here, but dragging Sicheng into this mess isn’t necessary. I’ll have to wait until dinner is done. Lucas distributes his tea eggs between the three of us, and we devour them before he has to leave for, well, whatever he needs to go to. Now’s my chance. As Lucas stands, I raise my voice, “I’ll stay behind with Sicheng for a bit. Come back home safely.” He beams at my comment, patting me on the back to comfort me. Without another word, he heads out of the street, turning the corner as Sicheng and I watch his shape slowly disappear. Sicheng taps me on the hand to get me to stop spacing out.

Sicheng takes on a soothing tone as he expresses his concern, “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been spacing out randomly...” Through the slightly sweaty bangs from cooking all day, I take in his worried face. Tilting his head after a moment of no response, he sighs. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but you’re not this quiet with us. You can tell me what’s wrong.” I nod, my eyes holding their focus on the table where the last tea egg lies.

“I can’t tell you anything more than except...” I delay the rest of what I want to say, I wasn’t without doubt if I should even bring up the conundrum. But alas, the bottled up information in me needed some form of freedom from my system. I decide it may be alright to let him know what’s happening at the surface of it all. “There’s something odd going on between Lucas and one of the doctors at the clinic. I can’t shake off the bad feeling I’m having, and I don’t mean to be nosy. But Lucas is important and I want to make sure he’s okay. You know he’s typically an open book, but I can’t read him anymore.” That was a lot to knock out of me, but to have someone else see why I’m so worried creates some kind of validation for the emotions rushing through my head. I realize how selfish I sound. I shrink into myself, waiting for Sicheng to say something. Anything.

Instead of silence, he scoots his chair closer to mine and I force myself to hold in a laugh because of the embarrassment from the loud noise. “I’m sure he has his reasons. You, him, and I. We’ve been friends for a couple of years now, Lucas isn’t the type to just leave anyone hanging without reason. Whatever it is, we need to be patient with him. As for you, you need to let things be from time to time.” He sits up straighter, leans forward, and continues, “You work hard with two jobs. Take care of yourself first and foremost. He’s his own person, you are your own. Don’t add to your mountain of stress.” Those are words I needed to hear, though they hurt. This whole idea that my best friend is turning into a cyborg seems to be a big deal, but for the sake of Sicheng’s safety, I can’t disclose that. Nonetheless, it does feel a bit... obsessive in retrospect. It’s a complicated state of affairs, and I don’t think Sicheng would be able to follow. It’s a see-for-yourself kind of deal. Not at all blaming him, his heart is in the right place. I give a simple head-shake, turning my attention to the last tea egg again. Gingerly, I pick it up and hand it to him.

His eyes open up in confusion. I let out the repressed laugh from earlier, a little heartier than I expected. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to dump this all on you. And I’ll work on focusing on myself more, you’re right. Lucas is a grown person, he can act on his own and tell me when he’s ready.” Sicheng loosens up, his hand extending to take the tea egg cupped in my hand. After taking a small bite, he gleams a big and toothy smile. As thanks, he lets me have the rest of the treat as one of the other employees at Electric Egg call for him to come back and work the stall.

▶ Ambience

Removing himself from his seat to stand up, he delicately flicks my forehead. He bids me a good night and says, “Take it easy, okay? It’s still Saturday, go get some sleep or go dance in your room, whatever it is you do these days.” We both send each other a tender laugh before parting ways. With a goodbye, I get up from my seat and head towards the direction of the apartment. It’s all smiles walking for a few minutes, reflecting on Sicheng’s words. My body felt a little lighter from releasing at least a small portion of my feelings. It starts to drizzle, a feeling I’ve always liked in Neostone but never when it pours too hard-- especially without an umbrella. I reach the last corner leading to my place when a downpour manifests. At the ping of my pocket, I quickly reach for my phone and take cover under a nearby entryway into a convenience store. Shit. Acid rain right now? My thumb gravitates to my messages. I should text Lucas and Sicheng to make sure they’re okay. I call Sicheng first to see if he’ll pick up. He does, sending a wave of relief through me as he says he’s safe in the closest store. On the other hand, Lucas did not pick up. I’m starting to wonder if this will be the new normal from now on. Panicking a bit, I text him and hope for the best, that he’s somewhere safe from the rain. The rain today is sort of acidic, I got an alert on my phone. Make sure you’re in a building. Send. We both keep the read receipts on, so if he doesn’t respond but sees my text, I might have to scold him the next time I see that annoying guy. I shove my phone back into my pocket and promptly took out the piece of paper that holds Dr. Lee’s information. I gawk at it, contemplating why I ever took it, and look back up. Fuck.

Staring in disbelief, the world around me slows. Cars pass by in slow motion and the neon signs twinkle in harmony by blending together. It’s the very same apartment establishment listed in the file. It’s a bit fancier than ours, which makes sense. Dr. Lee makes a bit more money than the rest of us. Fuck what Sicheng said, I need to see what’s happening with that suspicious doctor. Without further ado, I trudge through the acid rain, though I know it stings a little on my skin. It’s not too bad. Taxi cabs flip their middle fingers up at me, passersby calling out to warn or scold me, all while I snake through the lines of vehicles and cuss words thrown all around. The crackle of bright neon flicker crescendos as I come closer. Finally, I step foot onto the other side of the street, finding a heightening urge to find out the truth. Inside the lobby, the interior also seems to hold more life and care in it. This is definitely a more well-off micro-apartment complex than the one Lucas and I live in. The receptionist greets me warmly, a stark contrast from the subtle waves from the one we have. She doesn’t seem to question where I’m going or if I needed help, however, so I come to the staircase and take myself up to the tenth floor-- a very long way up.

▶ Ambience

Good grief, that was worse than the staircase at ours, I complain in my head, heaving heavy breaths as my feet begin to feel sore. I’ve reached the top. The address claims that Dr. Lee lives in room 1027. The gold colored plates on doors boast numbers in a sophisticated font, ascending as I progress the halls. Here it is. I approach the door, careful not to be any louder than I am right now, and I press an ear on the door. Muffled voices, one of them has to be Lucas. I can recognize his deep voice from a mile away. He has a tendency to mumble if he talks for too long, words becoming muddled. It’s like when he’s tired from work and almost crashes in my room, talking nonsense until I finally kick him out. From my pocket, I pull out a couple of paperclips and begin to bend them. Sicheng taught me this trick when we stole a bottle of painkillers from one of the pharmacies in Neostone’s uptown. One of my friends got injured during a fight between food stalls, and we were desperate to help him out. These kinds of skills really help out in this kind of life though I never imagined it was going to be this way. Click, click, click. The soft pop of the lock makes my heart race, and not in a pleasant way. Carefully, I turn the knob and push, using all the strength in my body not to cause a ruckus with my entrance. The sound of an electric drill becomes more apparent as the door swivels to give way to the apartment. It’s a lie when I said it’s a bit fancier. It’s way more lavish with a retro-futuristic style with warm colored furniture and decorations. There has to be some reason Dr. Lee can afford to continue living here since Pearl Park isn’t the biggest clinic and is located in quite a rough area. They don’t pay employees much, only an ample amount to get by with food and shelter. Maybe he was able to get a lot of money before the disaster happened. Enough with the admiration, I thought we’re past the need for capitalism, I reprimand myself. 

There’s no Dr. Lee or Lucas in the parlor, but the whine of the drill grows as I explore further into the apartment, noticing the several doors. One clearly has lights on as the door is open, bingo. It must be them. Inching closer as quietly as I can, I hear Lucas lightly groan. Heart beating faster, I reach the room and squeeze through in case the door would make noise. Half of the room is blocked by a bulky bookcase which I hide behind, peeking through one of the cracks to look at the other side. What I see is horrendous-- Lucas sits on a reclined chair, thankfully unrestrained. Profusely sweating and wincing from pain, his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth while Dr. Lee works another screw into his shoulder. In the most monotonous voice, he says to Lucas, “That should be enough for the shoulder. Think I’ll add more joints in your fingers so they have more flexibility. I was able to design more realistic-looking phalanges the other day, want to try?” Lucas simply nods at the notion, much to my disgust. Should I make my next move? Should I leave? I stand a bit higher on the tips of my toes to see more clearly.

Suddenly, the arm attached to Lucas begins to beep alarmingly. “The heat sensor... who’s there?” Lucas queries. Dr. Lee looks around the room, spinning in his chair while Lucas stands and starts to wander around the space. The staccato tones rapidly sound as Lucas takes long strides towards the bookcase, pulling out a few books to expose half of my face. His face crumples into anger at my presence. “Why are you here... Did you follow me?” I gulped. This is not good. Behind Lucas comes the other man, swiping books off the shelves to get a better sense of who’s behind the bookcase. His eyes open up more in surprise.

“You’re from the clinic.” he says firmly and quickly balls up the shirt on my shoulder into his fist, pulling me from my spot. The other hand reaches at his back behind a tattered lab coat to reveal a revolver, the one often seen in old classic films. Our eyes lock on each other, his fired up with murderous intent and wrath. The cold metal presses onto my forehead, but I keep my focus on his face. Lucas yelps on the side, but doesn’t come closer as to not escalate this whole situation. “An assistant. Why are you here? How did you get in?” My hands drift in the direction of the ceiling, a signal of surrender. Visibly shaken, Lucas taps the doctor on the shoulder and interrupts.

“[Pronoun] is a good friend of mine. Please don’t do anything rash, [pronoun] can be put to good use.” Lucas claims. I examine him with confusion written all over my expression, though he holds his guarded stare at Dr. Lee. I’m beyond dismayed that Lucas would try propose that I can be made into a pawn in whatever the motherfucker is planning. That might mean taking Lucas’s place with substitution of my flesh with peculiar machinery, or being the one to help out with Lucas’s... transformation. In any case, there’s no way I’d accept those fates. Dr. Lee maintains eye contact with me, but moves the gun from my face to his side. On cue, a sigh exiting my mouth.

He laughs rather nonchalantly, the clutch on his gun tighter despite being on the side. He’s ready to kill someone. “It’s tough doing things on my own, I do need another hand. Human hands, I must add.” Another chuckle echoes through the room, the unbearable discomfort consuming my emotions. Continuing on, the man adds, “I’m appointing you as my messenger. Send information to my other colleagues, then you may stay alive and see Lucas everyday. However.” Always a catch. The fist that kept me in my place releases the fabric that was bundled in it. It travels to the gun, the cock of the weapon raising my alertness. Though physically there’s no restraint on me, one wrong move and I’m dead. “If you can’t follow through with my instructions, expect a bullet wound or worse.” Absolutely out of his mind. But he leaves me having to accept this offer. Briefly, I steal a glance at Lucas whose angrily knit brows now angle upwards in a worried manner. I can’t die here, and the need for strength increases knowing Lucas might not be able to handle the pain of seeing me shot. He needs me.

Dr. Lee tilts his head, waiting for a response. The loaded gun taunts me, his impatience showing when he starts tapping it against his waist. Pursing my lips, I come to the only choice I could make. Shakily, my voice raises to both Lucas and the doctor’s surprise, “I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.” Speaking it into existence is the last thing I want, but I’m already neck deep into shit that doesn’t directly involve me. Might as well drown in what I’ve started. He snickers in delight, earning puzzled looks from Lucas and me. Leaving us near the bookcase, he saunters to his chair, taking a seat. His grip on the gun subsides, putting the small killing machine on his desk littered with papers with the big red classified stamped all over them. The silence weighs down on us before it’s broken by the doctor, his hands folded together with the most poisonous smirk playing across his lips.

“Just call me Taeyong.” He fiddles with a pen from his desk and continues,

”Question-- have you ever gone clubbing?”

#2096: zodiac #taeyong x reader #taeyong reader insert #nct au #nct fanfic #lee taeyong #nct 127 #nct u #lucas #wong yukhei #huang xuxi #wayv #cyberpunk au #nct mafia #nct angst #nct lucas #nct taeyong #winwin #dong sicheng #nct fic

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 14

They were moved in the middle of the night. Tommy saw it - felt it - happen, from his silent watch against the wall in the storage room. The air shimmered and warped like heat off blacktop. A feeling of weightlessness followed, a suspension of the self, unbecoming and particulating in a different place. The group solidified on an elevator lift in some kind of warehouse and the air around them went still and silent. Tommy shook out his hands to dispel the latent feeling of having his atoms rearranged.

Benrey jolted awake, startled, and snapped his gaze around the room. When his eyes met Tommy’s, pupils wide and feral, Tommy could only shrug in return. Wasn’t his doing. He guessed his father had given them a nudge - perhaps not in the right direction, but in the direction he wanted them to go.

The rest of the team remained undisturbed. Benrey sat up, crossing his legs at the ankles and drawing his knees up to his chest. He stared at Tommy across the sleeping forms of their companions, the steady in and out of their breathing the only sound to be heard. Tommy had been monitoring Gordon’s in particular, but apart from some murmuring through unpleasant dreams, he at least seemed stable. He met Benrey’s gaze passively, tolerant of his presence aside from his hands on his rifle.

“Can I help you?” he finally asked.

Benrey quirked his mouth in an indecipherable expression. “Nah.”

“You - you’re just gonna stare at me,” he replied. He’d played this game before. “Okay.”

A few seconds passed, and the entity spoke, as Tommy knew he would.

“You stare at him.” he pointed out, jerking his chin toward Gordon.

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “So he doesn’t die in his sleep,” he replied. “Because someone,” he shot him a steely look, “cut off his hand a day ago and he nearly bled out.”

“Whatever, dude.” Benrey blew out a breath. “You’re obsessed with him.”

Tommy would have outright laughed if he didn’t despise the entity so much. Instead, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, which he immediately regretted on account of how greasy his fingers came away. He’d kill for a shower. “Okay, passport guy,” he muttered, rubbing his fingertips idly together and feeling the grit that had settled there.

Benrey only mocked him back in a babying tone. Fair. Tommy should have known better by now than to engage in conversation with the guy. Curiosity chewed at him, though, so he risked it again.

“Why - w - what’s the deal with that?”

“Huh?”

“The passport thing. Why are yo-”

“People need their passports,” Benrey interrupted him, shrugging. He uncurled himself from his sitting position and let his legs stretch out, leaning back on the heels of his hands. He gnawed on his lip absently. Tommy wondered how he didn’t draw blood doing it. “He doesn’t have his passport. He shouldn’t be here.”

“Wh-” Tommy paused as another question occurred to him. “Do you know what a passport is?” he asked, arching an eyebrow delicately. “Do you know what one is for?”

His eyes flashed dangerously. “Do you know when to stop asking idiot questions, idiot?”

“So you don’t know.”

Benrey snapped his teeth together like a bear trap. Tommy racked his rifle in response. The air between them was taut as they stared each other down in silence.

This particular car crash of a conversation was interrupted by the scientists stirring from their sleep, and both demigod and entity backed down from one another. Live to threaten grievous bodily harm another day. There were more important matters at hand.

---

The room they descended to in the cybernetics department was… not what Tommy remembered it being.

It was still the same room. It had the same panel of electronics on the wall. And he was almost certain that analog clock had always been there, but that was where his familiarity ended. The shelves had been cleared of biological research materials, replaced instead with vials of liquid in a delightful array of colors. The far wall held a desk and a computer, and a lab station had been set up in the middle.

An unfamiliar voice floated over to them. “Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three unique flavors! I can’t wait to show them this.”

Had they moved the department? Tommy stood behind Gordon on the elevator lift, craning his neck to get a look at the only individual who seemed to work here. He seemed more relaxed than the rest of the employees they’d encountered, tinkering with something at the lab station with a detached poise. Tommy’s eyes caught a barrel of Powerade mix on the shelf behind him. Maybe he had something to do with the strange desert phenomenon.

Gordon glanced back at his companions. “Fuck is he saying?”

The man looked up from his work, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise at the group’s appearance. Tommy observed the contents of the lab station, a perplexing mix of chemistry equipment and everyday household items, wondering what he was working on. The man idly cut off the gas line to the Bunsen burner while he watched them expectantly.

“Hey,” Gordon said, waving. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Bubby added.

“Hey,” the man answered, his voice only a touch wary as he removed the safety glasses from his face, folded them neatly, and set them on the surface of the lab table.

“How’s it - how’s it going?” Gordon asked.

“Uh. Alright,” the man answered. “Been here for about… three days.”

The man introduced himself as Darnold. An odd name, maybe, but Thomas Coolatta, Ph.D, wasn’t exactly in a position to judge. He was unusually calm for someone barricaded in his own office for the past three days, and he surveyed the group that had dropped in from his ceiling with a contained sort of curiosity. Tommy eyed him carefully. He didn’t have an ounce of blood on his clothes.

Gordon quickly gave up on social etiquette, striding straight up to the man and demanding answers. Tommy didn’t blame him - this department was supposed to be his salvation, the only bastion against a slow death by infection. Now there was just this guy and a table full of soda cans. Or, what Tommy assumed were soda cans. He flitted his gaze over Darnold’s research with interest while Bubby and Dr. Coomer crowded around the table with him. Benrey, already bored with the conversation, began poking through the office.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Darnold warned, placing himself between Gordon and the lab station. It was the first sign of alarm he’d expressed since the team entered the room. “You gotta step away from my research.”

Gordon stopped in his tracks, perplexed. “That’s research?”

Darnold collected himself in a cool, practiced way that Tommy himself knew quite well. He inched Gordon backward until he was a healthy distance from his equipment. “This is not soda,” he explained. “This is not a fine wine - I know what it says. This is not milk.”

Tommy could see by the fogginess in Gordon’s stare that he was lost. “Okay,” he uttered.

Darnold straightened his tie. Smoothed over his lab coat. “I am in charge of the mixology department,” he informed them.

“Mixology…” Gordon responded dimly. “I thought this was supposed to be the cybernetics department. I thought you guys-” he interrupted himself to throw a verifying glance in Coomer’s direction. “Dr. Coomer, you said the cybernetics department was on the way to the Lambda Lab.”

“Absolutely, Gordon,” the scientist affirmed, nodding.

Light dawned on Darnold’s expression. “Oh, cybernetics,” he said. “The cybernetics department. Uh, they were here,” he reasoned, passing a look around the room. “They got their funding cut after their ill-fated Cyber Mutt project.”

“Such a shame,” Coomer intoned, while Gordon sent a flabbergasted look to his teammates.

“Well this is a nightmare,” he grumbled, but his expression brightened somewhat as a thought occurred to him. “Wait, wait wait, wait. You said their funding got cut?” he asked. “You said their funding got cut?” He began gesturing to his arm, teeth flashing in a pained smile.

Tommy winced. At least he was feeling well enough to have a sense of humor about it.

Darnold seemed to just now notice the injury. “Oh, your hand is missing,” he remarked, the faintest hint of revulsion tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He studied Gordon’s stump more like it was a fascinating specimen than the final resting place of a functional appendage, leaning as close as he could without touching the thing. Tommy watched the chemist as he investigated, unsure of how he felt about him. He was a polite enough guy, but there was no way someone had spent three days in isolation while the world ended outside without loosening a few screws. That calm exterior undoubtedly hid something, but Tommy couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

Benrey had found himself a perch atop an industrial steel barrel, and he launched a harsh laugh across the room. “Yeah you fucked up!” he called, clambering down to jostle Darnold’s shoulder. “Yo he fucked up,” he told him. “He lost his arm. Like an idiot.”

Darnold ignored the entity, his focus homed in on the end of Gordon's arm. “Is that - is that some green in there I see?” he asked.

“That’s probably the sewage. And the sepsis.” Gordon sighed.

“That’s not good.” Darnold murmured to himself, scratching his chin pensively. “Y'know… How long have you had that off?”

Gordon blew out an exhausted breath. “I don’t know. How long has it been, a day?” he cast a glance at Tommy for confirmation. “A day and three hours, give or take?

Darnold straightened, rolling his shoulders back as if he had made a decision. “Studies show that the longest you can live without your hand is a day and four hours,” he told Gordon, the edges of his mouth tilting upward in a near invisible smile. “I think we need to help ya out.”

Okay, never mind, this guy was cool. Tommy could see on his face that he was well-intentioned; he was likely just on guard about having five strangers drop through his ceiling. Not to mention that excellent jest, handcrafted and subtle, was the work of a master.

Tommy was about to give the man an appreciative nod when a loud clatter pulled his attention away. A few yards off, Benrey had drifted back over to the storage shelves and begun knocking items to the floor like a cat. Tommy rolled his eyes. The entity had to get the attention he craved somehow, he guessed.

“Oh, shit!” Gordon exclaimed, laughing. “Wait, so it’s not about the blood loss, it’s about the lack of a hand? Like, your body just shuts down?”

Darnold’s smile widened. “Yeah.”

“That’s just weird.”

“Don’t ya know this?” Darnold asked, cheekiness beginning to shine through his expression. “You’re a scientist, aren’t you? This is what they teach you in every doctorate. It’s a part of every Ph.D.”

Tommy covered his mouth with his hand and turned away to hide his amusement.

“Gordon, I hope you haven’t been lying about your diploma,” Dr. Coomer interjected from across the lab table.

Gordon was about to fire off a response when a wave of pain rolled over him. He tucked his stump in close, gritting his teeth. “You - you said you were the mixology head,” he ground out. “Not the - how do you know about this? Why do you - like - you don’t know anything about my arm more than I do. It’s my arm, man, I think I know best.”

“Because - because, I’ll tell you,” Darnold said gently, holding his palm out toward Gordon in a gesture of peace. “I have been working on a top secret project. It’s a potion.”

Tommy had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep his laughter in check. “That isn’t just the Powerade?” he asked.

“A potion?” Gordon repeated. He glanced at Tommy again, searching for some kind of anchor amid uncertainty. “Who is this clown?” he asked.

A comedy genius, Tommy wanted to answer, but he instead settled on giving Gordon an approving nod. He’s okay, he told him with his eyes. Darnold actually seemed alright. Seemed like he wished them well, a rare occurrence on their road trip through the hellscape that was Black Mesa.

And if he didn’t? Well, Tommy could take care of that, if needed.

“Yes, a potion,” Darnold went on. “What do you think mixology is, mister-” he faltered. “I don’t know what your name is,” he admitted. Mild embarrassment wrinkled the chemist’s brow, which Tommy found funny, considering that they were the ones who had so rudely neglected to introduce themselves.

“My name’s Dr. Freeman,” Gordon said. “Dr. Gordon Freeman.” he turned with a sweeping gesture to the rest of the party, scattered in their own right around the room. “These are my compatriots,” he explained. “This is Dr. Bubby.”

“Hello,” Bubby said distractedly as his eyes wandered the equipment on the far wall.

“This is Dr. Coomer.”

Coomer offered a congenial wave. “Hello.”

“This is,” Gordon paused for only a millisecond, but Tommy didn’t miss the way his expression softened as he said, “Tommy.”

He smiled at Gordon fondly before giving Darnold a polite inclination of his head.

“I’m not even going to introduce the other guy,” Gordon grumbled. “I don’t even think he’s in the room anymore, I wasn’t watching him.”

Benrey had migrated away from the storage shelves and was fiddling with the laptop on Darnold’s desk. “I found a torrent of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas on this computer,” he said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Gordon frowned in concern. “I think he’s going to delete all your files.”

Darnold, unbothered, flapped a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Can you seed that for me, please?” he called to the entity. “Anyways, Dr. Freeman.”

He bobbed his head in an affirmative nod. “That’s me.”

“You’ve disrespected my potions,” he said, giving Gordon a significant look. “Which I don’t like. But a scientist can’t live happily knowing that somebody’s had their hand off for a day and three hours.”

Gordon gave his arm a despondent glance. “Mmyeah.”

“So, this is what I’m going to do,” he continued. “I’m gonna make use of my top-secret, government funded, extreme, delicious potion. I’m gonna give you some, because it has secret regenerative properties unknown to man.”

So, like Pedialyte? Tommy studied the chemist’s expression, trying to parse what he meant by ‘regenerative properties.’ He detected no subterfuge on the man’s face, and his voice held sincere concern, even if it was professionally contained and wrapped up in a joke. Perhaps this ‘potion’ was a risk, but it was a risk Darnold believed would help.

“Unknown to man?” Gordon echoed as he followed Darnold to another steel barrel near the lab station

Incidentally, Dr. Coomer had chosen that barrel as a seat. Darnold frowned at the boxer while Coomer smiled blankly back.

“Please don’t sit on the potion,” Darnold told him.

Coomer hastily dismounted the barrel, sending it rattling sideways and rolling along the floor. Darnold let out a huff, frustration pulling his brows in as he knelt to heft the barrel in his arms. “You knocked the damn potion over,” he muttered, carrying his cargo to rest its weight on the lab table, spout facing downward.

“It’s probably fine,” Dr. Coomer said sheepishly.

Tommy couldn’t help but find the situation funny, from Darnold’s sheer display of strength while he tried to contain his irritation to the absurd size of the barrel in his arms to his unshakeable dedication to the ‘potion’ bit. He watched the exchange with half his attention, the other half following Benrey as he circled the lab like an understimulated animal in an enclosure.

Meanwhile, Gordon’s voice had gone shrill as he realized what he was about to do. “Are you tellin’ me I gotta - is that full?”

Darnold tugged at his lab coat to pull out the wrinkles, balancing the barrel with his free hand. “I tried to put it in beakers, and I only had… three,” he said. “And they all melted when I put the potion in them. But, this is okay.” he slapped his hand on the container in reassurance.

Gordon’s volume climbed and he began to protest, but Tommy spoke up, interrupting him before his elevated pulse could push the poison in his blood any closer to his heart.

“Trust him Mr. Freeman, he made the Powerade earlier.”

“The Powerade was pretty good,” Gordon admitted, turning in Tommy’s direction to search his gaze.

He didn’t know what to believe, who to trust, besides Tommy. He had to remember that. Gordon was following Tommy’s judgment like he was a ship about to wreck, and Tommy couldn’t leave him to smash on a rocky shoreline for the sake of a few jokes. He offered the man a comforting smile. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.

Darnold was still attempting to cut the tension with a little humor as he balanced the barrel on the table. “Now, I’m holding it at the proper potion sipping angle, so just break out your Black Mesa official silly straw and get to slurpin,’ okay?”

Tommy snorted. “What flavor is it?”

“It’s brown flavor!” Darnold shot back with a grin.

Benrey had stopped pacing the room and was now leaning his back against one of the shelves to watch. He caught Gordon’s eye and ran his tongue along the razor line of his teeth. Tommy honestly couldn’t tell if it was a threat or a sign of approval.

Gordon wasn’t sure, either, turning to Darnold with a bit of nervousness. “Hey,” said, leaning in close. “Before you ask me questions about any of this: one, I don’t have a passport. Two, I don’t have a Black Mesa silly straw. Three, I don’t know anything.”

Darnold blinked mildly at the interruption, angling his head away from the sudden closeness and shooting the science team a perplexed look.

“He doesn’t even have his silly straw,” Coomer commented unhelpfully between giggles.

The chemist sighed. “We can work with this,” he said, pushing Gordon delicately back with his free hand. “Here, I’m still holdin’ it at the proper angle. Now, just put your mouth on it, and… get to… suckin.’”

Tommy could tell he immediately regretted his phrasing by the grimace that tightened his mouth.

“He should!” Benrey jeered from his spot against the shelving unit. “Gordon knows how to suck and he does it well.”

As Tommy fought the impulse to gag, Gordon stabbed his finger threateningly in the entity’s direction. “Don’t you tell me what I know about suckin,’ buddy!”

“Gross!” Bubby interjected.

At least without the silly straw it was less like watching the world’s worst beer bong and more like watching the world’s worst shotgun. Reminded Tommy of his college days. Gordon made it through a few swallows before he collapsed onto the tile floor, making a horrible, gut-wrenching sound.

Tommy practically materialized next to Darnold, gripping his upper arm in a warning and ignoring the stares from the rest of the science team. He couldn’t tell if the look the chemist gave him was startled because of Gordon’s condition or Tommy’s sudden proximity.

“What’s it doing to him?” Tommy asked in a low voice.

“Uh, well, from what I’ve gathered, it’s like a month long juice cleanse in the span of five minutes,” Darnold explained, flitting a glance between Tommy and the man lying prone on the floor. He was smart enough to connect the dots. “It doesn’t feel great, but he should be fine,” he assured him, with gentle confidence. “Toxin free.”

After a moment of processing, Tommy released him, choosing instead to fold his arms thoughtfully across his chest and monitor Gordon’s status while the man keeled on the floor, groaning. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Darnold trying not to wince as he rubbed his arm.

They watched Gordon in silence for a few moments before Darnold ventured a question. “When was the last time his suit was charged?”

Tommy rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to remember. “A - uh - a day ago? Two maybe?”

“There’s a charging station on that wall,” Darnold said, nodding in that direction. “Let’s get him over there while he’s…” he paused, frowning while Gordon convulsed. “Going through it.”

Together, they wrestled Gordon across the room and hooked his suit up to the device. It beeped softly and took on a charge. Gordon didn’t resist, letting out a pained moan as his head lolled against the wall.

“Tastes like brown, tastes like green…” he murmured. “It tastes like most colors.”

Yeah, this was definitely reminding Tommy of his college days. He crouched beside him, watching carefully for any signs of his condition worsening, while Darnold stood to his full height.

“Brown is supposed to taste good,” he remarked, earning himself a thin laugh from Tommy.

He decided he liked Darnold. He was funny, and he had dropped what he was doing to help them, despite the fact that they were all, well, the way that they were. Ragged and chaotic and just to the left of coherent. Darnold met them all graciously with that carefully contained sense of humor, and for that he was thankful. Tommy hoped they were able to seal the rift before any sort of creature got its teeth in the guy.

Tommy remained by Gordon’s side while Darnold turned to converse with Bubby and Dr. Coomer. As the concoction worked its way through Gordon’s bloodstream, the wound drained out a colorless fluid and began rapidly scabbing over. A medical marvel, really, Tommy thought as he watched it heal. Lifesaving technology. He wondered bitterly how long Black Mesa had been sitting on this research, how many people around the world needed something like this. Keeping it hidden away in a bunker was such a waste.

The HEV suit beeped again, indicating it had hit full charge. Tommy steadied Gordon with one hand as he slumped over, breathing heavily. With his other hand, he gently rotated Gordon’s severed wrist so he could access the control panel beneath. He didn’t exactly have a lot of experience with one of these, but he guessed the suit at least needed to recalibrate. Tommy hit the button.

Recalibrate it did. The suit’s internal computer must’ve interpreted Gordon’s lack of a hand as a need for some sort of substitute, and it whirred out lines of tubing and protective metal casing around the area. Tommy watched, fascinated, keeping a solid grip on Gordon’s shoulder to hold him upright. He had settled down somewhat at this point, the pain leaving his body as the newly charged suit flooded him with morphine.

Where there used to be a hand, there was now what looked like a sized-down gatling gun, flanking Gordon’s forearm with five identical barrels. There was no place to feed a magazine, and Tommy wondered distractedly how much of the suit’s real estate was taken up by rows and rows of ammunition within the exterior casing.

Gordon let out a confused grunt as the fog in front of his expression began to clear. When his gaze fell to his own arm, Tommy felt his shoulder go rigid in shock.

“Huh? Whoa. Whoa, what is this tube?” he demanded. “What is that?”

Their attention drawn by Gordon’s outburst, the scientists wandered back over to investigate. Three pairs of curious eyes stuck on the barrel on the end of the man’s arm. Benrey, settled in the chair at Darnold’s desk, didn’t even bother to look over.

Dr. Coomer gave his mustache a thoughtful scratch. “I think that’s your hand,” he finally said.

Gordon sent a questioning look to Darnold. “You told me this would regenerate my hand. What is this?”

“Is that not what your hand looked like before?” Darnold asked, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Fully alarmed now, still a touch disoriented, Gordon scrambled to his feet. As Darnold began calmly explaining the bizarre prosthetic and its functions, Tommy circled around behind Gordon and began unhooking the HEV suit from the charger before he forgot he was attached to it and tried going anywhere.

He was tuning out the conversation as he carefully undid the clasps, so when the gun extension on Gordon’s arm fired off a staccato of rounds, Tommy leapt back, startled.

He wasn’t the only one - the entire room was taken aback by the firepower Gordon’s new weapon possessed. Save for Benrey, who was bored as usual, and Darnold, who appeared more intrigued than alarmed. The chemist crossed his arms and studied the gun, brows knitted as he puzzled through the mechanics.

“This… really is like your hand,” he began. “You just uh - did… You just fired your fingernails from your fingertips.”

Not a bad metaphor, Tommy allowed, but Gordon was ever the literal one, his judgement a little shaken by the forcible purge of toxins from his blood. “No,” he argued, glancing at the science team for help. “Right? No. Please back me up.”

“Why do you think my hand’s always in a fist?” Bubby reasoned. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

It was so rare Bubby willingly made a joke that Tommy almost forgot to laugh.

“You said I’m shooting my fingernails,” Gordon insisted, turning to Darnold. “I’m s’posed to have only five of those. In fact, my fingernails should be gone-”

“Gordon, I believe most people have ten of those,” Coomer corrected.

“Fingernails can grow pretty fast,” Tommy added as he unhooked the final cable from the suit.

The man was nervous, for good reason, and now probably wasn’t the most appropriate time to make light of his predicament, but Tommy was so relieved Gordon wasn’t going to die of blood poisoning that he truly couldn’t help himself.

Gunshots peppered the room while Gordon oriented himself with the new extension. Tommy remained by the charging station, coiling the cables around his arm and hanging them neatly back on the rack. Next to him, Benrey’s eyes were glazed over as he tacked randomly at the keys on Darnold’s laptop.

“Is the internet working?” Tommy asked, sliding the panel shut on the charging station.

Benrey gave a narrow shrug. “I dunno, I’m playin’ TF2.”

Tommy circled behind him and glanced at the screen. “That’s Minesweeper.”

“I’m installing the Pyro update,” Benrey insisted.

His tone was even, but Tommy could see flames flickering between the entity’s fingers in a subtle threat. He sighed and left him alone.

Tommy rejoined the rest of the group just in time to see the south wall become pimpled with bullet holes. Damn, that little gun had some kick. Gordon reeled backward, panting and looking more clear-eyed than he had in the past couple days. It was good to see him steady on his feet.

“I’ve increased your fingernail effectiveness by ten thousand percent,” Darnold commented, a touch impressed, with a smile on his mouth so small you’d miss it if you weren't looking.

God, this guy was funny. Chill as hell, too. Tommy wondered if he had been the one to put those bullshit posters up in the break room. Hard to believe that was earlier this week and not an entire lifetime ago.

With Gordon healed and recharged, they thanked the chemist for his hospitality and prepared to push on. Tommy was hesitant to leave. This was the only real reprieve they had gotten all week - the room was safe, the company was enjoyable, and a weight had been lifted from Tommy’s shoulders knowing that Gordon was no longer actively dying on his watch. He approached Darnold gratefully while Gordon wrestled Benrey out of the office chair before he could pour more soda on the keyboard.

“What’s the next flavor of Powerade?” Tommy asked, eyebrows raised in a humorous challenge.

Darnold’s smile rose to meet it and he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, well, I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, humor sparkling in his black eyes. “But we’re working on an evil flavor.”

“My favorite,” Dr. Coomer interjected while Tommy giggled.

It felt good to laugh, to have something silly to focus on while the world turned further and further on its ear. Darnold’s lab was a cheerful sanctuary, a final stop before their journey’s end. Tommy was still exhausted from running and fighting for days, clawing with desperate hands for a way out of this nightmare. This guarded rest, however, this brief repose, made him think that they just might make it in the end.

Chapter 13 <-----> Chapter 15

#ink #fanfiction #good jokes #part of my endeavor to relocate all my ao3 work #body horror? #idk #hlvrai

[jeffpail86]

Nhs Generalised Stress And Anxiety Therapy.

Therapy For Children & Young People.

Content

What Happens Throughout Cognitive Behavioral Therapy Sessions?

What Are The Reasons For Ocd?

Couple Therapy For Depression Skills Structure Map.

Allow's End Psychological Health And Wellness Discrimination.

I knew I could not operate in London or in a very difficult setting, especially one where I could not be honest concerning OCD for worry of being seen as much less than capable. I left my task and also obtained a role helping Happiful magazine and also Coaching Directory site - the site where I first found assistance.

LeggUP Expands Mental Health Services Through Partnership with Morneau Shepell - PR Web

LeggUP Expands Mental Health Services Through Partnership with Morneau Shepell.

Posted: Tue, 12 Jan 2021 11:06:41 GMT [source]

There are great deals of apps that can assist you to enhance your mental health and wellness. Our Improving Access to Psychological Therapies service offer a series of psychological health courses that you can access completely free. Numerous things can set off these fixations, as well as they typically leave the individual feeling really distressed, unpleasant, or frightened. The obsession is the behavior carried out in order to put right the obsession. Since then, I've had chatting treatment and CBT, and I presently take an antidepressant, which silences the sound of OCD right down.

What Occurs During Cognitive Behavioral Treatment Sessions?

Some individuals act on their compulsions physically, but also for a great deal of individuals it's all in the mind. They could have to duplicate words or numbers in their head, or they could hope a great deal. Lots of people with OCD will certainly act on psychological obsessions along with physical ones. Even if you can not "see" OCD, does not suggest somebody doesn't have it. The compulsion can be extremely time consuming and also can have an extremely incapacitating result on life, relationships, work and also wellness. Fascinations-- these are duplicated, invasive, unwanted ideas, concerns, prompts, images which can develop sensations of discomfort at one end of the range to intense anxiousness at the various other end. Component of what's happening in OCD is that an incorrect, or weakening, sense of control is being put in by the person who is afflicted.

direct-therapy Therapy For OCD features ">

How do I talk to my doctor about anxiety?

It can be as simple as saying, “Doctor I want to talk to you about how I've been feeling lately” Your doctor will likely want to talk about your work, spiritual life, relationships and physical health — and how anxiety might be impacting those areas of your life.

Some research suggests that whilst limited as well as repeated behaviours tend to develop similarly in both problems, the duty that anxiousness plays in RRBs is an unique difference in between the two conditions. Self-care Looking after yourself can help you manage stress, which can worsen OCD signs and symptoms. A lot of rest, normal workout and also maintaining a healthy and balanced diet can make it less complicated to take care of the worries life tosses at you.

What Are The Root Causes Of Ocd?

An instance may be seeing an ownership adored by a previous abuser. This mental contamination needs a certain thought-based obsession to clean it as well as lift you out of the association, like an image of being free from your abuser. The added linked "security" thought is not usually evident by one more individual. The fascination may then drive the requirement to carry out specific compulsions which form the 2nd part of the condition. Compulsions are repetitive behaviours, routines or acts that you perform in order to ease the psychological distress caused by the fascination. After specifying obsessive uncontrollable problem, this write-up will discover the various kinds of obsessive uncontrollable disorder. Extensive inpatient treatment in health center might be required for those with dramatically invasive thoughts and also obsessions.

So they falsely think that washing their hands 100 times in a row will get rid of the idea that they'll die from contamination. However, investing a hr at the sink is in reality what's triggering issues in their life. What makes this such an interesting condition to collaborate with in therapy, is that everybody sits someplace on the continuum of attributes that feature in OCD. Probably if we have actually been gardening we might clean our hands two or 3 times. Use theVicious Cycle & Alternatives to map out your own thoughts, feeling as well as behaviours, and create some healthier alternative thoughts and also behaviors. My Possible Self - take control of your ideas feeling as well as behaviour by finding out simple abilities to handle worry, anxiety and also stress.

Pair Therapy For Depression Proficiencies Framework Map.

Feel free tocontact usto ask about psychological treatments available at First Psychology Dundee that may assist with obsessive compulsive condition. Although the types of OCD defined below may appear extremely various, there are common styles between them all. The routines or behaviors executed only give short-term remedy for the stress and anxiety and distress-- they are not performed for pleasure or fulfillment. OCD is a disorder that can lock on to anything and also is for life transforming. One day a person might be consuming concerning the house being burglarized, and also the following they think they have eliminated someone. OCD creates fear, false-memory syndromes, as well as anxiousness, which are both consistent and upsetting.

Doubting that the arrangement is "just right" drives the compulsion to reorganize and repeat the routine as often times as it is needed to accomplish a deeper feeling of comfort. The procedure can be lengthy, often with nocturnal hours being spent on the ritual. But the worry of contamination can additionally include a type of psychological contamination where there is no straight physical call with damaging compounds. The mind ends up being infected by a particular idea, word, photo or memory that connects you with something "polluting" as well as this triggers an internal feeling of uncleanness as well as can not be cleansed with a physical obsession.

Allow's End Psychological Wellness Discrimination.

Some obsessions can likewise serve as an electrical outlet to release the potential advises in your invasive obsessions. Too much use pornography may be used with invasive sexual obsessions to manage the develop of your sexual stimulation. Medicines that have a sedating result might likewise be over-used to lower the potential urge to be hostile.

What is a drug that calms you down?

Benzodiazepines (also known as tranquilizers) are the most widely prescribed type of medication for anxiety. Drugs such as Xanax (alprazolam), Klonopin (clonazepam), Valium (diazepam), and Ativan (lorazepam) work quickly, typically bringing relief within 30 minutes to an hour.

Other comforting obsessions including hiding items that can harm individuals or staying clear of scenarios in which you consider you might lose control and after that act upon your obsessions. Even though it is senseless, OCD injury and also threat fixations may link the "power" of your thought or psychological task to the actual physical root cause of injury or a catastrophe. When a person is hurt or damages has actually been done, you then really feel an overwhelming sense of duty that you are the instigator through your thoughts.

#cognitive behavioral therapy online #cognitive behavioral therapy techniques #cognitive behavioral therapy near me #cognitive behavioral therapy examples #cognitive behavioral therapy definition #cognitive behavioral therapy nhs #cognitive behavioral therapy for anxiety

[misstincu]

How to be your own person

At 27 years old, most people perceive me as unapologetic, bold, a warrior fighting for what is right, fair, honest and inspirational. Which is kind of accurate [insert modesty here], but it’s important to note that I’m not all these things simultaneously.  Sometimes I’m just too busy overthinking myself to death, having meltdowns and self-sabotaging whilst still being a nice person [yes, I can multitask that way 😂]. To understand where I’m coming from and what “qualifies” me to tell you how to be your own person, here’s a glimpse into the worst parts of myself from ten years ago: 

I worked hard to improve and change, because I was sick and tired of all the unecessary unpleasantness I was allowing myself to live in. I do hope that you’re not imagining that I managed to achieve this by sheer will. On the contrary, it was more a mix of taking chances, trying things outside of my comfort zone and seeking to surround myself with people that see my value, respect me and support me without kissing my ass to obtain something from me 💅. Of course, I derailed from this “master plan” of becoming my own person on a few occasions because my auto pilot was strong - if I wouldn’t pay attention to something for a little while, I was instantly switching back to my old ways because it was easier and more comfortable. Right now I’d say I’ve come pretty far, and I’m proud of what I achieved, but I didn’t do it alone - it’s the result of many people giving me a hand, helping me in times of need or giving me a chance when no one else would.

I think becoming who you are and maintaining it is a lifelong process, and something we always need to pay attention to and work on it, because as I said - it doesn’t take much to revert to your unhealthy old ways. Here’s where I am now:

Most of the above ideals are not a 5 minute job, it takes years to get there and it won’t be easy - but it’s all worth it, I can promise you that. And just because I changed, it doesn’t mean that I don’t still doubt myself at times, or fall back a little into my old ways at times. It just means that I make a conscious effort daily to stay true to myself and not compromise my wellbeing for anyone.

Without further ado, here are my tips on how to be your own person:

Always have your own best interest at heart

If you’re like me, it’s difficult to constantly have your defences up and think of yourself 24/7. So having your own best interest at heart is also aided by building healthy relationships with those around you, choosing a work environment where you can be yourself and not having to walk all over your values often and reducing contact with toxic people that you can’t just remove from your life (such as family or old friends). Seeking what’s best for you is not always easy or obvious, but a way to do this could be reflecting on what you don’t want, that way it will get a little easier to follow what you want for yourself. In order to have your own best interest at heart, you’ll need to dig deep and be honest with yourself. Be selective of the people you surround yourself with, the situations you allow yourself to be part of, the environments where you spend your time. You won’t be able to count on family, friends, significant others and work colleagues to have your best interest at heart because most of them are too busy to chase their own interests. So it’s important for you to do the same.

Voice your opinions

It took me years, years I tell ya, to start voicing my opinions. This is because the environment I grew up in never empowered me to have an opinion in the first place. However, the first step for me was to start voicing my opinions in writing on my first blog back when I was a teenager - that’s where I said the things I didn’t have the courage to say out loud. A few years later, I was forced by University course assignments to start saying what I think. After a while, I managed to start saying what I think at work even if it wasn’t necessarily encouraged to do so. A beneficial factor for me starting to voice my opinion more and become even closer to being the most “my own person” that I’ve ever been - was having a significant other who has my best interest at heart, and empowered me to be my true self. You can find such support in other types of relationships, it doesn’t have to be a significant other. At some point I became tired of my own bullshit - by which means tired of the unsaid things that were imploding inside me and I couldn’t bear it anymore so I started to speak up more - with my family, with my friends, at work, and with friends of friends (I was already voicing my opinions at home, just not so much in public).

The key to voicing your opinions is to just start doing it. Take any little opportunity you get and practice, practice, practice. Lady at the bakery gave you the wrong type of bread? Say it! Your work colleague is a jackass? Say it! Don’t want to go out? Say it! Not being paid enough? Say it! Think of it like this: saying what you think might be uncomfortable for 10 mins, but it passes away. Sucking it up, however, can force you to take a commitment or be in a shitty position that you don’t want for hours, days, years! So 10 minutes of feeling like crap sounds good in hindsight, right?

Set Personal Boundaries

Boundaries are key for maintaining healthy relationships with people and set clear guidelines of how you want, and need, to be treated.

Most people will walk all over you no matter what relationship you have with them - that is, if you let them. It might take you some time to figure out what your boundaries are but rest assured, life experiences will highlight them for you, just pay attention. For example, back in the day I had no clue that when someone’s actions or words made me feel bad about myself and worthless, it actually meant that they crossed my personal boundaries. It won’t always be clear as day that someone is doing this to you, or they might not even realise it, but either way - if as a result you feel like shit it’s time to take action. In a sense, it’s like taking your power and self-worth back from those who are trying to take it away from you.

My personal boundaries, to name a few, resulted from being sick and tired of the following: not respecting me/my work/my time, taking me or my kindness for granted, toxic family ties, ageism, sexism, being unprofessional or unethical.  Now, when you feel like you need to set some boundaries with certain people, here are my top three ways of setting boundaries:

Reduce contact with family/old friends when: trying to reinforce inexistent boundaries might not be met with openness or the mental ability to comprehend what you are trying to communicate.

Cut people out of your life when they’re energy vampires/soul sucking friends/lovers: With a lovely touch of toxicity, these people might have been all lovely at first until you got to know them better and vice versa. Now, you just feel like a brainwashed puppet that allows them to suck the life out of you and walk all over you.

Ghosting (not ideal, but necessary sometimes) - when reducing contact or cutting people out of your life doesn’t work, the last option standing is ghosting them. To me, ghosting is not something aligned with my values and ethics. However, I do think it’s necessary for self preservation at times.

Accept your imperfections

There are many things you can change about yourself if you work hard enough. However, there are also many things you can’t change. A few of my imperfections include: taking things personal, being too nice, too obsessed with being professional and doing the right thing, too sensitive, an overthinker with high levels of anxiety. To you, most of these things might not seem like imperfections, but to me they are because these imperfections get my feelings hurt a lot and make me feel stupid and bad about myself. But the good thing is: once you accept and acknowledge your imperfections, it can get better. Not accepting these things about yourself and fighting your own self is just like lying to yourself. And when you lie to yourself, you’re lying to everyone around you - and let me tell you, people will see right through your bullshit. Are you a whiny bitch? Are you a pushover? A passive aggressive person?  Embrace it! When you get tired of your own bullshit, the motivation to do something will kick in. Of course, it’s not enough to embrace your imperfections, you have to also figure out how to change the outcome of the situation you dragged yourself into because of the way you are. Set boundaries, remove people from your life if they bring out the worst in you or make you feel bad about yourself. Extract yourself from environments and situations that are toxic for you and it will be easier to accept who you are without these distractions.

Bring out your fashion more

I’m a very visual person in the sense that what I see in the mirror influences my mood.  I’m also anxious and don’t exude self confidence 24/7. This is why makeup, the color of my hair, grooming and clothes are a way to express myself and a reminder of who I am (in case I forget, you know). All these serve like armor and war paint before I get out of the house and face the day. No matter how anxious or stressed out I get, on the verge of tears from bottled anger - I know that when I look at myself in a toilet mirror I’ll be reminded that I’m 100% that bitch. There are months when I’m so exhausted and burnt out that I can’t muster the energy to get all glammed up - but I still make sure I have something on me to bring me down to earth. No matter what gender you are, if you are into fashion, hairstyling, make-up or not - there must be something you can wear that makes you feel pretty damn awesome about yourself.  

Get to know yourself better

You don’t get up one morning and discover that you found out everything about yourself. Oh, no! This is a lifelong project. However, there are many ways you can find out the good and the bad things about yourself - introspection, analysing what you are good and bad at, hearing what people who see through your bullshit say, reviews of your work etc. Sure, it’s nice when people compliment you, and it hurts when they criticize you. But I think we are not 100% the way we see ourselves, nor how others see us. When people comment, there is always a little of them projecting their qualities or imperfections on you and subjectivity involved. In my opinion, the truth is somewhere in the middle. As long as you keep yourself grounded and not underestimate yourself or go full on hubris - you’ll get a pretty good sense of who you are at this point of your life.

Love and trust yourself

When I had zero self-confidence, I thought this idea was utter bullshit. Are you saying I am not a worthless piece of crap without talent like my step mother told me I am? Get outta here!

For years I had moments where I thought “that’s it! From this moment on, I love myself, I trust myself, I am confident” and bam! 2 hours later I still wasn’t any of these things. Because it’s not a decision you make on the spot, it’s a chain of actions, of setting boundaries and having experiences that teach you to stand up for yourself that get you to the level of wisdom that enables you to start loving, trusting, respecting and believing in yourself. For years, I let my power in the hands of others. I let others decide if I am worthy of respect, of trust, of being loved, of being trusted. But if you don’t feel or believe these things about yourself, why would others? In my case, I realised that I have to find my worth in other places. Not in the opinion of others, not in my skills and the results of my hard work - but in my own damn self.

After many failures and getting to the point where it affected my mental health and wellbeing, I realised that actually I do know my shit, I do have a lot of potential, I do deserve a good salary.  Actions speak louder than words - and it will take a long time for you to start feeling this way about yourself - so until then, you can just act and present yourself in a manner that shows that you know what you can do, you have an idea of who you are and what you can do. Yes, a little “fake it until you make it” attitude can help you.  Other people’s mean comments will still hurt - but deep inside, you will know the truth. When they go low, you go high. And slowly but surely, you will take your power back.

Learn to say NO

It might sound like it’s easy to say NO, but in reality, it can be a hard thing to do especially if you’re not used to it. Looking back, it’s astonishing to me on how many occasions I would have been better off if I would have been honest and said NO. This skill is detrimental for your survival and wellbeing, because sometimes you’ll have to put your foot down and say NO. Agreeing to every request might be easier in the moment, but you know you’ll hate yourself afterwards for juggling a million things with no time for yourself just because you couldn’t say one damn word - NO! In your head, this could come off as uncaring or selfish because it means letting some people down, causing them to dislike you for it or be criticized. There is however an upside to this: you’ll gain some respect for yourself and set some boundaries.  Just because you made a commitment in the heat of the moment, it doesn’t mean you need to actually follow it through. You can change your mind and graciously remove yourself from the commitment you made - if you also add a little heartfelt honesty in there most people will appreciate it. As I’m a recovering pushover and YES woman, I still don’t master saying NO but I work on it every chance I get. When I’m not caught off guard, I say “I’ll think about it and get back to you”. If however I am taken by surprise, I might agree on the spot and decline later when I realize that I actually don’t want to do something or I can’t because I have no time for it.

Sometimes I still go ahead with things I don’t want to do because I want to help others or get outside my comfort zone - but that is something that I am willing to take responsibility for. No matter why you decide to not say NO, make sure you are at peace with this compromise, for the right reasons.

Understand your values and stand by them

You see, I understand my values and I stand by them as much as possible. But the reality is, there will be times when you’ll need to compromise a little. I mostly experienced this on a professional level. Values are in essence rules of conduct you live by - but there will be situations with some people where you will never win. In your personal life it’s slightly easier because you can cut people out of your life, reduce contact with them or ghost them. But at work you might be forced to collaborate with people that make your life a living hell - passive aggressive, selfish, ego-centered assholes, “cult leaders”, people that do the bare minimum and don’t care how it affects others. So it’s important to stand by who you are whilst still being able to adapt to working with toxic people that won’t give a shit about your values and boundaries - yay! Welcome to adulthood.

Don’t be selfish and ego-centered

Newsflash! Not everything is about you! It’s ok to be selfish and ego-centered when it comes to your self-preservation and wellbeing, as long as you don’t shove this down everyone’s throat. These traits come off in a negative light when you can’t have a proper conversation with someone because they make any topic about themselves and their experiences 24/7. Don’t get me wrong, I too talk about myself with people but it’s one thing to share a story and another to not even listen to what people are saying and constantly wait for a cue to talk about yourself. I think this occurs when you have no life outside school or work - and I’ve been this person, not gonna lie. The funny thing is that I had zero confidence in myself but still came off as a selfish ego-centered bitch based on this behaviour. So try not to be selfish and ego-centered to the point where no one wants to ever talk to you again.

Conclusion

Becoming your own person takes a lot of work, resources and time. However, it’s one of the best investments in yourself that you can ever make. It not only improves your life both on a personal and professional level, but it opens doors to new friendships and new opportunities. Remember: staying true to yourself is a journey, not a destination. Have a great trip! ✨

#mental health #howtoguide #being yourself

[drfitzmonster]

"does grieving the person i am not interfere with accepting the person i am?" god this is the question ive been asking myself. i feel so acutely the pain youre talking about. i started therapy a few months ago and its like been so rough. cause i started feeling again which ik is good long run. but all im feeling is pain. and mourning my trauma. and whats that line between healthy mourning and spiraling into the depression and devastation of it? sometimes i miss the numb but ig that was worse too

also god how can you articulate my exact self so specifically? yeah. everytime someone comments on my appearance, if its my weight or lack of makeup or my clothing choices that dont fit their idea of ‘woman’ i get so mad bc its on purpose. ik its prob not the healthy response but after all my trauma and having my body taken away from me before i had words for it and then yrs later again when i knew exactly what was happening. like this is my only defense. and then im made to feel ashamed for it

and your right. cause it doesnt work. bc at the end of the day nothing we do to change our appearance will stop a monster. bc it was never about us or what we looked like. and thats validating and reassuring. but also devastating and terrifying. and how do you heal from something like that? where do we take back control in a healthy way ya know? ..ahh sorry this is my sad ramble, ignore me im sorry. shoulda just said im sending you a hug (i am if thats ok) instead of expounding in your inbox.

–

hey there friend. you don’t have to apologize for sharing your feelings with me. while it breaks my heart that other people have been through the same kinds of trauma i have, and are hurting, it also does help me feel less alone. we cannot change what happened to us, we’ll never be able to erase that. so i think one of the most important and healing things we can do for ourselves and for each other is reach out and share our experiences with people we trust, and just be there for each other, support each other, even if it’s just to listen or say “i understand how you feel.”

learning to let yourself feel again is really hard. it’s so overwhelming at first, and so painful and it can be so agonizing. but it gets easier, bit by bit. you start feeling positive things too, you start building connections with people again, or rebuilding connections with people you’ve isolated yourself from. you feel alive, and you even start to feel good sometimes. you start having good moments, happy moments, and sometimes even good days.

but it’s rough and hard work. you started therapy a few months ago, you’re still at the beginning of the recovery process, which is the hardest. i’m really glad you’re seeing a therapist. i’ve been seeing my current therapist for over two years and i would not have been able to make nearly as much progress if it had not been for her help, and the help of my friends and chosen family, and the support of all the kind and caring people i’ve met here and through my writing.

i’m not sure exactly where the line is between healthy mourning and unhealthy obsessing, but mourning is a vital part of the healing process. i think that it may be something your therapist can give you some guidance on, how to grieve in a healthy way that does not interfere with you moving forward in your recovery.

there’s a quote from rilke’s letters to a young poet that had a really big impact on me and how i think about my own trauma recovery:

“If there is anything unhealthy in your reactions, just bear in mind that sickness is the means by which an organism frees itself from what is alien; so one must simply help it to be sick, to have its whole sickness and to break out with it, since that is the way it gets better. In you, dear Mr. Kappus, so much is happening now; you must be patient like someone who is sick, and confident like someone who is recovering; for perhaps you are both. And more: you are also the doctor, who has to watch over himself. But in every sickness there are many days when the doctor can do nothing but wait. And that is what you, insofar as you are your own doctor, must now do, more than anything else.”

we are patients and doctors at the same time, that is, we have to take care of ourselves to facilitate our own healing. sometimes our job is to just make it through the day. to let ourselves feel whatever we are feeling, to accept and acknowledge those feelings, because this is what enables us to let them go, and to move forward. i have learned from experience that fighting our feelings doesn’t work. trying to disallow ourselves from feeling whatever it is that we are feeling only makes things worse. we get stuck in conflict, stuck in the exact feelings we don’t want to be having. it is better to let ourselves feel, even when it is painful, even when it is confusing and unpleasant and upsetting.

try not to worry too much about whether the things you have done to protect yourself are healthy or not. they’ve helped you survive this far, and as you progress in your recovery you will learn new healthy ways to cope with your trauma, and you will let go of some of the coping mechanisms you’ve used in the past. some will always remain, and that’s ok.

i hope this is helpful or reassuring in some way. thank you for sharing your feelings with me i really do appreciate your openness and honesty. i hope you have a good day today and i wish you all the luck with your recovery. 💗💗💗

#Anonymous #trauma tw #trauma recovery

[gammafish]

Public image of diabetes

‘Diabetes’.

Now quick - what was the first thing that you thought of? What was the mental image that you had?

I suppose that at least some of you thought of something of an overweight/obese person, unhealthy fatty foods like pizza or burgers, people sitting in front of their TV all day long, or maybe about the ‘great financial burden on the healthcare budget’. I wouldn’t be surprised; in fact, I’ve just been to a scientific conference where a symbol for diabetes during one of the talks was an icon of a burger and sugar cubes - which was the final thing that drove me to writing this rather long (sorry) post.

(image sources; wikipedia)

This is destructive. In a society obsessed with appearance, weight, and diet, this is destructive, and not helping anyone.

Let me say first of all that I’m not opposed to jokes and having a bit of a laugh. I use humour as a coping mechanism in crappy situations myself, so I’m not all that serious and uptight as I might come across here. But when it’s the same joke, all the time, from different people, and about something that after all is quite a sensitive subject, it tends to get to you.

It’s all those burgers, innit? No more McDonald’s for you. Just living on veggies then? You can’t ever have sweets again, can you? You’ve just had too much cake. You should have exercised more.

Let me reiterate why this is wrong. I got diabetes (type 1) at the age of 7 when I was on antibiotics every other week for a long time that damaged my pancreas. I never ate a burger before that, I never went to McDonald’s and I spent a lot of time outside playing and running around with other kids. Nowadays, in the research center where I work, I regularly see type 2 diabetics who are of normal weight, who still keep active despite their age, and who have always been active and had a good diet. On the other hand, we all know people who don’t lead healthy lifestyles for one reason or another and yet they don’t get diabetes. The truth is that we don’t understand enough about the onset of the disease and what exactly causes it. Genes and genetic predispositions surely play a role, and things like fatty diet, lack of exercise, smoking, excess alcohol consumption are all risk factors that increase the likelihood of insulin resistance and development of diabetes, but it’s not as easy and clear-cut as it seems to be.

To make things worse, depression and diabetes are closely linked. In fact, depression is the most common psychiatric disorder in people with diabetes. Why am I saying this? First, think about what you see diabetes as. Do you know what the treatment entails? Or do you only know about the daily finger prick tests and insulin injections/insulin pumps or tablets? Do you think diabetes can just be controlled by eating less cake and jogging more? Surely, these are all parts of our lives and management, but unless you yourself have the disease or someone you see daily does, then you probably don’t know about the constant fear of hypoglycemia (low blood glucose) that can drive us into a coma (and death) as well as hyperglycamia (high blood glucose) that makes us feel sick short term, and leads to deadly complications long term. You don’t know the effort that goes into trying to keep our inner environment in that very tight range between those two states. The constant awareness of diabetic complications doesn’t make it easier. For some, the knowledge that after 20 years of disease over 95% of type 1 diabetics will start developing eye disease, for example, is a motivation to work as best as they can on their glucose control. For others, it’s a debilitating fear causing anger, resentment, rebelling against their disease (and possibly depression). And to get to what I wanted to point out - you also probably don’t know how difficult it is to keep a correct weight when you suffer from this disease.

For a healthy person, weight control is mainly about more exercise and less processed/fatty/high-calorie foods. The case is similar in diabetics, but the process is much more difficult. Our bodies obviously cannot self-regulate insulin and glucose levels, so it takes a lot of practice to balance the two, especially since exercise generally causes blood glucose to drop. The effect is varied based on the duration, the intensity of the work out, but other factors come into play such as the time of the last meal or even menstrual cycle in women. As a result, the general guideline for diabetics is to typically have food before and after exercising. This obviously makes any kind of weight loss much slower, since you have to take in calories to facilitate the process through which you were trying to burn those calories in the first place. But weight gain is also about other issues such as hypoglycemia in the middle of the night. If that happens, whether you want it or not (given that you want to live until morning) you might have to take an equivalent of 2-3 teaspoons of sugar (maybe more, maybe less) at night. And of course, literally every process in the body is impaired in diabetes - it’s a disruption to homeostasis, like having an increased body temperature all the time - so things like metabolism are going to be affected. Meaning, more weight gain, or at least slower weight loss.

Let me add very quickly to the diabetic complications besides the retinopathy that I mentioned earlier, in case you’re not aware of how diabetes damages the body. Diabetic kidney disease, neuropathy (nerve damage -> amputations), kidney damage (eventually leading to dialysis), cardiovascular disease (heart attacks and more), stroke, Alzheimer’s disease, dementia, skin disorders, hair loss, even tooth cavities - the likelihood of these (and of more) is increased. Essentially anything that has a blood supply is affected.

(source) (Severe diabetic retinopathy; back of the eye after laser treatment)

(Source; diabetic foot ulcers; not going to show any real-life photos as some might find them disturbing, but google ‘diabetic foot’ if you want to know what this looks like in reality)

There is no escape, there is no treatment - there is only delaying the inevitable. There is only the knowledge that if you’re (un?)fortunate enough to survive several years with the disease, you’re not likely to die fully functional and/or in one piece, and that it’s going to be those complications that kill you in the end. It’s not funny, is it?

Now in the light of all that - of the effort of glucose and weight management, the fear of going blind and losing a limb - bring back your jokes and comments about cake and burgers. Do they still feel appropriate? Not to be overly dramatic, but do you see my point now about you essentially making fun of our accelerated death? It wasn’t a choice. It is never a choice. Is autism a choice? Is cystic fibrosis, cancer, Alzheimer’s disease a choice? Is having a family history or being born with a higher predisposition to diabetes a choice? What ridiculous questions.

How demanding, but I don’t want to die - not like this, not by falling apart when I’ll reach my 30′s or 40′s if I get lucky. We don’t want to die like this. And we don’t want to hear your ‘jokes’ and comments. We don’t want you to judge us when we have the occasional treat of something sweet. We don’t want you to judge and make fun of our weight if we happen to be above the normal range, to tell us how easy it is to lose a few kilograms if we just ate less - because we’re clearly not enlightened enough to figure that out ourselves and need a bit of guidance in the form of such unpleasant comments. We don’t need your reminders and we don’t need you to make us feel guilty - we’re all hyperaware of how much and what we eat. We don’t need you to increase our risk of depression because chances are we’re either already there, have been there, or possibly might be there in the future anyway.

Of course, we don’t need your pity either. All we would like is a bit of understanding. All I want is to not have to explain to people that I didn’t get my diabetes from eating too much sweets. I won’t dare ask for support, although even understanding and just leaving us be is a form of support in itself. Enough to make us feel like we don’t have to hide our disease from you from fear of being judged or ridiculed or thought less of.

I know I use a lot of ‘we’ and ‘us’ here and of course I can’t speak for the entire diabetic community, but I’m just using the 17 years’ experience of living with the disease and hearing fellow diabetics’ opinions.

And I know I won’t change everyone’s views - not when we hear about the link between unhealthy lifestyle and diabetes every day in the media. And rightfully so, because like I mentioned, it is a significant risk factor. All I ask and wish for is for people to be just a little bit less judgemental, more aware of and sensitive in what they’re saying, and for them to see diabetes for what it really is - a serious, chronic, incurable disease that destroys the entire body, and not a light-hearted topic for teasing and jokes, or a just punishment for people who eat too many burgers and sweets.

#diabetes #diabetes mellitus #diabetic complications #weight management #personal #sorry i know this is long and not what i usually post #and i know no one cares #but i had to get this out #it was a professional goddamn conference and seeing someone do that just made me really sad

[deadlines-in-life]

Deadlines.

Purpose, the things that make life worth living, or so I’ve heard. From youth I’ve listened to people pose the question, “What do you want to be?” I never have an answer. The question has become an incessant ear worm, tormenting me wherever I go. As children, our duties are limited to watching television or making friends to go on play dates with. After becoming a young adult the biggest problems in life are being popular or taking Stacy to prom. Once we’ve finally overcome the unpleasant hill that is puberty, you learn that nothing that mattered really matters. The perfect mental condition in which to dive headfirst into university, where you’re taught how to pretend to be an adult. Four to six years later, when you’ve reached the top of the food chain, you may find yourself at the bottom of the barrel once again. Sitting in a brightly lit cubicle doing a nine to five job you didn’t really want, but it lets me have warm showers and makes my parents proud. What is the purpose of choosing to struggle through this shitty process, money, recognition, maybe happiness? Happiness. That could just be the key to finding my purpose, otherwise how could my classmates, teachers, and parents prattle on for so long about it, it must mean something. What does it mean to be happy though? I was always told to do whatever makes me happy, but truth be told, I couldn’t care less. I’ve never been “happy” and life has been swell, twenty-eight years later I’m still alive, even without a purpose. Maybe happiness doesn’t exist, I mean it's just a word, a label for something that no one has been able to explain to me. What a worthless obsession, honestly it’s just something people use to justify their stupidity, like religion but worse. 

That's why I live my life around deadlines. It’s the only reliable thing that seems to make time move forward. The one thing that allows us to be in control of our own meaningless and mundane lives. No human can predict the future, but a person with a deadline can create a future. Ever since I can remember, I lived religiously for my deadlines. Dedicated to experiencing that momentary euphoria of completing a project on time. It is truly an inexplicable sensation. When time slows down to a snails crawl and you feel your issues wash away. I’ve tried explaining this to a few people, but no one ever gets it. They ask me, “is this really what you want in life”, or “are you truly satisfied with just this?” I wonder, where else you would seek satisfaction but from finishing a gruesome deadline. After you’ve poured your heart and soul into a project, after dozens of coffees and hours of fatigue, only to feel it dissipate in a single moment. It gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.

https://www.16personalities.com/free-personality-test

https://www.myersbriggs.org/my-mbti-personality-type/take-the-mbti-instrument/home.htm?bhcp=1

The pursuit of happiness.

This is so stupid, happiness is plaguing my life again. I have a deadline tomorrow, but I just got off the phone with my co-worker and she told me my work doesn’t feel genuine. What in the world does she mean, it’s a goddamn news article, why does that need to feel genuine? Facts are facts, I just need to report them, who cares if some people are offended by reality, that would be illogical. I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow, she better not screw up my deadline.

Great, now I’m being sent sensitivity training by HR, all I did was call her a bitch when she called my writing miserable and obnoxious. She did that on purpose too, now they’re using her piece instead of mine. HR said I needed to lighten up and be happier. I’ll fucking show them happiness, my next story will be on the front page swear to god. 

That sensitivity training was a joke, all I had to do was spout some nonsense my teachers used to tell me. Is happiness that fickle and fake, I told the therapist some shit about aspirations and goals and now i’m “happy” and fit for work.

I can’t think straight, my legs are restless and I’ve written nothing since sitting in front of my laptop. Perhaps I need a change of environment, I’ll give the new cafe down the street a try. How ironic, of all things to assign me for this week's publication, it had to be “the pursuit of happiness.” Why am I so stuck though, I just have to do what I always do, make up some crap that panders to the audience. Where can I find inspiration?

My dog always seems so happy, I wonder what it is that can excite him so. Food, walks? Hmm, maybe I can write about exercise, or veganism. “A healthy lifestyle is what brings happiness, remember to walk at least ten kilometers a day and maintain a diverse diet!” Perfect. Why does it feel so lacking… 

Shit, my deadline is approaching but I don’t want to submit this piece.

*Why?*

I can’t miss out on two deadlines in a row, I need this job.

*How come?*

Just send it in damn it.

*What's the point?*

If I don’t, they’ll use something from that bitch again.

*Does it matter?*

Does any of this matter?

I couldn’t do it in the end, but I still don’t know why. Could it be the sensitivity training? No way, I learnt nothing over there. It's possible I may be sick, that would explain why I haven’t had an appetite for a while. Yet, it doesn’t feel like it, It felt like my writing was missing something. It's probably just because I’m tired, I’ll go visit the doctor tomorrow.

Two weeks notice.

Have you ever felt your whole world crash in an instant? Well, I came back from the doctors and it turns out I was sick, I’m terminally ill and was told I had two weeks to live. How did I never notice my health declining, but more importantly, what kind of deadline is given with only two weeks notice, it's unfair. What now?

The doctor told me there was nothing anyone could do, he told me to just try and make the most of these last two weeks, be happy. What would normal people do with this information. Party, take drugs, travel, maybe visit their family and friends. Do those things make people happy? That just sounds like a chore. I don’t really want to do anything, I don’t want to move. I think I’ll just go back to work. 

Is this how I pictured my final hours, it’s not like I imagined I’d have children and grandchildren around me in my final moments lying in a well lit a hospital room. The reaper will have to settle for this harshly lit office cubicle instead. I don’t feel frustrated or angry, so why does this feel again, so lacking. I feel discontent about something, what could it be. Fuck.

I was just told to pack up my things and leave, I’ve been fired. Apparently an anonymous complaint was filed which claimed inappropriate behaviour towards my co-workers, probably that bitch again. Screw it, what does it matter, I’ll be gone soon enough anyways.

The past week has been a blur, and it feels weird to be one week closer to death despite not feeling any pain. I can appreciate a painless death though, never did like pain. I cry too easily whenever I’m hurt, it’s quite embarrassing. I remember when I was younger, my mother would sing to me whenever I was hurt, and then the pain would disappear. It was a similar feeling to the stress of a deadline washing away after completion. Wait, why am I crying, have the pains finally set in?

I’ve come to really like this new coffee shop, It's quite fun to spend my days just sitting at the front of the shop where I can watch people go about their lives through this massive window. It’s made me realise how many sensations I will never feel though. Couples walking hand in hand, parents guiding their children along with their gelato from the store next door. I am familiar with the hustle and bustle of rush hour though. Watching people run late for work, or bumping into one another while focusing on their phones, and I see at least five people spill their coffee everyday.

Is this envy? I don’t know, but I’ve never felt such a strong desire to be one of those people rushing to work. I mean they have their whole lives ahead to experience things I never will, even the prostitute that comes out on the street corner at night has had sex and I haven’t.

Wait, I’m not ready, this isn’t what I wanted. There are still so many things I need to do before I go. Please, I haven’t even felt happiness yet. This deadline isn’t fair.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2582846/

[daesungindistress]

When we have no more room in our heart for someone the best thing WE Can DO is let him GO & MOVE ON but it seems ur hate has no end all that anger isn't healthy could have understand ur reaction in the 1st weeks but after near 100 days this did become annoying af & pure gruge Sure it's ur personal place & i feel sorry saying that to u but i used to like ur way of analyzing & talking sadly u made of it a dark hateful blog. BTW i dropped Seungri! ps : VIP fandom are collapsing so don't add to that

Here’s what’s going on, anon. My view of the situation has been slow to shift because I’m the type of person who is stubborn and resists change. I wasn’t angry (at him or his fans) in the first few weeks because I didn’t quite believe it. While the rest of you were working through your anger and betrayal, I wasn’t there yet. So yeah, there’s been some lag, but I’ve finally caught up – and what this means is that what many of you went through weeks ago, I’m going through now. I get that a lot of y’all have already moved on, and so it’s all very tiresome: the anger, the spite, the grudge… it’s not good to hold onto this stuff, you’re right, it’s not healthy, and that’s why it’s gotta come out sometime, somehow. I have no IRL k-pop friends to talk to, so this is it for me. Like the rest of you, I’ll get over it. Eventually.

But in the meantime…

I find it grotesquely fascinating how, as the investigation is coming to an end and the truth seems to be closing in on all these men and their mutual misdeeds, Seungri’s remaining fans, in their desperation, are digging in more stubbornly than ever and starting to sound, frankly, downright crazy. I think it’s hilarious, and I’m having a great time poking fun at them. Wow, petty, right? Perhaps, but can you really blame me for being upset at them for making a mockery of our fandom? This far in? They’re everywhere like vermin, and some of them just as vile. Last night I came across a fan alleging that all these women who were drugged, raped, filmed, and their videos passed around among friends and laughed at… yeah, them? Oh, well, everyone knew JJY was a sexual deviant, those women weren’t victims, they were masochists specially chosen for the role. They knew what they were getting into. They were asking for it.

…

Oh my god.

Add to that the regurgitation of all the same tired old arguments from their little Cult-like circles over and over again, such as some of them still believing after all this time that the chats are fake. I suppose next they’ll try to convince us that the earth is flat. Keep drinking that Kool-Aid, I guess.

The ugly truth is I can’t wait for these people to lose interest and drop out of the fandom in search of their next obsession. And yet I don’t think we’re going to be rid of them anytime soon; I suspect we’re stuck with them for quite a while yet. Though I’ve refrained from saying it here until now, for a while now I’ve likened this situation to cutting off an infected limb to save the body (with a butter knife, no less)… but no, this has gone beyond infection. This is necrosis. Chop it off.

…okay. Vermin. Necrosis. That was admittedly very dramatic. I like to write colorfully and I get carried away sometimes, I’m sorry. (By the way, if you’ve dropped him, if you’re not still out there fighting tooth and nail for him, then I’m not talking about you.)

That said… the fandom. The fandom is collapsing. But I wonder if in a way we have to collapse in order to rebuild – complete destruction for a complete recovery. Like starting anew.

Or maybe that’s just me being dramatic again.

Another thing. I’ve been mulling over that ask I received the other day, in which anon said she wanted to move on and take the good memories with her – but that people like me were ruining those memories. Yeah, well, here’s all I have to say to that: if you don’t want your perspective of the past changed, you probably don’t want to be on my blog. Why? Because as you know, I love analyzing and interpreting. The events of the last few months have given me a new lens through which to view the members’ interactions with Seungri over the last few years. Things that made me go “hmm” back then are finally starting to make some sense.

Is this new view an erroneous one? Could be. Still, it’s new. At times, the way they reacted to Seungri was something of a mystery to me, there were gaps that needed filling in, an undercurrent of tension that I just couldn’t put my finger on. This – all this – feels like a piece of a puzzle slotting into place, and in a big way. I’m a writer and a storyteller at heart; even if it’s unpleasant, don’t ask or expect me to keep quiet about what I see.

Also, although things seem to be slowing, I’m still intrigued by the investigation as it continues on. Does your definition of moving on mean not keeping up with the case or commenting on it? Because there was a pretty big breakthrough recently. So… probably gonna keep posting sporadic updates about it here, at least until it’s over. As awful as it is, it’s a critical part of our fandom’s history unfolding right in front of us. And I don’t know about you, but I’d hate to miss anything important.

#wow that felt good to get off my chest #some of this stuff i had written before but thought better of it and deleted or put in drafts #thanks anon for giving me a reason #even though it wasn't what you wanted to hear #you can always just leave #you're welcome to come back later after things have died down #i don't want to hurt your feelings #but i ask that you let me work through mine #ask #anon #seungri #burning sun #actually... on second thought... i feel like most of the fandom collapse has already happened #are there really many people who are willing to change their minds at this point? #it's like i was one of the last to 'turn' #idk #just thinking

[jason-todd-deserved-better]

Bite Me - Tim Drake x Reader

Requested by @astressedwriter : “For the sexual tension thing, ""bite me." With Tim drake ?? Love you! ❤” (ILY2, thank you for the request!)

A/N: Hello my dudes! I am here with another Tim story. (You have only done two, you dumb ass.) I’m kinda annoyed with how long this took but I’m happy on how this played out even though I wrote way more than I was expecting to for this. (Though this did come out more angsty rather than sexual tension-y, so sorry about that, but I tried 😅.) Anyway, hope you guys enjoy and be sure to let me know what you guys think! Love Y'all. Also, I hope all my fellow Floridians up in Panhandle are safe and sound because it looks extremely ugly up there and I know hurricanes are no fun at all. Good luck my dudes, please stay safe and be careful!

Now to say that you didn’t get along with Red Robin was a major understatement. From the minute you guys were introduced, to this very second, you guys hated each other. The two of you just butted heads constantly, it wasn’t as apparent in the beginning but things slowly escalated as the months passed and it just got to the point the two of you couldn’t even be in the same room as the other.

You both were the smartest people on the team, but other than that you were polar opposites. He was more reserved and intensive, so focused on his work that he wouldn't stop for anything to make sure a case is solved. While you, on the other hand, were more energetic but laid back and was generally the type of person who would make sure all your friends were happy and healthy.

The final nail on the coffin though was your quick friendship with the devil himself, Damian. Oh, man were the two of you annoying, your guy’s friendship was literally a giant hate on Tim Drake club, and it seriously pissed him off. Plus, what kind of maniac could befriend Satan as fast as you did? Like what kind of crazy person are you?

But it was so damn hard to get you out of his mind, it was nearly impossible. You were there in the back of his mind, you were there at the forefront of his brain and you were there in the Cave way too much for his liking. Then on the other hand, you were no better, what thoughts went through his mind also went through yours and none of you had an absolute clue about it. Like it got to the point where you just don’t want to care anymore but here you were, going back to thinking he looked kinda cute with his focused gaze on the screen.

At this point, the two of you were obsessed with each other but neither of you wanted to admit to themselves, let alone with each other.

But the rest of the team, they just knew that something was going on between the two of you. While a couple ignored it to the best of their ability, others may or may not have made bets about whether or not they would either punch each other then kiss, or kiss then punch each other. Damian was a part of the ignore it at all costs and it might go away group. Then on the opposite side of the spectrum was Dick who was just praying at this point for you two to just kiss and make up already. Of course, there is also the Chaotic Neutral, Jason who really loved watching you guys go at each other’s throats, but also wants you guys to see that you both like each other. Everyone else was just scattered throughout the spectrum.

Either way, you guys were a frequent topic of conversation. This would also triple when Dick would pair the two of you for missions. To you, it felt like a punishment because don’t you see that me and him just can’t stand each other?! Was the main thought process that had gone through your mind. The same thought process was going through his. Today was one of those days.

This operation though was on an increase of gang activity around an abandoned elementary school on the edge of Gotham from some of Black Mask’s men. Everyone knew that there was something not right there so you guys were sent to go investigate to go see what was going down and to put a stop to it.

So sucking up your pride you guys go on your mission, but the entire time it was silent between the two of you. At this point, it was just unsettling to you, as the noiselessness of anything had always put you on edge. The entire ride to the mission’s destination there was completely soundless, not even the radio was on to help distract you from him.

Basically, your entire thought process was focused on him. So you observed him as he drove. You notice his jaw clenching after a while, but his focus never left the road. Was it weird that you wanted a little of that attention on you? Yeah probably, you thought.

What you didn’t know was that he was barely focused on the road, he might have been driving the car but his brain was studying the body language the body language off yours in the passenger side of the car that he saw at the corner of his eye. He knew that you were staring at him, he could feel your gaze piercing his face as he drove. Tim for a moment felt slightly giddy but he pushed those feelings down as he thought you were making a million insults about him and his imperfections. That gave a very bitter taste in his mouth.

“What.” He says, annoyance and a slight venom burning through his words.

With the silence broken by him, it left you a little clueless. “Huh? I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re staring holes into my head, what unpleasant thought is going through your pretty little-deranged head right now?” At this you scoff at his pettiness, eyes scrunching in displeasure.

You let out a harsh groan. “Who the hell said I was even thinking about you?”

“You’re undivided attention,” His eyes never left the road as you neared the abandoned school where the case led you to. “You have that face whenever you and the demon spawn start talking trash.”

“Woah, you’re completely full of yourself, Drake.” You state, annoyance and sarcasm filling your voice.

“(L/N), that's all you do when I’m around.” His glare maybe on the road but it is directed towards you. “You guys are the literal hate on me club.” Well, that threw you back a bit.

“My dude, you do that to me all the time.” You were feeling pretty vulnerable now “Complaining about me to Bruce behind my back. Picking my insecurities one by one when you want to make me squirm. Hell, you did this the first time I ever went out on patrol with you guys.”

That made him pause. “Okay, first of all, I didn’t complain-”

“Okay fine, you bitched your heart out of your pretty mouth.” You interrupt as he pulled into the school, crossing your arms across your chest, moving your gaze in front of you.

“No, I didn’t!” He exclaims as he parks the car.

“Yeah, you did!” With that, he turns to you with furry in his eyes only to meet to yours with as much anger.

“Why do you always have to always tell me I’m wrong?!”

“Why do you always have to contradict me?!”

“Why do you always have to make me feel like I’m doing something wrong?!”

“Why do you hate me so much?!” You both yelled at each other, and for a moment everything was still, both yours and Tim’s eyes opening to each other for the first time.

Tim opens his mouth to say something but nothing escapes his lips.

Having enough of this game, you look away sliding your mask down your face and unbuttoning the shirt you were wearing over your costume. You let your eyes wander back to him, seeing him do the same after a couple seconds. You even caught him glancing over at you too, but there wasn’t any malice there anymore.

Before you left the car, you whisper, “I don’t hate you.” Then before Tim could say anything you exit the car, leaving the conversation behind, your heart feeling lighter but at the same time being dragged back to him.

Yet you put it to the back of your head, getting your game face on, with the now dressed Red Robin following behind you.

Fast forward an hour or two later you and Tim after finding the base inside and putting a stop to the weapons operation there take down the operation. It was an extremely hard fight. Harder than any of you honestly expected but you guys took it down.

When it was finally over though, the two of you were out of breath. On the way back to the car you were extremely quiet and were lagging a good bit behind him. It was definitely out of character for you, and given the “conversation” you had with Tim before the mission, he felt something was off.

“(S/N)?” He questions, turning around and expecting to see your tired self walking behind him.

He saw you on the ground on your knees, grasping your side with one hand and trying to keep yourself up with the other.

Now your fatal flaw was making sure that you were a help instead of a burden. You felt the agony of the bullet puncturing into your body, embedding itself into your side. But you couldn’t stop fighting, you might die but so could Tim if you stopped so you kept going, the battle ending a few moments later. But you were having trouble as you tried to stay standing as long as you could, putting a hand to the slowly spreading stain of blood on your uniform, trying to steady your breathing so you could follow without letting Tim know.

Tim ran right for you, removing your hand to see the damage then cursing under his breath as he sees it, then immediately picking you up and dashing towards the car. Opening the door putting you inside, running around the car to get in and dashing back towards the cave.

“I’m sorry,” You mutter as he speeds across Gotham to Wayne Manor, fear shaking your voice across the car. “For everything.”

He could barely hear you, and it really scared him in a way he didn’t think possible. “Don’t say that like you’re dying (Y/N), that’s not going to happen.”

You chuckle, but there was no humor behind it, just pain. “Bite me, Drake.”

You could barely hear him at this point, your senses fading as you neared the Cave.

You were completely unconscious by the time Tim got you there.

It was a miracle that you even made it there alive. An even bigger one that you made it through the night in the infirmary. Hell, you shouldn’t really be breathing right now.

But you were and even though you were alive, it took a couple of days to wake up, then about a week until you were able to stand up and walk around. The healing process was a long one, but it was much better than being dead was your thought process throughout.

A couple months after the incident and you were back to fighting crime, and it was like coming home for the first time in years. God, you missed the freedom it gave you, the wind in your hair and the adrenaline pumping through your veins.

One thing that put you slightly off was that you now had a shadow in the shape of Red Robin trailing a couple rooftops behind you.

Now throughout the time that you were unconscious, he was with you almost the whole day according to Damian. (Who wasn’t happy about it, like at all.) But when you woke up, he faded into the background, trying to distance himself from you as much as possible. It wasn’t about hate anymore, no it was about guilt. Yet, he was never too far away from you, and this put you on edge, and maybe even a little remorseful on how you handled the situation back then.

With a sigh leaving your lips, you turn around just staring at him across the roofs in between the two of you. “I didn’t realize that I ordered a stalker by mistake.” It wasn’t said with annoyance but with a witty twist to it.

“You know, you do realize that you don’t order stalkers right?” He says with a dry chuckle as he jumps across to the rooftop your standing on.

“I know, but given the situation, it kinda feels like it.” You state, watching him walk across to you.

“Why do you say that?” He had a feeling he knew the answer but he wanted to hear you say it.

“Because it was my fault that I got shot and didn’t tell you about it until it was almost too late.”  Okay, he got what you were saying but he didn’t like it.

“No it’s more on me than anything,” He says, resting his arms on the side of the building and facing the city lights. “I was the one who started the fight in the car beforehand and threw us both off our game.”

“I sure as hell didn’t help that, I was about ready to chew your head off.” You state, turning to face the view.

“Yeah, but nothing new there.” It wasn’t cruel when he said it if anything it was a joke and the growing smile on his face showed it.

You laugh, oh two can play at that game, you thought. “And you looked like you were ready to shoot lasers from your eyes.”

“While you were staring holes in the side of my head,” He says mid-laugh. “I thought you were planning on figuring out a way to help Damian shave my head in my sleep or something.”

You scoff, giggling soon after. “I plead the fifth on the involvement of that one.”

“Doesn’t mean you weren’t involved.”

“Bite me, Red. I didn’t say that I did and I didn’t say that I didn’t.” Your eyes travel to him as you speak, catching his eyes staring into yours.

It was quiet for once as if the world had held its breath for the second time in the past couple of months just to see what would transpire between the two of you. Then when the moment passed with both of your eyes locked together, ever so slowly you both lean in and when your lips finally meet, it felt like the universe shifted. Not in the bad cataclysmic way, but in a way to let the light shine through on the both of you.

#tim drake x reader #tim drake headcanon #tim drake imagine #tim drake imagines #Tim Drake #red robin x reader #Red Robin #red robin imagine #red robin headcanon #dc #DC comics #dc comics imagine