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ushidoux · 3 years

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Good Teacher - Sugawara x Reader

Summary: You meet Sugawara on an online dating app expecting something tame, but get more than you expected. (~3.1k words)

Warnings: fem pronouns, fem!reader, some features are described ***, dom/sub dynamics, collaring, daddy kink, breathplay, dacryphilia, spanking, edging, toy use, restraint use, sub drop

A/N: Again, this was a commission so some features are described!! Otherwise, please enjoy my first longer BDSM fic.

---

Being alone in your bedroom at 9pm on a Friday night may have felt like a loss on any other day, but today, with your phone buzzing non-stop and every neuron in the sexy parts of your brain firing, you could not think of anything else you would rather do.

Well, actually you could think of a few, and most of them involved slipping out of your pajamas and slipping under your new flame.

Sugawara Koushi.

A name like that sounded sweet. Maybe even bland. Safe.

When you’d swiped right on his profile on the tamer of your social media apps, you’d expected someone mild-mannered and easy to speak to. He was an elementary school teacher with soft features, white hair and a cute mole under his left eye. He couldn’t possibly be as forward as the other guys you’d dealt with over the years. A tame, responsible choice.

You’d started texting back and forth quickly, with polite, formal introductions which progressed to cute messages and long phone calls, and you’d even managed a very chaste first date where he’d picked you up at 8pm on the dot and taken you to a fine restaurant on the water.

You normally would have expected to be dicked down that night, and had paired sexy lingerie under your silky mauve dress for exactly that, but you weren’t too surprised when he left you at your doorstep with a peck on the forehead.

The only unsettling thing about the kiss was the way his eyes had lingered on your lips, just as his fingers trailed the curve of your jaw as he tucked your hair behind your ear. It was too practiced, too… dominant.

You suspected he was holding something back.

And he was, because once you’d ventured to call in the middle of the night, a little bit tipsy and yearning for a little bit more than a smile and a gentle touch from him, you’d broken some sort of dam.

He’d called you a needy, desperate, pretty little slut, desperate for Daddy’s cock but needing to prove herself that she was willing to ride with Daddy’s very, very strict set of rules first, and you’d practically cum at the sudden turn of his voice.

Now anything was fair game.

I have… particular taste. Are you sure you can keep up, princess?

The warmth between your legs and the image of full balls and a weighty, rigid cock told you, you would absolutely be ready for anything he had in store for you.

Yes, daddy. I’m up for anything you want.

You, of course, couldn’t see the wide smile spreading across his face on the other end, as he palmed his cock slowly while reading your texts and admiring your nudes, and texted back:

We’ll need a shit ton of rope.

---

Sugawara’s hands are much larger than you’d anticipate, and rougher, and you wonder how much of it is due to high school athletics or from the fact that he’s quick to slap or spank you at any chance he gets. Your skin is sometimes red, sometimes bruised, and always marked, and it’s exactly the way you like it.

The first time you have sex, he starts you off as though you are the most shy of virgins even though you claim that you’re not exactly inexperienced.

“I wouldn’t want to break you, pretty girl,” he teases, as his hands worship your body, tracking down your waist to the center of your legs, and patting your cunt softly. Today, he’s promised to focus on your pleasure only because he wants to “break you in.” You wonder how many he’s “broken in,” then you realize you don’t really care. You’re his one and only princess right now, and you intend to be for quite a while.

The pleasure of being a good dom is that he can choose to serve - he can choose to be doting and he can choose to be harsh with punishment. Since it’s your first day since you’ve entered this contract with him, he’s decided to focus on the catering part of his personality, and familiarize you with his desires.

The rose-gold Turian collar on your neck compliments your skin well, he takes note, as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth and leans you against him while you are seated on the edge of the bed and he’s kneeling just so before you, fingers deep in your cunt.

“You’re gonna keep that pretty little thing around your neck, aren’t you, pretty baby?”

His fingers move so fast that it’s hard for you to speak, and the arm that’s wrapped around your waist and keeping you flush against him is tightening the longer he continues. He’s a lot stronger than he looks, you know from every heavy spank he’s given you.

“I-I will, daddy, every day and every night,” you pant out, your tongue lolling as his fingers curve upwards and his lips leave your nipple with a soft pop and make their way to your quivering mouth.

“Good,” he whispers as he bites your lower lip. “You’re so obedient… I like that in a little one,” he affirms.

---

He’s kind when he teaches, patient even.

He’s also generous; he gifts you with your first corset, a dark, lacy and tight thing that almost takes your breath away initially, especially when he tightens it onto you himself. Even if it’s constraining, you feel empowered from the very moment you look in the mirror. Your breasts sit high, and you spin once in a gesture of delight; he kisses down your neck as you admire yourself.

“This is only to get you used to a little bit of restriction,” he reassures, as he pulls you into his lap. “But I can’t deny that you look breathtaking.”

---

Since you’ve been so bold as to take his breath away, it isn’t too long until he decides he wants to see what you look like when you’re truly struggling for air. After all, the little shiny thing around your neck catches his eye way too often for his comfort, and his pants suddenly feel too tight for a casual grocery store run.

Your safeword is red, like the blood that courses through your veins as his fingers tighten around your throat.

He thumbs your pink, puffy lips, and it would be loving if he wasn’t calling you a stupid little cocktease.

“Pretty little bambi, prancing around like you’re free to be with anyone other than me.”

The breath that tickles your face is a taunt, because you’re slowly getting lightheaded, barely able to focus on the long index finger he’s commanding you to suck.

The pressure he puts on your neck is varying; for moments you can draw a single staccato breath, which encourages him to press his lips to yours and absorb you in a kiss before he reapplies pressure; his naked body presses against yours, rolling painstakingly slow. He hasn’t even entered you yet.

Breathplay, he calls it.

You gasp as his cock slips into your wet entrance just as fast as his hand leaves your throat, and he too draws a deep breath as he fills you to the hilt.

He lets out a soft laugh as he caresses the hair that is sticking to your face, and readjusts himself yet again - of course, he’s also better endowed than you’d expect him to be - before he picks up speed and chokes you again.

---

“I… Kou-”

“Daddy,” he stresses, unphased as he continues to press a small clitoral stimulator to your tender, overworked bud.

“D-Daddy~” you cry out in a soft, drawn out whine, and you shift a little bit because the ties that keep your ankles attached to the legs of the chair, your pussy exposed and vulnerable with your crotch wide open, are starting to dig into your skin. But you can’t move all that much, there’s additional rope around your waist that keeps you against the back of the chair and you think the soft satin that keeps your wrists behind you is probably overkill, even if you have to admit you like the color.

“Yes, sweetheart~” he whispers in a voice accented with assertive sweetness, his eyes still lowered and focused on the heave of your chest as he watches you drip before him.

“I-”

You scream.

He’d angled the toy upwards, and somehow within the small bundle of nerves he’s targeted an even more precise cluster of endings - there’s a flash of white you see before you cum practically violently, lurching forward so rapidly that he has to keep the chair steady so that you won’t fall over on the pretty little face he adores.

It’s possibly the fourth time he’s had to ground you in the past hour, and it’s an act of mercy because he had been edging you repeatedly, forcing your pussy to clench desperately around nothing but air.

The way you gush and spray so lewdly onto the chair, onto the floor, onto the hand he plays on your sopping wet pussy reminds him he chose very, very well.

---

It’s nearly silent and it’s dark now, far too dark for you to see.

Your Koushi has prepared you for this next step lovingly, sometimes not so lovingly over the past couple of weeks to build up to this.

The blindfold that obscures your vision is soft and slightly sweet smelling, as though spritzed with a floral scent about a day ago prior to this. Again your hands are bound, but he’s used lined handcuffs instead of ties, and your wrists are before you, not behind you.

But you’re lying on your belly, a spreader forcing your thighs apart. He must really love the way your pussy looks staring him in the face.

“You seem to be a glutton for punishment, princess,” he says, accenting his words with a hard slap on your inner thigh. You gasp, but his hands linger tighten, and are then followed by what can only be the press of his tongue against the stinging portion.

“Daddy, I’ll behave, I’m so sorry,” you moan as his hand grips a generous portion of your asscheek.

But you won’t behave, because you’ve learned that Suga likes just a touch of bratty behavior and that gets him quite physical with you. He knows this just as much as you.

He slaps your ass fervently, the slight jiggle drawing a pleased sigh from his lips.

“You’re a silly little slut, though…” he starts, rubbing a hand along the length of your thigh, “how can I trust any of your promises?”

His finger travels to your open center, and when he sees you tense up, he stops.

“You need a firm hand to guide you always…”

His right hand curves again around your cunt and his middle and ring finger finds its way into your slippery hole, while his index taps your clit and his little finger (he’s dexterous like this), taps ever so lightly around your asshole.

You shudder.

“Arch your back, you little cumslut. Make it easy for daddy.”

As you inch backwards slowly using your elbows and knees to rise up, his right hand continues to move with you, but then his other hand lands heavily on your other asscheek.

It breaks your concentration and you almost fall because it takes quite a lot more energy than you would expect to move this way with your hands bound and your legs spread, but you persevere.

For him.

Before you can whine once you’ve gotten into position, he withdraws his hand from your cunt.

“No!” You find yourself shrieking before you realize. You can’t have him edge you again, he’s absolutely cruel, you can’t…

“Oh, I thought I called the shots here, princess,” Sugawara reminds you, voice honeyed and cruel. You can feel his fingers weave into your hair and the warm tip of what must be his cock prod at your entrance.

“Sir, please~”

“Beg.”

He spreads you open with a hand massaging your ass, again tapping teasingly all around your vagina, but he won’t push in to give you the pleasure of having his cock inside you.

Your heart is pounding with desire.

“Please!”

“Please what?”

“Please fill me up, daddy!”

That statement of desire earns you an inch, an inch that makes you swallow saliva hard and your muscles tense with need and want.

“M-more, more please!”

“You’re so demanding. I would say your eyes are bigger than your pretty little pussy, but you can’t see, can you?”

He laughs, but he pushes in further another inch, than another, moving painstakingly slow, slow enough that you’re biting your lower lip until blood is drawn. The stretch is achingly delicious but it leaves you starved for more.

You’re begging and whining, and soon you’re trying your best to sink onto him further but he’s got you restrained for a reason.

“Greedy little bitch,” he murmurs, but he kisses your neck lovingly as he fills you to the hilt.

The unmistakable noise of flesh hitting flesh and minimal friction fills the room but you care less about sound, only about the slap of his balls against your cunt as he thrusts into you from behind.

More. Deeper. Faster. Harder.

He’s a master at drawing desire out of you, you wonder if you even needed these toys and ties and other accoutrements. You’re already so utterly wrapped for him.

---

There’s a movie playing on your screen that you had both been pretending to watch, cuddled together on the couch, your legs resting across his lap. You had barely gotten through the opening credits before he pulled you onto him fully and had you straddle him.

“You want a snack, pretty baby?” He whispers, as though it weren’t just the two of you staring in each other’s eyes.

Your eyelashes bat and you nod.

He doesn’t break eye contact while he reaches for a strawberry, fresh from the farmer’s market you’d strolled through this morning, from a bowl set on the table.

This one is drizzled in chocolate, and he runs it along the length of your collarbone, eye contact still heavy and unflinching before he dips down to catch it in his mouth.

It hangs out halfway from his teeth and he cues you to take it from him mouth to mouth. You split half of it, letting the sweet tartness permeate your senses.

His arm hooks around your waist and pulls you in close as he presses his lips against yours. You weren’t aware of the glob of strawberry-flavored saliva he’d collected until he draws away, tilts your head back and tells you to open up wide so he can spit directly into your mouth.

---

“Swallow.”

Suga’s relentlessly pounding an erect, frustrated and thick cock into your mouth, past your teeth and down your poor throat, and he’s close to his release now, you can tell by the way he’s now pressed your face so far against him that his carefully cropped pubes prick your face.

He’s warning you beforehand, and you’re thankful for the warning because when he cums with a soft, almost angelic moan, his penis jerks inside your mouth ever so slightly, and there’s a gush of hot, slippery liquid that slides down your throat.

You breathe through your nose. He tastes sweet, maybe it’s because of the strawberries from just earlier today, but nevertheless it’s a pleasant liquid you gulp down around his cock.

He loves the way your throat feels when it clamps around him, especially when you initially gag once accepting his cock.

You’re perfect.

“Come up, darling,” he bids you, pulling you up from your position on your knees.

“Are you gonna fill me up, daddy?” You mewl softly as he lifts up and carries you before laying you on your back.

“Yes, pretty baby, but let me taste your juicy little cunt first,” he says before he dives in between your legs.

---

“You’re so good for me, you know that, don’t you?”

He kisses your neck softly as he holds you close to him while you lay in bed together. It’s close to 1am and he’s focused on aftercare, caressing your arms and waist and the curve of your hip gently. You’re facing away from him, not because you’re upset, but because you’re exhausted.

He’s worried you’re having a sub-drop; after all, he’s spent the last two hours slapping your face and calling you disgusting. He wonders if you forgot to use your safe word.

You’re new to this and he’s put you through a lot in the past few weeks.

“Sweetness,” he whispers, directly into your ear. “Look at me?”

You turn, cheeks still flushed from particularly hard slaps. His heart aches a bit for you, because those sweet lips are pulled downwards into a frown and he’s not sure if those are fresh tears that wet your eyelashes.

He kisses your eyelids then rests his chin on the top of your head.

“Are you doing okay, my princess?”

You nod and reach for his face with your fingertips. Your dom softens under your touch because you are so precious to him. His fingers close around yours and he kisses your forehead.

“The most important thing is your comfort,” he asserts. He taps the collar around your neck that suggests in some way that you are his and he is yours. “You can take this off at any time.”

You wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face into his chest. It’s been fun and it’s also been freeing to have him take care of you. There’s a soft haze that wafts around your brain lately as you surrender to him. You are in love with him, deeply, in such a short amount of time.

“I would never,” you say, finally.

His heart skips a beat.

“Unless you want to buy me a nicer one, of course.”

He chuckles.

“You’re a feisty little one, aren’t you?” He remarks. He’s glad to look down at you and see you smiling again, eyes bright and brown. He reaches for your ass cheek, then raises your leg so that it lies across his hip.

Your eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Well, that’s why you picked me to teach, isn’t it?” You raise an eyebrow, and the cheeky grin on your face is enough to make him get absolutely hard again.

Of course, only if you’re up to the task.

Suga bites gently on your lip again, his hand on your thigh.

“I didn’t expect you to learn so quickly.”

“Maybe you really do have the gift of teaching,” you reply, as you stick your tongue into his mouth.

#sugawara x reader #suga x reader #sugawara koushi x reader #sugawara smut #haikyuu smut #fic: good teacher #not sfw #commission work #mae.writing #hqintheclub

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

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I mean, I don’t believe in the predictive power of dreams, obviously, but still, it’s a deeply unsettling thing to find. I had Tim look into it, as I don’t entirely trust the others not to have written it as a practical joke and slipped it into the archives. - Episode 11, Dreamer

Jon stares down at the paper in his hands.

He’s had many an unkind thought towards Gertrude, his predecessor, the woman responsible for this mess and the current bane of his existence. She’s been the topic of most of his grumbling as he sorts through piles of nonsense and decaying cardboard boxes. He’s got no love lost for her, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy she’s dead. Or, specifically, to have a statement apparently predicting it through the medium of some prophetic dream. Ridiculous. He wants to feel detached, unaffected, but he can’t help the sickly sense of dread that creeps up his spine and lingers in his throat.

It was your face and the expression upon it was far more fearful than any I had seen in eight years of wandering this twilight city.

Jon doesn’t know Antonio Blake and has no reason to believe him. But he’s known something’s wrong for a long time now.

He’s never admitted it aloud, never within his assistant’s hearing range, but he can feel it, as foolish as that sounds. This miasma of wrong, of being watched, of becoming...something else, that happens every time he records a statement. Despite the academic detachment he aspires to, he does attempt to empathize with each statement-giver and get into their mindset. But what he’s doing here...it’s different. He can visualize it so perfectly, the terror in their words sticking in his throat and setting his own heart pounding, as if he were the one experiencing it and not just regurgitating it to an ancient recorder. He’s always had an ‘overactive imagination,’ as his grandmother would say, but this is relentless in its manifestation. The fear is real, not imagined. Each statement draws him further and further away from the safety he used to cling to, where the only real cases were few and far between and the most sinister things lurking out there in the world were books and the monsters within them.

And as much as he wants to linger on the false accounts and take comfort in tearing them apart, his hands automatically seek the real ones, the right ones. It’s frightening, the ease with which he finds them nowadays. Perhaps he’s a better archivist than he thinks.

She died and you’ll be next, something whispers to him. He’s being dramatic, as he’s wont to do, but it feels true. Every statement that doesn’t record correctly, every follow-up he has to qualify with an ‘I would dismiss this, but-’ is starting to add up. His nights have become restless. He often lies awake regretting that he ever took this job, that he left the relative safety of research for a position he’s not sure how to fill, his only reassurance Elias’s occasional emails that he’s ‘moving in the right direction,’ whatever that means.

Jon assumed he’d be more removed from the dangerous aspects of the job that research entailed- following up, going to locations, field work. And it’s true, he has assistants to do that for him now. Dependable, for the most part. And while he should feel safe in his tiny office with nothing but dust and paper and cobwebs (good lord, the cobwebs) he feels more unsettled and exposed than ever. He once joked he’d die of old age before getting the archives in order. But now a stroke sounds much more pleasant than whatever happened to Gertrude. If it’s true.

Perhaps it’s a joke, he thinks. Planted by one of the others, designed specifically to unsettle him. Well, it worked.

It wouldn’t be surprising. He’s...not had the best start. The promotion was a surprise, but not wholly unexpected; he knew he’d been on Elias’s radar, though he wasn’t expecting it quite so soon. He’s young and unfortunately, it shows. The way he stutters through department meetings, talking about digitization while the others, all of whom have at least a decade on him, shoot pitying looks. He stays later and later, the desire to show some sort of progress even as he discovers more mess by the day. The permanent scowl that now graces his features becomes his armor as he walks the halls and feels himself becoming the uptight, unlikable curmudgeon everyone believes him to be. The one time I measure up to expectations, he can’t help thinking.

A joke. There’s a comfort in that. At least it’s familiar.

But it didn’t record to the laptop, his traitorous mind supplies. It's a bit sad he would prefer it to be a mundane attempt at bullying rather than a real expression of the supernatural, but he supposes it’s par for the course. There were many nights as a child he wished for the same thing, for that boy to go back to taking his lunch money and the occasional beating or two instead of…still, he dismisses it from his mind. You don’t know there’s a correlation. Follow up. Disprove it.

He’s interrupted from his musings by a knock on the door and the vague outline of Martin through the frosted glass. “Come in,” he calls, attempting to inject some irritation in his voice to cover up the shakiness. “Did you need something?”

“Ah, I finished my write up for the Herbert case, was wondering if you had anything else for me?”

His hand hovers over the statement on his desk. He opens his mouth but then closes it, thinking better.

“Can you send Tim in, actually?”

______

“Sorry boss, I couldn’t find anything on this Antonio Blake fellow- well, at least with the details he provided, which were next to none. Proper spooky, though.”

Of his assistants, he trusts Tim the most with this sort of thing.

On a surface level, it wouldn’t make sense to some. Tim can be loud and gregarious: the typical, charming extrovert. But he’s not unkind and he’s a hell of a researcher, especially when something grabs his interest. He digs into statements and doesn’t let go- not unlike Sasha, though he’s a bit better at empathizing and handling things...sensitively. Easily attuned to Jon’s moods, Tim’s always been willing to lend an ear whenever he gets too in his head about cases, helping him talk things through or on several memorable occasions, go down the rabbit hole with him. He’d taken the statement from his hands with an easy smile, though his face grew serious with the nervous look Jon shot him.

And if Tim couldn’t find anything, well. Maybe it was a prank after all.

He sort of wanted it to be true, frightening as the implications were. Because then it would mean this terrible, heavy feeling on his shoulders was real, and not just the byproduct of his own mediocrity. He doesn’t want to be scared, he doesn’t want to be in danger, but at least it would provide a real reason for panic, and not just his own inability to measure up. He doesn’t want to prove them all right, collapsing under the stress of a job poorly done and so easily crumbling at a stupid, made-up statement, targeted as it may be.

“A joke, then.” Jon says, rubbing a hand at his temples, trying not to let the hurt seep into his voice. Tim makes a commiserating noise.

“You know how people are, the institute isn’t exactly popular. You remember last Halloween, when-”

“Yes, I don’t need a reminder.” Jon sighs. He’d rather not relive that day, stressful as it was. “But that wasn’t quite what I was thinking.”

Tim stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Jon continues, attempting to make his hands busy as he pointlessly shuffles papers.

“It’s rather pointed, isn’t it? I doubt someone off the street would create such a detailed account of the death of an...archivist as opposed to the usual ghostly drivel.”

A look of pity flickers in Tim’s eyes and Jon has to turn away. “I don’t really think anyone here would-”

“Really? You don’t?” Jon lets out a mirthless laugh, rubbing a hand across his face as he stares down at his desk. “I’m not blind. Or deaf.” The derisive snorts if he goes off on ‘needless tangents,’ how Rosie pretends to be busy whenever he approaches Elias’s office, the way his name badge still reads ‘researcher’ after months of asking for a new one. He’s basically become a pariah.

“Jon, did someone say something to you?” The words are carefully chosen and he’s leaning forward now, making as if to stand up and god forbid, do something comforting. It’s not that Jon doesn’t want the comfort; he craves it more than anything. But he’s gone without for so long he doesn’t trust himself not to break at the gentlest of touches. Being on the receiving end of Tim’s protective streak is nothing new, but he shouldn’t need his assistant looking out for him like he’s some sort of helpless infant.

He snorts derisively instead, covering up the insecurity and hurt with a sardonic, self-effacing smile. The kind he knows Tim hates. “They don’t need to. I’ve walked in on conversations, I’ve seen the way people go quiet, the looks they give me-”

“Hey,” Tim’s voice is low, like he’s dealing with a frightened animal. Jon wonders how he looks, if Tim’s going this soft. “Don’t listen to them, alright? You inherited a mess, we all did- but we’re doing our best, yeah? Study and record, like Elias said.” Jon doesn’t dodge the hand that finally lands on shoulder, and he’ll deny to anyone that he leaned into it.

“Study and record.” He repeats listlessly, slumping back down into his seat. He’s let himself get too worked up, acting like a child instead of a boss. He’s not sure when he started wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Tim’s always been good at reading him. Though he’d rather people think him an arrogant ass than the seething mess of insecurity he truly is.

“Atta boy.” The pat to his shoulder is purposefully light, devoid of Tim’s usually friendly force that sends him stumbling forward. “Now get out of here at a normal time, alright? We can grab lunch tomorrow. Just the two of us, if you like.”

Jon makes a noncommittal grunt, though the thought is nice. He entertains the idea for just a moment, remembering their occasional outings back in research. Tomorrow he’ll make his excuses. He hasn’t been much of a friend as of late, and he’s not sure he deserves the kindness of company.

“And if there’s anyone that needs a stern talking to from me, I-” Tim wags a finger and Jon rolls his eyes, ignoring the pang of warmth the words send through his chest.

“Don’t, please. It’s fine.” It isn’t. “But...thank you, Tim.”

“Course.” A wink and a sloppy salute to lighten the mood, and Jon feels the tension in his posture ease minutely as Tim shuts the door behind him.

He lets out a breath and reaches for the tape recorder. He’s wasted too much time already.

Be careful. There is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least, you should look into appointing a successor.

Good luck.

He fights a shiver as the man’s voice leaves him and the last vestiges of that twilight world fade back to his dimly-lit office. In his follow up, he tries to play it off as a joke. A bit of hazing for the new boss. And yet the uneasiness still creeps into his voice, and he ends another tape on a stilted, half-believed note.

If this is genuine…

Jon prays that it isn’t.

And like most of his prayers, it goes unheard and unanswered.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32165071

reblogs > likes

#tma #the magnus archives #my writing #jonathan sims #tim stoker #season one jon feels #with added tim #in which rye has feelings about jon 'dismissing' statements and thinking it could be a joke and TRUSTING TIM #what else is new #reblogs appreciated <3 #a light bit of #jontim

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bothcreativitybois · 3 years

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The Mayor’s Sweet Treat Chapter 7

Ao3 link Wordcount: 1861 (a bit shorter than usual sorry) Ship: Intruality TWs: Food, anxiety attack, unhealthy family relationships (mentioned), swearing, sexual references Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 Taglist: @crazydemigod666 @star-crossed-shipper @newtnotfound @idont-freaking-know @someoneiwasnt @crownofrats @the-sympathetic-villain @cute-and-angsty-princess @lonelymuffin @bloodyjay-0666 @im-an-anxious-wreck @fantasticallytired @obsessive-fallen-angel

Janus subtly slipped away from the large party. Growing up with a parent who is a cop he got very good at sneaking around. As teenagers he, Remus and Virgil would sneak out most nights and get up to no good. Well teenagers may have been a bit of a stretch, it all only really stopped two years ago when Remus decided to run for mayor. Even now Janus was still doing the same things, just alone. Janus looked around the well taken care of lawn, it was very different to any other farms. It hadn’t changed a bit from how he remembered it. He’d been here a few times as a kid along with the others. “Virgil?” Janus called quietly as he poked his head around some bushes. No one was there. Janus was usually the one who helped Virgil when he panicked, the twins were too loud for him but hell they tried. Janus looked across at the door to the large house and saw the barrier blocking the door was disturbed. He ran over and ducked under it. “You’re lucky Remus isn’t the one finding you.”

Remus straightened his outfit and walked over to his twin. He laughed and put an arm around Roman. “Funny seeing you here, Specs.” Remus greeted. Logan’s face fell from the warm smile he was sharing with Roman to a blank professional stare. “Yes, well I am in charge of supervising the closure of Mr Sweet’s bakery. Which includes any and all events that he holds or attends on behalf of the bakery until then.” Logan explained. Roman shook off Remus. “Also it’s hardly fair they be held up in a small hotel room for a month.” Roman added with a laugh. “Did you know Logan uses they them pronouns? Just like me!” They looked at their twin with sparkling eyes. Remus looked between the two people. Roman was the kind of person to get along with anyone, but this was more than that. They’d never had another person like them around. This was more than just business. “That’s great, Ro.” Remus said in a somewhat strained tone.

“Virgil!” Janus’ voice echoed through the halls of the house. His shoes squeaked against the tile floors. Everything in the house was so white and clean. Would it kill them to add some colour? A smirk threatened Janus’ face as he thought of the ways he could ‘help’ with that. Janus passed a room with an open door and caught sight of a flash of dark colour. He stepped back and looked in the room. “Virgil!” Janus shouted quietly at the sight of his friend. Virgil stood in front of a mantle. On instinct Janus walked into the room and shut the door. He looked around and began closing curtains. Once the room was dark enough he walked over to Virgil and looked at his face. Virgil’s mouth was covered with his hand as tears soaked his face. His eyes were drowning. Janus pushed his dark and damp hair out of his face. Virgil didn’t move from the touch. “Virgil, can you talk?” Janus asked as he put a hand on Virgil’s chest. His heart was pounding like a thoroughbred's hooves. He shook his head. Remus wandered away from Roman and Logan, they were chatting happily and it was clear he couldn’t solve the problem from there. Instead he went for something more direct. He looked around for Patton. An elderly lady popped into his vision. “Remus dear.” Mrs Blackforest said. “You seem lost.” “I am fine. Just looking for Patton.” Remus informed while looking around. Mrs Blackforest sighed. “You know, it’s hardly kind to ignore the host.” Mrs Blackforest scorned. Anger bubbled in Remus’ chest. Who the hell was she to tell him about rudeness after everything they put Virgil through? The stress, the passive aggressive comments, the hovering over everything he did. Remus balled his hand into a fist and tried to stay calm. Patton and Roman put too much work into this for it to be ruined by him. “Apologies, Mrs Blackforest.” Remus grumbled through gritted teeth. “That’s more like it.” Her face lit up with a happiness that Remus found unsettling. “Now, have you seen Virgil? I wanted to have a word with him.” She asked. Remus couldn’t answer that if he wanted to, which he didn’t. He tried to think of an excuse. “Remus!” There was a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Patton holding a tray with a sweet smile. “Could you take these around?”

Janus managed to get Virgil to sit down but hadn’t made much progress past that. He had one hand against Virgil’s chest and the other across his shoulders to support him. Janus shushed quietly as Virgil rocked back and forth. “Tell me what you ate today.” Janus soothed. Virgil moved his hands and opened his mouth slightly. “I had... toast... and coffee... for breakfast.” Virgil only just croaked out. Janus nodded. “Then what?” He asked. “An apple at the office as a snack.” Virgil spoke a little more clearly. “And for lunch?” Janus asked again. He noticed Virgil’s heart rate start to slow. “A sandwich.” Virgil said as his rocking subsided. “What was on it?” “Leftover bacon, some lettuce and fresh tomato from your place.” Virgil calmed as he listed the ingredients. Janus reached up and wiped Virgil’s face. “What are you having for dinner when you get home?” Janus gently moved his hand into Virgil’s. “Stew that’s been in the slow cooker all day.” Virgil answered as he squeezed Janus’ hand. Listing things always helped Virgil. That and organising. Always most calm when he was in control. Virgil closed his eyes and tried to steady his breath. From this point he could help himself, but Janus still didn’t want to let him go.

Remus took the tray from Patton and began walking through the crowd. To his surprise Patton walked with him. “Ya didn’t have to do that.” Remus said as he lifted the tray to his shoulder. Patton smiled. “Hey, you're always helping me. I might as well try to help you.” Patton responded with a light-hearted giggle. Remus looked down at him quickly. “Yeah but…” Remus tried to find an excuse. “I have everything handled. You shouldn’t have to worry ya pretty little head ‘bout me.” Remus looked up and saw Logan ahead of them, he quickly turned right and Patton followed. “But I want to help you.” Patton looked up at Remus with large eyes. Remus remembered all the time he had seen Patton make those eyes in his thoughts. “I want to help you.” Patton cooed as he rubbed his hands against Remus’ shoulders. His legs were crossed around Remus’ torso as they cuddled on a couch. Patton massaged Remus’ bare shoulders as the larger man sighed. Remus leant his head back onto Patton’s shoulders with a soft hum. “You’re an angel.” Remus whispered as he nuzzled into Patton’s neck. “What?” Patton asked, alarmed. Remus snapped out of their fantasy. He saw Patton’s alarmed and blushing face before realising that he had said that last part out loud. He stammered for a moment. “You’re too nice to me.” Remus eventually managed. “You’re always so kind and gentle, like an angel.” Patton looked down. A giddy feeling rose in his chest, he felt like a schoolgirl with a crush. Surely Remus didn’t mean it in that way. “And what does that make you?” Patton teased. “The handsome sexy demon that tricks you into leaving heaven.” Remus beamed and put a hand on his hip. Patton laughed. Remus felt a sense of pride from being able to make Patton laugh, even though he’d done it before. He couldn’t take his eyes off Patton’s smile. As guests started clearing and the light started fading the group joined up again. Remus and Virgil placed down two empty trays as Janus began folding one of the tables. “Was there anything left?” Virgil asked in surprise. Patton turned to him with a proud smile. “Not much. Maybe a few cream puffs.” Patton said happily. “I can get rid of those for you.” Remus responded quickly. The group laughed. Patton turned and picked up a tray of small blobs of cream and pastry with strawberries poking out of the cream. Virgil and Remus both quickly took one. The pastry was nearly as light and fluffy as the cream with the strawberries adding a little bite to it. Patton turned again to keep packing but was met with a familiar face that wasn’t there before. He jumped back slightly. “Ah Logan!” He shouted in shock. Remus quickly stepped forward and defensively put a hand on Patton’s shoulder. Roman stood next to Logan and rolled his eyes at Remus. “Sorry for startling you.” Logan apologised. “I didn’t know you were here.” Patton stated. Roman had made sure he talked to everyone at the picnic. Except Logan. “Ah yes, that would be Remus’ doing I believe.” Logan said calmly. “Anyway, I just came to congratulate you. Everyone seemed to enjoy your food.” “Well… thank you, Logan.” Patton said. He was caught off guard with how kind Logan was being. “Did you happen to try any?” Patton was deathly curious and he wasn’t sure why. Logan adjusted his glasses. “No. I am not a fan of sweets.” Logan answered plainly. Janus and Virgil watched as they packed up, wondering if they should step in. “Anyway.” Roman interrupted to avoid any awkwardness. “Here is your pay for catering.” Roman handed a cheque to Patton, their nails shining in the little light that was left. Patton squinted at the cheque. Remus gasped. “Damn... Patty Cake…” Remus marvelled before turning to Roman. “Is that number right?” “Yeah, that’s the usual amount my company gives caterers plus some extra from Mrs Blackforest for the, and I quote, ‘irresistible little goods.’” Patton kept squinting at the paper. “Uh… I don’t have my glasses…” Patton said as he looked up at Remus who leant down and whispered the number to him. Patton quickly panicked. “I can’t accept that much!” He tried to hand the cheque back to Roman. Roman and Logan both backed away. “You deserve it, sweetie.” Roman reassured. Remus turned Patton to him so he’d stop trying to assault his twin with a slip of paper. “And it means we’re well on the way to paying off what you owe.” Remus added. “This is a good thing!” Patton quickly became excited from seeing how happy Remus was. A wide smile broke across his face. “You’re right.” Patton submitted. Remus cheered and hugged Patton who laughed. If this is how Remus reacted now he couldn’t imagine what would happen if they actually managed to get all the money. “Anyway, I’m gonna show Logan around so I’m heading out.” Roman shouted over Remus’ excitement. They waved to Janus and Virgil before turning to walk away. “Are Patton and your brother dating?” Logan whispered. Roman laughed and looked back where the two men celebrated together. They’d not seen Remus this happy… ever really. “Not yet.” They smiled. Though they knew it wouldn’t be long.

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stillness-in-green · 5 years

Text

Stress Management

Guess who woke up with post-Deika Shigaraki/Re-Destro on the brain? (Spoilers: it me.)

A few months after Deika, when everyone is beginning to settle into the new status quo, Rikiya finally gets to meet Shigaraki’s other most mysterious ally. (Content Warning: Ujiko, Shigaraki being kind of handsy.)

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When Rikiya entered the lab, mouth still tasting unpleasantly of bitter black ichor, his first thought upon seeing the twelve tubes and their contents was, Ah. So, we never could have won, after all.

“Why didn’t you bring these with you to Deika?” he asked, gaze taking in the obsidian-black Noumu floating in their rows. “It would have saved everyone some injury and expense.”

Shigaraki Tomura, slouching as ever undisturbed behind him, huffed out, an edge of exasperation to the sound. He didn’t have time to answer, though, as the figure in the chair at the end of the room turned to face them.

“He hadn’t earned them yet,” the little man replied, eyes masked behind thick green lenses.

Curious, how much function shaped form. Rikiya had never met a true mad scientist before, but of course he had imagined how this one might look when Shigaraki had, the day prior, called him out of the blue and told him to make time for a doctor’s appointment. And here Ujiko-obvious-pseudonym-Daruma sat, a perfect embodiment of Rikiya’s idle imaginings.

“I have to thank you!” the man went on. “The winter training retreat was getting fairly dull, but I couldn’t ask for a better result.”

“Training retreat?” Rikiya echoed, raising an eyebrow. He looked back at Shigaraki, who never had bothered to explain what he and his team were doing up in Niigata when the Liberation Army made contact. “How—youthful.”

Shigaraki rolled his eyes—a perfectly youthful response—and the doctor chortled.

“Come, come. Sit down, Yotsubashi Rikiya! I want to talk about your quirk.”

A skinny robotic arm extended from behind Ujiko’s chair (truly, the Platonic ideal of what one imagined when asked ‘what sort of man creates things like the Noumu?’) and indicated the rather more mundane folding chair across from him.

Rikiya hesitated for only a moment—he still wasn’t accustomed to his new prosthetics, and that cluttered floor looked to be a nightmare—before a hand alighted between his shoulder blades. He stiffened at the four little points of contact, his skin prickling, suddenly hyper-sensitive to where the fifth might fall.

“You heard him,” Shigaraki Tomura, middle finger hovering, said in the casual voice of a man who knew he didn’t need to threaten. He pushed Rikiya forward—well, pressed him forward. Despite everything, Shigaraki lacked the physical strength to do more than suggest. Suggestion might as well be doctrine, though, when it came from a hand like his—certainly if one appreciated the uncertainty of living another day. Rikiya went, picking his regrettably wobbly way over the sprawling oversized cables. Shigaraki ambled along behind, hands back in his pockets.

Manilla folders sitting upright in a wire organizer, a somewhat dated laptop computer, a mug full of writing utensils—up close, Ujiko’s desk was a spot of normalcy amidst the lab’s draping shadows and looming, flickering observation monitors. As Rikiya sat down, the doctor examined his new legs with a professional eye.

“Better quality than that stump your magician was working with,” Ujiko aimed over Rikiya’s shoulder, to the sound of a snort from Shigaraki.

“You haven’t seen what they put together for him since then.”

“Detnerat is very proud of our upcoming prosthetic line,” Rikiya put in, aware of the commercial-quality falsity of his good cheer. “Those who give their all in the line of duty deserve only the best.”

Shigaraki actually laughed at that, a throaty snicker mostly drowned out by Ujiko’s slapping at the arm of his chair amidst belly-shaking guffaws. The sounds echoed up through the canyon-curve contours of the room, perfectly at home and perfectly unsettling. Rikiya didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t let the smile fall off his face, but felt his stress spots swell a fraction of an increment larger.

“Government subsidies!” Ujiko barked in his humor. “They do buy the best, eh?”

Rikiya settled for inclining his head. Modesty was generally a good tactic, he’d found.

Still chuckling, the doctor pulled a folder over and slid a sheet of paper out of it. Rikiya accepted it when offered and skimmed over the contents as the other man brought himself back under control.

“Does it look accurate?” he asked, his mustache still bristling around a smile.

Rikiya’s name, his alias, a brief on his meta-ability (titled his quirk, of course), one on his personal history, followed by a section on one half of his parentage and that man’s ability. The paper was a non-standard size and, sure enough, the bottom looked slightly uneven, as if a portion had been cut away.

“In general, yes,” he replied, trying to pass it back over, then letting it settle in his lap when Ujiko made no move to take it. “What did the rest say?”

“Considerations for my work here,” Ujiko answered, prompt if unspecific. “Now, tell me! You transform your ‘stress’ into power. Was there ever a time when you did so inadvertently? Can it happen by reflex, or must it always be a conscious choice?”

“It does have an accumulation condition, if that’s what you mean. Imagine the board meetings if it worked solely on reflex!”

Ujiko did not laugh at that joke, only leaned closer in interest, eyes narrowing behind his goggles. That proximity was less alarming, though, than the sudden twin weights on his back.

Shigaraki had leaned on him—not dropped those deadly hands over his shoulders, but, from the feel of it, propped his thin elbows on them instead. He was close enough that Rikiya felt the brush of his hair—still overlong despite Rikiya’s tentative suggestion of a trim and Trumpet’s frequent backroom complaining.

Rikiya’s stress markings gave another twinge.

“Ho! Hohoho! So there is a degree of reflex involved!” Rikiya looked back up to find Ujiko staring intently at his forehead. “What admirable self-control you must have, then!”

“Getting brought up to be a cult leader will do that for you,” Shigaraki said, the sneer audible in his voice.

Rikiya almost opened his mouth to protest the designation, but the sensation of Shigaraki’s fingers (his good hand; he seldom wore the prosthetic Detnerat had produced for him) tapping restlessly over his shoulder killed the objection before it could reach the internal committee governing the kinds of smart remarks Rikiya allowed himself to make out loud.

No rhythm, no real pattern, but somehow never all five fingers at once. Rarely even four, in fact. And Shigaraki Tomura was the successor of All For One, as that beast who had so recently joined his group unceasingly reiterated in its refusal to call the youth by name.

Really, it’s no wonder he laughed so freely back then. Rikiya relaxed, incrementally, ignoring the doctor’s interested hum. I must ensure he’s able to do so again soon.

Ujiko, it became rapidly clear, had brought him in to sound out his quirk for the purposes of placing it in one of his Noumu. Quite an alarming prospect—I’m afraid I can’t be parted from it! he’d said with jovial force—until Ujiko waved off the protest with a dismissive comment about rudimentary genetic splicing he’d mastered in college.

“Even so, it’s quite distinct, as meta-abilities go,” Rikiya argued. “Part of why I can do what I do is my position. I can’t have that position brought into question by a High-End Noumu rampaging through, oh, Sapporo or somewhere, with stress blots mottling its skin every time a hero lands a good hit.”

Before Ujiko had done more than inhale to volley back, one of Shigaraki’s spidery fingers touched Rikiya’s forehead, causing them both to look up.

“No one would see it.” Shigaraki’s red eyes flicked to Rikiya’s and away. The young man’s touch skated lazily over his skin, following the pulsing movements of his stress markings—across his temple, around the hollow of his eye, over the bridge of his nose. “I’ve seen you covered head-to-toe in this gunk. It’s not that different-looking from those things.”

Ujiko sputtered briefly, probably torn—at a guess—between protesting the unique wonders of his “children” or backing up Shigaraki in hopes of swaying Rikiya’s opinion. Shigaraki went on.

“If I know the doc, they’ll all perform different anyway. One with your quirk”—he paused, then grinned wide enough that it probably hurt his cracked lips, and continued in a mocking tone—“sorry, your meta-ability. People won’t even raise an eyebrow, as long as it’s just doing the armor-buff thing.”

“Naturally they all perform differently; that’s called scientific progress, you brat,” Ujiko said with his strange, amicable malice, then reoriented. “In any case, Mr. CEO, as you’ve pointed out, you don’t make a habit of getting into brawls in front of news cameras. Just good sense, really. Until you all decide what you’re going to do with that footage out of Deika, no one even knows what the combat applications of your quirk look like.”

“Think Skeptic’ll leak a video or two?” Shigaraki leaned over him, leering.

“Of course not,” Rikiya demurred. “Not Skeptic or anyone else. They are all loyal to Destro’s will.”

“And remind me who’s the one carrying that these days?”

Rikiya sighed, settling back into the chair. Shigaraki’s weight shifted with the movement; he was left curled over Rikiya’s right shoulder, radiating self-satisfaction. Rikiya truly had not expected the leader of the League of Villains to be so—touchy-feely? One day, he hoped to gain enough of Shigaraki’s favor to find out whether it was a mark of affection or a display of dominance, or perhaps some strange blend of both.

“You, Shigaraki Tomura,” he said, voice level. “As I said in the ruins of Deika.”

“Right. So be a good minion and roll up a sleeve for the nice doctor.”

Rikiya obeyed.

“How droll. Well, he’s no Gigantomachia, young man, but he’s not a bad start,” Ujiko said with shades of approval, rummaging in his desk and pulling out a syringe with unsettling rapidity. He drew two vials of blood, movements brisk and efficient—part of Rikiya, the part not preoccupied with the way Shigaraki’s chin tilted into a prouder angle at the compliment, considered this evidence that, terrifyingly, Ujiko Daruma might actually run some kind of day-world clinic where he worked as a perfectly normal doctor, all-unbeknownst to an unsuspecting populace.

The bright blue and yellow child’s band-aid he applied to Rikiya’s arm after removing the needle did little to allay the suspicion. What a disturbing souvenir, he thought, rolling his sleeve down as they stood up.

“Where will it be?” Ujiko asked, pulling a truly appalling assemblage of brain and legs, red tennis shoes and bulging eyeballs into his lap like a favored pet. “Back to the office?”

Pulling his jacket back on, Rikiya looked down at Shigaraki. “I keep a water pitcher in the mini-fridge. It should help with the—flavor residue.”

“The office, yeah. I wanna hear more about that hero line of yours. See you ‘round, Doc.”

A grunt from Ujiko, whose attention was obviously straying further by the second, and then the sudden engorgement of sticky fluid, bursting in his mouth like a rotten grape. This method of transportation really was just awful.

Back at the office, Shigaraki spat the goo out onto the tile with no sign of embarrassment whatsoever and stalked over to the mini-bar. Rikiya sighed. The young man had no manners at all.

But then, etiquette was one of the first restraints one learned as a child. Of course, there were limits to how charming such coarseness could be, but…

He allowed himself a small smile.

Well, it wasn’t as if it was the worst thing Custodial had ever had to clean up off his floor.

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(And now I’m going to post this on AO3, where, incidentally, everyone who likes this pairing should go read the other post-Deika fic about it, A Different Kind of Weight.)

#shigaraki tomura #yotsubashi rikiya #re-destro #ujiko daruma #bnha spoilers #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #my writing #bnha #ficcing

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erintoknow · 5 years

Text

Nemesis Adrestia

fallen hero: rebirth fanfic, borrowing @ratkingkisses‘s Zia Basri for an extra-canonical adventure of revenge ~2.4k words. hrrrm, maybe content warning for spider time.

------

It really shouldn’t come as a surprise to you by now, but it’s obvious you’ve gotten in over your head again. “Was this a part of your genius fucking plan?” You hiss.

“Sweetheart, darling, of course it was.” The figure crouched down next to is dressed in an almost form-fitting black powered-suit with pink accents up the sides, the black hood of their cloak up over the mirrored helmet. “Keep them busy for a moment, won’t you?”

You grit your teeth. “When are you going to play rabbit?”

“When I’m not the stronger telepath, Adrestia.” She says it so matter-of-factly in that weirdly electronic and rasping voice of hers it makes your eye twitch.

Despite your frustation, it’s hard to argue with that. Nemesis seems to have a talent for getting her hooks into a crowd. Handling that kind of mental feedback is a little much for you.

…Alright then. Keep a team of armed officers busy while Nemesis safely sits behind a wall playing mind games? Sure. Okay. Why not?

Take a breath, steady yourself, then dash out from behind the wall, pulling at their attention as you go. Nothing fancy, just eyes on me, encourage them to forget the second figure, already at work. You can feel her in the back of your head, weaving threads of thought into straitjackets. Watch how you think, you’ll have to be careful not to get snagged yourself.

A trail of bullets follow you, they can’t seem to remember to lead their target, such as shame, really. You slide behind the reception desk, breathing hard. Try to steady your heart, get it back down and out of your throat. These aren’t cops or street thugs. Trained professionals, soldiers. You’d never have been so bold as to try this on your own, or so stupid.

Zia lounges across the booth, taking up both seats, legs crossed. She flashes a practiced smile, offers a honeyed greeting and pushes a plate of cupcakes across the table to you as you sit down across from her. You pick one up, take a bite, it’s still warm. Is she trying to put you at ease and failing or is she purposefully trying to unsettle you with this exaggeration of hospitality? You can’t be sure, can’t know

Getting involved with Zia is dangerous. On multiple levels. There’s a reason you’ve taken to calling her ‘Triple-X,’ although never to her face. She’s respected your boundaries so far – has never laid a hand on you. But whenever you’re in her presence it feels like you’ve been put under a microscope. The octopus trying to pry open a clam.

Looking for that way in.

Well, that’s a game that two can play.

You unshoulder your purse onto the table, pull out the envelope and slide it across the table in exchange. Floor plans, hand transcribed from months of careful reconnaissance. Valuable information to a career thief.

Zia palms it, slides the envelope down the front of her shirt. Her smile shows her canines. She makes no secret of being a dangerous woman. She’ll get in touch with you soon, she says. You make a show of playing up your nerves. The woman who has nothing to fear and the woman from which there is nothing to fear. You both wear your masks well.

“You fuckers couldn’t hit an iceberg!” You yell out, palming through the smoke grenades and flash bangs attached to your belt. Keep their attention, don’t think about how the bullets punch through the pressed woodpulp of the desk, barely missing you. How much time do you need to buy?

You thumb a flash bang, trying to get a sense of where to throw it when you feel strings pull taunt. You reflexively throw up your mental wall as Nemesis finally springs into action. There’s the tension of sudden silence. No guns fire, no movement, then at once the sound of five bodies hitting the floor in unison.

You poke your head up, none of the men are still standing. “Jesus,” you whisper under your breath so the suit doesn’t pick up your voice and amplify it, “what did you do.” Five bodies lay sprawled on the ground where they fell. Still alive, you can see it in the rise and fall of the chests. But their mental presence is weirdly blank, twisted into itself. Not comatose exactly, but deeper than normal sleep.

Nemesis strides out into the middle of the lobby, “Don’t just stand there gawking, dear. We’ve got more where these fools came from.” You have a limited window before someone or someones beyond your pay grade crash the party. Now that your cover is blown, if you’re going to hit your target and get out, every second needs to count.

Still… you glance down at bodies. “Are they going to wake up?”

“Who cares?” She responds, voice drained of its theatric warmth. She doesn’t stop walking.

You frown behind your helmet but don’t argue. Kneel down and fish out the keycards from one of the men before catching up with Nemesis. You might be the pathfinder on this operation, but Nemesis isn’t about to let anyone else take lead. That suits you just fine. Maybe she can take a turn getting shot at next.

“I need your help.” You admit. Don’t look at her face, focus on the window, how the light still manages to make it through the closed blinds.

She leans forward, hands cupped under her chin, in a move clearly designed to emphasize her cleavage. “You have no idea how happy that makes me. I can think of plenty of ways to help make you sing.”

You glance at her, eyes wide, “What? Uh- Um-, no, no not like that.” You break eye contact again, look elsewhere, anywhere else. Try to swerve around the images she’s broadcasting at you. “This is strictly business.”

You feel her sharp disappointment like a slap to the face. You flinch. She leans back. “Business it is.” Her voice drained of any previous warmth.

“Well, more like revenge, really.” You admit. Flash the photograph in your hand. That gets her attention again.

The next stop is one of the security offices. It’s not a far walk. Two officers stand between you and getting inside, but it’s hardly a contest. Pull their aim off, pull their attention on you instead of calling for help. Nemesis crumples the one on the right with a punch to stomach followed by a knee to the groin. You take out the one on left by yanking the gun out of their hands and then bashing their nose in with the butt of the rifle.

They didn’t even lock the door. During a lockdown. You laugh, a sharp cackle, as you throw open the door and take stock of what you have to work with.

“Something amusing, my dear handmaiden?” Nemesis stands outside, her attention focused down the hallway. Focused like this, her mind feels like a cord of rope, severed and fraying into a million threads at one end.

“D-doesn’t matter.” You grind your teeth at the nickname.

The connection between your names is entirely accidental, you’ve gone through a couple before settling on Adrestia. Nemesis, however, has latched onto it with a frightening degree of enthusiasm. At this point you don’t think you could change your name again if you tried.

You fish out the flash drive from its secure canister as you ran a hand over the bank of computer terminals on the far wall of the tiny room. There, under the desk, a row of servers. You pop open the flash drive and slot it home. Actual coding is far beyond your skillset, but with the connections Nemesis has, getting your hands on something capable of cracking a military system hadn’t been difficult. Turns out the primary defense is physical access, and… well, the two of you have that handled.

A stressful minute of waiting later and now you have access to the internal systems via your suit. All it takes is a few simple commands to lock out anyone else on the system. You pull out the flash drive and pocket it again. No sense leaving evidence behind. Nod to Nemesis. “We’re good, let’s keep moving.”

You can feel the frayed edges of Nemesis attention as she runs beside you. Between her ability to pick up and redirect the attentions of multiple people at once and your pathfinding it’s a surprisingly smooth dash through the building to your target’s office. And with the security systems firmly still under your control no one else is able to follow your progress through the complex. No cameras, and barriers are mere formality as doors open and lock again behind the two of you.

You can feel your heart pound. This has been a long time coming.

Nemesis Adrestia; Retribution Inescapable.

The two of you round one last corner and Nemesis gestures with her head towards a set of doors across the hall. “This is the place, sweetheart?”

Tentatively you reach out to get a read of how many people are on the other side, sheltering in place. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, you reel back, curl your song tight around yourself. “He’s here alright.” You hiss through your teeth.

Nemesis makes an unearthly sound, laughter distorted beyond recognition. “Let’s catch up with an old friend, I’m sure they’ll be delighted to see us..”

“Peter Byrne.” You trace patterns in your leg, fighting down nausea, memory. “Recognize him?”

Zia thumbs the tiny photograph, lips pursed. “No.” She finally admits.

“One of the eggheads that used to run the… the…” You mouth is dry. How does anyone talk about this? To vocalize what’s never been said? “the, uh– the debriefing process. Memory extraction. Research.”

You watch as Zia’s expression darkens, narrows her eyes at the tiny man in the picture. “How do you know it was him?”

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the spider. “Met him.”

She looks at you, doesn’t hide the disbelief. “You met him.”

“Broke the process once.” You’re pressing your finger into your leg hard now as you trace.

“Broke the–?” You can feel it in the way Zia’s attention has turned to you, a thousand little threads probing for answers, looking for holes, expecting a trap. You’ve turned from a fun game, a toy to tease and distract herself with into a danger; pulling open old wounds.

There’s nothing for it. You need her invested in this. You grit your teeth and

can’t move

can’t even ‘can’t move’

wake up

stay

awake

over you spans,

no not you there is no ‘you’ only

an exquisite corpse under spider legs

like needlepoints, they poke something soft in–

You’re standing on the beach, salt air curls your hair, water wraps around your ankles. He smiles at you, taking your hand. ‘Finally, someone who understands’ – The feeling is writ across his mind, it overwhelms you. You suppress a shudder, smile back, swallow thoughts down like bramble. Stay focused. Edge to the side, pull him along. The line of fire needs to be clear.

–a wriggling thought until she bites down, stills it, not yours not yours hers now, she draws out the memory on bloodied thread; wrapping, spinning, going

no, no

stay

awake

reach up, find, pull. not hers, not hers, yours.

this one is yours.

something’s

burning

You flinch, that’s not quite the memory you wanted to vomit up, never mind broadcast. You curl your song tight against yourself again, block the world out. Meant to do the moment after, chickened out. Stupid. Stupid. You risk looking up at Zia. There’s a look of fury slowly burning across her face and then the world reels backwards as she punches you flat for springing the memory on her. But– You think you’ve got her.

Nemesis kicks the doors in before you can. “Everyone, lovelies, please remain calm.” She calls out, her empty hands up in the air as she walks through the cubicles. “Only one of you needs to die today. The rest have nothing to worry about…” The ease with which Nemesis is able to spread out and curl the threads of her attention around the gaggle of people in the room should terrify you. Instead all you can think about is what you’ll do. What you’ll say.

You follow in behind, the pistol in your hands held in a death grip. It’s been years since you’ve let yourself handle one, but the muscle memory is still there. Some things you can never forget, they made sure of that.

Like a conductor Nemesis is able to coax their fear into a wail of terror, drowning out any fantasies of trying to run or call for help. Fourteen fear-filled souls. You have to pull your own song tighter around you as a shield against the radiant emotional energy. “You don’t need to give them fucking PTSD,” You hiss at her.

“Why not?” Nemesis laughs. “You’re the anarchist, dear. Here’s a bunch of government stooges, why not have a little fun?”

“They’re just pawns. They don’t matter.”

“Not all of the little dears.” There’s an edge in her voice. Nemesis beckons with a hand and one of the fear-stricken office workers finds himself stumbling forward towards the two of you, pulled along on Nemesis’s invisible strings.

You choke down bile. “Hello, Peter.”

Peter turns his head to you, mouth gaping open, then closed, incoherent.

You shoot a glance at Nemesis. “For fuck’s sake, might as well let him talk.”

“That’s a mistake.” Nemesis warns. Nevertheless, the invisible cord around Peter’s neck slackens and the man gasps for air.

“Hello, Peter.” You repeat.

“That– that is not my name, you’ve got the wrong–”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what name they gave you after you screwed up, Peter.” You grind your teeth, feel the gun in your hand. Safety off. “Did you think you’d be safe out here?”

Nemesis nudges your shoulder. “Don’t bother toying with the man, get to the point.”

“I’m working up to it!” You snap at her, turn your attention back to Peter. “How long has it been, Peter? Fourteen years?”

“Fourteen…?” The look of confusion and terror on the man’s face gives way to pallid dread, the color draining out of him.

Nemesis crosses her arms. “Oh, we’re really going to drag this one out, aren’t we?”

“I’m not finished yet!”

Nemesis tsks at you. “That’s no way for a handmaiden to address her mistress.”

You ignore her, adjust your grip on your gun. You’re. In. Control. “Did you enjoy your job, Peter?” You don’t feel like Adrestia right now. You just feel sick. “How were the perks, Peter?” Panic and dread radiate off of him. His, it has to be his emotions that you’re feeling, That’s why you can’t keep your gun steady.

Nemesis leans over you, a hand on your shoulder. “There’s a time and place for foreplay sweetheart. Now is not it.” She puts her other hand over your wrist to steady your arm. “We can’t stay here all night.”

You flinch under her touch. “I– I– I need him to– to understand. He has to know. Or it’s… it’s not justice.” You’re not a murderer. This is more than just some random act of revenge. He’s earned this. He needs to know.

“Darling,” Her voice is low, quiet even with the distortion. “I think he gets the picture just fine.” She puts her finger on the trigger, resting over yours. “Isn’t that right, dear?” She raises her voice with all the cheer of a cactus.

Peter raises his arms, “I didn’t do anything wrong…”

Nemesis guides your arm up, pointing the pistol in your hand towards Peter as he takes a step back, hitting the wall. “But you had some good fun back on the farm, didn’t you?”

The two of you pull the trigger.

#fallen hero #fallen hero: rebirth #fhr #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #mc #fhr/Ariadne #zia #tw: spiders #revenge #ratkingkisses

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sufferlessgrowmore · 5 years

Text

Week 1 Check In: Titles, Mottos and Goals

Hello all!

It’s Sunday and teachers across the country are deep breathing and deep in denial about the coming week. I almost fell into the “Sunday Scaries” trap, as my roommate would put it, and put off my preparation for Monday, but then I remembered that the Mindful Mentor is stronger than his adversaries, and flung myself back into the planning fray I left on Friday.

Here’s the situation: At the time of this writing, I have a fairly solid plan for Monday’s classes, though my character sheet predicament has not yet been resolved. Much of tomorrow’s class centers around the character sheet, discussing its parts, its coded language and what I plan on doing with it this year. There are a few To Dos, a few deliverables that my students will be responsible for producing, but in proper teaching form, I will model those deliverables first.

There are three things that will at least be discussed tomorrow, though they might not be final:

1. The Heroic Title and Motto 2. The Personal Pursuit 3. The Growth Goal

My Heroic Title, my Secret Identity, is the Mindful Mentor. This name was chosen because it connects to the Personal Pursuits and Growth Goals that I have come up with for myself.

First, my Personal Pursuit: I’ve recently been encouraged to take up mindfulness meditation as a way of managing my anxiety and helping me to become better at overcoming mental blocks. I want to become more regular and practiced with mindfulness, so I’ve given myself a trackable goal of ten minutes of guided meditation a day, to be completed each week.

Next, my Growth Goal: Beneath the surface of this project is a desire to make progress in my writing projects as well as reading for pleasure. Good, regular writing comes from good, regular reading—I know this maxim well. In order to be a good role model and mentor for my students who are engaged in a similar growth process, I commit myself to 30 minutes of regular reading or writing each day, for projects unrelated to school (and to this blog).

My Motto, up to this point, has been borrowed from the Gameful Guru: Suffer Less, Grow More. I don’t think I can get away with recycling that credo for much longer, so I’ve decided to come up with a new one. The question is, what kind of motto will it be?

“Suffer less, grow more” was a wish, a hope, a goal I had for myself and for my readers. And that’s all well and good—but the mindfulness tradition seems to be less about destinations or progress forward and more about processing and appreciating the present moment. In meditating so far, I’ve focused on themes like body awareness, acceptance and overcoming resistance. I think what I want to accomplish for myself in making mindfulness a solid habit is the ability to let an unpleasant thought or emotion pass through me without leaving a trace. That doesn’t mean that I’m always going to be happy or untroubled. It merely means that I’m not going to be ruled by my emotions in the way I have been in the past.

I mentioned the “Sunday Scaries” earlier for a reason. It’s a useful name to identify one of my Bad Guys of recent months. Any educator or person employed in a high-responsibility profession like teaching can relate with, I think. The “Sunday Scaries” manifest when I have a task I’ve been avoiding over the weekend that suddenly comes screaming into focus the day before (and even the day of).

“I’m not prepared!” “I don’t know what I’m doing!” “I don’t know how to do the things I need to do!”

These unpleasant thoughts and feelings surround me and I retreat, into leisure activities and distractions that rarely do much to actually alleviate my stress. I inevitably end up doing very little with the amount of time I have available, and it usually leads to some kind of meltdown in front of an audience of family members.

Thankfully, the summer has been mostly light on visits from the “Scaries,” and I am determined to not let them be a chronically intrusive presence in my school year. A little bit of nervousness isn’t bad—nervousness, as you will often hear me say, is just excitement interpreted negatively—but when it becomes paralyzing, it’s officially a problem. Like the Gameful Guru, the Mindful Mentor is a problem solver, but ideally, he is a proactive one. That means, he is aware of the challenges he usually faces, and rather than being surprised or unsettled when they surface, he has plans in place for dealing with them.

I’ll write more about this subject as it becomes relevant—and it will—but I still need to settle on my motto and lay out my goals for the week. So here’s what I’ve come up with:

“Life Will Pass Through, Keep Being You”

Rhyming is by no means a requirement of a motto, but here we are. Now for the goals:

1. Use Headspace to complete 10 minutes (minimum) of guided meditation each day this week. 2. Complete at least 30 minutes of pleasure reading or personal writing each day this week. 3. Complete each teaching day’s planning prior to the day itself.

That’s about it for now on that front. I will be continuing to update this blog on a Monday, Wednesday, Friday rotation, with Sundays being my day to realign or update goals and check in on weekend planning. I’m excited to see where this week takes me, and how my students react to my adventurous take on English.

Until next time, remember:

Life will pass through, keep being you.

Sincerely, MM

#mindfulmentor #goals #weekly #week 1 #heroic #motto

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marginalgloss · 6 years

Text

a real brick

The hype cycle of the video game industry must look odd to anyone not familiar with it. Every so often a new game comes along which receives such a rapturous reception that it becomes a must-own. Not only that, but critics hail it as a major step forward for the genre. The nearest equivalent in popular culture might be the tentpole blockbuster movie, but film is already such a diverse field that nobody would claim something like The Avengers: Infinity War as in any way representative of the state of the field in general.

In 2013 everyone was very excited about The Last of Us. The developers, Naughty Dog, had already proven their worth with the three games in the Uncharted series; but while those games were a brisk update of the Indiana Jones formula, this was supposed to be something quite different. The Last of Us follows an older man and a young teenage girl through their journey across a series of American towns in the aftermath of an epidemic which has turned most of the population into infected zombie-like creatures. Anyone who isn’t zombified is likely a murderous bandit. A suggested elevator pitch: The Road meets Die Hard.

Encountered today, The Last of Us seems a bit like an infected, mutated form of the Uncharted games. Under all the new sores and tears and creases it’s still recognisably part of the same genus. At first glance, you’re still piloting a player-character through a series of corridors and arenas that are often very beautiful and sometimes very mundane. And it doesn’t play all that differently: you still spend a lot of time shooting enemies — but now the number of bullets you have will rarely make it into double digits. You have to try other things. You have to sneak up on them and bash their brains out with a brick, for example.

One of the most enduring criticisms of Uncharted was the dissonance between the happy-go-lucky protagonist and his apparent obliviousness to the hundreds of generic bad guys killed through the course of his adventures. The Last of Us actually confronts this directly, via a character in the later stages of the game, but it also addresses it by emphasising a dynamic that was already there in Uncharted. You have to kill in this game because if you don’t, you will be killed. And this game really emphasises the immediate horror of killing. Teeth tear into jugulars, heads are stomped or shot or smashed, eyes are gouged. If you grab a bandit from behind in this game you can drag him around for a bit before you choose whether to strangle or stab him to death; while you do that, he might plead for his life. It’s unsettling.

But you don’t really have any choice in the matter. So you press a button to strangle him and if the conditions are right, your character might even segue into an even more brutal sequence: throwing them to the floor before breaking their neck with a swift kick, for example, or dashing their head into a corner of the nearest fixed surface. Worst of all perhaps is the attack with a brick, where it takes three sudden blows to bring the enemy down. Other games often just ask for a single button press to do this sort of thing; somehow it is so much worse having to tap the button three times.

I mention all this because the game stresses it so very often. The decision to highlight violence seems all the more stark once it becomes apparent that at heart, the mechanics of the combat aren’t so different to those in the Uncharted series. In both games the player will enter an area to be confronted with a number of enemies, who might be alert or unaware of their presence. To dispatch them might require a third to half of the player’s ammunition. If this were Uncharted 2, that might mean 60 bullets out of 120. In The Last of Us, that could be two or three bullets out of five.

That feeling of having to cope with a situation that is slipping out of hand is common to both games. And while the proportion of your resources being consumed is about the same, clearly it feels harder to let go of even one or two rounds when you know they are only likely to be replaced with a handful at most in the next room. The game is clever about knowing when to give you a hand up; it is quietly watching your progress, and distributes pickups accordingly. The pacing throughout is expert: if one moment feels like a struggle, you can be sure that the next will offer some kind of respite.

There’s a sequel coming to this game, expected in the next year or so. I wonder what it will offer. The first game seems to have exhausted this fast, flexible, anxious style of combat. It would seem strange to expect more of the same only with different enemies in larger areas.

Perhaps the extra downloadable episode, Left Behind, offered a few clues: half of it plays much like the main game, with the player struggling against infected and human enemies alike; but the other half is a more sedate affair, with the player encouraged to move slowly through the world, to interact with their companion — even to play with them. Imagine ‘playing’, in a video game. There’s a sense of levity there, a feeling of familiarity, that colours everything without detracting from the basic horror of the surroundings.

My favourite moment in the whole of The Last of Us is in Left Behind, when Ellie and her friend Riley find themselves in an old amusement arcade in a shopping mall. They’ve temporarily restored the power, and Ellie is desperate to play a video game. Usually this would be an opportunity for the developers to incorporate a mini-game into one of the old arcade machines, and this is exactly what happens here, but with a difference. The game is broken, so Riley tells Ellie to close her eyes, and she describes what should be happening on screen.

What happens next is a remarkable gesture from a developer known for their high standards of artistry and technical prowess: it is a total abandonment of the basis of realistic spectacle that have governed their games thus far. We don’t see anything except a close-up of Ellie’s face and a series of button prompts to follow Riley’s instructions. For a few minutes, we are playing a game which we can’t see because it only exists in the imaginations of the lead characters. It’s a perfect evocation of what anyone who has ever enjoyed games knows: that everything that is meaningful about them takes place in the mind of the player first, and on the screen second.

#gaming #the last of us #the last of us left behind

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cagedbycravings · 6 years

Text

Iron Necessity

Author’s Notes: I needed to re-do some of the scenes in this story. I’m also trashing Esmerie’s former personality. She deserves better. And as a result will experience more grit.

Special Thanks: @sassysatsuma and @urgentorange for inspiring me. Your writing has brought forth a new desire to challenge my characters in (hopefully) non cliched ways. Bones in particular helped me frame my characters Elyse and Margaux. Urgent Orange's take on Price and Soap has provided more depth into their characters than I could have ever imagined. Thank you!

Chapter I: Purpose

"The magnitude of a progress is gauged by the greatness of the sacrifice that it requires."- Friederich Nietche

Margaux Lèvesque had never been one for blatancy. Her final words on the day she left in search of the Godfather of her children, were no exception. A peculiar decision in Esmèrie's mind, as her mother never placed much emphasis on fatherly types. While their relationship was far from platonic, Parrain nor Maman were in positions to ever consider themselves amorous. Elyse reasoned that it was because it would leave them vulnerable. The visage of her twin sister flashed in her mind as her heart flinched from the protruding pain of being separated from her twin.

The breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean brought some comfort as the young brunette felt the evening waves rush to kiss the last of the late summer air.

A growing shadow caught in her periphery, her bright hazels flickered with alert before locking with a lithe man. His dark eyes and matching hair made him seem haunting. His rectangular glasses gleamed furthering the unsettling feeling in her stomach. Esmèrie supposed she had no one to blame but herself regarding her mistrust of him. Her decision to contact a Black Dahlia member was out of sheer desperation. Hiring the organization meant two primary stipulations would have to be met. One, she'd go where they deemed safest for however long. And two, she'd forgo any substantial privacy. The latter perturbed her more than she'd let on as she had to at least appear accustomed to their sporadic meetings. He introduced himself as Cillian Hawke. His hallowed cheekbones combined with his slanted hair over his face gave his eyes a darkness she’d seen few men parallel.

That night they met in a hotel lobby, she knew she'd made a mistake. His voice was too smooth. A silvery twist in his Irish accent making her feel as though his words always held a secretive second meaning. Their interactions were terse though Esmèrie sensed he was becoming impatient. She knew she was biding her time with him. Keeping the loose screws of his mind between her fingers was becoming difficult.

If he expected a demure, doe-eyed, damsel in distress, Esmèrie would give that to him. She squeezed her wrist, allowing her gaze to avert from his. He towered over her by several inches, sinewy arms never far from her own. His resistance was waning as she noted how little space was between them. No longer maintaining a professional distance once they arrived in Rio, Cillian seemed intent on keeping her in a cage. "You've been out here awhile. Why not come inside?"

“I was waiting for the water to cool so I could go for a swim." Clutching her wrist, she passed a glance over her shoulder.

His lips twitched into a smile. "Very well, then."

Esmèrie descended the wooden staircase leading to the private beach, shielded by a cove. Sliding down the hill, she didn't mind the sand dusting her brightly colored tunic, nor the sudden sloshing foam inside her strappy sandals.A conclave folded into the cove as she tucked herself out of sight. A small backpack and wooden oar were propped beside the stone wall. Esmèrie tossed a quick glance behind her. Keeping her secret from Cillian had become a matter of solace. Months ago, she’d discovered a route away from the beach facing villa she’d been sequestered in. It had been sheer luck to have tranquil waters that led her away from sight.

Trudging down the steep incline, she spotted the small fisherman’s boat tied to one of the boulders. The waves splashed against the chipped wood vessel, its weight rocking while she steadied herself inside. Lifting the loop from the stone, she propelled herself forward. The commanding tide bore plenty of risks, but it was a small price to pay for a bit of isolation. A wave whisked her around a familiar cliff-side before luring her into the shallow alcove hidden inside a misty waterfall. Drifting slowly, she inhaled, allowing her eyes to flutter shut. The rushing of the waterfall engrossed her, providing solace to quell the frenzy of her mind. Tying the boat onto the end of the withering wooden dock, she sighed allowing a bit of light to fill her hazels. She’d restored an abandoned villa using forgotten materials from a sunken cruise ship, submarine, and harvested wood from the last storm. Trudging past the rock fire-pit, she turned her head at the sound of a hum rising from the oncoming tide. Her eyes skimmed the water to see that her buoys had remained in place. Crafted with materials that the fisherman used, she added a few solar powered buoys that glowed once charged. The eco-friendly material dissolved the radiation through reverse osmosis. A breakthrough for the environment affected by nuclear leakage. Not enough to satiate her appetite, the scientist was in the beginning phases of true neutralization. Utilizing similar material in her iridescent warp shaped lanterns, Esmèrie had found a way to speed up the process of stabilizing isotopes but had yet to discover a means to properly neutralize the materials. The thought sparked a reminder of the reoccurring weakness she felt. She’d need to eat soon. Heaving a sigh, she dropped her backpack onto the floor beside the brightly colored cushions upheld by wooden pallets. She’d sewn the pillows by hand. Discarded feathers from the local herons tucked beneath a rough looking but effective seam. She gingerly reclined against the fabric with a sigh. Tilting her head from one end of the house to the other, she smiled at her handiwork. It was no Edra but it resembled a home.

And if there was anything she’d learned from her family it was how powerful a tool replication was. The sting of chagrin reddened her cheeks, twisting her lips. Manipulation was a natural aspect to humanity. Her rational mind knew this. From infancy onward, the ability to manipulate had been pivotal in achieving success. The visage of buttery blond waves dipped in rose gold made Esmè’s stomach clench. The seething reminder of why she’d flown thousands of miles from her home suddenly burned into her back. A creak of a drawer revealed a small square device. The lettering almost stinging her fingers when she traced the Russian Cyrillic lining the edge. Closing the drawer, Esmèrie sighed while absent mindedly rubbing the knots in her stomach. Three months since the wound of betrayal had etched its way through her. Cracking the foundation built on trust and…naivety.

Lifting her gaze to the mirror, Esmèrie inhaled sharply. Brushing the bangs from her face, she tucked the loose curls behind her ear. The Brazilian sun had burned her hair into a cinnamon brown bob. Still sticky with sea salt, she sighed while removing her tunic. The water sprang from the shower head with a creak, steam consuming her figure. Visions of intense pale blue eyes flashed before her. Tilting her head, Esmèrie could only hope to rinse off the searing tears in her eyes.

Dread sunk her heart into her stomach that morning. Shuffling in her bunk, Elyse reached for her phone. Squinting at the intrusive light, she'd woken up exactly five minutes before her alarm. Again.

Cursing her luck, she crawled down from her bunk to splash some water on her face. Anxiety still dilated her pupils as she breathed. With time they settled providing a moment of peace in the flickering mirror light. It'd been awhile since Elyse looked at herself. Her once wide-set eyes had narrowed from stress. The hazel brightened with effervescent green had become jaded.

Small sacrifices, ultimately. She had been warned that enlisting would require a piece of herself. And in her years, she'd risen to the task each time. Her cheeks had thinned, providing a better bone structure. Her dimples remained, a comforting reminder of what little the Service hadn't taken from her. Her toffee brown hair had just grown long enough to hold in a ponytail as it dusted her shoulders evenly now. She didn't inherit her Mum's magnificent curls or her striking beauty, but she still held her strength and determination.

Elyse heard her roommate shuffle in her bed, a hushed apology reaching across the room. A simple shrug was her response. Typical, as making friends since enlisting had been a joke. She shook her head before reaching her closet. Might as well get dressed and head to breakfast.

A surge of anxiety resurfaced again that morning. She'd been running and nearly keeled over, drawing the ire of her commanding officer. A man of exceptional kindness, he'd pulled her into his office to discuss the matter."You're not one for slacking, what's going on?"Her eyes dropped, giving her a moment to contemplate her answer. "Just an off day, sir."He nodded, convinced enough to not push the matter. "Fine, just get it together. A General's coming in to see the division."Elyse nodded. Her return to her training was renewed with a fervent tenacity as she doubled her speed, striking the targets with precision. Being one of a dozen women in the newly formed Paragon Division was an accomplishment all its own. The jog back to the rest of members earned her scowls. She heard the whispers among the regiment. Arrogant, aloof, easily angered.

She'd heard it all.A familiar whisper caught in the wind as she felt her heart race again. Her blood running cold with trepidation. She blinked away the tears pricking at her eyes, a playful nudge jolted her from her thoughts. She tensed overlooking her shoulder to see lips moving, her ears struggling to hear above the sudden sobbing filling her mind. Her attention turned to the General who’d begun to speak at a podium.

His voice drifted from her ears, replaced by the dread echoing through her bones. What could possibly be happening in that prison Esmè calls a home?

A twisting in her gut began again while she listened to what Shepherd had to say. Very little of his speech stuck out, her mind drifting to her twin. She felt her body internally tighten as if her muscles were curling, her stomach folding in half, her lungs collapsing.

"Which is why we'll be connecting the Paragon division with the 141."That caught her attention, her eyes sharpening. Women had only been permitted to enlist among the Infantry for the last couple of years. She’d been promoted to Sergeant despite the controversy regarding the decision to assign a woman to the front lines. Now that the opportunity for presented itself for her to join the best handpicked fighters on the planet, she'd be one step closer to her reason for joining up with the regiment.

In the meanwhile, Esmè will just have to manage on her own. A pang of guilt struck her heart at the callousness of her words. Her eyes focused forward as Shepherd continued to speak.

"Wait, what?" Meat sat up from his reclined position on the couch. "Why the hell is Shepherd connecting another task force with ours? Are we no longer the best handpicked warriors on the planet?"

"Because," Soap released an exasperated sigh. "He feels that it's necessary."

"With all due respect Captain, this is bullshit. What are these kids going to do when shit hits the fan? Cry out for their mommies? And about women joining, what the hell does Shepherd expect to have happen if they are captured? Raped?"

Soap inhaled sharply, irritation clear in his features. "We're all quite aware of the risks involved. The adjoining task force will be no different."

"None of these brats better slow us the fuck down." Meat hissed shooting a sharp glare at his Captain.

Soap rolled his eyes, preparing to leave whenever he heard a cockney accent behind him.

"When are they arriving?" Ghost propped himself against the wall, arms crossed, eyes unwavering despite the sigh escaping Soap's lips.

“Today. Expect to see quite a number of new faces around." He left before the rumblings of the others reached his ears.In truth, he had no issues with women joining the military and was quite the supporter of them enlisting among the ranks involving special forces.

There were risks involved, of course. But MacTavish had prided himself on remaining open minded to the idea that new people would bring new solutions. One of the very few remaining traits of his that hadn't become jaded in his time in the 141.

Unfortunately, he knew all too well that the others wouldn't share his mentality. Archer, Meat, and Scarecrow were among the highest strung in the bunch, but none would compare to the vexation held by Ghost.

Sighing, MacTavish cracked his neck before checking his watch. They'd be arriving soon.

The vehicle came to a stop as a bag jostled her awake. "Wake up." She'd heard the driver call. "We're here."The orders were simple. Line up and wait to meet their Commanding Officers. Elyse was quick to deduce that typical regulations wouldn't apply here upon seeing Mactavish's mohawk and Riley's mask.

"Welcome to the 141. I'm Captain Mactavish. And this is Lieutenant Riley. Now we realize that due to the new requirements the resting quarters are going to be unusual. Women will be placed near the Medical wing until further notice.

"The short introduction followed by the small distance between the separating groups was enough for Elyse to notice the tension radiating throughout the base. If there was one thing Elyse was certain of, it was when she wasn't welcome somewhere. Their uniforms gave them away. Dressed in black t-shirts and forest green cargo pants, they clearly weren't blending in anytime soon. Beside her was a shorter strawberry blonde with her hair tied into a messy bun. She did all she could to avoid making eye contact from the other base members. Their prima-donna reputation proceeded them.

She could feel similar stares behind her as three other women ranging in various height and ages attempted to cover their intimidation. Reaching the make-shift barracks, they waited for Riley to finish his speech. "You may be new but that won't make you exempt to any of the expectations here." His cockney tone grated Elyse's ears as she internally counted the moments until he left. The Paragon members were split among five rooms with an additional door closed at the end of the hallway. Entering her room, Elyse heard someone sigh in relief behind her. Turning back to her bunk, she began neatly unpacking her belongings.

"Hi." The raised, almost sing-song Scottish accent caused her to tense. "I'm Clover Taylor." The strawberry blonde with round face and oval eyes beamed at Elyse.

An awkward pause ensued as Elyse barely overlooked her shoulder. Not without her manners, she gave a forced yet polite nod.

"Lèvesque."

"First name or last?" Elyse shot a blank stare at the strawberry blonde only to watch her fall into a fit of nervous giggling. "Kidding, of course."

Elyse didn't bother with eye contact as she climbed into the top bunk. Lying down she clasped her fingers behind her head, eyes shut as she waited for her roommate to take a hint. Her thoughts floated to her twin once again feeling the walls of her heart tense, offering little relief into her veins.Clover resisted the urge to slump as she unpacked her belongings. At least my previous roommates spoke to me.

Training in the first few weeks was tense as Elyse recognized how determined Lieutenant Riley was to maintain a clear divide between the two task forces. There had been an unspoken understanding in dividing the recreation room. The 141 would remain on the side closest to the kitchen. The Paragon would remain on the side closest to the exit.

Riley stood in a darkened corner like the hawk she'd kept as a pet. Watching—waiting for a moment to strike back at her. She'd heard him skewer Taylor, the newest medic on the team after he took a nasty hit during a sparring session.

The medic barely stood at his sternum and shook like a leaf until Elyse stepped in. She may have only been a Sergeant, but she cared very little for titles when they were being used to—in her own words—cater to the needs of a spewing asshole. Whether it be due to Riley's reputation, preserving their own careers, or enjoying a shit-show; the other members kept their distance and silence.

Lieutenant Blaire Evans was an exception. Before Elyse defended Clover, she'd been ready to step in herself. Her dark brown undercut hair parted over her face, as she shared disdain for not just Riley but for the 141 in general. "Bunch of over-privileged wankers." She hissed before tossing back another shot of whiskey. "Where'd you get this?"

"Taylor." Elyse muttered reaching for the bottle. "As thanks."

"A woman of few words, eh? I can respect that." Elyse smirked as she poured her drink. Catching a glimpse of their very nervous medic making her way to the table, she and Blaire offered polite nods."Do you mind if I sit with you guys?" Clover tugged at the sleeve at her wrist.

"So long as you don't consider us one of them, I don't see why not." Blair finished her shot. "Cheers by the way."

Clover sat down uneasily, trying to avoid the stares in her direction. "Cheers." The redhead grimaced at the taste of the liquor, missing the chuckles from Elyse and Blaire.

"Drink often?" Blaire watched with a gleam of amusement in her grey eyes."Not really." The medic replied sheepishly as she set down her glass. Elyse smirked before enjoying another sip of her drink. Scanning the room while the other two chatted, she noted that the base itself felt much larger than it was. In truth, everything was simply spread out. "So, what made you join?" Elyse passed a glance in Blaire's direction.

"Fulfilling a promise." She could practically hear Blaire's eyebrow raise. "You?"

"Family tradition. Everyone serves."

"Admirable." Her eyes looked past the Lieutenant as Meat and Royce approached.

"Heard you talked shit to our Lieutenant. Not sure if you noticed, but there's a chain of command here." Meat huffed, arms crossed over his chest, his face full of indignation.

Elyse sharpened her glare. "And?"

"And you need to respect it. You may have been hot shit before, what with being an all-women's team, but here you're nothing." Elyse failed to suppress her flinch. Meat's words echoed in the well of her memories.

She couldn't—wouldn't go back there. Physically or emotionally. "And if I don't?" Elyse felt her blood boil, rising from her chair. She hated how easily wound up she could be and yet, she'd never really tried to prevent it from happening.

Meat kept just enough of a gap to show he hadn't touched her yet. He had a good few inches over her as she barely stood at his clavicle. He squared his shoulders, leering down at her. "You warm up quickly, I like that in a woman."

Disgust filled her eyes, her fist cracking. The room grew quiet as she felt the eyes of others cast her direction. Silent enough to hear a pin drop, time slowed as Elyse felt the urge to rip that smirk from his face.

The sound of connecting flesh brought Mactavish into the room. Seeing Meat's body flip head first onto the ground sent him into a near frenzy. He was just inches from grabbing Elyse by her collar whenever she felt a strong hand on his fist.

"They're settling things." Her tone was unnervingly tranquil, her grey eyes expression unfazed by his rising anger.

"Not on my watch." He spat before attempting to side step her. She blocked him, moving her free hand to his chest.

"Sergeant Lèvesque, stand down."

As if someone had flicked a switch, Elyse released her vice grip from Meat's arm letting it fall onto the floor with a crumble. Meat's darkened eyes heated with humiliation as he felt Royce lift him, quietly ushering him out of the room's only exit. Mactavish never broke his stare, a rare fire in his cobalt blue eyes. How he'd wish they would burn into Blaire's icy greys, evoking some sort—any sort of reaction.

Blaire waited for Meat and Royce's footsteps to quiet before giving an almost pleased glance at the younger soldier. "Head back to quarters, Lèvesque. You've done enough tonight."

Elyse's impassive stare seeped into the atmosphere lowering the temperature of the room. A natural habit she'd inherited from her mother. She ignored the stares ranging from bewilderment to vexation while she exited.

Scolding herself internally, rounding her fists. Was this why I enlisted? To pick fights with pig-headed pricks? No. Her resolve needed tending. Proving her decision to join the service wouldn’t happen if she couldn’t control her temper.

Closing the door behind her, she looked over the small room she’d been assigned to. A bunk bed, a table set for two, and a small space for a desk. Climbing into her bed, Elyse sighed. The knots in her stomach had traveled to her head resulting in a headache. Willing herself to sleep, Elyse clutched the empathy symbol hanging around her neck.

Clover had scuttled into the room at some point, glasses balanced on top of each other in one hand half full of whiskey in the other. Seeing Elyse's still form, she quietly tucked away her celebratory trinkets before cautiously stripping out of her uniform. Elyse's back faced her giving some semblance of privacy as the skittish 24-year-old slid into some brightly colored printed pajama pants. Slipping into a fitted tank top, she let down her hair before reclining against her pillows. Switching on the small book light next to her, she cracked open one of her medical text books.

She'd been the youngest graduate in her class, an accomplishment all its own until she enlisted with the Royal Army Medical Corps. Her height, gender, and age did little to gain confidence in her patients. As a result, she took on as many responsibilities possible, refusing to relinquish herself despite the obstacles with pushy patients, cynical corpsmen, and arrogant doctors. Serving as a Nurse Practitioner would have its drawbacks, but she felt called to a position that was desperately needed but often overlooked.

The lines had begun to blur as she rubbed her eyes. Stifling a yawn, she had just closed her eyes whenever a voice caused her tense.

"You'll burn yourself out if you don't pace yourself."

Lifting her head, a mix of excitement and confusion filled her amber brown eyes."How did you know-"

"My mum's a nurse. Her mum was a nurse. And her mum before her."

"That's cool. So then, why not become a medic, if you don't mind my asking."

Clover chided herself for being a little too eager to have the first real conversation with her roommate since they arrived.

"Requires too much empathy."

The room plunged into an uncomfortable silence as Clover felt stifled by the numerous inquiries threatening to burst from her lungs. It was as if Elyse sensed this as she shuffled above Clover. Sitting up she attempted to crack her stiff neck. Meat had been able to land only a hand on her, but his grip on the nape of her neck caused her to be unable to properly recline her head.

"Would you have a look at something for me?" Clover could hear Elyse's voice soften as her shadow leaned over the ledge on the top bunk.

"Certainly." Elyse slid from her bunk to the ground before rounding the corner.

"Please." The medic motioned with her hand, folding up her textbook. Swiping her shoulder length hair from the back of her neck, Clover frowned at the bruise forming. "Tell me where it hurts." She gently pressed her fingers along the tender areas of Elyse's back stopping whenever she flinched."Nothing feels broken. Some swelling that may lead to some more bruising. You should ice it for the next couple days."

"Thanks." Elyse flashed a smile so faint, Clover wasn't certain she'd seen it. "No, I should be thanking you. For what you did what that Lieutenant and for tonight." Elyse shrugged.

"We're a team. When someone comes after one of us, they'll need to be ready for all of us."

Clover nodded, a smile tugged at her lips.

"Goodnight, Taylor. Thanks again." Elyse climbed back into the top bunk carefully lying on her neck.

"Anytime. And goodnight." Flicking off her book light, Clover released a contented sigh before drifting off to sleep.

#call of duty #modern warfare #simon ghost riley #captain john price #john soap mactavish #iron necessity

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chiaroscurodreams · 5 years

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Thoughts to Get Out 7/17

It is difficult for me to write this. Mostly because it has been ages since I’ve written anything aside from grocery lists and the occasional poem. This kind of stream-of-consciousness, rambling prose is a skill I am quite rusty at, assuming I have ever been anything but, of course. But as difficult as it is to write the truth, to really process the chaotic waltz of the worries, hopes, joys and questions in the mess that is my mind, I know it is something that needs to be done. Oh boy, that was the passive voice just there, wasn’t it? I told you I was rusty.

Where shall I begin? I wish I had a name for what I have been feeling lately. Depressed isn’t quite right. Anxious is closer, but still not exactly the correct fit. Whatever it is, the point is that I haven’t exactly felt relaxed, safe, and purely happy lately. I haven’t felt like I can let out an immense sigh of relief and just smile for more than a few minutes without overthinking or dreaming or worrying about something. This wouldn’t exactly be strange for a twenty-five-year old with my history, except for one immensely important factor: My life is going great.

Seriously, I feel like I need to take stock of that greatness for a moment. Perhaps that’s all it will take to help lift me from this mist I seem to have descended into and there will be no need to write more of this atrocious emotion-processing dirge after all. Wouldn’t that be nice? So here it goes: My job

My apartment

My relationship (1 year strong as of tomorrow!)

My parents

My new friends

My stuff

My finances

My animals

Seems like a pretty fucking amazing list, right? Not really much missing from there. Sure, I wish my old friends and I were better about keeping up with each other right now, but I can’t think of much more in terms of big categories that is not listed here. So again that brings up the question: Why haven’t I really felt happy and relaxed lately?

I really wish I knew. It would make this easier.

What it all comes down to is that I am a dreamer, and a planner, and I also have anxiety. This combination of things, meshed together with the fact that I’m a Libra (yes that does matter, you skeptics), is essentially a recipe for disaster. Or at the very least, the exact kind of unsettled exhaustion I’m currently feeling. I am always looking ahead - not just to tonight and tomorrow and the rest of the week, but also to next month and next year and about a decade down the road. I want things to be as close to perfect as possible - who doesn’t right? And I am in a constant state of “what if”s and “let’s make sure that”s so I can hopefully create that near perfection at every step. When I say constant, I truly do mean constant. There is not a day that goes by that I haven’t thought and planned for each hour of that day, what I want to do both at work and after work for the remainder of the week, and what I have to look forward to next month and have to make sure will work with my job/Scott/parents/weather/etc. Plus on top of all of that, I also spent an inordinate amount of time each day thinking about where I want to live next and how I really want a house with a yard and when Scott will want to move in with me and when I should even talk to him about the possibility of that and how I’m going to pay for that and what he can afford and what he needs to get together in his life with work/college/parents/self for that to all happen and oh when is our next vacation and where will it be and what fun plans do we have coming up and when am I going to get another tattoo and what will it be and when will I get married if ever and oh what about grad school is that still happening and if it doesn’t am I okay with that and what will I do instead do I want to be at the library forever or pursue something else but what about my bucket list gotta get more progress on that and…..you see? It. Is. CONSTANT. All of that was thought about in the span of three and a half minutes. So you can imagine what a whole day must be like.

I am never just content with the present moment. And that absolutely sucks, because I want to be. It’s bad enough that I am this way about work, about plans, and about concrete things like buying a house or going to grad school. But the absolute worst part is how far it seeps into my relationship. Especially since Scott is someone who is content with the present moment. He is not a planner, and he has a lot of dreams but he doesn’t meticulously obsess over every little detail the way I do. So when he doesn’t want to talk in depth about our future, or forgets to tell me about a party we were both invited to later in the week until the last minute, or anything of the sort...my anxiety kicks into high gear. There’s nothing wrong with his approach or with mine - they’re just different approaches to the same goal of us continuing to be together and love one another. My approach stresses him out and makes him feel like I’m too needy, and his approach makes me feel like he isn’t as invested in our relationship as I am. Which in turn leads to a slew of anxious thoughts about why he must feel that way, all of which tend to make me spiral down some dark rabbit holes of “there must be another girl” or “he wants to leave me, it could happen any day now”...none of which are true, or healthy. The thing is, I love him. I trust him. He has been incredibly good to me, and to my family, and I truly do believe he is the one. He has told me in no uncertain terms that he feels I am the one for him too, and that one day he does want to move in together, and marry me, and get a dog, and do all those wonderful things that I have dreamed of my entire life. He’s just not ready for that yet. After all, he’s younger. He’s still figuring out his place in the world. He is excited and certain his place is by my side, but he’s not ready for the responsibility of figuring everything else out yet. I should be content with that. I should be happy to be patient. But I’m not. I’m constantly terrified something will go wrong, and therein lies my problem: Things are great right now. But I can’t relax. I can’t stop thinking. I can’t stop dreaming and planning and worrying. And I have no idea how to fix that in myself. I have no idea if it will ever stop, or at least ease up a bit. And I don’t know what to do.

Huh. I don’t know what to do. That’s where writing about things has gotten me. Absolutely nowhere. Interesting. It used to help.

I don’t know what to do.

#ramblings #thoughts #don't mind me #lost #yet good #help

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thecultoftill · 7 years

Text

LIFAD Studio Report.

A report which was posted on the official site in 2009. It’s very long so I’m posting it under the cut, but it’s an interesting little look into Rammstein’s studio life.

Found on Ramm Wiki.

Journalist and radio reporter Marion Brasch visits Rammstein during the recordings of LIEBE IST FÜR ALLE DA in California. Here is her report. Jack London was in this area. The last few years of his short life had been spent up in a ranch on the Sonoma Mountain in California. All he sought there was "A peaceful place to write and exist in nature – These things that pass us all by, though so many aren’t even aware of it". What Rammstein is seeking here isn’t so different. However, while Jack London came here to grow old, for Rammstein it is simply one stop on the way to completing their new album. For 6 weeks they worked here on their songs. Far away from home, no family around, no distractions, or anything else to seduce them away from their work. Of course they allowed themselves a few essential pleasures – good eating, a few good movies, refreshing dips in the pool, games of tennis, and a flight to see the Nine inch Nails concert in Sacramento.

Originally, Rammstein had wanted to record in Los Angeles. "L.A. has a good energy. Everybody is after something. It’s racy, fast and hard." says Paul. Schneider was also very keen to try the L.A. experiment. People always have their perfect locations, be it in Malta, Spain or South Africa. Los Angeles could have been a new experience…it didn’t happen. So Schneider just recorded his drums there, and then relocated to the extreme contrast that is the beautiful mountain in Sonoma Wine Country. A studio complex in the style of a country house, complete with fireplace and cook. Paul: "Its so friendly and tranquil here, actually far more peaceful than we needed for this album. But the studio was booked and we will go though with it. That we can do." Richard talks about the Rammstein group dynamic, which is extremely strong and dark. Indeed, while a good thing, it can after a while be too much and sometimes destructive. That means that it has become important, from time to time, to find a place where one can step back a little, to escape the Rammstein magic. Flake would also have loved to record the album in Grunau: " America isn’t really my thing".

To get to this point, on this mountain, was a long journey. Rammstein had taken time off since their last album "Rosenrot" and the long gruelling tour. For more than a year each of them could lay back and do what they want. No responsibilities, no phone calls. A kind of Sabbatical. Rammstein as a band didn’t exist during this period. Neither from the outside nor from the inside. It wasn’t till after seven months that Flake first noticed that he had time off: "I had just as much to do as before, just not with the band. Paul fell into the famous Black Hole, and came to the realisation that he has done never done anything in his life. Schneider at one point got the feeling he wasn’t part of a band anymore: "I asked myself if it was going to continue". A thought that on one side unsettled him, though he also learned that a life without Rammstein was more than possible. Richard already knew that, and worked in New York on his solo project "Emigrate", Olli got married and enjoyed life. And Till? Till sat in his room and thought about burning angels.

At midday Robin arrives. Robin is the cook, though her main job is as a jewellery designer. She has worked for Prince, and on the TV show "friends". Now she works for Rammstein. Has she heard their music? No. She doesn’t need to know more about the band than what she can already see. "These guys are so great!". Sometimes she hears a few shreds from the studios and it sounds very exciting. "And Till is really an artist!". In about an hour of chatting and kitchen magic a complete menu for 12 lies on the table. 12 people not stingy with their compliments, who like to tease Robin "…And so easy to please!"

Lunch and Dinner are the set fixtures in the daily schedule. There we all sit together. For breakfast everyone has to take care of themselves. And then its to work. Along with Rammstein came the producer Jacob Hellner, and engineers Ulf Kruckenberg and Florian Ammon (Who just completed working with U2 on their new album). The studio comprises three workstations: In the main studio sits Jacob, recording the guitars and the vocals. The second station is the bandsystem for bass, keyboards and so forth. Finally, the third station, where the various takes from Schneiders recordings in L.A. are sorted, and the best sent to the main studio. "Like a factory" says Paul, "Some kind of assembly line." Jacob Hellner has produced all of Rammsteins albums. He knows the band, knows what makes the guys tick. "Making a record, is mostly a chaotic process, but Rammstein are very structured – that makes it easier". Only the continuous discussions in the band are occasionally stressful. "Rammstein is a never-ending conference". That’s why he prefers to breakfast alone in the producers living quarters, a little removed from the studio complex. There he chews on his cornflakes, looking down upon the steaming valley. It rained during the night and has become chilly. The electricity has cut out again. That’s normal here however, and no one is disturbed.

Flashback: When the year long timeout came to an end, the band met with their manager Emanuel Fialik on a houseboat to cruise, and to think about how things should progress on the good ship Rammstein. "It only took one day for me, until it felt like we were never away" remembers Flake, "The same silly jokes, everyone back to their old behaviour and ways": Paul uses this analogy: "You smoke, then you quit, than you begin again, and your smoking again. It’s as if you never stopped". And then the discussion: New Album or first a tour? The opinions, as ever, were split. Schneider: "I thought it would have been good if we, to start off with, went on tour. For me, a band only really exists when they are standing on a stage. Its then that the band-feeling is there, and that’s also for me where the real meaning is: Making music together while other people listen." But, the Rammstein system is democracy, and the final decision: Studio.

Then followed a sometimes agonizing process, which Richard refers to as the "Dark times". Olli sees these times first and foremost as positive: "We must learn again, to view ourselves as a band. That was our task, and that helped us on." They went to the practice rooms, played together, collected ideas, recorded a few demos – All this takes us another year further forward. One whole year that the band needed to grow together again. The work, however, was no easier from then on, quite the opposite. The songs that were already finished, were worked upon over and over again. In different locations, under different terms. "And always beginning from the beginning" Recalls Paul. A painstaking process, putting the mood of the band under extreme pressure. And Till? Till, in spite of the rain and cold, swam his lengths in the pool.

Richards’s guitar is being recorded in the main studio. Flake stands behind Jacob at the console and has a couple of ideas: "Everyone has their favourite song, that touches his heart especially, and therefore they engage with it perhaps a little more than the others." And Jacob describes his job: "I mix parts together or over each other. How the structure looks at the end, nobody knows yet. Music has a mind of its own. When you think you have understood its ways, you’ve made a big error. Music doesn’t know any rules." Working on the songs is one thing. At the same time, here in California, there is much thought about the tour (the stage and the show being just as important as the music for Rammstein). Rammstein is an all encompassing artwork.

The manager Emu comes over. A band meeting has been arranged for after dinner. A tour before the album or afterwards? Six people, six different opinions. The Rammstein democracy is straining. Sometimes they all talk over each other. Paul: "The trick is, to learn to propose things positively, and at the same time not get angry too quickly, or snap, when your thoughts are rejected. When one of us claims more rights than a sixth, than real trouble can erupt." Rammstein are a natural biotope, and one that functions…

Richard sees it thus: "The brilliance of the band comes from no individual, instead it results from a chemistry between all parts." A chemistry that follows no harmonic principles, in fact to the contrary: It’s precisely the friction that generates the specific individuality that makes Rammstein what it is. Flake: "One could compare Rammstein to ‘Sechse kommen durch die ganze Welt’ (East German cartoon about group of kids, each with different talents, and their adventures): One is a fast runner, one has great vision, one is the strongest. And me, well, maybe I’m the guy that can spit really far…

Jacob talks about the great Rammstein-machine: "Every idea must go through it, and what comes out at the end, is Rammstein-music". And Till? Till sings "Bin nie zufrieden, es gibt kein Ziel, gibt kein Genug, ist viel zuviel…" The song is called ‘Mehr’ and has an intimate sound. Whether it will be on the album or not, isn’t yet decided. It is to be released in the autumn, than Mehr (more) happens. Marion Brasch.

#Rammstein #LIFAD #Till Lindemann #RZK #TILL #Lindemann #Christoph Schneider #paul landers #Oliver Riedel #Richard Kruspe #Christian Lorenz #Flake #Flake Lorenz #schneider

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confusedunit · 3 years

Text

Universe of Unreality - Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - "Tomorrow will be better."

Dr. Coomer has a moment. Bubby gets different info than he was expecting. Gordon hits a wall.

Dr. Coomer sighed quietly, as he watched his team mingle in the control room. He was glad they would soon have time to rest, even if it meant it taking even longer to get to the Lambda Labs.

...Was that even their goal this time? They hadn't considered doing anything else yet, but as he watched Tommy and Bubby plug Dr. Freeman into the health station he realized they didn't really have a plan at all. Before, they'd needed to just escape, but they knew how that would go now. So what was the plan? Just go through the motions, hoping for a change? Or do something new, try another solution?

Well, he supposed there was one plan mentioned. Bubby had said he wanted to get him to Biological Research. To help him with-

He grit his teeth, turning away from the window to press at his head. He took a few moments to recollect himself.

...Get to Biological Research, to help him. What it was with was unimportant. What mattered is he trusted Bubby, he'd given him a root beer, and Bubby wanted to help him, and Bubby had never failed in a self imposed project. He was the perfect scientist. He couldn't fail.

He looked back to the window. What also mattered was the rest of his team.

Benry, who'd not only killed for him, was standing at the air vent doing...something, to close it entirely. Keep them safe. He would continue to keep them safe, protect them from danger, help them in his strange non-human but quite endearing way. He was a member of the Science Team now, more than any other time.

Tommy, wonderfully smart and kind Tommy, was poking and prodding at the medical station, trying to get more assistance out of it. He would continue to help and protect them all. He was real-

Dr. Coomer stumbled back a step, pressing at his eyes.

He's real, he's real, he's not, he's real, hE's ReaL, HE'S NOT, he'S reAL, HE'S REAL, hE'S-

"Dr. Coomer?"

A voice broke through his mental struggle, and he slowly took a labored breath as he moved his hands from his eyes. "Hello-" He coughed, cutting off his words.

Dr. Freeman slowly walked over to him, hands held out. "...Are you okay?"

"I..." Dr. Coomer didn't like lying, on principle. In most cases, lying was a waste of time, energy, and trust. But in this moment, when his friend was already struggling...he felt lying was warranted. "Yes, Dr. Freeman. My apologies. I think I...may need more rest than I thought."

"...Yeah, me...me too." He kept his hands held out. "...The others are insisting, uh, that we take a rest here. Maybe we can both...get some shut eye?"

"That...sounds like a good plan." He took the younger man's hands, with a faint smile. "Lead the way."

They walked the few steps into the control room, Dr. Freeman taking his place back under the now unusable medical station. "Uh, can...sit over here, if you want."

Ah. He didn't want to be alone. "Of course, Dr. Freeman." He sat next to him, resting his head back against the wall.

"We're...going to be outside." Bubby spoke up from the doorway.

"Alright. See you in the morning."

He looked over to Benry, who was now sitting under the closed vent, reading a paperback of some kind. He was too far away to see the text, but he could get meaning from the action; Benry was claiming first watch. He could live with that.

He turned to check on Dr. Freeman, eyes widening when he saw the man already seemed to be asleep. He'd expected...pain. Burning, tearing, pulling apart. But there was nothing, as the man slept. Just...life still moving forward, sluggishly and wounded but moving with determination.

After a few moments more, he followed the other man into sleep.

Bubby wasn't an idiot, he knew that Tommy didn't want to talk to him right now. But who knew when they'd get another chance to talk, just the two of them? Without worrying Harold, or Dr. Freeman, and without Benry deciding to meddle just for fun?

He slowly sat in front of the younger scientist, pretending he didn't see the faint glare in those yellow eyes. "Tommy."

Tommy huffed, running a hand through his hair. He looked...annoyed. It was almost unsettling. "What do you- do you want, Bubby? I'm tired."

"I, uh...wanted to...talk."

The glare intensified. "Bubby."

"No- not like...that." He adjusted his glasses, before nervously rubbing at the burnt edges of his coat sleeve. "...About tests."

Tommy honest to god groaned, pressing at his eyes. "Bubby. No. I'm exhausted. Tomorrow."

"But we might not get the chance to talk tomorrow. And how the hell are you already so tired, anyway?"

"Because I died, Bubby. And so did you. And that's- it's tiring." He snapped back, eyes starting to glow his intense yellow, before he seemed to realize what he said. The glow instantly faded, and he covered his mouth.

"...What?" Bubby blinked slowly, trying to piece things together.

"Nothing- I- I didn't say anything. Go- go to bed, B-bubby."

"No, wait a second." He pulled off his glasses, trying to look Tommy in the eyes. "...What do you mean we died?"

"...You know- know how before, we...sometimes you'd do something- something dumb, and you'd fall into a pit, or- or into radiation, or- get blown up, or...something?"

"...Yes, and yet I'd always wake up shortly after, unscathed. I'd assumed at the time it was some sort of delirium, but the more that I turned out okay the more I thought I could get away with anything. Perhaps it was part of my...being." He rolled his shoulders, putting his glasses back on. "...Or something."

"...I did that. Kept- kept you and Dr. Coomer safe. It wasn't hard, before, not really. Parlor tricks, really! But...But I'm really tired. And...And I had to come back this time."

"Why? You never got even all that hurt last time."

"...I couldn't protect you and Dr. Coomer at the same time, not there. I...I'd also get hurt, and- and I didn't know if I could...protect three at once." He looked down at the floor. "...So I made sure you'd come back, and...and shielded Dr. Coomer with myself."

Bubby slowly blinked, nodding along. "Your...dad. He taught you this, didn't he?"

Tommy nodded back. "It's...why I came. In...whenever I did. I could make sure you...you two were safe."

"And Dr. Freeman?"

"Usually...usually Benry has him covered. I took over earlier, when- when Benry was regenerating, and...I should have- have known, then, that something was...wrong. He was draining..."

"...Hey." Bubby wasn't any good at pep talks, he knew this. But he had to do something, if their most positive member was currently having a low point. "...We all should have known shit. At various points. But, uh, well, we didn't. So, we just need to do what we can to not fuck up now that we know it." He shrugged at the end, mentally grasping for straws.

After a brief quiet, Tommy chuckled, a small smile breaking out onto his face. "...You're right."

"Of course I am, I'm a genius."

"Okay, genius, go get some shut eye then. I'll...be in in a bit." He still had a smile on his face.

Bubby smiled back, pushing himself to his feet. "Okay, Tommy. Thought you better fucking be soon. You need sleep too."

"Yeah, yeah..."

He quietly returned to the room, smiling a bit when he saw the two sleeping across the room. He leaned back against the console, next to the door, and closed his eyes.

Gordon rubbed at his temples, glaring at the laptop screen. None of this was making any fucking sense.

He'd kept his personal screen dark, not wanting to actually see the game that he'd left up in case Dr. Coomer would just be standing there, judging him and his slowness at helping them. God, he could hear it now. 'Gordon! You could have helped us by now! You're slower than a tram when we all try to control it at once!' No, he could absolutely not deal with that right now.

But the laptop was fair game, as long as he kept it plugged in, and the data he was finding...well, it made no fucking sense whatsoever, even after some sleep. He's thought that maybe, maybe the strange data he'd been struggling with had just looked strange because of the stress of what they'd gone through, and when he'd wake up and check it again everything would make sense. That had to be what would happen.

When he'd returned to his computer, he'd been expecting to find normal file types; text files, bitmaps for models, hell even .mdl files in the first fucking place. Maps under the .bsp designation. Literally even a single fucking mp3 file.

But all he could find was still just random ass bullshit in folders that made no sense, and file types he'd never even heard of and that his research had brought up nothing about. .rc files, .pto and .cln files, a shit ton of .bm files, a couple folders that were just zipped folders. He couldn't find a single executable, and had long given up on trying to get into the disk itself. It kept bringing up an error every time he tried, because it was running, and he refused to fuck around and find out what would happen to his friends if he kept messing shit up.

He had no fucking clue where to go with any of this shit, and he'd been trying for hours.

After he and Joshua had finished hanging out and having lunch, he'd sent him off to pack while he'd returned here to his friends. And still, hours later, he had made zero progress at all. It was frustrating at the least, anxiety inducing at worst. What if he couldn't help them? What if they were trapped in that game, and the only thing he could do was leave it running and pop in from time to time? What would happen if there was a power outage, or if the laptop finally died and gave out?

He could feel himself getting tense, and he shook his head to clear it. His arm was getting sore, the prosthetic wasn't meant for so much detail work for so long, and he let it rest in his lap as he loaded up his dictation software on his phone. He brought up an old forum website he used to frequent back in the day, logging in and dictating out a post slash call for help.

He couldn't figure out what was going on, but if he was vague and mentioned a possible prototype disk and some wacky Half Life files he wanted to make a disk dump of, even if he didn't plan to do that in the slightest, he figured he'd have people climbing over each other trying to provide advice. And maybe at least one of them would offer something to go on.

He posted shortly after reading it over, before he finally stood up with a grunt. God, he felt old. How did he already feel old? He was only twenty seven, goddamn...

He glanced over to the door as he heard a knock, taking his phone with him as he moved to open it. He smiled. "Oh, hey Joshie. You all packed? I'm guessing so, you're already in your pajamas huh?"

Joshua shifted from foot to foot, nodding. "Yeah. ...Can we...fort? On the couch?"

Oh. This was the first time in months Joshua wouldn't see him every day. He'd almost forgotten how clingy he was. Of course he'd be nervous. "Sure thing, bud. You go pick out the movies you wanna watch on Netflix, and I'll get changed, and we'll build the best pillow fort, okay?"

Joshua brightened up a bit, nodding. "Okay." He scurried off, as fast as he could.

Gordon looked back into his office with a sigh. "...I'll be back soon, guys." His voice was quiet. "And I'm gonna get you all out of there." He slowly closed the door, before heading off towards his room.

#*confused fanfiction noises*#UoU AU #Universe of Unreality

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dydturktek · 5 years

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Nem Kurutma | Nem Alma | Rutubet Kurutma | DYD 444 0 719

Just how to deal with the Ex who would like to Punish You

None of us want to consider the reality that is harsh an individual who when liked us happens to be off to harm and also discipline us, however it’s true.

Bitter, disgruntled and dismissed ex’s seek vengeance in every quantity of means, including functions of physical physical physical violence, bullying, intimidation, harassment, passive aggressive behavior, quiet indifference and utilising the kids as pawns. Let’s look at four of the very most ways that are common harmed and punish their former lovers, why they are doing it plus some good options to the form of destructive behavior.

# 1. Putting kiddies within the Crossfire Ex’s can became therefore ruthless, vicious and contentious they falsely accuse their ex-husband or ex-wife, or soon-to-be ex, of youngster punishment, domestic violence, alcoholism, infidelity, unlawful functions an such like. Brainwashing young ones and switching them against their other moms and dad produces a scenario that is no-win of loyalties when you look at the psych of a kid.

Another method of placing young ones within the crossfire will be discipline your ex lover over time with silent disdain. This hurtful kind of incivility forces kids of divorce or separation into walking on eggshells round the bitter, estranged moms and dad — and being re-traumatized by the ever-present stress and animosity they choose through to.

# 2. Violent Aggression Statistics reveal that domestic physical physical violence and murder that is spousal pandemic inside our culture. The pain sensation and rage of marital disputes escalate to a boiling point — and somebody gets harmed. The cruelty, brutality, incivility and traumatization brought on by vengeful physical physical violence can perpetuate a very long time of mayhem.

# 3. Slander and Public Shaming Discrediting and disgracing an ex by perpetuating lies, exposing secrets and exaggerating transgressions are made to permanently damage their reputation. The consequences tend to be intentionally irreparable and devastating.

# 4. Passive Aggressive Behavior Passive-aggressive behavior is a cowardly and form that is dangerously sneaky of. Frequently referred to as the sly behavior of a “wolf in sheep’s clothing,” this indirect type of payback can lead to getting individuals fired, switching children against their other moms and dad, destroying friendships, disrupting household relationships, causing pecuniary hardship, an such like.

Why? An ex that is experiencing betrayed, harmed, abandoned and/or rejected may paint a grossly altered, one-sided picture of their previous partner — why their wedding failed. Using up residence as a “victim,” they create a cynical narrative and project blame onto their partner, instead of using any duty and/or ownership for his or her component into the demise of the relationship https://bestbrides.org/asian-brides. In terms of they’re worried, their ex is bad, wicked, ungrateful, dishonest, and a “lost soul” as you ex-husband that is slanderous it. They, having said that, are great, righteous, truthful, lovable and enlightened souls that are yet unlucky have already been victimized.

Insecure, low self-esteem and sociopathic ex’s can temporarily bolster their ego’s and feel much better about by themselves by achieving this. They find respite from the unsettling emotions of inadequacy and failure that often accompany a breakup. Denial and self-deception are utilized as powerful tools of avoidance. Additionally, they are able to rationalize, justify (and reason) any discomfort, disquiet, harassment or punishment that is outright inflict to their ex’s.

Options to Punishing an Ex

It is understandable that lovers suffer great heartache and grief whenever love goes sideways. The discomfort of loss is debilitating, and will be unmanageable; therefore can the anger and hatred that arise from betrayal, failure, abandonment and pity. Listed here are five methods and must “take the high road” after a breakup if you’re anyone inflicting pain and punishment. Doing these specific things will avoid things from escalating into destructive, dangerous and behaviors that are hurtful protect your kids, restore your integrity, activate your resilience and set the dining table for an improved future:

1. Acknowledge your pain and distress that is psychological. 2. Own up into the proven fact that the problem is now (is that is becoming difficult handle and that you might be/are harming other people. 3. Make the choice to just take the “high road” rather than let your hurt and anger to escalate any more. The false vow of revenge is so it’s likely to cause you to feel better. And assist you to achieve justice. But neither holds true. 4. Seek professional assistance and guidance to de-escalate your hurt and anger. Counselors, practitioners and divorce or separation coaches makes it possible to discover ways that are constructive vent/express your hurt feelings and commence curing your heart. 5. Stop seeing your self as being a target and blaming each other, their loved ones, buddies or therapist. You both share a few of the duty for just what occurred and owning as much as your component could be the insurance that is best you won’t take place once more in the next relationship. 6. You are an ongoing work in progress. Catch yourself backsliding or turning to punishing behavior. And Prevent! No level of revenge will probably be satisfying or undo the last. Stay glued to your contract and make the road that is high.

Because you left them, here are some ways to consider helping yourself if you’re the one being hurt and/or punished by an ex, possibly:

1. Some ex’s are masters at convincing everybody that you’re the guy that is bad threw in the towel in your wedding — and they will be the target. “My son ended up being furiously furious beside me for making his father” one woman reported. “’Mom, on you, you should stay,’ he’d argue.” 2. Your children, family and friends may be “siding” with your ex if he never hit or cheated. As damaging as that is, so that as much in a better frame of mind to set things right as you’d like to strike back, slowing down will put you. 3. The simple kinds of mental abuse, neglect, careless and behavior that is corrosive kill a wedding are never as observable as physical punishment, addiction and alcoholism, infidelity, economic mismanagement along with other breaches of trust that justify closing a married relationship. 4. You have actually every right to guard your self and look for protection from a bully. This could necessitate calling law enforcement, protective solutions or legal counsel. Chatting straight to the kids, household, buddies, next-door next-door neighbors and peers who’ve been afflicted by your ex’s slanderous feedback (without becoming slanderous yourself) may also be helpful issues. 5. Move on as best you can easily. The profits on return to get too greatly embroiled in ex-wars is quite bad. You may be best off exercising good self-care with people who lift your spirits as you recover from the ordeal of a breakup and surrounding yourself.

Ex’s whom punish and people who will be attempting to free on their own of the period of hurt, anger and revenge deserve another opportunity. After the above recommendations will provide you with the opportunity that is best to understand from heartache and failure – and start to become the higher, smarter, more relationship ready version of your self.

Closing a relationship in never ever effortless, but we are able to elect to forge comfort as opposed to wage war. You both, as well as your kiddies, deserve the opportunity to continue on with your life and find delight once again. Permitting get and moving forward with this life takes place whenever we place the past ourselves and our partner for not knowing/doing better, show one another respect and allow ourselves to feel sorrow for the bad and gratitude for the good (including children) that came from our time together behind us, stop playing the victim, take responsibility for our part, forgive.

https://www.nemkurutma.com/just-how-to-deal-with-the-ex-who-would-like-to-16/

NEM KURUTMA HİZMETLERİ

#Date Asian Women

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butterflies-in-my-tummy · 7 years

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Speak no evil, see no evil, hear no evil... kind of

How many times a day or a week or even a year do we say: “I just don’t understand why…” or “I would never have done that” or even “why didn’t they do it this way?” I know I do it quite a lot and within a range or circumstances, but when you really think about it; how harmful are these seemingly innocuous sentences? At the root of it all are two things; right and wrong.

Let’s break those down for a second, we generally all strive to do the right thing over the wrong thing, but how often do we decide that another person made the ‘wrong’ decision or if not wrong the 'bad’ decision. Maybe you think that it’s just a part of a normal day, one of those things that we all say and feel, sometimes it’s just easier to decided than another persons actions are asinine rather than as a result of ill informed thought or consideration. I am not talking about morality, although that is often an issue, I am ultimately talking about:

Judgement “I don’t understand why…” doesn’t seem so bad on its own, but think about the conversation and justification process that inevitably ensues. Someone else has made a decision that you cannot fathom the thought process for, in the most memorable circumstances this decision is to your detriment and it makes you instantly stressed, outraged or just irritated. “I would never…” now this one is surely worse, you are directly saying I judge this persons actions based on the fact that my own intellectual or moral compass (or just plain old common sense) would never let me follow the path that they have, which brings me on to…

Comparison If we are clear that we are all unique, individual and have been subject to a myriad of differing circumstances throughout each of our lives, it’s actually more shocking that you might ever do or think in the same way as another person than in opposition. To be honest if I have used this sentence, it is usually closely followed by an example of when I have been in the same situation as the person I am busy judging and I reacted differently - the 'right’ way.

The connection between these is the laboured process of justification and ultimately trying to make ourselves happier but usually in the short term only. These situations happen in every facet of life, be it in work or at home. I know I try to rarely discuss politics with my friends and family because sometimes the difference in opinion is shocking to me, and unsettling. So ignorance is bliss(?)

How many times does this actually work out well? I am not saying acceptance is easy, it’s not, and justification is often part of the acceptance process. How harmful is it actually, because when does it ever do us any good to ultimately say “I am better than that person in this regard” and for that matter, it doesn’t do our relationship better with that person. It opens up a black hole where-by we sideline every bad decision we think they have made (that affect us at least) goes to hide. It’s not even really a black hole, more of a cubby hole because if we are honest as soon as another shocking decision is made - there is the last one, coming back to haunt our good opinion of this person!

For me personally I am (during this stage of my life at least) a bit of a stickler for the rules, that isn’t to say I am a stick in the mud - I understand that sometimes it’s easier to go around an issue than through the rules to get to the other side. However something I really struggle with, is other people’s judgement, be it about me or about something we both have a bearing on. I will always try to be honest, I don’t mind curving the truth but I can never bring myself to be outright dishonest, even in so called white lies. I always take things at face value, or at least I try to, so when I have done what I thought was the right thing in the right way, and another person has completely disregarded and to a point made my actions pointless, I feel angry, upset and unbalanced. I really struggle to reconcile myself with the situation at hand. I wouldn’t have done anything differently but now I feel so helpless. So how do we regain our balance and set things back to a measured pace? For me it’s organisation, which can sometimes make this very issue worse but it is how I have taught myself to cope. It’s how I keep this side of the anxiety because if I allow myself to tip to far I will inevitably topple. I take every single thought and task order them systematically. I consider and and I make a decision, a steadfast decision that I must stick to or else the toppling threat becomes ever more probable.

There are no rules to follow that might help give us a brighter and lighter outlook, whatever point on the scale you might be, but for me this is what I try:

1. Empathy - Everyone has anxiety - some people are able to cope with it every day as a relatively normal issue, just like sadness. For other people it is a crippling experience, foreboded by an ever present fear of the worst outcome - an anxiety attack. Sometimes this anxiety can reveal itself in odd and sometimes difficult to deal with ways. Snappiness or anger, stubbornness or indifference, don’t take what is reactionary to heart. 2. Kindness - Treat others as you wish to be treated - if we are honest, we probably all find it hard when we are told to do something a different way. Especially when your way and their way produce the same result. So be kind to them and be kind to yourself, it’s ok to be different. Sometimes this is one of those times that whilst still being honest, you can be clever about your approach. If it makes another person happier or calmer to believe you have got to point A - B via point C, let them believe that you have whilst actually still going down your own route. 3. Acceptance - Take a breath and say Ok - if you can agree that you are doing your best, other people probably are too. Again just because they don’t exhibit the same markers of acceptance and progression that you do, doesn’t mean they aren’t fighting their own battle and reaching acceptance in their own time and in their own way. It might frustrate you, but why are you worried about them when you have your own demons to fight. 4. Imagination - Think outside the box - sometimes not amount of being kind, offering encouragement and clear statements will produce the result you were hoping for, so find another way to be at one with any given situation. Don’t let the frustration others are exhibiting get you down, look at it from a different perspective, maybe even their perspective and find a new way forward.

In short, walking a mile in the shoes of another before you make a snap judgment based on a reactionary situation, it might actually be very eye opening. It can be hard for people to open up, and they might not want other people to know about their struggles in fear of seeming weak. Or you could be like me and feel openness is important for your own functionality and progression, but I know that some people find that extremely hard to bear. I can honestly say I understand, when I am in a good place and someone in my life is in a place of struggle and darkness, I often want to run away and hide from it. I am familiar with the darkness and don’t want it spoiling my time in the light, but we have to have the strength to help our loved ones, they need to know that you are there with your light and you are saying “come this way”. It will bring your closer together. It comes down to those ingrained words again, right vs wrong, good vs bad, well for the most part (tyranny and psychopathy excluded) they’re kind of subjective, some people like to follow the rules, some people have tried and found the rules failed them, so they’ve created their own set of rules. Not to sound like a Kenneth Branagh movie but in general if we have courage and are kind to others, we will find it much easier to treat ourselves the same way.

#selfhelp #anxiety #morality #right #wrong

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ourhealthyfoodblog-blog · 7 years

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New Post has been published on Healthy Food and Remedies

New Post has been published on http://healthyfoodandremedies.com/2017/02/22/10-overrated-life-decisions/

10 Overrated Life Decisions

The first edition of The Game of LIFE hit stores in 1960. For generations of American families, the popular board game has served as a blueprint for making major life decisions. There’s a logical progression to the game. First, you go to college. Then, you start a career, get married, have babies, hopefully get a promotion, roll the dice with stocks and bank loans, and dream of retiring peacefully at Countryside Acres.

It’s the status quo for many Americans, but who says real life needs to play out like a board game? Or that there’s only one path to happiness, and it requires 2.33 children and a four-bedroom Colonial in the suburbs? Maybe, just maybe, some of real life’s most important decisions are wildly overrated.

Before you take out tens of thousands of dollars in student loans (this ain’t Monopoly money) or propose to your high school sweetheart, consult our list of the top 10 life decisions that may not pay off.

Going to College

Going to college should be a purposeful decision. Make sure you don’t get yourself in deep debt and that your major gets you a well-paying job. ISTOCKPHOTO/THINKSTOCK

Your parents and teachers have been singing the praises of a college education from the day you spelled “CAT” with a set of alphabet blocks. You’ve heard it a thousand times. College is the path to a fulfilling, well-paying career; college is the greatest time of your life!

Or is it?

It might depend who’s footing the bill. The average cost of a single year at a four-year private American college in 2010 to 2011 was $32,617 [source: National Center for Education Statistics]. To cover that kind of tuition, two-thirds of U.S. college students take out loans. The average student loan debt for the class of 2011 was $26,600, the highest on record [source: Ellis].

True, workers with college degrees can make considerably more over the course of their careers than those with only a high-school diploma. But what if you drop out of college before you get your degree? According to a 2013 report funded by the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, 46 percent of college students (and 63 percent of African-American students) don’t graduate within six years [source: Resmovits]. Now you’re in debt with no degree to help pay it off.

Even if you get a degree, your choice of major may leave you unemployable in a tight job market. For instance, in 2010, anthropology and archeology majors had a 10.5 percent unemployment rate on average and a starting salary of $28,000. A film major earned $30,000 and experienced a 12.9 percent unemployment rate [source: Goudreau].

Voting

Voters in Silver Spring, Md. wait in a two-block line to vote. If you’re that determined, at least be informed of the candidates and the issues before casting your ballot. TONI L. SANDYS/THE WASHINGTON POST VIA GETTY IMAGES

Don’t get us wrong, we’re not knocking voting. It feels great to walk out of a polling place with an “I voted” sticker on your chest and know that you helped select the next president/state senator/school board member. But could the true value of your vote be overrated?

First, there’s the whole Electoral College thing. If you are a Republican and live in a state that’s overwhelmingly blue, your single vote isn’t worth much in a presidential election. If the U.S. elected its presidents by popular vote, then your vote would be added to the millions tallied in other states. But with the “winner takes all” system of electors, your vote is negated by your neighbors’.

Even in popular vote contests, the odds of a single vote determining the decision are highly unfavorable. In a study of 40,000 state legislative elections dating back to 1898, only seven were decided by a single vote. A 1910 election in Buffalo was the only congressional election of the century to be decided by a single vote [source: Mangu-Ward]. Your vote would have more of an impact in a primary or run-off but voters tend to skip those unless there’s a hot-button issue on the ballot as well.

Sadly, if you really want your preferred candidate to get elected, your money is probably worth more than your vote. In a survey of congressional elections in 2002, 2004, 2006 and 2008, the candidate who raised the most money won the contest between 73 and 94 percent of the time [source: Jacobson].

Getting Married

Marriage can be hazardous to your health. On the other hand, divorce can be hazardous to your wealth. So choose wisely. ISTOCKPHOTO/THINKSTOCK

Love and marriage are inextricably tied in the American psyche. As Frank Sinatra crooned in the 1950s, “You can’t have one without the other.” Or can you? Is there any compelling reason, beyond social norms, for a loving couple to get married? What might be the downside to tying the knot?

Marriage is a legally binding contract with serious implications for breaching that contract. If you are dating someone and they cheat on you, you break up and that’s it. But if you are married and the love of your life is unfaithful, you can’t just break up. You need to get a divorce, an emotionally and financially sapping legal proceeding. According to researchers at Ohio State, divorce drains an individual’s wealth by an average of 77 percent, and that goes for both men and women [source: Grabmeier].

Then there are the health effects of marriage, which are frequently touted as highly positive. Married people live longer on average and experience fewer chronic diseases. But those studies ignore the unfortunate existence of the unhappy marriage. According to some studies, a troubled and stressful relationship causes as much damage to the heart as a smoking habit. And divorced people tend to have more physical ailments than single people of the same age who never married [source: Parker-Pope].

Having a Baby

“Having my baby…What a lovely way to say how much you love me…” Sure is — as long as you have the cash. ISTOCKPHOTO/THINKSTOCK

There are moments of incomparable joy as a parent — those first steps, your name on their lips, watching them grow and thrive — that we wouldn’t trade for the world. But are there aspects of having a baby that are overrated? Absolutely.

First, there are the physical demands of parenthood. If the trauma of labor and delivery isn’t enough, there are the months — if not years — of sleep deprivation. And the loss of sexual activity because you’re both just too tired [source: BBC]

Then there are the financial demands of children. According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, which releases an annual report on the cost of raising children, a middle-class American family spends between $10,000 and $15,000 a year on each child from birth to age 18. Higher-income families — earning more than $102,870 a year — spend between $20,000 and $25,000 on each kid per year [source: USDA]. Is it any wonder that some financially prudent young couples are opting out of parenthood for the significant cash savings [source: Taha]?

Again, we aren’t arguing that having a baby isn’t “worth it.” Just that there are pros and cons to every major life decision, and if you can’t live with the cons, pay attention to this final figure: The dollar investment in a single condom has a 9 million percent return compared to the cost of raising a child [source: Hind].

Climbing the Corporate Ladder

Sometimes the view from top is worse than the view from the bottom. ISTOCKPHOTO/THINKSTOCK

There is a mindset in corporate America that if you aren’t moving forward, you’re falling behind. The idea of progress in a corporate career is to get promoted, or at least get a significant raise. To tread water in the same position at the same salary is a sign of failure. Before you base your life satisfaction on the title on your cubicle wall, remember that they call it a “rat race” for a reason.

Why might a promotion be overrated? For starters, some people are very happy in their current position and have no interest in managing a team, attending tons of meetings, or traveling every other week. For those employees, it’s smarter to say you are flattered by offers of promotion but feel you can contribute more to the company in your current position [source: Tahmincioglu]. It doesn’t hurt to ask for the raise, though.

Other people find the very idea of a corporate work environment creatively stifling and emotionally draining. The answer for many such folks is to ditch the rat race and launch their own business. Sometimes it takes one of the other life events on our list, like getting married or having a baby, to trigger the entrepreneurial spirit [source: Pierce]. But if the finances fall into place, the result — being your own boss and getting paid to do something you actually like — can be more satisfying than the most coveted corner office.

Buying a House

Marquita Ealy of the Richmond, Calif. chapter of the Alliance of Californians for Community Empowerment (ACCE) tours a foreclosed home. Foreclosure is one of the risks you take if you buy a home before you are ready. JUSTIN SULLIVAN/GETTY IMAGES

Buying a home is the crowning achievement of the American dream. Renting is seen as transient and unsettled, while home ownership is a sign of financial and emotional stability. A home is an opportunity to put down roots — a foundation on which to build the future of your family.

Or, it could be a gaping money pit.

If you can’t pay your rent, you can break your lease with minimal penalties. If you can’t pay your mortgage, you are looking at foreclosure, which will drag down your credit score.

If you’re renting and your water heater starts leaking, that’s the landlord’s problem. If you own your home, it’s your problem. If you aren’t handy, you’ll have to pay someone to come fix it or pay for a replacement.

If you’re still undecided between renting or buying, use a simple formula called the “price-to-rent ratio,” or P/R ratio. Here’s how it works. Find two similar houses or apartments in your target neighborhood, one that’s for sale and one that’s for rent (Web sites like Trulia make this easy). Take the sales price and divide it by the annual cost of renting (monthly rent times 12). If the number is greater than 20, then it’s a better financial deal to rent [source: Roth].

Relocating for a New Job

It might be flattering to be considered for a job in another location but make sure it will work out for you long-term. STURTI/E+/THINKSTOCK

Relocating for a new job is exciting — a fresh start in a new city, often with a better salary. But you need to ask yourself some serious questions before skipping town for greener pastures. First of all, if you own a home, will you be able to sell it? Or will a weak housing market mean taking a big loss on what you originally paid? If you lose tens of thousands of dollars by selling now, make sure your salary hike in the new job will cover it [source: Levin-Epstein].

You also need to gauge the new company’s commitment to you [source: Smith]. Are they covering moving expenses? Is there a clear path for promotion and growth within the company? And how strong is the company itself? Does it have the business model and track record to ensure long-term success? It would be a huge waste of time, energy and money to relocate only to watch the business fold in a year.

Other important considerations: your spouse’s job prospects, your kids’ new schools and how well you fit into the culture of the new city.

Exercising More

Exercise can actually be bad for you if you do it the wrong way. So see a doctor before you begin any exercise program. MICHAEL GREENBERG/PHOTODISC/THINKSTOCK

Exercise is undeniably a good thing … but it’s also possible to have too much of a good thing. Let’s start with yoga, a low-impact workout practiced by an estimated 20 million Americans. In yoga studios across the country, uninitiated students are put through the standard paces of downward-facing dog and basic inversions like headstands. But some top yogis argue that even basic yoga positions can cause serious injury to people with existing health problems like back or joint issues [source: Broad].

And what about those marathon runners, the very model of physical fitness and endurance? A number of recent studies have shown that extreme endurance training can actually damage the heart. The prolonged cardiovascular stress of running a marathon can cause problems like arrhythmia (irregular heartbeat), calcification and even scarring. According to the research, there’s a limit to how much the heart can be pushed before it sustains damage. The culprit appears to be inflammation of the heart tissue during prolonged endurance training [source: Collier Cool].

Another inconvenient truth of exercise: It’s not a great way to lose weight. Major changes in diet — avoiding carbohydrates, sugars and starchy foods — will do much more to slim your waistline than walking briskly on the treadmill for 30 minutes a day [source: Bowden]. While an hour of vigorous daily exercise has proven effective for maintaining weight loss, exercise alone isn’t the most efficient way to shed unwanted pounds.

Retiring

This is the dream of retirement — happy couple on the beach. But what is the realityy? INGRAM PUBLISHING/THINKSTOCK

The traditional retirement fantasy goes something like this: Fishing on the lake with your buddies, traveling the world with your spouse, touring the country, and visiting the grandkids in a mobile home. Or simply sleeping in and reading a good book in the La-Z-Boy.

The harsh financial reality of modern retirement is radically different. Because of longer life expectancies and dwindling savings and investment returns, many retirees have to pinch every penny to maintain their standard of living. In some cases, they have to take low-wage jobs to make ends meet. In February 2013, the average 401(k) balance of people 55 and older was $143,300, not nearly enough to last 30 or 40 years, even with Social Security [source: Martin].

Even if you are financially prepared for retirement, you might find the experience profoundly overrated. Gone are the mental stimulation of your job, the social interaction of your work environment, and the sense of purpose and accomplishment that was built into your everyday routine.

That’s why some older workers advise against retiring until you are physically unable to do the work [source: Moeller]. Thanks to a 1986 amendment to the Age Discrimination and Employment Act, it’s illegal for most jobs to have a mandatory retirement age [source: EEOC]. Depending on your line of work, you could easily postpone retirement into your 70s and even 80s. By that point, you’ll have more money to live out your retirement fantasies, and the fish at the lake will still be biting.

Prolonging Life at All Cost

Doctors prepare to insert a tube in a patient’s chest. Should doctors extend patients’ lives at all cost? MURATSEYIT/E+/THINKSTOCK

Physicians and surgeons working in America’s hospitals have access to cutting-edge procedures that can prolong the lives of patients living with chronic diseases. But they don’t necessarily want them for themselves.

According to a Johns Hopkins University study of older physicians, 90 percent would not want CPR if they were in a coma. Only 25 percent of the public gives the same answer [source: Cohen]. Doctors know that the odds of recovering from “successful” CPR are extremely low, but the odds of broken ribs and increased pain are very high [source: Murray].

In private, many doctors are intensely troubled by the “anything and everything” approach to saving lives [source: Murray]. What’s the point of extending a life for a few short months if it means living in an intensive care unit connected to dozens of tubes and numbed to unconsciousness by pain medication?

And then there’s the cost. A full quarter of all Medicare spending pays for hospitals stays and procedures for 5 percent of people in their last year of life. And then there’s everything that Medicare doesn’t cover. An American couple can expect to spend more than $50,000 in out-of-pocket medical costs in the last five years of life [source: Wang]. Some procedures greatly improve and extend quality of life, but not all.

The best advice is to put end-of-life directives in writing, whether we want every possible medical procedure to prolong life, or to die peacefully without being recesisiated or put on life support.

Author’s Note: 10 Overrated Life Decisions

Having made eight out of the ten major life decisions on this list, I feel like I can speak with some confidence about the relative value of each. First, I should say that I don’t regret a single major life decision so far. I went to college, got married relatively young, have three amazing kids and a mortgage. All of them have worked out wonderfully. And the ones that didn’t work out as wonderfully — climbing the corporate ladder, relocating for a new job — I chalk up to valuable learning experiences. As my editor explained, the point of this article is not to slam anyone’s decision to get married or retire, but to point out the pros and cons of each, and encourage readers to think hard about some of life’s most potentially “life-changing” choices. In The Game of LIFE, you can always clear the board and start over. In real life, you have to live with your decisions, good or bad.

#Decisions

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