would you never do a continuation of feline hybrid reader ?? like a reaction to after the muzzle ?
just found your account btw i love your writing style !! :3
aw thank you so much! i get nervous that my writing might come off as corny (especially my more angsty writing) but it makes me so happy seeing a lot of people enjoying my feline hybrid!reader!! (â§ââŠ)
and yes i have been thinking about the aftermath of hybrid!reader being muzzled!!
cw; angst? violence, a bit of gore but not too detailed just mentioned, hybrid!reader, reader being muzzled and treated like shit, a bit of lore on reader, 141 being used to manhandling each other so they're lowkey unaware that they're dehumanizing hybrid!reader, hybrid!reader is just not doing good in this one.
have any questions, things you wanna add or talk about?? my asks are always open!! :3
pt 1 â pt 2; youâre here! â pt 3
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iâve already mentioned that hybrid!reader already had problems with muzzles before this incident and just being touched in the face in general and i would like to go into that first.
now what i mean by that is when those âscientistsâ were experimenting on reader when they were still pretty young, (and arguably more feral then they are now) one of the ways they would be punished would be by having the muzzle forced onto them and often times it would be left on them for ridiculously long periods of time. (the longest being about almost 2-3 months)
this particular one that the scientists would use would be one that would wrap around their whole face, which made the tightening of the mask and much more excruciating, and i have also mentioned before that hybrid has some pretty fucked up teeth because their physical being wasnât cared for as much, just how strong they were, so because of this their teeth is also another reason for the pain, it digs into their gums and just rubs up against the inside of their mouth until itâs raw and bleeding.
(muzzles that i think of and yes, im aware that the first one looks like a bdsm mask thing but to be fair!! itâs a good reference đ§đœââïž)
when they would have to wear the muzzle a lot of people would take advantage of this and manhandle them by grabbing onto it and forcing them to look where they wanted them to look or just simply do it to be an ass cause they knew hybrid!reader couldnât do shit.
so, with all this new information in mind, it is definitely something that makes the dynamic between hybrid!reader and the 141 shift.
they begin to shut down, just allowing everything to happen as they feel themselves growing numb and dissassociating.
the team takes this as a sign of calming down and understanding, they begin to explain that hybrid!reader doesn't have to wear it in their room, only when they're going out hoping that it would make them feel just a little better, but they couldn't be more wrong.
hybrid!reader begins to act like how they did when they were still in that prison lab.
they wake up, clean themselves, train for however long they have to, go to the debrief on the next mission and then straight to their room. rinse and repeat
they don't try to hang around or linger anymore.
they don't join them for trips out to the bar, a walk into town, or even just eating with the in the cafeteria.
they put all their time and energy into training, getting better at controlling themselves. being better, being the soldier they were forced made to be.
what would really fuck them up is how the team would handle them in their muzzle.
it all starts when hybrid!reader is training with ghost, it's more silent and tense than usual but pretty normal. they began to grow a little distracted, not noticing ghost calling out to them or even approaching them.
the sudden tug of their muzzle breaks them out of their trance. "pay attention. can't have you falling behind, moggy." he doesn't even wait for their reaction before he's walking ahead of them to the sparring mats.
they can't even react like they normally do, the only thing they can muster is a low growl while they stare at his back, wide eyed and in disbelief.
the skin under the muzzle aches and burns in a painfully familiar way.
it doesn't just stop there. the team have now decided to use it as a way to get their attention or redirect them.
soap will occasionally tug on the straps when he notices them spacing out or looking somewhere else, gaz will straight up tap on it which really fucks with their sensitive hearing.
but ghost and price are the worst.
when they notice hybrid!reader looking particularly agitated or seeming like they're ready to attack someone, they grip onto the metal bars and force them to look into their eyes, reprimanding them or shutting them down with a single look.
sometimes they'll even go as far as to shake the muzzle around if hybrid!reader doesnt back down as quickly.
by the time the team are able to eventually get approval to allow hybrid!reader to not have to wear the muzzle around practically 24/7, (on some conditions of course) they are exhausted.
the damage had already been done, hybrid!reader can't help but feel betrayed and even humiliated.
even as price explains the new rules and exceptions, the precautions and how they will continue to work to train with them better and rebuild their reputation, the only thing that they can think about is their worst fears being confirmed.
they will never be seen as anything more than a rabid animal.
an experiment, a weapon that was never going to succeed in the end. no matter how strong they were or how much they tried.
they just wonder how long it will take before everyone decides to bite the bullet and just throw them out.
maybe the next one will be done right.
---
hope y'all enjoyed!!
so again sorry if my writing is ass, i honestly stayed up most of the night to get this out because i didnt wanna procrastinate.
anyways, while writing this i found out 'moggy/mog' is the uk version of mutt but for cats so i added it. sorry if it's random and takes anyone out of the story, i just wanted to test the waters cause i really didn't feel like adding "kitty/kitten/pussycat" cause those feel 10x worse.
as always, my asks are always open!! don't ever be shy to send me stuff. i genuinely love and get excited when you guys send in asks about my stuff and i try to answer them as soon as possible!
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i feel the need to expand on this. Thank you to everyone who commented on the last part!! (and special thanks to @thedepreed94 @is-it-murder-if-youre-a-raven and @simonrileyfan who's comments inspired me to continue this!)
for you the repercussions are immediate; you're the single daughter of one of the kingdom's highest ranked dukes, mere minutes after the letter your father has a list of men who are dying to secure a spot in your bloodline. (and even worse, there are more men who want you for the sole purpose of continuing theirs.)
but you don't think about it. for a few days you think about nothing. your body attempts to continue your routine but it feels like there is nothing to continue. there is no receiver for your letters, there are no visits into town as a lone single woman, there are no more late night garden reading sessions. everything you've lived for up until this point had just been ripped from under you in the matter of less than 20 words.
and you become suddenly aware of everything you'd taken for granted. you hadn't been married off yet because it was assumed you would marry john, you were exempt from the diets your peers endured because you had no other man to impress. you didnât have to show face at aristocratic parties to make connections because you assumed they'd already been made. your etiquette lessons become harsher, every step you take in your house is drowned in judgement, and your parents are disappointed.
and you feel it, hard. gala's become more like exhibitions, who can stand the furthest from you while staring the longest. your library dwindles because john is not there to supply more. there are no more invitations to afternoon tea parties or unformal get togethers. you're more than isolated from the rest of the kingdom and it becomes so suffocating. you need to get out and there are plenty of men with rural land that you can escape to; it doesn't matter how old or how mean, they just need to let you live without the constant weight of eyes on your back. and when you see his land boarders, maybe Phillip Graves wouldn't be such a bad husband at all.
it comes to john much later. mostly in the form of loneliness. your sister is beautiful and poised, the perfect lady, ('raised to be a great mother' his father mentioned but anytime he thinks of that the bile in his stomach starts to turn.) and no one treats him any differently; he spends gala's with the same men he trains with, there are more invitations than ever (a mix of congratulations and curiosity, your sister must have a special charm to rip john from you and everyone wants to see it) , in fact he feels free.
there are no more jabs about "his girl's" letter arriving, or feeling left out when his men take towns ladies to bed and he can't because he's having (very late) afternoon tea. and things with your sister are just so easy; she doesn't challenge his ideas (because she's never read any military theory), she doesn't just show up at his door expecting to be entertained (in fact she doesn't seek him out at all besides logistic matters), and she doesn't crowd him during parties or events (and it's slowly starting to dawn on him that she isn't very interested in him at all).
then it all falls apart. he's trying to get ready for one of the king's ridiculous parties and he waits nearly an hour before realizing that you aren't coming to finish getting ready with him. and he's trying to help with wedding planning, but he doesn't really know what he wants because all of his interests remind him of you. and it's all so lonely; no one else writes him daily letters, no one else wants to walk to meadow behind the tree line or ride out the lake, there's only so much swordsman practice and hunting a man can do before he just wants to have a damn night in with you.
so, he seeks you out.
down the roads he's followed all his life to the fields he's played in for decades to find the woman he's done it all with. except you're not there at all.
some meeting with a man from the countryside your handmaid recalled to john and the world goes dark. somewhere in his prideful plunder he'd forgotten that you couldn't wait for him forever (there wasn't even much waiting to do since he would be married soon). but he couldn't fathom you actually getting married to (someone who's not him) a man you haven't even known for a month. (his question is answered when he runs into your parents on his way out of the manor and all they can say is how proud they are to have introduced you to Graves after how depressed you'd been in the past weeks. and john's never felt worse)
Simon Riley crying and praying for the first time in years bc you're hospitalized
(self indulgent as fuck, based off of personal medical history bc it'll be more accurate)
You hadn't ate or drank for 5 days, unable to keep anything down. You thought it was the flu at first. Fevers, puking, extreme fatigue. It didn't seem like anything out of the norm. Except for when your fevers started casing full body convulsions that made you look possessed. Chills and cold sweat turned to groaning and crying, muscles all over cramping and clenching, breathing becoming difficult. You figured it was because you hadn't had the flu in years. How wrong you had been.
Once your puke turned green, which was later found out to be bile from your kidneys, Simon rushed you to the hospital. Unable to stand, he pulled a wheelchair from the entrance and pushed you everywhere. Within 2 hours, the nurses had you admitted and on IV meds. Pain meds, IV Tylenol, and bags of fluid were hooked up to you, rehydrating you being high priority. Your body is in shock, resting heartrate being 140. He sat by your side the entire time, holding your puke bag in one hand, and your hair back in the other. The doctors drew blood, running blood cultures, searching for a more accurate answer.
The night you were admitted, they informed you that your kidneys were so infected that one got injured. The bile that was thrown up was caused but how hard you were puking, pulling it up from your kidneys.
He stayed the night, sleeping in the rocking chair, right next to your bed. He woke up when your fevers came back, holding your hand and telling you how good you're doing, calling in a nurse. The morning that followed, he had to go back to the house to make a bag of your immediate needs, clothes, deodorant, hairbrush, and anything else he could think of. When he came back, a doctor and a couple med students came in with important news.
"We ran blood cultures to see if there was possible an infection in your blood due to your symptoms leaning towards that. They came back positive. We are going to give you antibiotics and run cultures every 12 hours to track if the antibiotics are working" The doctor says as gently as possible.
The room begins to feel like it's spinning. Sepsis has a 68% mortality rate, and knowing how deadly it is, it feels like you're already being buried. Simon looks to you with a confused look, not knowing exactly what that it, but knowing it isn't good.
"I have sepsis?" You ask in a quiet voice, throat constricting.
"Yes" The doctor says softly.
"Oh fuck I'm gonna die" you whisper under your breath, tears forming.
Simon looks to you, eyes widening. 'Not again'
"Wait, the hell is Sepsis?" He demands, but not sounding confident, more scared than anything.
The doctor explains it to him, how it when your blood is infected, how the infection can latch onto your other organs and slowly kill you from the inside out. Once it reaches your brain, it's too late. His grip on your hand tightens. The doctor tries to give hope, but she can only do so much without lying. She leaves to give you privacy.
It's silent, neither of you speaking out of shock. The only noise in the room is the quiet hum of the IV machine and Simon's shaky breathing. Your thumb softly glides back and forth over the back of his hands, trying to ground him.
"Si" you softly call.
It takes hour to get him to loosen up a little. It's only when you manage to keep down a popsicle that he feels like he can breath a little easier. Like maybe you'll be part of the 32% that pull through.
That sliver of hope is crushed that night, being woken up by his arm being slapped repeated by you in a panic. His eyes meet yours, concern instantly written on his face. Your hand is on your chest as short, sharp breaths are the only thing you can manage.
"I,, can't,, breath,," you whisper between breaths, unable to say a sentence in one go.
"Baby it's alright, jus' try to breath wit' me, hm?" he tries to demonstrate slow breathing, mistaking it for a panic attack.
"not a,, panic,, attack,, please,, nurse,," you try to tell him.
He nods in a panic, running out to the nurse station and explaining. They rush in and take your pulse-ox just to see your oxygen percentage is at 86% when it should be above 95%. They try to do the deep breathing again before Simon interrupts them.
"It's not a bloody panic attack, she literally can't breath. Get her oxygen or somethin' before she fuckin' suffocates!"
They put you on oxygen until they can get you an X-ray. The nurses try to chalk it up to a panic attack until in the morning they see you still can't breath. They give you an X-ray and when the results come back, they send the doctor in. She informs you that the nurses gave you too much IV fluid and that caused your organs to swell so much that they pushed up on your lungs, collapsing them by 3/4ths. 1/4th of your lungs are still open and they're going to take you off fluid, start you on exercises to open them back up, and keep you on oxygen.
That's the last straw for Simon. Once you fall asleep for a nap, he heads outside to the bench area and punches a wall. His knuckles split but he barely feels it, ringing in his ears drowning out the surrounding noise. With no one around, he sits on a bend, elbows on knees and face in his hands. His breath picks up as his throat tightens and tears threaten to rip out of him.
"Why would ya let this happen to 'er? Aren't you supposed to be lovin'?" He whispers into the wind, looking up at the sky, "That girl in't like me. She's the fuckin' sunshine in human form and she's on death's bloody doorstep."
Tears cloud his vision, unable to keep it in any longer. He blinks them away, falling onto his clenched fists. Years of praying, to a god he later grew to resent, for him to fix his family. A child kneeling at his bed, begging him to get his family out of his father's grasp. Once he got to his teenage years, his desperation became resentment and anger. His jaw began to clench when his drunken father would spew bible verses at him to condemn him. He realized God wouldn't save him, nor would he when Simon's family was ripped from him.
Yet here he was, back to that same god, desperate that maybe, just maybe, he'd have mercy on him this time. He believed himself a rotten man, even if it was subconscious, unworthy of the angel sent to him. His light, reparations for the mistreatment The Father had destined for him.
"You sent 'er to me, it's gotta be for a reason. You've never listened to my prayers before but just this fuckin' once, please don't ignore me." His voice breaks, openly sobbing with no sound, "You sent 'er to me and now I can't live without 'er. She's fuckin' everythin' to me. Don't take back your gift, please" The end of his sentence slips into a whisper.
He wipes his tears on his sleeve and sniffles hard, trying to erase the evidence of his vulnerability. He stands and walks to the door, looking back at the bench before turning back to the door and walking in. 'Amen'
warning: HEAVY ANGST, Simon can't stop crying, Sad Simon, u die sorry :(
Simon holding your corpse and it's just. A mess. Jus' thinkin about him fully breaking down, hunched over your body. Growling out words of venom to anyone who comes close.
He's nearly shot Johnny when he tried to pry you away from him. Good thing Price managed to get some distance between them.
It shakes their very core. Seeing just how vulnerable their lieutenant is. He's shaking, and crying like a little boy. And his sobs sound painful. Like each tear, and breath is being ripped straight out of his throat. It's a heart wrenching sight, and not a single one of them has the courage to speak, or to comfort. And maybe it's their way of showing respect for you. For what's passed.
Meanwhile your Simon is just wracking with sobs. His tears are never ending, and not a moment later does he start to beg. Sounding almost possessed and hysterical as he goes on a tangent.
"My baby....my baby...."
He weeps. Voice cracking, trying to pull you impossibly close to his chest. As if he could share his heartbeat with you. You were his lifeline, and now it's getting harder and harder to breathe without you. His tears trickle down to your face, and it makes it seem like you're crying too. Like you're sorry for leaving so soon, for not being able to say goodbye, for not being able to say 'I love you. The thought shatters Simon and now he's shaking with a new wave of tears dampening his mask.
"Just wake up... please justâjust come back..."
He whispers, and he hated how everybody heard. Except you.
a/n: uhhhhh, once again I am practicing my angst, and english skills! This also served as like, a character analysation?? I jus' wanted to see how far I could get at giving a character despair. Think I did pretty well, criticism, and corrections to my grammar are always welcome by the way! And I hope your taking care of yourself, my loves! Till next time!
Two weeks had passed since you shut down in front of the team. They didn't know what caused such a reaction from you nor did they know how to respond to it.
The moment that it happened, Laswell was the one who led you away and took you back to your barracks. She was the only one who was safe enough to physically move you away. Once you were deemed safe enough, she rushed back to Price and the others with rage clouding in her eyes.
"Just what did you dolts do?! What happened in here?!" She hissed with fury, slamming the door shut behind her.
There was a brief pause of silence in the room before Price opened his mouth to respond. "Did you know that she was connected to a man by the name of Braxin Thomas?" "Please tell me you did not mention that monster's name in front of her..."
"Just who is he to her, Laswell?" Soap asked, his anger fading into a sense of genuine concern. "Braxin Thomas," she turned towards the monitor and pulled up a photo, "was her recruiter to the S.I.R.E.N Initiative. This Initiative was an intro to a covert op into a human trafficking ring. She and Thomas were apart of a small crew of five members. They integrated themselves so deep that they almost lost sight of the end goal. But, it was more like Thomas lost himself completely. By the time they made contact with the intended target, Thomas let it slip that Y/n was a part of a military organization. That didn't end up well for the two. The target took her in a dark room and what they did to her was unforgivable. Thomas, the man who was supposed to keep her safe, participated in her torture to keep himself safe.
They kept her in that room for three days, doing unspeakable things I wouldn't dare repeat. It only ended when back-up and local law enforcement arrived from a message she had sent beforehand. That night, Thomas was arrested by our own but he escaped confinement and went into deep hiding until now." Each word that Laswell spoke, she showed photos to drive home the point of what happened to one of their own.
Every single bruise, every single scratch made the boys sick to their stomach. Gaz even had to shut his eyes and turn away from the screen because looking at his teammate in such a state was too much to look at.
"Why wasn't this in her file?" Ghost finally spoke, his voice low with an emotion no one could decipher. "Because she didn't want it there. She knew that if you all saw that, she would be immediately sent to mandatory psych counseling and she would stuck behind a desk for the remainder of her good years."
Now back to the current situation, you hadn't spoken a single word since. Your mind was stuck in between reality and trauma-induced fantasy. The guys didn't know what to do. They wanted to help, to show you that you could trust them again. But, it was like you wanted nothing to do with them anymore.
That wasn't the truth though. It was that you were simply stuck in the mindset of wanting one thing. You wanted to kill Braxin Thomas. You wanted to feel his blood running from your blade and down your arm while you watch the life disappear from his eyes. And you will get that result and no one's going to stop you... No one...
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Warning: angst, explosions, mental headspace talks, this probably won't have a part II.
141 x gn!reader (platonic)
Dividers by: @cafekitsune
The team would be in stressful situations. Solo missions, hostage situations, arsonists, terrorists. It comes with the territory.
So for you to be as light-hearted as possible. It can get on their nerves.
It wasn't like you did it just to irritate them. You have the talent to make any dire situation as easy as possible. Gaz often told you it was an amazing gift you had. Ghost automatically gravitated toward you because of it. Soap would yearn for it. And Price, well you had meetings in his office just for him to make sure it wasn't coming out of a dark place. But they loved you like one of their own.
That doesn't help you right now, though.
You had just gotten back onto the humvee, being carried there by Ghost as you had gotten way to close to the explosion that Soap detonated himself after Gaz gave the all clear.
It wasn't clear. A little girl was running towards the blast zone, all for the toy she left behind.
Your heart sank, and so did Price's when he felt your arm slip out of his grasp just as Soap announced the timer.
Ten seconds. The men had ten seconds to grab you. Ten seconds to save you. But you wouldn't let the innocent die so easily. And they knew that.
So when you had your arms wrapped around the small child, Ghost yanked you towards him and with sheer adrenaline carried you out of the way and behind cover in the very last second.
After the blast, you poked your head out to check over the child, all while picking her up and running with the others to safety.
She screamed and cried all the way over to medical. You did your best to soothe her stress and worry, which surprisingly worked. The medics took her from your arms, and Ghost whisked you away.
Now here you sat right a the edge of the humvee. An angry Captain staring at you from the other side of the opened doors, Soap gripping the steering wheel, and Ghost slamming the door shut on the passenger side. Gaz was checking you over for injuries.
"Taking you back to camp. You may not have any visible injuries-"
Your mouth opened before you could stop.
"You could always kiss 'em better, huh Garrick."
Price growls your callsign. The deathly grave tone in his voice runs your blood cold. "You can truly joke at a time like this? You almost died, soldier."
You felt your throat run dry. A moment of silent and frozen fear ran through your arms.
"I just...wanted to lighten the mood."
"Lighten the mood? What the fact that we would've been the reason ye fucking died needs to be lightened?"
"N-No that's not-"
"Get in the humvee, sergeant." Ghost grits out.
No one else says a word as you climb into the vehicle.
You're being reprimanded as soon as you get into Price's office. Ghost is glaring at you from the corner and the other two sergeants are sat on the sofa.
"Do you have any clue how dangerous that was?" He asks. You shouldn't answer. "You're trained to think quick, think about your team and think about YOURSELF."
"But-"
"'But'?" he repeats. "'But' what, sergeant? Do you have a death wish?! Is that what I'm getting from you? Are you going to be this reckless when we'll be needing you-"
He goes on, monologing. The kindness you've always shown, was thrown at your face. The shoulder you let them use to cry on, was long forgotten. The tight hold you would have them in when they almost died for each other, for you, was ignored.
As if all you ever did were mistakes. As if all you were good for was to be a little comfort stress ball for them.
As if you didn't have shit that haunted your nightmares either.
The worst part of it was that you couldn't blame them. Your nightmares weren't just your own. They were theirs too. You understood where this anger came from. But when the realization of you almost dying hits, and this is how you're treated?
Fair to say, you snap.
"Ghost goes on solos without contact for fucking months." You finally cut in. "Gaz is quite literally ready to fight any point of command the second they don't give a fuck about their people. And Soap is the one in the line of fire when it comes to his explosives. That isn't reckless-?!"
"That's a load of bullshit!" Ghost shouts at you, standing from his position. "This isn't a fuckin' therapy session. You were out of fuckin' line for what you did. We all have a job to do and savin' that girl wasn't a part of it-"
The volume of his voice does nothing to scare you at that moment. Instead, you stand and turn around. "Then what is mine, Lieutenant?!"
The room goes silent. "What's my job then?! huh!? Do you think I search and vent with you assholes for fun?! I need someone too goddammit."
You glare at the two sergeants, who have suddenly decided they couldn't look you in the eye.
"None of you give a crap about your lives. Ready to lay your life on the line for the better of the world. Hell, what's that saying, cap?" You turn back at Price. "'We get dirty and the world stays clean'? Well, why the hell am I extent from that?"
Gaz stands to push you back into your chair before you rip away from him.
"I'm not a kid. I'm your teammate. Fucking treat me like one."
"You're being reevaluated." Gaz blinks at the floor, unable to look at you still. "Price has been meaning to-"
"Garrick."
"Our teammate deserves to know this, Price."
Soap sighs, a hand rising to pinch his nose bridge. "This isn't the time nor place for this-"
"Then when is it?!"
The argument amongst them is drowned out, at some point, you can tell Ghost has joined but your eyes are too locked in on Price. Who suddenly grew a heart and shook his head at you. "You needed help."
"So those meetings-"
"Had nothing to do with this. But what you did was too reckless. Even for you."
You laugh. Airy and dry. "You're so full of shit, Price."
Ghost tries to stop you from leaving. His hand is hung in the air as you have taken a step back from him. "I was there for you when Johnny got shot. It wasn't just for you. You know that."
One last look into the room and your words were left hanging in the air. "All of you know that."
Content Warnings: Themes of Child neglect, Neglect, Cheating, Workplace affairs, Child abandonement, & Misandry (Your mother does this to your father). Alcoholism, depression, & eventual death (your biological father).
Note: If you're put off with the themes of the mother in this. Then this story isn't for you and I suggest you skip this one. For your sake. And your sake alone.
Summary: Whatever she hoped to take from you isnât there anymore.
You don't remember how you ended up between these two. You often wonder how it happens rather than why it happened.
Sometimes you think it's all just a dream. A different kind of dreamer. They're gonna leave ya. So why are you even staying in the first place?
You don't relax around them fully. You never could. Not because you hated them or anything. It was more or less born from trauma unrelated to the two of them.
It was related to your biological mother. A majority of it, anyway.
You don't talk about her. Not even once. The more you talked about her, the more you remembered and relived things. Thus, you stopped talking about her long before you met the two of them.
Johnny talks about his mother nonstop, at least. You feel rather awkward whenever he does. You don't say anything about it, you would rather drown than tell him to stop talking about his mother.
Often snuck out at night while Simon and Johnny were asleep together on the couch. It was one of those habits that never died, even after many years.
It was just one of those things you still do now. Even after moving out of your mother's house.
The moon's light is bright enough for your eyes to see where you're going. Yet before you could even reach your hand to your motorcycle keys near the front door? You didnât think anyone else was even awake at this hour. Dead in certainty that you were the only person awake in the house. Perhaps that was indeed your mistake in assuming that.
Perhaps you werenât as quiet as you thought you were, or maybe it was the fact that you bumped the back of your head on the edge of your desk in your office.
You were in your office for seven hours and skipped dinner. Not on purpose, mind you. What you did do instead was fight the shelves you were drilling into the back wall, every second word from your mouth was either, 'fucking-stupid-piece' which in reality just three words mushed together to make one long word.
Not that anyone could hear the difference from outside your office.
The sudden 'WHAM!' followed by a painful groan from your lips. You don't know if the office was even fully insulated yet. There was at least the wall behind your computer set up covered in soundproofing foam, and half of the wall near your door was covered in foam. The wall with the shelf with the privacy window above didn't have any on it, though.
So far the only sign of life inside the office is the mountain rose succulent surrounded by living stone succulents in a large plant pot in the corner of your office.
After a few minutes, you pulled on your leather jacket, grabbed your purse and your keys. You were about to head to the diner a few houses down to eat dinner there.
Simon and Johnny, they could have any leftover dinner they might have had while you were in your office. Whenever they wake up they might, well, more than likely need it more than you. This is purely your own reasoning.
You were used to fending for yourself. You've done it when you were younger whenever your mother would go out, leaving you to fend for yourself. Home alone.
This shouldn't be any different from when you were younger. You learned how to cook, how to call for help, how to stay safe, and you even learned how to change a tire with all the old mechanics books her mother said used to be your father's.
You've been sneaking out more and more. Convinced yourself that you don't belong with them. Certain, dead certain, they wouldn't notice if you were gone the next day.
As you turned down the television and added another log into the fireplace, you were certain they would sleep soundly without knowing you were ever gone in the first place.
While you were out in the diner having your dinner. Back in the shared house, they were still asleep. None the wiser to you sneaking out to the diner. As far as you were aware. They didn't know you were even gone to begin with.
What you didn't know?
Well, you'd have to come home after your dinner to see what happened.
While you were there. Those two were waking up from the post-love-making haze. They haven't noticed you weren't even in the house anymore. You never expect them to notice whether you're there. Or not.
Sooner or later, they might or might not assume you're cheating on them. You're not. But they don't know that now, do they?
You weren't the type to cheat. Not after witnessing the fallout of your mother doing the same to your father when you were just a child. You were only 10 years old when your world came down around you.
Ironically, it wasn't even him who cheated. It was your mother. Something people often assume she was the victim. Even after he died.
The shame built up from the seven years of having to hear your father cry himself to sleep most nights because of the mental health conditions he was battling, despite the amount of therapy heâs getting, from her betrayal.
Turns out it wasn't just one affair. But multiple. A string of affairs for the past ten years. The past ten years of your life.
You didn't think Simon or Johnny were awake while you were in your bedroom ensuite. You were about to enter your walk-in wardrobe when your bedroom door creaked open. Right as you were about to step into your wardrobe.
All you had wrapped around your body is the fuzzy, warm towel, straight from the towel rack / towel warmer.
You pulled out a Garfield onesie and pulled it on. Followed by soft bed socks and went to hop into your bed.
You were thinking about what you said to your mother over the phone this morning when she tried calling you again. You wanted to repeat what you have already told her a million times in the past. Before your relationship with both Simon and Johnny.
Back when she left you, abandoned you, ditched you, threw you away the moment she started dating somebody new, when your father died when you were seventeen.
âI didnât ask for your fucking opinion, did I?â you remarked. âYou left seven years ago. You lost your right to be called my mother when you decided to leave. You are the failure here, not me.â
âYou left. You donât get to decide to worm your way back in,â you told her. âI donât care. I am done trying to wait for a negligent parent and a deadbeat mother. My father is dead, there isnât anything left for you here. Loose this number and fuck. Off.â
You didnât know what to think of the womanâs audacity in trying to interfere with your choices. It was always about her, her status, what she wanted and what she âneededâ. The moment you told her you werenât going to be a lawyer, and you didnât plan on growing up like her. Things changed in drastic ways that make fiction seem less nonsensical.
You didnât tell her much else about what you wanted to do when your parents divorced at twelve. Things were easier when she left. You were able to exist without fear of âinterruptingâ something.
You werenât the daughter she wanted. Not like she wanted to parent you to begin with. Leaving all of that to your stay-at-home parent. Your father, who did more to keep the family together than your mother ever seemed to do.
You werenât the daughter she wanted. Not like she wanted to parent you to begin with. Leaving all of that to your stay-at-home parent. Your father, who did more to keep the family together than your mother ever seemed to do.
You never really knew how to get her approval, and it didn't seem to matter what you did either.
You weren't going to get it.
No matter how much you begged for her to love you.
No matter how much you begged for her approval.
There wasn't much you could do other than cut contact with her. Remove her from your life before she poisons it completely.
It didn't stop it from hurting.
It didn't stop you from crying about it.
But you needed to do that for yourself.
Not her.
You.
Broken people aren't simply broken from trauma alone. Though it does help categorise what it is.
To provide a specific kind of mindset to assist, not to do things for you, but to help you through it.
Sure. You had your moments of doubt, anger, sorrow and something in between. A mixture of emotions you could never quite articulate as well as you wanted to.
Those mixed feelings were always chased by an empty feeling at the bottom of your stomach. Gnawing at you like you were the final supper to a feast that never ends.
Akin to trying to fill a void that wouldn't fill up completely. Something you were certain didn't belong to you alone.
A feeling passed down from one generation to the next. Like a present you didn't ask for. But received regardless of how you didn't want it. A present you couldn't refuse. No matter how much you wanted.
A family curse that didn't make sense yet somehow made too much sense.
Something no one talked about for the fear of making things too real too soon.
Something they were blissfully ignorant of. Until you started to feel it too.
The heavyweight pressing down onto your chest. Harder and harder. Until the life in your lungs couldn't hold anymore. Until you couldn't hold the air in your lungs anymore. Trying to keep yourself together. Wrapping your insides with duct tape and prayers to a deaf god.
If there was one. If there was indeed a god out there.
You were certain he didn't love you.
Or think of you in the same way you thought of him.
You tried sleeping. You did.
Sleep wouldn't come to you. It never did.
You walked to your office to practice your piano for a little while. Which often made you tired enough to fall asleep.
Now youâre thirty, and your father passed away when you were fourteen in his sleep. At least that is what you choose to remember about the cause of his passing. Fully remembering the real reason he died causes debilitating nightmares of finding him in his bed.
Things weren't the same again.
The alcohol took him in the night. The silent killer.
Things werenât the same.
You knew things weren't ever going to be how they were again.
Even now.
You are still somewhat certain that things will never be the same as they were before.
You remember you had told your mother to skip the funeral. To not go to your father's funeral. You said she wasn't his wife, and she wasn't family anymore.
Even went as far as to say that she had murdered him.
You stopped taking her calls. You delete her emails she sends your way. Any attempt she had tried and continues to try was rejected. Repeatedly.
Any attempt to reconnect like your father didn't die and she didn't ruin your family were all denied.
Now? You tell people she's dead. That she died somewhere, and you didn't care to go to her funeral. Better off as an adult orphan than continuously harassed by a dead, deadbeat parent who couldn't be bothered to be there for you.
You tell people sheâs dead even though she is quite alive, technically speaking.
In my motherâs opinion, I am certain. Unquestionable doubt now, she sees a monster reflected in her eyes. Like a lunar cryptid, vanishing the moment she looks away. I am aware of how she feels about me. I am aware that she didnât want me. Don't let ignorance fool you, I am aware.
In some ways, you felt like she had every right to be scared of you. To be rejected by you. To be void of personal attachment. Your motherâs pleas fall on deaf ears and are treated with a strong sense of apathy. There isnât much else she can or could do to reach you now.
There isn't anything you want to do to let her back into your life. She could beg and plead all day. You weren't going to budge. Your opinion of her isn't going to change.
There isnât much she can do to change what she did. Itâs despicable to think she could prove otherwise. Like nothing happened. Like anything, she could say, wouldnât prove just how foolish she is in believing she is the victim in all of this.
You still remember your mother gave away your service dog, fed you your own pet rabbit. All the while saying you didnât need such things. This was the final straw for your father, and he demanded a divorce for displaying senseless stupidity from someone who should have been a better mother.
It was your fatherâs idea to move away from the city and away from your mother. Plans fell through when he passed when you were fourteen.
âLove with conditions isnât real love. Itâs conditional love. Love based on false pretence. I donât want it. I donât need it, and I donât want to speak to you or of this again. Understand?â
The pause in your motherâs breath when it hitched. You donât know whether its foundation is in anger or frustration. You donât care which.
Whatever she hoped to take from you isnât there anymore. She ruined her family for what? For the sake of what? Her ego? Her career? Laughable. Blameworthy. Egotistical. Selfish.
She forgets who raised you this way. Or, more like, she chose to forget in a surge of wilful ignorance. Like she doesnât ârememberâ when she put off her family for work. Purposefully putting things off time and time again. She only got worse after your father died.Â
By worse.
She abandoned you on the doorstop of your Nonna's in Yorkshire and you never saw her again.
Now you are thirty years old hearing from her left a bitter taste in your mouth. Sitting at your father's old piano and you were certain she was only trying to get something from you.
You don't know what it is yet.
You're certain to find out what exactly it might be.
Her greed, narcissism, and her strong need for control were the things that killed him. Drove him straight into death's arms.
You jumped when Johnny placed his cold hands on your tits. You squeaked. Loudly. Jumping off the piano stool at least a good one inch.
"What hell man?" you grumbled, eyes wide, wider awake now than you were five minutes ago. To think you would have gone to sleep too.
"Couldn't sleep." Johnny murmered as he kept his cold hands on your tits.
"Same here. But at least I didn't put my cold hands on your pecs." you stated wriggling your eyebrows.
"I don't know you might like it more than you think." Johnny chuckled as he teased your already hardening nipples.
"I don't think this time or place to be doing this right now." you tried to say, pushing each word from your lips with great effort. You were going to say more, but your brain short circuited more as he continued to move his thumbs in circles.
You weren't at the piano for long. Johnny had a way of picking up and carrying you without waking the neighbours. He never did it to you when you had a Garfield onesie before though. He seemed to enoy it more whenever you wore it.
Credit for the dividers go to @saradika-graphics . If you like the ones shown here. They're the ones to go to.
thereâs a void in my soul that can only be filled with the most gut wrenching angst and i canât fucking find anything i havenât already read five times over. begging for recs.
