#I don't need therapist you need therapist

[platonicmoonwater00]

i was shocked when i went to school the day after the election.

i was interested(mainly bc of my moots in the us - hope you guys are doing alright by the way, feel free to reach out) in talking about it but i didnt expect so many others to be as well. the topic came up in every period, lunch, recess and before school. i heard people from year 7 - 12 talking about it, including almost every member of my class, even the bitchy popular girls.

i'm 14. i don't know(irl) a single person from the us other than my therapist. i live in australia.

all that aside please feel free to reach out if you need support atm and, if it means anything, pretty much all 800 girls at my school have your backs🫶

Please don’t fuck this up, America 🔹🙏😬🔹

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

one thing that I love about your eleutherophobia fics (among many many things) is that, despite being free of a Yeerk haunting his mind, Tom has now unwittingly replaced that with a reader listening to every thought and memory that he cares to share with us through the first person point of view. He’d be mortified if he ever broke the fourth wall ;)

thanks for your lovely writing and blog! definitely part of what’s keeping me going in these very weird times

Thank you! And yeah, I think a lot about the unique narration style in Animorphs, because I'm trying to imitate it. There's always an awareness that the characters are telling a story — the books open with the narrator going "I can't tell you my last name", and Marco especially will use imperatives like "don't tell anyone I said that." Clearly you is the reader, and each of the kids is meant to be aware that the reader is there.

There are some fascinating hints (handwaving Jake's line in #53) about who each narrator considers their audience. The Chronicles all state outright that each is an account of oneself (X) consciously crafted for one particular audience: Elfangor's talking to Tobias, Aldrea and Dak to Seerow Jr., Visser One to the Council (and Eva), and Toomin to Rachel. Ax says that he's narrating for his fellow andalites, so that they can better understand Earth (#8). Jake implies he's narrating for his great-grandkids: "I'll need to buy a footlocker" (#31). Tobias at one point implies he's talking to his imagined therapist (#23), but I also think you could argue that he's talking to the Ellimist (#13) or his dad (#33).

The others are a little trickier. Cassie seems to have Jake's same educational bent, but I'd argue she's trying to teach about the biology rather than the ethics of the war. Marco is probably talking to a kid his own age who thinks they're reading a sci fi novel. He's defensive ("call me Mr. Ruthless" as he feels empathy for baby seals), he's misdirecting ("now you know how I got a blowhole" instead of clarifying his role in the war), and he's desperate to impress ("I'm slightly not tall"). But he also references the reader "vegging out" and "watching TV." Rachel? I'd argue Rachel is talking to her own adult self. She doesn't care what others think of her, but she cares a lot about living with herself. She's trying to define who she is and who she wants to be, more than anyone else on the team.

[sockatoothewafflebird]

i love that people hate caitlyn for what she did. i absolutely love all the discourse around her. but i need you all to understand that i yearned for her the second she came on screen in arcane and i will be on the frontlines defending this woman.

1) caitlyn is in the wrong. let's get that out of the way. she hurt vi in such a visceral way i don't think vi could ever, ever forget it. it's such a raw betrayal seeing that gut-punch. but,

2) i cannot blame her for what she did.

she was forced her into a role she didn't ask for, clearly didn't want. ambessa does the same thing, but on a much larger scale, and this time she doesn't have a shoulder to cry on. cait i love you but get a damn therapist omfg

multiple times she's shoved into a seat she doesn't know how to fill, while mentally unfit to fill it. and she accepts it because the eyes of the world are upon her. she's a kiramman, she will take the crown even if it won't stick to her head. even if the crown has bloodstains on it. even if those bloodstains are an oddly familiar shade of pink that she wishes she could run her fingers through...

anyway, caitlyn is going to have a very rough time this season. she's going through it, and she's not in the right headspace to be doing any of the things she's doing- but she'll keep going because that's what she feels she needs to do. that's what ambessa makes her think she's obligated to do.

she has a long way to go before vi can forgive her, but i have faith that they can fix things. caitlyn and vi are some of the most well-written sapphics i've ever seen (down to the pre-dating breakup like come on that had to have been written by a lesbian) and i trust that arcane will do them justice.

...anyway time to rant about the time travel theory i have in my drafts :3

[violetasteracademic]

Velaris Memorial Hospital

A Grey's Anatomy x TTPD inspired Three Brothers and Three Sisters Three Part Fanfiction

Hey. Life is horrible and scary. I want to share a teaser for a project I have been pouring my heart and soul into that I hope some of you might find some joy and reprieve in.

These stories are tightly woven together and designed to be read in order. Fesyand, Nessian, and Elriel's journey's will be posted individually and chronologically, and occur on an overlapping but staggered timeline. However, there are incredibly heavy themes and topics that may not be suitable for all readers. I will do my best to ensure each individual story can be enjoyed on its own if there are topics you would rather avoid. Please read the content warning for all three stories and take care of yourself first. This collection is coming soon if I can pull myself out of this black hole, but here is a synopsis of each story ahead!

Part One:

Feyre Archeron is an art therapist for the children's cancer wing at Velaris Memorial Hospital. After leaving her abusive fiancé and moving back in with her sisters, her plans to heal and move on with peace and privacy go up in flames when women begin to come forward with sexual harassment allegations against her ex, Tamlin Thornwood.

If she doesn't come forward with her own story of abuse and testify against the man who harmed her and so many other women, he stands a chance at winning his countersuit for defamation and wrongful termination. Terrified of what her patient's families will think of her if they find out the truth, struggling to forgive herself, and suprised to be falling for the absolute wrong man, Feyre has to dig deeper than she ever has before to find her strength.

Rhysand Noctis is the owner and CEO of Eventide Enterprises. After losing his mother to cancer, he has felt adrift. No amount of money and acclaim has been able to give him the sense of home and belonging he has lost.

When an old family rival, Tamlin Thornwood, is tangled up in a scandal and lawsuits, Rhysand learns that Velaris Memorial Hospital is in trouble. The only non-profit hospital in Velaris and the place that cared for his mother has lost all of their donors and board members. Rhys decides to purchase the hospital and dedicate his time to restoring its reputation and making it a safe place for women and the community of Velaris to work and receive affordable care.

A chance encounter sends Feyre and Rhys colliding towards each other before they realize how inextricably their personal and professional lives are already intertwined.

CW: Domestic violence, sexual assault, sexual harassment, child death, trauma, mental health, explicit sexual content.

*Additional note: I don't typically like to use the term "anti" in this fandom, but it is best to be exceptionally clear that this is an abundantly anti-Tamlin piece. If seeing this character portrayed as a serial abuser makes you feel upset or uncomfortable in any way, please protect yourself (and me) by skipping this one.

Part Two:

Nesta Archeron doesn't need anyone to take care of her. After losing both her parents at age eighteen and becoming legal guardian to her two younger sisters, she gave up her dreams of going to law school and worked her way up from from an assistant with nothing more than a high school diploma and unmatched grit to become the head of public relations at Velaris Memorial Hospital.

When her younger sisters ex-fiancé scandalizes the hospital and leaves them without funding or a board of directors, she has to work closely with the new ownership, Eventide Enterprises, to save the hospital and prevent it from becoming for-profit like SkyView, their rival hospital in the financial district. She has full confidence in herself and her plan. However, Eris Vanserra, the head of PR and legacy staff at SkyView, is out for blood after Nesta won over the youngest Vanserra to Velaris Memorial and got an op ed published on the negative outcomes associated with for-profit care. That, and she now has to answer to Cassian- a man she has already sworn to hate before learning who he was, and is making her job- and life- an absolute pain in the ass.

Cassian is the lead financial strategist and project manager after Eventide Enterprises purchased Velaris Memorial Hospital. After having to drop out of college before sophomore year to deal with the death of his mother, he struggles to overcome the chip on his shoulder being in an industry where name, money, and education is everything. Restoring the reputation and the financial security of Velaris Memorial Hospital is not only personal, but professionally the largest responsibility he has had in his career thus far. Everything is on the line.

Complicating matters is his reliance on Nesta Archeron, the steely and fiery PR director working side by side with him to ensure the Starfall Ball is a massive success and wins back the hospitals donors. There is no denying that the difficulty maintaining their professional lines is fueled by both hate and attraction. But as they continue to work closely together, the layers peel back and they learn that they have more in common than they thought. Family secrets, generational trauma, and their deepest shames are somehow safe in each other's hands. However, lines are crossed that might be impossible to come back from.

CW: Extortion, blackmail, discussions of suicide, trauma, mental health, explicit sexual content.

Part Three:

Elain Archeron has always strived for perfection. After competing in pageants her entire childhood and teen years, she shocked everyone by using her scholarship to relentlessly pursue a career in the medical field as a labor and delivery nurse instead of fulfilling her mothers dream to go on to compete in the Miss Universe pageant.

She spent her early twenties working instead of dating, but her plan to get married and start a family is back on track now that has the "perfect" fiancé, Graysen Nolan.

However- the grueling hours, cracks in her relationship, and anxiety over what her life will look like when she becomes a Nolan begins to sink in. It's not easy for Elain to change her plans or take a leap, but when a tragic accident sends her life into a tailspin, she is forced to pick apart the shattered pieces of her soul and learn what unrealized dreams are truly hers and what belongs to the ghosts of her past.

Azriel Singer is an award winning photojournalist who has spent his life travelling the world. He has lived for the thrill of never knowing what comes next, being on the front lines of danger and history in the making. He is used to going to sleep in one city and waking up with a contract on the other side of the world, not knowing if he'll be headed into a war zone or march for justice.

When his brother Rhysand hires him for a six month corporate contract as the photographer on retainer for Velaris Memorial Hospital as they rebuild their image, his path crosses with Elain Archeron. In so many ways, she is his opposite. She has always wanted to travel, but has never left Velaris. She has always wanted to start a family, a thought that has only ever given Azriel night sweats. And she is engaged.

Azriel and Elain wind up forming a deep friendship, creating bets with each other to help push them outside of their respective comfort zones. The more they get to know each other more deeply than anyone has before, the more they question who they are. No amount of planning and on-paper perfection could have prepared them for a connection that pushes them both beyond the narratives they've written for themselves before meeting someone who can challenge them in all the most terrifying and most fulfilling ways.

CW: Fertility issues, child abuse, infant death, parent death, medical trauma associated with car accidents, birth, and premature birth, explicit sexual content.

This is my first time writing modern AU and contemporary romance. Thank you so much to @nikachansstuff and @rosanna-writer for offering to beta!

I truly hope I do it justice. I also want to reiterate that these are dark and very emotionally heavy stories. The characters will be dealing with issues that are deeply personal to me. They will sometimes be hard to understand and harder to love.

While I am not a mental health professional, I am a huge mental health advocate and that will come through in a blend of my own personal experiences and research, but mental health is extremely personal and not one size fits all. Nothing should be taken as mental health advice. Please reach out for professional help if you need, and don't give up.

This is by far the most terrifying but meaningful work I have done, and I am scared shitless and deeply excited to share it with you. This will not be for everyone, but I hope it will find where it is meant to go.

[king-nyx]

"Your full consent or while you were drunk and unaware?"

"I was slightly drunk..We both were, but otherwise I was....sober as it gets."

The therapist nodded, "What was your main aim with all this?"

Apollo shrugged, "Do I need a reason to have sex?"

"No, but knowing you, it probably goes a little deeper than just sex for sex's sake."

Apollo snorted, "It goes a lot deeper."

"Great, then I would love for you to tell me."

Apollo shrugged, "People always wanted me..it made me feel...in control and then it became a transactional thing."

"Do you feel safer with your wife?"

"I don't feel safe with anyone."

"Do you feel like you can just have fun with it or do you use it to be in control?"

"I would never do that to Audrey."

"I have my answer. Let's go back to why you feel like you have to use sex to be in control when there are other means of doing that."

Apollo shrugged, "People wanted me."

"So, you gave yourself up? That doesn't sound like being in control to me."

Do you think covid existed in the Season? Do you think that for 2020-2021 Zeus couldn't host two Seasons. He had to wait until 2022 when restrictions finally lifted?

I'm gonna assume that covid didn't exist for my own sanity

[blucactus112]

May never come to reality but im planning out a Animatic to AJR's 'Maybe Man' (sue me) and need some help filling in some of the parts.

(Its probably going to be about all the life series in general not specifically Wild life. but feel free to try it fit it all in one series)

!!!long post incoming!!!

General plan so far:

First Half(ish) will be calmly looking at hermits in their peaceful habitats talking about their insecurities.

Finishing the first half when we get to the god part it will be Grian before life series started pleading to watchers and becoming one himself then cutting to him and all the other lifers standing around in a circle (like the start of each series) (much wow)

ONE. TWO. PANDEMONIUM.

murder, just all of the scenes of people dying biggest polt twist, betrayals, and Amount of kills.

Also specifically a close up of grain seeing the server burning in the reflection of his eyes.

ending with another shot of the beginning of a server but we see grains eyes which are weathered and worn out and maybe has some watcher purple

Specific Lines:

Wish I was a stone, so I couldn't feel You'd yell in my face, it'd be no big deal But I'd miss the way we make up and smile Don't want to be stone, I changed my mind

Im thinking scar and Grian Desert Duo? also could be

I wish I had eyes in the back of my head Then I could see the places I've been But then I would know that you're talkin' shit I don't wanna know what my friends think

This im Deff thinking cleo bigb scott and lizzie from the Boogeyman series (i forgor wich one that is)

but open to other ideas

Wish I were my dog out on the lawn I'd be so glad when I hear you come home But if I were my dog, I wouldn't live long I'm sure gonna miss her when she's gone

This is pearl playing with a dog, you cannot fucking make me change my mind

I wish I could act in a show on TV 'Cause then I could practice not bein' me I'll practice my cry, put it into my reel But you won't believe me when I cry for real

im either thinking like Ren or Martyn because of the acting thing or one of the scenes usually portrayed as lots of crying (ie Scott at the end of double life)

I wish that my brain would triple in size I'd nail every joke, I'd win every fight But I'd get too deep with that kind of mind I don't wanna know the point of life

ive been thinking of this as jimmy in general but also i dont want to be mean so other ideas would be great

In some other life I would be rich I'd travel in style, I'd cover the bill But couldn't complain 'bout anything small Nobody'd feel bad for me at all

havent given much thought for ones after this but im thinking Scar on Magic mountain trying to scam everyone?

If I was cocaine or a bottle of Jack I'd get invited to every frat But when you get old and your good days have passed You'll only want me when you're sad

have there been any people that bounce between alliances during one series?

Wish I was a song, your favorite one You'd follow the dance to me at your prom I would be there when your baby is born For two or three minutes, then I'm gone

there was at least one dande floor that was a trap, right??

I wish I was big, as big as my house I'd sleep on the trees, I'd skip every crowd But I wouldn't fit on my therapist's couch God, I could really use him now

probably ep1 of WildLife

I wish I was God, I'd never trip up And if I did, well, so fuckin' what? I could be cruel and break all your stuff Yeah, I'd be loved no matter what

pov grain angst

grain is on super windy mountain top surrounded by watchers crying, pleading to them

But if I was God, it'd get kinda weird 'Cause you would only say what I wanna hear And then you would die, you'd love me to death I never know who the hell I am

grian is surrounded by purple light wings and eyes becoming at least in part, a watcher

I wish I was me, whoever that is I could just be and not give a shit Hey, I'll be whatever makes you a fan 'Cause I don't know who the hell I am

cut to peaceful tranquil plains, all of them jn a circle at beginning of life series laughing joking shaking hands hugging (set em up for emotional damage)

One, two, pandemonium

black, black, PAN DE MONIUM

cut to destruction of server only using reds browns and blacks showing carnage this series has brought (and yes ofc player has died messages will appear in the corner as if in chat)

One, two, pandemonium

im thinking each line will be each of the series in chronological order

Here I go again

One, two, pandemonium

Here I go again

One, two, pandemonium

One, two-

Here I go again

cut to beginning of ?wild life? they all have scars when their final kills have been, some look tired some look determined

if you end up making this animatic if you want to put me in the credits as like 'inspired by' :3 but honestly idc that much. but you HAVE to tell me if you post one bc i will watch the hell out of that

#god i need more tags

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 08. LOSING DOGS

a/n: i can't really explain why i took so long with this chapter. possibly because of how much i don't want this series to end and we're so close. but also it's just been hard to find the inspo as of late. but thanks to a movie day with @soulores where we yearned and screamed and laughed over this man, and well me rewatching the deadpool movies 1 & 2 for wade inspo i managed to finish this. it's been a ride delving into their angst and i hope you enjoy! we're one more chapter away from the ending and from this man's happy ending.

summary: time spent apart gives logan a chance to grieve - to mourn the family he lost. it gives you the opportunity to come to terms with what loving the wolverine means. the consequences that come with the choice of betting on someone like him. after all, he's not a violent dog...he just tends to bite harder than necessary.

word count: 7k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, angst, grief, dual pov chapter sorta, wade wilson breaking the fourth wall, wade wilson therapist, laura kinney is here to stay everyone, crying, pain, emotional turmoil, ptsd, time.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

You don't sleep anymore.

This wasn't due to a lack of exhaustion—you were always tired—you simply couldn't bear to withstand the dreams longer than necessary. They filled your head with their brutality. Ripped apart your psyche in such a short time frame, only to leave you split open and bleeding for the buzzards and vultures to pick at. You were surprised Wade never commented on how you resembled a walking corpse day after day.

Walking amongst the living as your soul was claimed by the dead.

Nightmares quickly became your waking reality. A piece of what Logan left behind burrowed in your chest, settling further than you could ever reach. But that remained the horrid truth. You didn't want to get rid of it—you couldn't fathom the thought for longer than a few seconds. The remedies given by Wade, Laura, Ness, were all flimsy bandaids that you stripped off when they weren't looking—hoping that the darkness within would eventually consume you whole.

What existed in your mind—in the very depths of your heart—were all you had left of the man who disappeared without a trace.

Staring at the ceiling was easier. Tracing the cracks in the plaster, the worn in marks of people who lived here long before you ever would. You pretended that he lay beside you—his body inches away from reaching for you. In search of a slice of contentment to counteract the yawning grave that threatened to bury him alive. You could play along in this delusion, create a world of your own as your vision blurred.

Maybe if you wished hard enough...it would come true.

Eventually the need for sleep won, dropping shovel after shovel of dirt. Intent on burying you six feet under in a spot that was never meant for you. Memories played on a loop, a reminder of what could never be—a fate that had been mistakenly written in the stars— and you accepted it with a solemn heart that sang a long forgotten song.

One you never should have learned.

A creak echoed in the living room, your door left ajar in case you had to run. But the cadence of her footsteps had grown familiar to your weary ears. The drag of boots across hardwood, a shuffle here and there in her attempt to stay quiet. She hardly left your apartment anymore. Taking a spot on your couch like a guard dog you never asked to keep—a protector who took on the role her father was meant to fill.

Laura often fell asleep on the leather piece of furniture never meant to be utilized as a bed. You peeked your head out once to check if she needed anything, only to find her laying with her body faced closest to the door—a cracked picture frame of a much older version of your Logan placed on the table beside her. Her brows were furrowed, face pinched in fear, and for the first time you understood her relationship to the Wolverine.

She shared much more than his DNA.

She was plagued by his nightmares as well.

Your heart cracked a bit further at the knowledge that she might never have another night of peace in her life. Forever taunted by a past that should have been happy.

Sighing, you turned onto your side, staring at the neon glow of your alarm clock—a polaroid of Logan propped against the lamp. Wade took it months before you got the chance to meet the man who would drastically shift the course of your life. Two days ago you found it on your pillow—a chocolate bar beside it. Wade's attempt at making you smile.

Even if all it managed to do was make you cry.

Broken wet sobs that left your body wracked with shivers, your heart numb to each emotion that might have existed before he walked away. You'd gone over their explanations in your head numerous times. Mulled over each word and soft whisper of why. Yet nothing registered but the emptiness—the hollow ache that spilled over with grief.

No matter how often you patched it back up, he still managed to break his way back in. The reminder of his absence only served to split you down the middle—rendering you incapable of anything but pain.

"I miss him too."

Your body jolted at the soft sound of her voice practically filled to the brim with melancholy. She stood in your doorway, hands limp at her side, and for the first time you saw her as who she really was. A child who lost her father not once, but twice. Wordlessly you dragged the blankets back from his side of the bed, rolling to face her as she clambered onto the mattress still clad in jeans and a t-shirt.

You offered your own pajamas a week ago in the hopes of making her more comfortable. Only for her to reveal she slept in her clothes even at the mansion.

Just in case.

"What was he like? Your father." The topic of the older Logan rarely came up for you, his memory somehow entwined with the man you fell in love with. But Laura knew him best. She'd seen him at his worst, only to watch him become the father he was always meant to be. "You don't have to talk about him if you don't want to."

She sighed, shifting around as if to shed the layer of vulnerability that scratched at her. "Angry."

You smiled. "Always?"

"No," she breathed. This breached onto territory she wasn't used to, memories she never liked to look back on, but for some unknown reason...it made you smile. So she persisted in spite of the discomfort that gnawed at her stomach. "He took care of Charles for a long time before he found me. Or well before I found him. But he had a lot to be angry about."

"I imagine." And you could.

Humans were their own enemy at times, destroying all that was good in the world. After witnessing what Fortuna went through—where her path lay—you understood how people would rather villainize what they didn't understand. Logan faced it each day, the difference of being someone who slipped by unnoticed yet could never truly reveal himself.

A man that carried the grief of all he lost and persisted despite the pain.

"He would have liked you," Laura mumbled, her eyes growing heavy with sleep's desperate call.

"I don't think–"

"You're like Charles." Her eyes slipped shut, body sagging into the mattress, while you were stunned into silence. "That's why."

She fell silent before the words managed to sink deep into your mind—puncturing a spot of love that existed in spite of all this agony. A place that Logan claimed all to himself. Yet as you lay there, tracing the lines of his daughter's face with your eyes, you felt her memory merge with his. Creating a small corner of your world for her to reside in—a home in your heart.

Tucking the blanket around her shoulder, you met sleep's call with a pleased sigh. It gripped you tight, closing its arms around your steady beating heart. Unbeknownst to you as the clock struck two in the morning, a shard of your broken heart wedged itself back into place. Healing over with a jagged scar sewn together by the girl who longed for permanency in a world that offered her the bitter end of a short stick.

The girl who asked for her father and got a mother instead.

Burnt pancake batter filled your senses, burning the insides of your nostrils as you were roused from sleep to the sharp off key singing of Wade in your kitchen. The spot beside you was empty, the sheets cold, and with a ragged sigh you sat up. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes. What slowly became your favorite part of the mornings—waking up beside a man who did everything he could to keep you between warm sheets—suddenly shifted into a horrid dream.

You were alone. Again.

The familiar prick of tears stung your eyes faster than you would have liked. Although that might have been the pancakes.

In sluggish movements, you dragged a flannel over your t-shirt to combat the frozen chill beginning to settle in the New York air. Fall was right around the corner, leaving you with a list of things to do before the apartment was back in working order. The window still sat unfixed—plastic taped over the gaping hole per Wade's instructions—and the radiator gave out after Fortuna's whip went through it.

"Just call me angel of the morning," Wade crooned, flipping another charred piece of bread onto a stack that began to lean four pancakes ago.

Laura watched it warily, her fingers gripped around a can of shitty soda you picked up for her two days ago. Coffee was offered as an alternative to her sugary habits; she offered to steal in case you were low on funds. You figured it was easier to appease than argue.

"Do you even know how to cook?" she muttered, taking another gulp.

"Such a ray of sunshine. It's like Logan is still here with us." Wade poured another glob of chunky batter onto your now ruined cast iron pan. "Tell me does that come from your genetics or is it a fancy power they gave you?"

She snorted, her claws coming free to stab at the pile and drag a pancake to her plate. "Genetics."

"I figured." He slid the syrup her way, the bowl in his other hand nearly tipping the batter onto the floor. "Use a fork, you alley cat. Housewives do not get paid enough to cook a fantastic meal and serve it too."

"You're not getting paid," Laura mumbled through a mouthful of food.

"Exactly." His head glanced towards the stove, eyes narrowed in mock irritation. "We should talk about that huh Feige."

A pancake slipped off the stack, hitting the counter with a heavy thud and you began to wonder if the bread was in fact what he said it was. Ever since you woke up in the mansion, Wade had been your chef morning noon and night. Each meal entirely came with  

Laura squinted at the smoke rapidly rising to the ceiling. "Maybe you should cook them for shorter periods of time."

"Don't question my methods, I'm a pancake champion Oliver." Her face scrunched, disgust flooding across her narrowed gaze. "Oliver and Company? Orange alley cat led and taught by the smooth dog Dodger?" She shook her head. "Greatest take on Oliver Twist to exist?"

"Never heard of it."

He dropped the bowl, jabbing a finger in her face quick enough to startle you where you hid by the doorway. "I hope you're ready to have your life changed Howlett Junior by the voice of Billy Joel taking away all our worries. Right sweet angel?"

Your attempt to meld yourself into the wall proved unsuccessful when Laura turned to smile at you, trepidation rising to the surface in her eyes. They watched you with an air of indecision. After Logan left you became a ticking time bomb—each second passing quicker than either of them expected—and one day when it was least expected...you'd explode.

Every emotion you tried to push down would shove its way to the front, rendering them unavoidable. That's what terrified you the most. It scared them too—you could see it hidden beneath looks of false joy and hopeful glances. They wanted you to heal, to survive this grueling time of solitude.

You simply didn't know if you had it in you to appease their worries.

Peeling away from the doorframe, you moved closer with soft unsure movements. So unlike the person from before who got over the unrelenting fear of being seen, of one day being known. He read you like a book, flipped the pages with enthusiasm and love, and you thought what resided in your own heart was enough to keep him reading. You believed he might put pen to paper and script what lay in the path of your lives spent together.

But he stopped reading weeks ago, shutting the half empty story to save you from the grief that devoured him from the inside out.

He let you remain unfinished. Perhaps that's how you were always meant to be.

"Tell me somewhere in that sexy mind of yours there's a version of Oliver and Company, cause I can't be surrounded by uncultured fiends," Wade rambled, tossing two pancakes onto a clean chipped plate he slid your way.

"I know of it," you replied. The meek echo of your voice sent a wave of shock through your system—so different, so unrecognizable.

You wanted to be known again, to exist in the confines of someone's mind. Wade and Laura offered up theirs on a silver platter—promising not to tarnish the fracture spirit housed in your weary body.

The burnt flavor of bread nearly made you gag, but Wade's smile forced you to swallow with a half hearted grin. "Isn't it a cartoon?"

Wade huffed. "And we’re comic book characters. What else is new?" Chewing happily on his own plate, he drowned his breakfast in a heaping wave of syrup that dripped onto your flour covered counter. "The offer to watch it today is on the table."

You swallowed thickly, nose wrinkled at the bitter flavor that stuck to the back of your throat. "Actually I'm gonna go into work today."

They froze. Unease stirring to life in the small kitchen as they regarded you with the hesitation you'd grown sick of facing. You couldn't be a recluse for the rest of your life, spending days watching movies on your couch with Wade—sharing quiet dinners with Laura at the table that housed a vase full of decaying flowers. Things wouldn't come to a halt because a man exited your life—they couldn't.

Logan left to heal.

It was time you did the same.

"I don't have much sick leave left," you began, the argument ready to leap off the tip of your tongue. "And my shift ends at six, which gives me enough time to pick up some actual dinner."

"Wolverine 2.0 goes with you," Wade replied—the stern lilt of his voice jarring you for a moment.

"Wade–"

"She goes."

There remained no room left to place your well thought out points in, no space for you to budge on his only demand. You supposed this was better than having both of them show up out of the blue. Your boss hardly let you get away with Logan showing up once or twice; two heroes would send them over the edge, eventually leading to your job being terminated.

You sighed, pushing the food around your plate for a second. "I guess she can learn something. Since she's supposed to be in school."

"You know I'm right here," she interjected, shoving the empty dish towards Wade.

"Hush. The adults are talking." He threw a wink your way, eyes glinting with a mischief that dimmed the day Logan left. The sight filled your lungs with air, hope settling at the base of your empty heart. "I'll pack the lunches."

Warmth filled the empty crevices of your body—sparking life into a part of you that had been vacant for weeks. "You don't have to."

"Shush. I've got to take care of my little breadwinner." He pinched your cheek hard enough to send pain flaring down your neck. "Besides I need to live up to my role as wifey or Ness will stop calling me that in bed."

Laura groaned, her eyes shutting to the sight of Wade's brash smile. "Gross."

"Ew," you replied, unable to hide the grin that cracked across your dried lips. "I didn't need to know that."

"Au contraire. If I had to hear you and Logan go at it for hours at a time. Kudos by the way it sounded like he gave phenomenal dick. You get to listen to me yap about my sex life."

Laura sped past you, vanishing into the bathroom and slamming the door shut with her boot. You couldn't blame her reaction. Hearing about her father's life drudged up pain that still existed in the back of her mind. Grief that she'd have to work through. Yet if she was anything like Logan, you'd have to face your own broken trauma in order for her to finally face hers.

"Yap?" you inquired, desperate to move on from the topic of him.

"Yeah. It's what all my fellow Gen Z’ers are saying."

With brows furrowed, you bit back the swell of laughter that bubbled up your throat. "Wade you're older than me by–"

His hand clapped over your mouth, muffling the remainder of your sentence. "Shhhh." A quick glance was thrown to the side. "Last I checked this is the Logan show. Not the Wade show. Well...not yet anyways."

"Hey Wade," you mumbled beneath a scarred palm that gripped your cheeks together. "Thank you."

For the first time all week...Wade gave you a smile that finally reached his eyes. Irises plagued with the same flicker of sadness that weighed heavy in your heart. The feeling of loss within a found family—of things changing faster than you could process. In an instant you were back to square one, struggling to keep your head above water.

Only this time you weren't swimming these dark waters alone. This time Wade and Laura clung to you, dragging what remained to a shore of a different color. A life yet to be explored.

"Anytime angel," he whispered with a kiss to your temple—drawing you close enough to feel his heart beneath the thin t-shirt. An organ that beat for one more person, that carved out space for his small inkling of hope.

For the family made up of two mutants, a blind woman, a sugar bear, the love of his life, and you.

The clatter of keychains echoed past the empty rows of shelves, bouncing off high ceilings decorated with yellowed lights. You caught sight of a small X-Men insignia stitched onto the side of the faded gray backpack. The stitches were frayed, the initials of L. K. H. placed right above it in sloppy angled sharpie, but the sight explained enough. Her entire life was stored within these aged pockets, in a pack held closed by a broken zipper and some faith.

"I like the Deadpool one." You watched her gloved hands toy with it for a moment, eyes glancing down the rows of darkened shelves every few moments.

Even here in the midst of silence and history, she remained on guard.

You wanted to promise a sliver of peace beyond all that she went through—a place where nothing happened except the shuffle of books and moving of boxes. Only to realize that you'd never be able to tell her something so untrue.

She'd never be entirely safe again. That made you want to rip at the world until your hands went bloody and raw. Until there remained a guarantee that she'd be able to sleep at night, that when her father came home things would be different.

"Peter made it." She picked at the black polish on her nails—the bottle swiped off your vanity a week ago in the hopes you wouldn't go looking for it. "Said a member of X-Force should have the marker."

"Didn't...they all die?"

"Yeah. So it's more of a warning I guess?" She grinned, wide and bright and so carefree it tugged sharply at your heart.

You placed another stack on the cart, fiddling with the order. If you kept yourself busy you could stop thinking about him. You could shove each memory and shared moment of bliss to the back of your mind. This was your chance to find a small semblance of normalcy after so much damage, a change in the rapidly shifting path of your life. You used to enjoy shelving pieces of history—find contentment in the familiar pattern of routine.

Now his eyes haunted your mind. His touch was a ghost along the back of your neck. His smile was reflected to you in the face of his daughter—the crinkles around her eyes an exact copy of his.

You were doomed to repeat history, destined to break as Fortuna did with a shattered heart and the hope that one day he might come home and find you. He'd open the apartment door set in place by his calloused hands and find you right where he left you—waiting as time stopped and dust gathered and your heart called for a man lost in time.

"I've got to shelve these," you said, voice thick with unshed tears you swallowed down. "But feel free to pick a book okay?"

She nodded, dragging a small journal out of her pack—a chewed up pen with it. "Wade gave me your lunch."

"I'll come find you in an hour?"

"I'm not going anywhere." The words were said more for your benefit than hers—a way to appease the constant flicker of unease in your mind. Perhaps this is what she lived with her whole life. The pain of yearning for someone to come back to her, to stay.

You'd be that person.

You would stay.

Smiling one last time, you pushed the cart into a row sparse with books—the light clicking on above your head as your footsteps echoed off the wooden floor. Your boss texted you quick instructions before she took the upstairs shift, the piles left behind for you to sort through. It seemed that classes were back in session, each book taken out regarding some form of historical information on New York.

Your eyes caught the titles while you worked. Sliding books into their proper spot and discarding the paper slotted in as a placeholder. It became a mindless task. A job of familiarity that your muscles immediately recognized—your arms moving of their own volition. Giving free reign to your mind that turned over information at a rapid rate.

What happens now? What would life turn into?

Now that you were back in a place that held so much of your soul you found that fitting back into the mold felt wrong. You were a human who got caught up in the affairs of mutants. It had happened before to others like you, it would certainly happen again. Yet you weren't sure you could handle the pain of being tossed into the ring with no means of protection again.

Your heart barely survived the first time.

To do it again would mean signing your name along death's dotted line. Only this time the pact would be sealed with your own blood.

A tilted stack of books slid onto their sides, grabbing hold of your attention quicker than expected. You slammed a hand against them with the hopes of saving yourself from extra work. Only for the one in your other hand to slip, hitting the cart with a thud and shoving it a foot away. Your mind went into overdrive—the noise of metal clanging against the tall shelves reverting into the all too familiar crack of a whip.

You gasped, leaping back as if the pile burned right down to your bone—the books toppling to the ground in rapid succession. A domino effect that would leave you crouching for a good twenty minutes to put everything back in its rightful spot.

"No," you exclaimed, your voice unwavering amidst the anxiety that filled your stomach.

Something ripped at the base of your spine, crackling through your body like a livewire. It pulled at every nerve, every tendon and muscle, until you were positive this was more than an overwhelming amount of stress. Your vision went black, a glare of light flashing behind closed eyelids, as the world went still and time rolled to a deathly halt.

Blue washed off your stiff form in rolling waves, curling around your stretched arms and down to the fingers that nearly curled around a book held in midair. A rush of cold air flooded your lungs, expanding them in your chest with a strength you'd never experienced before. As if the missing piece within your DNA finally settled into place—a spot always meant to hold something else.

A power that flared to life with a burning wave of heat.

It welcomed you like a long lost friend. Burrowed into the broken parts of your chest with a promise to put you back together. Time trickled by as your heart started up again—beating slowly against your ribs. Surging past each part of you that intertwined with this newfound link.

You sucked in another breath, eyes fluttering open with a flash of cerulean to see Laura struggling along the bookcase. Her face screwed up in pain, claws buried in the wooden shelves to drag herself forward. She moved an inch at a time, her cry unable to fill the vacant air as she struggled to rip you from the power that fractured your mind.

Such an inconceivable topic: time. Centuries prickled across your skin, millenniums made a home along each bone that grinded to a stop, decades offered you a life that might have ended at the age of eighty.

Infinity. Immortality. An end that rivaled Death.

Oh...what bliss.

"Yes," you relented. An answer to the question that would never be said aloud.

Another pulse of energy flowed off your shoulders, spilling across empty shelves—rattling the boxes that began to topple to the floor. If you weren't careful you'd bring destruction to a building that became your second home. But the consciousness you relied on was suddenly nowhere to be found.

"Stop!" Laura's voice struck you across the face, punching into your chest with enough blistering pain to wake up your mind to what was happening within you.

Slamming your hands against the shelves that stood on either side of you, the light of blue sputtered out, dying quick enough for you to get a hold of your body. Time fell back into place, the books you nearly dropped crashed to the floor with a loud clatter of thuds, and you collapsed. Your knees hit the floor harshly, pain coursing up your legs. Yet you could barely keep your eyes open.

"Laura," you wheezed, body sagging against the shelf.

She collapsed beside you, gathering your hands into a vice-like hold. "What happened? What the fuck was that?"

"Fortuna..."

"Is she alive? Is she here?" Her head raised, eyes scanning the vacant area for signs of your variant self.

"She–" Your vision swirled with spots of black, your head fuzzy with the prick of power that wanted to consume you. "I–"

"We gotta get you home," she muttered, shifting her strength to lift you to your feet—body braced heavily on her as she walked. "I'm calling a cab. Stay with me okay? Just stay awake."

The distant ring of her phone echoed in the background as she dragged you with her, a familiar muffled voice coming through the small speaker. Wade. You wanted to speak to him. Ask him what just happened. But only one person would hold the answers—only one person would make you feel alive again. You sucked in a shaky breath, hot tears spilling down your cheeks. The image of him—his smile, his love—filling your broken mind.

"I'm taking her home," Laura muttered into the line.

Her voice became a buzz in your ears. Sharp and unrelenting and inescapable. Your vision went dark, mind succumbing to the painful twisting of your gut—the need to be anywhere else overtaking every other thought. Laura called your name, shook your shoulders, but the world faded away before you could reach out and grasp it; your body sinking beneath the depths, drowning in the soothing waves of time.

“How did you sleep?”

“No nightmares.”

“Are you lying to me Howlett?”

“I’m not lying,” he confessed. “I didn’t really dream of anythin’ this time around.”

Your own laughter pricked at your ears. “Don’t tell me. It was because of me.”

“I think it might be bub.” His touch ghosted across your skin—breath a wash of hot air against your skin. “Guess you’re my cure. Been lookin’ for awhile.”

"Logan," you murmured, eyes fluttering open.

His smile lit up the darkness in your chest—eyes crinkled and lips parted in a sigh of love. "Yeah bub?"

"Y-You're here..."

A hand curled around the back of your neck, drawing you in close enough to make the steady beat of your heart flutter. "Where else would I be honey? I woke up with ya."

"But you've been gone." Your brows furrowed, the haze in your thoughts blocking anything other than him. "I was with Laura–"

He stilled. "Laura?"

"She was helping me," you mumbled, attempting to force your eyes to stay open. "At the library."

"You're just dreamin'," he chuckled.

"But I'm not–"

Lips that haunted you in your sleep brushed across the bridge of your nose—his fingers scratching at the base of your scalp with a hum. "You haven't met her yet honey. How could you be with her at the library?"

You wrenched your eyes open, clutching at the covers that lay over your bodies in an iron grip. "Fortuna–"

Logan's body went still, his head rearing back to stare at you in abject horror. "How do you know her name?" he rasped. "I never told you..."

"What are you talking about?" The buzzing filled each sense, each part of your already numb body. "Wait. No. I need more time," you begged, tears rushing to the surface.

His face blurred, your name a distant call on the tip of his tongue as the waves crashed over your body. Dragging you back to a shore meant for you. Darkness swallowed you whole in an instant. Until you could barely catch your breath—the speed of time rushing to a quick stop. Within the hold of darkness, the drifting peace of nothingness, you heard it.

The vibrant sapphire call of a woman you believed to be the enemy.

“Do better than me."

"Love him the way I couldn't.

You gasped, thrashing against the vice hold that wrenched you apart. The voice whispered soothingly in your ear, a warm compression against a heart that longed for more than this unfathomable excruciating ache.

She drew you to your feet, hands clasped around your wrists, and helped you stagger to the ocean's edge. She faced you with a mirrored smile that faded weeks ago—her eyes bright and flickering with peace.

"Do what I couldn't." Thumbs pressed into the base of your wrist. "Protect them. All of them."

A thick sob ripped from your chest—eyes blurry with tears that refused to stop. "How? I-I shouldn't be this."

"It was always meant to be you. Not me."

"W-What?"

"When Death asks for your hand. Take it. She will lead you home." The scathing brightness of sunlight burned your closed eyelids, pushing you towards something familiar. A place you knew would protect you. "Until then. Show them that time was never the enemy. We're simply their companion."

"Fortuna!" you cried, the form of her slowly dissipating back into the realm of darkness not yet meant for you. "I can't do this! I'm not supposed to be this!"

"Tell him I'm sorry."

Hands grasped at your shoulders. The cold press of metal against the bare skin of your arms jolted you awake—lungs expanding with air that felt like home. The floral scent of your laundry soap filled your nose, the warmth of your bed dragged along your body, and the brush of hair on your neck drew you back to the present. Your eyes fluttered open, chest heaving for any amount of air you could draw in.

"Laura?"

She sighed, dropping the hold she had on your shoulders. "You did it again."

"Did it again?"

"Looks like someone got jealous of all these special powers around her," Wade teased from the doorway of your room—a glass of water in his hand.

"What?" you croaked, suddenly aware of how raw your throat was.

He huffed, settling on the side of your bed. "You've got a bad case of the McFlys. Traveling to and fro in the timeline. Don't think the big guy upstairs will like that very much."

"God?"

"Victor."

You choked. "Who?"

"Or maybe it's Loki," he huffed. "I get that show's timeline confused. Anyways up you go. Drink this. Nurse Wade's orders."

With reluctance you downed the glass of water, Laura's watchful gaze burning into your from the chair. They moved with hesitation brimming to the surface of their eyes—a glaze of uncertainty prominent in each shift of their bodies. They were scared. Whether it was due to what you were turning into or what you could become. You couldn't be certain at this time, but the fear still lingered in the air.

Thick and bitter and so unlike the two mutants who'd become your family in the past few weeks.

"What's happening to me?" you whispered, Wade's hand reaching for yours with a placating grin.

"I've got one guess and it's dredging up memories of that fucker Francis, but dormant mutant gene." The panic in your eyes had him reaching for your other hand. "Hey look at me angel okay? I know how to handle this."

You shook your head, that unsettling twist in your gut rising to the surface. "I'm not...No. That's not possible. I would have..." You hiccuped, oxygen becoming harder to reach for as his words began to settle along your skin. "I would have known," you whispered.

"I didn't." He drew you close enough for his nose to brush your forehead. "That little surprise landed in my lap like a bad case of chlamydia. It's rare, but it happens."

"Why me?" you uttered, unable to process anything other than Laura's sharp gaze."

He sighed. "We don't get to pick and choose. Something must have triggered it."

Fortuna's hold on your jaw, the rocks scattered along the dirt digging into your back. It all came back to you. Her final words bleeding with an act of sacrifice—a promise to gift you with the curse she was unable to handle. Do better than her. Protect them better than her. Wield the ebbing and flowing of time better than her.

She awoke a part of you that had yet to come to life. A dormant section of your DNA that might have forever gone unnoticed if her powers hadn't unlocked it. She gave you everything, dropped the burden on your shoulders, because she knew something you didn't at the time.

You had people—a family, a lover—to keep you stable.

You had the one thing she couldn't save.

"It was always meant to be you. Not me."

Laura sat up, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "It's time."

Wade glanced over his shoulder. "We don't know where he is Oliver."

She sneered, digging out the small phone from her vest pocket. "I do. I gave him the keys."

"Call who?" you rasped, barely able to process that you were back home somehow.

Until her eyes met yours and drew you back to the surface with a name that burned right through your heart. "Logan."

The sharp thwack of an axe against wood filled the still air. Mist clung to the area, settling over his shoulders with a wet layer of frigid condensation. He felt it weigh in his hair, sink into his flannel, and send a wave of cold familiarity through his body. A place he never thought could exist in a different universe somehow stood the test of time. The Logan that came before was somehow more like his variant self than expected.

He sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead—the split open skin of his palms healing over before he could get a glimpse of them. The axe remained lodged into a mangled tree stump. Slivers and pieces of all that he chopped scattered in the clearing. He'd have to pick them up eventually, but he chose to stick with the same motion.

A piece of muscle memory he'd grown used to.

The sun began its descent beneath the thicket of trees, nightfall coming once more to a home occupied by a single person. Merely him and the stack of unread books left behind by a man who shared his taste. He yanked the flannel off his body, tossing it to the chair on his small porch, setting another log into place with a breath.

"Fuck," he muttered, cracking his neck slightly.

A mug of cold coffee sat discarded on the small table he constructed two weeks ago. A means to an end. A way to keep his racing mind busy from the pain that echoed like a bad dream in his head. He'd forgone the whiskey bottles stored in the liquor cabinet, opting for the bitter tang of the wine you preferred with your dinner.

The image of your smile kept him awake most nights. The sound of your laughter playing on a loop like a scratched record he clung to. This was his salvation. Your memory, your joy. It kept him going on days where the horrors threatened to drag him beneath the surface of the Earth.

He dug his grave long before he met you. Whether or not he crawled into it relied on one simple fact.

Though he dragged you through hell—became the cause of so much suffering within your life—you still loved him. You were waiting for him to come home.

"Desperado," he hummed, yanking the axe out of the splintered wood. "Why don't you come to your senses."

Discarding the tool to the side, he gathered what wood might be needed for a small fire. It wouldn't have any effect on whether he stayed warm or not, but it would put him at ease after such a grueling task. Tomorrow he'd go back to work at the yard—his measly paycheck enough to keep him fed with meals cooked in solitude.

He tossed them beside his fireplace, wiping the dirt and mud from his hands with the damp flannel. Life shifted the second Laura handed him the keys to this house on the edge of nowhere. Back to a routine he once knew so well. To a life that once offered him the facade of peace. He might have deluded himself into thinking it would happen again—that he'd get the chance to breathe again.

But your memory clung to his soul. You refused to release him from the spell of your love.

Fortuna's memory remained at the back of his mind like a long lost friend—someone who once offered him a future filled to the brim with hope. And then there was you. His honey. His lover till death. You were the reason he kept himself breathing, the reason his heart continued to thrum in his chest.

You were his savior, guiding him through the grief with a warm smile and a kiss of life.

The shrill ring of his phone broke the haze of memories he found himself in. Dropping into the chair beside his bed, he unlaced his boots—yanking the device out of the drawer on his dresser. He rarely needed it anymore. The contact he had with the rest of the world now whittled down to the people he worked with and the cashier at the small market.

With a sigh, he flipped it open in the hopes it was Wade calling to finally bug him about returning. It wouldn't be unusual. Weeks went by sluggishly, dripping like honey from the jar as he attempted to fix the broken parts of his heart.

Leaving without saying goodbye is what hurt the most. His silent kiss pressed to your cold forehead, his lingering gaze that did what he could to burn your features into his mind. He wanted you with him. Here in this small home. He wanted to hear your laughter fill up the empty spaces, the warmth of your love shining in the air with a palpable physicality that stole his breath away.

Logan ached for you.

But you didn't deserve a man riddled with demons. Certainly not the version of himself that left you behind.

Laura's name flashing across the screen set that familiar unease back in his stomach. The terror that something happened again—something brought you pain when he wasn't there to protect you—filled the crevices of his heart. And with a shaky breath, he answered.

"Laura."

She interrupted him before empty pleasantries could rise to the surface. "You need to come home."

He swallowed thickly. "What happened?"

"I can't explain over the phone, but it's bad. She's not gonna cope without you here."

"What the fuck do you mean cope?" he bit out, his eyes flashing to the small framed image of you that sat proudly on his nightstand. "Is she hurt?"

"No."

He sucked in a breath, relief washing over his shoulders. "Is she okay?"

Laura hesitated. "She's...broken." The word struck him with a visceral anger—an emotion that nearly caught him off guard. "She needs you here Dad. Wade and I can only do so much and if I knew she was dormant I could have helped sooner."

Dormant.

He stiffened, fingers tightening around the phone hard enough for it to crack. "What do you mean by dormant?"

Laura sucked in a breath. "She's..." A beat of silence filled his chest with a fear he never knew could exist in this universe. "She's like us, Dad. She's like her."

Like her.

The world shifted on its axis as he sat there listening to Laura's shaky attempts to explain what occurred. How you needed him this time around. His heart rammed an unsteady beat in the confines of his chest. An echo that rang with a crippling hollow promise of loneliness. Only this time it didn't scream for him—it raged for the person he loved.

The person he left behind.

"Send her here," he said. And before his mind could comprehend the words spilling past his lips, he made a vow he failed to keep—a promise he'd fulfill until his final breath. "I'll keep her safe."

note: this is incredibly late than what i originally planned, but life has been chaotic. and to everyone in the us who are struggling, i hope you take care of yourself this week. we got this and i love you.

[hard-core-super-star]

if you're weak, come to me [wandanat]

pairing: top!natasha romanoff x bottom!wanda maximoff

summary: wanda gets injured during a mission and natasha is TOTALLY fine with that (not). they seek each other's comfort in the only way they know how.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT -> porn with so many feelings and a dash of plot; mentions of dom/sub dynamics; natasha has so many feelings and no way of verbalizing them; wanda's brattiness is implied; fingering {wanda receiving}; flirty banter; begging; teasing; so many kisses; non-fatal injuries; mentions of blood; not mentioned but this takes place somewhere between age of ultron and civil war

wordcount: 3.6k

a/n: so...this week has been a LOT, i have many thoughts but they're all scattered and filled with rage so i'll save them for another time. the U.S election results have left me feeling both incredibly hopeless and numb and to counteract the heaviness of the moment, i decided to finish this fic instead of spiraling or doomscrolling. easier said than done but it's fine. thank you so much to the lovely person who commissioned this, i had a great time writing for this paring. i still don't feel super confident about my characterization of natasha but it's getting there 😅 anyway, enough rambling, i'm sending you guys all my love and support, my askbox is always open <3

* * * * * * *

No one said being an Avenger was easy.

Outside of the long hours, and the possibility of the world ending every other day, there were the unmeasurable amounts of guilt and regret and worry that seemed to plague each and every one of them. They could probably keep a whole building of therapists employed with the amount of trauma they carried.

Everyone at the compound was well aware of their personal situations, but no two felt it as strongly as Natasha and Wanda. There was no denying how well they worked together, how easy their chemistry was, the way they knew exactly what to do to stop each other from spiraling when they needed it most.

Unfortunately, there were moments where their worries clashed together and left them feeling worse than usual.

Moments like today.

Wanda had been chosen to go on a mission without Natasha and the widow had managed to threaten just about everyone she could think of until she was able to go with her girlfriend.

It all would have been fine had the witch not been incredibly annoyed by what she felt to be an overreaction. Even that would have been fine if they hadn't ended up going on the mission while they were still upset with each other.

They weren't mad enough to not worry about each other, but they still chose to go separate ways and focus on getting different things done. Something that would have been fine had Wanda not been ambushed by far too many enemy agents at once.

Steve had been the closest one to the witch and had managed to get there before things turned too sour. Unfortunately, that had been enough to make the Widow spiral. She'd heard her girlfriend request backup in that shaky voice that gave away her fear and she'd been unable to do anything about it.

If Steve had taken any longer to get to Wanda...she didn't want to think about what could have happened. She couldn't think about it.

And yet it was the only thing on her mind on the way home.

The mission had been successful, but she still felt like a failure. Like somehow, despite how inaccurate of an assessment it was, it had all been her fault. If she hadn't allowed her ego to get the better of her, she would have been there. She would have been able to help her girlfriend before she got hurt.

The witch wasn't mortally wounded in any way, but that didn't matter to her.

Wanda, for her part, felt fine. Sure, she was sore and in pain and bleeding, but she was an Avenger, getting hurt came with the territory.

It became obvious to her that her girlfriend didn't feel the same way as her when the redhead decided to ignore her on the way home. The Quinjet was small, and yet the distance between them felt massive.

It wasn't like her to sneak into people's minds without permission, but this was different. This was Natasha, and her concern for her outweighed most of her guilt around using her powers around her.

Maybe it was a bad idea, but she did it anyway, and it allowed her to see the pain her girlfriend was carrying on her shoulders. It pained her to know Natasha was blaming herself. That she didn't believe she was worth all the love the younger woman had for her.

There wasn't an easy solution to that kind of guilt, but Wanda would be dammed if she allowed her girlfriend to continue to suffer in silence.

The second they landed back at the Compound, Natasha made her way to the witch's side. There was an unreadable expression on her face as she looked her lover over and she silently extended her hand out for her.

Wanda wasted no time in accepting her help.

They made their way to their shared room, holding onto each other a little tighter than necessary. Neither of them commented on it, though, they needed the physical contact more than they were willing to admit out loud.

The silence between them bordered on awkward, but they didn't even attempt to break it. They needed to have a long conversation and it needed to happen away from prying eyes and ears.

After a tense walk, they managed to make it inside their room, and Natasha instantly set the younger woman down on the bed. "Do you need to change your bandages?"

The mention of the badly wrapped bandages made Wanda chuckle despite herself. She wasn't sure whose idea it was to go on a mission without Dr. Banner who, despite how awkward he could be about it, always did a great job at patching them up when they were hurt. Sure, it wasn't his area of expertise, but he was much better at it than Steve.

"No, I'm okay," she replied, not aware of the effect her words were going to have on her girlfriend.

The Widow let out a loud scoff. "Oh, you're okay? You were stabbed and shot at but you're okay?"

"'Tasha-"

"Don't." Her tone left no room for arguing. "You're hurt, I'm allowed to be pissed off about it."

"I never said you couldn't be upset," Wanda muttered in response. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm fine."

It was a shitty argument, but it was the best she could do given the circumstance. There was no way to win out over Natasha's stubbornness, so the only thing she could do was hope her words would eventually get through to her. That seeing her so sure that everything was fine would bring her out of the spiral she was stuck in.

The only response the Widow gave was a long sigh, her eyes betraying the true weight of her feelings.

Her hand reached out before she could stop it, and Wanda met her halfway, leaning into her touch with a small smile.

Natasha's fingers trailed across the witch's jawline as her eyes took in every little scrape that painted her delicate features. A part of her knew  she was overreacting. That they're safe and sound and Wanda's injuries will heal in no time.

And yet, it was impossible to stop desperation from building within her. The worries that threatened to swallow her whole if she allowed herself to think about things too much.

"'Tasha." Wanda's voice was barely above a whisper as she tried to get through to her lover one more time. "I'm okay."

"You were hurt."

"I've been through worse."

The words were meant to be reassuring, but they had the opposite effect. If anything, they made Natasha feel more helpless. Like despite all her skills, all her knowledge, all her training, she'll never be able to keep her lover safe.

She'll never be enough.

"Stop that, you're more than enough."

Her eyebrow raised involuntarily in response. "Get out of my mind, little witch."

"Hey! It's not my fault your thoughts are so loud."

Despite the heaviness that still lingered within her, a chuckle managed to escape past her lips. In an instant, she leaned forward to press a quick kiss to Wanda's pouting lips.

It amazed her how soft the witch could be after all the pain and violence she grew up in.

More than that, it amazed her how quickly her mood was able to shift when she was with the younger woman. How easy it was for her fears to disappear when they were together.

A soft smile was written across her features when she pulled away from her lover, her eyes a mirror that reflected the affection that was clear in the witch's eyes.

"Let me fix you up, detka." Her voice was barely above a whisper, but there was no denying the weight behind her words. "I promise I'll be quick."

Wanda couldn't help but shift nervously in response. It wasn't like she didn't trust Natasha, of course she trusted the redhead, but she knew how she could get. How easy it was for her to get caught up seeing monsters instead of shadows.

"I...are you sure? My bandages should be okay for a few hours."

"Not with the way Steve wrapped them," Natasha replied with a hint of humor in her tone.

The humor wasn't enough to mask her worry, and yet Wanda felt herself relaxing a little. If it helped her girlfriend feel better, she had no complaints about allowing her to clean her wounds up a little.

"Okay."

It was a single word that conveyed the trust she held in the redhead.

Wanda shifted back on the bed until she was laying down with her head resting on their pillows. She'd been in this position many times before, but this was different. There was an edge of vulnerability that clung to the air between them, a need for reassurance that neither of them could verbalize.

Natasha moved closer, not quite settling between the witch's legs, simply coming close enough to reach for her shirt. Her hands shook slightly as she lifted her girlfriend's shirt, her eyes taking in every inch of smooth skin that was revealed to her. Her heart ached in her chest as she examined each and every one of the cuts and bruises that littered her torso.

"I promise I'm okay," Wanda whispered, noticing her girlfriend's hesitation.

"I believe you."

Still, her head ducked down until her lips met the skin that had been revealed to her.

The gasp that escaped past the younger woman's lips made her smile. She still didn't feel completely okay but the helplessness that had settled in her chest was slowly easing away.

Her lips traced every inch of battered skin they could reach, her hands pushing the fabric up and over Wanda's head. With her shirt out of the way, she was able to fully look over the  bandages wrapped around her girlfriend's injuries. They didn't look as bad as she had expected them to and she subconciously let out a sigh of relief.

It didn't matter how many times she was reassured that the younger woman was fine, she needed to see it with her own eyes. To realize she wasn't bleeding out, there was no bullet lodged inside her, no sharp knife sticking out of her. She was fine.

She was safe.

And she was already arching her back in the way that made the Widow lose all of her control.

It wasn't about the pleasure, though. They both knew that. It was about comfort.

About being there for each other in the only way that was able cut through their anxieties. Maybe it was wrong to have to rely on the physical to get rid of the mental strain they were always under, but it made sense to them. More than that, it worked.

Because as much as they trusted and loved each other, being vulnerable wasn't something that came easy to them. Especially not after a mission when their fight or flight insticts were still on.

"I'm here," Natasha mumbled, shifting until she was hovering over her girlfriend. "I'm right here, Wands."

The words brought a beautiful smile to the witch's face. "I know...but you're still too far."

Wanda managed to work up enough courage to wrap her arms around Natasha's neck. She tried to keep her grip loose, just in case the Widow wasn't ready for too much physical contact.

"Patience," she replied. "I'm in the middle of something here. I still haven't cleaned you up."

The witch couldn't help but roll her eyes at that. The last thing on her mind right was her injuries. She felt fine. More than that, she felt weirdly needy and she needed her girlfriend's lips in a completely different spot.

She knew complaining probably wouldn't get her very far, but she couldn't help it. Maybe some light playfulness would help Natasha feel better.

"Come on, 'Tasha, that can wait. I need you right now."

The redhead paused for a second, green eyes focused intently on Wanda's face. She thought things over for a second, silently analyzing the situation in front of her. Her girlfriend seemed fine. All that seemed to linger were her wounds but not the pain they had initially brought.

It was irresponsible, she knew that much, but how was she supposed to deny her beautiful lover?

"How are you always so needy?" She replied, her soft smile growing just a tad bit teasing. "Don't tell me I've spoiled you too much."

"Maybe you have." Wanda shrugged. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"I beg to differ."

Natasha leaned down to capture the witch's lips again. This time, there was a little less softness to the contact and a little more urgency. And a lot of unrestrained desperation neither of them knew what to do with.

One kiss turned into two which turned into Wanda digging her nails into Natasha's shoulders while her hips bucked involuntarily. The Widow's thigh was too far to provide the witch with any real friction and yet it only made everything feel ten times more intense. An intensity that always seemed to catch up to them when they were together in such a way.

"Nat..." Wanda groaned, head tilting back in both pleasure and desperation.

"I know." Despite the teasing edge to her response, there was nothing but affection in her tone. Nothing but devotion for her lover. "What did I say about patience?"

One of Natasha's hands made its way between their bodies, her fingers tracing a path she knew by memory. The witch didn't seem to be in the mood for much teasing but she couldn't help it. There was something so exciting about turning her girlfriend into a desperate mess.

She knew, on some level, where it came from. That Wanda needed to be taken care of just as badly as she needed to be in control. They were on opposite ends of the same spectrum.

The witch arched her back in an attempt to push her chest further into Natasha's hand, a quiet moan leaving her lips as she teased her hardned nipples. "Stop teasing."

"I've barely started, detka. Don't tell me you already can't handle it?"

"You're so mean."

"You like it."

Wanda didn't have any time to refute that claim because right when she opened her mouth to speak, the redhead decided to finally give in to what her body needed.

"I oh-" The witch's body shuddered as Natasha's hand moved down, slidding into her tight pants and cupping her wet heat. The fabric of her underwear was still in the way, but neither of them cared too much about the obstruction.

Matching moans left their lips as the Widow found the wet spot staining the younger woman's underwear, her fingers moving over the soaked fabric with renowed purpose.

"What was that?" Natasha teased. "Were you going to say something?"

Her girlfriend's tone had Wanda clenching around pure air, her hips bucking involuntarily in search of more friction. "N-no."

"Are you sure? I can stop if you need me to."

"Fuck no. Don't stop...please."

"Good girl."

The praise sent shivers down Wanda's spine and effectively turned all her thoughts to pure mush. It should have been embarrassing how quickly she fell apart for her lover and yet all she could feel was pleasure. And maybe a little pride at how fast she managed to make Natasha give in to what she wanted.

That sort of pride was mutual, though, and it caused desire to thrum in their veins. Desire for what? That wasn't as easy to figure out. Thankfully, they had nothing but time to try.

Natasha quickly grew tired of teasing her girlfriend. Not because she didn't want to keep doing it (she really really did), but because she could tell she needed more. And after the day they'd had, she wasn't sure she'd be able to deny the witch anything.

Her fingers slid inside Wanda's ruined underwear, relishing the loud gasp that escaped the younger woman when she brushed against her clit. The witch was always sensitive, and today was no exception. It made these kinds of moments all the more exciting for her.

"Oh, fuck." Wanda's voice came out more like a whine than anything else. "Please."

"Please what?" She responded, leaning down to trail kisses down the witch's jawline. "Use your words like a good girl."

The only response she could form for a few seconds was another whine. Natasha always knew exactly what to do, exactly what to say, to help her sink down into that fuzzy, submissive headspace she was slowly getting used to. They hadn't done much exploring, too busy with never-ending missions to safely allow the witch to slip, but the safe experimentation they'd done had taught them both more than enough.

Mainly, it taught them how much they both thrive in that type of scenario. How much they depend on each other, on and off the battlefield.

"Don't stop," Wanda begged, feeling her hesitation fade away with every second that went by. "Touch me, fuck me, anything, please."

If Natasha was in a crueler mood, she would have taken her time to tease the younger woman. To play with her until she was a writhing, whimpering mess beneath her.

As fun as that sounded, she wasn't in the mood for that today. She wanted to let go. To help Wanda let go until all that was left was the two of them, locked together, in the sanctuary of their room.

"That's my girl." Her words were accompanied by the movement of her fingers. They slid through Wanda's slick folds before slowly easing in to her cunt. "Fuck, you're soaked for me, detka."

The witch was more than wet enough to take Natasha's fingers but the Widow still took her time, working two fingers inside and diligently watching her lover's face contort with pleasure. The way her walls fluttered around her was intoxicating, drawing the digits in deeper and practically begging her to stay buried inside her.

She moved slowly. Not because she wanted to tease but because she wanted to draw out the sensations. To overwhelm Wanda with the devotion she couldn't properly express most days.

To be fair, it didn't seem like the younger woman minded. They were both broken, albeit in different ways, and they seemed to understand eachother without words. It was the most comforting thing either of them had ever known.

But God, she was so afraid of losing this. Of losing the one good thing she had. The one person who didn't see her as the Black Widow or a S.H.I.E.L.D. product. To Wanda, she was simply 'Tasha and it meant far more to her than anything else.

It wasn't hard for Wanda to realize the change in her girlfriend's thoughts. The sudden change in her breathing, the glosiness that overtook her eyes. She knew exactly what it meant and she knew she had to do something before the redhead started drowning in her thoughts.

So, she did the only thing she could think of right now. Mainly because thinking was getting difficult and it wasn't like she could move around too much with the Widow's fingers buried in her pussy.

Her hands moved to Natasha's face, cuping her cheeks and bringing her closer until their lips met once again. The kiss was a stark contrast to the movements of the redhead's fingers, but neither of them seemed to care.

All they cared about was being together.

Wanda pulled away first, her panting breaths turning into whimpering gasps. The coil in her stomach was about ready to snap, her hips bucking desperately into the readhead's hand. "Nat- I can't, I need-"

"What do you need, detka?" She asked, even though she already knew the answer. She couldn't help it, she loved the way the witch's eyebrows furrowed in frustration when she interrupted her just to tease her.

"Need to cum, please-" Her words turned into a moan when Natasha's thumb found her swollen clit. "Please, can I cum?"

The desperation in her girlfriend's voice made the redhead smile proudly. It was hard to think about her fears when she had the witch like this. Completely and utterly under her spell.

"Of course," she replied, speeding up the thrusts of her fingers in an attempt to bring Wanda even closer to falling apart. "Come on, be a good girl and cum for me."

The witch felt overwhelmed in the best way. All she could think about, all she could feel, was Natasha. Her words, her hands, the pleasure only she was able to bring her. It was all too much yet it felt so good.

Her walls clenched around the Widow's fingers as she lost control of herself, giving in to the pleasure and letting everything else fade away. All it took was a few sharp thrusts of Natasha's fingers before she was moaning her lover's name, her eyes squeezing shut while she rode the waves of pleasure that crashed into her.

The redhead worked her through her orgasm, making sure to slow down a little to avoid overstimulating the younger woman. She leaned down to pepper kisses across each and every inch of Wanda's neck to help ground her a little more.

Neither of them were sure how much time went by before Wanda was able to open her eyes again, but when she finally did, the large, slightly goofy, smile on her face instantly gave away how she was feeling.

Still, Natasha asked anyway.

"You okay?"

"Hmmm, yeah."

The Widow chuckled, her heart practically bursting out of her chest at the sight of Wanda so happy and relaxed. It was a sight that never failed to make her feel better, no matter how shitty her day had been before.

"Good." She placed a few extra kisses across Wanda's face before shifting further down her body. "Because we're not done yet."

Natasha was talking about the remaining injuries she hadn't taken a look at yet but if they got up to other things too...well, she wouldn't complain about that.

[oh-yes-i-did-not]

Okay so this makes it clear why my therapists have asked this. But also, it makes so clear that some are really not listening to me but just following a script, because when they ask me "WHY can't you?" and my only answers is "because I fucking can't I need money and I don't have it and nobody will allow me to just lie on my fucking back and not deal with shit!"

And because of that I've always felt like that question is just utter and total bullshit? And I absolutely dread hearing it. Because most of the time my answer is very practical because I get asked it about with VERY, VERY WRONG THINGS.

But yeah, it also explains why I've kinda gotten along with all of my therapists but not really opened up to most of them. They're like okay people but also, they're not for me. We don't sync, we don't jive, we don't make jazz together. We get along but we don't work.

Therapy is risky because sometimes they'll just ask you their standard "why can't you, though", and you think you're making some good point by saying something like "well if I don't do anything with my life then what's the point of being alive in the first place" and your therapist gets that look on their face and you immediately realise that your dumb ass just got caught, pinned to the ground with your stupid-ass neck between the spikes of a pitchfork, and you are not going to wiggle out of there before you two unpack what the fuck you just said.

[rochenn]

asking for a friend but do you have any advice for moving from the us to germany? particularly if this friend was transmasc?

I'm sorry it had to come to this, man.

Generally, I recommend your friend keep in mind r/germany, r/LegaladviceGerman, r/germantrans and similar subreddits for help. Here's a new post specifically for USAmericans who want to move here.

You'll need a residence permit, and for that, a work or student visa seems to be the best way to go. The state is salivating for immigrant workers. Despite that, the authorities and bureaucracy WILL be a pain to deal with, so try to have a job or university in the pipeline. It'll make things easier. The post linked above is a good informational baseline.

Also, I recommend moving to areas with a lighter shade of blue on this voter map:

Because I'm afraid that the fascist resurgence is global. Try for cities with more than 100-150k inhabitants and queer/immigrant clubs. As a transmasc person as well, I feel quite safe even though I live in a very dark blue area and have to interact frequently with AfD voters. I'm also very white and don't look "too queer", though.

If you move to Berlin, you'd be able to get around without German. Everywhere else, you will be crippled without at least some knowledge of the language. You'll have to learn it eventually, either way, so try to get a headstart!

For the transmasc part specifically: depending on what stage of transition you're at, also start with queer or trans clubs. They'll tell you about trustworthy therapists and doctors.

(If anyone has anything to add on, please do! Even if it's just another useful reddit link etc)

Good luck, and hang in there! :)

[mentallhealthmatters]

Probably late but... (Long rant ahead)

https://www.tumblr.com/mentallhealthmatters/766237584051552256/like-fuck-you-shelby-this-guy-had-a-buuunch-of

“This is a 'I don't trust you guys, you weren't my friends,' move. This is 'you guys supported her, even quietly,' this is 'yeah no one fucking talked to him to hear his side of the story' move.”

Oh I have my thoughts and opinions on this and of people wishing or hoping that Wilbur still has friends or is still friends with those that used to be on that friend list. (the MCYT/Streamer Sphere) They are just setting themselves up for nothing but disappointment.

It wouldn't surprise me if everyone from the MC community - even those closest to him - abandoned him, in fact, I'm expecting it. Tommy private/unlisted his Wilbur Return “If I annoy Wil” VOD and even one or more of his YouTube videos that featured Wilbur (Like the Sims one). Philza unfollowed him everywhere, removed everything from his Twitch that even hinted at Wilbur, and he might be modding for Shelby (not 100% sure about that). Hell, he also probably got rid of some videos on his YouTube channel. Molly (Tommy's girlfriend) streamed with Lexie. (I think this was after the allegations) And isn't Lexie an ableist, claiming to be a victim of narcissistic abuse, which I hope she is able to heal but claiming all those with NPD are inherently corrupt or abusers because of a disorder they didn't ask for is just wrong. 

Sidenote/Mini-Rant: Saying "People with NPD will never get better because they lie to their therapists.” Is just so toxic and ableist in my opinion. 1) While NPD can’t be cured, it can be treated, and saying those with NPD will never get better discourages them from seeking those treatments. 2) Only a medical professional, psychiatrist, psychologist, or an expert on NPD can make a diagnosis, not Twitch streamers. 3) NPD and other similar disorders are extremely stigmatized and doing this is just going to make it harder for people with those disorders.

Not to mention all the ones who jumped on the hate bandwagon to throw in their two cents or those who just bashed him, Minx and Billzo for example jumping on the bandwagon: Minx was at a party at his house, saw him and Shelby(?) arguing, tried to insert herself - got denied - then later when Wilbur was heading to the bathroom because he drank too much. She followed him into the bathroom to hold his hair back (never mind that his hair is too short to be held back) Wilbur being drunk, assumed she was trying to harm him, got angry at her, and told her to leave, calmed down, and apologize and said she didn't have to leave, yet she chose to leave anyway. But according to Minx, he’s still somehow the bad guy because he got angry thinking she was trying to hurt him while drunk, she isn't a victim of anything. Billzo handcuffed Wilbur without his consent or permission to a railing(?) as a joke and threw the keys away. Then Wilbur tells or asks him to let him go making it very clear that he didn’t want this nor find the "joke" funny, only for Billzo to inform him that they don’t have the keys and set the cuffs to the tightest setting while Wil’s panicking. So of course this makes Wil panic more til he yells at Bill to find the keys. And somehow people are making Wilbur the bad guy because he yelled, while Bill was the one who restrained him, put the cuffs as tightly as possible, and laughed at him. Wilbur had every right to yell at him! (I would have) And Wilbur apologized to Bill for yelling at him!

And the others, many of whom admitted themselves that they weren't close to or knew Wilbur all that well like Aimsey, Tubbo, Harry, and Max (Didn’t Will need to be reminded by Tommy who Max was at one point?) all of which were very fast to condemn and attack Wilbur but when Beau came out about her story about being kissed without consent (might be more to that) by Snikrep, someone a majority of them hang out with, suddenly they're distancing and excusing themselves. Didn’t Aimsey make a statement on Twt saying she didn’t associate with the guy, only for a recent photo to drop that had both of them hanging out together in it, and then she deleted her statement on Twitter? Weren't Harry or Max (or both) caught on a previous stream where they were making fun/jokes about Beau and her story/situation? Isn't Harry friends with KitWisp and Snikrep who have also been accused of domestic abuse and sexual assault? I’m unaware if anything happened to them. (I think Snikrep is still editing for Tommy) It shows how performative and self-centered their activism and support for victims is. (Correct me if any of the above info is wrong or if you have more to add. I'm recalling all this from memory.)

Hypocrites, they’re hypocrites. “With friends like these, who need enemies" is a saying for a reason. 

I highly doubt he will even glance in Minecraft’s direction or touch it with a 50-foot pole because of all those people previously mentioned, even if he still likes the game itself. 

Wilbur deserves better. Better friends and better people to spend his time with. He needs people who will help him improve, not drop him as soon as the public deems it or when it's not profitable. I believe that it’s best he's gotten rid of all his MCYT "friends" as well. If all of them were willing to use his downfall to boost their reputations and careers, then he's so much better without them. He has worth outside of them and deserves more than them as much as I miss his friendship and dynamic with them. (SBI my beloved)

Besides, Wilbur being in a niche-y band with a small music channel on the side suits him more than being a Minecraft content creator. I say this as someone who found him via his Minecraft content and enjoyed it more than his band. (I like his band/songs, I just enjoyed his content more)

Plus Wilbur's biting habit is fixable, it can be helped. It's not something he kept secret, everyone knew about his biting habit and knew it was something he had done for years. I know change can be challenging, and be a long, slow, and difficult process. But what matters is that he keeps trying! That looks to be what he’s trying to do, with his last post on Twt, with him going to therapy and changing his lifestyle a bit. It's hard to stop a long-term issue or habit that started in childhood, like his biting habit (Old habits die hard) but none of them seem willing to try and help him change or improve himself. You should at least try, you'll probably get kicked and scratched in the process but that's what friends do: try to help each other. (Keyword: TRY. Don't keep burning yourself at both ends of the candle for someone who is unwilling to change. But Wilbur seems to be trying/willing.)

Even if Wilbur and some of his old friends somehow reunite or reconnect sometime down the line, if they can make amends, and rebuild the bridges burnt, those bridges aren't going to be what they were previously. They could only - at most - look similar but never be the same.

Only bridge id encourage being rebuilt is Quackity. *fuck* everyone else. But thats less i care about wilbur and have deemed Quackity to be the only one worth redeeming, but Wilbur is a crucial key to things id like to see from Quackity in upcoming plots and plans, and shelby burned that bridge. The story can still be told, but a name would have been omitted and i rather it not be.

[salcristina]

& be aware that Trevor Project is a union-busting workplace, I mean if you can get support you need for yourself take it by all means, but they don't need your money

Also if you need help yourself, Trans Lifeline is great and really started the push for "no non-consensual 'rescue' responses" (won't call police or psychiatrists on you the way 988 absolutely will) 🖤🏳️‍⚧️☔

and there is a list of places with similar policies at

and prison-abolitionist healthcare providers at

(If you have cash to spare that for some reason you won't send to genocide survivors, consider holding onto it for someone's transition/anti-eviction fund or like I promise there are people near you right now facing racist criminal charges who could use it)

Two things to prop up right now:

The ACLU - They’ll do their best to make sure this dumpster fire doesn’t turn into a wildfire.

The Trevor Project - They’ll be fielding a lot of calls, texts, and chats in the next few days and beyond.

And, if you need something, try Finch. It’s the best self-care app I’ve ever used.

[arainmorn-art]

Lots and lots and lots of thoughts. Also have some earlier sketches of Pheen, exactly from the period when I’ve decided to make his stupid face features even sharper. You know, English is not my native language, it’s actually Russian. But for some reason, even though I’m not at all fluent in English, it’s easier for me to talk about some weird stuff in it.  Of course Deciphering is a big project, I’m working on it for 9 month since I’ve started it, as I made myself not to draw the comic before I’d be fully confident in my script, which led to rewriting it 4 times. And even now it’s the 5th version as before there were no magical adventure in Edgey’s mind, no swords and flowers, the way to know how he feels inside, as outside he is quite reserved.

And it’s also a therapeutic journey for me. Yeah, duh, who am I trying to surprise with it? Anything we create is a projection of our own self. And through Phoenix, whom I love very much in canon games, I also deal with my own stuff.

For some reasons I relate to this character a lot. He seems to me like a person, who sincerely doesn’t see a big value in himself. He is not just being humble, nothing besides his job of saving people is a big deal.  

And he thinks he is not worthy of being loved.

Yes, his friends like him, his daughter loves him, but those are other forms of love. Being caring and likable is not a big deal, bringing home a lost child and rearing her is what any decent person and parent must do. Being selfless is a norm.

And looking at Edgeworth, a brilliant famous professional, a gorgeous smart man and a dear friend, Nick might believe a very sad thing: “I am not worthy”. Of course, through the rose-tinted glasses of being in love there are tendencies to feel blue and self-conscious of yourself, but it’s not the case. It’s about feeling weak and broken. It’s about looking at yourself and thinking: “No way a person I deeply value will think highly of the wreck like me”, as it’s also about being very, very harsh with yourself. It’s about believing that unless you are a harmonious strong-willed collected person with everything put together you do not deserve being loved.

But the thing is through the story I wrote about him, Nick is constantly fighting this numbing blob of insecurities, sitting like a nasty tumor inside his mind. He wants to try, he wants to check, what if, what if he is the only one who stops himself of being romantically loved. What if he actually has something to be loved. Both of them will have their character arcs through the comic, but Miles’s core struggle is the center of the story and will be fully described closer to the end, while Nick is in the outer circle constantly and expressively getting and loosing hope.

I don’t understand my feelings. I’m so confused and conflicted. It’s the first time I am actually insecure about my protagonist’s appearance. I like the way I’m drawing him. I can see him in my head like that, tired, sleepless, sharp yet with the kindest smile, with big nose, messy hair, small sparkly blue eyes, nervous, emotional and deeply caring, being through so much yet thinking about himself so little – a person I really like. And at the same time my own mind make strange things to me: I’m looking at him and can’t believe he can be liked and loved by readers. I wrote him feeling about himself as “somewhere not enough, somewhere too much”, but I also look at my own drawing and think about exactly the same, “not enough and too much”. And even think a fictional Edgeworth might not love him back, what is there to love? Not enough courage, too much emotional turmoil. Not strong enough core, too much self-doubt. Not pretty enough, he is so far from his original anime look, just look at this face, it’s the face only mother will love. Not stoic enough. Not manly enough. Not assertive enough. Not collected enough. Not mature enough. Not enough. So strongly not enough…

And I must remind myself – that’s the point. I freakin’ made this point several month ago in the script, why am I so distressed writing about it now?

Edgeworth actually loves him for what he is. Nick is worthy. And he doesn’t have only several single traits to be loved. He can be loved as he is. Just like that. For being cheerful and bringing smiles. For being caring and emotional. Being funny looking and clumsy. Being a soft gentle selfless loser, helping people, nurturing the best in them. It has a value. It has a big value for people who care about us.

I like the thought that I wrote Nick as a very nervous lesbian trying to win a girl’s heart while fighting her own deeply low self-esteem x)

Too relatable. Too much projection x)

But looks like I really need it. I need this comic to be completed. I need to prove myself I am worthy of being loved.

[giantkillerjack]

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

[plain-text version of this post can be found under the cut]

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

Plain-text version:

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

P.S. Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

[raynewolferune]

Meta Jazz, the Arkham Intern Therapist Pt1

Update 5/16/2024: Congrats guys, gals, and others! You have planted the seeds and they have grown. Today I wrote another 46 pages on this story (the first section was only 9 pages ya'll). I'm working on splitting it up into smaller sections so I can post it now because tumblr said no to doing it as one piece. I'll be using the tag #Meta Jazz Arkham Intern Therapist if you want to follow it.

Original Note: I'm going to go ahead and apologize for how OOC Bane is in this. It originally was Joker but I couldn't see Jazz tolerating his proximity for more than a single millisecond so Bane it is.

~*~*~

The hardest thing about being a Meta in Gotham was responding appropriately during a Rouge's attack, Jazz mused to herself. Or perhaps that was just the hardest part about being a Meta intern at Arkham while studying psychology at Gotham University. Or maybe it was just her, she considered watching the guards and Dr. Rylie whom she'd been shadowing for the past 2 weeks wide eyed, pale, and shaking as theybstared at Bane behind her. It must just be her, Jazz decided, newbie guard Kyle Jennings was definitely a Meta after all. She should probably give him some tips on hiding his enhanced strength considering how often he broke mugs, door handles, and other delicate items used in daily life.

"Weapons down or I'll snap her skinny little neck." Bane growled out, shaking her slightly for emphasis. She very much doubted that. Liminials were built different than the standard Meta, stronger, faster, better endurance, and senses even if they could mostly appear to be standard humans on the outside.  As such, their bones and muscles were much were much denser than regular humans or even Meta humans. Technically, she could be considered "invulnerable" much like the Kryptonians are.

"Back up! Let him through!" Dr. Rylie  shouted at the guards. "She's my student! Let him through!" His voice was higher pitched than she could recall hearing it before.

Ah. That was panic.

Jazz sighed involuntarily and glanced over her shoulder at Bane. Why the man had grabbed the only person close to his own height nearby was a mystery to her - no, nevermind, he clearly meant to use her as a shield - but it made looking him in the eye more difficult than necessary.

"Mr. Bane, remove your hands from my person, please." Jazz stated calmly, channeling what Danny called her inner mom as she spoke. "I will give you to one to comply."

Bane looked stunned for a moment then laughed.

"Five."

The laughing continued. Jazz could sense a stir of uncertainty through her colleagues as they looked on.

"Four."

"Did you really think that would work?" Bane snorted out, arms tensing more around her.

"Three." She continued, indifferent to his words from her experiences raising her brother. Once the count down starts you mustn't respond to anything the kids do or say until they comply or the count is done.

"What cab you even do if I don't?" Bane asked darkly breathing directly in her ear. She kept her face expressionless despite the urge to express disgust.

"Two."

"Jasmine..."  Kyle whispered halfway across the hall from her looking on with a pained and horrified expression. Gun tilting towards the floor. Sloppy.

"One." She finished and Bane gave a derisive snort.

Then she was moving. Hauling the enormous man up and over her shoulder using the arm that had been wrapped around her neck. Bane hit the cold tile hard enough that the tiles, subfloor, structural supports, and part of the concrete foundation buckled beneath him. His shoulder popped out of joint, his wrist cracked - a hairline fracture by the sound of it -  and his breath was punched out of him from the force of impact. She released his arm as soon as his was embedded in the tiles and moved forward. Kneeling over him, support most of her weight on her left foot resting on the broken ground, her right knees pressed firmly across his throat without supporting any of her weight. The position put more strain on her muscles than she would've liked but at least Bane couldn't risk fighting back without crushing his own neck in the process. He could hardly throw her while flat on his back with a mangled arm.

"Now," Jazz began, looking directly into the behemoth's pained eyes. "Do you know what you've done wrong?" She asked like she would have done with Danny as a child.

"Yes, Ma'am." Bane choked out. Jazz heard movement and murmuring behind her. She didn't turn to look.

"What did you do wrong?" She asked. It was important to make sure children correctly understood why they were in trouble after all. There was a long pause as Bane appeared to cast around for the exact right answer as if he feared getting it wrong. A bad habit Danny still uses as well, Jazz thought to herself.

"I tried to hold you hostage," He choked out in a rush, words tumbling over one another as he tried to get them all out. "I scared you coworkers and it was very disrespectful."

So he'd gone for the grab-bag response. It wasn't wrong per sey but it did indicate a past history of abuse. The type of answer given by someone who expected to be harmed or ignored if they gave the "wrong" answer. Danny tended to use that method also and their parents had always been negligent at best.

"And are you going to do it again?" She asked giving him a Look as she did. Bane's eyes widened and he tried to frantically shake his head as much as possible with the pressure on his neck.

"No, Ma'am." He promised fervently.

"Alright then," Jazz said giving him a warm smile. She gestured vaguely towards the guards without turning to look at them. "Kyle here is going to take you to see the nurse and then back to your room then. I'm sure you'll behave for him?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll behave." Bane said. Jazz stood slowly asking sure not to put any additional pressure on his neck as she did. Kyle came and stood next to her as the giant of a man slowly pulled himself to his feet then led him away with 5 other guards.

Jazz heaved a sigh. Well, time to find out whether or not she could play all that off as normal, non-Meta human behavior.

[that-satireguy]

100% disagree. You're a cishet white man? Cool. I'm a brown trans guy who was raised in a misogynistic cult.

Do you know how easy it is.

For people to fall into cults?

Doesn't matter who they are, or whether the cult likes them or not. Frankly, if the cult just say 'you look tired/lonely... just come to ONE of our meetings. You can rest for a little... no need to think. We like you, we'll take care of you.' And then the meeting has all the wonderful nice little joyful parts, with lots of dopamine rushes for the tired/stressed/lonely person.

And they come back. Of course they do. Thats how its designed. Cults don't go for 40 year olds with stable social circles, happy lives and a nice middle class job. They'll go for depressed mid life crisis people, isolated young men, (new parents interestingly), often young women coming out of abusive relationships, and now with the internet teenagers.

'EVERYONE IN THE GYM CLASS GETS TO DO LAPS NOW.'

Its interesting that you bring this up because there have been hundreds of studies that this is a bad way to get through to people. In fact this is PROVEN to create anger, resentment, and isolation from about age 4-5 onwards. This is a full proof way to get people to leave the gym class, and when they can't (because in this case the gym class is just 'white people') they'll go into the arms of another teacher

'You are a group, and responsible for each other. If you don't want to run laps, make sure no one in the group does something stupid.'- this is collective punishment, and especially in situations where yk, not every white guy knows each other(?) And there are other inconsistencies like economic class and age which makes it very difficult to police each others actions and btw, the larger the group, the less effective this principle becomes.

'In that I hear a desperate fear to drown out the uncertainty of the rich tapestry of a varied human experience with an opiate-like acceptance.'-

Yes. Thats it pretty much. Thats what humans want, you want that dopamine to keep flowing in your head. What you're missing here is though, is that your upbringing and social situation plays a role in this. Your resistance, and even derision to this concept, comes from it not being a consistent facet in your life. This usually happens after isolation and intense feelings of hopelessness. When you don't have people to give you the dopamine and human connection you need... this will happen. Theres no 2 ways about it, it will happen. That is when you get therapy. And before the analysis, before the improvement and work, a therapist will listen. listen and tell you that your feelings are ok, and only after that, will you work on them.

'ou don't have to think too hard about it, as long as that warm blanket of surity hits as they smile'- yeah thats how conditioning and love bombing works.

'Man up.'- dumbest advice i've ever heard. genuinely. when has this ever worked for anyone. 'I'm struggling' 'Just don't'.

I couldn't have said it better myself.