#I looked past my pain and my trauma out of basic fucking human decency and she couldn’t wait a few hours to let the news reach me properly

[crowrelli]

.

[electricbluebutterflies]

control

“Want isn’t the problem”

Post-s2-grayspace Kabby smut with feelings, aka I haven’t written them since certain things happened and I still have a LOT of feelings. Blame @to-hell-with-oblivion for where this ended up. Also on ao3.

He's being too nice and it's a damn problem.

Abby Griffin likes routines. Even in light of the past few months, even with so much changed around her, she has tried her hardest to maintain them. Unfortunately, it turns out quite a few of her routines rely on a particular someone else's tendency to be a complete asshole at all possible times, and lately, well…

Lately, Marcus has skipped right past the "basic human decency" stage that was once her wildest hope for him and instead started going out of his way for her. For a week or so, she let it go. Trauma makes people do strange things, and the Bad Thing was certainly within that range for both of them. But then she was able to move comfortably on her own and he was still gentle, and for the past few weeks since then their dynamic has been off.

By unspoken decision, they're co-leaders as things attempt to settle down. In theory, it's no different from the routine they had for years up in the sky. Except it is, because there's no sparring. No passive-aggressive death threats, no unsaid fuck-yous, none of the sharp details that made their dynamic the only thing keeping her sane that last year in particular when it became the only real thing she had. Can she admit that, now that they're changing? Is she allowed to say that he became her release valve, that she sought him out a few times because yelling at him about things that probably didn't matter in the grand scheme of things was a reminder that she was somehow still alive?

She doesn't know. She's not sure how much she cares.

What she is sure of is that where they are now is inexplicably different in ways that cannot be blamed on their respective recent injuries. That may have been how this workspace thing happened - neither of them could move well for two weeks after the Bad Thing, hers was objectively worse but he'd walked miles both ways on a bad leg - but they still drift together without that  concern. It makes sense, as they redefine systems, to be in the same place for all the tiny but necessary decisions that land on their shoulders.

The downside of this is, well, they're together. A lot. Which means she has to look at him and watch the slow changes of giving-up have their way, and she is appreciative of this physical transformation, and…

"You got that?"

Her big project for the day, apparently, is figuring out where to put a nice chair that seems to have appeared out of nowhere this morning. Like most of their generation, Abby's aesthetic preferences begin and end with "does it work", but apparently working a new piece of furniture into the layout of a small enclosed space requires moving literally everything else in the room. Including a table that is perfectly within her abilities to maneuver, even with the piles of papers currently upon it.

She could, in theory, accept that this would all be a hell of a lot easier if Marcus helped her. She's not actually sure how long he's been standing there watching her efforts, and… it's weird, this asking for permission. Six months ago, had they somehow ended up in this sort of a situation, he would've stepped right in and arranged everything to his own preferences and not even spoken to her until it was all over with.

Is it wrong that she misses that side of him? Is it wrong if she wonders how long this current gentleness will last?

She could accept his help. Or she could push and see if she can find his limits. She decides she likes option two a lot better.

"Yeah," she mutters, almost growling. "I've got this."

And sure enough, with appropriate physical effort that she is more than capable of thank you very much, Abby shifts the position of the table so it's a little more in the center of the space. The goal, she's decided, is to eventually get this not-quite-armchair into that newly vacant corner. But for that to work, she has to move the couch. Dammit.

Frankly, Abby is not sure how someone else got that couch through that door during the few days she was immobile and catching up on two decades of bad sleep. She's assuming that's when it happened, because if she'd been lucid and present she would remember something that ridiculous. It got nested in that corner over there, and she's not inclined to move it, except… that would be the easiest way to make all of her other plans work. Temporarily move couch, place chair, put couch back where it started.

Ah. Yes. Maneuvering something of questionable structural integrity, which is big enough that she's taken a few naps on the damn thing. Twice. Yeah.

Screw it. Time to see how well Marcus can handle her in full fire.

She turns her head and yep, he's still standing by the doorway with that obnoxious amused look on his face like this is the best thing he's see all week - and it probably is for reasons that have nothing to do with her shirts riding up - and she can't deal with this man right now. He is too much, and she's gonna tear all of that down and remind herself that she used to get wet thinking about his hypothetical death.

And shit, now she's thinking about that. No, bad, do not want.

"Now you can help," she hisses, making sharp eye contact. "But if you try anything…"

"What are you implying?" he counters, taking a place at the more accessible end of the couch. This, she gets. She's quite a bit smaller, slightly more capable of slipping into a small space between couch and wall and lamp.

It hits her, as she does so, that there are a lot of things that could happen with this kind of energy and some of those could be much more fun than others. But she can't fixate on that. She won't. She can't.

"You've let me rearrange every goddamn thing in this space without so much as a 'leave those papers there'," she replies. "I know you. What do you want?"

"Maybe my ability to do my job doesn't rely on the specific placement of objects within our space. You didn't take anything out. The rest is detail."

Abby rolls her eyes. "I have known you since we were children, Kane. You are obsessed with detail."

"People change."

"You never have."

"Can we just move the damn couch where you want it?"

"Take four steps back. There. Yes."

The weight is imbalanced, she sees it as they move together. He's stronger than her, she knows that, but he's doing more than he has to because that's just what he does. Because god forbid she ever be capable of anything, god forbid he let her be all that she is, god forbid-

"Alright. Now you can try to pick a fight."

Yeah. There's a breaking point in there somewhere, and she's gonna find it if it's the last thing she does. They've known each other way too long for her to believe this is real.

"Or you could just tell me what you're trying to get out of me," she counters, hand on her hip and perfect do-what-I-want face that has gotten results out of everyone else she has ever tried it on. Despite the rest of her look, Abby has learned how to be absolutely terrifying when she needs to be, and it works. Except on him. Never on him. Dammit.

"Does everything I do have to have an ulterior motivation?"

"I know you too well. Has there ever not been?"

"Maybe I just want to help you."

"There are multiple words in that sentence I'm not sure you even know."

"How are you the only person who doesn't believe I'm changing?"

"Because I'm the only person left alive who knows you're not capable of it."

This, she is well aware, is a conscious and intentional lie. For years on end, she hoped for this kind of transformation. There was a long stretch of time when she tried so hard to see some kind of light in him, this man who seemed to exist for no other purpose than to challenge and undo her. Even at their worst, she had hope for him. But now that she's gotten what she wanted, it's different. A reality she never prepared for and refuses to trust. Because she knows him, and she knows what darkness he's capable of, and she knows-

"You made this happen," he breathes, and this may be that breaking point and oh how she did not expect it like this. "I almost lost you, and I… I cannot let that happen. I need to be better so I can keep you safe."

A different woman would accept the awkward confession, maybe kiss him or something, feel all warm and sweet about it. Abby is still burning, and she's not ready to sheath her claws just yet.

"You tried to fucking kill me," she hisses. "You would've tried again down here, and maybe even done it, but you needed me too much so you did the closest thing and had me electrocuted while you watched and you didn't even flinch. You do not get to say you love me."

Marcus takes a few steps closer - clearly the death wish she's started seeing in him isn't going anywhere. He's close enough she could hit him if she were so inclined, and she's halfway tempted, and she wants, and-

"I know. I don't expect… this is because of you. Not for you, if you don't want it."

There is pain in his eyes, spreading across his body, and here is that moment of regret that she's always dreamed of. They haven't really talked about certain events before, always brushed past and moved onto the next crisis because neither of them knows how to be vulnerable with another human being, but here they are two feet apart in a small room behind a closed and probably locked door and here they are and-

"Want isn't the problem," she mutters, and then she kisses him.

She's not sure what she's doing, in that half-second she tastes his shock. This here, all of it is an experience Abby never prepared for. Only the second person she's ever kissed, and she loved the last one for twenty years and meant for a lot longer before tragic fate had its way. She has never thought of casual encounters for herself - never judged those who did, but kept her own preferences on the subject. She knows, in that half-second, that there is no coming back from what she's doing right now.

Then it sinks in, and he moves, and she is reminded of why they have been like magnets for so long.

Marcus has never done anything halfway, and apparently this applies to physical involvement as well. He kisses hard, biting her lip as his hands tangle up in her hair, and the difference in size between them feels like nothing at all. She'll hurt from this, they both will, she does not care.

"Tell me if I go too far," he breathes against her lips when they break for air.

"I don't think you ever could," she counters.

"Still. As you said. I've hurt you before."

"Don't leave bruises anywhere my clothes don't cover. Otherwise…"

She likes kissing him, she decides as they continue. She likes running her tongue over his skin, the feeling of his scruff against her, the sharp contrast against her past experience. (She cannot fault herself for this comparison. Only her second lover, or he will be before this is over, and she will allow herself this innocence.) He has become new and made whole this past month. Perhaps it's her turn.

"May I?" he asks, pausing with hands at the hem of her shirts.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

She raises her arms to make the removal easier, not sure what she expects him to do once the fabric falls to the floor. Not sure, but surprised when his fingers trace patterns on her hips and slowly climb. An exploration, mapping her, learning details she herself is too familiar with to note. Hesitant on the small of her back, hesitant as he ghosts over the scars he helped inflict. A month and a half after the incident, they don't hurt anymore, but they are still visible and stubborn and-

"You're strong," he breathes, a certain reverence as he kisses her forehead.

"You knew that long before you hurt me."

He nods and continues, working his way up her body until he reaches the clasp of her bra. No permission asked as he undoes the clasp and slips it off her shoulders, no hesitation as he presses his lips to the hollow between her breasts and she flinches because scruff against sensitive skin is new and foreign. Yet not unwanted, she thinks as he traces patterns and switches between hands and mouth without warning. Were he to rest his head between her legs for a while, she could accept it. But she doubts they'll go there today. Exploration and examination is a safe enough set of acts; thorough ravishing is more dangerous, to be saved for a quieter day and a mattress.

"Your turn," she murmurs after a while, pushing him back and slipping her hands up his shirt.

She's seen more of his skin over the years, roles as they were, and little of this is new to her. He has less scars than she does; she fears, as she traces the badly healed line on his forearm from a day he won't talk about, that this will soon change. Someday, and she hopes she gets to see it, he will be a map of deaths that didn't stick. For now, though, he is relatively untainted and completely still before her, allowing her hands to wander. Allowing her to step closer for a moment and rest her head on her shoulder, as she did a month ago when all she could fixate on was her pain and the person who caught her, as she did several days before that beneath a destroyed building. Different, skin-on-skin, but the same.

He could anchor her, if she let him. She wants to see what that could look like.

She undoes his pants because she can, because her hands are on his hips and she wants him. There's some maneuvering to be done, kicking off boots and creative balance, and then he is exposed and still not fighting her. Not lifting her up and fucking her against the wall, not testing her limits. Allowing her fire to have its way.

"You can…" she starts before realizing she doesn't know what permission she wants to give him.

"You want control, Abby," he murmurs. "You need control."

Next time, if there is a next time, will be different. Next time, she suspects, she will learn what their sparring is like without barriers. But here and now, she will take this proof of his changes. Her hands start on his inner thighs, working up. No scars to be found here either, only skin that responds so well to her cautious touch. He wants her. He is willing to let her choose how that happens. She is adrift. She could spiral. She could-

"You have control," he says again as he steadies her. How long has it been since another person has held her? How long since she's been pulled against someone's chest and told that she will be alright? Longer than she wants to admit, and-

"I never knew you could stand that still," she laughs.

"You're good motivation."

"Who the fuck are you and what did you do with my lifelong nemesis." She rolls her eyes, kisses his neck, breathes. Maybe fire isn't all they are. Maybe…

"I might be in shock."

"Me too."

And there's a warmth to it, as she takes a half-step back and sheds her own pants because she doesn't trust him not to damage her best pair of underwear. There's a warmth in how he looks at her, and it is not the first time either. Weeks ago now, when they were the first actual adults of their people to see sunlight in a hundred years. She should've seen it then, this transformation that is in full force now. But at least she has now, accepting the reality of their changes as she braces for a lifelong inevitability.

It's real. All of this is real. And she's never wanted anything more.

His hands put just a little too much pressure on her hips as he twirls her around and half-pushes her onto the couch. Out of their options, that's the obvious best spot for this - not ideal, god no, but it'll do. He kisses her again to be thorough, kisses her as she maneuvers her body for best access, kisses her as he positions himself, and then he drops.

This is her moment of shock, that heartbeat as they collide. Her body responding, circumstances enough to prepare her, overwhelmed as they become one. How often she wondered about this, and reality is so different and so much more beautiful.

"I don't-"

"You talk too much," she mutters, kissing him to shut him up.

She could love him, maybe. Given time to watch what else this transformation brings, she could get attached so easily. Marcus has always struck her as someone with a lot of raw potential, more than most people are given, and perhaps this here is the wrong time to realize he's starting to do something with it but oh, he is and fucking her on this godawful couch is likely just the start of what he will become.

Wherever that leads, whatever choices he makes, she will stand by his side. She makes that decision with eyes closed, pressure building and then breaking, the sweet giving-up of being loved. She is so, so good at being the loyal woman. She will make those choices again, and this time she will stay enough. There is no other fate.

He finishes and collapses above her, shifting weight as best he can but still more skin-on-skin than she wants, and they stay there and recover for a few moments.

"So that happened," she breathes.

"It doesn't have to change anything, Abby. You can go back to hating me once you get dressed."

"What if I don't want to hate you?"

He's quiet for a few heartbeats, quiet in a different way as he shifts off of her and sits down beside her.

"That would be a bigger surprise than anything else I've seen down here," he finally says. "And a better one."

"I'm not saying… I don't know how to move forward with another person, but… I believe you now."

"I can accept that."

She gets to her feet and starts getting dressed, unsurprised when he is right there for her to lean on as she needs. Their dynamic will change again after this, but perhaps they were headed that way all along. Now sooner than planned, but still just as good.

"So what's the next part of this redecorating scheme?" he asks once they're both decent again.

"I am not decorating," she laughs. "Just moving furniture. There's a difference."

"If you say so."

"If you tried that line at any other time…" she sighs. "Alright. So. Chair goes in empty space, couch goes back where it was, we do not talk about what just happened until I have time to process that it did. Good?"

"So this means I can't kiss you in front of everyone we know?"

"Not if you like being alive."

He takes the hint, shuts up, and moves the damn chair without further stupid questions.

He's gotten nice lately, and it is the exact opposite of a problem.

[blazing--soul]

On Triggers.

// ...I don't normally make posts like this, and I'm not typically one to bring my personal life onto my rp blogs, but I really feel like the concept of “triggers” need to be addressed. 

// placing under cut. TWs for mentions of sexual assault and self harm. 

// something I've noticed recently, is the general attitude of society as a whole when it comes to trauma. People seem to conflate the term "triggered" with "offended", "angry", "upset", and the like, when in reality, those terms are NOT interchangeable.

// in the world of psychology, the term "triggered" is used to describe the physical and/or emotional response to being reminded of an extremely traumatic event that has happened to them in the past. What happens when you, well, "Trigger" the adverse effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

// It's not Papa 4chan's "lol r u triggered" memes. It's not a joke. And it CERTAINLY goes MUCH farther than simple "baggage" that can just be tucked away and forgotten about.

// if anyone wants to know what can happen when someone's triggered, it's not just those "war flashbacks" you hear about in war veterans. It often revolves around the sufferer being forcibly thrown back into the mental state they were in during a traumatic experience. It's highly distressing for someone with PTSD to be reminded of the thing that broke them. This may get a bit personal, but I'll use myself as an example.

// on Sunday, September 10th, 2017, i was led to the house of a man i met on the presumption that we were simply to hang out as friends, because he offered to drive my carless ass home after an event. In reality, he had other plans. And on that day, this man forced himself on me in his bedroom, and I was raped. My goodwill and trusting nature led to me being sexually assaulted against my will. 

// as one might imagine, this has left massive scars on my psyche. Anything reminding me of that day could seriously damage me mentally. The best possible result of me being triggered, is disassociating, shaking with anxiety and crying.

// the WORST possible senario, leads to an irrational, full-on mental breakdown. I'm sobbing, i feel terrified as though I'm back in the situation, a feeling worsened if im pinned or trapped in any way (which can result in my blindly lashing out in a terror-fueled attempt to escape), i start feeling sick to my stomach, and a powerful, irrational desire to claw at places he touched because i feel so revolted, disgusting, and like a hideous, disgusting human being, like a used toy. I'm practically inconsolable, practically babbling incoherently between sobs until i finally calm down, and even then, any wrong move can set me back off until the episode I'm having is over.

// it's not a pleasant feeling. It's not a situation that I'd choose to be in. It's something i wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. So today's mindset of "lol, no safe spaces, grow up and get over it" is honestly disturbing and unbecoming of anyone i'd want to call a friend. Because accommodating someone with an undesired, and highly detrimental disability is just basic human decency. If you'd open the door for someone on crutches or in a wheelchair, why would you tell someone who literally devolves into a frightened, terrified mess against their will when shown reminders of atrocities in their past "dont like it, then gtfo"? Why lock someone out of an entire experience simply because they can't be fucked to, i dunno, provide an easy workaround to appease all involved when it can be done LITERALLY at the press of a button?

// it's the reason blacklists exist. Why trigger warnings exist. It's in the same god damn vein as wheelchair ramps and fucking automatic doors. If you can put in a shit ton of effort to make sure a physically disabled person can navigate a building, then why is it so difficult for today's world to make the effortless move to tag triggering content, or make a new separate room in a group chat setting so that way people can enjoy what they like without estranging those of us who can't look at said enjoyment without being reduced to a pathetic display of fear and trauma? 

// like, i write a lot of potentially triggering shit at times. a lot of my ocs have been through major emotional and physical abuse. but i still fucking tag it, because i care enough about people that i don’t want abuse survivors to experience that same pain of being triggered.

 // it just... gives off an impression that people either don't understand trauma, or just don't give enough of a fuck about trauma victims to provide a workaround for the sake of their mental health. And honestly, it hurts a lot.