#I was ignored as my condition got worse for five years!!

[nope-body]

.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

The cost is set to go far beyond human suffering, yet almost five years into the pandemic, not only are there still no treatments for long Covid, there aren’t even any diagnostic tools – and we don’t seem overly interested in finding them.

The jig is up. People are catching on that “mild” Covid-19 may not be so mild, and that the mysterious lingering symptoms they’ve experienced after catching the virus, such as fatigue and brain fog, may just be connected. For others, this will be the first time that they put two and two together. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but strap in for what comes next.

Recently, RNZ ran a piece outlining the estimated $2bn per year economic cost of long Covid in New Zealand and signalling that further research would be needed to determine a more precise figure. The average reader would assume that this research is under way or has at least been planned and funded. Human suffering aside, such a hit to productivity would surely raise alarm bells across the political spectrum!

I say this solemnly: yeah… nah.

Almost five years into the pandemic, not only are there still no treatments for long Covid, there also aren’t even any diagnostic tools – and we don’t seem overly interested in finding them.

At present, a long Covid diagnosis relies on a patient finding a doctor with up-to-date knowledge, who will believe their symptoms, and who will spend time investigating further to rule out other possibilities. This mythical trifecta is out of reach for most people, particularly women, who are affected by immune conditions at far higher rates, but have their symptoms written off as hysteria; and Māori and Pasifika, who face barriers to healthcare, and have their symptoms written off as laziness. Obtaining accurate data on prevalence under these circumstances is simply impossible.

In this way, and several others, long Covid mirrors ME/CFS (myalgic encephalomyelitis), a brutally debilitating biophysical condition, though the oft misused term “chronic fatigue” doesn’t quite convey that. Around half of long Covid sufferers meet the criteria for ME/CFS, which by the World Health Organization’s scale has a worse disease burden than HIV/Aids, multiple sclerosis (MS), and many forms of cancer. But again, there are no treatments.

I suffer from ME/CFS myself. My illness predates Covid-19 and came on after an infection with cytomegalovirus (CMV). I went from a fit and active young man to debilitatingly sick and fatigued, with several unexplained symptoms.

Pre-pandemic there was estimated to be more than 25,000 people in New Zealand suffering from ME/CFS, and only one specialist in the country, working one day a week, who has since retired (well earned, bless her). For years I had been praying for any sort of diagnosis, even if it was bad, so that I could get on the path to recovery. I got the diagnosis – but for a disease with no path to recovery.

As the pandemic unfolded, patients and advocates in the ME/CFS community warned that a tsunami of disability was approaching. They were of course ignored, as they have been for decades, and are now joined by masses of long Covid sufferers facing the reality that the medical profession has no answers for them, except perhaps euthanasia.

Frustrated with my lack of options, I connected with cellular immunologist Dr Anna Brooks, who had become a leading expert on long Covid, so I assumed that her biomedical research would be well supported. Alas, she detailed the uphill grind that it’s been to gain traction compared to other countries, and that generous donations, usually from patients themselves, had been the driving force of funding.

Together we founded DysImmune Research Aotearoa, with the goal of developing diagnostic tools leading to treatment for post-viral illnesses like long Covid and ME/CFS. In layman’s terms, we collect blood samples, analyse differences in cells, and put together an immune profile. My priority is ensuring that Māori and Pasifika patients and researchers are at the table and taking action into our own hands.

We’ve made a small start, and we have some incredible collaborations lined up, with far-reaching implications for community health. We’re in the process of seeking partnerships to take things forward. The expertise exists, it’s here in New Zealand. Still, the barrier to progress across the research space is the urgency for resourcing. It is dire to say the least.

Without some long-term project certainty, it’s difficult to pull the necessary teams together. While study after study illuminates more horrifying long-term effects of Covid infections, and prevention has been completely abandoned, research and development for treatments for long Covid is tanking. The private sector is at the whim of the quarterly financial report, and with no guaranteed short-term profit in treating us, it has very little incentive to take the risk.

So, barring some philanthropic miracle, only government can fill this gap. Yet where Australia had set aside A$50m specifically for long Covid research, and the US Senate considers a billion-dollar long Covid “moonshot” bill, New Zealand has allocated nothing. We’re fast asleep at the wheel. No other country can determine how many of our people are impacted by post-viral illnesses. No other country can address our specific needs.

Since this government is focused on ambition, productivity and fast-tracking, I assume they’d want to be world leaders in research, warp-speed some projects, and get long Covid sufferers back into work, no? This is what we are calling for. Not surveys. Not “talk” therapy and positive thinking. Biomedical research.

Put the money down and commit to this. Seize this opportunity to right decades of neglect. There are tens of thousands of us fighting for our lives, and millions more around the world. You think it won’t be you, then after your next inevitable Covid-19 reinfection, it is, and you’re left to wonder why nobody stepped up.

Government, iwi and whānau ora groups, health organisations, philanthropists – reach out. Let’s work.

Rohan Botica (Te Ātihaunui-a-Pāpārangi, Ngāti Tūwharetoa) is a lived-experience researcher and co-founder of DysImmune Research Aotearoa.

[meatcrimes]

Nineteen years. That’s almost two thirds of my life you’ve been gone. I’ll never forget the hot pavement on that sunny, unusually humid July day. I forgave you for this years ago, but if you had known your death would have been a catalyst for so much trauma and pain for your entire extended family, would you have been more careful?

Look at us, those of us who are left. Look at your brother, your daughter, your surviving son. Look at what they’ve overcome in the past nineteen years. Look at me, your niece, and my brother, your nephew who you never got to meet. Look what we’re still trying to overcome. I no longer blame you for the actions of other people done in the wake of your death, but the timeline shifted that day, and whatever track we were on before veered into the wrong lane at 100mph and ever since we’ve been picking up the pieces. I can’t say we would have been better or worse off if we hadn’t lost you, but I can say we all wish you were able to walk your daughter down the aisle at her wedding. Walk your foster son down the aisle at his wedding, because it became legal in 2015 for him and his husband to marry. You had no idea he was gay, did you? Neither did he for many, many years. And the trauma he experienced from your death influenced his own death in his early thirties. Now, you both left widows behind. You have more in common now than you ever did in life.

Look at your daughter, you probably won’t even recognize her, and not just from the weight loss. She’s now a devout Catholic, in a loving marriage with a man who values and respects her, with five beautiful step daughters that call her “mom”. It wasn’t easy for her to get there. She went through far too long of believing herself unworthy and unloveable, and far too many boyfriends who saw her the same way.

Look at your biological son. He’s in the national guard now, making something of his life and what has been left behind. He simultaneously never grew up and grew up all too fast, a lot like me. He doesn’t remember what your voice sounds like, and I wish I could transfer my memory of your voice into his mind. It isn’t fair that I remember your voice and he doesn’t. Really, none of this is fair, never has been, never to anyone. Your generation may have said “Life isn’t fair” with the connotations of “so there!”. Often a justification of their mistreatment of others. But us, we hear it in a different pitch. We hear “life isn’t fair” with “but with compassion and community we can bridge the gaps, even if we can’t close them”.

I don’t remember where I was going with this. I’m sitting in my old room at my dad’s house that he owns, that he bought with money he earned in a career that didn’t exist nineteen years ago. We live in a small town thousands of miles from our ancestral land, in a climate my body will frankly never get used to. I was built for the desert, biologically designed for the Great Basin region. Last time I went back, my anxiety was nearly gone, my acne cleared, my hair didn’t need any styling or products beyond a brush and shampoo. My thyroid condition was getting better at a faster rate than it was before. I thrived in Nevada. I am a Western Shoshone woman. You were a Western Shoshone man, no matter how much you or anyone else ignored it, or explained our genes with ancestry we didn’t share. Las Vegas is haunted ground now. My father plans on never going back, because it reminds him so much of you. And me? No matter how badly I want to return home, it’s not home anymore. It hasn’t been since we lost you. And I don’t think I can rebuild what was destroyed.

[liaromancewriter]

What Could Have Been (5/?)

Series Premise: When Ethan breaks his promise, Cassie is forced to accept they’re not inevitable after all.

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Angst Words: 1,560

Series Masterlist

Chapter 5: Risky Moves. Romance Rekindled. One is filled with remorse, but jealousy soon rears its ugly head.

A/N: I'm using @choicesflashfics week 44, prompt 3. Also, using prompts "dating" & "break-up" from the @choicesmonthlychallenge January 2023 editing. Set during 2x03.

Ethan Ramsey marched down the street. His long legs eating up the pavement, uncaring of other pedestrians, his scowl a deterrent to anyone bold enough to get in his way.

In his head, he replayed the conversation with his father, the look on Cassie Valentine’s face when he dismissed his mother and the complicated emotions swirling inside him for a woman that had abandoned him twenty-five years ago.

He should hate Louise. God knows he wanted to. But a part of him clung to a memory of a sunflower yellow dress and a tinkling laugh that had once made his world bright.

Who knew better than him that love didn’t last? That the world was too often a dark, lonely place. That people didn’t stay. It was better to leave them before they left you.

Like he’d done to Cassie.

Ethan cursed loudly and detoured into the alley behind Donahue’s. He kicked his foot against the brick wall, angry and frustrated with himself, his life and the world in general.

He thought he’d figured his shit out last spring. And yet, here he was again, spiraling out of control.

He closed his eyes and took deep breaths. He needed to rein in his emotions and focus on the facts to do his job well. And the truth was he had a patient waiting for him, which had to be his priority now.

Feeling calmer, Ethan exited the alley near Edenbrook’s back entrance and parking structure. His mask was firmly in place as he got off the elevator on the second floor, only to bump into Cassie, who rushed in through the stairwell door.

“Oops,” she said with a half-laugh. “Sorry, Dr. Ramsey. I didn’t see you.”

“Maybe if you didn’t run around the hospital like a child, you’d pay better attention,” he muttered, annoyed all over again when her scent hit his nostrils.

He felt Cassie stop and stare at him, but he dismissed her as he stomped down the hallway to Lamar’s room. She followed quietly, practically running to keep pace with his long strides.

The day went from bad to worse when they found an empty room, and their patient was nowhere in sight.

“Where the hell is my patient?” Ethan barked at the nurse on duty at the station across from the hospital room.

“Ethan…” Cassie nudged his arm urgently. “In his condition, Lamar’s a danger to himself. We’ve gotta find him.”

“We didn’t see him back there,” he pointed at the hallway from where they’d come, “so he must have headed toward the atrium stairs.”

Knowing there was no time to waste, he quickly called security and issued a Code Green.

They sprinted through the halls, scanning patient rooms and corridors for signs of Lamar or his wife. They were almost at the balcony overlooking the soaring glass-domed atrium when they heard a scream.

Ethan’s heart dropped to his stomach at the sight of Lamar climbing over the railing on the fourth floor. The fifty-sixty-foot drop to the atrium below would likely maim him for life if not kill him outright.

“That fall will kill him. Dammit, come on!”

Before he could finish issuing the command, he glimpsed a trail of blonde hair flying past him like a sprinter coming off the block. Cassie pounded up the stairs, her white coat flapping behind her.

That shook him out of his inertia, and he raced up behind her, taking the steps two at a time. She was faster, though and reached Lamar first. The other man grinned broadly as if it was all a game, and Ethan knew he would be too late to stop him from jumping.

Just a few more seconds, Ethan prayed, pushing himself faster and ignoring the shocked faces that had stopped to watch the spectacle.

He saw Lamar let go of the railing and lean forward as if in slow motion. Cassie lunged at him, her hand grabbing Lamar’s just in time as he dangled in the air. She almost toppled over the edge of the railing as the other man’s weight pulled her forward.

“Cassie!” Ethan shouted hoarsely, fear for her life made his mouth turn dry.

Her shoes dug into the tight space between the floor and the bottom of the railing. Balancing herself, she leaned forward and locked one hand around Lamar’s wrist. Ethan saw her wince as her shoulders and arms strained from the pressure.

“Ethan…” she pleaded, her terrified green eyes meeting his as he rushed to her aid.

“I’m coming, Cassie,” he called out, letting his mask drop.

Ethan reached them before the security guard. Leaning around her, he hauled Lamar back over to safety and pinned him to the floor.

The weight suddenly gone, Cassie lost her balance and toppled backward, her elbow hitting the concrete floor with a loud crack.

“Goddammit,” Ethan cursed.

He left the security guard to restrain Lamar. His wife, Liz, watched with worry and confusion at the words her husband was saying.

Ethan started to check on Cassie when Naveen called out his name.

Still crouched on the floor, Ethan glanced up to see Naveen, some of the senior staff and the hospital’s board watching from one story above with a mix of horror and morbid curiosity.

He’d forgotten the board was meeting today, and Naveen had promised them a tour.

A man in a dark suit broke off from the group and dashed down the stairs. Ethan’s brows knitted in annoyance. He didn’t recognize the stranger and opened his mouth to tell him to get the hell away from his patient.

But the man rushed past him to where Cassie sat on the floor, protectively hunched over her, clutching her elbow. Her face was scrunched in pain, and tears tracked down her cheeks.

“Cassie, look at me,” the other man said, tenderly placing two fingers under her chin to lift her face. “Dislocation?”

Cassie shook her head and paused, taking stock. “I felt something tear when his weight pulled at me. Could be a sprain or torn ligament. Pain is six. Limited mobility. Nate, please help me up.”

He slid one arm around her back, supporting her weight. Cassie pushed her knees off the floor and started to rise.

“Can I just say?” Nate commented in awe. “You, Cassie Valentine, are more awesome than Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel combined.”

“Oh wow. Must have really impressed you if I get compared to DC and Marvel heavyweights?” Cassie chuckled, sniffing back the tears, and leaned against him briefly before straightening.

“I want to be a gentleman, tell you it’s okay to raincheck on our date tonight,” Nate said pleasantly. “But the woman that just saved a man’s life is much too strong-willed to retire with her smelling salts. And I really want to celebrate her in style.”

He smirked. “Maybe even challenge her to a mini-golf rematch since my chances of winning have suddenly improved.”

Cassie burst into laughter. The sound was like a stiletto piercing Ethan’s heart because the laugh wasn’t for him.

Ethan’s initial concern changed to bewilderment at the friendly ease between Cassie and Nate, and he wondered how they knew each other. The confusion quickly turned to red-hot jealousy when he heard about their date.

Uncertainty about wanting to care for Cassie and the rumors that would fly if he shoved the other man aside to do just that had Ethan rooted to the spot.

He was positive Nate wasn’t on the hospital board. He presented to that group often enough to know all its members. He looked vaguely familiar, but Ethan was hard-pressed to place him.

He shook off this new mystery to focus on the existing one. Lamar’s incomprehensible actions. Cassie was talking to Liz now, and Ethan needed to be part of that conversation.

But first, he had to reassure Naveen and clear the hall of spectators.

“Naveen, it’s okay. The situation is under control,” Ethan said when the older man stood before him, eyes narrowed in consternation.

“How am I supposed to be calm at a time like this?” Naveen said quietly, but Ethan could hear the subtle anger in his mentor’s voice.

“Ethan, a patient almost died in front of a hospital full of board members, staff and visitors. Why wasn’t security protocol followed if the patient was a danger to himself?”

“He wasn’t—” Ethan bit off when Cassie approached them cautiously, Lamar’s wife trailing behind her.

“Ethan. Dr. Ramsey,” Cassie amended. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to question Lamar. We’re running out of time.”

With a quick nod at Naveen, Ethan followed Cassie and Liz to the other side of the hall. Lamar was still pushing against the security guard, talking about people no one knew.

He absently glanced over his shoulder to see Nate and Naveen talking seriously, heads close together.

How long had Nate and Cassie been dating, he speculated as ugly thoughts clouded his brain. The intimacy he had just witnessed between her and Nate didn’t happen overnight.

So, had she really waited for him while he was in the Amazon? Or was that one more lie he wanted to believe, just like the one about his mother returning out of love for her forgotten son?

---------------

All Fics & Edits: @annfg8 @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @doriopenheart @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @takemyopenheart @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @hopelessromantic1352 @youlookappropriate

[stephenjaymorrisblog]

Suckers, Morons, and Other Types of

Trump Supporters

Stephen Jay Morris

6/2/2024

©Scientific morality.

            America may be the greatest country in the world, but its patriots are the dumbest people in the universe! What did P.T. Barnum say? “No man ever went broke overestimating the ignorance of the American Public.” Trump may be the first canonized patron saint of the Protestant Church. He became the first convicted felon, former president in the history of the USA; and what do his supporters do? Send him money! Lots of money!! One of them posted on X that he’d canceled his vacation and sent the money to Trump to help fight his legal battles. Five thousand dollars!

            Then there is the religious factor—the docile followers of Christianity in small town America. The pastor behind the pulpit, the direct line from God, that his flock believes, unquestionably, everything he says. The pastor who gets visited from God, every night, and receives instructions directly from Him. If you dare to question his word, you are a demon from hell trying to sabotage the word of God! Would that be me? I am from hell, otherwise known as East Hollywood. Nah!

            People who are brainwashed, particularly those in cults, have minds impervious to truth. You can show them factual evidence, photos, recordings, documents, and they still don’t believe that which is real. What can you do about it? Not much. Truth be known, Trump donated millions to the White protestant church with the proviso, “Tell them God sent me.” His suckers believed it, hook, line, and sinker! I’ve said it a million times before: that is why conservatives are anti-public education. They’d rather your children sit in a Christian classroom, watching Prager U videos; that or adhere to home schooling. Yeah, that is a rich concept. Having stupid parents teaching their naive children to be ignorant, like they are! Keep them stupid, Jesus! That’s the stuff! What is so hilarious is that Trump tells them, right to their faces, that they are idiots. And they think he’s correct! This is the relationship between the oppressors and the oppressed. The oppressor metes out punishment while the meek assumes masochistic pleasure from the master’s whip. Deep down, however, they don’t enjoy getting whipped; they are conditioned to be masochistic. When you substitute normal sex with violence, you get one decadent, fucked up society!

            Now, this thing that progressives and liberals are whining about, losing our Democracy to Fascists, I beg the question: Did we ever have democracy? Ask the Native Americans. Ask the former slaves. Ask the women who were told to shut up. Ask the workers who got shot by anti-union thugs while picketing their factory. Ask the victims of Gay bashing. Ask millions of victims. Fuck you! America did have its victims.

            Now, my main message here is: I am from the far, extreme, fringe, hard core left. Some pea brain righties think that equates to communists. That shows what ignoramuses they all are! As an anarchist, I ask: do you really think that we, on the extreme left, would cry ugly on the chance that Trump gets elected? On the contrary, we would celebrate by smoking pounds of weed! You just don’t get it! The sad fact is that Trump had four fucking years to establish a fascist state. Did he? Hell, no! Will he succeed next time around? No. Never. He is too stupid to conceive of the essence of a fascist state, let alone create one. He is a slave to his overblown ego. He would never garner the support of the U.S. military or the American people to actualize it.

            If you don’t vote for Biden, the lesser of the two evils, then fascism will certainly be worse under Trump. Biden fascism will be a moderate fascism. But go ahead, vote for a third-party candidate, or vote for Trump. See what happens.

            Now something unforeseen could occur before election day. One objective factor for your consideration is that average life expectancy for a man is 72 to 74 years. Both candidates are way past that range. There is that. Then, there is the mid-east crisis. That could devolve into the Third World War. And let’s not forget the Climate Crisis, which is rapidly escalating as you read this. Tornadoes could wipe out Texas, a flood could bury Florida beneath the sea. Let’s not ignore the possibility of assassinations, or a viral pandemic, either of which may cancel the election.

Hopefully nothing catastrophic will happen and all will proceed as normal. Biden gets re-elected and then dies of natural causes during his term; Vice President Kamala Harris becomes the first woman to become president.

So, over the next few months, enjoy life. Go on vacation instead of giving your hard-earned vacation money to a candidate.

[gyubby99]

@disneyanddisneyships HAHAHHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHA

Trauma recap ig?

Tw: SA

So- i was born at a very young age

Jkjk ok so..

Once upon a time~

....

I was born with a congenital heart and ig one day my mom thought i was gonna die bc they said i did not cry when I came out of the womb.

Ha. Look who's surviving now.

Anywhoooo my parents separated (i live in the philippines divorce is not an option so they separated instead but still married on paper. Just an important note for an extremely important part.) Before I could comprehend what even a sun is.

So the couple therapist era began.

Peer pressure to get them back together was an understatement. I was FIVE when they told me I was the "key" for them to reconcile. So I tried so hard to make my mother tell me why exactly they separated. Dad said she fell out of love so I tried so hard to make mom love him again. I guess we don't always get what we want.

I was so confused because things wouldn't go my way. I thought happy endings existed. Guess not.

So I start to grow up and go to grade school.

That was the trigger.

I was apparently the ugliest creature they've ever seen. Like, kids my age would run away from me when they see me wanting to play with them on the street. They would call me "ugly duckling" or something whenever I have to go up front.

And then, the real trigger was this.

Apparently my father also works on the school I was in, and these girls pulled up to me thinking I was rich, then started STEALING MY WALLET. How do six year olds know how to blackmail now?

When I don't give them what they want, they "punish" me by making me carry books on both of my hands and get me on my knees. Mind you, I cannot carry heavy things back then because *cough* inborn heart condition *cough*

S O

I cried the first time after it was done to me.

That's what started my people-pleasing personality.

So long story short, I switch schools because it was fucked up.

AND THEEEEEEN 😍😍

The first few years were fine, the only issue that I was smart in the english subject.. and people only used me and pushed me around. They ignore me up until they need answers for english class. Stupid little me gave them what they wanted.

Haha.

Then another year. THE FUCKING BOMB.

I sit next to this girl in class.

We became bestfriends.

And then valentines day happened.

My very first kiss.

Was with her.

On valentines day because she thought it was funny.

But god-fucking-dammit.

It made me realize something about myself.

But I was still attracted to guys, so I thought I was straight. (Idk what bisexual was)

Then when I finally told them..

Remember the list of guys they made to "make me normal"?

..yeah.

They made a list of guys my age and wondered which one would make me stop liking girls.

My brain erased that memory for a while.. probably for a good reason.

OH! YOU THOUGHT IT WAS OVER??

BOOM.

Found out dad had a girlfriend. Didn't accept it at first, but she grew on me.

I WISHED SHE DIDNT!!

Because a month after my father died she called my mom a whore for having male friends. While SHE is the one moving on after five months to another guy with a lotta cash and stuff.

What's more effed up is that dad's siblings sided with her.

Also mind you, my biological parents are stil married on paper. So according to the law, she gets portion of dad's properties. The rest of em is mine and my brother's.

But NOOOOOO SHE STILL CALLED MY MOM A WHORE FOR STATING FACTS AND WANTED 500K FROM MY NOW DECEASED DAD

So long story short my broken family got a lot more broken. Yay!

Oh- this isn't over yet.

It keeps

Getting

Worse

As I grew up.. men started eyeing me which was never a problem to comprehend by younger me.

I turn eleven.

I was actually ELEVEN when my second father-figure by the name of fucking Ian Cruz, SA'D me. I lied about the thirteen.

To make it more mild I told you i was thirteen when it happened.

But no.

Eleven.

Two days after my 11th birthday.. I saw him sa'ing his wife while she was asleep and he started acting weird ever since.. to me.

I slept so late because I thought he might come and get me. Because he almost did. He almost pulled down my pants if I hadn't stopped pretending I was asleep. It could've almost been my first.

Then he starts watching explicit videos whenever he comes into my room. And he forces me to watch them.

Then he starts making eyes at me.. saying I've got a nice tiny little waist and everything..

Whenever I call him out on his shit he gaslights me. Every. Damn. Time.

He apologized to me by hugging me when I confronted him.. and while he was hugging me he.. he kissed my back? Without my consent?

I think.

I hyperventilated when he left after I pushed him off.

I started hinting at his wife about how he has the keys and she had NO idea.

So he finds the keys.

So me locking the doors..

It was all for nothing.

He did some more fucked up things but.. I'll leave it here.

So I told my mom..

And I thought she was gonna comfort me.

But she made it about herself.

She made it about how she was so hurt thet I lied to her. To everyone.

The worst part is that after I spoke up nothing happened.

I was still silent.

No one knew.

Just like how no one also knew back then.

It just repeated itself.

One of these days I just wanna scream..

But no.

Not anymore.

The age of thirteen i mentioned? That was the time I told her.

It's been years but holy shit

I still can't erase it.

He took my fucking girlhood. My innocence.

And the worst part is that he had no remorse and is still living his best life..

But not anymore. I'm not going through bullshit anymore.

Now I just.. I just figured out I had mother issues..

It kept

Getting

Worse

With the peer pressure and everything happening.. It's so hard. I wonder if I'm ever gonna make it past this year.

I wonder how long I can take before I finally shut down.

But.. the bright side of it all? I found people.

Can I also tell you the good side of my life? Not just the recap of bad things?

Well.. there was this jelsa meme account on instagram I found really funny.. so I liked their posts.

Then this said account messaged me.. saying she appreciates it.

Then we just.. talked.

The trigger was that someone had been flirting with her? And I stepped in and just..

It just happened. Few days she started calling me her girl..

And boy, oh boy.. was this a dream?

I was a mad woman. I couldn't sleep at night. I just needed to talk to her.. and everyday it kept getting better.

Even now.

After two years of it.

AND IM CONVINCING HER TO GET A TUMBLR!

God, I fucking love this girl.

Okay.. I'm name-dropping.

Her name is Kiara. Her ig acc is official__jelsa (up until now)

I hope she says yes hehe

Speaking of tumblr tho.

Weeeeell a certain SOMEONEEEE started liking and reblogging my jelsa incorrect quotes!

Hm I wonder who could that beeeeee

Dyk, Liana?

Someone by the tumblr user named disneyanddisneyships...

Hmmmmmmm

I think you know the rest...

Liana.

You know what happened.

I was there when you gave elsa a miscarriage.

I remember it all too well.

[sunnywalnut]

This^^^

Like if you ASK me to infodump, I likely won't. Or if I try, it won't be very good. But if you ask me follow up questions and engage in genuine conversation, I probably will ramble a bit but I will stop halfway through and apologize. Because that is what has been conditioned of me. I've been told to keep it short. To not waste people's time.

But also sometimes I struggle with listening to OTHER people infodump bc

A: I don't know what the fuck is going on

B: I don't know enough about the source material to actually be engaged.

I'll still listen! I'll just probably be a bit distracted or uncertain of myself when I ask questions. Because I do love my friends. I'm just horrible at sitting still when things don't click "right" in my brain.

And yes. If those things that people infodump about challenges my strict sense of justice(because remember. That is an autistic trait as well) I will feel the intense need to share my feelings on the matter. Like my entire skin is burning and I'm going to combust unless I let it out.

Which more often than not leaves people irritated, frustrated, and disappointed that I don't also like The Thing

Which also ended up with me losing relationships with people that enjoyed things that I found controversial. Like k pop, for example.

The industry is exploitative and thrives off of harboring parasocial relationships with young fans.

I do not like that. I will tell you I don't like that. And I will not listen to k pop songs at all because of it. No matter how good they are or if their songs are in English.

This quite literally ended a friendship of mine bc they were too far into the fan space and had too much of a parasocial relationship that they took my criticism of the industry as me attacking the people they saw as their friends/family. They ghosted me for 2 entire weeks and for months after that, nothing changed. If anything, it got worse. Because both of us were on two opposite sides of the spectrum and I could not handle the sexualization, infantalization, [and sometimes f3tishization] alongside the fact that they would infodump information about these people EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

Meanwhile THEY could not handle the idea of somebody not wanting to listen to these cool people that they loved so much and thought were awesome as hell.

And before you judge either of us too harshly, please know that we were both 15 and this person likely did not know all of the things that I did about the industry. They just saw cute people that would talk to and have a relationship with their fans. Which is very normal for a fifteen year old. I however. Am obsessed with figuring out the dirty details of everything as soon as I can. Which leads to a lot of my black and white thinking. While I now recognize that this is the issue, as well as my age at the time, I've made peace with these events.

While I do think that both of us could've worked through a bunch of communication instead of being butts to one another and ignoring each other's boundaries, it quite literally was the stark differences and firm stand points that we had that ended our friendship. Because I was not able to let go of my morals enough to be supportive of my friend finding a new type of music they liked, and because they could not stop long enough to realize that maybe their (then asexual) friend does not want to watch videos of people biting their lip and the tens of thousands of explicit fanfic that came from that single moment.

We are both autistic. Or at least I believe so. I myself have a diagnosis, while last I heard from them, they were still in the middle of getting one. And five years later, I realize that this was also part of the problem.

Not every single autistic person is going to get along with one another. You can't just clock somebody as autistic and then ASSUME that they're gonna be okay with sitting in silence while you talk about your favorite band for three hours. The same way that you can't just ASSUME that somebody knows that when you are silent and don't look at them, it means that you want them to sit quietly with you.

Everyone has different needs. And sometimes those needs aren't met by someone else, even if you're similar in certain ways.

Developmental disabilities like autism have so many different ways of showing up and sometimes that clashes with other people in ways that you can't control.

The best you can do is to recognize how it affects you and to try and adapt to meet someone in the middle.

Like. Autism doesn't come with an automatic love of hearing anyone infodump about anything they love. In fact sometimes it comes with the opposite. Sometimes restricted interests are in fact restrictive enough to make anything else boring. Sometimes it's just hard to process that much speech. Doesn't mean we get to be unkind about it either but yeah. This fantasy people push of autistics having endless energy and appreciation for each other's special interests is just not realistic.

[butterflyloverforever]

I Survived Life

Prologue - How I Was Born

When I was still growing in my mom's tummy, she had a feeling she would have a child with special needs. Turns out, she was right. I was born with a disability known by few people - SMARD, Spinal muscular atrophy with respiratory distress. We didn't realize I had such a rare disease until I was two years old. The reason for this is that I was stronger than all the other SMARD kids. I'm the only person in the state of Utah diagnosed with it.

Chapter One - What is SMARD?

Early features of this condition are difficult and noisy breathing, especially when inhaling; a weak cry; problems feeding; and recurrent episodes of pneumonia. I have a high pain tolerance and a loss of bladder and bowel control. I have scoliosis also because of this disease. I can't move my hands and feet due to weakness of my distal muscles. SMARD causes paralysis of the diaphragm. This makes it so I need a ventilator to breathe.

Spinal muscular atrophy with respiratory distress is an extremely rare disease. Both parents need to have the gene in order to have a child with the disability.

Chapter Two - Miracle, not coincidence

I was in the hospital. My mom went home to take a shower. When she had gotten home, I couldn't breathe! The doctors were trying many different masks to change that but none of them were small enough. My mom wasn't back yet and my dad called her, saying that he didn't think I would make it. She was getting in the car but had a feeling to run back inside and grab the mask that we always kept just in case. For a second, she ignored her intuition but she felt it again. As if Jesus was telling her to. She listened and hurried to the hospital. When she got there, the feeling came again, this time telling her to not forget her bag. She didn't know why she would need that but, again, she trusted her feeling and grabbed it. When she got inside, the doctors told her what was going on. My mom quickly realized that they said that I needed a mask and pulled out the one she brought. It was a perfect fit and I survived!

Chapter Three - Still Undiscovered

When I was a baby, everyone could tell that I was different from other people but they had no idea why. Attempting to find out, the doctors took a biopsy of my leg. However, the first attempt failed. Still, sadly, nobody knew what I had. No one knew how rare I was.

Chapter Four - I Am Rare

I was two when the doctors discovered I had something so unusual. It was something that would affect my whole life. But was it for the better or for the worse? Could it be for both?

Chapter Five - Near mis

My parents were staying in Park City because they were in the hospital with me for 5 months. I was staying with my grandparents. My grandma was in the kitchen and my grandpa was reading me a book. He would check on me after every page. After 1 page, I didn't say anything. I was turning blue. My grandpa called my grandma in. She ran in, saw that I was in need of immediate help, and started working with the equipment she was unfamiliar with. Grandpa asked her who they should call, my parents or 911. She kept saying no but told him to call both 15 minutes later. 911 was there within 3-4 minutes with sirens blaring. 7 paramedics rushed inside. My grandparents thought they'd know how to handle my equipment but they didn't. Nobody knew how to control it and my grandpa's heart sank. I went to the hospital with all my equipment. No one knew how to use it. My parents were speeding down the canyon. The doctors figured it out with the help of my mom and grandma and then left the room. I was passed out for 45 minutes. My dad and grandpa gave me a priesthood blessing. The moment they lifted their hands off of my head, I opened my eyes and said, "I want to hold my baby." My mom was pregnant and no one had known except my parents. The doctors asked my parents if they wanted to take me home or send me to the children's hospital. They decided to take me home.

Chapter Six - Bionic Back

For almost my whole life, I had a terrible back. On a 1-10 pain scale, I always had a 10 pain. This is because of my scoliosis. I needed to have magic rods to try and straighten my back because my lungs were getting squished. Also, for the same reason, twice a year, I had an appointment with my doctor where I had to lie down on my stomach for about an hour.

Chapter Seven - This Side Up

When I was about 10 years old, I had one of my final surgeries. The magic rod company was in the surgery with the doctor. They were supposed to be supervising and helping the surgeon put the rods in my back correctly. However, although the rod specifically said "This side up", they put them in "this side down". My mom kept telling them that something was wrong because I kept getting weaker on my left side. After they saw my rods practically poking through my back, they believed my mom. It had to be their idea.

Chapter Eight - My Back Is Screwed - Literally

I was at the age of 12 when my parents told me that I could finally end the pain in my back! We chose to take the opportunity and get me a back fusion. This time, the surgery went well. But it turned out that my back had autofused meaning that my body was going to stay crooked.

Chapter Nine - I Believe

My family and I were coming home from somewhere. I was speeding into the house and I fell out of my wheelchair. But I didn't hit the ground! My mom sort of caught me from what she remembers. But I felt like angels caught me!

Chapter Ten - Saved Again

I had a sinus infection. Pretty normal, right? Wrong! This one seeped through my bone and turned into a brain infection. I had the most terrible headaches and had to take Advil and Tylenol which I almost never need. They didn't even help. After 12 days of excruciating pain, my mom read a news article about kids in Nevada who had the same thing. She rushed me into the ER for an MRI the morning after. The doctors were going to operate on me that day but it got delayed until the next morning. When they did, my pockets were filled with infection. If they had waited any longer, I would be gone. I was saved by my savior again!

Chapter Eleven - One or Two?

Is SMARD a good thing or a bad thing? It's both! Although it's an adversity that I'm yearning to live without, it's also helped to teach me many important lessons. It's often a blessing. It's strengthened my faith in Christ and in God. And that has allowed me to survive!

[indigostars]

in which i’m bullied encouraged by my beloved friends to write a dramatic rainy confession for zutara 💓

•

She barely makes it past the courtyard before he catches up to her. They both nearly tumble to the ground, which is slick with mud.

Rain is coming down heavily, reducing visibility to less than five feet, but Katara can see Zuko’s face as clearly as if there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

“I told you not to follow me!” Katara has to shout over the wind and the other hundred noises of nature. Her hair whips around her, untethered. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going!”

Zuko only tightens his grip. His robes are starting to sag to waterlogging and his topknot is in complete disarray, and one had the guts to say it, they’d comment on how Zuko looks like anything but a Fire Lord.

That doesn’t deter the intense gaze he gives her. If anything, Katara thinks Zuko’s never looked more regal or, dare she say — handsome.

“Really?” Zuko challenges, just as thunder rumbles overhead. “In this weather? Your ship will crash before you make it to the temple.”

Katara wrenches herself from his grip. “I’ve traveled in conditions much worse than this and you know it.”

Zuko’s eyes flash. There’s a lot of anger and a lot of hurt. “Why are you so desperate to leave? I thought we had an agreement.”

“That was a year ago, Zuko,” Katara snaps. “Plans change. The letter I got from Aang—”

“That damned letter?” Zuko shouts explosively. “The whole reason you came here was because you felt stifled by these expectations—”

“Don’t you dare!” Katara shrieks, heat rising to her cheeks. Her voice cracks. “You don’t understand and you never have! Aang needs me!”

“You broke up with him, Katara,” Zuko snarls. Something suspiciously close to smoke is starting to come off of his clenched fists.

Katara throws her arms up. “Maybe that was a mistake, Zuko! Maybe all of this was a mistake!”

“You don’t believe that,” Zuko says loudly. Stiffly. “You don’t want to go.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot believe in,” Katara bites out. “You don’t know anything about how I feel!”

“I know you better than you think I do,” Zuko growls, and suddenly Katara is very aware that their faces are mere inches from each other.

“And what,” Katara hisses, “makes you think that?”

Zuko grabs her hand again — both of them this time — only this time, it’s with a gentler touch. His voice echoes in her ears as he leans to whisper to her.

“Because I know you, and you know me.”

And Katara shoves him away, tears in her eyes, hoping against hope that Zuko never notices them.

“What do you want me to say?” she demands. She gestures around her. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stop running away!” Zuko shouts, and Katara has to fight the urge to stomp her foot like a child. “I want you to be honest with yourself!”

The rain, if possible, is coming down harder now. Katara can’t tell if she’s crying. It certainly feels like it. Zuko himself doesn’t look much better.

“I’m not running away from anything!” Katara says. She ignores how her voice cracks and the lie that rings clear. Despite all the cages guarding a heart that gave and gave until there was nothing left to give, something within still broke the defenses.

Zuko actually takes a few steps back. Sorrow is etched upon his face for a brief moment before it vanishes completely.

“Fine! Then go. I thought you loved it here, but I was wrong.”

The dismissal is cold fury and seeps into Katara’s bones with frightening clearity, and suddenly she’s moving toward him until her nose brushes his.

She’s always been one for defiance.

There’s a flash of lightning, quickly followed by another roll of thunder.

“Don’t falsify my feelings! I love it here, and I love you—”

Warm hands grip her face then. Zuko’s eyes are shining like molten gold, and at some point in their confrontation, his crown’s fallen off.

“Then stay.” His voice is husky. “Stay, and — and be with me.”

“Zuko—”

He leans forward and kisses her. All thoughts immediately leave Katara’s mind, because the gesture is compassionate and gentle and real.

When they break apart, Katara still keeps her arms wrapped around him.

There’s a small smile forming on Zuko’s lips. “Did you really think I didn’t return your feelings?”

“I—” Katara stutters. Her face feels flushed, and this time, it’s not from anger, but from euphoria. “I wasn’t sure — I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, I—”

“Nothing could ever ruin us,” Zuko declares. Katara rolls her eyes at his dramatics, but now she’s smiling. “I love you, Katara. So stay. Please.”

Katara never once believed that the Fire Nation could ever be considered home — but Gran-Gran had always said home is where the heart is.

And her heart belongs to Zuko. Zuko is her home, as she is his.

Katara pulls him into a hug, the motion fervid. She’s clinging to him, and she can feel his arms holding to her just as enthusiastically.

“I’ll stay,” she whispers. “Always.”

[criminalmindzjunkie]

The More Loving One

Masterlist

Summary: Professor Reid finds himself falling for a student. 

A/N: This fic is based on this request. I changed a few things up, but I hope you like the finished product!

Long time, no see! It seems like forever since I got to sit down and just enjoy writing something. And enjoy this, I did. I approached this one a bit differently than I usually do, but I like how it turned out none the less. I hope you all enjoy my take on the Professor Reid arc. The first poem I use in this fic is titled The More Loving One by W.H. Auden, and the second is from a collection of Perry poetry.

Also, I recently hit 2k followers, which is absolutely unbelievable. I can’t even begin to explain how thankful I am for each and every one of you. This fic is my love letter to you. Thank you all so much. 

Pairing: Professor!Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content Warnings: a few swear words maybe?, teacher x student relationship, age gap, exhibitionism (sorta?), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex

Word Count: 4k

           For as long as Spencer can remember, he’s always had a predilection for the finer things in life.

           Spencer attributes the origin of his preferences to his upbringing. In his childhood, before his mother’s disease got the better of her, she exposed him to all sorts of literature. While he ventured to read all types of writings, he’d always been partial to tales of extravagance. A young Spencer Reid sought refuge in the profligacy of it all, as it was so starkly different from his own reality. Forced to bear the burden of household and a sick mother from an early age, Spencer’s own life left little room for reckless indulgence.

           Now, as a single adult male, Spencer makes it a point to give himself up to the finer things as often as he can. Spencer isn’t a rich man, nor is he careless with what hard-earned money he does have. He simply likes to treat himself to the occasional five-star meal, and even more frequently, posh clothing and rare books. Walls lined with hundreds of antiquarian novels and a closet full of Comme Des Garçon cardigans are where the indulgence ends, however, and until recently Spencer was content with this.

           But when she strolls into his life on the very first day of his teaching career, Spencer knows that his small luxuries will no longer be enough to keep him satisfied. The part of him that longs to have only the very best roars to life as he takes in every perfect inch of her. She stands before him, the embodiment of divinity and grace, looking like every fantasy he only dares to conjure up in the late hours of the night. A litany of cliches from every piece of romantic literature he’s ever read spring to the forefront of his mind in the instant that her eyes met his, but there is nothing stereotypical about the way her gaze banishes the air from his lungs. It is as jarring as it is intoxicating. He never wants to look away.

           Unfortunately, she doesn’t feel the same. With a light flush of her cheeks, she turns away from him, and in an equally unfortunate turn of events, she proceeds to shuffle down the aisle and into the second row of seats to the right of the podium. The realization that washes over him feels like ice water in his veins.

           She’s a student. Worse even – she’s his student.

           Spencer wrenches his gaze from her as if he’s been burned, and the fiery shame of his embarrassment makes him tug at his collar. As he struggles to stave away the lingering heat in his chest and even more embarrassingly, the tightness in his trousers, Spencer chastises himself. His own carnal urges often go ignored, a fact that is glaringly obvious as he cowers behind his podium in an attempt to hide his arousal. He feels more than a little bit pathetic. No self-respecting thirty-five-year-old man gets hard just from gazing upon a beautiful young woman.

           When Spencer pulls himself together enough to start his lecture, he positively forbids himself to look her way. It is hard to fight the urge, but every time he catches his eyes wandering to her, he reminds himself that she is an indulgence he simply cannot partake in. No matter how badly he wants to.

--

           It doesn’t take long for her to notice him noticing her.

           In the early days of the semester, she manages to convince herself that the stolen glances are but a figment of her overactive imagination. That, or an unhealthy dose of wishful thinking. But as the semester stretches on and the professor’s eyes linger more and more, wishful thinking gives way to a startling realization that she isn’t alone in her attraction. Professor Reid is, to her complete and utter astonishment, just as taken with her as she is with him.

           This is all but confirmed when a slight brushing of the hands during an exchange of papers leaves them both with flushed cheeks and pounding hearts. Both of their heads snap up, two sets of eyes meeting in a prolonged stare that results in an understanding of sorts. It’s mutual, this thing blossoming between them. She can see her own hopes reflected in two velvet pools of brown – can see the longing, the desire that burns within them. Her heart soars, as she imagines his does, and she accepts the papers with a smile.

           She also imagines that, if he could, he would tell her to wait for him. He would tell her that, for now, their relationship must stay strictly professional.

           This doesn’t stop them from sating their cravings in other ways.

           She makes it a point to stop by during office hours at least twice a week. Her visits always fall under the guise of her studies, but within minutes their hushed conversations stray from the professional and towards a more personal nature. She learns of Spencer’s mother and her condition, of his unusual job and his coworkers that were more like family. In return, she tells him about her upbringing in southern California, as well as her dreams of becoming a criminal psychologist. They never go as far as to discuss what will happen when the semester comes to a close. It is an unspoken agreement that the end of the semester will find them in each other’s arms. All they have to do is wait.

           Spencer can’t voice his affections with words, but he more than makes up for this with his actions. Without fail, every Monday following the very first clandestine brushing of hands, lavish bouquets of flowers arrive at her workplace. Each bouquet is always paired with a notecard inscribed with a brief explanation of the meaning behind that week’s flower of choice. Cherry blossoms to pay homage to her beauty, plumeria to symbolize their new beginning, agrimony to convey his thankfulness that she is willing to wait for him.

           Her favorite bouquet arrives four weeks before the end of the semester. As she steps through the doors of the bakery, a vase full of nine red roses sits atop the counter. The sight of them nearly takes her breath away. She pauses for a moment and runs her fingertips across the velveteen petals before plucking the notecard from its place.

           This week, Spencer chooses to forgo the explanation in favor of a messily scrawled poem;

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

that, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

we have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn 

with a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

let the more loving one be me. 

           That evening, Spencer receives his first bouquet from her. On his desk sits an arrangement of pale pink ambrosia.

           The meaning isn’t lost on him, but if it were, the note that sits next to the vase makes her intentions clear.

We never had to force love.

We were drowning in it from the moment we met.

--

           Spencer is horribly frustrated.

           A mere twenty feet away from where he stands, the notoriously garish and wholly unprofessional PhD program director is gesticulating wildly to the young woman that stands trapped between him and the hors d’oeuvre table. To find Professor Van Wesep in such a position is not uncommon, due to his penchant for trying to charm (terrorize) the prospective female doctoral candidates. The man is practically a walking harassment complaint waiting to happen. Spencer would abhor Van Wesep even if he weren’t the only thing standing in the way of him and his lover.

           At long last, the semester has drawn to a close. The lonely nights spent longing to hold her in his arms are a thing of the past. By the time the sun rises again, Spencer will no longer have to wonder what her body will feel like pressed against his. He’ll be thoroughly acquainted with every inch of her, and she with him. The thought sends a thrilled chill down his spine.

           The torturous foreplay they’ve been engaging in for the last four months would have surely broken a lesser man. Spencer would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted on more than one occasion to have her during one of her frequent visits to his office. Some days, when her visits came later in the evenings, just as the sun began to dip low in the sky, her eyes would glisten in such a way that told Spencer her thoughts were none dissimilar to his own. That glimmer of lust had him holding on to his restraint by the skin of his teeth.

           And here they were, on the last evening of the semester. Final grades had been submitted and were released hours prior. Spencer would have been content to skip this event altogether, in favor of more… recreational activities, but his lover insisted on attending.

           Initially, Spencer assumed her insistence lay in her desire to mingle with her future peers and mentors. Her true intentions come to light when she breezes into the room clad in a pair of sleek, designer pumps. Her lips, painted fire engine red, curl up into a playful smile at the sight of a slack-jawed Spencer Reid. The devious glint in her eye twinkles sinfully in the light.

           Tonight isn’t a social call at all. Tonight, she wants to play with him.

           And play she has.

           From the second she arrives all eyes are fixating on her celestial beauty. Peers and mentors alike trip over themselves in their haste to capture her attention, if only for a fleeting moment. She works the room flawlessly, leaving a trail of smitten men of all ages in her wake.

           The most smitten is Spencer himself, because he’s the lone recipient of countless heated glances, as well as more than a few knowing smirks. She well aware of what she’s doing to him, and she takes pleasure in watching him squirm.

          Spencer intervenes when Van Wesep makes the ill-advised decision to reach a hand up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. He barely has the time to withdraw his hand before Spencer is upon them.

          “I apologize for the interruption,” Spencer casts a faux apologetic glance at his colleague, before settling his gaze on his target. “Ms. Y/L/N, may I speak to you for a moment?”

           She looks positively gleeful. Perhaps Spencer should have intervened hours ago.

           “Absolutely, Professor Reid.”

           The honorific sends a jolt of heat straight to his groin. He definitely should have stolen her away earlier.

           The two of them say their goodbyes to a confused Professor Van Wesep, whose imploring eyes follow them as they hurriedly slip from the party and down the hallway.

--

           “Where are we going?”

           Spencer leads her down a long corridor, far beyond earshot of the other guests. Pushing her into a dark corner, he positions her between himself and the cold wooden door of an unoccupied office. The only sounds that can be heard are the distant thrum of the music and the eager pants falling from his lover’s lips.

           Spencer pulls her into a searing kiss, one hand tangling in her hair and the other finding purchase on her waist. He worries for a moment that he’s being too rough with her, that he should have taken a more careful approach to their first kiss, but she assuages those worries when she kisses him back with equal enthusiasm. Her hand reaches between them and clutches his tie, then she’s pulling him closer and whining wantonly against his lips. Spencer takes this as an invitation to slip his tongue inside and he finds himself letting out a low groan when he tastes a hint of strawberry.

           Spencer pulls away to catch his breath. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

           “Oh, I think I do, Professor,” she laughs, breathless. “Probably just as long as I’ve wanted to do this.”

           Spencer jolts forward when her hand slides down to cup him over his trousers.

           “Could’ve done that a lot earlier if you hadn’t insisted on teasing me for the entire night,” Spencer growls through gritted teeth. He’s more than a little proud of his ability to string together a sentence with her hand working him over with slow, steady strokes.

           He trails a line of kisses across the underside of her jaw, before taking her earlobe and nipping it lightly with his canine. Spencer’s actions are rewarded with a full body shudder. He dips his tongue in the hollow at the base of her throat and her hands ball into fists against his dress shirt.

           “Spencer, please.”

           Spencer hums and pulls back to look at her. The hand in her hair lowers, and he trails a thumb across where her nipples are hard against the fabric of her dress.

           “Yes, my love?”

           Her eyes flutter against the weight of her arousal, and Spencer twitches in his pants. The sight of her with her hair disheveled and her lipstick smeared on account of him is a heavenly thing. He doesn’t know how he ever deprived himself of such a splendor.

           “I want you. Right now.” She punctuates her words by pulling him down into a frenzied kiss. One of her hands tangles itself in the hair at the nape of his neck while the other busies with tugging his shirt out of his pants.

           “Right now?” Spencer taunts, mouth against mouth. His hand trails down the side of her breast, caressing her rib cage and her hip before stopping at her upper thigh. Spencer’s fingertips toy with the tops of her lace thigh highs. “But anyone could walk by and see us.”

           “I don’t care,” she argues, fumbling clumsily as she struggles to undo his belt buckle.

           Spencer’s wandering hand dips below the hem of her dress to explore the silky-smooth skin of her inner thigh. She’s soft here, too, he thinks to himself as his hand travels up, up, up. He stops just short of where she wants him most and she lets out a despairing cry.

           “You wouldn’t mind someone walking by and seeing you with your pretty legs spread wide for your professor?”

           Spencer brings life to his words by lifting her leg up, hitching her thigh around his hip and pressing into her. The silk fabric of her dress rustles as he pushes it up and out of the way.

           A breathy moan tumbles from her lips as he rocks against her, dragging his arousal up and down the front of her lace panties. The friction is maddening in that it provides only the smallest bit of relief. It’s not enough for Spencer, and judging by the way she desperately pushes down the fabric of his pants, it’s not enough for his partner, either.

           “Need to get these off now,” she murmurs against Spencer’s mouth. An eager hand tugs at the elastic band of his underwear.

           Spencer places his hand on hers, stilling her movements. “Not so fast, baby. Gotta make sure you’re ready for me first.”

           Her fingers clamp down on Spencer’s wrist, guiding him to the sodden lace between her thighs.

           “Don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” she whimpers as Spencer’s fingers take appraisal of the drenched cloth. “In fact, I think four months of foreplay is sufficient enough. Wouldn’t you say?”

           “Maybe so,” Spencer muses, voice muffled as he sucks at the skin of her neck. “But I’m not willing to chance hurting you our first time together. You’re entirely too precious to me.”

           Spencer captures her lips in a kiss so sweet it has her sighing into his mouth. When he pulls away, he fixes her with a smile.

           “You’re not particularly fond of these panties, are you?”

           Her eyebrows pull together. “No, why?”

           Spencer pulls at the flimsy fabric harshly and it gives way under the force of it. He reaches back to stuff the thong in his back pocket.

           “That’s why.”

           Spencer’s lips come down against hers at the same time his middle and index fingers drag across her slickness. His foresight pays off when his mouth muffles the sound of her cries. As confident he is that they won’t be found, a cry like that would certainly have drawn unwanted attention.

           The swipe of his thumb across her crest paired with the gentle pressure of his fingers dipping into her heat is enough to make her legs buckle. Had it not been for Spencer pressing her against the wall, she surely would have fallen to the ground in a trembling heap.

           “I could get lost in you for hours,” Spencer groans, curling his fingers inside her in such a way that makes her clutch desperately to his shirt.

           “Spencer, oh my God,” she keens. “I need you, please.”

           “You have me, my love,” Spencer whispers the promise against her parted lips. “You’ve had me since the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

           Spencer speeds up the onslaught of his fingers until the telltale tightening of her heat warns him of her impending climax. He has to bite down on his lower lip to regain his own composure. The feeling of her tight and wet around his fingers is almost too good.

           “Spencer, I’m getting close,” she whimpers.

           Spencer continues until she’s on the cusp of tumbling over the edge, until one more pass of his fingers against her crest would surely seal the deal, and then he’s removing his hand and taking a step back.

           “Spencer, what the fu-,” she pauses when he promptly shoves his pants and underwear just enough to free himself from their painful confines. “Oh.”

           A dazed smile makes its way to her face as Spencer presses himself against her once more. He sweeps her up into a kiss comprised of pure, unadulterated desire, before pulling away and smirking deviously at her.

           “Jump.”

           It takes a moment for her pleasure fogged brain to make sense of the request, but as soon as it does, she complies without question.

           Spencer’s hands grip her thighs firmly and in one swift thrust he sheaths himself into her fully – an indulgence so grand that all others dull in comparison. Now that he’s had the finest, felt it wrapped around him like warm velvet, he can’t imagine a world in which he must live without it.

           “Spencer!”

           Spencer swears he’s never heard a sweeter sound than her crying out his name as their bodies come together for the first time. It’s synonymous with a siren call, he thinks, because in that moment she could lure him to certain death and he knows he would go with a smile.

           His lips seek purchase on the exposed skin of her chest as he buries himself in her paradise again and again. The sharp sting of her heels digging into his back with every thrust brings out a sort of primal urge in him, spurring him to rut up into her like a man possessed.

           “You feel perfect,” Spencer groans out against the flushed skin of her neck. He presses a soft kiss to where her pulse bounds just beneath the skin before pulling away and locking eyes with her. “When I’m old and gray and can remember nothing else, I’ll remember this. I’ll remember how it felt to kiss you for the first time – how it felt to touch you. How it felt to worship you and make love to your body.”

           Spencer’s voices catches, thick and overwhelmed with emotion.

           “I’ll remember how it feels to love you.”

           Her breath catches in her throat and sharp pang of panic burns hot in his chest. Had he misinterpreted her affections? Did she not burn for him in the same way? Perhaps the ambrosia meant nothing. Spencer’s movements falter, and for several torturous seconds he’s nearly paralyzed with fear.

            She silences those fears with a kiss.

           “Oh, Spencer,” she sighs as she presses her forehead against his. “I love you, too. More than you could ever comprehend.”

           Spencer resumes moving in and out of her, but the frenzied feeling from before is replaced with something else now. Something softer, but no less passionate.

           “Yeah?” he inquires, searching her eyes for any trace of insincerity. He finds none, and it’s a relief. Any hint of falseness in her claim would surely lead to a heartbreak he could never recover from.

           “Yes.” The word trails off into a moan. “I love you, Spencer Reid. I don’t imagine I’ll ever stop.”

           Spencer’s heart jolts and he whines pathetically against her mouth. “I’m counting on that.”

           “I’m close, Spencer,” she pants, her breath hitting his face in warm puffs. “Don’t think I can last much longer.”

           “Me, too.” Spencer nudges her nose with his own. “Reach between us and touch yourself, my love. I want us to cum together. Can you do that for me?”

           She nods, and the hand that clung to his right shoulder dips in between them to rub tight circles against her crest. Spencer doubles his efforts when he sees her eyelids flutter closed, and the resulting tightening of her core leaves him panting hard.

           “Spencer, I-” her breath catches in her throat as Spencer delivers a particularly strong thrust. Her head falls against his shoulder, her soft moans of his name like heaven to his ears.

           “Cum with me, baby,” Spencer grunts out desperately. He needs it like he needs air to breath and water to drink. And once he has it, he knows he’ll need it again and again.

           She gives it to him with a muffled cry of his name and he’s instantly swept away, drowning in the blissful way her body sings for him. His body follows her lead, shattering completely under her fingertips.

           While he’s been through similar acts with previous partners, those instances always felt impersonal and clinical. The caresses and whispered words were all a means to an end, an end that usually left him feeling lonelier and emptier than when he started. But right now, as he feels the beat of her heart pressed against his own, he swears he couldn’t feel fuller - full of adoration, full of affection, full of love. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and everything Spencer didn’t know he was looking for.

           A raucous round of applause erupts from the direction of the party, startling the two of them. Spencer feels her laugh against his neck.

           “It’s almost as if they were applauding us for a job well done.”

           Spencer presses a chaste kiss to the crown of her head.

           “As they should. That was sensational.”

           Spencer carefully pulls out and lowers her to the floor. He wastes no time in tilting her chin up and capturing her lips in a reverent kiss. Spencer hopes his lips convey his gratitude.

           The two of them pull apart and set to making themselves presentable. Their efforts prove to be in vain when Spencer points out a dark purple love bite nestled into the crook of her neck. She counters this by taking note of the smudge of red lipstick on his collar.

           “What an adulterous pair we make, Professor.”

           Spencer rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I’m not your professor anymore.” He bends down and places a kiss to her lips before taking her hand in his.

           “I suppose you’re not,” she muses as they meander down the corridor. “Whatever shall we do now?”

           As the two of them step out of the dark hallway and reenter the party, Spencer smiles to himself. Visions of wedding rings flit through his mind. Spencer supposes he’ll have to take a break from the posh clothing and rare books in favor of saving his money. He’ll buy only the finest ring for his future wife, after all.

           “I have a few ideas.”

-

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taglist: @90spumkin @moon-light-jukebox​ @whxt-to-write @calm-and-doctor @jessalyn-jpeg @pinkdiamond1016 @itsametaphorbriansblog @eldahae @itsmytimetoodream @kasaikawa @shadyladyperfection

[azsazz]

Kind of a personal question so feel free to ignore it but have u ever dated anyone? What was ur first relationship like?

Oooh getting deep I see.

Sooooo, this is actually like not a great story...and i basically just word vomited my life on here 😅

TW: mentions of poor mental/physical health, cancer

Yeah, I've only been in one relationship and it lasted for 3 years (too long) lol.

It was great at the start. I'd met him when I went away for college and we were friends which is what I liked the most. We met at a karaoke bar my school had that my friends and I would go to every Thursday night and so would he and his friends so we all kind of became this large group that did that almost every week.

And it was my first relationship ever you know so I was all dumb and head over heels and the whole thing was just a mess looking at it now. My family and friends didn't like him and I became a terrible friend because I would basically spend all of my time with him and not them, so when we broke up I had like no friends of my own because we would only hang out with his friends and that's a whole other mess I won't get into haha.

But basically we were together and things just got worse and worse. He was very jealous and overbearing, had to know where I was and what I was doing all of the time and when we first got together he would tell me what he was doing all of the time and I'd be like okay? I don't need (or care) to know what you're doing all of the time, that was just a natural thing for him I guess. So then he conditioned me to basically be the same way and it was awful and I hated it.

Eventually, things were so stressful. I'd gained so much weight and I was deeply unhappy. All of my relationships were strained and I had no one to turn to. If we fought I'd basically have nowhere to go if I needed time to get away. He chased me down in his car once when all I wanted was some space to think.

Towards the end of our relationship I was literally the most miserable person ever. I hated everything and I started feeling even worse. I got a cold around my 22nd birthday and then that turned into something much worse. I kept getting sicker and sicker and I had no idea why. The doctors I went to thought I had an ear infection, then bronchitis, then that again. They just kept giving me medication for things that weren't helping.

I'd be freezing cold at night but wake up sweatier than ever.

And one day I literally just blurted out during a fight that we should just break up and then we did.

I lost like 30 pounds in a week but was sicker than a dog and I thought it was just because I was sad or whatever and I went to a therapist who literally said to me "Why are you so negative?" I'll never forget that. like lady i'm here to tell you about my problems what fucking part of that is positive?

Like legit I could barely go to class because I was so sick, I had no motivation to do anything. I'd go to class, come home, and go to bed. I barely even did homework because I had no energy.

I visited my brother at his school which was five hours from mine and my parents were there visiting him for a weekend and by the end when it was time for me to drive myself back I started bawling my eyes out and pleading to my parents that i didn't want to because I felt so awful it was the last thing I wanted to do.

Fast forward to thanksgiving break, i went to see another doctor in my hometown because I was still sick (so it started september and it was now november) and she said lets wait a few more weeks, see if this goes away and we'll check again at winter break (december).

So i go back to school and am miserable and finish my classes and I come home at christmas break and am trying my best to tough it out. I was literally the most miserable person on the planet i can't stress this enough how awful i felt. I had no energy to do anything, I'd be so angry at everyone for no reason, and I'd had a terrible cough, nothing was going alright.

At the time my two other siblings were still at school so it was my parents, my little brother, and i. My mom said "if you want to go to the hospital let me know." and i had a friend over at the time so i tried to tough it out but in the end i wanted to go to the hospital.

Basically they told me that I had stage 4 cancer (Non-Hodgkins lymphoma) and man I was in utter shock.

And then I had to leave school to get treatment so I moved back home for that.

So basically long story short I haven't been in a relationship (or even kissed/slept with anyone) since (4 years now, im 26 😳) because now I have this irrational fear that I'll get sick again or something and I just like don't even know how to talk to people or want to talk to them. And I just don't want any of that shit to happen again so idk what im doing with my life in terms of relationships lol.

But I've been in recovery since the middle of 2019 so I am very grateful for that.

sorry for the longest answer in the world that really took a turn. if you read all the way through thank you 💙

And if you should ever need someone to talk to about anything, I am here for you 100% 💙💙

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Late Night Talks

Summary: After a long hunt, the reader and Dean grab a late dinner on the road. Dean notices the reader not eating much and calls her out on her recent eating habits when he gets concerned about the road she’s on...

Pairing: Dean x reader

Square: Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 1,900ish

Warnings: language, discussion of disordered eating & eating disorders, fluff

A/N: Written for @supernatural-jackles​ Tell Me A Story Bingo! 

______

“I read this article earlier,” said Dean as he popped a french fry into his mouth. You were about five hours from home, eating a midnight dinner at some tiny little diner on the side of the road after a successful but exhausting ghoul hunt.

“Mhm,” you hummed, picking at a brussel sprout on your plate. 

“It was on disordered eating,” he said, picking up a piece of bacon that’d fallen onto his plate and eating it.

“You mean eating disorders,” you said, stabbing into the sprout and eating it before you went back to your dicing up your chicken tenderloin.

“No this was something different. It’s like, how some people shift into having an eating disorder, like pre disorder I guess.”

“So...was there something interesting in this article?” you asked, picking up a piece of chicken and taking a bite.

“Actually yeah,” he said. You chewed and took a few bites before he set the burger down and wiped off his hands. “It was about how there’s dangers involved with disordered eating since it could turn into something all consuming, like a full on eating disorder.”

“Well that sounds kinda obvious,” you said. 

“Well it was about how stuff like skipping meals, limiting your calories too much, saying some foods are good and others are bad, that stuff over time can really start to mess with your head and lead to that compulsion of being obsessed with food and weight.”

“Isn’t that just common sense,” you said. He hummed and you ate another piece of chicken before pushing the plate away. “I don’t know about you but I’m full.”

“Yeah, it is common sense,” he said. You raised an eyebrow and he pulled out his phone, tapping on it for a moment before spinning it around, showing you a number.

“Are you tracking my fucking calories?” you said.

“Oh geez, Y/N. Maybe cause you hit every red flag in that article I read and I got concerned. There’s no humanly possible way you’re full when you’ve eaten a whopping 800 calories today. You’re starving yourself.”

“I’m not hungry today, weirdo,” you said. 

“You were slow on that hunt and we both know why. You’ve been doing this for weeks really extremely and honestly, since I’ve met you.”

“I’m on a diet. You know that.”

“You’re on the ‘I’m fucking up my metabolism’ diet. Ah, that one’s a classic,” he said.

“Back off. I am not hungry lately is all.”

“Eat this,” he said, sliding his plate in front of you. He took your plate and started eating, staring at you. “Eat the burger.”

“I said-”

“Take one bite.”

“I’m not hungry,” you growled.

“Then take a bite and spit it out.” You picked up the burger, covered in cheese, bacon, peppers and a sauce that smelled so good. You swallowed and put it down, Dean shaking his head.

“Dean. I’m just not hungry.”

“Why won’t you take a bite?” he asked. You sighed and closed your eyes. “Y/N.”

“Because I’ll want to eat the whole thing and this has to be a thousand calories and I can’t eat that much, Dean. I’m on a diet.”

“Today I’ve seen you have three cups of coffee, a banana, and half of a small piece of chicken and a few brussel sprouts. You need to eat.”

“I need to lose weight.”

“For what?”

“I’m overweight.”

“Because a little stupid calculator online said so? So another stupid little calculator tells you how much food you’re allowed a day? But maybe you’re having a bad day so you tell yourself you don’t deserve to have even all of that already restricted food? So you make it even smaller to the point of, hm, what’s that word, disordered eating?”

You stared down at your lap and heard him get up, sliding into the booth beside you. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and you looked out the window.

“I do need to lose weight Dean. It’s true. I’m not supposed to be this big.”

“What are you supposed to be then?”

“Like that waitress. She’s small and thin. She’s healthy.”

“I see,” he said. She was working behind the counter, no one else in the place aside from a man at the other end and the cook. “Excuse me miss?”

She popped her head up and walked over with a tired smile.

“Can we get another bacon cheeseburger? And a big bowl of that ice cream sundae?” he asked.

“You got it,” she said, writing it down.

“One more thing,” said Dean. “Do you like the way you look?”

“Excuse me?” she said.

“Dean, shut up,” you said. “Please ignore him.”

“I mean, are you happy with your body? Do you eat whatever you want, wear whatever you want, never worry a second about what goes in it or how it looks? You’re a beautiful woman but what do you actually think of yourself?”

She was quiet for a few moments before she noticed the swapped plates in front of you.

“You know when you first asked that, I thought, you were being creepy. I get creepy guys in here a lot late at night. The cook is a big guy but it happens. I know I’m small. I wish I was stronger. I wish I looked like she does. I’m something that looks like they’d snap in the wind. She’s strong and has an ass and curves. She’s not a rectangle with no curves or chest. She doesn’t look like a guy. I wish I wasn’t so delicate but I don’t think I can change that much.”

“Probably not so much,” said Dean. “But I hear weight training is good for muscle building. Creeps are always creeps but might help to be able to deck ‘em.”

“Yeah. I’ll go put that order in for you guys,” she said with a smile. Dean turned his head back to you after she went through the double doors.

“Funny. You want her body. She wants yours,” he said. 

“She doesn’t know I’m overweight.”

“She doesn’t know how damn strong you are. Her body? She was right. She is delicate and it’d be a safe idea for her to put on some muscle given her job. You though? You I’ll worry to death over no matter what. But you’re missing the most glaring thing of all.”

“What?”

“You just said she doesn’t know you’re overweight. She doesn’t know how much you weigh. If she doesn’t know how does anyone know? Why does a number on a scale matter? Health does, don’t get me wrong, but care more about what your body can do than what size pants you fit in. It’s all bullshit anyways. You can be a small one place or a triple XL somewhere else. You can have a normal chest but be told it’s too big or too small by a different brand. I just don’t want to see you going down a path towards something worse where you’re hurting yourself.”

“I’d never hurt myself, Dean.”

“If your body is hungry and you don’t feed it, you’re hurting it. I’m talking about you’re cold, you’re starving, you have no energy, you feel like crap. But you won’t eat, not until it gets a little worse because you think you can take it because you’ve taken it before. That’s hurting yourself and you hurt yourself a lot sweetheart.”

You looked down and swallowed, taking a deep breath.

“I’m really cold right now,” you said quietly. “I’m tired of always being so fucking cold.”

“Eat,” he said, tugging his plate closer to you. “I’ll order you some soup too. That’ll warm you up.”

He took off his jacket and wrapped it over your shoulders. He kissed your cheek and you squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’ve been like this for years, Dean. I don’t know how people eat normally anymore.”

“I know. You probably fucked up your metabolism but we can unfuck it up too. You can be healthy but this, this isn’t healthy. I’ll do it with you but you gotta promise me you won’t starve yourself anymore.”

“I’ll try,” you said.

“I’ll take trying to start with,” he said. “I’m gonna order that soup. Eat up for me sweetheart. You’ll feel better soon. I promise.”

One Month Later

“Y/N!” shouted Dean from the kitchen as you walked past. “You eat lunch yet?”

“No,” you said. 

“Are you hungry?”

“A little. I was waiting for you to get done with Baby,” you said.

“What’d you eat so far?” he asked.

“I had a cup of coffee and a protein bar and for lunch I’m having one of those greek wraps I like,” you said. “Satisfied?”

“I’d prefer if you had two wraps or a wrap and snack with it,” he said. You grumbled and he sighed. “Y/N. You said I could take the lead on this.”

“I’m gaining weight,” you said.

“Yeah cause you aren’t eating what a toddler does in a day anymore which is perfectly healthy for a grown woman. I know it’s only been a month but you have so much more energy, you sleep better, you have less nightmares. Your skin looks amazing. So gain a few pounds, gain more than a few, let’s fix your metabolism and then we’ll start working out a little and we’re not gonna give a fuck how much we weigh at all and we’re gonna be the hottest fucking couple in this neighborhood I swear.”

“I like not feeling cold anymore,” you said with a small smile, Dean walking over and rubbing your arms. “It’s just...hard sometimes to not...wait to eat until your stomach hurts from no food. I’m figuring out what being hungry is again.”

“It’s gonna take some time but your body will learn again. We just gotta be extra nice to it right now while it recovers,” he said. “And then we’ll always be nice to it, right?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I promise.”

“So, one wrap or two?” he asked, opening the fridge.

“One. I’ll save the other for tomorrow. But maybe I’ll have some pita chips and hummus with it?” you asked.

“That sounds yummy,” he said. “I think I’ll have that myself.”

“You don’t have to eat my diet Dean,” you said.

“I could do with being nicer to my own body myself,” he said. “After lunch do you want to go for a walk? I have a sneaking suspicion the couple three blocks over are a pair of vamps.”

“That’s the guy with the skin condition, babe,” you said.

“Are you sure cause he got like a weird rash that one time.”

“It’s a condition,” you said with a smile. “But I would love to go for a walk with you while the day is still nice.”

“Sounds like a plan sweetheart,” he said, starting to take food out of the fridge. You walked over and gave him a hug from behind. 

“Thanks for saying something. Even if I tried pretending I was fine.”

“You’d do the same for me,” he said. “Come on, cutie. Let’s get some grub. I’m starving.”

________

[awheckery]

so. uh.

cut for frank discussion of chronic illness and the serious failures of the american healthcare system. tw for fatphobia and gaslighting.

Last July, I got sick. It wasn’t too bad at first: some fatigue, body aches and a slightly elevated temp, until suddenly it was bad and I wound up in the ER. It took three rounds of steroids, a round of antibiotics and a more powerful inhaler to get my feet back under me, but I never fully recovered.

I didn’t talk about it here, except for answering an ask in October and blaming my lack of creative output on depression. It really, really wasn’t depression; it was my health progressively collapsing, one system after another until the avalanche of symptoms that flattened me just after New Year’s.

For the last four months, I’ve spiked a fever over 100°F nearly every single day. My joints hurt. My knuckles are knobbly and swollen, and occasionally my fingers are so painful and weak I’ve had to literally tape my pen to my hand at work. I get rashes at random that itch so badly I claw myself bloody. I overheat and have hot flashes in temperate rooms. The skin on my face and neck and shoulders turns red and hot to the touch, like I’m burning for hours with no immediately discernible provocation.

Some days, I wake up and I don’t have the strength to get out of bed. Some days I can’t wake up at all. I’ve slept through deafening alarms for hours, long enough for my phone battery to run out and die. I can only stand up for ten minutes a day without being hobbled by the effort, and every extra minute beyond that I pay for in hours spent bedbound by exhaustion and pain.

I keep losing words. I’ll arrive at the middle of a sentence and stumble to a halt, because the word I need isn’t there. It’s not true aphasia, and it’s not all the time. I comprehend written and verbal communication perfectly well, but I can’t get my own thoughts out without tripping over them.

I am, to quote a friend attending school to be a nurse practitioner, “a textbook case for SLE,” and I agree, but somehow I can’t pay a doctor to treat me seriously.

In January, I was referred to a rheumatologist after the bloodwork my PCP ordered indicated I had autoimmune activity of some kind.

To date, that’s my only test for anything that’s come out definitively positive for any kind of disease state at all. Ever. I tested negative for celiac disease on a technicality nine years ago, despite how specifically and intensely sick gluten makes me, so I was dismayed but not too surprised when follow-up bloodwork for lupus came back just barely inside the range of “normal.” Despite that, I wasn’t prepared to be jerked around as much as I have been.

The first rheumatologist I saw, back at the end of January, had barely been in the exam room for thirty seconds when I could see he’d already made up his mind about me. He was dismissive and perfunctory and condescending when he told me that “plenty of perfectly healthy people have positive ANA results,” and he referred me back to my PCP for an exercise program and antidepressants to treat my “fibromyalgia.”

Putting aside that I’m not a “perfectly healthy person,” I’m a Fat Lady living in America, and I’ve experienced medical fatphobia for decades at this point. You learn the key words and phrases pretty quickly, and “exercise program” has never not been a euphemism for “weight loss.” (Which is heavily ironic in this particular situation, because before I was Fat, I walked 2-3 miles a day for funsies and spent 15-20 hours in the gym every week. I only stopped because I somehow shredded both my ACLs in one summer. I’d love to get back to that if a rheumatologist could help me figure out how to be active and uninjured at the same time.)

I was frustrated after that first appointment, enough to request a referral to one of the best teaching hospitals in the country. Why not go to the best, right? There was a five month wait for an appointment, but I am stubborn, and I made use of the time by documenting every bullshit symptom my body threw at me. I have a daily symptom journal, full of subjective entries like my pain and fatigue levels, as well as objective entries like daily temperature changes and photos of my rashes and my burning face and my goddamn mouth ulcers.

I thought I had enough logged to be impossible to ignore, and then I saw the second rheumatologist three weeks ago, and the first sentence out of her mouth was the beginning of an interrogation on my blood pressure, and whether I was taking medication or if I was on a fucking exercise program for it. I tried to get the appointment back on track by sharing my symptom diary, and she turned back to my just-under-the-wire test results, and told me, “many healthy people have positive ANA results, it doesn’t mean anything without other positive test results for specific conditions.”

I said, “Healthy people don’t run a fever for months.”

And then she told me that a "fever is not associated with any of the conditions a rheumatologist treats." I was so startled by the confidence and authority with which she stated the lie that I was unable to speak to rouse a defense or contribute anything else for the rest of the appointment. After an insultingly brief examination, in which I never took my face mask off and she declined to look at any of my photos, she said that she “didn’t see anything that could be rheumatologically wrong with me.”

I asked her what she thought could be wrong with me, and she grudgingly admitted it’s possible, though rare to have an autoimmune disease and test negative for everything, so she would order more tests and refer me to appropriate specialists for my various symptoms. She ordered a referral to an infectious disease specialist for my fevers, and a referral to a dermatologist for my “rosacea” (that she’s assuming I have, because I would like to again note she did not see it, at no point did she actually look at my face or a photo of it), and a referral to an ENT for a salivary gland biopsy for my dry mouth, and a referral to a neurologist for my “stroke-like” memory and speech problems.

It was, all told, an unbearably shitty appointment. I cried in my car for an hour in the hospital parking garage so I wouldn’t do anything impulsive like lying down in traffic, and then I went home, cried some more, and went to bed for three days.

On the fourth day, I woke up enraged. It’s one thing to be blown off by a doctor when you’re just reporting symptoms without proof, it’s a wholly different thing for a doctor to ignore your proof and lie about diagnostic criteria to your face.

It’s hard enough not to think you’re crazy when your test results come back negative over and over; it’s that much harder after being told that your major concrete measurable symptom is diagnostically irrelevant, when it really, really isn’t.

(for the record, just going off the symptoms I can concretely prove I’ve experienced in the last week alone, I land a 16 on this chart, which is the most up-to-date, widely agreed-upon diagnostic criteria)

I have decided, for the moment, to play ball. I don’t have the energy to jump through all the hoops this rheumatologist wants, but I'm angry enough to drag myself through them. Tomorrow I’m supposed to see the infectious diseases specialist. On Wednesday I see the dermatologist. In two weeks I see the ENT, and I’ve got a neurology appointment tentatively scheduled for December.

I’m going to be blisteringly forthright with all of these doctors about why I’m there, and that I’m looking to exclude diagnoses other than the lupus I pretty obviously have. (Except with the ENT. Apparently they treat allergies, and I’d like to be able to go outside long enough to walk a dog, someday.)

I’m supposed to see this rheumatologist again at the end of November. Depending on how this week’s appointments go, I’m aiming to either move up my appointment with her when one becomes available, or just send a firm yet diplomatic email asking why the diagnostic criteria apply to everyone but me.

If anybody else has gotten through this fucking nightmare successfully, I’m open to suggestions, it’s not like it can get worse at this point.

[patchworkstudies]

advice from a friend in recovery

[part II: the depression edition]

since my last advice post is somehow still getting traction despite having been posted almost three years ago, i thought it might be a decent idea to expand it into a series! when i wrote that post i was dealing with the aftermath of traumatic events, experiencing a developing post traumatic stress disorder for the first time. what i needed most out of recovery was a way to build moments of solace and joy into my daily life, so that’s what that post focused on.

three years down the line, my recovery goals have changed quite a bit. my focus right now is on learning strategies to cope with major depressive episodes and figuring out how to pick up the pieces after days or weeks of barely being able to get out of bed. here’s what i’ve got down so far!

does waking up (and staying awake) in the morning feel like an insurmountable hurdle right now? same. it’s rough.

make your alarm impossible to ignore. turn the volume all the way up and set it to a song you can’t physically resist screaming along to (or a song you hate so much you would do literally anything to turn it off. either works). bonus points if you know you’ll have to sprint to turn it off before it wakes up others in your household.

you will feel worse if you turn the alarm off and crawl back into bed. trust me. you will. if you hit snooze, you’ll feel groggy and annoyed in ten minutes. if you turn the alarm off entirely, you’ll wake up in five hours and still feel like shit anyways.

make it as hard as possible for yourself to get back into bed. keep your alarm across the room from your bed, behind an obstacle course. the more things you’ve had to do before you can turn the alarm off, the easier it will be to just get up instead of going back to sleep.

if you can, use an app like this that sets your alarm to only turn off when you scan a certain barcode. set the barcode to something you keep on the complete opposite side of your house.

better yet, set the barcode to your tube of toothpaste. by the time you’re able to turn your alarm off, you’ll already be in the bathroom holding the toothpaste. while you’re still on half-asleep autopilot, it’s much easier to say “fuck it” and brush your teeth before you can think twice.

having a hard time with personal hygiene, but your own body odor is making you feel a thousand times more depressed? yeah, i’ve been there.

get yourself some really strong deodorizing soap. drag yourself into the shower, spend ten seconds lathering the parts of your body that smell the worst (armpits, groin, anywhere you sweat a lot). rinse and repeat twice. the smell will be completely gone with minimal effort on your part.

don’t have the energy to shampoo, but greasy hair also making you feel gross? just use the bar soap on your hair too. yes it will dry your hair out, but it’s effective and you can always condition later if you feel better.

don’t have the energy to get into the shower or turn it on? if your pits are sweaty, just take the bar of soap and rub it in the sweat until it lathers. wipe off the soap residue. it will smell a thousand times better. (if your pits are not sweaty enough for this, a splash of water works great too).

your bedroom is such a mess that you can’t even imagine how you could start cleaning it? i know the feeling.

pick a corner. designate this your “clean corner.” literally shove the clutter away from this corner until you have a space big enough to sit down in. cleaning is less overwhelming when you have somewhere to retreat to.

personally, the bulk of my mess is usually dirty laundry that i have been putting off washing. forget about washing it right now. if you have a separate closet, pick up every piece of laundry on the floor and throw it into that closet to be dealt with later. close the door.

if you don’t have a separate closet, stuffing it into trash bags is another way to collect your dirty laundry and make it less visually overwhelming. trash bags can be stacked better than individual items of clothing, leaving you with more empty floor space.

the next easiest thing to get rid of is trash. if there’s so much trash around that picking up all of it at once is daunting, start with food waste. it is easy to identify and probably making your room smell.

out of sight, out of mind. the more you can shove the clutter into boxes, bags, closets, etc. to deal with later, the better. you can sort through it, pile by pile, when you have the time.

you don’t have to be perfect all of the time. or any of the time, even!

depression making it impossible for you to do the dishes? if you’re able to stock up on paper plates, cups, and disposable utensils, just use those instead. i promise, you are not singlehandedly destroying the environment by doing so.

out of clean clothing, but can’t muster up the energy to do laundry? spray your clothes with febreeze. wait a minute and then shake them out as hard as you can to air them out. congrats, you now have a single outfit that smells more like car air fresheners than body odor. (please do not do this with underwear. if you need to reuse underwear, turn it inside out).

cheat on your assignments. for fuck’s sake, if it won’t get you in trouble, just do it. academia is a sham, you have more important things to worry about, and you can always learn the information later when you’re not working against a deadline.

know that sometimes it is all you can do to stay alive. every breath you take is an accomplishment. on the days when you can’t even stand up, rolling over to the cooler side of the pillow is an accomplishment.

you are quite literally winning at life, by sheer virtue of not being dead right now. congratulations!

i’m proud of you.

[holylulusworld]

Truth to be told (1) - The Siren

Title: Truth to be told (1)

Summary: This is the story of how the truth broke my heart.

Square filled for @spnquotebingo: (“We’ve got to do this more often.” - Knives Out)

Word Count: 1,7k

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Rating: Mature

Warnings: angst, the reader has powers, monster of the week, cocky Dean, flirty Dean, implied unrequited love/heartbreak, deaths

Truth to be told masterlist

SPN Quote Bingo masterlist

Now…

How I fell for Dean Winchester and got my heart broken you might ask.

And I want to answer all of your questions but – how can I explain the force of nature Dean Winchester is?

How can I make you see all the things I saw in him and more? Can I even explain what he did to me with his pretty mouth and green eyes?

Well, I’ll try for you – so follow me and enjoy the ride…or not...

Five years ago, …

“Interesting,“ my eyes drift toward the man sitting at my table. He introduced himself as Dean Winchester, hunter, in need of a partner for one case. “Why did Bobby not call me? I could’ve told him I got no time.”

“He said you are the best when it comes to sirens, sweetheart,” I like the way he looks at me, even though I should know better than to fall for his sparkling green eyes and the smirk on his lips. “Said you’re a natural and that you always know who the siren is.”

“It’s a curse and a gift at the same time,” I shrug, not giving away that my four-times great-grandmother made a deal with witch ages ago.

Now I got this odd talent to see the true color of a person.

“Bobby also told me you can read people. How does that work, sweetheart?” the hunter searches my face, tries to find out if I can be trusted or not. I can sense the tension in his body, and I heard a clicking sound the moment he sat down.

I know he’s aiming a gun at me under the table. Why would he not? The life of a hunter is filled with deaths, betrayal, and violence. If you trust a stranger, you can end up dead or worse.

“I can tell if someone lies to me or hides something,” I casually look around the diner, smirking as the waitress who tried to get Dean’s attention stuffs something back into her pocket. “The waitress over there, the one handing you her number. She’s pregnant and looks for a baby daddy.”

“Wait – what?” choking on his water Dean looks at me, bewildered. “Phew, guess you saved me. How can I thank you, sweetheart?”

“I will help you under one condition-“ I say, adamant about my rules. “You’ll call me by my name, not hit on me and treat me equally. Only as I got a vagina doesn’t mean I’m weaker than you.”

“Alright,” Dean raises his hands in surrender, chuckles lightly before he nods in agreement. “No more sweetheart. Got it, Y/N. I always treat my partners equally and I will try to not hit on you, even though, it’s hard to not enjoy your presence.”

“You just lied about not hitting on me,” grinning I steal one of his fries, giving the cocky hunter a wink. “Don’t worry. That was a test and you passed.”

“You tried to find out if I lie,” nodding thoughtfully Dean watches me steal another fry. “Must be hard to always know the truth. Is there a way to suppress your ability?”

“It’s-“ I look at the waitress, feeling sad about her destiny as she desperately tries to hide there is a new life growing inside of her. I will give her a huge tip and the number of one of my friends later, “tiring, Dean. Sometimes you just want to have a nice conversation and then, you know about every lie.”

“Awful, I guess,” I shrug, not giving away I like the way he smiles at me. It’s not that I don’t like to have sex but getting involved with someone in my line of work can only end deadly or bloody – or both.

“Dating is awful when you know your date lies about everything. The last guy inviting me told me he’s single but was married. My drink ended up in his face and I walked home alone once again. Sometimes you just want to have a good time and believe the lies they tell you. But it’s hard to ignore a lie when you see a red light above your date’s head every time he lies.”

“WAIT! You see a red light?” Dean wonders, choking on his coke. “Seriously?”

“No,” I start laughing and it feels refreshing, to be honest. “It was a metaphor, Dean. You know, it feels like that to me. I want to ignore the obvious lie but just can’t do so.”

“Back to my case and the siren,” he looks around the diner before getting a few papers out. “It looks like everyone involved with a bar in town freaks out. We hunted a siren years ago and it’s the same pattern. Men and women go home to their loved ones and kill them out of the blue.”

“A siren,” I scrunch up my nose. “I hate those sneaky creatures. They believe no one can see through their lies,” now I smirk at Dean. “Well, no one but me, Winchester.”

“That’s the reason I’m here, Y/N. You can see what I can’t,” he explains, and I nod thoughtfully. “We need to go to that bar and check on every guest and employee.”

“Let’s do this, partner.”

“The bartender believes he’s funny, but that’s all,” I whisper, glancing at Dean before turning my attention back toward my drink. “Same goes for the guys hanging out at the pool table.”

“The waitresses are clean too,” he whispers, pointing his index finger at the remaining guest. “Dude didn’t want to talk to me, Y/N. I guess he’s all yours.”

“Of course, he is,” I act as I check on my phone while I glance at the man who eyes every woman at the bar. “He’s checking every girl out. Maybe he only wants to get laid, but I better check on him.”

“I’ll be right behind you, sweet—” Dean coughs, shaking his head, “I mean Y/N. Give me a minute to hide in the shadows and find a good position to provide backup.”

“Provide backup,” I slide off the barstool, smirking to myself when I feel Dean’s eyes on me for a split-second, “not stare at my ass, Winchester. Let me handle this. I got the bronze dagger and a vial with the blood of one of its victims.” I say, acting like I’m speaking into my phone. “Go ahead and hide, partner.”

“I’m on it…”

“Oh, a talent scout, that’s interesting, I guess,” I lie poorly. The guy is just that, a guy. He tries to impress me, not mess with my head. “I need to use the restrooms, don’t wait up for me.”

I leave his table, shaking my head at Dean. Just like planned the hunter hides in the shadows. He gives me a curt nod before he looks around the bar, searching for the siren again.

“Dead end,” I whisper, brushing past Dean and he touches my hand for a moment, squeezing it. “If the siren is here, it didn't show up yet. Maybe it hides in the back?”

“I don’t know,” Dean wonders aloud. “Maybe it already moved on to the next town. Three victims, all were at the bar before killing their partners.”

“Sirens don’t think anyone can ever catch them, Dean,” whispering the words I scan the crowd. “They change their appearance. One night they are Hugh Jackman and the next, Halle Berry. We need to keep an eye on every new face.”

“Dean, that’s the ladies restroom, you know,” I chuckle when the hunter stumbles into the room, looking at me with wild eyes. “Dean, is something wrong? Why didn’t you wait—”

“Uh—I need to get this off my chest, I want you,” he steps closer, tries to touch me but I flinch away, not letting him touch me.

“I thought we agreed to keep our relationship strictly professional, Dean,” I eye the hunter warily, tightening the hold on the bronze dagger I hide behind my back at the same time. I coated it in the blood of one of the siren’s victims shortly after I entered the restrooms. “How about you wait outside, and we can talk about your feelings?”

“I need to talk to you now,” Dean steps closer again, want to touch my face but I dodge his hand, sidestepping the hunter. “Please let me give you what you desire.”

“Whoa, that’s a great performance,” I would clap my hands but I’m busy lunge forward, and ram the bronze dagger into the creature’s heart. “Tell me, when did you touch me?”

“It was me all the time, darling,” the siren sneers, but I can see through its lie. “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

“I can see through your façade, sweetheart,” I twist the dagger, drive it deeper into the monster’s body. It screams one last time before collapsing onto the floor.

“Y/N,” Dean, the real one, stumbles into the restrooms. His forehead is bleeding, and he looks like he got under the bus, but he still looks like the toughest guy I ever met. “There are two, they are working together.” he pants, eyes dropping to the dead monster on the floor. “Oh, you got the other, great.”

“What happened to you?” I remove the bronze dagger to hide it in my bag while Dean leans against the wall, panting heavily. “Let’s get you cleaned up and hide the body in one of the toilet cubicles.”

“While you talked to the boring guy, someone slid her fingers over my cheek. I felt dizzy and then, you were right there, smiling at me. I was confused at first, but you dragged me out of the bar to—” he huffs, pointing at his crotch. “Somehow in the back of my mind, I knew you wouldn’t just jump at me and got the bronze dagger out. It was a hard fight, though.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet. You knew I wouldn’t want to ride your dick,” I joke. “Now let’s hide that bastard and hit the road. I have another case three states away.”

While Dean and I hide the siren in the toilet cubicle, the room suddenly feels too small. He watches me, and I watch him, knowing he likes me but is too afraid to take one false step.

“If I ever need help again, can I give you a call?” he finally brings out.

“That was great teamwork. We got to do this more often,” he chuckles at my words. “Give me your number and I’ll give you mine. If you ever need a hand or my powers, give me a call..."

Tags in reblog.

[crispin-kreme]

blooming ; yang jungwon

part 6/7 of the series

synopsis: yang jungwon has loved you ever since high school started. admiring you from afar, he suffers from hanahaki disease. you’re very close to jungwon, but you don’t know how he feels towards you. all you know is that your bestfriend is doing well. but what would happen if the worse happens to jungwon? would you return his feelings?

genre: angst, fluff, unrequited love, hanahaki au

pairings: student! yang jungwon x student gn! reader

warnings: blood, like a shit ton- grammatical errors, hospital setting, cursing

notes: plot was very much impulsively built so uh- i hope you guys enjoy this!

yang jungwon loves you. that’s already clear enough to him. from playing through the playground to your first year of high school, he’s been with you. he was a friend. just a friend.

the unrequited love has gotten into his health. he coughs out petals at an alarming rate. sometimes it is even mixed with blood. the normal healthy boy now looks like a frail one. he certainely has the case of hanahaki but he refuses any surgery. he would rather die knowing you.

on the other hand, you are not aware of this. you only notice how he looks sick since you guys were kids but you’re really unaware of his condition.

jungwon dazes off into your eyes as you rant about how your chemistry exam was a pain in the ass. “earth to jungwon!” you waved your hand against him “oh- was i dozing off again?” jungwon asks as he snaps out of his daydream. “yeah.” you replied as you gave out a little chuckle. jungwon sighs “next time, you should probably study more. i’ll help you.” jungwon follows up. you sighed “that’s going to be a bother.” you replied “it isn’t, y/n!” jungwon says gleefully.

you smiled at him but suddenly jungwon gets up from his seat. “eh- where are you going again?” you interrogated with an eyebrow raising “i need to go to the restroom real quick.”jungwon sheepishly replies “alright. be right back quick, our next class is starting soon.” you reminded him before he parted away from the classroom.

as soon as jungwon went inside the restroom’s cubicle, he finally lets out hoarse and loud coughs. he spits out blood and petals into the toilet. he tries to control his breathing but he just couldn’t. jungwon looked at the toilet that was practically with petals mixed with blood. he gave out a disgusted expression as he flushed it all down.

he gargled the blood from his mouth out. he hated the taste of blood. “gosh, when will this end?” jungwon complains.

he does blame himself for loving someone like you, a person he doesn’t have a chance with.

for the next few weeks, jungwon has grown pale as ever. as jungwon sits beside you at the football field underneath the shade, you look at his frail figure. “woah- you look like a zombie.” you teased at him. jungwon gives a weak laugh “do i?” he asks. you look at jungwon as he admires the view of the field.

“jungwon, why do you look sicker than ever? you’ve been looking like that since we were kids... but now its like worse.” you suddenly blurted out. jungwon sighs “i’m fine, really.” he denies “are you sure?” “y/n, i am. don’t worry about me.” jungwon added a precious smile to his response.

you nodded and sighed deeply. jungwon looks at you, admiring you again. how should he tell you how he feels? how is he going to tell you his condition? he questions all of these in imhis head as your suspicion of him rises.

it was a bit queer event that jungwon has been absent for over five days now. you then wanted to investigate him so you visited his home. as usual, mister and missis yang have let you in, knowing their son doesn’t want his condition revealed to you.

you head up to jungwon’s bedroom. “jungwon? are you there?” you knocked. there was no reply. after several knocks, there was still no reply. you then slowly came inside his room and was left stunned.

jungwon was coughing loudly as he was curled up on the ground. tears in his eyes from pain. petals were coming out of his coughs alongside with blood. “jungwon?” you muttered. “y-y/n, help me out will you?” he cried softly. you nodded at his request and slowly pull him up to bed. he was still coughing so you let him sit up and rub his back.

“fuck, jungwon. what was that?” you asked out of worry as you continued to rub his back “what was what?” jungwon asks as he let out subtle coughs. “the one you’re like- coughing out petals and blood. what the hell was that shit?” you explained. jungwon lets out a chuckled “that’s nothing. you’re just tripping balls again.” jungwon denied.

you got out of bed a gave out a frustrated groan “i saw what you did there! you were coughing out petals. see? look at your floor.” you raised your voice as you point at the petals that are stained with blood that were laying on the floor. “i don’t know what the hell is that shit but let me help you this time, hm? you’ve been helping me all the time. you get the gist!” you added.

but jungwon didn’t want your help. you would know that he’s suffering because of you. he doesn’t want your help, he just needs to be yours.

jungwon sighs in defeat “alright.”

day after day, you obligated yourself to help your bestfriend. jungwon feels like his heart is just about to explode by your act of services towards him. although, you don’t know why he’s suffering like this- you ignored that fact and you just focused on jungwon.

time skip to his condition worsening. he had to be admitted to a hospital, unfortunately. he turns down every idea or suggestion of surgery. a surgery of removing the growing flower from his lungs but the consequence is forgetting you alongside his feelings for you being erased.

“why won’t you get the damn surgery?!” you exclaimed at him, not bothering the sight of the doctor “y/n, it isn’t that easy to accept it.” jungwon retorted “i don’t understand why you hate the surgery but look at you! you’re literally dying over here.” you shot at him, trying to hold back your tears. “i’ll leave you both to the decision.” the doctor says as he excuses himself and exits the room.

jungwon clenches onto the blanket, crying. “jungwon, please. get the surgery already.” you suggested “its not that easy, y/n.” his father butts in. you looked at his parents in confusion “what do you mean?” you asked “jungwon, tell them.” his mother says. they both exited the room later on.

then silence was left upon you. jungwon’s heart beats loudly as you wait for him to talk. with your impatience you spoke “what are you going to tell me?” you asked. jungwon sobbed softly “y/n...” he croaks out. he takes a breath “you promise me, after this, nothing shall ever change between us?” jungwon says and you nodded in reply.

“i- i like you. no, more like, i love you.” jungwon admitted, finally. your eyes widened at his words “i liked you ever since middle school. i’ve been sick because of you... to make it simple, it’d because of the hanahaki disease.” jungwon explained. he continued to explain the disease and his sufferings, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

you were destroying his life. you hated feeling like the villain. “you were suffering because of me?” you asked. you let out little tears “jungwon, you know i don’t feel that way towards you and i don’t see you in any way.” you said truthfully “i see you as my brother. that’s all.” you added. jungwon nodded, understanding how you felt.

“so take the surgery, will you? i’d rather have you forget me than seeing you suffer.”

you waited patiently for jungwon to wake up. finally, he took the surgery you requested. from what you know, they have removed the blooming flowers from his lungs to cure the disease. it sucks that you’re going to be welcomed by jungwon who’s already forgotten you.

jungwon suddenly stirrs in his sleep. you let his parents approach his waking figure. his parents are happy that their son is well and happy, but are you? his parents signalled you to come closer to them.

you finally approached jungwon who looked confused at seeing you.

“wh-who are you?” jungwon asks cluelessly

“i’m glad that you’re well.” was all you said.

would you like to proceed?

yes / go back