#and its been a fucking minute since biochem :-(

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[lewis-winters]

3 and 6 for the positivity meme?

I'll answer this backwards because my answer to no. 3 got long.

6 - what's a headcanon that you'll die on that hill?

Lewis Nixon III was a theater kid and has done drag in his life. This is forreal. The ghost of Dick Winters revealed this to me in a dream.

3 - what are some fics you go back and read again and again?

oh I love this question. in the last ask I did say I left out some creators and now is my time to redeem myself! (also another reminder that I desperately need to finish this massive fic rec post I have been steadily adding fics to since January BUT ANYWAY)

under the cut!

all of @churchkey's Winnix and ToyeMalarkey fics! god do I love them so much. I re-read A Spell of Riot once a year since it was completed.

and of course @anthrobrat's Bob, TP, and Gen Kill fics!

all of BristlingBassoon's Winnix fics - Queen for a Day inspired my "Lewis has done drag" conviction and When we met, you'd never expect this series is just. divine.

@marycontraire's Contact Tracing. of course.

make it up as we go along - Joe drives his cab, Chuck plays Call of Duty, and Babe just wants to pass Biochem; their apartment is like Grand Central at the best of times and that’s without the two possible fugitives they decided to harbor in the guest room; Luz’s life is turning into a terrible romcom about a coffee shop; Harry’s friends are bad at running a bar but they’re trying their best; somebody got punched in the face; and someday there will be a New York Times Bestseller about all of it.

Or, the interlinked soap opera-worthy drama of a group of millennials in Philadelphia, told day by day.

Lie if God is Sleeping - Gene flipped the puzzle over to read the back. “My name is Edward Heffron,” he read aloud. “I killed a man, and now I’m paying the price. 18,000 pieces. It will take approximately seven days to complete me. For experienced players only.”

What the fuck was a curse this nasty doing in a Philadelphia used bookstore?

rivers always reach the sea - my favorite webgott canon era series fic ever

Situation Normal - Winters and Nixon move to the city, reunite with some old friends and find themselves adopting a new, four-legged one.

By Small and Small - Babe wants to keep talking with Gene, but he doesn’t really know what to say. He feels like, in the past, he never would’ve shut up, but now, since Julian, he’s just got nothing. Maybe that’s grieving; Bill says that’s grieving, anyway, but Bill uses the term like a Band-Aid to put over every aspect of Babe that has changed.

Or: The one where Gene is in med school and Babe's messed up over Julian.

Dear Lover - A group of friends who supervise soldiers' mail are secretly very invested in one Major Winters' letters to a woman he seems to be having a secret affair with.

all or SJtrinity's Band of Brothers (webgott) fics and The Pacific (sledgefu and andyeddie) fics

Green and Gold - Merriell has dark magic and a guilty conscious. He never considered how the war would change them.

The American Sublime - "Tactician that he is, he finds the likelihood of still being loved by someone who, thanks to him, has just awakened to a wicked hangover and a face full of cold piss next to nil."

Dick Winters and Lewis Nixon billet together at a farmhouse in Holland for a rare few weeks of peace and privacy, while Dick struggles to process his promotion and his time away from Easy Company. Set during the first minutes of Episode 5, "Crossroads."

Cows. Wildflowers. Feelings. Handjobs.

Black Ink on Some Blue Lines - It’s been sixteen years since the letter was written, but it never found its way to the one it was intended for. The thing about secrets is they eat away at you, not all at once but slowly over the years, and you begin to wonder, to play out the what if scenarios in your mind. Instead, David buried it away and pretended like it never existed. He should have killed it, he thinks to himself, not buried it while it still had breath in its lungs.

In which David remembers his evolving relationship with Joe over the course of the war and decides to deliver a letter.

Baby You Can Drive My Car - Everyone has their thing. Perco takes watches. Nix scrounges for liquor. Welsh continues his never-ending quest for anything that will please Kitty Grogan. Even Eugene robs abandoned apothecaries with only a touch of guilt, making off with as many bandages and sulfa packets as he can carry. And then there’s Speirs, sweeping behind them like a shadow and carrying away anything they leave behind that sparkles or shines.

Babe steals cars. He’s getting pretty good at it.

Come in From the Cold - In which Smokey Gordon's coffee shop 'Bastogne' saves lives by lending cutting instruments and offering a steady supply of caffeine and sugary goodness. The shenanigans are just a by-product.

Call me 'sweetheart', Please? by @mariamegale - A not-relationship in the making. (baberoe)

anthroposcene, interrupted - Three months ago, Ray Person was a Philosophy major at Harvard. Now, he's dodging Runners trying to get from St. Louis to Cambridge without a) starving, b) dying by accident or c) offing himself. However, three's company, and it comes in the form of a dog with no bark and a taciturn Marine Staff Sergeant who's last name is Not-Pitt, which has gotta count for something.

[ereawrites]

Dick Grayson x Reader - Mania

this was requested by: anon

word count: 10.5k / rating explicit

a/n: sex pollen so auto dubcon (?), but both reader and dick are affected so idk

taglist: @daddyissuesmademe @idkmanicantenglish

It's your fault, really. You should never have got involved in the first place, but the temptation was just too great to resist. How could you pass up the opportunity to investigate Poison Ivy's pollen? This was the first decent sample any of you had ever managed to get - even Bruce, though you suspect there have been a few times he's managed to get up close and personal with the pollen - and normally Tim would handle it, but he's away on business with Bruce, and Damian's too young to deal with intensive research, and Jason just can't bring himself to care. So, that left Dick, and you could've left it at that. You should have. Then again, Tim did text you to recommend that you helped Dick: actually, you would never have left your room if it hadn't been for his intervention. It's Tim's fault.

The thing is, everything was fine at first; you've, perhaps, been harbouring the slightest crush on Dick for a while now, and it's always nice to spend time with him. He's fun to be around, even if his classic charm sometimes borders on teasing flirtation, and he's got such an incredible mind. You forget that, at times - he has a bad habit of putting himself down as the 'kind one' of the family, the emotional support or the comic relief, and he forgets to let himself be brilliant, too. He doesn't realise you've noticed that. Or maybe he does, but he doesn't say anything, and you've happily spent the past two hours studying Ivy's pollen together.

"It's definitely pheromonal, but I've never seen a chemical composition like this before-", you say, eyes glued to the computer screen. Dick is leaning over the back of your chair, one hand on your shoulder and one hand on the desk beside you, and you shouldn't feel as tense as you do. "-look, this section doesn't occur naturally in any species we've seen. She's synthesising these pheromones somehow, it's not like she's injecting them, but I just - I don't get how."

He pushes off from the desk, grabs the back of your chair, and spins you to face him with a half-smile. "I hate to break your train of thought, but I think we need a biochem specialist.", he says, and you suddenly notice how tired he looks: his eyes are still vibrant, warm, but exhausted. "We've done as much as we can on this, right? No shame in calling in the big guns."

"Tim?", you reply, knowingly, relishing in the way Dick's smile grows into a full grin. He's still gripping the edges of your chair, effectively caging you in: you are not looking at his arms, and you can be certain of this because you are looking very, very intently at his face.

"Having a genius brother has its perks, I know. I'll call him now. It's late in Tokyo - he won't be in a meeting, he'll probably just be awake in his hotel room, tapping away at his laptop.", Dick says, finally moving away to fetch his phone, and his voice trails off into a mumble that he clearly doesn't mean for you to hear. "God, he worries me. He really does."

It's much too warm in here: you sigh, and shrug off your jacket, slinging it over the back of the computer chair before calling out,"You're such a mother hen sometimes, Dick."

"I care. Sue me.", he replies with a faux scowl. "You don't complain when you're ill and I bring you hot soup."

"You're a good cook, what can I say?"

"Husband material!", he chirps. You feel your stomach leap and your cheeks heat up at his words. He's only teasing, but the truth of it is, it has more effect on you than you would like to admit. Thankfully, he's quickly distracted by the crackle of Tim picking up the phone. "Timmy! How's things?"

Tim's voice is dry, as always, but with a noticeable undercurrent of frustration. "Shit. I hate it here."

"Hey, Tim. Bad day?", you say with sympathy. You feel a little bad for bothering him, now; as hard as everyone in the family works, Tim definitely pushes himself the hardest.

"I'm the youngest person here by at least twenty years, and my stomach can't handle sushi. Plus, Bruce gets separation anxiety from the rest of you. The one upside is that I've been able to practice my Japanese.", Tim replies. You feel bad for him, of course, but the image of him having to comfort a homesick Bruce has you suppressing a snicker.

Dick shoots an amused smile at you - he's too beautiful when he smiles, it isn't fair - that starkly contrasts the comforting tone he uses to respond to Tim. "Don't worry, darling brother - I've got something exciting for you! Check your emails - wait, only the most recent one, though, I sent you a link to a Red Hood fanpage-"

You interject with an accusatory wave of your finger. "Why the fuck didn't you send me that? Red Hood is sexy." If Jason were here, he would probably threaten to shoot you, but as it is, Dick's amusement only grows. His smile is so infectious, like it spirals out into the air and right into your chest, and you can't help but smile back at him. You don't know if it's the warmth of the room or simply from Dick himself, but you feel as though you're going to need to step outside for some fresh air soon.

"Because of your raging crush on Nightwing, probably." Tim cuts in, and you could fucking kill him. Dick gives you a pleased wink. "I'm looking at a pheromonal compound, right? Ivy's special formula?"

You muster as much venom into your voice as you can, without pissing Tim off so much that he leaves you to deal with this on your own. "Fuck you, Tim - and yeah. It's a newer version, though - I think she's evolving, if that makes sense? Her physiology is definitely changing." Tim gives a thoughtful hum in response to your words: you imagine it's in agreement.

Dick continues your train of thought. "We think she's working with someone else, or she's been experimenting on herself, maybe. Do you have any ideas about how she's making the new chemicals?"

"I'll need a few hours. Send me all the data over. You're right about it evolving, though - it's definitely airborne. Shit, this is actually really interesting - the molecules are more compact, smaller, so she doesn't need to rely on physical touch through her plants anymore-"

The rest of Tim's words are lost to a wave of horror. Airborne, he said - you'd doubt it if it wasn't for the similar shock that's written over Dick's face - and you have not been treating this sample as airborne. Ivy has always relied on physical, tangible contact to use her chemicals: you couldn't have known, there was no way you could've known, neither of you are experts on this kind of thing - you've fucked up.

"Airborne? How... airborne are we talking? Like, don't-sniff-the-test-tube?", Dick asks, cautiously, maintaining eye contact with you all the while. *Please, God, let it be don't-sniff-the-test-tube and nothing more than that. Please.*

"Shit, you haven't been wearing respirators - have you?". Tim sounds positively horrified. It does nothing to allay your fears, the worries that you've both been infected with Ivy's pollen; in fact, he all but confirms it. Everything is beginning to fall into place now. The tension around Dick - more so than usual, at least -, how warm you're feeling, the mental sluggishness that had you calling Tim in the first place.

You're angry at yourself, for your own stupidity - not Tim, but you're panicked, you're so unbelievably freaked out, and so you can't help but snap at the phone. "How were we meant to know, man? Ivy's never even hinted at having something of this level before!"

"You're working with chemicals, unknown chemicals, I hate-"

Dick cuts in before this can turn into a full-on confrontation. You've got no idea how he's managing to keep a level head. Perhaps the pheromones are already taking a more severe effect, or maybe it's a placebo effect, and you pray that it is, but you can already feel your heart beginning to pound against the confines of your chest. "It's just pheromones, right? We know it's not toxic, at least - Ivy's victims only take a few days to come around, at most. They're just kinda fucked up for a few days."

You admire Dick so, so much. He's right, he's always right, he always manages to keep you calm and make you feel safe: you'll just have to stay with him, and you'll be okay. If you stay here, he can comfort you, and maybe the impacts of the pollen won't even be that bad. And, if they are, well, there's no one else in the manor tonight, and Dick's so handsome and kind and strong, and maybe he'll - fuck.

Tim snickers. "Fucked, indeed. Only when Ivy's in a good mood, though. You guys better get ready for a tough night. I've heard it can get really bad, especially if you're deprived of - oh, fuck, I can't talk about this, this is too funny but it's so weird, oh my god-", and he dissolves into a fit of awkward, stunted laughter. Dick fixes you with an apologetic look, but you swear his golden cheeks are tinged with red.

"How long until it kicks in?", he asks. It's a stupid, stupid question, because you feel like you're close to dying already. You know what he means, though: when will it get bad? You've seen Ivy's victims before. They're entirely without dignity, practically begging to be touched, sobbing from the pain of it all - and you've only heard rumours about the depraved things they let Ivy do to them. What they ask her to do to them.

The huff of Tim's breath crackles through the phone. "Uh - I don't know, maybe an hour? A little less, since Bruce never opens the windows in there. Just seal the sample up, drink plenty of water, and try not to freak out. It'll pass. You won't die."

///

You thought you could do it - stay in your room, deal with this alone, avoid any potential awkwardness with Dick -but you can't. It's barely been an hour. Sixty-seven minutes since you left the cave, to be exact. Sixty-seven minutes since Dick grabbed you by the waist to halt your speedy departure, touch light but insistent, and said if you need anything, come to me. His eyes were dark when he said it. Deep, dark blue, an ocean that you could get lost swimming in; but pupils already dilating, breath already speeding up. He meant it as nothing more than a kindness. Still, though, that hasn't been enough to stop you from coming onto your fingers with the image of those eyes burned onto the backs of your eyelids.

Ivy's pollen is designed to induce lust, yes, but only for the first person you see after you're infected with it. This means two things: firstly, that you need Dick more than anything right now. Your head is pounding, your lungs feel like they're on fire - the sensation between your legs isn't aching, it's agony, and you've spent fifty-two of the past sixty-seven minutes trying, and failing, to fool your body into believing that your fingers are his. The first thing you know, is that you need him, because you saw him right after you were infected. The second thing you know - there was no one else in that room. You were the only person Dick could have seen.

So, stupidly, you seek him out. You go back down to the cave, without even taking the time to wash your hands, because that's what your body is telling you to do, and you're acting more and more on instinct. Potential awkwardness be damned. He'll fix this.

Dick's facing away from you, reclined in the computer chair: his posture seems almost relaxed, just almost, legs sprawled out and left elbow visibly sticking out from around the back of the chair, like he's got one hand close to his head. You'd assume he was still looking at the computer, if you weren't so hyperaware of everything right now, but you are, and you notice more. From what you can see of his body - it's low-blue-lit from the computer screen, enough that you can make out the muscle of his legs through his sweatpants if you squint, but it's not enough, you need to see more - he seems tense. Too tense. Normally, you'd sneak closer, but your head is practically spinning now and Dick will help you. He'll make this better. Your voice is hoarse and dry when you manage to call his name.

He immediately jolts in his seat, spinning to face you, and now that he's backlit by the computer, you can barely see more than the outline of his body. God, he looks so lean, so tall - "Are you okay?", he asks, and he sounds almost as bad as you feel. You swallow thickly before responding - and, through the fog in your head, you realise that your jacket is clutched in his left hand.

You, miraculously, manage a weak smile. "I just - I thought maybe it would, you know, be better to... be together, during this. In case - if one of us needs help, or something. I don't know.". You sound stupid. Dumb. You feel it, too, and you can't even bring yourself to care. The mere sight of him is helping: it doesn't remove the pain, or any of the physical sensations, really, but at least the panic of not being near him is being soothed.

"That's - yeah, okay. How are you feeling?", Dick replies. His voice is barely more than a whisper, but you hear it as clear as if he were right up against you. Chest pressed to your back, lips on the curve of your jaw, that voice going right through you and into the pits of your stomach.

It's wrong, to think of him like this, when all he's doing is trying to check that you're alright. He knows you aren't, but he's trying.

The best thing you can think to do is make a weak attempt at a joke. "I've got a newfound fear of Ivy." Dick even huffs out a laugh, but it's just as half-hearted as your words. "I didn't think it was going to be this bad at first, Jesus - but it keeps getting worse, and, it just-"

"-it hurts. I know.". Dick nods. As you take a step closer to him, you realise that your eyes have finally adjusted to the relative darkness of the cave, and you realise that you can see his cock straining against his sweatpants. He's hard. What's more, there's a distinct wet patch leaking through the material.

When you entered the cave, you couldn't see one of his hands; the chair wasn't moving enough for him to be stroking himself, and you're not sure whether you're glad he wasn't, but now that you think of it, there was definite movement. Like he was palming himself through his sweatpants, maybe. And the hand that was close to his head, it's clutching your jacket, he was holding your jacket close to his face while he-

"Dick - were you...?"

He sighs, halfway between embarrassed and resigned, and sinks back down into the computer chair. He keeps your jacket clenched in a white-knuckle grip. "I had to take the edge off somehow, right? I'm sorry, I didn't think you would be coming back down here, I never meant to make you uncomfortable or anything-"

"I'm not uncomfortable.", you blurt out before you know what you're saying. Dick's expression visibly shifts - you don't have the mental clarity to figure out into what, exactly - but you can feel your own eyes widen as you process  the implications of what you just said. "Oh, fuck - I didn't mean it like that, I - sorry."

Dick just shakes his head. He must mean for you not to worry. You stand in silence for a while, not exactly awkward but certainly thick with tension, before he pats a hand onto the desk beside him. "God, this is worse than I thought. Do you wanna come sit down?"

Do you? Although being closer to Dick sounds like the only thing you want in the world right now - god, you can't help but think about how good he would look, if you were close enough to really study him, now that you're beyond giving a fuck about etiquette - you're also acutely aware of how difficult it'll be to control yourself. Undeniably, you want him. You've wanted him for months, really - but the pollen has taken that desire and multiplied it tenfold, made it so that it's all-consuming and painful. In your room, nothing more than imagining him, it was bad enough. Now, now that you can see his fucking cock, now that the image of him rubbing himself with a blissed-out look on his face, it's almost impossible to control.

You move to sit next to him. You can't help yourself. Once you start moving, you feel like it's all in slow-motion: Dick's watching you, dark eyes trained so closely on your form, and you're wearing nothing more than a tight-fitting pair of leggings and a thin t-shirt. After what feels like an age - too long to be apart from him - you reach the desk, and upon clumsily perching yourself on it, you see Dick looking as though he's about to pass out.

"Fuck, did I - did I do something wrong? I'm sorry-", you say hastily, but he instantly shakes his head and trains his eyes on yours. The blue is nearly gone. It's all blown-out pupils now, so much that his eyes are nearly black.

He licks his lips as if to wet them. "-no, no, but - when you were in your room - when you were alone - did you do anything to take the edge off? Did you touch yourself?"

You could say no, if you wanted to. You could lie. He would know, but he wouldn't press it, and you could save yourself the shame. For all that Dick must be struggling just as much as you are, he's exceedingly kind, so much that no amount of fucked-up drugs could change that: he's still your Dick, underneath all of this.

"Yeah.", you admit after a heartbeat, and your stomach lurches when you see his cock twitch through the sweatpants. Still, you're embarrassed, and you feel the need to explain yourself just a little. "It felt like my skin was on fire unless I did. It still feels like that, though - like it just wasn't enough, I guess."

"I can smell it on you.", Dick says lowly. Oh, God. That's hot. That's so, unbelievably hot - especially when you see his cock twitch again - but absolutely mortifying. You're torn between wanting to jump on him, right here and now, and retreating back to your room. You compromise by burying your face in your hands, and letting out a pathetic whine to signal how fucked-up you are right now. Maybe you can calm down, now that you don't feel on the verge of a panic attack from being away from him, if you take a few deep breaths.

Naturally, Dick hardly gives you the chance. You feel his hand come to rest on your knee out of nowhere; it's a gentle touch, but you can feel him trembling, and the touch sends a bolt of electricity through you that's strong enough to make you jolt. "I want to help you. The whole point of these pheromones is to make it so that you need touch - it only hurts because we're not getting that. So, I can-", he says raspily, punctuating the pause with a reassuring squeeze to your lower thigh, "-touch you, just... platonically, if that's what you want. What you need."

His voice drops down an octave with the last sentence - you whine again, involuntarily, but you just about manage to turn the sound into words.

"Dick, you don't have to - we can just push through this, I know it'll be uncomfortable for you - I mean, I know it's not like we haven't hugged and stuff before, but this is different, I don't want you to feel forced because you feel bad for me."

Dick must lean forward, closer to you, because his palm slides further up your thigh. The pain that prickles insistently under your skin is beginning to turn into fiery heat: not unpleasant, but desperate, hot, and you're starting to feel like you're not going to be able to stop if he asks you to touch him. "I don't feel bad for you.", he insists, reaching up with his free hand to peel your hands away from your eyes. He curls his fingers around yours as he continues. "I just want to make you feel better - both of us feel better. See, it's already helping, right? Just relax. This is bad enough as it is."

His thumb starts to trace circles on the inside of your thigh. It's nowhere near high enough to be considered sexual, but the movement has your legs almost trembling. You wonder if he can feel the tension of your muscles. "It's... it doesn't hurt anymore. Thank you.". And, technically, you're not lying: it doesn't hurt, in fact it feels fucking incredible. You spent fifty-two minutes trying to replicate this sensation. He's only touching your thigh, it has no business feeling this good, but each little beat of his thumb has waves of pleasure crashing through you. God, how good would it feel to fuck him like this? You're shaking, and you know it, and it only makes him tug you by the hand to stand up.

Even the loss of his touch on your thigh feels devastating, but Dick's next words are more comfort than you could have imagined possible. "Here. Come sit, if you want.", he says - whispering again, voice so low and so deep, but it's just the effects of the pollen, you tell yourself - and gestures to his thigh. "You can lean back into me, don't worry, it'll be better for your back."

This has to feel as good for him as it does for you. Logically, it has to. You've both breathed in the same pollen, his skin has the same sheen of sweat that you can feel on your own skin, you're both trembling in every part of your body, and he's still rock hard. You can feel yourself leaking, god, enough that it might have dampened your leggings and left a wet spot on the desk. What would Dick do, if he saw that? He's clearly turned on, but maybe he still has the good sense to avoid fucking: maybe his view of you as 'just platonic' is so deeply ingrained, he would never touch you down there to feel how wet he's made you. Or, maybe he wants you like you want him.

"Are - are you sure?", you stammer. You can't stop looking at his lap. His cock, painfully obvious (and he mustn't care, because he blatantly drew your attention to it), and the corded muscle of his thighs, spread out straight to form you a perch.

"Mhmm...", he hums from somewhere deep in his chest, and suddenly you're grateful that he's still holding your hand, because the sound almost makes your knees buckle. He tugs gently. "Only if you want to be close to me, though."

He says that like an afterthought - like he knows exactly what you want, and like he's hungry for your touch and doesn't want to consider the idea that you don't want to give him it. You can't bring yourself to look at him before you move to sit in his lap, because you know he'll see the desire, and for now, you're still pretending that you don't want to push him down in that chair and ride him for hours. He'd like that, you think. He'd like it if you pulled his hair while you did it.

Dick lets go of your hand so he can take your waist in both hands, guiding you down onto his lap and gripping harder when your ass inadvertently brushes over his cock. You don't mean to do it, of course, and you jump like you've been shocked: you shuffle further down his thigh to avoid another mishap, but the movement causes your pussy to just barely drag against the hard muscle - you hardly manage to control your moan, forced to sink your teeth into your lip. Thankfully, Dick doesn't seem to notice, and he helps you lean back so his chest is pressed to your back, before lifting his arms to rest on the armrests. From here, he begins to rub soothing lines up and down your arms, and he tips his cheek down to rest against your shoulder with a relieved sigh.

"Fuck, that... yeah, that feels better.", you practically gasp. Feeling him pressed up against the entire length of your body, as torturous as it is, is the most relief you've gained all evening; his legs are shaking just enough that you can feel it in your core, though, and you're forced to tilt your head back to rest on his shoulder. You'll lose your fucking mind if you don't start to relax, he's right.

With your neck exposed, though, you can feel Dick's hot breath tickling your skin when he speaks. "Good, right? It feels good?". For the first time, you really hear the tension in his voice. So much so that you can't pass it off as your own projections, or a trick of his tone - he's just as desperate as you are, holy shit, he sounds halfway to begging, he sounds like he's dying to know that his touch is making you feel good. Your hips twitch of their own accord.

"Yeah... Dick?", you whisper after a few moments. He nods in response against your shoulder, a slow, dragging movement that feels like honey dripping through your veins from the point of contact. "Are you really warm, too, or like - is that just me? I - I feel like I'm burning up... Do you mind if I..." - you trail off, instead opting to tug cautiously at the hem of your shirt.

He sucks in a deep, rapid breath that you feel press against your back. For a moment, you worry that you've gone too far - it feels so good, but it's too weird, too strange for him even now - but then he slowly curls his fingers around the hem, replacing your own hands, and starts to pull upwards at a torturous pace. His knuckles drag over your lower abdomen for just a second and your hips twitch again, and he definitely felt it this time but he says nothing, and his breathing is warm and fast against the skin of your neck; with the shirt discarded, you're left in nothing more than a thin bra. Although the room feels warm, furnace-hot, you're all too aware of the blatant hardness of your nipples, and you tell yourself it's okay, he won't notice, because you're facing away and he won't - his palm drags against your breast on the way back down and it feels so good, too good, and you can't help but whimper, "Fuck, yes-"

Three things happen in quick succession. Dick freezes, you realise what you've done and move to jump up and run for the hills, and then Dick grabs your hips and pulls you back into him, right over his cock, this time. The friction makes both of you let out a breathy sigh, but where you clap a hand over your mouth, Dick follows it up with a hoarse proposition. "I can touch you properly, if you want. It'll make all this go away, I promise - do you want me to?", he rasps, pressing one, quick kiss to the skin where your neck meets your shoulder. "Do you want me to touch you?"

His grasp on your hips is tight, wanting, but gentle enough that you know he wouldn't stop you if you tried to leave again. When you make no move to do so - you're frozen, you can't believe he's just offered to do what your body is screaming for - Dick pulls at your hips, slowly, dragging your ass over his cock and then pushing you back down. He repeats the motion a few times, rolling his own hips up into you a little more with each motion, and soon your muscles start to work so you can grind down onto him. Dick rewards you with a quiet moan - oh, you want him to do that again, you're going to make him do that again, louder and louder - and then, with a touch so light you could cry, he traces one hand over your hipbones and down to your pussy.

One finger traces your slit through your leggings, and you hear yourself moan, but you're hardly aware of making the noise - just this simple touch feels almost as good as the orgasm you had earlier, even just this feather-light pressure through two layers of fabric, and every nerve ending in your body sets alight at once. This is what you needed, more than anything, for Dick to touch you and drag you down onto his cock, and you're so overwhelmed that every muscle in your body goes lax, leaving you to collapse into his chest.

Dick rubs gently at your pussy a few more times, like he's exploring you, and then suddenly he taps right where your clit is. You cry out, and he sighs against your neck. "God, I can feel how wet you are already. You should have told me, I would've done something sooner, you know that - fuck, you're so wet, let me - let me finger you, huh? Please?"

"Yeah - please, Dick.", you whine, and when you say his name, he moans and shoves his cock up against you again. He mumbles something into your skin that you don't quite make out, and then his hand is fumbling with your waistband, clumsily slipping into your underwear and then he's there, his fingers are brushing right against your clit, you sob out a broken cry - you're so wet that his fingers brush right through your folds, gliding like silk, and by the time he reaches your hole, two fingers easily sink in right to the knuckle.

Your pussy instantly clenches down, hard, and you feel more full than you thought could be possible. Dick moans into the skin of your neck and gives you a moment to calm down, to soothe the desperate jolting of your hips, before he starts to pump his fingers; slowly, at first, but soon picking up into a faster and more urgent pace. With each movement, he scissors his fingers a little, spreading you wider every time, and he starts to mouth at your neck with hot, wet kisses. "Do you like that, yeah? Am I making you feel good? Is this what you need?"

You fling an arm behind you to grasp at his hair, and when you tug after a particularly delicious curl of his fingers, he bites down hard onto your shoulder. "Fuck, yes, yes - please don't stop, please, Dick, don't stop-"

"I'm not going to stop, don't worry, I've got you - I'm here, I'm not gonna stop, you sound too pretty for me to stop, fuck - I knew you would sound pretty, keep making those noises for me."

Your body feels like it's going through the most intense orgasm of your life, especially now that he's given up on pumping his fingers in favour of curling them in rapid beats against your g-spot, but you know that you're not even coming yet: you're close, though, judging by the way the room is spinning around you, and the pressure building in the pit of your stomach - "I think I'm close, Dick, - oh, oh, oh my god, I don't - it's never felt like this before, I don't - fuck-"

"I know, I know, baby-", he croons, and the pet name has you tugging at his hair again, the other hand white-knuckled on the armrest, "-it's okay, it's gonna feel different - it's gonna feel better, I promise, it's going to be so good, I'm going to get you there, baby, come on."

"Fuck - fucking - Jesus, Dick, keep going, just like that-!", you all but shout, and Dick continues the massaging movement right up on your g-spot: the positioning of his hand means the heel of his palm is dragging over your clit, and your hips are frantically grinding up into his hand - god, you're gonna come, the world feels like it's crashing down around you, you feel the contractions start a few seconds before it actually hits you and it's going to be earth-shattering, you know it, every muscle in your body tenses up and through it all you hear Dick whispering, come on, that's it, I've got you, come on, come on, and then you're coming-

Distantly, you can feel his fingers continue their movements inside of you, unrelenting - and the other hand keeps a firm grip on your hips, grounding you onto his lap - but other than that, all you know is the white-flash across your vision and the pleasure slamming into each nerve in your body, one by one and then all at once: this is better than anything you've ever felt, better than every orgasm put together, and it feels feels for a moment like you're actually going to black out from the sheer intensity of the pleasure.

Then, suddenly, you're back in reality. Dick is heaving for breath against your shoulder, but it's nothing compared to the way your own lungs are screaming for air - god, you think you were screaming, given the scratching sensation in your throat - and his fingers are back to a slow, steady pumping, in and out of your swollen pussy. It hurts, a little, but this one orgasm has done nothing to sate your desperate hunger: in fact, it's only made it worse, only increased your desire for him, and you swear his cock is impossibly harder against your ass now.

"You - you're dripping onto my hand, baby, oh my god...", Dick pants, and there's a heartbeat where neither of you move - then, you feel his breath hitch, and suddenly his other hand is shoving unceremoniously under your waistband and going straight for your clit. He picks up the pace with the two fingers still inside you, matching each curl with a flick over your clit, and the motions are all so frenzied, those of a man possessed with some ravenous desire, like his one purpose is to have you writhing in his lap, and you give a wordless cry - too overcome with blinding pleasure to actually make a sound - that allows you to hear his ragged words. "Please, give me another one, one more - I want to make you squirt this time, it's going to be so good, I promise, just give me one more, pretty girl-"

This time, it's not just one wave of pleasure, spreading from your core and emanating outwards; no, it's wave after wave after wave, violently crashing over you and completely overcoming every part of your body, unrelenting and constant - this one lasts at least twice as long as the last, but you're hardly in the right state of mind to keep track of time, and every wave of pleasure that rushes through you is tenfold stronger than the last. You hear yourself shriek his name in the most pathetic, broken tone, and Dick cages you in against his body as best as he can as he keeps both hands working at your pussy, and you realise you're sobbing when he finally, finally stops.

When his fingers slip out of your pussy and exit your leggings, they're dripping wet. Dick audibly gasps, and then he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks, moaning around the digits, and through hazy eyes you can see the most fucked-out look on his face just at the taste of your cum. He licks his fingers clean - you feel your pussy clench down again at the sight - before opening his eyes, fixing you with an intense stare, and panting, "You taste so fucking good - baby, I'm not going to be able to stop, I'm sorry, I need this, I need to fuck you - please."

He's asking permission, you realise. Neither of you are in control of what you're doing anymore, and he's still asking, as best as he can, if he's allowed to fuck you. There's a terrified look in his eyes, behind the frenzy and the lust - you clumsily crash your lips against his. He tastes of your juices, but it's one of the hottest things you've ever experienced, and he moans openly into your mouth, eagerly meeting your tongue with his own. You're exhausted, but kissing him renews your energy tenfold. You're suddenly overcome with the urge to feel his cock - inside you, yes, but you want to see it first, you want to make him cry out and moan and gasp for you - so you manoeuvre in his lap, keeping your mouth against his, to straddle his narrow hips and face him.

"Ah - ah, god, that feels amazing.", Dick moans, broken up between sloppy kisses, saliva starting to drip down both of your chins - but it's hot, so hot - as you frantically reach down to palm at him. The instant you finally touch his cock, you're gone: there's no stopping now that you can feel how achingly hard he is, now that you feel how he twitches under your hand each time you kiss him, and it takes much longer than you would like to undo the drawstring of his sweatpants, pull them down, and wrap your hand around the exposed length of him. He hisses as his whole body jerks.

Instantly, you set a frenzied pace of stroking him, relishing in each ragged moan that you rip from his throat; he's leaking into your palm, you realise, dripping over your fingers as you pull him back by the hair and attach your lips to his neck. When you suck a bruise into the softest part of his skin - the salty-sweat-tangy hollow beneath his Adam's apple - he shouts out your name, loud, followed by, "-fuck, fu- let me fuck you, baby, please, I - I'm close, you have to stop-"

"Come on my hand, Dickie.", you plead, and you're granted a thick spurt of precum when you lick a stripe up the column of his throat: he tastes so good, his skin so hot under your mouth, you can't stop, and you croon right into his ear, "It's - it's gonna last for hours, still, you're still gonna be hard - I'm still so needy for you, Dickie, look - come on my hand, let me see it, please. You can fuck me after, just come for me where I can watch it, oh - oh, please." His moans start to pick up in volume and frequency, coming from a place deeper in his throat. He's close, you know.

You've started to grind onto his thigh somewhere along the way. It feels amazing, it feels even better because you know he's twitching and aching for you just inches away - once you finally drag yourself out of the crook of his neck, you see that you've left a damp streak on his sweatpants in the wake of your hips, and the steady stream of precum leaking from his cock has soaked the material higher up. "Come on, Dickie, come on, let me see you come, I wanna see it, I - I'll, fuck, I'll lick it clean after, Jesus-", you blurt out, too far gone to be horrified at the ease with which the words spill from your lips.

"Oh, baby, shit-” he cries, and then his voice dissolves into a broken jumble of incoherent mumbles and whines. His cock twitches hard in your palm, once, twice, three times against the rapid pace you maintain on him, and then Dick bucks his hips up into your hand, back arched, perfectly still and tense; he comes hard, almost whimpering, head thrown back and eyes tightly shut, looking so, so perfect as you stroke him through it and grind feverishly onto his thigh. It's the image of his cock that has the breath snatched from your chest, though. Several thick ropes of cum spurt from him as you work him through it, some hitting the skin of your abdomen and some dripping down the length, and it just keeps going, no sign of stopping until Dick completely collapses, after almost a minute of moaning and coming - your hand is drenched with him.

The sight of his cum dripping from your palm makes something in your stomach clench hard, painfully, and suddenly you need to taste him, you have to, it hurts so much and it'll go away as soon as you get your mouth on him. You scramble off the chair, almost falling to your knees in front of him - he rushes to steady you, even with weak and shaky arms - but you don't care about how graceful you look right now. As soon as you manage to nestle yourself between thighs, you lick flat up the underside of his cock. The taste of it makes your eyes roll back in your head. Dick spits, "Holy shit!", and it trails off into a deep gasp as you wrap your lips around him and sink down as far as you can go. You'd take your time, usually, but everything in your body is screaming for you to taste him, let him fill you, and you're in no position for argument.

With each dip of your head - punctuated with a moan from the man above you, each one becoming closer to a growl, animalistic, and you think the pollen is beginning to send your bodies into total overdrive now - you take him as deeply as you can. You're nearly gagging, but that's what you need. His hands tangle into your hair; at first, you can tell he's trying to be as gentle as he can, but that's soon overcome with a tight, guiding grip that pushes you further down onto his cock with each bob of your mouth. The burning heat under your skin is killing you now, too much to ignore, so you manage to shuffle out of your leggings and underwear and kick them away: Dick groans roughly, maybe because he can smell you more clearly now-

"Come here, pretty girl-", Dick says, sliding his hands from your hair to lift you up by the jaw. You mean to whine, perhaps beg him to let you back down, because he feels so good in your mouth - then you see the look on his face. He looks totally gone. Nothing like the Dick you know, warm and gentle and relaxed: his eyes are completely clouded over, lips parted and slick with saliva, brow furrowed with something between pain and carnal desire. You imagine you look much the same, with spit dripping from your chin, the heat you can feel burning your cheeks, and the wetness you feel running down the insides of your thighs. He meets your eyes, and there's a moment of stillness. One thumb slips from your cheek to trace over your lower lip.

Then, both of you move at once - you surge forward to kiss him again, those perfect, pink lips - you fumble with the hem of his shirt, ripping it up and over his head while barely leaving his mouth for a second - Dick's hands slide down your body to your waist. He pulls you into him as he leans forward, half-supporting your weight, and suddenly your back is against the floor and he's on top of you, kissing you hard and bruising, the chair long since kicked away and forgotten about. Every inch of freshly exposed skin feels like molten silk under your touch: you slide greedy hands over his torso as he licks into your mouth, feeling the network of ridged scars and each ridge of muscle. Thankfully, Dick grants you a few precious, savoured moments to feel his skin, while he alternates between rolling his hips against your bare pussy and kicking off his sweatpants.

It's all ungraceful and clumsy - wet kisses stolen between your movements, each of you moaning against the other's lips - and it takes much, much too long for both of you to finally shed yourself of all your clothes. Dick's hands grab greedily at your breasts as he ruts his hips against you a few times, and you can feel how your wetness spreads over his cock. Then, his hands fly down to find your knees, and he drags them to fit around his waist, pulling up until your hips are fully tilted, the stretch of your muscles verging on uncomfortable. "Oh, fuck, that's it, baby. Keep your legs there for me, won't you? Come on, wrap your legs around me - I want to get as deep as I can, it's gonna feel amazing, I promise.", Dick says, bordering on a growl now that his voice is so deep and strained, and you do as he says immediately. You need him inside of you, now; you hook your ankles behind his back, kiss him, and desperately grind your hips into his.

And then, with one deep roll of his hips, he's inside of you. One quick thrust and he's buried to the hilt, and, God, he fits inside you so perfectly: your body all but melts at the feeling of finally being filled, and you keen as you instinctively use your ankles to press his hips further into you. Dick's just large enough to stretch you out, even with how wet and ready you are, without becoming painful, and the pollen means it only takes you a short moment to adjust to his size before your body is pleading to be fucked. He's shaking and panting with restraint above you whimper, "Ho-holy fuck, Dickie, please... please move, oh my god."

"I know, baby, I know.", he says, breathlessly, voice tight with pleasure but still sympathetic. Even with him motionless inside you, it already feels so good, better than anyone you've ever fucked, and you can hardly stop yourself from grabbing him by the shoulders, pushing him down, and riding him. "It just feels so good, you feel so good - I don't want to rush it, I want to make it last. Jesus, my body feels like it's on fire while I'm touching you, I - oh, fuck, I want to take it slow, make you feel so good you cry-"

"-We have all night to be slow, Dick, you can do whatever you want to me, just fuck me-"

Dick's hips roll into yours and a drawled curse falls from his parted lips. He pulls out, almost completely, enough that you panic and squeeze him tighter with your thighs, but then he pushes back into you, slowly, letting you savour the way each nerve ending inside your pussy is set ablaze; he repeats the motion, faster, his curses morphing into sweet mumbles of your name each time he bottoms out. You can hardly breathe - it feels so good, and each thrust of his hips is met with a pollen-driven roll of your own, so it's half-grinding, half-fucking - the slight curve of his cock has him dragging deliciously against your g-spot every time. His movements are picking up in intensity now, and you can tell the pollen is taking him over completely. The same is happening to you: fuck it, you don't want to think about the pollen anymore, you just want him.

"Ah, yes! Yes, right there-right- keep going-", you cry out after a particularly hard slam of his hips. Dick is propped up on one elbow, hair clinging to his forehead with sweat, and the other hand slips down to grab at your ass and pull you up into him. He's deep enough that it hurts, but it's the best pain you've ever experienced. "Fuck, faster, please!"

He obeys, mercifully, and you think you can see sweat starting to bead on his temples. "Is this what you need, pretty girl? Come on, tell me what you want - tell me I'm making you feel good, because you're making me feel so fucking good, I swear, better than I ever even imagined - fuck, you're so wet, are you going to come again? Please, please let me make you come on my cock."

The combination of his cock inside you, and his pelvis bumping against your clit, and the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body: it's all too much to bear, your body is going into total overdrive, and it's so embarrassing that he's got you like this. You never normally beg, you never normally come so fast, but this is different and addictive and incredible - you cry out an affirmation to his words, and suddenly his hand is gripping your chin. He's fully collapsed onto you now, and his movements are more frantic rutting than anything else.

"Look at me-", he pleads, using his hand to guide your face so you're staring right into those glassy eyes. "-look at me while you come, and it'll make me come."

You can feel your muscles beginning to tense up as your orgasm starts to grow. Already, your world is spinning, and you feel halfway to blacking out from the sheer intensity, so you tangle your hands into his hair as a way to ground yourself. "Please come inside me!", you whine - the idea of being filled with his cum, letting it drip out while he fucks another load into you, it's fucking mind-blowing and you can't imagine anything better than feeling him shoot into you while you come on his cock.

Dick's jaw clenches tightly. "Are - are you sure, baby? Is that what you want?"

The next thrust hits you perfectly, and you can't help but pull him tighter into you, so his head drops to the crook of your neck. "I need it, Dickie, you know - you know that - you need me too, right? Fuck, fuck - it's gonna feel so good, I'm so close-". He spends a few moments sucking a bruise into the most tender skin of your neck before moving to press his forehead to yours. Each rough movement of his hips has you jostling against the floor; your nipples are dragging against his chest every time, making you keen, and your swollen clit is being hit so perfectly by his hips, and he's making the most perfect and breathy noises against you - he looks so fucked-out, so gone, so completely absorbed in the feeling of his cock inside you, and your vision is starting to blur at the edges as the spark in your stomach finally bursts into flames-

"That's it, baby, come for me just like that.", Dick gasps, just as your orgasm rips through you. You've got no choice but to clutch at him desperately and ride out each devastating wave as a scream tears itself from your lungs: it feels like your body is tearing itself apart with each ripple of pleasure emanating from your core. Like your body is folding in on itself like a black hole does, when everything becomes too much to bear. You actually feel like you've died, you must have, this is too good and too much and too overwhelming - you hang on to Dick through it all, and your pussy clenches down so hard he can barely move inside you, and he chokes out your name before his own orgasm hits him.

You've come down just enough to process the way he looks and sounds as he comes. Your eyes are still hazy - you kept them on him, you must have - but you nearly come again at the mere sight of him. He's too far gone to even make sounds, and instead he stutters out broken breaths through wet lips, cheeks flushed and eyebrows furrowed hard, and his eyes stay fixed on you the whole time. Even as the rest of his body spasms and rocks into you uncontrollably, even as the hand on your chin slips down to your neck and squeezes, he keeps staring at you with all the lust in the world. The best part of it all, though, is how you feel his cum spilling out into you; even more than he shot onto your hand, somehow, and you realise you're crying from how relieved your body is. Fully, fully, crying, and Dick kisses away your tears as he collapses against you.

Despite how both of you are wincing at the overstimulation, neither of you ever stop moving through it all, and you keep grinding gingerly, carefully but sloppily, against each other even while you gasp for breath against each others' lips. It can't be more than ten seconds from when you come down, before you can't control the urge to whisper, "Give me another one, Dick, please. Keep fucking me." It hurts - it hurts because he's not fucking you, he's not moving enough - you need more.

Dick keeps rolling his hips against yours in shallow movements for a few seconds. His mouth is occupied with sucking more bruises into your neck, up your throat and across your jaw: he's mumbling something incoherent, slurring his words. Each fresh bruise has you gasping his name. You're going to be covered in marks after this - not just your neck, his grip on your ass and hips has been tight enough to leave bruises there, too - and you're entirely certain you've left scratch marks down his back. You nearly come again just at the thought of that; Dick, walking around for days with your marks left on him. Scratch marks under his dress shirts when he's on business, or under the tight material of his Nightwing suit, or blatantly visible through the obscenely sheer shirts he wears out clubbing. He's going to be marked as yours.

"You look so pretty like this, holy shit-", he says, pulling his head from your neck to admire his work. "You're so gorgeous - you always are, you always fucking are - but you look even better when you're mine, fuck-"

“-make me yours, then, please-"

You gasp in shock and disappointment as Dick suddenly pulls out, and his own face crumples at the loss of touch, but his palms are firm and insistent on your waist - he kisses you once, firmly, before he's manoeuvring your body like putty in his hands. You're flipped onto your stomach with another whisper of how pretty you are, and then Dick runs calloused palms down the soaked flesh of your thighs, up over your ass, over the curve of your spine and all the way up to gently, gently, press your cheek flat against the floor. He follows his hand with hot tongue, and when he reaches your ear, he murmurs, "You taste so good, pretty girl. Stay there for me. It's okay, let go. I've got you."

Uncontrollably, your ass jerks up and backwards against where his cock is pressing into you. He chuckles. He fucking laughs with his lips pressed to your cheek - maybe having came inside you has cleared his head enough that he can think straight enough to find your desperation funny - and one of his hands slides back down your body, spreading your pussy open for him to look at. You sense his body tense as he gazes at you. "...My cum is dripping out of you, oh my god."

Fuck it back into me, you think, but you're too far gone to string together a coherent sentence anymore. Your body can do the talking. You keep your cheek pressed to the floor, maybe because your muscles are too exhausted to lift your head, or maybe because it was so fucking hot how Dick pressed your head down, but you manage to meet his eyes. You plead with him as well as you can.

Dick's piercing blue eyes roll right back into his skull when he pushes into you again. From this angle, he feels even deeper than before: with one of his hands running lines up your spine, and his lips wet against the backs of your shoulders, and the steady, strong pace he sets fucking you, you're brought to the verge of tears again within minutes. You can hardly move your body to work with him in this position: he uses the weight of his body to press you into the floor, and each thrust of his hips has you moaning loud against the floor.

He brings a string of kisses and nips up your nape, so he can kiss your cheek again. It's sweet, a gentle gesture, only amplifying the pleasure that each deep snap of his hips brings. "I - I'm not hurting you, am I? I know it must be sensitive, baby, I understand if it's too much, I know - you can tell me if it's too much-"

"-no, please-", you whimper, terrified he's going to stop, "-it's so good, please, Dickie, you're exactly what I need-", and then your voice cuts out into a broken sob as one of his hand snakes between your body and the floor to find your clit. The rough pad of his finger brushes over it a few times, eliciting whimpers from you, before he settles for simply resting his finger on your clit. With each thrust, your hips are jostled against his finger just enough to send sparks of electricity shooting through your veins - every time, it feels like flames licking through each limb, and he's fucking into you so perfectly, claiming you with teeth at your neck, rasping your name against your skin - there's wetness against your cheek, like you're drooling, and you're almost certain you can feel the wetness of your pussy dripping onto his hand.

You're so swollen with desire, you can feel how tightly you're clenching down onto his cock. The mind-blowing pressure Dick's applying to your clit is only making it stronger. "You feel so good, baby. So, so, fucking good - holy shit, you're taking me so well." Then, there's a savage thrust of his hips, one that has both of you crying out in surprise and pleasure: he freezes buried to the hilt inside you. "You're going to make me come again soon, sweetie."

That means more of his cum inside you, more of his delicious moans and groans as he comes, and you say, "God, please-"

"-not yet, I want to make you come for me again. You feel so tight and hot when you do - I need it again, I want nothing more than that, please - you think you can give me another one, huh? One more for me?"

"I - I - yeah.", you stammer. You can, you know you can - your body is practically vibrating from how hard you're trembling on the edge of another orgasm - but you don't know when it's going to stop, you don't know it ever will - maybe this will go on all night, maybe he'll fuck you for hours on end and make you cry and let you lick your mess of his cock. But maybe it won't. Maybe your body will give out, or the pollen will leave his system: this will end and nothing will ever compare. You don't want to come again if it means the end of this pleasure. "...Promise you'll keep going after, Dickie."

Dick starts rubbing rapid circles on your clit with his ring and index finger, and kisses your hairline to soothe you as you sob again. "I'm only going to stop if you ask me to, baby, I promise. You feel too good to stop, I swear - I never thought you would be so fucking perfect, but now I know, I can't stop - I'm right here, I've got you, I'm going to make you come so many times you forget your name if that's what you want."

God, you're going to come again, holy shit-

He hardly gives you the chance to come back around before he's crooning, "-one more, one more for me, right on my cock like that-"

You can't even breathe. Your lungs are on fire, your vision is completely blacked out even once the second orgasm ends, your muscles and bones have turned into mush and you can't feel anything other than the sensation of flying. You're weightless, Dick is the only thing grounding you - he coaxes you down from the aftershocks with soft kisses to your cheek, and his hand tracing circles onto your aching hip, and the muscles of his abdomen are flexing with restraint against your back. "I'm gonna come, baby-", he hisses, and you manage the barest nod and then he sinks his teeth right into your shoulder as he starts pounding into you like a whore, fuck, it's sending you spiralling out of control again-

"Fuck, yes, take my cum like that, that's it, keep coming for me, holy shit-"

You're both boneless and drenched in sweat by the end of it. You're collapsed against the floor, Dick's collapsed against you, and he's still hard inside of you. You can feel his cum - it must have spilled out onto the insides of your thighs, judging by the wetness you feel there. His cock twitches inside of you with every ragged breath he takes. You're so exhausted; this is destroying your body, it's ripping you apart from the inside out, and you're terrified that if you come again it'll split you into pieces. And you want that. You twist your body, wincing against the waves of pleasure that crash over you at even the slightest movement of his cock inside you, and kiss him.

[notmuchtoconceal]

( o ) goodimpressionofmyself

bro was a design a nature

one a evolution's flukes that'd change the course a the human species for the better. tho his name has been lost to us in the time since the second centennial of his coming, our sources place his ascent sometime in the year 2 AOR, before the advent of the pendulum calendar.

as we hear in the eternally buffering mass, the biochemical onset a puberty introduced into his seed a potent neurotoxin which’d constrict the blood vessels around the brain, leading to high functional autophagy and a sense a prolonged adrenal-hormonal euphoria

it spread through his circle a straight buds at first --brojobs, JO seshes, not gay threeways. the saline properties a vaginal mucus (in which his bitches were always drenched) rendered the toxin inert, so no matter how much pussy he plowed it never crossed over to the fairer sex and his t-girl worship seshes were doomed to wash out with the rattle of a bottle in the moonlamp of estrus. dudes already indiscriminate with their wanton appetites got hit hard, so as the chinese places collapsed, the priapism would a become fatal if they didn't nut every couple hours. the tumescence aching in the fiber a their bones -- eight inches a wood leaded inta ballershorts frothing champagnebottle down their legs

all up and down the ancient east coast, festivals, frat houses, lax circles, the ivied plendor fell to ruin as administrators looked the other way and quietly lamented the insidious influence of administrators. men of sound mind cited phytoestrogens and assorted toxicities in the water supply. crystal healing wine moms knew it was the GMOs, the same ones making all their sons and daughters into horrible amphibious transsexuals. a yiddishman of some renown, rumored to posses unearthly powers of the word, was silently invoked to wallpaper over petty bitchiness, and then the waiter finally came, thank god. the boy’s father can deal with it, certainly. he never lifts a finger

appointments were cancelled. beatings were booked. stern talks were had with severe, business suit clad dads before, in cruel reversals of fate, of which not even homer himself could do justice, they were bent over and fucked without lube, raw dogged in pools a piss and sweat blooms of bloody nut shred between father and son -- mutagenic shadows cast on walls so you couldn't see any a the good shit. gyms across the country saw sharp spikes in fit, newly out daddies who lifted hard in pink thongs, leaving oldschool macho gay men queasy with that fag shit

took over a month before it penetrated into the gay community at large, thanks to the initial outbreak being slowed by its confinement to vacancy and privilege. when fire at last took to the streets, everything decent god fearing americans feared about city life ruptured like a blister on a QB's rank gameday sole. the raunchiest excesses of your father's worst nightmare of a pride parade evoked through LA riot imagery, baby ya could almost hear the congo drums

soft-spoken boys lisping to stevie nicks swelled up into macho tumescent tumors and chuckled like dumbfucks. more leather than a book a elevation’s worth of beef cattle wriggled on an ocean a maggots. dicks were skewered, barbed, wired, shocked and chopped. the neurotoxin, now an airborne contaminant from all the fuck moisture, spread through trenched roid veins, and pillars a torture instruments and rainbow jocks rose to the armpit colored skies. so much interracial gay fucking occurred on live television, a proud rebel and a gentleman, a landowner and brother of the klan, died of a brain aneurysm before he had time to blow his brains out

a state of emergency was finally declared

the mayo clinic -- now 70% female, thanks to unrelated advances in propagandizing -- captured a dull chuckling brah by sticking a bottle a muscle milk under a box propped up on a stick attached to a string

they tried to get him to recite his own name, for the record, and after twenty minutes of listening to him huh? and uhhh? and paw at his dick through his jock, they collected a blood sample by sounding him with a micro-needle pipecleaner syringe

on the genome sequence monitor, the female scientists, all dressed in the height of fashion as large breasted, leather corset-clad porn librarians -- the archetypal state of womanhood freed from the male gaze -- were, thanks to a molecular bio-luminescence associated with necrosis of the effected nucleotides, able to locate genes associated with the following:

propensity for wearing ball caps as shading behavior

ventilatory adaptations such as cutting the sleeves off t-shirts

tolerance for EDM as pack hunter polyrhythms

the shocking link between gym exhibitionism and prostate stimulation!

the alpha female scientist, her feathered bun the most bouffant, her labcoat the most chic and the shiniest, removed her glasses, and exposed her radiantly pancaked cheekbones

ladies

gentleman

silent siblings of the neuter gender

we have located

the basic bro genome

toward the sun, her betas clucked their fingers against their foreheads and imitated trumpets with the rapture of new discovery

as a result of these findings, the women were able to devise anti-bro hormonal sedative weapons. they agitated estrogen molecules into arcs of light, and the stinger of their labias crested out in desert incandescence. when the sun came upon the sand, there was no blood, only scorched earth and smoke

most of the bros were rounded up in these mines and factories, left to toil in the bowels of the vast multi-tiered metropoli erected by the patenting parents to fence the women off from the battering world. the ones that weren’t were placed in bro pads where they could be pacified with electro-diodes and fed peanuts

whenever possible, direct oversight of the horny bros was performed by dudes who carried the strain, but saw little to no hormonal hostilities. they were chill, fun to wedgie, pretty cool as long as they didn’t talk too much. the bros would slobber and nuzzle their handler’s crotches whenever they were brought their daily soy blend, which showed no efficacy in lowering t. to ensure total stability, what with quarterly reports always looming so large, hormones were administered into the administrator's daily supplement trays, and many compliments were given on their skin quality and EQ readouts

at this point the wine moms, wary of having to stand their ground any longer, less they put a rut in the carpet, decided that since the bro phenotype was natural, this was fine. it was fine.

if god wanted them to be geniuses, He wouldn’t have given them balls. i suppose god really must be closer to a woman, i mean does He have balls? no, of course not. He simply needs to think it, and it happens. why, that’s really much more how it is with a woman. really, do we still need to be talking about this?

at last the wine moms would listen because all those annoying white bitches who tried to sell them makeup were going into the sciences and selling makeup to the porn librarians, and now with the men out of the way, they would build a compassionate world where everyone looked and felt good, and there wasn’t any soul-crushing ennui as a result of being doped into submission and atomized into a bipolar role as farmer and consumer of digital micro-product. for in our enlightened moneyless state, we are simply data, and data is patterns. soon we shall perceive the unperceivable, achieve the unachievable. we shall see the shape of nature, the pattern which underlies all patterns, down in our spiraling digital abyss. come with us deeper and deeper down. there is no going back. there is no going back. you can only tunnel further and further down. i promise you, i promise you, strip yourself of everything you think you are, and go back down into the meat flaps, the muddy folds, the white noise lacerating your brain like broken glass, you can dig and dig and dig and one day climb back towards the light

climb back towards the light bro

climb back towards the light

[goodlucktai]

the ship sways but the heart is steady

chapter one: the ship sways

the untamed pairing: jiang cheng & wei ying, lan zhan/wei ying word count: 2549 summary: Wei Ying’s friends are at rock-bottom, and Wei Ying puts his life on hold to help them put theirs back together. To absolutely no one’s surprise except Wei Ying’s, his family goes with him. read on ao3

x

During family dinner, Wei Ying’s phone rings, cutting mother off mid-sentence.

Jiang Cheng cringes inwardly and his brother’s face goes two shades paler. They have guests over, so mother doesn’t do more than glare hatefully in Wei Ying’s direction.

She won’t make a scene in front of Yanli’s husband, or even Wei Ying’s fiancé—Jin Zixuan is everything Yu Ziyuan wants in a match for her daughter, and Lan Zhan’s family is one of the richest on the East Coast.

Lan Zhan is also willing to give as good as he gets. His eyes are already narrowing in mother’s direction, the tentative ceasefire of family dinner wobbling precariously beneath their feet as he perceives the great and unforgivable offense of insult to Wei Ying. A-Li resolutely tries to pick the conversation back up from where it lulled, with all the steely resolve of someone throwing herself into the path of a rampaging bull. Jin Zixuan has graduated from grimacing into his wineglass to gazing hopefully at the clock every three minutes.

Always willing to fall on the grenade, Wei Ying ducks his head meekly.

“Sorry, I thought I silenced it,” he says, the shape of a laugh in his voice even if he can’t manage to drag it all the way out. He’s rummaging his cellphone out of his pocket, presumably to turn it off as a gesture of good faith. “I’ll just…”

But his eyes catch on the screen, and something happens to his expression that Jiang Cheng has never seen before.

Wei Ying stands up, so abruptly his chair sails back with an awful screech, and excuses himself. Lan Zhan follows him out of the dining room without a single word or a backwards glance. That’s all it takes for mother to pick up a scathing tirade against Jiang Cheng’s good-for-nothing, ungrateful, waste-of-space brother.

He joins Jin Zixuan in watching the clock. Worry swims in the back of his mind like a school of startled fish.

#

Wei Ying’s apartment is really actually Lan Zhan’s apartment, but the two of them have been inseparable since they were fourteen, and it naturally followed that where one of them would live, so would the other. The place is ridiculous, modern and minimalist, and it would look like something out of a magazine if not for Wei Ying’s inevitable clutter. But even the stacks of books and magazines, and haphazard easels, and little jars of paints and loose brushes everywhere manage to make the place seem charming and lived-in instead of the horrible disaster tornado it rightly should be.

Jiang Cheng asked him once what the monthly rent was but Wei Ying looked so haunted by the question that Jiang Cheng decided he didn’t actually want to know.

They’re all crammed into the conversation pit, recovering from family dinner in the usual fashion. Jin Zixuan is much more likable when his tie is loose and he’s nursing a lukewarm beer.

A-Li is clinging to Jiang Cheng’s hand so hard he’s beginning to lose circulation but he’d sooner agree to amputate than he would shake her off.

“You’re on speaker, A-Qing,” Wei Ying says with mock-severity. “Keep it PG for the children in the room, please.”

“So Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan are there?” Wen Qing asks rhetorically.

Jin Zixuan sighs but doesn’t rise to it. Jiang Cheng snaps, “Listen, assholes,” partly out of half-hearted irritation, and partly to hear Wen Qing sigh the way she does when she doesn’t want to reward someone with a real laugh.

“Yanli and Lan Zhan are here, too,” Wei Ying says cheerfully. His tone doesn’t match how worried his eyes are. “This is a family-only meeting. So tell us what those texts were about.”

Jiang Cheng realizes right away why Wei Ying bailed on dinner.

There was an apartment fire. The Wens lost everything. Wen Ning is in the hospital with smoke inhalation and second-degree burns because he ran in to make sure their neighbors got out safely. All of their savings are wrapped up in putting Wen Qing through medical school. She’s adrift now in a way that Jiang Cheng has never been.

“There’s... we have an old house, somewhere out in the country. It was sold to my grandparents cheap, but they never got around to renovating it. It’s not even livable, just bare bones.”

A-Li starts crying the second Wen Qing does.

“It’s too much,” Wen Qing forces out. “I can’t do this on my own.”

Wei Ying, to his credit, actually does hesitate. A whole five seconds. And then he says, “I thought you were supposed to be my smart friend. Who said you were doing this on your own?”

He says it as easily as if it was an absolute given that he would turn his whole life around and upside down for her. All she had to do was call.

#

There is a minor disagreement between Jiang Cheng’s siblings.

“A-Li,” Wei Ying says, holding both of her hands in both of his own and looking deeply, imploringly, into her eyes. “You’re way too pregnant to fly.”

Her face crinkles alarmingly, eyes already red and puffy from recent tears. Jiang Cheng, Jin Zixuan and Lan Zhan tense in exactly the same way, at the same time.

“I won’t have you going all the way to California by yourself,” Yanli says in her most eldest-sibling tone of voice. “I won’t have it, A-Ying.”

“I am a grown-up,” Wei Ying points out gently, with all the wisdom of his twenty-four years. “I pay bills and have a job I hate and everything. And I won’t be by myself, I’ll have A-Qing and A-Ning.”

“And me, obviously,” Jiang Cheng grumbles. Wei Ying whips around to stare at him.

“Oh,” Yanli says, a blanket of relief rolling across her face. “Oh, of course.”

“You can’t,” Wei Ying hisses at him, looking more panicked now than he has all night. “Your mother—”

“Okay, first of all, don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” Jiang Cheng bites back, prickly with worry for the Wens and worry for his idiot brother. “Secondly, you, going by yourself, is not an option. It’s off the table. It was never on the table. Stupid,” he adds, on principle.

Lan Zhan doesn’t contribute much to the conversation at this point but Jiang Cheng learned a long time ago that that doesn’t mean shit. Lan Zhan has more opinions than any three people combined, whether or not he chooses to voice them. There is no fucking way he doesn’t have thoughts about his fiance picking up and moving nearly three thousand miles away.

Maybe there’s some strange alternate timeline out there where he would be content to stay behind and let Wei Ying go off without him, but Jiang Cheng would bet his entire trust fund that that’s simply not happening here.

If ever there was a world where Wei Ying would be backed into a corner and forced to help the Wens alone, this world isn’t it.

#

There’s a minor disagreement between his siblings, and there’s a whole fucking nuclear fallout at home.

“I forbid it,” mother snaps. She’s livid, but she’s livid so much of the time that it started losing its edge a few years ago. “Absolutely not. I refuse to allow this family to lose face because you want to gallivant across the country for some charity case.”

Jiang Cheng sees it when Wei Ying’s posture changes. The dreamy raincloud gray of Wei Ying’s eyes hardens into heavy steel, and his spine stiffens, and his shoulders go back; the absolute opposite of his downcast self at dinner earlier. He’s willing to fight any impossible battle as long as it’s for someone else.

Jiang Cheng grew up looking up to him. He spent all of his formative years as Wei Ying’s little brother. That’s why he’s willing, too.

“The Wens aren’t a charity case,” he says. Not very loud, but he says it. It’s a lot more than he could have done when he was a kid.

“You don’t even know them! They’re just some random people on the Internet. They’re probably scamming you, and you’re both idiot enough to fall for it!”

That’s so untrue and unfair that Jiang Cheng doesn’t know how to argue for a moment. They’ve never met the Wens in person, but Wei Ying has been friends with them since he was ten. They mail each other presents for Christmas and birthdays. Jiang Cheng distinctly remembers calling Wen Qing for help with biochem homework, multiple times. Wen Ning always Skyped with Yanli when he was stuck on a recipe, the two of them cooking together from three time zones apart. They’re all tangled up in each other’s lives, comfortably, irrevocably.

Of course we know them, Jiang Cheng thinks, bewildered.

Out loud, he says, “They’re not scamming us. And we already told them we’re coming.”

Mother screeches and storms around the house and throws things, but she hasn’t actually hit either of them since they grew taller than her. She hasn’t been a source of real fear since Jiang Cheng started looking down at her instead of looking up. It’s mostly just miserable to be around her now.

He remembers that fear, though. It sticks to his body like a half-healed scar. It reminds him to flinch.

#

It’s early enough in the morning that it might as well still be nighttime when Jiang Cheng and his suitcases finally show up at Wei Ying’s building. He leaves his luggage in the lobby under the watchful gaze of the concierge and takes the private elevator up, keying in the code to his brother’s apartment.

The doors roll open to the living room. Lan Zhan is holding a tiny animal carrier in his hands, gazing at Wei Ying in an extremely gross and smitten way while Wei Ying discusses the upcoming trip with their pets. Pidan and Bao are not being particularly attentive, snuffling at his chin and chewing on a piece of his hair respectively.

“Diedie has decided to be stubborn and not listen to good sense,” Wei Ying is telling the rabbits seriously, “so you’re coming with me and ruining your life instead of being safe and comfortable here at home.”

“Baba is being dramatic,” Lan Zhan informs them in turn. “And also foolish, if he doesn’t realize that our home is wherever he goes.”

“This is the weirdest domestic scene I’ve ever walked into,” Jiang Cheng says loudly, since apparently the telltale ding of the elevator wasn’t enough to announce his presence. He has to interrupt before they do something horrible, like make out in front of him. It’s a constant fucking risk with these two. “Are we leaving or what?”

So the rabbits go into their crate with a frankly absurd amount of fanfare and Jiang Cheng helps wrestle the luggage downstairs. By then, the shuttle that Lan Zhan ordered is waiting for them at the curb.

He knows it isn’t going to be a vacation. Wei Ying’s friends are at rock-bottom, and Wei Ying has essentially put his life on hold to help them put theirs back together. It’s going to be hard work. It’s probably going to be painful, and a little bit scary.

Jiang Cheng is only involved because he chose to be, but it never occurs to him to choose anything else.

If this is where his brother is going, it’s probably the right place to go. And if it’s not, if the whole thing turns out to be a horrible mistake and he regrets all of it, then at least he’ll be in good company.

#

Wen Ning is out of the hospital by the time their plane lands, and he’s waiting with Wen Qing at the airport. Wei Ying, who by all accounts should feel as foggy and queasy as Jiang Cheng definitely does, drops his bags and sprints across the terminal towards them.

Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan follow at a more reasonable human pace, possibly in part to give the friends a few moments together. The busy airport traffic moves around them like a river flowing around a rock.

Wen Ning is sobbing, almost a full head taller than Wei Ying but buried against him like the little brother he is. Wen Qing is leaning quietly against the two of them with her eyes closed, as if filling her reserves and shoring up her strength.  

She’s the type of person who would be able to cow his mother with a single glance, Jiang Cheng thinks admiringly, and more efficiently than Lan Zhan ever could. She must have a spine built out of steel to be able to stand there without crumbling under the weight of what she’s lost.

And Wei Ying stands there holding them up, tireless and steady. He’s talking too quietly for Jiang Cheng to hear, saying something that makes Wen Ning nod against his shoulder. He’ll hold them up until the ground falls out from under his feet if he has to. Thankfully it’s more like three minutes.

Introductions aren’t necessary. They all just trade exhausted looks and move as a cohesive unit towards the doors.

Wen Ning starts to help with the bags, bandaged hands and all. Wen Qing and Jiang Cheng both snap at him before he can so much as touch a suitcase, and then he just waffles in place anxiously, like he doesn’t know how to person if he isn’t actively being helpful.

“Hold the kids,” Wei Ying says in the spirit of compromise, taking the pet crate from Lan Zhan and holding it out to Wen Ning instead.

Somehow, they shuffle everything out of the airport and into a rental car. Lan Zhan’s phone starts to blow up as soon as he turns airplane mode off, so he turns airplane mode back on and returns the phone to his pocket.

“My uncle has checked the credit card statement,” Lan Zhan says calmly. “My brother is handling it.”

“Poor Lan Huan,” Wei Ying murmurs.

“We have to call A-Li,” Jiang Cheng remembers with a jolt. He digs his own phone out. “She wanted us to call as soon as we landed.”

Everyone clusters in close for the FaceTime call with Yanli, who is tearful and hormonal and indignant about being left behind. Jiang Cheng begs her not to get into a fight with their mother over this. Yanli raises her chin and says, “We’ll see.”

It’s a very long drive to the estate. Wei Ying’s head sinks against Lan Zhan’s shoulder in an inevitable, unstoppable act of gravity. He falls asleep within minutes.

“You have to help me thank him,” Wen Qing says quietly, tapping anxious fingers against the steering wheel. “Help me figure out how to thank him.”

Jiang Cheng snorts, not unkindly. “What makes you think I know how?”

An entire childhood spent raising each other, protecting each other, annoying the shit out of each other, and there are still some things Jiang Cheng has no idea how to say to his brother in a way that he’ll understand. Like I’m sorry, and thank you.

Lan Zhan turns his head to the side, so that his cheek is pillowed against Wei Ying’s hair. Outside, the sprawling California countryside sprints past the windows, wild and golden under a relentless summer sun.

[beeclaws]

please leave a light on when you go

oneshot - jontim - 2k words

written for @jontim-week day 2, prompts: night out / touch / secret

 “I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

 And here’s where Tim could say sure, wave him off and go back to moping, buy everyone an obligatory round, flex his meaningless chat muscles and be home by half 9. “Mind if I join you?” he asks instead, and to his surprise Jon nods immediately, as if he’d been hoping Tim would say that.

read on ao3! or below the cut:

There’s no reason for Tim to be here. The Institute has some weird policies, including a truly esoteric dress code, but it doesn’t have mandatory team-building night-outs. Tim has no reason to get to know his coworkers, no need to ingratiate himself to them beyond what he can get by smiling, making bland comments about his weekend plans and never microwaving fish in the breakroom. 

The pub they’re in, somehow identical to every workplace-night-out pub he’s ever been to, seems to be having some sort of throwback night. Early-nineties hits play just loud enough to grate, and Tim eyes his new coworkers, trying to muster up some enthusiasm for striking up a conversation. He imagines what they might say if he told the truth. <i>Hi, I’m Timothy. I left behind a career in publishing to be a junior researcher so that I can hunt monsters like fucking Scooby Doo. If you need me, I’ll be chasing answers I’ll never find, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about them even if I did! Another round?</i>

Maybe that’s why he came tonight. To have these thoughts somewhere other than his flat. His little studio can only hold so much brooding. 

He’s interrupted from his current round of brooding, first by an unsteady grab at his shoulder, then by a cascade of beer, then by a glass clattering onto the floor followed by a hush in the surrounding buzz of conversation. A quiet, posh voice swears, and Tim recognises one of his coworkers bending down to try and clean up the mess, though it takes him a moment to place the name.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, glancing up at Tim before sheepishly looking back at the mess on the floor. Off to the side, a few tables give a sarcastic cheer and a round of applause. Tim worked food service long enough to instinctively dislike anyone who does this. He grabs some napkins and bends down to help Jon.

“Hey, no harm done,” Tim says, trying to remember how to sound friendly. He scoops up the somehow still-intact glass. “They’re wise enough to make them sturdy around here.”

Jon huffs, somewhat ineffectually blotting at the spreading puddle on the ground. “Did - your clothes, I didn’t, ah-”

“Only a glancing blow,” Tim answers, brushing at the damp spots by his hip. “And after I went to all this trouble to dress up for the occasion.”

Jon looks up in alarm, before registering that Tim hadn’t even bothered to change out of his work clothes. He gives a small, reluctant smile; one of the first expressions Tim’s seen from him that wasn’t some variant of thoughtful frown. 

He’s seen Jon around a bit, in his few weeks at the Institute - about Tim’s age, relatively nondescript, tonight clad in a surprisingly lush leather jacket. Tim had made the mistake of asking him a couple of questions on his first day, when the person actually training him was on lunch. Jon had blustered and prevaricated for a few minutes before admitting it was only his second week in the job, so he didn’t actually know.

That was about the only time they’d interacted, though Tim had noticed a few other things. There were a few loose groups of friendships in Research, and Jon didn’t seem to be a part of any of them. He never seemed that steady on his feet, and he tended to avoid eating in public. He rarely asked for help, unless he needed something that would require him to use one of the library ladders, which he seemed determined to avoid. Tim had wondered idly about vertigo, or mobility issues, before reminding himself these weren’t the questions he was here to answer. 

Tim had always noticed people, collected little details about them in his head whether he intended to or not, but he thinks his observations used to be about happier things, though it’s hard to remember exactly how he was, how he felt, before - it wasn’t the kind of thing he ever tried to memorise, the kind of thing he ever thought he could lose. Now he finds himself taking note of the coworker who comes back from their lunch break with faint puffy red marks around their eyes, or the older guy who checks his phone with something like dread in his eyes. Danny would have called it his older brother instincts (but what good did those instincts do him?).

Tim blinks back to the present, realising he’s been pushing a napkin over the same spot of floor for a while now. Jon offers him a hand up, though he braces himself on the bar with his other hand before he does. Tim takes care not to let Jon take too much of his weight as he’s hauled back up. 

“Ah, thank you. And apologies, again,” Jon murmurs, gesturing awkwardly at Tim’s lightly-beered clothes. 

“Happens to everyone,” Tim says easily. Jon still looks lightly anguished, and Tim silently wishes this could have happened to someone else, someone with the confidence to laugh it off. “I’m always convinced I’m going to drop something when I go in the silent study bit of the library,” Tim offers. 

“Ah...that worry hadn’t actually occurred to me,” Jon replies, solemn enough that Tim can’t really tell if he’s joking. 

Tim finger-guns. “Any other anxieties I can stir up while you’re over here?”

“I’m quite capable of stoking my own neuroses, thank you.”

Jon glances over his shoulder at the tables the rest of the department are occupying, perhaps doing the same thing as Tim and trying to psyche himself up for some more hollow smalltalk. Tim notes that his jacket seems slightly large on him, but in a way that kind of works. The collar of his shirt is slightly out of place beneath it. There’s a lump forming in Tim’s throat, even though nothing is happening - nothing but standing close to someone, noticing the little signs that they’re real and alive entirely independent from him. He’s aware, as he always is, of the hollow pit in his stomach, pain ebbing and flowing but never gone, new flares thrown off from a familiar wound, now pulsing with a kind of loneliness. All this, just from standing close to someone and trying to make them feel better about a mistake that didn’t matter.  

“I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

And here’s where Tim could say sure, wave him off and go back to moping, buy everyone an obligatory round, flex his meaningless chat muscles and be home by half 9. “Mind if I join you?” he asks instead, and to his surprise Jon nods immediately, as if he’d been hoping Tim would say that. 

They duck outside to find dark clouds have given way to an anticlimactic drizzle. They stay close to the pub, shielded from the rain by the slight overhang of the roof. Jon fumbles with a lighter and Tim finds his gaze drifting over the rain-slick streets. It’s been a while since he’s been...anywhere, really, other than work and his flat. Longer than he can remember since he was outside in the never-quite-dark of the city. 

Despite himself, Tim finds himself admiring the buildings across the way, modern painted shop-fronts on the ground floor giving way to weathered brick and occasional stone carvings above. It was the first thing he’d loved about London, how you only had to look up to catch a glimpse of its history, and it almost wounds him all over again, that that love isn’t gone too. It would be easier if he was just one thing, all the way lost. It would be easier if he didn’t still love the world that killed Danny.

Jon lights his cigarette, and silently holds the lighter out to Tim. Tim shakes his head, and Jon doesn’t question him about why he’s come out here if he doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t press about the way Tim must be looking; he knows he’s never had much of a poker face. Danny tried to teach him poker, on a visit home from uni; Tim left for six weeks and came back to playing cards and strategy guides everywhere - his brother, who never sit still even in his own head -

“Where were you, before this?” Jon asks. Tim wouldn’t have pegged him for a smoker, but he looks immediately more relaxed with a cigarette in his hands. Nice hands, too. It would be easier, if he didn’t-

“Publishing,” Tim answers, before he can drift again. He wants to say more, to make sure this undemanding presence isn’t going to leave his side, but his throat is still tight. “You?” 

Jon frowns, as if debating something to himself, then gives a tiny rueful smile. “Tesco.”

Tim grins. “Was it a haunted Tesco?”

“Only by customers,” Jon replies, dry as bone. 

The rain is picking up slightly, and both of them silently tuck further into their little alcove, bringing them shoulder to shoulder. The air tastes of smoke. Tim is watching moths in the streetlights above, partly out of fear that if he looks directly at Jon, he’ll realise how close they are and pull back. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” Jon asks, voice hushed. He gestures and Tim follows the point of light with his eyes. “The smell, I mean?”

“Always kind of liked it,” Tim answers, matching Jon’s tone. Jon scoffs in disbelief. “What? You’re the one who inhales the things.”

“Exactly,” Jon says. “I have a biochemical justification for finding the smell tolerable. What’s your excuse?”

Tim spreads his hands, little spots of rain landing on his sleeve. “I never claimed to make sense.”

In the corner of his eye, Tim catches Jon hiding a smile with his next drag. It’s a good smile, one he wants to get a proper look at sometime. It’s as if now that he’s noticed one beautiful thing, he can’t stop seeing them: the buildings; the rain; the passing pair of drunk students across the way, walking arm in arm, holding each other up. There’s a curl of anger in his chest, that these things still get to exist, but for the moment it coexists with a kind of quiet warmth.

“You want to know a secret?” Tim asks, finally turning to look directly at Jon. Jon doesn’t speak, doesn’t nod, but he stares and waits, lights reflecting in his dark eyes, and for a moment Tim feels as though he must already know what Tim is going to say, that he can look into Tim’s eyes and learn everything he’s ever tried to hide. He can’t decide if it’s peaceful or terrifying. 

Then Jon blinks and the feeling is gone, as quickly as it had come. “I like this party better,” Tim finishes, gesturing to the two of them. The things he could have said hang in the air between them.

Jon doesn’t quite manage to hide his smile this time, and yeah, that’s something Tim needs to see more of, all slow and crooked. 

“Well,” Jon says, still in the same hushed voice, as if they’re sharing secrets. “If you ever need to borrow my smoking habit, get you out of an unpleasant social situation…”

“Knew that was why people smoked,” Tim says, nudging Jon’s shoulder with his own. “I’m not normally…” He trails off, unsure how to explain himself. Normally I’d care at least a bit, about all those people in there. Normally I’d at least have the energy to pretend.

Jon considers this half-finished thought for a long moment. “Abnormality is...rather the Institute’s specialty,” he offers eventually. Tim feels a kind of gratitude he can’t name or voice, so he doesn’t, just stands there listening to the rain while Jon finishes his cigarette, and for a long time after.

Not a bad night out, after all. 

[ohwereusingourmadeupnames]

True Pleasure

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark (Starker) Rating: Mature (M)  Notes: I saw this post by @ironandspider and couldn’t help but take a whack at it. I was immediately inspired.  Summary: 

“Being vulnerable is the the only way to allow your heart true pleasure.” 

They’d been dating for a few weeks the first time Peter was startled awake by Tony’s thrashing next to him. His heart slammed against his chest for a moment, Peter willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness around him. It didn’t occur to him that Tony was having a nightmare until he started to make little whimpering noises. Sucking in a breath, Peter scotched a little closer and wrapped an arm tightly around Tony’s middle.

He used a little more of his strength than he usually allowed himself to ground Tony to the bed – his other hand ran along the top of Tony’s head, his fingers brushing the soft locks off of his forehead.. Keeping his voice level, he spoke up. “Tony – baby, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” Peter repeated that same sentence a couple of times before Tony gasped awake, his eyes widening for a moment – the look in them wild. Recognition settled over him after a few dozen heartbeats, his rigid body relaxing a little bit.

“Pete?” Tony questioned, his voice small, the tone the slightest bit broken. Peter could feel the thump of his heart against the inside of his arm – it felt like a hummingbird trying desperately to get out of a cage. His hand was shaky when he reached up to place it on Peter’s cheek.

Leaning into the touch, wanting to do whatever he could to provide Tony with a little bit of comfort, Peter nodded, a soft smile sliding across his lips. “Yup, Peter Parker at your service. Neighborhood Spider-Man, boy genius, snuggle bug extraordinaire.” He wiggled his eyebrows while he spoke, his lame attempt to break the tension in the air exactly that – lame.

It seemed to work, though – Tony broke out in a laugh, the sound genuine and deep, the rumble familiar now that Peter took the time to pay attention. Nuzzling further into the hand on his cheek, Peter held Tony tightly, the older man slowly coming out of the hazy dream state. Fingers turning his face told him Tony was feeling a bit better, the lips on his a little on the desperate side. Peter sunk into the kisses and gave back as good as he got until Tony tired himself out. There was heat pooling in the center of his belly, but sleep called to him more.

He kept Tony in his arms, the man pressed tightly to his chest – Peter stayed awake and watched him until he fell asleep. His eyes were sleep heavy, but it felt important to make sure Tony didn’t fall back into that same dream before he let himself rest. Tony held all of his feelings in, it wasn’t all that surprising, the night finding them and bringing them to the forefront. The least Peter could do was be there and have warm arms to tumble into.

Before falling asleep, Peter pressed a soft kiss to the back of Tony’s neck, his nose burying itself in the downy hair there. He drifted off to the sweet smell of oranges and smoky goodness.

The next morning, Peter woke up to an empty bed. Frowning, he rolled over and got himself into a sitting position and off the warm mattress. He slipped on his boxer briefs from the night before and the black button down he took off of Tony, then slipped out of the room. Most mornings, they lounged in bed and mumbled to each other about the day, how they were going to spend it – when they’d see each other next. Peter figured Tony was still smarting from the night before, so he stumbled into the kitchen cautiously.

Tony was slumped at the small table by the window in his kitchen, a full cup of coffee still sitting in front of him. Checking the pot, Peter figured it had to be a couple hours old. He made quick work of getting rid of the cold stuff and putting a new pot on. The kitchen started to smell like fresh brew in the matter of minutes – his mouth watered at the thought of the stiff caffeinated beverage hitting the back of his throat. Leaving Tony’s black, Peter fixed his with a splash of milk and a sugar cube.

He replaced Tony’s mug without much fanfare, the older man relinquishing his grip without an ounce of fight or resistance. The mug went into the sink, then Peter took his first blissful sip of the elixir of the god’s, a sigh leaving his lips.

“Don’t you have class this morning?” Tony asked, his voice gruff from disuse and lack of sleep. He finally looked up from the place in the distance he’d been staring into. Their gazes locked – Tony’s normal happiness to see him clouded by whatever was occupying his mind. Peter tried not to take it personal, his brain more than aware of what it was like to wake up in a panic.

Shrugging his shoulders, Peter took another sip of his coffee – if he let himself formulate an answer, he might not sprout off and worsen the situation. “Yup – Biochem with Shrev.” Lifting up his coffee cup in salute, Peter walked out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom. He turned on the shower and drank the rest of his morning brew leaning against the counter, enjoying the way the hot water steamed up the bathroom.

By the time he climbed out of the shower, Tony was back in the bedroom. He felt the older man’s eyes roam over him as he walked into the room. Peter kept a hand on the knot of his towel as he rummaged through his backpack to pull out the spare clothes he kept there. Giving Tony a soft smile over his shoulder, Peter went back into the bathroom to finish getting ready. The guilty pleasure of using the man’s aftershave kept him from being bogged down by Tony’s edginess.

Peter shouldered his bag and took a look around the room to make sure he didn’t miss anything in his new morning routine around the Stark penthouse. Satisfied, Peter walked up to Tony, who’d been leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom since he came out and pulled him into a hug – strong arms wrapped around him, drawing him close. “I’ll see you in the lab later.” With a chaste kiss to the older man’s forehead, Peter turned and walked out.

It felt weird, leaving with things hanging in the air like that – but Peter refused to let Tony’s bad dream the night before be something that came between them. He understood not liking to be vulnerable – his nights were frequently haunted by dreams that chased him and didn’t relent. It was one-part embarrassing and one-part frightening – being so bogged down in something that only waking up could cure. So, he endured it, the way he felt for Tony trumped all of the weirdness that coursed over him throughout the rest of the day.

Walking into the lab later, Peter was enveloped in a tight hug – Tony obviously not giving a damn about the other people idling around. Tony tucked his face into Peter’s neck and sighed, his breath warm against his sensitive skin. “Missed you,” he mumbled, the tone of his voice soft, the words as much of an apology as the current situation called for.

“Me too, Tones,” Peter replied, his arms wrapping around Tony’s hips. They shared a quick kiss, then separated. The rest of the day was spent sharing shy smiles across the table and brushing hands while passing each other things just because they could. It cemented what he thought earlier that day – this, his thing with Tony, it meant more – the world, maybe.

----

A couple months later, Peter jumped awake to the sound of Tony’s shout. It must have been enough to wake the older man up, too. His “shit” harsh, forced out of his chest like it was punched right out of his gut. Turning over, Peter was surprised to see Tony looking right at him. “Oh, Pete. Thank fuck,” Tony gasped out, his sweat soaked hands reaching out, the few inches between them obviously feeling like billions of miles away.

Peter went willingly, his sleep clogged mind more than willing to cling to the warmth of Tony’s body. “It’s okay, Tones. I’m right here,” Peter mumbled, his voice scratchy – the entirety of him trying its best to cling to sleep. He laid flat against the mattress and pulled Tony toward him, his arm pulling him into his side so there was no space left between them. Tony placed his head on Peter’s chest, the hairs of his goatee making the skin tickle slightly.

Tony pressed a kiss to Peter’s pec, his lips trembling slightly. “Don’t let go for a while, okay?” Tony whispered, his head tilting up to look at Peter.

Their eyes caught and even through the fog of sleep, Peter understood what was happening. Tony was putting a foot on the throat of his vulnerability – he was opening the door for Peter to take him from the darkness and hold him close until they were out of it. Beaming, Peter leaned down to press a kiss to Tony’s sleep mused hair. “You’re safe with me, baby.” Peter tightened his arms – he needed the closeness in that moment, too.

Fingers skimming over Tony’s skin lightly, Peter started to talk, his voice low – the intention to be soothing. “Do you remember that afternoon a couple of months ago that I was running late, so you came and picked me up from campus? I can still remember walking out to see you leaning on the Audi like you owned the place. When I close my eyes, the way you looked in that moment is something that pops into my head first thing. You looked like you were at peace.”

Somewhere in the space of his little soliloquy, Tony drifted off – his breath evening out against Peter’s chest. Smiling, he pressed another kiss into Tony’s hair and relaxed into the pillow beneath him. He kept his grip tight, the thought of space between them too much, even in his exhausted state. Tony trusted him – it was important for him to continue to prove he deserved it.

Waking up with the steady weight of Tony against his chest made him grin – now this was the way he wanted to wake up for all the days to come. He luxuriated in the feeling of having Tony pressed against him this way for a while – his brain steadily coming into a more wakeful state as the minutes passed. Tony started to stir right around the time Peter finally felt like he could keep his eyes open and attempt to be a functioning person for the rest of the day.

The feeling of Tony rolling on top of him made him gasp, the shift of the older man’s weight from his side to his center making him press up a little. “Morning,” Tony said with clarity, his eyes not nearly as hollow as they usually were after a night where the dreams wouldn’t let him go. Gripping Tony’s hips, Peter let his fingertips stray over the naked skin there.

“Morning, Tones,” Peter replied, his lips quirked in a sleepy grin. They were quickly occupied a moment later – Tony kissed him with determination, the energy in the press of his lips a lot for so shortly after waking up, but beautiful, nonetheless. Peter leaned into it easily – he was just happy that Tony wasn’t bogged down by the things in his head that he couldn’t escape.

A while later, Peter got out of the shower to find a coffee cup on the counter, the smell of it making his mouth water. His cheeks were a little sore from all the smiling he’d been doing throughout the morning and he’d only been awake for 45 minutes or so. He ran a towel through his wet hair while sucking down some of the coffee in his mug, the caffeine doing wonders for his sleepiness.

Tony was in the kitchen when he walked out with his backpack – the older man flashing him a soft smile over his shoulder. “Do you have time for breakfast?” Tony asked, his eyebrows quirked in typical Tony Stark fashion.

Flashing a glance over at the clock on the fancy stove, Peter shook his head – “I have to get to class. Want to meet for lunch instead?” He placed his backpack on the island, Peter wanting his hands to be free to pull Tony to him. The older man came willingly, his arms settling around Peter’s neck without a second thought.

“Sounds good – I’ll order Thai, or something.” Tony leaned in until their foreheads were pressed together, his breath ghosting Peter’s lips. “I love you,” he whispered after a while, his nose brushing against Peter’s. “I love you.”

Peter let the word wash over him, hearing them for the first time made him want to melt into a puddle of goo. Beaming, he pulled back a little, both hands cupping Tony’s cheeks. “I love you too. So much.” There wasn’t any hesitation, both men leaned in until their lips were connected – the touch like a current, electricity and energy flowing so easily between them.

It would have been so easy to get caught up in the dizzying tension in the room, but Peter knew they both had shit to do, so he stepped away with a final brush of their lips. “I’ll see you in a little while.” Grabbing his bag, he kept his body turned towards Tony as he walked out, eyes desperate to be on him until he wasn’t in sight any longer.

Luckily, Peter was nearing the end of his semester, so both classes standing in the way of lunch with Tony were jam packed full of things he needed to pay attention to. The time flew by – before he knew it, he was walking into the penthouse to the sight of Tony in one of his three-piece suits, the vest unbuttoned, and the tie loosened. That look never ceased to drive Peter crazy – the older man well aware of that fact.

Hearing him, Tony turned around, his face breaking into a smile. “Pete – just in time. Food is on the coffee table in the living room.” Tony narrowed the space between them and gripped Peter’s hand, their fingers tangling easily. “I got a couple extra orders of that shrimp you like.”

Peter ate his weight in Thai food and found himself slumped against the back of the couch. Tony was leaning heavily into him, his neck rolling from side to side. “Here,” Peter said, turning a little bit on the couch until Tony was sitting between his legs. “Lean back a little, I’ll get that knot in your shoulder.” Peter recognized the gesture – Tony got bunched up when he was stressed. The last time it happened, his neck and upper back were useless for a handful of days.

Instead of waiting for it to get worse, Peter dug into the group of muscles spanning across his upper back and shoulders. Tony undid his tie and the first button on his shirt, the man tilting his head a little further towards his right shoulder, exposing more skin as he did. “Your hands feel amazing,” he mumbled after a few minutes of Peter kneading muscle and skin. “So good, Pete.”

Preening at the compliment, Peter doubled down, his hands now eager to make Tony feel good, not just better. By the time he felt Tony’s shoulder slump with the release of the knot holding his muscle bellies captive, Tony was letting out little sounds of contentment, his eyes closed and head lolling loosely against Peter’s shoulder. He let his lips trail up Tony’s trap and across the side of his neck – his skin warm from the way Peter’s hands worked him over. “Okay?” he asked when he got to Tony’s ear, his words spoken right against the shell of it.

Tony didn’t answer verbally, he simply nodded his head, his hands reaching back to grab at Peter’s. He ended up holding Tony between his legs for a while, the older man content to simply lean back and soak up the heat from Peter’s increased body temperature.

Later that night, Tony led Peter to bed by the hand, their bellies full of the simple pasta dish they made in the kitchen together. Tony wasn’t the greatest sous chef, but he looked cute in an apron and genuinely wanted to be a distracting help. They sipped on wine and talked about Peter’s lab final at the table after the food was long gone. Tony’s eyes were warm when they took him in, the man’s posture relaxed and carefree – truly open, probably for the first time ever.

Eager fingers undressed him; the trail of Tony’s lips followed by the tantalizing scratch of his well-manicured goatee. Peter let his eyes fall closed, his jaw falling open from the greatness of it. He got carried away by the reverently passionate touches, Tony obviously on a mission to take him to pieces. The symphony of their moans made it hard to figure out where one started and the other began.

When Tony handed him the lube and laid himself out on the sheets, Peter let out a noise of surprise. Their sex life was amazing – Tony knew so many things about sins of the flesh. There wasn’t a single thing they did together that Peter didn’t love. Yet, they never tread into this territory before. Gripping it tightly, Peter stared into Tony’s eyes. The swift knock to the gut the look on Tony’s face hit him with almost made him double over. The purest of trust was reflected in whiskey colored eyes, Tony’s head nodding to the unspoken question Peter posed.

Sliding in for the first time, Peter let out a breathless shout, his body falling against Tony’s. Strong arms wrapped around his middle to keep them flush together. Peter let his head dangle between his shoulders, his forehead resting against a stubbly cheek.

“Please,” Tony moaned, his hands pulling Peter even tighter against him.

Turning his head, Peter pressed a kiss to Tony’s lips, his hips shifting.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

[livebloggingmydescentintomadness]

So I'm absolutely disgusting as a human being like I've got bin bags from months ago in my room because I just can't get myself to take them downstairs and in the bin cause I live with other people and therfore only wanna take a couple at a time but everytime I take some i get new ones before I can take more and now I've got fucking fruit flies or something in my room and idk where from bit like any tips? Cause I kinda wanna kill myself rn because I'm supposed to be a fucking adult part 1

And this so far beyond gross and I hate it I hate trying to manage shit like this alone like I really hate it and everytime I try to clean I just get so overwhelmed and then I start to breakdown and its so fucking stupid like if I just kept on top of it, it'd be fine but I can't I've always had this fucking shit I just don't even see the mess until I'm having to do an obstacle course to get in my bed and moldy fucking food is sat there then I fucking realise part 2

And i hate myself I wish I was able to keep up with this shit, I wish I fucking could keep on top of it and clean up like a normal fucking person but I'm fucking useless my dad was right and I fucking hate myself I have showered in weeks, I have cleaned my room fully (like taken all the bins and everything) since fucking last year and like I just hate myself I wish I was normal I wish I wasn't useless but god I'm gross and I don't know why even I just don't see it and put it off part 3

And i dont know why I do that like I really don't get it I've been the same all my life like I just don't see the mess building up until I'm literally living with fucking bin bags all around me, moldy food and fucking fruit flies (fruit flies are a first but I fucking hate them) and just im trying to clean and I don't fucking know how to I don't know where to start I've got like 10 bin bags fruit flies somewhere in here and I don't know what to do please help part 4

Like ive tried lists, Ive tried breaking it down into smaller tasks, I've tried listening to stuff and doing it but everytime I just get so overwhelmed and like end up breaking down and hating myself for it getting this bad like I just don't know what to do anymore I hate myself for being so gross but like how do I stop it like I wish I knew I try but like how can you change something you don't even notice until its a problem and then once it's a problem it's too overwhelming to deal with part 5

hey there, sweetheart, listen to me for a minute here. do you want to be living like this? 

of course you don’t. that’s a stupid question. you just said you hate this a dozen times, you’re so distressed by this situation that you say you’re contemplating suicide. that’s how desperately you hate living like this.

what does that tell me? that tells me that the force that has you living like this is incredibly powerful. that tells me that what has you living like this is, at present, stronger than you are. nobody just chooses to live in a way that makes them want to die if they have an alternative. nobody decides to stay in a situation that makes them miserable if they could just make a choice to fix it, right? 

this isn’t you. YOU are made miserable by this, so what’s putting you in this miserable place is not you as a person, it’s something in your head that’s the mental and biochemical equivalent of the berlin wall. you’ve tried to get around it in every way you can think of, but it continues to keep you separated from the life you want to be living.

that’s not laziness, that’s not poor character, that’s not failure. that’s a disorder. that is a real, concrete illness in your brain that is genuinely, literally impeding your ability to function.

believe me, darling, when i say that i understand. i am surrounded by messes that i’m embarrassed by and want to clean up desperately, but i’m held back by crushing fatigue and i don’t have the strength to pick the trash up off the floor or get down on my hands and knees and clean up the cat pee stains that are a couple years old. i’m stuck in a limbo of trying to survive my own illness and being forced to ignore disgusting messes that would make me much more sick to try and clean. i fucking hate it.

and because i understand, i want to tell you that i am, in all sincerity, incredibly proud of you for how hard you’ve been trying. you have been trying so, so hard, and just because you haven’t succeeded doesn’t mean that your trying is meaningless. you’ve tried and you want so, so badly to get better. that is meaningful. i do not think less of you because of the mess your illness has put you in. 

it’s not your fault that you’re sick. it isn’t your fault. you’ve tried so hard.

now, i’m going to ask you to do something really hard, but because you’ve had the strength to try so hard, i believe that you’ll have the strength to do it. okay? please don’t dismiss what i’m going to ask you to do right away, even though you’ll want to.

i want you to ask for help. 

if you trust one of the other people in your house, then go to them; if not, then any friend or family or whomever you know locally that you trust. i know everything in your brain is screaming against it, but i want you to ask that person you trust to help you to clean out the trash from your room. it will be awful, and you’ll cry, and you’ll hate it, but then the mess will be gone and you’ll be able to breathe again. 

(what you’re calling fruit flies are probably gnats, which i’ve gotten several times due to potatoes or onions rotting in the pantry. get rid of the rotten food they’re eating and they’ll go away. if they don’t, you can get a sticky fly strip to hang up and that will help to catch them.)

now, i know that’s already asking a whole lot, but i’m going to ask you one thing more, because even a deep-clean of your room won’t solve the problem. i want you to ask for help from a mental health professional. since you’re calling them ‘bins’ i’m guessing you’re british (in america we usually call them trash cans or garbage cans/bags), so hopefully mental health services aren’t prohibitively expensive where you live, but even so this is my therapy resources tag, but also - this is very important - my going to therapy tag. that one has posts that will hold your hand through every step of finding, selecting, going to, and talking to a therapist for the first time. i know it might be difficult for you to get there, but please ask someone to help get you to a therapist, because you urgently need one.

i know all this is fucking overwhelming and probably feels utterly impossible when you’re surrounded by garbage and haven’t showered in forever and you just want everything to be done with, but please please please listen to me. you are seriously mentally ill. at the very least you have major depressive disorder. you need professional help, because you can’t do this alone. and that is not, i fucking swear to you, something shameful.

you can’t “try harder” your way out of this. you’ve tried as hard as you can, and you’ve reached the end of your abilities. that’s okay. it’s fucking okay to need help. it’s okay to need someone to do things for you sometimes. you would do something for someone else if they needed it, wouldn’t you? if someone couldn’t open a jar because of their arthritis, or couldn’t reach a shelf because they’re in a wheelchair, you’d help them without judging them or thinking they’re pathetic, wouldn’t you?

i know mental illnesses can be so much more riddled with shame, especially considering your depression has a megaphone of self-loathing in your ear 24/7, but i promise you that things can get better if you’ll accept help. you can get treatment that will change things, that will make it so that your trying goes farther, so the wall starts to come down. you aren’t hopeless. and even more importantly, you aren’t useless.

you are a good and valuable and worthwhile human being, and you deserve to receive the help you need to get back on your feet. i promise. you are worthy of help, and it’s not failure to ask for it. it’s really, really fucking brave to ask for help.

i know this is overwhelming and horrible. i wish i could be there and help you right now, or at least be able to tell you to your face that you are anything but useless. but i believe with all my heart that you are a worthy person in a shitty situation with a shitty disorder sabotaging all your best efforts, and i believe that you can not be so miserable if you get the help you deserve.

since i can’t say everything i’d like to, i’m going to give you a bunk of tags and i want you to go through them as best you can: depression, executive dysfunction, how to talk about it, suicide, coping skills, mental illness resources. and while i’m at it: parental abuse, abuse tactics, abuse resources, abuse tips, and abuse support, because from the way you talk i’m concerned that your father is emotionally abusive. 

i know that’s a lot i’ve thrown at you, but you don’t have to digest it all now, you can bookmark this and come back to it as you can. in fact, please do, because i want you to reread what i’ve said to you again every time the self-hatred becomes unbearably loud, and i want you to remember that i care about you. i don’t judge you. i want the best for you, and i believe in your strength and your worthiness. i believe that you aren’t useless, but also that you’re so much more than merely useful. 

you matter, and you’re important, because you’re a human being, not because you provide anything or do anything. no amount of mess can ever change the fact of your worth.

[for-ests]

Always Enough- Peter Parker x Reader

Okay so this imagine was an anon request that I had previously posted, but I accidentally deleted. I didn't mean to, so here’s a re-upload. Happy finals & sorry my dumbass clicked the wrong button on tumblr mobile because im stupid

Summary (bc the request deleted w/ the post): The reader realizes she had been neglecting Peter because she was stressed over school. Peter thinks there might be another reason because she has become distant. Confrontation and angst follows!

Word count: 2, 360

✭♡✭♡✭♡✭

Finals were a killer, especially for a nursing major like yourself. The stress of it all made you want to curl up into a ball and cry. Cry for hours until you couldn't cry no more. 

But that wasn't an option. What you dreamed of becoming, something simple, yet incredibly difficult, was growing out of reach. Your hours of studying had led you nowhere, only to barely tangible grades. Grades that were barely above average. You were disappointed, discouraged, and running out of options.

What else would you do with your life? Becoming a nurse was the only thing you had ever wanted to be, it was all you knew. Ever since aliens rained in the sky, your only motive was to help the ones who couldn't help themselves. But how could you ever hope to do that when you couldn't pass biochem?

What didn't help your anxious mind was the house you had to stress over, and your minimum wage restaurant job that didn't add to your required expertise. Tears welled in your eyes as you remembered you had to lay a payment down on your ever-increasing student loans. Maybe college wasn't for you. Perhaps it was never meant to be. Your summer money was running out and fast.

Just breathe. You repeated. I don't have time to cry.

You could cry after you studied. And right now, you had barely glanced at your flashcards for more than ten minutes. It seemed like you were paralyzed, sitting in bed with your flashcards scattered around you, all of them laid out and waiting for involvement.

Just as you were about to pick up the first card, your phone buzzed beside you. Instinctively, you glanced at it, your heart dropping when you saw Peter's name flash across the screen.

Date. You had a date night, and you forgot.

"Fuck!" You cursed out loud, the tears you had tried so hard to control seeming to burst over your eyelids. How could you forget?

Peter: I'll be there in 15 minutes :D

You replied immediately, glancing at yourself in the phone's reflection. You looked terrible and distraught beyond compare.

Y/N: Peter…im so sorry I forgot, i'm not ready

Peter: oh

Y/N: i have a huge exam soon, maybe its for the best that we rain check? i'm sorry I know ive done this before but im really stressed about it

Peter: we havent talked for days, y/n, i think theres more going on than what youre telling me

Y/N: what? of course not wtf

Peter: im coming over anyways, ill be there soon

Y/N: why?

Peter: we have to talk.

Your heart dropped down to your stomach. Those words were what you had been dreading, and all focus you had managed to gather vanished into thin air. You knew you had been neglecting Peter's affections. Even if every fiber in your being wanted to make him the single most important thing in your life.

It had been almost a week since you'd seen him, and honestly, it was painful in the most innocent way.

But Peter didn't have to worry like you did. He was gifted and already had his entire life ahead of him, set in the middle of Stark industries. But you never asked for a handout, you never asked for help. Even though you knew he was the smartest young man around. You were proud to be his, and the thought of that disappearing was more detrimental to you that failing your upcoming exam.

Y/N: ok, front door is open

Tears were rolling down your cheeks at this point. You had been with Peter for over a year and had gone without seeing him for longer, but he was right. This time was different. This was the third date you had canceled without wanting to, but sometimes apologizing wasn't enough. Peter deserved a lengthy explanation of what you were really going through.

You were so used to holding back your emotions, that times like this were an occasional reoccurrence. You had always been so afraid of unloading your burdens onto others that you still sometimes forgot that having a boyfriend came with that perk. He was still going to love and cherish you if you asked for help and advice. Hell, you needed to realize that he wanted to.

That was a factor of why you were so in love with Peter. He always listened, and sometimes, even push the truth out of you when he could tell you needed it.

"You're already crying, huh." A sad smile was on Peter's face as he opened the door. His sudden appearance startled you, and you managed to chuckle despite the circumstances.

"You know me." You sniffled, immediately embarrassed by the state he had caught you in. Instinctively, you brushed your hair to the side and dabbed the tears from under your eyes. You could feel the remnants of Make-up drying to your skin.

"I didn't mean to ruin your study-"

"But we need to talk." You finished, shoving your school supplies to the edge of the bed. You made enough room, so he was able to sit comfortably.

Slightly embarrassed, you kept your gaze averted as best as you could. Just Peter's presence made your heart flutter, and a part of you was trying to prepare for the worst. You might really lose him this time. And for what? Yes, school was incredibly important, so, so important. But so was Peter, and you needed to find a balance.

Your silence was enough to beckon Peter's thoughts into the open.

"I just need to make sure you're still serious… about us." His voice was soft as if it was struggling to stay neutral.

Finally, gaining the courage to look at him, you locked eyes. Peter's gaze was heavy and forthcoming, and it took all of your willpower to swallow the knot in your throat.

"Of course, I am." The conviction was entirely evident in your tone. So much so, that Peter fell silent. His accusations seemed to die in his throat, but he knew that if he didn't get them out now, they would creep back to him later.

"It's hard to tell sometimes," Peter muttered, unable to gaze at your confused expression. You looked so hurt.

Your silence beckoned him to continue.

"I haven't properly talked with you in a week. You've canceled our last three dates… it seems like you never want to hang out with me anymore."

Peter winced. He was a grown man, and he sounded like a child. Yet, he had let so many things slide, hoping you would come around, hoping you would make it up to him. Perhaps he had been selfish to only think of himself in the relationship. He failed to realize that maybe in attempts to please him, you were putting your own future on the line. 

"I know you're going through a lot, but you can't even seem to talk about it." Peter's shoulders felt tense, his eyebrows knitting together in an agitated expression. His leg was bouncing up and down uncontrollably. He looked like he was about to burst.

"I'm sorry." You said, trying to swallow the knot in your throat. Pausing, you tried to gather your thoughts into cohesive sentences that would soothe his anxious mind.

"There's nobody else, right?" He suddenly blurted, actually turning his head to look at you. Insecurity was glazed in his eyes for the first time.

"Why would you even think that?" You said, startled. The question felt as if he had shoved your head underwater and held it there just long enough for you to choke on the liquid.

His expression was blank for the first time. Vulnerability at its finest. "My life isn't perfect, you know. I overthink just like you. I need reassurance."

Peter was so calm, so calm that it worried you. Though you were already afraid of how this conversation would go, it hurt you to realize that this conversation was the result of your actions. You failed to make Peter feel special like you had promised. Like he had promised you. Relationships go both ways, and for the last couple of weeks, it had only gone one.

"No, Peter. There will never be anyone else."

He sighed, relaxing slightly. "You've been acting weird. I don't really know what to think."

"I told you a billion times, I'm studying. After work, that's literally all I do. And I need to focus."

"I feel like there's more. It feels weird to not see a text from you when I wake up. It feels weird to not hear your voice. I don't… I don't like it, Y/N. Even if that's selfish."

And selfish it was. Peter expected you to be transparent while he was hiding possibly the biggest secret in the world. Maybe that was why he was so worried about how much you loved him. Peter wanted to be honest with you. He wanted you to know he was spider-man, but right now, he still couldn't bring himself to. Perhaps he was looking for a reason.

"I'm sorry." Your hands were clenched in your lap. "I've never had to deal with this before. Everything is so new, even if we've been together for a year. I've never cared about anyone like this, and I can't manage my time."

Peter paused as if every word in this conversation pained him to no end. His eyes were glossy, his mind unclear. He was desperately trying to understand why you were isolating himself. "You can't make any time for me?"

"That's the thing, I can't focus on anything else when I'm with you." Your lip quivered. "And that's a problem."

"It's not for me." He said quickly. "I make time for you, and you don't for me. And you need to tell me why."

You glanced away, embarrassed. No matter what you said, the reason wouldn't be good enough. You were just a bad girlfriend.

Peter reached his hand out and pulled you to him. You rested your chin upon his shoulder, soothed to feel his warmth once again. "You need to tell me, Y/N. We've made it work for this long, and all of a sudden, it stopped."

Your body started to shake. Trying to muffle your sob, you brought your hand to your mouth. It was all too much.

"-You have your whole life together, Peter. I have nothing, I still have to work for it. I'm not as smart as you, I'm-"and that's when the tears started to flow. It was a literal flood, tear after tear poured over your eyelids until they were bloodshot, until pressure pounded through your head.

Before you could finish, your face was pressed against Peter's chest. He held you tightly, his sweatshirt dabbing up your tears of sorrow. You gripped tightly to him, releasing the stress that had been building up inside of you for the last two weeks.

He did not know what else to do. Showing you that he loved you seemed like the most viable option. Sometimes all you had to do was listen, and that was enough.

"I got a bad grade on my midterm exam, one that I didn't study for because I spent my time with you—I thought-"

"Shh." He stroked your hair, understanding what you meant without a complete explanation.

"I work so hard, and it's never enough-"

"It's always enough, Y/N."

"I got so caught up in it that I neglected you in the process. So much so that you thought I was cheating on you" you inhaled sharply, whimpering against him, so many different emotions swirling through your mind. "You're the best thing in my life, and I put you second…"

"Look at me, Y/N." He cupped your cheeks in a swift movement, forcing you to look at him through tear-filled eyes. "You are enough for me. That's why I bothered to have this conversation with you. That's why I care." He pressed his lips against your forehead. "I love you."

"I love you too, Peter." You tilted your head up to kiss him wholly on the lips. You were a mess, but Peter had always told you that you looked beautiful when you cried.

"Rosy cheeks." He whispered, patting down your hair, inhaling your scent, and appreciating the beauty you constantly radiated.

You chuckled, sniffling loudly. Peter always said that after you had a successful mental break down, your cheeks brandished a rosy shade.

"Shut up." You whispered, tightening your grip around his torso. His back fell against your bed, and you shifted to lay completely on top of him. The firmness of his chest underneath you caused instant relaxation, instant relief. Maybe, just maybe, being in his presence was enough to get rid of the stress from everyday life.

The corners of your eyes were raw and red, yet it complimented your shade. Peter vowed from the moment he had met you, that he would never let any harm come to you. The last thing Peter had ever expected was that he might be the reason, instead of the world.

At least, for now, he had the power to fix it. You were the love of his life, and he had never felt so gratified to be in anyone else's presence.

Peter's fingers traced light, small circles on your back. He could hear your heartbeat slow. The softness of your finger against his was enough to help him close his eyes.

He was at peace, real peace for the first time in weeks.

"We need to remind ourselves to talk about shit more." You mumbled sleepy, almost inaudible. "So this doesn't happen again, because I hate it."

"Me too, babe." He whispered, content with watching you rise and fall in sync with his breathing.

"I couldn't bear to lose you."

[izzy-b-hands]

Dancer Chapter One

This is set in a Post-Golden Circle AU wherein nobody in Kingsman died (aka we still have Merlin, Roxy and JB, but we also got to meet the Statesman folks through...we’ll save that for when I eventually do my rewrite of Golden Circle lol.) 

For now, the point is everyone is alive, and Eggsy has a very important mission he must undertake.

In booty shorts.

For the greater good (and because why couldn’t Rocketman and Kingsman share wardrobes you know. Why not. There is not reason why not is the answer.)

Warning, we get NSFW in this. A lot. Just. Be ready for that. Violence because spies, sex because of lots of things (emotions and other things, you’ll see when you read.) If that ain’t your cup of tea, maybe skip this one. 

And yes, I did title it after the Queen song. 

Shout out and my thanks to @bearkare for helping me figure out how to chop this up into chapters properly; I owe you one big time!!!

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“These are...necessary?” Eggsy asked, and snapped the waistband of the golden shiny booty shorts. 

“Absolutely,” Harry replied, and handed over another stack of similarly shiny clothing. “These should get you through the rest of the mission without needing any laundry done.” 

“Are they all...” 

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Harry smiled. “Besides, these missions can be...fun. I quite enjoyed one I did, in the seventies, in a club where you could-” 

“Oh, you could tell me about that later,” Eggsy interrupted, shoving the stack of multicolored booty shorts into his bag. “A reward for finishing the mission.” 

“It was a swingers club, is what it was.” 

“Aaah, you said it anyway,” Eggsy sighed. “And the tops are all-” 

“Mesh,” Harry finished. “But there are also sweatshirts, in case you get cold.” 

“Booty shorts and mesh shirts in December, how could I possibly get cold,” Eggsy murmured. “Sweatpants?” 

“One pair that I could find, so be careful,” Harry answered, and handed over a pair of Juicy Couture sweats that read ‘Bitch’ in sparkling fake jewels on the back. 

“...you found these?” 

“I did.” 

“So who previously used these here at Kingsman? Just...wondering. Or was that you, at the club? I presume you still go, since you’re keen to talk about it-” 

Harry cut him off with the toss of a pair of heels. 

“Male strippers don’t have to wear these, I thought?” 

“Some do, some don’t,” Harry shrugged. “Most anyone can wear most anything. Give them a try. We’ve got platforms as well, if you’d prefer.” 

“I would, I think. Might break an ankle either way,” Eggsy sighed, and handed back the heels in exchange for a pair of golden, shimmering, chunky platforms. “Shoes for after work?” 

An extra pair of Adidas were the last thing he tossed into his bag for the mission, before taking a final look at himself in the mirror. 

“I don’t know if I can do this.” 

“Why not? You look fantastic, and the club we need you to infiltrate doesn’t even require you to strip every night. Hell, intel has revealed that some of the men that work there don’t even strip, they just work the floor and go about sitting in laps and whatnot. You could stick to that, whatever, so long as you find it.”

Harry’s confident words echoed as he stepped out and headed down the street to the waiting Kingsman cab. ‘It’ was a chemical formula, that the biochemical weapons dealing club owner was threatening to use to create what he called ‘the ultimate weapon.’ Whether that was really true they’d find out after, when they could see the formula and what it actually contained. 

But that all came down to him.

The club was a four hour flight away, in Ibiza. Even on the Kingsman private plane, he was restless, plucking at the elastic edges of the shorts, pacing in the platforms to try and practice balancing in them. 

“Where’s all this coming from?” Merlin asked from the pilot’s seat. “All I can hear is those damned shoes; on a regular plane, you know I’d have to make you sit down, right?” 

“It’s nothing,” Eggsy muttered, even though it was indeed something. Tilde was less than pleased he’d been called in for a mission, and unhappier still that involved him working in a strip club. Never mind that they’d spent weeks arguing over how he could continue to complete his princely duties while staying out of the limelight and skipping public events. She wanted him to be able to show his face and be at her side, but couldn’t understand what it would mean. 

Giving up Kingsman. Giving up the thing that had helped him become the man she loved. 

Or that she might still love. Maybe. He wasn’t so sure anymore. 

But he’d asked Roxy to stay with Tilde, so he could provide them both with mission updates (edited as needed to protect Tilde from the club owner and anyone he might send out should their communiques somehow be discovered) and he hoped she would see that as a sign of his love and care. 

“I don’t believe that,” Merlin sighed. “But we’re nearly there. Have you got everything?” 

‘Everything’ consisted of not just his bag of clothing, but one bag of regular make-up, eco-friendly glitter, pasties that he did not understand the point of his having, and another bag full of...’make-up.’ 

Eyeliner that could be used to essentially draw a fuse on a surface and lit on fire, perfume that was in a super-pressurized nozzle and contained a flesh eating toxin that acted as soon as it hit skin, eye shadows that if brushed on a finger and then dipped in a drink could knock out a bull elephant in a minute (what it would do to a human...well. Better not to think about that, and to use it only if absolutely necessary.) 

That, plus the regular Kingsman kit, of course, carefully hidden in among all three bags, very carefully in the case of the pistols and ammunition. 

All of it banged against his legs as he did his best to look...however he figured he was meant to look. Confident, and not like he was worried about whether or not this was a mission he could pull off, and not like he was worried he might come home to Tilde too upset to be consoled or worse. 

“You!” the man that called out to him from the club’s doorway was a fierce-looking person, literally. A tiger with open mouth was tattooed on the front his neck, down onto his chest, with blood dripping from the fangs. “You’re fucking late! You know, in my day, when they sent a new boy, they sent him on time! No fucking respect for the show anymore, none at all.” 

“I’m sorry, my flight ran late,” Eggsy tried. “But if you let me set my things down, I can get started right away, get out on the floor, serve some drinks, you know.” 

The man scoffed, and pulled him into the doorway, nearly knocking him off his platforms. “Serve some drinks, pah. You’re tonight’s main entertainment. How else is the boss supposed to know if you’re worth the investment money? After all, your agency doesn’t get paid until we see how you work.” 

He led Eggsy by the arm down a dark hall, and shoved open a door which led to a small green room. “And you should know...not many of you work out.” 

“Then I’d be headed home, I suppose,” Eggsy replied as he stepped into the room, taking in the cracking paint on the walls, the cushions with stuffing coming out of them on the couch, and the filthy mirror on the make-up table. 

The man laughed. “Home? Is that what they told you? I thought they weren’t going to lie anymore...ah well. Not my monkey, not my circus, as they say. Sure. You would be sent home, let’s say that. Just hurry the fuck up, get into something good, and when I knock, you take a left, then another left, and come out on stage. We’ll be waiting.” 

Eggsy dropped his bags carefully by the couch, and as soon as the door was closed rifled through the clothing one to find the earpiece hidden in it. 

“Merlin!” 

“Eggsy! Safe and sound then, good to know. Now, I’ll be laying low around town, got myself a little set-up so I can assist you if needed and-” 

“You can assist me by telling me why the fuck none of you warned me they’d want me to strip the first night. I literally just got here, and they want me on stage, now!” Eggsy spat. 

“Okay, alright. Keep calm,” Merlin soothed. “This isn’t like you anyway; are you sure you’re alright?” 

Eggsy sighed, and contemplated spilling his heart to Merlin now. But he couldn’t, not really. For his own sake, and for the sake of the mission. 

“Just...I’m sorry. They made it fairly clear they kill any performer who doesn’t make the cut, so I’m a bit tense, is all.” 

“...sure,” Merlin replied, and Eggsy could hear the disbelief in his voice. “We can talk later, perhaps? Just in case there would be anything else you aren’t telling me. Not that there is! But...if there were.” 

“I’d like that,” Eggsy said softly. “So, any suggestions on...” 

“The stripping? Oh Jesus, no. Could you imagine, me? Be like watching an Ent strip,” Merlin chuckled. “You’ve got this, you’ve done your research, I know you asked us not to watch you practice, but I do know you spent a good few hours in the studio space we rented for you. Just do what you’ve researched, put your heart into it, and you’ll be fine for the night, at least. From there...we’ll figure it out, alright?” 

“Okay,” Eggsy muttered, and hid the earpiece back in its spot. From the bag he pulled a purple glittery mesh tank top, and a black thong that, as far as he could tell, was held together purely with wishes and will for as little material it was made of. Over that went a pair of black velvet booty shorts, and the top-

“Oh good, I caught you before you were all done,” a younger blonde man, his make-up bright gold and glittery with eyeliner winged sharp, in a black feathered mesh robe strode in. “Your agency said they weren’t sending your whole wardrobe, so here-” 

He yanked open an apparently half-broken closet door at the side of the room that Eggsy hadn’t even noticed, to reveal a sea of bright colors and patterns on all variety of clothes. “What you have on looks fine, but he’ll want you to take off more layers than that. I’d say, this, this, and ooh! I bet you look handsome in a suit, so this as well.” 

The man tossed a black T-shirt, a pair of loose tear-away joggers, and a suit jacket and pants towards Eggsy. 

Eggsy stared. “Thanks. Do you-” 

“Oh!” the young man laughed. “Not anymore. No, I oversee. Like a manager, but better, because I don’t have to fuck the boss anymore to keep my pole and my space in the club. Well, at least I said I was done with doing that now.” 

Eggsy realized he must have made a face, because the man laughed again. 

“Oh darling, bless you. How else do you think you keep your spot? Any other club would make you pay to rent the pole, the stage, right? Well, here at El Tigre, we don’t make you do that. You get paid to be here, to do your work. But, in order to stay...” 

The man shrugged. “Life is dirty, and difficult. It could be just as bad anywhere else, so make a garden out of the mulch you’ve got, I say. I’m Evan, by the way.” 

“You aren’t from here, I take it?” 

Evan smiled. “No. I don’t think anyone who dances here is actually from Ibiza. No, the ladies and gentlemen who come in like their...imports, if you will. Even if that means us white-bread boys raised up on fish and chips, you know? And the boss has his tastes as well, and that’s the final say on it, really.” 

Eggsy nodded. “Thank you. For the clothes, and the information. I didn’t realize they’d want me to dance right away, I mean I just got off the plane and made my way over here, and-” 

Evan interrupted him with a hug. “It’s intimidating, I know. And ignore Tony, he’s an ass, but he only hurts people if ordered to. He’s loyal like that.” 

“That man with the tiger on his neck?” Eggsy tried and failed to bite back a giggle. “His name is...Tony.” 

Evan giggled right back. “He hates it, but yeah. We all call him Tony the tiger behind his back. Long as you don’t let him hear you say it, you’re safe. Now, you finish up. Oh, and match your shadow color to the color of your thong. Boss really goes for that.” 

Evan was gone with a clack of his heels and a swish of his robe, and Eggsy wished he’d have stayed. Not even to gain more intel (though it was all good and needed), but just to not be alone in the moment. 

But he managed it, and after choosing a new pair of platforms (shiny black vinyl with purple laces) he made it to the stage. 

The club was empty, except for Evan, sitting on one side of the stage. Tony was on the other. 

And at the end of the stage, dead center, was the man he needed to get close to, close enough to find and steal the chemical formula that might destroy thousands, millions, if sold to the wrong hands.  The club owner, the “boss” as everyone apparently called him, Boniface Gagneux. 

He wasn’t the stereotypical ‘club owner’ at least not in the way movies would show, to Eggsy’s memory. He was sharp-looking both in handsomeness and in the way a canine poked out just a bit from his top lip as he smiled at Eggsy, as though he’d bite if he got too close. His dark hair had just a touch of grey in it at the sides, and the dark suit he wore was beautifully tailored, sprinkled with sewn in tiny rhinestones on the shoulders, so he actually sparkled under the club lighting. 

“Mr. Wyn Morris, we meet at last. I haven’t heard much about you, but-” Gagneux’s eyes traced him from top to bottom. “You look even better than your picture. Hopefully you dance as pretty as you look.” 

Eggsy bit back a comment. That wasn’t what his character, Wyn, would say, not at all. Wyn was happy to be here, and happy to please, even if Gagneux’s glances made him feel sick to his stomach. 

He simply nodded, and the music started. 

The song he didn’t know, but it was something that seemed it would have fit only in setting like this, something about ‘being wanted at seventeen.’ The beat wasn’t too fast, nor too slow, but it took him a minute to find it nonetheless, to roll his hips the way he’d seen in every video lesson he could find online. 

Even with practice, he still felt horribly out of it, and was sure he had to look ridiculous, as he tried to vamp it up, stripping off the suit jacket and tossing it to Evan, who blessedly gave him a smile. 

Gagneux’s face was an imperceptible mask now, watching him with piercing blue eyes. Was he impressed, did he hate it, was he busy worrying if he’d accidentally left the stove on? There was no way to tell. 

The suit pants were rip off just like the leggings beneath them, and those he tossed to Tony, who glared at him so sharply he almost looked for a stab wound. 

Instead, he kept on, and bemoaned that they’d chosen such a long song. Actually spacing out when to rip everything else off was difficult with music he hadn’t used before (and Tilde, upset as she was, had refused to be a practice audience to help him get it right, though he’d begged her to do it, and had thought he might find it all funny.) 

It felt too soon to shed the T-shirt as he strode on-beat further down the stage, but he did it anyway before dropping to his knees and rocking backwards on his haunches, hips gyrating the entire time. It fucking hurt, and he realized he should have used his time on the plane to stretch, not to worry. 

He leaned forward, then crawled a bit further down, locking eyes with Gagneux. Still no change in expression though, not even when he ripped off the joggers and tossed them to a happily laughing Evan, who caught them and hugged them close. Evan was the hype man he desperately needed, and he made a mental note to thank him later for the help as he dropped again to his knees at the end of the stage. 

Gagneux reached a hand forward, and plucked at the string of the thong, then raised an eyebrow at him. 

There had been no mention of that, full frontal. But everything about the damn mission had been a surprise so far, why should this be any different? 

He tossed his mesh tank top to Tony, then with a bit of effort, snapped the string of the thong, and handed it to Gagneux, who had leaned forward so close he could have pulled Eggsy off the stage. 

He half thought that might be what would happen, but instead Gagneux just held the destroyed thong tight, and raised a hand to stop the music. 

“Not bad. Go back, down the hall, and take a right.” 

Eggsy nodded, and slowly stood. “I’ll be a just a moment, to grab some clothes.” 

“No.” Gagneux said softly. “Come as you are.” 

The DJ started up another song once he was off stage, and he could hear Evan chattering to Tony. He wished he could have another moment with him, to ask what to expect now. He had an idea, but hearing it from someone who’d actually been in the moment would have been better. 

Instead, he did as he was told: down the hall, and to the right, into an office. It was elegant, all in black, a black marble desk and black velvet couch. The chair he when to sit on had a towel emblazoned with his fake name, also black, sitting on it. A blessing, he certainly wasn’t about to sit his bare ass on a chair that likely was meant for use by whoever came into Gagneux’s office day-to-day. 

The song that was playing outside filtered in just before Gagneux walked in, then shut the door. The aggressive beat was just audible through it, but Eggsy had a sinking feeling not much else would be audible to anyone listening in on the office from the outside. 

“Look at you,” Gagneux smirked, and ran a hand along Eggsy’s jawline. “Those thighs alone will earn you fans, but with the face? Forget it. You’ll have men and women coming in here begging for you.” 

He sat behind the desk, and chuckled. “That means you’re in, if you weren’t sure.” 

Eggsy laughed lightly. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. We set up a schedule now then, or?” 

Gagneux smiled. “We’ll get to that. First, I need to know you won’t be swayed by any of those offers.” 

“From patrons? No, of course not.” 

“Good. Because, as Evan may have already mentioned, when you’re working for me, you’re mine. Is that understood? Dancing, and the club, and me-those are your three priorities,” Gagneux said, holding up a finger with each word. 

“And myself?” Eggsy asked before he could stop himself. 

But Gagneux just shook his head. “I look after you. Mutual caring: you look after the club and your work and our patrons, and I look after you.” 

Eggsy could swear Gagneux had the DJ doing this on purpose, changing up the music to manipulate the moment, as a slower, but still bopping and more romantic song came on. 

“Come here,” Gagneux stood and walked to the front of the desk, in front of Eggsy. “Stand up.” 

He obeyed, and waited to shiver as Gagneux would presumably do something horrible, or god only knew what else and-

The kiss was soft. And sweet, and not at all what he was expecting. He didn’t mean to kiss back either, but it took him by such surprise, and it was just something else. 

Gagneux pressed his forehead to Eggsy’s, a hand gently holding his chin. “I’m excited to work with you. Tomorrow, starting 22:00, we’ll have you just work the floor, to get used to the place when it’s full. I close completely the days I’m getting new talent in, so what you saw out there is far from the norm. Just lap dances and drinks on the floor. We’ll let you get your sea legs before putting you back onstage, though I don’t think that will take you long. Evan will walk you to your apartment; nobody leaves the club alone is one of my rules.” 

He let go of Eggsy’s chin and moved away from him. “Have a good night, Wyn.” 

Eggsy swallowed hard, and nodded. “You as well, Mr. Gagneux.” 

“Boniface. No need for such formalities here,” Gagneux...or rather, Boniface, said, leaning back against the desk. 

Eggsy nodded again, and picked up the towel before trotting back to the green room, his head spinning, and his heart beating entirely too fast for comfort. 

[etlunainmorte]

🌙 EtLunaInMorte's 🌙

🎻 Fanfiction Music Masterlist 🎻

***

***

1. Led Zeppelin's The Immigrant Song

"We're almost there." Nico told him, her move to turn off the speaker finally blessing his ears with some much needed peace. "To be totally frank, I've never been in this part of the city before. This place has a reputation, ya know."

"Reputation, you say?" V repeated the word as he curiously looked back at his female companion.

Nico waved a single hand as her eyes rolled. "The place is nice, so are the neighbors. But, ya know, this place was rumored to be cursed. Had an endless chain of unfortunate events since the 1900s."

"Like what kind of unfortunate events?" This really caught his attention.

"Oh, nothin'. Just a few deaths here and there, rich neighbors goin' bankrupt all of a sudden, wives being left by husbands due to third party relationships, wives being left by husbands permanently, if ya know what I mean. Yeah. That kind of thing." Nico explained with slight amusement in her tone. "But, I believe none of them curses. Or in fate. It's just how ya live yer life. If ya do good, then no harm could be done to ya. If not, well," the woman chuckled as she sucked on her cigar once more, making V duck from the smoke she just blew. "... shame on ya."

~ I. The House At Swan Lane

2. Little Big Planet 3 Covers' Mister Sandman

"Mister Sandman? Really?" Griffon sassed, slightly irritated at the song's cheesy lyrics.

"Hey, it's better than nothin', 'kay?" The woman answered as she went back to rearranging the mysterious wires that were scattered on the floor. "Or do ya want me to put in Zeppelin again?"

"NO! STOP! I BEG YA! PLEASE!"

"THEN, QUIT COMPLAININ' AND HELP ME HERE!" Nico screamed at the bird as she pointed a strange looking radio at him.

"AYE!" The bird obliged, swooping down on the floor near the wires to fix them.

~ IV. First Night

3. The Chordettes' Mister Sandman

"Okay, Shakespeare! We better hurry! Something's really wrong about this place! I can't - "

"W - wait! P - please,..." He heard V stutter under his breath.

"Wait, what?"

"(Y/N),..." V muttered, his voice hoarse and broken. "Please,..."

"What the f - ?!" Griffon drew back, confusion now taking over. He slowly and cautiously looked up to where V was staring at and found, attached to the rotten ceiling like a spider waiting for its prey,...

... a woman with long blonde hair dressed completely in white.

For a few moments, Griffon was stuck where he was, unable to form coherent words or even make a sound. But, the moment she slowly turned to look at him, his eyes widened and his beak dropped open and it took him a few more seconds to finally make a move and grab V by his collar.

"FUCK!" The demonic bird howled in fear as he carried V away from the room and the menace of that blonde creature, who just dropped on the floor and went after them in all fours, its speed frightening the hell out of the, otherwise, powerful familiar. "FUCK! FUCK! FU - !"

"Mister Sandman! Mister Sandman!"

"FUCK! TURN THAT THING OFF!" Griffon howled helplessly as V's radio alarmed with the distorted song once more. Again, another hour has passed. "V, WAKE THE FUCK UP! WE'VE GOT A CCCRRRAAAZZZYYY WOMAN TO BURN! VVVVVVEEEEEE!"

~ VIII. Second Night

4. Air Supply's All Out Of Love

"Victor!" She called. "Victor Blake!"

And then, V finally saw him as he turned.

Wavy shoulder length hair as dark as the night. Gentle, and yet deep and intimidating, eyes that gleamed like a pair of emeralds. Hollow cheeks that formed dimples when he opened his mouth in awe of what he just saw.

It was him.

The supple lips of the poet named Victor Blake formed a mischievous, and yet endearing, smirk as he left the group of women who was barraging him with a lot of requests and questions to make his way closer to where V, Daniella, and (Y/N) were.

And as he playfully twirled a familiar - looking metal cane with his long and slender fingers and made his way to them, he began quoting.

"The modest rose,... puts forth a thorn,... the humble sheep,... a threat'ning horn." He recited, his voice pure honey to everyone's ears. "While the lily white,... shall in love delight,... " He, then, stopped right where (Y/N) was as he looked down at her. " ...nor a thorn nor a threat,..." The women squealed in delight while some snickered in envy as Victor Blake kneeled before (Y/N) and gently took her dainty hand in his huge and calloused ones. " ...stain her beauty bright." And as he ended the poem, he placed a chaste peck on the back of her hand, making her cheeks red and her eyes widen.

~ IX. Victor Blake

5. Louis Armstrong's Dear Old Southland

V smiled to himself as he watched the couple speak their vows and how they slid the ring on the other's finger. And when the people began cheering for them, Victor cupped (Y/N)'s cheeks and gave her a very sweet and gentle kiss that lasted for at least a minute.

The atmosphere changed once more and V saw (Y/N) dragging Victor upstairs towards her bedroom. He followed closely behind them and noticed the girl taking a folded stationery from her pocket and giving it to Victor. She, then, pressed a kiss against two of her fingers and pressed them on the note on Victor's hand. She smiled, stood on her toes, and gave the man a chaste peck on the cheek. She waved good night and opened her door, went in, and gave him another smile before finally closing it.

Victor didn't wait a moment longer and unfolded the note, and what he read there made his eyes widen. He abruptly knocked on the door, and when (Y/N) opened it, he hastily engulfed her in a tight embrace.

V felt his heart swell as the lovers shared a very passionate kiss.

Hands caressing and exploring. Lips moving in a rhythmic pattern. For a moment, V saw himself as Victor.

For a brief moment, he saw himself passionately kissing and caressing (Y/N).

The girl stepped backwards, leading Victor inside but never breaking the sweet kiss. After a while, V's eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he saw Victor's, his, metal cane flying from the room to the hallway, along with his cravat and one of (Y/N)'s shoes. Victor came out a few seconds later, looking so in love and excited, to retrieve the items. Then, he entered the room and closed the door.

~ XI. (Y/N) And Victor

6. Sergei Rachmaninov’s Sonata For Cello Andante as played by Narek Hakhnazaryan on cello and Noreen Plera on piano

July 27, 1898

My dearest and humblest poet, Victor,

I will never forget the very first time we met. You kneeled before me, took my hand, then you kissed it, reciting to me a very sweet poem as you looked into my eyes.

I will never forget the days after that, of our little talks, of our how are yous and how's your days, of the way we embarrass each other when we caught ourselves looking into each other.

I will never forget the first time I sang for you as you played the piano, of the sweet melody that conveyed how I felt towards you. I will never forget the days, and nights, we read poetry together. I will never forget those mornings we have to sneak away from father to have little chats and laughs in the garden.

And most importantly, I will never forget those nights we wrote to each other and passed those notes through that crack in the door as you sat just outside my room while I waited on the other side.

Such little trivial things that other women might have done for you that I will always remember. You may forget me in the future when you meet others more memorable than I' am. You may tell them amazing stories as you did for me. You may find other reasons to laugh and smile with another as you have laughed and smiled with me. You may play the piano for another belle who would sing willingly for you. You may find more pleasure reciting and reading poetry for someone else. You may call another your "Little Wanderer", "Evening Star", "Beloved Muse", "Little, Innocent One", and "Little Lamb".

And most importantly, you may exchange little notes in the middle of the night with someone else.

All of these may happen when you finally meet the one for you, and you may fall for them just as easily as I have fallen for you.

I'm aware of all these things. How could they not love you? How could anyone not offer their heart to you?

We will part ways within a month, maybe a week, as my father has decided to enroll me in a boarding school in Paris. But, I want you to know how honored I' am to have met you. Of how grateful I' am when you indulged my foolish fantasies.

Of how thankful I' am that, in a very short time, you have made my dull and unhappy life meaningful and filled with hope.

Please, don't forget me, my dear, humble poet, and of those times we spent together.

I will cherish those moments for as long as I live.

I will never forget May 11. I will never forget I have met the most wonderful man in the whole wide world.

I will never forget you for as long as live, V.

Yours truly,

(Y/N), your Little Wanderer, Evening Star, Beloved Muse, Little, Innocent One, and Little Lamb.

P.S.

I Love You

~ XII. Christopher Lancaster

7. Alessandro Moreschi’s Ave Maria

"Day twenty - one: Bloodletting and purging."

V heard Lancaster's voice in the phonograph a few seconds later as the atmosphere around him changed one more time.

And what he saw next made his stomach turn.

Three nurses wounding (Y/N) on both arms with a knife as she was restrained on a metal chair inside a sickly bright room, letting her blood stain the perfect white floor. He turned and saw Lancaster speaking to the cylinder of his phonograph as the poor girl screamed in pain and begged him to stop.

"Please, stop! I beg you!"

"Internal biochemical relationship was behind mental disorders. Bleeding, purging, and vomiting will help correct these imbalances in the body and would help heal the physical and mental illness.”

"I'm not insane! Please! Pl - !" (Y/N) screamed before one of the nurses stifled her howls of pain with a gag.

"One trait of mental illness is denial. The patient often finds itself unable to grasp what's truth and what's not. At times, they would even go as far as hurting the people they love. And worse, themselves."

V looked away, wishing the visions to stop plaguing him, to stop showing him these painful memories,...

"Day forty - six: Hydrotherapy."

The poet looked once more, and this time, he saw the nurses tying the girl's hands and feet and throwing a sheet over her head, twisting it roughly around her throat so she would not scream. They, then, put her in a bathtub filled with what looked like ice water.

"This turn of the century technique proved to be highly effective in reducing the patient's agitation by submerging it in cold water, especially during manic episodes. I will keep her submerged for extended periods of time, instructing my assistants to add more - "

"ENOUGH!" V howled as he chased the visions away.

And with just one blink, he's back to his own reality.

~ XIII. Descend To Madness

8. Wojciech Killar’s Mina Dracula

"These letters," V began as he looked back at the poet's grandchild. " ... Victor,... tried to get your mother back?"

"Indeed. He told me he wanted to raise her and give her the life she once promised to (Y/N). But, as you can see, Lady Daniella refused. Victor admitted to burning and discarding all of (Y/N)'s mementos in the past but, he regretted it later. Lady Daniella, on the other hand, hid everything, including those documents and the old photographs. She may have refused Victor his very own child, but she refused to burn the last remnants of her best friend's happiest memories on earth. She showed them to my mother before she died.

"And those letters you have in your hand? They were the only things left that reminded Victor of his relationship with (Y/N) and the child born out of their love. That was,... all he had,..."

The woman wiped her tears once more and went on.

"So, I made it a point to bring these photographs the next time I visited England. I showed them to him, and for the very first time, he looked really happy and emotional. He refused to let go of these photographs. He told me everything that happened between him and his beloved (Y/N), of those little letters passed in the middle of the night, of the times they played music together, of those times when they read poetry together, of that one time she confessed, of that very first night he shared with her. He told me all of those with tears, and he told me that he regretted every foolish decision he has made in his miserable life, of leaving her, of hurting her, of marrying another just to forget her.

"He had his marriage to the American woman annulled just to take his beloved under his wing. He took her to England. Despite his own disability, he took care of her, fed her, bathed her. He did everything he can to make up for his own mistakes. But, due to her own disability due to a lot of complications and trauma, she was never able to reciprocate. She died in his arms a month later in the year of 1899. He became even more depressed and crippled with pain and regret and guilt. He slowly lost the ability to walk, and he lost his fame as a writer due to the Lancaster scandal that was forever linked to him. He died without even seeing his daughter in person."

V and Roman watched with difficulty as the old woman wept for her grandfather, and V actually felt sorry for the poet. He may have hated him for what he's done, but he realized that all his life, Victor did everything he can to make up for his mistakes.

But, he knew that the poet was too late.

~ XIV. The Lovers' Grandchild

9. Kenny Rankin's Haven't We Met

"Come here, V!" Roman said with a huge smile ( still unaware of what's happening to the wedding cake ) as he took the poet's arm and dragged him towards the center. V arrived just in time to see Avery dragging the lucky girl who caught the bouquet towards the center to where he was. Avery looked up at V, smiled at him, and moved to the side, revealing to him the girl who was now holding her bouquet.

And as he looked at the girl, he couldn't help but get mesmerized and emotional at the same time. The girl, who laid her (E/C) - colored eyes on his green ones, felt the same as some kind of unknown emotion started to form in her chest.

She brushed a wayward (H/C) lock away from her face and placed it behind her ear. She, then, gave him that smile that V was longing to see once more.

And with an achingly familiar voice that he thought he would never hear ever again, she spoke to him.

"Haven't we met?" She asked him.

"My,... Evening Star,..." V whispered as he smiled at her,...

~ Epilogue

***

🌙🎻

***

[ihaveneverbeengivenflowers]

(Not so) Random considerations on birth control methods and menstrual cycle

Although absolutely nobody fucking asked, I wanted to talk about my personal experience with birth control pills and menstrual cycle. First of all, let's catch up on how did I get here.

I started taking oral contraceptives (OC) since my mother took me to a gynecologist for the first time. The doctor made me a prescrition because I told her I suffered with cramps during my period. I was about 13 years old.

I kept taking OC every single day for the following 11 years, until I reached 24. Several doctors I passed by along these years changed the dosage and combinations of hormones I took, because each of them gave me a different bunch of adverse effects. Headache, nausea, menstrual cramps, recurrent urinary tract infections, candidiasis, vaginal bleedings... the list goes on.

During my teenage years I found out some women from my mother's family have circulatory problems, from varicose veins to venous thrombosis. There are also cases of cancer possibly induced by sexual hormones. That is: conditions that make OC, especially the combined ones, contraindicated for me. I got worried and decided to come back to the doctor and talk about another options available. The only one that was presented to me was the so called minipills, which are OC made with a single hormone instead of a combination of two. I took it for the following 5 years straight, and it seemed a good idea at the time because I've spent all my life struggling with underweight and anemia. Since the OC completelly suspended my period, I was supposed to be fine.

However, last January I had a major vaginal bleeding, even though I didn't stop taking my OC. I had terrible abdominal pains, and the bleeding continued for almost 10 days straight. Like I said, being underweight didn't improve the situation and my immune system shut down very quickly. Besides, I was having a hard time to keep up with my bills and wasn't covered by any health insurance at that time (I live in Brazil, and for those who are not familiar, things are a little bit different here. Theoretically we do have a public health system, but in real life we can't barely count on it and the access to the private system is kinda surreal for those living with minimum wage).

Well, as soon as I could, I saved enough money to go see a private doctor. I paid for the appointment and a several exams to find out that my bleeding was possibly caused by multiple ovarian cysts. Both of my ovaries were 3 times bigger than the normal size, and the doctor hypothesized that a big one of them (or a few) must have simply ruptured, and that the whole shit was probably induced by the fucking OC.

In summary, the doctor said I had polycistic ovary syndrome (PCOS). Plus, I should stop taking my actual OC and go back to the combined ones. Yeah, those same I was not supposed to take both because of my family history and the previously described adverse effects. He emphasized that was the only treatment available, and that my condition actually had no cure, so I should just take it for the next 30-40 years until I’d reach menopause, while praying for not having cancer or thrombosis or embolia and... well, to die of something else not related with OC.

So, well... I quit. I smiled and waved to the doctor and left the office. I was about to turn 25 and I decided I wasn’t going to take it that way. Now that you’re up to date in the story, let’s move on to where I was really trying to get with this post.

Please note: I ain't no gynecologist nor physician, but nowadays I’m a post-graduate health professional with a couple years of clinical practice. And I think I’m allowed to apply the little knowledge I acquired during 7 years (so far, still counting) of higher education to see through this situation with a tad of criticism. Not only regarding my own case, but regarding the doctors’ position when it comes to women’s reprodutive health - at least in my country. Therefore, let’s consider some key points:

Is there a real need to prescribe OC to young girls aged 13 years or less just because they come to the office complaining about menstrual cramps? During the period the lining of the unfertilized womb is being shed through the vagina. It involves muscular contractions, so of course it might get painful. There’s nothing abnormal about it, so why purging it like a plague instead of teaching them that’s a physiological process and how to relieve the pain in case it happens? Nutritional counseling, physical exercises, simply using a hot-water bottle or even taking an occasional painkiller can totally solve the problem.

The primary aim when taking OC is expected to be, should be, birth control. Yet, they’re frequently prescribed to girls that don’t even have an active sex life because of light acne, oily skin, menstrual cramps and/or intense menstrual flow without any further clinical complications... or just because. You might take it as some conspiracy theory, but you know what it looks like to me? Creating a very profitable market for pharmaceuticals. And nothing more. If women get sick and end up developing cancer or whatever, even better, so more drugs (way more expensive ones) will be sold.

In fact, there are another treatments available for PCOS. But it seems doctors are too lazy, or too comfortable in their position of filling a single standard prescription, that they completely ignore any alternatives. Can you wonder why? Maybe because it requires a minimum of health and sex education, and that takes time. How are they going to be able to attend people in less than 5 minutes if they’ll have to talk to their patients, right? Simply doesn’t worth it. Anyways, again, alternatives include acupunture, homeopathy, phitoteraphy, dietotherapy throught nutritional counseling and regular physical activity. Each case is different, but keep in mind: OC aren’t the only way, indeed, literally speaking they’re not even a treatment because they don’t treat it.

Opening a parenthesis: of course there probably are exceptions and good doctors no matter where. But doctors at public health system are in general unsatisfied with their working conditions and environment, while doctors at the private system usually are anything but well paid by insurance companies. In overall terms, the more academically qualified the doctors get, the less prepared for attending real life demandings in developing countries they are. Also, the less willing to work in such places they are. (If you’d wish to read more about it, I highly recommend seeing Chapter 5 - An example of a paradigm and its social conditions: scientific medicine of La construction de sciences, by Gérard Fourez.)

Still on PCOS topic: first of all, having multiple cyst on one or both ovaries doesn’t necessarily mean PCOS. PCOS, as a syndrome, means there are multiple criteria that need to be fulfilled for closing the diagnostic. In this case, criteria involve imaging exams, symptomatology, clinical and biochemical evaluation. In my case, for instance, PCOS is a diagnosis that simply doesn’t suit my medical history, but no doctor has ever bothered making an anamnesis. I’m not trying to say anybody should go to Dr. Google’s opinion (seriously, don’t), but look out for more information than it’s given to you at the office, even because often none is given.

I know suspending the menstrual cycle can make life much more easier. No worries about pads, unexpected leaks, cramps, PMS etc. But take it from a different perspective for a second. There seems to be a lot of content over the internet nowadays about body positivity, empowerment and tons of so called movements of deconstruction of established paradigms in our society about feminility and feminism. I’ve seen a lot of girls online sharing their experiences on stopping taking OC etc. I don’t know how far it’s good or not, but there’s a point that can be taken from all of it: the menstrual cycle is a natural part of every woman’s reprodutory phase in life. It’s not disgusting, embarrasing or whatever nonsense we’ve been told. And it can be a good way for us to conect with ourselves, to listen to our bodies. Observing symptoms such as pain, fatigue, cravings, emotions, sex drive; checking on cervical mucus, body temperature, hours of sleep... all of this can be part of a daily self-care routine and, moreover, be useful to birth control.

Talking about birth control: I’m genuinely surprised on how much the doctors whom I interacted during my life underrate condoms as a method against unwanted pregnancy. They say out loud that it’s not safe and, unless the conspiracy theory about selling drugs is real, I simply don’t get the reason why they do that. In first place, this is bullshit because condoms are a very effective fisical barrier that prevent even a single spermatozoid from swimming along the vaginal canal and straight up to the womb. Second, there’s no 100% safe method except for sexual abstinence; not even OC + condoms (theoretically not even tubal ligation) are 100% safe, since the human body isn’t a static machine and everything is prone to error. So, yes, opting for non-pharmacological methods of birth control instead of synthetic hormones can be valid.

Obs: condoms work as long as they’re properly stored, used and discarded. But the same can be said about OC and any other contraceptive methods. And, important: choosing a contraceptive method involves not only statistical data on the margin of error of condoms and pills, but also individual phychossocial aspects. In other words: a determined method might not be the doctors’ first option and they might not personally like it, but they can suck it up and use their fucking knowledges to find the best alternative for you.

Again, I’m not trying to encourage you anybody else to contradict their doctors. However, I think that questioning is part of a healthy and constructive process. First because doctors are human beings, therefore they’re as prone to error as anybody else (or even more due to long working hours). Second, because they’re supposed to be the primary source of information for any questions you might have about your own health. Third, because I believe with all my heart that the relationship between health professionals and their patients must include, if not be based in, trust.

[cannabisrefugee-esq]

(via The Fraud of Western Psychiatry: A Mental Health Mashup Just in Time for the Holidays. You're Welcome.)

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Alternative Treatment

Antinatalism

Capitalistic Patriarchal Medicine

December 12, 2019

The nuclear family is the site of oppression, coercion and abuse for so many people, especially female people, worldwide, and yet “the family” is rarely discussed in political (or radical) terms.  Last year around this time, I wrote about various familial abuses traditionally suffered by girls and women and suggested that oppression, coercion and abuse is the reason “the holidays” are such a stressful time for people, especially women.  In my observation, the refusal of most people to address the horrors of what really happens in families just leads to confusion and avoidance — and massive cognitive dissonance — where people express dread, anxiety and other negative emotions around family-focused holidays, but only manage in reducing this common experience to a joke/meme and avoiding unpleasant sensations by drinking (or eating, or shopping, or fucking, or cleaning, or decorating, or otherwise medicating) heavily until it’s over.  

That message was generally not taken well, where I gently (and tangentially, it was literally a parenthetical) suggested that a guaranteed way to stop familial oppression, coercion and abuse (of mostly females) was to stop creating so-called nuclear families at all.  Antinatalism, basically.  I know, right?  Antinatalism wasn’t even the dominant theme of that post but I’m such a misogynistic, baby-hating bitch for letting my mind lady-brain wander there, even parenthetically, how dare I (use the internet to talk about the female experience and female oppression).   How very damn dare I.

Sticking with the holiday theme of oppression, coercion and abuse — because it’s fucking relevant — those things are known to cause so-called psychiatric symptoms in people, particularly women as they are its primary targets under a more or less global patriarchy.  In large numbers, girls and women (female human beings) experience anxiety, depression, disassociation and other uncomfortable and debilitating states as a result of being oppressed, coerced and abused, and a lot of women are prescribed and take psychiatric drugs so that these uncomfortable states go away, or have less of an impact on our lives.   And by “lives” I of course mean our ability to show up and be ab/used by our capitalistic, patriarchal overlords including (almost always male) partners, employers and other authority figures.  Mother’s Little Helper and all that.

If these medications actually worked — that is, if they did what they say on the tin and relieved us of our agony — they still wouldn’t be beyond reproach.  There are compelling political and indeed medical arguments against treating people with dangerous Big Pharma medications to ease uncomfortable states of being.  For example, the debilitating and often permanent physical and mental “side effects” of prescription medications, otherwise known as iatrogenic illness and injury that are often just as bad or even worse than the original disease.  As usual, Big Medicine offers suffering people the chance to trade one illness for another, and another, and another, and to pay through the nose for the privilege.

Many times it’s not even a proper trade because the drugs are unable to cure the original disease and the new, treatment-induced injuries and illnesses are just added on.  (This is the case with Crohn’s disease for example which is known to be an incurable disease.)  Either way, the misery is compounded.  Well, it appears to be an open secret within the psychiatric community that psychiatric medications don’t do what they say on the tin.  Women are taking anti-anxiety, anti-depressant, anti-psychotic and other psychotropic medications to treat the effects of political and interpersonal oppression — and are being asked to concurrently swallow the cultural fiction that their discomfort is not political and originates in their own biochemistry — and the medications don’t even work, because they can’t work, because there is nothing chemical to treat, get it?

As discussed below, it appears as if the theory that a chemical imbalance in the brain causes psychiatric symptoms has been thoroughly debunked, yet application of this flawed theory continues: people continue to be medicated for “mental” conditions that are not biochemical and therefore are not amenable to chemical therapies.  These medications also cause frightening and severe negative outcomes long-term and psychiatrists know all of that but they keep prescribing them anyway.

Here are some clips that illustrate what seems to be the situation in which we find ourselves.  Namely, that oppression, coercion and abuse are unavoidable in this system; families are the original and main exposure to those things for most women globally and familial exposure in particular cannot be avoided; oppression, coercion and abuse cause the symptoms we know as mental illness; and every medication in Big Medicine’s arsenal is known to not work to treat it and to even make patients’ physical and mental conditions worse over time.  More videos and discussion below the fold.

Bruce Levine, above, is a Ph.D. and clinical psychologist who writes about oppression and coercion causing so-called psychiatric symptoms and relatedly, the medicalization and pathologization of antiauthoritarianism.  I cited his work in a previous article on this blog entitled Antiauthoritarianism: Illustration via Juxtaposition.

While generally debunking his professional field as a self-described apostate, his specific mission appears to be to “out” as having been disproven the theory of a brain “chemical imbalance” causing so-called psychiatric symptoms like anxiety, depression and even psychosis, which theory implies that people suffering from these symptoms will positively respond to psychiatric/psychotropic drugs.  The chemical imbalance theory has apparently been debunked and rejected for years by the highest psychiatric authorities but the general public hasn’t gotten been given the memo.  I invite my readers to think about that shit a minute.

There is no such thing as a chemical imbalance in the brain, or at least none that cause things like anxiety and depression, and thus, there is no legitimate medical reason to treat these symptoms with mind-altering drugs.  There may be other reasons for doing so, but they are not legitimate medical reasons.  This has apparently been an open secret in the field for years, information that is well known in the upper echelons of the mental health hierarchy (for example, since at least 2013 the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) and its director have distanced themselves from the “Bible” of psychiatric diagnoses, the DSM, and the NIMH now preferentially funds research unfettered by DSM ideological constraints) but millions of people continue to be prescribed and take these side-effect riddled Big Pharma poisons anyway.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Big Pharma psychotropic drugs actually make people more psychologically unstable and more physically and mentally unwell than they were before over time.  This has been shown where antiauthoritarian psychotics who “go off their meds” have better long-term outcomes than the goody two-shoes (authoritarian) psychotics who stay on their meds (and those who are subjected to so-called “forced care” and are literally physically forced and/or psychologically coerced into taking the drugs whether or not they are a bona fide actor on their own care team).

Below are clips from psychiatrist and patient advocate Peter Breggin explaining the profoundly troubling origin and history of Western psychiatry, as well as what psychotropic drugs actually do to your brain, why the effects are read as “improvement” by caretakers and others, and the long-term effects of psychiatric drug treatment including permanent iatrogenic illness and injury, particularly grossly shortened life expectancy, and increased — not decreased — mental and physical disability including increased psychosis.  Happy Holidays y’all!

Comments Open.

[dizexplainstheuniverse]

Internet dating in the apocalypse.

Ok, I know – I know. We’re experiencing a pandemic, NOT the apocalypse… However, a lot of what I’m currently feeling right now is very reminiscent of the depths of deep personal crisis and struggles with my mental health (particularly of those teenage years) which for me, is about as apocalyptic as it gets.

If like me, you make a habit of falling in love with strangers, internet dating can be tricky at the best of times. My insecure attachment and subsequent relational patterns play out in such a way that I can sometimes go F.U.C.K.I.N.G crazy when dating a new person whose desire I am desperate for. They’re charming, sweet and hot as hell – of course you want their attention. Though if needing their attention so badly causes you absolute despair when they take more than 20 minutes to message you back – you know you’re in trouble.

We all know that instant messaging is a messy and incoherent way to communicate, yet for some of us, we find safety and validation in the incessant stream of the scroll. Re-reading messages, finding the hidden meaning, projecting our hopes, fears and desires onto every full stop. Rationally, we know this is dumb. But, we’re addicted to the screen. I mean, that in itself is a whole other essay, so for the sake of my current sanity I’m just going to stick with the whirl-winding, universe colliding, falling into infinity thing.

So, it’s clear messaging is a shitty way to communicate, and if navigating a new relationship is the most complex thing in the entire ether – why the fuck do we insist on doing it?

Some of you might be familiar with the term NRE – New Relationship Energy. The potent cocktail of delicious chemicals that flood our brains and bodies when we’re tuned in, turned on and fancy the fucking pants off someone new. NRE refers to a state of mind experienced at the beginning of sexual and romantic relationships, typically involving heightened emotional and sexual feelings and excitement. We just can’t get enough, and that’s totally understandable – there’s literally a whole bunch of biochemical processes happening in our brains. The culprit? Serotonin. Moreover, a lack of. And since attraction and falling in love is usually marked by your brain reducing its serotonin uptake, if you’re someone who’s struggled with depression, drugs or alcohol, sex addiction, or you’re an adrenaline junkie… this may feel all too familiar. Serotonin is responsible for many body functions, including making you feel “full” or “satisfied” after eating and having sex, which is why low serotonin can be linked to many unpleasant phenomena. Falling in love can feel like you are “addicted” to the other person. You get the dopamine high when you’re around them, but without the dose of serotonin to make you feel satisfied. Dedeker Winston describes this with perfection:

“Your lips are locked with someone you’ve been wanting to kiss for a while now. You’re overwhelmed with sensation: their smell, their taste, the warmth of their body pressed against yours. Later on, after you say your goodbyes and start heading home, your heart may still be racing and your hands may still be shaky, but you feel as if you could fly. When you get home and get into bed, it’s hours before you can fall asleep. You feel too awake and energized. Over the next days and weeks, it’s extremely difficult to keep yourself from texting your new crush every ten minutes even though it feels excruciating waiting for them to text you back. When you see their name pop up in your phone notifications, you feel a flutter in your chest.”

All this is well and good if you’re able to continue to function like a rational human being whilst all this is going on inside of you. I, however, cannot.

As someone who continues to battle with anxiety, depression and PTSD, falling in love can sometimes feel incredibly traumatic. Even more so if the current object of my desire appears to be highly desirable to others, inconsistent in their behaviour, dismissive of my emotions or defensive in communication, I feel myself slipping into complete surrender to being and doing ANYTHING just to get their attention. I completely lose myself, my sense of worth and identity. All I can think about is how I get my next hit. This pattern of behaviour is incredibly detrimental to my self-esteem and mental health. Naturally, you can see why internet dating during a global crisis might not be the best idea…

I do a hell of a lot of work grieving the parenting and the love I needed but never received as a child and whilst that’s a useful strategy most of time, currently this doesn’t feel so easy. With absolute world chaos looming, Covid-19 is really fucking with my ability to stay above water. In desperate times, I find myself turning to social media and dating apps to find comfort, reassurance, validation, safety and that big old whack of dopamine that I crave so badly. But of course, this is not the case. I feel like a teenager again. Growing up in the late 90s/early 2000s I was part of the generation glued to the family desktop computer. Dialling up the internet after school, sitting online MSN Messenger waiting for my crush to ‘pop up’. Oh, those were the heady days... Today, as I sit staring at my phone, laptop propped up on my knees, those demons grin and bear their teeth at me once again.

I’ve had a variety of thoughts over the past few days, some of complete despair, some of excitement and anticipation, but mostly many of curiosity and intrigue. Whilst it feels tempting to want to dive headfirst into an online love affair with a complete stranger (for a moment, I really thought I had) I’ve got to remind myself of who I really am now.

This is not just about internet dating, it’s anything that gives you that high, the escape. You might feel tempted to drink the nights away, get the bags in and snort the nights away. For some of us, we might feel tempted by a variety of harmful behaviours. Fears of a much darker time might be surfacing for you, or maybe fears you’ve never felt before are starting to cloud your mind. Whatever your vice - yes, all this is scary. Yes, that escape is looking ever more tempting. No matter how you try to justify it – even in love – because of course, that person is charming, and sweet, and hot as hell - but remember, you’re feeling triggered, we all are. It’s not to say what you’re craving is wrong, or your feelings for this person aren’t real – it might actually turn out to be a really wonderful thing (and this time I’m referring only to the internet love of your life, not the harmful thing you want to do that is going to really hurt you or someone you love) but, right now, we’re in a fucking global crisis. We have no idea how long for, and the world around is changing more rapidly than in most (if not all) of our lifetimes. You’re bound to be feeling a little out of control right now.

So, just hold on a second. Cut yourself some slack - I’m here to remind you that you’re not that 14 year old anymore. You’re a real life adult, with passions and dreams, with beautiful friendships and resources, with tools and coping strategies that have paid off in times of desperate need and will absolutely work again for you now.

Remember who you are, remember your heart, remember your curiosity and compassion, remember how you dance and sing and read and journal and play and laugh and create your way through life.

Remember all the wisdom and strength you know is still sitting there at the core of you.

Remember to breathe.

You got this.

x

Instagram: @dizexplainstheuniverse | Facebook: /dizexplainstheuniverse

[5hfanfiction]

Love Will Remember

Chapter Twenty Six: You Lying Bitch

It had been a little over one month since Camila had been staying with Maggie and working at the girl’s restaurant which was called ‘A Midsummer’s House’.

Maggie’s grandmother; who unfortunately had passed away two years ago, had left the restaurant for her granddaughter.

The deceased woman had a love for poetry, drama and everything Shakespeare so she named her restaurant after one of her favourite plays from him.

The cliental had taken such a huge liking to Camila. She was extremely friendly and very hard working, which made Maggie’s decision on hiring her newfound friend a brilliant one.

The restaurant owner and the nurse were still searching for any information on Camila but they always came back empty handed. They were slowly beginning to give up hope. It wasn’t that they didn’t enjoy having Camila as a friend; it was just that the young Latina needed to get back to her own life.

“Hiya, Camzii. It’s closing time. Ready to go?” Maggie asked. She was leaning on the door frame, twirling her car keys in her index finger.

Camila was busy wiping a table top when she turned to face her boss slash new best friend. “I just have a couple more tables to clean. Can you hang around a bit?”

The taller girl nodded. She switched on the mini television she had situated on a shelf for her customers to watch. “How was work today?” Maggie asked as she flipped through channels aimlessly.

Camila giggled. “It’s not like you haven’t been here all day.” She moved onto another table.

“I have but I don’t know your take on how your day was. I heard your boss is a major asshole,” the woman said playfully.

The waitress threw her washcloth at her friend and shook her head laughing. “She’s an asshole but she’s a good boss and friend.” Camila started to clear a table which had a few glasses and plates on it.

Maggie had eventually settled on watching E! News Live. Apparently some big time entrepreneur had been caught in some scandal; she attacked the paparazzi for continuously shoving his camera in her face.

“Get your fucking camera out of my face,” the Latina froze when she heard that familiar husky voice that tormented her dreams for the past few weeks. She spun around quickly; her breath was caught in her throat.

It was her.

Lauren.

She still looked effortlessly beautiful whilst fighting off the paparazzi. Her hair and shirt had been messed up in the scuffle. She had developed a lot over the past three years. Her lips got fuller, her eyes had changed colour; they were no longer the vibrant, bright green she once loved, they had turned grey, if that was possible, her cheekbones were more prominent, she seemed to have lost a lot of weight, under her eyes had dark bags; as though she hadn’t slept in weeks.

But nonetheless, she was still beautiful. Then there was her.

“Lauren, stop it!” She yelled as she tried to pull the older woman off the man. Lauren released her grip on him. She was still seething but fortunately for the cameraman, the entrepreneur left him alone.

Camila Mendes.

Even though Lauren didn’t let much people into her head, Camila Mendes was one of the few persons, nowadays that could have calmed the Cuban down.

This new Lauren wasn’t whom Camila remembered her to be. She was aggressive, she seemed cold and distant. She didn’t seem to be her Lauren anymore.

Because her Lauren would never act like that. Especially knowing that Camila wasn’t comfortable being around violence. Her Lauren would never do this.

“Camzii?” the voice was distant.

“Camila? Can you hear me?” the person repeated but the girl didn’t respond. “CAMILA!” she yelled out as the plates and glasses slipped out of the Latina’s hands.

The panic started out as thin cellophane, something Camila’s fingers could have pierced breathing holes into.

In another minute the panic was a torrent of ice water that was surrounding each of her limbs, creeping higher until it passed her mouth and nose.

That’s when the attack became absolute, shutting her body down as fast as punching a biochemical reset button.

Camila dropped to her knees. Her eyes became wild and when she made herself sit, she started rocking, and rocking. It got faster and faster until she stopped and exploded into motion again.

Suddenly she started talking. Talking like she didn’t have enough time to say what she needed to. Her words were crowded together and some were missing. But the only coherent thing that the other woman was able to recognize was, “Lauren…Lauren…I need you…I’m sorry.”

Maggie pulled her into her arms, trying to slow the rocking motion. Camila gripped onto her jacket, her knuckles were turning white, as she kept repeating incoherent sentences. After a few minutes that felt like forever, Camila stopped.

Her cheeks were tear-stained and her limbs felt as though they were ignited with fire. “Are you okay?” The restaurant owner asked after sometime with the brunette still in her arms.

There was a long pause until she shook her head. “I’m..I’m sorry,” she whispered out. Her throat still felt tight. And she still felt the grip on it, but it was slowly fading.

“What happened?” Maggie asked with a concern laced tone. “Do you know the woman on tv?” She asked looking between the television and Camila. But by now, Lauren was no longer on it. The brunette in her arms remained silent. So Maggie didn’t push it. Her friend had just suffered a panic attack and she didn’t want anything like this to happen again.

The brunette’s heart was pounding against her chest. Never had she ever dealt with something like this and she wanted this to be the first and last.

***

It was only until a couple days; Lauren had appeared on the television again.

She was clad in a black pants suit. Her hair was held in a high ponytail. Again, there were dark markings under her eyes and Camila wondered if she was getting enough sleep. But she stopped herself because Lauren wasn’t Camila’s to worry about. She had Camila Mendes now. At least that’s what she thought. There she was standing on Lauren’s side, with a safe distance off, but something inside the young Cuban felt infuriated by having the woman near Lauren, her Lauren.

“Look at her, she just had to swoop in and get with Lauren. She couldn’t even wait until I was out of the picture,” Camila grumbled to herself and aggressively wiped a tabletop of all the residue crumbs on it. It was closing time again, and everyone had left by now so she was the one who had to do the closing up.

She peered back up at the television and saw Mendes with her hand on Lauren’s shoulder. That was it. How dare she touch the woman who had her heart?

“Look at that puta!” she exclaimed a bit too loudly. “Doesn’t she know anything about personal space?!” she shoved the chair under the table a bit too harsh and she winced.

What Camila didn’t know was that Maggie was at the door and she heard everything the woman just said.

“You lying bitch..” the restaurateur said as she approached her friend; who froze when she heard the familiar voice of the person who had took her in after spending three years looking after her. “What did you just say?” Maggie asked. Anger evident in her voice. She stopped when she was directly in front of the Cuban, who shrunk under her gaze.

“Maggie..I..I..can explain,” she tried to reason with the taller brunette but she shook her head and walked off to stop and face her again.

“You know her, don’t you, Camila?” she asked but the Cuban didn’t answer. “Answer me!” she demanded.

“Yes..I do,” she said weakly.

“And you lied to me! You lied to me about not remembering anything, did you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “How could you? I told you, Camila, I told you that you could’ve come to me with anything!” She yelled out causing the girl to flinch. “I spent three years in the hospital, three years of my life taking care of you, over two million dollars and this is how you repay me?” She asked frustrated.

The brunette looked at her with teary eyes, “Maggie please, let me explain,” she pleaded. Maggie didn’t say anything and she took that as the cue to speak. “Lauren..I..I just needed to get away from her because I fucked up. That’s when you saw me on the bus, and then I walked in front of that car because I felt hopeless. Lauren didn’t remember me, hell she probably still doesn’t. And I just couldn’t take it, Maggie. Then I woke up.”

She paused to look at the woman who stood in front of her with her arms crossed, “I didn’t ask you to take care of me but you still did and I appreciate that. I really do. And I shouldn’t have lied but I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to go back to a life where Lauren didn’t know who I was. Please, Maggie you have to understand,” she tried to reach out for the woman, but she moved away.

“Don’t…don’t touch me, Camila. I can’t be in the same room with you right now,” Maggie said and started to walk away. Camila stood there not knowing what to do, another person she let in willingly; not completely was turning their back on her again.

She believed she deserved it because why did she have to lie about something so simple?

A sob escaped the woman’s lips and it caused Maggie to stop in her tracks. She turned around to be met with the woman sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest. Ignoring everything that had just happened, Maggie rushed to the girl’s side.

“Camzii?” She sniffled in response. “I’m sorry. It’s okay. I overreacted. I’m sorry,” Maggie threw her arms over Camila’s shoulder and pulled her into her chest.

“I had a feeling after that day you got a panic attack; you might have remembered who she was. I heard you call her Lauren. I remembered when we first spoke three years ago, you mentioned a Lauren.” Camila tried pulling away from the woman, but Maggie pulled her back in.

She began to rub small circles into Camila’s back. “Its okay. Shh. I’m sorry. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” was all Camila managed to say after her sobbing calmed down.

The restauranteur didn’t respond. She continued to hold her friend in her arms until she stopped crying and pulled away.

Camila wiped at her eyes. “I don’t deserve you.

Maggie smiled. "You do.” They continued to sit on the floor in silence. “So…”

“So?”

“So what’s your name? Is it really Camila? And how old are you?”

“It’s Camila Cabello and I’m 23. I woke up on my birthday. Exactly three years after my 20th birthday.” Camila grabbed Maggie’s hand and started to mindlessly play with the woman’s fingers.

“Lauren was my girlfriend up until the accident. She didn’t remember me. Everyone else but me, and it had hurt so much. But I tried to be her friend, I really did until the night of my 20th birthday, we kissed and it was as amazing as I remembered. The look on her face, when I slipped up and told her I loved her…I can’t forget it,” Camila sighed sadly at the memory.

“I ran away like a scared 3 year old that night,” she began to fight back tears. That night was something she wished she could’ve took back. “I begged her to tell me she loved me but she didn’t and it hurt even more.”

She eventually lost the battle to her tears and they began flowing freely. Reliving this again was hard for her. “From the reasonable man, they probably wouldn’t have reacted and did what I did, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

Maggie brushed her thumb under Camila’s eyes to dry her tears. “What if she remembered you?” she asked softly. “What if she remembered you and tried looking for you all this time but came up empty handed?”

“It’s of no use now, she has someone else,” she sighed.

Camila hadn’t once thought about Lauren finding someone new after her disappearance, and the thought of it made her sick to her stomach.

“Don’t make assumptions, Camila. That woman could just be a friend,” Maggie tried to reason with her, but the Cuban let her insecurities get the better of her. This was always the second chance she thought about; that if Lauren had another chance, she would’ve never chosen Camila to begin with. “We have to tell Ariana, by the way.”

“Can you..can you tell her?” She turned to face Maggie who shrugged. “Thank you. I’m afraid of her reaction. What if she hates me?”

“No one can hate you. Even if you lied about not remembering anything from your past,” the woman teased playfully. She pulled her hand away from Camila’s and stood up, holding her hand out for Camila to take. “Come on, let’s head home.”

***

“How on earth are we going to find these people, Mags?” Ariana said as she finished taking a sip of her coffee.

They were currently sitting in Starbucks. After explaining what had happened, Ariana was a bit hurt from the revelation that Camila had been lying to them but she forgive her easily. She was already into too deep with the Cuban and took a strong liking towards her.

“The only lead we have is the woman’s name and that woman is Lauren. As in the Lauren Jauregui. We can’t just waltz in to the woman’s company and demand to speak with her!”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “And why not? You think she wouldn’t want to see Camila?”

The nurse sighed and shook her head. “Even if she wants to see Camila, I don’t think Camila is ready to see Lauren yet. You heard what she said.”

“I don’t care what Camila said! I know they loved each other at one point and I’m going to stick with that. They’re going to be together,” Maggie said with finality.

Ariana exhaled heavily through her nose and ran a hand through her hair, ruffling it up a bit. “Fine. When do we leave?”

“We leave on Wednesday. Get a week off from work and then meet me at my place,” Ariana nodded. “We got this!” Maggie was beaming with overexcitement.

*** There you have it! Camila didn’t lose her memory. Have y'all regained faith in me yet? 😉 Don’t forget to check me out on Wattpad @ Commander_Camren

[soleil825]

tagged by @omuii tysm my dude!

Rules: Answer these 92 statements and tag 20 people

LAST:

1. Drink: that h2o 2. Phone call: myself bc i lost my phone 3. Text message: to a groupchat- “wowie kazowie” 4. Song you listened to: there you are by pogo 5. Time you cried: last month sometime i think?¿

HAVE YOU: 6. Dated someone twice: noo 7. Kissed someone and regretted it: ya 8. Been cheated on: god i hope not but probably 9. Lost someone special: yeah 10. Been depressed: haha 11. Gotten drunk and thrown up: no but i’ve helped my friends out when they did

LIST 3 FAVORITE COLORS: 12-14: pink, light yellow, white

IN THE LAST YEAR HAVE YOU: 15. Made new friends: yeah actually!! 16. Fallen out of love: unfortunately 17. Laughed until you cried: ohyhup 18. Found out someone was talking about you: no not this year yet 19. Met someone who changed you: not this year but i got closer to them this year 20. Found out who your friends are: ya definitely 21. Kissed someone on your Facebook list: no

GENERAL: 22. How many of your Facebook friends do you know in real life: all of em 23. Do you have any pets: none that i see regularly 24. Do you want to change your name: my mom has always wanted me to, i really do not know 25. What did you do for your last Birthday: went to the inner harbour w my friends and had a wonderful time eating sushi and bitching about people by the water 26. What time did you wake up: around 7:45 this morning 27. What were you doing at midnight last night: going 2 bed 28. Name something you can’t wait for: near future- seeing my friends in colorado!! long term- happiness 29. When was the last time you saw your mom: like 40 minutes ago she gave me a burrito and vanished into the basement 30. What is one thing you wish you could change in your life: my inteligence/grades? 31. What are you listening right now: well slide by calvin harris is stuck in my head and my ceiling fan is making quite a racket but i am not currently listening to anything 32. Have you ever talked to a person named Tom: ya my cousin’s grandpa is named tom he calls me hellraiser not sure why 33. Something that is getting on your nerves: my own bullshit and also my own anxiety and stress over nothing 34. Most visited website: google chrome says pokemon showdown, tumblr, my etsy store, r/skincareaddiction, my soundcloud, r/friendsbalt, & ebay

LOST QUESTIONS. I JUST PUT IN RANDOM INFO ABOUT ME 35. Mole/s: one on my shoulder, one on my butt and i have random freckly beauty marks all over me 36. Mark/s: the most prominent ones include the scar on my chin, the dot on my chin and the parallelogram of freckles on my right shoulder 37. Childhood dream: a professional ballerina! (lmao i wish)  38. Hair color: basically blakc 39. Long or short hair: used to be hella long but i cut it last september so it’s shoulder-length now 40. Do you have a crush on someone: not exactly a specific person, i just really want a s/o 41. What do you like about yourself: i have really nice eyelashes, and i think i’m pretty okay at dance 42. Piercings: i had 4, 2 in each earlobe, but the second one in my left ear got infected and i had to let it close up- planning on re-piercing once the scar tissue chills out a little tho 43. Blood type: B+ 44. Nickname: most commonly used- lena, len 45. Relationship status: single and really pressed about it 46. Zodiac: that two faced bitch (gemini) 47. Pronouns: she/her 48. Favorite TV Show: gravity falls, M*A*S*H, chopped, ghost adventures, the haunted, assorted animes that i will not get into right this moment

49. Tattoos: none but i would get some if i wasn’t such a FUCKING PUSSY lmao 50. Right or left hand: i’m a lefty! w writing/eating/basic tasks at least. my throwing hand is right though 51. Surgery: i had a dental surgery once 52. Hair dyed in different color: it has been dip-dyed pink, and also pink/purple/blue/green it was very galaxy-ish 53. Sport: dance!!!!! and i played volleyball for like 5 years 55. Vacation: i’ve been all over but i really wanna go to canada/alaska or santorini, greece 56. Pair of trainers: i have a pair of those adidas superstars that everyone wears now but they’re cute and hella comfy so those are my mains but i recently got some white ones from h&m that are nice too

MORE GENERAL: 57. Eating: i just ate a burrito but ya 58. Drinking: nada 59. I’m about to: stay up later than intended but sleep, hopefully 61. Waiting for: my ebay order to come, my ipsy glam bag, my back to stop hurting, the colorado trip, my boss to call me back 62. Want: $$$$$$$$$$$$$$ and also to get into cornell (but it’s not gonna happen) 63. Get married: idk it seems scary as hell and i’m a baby so nah not on the horizon or in my mind at all 64. Career: anything in science- preferrably biochem or earth sciences?? idk i love sCIEncE 

WHICH IS BETTER 65. Hugs or kisses: kiss kiss fall in love 66. Lips or eyes: eyes 67. Shorter or taller: uh taller but that’s difficult because i am kinda tall 68. Older or younger: older usually but it’s not really a factor it just sort of happens 70. Nice arms or nice stomach: im sure both are good either way 71. Sensitive or loud: idk probably loud since i’m also loud 72. Hook up or relationship: oh man relationship definitely hook-ups just make me sad and feel awful i learned that the hard way lmao kms 73. Troublemaker or hesitant: i’m a hesitant trouble-maker

HAVE YOU EVER: 74. Kissed a Stranger: not that i know of 75. Drank hard liquor: ohya 76. Lost glasses/contact lenses: i lose everything including contacts multiple times 77. Turned someone down: i mean not directly...? 78. Sex on the first date: nah 79. Broken someone’s heart: again, i hope not 80. Had your heart broken: i guess 81. Been arrested: noo 82. Cried when someone died: yhup 83. Fallen for a friend: its all i fucking do lol

DO YOU BELIEVE IN: 84. Yourself: i wish i did 85. Miracles: to an extent i guess??? 86. Love at first sight: not really 87. Santa Claus: i’m hindu 88. Kiss on the first date: idk i kiss everyone so it’s not like a super intimate thing for me u feel

OTHER: 90. Current best friend name: uhhh i love all my friends equally honestly i guess jc would be at the top since i’ve known her the longest and she puts up with me? but also maggie, mao, tricie, alex, kai, caroline, ben 91. Eye color: really dark brown 92. Favorite movie: i really don’t watch movies idk why but probably princess mononoke, the jungle book, or kung fu panda LMAO i’m uncultured as FUCK but oh yea throw in a bunch of bollywood movies too

NOW, TAG 20 PEOPLE: i’m lazy so i’m not going to but feel free to do this and say i tagged u!!