#and somehow everyone got mad at ME for not properly explaining why slurs are bad????

[germposting]

im going to rant

[comfortmarvelimagines]

when you can’t find the quiet part 6

im baaaaackkkkkk !!!! so so so sorry that this took so long. i can’t put into words the sheer amount of shit that’s happened to me in the past few months. hope this at least partially makes up for it (i know it can’t fully, and im sorry)]

tw for near meltdown, self injurious stimming and use of the r slur

Can you please do an autistic!reader where the decathlon team has an excursion to the tower and the avengers say hi to the reader and peter and co.? then flash gets jealous and does something mean,,, some angst resolved with fluff (preferably by mama nat), if not that’s okay

Most kids loved field trips. Even the boring ones. 

Regardless of where it was, a field trip was a break to the mundanity of school. There was increased opportunity for socialising, decreased work demands (no notes to be taken!), and most likely improved lunch options to what the cafeteria typically had to offer. Add on to that the fact that Stark Industries was arguably The Coolest Place on the Planet to the nerds of Midtown and you have a perfect storm of excitement. It seemed that the field trip was all everyone was talking about. Even Peter wouldn’t shut up about how cool it was, despite the fact that he practically lived at the tower. 

You came to the conclusion that you were the only kid in the decathlon team that absolutely did not want to go. 

Field trips were a change in routine. You didn’t know the exact schedule of when things were happening, or what exactly was going to happen. For all your google street-viewing, there was only so much you could find out about what the place would look like, what was inside, whereabouts your group would be visiting. You didn’t know what the buses there would be like, who you’d sit with, what teachers would be on your bus, how many kids would be in each tour group, what time you’d stop to eat lunch, whether the buses would leave on time when it was over. There were so many unpredictabilities, and no one ever seemed to be able to answer your questions. 

Logically, you figured that Stark Industries should be alright, as far as field trips go. You’ve been there before, you know Tony and Nat and Bucky; in theory, you should be okay. You’re okay when you go there after school, and on weekends with Peter. But going there at a different time, to a different part of the building and with more people (including Flash) made you just as anxious as you would be for any other excursion. Which is why you tried everything to get out of it. Started acting ‘sick’ days beforehand, isolating yourself, not talking to anyone, hoping that your absence would be considered a normality by the time the day of the trip rolled around. Only it didn’t work, and you opened the door to an overly bubbly trio of friends bright and early on Wednesday morning. 

“Hey Y/n, you excited for the trip?” Ned, unsurprisingly, was bouncing with excitement, topped off with a garishly conspicuous Stark Industries cap. Every inch the tourist. 

Every inch the opposite of how you were feeling. 

You stood in the doorway at a complete loss. You’d fully intended to stay cooped up in your room all day in your pyjamas, watching random shit on Youtube. The message to the group chat saying that you ‘weren’t feeling well’ was already half composed and ready to send. You’d played the part perfectly, casually mentioning symptoms of illness for days in preparation. But, somehow, you’d made friends with some of the most observant and persistent people you’d ever met. Which for the most part was great, but now it had you wishing the ground would open and swallow you whole. 

You didn’t resist much as MJ marched her way over the threshold and started pulling an outfit out of your wardrobe, ushering you into the bathroom to get changed. It wouldn’t have worked. All three of them seemed to know what you were planning on doing and were prepared. By the time you’d thrown on the clothes and haphazardly cleaned yourself up, Peter and Ned had sorted out your backpack with all of the things you used to help deal with the input of bustling New York; noise cancelling headphones, a fidget cube, a bumpy tangle, a squishy dinosaur toy. Seeing as no one would be carrying books or laptops on the excursion, you knew they’d all have smaller bags, but you had your normal sized one. The size and weight and familiarity was comforting. You hoisted it over your shoulders and trudged out the door, dread settled in the depths of your stomach, right hand tapping the side of your thigh. 

***

By the time you arrived at Midtown High and saw the charter bus pulling up outside, the tapping had increased to borderline punching. Ned went to grab your wrist to pull it away, but you turned. The ache in your thigh was the only thing keeping you from running, and you couldn’t explain why. Words weren’t working by that point. The bus ride didn’t improve much; even with headphones on, you could still feel the vibration of the engine running through your toes, resonating upwards, and even the highest noise cancelling setting wasn’t enough to drown out your excited teammates and their impatient chatter. Peter had made sure that the four of you got the bench seat at the back of the bus so that you could all sit together, but you were still mad that they’d made you go. Didn’t they get it? 

Things didn’t improve upon arrival. The staff member with you on the trip was a substitute, as Mr Harrington had other school commitments on the day, and you’d never met her before. A fact that became an issue when she made you take your headphones off when the tour guide turned up, and confiscated them when you were reluctant (despite your friends’ protestations and frantic attempts and explanation). The tour guide herself was nice enough- you’d seen her in the lobby a few times on your way in and out of the tower- but it wasn’t enough to balance out the chaos of the crowded public space. You made it no further than the elevator before pressing your hands over your ears. Hoodie over your head. Eyes half closed. It felt almost cruel that the sensory room, your safe space, was in the same building yet inaccessible. 

Unbeknownst to you, Nat was well aware of the fact that you and Peter were visiting. She’d waited for FRIDAY to announce your presence before heading to the floor she knew the tour would start on, planning to ‘casually’ greet you. She knew about the bullying. She knew about the harassment that Flash gave Peter over the legitimacy of the internship, the deplorable things he’d said to you. And she fully intended to scare the crap out of Flash in the hopes of getting him to leave her kids alone, god damn it. He was the first person she spotted from down the corridor. She knew he was a dick, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Flash live streaming. Phone outstretched, voice raised. 

God, the ego of this kid. 

Your group started moving forwards as she headed towards you. She didn’t say much. 

“Hey Pete, hey Y/n”

The look on Flash’s face was priceless. 

“Y-you know the retard and friends?”

Nat stared, waiting. 

“You mean Penis has a real internship?”

It felt like your guts were fighting to explode out of your body. You pressed your nails into the palms of your hands, in the crease beneath your knuckles. The bluntness of the nails did little to help. 

“That’s enough.” 

You willed your body to stay still, not stim not scream not run.

“Does this school’s policy tolerate that kind of language?”

“Uhh-”

“Yes or no?”

“I’m only a substitute, I’m not familiar with-”

You pressed the heels of your hands to your ears, fingers still curled. It wasn’t enough to make it quiet.

“Fine. Eugene?”

Don’t want to listen don’t want to listen. Don’t scream don’t stim stay still.

“Expect there to be consequences. I know about the bullying.” 

You turned and walked back down the hallway, retracing the way you came in. Your heels dug into the floor and you walked stiffly, awkwardly, elbows locked straight at your sides in attempt to keep yourself from reverting to punching your thighs. 

Nat followed. 

As she made her way past the group, she discreetly directed the tour guide to carry on. If you did reach the point of a meltdown, which she was hoping you wouldn’t for your sake, she didn’t want an audience. 

You were headed towards an R&D lab, full of SI employees, which wasn’t a particularly good option either. She noticed your hands bouncing, slapping your thighs, walking still stiff and jilted, the effort going suppressing everything evident down to the way you breathed. You heard footsteps behind you but didn’t realise they were Nat’s until she called out. 

“Y/n”

You skipped a step, but didn’t stop. You just wanted to be alone away from everyone away from the humiliation and the teasing and the bad words and the stupid jokes you just didn’t get but everyone else did. 

“Y/n, hun, just stop for me for a second.”

You did as you were told. Your body felt like it was on fire from the tension of being still. You didn’t want Nat thinking you were weird for biting your hand, so you gnawed on your lip instead, hands slightly flapping at your sides in little spinny motions. 

“Okay, good job. Do you think we can take a minute to do some breathing?”

You shook your head no. No. You wanted, needed to scream and stim and run not breathe.

“Okay, I should’ve phrased that better,” Nat looked around, seemingly lost, at the ceiling. It was barely a second’s slip of her calm composure. She lowered herself to the floor and sat cross legged.

“Can you sit down with me?”

You let your legs give out, half crashing into the carpet. 

“Can you give your hands a shake?” she shook her hands out in front, demonstrating. 

You copied. The shake felt good, so you started properly flapping. You weren’t sure when, but at some point all self consciousness fell away and you were rocking back and forth, legs out, tension melting. 

Eventually, most of the bad energy felt like it’d left your body, Your flaps turned to light taps on your knees and your rocking was much more relaxed. Now that your breathing had evened out, you were aware of how close you were to hyperventilating before. A wave of gratitude towards Nat washed over you. 

“Is it okay if I touch you?” Nat asked cautiously, hand already up halfway to rub your shoulder. You shook your head. It was hard to articulate, but touch right now would probably end in you hitting Nat involuntarily. Even your clothes weren’t feeling too great, like you were hyper aware of every contact point with your skin. You were glad she asked, even though your reaction most likely wouldn’t have hurt her no matter how violent on your part. The constant assumptions and invasions of your space on a daily basis, from everyone from kids at school to medical professionals, got to a point of making you feel almost less than human. That you weren’t worth the respect, triply so if you weren’t verbal. The entire field trip experience, although not all that enjoyable, had shown you a side of Nat you hadn’t seen before. A fiercely protective, quick-witted, almost motherly side. A side that let you know you had a safe landing. A side that gave you the courage to get up off the hallway floor and face the world again.

[nacsygen]

i mean, if there's anywhere to suffer about gender, why not tumblr, amirite?

i've known for like at least five years now i'm...not cis.  i've never been able to properly explain it, to myself or to others, but the fact that it sticks around so long tells me that, like and as unlike as my brain has tried to tell me many times before about being bi ("not gay enough") and mentally ill ("not mentally ill enough") like yeah, this is clearly a part of my identity, not just a phase or me, idk, trying to be cool or fit in among all the cool non-cis people i know, i guess???

i think what confuses me is that i don't really have much dysphoria about my physical form, really.  not in my own sense of it.  not without the input of other people.  i'm a very small person and this has informed a lot of my life, yes.  i am well below average height and have never been possessed of strength or grip to speak of (i'm the sheepish one who has to ask the girl working at the pizza place, after five minutes of trying at a booth, to open my bottle of water because my hands are just too small to have a proper adult grip).  but my body is my own, and i've long since learned to live with it, and be comfortable in it.  i got no complaints.

but then, people comment without any sort of prompting on aspects of my physicality, strangers, in public, all the time - whether it's the older lady at the bus stop asking how old i am and what i do to diet because i'm Just So Small! (ma'am, this is just how i am - no, i don't diet - if i stood up you could see my gut - being southern and polite is alas also a large part of my identity -), or the threateningly verbally abusive loud misogynist at the bus stop yelling at my turned back about my "skinny ass white girl legs! get some sun, bitch!", or just today, an older cracker (here in florida that is a descriptor of a culture, not a "slur") who i've ridden the same bus with many times with he and his lady friend, coming up to me while i'm standing waiting (again) for the bus and said "hello ma'am, i was just wondering, are you from The North? where are you from?" and i looked up from my book, bc again southern politeness, and said "nah, i'm from here" and pointed at the ground.  "you're really not From The North?  i'm sorry, i don't mean to be impolite, it's just because of your legs.  they're so skinny and pale, we thought you was From The North." "No sir, I'm from right here in Florida. I just don't tan easy." "well, that was a bet I had going with that girl over there that I just lost." "yeah, sorry, sir, I'm southern born and raised." we ended up on the same bus when it got there, and as i was getting ready to disembark he said "you have a good night there, sweetie! enjoy your book!" "oh, i will." realizing the awkwardness as the bus slowly got to a stop, "sorry, i'm nice, it's all i know how to be." "alright, well, you have a good one!" (i'm pretty sure that last that i didn't even think about said more about how Southern i am than anything else i could have said.)

i know that last was a tangent, but that's the thing - i don't even think about my body as Representing Femininity until other people treat me in a different way because of it.  it happens over and over, all the time, and it's the primary cause of what i've come to recognize as dysphoria.  if i was a boy, if my hair was tucked up in my hat and my chest flattened, would these and many others over the years feel free to comment so freely about my body to me?  i really don't think so.  and that shit sucks.

to me, my body is not a Female Body, despite its resemblance to the Traditional Female Body in its curves and shapes - it is not a Female Body, it is My Body.  my breasts are not female breasts, they are my thiddies and i'm really fond of how they look and like to show them off. like, artistically, they are a gift to the world. my long wavy curls are not Female Hair, they're Rockstar Hair, Fuck You, like i grew up with the old-school and grunge male rockstars i always saw as style icons (and the female rock stars too - huge long hair is a great look for everyone!).  idk if it's because i'm really Just That Pansexual that i can look at my societally-hyper-feminized form - extremely petit,  pale, significant boobs but no ass, skinny arms and legs - and say, you know, that could be a cute guy, right there.  

i've more recently in the past few years experimented now and then more towards as gender-neutral a presentation as i can, even though that just means people see me at a distance and think i'm a pre-teen boy. and yet, people treat pre-teen boys much better than they do almost-30 petit women, is the depressing lesson i've learned from that.  

I hate how much of my questioning of my gender identity is tied into negative experiences with other people and their relationships as strangers to my perceived femaleness.  like, i live in a pretty nice neighborhood now, but i hate going to the local gas station bc the block around it is just...holla bingo time.  last time i walked there by myself i wore knee-length loose shorts and an oversized men's plain t-shirt to go with my walking nikes and baseball cap, and i STILL got hollered at.  "hey, sweetheart! you need help carrying that? hey! hey, young lady!" i did not turn - i hate acknowledging men who holler.  "hey, baby, let me give you a ride to wherever you're goin! no one's gonna bother you!" i wanted to yell back "YOU. YOU'RE BOTHERING ME." but then, he was being significantly more polite than many of the people who've hollered at me over the years, so no point in engaging and hurting anybody's feelings or enduring the "i was just trying to be nice" conversation.

and that's the thing, like. i never feel bad about being percieved as female unless people are doing it in a hurtful way. matter of fact, i have no particular relationship to being female except in hurtful ways from other peoples' perceptions.  my body is genderless, as i am genderless, and it is my body. it does what it's supposed to do and has treated me well for how i've treated it over the years. i'm not mad at my body about it. i'm mad at the people who think my form gives them a right to treat me in unacceptable ways for what should be a polite society.  i get dysphoria from the man yelling from a work truck passing by when i'm just trying to get home from my work, "HEEEEY, LIL MAMA~!" I get dysphoria from being wished "happy mother's day!", or did back in 2014, when on break at work, and a significantly older lesbian gestured at me and said to the man in question, " does she LOOK like a mother to you??"

like listen, i like wearing cute little sundresses, or skin-tight tank tops and short-shorts.  you know why? because i live in florida and it's FUCKING HOT.  they are comfortable.  they are easy.  they are simple choices, that i am allowed to make because i am afab and present femme, and i like the way they look on me and like that i'm allowed this comfort in the heat.

i hate that wearing that for my own comfort gives people a seeming license to comment freely on my body.  i hate that presenting as a woman, a "woman", means people treat me this way.  i hate the bus driver that always says "hello there, little lady" when i board his bus, and i hate that he means well by it. i hate that even when i dress in my loose, masculine, don't-get-hollered-at clothes, i still get hollered at. and i find myself wondering, if i had short hair and no boobs, if i was just a 4'11" young teenage boy, would i get hollered at like this? and no. of course not.

but i don't want my gender identity to be the opposition of a negative in favor of a positive. this has gone into a series about street harrassment when in reality there are many reasons i identify more as male or non-female than because of this. i really don't feel much reason to identify as female other than solidarity with female victims of gendered and sexualized violence. which, alright, that's probably not the most positive way to feel. or reproductive health stuff.  alright, that's just the body i was born with, and i don't feel much connection to it otherwise.  i don't want to medically transition, i don't want to change my body, but like...

i don't really know what dysphoria actually is. is it the feeling of displacement in one's own home of self? is it feeling like everything about how everyone else views you is somehow shifted two wrong lenses over at the optometrist's office? is it just feeling like something...something's really wrong here? if so, i think i’m definitely experiencing dysphoria,.

hey, i'm maria/aril, and i'm trans.  i don't know how, exactly, but i am. and here we are.

[feelingsdusk-writes]

Runes and all kinds of things

Chapter 2

Stiles is exhausted, which is really messed up because he's been doing nothing but sleep for the past few days. Normally he would be climbing the walls in frustration by now, but to do that he has to actually manage to stay awake consistently, and he just can't. He's awake one instant and the next thing he knows he's peeling his eyes open ten minutes slash two hours later. To make matters worse, while his mind is a little foggy due to all the pain medication they're feeding him through the I.V. tube, when he's properly awake, it's jumping from one place to another too fast to keep track because he can't have his Adderall. Again, this is really frustrating because Stiles just wants to hide his head in the sand and avoid the Scott issue for a while but his mind won't let him. He's even started learning Spanish through the novelas on the TV (and, boy, wasn't his dad's face priceless when the man saw him doing exactly that, muttering an oh, Marco Enrique, no me dejes in a tone half dramatic, half drowsy, one hand feebly in the air and the other clutching his heart) but to no avail.

If he’s completely honest with himself, part of him wants to forgive Scott for everything and go back to the status quo because being at odds with him right now (anyone, really) is exhausting and well beyond his current capabilities. Whenever that thought comes by, though, he reminds himself of all the shit that has happened lately. He forces himself to remember how ever since Scott got bitten and a position on the team and the girl and popularity and options, Stiles has gradually come to be redundant, a last resort for when everything else fails but also so taken for granted that it's insulting and demeaning. And that’s not okay because for Stiles up until now Scott was on The List, with his father, Lydia and before her death, his mom.

His always first choices, always loyal to, for whom he would sacrifice anything and everything.

And doesn’t that list say anything about him? Because there hasn’t been an equal exchange between Stiles and the people on it for a while now… if ever. It hurts to think about it without lying to himself about how Lydia would always choose Jackson, Scott his mom and Allison, and his father, for quite a while, the liquor and his job over him. And he doesn’t even want to think about thinking about his mom’s last year. That way leads to madness.

(Why? Why can't he be anyone's first choice? If he's able to have more than one important person and care for them all, why do others seem to be incapable of doing the same? Or is it just about Stiles? What is it about him that makes him-?)

He stops himself ruthlessly from going down that road and forces himself to focus on the positive side. It takes him a bit, but he finally focusses on remembering how it used to be way worse and on how his father seems to have gotten his shit together over the years and now he’s at worst a highly functional alcoholic and a workaholic; On how maybe, just maybe, this thing about his dad being in the know isn’t that bad and Stiles can finally stop lying on nearly every conversation they have; Also, macabre or not, on how Gerard’s brain matter splattering on the wall means that the man won’t be able to ever touch him again. Some would actually beg for a reassurance like that and Stiles made it happen with his own two hands. Even hurt and debilitated, he did it.

The puny and weak human came out on top and beat the odds!

Isn't that exhilarating?

He clenches his fists and takes a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before letting it go. Then he shakes his head trying to clear it and immediately groans dizzily. Damn the medication. He hates having to take it because it muddles his mind and normally (like in this case) he has to stop with the Adderall while being treated, which he hates even more than having to take the Adderall in the first place.

His mind right now is again in that state when it is a little lethargic and sluggish but at the same time trying to be all over the place, which he blames for the impromptu deep thoughts that he normally tends to avoid… and for not noticing when Allison has somehow made herself at home on one of the uncomfortable chairs beside his hospital bed, where she seems to be waiting for him to acknowledge her with her bag still in her lap, as if she's waiting for Stiles to decide whether he will allow her to remain or not.

Stiles blinks and tries to make his brain reboot because the situation does not compute. What is she doing here? Don’t get him wrong, he is grateful that she got her shit together in time to help keep him alive, but they aren’t friends, never have been. At best, they have been positive acquaintances for the sake of Scott and nothing more, and that was before her descent to the dark pit that is rage and helplessness and the quest for revenge, when it was her against everything and everyone, and God help whoever got in her path. And don't get him wrong, Stiles gets it, he really does. He probably would have done the same when his mom died if there hadn't been other things more pressing to care about. But understanding doesn't mean he wouldn't have put a bullet in her too if she had gotten in the way of his own or his loved ones' survival.

“I talked with Derek Hale,” she breaks the silence finally, after a few minutes of bearing Stiles' suspicious scrutiny with admirable grace. Even when his dark thoughts probably showed in his face.

“With? You actually got him to talk back?” he snorts skeptically, eyes a little narrowed and brows high. He isn’t proud of the almost drugged slur in his voice but his response earns him a twitch of her lips. “Impressive. Didn’t think he was actually capable of any type of conversation… besides eyebrow signing or drum communication.“

“Drums," she states flatly, but her lips twitch again. The grip she has on her bag has relaxed minutely, but she at least knows how Stiles operates because she hasn't made any move to make herself more comfortable on the chair and she's still sitting on the very edge.

“Without actual drums, you know? Like, with people? Yeah, he does that a lot. Being slammed into the wheel of my Roscoe wasn’t fun, I tell you.“ He pauses, considering it carefully and then hums as if enlightened. “But it got the message across real quick, I’ll give him that,” he finishes blithely, his smile with a nasty sharp edge that doesn't escape her notice.

“Well, there were a lot of glowers and threats… and growls and flashes of red eyes… Lots of posturing, really,” she says loftily and with enough nonchalance to make him wonder how she got him to stay put and avoided getting attacked (ah, to be a fly on that wall), before she sobers, all traces of humor gone from her face and voice. “He told me what happened. He... explained everything that he did... And that she did.”

He doesn’t answer beyond a noncommittal sound but he doesn’t have to. She isn’t stupid, after all, no matter how she is undoubtedly feeling because she let herself be manipulated, first by her aunt and then Gerard. Also his blank face right now probably says it all, because something along the lines of was it that difficult to ask and listen? is clearly depicted on it despite the lack of facial expression. He doesn’t say anything because even he knows that yes, it is that difficult, because something like what happened can mess with a person’s mind, and that’s without outside interference added on top of it. May Gerard's soul (if he actually had one of those) be in the darkest, deepest pit of hell right now being sodomized by the Devil's pointy tail.

On the TV Lucía Paola is breaking the news to Pablo Antonio (who has cancer and doesn't know it yet, but will soon because the doctor has just received the result of the tests and is about to call him) about being pregnant but she's keeping to herself, as her internal monologue tells, that the baby is in reality Marco Enrique's (dramatic music ensues), with whom she's planning to elope (more dramatic music) as soon as night comes because Pablo Antonio is a beast that doesn't treat her right. She was forced to marry him by her mother, Mariana Estrella, whom is watching with narrowed eyes from outside the room, through the cracked door. The woman is pursing her lips dangerously as her internal monologue reveals that she knows that the baby isn't Pablo Antonio's (even more dramatic music) with a derisive and downright mean voice. After that revelation, she's now looking dangerously through the window, and Marco Enrique is seen tending to the horses and laughing with another man about how mares have to be treated with gentle hands.

"¡Oh, no, Marco Enrique, cuidado!" Stiles mutters softly, voice purposely a little high, as the silence drags, earning himself an incredulous look from Allison that he studiously ignores as he inserts more dramatic music and a thunderous clap for good measure. "¡La mamá va a intentar acabar contigo seguro! ¡Y Lucía Paola no dejará a Pablo Antonio si sabe que tiene cáncer!"

So he stays silent about the matter because he understands, even if it’s very frustrating to think that a lot of problems could have been avoided that easily. Also, it’s not like her actions were a betrayal to him, because, well… positive acquaintances, duh. Where Stiles is concerned, to betray him you have to have his trust in the first place and Allison didn't. Scott did, and he betrayed Stiles by going behind his back and actively lying to him. Erica and Boyd did too, if only because he trusted them to help him after he helped them (quid pro quo at the very least) and they left him behind when Geriatric Gerard came back and things went south (more than they already had, that is). And that’s it when it comes down to it. Which reminds him…

He scowls and Allison blinks, now openly baffled, because this probably isn't what she expected when she planned to come see Stiles. He pays her no mind as his scowl deepens.

The thing is that as far as he’s concerned, at this point he doesn’t owe anything to Scott, much less Erica and Boyd. If anything it's the other way around by now, even if he will never cash it in. With Allison, they are even. He’s had to help her quite a few times and she has also helped Stiles, in both cases because of Scott. He does think Gerard was going to shoot to get her out of the way, granddaughter or not, so he saved her life... but she saved his too. So she helped him, he helped her and that's the end of it. But…

“Fuck.” Allison looks at him and arches her brow in a very Lydia reminiscent expression. He rubs his face frustrated for a moment. “I owe Peter one.”

After a second of silence she snorts, which earns her a glare that she dutifully ignores in favor of rummaging through her bag. She then proceeds to pass him a fully charged PSP and he stares at it as if it's an alien for a long minute. He arches a brow back at her lack of sympathy but turns it on nonetheless with a grumble, silently acknowledging her also silent petition for a truce/impasse/tentative friendship overture/whatever the hell you want to call it. He doesn't know why he accepts it, when he normally would have no qualms about kicking people he doesn't want around him out, but he's always trusted his gut and this time is not different, so he allows her to stay. The game starts automatically and he snorts amusedly at the screen. She not-so-quite hides a smile with her book.

“Seriously?”

Infected’s logo is on the opening screen. He rolls his eyes.

On the TV Pablo Antonio has already found out that he has cancer and Lucía Paola knows. She's crying, her mascara not budging even a bit, as she tells Marco Enrique that she can't elope with him (dramatic music) because she can't abandon her husband in that situation. When she leaves after one final kiss, Marco Enrique falls to his knees on the hay (more dramatic music) and starts crying as he softly begs her retreating back to stay. At the same time, Mariana Estrella is spying on them and has a very cruel and self-satisfied internal monologue about the whole thing after Lucía Paola has finally left, deeply enjoying the defeated and devastated look of Marco Enrique.

"Te lo dije," Stiles singsongs as he blasts a zombie in the game. "Y probablemente lo del cáncer será un error del doctor," he adds, happily blasting another one. He catches Allison's eyes at the edge of his vision and shrugs, earning an amused snort from her. "What. I was bored."

He's still confused about why she has come to him, of all people, to speak to, even if she hasn't actually talked much about it. Time will tell, he supposes, and he has it to spare right now so... Besides if she keeps bringing her PSP he's not going to kick her out, because he's already tried to convince his dad to hook up his console to the hospital's TV and been refused.

"Do you have any Mario?"

She smiles in victory, as if she did expect that outcome and Stiles rolls his eyes, lips twitching involuntarily.

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[empyreanchimera]

hoo boy okay so this is a piece i started writing a few months ago during a really Rough Time that came about as a result of some very sensitive reading material i was forced to deal with in a class i was taking... i ended up in a really bad place and had to drop the class so i’m not proud of how it all went down, unfortunately

i was trying to come to terms with Things and shink was lovely enough to let me borrow owen for this drabble as a means of exploring a little about elijah’s past. it helped me vent out a lot of my bad feelings at the time but i never managed to finish it until now... i felt bad for leaving it hanging tho so i decided to come back to it and give it another shot.

owen belongs to @asianwashington (cant @ u for some reason?) / @devilishlyclever

tw: past mentions of rape/sexual abuse/physical abuse, attempted sex while intoxicated (not fulfilled)

It takes one drink for Elijah to feel brave enough to even willingly take a seat next to Owen. True to his nature their conversation isn’t exactly… amicable, but he’s not surprised when Owen expects it from him and responds in turn. It’s who Elijah is, and it’s who Owen is, and after three drinks Elijah decides he doesn’t really want to be Elijah anymore. But he can’t – and won’t – go back to being Addison, or Chimera, or anything other than what he is right now. Owen calls him Agent Buzzkill and he can’t help but laugh, because he figures that’s the only person he’s good at being.

It’s strange to realize that everyone in this room knows about what he did. He’d hidden it for so long, lying through his teeth and playing the part of the grieving survivor. When it had come out, it was almost as relieving as it was terrifying. He could finally stop pretending that he cared. He could stop crying over a grave he’d much rather spit on.

He knows it doesn’t matter anymore. The suicide mission is over. The galaxy is falling apart at the seams and Reapers are everywhere, burning entire worlds while Shepard struggles to pull together a resistance that is probably doomed to fail. Everyone here is existing on borrowed time, laughing and drinking and probably trying to convince themselves that they aren’t surrounded by death and destruction and sacrifice. Somehow he doubts that what he did ranks very high on the list of their concerns.

He wonders what Owen thinks. He wonders if he thinks about it all. They never really talked about it back then. Even the night they shared before the Normandy went through the Omega Relay – it was quiet, and he’d never asked. They’d shared a drink, and a kiss, but nothing else. No secrets. No lies. No explanations. No expectations.

It was simple. He’d liked it that way.

It takes five drinks for him to finally kiss him again. He grabs his wrist and pulls him and suddenly they’re in the guest bedroom and he’s got Owen against the wall, fingers tangling into his hair as he kisses him too hard. Maybe they’d take this slower if he were sober and the world wasn’t ending and he wasn’t so fucking scared that this could never happen again. Maybe tonight was the only thing he could have before he died. Maybe Owen felt the same way.

He drinks a sixth from the whiskey on the bedside table and Owen is sitting on the bed and he’s on top of Owen, straddling his lap and kissing him because it’s the only thing he knows how to do right now. His head is swimming and he feels warm and things seem a little less scary for the shortest, fleeting moment, and that’s all he needs to grab Owen’s hands and put them on his waist. He’s too drunk for his skin to crawl at the contact, and for once, it feels like it should and he feels normal. He doesn’t feel broken, for once in his miserable fucking life.

When Elijah pushes his hands down, encouraging him to grab at his ass instead, Owen breaks the kiss too suddenly and Elijah’s frustrated at the loss. He tries to kiss him again, but Owen’s hands suddenly pull out of his grasp and he’s got him by the shoulders, holding him back. That warmth is trickling away and he shudders.

“Elijah, you’re drunk,” he states almost matter-of-factly, voice lowered in the silence of the empty room. “We’re not doing this right now.”

Owen looks slightly unfocused, but his expression is serious, even if his words are a little slurred. He’s clearly not sober, but it’s obvious he’s nowhere near as drunk as Elijah is. Elijah wonders if he should be embarrassed, but he wants to ride the high as long as he can before everything comes crashing down on him again.

“Why not?” Elijah can’t help but sulk, swaying a bit but otherwise staying upright thanks to the grip Owen has on his shoulders. His skin is flushed beneath the freckles and his eyes are glazed over even as he tries to focus on Owen’s face and read his expression. “S’wrong? Don’t you wanna fuck me?”

“I’m not sleeping with you when you’re drunk.”

Elijah’s scowl deepens, and he shrugs Owen’s hands off of his shoulders, before scooting a little closer so he can straddle his lap properly.

“It’s now or never,” he says, sliding his hands up Owen’s arms, before slipping them around the back of his neck and burying them in his hair. He can’t maintain eye contact anymore, though, and he finds himself staring at a spot on his collarbone. “I won’t wanna do this when m’sober.”

“If you have to be drunk to want to have sex with me—”

“I don’t,” Elijah interrupts him, eyes snapping up. Fuck. Owen looks… he doesn’t know. He seems hurt, like he’s coming to the realization that Elijah can only stomach the thought of fucking him drunk. But it’s not Owen, it’s Elijah, and he doesn’t know how to explain that.

“I… I wanna do this. But it feels better when m’drunk,” he finally says. That doesn’t seem to alleviate whatever misgivings Owen has about his desires, though, and he continues, choosing his words carefully even as he slurs them. “It hurts when I’m sober.”

The look on Owen’s face quickly changes to alarm, and Elijah realizes too late that the words that left his mouth weren’t the right ones.

“Elijah, sex isn’t… it’s not supposed to hurt,” he says after a moment, hands going to close around Elijah’s wrists if only to maintain some sort of contact between them. Elijah’s fingers twitch in Owen’s hair and he resists the urge to yank his hands away.

“It does when I do it,” Elijah replies, forcing out a small huff of laughter to try and make his words sound a little less grim. “Don’t like how it feels. Figure that’s normal for some people. If m’sober then I get all twitchy an’ it’s embarrassing. Booze helps me loosen up, you know?”

Owen’s watching him too closely for his comfort, and he realizes that he’s reading his expression the same way he’s trying to read his in return. Elijah is drunk out of his mind and Owen is tipsy at best, and that’s enough to know that he’s not going to win this one.

“When was the last time you had sex?” Owen asks after a moment of silence, and Elijah feels his stomach sink.

“I… dunno. Less than a year ago, I guess? Time’s been a lil’ fuzzy since we went through the relay with Shepard.” He finally slips his wrists out of Owen’s loose grip, scooting back an inch so they’re not pressed as close together anymore. “We don’t gotta make a big deal about it, do we? I mean, s’just sex. We might die tomorrow and I wanna have a little fun. S’that a crime?”

“I told you, we’re not doing this when you’re drunk,” Owen replies in a voice that’s forceful but not unkind. It’s enough that Elijah can’t help flinching out of habit, though, and his tone softens after that. “I just… I want to know who made you feel like you have to be drunk to enjoy yourself.”

“I did. S’normal for some people,” Elijah repeats, shrugging weakly. He’s trying to convince himself about as much as he’s trying to convince Owen. “Least I think so.”

Owen’s too quiet and it’s hard for Elijah not to squirm under his scrutiny. That warmth he was clinging to is starting to fade and he knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He’s not ready to retreat, but he knows he should before it’s too late. He can’t take it all back, but he can stop himself from making it any worse.

“If we’re not gonna do this, I should just… go,” he says, unsure if he’s more disappointed or relieved. Perhaps a little bit of both. When he goes to slip off of Owen’s lap and leave, though, Owen gently grabs him by the forearm, stopping him mid-movement.

“Elijah.” The way he says his name makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. “Please… talk to me.”

He looks away, focusing a little too intently on the pattern of the duvet. His vision is swimming, and it’s hard to figure out what it is he’s looking at.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I just want you to be honest.”

The two of them are at an impasse for a long, tense moment, before Elijah finally breaks it with a weak, bitter laugh.

“Listen, I’m too fuckin’ drunk for this kind of conversation,” he says, smiling ruefully. He’s not sure he has the mental faculties required to have a deeper discussion, and he’s just drunk enough that it’s easier to just let it spill out than try to protect it so ferociously. “You’re gonna try to get me to talk about it, and I’m gonna avoid it, and we’ll get upset with each other and I’ll tell you everything and then I’ll cry and it’ll be this beautiful moment of healing and revelation. Right?”

He’s not entirely sure how he made it through that without stuttering or slurring his words beyond recognition, but he supposes he’s got enough sobriety left in him to be a fucking asshole. Figures.

“That’s not what I want and you know that,” Owen replies. He seems to pause, hesitating, before he speaks again. “I had some ideas about what… what happened between you and your squad. But… I didn’t realize…”

Elijah’s stomach sinks even lower. He can see him fighting to control his expression, multiple emotions warring for control. He seems alarmed, confused, sad. Elijah doesn’t like any of them; he almost wishes Owen would just get mad. He could handle anger. He couldn’t handle anything else; not sadness, or questioning, or pity.

God, he doesn’t want pity.

“I’m so sorry, Elijah.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t,” Elijah manages, barely able to sound angry – his voice cracks and he shakes his head vehemently. He feels sick, and he doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the conversation. It’s probably both. “I made my peace. I get to live with it. They’re all dead and I’m fuckin’ glad. They can’t hurt me anymore. I won’t let them. I don’t want to talk about it and I don’t want to fucking relive it and I don’t—I don’t—”

His voice breaks and he stops, looking away. He’s shaking. He hates it. He hates that he can say these words and make these assertions but never actually feel them. He killed all three of them. He watched the life bleed out of Sharpe and he’d been so relieved, so glad to realize he’d finally managed to release the chokehold the man had had on him. But it hadn’t repaired the damage and it didn’t stop the nightmares or the flashbacks or the phantom pains and the fear that he’d never be able to move on. And sitting here in this half-lit room with Owen watching him as he falls apart reminds him that he hasn’t moved on. He could pretend all he wanted to, drink until it didn’t hurt. He could convince himself that it was what he really wanted, but it didn’t change anything. He’d wake up in the morning and hate himself even more for being so weak.

“I’m not the only one,” he finally says. “It happens all the time. There’s nothing special about me, or what happened, or how I deal with it. So don’t make it special. Just let me deal with it the way I need to.”

“I’m not going to tell you how to cope,” Owen responds after a time, voice going quiet. “But just because it happens to other people doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to hurt. Don’t bury yourself like that. Please. You deserve so much better than that.”

At some point Elijah’s hands had found their way to Owen’s shirt, and he grips the fabric tightly as a means of grounding himself to now, and here, and to Owen. Somehow he needs that anchor, or else he was going to slip away. It’s hard to believe that once upon a time he hated Owen; he wanted nothing to do with the snarky pirate who had wormed his way into his life like a recurring rash. He’d hated him for so long, up until he couldn’t, and now he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do this with anyone else. It’s only Owen, and him, and the six glasses of whiskey that have made him brave enough to try, only to fall to pieces. What a fine mess he’s become.

“They hurt me. It wasn’t enough for them to beat me, they had to… they had to hurt every fucking part of me they could get to,” he says after he can’t hold it in any longer, forcing the words out and bringing out the ugly truth and the pain with them in the process. It’s something he hasn’t done in… No, there is no time to define because he hasn’t done it at all. He’s never sat down and broken his heart open in front of anyone else and talked about these things in a way that would force himself to admit that they happened. Owen is the first, and that makes it terrifying.

“I tried to get away so many times. Every time I thought it was going to get better, it would just turn around and get worse all over again.” He’s honestly shaking now, and Owen’s hands close over his own and it helps just a little bit. “Three years. Three fucking years. I—I let them do that to me, all of those awful fucking things for that long before I finally did something about it. I hate them, but I… I hate myself so much for ever letting it go that far.”

Finally, Elijah deflates, the anger and sadness and pain finally starting to release now that the words are out of him, no longer stuck in his throat where they can choke him. His head drops, forehead resting against Owen’s shoulder, biting down the urge to break down and cry. If he starts crying, he knows he won’t be able to stop, and Owen isn’t here to be his security blanket or his counselor. He regrets ever putting him in this position to begin with.

They’re both silent for a long time, the room quiet save for their breathing and the distant sounds of the party still going on downstairs. There’s heavy dance music playing and he can hear Tali and Liara laughing in the lounge. Everyone was having a good time, drinking and talking and connecting while Elijah was sitting in a dim bedroom talking about painful memories to a man who didn’t deserve this kind of shit from him.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispers. “Please don’t hate me for this.”

Owen lets go of his hands and his arms circle around him, pulling him close until Elijah can bury his face in the other man’s hair, tension finally draining from his body as he leans fully into the embrace. He’s never liked being touched, but he needs this. He needs the safety afforded from letting someone he trusts hold him, if only to remind him that there’s at least one person in this fucking galaxy who isn’t out to harm him.

“I don’t think there’s anything I can say to make this better for you,” Owen finally says in a low voice, grip on him tightening somewhat. “I could tell you it’s not your fault until I’m blue in the face and I know it won’t help. But I don’t hate you, Elijah. I would never hate you for something like this.”

Elijah doesn’t say anything, feeling a phantom clench in his chest at his words. It hurts for a moment, comprehending Owen’s words, knowing that he’s with one other person who’s seen the worst part of him and has admitted that he doesn’t hate him for it. He knows he’s being foolish, assuming judgment based on things that no reasonable person would fault him for, but it’s not a feeling he can simply make disappear. He hates himself; why shouldn’t someone else?

“For what it’s worth… I’m here for you. Just tell me what you need.”

Elijah doesn’t reply right away, struggling to find the words and ultimately coming up short. He doesn’t know what he needs. He’s never thought about it; never considered the possibility that he could move on. He didn’t think he’d ever have the option. He didn’t think he’d ever find someone who would see these parts of him and not walk away.

Finally, after some time, Elijah takes a shaking breath and speaks.

“Stay with me?” he asks. He sounds so weak, and he feels so small. But he doesn’t think he can handle being alone right now.

“I’ll stay,” Owen replies, and the relief is enough to bring tears to Elijah’s eyes.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”