#and that I have to go there almost every day for necessities and medical shit

[dilfsisko]

The person at cvs could keep me waiting for their entire shift and I still wouldn’t say shit because I know they’re the only motherfucker in the store

[hikarisouai-blog]

The perks of salary - during the off seasons, you get paid to do nothing at work except scroll social media looking for time to kill or something to do. You have weekly meetings detailing office shenanigans and how Sales is about to start a robot battle using modified Roombahs to showcase how good our firm is at the "techy nerd stuff". People want in and don't know the first thing about modifying, much less programming, Roombahs. But your team does - and your phone is blowing up from Slack messages. Teams from other offices you ain't ever heard from dub it the RoboDome. You and your coworkers at the same position/dept. across all branches are banned due to accusations of bribery, theft, and schematic alterations ripped from the iRobot website within the first few hours of the announcement. You become "consultants" for the participating teams, by accepting dog/cat pics, donuts, and covered shifts on holidays. You go back to scial media scrolling the rest of the week, before you remember that you don't need to even be at the office anymore (a habit of yours from the insane crunch period from last month) and file with HR for "work from home". You dread the upcoming crunch time in a few months so you pretend this is how work is done the entire year. You go to tumblr to view your favorite fandom trending and see Neil Gaiman' blog. You remember the dread of work in the last few 'crunches'. You doomscroll more. Still get paid to reblog.

The downsides to having a salary - you work overtime almost every day/week during crunch times with no OT pay or bonuses. You reenact a breakup scene everytime you leave your bed, it hasn't had the bedding washed in over a month, and your coworkers are all zombies begging for someone with brains (to come relieve them from the slog of chugging out code in PHP because one of our clients demanded it in that language). One of the clients called about a syntax typo that crashed everything on the user end and made their systems look "like the Matrix if it was a Scy-Fy knockoff". There's a programmer who has quit at the lunch table at least three times this week but can't officially send off his resignation because his wife is pregnant and needs his insurance benefits (she's doing her residency and can't afford shit). The coffee you reheated in your mug is from last week, and your breakfast of one wrinkly apple and half a bag of Veggie Straws was the only fresh thing you've seen in days. No one knows who is in charge of what, and you keep getting texts asking where you are hiding because all of you engineers owe the dept lead a program from last week that was due a month ago. You get the first email from the owner/CEO of the year, thanking you all from his office that he has been sleeping in for a few days now. There's 4 shareholders that you've never seen or met and they all want monthly updates from each dept. Someone's calling out because their kid is sick and you can taste the salt in the air. You are hiding with the other engineers in one of the 'executive' workstations, feeling like you are putting your forehead against a cheesegrater when you see the jumbled mess of PHP and what you think is PowerShell. You quietly type away and remind your coworkers and yourself, "I need this job".

Between all of this you have periods of normal, healthy, and productive periods of work. You stay at home, get up and shower and get to work, and you do all of your tasks from your living room. You come in for meetings once a month, excited to see people. On special projects you come in everyday. You see code and you see hardware and you see all kinds of cool things that made you fall in love with your career. You hate the "Big 4" in IT for corrupting and warping your industry. You hate what greed has done to necessary industries like IT, education, medical and public services.

You hate how everything that is a commodity eventually seems to turn into a necessity and in turn gets warped for profit and gains. Need a degree? Go get a pricey degree! Need medical attention? You need pricey insurance! You want to use public services? Sorry, we have underfunded those in the last decade or more. They aren't gonna be as helpful - or you can spend more money on this other useless service that kinda sorta works better and is more than the other one! (I'm looking right at you Amazon, and your stupid book subscription thing.)

You are sick of it, but because you make more money than should be possible at your workplace you try to suck it up and tell yourself that it's what you signed up for, like how retail workers know about Black Friday. So you suck it up. And go back to mindlessly scrolling through social media feeds while getting paid.

The benefits of salary: paid to browse.

The downside? Your career's enshittification has you regretting your life choices.

[dumthicc]

What do you consider to be lower class and what do you consider to be middle class like what are some of the charactericis of these classes?

While I know their are set incomes of what would be defined as lower class, lower middle class, and middle class, I dont think total household income is a good way to measure class. The cost of living is different for everyone because of different circumstances. Some people may be considered 'middle class' but may have to spend almost all of their money on medical necessities, which would leave them struggling just as much as lower class individuals.

But when I say 'middle class' families, I mean the ones that could afford to go on nice vacations [I knew a kid in my grade that would go to Disneyland once or twice a year. Meanwhile my family couldn't even leave our state more than once every 5 years... his fam was def more upper class but the point still stands], afford new basic clothing, afford nice TVs, new washing machines, decent cars, etc. And also wouldn't be completely fucked over by a simple dentist visit or a broken wrist. Families that didn't have to try as hard to 'survive'.

I kinda grew up in two homes. Divorced parents, each with different incomes. I've seen what near rock bottom looks like.

My dad was working class and made about lower middle class money- but he drove and fixed trucks and would often have to work unpaid overtime or on days he had off. He also had shit for sick days and had to work even if he shouldn't have. Most of our money was also drained from different medical and basic needs (he had 2 kids, so yeah. That's expensive...). I couldn't see a dentist for all of my early teen years. My dad had to borrow money from me and my sibling occasionally just to pay rent.

My mom on the other hand was very lower class. I saw her struggle so much to buy food and pay rent. There were many times I couldn't visit her because she had her heating shut off in the middle of winter. And doctor visits? No such thing. She struggled with addiction (most lower class individuals do), and she had to learn how to budget like her life depended on it (because it DID). The only reason she was never homeless for more than a day at a time was because of her long list of 'boyfriends of the week' that she'd go to. She had to learn how to make every penny count. She had to learn how to fix her own car, her own clothes, her own home.

So I would consider middle class ppl to be ones who can live comfortably, and can afford nice or new things from time to time, such as eating at a nice restaurant every week, or going on vacation 4 states over for a couple weeks every year. The ones that can afford to throw away a pair of shoes and spend $80 on new ones like it's no big deal. Upper middle would probably be the type of folks who shop at Sam's Club or Target and have whatever new hybrid car came out that year and probably own their own 4 bedroom home and go outside the States for vacation twice a year or more. Upper class would be more stereotypical 'wallstreet richies'.

Idk how to properly describe lower class though. There's a huge difference between living paycheck to paycheck and being actually homeless... like my dad had at least the potential for saving up for a small vacation after a couple years, but my mom couldn't even afford to buy bread. I think class should be more of a gradient scale that weighs both income and living costs rather than 3 main categories.

Also, middle class families were a lot more common in my school than other places, and it's much more likely now that the children of said middle class families will grow up to be lower class once they move out, hence why learning how to do things yourself is so important.

Sry for the long reply, I hope it answers your question.

[tennessoui]

hello 👋 I was catching up on your tumblr like it's my weekly newspaper of choice and, um, if you ever fancied writing a snippet of obi wan getting the call after a concert about fire fighter anakin getting hurt it would be much appreciated 🥺

alright yes of course!!! i always try to give my asks whatever they want 🥺🥺🥺 here's a snippet of singer!obi-wan getting an 'anakin is hurt' call

(1.8k)

When Obi-Wan gets offstage, the first thing he does is check his phone. That’s what he’s been doing for months now, ever since he and Anakin started dating. It’s not like he can look at his phone onstage in front of all the people who paid to see Obi-Wan Kenobi, rock star. He has to wait, to not carry his phone with him at all up to the stage in order to triumph over the temptation of seeing what Anakin is doing right now, what silly thing he wants Obi-Wan to see.

It’s almost better like this. He gets offstage and he gets little presents from his boyfriend: horrifically cooked meals at the station, complaints about one of his coworkers’ new taste in music, awful jokes his sister has told him.

Tonight, there’s nothing.

He doesn’t think much about it though, not when he doesn’t have his boyfriend’s work schedule memorized. Sometimes the firefighters’ schedules shift on random days; someone calling out sick, someone available to cover a shift they weren’t assigned….It’s a big city, but a small firehouse. Obi-Wan isn’t worried.

Disappointed, maybe, that he doesn’t get to see Anakin’s twisted, disgusted face at Jesse’s attempt at dinner. Or his string of laughing text emojis to accompany a joke from Ahsoka. Disappointed, but not worried.

He chats with Kit and Quinlan the entire time back to his dressing room. The drummer thinks the opening song could use a little more rehearsal. The guitarist thinks it’s fine. Obi-Wan hadn’t heard anything definitively out of place, but he’s always alright with more rehearsal. He wants to give the best performance he can to the fans. It’s that simple.

He’s alone for a few minutes when he changes from his performance outfit into his normal clothes. It’s just after ten p.m.

He thinks about calling Anakin, as it’s only 8 in the evening in his city. Surely that’s too early to go to bed, even for a night off-shit. He thinks about it the entire time he’s changing into jeans and a t-shirt, the entire time he’s wiping off his stage make-up--nothing drastic of course, but just enough to be visible in the stage lights, just enough to look a little ghoulish in the warmer lights of the dressing room.

It doesn’t take much to break him, he’ll admit. He really, really likes Anakin. They’ve been dating for eight months now. He’s almost completely comfortable saying that he loves Anakin, but he doesn’t want to scare the other man off. Sometimes he thinks that everything he feels is too big and too dramatic for everyday life, that being in the spotlight from such a young age ruined him for anything private and selfish ever again.

But loving Anakin feels private, feels selfish. It feels right, amazing, like he’s a bandit robbing a small bank and just hopping on the train leaving town. It feels like he’s getting away with something he never should have even expected to have.

Anakin doesn’t pick up.

This too is excusable, as Obi-Wan hardly expects his boyfriend to wait by the phone, anticipating his call. Anakin’s messages during his concerts are gifts for a reason. They’re not mandatory, they’re unexpected.

Going into a serious relationship like this, they’d both understood the importance of their already established lives. Obi-Wan could no more give up a concert in favor of a call with Anakin as Anakin could go off shift and call Obi-Wan.

He packs the necessities he’d carried with him into the dressing room and looks around, if only to make sure he has everything and he’s not leaving too big of a mess.

Ahsoka calls him on his cell, when he’s halfway between his dressing room and the bus. He almost doesn’t pick up because he doesn’t have Ahsoka’s number saved into his contacts. But her city area code is the same as Anakin’s, and he picks up the call.

“Obi-Wan?” Ahsoka sounds like she’s half on the call and half not. “I couldn’t unlock Anakin’s phone, but I saw you were trying to call him.”

Obi-Wan pauses and leans against the wall. “Yes, I was,” he says slowly, his gut trembling with a bad feeling. “Why are you calling me, Ahsoka?” He hates sounding so abrupt, but he can’t help it. He needs to know. Perhaps Anakin is asleep, and Ahsoka is trying to ward off any further calls in order to let her brother sleep.

“Anakin’s in the hospital,” she says grimly and straightforwardly. Faintly, Obi-Wan thinks he can appreciate her no-nonsense attitude. She gets directly to the point, even though the point iis dangerously sharp.

“No,” Obi-Wan shakes his head, even as he slowly slides down the wall he’s against until he’s sitting on the floor. “No, he can’t be. I talked to him a few hours ago.”

“There was a call,” Ahsoka sounds so close to crying. No, Obi-Wan thinks. Impossible.

“But I just talked to him,” he says, clearing his throat. “I just….”

“There was a fire out on Temple Street,” she says thickly. “He’s in the hospital because a pillar fell on him. Trapped him in...in a burning house.”

Obi-Wan inhales sharply. If he hadn’t been sitting down already, he would have fallen to the ground. “But I--” I just talked to him, he thinks. As if it matters.

“He’s not critical anymore,” Ahsoka tells him. “But he’s still in surgery. Invasive, but. Not overly risky is what they told me.” She sniffles.

“I’m twenty hours away,” he says faintly.

“I know,” Ahsoka says into the phone. “I know. You’re almost on the other side of the country. But...they didn’t know to call you and I thought you needed to know.”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” Obi-Wan hears himself say. He needs to move. He needs to catch a plane. No matter expensive. He needs to get to the airport, get to Anakin.

Anakin’s hurt. Anakin needs surgery.

It’s Quinlan that finds him in the hallway, guitar slung over his back.

“Obi-Wan?” he asks, offering a hand out without explanation.

“Anakin’s in the hospital,” he says blankly, staring straight forward at the other wall. “He got hurt in a fire.”

“Then let’s get you there,” Quinlan replies instantly, pulling Obi-Wan up. “Come on. We’ll get you straight to the airport. I’ll tell the fans of the next concert.”

“We need to give them a refund,” Obi-Wan says distantly as he lets himself be led out to the tour bus. There are screams of fans, but it’s like he can’t even hear them. He’s underwater. Nothing matters as much. Nothing matters at all. Anakin needs surgery. Anakin’s in the hospital. Anakin’s hurt. He’s in the hospital. He needs surgery.

“We will,” Quinlan reassures him, leading him onto the bus. He tells the driver something harshly, quickly, and then not even a minute later, the wheels are in motion.

Anakin is in the hospital. Anakin had been hurt. He’d been in a building when it’d collapsed. How had Obi-Wan never even thought to worry about this? He worries about everything, but he’d never even thought of Anakin, of what Anakin’s career means. Sometimes he doesn’t get out. Sometimes Anakin doesn’t save the day. Who saves him?

Obi-Wan only realizes he’s making a weird noise with his throat when Quinlan clasps his hand. “We’re going to the airport,” he says with absolute surety. “We’ll get you to him, alright?”

Obi-Wan nods. What else is he supposed to do? He just talked to Anakin. He was fine then. How can someone go from fine to needing surgery in less than three hours?

He calls Ahsoka within the next fifteen minutes, as soon as it sinks in that this is happening. It doesn’t make sense, he can’t wrap his head around it, but it’s happening anyway. He’s ten minutes from the closest airport. Quinlan’s already got him a ticket. He’s coming. He’s almost there. He just...he needs to know Anakin is….that Anakin is……

“He’s still in surgery,” Ahsoka tells him softly. She sounds so small, so unsure. He’s only met her a handful of times, but he knows this tone does not belong anywhere close to her. “I don’t know, Obi-Wan. Please get here.”

Around the sixth hour after his concert ends, Obi-Wan cries. He leaves the official announcement to Quinlan, because he’s a coward. But he loves Anakin enough to type out a tweet anyway. It’s nothing too dramatic, nothing too honest either. There’s been an emergency. He’s sorry. He’s not sorry enough to not go, but he’s sorry enough to talk to fans. There’ll be a refund, maybe a rescheduling.

His entire life feels up in ends, but he talks about rescheduling. He doesn’t know what else to do. When the flight attendant tells him to turn his phone off, he puts it down until she’s passed by.

He looks out the window of the airplane and he can feel his tears soaking into his beard. Anakin is alright, he keeps telling himself. Anakin has to be okay. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Anakin isn’t okay.

It’s suddenly so amazingly clear to him that if Anakin were to--to not be alright--Obi-Wan’s life would never, ever be the same. Never. They’re intrinsically linked together. Why wasn’t he contacted when Anakin was first brought to the hospital? He needs to know this. He needs to know as soon as Anakin is hurt. He can’t stand the idea that Anakin had been injured halfway through his set, maybe at the end, maybe before it even started.

He needs to know as soon as it happens, if it ever happens again.

He never wants it to happen again. He never wants Anakin to be hurt, to be unresponsive, to be so far from him that Anakin’s sister has to let him know what’s going on.

He needs to be something different, something more. Something that makes everyone understand that he needs to be informed immediately when anything happens to Anakin, his Anakin. His….

Husband. Husband would work. If Anakin were to marry him, Obi-Wan would get preference to every medical incident experienced. Obi-Wan could be there. Yes. Husband

Husband.

Obi-Wan wipes the tears from his eyes slowly as he stares at the backside of the seat in front of him. Husband. If he were to be Anakin’s husband, he’d never be third in the information chain. He’d know immediately when something happens to his...to his husband.

Anakin could be his husband. Obi-Wan would ask him. It would make everything easier. It would mean Obi-Wan would know anything wrong as soon as it happened. He’d be the first in the chain of information.

He wants that, he decides as he cries into his airplane food napkin somewhere over the Great Plains. He wants to be the first. He wants to know. He wants to be there everytime Anakin wakes up from an injury. He wants to hold his hand.

Nothing else will ever make him feel any better. He needs it.

[bigskydreaming]

Waaaaaas really hoping not to have to do this AGAIN yet because I’m almost certainly going to have to crowdfund part of my surgery cost once I finally get a surgical date but I’ve once again tapped out every other resource I have. So if anyone’s got a spare buck or two, every little bit helps, I really need to figure out a motel situation for tonight.

I’m into year three of dealing with a disfigured jaw that’s the long-term result of damage to my skull/TMJ from being gaybashed sixteen years ago that I was unaware of (like, I knew I’d been kicked in the face a bunch, but when it all healed up with seeming no permanent consequences, I thought it was all good and not just.....bent just enough that over ten years later part of the bone and condyle just snapped off completely).

So bottom line I have no joint on the right side of my face at all, meaning my jaw slants at a permanent 45 degree angle and that’s on good days. This results in pretty much constant and incessant migraines, vertigo from it flopping around unsupported and messing with my equilibrium so I just fall over on my ass sometimes just for the hell of it, random whiteouts from it hitting different patches of nerves without warning so I can’t drive, etc, etc. It needs a prosthetic joint replacement surgery as the only possible course of treatment, but that shit is expensive and between the length of time it took to even get an accurate diagnosis and come up with money for it, the weird position of my bite had chipped away my teeth enough that they were all damaged beyond repair and had to be extracted and me fitted with dentures. Which with the pandemic, has stretched out from.....like I was originally hoping to get the surgery last summer and here I am now, only now with the finished dentures and the prosthetic place working on finishing the new joint.

My only expenses are food, rent, medication, cell and the insurance that’s an absolute necessity for me to keep as again, this surgery is expensive as fuck and there’s literally no way in hell I’d ever be able to come up with the money for it without it. I’m trying to find a permanent room to rent now that I no longer have to travel back and forth between cities for treatment, but I mean. Again, we’re in the midst of a pandemic so I’m kinda stuck with motels until I do. Oh, and therapy but that’s covered by my insurance, just superbilled though, which means I gotta pay it upfront and then insurance reimburses me later, but.....slowly.

Really hate being in this situation still slash again slash you get it, but I’m basically just stuck existing until the prosthetic is finally done and I can get this treated once and for all. I’m a freelance graphic designer, writer and actor and uh....the last one hasn’t been doable for years lol and freelance work is very hard to come by currently, I spend more time LOOKING for work than actually working, so any and all help is appreciated. 

My Ko-fi page is https://ko-fi.com/kalenp and my paypal is https://paypal.me/bigskydreaming?locale.x=en_US

Thanks for anything, even just reblogs, no worries if you can’t help, we’re all in shit these days and seriously, anything is appreciated more than I can say!

[fezdispenser]

meta on fezco

going back to 2.01 we see little fezco with his grandma in that scene they’re going to the motel in and she’s telling him how there is a finite supply of kindness in this world and people will try and take it from you, and she’s warning him here ‘listen kid, that softness you have in you, i’ll be your demise one day’ and the fact she calls him snowflake  only further showing that this softness fezco has in him, he’s always had, and he gets that from his mom, even if he doesn’t remember her, she tells him ‘you’re momma had a pure heart’ she had that same softness; that same kindness in the face of all the pain in her own life that fezco has. and that softness and kindness he has in him speaks more to the content of character than the cards he’s been dealt do. (also worth noting i HC fezco’s mom died when he was 3; i have meta on that too)

he’s no saint, but within his own world we had a solid moral code that he follows; and while to outsiders looking in it’s easy to paint him as a bad person, as a drop out drug dealer with 7 functioning brain cells (to quote rue, ouch that one hurt a little). almost every decision he has ever had to make, his hand has been forced in one way or another by that very code, and he tries his best to reduce harm as best he can; 1) he doesn’t fuck with her.oin or fenty.nal; knowing full well the heightened risk of OD’s on both of those 2) he keeps his supply small, not only because he doesn’t have the finance to cover dealing on a larger scale, but bc he only continues to deal out of necessity,  he has ongoing consistent medical debt, a legitimate family business to keep a float, and ash and his grandma to take care of, he could  be greedy if he was in it purely to make bank that nate implies, but that’s not it. 3) he has narcan on hand  in case of emergencies.

i also want to touch on the robbery in 1.08, i really do feel mouse was setting him up to fail, pushing him to take on more product when it’s clear that fezco is wildly uncomfortable about that, but he knows the type of man mouse is, he knows what he’s capable of (rue couch scene) unlike fezco who isn’t a bad person, mouse actually fucking is. so when fezco robbed the doctor it was out of sheer desperation, you can see it in his face when he’s kissing his grandma goodbye, he is terrified, he knows if he doesn’t re-coup the money lost in the raid him and ash are as good as dead, and you can feel that fear in the that scene with his grandma (although, he does that every time he leaves the house, that was different.) to fezco, robbing the rich guy was morally neutral -- people like him only have what they have from exploiting and shitting  on other people, so what makes him any holier than fezco? fezco didn’t plan on hurting him, he only wanted to scare him into handing over the cash, but when he has seen the pharmaceuticals, and then the doctor went to pull a fucking gun on him that triggered the reaction fez had in beating the shit out of him, because what else was he supposed to do? let him fucking shoot him?

so, for beating his ass fez doesn’t initially feel that it’s an unjust act, that’s until he sees the kid. and the realisation that this little boy has just watched him beat the shit out his father makes him feel like a piece of shit, there's a guilt engulfing him in that moment when he walks past the kid, knowing that he’s probably shit scared of fez and terrified for his dad. it makes him think how seeing something like that can affect a kid; how it can desensitise them to violence; how it can traumatize them, and that makes him think about his brother, and how volatile he can be, and it makes fez think that ash is only the way his is because of fez. because of this life of crime and depravity that’s been their life for the last 9 years. which, only compounds on the guilt for that kid witnessing his dad take a beating. fez thinks back to all the times ash has seen acts of brutality and violence and how those have made him who he is, and of course fez loves ash more than anything, and he would protect him with his life, there is this fear and guilt that fez has in him for the monster he created.

for fez, i think he has always been so determined to hold on to that softness, because it’s the only thing that separates him from being a completely evil person. not that he sees himself as a bad person per se, he doesn’t see himself as good. there is part of him that sees himself as selfish for continuing this life, and dragging ash along for the ride - when in reality almost everything he does is for other people. but he doesn’t see that, at least not always. and he tries not to let the things people say and assumptions they make about him get to him, but it does mar the way he frames himself.

so anyway, circling back to my initial point, and how his grandma warned him about how his softness would be his downfall; i think it will be. we know from this weeks episode that custer is working with the police; we don’t know how much custer has told them but he is the only witness to the murder of mouse; we know there is a good chance that faye is going to play along and work with custer -- faye who fez took in out of loyalty and kindness to his friend. i think that betrayal by custer and faye will really impact on his softness in season 3, i think no matter how this plays out that opening scene with his grandma was an integral foreshadowing of what fez’s future will be next season. rue has already betrayed him; and while i think that one will mend itself in time, the betrayal of custer and faye are going to weigh heavy on him, and i think we’ll see that softness that we’ve fallen in love with over the last two seasons come undone and his grandma’s words ring true:  there’s a short supply of kindness in this world soft boy, and people sniff it out and swoop right the fuck in. never fall in love. it’s one of those things you can’t trust.  i think, that is going to have a massive impact on fez next season, and any potential for the fexi romance to continue on, because he is going to be off the deep end with trusting anyone any more.

[ask-the-clergy-bc]

Headcanons for dew, rain, mountain and the papa’s s/o (feel free to leave out the ghoulies if you want <3) revealing that they have a glass eye after they’ve been dating for a while, but with a silly spontaneous taking out of the eye. (I recommend watching a video on how glass eyes work first though <3)

Thank you so much for recommending the videos, they really helped! I mostly went with your request of having the reveal be a silly prank and mixed it in with a few other scenarios, I hope that’s ok! And heck yeah, I’ll be happy to add the ghouls to it! Please enjoy! :)

Also feedback is always welcome!

Ember, Rain, Mountain, and the Papas React to their S/O removing their Glass Eye for the first time

Rain: Your ghoul lover had known about your eye since you first became an item. But it was becoming clear more and more often that he was very curious about your eye. He was a quiet and polite ghoul by nature despite his massive curiosity, so you knew it would take some time before he approached you on his own with questions. Not that you would have minded! Rain was respectful and you trusted him to be the same when it came to your eye. When one day you had taken it out to adjust after it had been bothering you for most of the morning you caught your lover watching, utterly fascinated. But Rain looked ashamed the moment you looked back at him. “It’s ok to be curious, Babe. It’s not a bad thing!” You assured him with a gentle smile and beckoned him over. Rain was happy you weren’t upset with him and did end up asking quite a bit! How to clean it, how does it stay, what is it made out of? You considered it a real bonding experience between you both!

Mountain: The drummer had been more blunt about your eye than anticipated, but it was obvious he meant no disrespect. During a conversation it eventually came up that your eye was fake. Mountain replied with a factual, “oh I noticed. It’s quite amazing.” You were taken aback by his genuine appreciation for the simple prosthesis, and you pressed to know why. Mountain took the time to explain that he found human medicines and inventions incredible. In Hell there were no such things as prosthetics or any medical machinery. When you lost a limb or a body part you just dealt with it. Mountain eventually told you the only time he has seen another eye like yours was one that belonged to a stone ghoul leader. It was an exquisitely carved and smoothed green gem! He ends up comparing the high quality of your eye to the gem and lamented that he would never be able to carve a rock to the degree of which your eye was made! It was a fascinating conversation, as you never considered what happened to ghouls in Hell before they came to Earth. It even made you blush when Mountain admitted he thought your eye was one of the most amazing things in the world.

Ember: The first time you removed your eye in front of the fire ghoul you had startled him! All you said was, “Hey babe, wanna see a trick?” and plucked your eye out. The lack of warning certainly caught him off guard as he jumped like a cat. You laughed HARD when his tail was stiffened straight and he garbled half sentences at you. When his brain finally processed what happened he threw his hands up, exasperated. “You could have just TOLD ME, I thought you were about to do something fucking TERRIFYING!” A few minutes after catching your breath you almost regretted showing him as his enthusiasm started to show. Ever since he found out your eye was fake he INSISTED that your next eye should be all white so you could pretend to be an Emeritus. Ember vehemently claimed it’d be hilarious to watch everyone shit their pants when you come out MARKED BY LUCIFER! Of course, you know how terrible of an idea that is! But hey, he’s got the right spirit!

Papa Nihil: Originally randomly removing your eye was going to be a small joke. It was a prank you liked to do from time to time, and you’d be lying if you said you DIDN’T enjoy the reactions you got. Some people looked confused and others jumped from shock. It always ended in huge peels of laughter from you and your friends. What you could have never anticipated was what would happen was Nihil cackling after the fact. You had expected shock or curiosity, but not the Grand Papa practically laughing in your face. When he saw your confused look he gestured for you to come over. It was your turn to laugh when he removed a bottom row of teeth from his mouth. When you sat down to exchange stories Nihil told you about a wild bar fight he got into back in the 70’s. It resulted in him having a banged up jaw and needing a small row of bottom teeth to be permanently replaced. When you shared your story he was just as happy to listen!

Papa I: You weren’t planning on taking out your eye in front of Papa, but necessity waits for no one. That day you were trying a new prosthesis from your doctor, but it just didn’t seem to work out for you. The eye was a slightly different fit and shape than you were used to and it had been irritating you all morning! Papa and you had taken to the sitting room to read together, but the eye made it impossible! you couldn't focus with the damn thing bothering you. You had enough and just popped to accursed thing out. Moments after your sigh of relief you realized Papa had stopped to watch you, a look of concern plastered on his face. He didn't seem alarmed that you were holding an eye in your hand, more so that you looked so uncomfortable. “Are you alright? Is your eye hurting you?” It took a moment to snap out of your stupor but you shook your head and explained everything. Papa nodded politely and smiled, happy to know you were ok. After you excused yourself you were quick to go back to your old eye. When you settled down next to him again you couldn’t help but quench your newfound curiosity. “It doesn’t bother you that my eye is fake?” Papa set down his book, confused as he removed the reading glasses from his face. “.... why should that bother me?” Honestly, that one question was all you needed to hear.

Papa II: When you first started dating you were immediately open about your eye. It wasn’t a terribly big deal for you, but you felt it fair to let him know. Papa only ‘hmm’d’ when you told him but thanked you for the information. If anything, unless it was bothering you it rarely came up in your day to day life! The only time you’ve ever seen him react to it was when he caught someone staring at your face at a clergy function. Your eye was incredibly realistic but there was always bound to be someone who noticed it was a prosthesis. You were used to it, as you knew people were often curious. Very few people ever made you uncomfortable. Papa on the other hand did not share your sentiment. One thing everyone knew about the second Emeritus is how he absolutely despised anything he considered, in his words, “boorish”. Before you could say anything to the person Papa’s voiced hissed out as his hand clasped your shoulder. “Do you mind, or are you going to stare like a gaping troglodyte.” The sibling didn’t need to be told twice and immediately scurried away. Papa cleared his throat as you shook your head, trying to hide your smile. He apologized for speaking over you, and even looked a little embarrassed at his sudden defensiveness. You, in turn, told him he could make up it up to you by getting you a drink!

Papa III: Your mischievous streaks were only matched by Papa’s. It’s what made you fall for each other, after all! So naturally you decided your big reveal would have to be a good one. You waited until the perfect opportunity arose one night. You both had a fun game of saying or doing the most over the top romantic clichés you could think of. It was like your own little game you only played with each other! Papa's favorite tactic was to bombard you with the cheesiest pick up lines he could think of! You loved to roll your eyes and pretend you didn't love every minute. The moment finally came one night when Papa had fallen into your lap, proclaiming how amazing your eyes were. Papa went over the top to make you laugh- saying how much they sparkled like the night sky and were like gems he wanted to keep like little treasures. You grinned and without missing a beat reached up to your face. “You like them that much? Here-” he gasped as you plucked it out, “you can have one!” It took Papa a few moments before he howled laughing, you joining him shortly. Papa praised you for your excellent comedic timing and it has been your inside joke ever since!!

Papa IV/Copia: The fact that Copia saw you taking out your eye at all had been a rather hilarious coincidence... to you at least! It often slipped your mind when you first started seeing each other to tell him of your eye. It wasn't a huge concern for you and every time you remembered you figured the right opportunity would come. One day when you woke up you decided it was as good a time as ever to clean it. You had been ready to start cleaning it and plucked it out as Copia wandered into your shared bathroom, half asleep. Copia hollered at first when he saw you remove it. He frantically shook his head and rubbed at his own eyes to make sure he was awake. When you both realized what had happened Copia had little time to blush as you doubled over laughing. Eventually, after your giggle fit, Copia apologized profusely for his crappy behavior. He explained that he was still waking up and thought you had just randomly pulled something out of your eye socket. You had to convince him a couple of times that you did not take offense to his reaction. As far as you were concerned, no harm no foul! You knew that Copia would NEVER purposely make someone feel bad. Eventually he came around and accepted that you weren’t mad at him!

[eleanorbloom]

Moonlight: Part Two

Disclaimer: Open Heart and most of the characters are owned by Pixelberry. Matilde is a creation of mine.

Book/Pairing: Open Heart / Bryce Lahela x F! MC (Matilde Luna)

Word Count: 2.5k Warnings/Rating: Angst, curse words/Teen.

Author’s Note: I'm so sorry for disappearing, adult life has been harder than expectected and only this week I had some spare time to edit this :(

Thank you so much to all the people that read the first part, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Hope you like this as well 😊

A bug hug to you, beauties! ❤

Moonlight taglist: @dalishessence @curiousconch @chocopeppermintcake @utterlyinevitable @secretaryunpaid @kachrisberry @romereadingshop @thegreentwin @blackcatkita @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Let me know if you wanna me added to the taglist!

----

Part Two. Orbiting the Moon.

First days are always challenging.

They demand a lot of things. Bravery to explore the unknown (whether it be a place, a person, a job, even food); strength to meet new people when you weren’t blessed in the people skills department; patience to stand the new people who turn out to be shitty people; adaptability to adjust your ways of life to other people’s, etcetera.

It’s a lot.

So, it wouldn’t be a lie if I say that Bryce Lahela didn’t cross my mind after we parted ways at the Atrium that morning, even if his appearance can be categorized as ‘unforgettable’.

Between dealing with Aurora Damn Emery and her insufferable attitude and the fact that I almost killed my first patient on my very first day, I had no space for more.

All I could do was cursing internally (at Aurora and also me) and rethink every fucking decision I made that day. Wondering what would've happened if I hadn't been there the moment Annie had the anaphylactic shock, if Varma hadn't shown up to snap out of me when I froze... Endless questions.

All my dreams about being a doctor crumbled at that moment, wondering if I was doing the right thing, if I was made for this.

“You need to have a long, hard think about whether or not you're ready to be here.”

The face of Annie, unconscious, and Dr. Ramsey's words was all I could hear and see throughout the afternoon, intensifying the guilt with every passing second.

First day and I could've killed someone.

I couldn't even shut up the voice inside my head stating the facts.

First day and I am already a failure.

Because they were nothing but the truth.

Do I deserve to be here?

And there was no point in denying such hard evidence.

Right in the middle of a hallway, surrounded by immaculate white walls and shining lights, I felt exposed. Like everyone around me was going to find out the imposter I was.

I wanted to run away. Disappear.

Without thinking too much, I ran to the nearest supply closet I found before anyone could notice me and the state I was in.

Once under the darkness of the room, I leaned against the wall feeling my stomach trembling, my heartbeats resounding in my temples in slow motion.

“No puedo hacerlo,” I sighed, releasing a shaky breath as I was rubbing my hands on my face, “No… Mamá, no sé si puedo�� Casi la mato.” (“I can’t do this,”//“I... Mamá, I don’t know if I can… I almost killed her”)

Fighting the tears back, I closed my eyes trying to evoke the face of my mama in my mind: her black and grey long hair, always in a perfect French braid, her dark and wrinkled eyes full of wisdom and warmth, and her thin lips curling in the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Creo que, no estoy hecha para esto,” I stated, helpless. (“I think I’m not cut out for this.”)

Just as I was trying to imagine what she would tell me in a case like this, what words she would use to calm me down and reassure me, I heard the door creaking.

A tall silhouette was standing at the entry, looking directly at me.

“Hey, Luna.”

Friendly voice. Sparkly eyes. Expensive, seductive perfume.

Lahela.

I stared speechless as he walked towards me, his brows knitted in worry, “Are you okay?”

I froze at his question. The sole fact he was there froze me, actually.

There was no way I’d tell him the truth, but I had so many things bottled up from that day; so many emotions, fears, anger, all that demanding to come out, that for a moment I thought I would spill all out.

And the way he was looking at me, evidently worried, waiting for an answer, made it even more plausible. Maybe I could tell him and maybe he would say something that could make me feel good. Just as good as he made me feel that morning on our short trip to the Atrium.

I opened my mouth to respond...

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t let myself do that. That was not me.

The risk was too big and I was a fucking coward.

So I gulped. I gulped as if I was swallowing all my feelings about to come out of my mouth, sour as bile, to let them deep buried inside of me, where they have always belonged.

I cleared my throat and I said instead, “Yeah, I'm okay…”

He arched an eyebrow, dubious, “You don't look like it. If you need to talk…”

I shook my head, nonchalantly.

He seemed earnestly worried, but I couldn't say anything. I didn't know him, and I don't talk to people I barely know, much less about the mess I was on my first day. And much, much less to another resident who could doubt my potential and right to be there. A fucking surgical resident that thinks is above anyone else.

He was the worst option in all Edenbrook.

Well, after Aurora Emery, of course.

“Don’t worry, it’s all good,” I insisted with a humorless smile, “What are you doing here, by the way? Need some syringes? Don't let me stop you.”

He shook his head this time, “No. I saw you in the hallway, I needed to check if you were okay.”

“I’m…”

I was ready to reply automatically as before, without even considering my answer. It didn't matter how bad I was, I was used to saying everything was okay even if my world was falling apart in a million pieces inside, because it was just pleasantries, force-of-habit questions, and people honestly never gave a shit about it, and it was okay. But this felt different. I couldn’t lie to him, but I also couldn’t tell him the truth.

Bryce probably realized my intern conflict, despite the darkness of the room -only dimly illuminated by some blindings mildly open behind the racks of medical supplies-, because he took a step closer to me, pensive, “Are you sure, Mat-”

The moment I saw him getting closer, I felt dread. Dread because I realized that I was an insistence away from speaking. From letting my resolve crumble and tell him the truth. Just a simple and insignificant truth that meant hell to me.

Before he could reach me, I slid away from him, and sprinted towards the exit, leaving him in the room without looking back.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I couldn't understand it. I’d always kept my shit inside and dealt with it on my own, and when I shared something, it was with someone I deeply trusted, a trust that could take months to get. But why suddenly I wanted to open up to someone I had met that day? Like a chatty drunk, the words wanted to slip out of my mouth, recklessly.

Maybe it was the fact that he had given me attention. Just a bit of attention and my stupid mind gets intoxicated with it. Drunk.

But I had to know better. I knew better. I knew that nothing good could come out of that so I ran away like the coward I am.

_____

If I was already confused before he showed up, after that encounter I was a total mess. And the only way I had to calm down that kind of a mess, to overcome such a shitty, stressful day, was with alcohol. Something that could give me a fucking break from my own mind for a few hours. So once my shift ended, I joined Sienna, another intern, to go together to the bar near Edenbrook.

I could've gone alone, or bought something at a liquor store to drink it alone in my room, but I had promised Sienna I would join her as payback for saving my skin from Dr. Ramsey that afternoon. And I liked her. She seemed genuinely nice among a hospital full of fake and selfish people. Besides, you cannot not trust a person who calls themselves a dolphin, right?

When we got to the bar, packed to the brim with people from the hospital, she led me to a booth where there were other fellow interns she had congregated during the day: Jackie Varma, Landry Olsen, and Elijah Greene. A very diverse group of people.

Elijah was a nerd who couldn’t stop throwing Harry Potter jokes at me since he found out I was renting a room under the stairs of a building, and he was really, really nice, so I couldn't even get mad at him for that.

Jackie was… tough. Competitive to a fault, but she was funny and always had some witty remarks to everyone who talked to her, so that helped me swallow her the rest of the night.

And Landry… Ooof, Landry was… Unreadable. There was something about him that I didn't like. And not precisely his lack of people skills, because, who am I to judge, but he had this air of sufficiency I couldn't stand. Something treacherous. I'd always had this sense with people, and I could sense from the start that I'd never liked him, so I just tried to hang out the less I could with him, and focused on getting to know Sienna and Elijah, the people I found more things in common with.

A couple hours later, tipsy and with all my problems momentarily suspended in midair, I reached the bar for the next round of tequilas for the group.

I had just made my order when I felt a bump in my arm, startling me.

“Hey.”

I turned around and a pair of honey eyes were looking curiously at me.

Holy fuck, not you again.

“Hey, ” I replied, looking at him for a millisecond before fixing my eyes on the dozens of bottles of alcohol in front of me, begging he would just go and leave me alone.

“Are you doing better?”

My eyes widened.

Oh no, is he really? No, please no. Don’t.

But the alcohol had made its effect by now. I could lie blatantly at him without feeling that stupid necessity of telling him the truth. Although it wouldn't be a lie because I was doing better thanks to the tequilas.

“I..., Yeah. I’m… I’m doing better now.”

Hearing my own words, I realized I had just snitched myself.

Stupid, stupid idiot. I should’ve just ignored him.

Saying I was doing better implied I wasn't good before, and I didn't want to recognize that in front of him. I didn't want to give him any permission to pry, more than he had already done.

Too late.

“That’s great, Luna, I’m glad,” he said, heartily.

Sincerely.

Why the fuck everything he says seem so sincere to me?

I turned to him to look for some kind of smirk or smugness, something that could tell me that he was amused by what had happened that afternoon, or a hint of "I gotcha" in his gaze, but he was just looking at me earnestly. With a soft, warm smile and eyes beaming with candor.

It was kind of intriguing that someone like him could look like that. Or maybe he was just a good actor.

Feeling bold because of the alcohol I had in my bloodstream, I dared to turn to him and scan him carefully, realizing details I wasn't able to get when I first met him that morning.

It was like I had only been able to get brushstrokes of him or just certain sensations about him: his warm smile, his vivid golden eyes, his imposing yet stunning beauty, but not so much about details.

Details such as the shape of his eyes -delicate monolid traces around amber and honey hues-, crowned with meticulously groomed eyebrows. His lips, generous and soft; his caramel skin, tanned, his face with sculpted cheekbones and jaw, and impossibly smooth skin. His nose, straight but slightly crooked at the bridge.

After a few moments, he arched an eyebrow, “Yes?”

And his hair -with soft golden streaks- styled in a perfect mess to one side, falling casually over his temple when he leaned one arm onto the bar, breaking the height distance between the both of us. Because he was tall. Or maybe not that tall, but everyone in this damn country was too tall to me. With my 5’2 I was a dwarf to anyone and everyone was a giant to me, so that pose let me inspect him even more carefully.

After seeing all that, there's no wonder why he was so damn handsome.

Just then I realized he was looking expectantly at me, as if I was looking at him to say something.

Oh, no, not again. Eres una vergüenza, Matilde. (You’re an embarrassment, Matilde).

“I…”

What does this human being have that always leaves me speechless?

He chuckled, his eyes wrinkling in amusement, “You’re something else, Luna.”

I blushed. Maybe even more than I already was.

What's that supposed to mean?

Without expecting any reply from me, maybe because he knew I couldn't come up with anything, he added, “Wanna go play darts with me?”

My stomach churned instantly, anxiety metabolizing to the speed of light as I imagined what that entailed.

“N-No, thanks. I don’t play darts. I suck and I don’t pretend to humiliate myself in front of the whole Edenbrook on my first night here.”

Bryce clicked his tongue, “Doesn't matter, I can teach you if you want.”

I wanted to say yes, I really did. Like always in other things. I wanna say yes, but a part of me stops me. The fear of embarrassing myself in front of everybody, of being so dumb people will realize I have no fix, or of feel so nervous that I will ruin everything.

And his sincere smile was telling me he really wanted to teach me and he was hoping I'd say yes, like a puppy waiting for his human to take him for a walk. But, ah, once again. I couldn't.

“I appreciate the offer, but this time I pass.”

“Just this time,” he stressed, pointing a finger to me playfully.

I shook my head, giggling, “We’ll see.”

“We’ll see,” he defied, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Five tequilas ready!” a deep masculine voice announced at the other side of the bar.

I turned around, startled, and I found a tray with five shots of tequilas in front of me, “Thanks!” I looked back at Bryce, “Well, I… I have to go.”

“Need any help?”

“Nah, don’t worry,” I shrugged and took the tray with naturality.

“Ah, you know your stuff,” he pointed with an approving smirk.

I arched an eyebrow, kind of baffled by his implicit skepticism, “Do you?”

“I know a cowboy when I see one,” he winked at me.

It took me a moment to catch his drift.

“Oh.”

I nodded, kind of shocked by that revelation. I had imagined he aced Med School with no worries, using daddy’s credit card and all the commodities frat boys like him have. I would’ve never guessed he had to work his way here, just like me.

“Have a good night, Luna.”

“You too, Lahela. See ya.”

He smiled confidently, knowingly, “See ya.”

----

Thank you so much for reading!!!

[airagorncharda]

You either live long enough to wet the bed, or you die.

I've recovered from surgery, helped two other people through recovery from surgery, taken an EMT course, helped with multiple types of emergency medical situations, and for the last year I've been working as a personal care assistant for an older woman with a series of disabilities. 

Perhaps chief among the things I've learned from all of that, and the thing I want more than anything to pass along to others, is that there are a lot of things we're all taught to fear about growing older that we really need to start getting comfortable with while we're still young.

The fact of the matter is that, at some point, you're either going to need to be physically taken care of by somebody else, or you're going to die before it happens. Being taken care of is the BETTER OUTCOME! So please, PLEASE, start getting used to the idea of not being an island. If you succeed at living long enough, your reward is to be cared for. This looks different for everybody-- happens at different ages, requires different help to compensate for different problems-- but there are some basics you really ought to get used to the idea of before they're thrust upon you by necessity. 

Somebody else is going to have to help you bathe. Somebody else is going to have to help you eat, and dress, and get around. Somebody else is going to have to clean you up and tend to you when you get dirty or hurt. Somebody else is going to have to do the laundry when you wet the bed. These are not ifs, they are whens. You either live long enough to wet the bed, or you die. Wetting the bed is the better outcome here.

Shame and pride motivate people to hide pain and injury, push through suffering at the expense of their wellbeing, and end up with less than they could have had. Less energy, less health, less time. 

I've heard young people say: 

"I can't even imagine letting somebody else bathe me." 

"I could never let somebody wipe my ass." 

"If I couldn't take care of myself, I'd rather die." 

"Once I get to that point, just shoot me." 

The implication is always something like "I would be mortified by needing someone to help me in such an intimate way. If I were ever that disabled, my life wouldn't be worth living." 

This mentality is incredibly easy to fall into, and also deeply, DEEPLY damaging, not only to the disabled people currently around you but also to your future self.

When I was recovering from surgery, I couldn’t do just about anything. I needed help with every single aspect of functioning. If I had forced myself to care for myself, rather than accepting help, I would almost certainly have caused myself further injury, prolonged my recovery, and suffered significantly more than necessary. Most people are willing to accept temporary disability without catastrophizing, but I know multiple people who’ve undergone surgeries who have hurt themselves by being too proud or embarrassed to ask for or accept the help they needed during recovery.

PLEASE start getting used to the idea of needing help with “embarrassing” things. 

My boss is a wonderful woman. She has many, many physical limitations. Most of her life consists of watching movies and listening to books on tape, and even that sometimes causes her suffering. Every single day that I've ever spoken to her, she has been suffering. She absolutely cannot care for herself without assistance, and needs PCAs with her every day.

And yet, her life is ABSOLUTELY worth living. She's a vibrant woman, full of love and kindness and art and humor. She has improved my life with wisdom, joyful company, and a job I sorely needed. She enjoys watching her movies! She has absolutely no interest in dying! Life is worth living even when it's hard, and even when it is dependent. 

Her life is not some tragedy to me, nor is it “inspirational” in some voyeuristic and ableist way; it's aspirational. I hope that when I need the level of help she does, that I’m still able to be kind and funny and enjoy movies and make art, all with the determination and kindness that she does.

It kills me to see her feel embarrassed about needing help with tasks that would cause her harm to do herself. It shouldn’t BE embarrassing! 

We’ve all been taught to be embarrassed by needing help, especially with basic or intimate tasks, but that mentality doesn’t help you. (Who it helps-- namely, companies trying to sell you shit so you can be self sufficient for longer-- is a whole other post.) 

Anyone who chooses to think less of you for needing help is going to eat those words eventually, assuming they live long enough to.

I know this is a long rambly post, but I cannot stress enough how important it is. Please, PLEASE do yourself the favor of respecting your older self now. 

[xenteaart]

Apocalypse Chronicles

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: Getting stuck in the apocalypse certainly has its ups and downs, and this is somewhat of a dairy with little glimpses into the life you two had.

Warnings: mentions of vomit

Note: This is sort of a part 2 to this fic. Also you can check out my other fics on this Commission AU right here!

Hopefully, this is a rollercoaster.

Day 548.

You and Five were currently on your way… somewhere. You rarely had any particular destination in mind, if you were being honest. Mainly, you were just moving from one place to another, seeking shelter and looking for food and other essentials such as clothes, medical supplies and many other things, most of which were really hard to come by.

It’s been a very long day, and a fairly hard one as well because the weather seemed to get harsher with each passing mile and moving one foot in front of the other was beginning to feel like an impossible task. So, since all of your focus and concentration went into walking, naturally, you’d stopped listening to what Five was saying about thirty minutes ago. Funnily enough, it took him that long to notice you completely zoning out and ignoring his passionate ranting.

“Hey! Have you been listening?” he asked bitterly, mostly just annoyed by the fact he’d been wasting his breath.

You quickly snapped out of your daze and blinked a few times.

“Charming.” Five added as he rolled his eyes. It was this very moment when you realized something and couldn’t help but smile widely, and he raised one eyebrow in confusion as to what could be making you so happy right now.

“Your voice is starting to crack,” you pointed out. He clearly didn’t expect you to say that, and it caught him completely off guard, making him forget he was mad at you mere seconds ago.

“My boy is turning into a man!” you exclaimed; tenderness, pride and just a tiny bit of sarcasm radiating from your voice. Five shook his head and scoffed at your observation as he was trying to conceal his embarrassment; rather unsuccessfully, you must say.

Getting stuck with a slightly older girl and going through puberty was, in his opinion, beyond humiliating.

You wrapped your arm around his shoulder and squeezed it lightly, pulling him closer as the sound of your joyful giggling was filling the air.

“Can’t wait till you start getting facial hair too,” you teased him and immediately felt his elbow kick your ribcage, the impact too mild to leave a bruise but certainly sudden enough to make you go “ouch!”

Day 1325.

“Five Hargreeves, you may wanna propose to me right now,” you screamed from a distance as you were still rummaging through the ruins of what used to be a grocery store. Oh, you knew he was going to love this.

After spending almost 4 years by Five’s side, you’ve come to know an impressive amount of facts about him, most of which were mundane and in the grand scheme of things, he would say, insignificant. But you didn’t see them as such and kept them all in mind, waiting for the right moment, and today was your lucky day.

“What?” he yelled back, a little confused by your assumption that seemingly came out of nowhere. Not that he didn’t like your company but marriage wasn’t on his to-do list quite yet.

As you awkwardly climbed over the debris, obviously carrying something in your hands but trying to hide it underneath your ill-fitted parka, you said, “Close your eyes.”

Five seemed hesitant, so you insisted.

“Come on, I know you don’t like surprises but it’s the nice kind, I promise.”

He finally complied and exhaled loudly as a means of communicating his growing impatience. You promptly pulled out a coffee pack from under your clothes, swept the dust off its surface in one quick motion and handed it over to Five.

“Look.”

“No way,” he opened his mouth, sincerely shocked you had managed to find something whole and completely untouched. And it happened to be coffee.

“I think I deserve at least a kiss on the cheek, wouldn't you say?” you grinned at how fast Five’s expression turned from grumpy and tired to excited and grateful.

In no time his tight grip found your waist, and he effortlessly spun you around, making you squeak in surprise as you clawed into his shoulders for support instinctively. His movements were smooth and confident as if you were light as a feather or rather weighed nothing at all, and you caught yourself really enjoying the warmth of his hands on your skin.

“You deserve a lot more than that,” Five replied with a sigh as he put you down carefully, his tone suddenly losing its playfulness and blossoming with something a titch more unexpected, and if you had to put a name on it, “affection” would be the most fitting.

Fortunately, the smudges of dirt on your skin were doing a very good job at hiding just how red your cheeks turned at the comment.

Day 1557.

“God, do you ever shut up?” Five snarled irritably, interrupting you mid-sentence, and your jaw dropped in shock. You could have sworn it felt exactly what getting stabbed in the stomach would feel like.

You were a very short-tempered individual and in any other context you would have snapped back, making some scathing comment and walking away with your chin up. This time - not a single word left your mouth as you were paralyzed by Five’s unfiltered hostility. You felt your eyes burn and immediately turned away to wipe away the tear rolling down your cheek, too proud to let him see how much it hurt.

In your defence, you weren’t much of a talker before the apocalypse but it didn’t take you long to find out that being locked up in your own head in a deathly quiet world was not a good way to spend your days. So you kept talking, for both Five’s and your own sanity. It made things feel less real, however paradoxical it may sound. But, more importantly, it was a gesture of care.

You spent the rest of the day without saying a word, and, to your disappointment, Five wasn’t willing to break the silence either. Not talking, however, didn’t mean not looking after each other, and you, of course, made him dinner while he organized a safe place for you both to spend the night.

Since there was never a roof over your heads, you tended to sleep very close to each other, exchanging body heat to keep each other warm. At first, it was only a safety precaution but the habit slowly transformed into something more meaningful, somewhat of a necessity to know and feel that the other was still alive and breathing, still there, safe and sound.

As the two of you were lying in your improvised bed, which was essentially just a few layers of blankets on the hard and unfriendly concrete, you felt Five’s hot breath against the back of your neck as he cuddled you from behind. The big spoon.

“I deeply regret saying that,” Five whispered and sighed in frustration at his own self. He knew he royally fucked up.

“Please, don’t ever stop talking. I need it and I need you, okay?” he uttered so quietly that it was almost inaudible but you caught every word.

You clenched your teeth.

“Okay.”

Day 1866.

Birthdays were never a happy event in the apocalypse and you only kept track of them in order to know your own age.

Every birthday was nothing but another reminder of how much time you’ve spent trapped in this nightmare, and there was truly nothing either of you wished to celebrate.

However, this time you decided to make an exception. Five was turning eighteen and, despite the fact that your circumstances were far from perfect, it was a big day nevertheless.

To say you had limited resources would be saying nothing at all. No cake, no candles, no decorations, no anything to create an environment for having fun, and the only thing at your disposal was your contagious enthusiasm. It wasn’t much but it was surely something.

“Wakey-wakey, sleeping beauty,” you whispered into Five’s ear as you tapped on his shoulder, gently breaking him out of his sleep. He murmured something incoherent and placed his hand over his eyes, trying to escape the bright and intrusive daylight.

“Come on, I’ve made you a birthday breakfast,” which wasn’t at all different from any other breakfast but you believed a sprinkle of love that you so thoughtfully added was definitely going to make it taste a bit less like wet cardboard.

“We have plans for today,” you stated proudly as you were waiting for Five to get up. He glanced at you suspiciously, and you were quick to reassure him.

“You can do your clever math things till evening but after that we’re celebrating. There are two bottles of wine that you didn’t know about, and we’re going to drink them and dance. But not ball dance, properly drunk dance. No sadness allowed. Instructions clear?”

Five nodded, feeling a weary yet content and cheerful smile touch the corners of his lips.

Maybe, it wasn’t going to be a shit day, after all.

Day 2587.

“Come on, don’t you dare die on me, you idiot,” Five hissed after pressing his lips against your forehead and coming to a disturbing conclusion that your fever was only getting worse.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” you laughed weakly as you looked up at him, and in less than a second a violent wave of nausea washed over your body and swallowed you whole, leaving you with very little chances to escape the overwhelming feeling. You’d been throwing up non-stop the entire day, and the severe dehydration you were suffering was becoming a genuine concern.

The two of you didn’t have the luxury of medicine, and most days you were doing just fine. This time, however, sleeping it off didn’t seem to be doing it for you, and Five was beginning to panic.

“Don’t say that,” Five said coldly, and you winced at the sudden change of mood, almost offended that he wasn’t trying to distract you from your mysterious illness with humor.

“I’m just worried about you,” he clarified as he noticed a gleam of sadness in your eyes.

It was absolutely killing him to see you like that - in pain, sick and exhausted, and he simply couldn’t afford to have “sad” on the list as well.

If there was one thing that Five despised more than anything else in this world, it would be helplessness, and now, as he was facing the invisible enemy that was threatening to take you away, he was feeling exactly that. Helpless. Useless.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe through another urge to vomit, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth loudly, but the agonizing sensation didn’t seem to have any compassion or mercy for you.

“Okay, I can’t hold it back any longer,” you warned, and Five nodded in silent understanding.

He’d been sitting by your side and holding your hair all day, thoughtfully keeping it away from your face while you were restlessly puking your guts out, and, as you were doing so, not a single muscle on his face cringed in disgust. The only thing that was truly bothering him about this marathon of vomiting was how soon you were going to recover from it.

Thankfully, your immune system was strong enough to get you back on your feet without any external assistance, and you began to get better eventually. But even during your weeks of sickness there wasn’t a single day when you didn’t feel loved and cared for, and the precious moments of Five holding your hand during your feverish nightmares were going to be imprinted on your mind forever.

[okay-victoria]

Random Personal Rant

For anyone somehow here not from the original thread, this started off me getting asked what finishing school is and me getting shit off my chest that is only mildly relevant about how I could both be of the social class that gets sent to finishing school and grows up on welfare.

With an understanding that in many parts of the world it wouldn't qualify as so, as far as the US goes, my dad is from what counts as a very old money family from Baltimore & Philadelphia. Both his siblings went to college and one now owns a major hedge fund, and his sister is married to a C-level executive at a huge conglomerate. His parents went to college. His grandparents went to college. All eight of his great grandparents went to college. My dad...did not go to college. He was not about that life, and while I don't mean it as an insult, when I say his primary occupation until I was ~5 was a drummer in a mediocre band I mean that he opened for a lot of great acts, and if you lived in the Boston to Atlanta area in the 80s you may have heard him play, but he was never a huge national name. But he wasn't an amateur band playing for free at some random local gig either.

My mom grew up on a chicken farm in a Mennonite family in Pennsylvania but also completely rejected her heritage and became a model, sort of like my father, of mediocre status. Not Giselle Bundchen, but had national contracts and if you have a Graco ad/box from 1990-1993 you might see both me and her on it. They met because my mom's friends placed bets, one each, on who could sleep with a member of their favorite local band first and my mom picked my dad and...my mom was actually supposed to go be a model in Tokyo and found out she was pregnant with me and couldn't go 😂

So, after my parents had two kids back to back with a third on the way and determined they needed lifestyles more in line with having three children, they became much poorer than they originally were because my mom stopped working and my dad, with a barely-passed-high-school education but needing a true "day job" worked day labor in construction. My dad's father was too proud to give us money/help if my dad didn't beg for it; despite having eventually four young children my dad never did so we ended up on all the state assistance programs one could imagine. My grandma jokes that dinners at my parents house were BYOC - bring your own chair, because we didn't own any.

My mother and paternal grandmother had no such pride issues and I live in eternal gratitude that my welfare childhood was not as crappy as it should have been because my grandmother would have my mom accompany her on grocery runs and buy us food without my father or grandfather knowing, and every Christmas and birthday my grandparents/godparents could give us the one big ticket gift all the kids wanted that year. But, on the other side, I once got stung by a bee inside my mouth because my brother threw a hairbrush through a cracked window at me and broke it and we couldn't afford to fix it for about two years and a hornet got in one day and rested himself in my coke can (my parents were the very American type that fed me coca-cola in baby bottles at age 8 when I was jealous of my younger siblings lol).

It is hard not to believe in "toxic masculinity" when two men warring over dumbass pride issues would rather their children/grandchildren go without food than suck it up and decide 'help' isn't the worst word in the English language, and you know you've only been saved by two women who came from totally different backgrounds and entirely disapproved of each other but reached out the hand to shake when it came down to toddlers getting the short end of the don't-bend-the-knee stick. It wasn't that either of the men were bad people, I loved them both and got along great with both, but on a societal level I feel they were socialized in a very fucked up way if that was the end result, as both claimed "male pride" in these instances [my dad took multiple thousands of dollars I'd saved from working during college from me during the 2008-2010 financial crisis and didn't tell me and that was the reason I was given for why I hadn't been informed/asked, because it would be too emotionally difficult for an adult man to ask a young woman. My graduation present was them repaying me 1/3 of the money they'd taken from me without asking because I'd like, trusted them when it had been in a joint account that was a holdover from when I was <18 and couldn't have my own bank account].

While in some ways my parents on the surface achieved the American dream of going from nothing to a bunch of money, the real factor in play was that my dad's father was the bank. My parents had no credit and couldn't get real loans. My dad worked construction and during the two major periods that flipping houses was very lucrative, he never had to get an actual loan or pay actual interest, he just had to ask his father to pay out cash and then repay him at a flat 2% interest rate that didn't even accrue over time, just...whenever you are ready, repay the value of the loan + 2%. Because my father was doing something productive, in these instances, my grandfather was happy to pay, because it wasn't giving away money, it was loaning it. I had a very weird situation of mostly being poor but like also getting taken to the "big donors" events at the Kennedy Center and my grandparents regularly buying me a dress as a child worth more than my mom's wedding dress and also needing to pretend I fit in with these people.

And look. When I say "these people"...honestly, by and large, most wealthy people, whether inherited or not, are not the assholes you want to imagine. Most of them are extremely nice. Most of them are generous when it comes to the less fortunate who are in their personal sphere of being. Most of them are just really out of touch. The 100% kindest of all of them that I know once relayed to me that she thought people would be happier if once a year they did what she did...go to the airport with a purse packed full of absolute necessities, buy a one way ticket to the most appealing destination on the flight board, buy your clothes and book your accommodations after you'd arrived, and come back after you felt you'd 'centered' yourself. She didn't understand why there were so many unhappy people who weren't taking this very obvious route to being happier. I didn't quite know how to explain that saying "most" people couldn't afford to do that either financially or from a job/career angle didn't even cover it, as "most" sounds like 70% instead of 99.7%.

I was both my parents eldest son and eldest daughter in the worst combination possible. I was the eldest son because I was the most stereotypically male of all my siblings, in everything from desire to physically fight the battles I was given to dislike of shopping/fashion to lack of emotional connection to my relationships, so I can now fix your average household plumbing/drywall/electrical issue better than most "city" guys I interact with and remain less clingy to them in the process. I was also very much the oldest daughter from a responsibility perspective, I managed our household and from age 10 - 24 managed the finances of our family business, my mom almost died giving birth to my youngest brother after a ruptured uterus that should never have happened in the first place if we had adequate insurance to get her a non-emergency C-section (I was just past 9 years old at the time) and I was informally withdrawn from school for two years to take care of the family when she couldn't because there is no paid parental leave in the US and we got double-fucked by the medical industry because she got a bad "mesh" put in and then had to have a further surgery to repair that which we also had to pay for and didn't have the money to win a lawsuit over.

I don't know quite how to put this, but in the deepest fuck you of the universe, my rich-immigrant-ggggg grandfather's money led to him owning banks, insurance companies, etc, and the family cashed out in a big way when their ownership was bought by and merged with what is now Cigna, one of the biggest US healthcare insurers, and my nuclear family specifically got screwed by the American health insurance industry, but anyway, we were the people selected for that karmic comeuppance so if you want to feel schadenfreude at my expense, I'll allow it without begrudging the sentiment, my family might have fucked up your family’s life too, not just their own.

I got up twice a night to feed my brother because my dad had to sleep unmolested in my room to get to work and my mom was too weak to carry my brother or even hold him against her while she nursed so I had to hold him up to her. Adjusting to living in a city and hearing lots of random noises all the time was not easy when I'd had mom sound instincts from age 9.

I learned to drive the fall my youngest bro was born because my mom couldn't and I had to get my middle brother to preschool and go the grocery store on my own. While I hold absolutely no ill will towards my father or grandfather for this and given that about 1/3 of my paternal family either has an autism diagnosis or should, I fully feel the struggles they both went through to be communicated with, my father wouldn't ask for help, and my grandmother that lived 20 minutes away couldn't give enough help because my grandfather refused to do a single dish on his own as that was outside their "marriage contract" type agreement and she couldn't ever stay with us overnight when there wasn't a clearly-communicated need, so they let the burden fall on a 9 - 11 year old child and that really shaped a lot of my life in both good and bad ways. My youngest brother is 22, and we have only just climbed out of the medical debt his birth left us with between my dad's life insurance and my oldest brother and I paying for the extra cost of out-of-state college tuition.

The irony of all of this is that because my father died before his father, when my grandmother dies, my siblings and I will all inherit enough money (as a non-blood relative my mom, despite keeping her vows to part at death and not having remarried in eight years, is cut out entirely) to make this a non-issue, but my grandfather couldn't conscience spotting his unluckiest child some money in the end of days to pay for my youngest two brothers' education and take that worry off my father as he was dying. The day before he died I had to hold him down in bed to keep him from trying to climb in his truck to go to work because he was so anxious about trying to provide for us in spite of his father having fuck you money, because his father didn't think it was fair to the other siblings (who, at the time, still owned a major hedge fund and were married to a C-level executive of a huge conglomerate). A day and a half later I went back to my job because at the time I was then the sole provider for the family and didn't want to risk asking for the standard week's bereavement leave when I knew I was capable of showing up at work the next day and was fresh out of college so hadn't built up a reputation yet.

My father worked the day each of us was born, so I suppose it is only fair and he smiled at the choice. In spite of what it may seem, I gave a baller and very heartfelt speech at his funeral to all his rich friends that over and above everything, he'd taught us how to be happy with our own lives no matter what, and multiple of them emailed my mom in the aftermath to say they'd reassessed their relationship with their children in light of it, although...tbh I kind of doubt that lasted and they probably changed nothing 😅. The last good talk I had with him, two weeks before he died [his liver was going and it sent toxins to his brain that de-personed him after that and he no longer recognized me as his daughter, but as his sister], I reassured him that though we would all be sad he'd gone, we'd live on just fine without him because that's how he'd raised us, and according to my mom that was what gave him the final bit of peace he needed. Although honestly, I don't think I will ever see the strength in another human again that it took my grandmother to sit next to him and stroke his hand and tell him to close his eyes and imagine he was happy on a beach and die, for God's sake, because he was unaware and in pain and just prolonging it for our sake by then.

That type of obsession my grandfather had with assessing his children and grandchildren on the basis of economic productivity and a very black and white idea of "fair" is one you don't easily forget, I promise you. My hedge fund uncle is currently positioning himself to screw us out of our inheritance because of janky writing in the will and I'm doing my fuck all best to gain the wherewithal to go toe-to-toe with this cold motherfucker in court as the oldest and representative member of my happily much nicer and softer younger brothers who I want to remain that way not because I even care that much about the money, I know what bills affect your credit first and what you can put off paying and all of us have good enough career prospects to do our own thing, but just because I want to give the middle finger to a man that was a multi-millionaire and drew lines on his milk and orange juice bottles when I came over so he knew if I drank what my parents couldn't afford when I was approximately six. Anyway, ask me why I support major reforms in wealth taxation. I don't care who it goes to, just not that guy, you feel?

Having expendable income was very exciting for a bit after I started working but once I got to the hateable point of assessing my annual bonus and internally complaining that I'd spent the money I should have spent on a Sauternes cellar to drop five digits on bedset materials (to be fair they are drop dead gorgeous, very comfy and the factory pays a living wage for people to handmake the sheets/duvets/pillows to people in San Francisco, which is not cheap, so maybe I did more good than harm with that), I two seconds later nodded to myself and went "the government needs to confiscate more money from me". The narrative is always that the "undeserving" will use it for dumb things they don't need like iPhones or refrigerators...?...but like...I could also have gone to Bed Bath and Beyond and bought a very nice sheet/comforter set for at most a tenth of what I paid so am I really spending it responsibly either....?....who is going to get more joy out of this misspent money....?....not me, that is for sure, I probably would have had more fun going to BBB and laying on all the demo beds and buying something there.

My lifelong dream, which may become possible if/when I do have something of an inheritance, is to provide food security for one of the many towns in the US were most residents don't have it. It's the thing I remember the most distinctly over the years. I never could quite believe it when I got to the point that I could just...pay to eat at a restaurant. One of the most disappointed my mother has ever been in me is when I was twenty five and confessed I actually had no idea how much a gallon of milk cost in a city grocery store besides that it was probably between $1 and $5, because I didn't have to know. For now I make a weekly drop off of my excess produce to a mom group I met under somewhat weird circumstances but I was walking through the cut-through that went through the low-income housing back to my apartment at like 2 AM on a Saturday and these moms were out there partying and smoking weed with their kids all strapped in strollers around or the older ones watched by a rotating member of the group and I felt very safe and like these moms had a very good vibe of both living their own lives [seriously for mental health parents but in most cases specifically mothers need to be able to keep up relationships with people their age] but keeping their children safe and accounted for while doing so and trying their fuckin' best against all the odds to figure out how to make that happen when life had dealt them a shit hand.

...anyway, looping way back to the original question of what finishing school is, when I was almost done with middle school my dad had built a legit construction business that then very quickly took off because we lived in a commutable zip code to the now-rich-in-their-own-right people he went to high school with who trusted him to redo their homes. We eventually moved to that zip code but I stayed and commuted back to my old high school. But, i was a pretty wild kid which my father appreciated for a long while because I would follow him around on jobs and enjoy doing physical labor, but once I was mid-puberty and also he had to maybe show me to his high school friends that did not fly.

I snapped - not broke, snapped - my left thumb and my parents had to trap me like a wild animal to get me to go the hospital. Then I got a deep cut that partially injured a tendon in my leg and at eleven I tried to beat the shit out of my dad to prevent him from picking me up to strap me in the car and go to the hopsital. Next I got a deep splinter due to my eternal-barefoot tendencies and it wouldn't come out so got infected and I refused to go to the doctor [another weird back story but I was minorly sexually assaulted [[to be clear, not raped or anything big traumatic]] when I was eight and had to stay in hospital for a week and my parents couldn't be with me all the time so I have a permanent heebie-jeebie about going to the hospital, not true anxiety, I will go if I know I need to and I don't breathe heavy or anything, and I'm actually not permanently weirded out by sex or anything, just doctors in hospitals specifically I kind of unconsciously try to justify not needing to the extent I can rationalize it] and my dad was tired of my antics so he was like "fine if you don't go I will slice your foot in half with a Swiss Army knife to get it out" and I called his bluff and laid down on the floor, stuck my foot on his lap, and he didn't really know what to do when a barely fourteen year old girl called his bluff so my brothers watched in fascinated but horrified awe as I got my foot sliced open spectacularly so that the infection/splinter could come out and I didn't even make a sound out of spite despite it being quite painful to my recollection almost twenty years later.

They saw me cry from pain exactly one time when while trying to break up a fight between all three of them (it was over ice cream) I got pushed and my ankle got dislocated and what actually made me cry was snapping it back in place and they realized it was not a joke. These dumb assholes that I love have ragged on me for "skipping" chores the day after I was in the hospital because the day before that I had to spend 18 hours running Thanksgiving as a good sub-hostess like I didn't have a serious infection that needed treating and couldn't rest because none of them were up to any task beyond peeling potatoes.

After the Swiss Army knife incident, my dad's discussion of sending me to finishing school became real, which I knew when my mom made me take a walk with her and talked about it. Finishing school is like...etiquette school....? In ye olden day when finishing high school was not the norm for anyone, wealthy men finished high school and wealthy women often went to "finishing" school to have a combined education on being a proper lady but also being able to hold a decent conversation with your presumably-educated husband, so it wasn't entirely etiquette non-academic. It was more just like "what a rich man wants in a wife" school, which was sort of household management and knowing enough about cleaning/cooking to correct the staff if they fucked up, how to be a polite hostess, and how to not entirely bore him when you were alone together and had done your five minutes of sex or whatever so actually had to have a conversation. In modern times it has obviously expanded to be less bleak.

I said miss me with that, I can be a girl on my own, so I went full throttle into the girliest sport they offer in high school and ever since have gained the inestimable advantage of knowing how to also use femininity to my advantage, which I am very grateful to my parents for making me learn. It would be great if we lived in a world where that didn't count, but it did/still does, and they really set me up to operate in all the worlds.

It is weird for me to tell the story to Internet strangers because it's one of those things that makes your parents sound terrible and abusive in the general tone of the Internet nowadays, and while I support gender nonconforming children I don't remember my childhood or parents that way. But, I feel like the bits and pieces of my life I've given don't always make a ton of sense together without the context, so here it is, and in the end, I think a number of parts of it are areas where you can probably understand where it makes me have the opinions I do when I write.

Anyhoo, this makes my life sound far worse than it is, I actually have a great life and I am not unhappy with it at all and feel I was on the whole blessed with many more turns of luck than unluck, so, please, do not take this as a depressed artist rant, it is more like a rant of a very energetic person who rants about a lot of things all the time and didn’t need to come out but just did because the question was asked and the time was right with my life being in a bit of flux to think about how I got where I am and where I want to go and why.

Always remember no matter what problems it seems like I have, if I didn’t solve them on my 2 year round the world traveling hiatus I took from working, it’s my own fault, I definitely had the time and money to solve them and just chose not to.

[elowenp]

part 1, this on ao3

~

It’s a normal night, until it’s not.

Dick had been purposeful when he had said that Damian could make mistakes. He remembers the way the necessity of perfection had eaten at him when he was younger. He knows that Damian is even more susceptible than he was to that burning self-disgust at anything less than a flawlessness. Upon taking over the mantle of Batman, Dick had decided that Damian needed to know there was at least one adult in his life who wouldn't disown him for delivering anything less than perfection.

He hadn’t thought so much about what would happen when Damian actually did make a mistake.

It happens when Dick is in the middle of congratulating Damian on a particularly impressive move, one with a more gymnastic slant which Dick is sure is based on one of his own trademarks. He’s telling Damian what a good job he’s doing and Damian is puffing up with pride, a smile playing around the edges of his expression. Then Dick catches the glint of the sniper rifle scope.

The ability to dodge bullets is a trademark of members of their family. Damian should feel the whistle of the bullet coming his way, he should jolt back from the air parting in front of him. But Damian's too caught up in his pride to do any of those things quickly enough so within a moment of Dick spotting the rifle scope there’s a bullet in Damian's leg.

Dick is so used to falling that he doesn't remember a time when it didn't feel like flying. The way his stomach drops now though, it doesn't feel like flying. It feels like the kid he said he'd take care of has blood spurting from his leg and it's all Dick's fault.

To his credit Damian is very calm about it. Dick knows he’s been shot before although he doesn’t know if it was a purposeful part of the boys training or not. His blood boils at either prospect. Even as the crowd is still screaming for their heroes to come save them Dick grabs Damian from the blood soaked ground and rushes to the batmobile, putting it on autopilot as he tries to stabilise the patient.

“I’m sorry.” he whispers, “I’m sorry. We’ll be back at home in no time and we’ll get you all fixed up, okay?” Dick blinks away the tears at the sight of Damian bloody and pale in front of him. Impediments to his vision will only make it harder to get Damian stable.

“Okay.” Damian replies, voice remarkably steady.

Now aware that someone he trusts is going to make it all better, Damian promptly passes out.

“Shit.” Dick says, young ears now unable to hear him. “Shit shit shit shit shit. Fuck.”

He swears to his heart's content for the rest of the ride back to the manor and it does very little to make him feel any better.

No, the swirling sea of worry-guilt-anguish in his stomach only begins to abate at the sight of Alfred in the bat cave, perfectly calm and with all the necessary medical supplies ready. They get Damian to a bed and Dick tries to make himself useful as Alfred treats the bullet wound.

He isn’t particularly useful and spends most of his time fretting.

“He’ll be fine, Master dick.” Alfred says once he’s finished up and washing the blood from where it had stained his skin.

“Of course he will.” Dick replies, attempting to sound a little more nonchalant than he actually is. From the look Alfred gives him he doesn’t think he succeeds.

He’s spared the indignity of having to say anything else by the rumble of Tim’s motorbike pulling into the cave. Tim gets off with an urgency Dick isn’t sure he expected and when he takes his domino off there’s genuine worry in the frown between his eyes.

“Is he okay?” he asks, his tone frantic.

“He’ll be fine.” Dick's grateful to find that his voice is far more level now than it was ten minutes ago.

Tim tilts his head to the side, looking at Dick. His expression narrows into something slightly more analytical than concern. “Are you okay?”

Dick tries to say yes. He really does. He's Tim’s big brother, he’s Batman. Of course he can tell his little brother that he’s okay. But after a moment of silence Dick glances towards where Damian lies far too still on their operating table and feels the tears he's been fighting off resurface in his eyes.

Tim nods as if this is confirming something. “Come on.” He says. “Let’s get out of here.”

Dick tries to protest that Damian needs someone to be here when he wakes up but Tim just continues to pull him gently out of the cave.

“He’s going to be out for the next few hours. I can make you hot chocolate in the meantime.”

Dick wants to keep protesting but he’s been left tired and weak by the nights events. He allows himself to slump as his little brother leads him out of the darkness.

~

Dick talks. Significantly more than he had intended to.

He talks about how he can’t balance this awful dichotomy of guardian and commander. He talks about how he’s still not entirely sure how to be Batman, let alone a parent. He talks about how he can’t keep doing this without something breaking.

Probably him. Possibly Damian. Both answers are unacceptable.

“I’ll to fix this” Tim says. The determination in his expression reminds Dick of when he came to his bludhaven apartment all those years ago and demanded Dick reprise his roll as Robin. “I’m going to make a call, we’ll sort this out.” he promises.

Tim’s always been good at that. Tugging on the fraying strings of their family tapestry until it resembles something whole. It’s how he came into the family in the first place and Dick has always been grateful for that.

Tim leaves, already dialing a number into his phone with a look of intense concentration. Dick wants to go check on Damian but Alfreds got that handled so it’s not like he’ll actually help. Sitting idle at the boys bedside will probably just make him feel worse.

So Dick hangs his head and waits for someone to save him.

~

“Give me a lift to the airport?” Tim asks far too sweetly. The tone of voice doesn’t suit him.

“You can drive.” Dick points out, suspicious.

Tim gives him a look, like Dick's being difficult on purpose. “It’ll be a bonding opportunity.” he says, his tone lowering to something closer to his usual cadence. Dick still feels suspicious but there’s a million things he has to do today that are more important than arguing with his only sane brother, so he nods. Tim grins in response and gets up with a lot more energy than he tends to these days.

Dick decides that there’s little use in thinking on it more. He’s in charge of far too many things at the moment, he’ll let Tim control this one.

~

Cass appears in the collection area, suitcase in hand, and Dick feels the weight of the world become significantly lighter.

She's more muscled than she was when she left. Her footsteps are more confident. It makes pride rise in Dick's throat as he realises how brave his little sister is for growing so much all by herself.

She picks up her pace once Tim and Dick are in view, almost breaking into a jog as she approaches. She wraps an arm around each of them and Dick can feel her smile pressing against his cheek.

Dick realises that his own smile is pressing against Cass’s cheek. His chin is somehow resting in Tim’s hair.

He savours the moment and feels more full than he has in a long time.

“Welcome home.” He says into Cass’s neck. He feels her smile even wider in response.

~

That night as Dick is about to go on patrol Cass taps his shoulder.

“I can do it.” she says, pointing at the Batman suit Dick had been about to start putting on.

Dick frowns, pushing away the golden hope bleeding into the edges of his soul. “It won’t fit.” he says.

Cass shrugs. “I won’t wear it. But I can do it.”

Dick feels his frown deepen. Cass is younger than him and she hasn’t been in Gotham for so long. It’s not a good idea for her to take on the mantle. She’s already got far too much weighing her down without adding another impossible burden for her to bear.

Dick looks past Cass for a second to allow his eyes to rest on Tim, busying himself with sorting his own gear out but none too subtly watching the exchange between Dick and Cass. He gives a slight nod. An endorsement. Dick looks back to Cass who is smiling very gently at his indecision.

“Okay.” he says, and the room releases a sigh of relief.

~

Cass has been Batman every night since she got back a week ago and Dick hasn’t felt this light since Bruce died.

She was always the best fighter out of them. Always a little faster, a little more cutting, than any of her brothers. She isn’t as used to the detective aspect of things but she's surrounded by enough people trained in that aspect of the job that it isn’t a problem. Dick wears the Nightwing suit and flies higher than he has in months. Damian tends to work with Cass, Batman needs a Robin after all, but will pop up on Dick's patrols with silent requests for ice cream and a shoulder to lean on.

Cass can be Damian's Batman. Dick can be his guardian. It was always too much to ask of Bruce, for him to be both. For him to be their teacher and their hero and their father. Splitting the load seems to be going far better than anything Bruce used to try.

~

Sometimes Dick will catch Tim smiling at him the same way he does at a problem just solved. He wants to say thank you. Thank you for letting me outrun that awful burden for a little longer. Thank you for saving me. But he supposes that’s just what brothers are for.

Instead he asks Tim if he wants to go train surfing. They haven’t since before Bruce died. Dick was far too busy trying to keep the world from collapsing in on itself and Tim was too busy trying to find a way to stop Dick from crumbling under the pressure of it.

“Yeah.” Tim says, his smile twisting and morphing until it goes from analytical to soft and relieved. “Yeah I’d like that.”

~

"Do you miss him?" Damian asks one day. Dick doesn't need any clarification on who he's talking about.

The two of them are sat on a rooftop, legs swinging over the side. Damian is holding a rum and raisin ice cream Dick had pressed firmly into his hand. Dick decided a while ago that Damian should be offered the opportunity to try all the flavours he missed out on in the earlier part of his childhood and he thinks they're making some pretty good progress.

Dick considers for a moment. It's a complicated question. "Yes," he starts, because of course he does, "But it doesn't hurt like it used to. Not now that I can focus on being myself instead of squeezing myself into the shape of the person I'm mourning. And you?"

"Yes." Damian starts, because of course he does. He pauses for longer than Dick did but that makes sense. Damian's thoughts are complicated enough that Dick can't help but be proud of the kid for being able to untangle even a few of them. "But I know a lot of people who've died. And at least this time I gained what I came searching for regardless of what happened to Father."

It's not a thank you. Dick knows that it's going to take a little more time for Damian to learn how to shape his mouth into those words. But it's a start.

Dick looks at all the life surrounding him and smiles.

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 79: The Glass Floor Beneath Our Feet

I am sorry.

First  Previous  Next

Fingertips trail over skin, and lips follow. Lance inhales deeply, doesn’t open his eyes. It’s a nice feeling, those hands… Mmmh, the tug of claws against his scales...

“Good morning,” Keith murmurs, just before the sharp, delicious sting of pointed teeth plucking into Lance's bared throat. He jolts, stubbornly keeps his eyes closed. “Open your eyes for me?... Please?”

As if Lance could deny such a fond request, lashes fluttering open to reveal brilliant blue and pink gazing into glinting amethyst and gold. He’s on his back, Keith in his lap, leaning over him. It’s a dazzling image: lean, still-toned muscle rippling beneath purple-furred skin, long limbs, sheets of pitch black hair tumbling down. And those deep purple eyes, wide and shining, pupils narrowed to slits, playful as the accompanying smile.

“Hi,” Lance mumbles, still sleepy. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel great! Seems those pills worked. Little one and I will get to eat today. How are you?”

“Mmmh…” Lance sighs, gazing sleepy and dazed at his love.

“Happy birth quintant.” Keith leans down, kisses him again, hands on his cheeks, thumbs caressing his scales. His tail curls around Lance’s ankle.

“Hm.” Lance hums, working up to a smile as he kisses back. He mumbles, “You should wake me up like this every morning.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Keith sits back in Lance’s lap, hands sliding down the Altean’s chest.

“I really, really would.” Lance’s hands find Keith’s bare hip, his arm, touch as fond as his gaze. His gaze roves over Keith’s form. “It’s been a while since I got a good look at you… You don’t seem much changed.”

“I know. But I have a scan tomorrow with Thace, so hopefully he’ll be able to provide me with some kind of timeline or rate of development. Unless there’s something wrong…”

“Hey.” Lance squeezes Keith’s forearm. “Little One is fine. There’s no reason at all to think otherwise.”

“...I love you,” Keith whispers, smiling. “And Little One loves you too.”

“Of course they do! I’m very loveable! Speaking of which…” Lance waggles his eyebrows. “If you wanted to, y’know-”

“Oh, shut up.” Keith leans down, kisses his mate soundly, fingers curling around to the back of Lance’s neck to sweeten the angle. He rasps over Lance’s smooth tongue as his fingers slide up into his starlight hair. As Lance’s hands find his hips, one of his own finds the headboard. Keith hums, pleased with himself as he positions himself in Lance’s lap-

And their door opens.

“Lancel, happy-”

Keith pulls away, turns to glare at Alfor, who’s staring at the scene before him. His ears pin back, tail twitching back and forth with irritation.

“Can we help you?” he asks, not bothering to hide their indecency despite his mate’s hands snapping up to cover his own, blushing face. Keith doesn’t even remove his hand from the headboard. He's much too annoyed to be embarrassed.

Alfor sighs, turns to leave, nothing but an “and we’re back to this shit” and an eye roll before he slams their bedroom door.

Keith snickers, laughs down at his mate. “Lance… Lance, come on.” The Altean removes his hands from his reddened face, lets Keith place them back on his hips. “Come on, your father’s seen you worse.”

“That was different! I wanted him to see!”

“Oh my gods, kiss me.”

Lance does just that, pushing himself up on his pillows. When his arm wraps around Keith’s waist, that’s when the Galra knows he’s got his mate exactly where he wants him.

-You’re right that I took little advantage of my time on Daibazaal. I saw nothing of your planet except what you forced so affectionately upon me. I would absolutely love to see more- all your favorite places, all the ones you think of when you think of home.

Still, I hope you will visit here again. There are places on Altea that are just as beautiful as your ocean. I want to share them with you, the same way you have shared your home with me. The respect we have cultivated is still fragile, newly born, and I would nurture it.

Regardless, I have hope we will be together again before long. I miss you.

All my love,

Adam

Personal Attendant to

Crown Prince Lancel of Altea

And Prince Yorak of House Kogane of Daibazaal and Altea

Shiro smiles, files the letter away on his datapad with all the other correspondence between himself and his beloved Altean. Adam was telling the truth when he’d said he was more articulate in writing. Every letter the attendant sent was almost exclusively things he would never say in person. The fact that Shiro receives script instead of typeface, that Adam writes to him by hand, affects him in a particular way with every letter.

It’s absolutely going to Shiro’s head, no doubt about it. An exclusive look at what actually goes on in Adam’s mind? Sign him the fuck up.

Shiro scans the empty training yard. This quintant is optional training, but usually he has at least a few men running about. Something doesn't feel right, hasn’t for a while. Now, it feels outright wrong.

He could call Adam, but if something is wrong, contacting Altea might be dangerous. Deciding he’d better investigate, Shiro rises from his spot on the ground, stretching wide, casual, inconspicuous.

As he lowers his arms, the mane on his back lifts on end, and he feels like someone is watching him. Turning, he sees nothing, smells nothing, hears nothing.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Hm.” Shiro cocks his head, heads in the direction of the mysterious presence until he arrives at Control. He hasn’t passed a single person, seen another Galra. The only sound is the patter of his feet on the stone floor. It’s like the compound has been abandoned.

At Control, Thace and Ulaz are watching various security feeds, frowns deep on their faces. Raj is missing.

“Gentlemen.”

“Captain. Where is everyone?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro murmurs. “There have been a lot of deserters lately…” “Yes,” Ulaz agrees, “But it seems like half of our remaining numbers are missing. Like they vanished overnight. And the feeds stalled out last night. We can’t find the records.”

“Where are your kits?” Shiro queries, keeping himself calm, controlled. Just in case someone is watching. “Your little one?”

“Raj is with Mashan and the triplets for today. Is your Altean here?”

“No.” Shiro turns to his friends. Thace’s garnet eyes haven’t left the screens, even as they look thoughtful, evaluating the situation.

“Sir, I must send a message to Adam. Prince Yorak is due for a scan this quintant. I want it done immediately, and remotely. Just in case.”

“Agreed. We should position ourselves near the prince and princess.”

“Not the imperial couple?”

“No. The prince and princess are definitely not our enemy. I cannot say the same for Zarkon or Honerva.” Shiro grits his teeth. “Stay vigilant.”

“Yes sir.”

Adam is arguing with Vetroneius. Which is exactly what he didn’t want for his morning.

“He does not need new clothes. He’s happy with what he’s wearing-”

“It’s unprofessional, and he will have a wardrobe that befits his status.” Vetroneius’ eyes don’t waver. “You might be able to terrorize everyone else around here, but not me, attendant.”

Adam leans forward, feeling fiercely protective of the small Galra he’s grown so fond of.

“Is that the truth?” Adam’s eyes flash green, his quintessence piercing the other Altean’s skull like a lance, a needle’s poke through the gray matter. He leans back at their frightened squeak. “I thought not.”

Adam stares Vetroneius down. “Price Yorak will not be coming in for any measurements. He has made it very clear that he prefers his own clothes, and says making anything for him would be a waste. He does not wish for you to spend your efforts on something that will not be worn.

“However, should he require any alterations in the future, he will let you know. Good day, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Everyone is my friend, even if only by necessity-” A ping from Adam’s datapad cuts his words short. It’s a message from Thace.

I cannot travel today. Tavo will conduct the scan while I observe remotely. Have the princes report immediately to Medical.

Ventroneius peers over Adam’s shoulder. “That… cannot be good.”

“No. That Galra is never in a hurry to do anything. I’d best get moving…” Adam hesitates. “I recommend you and your tailors leave now. Go home.”

“Most are wards of the castle. But I will send them to their quarters to await instructions if need be.” Vetroneius pauses. “You could have just told me he was pregnant. It would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

“The princes informed me that they wish to keep it to themselves for now. I am merely following orders.”

“Hm. Well let him know that when he inevitably needs alterations made, I would be happy to help him.”

Adam nods, leaves without another word. When he arrives at the princes’ quarters, he knocks.

The door opens to a grinning, disheveled Lance. “Hey! Someone knows how to knock!”

Keith’s giggling as he pulls his shirt down over his head. Adam sighs. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“No. Alfor did, though. He busted right in here-”

“The point is!” Lance cuts in, blushing. “My father is not very polite.”

“We knew that already. Now.” Adam pushes up his glasses. “I received a message from Thace. For undisclosed reasons, he cannot make the trip to Altea, so he will be joining us remotely. He asked that we begin immediately, so I came to retrieve you.”

The princes frown, immediately concerned. Keith asks, “He wouldn’t say why?”

“No. He only gave instructions.”

“We should go now,” the Galra determines. Lance immediately takes his hand, and the three hurry down the halls.

Tavo is already prepared. “Hello, your Majesties. Do you know what the objective is today?”

Keith licks his lips, hesitant to be anything but anxious, but when Lance’s hand squeezes his, the word “heartbeat” exits his mouth on a smile.

“Yes.” Tavo smiles. “Are you ready, Thace?”

“Entirely!” The genial Galra’s face shows up on the screen. “I’ve got the feed from your machine, so I am all set. Keith, have you seen any difference in your physicality?” Thace seems very at ease, but Keith’s not sure if it’s a farce. It could be, or it could be that “happy-friendly” is the man’s only real mood. Either way, he finds himself lying in a chair.

“No, though I’ve noticed a subtle soreness in my hips. And my chest. No bump.” Keith climbs into the chair.

“All of that is expected in your case. We’ll run some bloods to check your folic acid to make sure that’s still where it should be and analyze your overall health, and then do a careful scan.”

Keith nods, pulls off his shirt, watching Tavo take a few vials of blood. Lance takes his hand in both of his, kissing each of his fingers, a welcome distraction from the needles he’s developed such an aversion to. He’s a grown-up. He can deal. He takes a deep breath, swallows his apprehensive nausea, focuses on Lance’s touch- And it’s over. He breathes a sigh of relief.

Tavo lays a thin, clear film over Keith’s lower abdomen, to “protect the little one.” Keith smiles his appreciation, nervous. Lance must pick up on it, because he squeezes Keith’s hand tight, kisses his ear while the medic positions the scanner above his abdomen.

And then… a little blob, in a circle of empty space. And the blob becomes a little… thing. With a tail, stubby arm lumps, a snout sort of thing, the bumps that will become a spine…

*be-beat* *be-beat* *be-beat* *be-beat*

Rapid fire, like someone in a flat out sprint. A little dark circle within that form, clenching, unclenching. A viable embryo.

“Counting…” Tavo murmurs. “Counting…” A long dobash. “One-seventy-seven beats per dobash. A little fast, but not out of normal range. Beautiful.”

Thace hums. “Not ectopic… relatively normal mammalian development… Much slower than a Galra, but we expected that... Not sure if the tail will stay, but overall I’m pleased.”

Keith barely hears. This tiny wad of cells could become a whole person. They could have his fur, Lance’s skin, his ears, Lance’s eyes- Please gods let them have their sire’s eyes.

It’s not a person. Not yet. But there’s all the potential in the universe.

“Look at that, beloved. Look how little they are.”

“That’s… how it works,” Keith breathes. “They start out tiny and-” He sighs, turns to nuzzle into Lance’s hands, still enveloping his own. Lance reaches out with one of them, brushes hair out of his face, rubs the base of his ear.

“Best birthday present ever,” Lance whispers, still stroking Keith’s hair. “I still can barely believe it.”

“Well- Well you better start,” Keith chokes. “I need you.”

“You’ve got me. Always.” Lance presses their foreheads together, leaning over his husband, never letting go of his hand. “Always-”

Thace’s feed buzzes with a moment of static.

“I’d better go see what that’s about. Tavo, prioritize getting those bloods to me, and saving a recording of that scan to Altea’s medical database. Then back it up on a portable device small enough to wear-” A shout in the distance cuts him off.

“Thace?” Keith pushes himself into a sitting position, Lance standing by his side, still holding his hand. “What’s wrong?”

The galra frowns, ears twitching, rotating this way and that. “I’m not sure. Stay-”

The feed cuts out.

“Thace? Thace!” Keith’s more than a little alarmed, letting Lance help him to his feet. The Altean’s eyes narrow. A brown hand finds the small of Keith’s back.

“We should return to our rooms,” he whispers. “And await word from our contacts on Daibazaal. Or from Father.”

“You don’t seriously think-”

“I don’t know. But your life has priority now, and we must keep you safe.”

Keith allows himself to be steered from the room, where Tavo remains studiously putting away his equipment like nothing is wrong.

“I don’t appreciate you attitude, Lance,” he grumbles, teeth grit and bared. His ears pin back against his head, tail sweeping across the floor.

“I know you don’t, and I love that about you, but this is about more than just you. Or us. You are the future of Altean civilization, and I beg you to act accordingly.” Lance is in full-on Crown Prince mode, poised and elegant, moving at a careful pace so as not to raise alarm, but also to cover ground quickly. “Just this once. For me, beloved.”

“I understand.”

And Keith does, really. He really, truly understands. He hates it, but he is currently carrying the potential heir to the throne, the perpetuation of Lance’s bloodline, and the cornerstone upon which Altea’s government is built.

Which is fucking stupid, but there it is.

He allows himself to be steered into their quarters, watches Lance bar the doors, alter the settings on their security system. The hidden doorway in their gardens he leaves unlocked, just in case. Keith sits on the edge of their bed with BleepBloop and Kosmo, watching Lance pace, write furiously on his datapad, try repeatedly to reach their contacts on Daibazaal.

When they get a message from Daibazaal via Krolia, it’s not what either of them were expecting.

Daibazaal Imperial Compound under siege by Galra ships.  Imperials believed trapped inside. Forces mobilized. Rebels bound for Altea. Compound sending distress call shortly. Allegiances uncertain.

Knowledge or Death.

A tick and a half later, the lights in their rooms are reduced to the pale blue tracks a dash about the floor, and alarms are blaring. When Keith looks to his mate, Lance has opened a panel in the wall, strung his bow. With a grimace, the young prince, still vargas away from nineteen decaphoebs, has removed a gorgeous broadsword, the unsullied blade glinting sharply, white metal reflecting the dim glow of the room around them.

“Forgive me, beloved, what I may do this quintant.”

In that moment, Lance stands in sharp relief, lean and powerful, poised and confident, a beautiful young man with a crown on his brow and a blue flame in his eyes. He is everything a Crown Prince, a warrior, should be. Everything Keith expects him to be. If only it didn’t feel so wrong.

Lance straps the sword to his waist, and Keith looks away. His eyes find his chest from Daibazaal, and his mind finds the suit at the bottom. This feat will take both of them to pull off, and he’d best prepare to protect himself, their child, and their peoples with every bit of breath in his body.

Like his father before him.

[dpargyle]

_

I'm not doing that podcast anymore. I'm racking my brain here trying to figure out how to build an audience/make $ creatively rn. Every conventional avenue is cut off to me, as I've explained before. I don't really want to write books anymore (due to restricted creative control/sadly losing faith entirely in the medium/business of the novel as an effective art form in these horrendous times) - but trying to build an audience online has just been one failure after another. I really don't know what to do. These days, I catch myself daydreaming about dropping off the grid entirely & farming or some shit but I think realistically my disability precludes me (for multiple reasons) from such foolishness. & I think I'm always going to need to create art of some description. I just wish...like...anyone would care... & this isn't a call out post or anything - like - I get it. Shit is falling apart everywhere (more rapidly than I think many abled folk may realize) so reading/listening to my creative output is nobody's top priority (nor should it be) - especially in such oversaturated markets I don't really know what I'm trying to say here. Like. I'm unemployed - I have no prospects - & even if I had any - the government would cut funding for medical necessities b/c secretly (but not so secretly) policy is set up for people like me to die quietly in the background I'm far more privileged than most in my position, due to my family. At least for now. But if I can't find a steady source of income soon, I'm going to have to move back in with my folks which I really do not want to have to do. Like - I did everything right. I went all the way through a hellish school system. I graduated (with honors) from college. I jumped through all their hoops, I played all the stupid fucking games. & because of my condition I am almost completely cut off from society - b/c no one has given me a chance at the things I actually give a shit about. (This is a rant now oh well lol) & I know I'm a damn good writer. I'm a good artist. But finding an audience is just. I don't even know. I don't even know who I am anymore half the time. I feel thoroughly rejected from society at large. Not that I'd wanna join it right now lmao but like...it'd be nice to be asked. I'm not the only one hanging on by a fuckin thimble right now. I know that. But as a disabled person, I feel the strain before many of you. I feel it when there's not enough people to help me get up in the morning so I get left lying in bed for four hours after my usual times. Sorry, I'm rambling now. I'm also kind of exhausted trying to come up with creative endeavors and putting them up with nobody giving a shit. I put my heart & soul into these things - and I have for years. 32 years of my life, where instead of going out enjoying myself or trying to form friendships (which is already really fucking difficult when I have to get back home every day at 9pm cuz my aides are working 100 hr wks & I don't want to overtax their schedules anymore than I already do) - I chose to forego all that, laying myself on the great altar of art or whatever...all for what? Nobody caring? It's. Fuckin soul crushing. I spend like 95% of my time alone. & I don't think I'm the only one. All I really do is work on creative endeavors, research, and then finally turn off my brain watching football or w/e I don't have energy for any of this anymore. This hyper capitalist mode of....I just. I'm not even making sense & I'm all over the place & I usually outline/plan this sort of shit & probably nobody will read this anyway so I don't know why I'm bothering lmao Shot in the dark, I guess? I dunno. I know I have people who love me. & for that I'm grateful. I hope you all do too. These are dark times & I don't see them brightening in our lifetimes I'm afraid. Hold on to the ones you got I suppose. We all just have to play the cards we're dealt, even if they're all jokers, right? While I do have people who love me, I'm also sick of Utah & the US as a whole tbh, but I honestly doubt anywhere would be much

better if I'm being realistic. Even Mars will be conquered by Musk... Anyway. Just trying to express how it feels to be disabled in these times of societal collapse unheard of since the end of the Bronze Age. Perhaps it's for the best. Wish I could inhabit a different body for a while. But "if wishes were horses, we'd all be eatin' steak," to quote the bard. Like. for just one day, I'd love to experience a day that didn't feel like going to war with myself. With the world. With...like, ok, this is kind of a stupid fuckin example, but on the other hand it shows you the power of art (for w/e that's worth these days) but I was watching the most recent season (series) of Sex Education on Netflix (great frikken show btw) - and for the first time EVER - a disabled character (played by a disabled actor) has an intimate scene with another character where she's not a sex worker (no shame to sex workers but the connotation is always we can only ever have sex if we pay for it) & nobody died lmao - & it was this sacred scene where consent was central & it was playful & sweet & it literally made me cry b/c like - (& I don't cry AT ALL anymore - it's just not me) but I did - I fuckin cried, because like. You can't understand. I'm sorry. But you can't. To never see yourself reflected in such a manner. & then suddenly. You see yourself being tenderly kissed on the nose - & for a touch starved cripple - to see that - like. I know in this life I'm never gonna get that. I've accepted that. I'm too old & too much of a fuckup. But for the youth to see that? For the disabled youth of the world? Fuck. I hope it fills them with the brighter future they deserve. Maybe art can move mountains after all. Just wish I could build a door to get myself out of *here.* It's so fucking hard to see the light right now for me. I hold my head up high. I smile. I'm the strongest person I know. But I just wish I could peel off my shit & be the real me & be loved & I'm terrified none of that will ever be in store for me. But I roll on, as always. Love & strength & sorry to be...this...lmao....

[cora-vizsla]

Okay, okay, Star Wars Asks! Is 1 to 10 too much? o_O If so, just choose some that tickle your fancy ;)

*cracks knuckles* Alright here we go!

1. Jedi or Sith? Sith. I know they aren't *good* right? Which they aren’t. I agree with you 100%. I just can’t agree with the “the light is good and the dark is bad” thing. It’s not plausible. No one is perfect. There is good and bad in all of us and the good wouldn’t be nearly as good if we didn’t also appreciate the bad. 

2. Rebels or Empire? This is *hard* for me to answer. I think they both genuinely mess up with their ideals. The difference is I'm more likely to sympathize with the Rebels because their leader isn’t Creepy Ass PalpatineTM. However I've seen first hand organizations have the very best intentions end up ruining lives. Small tidbit about myself, I served in the military. I don’t advertise it often because of the climate against the military (which I actually agree with honestly) and it left a really sour taste in my mouth. I joined to help people. Like genuinely help people as a medic. What I ended up seeing was a group of people that adopted the kill or be killed mentality with people they should have been trusting. BUT THIS IS GETTING OFF TOPIC. So, probably Rebels because they aren’t run by a dickhead :)

3. Favorite character from Prequels? This is hard but probably Obi-Wan. He’s a genuinely nice person and cares so much about everyone. He doesn’t do it because he feels like he HAS to, that’s just how he is. Is he sassy? Yes. Is he sarcastic? Also yes. Is he ruggedly handsome and someone I would actually feel safe sleeping around? Also yes. I see no drawbacks here.

4. Favorite character from original trilogy? This is also hard. I’d love to say my man Boba but I wasn’t really interested in him until I got older. I’d have to go with Leia. She showed me at a young age that it’s perfectly acceptable to not take anyones shit. She was the perfect mix of royalty but also punch you in the face if you pissed her off. I loved it. Coming from a girl that was always told that I was just *too much* all the time, seeing a strong woman on my tv who was also *too much* warmed my heart and gave me a lot of confidence to not take anyones shit.

5. Favorite character from the sequel trilogy? Finn. I wasn’t even sure of my answer until I started writing this. Finn saw how corrupt and wrong it was where he was and he left. He risked his life to leave. Did he only save Poe because he was a pilot? Maybe. However, he got out of there and that alone (not even counting how much he did after that) is so courageous and terrifying. Standing up to something that you have been conditioned to obey isn’t cowardly. He was so much braver than the movies ever gave him credit for.

6. Do you have any ships? Hmm. I don’t hate any of the ships. As long as it isn’t like incest or underage stuff obviously. I think StormPilot was there and Disney just stepped on it because people would be angry there was a gay couple. 

7. If you could choose any profession to have in the GFFA, what would you be? I honestly think I'd be a senator if given the chance. Other than entirely blowing up the system *looking at you, Hux* there isn’t any other way to create change. Politics are hard but there were good senators in that group that just fell for Palps shit. 

8. Weapon of choice? My aim is about as good as a storm trooper so saber. Probably saber staff but I'd need practice because I constantly hit myself with mine haha.

9. What food from Star Wars would you want to try? Oh man. Most of it looks pretty gross to be honest haha. Rey’s ration packs remind me of being stuck in the field. That blue milk makes me want to gag. I think I would eat most things out of necessity but none of it is like “oh wow I need to try that!”

10. Which character do you feel is most like you? Almost every quiz I've taken I've gotten Obi-Wan. I’m the friend that people come to when they need advice or someone to listen. I generally am down for helping out and giving advice (if they want it of course). I’m more likely to try to talk things out than anything else. I’m sassy and sarcastic but truth is I'm hurt most often because of how much I care about people. It doesn’t stop me though. I’ll continue to care and take care of people probably until the day I leave this earth. 

[bigskydreaming]

Hey friendly reminder that I honestly do not want anyone to follow me unless they actually WANT to which means they are free to unfollow, refollow, leave and come back and leave again or WHATEVER as many times as they want, for any reason whatsoever. Including if my posting styles of the moment get to be too much for them or are not to their liking, etc?

BUT I have been seeing a surge in comments in notes and stuff on various posts of mine about the length of my posts or the rambling of my posts and like....I know? This is not new information to me? But I post the way I post at any given time based on the resources I have at any given time and the fact that its often a matter of I can post a long rambling post or I can make no post at all.

Like, I really truly do not like going into specifics about my situation more than necessary or when not necessary, because like, my situation is boring to me, I don’t particularly care to dwell on it any more than I have to. But the fact of the matter is its still a thing that exists so here goes: yes I have physical issues like near constant migraines and pain and also vertigo, and yes I have neurodivergencies like C-PTSD and ADHD and yes I have circumstances that include near constant stress from eternally being in the negatives, financially, as well as being almost constantly hungry from a lack of money and limited options for eating due to the physical constraints of my jaw as well as being consistently sleep deprived because there’s only so much sleep you can get when there’s no such thing as a physically comfortable sleeping arrangement for you currently, all while existing in a constant limbo of I literally have NO idea when any of this will change for me because haha fun fact WE LIVE IN A PANDEMIC.

My point is like......all of these are things I’m not shy about, but they don’t exist as bullet points in a checklist of identity or circumstantial traits, they all exist at all times as points of fact that influence and inform and interact with each other.

So my financial situation and limbo of not being able to move forward with my surgery because of the chaos of the health care industry during a pandemic directly informs both the way stress impacts my mental health issues, but also my ability to treat my mental health issues by way of medication, nutrition, rest.....ie, almost every cent I make via work, etc, goes right back out the door to keeping up my insurance premiums of $850 a month, because even though my surgery is paid for, there’s still elements like hospital stay fees, anesthesia, etc, that won’t be paid until the day of surgery itself, and which I will not be able to pay without my insurance remaining current and active. Which means that I had to prioritize an insurance package that would net me THOSE benefits, which means I had to sacrifice parts of insurance that are no longer in that package, but which previously made things like my medications, refill appointments and therapy more affordable for me. 

Which means that I have to prioritize my medication and therapy etc and maintain my therapy and PTSD, depression and anxiety meds as the most important to upkeep, while my ADHD meds are pretty much priced out of accessibility for me at the moment. Like, the specifics of my metabolism and various trial and error with different meds over the years and the way my body rapidly adapts to various meds and plateaus to a point where they cease to have any real impact on me means the only ADHD medication that’s consistently effective for me is Vyvanse, which there isn’t a viable generic form of that I can take, meaning a monthly refill of it is $350 without insurance, which I flat out can not ever afford anymore, which means its been roughly two months since I last popped an ADHD pill.

So yeah, that directly impacts things like my ability to self-edit, make a point briefly, or refrain from circling back to the same point several times over and over because I literally forget that I made it.

Now of course ADHD medication is not the be-all and end-all and its not like there aren’t various other life-hacks and coping strategies for working around ADHD even without it, after all, I didn’t even get diagnosed until I was 26. But these various other adaptations rely on things like good nutrition (which I can not regularly afford, or even consume....most leafy green vegetables for example, or fruits other than berries, are literally nonstarters for me because I don’t have enough leverage with my one-sided jaw to CHEW them in the first place, and the ingredients for making smoothies regularly are again, expensive). So nutrition as a hack for ADHD management is pretty much out - I’m too busy prioritizing eating anything I can, whenever I can afford to. Other adaptations involve getting lots of rest: something that again, physically isn’t all that viable for me these days, even leaving aside the effects of constant stress on attempts at getting meaningful rest, along with the constant stress and constraints of trying to work as much as humanly possible in my circumstances, in order to keep bringing in income to go to insurance, rent, and food and meds. Then there’s also the stabilizing effects exercise and physical activity can have on the brain and various neurodivergencies like mine, but the migraines and vertigo make most forms of exercise a nonstarter for me, with most of the rest invalidated by the fact that I’m pretty much always hungry, tired, and in chronic pain.

Now let’s examine work and the viability of obtaining more sources of income to help with all this. Well, my options are limited there too due to the ecosystem of factors in play. I’ve been trying for awhile to find even a part time job in my area I can do, but the problems are even though I can make myself mobile and active through my pain issues and migraines, and am even good at gritting and bearing it and acting like I’m smiling and laughing and happy even while in excruciating pain (yay, perks of childhood abuse making a career in retail viable even while practically dead on my feet, lololol)......there’s the simple physiological limitation that I just can’t stay upright RELIABLY for more than a couple hours at a time. Eventually, dizziness knocks me on my ass. Downside of a jaw that’s constantly hanging with all its weight from one side of your face, fucking with your ability to even stand up straight, not to mention causing inner ear and equilibrium problems at random whenever you open or close your mouth in the wrong way (or mere approximation of ANY kind of way).

So, standing upright at any kind of customer service or retail job is one issue. Stocking stuff, that sort of thing.....not really an option when you’re likely to drop all of it at any given moment. But then there’s bracing myself at cash registers, something like a job at Starbucks or hell there’s a Jamba Juice nearby, that’d also get me an employee discount for smoothies I can drink regularly. Course, there’s the whirring of blenders and such, which pair great with constant migraines. Etc. Etc.

BUT. I’m a well-rounded person with lots of skills....which lead to things like my freelance graphic design business as a book cover designer, as well as various writing endeavors, etc. And all of these are things that I DO do, currently. They’re how I make my income as is. There’s absolutely more jobs out there, but the fact is as a freelancer, FINDING additional jobs is a time consuming and spoon consuming process, that is additionally impacted by factors like ADHD, so not only does looking for work require time that’s not already being spent working, it also requires the management and expenditure of mental resources that I have to prioritize FIRST towards applying them to what work I already DO have, given the absence of ADHD medication and minimal coping or regulatory habits allowing for me to be all that productive WITHOUT said meds.

Not to mention the strain sitting in front of a computer all day for work in venues like graphic design, etc, puts on migraines, so there’s only so many hours I can devote daily or in one sitting to doing things like cover work. Much of my writing time is spent not actually writing, but me just dictating into notes on my phone and then copying and pasting all that into the appropriate formats for fiction, nonfiction and just random posts. Of course here then I have to prioritize applying my mental resources to first making sure the stuff I write to make money gets edited or properly pared down to size and isn’t repeating the same shit over and over and over, then doing the same to stuff I write fic wise as one of my few escapes from Real Life BS so I can at least point to having SOME kind of life (as this has been my daily existence for years, and uh.....people having things they like or like to do, as much as is humanly feasible, only becomes MORE of a necessity the more stress involved in their day to day life, not less). 

Meaning by the time I even get to posting, like.....as much as it may look like I do a lot of it, the speed at which I write when I have any kinds of spoons to apply to posting or composing thoughts at ALL means I actually pour out a lot in a little span of time.....BUT that’s not like, a Skill so much as its a Fact. Its just the way I am and it comes with its downsides as well as its upsides....Im good at banging out a lot in a short amount of time, but ONLY when I just....let it go, versus try and regulate it all or squeeze it out bit by bit. I’m a sprint poster these days rather than a marathoner, even if the length of my thoughts makes it LOOK like the latter.....the reality is for me it tends to be all or nothing, its whatever I can get on the page BEFORE I lose my breath or train of thought. So that’s why it looks the way it does, because that was the only form it was coming out at the specific time and space when I had the energy and brainpower TO get it out, and going back in hindsight and editing it for clarity or brevity AFTER I gasp it all out requires energy and breath I do not have PAST that point, so it becomes a simple equation of well do I want a post to exist here at all or not at all.....and I err on the side of posting. This isn’t a defense because there’s nothing to defend, mind you, I’m simply explaining my way through my thought process, approach to things, and realities of my day to day existence for you to do with whatever you want. Its just a perspective you may not have had before. Whatever. 

Of course, even this doesn’t exist in a void. Something that’s always a factor in my awareness when posting is like......I’m lucky enough to have a large enough following that cares enough about what I have to say for whatever reasons or puts enough value in what I have to say or the things I write and create, that I’ve been able to supplement my financial needs when absolutely necessary at times, by way of donation posts. I try not to lean on them more than necessary because I am keenly aware that they are a gift from people, many of whom I do not know and will likely never meet, and as such, not something I have any form of expectation for. I make donation posts when and where I do not in the anticipation of getting them met, but simply for a lack of any other options whatsoever. I’m limited in the work I can do, and the time and energy I can devote to finding more of that same work. There’s not a ton of other career paths I can pursue even from behind a computer due to my lack of a college degree, and the fact that even when I’m qualified skill or knowledge wise, I lack the specific credentials for verifying that I possess those skills or knowledge in a way employers are inclined to recognize and/or validate. Going BACK to school to get said credentials is an expenditure of time, finances, and other resources I do not have to spare at the moment or any time soon, especially not in the name of shoring up a lack of all that in the present term. 

I dropped out of college freshman year after my gaybashing and rape. I never went back to it for a variety of reasons that were only half about resources and half about intent. My family is not a presence in my life and hasn’t really been in any significant way since I was eighteen, so college in the first place was something I had to be entirely self-sufficient about....I was only able to afford to go the year that I did go by way of academic scholarships that were dependent on grades I couldn’t keep up in the wake of what happened to me, and that I couldn’t exactly ever get back without a foundation to build upon, like high school and my initial academic career. Then in the half that was about intent, I eventually moved into pursuing my actual interests like writing, graphic design and acting. One of the things I’ve always loved about those is that output and portfolio nets you more than credentials most of the time....they ARE your credentials. I was actually pretty damn successful as an actor for years, not in the way that leads to being someone that people would recognize, but in the way that leads to being able to support yourself doing what you love. All the skillsets that I have but could not back up with things like a diploma were still useful to me as an actor in a way that they’re not in terms of getting things like tutoring or teaching jobs.....I speak multiple languages but I’m self taught, I have a black belt in karate, I’m a classically trained pianist, I know a whole lot of shit about random shit that I just learned because I wanted to, and all of that got me the kind of work that I was looking for and meant I COULD work and make a living off those things for years throughout my twenty....work that I would not have been able to get if I had been back sitting in a classroom instead. The primary currency of my years as an actor were life experiences and I had those in spades, and I was very good at what I did, if I do say so myself, and the reasons I never advanced further career wise tended to have less to do with whether or not I booked the roles I auditioned for and whether I got the auditions at all......

I’m getting a bit off topic here but I’m just saying there’s definitely a convo to be had at some point, about the roles and opportunities I turned down because I wasn’t willing to sleep with someone or put up with their advancements in order to do so. Something that’s a dime a dozen in Hollywood and the thing is.....I was a sex worker, for years, before I moved to Hollywood and started working as an actor. But there’s a distinct difference between the way people talk about, interact with and perceive someone who’s gotten roles because of sex, advanced up a corporate ladder because of sex...versus, gotten paid because of sex. I didn’t turn down offers of roles for sex because of my hang-ups about sex but rather other peoples’......I had a problem with various parts of the industry that would have thought nothing about me getting a role because a producer wanted to sleep with me, but would have turned up their nose at me because I slept with someone to get money for groceries before. Basically I’m just saying the specific bullshit Hollywood has not just about sex but predatory behavior got in the way of my career advancement because there were some games I just wasn’t willing to play....which hails from the very life experiences that oftentimes made me so good as an actor in the first place.

Which brings me back again to my main point......none of this exists in a vaccuum. Being the sum of our life experiences and variables means being the SUM of that, at ALL times, both in large and small ways. We are never just a LIST of identity traits or experiences. They all constantly loop back around and feed into each other and inform where we are at every second of every day and where we GO in each second, what we DO with our days and the choices we make.

Which is where so much of my discontent with fandoms, on social media in general, with PEOPLE in my day to day life comes from: this desire people have to compartmentalize, to ZERO IN on specific factors or variables or instances and act like it even CAN be divorced from all other influences. Its not that you can’t FOCUS on one thing at a time, its just even when you do that, that doesn’t like....snap all existing connections that thing has to everything outside of your area of focus.

As an example, my attitudes on being a survivor and various kinds of fiction get me a ton of pushback from various corners, and its all geared around the same premise: don’t like, don’t read. Put a wall up between you and it. Focus on just what you’re doing and forget what everyone else is doing.

But it doesn’t work like that. It CAN’T work like that. And this commitment people have to pretending it does just because that pretense has been working for them, THAT, I’d argue, is the true wedge in fandom spaces.

Everything about me is connected to something else. I’m a childhood abuse and incest csa survivor. When my therapist asks me to picture a moment from my childhood when I felt safe or protected, I got nothing. I don’t have that resource. I don’t know what that feeling is meant to feel like, because I never felt it. And that connects directly into the fact that when I was gaybashed in college, after they dumped me in a fucking park, bleeding and covered in writing, I didn’t even think about going to the hospital, the police, let alone calling anyone like my parents, I just picked myself up and walked back to my dorm, cleaned myself off as best I could, and went to class next Monday morning. That’s fucked up, I shouldn’t have had to, but its what I did, and there’s no divorcing that from any of the contexts of WHY that’s what I did, and why I didn’t think there was any other logical recourse or option for me then. Just like all of that also links back to growing up in the closet and entering high school the same month Matthew Shepherd was attacked, and then when he ultimately died two months later, and watching everybody’s reactions to that informed the fact that I did not remotely feel safe in the aftermath of my attack, disclosing what happened to people around me, or just like I didn’t take it on face value that even if they said appropriately sensitive things to me to my face didn’t mean that like when I was a freshman in high school and everyone was reacting to that, they wouldn’t revert to callous jokes about fags the second they felt a little less out of the spotlight or in the right company for those jokes. 

And all of that directly links into my feelings not just when people write rape and gaybashing scenes that make no attempt at any kind of catharsis but rather only appear to exist for the fetishization, the glamorization, the VALIDATION of the idea that in the right context, those kinds of scenes can be hot to the right audience rather than demoralizing to the figure who’s pain and humaniliation is required for everyone else’s entertainment....but it also additionally plays into the reactions and attitudes I have when people look at me going “wow, really don’t like the lens you’re using here or the environment you’re creating around an experience that is never anything BUT painful and traumatic for someone who lived it, like I did” and choose to respond to that by saying things that amount to “well you’re basically just like conservative southern assholes who hate free speech when you say stuff like this,” cuz y’know.....that’s describing my literal oppressors. That’s lumping me in with the actual literal kind of people who are the SOURCE of my trauma there, all because you felt butthurt and defensive about how I said I wasn’t comfortable with the kinds of jokes and output you were making about scenes that aren’t that far divorced from my own personal reality, and that I shouldn’t HAVE to divorce from my own experiences just to exist within certain fandom spaces.

And just like the fact that being an incest survivor is directly relevant to the fact that my stepmother always made an effort to keep me at a distance because not wanting to admit to what happened to me and how it played into our family entanglements was directly linked back to the fact that she and my aunt were both incest survivors who never got the opportunities to deal with what happened to them, which in turn directly plays into the fact that ultimately my aunt ended up taking her own life a few years ago, which also very much informs my attitude towards people interacting with incest ships as something cutesy and uwu, as my aunt was literally the only person in my family I ever WAS close to or comfortable with. And there’s no divorcing any of that into nice neat little compartments that make it easier for anyone on the outside looking in to just peek through ONE window to see what they might see, and try and act like it doesn’t matter what’s in any of those other boxes because it has nothing to do with the only one they want to concern themselves with.

And my lack of resources and emotional state post gay-bashing led directly into my sex work for various reasons, which led in various ways to better things for me in some respects, while compounding certain traumas of mine in other respects, and there’s no divorcing any of that from the rest either. There’s no ‘my time as a sex worker was good’ even though some of it was and there’s no ‘my time as a sex worker was bad’ even though some of it really was. And a lot of the attitudes of some of the rich assholes who paid me for sex and viewed me as a plaything they could do anything to directly informs my resistance to letting powerful assholes in Hollywood hold roles over my head in exchange for sex, even though the latter could have advanced my career in huge ways and led to me being a lot more financially stable and self-sufficient by the time my physical issues emerged due to the jaw joint on one side of my head eroding through and snapping completely just like that in turn was a long-building repercussion of not just my gaybashing, but my decision to never go to the hospital and get checked out after it.

None of this can be cut away from the rest and trimmed into neat little pieces that don’t color outside the lines or impact anything else. Just like my gaybashing itself can’t be divorced from my white privilege, and the fact that it played into the fact that I survived that night in the first place. Something I say not in some weird white guilt kinda way like people try and project onto others for even acknowledging white privilege, like no its not like I fucking wish I died to prove some kind of weird point, what I’m talking about is just the simple basic AWARENESS that multiple and even contradictory factors exist in even the most extreme of situations. And its never anything BUT self-serving to pretend that you can frame it as otherwise.

And so when I talk about being a survivor, just like with all the rest of this, I’m not talking about some arbitrary status of survivorhood that exists in a specific point in time and is only relevant to some singular event I survived, its applicable to everything about my life big and small. I’m a survivor every single day I’ve survived, every day I wake up and keep moving forward despite the pain and stress and lingering trauma of what was done to me one night sixteen years ago, I’m surviving what they did every bit as much as I survived it that night and in the morning after as I dragged myself back to my room. Just like my status as an abuse survivor stemming from childhood directly informs everything about not just my coping mechanisms but my entire freaking worldview as someone who grew up throughout childhood learning to view the world through a lens in which he was simultaneously not safe due to the presence of victimizers in his own home, while at the same time still having certain protections that others don’t have in life in general due to not just again my white privilege but my male privilege, my cis privilege.

And that’s what makes it so laughable and so offensive when people act like I’m defining myself by being a survivor as some kind of singular identity trait whenever I raise it as something of relevance in fandom discussions that have EVERYTHING to do with stances of abuse apologism and homophobic ideas that directly play into why I was so unsafe in certain parts and times of my life, because who the fuck is anyone else to tell me how my experiences as a survivor and how they shaped me are or are not relevant to ideas pertaining to those very things, when brought front and center and face to face with me in various fandoms due to the insistence of fandoms at large on KEEPING these things front and center in almost ALL fandom discussions? Like, the hilarious irony of people who have so wholly centered certain types of ship and content in terms of their own personal fandom identities that they can’t help but feel personally attacked when someone so much as says “I don’t like the ideas you’re broadcasting alongside your choice to amplify and signal boost this kind of content because you’re not JUST signalboosting the content itself, but these specific perceptions of it and ideas in support of and in apology for it.”....like, turning around and saying IM too defined by my views stemming from my existence as a survivor. The call is coming from inside the house, lolol.

Again, none of this can be divorced from the rest. It can be focused on one piece at a time, but its connections to everything else that informs it in various RELEVANT ways, can not be made IRRELEVANT just because you don’t like the picture that forms when you’re forced to look at the WHOLE picture instead of just willfully condensing the frame to just the part you like or want to talk about.

And to bring it all home, looping back up to what I opened with:

Do you know how often I hear people say shit about the length of my posts or the rambling nature or in various ways act INCONVENIENCED by various things about how they have to interact with my posts when that interaction itself is still completely voluntary?

Taking in everything I said in this post, the way it all interconnects and informs other things, I’d like to ask anyone who has ever objected to some post somewhere or derided one because of something as ultimately nonconsequential as the length of it, something where its literally just like....scroll a few more seconds......do you apply the same energy and scrutiny to posts that cross your dash that are filled with various things like racism, transphobia, rape or pedophilia fetishization or abuse apologism, or do you let that slide by without acknowledgment before looking at a post that makes you sigh because of how fucking LONG it was and think...this, THIS is what I’m gonna choose to speak up about?

Because that’s ultimately what this is all about. Here’s the kicker with everything I said....my life could be better, I want it to be better, from the biggest aspects of it and pain issues to stuff just like.....the fandom communities I immerse myself in for my own attempts at having something to counterbalance real life stress. But at the end of the day, there’s no my life sucks or my life rocks....its still just...my life. And it has its good as well as its bad, and that ultimately hails from my choices, and the fact that like....even while there are choices I literally CAN’T make, I can be comfortable with the ones I DO make.

And so like......would my life be easier in some respects now if I’d gone back to school and gotten a diploma and had more job opportunities available to me? Yeah, for sure. But that awareness doesn’t mean I regret my choice NOT to go back to school when I DID have more opportunities for that, because the acting career I had at those times instead was the choice I made, with intent, and its one I’m still glad for making. Those experiences still matter, still meant something and still mean something to me. 

And do I wish that I’d coped with what happened to me in college in different, healthier ways that would have given me more tools for how I interact with my trauma and who I became after that, rather than how I did? Yeah, sometimes, for sure. But not without losing my awareness that the choices I did make at the time were not made in a vacuum, and can not be edited in hindsight....there were reasons I made them, reasons that were informed by everything that had happened to me previously and stemmed from a lot of things I still didn’t have control over and as such always placed a cap on the range of choices that were available to me back then, because there’s a difference between choices that exist in theory versus choices that exist as something that might viably be chosen at a particular place and time.

The world is big and complicated. Life is big and complicated. WE are big and complicated. And nothing about understanding any of that is IMO benefited by putting most of our effort into SHRINKING our worldviews, constructing artificial frames that don’t just focus us in on specific aspects of it for finite periods but attempt to then treat that as its own individual thing utterly disconnected from anything else that might be going on OUTSIDE that picture frame.

So if you’ve read this far and you’ve taken anything away from this big long rambling post that could be a lot shorter, could be a lot less rambling, but could also just not have been posted at all and I’d rather have it exist in this form than let everything in it go unsaid.....

My request would be that your takeaway be this: to look at your choices in regards to some specific finite interaction in even just one of your fandoms, and see what happens when you open the frame back up. If you widen the scope. If you let other things into the picture. Are you still comfortable with the choices you make or don’t make in light of THAT image, are they any different from the ones you made or would have made when keeping things as small and contained in your awareness as possible, just because that was easier for you to conceptualize, easier to navigate around, just....less COMPLICATED?

Because things aren’t made less complicated just by the mere fact of WANTING them to be.

And if your choices are more born of what you’d say or do IF the world were as finite or as limited as its sometimes easier to pretend it is......is that really the approach you want to go with and the reasoning you want to stand by?

And similarly, if there are choices you make and that in ORDER for you to feel comfortable making them, you feel a need to tighten your focus or shrink your worldview around one specific element or area and leave out all the rest and only then are you truly comfortable with doing or saying something, like......

Its important to remember that this isn’t the only option you have for making yourself more comfortable with things you say or do or think, or even just have in the past.

The other perfectly viable option exists: you can simply....make different choices.