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spencers-renaissance · 3 years ago

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I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly

Summary: After Spencer fails his firearm recertification, the FBI believes some hand-to-hand combat and self-defence training is in order, and who better to administer it than the BAU's very own, Derek Morgan? Everything goes swimmingly until Derek decides to simulate an attack from above, and Spencer's thrust into the throes of a horrific flashback.

Tags: hurt/comfort, past abuse, platonic cuddling, angst with a happy ending, friendship or pre-slash, crying, panic attacks, flashbacks, episode: s01e06 LDSK, protectiveness TW: !!Discussions of Underage Rape/Non-Con including Molestation and Incestuous Sexual Abuse!!

Pairing: Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid (Platonic or Pre-Slash)

Word Count: 4.3k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

It’s a dreary day in late October when he fails his recertification test. Later, he’ll look back on this moment with a strange mixture of thankfulness and stone-cold dread, but in the moment all he can feel is the burning of his cheeks and the festering humiliation sat heavy in his chest.

Hotch is kind about it, because Hotch is kind about everything.

“Do you know what happened, Reid?” he asks with a complete absence of judgement, and it’s clear from everything about his body language and tone that he isn’t angry and he isn’t being critical, but Spencer feels his defences rising regardless.

He shakes his head and shrinks back in his seat, avoiding Hotch’s eyes.

“Did anyone do anything to make you feel uncomfortable?”

His eyes snap up to meet Hotch’s and he shifts to sit a bit more upright as he shakes his head with more vehemence this time. Sure, he didn’t particularly like the evaluator, but only because he seemed unimpressed with Spencer from the moment he laid eyes on him, acting as though evaluating someone who was doomed to fail was a waste of time.

Spencer can’t exactly blame him.

Hotch sighs. “Listen, Spencer,” he says gently, “I know you can handle yourself in the field and I know you can handle a gun just fine, but you know how many requirements were overlooked for you to join the unit in the first place, and you also know that your position in the BAU has been controversial with a few of the higher-ups. So, here’s the plan. I’m going to be your evaluator for your next recertification in two weeks, and in the meantime, I want you to do some hand-to-hand training with Derek to improve and consolidate your field and self-defence skills.”

Realistically, he knows that this is the best he could’ve hoped for, and he knows how hard Hotch and Gideon fight his corner when he’s questioned by everyone from witnesses to local PDs to the director of the bureau himself.

That does not mean he has to be happy about this.

He acquiesces because he has to. “Okay,” he says quietly, hoping he doesn’t sound as defeated as he feels.

“Reid,” Hotch says, redirecting his attention from the spot on the carpet he’s staring at. He waits for Spencer to look at him before smiling slightly and looking at him with a raw kind of earnest he knows is privileged to witness. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”

It’s Spencer’s turn to smile, brightening up from his miserable disposition slightly. “I do.”

⭑⭑⭑

“Hey, pretty boy,” Derek says cheerfully, slamming his locker closed just as Spencer enters the FBI gym. “I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.”

Spencer sighs, opening the locker next to Derek’s and putting his messenger bag inside before opening the grocery bag he’d brought his gym clothes in. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says drily as he pulls out his clothes and heads towards one of the two private changing cubicles.

He hears Derek chuckle to himself before he calls back to him as he opens the door to the gym. “I’m gonna set up, you come through when you’re ready.”

Spencer procrastinates for as long as he can, making sure his shoes are tied perfectly and the bows are even sizes, folding all his work clothes as neatly as possible and placing them carefully back into the grocery bag, but before long, there’s nothing more he can do and he has to face the music. He inhales deeply, steeling himself for the next hour, before putting his bag in his locker (closing it with much less force than Derek did earlier) and walking into the gym.

It’s a fairly big hall that’s usually used for academy recruits, large scale demonstrations, and the various sports teams that have cropped up in different divisions of the FBI. Spencer knows that Derek currently plays basketball for the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime team, the department that the BAU is part of.

Right now, though, Derek has them set up in a tucked-away corner, both hard and soft mats laid out on the ground surrounded by various equipment Spencer couldn’t hope to identify correctly.

“You took your time,” Derek says when Spencer approaches him, eyebrows raised and an obvious note of amusement in his voice. “But now you’re here, let’s get started.”

They begin with a short conditioning exercise that Derek says is supposed to ‘get the blood pumping’ but in actuality has Spencer panting like a dog and soaked with sweat within minutes. Maybe those higher-ups have something of a point. He knew he was unfit, but this is just embarrassing.

“Okay, now with the warm-up out of the way—”

“That was a warm-up?”

Derek doubles over with his laughter and Spencer can’t help but join in, despite how out of breath and red in the face he might be.

“It’s supposed to be, Spence, but maybe I over-estimated things a little,” he concedes once their giggles have died out. “Alright, alright, let’s move on to some basic self-defence moves. I know you probably already know most of these, but this is supposed to be a refresher, yeah? And to remind you that you can hold your own in the field, whether you pass your recertification or not.”

Spencer winces. “I don’t know, Derek, I mean I did fail every single physical aspect of the academy examination.”

“See, that’s what I mean, pretty boy,” Derek says, standing up from the mat and helping Spencer up, too. “You’re in your own head, and when you’re out in the field, you have enough enemies without making your own mind one as well. You know this stuff, Spence, I’m just here to remind you of that.”

“Alright,” he nods, holding in his sigh. He doesn’t mean to be negative, he just can’t help the way he’s feeling. The last week has been rough.

“Okay, so let’s go through front-facing attacks first,” Derek says. “What’s the first move you can do to protect yourself in that situation?”

“Elbow shield,” Spencer replies, holding out his arm and blocking Derek from coming any closer with his forearm acting as a barrier that Derek presses his chest against.

“Exactly, and what can you do to inflict damage in that position?”

Spencer responds by sliding his forearm up to Derek’s neck and applying light pressure, not wanting to actually hurt him.

“You got it. Okay, now what if I manage to grab you and pull you closer, what’s your move?”

He keeps his forearm locked to keep Derek from advancing too close, but this time he grabs his bicep with both hands and uses his core to bring him closer before he raises his shin and mimes kicking him in the groin.

“See, you know this stuff,” Derek says brightly. “The only note I have is to just remember to keep your thumbs in line with the rest of your fingers, not wrapping under my arm.”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense. The thumb is easily broken, although the most common injury associated with a broken thumb is actually damage to the larger bone of your hand, the metacarpal.”

Derek chuckles. “Exactly.”

Funnily enough, Spencer actually finds himself having fun as they walk through some other basic defensive movements as well as the best way to use tactical punches to overpower or debilitate an unsub or attacker. They frequently burst into peals of laughter, as can be expected when two close individuals find themselves having to do semi-serious work together, and before he knows it, forty-five minutes have flown by.

“Okay, I want to end with some more up close and personal attacks and the best way to stave them off, alright?” Derek says as he puts away the boxing gloves and pads.

Immediately, Spencer feels a small glimmer of nerves and anticipation for how this might make him feel, but he brushes it off. He knows he’s safe with Derek, and the whole point of the exercise is to defend himself. Nothing’s going to happen.

“Let’s start with an attacker coming at you from behind,” Derek decides, coming up behind him. “I’m going to cover your mouth, and you’re going to use your skills and knowledge to remove me, alright?”

Spencer nods, hoping Derek doesn’t read the hesitancy in it, and he supposes that he doesn’t because soon enough a large palm is tightly covering the lower half of his face.

For a brief moment, he isn’t a twenty-five-year-old agent training with one of his closest friends in the gym in the basement of the FBI Headquarters, but a scared and lonely ten-year-old in his childhood bedroom, trying to fight the persistent, evil man on top of him, wondering why his dad would do this to him—

He snaps himself out of it by opening his eyes and forcing himself to take in the surroundings, and before long instinct takes over and he’s gripping at Derek’s wrist and using his core and bodyweight to bend forward and free himself from the restrictive hold.

“Good job, Reid!” Derek says encouragingly, and there’s no evidence on his face when he turns around that he noticed any sort of hesitation or deliberation, so he suspects that his flashback really was only for a second, no matter how everlasting and all-consuming it felt in the moment.

He manages a shaky smile, and invites his next method of torture. “What’s next?”

“Okay, what if I was to grab your t-shirt and immediately start punching you?” Derek asks, immediately miming doing exactly like that.

Fighting the instinct to go into protective mode, he instead turns around elbow first and uses his other hand to mime punching Derek while his knee goes up to attack his groin.

“Perfect! That’s the spirit, kid. No unsub’s ever gonna get the best of you.”

Spencer blushes a little at the praise, ducking his head so he doesn’t have to meet his eye, but inside he’s beyond pleased, both with the encouragement from Derek and his own self-confidence he can feel flooding back. Maybe he really does have a handle on the more physical side of things. Maybe he isn’t just good for his brain.

“Alright, let’s finish off with some on the ground stuff, okay?” Derek says, sitting down on the mat and inviting Spencer to join him with a pat on the space beside him.

He hesitates a little, and this time Derek notices, his face softening.

“Listen, I know this one is a bit more uncomfortable than the others, but we’re almost done, right? Let’s just get a few moves consolidated and then you can go and have a shower and head home to relax.”

Spencer nods finally and joins him, laying on his back as Derek instructs. The vulnerability of the position has him feeling deeply uncomfortable, no matter how many times he tells himself that he’s safe with Derek, but he forces himself to lie still. If nothing else, he doesn’t want to reveal this very personal and private detail of his childhood to his best friend. He just needs to keep reminding himself that he’s safe.

“Right, let’s practice the pinned wrist escape, okay?”

Before he knows what’s happening, before he can process the words and prepare him for what’s about to happen, Derek’s straddling him and resting his full weight over his hips and his wrists are wrapped in a tight grip, pinned to the mat above his head.

It’s so sudden and the sensations so overwhelming that he can’t help the immediate fear response that’s triggered, because he’s not in the FBI gym with Derek anymore, he’s somewhere else entirely.

“No, please,” he begs, voice strangled by a sudden, all-consuming dry sob that heaves his chest, “please don’t, I’m sorry. I’ll be good, please, dad, don’t—”

His sobs suddenly overtake his words and he’s left crying pathetically on the floor, too trapped in the memory to notice that the pressure’s been removed from his hips and he’s free to move his arms, too consumed by the physical and emotional anguish that came with the abuse to hear Derek’s desperate, heart-broken pleas from beside him, begging him to come back to himself.

“Spencer!”

A voice finally manages to break through the fog of panic, and he slowly regains consciousness, the white hot glaze of fear and crippling memory fading incrementally until he can see the high beams of the gym ceiling, until he can hear Derek’s gentle, soothing words beside him.

“It’s alright, pretty boy, I’m here, you’re safe,” Derek tells him gently, although Spencer can hear the urgency in his voice, even in his scared and overwhelmed state.

He covers his face with his hands as his desperate, heaving sobs transform into wet, humiliated cries.

“Hey, hey, Spence,” Derek murmurs beside him, “is it alright if I touch you?”

He considers shaking his head, but really, he wants some comfort right now, no matter how much he’ll hate himself for embarrassing himself further later. He’s glad he does though because Derek very carefully and very slowly lifts him up until he’s wrapped up in a comforting hug, his face buried in a strong chest. He’s not sure he’s ever felt safer than in this exact moment.

“You’re alright, pretty boy, I got you.”

Spencer continues to cry, the overwhelm of having a flashback that intense still wracking his body, but eventually, he starts to calm down, the tension slowly bleeding from his muscles as he collapses, boneless against Derek’s body.

“Here, why don’t you have this granola bar and some water,” Derek suggests gently when his tears have dried up, reaching over to the edge of the mat where he was clearly hiding some post-exercise rewards.

Spencer accepts them tiredly, not moving from his position slumped against Derek’s chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Derek asks him once he’s sipped his way through half the bottle and the granola bar is gone.

As much as he’d like to get things off his chest, as much as he trusts Derek, he just— can’t. So he shakes his head and pulls himself into a sitting upright position, although he still doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes.

“Okay,” Derek says softly. “I’m gonna drive you home. Come on.”

Spencer numbly walks through the locker room and the halls of the FBI with Derek guiding him until they reach his car, and the motion of climbing in brings a little bit more awareness back to him.

“Thanks,” he whispers as Derek starts the engine and drives them out of the parking garage.

“Don’t be ridiculous, pretty boy. No thanks needed.”

They don’t speak on the journey home, and Spencer contents himself with looking out the window at the passing scenery until they enter the city and trees transform into tower blocks. His mind drifts, but he’s just grateful that it doesn’t keep circling back to the flashback, having somewhat successfully resealed those memories like he always does, pushing them down and smothering them with as much good as he can collect in people and memories and things.

The silence between them prevails until Derek steps into his apartment behind him, closing the front door and helping Spencer out of his jacket before hanging his own coat up on a hook and steering Spencer towards the sofa. “You are going to sit here,” he orders, picking up one of Penelope’s hand-knitted blankets from its position neatly folded over the arm of the sofa, “while I get some tea and something to eat. Fancy anything in particular?”

Spencer remembers the satsumas and macaroons Penelope brought over the other day and tells Derek as such, following the other man with his eyes until he disappears into the kitchen and he’s left alone with his hazy thoughts for a couple of minutes.

They pass in a blur, though, and before he can blink, Derek is pressing a mug of warm chamomile tea into his hands and placing a small plate of a satsuma and a couple of macaroons on the coffee table.

The weight of Derek sitting down on the sofa next to him, and the grounding feeling of his palm wrapped around his ankle, has his hazy mind clearing until he’s in a much more present and aware headspace, enough so that Derek clearly notices it.

“You feeling a bit more like yourself?”

Spencer nods, and offers a small smile, trying to ignore the curls of humiliation and self-loathing working their way up his throat. Thoughts he hasn’t had in years are bursting at the seams Spencer had sewn tightly around them, brought up by physical memory alone, and he’s trying to hold them back, but somewhere in the back of his head, there’s his dad again, whispering dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty, di—

“Hey, Spence,” he hears, and he snaps his head up, his dad’s voice shutting up and making room for Derek’s — Derek’s soft and gentle reassurances, his promises that he’s here and he’s safe and everything will be okay. “You got a bit lost in your head again there, kid. You alright?”

Spencer sighs tiredly, and a tear runs down his face unbidden. He’s not crying exactly, just— leaking. Leaking in the way a tap that hasn’t been turned on for years does when it finally experiences a much overdue release of pressure. Leaking in the way Spencer Reid does when he has a flashback to the sexual abuse he experienced as a child for the first time in two and a half years.

“Spencer,” Derek says, and something in his voice catches his attention, something serious, something earnest. He looks over at him. “Spencer, I know what you’re going through.”

His cheeks pale and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears because those words, that means— surely not, right? How could Derek— how could he—

“It happened to me, too.”

And there’s the confirmation. There are the five words that have him breaking down again, tears splashing into hot chamomile tea and onto cold, cold hands, sobs wracking his sore and tired shoulders. No one should have to go through what he did, no one. Especially not— God, especially not—

“Hey, Spencer, listen to me,” Derek says urgently scooting closer on the sofa until he can lift Spencer’s chin up with his hands and raise his head until their eyes are locked on one another and he can bear witness to the pain and the openness and the concern swimming in his dark brown irises. “I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re here, aren’t we? We’re safe. Don’t cry, pretty boy, everything’s gonna be just fine, I promise.”

He pauses to give Spencer a little time to catch his breath, but after a couple of minutes he speaks up again. “Would you like me to tell you about it?”

Spencer knows it will break his heart to hear. He doesn’t want to listen to a story in which Derek Morgan was the victim and not the hero, not his hero, but part of him knows that he needs to hear it; needs to know that he wasn’t and isn’t alone. And he can’t help but wonder whether maybe Derek needs to say it. Whether he also needs to tell someone what happened and have them empathise completely, have them say “I understand, I know what you’re going through” and have them mean it.

So he nods.

“His name was Carl Buford,” Derek says, resting the hand not clutching Spencer’s ankle on his knee, “and he was my football coach. A hero of the community. After my dad died, I got in a little trouble on the streets, right, and as a result, I got a record. Eventually, that record was expunged, and I learned that Buford had done it. I was confused, obviously, but he told me I had potential, that I was special, that I was going places and he was gonna help me get there.

“And so we started spending more time together. At first, it was just one-on-one football training and some run of the mill mentoring, and I finally felt like I had a real father figure again, someone who I could look up to and talk to and trust. Until one day when he took me up to his cabin. He gave me Helgeson wine to intoxicate me, and then convinced me to go skinny-dipping in a lake with him but when we came back to the cabin, he started— he started rubbing up against me. It eventually spiralled into… molestation and rape. He used to say "You better man up, boy, look up to the sky" when I would cry out for him to stop, or later — when some shameful part of me had accepted it — when I would wince in pain or he could sense I didn’t want to be there.

“And that went on for years until I guess I outgrew his preference and he— I mean— I guess, I guess he must have moved on.”

Spencer wants to be sick, and he’s pretty sure Derek feels the same, so all he can do is lean forward and wrap Derek in the tightest hug he can manage while they cry together.

“Did you ever tell anyone?” Spencer asks after a little time has passed.

Derek nods. “When it started affecting my football career in college, I started seeing a therapist, and I’ve really gotten to a place now where I’ve come to terms with it. As much as I’m ever going to be able to anyway. Half of that therapy was me grieving for the childhood I lost, expressing the anger I felt towards Buford in a healthy way, and then accepting that there isn’t anything I can do to undo the pain except work my ass off at the BAU putting guys like him behind bars since I lost my chance with him.”

Spencer nods. “I’m sorry he isn’t in prison.”

Derek shrugs his shoulders a little, pulling out of the hug. “I keep tabs on him. If I ever so much as catch a whiff of him hurting one of the boys at the centre I’ll be on him in no time. Just… waiting for the evidence, I guess.”

Spencer takes the hand resting on top of his knee and squeezes it, a show of solidarity his tongue can’t manage.

They sit in silence for long, comfortable minutes before Spencer finally feels like sharing. He knows that Derek isn’t expecting anything: if he never wanted to explain, he knows Derek would understand completely, but something about knowing he’ll understand like no one else can, that he can share and feel safe in doing so has his own story rolling off his tongue like it never has before.

“It was my dad,” Spencer says quietly, a confession he’s always been too ashamed to make. “The first time it happened was the night of my sixth birthday. He said that the day was his own celebration, because he’d waited so long and he was finally going to get his prize. He raped me. It wasn’t like that every time, sometimes he’d stop at… touching or— or fellatio, sometimes he’d come into my room and stand over me, getting off on how scared I was anticipating the act that never came.

“He left when I was ten, not far away from my eleventh birthday, and a big part of me always wondered whether the main reason he left was that I wasn’t in his preferential age group anymore. But when I was thirteen, I bumped into him in a hotel in California of all places, and even though I was bigger and stronger and nowhere near as vulnerable, he still got the best of me, he still weaseled his way into my room and took advantage of me again. After that time I carried pepper spray everywhere I went until the FBI issued me a gun. I swore I’d never let it happen again.”

Derek looks desperately sad when he finally meets his eyes again, and before he knows it he’s being wrapped in another hug, and they’re both in pieces again. However painful these memories are, though, the release of them is more cathartic than anything Spencer’s ever experienced; crying together with another survivor over everything they lost, the people that stole their childhoods and abused them for years on end, their younger, scared selves, desperate for someone to save them.

It hurts Spencer’s heart, but he also doesn’t think he’s ever felt safer than right in this moment.

“Is this the first time you’ve talked about this, Spence?” Derek asks eventually, with his cheek resting on the top of Spencer’s head.

“Yes,” he admits, another tear dripping onto the hands curled anxiously in his lap.

Derek pulls away and looks him in the eye, cupping his face gently and brushing a tear away with his thumb. “I’m proud of you.”

As broken and unseemly and ripped open and torn apart as he feels right now, as exposed as this entire ordeal has made him feel, for the first time, he thinks he agrees with Derek.

His trust was destroyed by the person supposed to protect him, and he’s carried the trauma of being sexually abused as a young child around with him for the last two decades, and still, he’s here. He’s brave enough to share himself with Derek, and he’s strong enough to cry and grieve and ache for the scared six-year-old boy he wishes he could go back in time and save.

Right now, in the early evening light of the flat and the safe and supportive arms of his best friend, he’s proud of himself, too. And that feels really damn good to finally say.

Please practice self-care after reading this, especially if you are also a survivor. RAINN Rape Crisis UK International Help for Survivors

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @enbyspencer @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic @thataveragenerd @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @cmily @notevanbuckley @thebipolarbisexualnerd (taglist form)

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not-me-simping-for-blasty · 4 years ago

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I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts:

Part 4:

You’re paranoid.

Terribly, terribly paranoid, and even if you’re aware of it, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Nothing you can do to quell the anxiety that wells up every time another person enters your space. Every time their skin nearly brushes yours, even accidentally, just for a split second.

It’s maddening. Nearly debilitating the way you’re flinching away from people. You can see your co-workers notice too, fellow nurses suddenly giving you odd looks every time you reject a high five. Even when you’re wearing your gloves. It’s just a panic reaction at this point- a fixation on trying to keep your quirk as least exhaustive an experience as it can be.

On one hand, you still really dislike Bakugou- nearly hate him for bringing it up to you- but, on the other hand, he did manage to figure it out. He somehow managed to figure out what you never could, and all in a matter of minutes from your relatively short interactions. It made you think that maybe he could be really smart- if he didn’t spend so much time killing his own brain-cells with every juvenile insult he spewed at you.

You wondered if that was just him, or he really did hate you that much. Surely he couldn’t be that much of a monster to other people, right? Right?

Wrong.

You remember Kirishima, how he apologized for Bakugou nearly the second he walked through the door. It hits you then that you’re definitely not the first person he’d seemed to mercilessly terrorize- you’re not sure if that makes you feel better or worse.

Actually, on second thought, maybe it makes you feel worse. No, it definitely makes you feel worse. So much worse, in fact, that just the sight of his face nearly sends you into an irrational rage. Even now, weeks after the last time he’d personally ruined your day, you were still mad. Still angry. Still cursing every time you saw those red eyes on every billboard, newspaper, and billboard in town.

Well, lucky for you, you didn’t have to look at those printed eyes anymore. Not when the real ones were right in front of you- scaring you shitless as you leave the hospital.

You had left the hospital from the back exit, tired and crabby from your late shift, grumbling as you stepped out into the alleyway. You’d hardly seen him, just the slightest glimpse of movement behind the tall dumpsters, before he’s practically in your face.

“Jesus!” You gasp, curling your arms around your stomach. Your legs feel like jelly. “Don’t do that! Scared me half to death!”

“Oh, chill the hell out, ya fuckin’ baby. You’re fine.” Bakugou rolls his eyes, falling into step next to you.

He looks worse for the wear, just like every other time you’ve seen him, exhaustion coloring his complexion something sickly. There’s an angry purple bruise covering his cheek, a few cuts, and even more bruising dotting his scarred knuckles. A tiny, vindictive part of you thinks it serves him right, but you keep it to yourself. You’re better than that.

You want to be nice to him, truly you do, but he’s made it pretty hard. Concerning you, Bakugou’s pretty much dug his grave at this point, and he only makes it worse with his next works.

“You need to do something for me.” He orders suddenly. “Now.”

“A-are you asking me? For help? Is that what this is?”

“What? No- obviously fucking not.” He sneers, nostrils flaring. “Why the hell would I go and do something like that. That’s stupid. Weak.”

“Oh. Okay. So then two seconds ago, when you were telling me that I ‘need’ to do something for you, what was that?” You squint your eyes at him, eyebrow twitching with annoyance. “That wasn’t you asking for help?”

“No. ‘s an order.”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay- an order. Because you’re totally in a position to make those.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.” You spin on your heels, nearly crashing into his chest since he followed so closely behind you. Still, you figure the promixity is all the better for gesturing, so you don’t miss a beat, waving your hands emphatically. “My shift just ended, alright? That means I’m not on the clock, and you’re not a patient. I don’t have to suck it up and help you unless I want to. Understand?”

Bakugou seems to bristle at your tone, eyes narrowing as his lip curls. You just try to shrug it off. If he wants to be mad in the middle of the alley, fine- but you’ve had a long day and you’re going home. You spin around again, walking briskly into the street, and it takes him a few moments to catch up.

“I told you, Bakugou, I’m not helping you just because you tried to order me to.”

“I know.”

“Then what’re you doing?”

“Walking.”

It’s his tone; that same needling, challenging edge to it that has your blood boiling. If anyone else said that, you’d probably believe it. But he’s not just walking and Bakugou’s smirk makes that very clear.

“No. You’re following me.”

“Same fuckin’ direction. Sue me, leech.”

The street lamps cast spots that yellow out his already pale skin, and the longer you walk the more withered he looks. Bakugou seems utterly burnt out, and when you look really close, all his features are slumped. It’s a stark contrast to Dynamite’s turbo-charged public persona, and it makes you wonder why he’d even let you see him like this at all. You figure whatever it is must be making him pretty desperate.

Suddenly that same, sinking, sympathetic feeling has you letting up a bit. You slow your pace, catching his gaze as you internally curse your own soft heart.

“Okay. Fine. What’s up. What can I help you with?”

Bakugou squints his eyes, almost like he doesn’t believe you. You think that’s a little fair- most times, even you can hardly believe all that you’re capable of forgiving.

“Sleep.” He finally says, bitten out tightly under his breath.

“You want me to help you sleep?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Not obvious.”

“Would be if you weren’t such a shitty nurse.”

“If that’s supposed to be a dig- save it.” You roll your eyes, trying to tamper down the irritation. “I did notice. That you look tired. Just didn’t mention it out of kindness, so don’t think you can start bringing my skills into question.”

You turn down another side street, and Bakugou follows. There’s less light so you miss the way his eyes scan the lurking shadows; intense and immediate, like a habit he can’t help himself from indulging in.

“You really live around here?” He suddenly asks, voice low and gruff.

“Yep. In the apartment complexes just up there.” You point off into the distance. “Why-”

“And your shift always end this late?”

“Yes?”

“God,” He laughs something disbelieving under his breath, rolling his eyes at you. “I was fuckin’ right. You really are the stupidest goddamn person walking the planet.”

“That’s- Do you ever think about your words? Seriously!” You huff, curling your fists. You hope it’ll quell your sudden urge to hit him. “Just because you think it, doesn’t mean you should say it! And who the hell are you to judge anyway-”

“You’re fuckin’ asking to be attacked. That’s stupid. ”

“By who?”

“Weirdos, idiot.”

“You’re the weirdo! You’re the one following me home right now!”

“I’m not following you-”

“Really? You’re not? Because right now, the way you’re walking? Maybe all of two steps behind me? On a dark street? At night? Sort of seems like creepy following is exactly what you’re doing!”

“I told you, you need to do something for me. Not leaving till you do.” He grumbles, digging a bruised knuckle into his temples. “And keep it the fuck down. Your screaming sounds like a dying animal.”

“My-” You seethe for a moment, hardly able to stand his attitude. Then you take a breath because you prided yourself on being a kind person, and kind people do not kill national heroes- even when they’re being asses. “You know, it is almost unbelievable how bad you are at asking for help.”

“Told ya, already. ‘m not fuckin’ asking for help.”

“Then why are you even here bothering me? Go bother someone else!”

“If fuckin’ anyone else could do anythin’, believe me, I’d go to them instead.”

“God, do you even understand how rude that is?” You ask him incredulously, hand grasping at the door to your apartment building. “No, seriously, are you even aware of what you sound like to other people?”

“Not my fuckin’ problem that other people are sensitive.”

Your eyes bulge at that, mouth nearly dropping in disbelief. You couldn’t believe him. You just couldn’t believe that a single person could possibly go through life with that callous of a mentality. It was insanity. Pure insanity.

“So, leech, you gonna put me to fuckin’ sleep or not?”

Just kidding- that was insanity. That sentence alone was proof of just how ridiculous your life had gotten since he’d crash landed into it.

Bakugou seems to realize his words simultaneously, his cheeks flushing red under the outdoor lights. You almost laugh, but then he’s glaring, eyes sternly set and murderous. For a moment, you really believe he was gonna blow you up right where you were standing.

“Say a goddamn word. Do it. I fuckin’ dare you. Leech.” He sneers. “Try me.”

“At this hour? No, uh, no thanks.”

Bakugou does seem to relax at your joke, albeit begrudgingly. He drops his shoulders, rolling his eyes, and clears his throat. “Now, seriously, you gonna fuckin’ do it or not?”

A part of you wants to say no- to hold your gift over his head, to lord it just out of reach until he figures out how to not insult you with every breath. Then you think of your job, of all the civilians who come in swearing up and down that Dynamite was a hero. And you believe them, truly, but you think that Bakugou has a long way to go. An especially long way.

But, even so, your fingers are itching again in your gloves. There’s that urge coursing through your veins, your thoughts a constant loop of heal, help, save and so it’s decided. Quickly. Almost like it was never even a question in the first place- and, knowing yourself, you suppose it never really was.

“Fine. I will. On one condition.”

“Condition? When the fuck did I say it was a negotiation. It’s not.”

“It is and I’ll tell you why.” You spin to face him completely, jumping back when you find him much closer than expected. Your retreat till your back hits the door, but you feel no less cramped than before. “You need me. You do. Don’t bother denying it because you wouldn’t be here otherwise. And the funny thing is, I would’ve done it! Would’ve done it entirely free of charge if you just asked nicely, and-”

“Will you get to the fuckin’ point already?”

“See! That! That’s why there’s a condition! Because you’re needlessly rude! All the time from what I’ve seen. And that’s got to change. Especially if you’re gonna ask for my help more than just this one time.”

“God- how many fuckin’ times do I need to make this clear to you? Hah?” Bakugou growls, leaning in even more. You can see it in his wild eyes- he’s trying to scare you, crowding you against the door. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you- You don’t make the fuckin’ rules here.”

“In this I do.” You swallow nervously, trying not to let your intimidation show. “So you’re gonna listen. My condition is this- if you want me to help you, then you have to learn to play nice. That means no names, no insults, no threats, no complaints, and no attitude. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

Bakugou swears under his breath, eyes blazing as he holds his stare. Truthfully, it makes you nervous, but you’re not one to back down. At least, not when there’s no threat of job loss involved. So you just squint back at him, jutting your jaw out in defiance. There’s a tense few seconds of silence, his eyes searching, but then he backs off. Nostrils flaring like a bull, Bakugou relents.

“Fuckin’ fine. Whatever. Jesus.” He swears, hand curling into a fist at his side. “If you’re gonna be such a bitc-”

“I said, no names, Bakugou.”

He just rolls his eyes, face so very pinched, and you briefly wonder if he’s going to explode. There’s anger as he suddenly shoves you away from the door, yanking it open and letting himself into the building. Then he’s stomping through the lobby, and you’re hardly able to catch up by the time Bakugou stops in front of the elevator.

“What fuckin’ floor, leech?”

“Once again, I said no names. None. Especially not that one.” You tell him sternly, trying to keep your voice down. “And you didn’t agree. You’re not following me and I’m not helping you unless you agree.”

If possible, you think Bakugou’s expression grows even more irritated, his eyes widening as he sets his jaw. Another few seconds pass, and when he sees you won’t relent, Bakugou nods. It’s tight and strained, stunted like the acquiescence physically pains him.

“God, you’re lucky I’m nice.” You tell him, nearly stabbing the elevator button as you press it. “Really lucky.”

“And you’re lucky I don’t have enough energy to beat the shit out of you right now.”

“No threats, Bakugou. You agreed.” You say easily, stepping into the elevator as it opens.

“Had to. Because your fuckin’ terms are bullshit.”

“Hey, no complaints. You agreed to that too.”

You think you hear something strangled leave his mouth, but it’s swallowed up by the sound of the elevator ascending.

Now that you’re standing in better lighting, you can see Bakugou’s face clearly. He looked bad before, but he looks worse now. There wasn’t just one bruise on his face, there was multiple- his jaw colored burgundy and his nose and lip split open. There was no blood, but there wasn’t a lot of scabbing either. It was new. These injuries were new.

You think back to that first visit- when he told you he never really got hurt. You wonder what’s been going so wrong for him lately. It seemed like all he’d done since you’d met him was get hurt.

“Stop fuckin’ staring.”

“I-I’m not. Not like that.” You say. “I’m assessing. You’re gonna need a butterfly bandage, on your nose- skin moves too much. And a cold compress for your jaw. Maybe some disinfectant on your lip. Probably should get your knuckles wrapped too and-”

“Jesus, I fuckin’ get it.”

You roll your eyes, ready to retort, but then the elevator dings. You walk out into the hallway, Bakugou trailing behind you like a shadow. It’s not until you’re at your door, twisting your key into the lock, that you pause.

You’re about to enter your apartment, with Bakugou of all people. A guy you’re not even sure can tolerate you. And yet you’re doing it- because he needs help. Because he looks like walking death and you’ve got a first aid kit under your bathroom sink. Because he’s pretty much proved himself to be an irredeemable asshole, but yet you still can’t bring yourself to leave him out in the cold.

Because you’re an empath, and that, by default, makes you an idiot.

You turn the key. Bakugou, to his credit, looks a little uneasy, but then you’re waving him through the door, and pushing it shut behind him.

“So, you wait here.” You gesture towards your couch, moving aside a few pillows to make him room to sit. “I’m gonna go get all that stuff I talked about.”

“So, what, you’re just like playing fuckin’ nice nurse again, now?”

“Bakugou. No attitude please- I am nice, okay? All the time. Or, at least when others are nice to me.” You say, levelling him with an unimpressed look. “And even if they’re not, I still don’t like seeing them hurt. Not if I can do something about it.”

“I don’t want your fuckin’ help.”

“No, but you need it. And since you’re too stubborn to ask for it, I’m just gonna have to force it on you.”

“Do you even fuckin’ hear yourself?” Bakugou prickles, voice rising. “Acting like a goddamn savior. Like you’re so fuckin’ good and holy. It’s bullshit.”

“It’s not.” You say flatly. Then you’re pivoting on your heels, leaving him behind and you grab the first aid kit. You open the bathroom door, calling over your shoulder. “And if you have such a problem with it, then leave. Nobody is keeping you here.”

You hear Bakugou swear again, so angry and seething that you almost believe he’ll take you up on your offer; but then you hear footsteps across the floor, the creaking of your couch.

You reach under your sink, pulling out the kit and a few extra rags for a compress. When you look in the mirror there’s exhaustion lacing your features, your eyes worn and dark with bags. The sight makes a part of you want to forget it all- makes you want to surrender to the ache in your bones and tell him to leave; but that’s just a small part. The larger part is telling you that you’re not spent until you’re unconscious, and that right now, Bakugou looks a whole lot worse than you feel. It’s telling you to hurry up and help him and you agree.

When you walk back out, supplies in hand, Bakugou’s slumped on your couch. He’s got his head tilted over the back, one hand resting on his stomach and the other thrown over his eyes. He shifts at the sound of your approach, dropping his hand and as blinks blearily. You think his eyes look a little duller than before- less like raging wildfire and more like smothered embers. If you didn’t know any better it would look like begruding acceptance- but this was Bakugou, and you knew better.

“So,” You start, setting all of your things down on the couch next to him. “You wanna go to sleep now? Or wait until after I fix up pretty much the entirety of your face?”

He looks at you unsurely, eyebrows creasing.

“Wait, actually- how are you planning to get home?” You continue, hands on your hips. “Where do you even live? Around here? Close? Because you were out in like, 10 minutes, maybe, the last time I touched you, so it’s gotta be close. You live close right? Because-”

“God, cool it with the fuckin’ word vomit. Shit’s annoying. Shut up.” He grumbles. “I’m sleeping here.”

“Who decided? You?”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

“Bakugou.” You balk, striding closer to the back of your couch. You lean over him, forcing him meet your eyes. “This is what I’m talking about! With the learning to play nice thing! I would’ve let you stay here, I would’ve, had you asked. You can’t just bulldoze your way into my house and refuse to leave!”

“Yeah? ‘n just what the fuck are you gonna do about it if I do?” He scoffs, curling his lip as he snarls. “Nothing. Because you’re so fuckin’ nice, right?”

“Don’t say it like that. It’s not a bad trait and I won’t have you insulting it. I’m not embarrassed of who I am.” You try to work through your frustration, centering yourself with a deep breath. “Look, bottom line is, ask next time. Or I’m not helping you until you do.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

You try to shrug off his petulant response, taking another calming breath as you shuck off your gloves. You replace them with latex ones from the kit, pulling the material over your fingers as you grab the antiseptic wipes. You decide to start around the cut on his nose. It’s the largest and widest, spanning over the entirety of his bridge and into his right cheek. It’s a nasty thing, deep and red, all exposed nerves beneath a thin scab and you can tell it hurts him. Bakugou fights to keep from wincing, eyes scrunching slightly as you wipe the remnants of dirt and oil from his skin.

“This from another villan?” You ask calmly, finding an easy peace in performing familiar tasks. “One today?”

“Cuts are from today. Bruises were yesterday.”

Blinking down at him, you’re a little surprised by how easy his answer was. You expected him to fight, to be difficult just because he could, but Bakugou wasn’t doing that. He was lying relatively and still and sated under your fingertips, the only sign of any tension are his minutely pinched eyebrows. Briefly, you check your gloves- for a moment there you were sure you’d accidentally touched him.

“Oh. Okay.” You reply, taking a small butterfly bandage from your kit. You press it over the cut with gentle pressure. “How’s the other guy look?”

“Fuckin’ terrible. Beat ‘em to hell.”

“I’m sure you did.” You snort, moving on to clean the cut on his lip. “Hey, you wanna know something?”

Bakugou peeks a red eye open, studying your face above him. He nods.

“I actually end up treating a lot of your victims, you know.”

“Criminals. Not victims.”

“Mhm. Sure. Well, either way, they’re always covered in burns. Mostly minor, but sometimes pretty nasty ones.” You try to keep your voice light, even and steady as you dab at his lip. “Honestly, at this point, I’m pretty sure you’re entirely responsible for the hospital’s chronic burn-cream shortage.”

Bakugou does seem to smile at that, exhaling through his nose as his eyes flutter briefly. “Wouldn’t be fuckin’ short if people just stopped tryin’ to pull stupid shit all the time. ‘s not my fault they’re so fuckin’ bad at running away.”

“Bakugou.” You balk, unable to keep the laugh from bubbling out your lips. “You can’t say that!’

“Why the fuck not? Hah? It’s true.”

“Because! You’re supposed to be playing nice, remember?”

“Yeah. To you.” He mumbles, voice rough and raspy. “Because you fuckin’ schemed your way into forcing me. They didn’t.”

“Okay- First, I’m like, pretty sure schemed and forced are the same thing, so we definitely don’t need to say them both. It’s just overkill. Second, that’s a borderline insult, so I’m gonna need you to watch your mouth. And third,” You cradle his jaw in your fingers, turning it to the side. “How the hell did you manage to get a bruise behind your ear?”

“I don’t know- probably the same way you somehow managed to become a nurse; even with such shitty fuckin’ bedside manner. You suck, leech.”

Your jaw drops.

“Bakugou!”

He cracks his eyes open, something small and pleased settling at the corner of his mouth. There’s almost as much venom in his voice as before but his eyes are softer now. They’re kinder, crinkling just slightly at the edges.

He’s joking. You realize. He doesn’t actually mean it. Not this time.

“You dick.” You reprimand, flicking his hairline lightly. “You absolute dick.”

His eyes just seem to grow a little brighter at that, just for a second, and then he’s shutting them again. There’s still a smirk on his face though- one you’d swear you’d slap off if he wasn’t actually being somewhat pleasant right now. For once in his life, it seemed.

“Alright,” You announce, rounding the couch quickly. “Your knuckles look just as bad so give ‘em.”

“No thanks.”

“It wasn’t really a suggestion.”

“I don’t need anymore of your pity help, leech.”

“It’s not pity. Not even a little bit.” You sigh. “Look, I know you’re not gonna understand this, but I seriously cannot chill the hell out without at least trying to take care of people. My quirk makes my fingers literally itch when I see injuries. They itch and they don’t stop itching until I do something about it. Helping people, healing people, is hard-wired into me- it’s as much something I do for me as it is something I do for others.”

Bakugou’s eyes widen at that. He sits a little straighter, fists clenching as he presses them into the cushions. A few beats pass and then he’s grumbling, throwing himself back as he thrusts both of his injured knuckles forward.

“God, you’re so fucking irritating.” He gripes. “If you’re gonna be such a weirdo about it, then get the hell to it already.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead kneeling next to your coffee table and settling on the ground. You take his hands in yours, bending all his fingers to make sure nothing is broken. When nothing is, you look up at Bakugou, planning to tell him the good news, but he’s already looking at you. Your eyes meet, and he blinks, once, twice, before averting his eyes quickly. You think that maybe he blushes too, but he turns his head so sharply you’re almost convinced you imagined it.

You just try to shrug it off, focusing your attention back on his hands. You notice how warm they are again, nearly feverish and strangely unblemished. When you start rubbing bruise cream over knuckles, kneading the joints between your fingers, Bakugou sighs slumps back into the couch. He closes his eyes once more.

“Are you falling asleep?”

“No. Can’t. Fuckin’ told ya already.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me why.” You set his hands back on the couch, moving instead to unravel a bandage. “Not that I won’t help you, but have you tried any other remedies? Melatonin? Or lavender? Maybe chamomile? Any of those?”

“Mhm. Falling asleep isn’t the problem.”

“Then what is?”

He opens his eyes, squinting at you from above. “None of your fuckin’ business.”

“Bakugou, I’m trying to help here.”

“I don’t want-”

“Yeah. I know. You don’t want it. Or you don’t want to rely on it. I get it. But you wouldn’t have even came here if you didn’t absolutely need it, right?” You insist, grabbing his hands into yours again. “God, you know, I’ve had toddlers who were more cooperative than you. Why’re you so difficult?”

“I’m not fuckin’ difficult.”

“No. You’re difficult. Very difficult.”

“And you’re fuckin’ annoying. Do me a favor and go back to being nice.”

“Nope. Sorry. Pretty sure you didn’t like me then either.” You start wrapping the bandage around his knuckles, taking extra care to apply the right pressure. “And I was only nice to you because I was working, you know. I’m only actually nice to the people who deserve it.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes at that.

You finish wrapping the bandage, securing it into place with a bit of medical adhesive. All things considered, Bakugou looks better than before. Or at least, better than the death incarnate he’d been portraying himself as.

“All done.” You smile, turning away to start packing up your supplies.

“Finally. Took ya fuckin’ long enough.”

“God, you are literally devoid of manners, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. ‘s part of not bein’ an absolute bitch.”

You gawk, spinning around to face him. Bakugou’s relaxed into your couch, arms laid across the back leisurely as he smiles. There’s that same softness to his eyes from before, the crinkling just at the edges.

“Wow.” You scoff, smiling sarcastically. “You really think you’re so funny don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Yeah. Because you’re fuckin’ brainless.”

“Brainless? Me? Swear to god, you only know, like, three words and all of them are probably swears!”

Bakugou just shrugs, looking abnormally pleased. Content even. You figure that’s probably right for someone like him- only happy when everyone around him is devolving into chaos.

“Actually, you know what, I think I’m done yelling for the night.” You say, shucking your gloves off. You wiggle your fingers at him, a smirk plastered across your face. “I think it’s time you’re euthanized, don’t you?”

Bakugou just blinks, minutely shrinking away from you.

“Because you said you wanted me to put you to sleep, right? To put you down. Like a dog.” You continue, nearing him, coming close even as his lip curls up. Bakugou is glaring fully now, fists clenched, and you stop just a few inches out of his reach. “Or, you know, in ruder terms- not a dog, but a bitch.”

Bakugou snarls, lunging at you as you duck away. He’s fast but you’re faster, vaulting behind your couch to create some distance. There’s fire in his eyes, blazing and hot in his irises, but it isn’t scary. If you look close enough, you’re almost sure it’s just warmth. That same rare amusement from earlier.

“You leech. Swear to fuck I’ll make you regret that. Say your goddamn prayers!”

“Touch me and you’ll fall asleep!” You tease. “Or I’ll use my quirk and see into your brain. So I guess it’s more of a ‘pick your poison’ for you, really.”

“It’ll be the same for you.” Bakugou growls, hands grasping the back of the couch as he leans in towards you. “Open casket or closed, it’s still gonna be your fuckin’ funeral.”

“Really?”

“Really. Leech.”

“No thanks.”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘no thanks’,” Bakugou mimics your voice, his features twisting. “I’m killing you. You’re dead. You don’t get a choice.”

“No, I really think I do.”

“And just what the fuck makes you so goddamn confident?”

“This. You not attacking me.” You smile easily, voice daring as you stare right back at him. “If you really wanted me dead, I’d be dead. Isn’t that right, Dynamite?”

The name sends Bakugou recoiling, shrinking backwards and scoffing in outright shock. You watch him stumble, legs hitting your coffee table and nearly causing him to fold. He recovers quickly though, albeit with his cheeks flushing wildly.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Nah. Thanks for the offer though.” You smile brightly, before throwing your arms above your head and yawning widely. “As fun as that was, I’m pretty tired. You ready to fall asleep, yet?”

“Jesus fuck, yes. That’s the entire goddamn reason I’m even here. Idiot.”

“No name calling. You agreed.”

“I didn’t agree to shit.”

“You did.” You affirm. “Now, c’mon, like last time, hold your hand out.”

With surprisingly little dramatics or resistance, Bakugou listens. He thrusts one of his bandaged hands forward as he sits on the couch again. When you touch his fingers, you feel that faint warmth again. Like fire and embers coursing through your bloodstream. It’s uncomfortable, a relentless sensation that has you cringing. You briefly wonder what it would be like to always live with it. Like Bakugou seems to.

His eyes flutter shut just like last time, and you can see the way he staggers. It’s like the fight leaves him entirely, and then he’s falling boneless into the couch. You can hardly place a pillow onto the cushions before he’s driving his head into it.

“Jesus,” You mutter in disbelief. “How long has it been since you slept? You look dead.”

“Weeks.” Bakugou mumbles.

“Since the last time?”

“Mhm.”

If his words alone didn’t confirm the severity of his sleeplessness for you, his response time did. Bakugou answered quickly, without fight, like he’d been wanting to spill for the entire night. And, you suppose, maybe he did; or was trying to. In hindsight, you begin to realize a lot of his screaming could just as easily have read as cries for help- not that you’d ever tell him that. You’d probably have to prepare a will if you ever tried telling him that.

“You want a blanket?” You ask a little unsurely, not exactly confident in your approach to this entirely different Bakugou. “All you’re getting is the couch, but I could probably scrounge up a few blankets.”

Bakugou doesn’t respond. All you hear in response are tiny little snores and slow breathing.

You find it reminds you of the last time- the way you’re reaching into a cupboard and grabbing out a blanket for him. Except this time, it’s a little bit different. Somehow you’re settling the blanket over him with a little bit of genuine kindness instead of begrudging sympathy.

After all, you can’t help but feel a little bit of pity- no one would ever fall asleep that fast unless they really needed it. Especially not in a stranger’s house.

--/--

enjoy my lovelies :))

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lesbeet · 4 years ago

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Have you seen the latest discourse about if ADHD would exist under communism? I know you've talked about it before and I'm curious what your take is!

oy dfjlksjdf yes i’ve seen it, and as usual i think it’s a matter of people talking past each other more than anything else (at least from the posts i’ve seen)

i could be wrong, but my interpretation of the conversation is basically that the Communists (idk if this is even an accurate distinction bc i don’t necessarily think the “other side” is anticommunist? but ykwim) are trying to discuss the nature of “disorders”/disability in general, and how it’s a societal structure that designates people as either Able To Be Exploited By Capitalism or Unable To Be Exploited By Capitalism—in other words, if we took capitalism out of the equation and really examined what’s considered a disability vs what isn’t, it would seem like a pretty arbitrary line to draw. not because the underlying physical/neurological conditions would cease to exist, but because much of what is considered “abnormal” or “disordered” etc would not cause distress bc of a struggle to operate within the narrow and rigid confines of being “Normal” as determined by capitalism

the opposition, from what i’ve seen, seems to be, yes, less familiar with these ideas/maybe not as well-read on the topic, and are basically saying “okay, but even if a lot of my ‘symptoms’ wouldn’t cause me distress under capitalism, there are others that will—i’ll probably still struggle to feed myself, whether that’s bc i forget to eat, or i have trouble preparing food for myself, etc”

and then rather than trying to explain themselves further most of the Communists are like “under communism someone else can feed you <3 read a book <3″ which is....not at all helpful lmfao

like first off i think that’s such a bad-faith response to a bad-faith reading of these people’s concerns, and second, while nobody is obligated to educate other people etc etc, at a certain point i think that if you’re gonna make posts about stuff like this you’re kind of inviting a conversation, right? and it’s not really a conversation if the only people you’ll engage with in good faith are the ones who already agree with you.

i think the other side came across as defensive, certainly, but it’s not difficult to see where that comes from—people w adhd (among many many other things obviously, but this conversation seemed to be primarily about adhd) are used to being ignored or patronized or treated as if we don’t understand our own experiences, we’re told that our struggles don’t exist, etc. and it looked like a lot of the Communists have experienced/do experience the same thing in their real lives or whatever, so i’m not really sure why there’s such a lack of understanding and compassion on their part

so basically they’re talking about two different things. one side is saying that “people with adhd” (or, more broadly, “people with disabilities”) as a distinct category of people would not exist under communism, and the other side is saying “sure, but that doesn’t mean all of my adhd symptoms will magically disappear” and the first side is saying “but none of it will matter, dummies! you don’t understand communism!” which again, is not helpful!

and because they’re really talking about two different issues, i kind of agree and disagree with both sides. i’m fully on board with the idea that disability a distinction/class/etc would not exist under communism (ideally we’d have individualized medicine/care anyway imo), that adhd as a diagnosis wouldn’t be useful, and also that many adhd symptoms that can be completely debilitating in our current society would cause us significantly less distress, especially in our external lives

that being said....there is a neurological component to adhd which would still exist under communism. i’ll still probably struggle to have conversations without spacing out and/or taking over and not being able to get myself to shut up, which would still cause problems in my personal relationships with people. i would still probably struggle with organization and getting myself to do tasks which don’t interest me, etc. and even though i trust that the Communist Side is well aware of this, "someone else will do it!” seems like a ridiculous answer to me bc like...i have to assume that some level of personal responsibility will still exist lol

and i saw someone say "nobody's saying your individual symptoms wouldn't exist at all under communism" -- except i literally HAVE seen people say exactly that lmao

but anyways it's tough bc first of all, we were all raised in the same capitalist hellscape that made it purposely ultra difficult to imagine our lives without it, and second of all, despite knowing that there's not really a material basis for adhd as a distinct Disorder™, for a lot of people (myself included) even having the label makes a difference. like my life genuinely changed when i started looking into adhd and when i got the diagnosis and started taking meds etc, but mostly it was the sheer relief that there wasn't just something fundamentally and irreparably Wrong with me that meant i would have to slog through the rest of my life, struggling and unsatisfied with no recourse yknow?

and that can be dangerous because a lot of people don't exercise critical thinking like.... ever. but i feel like i understand myself well enough and know enough about adhd (at least based on the research currently out there) to be able to think through like, how my different symptoms manifest, how similar symptoms from other disorders i have manifest, how adhd in general affects the way i function, etc, which means it's slightly easier for me to parse like...what would still be a problem without capitalism and what wouldn't

so yeah like. without capitalism, adhd wouldn't exist, and while the biological basis for adhd WOULD still exist, there would (hopefully) be structures in place to manage or alleviate much of the distress that comes with those symptoms, which wouldn't be viewed as symptoms at all because they wouldn't be considered Disordered, yknow?

so like ultimately i agree w the Communist Side in this particular discussion (not shocking since i'm a communist lol) but i think the way the whole conversation has been approached is counterproductive and doesn't actually help people to understand what they're missing lol

#anonymous #answered

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we-are-inevitable · 4 years ago

Text

when you’re gone // jack & crutchie

hi !!! so, i’ve made the executive decision to delete one of my collections of fics, but i’m posting each one as their own thing instead of all being in the same ao3 post. therefoooore, have this !! i’ll be posting all four at varying times today!

When You’re Gone

some good things about this fic: -WHATTTTTT??? JAC WROTE SOMETHING IN CANON ERA??? SAY SIKE -crutchie crutchie crutchie -Big Brother Jack Kelly -bonding !! light angst/comfort !!! -Accents (TM)

i hope you guys like this !! (side note: please do not tag this as a romantic ship when reblogging.)

He's different. A bad kind of different, and it's written all over his face.

The strike was won. Jack took that job as a cartoonist down at The World, though he's still staying in the lodging house- just until he has some money saved up, just until he's stable. Everyone else carries on like normal, and for the most part, it is. Jack is still gone at the same time as the rest of the boys, and usually comes back just a little bit earlier than most, but nothing has really changed. Jack is still there.

Yet Jack knows something is wrong with Crutchie.

The kid barely talks to him anymore. Jack isn’t sure why, but he had thought back through their conversations, overanalyzing his comments and picking apart everything he could remember from what Crutchie has said, but there's still nothing that stands out.

But still, something is wrong. If it isn’t painfully apparent by the way Crutchie only says a few words to him a day, it's obvious because Crutchie has moved. He no longer spends his nights out on the rooftop with Jack; no, instead, he shacks up with Race and Albert, which… has to be a lot worse than facing the elements outside. The thought causes Jack to shudder.

It's rough, really. Jack can feel that he's losing Crutchie, who was the one person that Jack knows he couldn’t live without. Katherine is his friend, ex-girlfriend, and self-appointed stylist, David is his lover- he still gets butterflies in his stomach whenever he thinks about that- and Race and Albert are his built-in annoyances, but Crutchie… Crutchie is his brother. Has been for years.

Jack can’t lose his brother.

***

Saturday is a warm welcome. Not necessarily warm- no, no, the temperatures are nearing freezing, but at least Jack doesn’t have to go into work. Pulitzer had graciously given Jack the day off, probably because Jack had turned in five drawings to his supervisor instead of one, and, quite frankly, he was sure that Pulitzer was tired of him for the week, so Jack didn’t protest when he came to him and told him to take the day for himself.

He figures that he'll just spend the day with David. David is back in school now, so his Saturday is free, and the university isn’t that far of a walk from the lodging house, so Jack won’t be freezing his ass off for too long.

Part of him is considering selling again, too, for old time’s sake, but now that he has an actual job, standing on a corner in freezing conditions and hoping that someone is stupid enough to brave the elements for a newspaper just… doesn’t sound appealing. He feels bad for the boys, though. Most of his crew are getting older, so they won’t have to do it for much longer, but it seems that they're getting more and more littles each week and it hurts him to see the young ones have to go out in this weather.

Jack sighs to himself as he climbs out of bed. As the weather took a turn for the worst, Jack had made the executive decision to stay in a spare room in the lodging house rather than risk freezing to death on the rooftop. Besides, this is the room where he stores his nice work clothes anyway- the clothes that he was still going to try to pay Katherine back for, as soon as he has the funds. He decides against wearing any of his work clothes, though, settling instead for an old undershirt from his selling days and some paint-stained trousers. He checks his watch and huffs, knowing that the boys are likely already gone.

Jack makes his rounds anyway. He walks through the lodging house, noticing that a few of the littles decided to stay in, under the careful watch of Smalls. No one else seems to be in the building, though. No one but…

Shit.

Jack takes in a deep breath as he walks toward the door, shaking his head when he hears one of the beds inside shifting. He doesn’t want to disturb him, but then Jack hears something- a sound of pain, a whine, a whimper, whatever it is- and he decides to open the door. Slowly, Jack peeks his head in, a look of concern on his face. “Crutch? Are ya… You okay?”

Crutchie doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks up at Jack with tears in his eyes, and Jack knows that look. He hurries over to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the blankets back, and Jack winces as soon as he sees the contracting muscles on Crutchie’s bad leg. “Shit… Is it bad?”

“Couldn’t even walk this mornin’,” Crutchie answers with a groan, rubbing his forehead. “Jackie, can ya--?”

“Yeah, I got ya,” Jack murmurs. He rubs his hands together for a moment, then gently moves up against the wall, maneuvering Crutchie’s leg into his lap. This reminds him so much of years ago, doing the same thing as a twelve year old, trying to do whatever he can to help his friend with the debilitating pain. It had always been so scary back then, because Jack didn't know what to do and Crutchie was often too in pain to instruct him, but Jack did his best under the circumstances. After all Crutchie had done for Jack, it’s the least he could do.

They sit in silence as Jack massages his leg, continuing on for about ten minutes, until Crutchie’s face relaxes and he’s able to take a deep breath. He gulps, opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Jack. You- You can go now.”

“Go? Nah, Crutch, I ain’t leavin’ today,” Jack says simply, looking down at the younger boy. He's only sixteen, and won't turn seventeen for at least five months... Jack can't stand the thought of making Crutchie- a kid- stay alone in this condition. “I’s off today. Don’t got no work. I was, uh, gonna spend the day with--”

“With Davey?” Crutchie says with a smirk, nudging Jack’s shoulder with his fist, and Jack just shakes his head. “Go, go, have fun with your man. I’s fine right where I is.”

“No. I said I ain’t leavin’ today, Crutchie, and I mean it. ‘Specially since your leg’s all outta sorts today,” Jack gives him a pointed look. “Smalls’ takin’ care of the littles, so if I do need to go do somethin’ I have her keepin’ an eye on ya, but my schedule is free. ‘Sides, I think… I think we need to talk.”

Crutchie swallows. “Talk?”

“Well, yeah. We ain’t been able to talk for a while,” Jack shrugs, then sighs. “You’s been avoidin’ me, Crutchie, and don’t act like ya don’t know it. I just… Did I do somethin’ to piss ya off? Is it somethin’ I said?”

“I ain’t been avoidin’ you, Jackie!” Crutchie lets out an incredulous laugh, then looks away. “What makes ya think that? I ain’t--”

“Charlie.”

That makes him stop. Jack is the only one allowed to call him by his real name, and even then, he only ever does so when it’s important. Crutchie takes in a deep breath and sits up, wincing as he moves himself to sit next to Jack with his back against the wall, legs out in front of him. “‘S just… hard, y’know? You’s gonna be gone soon. For real. You already stopped sellin’ and- and don’t get me wrong, I’m real happy for ya ‘nd all, but… I dunno, I just… don’t want ya to leave yet. Figured it would be easier if I stopped talkin’ to ya now, ‘stead of waitin’ for you to go.”

“Charlie, just because I ain’t here don’t mean I ain’t gonna talk to ya,” Jack says softly, wrapping an arm around Crutchie’s shoulder. “You and I- we’s brothers. Always gonna be brothers. You know that, right, knucklehead?” Jack nudges Crutchie in the side, which makes the younger boy let out a laugh. “Once I got enough money to get myself a place, you’s comin’ with me, ya hear? You and me, Crutch.”

“Thought you was gonna live with Dave?” Crutchie tilts his head, a lopsided grin on his face.

“Davey’ll be fine on the couch,” Jack shrugs. There’s a few beats of silence before they both break out into soft laughter, which results in Crutchie resting his head against Jack’s shoulder, just like he used to do when they were younger.

After a few moments, however, Crutchie sucks in a deep breath. “...What am I gonna do with ya gone? Who’s gonna help me get down from the roof?”

“Uh, no one, ‘cause after I’m gone, ain’t no one stealin’ my roof.”

“Who’s gonna antagonize the Delancey’s with me?”

“Where the hell did ya learn the word ‘antagonize’?”

“Who’s gonna make sure I don’t mess up? What if I mess up, Jack? I don't know what to do, and you--”

“Crutch, calm down,” Jack says gently, then rubs the younger boy’s arm. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna do good things, kiddo, I promise. I am so, so proud of you, Charlie… You’re gonna be just fine.”

Crutchie looks up at Jack and gulps, but eventually nods, biting his lip. “I... I guess you's right. Thanks, Jackie.”

They settle into a comfortable silence after that. Things will be a lot different once Jack is actually gone, sure, but Jack has a feeling everything will be alright. He's going to make sure of it.

For his friend.

No, for his best friend.

No, for his brother.

#i luv these boys sm #jack kelly #crutchie morris #charlie 'crutchie' morris #crutchie newsies #newsies #newsies broadway #newsies musical #newsies fic #livesies #92sies #jac writes #jac txt.

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cerberus253 · 4 years ago

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Is there a chance to become Drago's girlfriend, if, for example, you are just a sweet, most ordinary girl? Not a villain or anything like that. Maybe she is a master of extreme sports to get his attention. Or it could be a punk girl from the friends of Ice's team. But if she's just ... in high school? It is very difficult for me to imagine how, under the conditions of the events of the series, Drago can meet a girl, become interested in her, it is enough to know her as a person and fall in love.

Oh so like me?? XD (except that I’m 21 and straight outta a 2-year college)

The main qualities that one primarily needs are patience and understanding. If you have some sort of mental disorder or physical disability, one would also need to, more-or-less, understand and accept thyself as well, for you cannot help someone else without working on yourself first, at least to reasonable degrees. I say this because Drago WILL be a piece of work that WILL wear-and-tear the s/o down often with just how much mental and emotional work that the relationship will take; that’s just what happens with incredibly broken people, sadly. With that being said, one also needs to know when to put their foot down and not be stepped all over. Not only would Drago be personally impressed that you have a backbone, but it is also needed to help him through his problems, knowing how stubborn he is. So, if this “ordinary girl“ has these qualities, including the “sweet[ness]” you’ve stated, a romantic relationship is most likely possible.

With meeting, I want to say the most likely scenario would eventually be through the Ice Crew because, well, they are humans full and through, while Drago isn’t and has no interest in getting to know people on a personal level. I’m not saying the situation of the person going up to Drago directly and initially, saying ‘Hi‘ or the vice versa isn’t possible, it’s just highly unlikely and would only happen under very specific circumstances. Anyway, meeting the Ice Crew first would be the most plausible. How that introduction starts is up to the fanfic writer, but again, it should follow the listed characteristics of the individual that I’ve laid out, not some OOC crap-- but I also have to state you can do what you want! My words are not a Bible to follow; these are just my own thoughts and opinions!

Moving forward, I say “eventually through the Ice Crew“ because you’d have to have at least someone in the whole four group (this includes Drago) to encourage you to hang out with them. It is possible to always be going to the junkyard while no one really cares that you’re there, but that doesn’t feel good, does it? Like, of course Drago would rather not have you around, but include the Crew in that? Yeah, that’d be pretty debilitating to one’s psyche. However, if you want to do the story that way, go ahead; I ain’t stoppin ya. But I also have to add, what else is the individual going to do? Just sit in the background, eating popcorn, watching them like entertainment, like a weirdo? I mean, sure, but that’s not going to get you anywhere. What I’m trying to get here is you need something else to do aside from following Drago around like a mosquito, and the only other activity is either hanging out with the Crew in their off time, or go along a completely different route and just work in the junkyard or something. Ya need another reason to be at the junkyard often than just (trying to) hanging out with Drago because he’s going to use all his power to make you stay away since you’re technically not helping him with his endeavors; so, do a junkyard job, junkyard diving, hanging out with the Crew, or whatever because Drago would have little reason to argue with you at that point. “He could still try and scare you off, though.“ I don’t think he’d want to waste his time with scaring off one measly human, ya know, as long as they’re not THAT annoying. (”Whatcha doin’ whatcha doin’ whatcha doin’ whatcha doin’????” “GrrrRRRR! SHUT! UP!”)

Aaaaaanyway, doing whatever other activity one is doing at the junkyard, and occasionally expressing the desire to interact with Drago, as well as acting upon said desires, would be the better vantage point. So, if Drago tells you to go away and threatens you if you don’t, you can walk away like he requested, but still have a reason to be there in the premise. A lot of times to people your mere presence is enough to make someone happy (or at least keep you on their mind), whether you’re interacting with them or not. “Wouldn’t Drago want you to go far away, like away and out of the junkyard?“ Yeah, probably, but you can argue that you still need to do your primary activity, which doesn’t actually involved Drago to begin with. So, you’ll just step away from HIM, and by staying in the premise, it gives you (and him) and second chance to interact with one another sooner or later.

A lot of this occasional interaction, maybe increasing if Drago seems to tolerate you more and more, you could get on his good side, but be warned he will not admit he likes your presence because originally he really wouldn’t want you here if you have no use to him and his goal. But wait, making him happy IS something useful, right? Yeah, and he, deep down inside, knows it, but will deny it because he isn’t suppose to like humans to begin with. This is the point where Drago will start to become frustrated with his different desires and need, ones for his human half and ones for hi demon half, which I believe I have discussed before. You could also label this as your first Trial and Tribulation(s) with your patience, understanding, and kindness, for he will get more irritable and mean than usual. These events will also take a VERY long time to get through; he needs to be encouraged that it’s okay to be different, but still given a lot of time to digest that hard-to-swallow-pill fact. As a bonus, when these events do begin, you have the Ice Crew to talk to! They may not care about Drago at all, but they do care about you as a friend, so they can tell you what they know AND step in if Drago wants to physically harm you at any time. Befriending the Ice Crew first has many perks and very little downsides ;) At least, the Ice Crew inside my head does...

Gifts like edible treats, badass jackets, and (my favorites) getting decent food and making tents and decent beds for them (so they don’t have to sleep on hard tires and gross-old car seats) would always be great. Like, I personally like to think about making breakfast for them; the Crew would be like “Hell yeah!“ and Drago would be like “... I’m not thanking you, but I am hungry“ and then just sits by himself to eat because fuck you guys, he doesn’t have feelings (b-baka...).

I also want to say do not be afraid to express your enjoyment of Drago. Even when he’s in a sour mood, try not be reluctant to be around him. Yes, there is a good chance something will get physical in the bad way, but the point is you’re trying to show him you genuinely like him and want to help even if it’s not in the way he admittedly wants. It’s okay to be afraid of him, but not letting that fear get the best of you and going up to be nice to him will show him that not everyone hates him for being what he is and his negative aspects. Of course, like I’ve said, don’t let him walk all over you, so you don’t have to be kind ALL THE TIME, but you need to be able to discern when to be passive and when to be aggressive. It’s good to have a lot of the former, because compassion is what he needs, but too much of the later makes him harbor permanent resentment; resentment in general will happen, but it would/should be temporary. Like, ya know when one character says something critical to another, and it pisses that second character off, and they think about it a lot, but then they actually learn from it and that critical statement ends up being helpful to them? Yeah, that’s what I mean by “temporary resentment.“ Permanent resentment would lead to a relationship not too different than the one with his Dad.

A lot of the time you will need to be taking the initiative when doing activities, from talking to Drago all the way to suggesting hanging out outside of just normal junkyard stuff. It’s going to be a lot of work, but I feel like if done right, the payoff will be worth it. Drago will definitely be the territorial and controlling type, but by God will he love you; he would probably aggressively SMOTHER you that you will have no idea if it’s actually obsession or actual love feelings XD That may sound OOC of him, but... I dunno, I feel like he can learn to love and be scary flustered by/with it.

“Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.“ - William Goldman, The Princess Bride

But, like, “Drago’s heart was a buried garden, the ground suffocating the very little life left, and the walls were very high and heavy.“

#ask #jackie chan adventures #jca #drago #how to get with

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lesbian-ed · 4 years ago

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(I am the 💠 anon) First, thank you for being willing to look at this question! I completely understand if you find you’re unable to answer it, but would you mind indicating you received it either way? (Tumblr often fails to deliver asks I send so I just want to make sure you received it even if you don’t/can’t answer. Thank you!) For you and anyone else who may be reading this: This ask contains graphic descriptions of self harm.

My problem: I’m having difficulty understanding why my mild forms of self harm are a problem. I know we’re taught that they are but it seems to help me more than it hurts. I don’t do anything life threatening and rarely anything that even leaves a mark (I have a disorder that amplifies my experience of painful stimuli so I rarely need to). In contrast, causing myself pain kept me from spiraling into an anxiety attack just last night, distracts me from more disturbing intrusive thoughts, and helps me reach a state of mind where I can actually solve a problem instead of making myself sick from worry or causing distress to my loved ones.

And I know my behaviors are stigmatized by society but I really just can’t see how scratching myself (and only VERY rarely to the point of bleeding) or bending my joints past their limit is any different from people who exercise until they throw up/have very bad muscle aches, stay up all night on purpose, or use alcohol or caffeine or whatever excessively (other than that my actions provide immediate (my best word for this is sharp?) relief and the others are more dull relief and also more incompatible with my aforementioned disorder).

I guess what I’m asking is if this seems reasonable to you? I know my behaviors are unhealthy but so are a lot of people’s behaviors? (And I mean people think it’s terrible if you hit your hands against something to stop an anxiety attack but make jokes about living off no sleep and coffee? Why is what I do worse than that especially since their behaviors probably lead to much worse health outcomes in the long term?)

And since I logically know that you probably also think I should stop/that this is really bad- do you know of any explanations that aren’t just “cutting is bad” (which I don’t do, I know it’s dangerous and could actually lead to an accidental death and I use milder forms of harm to distract of intrusive thoughts about it).

Thank you again for looking at this, and thank you in advance for any advice you may be able to give me.

Hey, there! Sorry for the late reply, I had to sit with this for a bit. I’d like to start with a couple of disclaimers. First of all, I’d like to clarify that I am not a doctor, therapist, or counselor, so please know my advice here is in no way official. Even if this behavior has been helping you, I’d recommend reaching out to a therapist if you can, in order to work on the other things that are leading to you needing these coping mechanisms in the first place. By extension, it’s important to point out that all of the opinions I will state here are just that: opinions. They’re based on unofficial research and personal experience, and are not in any way a replacement for medical help or therapy.

Okay so. I think it’s most important to start by addressing the point you’ve made about people’s unhealthy coping mechanisms. You’re right that things like unhealthy exercise routines, disordered consumption of legal or illegal substances, unhealthy sleeping patterns, unhealthy working schedules, etc are all examples of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Self harm can also be an unhealthy coping mechanism. None of these are better or worse than the others. They’re just several ways in which people will self harm in order to try and stay afloat in regards to other debilitating symptoms of issues with mental health.

So yeah, you’re right that these things are sometimes seen as acceptable... But they shouldn’t be. Not because all self harm will lead to suicide (in fact, people who self harm often report they were not aiming to commit suicide), however it can lead to the development of bad habits, which can become addictive, and in the long term lead to worsening health issues, either physical or mental.

Two wrongs don’t make a right, meaning, just because these bad coping mechanisms are seen as acceptable, it doesn’t mean other bad coping mechanisms should also be accepted. We should strive for treating the mental health issues that lead to overwhelming emotional states, which lead to self harming, in whatever way it may present. The main issue isn’t that you’re self harming, the self harming is caused by the intrusive thoughts, by the anxiety. What needs to be treated are those, first and foremost. That would be the only thing that can actually help with the self harm.

To answer your question about what is it about self harm that is so bad... My opinion, as a laywoman, from my limited understanding of human psychology, is that the worst thing that could come from prolonged and habitual self harm is that eventually you will be teaching your body that these negative physical sensations can lead to positive mental states. So you will exceedingly seek these negative physical sensations, and eventually may become more desensitized to it, needing rougher and rougher self afflicted injuries in order to achieve a calm mental state. Even if you teach yourself that pain leads to good things, your brain still subconsciously knows that pain equals bad. So you’ll have to enter an altered mental state whenever you self harm in order for it to remain sustainable, which might eventually lead to dissociation.

There is a reason why self harm is stigmatized. As humans and animals, we seek to survive. Our survival instinct dictates that when healthy, we seek for the best physical conditions we can achieve. We stigmatize self harm because we shy away from self destruction, even in small doses.

This isn’t to say you should feel shame, or bad. There are deeper reasons for your self harm and like I said the triggers which lead to your feeling extreme mental distress are what should be treated. Your self harm is a symptom of mental health issues that run much deeper. So you could continue self harm for a while, and sure, maybe on the short term it might not hurt you... But it doesn’t actually solve the problems which are leading to self harm in the first place. The only thing that could help that is mental health counseling/therapy.

I’m going to be honest with you, maybe right now, for a while, this behavior isn’t “really bad” as you said. I don’t doubt that it does help you, because self harm is a common reaction to psychological distress. But it won’t fix the underlying problems, sister. And you deserve better than to spend the rest of your life hurting yourself. You don’t deserve to be hurt, not physically, not emotionally, not psychologically. Not at your own hands, not at anybody’s hands. I’m not judging that you do this. I too do this, actually. I know plenty of other women who do this. But we all deserve better, we deserve to seek help, to get help. We deserve to feel at ease with ourselves, and to not want to harm our own bodies.

I’m not a doctor, I don’t know what’s the deadline on how long this behavior will be okay for you. But it seems only logical that eventually you will be training yourself to become comfortable with pain, with discomfort. And you deserve better than that. You deserve to be in a place where your mental health is doing okay, and you can have psychological balance. You deserve to not be so distressed that the only way out of your mind is through bodily self harm.

Not because you’re bad for doing it, not because you’re wrong. But just because you deserve to be kind to yourself. There shouldn’t be anything so bad in your life leading you to want to hurt yourself, even if it’s “not that bad”/”won’t lead to suicide”.

I hope I’ve made some sense, and helped shed some light on the issue.

Here’s some resources on self harm, and some numbers to helplines:

https://www.mentalhealth.org.nz/get-help/a-z/resource/49/self-harm

https://www.helpguide.org/articles/anxiety/cutting-and-self-harm.htm

https://checkpointorg.com/global/

https://unitedgmh.org/mental-health-support

https://faq.whatsapp.com/general/security-and-privacy/global-suicide-hotline-resources/?lang=en

I wish you a speedy recovery, and that you may soon find healthier ways to cope with the intrusive thoughts and anxiety. Take care. You deserve to.

/Mod A

(ps: this was resubmitted from my personal blog so the whole ask came in one piece)

#💠#answered asks #tw #trigger warning #self harm #tw self harm #mod a #mental healthy #mental health issues #mental illness #submission

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crossdressingdeath · 5 years ago

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I think the true disconnect with JC fans is that like... they can usually acknowledge exploiting WWX's debilitating childhood trauma to terrorize him is bad, and that weaponizing his sexuality to humiliate him is bad, and that shaming him for mourning his dead sister is bad, etcetera, but they think it's all okay because JC is hurting or really loves WWX deep down or is just lashing out or whatever. When the truth is (1/2)

2/2 the truth is that whatever JC is personally feeling or experiencing is super irrelevant to the fact that it's not acceptable to treat anyone that way, and that it's not just justified but extremely understandable if WWX decides he no longer wants to associate with someone who thinks he can act like that. And we know WWX sees JC's behaviour as wrong and not 'just JC being JC' because he instantly demands an apology when JC tries to level the same abuse at someone else!

JC behaves like a child who hasn’t yet learned that lashing out at people just because you’re feeling bad isn’t acceptable. That’s not okay when little kids do it; in fact little kids should be stopped from doing it. JC’s trauma doesn’t mean it’s somehow okay for him to be behaving like a child too young to have learned what compassion is. And yeah, WWX clearly does know that the way JC treats people isn’t okay! It’s just that he’s been conditioned (partly by the Jiangs and partly by himself) to believe it is okay when directed at him because he “deserves it” or because JC really does love him and is bad at showing it. But he knows it’s wrong, and he tries to stop JC whenever that behaviour is directed at others. WWX convincing himself that it’s okay for JC to treat him and only him like shit because “He really does love me, I just deserve it!” doesn’t make it okay; in fact it’s a massive red flag!

#mdzs #cql #grapehate #anon #asks

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wannabecowpoke · 5 years ago

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Consumption

TITLE: Consumption

RATING: Explicit

PAIRINGS: Javier Escuella/Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan/Mary Linton (implied)

WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, unsafe sex, implied cheating, canon compliant

DESCRIPTION: The Guarma humidity is starting to get to Arthur, and so is that nasty cough of his.

xX————————————————Xx

In the quiet stone halls of La Capilla, Arthur polished his revolver, trying to ignore the humid, oppressive heat that seemed permanently affixed to the tropical island of Guarma.

Ever since they’d been taken in by Hercule’s men, it’d been a lot of sitting and waiting — they weren’t in any position to launch an assault on Colonel Fussar’s men, at least yet, nor were they able to try making their way home by boat, due to the ships patrolling the surrounding waters.

Being unable to do anything made Arthur restless, eager to get back to the action, because last he knew, John had been taken into custody and the rest of the gang was stuck at Shady Belle. Arthur was hardly able to sleep, kept awake at night by both his worry for them, and by the pervasive cough that seemed to plague him. He’d been sick before, but stranded on a humid island where he needed to be in peak condition, he wished that whatever cold or flu he had would’ve picked a more opportune time.

“Dutch seems different,” Javier mused.

“Hosea was everything to him,” Arthur reminded him wryly. They’d known each other for over twenty years, and he knew that Dutch had loved Hosea in ways that weren’t exactly... brotherly. It’d been so abrupt, him getting shot, that they’d immediately descended into panic. He wasn’t about to start unpacking his own feelings on the matter. “But I’ve come to think that maybe he started to decline a while ago, not just after Hosea... y’know.”

“He isn’t declining,” Javier contradicted him. Arthur had considered himself the most loyal member of the gang before, but once he’d started growing a mind of his own, it was difficult to not notice the blind adoration that the others had for him. “He’s just tired and upset, like the rest of us.”

Humming, Arthur holstered his revolver, dragging a hand over his face and through his hair. Without pomade or a proper bath, his blonde curls were becoming unruly and greasy, and he promised himself distantly that whenever they got back, he’d immediately go wash it. “Maybe so.”

“You aren’t starting to doubt now, amigo?”

Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but his breath caught in his throat, and he dissolved into a coughing fit before he could catch himself, hacking raggedly into his elbow. Standing up abruptly, Javier hurried to come up behind him, rubbing his back gently while he murmured reassurances in Spanish. “I— it’s,” he managed to choke out, “I’m okay—”

“You should go to a doctor when we get back,” Javier suggested, mouth pulled downwards into a worried frown. He tried to brush away the tears that’d welled in Arthur’s eyes, but he brushed him away. “That cough doesn’t sound good.”

“Just a—” Arthur cleared his throat, feeling phlegm loosen itself in his lungs. It struck him that maybe it was pneumonia, which wouldn’t be good whatsoever, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. He’d always been bad with dealing with his own illness, especially the sicknesses that led to him being bedridden, and pneumonia could be debilitating to anyone. “I’m just a— a little sick.”

Javier didn’t look convinced, but he sat back down regardless, using the table to support himself as he rested on the bunk he’d been given. The bullet wound in his leg was healing well — it hadn’t gotten infected, but he still had bandages wrapped around it, and he was still walking with a limp. It’d be some time before he could use it properly again. “Last night,” he started wearily, “I realized that every one of these heists that Micah is involved in end badly.”

“You just noticed that?” Arthur scoffed, and Javier shoved at his shoulder, a smile spreading on his lips. Once the conversation was away from Dutch, he seemed much more relaxed. It didn’t hurt that they shared a mutual, passionate hatred for Micah Bell. “But seriously,” he continued, “there was this bank robbery, the meeting with Colm, Blackwater...”

“It makes me wonder whether he’s truly worth keeping around,” Javier huffed.

“Yeah,” Arthur drawled in agreement.

Javier pulled out his knife, absentmindedly twirling it between his nimble fingers skillfully, and Arthur watched him in vague fascination. The man was as talented with knives and blades as Arthur was with guns — there wasn’t anyone who could beat him with a dagger in the gang, and he doubted there were man people who could in the country, either.

It wasn’t like he was trying to be discreet, but Javier still clucked his tongue when their eyes met, tossing it into the air before catching it by the wooden handle. Arthur imagined what would’ve happened if he’d caught it by the blade, and he cringed internally at the image. “See something you like?”

“No,” Arthur scoffed, even if his eyes tracked the movement of Javier’s throat as he swallowed and licked his chapped lips. He raised a thick eyebrow, eyes glimmering with mischief, and Arthur remembered the promise he’d made to Mary, trying to calm the twitching of interest in his pants.

“You sure seem interested,” Javier prodded, “amigo.”

A lump formed in Arthur’s throat. “I ain’t into men.”

“You don’t have to be,” Javier assured him, his smile turning sly.

He was playing a risky game, being so open with him like that.

But Arthur had been lonely, and sad, and it’d been longer than he’d like to admit since he’d shared the warmth of another person. He would’ve liked to pretend it was a difficult decision, but it wasn’t.

Standing up, he walked towards Javier, and the man spread his legs, allowing Arthur to come kneel between them. He bent down, quickly catching Arthur’s lips in a kiss as his hands came to cup the back of his head, and Arthur massaged Javier’s thighs where his hands rested on them.

“Mierda,” Javier cursed into his mouth between messy kisses, “I’ve fucked,” he combed his fingers through his hair, tongue swiping at his teeth, “most of the people in camp,” Arthur could feel his own pants straining, and he hurried to reach down and relieve the pressure before he actually popped a button, “but I’ve always wanted to fuck you most of all.”

Arthur pulled away long enough to unbutton Javier’s shirt, rumbling with them but knowing better than to simply tear it open. It wasn’t like they had a lot of clothes to begin with, and Javier was especially picky about what he wore, so he wouldn’t risk invoking his ire for ruining his shirt.

“What am I to you?” Arthur asked as he pushed it off his muscular, broad shoulders. Quickly, he worked at the buttons of Javier’s pants, eager to wrest them open. “An item on a shopping list?”

Javier laughed breathily, hissing through his teeth when Arthur wrapped a hand around his length and pumped it once, then twice. Stilling his hand, he reached into the bag next to him, pulling out a vial. “Gun oil,” Javier explained needlessly, “do you want it? Or should I use it?”

Arthur had bottomed before — he plucked it from Javier’s fingers, standing up to remove his own shirt as Javier fully removed his pants. “I’ll do it,” he said plainly, pushing Javier onto the bed. He hadn’t been wearing undergarments, and his cock stood at attention, clearly aroused. Shucking his own pants, Arthur straddled him, then shifted down the bed so that his head was level with Javier’s impressive length.

Pressing two lubricated fingers into his own ass, Arthur held Javier’s length between his forefinger and thumb as he slipped the head of his cock between his lips, tongue caressing the underside of his foreskin. It’d been awhile since he’d held a man’s length in his mouth, but he remembered how to stroke his tongue along the underside of his length, how to hollow out his cheeks as he sank down on him and then suckle gently at the tip when he pulled back slightly, sinking down again afterwards.

Javier’s fingers curled in his greasy blonde curls, and he licked his lips, blinking up at the ceiling. “You’re good at this,” he sighed, more a complaint than a compliment, and Arthur hummed around his length in response. The hand fisted in his hair pulled harder, and though the sting made his eyes smart, it made him twitch against the bedding. “Oh, damn. You’re really good.”

Arthur added a third finger to himself, pushing it past the ring of muscle, and crooked them to roughly press against his prostate, hips canting back into his own hand. When Javier started to thrust up into his mouth, he knew that he was getting close, and he pulled off of him, crawling up his body to position himself above him.

“Arthur,” Javier murmured softly, gaze soft.

Arthur looked stubbornly up at the ceiling, even as Javier reached up to caress his collarbone and his jaw with a tenderness that made him want to cry.

Holding Javier steady, Arthur sank down onto his length, and the man took a shaky breath underneath him, fingers clenching his hips tighter. He filled him completely, thick enough to put pressure against his walls without being painful, and Arthur’s cock leaked onto his tan stomach in interest.

“Arthur, cariño,” Javier groaned, caressing his ass as his eyes flitted over him, from his chest to his flushed cock leaking clear fluid onto his stomach, “eres hermoso, te quiero—”

Arthur didn’t speak much Spanish, just what he’d picked up from Javier and other folks over the years, but he knew what those last words meant.

It wasn’t something that two men should say to each other, let alone something that anyone should be saying to him. Back in the States, he had Mary, too, waiting for him to come back so that they could run away and spend their lives together, and here he was, letting his male friend fuck him. It’d change everything if he acknowledged it, if he recognized it as attraction, and he didn’t want anything to change, whether out of his desire or just his pride.

So, even if he knew, he pretended that he didn’t.

“Javier,” Arthur groaned, rolling his hips down into him, “shit—”

Slicked with gun oil, it was easy to fuck himself onto Javier, feeling the head of his cock pressing against the place inside him that made him moan with every thrust. Javier stroked his chest, twisting his nipples, and the sensation made electricity shoot down his spine.

It wasn’t long before Javier groaned, “I’m gonna’ come, cariño,” and Arthur didn’t pull off him when he tensed, lips parting in a moan while he pressed himself further into his pliant body, shooting his seed into him.

Arthur gripped himself, hand still wet with their makeshift lubricant, and it was only several loose thrusts of his hand that had himself spilling over Javier’s stomach, pearly white streaking across his tan skin. He tried to imagine that it was Mary underneath him, that his release was painting creamy breasts and being licked from plush, pink lips, but she was so different from Javier that he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or terrified that he didn’t quite mind.

“Mierda,” Javier cursed quietly in Spanish, “shit, that felt good.”

“Sure,” Arthur mumbled.

Spend dribbled out of Arthur’s ass as he rolled himself off him, collapsing into the bunk next to him with a wheezy sigh, and he regretted not pulling him out before he came in his ass. Limp and satiated, he breathed raggedly, staring up vacantly at the stone ceiling. Javier tried putting a hand on his shoulder, but he pushed it away, forcing himself out of the bed.

“I’m gonna’ go get cleaned up,” Arthur said, an excuse, and he pretended to not see the hurt in Javier’s expression.

#javiarthur #i don’t usually write angst #but that’s what this is i guess #rdr2 #smut #nsft #arthur morgan #javier escuella #i need positive reinforcement #please tell me what you think #red dead dedemption 2 #guarma

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usuknetwork · 6 years ago

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Cabin Fever

From @fwancus to @nopeferatu

Summary: When Arthur gets a call from his husband entailing that he wasn't sure he’d be able to make it home from work due to the heavy snow conditions, he’s determined to make their home as cozy as possible in the event that Alfred would eventually arrive.

Rating: R18+

Warnings: Sexual intercourse, mention of car accidents

It was Christmas Eve, Arthur was upset enough when Alfred woke at 7:00 to prepare for work. It wasn’t often that they got to spend holidays together, and Arthur didn’t want Alfred working himself to death on such a special occasion.

But now, Arthur was so much more upset.

“What?” Arthur’s voice quivered over the phone, a pout cracking his lips. “But...It’s Christmas Eve. What do you mean you won’t be home?”

“I- Art, I didn’t say that, babe. I said I might not make it home. Trust me, I know how important this is, and I’m gonna try to make it. I promise.” Alfred sighs, not at all liking the sad and dejected tone in his husband’s voice.

“But,” Alfred shook his head, “You also have to think of the alternative, too. The snow is wicked outside, babe, what if I got into an accident? I’d rather come home tomorrow than not come home at all.”

“Don’t- God, Alfred, what’s wrong with you?! Don’t say that!” Arthur frowns, and Alfred holds the phone away from his ear - Arthur’s shouting could give debilitating headaches.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry...I’m sorry, that was mean. But it’s true.” Alfred sighed deeply, softening his voice. “Just hang in there, baby. Whether I get home tonight, tomorrow, or next week, I promise I’ll get home. And when I do, we can have our own Christmas, okay?”

Arthur wasn’t happy with that. He wanted to protest, but he knew it would have just made things worse. With a tiny voice, he gave in and nodded. “Okay...Just be safe. Please.”

“‘Course I will, baby. I won’t try to come home tonight if it gets any worse. I love you. A whole bunch.”

Arthur nods, “I love you too, more than you can imagine.”

Alfred smiled fondly, and let the line go for a few more moments, before blowing a kiss through the phone and hanging up. The disconnected line left an emptiness in Arthur’s heart as he looked around at the house.

They had decorated together; Alfred had made him hang up Christmas lights by himself and, boy, it was a show. Alfred was laughing off his rocker when Arthur wobbled on the step and tried to screw in the posts. He eventually had fallen, though, and Alfred had stretched miles to make Arthur feel better.

It was memories like those that made him feel warm inside. They also made him yearn to be in his husband’s arms even more - but it was practically impossible to ever not miss having Alfred around. He was precious.

The house was nice, clean, there wasn't a mess and it was homey. Comfortable. Oil burners filled the rooms with the strong and shrouding scent of vanilla and the caramelized sugar on the outside of a toasted marshmallow; Arthur was almost in heaven. All he was missing was his angel.

“Oh, Alfred,” He shook his head with a sigh, his heart heavy. If Alfred didn’t return tonight, there was still no guarantee that roads would be safe to drive on by tomorrow. He, in the brutal truth, had no idea when Alfred would be able to return home safely.

So it was with that notion that he thought; “Alfred will surely be exhausted by the time he gets home, whenever that may be. I’ll make the house extra special.”

And with that, he began; he lit the fireplace with a warm, crackling fire. He knew that he couldn’t bake very well, the oven was reserved for Alfred, but he knew his husband had a book of recipes lying around somewhere. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?

Arthur found Alfred’s book lying in the corner of the bottom cupboard, probably hidden to prevent Arthur from trying his luck. Much like he was about to do.

“Alright,” Arthur smiled, lingering on the last syllable, “all the basics. Flour, sugar, vanilla, an egg...Oh-” He paused. “Baking powder? Baking soda?” He took a minute to glance around the kitchen. He hadn’t seen either of those recently, and he wasn’t sure they had any.

But, ah, there they were; tucked nicely in the back of the pantry. Once again, likely to be one of Alfred’s precautionary measures. But who had time for that?

An hour and a half later, Arthur finally slid a fitted tray dotted with small lumps of sugared cookie-dough into the oven. Too proud of himself to set a timer - he could remember, right? - he made his way to the living room to light a few candles that would warm the home with the scent of nutmeg.

His scene was perfect, for...whenever Alfred would be home.

---

Arthur was asleep on the couch when the knob on the front door began to twitch a bit. The jangle of keys could be heard on the other side, and soon enough, the door swung open. A few small piles of snow fell onto the carpet inside from the frosted door frame, and Alfred cursed a bit while he rubbed it in with his shoe.

“Hey, Arthur, I’m-” He paused when he saw his husband completely out on the couch, and a fond smile crossed his face. He loved the faces he made while he slept.

“Artie,” He coos softly, sitting next to his husband and gently nudging him. “Hey, babe, I brought you some stuff..Wake up, baby~”

Arthur’s eyes slowly creak open, blinking as he stares up at his husband in confusion. “W...What? Oh!” He gasps, smiling widely and throwing his arms around Alfred happily. “Oh, you’re home! Thank goodness you’re home!”

“At 1AM, but,” he chuckles breathlessly, rubbing Arthur’s back, “yeah, I made it home~ And I felt bad about making you spend Christmas Eve all alone, so..I bought you some stuff on the way. I probably went a bit overboard, but you can’t yell at me ‘cause I was spoiling you.” He smiles as he hands Arthur a decorative bag.

“Oh, you sap~” Arthur smiles, peaking into the bag. Immediately he smiles, taking out eight different boxes of chocolates, giggling. “Well, I think I’ll be set on sweets for weeks, now won’t I?”

They both shared a laugh together, before Alfred gasps. “Oh, yeah! I was in the mood for something cakey to so I got some cookies! They’re in my-- Artie? What’s that face for?”

Arthur was blank, and he had dropped as soon as Alfred had mentioned the small pastries. “The oven!” He exclaims, quickly running into the kitchen to see small whisps of smoke beginning to rise from the door.

“Arrrtthuuuurrr!” Alfred pouted as he followed him, beating a rag towards a vent to try and clear the smoke. “I told you, oven-usage is forbidden when I’m not around! You could have burned the house down!”

Arthur coughed through the fumes, pressing a button on the oven to turn it off. “Well- I’m sorry! I just wanted to make a surprise for youu!”

Once the smoke had cleared, he cautiously opened the oven, grabbing a mit to pull the tray out. On it, lie twenty black mounds that crumbled into ash at the slightest of movements. Arthur pouts.

“Well..Not much of a good surprise, though. Sorry for all the smoke, now,” Arthur apologizes, and Alfred wraps his arms around his waist.

“Nothing to be sorry about..It was a sweet gesture~” He leans down, trapping Arthur’s lips against his own in a passionate kiss. “I was just worried because you may have hurt yourself. I’m just glad you’re alright, and that a fire didn’t start..”

Arthur seemed comforted by his embrace, and slowly, he tilted his head to the side when Alfred moved his lips down to kiss there. He felt his husband’s fingers rub and grope softly into his side.

“Alfred,” he spoke softly, kissing the American’s ear. “Is there...any particular way you were planning on ending this night?”

“Yep,” Alfred mumbled, his hands sliding a bit further south on the map of Arthur’s body. The smaller man’s eyes fell shut with a soft moan when his hands landed just over his rear. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Arthur breathed out hastily, nodding and complying entirely as Alfred hoisted him up around his waist. He helped navigate their vessel upstairs, tugging Alfred onto him as he collapsed onto the bed.

---

Panting.

“H-Holy-” Arthur stammered as his husband rolled off of him with a thud on the other side of the mattress, breathless. “That was..amazing~”

Alfred shook his head with a good hearted laugh, still panting as he wraps an arm beneath Arthur’s neck. “Yeah, it was..” He chuckles, tilting his head to kiss Arthur’s nose. “One hell of a way to end the night, hm?”

Arthur giggles, nodding as he nudges closer to his husband. “Yes..I can say that I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”

“So did I..” Alfred hummed, letting his cheek press against Arthur’s forehead as he lie down against the pillow. “Merry Christmas, Art..”

Arthur was nearly drifting off, smiling fondly as he mumbled his response. “Mm..Merry Christmas~”

#aph usuk #aph america #aph england #usukholiday2018 #queued

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lostinmysticfalls · 6 years ago

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And All At Once, You’re All I Want (Harry x Maggie One-Shot)

Been going back and forth on this the past couple days. So, in celebration of today’s renewal news, here’s a little fic of Harry teaching Maggie how to dance because CAN YOU IMAGINE... No smut (I even surprised myself with this one tbh), just Harry being a sweetheart and Maggie trying to understand her feelings.

Maggie leaned against the doorframe that led to the family room. Harry was finishing up a conversation with Macy and she didn’t really want to interrupt but her patience was running thin and if she were being perfectly honest, what they were talking about didn’t seem as time-sensitive as her situation.

She sighed loudly, drawing both of their attention.

“Maggie.” Macy said. “Thought you had rehearsals today.”

“All done.”

She furrowed her brow, a little annoyed that her life had been reduced to textbooks, musical performances and now plays—even on weekends. But Harry had said to do something fun and life affirming with her time. Which meant, if she was now stuck in this predicament because of his advice, he had to help her out. Right?

“Did I interrupt something?” She questioned, strolling into the room anyway.

Harry smiled at her, still appearing a bit weak but not nearly as bad as he’d looked the past week. “Macy just finished making a very compelling case for why Galvin’s memory shouldn’t be wiped as soon as I feel up to the task.”

“Oh. What’s the verdict?” She quipped.

“Undecided. What do you make of it?”

Maggie pursed her lips, afraid that anything she said would come across as her taking sides. She didn’t like being at odds with Macy—giving her the cold shoulder after she dropped the dad bomb on her and Mel had felt kind of awful and isolating.

“I’d rather not get involved.” She twisted her mouth, hoping her answer wouldn’t disappoint Harry. Then, going against her better judgement, she added. “But after what happened with Mel and Niko. And the thing with Parker… I’m starting to think witches might not have the best luck with relationships.”

If she really thought about it, she was still hurt over Parker’s lies but the wound didn't feel nearly as fresh and delicate anymore. Maybe Harry was right, maybe doing something positive and fulfilling with her life was helping her heal faster. Could it also be that that’s why his recovery was being hindered? She wondered.

Harry looked away and Maggie didn’t say it but she almost took his reaction as confirmation that maybe their love lives really were cursed. The only clear loyalty and bond existed between her and her sisters—a privilege that extended to Harry as well—and they took precedence over anyone else. Macy tried to hide her frown but it was obvious that she felt uncomfortable with her assessment.

She popped up from the sofa, sensing Maggie wanted to speak with Harry alone. “Anyway, I have to go meet Galvin. I promised I would help him find out more about his family history.”

Maggie waited until she was out of sight and then tiptoed in a playful manner on the floor, coming to stand in front of Harry. He looked up from the sofa, a tiny smile on his lips as he reached for his tea. He could see right through her mischievous simper and that dewy-eyed look on her face. But he couldn’t deny that no matter the reason behind her coyness, he was glad to see her acting more like herself every day.

“You have no idea how nice it is to see you smile, Maggie.” He sipped from his cup, his green eyes expressing content.

She placed both hands under her chin, as if his sweet compliment had made her blush. “Hey. It’s nice to see you smile too. It’s been tough seeing you down in the dumps, it’s even made me miss your dorky outfits and dry British humor.”

“You think my outfits are dorky?” He put a hand over his heart jokingly as he set the cup down on the center table.

Maggie scrunched her nose, the melodic sound of her laughter was infectious.

He stammered. “But that’s not what you came here to tell me, is it?”

She shook her head, tucking a strand of her hair behind one ear. “Although it’s true that I miss the old you… very much… I came to ask for a little favor.”

“Not sure how much help I can be to you in my condition.” He mused, coming to his feet. “My abilities are still a little wonky at the moment.”

Her eyes trailed over him from head to toe. “Well, you can move around just fine. And all your body parts seem to be in place.” That had come out wrong, she was unsure of why she’d even said it.

Harry gaped at her awkwardly, looking down at himself with a bewildered expression on his face. “Yeah, everything is where it’s supposed to be.” He paused, feeling the air around them suddenly become dense. “What did you come to ask me, again?”

Her eyes widened. “How are your ballroom dancing skills?” She added hastily.

If she knew that asking a question about dancing would make him light up like a Christmas tree, she would’ve thought of a reason to bring it up sooner. Seeing him so cheery would’ve been worth a thousand lies.

“I haven’t done it in a while but I’d like to think I do a swell job at leading a waltz.” He beamed.

Maggie was enthralled by his reaction. She put a hand on his arm. “Seriously Harry, I did not think it would make you this happy.”

“Well, ballroom dancing is kind of a lost art nowadays.” He replied, leaning in as he spoke. “Don’t you think?”

She agreed. “The rehearsals for our new theater production were a disaster today because of me. I kept stepping on my partner’s feet.”

Harry chuckled, and then eagerly asked. “When do we start?”

* * *

Maggie scrolled through her phone, searching for the song that had been used in rehearsal earlier that day.

“Here it is.” She played it for him. She could tell Harry’s mood had considerably improved just in the past few minutes of them chatting.

“Okay.” He said, taking his place in front of her right in the middle of the Vera’s study. It was a room they rarely used in the house but it was perfect for what they were doing.

Maggie took his hand and placed the other one on his shoulder. Harry looked at her for a long moment, his lips quivering ever so slightly but not saying a word. It was as if he was asking for permission before touching her. Maggie gave him a reassuring look as he curved his fingers around her waist.

She didn't have an explanation for what happened next but she felt her breathing inadvertently hitch at his touch, a bodily response that floored her. She wondered if it was because it was one of the few times she’d really witnessed Harry doing anything remotely unrelated to his Whitelighter duties. It was a part of him he rarely let them see.

It could’ve also been the fact that he was undeniably handsome and she’d always been very careful not to allow her thoughts to wander into risky territory.

“Just a little bit…” He said in a low voice, pulling her in closer. “There.”

She tilted her head back slightly, making eye contact as he continued to explain the steps and guide her along. There was only a small gap between them, one that was constantly lost with every sway of their fluid movements. Maggie could feel the heat radiating off of him, only adding to her confusion and the whirlwind of sensations coursing through her body.

Maybe this had been a bad idea, maybe her deep-rooted longing for an intimate connection had thrown her senses into disarray.

“Now, if your partner in that play isn’t doing it this way.” He spoke softly. “Then he’s doing it wrong.”

Maggie smiled, a tingle running down her neck and back. It was a gratifying feeling she was shamelessly enjoying but she couldn’t quite figure out its cause. All she knew was that she didn’t want it to stop.

His words resonated in her ears, beautifully threaded with the music that filled the atmosphere around them. Their bodies continued to move but his eyes never lost focus of her as he lead her in the rise and fall, gliding all over the floor of the private room.

When her breathing felt stable enough for her to speak she asked. “You sweep a lot of ladies off their feet with these moves, Har?” Her entire body buzzing as if she’d said something unconscionable.

Harry smiled but he didn’t answer, an action that she took as proof that she was right. He then surprised her with a turn. The room spun around her, everything becoming a blur. For those few seconds, she felt like she was floating, a gentle breeze sweeping through her hair, infused with the pleasant smell of him.

He pulled her back in. Maggie came in a little too fast and a little too hard, her chest crashing into him and one foot landing on the toes of his right foot.

“I’m so sorry.” She looked at him with worry. “Are you okay?”

Harry laughed. “I’m fine.” Still keeping a close hold on her. “You’re not too bad at this, Maggie. I think we can get this routine down by tonight.”

And then she felt it again, that involuntary pause in her breathing that came as a result of his closeness, but this time it was accompanied by something else, something she didn’t think could ever be a possibility with him. She didn’t try to fight it, instead she gave in to it slowly. That perplexing and debilitating feeling making her spiral straight into the depths of uncertainty.

* * *

Maggie would’ve been lying to herself if she said that by the end of the night, her dancing lesson had felt like any other normal task on her check list. Her only intention when she’d first approached Harry had been to ask for his help, mainly as a form of payback for pushing her to look for an outlet to her melancholy. But during those hours of one-on-one time with him—something that seemed like a rarity between them—she’d discovered how much she truly enjoyed his company. More so without any scrutiny, interruptions, and divided attention.

Harry looked up at the clock. “You think you had enough dancing for one night?”

It was pretty late and she figured it was his nice way of saying he was tired. So she nodded, letting him get some much needed rest.

“Thank you.” Her hand traveled down his arm, eyes flicking to his face in an effort to try to read what he was thinking but unfortunately, nothing came of it.

He had a glimmer of realization in his eyes that told her she’d been found out but he made no such claim. Whatever his reasoning, she was just grateful he hadn’t embarrassed her by asking.

“Have a goodnight, Maggie.” His intense gaze piercing into her and somehow managing to jolt a part of her that she believed was immune to him. She felt her legs tremble and her core spasm involuntarily as a result.

“Goodnight.” She started making her way out of the room, a livelier cadence to her walk as she retreated.

“Hey, Harry.” She stopped at the door, turning to look at him.

“Yes?”

“You think we can do this again tomorrow?” Her hopeful eyes held his gaze.

Harry smiled. “Of course, Maggie. I’d be delighted.”

She simpered, sensing her racing heart lose control. “Good! Because I’m still not feeling very satisfied with my progress and there’s one more song I still have to learn.”

There was only one truth to that statement. Maggie didn’t feel satisfied yet.

He happily gave in to her request, knowing that distracting himself with something he loved to do would also be good for him.

In turn, Maggie left the room with a big smile on her face, knowing very well that she had the dance routine memorized, and that there was no other song for her to rehearse.

#maggie vera #harry greenwood #harry x maggie #maggie x harry #just gonna tag this #haggie

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sofreakinmanyfandoms · 6 years ago

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No Conditions, No Reservations - Chapter 12

The idea for this chapter came from InSomnia on Quotev.

Word count: 1442

Warnings: Protective Bucky, menstruation (we in the grown-up topics now, y’all)

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

No. You froze in horror at the sight that greeted you. Everything had been going so well. Your first few weeks back at work were great; then this had to happen. You could have sworn you had another month’s worth of birth control, but the spot where you kept it was empty and now you were out.

With a groan, you reached for your phone and made a call to your doctor’s office to schedule an appointment. When you were 20 you’d had an incident while on your period, and that had been it for you; the cramps were already debilitating and you weren’t about to risk having to deal with them and a bullet wound at the same time ever again. You’d been taking birth control – without periods – since, but being out of pills meant you were about to have one again. This would be your first period in years, and it was not going to be pretty. Bucky wouldn’t even be here to make it better, since he was on a mission with Steve.

Man, your week was about to suck.

----------

“Steve, we have to get back faster,” Bucky gasped as he stumbled toward the front of the jet, clutching his stomach. “Y/N…something’s wrong. There’s no wound that I can see, so maybe it’s poison. I need to be back right now!”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., where is Y/N?” Steve immediately asked.

“Ms. Y/L/N appears to be curled up in her bed crying, wearing one of Mr. Barnes’s hoodies and wrapped around his pillow.” The AI pulled up the footage from your room and Bucky felt his heart shatter.

“Hold on, Buck,” Steve said, gritting his teeth and pushing the quinjet’s throttle to as fast as he could take it. “The flight back is going to be a little rough.”

----------

Your ice cream craving was finally strong enough that you dragged yourself out of your bed-bound pity party and down to the kitchen. At least the first two days of your cycle were on the weekend; while it sucked to lose a weekend to cramps, it was better than having to soldier through them at work.

You pulled your mostly-full pint of cookie dough ice cream out of the freezer (Bucky had made sure there was always some around since he found out it was your favorite) and decided to watch The Notebook. If your body wanted to cry, you’d give it a reason to.

Tears were pouring down your face and the end credits had begun rolling when Bucky scared you by bursting in, Steve on his heels.

“Doll, oh gosh, what’s going on? Who did this to you? What can I do?”

You blinked up at him through the tears. “No one did anything to me. I just felt sad and thought the movie would help me cry it out.”

Realization hit you when Bucky doubled over as another cramp struck.

“Let me see, doll. Did I miss something when I looked myself over?” He tried to pull up your shirt but you swatted his hands away.

“Bucky, calm down! It’s just my period! I ran out of birth control and it’s been a while since I last had one so it’s really bad is all.”

Steve sank into a nearby chair. “Of course. I should have thought of that. It’s just that you’ve known each other for over a month, and this is the first time it’s happened even since he last came out of cryo…”

“I normally skip the sugar pill week for my pills,” you confessed. “My periods have always been rough, and I just didn’t want to deal with them alongside what seemed like random injuries.”

Bucky looked between the two of you. “How come Steve knows what’s going on and I don’t, and how,” he collapsed by your feet as another wave of cramps hit your bodies, “the hell are you not more freaked out by this much pain?”

“I can’t speak for Steve, but PMS and period cramps are just part of my life. Yeah, they suck, which is why I’m usually on birth control, but I have to live with them.” You stroked your hand through his hair as he rested his head on your knees. “I have an appointment with my doctor next week so I can renew my prescription. Then it’ll be a while before you have to worry about this again.”

“My mom sat me down when Peggy started her cycle,” Steve admitted. “She didn’t tell me much, not how it worked or anything, but she did explain that it would happen every month once it became regular and some stuff I could do to make it hurt a little less. I guess your mom never had that talk with you, since…”

“Since I never showed signs of having a soulmate,” Bucky finished. He looked up at you. “How do you make it hurt less?”

“Well,” you said, “exercise is supposed to help, but it’s the last thing I feel like doing. I usually take more Advil than I should and curl up with my electric blanket. Heat helps.”

“Right then.” Bucky stood and scooped you up in his arms, blanket and all. “Y/N and I will be in her bed snuggling. We’ll be out when we need food.” He looked at you. “There’s Advil in your room, right?”

You nodded.

“Right. Don’t call us. We’ll call you.”

With that, he whisked you off to your room. The two of you did in fact spend the rest of the day snuggled together under your electric blanket, and the combined Advil you and he had taken actually did a pretty good job of relieving your cramps.

It was after seven that evening when the two of you finally emerged in search of food. Trailing your blanket capes behind you, you headed straight for the kitchen and found Sam and Clint hanging out eating leftover pizza.

“Well, hello, blanket burritos,” Sam chuckled as the two of you rounded the corner. “Long time, no see.”

Bucky ignored them both and headed straight for the fridge.

“Okay, doll, what are we supposed to eat?”

“Technically, healthy stuff,” you groaned, “but that pizza looks so good.”

“Oh no, we’re sticking with what’ll help. What do we need to avoid?”

You sighed. Bucky was not letting you get away with anything. “Anything high in fat content or salt.”

He gave you a side-eye. “Don’t touch the pizza.”

Clint grinned at you and waved his half-eaten slice. “By the time you have your next period, Bucky’s gonna know everything there is to know about them and he’ll have a full menu worked up for you leading up to and through the whole thing.”

“Damn right I will,” Bucky mumbled, head still in the fridge. “We eat like crap around here. Isn’t there one fresh vegetable?” Slamming the door shut, he turned to you. “Doll, I hate to say this because I know we’d both love to spend the rest of the evening in bed, but we need to go shopping.”

“Oh no,” you said, “I am not leaving this tower. I am staying here in my pajamas even if that means pizza and feeling like crap afterwards.”

“It won’t just be you who feels like crap, though,” he pointed out.

Sam cocked an eyebrow at Clint. “Is he seriously arguing with a woman on her period?”

“It was nice knowing you, man,” Clint laughed. “Can I have your room once you’re dead?”

Bucky shot a quick glare at the two of them before pulling you into a hug and whispering in your ear.

“Look, doll, we both feel like crap right now, but I really do want to help you feel better, not just myself. Why don’t we go change into something comfortable but more presentable and pick up a few things? I’ll cook us some dinner and we can make a date out of it. I’ll even let you get whatever you want for dessert, healthy or not.”

“Okay,” you agreed, sighing into his chest. “I need more Advil first, though.”

“You and me both, doll,” he grinned.

Clint stared at the two of you and gripped Sam’s shoulder. “Did…did he just win an argument with a woman on her period?”

“Screw you, Barton.” Your glare had him hiding behind Sam. “I’m a rational adult.”

“Of course you are, Y/N,” Sam quickly assured you. “Clint, let’s go.” The two of them grabbed their pizza and bolted from the room.

“Now,” Bucky said, offering you his arm, “let us prepare for our evening, m’lady.”

“Why, thank you, good sir,” you replied with a smile. “That would be lovely.”

#no conditions #no reservations #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #reader #reader insert #x reader #my cat is making tagging difficult #i want bucky to help me through my period #i still suck at tagging

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stefano-and-obscura · 7 years ago

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This is NOT Okay: Bullying someone over fanfiction and over what their friends said.

Unfortunately it has come to my attention that a mutual of mine was being harassed both on here and on AO3 because of her Stefano Valentini Randomness Stories, and this sad, pathetic waste of space below tried to JUSTIFY it. What they put is absolutely sickening. [I wound up using strong language in my responses, so I am sorry you have to read those words.]

More under the cut because this is getting long

Look, my friend didn't tell me she was called "basement dweller," and I don't care who did it. That person's ass is grass whether you like it or not. She didn't complain to me about it. I found it myself and acted

If your friend didn't tell you, that meant you actually read it and you saw who REALLY called her a basement dweller, which makes it all the more fucking pathetic you're harassing someone JUST because of what a fan of theirs told your friend!! Where's the justification for THAT?? You just wanted an excuse to hate on someone who wrote what you didn't like, and instead of being the LOGICAL person and confronting the one who insulted your friend you went after the person who had nothing to do with it.

Your friend brought that on herself; she commented something rude, someone else defended the author, and your idiotic little rat brain decides to go after the author???????

That's like me going after YOUR FRIEND because of YOUR BEHAVIOR. I feel so, so sorry that your friend has to put up with a fucking overly goddamn worthless piece of shit like you who thinks its okay to bully others because "MAH FWENDS!" How fucking old are you???????

I'm gonna get this straight once and for all: we did NOT tell her to delete her story. We did not just choose to target her because she was who she was. We just found a crappy story and left our comments.We are just as entitled to our opinions.

From the comments I saw when she linked me I saw you fucking assholes DID tell her to delete her story!! You're just fucking lucky she deleted the whole damn thing because she didn't want to deal with drama anymore, but you are lying through your teeth. You CHOSE to target her because "lolz shitteh storie!" which itself is an EXTREMELY shitty reason to harass someone in the first place and tell therm to delete something they're working on. You're a sick fuck, you all are, because if you think its justifiable to harass people based on how badly their story is written you don't deserve the privilege of being online at all.

You can leave your shitty opinion WITHOUT harassing the author, doncha know?? There's CONSTRUCTIVE criticism (which nobody there used) that your dumb fucking asses could have used instead of "THIS SUCKS DELETE YOUR STORY DELETE IT NOW" like a bunch of enraged toddlers who are pissy that they can't get what they want.

Instead of ignoring us and deleting them, she turned it into drama. So, immediately, by that alone, that in turn caused her white knights to do what they have been doing.

This just in: Apparently people CANNOT offer their own reason for doing the way it does without "turning it into drama". You bastards were the ones who turned it into drama by harassing her still, people defending themselves against hateful comments (aka "DELETE YOUR SHITTY STORY") is NOT causing drama. You got pissy because she told you off and gave her reason, so you decided to bully her all because "wahh my fee fees hurt!"

And yes, she could use a little bit of real world. Everyone gets depressed, everyone gets anxious. She's not special. Everyone gets a little fragile here and there,

You're one of the stupidest motherfuckers to ever stupid.

Because of her fragile mental health due to her condition, the poor girl deals with enough ‘real world’ shit at home. There’s a reason that people come online, to escape that, and sorry, bullying is not ‘real world’. It is something that happens in the real world, but its not normal and should never be okay to do at all, not even online. (Where it can get worse than real world bullying because smug rat bastards like yourself think you can hide behind a wall of anonymity until someone dies from it, in which case you’re held responsible)

You have NO understanding of mental illnesses! There's a difference between "I'm feeling sad! I'm feeling nervious!" AND A DEBILITATING MENTAL ILLNESS THAT PEOPLE HAVE TO BE ON MEDICATION FOR.

One of your friends being "sad" is NOT the same as someone struggling with depression! One of your friends feeling nervous sometimes is NOT the same as someone dealing with near-crippling anxiety!

Nobody takes medicine for being just sad and just nervous, and everyone gets a little fragile here and there??????? There's a big fucking difference from being at a low point AND HAVING YOUR MENTAL ILLNESS AFFECT YOU SO BADLY THAT YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT, AND THERE'S A REASON WHY MOST OF THE PEOPLE WHO COMMIT SUICIDE ARE STRUGGLING WITH MENTAL ILLNESSES.

With you and your friends' fucking harassment YOU COULD HAVE BULLIED THIS GIRL TO SELF HARM and frankly I wouldn't be surprised if you already did, ALL OVER A STORY YOU HATED AND SOMEONE ELSE'S COMMENT.

How many people have you done this to? How many people did you indirectly kill because you bullied them to self harm and suicide?

and no. Saying a bad story is bad is not bullying. It is not. You're just calling it bullying because she said it was. You're just functioning on her vocabulary.

HMMMMM apparently telling someone to delete their story over and over, spamming her and leaving other hateful shit isn't bullying?? You're fucking delusional. You outright admitted to it that she had to get hurt. You planned this, you and the rest of the sick fucks in your pack decided to BULLY her over something so incredibly stupid.

And you know what? All of my friends have medically diagnosed problems too, not just "depression" and "anxiety."

And you know what?????? Everyone experiences mental illnesses differently, some worse than others! And goody goody, your friend has BPD?? So does my mother, who, because of her BPD, has physically and emotionally hurt me, other people and herself, and she attempted SUICIDE because it got that bad!

Meanwhile judging from YOUR attitude and lack of understanding (or plain ignorance) towards mental illness, either your friend has VERY mild, manageable BPD or your friend doesn't have BPD at all! None of your friends do, or if they DO, they either have it under control or they know what kind of shitty bitch you are and keep it hidden from you because they know you'll treat them like absolute trash otherwise.

YOUR ACTIONS have only worsened the girl's mental state, and you don't care at all because "Ha ha my friends handle it better/don't have anything so YOU should be able to do the same by my neurotypical standards uwu"

I'm not a white knight. I'm her best friend.

You may be her "friend" (Which I doubt because unless you're hiding that side from her, ,who wants to be friends with something like you?) but you still white-knighted by jumping in where your ass didn't belong. Not only that but you went after the WRONG PERSON, IF YOU ACTUALLY DID IT BECAUSE OF THE BASEMENT DWELLER INSULT!!

Judging from the fact you KNEW it wasn't her who called your friend a basement dweller (which is a stupid fucking thing to get offended over unless you're 12) You didn't attack her for the basement dweller thing at all, did you??

You saw an opportunity to attack her because of her shitty story (as if you didn't already do the whole "DELETE YOUR STORY IT SUCKS" bit) and find a way to justify it.

It was never about the basement dweller thing, as far as I see. If it really was why did you bother attacking her some more instead of going after the person who made the comment?????? You said so yourself, your friend didn't tell you, you saw it!

And no, if she can't just delete comments and not cry over them for hours, I'm sorry. She has no business writing fanfiction. I repeat, she has NO BUSINESS writing fanfiction.

I'm sorry but if you can't dislike someone's story without harassing them and bullying them for hours, I'm sorry, you have no business being online. I REPEAT, you have NO BUSINESS BEING ONLINE.

Yeah, her writing isn't exactly my favorite either, but guess what?? She can improve at writing!! You? You'll always be a sad, unwanted worthless shitty waste of egg and sperm.

I am not bullying the girl.

And I’m totally not typing this sentence online and posting it to a website called tumblr!

I am criticizing her writing and her method of grabbing fans by lying to them, pandering to them, and forcing them to bend to her every will.

“This sucks delete your story!” isn’t criticizing, dumbass.

Grabbing fans by lying to them and pandering them, and forcing them to bend to her will? I call bullshit on all of that!

First let’s address the pandering accusation. You have FANS, you write content the FANS WANT. As a FANFIC AUTHOR, I mean that’s basically your job, its not pandering, its supply and demand. If that was true then everyone writing Stefano Valentini fanfic because people like Stefano are now fan panderers!

Also, how the fuck does she lie to them?????? I don’t fucking see it!!

-She actually does write these in second person, signifying the READER is the one in it. (I dislike those stories a lot for obvious reasons, is that your beef with it too?)

-Its not in chronological order either

She’s not lying to them, and HOW is she fan-pandering if there ISN’T any fan pandering????? All I see is stuff SHE wants to write, and lemme guess its only “fan pandering” because of second person perspective?? That’s bullshit.

Manipulation? I’ll believe it when I see it, bitch.

She is manipulative and dangerous. I would even advise you to stay away from her because you're giving in to her. That is all I'm gonna say.

“She is manipulative and dangerous, I would even advise you to stay away from her!” Cries the idiotic bully-bitch who’s been harassing the user over a STORY and claiming its for a “basement dweller” comment that she didn’t even write herself.

Yeah, I’m TOTALLY gonna listen to a person who bullies others!!

You’re the only manipulative and dangerous one here. You said you didn’t care if she gets hurt, that she needs a bit of ‘real world’. People like you are the ones who cause people to commit suicide, or cause those people to turn into murderers because they lost the value for their own lives as well as others, because believe it or not, SpaceUndies, your actions DO have consequences!!

I only know this because I've known people like this.

Are you seriously fucking 12? You're not the only one who's dealt with people like this!

I've had internet access since late 2012, you honestly don't fucking thing I've encountered a lot of dangerous, manipulative people??????? I'm really good at picking out manipulative people based on several behavioral patterns I've observed in the ones I met (and including a guardian of mine who's warped me so badly as a child that I still am suffering from her actions to this day) and I can tell you FLAT OUT that, as far as I am seeing right now in front of me, the only manipulative bastard is you.

You're unhealthily obsessed with harassing people and claiming "uM SOMEONE ELSE CALLED MY FRIEND A BASEMENT DWELLER" and white-knighting because "I'm sticking up for a friend!"

I've dealt with enough useless wastes of human DNA like yourself to know which ones need to be kept away from the internet and other people, and you're one of them.

Ignoring the fact that Basement Dweller isn't even a viable insult to any degree and is in no way harmful, I can only imagine how much you fly off the loop when something a tad more different happens.

You're dangerous and you need to have your psych evaluated. First it starts with hurting people online, then real life bullying, an then you'll be kidnapping and murdering people for minor infractions.

They would threaten themselves and their own lives just to get attention. She is doing the same.

That is where I got you, bitch.

She never threatened her own safety, at all. I just mentioned that-because if your stupid little incompetent ass bothered to read, I said she COULD do that, because that's what people with fragile mental health DO! They're more prone to self harm and suicide due to BULLYING which you said she needed some of.

Also, this goes to prove how much of an idiotic bastard you are.

"Hurr durr if someone I don't like is having issues and does say about self harm THEY FAKIN'!"

Guess what? Your friend SUPPOSEDLY has BPD. I bet that every time they get on the verge of self harm THEY'RE FAKING. Do you think the same too, or are they somehow magically the exception??

I would say get out while you still can. But hey, if you just think I'm a bitch for defending my BPD friend, so be it. At least she can change and adapt to life. Like I said, I don't protect because they ask me to. I do it because I want to.

You're a bitch because you're BULLYING someone! Sorry tootsie-pop but bullying is not the same as defending, NOT TO MENTION you're "defending" her from the WRONG PERSON. You fucking ADMITTED that you saw everything and YOU ADMITTED you didn't care who sent that message! You're not even bullying her for the basement dweller comment, you're just bullying this girl because you hated the story.

Also what does your BPD friend have to do with it?? She didn't even come to you about this which shows she wasn't upset! Her BPD HAD NO PART IN THIS, you're just using that as a "HA HA GOTCHA" card against someone with another mental condition. Because of your SHITTINESS towards symptoms and conditions and claiming "EVERYONE gets like that sometimes!" I actually, truly, honestly do believe your friend DOESN'T have BPD at all, you're just lying through your teeth, because otherwise you would have known about the whole "Mental illness symptoms are FAR DIFFERENT from regular mood stuff!"

Your friend can adapt and change in life?? What a coinky-dink, so can the author!! I mean she has to in order to survive with her condition, but that doesn't mean she HAS to put that guard up 24/7, ESPECIALLY online where most real world bullshit shouldn't have to happen.

Your logic never lines up and it doesn't make sense. You KNEW she had fragile mental health but you kept pushing her to the FUCKING BRINK because you could, like any other evil bastard who just wants to watch people suffer.

You don't care for your friend at all, judging from the above, you're only using her as a pathetic excuse. You just wanted a reason to hurt someone over a little story you personally hated. You don't care about other peoples' mental health, you truly don't care if blood is spilled over it because "They deserved it because SOMEONE DIFFERENT called my friend a meanie word that little kids use :( "

You never experienced online bullying, but for this alone and the fact you knowingly bullied someone with fragile mental health because "she deserved it", I hope you experience it. I honestly do hope that, for as long as you continue being online, you get some "real world" from other people no matter what you do and what you say. I want you to go through as much bullshit as you put this girl through, and when you go to other people about your issues, they laugh in your face and tell you the same thing you've said above.

#tw long post #long post #bullying #tw bullying #Stefano Valentini #tew2 #I have every right mind to block and report you for bullying and by god if you don't thik I won't you're sadly mistaken #because I got enough proof right here #discourse #sorry for the rant

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butterflyspeaks96 · 3 years ago

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Unfortunately this issue I’ve been dealing with is on my boob, so therefore I can not show progress pictures.

However, it’s shit like this that makes me so infuriated when someone looks at me or sees me doing something and says “oh your fine, you’re just using the system, you can work, you’re so young”. Yes. Sometimes I can push through whatever I’m going through with a smile on my face and be productive still.

What you don’t see are the days I wake up so sick feeling all I can do is lay down so I don’t actually throw up. The days that going grocery shopping tires me out so much I end up making lunch and taking a nap. How cold I have to make myself just so my body can calm itself down enough that I don’t get sick or pass out. How much pain and how debilitating it can feel. You don’t see the days that despite laying low and not doing anything and ordering food I still throw up. You don’t know how gross it feels when your body is fighting more than one infection at once. You don’t know how it feels that your body is literallly constantly fighting itself, and even if you eat right and do all the right things, it still doesn’t stop. You don’t see the three weeks out of the month I’m really dealing with something behind the scenes. I usually get one free week where I feel like I can actually do things without possibly feeling sick. Because feeling sick means that I could possibly pass out, or throw up. Who really wants to do any of that in public, around people they don’t know or really anywhere but in the comfort of their own home.

So yeah. Three weeks out of the month I could probably push thru and possibly throw up maybe pass out at work. But there’s that one week out of every month I lose ambition to do anything. Not only am I tired but my body’s doing everything to fight against itself. Mentally it fucking sucks when there’s at least 7 straight days every month you can’t do anything, unless you wanna risk throwing up or passing out. Besides watch tv and make yourself food and lay around.

So don’t ever tell me I’m sick from anxiety, or because of this or because of that. I’m fucking 25 years old now. Okay?! I’ve dealt with the fucking anxiety, and to be totally honest with you, I can tell the different between feeling sick from anxiety and being sick from my condition. I’ve lived with it for 25 yrs and I’ve spent the past yr paying very close attention to my body and what helps and what really doesn’t. What my brains doing and going, what triggers me. Trust me. I have paid the fuck attention to my body. I have to, this illness could cause a deadly infection if not taken care of properly.

It’s all fun and games being mentally different. I own the fact that I have my crazy moments, I love that I can see things different than other people (even if that means often times I’m misunderstood or it’s harder to find people who actuallllly get me & my way of thinking), that I’m always trying to find the good in all bad situations.

But being physically different. To this extent. Where your body is physically always attacking itself. It’s draining.

And nobody can see it. It’s an invisible illness. That’s even more draining.

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injuries-in-dust · 7 years ago

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Man’s best Friend

Chex rang the doorbell to the crew mans quarters. He looked at the manifest again and his antennae shook in disbelief. His predecessor had been first officer on this vessel for almost seven years before him, how had they not spotted this?

The door opened and an unfamiliar looking human stood there. Chex hadn’t had the chance to meet all the crew members personally yet. The human, however, seemed to recognise him, he stood more at attention.

Chex glanced at the manifest, “Lieutenant Andrew Shalk?”

The man nodded, “you can call me AJ, sir.”

Chex nodded, a human gesture he’d picked up during his time in the space corp. “AJ, as first officer, one of my duties is to see that all personal are given appropriate quarters. I can see an error has been made on behalf of yourself and your, I believe the word is, roommate.”

AJ raised a single eyebrow. Chex found that a very interesting trait, some humans could do it but others could not. He’d been told it was sometimes known as a sign of confusion. “Roommate?”

Chex nodded, “yes, you see, these quarters are for a single occupant. The comfort of the crew is a priority, we cannot have two sharing a single room. So I am here to either move your roommate to their own quarters or, if your wish to co-habit, we shall assign you appropriately sized quarters; meant for two people.”

“But…” AJ seemed confused, then started smirking. “Two people?”

Chex nodded and glanced down at the manifest again, “Yes, according the manifest, you share these quarters with an, Alpha Shalk….why are you laughing?”

AJ covered his mouth and tried to fight off the laughter. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just…you gotta see, it’s easier to show.” He leaned turned his head back into his quarters, “Alpha, here boy.”

Chex stared in dumbfounded disbelief as what came to the door was not another human, but a small, four-legged animal. It appeared mammalian, had golden fur and a long tail which shook from side to side quite rapidly. It looked up at Chex with big brown eyes. It was panting it’s mouth was open, showing the fangs of a predator.

Chex stepped back, his antenna twitched faster the animal’s tail was shaking. “What is that?”

AJ dropped to a knee and scratched the creature behind the ears. “This is Alpha, he’s my service dog.”

“Dog?” Chex had heard the word before. Strange creatures tamed by humans. “The human pet? Pets are not allowed on board.”

“Alpha’s more than a pet, he’s my service dog.”

Chex’s face was hard to read, insectoid features didn’t lend to a lot of facial expressions. “Service dog?”

“Yeah.” AJ stopped scratching Alpha and rose back to his feet. “I got a condition, diabetes. Abridged version; it’s where my body can’t regulate its sugar level. If I don’t keep an eye on my glucose, I could pass out. If it’s really bad, I could die.” He smirked at Chex’s panicked expression. “That’s what Alpha’s for. He’s trained to smell when by sugar level is getting too low or too high.”

Chex looked down at the furry predator, “smell, it can smell this?”

AJ smiled, usually a threatening gesture but humans seemed to use it to show humour and good feelings, “yeah, humans let out all kinds of smells. And a dog’s sense of smell is a lot stronger than a humans. Alpha’s been trained to react when he smells the scents that mean I’m going into hypoglycaemia; too much or too little sugar. He warns me to do something about it. He tell tell it’s happening before even I know.”

Chex looked disbelieving. “You have this potentially deadly problem with your physical body and you don’t know when it’s affecting you?” He cocked his head to the side, “how did you even qualify for the space corp with such a debilitating condition?”

Andrew lost his smile, Chex felt the danger senses spark. He thought his antennae were going to fly off his head. When a human stopped smiling, that was when you worried. Then, just as quickly as it came, the dark look left. He wasn’t smiling, but Chex no longer felt the urge to run. “Okay, you don’t know. First, it’s not that deadly, only if it gets to the extreme could it kill me. That’s what Alpha is for. As long as I’m smart enough to react when he does, and I am, I can keep doing my job just like any other crew member.”

“I…think I understand.” He glanced down at the manifest, then why is he listed in the manifest as “crewmen”

AJ shrugged his shoulders, “like you said, pets aren’t allowed. And I guess it would be cruel to list him as equipment or something. It’s kind of always been done for service animals.” AJ’s smile returned, “come in, come look at this.” He stepped back, Alpha followed back into the quarters. With a little trepidation, Chex followed. Wondering what strange things he was going to see.

The quarters were bare and basic, the same design copied all over the ship. A bed, a washroom through a door, wardrobe and bedside cabinet. There were a few additions that personalised the place, a shelf of books, a few photos in frames and, what looked like a large, flat, pile of fur on the floor at the foot of the bed. Alpha went up to the pile, turned around on the spot a couple of times, then lay down.

“Here,” AJ smiled as he handed over a small photograph. It was of a slightly younger AJ and Alpha. AJ was wearing the long navy blue robes and motor board, on the left side of the robes was the familiar logo of the space corp’s academy. Alpha was sitting by his side, and was wearing a customised blue robe. He even had a motor board held on his head by elastic string. The legend at the base of the picture stated “Graduation Day”

Chex looked at the picture, to AJ, to Alpha and back again. “Your animal is wearing graduation robes? Is this some kind of joke?”

AJ shook his head. “Nope, honorary graduation. Alpha has a provisional rank. He’s an acting ensign.”

Chex cockles his head with confusion, “they allowed a pet to honorary graduation and provisional rank?”

AJ shrugged his shoulders, “why not, he attended all the classes. Never missed a day. Never made trouble. Attendance credits alone meant he was halfway to graduation.” He sat down on the edge of his bed and scratched Alpha behind the ears a little. “The service doesn’t have any official rules about service animals. They aren’t pets, they’re more needed for medical reasons, but it’d be cruel to just call them something like “medical equipment” or something like that. They’re more than just a medical aid. They’re friends and companions they’re helpers and even lifesavers. Heck, look…” he stopped scratching Alpha and picked another framed item off the shelf, showing it to Chex.

It was a medal, a silver disc with a blue and silver ribbon. “The Order of Merit.” Chex had seen the medal but had never been awarded one. He read the inscription, ‘Awarded to Alpha Shalk. (Prov.) Ensign. For saving the life of a fellow officer.’ He looked at the dog, who had begun to sleep. “They gave a medal, to a non sentient life form?” He’d never understood the human compulsion to sit down when shocked, until now.

“Alpha saved my life. A couple of years ago, on Gatthan two. I had a bad hypoglycaemic attack and passed out before I could do anything. Alpha tried to wake me up but when that didn’t work he managed to open the door and ran to the nearest person, practically dragged them back to my quarters. They got help in time an I was safe. If he hadn’t I’d probably have been dead long before anyone found me.”

“He did what he was trained to do.”

AJ smirked, “don’t we all?”

Chex didn’t quite know what to make of that. He’d come here to sort out what he thought was a clerical error, not have a philosophy discussion. He decided a change of subject was better. “The Space Corp really doesn’t have any official regulations regarding the use of service animals?”

AJ just shrugged, “that’s the official stance. Personally I think they just like the whole ‘give them a rank’ thing. Shows everyone what we think. They aren’t just tools, or some walking piece of medical equipment. Some service animals go through a lot for their humans. They go through stuff just as dangerous as any trained officer, sometimes more. It’d really sell them short to call them ‘just a trained animal’. By treating them like equals, we show everyone that we respect them, how much we love them.”

Alpha sat up and rested his head on AJ’s knee. AJ smiles down at him, “because they show how much they love us, all the time.”

I was inspired by this photo:

to write a story about people with service dogs in space. Minor name change was made

The tale meandered a little more than I thought it would. It didn’t really go anywhere and I think I bailed out as quickly as possible once I saw that it was stalling. Still I’m happy with this little short story and stand by it.

#humans are weird #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #story #original writing

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