#cw: adhd
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curiositypolling · 11 months ago
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pls reblog for sample size etc
follow for more occasional useless polls :)
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chelledoggo · 4 months ago
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boomers be like "nobody had autism or ADHD when I was a kid!"
probably because back then, neurodivergent folks were dismissed as "insane" or "r-worded" and were thrown into mental asylums. and before that they were straight up just given hard drugs or lobotomies.
it's almost like as time goes on and technology/research evolves, so does our understanding of human beings and the inner workings of the mind.
WEIRD, RIGHT?
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mxmorbidmidnight · 5 months ago
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You know those teachers who would have posters in their classrooms like “weird is a superpower” and “in a world where you can be anything, be kind” then would proceed to scream at a neurodivergent child until they cried.
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me-beef · 16 days ago
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sorry folks January hit me like a mallet to the gut B(
always terrified of what other people are thinking of me. but also always feeling guilty and ashamed of how self-absorbed my mental illness makes me
have to keep reminding myself I’m a normal person with flaws and I’m not ruining everyone’s lives just by existing
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pyritefes2 · 6 months ago
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Here’s an animation meme that was popular on the clock app a couple months ago featuring Anders.
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soaringsearingphoenix · 10 days ago
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there was a small earthquake here just last night
it was hardly more than a single jolt that i could almost be convinced was just the house settling if my heart wasnt racing in the specific way it always does (and only does) when i did legitimately feel the ground move
i had just had time to stand up from my chair tp start heading fora desk to hide under but the shaking stopped and all that adrenaline in my body wanted action but had nowhere to go
i ended up doing all my dishes before i sat down and realized id done so
... so i think i will be researching a revolutionary new treatment for ADHD
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vividstardustrevolution · 1 year ago
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Disabled people (both people with physical disabilities and people with psychological disabilities) should be able to get housing, food, medical needs, etc met without having to work or stay in school. ...Okay, really, everyone deserves access to free or affordable housing, food, and medical care, but disabled people ESPECIALLY deserve it because if I, a law student with "low support needs" autism, depression, GAD, OCD, and ADHD, cannot afford to take a break from school and take a semester off because I'd have to start repaying my loans because I had to drop down to three credits last fall and because I would have to get a job, so it wouldn't really be a break (which, I have had one job in my life, and I'm not fully convinced it wasn't a fluke, and also, trying to maintain a job when you have disabilities is difficult), I can only imagine that disabled people with higher support needs are even more fucked than me when it comes to being able to get housing and food and medical care without much, if any, funding.
Yes, Medicaid, Medicare, Food Stamps, and housing programs exist in the US, but, uh, I hate to break it to y'all, but that doesn't fully fix the problem, at all. There are a lot of old apartment complexes that are straight up inaccessible if you use a wheelchair. I'm living in one now. Applying for Medicaid and other programs can be a pain in the ass, especially when you're disabled.
"Just live with your parents!" My parents were emotionally abusive and emotionally neglectful, transphobic, and they literally harassed me so much during my 1L year that I still have nightmares.
"Live with a roommate!" I tried to. It went fucking terribly.
"Are you really disabled if you're able to be in law school?" YES. YES I AM.
Actually, on that note, law schools and the law profession need to become more accommodating for disabled people ASAP. Buck v. Bell needs to be overturned. Courts should be wheelchair accessible. Having to get past seven plus different forms of ableism just to graduate and pass the bar is ridiculous. Seriously, can we get some resources for disabled people in law school and the law profession, please?
Disabled rights matter, and we have every right to be able to live in peace and get our needs met, regardless of our support needs, disabilities, or anything else.
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teencopandthesourwolf · 9 months ago
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Stiles: So you're just like——out here raw dogging life, huh Der-bear?
Derek: Dog jokes? Really, Stiles?
Stiles: Oh my God, I didn't even mean to——hang on, you mean I don't actually need to take quadruple doses of ADHD meds to be funny? BECAUSE I ONLY HAD A DOUBLE DOSE TODAY AND OMG I'M HILARIOUS! Hashtag winning! Hashtag I was just born this way! Hashtag The Stilinski Life! Hashtag How many times can a puny human pump their fist into the air without passing out?!
Stiles: *wobbles on the spot*
Derek: *steadies Stiles with a hand on the puny human's shoulder*
Stiles: Uh... Hashtag what were we talking about??
Boyd: You want me to threaten the pharmacist again, Derek?
Derek: *Le sigh* Please.
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snarlingteeth · 2 years ago
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CW FOR VAGUE REFERENCE TO ANIMAL EUTHANASIA
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icarusredwings · 4 months ago
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Thinking about how Charles failed to help Wade and literally went brain dead because of how much chaos is going on in there, one of if not the strongest brains, completely destroyed by how much shit is in there but... There's no charles in Finding Home Au because this universes Charles went out with Logan.
But what if Jean gave him a crack? Jean likes a good challenge and Wade cant keep a therapist to save his life. And Jean owes Logan one sooo....
Why not?
"A-are you sure? Jean you can't-" he glances over to wade across the room. "You can't go in there."
"Ive been in yours."
Logan scoffs. "You think MY head is messy? You don't understand, I've seen his phyc evaluations. One of the testers is in a phycward right now." He whispers through grit teeth, not wanting to bad mouth his husband but...it was the truth. It was a shit show in there. But it was Wade's show none the less.
She rolls her eyes. "Fine. I won't."
With a quick twitch of his nose, Logan glares. "You're lying."
"Yeah. Well what are you going to do about it? Hey Wade? Can you come with me for a second?"
Logan swallows as he watches him jog over, eager to help in what ever way he can. He bit his tounge with his canines. Where's Kurt? He needs a prayer done. For the both of them. In all honesty he wasn't sure which one needed it more.
Within 15 minutes, As logans pacing the hall infront of her door, She happily opens it up.
"Sooooo one.. You are so right. It's a mess in there."
"I told you not to look, red!!"
"It was just a peak! Anyway- I rearranged a few things anndd Tada!"
Rushing into the room, he's worried of what she's done to him. He expected smoothbob from that one episode when SpongeBob lost his personality and became boring, but instead, Sitting on the edge of her bed, there he was.
Tears were running down his face as he played with a rubrix cube, the cube wet from tears as he stared off into space, thick black headphones over his ears. His eyes flickered back and forth, his hands busy.
"..Wade?? Jean!" He scolds her, worried.
Giggling a bit, She pats his shoulder. "Oohh calm down tiger. He's fine. He's just.... Silent."
He glares. "What are you ta-"
"Bilateral 8th dimention audio stimulation." She smiles. "Aka- Science!"
"Why is he crying? Does it hurt?"
"No, not at all. I told you, It's silent."
"You..."
"Mhm."
"I-.. How did you get rid of them? We've tried so much medication! Nothing works because of his healing factor. You're telling me this whole time he just needed music therapy?"
"Welllll and for me to plug a few serotonin receptors, but yeah. Practically the same thing.. besides.. I didn't get rid of them. They're just quiet... for now."
Logans' smile fades. "Oh.."
"But hey, At least we found something, right? So if it gets too bad, you can always shut him-"
Logans brow raised.
"Them- Up. Just for a song or two." She mutters, glancing to her phone. "He's in the middle of Pentatonix right now. If you bring him by every week or so, I can maybe dig through that trash heap and patch up some more chemical imbalances." She mutters, putting a hand to her chin. "Not sure if it would stay though, so if his head gets chopped off or something, I'll have to do it all over agai-"
Before she could finish, Logan interrupted. "So he's... relieved?"
"Yes." She smiles.
"Without pain??"
"The most I could spare."
He hugs her tight. "Thanks, Jeanie! You're amazing!!" She blushes, having not been hugged by Logan since.. well.. since before he died. It was awkward, but.. warmer. Then she remembered.
When he pulls away, she watches he rushes over, sitting next to him, but Wade doesn't respond. He glances back. "What did you tell him by the way?"
"Oh, yeah hold on." Right as this song ended, She turned off the headphones, making him blink and look up, confused. Wiping his tears he glanced at the unfinished cube and then to Logan as if he wasn't even aware he was there.
"I-... Why am I crying? Uhm.. I didn't finish it.. It's still... messed up." He says as slowly the noise in his head starts again.
"Oh, that's alright. You can finish it next time. You did very well for your first time." She tells him, giving him that motherly smile, the large belly just adding to the feeling of praise.
"Oh.. uhm.." he swallows, smiling awkwardly. "Okay. Do.. do you need help with anything else?"
She thinks for a second. "I mean.. it would be really nice if you tied my shoes. I uhm... I can't reach. For obvious reasons."
"Because you're a planet?"
"Pregnant!" She snaps. "T-there's a difference.. but yes."
It's Logan who ties her shoes, Wade handing back her unsolved cube, unaware of what had just happened. He had an idea, but he wasn't 100% sure. For all he knew and how she praised him, they could have totally just done an epic sex thing, and he didn't remember what so ever.
Taking Logan's arm he felt... relaxed. Still baffled but they weren't as loud anymore. Talking in his head instead of screaming bloody murder (which some were demanding). "That was... weird. Did I just get mind fucked? GASSPP Loagie you let her mind fuck me!?"
"Eehh kind of. Come on bub. We going headphone shopping."
"Oooh I must have done really well then if Im getting treats!"
Standing at the door, She smiles as they leave. Seeing such a big toothy grin on the both of them was so different. And yet? It felt good. Nice to see him so happy. So deeply devote to someone... and.. if she wasn't mistaken.. she had seen a thought or two of discount engagement rings in that messy little head of his, though just looking for a split second, a glimpse, gave her a massive headache...
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writheworm · 11 months ago
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the inspired mind (2024)
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liltaireissocute · 8 months ago
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scars
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shamebats · 2 years ago
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They should invent an economic system where I don't have to choose between having enough income to live off of and being able to feel joy
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altcvnningham · 2 months ago
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needy
adler x f!bell
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summary: adler gets up for a morning cigarette. or tries to. read on ao3
tags/cw: established adlerbell, f!bell, she/her pronouns, bell is russian, fluff, light angst, no plot, drabble, smoking mention, kind of domestic i guess, bo6 adler so he's a little soft, pre-bo6 but post-panama, cw references galore, dog imagery as is synonymous w adlerbell atp, author has adhd and goes on prosaic rambles in lieu of an actual plot. this fic could have been an email?? sorry wc: 3.1k
a/n: bwuhhh this was just an excuse to write self indulgent soft morning adlerbell at the rook while i work on my actual pre-bo6 adlerbell rook fic when i have the energy . no plot, lots of rambling, once again kind of just a thinkpiece on their relationship now adler's an old fossil. idk she was doing nothing being left in my notes app ajdkhjkasjk
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He reckons she’s needier these days, more than she ever used to be back in Berlin.
Sometimes he wonders if it’s just his age that makes him feel that way; that perhaps she hasn’t changed at all, and instead it’s the dust settling on his bones, rusted shrapnel over the years snagged in the joints and sinews, that makes him feel sluggish in comparison. It’s the first time in his life since Livingstone brought up the CIA’s desire for more sprightly recruits that he wonders- is he struggling to keep up?
Their reunion after all these years was a messy one: a scrap in an indistinct bar, bloodied knuckles split and bruises welted dark blue, the white of his eye burst red, the curve of her jaw swollen for a good week. Fresh after Panama. As soon as she caught wind of what happened she’d picked up his trail barely a week after he arrived in Bulgaria. Had she come to kill him? He doesn’t know. It isn’t as if she’d confess to it even if she had, and maybe he had it coming anyway. It stopped mattering at all the second the fight had descended into the alleyway, wrestled onto their backs against the cobblestone, where hands had found throats and then jaw, waist, hip, and everything else. Punches had calmed to caresses, curses to kisses, and somehow he’d found himself patching her up back at the Rook, his stray dog come home to him, like old times.
She’d eased herself back into his life easily enough then. Simple and unspoken. Or, rather, wedged her foot back in the door well enough that he couldn’t shut her out again, even if he’d wanted to (as if he hadn’t always kept it ajar all these years just to let her in, never closed, never closed). Never a word for what they are, what they have, the routine they’ve slipped almost effortlessly back into again- that hasn’t changed since the old days- and yet he doesn’t find that it robs it of meaning whatsoever.
If anything, it makes it something rare, special, his diamond in the rough, glinting sea glass washed a perfectly chiselled bead upon the shore. Just as she’d crashed along with the tide as time brought her back to him, he picked her up, tucked her gently back into that place she belonged, in between the rib and vertebrae, nestled inside him all to steady the beat of his restless heart. Her alone enough to settle the frantic, ceaseless palpitations he’s suffered nightly, since… Solovetsky? He thinks? The dull gnawing in the back of his mind all those years in between, that wasn’t sure if he was more frightened for her inevitable return or her disappearing forever, slipping through his fingers back to sea again.
He supposes it doesn’t matter anymore. That was then, and now seemed to fare much nicer.
Now, she rolls sweet and placid onto her back against the mattress, limp as a daisy in rain, soft body bowing to his careful manhandling; he’s itching for a smoke, aching for his vice the second he awoke, hours too early for his alarm. He lifts her off him delicately, almost methodical as he starts with her arm, the heavy loll of her head, her shoulder. Like defusing a bomb, he’d joked once, a comparison she’d only proven right by her explosive reaction to it.
It’s an odd feeling, though, the calm where there had once been nothing but war between them, the quiet, the warmth upon his chest now fading where she’d laid her head after he came back last night- back home, back to her- and it’s in moments like these, just mere glimpses of normalcy, that makes him wonder what could have been his life, theirs, had things not happened the way they did. MK Ultra, Berlin, Solovetsky. Perseus. Then again, he supposes, if she hadn’t been shot in Trabzon that night, if she hadn’t been there at all, then he wouldn’t have known she’d even existed. This mundane moment lost to time like everything else.
She murmurs in her sleep, spurred to wakefulness when the mattress lifts and groans at his absence, her eyes squinting through the sliver of morning light bleeding through the gap in the curtains; even when she’s completely out of it, she doesn’t miss a thing. He’s never exactly been the paragon of stealth when he excels at everything else, but even if every factor in the world had worked in his favour- if the beaten mattress wasn’t so rusted, if the ancient floorboards didn’t squeal underfoot when he stood up, if there wasn’t a constant draft on his side of the room that hit her as soon as he moved- nothing would have stopped her from registering his absence, clawing to fight off sleep just so she had an excuse to grouse at him. Ever his stubborn girl.
“Mm… where y’going…?”
Adler smiles to himself, flat but genuine, stifled by the lethargy that hangs over his head heavy as an anvil. Her accent so thick in the early hours it hardly sounds like English at all. He’s half tempted to reply in Russian, just to see if her cottonmouth tongue latches quicker to that instead.
But he doesn’t, just lingers in the doorway leading out to the hall, feeling only a little guilty for letting in the cold. It rather satisfies him instead to see her shiver and pull the blankets further over herself, keeping her right where he wants her. Right where he needs her, so he knows she’ll still be there when he comes back.
“Smoke,” is all he says, rattling the crumpled pack for her to hear.
She’s half coherent when she grumbles, English sandwiched between Russian endearments. Cussing him out.
“Y’can smoke in here… m’don’t mind. Come back to bed.”
Something tugs at his heart, almost foreign, vague. Something he only feels when she digs her claws in him just like that, even if only to graze. It’s the same certainty as when he wraps his finger around a trigger, pulls a pin, wrenches his hand around the hilt of a knife- unspoken, inevitable. The drop of a guillotine, inexorably quick. A certainty that verges on frightening, a promise, which he’s never been good at keeping, but knows she means wholeheartedly, down to her marrow. Possessiveness, he thinks- (is it irony, now, how often he finds her fist wrapped around the leash he doesn’t even notice he’s wearing?)- people not in their line of work, those with nice houses and desk jobs and white picket fences, he’s heard, call that feeling belonging. To be beckoned like that. Home.
It’s her demand that he stays. Hardly a question. And Bell doesn’t beg.
He’s sure that in her spitefulness, if he’d had a trigger phrase just like hers, she’d spit it at him ‘til he turned heel and crawled back on over to her, slid under the sheets like an apology scrawled onto a note and tucked under the door. It’s a near enough thing- the way her bleary eyes fix on him vengefully through matted lashes, searing her betrayal into him. Every morning he gets up before her, it seems to say: you left me. A petulant notion, only half serious, but one cold enough that it almost works. Frigid. Familiar. Arctic air.
It works a little at least- getting soft in your old age- because he lugs himself back over to the bed and just stands by it, refusing to give her the satisfaction of quiet victory if he climbs back inside. She stretches a languid arm flat across the mattress, rolling catlike onto her stomach, splaying her fingers in the hopes that she might somehow pull him back in to her. She manages a knuckle grazing his knee, before she gives up, pulled under by sleep once more. Head slumped against the pillow, she muffles her disdain.
But Adler is nothing if not at least a little amenable. If he’s sweet on anyone, it’s his Bell. His baby. Hard to let a thing like that go, when she was quite literally made for him. Made by him, in his image. Scraped marrow from rib like Adam, caulking the hole Arash shot through her chest and bestowed life upon her once more. He’s happy to have a piece of himself broken off and left inside her, a tithe tossed to the slab of her altar. The fracture of his soul a discarded lamb in sacrifice, sustaining the sick hunger that starves her.
It keeps them inseparable, he thinks. He’d read something somewhere, pretentious shlock about strings of fate and those bound to it- romantic crap shmucks use to justify ugly marriages and affairs, the suffering of co-dependency given some transcendent meaning, a purpose greater than the mundane. The notion that two people, by whatever higher power, are bound to one another no matter what they do to separate themselves of it, tethered from their first breath and suffering an endless togetherness until their last. He’d rolled his eyes the first time he’d heard of it- there wasn’t a world where he’d be enough of a sap to actually buy into that shit. Maybe his ex-wife might’ve been fond of it, maybe it was something she wrote into one of the letters he kept under his bunk back in ‘Nam. He doesn’t know.
But Bell made him understand it. He’d dug a grave in her when he denied her her own on that airstrip in Turkey, and he buried himself in it, over and over again. His memories, his life, his voice ringing like God’s. His favourite things, treasured, secret. His fears and doubts and worries, every little thing that made up the culmination of his being. It was never just Vietnam he put there. It was everything. She’s half himself, a faded mirror image. It only makes sense that they’d find each other again, eventually. She’d walk the earth, stalking like a bloodhound trailing his dried scent until she found him. She’d roam the endless nights, a ghost shivering their old haunts until he meanders his way back to her again, pulled along by a gnawing ache inside himself- a missing piece he’d seek the rest of his life to fill. She could track him blind. And he would feel her coming, like blood in the water. He did. He did.
It’s that tether that makes it impossible not to relent to her, when he kneels down next to the bed, knee joint cracking under his weight, the mottled floorboard doing nothing to steady him. It’s her, when she has enough leverage now to close the distance between her fingers and the collar of his shirt, curled inside the bleached cotton, fist wrenched tight. The seam digs into the back of his neck but he doesn’t let her pull him to her; he waits, making her work for it. The satisfaction that tends to follow when she does is usually worth her ingratiation.
She drags herself across the mattress, using his body as an anchor. Heavy and boneless, she lays right at the edge of the bed where he kneels, her nose nudging at his jaw as she turns, belly up like prey. Too easy a kill, he knows that. She’s gloating. The fact he’d come back at all means she’s got him right where she wants.
“C’mere,” she murmurs gently, saccharine, cloying. He’s surprised it doesn’t make her gag- the pretend domesticity of it all. Dragging her dried lips, smiling, against the underside of his jaw, her fingers sliding idle up the back of his neck, arm slung around his shoulder like she’s expecting to be carried out.
He humours her with a smirk, his blues nearly grey in the dim dark of the room as she mouths at him, vying for his attention. It’s as much a demand as her words had been, sharp as her tone as she nips at his jaw. Adler sighs, as though turning his face to gaze down at her were something laborious, and not the blessing he counts on every finger, every day, seemingly numbered since Panama. He tuts, and it says, what am I going to do with you?
But if his condescension was an attempt to dissuade her advances, it doesn’t work, because she sees right through his playful façade, and the wry smile that unfurls sleepy on her lips betrays her excitement, the sifting of her legs under the sheets audible as she squeezes them together. Needy. She knows he notices.
“Not gonna work, Bell,” he hums dryly. Yet he steals this moment of her surrender, his eyes flitting to every feature of her face. He doesn’t need to commit her to memory, she’s dug in there like a tick. But God, if he doesn’t like to look at her. He brings a rough hand down against her temple, smoothing the baby hairs back, eliciting a satisfied sigh from her as her eyes slip shut. Her head falls back against the pillow, anticipating a kiss he doesn’t give her.
“C’mon. Back to sleep. I’ll be ten minutes.”
“Five.”
“Bell.”
“Five minutes.”
Adler sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut.
“C’mon,” she croons, “five minutes… n’then…”
He thinks she’s fallen back asleep, the way her sentence carries off like that into silence. But when he opens his eyes she’s blinking prettily up at him, looking far too satisfied. Just as he opens his mouth to ask why, he feels the warm press of her hand against his knee, sliding up his thigh, fingertips tugged impishly at the sweatpants he’d haphazardly thrown on. He’s lightning quick to catch her, fingers circling her wrist; where the darting action might scare a weaker person it makes Bell’s eyes light up like stars, enamoured with his roughness. Excited. The way only she could be, eager pup biting at his ankles for a reaction.
“Behave,” he scolds, giving her knuckle a cursory smack before releasing her. That must finally be enough to spoil her fun, because she huffs, growling low in her throat, and rolls back over, burrowing herself deeper into the blanket than she’d begun.
It’s always a game to her, one she doesn’t much like losing. He can’t blame her for it. It’s always been that way. Back in Berlin, he’d taught her to play poker the proper way, the American way- whatever that meant- her downfall eternally being the fact she couldn’t bluff for shit around him. And it was just him- she’d caught on quick to the play, and had triumphed a couple times against Sims and Lazar; Park had refused to indulge the game, and Woods wiped the floor with the lot of them, even Adler. But with him, Bell just couldn’t lie. He was carved from marble, impassable- what he’d been trained to do. And she was a piece chipped off his softest part, malleable- of course he’d catch every minute twitch and wince, the flitting of wet lashes, the purse of an uncertain lip. She always told him the truth even with her eyes, her heart bore on her sleeve. It almost always felt like cheating. After all, it was what she was made for, wasn’t it?
And this felt much the same way. Not as strict as the luck of dealt hands and stifled poker faces but she’s never said or done anything to him she doesn’t mean. After he missed the shot in Solovetsky, all cards were strewn on the table. There was no mystery anymore. No joy taken in a good old fashioned backstab when the real damage was done, much too late to rectify. Maybe that’s why she makes it her personal goal to poke and prod and tease him now, chasing her fun in her own way, a decade late. Suppose it’s why she hates when he doesn’t just drop the cool attitude and give in.
He rises from the floor, that same knee joint clicking again. Where she might have mumbled a curt jibe about it, she’s silent, sulking into the pillow.
But just as he goes to leave, Adler stops at the door, a foot out into the hallway, the rest of him still stuck here, stuck on her. He sees a similar image in the back of his mind, of her laid upon the gurney in Die Landebahn, halfway into the back room with a syringe in hand when for one single moment of sobriety it dawned on him, what he’d been doing to her. Nothing like guilt, but it came close. Tinged with the regret of something so shameful as affection, Cupid’s arrow dipped in kerosene, shot straight through his heart; to come out the other side, to let him survive, to let him have this, here, her, now. And it’s a torture to have lived it, to know he doesn’t deserve a lick of it. The soft rise and fall of her breath beneath the blanket. Her hair splayed upon his pillow. She buries her nose deep in the old goose feather to try and keep him where he’s left her. Hold him close even when he’s gone.
The decade’s done much to him. He’d put on a couple pounds, had to start plucking the errant greys flecking his hairline, begun to wake most mornings with a tell-tale crick in his neck. He’s learned to relax that hard line in his brow, drawn too deep to reverse the evidence of age; let himself laugh a little easier, surprised people with his newfound ability to actually smile. He’s lost a lot, gained half as much. He’d been through hell and back, worse maybe than what he did to her- his karma, he supposes. And he supposes the decade’s made him soft, sentimentality creeping in to nestle somewhere he can’t reach, hidden inside himself with all the other things he doesn’t talk about. And he supposes of everything he’s lost, he has Bell again, and all things considered- it’s a fair trade.
He sucks in a breath, a sigh made audible for her to hear. Even as she feigns sleep, he knows she catches it, a flinch of her shoulder- where the shot he missed had landed in lieu of her head. In Solovetsky.
Then, Adler sighs, followed by a promise that feels to her like a confession.
“Five minutes.”
And when the door clicks shut, Bell steals herself a little victory smile.
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npdlove · 2 years ago
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Fuck the stigma around NPD.
I love narcissists.
I want narcissists to succeed in life.
I want narcissists to find happiness.
I want narcissists to have healthy and effective support systems.
I want narcissists to be able to say they have their disorder without it being demonized.
I want narcissists to take care of themselves.
Because that's what narcissists deserve.
Because narcissists are people.
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by-izzmizz · 25 days ago
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Forget girlboss, 2025 is the year of the feral grandma.
Untame yourself, gurl.
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