#hoop therapy

[allgirlsareprincesses]

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[sashannarcy]

Your stupid story is full of shit. Marcy would never willingly hurt Sasha or Anne. She is not amoral or cruel. You ruined her character for the sake of such an awful story. You should be ashamed of yourself.

if you'd like Marcy Wu to stop being written amorally, I've helpfully provided the link to Matt Braly's Twitter account (https://x.com/radrappy?s=21&t=Wi7vzCG6wffv-9aE-SD4aA) so you can dm him this yourself! you can just copy paste these asks (multiple! crazy) into his dms and it'll basically be like the same thing. you'll have to show your cowardly face though, sorry.

[softandwildx]

Just because it became relevant in my group tonight and I'm curious how others feel-

Feel free to include your gender, orientation, agab, or anything that you feel pertains to your answer!

[tempestclerics]

baby’s first “hey so you scored pretty high on that autism assessment” woooo

[limnologylover]

its actually really refreshing that we have words for autistic behavior now. double edged sword but also i didnt have that growing up and it made life both significantly harder and significantly easier. its really interesting to see how neurodivergency is treated even 10 years ago compared to now and i hope it only gets easier with time to express ourselves with the right language

[ghostforwhat]

speak.

Will in college, walking down some main strip just outside of campus, passing by a tattoo parlor….Will watching the piercer line a needle up through the big bay window, the red engraving of the shop title almost obscuring the view….The way he knows it’s a permanent sort of decoration, that he should shy away from it, he gets too much attention as it is…it’s only that his mind runs a comparison to the sticking pins he uses for insect specimens, the parallel it shows as the piercer pulls the new jewelry into place, threaded through eyebrow the same painful way he’s accidentally threaded fishing hooks into his thumb by not paying attention… his palms sweaty as he pushes open the door, the cool crisp scent of sterilized surgical steel filling his nose, the annoying clang of the bell alerting the employees to his presence…just his ears, he thinks, they’ll heal fast and his hair is long enough to cover them..

[lunarheslwt]

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[xsaintseraphx]

Avoided the hospital again

Let's see how long that lasts

[se-coaching]

Van verlies door misbruik naar veerkracht: Naar genezing na narcistisch misbruik

Het gaat om verlies van gezondheid, levenskracht, middelen, welvaart en de energie, inspiratie en hoop om verder te gaan en een nieuwe toekomst te creëren. Ik weet hoe verwoestend dit kan zijn, en geloof me maar als ik je zeg dat ik op al deze niveaus ben geweest. Maar ik wil dat je weet dat er een manier is om je leven opnieuw op te bouwen na narcistisch misbruik. Zowel ikzelf als vele anderen…

[coffin-upalung]

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Tag vent, needed to get it out. TW suicide/SH/mental health/inaccessible care

[corpseflowerqueer]

having gender thoughts

[dhampir-dyke]

[erikvelema]

Wordt verlicht!

[caitified]

cait getting slightly injured (maybe a sprain or something) and physio reader being worried and protective 😍

injured

caitlin clark x reader

warnings:slight injury, part 2 of physio!

it’s a tight game against the aces, the kind where every possession feels like life or death. you’re standing near the sideline, heart racing as caitlin drives to the hoop. she gets fouled hard, tumbling to the floor with a loud thud.

your stomach drops. she gets up—of course she does, it’s caitlin—but she’s favoring her left leg, wincing just enough to make your chest tighten.

you don’t wait for anyone to call you over. by the time the refs signal for a time-out, you’re already halfway to her.

“cait, you okay?” you ask, keeping your voice steady even though your pulse is pounding.

“i’m fine,” she says, brushing it off, though her grimace says otherwise.

you cross your arms, giving her that look. “caitlin.”

she rolls her eyes, but you catch the slight wobble in her stance. “it’s just a bruise. i’m not coming off.”

“you’re limping,” you counter, stepping closer, lowering your voice so only she can hear. “please, just let me check you out. you know i’ll make it quick.”

she hesitates, glancing at the scoreboard. the game’s close, but you can see the conflict in her eyes—the way she doesn’t want to scare you, doesn’t want to let the team down.

“two minutes,” she finally mutters, and you nod, relieved.

you follow her to the therapy room, her hand brushing yours briefly as you walk. the moment you’re inside, away from the noise of the arena, you guide her onto the table.

“you’re too stubborn for your own good, you know that?” you say softly, crouching to inspect her leg.

“and you’re too worried,” she teases, but her voice is softer now, too, the bravado from the court fading.

“yeah, well, you don’t make it easy,” you shoot back, running your fingers gently over her knee. she winces slightly, and you look up, catching her gaze. “see? you need to sit out the rest of the game.”

“you’re overreacting,” she argues, but there’s no heat behind it.

“cait,” you say quietly, standing so your faces are level. “i care more about you than this game. please don’t make me fight you on this.”

her expression softens, and she sighs, resting her hand on your hip. “you know you’re too good at this guilt-tripping thing, right?”

“just using my powers for good,” you reply, your lips twitching into a small smile.

she leans forward, resting her forehead against yours for a moment. “i hate sitting out,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing against your side.

“i know,” you whisper, tilting your head to kiss her temple. “but i’d rather have you healthy tomorrow than risking it today.”

she pulls back just enough to kiss you softly, her lips lingering against yours. “fine,” she says when she pulls away. “but only because you asked.”

“because i asked?” you echo, raising an eyebrow.

“and because i love you,” she adds with a small smirk, making your heart skip.

you laugh, shaking your head as you grab an ice pack. “yeah, yeah. you’re lucky i love you back.”

“so lucky,” she murmurs, her gaze warm as she watches you fuss over her.

short one.. sorry for the lack of fics lately! finals are almost over and i have quite a few fics that just need to be edited. requests are open.

[snakeautistic]

So many therapists are LAUGHABLY misinformed about autism. When I was first researching autism I brought it up to my therapist and she laughed it off because I knew not to only talk about my special interests during therapy, and I didn’t stim super visibly and frequently. That was an incredibly invalidating experience for me.

Even after that, when I could tell she’d considered it further and realized my theory had merit, it was like she was afraid of the word autism. She’d say I was quirky, or a little different, or just very sensitive, and that I “moved at my own rhythm”. At the very most she’d admit that I might have some slight traits but if I was autistic I would be “very very high-functioning” and probably didn’t meet enough criteria to be diagnosed. She agreed I should get an evaluation, but mostly so I could find out other disorders I might have.

Anyway, I got the diagnosis. She of course spun it like she’d been sure it was going to happen the whole time. She made sure to assure me that no one could tell, and again how extremely high-functioning I was. She’s still afraid to say autistic, and will jump through hoops to avoid saying the word.

It’s so frustrating to me just how stigmatized autism is, even in the mental health field. Professionals fail to understand the spectrum part of autism.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 38

Part 1 Part 37

Steve keeps acting like he’s perfectly fine. Like he didn’t have part of his shoulder carved off. Like he’s not suffering through an hour of glorified torture masquerading as physical therapy every day, trying to build his muscle back up. Like the doctor hadn’t told him he might still never get back to shooting hoops and swimming laps with the precision he used to. Like his ribs aren’t still broken, and he doesn’t still have trouble standing, or wake up screaming, clutching at his throat. Like he doesn’t rub the back of his head sometimes and stare into the middle distance with lost eyes. And it’s pissing Eddie off.

Especially now, as he walks beside Wayne, pushing Steve’s wheelchair down the hall toward the elevator. This in and of itself was a feat. First, Steve had argued that he didn’t need a wheelchair, then he’d argued he didn’t need help pushing it. Eddie let Steve flounder for a few minutes, trying to make his useless arm wheel him forward, angry tears springing from his eyes before he acquiesces.

The latest rub is the worst: Steve wants to go home. As if Eddie doesn’t remember the look on Steve’s face when he said he wanted to go to Eddie’s trailer. As if Eddie doesn’t remember the way Steve’s voice broke when he called the trailer home.

“The doctor said somebody needs to keep an eye on ya,” Wayne says reasonably. “Either we do it, or you can stay with Joyce. She offered to put you up.”

Steve scoffs. “My parents—”

“Aren’t home!” Eddie snaps, pushing Steve into the elevator and pushing the down button on the elevator with enough force that his finger hurts.

Steve sits up straighter in his chair, reading for a fight. Wayne doesn’t let him. “If you’re staying at that house, then so are we,” he says, implacable. “Until your parents are there to watch you.” Left unsaid, is that no one had heard from them. That Steve hadn’t asked about them at all.

Steve slumps down in a position that must be hell on his cracked ribs, sighing. “Fine,” he says, like it hurts. “I’ll stay in the trailer.”

It feels like a knife twist. Eddie wants to shake Steve and remind him he’d called it home.

It’s quick after that. Steve signs himself out at the front desk, tucking the physical therapy schedule they’d made for him into the pocket of the sweatpants Wayne had scavenged from Eddie’s drawers for Steve to wear home.

Wayne and Eddie work together to help lever Steve into the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. Wayne slides into the driver’s seat without asking, so Eddie grumbles his way into the back.

Steve’s quiet when Wayne pulls up front, quiet while they help him in, quiet when he’s settled onto the couch.

He’s looking around his surroundings just like he had the first time – like he’s amazed people live like this. That first time, he’d wanted to snarl, make sure Harrington knew that there was nothing wrong with this life he’d created with his Uncle. Now, he just thinks of Steve’s empty house, the hospital’s unanswered phone calls to his parents, and feels unbearably sad.

Wayne puts on a basketball game that Eddie doesn’t even complain about, and settles himself at Steve’s side.

Steve falls asleep halfway through the game, head falling on Eddie’s shoulder, warm puffs of air hitting the bare skin of his neck.

Wayne huffs, and Eddie looks up at him, already glaring defensively. “What?” he demands, quiet enough not to disturb Steve.

Wayne raises his hands placatingly, even as he smiles smugly over at Eddie. “I didn’t say anything.”

They all sleep in the living room that night. It’s cozy and warm, especially after Wayne drapes a blanket over them both.

It should feel weird, settling this closely to Steve, now that they’re not depending on each other to survive. Now that they’re back in the real world. But Eddie feels like he’ll fall apart if Steve’s not in sight, so maybe he’s not out of the woods after all.

It's peaceful.

It stays peaceful until the next day when it’s time for Steve’s physical therapy appointment.

“I can take myself,” he says. “I have a car.”

He’s not meeting Eddie’s eyes. Eddie takes a few deep breaths. He knows snapping won’t help anything, but he wants to smack Steve until this is easier. He just— he doesn’t get this. Can’t figure out what the problem is.

“It would take just as long to drive you to your car as it would to just drive you,” Eddie says, cleaning up their half-assed breakfast of toast a cereal off the table. He doesn’t look back at Steve, wants to play this cool and nonchalant, and he just knows one look at the obstinate tilt of Steve’s chin will send him swinging. 

“I can walk,” he says, even though he really really can’t.

Eddie slams a dish into the sink. He’s almost surprised the bowl doesn’t shatter upon impact. He scrubs it, back to where Steve is stewing in silence.

He needs to figure this out. Why Steve is being so difficult, about staying here, about Eddie feeding him and driving him. He does the hardest thing he can think of, and asks, “why don’t you want me to take you to your appointment?”

He doesn’t turn around, just keeps scrubbing the dishes like this is a casual conversation over breakfast. Because it should be.

The silence drags him down, lasts long enough that Eddie doesn’t think Steve will answer at all.

“You shouldn’t have to,” Steve says.

Eddie thinks back – big house no parents – and wonders how long it’s been since someone did something for Steve without strings. He turns around, settles back into his seat and stares at Steve until he raises his eyes from the table.

Choosing his words carefully, he says, “I want to go with you,” Eddie says. “You saved my life—"

“But—” Eddie holds up a hand, and Steve stops, brows furrowed.

“You saved my life,” he repeats, meeting Steve’s eyes. “I’m gonna help you whether you like it or not.”

It’s not quite the whole truth, but Eddie’s not sure how to touch the way it feels like worms are writhing in his stomach when Steve’s out of his sight. How his shoulders only really relax when he knows exactly where Steve and Will both are.

Eddie bites his tongue on the too much of it all.

“Fine,” Steve says, still sullen, but he lets Eddie lead him to the van and drive him to his appointment.

It looks painful. Eddie holds his crossed ankles, to stop himself from leaping up and wrenching Steve away from the doctor’s ministrations.

By the end, Steve looks like he just got done with a basketball game, sweat dripping down his forehead, pits stained. If Eddie squints, he can almost see the uncomplicated jock of days past as they limp out of the hospital.

“You wanna go see Baby Byers?” Eddie asks.

“Please,” Steve says, slumping into the passenger seat like the princess he is.

Eddie drives, turning his music up loud enough to rattle their teeth just to see Steve smile.

Part 39