#im just... so tired and wrung out and everything is so fucking hard

[orcelito]

Honestly hate how hard it is to start writing again when you've gone too long without it. Like for fuck's sake man Why's shit gotta be like this

[a-libra-writes]

are you ever going to write a sequel to that incredible stannis + soulmate journal prompt you did? i know stannis survives the siege, but i still get absolute chills and i'd love to read his reaction to meeting her. it doesn't have to be a story, even--just, like, a couple bullet points would be enough to quench my thirst for stannis content. i understand if you don't want to!

I wanted to write something for this bc i had IdEAS but im too tired soooo lets do the bullet ponts hahaha. anon is referring to this fic!

I think at this point, Stannis is so physically and mentally exhausted, he actually tosses his usual uptight sense of propriety out the window. When you write to him that you're terrified and worried and you're on a ship right now with your family's soldiers, he doesn't tell you to stop.

The siege has ended. Stannis still can't stomach the food that's coming in, he tells his men to have it first, and of course Renly. He's still too weak to write, so he just looks at his journal, reading your frantic words. You're almost on the way, he doesn't have to worry anymore, you'll be there.

Sometimes Davos (with freshly bandaged fingers) catches him snorting in amusement at the journal. He's a bit worried his new lord is losing a few marbles, then he finally sees the journal and realizes what it is.

"The songs and stories won't shut up about the destined meeting," Stannis remarks to him out of nowhere. His words are biting. "This is one they'll sing about."

Which is to say, he's terrified what you'll think, but he's also too tired and fucking done with everything to stop it. He still doesn't write back, but he follows your daily updates, calculating how long it'll take you to arrive.

Stannis meets you on the docks, weak as he is. It's freezing out here, with the wind batting him hard, even if it's the height of spring. He watches the horizon for a long time, waiting for your family's crest to appear over the water. And it does.

The ship docks and he barely pays attention to the soldiers and servants exiting, bringing supplies and reinforcements. A family member - likely an older brother - tries to speak with Stannis, but the Baratheon is dismissive of him. His dark blue eyes are searching the deck, waiting for you to step down...

And you do. You stumble down the ladder and all but run toward him, ignoring the strange looks dockworkers are giving you both. You wrap your arms around him, and as if you're heart wasn't already bursting with excitement and emotion and aching with worry, it gets worse. You nearly knock Stannis over with your enthusiasm because he's so thin and weak. You feel him stiffen up, but then his arms slowly wrap around you, too.

There's a lot for you two to catch up on! And you have the excuse of your men and family members staying in his castle as they prepare to march off to assist Robert and Ned in their battles. The war isn't over, but gods, it looks like it already wrung Stannis dry. You want to stay and support him as best you can, convince him to get some damn sleep and please try to eat more.

By the time the war is over, you and Stannis don't really use the journals anymore. You've been together since you arrived on boat. When the rebellion -- no, the war, your 'side' won - is finished, there's much to do now that Robert is king. Stannis has put up with SO much shit during and after the siege ... he basically demands to his brother that he be allowed to marry you. No he doesn't want fucking Dragonstone, he just wants you.

You two discussed this before, and you both asked Robert for his blessing in private... though you had a sense Stannis may have actually just gone and done it anyway. This is the most you've ever seen him shirk the idea of "duty" and raise his voice at Robert... it's kind of attractive??

Robert allows it, of course. He really doesn't think about any political ramifications; it's Lord Arryn's job to worry about such things. And you and Stannis are a great pair in court, anyway. He'd still keep the journals. You aren't sure when Stannis had them brought in from Storm's End; it's surprisingly sentimental of him. Since you both are together all the time now, there's really not a need for a new one...

It's very possible no one would know you were soulmates, except Maester Cressen and maybe Davos. Stannis prefers it that way. He still thinks some of this soulmate stuff is a lot of illogical fluff... ... Even if he keeps those journals around!!! He's very embarrassed if you do the same.

But everyone once in a while you still like to leave a cute little love note or drawing on a scrap paper and wait for it to appear on the thing he's working on, haha. Just to keep him on his toes.

[iphoenixrising]

I did not expect people to want more of the thing *shrugs* 

Thank-you for the comments on my assholery with cliff hangers @txbookeater​, I love you too babe <3. So much love to electra-iphigenie, emjalen, ships-lover, and @chibinightowl​ for talking up that post. Based on this thing. Warning for triggering themes. Be aware of good boyfriending, kink negotiations, and mentions of past sexual assault. 

Proceed at your own risk 

He takes in a breath, blank for a second, his brain catching up. “Could it possibly be in the bathroom before I get in a nice, hot shower? Followed by a few hours of unconsciousness? That would be really amazing right about now.”

Deflection is an art form, and he really is a master.  He shrugs off his bag, gives him an opportunity to turn away, aware of eyes and how he’s dragging ass, feeling off and irritable. His brain doesn’t have to keep moving from one thing to the next, and things are slowing down. A shudder runs like cold fingers down his spine.

“I think I’d rather ya do it right here, Tim,” and there’s no Sweets, Baby, or any other endearments to make this easier on him. Nope. 

(It’s fine. Breathe. Just some bruises. They’ve seen worse, had worse. They’re all adults here.)

“Jay, I am tired–” “You’re looking shaky, a little strung out.” Dick, at least, makes it gentle. “And I saw it already, so we both know. I’d rather see the damage without your shirt in the way.” “Then, we’re gonna talk ‘bout why ya didn’t tell us right away.” “Mmhm, we might need to have another talk about the rules when we play.” “You’re blowing this out of proportion,” he argues gently, rubbing his hands and wrists because his fingers are tingling. “We had a play date, and by the time I was getting...you know, sore, I was already at work, you were on patrol–” “You didn’t say a word about it to me,” Dick cuts in, “and you absolutely should have. Now, I’m wondering if you really do know your limits, and if I can trust you enough to stop us when you need to.” “I...I didn’t–” yes. Yes I did.

It’s as simple as breathing in too sharply, his ears suddenly ringing, and there’s rubber in his mouth, his teeth probably cutting into it, and it hurts. Normally, he’s okay with rough and multiple rounds, loves how they get when they need control, to feel like there’s something in their hands that can’t just be taken away. 

He gets it. Loves that their go-to outlet for it...is him. 

Even if he can’t come again, it still usually feels amazing, and crazy in his brain because they want him this much. Really, he loves them. 

(The bell clenched in his fist is making an indent in his palm. His chest constricts, just like last time, but he can at least gasp through the holes in the gag. So he doesn’t need to drop it. He wants to. It hurts and he wants to, but he doesn’t. He can take it. He’s had worse. This is for them.) 

Neither of them noticed it had gone from amazing to uncomfortable to painful, and he didn’t drop the bell. He didn’t tell them to stop, so really, it’s on him isn’t it?

Bile rushes up his throat, bringing him back to the very real present where Dick and Jay are suddenly really close, and he realizes he’s just sitting in Dick’s lap, shaking like a leaf.

His face is wet, his chest hitching. 

He doesn’t puke, so that is about a million points.

But, he is absolutely falling the utter fuck apart and that just isn’t conducive to his attempt at coming home to snuggle and pass out in blissful unconsciousness.

(This is his life. Seriously.)

“Shit, shit, shit,” the first attempt to move is right out the window because he’s on octopus hold lockdown.

(On one hand it feels nice to be held. On the other, he can’t escape and it feels restrictive, stifling, terrifying.)

“Hey, hey, Baby. Lookey here. That’s it, that’s good.” Jay is rubbing palms up and down the top of his calves, up to his knees and down to his ankles. He’s talking low and gentle. “I’m going ta the kitchen, n’ getcha some water. Then, we’re gonna talk ‘bout what’s doing, you feel me? If me and Dickie are gonna be able ta take care a’ ya, then we gotta know what’s in yer head.”

He’s breathing too hard, too fast, his hearing spotty at best.

“Ssshhh. You’re having a panic attack, Timmy. You’re hyperventilating, so I need for you to calm down now, okay?” 

Then Dick’s chest is under his tingling fingers, and the exaggerated breathing helps him slow it down, take back some of the control over his body.

He doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out or puke, so the day is looking up. 

The absurdity of that thought it the thing that really makes him laugh, the sound hoarse, choked. 

“Okay, okay, you’re doing good, Timmy, just stay with me,” and he didn’t notice when Dick started rocking back-and-forth in a soothing motion, or when Jay got back and slid a hand around the nape of his neck.

He’s still shaky as fuck, curled up against Dick’s warmth, and fuck is he cold and wrung out. It feels like a high fever, joints achy, brain foggy, reaction time slow.

“...it’s a fucking drop, Dick. Look at ‘im!” “I’ve never heard of a delayed response like this.” “Knew we shoulda waiting ta scene. He went right from bed ta the pressure cooker, Dick.” “I should have picked up on it when I went to see him.” “S’all right, least we know what ta do now,” and Jay bends, pulls and lifts him like he isn’t a full grown man, pulling him in tight. “Need ta getcha all warm n’ snuggled, don’t we, Baby?”

Dick is throwing back the covers, but Tim doesn’t want to get in bed, not smelling like antiseptic and and bleach, but being warm, being able to hide his face in the pillow is really appealing.

He nods in Jay’s shoulder and lets just the scrub top be pulled off, leaving him in the nerd shirt underneath. He’s glad for it, already vulnerable, cold, shaky.

A straw to his mouth from no where and water before hands are helping him scoot over gingerly in the middle before flopping down on his good side with two warm vigilantes like bookends. Gentle circles on his back while Dick snakes an arm under his head, pulls him closer. 

“All right, that’s better.”

That hand hits a tender spot, and the flinch is automatic. “Sorry, Timmy. Once yer all warm, we’ll lookit how bad, yeah? Gonna lemme see, and it’s gonna be all right. S’ just me n’ Dickie.”

It’s awful because the two wrapped around him is fucking close to perfect and he isn’t feeling as shitty as he was at the ominous picture they made when he first walked in, and yeah, yeah, maybe it was stupid to try hiding it from them. He’s fuzzy about it, but he’s pretty sure that’s a rule somewhere in the Do’s and Don’ts for Playtime talk. 

He probably going to get a lecture. Possibly two.

“Sorry,” he finally says, voice stronger because his throat doesn’t feel like raw hamburger anymore. “I...that wasn’t supposed to happen. I don’t know why it was bad, but I’m s–”

“The only thing that would make me angry right now is if you apologize again,” Dick follows it up with scritches to take the sting out of it. “Something triggered you to have a severe drop, Timmy, and if you could tell us what happened, it would help us to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Can you understand that? We need to know so we don’t accidentally hurt you?”

He goes still and his chest hurts just a little.

“I...I should have safeworded out,” it hurts to say, “I sh-should have dropped it, but I thought I could take it, and then things got weird and my brain just, and I thought if I did it would be weak and-and you didn’t need that, and I-I just. I’m sore and it hurt and I didn’t– it’s my fault, okay. I should have because I know that’s a rule somewhere.”

and he keeps babbling on, rambling with his eyes getting hot and his vigilante boyfriends petting him, rocking with him, letting everything just pour out of him without stopping him or pulling away, just–

Dealing with his special brand of insanity. (Those darn abandonment issues. Golly, some day he won’t feel like his chest is being ripped open viciously with fear they’re going to walk the fuck out of his life and never come back.)

He’s finally talked out, feeling like ass about fucking up their morning.

“Your color is coming back, that’s good.” “Warmed all up, Dickie. Time ta tell it like it is.” Well. Shit.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” and he blinks up out of Dick’s chest with his eyes still puffy and his side tender, those blue eyes dark with something hard to interpret.

“I’m not happy you didn’t tell us immediately because we agreed to communicate about these things. D&S can be scarring, and this is just an example of how people get hurt.” 

“And I’m going to say this now so you understand how important it is. About the fact you didn’t safeword.” Dick’s chest expands, hitches, “You need to know, you’re not only protecting yourself when you do, but you’re protecting us, too.”

“I don’t–”

“Tim. I’ve been sexually assaulted several times, and you know that. So... knowing I hurt you that way makes me sick inside, okay. Can you– can you understand that?”

“I-I fuck, Dick, I’m–” “Please don’t say it. No more sorries. But, it’s important you understand Jay and I have our own traumas, so if you, not us, want to keep trying this, we have to navigate more carefully.”

Behind him, Jay’s forehead is nestled in the dip at the base of his neck, and a hard breath whistles down the back of his shirt. 

He despairs inside at how Dick and Jay must be feeling, how bad it looked to them that Tim hadn’t come clean, hadn’t safeworded at all. “I fucked up. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

Dick presses a gentle kiss in his hair, and Jay nuzzles against his throat. 

He gets more sips of water and eventually a panini and soup. There’s more cuddles and warmth, more talk that sucks the breath out of them all. 

His head wraps around the rules differently this time, taking careful note of the way Dick’s expression gets shuddered and Jay goes still. He assures them he still does want playtime sometimes, shoots down the notion he’s only doing it for them, tells them that when his brain is too full and he needs to give up control, he doesn’t want to do it with anyone else but them. 

He realizes it’s because somewhere, he knows they’ll take care of him...if he lets them.

Then his shirt comes off so the deep bruises can have Alfred’s magical concoction spread over. His cheeks are pink when he’s laid out on his stomach with the scrub pants tossed off the bed. Soft praise while he’s spread open by gentle hands to make sure he’s not torn. Bruised and sore yeah, but nothing too awful. He gets a pair of Dick’s cut-off sweatpants that still hit him below the knee and one of Jay’s shirts that he practically swims in, but he feels about a million times better just wearing their clothes.

And when they’re careful with him for the next few days, when love making is tender and slow, when touches are easy with his bruises in mind, when everything is verbal and consent is crucial, he make more of an effort to stomp down the urges to push his limits, push himself. He stomps down on those stupid recriminations and uncertainties, tries to remember that these two could be literally anywhere else in the world, and yet, here they are at his side.

He gets to have vigilantes bleeding on his fire escape, and the men under the mask in his bed, in his shower, in his kitchen, in his life. 

The next scene he yellows, gets a much needed pause before they continue, and the aftercare is truly a thing of beauty.

[wolvesofinnistrad]

we both know that ben + callum like playing their video games but could you imagine ben playing something + Callum just kinda comes in and sits between his knees and starts sucking him off and Ben’s trying not to moan n carry on with the game + he has like jay & people in his headset being like why are you suddenly dying and he has to make up an excuse cos he can’t say that he’s got his finger wrapped in his boyfriends hair and shoving his cock down cals throat (expand pls cos ur more talented)

Oh I really like this one, less headcanon and more drabble here.

Ben and Callum have been dating for a while at this point and it’s great.  They love one another, they’re living together, they have a great sex life its’ just that, well, Callum’s starting to feel maybe that some of that wild passion from before is waning.  Not that they don’t fuck like rabbits in bed, but all that tension from before is gone, and sure it’ replaced by comfort and peace of mind and freedom, but sometimes Callum did enjoy the danger of it all.

He remembers the thrill of being out in public at the park, of knowing that anyone could see them.  Also he remembers that he asked Ben to stop playing his game over an hour ago so they could get ready for bed.

Somehow the two things overlap in his mind, watching from the bedroom door as he sees Ben sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the telly as he chats with Jay animatedly.  He likes seeing him happy, but he wants some time with his boyfriend, and that’s how the idea pops into his head.

Under normal circumstances he probably wouldn’t do this, even with how much he’s grown more comfortable with himself, his desires, everything, it’s still a bit out of his league.  But then he thinks how if the roles were reversed Ben wouldn’t hesitate to toy with him like that so he whips off his shirt and walks over into the living room in just a pair of sweatpants held low on his hips.

“Hey Cal, just a few more matches, promise.”  Ben barely glances at him when he says it, hyper focused on the game.

“That’s alright, thought I’d just come out here for a bit.”  Callum smiles, sitting on the floor by Ben, waiting for a moment to strike.  When Ben get a big kill, whooping and tossing his hands in the air Callum sees his opportunity and quickly moves between his legs, pushing his thighs apart.

“Cal?” But Ben can’t focus on Callum when someone’s chasing him now so Callum has free reign to do as he pleases.

Callum’s big hands move up and down Ben’s thighs, massaging them slowly, rubbing deep into the skin until he hears Ben let out a shaky breath, glancing down just for a second at him.

He moves his head up, burying it in Ben’s crotch which gets another awkward, strangled noise out of Ben.  There’s only a thin pair of boxers covering Ben and Callum takes advantage, nuzzling against the man’s soft cock through the fabric until he it starts to fatten up.

“Callum what are y-, no fuck you stop camping me!” Ben’s still distracted, and Callum smirks, reaching into the man’s boxers and pulling his cock free.

That makes Ben gasp, breath coming sharp as Callum takes his cock to his lips, kissing the head and giving a few tiny licks.  Ben is the master of blowjobs in this relationship, but that also means he’s taught Callum mot of his tricks, and Callum has had enough time to play with Ben’s cock that he knows exactly what gets him going.

Like now when he holds the semi-soft base and starts running a line with his tongue all the way around Ben’s cockhead beneath his foreskin.

“Fuck...”  The sound is punched out and breathy, and followed by an explosion and a louder more angry “fuck!”  Callum giggles as he keeps up his work, hearing Ben yell “I know Jay, I’m just, sorry, I got c-caught.”

Ben’s prick is fully hard now, flushed red and Callum gently pulls his foreskin back and begins sucking on just the head how he knows drives Ben crazy.

“God...” Ben sounds so lost, he keeps glancing down at Callum sucking him then clearly being chastised for not paying attention and tries to drag his eyes back to the telly.

It’s actually been about two weeks since Callum has blown Ben, and he might have been practicing with one of their dildos in his spare time, so he starts bobbing, taking another inch or so every few times until he’s got Ben’s entire cock down his throat, kissing his abdomen and he can swallow around him.

He doesn’t have to wait long before he hears “Fuck Callum, please...”  It’s needy and desperate, and when Callum looks up Ben’s just staring down at him panting.

“Callum’s just here...  Distracting me,” Ben says over his headset and the fact he’s still talking to them, even if it’s labored makes Callum redouble his efforts.

Ben’s going to regret not quitting the match when he had the chance.

Callum pulls back, sucking hard on the head, hollowing his cheeks like Ben taught him months ago.  At the same time he uses his hand to stroke the base and shaft, holding Ben down by the hip with his other hand.  It’s no secret that Ben gets all soft and horny when Callum’s assertive, adds a bit of his weight on him or holds him down.

Ben gasps again, and theres the sound of his character dying once more.  Ben’s trying to talk but he’s just babbling excuses now.  His fingers are in Callum’s hair now, grasping, holding on.

Callum speeds up, sucking Ben aggressively, using his tongue as deftly as he can, making sure his teeth are hid behind his lips to create the best sort of glide with no restrictions.  He’s taking Ben deep on every slide and he hears the man choke and another death followed by the controller falling to the floor.

“Callum, fuck, Callum oh god!”

Faintly, very faintly he can hear what sounds like muffle yelling from the headset, but Ben’s completely forgotten about it all, head pressed back into the couch, eyes shut tight in deep pleasure as he lets Callum take him apart.

Quickly, since he has Ben at his mercy, he tugs Ben’s boxers down so he can get access to everything.  With one hand he moves up, sliding beneath Ben’s soft shirt and taking a nipple and squeezing it, pinching and twisting.  

With his other hand he moves to do a trick he discovered, that his hand was big enough to slide his fingertips between Ben’s cheeks to tease his hole while his palm and thumb could rub Ben’s balls.  The first time he did it Ben nearly lost his mind, and the same is true tonight.

“DOn’t stop, Cal, please, fuck, fuck me, shit, fuck, bloody hell!”

Callum laugh around Ben’s cock, glad he’s finally got his entire attention, game long forgotten.  He keeps up everywhere, making sure Ben’s pleasured in every way he can, attacked on all fronts.

“I’m gonna cum, fucking shit, fuck!” Ben’s fingers wrap in Callum’s hair hard, tugging him down on his cock as deep as it’ll go as he unloads with an intense orgasm.  His entire body seems to cave in on itself, freezing up as his legs wrap around Callum’s head and back arches.

Callum swallows him down, taking care to work over his boyfriend with his tongue and fingers through his entire orgasm and afterglow until Ben’s a moaning, boneless mess.

When he’s finally finshed with Ben, at least for the moment, Callum stand sup, pants obscenely tented by his own erection.  He grabs the headset off Ben, puts it on just long enough to hear Jay screaming.

“BEN MITCHELL IF YOU JUST MADE ME LISTEN TO YOU GETTING HEAD FROM YOUR BOYFRIEND AND MY COWORKER IM GOING TO MURDER YOU!”

“Sorry Jay, Ben can’t talk right now,” Callum says, feeling very pleased with himself when Jay shrieks again before he turns the headset and game off.

Ben’s got a soft little dazed smile on his lips and Callum leans in to kiss him silly.

Ben tries to grab Callum’s cock, but he’s completely fucked out already.  

“Don’t worry bout it, I can take care of myself,” Callum says with a smile.

“No...  Need your cock, fuck me...” Ben mumbles.

“You sure, you’re a little-”

“Callum I can barely move...  But if you don’t fuck me I will hold you down and ride you somehow.”

Callum doesn’t need to be told twice, moving in and rimming Ben fast, loving the way his boyfriend mewls and digs his fingers into his hair.  He fishes a pube packet out form beneath the couch cushion because, well, they hid them around the flat because they tend to fuck all over.

Pulling his pants down and off he gives himself a couple strokes before lubing up.  Mentally Ben is there with him, groaning and moaning, but physically he’s limp and wrung out, letting himself be used by Callum.

Callum hooks Ben’s legs over his shoulders and slides in, not wanting to wait any longer, knowing they both need this.  He loves the face Ben still makes every time he enters him, so lost and vulnerable and open.  He shows every expression of how he feels like this, biting his lip hard as the pleasure starts to overwhelm him again.  Ben’s shaking, breath coming in heavy gasps as his chest rises and falls with every thrust.

CAllum makes sure to get Ben’s spot and even though the man just came he’s already hard again. Smirking Callum grabs Ben’s cock with his lubed hand and strokes him fast and dirty, timing it to his thrusts so he’s twisting the head right as his cock glances over Ben’s prostate and Ben tries to scream but his body is so tired it’s near silent.

Callum feels his heavy balls slapping against Ben’s pert ass, he’s so ready to bust.  He gives a few more strokes and thrusts and Ben’s coming, eyes rolling back in his head as he shoots all over his chest and even up to his chin a little.  That drags Callum over the edge, sliding all the way inside his lover and unloading deep.

“Cal, cal calcalcalcalcallum!” Ben whimpers, using the last of his strength to cling to his boyfriend.

Callum had planned on carrying Ben back to bed and cleaning up, but he’s just as exhausted as Ben now and they end up just laying on top of one another on the couch, kissing lazily until they both drift off to sleep.

[voidendron]

The Outside: Chapter 55

Series Ask Blog: @asktheoutside

Chapter 55: News Chapter Warnings: Swearing POV: Chase Brody

March 23, 2031, 5:30 PM Los Angeles, California

“Look,” Chase said, “you two just need to… I don’t know, man. Just—stay away from each other? We’re all sick of your arguin’, and one of you’s gonna get hurt.” He didn’t turn to face the android as he scrubbed at a pan they needed for dinner.

The Septic could hear annoyed beeping from behind him as the only response.

Adjusting to two others now living in what had already been a crowded household was certainly a challenge. Sleeping arrangements had been enough of a hassle to figure out. They’d had to raise their budget on groceries, too. Nine people instead of seven? That was a lot of mouths to feed. Then there was the schedule for the bathroom in the morning, which was a whole different story entirely. They weren’t sure Anti could ever safely find a job due to his glitching, and Jameson likely wouldn’t unless he either perfected sign language or went to speech therapy—which he’d refused with an annoyed glare. It had taken some adjusting, to say the least.

The water in the sink sloshed when Chase dropped the pan; spilling lukewarm water and yellowed suds over the counter and floor. The Septic cursed when it landed on his bare feet to immediately soak his socks. At least that brought a snort from Bing that he very poorly covered up.

“Gross…” the father muttered as he leaned down to pull his socks off. He tossed them aside, grimacing when one almost slid under the fridge.

“Dude,” Bing’s boots squeaked over the now-wet tile as he went to retrieve the sopping socks, “the washer’s literally right here.” He was laughing as he dropped them into the top portion of the stacked machine that was way too close to the fridge for Chase’s liking. They couldn’t put anything on top of the fridge because of it! If the washer got off-center (which it did a lot when the kids tried doing laundry) it would knock against the other appliance and make anything on the fridge just. Fall off.

Chase just shook his head and tossed a grin over his shoulder.

“You’re hopeless, y’know that?”

“Yep!” He emphasized the “p” by slapping the water, only to splutter and reel back when it and suds flew up at his face.

“The Twins make less of a mess than you.”

“Yeah right.”

“They do!”

Chase made a distressed sound when his hat was pulled off from behind. He was sure it was Bing! That is, until he heard the android’s confused laughter. The Septic twisted around as best he could while keeping his hands over the sink.

Sophie grinned triumphantly up at him while the oversized snapback nearly fell over her eyes. Hadn’t she just been upstairs? He grinned at his youngest regardless.

Shaking his hands over the sink, Chase reached for the towel hanging on the oven handle to dry them. “Need somethin’, Sophe?”

She nodded so fast the hat about fell off. “Ky got a text. Jackie’s been trying to call you, and it’s important I guess?”

Chase’s brows furrowed at that. “You know what it’s about?”

“No. Seán just said it’s important and you gotta call Jackie like. ASAP.”

He hadn’t needed to say anything for Bing to take over finishing dishes, while Sophie had scampered right back up the stairs with the snapback still on. Chase had to wonder what they were doing up there. They were all quiet aside from the occasional laughter.

Running a hand through his hat-head, he pushed his bedroom door open. He had to squeeze between the two twin-beds now within to reach the nightstand where his phone was hopefully done charging, grumbling when he tripped over Anti’s shoes and the Velcro momentarily stuck to his sweatpants. It really was crowded.

Chase grimaced when he pulled his phone off the charger and saw a whole lot of missed calls from Jackie and all within the last few hours. Wasn’t it after midnight in Brighton? He carefully picked his way out from between the beds and seated himself at the foot of his own.

Finding Jackie’s contact, it barely rang once before the hero answered. “Chase?” The way his voice cracked made Chase’s breath catch in his throat. Had Jackie been crying? Was he still crying? “It—it’s Marv—oh god, Chase—”

“Hey, hey, easy!” He swallowed. Jackie’s voice was raw and raspy, and Chase could hear him choke on a sob on the other end of the line. “Jackie, easy. Y’said Marv. Everything okay?”

“N-no. He’s…he’s not—not doin’ well.” A shaky breath. “Please find a way here? Please? We don’t…we don’t know if—if he’s gonna make it.”

The phone nearly fell from Chase’s hand. He…he hadn’t heard that right, had he? He swallowed, choking on his own spit. There was no way he’d heard Jackie right. Absolutely no way. “J-Jackie…what do you mean?”

“I mean he might die!” Jackie tried so hard to yell, to drive it into Chase’s head, but his voice broke at the end as he sobbed into the speaker. “Y’don’t…h-he…”

“What…what the hell happened, man? You c…you can’t be fucking serious?” Chase had to blink away his own fearful tears. Marvin? Dying? He couldn’t…how could that… “What happened?”

Muffled sounds came from the other end, and the voice to speak up wasn’t Jackie’s, “This is Bim.” He sounded tired, but not as though he’d been crying like Jackie. “Marvin had an accident with his magic.” Bim’s voice was soft, sad, but far too even. How could he be so calm? “He was trying to track Schneeple,” Chase’s heart clenched at that, “and something happened. We don’t know what, just that it involved fire and he’s badly burned. We just know he’s not doing well. I…” Bim paused; Chase could hear him sigh softly. “I’m surprised he even made it to the hospital. He’s in surgery now, but we don’t know if he’ll survive to morning.”

“But…” His breath shuddered as he scrubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “He can’t be…”

“I’m going to contact Wilford. Seán and Jackie want you and Jameson here. They want Anti, too, but…we can’t risk him glitching something at the hospital. I’m sorry, Chase.”

The call ended, and Chase found himself shaking as a sob wracked his body. That…it couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be true. It was just…some bad dream. He was imagining it, he had to be! He’d just…he’d fallen asleep on the couch, surely! He’d sat down for a moment, only to take an unplanned nap. He’d wake up and call Marvin in a panic, only for the magician to be fine, if annoyed at being woken up at three in the morning.

He didn’t know how long he sat there before Bing came rushing into his room. Had Bim told him?

The android didn’t say anything as he sat down and looped an arm around Chase’s neck. He leaned into Bing’s chest, uncaring that his tears left a spot on the Iplier’s shirt. Bing didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t need to. Instead, his core rumbled softly; a deep hum within his chest that Chase shut his eyes to. It was always such a calming sound. Chase tried to focus on that as he evened his breathing.

“What if—what if he—”

“Don’t.” Bing combed his fingers through Chase’s hair. The father couldn’t help but lean into the touch. “He’s survived as long as he has ‘cause he’s not human. Just keep believing he’s gonna make it.” He ruffled Chase’s hair and stood. “I’m gonna go talk to James and Anti. Why don’t you pack a few days’ worth of clothes? Wilford’ll be here when he gets off work.”

The silence to hang in the living room was suffocating after the news had been delivered to the others. Sophie had curled into her dad’s side with tears staining her cheeks while Chase wrung his cap in his hands. The Brody kids would be staying with Bing, Yan, and the Twins, and Chase wasn’t sure he liked that notion. He’d never been away from them for long, but he also didn’t want them seeing whatever shape Marvin was in.

“How long are you gonna be gone?” Kyler asked. His eyes were red, but he’d stopped crying before going downstairs to join the others.

“I dunno, buddy.” Chase leaned back into the couch and ran a hand through Sophie’s hair. “Maybe a week? Few days? And I’ll call every night, and keep you updated on…o-on Marvin,” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, “okay?” Both kids could only nod.

It wasn’t long before Wilford appeared in a cloud of glitter in the kitchen. Chase wanted to be shocked by the brown mustache, and frustrated at the glitter Bing and the Twins would end up trying to clean up, but he couldn’t find it in himself to so much as glare at the Iplier. He just wanted to get to Brighton.

“James, c’mon.”

The younger Septic stood, and the two of them shouldered their bags. Poor Jameson didn’t even have it in him to speak, and his aura kept pulsing around him to leave him looking like an old film. Chase placed a hand on the back of the younger’s neck, and the look Jameson gave him about broke his heart.

Wilford’s aura made Chase’s stomach churn as the two stepped close to the Iplier. He already felt sick, like he’d throw up from all the crying. He didn’t need the too-sweet smell of the bright aura assaulting him to make it worse. He squeezed his eyes shut when he felt the nauseating weightlessness of teleporting, reaching to hold Jameson’s arm to ground both of them when their feet hit solid ground.

They were in Seán’s dining room when Chase opened his eyes again. Both dropped their bags and ran for the living room, practically tripping over one another. Their creator was on his phone outside what used to be his recording room, Bim pushing past them to speak with Wilford. The King was nowhere to be seen, but Jackie lunged to his feet as soon as he saw them. The hero was shaking when they pulled him into an embrace.

“Seán’s talkin’ to someone from the hospital,” Jackie murmured. His voice was so muffled against them that Chase barely heard him. The hero had one hand closed into such a tight fist that his knuckles were white, and Chase grabbed that hand; squeezed it like Jackie had done for him so many times before. “We ha-aven’t heard anythin’ s-since they took ‘im away. What if he…what if he didn’t—”

Chase tucked the hero’s head under his chin. “Just…just keep hoping. C’mon.”

With Jackie there, it was odd to know Chase was the one taking the lead into bringing the other two to the couch. From there, there really wasn’t much they could do but sit and wait. Chase felt helpless. More helpless than he had for a long time.

Marvin was in surgery. What if he didn’t make it? If he did, what sort of recovery process would there be? It couldn’t be easy, whatever it was. Not when the damage was as extensive as it had to be to make them fear for his life.

Keep hoping. That was…all they could do. Chase swallowed and leaned his head against Jackie’s; twitched his fingers when Jameson’s aura touched them and turned them gray. The father could Feel the fear, the sorrow, the anxiety, permeating the room; even from Bim when the former host returned to take a seat when Wilford left. The Iplier seemed so calm, but Chase could Feel his worry for the magician. He even Felt guilt around him. Was it from Jackie, or their creator? Perhaps both.

Keep hoping. Think about the process of recovery for Marvin; not his funeral. Be right here for Jackie, Chase thought. Be right here, to hold him for whatever news came.

Chase glanced up at a change. Relief, mixed in with all those other emotions, as Seán tucked his phone away and entered the living room. He sat heavily next to Bim; hair disheveled and bags under his eyes, but the relief was from him. Chase could see it in his creator’s eyes.

“Marv’s stable. In bad shape, but h-he’s gonna make it! We can see ‘im in a few hours, when the hospital’s open for visitin’ hours.” Seán smiled, tired and strained, but smiled nonetheless. “He’ll be there a while, but he’s alive.”

[ghoulangerlee]

this is a pretty heavy post like, feel free to ignore it bc im just. in a really bad place right now and i need to vent and say things other than ‘im so tired’ because it doesn’t accurately encompass how i actually feel

So, like. 2012? Sometime after my mom died I got into a really bad place mentally, with everything piling up; my shit life, my shit aunt, my shit roommate, just shit after shit, my money kept going to bills, i didnt eat for weeks at a time. 

I was in a really bad place. Like, horrifically bad. Only made worse by my aunt taking me to the hospital and telling the doctors there I was suicidal. To be fair, I was, but being locked in, what’s essentially a cell with a wooden bed? Not Fun. 

I tried getting better, I went to a therapist and a psychiatrist, got on medicine. talk about my problems, tried moving on. 

it didnt work. i felt a sense of uselessness around that time. i was 20 and my mom died less than a year ago. 

i’d been nursing my bad health since i was a kid, and when mom’s diagnosis came when i was 17...it was a lot to handle. and as time went on, my aunt got more distant until it was me, a barely old enough fresh high school graduate, trying to juggle college, full time work and taking care of my sick (and dying) mom. 

two years is a lot of time to have that much pressure put on you. and it does a lot to a person’s psyche when you go from being On at all times, to suddenly, you’re sitting in a hospice, telling your mom it’s okay to rest now. you’ll be fine. 

you start feeling useless, i guess. you just. don’t know what to do anymore. your mom’s gone, you’re out of work for a week to “mourn” but really. you spend the week staring at the wall wondering what you could have done better. 

(the spoiler is, nothing. nothing. death is fucked up. mom knew. the whole time she was going through the stages, making herself okay with the idea of dying. im glad she’s resting now. the last few years of her life were hard. too hard for one woman to handle.)

some could say that my anger and depression and sadness and just emptiness came from grief, maybe. maybe im still not over it. (spoiler: im not). 

i remember, my aunt calling me the day my roommate was in the hospital, i was with her, sitting with her. and i’d called my manager to let him know that i was on my way to work, i shouldn’t be late but if traffic gets bad, then i might be late. 

my aunt calls, yells at me, calls me a lot of names to the point im sobbing in my roommates hospital room. not an uncommon occurrence at that point. my aunt making me cry. i was 20 and my aunt had been doing that for about 10 years at that point. 

my roommate takes the phone, says something i can’t remember to her and hangs up. and then she calls a nurse who takes me aside, sits me down in a room and asks me if i need to leave. if my aunt’s abusing me or hurting me. 

it was a long day at the hospital. and then, later on that night, as im about to take myself to the local hospital to find out what i need in order to see a therapist, my aunt hijacks my plans and drags me there herself. takes me to the ER, tells them she’s worried about her niece’s who’s suicidal. 

and anyway. to make a long story short. i spend a lot of time in this tiny box of a room, with no shoes or pants or shirt. in my underwear and a gown, sitting on a wooden frame bed with no blanket. 

when i finally get my aunt out of the room, and i talk to the psych lady who came down from the ward, she asks me if i need to leave my aunt, asks if my aunt’s hurt me or hit me. 

at the time, i didnt realize that abuse in the context she was asking also meant verbal, mental and emotional. i didnt realize that’s what my aunt was doing until way later. 

the more i talked to a therapist later on, the more i realized that things were messed up. that my aunt’s treatment of me wasn’t right. that my aunt, as a whole, is abusive. 

i was 20 when i tried to commit suicide. 

i dont talk about it ever, because it was a point in my life i’ve been trying hard to forget. 

i was just. so wrung out. my roommate left me with a 300 dollar power bill despite “promising” to pay her share. my landlord kept bothering me about rent even though i’d always remind her when i’d get paid, my aunt wouldn’t stop. and i just felt alone. 

so fucking alone. i was empty and hollow and my house and life were a fucking mess. 

at that point, i’d been trying to think of a way that seemed natural i guess. just. something that no one would realize i’d done it on purpose. 

i didn’t have any money for food, so starving myself seemed like the best option. and so, i didnt eat. for days and then weeks and then months. 

my dumb brain just, thought that, well, ive already got bad stomach problems. my stomach already bleeds. if i don’t eat then the acid just gets worse, it’ll make me bleed. 

didn’t count on passing out during work and being rushed to the ER. 

i lied then and said it was because i didn’t have the money to eat. and so afterwards, my manager and coworkers made sure i ate something. 

but i mean, it wasn’t a glamorous experience. until today, i hadn’t told anyone that me not eating for those months was actually me trying to sabotage my own life. 

but yeah. 

what all this is leading up to is. i feel myself slipping back into that mindset. only this time, i can’t get out of it. i don’t have a therapist, or medication to help. my aunt is on my ass constantly and won’t let me get a job without threatening me homelessness. 

and its tearing me up on the inside. ive been in so much physical pain these past few days. everyday its hard to get out of bed and find the will to do anything.

we had an argument the other day, because i finally couldn’t handle her yelling. i told her how i felt about her and she told me to leave the room. so i went outside. and. fuck. i kept mapping out the quickest way to get to the busy street where all the cars were. if i could just get out there without her seeing then i could just...

when i keep saying im tired, i mean it as, this bone deep i can’t take it anymore tired. the i need to get out of here before something happens to me tired. the i am at the end of my line and if something doesn’t change soon im going to die tired. 

im trying so hard to stay okay. to keep all this in and not bombard people with it. hatching plans and trying to figure out how to get the money to leave. where to go when i do leave. 

but god its so hard. im just so tired.

and i dont know what to do. 

my aunt “paid” me for the last transport and i got 75 dollars. two days of nonstop driving and caring for 16 dogs. 75 dollars. that’s for groceries and my phone bill. and absolutely nothing for savings. 

fuck.

[cookinguptales]

yo it’s the middle of the night and I’m all wrung out, which means it’s a perfect time for a tumblr post about disability!

I’m here today to talk about euphemistic language. I’m sure any person with a disability knows the way able-bodied people like to talk around our disabilities. Really acknowledging a disability (i.e A LACK OF ABILITY) makes a lot of AB people really uncomfortable. I think a lot of that is the side effect of some well-meaning ideas… Children are often taught that everyone is the same down deep, and to think anything different is discriminatory. And sure, don’t be a dick about peoples’ differences. But refusing to even acknowledge them really only hurts the people who aren’t at the top of the power/visibility hierarchy. People are trained to interpret “we’re all the same” as “we are all like (or all should be like) those in power”. By downplaying differences, the actual effect is steamrolling cultural differences and disavowing individualized needs.

Let me break this down. Here are some stock phrases pertaining to disability that I’m sure a lot of you have heard. “Disabled people are just like you.” “They’re not disabled, they’re differently abled.” “Disabled people can do anything you can do. They can do anything they put their minds to.” Etc. Etc. You get the picture. You’ve seen the Very Special Episodes.

Now, that’s all patently false. Disabled people are not just like able-bodied people. They are disabled. They have different abilities and different needs. They do not automatically have “different” abilities. When a person loses the ability to walk, they don’t automatically gain the ability to teleport or something. It’s not a trade-in scenario. They cannot all do anything you can do. Sometimes, with effort, pain, and accommodations, they can achieve the same end result that you do. Sometimes they can even do better. But they can’t do them the way you can and often can’t do them at all. A person with a mobility disability can’t walk like you do. A person with a vision disability can’t see like you do. A person with a hearing disability can’t hear like you do. Etc. They can sometimes make up for that — but they cannot, by definition, do the things able-bodied people can do. Which is not some unspeakable evil; just one of life’s facts.

So what’s the big deal, you may be thinking. What’s wrong with euphemistic language? You’re just being nice. No. You really aren’t. You are disavowing their disability. That’s not something that PWD have the luxury to do. You can walk into a shop and think “wow, PWD can do anything I can do!” while someone with a mobility disability is still stuck at the entrance below a flight of stairs. You can think “PWD can do anything they put their minds to!” as you get a basic entry-level job that has requirements that PWD cannot, or are not allowed to, fulfill. (See: Cashier work, customer service, etc.) When you say that PWD can do anything an AB person can do, you are ignoring their disabilities, their struggles, and the accommodations they need to succeed.

Okay, you say. Social model of disability. We’ll just make the world accessible, all barriers will be removed, PWD will be just like me! No. We will never be like you. We have been running a mile to reach the starting line you’re waiting (im)patiently at. We have been going on experimental medications, doing physical/mental/speech/etc. therapies, training our bodies to use assistive devices. We’ve been running ourselves into the ground. And sometimes we’ll still never reach that starting line. Sometimes we’ll be too sick or too tired and there’s nothing accommodations can do to change that. When your own body is trying to kill you, there’s only so much a wheelchair can do. And if we never reach that starting line, we never reach the finish line that’s been set out for us as “normal”.

Because when we’re told things from birth, things like “you can do anything the other kids can do!” or “the only thing stopping you is your attitude!”, we internalize that. The secondary message to all those euphemisms is “you can be like anyone else — so why the hell aren’t you?” It isn’t a message of hope to PWD. It’s an impossible standard. “Why can’t I just get through college?” we think, ignoring the way that we stagger from hospital visit to hospital visit. “Everyone else does. I can be like everyone else. I can do anything they can do! So it must be that I’m not trying hard enough. I’m not working hard enough. I don’t hurt enough. I need to do more.”

PWD aren’t like AB people because they have to work two, three, a hundred times harder to reach the same point that AB people do. They have more financial challenges. More mental health challenges. They have to deal with pain, exhaustion, lack of accommodations, ableism, political institutions that want them dead. When you say “PWD can do anything!” you’re ignoring all the reasons they can’t. You’re telling them they have no reason not to achieve the same things as everyone else. You feed into the cultural idea that disability is just an excuse, just a hurdle that needs to be cleared in order for them to take place in “normal” society. It makes “overcoming” their disability a moral imperative. Because “we’re all the same” means they’re just like you. Or they should be. Because being AB is the cultural norm we default to.

Here’s what PWD actually need to hear:

“You’re not just like me. You face challenges I’ll never be able to comprehend. Holding you to the same standard as me as cruel. You may not be able to do everything (hell, who can?) but what you can do is good enough. You don’t need to earn your place in this world. Just living in it is enough. You’re not a drain if you need extra resources. You’re not a drain if you can’t create, produce, labor at the same rate as AB people. There are things you can’t do, and that’s okay. You don’t have to pretend to be AB. You don’t have to work yourself to the bone so you can be like the rest of us. You don’t have to kill yourself when you’re not. And I will fight with you so all of the roadblocks you have to face are as small as we can get them, so even if you can’t do everything, you can do more. I will fight for you when you’re too sick to do it yourself, because you are worth fighting for even when you cannot achieve.”

Because newsflash, assholes. None of us can do anything. None of us can do everything. No one’s gonna look at an AB person and say “Usain Bolt can run 45 km/h. You can do anything. You should aspire to run 45 km/h.” Because that’s stupid! Just because some people can do something, that doesn’t mean everyone can, and no amount of euphemistic language can change that! The only difference in this scenario is where we draw the lines between amazing, normal, and unacceptable. For some PWD, getting out of bed is amazing. It’s Usain Bolt levels of achievement. Don’t downgrade that to normal just because it’s normal for the majority in power. We’re not all the same. Encouraging people with disabilities to hit the same benchmarks as AB people (or exceptional PWD) is sometimes like encouraging (and expecting) some random dude to line up with Usain Bolt. And then you get surprised when we destroy ourselves trying to do it.

Here’s the bottom line. This idea that PWD are just like you? It hurts us. It makes us feel like we’re failing if we aren’t. It makes us feel like we aren’t enough if we aren’t. When we can’t do what you can, no matter how hard we try. No matter how much we hurt ourselves. When you say “all humans are the same, really”, you’re actually setting normality where you are. And for some of us, that’s a bar we’ll never reach. Some of us, frankly speaking, probably shouldn’t try. (Yes, it is okay not to even try to attain AB levels of achievement. Don’t hurt yourself for a fool’s errand. You can try if you want to (and I’m rooting for you to succeed) but don’t feel that you’re lacking if you don’t.) Ableism is saying that disabled people are only worthwhile if they can eventually do the same things able-bodied people can. Truly being an advocate for the disabled means being an advocate for them even when they’re fucking disabled. Don’t talk around our disabilities; that just means you’re not helping us live with them. Don’t treat a lack of ability like something too shameful to talk about, because all that does is -- you guessed it -- inspire shame.

For many people who are disabled, the best thing they can learn isn’t “you can do anything”. It’s “learn your individualized limits and respect them; it’s okay to have them”. Listen to your body, not to society’s ideas of what you should or should not be able to do. Push yourself, but not to the point of breaking. When someone gets nervous and tries not to talk about your disability, talk about it as loudly as you want. Demand accommodations. Talk freely about your life as it is, not as the inspiration porn people expect. Make them see you as you are. Because we’re not all the same. And that’s okay.

It hurts to admit that you can’t do something everyone says you can do. But there’s a special strength in self-knowledge. Love yourself enough to forgive yourself for the abilities you do not have. You do not need them to be whole.