#is seen as breaking some sort of unspoken agreement to be quiet about [x problem] so that nobody has to ''deal with it''

[hoofpeet]

It feels like a lot of the ppl who are asking you to trigger tag the derealization stuff r probably the same people to ask for trigger tags on self harm scars. Like yeah mayb some ppl might be triggered by them but it's also a very real part of someone's body (+life) that they r always living with. And it's weird to ask someone to trigger tag that??? Like what a fucked up thing to say to someone? No you can't have your arms uncovered in your own space because it makes me upset to see that part of you/no you can't make a mild vent post on your own blog because it makes me upset to see that part of your life?? The unfollow/block button is right there goddam. Just walk out you can leave and all that. Anyway ur post really resonated with me and I'm so sorry for all the hate you got over it

YEAH people treating any kind of scarring as some sort of taboo subject is also really annoying to me.. Putting effort into any art starts to not feel worth it when people expect to like. Take everything they want from you while ignoring whatever they don't want to 'deal with'.... very very disheartening to be expected to be quiet about normal parts of my life while. also pouring all my time into making art for other's enjoyment . Like an internet jester

-neway ! Glad my post helped a little at least- it was nice to see others relate to it, so whatever weird discourse it sparked is worth dealing with if it comforted anyone 👍

[writer-ish]

in the lambent light

pairing: mason x detective (grace bennett) word count: 2.4K words | rating: T (language)

summary: On the rooftop of the Warehouse, Grace and Mason have an honest conversation about sexuality, small towns, and love (sort of), with the revelry and light of Unit Bravo’s first Wayhaven Pride in the background.

For Week 1, Day 1 of @wayhavensummer: First Pride + #wsfchallenge “belonging”.

*

She finds him on the roof of the warehouse, of course, kicking his feet idly as they dangle over the edge, a thin wisp of smoke coming up steadily from his cigarette.

When he sees her, he puts it out and links his fingers together, eyes following her as she comes to sit beside him.

They're high up – too high; if she looks down she feels a bit dizzy – and he grunts, his eyes narrowing as she dangles her legs, too. She looks at her colourful socks - one purple, one pink - as she tries not to think about how steep the drop would be if she lost her balance or even just shuffled forward a bit.

She wonders if maybe he'll put his hand out to hold her steady, or force her to sit back.

(He does neither.)

"You don't have to do that, you know." She gestures belatedly to the ash of his crumpled cigarette still smoking lightly on the concrete. "I know I gave you a hard time before, but really, I don't want you to stop on account of me."

He shrugs. "It's fine. I don't even know why I still do it when I don’t even really need it anymore. Habit, I guess."

She opens her mouth to insist, say how she doesn't want him, doesn't need him to change for her – but her mouth clicks shut instead. It's easier to let it slide. To not delve too deeply into why he doesn't need it anymore.

They sit in silence for a bit, the evening breeze settling on them.

The sounds of revelry in the town square continue. Grace can hear the celebrations, the music, can feel the general aura of happiness radiating from below.

When she’d left to seek out Mason, Tina had been painting a rainbow on Adam’s sharp cheekbone as he sat very still, giving the situation a gravitas that it perhaps didn’t deserve, but was still heartwarming to see nonetheless.

Eric and Verda had been watching indulgently as their girls got spoiled with treats provided by Nate, who had been doing his very best to succeed at the task of “enjoying his first Pride”.

(When he’d asked if he was “doing it right”, Grace couldn’t help but give him an impromptu hug.

“You’re doing perfectly,” she’d said warmly and he had smiled down at her, eyes sparkling.)

Felix, for his part, had been bouncing around, examining the stalls set up to highlight the queer-owned business in Wayhaven, coming back to hand Nate a new trinket or snack or pin he’d purchased, and then bounding off again, the excitement practically vibrating off of him.

She smiles wistfully at the memory of how the town embraced Unit Bravo as their own, as she regards it all from a distance now, a bloom of warmth in her chest – a collection of the happiness and pride that she feels towards her little town for coming together in this way year after year. To celebrate its people; the people who make Wayhaven what it is.

To celebrate love.

She turns to Mason, spontaneously dropping a hand to his knee. He looks down swiftly and then back up at her, silver-grey eyes meeting her own.

"Was it all too much for you?" She nods in the direction of light, laughter, colour, and music. "Down there?"

He shrugs. "I respect the idea behind the celebration and I'm glad the others are happy and having fun. But yeah. It's not really my thing."

She nods slowly, going quiet again. He idly begins to play with her fingers, splayed out on his thigh. Tracing them with his own, up and down.

"You know it's not—"

"You know that we—"

They both go to speak at the same time, their voices stuttering to a stop as they realize.

"You go," Mason says eventually, the side of his lips quirked up in a small smirk. "You do most of the talking for us anyway."

"Hey!" Grace squeaks out indignantly. "I do not. Most people say I don't talk enough."

Mason snorts. "People who don't know you, maybe."

Her cheeks grow warm with pleasure at the unspoken confirmation. It feels like what he really said was: "People who don't know you the way I do."

And he's right.

"I was just going to say, Wayhaven has been doing this for years now. Decades even. We used to come when I was a kid.” She laughs in reminiscence. “There’s this picture of me – maybe eighteen months old or something – on Rook’s shoulders, watching the parade as my mom smiles up at us both.”

She feels her own smile go soft, like the edges of that faded cherished photograph. She shakes her head to clear the cobwebs of nostalgia before turning to him again. He’s regarding her in a way that can only be construed as fondness and her heart twists, ever so slightly.

“I’m glad you guys got to be here for your first Pride,” she continues, steering the conversation back to the present. To safer territory. “You hear all these things about the intolerance of small towns, and lord knows it’s true in some cases, but I dunno." She shrugs, a small smile gracing her lips once more. "It feels nice to be part of one of the good ones."

He's quiet and she turns to look at him after a moment of prolonged silence. He's still staring at her, this time a more inscrutable expression on his face. She can't tell what's going through his mind, whether it's concern or agreement or even anger. His fingers have stilled overtop hers and his large palm rests on her hand, warm and steady.

It takes another beat before he clears his throat and breaks eye contact, moving his hand off of hers. The cool air rushes to the spot where his hand used to be and she finds herself missing its warmth and comfort.

"It's true," he says finally. "It is one of the good ones." He looks at her carefully. "And you’re right. They aren't all like that."

There’s a wealth of meaning in his simple statement and it’s her turn to stare at him now, processing his words and trying to formulate an appropriate response.

"Have you…" She hesitates, trying to parse her words carefully. "Have you experienced… bad ones?"

He lets out a sigh. The very human sound, probably borne from a habit he could never quite kick, sends a tender pang straight to her heart.

"Listen, sweetheart." He leans back and looks up at the quickly dimming sky, the summer heat dwindling to a more tolerable mildness, the breeze picking up slightly and bringing with it the sweet scent of the magnolias below them. "It's no secret that I am not what people would call…"

He smirks and shoots her a side-long glance, his mischievous look belied by the glint of a single fang. "Discerning."

She stays quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve never seen value in—” He pauses, appearing to search for the right word. “—In curbing my desires to fit into a certain mold. I like what I like, I like who I like, and no real external factors – like gender or appearance or the shape of your tits or your bits – have ever really come into play.” He shrugs and pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, fiddling with it without lighting it. “Some people have a problem with that and some places like to make it known more than others.”

Something about his final sentence causes her pulse to quicken, her thoughts jangling in her head. She tries to gather them up before she speaks.

“Do you think…” She hesitates. “Do you somehow think that I… have a problem with that? That I don’t understand?”

“Do you understand?” He looks straight at her then, his eyes sharp and intense. Not intimidating or cruel, but as though he’s looking for something – perhaps the honest answer to a question he’s not sure he’s even asked properly.

“I mean—” She feels indignant slightly, even though she tries to tamp it down. “If you think I somehow have an opinion on who people love and the circumstances around that, then I feel like maybe you don’t know me that well.”

“Whoa, whoa.” He holds his hands up, unlit cigarette still between two fingers, lip curling slightly. “Who said anything about love? I’m talking about who I decide to fuck.”

That one stings. She purses her lips and looks away, trying not to let him see just how much, inhaling deeply as she tries to get her feelings under control.

“Yes, yes,” she says finally, looking away with a wave of her hand. “Fuck, love, whatever.” She turns to him again, eyes narrowed. “I might not understand in the way that you do, through lived experience, but I care enough to try. And I certainly don’t judge.”

“I never said you judged, Gracie.” His voice is soft and the way he says her nickname – so rare from his lips – makes her breath catch in her throat. He flicks the cigarette between his fingers now, back and forth. “I just want everything to be out there between you and me. So that there’s never any—” He hesitates. “—Surprises.”

“Oh, you mean like finding out you’re a centuries-old vampire?” she quips, raising an eyebrow at him, arms crossed.

He barks out a laugh. “Watch who you’re calling centuries old, sweetheart.”

She chuckles along with him, before getting serious once more.

“The least surprising thing about you, Mason, is the fact that you have no qualms about who you choose to be with. I’ve never met a more accepting and open person.” He looks like he’s about to argue with her, so she holds up a hand to stop him. “And just because we aren’t—exactly the same, in that regard—” She looks down, feeling her cheeks warm slightly. “—Doesn’t mean I don’t get it. Or respect it.” She shrugs, laughing self-deprecatingly. “I find it hard to believe you’re interested in my boring ass, to be honest.”

“Your ass is the least boring thing about you, Detective.” For that comment, he’s rewarded with a light whack on the leg. He laughs and wraps his arm around her. “C’mere.”

Putting the cigarette behind his ear, he tugs her closer. He holds her tightly against him, thighs touching and feet brushing against each other.

“I’m going to say something cheesy as fuck and you’re going to listen. And then you’re never going to repeat it again. Got it?”

She nods quickly, eyes widening in anticipation.

“I see people—not for what they look like or any of that shit, but for what’s in here.” He taps gently, right above her left breast. “Yeah, I don’t get mixed up in all that love stuff, and attraction does play a big role in who I seek out and why, but it’s not an attraction to physical things. I just get this—sense of who a person is, I guess. And if I like what I sense, I follow through. If I don’t, I move on.” He gives her a squeeze. “You understand?”

She bites her lip, breath growing shallow as the impact of his words infiltrates her blood stream and causes her heart to flutter painfully.

He smiles slowly, a cheshire grin, and she curses his ability to hear the increase in her pulse.

“And guess what, sweetheart?” His voice has dropped an octave now, mouth close to her ear.

“What?” It comes out as a hoarse whisper.

“I like what you’ve got in here.” Another tap, same spot. “And I’m not ready to move on.”

As far as grand romantic statements go, Grace knows this one won’t make anyone’s top ten list. But for Mason, it’s a lot. And for her, for right now—it’s everything.

She leans forward and kisses him softly, sweetly, on the lips. His hand comes up to cup her cheek, but neither makes a move to deepen the kiss in any way, keeping it gentle and close-mouthed; an affirmation rather than the initiation of anything more. Pulling away, she looks at him, feeling the softness she sees in his face reflected in her own.

Giving him one more brief kiss, she scooches back and stands up carefully, dusting off the bottom of her blue shorts.

She catches him watching the action intently and he catches her catching him. They share a smirk that turns into a laugh and it feels comfortable and fun. It feels like an inside joke.

Like belonging.

“Let’s go, hot shot.” She holds out her hand to him and he takes it, swinging his legs around and standing up, his full height enough that she needs to tilt her head to look up at him.

“Think you can manage to rejoin the party?” she asks, her hand still in his as she tugs him to the door that will lead them back through the warehouse. “We’ll stick to the quieter corners. I’ll hold your hand the whole time,” she adds, smiling up at him, her tone cajoling, teasing.

There’s something about summer in Wayhaven, something about Pride in Wayhaven – the air feels lighter, sweeter. Grace feels lighter. Bolstered by love and friendship, warmth and comfort. All the good things about her little town seem to be highlighted during this time.

All the good things about her little life, she thinks, glancing at their joined hands.

Mason snorts and looks down at her, amused, before giving her hand a squeeze.

She squeezes back, feeling happier than she can remember ever feeling before.

“I’ll even buy you a snow cone without the syrup,” she offers as they leave, bumping his shoulder with hers.

He grunts and then stops short. “Isn’t that just ice?”

She bites back a smile, feeling laughter in her throat, and nods.

There’s a pause. He blinks once. Twice. Then—he bursts into loud laughter. The sound is so free, so surprising yet pleasant, that she can’t help the grin that spreads across her face. And when he pulls her even closer and presses a kiss to the top of her head—well. She’s not sure that smile will ever go away now.

“Lead the way, sweetheart,” he murmurs, keeping her close to him.

And she does.

[inkstainedfanfics]

Sunday Brunch

Request: For sequel to The Alleyway Rescue. They’re related.  In this, Credence visits Reader for their weekly Sunday brunch and after the food, finds a way to fully relax via a story.

Word Count: 1,747

Pairing: Credence x Reader

Requested by Anonymous but also tagging @gdmora

Requests are currently open! Feel free to send one in

The pan clatters onto the oven’s metal rack. Closing the heavy door, you crank the timer and set it aside. Turning away, you flick your wand, sending a pair of dinner dishes dancing onto your small dining table. The bowl of eggs lands in the center of it, right next to a plate of sausage and two cartons of jam.

Keeping one ear toward the door, you pull open the fridge as the timer ticks away. The turnovers’ warm strawberry smell wafts through your apartment, sending you stomach into a growling mess. Better a growling mess than the light, nervous mess it had been before.

The timer dings just as you hear what you’ve been waiting for: four light taps on the door. “Just a minute.” You shout, sliding on an oven mitt and pulling the pan of pastries from their spot on the rack. It crashes on top of the stove where you throw it, shaking the oven mitt from your hand and rushing toward the door.

Feeling silly, you pat your hair down before you click the locks open and pull the door open. “Credence!”

His smile is small, as always, but genuine. “I’m sorry.” He stops, as though he needs to recharge to finish his sentence. “For being late.”

You smile back at him. “It’s okay. You have perfect timing, actually! The turnovers just finished!”

Credence steps in and you shut the door behind him.

“Strawberry?” He questions, glancing around your apartment.

“Of course.” They’re his favorites, as you’d found out five weeks ago at your second weekly Sunday brunch. “You can sit. I’m just going to throw the turnovers on a plate.”

You could use magic, but it always makes Credence uncomfortable, so you hiss in pain as you flip each pastry from the pan to the plate you set out next to you.

Thankfully, Credence doesn���t notice, too busy adjusting the silverware by his plate to hear you. You’re grateful. If it had been just a few weeks earlier, his focus wouldn’t have drifted from you. Weeks ago, he’d barely allowed himself to look away from you, watching your every move, flinching if you moved too quickly. Now he’s willing to be more honest and relaxed around you, step away from his ghost persona and be present.

The thought makes your chest swell with joy. The first time Credence had shown up unannounced, you’d whipped together a quick lunch. The day had been awkward, though. Neither of you had known what to say, so the only sounds in the small dining room had been clinks of forks on the plates and gulps of water.

You weren’t even sure Credence would ever return. All for the best, you’d figured, not wanting to terrorize the shy boy with forced company. The next Sunday, though, he’d knocked on the door again. Since then, late Sunday brunches had become an unspoken agreement between the two of you.

Setting the plate on the table, you sit in the chair across from Credence’s. “Here, fresh from the oven!”

He leans over, taking two. You serve yourself a plate and watch Credence gobble down first one full plate of food, then another. Your stomach turns whenever his sleeves slide up to reveal dark blotches of black and yellow, but you say nothing, another unspoken agreement. Your apartment is safe for him, and if that means not discussing what happens at his dilapidated mansion, that means not discussing it until he’s ready. You quite enjoy his presence, the soft glow he has when you smile at him, the hesitant laugh that always seems to surprise him when it breaks out, the way he seems to lighten up some when he steps into your apartment. You don’t want to scare him away by making him in any way uncomfortable.

“How are your sisters?” The one personal question you know is safe to ask.

“Surviving.”

“Did they like the cookies you took home last week?” You try to speak around a clump of a roll in your mouth.

Credence nods, giving you an odd look. “Loved them.”

“Good. I baked some mini pies for you to take to them this week.”

“Why?”

You tilt your head. “You like to bring them sweets.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.” You confirm, taking another bite of your roll.

The room is silent for a brief second.

Credence interrupts it. “Thank you.”

The words are a shadow of themselves, spoken the way Credence talks when he’s drawing in on himself.

“It’s not a problem.” You scramble to figure out something to say as Credence’s shoulders begin to creep in toward his chest. “I bought a new book!”

He blinks at your shout.

Blushing, you dip your head. “Sorry. I got it yesterday.”

Credence tips his head, not breaking your gaze. “What’s it about?”

“I’m not sure yet.” You confess. “I haven’t begun it. I adored the author’s last book, though.”

Credence wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Are you excited?”

“To read it?”

He nods, pushing his plate away from him.

You stand, taking your dishes to the sink. “Very. It hasn’t received great reviews, but I think it’ll be fantastic.”

Credence is silent as you wash the dishes and return to the table to put the jams in the fridge. You’re about to ask him if he’d like to play cards like last week when he speaks.

“Would you read it to me?”

Your back is to him, cold air washing over your bare feet, hiding the look of shock you’re sure is on your face. He’s never expressed much interest in novels or stories of any sort. He usually comes over, eats, then plays cards or listens to music with you. It’s not that you thought that he doesn’t have any interests, it’s just that he’s always been so quiet, opting to listen to you ramble rather than discuss anything about himself. Still, you don’t want to risk making him think that you don’t like the idea, so you turn, wiping the shock from your place and replacing it with a smile.

“If you’d like.”

Credence stares at his hands folded in his lap. “I would.”

“Okay. It’s in my bag over there if you’d grab it. I’m just going to finish clearing the table.”

Credence nods, crossing the room without a sound and pulling your bag open.

Meanwhile, you take the final empty bowl of eggs and last two glasses and place them in the sink, leaving them unwashed. Your stomach feels light again as you walk to the beaten down couch, the way it did when you were waiting for Credence to visit. He waits with the small book in his hands, turning it over to read the back.

He looks up as you sit next to him, the cushion dipping under your weight and shifting him the slightest bit closer. He gives you the book, hands only slightly trembling, quite different from the first time he had come over.

Ignoring the fact that Credence’s arm is brushing yours, you open the book. It smells musty and timeworn already, despite just being printed, and you find yourself relaxing as its smell sweeps over you. Credence next to you remains curled up, legs pressed together, hands joined on his legs, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t scoot away from you, though, and you try not to beam.

“‘In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.’” You begin, clearing your throat before moving onto the next sentence.

The first chapter takes longer than you expected to get through, but you fall into a rhythm, losing yourself in the story, picturing it as you read, but allowing yourself small glances at Credence whenever you reach the end of a long paragraph.

When you first glance up after four pages, his shoulders have fallen against the back of the couch, no longer pressing against his neck. The second time is another five pages later, and his legs have opened some so they aren’t pushed together. You smile as you start reading again after your third glance. He’s shut his eyes, letting his head drift onto the couch’s back, but you know he’s still awake by the way his hands toy with a tiny thread on his jacket.

It’s the first time you’ve seen every single bit of worry fade from his face. A comfortable serenity crosses his features, smoothing the lines in his forehead and allowing his jaw to come unclenched. He’s so peaceful, you wish you didn’t have to stop reading soon.

The sun balances on the tops of the buildings outside after two chapters, though, so you set the book down on your lap, saying nothing until Credence opens his eyes and sits up.

“It’s lovely.” That’s all he says, but it’s enough.

“It is.”

He fiddles with the thread again before dropping it and meeting your eyes. “Tom. What do you think of him?”

You take a breath, considering your thoughts. “I think he seems a bit selfish.”

Credence nods. “Gatsby?”

The two of you spend an hour discussing the story’s first two chapters, and you can’t help your smile as Credence lights up in front of you, finally opening up completely, not nervous at all, just content.

The buildings nearby hide half of the sun when Credence looks outside, ending your discussion. “I should go.”

You ache at the thought and at the sight of that invisible weight settling back on his shoulders. “You’ll come back next week, right? We can read the next two chapters.”

“You’ll wait for me?”

“Of course.” You reach out to take his hand but stop yourself, unsure of how he’ll react.

He stares at your dropped hand, then raises his eyes to yours, smiling his small smile. “Thank you.”

You walk him to the door, saying goodbye, waiting for him to be out of sight before you close it and return to the book. You place a bookmark in its pages and close it, anxious for the week to pass. Not because you want to know what happens next—even though you desperately do—but because you want to see Credence relax again, letting the weight of his life off his shoulders for even just a few hours.

You picture Credence’s smile again as you walk toward your bag and grin at the cover of what is bound to be your new favorite book.