#mental health meds save lives

[fleetstreetpies]

TW: mental health problems, psychosis, open and graphic discussion of my hallucinations and delusions, mental health meds, mental health med side effects, medical inaction, medical malpractice.

Content under the cut.

Good god it’s happening again. It’s getting REALLY bad again.

I’ve been on a mood stabiliser for about a year now, and I’ve been VERY open with my psychiatrist about a lot of the complications I’ve faced, like needing my dose increased, nausea and headaches from increasing my dosage, persistence of mania, night terrors, delusions, etc. And now the delusions and hallucinations are worse than they were. They’d gotten better for a while but now here I am and good gods, I want it to stop so badly.

I want to not see things and people melting slowly. I want to not perceive that people have been replaced by near identical clones. I want to not perceive that some people are just my mother in elaborate disguise. I’d make it all stop or go away if I could, and when I was a younger man I tried, though when I tried I fully thought that I was God and could control the universe with just my thoughts.

I’ve been trying to talk to my psychiatrist about it. I need to get my mood stabiliser increased, sure, and I know that. But I also desperately need to get on an antipsychotic. And I think she thinks I’m malingering.

Do people actually think that folks with these problems are faking this? Malingering is relatively rare, and by all means, infuriating for all parties. But do the professionals genuinely think that we’re malingering? Because I’d bet (if I had money and were a gambling man) that it’s way harder to fake than you’d think. People who do that whole malingering thing unequivocally baffle me. Antipsychotics are extremely expensive and I cannot believe people would genuinely be willing to buy them and fake it for sympathy. I can’t afford 880 dollars per refill no matter how hard I try because I can barely make rent in a month (at least I get my meds through the school pharmacy where they cost way less).

So what even is the point of some other person faking it? To sell their prescription drugs for a profit on a black market? To gain sympathy? To get some kind of disability benefits?

I just need for my psychiatrist to fucking listen to me for five seconds and to actually fucking help me for once in her goddamn life when all the other doctors or professionals in their white coats and clean blouses and blazers won’t. I need help because they all fucking refuse to help me and my psychiatrist is supposed to help me. They took a vow to “do no harm”, but that vow is useless when their own inaction or bias is the cause of the harm. It’s pointless and futile! Why take a vow when you don’t even listen to the people you swore to help?

Medical inaction is ableism. Medical inaction is malpractice. Medical inaction is to be complicit in the deaths of so many mentally ill people.

Doctors say “do no harm” but they leave the mentally ill to suffer and die because “what if they’re faking it?” That’s a poor excuse to deny people adequate (read: potentially life saving) treatment and healthcare.

Shame on the pharmaceutical industry, shame on doctors, shame on malingerers, and shame on everyone complicit in the ableism, incompetence, inaction, corruption, and denial that kill.

Shame on you.

[angelnumber27]

I dont think some people understand how truly awful and hellish withdrawals from some psych medications are.

[bucksangel]

i’m tired of ppl shitting on psychiatric medicine. i know it’s not for everybody but i am bipolar and meds and therapy are pretty much the only things helping me feel semi-normal. im begging y’all to please stop telling people, especially people on antipsychotics and mood stabilizers, to “just get off your meds”

[menacetosocietyy]

I know I've been really inactive lately and I just wanted to give the few people that interact with my blog the reason.

This all happened within the last week and a half or so? I have no concept of time, especially when shit hits the fan.

TW: cheating, mentions of child abuse but no details, confused emotions on DID alter merging and how it feels almost like them dying to me? (children are ok)

I recently found out that my girlfriend of a little over a year was cheating on me for at LEAST 6 months, if not the entire time, and was also a child abuser. She then was forcefully merged with another personality in my boyfriend's DID system.

I've only ever talked about my boyfriend on my blog but yes, I was in a poly- I consider the children in the system to be my actual children, I never expected it but they sorta claimed me within 3 days and I couldn't say no even if I wanted to. She hurt my kids.

I'm having a hard time processing the emotions of someone I loved secretly being a monster and then essentially dying yet it's not even actual dying... I haven't even been able to start my midterms because of this. I really don't know how to end this but yeah I left some details out to try and respect my partners privacy as much as possible.

This whole time I logically knew I was likely being "played" so I made sure to not get too attached because I knew the other shoe would drop, so to speak. And I played a huge part in helping the merging, I made sure the pieces fell into place.

I HELPED make sure she disappeared

I made sure my girlfriend of a little over a year disappeared

Because she hurt my fucking kids. She put my fucking kids and boyfriend in danger. And I couldn't anymore.

I think a part of me loved her for a while, even when I dreaded spending time with her. I still loved her as a human, but not as a lover. I think the part that fell out of love knew this was all for show and that she was just trying to manipulate me and push me away to cause more drama for her to watch, but I could never leave my kids or future husband, so I stayed.

The day I heard her say that one thing I snapped. I was already ready to "kill" her. I was done.

I'm not very good with "death" and I put it in quotes because again, she just merged with someone else- I love the personality she merged with so much. She's so wonderful. Anyway-

Human deaths are really hard for me to process- I haven't experienced very many, definitely more than a few, but I just

It doesn't seem to compute for me, so I don't know how to do this. I guess this post also became a way for me to get a few things off my chest about it? I haven't really been able to talk about my emotions on it at all, now that I think about it. So I'm gonna be dramatic now in hopes to take some of the weight off of it.

Part of me, the largest part, wants to scream. I want to scream until I can't anymore, and cry, too. Until I am just hevai g and gasping because how did I not notice? I know it's because she manipulated memories so my kids and future husband didn't know or say anything... but still. I wish I fucking noticed. And I know it's not my fault because the bitch was damn good at hiding her tracks, but it doesn't make it any less infuriating, it doesn't make the hurt go away. I still feel ashamed. I wish I was there physically to hold them all, even just once. I want to hold them when shit like this happens so I can comfort them properly and not just through a phone.

Ok I'm done ranting bc this feels pointless but yeah

That's why I've been mostly MIA.

[samkerrworshipper]

massage therapy | mapi leon x reader

mapi gets injured… reader tries to resolve some of the tension in her body

warnings: injury, hurt/comfort, smut, cunnilingus, fingering

“Maps, baby, I swear to dios just let me massage your knee, I have to, hermosa.”

María just glares at you from her position sitting on the couch.

She’s been next to unbearable ever since her meniscus injury, rightfully so, you would be two if you had no choice but to stop playing the sport that you loved for months.

But the whining, the wayward glares, the constant anger and tension is beginning to get to you, beyond it making you annoyed at your lover, you were worried about her more than anything.

Mapí had her fair share of mental health problems in the past, the two of you had gotten through them together, but whenever something like an injury arose it always seemed to signify the start of a rougher patch in her mental health.

So that had been your main focus, making sure that María’s mental health stayed intact, you thought you’d done a fairly good job, mentally she was doing well, but attitude wise she was acting like a little bitch.

Always snappy and critical, always annoyed about her lack of mobility, always refusing your help.

Alexia had attempted multiple times to reign her in on your behalf, the Catalan woman had practically moved in as soon as the news of the injury had come in, insistent on being a support system for her best friend, but it worked to no prevail, Mapí was angry with the world, with her knee, with everything that moved or breathed.

“Estoy bien.” I’m fine

Her words are forced out, gruff and croaky from her spot on the couch.

You’re pretty sure there is a half permanent Mapí shaped dent in the pillows that your girlfriend had been living in the last week or so, ever since her surgery.

“María, when are you going to stop being so stubborn and just accept my help?”

For a person who had some fairly serious surgery just over a week ago, Mapi was a menace, trying to do everything on her own, which was fairly hard when you were hopped up on pain meds and hardly mobile.

“Estoy bien, ni siquiera estoy adolorida.” I’m fine, I’m not even sore.

It’s a complete lie, Mapí’s been moaning and groaning for the last half hour as she tried to find a comfortable position amongst the pillows and blankets.

She’s practically crafted a nest on the couch, a big pile of blankets absorbing her completely.

“María, por favor.” Maria, please

Your use of Spanish seems to draw her attention, it’s not your first, or second language, you don’t speak it very often.

Both you and María understand each other's languages, just find it harder to speak them, so it just works that you normally speak in English and she normally speaks in Spanish, it saves either of you from having to awkwardly translate all of your words every time you want to talk with your girlfriend.

“Pequeña, estoy bien.” little one, I’m fine

Estoy bien seems to be at the forefront of Mapí’s vocabulary recently, it’s always I’m fine, even when she’s lying through gritted teeth and teary eyes.

You stand up from your spot sitting at the kitchen table, tiptoeing towards Mapí slowly, a deep frown set on your face.

Mapí’s watching some Spanish soap opera, something you're unfamiliar with, which makes it seem like it's more background noise for her than anything of interest.

You walk around the couch, until you’re standing in front of her, blocking her view of the tv so she’s forced to look at you.

“You can’t tell me your knee isn’t killing, the physio said it needed to be stimulated daily, let me help you, love.”

Mapí bites down on her lip, there is so much frustration playing across her face, so much anguish.

“Estoy bien.” i’m fine

It’s like being repetitively punched in the face, hearing the same two words fall from her lips, it’s incredibly aggravating, all consuming.

“María, you aren’t fine, hate me all you want, push me away, but give me the respect of not lying blatantly to my face over and over again.”

Mapi’s whole body tenses, her face scrunching up at your brutally honest words.

“Princesa, no es así.” princess, it’s not like that

You don’t give up, not when you know that this might just be your opportunity to get something back, anything at all.

“Maps, just a massage, we’ll go at your pace, your muscles need to be strengthened and that starts with loosening them up, por favor.”

María’s face is stubborn, unmoving.

She’s fairly good about recovery, doesn’t need any reminders to do her exercises or move her knee as often as it needs to, the massaging is the only thing she can’t do by herself, and because its Mapí that you’re talking about, she’d never ask you to help her with it, or accept a offer from you to help her.

You take her recovery seriously though, and you’ll be damned if she misses out on a crucial part of her recovery just because she is too bullheaded to ask for some goddamn help.

“No necesito ayuda.” I don’t need help

You scoff, it’s the biggest lie ever, Mapí can’t walk without crutches, can’t stand for much longer than a minute, she needs help with almost everything.

“Maps, I love you so much, no matter what, but this whole independence thing is just getting annoying. I’ll make you prawn paella for dinner if you let me give you a massage, how’s that for a deal?”

It’s Mapí’s weakness, you know it, it’s one of her mothers oldest recipes that she taught you when she was still alive, whenever Mapí’s having a particularly hard day it’s always your go to, it’s her comfort food.

“Promesa?” promise?

You nod your head, smiling to yourself as you realise that you’ve managed to somehow convince Mapí.

“I promise, I’m going to go and get the massage oil, can you try and take off your sweatpants for me, please, love?”

Mapí nods at you, a little smile teasing at the corners of her lips as she watches you walk off into the direction of the cupboard where the both of you keep all of your recovery related items.

You were quick to find the oil and creams that you required, returning back to Mapí to find her sitting on the couch, her sweatpants pushed to the side leaving her in just her boxer shorts.

Her knee was the only part of her legs that weren’t visible to you, hidden by a brace and plethora of bandages and gauze.

You perched yourself down on the pillows beside her knee, ditching the items in your hands and gently reaching for Mapí’s brace.

She flinched away from the contact, her knee jerking at the feeling.

“Maps, baby, just relax for me, yeah?”

She nodded, her teeth gritted, her eyes watching your every move around her knee, trying to gulp down her worries and discomfort that originated from places beyond her knee.

Once she’d relaxed a little bit more, you reached for her brace again, she still flinched, but it wasn’t as major, and you decided to continue, reaching for the velcro, exaggerating your movements so Mapí had a clear view of everything you were doing.

Once you’d managed to undo the velcro straps you gently un tightened it and then slid it down her leg, leaving gauze and bandages as the only thing covering it.

“Deep breaths Maps, if anything hurts or feels uncomfortable just tell me, sí?”

Mapi nodded at you, she looked like a woman who had just run a marathon, her face all scrunched up and red.

“Sí, gentil, por favor.” Yes, gentle, please

You smiled at her, nodding, like you’d ever be anything else.

“Sí, I’ll be gentle, how about I tell you what I’m going to do before I do it, just so you have some warning, would that make you feel a bit better, love?”

Mapi nods like your words are her saving grace.

“Okay, I’m just going to unwrap the bandages now, just let me know if anything hurts.”

Mapí nods her head, so you continue on, finding the tucked in part of the bandages and beginning to unwrap them, your touch and movements feather soft.

You flex her knee a little bit and notice how her face crunches up a little bit, you hate that she’s in pain, that something that should be so simple and basic for her has become a struggle.

She doesn’t tell you to stop though, so you continue, slowly unravelling the gauze and bandages until you are met with the sight of her bruised and swollen knee.

The stitches had been removed two days ago, so the scar is risen and red, but luckily, not infected.

You notice how Mapí’s eyes suddenly drift from her knee, you know she’s been struggling to come to terms with her injury, that she’s been denying it as much as one could.

“Maps, I’m going to apply some oil, I’m just going to start with your lower leg, nothing near your incision, just tell me if anything is uncomfortable, okay?”

Mapí nods, so you reach for the oil bottle and a towel, gently lifting her knee to slide the towel under her near and then dripping some of the oil onto your hands and then gently pressing them to Mapi’s shin, snaking your hands behind to her calf and working your fingers into her muscles.

The only thing you know is that she’s extremely tight, her calf and achilles practically pushing against you as you lightly apply pressure to the skin.

It takes a generous amount of time working up her calf, working out all the kinks and knots, María is lenient enough though, she looks like she’s in a different place, normally you’d probe her, check if she was okay, but you know that you’re winning right now by having her allow your to do this, so you count your wins and not your losses.

“Maps, baby, I’m working up to your knee and incision now, I know it's going to be uncomfy but the muscles need to be jostled, tell me if anything hurts, okay.”

María’s eyes are glossed over, but she nods absentmindedly.

So, you daintily and carefully begin the trek up to Maria’s knee, your fingers dancing around her non incision side, gently giving the tissue and muscle a rub before moving your fingers to the other side.

You start by just hovering your fingers over her scar, something that seems to capture her attention, and has her throat bobbing as she looks down at you with wide eyes.

“Maps, honey, talk to me.”

It’s clear there are words waiting on the tip of her tongue, and if you can get her to voice them that you will.

“Por favor.” please

It breaks your heart how vulnerable Mapí sounds, it truly does.

“Please, what, love? I’m going to need more than that.”

Mapí pushes her tongue out against her front lip, a fairly clear tell that something is turning the cogs in her head.

“Por favor, no me hagas daño.” Please, don’t hurt me

Your heart clenches at her words, your fingers removing themselves from the scar and gently resting down on her thigh, your palm flat and open against Mapí’s skin.

“María, I’m not going to hurt you, and definitely not on purpose, I’m trying to help you. I know it might not seem that way, but if you relax for me it’s definitely going to feel better.”

Mapí scoffs, sarcasm seemingly ready on the top of her tongue.

“Maps, you need to relax honey.”

Mapí’s face scrunches up, her nose and eyebrows furrowing together.

“No puedo.” I can’t

You don’t doubt Mapí, which makes it so much harder for you to reply to her, because she genuinely looks like she’s struggling, and somehow frustrated.

“Maps, honey, why so tense?”

There’s an inkling of an idea beginning to form in your head, but you don’t want to read this wrong, and a part of you wants to hear what Mapí has to say.

“Tus manos están en mi muslo.” Your hands on my thigh

You snort a little bit, but then reign yourself in when you see the unfamiliar hopelessness on María’s face.

“Yes it is, what’s your point?”

You're toying with her a little bit, for your own fun and genuine curiosity.

“No puedes poner tu mano ahí.” You can’t put your hand there.

If Mapi wasn’t whining at you, you would remove your hand, but there’s neediness hiding behind her tone, that leaves your hand exactly where it is.

“Why not?”

You cock your head at her, pushing down into her thigh a bit and choking on air when an almost breathy moan leaves her mouth.

“No cuando no puedes terminar lo que estás empezando.” Not when you can’t finish what you are starting.

You smirked up at her from your spot hovering between her sore knee resting on the couch and her good leg which is resting off the couch.

“Why can’t I finish it?”

This is uncharted waters with injured María, ever since her knee injury all bedroom activities had been abruptly stopped, you were terrified of hurting your lover and Mapí was always tired or grumpy so it hadn’t really been an issues.

It was clear though, that the both of you were apparently desperate, and as fearful you were of hurting Mapi, you also knew she had given a lot of herself to be this vulnerable with you, so she probably deserved some kind of reward.

“Princesa.”

Mapi’s whining again and all you can do is smile up at her.

“Usted no quieres?” You do not want?

Mapi shook her head, her deep brown eyes sparkling down at you.

“Por favor.” please

You knew that was permission enough, but you were enjoying seeing her slightly vulnerable.

“Please, what?”

María’s almost glaring, a little twinkle in the corner of her eye.

“Por favor, ayúdame.” Please, help me

You would have probed further, if her eyes hadn't fallen down to the centre of her boxers, her hand resting on her hip gently tugging at the waistband of her boyshorts.

“You want this?”

Mapí nodded frantically, making you giddy on the inside.

“Pull your boxers down for me baby, I think it’s time I massage more than your leg.”

Mapi moaned again, her hands falling directly to the waistband and tugging it off with as much force a crippled individual could.

“So eager baby girl, how long have you been needing me?”

Mapí doesn’t reply to you, just continues to tug her black boxer shorts down her ass and carefully over her knee and ankle before tossing them somewhere.

When you look up, you're rewarded with the view of María’s dripping sex, her clit poking out of it’s good and her hole clenching around nothing, her hips canting up to you desperately.

“Look at that, you're all wet for me and I haven’t even touched you where it matters.”

The noises that leave Mapí’s mouth are completely sinful, her head leaning back against the couch, little pleas leaving her mouth.

You trail your fingers up from her thigh, gently grazing against the inside of her thigh until they finally make it to her lips.

You do the same with her lips, trailing wet and sloppy kisses up the inside of her knee and thigh, until your lips come into contact with her dripping and throbbing clit.

You don’t waste any time, trailing a single finger down to Mapí’s hole and swiping up some of the wetness before gently beginning to push it into her eager hole.

Mapí’s pussy practically sucked your finger in, you fell into a fairly easy pace, your mouth suckling gently on her clit whilst your singular finger worked in and out of Maria.

When there was absolutely zero resistance or stretch you began to ease a second finger in, slowly increasing your pace and your pressure on her nub.

Normally, in situations like these, when you and Mapí hadn’t been with each other intimately for so long you’d take your time, show her just how much you loved and appreciated her, but this wasn’t the moment for that.

Mapí needed love, she needed to be worshipped, but in this moment you were acting as nothing more than a relaxant for her, a tension reliever, which you were completely fine with, if it made her feel better than you would do anything for her.

You found her sweet spot, the little pad inside of her and began to target it directly, simultaneously sucking on her clit and caressing her g-spot.

It was a combination that never failed to work during a quickie, sending her directly over the edge in a matter of minutes.

This time was no different, you could feel Mapí tightening around you, her hands finding home in your roots and tugging you up eagerly into her.

Her moans all of a sudden stopped and her hands relaxed, not a second after that she tightened around your fingers and her thighs spasmed on both sides of your head.

You gently worked her through her aftershocks, only removing your fingers when all of the post orgasm shakes had left her body you moved you reached your hand up to her mouth, allowing her to suck her own taste off of your dexterous fingers whilst you lapped up any of her leftover juices and cum that was dripping out of her.

Once Mapí had sucked every last drop off your fingers and you’d salvaged every last bit of her pussy juices you lifted your head out of the apex between her legs, to be rewarded with the sight of a far less tense looking María León.

“Feeling a little bit more relaxed now, bebé?”

Mapu just gave you a little post orgasm grin, her eyes glassy in a completely different way as how she had been a few minutes ago.

“Si, muy relajada.” Yes, very relaxed.

[ladamedusoif]

able

(Joel Miller x disabled F!Reader)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Disabled F!Reader

Summary: "I just don't think she'll be able for patrol". But then it's just you, Joel, and your trusty walking stick in the middle of nowhere...

Content/warnings: Reader is disabled (she has rheumatoid disease/arthritis in addition to panic attacks, she uses a walking stick as necessary); Reader had a sister; Reader is an art teacher; strong violence; blood; description of panic attack; references to impact of chronic illness and disability; references to medication; references to disease and death; non-canon compliant; Jackson!Joel; strong language; ableist language and abusive language

Rating: Mature; 18+ MDNI

Word Count: ~3.7k

A/N: After making a plea earlier in the week for people to actually write disabled Reader fic, as opposed to forcing writers to feel they have to tag literally everything in an able-bodied Reader story, I knew I had to put my money where my mouth was as a disabled, neurodivergent writer with various mental health things going on here and there. And this one-shot is the result.

This one is a little personal. I was diagnosed with rheumatoid disease about ten years ago, and Reader’s experiences are informed by my own (though, thankfully, I haven’t had to contend with an apocalypse that meant I couldn’t access the medication that has kept me going). She’s also inspired by @agentjackdaniels, who acted as consultant extraordinaire on walking sticks and panic attacks, and suggested the Joel picture for the moodboard. Thank you, Luce, for this, for fighting the good fight for representation in fic - and for beta-ing the story. 

(A note on terminology: rheumatoid disease/arthritis are sometimes used interchangeably. ‘Arthritis’ often sounds like it’s ‘just’ osteoarthritis to people who don’t know the difference. Rheumatoid, unlike osteoarthritis (which is shitty in its own ways), is a systemic, lifelong, chronic illness and an auto-immune disorder that affects the entire body, not just bones and/or joints. So personally I use ‘rheumatoid disease’ as it conveys more of the impact of the condition. It's also often seen as an 'old person' disease but this simply isn't true - not that this stops mobility aids being modelled by people in their 80s all the time...)

Please follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications to stay up to date with my work.

Dividers by @saradika - moodboard by me

You weren’t supposed to make it.

Twenty-odd years in the apocalypse with your fucked-up joints and no steady supply of the meds that kept you going, pushing through the cycles of fatigue, and fighting off your own goddamned immune system as much as you were fighting clickers and raiders. 

You really weren’t supposed to make it. But you had Annie.

You were sharing an apartment when the outbreak happened, a quirk of shitty personal circumstances - she’d just broken up with her long-term boyfriend - that probably helped save your life. Annie was the all-action sister - the kind of person who thinks there’s nothing weird about spending your weekends doing triathlons and “Tough Mudder” challenges, who had a perfect bill of health your entire lives, who bounced out of bed in the mornings while you cracked and creaked and stiffly manoeuvered yourself into being. 

The good days generally outweighed the bad in the years between your diagnosis with rheumatoid disease and the initial outbreak - or maybe you had just gotten used to the aches and pains and the occasional flare-ups of fatigue. You invested in a walking stick to help on those days when mobility was particularly bad: solid, heavy, and carved in a pale yellow wood. It felt like a comfort in your hand, more a sign of strength, to you, than of weakness. 

Annie helped you through the panic attack that consumed you on outbreak day, working with you to regulate your breathing and relax your tense muscles until you could finally say what was on your mind.

“My meds. What am I going to do without my meds?”

Nothing a quick smash and grab at the local pharmacy couldn’t fix. It was the first of many, stockpiling the little yellow tablets you relied on and taking as many packs of over-the-counter painkillers as you could carry. Useful currency in the apocalypse, as it turned out.

All-Action Annie was never going to cope with life in a QZ. She got the two of you out after months of planning, nights of whispered talk about a town out west that was normal - or something close to it, anyway. She hadn’t entertained your protestations about you slowing her down, holding her back.

“You think I’m leaving behind a girl who’s so handy with a weapon?” she’d teased, pointing to your walking stick. “Be real. We’re busting out together.”

The infection took hold in her about three days from Jackson. Fuckin’ barbed wire, tearing a jagged line through Annie’s hand and leaving behind an old-fashioned kind of threat to life, the kind penicillin had mostly dealt with. But that was then. This was now. 

She died in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, you holding her hand until the end, talking to her about your childhoods and trying to keep smiling until she closed her beautiful eyes. 

It took all your strength to dig her grave. And then, somehow, you found more.

You weren’t supposed to make it. But you did. 

Jackson stands before you. 

He sees you for the first time in the community dining hall, talking animatedly to Maria as you hungrily devour the food set in front of you. Eyes wide, face grubby, clothes ragged. Half-wild, he thinks, like most of the new arrivals. Like him and Ellie, once upon a time. He returns to his bowl of soup and his own thoughts - at least, until he’s interrupted by Maria.

“Joel? Want to introduce a new member of the community, just arrived.”

He doesn’t quite know why he’s surprised when he realises you’re leaning on a sturdy hand-carved walking stick in a solid, light yellow wood. Maybe it’s because he knows how physically hard it is to get here. Maybe he just assumed folks who needed a stick wouldn’t have been able to manage the journey. 

For a second he can hear Sarah’s voice in his head, chiding him for focusing on what a disabled person can’t do instead of what they can. 

“Joel?”

He snaps out of his reverie and looks from Maria to you. “Uh, hi. Sorry, just…sorry. Forgot my manners.”

“I was just saying how glad we are to have someone who can offer some art education in the town, isn’t that right, Joel?”

Your eyes are warm and mischievous as you meet his gaze, silently conveying your amusement at Maria’s rather brusque manner. It’s all Joel can do not to laugh.

“Sure is. You’re an artist, then?”

You shake your head. “Not a real one. I was an art teacher, before. Long time since I created anything, though, so I hope I remember how.”

He smiles softly, his gruff exterior receding a little. “Bet it’s just like riding a bike,” he says, before his face falls as he looks at your walking stick. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean… Shit. Hope I didn’t offend.”

“As it happens, I can ride a bike, Joel. The apocalypse just doesn’t give me much cause to.”

You leave him with a smile and a wink as Maria ushers you to meet other townsfolk. He watches you as you walk away, the tap-tap-tapping of your stick beating out a new rhythm in the heart of Jackson.

You think of Annie every morning when you wake up in the little house you’d been assigned. Sometimes, as you potter around the kitchen, still revelling in the novelty of making yourself morning coffee for the first time in two decades, you even talk to her. You tell her about the town, the townsfolk, your work in the community vegetable garden, your art classes. 

“Honestly, An, you wouldn’t believe how popular they are,” you tell the Annie who, in an alternate universe, is sitting at the kitchen table with her own mug of coffee. “I’m setting up extra sessions to cater for demand.”

There’s something uplifting in how hungry the people of Jackson are to make art, no matter their experience or existing skill level. They’ll draw stuff from memory, they’ll dutifully work on a still life, they’ll even traipse outside with you, wooden sketching boards in hand, and make rapid-fire sketches of the goings-on on Main Street. 

Joel doesn’t join a class - but the teenage girl Maria refers to as “Joel’s kid” does, all potty-mouthed and enthusiastic and pretty damned talented, to boot. Ellie tells you how she’s pinned up the drawings she’s proudest of in their home, “like our own fuckin’ art gallery or some shit.” 

You pull up a tall stool and sit beside her, resting your stick over your thighs. “Joel’s got his guitar and those dumbass model figures he paints,” she continues, leaning around her easel and squinting at the woman who’d volunteered to act as a life model for this week’s classes. “But this shit? This is real art.” She adds a little highlight to the woman’s sweater and leans back to assess the work.

“You probably got exempt from patrols, I’m guessing. On account of the stick, an’ all.”

“Maria asked, and I signed up happily. I got all the way here, didn’t I? I’m sure I can manage patrols. And it’s the least I can do - they’ve even found me some of the medications I need.”

Ellie nods, somewhat convinced, and returns to sketching out the contours around the model’s jaw.

The day of your first patrol arrives. You bundle up and set out early for the stables, allowing extra time to get there on account of the flare-up you’d been experiencing the day before. 

You arrive early - just in time, in fact, to overhear a heated conversation between Joel and Maria.

“She’s doing enough, ain’t she? I just don’t think she’ll be able for patrol.”

“You’ve seen her out and about, Joel. She’s mobile. She’s competent. She’s good with the horses. She got all the way here, the last stretch on her own. What more proof do you need?”

“You’re seriously gonna send a woman with a walking stick out on patrol?”

“I seriously am. Sent you and your bad back out, didn’t we?”

“That ain’t the same and you know it.”

“Just saddle the horses, Joel. And, in case you’re wondering - yes, I paired you together deliberately, just until she gets settled.” You hear her footsteps recede as she leaves him.

You had misjudged how much your already-limited grip would be further impeded by the gloves you’re wearing. The stick clatters to the ground.

“Who’s there?”

You emerge from the shadows. “Me. Sorry.”

Joel rolls his eyes and gruffly points out the tack and supplies.

The first patrol passes in silence. You wonder what happened to the softer man you’d caught a glimpse of the first day you arrived.

On the second patrol, you ask him questions about himself. On the third patrol, he asks (fewer) questions about you. By the fourth, you’re having something approximating normal conversation. 

“Sarah loved to make all kinds of stuff,” he ventures, leading the way on his chestnut horse. “Those beaded bracelets, that girly Lego in the pink and purple, all of that. My girl had enough Magic Markers to supply a whole elementary school. Maybe two.”

You can hear him smile, even without seeing his face. His shoulders relax a little as he recalls the memory.

“So she was a creative kid?”

“Creative, sporty… she could do anything. Made the school soccer team, she was so proud. Just a…” He pauses. “A great kid.”

There’s a few beats of silence, punctuated only by the sound of the horses snickering and the steady rhythm of their hooves on the ground. 

“What about your sister, was she arty like you?”

You’d told him about Annie on the last patrol. This was the first time he’d asked about her explicitly.

“She was the sporty one. I think that’s why I survived so long, truth be told. She was so strong and fast and tough as fuck.”

He chuckles, the burr of his voice resonating in the cold air. “Sounds like a good balance, though.”

“It is - it was. Was.” Your voice grows quieter as you repeat the word to yourself, chest starting to tighten. The horse slows, responding to the tension of your body, as Joel continues to trot on, not realising you’ve come to a halt behind him. 

And then the tell-tale snapping of a twig, the sound of footsteps, and the realisation there’s someone else there, emerging out of the woods. Two someones. 

Raiders. 

The panic attack that has been building inside you gives way. An innate fight or flight response kicks in as you roar his name. 

Joel turns and charges back towards you, just in time to see you take out one raider with a crack shot from your pistol. He slows the horse and readies his rifle, staring at the other man who is now trying to haul you off your mount.

“Get the fuck off me, motherfucker!” You flail against him, desperately shifting your weight to the other side of the saddle to try to shake him off. 

Joel takes aim. 

You think you’ve kicked the raider off. And that’s when you hit the ground.

He can’t take the shot now, not with her half-hidden from his view and audibly fighting off the man who’s dragged her to the ground. Joel is still a little distance away, slightly too far to see exactly what’s happening. 

Why didn’t he hear her slowing? Why didn’t he realise she was further behind than she ought to be? Why did she slow in the fuckin’ first place?

Joel quickly dismounts, rifle in hand, moving closer so he can get a clearer shot at the guy who’s now standing over her. The horse’s elegant neck obscures the raider’s hands from Joel’s vision - he has no idea if he’s pointing a gun at her or not. 

He thinks he has a clear sight on the guy’s head, provided he stays in the same position. He readies the rifle. 

Suddenly, the raider disappears, letting out a primal roar before he hits the ground. 

“You fucking cunt!”

Joel can see she’s standing now, the man prone before her. As he rounds the horse he sees her lift her cane, hands securely gripping the pointed end of the stick. 

She brings the solid, weighty handle down on the raider’s leg with a sickening crunch. Even Joel recoils a little at the sight and the sound.

“F-f-fucking…c-c-cunt!”

Thwack. The other leg. 

Fuck. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

”Keep calling me that, and I’ll keep the blows coming.”

Holy fuck. Who is she?

”C-c-c-cripple.”

”Excuse me?”

The raider props himself up on his arms. “I said, cripple. Fucking crippled cunt.”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth.” Joel cocks his rifle. 

The stranger sneers at Joel. “Awww, he’s actin’ the big man now. Weren’t too quick gettin’ back down here to save your cripple woman, were ya?”

Before Joel can react, she swings her stick over her head and brings it down on the man’s skull with a furious scream that seems to come from the very depths of her being. 

She screams and screams as she hits him, over and over, eyes wild in her blood-spattered face. Joel recognises this: in himself; hell, in Ellie. It’s the moment when the floodgates open and all those years of pain blend together and zone in on this convenient target, an avatar for everyone and everything who had forced loss and trauma upon you. 

He roars at her to stop, but knows she can’t hear him. It’s just her and the raider, now: her rage and fear and grief finding their expression through a walking stick turned cudgel.

A single shot ends it. She turns sharply, as if snapped out of a trance, and sees the smoke leaving Joel’s pistol. 

“Hey. Hey. You alright?” His broad hands grip your biceps as he looks into your eyes.

Yes, you tell him, yes. You’re fine. But Joel keeps asking. 

“Talk to me. Are you okay? I’m worried about you. Please, just talk to me.”

You are moving your mouth, but no sound is coming out. The familiar vice is tightening around your chest. You look down at your blood-stained hands and you struggle to breathe. 

“‘M dying, Joel. Can’t breathe. All the blood. So much. Why can’t I breathe?”

Oh, he realises with a pang. She gets these things too. And I know how to help.

“You’re okay, you hear?” He’s rubbing your arms gently, keeping his gaze on you. “You’re alright. Breathe along with me, okay?”

It’s difficult to find the rhythm, at first. Joel’s hands find yours and squeeze them in time with his breath.

”In through your nose, that’s it. Slow and steady. Now out through your mouth.”

He can see your muscles starting to visibly relax. A wave of relief courses over him.

”Yeah, that’s it - you got this. You got this, good girl, you’re just fine. Gonna be alright.”

When he’s confident your breathing has settled and the panic attack receded somewhat, he gently guides you away from the body of the dead raider, one hand holding your horse’s bridle and the other holding yours. 

“Why don’t you have a seat for a minute, huh?” Joel gestures to a long, low tree trunk lying near the forest’s edge and opens his saddlebags, rummaging until he finds a cloth, a battered hip flask and a bag of dried apple slices.

”Here.” He wipes the blood as best he can from your hands and proffers the flask, settling his substantial frame beside you on the log. “Have a sip or two, just to relax you a little bit more. Got a snack, here, too.”

You flinch at the taste of the liquor, but take a second sip regardless. The apple slices barely taste of anything in the afterburn of the moonshine. Joel nibbles on some jerky and stares into the middle distance. 

You take a break from patrol, agreed with Maria, and a few days off your art classes. It was tempting to keep going, to return to the light and airy studio and to your students. But you feared a relapse.

And your body needed to recover physically, too. You ached from head to toe, fingers and toes puffy and swollen and movement seriously restricted. You ration out the supply of medication you’ve secured since getting here, and use hot water bottles and plenty of rest to try to ride out the flare in your arthritis.

Three days after the incident, there’s a knock on the door. You hobble to answer it, leaning on your trusty stick for support.

”Came by to see how you were doing. Got you some things if you needed ‘em.”

Joel is standing on your front porch, holding a jute grocery bag. He pauses, as if waiting for you to give him permission to say more.

”That’s so very kind of you, Joel. Come in, won’t you? I was able to set a fire so it’s nice and cosy.”

He watches as you lead the way into the living room, noting how much slower you were today. Guilt laps at his conscience. He said she shouldn’t go on patrol. He knew.

”You want me to bring these into the kitchen for you?”

“That would be a great help. Thank you.” He’s glad to see you smile, after the trauma of the patrol. “If you want a drink, I’ve got some tea and coffee in the cupboard just to the left of the sink.”

He pops his head back into the living room. “What would you like?” 

“A tea would be perfect. Mugs are in the cupboard to the right.”

You wrap yourself back up in your blankets on the couch, making room for Joel when he returns with the drinks and a couple of cookies, sent over by Ellie as part of his care package for you. The mug feels like a comfort in your aching hands, its heat assuaging the inflammation ravaging your joints.

He sips his coffee and you sit in silence for a little bit, watching the flames dance over the firewood. 

“Have you, uh - you been okay, doing okay, since…”

Joel stares into his coffee cup and then looks at you, a little awkward. You smile, hoping to reassure him.

”I’ve been okay. Just the physical pain and exhaustion, mostly. And - well, you saw it. The panic. It can leave you drained.”

He nods and takes another swig of his drink. “I know. I - I’ve had times like that, too. Real fuckin’ scary, when you’ve never gone through it before.”

You study his face for a moment or two, noting the little scar on his temple, the lines on his face, the stern expression completely undermined by the warmth of his deep brown eyes. For an instant, he seems so vulnerable, this strong, tough man sitting on your little couch. 

“I haven’t had an attack like that in a while. But then, I hadn’t done anything like that in a while.”

This time Joel turns to look at you properly. “Not your first rodeo, huh?”

You giggle at the turn of phrase. “Not quite. Let’s just say my stick did a lot of work over the last twenty years. He wasn’t the first to feel the brunt of it.”

Joel nods, and you feel strangely relieved that he doesn’t seem surprised. “Doesn’t get easier, though, does it?”

“It does not. Which is why it’s better to avoid having to do it.”

”I agree. Gotta say, though, I - I was worried you wouldn’t be able for patrol, y’know?”

You arch an eyebrow at him. “I know. I overheard you, remember?”

He blushes. “Aw, shit. Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I just didn’t want anything happening to you, what with your - condition, and all.”

You sigh softly, not really noticing the affection in his voice. “Most of the time, I’m fine. Y’know? I’m slower, but I do okay. I get tired more easily, but I manage. I didn’t come here to be a drain on the community.”

”You aren’t.”

”I know, but I want to keep it that way. I want to pull my weight. I’m able, Joel.”

He huffs in agreement. “Not like I’m a perfect specimen these days, either. Knees, fuckin’ back, deaf in one ear…” 

You chuckle. “And you thought I wouldn’t manage patrol? Anyway, you’re not doing so bad, are you?”

He gives you a little smile, but that constant sadness still haunts his eyes. He stares at his coffee for a moment.

“You knew what you were doing, though.”

”I did. But I didn’t feel like I could stop.” You sip your tea, swallowing hard. “And I’m scared that makes me some kinda monster. You know?”

Oh, he knows. He knows it too well.

”You aren’t a monster.” Joel resists the urge to put an arm around you. “You just… something snapped, I guess. All that - well, all that hell you’ve gone through. It… it changes you. But it doesn’t make you a monster.”

He realises you’re crying before you do, spotting the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. He finds a clean handkerchief in his jeans and offers it to you. 

Fuck it. 

“Can I - can I put an arm round you? Just for some support?”

Your eyes light up, tears or no tears, and you nod enthusiastically. Joel is warm and comforting, his broad chest and strong arms a kind of anchor in the emotional storm. You nuzzle against him, and he gives you a little squeeze on the arm.

”You’re a really brave woman, you know that?”

His voice is quieter, more intentional. You look at him quizzically from under your lashes, unused to praise of this kind. For an instant you think about asking him what he means. But the safety you’ve found in the broad arm draped around you is all you need right now. 

You nuzzle a little against his chest, and watch the fire dancing for the rest of the night. 

[serial-unaliver]

how tf do you make a post title on the new tumblr mobile app all I can do is make words bigger

hi hello it's sivi aka tonysopranobignaturals or whatever other cursed urls i've had. check my tiktok (nukehenrykissinger) for proof this is really me. if you don't already know I deleted my account a while ago after being put in a "most annoying tumblr users" poll. however, it's not being called an annoying tumblr user that actually caused me to deactivate, but rather the rumors spread as a result. this poll essentially grouped me with pedophiles and nazis and for people who already hated me it was a good opportunity to send anonymous asks telling people I believe awful things, am friends with awful people, etc., and while SOME people actually went to my blog before making assumptions, others did not. at the time this all happened I had over 80,000 followers. having that much attention online is only really useful on websites where you can monetize it. on tumblr it only gets your posts and your blog in places you wish it didn't.

I hoped being off tumblr would improve my mental health and while it did decrease relationship paranoia on social media, otherwise i've been doing quite horribly and put my family in danger several times. it's so bad that i'm saving up to move out so my family can live a more peaceful and safe life. looking back on my delusions that lead to planning murder-suicide (family annihilation) it's hard for me to comprehend how it was myself who got to that point. this disease turns you into someone else and there's only so much you can do to stop it--a person in a psychotic state is not self aware. my psychosis is trauma induced and I WILL have recurrent episodes that I can't predict or prevent. I have to live life with this knowledge. it's not easy. treatment is also difficult, and now that i've moved to an area with absolutely AWFUL healthcare I can barely even get my meds refilled, let alone find a therapist or psychiatrist who actually wants to work with me after seeing my record of institutionalizations.

now, on a more positive note, some people have asked me about my world on my tiktok. well, it's just as active as it's always been, and catching you up on current events would take forever so i'd rather post naturally as things occur like I did before.

and to conclude all of this...if you do have a problem with me for any reason that's fine; i'm not entitled enough to think I inherently deserve everyone's support, but I DO think you could just like, block me and leave it at that. oh yeah and the post says "return to tumblr *maybe*" because i'm not sure if I can handle the attention long enough for me to not delete again LOL.

[flowercrowncrip]

Why am I against assisted suicide for disabled people who aren’t at end of life?

Here are some things that I’ve personally experienced when I’ve been in various treatable mental health crises as a severely disabled wheelchair user:

Being told by a mental health professional that there’s no hope for me and I’ll always be suicidal because my physical disabilities mean my life is objectively not worth living – and isn’t it such a shame they can’t help me end my life in this country (luckily I wasn’t thinking of my disability when I was wanting to die and this pissed me off enough to stay alive to spite them)

Being told by the talking therapy team at uni that I can’t do talking therapy because I have a (at the time severe) speech impairment and getting sent home with no alternative.

Being told that normally they’d hospitalise someone with my symptoms, but the mental health wards aren’t able to accommodate someone with my physical disabilities so they’re just going to send me home with extra meds and check up on me in a few days to make sure I’m still alive.

So accessing mental health support is harder for physically disabled people despite the huge impact of ableism on our mental health. Like constantly being told you’re not worth saving during the ongoing pandemic. The financial stress of fighting to get benefits that aren’t enough to comfortably live on. Homelessness or being trapped in inappropriate housing due to lack of physically and financially accessible housing. Fighting for appropriate pain management, diagnosis and treatment. Not having access to appropriate funding for carers, mobility aids or other basic daily living aids let alone adaptive equipment for hobbies like video games or painting. The avoidable impact of ableism on physically disabled people is endless but solvable

Until we believe as a society that severely disabled people can and usually do have a good quality of life especially if our needs are met, and until we are willing to actually meet those need, I don’t want to hear about how anyone should be helping certain disabled people to end our lives while preventing everyone else from acting on those same thoughts.

[cupnoodle-astronaut]

Emergency Commissions

PayPal ONLY, more info under the cut!!

my partner and me are struggling with money right now so even just a reblog would help us out a ton!! we really appreciate all the support we can get even the "little" things, thanks sm!! more info about our situation and updates about it can be found at the bottom of this post!

an icon like this for 4€

a fullbody like this for 10€

a custom design like this for 6€

my regular commissions are open as well:

I USE PAYPAL ONLY 💥💥💥💥 I use EURO (€), PayPal will automatically convert currency but keep in mind that currency differentiates in value!

i am living with my partner, who currently pays everything for me. i will finally have a job again soon, however we will still be kinda short on money for food, gas and meds :O any commissions, shares, likes, reblogs and comments would mean the world!

UPDATE: unfortunately our living situation here has gotten worse over the past few weeks due to my dad (who's not really making my mental health recovery any better) literally living right next door. i need to recover as efficiently as possible to be able to get a full-time job someday so my partner and me are saving up for a place to live! really anything would help us out a ton!!

UPDATE: i will have my first day of work this friday! :D also my dad seems to be in a better mood lately (i hope it'll last this time)? thanks to all of you who bought a comm from me so far and/or reblogged this, it really helped a lot already.. we're holding up well enough to be able to afford my meds again actually! :D

[aluria-sevhex]

HELL FUCKING YESSSSSSSS

hey if you wanna read all of my posts as i play through ISAT, they are all tagged as #Aluria plays ISAT for the first time (please don't spoil)

notes:

-aight i'm back yippee

-title theme my beloved

-i always find it so funny when an enemy tries to freeze Mira

-gonna try this boss again

-ok i think i'll just replay Floor 3 on this loop instead of looping forward after i find out another one of Bonnie's favorite foods so i can build up everybody's stats

-OH. BONNIE OVERHEARD THE DEATH CONVERSATION.

-heh Bonnie slapped Siffrin

-uh... the audio is REALLY ominous...

-oh, Bonnie...

-WAIT WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT DID I JUST LOOP SLIGHTLY BACK IN THE PAST?

-Siffrin you ok i don't think that was helping ur mental health issues your eye is covered in shadow in your dialogue portrait

-i will once again NOT kill Siffrin via anaphylaxis. i will take the fish head

-...i didn't. get info on Bonnie's favorite foods this time.

-ok according to the save screen that didn't count as a loop

-anyway time to try looping to get the Bonnie snack info

-hey... the Tear dialogue isn't as silly anymore (it just says yes or no without the 'looping time' or 'living time')

-hey i didn't skip any loops this time!

-time to kill this pair of assholes again

-"carry my ashes with you" aw that's a sweet dialogue option

-i am so tempted to kill Siffrin. but i won't.

-awwww... i talked to Bonnie and now Sif is comforting them

-ok how the fuck do i get the info. BONNIE PLS.

-hold up. does Siffrin no longer nod when zoning out? :((((

-WAIT FUCK DID I FORGET TO GET THE KEY ON FLOOR 2.

-...Mira's roommate. was learning to make bombs. why???

-lol Isa knows how to make a bomb

-Mira has anti-anxiety meds. this makes a lot of sense tbh

-...what are these papers for???

-so i decided to try using the silver coin since a person said that you can do something with it related to the croissant lore. and it said "you think about the Incident" or smth like that lol

-lol Sif forgot the term 'stuffed animal'

-idk why but it feels like a lot of Craft skills are like. slower. or have bigger cooldowns in Act 3. even tho i KNOW they don't and my brain is fucking with me

-ok the game accounted for the key thing

-in the bathroom again

-Sif is calming themself again and figuring out what to do

-Siffrin, self-loathing and calling yourself stupid won't help :(

-i zoned out at some minor dialogue but i don't remember what the dialogue was the first time so i am fucking clueless about what was going on with a choice i made. sorry Mira idk why i 'saved you' by smacking your mouth ;_;

-i love getting to obliterate weaker Rock enemies with Paper α V

-i have now gotten Sif to level 60

-sometimes it's nice to take a break and talk to Loop

-wait a sec. doesn't one of the lower floors have a sharpening stone?

-ok it's been a while and now i have everybody back to level 52. time to kick the asses of the 3rd floor boss

-ooo Odile got a new skill

-time for the last snack break!

-Bonnie's upset now because i didn't try the fritters D:

-time to face the King again... and hopefully talk to him

-welp. *that* didn't work

-oh nvm now i can ask him questions via the Craft menu!

-you. you can give the King the flower.

-yeah the characters have a point! why Vaugarde specifically?

-the King is NOT responsible but he says Siffrin has an odd smell. huh... the only other things where an odd smell has been noted is Bonnie saying the star crest Sadnesses smell odd... but if Sif had that smell then it would've been noticed sooner...

-dude. how rude to say that if Siffrin doesn't understand Time Craft they can't understand the King's methods. maybe i should read more on Time Craft in one of the libraries? or that one book on craftonomy...

-the "you have heard this before" for zoning out got more and more annoyed

-once again. what does the King need to say?

-hm i was talking to Odile and Bonnie piped in really excitedly that they have more pineapple in their pocket

-GOD FUCKING DAMMIT MIRABELLE I LOVE YOU BUT YOU STOPPED ISA'S CONFESSION ToT

-time to talk to Euphrasie and loop again ig

-hey what's that in her hair?

-"you inhale sharply, almost choking on the smell of burnt sugar around you" BURNT SUGAR BURNT SUGAR THAT'S THE SMELL OF TIME SHENANIGANS AS SEEN WITH THOSE SADNESSES

-SAY SOMETHING ELSE EUPHRASIE

-how do i get the familytale?

-ok i talked to Odile and i'm gonna help her!

-am i gonna have to go all over town for this?

lmao yeah i think i will

-oh hey the wizard-loving kid is named Manon

-oh my god. i have to go back to the boulanger

-FINALLY

-:O THERE IS NO RESEARCH???

-oh THAT'S why Odile is in Vaugarde

-oh... her mom left... all of her travels here have been to try to reconnect with that part of her...

-HEY SIFFRIN I AM ONCE AGAIN ASKING WHERE THE *FUCK* ARE YOU FROM?

-damn. bro has amnesia

-LMAO I ASKED MIRA ABOUT THE PAPERS AND THE BATTLE THEME STARTED

-...bonding proposals???

-oh my god Mira joined a dating website group

-"we have one of those at home"

-"oh, i don't have a type! i like all kinds of people equally!" is this in a bi way or an aro way

-YEAH AROMANTIC REPRESENTATION

-DIVERSITY WIN! THE KICKASS HANDMAIDEN WHO'S IMMUNE TO BEING FROZEN IN TIME AND THE SORT-OF CHOSEN ONE IS ARO!!! I FUCKING CALLED IT YEAHHHHHHHH :D

-oh, Mira :( you're not the problem you don't have to do anything like that you're not comfortable with

-hm this game is dealing with personal identity a lot

-:( :( :( oh, Mira...

-DIVERSITY WIN!!! THE SKETCHY WANDERER STUCK IN A TIME LOOP WITH MENTAL HEALTH PROBLEMS IS ACE!!!

-MY BLORBOS ARE ACE AND AROACE FUCK YEAH I AM SO HAPPY

-FUCK IT I'M POSTING NOW

SERIOUSLY THO I DON'T THINK I CAN ACCURATELY CONVEY HOW FUCKING HAPPY THIS PART IS MAKING ME. TWO OF MY FAVORITES ARE ACE AND AROACE HELL FUCKING YES

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

Chains of Destiny - Decision (Ch.2)

Summary:Eva needs to make a decision, whether she stays and tries for s new life or she gives up completely.

Content Warning: hurt, pain, angst a bit of fluff if you squint

Author's note: There's no Logan in this one, so please bear with me. I feel like the things are going a bit too fast, but let me know :)

Tags: @danicl25 @mxrtiaxv @ayamenimthiriel @jinndesu

Eva lay in the quiet stillness of the med bay, her body half-covered by the scratchy hospital blanket. The constant hum of machines monitoring her vitals droned in the background, but her mind raced, unable to settle. The last week had been a blur—rescue, confusion, pain. Now, a strange quiet surrounded her, the kind she hadn’t known in years.

The sterile smell of antiseptic lingered in the air, but it wasn’t the harsh scent of the lab. It was… clean. It felt safer. Safer than she ever thought she’d feel again. But safety felt foreign, unsettling.

Jean had been visiting her every day, checking in on her physical and mental health, her voice soft, patient. And Hank—Dr. McCoy, though he insisted she call him Hank—had been the one taking care of her wounds. The care they gave was strange, unearned, she thought. They looked at her like she was something worth helping, something worth saving. Eva couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen those kinds of eyes. She didn’t know how to respond to it.

As much as she wanted to believe she could trust them, there was always a voice in the back of her mind. *What if it’s just another trap? What if they’re just pretending?* Her thoughts would drift to the things Logan had said—the things he hadn't said but showed in every look of distrust he shot her way. His words had stung more than the countless needles she’d been subjected to in that lab.

"You're dangerous. A threat." 

She closed her eyes, the weight of those words heavy on her chest. Logan didn't want her here. Maybe he was right. 

Every time she thought about him, that cold, distant stare, her resolve faltered. It was hard not to believe him, especially when he didn’t even try to hide his contempt. His distrust sat like a stone in her stomach. Even when Jean would try to reassure her that things would get better, that she had a future here at the school, Logan’s words would echo, pulling her back into the dark place inside her.

But there were other moments. Moments when she felt a flicker of something different. Like when she saw the students outside the hospital window. Some of them had powers like hers—strange, impossible things that she would’ve never imagined. Yet here, they laughed, played, trained… like none of it was a curse. Like it was just part of them. They weren’t afraid. Or, if they were, they were trying to overcome it. 

It had been so long since she had seen people… living. Free. 

Part of her longed to be part of that. 

*Could that ever be me?* 

The question haunted her, gnawed at the edges of her thoughts as she watched the kids go about their day, training with the X-Men, studying with each other, and even bickering like they didn’t carry the same weight she did. Could she fit in here? Could she be more than what she had been made into?

But every time she felt that small spark of hope, Logan’s glare extinguished it. He was right, wasn't he? She was too dangerous, too broken. A ticking bomb. And even if she wanted to trust the others—Jean with her kindness, Charles with his calming presence, Hank with his warm humor—Logan would always be there, waiting to prove that she didn’t belong.

She sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. Her body still ached, though the physical wounds were healing. It was the mental ones that refused to fade. She still felt trapped, like at any moment the walls would close in, the straps would tighten again, and she would be back in that lab. A puppet, a weapon, a monster.

And yet, Charles had said she was more than that. He had sat beside her just two days ago, his eyes kind and gentle as he spoke of the school, of the other students who had found their place here, despite their struggles.

“Eva, you don’t have to be alone anymore. You’re among people who understand you. People who want to help.”

She had wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But a life of torture and manipulation had taught her to be wary of hope. Hope was a trap. Still, there was something about Charles, about the way he spoke, that made her want to believe. 

She ran her hand along the handcuffs they had placed on her wrists, the ones that dulled her powers just enough to keep them in check. They weren't like the ones in the lab. They weren’t meant to hurt her, just to protect the others. Jean had explained that gently, as if she knew how much Eva hated anything that restrained her.

Even so, the cuffs were a constant reminder of why she couldn’t let herself believe she belonged here. A reminder that no matter how much Charles, Jean, and the others might try to make her feel welcome, she was still dangerous. She was still a threat.

The door to the room creaked open, and Jean stepped in, her red hair catching the low light. She gave Eva a small, reassuring smile.

“How are you feeling today?” Jean asked, pulling up a chair beside her bed.

Eva hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I don’t know… Better, I guess.”

Jean nodded, her eyes full of that same quiet understanding she always carried. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

But that was just it. Eva wasn’t sure she’d ever have the answers. What if Logan was right? What if she didn’t belong here? What if she was just putting everyone in danger by staying?

“I don’t know if I should be here,” Eva whispered, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at her all week. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Jean’s face softened, and she reached out, gently placing her hand on Eva’s wrist, just above the cuff. “We don’t want you to hurt anyone either, Eva. But we also believe that you deserve a chance to learn, to control your powers. That’s what we do here. We help each other.”

Eva looked away, her chest tightening. "Logan doesn’t think I can be helped. He thinks I should… leave.”

Jean sighed softly, her thumb brushing lightly over Eva’s skin. “Logan has his reasons, but he’s not always right. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of. And… he’s been hurt, too. In ways that make him put up walls. But I believe in you. Charles believes in you. We’re not giving up on you.”

Eva wanted to believe her. She wanted so badly to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to live without hurting the people around her. But Logan’s words still weighed her down, pulling her back into the darkness she had barely escaped.

“I just don’t know if I can do it,” she whispered.

Jean squeezed her hand gently. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Eva stayed quiet, her thoughts swirling in confusion. She didn't know what her future held, but for the first time in a long time, there was a part of her—a small, fragile part—that wanted to try. Maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to belong here. Maybe she could learn to trust herself again. 

But Logan’s shadow still loomed large, and she didn’t know how to silence it.

***

“Can I ask you something?”

Hank raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. It was the first time Eva had initiated a conversation. She usually only answered his questions with short, guarded responses. But this—this was new.

“Of course,” he replied gently, tapping a few keys on the monitor. It had become a routine now. She’d been at the mansion for over a week, and her vitals had steadily improved. She was gaining weight, her cheeks less hollow, and her eyes not as sunken as before. Slowly, ever so slowly, she was beginning to look like the young woman she was, rather than the starved, haunted figure they’d first brought in.

“I actually have three questions,” she continued, her voice hesitant, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks when Hank chuckled softly at her tone. 

“Go on,” he encouraged, giving her his full attention.

She swallowed and shifted her gaze toward the window, her fingers fidgeting nervously. “I haven’t seen Logan lately. I know he... hates me, but I was wondering... did something happen?”

Hank smiled gently, sensing the weight of the question. “I don’t think Logan hates you,” he said, turning his chair to face her fully. “He’s... complicated. A tough guy with a past that haunts him. He can seem like a jerk, but in the end, Logan always does the right thing. He just... needs time. If that’s something you’re willing to give him.”

Eva frowned, her expression tightening in confusion. Hank could see the uncertainty in her eyes—the idea of being given a choice was still foreign to her. 

“And he’s away on a mission,” Hank added quickly. “Charles sends him out from time to time, so don’t worry—it has nothing to do with you.”

“So... it’s not my fault he’s not here?” she asked quietly.

“Not at all,” Hank assured her. He noticed the small shift in her posture, a slight easing of tension. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “What’s your second question?”

Eva hesitated again, her eyes darting back to the floor. “Is this really... a school?”

Hank laughed, a genuine, lighthearted sound that made her blush even more. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, seeing her embarrassment. “It’s just that you’re not the first to ask that.”

She bit her lip, unsure. “It just... doesn’t feel like one.”

Hank smiled, trying to put her at ease. “It’s a school, just like any other. We have classes on math, science, history—boring, normal subjects. But we also have classes for mutants. Those help our students learn to control their abilities, to understand what makes them unique.”

Her curiosity piqued, Hank could see it in the way she sat up a little straighter, eyes more focused. “Mutant classes?”

“Exactly. As Charles mentioned, many kids come to us unable to control their powers. We’re here to help them adjust, to make those abilities second nature. And we’d like to help you do the same, if that’s something you’d want.”

There was a fleeting smile on her lips, small but noticeable. Hank knew it would take time for her to fully trust them—to believe that they truly wanted to help her. Her powers, though dangerous, could be an incredible asset. He was patient, willing to wait however long she needed.

“I...” She paused, her entire body tensing. Her fingers started to twist around each other nervously, and Hank remained quiet, letting her gather her courage. “It’s kind of embarrassing,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t push, simply waited.

“I... never went to school,” she admitted, her gaze shifting to the window, as though she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. “I don’t even know how old I am, not exactly. I’ve been with them... for over fifteen years, they said, So I must be in my 20s. But... I never learned to read. I don’t know... anything, really.”

The revelation hung in the air, and Hank felt a knot tighten in his chest. It wasn’t surprising, not after everything she’d been through, but hearing her say it—hearing her speak the truth of her stolen childhood—hit him harder than he expected.

“It’s really stupid but...” Her voice wavered, and she opened the small drawer next to her bed, pulling out a thin book with a worn cover. “Mrs. Ororo gave me this. She was so kind, and I... I felt bad telling her I can’t read it.”

Hank’s heart clenched as he saw a few silent tears land on the book’s cover. Despite everything—despite being trained and used as a weapon—Eva still had a gentleness about her, a kindness that hadn’t been destroyed by those who had hurt her.

“Ororo,” Hank began, noting how she always addressed them with such formality despite their efforts to get her to relax. “She also teaches some of the younger kids. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to help you learn the basics too.”

Eva’s eyes widened, a spark of hope flickering in their depths. “Isn’t it... embarrassing though? I mean... I’m an adult.”

Hank gently took her hand, careful to move slowly, watching for any signs of discomfort. But she didn’t flinch—not like she used to. That, in itself, was progress.

“Eva,” he said softly, “the ability to learn was stolen from you. You’ve lived through things no one should have to. But the fact that you still want to learn—that you want a chance at a normal life—well, that’s something to be proud of.”

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she smiled, just a little. “Professor Charles said I have a right to a normal life... but I don’t know if I believe that yet. I don’t know if I deserve it. But... that book does look interesting.”

Hank smiled back, warmth spreading through his chest. He promised himself to speak to Ororo and Charles, to make sure Eva would receive the education she deserved—not out of pity, but because it was her right. Like any human being, she had the right to learn, to grow, and to live.

And for the first time since she arrived, Hank believed she was starting to realize that too.

***

Charles Xavier sat in the stillness of his office, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Outside the mansion, he could hear the faint sounds of students laughing and playing, the echoes of a life he had built to protect and nurture the young minds of mutants. But his thoughts were with one particular student, the one who had just arrived—the one who lingered in the hospital wing, far from the warmth and hope of those outside.

Eva.

He closed his eyes, resting his hands on the arms of his wheelchair, and let his mind drift back to when they first found her. It had been worse than anything he could have prepared for. The physical scars, the hollowness in her eyes, the way she had flinched at every movement—it was as though she had been broken down to nothing. Tortured, manipulated, turned into a weapon by those who saw her not as a human being, but as something to be used.

He had seen many broken souls come through these doors over the years, each with their own pain and trauma. But Eva was different. There was something about her—a weight she carried that went beyond the torment she had endured. Her powers were unlike anything he had encountered, and that alone made her a danger to herself and to those around her. It wasn't just the sheer force of her abilities, but the instability that came with them, the unpredictability.

Her mind was a labyrinth of pain and confusion, walls erected so high he could barely touch the edges. He had tried to reach her, to offer some form of comfort or understanding, but each time he felt her pull back, retreating into herself. It was as if she didn’t know who she was anymore, as if the very concept of herself had been stripped away, leaving behind a shell. 

And her powers... Charles had seen snippets of them, enough to know that they were both incredible and terrifying. She was capable of immense destruction, and yet, there was a delicate balance, an untapped potential that could shift either way. If they didn’t approach her with care, if they didn’t handle her powers with the right method, she could be lost to that destruction—or worse, others could.

But how do you teach someone to control something they barely understand? How do you guide someone whose life had been ruled by fear and cruelty into believing they deserve a place in the world? These were the questions that weighed on him, gnawing at his mind every time he thought about her.

He knew she needed time, patience. He knew they had to approach her gently, to make her believe in her worth before they could even begin to tackle the complexities of her powers. And yet, time was something they didn’t have the luxury of. The people who had taken her, who had done this to her—they were still out there. And there was always the chance they could come back for her. They had turned her into a weapon once, and Charles had no doubt they would try again.

And then there was Logan.

Charles sighed deeply, opening his eyes and staring out of the window at the expansive grounds of the mansion. The truth gnawed at him, but he had been avoiding it for days now. Logan was... volatile, a man who had his own share of demons to wrestle with. He had kept his distance from Eva since her arrival, and in many ways, Charles understood why. Logan was a man who preferred to keep others at arm's length, especially when it came to something—or someone—that touched his own vulnerabilities.

Yet, Logan was the only one who could truly help Eva. As much as Charles wanted to guide her, as much as Hank and Jean had been there for her, Logan was the one who understood the darkness that lived in the corners of her mind. He was the one who had fought tooth and nail against the forces trying to control him, the one who had found his own way back from the edge of the abyss.

It was a painful realization, but it was true. Logan, in all his rough edges, had a connection to her that no one else could mimic. He had survived being used, being turned into something against his will—and that was what Eva needed now. Not just someone who could show her how to control her powers, but someone who could teach her how to fight back against the pieces of herself that had been stolen. Logan knew that struggle better than anyone.

But Charles also knew what it would mean to ask Logan to step in. Their relationship, already fragile, had become strained over Eva. Logan had been one of the loudest voices against bringing her to the school. He had seen her as too dangerous, too far gone to be helped, and Charles feared that in his heart, Logan still believed that. It would take a lot for him to see past the fear and the pain that Eva reminded him of.

He didn’t want to force Logan into this role, but he also knew that if anyone could reach her—truly reach her—it would be him. The question was, how could he convince Logan of that without making him feel like he was being burdened with a task he hadn’t asked for?

Charles rubbed his temples, the weight of his thoughts exhausting him. He had faced many challenges in his life, many difficult decisions, but this one felt different. Eva wasn’t just another student. She was fragile, vulnerable, and one wrong step could send her spiraling further into the darkness. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake with her.

Eventually, with a sigh, he came to a decision. He had to speak to Logan. It wasn’t going to be easy, and he wasn’t sure how Logan would respond, but he knew it had to be done. For Eva’s sake, and perhaps for Logan’s too. Maybe, in helping her, Logan could find a way to heal some of his own wounds.

But convincing Logan—that was the challenge.

Charles leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as his mind began to plan out the conversation, rehearsing words he knew would be hard to say, and even harder for Logan to hear.

***

When Charles first heard from Jean that Eva wanted to speak with him, it caught him off guard. He had heard from Hank about their conversation earlier that week, but he never imagined she’d reach out so soon, let alone initiate a conversation herself. She had only been here for two weeks. Both Jean and Hank had discussed moving her out of the infirmary, but given everything she had been through, Charles hadn’t expected her to progress this quickly. Still, he couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride for the quiet strides she was making.

He also had to reluctantly agree with Jean—her progress seemed to have coincided with Logan’s absence. Without Logan’s brooding presence, Eva had started to relax, just a little. She was still closed off, fearful of those around her, but she was no longer the hollowed-out shell of a person they had first rescued. Slowly, step by step, she was beginning to resemble the young woman she was meant to be.

When Charles wheeled into her room, he found her sitting by the window, staring out at the evening sky. Her eyes, though still guarded, were filled with a curiosity that gave him hope. Despite all the horrors she had endured, despite the darkness that had been forced upon her, Eva had not completely given up on the world. Not yet.

"Mind if I join you?" Charles asked softly.

She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice but quickly nodded, offering him a shy, almost apologetic smile. He rolled closer to her bedside and gave her a warm, reassuring look.

"I think you’ll be able to see those stars from outside soon enough," he began, noticing the way her body tensed at the mention of leaving her sanctuary. “Jean told me you’ve been making wonderful progress with your recovery.”

Eva fidgeted with her fingers, her eyes still cast downward. “I… I wanted to talk to you about that,” she murmured. "I’m still not sure I can become the person you think I can be."

Charles stayed silent, letting her find her words, knowing that initiating this conversation was a big step for her.

"But I…” She glanced nervously at the small book on the shelf nearby, her gaze landing on the book she’d been reading. “Mrs. Ororo… she’s been teaching me how to read,” she said awkwardly, swallowing hard. “It would be… mean to just leave now.” Her eyes darted around the room, as if searching for the right way to express herself. "You know what I mean?"

Charles couldn’t help but smile at her sincerity. Beneath all the fear, she was still a person trying to find her way. “Yes, I’ve heard Storm is taking your reading lessons quite seriously. It would be a shame to quit now, wouldn’t it?”

A small, relieved smile tugged at the corners of Eva’s lips. For the first time in the conversation, she seemed to relax. But Charles knew there was more on her mind.

“There’s something else you want to talk about, isn’t there?” he prompted gently.

Eva sighed, knowing she couldn’t hide her thoughts from him. She appreciated that he didn’t pry, that he kept his promise not to read her mind unless necessary, but his insight into people’s emotions was uncanny. 

"I can’t stay here," she said finally, her voice firmer this time.

Charles tilted his head slightly, waiting for her to continue.

"This school…" Eva hesitated, her eyes darting out the window again. "I’ve been watching the students, the staff… and I can’t be around them. I could never forgive myself if I hurt someone. You’ve all been so kind to me, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I can’t… I can’t train here. I can’t learn here. Me being here, so close to everyone—it’s too dangerous."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the burden she carried. Charles’ heart ached for her, for the way she was still trapped in a prison of fear and guilt, even after escaping the people who had turned her into a weapon.

“I know I’m dangerous,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard it enough—first from them, and then… from Logan.”

Charles opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off before he could.

“He’s right,” she said, shaking her head. “I am dangerous. What you’ve all seen of my powers… that’s not even the worst of it. There’s so much more. And if I let myself have a chance at life… I need to know I won’t take that chance away from someone else.”

Charles looked at her, the weight of her words sinking in. Despite everything she had been through, she was still thinking of others before herself. She still saw herself as a threat, but it was her selflessness that stood out to him.

“There’s a safe house, not far from here,” he said softly, his eyes shifting to the growing twilight outside. The first stars had begun to appear, tiny specks of light against the darkening sky. “It’s secluded, away from the main campus. We’ll move you there at the end of the week. You can stay there, away from the students, until you feel ready.”

Eva’s eyes widened at his words, a mixture of surprise and disbelief flickering across her face.

“You… you’ll still want me here? After I’ve learned to control my powers?” Her voice wavered, as though she had never even considered the possibility.

Charles frowned slightly, concerned by the depth of her surprise. He reached out, placing his hand gently over hers. "Eva, we’re a family here. You are part of that now, whether you believe it or not. We’re not going to cast you aside the moment you learn control. We want you here."

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, trying to hide the emotion that overwhelmed her. "I thought… I thought once I wasn’t a danger, you’d want me to leave."

Charles smiled softly, squeezing her hand gently. “We don’t give up on people, Eva. Not here.”

She looked at him through tear-filled eyes, a soft smile finally breaking through the sadness. For the first time in as long as she could remember, there was a sliver of hope, a glimmer of possibility that maybe—just maybe—she could have a future. A life.

"We’re all in this together," Charles added, his voice warm. "You’re not alone anymore."

Her smile grew, and even though through the tears, it was one of the most beautiful things Charles had seen in a long time.

[lundenloves]

⇀ ¹ “𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐇𝐒.”

〔 you’re slotted right into the service of doctor john price, an elite head of division and self titled marmite character — you either love him or hate him. you personally can’t quite decide, but he knows for certain that you’re not for him. what will you do after being forced to learn under his wing? 〕

˗ˏˋ and so we start a new series. doctor!price is slowly going to plague the price x reader tag, and i will not be blamed for the thirsty author notes. i’ll create a series masterlist at some point but this is just to see if anyone actually reads it and/or even likes it. but then again, who doesn’t like a sarcastic man?

⇀ 3.1k | mentions of medical procedures + blood | f!reader nicknamed ‘rev’ (later on)

masterlist | taglist | request info

Another day, another fucking alarm. Another day, another flurry of issues, problems and carnage upon barely setting one foot in the door. It was disgusting really, the way each and every nurse greeted him with an enthusiastic welcome. He wasn’t sure if it was because the shift change was now upon them or if he himself, the ray of unprecedented sunshine, was there. He met their words with a sarcastic smile and nod, shoving a thumbs up toward them before teeming through the busy corridor to reach the scrub room. 

“Price, do you mind—“ 

“No.” He leant against the push door, his back pressed to it with a shrug and a feigned smile of empathy. “Don’t talk to me before six.” The words came blandly, face dropping after rubbing at his nose and taking the step backward to enter the room, the door involuntarily slamming.  

Seventeen hour shift today, fucking dreadful. Six in the morning till nine at night. Was this good for his health, both mental and physical? No. Was this morally right? Fuck no. Was this even legal? Absolutely not. Though you were expected to check the boxes, turn up and chuck the scrubs on — by which, half of them had run out — welcome to the NHS. 

The depressing scrub room was the feat of many tears, all bad of course. Accompanied by the motivational posters from the early noughties, strewn across the walls about how you’re ‘saving a life’ every day, and Price couldn’t ever help but to laugh at them every shift start. Though, by the end he would be fucking talking to the walls, the small people on the posters now his delirious friends.

“Christ.” He mumbled, tying the knot of the trousers before raking around for a passably clean scrub shirt that wasn’t covered in bodily fluids. Not even the fun kind. 

The door swung open with its predicted slam, presenting a bunch of fresh faced med students who had stopped to stare at Price. “What.” He frowned, highly aware that he was standing without a shirt, white coat ditched and raking through an old scrub locker for the dispenser had run out. This was fucking poor. 

They all snapped their looks away, reduced to quiet chatter before ditching their bags and rolling their sleeves in preparation for the first day of the rest of their lives. Price would have warned them had it not been quarter to six in the morning, and had he not been half as miserable as he always seemed. 

Though all hope wasn’t lost, the clouds parted and a beautifully clean scrub shirt was found and chucked on to solidify that he, in fact, did hate his job. He was head of division, so scrubs weren’t a necessity though he didn’t fancy getting said bodily fluids over his regular clothes. “Ready for today, captain?” His assistant doctor, Mike, loomed by the door, bringing all of the noise from outside in with him. Four years ago he had coined the nickname ‘Captain’ for Price and it stuck. For those brave enough to talk to him anyway. 

“I’d rather kill myself.” Came his short reply, shoulders dropped upon eyeing Mike in the mirror. 

“Well, that’s just grand.” He held out a clipboard, hands clutched to the top and downsides of the wood. “Did you see the schedule?” 

“Why would I see the schedule?” Price’s eyes met his in the reflection before turning around to lazily snatch the board from his hands. “What am I looking at?” His eyes roamed the overly complicated excel sheet, shifting his weight to one foot before flicking through the various pages that had been clipped down. “Eh?”

“New SHO resident.” 

“And what?” He lulled, handing him the board back and stretching his back out as if preparing for the fucking olympics or alternatively, a shattering seventeen hour shift. I’ll let you decide that one. 

“She’s on your service.” 

The look of betrayal struck his face, an exasperated sigh leaving his every fucking fibre. “No she’s fucking not.” Price made it his business to let everyone know he did not like new faces on his service, regardless male or female, fucking worldclass or freshly chucked into the deep end, he did not like it. Therefore wouldn't have it. 

That was the strange beauty of being not only a white coat, but also head of division — you were almost encouraged to be a bit bratty every now and then. It was like your reward for going through the last eight years of training, because the money surely wasn’t fucking worth it. 

“Chuck her elsewhere.”

“You’re the only senior today.” 

Price shrugged his coat back on, momentarily screwing his face while rubbing at his brows. “When is she in?” His eyes remained tightly shut. 

“Seven.” 

“Till?”

“Five.” 

His hand dropped at that, pulling a slight face as if he hadn’t heard his co-worker correctly. “Ten hours?” Tilting his head to lean an ear closer to Mike, gesturing he repeated himself. 

“She’s transferring.” He instead said, hitting the clipboard rhythmically against the side of his thigh. “From Central London.” Brows wiggled, as if the mere mention of London was valued. Which for the record it wasn’t. 

Price left his assistant hanging, passing by him and holding the door open. “Monday fucking morning.” His face somehow dropped even further to accommodate for a low whistle, brows furrowed after stepping out into the upsettingly bright lights. “Floor five.” Came a mumble, lifting his arm to check the time. Six on the dot. 

“Mornin’ Price, looking like death today — spend all your weekend juggling the nurses again?” A fellow white coat teased, John spinning on his heel to walk backwards, his arms wide in feigned offense. 

“Morning would have sufficed.” He earned an echoed chuckle from the Doctor who had already turned a corner. “What’s on the books today then?” His voice returned to its flat state, and Mike passed him yet another excel sheet. 

“You’re split today. Labour ward and one theater.” He leaned over to run his finger across the paper before Price, eventually landing on an estimated time. “Two till four.” He pointed. “Joint replacement. I’ll be with you for that one, then you’ll be joined by the new SHO for a walk around.”

“Thrilling.” He replied shortly.

Mike nodded, splitting off after they had reached the nurses station to do whatever the fuck it was Mike did when not following Price like a lost dog. John leaned on the reception counter, resting his head against his arms. “Rough night, Price?”

“Every night is a rough night.” 

“Heard that one before.” Someone else chimed in from behind, coffee in hand. “Still on the coffee ban, John?” She teased, sliding the shitty paper cup toward him and Price could’ve sworn this was some type of flirting had it not been six in the morning. Which was fine, flirting was fair game, except he was usually the one doing it. 

In a dramatic statement, he’d vouched to not touch coffee again after losing a scalpel inside a patient. It was most definitely his fault and not the blend like he had whispered to the nurses after the patient had been taken for re-op by junior surgeons. “He’s still going on about that?” 

“I didn’t bring it up.” He scoffed, knocking his knuckles on the counter before leaning back and using the clipboard in his hand as a pointing stick of accusation. “Listen, it’s been rough—“

“We all know. It was the blend.” His deep voice had been mimicked, each nurse laughing and swivelling their chairs to face the man of the fucking hour. 

“I’m telling you.” He pointed once more, rounding the counter to sift through various exposed stacks of paperwork. “What’s this?” 

“I’m filing it.”

“When? Tomorrow? Pick up the speed.” He kissed his teeth, swiping a paper cup of tea from the hourly cart. “Please.” He smiled, smearing his charm all over them and gesturing his definition of speed by rolling his hands in a continuous motion. 

“Away you go.” 

“Thank you, gorgeous.” He had a cheek really, pushing back from the station and scrunching a second paper cup to toss it in the bin with force. The reason for his cheek being, his own office. The absolute obliteration of a room that any mother would shake her head at, any sane person would form tears at, and any other doctor would take lethal punishment over. 

It wasn’t just the papers. It was the oddity of the whole room, chaotic would be your best description. Littered with miscellaneous clutter, clothes, shoes, half finished food, unrelated books and photos — some familial, some from children on wards and others completely unserious like the framed image of Yoshi on his desk. No one ever bothered to ask. 

He sat down with Mike’s clipboard in hand, eyes shifting between the monitor on his desk and the fucking excel rota. Your name was underneath his, scheduled for a mere ten hours, the shift looking like an alternative to heaven had Price not signed the contract that enabled over forty hour working weeks. The frown across his brow was a sight to see, clicking around on screen before reaching the digital rota purely to find your transfer notes. Ones embedded in his higher-ups chat. 

He pulled his lip up, eyes skimming through your mere experience — fresh from med-school and training in obs and gynae, though excelled in early neurology modules. 

Your reason for transfer wasn’t listed and Price lifted a brow, clicking his tongue against his teeth with a grimace expression. His fingers tapped the desk in a momentous motion, each one in succession of the other after pushing his sleeve up to check the time. Six thirty. 

“Price.” Came a rapid knock on his door.

“What.” He replied, patting around his pockets for the vibrating pager that he had clicked off after standing up and opening the door. 

“They need you on—“

“I’m going.” The midwife nodded at his cut off, speed walking alongside him to room fifteen where a flurry of doctors had gathered. “Right, clear it, clear it.” He cleared his throat, pulling gloves on and pushing the door open to see another frantic scene. 

“What do we have?”

“In determination, sir.”

Price edged his way through a few nurses and introduced himself calmly, ducking to have a look at the issue after rolling his sleeves up. The head was forcing the umbilical cord down and out of mother, resulting in possible fatality if not delivered immediately. “Cord prolapse, page the anesthetics. We’ll need a maneuver.” The midwife nodded at him. “Knee to elbow, prepare for cesarean.” 

Even urgent deliveries felt almost auto-pilot for him, like zoning out and entering a catatonic state when washing his hands thrice over and thumbing two separate rounds of gloves on. “Ready?” The scrub nurse accounted for each utensil as usual before nodding to Price who returned one.

Not everyone’s six am, but all in a morning's work for the man who would rather be anywhere else. He left the theater fifty minutes later. Standing for two minutes with his bloodied gloves up, waiting for a junior doctor to assess the stitching he had made. Now, two minutes isn’t a long time but it fucking well feels like it when your hands are up. “Never seen stitches before?”

“Why didn’t you staple?” She asked timidly. 

He blinked lamely. “Because we had time.” 

The poor girl nodded, apologising for the time and allowing the team to wrap up — Price leaving the room with a sigh. His watch read seven twenty, something he tsked at as bullshit before passing the nurses station. Though, not without attention. “John.” 

“Hmm?” He looked up, brows furrowed like always. His scrubs covered in blood spats. “What.” 

Non. Fucking. Stop.

“Your SHO is here.” His eyes then trailed to you, stood with fear plastered across your face and arms tight to your chest. “Tough delivery?” She batted her eyelashes at him, making you feel like an involuntary voyeur.

“Tough paperwork?” He replied sharply, leaning back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Where’s Mike?” Eyes giving your entire frame a once over as if determining your worth right there and then. 

“Behind you.” She scoffed.

“Great.” Price turned, gesturing two hands Mike’s way for you to wander to. Much like a baby taking their first unsure steps. Though, Mike had already taken off by that point and John sighed, hands placed on his hips before looking back at you. 

“S’fine, I can just—“

Though your sentence was cut by nerves. 

Nerves and not the six foot something man before you who stood like a disappointed parent. Not that you knew where you were going with those four words anyway. “You’re the SHO, correct?” There was a crease in his brow, one that cropped up upon your bland nod. “Follow me.” He sounded and seemed physically pained by your presence, walking away down a long stretch of corridor that you swallowed at. 

Your previous hospital, while being in the center of London, was small. Surprisingly so with the amount of foot traffic that would tumble through the rotating doors every day. You’d supposed to have lucked out with that, finding your feet in one of the only central hospitals to grant you a minute in the day to fucking practice what was taught. 

Everywhere else seemed a free-for-all. 

Price pushed open a door and leant against it till you had caught up. “Sorry.” Though he shrugged, pulling his foot back and letting it slam against the wood after you had entered. 

“Scrub room.” He gestured, rubbing a finger on his upper lip for a second before turning to you. “Brats and Twats, aren’t you?” 

“Excuse me?”

“Obs and Gynae.” His face couldn’t convey nonchalance anymore than it did. If anything, you could trade the word for uncaring but that wasn’t as strong. His arm dropped back down to his side, cutting the silence you had created at the thought. 

For god given embarrassment, words refused you and Price nodded. “I read it.” A beat, cocking his head at your daze. “On your transfer form.” 

You were out of your element. Which was to be expected, sheepishly following him around after changing into scrubs. Price seemed important, that was easily gathered by his white coat and the nods he received in the hallway, his calm yet demanding tone, the seriousness in his brow and the way he offered little to no emotion in place of sarcasm. It all pointed to vanity if nothing else. 

He was doing a walk around of labour ward when you had paused to peer into a room. The sound of screaming was usual, though the open door and team of doctors around one bed was something that caught your attention. Price shifted from behind you, “How many have you delivered?”

You turned to face him, faltering at his stare. Words barely stuttering from your lip, something perhaps a child would get away with. “None.” It felt embarrassing to say amidst the chaos. “I- I never had the chance.” Seemingly grasping at straws to defend yourself under Price’s weighted eyes. 

“You’ll get a chance.” He said firmly, pulling his lip upward after leaning to view the patient room. “See one, fuck one up, teach one.” Your brows collapsed at his statement after he had begun to walk away again. 

“You’re not going to help?” 

He shook his head. “They’re fine.” 

John had discarded you to the nurses after that. Retreating back to his office to put together not only a schedule but also a mental plan, accepting the fact that you were now his responsibility. Subsequently, you would also now be one of the best doctors in his service. It wasn’t a choice. 

You were now a passion project for him. Of sorts. 

He’d been busy most of the morning. Darting between sectors and floors without a break of any sort, though you’d come to learn from the nurses that Price doesn’t take breaks. Some hadn’t seen him eat in the five years they had been here. 

Fuck that you said, taking someone’s orange and leaning on the nurses desk. Food was not escaping you. “He’s always been like that.” The head midwife, Joanna, would nod upon chatting about Price. Her eyes followed him and his glare. “Morning, John.”

“Mhm..” 

“Can I ask you something?” She ticked off a few scribbled ward rounds on her clipboard, shoving it to the counter beside her. 

Price stood with his arms crossed to check the measly whiteboard of the ward, one that held all patient information in a shit spreadsheet way. You’d never seen someone look so miserable, the wrinkles around his eyes were rare for the occasional smile, but a permanent crease existed between his brows. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

“Personal.”

“Even worse.”

You watched from the side, rolling your orange across the counter. The only chance you’d get to eat in the next nine hours. “Must be hard, eh?” She placed a hand on her hip. “Being such an arsehole.” 

Price gave her a stiff laugh, his eyes catching yours over her shoulder. “Remember to remove the hard, shiny layer on the outside.” He nodded toward your fruit, arms expressionlessly dropped to his sides. “Need any help doing that?” Should’ve stuck to a fucking apple, maybe it’d have kept him away too.

“Point and case.” Joanna looked at him, flicking through a few pages of her discarded clipboard. “Can you check on room sixteen? I'm concerned she’s making slow progress.” 

He sighed, taking all of four steps before he had paused to stare back at you. “Let’s go, kid.” 

You ditched the orange, finding a mental note to mark that you had left it by the printer. John cleared his throat, lifting an arm to check the watch for what seemed like the hundredth time today. “Why’d you keep checking the time?”

“Time is important.” He began, “Tell me the time without looking at your watch.” 

You shrugged and he tapped the side of his nose, pushing the door open with a grand sigh once you had reached the room. “See one, fuck one up, teach one.”

“Now?” At your pointed emphasis of the adverb, Price tilts his head, watching the redness fill your cheeks. He struggled to understand how you hadn’t been given a chance to deliver yet. 

It was barely two hours into your first shift and he was already throwing you in deep. You sensed a potential pattern, “I told you you’d get a chance.” 

Fuck. 

comfortably numb by pink floyd. this’ll be a series of five or so parts, unsure yet, might take it to ao3 instead.

i’m still figuring out how i want to write this world and the characters so give it a chance, the second part’ll probably be better. + one or two nicked jokes from medical tv shows🤺

it’s unedited btw i gotta work but i’ll edit later or smth

as always always, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated for boosts. if no one pats me on the head every now and then i’ll sit in a hole.

any and all cod characters taglist: @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @luvfromkat @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @bloobewy @lazybutsmexy @mistydeyes @dilfdotgov @sofasoap @bubbyblob

[bubblegumbarbie33]

The way people will stand so proudly and defend Frank Gallagher with all their hearts, talking about how funny and #craaazy he is and then absolutely SHIT on Monica and act as if she was the downfall of Frank. Like. I'm sorry? That man can make his own decisions. At any point he could have been like- hey, I can't do this with you anymore Mon, I need to leave you. Or. OR! HEAR ME OUT! ENCOURAGED HER TO TAKE HER MEDS AND SEEK HELP INSTEAD OF FOCUSING ON HIS OWN SELFISH DESIRES.

Because of the two of them, Monica has a diagnosable mental illness which explains a lot of her "crazy" behavior. Does that excuse said behavior? Absolutely not- because even when she's in a 'good' place (still off of her meds, because I can't remember a time in the show where she consistently took them) she cracks under the pressure of taking care of the kids that she chose to have, tries to take a baby, enables one of her children that shares her mental illness, neglects them, and then leaves them a shit ton of cocaine to deal with when she dies.

But you know what Frank did? Murdered someone. Remember Butterface? (What a lovely name.) Remember how HE GOT A CALL ABOUT THE HEART THAT COULD SAVE HER LIFE, AND THEN DID NOTHING??? REMEMBER HOW HE THEN AGREED TO KILL HER IN AN ACT THAT WOULD BRING HER DEATH AND HIM PLEASURE???

Remember when he lost his son in a bet? Remember when he just generally treated his kids like shit for their entire lives? Remember when he actively tried to re-traumatize Sheila and reignite her mental health struggles?

Remember when he called CPS on his own kids???

Or how about using his SON'S SPERM TO IMPREGNATE A WOMAN????

Or when he uses his kids names on all of his cards and put them into debt for the rest of their lives! :D

Did Monica traumatize her kids? Absolutely. Did Monica neglect her kids? Completely. Did Monica also fuck off for a majority of the series, so we don't get a full picture of her life or the things that she's done? Yes! Was Monica also being enabled in this problematic behavior by the same narcissistic addict that every red-pilled ego-maniacal dude-bro on reddit worships? YES! :D

But, y'know, Monica's just a crazy bitch who ruined Frank's life, and Frank is a silly little boy just looking to get by :p

[wheelie-sick]

People are acting like disabled people with adhd like? don’t exist? News flash: we do and are well aware that adhd can be debilitating but it is not going to KILL YOU. For context my conditions are not life threatening but they make life extremely difficult. I would consider my pain meds necessary to exist and they’re what allow me to LIVE but I won’t die without them and I can recognize the difference. I can only imagine that’s what some of these people are trying to relate adhd to but it comes across like they just do not truly understand and I think they’re largely lacking perspective here. No one is saying that adhd medications are not important but they are not critical. And it’s not because they’re related to mental health- personally I would rank antidepressants as much more necessary than stimulants and there’s an argument to be had for antidepressants being life saving- but adhd just isn’t that?

yes! I keep getting people assuming that I must not have ADHD (despite it being in my bio) or must not have severe ADHD and that clearly I "just don't understand what it's like" but it's actually entirely possible to have a life threatening physical disability and severe ADHD simultaneously.

though to be completely honest I wouldn't even call my medication for bipolar 1 life saving. bipolar 1 has nearly killed me (several times!) but it's just not the same as my lupus medication which prevents guaranteed death. people survive without bipolar medication but people do not survive without lupus medication

[homkamiro]

I LOVE THE TF2 MLP AU SM. it gives me sm nostalgia to when i was a kid and i and everyone in the fandom made pony aus of franchises we liked- im so happy cringe is dead and tradition is alive 🥹

ALSO THE INFECTION AU POST. GOOD SHIT;!;!!!!!!!!!! gore and body horror are inseparable from (hopefully only the mature part of) the mlp fandom and i felt so giddy jumping for joy kicking my feet up seeing that it had a resurgence!! Your post of this au with your tf2 ponies was my introduction to it!!! Nature is healinggggg

That post is BOMB. WE GOT: 1) HEAVYMEDIC ANGST. 2) PYRO & ENGIE ANGST. 3) BOOTS & BOMBS ANGST. 4) DADSPY ANGST. 5) SNIPER ANGST. ITS GIVING💅🏽💅🏽💅🏽 and the way the disease spreads differently for all of them is so creative!!!!!! Engie wants to sever the infected body part but cant cus its on his back and he needs medics help for that (and med is way too far gone to do any operation), and scout doesn't want his wings severed even tho that would save him cus he still wants to fly!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

also soldier misinterpreting the request is so good. And pyro wanting to help but not being allowed to cus they'd try to burn engie. Demo drinking himself to death cus he cant handle seeing his friend in the state that he's in. Sniper disappearing cus he wants to be with his parents during this horrible time even tho they have a strained relationship. Spy wanting his son to live through this so much that he's planning to sever his wings himself. And heavyyyyyy. Heavy breaking his heart everyday still taking care of medic knowing he's going to have to kill the love of his life soon. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Anyways sorry for fuckin. Screaming in your asks and basically just repeating what you wrote sgjdjd. I just really love this au (and especially that comic with scout, medic and engie!!!) and the infection au post made me so nostalgic to the early days of the mlp fandom that the adhd went mental and i had to shout about it lol- feel free to not respond to this! Youre awesome! Keep doing you!!!!!!

(also youre really good at drawing gore????? Hello teach me pls)

WHAT A BIG FEEDBACK OHMYGODヽ⁠(⁠(⁠◎⁠д⁠◎⁠)⁠)⁠ゝ

Anyway I'm really super puper glad you liked my au!! I was a little hesitant to post it, since AU in AU sounds weird but I'm glad I thought otherwise - cringe culture should be dead!! Mix your hyperfixations it's good for your health!!!

AND AHHHHGGGGGH You noticed so many details thankyouuu🥺💗💗💗The best thing about this AU is that every ship and brotp can work so well in this story. Engie first helping Medic but then ending up being also infected??? Spy checking up on Engie and making him eat since he's too stressed to take a break??? Demo, Heavy and Pyro comforting each other after loosing their friends??? Spy and Scout both raging on Sniper for leaving like a coward??? Or maybe Heavy, as an earth pony, comforts Scout after he just got his wings amputated??? So many possibilities!!

Don't worry, I love when people are noticing all the details and just get,, really invested into my stuff, it really brings me joy and you made my day so much better!!🥺🥺I feel honestly a little insecure, since my pony designs and thoughts may not be the best, but I'm glad that so many people still like my mlp×tf2 stuff!! It's really endearing to know that finally something I like making is also likable to you!

About gore -- I have no idea😭I love gore but it's a pain to draw properly and scary, you'd need practice and references (I mostly use art references since yknow,,,real photos can make me sick)

[vorenado-m]

happy disability pride month! please consider helping me take back my life as a disabled person!

the TL;DR is that for the last 3 months i have had an absolutely soul-sucking miserable minimum wage retail job that, due to the way scheduling works (and the app being broken as fuck) has prevented me from having access to literally any of the life-saving mental health/medical care i need as a disabled person.

my disability is best managed through a combination of medication, therapy, and casework-- not a single one of which i have had since march! :) contextually, up until i got this job, i took three daily medications and had casework once a week and therapy once or sometimes twice a week. these services are offered at an affordable cost to me through a local organization that is threatening to close my case due to lack of participation.

ill make another, more detailed post later with some of the services i can offer for money (i draw! i code! i write!) but until then here is a code you can scan if you have a few dollars to spare:

there are more details beneath the cut (idk about you guys but im kinda nosy so i wrote some more stuff in case anyone else is also nosy) but thats the gist of it. you can also always ask for details. i dont have a therapist right now so it might feel good to say things.

my plan is as follows: i would like to take the month of july more or less "off" from work to get my affairs in order, starting with scheduling appointments for therapy and casework and getting back on my meds. i am actively looking for a job, but i would like the ability to be somewhat picky instead of applying everywhere i think might have me for the sake of having money coming in to pay rent.

for the last two years i have made less than $800/mo and i can survive on roughly $600-$650 a month. my july rent ($550) is paid and my august rent (at least $500) is most likely also squared away, through a combination of some cash i was hoarding, a previous donation, my last expected paychecks from my current job, and my brother generously offering to cover whatever is left over. the extra $100ish is for roughly a months supply of the food that is part of my daily routine that i get cranky without (i have tea every morning, for instance.)

i have a fantastic roommate who is not struggling as much financially who will do everything in her power to make sure i have access to staple foods (rice, eggs, etc) so i really just need to buy the things only i consume (kimchi, milk, etc.) there is a food bank i go to, so i am not worried about food, but i can only go to it once per month. we have a barter system where i trade her the things i dont want from the food bank and she buys me things i will eat; alternatively, i sometimes give her things i get from the food bank (eg meat) that she turns into meals for both of us.

i live independently/"alone" with roommates and do not have support from my family pretty much at all. they have never been particularly useful for emotional support and have openly denied me financial support since i was a teenager. moving in with them/getting help from them/talking to them is not an option.

i have emailed my caseworker at the mental health organization i work with as well as my caseworker with the disability vocational program i work with to help me find a new job that is "back of house" and requires less customer interaction. i did this over the weekend, so i expect to hear back from them sometime this week. in the meantime, i am searching for jobs on my own in places like indeed, jobhat, careerbuilder, etc. as well as checking company websites of places like chain grocery stores to see what is available in my area.

my job pool is a bit limited due to the fact that i cannot drive (due to both my disability and the medication im supposed to be taking for it) but i am very well-versed at taking the bus, which is free. getting to and from work is not a concern for me; it is being able to do the job without being driven to the edge of a mental breakdown that is the problem.

the disability vocational program is my ticket out of poverty! last month i had a follow-up evaluation (i had to call out of work for it, but frankly i was at the end of my rope then too) where they approved my career goals as a web developer and we are in the process of deciding what my next steps are! the program will likely (depending on what route i take) help pay for vocational training, too, but i obviously have to pay rent while in training. which i think i can do if i have a job that doesnt make me want to die.

i have some other things that make my life a bit harder (im mixed race, i am nonbinary + gay, etc) but i would say those things dont really impact my ability to get a job as much as the disability does LOL which is why i did not feature them prominently in this post. like, the reason i cant get a job isnt because people dont want to hire me because i have blue hair and pronouns, its because im obviously disabled.

if you have any other questions, no matter how intrusive you think they might be, feel free to send a DM or an ask, and i will try to answer.