#my baby fever is very intense for a bitch who's in her first year of college

[atsoomi]

Kuroo who's incredibly good with kids because he matches their childishness and entertains their antics, and shows off how tall he is and how he can carry several of them at once; the kids are always in awe of how big and strong he is and he eats it up, turning around to you to repeat what they say with a smug grin. Kuroo who loves helping random kids because they're so small and fragile in his hands that his paternal instincts immediately kick in. Kuroo who enjoys telling his nieces and nephews stories every time he visits his sister, and tucking them into bed before he leaves. Kuroo whose hormones kick in every time he sees you carrying a baby, seeing you coo at the baby as they let out a string of angelic giggles, thinking about how much he wants to give you one of your own.

[padawansuggest]

Listen. You guys know how lately (mostly in an attempt to get back to writing and writing things that genuinely feel self indulgent and soothing) I’ve been writing for old posts I made on here a lot lately?

Yeah okay so often times my ideas evolve so don’t take this too intensely. But. AU where Obi-Wan left the order to be a ballerina with a professional troop when she was around 18. She’s been going to a mega fancy school on Coruscant that only gets the best dancers since she was 13 and was invited in after she became Qui-Gon’s Padawan. Just imagine Qui-Gon waiting for her to get out of class with other nannies and parents waiting for their kids that’s SO funny to me.

Now, the change happens that they knew there was unrest in the senate and Obi-Wan said ‘okay this is actually the perfect chance to get spying on the right people’ so her and her new troop (which slowly become battle partners over the years like Padme’s handmaidens) leave and search people out. She ‘cuts ties’ with the Jedi under the guise of leaving the order. She doesn’t actually but Qui-Gon (also female along with Anakin being a girl too) becomes her only contact other than Feemor (best big sister ever) because Obi-Wan puts up a front of leaving to pursue being a dancer, not leaving as a separation from the Jedi, and Qui-Gon legally adopted her to keep close to her. They see each other often and after she gets Ani she becomes baby sister af.

Anyways. Fast forward around 15 years later (at least maybe a few more) and the Empire has officially been installed for about 7 years now (Obi was right and that’s why the Jedi knew to get out of the republic before it fell, so they are safely ensconced on the edge of Mandalorian space) and Obi-Wan’s cover has been blown and she’s gotta get back to the Jedi’s official new temple. Unfortunately she gets separated from her troop along the way and is pretty fucking traumatized and beat to hell by the time she makes it to Keldabe, one of the places she was able to get closest to Jedi space.

Anyways. She gets there and Jango (not-so-young prince of Mandalore, father to like 17 kids by cloners by now, absolutely big brother af because Jaster adopted Satine and Bo-Katan -and Arla when they found her- after Adonai died) finds her in absolutely torn clothes and looking fairly lost in the universe. First of all, the fact that she managed to make it about 6 blocks away from the loading docks is impressive cause any Mando worth their armor would have seen her and tried to drag her off to the medics by now, but she’s very traumatized and keeps running off.

Jango manages to get a hold of her by simply siding up to her like nothings wrong and offering her arm and ‘would you like to see the palace, verd’e?’ And Obi-Wan is sorta shocked but not only Jedi training, but also her time as a high class dancer for imps (like I know Visions just put this basic plot out but I had it years ago so it’s more inspirational than copying okay) and royals for the past decade and a half, kicks in and she lets Jango drag her back home like a cat who keeps collecting kittens. He just finds girls and brings them home to drop on Jaster’s lap like ‘here I heard ur bitch ass got baby fever, take this’ and giving himself new baby sisters. He loves it.

A million sons and baby sisters in droves. That’s all he needs.

Anyways. They get back, Obi is subjected to very annoying medical attention, Jango is horrified at she wounds and such, but then they hit another wall. Obi won’t get into the new clothes they keep trying to give her!!! Plz ur dress is torn and you barely have a thin robe covering you!

They gently corral her into a room with four suits of pure Beskar armor sitting in each corner so it blocks out the sound, while Jango is ranting at Jaster and Arla about how to get her calmed down. She’s already stolen two blasters! Admittedly, she also has her own sabers, so the call to Qui-Gon (who she gave the comm number for and didn’t give a name, just said that’s Mama) sort of just confirmed that it wasn’t so much protection as a safety blanket layover from Melida|Daan that she gets when she starts to panic.

So Qui-Gon is coming out with a team to come get her and informed her troop where their wayward idiot has gotten off to, and Jango is now faced with a new concern. Where is the toddler??? His three year old baby boy Kote??? Where’s the baby??

So. Obviously. Cody wandered off to go see the pretty lady with sad eyes and nice hair. Jango finds him curled up in Obi-Wan’s lap while she rocks him a little, helping him with his preschool learners book. She’s very patient with him, and more relaxed than she’s been in months. Jango lights up like a lightbulb and runs off, getting Boba and Omega’s bassinet to bring into the room and politely asks Obi-Wan to watch over them. She happily does so, calming down and giving many gentle kisses.

She’s still ignoring the new clothes they keep trying to get on her.

Finally, Satine and Bo get home, and ask what’s up. Satine thinks the girl is very pretty and nice looking. Cody might have to fight her cause he saw her first and that’s his future wife! Satine also thinks the same.

Satine goes off to her room and pulls out the most SCANDALOUS outfit possible. A short tee shirt and waist high exercise shorts! What the fuck Satine, who said you could dress like that??? Satine has never rolled her eyes so hard as when she explains she wears the shorts on top of her tights while exercising cause they have pockets and stuff. Okay, that’s more okay. Mandos don’t just!!! Show skin like that!!!!

Obi-Wan is given the clothes, and then further scandalizes the whole fam by stripping down right then and there in front of everyone and god and the fucking Mandalore to put on the new clothes. She’s much happier and goes back to cuddling Omega, while Cody quietly (loudly) asks Jango where Obi’s peepee is. Amazing.

Anyways. By the time Qui-Gon gets there, she’s willing to give partial custody of her baby to the Mandos for getting her cleaned up and soothed and handing her babies (Qui-Gon always sorta thought her girl might have ended up a nursery worker if not a ballerina lol) and getting her comfy and stuff. They took very good care of her traumatized girl but now she’s panicking when she’s asked if Obi is always that quiet. No. She in fact, is not a quiet girl! Oh shit!

She finally calms down the most and starts talking again when her dance troop gets there to coddle her a little, her dance troop who all have weaponry and protective armor and the Mandos respect that much more than Obi’s scandalous little dresses and stuff. Offensive.

But. I wrote this entire post to say. Mandos don’t show much skin, if any. And Jedi, will easily strip down in front of crowds. Cause it means nothing to them tbh. And Cody is wondering where her peepee is.

[phoenixyfriend]

SW Suddenly-Omegaverse AU: Surrogacy, Worldbuilding, Obi-Mom

Truly the main irony of all this is that everyone considers Obi-Wan the Better Omega but Anakin is the one who's actually 👀👀👀 about pregnancy

Obi-Wan: I have the deepest respect for those who do it, but the idea of growing another person inside of me is weird and gross, no, thank you.

Meanwhile Anakin is like. Immediate baby fever. Someone actually approaches him like "hey... there are forms you can fill out to request an exception for pregnancy, and like... regulations" because he's that obvious about it.

I assume that if they've got safety nets for accidental pregnancies, then they're probably aware that there are people who want to do it on purpose? I feel like in an omegaverse where 'biological imperative to procreate' can be so much more intense, then maybe there's old precedent that stuck around even after suppressants got most of those hormones under better control.

Bit torn. Just know I want Anakin to Make Baby.

"Anakin, what are you--" "Do you think offering to be someone's surrogate would be acceptable to the council as a way to be pregnant without getting attached." "...what." "They'd probably accept that as a way to practice not getting attached, right?" "N...no, that's not... what?"

Anakin approaching Bail and Breha and being like “Do you... still want a kid? I would provide a kid. Do you want one here*?”

* in this dimension

Great way to give up the baby as a parent because he'd still be able to see them once in a while but also like... it's not HIS kid, technically. He can be a cool uncle who happened to give birth, which is distant enough to not be 'attached,' but close enough that his Tatooine-raised 'must ensure family is safe whenever possible' background doesn't flip out. It helps that 'Core World Royalty' is like... a top-tier family to be raised in.

(It would have to be post-war because he probably shouldn’t be risking his life while very pregnant. He needs to be reminded of that sometimes.)

Bail/Breha is an alpha/alpha relationship and while a pregnancy is still possible,* it’s a whole lot more difficult, and that's on top of Breha's canon medical issues that resulted in her heart and lungs getting replaced.

* AFAB alphas can get pregnant, and AMAB omegas can inseminate, but the success rate on that angle is much lower than the 'traditional' alpha/omega roles, as is any attempt at reproduction outside rut/heat. They're low-fertility overall for the non-dominant aspect of their reproductive system, which... ha, Anakin and Obi-Wan try to get explanations for why the senary system works the way it does, but it's a very longform history lesson that comes down to 'idk this got cemented so long ago that nobody really knows why anymore.'

AKA "why do you title these roles male omega and female alpha instead of intersex omega and intersex alpha since both parties have both genitals."

ANYWAY

Anakin: I want to make babies. But I don't want to get kicked out of the order. But I don't want to give up my own babies for adoption. But I can't keep my own babies if I want to stay a Jedi. So basically I want to have someone else's babies? Anakin: ...wait shit that's just surrogacy.

Anakin, calling up Obi-Wan: Hey are the Organas still struggling to have a kid? Obi-Wan: ...not really your business. Anakin: You're friends with Bail again though, right? Obi-Wan: I am, but-- Anakin: Do you think they'd want me to be a surrogate? Obi-Wan: What.

I can't decide if it's funnier for the Order to be like "I mean... technically there's no rules against this?" or if this is a precedent set by at least three omegas every generation because that's just how a/b/o manifested for omegas in a biological and cultural sense.

Bail: Wait, your former apprentice is... volunteering... to be our surrogate. Obi-Wan, exhausted: Yes. Bail: He barely knows us. Obi-Wan: He respects you and you're the closest people he knows that want a child and would be good parents. Bail: And he's just... volunteering? Obi-Wan: Yes. Also, you did say your primary worry was that a surrogate might be targeted for assassination and you couldn't ask someone to risk that, right? Anakin is very much able to avoid assassins, and would be staying primarily in the Temple anyway. Very safe, and not particularly scared of assassins in the first place. Bail: Your words say you approve, but your tone says otherwise. Obi-Wan: Anakin considers me his father. I'm not old enough to be a grandparent. Bail: Ah.

Anakin is a surrogate and enjoys it and everything is fine and then like a year later he's accidentally pregnant with his own and Rex's kid, and nobody knows how to ask if it's actually an accident.

A suggestion from @gelpenss:

OH MAN i.... have to drive home. But I just had a thought about like. I always want to poke at Betas in A/B/O like are they “normal” or different from our standard or.... but ANYWAY assuming they have a pheromonal thing I just think it would be neat if betas had the ability to be the Bucket of Cold Water. Like if caught early enough, and with the caveat it’s not permanent, a beta could arrest a rut or heat in its tracks until a more ideal time. Like. They aren’t birth control. But they are the remind me later button.

Okay done driving I am Returned to bring up why I brought up betas and it’s this: well okay 1. It plays nice with a popular but inaccurate dog breeding urban legend that female dogs will like, delay heat cycles? so that the bitches above them in pack hierarchy have first choice of mate selection. And I think in omegaverse it would be cool if that was a Bio Fact, and also historically enforced by the third designation. 2. It gives me an excuse to have betas have the Most Sensitive sense of smell because it’s their “job” to pick up on things before they go too far to be put on pause. 3. I’m just thinkin ‘bout a beta clone [...] just hovering around Obi-Wan because they found out how much stress his heat cycle causes and they’re like “okay cool I will help make sure it does Not”

I want to like a/b/o verses but betas niggle at me. I want to give them a hat and a Function that woulda helped before modern medicine.

I'm not sure how I feel about betas being able to delay heats, but I do like the idea of them having a more sensitive sense of pheromone smell than most. Most aliens assume it's omegas with the best sense of smell, and betas with the worst, but it's more complicated than that because they all specialize: Alphas are actually less attuned to pheromone smells, but more attuned to things that were useful back when humans were still a hunter-gatherer species. Omegas tend to be heightened towards danger smells like fire or aggression, and pheromones relating to children/care. Betas, as suggested above, are very sensitive to pheromone changes relating to mood and behavior of the community around them.

I like the idea that betas were historically the ones that ended up taking care children, unmated omegas, and so on during people's heats and ruts, because they kept their heads about themselves long enough to do things like cook and clean while someone was reeking of hormones. The checks and balances work out that betas may have lower fertility, but it makes them better able to support the network around them.

It works in with humanity's general collective history of thriving the most when working as a community.

Given that I decided that this is Jangobi, the clones might all subconsciously view Obi-Wan as Mom. Not intentionally, but, you know... Obi-Wan the not-evil stepmother. He doesn't know how he got into this situation, but he sure is here, and he sure as hell doesn't know how to get out.

Obi-Wan "I don't need to get pregnant, I have three million stepchildren" Kenobi

I definitely love "clones all want to make Obi-Wan's heats less stressful" but like in a different way from Whatever The Fuck Anakin's Got Going On.

Obi-Wan using the force to dull the pain in a Shiny's broken leg while the medic works on it and the Shiny just mumbles "Thanks mom" and everyone gets very embarrassed and pretends it didn't happen.

But then it happens again. And again.

Obi-Wan asks for an explanation from Cody and gets a halting response that, since Jango is technically their father, and his scent has been all over Obi-Wan recently... and Obi-Wan puts in a lot of effort to take care of them all.......

Anakin overhears the clones calling Obi-Wan "mom" and just. The most judgmental eyebrow raise.... Mostly in the sense of "You never let me call you dad" "Thought you said you weren't anyone's parent." "Hey, hey, Obi-Wan. What the fuck."

BOBA. BOBA ABSOLUTELY CALLS OBI-WAN MOM WHENEVER POSSIBLE. IT'S DEEPLY FRUSTRATING.

Obi-Wan eventually manages to admit that he's uncomfortable with it at minimum because of the gendering the word has for him, can they at least use the neutral 'buir' instead?

Word spreads like fire, takes like two days max for everyone to switch.

(Anakin demands cuddles as compensation for not getting to call Obi-Wan any true parental term for years.)

[cagestark]

-Proxy-

Chapter One | Chapter Two

Read here on AO3.

@starkerinthepark three words babe: fucking by proxy. 

Warnings: adult!Peter, sex, sex workers, natasha/peter, peter omc (but don’t worry, starker is endgame always). 

-

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks.

It pulls Tony from his work, head coming up to blink owlishly at the kid. Peter sits at a table across the room, textbooks from his classes at NYU spread out along the table littered with pencils and papers, though it has all been pushed aside so the kid can plant his elbow on the table and lean on it, staring off into space (the space that just happens to be in Tony’s general direction). “What is it, Pete?”

“When did you have your first kiss?”

Tony thinks, stretching his mind back. “I was twelve. So, ’82, ’83.”

“Twelve?”

“What?”

“Well, isn’t that a little young?”

Tony smiles wryly. “I did everything a little young. You could say I was quite—ah—advanced for my age. Why?”

“I still haven’t had mine.”

Tony shrugs. He hunches back over and pick up the soldering pen, nudging the blazing tip at the copper wires. His hands are shaking, something about the kid’s admission. He’s nineteen years old, and still no first kiss? Tony’s no judge of normality, but it does seem a little delayed. Still, he’s not one to shame someone else for their sexual activities (or lack thereof). “Everyone moves at their own pace, kid. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I feel like I’m missing out,” Peter admits. He picks up a pencil and twirls it between his long fingers—why is Tony watching the kid’s hands when he’s holding a goddamn soldering iron? God, Tony’s distractible mind is going to get him burned. Literally. Worse: figuratively. “Everyone at university talks about their hook-ups and stuff. It sounds like…”

“Like?” Tony prods. Just like how he prods the wires.

“Like I’m missing out.”

“On sex.”

Peter’s face flushes—look down, Tony, Christ. “I mean—yeah? But I’m so far away from that. Like, so, so far. I mean, I did kiss a girl once, but it was like—” Peter puckers his lips, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Tony is obliged to look, he contents himself with that knowledge. Freckles dust the kid’s nose, and he looks so painfully childish. It’s endearing, even if it makes some part of his stomach churn, like he’s swallowed one too many cocktails made of one-part perversion and two parts disgust. Shaken, not stirred.

“Find a girl—”

“Or guy,” Peter chimes, helpfully.

“Or a guy—or a non-binary babe, and french them. That’s all it takes.”

“Believe it or not, not many people are jumping at the chance to like, make out with me, Mr. Stark,” Peter mutters. He twirls the pencil too much and it slips from between his fingers and skids off the table. Smooth.

Tony sits down the soldering pen. He studies the kid—hard. Peter has clear skin for a boy still clinging to his teen years. His eyes are gold like a glass of whiskey left to sit in the sunshine, the brows flat and a little unruly. He’s got curls which are adorable. All in all, a very sincere and baby-faced young man. Tony can see why the girls and boys at university might not look at the kid and want to jump into bed with him. The priorities of young people these days are different.

Jesus, Tony sounds like an old man. He feels like an even older (dirtier) old man when he thinks about how those things don’t change Peter’s attractiveness to him at all. The face might be babyish, but the jawline is cut. He knows from sparring in the gym and passing each other in the Avengers’ locker room that the kid has an eight-pack that most people his age would kill for. Beyond all that, he knows Peter, knows the kid’s heart, the generosity, the warmth, the bravery.

“Most people are stupid,” Tony says much too honestly. “Anyone would be lucky to be with you, Pete.”

Peter’s face lights up. Tony scrambles for the soldering pen. He needs all the excuses he can get to avoid looking at that handsome, joyful face. Peter asks: “Do you mean that? I mean, do you really think so?”

Tony makes a noise that he hopes conveys everything reasonable and acceptable that the kid wants to hear.

“I just think if I had some practice, I don’t know, maybe I could reel someone in.”

“If I look up and you’re really pretending to reel in a fishing rod, I’m going to throw you out of my lab,” Tony mutters, squinting at the wires. When he glances up, it’s just in time to see Peter lowering his hands demurely to his lap, eyes far too wide for him to have been doing anything but pretending so. Tony shakes his head, snorting. “You’ve found the paradox. To attract somebody, you need practice. To practice, you need somebody. The absolute woes—Thank God I’m not nineteen anymore.”

“You’re Tony Stark,” Peter says, and Tony can hear him rolling his eyes just from the tone of his voice. “I doubt you had any of these troubles when you were nineteen. Or, like, ever.”

Tony’s lips fight not to smile. “You might be right. Okay, so, attraction. Practice. Let’s brainstorm some solutions—”

“Do you think Steve would kiss me?”

Okay—Tony burns himself. The wound cauterizes instantly at least, which is nice, but it stings like a son of a bitch. Tucking the throbbing thumb into his mouth, he shuts down the soldering pen because obviously he can’t be trusted around both Peter and dangerous machinery. The words Peter spoke bang around in his head like a quarter in a washing machine.

“Steve who?” Tony asks.

Peter presses his thin lips together. He drops his eyes to the pencil he’d retrieved from the floor, twirling it anxiously between his fingers. “You know. Steve—um—Cap-Captain America?”

“You want to make out with Captain America.”

“Or Thor. I could do Thor—kiss Thor! Oh my god. I could kiss Thor.”

“Am I in a fever dream?” Tony asks. He makes a show of pinching himself. “FRIDAY, am I have a stroke?”

“Not that I can detect, boss,” his girl says, unhelpfully.

“Well find me a stroke, FRI, so that I can have it. ASAP.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter groans, dropping his face into his hands. “Stop. You’re making fun of me.”

“Making—? I’m not making fun of you. This is me being traumatized at the thought of Steve doing anything more PG than holding hands.”

“I just—I thought maybe a more experienced person—friend, I mean. I thought maybe they’d be willing to help me out. You know. Take one for the team.” The kid looks so miserable that Tony feels his heart squeeze. With that look on his face, Peter could ask anything of him, and Tony would bend over backwards, alter timelines, break his own moral code to give it to him.

But Peter didn’t ask him.

“Kid. Peter—I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s a good idea, I think. But Steve probably doesn’t have as much experience as you’d like, and Thor is on Asgard. We’re only supposed to summon him under threat of galactic peril.”

The intensity of Peter’s stare makes Tony feel like there’s a joke he’s missing out on. It isn’t a feeling he’s privy too, often, and thank God he’s not, because it makes his skin prickle uncomfortably. “Well then what are my other options, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, eyes wide and guileless.

Tony swallows. “Let me—give me ten minutes.”

-

“I don’t know whether to be offended or honored,” Natasha says, lounging on Tony’s sofa. She’s dressed in casual clothes, a t-shirt maybe best for sparring, yoga pants and fuzzy socks, because she always has cold feet. Always. She looks beautiful, stunning, sensual in the lazy way she lays against the dark leather, but Tony knows that’s just instinct to her. It’s not for his benefit.

Peter stands behind Tony, one hand tangled into his curls and tugging on them anxiously.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Tony says. “Because I’d say honored—I mean—”

“Stop talking, Tony,” she says, lips twitching.

“I would,” says Tony. “But I really do want to explain my choice to Peter.”

Natasha waves a hand magnanimously, even as her eyebrows raise, the picture of honed skepticism.

“Pete, we’ve got a handful of Avengers on the continent, so Natasha immediately gets a point for proximity. She’s—and I swear to God, under threat of torture I will deny having said this—but she’s got the biggest heart of all of us. Even if she says no, I knew she wouldn’t laugh you out of house and home, and she wouldn’t spread it around for gossip’s sake. Also, I have it on good authority that Natasha has never been bad at anything in her life, so more than likely, she’s going to suck your brain out from between your teeth.”

“If she says yes,” Peter says.

After which, they both turn toward her. She looks surprisingly moved (let it be known that Tony can give quite the stirring speech when moved to). Behind her pale eyes, Tony can see the cogs of her brain churning, always churning. Her glance flickers between them several times, and her lips are curving, curving, and Tony has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach—

“You’ve overlooked one thing,” Natasha says.

“What’s that?”

She flicks a finger at Tony. “You have the Avenger most skilled orally right there. Why isn’t Tony helping you?”

It’s—yeah. It’s worse than Tony imagined it could be. Not that it isn’t a question he hasn’t asked himself twenty times during the brief call he made asking her to meet them up in his penthouse. Behind him, Peter makes a noise that Tony can’t translate from teenager to English. It sounds a little horrified which shouldn’t offend Tony as much as it does. Then again, Tony feels a lot of things for Peter that he shouldn’t these days.

“Because he didn’t ask me,” Tony says. Let the room make of that what it will. Everyone holds their breath, a stare-down of epic proportions taking place, a duel with no guns, they’ve met at high noon outside the saloon doors and all Tony wants to do is hop on his horse and ride off into the painted sunset. But he can’t. Because Peter asked for his help, and he can’t tell the kid no.

“Alright,” Natasha says at length. She shifts to the farthest couch cushion and pats the space next to her. “Come here, Peter.”

Peter looks far younger than his age of nineteen when he crosses the room, one shoe untied, wearing a graphic tee and skinny jeans, face redder than Tony’s suit. He’s wringing his hands even as he sits down on the couch cushion, deciding that he’s too far away and scooting closer only to second guess himself and scoot back again. The space between them is probably enough for Tony to sit—and okay, not a mental image he needs.

“Lesson one,” Natasha says seriously. “Good oral hygiene.”

“I—I figured the first lesson would be something like, don’t be nervous.”

She stares at him flatly. “You’re always going to be nervous. That lessens with 1. practice. 2. security with your partner. And 3. good oral hygiene. Does my breath stink? Can they taste what I had for lunch? Those are the last thoughts you want to be thinking when you’re trying to kiss someone. Brush regularly, and if you can, always carry gum.”

“I don’t have any gum,” Peter admits.

Natasha smiles, soft and indulging. “I do, don’t worry.”

She and Peter each takes a stick of peppermint gum, and when Natasha holds the pack out to him too, eyes glittering (“What,” she says. “It’d be rude not to offer you some as well.”) Tony realizes that it’s a little preposterous: his presence here. They don’t need him. Peter might even be more nervous with Tony watching, if the looks the kid keeps shooting him are any indication. Tony should leave. He should definitely leave.

He sits in the armchair, tucking the gum wrapper into the back pocket of his jeans.

While they chew, they make awkward small talk. Peter dodges any questions about who he might be trying to learn kissing techniques for, Tony dodges any question that make might him reveal his proclivity for the young man on the sofa, and Natasha looks like she knows everything, lips tilted upwards into a perpetual smirk. At last they all spit out their gum (not Tony, because Tony isn’t going to be kissing anyone, certainly not kissing Peter, thanks).

“Breath nice and fresh, now. Guaranteed. See how that’s one thing off your mind, now?”

Peter does look more noticeably upbeat. “Yes, you’re right. Thanks, Ms. Romanov.”

“You can call me Natasha, Peter. We’re going to get rather close. Now come here—” She urges Peter closer until their thighs are pressed together, and then their knees when she encourages him to turn towards her. “Lesson two, where to put your hands.”

She takes his hand—Peter has very nice hands, thin, fine boned, dexterous, so soft looking—and turning his hand to be palm up, cups her jaw with it. Peter’s fingers disappear back into her hair, and his thumb rests along the smooth skin of her cheek. Peter is holding his breath. Tony can tell, because Tony can’t take his eyes off of him.

“This is a good place to start with. It’s nice to touch your partner when kissing them, because it makes you feel more present, it makes the moment more intimate. There are—other—places you could touch them, but this one is nice and sweet and unlikely to offend someone if you’re still feeling each other out. Okay?”

Peter nods, head bobbing furiously. Tony might be holding his breath too. Who knows. Not him.

“Lesson three: caution and adaptation. You can’t hurt anything by starting off slow. You can always turn up the heat, but it isn’t as easy to dial it down, especially if you come on so strong that you turn your partner off. Listen to their cues—most people will unconsciously try to tell you want they want.

“Are you ready for the practical?”

“I—” Peter swallows. He glances at Tony, who can do nothing but shrug. “Yeah. Let’s—do it.”

Natasha matches Peter’s hold on her, reaching out to dip the tips of her fingers into those curls, to run her fingers along the strong line of his jaw and Tony finally feels it: the sourness in his stomach of jealousy, the aching desperation to be in her place. He wraps up all those emotions and tucks them into a trunk in the back of his mind, closes the trunk, and loses the key. Hopefully.

Slowly but firmly, Natasha draws them together. She kisses Peter. Their heads slant naturally to the right, and the first press is soft and chaste. They part just a hairsbreadth and then kiss again, this time their mouths just barely parted. Tony catches a flash of pink tongue (almost assuredly Natasha’s), and then Peter makes a noise from the back of his throat: a tender little whine that makes Tony swallow.

He can’t help but glance down and—oh. The kid is hard. There’s no hiding the bulge in his skinny jeans. To be honest, Tony can hardly blame him: he’s feeling a little tingly down south himself, mostly after that sweet sound the young man made. It backs up theoretical data Tony has already been compiling (from when the kid groans when he eats something particularly tasty at the Avengers’ communal dinner table to when he whines when Ned beats him at a video game on the console Tony had made for them). What Tony is compiling that data for is—confidential.

Now that he’s noticed the kid’s erection, his eyes can’t help but bounce between it and the sensuality of Peter’s kiss with Natasha. Tongue is obviously involved now: their mouths are open, cheeks hollow, and Natasha reaches up to coax Peter’s hand back towards her hair where he tangles his fingers in it, pulling her closer until she has to kneel up to avoid falling right on the kid’s lap.

She parts long enough to say, “Don’t forget to breath.”

The kid is panting, nodding furiously, already pressing back to her mouth. This time Tony catches a hint of his tongue and has to look pointedly above their heads for several long moments to collect himself. It almost doesn’t work, not with the soft sensual wet sounds that come from their mouths. How the fuck did Tony get himself in this situation, practically pimping out the young man who he is far too emotionally and physically and spiritually and intellectually (and all the other lly’s) interested in?

His life is ridiculous.

He looks back at them.

He can’t stop watching.

Natasha takes the kid lower lip onto her mouth and sucks on it. Peter’s eyelashes flutter, chest hitching. The bulge at the crotch of his jeans twitches. But ever the good student, he then tries the same move on her, taking that full lower lip into his mouth and suckling, then his lips draw back just a little and Tony sees teeth—he is biting her lip, and Natasha’s mouth curves just a little into a smile. When they pull apart, their mouths are wet and red. Peter is panting, and Natasha’s hair is mussed.

Tony is barely managing to keep from being hard.

“How was that, Pete?” Nat asks.

“I guess I should be asking you,” Peter says, sound more than a little breathless. “Did I do okay? Any tips, pointers, criticism? Compliments?”

Natasha laughs. Tony thinks it might be an honest-to-God laugh, one that bubbles up from somewhere inside her chest. He can’t help but smile at the sound of it, at the way it makes Peter duck his head, press one palm to his mouth to disguise his smile. Natasha reaches out and pulls his head to her bosom, giving Tony a look over his head that says, how fucking precious is he?

Tony rolls his eyes.

Pretty fucking precious.

- Tag list: @flowersandteeth @starkeroverload @prettyboy-parker @metametalina @st-arker @darkobsidianquill @typing123 @ironspiidey @i-don’t-know-what-this-is @thefaultinourstarker @livingbutnotalivex3 @starkerparadise @anyabxrns @fedupdadtm @alanaaw88 @idntwantausername @softstarkerstuff @kiaorastarker @thirsty-for-starker @thotticusmaxximus @sadbumblingmess @kawaiioverofanimu @katzenbaby1 @css1992 @99stark @spn-samifer @gimme-the-filthy-hcs @inmyfeelxngs @bros-before-ghosts @wandering-night19 @twixen93 @yeahishipthatsowhat @lonleystarker @nanibanani10 @deliciousflapbanditfarm @another-starker-hoe @von--gelmini @babyboy-peterparker @petertonytomrobert @goodtimesstarker @bshamm @nemeiel @audreyintheuniverse @silkystark @iamastarkerfan @issuffering @superpaperclip @idliketoleavenow

Tips welcome at my kofi. <3

[settle-down-frohike]

OHOHOH! Can you please do the “Welcome to fatherhood.” prompt?

For the promp #37. “Welcome to Fatherhood”, and inspired as well by this lovely gifset courtesy of @wholeperson

Sorry I’m just now getting to this, anon. I try I really do, but I’m slow. 

Also I’m southern, and the linguistics are too. Apologies in advance. 

Paternitas

 Gordon County Hospital, GA

9:23 pm

 I lean against the wall of the break room, trying to center my thoughts and calm my breathing. 15 years as an L&D nurse and cases like that one never ceaseto shake me up. I need a cigarette. My heart is beating out of my chest and myhands are still shaking. It’s just adrenaline, I know.  I haven’t eaten since before I left home and my sugar is in the toilet. {I need food, not acigarette}, I think as I absent-mindedly rub the patch on my upper arm. {For the kids.} I’m doing this for the kids.  

 A debbie cake and a bottled water later, I pad down the hall to check on my patient.She’s out of surgery now, and it went well. God, just one tiny sliver ofplacenta can wreak so much havoc.  So much blood…. I wonder what in thehell happened to bring her in in such a state. A home birth gone wrong, maybe?No. She wasn’t even dressed in a nightgown. I guess it isn’t important now. Herpoor husband looked about as frightened as I’d ever seen. I think I heard theyarrived by chopper?? Not medevac, though.  Important folks, apparently.  They looked like they’d bothjust come from work, truth be told.  This patient assessment is going to be interesting.  

 When I get to the room the husband (? No ring I see) has exchanged his blood-saturated suit for a set of standard issue ‘dad scrubs’, and is sitting by her bed, studying mom’s face intently. He strokes a lock of hair from her face, leaning in and murmuring something unintelligible. He sits back down in the guest recliner, still holding her hand as he brings it to his lips for the mosttender of kisses– once, twice. The gaze on her face is not broken. I wonder if he even blinks.

 He’s cute. Very. I shake my head at my inappropriate thought and proceed to the bedside with her chart in hand and a load of questions to ask, feeling contrite.

 Flipping back through my notes at the nurse’s station I kick off my crocs and hear mytoes crack. I’m only 40.. just, in fact, but tonight I’m feeling everyone ofthose years.  FBI….Huh. And his name isFox? Suits him… {Jesus, Susan. Get a grip.} This one’s clearly taken, old girl. What’s gotten into you? I need sleep, that’s it. I’m getting punch drunk already. This usually doesn’t happen til the end of my shift…

*Clearly* taken.

He never let go of her hand throughout any of the inquiries. He stroked her thumbcontinually with his, startling and glancing her way from time to time as ifhoping she’d stir, maybe thinking she had. I’ve seen my share of jittery new dads– but this one seems, I don’t know, for lack of a better word….. spooked.  Lost. Thrust into a foreign universe and flailing. It’s clear who is his anchor here.

When I asked if he was the father (he’s listed as such on the chart, but I’mrequired to ask for my notes) his eyes went wide and expressionless, and helooked at her again, as if waiting for an answer.  “Yes, yes” , he repeated,nodding, testing the words and lookingto her. I wrapped up my initial assessment, vitals strong, although her BP could come up a bit, capillary refill: good.  Bowel sounds present. No distension. No hint of fever or infection. All good signs. She could be out as early as a couple of days. Dad sits quietly close by, giving me space to work but not much more thanthat. His knee bounces with anxiety.

I finish quietly, wash and unfasten from my clipboard the standard pamphlets andliterature: birth certificate form, social security, “Getting to Know Your Baby”, “Welcome to Fatherhood”, “Mommy and Me: An Introduction to Breast Feeding”.  I hand them overwith a small smile and he glances down non-committedly before placing them onthe bedside table. He scoots the chair back close to her side and again strokesthe same wayward lock of hair from her closed eyelids, and again, kisses her hand.  The tender expression of adoration convoluted with worry is so profound and unabashed that I find myself staring, my face growing hot, but I thankfully recover quickly and begin to go over hercondition, letting him know what to expect when she wakes… she’s a fallrisk…she’ll need help to the restroom….call a nurse if you need one…he nods,nods.  I hope that at least some information will give him his bearings, a comfort perhaps, but I get the sense it has no effect at all. He hears me but I get the sense he’s just waiting on her.His eyes plead with her to wake, to tell him what to do. Apparently she’s an M.D., so she should pretty well know her way around things, at least until they bring the baby in.

Parenthood is tricky. No one really ever knows it all.  I think back to the birth of my first daughter. The elation, the fear, the absolutely necessity to have her at my side immediately and at all times.

He hasn’t yet asked to see his son.

Once they wheeled her in for the d&c he took off like a shot to the nursery,shouting questions of where and why over the child but I sense it was more for her knowledge than his need. He was a sentinel,utterly at her service, unconscious as she was, but he was also her proxy in every sense of the word.

He hasn’t been back there since, though.

Baby from what I hear is fine; APGAR was a 9, nuero: solid. Good thing, too. Had hiscondition deteriorated we would have had to transport him to a bigger facilitywith a NICU. Somehow I sense that separating these 3 would prove problematic. Thankfullythe nurses have been able to tending to the boy here with no trouble. Her milk is starting to come in though, and if she doesn’t wake soon I’ll need to requisition a pump.

2:30 am

 Time for vitals again. They’ve wheeled the baby in I see. And now there’s a man outside their room. A broad guy, balding and with glasses, looking stern but exhausted as well. I’m assuming a friend but he looks and acts like a bodyguard. He gives me a polite nod, but a suspicious once over as I enter the room. Dad is still at his station. Wide-awake. He should sleep, if he knows what’s good for him. Real life is about to hit and newborn induced sleep deprivation is entirely another animal.

 But, God, the way he looks at her. Utterly besotted. The intensity of his love  is all around him, a thrumming, golden aura, even as his body has begun to sway lightly in exhaustion.

 I hate to disturb them but her BP is still a bit low for my liking. We’ll need tocontinue pushing fluids. 

 "Hi there. Me again,” I smile apologetically. “Baby boy has joined y’all, I see?“ 

 "Yea, I uh, I wanted him to be here when she woke up.“ 

 I don’t comment that she may very well be out for the next 12 hours or so.

 "Well, the nurses fed him I’m sure, so you should have a few peaceful hours. Theymostly just sleep and eat at this stage. And poop.” I chuckle, but thejoke falls flat. 

 I need to make sure the baby’s nurse comes back for a diaper check. This guyisn’t ready.  I note the various monitors and change her bag. 

 "Would you like to hold him?“ That gets him to look right at me, with an unidentifiable expression.  He looks overat the bassinet, back to me and his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s blinking furiously.  Bless. Indecisionand panic are clear as day in his eyes. But something else, too. He looks…guilty. It’s the strangest thing. I can sense that he wants to hold the baby but can’t bring himself to.

 He lowers his chin to his chest, pauses and swallows. “Um…no… I… I don’t wantto wake him."  All of my maternal inclinations are screaming at me to hug this poor boy, who isn’t a boy at all. I tamp down the urge, and decide instead to turn my attention to the baby.

 I lean over the to take a glance. They’ve got the room fairly warm so he’s loosely swaddled in addition to a hospital issued t-shirt and diaper. His arms curled above his head, snoozing away. He smells of clean laundry and lavender baby shampoo. Just a dusting of strawberry blonde hair, long lashes of the same shade. He’s got his daddy’s chin. I watch his lips and cheeks mimicking the suckling reflex. Oh heavens. I do miss this. "You won’t, don’t worry. Babies love to be held.  He might even sleep sounder that way.

Again he swallows. I won’t push.  

 "Y’all have a name picked out?“ I want to make friendly conversation, because Ifeel like this guy could use a friend, but mostly I want to leave. I feel awkward and oddly intrusive. Something about his room feels sacred in a way I haven’t encountered before.  And I’m trespassing.

 He blinks. As if the idea just occurred to him. "Um, no. No not yet.”

 "Well, never mind that. No hurry. He’s just precious,” I hug my clipboard to my chestand flash a nurturing southern grin, “Congratulations.“ Lord what a drawl.My accent really does get worse at night, especially deep into a shift. But I domean that, wholeheartedly.

 His eyes flit over to the baby, who’s begun to stir and whimper and then he glances up atme, alarmed. I walk over and place my hand on the tiny human’s rapidly rising and falling belly, and place a firm but gentlepressure there. I lightly jiggle and ‘shhhh…’ softly. He settles instantly andresumes his slumber.

I feel dad’s eyes on me. Yes, he loves this baby. His paternal, protective instincts are unmistakable .  And yet he holds back.  I smile over at him again, reassuringly. “See? Nothing to it, “ with a wink. No need for any hardcore parenting truths right now.

 As I gather my things and wish him a good night, tell him I’ll be back in a coupleof hours to recheck her vitals but I’ll try not to wake them, in case he wantsto rest his eyes for a while.  Somethingtells me he won’t.

He thanks me routinely and I turn to walk out. At the threshold of the door I hearthe plastic of the chair crack and I turn around, wondering if he needs anything.  His attention isn’t on me, but the baby, walking over to the clear bassinet and peering over. He hasn’t touched him yet, only gazes down at the newborn. Earnest curiosity quickly blooms into boundless wonder, and finally, an expression of such heartbreaking devotion that I feel my eyes begin to burn and a lump lodges behind my throat. I freeze. He gently mimics,exactly, his movements from earlier. He strokes the baby’s face, no hair to move but along side his cherubic cheek just the same. Then places a finger in the baby’s palm, which instinctually grips his father’s outstretched digit. He leans close, so carefully close, and places an impossibly soft kiss on the tiny hand, lips trembling.

 “Hi.”He mouths.

His face begins to crumple slightly and he gathers his entire bottom lip in histeeth, desperately trying to contain what’s so obviously a flood of emotion.

Feeling truly instrusive now, I make my exit asquietly as I can and scurry down the hallway.

 The whys and how’s of their appearance at this lonely small town facility are inconsequential, really. They are just parents now. New parents. With vast, phenomenal, uncharted waters lying ahead of them. And yet, something tells methey are well equipped for such territory. Call it experience, call it optimism, call it hope, call it what you will.

{Good luck you two}, I think, walkingtoward my station and yearning for my shift to end so as to return to my owntwo sleeping babies at home. 

Fin

[katesattic]

My Experience with Anxiety and Depression [and How Supernatural and Thomas Sanders (Unknowingly) Helped] #BellLetsTalk

I wanted to do something completely out of my comfort zone; I wanted to make a video about it. But then I kind of got sick and lost my voice. So that option’s kind of out. And with only two days until the event there is no way I would be giving myself enough time to learn how to edit, so even with my voice now coming back, there still wouldn’t be enough time. So, maybe I’ll try to make a video for next year. So here we are. Back to my usual format: writing.  And that’s OK. I can probably better articulate my thoughts this way anyway.

So, where do I start? Death anxiety? Social anxiety? Generalised anxiety? Depression? I guess with the death anxiety? I view it as my longest anxiety, though I could have possibly had the social anxiety longer, it was the death anxiety that was more difficult to cope with. Why don’t I just split it up into four parts so this way I’m not going back and forth on which I had when. We can focus on the chronology of each individually.

DEATH ANXIETY

So this one arose, as you could image, as the result of a loved one passing away. My grandmother specifically, though I called her Nanny, and to make things easier on myself, that’s what I’ll continue to call her.

I was no stranger to death. My younger sister, my baby brother’s twin, died at nine days old. At the time, I was three.  I definitely knew my parents were sad and that our family would be different yet again (nine days ago we went from a family of four to a family of six, now we were down to five). I knew things were going to be different, but I don’t think I understood the gravity of the situation. I don’t think I knew how finite death actually was.

Seven years later, I was ten, and my cat had been put down. I did not know this at the time, and my mum managed to convince the vet into releasing the body. So my mum brought our dead cat home and told us that she found the cat dead in the basement. For years, I swore I saw the cat’s ghost around the spot where my mum claimed she died. Now, I understand why the cat was put down, her health was deteriorating. But at that time, there was a void. She was my childhood pet and she “suddenly” passed away. I remember being legitimately sick after her passing, not just grieving but cough and fever, that whole deal. But not much else. It was twelve years ago after all.

 Two years after my cat died, so did my Nanny. To this day we still don’t know the exact cause. My dad suspects some things, but we have no definitive answer on what was his mother’s cause of death. I think I took this death the hardest. She was my favourite grandparent, and she was the first of them to die. How was that fair? Again, it was ten years ago, I was twelve, I don’t remember specifics. But I do remember a few years later when the family went to see the film UP, and I just couldn’t enjoy it. You know that beginning? Carl and Ellie’s whole life story is told in like five minutes? Yeah, well, I was kind of triggered by that. I didn’t know that was a term, but in hindsight, I was definitely triggered. Ellie reminded me of Nanny, and I just couldn’t get happy after the movie ended.

I also remember the death anxiety coming up randomly in class in grade eight, and thinking life’s so short and fearing what would happen to me after I died. I’ve had panic attacks about that. My most recent one was a really bad one in 2014. But now I don’t let myself go that deep. I don’t let myself go down that rabbit hole. I take a deep breath, tell myself “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it” and find something entertaining to distract me from my thoughts. And that’s been working well so far.

SOCIAL ANXIETY

OK, this one doesn’t really have an exact start date. I can’t pinpoint any one event. I’ve kind of just always had it. And I just shrugged it off as shyness and introversion. But it’s more than that. I am definitely shy and introverted, but I also have social anxiety. When I was formally diagnosed, my mum wasn’t remotely surprised about this one. The depression was a surprise but this one she always suspected.

If anything, university made it worse. I mean, it was always an issue, but being in an entirely different province where I literally knew absolutely no one.  That didn’t help. I couldn’t even stand the thought of going to orientation. And I assumed that was because of my extreme shyness, though now I know it’s my near-crippling social anxiety. Hindsight is 20/20 after all.

I think it was during this time that I became much more active on the internet. Tumblr specifically, I love this website. But I began bingeing more on shows and would only really leave my dorm to go to the meal hall or class. I was just so terrified of social interaction. And I still am. But now I’m taking baby steps towards meeting people. Right now, all I can do is talk to people online, but if people don’t rush me and let me do it when I’m ready, I’d be fine meeting people in a comfortable and safe public place.

This is the one I think I have to work on the most. I know where I want to be and don’t know entirely how to get there, but I am taking small steps. I’m even telling people I suffer from social anxiety to let them know I’m not just being a bitch but that I am actually struggling and terrified to make social connections for fear of rejection.

The other real problem with this anxiety, for me specifically, is that I come off as bitchy and standoffish. Maybe I have bitchy resting face? I don’t know. But that’s what my mum thinks anyway. Whether I seem bitchy or snobby, or whatever is just what you see on the outside. Inside my mind, down that deep rabbit hole of suck, I am freaking the fuck out. Apparently, I mask that panic by looking snobby, who knew? But I assure you, if I’m actually being a bitch, you’d know about it. I don’t really keep that side of me quiet. But just standing alone in a crowd or in a corner? Yeah, I’m probably not plotting some bithcy scheme. I’m most likely terrified and seeking sanctuary in the very place that is so often cruel to me: my mind.

Meeting people scares the crap out of me. It really does. But I yearn for those social relationships. I am human after all. But going out into the world and actually seeking out people with whom to form those relationships? I’m not quite there yet. For now, I’m focusing on making friends online, but also people who live near me, so when I am comfortable, I will be ready to take that next step and meet them.

GENERAL ANXIETY

This asshole. This one was definitely brought on by university life. Seriously, I don’t think this would have affected me to the degree which it has, had it not been for university.  In some ways, university is better than secondary school, in others, it is exponentially worse. Procrastination only exacerbates the anxiety monster, but it definitely is not the cause. Deadlines. Terrifying deadlines, the weight of an assignment, and the fear of failure – the intense fear of failure – is the cause.

This one was kind of brought on hand-in-hand with my depression. I mean, I still stressed about marks before, but this really hit me hard when my depression stepped onto the scene. So both this beast, and depression entered into my brain after an event which I just call “the Academic Fiasco”. It is not an event I am comfortable discussing not because I am ashamed or embarrassed (though I am a bit) but because I don’t feel entirely out of the woods yet. And until I the woods are safely behind me (in other words: after I graduate) I won’t really be elaborating upon it. So the Academic Fiasco is a story for next year’s Let’s Talk Day.

Anyway, after the Academic Fiasco, I did enter into a depression. For several months. And ever since then I was never truly able to shake it. And it would come in waves. Sometimes I would be fine and my usual self but often the depression got in the way. So after the actual ordeal of the Fiasco was over with, and the depression had more or less subsided, I was then left with this anxiety. This dread that surrounded my marks in academia and my potential future career after obtaining my degree. This feeling just wouldn’t go away. And in November 2016, my friend started to notice that I was acting differently. She’s been my friend going on seventeen years now (we’ll both be 23 later this year), so she’s known me most of my life. And she could tell, through the virtual world, several provinces away, and through text not video chat, that something wasn’t right. My parents didn’t even know. Apparently, I hide my depression well. But my friend instantly suspected depression as she’s had it in the past and was medicated for it. She told me to seek help. So I booked an appointment at the Counselling Centre on campus and had a Brief Initial Consultation (where they would listen to me for thirty minutes to decide if my issues were serious enough to be waitlisted for therapy). It was during this time that the therapist believed I had anxiety, the death anxiety for sure, but also general anxiety. She didn’t really think I had depression, but she was certain I had anxiety. She suggested I seriously consider medication.

The thought had occurred to me once or twice. But until my friend expressed concern I hadn’t really thought about medication in a while. So, when the appointment was done, I went to the Health Clinic on campus and booked an appointment for the following Tuesday (I saw the therapist on Saturday).  And then I went home with nothing but the knowledge that I wasn’t crazy for thinking I wasn’t OK. And that was a relief.

It was over the next few days that I started to watch Thomas Sanders videos. Now, I know he’s been on Vine since 2013, but I really had no idea who he was up until that point. I didn’t have Vine, so I didn’t know him from there. But his vines would sometimes make their way on to my dashboard on Tumblr, so I knew of him. I knew he was that funny, relatable guy that I would occasionally see on my dashboard which could always bring a smile to my face in seven seconds or less. But I really had no idea who he was beyond that. I don’t really remember how I stumbled upon his vines on YouTube, but I did. It was there where I found an hour-and-forty-minute-long compilation of his vines – it definitely wasn’t all his Vines, but it was a significant amount of them. From there I started watching his YouTube videos. And I quite literally watched them all (check my watch history. I’m not lying) and have re-watched them many times since. For quite some time Supernatural – an oddly dark show – was the only thing that could completely distract me from my mind. Other shows and films could only do so for a time, but Supernatural and Thomas Sanders have consistently kept me distracted from the darkest areas of my mind. And this guy, this king amongst men, this angel without wings, not only did he distract me, but he brought genuine joy to my life during a time when I thought that to be impossible. Thomas Sanders wasn’t just a distraction from that horrible rabbit hole in my brain, he was genuinely uplifting. And for that, I will forever be thankful.

That following Tuesday, the twenty-seventh of November 2016, I was officially diagnosed with anxiety and depression. Together, my doctor and I agreed that it was best if I start medication.

DEPRESSION

Oy, this thing. Depression, my greatest foe. Honestly, depression is King Douchebag. Depression is that demonic Hobgoblin thing that likes to run about inside my mind and cause mayhem wherever it goes. It is the king of a shit-tastic court. This royal dickhead of a mental disorder is the reason I felt worthless after that Fiasco, this monstrosity of an illness was the reason I felt hopeless and joyless. Depression was the dementor, and my life was wasting away.

As I said above, in November I went to the therapist on campus where the therapist believed me to have anxiety but wasn’t convinced that I had depression. My friend, conversely, was certain I had depression. So that following Tuesday, after four days of bingeing Supernatural again, and watching copious amounts of Thomas Sanders videos, I went to the Health Clinic, and I talked about how I felt, and the doctor made me fill out two questionnaires. I was told to evaluate my last two weeks, rate how I felt from 0-4, and tick a little yes/no box on the depression sheet. Then she evaluated me. And she determined that I, indeed, had both depression and anxiety.

We decided together that medical intervention was best. I had been definitely suffering on-and-off since 2015. So I got the prescription and went straight to the closest pharmacy to my apartment to get it filled because I was not waiting another day. I knew the meds would take several weeks to start taking effect, so I didn’t want to waste any time. Why feel crappy any longer right? We decided on Cipralex because it’s a brand I knew (two friends of mine have taken it) and she said it had low side-effects. Now, it’s January 2017, and I definitely feel better. The meds definitely help, and I am in no way afraid to admit that.

COPING

So, I’m taking SSRIs but overall, how am I coping? Much better actually. When attacks strike, I do some breathing techniques and some light meditation. I’m also learning to face the problem instead of just hoping it goes away. Distractions might seem like nothing more than avoiding the issue but, honestly, they help. They help get you outside of your mind. And believe you me, I know how vicious the mind can be. So distractions are nice, even if they aren’t permanent. The other big thing is having someone to talk to, whether that is a friend, a family member, a teammate, a therapist, or some random stranger willing to lend you their ear. It makes a world of difference. To know that you are not alone is another big one. On days like today, it’s easy to see that. Social media is abuzz about Bell Let’s Talk. But throughout the rest of the year, it might not seem that way. And please know that if you feel alone and you need someone to talk to, you can always talk to me. You can contact me in various ways on social media or by email. I’ve been through the bad, and now I’m starting to see the light, and you will too. Just don’t be afraid to ask for help.

I started coping by escaping into shows. That’s the magic of a Netflix account. You can just binge. It doesn’t judge (except on some devices where it asks if you’re still there. Like, geez, I am just let me binge in peace!). CraveTV and the wonder that is Letterkenny also helped. It’s the best Canadian show I’ve seen in years and can’t wait for the St. Paddy’s special and season three. But the show that’s helped me the most has been Supernatural. I found the show on Netflix (I heard of it before and actually tried watching the pilot once before, but Mary on the roof scared the crap out of me, so I stopped) and binged all ten seasons. This was during my summer slump. I wasn’t truly depressed then, but there was just a gloomy air about me. After watching all ten seasons in under two weeks, I looked for other shows. I started watching Stranger Things but stopped at episode four after experiencing a panic attack (which was unrelated to the show or my usual triggers), and I have not picked up the show since. After being talked out of panic by my dad over the phone, I was calm enough to hang up. But I didn’t feel entirely at peace, so I went back to re-watching Supernatural. It was after that attack that I also watched season eleven through less conventional means (because it wasn’t on Netflix yet). And I started to feel better again. For several months, I just re-binged the show, albeit at a slower pace than I first watched it. It was the one thing that made me feel good. My worries melted away when that show was on, and I was enthralled in the narrative.

The other thing that helped me cope was Thomas Sanders. As I mentioned above, in the days leading up to my diagnoses, I stumbled upon a compilation of his Vines, and I was hooked. I found he made YouTube videos and I watched them all. I got Snapchat just so I could see his snaps. I followed him on Instagram and Twitter and liked him on Facebook. Then I found out he has a Tumblr (@thatsthat24)!  And it was magical. My favourite site and my new favourite internet personality, together! So I follow him there too. But unlike the others, I get notifications when he posts to Tumblr, and seeing those notifications are the best part of my day. It’s always something positive, or funny, or relatable, and it’s always certain to bring a smile to my face. I know that Thomas Sanders is only human and that he’s not happy every second of every day (if he were, he would be a game show host), but I really appreciate that everything he puts online is positive. I have no idea what goes on in his life, what anxieties he might face, but if he reads this, I want to thank him for brightening my day and making it suck a little less.  Because right now, he’s the thing that makes me happiest and I hope we, his fans, make him just as happy.

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Holy! That was 3150-ish words (or 5 12pt Garamond single-spaced pages). If you stuck through it all, thank you. I hope #BellLetsTalk 2017 was everything you hoped it would be. And sorry for the length, but I needed to make sure I said everything. -KNC

P.S. I'm sitting here thinking about the family gossip that might ensue (because, before today, only my immediate family knew) and honestly, I don't care. I don't care if it makes them uncomfortable, because this isn't about them. My illness doesn't affect them, so I really don't care what they think or how they’ll react.