#then dysmorphia beat my team to the ground :(

[fungerisms]

samarie the girlfailure sopping wet cat woaaa like

[justasparkwritings]

Illicit Affairs: Beautiful Rooms Pt. 1

Previous: You Made Me

Pairings: Namjoon & Reader (Barely)

Genre: Angst, Slice of Life 

Ratings: PG15

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: Therapy and Swearing 

Summary: Namjoon arrives in LA to begin the work he promised he would do. 

Listen: illicit affairs by Taylor Swift

           Namjoon lays in his plane-bed, headphones blasting D-2, Daechwita, on a blind loop. The sky is dark, 30,000+ feet in the air, he knows he should be sleeping, resting at the bare minimum. But he can’t, melatonin not kicking in just yet, and his mind is too wired, filled with concerns.

           Over a two months ago, after the reckoning, Namjoon put his plans into action. You can’t take managements King, and Queen, and bishops and rooks, without having a plan for total annihilation. Namjoon decided, though without much discussion with Jungkook, what they both needed. What would be the best for both of them, and the rest of Bangtan, was guarantees in their contracts that Bang and Co wouldn’t manipulate them anymore. No more calorie counting, no more extra pay for working out more, no more using Namjoon as a weapon against Jungkook or the others. To do this, Namjoon brought in other lawyers who negotiated with Bang’s team, and in the end the seven men amended their contracts. Gone were the clauses about who they could date, gone was the clause that they couldn’t date, period, gone was Run BTS and the trickery management went through to get the men to perform. They would have ownership of their work going forward, and ownership of their work all the way back to the first Love Yourself album.

           Taehyung, Jimin, Hoseok, Yoongi and Jin were shocked when their contracts were handed back, careful to read through the changes. They’d been floored, wondering how Namjoon and Jungkook’s brawl could’ve resulted in this swift change in their deals. Namjoon had put it simply: change or we sue. Big Hit knew that if BTS sued them, they’d take the house, the plastic plants in the lobby, the stock options and the futures of every person on the label. They had the option to lose everything, or to surrender, tails between their legs, to the gods that are BTS.

           Namjoon knew that if this had happened three months prior, even two years, he wouldn’t have had the weight needed to push the deal through. But, in their decade plus at Big Hit, their level of power and influence, the fact that they had never signed NDA’s coupled with Namjoon’s intricate diaries, Namjoon recognized he had the power to take everything. Bang and Sejin were scared. They knew that they had a limited amount of time before BTS revolted, and if they were revolting with evidence, there was no possible solution that ended in Big Hit’s favor.

           With their new contracts came one request from Bang, Sejin and the five other members of Bangtan, one request that was truly a demand: fix Jungkook and Namjoon.

           Fixing Jungkook meant fixing Namjoon’s relationship to the maknae, which is how he finds himself flying across the globe to LA. Getting Jungkook help, away from prying eyes, was his idea. He and his love had brainstormed what would help Jungkook get through this, and this was the solution:

Jungkook would spend 3-6 months in LA undergoing rigorous outpatient therapy

Jungkook would be booked for exhaustion, body dysmorphia, alcoholism, and a host of other issues Namjoon could’ve spent his entire flight listing

Jungkook would rehearse in LA and fly back for specific stages but would otherwise record and work in LA while he went to therapy five days a week

Detox would come first, followed by a month of inpatient treatment

Then, Jungkook would be settled in his outpatient apartment, with a few Big Hit bodyguards around 24/7

Jungkook would have a sponsor in Korea and in the states, whom he reported to,

Jungkook is required to attend AA meetings twice a week for the first three months

Namjoon, would attend therapy twice a week in Korea,

Namjoon would fly to LA to spend a month going through treatment with Jungkook

           To this, they signed their names, to the promise of something better, to the hope they would find common ground. Jungkook was packed and on a plane 48 hours later. The two men had some contact through music and through their group chat, but otherwise, Jungkook kept to himself. He loved LA, the sun, the ability to exercise outside every day of the week, the blue skies… There was a level of health that came with LA, and of course the seedy underbelly of diet culture, but for Jungkook, it was a welcome change. Everyone breathed in LA, they weren’t rushing to meet deadlines or get anywhere on time, they didn’t have the next five years planned on a detailed spreadsheet. LA was relaxed, it was breezy, and with its endless supply of green juice, it was the exact place Jungkook needed to be.

           He diligently went to therapy, working exclusively with Dr. Aarons on the years of abuse he’d endured. Wrapping his mind around what had happened to him, not as love, not as building his character or strengthening his work ethic, but as a traumatic state of emotional abuse, was harder to swallow than two horse tranquilizers without water. Dr. Aarons gave him books and pamphlets on trauma and emotional abuse, which in his off hours, he read. His first month in treatment was spent in therapy sessions, a weekly Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) session, monitored exercise to help reteach him how to use his body, and reading to discuss. Some days felt like high school, or training days, when he was required to both train for debut and be a high school student. He hated it, hated studying, hated school, but to get better he had to do the work. All he could hope was at the end of this he’d feel better, maybe he'd be better too.  

           Dr. Aaron’s agreed, for the two men to make progress, to find common ground again, they needed to work through their Kilimanjaro sized problems.

           A month into treatment, Jungkook was ready and willing to begin working on repairing his most treasured relationship.

           “Namjoon, thank you for joining us here,” Dr. Aarons says, eyes darting between Jungkook, who was freshly showered and bouncing his leg up and down, and Namjoon, stoic, perched on the edge of his chair. Dr. Aarons can tell that Namjoon is less prepared than Jungkook, which is why she is in full control of this session.

           “It’s, yeah, glad to be here,” Namjoon says, head bowing.

           “I am first generation and am fluent in both English and Korean. My maiden name is Park,” Dr. Aarons smiles, letting Namjoon into her stratification of both cultures. “We can flow from English to Korean at any point.”

           “Thank you,” Namjoon bows again.

           “This first session is just to create a welcoming and safe space for Jungkook to see you again. Soon he will be off, and you and I will have a bit of time to talk. I have been in communication with your therapist back in Seoul, and he has given me his thoughts as well as points that we can continue to work on as a triad. Jungkook, is there something you wanted to say to Namjoon before you go?”

           Jungkook looks at his brother, irises rising to meet his sun-twin. Namjoon’s eyes are tired, heavy, his lids weighty as he continues to battle some jetlag. Jungkook looks fucking fantastic, the sun and balanced eating working wonders on him.

           “Thank you, hyung, for being here, and thank you for being willing to work on this with me. I still hold love for you in my heart, though I don’t have to. We’ve both fucked up. I am sorry for punching you, well, beating you up, and I hope you can forgive me, if not today, at some point. And again, thank you, hyung, for fighting for me,” Jungkook’s voice breaks as he utters his last words, eyes dropping to his hands.

           “Jungkook, you did great,” Dr. Aarons reassures.

           “Thank you, Jungkookie, for being, forgiving, for still wanting to speak to me, to work with me, it,” Namjoon clears his throat, that familiar lump forming. “I know I let you down. I will always be sorry,”

           “I know, me too,”

           “Jungkook, thank you for being here today. I will see you tomorrow for our first session as a group.” Dr. Aaron’s gave the go-ahead for Jungkook to leave, and he did swiftly, giving Namjoon the chance to confide in Dr. Aarons.

           “Thank you, for doing this,” Namjoon spoke.

           “This was your idea, correct? The therapy, detox, all of it?”

           “Yes,” Namjoon feels the blood rush to his cheeks.

           “From what I understand, you’re kind of a genius, right?”

           “In music, I suppose,”

           Reaching for her notepad, Dr. Aarons’ glances down. “Mm, I spoke with Dr. Cho,”

           “Yes?”

           “He was very insightful, gave me lots of great notes and things to discuss. I wanted to start by saying that I understand the levels of abuse you went through,” She raises her head to meet his unsteady gaze, clocking the flustered expression.

           “Yes,”

           “The manipulation, the invalidation, the pain. Namjoon, no one should have to experience all of that, and yet, here you are. You are strong, you are powerful, you are dedicated to your brothers. None of it excuses what you have done, but what I want to convey to you, is that a lot of your actions were not your fault.” Dr. Aarons’ runs through the list of compliments she had jotted down, notes of what to say to create a safe space for Namjoon.

           “I, I know,”

           “I know you do; I also know that isn’t how you see it.” Dr. Aarons’ sets her pen down and recrossed her legs, eyes never straying from him. She’s formidable, honored and esteemed throughout the community, domestically and abroad. Namjoon knew, he helped picked her, she was the reason Jungkook was here.

           “I still did the actions,” Namjoon sighs, “I still followed through with the plan,”

           “Yes, but the cost to you and your life was exquisite. You were a pawn,”

           “Now I am the victor,” He mumbles.

           “Tell me, Namjoon, how old did you feel when you and Jungkook fought?”

           “What do you mean?”

           “Jungkook’s recounted his memory of that night, but how did you feel? In that moment when he hit you, what age specifically did you feel?”

           He takes a moment to think, but the answer is in front of him immediately. “Fifteen,”

           “What happened at 15?”

           He shifts nervously, the rapid speed of his speech slowing as he spoke. “I was still being scouted by Big Hit, no contracts, just negotiations. My parents were, unsupportive.”

           “Within the Seoul rap community, you were making a name for yourself,” Dr. Aarons’ didn’t have to be living in Korea at the time to know who he was, everyone in the first gen community who still had any ties back home knew. You couldn’t listen to music without his mixes coming through.            “Yeah, but that only gets you so far. I was talking to Bang about these big plans for a super group, a group that combined rapping and pop, some bridge between the two and other genres… the places were going to go seemed endless.”

           “How did you feel in those negotiations?”

           Joon smiles. “I felt, ten feet tall. I mattered in those meetings,”

           “And to your parents?” Dr. Aaron’s questions.

           “I was just their high schooler, hormonal, with dreams bigger than my mind could hold. They, they didn’t want me to do it,”

           “But you went for it,” She smiles gently.

           “I did, yeah,” Namjoon, hates flattery. Call it his sun sensibility, his rays unable to shine under the humility of the grey cloud he kept above himself.

           “What else happened around that time?” She presses.

           Namjoon nods again, knowing exactly where she’s leading him. “That’s when I started receiving a lot of hate,”

           “Mm, tell me about that,”

           “Do I have to?” He asks, voice no longer strong and steady.

           “Not if you don’t want to,” She replies.

           “It’s just,” Namjoon sighs. “It still hurts.”

           “I expect it to. The comments were very personal,”

           “About how I look, about the shape of my nose, the sound of my voice, that I’ll never amount to anything and BTS is just, complete trash passing off as music.” He rattles off the ones that plague him, when self-doubt creeps in, the comments that still rise to the top of the pack.

           “They escalated, didn’t they?”

           “Don’t they always?”

           She smiles softly, a precursor to the next blow. “Did you internalize them?”

           “Yes,”

           “When Jungkook hit you,” She starts.

           “It was like every internet troll finally getting their chance to swing,” Namjoon doesn’t hesitate to finish the thought.

           “Ahh, there it is.” Dr. Aaron’s allows Namjoon a minute to sit in the realization. “What hurt the most? The physical pain, or the emotional weight you put behind it?”

           “I haven’t thought about it like that,” He realizes.

           “Well let’s think about it now,” Her voice is kind, leading him to the pasture but never feeding. No wonder everyone raved about her.

           “It was the emotions,” He concedes.

           “Can you describe what those emotions were?”

           “Anger, frustration, inadequacy, disappointment, like I had just shattered the entire world I’d given every bit of myself to creating.”

           “That wasn’t why Jungkook was hitting you, though,” Dr. Aarons’ informs him.

           “It wasn’t?”

           “You tell me, why would he be hitting you?”

           “I,” Namjoon exhales, “I betrayed him.”

           “Did you let him down?”

           “Yes,”

           “But did he view you as inadequate?” She pushes.

           “No,” Namjoon whispers, voice caught between his vocal chords as the waves of tears start to gain on him.

           Dr. Aarons’ smiles again, “No, has he ever?”

           “No,” Namjoon shakes his head, hand wiping the tears that have fallen.

           “It seems to me like it’s quite the opposite. Jungkook loves you, pure and simple.”

           “I betrayed him,” Namjoon argues.

           “Betrayal and inadequacy are often put together, at least in our minds. We betray someone, or a relationship, because it’s either not enough for us, or because it’s too much. The dissonance between you and Jungkook is that his anger is misplaced, he can claw at you because you are there, you are present, you are with him every day. He’s shooting the messenger, but you didn’t write the messages, Namjoon.”

           “I don’t know if he understands that,”

           “There’s only so much I can do to separate what he feels towards you, and what he realizes isn’t your fault. In our time together, as a trio, we will hopefully work towards understanding these complexities within your relationship. Sound good?”

           “Yeah, sounds good,”

           “Great! I don’t have any work for you, other than, well, a major piece of homework,”

           “Bring it on,” Namjoon loves work. Pure and simple.

           “You can’t have dinner with Jungkook tonight, or engage with him in a private setting,” Dr. Aarons’ instructs.

           “Makes sense,” Namjoon agrees.

           “We’ll begin work on it tomorrow, but until then, you have to stay apart,”

           “I can do that, we’re staying in separate places,”

           “Great, Namjoon, I am really looking forward to working with you,” Dr. Aarons stands. “I hope you enjoy your day in LA,”

           “See you tomorrow,” Namjoon smiles gratefully before exiting her office, his phone at the ready, texts from Yoongi and Hoseok, Taehyung and the rest of Bangtan to check in on him. And then there’s the text from his love, who as he steps into the sun, is waiting for him.

           “Joon of my eye, what a pleasure it is to see you,”

           Though the smile is clearly plastered across his face, it’s the way his arms circle your waist, head nuzzling into your neck, lips pressing firmly to your skin.

           “I fucking missed you,” He mutters.

           “You’re being so affectionate, in public,”

           “No one’s here,” Namjoon says, head still resting against your shoulder.

           “That eye opening, huh?” Your hands move up and down his back, the comfort radiating from your familiar embrace.

           “Mm, can we go?” He asks, standing to his full height.

           “To your place?”

           “Anywhere,” He slips his sunglasses over his eyes, the mist beginning to cloud his vision.

           “Of course,” You respond, hand finding his, fingers intertwining. With his baseball cap pulled low on his head, Namjoon is barely recognizable. He doesn’t hesitate to move his free hand across your shoulders, holding onto you as you guide him to your rental car. He might’ve been the messenger of Bang’s threats and manipulations, but a pawn is still a pawn. Namjoon had taken the board in his game against Big Hit, but in Jungkook’s universe, under Jungkook’s rules, he’s still a piece in motion.  

Next: Beautiful Rooms Pt. 2

[atxlxs]

Beyond The Veil: Chapter 7

(This chapter is going to be a bit shorter this time but the next will be back to the usual length! I wanted the suspense of ending it where I did >:) )

As Muska watched, her classmates flooded in from the locker rooms.

First of all, that is a fuckin robot. Robocop was starting to fit more and more. Next, Yoyo was looking anxious as all hell and was scrunching into herself. Probably due to all of the skin showing at the moment.

Muska cringed a bit at that. She had seen her quirk in action the other day so she knew that skin was needed, but wearing clothes you were uncomfortable in was a great way to enhance body dysmorphia and anxiety in all the bad ways. Clothing was supposed to empower you, not make you cage up.

Midoriya and his absolutely horrible bunny costume hood, it looked like those bad leather kink memes Eras would send her at 4 in the morning from the pre-quirk era, came bouncing over with stars in his eyes. Uraraka not far behind.

“Wow! Viridis, you look so cool!” Midoriya cheerfully stated, the bounce never disappearing. That was kinda adorable. Honestly what a cinnamon roll.

“Yea!” Uraraka commented, drawing Muska’s attention to her, “Its so fashionable while still staying practical! The witch aesthetic is also unique in the best of ways!”

How did snarky and sarcastic Muska manage to make friends like this, all sunshine and smiles, when she had a resting bitch face and would not hesitate to stomp a bitch?

“Thanks, my friend designed it for me along with my gear,” She started, motioning to the visible whip and brass knuckles that were stylishly black with white accents, “Yours too, I like the space vibes. Midoriya looks like a bunny.”

“He does!” “Wha-!”

Uraraka giggled while strawberry-midoriya made an appearance. Before they could tease him too much though, All Might(?) called their attention in order to start the lesson.

The battle trials were team based and the teams were picked through a drawing, much to Robocops chagrin, Pairing Mido up with her. Uraraka managed to pair with Yoyo and it looked like a soon to become girl boss team. Their opponents seemed to agree considering the gay panic coming off of Jirou and the bisexual disaster that was a Kaminari was barely keeping himself from short circuiting.

Her gaydar was sharp but the fact that she could tell what emotions they were feeling helped too.

Muska’s team was called and she followed Mido out to the city scape and stopped in front of the building that they would soon throw down in. Worryingly, ever since the announcement of the teams and their enemies, Mido has been an anxious mess. He was verging on panic and that was not good. Before Muska could ask though, Greenie opened his mouth.

“So I went to school with Kacchan,” and wasn’t that worrisome considering that the greenie was practically vibrating out of their suit right now, “and he will definitely come after me first. He doesn’t work with others well,” -an understatement really- “and will probably leave Iida to guard the bomb.”

It took a second to remember who Iida was before it clicked. Considering Muska hadn’t bothered to remember the annoying blue teens name. Mido was about to say more but Muska cut him off.

“Alright, I bet you and your self sacrificial tendencies will say you're going to go after him alone despite not having a handle on your quirk that’s good enough to not break bones.” yes, she was calling the green bean out.

Considering the shocked expression she got in return, she was right on the money. Sighing while dragging a hand down her face in exasperation, silently debating on whether this is what Eras felt every time she did something dumb as fuck, Muska shook her head and stared at Midoriya. Decidedly not impressed by the greenie’s idea.

“Yea no. First of all, I won’t fight you about this since you look like you’ll retaliate with bad reasons until I agree, but I will be nearby on standby. It's better to go ahead with two against one to quickly end the fight. Secondly, after we subdue Blasty we’ll go ahead and get Robocop. My quirk, which I’ve already explained, will be great to counteract someone that just moves fast.”

The fight slowly drained from Midoriya’s eyes under her glare and silently he nodded. Though, there was less tension in his shoulders and he wasn’t as vibraty as before so she’ll count that as a win. God, she was going to have to talk some sense into Blasty using authoritarian force at some point… wasn’t she? Curse her luck.

An alarm sounded along with All Might's voice booming through their given headpieces, telling them “The Fight Has Started!” with enthusiastic energy.

Well, as long as they stick to the strategy they should be fine. At worst she would just have to fix some bones before passing Mido off to Recovery Girl while also talking to the heroine herself for medical lessons.

----

Whoever cleared a very angry Pomeranian to carry fucking BOMBS on his arms was going to feel Muska’s eternal wrath.

The fight started easily. They walked together silently up the stairs and through the hallways, navigating the building and checking all the doors for possible bomb locations. Sure enough, as greenie predicted, the angry Pompom boy could be heard before he was seen. Angry shouts of “DEKU!” reverberated through the hallways and the telltale sign of quirk use through explosive sounds guaranteed it.

Muska caught Midoriya’s eyes and raised an eyebrow. Nonplussed at the anger issues coming off the blond in waves.She couldn’t really judge the anger issues though, plus that seemed like a childhood problem that therapy could probably help. Midoriya sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck before they were forced to turn their attention to the angry pomeranian.

“Deku…” Bakugo started, his agitation clear in the venom the words were spat with. Subtly, Muska felt for his emotions and was decidedly not going to deal with whatever that was.

The explosive blond was angry, that's for sure, but there was also confusion and guilt. The guilt was triggered by the anger, which then made the blond more angry because he either didn’t want to continue to feel guilty or didn’t want to be doing what was making him feel guilty which was frustrating. Which made him angry again. It was a violent circle of emotions that was complex as all hell what the actual fu-

Muska’s thoughts were cut off as Midoriya and Bakugo lunged at each other, Mido dodging and Bakugo exploding empty air before dodging Mido’s retaliation. Blood thirsty punches were exchanged as Midoriya’s shoulder held tension and eyes held determination.

Muska hid around the corner of the hallway, observing silently for an opening. The beat down was verging on brutal and by the look on the blonds face, he wanted it that way.

She unlatched her whip from her belt and loosened its coiled up state. Gripping the handle, she turned back to watch just as Midoriya body slammed Bakugo into the ground. Backing up a bit to hold a fight stance. Breath coming haggard from exhaustion. The slam seemed to empty Bakugo’s lungs as he gasped for air.

Muska rushed in, dragging the capture tap out of her pocket and binding Bakugo’s hands together as he attempted to get up. He shouted angry curses at her, his face holding an almost feral anger to it. Muska actually stepped back at that slightly. Something seemed off.

She stepped away slowly and when she began to believe he was captured, All Might’s declaration of so calmed some nerves, she turned to Midoriya who was staring at his hands like he had never seen them before. Disbelief conveyed through his expression. Muska brought up a hand to wave in front of his face when she heard All Might yell through the headphones.

“BAKUGO DON’T! YOU’VE ALREADY BEEN INCAPACITAT-” The teachers shouting was cut off by the sound of metal clinking together.

Muska whipped around with wide eyes. Bakugo was standing, hands that used to be restrained were aimed in her direction and one was settled on the pin of a gauntlet, anger radiated off of him as his mind refused to acknowledge any of the other emotions she could feel through the energy surrounding him.

“Fuck you DEKU and YOU! I Wouldn’t have been captured if it weren’t for your fuckin interruption!” He screamed, eyes clouded a bit as he lost control.

Muska went to move but felt frozen to the ground by the all consuming anger she felt, Midoriya moved first. Grabbing her and starting to move himself. All Might's warning lost to the wind as the tell tale clink of a pin being removed seemed to echo in the near silent hall.

“They won’t die if they manage to dodge!” was the last thing she heard before a blast rendered her hearing to nothing but ringing and pain.

Burning pain.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tags:

@baguettehead

[yelena-bellova]

The Measurements That Matter - Steve x plus sized reader

Summary: You’ve got a crush on your Captain, but you’re convinced that he could never feel the same way because you aren’t as thin as most girls. You push yourself too hard in the gym day in and day out, till one day things take a turn and Steve’s there to reassure you that you’re perfect, just the way you are…

Requested by @lilacprincessofrecovery : can you please make me a steve and plus size reader where he finds out shes exercising too much to try to get his attention and he tells her it doesnt matter how she looks if she keeps working out so much shell pass out? idk something like that? thank you!

Warnings: body image issues

Word Count: 2,070 Note: I’ve struggled with eating disorders and body dysmorphia + thought losing weight would make me for attractive to a guy I liked so this request was very close to my heart. Never forget that whatever size you are, you are absolutely beautiful ❤️

Just one more…

Just one more…

This was the mantra you were living by.

Just one more mile, just one more set, just one more rep…

In your free time between missions, you were always to be found in the gym. All of the Avengers put an emphasis on training and physical fitness, obviously, but not even Thor and all his muscles frequented the gym as much as you did. But rarely ever were you there for the right reasons…You were well aware of the fact that your body wasn’t built like your teammates. You certainly weren’t as thin as Wanda or as perfectly proportioned as Natasha…The world may have used terms like “plus-sized” but the only word you could ever use to describe yourself was fat. You hated your body and spent countless nights lying awake, wishing that you could look like other women. 

Because if you looked like other women, maybe Steve would finally look at you the way you looked at him…

Your lengthy workout sessions weren’t just for you. You had had a crush on Steve pretty much since the minute you joined the team a year ago. You and the captain were close friends, spending quite a bit of time together and you quickly becoming his go-to girl on missions. While your infatuation only grew for him, you never saw or got any signal from him that he might possibly feel the same way. Your insecurities took over and convinced you that the reason he wasn’t interested in you was that you didn’t look like other women. Steve Rogers, America’s Golden Boy, could never possibly go for someone like you…

So you ran miles on the treadmill, you did countless sets of crunches, you never stopped. And in the rare moments that you weren’t exercising, you were on your phone researching the best routines for losing weight. You hoped that with every pound shed, you were one step closing to winning the attention you craved from Steve.

One early morning, you hadn’t eaten much breakfast but decided it was a good idea to still go to the gym. During your second mile on the treadmill, you were starting to feel lightheaded. You knew your blood sugar was low and you should probably stop, but the minute you considered getting off, Steve walked into the gym. He was usually the first one to get in an early morning workout, but these days you were beating him to it. He gave you a smile and a wave, you did the same and removed your earbuds as he walked towards you.

“This is the third time this week you’ve beaten me here…I think you’re more dedicated than any of us.” Steve joked.

You let out a small chuckle, trying to keep your eyes focused on his face and not on him in his tight white tank top and track pants. Was it even legal for someone to look that good in workout gear?

“Then you better get on my level, Rogers.” you quipped as you continued to run. Your vision was starting to get a little blurry, but you blinked it away and wiped your eyes as if wiping some sweat from them. Steve smiled at you and you knew you must have been hallucinating because you could have sworn you saw a look of admiration in his eyes. 

“Don’t strain yourself. Let me know if you want to switch it up and spar a little with me.” he offered as he walked over to the punching bags.

You popped your earbuds back in and watched as he wrapped his fists in tape, beginning his attack on the bag. His moves were carefully calculated and executed smoothly. You snapped yourself out of your trance and continue your own workout, but your thoughts were beginning to blur together. Dizziness began to set in, your breath started to get heavier and a vague sense of nausea hit you. Common sense told you to get off the treadmill and rest, but by now Steve was resting from his first round of punches and was watching you run. There was no chance in hell you were going to stop now. Your legs were beginning to feel wobbly, but you kept pushing yourself because you knew you had his attention.

Just one more…

Just one more…

The room started to spin and your steps began to get sloppy. You thought you could vaguely hear someone shouting your name over the music, but you couldn’t be sure. Suddenly, one of your feet slipped and you felt yourself falling, but didn’t have the energy to grab onto something to save yourself. A pair of arms wrapped themselves around you and caught you before you hit the belt of the treadmill, you hung limp. Steve carried you off of the machine and laid you down on the ground. He pulled out your earbuds,

“y/n! Can you hear me? y/n, are you okay?” 

You blinked your eyes until your vision semi-cleared, Steve was leaning over you with fear in his eyes. Embarrassment was starting to set in as you pieced together what had just happened. 

“Y-yeah, I’m okay. I must have just overdone it.” you croaked out, realizing how dry your throat actually was. 

“That’s an understatement, y/n. It seems like all you do these days is overdo it.” Steve said as he helped you sit up. You put your head in your hands, trying to hide the tears that were beginning to form in your eyes. You felt like you were about to break and you’d be damned if it was going to happen in front of Steve.

“You practically live in this gym, and if you keep up at the pace, you’re gonna pass out or worse.” he said worriedly. 

All you could do was nod, knowing the dangerous toll your insecurities were going to take on you. Steve stuttered a bit before he finally asked the question you were praying he wouldn’t ask…

“y/n, is there something going on?” That was all you needed to let your tears flow, your shoulders shaking a little with each sob that escaped your mouth. Steve grabbed onto you and pulled you into his arms, rocking you every so slowly, as if too much movement might cause you to break. You sat there for a few moments, sobbing into your hands and Steve’s shoulder. Eventually, your cries quieted and you dried your eyes.

“I don’t look like everyone else, Steve. I know that. I just thought that maybe if I started really pushing myself, I could lose some weight and…” you let your sentence drift off because you couldn’t tell him the real reason why you were doing this to yourself. Your tears began to fall silently again and Steve lifted your face so your eyes could meet his.

“y/n, why would you think you need to change yourself?” he asked. 

“Because I’m fat, Steve! I’m fat! And heroes aren’t supposed to be fat! Look at Natasha and Wanda, then look at me! I’m not even in the same league as them…” you shouted through your tears. But that wasn’t what broke Steve’s heart, it was the next thing you said…

“I don’t blame people for not thinking I’m beautiful because I don’t even think I’m beautiful.” 

His jaw fell slack and he watched you dry your tears, staring down at your lap. He knew he had to choose his next words carefully, lest he mess up the situation further.

“You’re dead wrong about calling yourself fat…But you’re right, you don’t look like Nat or Wanda. You’re built differently than they are,” your head snapped up and looked at him, more tears filling your eyes. Steve quickly drew another breath to finish his explanation. “And that’s okay. Having a certain type of body doesn’t make you any more or less of a hero. Those aren’t the measurements that matter. Your heart, your dedication, your passion is what makes a hero. And you’ve got more of that than anyone I know.”

He took your face into his hand, forcing you to look at him as he continued. “y/n, you are the most beautiful women I’ve ever gotten to lay my eyes on. Inside and out, you are stunning. I��m not saying that out of pity or humoring you, it’s the damn truth. I just wish I would have reassured you of that sooner because then maybe you wouldn’t have put yourself through this.” “That’s the thing, Steve. I was always going to put myself through this because I didn’t think you-” you caught yourself one word too late. Steve’s brow furrowed, you looked away quickly and attempted to pull yourself away from his arms. “No, wait!” he exclaimed, grabbing your wrist and pulling your back down. Your eyes met and tension suddenly filled the air. 

“Am I one of the reasons you were doing this to yourself?” he asked hesitantly.

You looked down, not able to bear the expression on his face, slowly nodding your head. “I thought that maybe if I looked a certain way, maybe you’d look at me…” you finally admitted.

Steve was floored, no pun intended, sitting on the floor of the gym with your wrist in his hand and your feelings finally out in the open. He had never thought for a second that you might feel this way about him, even though he had silently hoped you had. But never in his wildest thoughts had he ever thought you’d put yourself through this hell in the hopes that you could catch his eye. A breathless smile fell on his lips which only confused you… “Look, I know it’s stupid but I’m begging you, please don’t laugh at me…” you pleaded. 

He let out a small chuckle and put his hand on your cheek, taking a second to admire you. You were sweaty with puffy eyes and no makeup on your face, but you were still the most beautiful sight to Steve.

“y/n, I’ve never stopped looking at you. Not for a minute since the first day we met have I stopped looking at you. You never needed to change a thing about yourself to catch my eye.” Now it was your turn to look confused and shocked, how could you have missed it?! Were you so blinded by your insecurities that you didn’t notice Steve returning your affections? Your mind was racing, trying to gather your thoughts and words but you were drawing a blank. You couldn’t believe what Steve had just confessed to you...

“I never thought that…I never thought that you….” you stammered. 

Steve simply smiled at you, brushed a wisp of hair from your face, and met your eyes. The look of pure affection on both your faces said more than any words could have said in the moment. Steve’s eyes flickered to your lips then back to you, silently asking for permission. You leaned in slowly, granting his request, and your lips met in a sweet kiss full of relief and reassurance. A year’s worth of longing released into one perfect moment. You broke apart and rested your forehead against his, your heart so full at the moment you thought you might burst.

“You know the only thing that could make this moment more perfect?” he whispered.

“If it weren’t happening on the floor of the gym?” you joked. He laughed, cradling your cheek in his hand. “That, and getting some food in you. You did just have a blood sugar episode, y’know…” Leave it to Steve Rogers to ruin a perfect moment by worrying about your wellbeing…You smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek, “You’re probably right. Believe it or not, I’m starving. Why don’t we go make breakfast together?” He helped you up to your feet, only to pick you up in his arms. You began to protest, but he gave you a coy smile, “I think you’re too weak to walk right now and in the complete and total interest of your health, I think you need to be carried around all day. Captain’s orders.”

Letting out a small chuckle, you wrapped your arms around his neck, “Well, who am I to disobey my Captain?” After that, your gym time was almost always spent with Steve and not a day went by where he didn’t make sure you knew just how beautiful you were.

[mademoisellegush]

Shear

Happy (late) birthday @unlucky-words !! 

1300+ words, Chargestep (NB!Sidestep, M!Ortega)   content warning for dysmorphia about presentation.

Summary: Ortega gives a haircut, falls every so slightly, more deeply, in love.

Sidestep is a creature with many faces, many facets - slipping through the fissures and holes in the system like putting on a second skin, safely secured in old hoodies and a wrestler's mask, out-of-date and out-of-touch. Ortega doesn't know what to make of them: one moment a feral cat that has never known a kind touch, the next saving his skin and his reputation with a grin and a quip, beating the devil’s tattoo on cold cold pavement with their feet running wild.

They're painfully real, really painful.

He vows to see them again. He gets his wish, at least in this.

Seneca Strangelove. Strange name for a strange teenager, he and them foreigners both in friendship, but he sits in their third-hand van and he feels like he's home; they speak of wrestlers and heel-face and redemption and he launches popcorn into their mouth, laughing when they miss catching it and it hits their nose. They retaliate by throwing gummy worms, pillows, old hoodies, and he laughs so hard he cries. He offers for them to join the big leagues, and they get quiet - they want to be a hero, he knows, they want to be a good person, but they can't.

They already are a hero, he tells them, and they snort.

Seneca, Sen, sen sen sen. His best friend, real friend, free from the barriers Wei puts up or the caustic smiles Themmy throws his way. They're all hiding things, and Sen especially, he knows, but he works every day to make sure they feel safe and secure with him, he hopes they know. He hopes. He can’t make them tell him, can needle and pry, but at the end of the day, no matter how much he wishes otherwise, they’re the ones with the mind powers.

Trouble. Trouble and Danger, Danger and Trouble, and Ortega turns the words over and over in his head and seven times in his mouth before he speaks, careful and reckless charging headfirst into this, friendship and love and family. Something true, something real, something that’ll last a lifetime, forever.

He remembers a life before them, but he will never be able to go back to it, all alone with the masks.

He finds them sitting on his old couch, and thinks: that, right there, is home.

He wakes to texts and emojis and advice animals with some stupid sentence a local politician said and he laughs, and then wonders what- maybe- if they could stay, someday.

He wants them to, and instead of scaring him, the thought unfurls pleasantly, and stays at the back of his mind.

Ricardo Ortega finds them in his kitchen. It’s small and cramped, not so different from what he grew up with, but there’s no baby pictures on the walls, and he’s the one in charge. That feels nice. What’s less nice is the way they sit on a stool in the dark; what’s less nice are the way they hands shake as they play with a knife he recognizes from his utensil drawer; what’s less nice is the tears in their eyes when he turns on the lights.

“Hey, Trouble?”

They look up, strands of hair falling into their face, and the motion repulses them: they drop the knife (it clatters on the counter, on the floor, metallic, like the copper on his tongue when he bites the inside of his cheek) and they try to smile.

“Hey, Danger.”

Keyword: try. But he knows them, he knows the cloud of misery that he doesn’t need to be a telepath to feel; Ricardo crosses the room, reaches their side, takes their hand.

They didn’t like that, the first time. They’re still uneasy with it nowadays, to be honest, but it’s as much a comforting motion for him as it would be if intended fully for them.

They fidget, like they always do when they fret, squirming under his gaze like he’s another stranger here to judge them, here to criticize and deride when all they do is exist. Mierda, he never wants them to feel like that, and definitely not with him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, grocery bag dropping forgotten with his shoes at the door.

“Nothing,” they mutter, gloom draping over them like night smog falling over Los Diablos.

“Trouble, c’mon. Tell me the truth.”

“When have I ever lied to you?” They glare at him in between the fingers of their free hand, but Ricardo laughs easily, sidestepping their own ire.

“Feels-,” Seneca starts, hesitates. “Feels like shackles. It shouldn’t but it does. Like… heaviness over me.”

“What does?” he asks, gentler this time. Or as gentle as he can be, all of twenty-seven and still brushing up the hard edges of him against the world, against the spotlight and the fame and the masks he puts on.

“Sounds stupid,” Seneca tells him, laughing weakly. “Just… my hair. It’s too much.”

“Oh,” is all he can manage, stupidly. “Your hair?”

“My hair,” they nod, switching from miserable anguish to affronted vexation, straightening up on the kitchen stool.

“Okay. Anything I can do?”

They shrug.

“Sure, I guess. You could cut it for me.”

He almost asks if they’d prefer going to a hair salon, but: he knows, by now, they do things the way that they do for a reason, even if they refuse to tell him.

“I don’t have an electric shaver,” he hears himself say. They look even bluer, and he tries to catch himself. “But I do have a razor.”

“I was gonna ask how you shaved every morning, actually. Hear me out, though: try scissors first?”

“Oh. Scissors, yeah,” he repeats, before feeling himself grin. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“I’ll go wash up my hair, then, I guess.”

Once they settle on the stool, somehow still nearly as tall as him, he snips in the air. In the hair, he snickers. What he doesn’t expect is for Seneca to glower at him.

“Sorry,” Ricardo half-apologizes, half-jokes. “I’ve never-”

“Been trusted with scissors before? Don’t worry,” they grin feebly and pat his hand. “At worst I’ll-”

“Do it yourself? Nonsense.” He experimentally snips a red-brown curl. “Why would you keep me around then?”

Ortega watches the strand of hair fall to the ground, laden down by water. One down, a few hundred to go. He gets to work, humming and talking about nonsense, plans and past fights. Doesn’t mention them signing up with the Big Leagues, or Wei’s latest line of interrogation, or Themmy. 

When he steps back, twenty minutes later, Ortega spins them around and around on the stool instead of letting them out, until they laugh, what must be a smug look on his face. He only stops when Seneca grabs for his shirt, laughing harder than he’s seen them do in a long while. Proudly, he presents them with a mirror from one of the bottom drawers of the kitchen - left by a conquest years ago that he’s never gotten around to throwing away. He lets them look at themself, watching the play of emotions on their face.

“Danger.”

“Yeah, Trouble?”

“It’s… uneven.”

He sighs. “I’ll get the razor.”

Seneca drags their hand through the close cut buzz, electric, voltaic. It’s a good look. He tells them so, because when has Ricardo - no, Marshal - Ortega ever kept his mouth shut?

They snort, and he grins, reaches out to touch the short hair. Feels nice. He did a good job, Ricardo brags, and-

His stomach drops; his mouth dries; his stomach feels like he’s a kid in high school (before he had to drop out for full-time hero work) again, crushing on the varsity team captain.

They lean into his hand, beatific expression on their face, eyes closed and mouth wide-close in a tight-lipped smile. At peace, at ease, serene. He did that for them: they feel safe.

And, with an aching heart, the realization: they trust him.

He hopes it will last.

[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek Of: The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller! (Please Be Aware!! Contains Content Trigger!)

Matt hasn't eaten in days. The hunger clears his mind—and he needs to be as sharp as possible if he's going to find out just how Tariq and his band of high school bullies drove his sister, Maya, away. Matt has discovered something: the less he eats the more he seems to have . . . powers. The ability to see things he shouldn't be able to see. Maybe even the authority to bend time and space. Matt decides to infiltrate Tariq's life, then use his powers to uncover what happened to Maya. All he needs to do is keep the hunger at bay. But Matt doesn't realize there are many kinds of hunger…and he isn't in control of all of them. TRIGGER WARNING:

Eating disorders and body dysmorphia are recurring themes in The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller. Please be aware if these are sensitive topics for you!  

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  TRIGGER WARNING:

Eating disorders and body dysmorphia are recurring themes in The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller. Please be aware if these are sensitive topics for you!

Congratulations! You have acquired one human body. This was a poor decision, but it is probably too late for you to do anything about it. Life, alas, has an extremely strict return policy.

Not that I’m some kind of expert or anything, but as an almost-seventeen-year veteran of having a body, I’ve learned a few basic rules that might save you some of my misery. So I’m writing this Rulebook as a public service. Please note, however, that there are a lot of rules, and some of them are very difficult to follow, and some of them sound crazy, and please don’t come crying to me if something terrible happens when you can only follow half of them.

RULE #1

Understand this: your body wants the worst for you. It is a complicated machine built up over billions of years, and it wants only two things—to stay alive and to make more of you. Your body thinks you’re still an animal in the jungle, and it wants you to eat ALL the food, and stick your DNA up in anything you can hold down. Lust and hunger will never leave you alone, because your body wants you grotesquely fat and covered in kids.

DAY: 1 TOTAL CALORIES: 3600

Suicidal ideation.

When you say it like that it sounds soft and harmless, like laissez-faire or any of the other weird sets of meaningless words they make you memorize in school. The letter from the psychiatrist sounded so calm I had to read it a couple of times before I saw what she was trying to say. She didn’t quote me. She didn’t tell my mom I said, Sometimes I think if I killed myself everyone would be a lot better off or Five times a week I decide to steal the gun my mom thinks I don’t know about and bring it to school and murder tons of people and then myself.

Instead, the psychiatrist said a lot of scary things in very tame and pleasant language:

Recommend urgent action— Happy to prescribe— Facilitate inpatient treatment—

Poor thing. How could she know my mom hides from the mail, with its bills and Notes of Shutdown and FINAL WARNINGS? I didn’t want to go see the psychiatrist in the first place, but the school set it up for me because I am evidently an At-Risk Youth. At risk of what, I wondered, and then thought, oh right, everything. At risk of enough that one or all my teachers filed whatever due-diligence report they’re obligated to file on someone who is obviously headed for homicide or suicide, so his or her blood isn’t on their hands. And as soon as the psychiatrist’s report came, addressed to my mom, I plucked it from the mail pile.

I read it on my walk to school. My mom still thinks I take the bus, but I stopped around the six thousandth time someone called me a faggot and punched me as I walked through the aisle. That kind of thing can really start your day off on the wrong foot. Plus, walking to school makes it easier to get there late, so I’m spared the agony of playing Lord of the Flies while we all stand around outside waiting for the first bell to ring.

The branches were almost entirely bare overhead. Stark and black like skinny fingers clawing at the sky. One crooked tree still had half its leaves. Hunger rumbled in my belly, and I felt like if I reached out hard enough, I could stretch myself taller than any of the trees. Hunger is funny like that.

Anyway. I shredded the letter, let it fall behind me like a trail of breadcrumbs. Lesson learned: Don’t tell people you want to kill yourself. Although really I should have known that one already. If high school teaches you nothing else, know this: Never tell anyone anything important.

I slowed down. Savored my last few steps before the hill crested and brought me in sight of the school. Stared up at the trees, and down the garbage-strewn road. Stopped. Breathed. Wondered what would happen if I turned and walked into the woods and never came back. I thought about this a lot. I had plans. I’d hitchhike or ride the rails or follow the river.

Under my bed there was a bag, full of books and hoodies and diet soda from the vending machine behind the ShopRite, and one of these days I would be ready to sling it over my shoulder and run away for real.

But I wasn’t ready, not yet. As miserable as it made me, I had to go to school. Not because I cared about college or education or a career or any of that pig shit, because anyone who spent five minutes in a Hudson High School classroom would know there was no actual educating happening anywhere in sight. The reason I couldn’t kill myself, and I couldn’t stop coming to school, was because Maya beat me to it. Because five days ago, my older sister ran away from home. She called the next morning from somewhere on the freeway to assure us she wasn’t kidnapped, she was taking a week off (“or whatever”) to go to some studio near Providence to record her band’s first album, she’d catch up on school when she got back. We shouldn’t call the cops. Etc.

She says she’s fine. She says nothing happened. But I don’t think that’s entirely true. I think someone hurt her. And I know who. And I had to keep coming to school because I had to find out what happened, so I could hurt him back.

So I crested the hill and walked down to the squat sprawling one-story building, an ugly heap of aluminum and brick, cursing my abject failure at estimating travel time, for I had arrived too early, and they were there, my peers, my fellow primates, hooting and hollering, pounding chests and grooming each other.

My senses felt like they’d been turned up too high. Maybe it had something to do with skipping breakfast, with the churning engine of my empty stomach generating electricity that danced in my limbs, crackled in my head, but these people stunk. They spoke too loudly.

Their clothes and bags were head-achingly bright. It made every step toward them harder.

And there, at the door, arms folded like the bouncers outside a club in a cop show, they stood. Three of them: Bastien, Tariq, Ott. Hudson High’s soccer stars; the shrewd-eyed roosters at the top of our pecking order.

“Pretty,” Ott said as one girl approached.

“Not pretty,” to the next. Grinning hyena-style at how her face crumpled.

“Pretty.”

“Fugly.”

“Thinks she’s pretty.”

At this, they cackled. Everyone but Tariq. Tariq, with his perfect stomach and impressive chest and a beard thicker than any high school senior’s ever, Tariq of the dimples and broad nose, Tariq who could have stepped out of my computer screen, because he’d fit right in on the sites I spent all night searching when my mom was asleep. Pages packed with boys, beautiful ones—a secret nation to which I would never belong. Tariq, who somehow made me feel fat and scrawny all at once.

Tariq, who saw me and looked away as fast as he could but not fast enough to hide the guilt that soured his face.

We had both been crushed out on Tariq, my big sister and me. He wasn’t like the other boys on the soccer team, even if he did spend an awful lot of time with them. He wasn’t a bully. He was handsome and smart, and even nice, sometimes.

That’s what made him so dangerous. Everybody knows to steer clear of a bully. Maya would never have gone to meet up with Tariq in secret if he had already showed us all he was a brutal thug.

But he seemed . . . human. So she did.

He didn’t know that I knew. And, admittedly, I didn’t know much. Just that they met up that night. So maybe nothing happened. Maybe he just gave her a ride to Providence, to this recording studio I don’t really believe exists, or to where one of her bandmates lived. The fact that he gave her a ride that night wasn’t what made me suspicious. What made me suspicious was this: something shifted, in Tariq’s body language, after that night. He doesn’t look me in the eye anymore. He turns his shoulders away from wherever I am standing.

Like right then, as I approached the front door, where he stood with his best friends, staring at the ground with his perfect lips pressed tight together.

I gnawed my fingernails furiously.

My mom tells me it is a disgusting habit. She tells me to stop. I can’t stop.

It hurt, how much I wanted to smash my face against those perfect lips. I wanted it even though I felt pretty sure Tariq did something terrible to my sister. And the wanting got rolled up with the shame and filled me with a sputtering, stupid animal rage. How could it be, that in spite of everything, I still felt lust when I looked at him? Lust, and hate, in equal measure.

That’s why I’m writing this Rulebook.

Your body is a treacherous savage thing and it is trying to kill you. I am here to help you win. Together, we are both going to win.

Ott saw me stop and stare daggers at Tariq.

“You want something, Matt?”

That’s my name: Matt. I didn’t want to tell you, because I hate it.

A matt is something people step on. A matt is full of filth.

I debated lying. Making up something badass or manly, Damien or Colby or Barrett or Bo, something gay-porn-star-y. But honesty is important. I want you to trust me. Because pretty soon I’ll be telling you some things you’re going to have a very hard time believing.

So, Ott called my name. My whole body twitched with fight-or-flight triggers, but I knew either choice would be disastrous. If I fought, I’d get my ass beat, and if I ran, my limited ability to make Tariq feel uncomfortable, to apply pressure, would evaporate.

People were watching. If Tariq hadn’t been standing there, I’d have gone about my business, but he was my real audience. Ott didn’t matter.

I winced, tasting blood where I bit down too hard on the cuticle of my ring finger.

In movies and books, all you need to do to stop a bully is to punch them back. Bullies are cowards, the story goes; they can dish out violence, but they can’t take it.

This, you should know, if you haven’t already found it out the hard way, is bullshit. I tried it, in middle school, and it made things worse. Maybe it’ll work for you, if you’re stronger than me, or a faster runner, but it earned me a lovely session of puking up blood.

I knew that hitting Ott wouldn’t get me anywhere. But I did see something flicker in his eyes, something like fear but not exactly that, something bigger, messier: hate and fear all at once. I took a step closer. I took a deep breath. I smelled him.

And don’t ask me how, but I knew. I knew from the smell: I made him nervous. I terrified him. My existence, my gayness, threatened his whole way of understanding the world, what it meant to be the male of the species.

I’d never understood the word homophobia before— people who are homophobic are not afraid of gay people, they just hate them! But in that moment it all made sense. Straight men will insult and assault and beat and kill gay men because they are terrified. Because masculinity is the foundation they built their whole worldview on, the set of lies that lets them believe they are inherently better than women, and gay people expose how flimsy and arbitrary the whole thing is.

I turned to him and said, “No, Ott, I don’t want anything. I was just wondering. What about me?”

His mouth curled into a snarl. “What about you?”

“Which one am I?”

He unfolded his arms with a slowness that revealed his uncertainty. “Which . . . one?”

“Yeah. Am I pretty? Not pretty? I definitely think I’m pretty.”

A girl giggled. Even Tariq cracked a grin, though he turned his head to hide it from me.

I took another step forward. Ott’s lips parted slightly, and I saw muscles tighten in his arms. He was confused and getting angry: he sensed I was humiliating him, but not in any way he could reasonably understand. He was desperate for me to touch him, or explicitly insult him, so he could hurt me. I had planned to tap his chest with one finger when I delivered the finishing line, but that would have made Ott feel justified in a physical response. So why bother.

Seconds ticked away—

“You are Not Pretty,” I told Ott an instant before the first bell rang.

Then I slipped by him and walked inside.

TRIGGER WARNING:

Eating disorders and body dysmorphia are recurring themes in The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller. Please be aware if these are sensitive topics for you!

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