#I’m not supposed to be a functioning member of society

[devious-little-creature]

Tomorrow is officially my one month anniversary of being a whole ass adult huh

#i didn’t ask for this #i’m not ready #I’m not supposed to be a functioning member of society #I’m supposed to be a little creature eating rice on the floor

[ryukatters]

don’t go - k. bakugo

a/n: I’m so horny for this man I can’t even think straight. This was supposed to be short and fluffy but now it’s turned into this. I would say sorry but I’m not. (Yes I am alive)

pairing: katsuki bakugo x fem! reader

wc: 1.5k

content/warnings: smut, unprotected morning s*x, begging, overstimulation, bkg is obsessed with you, also completely not proofread

Your boyfriend Katsuki is clingy. Very clingy— in all senses of the word, and you’re convinced that if you open a dictionary right now his name would show up as the very definition of it. Bakugo would live under your skin if he could, or at the very least come up with a way to keep you in his pocket. 

As lovely as your boyfriend is, his innate urge to smother you in affection poses a problem in times like these— early mornings where you have to get up and get ready for work. 

“Katsuki, I need to go to work. Go back to your side of the bed.”

“Just quit,” he murmurs, “I’ll take care of ya.” 

“As appealing as that sounds, no. I need to get up and do my part as a functioning member of society.” Any attempt to leave your shared bed is shut down by Bakugo, his strength easily overpowering yours as he wraps his arms around you and lays on top of you. 

“But you’re my pillow,” he says with a bit of a sigh, pressing his into the crook of your neck, melting further into you. His hot breath tickles your skin, and it’s enough to have your heart pounding along with a familiar warmth in between your legs. Katsuki is observant to a fault, he knows you better than the back of his own hand, and knows just what to do to turn you into putty. 

His hands snake up under your (read: his) shirt, kneading your breasts. You let out a sharp gasp as he tweaks your nipples and sucks a love bite at the junction of your neck. He hums in appreciation as he slowly leaves a trail of wet kisses down your stomach, stopping just as he reaches your underwear. 

He traces your slit, eyes darkening as the fabric begins to dampen with your slick. “So wet for me already, baby.” It’s not a question, it’s a fact that he already knew. Katsuki wastes no time sliding the garment down your legs. He takes a moment to run his hands up and down both your thighs before prying your legs further apart, exposing yourself to him completely. He can feel his mouth water at the sight of you. 

Katsuki can’t help but moan the minute his lips attach themselves to your clit, sucking fervently. “Always taste so good, princess.” 

You take a moment to glance down, which proves to be a mistake. Katsuki’s practically making out with your pussy, and when his eyes meet yours, they’re nothing short of lovesick. His vermillion orbs draw you in, and they’re absolutely magnetizing. You have to close your eyes to stave off your orgasm for a little longer. 

Katsuki can’t help but grind against the edge of the bed to feel some sort of release. He’s so fucking hard. He thinks he’s growing delirious. Katsuki swears he can cum from the taste of your pussy and the sound of your angelic voice filling the room with a sweet symphony. When you let out a particularly breathy call of his name, he has to will himself not to finish in his boxers, which is already usually a difficult enough task on its own, but now it's almost impossible from how impossibly hard he is with morning wood.

You grind against his mouth, hands carding through his hair as your orgasm rapidly approaches. Katsuki is more than eager to be used as a means of getting there. Even as you cum, he continues to fuck your hole with his tongue and lapping up your pussy. It’s only when you begin to push him away does he feel the need to lean back, a loud pop reverberating as he does. 

“You gonna be a good girl and let me take care of ya?”

“Mmm, fuck. Yes, ‘ki.”

“Good girl,” he coos, his lips pressing against yours with fervor. You allow him to deepen the kiss, sucking on his tongue. He moans appreciatively, hips stuttering as he continues to grind against you. The head of his cock bumps against your clit over and over, smearing precum all over your pussy. His tip just barely presses against your fluttering hole, and you can feel your insides ache with anticipation and utter need.

He’s teasing you. You’re overstimulated yet somehow unsatisfied. Your pussy is craving to be stretched out, and Katsuki is making sure he’s doing everything but that. He likes getting you like this— needy, clingy, nearly delirious as you beg for him. He likes to think of it as reparations for how insane you make him feel on the daily. 

You’re not sure how much more you can take. 

“Katsuki, please,” you whine, lifting your hips to grind against his dick, hoping to get what you want, what you need. You look up at Katsuki and for a moment, you think you’ve got him— think that you’d be able to look at him with those doe eyes and get what you want easily, like always. He never could refuse you.

But he merely smirks, and uses one hand to press you back down into the mattress. 

“Tell me what you want, princess. You know I’ll make it good for you.” 

“Want you to fuck me, ‘ki.” 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you whine sweetly. 

“I’ll give you what you want baby,” he affirms, the timbres of his voice reaching the depths of your soul. He uses both hands to press both of your legs by your shoulders, cock lined at your entrance. I always do, don’t I?

You can’t stop the moan that tumbles out of your lips as he fills you up. Katsuki presses a kiss against your forehead, relishing in the way you tighten around his dick. 

The familiar coil that’s been forming in your tummy is threatening to unravel, if your stuttered moans and breaths are any indication. Katsuki seems to know this too, as he pulls out right before you hit your climax. You whine at the sudden lack of overwhelming pressure, and Katsuki’s quick to silence you with a hard stare. 

His breath ghosts against your lips, vermillion eyes burning into yours with intense, unspoken passion. “What’s wrong, princess?”

You shake your head in the negative. “Wanna cum, Katsuki. Please.” 

He starts thrusting again, slowly and with purpose. His eyes never leave yours. It doesn’t take long for you to be on the brink of an orgasm again. “You want to cum, right baby?” He smiles when he sees you nod. “You can cum,” he says carefully, “but only if you do one thing for me.” 

“I’ll do anything Kats,” you manage to choke out. Katsuki continues to pound into you, the sound of skin slapping filling the room. You really would do anything, Katsuki’s own desire and utter want for you is so persuasive that you feel compelled to follow. 

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, lips pressing a chaste kiss against yours. “Stay with me, today.” There’s an urgency behind his words despite them being said so softly. 

Fuck it. 

You barely manage to let out a stuttered “yes, ‘ki,” before you reach your peak. The pleasure rolls over you in waves, tears threatening to spill as Katsuki continues to drill into you, chasing his own high. A few particularly rough thrusts punctuated by staggered moans let you know that he’s cumming. 

Katsuki manages to plop right next to you, bed shifting under his weight. You lock eyes as you both try to catch your breaths. He gives you a quick smile before pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple, one arm wrapping around you to pull you against him.

“So…” he starts, his eyes brimming with satisfaction, lips upturned into a smirk. He knows he’s won. “Ready for round 2?”

#katsuki x reader #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki x you #bakugo x you #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #kat’s writing #kat’s demon time

[lostyesterday]

I’ve been thinking about disabled protagonists in Star Trek recently, which got me thinking about Seven of Nine. It’s interesting because I’m almost certain the writers of Voyager did not intend to write a disabled character, but they ended up accidentally writing one anyway, and one whose arc I find surprisingly compelling as a disabled person myself. Seven is dependent on electronic devices both inside her body and external to it in order to survive and she requires regular medical treatment and specialized adaptations to her environment in order to function. She is absolutely canonically disabled (as are all the other ex-Borg in Star Trek), even if the writers probably weren’t aware of that. The major reason that I think Seven’s arc resonates with me so much is because it reflects a deep tension between independence and dependence that is a fundamental and complex part of so many disabled people’s lives.

To be disabled is to be deeply aware at all times of your own dependence on external things (such as wheelchairs, canes, medications, etc.) and other people. At the same time, to be disabled is to also be deeply aware of the societal standards of independence and self-sufficiency you are constantly failing to live up to. You cannot do things that people are “supposed” to be able to do independently. You need help for basic tasks, and you have no choice but to trust that these external supports you are dependent on will not suddenly disappear, causing you to be unable to participate in society at all. It’s difficult to express to someone who hasn’t experienced it how much being disabled forces someone to consider their own level of dependence and independence constantly, how it becomes a deep part of one’s identity and can often be a source of trauma.

Seven’s arc on Voyager is often focused on the nature of individuality, but it is interesting how often “individuality” becomes a stand-in for independence. Seven’s disability makes her deeply dependent on the crew and resources of Voyager for survival. She could theoretically leave and use her own skills to do maintenance on her implants and install an alcove somewhere to keep herself functioning, but it would be a great risk, and her safety would be constantly in doubt. At the same time, Seven hates this dependence. She tries to rely on other people as little as possible, hating her need for the Doctor to diagnose issues with her implants and refusing to ask for help until she has no other choice. She hates this dependence because she sees it as challenging her ability to become a complete “individual” who is able to make her own autonomous choices. She hates this dependence because it forces her to rely on other people who could at any time abandon her or abuse their power over her.

So it’s far less frightening to pretend this dependence doesn’t exist, to hide it even from herself. Seven’s arrogance in her own abilities, her focus on her intellect and vast knowledge and superior physical abilities are in many ways genuine, especially early on. But at what point does this confidence in her own abilities – this reassurance that she is smart enough and strong enough to control her own destiny and be a true individual – become a coping mechanism to deal with the reality of her dependence on objects and people outside of her direct control?

Seven is told often by members of the Voyager crew that being an individual who makes her own choices and decisions is what she should strive for. And at the same time, those same people often exert control over her, attempting to restrict her autonomy. Janeway or the Doctor tell her that they know better than her what her needs are – that being an individual only goes so far. Seven’s anger at this contradiction is one of my favorite parts of her character, partially because it captures a similar feeling of anger deep inside me when I think about the ways society constantly pressures disabled people to maintain standards of independence impossible to live up to while at the same time deeply restricting our autonomy and freedom.

In the episode “Imperfection”, Seven says that what she wants most is to be useful. To be useful is to be a valuable part of society – someone who is self-sufficient and talented and certainly not deeply dependent on other people for basic survival. To be disabled is to have society constantly demand that you be useful, that you be independent and strong and never let your disabilities limit you. And at the same time, to be disabled is to discover over and over that you can never be that fully autonomous, fully functional human being seen as ideal in society. No matter what you do – no matter how far you run from the truth – it’s an impossible reality to escape.

#star trek voy #seven of nine #once i start talking about disability in star trek i cannot stop #i genuinely would love to hear other people's thoughts on this #lane posts

[ratgirlcock]

i’m not supposed to be a functioning member of society i’m supposed to be chained to a pretty person’s desk :(

[the-hopeless-haze]

Worried About You

Chapter 4 of If You Want It, You Can Bleed On Me (House x reader)

“I need Vicodin,” Greg says to you, walking into your office. Well. Your office when you were here. You scowl slightly at the day-old coffee in your line of vision and think about how you’ll be scolded by the other people you share the office with the rest of the week when you inevitably forget that it’s there.

“Funny. I’m not your dealer,” you say.

You and Greg had hit it off, so to speak. Much to everyone’s chagrin and surprise, you continued seeing each other inside and outside the hospital. It wasn’t something either of you spoke about. Psychiatrists (or psychiatric doctors of nursing) are the worst patients and the best repressors. You did what you had to to be able to function like a member of society, but you were as fucked up as the rest of them. And you see Greg is similar. USA-renowned, if not world-renowned, diagnostician—but that was all he had besides a bum leg and a healthy dose of chronic depression and reliance on opiates to function.

When you finally had sex -heterosexual sex, dick in pussy sex - it was a frenzy fueled by alcohol and weeks long of teasing, and you saw glimpses of his leg in the midst of it and he saw the scars scattering your arms, but beyond the “oh, so you tried to kill yourself” he said to you when he edged you on the brink of orgasm the umpteenth time (and oh, boy, was that a mood killer) there were no comments about either.

But he kept you around and you weren’t entirely certain of why. It’s only been a month or so, and he’s not calling you his girlfriend or telling you he loves you, but he’ll still wine and dine you before railing you. And you don’t know if it’s out of obligation, if he feels like even though you’re not a hooker he has to pay you for sex, or if he genuinely enjoys your company. You think about how dissimilar you are to Wilson and how that’s the only person he keeps close. You wonder if maybe you remind him of his live-in ex that you’re almost certain he never got over. It’s a good time though, regardless. You make each other laugh. You both love The Rolling Stones. You begrudgingly agreed to be dragged to a monster truck show one night (“Wilson won’t come with me” he whined) and in return you made him go with you to see a local band perform that he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in.

It was that sacrificing that made you pretty close to a real couple. Wilson pointed it out to you and he no doubt pointed it out to Greg. You made a snarky comment about his marriage and you wonder if you should compare notes with Greg to make sure you’re both not using the same lines.

You don’t know why you keep him around either, so it’s fair. It’s nice to have a fuck buddy, you suppose, and it’s also nice to almost like them as a human being rather than a sex toy. It’s certainly not because you think you can cure him, because you know you can’t. You wanted sex and you didn’t want a rehash. All things considered, he was a thorough lover and cared about getting you off as much as himself, which somewhat surprised you given how selfish he can be in other settings.

It’s not a bad arrangement. At least not right now.

But you’re fucked and you know it. It’s why you were drawn to work with kids in the first place. At least you’d always have a leg up on them. Someone out there thought you were sane enough to be rent an apartment and be a licensed prescriber.

Oh. Speaking of.

“Come on. You have a license to prescribe. Just once,” he begs.

“Yeah. No. I think you’ve got me confused with Wilson.”

“You’re much hotter,” he offers.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It got you in my bed.”

You smirk, shaking your head. “Yeah. Fair. But that’s as far as it’ll get you. You can be lackadaisical with your license, but I’d like to keep mine until I want to retire.”

“How’d I get with such a goody-two-shoes? Even Wilson will play.”

“He’s not now, apparently. What gives?”

“I bet Cuddy clinic hours that I wouldn’t take Vicodin for a week. They’re all convinced I’m an addict.”

You snort. “Okay. I hate to point it out so bluntly, but this is prime behavior for addiction. Searching all channels to get a fix because you can’t go a week without it?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Okay. I’m going to do the week. But I need someone on standby. I’m only doing the week, and I don’t know that I’ll be able to get it prescribed afterward.”

“Chronic pain is outside my scope of practice. Best I could do is a suboxone MAT and say I’m detoxing you off Vicodin and keeping your substance use in check, but even that’s pushing it. There’s a conflict of interest.”

“You can’t keep the clinical and the personal separate?”

“Nope. Could you? If I was your patient this week, would you be able to? Bringing your ex-girlfriend into this is what got you into this mess. Don’t bring me in to try to fix it.”

“I’m not asking you to fix it. And you have a medical background. I’m asking you to write the order I’m asking for. I know how to manage my pain.”

“Why don’t you get through this week first? Then maybe you’ll take me up on the suboxone,” you say, crossing your arms.

“You think I’m addicted?”

“Jesus Christ, Greg, you’re smarter than this. You know what happens if you consistently take opiates. I know you need them for pain. I’m not denying that. But to think you’re immune to the side effects? It’s habit-forming. You know this. You’ve been taking it for years. You’re going to have withdrawal symptoms. You should be doing this in a detox facility if anything.”

“I work in a hospital. Opiate withdrawal never killed anyone, anyway,” he says, seeing no point in bluffing to you any longer.

“Maybe not. But you’ll suffer. I’ll meet you halfway, hm?” You say, looking up at him. “I’ll prescribe you comfort meds for the week. Ease you through it. Mirapex, vistaril, zofran, clonidine, bentyl…”

“Most of those aren’t exactly in your scope. If you want to be technical.”

“If I lose my license for any of those the board has far too much time on their hands. But you’re right. I’ll get Chase to sign them off.”

“Chase?”

“He’s the most desperate to get laid out of the three. I bat my eyelashes enough he won’t even question who the scripts are for.”

“Chase? Look at him. If he’s not getting laid none of us should be.”

You scoff. “I guess pretty boys do it for you, but not for me. But no…I can tell. He reeks of desperation.”

“It’s desperation to be liked by authority. Not desperation for pussy. He’s swimming in it.”

“Okay. We’ll see if he folds,” you say, winking.

Greg sighs. “Is this some kind of game?”

“What isn’t, with you? It’s all games, it’s all puzzles.”

“Why Chase?”

“I told you. I know you’d rather me go to Cameron, but unfortunately, I don’t think flirting would get very far with her. Foreman will never fold.”

“You don’t have other doctors you work with you could ask?”

“Greg, it’s just fucking comfort medications that you probably will have too much pride to even touch. Again. Not risking my career for you and letting people that actually respect me think I’m a nutcase because I slept with you.”

“So… you want to fuck Chase. Right?”

“Where in that insecure little man brain did you think of that? It’s your other head, right? I must want the sexy Australian because all the other girls are doing him? Because I want to ask him to prescribe meds? For you?”

He shrugs. “Matter of time. ‘Oh, I had to blow him, that’s the only way I could get him to do this’ or ‘oh, honey, good news, he said if I sleep with him three times a week he’ll prescribe your Vicodin’.”

“Stop with the immature bullshit. If I wanted to fuck him, I’d just leave you, not worry about the meds, and do it. Grow up, Greg,” you mutter, walking away.

“Then why don’t you?” he challenges, hating himself as the words leave his mouth, hating how unattractively juvenile he was coming across. But there were reasons, the need to push you away to see if he would get pulled back, the need to be contrary, the need to know. Know what, exactly, he’s not sure.

He already knows he’s in for one of the worst weeks of his life. Even if the withdrawal symptoms are mild, he’s going to be in terrible, unmanageable pain, and all the Tylenol and Motrin in the world aren’t going to even come close to touching it. And he’s going to be more miserable than usual. No pain relief. No euphoria from the high when he takes just one… or two… or three extra than he needs. He knows he’s addicted. He tries to roll it off his back, saying it doesn’t matter, it shouldn’t change perceptions of him, it’s something he needs for pain, and it doesn’t affect his ability to practice medicine.

But sometimes he’s afraid. When James looks at him in concern but doesn’t offer any solutions because there aren’t any real ones, are there? He needs opiates for pain. Nothing else will work. Whether it’s pure heroin or your gold-standard synthetic hippy bullshit medication-assisted treatment… it’s still an opiate. Naloxone embedded in the pill or not. Having to go to a clinic to get dosed and having to have checks and balances on his use or not. It’s still an opiate. There’s still a stigma. It still pinpoints his pupils, lowers his respiratory rate, and hopefully, hopefully, takes the edge off so he can function but he knows. Addiction isn’t his specialty, he never wanted it to be, but he knows. One day it’ll be his last Vicodin, or the Vicodin won’t work anymore, and hey, you know what’s instantaneous? Spinal morphine. Can only use that card once or twice, have to tell Wilson he’s in excruciating pain and guilt him into enabling. He’ll only go so far. And then…well, then it’s IV heroin or fentanyl, whichever is easier to get, whichever is cheaper.

Greg knows that addiction treatment centers are revolving doors. He knows that you saw the same people back and forth and back and forth sign in and sign out, sign in and sign out. Change their medication plans a million times. And some of them still died anyway.

He’s afraid. He’s afraid of dying by his own hand by accident, alone and blue, nodding off forever. Sometimes he wishes for it, an end to the pain, but he also doesn’t want people to find him like that. A predictable end to a predictable story. World-renowned diagnostician died the same way a poor broke junkie did on the streets. Hooked on drugs, overshot it.

And it’s not that he thinks he’s better than those people. He knows he is those people. Even prior to his disability he dabbled in drugs, never enough to create a habit but enough to definitely indicate the potential of a problem. He’d tried almost every illicit substance “just to see how it felt” by your age. It feels good. Drugs feel good. It’s how they work. And your brain wants to feel good. It’s how they keep working and you keep using.

He knows. He’s in a vicious cycle he’ll never claw his way out of.

And you know it, too.

And yet you’re wasting your time fighting with him instead of walking away.

Why?

He doesn’t know that.

“Yeah. Why don’t I fuck him?” you snark back, turning on your heel and walking back toward him, drawing him out of his pity party and back into the misery he created for no reason other than to drag you down with him, make you choke on it with him. “I don’t want to. That’s why. I want to fuck you, although believe me, that thought is getting less and less appealing every time you open that fucking mouth and speak.”

“It does have better uses,” he quips, shrugging, almost visibly relaxing at hearing he was chosen, that he hadn’t scared you off yet.

You roll your eyes. “When does the detox start?”

“Now. It’s been a couple of hours.”

“So you wanted to kick it off and try to put both of us in a shitty mood to start with? Not your brightest idea, huh?” you ask.

He doesn’t say anything and you nod, feeling slightly more in control now that you rendered him silent without any arguments. “Go home. You can’t think clearly if you’re going to be actively detoxing.”

“I still have to make them think I can function without it,” he says after pausing. He would’ve lied to you too, put up a façade with you too, but that’s the thing about addiction. It’s easy to hide dependence to people who don’t know what to look for, but you do. And you would smell it on him.

“I thought you didn’t care what people think?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why take the bet at all?”

“I’ll get out of clinic hours.”

“Right. You would never do something like this to prove a point,” you say sarcastically, leading him out of the office. —————- “Why are you with him?” Chase asks. “And you care enough about him to ask me to use my medical license for a script.”

“You’ll see I don’t care enough about him to risk using mine,” you counter. “It’s comfort meds. Just write the scripts and I’ll leave you alone and we can go back to never talking, which is honestly how I prefer it.”

“I’ve done nothing to you.”

“Right,” you mutter. “I’ve heard enough, though.”

“Does he… what does he say about me?” he asks, a look between bewildered and terrified crossing his face.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Forget I said anything. You’re fine, I’m sure, I just don’t want to be entangled in the team. I already work with Wilson. One facet of House’s life needs to be separate from me.”

“Right. So you’re asking me to prescribe him medications.”

“As a doctor. Which is your job,” you point out. You sigh, looking at the pretty blond man sitting in front of you. Maybe Greg was right to be afraid. Most women your age would be begging to spread their legs at the thought of carrying this man's children. He's more stable, at least comes off that way, and he doesn't have an addiction and a crippled leg.

“Why stay with him if you know he’s an addict?”

Why are you staying?

You look at him for a second, reading his face. “You hate people that struggle with addiction, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say I hate them. I just think they don’t realize the pain they cause and it’s unfair to the sober people in their life.”

“Everyone is someone’s burden,” you say.

But why did you take him on?

“So you think he’s going to detox.”

“I know he’s going to detox. Which is why. Once again. I’m asking you to prescribe him comfort medication for the aforementioned detox.”

“You guys really like each other, huh?”

Why did he take you on?

“No. I want my week to not be miserable. This might lessen it a little bit.”

“Oh, and you’re deflecting just like he would.”

“Just prescribe me the damn meds, Chase.”

“You’re going to be miserable anyway,” he says, shrugging as he takes out his script pad. “You owe me one.”

You know he's not wrong.

“Yeah. You’ll get a psych consult on the house,” you agree.

“Why’d you ask me?”

You sigh. “Can’t ask Wilson. Too close. So it had to be one of you three. Foreman just wouldn’t. Cameron would ask me too many questions and she’d tell everybody.”

“And me?”

“Process of elimination, really. Thank you, you know," you say, deciding to leave out the part where he gets off on sucking metaphorical dick for the chance at appealing to authority. Sometimes you wish you were as crass as House. You come up with some good ones if you could only find the guts to just say them.

“He’s not going to take them.”

“Probably not. But I’m doing my part.”

“As what? His girlfriend?”

“His… friend,” you clarify, and you walk out of the office with the scripts in tow to fill at the pharmacy. Later you hand them to him and he takes them without a word. He opens all the bottles, takes one of each pill in his hand and he pops them dry. Terrible for his esophagus, you tell him, and he mutters something about how he’s wrecked his liver and everything else has to catch up. He opens a bottle of wine and you lean against his chest, barely processing the cheap soap opera flashing in front of you on the TV. He's already sweating, you can feel his shirt damp against your cheek. You don’t know why you’re here. You don’t know why he made a show of taking all those pills in front of you. Maybe to show your efforts were appreciated without having to say the words, even if he thought it was stupid. Maybe it was a desperate attempt to make this all suck less. Maybe it was because this was bending the rules a little, a detox with help, however minor, and he always wanted to see how far he could push before the consequences could roll in. Let’s cheat a little. Instead of a slice of pizza on a diet let’s have a hydroxyzine in a cold turkey detox.

He asked you to come over tonight but he hasn’t said much of anything or initiated much either. Why does he want you here? To know he’s not alone this time, that you’re willing to face the brunt of this pain with him when it returns, like Stacy was unwilling to?

You don’t know.

You don’t want to know. It’s best he keeps that information in his own head where it belongs. You don’t want to get too attached, too close, too entangled. This is fine how it is.

But you still wake up drenched in sweat that isn’t yours.

#house md x reader #house x reader #greg house x reader #gregory house x reader #greg house x you #house x you #gregory house x you #house md #house md fanfiction

[aspd-culture]

When you say pro social instincts, what do you mean? /genuine. Because I’m autistic (and I know you have it as well so maybe this would help me) and I’m not quite sure how to.. I suppose.. distinguish between pro social but autistic, just socially inept, and antisocial and autistic.

Prosocial instincts are all those things that come naturally to prosocial allistics that keep society both together and functioning. This is in no way an exhaustive list, but some examples are -

The desire to be around other people/be in packs, picking up on and internalizing the emotions of the people around you to survive (if they’re afraid, there is probably something that is a danger to all of you around somewhere), contagious yawns and vomiting, the desire to heal other’s wounds, the desire to feed/clothe/house/protect the youngest, oldest, and sickest of your pack, the desire to “pack bond”, sharing for no reason other than to share, passing down knowledge/stories/etc, mating long term/for life without interest in cheating, feeling responsible for not just your own children but all children, the natural pull to aid someone in emotional distress, “mating rituals” like dancing, social games like being polite, the desire to fit in, the fear of wronging and/or upsetting another member of your pack (which once upon a time could have ended in death as humans are pack animals who are not made to be self reliant in the wild), internalizing the morals/politics and culture of your pack, strong attachment to your pack over anyone else (the innate pull to protect people from your community - even if you have never personally spoken to them - over people who live elsewhere) - this is why if a prosocial finds out they went to the same college as someone else or that someone else is from near their hometown, they immediately feel camaraderie with that person even if they have literally never spoken before, the desire to sing and laugh and dance and make stories with people you know, the desire to breed specifically for the purpose of procreating vs just for the fun of it, the need for touch from other humans all throughout life (being “touch starved” in a non-sexual way), the need to feel and be understood/heard/validated, etc. etc. etc.

These are the things that make life… life to prosocials. It’s in every fiber of their being to find a community to belong to and then live and die by that community and it’s rules/customs/etc. It’s what makes living worth doing for many of them. pwASPD work to find our purpose elsewhere, and many of us honestly end up feeling like we are just surviving until life takes us out rather than “living” in that sense, but prosocials find their purpose in each other. Prosocial instincts built communities - by creating this weird setup of behaviors and rituals and such, they can see who is like them and they can surround themselves with people like them so that they can feel content at having a pack which would have been vital to live in the wild. This is why ableist prosocials think pwASPD don’t have a soul or aren’t really human - they think that we must be defective if we don’t want to be around people. To some degree this is difficult for prosocials to control because their biological instincts are telling them that if they were to foster relationships with us, any kids we have would be more likely to end up dead because they wouldn’t have a pack to protect them in the wild. It’s hard for some of them to think past their instincts to realize those packs are no longer required the way they were before we took over the entire damn planet and became the dominant species. It’s not justification, but it’s the reason it happens. Some prosocials - the ones who are ableist and spout eugenics towards pwASPD - are just weak and cannot think beyond the literally thousands of years outdated instincts.

For prosocial autistic people, many of these things may not come naturally, but they *want* to learn them. They *want* to fit in and be liked and have these close bonds where everybody “gets” them and they “get” everyone through the set of subconscious behaviors, chemical releases, social games, etc that are built into allistic prosocial society. The largest difference between a prosocial allistic person and a pwASPD as far as I’ve seen/heard is that a prosocial autistic person may not understand the language the rest of the world is speaking, but they are *trying their damndest* to figure it out - which is where masking comes from. pwASPD who are allistic often completely understand these rituals and customs but actively choose not to participate either because of disinterest or outright disdain for this very illogical set of expected behaviors, and autistic pwASPD often both don’t understand them and don’t care to try to learn. I am an autistic pwASPD and my view on it as a child was that if they enjoyed their weird rituals and games and such, then that was great for them - and all the more reason for me to stay to myself because I didn’t get it and I didn’t have any interest. It’s like seeing people get excited about football when you aren’t interested in it - it’s not hurting anyone and you mind it, but you also don’t get it and aren’t going to try to learn because it’s just not your thing. They can just do that and you can just not and everyone can be happy with that. Basically, autism causes you to not understand these instincts, while ASPD makes you not care about them or actively dislike them.

#aspd-culture-is #aspd culture is #aspd culture #actually aspd #aspd #aspd awareness #actually antisocial #antisocial personality disorder #aspd traits #anons welcome

[frostyreturns]

Illuminati Card Game

This game was created in 1982 by an occultist and likely secret society member who turned various illuminati plots into a card game, the cards have preceded major historical and cultural events and seem to hint at a knowledge of what’s actually going on. I’m going to feature a random card here and there to talk about the conspiracies behind it.

- maker of the game recognizes CDC as an organization that can “attack to destroy” a location. How many died because of their recommendations during covid lockdowns

- lists biological warfare as part of the way it attacks. How many died because of their push to have everyone jabbed

- their involvement with people like fauci and gain of function research should raise questions. Organizations like this that do something other than what they tell the public they do, often do the opposite and leave some form of clue in the name because these are satanists and they like to taunt us. Disease control is supposed to imply they are trying to stop the spread of diseases...however controlling disease...could also mean you are largely responsible for disease, you’re the one in control of diseases....as it spreads and kills people. Even pre-covid there’s always been questions about what this shady as fuck organization has been doing. 

The creator of this game saw it as a tool of the deep state and I have to agree.

[angelasscribbles]

New Beginnings: A Choices Prompt Story

This is for the prompt challenge hosted by @choicesprompts. Anyone who hasn't seen the prompt and wants to play along, go here.

Series: Ride or Die Fanfiction

Fandom: Ride or Die

Pairing: Logan x Ellie

Rating: G

Warnings for this chapter: none

Word Count: 1,259

A/N: I know I already submitted one, but I had two ideas for this prompt. I decided to write them both.

My other stuff: Master List.

The cool wind pushes my hair back as I walk along the familiar path, every step taking me deeper into the past. It’s been years since I’ve been here, everything is different, everything is the same.

I’m not paying attention to the present as I walk, I’m too lost in memories of the past. That’s why I don’t notice the other person walking toward me until I hear a familiar voice call my name.

I freeze. It can’t be. What are the odds? I lift my head and my eyes dart wildly around before finally landing on a face I’d recognize anywhere, even now.

“It’s you.”

“Hey troublemaker.” He gives me that lopsided grin that has haunted my dreams for the last decade.

“Logan!” My breath stops, I freeze to the spot. My heart starts pounding in my chest. How? How does he still affect me like this all these years later?

I didn’t expect to find him here, but maybe I should have. The spot where Kaneko’s garage used to be is empty now. The entire block has changed. At least, part of it has. One side of the street is exactly how I remember it. The corner store, the donut shop, the car wash down at the end. The other side is completely new. Nothing I remember still stands, torn down, demolished, the town has moved on. The Chinese take out place is now a cell phone store, the massage parlor is gone, there’s a laundry mat there now. And the gaping hole where the garage used to be mirrors the one in my heart.

I haven’t moved on. I should have, years ago. I finished college, moved from one coast to the other, again, for law school. Worked here and there the first two years after I got my Doctor of Jurisprudence. I just moved back home to open my own law firm. I put a down payment on a house. My dad offered to let me move back home, save money, have home cooked meals when I get home from work. But I couldn’t do it, I can’t. I still blame him for a lot of what happened. I’m here, in this town, because of his failing health. That’s the best I can do for him. Things are still strained between us.

I’ve had many relationships since my formative one. Most of them transient, a few of them longer lasting, but they always end for the same reason. None of them are him. I’ve tried, I really have. There was even a misguided year long fling with Colt right after I’d moved back to the west coast to attend UCLA. Colt somehow made me feel closer to Logan. It wasn’t fair to him; it wasn’t fair to me, and it ended with bitterness and recriminations.

I know what my reasons are for being back here, in this town. I know what drew me to this particular city block this afternoon. But I don’t understand why he’s here, how he’s here.

“Say something Ellie.” His voice is soft, beseeching. He looks nervous, off kilter, vulnerable, and I want to run to him, but I don’t.

“Where have you been for the last ten years?” I sound argumentative, even to my own ears. I don’t care. He broke me. I can’t be broken again. I won’t.

“Prison, for a while. Your dad didn’t tell you?”

“What? No!”

Something hardens in his features, “I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t suppose you got my letters, either?”

“What?” I feel tears spring unbidden to my eyes.

“I wanted to get out from under it all. I turned myself in, cut a deal, turned state’s evidence. I ran for the first two years, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I wanted out from under all of it. I wanted to come back to you a functioning member of society. I did two years then spent another year in a halfway house. I got my GED; I got into community college and got a two-year degree in automotive technology.”

I do the math in my head, “What about the last three years?”

He watches me with a guarded expression before quietly replying, “I’ve been here. Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I feel a lump form in my throat. What is he saying?

“You.” He looks away, unable or unwilling to meet my eyes.

“Me?” It was true that I’d been bouncing all over the country for the last couple of years, and I’d been busy. Too busy to bother to update social media. Has he really been here, all this time, waiting for me to come back?

“Yeah. I have a job and an apartment now. I come down here every day, just because. I’ve run into Colt a few times.” He rubs the back of his neck nervously.

Colt. That fucking bastard. He has my contact information. He could have told me Logan was in town, but of course he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

“So…what? You moved back here for me? You come down here every day on the off chance that one day you’d run into me?”

A flush creeps up his neck, “I drive by your dad’s house sometimes too. God, I’m sorry. That makes me sound like a stalker, doesn’t it?”

“Logan, I….” I feel so many emotions well up inside me, tears gather in the corners of my eyes. This is literally everything I’ve wanted to hear for the last ten years. I’ve played out so many fantasies about this moment in my head, but I never thought it would actually happen.

“It’s ok, Ellie. I get it. It was ten years ago. I’m sure you’ve moved on. You’re probably married or something. I just…I just wanted to see you, know that you’re ok. I’ll go.”

He turns to leave, and the air rushes out of my world, the sun stops shinning. Again. “Logan, wait!”

He turns back, a guarded, but hopeful, expression on his face. “Yeah?”

I shrug, “Have dinner with me? Catch up?”

It’s a start. A beginning, maybe. It’s something, after years of nothing.

A hesitant smile pulls his lips up, “Really?”

“Really.” I finally move, closing the distance between us. The moment I’m within reach, he pulls me into his arms, hugging me tighter than I’ve ever been hugged.

“I’ve missed you so much!” He whispers into my hair.

I return the hug with just as much vigor, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. I pull away and wipe at my face. I take his hand in mine and tug him down the street, “Come on. I know a place.”

I check him out as we walk. He’s older. So am I. His hair is shorter, his smile is the same. The smile that’s haunted my dreams for the last decade. His face, his eyes, the callouses on his roughened hands, all the things that have taken up residence in my memory and made lasting relationships with other men impossible. It’s him. It’s always been him. A sudden certainty washes over me, the low-level anxiety that has buzzed insistently in the background of my mind, of my life, is suddenly just gone as a sense of rightness floods through me.

I smile up at him as we reach the restaurant and he pulls the door open for me, “I’m not married.”

His smile broadens, “That’s good news for me. You knew the boy I was, Ellie. I hope you let me show you the man I’ve become.”

“I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”

~~~~~~~

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#ride or die #angelasscribbles #choices #choicesprompts #fic prompt #choices fic writers creations #choices stories you play #play choices #play choices game #playchoices #choices stories we play #ellie wheeler #logan x mc #angst #angst with a happy ending #cfwc fics of the week

[alan-duarte]

TIMING: Mid April LOCATION: Duarte Real Estate PARTIES: Wynne @ohwynne & Alan SUMMARY:  After Alan offers Wynne help with the hiking trails online, they show up at his company and the two have a coffee and a chat. CONTENT WARNINGS:  n/a

While Wynne had decided to get a map from the tourist office by themself, they still felt an itch to take up Alan Duarte on his offer. Maybe it was their previous experience in the woods around Wicked’s Rest that pushed them towards advice, or maybe it was simpler. There had been an offer and within them, there was something that longed for strong community and connection. If there were people in this town with a mind like theirs – filled with a need and want to help those around them, as it ensured a functioning society – Wynne would like to get to know them.

They walked through the wooden doors, looking over their shoulder to make sure it closed properly. Wynne was mindful of keeping drafts outside, after all. Eyes took in their surroundings before they made their way up to the face belonging to the name. Distantly, they remembered a piece of advice offered to them in another town, another place: don’t trust people you meet online. 

A polite smile graced their lips as Wynne approached, placing the map on the counter. “Hi. I’m Wynne. I think we talked online, about some hiking trail recommendations? I’ve been trying to go at it by myself, but …” A small frown creased their brows. They didn’t want to mention monsters in the woods, lest they were considered crazy. “Well, I haven’t had much luck out there.” They shrugged. “I hope it’s okay I stepped by.”

___

"Wynne?" Alan was supposed to know that name. He knew that name, didn't he? 

Before you throw him a stone for his sins, you had to understand that he spoke to more people than you could count one one hand in just a morning and that he tried his best to remember said names because it was good for business. They weren't a client then. Hiking trail recommendations managed to hit the spot, and Alan's face warmed up as he realised they had indeed spoken before. "I'm so sorry. Of course."  

With a smile, he invited them to follow after him. He didn't have an appointment for another 30 minutes, but his coffee break could not wait. "Would you like something to drink? An espresso? Tea? Water?" 

___

Sometimes people just said things to be polite, but this was a fact lost on Wynne. Raised in a place where people looked after one another and lived in harmonious unity (except that one time a decade where they drained a member of their blood), it was simple expectation that people were willing to help and not just saying so. Alan Duarte’s  surprise made them wonder if perhaps this was a bit silly of them.

They lifted their shoulders as if to say don’t worry about it and then followed him. “An espresso would be nice,” they said. They hardly drank black coffee these days, so used to all the syrups and milk at work. “This is a very nice place of work. I hope you’re having a good day so far?” 

___

An espresso it would be then, the realtor invited them to take a seat at the break room table while he fetched a box of coffee grains in a sleek wooden cupboard. While he often ended up at A Latte To Love, he felt like the break room’s espresso maker somehow managed to be just as good, though he wouldn’t have been able to explain why. Their machine was hardly any match to the professional one they had there, it was fancy, but it was not nice like that. This was a mystery he couldn’t crack (mainly because he didn’t stop himself to question if perhaps there was something going on here). 

He put the cup down before them and picked up his own while he sat on the other side of the table. Picking up one of the company pens from a pen holder sitting there, Alan leaned forward to take a look at their map. He wouldn’t start with that, but at some point, he’d make sure to let them know about which parts of the forest were no-go zones. His parts. “Alright, let’s have a look at those hiking trails, heh?” 

They watched with wide, careful eyes how the other prepared their coffee, feeling a little bemused by the turning of events. Wynne was so used to making coffee for others that they almost wanted to step in and finish the drink, to tell Alan Duarte to sit down and let them handle it. They decided to just leave it be, though, as interrupting him seemed more rude than wait for him to finish. “Thank you,” they said, wrapping one hand around the small mug and swirling the substance for a moment.

They nodded, pointing at the blue trail in the state park. “I’ve walked this one.” Not fully successfully, though that was a detail easily omitted. “And I’ve explored a fair bit of the Wormwoods –” Their finger moved, tapping on the woods south of the park. “– and I think I’m a bit done with it.” Considering the vampires that apparently lingered there. “It’s a bit eerie. So, the main thing I’m considering is whether I should head to the coast or perhaps try Mossthorn Forest, sometime?”

“Mmmmh,” Alan wrinkled his nose. “Wormwoods huh?” It wasn’t really the best for hikes. All those worms… His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced at them with the air of someone who was trying to pick whether he felt impressed, intrigued or disgusted. “I mean, you do you, but I personally don’t like it there.” He felt a lot better about Mossthorn. The earthy smell from this area was comforting. It was mostly safe, and he nodded along to their words. “I think you’ll like it there. The atmosphere is unlike any other, and it’s quite a nice walk.” He paused. “I would advise you to never hike alone, however. There've been a lot of people disappearing in the area,” it was quite the grim thing to say, but they seemed like a good kid, and he didn’t want the locals to get hurt. “You don’t want to hike near sundown either, or at night.” A pause. “Wolves.” He wrinkled his nose, and brought his cup of coffee to his lips. 

“Anyway. Have you been to the Pines yet? Or the Seven Peaks?” Those were dangerous, depending on where or when you went, but if you didn’t go alone, or at night… It wasn’t so bad, was it? “It’s quite stunning. Make sure not to stray from the paths, obviously, but that applies anywhere, doesn’t it?” 

They didn’t much like the way Alan looked at them, but they tried not to make it obvious. Wynne shrugged. “It’s close to where I live, so I went there out of convenience more than anything.” But no, they wouldn’t be returning, at least not at night. Maybe it would be a good idea to cease their late night walks, anyway, but Wynne was so used to getting into nature in the evenings that it was a hard habit to shake. “Alright, I’ll try out Mossthorn. Do you have any tips, trail-wise?” There was the tip again, to never hike alone — it was said over and over again, and Wynne was starting to understand why. Did Alan Duarte know why, too? Or was he just a cautious person? “That makes sense. I do try not to make a habit out of it, but sometimes you just need to stretch your legs, you know?” And pacing their bedroom wasn’t much better, nor was walking Worm Row — which wasn’t much safer than the woods.

“I’ve only been in the state park part of the Pines, and around the motel there.” It’s where they had resided when they’d first come into town, but that was a fact they chose to omit. “I’ll try and see if I can find a buddy to walk around Seven Peaks with me. On the path, of course. Seems a bit more challenging, considering the mountains” 

___

“Oh absolutely. I’m big on stretching my legs myself, but even then, I know better than to plan them too late in the evening,” sure, in the summer, it was tempting. It was so warm during the day, you could be easily tempted into going for walks at dusk or dawn. This was precisely when the beasts still roamed around freely. A lot of them hid during the day, but felt a lot more comfortable when the woods turned real quiet. That wasn’t to say that you were safe during the day, but seeing the threat certainly helped. 

“Sure, let me see, “ he clicked his pen, leaning toward the trail map. It was tempting to draw the shortest path leading to safety, but Mossthorn was far from the worst place to hike, and there were spots worth seeing that strayed from that safest road. “If you head up there, you get a really nice view of Silver lake. You can also get a good look at the abnormality,” without fighting off the crowd that gathered at the official viewing point. “Bearcliff motel?” He nodded along. They were quite young, and while the motel probably was affordable, he sure hoped they didn’t live there. The owners might have been lovely, that was no place to live long term. “You’re new to town, right?” He couldn’t recall whether this had been discussed before, but he had a feeling that they were. “If you pick someone to accompany you, make sure someone else knows who you are with and where you’re going,” because that person might try to eat you. “It makes things easier for the local fire department. The Pines are a great place to get lost, unfortunately.” With a hum, he circled a few numbers on the map, trails that he deemed safe enough. 

___

Wynne looked at him for a moment, as if trying to gauge the other’s knowledge on the things in and outside of the forest. “Why is that?” They wondered how forward they could be. They weren’t sure how widespread this knowledge was, and didn’t want to make the other think that there was something wrong with them. They tried to take on a joking tone, “It’s not like there’s vampires, right?” Their eyebrows creased, though, as if to reiterate that last word. Right???

“Alright, that sounds good,” they were glad that the other was drawing on their map at least a little, so they didn’t have to take notes. “I like that pen, by the way. And I know the abnormality, I don’t live too far from it. It’s always so busy, though.” People flocked to this town, and Wynne couldn’t blame them entirely. They had come here as an outsider too, after all. They nodded at his question. “Yes, I’ve lived here for about four months. Been in town a little longer.” They were glad they had their own bed and sheets now, living in a space that was more their own than a temporary motel room. They had gotten depressing very quickly. “Good tip, I’ll try and remember that one.” Maybe they could continue their schtick of telling Zack where they went. He didn’t ask too many questions, but seemed like someone who might raise the alarm if they didn’t come home. Which wasn’t a scenario Wynne wanted to think about. “How long’ve you been here, again?”

___

“Vampires?” He looked at them. “In the forest? Don’t they typically hang out in cemeteries?” He didn’t want to lie to them. He didn’t want to tell the truth either. “I’d be more concerned about werewolves, trolls… Sasquatch,” he wasn’t joking, but they didn’t need to know that. His expression remained serious while he attempted to assess whether they believed in those stories or not. 

“You do? You can keep it,” in your face Emilio. Alan offered them an earnest smile this once. “I don’t get the appeal for that thing, it’s made things a lot more complicated for me, that’s for sure,” entire plots of land rendered completely useless for building houses, or anything at all,” with a sigh, the realtor finished his circling of a few areas, and even took the time to add a legend to the map so they’d know what he meant with his arrows, crosses, circles and such. “I think you’re good to explore the area now,” he declared, finishing his cup of coffee and placing it away in the sink. “Me? I grew up in the area. I’ve spent around 40 years in this town, I suppose,” which could sound a bit depressing, but he’d seen enough while travelling abroad, to know that this was where he belonged.

—

Wynne shrugged. “I’ve seen something vampire-like in the forest. Maybe it was an a-typical one, though.” It had been a strange one, but it had been a vampire. “I ran, though, so no harm. Maybe I was just seeing things.” They didn’t want Alan Duarte to think they were crazy, but they knew what they’d seen. Knew what they’d help Emilio kill. “I suppose if we’re both right, there are many things to look out for in the forest.” Their tone was serious, too. “No going out alone, hm?” 

They were surprised by the other’s sudden broad smile and took the pen. “Oh, well, much appreciated.” Wynne looked at the pen, which held his name. “I’m not Alan Duarte, though. Shouldn’t it just be for you?” The abnormality was just another inexplicable thing, they thought, one they tried not to think of too much. If there was an explanation, they’d find it, but for now it was not high on the list of things they wanted explained. And it was a long list. “It’s just dark and weird.” They looked at the map and smiled a little. “That’s looks very good. I’m excited to go out and explore some.” Wynne made quick work of taking a long sip from their coffee, not wanting to overstay their welcome. “That must be very nice. This is my first time moving, but I can imagine wanting to stay here for a long time. I guess this town doesn’t tire.”

__ 

“Vampire like?” Alan pursed his lips into a thin line. “You’re probably wondering whether I believe in those stories or not,” he set his eyes on them. It was obvious right now, that he too wondered the same. And yet, wasn’t he revealing the answer to their question with his statement? Surely, if he thought it was rubbish, he wouldn’t have ever said such a thing. 

The werewolf smiled. “If you are aware of your surroundings, you should be fine. Make sure to follow my tips, and you’ll be safer than most,” he concluded. 

Finishing his coffee cup, he set it down into the sink, coming back to the table to fold the map for them. “Really? Well if you ever have any more questions, do let me know. Knowing every little corner is sort of our job, isn’t it?” That, and he was certain he hadn’t seen them before. He wondered who they had been dealing with for their housing. His smile broadened. “I mean it, we’re always happy to help.” Even if that didn’t get them business most of the time, he believed that people would remember them when the time would be right. 

—

Wynne was wondering that, he was very much correct. It was a curious thing to ask: he wasn’t calling them foolish or naive for believing in things from horror films. He just posed the question. They nodded their head, trying to gauge his reaction but assuming that this – the lack of laughter or confusement – meant he had some kind of knowledge. They decided against asking more questions, though: if he had answers, he’d have responded more openly, right? 

“Got it,” they confirmed, watching his back and watching him return. It was nice of him to fold the map. Nice of him to give them his pen, too. They smiled at the realtor, not quite getting that he was somewhat insinuating that he could help with housing. Wynne was in no position to buy a home, but neither of them really knew that. “I will keep that in mind. For now I really do like where I live, though.” They took the map back from him, putting it in their bag. “I really appreciate you helping me out. I’ll leave you to get back to your work though.” They extended a hand, because it seemed like the best way to wrap this up. Alan seemed like a formal person. Once it was shook, they gave another dip of their head and smile, and found their way back to the exit.

#wickedswriting #ohwynne #under blue moon threads

[romantic-reveries]

I was supposed to be happier. I worked so hard and waited so long for this freedom, and now it feels inconsequential.

I don’t know if I exchanged the fear that incapacitated me for consuming rage, but I don’t find that it’s much better except that I can function. Cool, awesome, I can drive places and be a “contributing member of society” or whatever the fuck, but I’m angry like 90% of the time and I don’t know WHY. It’s not directed at any one thing, it’s just more like a lens that colors everything. Everything rubs me wrong and makes me want to cry.

I spent all weekend with my boyfriend and it was like I didn’t even want to be there. And it’s nothing he’s doing wrong, even though it feels like it. I’m so mean-spirited when I’m like this. Unforgiving. Everything annoys me.

I wondered if it was PMDD for a few months because it was coinciding with my period, but now I’m not even HAVING a period. Something is obviously going on hormonally. The doctor did blood tests and everything looks normal. Thyroid is normal. He says it’s likely stress, which, yes. Probable. I’ve skipped periods over it before. Never for this long, to my recollection, and I’ve been far more stressed before. But it’s a different kind of stress now, I guess. I don’t know. I feel crazy. I hate it.

#personal

[slightlyaboveaverageiq]

Connor and the Brat {Part 12}

It was deathly silent in the car and Connor didn’t like it one bit. Brat had barely said one word to him once he had gotten to the hospital and signed all of the necessary paperwork. She grabbed her things and basically ran past him and out to the car worrying not only Connor but the rest of the Med staff as well. Had they let her leave too soon? Will urged Connor to text him and Natalie when he had Brat settled and he promised to do so before running after her. Even now Connor dared to glance at her and even he wasn’t sure this was the right call having her go with him. Her face showed no emotion but her body was tense and rigid and if she tried to get any further away from him she would be sitting in the road.

“Can you stop looking at me like that please?” Connor’s not sure what he was expecting but considering he had been staring at Brat like she was going to jump into oncoming traffic for the last two minutes he probably should have guessed she would be snippy with him. Still it hurt, he had proven time and time again he cared for her and just when he thought they were on good terms again she went and acted bitchy towards him.

“Not when you look like you want to hurl yourself into oncoming traffic, no I can’t.” She threw her hands up in the air exasperatedly and Connor momentarily thought maybe he had blown things out of proportion. But quickly put that thought aside. It wasn’t just him that thought something was off with Ravenna, Will and Natalie both had commented on it while Ava just shrugged it off and suggested everyone mind their business and she would tell people when she was ready.

“I just slept like shit last night and I was ready to leave because I really didn’t want to be in the loony bin any longer and then everyone whispers and says I’m still crazy but I just want to leave and sleep. Sorry that’s I’m a little fucking irritated with everyone right now.” Okay so maybe Connor had blown things out of proportion and he should have just listened to Ava. He sighed and sat a hand on Brats knee and to his surprise she didn’t knock him away but curled her hand around his.

“I’m sorry Brat, no one meant to make you uncomfortable. We’re all just nervous because this is your first day home and we want you to have a good day.” She gave him a small reassuring smile as he pulled into the parking garage for his condo and nodded her head.

“I know but you don’t have to treat me with kid gloves and watch me like you’re worried I’m gonna slit my throat every five seconds. It makes me feel like I’m still in the psych ward.” He winced when she said it like that but he supposed she had a point they were all still watching her like she was a psych patient and he didn’t want her to feel like she was one at all, he wanted her to feel like her normal self, a functioning member of society.

“We’ll come on in then so I can show you your room. I had Ava decorate it because I had a feeling she would know your style more than I did.” She smiled at him and grabbed the last of her bags following along after him and waiting as he punched the code to get in the building. They got into the elevator and rode up to his floor and she waited as he unlocked his front door. “Before I forget.” He added as he placed a key into her hand. The bags were forgotten and he led her down the hallway to her room.

“Oh it’s beautiful, I love the candles.” Connor smiled pleased that she liked her room, and pleased that she liked the candles Ava said were too medieval for her room.

“The candles were the only say I had, Ava picked everything else out. I’ll leave you to settle your things in. You can come find me in the living room when you’re done.” Brat nodded and Connor watched her for a few more seconds before shutting the bedroom door and pulling his phone out to text Will like he had promised.

Connor- Talked with Brat, she was just stressed and tired, seems to love new bedroom

Will- Good to hear, Nat was really worried about her. Wanna get a drink tonight?

Connor read Will’s message and wondered if it would be irresponsible to leave Brat alone on her first night home, then again he supposed she could always come with him. He bit his lip and walked down the hallway knocking on Brats door and waiting for an answer before entering. She was putting her clothes away still and he tried to ignore the fact she had paused mid putting away and was currently holding her lacy underwear in the air. She seemed to notice she was doing so and dropped them quickly blushing slightly at him.

“What’s up?” Connor sat down on her bed and cleared his throat trying to get rid of how dry it had gotten saying the thin material dangling in her fingers.

“Will was wanting to go for drinks tonight, do you feel like company?” He could tell just be her facial features going out to a crowded bar was the last thing she wanted to do.

“I really just wanna stay in and be lazy, but you should go if you want to. I don’t want to keep you from your friends.” Connor considered this, it could be a well disguised trick and maybe Brat was planning on doing something when he was gone, maybe this was her plan all along.

“What if I have Ava come over?” But Brat shook her head at him.

“She talked Sarah into getting dinner tonight, really I’ll be fine on my own.” Brat looked earnest and he couldn’t see any signs of deception on her face so Connor gave in with a resigned sigh.

“Alright I’ll go out with Will.” He stood and left Brat to finish unpacking her things in peace and to text Will back.

Connor- One drink but then I have to get back to Brat

Will- Ava was right

Connor- I will end both of you right now

Will- 😂😂😂 Just meet me, Nat, Jay, Hayley, April and Maggie and Mollys at 8 stud.

Connor rolled his eyes and tossed his phone towards the couch. He really hated his friends sometimes but they weren’t wrong, he absolutely wanted Brat and it was becoming a problem.

#chicago med #one chicago #connor rhodes #connor and the brat #ava bekker #will halstead #natalie manning #connor rhodes x reader #connor rhodes fanfic

[strawberry-graveyard]

i think i’m bad at this being a host thing. aren’t they supposed to have like. goals. and be functioning members of society.

#here lies courtney #ghastly moans in the midnight

[cyruspavels]

Mobility

We are not supposed to wait for anyone to make our own dreams become true.  This is why our dreams, or the goals we wish to obtain in life should not involve others. 

I’m not saying that your goal can’t be to marry someone.  I am saying that your goal in life should not be just to get married— There should be more to you;  More components to who you are and what makes you—you; more parts. 

With those parts you have to fill your days up with hobbies, work and chores, and even those should be things that you need to get done to be a functional member of society. These should be things that you do on your own for your own health. I’m not saying that you cannot share hobbies with others because you should if they also enjoy it. 

But never wait for anyone to do the things that you love to do. 

Waiting is a waste of time and breaths you will never get back  And no one truly appreciates, so save your time by keeping it moving. 

CP’23

#Mobility #cp'23 #poem #spilled thoughts

[returnofaion]

Why do you think Tsukishima’s fullbringer developed the way it did?

“You want to know why my personal fullbring became Book of the End? That’s such a deeply personal question, and from a stranger no less.”

“Hmm... but I can’t see any reason not to indulge you with an honest answer. It’s an interesting question at least.”

“Fullbringers are quite rare. It’s even more rare for them to grow to adulthood and develop their Fullbring to its final form. I’d say the members of Xcution were the exception rather than the rule. Too often our abilities, however undeveloped, make us - and by extension anyone close to us - magnets for hollow. Had Kugo not came along when he did, I’d likely have ended up just another child who met their demise too young.”

“But Kugo only gave me the opportunity to develop my Fullbring. It doesn’t explain why it became Book of the End. That’s...complicated, I suppose you would say. To be brief... A fully formed Fullbring is an intricate, symbiotic relationship between the object of focus and its wielder. As both souls share similar experiences, the connection deepens. But it’s a bidirectional influence. The wielder’s circumstances and choices determine what is experienced and how the object gets used. But the object’s soul determines the form and abilities of the final Fullbring.”

“Hmm...I’ve never really questioned why Book of the End became what it did. The why of it never seemed important in light of everything else that happened while growing up under Kugo’s tutelage. Evading the Soul Society and fending off Hollow attacks has a way of shifting one’s perspective in that way. Obviously, my bookmark has always been an important object to me. I’ve always loved reading, and I imagine my bookmark’s soul would have been influenced by the souls of all the books it has been used in as much as my other experiences. It would have experienced repeatedly how the accumulation of experiences and plot points results in a different end.”

“But that would be the perspective of the bookmark’s soul. From my perspective, I can’t say I really remember much from my life before Kugo. I was young, and there wasn’t much to forget, if I’m being frank. My mother died when I was quite young. I suspect it was a hollow, but I can’t say for certain. From what little I recall, hmm, I suppose you could call my father reticent and withdrawn. And, well, like I said, fullbringer children tend to attract hollow, which can make us seem rather unlucky to anyone who happens to be too near. I can’t say I blame him for keeping his distance. And while I wouldn’t say I was shy, I was introverted to a fault. I much preferred my books to friends. But when my father was killed in that last hollow attack... I found myself painfully alone. Until Kugo found me and took me under his wing, at least.”

“But that’s the crux of Fullbring, you see. It’s a combination of our strongest need at the time of our awakening and the function of the object. If I insert Book of the End into a soul, I am able to know the cumulative total of that soul’s memories - just as my bookmark experiences the memories of the souls’ of all the books I’ve read. And as part of that power, I’m able to locate and manipulate the major “plot points” along that soul’s development. For people... well the most important memories tend to involve other people, don’t they? And while I had Kugo to erase the loneliness - and through him all the others - that moment of aloneness made its mark. Inserting myself into the pasts of others was almost second nature once Book of the End had finally developed to that point.”

“I suppose sharing something like that would be too deeply personal for most. But what’s a little heartfelt sharing amongst friend, hm?”

#◜◷◞ [THE UNWRITTEN PAST]: headcanons #tsp activity check #[[ooc: I don't usually answer asks like this ic #but uh someone decided to be talkative

[whaleiumsharkspeare]

Man how am I supposed to be a functioning adult member of society when I can’t even stand to be in my room at night during a thunderstorm because the location of my window has always made the rain loud and fills my whole room with light every time lightning flashes which I hate because I’m afraid of lightning

#certainly not sitting in the hallway where I have less of a view of the lightning surrounded by both cats and a Perry the platypus plush #for the record I’ve been afraid of storms my entire life and being 23 has changed nothing #storms #lightning #i hate them

[queenofbaws]

well hello there your majesty long time no see

im so glad youre feeling better now :)

could you write number 5 about jossam and the twins please

have a nice weekend

six(ish) sentence weekend ;P

Her socks skidded across the laminated floor as she took the corner a little too quickly, causing her heart to jump out of her chest and into her throat. In her wrists, her neck, even the fleshy spot underneath her tongue, she could feel her pulse racing, beating hard to enough make her whole body shake. Moving like her life depended on it, she scrambled into the dining room, nearly rolling her ankle as she grabbed the cordless phone and backed herself up against the farthest wall.

“Hello?! Hello?!” she breathed into the receiver, pressing herself that much further against the wall. “Someone - anyone - please, I need help! Oh God, oh my God, oh shit, someone help me, please!” Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as a silhouette appeared in the doorway, no doubt drawn by the sound of her voice. “Jesus Christ, we need help here! There’s a maniac on the loose and, and, and...” Her eyes tracked the shape in the door as it slid into the room, approached the phone’s cradle, stopped before it could hit the hang up button. “And since I just caught her kissing my fucking brother, there’s just no telling what other sick shit she might be planning.”

From where her hand still hovered over the phone cradle, Sam slowly turned towards Beth. “Please tell me you didn’t actually call 911 just now.”

She drummed her fingers against the phone, posture going looser and looser until her horror movie cringe became a teen comedy slouch. “I should’ve,” Beth said defiantly, dropping the phone from her ear only to point it at her like a loaded pistol. “Still might. Haven’t made up my mind yet, actually.”

After a halfhearted swipe at the phone, Sam gave up, grabbing onto the edge of the table and leaning down almost to the point where her forehead touched the table. Once, twice, three times she started to say something before trailing off, eventually giving in and folding her arms into a makeshift nest around her head.

“Is this shame?” Beth asked, giving the phone a little toss and flip before walking around behind her, hanging it up again. “If it is shame, maybe there’s still some hope for you. Not our friendship, obvs, that’s dead and buried - ”

Sam groaned something that could’ve been “Beeeeeeeth,” but it was so hard to tell, given how muffled her voice was.

“ - totally dead, Sam. Dead, dead, dead. Deader than disco. Sorry. But if you’re ashamed of yourself for the truly abhorrent thing you’ve done, then like. Maybe you still have a shot of fixing yourself. It’ll take time, I’m sure, but maybe by the time you’re, like...mmm...fifty-seven, you’ll have a shot at being a functional member of society again.” As she crossed behind her again, she couldn’t resist reaching over and giving her ponytail a single joking tweak. “All the people at this party - all the fucking people at this party, Sam! - and you kiss Josh?! Josh. JOSH!”

That time it was “Beth,” that she said. Pathetically, too. In total and complete agony.

“So now that we’re definitely not friends anymore, and never will be again, uhhh...pressure’s off. Wanna maybe try explaining yourself?” She hopped up onto the table beside her, playfully swinging her legs as they dangled. “I mean, don’t get me wrong - there is no explaining behavior that rank, but you can try.”

When Sam finally lifted her head, it was with a timid - but not guilty - smile. “I mean...to be fair...youuuu definitely weren’t supposed to see that, sooo...”

Beth swiveled her head to glance her way, eyebrows high and legs momentarily going still. “That’s your defense? ‘I didn’t think I’d get caught?’”

“Pretty much.”

“Wow. Wow, Sam, just...wow.” Then, despite herself, she snorted a laugh, shaking her head. “You think you know someone.”

“Beth, oh my God...”

“You think you know someone,” she continued, raising her voice to speak over her, “And then they go and kiss your shitty older brother...”

Her head dropped back into her arms - a sure sign of defeat. Still, her body shook with laughter. Probably the embarrassed kind. “I get it, okay? I get it! Can we maybe just agree that this whole dumb thing is punishment enough? You making fun of me?”

She pulled in a long, long breath that ended in an even longer sigh, returning to slowly kicking her legs through the air. “Hmm...have you suffered enough...have you suffered...enough...I guess that’s like, the big question, right? Have you learned your lesson...well, okay, let me ask you this: Do you promise you’ll never do that sick shit again?”

Sam peeked up from her arms again. “By ‘sick shit’ do you mean ‘kissing J - ’”

“I think it’s pretty fucking obvious I mean kissing Josh, Samantha Giddings.”

There was a moment of silence that told her all she needed to know, and it was for that reason that when Sam finally did answer, Beth was staring her full in the face, mouth open wide as her eyes. “I...cannot make that promise, no.”

Her mouth snapped shut after a moment, and she stared through Sam as though trying to solve a difficult math problem. “Hmm. You know what? Okay. If that’s how things are gonna be...” In one fluid move, she hopped back onto the floor, preparing for what was sure to be a hell of a race (Sam was, after all, probably the worst one of their group to try and outrun). “Then I don’t think you’ve suffered enough. And that’s why...I’mtellingHannah,” she said as quickly as she could, immediately springing back out of the dining room before Sam could register what she’d said, laughing wickedly the whole way.

#save-the-dandelions #six sentence weekend #queenie writes supermassive #jossam #until dawn #well hey there!!! long time no see indeed!! ;P sorry you had to wait for this one!!!