#ignoring that this is the worst fuckin time of year to be applying for jobs

[kkpwnall]

i will not open my wip until i finish this job application

#ignoring that this is the worst fuckin time of year to be applying for jobs #and that there’s 11k+ people on the market recently with a similar skill set #just gotta get it done #also!!! #the fic is all over but the editing #(and title) #((and summary)) #(((jen are you around today?))) #and omg if i can have this all wrapped up and not be in a mad rush to post it before i drive to my parents’ it would be a holiday miracle #bonfire fic #writing #kk rants

[cats-obsessions]

The Survey Never Lies

Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Modern au, something fluffy

Read on ao3

Summary:

Jaskier convinces Geralt to try Speed dating. The results are not what either of them expected.

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Geralt isn’t exactly sure what possessed him to agree to this. It’d been a rough past few months, with contracts being few and far between, and when they came, they were truly the worst. To say that this dry spell had extended to other areas in his life was an understatement; even Yennefer was able to move on by now after their latest, seemingly permanent, breakup. ‘Move on’ might be an understatement- enough time had passed for Yennefer to go into full-blown party mode, get over it, begin a new and honestly adorable relationship with their mutual friend Triss, and make up with him to the point of being hostile friends again.

That is to say, it has been a long time.

With next to no money and even less company, even Geralt could admit he has been feeling down. And yet, of course, Jaskier was always there right beside him through it all. It was always that way. Which is precisely why he got himself into this mess.

Initially, when the troubadour had suggested they try speed dating, Geralt was quick to strike the idea down. He’d already gone through the pains of using that awful dating app at Jaskier’s insistence, and he wasn’t about to have a rerun of that disaster. But then, Jaskier started to frame it as if he was the one that needed a date, and Geralt accompanying him would just be a favor- just to keep him company if it was boring, and to keep him safe if things went wrong. Geralt knows that was just a ploy to make him go, but between that and big blue puppy dog eyes, he found himself reluctantly agreeing.

Jaskier did not, however, tell him how horrible it would be. ‘it won’t take long’. Bullshit. Over an hour of small talk with strangers, and Geralt feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. The establishment isn’t the finest, either. Everything is cheap- 90s music playing on shitty speakers grate on his eardrums, dimmed florescent lighting and fake candles on every table make it feel morel like a pizza parlor than a romantic dinner. And then there’s the people.

They’ve been paired into groups based on some benign personality survey they were forced to take when they got there, then paired off for short conversations. Five-minute sessions are timed on a buzzer, each blessed ring marking the end of the conversation, and bringing with it another stranger. They’re awkward at best and insufferable at worst.

It’s Geralt’s personal nightmare incarnate.

The best conversation he’s had all night was about one woman’s five cats. The worst was probably when a man tried to lean across the table and grab at his medallion without asking and Geralt found himself releasing an inhuman snarl before he could stop himself. The poor guy ended up hiding in the bathroom for the remaining duration of their five minutes, but that’s what he gets for trying to touch people, especially a witcher, without asking.

Even the cheap beer doesn’t make it better. When the timer dings, and all the participants in the room begin to shuffle to new tables, Geralt takes a moment to look down at his glass, taking a long, long sip of tasteless beer. By the time he has glanced up again, Jaskier is seating himself across the table, wine glass in hand. The bard flashes him a toothy grin, leaning in closer, propping his elbows on the scratchy, off-white tablecloth. As per usual, his button down shirt is left undone far too low, exposing a far too distracting patch of chest hair that Geralt most certainly doesn’t stare at, nor do his eyes slowly trace up exposed skin of his collar bones and neck to the slight blush tinging his cheeks.  

“So, how’s it going, my friend? Found the new Mrs. Rivia, or Mr., though, I suppose it’s not guaranteed he’d take your last name. Not that it’s guaranteed with a woman, either. You could take her name. Though, I do like yours- better than my own, actually.”

Geralt glances away, trying his best to hide his smirk at Jaskier’s prattling, “Hm.”

“Oh, come on now, use your words. We’ve talked about this. You’re not going to find someone when I’m the only person that understands your unintelligible grunting.” Jaskier chides, though it is true. Somehow, over the years since they met in that shitty bar in Pasoda, Jaskier has come to understand the witcher well- better than most. Where other humans shy away from him, Jaskier became stuck to him, following him on hunts and writing songs about their adventures- reluctant at first, he’s now thankful for the bard.

Geralt sighs “This is hopeless, Jaskier.”

“No, it’s not!”

“It is. They’re all- ugh, I don’t know.” Geralt rubs his hand over his face, “They’re all either freaked out by me or oblivious to what I am, and they just talk about their normal lives and normal jobs and- and how Geofry from accounting fucked things up again, while I’m sitting here thinking last week I was swallowed by a fuckin’ kikimora. I don’t fit in here.”

“That was horridly disgusting, but lots of people are into adventurous men. What about Eveline? She seemed amenable.” Jaskier gestures to the woman a few tables down with long red hair. Yes, she had found Geralt attractive, in dim lighting which hides his scars and expands his pupils into circles rather than slits, but that doesn’t translate to companionship, or even a night of fun. Yet, Jaskier is always the optimist, “There’s still hope yet!”

Geralt shakes his head “Easy for you to say. You don’t need to go speed dating to find someone. Everyone likes you.”

“As flattering as that is, I think, there’s nothing wrong with speed dating. Anyone who isn't interested in you is a fool. Besides, it's not always that easy for me! I’m looking for something a bit more committed this time. Not that I didn’t have great affections for my previous romances. Just…” Jaskier trails off, tongue sticking out slightly as he looks for the right terms.

“Momentarily and in measured amounts?”

“Mm,” Jaskier hums in agreement.

“Infatuation has to wear off some time.”

“So I’ve been told. Seems some hang around longer than others though,” He mutters. He casts his eyes down as if in thought, his ever-moving hands finding the rim of his wine glass, a long finger tracing it in a way that emits a high-pitched noise the musician likely isn’t even aware of. Geralt grunts, frowning slightly as he grabs Jaskier’s hand to remove it from the glass. The bard lets himself be moved easily, fingers warm and inviting under the witcher’s touch.

“Noise,” he grumbles.

Jaskier smiles apologetically, “Ah, witcher hearing. Sorry, my dear.”

His fingers tap on the tabletop, looking for something to fidget with in the wine glass’ absence. He finds the long-abandoned conversation que cards so kindly provided by the event’s organizers, as if they knew rightfully well how miserably uncomfortable this predicament would be.

“Have you looked at these at all tonight?” he asks, picking them up to glance through them.

“Tried not to. They’re deplorable.” Yet, the well-worn corners of the cards attest to how many attendees truly rely on them.

Jaskier smiles coyly “You’ve been showing people pictures of your lovely lady Roach again haven’t you?”

“Maybe” he blushes, both of them chuckling. “People like horses”

“Mm, that would only be a good pick-up tactic if she didn’t bite strangers.”

“She’s shy.” He defends, though he knows she’s not. She’s just picky; she’s never tried to bite Geralt, or Eskel or Vesemir for that matter. These days, she likes Jaskier enough to let him ride her when they visit her stables at Vesemir’s farm.

Jaskier glances to the clock, red numbers counting down the seconds until he will be subjected to yet another stranger. “We still have a bit of time, want to try these dumb questions?”

“Is silence not an option?” Geralt groans, though not without the hint of a smile on his lips.

Jaskier swats at him lightly, ignoring the comment. He flips through the cards, reading a few under his breath “What color is your personality? That’s dumb- yours is blue, obviously, and mine is yellow. Hmm, Ah, here’s one.” Geralt tilts his head, waiting “Describe your best friend.”

He can’t help but snort at that “Annoying.”

“First of all, rude. Second of all, appropriate answers could have included handsome, funny, talented, brilliant, loyal” Jaskier counts his claimed attributes on his fingers, likely to go on forever lest Geralt interrupt.

“Reckless, frivolous-” He jumps in, a teasing, toothy grin on his face.

“Fun. Fun is the term you’re looking for. It doesn’t matter though. I know you adore me.”

There’s too much truth in the words; though he wouldn’t hesitate to call Jaskier his friend -his best friend- adoration is a strong word, a word unknown to many witchers. Yet, he can’t deny the way Jaskier makes his heart fill with warmth, makes him feel alive and safe like he never has before. But that is something he’d much rather keep to himself. Geralt looks away, surely blushing as he lets a curtain of white hair falls in front of his face, hopefully hiding the pink tinge.

Jaskier watches him quietly, that soft warm expression in his eyes that somehow seems to be reserved for the witcher. A moment of silence passes before he snaps out of it, only a few seconds left on the clock “Wanna get out of here?”

At that, Geralt perks up, “I could use a real drink, but what about your search?”

“I don’t think I’ll find the one in this crowd,” he says, looking out on the group, a disappointed little pout pulling at his lips for just a moment before he turns back to Geralt, ever bright smile returning to his face.

Geralt nods, standing up and slipping on his jacket in preparation to leave. He catches Jaskier’s eyes roaming over him for a moment before the bard diverts his gaze, catching his lip between his teeth. Geralt does his best to focus on anything else. Whatever warmth or fluttering feelings it may give him, he knows he’s just imagining his friend’s interest.

They almost make it out with everyone around them shuffling to new tables. But, of course, they’re stopped by the group coordinator. They’d met him when they came in- a young man far too invested in this program, reciting his company provided lines with an unnatural enthusiasm.

“Looks like you two are having a good time. I’m glad to see some real sparks fly tonight! Sneaking off already?” the man grins, a little too much, as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, we were just-” Jaskier begins, laughing slightly under his breath.

“No, don’t tell me- for liability reasons and such. But good news!” he exclaims, “According to our survey, you two are our most compatible couple of the night, and the survey never lies!”

“Of course, we-” He’s cut off again, and next to him, Jaskier cringes.

“Which means, if you’re interested and it certainly seems like you are, you have won our luxury romance date package!”

“I think there’s been a mis- Sorry, what?” Geralt stops as the boy pushes a bright pink, sparkling gift card into his hand.

“$200.00 to the White Orchard, free drinks included and guaranteed reservations within the month. All you have to do is go together, have fun, and discover the romance of your lives!” The boy’s smile doesn’t falter as he continues to speak. “I’m legally obligated to tell you we have not run background checks on anyone.”

“But we’re-” Jaskier tries to speak, but not before Geralt can stop him.

“Excited!” Geralt grins, grabbing Jaskier’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Thank you!”

$200 is $200. He’s not about to let the first chance he’s had at a fine dinner in who knows how long go by because of Jaskier’s big mouth. So, with that, he leads the bard outside, their hands still firmly grasped together, and pointedly doesn’t think about why his thumb is rubbing circles into the back of his best friend’s hand. Nor does he consider how well their fingers fit together. He certainly doesn’t notice the disappointed pang in his chest when their hands separate as they step out into the cold night air outside.

One glance between them and their prize, and neither of them can stifle their laughter. “I can’t believe you almost said no to the nicest restaurant in town.” Geralt chides, elbowing Jaskier lightly as they begin to walk home.

“I can’t believe it either. It’s like the offer didn’t register in my brain yet.” Jaskier chuckles.

Geralt rolls his eyes at him “Seems to happen a lot.”

Jaskier deliberately ignores him, instead leaning over his shoulder to look at the gift card, still cradled in Geralt’s hand “It is ‘luxury romance’” Jaskier snickers, “We may have to keep up this act a bit longer.

“Apparently it’s not too difficult.” Geralt sneers “Some survey. Of course, we match; we spend all our time together.”

Jaskier’s chuckles quiet down, a silence hanging between them as he seems to think it over, “I have known you longer and more deeply than any other in my life. There’s no one I’m more comfortable with.”

“And I you.” He doesn’t often admit such things, but somehow in the silence of the night, with the way Jaskier had stated it so gently, he can’t help but know he truly means it when he agrees. After the silence becomes too heavy, Geralt clears his throat “Anyways, it’ll be fun.

“Yea, fun.”

Somehow, Jaskier’s voice comes out flat, preoccupied. When Geralt glances over at him, his lip is caught between his teeth again, his face scrunched in deep contemplation. It’s not a long walk back to their apartments, their complexes within walking distance of each other. Geralt doesn’t push, silence between them doesn't normally bother him after a night of so much noise. But try as he might, he can't help but wonder if Jaskier is bothered by the implication they were- could be a couple. Instead, he tries to focus on the sounds of the city, cool air blowing around them, leaves crinkling as they skip across the cement sidewalk.

When they approach Jaskier’s apartment complex, they stop in front of the old brick stairs leading inside, and Geralt waits for either an invitation inside or a declaration that Jaskier has changed his mind about drinks. He looks… uneasy. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and he shifts back and forth on his feet.

“Um, Geralt?” Jaskier says, voice uncertain for once.

“Hm?”

“I, um,” Geralt barely has time to see Jaskier stop biting his lip before suddenly his lips are on Geralt’s, his hands in his hair, caressing, not forceful. The witcher could pull away without much of a fuss, but he finds himself pulling Jaskier in by his waist, holding him tightly as if he’s afraid he’ll lose him if he lets go.

The kiss is equal parts gentle and desperate. He feels like he’s on fire; he feels like there’s electricity running through him, between them, and- and butterflies in his stomach, for maybe the first time in his life. It’s all so new and different, but he finds he doesn’t mind- not one bit.

When Jaskier pulls away, he finds his head feeling light “Jask,” he breathes lightly, their noses bumping each other lightly.

“Sorry, I-” Jaskier moves to step back, a spark of caution and panic glimmering in his eyes, as if he hadn’t felt Geralt’s desire in their embrace. “I thought-” he begins, but Geralt pulls him back in.

“I didn’t say stop.” He smiles softly, bringing up one hand to cup Jaskier’s cheek. It relaxes the bard, all the tension melting away to be replaced by a mischievous smile as the witcher pulls him into another kiss.

****

Rays of morning sun beam through the windows of Jaskier’s apartment, illuminating every inch of it. Below, the city is bustling with noise, but here, things are peaceful. Geralt woke up first, no surprise there. He would have been more than content to stay in bed all day, wrapped tightly in his lover’s embrace- the thought of that word describing Jaskier brings a smile to his face. But cursed with his witcher metabolism, he was dragged out of bed by a growling stomach.

Rummaging through Jaskier’s kitchen for breakfast, he barely notices the other man enter the room. When he turns around, Geralt is met with striking blue eyes watching him intently as Jaskier leans against the counter, dressed in his boxers and a hoodie he’d stollen from Geralt long, long ago. Geralt chooses not to dwell too much on the thought that he’s been sleeping in it all this time- for now, anyways.

“What are you so smug about?” Geralt grins, abandoning his task to invade Jaskier’s space.

The musician smiles, unabashedly staring as he runs his hands over Geralt’s exposed chest, settling above the hem of the sweat pants he snatched from Jaskier’s closet this morning, “Who wouldn’t be smug after getting a boyfriend as beautiful as you?” Even though they kissed all through the night, Jaskier’s lips on his send a shiver down his spine.

“You know what they say.” Geralt murmurs, kissing his way down to Jaskier’s neck.

As he presses dark marks into the pale skin of his throat, Jaskier only breathlessly hums in response “Hm?”

“The survey never lies.” He quotes mockingly.

Jaskier snorts, shoving at Geralt’s shoulder playfully, but the witcher doesn’t budge, only nuzzling in closer against his neck. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Very.”

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #fanfiction #my stuff #modern au #fluff #drabble #idk how to tag things #Geralt and Jaskier go speed dating and omg who wouldve guessed their best match was each other #oh gosh please let the read more button work

[perennialwinds]

Scars

Okay, as promised last week, here is one of my Caryl fics. @archersqueen you convinced me to post this one! Hope you enjoy.

Shivers ran down his spine as the warmth of a wet cloth made contact with his skin. Streaks of water travelled down his side and he hissed as the salty solution infiltrated his flesh, worn and bloodied. It was far from one of the worst injuries he’d had, but Carol tended to it none the less. In fact, now that he thought about it, Carol had been absent for many of his injuries he’d acquired over the past ten or so years. He was grateful that she didn’t have to be there when it happened, but regretful of the time he’d spent without her.

A nasty scrape from a run in with a barbed-wire fence left a means for infection. And with their antibiotics supply running dry many years ago, they had no choice than to be on top of any potential medical threat that faced them, no matter how minimal it may be.

“You did a good job on that fence,” she said, squeezing out the bloodied water from the cloth and dunking it into a bowl of a clean salt water solution. He grunted a response. “You need to be more careful.”

“Had worse. M’ still here though.” He replied, cut short as she pressed the cloth to his wound again, stinging salt water momentarily punching the breath out of his lungs. He breathed out heavily through his nose, fists clenched to either side of the bench he sat shirtless on in their shared kitchen table.

“Gonna leave a scar, that’s for sure.” She squeezed out the cloth again, this time replacing it with a dry flannel, patting his skin clean.

He didn’t even keep count of the scars. He didn’t keep count before the apocalypse. He sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. “I got enough already… What’s another one?” He moved a hand to his face, running his fingers over his eyes. He was tired. His whole body ached and his mind was fatigued to the point of blurriness. He’d come back from a three-day long scavenging trip, cut short when he lost his supplies over the other side of the fence he had escaped from as a herd of walkers cornered in. He’d been lucky to escape with his crossbow and his own life, but nothing else. If Carol hadn’t been so insistent on tending to his wound, he’d have been fast asleep by now, unbothered in his bed. He just wanted to rest. To heal. And honestly, he just wanted to stay in the house. Stay inside the walls of Alexandria. Just for a while. These scavenging trips, although he was damn good at it, was taking a toll on his body. He was not as agile, as fit as he used to be. Age was wearing him down, something he never thought he would experience in this living hellscape that seemed to cut everyone else’s lives so short. Every day his bones ached, longed for him to just take a day off, slow down. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could ignore it. How much longer his body would allow him to ignore it before it broke down in the worst moment possible. Most of all though, he just wanted to spend more time with her. With Carol. And with Lydia. With his accidental family that he somehow scraped together without even realising. Carol - His best friend, his soulmate, since the apocalypse, and Lydia - daughter of an old enemy he took under his wing. Unable to reject her despite her history because she reminded him so much of himself. She reminded Carol so much of herself. It would have eaten him up inside to let her suffer the same ways they did all those years ago, with full knowledge that she would have ended in a far worse predicament.

He struggled to not let himself doze off there on the table, lost in the thought of just living in some sort of comfort with the people he cared about the most.

He heard the rip of medical tape and felt the softness of gauze brushing over his skin, snapping him out of his light sleep. Pressure from Carol’s hands sent another shiver up his spine has she applied the bandage to his right hip where the fence had dug into his skin during his frantic escape.

Comforting silence ensued between them. Just being there together is all they needed. Lydia had opted to do night watch, not allowing Carol to take her shift to tend to Daryl, and definitely not allowing Daryl to commit to the duty either after today’s life-risking events.

She smoothed the padding over his skin, careful not to touch the jagged wound she so carefully cleaned. Her hands drifted from his hip to the centre of his back. Began tracing each raised line and bump scattered across his skin. She knew these were there before. Before the dead rose and stole the world away from them. She had seen them all those years ago, back at Herschel’s farm. After he’d nearly killed himself looking for her daughter. Resting in the bed when she told him how thankful she was. How he was every bit as good as them. As Shane, as Rick. She teared up at that flashback to the farm. How he fought tooth and nail for her daughter, donning another mark on his side from his own arrow in an attempt to find her. Although the effort was futile – it showed her a side of him she hadn’t seen before. And he still held those qualities now. How he fought to keep Lydia here. Fought to keep her safe from Alpha. She heard him exhale deeply again. How could a man so brave, so selfless deserve these scars? He never had told Carol much about his previous life. But she knew he had suffered some form of abuse. Like her. Like Lydia.

“Merle?” She traced over one of the larger scars.

He looked up over his shoulder briefly meeting her eyes, before shaking his head and dropping his weary gaze to the floor again.

“No.” He almost whispered “M’ father.” He winced as he heard the crack of his father’s belt whipping across his back sharply. The sound cutting through the air like a knife as it made contact with his skin. Felt his own blood dripping down much like the warm salt water did minutes ago.

She placed her hand flat on his shoulder blade, hurting for him. “I’m sorry.”

“S’ okay.”

She resumed her tracing, this time though without asking about the scars. She didn’t want to bring back any more memories for him. She knew them all too well herself.

She felt the bump of what she suspected to be a knife wound on his left shoulder. Looking more recent than the welts of the scars he gained in a former life. But still years in age.

“Saviours. That ones from the saviours. Before we knew who they were.”

She was surprised by his opening up but welcomed the release of his pent-up secrets.

“I blew ‘em up. Sometimes wonder if things woulda been different if I hadn’t… but they were gonna kill Sasha and Abraham. Had ta do something.” His voice shook on the last sentence. Years of buried guilt washing over him, conflicted with the pull of desperation.

“You didn’t know.” Carol replied, hearing his breathing speed up, gasps escaping his lungs. “You were protecting your family. You were – are – so brave. Don’t forget that. Please.” She pleaded with him and placed a gentle kiss over the scar, staying there briefly with her eyes closed. Wishing the pain away, but also wishing they were this close all the time, under different circumstances. Daryl felt a wave of warmth rush over him from her touch.

Her other hand faintly brushed over an X-shaped brand on his left hip, opposite the fresh bandage. She looked up at him, concerned. This was a deliberate scar, its shape too perfect to be any form of accident. It was a brand of some sort, horrified at the possibilities of how he had acquired it. But she felt him tense up as she studied its shape. A sharp breath inwards, stiffening his torso signalling his lack of comfort with that particular mutilation. He shook his head and she knew to move on. It was a secret he wasn’t ready to uncover to her. And that was okay.

Her hand travelled to his right shoulder, concentrating on what was most definitely a gunshot wound. She remembered patching it up that night in the house by the Kingdom. When Daryl had found her after she sent herself into the false comfort of isolation. A pang of guilt snuck through her. Why she had taken herself away when her family needed her. He needed her.

He felt her hand pause abruptly against him, preoccupied with her own intensifying thoughts of guilt, and he grabbed her hand, pulling it over to the front of his chest where the exit wound was. Showing her how it had healed, partly thanks to her fixing up the dressing and keeping infection away. He tried to keep her guilt away, as if it too were an infection.

“The doctor at the Sanctuary. He tried to fix it,” his shoulder often ached with arthritis set on by the gunshot wound. Likely that there were still fragments of the bullet inside him, grinding against bone chips blasted out of place, “Did a’right though.”

There was a long pause before Carol responded cautiously, “What do you mean at the Sanctuary?”

Shit. He’d never made her aware that he’d been held captive by them. She didn’t need that knowledge in her life. She had enough shit to deal with. But he was caught out now.

“Daryl, what happened at the Sanctuary?” She perched herself up sitting cross-legged on the table behind him, pulling him to face her, but his aching shoulder, even more weary from the week’s trip restricted the movement.

He sighed, “After Negan…. After Abe and Glenn. They took me. Wanted to make me one of em’. I was their prisoner. He-Negan, tried to break me. Get me to kneel. Would offer me a nice room, then beat me up. I ate fuckin’ dog food for weeks.” He laughed at the last sentence, trying to hide the pain the memories brought back. “I couldn’t though. I wouldn’t break. Couldn’t do that to Rick. To Alexandria.” He began struggling again, his voice wavering and breathy. “I should’ve told ya.”

“And I shouldn’t have left you.” She returned. She just wanted to try her hardest to take his pain away but she knew she couldn’t no matter how persistent she was. But she could be there to help him through it. Although she wasn’t there then, she was here now. And she wasn’t going to leave ever again.

She wrapped her other arm around his waist, hugging him from behind and resting her head on his shoulder. His skin tickled as he felt the softness of her breath touch his bare skin, trickling lightly over his collarbone.

They stayed in that moment for a while. Sharing each other’s touch, hoping to make up for all the times when they couldn’t.

She opened her eyes, snapping herself out when she noticed both of them drifting to sleep there, upright on the kitchen table.

“Daryl,”

“Hm?”

She concentrated on his hand that had subconsciously intertwined with her own some time during the evening. Noticed another scar, a series of jagged, yet uniform knots, wrapping themselves around his wrist. She lifted his hand with her own off his chest, turning his wrist and inspecting the marks.

“A bite?”

“The dog. Damn mutt was too scared to realise I was trying to help him when he got caught up in a trap.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.” She joked, referring to his hostile and defensive ways when they first met. How she stopped him from pulling away on the farm and he didn’t know how to handle his own emotions, throwing it all back in her face.

“Stop.”

The exchange made them both giggle, a smirk bursting through Daryl’s sombre expression as Carol dropped his hand, covering her own face as she laughed. This moment here, Daryl could live in forever. This is what he wanted. What he needed. After ten years of being out there, risking his life, staring death in the face so many times to escape by the skin of his teeth.

“Carol,” He spoke, his changing tone catching her attention more so than the use of her name. She hopped down from the table, dragged the kitchen stool to face him. She sat, crossing a leg and resting her chin on her hand, elbow resting on her knee, mere inches from his face.

His eyes made solid contact with hers “I don’t wanna be out there anymore.”

“What do you mean?” She tilted her head, brows crossed.

“Abraham asked me once if I ever thought about settling down. I-I thought never in a million years. In this world? Impossible. Hell, even before the world went ta shit I never believed I’d be some bullshit cliché nuclear family man – a white picket fence, kids and a dog.” His words practically vomited from his mouth. Years of emotion, thoughts he buried and hid from himself as soon as they were conceived were spilling out, breaching its walls. Spreading like antibodies to an infection. “But I’m tired, Carol.” He dropped his head into his hands, wiping his face down.

Carol reached out to him then, tucking his hair back off his face. Running her fingers through his locks longer than what was necessary.

He looked back up at her, “I jus’ wanna be here. With you. With Lydia. With our family.” He swallowed hard. “I miss you Carol. A whole damn lot. Every time I go out there, all I wanna do is be back home by ya side. And I think m’ ready for that.”

Carol teared up at his declaration. She had known deep down inside she’d always loved him. But she couldn’t admit it to herself either. She thought that the King would fulfil her needs of family. Of home. But when her son died she realised it was all just a play. A façade, hiding herself from the truth with a fairy tail. But she knew it was different with Daryl. Because although Lydia had brought them closer together again, Daryl had always felt like home to her. Right from the beginning.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I’m gonna slack off and sit inside all day not pulling my weight. I ain’t no deadbeat. But I can’t – I can’t pretend that I’m better off out there by myself risking my life when the truth is I’m better off with you.” He was open and vulnerable, pleading to her for mercy. The last thing he needed right now was her rejection – he felt in that scenario he’d turn himself out to the wilderness for good. His eyes pierced hers and she was so proud of him. So in love with the man staring back at her, wounds and soul laid out bare for her to mangle and carve in any way she wanted. And all she wanted to do was bandage them up, kiss every one of them and pray to God that they would heal in time with her love. Save him from the nightmares he’d endured. Her eyes flickered down to his lips briefly before meeting his eyes again and she swore she saw him nod ever so slightly before she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him into her kiss. Deep and desperate, but slow. Meaningful. Tears of pure relief streamed down both of their cheeks, feeling the salty warmth of each other’s on their skin.

#caryl #caryl fanfic #caryl fanfiction #carol x daryl #daryl x carol #caryl on #twd fic #the walking dead #twd

[dreamonhunters]

we’ll have tomorrow

tw // blood, alcohol, canon-typical violence, gang violence, medical procedures

some hurt/comfort myan i wrote for the @rtwritingcommunity secret springfairy 2020 ! this was a gift for my wonderful qpp @thisiswhatmylifehasbecome ♡

read it here on ao3!

“You’re gettin’ blood on my carpet,” Ryan complains, but Michael doesn’t respond.

It’s almost standard procedure, by this point. Michael gets himself fucked up, crawls to Ryan’s apartment, and the aforementioned teen fixes him up. Rinse and repeat. It’s a fucked up little system they have, but it works. Besides, it’s not like Gavin possesses the medical skills to prevent Michael bleeding out.

“‘m not,” Michael mutters, and Ryan ignores him. The blood soaking into Ryan’s carpet is proving him wrong, but it’s easier not to address that. Instigating an argument isn’t going to get either of them far.

“C’mon,” Ryan sighs, looping one arm around the ginger’s waist. He tenses, but he doesn’t resist. He doesn’t need help. There’s a dark red liquid slowly seeping through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, but he can stand. He can almost walk. He doesn’t need help.

Ryan knows to avoid that word. It ignites a rage inside Michael, one he doesn’t like to deal with unless strictly necessary. The concept of weakness. The assumption that he can’t handle himself. His plea of assistance to Ryan is unspoken, and he can respect that. He knows full well Michael could stitch himself up if he wanted to, but he also knows he can do it better. That’s why Michael showed up on his doorstep to begin with. So instead of speaking, he guides Michael to the bathroom and sits him down on the toilet. At least cleaning blood off tiles is easier.

“What happened this time, hm?” Ryan asks, already digging through one of the cabinets for his medical kit. It’s pretty extensive by this point — it’s a well known fact that Ryan’s window is always unlocked for one particular reason. It’s a silent promise. For several years now, he’s offered his apartment as something of a safe haven for street kids to get fixed up, eat a solid meal, and have a soft place to crash for the night. It’s the least he can do, that’s what he always says. Ryan isn’t much older than half the kids he takes in, but that’s beside the point. He’s prepared for just about anything.

Michael is something of a regular. He first stumbled across the kid up in an alleyway, beaten and barely breathing. He’d resisted Ryan every last step of the short walk back to his apartment. Nowadays it’s a slow week if the fiery ginger doesn’t tumble through his window at least once a week — occasionally, he’s not even injured, and he's just paying Ryan a visit. They’re friends, in a slightly twisted sense of that word.

There’s no response for a while, until Ryan rocks back onto his haunches and fixes Michael with a look that just screams ‘this isn’t going any further until you tell me’. The ginger lets out an indignant huff.

“Some fuckin’ gang kids. Started threatenin’ me an’ shit, then got all surprised when I pulled a knife.” he grumbles. Ryan lets out a sigh — he’s disappointed, but this really shouldn’t be any kind of shock. Most of Michael’s visits were the result of petty street conflicts.

Now he’s kneeling before the boy, the bright, artificial bathroom lights truly reveal the full extent of Michael’s injuries. Aside from the still-bleeding wound in his side, there’s a lurid bruise purpling high on his right cheekbone, and his bottom lip is broken and swollen. His knuckles are bloody, small patches of skin peeling off.

“You didn’t have to fight them, Michael,” Ryan reminds him, but there’s no real heat in his voice. He doesn’t have the energy to fight this battle right now. Michael mutters something inaudible, but he doesn’t care to find out what. “Take your shirt off. I can’t do anything with that in the way.”

A hiss of pain escapes Michael as he practically rips the shirt off, face contorted with pain. There’s a whole collection of scars and bruises littered across the boy’s body, but those pale in comparison to his latest wound. Most of his torso is coated in sticky blood, although his platelets have begun to do their job. Around the edges, the wound is starting to scab up, and the bleeding is lesser. It’ll still need stitches, though.

With a heavy sigh, Ryan pulled on a thin pair of latex gloves. “I’ll clean it up, alright? And when I’m done I can make dinner.”

Michael doesn’t reply, because as much as he knows Ryan won’t let him leave, he hates accepting people’s charity. He knows Ryan doesn’t think he’s weak, or helpless, or can’t look after himself. But he can’t shake that idea out of his head.

He doesn’t wait for a response, fortunately, and sets about applying pressure to the wound. Michael hisses again as a cold, damp force pushes against his side. “Coulda fuckin’ warned me,” he spits, glaring daggers at Ryan. Fortunately, the older boy learnt to ignore that look long ago.

“Would you prefer to bleed out?” Ryan asks pointedly, releasing the pressure just enough to sift through his medical kit one-handed. It’ll need cleaning first — the day Ryan stops cleaning wounds properly is the day he dies, even if Michael whines and bitches through every last second of that process — and then he can get to work on stitching. It’s deep, but it’s not the worst he’s had to work with.

There’s no response from Michael, and he’ll keep it that way for as long as possible. The pressure on his side disappears entirely, and he can breathe again, until a heartbeat later it’s replaced by a sharp, stinging sensation.

“Fuck sake, Ryan,” Michael grounds out, flinching at the coldness.

“I’m not doin’ stitches without cleaning you up properly,” is his defence, and Michael goes back to muttering insults under his breath. Ryan cleans in silence, interrupted by the occasional wince or strangled insult from the boy.

As soon as he’s done cleaning, a cold gel is slathered across the edges of his wound. By now, the bleeding has almost entirely stopped. There’s a whine of discomfort ripped from Michael’s throat, but he doesn’t complain further. Most people wouldn’t bother with lidocaine. Ryan always tells him to be grateful.

At least there’s some relief from the pain that lances through his body with every tiny movement. Michael doesn’t let it show on his face, but Ryan can read his body language like a book. He’s in agony, but agony is weakness and Michael doesn’t do weakness. Ryan lets the gel settle for a few moments, taking full effect. It’s not much, not nearly enough to stop him feeling, but it’ll dull the pain at least a little. There’s a needle and thread in his hand by the time Michael looks back at him.

“You ready?” he asks softly, and the minute nod that Michael gives him is enough. Silently, Ryan hands Michael a whiskey-soaked rag. He likes something to bite down on, and the alcoholic burn serves as something of a distraction from his pain.

Ryan works quickly and methodically. They pull the flesh together properly, forming a singular row of neat, tidy stitches. His stitches are clean, evidently practised from the amount of people he has to fix up. He learnt how to stitch up a wound properly back when he’d been in Michael’s position. He learnt how to stitch up a wound effectively when he started doing it for others. Messy work didn’t quite cut it when he had to look at it on somebody else’s body.

“You done?” Michael groans, spitting the rag into his left hand and scrubbing the right over his mouth. “That fuckin’ killed.”

“I know, I know. It’s over,” Ryan reassures, already moving to grab some bandages. Michael didn’t need to tell him how much it hurt. The small whimpers and hisses that escaped him were evidence enough, even if the rag muffled the worst of it. “Jus’ lemme bandage it up, alright?”

Michael doesn’t answer, and so Ryan sets to work covering his torso in thick white bandages. It’s more of a precaution than a necessity — a visible reminder to Michael. The boy has a habit of pulling his stitches out. Sometimes bandaging it up made him think twice about doing more reckless shit.

Sometimes.

When he’s done, Ryan rocks back onto his haunches and gazes up at Michael. The boy’s face is still twisted into a grimace. “You need some painkillers?” Ryan offers. He nods.

The room is silent, aside from the sounds of Ryan sorting through his medical kit to find the aforementioned painkillers. He pulls out a small cardboard box and offers it to Michael. The ginger pulls out a foil-covered tray and pops three out, swallowing them down dry. The box is tossed back in the general direction of Ryan’s kit.

“You staying for dinner, then?” Ryan asks, and they both know the answer. “Get changed. There’s clothes in the bedroom. You know I have stuff that’ll fit.” he concludes, packing up the last of his medical kit and shoving it back into the cabinet. Slowly, Michael gets to his feet. There’s an unintelligible grunt for a response.

It’s a dysfunctional relationship, but Ryan can’t help but feel some kind of protectiveness over Michael. He’s been in one too many shitty scenarios not to see himself in those brown eyes, the same eyes that glow the colour of whiskey when the light hits them. Even if he doesn’t speak of it, the years of pain and trauma are hidden into those depths. Ryan likes to think you can’t see it in his own eyes.

x x x

It's been a week or so since Michael last came to Ryan with the immediate threat of bleeding out, and for once he’s not injured when he comes tumbling through the older teen’s window. It’s unlocked, as always, and Michael already feels like he’s at home.

“Ryan?” he calls out, decidedly more cheerful than his last time here.

There’s no response.

That’s unusual. Ryan doesn’t tend to leave all that often, and when he does the window is always locked. As much as he loves these kids, like hell is he gonna trust them in his empty apartment. This is Los Santos.

“Hey, Ry, it’s me,” he tries again, already feeling for the switchblade in his pocket. He can taste the tension in the air, and he doesn’t like it one bit. Ryan isn’t the type to play games with him. “Quit fuckin’ around.”

There’s a muffled sound, which could quite easily have been a groan, and Michael’s blood runs cold. He’s definitely not alone. If he had to guess, he’d say it came from the kitchen. The weight of the switchblade in his palm is little reassurance, but he reminds himself that it’s better than nothing.

His movements are slow as he approaches the kitchen, in an attempt to create as little sound as possible. The closer he gets, the more he can make out. Two men speak in hushed voices, and there’s a third man moaning in pain. The third voice is muffled, and Michael suspects he’s gagged. He also suspects it’s Ryan. By this point, his heart is in his mouth.

If only he had a gun.

The heavy wooden door banged as it hit the wall behind it, and suddenly he’s faced with two young men and Ryan. He’s laid on the floor, but Michael doesn’t stop for long enough to survey his injuries. “Who the fuck are you?” he spits, venom practically dripping from his voice.

The two men before him couldn’t be older than twenty-five. One had jet-black hair and icy blue eyes, too sharp to be kindred; the other sported sandy blond locks, the same blue eyes and muscular arms covered from shoulder to wrist in intricate tattoos. Siblings, most likely. The first man, dark haired, fiddles with an expensive-looking lighter. A lit cigarette hangs between his lips, smoke curling lazily around his face. His companion twirls a knife around his fingers, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on here.

“And who might you be?” the first one drawls, eyes flicking from Ryan to Michael.

Michael sneers at him. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but I think it does,” he responds, and the other’s eyes seem to light up beside him. “Can’t you see we’re busy, kid?”

“Fuck off.”

When the man speaks again, the challenge in his voice is evident. “Make me.”

Michael lunges for him, but the blond by his side is quicker. He barrels into the ginger’s side, and it takes every ounce of his strength to remain upright. Miraculously, he doesn’t drop the knife, and before he’s even realised it the blade is plunged deep into his attacker’s side.

The man howls in pain, and suddenly his friend doesn’t seem so confident. That cocky smirk is wiped from his face, and if it weren’t for the shitty lighting in Ryan’s kitchen, he could’ve sworn his face paled. Michael’s gained the upper hand.

“Get the fuck out,” Michael warns, glaring down the man with an almost animalistic ferocity. “Or I’ll gut him and make you fuckin’ watch.”

Clearly, he’s no fighter. It isn’t hard to work out that the blond is purely muscle, and he’s the brains behind the operation. It’s evident from his lighter, his stance, the slim stature and expensive clothing. He’s the boss, and his partner is a disposable some hitman trying to make a living. If it wasn’t Ryan laid on the floor, fading in and out of consciousness, Michael might have found it within himself to feel sorry.

When no reply comes, Michael tries again. “I said, get the fuck out, and I’ll think about not killin’ you here and now.”

That seems to jerk him into motion, and suddenly his gripping the blond’s shirt and yanking him in the direction of the window. Michael watches them go, a thunderous expression marring his features.

Normally, he would’ve killed them on sight. But he’s not stupid, and Michael knows just enough about Ryan to make him hesitate. The teen is secretive, but he’s known him long enough to have heard the stories of his own time in various gangs across the city. He can do without another furious gang on his ass.

When he’s certain they’re gone, he returns to the window and locks it. Ryan is still sprawled across the kitchen floor, breathing shallowly. There’s blood splattered across the linoleum, seeping into the cracks where the material meets furniture. His breath caught in his throat at the sight.

“Ryan?” he asks, surprised by how quiet his voice is. The word comes out cracked and broken, and suddenly it’s painfully obvious just how much of a scared teenager Michael still is.

The teen manages a pained groan, struggling to sit up. “Stop, jus’ fuckin’, I dunno, try and stay still.” Michael insists, and then he practically sprints to the bathroom. All he knows is there’s a medical kit in one of these cabinets, and he needs to find it before Ryan passes out. There’s a large plastic box, and before Michael has time to second guess himself he’s yanked it out and run back to Ryan’s side.

He practically crashes to his knees beside the boy, glancing over the injuries. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem too extensive. There’s a stab wound in his side, not dissimilar to Michael’s own, and there’s small burns scattered across his collarbone. Desperately, he racks his brain and tries to remember anything and everything Ryan has ever done for him.

“Michael?” Ryan groans, managing to lift his head just enough to catch sight of the boy.

“Hey, yeah, it’s me. What the fuck happened?” he asks, trying not to let anxiety colour his tone. It’s not possible to keep that fear out those whiskey-brown eyes, though. Ryan can immediately tell he’s scared.

“My old gang...they’ve still got bad blood with me,” Ryan manages. “I killed one of their members. They hadn’t forgotten about it.”

So he was right not to kill that fucker there and then, Michael thinks to himself. Sometimes he truly is grateful he’s not as trigger happy as some may believe.

“Aight. I can handle this,” Michael mutters, more for his own sake than Ryan’s. There’s antiseptic solution in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. All he needs to do is recreate what the teen did for him all those times before.

“It’s fine, Michael, really,” Ryan tries.

Michael scoffs. “You’re gettin’ blood on the floor. Now shut up an’ let me fix you up.”

Ryan doesn’t argue back, and Michael soaks a couple of thick gauze pads in antiseptic. Applying pressure seems pointless, considering the man is laid down and that slows the blood flow significantly as it is. Ryan grits his teeth as the boy begins to work, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek.

“You want somethin’ to bite on?” Michael asks, tipping the whiskey onto that same rag Ryan always offers. There’s a pained noise of acknowledgement, and Michael hands it over.

He doesn’t waste time numbing the wound. He doesn’t even know what to use. Michael’s mind is running a mile a minute; he doesn’t have time to think carefully over every single move. Ryan sounds like he’s about to protest, but Michael is already threading the needle before he can vocalise words.

Ryan cries out in pain when Michael first pushes the needle into his bloodied flesh, hot tears stinging at his eyes. He won’t cry, not in front of Michael, even if the ginger is paying no attention to his face right now. His face is twisted with concentration, hyperfocused on his work. They both know he can stitch up a wound, but it’s not exactly his strong point.

Compared to Ryan’s neat stitching, Michael’s is messy. Panic makes his hands shake and there’s tears blurring his vision. It wasn’t until he saw Ryan in such a vulnerable state that he realised just how important the boy was to him. If he’s really honest, Michael couldn’t be sure how long he’d have survived on the streets without Ryan’s assistance.

But his work will hold the skin together, and the bleeding has stopped. He can relax a little. “Think you can sit up?” Michael asks. Ryan manages a small nod, pushing up onto his elbows. Michael grabs his shoulder and helps him up, trying to ignore the hiss of pain that slips past Ryan’s lips.

“You need any painkillers?” is his next question, already popping two small white tablets into his palm. Ryan nods, and grabs the bottle. The two pills are washed down with a swig of whiskey.

“Thank you, Michael,” he mumbles weakly. Never had he expected to be in this position, having one the kids he was supposed to be looking after stitching him up. Bleeding out on his kitchen floor wasn’t exactly on his list of things to do, mind. “‘m sorry.”

“Shut up. Don’t apologise.” Michael mutters, face set into a dark scowl. “I woulda killed ‘em, y’know. I jus’ didn’t wanna cause more problems.”

“Good. Because they would’ve come after you too,” Ryan sighs, pausing to take another swig of whiskey. “You didn’t do a bad job.”

“I know you’re gonna pull ‘em out and redo ‘em tomorrow,” he replies, although there’s no real heat behind his voice. If anything, he’s just relieved that Ryan’s okay, he’s alive and he’s breathing and there’s still life in those crystal blue eyes that Michael never realised he loved so much.

It’s a strange feeling.

“C’mon, you needta go to bed,” Michael says. It’s a good distraction from his own complicated emotions, and Ryan doesn’t fight him on it.

Slowly, the older teen struggles to his feet. He clings to Michael and the kitchen counter, but soon he’s on his feet. They’re able to hobble to the bedroom, and Ryan all but falls onto the bed. “You stayin’?” the boy asks softly, and Michael nods.

“Yeah. I’ll sleep in the spare room. An’ then I can check on you in the morning,” Michael explains.

He leaves Ryan for a while, offering the boy a little privacy to change. While Ryan sleeps, he can clean up the kitchen. For the time being, he grabs a glass from one of the wooden cupboards and fills it. There’s a few more painkillers in his free hand, and he leaves both on Ryan’s nightstand. The boy in question is fast asleep, evidently having passed out the moment he hit the bed. There’s a small smile on Michael’s lips as he turns off the light and shuts the door behind him. The sense of responsibility that swells in his chest isn’t something he’s used to. But it’s a surprisingly pleasant feeling. A foreign warmth that starts in his chest and spreads through every last inch of his being.

There’s so much he could say — wants to say — to Ryan. Maybe he’ll sift through those feelings one day. But for now, he busies himself with cleaning up the kitchen.

They’ll have tomorrow.

#rayray writes #my writing #achievement hunter #ah #roosterteeth #rt #rtah #rt writing #achievement hunter fic #roosterteeth fic #ryan haywood #michael jones #myan #fahc #fake ah crew #fake achievement hunter crew #gta iv #writing

[umbillicalnoose]

i think that you would think im pretty and would like my poetry and i want to share it with you. im shy.

to be honest, im very apathetic these days. im not the nice “cutesy baby flower petal boy” i used to be. a lot has happened & im bitter & sullen & all in all, a pretty shitty friend/person to know. i used to possess some redeeming qualities, believe it or not, even if they were construed by the subconscious in an attempt to be likeable - a facade, even tho its only a facade, is still tangible, still there, is still something, even if not authentic. is poorer character forgivable in the name of presenting more authentically? but nah. that makes it sound like im putting effort into being a better person, which im not. im just sort of fried & done. its been a very long time since i played the role i built for myself on here of the “small fawn boy who wants to help girls” lmaooo. how embarrassing. altho, i was just a kid, & i guess, if you had a tumblr as a teenager, you went thru some cringe (i know the use of that word has fallen in on itself & adopted its own definition but for lack of a better one) ass phases, whether it was kinning or malingering mental illness or oh fucking christ, all that gender bullshit, etc etc. from what ive observed, tho, loosely following kids im still casually friends with that i met on here, i think we’ve all managed to Grow The Fuck Up, at least a little. most of us have jobs or r in school or have partners - growing up & moving on is a very surreal experience to watch/go thru. im moving at my own pace & ive accepted that - im still currently using & starving myself & concocting a suicide plan every day but at least i use clean needles as much as possible, i actively & honestly do strive for the bare minimum calorically, & um able to work with the mentality of “well ill have this when i need it but todays not that day” a lot more readily, in relation to suicide shit. ive finally found a therapist who Really Gets It, is a frontrunner internationally on ritual & extreme abuse & mind control. its pretty incredible what a few years with a good therapist can do. anyways. im sorry, i know you didnt ask for all this & im not even sure why i divulged. i guess, what tipped me off, was your attempt at sounsing “cute” - dude, cut that shit out, i promise youll be a lot better off. & i know everyone interchanges aspects of their personality based on who theyre talking to/who they percieve themselves to be talking to, but i feel like not a lot of people give enough credence to the internet & its hand in shaping/molding young people, kids, vulnerable dumbasses, especially tumblr (tho, i get that its a relatively new phenomenon) - u get a bunch of the “weird”, “alternative”, ““ostracized” kids together on a website, of course its gonna nurture a culture of hypervalidatoon & pretending to be sick in order to fit in to the point that its not an act anymore & exacerbation of symptoms & basically, just sucking each others dicks, sitting in ur own shit, & never ending coddling. & then, you have the older group of kids, who have played this game before but instead of helping or ignoring the Dumbshit kids, they indulge their own normally-buried-but-unleashed-by-internet-anonymity sadism/human instinct to just be fucking dicks & so now you have this vicious cycle of anger & hatred & fucking melodrama up the urethra. im sorry, i know im comig off as/am being harsh but god fuckin dammit yknow? also, this isnt directed at you, specifically, more of a generalized thing, @ myself included. so uh. i mean, if u still wanna share it with me after reading all this, id be happy to read ur poetry. i used to be over the top nice & then reverted to Major Asshole & am now trying to find that sweet middle spot - honoring & allowing myself to share my pain without putting it on others. which is really hard!! cuz becoming a Dick was difficult in that it forced me to be more honest with my true self & as such, more vulnerable - now in trying to become Kinda Nice again because despite being a pulsating scrotom, ive had the intense desire for friendship & human interaction, while simultaneously doing things that i was consciously aware was pushing others away - but then, if i pretend to be nice, where does that authenticity i worked for & was so scared of go? & i dont mean telling someone their new haircut looks nice even when it doesnt - thats just not being a dick. but i guess, those r the normal trials & tribulations of any relationship & adolescent developing identity. which is weird too - dealing with “normal” issues, i mean. whats the point if your life/limbs/breaking point arent at risk? whats the point when your best friends already dead. im sick of people calling "survivors” (despise that word, so fucking female-originated & overdramatic) “brave” & “strong” - surviving is not brave or strong. its just survival. you wouldnt call an animal brave for running for its life from a predator but you would call a dog courageous for going into a burning building to save its owner. premeditated action on the notion that you are probably going to be hurt is brave. being subjected to pain with no choice is not. theres no “silver lining” or anything “good” to be drawn from it either - sure it may have made x a more compassionate person or made y more introspective & gentle but you know what would have been even fucking better??? if the shit hadnt happened in the first place! let x be an asshole & y be self absorbed - the “benefits”, so to speak, do not outweigh the cost, not by a long fucking shot. its not only patronizing to hear garbage like that, but a slap in the face to know that anyone could possibly see anything good coming from that nightmare & that the characteristics, good or bad, you developed either in response to or as a result of, are worth praise. dont tell me im strong for doing what i had to to escape a torture chamber - tell me im perseverant for studying my ass off & passing that test last week. in the words of one of my dearest & most fucking brilliant friends, “pain doesnt owe me/you purpose - the need to intellectualize & assign meaning to pain & death is not only futile, but harmful.” & honestly, i think that it stems from weakness (in most cases - i realize theres a plethora of other reasons such as those who r just desperate for something to hold on to or r hyperintellectual & analytical or who have been pressured by external “support” systems to find the “good” etc etc) - while the majority of people view the person who “can find the good in everything” (strictly speaking only in relation to trauma/tragedy here & more in denunciation of those that celebrate this trait as opposed to vilifying “survivors” who respond this way, though in my experience, its very very very rarely the “survivor” that perpetrates this ideology ) as strong, i sort of see it as a weakness - their inability to sit with & absorb their own pain or that of others is so strong that not only do they have to frantically pull rainbows out of the teeth of a meat cleaver, they also have to exist within this strange (tho, not malicious - more subconscious) superiority complex. like, nah, dude, some times shit is just awful. you cant tell me anything fucking good came out of a four year old girl being kidnapped, gangraped, & tortured for two years, before being impaled & left to die on a stake. her mom opened a non profit organization? oh well thank fucking god for that!!! those that believe the latter to be more “enlightened” or whatever the fuck r the same people who say shit like “dying is easy - living is harder” & i get that that its supposed to be interpreted metaphorically for the most part - giving up is easy, trying isnt (which also.....isnt true??? admitting defeat & fully accepting the fact that ur fucking helpless is beyond hard lmao???) - but pretend youre somewhere, anywhere outside ur sunny little fucking yoga studio full of white women whos biggest issues r the pta & johnny whos failing math, & lets say your life is in real, imminent danger, a gun is to your head & i want you to not scream or cry or beg for ur life since dying is “easier”. if dying is so easy, why do the majority of ppl cling to it with such desperation - why is suicide illegal? why do some ppl go thru 100s of chemo treatments even tho the doctors say theyre just prolonging the inevitable, ppl who cut off a diseased arm so it wont spread, those who walk dozens of miles every day for food & water, etc? & i know & understand the survival instinct better than anyone, even when i wanted to die more than anything, my natural instincts would kick in with no conscious neural input & id do what i had to do. im not condemning those who cling to life (ok - a little. ur wasting resources out of ur own fear. but i also realize thats just me being a Fucking Asshole As Always cuz technically, im doing the same thing tho its more due to lack of opportunity rather than fear. i just think, societally, death should be more normalized, discussed, & not made out to be so unknown & scary), instead just reprimanding those who say shit like that (inspirational facebook quotes). especially cuz most of the ppl who do spew that shit have never gone thru anything even remotely difficult - their worst nightmare is a Big Scary Black Man grabbing them on the street, mugging them, & touching their tits. & i also know that these stupid ass sayings are to be applied to bullshit like exercise & fitness (“no pain no gain” is another one of my Favorites) & not fucking torture or even just ur run of the mill rape, even that would probably smash the rose tinted banana republic shades off their beverly hills tanned faces. but ive heard the no pain no gain one a handful of times in the last few weeks, specifically from doctors performing procedures in preparation for my bottom surgery. & i know its supposed to be encouraging & they have no way of knowing, but its just like, buddy, u have no idea who youre fucking talking to. & im starting to understand what THEY mean when they say it - pain with a reward is infinitely more tolerable than pain just for the sake of pain; like, a tattoo, it hurts, but u know, when its done, its gonna be sick as fuck. when u r able to fall back on the idea that its for something u rlly want, its A Lot easier to handle as opposed to pain thats Just Pain - theres no reward for it except, i guess, that the more u experience it, the closer u r to the end of it lmao. i mean, i still hate when ppl say it cuz for most of my life, pain was just pain, & the “reward” was the opportunity to go home at the end & so whenever ppl say that, my mind just immediately resorts back to that & im just like haha fuck u. but im trying to remember my experiences r definitely not universal & im starting to sorta understand what they mean i think. but, flipping gears here, & going back to the sentiment of “everything happens for a reason”, the base philosophy of psuedo deep Fuckwads - a girls dad didnt fuck her “for a reason”, everything doesnt happen “for a reason”. like ok, hypothetically, the kid he impregnated her with & that she was forced to have at 12 may surpass all odds & not become a homeless junkie & instead become a world renowned doctor who finds the cure for cancer. but she wasnt raped repeatedly from the age of six for that “reason”, no matter what anyone says & honestly, the liberation of the masses does not justify the suffering of one, especially a child. in my eyes at least. but again, im a bitter asshole. sorry i just Went The Fuck Off here oh my god.....if u read all this, thanks, pal. if not, thats cool too. but yea, send me ur stuff, id totally be down to read it. as for me potentially thinking ur cute, i have to look at my disgusting shitstain of a “face” every goddamn day so everyone else to me is fuckin aphrodite. but im also tryin to not put so much worth into physical appearance- its not something that should be complimented cuz its just smth a person was born with which is the same reason it shouldnt be insulted. this is gonna sound gay & stupid but i personally find that a persons essence & personality really permeates. you can meet someone who, objectively, isnt all that great looking, but once u get to know them, u really see their beauty - how the sun catches in their hair, their dilated pupils looking up at u from under long eyelashes in the dark, the birthmark on their right shoulder that they despise but that is so Them, the gap in their teeth, etc. & idk how to phrase this without it sounding like “well ur ugly but at least ur a good person”, cuz that only reiterates the societally indoctrinated emphasis on appearance & my kneejerk reaction to assure the person in question that thats not what im saying is only another result of that!!! its inescapable!!! but no, really, its not just a matter of “its on the inside that counts” - physically, they change or maybe, actually this is more likely, when i first meet them, my “default” eyes r just looking for features that i know im immediately attracted to (tall, blonde, sickly as in sunken eyes sticklike pale but still looks like she could & will beat the shit out of me) but as i fall in love or get to know them better, my eyes adjust & i notice & adore the beauty that was there all along. so uh. idk if ill think ur “cute”. but probably, yes, ill think ur an angel.

[docholligay]

Smoke and Ashes

This is a fic I wrote mostly for me for once but also for @rosepetalrevolution and anyone else who is interested in These Western Fucks, namely Yael, McCree, and Ashe. You can find it in the timeline: here. 3,300 words I would love to know if you enjoy it!! 

“Please don’t!” Tears ran down his face. “For Christ’s sake, please!”

“Wrong audience, motherfucker.” Yael cocked her gun, and fired, an impressive spray of blood spackling across McCree’s boots.

He looked down at them and frowned. “I just polished these, Yael.” He picked some of the brass off the ground. “That was quick.”

“Easy when it’s a bunch a little boys pissin their pants.” She knelt down and rifled through the dead man’s pockets, “Jacinta! You done over there? Quit bein’ so fuckin’ dramatic.”

The echoing fire of a gun was the reply, and Jacinta walked around the end of the truck. “I would think you’d appreciate lingering on this a little bit.”

“It’s not about enjoying the job, it’s a practical matter,” Yael took the cigarettes out of the dead man’s jacket, tapping one out of the pack and lighting it, taking a long drag as she leaned her elbows back onto the dead man’s chest, “Though I don’t hate it. Goddamn, even their cigarettes are terrible, Jesus fucking wept.”

She sat up and put the cigarette out in his cheek.

“Nice cache a weapons, though.” McCree set an AK to the side of the truck.

“Welp,” Yael slapped her knee, “Alls well that ends well, then.” She gave a chuckle and slapped McCree on the shoulder. “We’ll eat good tonight, tell you what. Already have a buyer.”

“Didn’t you,” McCree pushed the brim of his hat back a touch, “Specifically tell me, more n once, not to sell anything you ain’t got in hand?”

“Yael thinks the rules don’t apply to her.” Jacinta put a crate of ammo into the back of the truck, “Thinks she is special.”

“You’d know.” Yael grinned.

Jacinta tried to scowl, but smiled anyhow, as she checked a rifle for a round. “You are not cute.”

“Yael you ever think that the people we sell these to, are gonna go back and sell em to these poor fucks again?” McCree had said it quite without meaning to.

Yael’s internal compass was its own creature, and McCree could never quite puzzle it out. She was happy enough to take the boxes of illegal arms from these people, but the suppliers they sold to probably didn’t exactly ask for an essay on intercultural exchange before they sold them. It’d just fall back, that they’d be back where they started.

“Not those poor fucks,” she tipped her head to the one on the ground, his head split open, flies buzzing around his brains, “cleared that right up.”

And that would be the end of the debate, McCree knew, in the way he knew he’d never stop thinking it. There were certain things, rhythms, in the gang, that flowed through everything they did like a bends of a river, and McCree knew how to point his canoe by now.

McCree had come to them three years ago, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Cody Stenslund was an old man with a scraggy group of hungry young kids, and a smaller band of old men like him. It was the assumption they’d picked up these kids to pass the torch to someone, and it had proved successful, and he hadn’t wanted McCree. No one seemed to, back then.

But Yael was clever, and she was a connoisseur of people who survived when they weren’t meant to, and she’d stood for him. He’d been with them ever since, through his own training and scrapes and Cody’s retirement, and he couldn’t see leaving. Yael was Yael about near everything, but McCree never worried about where he was going to go, what he was going to eat, and the drifting tumbleweed decided this was a fine fence to be caught upon.

Besides that, he’d reflected at Jacinta and Yael’s wedding, it was a kind of a family, and McCree needed all of that he could get.

Carey loaded on an unopened crate to the back of the truck, and flipped up the tailgate, leaning against the back of it and giving McCree a grin, the soft green of his eyes flickering with excitement.  

“Yael said beers are on her tonight.” He tapped out two cigarettes, and offered McCree one, which he gratefully accepted.

“Better be,” he lit the smoke and took a deep drag, “much as she’s had us all runnin around Hell out here.”

Carey chuckled softly. He was a few years older than McCree, like most of the gang, tall and thin, his dark brown hair clipped neatly. He had no idea about McCree. McCree barely had any idea about McCree, even when he thought about walking over to Carey’s bunk in the night and kissing him as the moonlight streamed through the window.

There was nothing for McCree to be ashamed of, and he knew that, but somehow he still couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Yael had done it. No one questioned her or so much as said boo about it.

But the rules didn’t apply to Yael, you know.

“Well boys,” Yael circled around and tossed the keys to Carey, who caught them handily, “let’s get to gettin.”

_____

Ashe stood outside the bar, adjusting the collar of her shirt and trying to get the right angle of the hat on her head. She’d known the Deadlock Gang was going to be here, it was an open secret that they protected this bar and the bar did the same to them, a scrappy outpost at the edge of the world that no one seemed to much care about and that seemed fine to everyone inside.

She walked in the door, the dark and agining place exactly as she’d imagined it, and found the gang immediately. The leader was just as she’d read, when she decided this was the career path she wanted to take, when she got sick of everything her parents expected for her, tired of being a show pony and ready to take it on her own. She was a scary story to tell in the dark as much as she was a person, and Ashe wanted that for herself.

She strode confidently to where she sat, and a lean, green-eyed man to Yael’s right put his hand on a gun.

But Yael just watched, leaned forward onto her elbows, as Ashe approached.

“Yael Rabin?” She cleared her throat, puffing her chest out.  “Been looking for you. “I’m here to join the Deadlock Gang.”

No one said anything for a moment, and Ashe wondered if the entire concept of sound had gone from her, the chatter and music fading away from the space and leaving only Ashe, standing there.

Then Yael drummed her fingers on the table.

“You just looking for trouble in alphabetical order or somethin’? Barstow Boys turn you down already?”  Yael picked up a toothpick from the holder and on the table and placed it between her teeth as she studied Ashe.

It was the sort of look Ashe had not yet become accustomed to, though she would learn it for herself, in time. It was a look that scanned over every inch of her, that took the information and made conclusions, and locked it away until it was needed. It was the searing eye of a hawk setting on a rabbit, and Ashe squirmed underneath despite herself.

“Nice boots you got there, Tex.” A sly smile crept across her face and her collected gang spit out hoots of laughter.

Ashe didn’t give her the satisfaction of looking down, but she noticed the beaten and scuffed hat Yael wore, the way her shirt had faded in rings from being pushed up to her elbows in the sun, and had a sudden moment of realization that the same things she wore that impressed the folks when she did barrel were a mistake here.

Didn’t matter. She was a trick of a rider, she could shoot a gun, and Ashe knew, above anything else, that the infamous Deadlock Gang could only profit by adding her to the group, even if they did make fun of her bright silver buckles.

“Name’s Ashe.” She jutted out her chin and extended her hand.

“Sure it is.” Yael chuckled and leaned back in her chair, and Ashe crossed her arms, her mouth forming into an angry twist, which Yael handily ignored, “You even old enough to be in here? Go home, kid, I ain’t got time to play dolls.”

“How old’s he?” She motioned her chin to the man at her left, though it was hardly fair to call him man, not yet filled in, still gangly with the edge of teenagerhood.

“Jesse?” She turned to him and smiled, “I dunno, how old are you?”

“Forty five this July.” He took a drink of his beer.

“That’s about what I thought, why, thank you Jesse.” she picked up her own beer, “Well, there you have it.”

Ashe popped like a corn kernel.

“You were younger than me, sixteen! When you joined the Deadlock Gang, and now you’re only afraid--”

“I ain’t afraid of shit,” Yael laughed, “You think you can compare yourself to me, Tex? What’s the worst thing ever happened to you, Daddy tell you no new pony this year? Shiiiit.” She chuckled again. “Swear to god, they get stupider every year.” She stood up. “You ain’t hungry enough. You don’t need it enough. You got a net, girl, and we perform without one.” She turned back briefly to her gang. “Gonna go find Jaci and have a smoke.”

She turned her back to Ashe as she left, completely unafraid of anything Ashe could do, and all she could do is stand stock-still, fuming and furious and embarrassed and ashamed and hungrier than Yael could ever know.

___

McCree didn’t ask too many questions, at this time in his life.

It would sound stupid to say it out loud, as he heard the dogs barking in the distance outside the shitty honky tonk, the party having briefly broken up from their reverie, but the last three years had been the most stable in his life since his mother had died. It wasn’t much of a life, rolling along the backroads and still-quiet ways that barely seemed to exist except as corridors anymore, but it was his, and it was consistent, and he knew what he was meant to do and why, and what he brought.

He wasn’t interested in shaking up the flow he’d come to understand in his life, and he wasn’t sure what someone so rich would want with the Deadlock Gang anyhow. Could be that she was an agent trying to infiltrate, but McCree hoped they’d send someone a little better than some little blonde thing fresh out of the ranchwear store. Maybe that was the trick, that they thought it was so stupid Yael’d fall for it.

They didn’t know her very well.

Ashe breezed by him after Yael, having had a few moments to think to herself and still not giving up, and he chuckled. She had plenty of sand, that much was sure, and if he was going to be so stupid as to tell Yael her business, he’d say that a sparrow who’s willing to chase after a hawk with no fear of nothing wasn’t the stupidest idea for the gang. Yael had a kill count that rivaled a small army, and there was no way Ashe didn’t know that. It just didn’t seem to matter. She had an idea of what she wanted, and maybe Yael would have to shoot her to get her to find another one.

They didn’t usually meet people like this, who wouldn’t take Yael’s no for an answer. Yael was particular about her crew, even at the best of times, and though she’d help other hard up folks set up complimentary organizations, or reinstall them their lives back home on their farms and ranches and wilds, her Deadlock Gang was a tightly closed group, only people she would happily sleep with her back to. And this girl was in no way Yael’s kind of people. This was all more stuff she should’ve known but didn’t seem to care much about.

There was a part of McCree that respected that.

Carey walked up next to him and sipped his beer. “What’s the over under on Yael shootin her where she stands?”

McCree smiled over at him. “She’s had, what, three beers? Say ten minutes.”

“You’re a regular optimist, Jess,” Carey clapped him on the shoulder, and McCree looked away from him into the night, “say that much for ya.”

McCree wasn’t sure he’d call himself that, but there was something that told him this girl who called herself Ashe was gonna be a thorn in everyone’s side for a long time.

___

Yael didn’t seem to be listening to her, just walking along and tapping out a cigarette as she looked up at the half-clouded moon.

“You don’t know what I can do!” Ashe spat, the injustice of the situation, the hopelessness of it, drilling into her head.

“But I do know that it’s my gang, and, I don’t like you.” She put the cigarette to her lips and flicked her lighter, shielding it from the wind. “Don’t need no prissy little rich girls whose daddies bought em their titles.”

What Yael needed and what Yael ended up getting could be very different indeed.

“Elizabeth Ashe?” A voice came out of the darkness, and Ashe’s hair stood up at the sound of her name.

She turned around and her eyes met with dark brown ones, ones she did not know but clearly knew her. It was not a question so much as a confirmation, but whatever it was, it furrowed Yael’s brow.

“You know her, Jacinta?” Yael stood up from where she leaned against the beam.

Jacinta took her eyes off Ashe for a moment, meeting Yael’s gaze, and let out an exclamation of rapid-fire Spanish, which Ashe suddenly wished she had opted to take in all of her private schooling.

“Huh,” was all Yael said by way of hint, before asking Jacinta a question Ashe could not understand, and receiving an answer Ashe wished she could know. “I dunno, Jaci, bad idea to me.”

Her ears perked at the English, and she looked back to Jacinta, wondering where she could possibly know her from. She was a handsome woman, dark with glossy in a low, tightly wound bun at her neck, but Ashe could not quite place her name, or where they might have seen each other.

Yael walked over to where she and Jacinta stood, and waved Ashe off. “Git.”

It was the first command of Yael’s Ashe would obey, and it would not be the last, and at her hand she would learn how to give a command so it never seemed like a request, to men twice her size, but right now all she could do was back up until she nearly hit the two young men who had been sitting beside Yael in the bar.

Carey shrugged at her. “Jaci’s your best chance, rich girl.”

Ashe fumed, but didn’t say a word. There was someone, for whatever reason, who was fighting for her, and the argument seemed to be growing more heated, Yael shaking her head, her eyebrows in a knot as she looked to Jacinta, who waved a hand in fury even as she tried to cross her arms in front of her.

“If she wants you,” McCree drawled, “well, Jaci’s the only one Yael’l ever listen to.”

“I don’t know why she does.” Ashe hadn’t meant to say it, but it had slipped out, her thoughts as to all the reasons why filling the space in her head meant for a tough showing.

McCree looked over to her, a brief recognition of her inability to understand that made her blood boil, and chuckled. “Best not to.”

Yael threw her arms in the air and kicked the dip bucket by the side of the back porch, spraying wet tobacco across the wood. Jacinta seemed unimpressed.

“¡Bueno! Christ,” She took her hat off and nearly threw it into the dirt before reconsidering. “You win, alright?”

Ashe felt a swirl of excitement rise in her chest, and pride. She was going to be a member of the Deadlock Gang, the kind of gang that people whispered about, the kind of gang that even someone like the Barstow Boys held in high regard. And she would be, in no time, she was sure, be at the right hand of the hawk, Ashe, a legend in her own right.

These fantasies of her own grandeur were quickly brought back into the reality of the situation as Yael walked up to her and grabbed her by the collar, almost pressing their faces together. Yael and Ashe were nearly the same size, but Ashe was shocked by the sheer strength of her, the grip of her claw next to Ashe’s neck.

“Now listen here. This is against my better judgement or will, Tex, so I want you to take very careful notice of what I’m bout to say.” Ashe nodded as Yael stared deep into her eyes, but she did not break her gaze or let her lip quiver, “You want to be a part of this gang, you’ll come to find there’s work to be done that ain’t all in the papers and glory, and when I say jump, the only thing I wanna hear out of your goddamn mouth is how high. I will teach you to be a gunslinger and an arms runner and every terrible thing you wanna be, and you had better pay me back with your unending goddamn loyalty or I’ll shoot you myself.”

She let go of Ashe’s collar and half-tossed her back into Carey and McCree, who caught her gently by the shoulders.

“Married life’s a whole thing, ain’t it, Yael?” Carey laughed good naturedly.

“Carey, I will leave you in the ditch I found you in.” But she sighed, seemingly forcing herself to make peace with the new, shiny-booted, crisp shirted, silver trimmed reality in her life.

“You won’t regret it, I promise.” Ashe tugged at her shirt, rolling her shoulders back.

“And I ain’t callin you Ashe, so best get used to that idea.” She grinned, and her voice turned sickly-sweet, “Elizabeth Caledonia, pretty little miss of the Texas debutante set. Jesse!”

“Yeah?” he took off his hat and ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair before looking back to Yael.

“You’re off smoker duty tonight, other’n showin Bitsy here how to scrub it.” She waved her hand to McCree, “God knows you’ve earned it. And God knows you will, us having to teach her an honest day’s work.”

“She’s alright once you get used to her.” Carey gave his usual casual grin and shrugged. “Give her a year or two to warm up. Carey.” He gave a tip of his hat.

“Jesse.” He nodded to her.

She gave a snort, jutted her chin out, and looked at the two men who were now her teammates.

“Ashe.”

Carey chuckled as he turned to go. “S’not what Yael said.”

Ashe crossed her arms across her chest in frustration. When she had planned out the life she was going to create for herself, the infamous legend and outlaw she was going to become, this was not how she’d seen her first day on the team. She would learn, at Yael’s hand, how to scramble, how to deal, how to play a low card, but now she was a frustrated trainee.

“Welcome to the team,” McCree said, tipping his hat, “Come on then.”

Ashe gave the smallest smile, and she remembered she had won a victory today. It didn’t matter if she were Tex or Bitsy or whatever Yael wanted to call her today, because she had to call her one very important thing.

A member of the Deadlock Gang.

[whistlewhileiblogit]

"Why didn't you fight back?"

Now I am not an expert on abuse. All I am about to say is what I know from my own experience, experiences of others' and own research. But here we go.

I hear this a lot from people. People that have never been abused emotionally, mentally, physically or sexually. Now, I haven't been sexually assaulted, so I won't be talking about that as I don't want to be insensitive or ignorant on the subject. Though I imagine at least some of what I say could be applied to that situation.

I also want to explain that while I am generalising a bit, I am not trying to speak for each and every victim of abuse. My intent is not to do that, but to try and explain to those ignorant of what abuse what it really is like.

Now I am gonna tell you why in the past I have not fought back against abusers. This includes (but is not limited to) physically attacking back, verbally standing up for oneself, calling authorities, getting an AVO (apprehended violence order), etc. But to do this, I have to give a (long) decent explanation of what I have experienced. How it feels from the point of view of a victim. So here we go...

I have suffered abuse in one form or another since childhood. As did my brothers. This was at the hands of our father. We were constantly belittled, berated and bashed for any given reason. My mother suffered the same treatment, and did her best to protect us.

My abuser was loud, sadistic. Always angry, always yelling. Loud enough that he could be heard down the street. Our neighbours knew what was happening to our mother, to us. Children. Never once did anyone do or say anything to try and help.

Now being the youngest, I was always naturally shy, and this abuse lead me deeper into that. I was quiet. I knew to keep my mouth shut. Don't talk back. Don't fight it.

If we were running away from our abuser? Do as he said. Stop running. Maybe this time he won't hurt me if I do as he says?

Of course though, he would. I remember being grabbed by my hair, dragged into his car and driven to our relatives. In front of them he beat me until I couldn't cry anymore, then left me there to go have lunch. I dragged myself behind the armchair in the corner to hide. My relative did nothing. All she did was wait until it was quiet, and then hand me a piece of toast.

This is just one example of truth I give. It was a seed that was unknowingly planted in my brain. Nothing will keep you safe. Nobody will help you.

Now I wasn't the only one being abused. Nor did I get the "worst" of it. When my abuser wanted to be nice, he was nice. He would do things for me...sorta. it was conditional, but to me, that was normal.

Now my eldest brother, let's call him Ian...our abuser hated him for whatever reason. More than the rest of us. So he was never kind to him. And Ian resented me especially for it. In his eyes, I was spoiled, a brat.

So he took it out on me.

He took his anger out on me in any way he could, mostly through violence. So I quickly learned to avoid him as well.

If Ian walked into the lounge room, I'd leave as quickly and quietly as possible. If I was having a conversation with mum and he walked in the room I would stop talking. I learned to spend most of my time alone in my room. I ate my dinners in there, I only left to go to the bathroom, or use the family computer (until I saved up money to buy my own laptop to avoid getting in trouble for being on the computer).

So by the time I was a teenager, I had a good system of handling both abusers. At the time, I didn't know that is what they were. At the time, they were simply my father and brother. I still did everything I could for them. I bought them birthday and Christmas gifts with no expectations, I was generally courteous and polite.

But at some point around ages 15-16, something in me has changed, or begun to. I became snappier at them both. If I was shoved, I'd shove back I began standing up for myself. But only a little bit. Eventually, I would still go back to my room, crying. But I wouldn't hide under my bed or in my closet anymore. I was becoming angry. Infuriated. I hated that they made me cry.

I have a sort of revolution or sorts. I gave them the cold shoulder for the most part, unless I absolutely had to play nice.

Fast forward a few years later, abuser #1 moved out, freeing us so much. My relationship with Ian began to improve. He actually started to be...kind to me? He still had a temper sometimes, but mostly he begun being nice with me. And I welcomed this change with open arms.

I became as supportive of him as I could. This involved lending him money, helping him through his drug addictions/rehab, calming him down when he was going off the rails, stuff like that. Whenever my mum would sigh in exasperation and say, "You are too good to him. You don't know how much you help." I would shrug casually and say, "I'm his sister, it's my job" and think nothing more of it.

Eventually, my mum and I moved out together, and the whole family essentially split for the first time, everyone being forced to find their own way.

And for the months in our new home it was just mum and I, we were happy. It wasn't by any means perfect. There were still struggles, and we didn't always agree- but abuse was never present. It was a fresh of breath air. We had finally escaped.

Until Ian came to our door one day, crashed on our couch uninvited and refused to leave. He had completely reverted. His temper was the same as it used to be. He was back smoking ice as well. He completely took over our home, and I couldn't stand it. I was back to staying in my room. In my own damn house. Mum and I couldn't converse without an argument following because of his berating. Yet he was trying to be on his "best" behaviour. He refused to lay a finger on me or mum, because he knew that would be the last straw. He figured everything else was fair game though.

And so every chance I got- I told him to get the fuck out. I told him that he wasn't welcome, that he didn't belong here. That neither of us invited or wanted him to stay. Of course this meant I would receive verbal abuse- but hell, I was used to it by now. Ian calling me fat or a slut or a mutt washed over me as if he'd said nothing by this point.

I wanted so badly for him to hit me. "PLEASE DO" I'd invite him. Just lay one fucking finger on me. I wanted an excuse to fight him. To give him what he deserved. And yet he wouldn't. He'd get all in my face of course- I can still smell his foul breath as he screamed at me centimetres away, spit flying onto my face as he did. He would threaten me constantly- telling me that he would gas me in my sleep, or sneak into my room at night and cut my head off- and I laughed it off. I wasn't afraid of death, and certainly not of him. Even after he picked up a can of bug spray and sprayed it in my face. My eyes, nose and mouth. I didn't even react. Not a cough. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of gagging. "Please try!" I'd laugh. "Please try kill me, I beg you."

Now Ian was (is) a gutless wimp at heart. After a particularly big fight, he would vanish for a few days. One day, he came back, and I ignored him. Didn't acknowledge him at all.

I woke up one morning to find a large jar of nutella at my door. I was confused, but figured maybe my mum had put it there (she often surprises me with treats)? So I put it on my shelf in my room and headed into the kitchen to get breakfast. As I was looking in the cupboard, squatting down, Ian softly said, "Did you see the nutella? I got it for you."

"Oh." I said, continuing to look in the cupboard. "ugh okay..." and then I felt his arms wrap around me in a hug. My entire body was tensed now. How dare he fucking hug me after all the shit he's done!??

"I'm sorry for how I've been. I've just been going through a lot lately" Ian let me go, keeping his hands on my shoulders, rubbing my back.

"Err...okay" I muttered, hoping he'd get the drift and leave me the fuck alone. He didn't. He kept standing there, rubbing my back as I was squatted looking in the cupboard. All I wanted was the peanut butter and this is what I got. "Fuck, you've got more muscles than Jake (other brother)"

I stood up, finally turning to face him. I was skeptical. I'd seen this act before. "Why don't you apologise to (the dog)? Pretty sure he doesn't understand why you were punching him the other day. After all, he was just trying to defend me."

This struck a nerve with Ian. Long story short, that dog used to be his dog. He thought he would be completely loyal to him. The dog was loyal to me. After all, I took care of him, and, you know, didn't punch him in fits of anger.

Anyway, fast forward a few more weeks, and Ian is back to his old self. His true self. It was midnight, I was playing Red Dead 2, trying to relax after a long work night. So of course Ian comes inside, and crashes on the couch. He didn't say a word, which was fine with me, until...

"Turn that fuckin shit down! It's too loud!" I grit my teeth and told him to shut up, and turned it down. I could hardly hear it it was that quiet.

Ian goes to sleep, snoring like a fucking howler monkey (much louder than my game was, mind you), and eventually snorts himself awake half an hour or so later. "Turn that fucking shit off! Go the fuck to sleep you stupid slut! What you have playstation withdrawals??!" etc etc. And I...couldn't stay silent anymore.

I told him if he had a problem with it, he could get the fuck out of my house, considering nobody invited him here. The screaming match began and then he leapt over to the power point and ripped the ps4 from its socket. I snapped. I shoved him away, back down on the couch, and he began trying to kick me away.

But I couldn't stop myself, despite my better judgement, because that had long since turned off. I screamed in fury, kicking him as much as I could, leaping at him and clawing at his skin. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel everything he made me feel. Twenty-two years of repressed anger had finally been unleashed. I felt like a tiger, unable to defend, only attack. I was seeing red.

He was kicking and punching me too, of course. He kicked me back and when I fell, he grabbed me from behind. He tried to get me in a choke hold (a favourite move of his), but I kept kicking, elbowing. He pulled me down onto the couch and I slashed him with my nails. They were much longer than I ever keep them, as I had recently misplaced my nail clippers. I felt one of my nails tear back completely, tearing the skin under my nail.

But that was enough to break free. And so I screamed at him again to get the fuck out. He refused. So I knocked the basket of his shit (little bits and pieces of bolts, phone chargers and the like) off the coffee table, so it flew on him, the floor, everywhere. I couldn't give a fuck. He tried pushing me down again to stop me from touching his stuff, so I did it again, throwing more of his shit- the shit that he had taking up my space. My home. And I threw it on the floor.

Now by this point the two dogs (one large and one small) had long since woken up and had started barking wildly. But when Ian lunged at me again, both of my dogs jumped in to my defense. That was when Ian turned his attacks toward them, especially the big one. His one. He tried to punch him in the ribs, but I got inbetween them-nobody touches my babies. I pushed him down, kicking, punching, clawing- whatever I could to keep him away from my dogs.

And then finally mum woke up, came out to find the mess. She told me to shut up. I turbed on her. Why wasn't she calling the cops?? She kept telling Ian for MONTHS she would if he laid a finger on me. So why wasn't she? I felt so betrayed and confused. But mum told me she would try calm him down. And that I should just take the dogs and go to my room. I felt like a fucking child again. Just be quiet. Go hide in your room.

But for the dogs' sake, I agreed to help calm them down. But not before my little one managed to nip Ian on the ankle. It was in this moment, I realised how pathetic he seemed. As soon as he got that little nip, not strong enough to even pierce the skin, he fell onto the couch literally wailing. I picked her up, and called off my boy, and went to my room in shock. That is what I spent years being afraid of? All that time I spent thinking he was the toughest person I knew, thinking he was practically indestructible, and he bursts into tears because my chicken nugget of a dog nipped his bloody ankle?! It was nothing other than pathetic.

Over the next hour he continued carrying on, now about his missing phone that he insisted I stole. (hint: I didn't)

Eventually mum went to her room to call the cops. And I heard the front door open and him leave.

The cops eventually came, long since he had left. And I knew I had to speak to them. I wasn't excited about it. I knew what was going to happen. I knew I would look like the bad guy here. The unreasonable one. And for another thing; I didn't trust the police as far as I could throw them.

So three cops come, two of which come inside. And they look confused. It was quiet since Ian had left, and mum had cleaned up all the mess trying to look for his phone. The place looked practically spotless. And I wasn't bleeding. I didn't look a mess. I wasn't sobbing or distraught. I was calm, annoyed at most.

They were so perplexed as I explained what happened. The main officer explained that he didn't even understand what had happened, what my mum had even called for. I told them I wanted him out of my life. I tried to tell them how he has always been.

"Well, have you reported any of his behaviour before?" The cop said. I knew he thought I was full of shit. I wanted to go in my room and sleep.

"No." mum and I answered. Was this guy serious?

"Well then what he's done in the past doesn't really matter." I was so over it by this point. The main cop went outside and left some dude who didn't seem to know what the hell he was doing to ask us the same questions we'd already answered.

I repeated myself multiple times. It wasn't until the third time of explaining what happened, I began to reenact my motions when I saw that my ps4 was gone. "Aaaand he's taken my bloody playstation." I said, completely dejected. My heart sank as it began to weigh on me. Red Dead 2 was in there too. Not only that, but all my trophies and game saves...everything. it might sound stupid to anyone else but playing games was one of my only true escapes. A distraction. And if I knew my brother- which I did- it would be long since destroyed now. The image of it splintered on some concrete was all I could think about now.

The main cop came back inside, and he informed me that the police would take an AVO out on my behalf. This basically meant that it would (in theory) prevent Ian from coming anywhere near me or my home. "What about my stolen playstation and game?" I asked.

And the cop smirked at me. I knew exactly what he was thinking. That I was just some stupid, young obsessed-with-technology millenial. "Yeah, that's nothing, we can deal with that later." He scoffed as if I was being unreasonable. It wasn't nothing to me.

So the police got their answers, and they just...left. I didn't have to go to the station or anything. It seemed so informal, unprofessional. That was it? How was I to know when the AVO was in effect? What were they gonna do about my stolen property?

This was three days ago. I have still heard nothing from the police. Not letter or anything. It is just a waiting game.

And it is this whole thing which has made me look into familial abuse. Why was I starting to feel guilty? Was I really to blame? Should I have just backed down like I used to?

I keep thinking about how differently that night would have gone had I been the person I used to be. Scared and upset. What if I had just said nothing, saved my game and turned it off and gone to bed? Well for one thing, I'd still have my ps4. But...the police wouldn't have been called. And Ian would have been here still, terrorising my mother and me.

I can't say if I would be more or less miserable than I am now. Maybe it would be the same. I'll never know.

But here's the thing that got me thinking about abuse, and when people ask why we don't fight back.

Of course everyone has their own reasons. Sometimes it's safer to do nothing. Sometimes you're just scared. Often you are conditioned into believing you are powerless, as I was for a long time.

But look at what happens when victims DO fight back. There are countless stories or victims- most of them women being abused by their partners or exes- who did all the right steps. They reported abuse and violence every single time, they got AVO's, and nothing fucking changed. Plenty of people moved out of state, and were followed.

And after years- when we finally had the courage to do something about it, my mother and I were simply dismissed. We weren't taken seriously. Nobody listened when I tried to explain the long, complex dynamic Ian and I have had.

But I am not seen as a victim in the eyes of others BECAUSE I fight back. Those who know me simply think my relationship with my brother is just tumultuous at best/worst. Even after explaining. I don't fit into the "victime image". I'm not a skinny, weak looking girl. I'm not beautifully weeping and I don't have a black eye when I turn up to work. I'm not the beautifully tragic image the media has conned the world into believing that is what an abuse victim looks like.

I look angry, violent even. I have messy, wild hair and gritted teeth. I am solid built and fairly muscular. The bruises I have only showed up the day after, and nobody knows how much physical pain I'm in. Being this sort of person has led people into viewing me as indestructible, strong. But it is all survival instincts.

And I am punished for it.

If I never fought back, nobody would have helped me. I learned that young. People like to pretend if they see something, they'll say something, yet when it happens, they say, "it's none of my business". I was a child, and had no help. So why should I expect it as an adult?

And because I did fight back, I am seen as equally guilty. An aggressor. Unstable. And yet again, nobody will help me.

THAT is why I never fought back. But now, I don't give a fuck. I am never going back to cowering again. I am done wasting tears over the actions of the men who wronged me. Even if it kills me, I will NEVER stop fighting back.

Tldr; people don't help victims regardless of whether they fight back against their abusers or not. There are plenty of reasons why victims would or wouldn't fight back and there is no right or wrong decision. Stop blamimg victims.

#long post #abuse #drug abuse mention #about me #sorry but this all had to be said #true story #theft #physical abuse #emotional abuse #mental abuse #victim blaming #I often think of the person I'd be had I not experienced such a violent history #would I be happy now?

[potuzzz]

The Bible, and Why Thoughts Should Be Separated from the Original Source and its Backers

(((Forewarning: This post is a stream of thought. Don’t read if you’re expecting something that avoids the tangential and has a coherent structure)))

` ` ` ` `

     I don’t like hypocrisy--I’m guilty of it, as we all are, albeit I make it a point to avoid it.  And, sure, there are other (IMO) worse traits a human being can have.  But almost anybody would agree that hypocrisy is bad, and the hypocrite’s words are worthless at best, toxic at worst.

     I understand the sentiment, but, for the sake of perspective, I would like to defend the hypocrite and morally defunct with this following post.

     Now, being well aware of Tumblr’s main demographic make up, I’m sure most people on here aren’t big fans of the Bible.

     Truth be told, if you look at the world through the lens of the disgruntled, orthodox Christians, their fears, grievances, and predictions ring quite true--I’m not saying I agree with them, I’m just saying, through their worldview, the notion that Christianity is losing ground steadily to sin and depravity has enough evidence (for them) to enforce this worldview firmly. Homosexuality running rampant, men and women rebelling against their “roles,” brown heretics invading their bastions of innocence to rape and pillage and steal jobs, hip hop becoming the most popular music to corrupt their children and brainwash them to do drugs and get piercings and show shoulders and kill babies and kneel for anthems, these same Jaxton’s and Peyton’s being forced by the Deep State Pedo-Ring to take a non-English language class and learn evolution, fiery Hell, they’re even calling this the “Common Era” instead of “Anno Domini.” I can see how the modern age looks like the setup for the Apocalypse, their Book of Revelation. The rapidly growing Internet, which was once an obscure, semi-useless sort of nerd thing, and then in popular movies for a decade or two was only referenced as some silly cat-joke platform, is slowly but surely becoming a very serious aspect of human life. You can’t make it far without a WiFi connection, not in society, not in business, not in leisure, nothing. And this new frontier, this fresh-faced future, here they have it the worst, constantly being belittled and called names and having mean science-y devil worshipers “debunk” their worldviews, whatever slimy libtard nonsense that all means.

     Orthodox Christians that use a religion--a somewhat neutral thing--to justify their their bigotry, the sort of Christians that fit the of bedrock for an otherwise atheist and secular alt-right probably ensure, if anything, that liberally-inclined youngsters like myself push themselves as far away from Christianity as a whole as possible. Christianity is a sort of thing that people here in America almost thought synonymous with race; you were born into it, and you died with it. I mean, hey, people can’t seem to wrap their mind around the idea that Islam isn’t a race. People would identify as being Christian, even though they never went to church (save maybe Easter and/or Christmas), didn’t pray unless gramps was around, and never read a lick of the Bible, let alone mulled it over. Nowadays, there’s a growing portion of young people that aren’t just apathetic and passive with their family or culture’s religion, they’re proud to actively reject it.

     Orthodox Christians have made a really bad name for themselves, their religion as a whole, their precious Bible, and, alongside it, anything and everything they associate themselves with, especially ideas and opinions.

     (Quick disclaimer: I’m picking on Christianity right now, but insert whatever religious or spiritual beliefs you like. It just happens to be the biggest demographic here and easiest example that comes to mind for what I’m trying to achieve in this post. Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, paganism, Satanism, even atheism all are just ideas wreathed in metaphor (or “fact” when it comes to atheism) that are neutral on their lonesome, but are used for evil but society and the individual. Back to the program.)

     For the most part, I’m like, “serves you dumbass chauvinists right,” but I wouldn’t have made this post if I didn’t have mixed feelings about the deeper implications and consequences.

QUICK TANGENT TIME!

     Let’s say you have a...I don’t know...coworker, we’ll call him Fraxley (lol). So Fraxley isn’t most of everybody’s favorite. Ya’all work at a restaurant. He’s loud, obnoxious, entitled, immature, petty, judgmental, lazy, whiny, condescending, pretty much everything you’d dread in a coworker. But, one fateful day, you’re talking to your boss, Mrs. Boss. This is how it goes:

          Mrs. Boss: “Man, did you see the table by the restrooms?”

          You: “Uh, no, what happened?”

          Mrs. Boss: “Some party of two parents and their kids had a birthday party...not only did they leave a huge mess, but nobody used coasters, and now there’s horrendous watermarks all over.”

          You: “Reese’s Pieces, what?”

          Mrs. Boss: “Yeah, like the parents didn’t stop them or nothing.”

          You: “Damn...would degreaser or something help? I guess I’ll grab--”

          Mrs. Boss: “No no no, see, that’s the real problem, we’re out of all our cleaners and we can’t get any in here until next Monday.”

          You: “Ouch.”

          Mrs. Boss: “I guess just scrub it as best as you can. If Ownerpeople comes in tonight and sees it in that state, they’ll lose their shit.”

          You: “Okay, just let me see if--”

*Fraxley kicks open the front doors (letting in customers before you’re open), hocks a loogie on the window, flips a water bottle into the fryer, and blows Bongwater-flavor Juul clouds in your face that resemble Baroque architecture*

          Fraxley: “Sup, bitches. Heard we got some fuckin’ tabletop probs.”

          You: “Yeah.”     

          Mrs. Boss: “...Hi, Fraxley, could you--”

          Fraxley: “Well, Brossolini, if you don’t want to be an epic NPC fuckin’ retard about it, toothpaste works great for watermarks on wood. Makes that bitch moannnn. J to the S, G.”

          Mrs. Boss: “Fraxley, could you clock-in and put some ice in the bin?”

          Fraxley: “UghhHHGHhh. What’s up with you, sour tits?”

          Mrs. Boss. “Now.”

          Fraxley: “Meesa no likey. *winks coyly at you* Later, buddy.”

. . . 

      So, the question is, what do you do?

     Most people would ignore Fraxley, and for good reason. But his tip, his two cents, his wisdom (which, keep in mind, didn’t even originate from him!) shouldn’t be automatically discarded.

     Here’s another quick example. Read some of these quotes:

          “Words build bridges into unexplored regions.”

          “The victor will never be asked if he told the truth.”

          “He alone, who owns the youth, gains the future.”

          “Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it.”

     Not my like, all-time-favorite, Earth-shattering, epiphany-inducing quotes, but still pretty wise, huh? Worth a mulling over? Worth soaking in, and applying to your life and your perspective, from time to time, eh?  Certainly, I believe I can apply, say, the last quote, to current-day politics. I can apply the first one to nearly every single second of every single day.

     I found these quotes by this Google search: “quotes from hitler”

     Yep!

     Words to me are kind of like children. The context of their parents is important, but, ultimately, they are their own individual beings, and shouldn’t be judged for neither the goodness nor the evil their parents have wrought on this world.

     You see, sort of, what I’m trying to say about the Bible? Really, anybody and anything, but for this discussion, the Bible?

     I have my own personal spiritual beliefs and worldview that I would like to think is particularly unique, one which doesn’t fit me smoothly into any predetermined box.  When it comes to the events of the New and Old Testament, I have mixed feelings. The Old Testament...I believe nearly all of it is more or less a metaphor. As for the New Testament, I believe Jesus was alive. Less surely, I believe he was the most powerful human being we’ve witnessed (or an extraterrestrial/extradimensional being, or something), a practitioner of magic that we all have the potential for, deep down somewhere. He’s a Level 99 person, whereas most of us never get past Level 4 to 7 or something along those lines. I believe many of the events in Jesus’s life, as recorded, did happen, and along the way, some areas were perverted by both his humanly human apostles recording them, as well as the numerous translations and re-writes and edits that have happened in the last 2000 years, with a fat ol’ margin for both accidental error and malicious, egotistic inserts.

      So as we can see, I’m already biased in part to favor some bits of the New Testament, and even be patient enough and curious enough to think about the Old Testament. It probably doesn’t help that I was raised Muslim, in America no less, so I probably have some learned sympathy for Abrahamic religions in general.

     Now, I’ve only ever really dug into the Book of Mark, thanks in totality to an Intro to New Testament class I took in college (it was either that or some even more presumably boring garbage). As for the rest of the Bible, I know the general events (as most of us do) of the Old Testament, I was challenged to read a bit of the Book of Job during a (horrifying) Ouija experience, and other little bits here and there have come to me by chance. I’m no expert. But, my bias acknowledged, it really makes me sad that some people are never going to consider a single word in the Bible as anything other than a weapon that has been used against them. It has some excellent metaphors, lessons, and stories that not only can be applied in simple day-to-day life, but I have found myself applying to my understanding of human psychology and the human condition, of my internal journey towards actualization and self-understanding, of love and hate and chaos and order, and my understanding (or accepted lack thereof) of the universe and reality I inhabit, the life within it, and the events after.

     What’s also important to add, is the Bible isn’t the skeleton of my beliefs and perspective. It’s not some major slice of the pie, it’s just a few Lego bricks in an enormous set that took me years to construct. Without it, sure, it’d likely be much the same, but in some ways, it wouldn’t. My fundamental ability to accept teachings from the Bible, both because of my subconscious bias for it and despite my growing conscious bias against it, are what have caused me to accept a wide berth of teachings, that, had I remained close-minded and say, only trusted celebrities I like and factual science (whatever the fuck factual means anymore), my enormous structure would instead be a trifling, misshapen, tragic little thing.

     The same thing that allowed me to accept the Christian Bible, to just entertain its ideas, has also allowed me to garner wisdom and knowledge from all sorts of celebrities, musicians, artists, politicians, generals, prodigies, and scourges both in my day and age, and throughout history, not just the ones I happened to like but even the ones that struck me the wrong way.

     I liked Sun Tzu, because why not, so I got to absorb bits of The Art of War, but I’ve also learned some wisdom from current day American generals who bomb my cousins. I never reached a high enough edge level at any point to consider entertaining Satanism into my lifestyle, but hey, Satanism has some interesting things worth a good mull, or even quoting in everyday conversation. People might look at me like I’m mad, but if you past the skins these jewels are shrouded in, you get to reap the intriguing beauty within, without compromising your core self in the process.

     I watch an unhealthy amount of YouTube at times--when I’m at my highest functioning, I limit it to drives to and from work. I like a lot of progressives, unsociopathic intellectuals, hip-hop commentators, and the like (links on names): Shaun, Jeffrey Almonte, ContraPoints, Academy of Ideas, D Respect, hbomberguy, TD Hip Hop Media, probably a few others.

     Emphasis on progressive. It’s hard for me to relate and appreciate much else--I don’t want someone mindlessly parroting pop-woke garbage, I just want someone with a little bit of soul and a lotta bit of brain, and I do well to forgive and forget when the aforementioned have opinions that differ from my own.

     But, a while last month, I was recommended a channel: Alternative Hypothesis.

     Now, silly ol’ me, read that as, “Oooh, someone who’s very likely counter-culture, possibly a little pretentious but let’s give’em a listen.”

     Basically, emphasis on ALT.

     I only got through about 5 or 6 videos, but see, that’s the thing. I could recognize the guy was well spoken, good at structuring a video and articulating a point. It wasn’t complete laughable swill like Ben Shapiro or Sargon of Akkad. This guy actually made me stop and think some pretty wild ass shit, like, “was slavery really that bad?” Fucking horrifying, right? Don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty sure I’m not a great debater, but I had enough sense to debunk his videos both logically and morally. But he really challenged me and my viewpoints. Made me stop in think. Now you might think, “well, it’s not like you’re black so you don’t exactly have a lot of eggs in that basket,” and I get why you’d think that. Even I double-checked myself on that. But I will let almost any of my core beliefs be challenged, and I don’t think that makes me a pushover or weak, morally or mentally or otherwise. If anything, it strengthens my resolve, and makes my beliefs feel more mine, and less insecure attempts to fit into a mold. I’ve let myself attack whites, suburbanites, Muslims, Arabs, rappers, specifically white rappers, writers, artists, men, the insecure, the dark (of head, not skin), the indecisive, Americans, talkers, introverts......these are all things that are me. If I’m critical of anyone at all, it’s me.

     Funny thing, I actually vaguely remember a quote that went something like, “Don’t defend your attacks on your character you know are wrong, or you’ve already lost.”

     I don’t really remember where that quote originated, whether it was the Bible or the Daily Stormer or Gandhi or Jake Paul, but it’s reminding myself right in this very second that I’m okay, I don’t need to justify shit, I going on a cutting-edge ramble or something, and I just need to be self-satisfied and go on my merry way. And I need that right now. I don’t care where it came from.

     Go read the Bible. The same book (Book of Leviticus) that forsakes homosexuality does the same with eating fat, eating pigs, wearing mixed fabrics (aka wearing most of anything nowadays), cutting your hair, touching weirdly specific things, getting your red wings, adultery, incest, mixing crops, getting tattoos, blasphemy, and working on Sunday. Obviously, a load of this is trash. Don’t get hung up on the little ugly bits.

     I recently finished reading Stranger in a Strange Land. The author obviously had a couple stupid worldviews, mainly general sexism and a part where a female character chimes in that 9 out of 10 rape victims were essentially asking for it. If I were the stereotypical over-sensitive, virtue-signalling young’un in today’s day and age, I would’ve thrown the book right then and there against a wall and lit the place on fire, vowing to purge every word I had read thus far from my mind. Instead, I kept reading, and the book is fucking amazing. I will look past the author’s glaring flaws, which we all have, and instead of sheltering myself from the real world, I got to add another excellent artwork to my experiences. Go read Stranger in a Strange Land, it’s about Martian Jesus.

     Stop having knee-jerk reactions--if you’re forming a demonized version of me in your head when you read me writing phrases like “over-sensitive,” or “virtue-signalling,” or “knee-jerk,” or my imaginary character Fraxley saying “retard” or “bitch,” you’re doing yourself absolutely no favors, in the short nor the long term. The world and its wisdoms are not PC. You can retain your morals and still absorb a wealth of knowledge from an individual that might be the antithesis of your beliefs. I literally think true progressivism, minus all the ulterior motives and “justified” cruelty, is nearly synonymous with morality. If this post has upset you, please get your head out of your ass. I’m telling you because you need to hear it, not because I want to put you down or assert superiority or any dumb shit, I literally want to see you and our planet succeed.

          I love you.

#bible #wisdom #judgement #open mind #progressiveyoutube #ideas #get your shit straight #pearl #reality #self love #quotes

[betta-resplendent]

I am just a little irritated. It’s long, so I’ll put it under a thing. I just really, really have to rant.

Last week, I went to a neurologist to figure out what to do about my brain. I was told that, for the most part I’ll be fine, and if it gets worse I can explore more options. I’ll be going to physical therapy to help combat my lack of balance. 

For context, I walk with a cane. I really have no choice in the matter anymore, for two reasons: One, the teetering gets pretty scary sometimes and the cane helps me keep myself upright when I feel myself going. 

Two, there are days where my back/leg hurts so bad I can hardly bring myself to get out of bed. A lot of the time I’m confined to a chair, and have to do my daily chores in small, 5-10 minute intervals before wobbling my ass back to a chair to sit while I try not to cry. A few months ago I was walking just fine, just had to be kinda careful about how I moved and how much I moved. I was exercising. I was losing weight. Then I leaned over in just the wrong way to look at something at the store, and insisted that I was fine because everybody else was having fun and I didn’t want to be the one to break it up. I was alone all through high school because of this shit, because nobody wanted to ‘bother me’. No, they didn’t want me ruining their fun and I don’t blame them, but they never even invited me to things to see if I’d be okay to go. They wouldn’t tell me things were happening, I’d find out from my friend, who of course was going. I didn’t want to be ‘that guy’. Not again. 

This was nearly two months ago. 

It’s become extremely obvious that this shit’s not gonna go away. I’m always gonna have to be super careful about what I do. I can lose the weight, sure, but first I have to be able to fuckin walk in the first place. I try to go to stores and shit over the weekend, but I have to pop a stupid amount of pain meds to do so...which I can’t do anymore because my liver’s fucked from 7 years of use. None of the ‘safe’ things work. The stretches aren’t working. The walking is only making small steps to progress. I do water changes with help because I can’t lift the fucking bucket. I sit in a chair to drain the water because otherwise it’s standing there for ~5 minutes trying to keep my shitty leg off the ground. I sure as fuck can’t afford fusion, and I don’t WANT to have it if I don’t need it. We can’t afford more doctors visits. We just can’t, and I can’t deal with the guilt of being another added fucking expense. 

So, while I look for a job that I can actually DO, I contacted the doctor I’d just seen last week, the DAY OF appointment, to see if one: he would be able to pretty much vouch for me once I get a job that yes, I have things going on that restrict my movement. And two: Would I qualify for disability?

I’ve been going back and forth and back again for three years about pursuing that path. I feel useless. Actually, no, it’s more than that: I feel worthless. I can’t do jack shit without wanting to cry. I can’t do the things I enjoy without pain, and I have to sit do to most of them (gardening, fish keeping), and even sitting and playing games hurts like a motherfucker. I have to keep adjusting, keep fixing my leg positions, keep turning myself, because when I find myself comfortable in one position, less than ten minutes later that position hurts too. The stigma against disability was mostly what pushed me away. I see so much vitriol about people outraged that unemployed people apply for disability. 

“Get a fucking job!”

I’m trying, asshat. You try it when 10-20lbs is your weight limit and you can’t stand/sit for long periods of time. See how fucking easy it is finding somebody willing to do more than glance at a resume. Get back to me on that.

Even better when they see you’re fat! “Bitch probably hurts because she’s too fat”

Sure, that’s part of it. Also my spinal canal was narrow since birth. Sure tho, completely my fault. Mea culpa. 

I get it. I’m fat, and I’m disabled. They’re related, but it doesn’t have to be caused by it. Fuck’s sake, I was trying to fix it. I lost nearly 40lbs in 4 months. It isn’t supersonic speed by any means, but it was getting there. Considering I was combating that stupid leg, I felt I was on the right track.

Anyway. So I kicked anxiety in the dick to send that message. I’m pretty sure I knew the answer from the front, since the doc didn’t seem to like the idea of letting me speak for the first few minutes of the visit. Kept talking over me, interrupting me, ignoring me when he spoke to my parents...and then proceeding to interrupt my mother. Like, fucking really?

But I tried anyway, because ‘fuck it’. The worst they can say is no.

Oh boy. Lemme tell you, somehow they absolutely did make it worse. Not only did they say ‘no’ (again, fine, fair enough), but when I sent the message I was told ‘1-2 business days’. Every other office I’ve send messages to, I get a response back in that time. Maybe 3 days, which is fine. I get it, shit gets crazy sometimes. 

I send this message and wait. And wait. I figure ‘well shit I guess that’s lost in the aether now’ and don’t bother sending another one because I don’t want to be a bother. They’ll get to it eventually. 

I wait a week. I initially sent 3 sentences, one is particularly long, but one is particularly short. Quick, to the point, but detailed for my questions. A week passes, and this is what I get. 

“No. I don’t think so”

Typed exactly like this. Just like that. That’s it. No explanation, no ‘sorry’, no ‘go fuck yourself’, nothing. A week, for that. 

I don’t know why I’m angry. I’m sure I sound like an entitled twat. Fine, whatever. I’ve been dealing with this bullshit for 7 fucking years. I’ve been rejected for countless jobs. I’ve outright been told ‘we aren’t hiring’ when a ‘now hiring’ sign is in the fucking window. 

Honestly I’m more angry about the long wait for poorly constructed response than the ‘no’. I expected the ‘no’. The ‘no’ is fine.

So, that’s that then. I’ll just have to deal with it from here like I always have. All I can do is hope for the best. I’m just tired now. I’m not even going to bother asking for clarification because I know it won’t be worth it. It’s just another week of wasted time.

/rant.

#not fish #personal #dandy/walker #disability #spinal stenosis #pain #rant #sorry #i'll probably delete this later #before i hate myself even more #cursing #a lot of it #whoops

[theicyfresh]

3, 7, 10, 11, 19, 20, 22, 25, 26, 27, 33, 40, 42, 43, 44?

3. Crush? Eh, kinda.? I get crushes like nobody’s business but it’s also like nope don’t feel conceal it’ll be easier that way. Currently I can think of one that isn’t my girlfriend but then I also get into lines of is it crush or infatuation cause there are a lot of people i’d like to jump.7. Best friends?My girlfriend for starters, you always gotta date your best friend. Then Tufbak and Chocotaco and SilverBark. Tufbak is the logical strategist, Chocotaco the explosion-yolo cop, and SilverBark is our own lovable sociopath. And i’m the mixture of the three :D  (If you look closely in this ask you’ll find portions from each of these friends)I’m also kinda workin on making more best friends but I have this annoying thing where I want to sleep with people I get close to typically and that doesn’t end well really.I’m also trying to be best friends with @TurnFreeBaby and @nerdbomber​ but idk what either of them think about me truly cause TurnFree exaggerates like an exploding chicken and Nerdbomber’s as sweet as can be and depression is like “Nah they hate you you’re just a convenient reciprocal ”. 10. Ever been in love?I thought I was, for a really long time. It’s this whole traumatic backstory™ about my first love who I’d give the world but lost myself trying to provide perfection (an impossible goal). I now know that love is a spectrum, and it’s kinda hard to determine ‘in love’. For me it means I could see myself with this person forever, and due to my aformentioned backstory™ I kinda fear applying myself that irrevocably again, I was forced into feeling it my first time, so I don’t want to feel it again as it’s associated with all sorts of bad in my head. That being said though sometimes I feel like I could say it, I feel like I could come close. I’ve felt a large spectrum of love over my life and barring my first it’s all been beautiful in their own ways.11. Last time I cried?uuhhh.. I’m not sure, I think yesterday, I cried thinking about all the horrible ways i’ve hurt those I love. It started thinking of my first real girlfriend who I hurt by giving too much to and ended with thinking about the most recent ex who I hurt by giving what might of been to much to another and keeping what might have been too much to myself..19. If I had one wish, what would it be?To understand the psychology of anyone so I know how to help them best. I try to learn people furiously because almost everyone is in pain from something. I rarely ever know enough to help to the degree i’d like and when I do it’s typically from a level quite intimate where any separation in the future causes damage by itself. 20. Do I love someone?My girlfriend absolutely, my family kinda after that, Tufbak still I think, although I told him not to say it back till he meant it and I don’t think he ever quite will. 22. Nicknames? Hobo, Python, Icy, Hobo from highschool when I scared the shit out of a group of my friends by looking like a homeless hooded person who’s jumping fences before school to get into the school when really I was trying to make it to PE on time. Python as a joke from this one girl who wanted her boyfriend to know she could get better dick. Icy because it’s a sub of my gamertag and it’s how people refer to me if they don’t know my name online.

25. Worst thing to ever happen to me?It’s a close tie between being betrayed by someone I never could have expected anything from and having feelings and reciprocated feelings but knowing ingrained in your soul that it isn’t going to work and it’s going to hurt the whole time you try.First was part of my tragic backstory™ where my “never want anyone else” “you’re the only guy I even look at” girlfriend who with others acted more celibate than a Mormon had been cheating on me for longer than a year out of our 5 year relationship. I flip flop between thinking I deserve it or not because god knows i’ve done worse and worse to her but some people who love me tell me nobody deserves that.Second part was a girl who I think I was falling for but it hurt our sexualities/lives never quite met up. She’s poly and I believe i’m poly but certain things in that area of love just kinda burn (this was recently after being betrayed though so I hope that’s why certain bits burned) but I’d never want to limit her because a part of her beauty was being so unrestrained and willful so I would just deal and learn new mechanisms for ignoring the pain. As for our lives not meeting up I kinda moved into a relationship that was a moving work that went from closed and secure to open and secure. It’s still in that process actually we don’t know how long it’ll be. But I moved into this relationship and she stuck around because she fell much before me and I just kinda dragged her with it, she deserved better and i’m sorry to the deepest part of me but eventually she found a new guy and fell for him much harder than she ever did for me and now we don’t talk because of details that i’d include if I didn’t feel this answer was much too long. Goddamn this answer is long... 26. Best thing that’s ever happened to me?At some point I stopped thinking dying was an acceptable option to stop hurting. This change in my psychology is why i’m alive today and a foundation of things to improve my life.27. Something i’d change about myself?I lose myself in others really easily. It was so so fuckin bad when I was attached to my first girlfriend who was toxic. But nowadays i’m decently better with it. I kinda fluctuate on what qualities are forefront depending on who i’m with but i’m not always forgetting who the hell I am. If i’m more intimate with who i’m with I kinda lose more of myself which is kinda fine kinda not. I’d change that aspect to be more under my control because I want to understand myself but I change literally with a changing of surroundings so it’s frustrating. 33. Best day of my life?Probably the first time I cosplayed as Deadpool at RTX. I had been working for months to try to get an acceptable bodytype and I felt actually decent in a skintight suit all fuckin day it was great.I was so surprised when the first person asked me to take a picture with him. I was more surprised when I made groups of people laugh with my shenanigans.I was the most surprised when I stumbled onto the final meeting of the guardians (all the volunteers/staff who organize the event) and I made them all APPLAUD ME IT WAS SO GLORIOUS. I got the attention of like 4, but one of them was the person telling everyone what a good con it was and they laughed and pointed me out and they ALL TURNED and APPLAUDED AS I DANCED AND APPLAUDED THEM BACK. I STARTED POINTING OUT LIKE “YOU DID A GOOD JOB, AND YOOUUU DID A GOOD JOB” AND IT WAS SO FUCKING GREAT.Oh god I could write several paragraphs writing all my favorite memories from that one day. 40. Do i believe in love?I believe in balance in all things. I believe that things like love are powerful and mostly represented as good but that makes the bad all the more surprising and all the more potent. At a season of acting at a haunted house I was crying practically every night in the name of love lost. Over 5 years I destroyed my own psychology/will in the name of love. I’ve felt every emotion under the sun in the name of love. I think love needs to be handled responsibly.42. Am I ok?I dunno, this ask kinda got me fucked up. It started with one facet of myself kinda answering things related to how I feel about people and it was kinda vulgar and thirsty. Then it moved on to who I am as a person, and I don’t have a reference point for who to be right now so things are surfacing from all parts of myself and i’m worried I sound like a crazy person and that i’m filling up so much of people’s dashboard. It’s also 2:30 AM and I have homework to finish by 11:30 AM and 2 project deadlines and 2 midterms this week and just fuuuuuuuuuck and I typically default to flirty and such but I have to marshal everything because I need to be better. (Even though I reeeeaalllly want to be it’s burning at me) but hey i’ll be fine, every problem has an end. 43. Relationship Status?I have a girlfriend who is very healthy for me in a bunch of ways and I’m trying very hard to not make myself into anything she needs because I love her so much. 44. Selfie?I don’t know if i’ve ever posted myself on here. Remind me in the morning and i’ll post 2 cause i’m skipping now.