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pinehutch · 2 years

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I'm uncommonly, commonly fine.

(I've been here for 12, 13 years. Maybe longer? All signs point to fine, okay, yeah, sure.)

It's so easy to go from "I missed a step" to "I'm lying on the floor, I'm stuck." There are things I don't say, because

I don't want to make them true; I don't want saying them to fix them, firm and permanent

they are unpleasant, off-putting; neither beautiful nor interesting; neither charming nor devastating (just a steady, flourescent hum)

it would be commonly, uncommonly not fine.

What I mean is that: I get no pleasure from my neurodivergence, and I feel nothing but resentment and regret that I waited so late to look into it. What I mean is that: I hate the limitations of my body, the way a straightforward scrape or bump can swell into something that looks like corpse-bloat for an evening, that takes six weeks to properly heal. What I mean is that my resentment and resistance to both the fact and the practice of necessary rest cannot be overstated. What I mean is that I take great joy from the successes of others, but if you talk to me about quantities, rankings, statistics I feel sick and insecure and panicked, and that I think it is a failing of mine that I feel that way. What I mean is that I am generally doing quite well, doing better, that I have been saying yes and pushing forward and removing obstacles and taking chances and it's all very good and invigorating until I miscount the stairs and lurch forward into the windowsill (the windowsill is a metaphor or there are bruises on my shins, or both) and jam and jar every part of me.

Something came unlodged this spring. It started in a notebook. It continued on a table, tears in my eyes and nitrous in my blood. I both know and don't know exactly what it is. It opened me up like a paper target unfolding (this is a joke I make too often, about work; let's add paper targets with my face on them to the change management strategy. It's a pretty fucked up joke). In this new configuration my head is a funnel and it takes in everything, and the terrible freshet runs over and over. A storm is a storm is a storm, you know? Push over the towers, break the connections, blow-up the transformers.

(There is a man who lives in the big house on the corner, across the street, and during the blackout he took to sitting outside with a battery-powered radio, in his driveway, in a lawn chair. It's after midnight now, and raining, and he's out there alone in his aluminum-framed chair with all the lights and sounds in the house behind him. The street is cavernous, two-and-three-storey buildings used for rentals on one side and a steep slope on the other. The man's radio fills the wet echo of my small town downtown after midnight and my anger strikes another mark against me when I need to put on my headphones, the noice-cancelling ones, so that I can hear enough of my own thoughts to continue.)

I'm sipping seltzer from my Sodastream, lemon wedges and lime ones, too. I'm wearing one of three pairs of wireless, noise-cancelling earbuds. (I lose them, and buy more, and find them again eventually. In cute online spaces this is called the ADHD tax.) In the morning I'll get up and do my job where no one screams at me and I'm not currently exposed to any physical danger. I have a wealth of things to read, to watch, to listen to; to enjoy. There are people who love me, uncommonly well and with a degree of grace and patience and willingness that seems so deeply, deeply out-of-step with my own sense of deservingness that one of the long-standing challenges of my life is believing in it. I have credit card debt and vacation plans, trauma and resources, friends and lovers and everything commonly and uncommonly normal -- good, even. I am, for all intents and purposes, more than fine. Stupidly privileged, even.

And still: I miss a step, and split myself open on the bannister. I come apart at the seams. It's not the tripping that's the problem, it's the way I don't always bounce when I fall. This is what I mean when I'm resentful of my neurodivergence, or when I'm angry at my body for being a pretty-able-but-also-actually-disabled body; the response feels out of proportion to the misstep, and it fucks with the narrative that I am trying to control, where I'm aware of my privilege and I use it for good and I hold space for the really important conversations and I get angry in righteous and wholesome ways and it's not about me, and also, where I'm fine.

(Every one of us is here. The man in the lawnchair with his classic rock jams is living a life as big as yours, as big as mine. His interior is as infinitely vast or narrow as anyone's. We are all keeping it together. I know. I know. I only wanted to say it, obliquely, and just the once.)

#personal #ramblings #testing out the not rebloggable function #negativity cw #internalised ableism cw #medical cw #nitrous oxide #i miss one deadline and go off the rails for the next 24 hours apparently!#this is a bit new but probably related to some trauma from the last month eroding the foundations #also no one worry about me i am genuinely fine in the sense of in no danger #just need to scream into the void sometimes #journaling on paper resumes tomorrow #and i am on a short waitlist for a therapist that expects to have room for me sometime this month #it's good and i just need to remind myself of that

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dreamwatch · 4 months

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For the Spotify fic challenge: Steddie, and lucky #13! ❤️

I got this ask on December the 3rd!! It took me forever to come up with something for this, but I got there! I don't think this is as heavy as the tags make it seem, but please heed them @thisapplepielife thank you so much for the ask, it really got the old brain box working!

Spotify Prompt: Free Fallin' by Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers (yes, Tom Petty again!)

Word Count: 3623 | Rating: T | CW: Period typical homophobia, homophobic language, chronic pain, internalised ableism, brief mention of AIDS crisis | Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington and His Parents | Tags: Protective Eddie Munson, Disabled Eddie Munson, Established Relationship, Meeting The Parents, Steve's Parents Are Trying, Not Beta Read

Eddie works fucking hard all week and he just wants to kick back on a Saturday, and do nothing. Feet up on the table, beer in one hand, pizza in the other. Maybe catch a film. Maybe watch a game with Steve. Whatever. It’s his time, he gets to choose how he spends it.

Instead, they’re sitting in the car outside the Harrington’s house, and Steve looks like he’s about to be fed to the wolves. Eddie’s never been brought home to meet the parents before. Usually, he’s never brought home at all. This is as hard for Eddie as it is for Steve. He’s deeply suspicious of Steve’s parents, of their suddenly wanting to meet the guy he’s shacked up with. To get a closer look at the guy who stole Steve’s chance for a good ol’ fashioned midwestern life, white picket fence, sweet wife, a couple of kids, briefcase and tie, trade in the bimmer for a Volvo. All that shit. All that shit that Eddie has no experience with, no desire for.

Two years together, and this is the first time he’s been summoned. Steve says it’s because they finally believe him. They thought it was a joke at first. They stopped laughing, eventually.

Eddie doesn’t really know what to expect. Robin says his mom is sweet, his dad is nice enough but tough on Steve and there’s still tension there even though Steve’s in his twenties now. Dustin thinks his dad is a hoot, and somehow the idea of Dustin bonding with Mr Harrington feels like a betrayal. But Dustin doesn’t have the full picture, so. There’s that.

“We better go in,” Steve says, not looking at Eddie. Not really looking at anything. And that doesn’t really instil confidence in Eddie, about how all this shit is going to go down, because Steve has been telling him all week not to worry about it, it will be fine. But he’s sitting here looking like the world is about to end. And maybe it is. Maybe that’s exactly what’s about to happen, Steve’s world, that complex relationship with his parents that they cultivated with such tender hands, will just shatter once the reality of everything Steve has been telling them for the last couple of years manifests in their dining room.

Eddie might not have done this before, but he knows his part. Turn up, be polite, play nice. And above all things don’t bite if the other kids don’t play nice. Because Eddie will always be the one that gets the blame.

He checks his hair in the rearview mirror one last time. It’s tied back, the tiniest bit of hairspray to tame it and stop any unruly hairs from escaping mid canapés. How uncouth. Picking clothes was a whole thing. ‘It’s not a formal dinner’, Steve said, no need to get gussied up, ‘I want you to look like yourself, to be comfortable.’ And Steve probably did mean that, truly, but it didn’t matter how many teeshirts and jeans combos Eddie tried on, none of them seemed to be the ‘Eddie’ that Steve was hoping to bring home to his parents. What followed was an argument, ‘You fucking choose then’, slammed doors, eased over with a kiss and ‘What about these?’ So now he’s in the Harrington’s driveway wearing a pair of clean black jeans, knees neatly hidden behind denim, and a long sleeve (always long sleeves) plaid shirt, which could almost pass for one of Wayne’s if it weren’t for the tiny little polo player embroidered on the pocket. He’s been permitted to wear a pair of Doc Martens he found in a thrift store in Indy, they’re clean and smart enough and they’re fucking comfortable and he needs that. Just one bit of comfort, one bit of him.

They stand on the doorstep and Steve knocks and it strikes Eddie as weird. He moved out of Wayne’s a while ago, but he still has his key, and if he knocked on the front door Wayne would ask Eddie what his last doorman died of. But he forgets sometimes that his upbringing is not the norm, that not every kid got saved from foster care by their uncle because their dad is in jail.

Mrs Harrington answers the door, and Eddie’s seen pictures of her, he’s been in this house before (he’s done things to her son in this house that would definitely lower its market value) but she’s shorter than he imagined, and Steve bends over to hug her. It’s cute.

Mr Harrington looms behind her and makes eye contact with Eddie briefly before moving to his son. Another hug, stiffer, with a manly clap on the back. But it’s not nothing, and some of that tension from before has already dispersed from Steve, he has some of his lightness back. A smile back on his beautiful face. Eddie’s not ready to let his guard down yet, he is after all the main course at this particular feast, and he’s just waiting for the cleaver to fall, the teeth to take hold (not teeth, not teeth, not teeth).

“Mom, Dad, this is…” Steve looks at him. Pleading. Loving. Accepting. Scared. “Eddie.”

“Eddie!” says Mrs Harrington, like she actually wants him standing in her hallway, god love her for trying. “It’s lovely to finally meet you.”

Oh God, he’s on now, isn’t he? Steve’s thrown him the ball and he needs to not fumble the catch, or something, he’s watched enough games now that some of it should be sinking in.

“Mr and Mrs Harrington, it’s lovely to meet you both. Uh, thank you. For inviting me.”

“Amanda, please,” says Mrs Harrington, “and this is David,” and it’s pointed, a little spiky. Eddie likes that. David’s giving Amanda the evil eye and Eddie is trying not to smile about it.

“Eddie. Good to meet you,” the poor guy manages to spit out. And Jesus fuck, he holds his hand out to shake it, and Eddie has to resist the temptation to wipe his hands down the front of his jeans. He’s clean, every inch of him scrubbed and moisturised and cologned. Eddie doesn’t know why he’s sweating on this particular social norm, both Al and Wayne taught him the art of the handshake as a young boy. ‘Shake from the elbow, firm hand, and match their grip’ said Wayne. ‘Ain’t nothin’ worse than a weak handshake’ said Al.

Amanda offers him the grand tour before Steve reminds her that Eddie’s been here before, only not when they were around. David bristles and walks away and that’s probably for the best all things considered.

They all walk through to the massive kitchen, and Amanda offers him a beer and he nearly breaks his fucking neck with the speed he takes it.

“Dad thought because it’s such a lovely day we’d grill outdoors. How does that sound for a change?” Steve’s mom rests her hand on Steve’s back, and Eddie sees the movement, the slow comforting strokes.

There’s a cough from the patio, and David Harrington looms in the doorway. “Why don’t you give me a hand, son.” Huh. Divide and conquer, and so early into the afternoon. Steve looks at Eddie and what is Eddie going to say? How dare you leave me to your mother so that you can bond with Daddy? I haven’t seen mine in years, hasn’t done me any harm. He’s a good boyfriend, so he nods and smiles, hoping that it conveys what he really means. We can leave whenever you need to. Just say the word. I love you.

Amanda bustles around in their kitchen, dicing cucumbers and tomatoes, making herself busy, keeping herself away from him. He’s propped on a stool at their breakfast bar because he needs to get the weight off his leg and he didn’t bring his cane because ‘I’m fine Steve, I don’t need it’, not because he didn’t want the Harrington’s to think he was weak or incapable of working, mooching off their son. Definitely not that.

“So, um, what do you like in your salad? Anything I should leave out? Steve didn’t really give me much to go on. I promise I asked.” She sounds like she cares whether he eats zucchini or not (not, decidedly fucking not).

“Ah, I’m not fussy, honestly. Just, you know whatever you guys usually have is fine.”

She looks over her shoulder, a little conspiratorially. “Not a big salad guy, huh? Don’t worry, neither is David. I know when I’m fighting a losing battle.”

Eddie returns the smile. He keeps throwing furtive glances outside, hoping he can just summon Steve to save him. He should be glad, to be honest, that Steve is still out there with his dad. If it was going badly he’d likely have returned by now.

Amanda keeps up the inane chatter, the small talk grating on him. This is so alien to him, so bizarre. He’s doing his best to keep up with her, though, because this isn’t about him. If they never accept him, never want to see him again, he’s fucking fine with it. But Steve loves them, and despite things being tense over the last couple of years Eddie’s pretty certain they love him.

Eddie’s sipping at his beer when he hears the knife slam against the marble countertop.

Amanda spins to face him.“Look. I’m as uncomfortable as you, okay? So why don’t we just cut the shit.”

He puts his beer down, sits up and draws his shoulders back, ready for battle. He’s been waiting for this. Unfortunately, his leg decides to spasm painfully at the same time, kind of killing the image. He hisses, clutching his thigh and doing his best to massage the pain away as if that’s all it would take. He hates this, fucking hates that it happens in front of this woman of all people.

“Are you… are you okay?” Amanda makes her way closer, and she looks like she wants to reach out to him but can’t quite bring herself to do it.

Eddie takes a deep, calming breath. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It just… it happens. Sometimes. It’s fine.” It’s not even close to fine but he’ll be fucked if he’s telling her that. About his constant pain, about losing one job because he couldn’t keep up with the rest of the crew, about being shit scared he’s going to lose his current job for the same reason. About how he’s pushing himself so that Steve doesn’t have to carry the load. The Harrington’s don’t get to know any of that.

Amanda nods and creeps closer to him, finally pulling out a stool and sitting at the breakfast bar with him.

“This is difficult for us. Steve and...” She gestures loosely at him, and he does his best not to tense up at that. “God I need a drink. Do you want another beer?”

He’s maxed out on his pain meds today, for all the good it did, so he really shouldn’t. Steve is particularly strict about that kind of thing. But Steve’s not here. So he nods and watches Steve’s mom pour herself a large glass of wine before returning with another beer for him. She knocks the whole thing back in under a minute.

“Steven’s my pride and joy. He was just such a gorgeous child. Kind, would scream with laughter, just so much happiness in him.” She plays with the rim of her wine glass, and swipes at the lipstick she’s left behind. “From the moment you find out you’re pregnant you think about the person they’ll grow up to be. You hope you’ll be a good parent, that you’ll do right by them. I had a life planned for Steve, in my head. He would come home with a beautiful girl one day and tell me she was the one. They’d get married, and have babies of their own. We’d have grandchildren to spoil.” Amanda smiles wistfully, watching Steve and his Dad through the kitchen window. Eddie hopes he’s okay, hopes Steve’s doing better than he is, anyway. It feels like there’s cement lining his stomach.

“Mrs Harrington—”

“No,” she says, harshly. “I’m talking now, and you’re going to listen to everything I have to say.

“I thought, Nancy Wheeler, you know her?” He nods, silently. “Nice girl. He brought her home and I could see it in his eyes, you know? Just this… light. He was happy. I thought she was the one.”

“So did Steve,” he says before he can stop himself.

“When it didn’t work out, I felt sad for him, but my boys a catch. It’s not like he was going to be alone for long. But that spark, it just fizzled out of him. He carried this… I don’t know, sadness. He’d smile, and he’d laugh, but it was always there under the surface. And then he started getting into fights, vicious ones. The Hargrove boy put him in the hospital, did you know that?”

He did know that. Eddie had spent many a night lamenting the fact he’d never get the chance to punch Billy’s smug fucking face. He doesn’t tell Amanda Harrington that, though, just scowls and nods.

She tops her wine up again. Eddie just wishes she’d get to the part where she calls him a dirty queer and cuts him a cheque if he’ll leave Steve. He wonders how many pieces he could tear it into before throwing it all over her stone floor.

“When Steve didn’t get into college, David told him to get a job. We didn’t make him pay rent, but if he wanted money he was going to have to earn it. And he did. He got that stupid job at Starcourt, got up early every day, worked the weekends. We were both so proud of him.

“And then there was the fire…” Her voice shakes, and she looks genuinely upset, and, maybe for the first time today, he feels sorry for Amanda Harrington. “We were in Indy that day, having dinner with friends. We didn’t know what had happened. We got home late and he wasn’t here, but he was eighteen years old, you know? We thought he was out with friends. We weren’t worried.”

She takes a large breath, and let’s it out slowly. “We got a call at three in the morning to tell us our son was in the hospital. And when we saw him…” Her voice catches before she looks up at Eddie. “You’re not a parent, Eddie. So you can’t know what it feels like. You don’t know fear until you nearly lose your child. And we kind of did, a little. He was never the same after that,” she says softly. She gives a sour laugh. “And then it happened again.”

“Spring break,” Eddie says. She nods sadly.

Amanda pauses and swirls what’s left of her wine in its glass. “A few months after the earthquake, or whatever it was, he walked in the door one night and he just… He had that light back in his eyes and suddenly my Steve was home. And I knew he was in love.” She smiles, and Eddie sees Steve in his mother, just how alike they are. “It was like Nancy times a hundred. He was glowing. I was so happy to see him like that. And I asked him ‘When are you bringing this mystery girl home to meet us?’ and he’d be coy, get all shy. I asked him outright if he was in love and he didn’t hesitate, just said yes with a huge smile plastered across his face, and yet he wouldn’t bring her home to us.

“And then one day he sits us down and tells us that this girl who he has fallen so deeply in love with is… is a boy.” She looks accusingly at him, and he refuses to shrink under her glare. “And suddenly everything you thought about your child, everything you had planned for them, it’s gone,” she snaps her fingers, “overnight. Now I’m not worrying about teenage pregnancy, I’m worrying about AIDS—”

“That’s not—”

“No, let me finish! Let me get this out, for Christ’s sake.” She knocks back the last of her wine. “He’s explained, all of that to us. And how you’re being… responsible. But we’re old-fashioned. Traditional. Our son coming home and declaring he’s bi — whatever it is —”

“ — sexual.”

“Whatever it is,” she glares at him, “it’s hard for us. But here’s the thing. I haven’t seen him that happy in so long. Maybe ever. You gave him his light back. You. You with your long hair and your tattoos, and your bad reputation… ” She runs out of steam, and blows out a huge puff of air. “He says you talked him into going to college.”

Eddie nods. “He’s smart,” he says, fiercely proud. “Smarter than people give him credit for.”

“He is. I’m glad someone else sees it.” She gives him a ghost of a smile and he feels wrongfooted all of a sudden, no longer sure what they’re doing. The fight he thought he was gearing up for seemingly off the cards.

“We’re getting there, Eddie. And we’ll keep trying. He loves you. And we love him. You do love him, don’t you?”

Eddie’s throat tightens and he swallows hard. “So much it hurts,” he croaks.

She smiles, a tentative thing. Fragile. “Good. We’re on a journey, David and I. I’m a little further along… but he’s getting there. We’re both getting there. I hope you’ll allow us the time to catch up.”

And what can he say to that? His own father told him he was a dirty little freak and tried to beat the gay out of him. Steve’s parents just want more time. They can give them that. Eddie can give them that.

“If it’s okay with Steve, then it’s okay with me.”

Eddie watches the tension in Amanda’s shoulders melt away, the worried frown smooths. “Good. And… thank you. For your patience. And for looking after him. All I ever wanted was for someone to love him and look after him.”

“I will always love him.” And he means it, knows in his heart that whatever might happen in the future, whatever gets thrown their way, he will always love Steve Harrington “How could I not?”

Amanda offers a shy smile and Eddie thinks maybe he’s done his job. Maybe, at the very least, she will accept them now, and try not to fight it.

She’s still smiling when she looks at the kitchen counter, at the mess of vegetables in various states of being chopped and washed. “You know what?” She gets up and grabs the vegetables, throwing them in the refrigerator with a slam of the door. She turns back to look at him, hands on hips, and Eddie bites back a smile. “Fuck the salad.” He’s open mouthed as she gestures out to the garden. “Dave doesn’t like it, Steve doesn’t like it and I’m not going to make you choke it down out of politeness.”

Amanda crosses the kitchen to him and offers her arm. “We have steps out there. If you fall Steve will kill me.”

Eddie wonders just what exactly Steve has been telling them, how infirm Steve seems to think he is and he’d be lying if it didn’t rankle him, but at the same time his mom is trying to do something nice. She thinks she’s helping. So he’s going to let her.

They walk out into the sunlight, arm in arm, and he sees Steve laughing with his Dad, they both look relaxed and happy and that’s all Eddie wanted from today. They look up as Amanda and Eddie approach, Steve locking eyes with Eddie, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Eddie smiles and nods and Steve visibly relaxes as he goes back to arguing about the best way to grill a steak.

The rest of the afternoon goes smoothly, and while it’s Steve’s Mom who does all the heavy lifting, his Dad isn’t exactly a silent partner. It feels so normal, family in-jokes and laughter and he can see how much Steve has missed this.

When they leave Amanda hugs him, giving him a warm smile, and David shakes his hand, a little longer and a little softer than the first one.

Steve starts the engine, the radio springs to life, and they head out of the driveway, back to their own home. Steve reaches across and takes Eddie’s hand in his. “Thank you,” he says, glancing away from the road for a second.

Eddie squeezes his hand. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“No, I do. I was a dick. The clothes, your hair… I’m sorry, okay? I was just…”

“Scared,” Eddie finishes for him.

Steve nods. “Scared.”

“They love you, Steve. Whatever happens. They love you, okay?”

Steve sighs, finally unburdened. "I know."

They pull up to a stop light, Tom Petty playing on the radio. Steve runs his hand through his hair, finally relaxed enough to muss it up. “Uh, Dad asked if you’d like to bring Wayne.” Steve glances across at him quickly, and then back at the stop light. “Next time?”

He’s not exactly sure what Wayne would say to an invitation to the Harringtons. But he does know that Wayne thinks the sun shines out of Steve’s ass, and there’s not much that he’d say no to if Steve was the one doing the asking.

“Sure,” Eddie says, and he reaches across to this boy, this man, that he loves so fiercely, and pulls him in for a kiss. “Next time.”

#steddie fanfic #Spotify unwrapped writing prompt #eddie munson #steve harrington #disabled eddie munson #cw period typical homophobia #cw chronic pain #cw internalised ableism #cw homophobic language #cw mention of AIDS crisis

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skylarkblue · 1 year

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This is embarrassing, but I need to vent about it.

Today, a girl I know - three years younger - posted on Facebook regarding her accomplishments this past year. We work in the same field, but the sheer level of success she’s experiencing triggered something in me.

I’ve been struggling. I’ve been struggling really, really, really badly, especially since I played a game of meds roulette a few weeks back and had the medical equivalent of my brain getting taken out, shaken, and put back in. The thing I struggle with most right now is executive dysfunction.

(and fatigue, and pain, and lack of focus, and getting overwhelmed by simple tasks, and-)

I’ve spent a lot of time going “I’m not disabled (enough), I don’t need help, I don’t deserve help, I’m fine,” but the fact of the matter is that I am not. I am struggling. The level of executive dysfunction I experience is disabling. For a few brief weeks, when I was on an antidepressant, I got to see what my life with less executive functioning looked like.

And then the antidepressant flicked the suicide switch in my brain, and I had to stop taking it.

I have the same job as that girl. I work in the same field. I have two jobs in that field, and both of them feel like pulling teeth at the moment. I feel like I’m drowning. I’m just - tired of trying. I try so hard. I try so hard it hurts, and at the end of the day I’m still struggling and I’m still getting nowhere, and other people are suceeding.

(And I know, I don’t know everything that’s going on with her. She could be struggling too. But what I can perceive indicates to me she’s...living the dream. And I so badly want to be living the dream.)

Feasibly, I can’t go to a psychiatrist and seek diagnosis. Psychiatrists cost money, and the kind of help I need isn’t really available in the public system once you’re over 25.

#skylark prive #suicide mention cw #uuuhhhh #internalised ableism cw ?

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goosiewoo · 2 years

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i feel like all of my friends don't see me or treat me the same way that they see or treat their other friends and that makes me really upset. i feel like an inconvenience because they can't text me the same way as other people, they can't send images to spark conversation and they don't know what to talk about. i've never wished i was sighted more

#cw vent #internalised ableism

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daimoan · 9 months

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i can't believe how st*pid(much shame) i feel for still loving my ex so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so sos os so so so so so so sos ososooo much.

#about #ableism cw #internalised ableism

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telltalerose · 1 year

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everyone knows too much about us we need to disappear we need to run away and hide hide hide hide hide hide i am a frantic trapped beast and i am afraid and i am in danger and vulnerability is danger. they know too much they know too much

need to be normal need to be normal need to be normal why are we different why why why why why why

#telltale vent #actually avpd #actually avoidant #repetition cw #um #internalised ableism #i guess #we will be ok

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latenightsimping · 2 years

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Trying to find the guts to post my Eddie x wheelchair user reader fic but damn, this internalised ableism got hands. tw: talks of slightly heavier stuff under the cut, contains worries about stuff and internalised ableism. Also kinda long.

Like it’s not that I think ‘oh, people won’t read it’ because I’m happy to put it out there and it not get a single note. If just one person sees it and thinks “holy shit, i’m able to relate to this story because my disability is included,” I would be over the moon.

But like, I’m worried people might see it and not actually believe I know what I’m talking about when I put things in that I’ve experienced or heard from other wheelchair users what happened to them first hand? Even the fact that the character uses a manual wheelchair and I use a motorised one seems to be a factor, considering those two things somehow feel different?

I’ve had people crouch down to talk to me, which I cannot stand. People still sometimes raise their voice a couple of octaves and speak that little bit slower like I’m a fucking child. I’ve had the frustration of not being able to go into a building independently because there’s a step or the door’s too narrow. Fuck, I even had a friend who makes mobility accessories make me handle covers with “please ask” and fucking spikes on them so nobody goes to grab them and try to push me around. (Luckily never happened, but I always have that fear that somebody will.)

And I tend to get a bit dark with my humour about it, because that’s the way I cope. I call my disabled parking badge my ‘leggy no worky permit’. I make jokes about not being able to jump around when a performer tells people to at gigs. But I know that to some people, those kind of little remarks can be hurtful, and the last thing I wanna do is be that.

So I don’t know. Maybe if I sleep on it and add a lot of content warnings, people can go ahead and decide if they want to read. I just know that for me, I adore finding fics that I can fully relate to and really be able to insert myself into it. I can have these fictional characters be kind to me, and validate me when the world isn’t so kind to those of us who need to use mobility aids. I can finally see myself in a piece of fiction. I dunno. Just got a lot of thoughts in the ole wronkles.

#cw: internalised ableism #cw: ableism

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camille-lachenille · 1 year

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Day 30 of All of Arda is Autistic:

Prompt: acceptance

Rating: Gen

CW: internalised ableism, reported ableism, Denethor being a terrible father offscreen

The room’s door opened and closed with a soft clic. “Faramir? Fara?” Boromir’s voice was worried as he padded toward the bed. Faramir did not answer and simply tightened the blankets around him. The mattress dipped at the foot of the bed. “Tell me what happened, Fara, please,” his brother pleaded. The silence stretched between them but Faramir was glad for his brother’s presence.

Yet, after some time, Boromir stood up and left the room. Faramir blinked tears away and curled up a little more on himself. Even his big brother couldn’t stand him. Only his mother had ever truly understood him, but she wasn’t there anymore and Faramir was left alone like a broken toy.

The mattress dipped again and a soft weight landed over him, making Faramir startle a bit and opened his eyes. Boromir was sitting beside him, carefully arranging their mother’s blue cloak with silver stars on top of the blankets without touching him. Faramir melted under the familiar garment, trying in vain to catch what was left if his mother’s perfume on the fabric. “Thanks,” he whispered.

Boromir smiled and held his hand out in a silent question. Faramir nodded and pressed his head into his bother’s hand, revelling in the feeling of fingers combing through his messy hair.

“Do you want to tell me?” Boromir asked, now looking serious. Faramir bit his lip. It was nothing out of the usual, really. And his father had been right to scold him for that. And yet…

“Father said that I have to stop rambling about Númenor’s history like a freak each time someone mentions a tradition of Gondor or ask a simple date.” he explained, his voice barely audible. And it felt like a heavy weight lifted from his chest as he told Boromir everything. “I don’t understand. Father called me his clever boy, before… before mum died,” he concluded. “But now, I’m never good enough. It’s always too much or too little. I act too childish, don’t know how to behave in public and so on…”

There was a silence where Boromir never ceased running his hand in his brother hair, before he sighed deeply. “You are worthy, Fara. So, so worthy. Father… he shouldn’t say these things to you. You are not a freak, nor childish. You are Faramir, and you are clever, passionate about ancient lore, shy but kind and always polite, and the best brother I could wish for.” Boromir declared in a fierce tone. “Can I hug you?”

Faramir didn’t even bother to answer as he bolted up and flung himself in his brother’s arms, effectively knocking both of them flat on the bed. Boromir laughed and held him tight as he sat up again. The sound made something break in Faramir and he started crying on his brother’s shoulder. “Thank you, Boromir. Thank you so much,” he managed after a while. “Love you.”

“I love you too, little brother.”

Faramir is 12 or 13 years old, and Boromir 17-18 years old. I love the relationship between them so much!

And this challenge is done! It’s the first time I try a writing challenge with prompts and I am mightily proud I managed to complete it, especially since April was so hectic. But sitting down (almost) every day to write about characters I like so much was very pleasant and gave me the opportunity to explore some thematics/characters/relationships I wouldn’t have written about normally. And I think that the very, very short ficlet about Maeglin might be amongst my favourite fanfics I wrote. Thank you so much @all-of-arda-is-autistic for organising this event and proposing a prompt list!

#all of arda is autistic 2023 #tolkien #the lord of the rings #faramir #boromir #boromir and faramir #autistic character #my favourite brothers #acceptance #autism acceptance #ficlet #writing prompt

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yuripoll · 10 months

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KNOCKOUTS: How Do We Relationship? (2018 - ?)

How Do We Relationship? (or So you wanna go out, or...?) is an ongoing drama series by Tamifull about a couple who got together because they are the only lesbians they know.

Shy Miwa has always dreamed of finding love, but living in small-town Japan made finding the right match difficult—especially since she likes girls! Even going away to college didn't seem to help, until one day her outgoing classmate Saeko suggests they might as well start dating each other since it's not like either of them has other options. At first it seems like things won't work out as their personalities clash and misunderstandings abound. But when their casual friendship starts to become something more, Miwa begins to wonder—can a pragmatic proposal lead to true love? - MAL

ENG localised by Viz & JP available on Book Walker.

CWs under the cut. General severity rating: significant.

sex scenes + lots of talking about sex.

homophobia <- part of a characters backstory & fear of further homophobia plays a big part in her actions & thoughts processes. also theres this one guy who kind of sucks (generally an asshole to miwa, pushy about her relationship in ch11, also just generally a dick whenever he shows up tbh. cools off after ch16). ch24 a parent makes a comment about lesbians on tv around her gay daughter. ch73 homophobe says shes grossed out by lesbians bc of a bad experience w another girl. theres some internalised homophobia too.

(attempted?) outing <- as previously stated. theres this one guy who kind of sucks. just callously accuses her of dating a woman in front of randos. happens in ch13 and ch16.

hes not actually homophobic for the record he's just an asshole.

ableism(?) <- character backstory in ch16, parent takes her child to a doctor and tells them to make him normal. its not actually clear why she thought he's not normal, but ableism felt like the most appropriate label to give it.

jealousy <- in main couple. becomes a plot point from ch12 onwards, iirc gets mostly resolved at ~ch20? side character gets in a (toxic?) relationship w a woman who won't let him hang out w his girl bestie.

emotional infidelity <- icr the exact chapter # but one of the mains has lingering feelings for her first crush which causes Relationship Havoc. important to note that no actual cheating takes place.

child abuse (by both parents + complicit sibling) <- extreme academic pressure + very undisguised favouritism to an emotionally abusive degree.

suicidality / suicide baiting <- ch26, complicit sibling above tells her sister to die + character expresses that she would have died if it weren't for her friend reaching out to her. ch43 a character visibly going through a depressive episode says she wants to die. continues throughout depressive episode up til roughly ch50.

slut shaming <- one very minor incident during a fight in ch5 but mostly warning wrt ch38 where a character who sleeps around a lot gets judged by her fwb.

misogyny <- also ch38, mostly talking about the same instance. internalised misogyny brought up in one character backstory in ch64.

toxicity? or messiness? like...... SO messy

i literally can't stress enough how messy this gets

^ live batoto reaction

#knockouts #how do we relationship #im still like 3 chapters away from being 100% caught up but im just posting now #fingers crossed nothing massive happens in those 3 chapters lol #edit: uh. yeah there was stuff in those three chapters.

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selectivechaos · 9 months

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cw: negative emotions related to sm; depersonalisation; internalised ableism ⚠️⚠️

think sm destroyed my confidence in my ability to speak, to be social, to converse; destroyed my understanding of how my voice sounds. am never sure of how it will come out; the pitch, the tone, the volume, if it will crack, squeak, waver.

it destroyed my relationship with my voice, with words, with speech.

feels like people see their voices as attached to them. something they wear like a bracelet. and mine fucking broke and fell off.

feel like I should be more angry about it. used to be. but depersonalisation means I don’t really know who to mourn.

think one thing would like people who find speech easy to do, is not treat it like it is easy for everyone else. not assume. not belittle my struggles and my fears.

🌹🌹

#getting better at big text. better for structure. previously sm was like: nooo do the smallest text possible. but fuck that #people cant read tiny text (and my sm was like “shhh that's the pointttt”.#selective mutism #situational mutism #cw negative emotions #tw depersonalization #tw depersonalisation #sm tag #tw ableism

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pigeonwhumps · 1 year

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Brynn and Gemma

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

@extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch @actress4him

Brynn and Gemma's relationship over the years.

Brynn's supervillain whumper is now called Sovereign.

2.3k

CWs: mentioned controlling whumper, broken ankle, muzzle, touch-starved, implied abusive parental figure/child abuse (no explicit minor whump), past parental death, mentioned betrayal, self-esteem issues, internalised ableism (courtesy of Sovereign)

"I am–am B–b–black D–d–d–death, and I wu–will r–r–raze your city to–to the g-g-ground an-and ru-ru-rebuild it as-as m-m-my n-new p-p-palace!" shouts the small figure squeakily, and Gemma bites back a laugh, grateful that the kid can't see her face properly. They have a mask made from black sugar paper and a black tablecloth as a cape. A hawk is hovering just above them.

"Isn't that Sovereign's line?"

The kid puffs out their chest. "It-it's m-m-mine n-n-now. I w-work w-w-with him. An-and y-y-you'll n-n-never d-d-defeat us!"

They kick forward sloppily, and Gemma backs up, dodging the blows easily. The hawk swoops forward, and Gemma pretends to fall.

"You're right, kid. You're very strong. I can't defeat you."

"Ha-ha! M-m-me an-and Ho-ho-horus are st-stronger th-than you!" The kids holds out their hand. "H-h-h-however, I-I am a b-b-benevolent v-v-v-villain an-and wu-wu-will not k-k-k-kill you."

Gemma takes their hand and pulls herself up, pushing off the ground slightly so they don't try and take all her weight. Well, that line isn't from Sovereign.

Speaking of the supervillain...

"Br- kid, what are you doing out here? Home, now. It's well past your bedtime."

"B-b-b-but–"

"No buts. I'll play tomorrow."

Gemma can almost see the kid's pout under their mask as they stomp off. She has a million questions, none of which her nemesis will ever answer.

"My apologies for the child. Shall we get on with it?"

Brynn digs her hand between the bricks, scrambling to find enough purchase to keep herself upright. It doesn't work, and she can't put any weight on her ankle, dropping to the floor of the dingy back alley.

She needs to get back, but she doesn't want to crawl the whole way.

"Hey there. I saw your fall earlier. Do you need help?"

Bryan turns around to see a woman standing at the end of the alley, silouhetted by sodium-yellow streetlights. She narrows her eyes as the woman takes a step closer, hands in the air.

'Horus,' she thinks in her hawk's mind, 'investigate.'

Horus swoops forward, circling the woman, who watches him calmly. Brynn doesn't get any sense of imminent danger from him, and she doesn't really react, even when he perches on her head. Horus thinks she's no threat. A civilian, then?

"Can I help you?" asks the woman, and Brynn nods, watching warily as the woman approaches. She crouches in front of Brynn and pulls out a torch. In the light of it, she can see the woman putting the pieces together, realising who she is. Will she leave now? Swipe out in disgust and try to arrest or kill her?

To Brynn's surprise, she does nothing of the sort.

"You're Black Death, huh? Nice mask." Brynn flinches internally. It is certainly not a nice mask, but Sovereign doesn't trust her to stay silent without it. She can't correct the woman though, not without cutting her mouth open on the spikes – and even then, sound probably wouldn't come out. "I'm Gemma. What have you injured?"

Brynn points at her ankle, and Gemma examines it, wincing. "That's a nasty break. I'll splint it for you, but make sure you get it treated properly later, yeah?" Brynn nods, already knowing she won't. Gemma pulls out a first aid kit and cleans Brynn's ankle with antibacterial wipes, her touch gentle as she splints it.

The care brings tears to Brynn's eyes. The last time someone was this soft with her, she was much younger, Sovereign had just taken her in. He's not like that anymore, though, when he even bothers to treat her. And no-one else ever comes near.

She doesn't need care, she's not a baby anymore, but it's nice.

"I'm just going to find you something to use as a walking stick. Take some painkillers from the first aid kit if you need them." Brynn nods, and as Gemma strides off, pops two pills out of the packet, swallowing them dry.

She leans against the wall and watches Gemma for a while, stroking Horus absently. Who is this woman? Why is she so willing to help? Brynn's done terrible things, not at her own behest, sure, but nobody knows that. She still did them. Why's Gemma helping?

"Alright, this should do. Try it out."

Brynn takes the stick and levers herself to her feet, putting all her weight on the stick and her good foot. She doesn't fall this time.

She signs a quick, "Thank you." Gemma smiles.

"Glad I could help. Anything else?" Brynn shakes her head. "Okay. Well, take this, in case you ever need anything."

Gemma hands her a slip of paper, with an address and phone number on it. Her address? Why would she trust a villain with her address?

Brynn thanks her again and stows the paper in a secure pocket. She'll just have to make sure Sovereign doesn't find it.

It seems to burn a hole in her pocket as she limps off, and all through her meeting with Sovereign. As she collapses onto her bed, splint gone and a new pain in her ankle, she knows she can't leave. Sovereign would be sure to hunt her down if she did. So there's no point in keeping Gemma's address.

She does, though, slipping the little piece of paper under the mattress. She's not sure why she doesn't just throw it in the fireplace, let it go up in smoke, but for some reason she can't bring herself to get rid of the one piece of evidence she has that people will, occasionally, be kind.

Gemma resists the urge to get up as the kitchen window slides open further and a person drops inside with a small thud.

The little thief's back.

She hears rustling outside her bedroom, and knows that when she goes out in the morning, she'll see an empty plastic box that held snackd from last time they 'burgled' her, slightly rumpled bed clothes on the sofabed, and a wide-open window. Possibly a few feathers too.

She worries about Black Death, sometimes. They've gone from an excitable, dramatic small child to a wary young adult who barely talks. And who sometimes ends up in a near-stranger's house for food and sleep. She thinks Sovereign probably has something to do with it, given that they're his sidekick. It's worrying.

But she can't confront Black Death. She doesn't think they're ready to leave him, and she doesn't want to accidentally chase them out of the only place they're definitely getting food and rest from.

She just hopes they get the courage to ask for help sometime.

Brynn bites her lip as she hears the key turn in the lock. Gemma's here.

She was nervous enough about tonight anyway, but now she thinks this might be the same Gemma she's been stealing food from for years. The woman who helped her out, before she'd realised it was a bad idea to let anyone except Sovereign help. And now... she has to own up, right? To stealing? But what if Gemma hates her for it? The team all look up to Gemma, what would happen to her then?

"Hi Gemma," says Lian, out in the hallway. "Kai told you we have someone new, right?"

"Yeah. He and Aaron are still buying snacks, by the way, I came on ahead. She used to be a villain's sidekick?"

There's a glimmer of hope in Gemma's voice, and Brynn wonders who she's hoping to find. Can't be her. She feels a little guilty, for not being the person Gemma clearly wants.

"Yep. Sovereign's, as a matter of fact. Her alias used to be Black Death."

Gemma gasps. "She's here?"

Morfydd gives Brynn a knowing smile, and she squeezes further into Phoenix's side. She's not scared, far from it, she just... wants Phoenix. On Phoenix's other side, Santhiya groans as they fall onto her.

Oops.

Gemma enters the room then, and Morfydd gets up, running to her and throwing their arms around the retired hero. Gemma chuckles lightly, stroking Morfydd's hair.

"Missed you too. Been a hell of a fortnight, I'm guessing?" Morfydd nods. "Do you and Lian want to come and stay over soon? Get away from it all." They nod again, clutching Gemma tightly. Brynn looks away guiltily, aware that it's her sudden move that's caused all this. And what Sovereign wants her to do will make everything worse.

Eventually, Morfydd pulls away and sits on Lian's lap, where she originally was before Gemma arrived.

"Why does no-one here ever use furniture?" she asks, sounding faintly amused, before turning to Phoenix and Santhiya. "Hey Phoenix, Santhiya. How are you?"

"I'm controlling my powers well, and me and Phoenix went on another date!" replies Santhiya excitedly.

"Finally," mutters Lian. Santhiya flips him off cheerfully, contentedly sitting partially under Phoenix.

Phoenix kisses the top of Santhiya's head, then gives Gemma an exhausted smile. "It was a good date. I think I understand why everyone was so concerned when they first met me now. I'm good, though. Kai says having someone to look after is good for me, and I agree. This is Brynn."

Brynn shies away as Gemma focuses on her. "H-h-h-hi."

"Hey there. You're the newbie then, I take it?" Brynn nods. "Please say you're the same little thief whose ankle I treated a few years ago."

"Y-y-y-yes. Y-y-y-you wwwww w-w-want me to-to be?" Brynn's perplexed. Why would Gemma want to see her again?

Gemma shrugs. "You vanished, I was worried about you. Did I have a good reason to be?"

Brynn shakes her head. "I-I-I'm f-f-f-fine. I-I-I'm s-s-s-sorry I st-st-stole f-f-from you."

"It's fine. I wouldn't have left the window half-open and snacks packed into tupperware if I didn't want you taking them, would I?"

Oh. Oh. Brynn's heart swoops. Sovereign was right. She really is thicker than two short planks.

"Oh. Of c-c-course. Sh-sh-sh-should've known I'm-I'm to-too stupid t-t-to b-b-b-break in." She takes a deep breath, trying to stop the incessant babble that comes out whenever she's upset. If she can't even speak properly she's not fit to speak at all.

"Hey. That wasn't what I meant, little thief. You broke in successfully the first time. The sofa was slept on and some food gone, and there were hawk feathers left behind. Deductive reasoning. It was only after that that I started leaving the window open for you. You're not stupid, far from it. You're just very brave."

"D-d-desperate," she corrects, heart in her throat. "I wu-wu-was d-d-desperate, n-n-not brave."

"Mm. You were both, I think. Do you want a hug?"

Brynn nods, ensconcing herself in Gemma's arms. She hasn't been hugged like this since her parents died, and she finds herself relaxing involuntarily.

That is, until Morfydd speaks, soft but amused.

"Does this mean that Brynn's the child you told us tried to fight you dressed in a sugar paper mask and a tablecloth?"

Brynn goes bright red as the others giggle, pressing closer to Gemma to hide her face. Damnit.

"Yep. That's Brynn."

Gemma looks up and covers Brynn's old mask with a tea towel when she walks into the room, wrapped in a green fuzzy dressing gown. Now Sovereign's in jail, Brynn's finally had a chance to collect the rest of her old things, and the mask is frankly horrifying. Gemma's not sure why she chose to keep it, given the obvious fear it inspires in her, but she doesn't plan on bringing it up unless Brynn does.

"Hey. Come and have some food." Brynn pours herself a small bowl of coco pops and takes a seat, the overlarge dressing gown making her look tiny. "How are you doing?"

Brynn nods. "Ffffff f–f-f-fine. I–I–I llllike th-th-the bu-bu-bu-bed." She inhales a spoonful of cereal. "Wu-wu-wu-when you ff-f-fixed m-m-my an-an-ankle, Ssssssss Sovereign re-re-re-rebroke it. I-I sh-sh-sh-shouldn't have g-g-got help f-f-from an-anyone bu-bu-but him. So-so I d-d-d-didn't kn-know h-h-h-how to-to lu-lu-lu-leave. I'm-I'm s-s-s-sorry."

Oh, god. She should've gotten Brynn out of there years ago, damn letting her make her own choices.

"Hey. It's okay, Brynn. Sovereign was my nemesis for years, and although I didn't know just how awful he was, I know you didn't have a choice. In fact, you're the one who defeated him in the end."

"It-it wu-wu-wu-wouldn't have b-b-been necessary if-if I w-w-wasn't a-a c-c-coward. C-c-can't I j-j-j-just h-h-hand m-myself in-in?"

"No. That's why you're staying with me, to stop you from doing that. It's why Phoenix tied you down at first. You're not going to prison, I don't care how much you think you deserve it."

Brynn squeezes her eyes shut, tears spilling out from under her eyelids. Gemma squeezes her hand gently.

"I m-m-miss them. Ph-ph-phoenix th-the m-m-most."

"You can call them if you like. You won't be disturbing them, if they're busy they just won't answer."

"I'm sc-scared," she whispers. "Y-y-y-you d-d-d-didn't see th-the others' ffff f-f-faces. Th-the b-b-betrayal. Wu-what if th-they– wu-what if Ph-ph-phoenix an-and San-santhiya are-are are-are-are-are–"

Gemma waits, but Brynn just slams her mouth shut and shakes her head, unable to go on. "You won't know until you speak to them, and you have to speak eventually. If it helps, I don't think Phoenix has it in them to hate you."

Brynn picks her phone up and unlocks it with shaking fingers. She stares at the screen, unmoving.

"Do you want me to give you some privacy while you call?" asks Gemma quietly. Brynn shakes her head, squeezing Gemma's hand in a death grip.

Eventually, she presses call, then puts it on speaker. The phone barely has a chance to ring before Phoenix picks up.

"Hello? Brynn?"

"H-h-h-hey."

"Oh, thank god, you're okay. You haven't handed yourself in. How, um, how are you doing?"

Phoenix sounds exhausted but happy to hear from one of their partners, and Brynn smiles tentatively, loosening her hold on Gemma.

Gemma's relieved, and not just for the regaining of feeling in her fingers. It's good to see Brynn smile and talk. Gemma hasn't seen enough of that.

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theofreakingbell · 1 year

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I'm proud of myself today.

(cw mentions of parental abuse and discussions of trauma)

I've been in this fandom for a long time, almost since I could legally have an account on here. There's a person on here that I used to follow when I was younger. at the time I was being abused by my parents and going through a lot of other shit in my life and Loki was something that comforted and validated me.

I felt a tremendous amount of doubt and insecurity about loving him. I didn't on a basic level know it wasn't morally wrong because he was a villain. I was intensely vulnerable and didn't know I was being abused and was looking for any validation I could find. her blog was, to me then, one of my safe spaces. the scarce few I had. She didn't think it was wrong for people to love him, and she clearly loved him very much herself. She spoke of many of his feelings like they mattered. validated things I had hardly seen elsewhere. She was a good curator of fandom posts too. I would go to her blog sometimes when I needed comfort in my anger and hurt from my abuse, and on at least one occasion feeling like that was a safe space stopped me from self harming. I thought for years that I literally in some ways owed her my life.

she also reblogged misinformation about abuse on multiple occasions. I ate it up and it made me feel more depressed and self destructive. She woobified Frigga to a ridiculous extent and refused to acnowledge any responsibility that she had in the things they shouldn't have done that it made me internalise problematic shit about my own mom (whose relationship with my own father and acting as a sort of peacemaker while also doing her own bad stuff mirrors Odin and Frigga very much) that I am still having to carefully detangle from me like glass shards. I nearly realised I was a survivor years earlier than I did because of how I was relating my own trauma to Loki and beginning to understand it, or at least that it existed, and it was what I saw on her blog, the assertions that what he went through wasn't abuse, the denial of certain areas of abuse, that sent me crying and thinking that I couldn't be one, and that I was wrong for wanting to know that he was a survivor too.

Her knowledge of psychology and the terms she used was clearly stuck in some past decade and she said multiple ableist and nonsensical things re loki's mental health. She said that Loki did what he did in the first movie because of psychosis which. just. absolutely not. She shared things that pathologised Odin instead of criticising him properly and without ableism.

I just. I was so afraid that nobody would ever care about what I went through or listen to me or respect me as someone who loves Loki and had bad luck in finding better people that I clung to her far longer than I should have, or should have had to, and I had a very hard time realising that while I saw her as someone who could be a safe space, she wasn't that, and in a lot of ways hurt me and made things worse for me. She validated his anger and pain while obscuring and lying about some of what hurt him and in turn made me think harder that what was being done to me was okay, because ~they were trying~, as if that should have been enough to protect me from what they were doing (it wasn't).

I know I'm a survivor now. I know Loki is too. I have met and talked with and befriended so many lovely people here. I feel safe in the fandom now in a way I literally never thought I would and I am so happy and greatful for that. (she was not the only problem, nor my only source of trauma within fandom, but she was a gigantic part of it)

She's never interacted with me on here. I have no idea if she even knows I exist. for multiple years I couldn't even bear to look her up to block her because there was a part of my brain screaming that that was too harsh, that I should be greatful to her, that I owed her that.

I blocked her today.

II'm still struggling to know, in the whole of me, that she and her feelings are not my responsibility. I cared about her so desperately for so long and part of me still does. But I do not owe her access to me when even seeing her username makes my entire body tense up, when she, a full grown adult, put me as a child in more danger that I was already in by not being careful not to spread misinfo about abuse and not be dismissive of it, when she gave me emotional wounds I will likely be dealing with long after she dies (she's quite a bit older than me), when I cannot even think of existing in the same space as her without feeling short of breath.

I do not owe her that. and I owe myself the peace and safety of knowing I never have to interact with her again.

Here's to relaxing a little more after today.

#blurb #abuse cw #okay to rb just be kind please. I hope nobody relates to this but yeah #i am sorry for the uneven caps at sentence beginnings #it literally came out as is and is gonna stay that way bc I don't want to read it over again. already have twice #this is also tangentially related to something that I want to talk about and will soon if I have the energy #but yeah. first time talking about this publically 😅

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wild-houseplant · 1 year

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Very late ZevWarden Week 2022 part 2

Finished, at fucking last. CW for sexual references, internalised ableism, and self-harm. It reads pretty blandly if you try not to think about it too deeply :) Mostly under the cut, AO3 here. Please leave this for later (or not at all) if you’re in a vulnerable spot. Drink your fluids and look at gorgeous things.

In the middle of the second floor of the Amell estate, Rhodri slowed her walk to a stop, peering at Zevran curiously as he rearranged himself from his sprawl in her arms into an upright position. He offered no explanation for this. She obliged him anyway, allowing her arms to be shifted until she was supporting him by the thighs. Most satisfactory. He tangled his legs around her and gave her a pleased eyebrow waggle.

Briefly, briefly, she met his eyes. Her expression was as severe and unsmiling as it always was at rest, but it had been years since Zevran saw anything other than tenderness there. Her thumbs, as though thanking him for his confidence in her, tracked slow, steady strokes over his skin.

“You are comfortable?” she asked in an entirely unnecessary near-whisper.

“Mmm,” he nodded and dropped his voice to match her volume. “You know, my love, the Amell estate is quite a big one.” He bobbed his head in the direction of the enormous, empty foyer downstairs, and of the myriad rooms that connected to it. “Nobody around to overhear us, and yet you speak so quietly, hmm? What is it?”

Rhodri frowned, her enormous shoulders pulling up in a slow shrug.

“Too many things at once, perhaps?”

“It’s more that I feel… soft, and heavy,” she sagged just a little as if to demonstrate.

“Mmm? You can put me down, if you like.”

“No, it’s…” her thumbs tapped on his legs. “I’m not tired. Not urgently, anyway. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to do anything loud or vigorous at the moment.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’d adjust quickly enough if I had to, but the prospect is awful.”

Zevran let his head tip against Rhodri’s. “That sounds familiar,” he murmured. “Is this closeness too much?”

“No.” She sighed and rubbed their foreheads together. “I could do this forever.”

He chuckled. “Could you? I think even your arms would tire eventually.”

His skin pulled as she raised an eyebrow. “Aeya,” she mumbled. “That’s what I get for using poetic licence, is it? Bene.”

“Ah, mi Rhodri.” Zevran planted a kiss on her cheek. “I am a wicked man, I know, but you tolerate it with your usual good humour.” Unable to resist himself, he put a second kiss on top of the first one, and when she took that with a contented hum, he added a third for good measure.

Rhodri lingered with her cheek still facing him for a moment. Her brows lifted a little. “Ah,” she straightened up. “You were finished.”

He bit his lip. “I need not be. Not unless you would rather we stopped.”

She glanced at him and, without a word, turned her cheek back toward him.

Zevran huffed a laugh and kissed a slow, lazy line from the corner of her mouth up to her ear. “Is there anywhere else I might kiss?” he purred.

Rhodri gave a breathless laugh. “Wherever you like,” she answered hoarsely. “But please, non vehemensis. Gentle, sic?”

‘For you,’ he replied in slow, easy Antivan, ‘I shall be like a cloud, yes?’

“Hopefully less moist than a cloud.”

“Aeya, Rhodri,” he scolded softly, chuckling through the words. “You are incorrigible!”

Zevran leaned down and teasingly kissed her bottom lip. There had been a plan to pull away and make a ribald comment, which was waylaid when she pressed back with a sigh that he drank down like water. It took two tries before he could gain the willpower to break the kiss and return to her ear. “Perhaps only moist where it counts, sí?”

He was rewarded with the sound of a thick swallow and, when her head came back into view, the sight of his wife watching him with dark, hooded eyes.

Groin stirring, Zevran rubbed his nose against hers. “Tell me, my love,” he husked quietly, “is one of these rooms yours?”

Rhodri’s lips brushed over his; he pressed a fleeting kiss there to quell the itch.

“Sic,” she mumbled. “But ours, dulcis, not mine.”

He hummed encouragingly. “Ours, yes. Which one?”

“The door to your right.”

“Mmm? Shall we go in there?” He made a point of winking at her.

Her eyes widened a little. “Ah,” she cleared her throat. “You were hinting. Forgive me, I…”

Zevran smiled and shook his head, brushing his knuckles over her cheek. “Your mind was on other things, no?”

Rhodri walked them over to the door and turned to the side so Zevran could grab the knob and open it. “They were,” she admitted. She stepped inside, bringing him over to the bed and setting him down. “They still are, in fact.”

“I noticed.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm.” He pointed with his nose over at the door. “You brought us over here before I could secure our privacy.”

Her eyes darted over to where he indicated. “Ah.” She excused herself with a kiss to his hands, and strode away and closed the door.

Zevran sprawled out on the mattress, lightly palming his erection. He peered up at Rhodri through his lashes when she was standing over him again. With a smile, he turned and held his arms out to her.

The old, ingrained uneasiness that came with such a display of affection died away as Rhodri joined him, pulling him to her and rolling them until she hovered over him, propped up by her elbows and knees. She smiled down at him with the blunt, artless warmth that made his stomach jitter. Long fingers raked through his hair, traced the column of his neck reverently, cradled his jaw to tilt his mouth up to hers.

Zevran groaned into the kiss as softly as he could manage. His hands reached up and fed themselves up the sleeves of her robe. The contours of her arms had changed. Muscles that were already large now bulged implausibly, the individual strands like rope fibres under his fingertips. Soft, snaking veins interrupted the hardness, and curious shapes whose origin he couldn’t establish pulled him out of his half-hazed state.

He pulled up one sleeve to get a better look at the foreign texture and froze. The entire forearm was peppered with livid red burn marks and deep wraparound gashes. Her arms had always been pale and unmarked, without so much as a freckle after years out of the sun, or under layer upon layer of clothing.

Zevran's eyes widened. “What are these scars from?” he breathed.

Rhodri shrugged against him and pressed a kiss onto his neck. “Personal development.”

“P-personal–?” he croaked. “They are intentional?” Zevran grasped her arm and pulled it closer to his eyes, sending Rhodri tumbling into the gap between his legs with a surprised yelp.

“Careful, dulcis!” she admonished. “I nearly hit your–”

“What personal development?” Zevran demanded. He tapped her hand impatiently when no answer was forthcoming. “Hmm? What part of you does this develop?”

Rhodri’s jaw squared. “The parts that keep you and the rest of House Callistus safe,” she replied firmly. “Nothing to worry about, dulcis–”

“Rhodri!” He gestured at the scarred arm. “My wife has been mutilating herself and then brushes it off like it is nothing! Of course this is something to worry about!”

Rhodri straightened up, eyeing him indignantly. Zevran hauled himself upright and crossed his legs. He took her hands in his. “Tell me.”

Nothing.

“Amore,” he pleaded, “don’t keep this from me.” He stroked her palms with his thumbs. “Have you been hurting yourself because you are angry? Upset?”

Rhodri blinked quizzically. “Wh-? No! No, dulcis.” She squeezed his hands back. “It’s just training, not emotional release. I have healthy outlets. This is nothing to worry about. Truly.”

“... Training?” He stiffened. “I have watched you train. You never resorted to this.”

She gave a nonchalant flick of the eyebrows. “A different skillset was needed,” she said simply. “And I had a promise to keep.”

He shook his head hard. “My love, do not be cryptic. Please, talk to me openly.” He pulled her hands up to his mouth and kissed her palms. “However secret it is, you can trust me. I swear on my life.”

Rhodri frowned. “I’m not being cryptic. It’s an honest summary.”

"I would like the full explanation," he returned pointedly.

His wife shrugged. “I promised you I’d protect you. I did it the day you joined us, all through the Blight…” she shrugged again, a little irritably this time. “I even declared it in my wedding vows to you, in front of everyone. I was so sure I was enough as I was, but I evidently wasn’t.”

Zevran’s heart sank. “You were,” he protested gently. “You still are. I thought we had worked through this the day I left! You are not a Crow. How could you protect me from them when you have not lived that life?”

“I haven’t forgotten the conversation,” she replied curtly. “I don’t think I ever will. You left because you needed the protection of someone with a specialised skillset. I wasn’t that someone, and you were forced to fend for yourself.”

There was a pause as Rhodri gulped. She looked away and appeared wholly convinced that no-one had witnessed her wiping her eyes when she turned back to him. “Zev. I know that I’m…” she scowled and threw a hand at herself. Her voice dripped with disgust, “like this–”

“Rhodri…” He stifled the spike of anger with a sigh. “Do not insult my wife.”

Watery eyes met his, ever so briefly. "I obviously couldn’t–can’t protect you socially,” she continued, as though she had never been rebuked. “But that was no excuse to sit idly by, not when there were plenty of other Crow skills I could work on, and become what you needed. Pain resistance was a part of your training regimen. You told me about it in quite some detail, and I was able to replicate a good chunk of it.”

A wave of sick, clammy cold washed over him, which Rhodri appeared not to notice.

“I also took up strength training," she added, getting more fervent now. "I learned to use a sword and shield. I even did some dexterity training!” His stomach roiled as she smiled at him with the same sick satisfaction he had once seen in his reflection.

“It’s paid off, dulcis!” she enthused. “Three years of pain resistance training has toughened me enough to cast flawlessly through lyrium burns–”

“STOP.”

Rhodri fell silent, gaping at him. “Dulcis?”

“I cannot,” Zevran choked through gritted teeth, “I cannot believe you have done this.”

“Wh–?”

“I lay in your arms,” he seethed, “and told you those things, and you were horrified. You were so angry for me. I left your side because I was terrified the Crows would capture you and put you through something similar, and now I find out you used my stories to do the same to yourself? How dare you!” He looked down at his violently trembling arms, and thrust them into his lap. “This is a betrayal!”

“Betr– what?” Rhodri’s mouth fell open. "What do you mean a betrayal?"

"You went behind my back," he returned, voice breaking a littlte. "And did… this. What part of betrayal is unclear to you?"

"I didn't go behind your back!" she protested. "I would have done it whether you were there or not! In fact, had you stayed I would have asked you to supervise me." Her brows knitted. "Should I have sought approval from you first? You seemed not to need my approval before you left."

"Would you have had me feel that I needed it?"

Rhodri relented with a tsk. "Of course not." She put a hand on his knee, only to pull away again as he recoiled.

"Do not touch me," Zevran uttered softly. He shook his head. "Do not."

She gasped. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, showing her palms to him. “I didn’t mean to touch you against your will, I– I thought you might want comfort—”

She fell silent as he held up a hand. Summoning the last of his forbearance, Zevran took a breath and let it out again. “I know. I was only warning you not to, and you respected that. No harm done to me.”

Rhodri visibly crumpled with relief; he glanced down at her arms and tsked in disgust. “As though that were the main problem here." He sniffed bitterly. "I regret telling you anything about my life in the Crows. Had I known you would do this, I would have lied to you.”

“Dulcis,” she said reproachfully, and shook her head. “No. Do not lie to me.”

“Oh? But you will happily…” he trailed off, pulling his gaze from her arms before he lost his temper completely. “What did you do, anyway? These are the lyrium burns, I suppose? … No, perhaps I do not want the answer to that.”

“You probably don’t,” she admitted. “Not if you’re this upset about it. I’d suggest you don’t look at the rest of me, either, until I can find a moment to heal the scars. I didn't have the energy or the time before.”

Zevran’s stomach heaved. He swallowed weakly and wiped a fresh flush of sweat off his brow. “Maker, give me strength,” he uttered. “This is too much.”

Rhodri shook her head with infuriating calmness. “It isn’t.”

“It is,” he growled. “All this foolishness, and for what?" He tapped his chest angrily. "I have taken control of the Crows. Your exercises in cruelty were a waste. You have done nothing but hurt us both!”

“It was not a waste,” she rebutted indignantly. “If you have no need of these skills now, then we’re fortunate.” She dipped her head until their eyes were level. “And however repulsed you might be, I offer no apology for it. I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant I could better keep you safe from them in the future, which was the entire point of my doing this.”

“But you cannot,” he hissed. “There is nothing left of them to fight on my behalf. It-is-wasted. You were a fool to do it!”

“You will stop addressing me like I’m a lovesick child who acted out to punish you for leaving,” Rhodri barked. “As though I was never put through similar things in the Circle for a lesser cause! As though I wasn’t perfectly cognizant of the dangers or the suffering involved relative to the gains!”

“Had you been properly aware, you still would not have done it!” Zevran shouted. “What you did was meaningless!”

“HOW DARE YOU!” she roared, her face reddening. “If you doubt that I love you enough to do anything for you, then you will say it outright!” She smacked the flat of her palm into her chest. “I am Callistus, and my devotion to you will not be diminished by you dismissing it as gratuitous lip service!”

Zevran squared his jaw, his swimming eyes not leaving the spilled wine skin of her exposed arm. “I do not doubt it.”

“Then what is it?” Rhodri’s head dipped down into his line of sight, and an uncomfortable moment passed as her gaze locked onto his. She spoke so damned entreatingly, “Why do you think this was unnecessary?”

He glared at her. “Why do you think, Rhodri?” he grumbled. “Have you ever heard me suggest that something was worth your suffering?”

“I have not,” she shook her head. “But have you heard me say anything like that to you, either?”

Zevran snorted.

“Zevran,” she said gravely. “Mi Zevran, answer me, please. Have you?”

He rolled his eyes– mostly at himself– and shook his head.

“Then we seem to be at an impasse, my love,” Rhodri said, “because despite everything, I still think you should have stayed and let me handle this. And evidently, you don’t think that the payoffs of my training outweighed the costs.” She huffed a bitter laugh. “What a couple of bullheaded martyrs we are.”

He chuckled in spite of himself. “We are, aren’t we?”

Rhodri gave him a lopsided smile that quickly faded at the edges. She rubbed her brow, and suddenly looked more tired and careworn than he’d ever seen her.

“I don’t want to fight, Zev,” she said softly. “I’ve spent the last three years mourning you. Can we compromise here, nip this in the bud?”

A surge of resolution had him sitting upright again. “We can,” he said, and pointed at her arms with his nose. “No more of this. Ever.”

“I see,” she nodded. “Well, for my part, I want you to stop all dangerous or even risky missions and leave them to me. Or,” she added as he began to bristle, “you take me with you, and not as a bystander. We fight together.”

Zevran chewed his lip. The Crows were done with, weren’t they? A new guild could form, he supposed, made up of any leftover rebels, or new ones, even. Nothing was impossible.

“I need to remind you, dulcis,” Rhodri added gravely, “that you are no longer the sole bearer of your consequences. You have a wife, you have a family, you have friends, with all the privileges and responsibility that entails. The house you married into has strict rules of who defends whom. I am already making you a very generous offer."

"This is not right," he gestured at her arms and shook his head.

"Of course it isn't right," Rhodri groaned. "Of course it isn't! Do you think my heart didn't break when you told me what the Crows had done to you? Like it didn't break again when you told me you were going to walk straight back into that, without me?" Her eyes leaked despite her rapid blinking. "I certainly didn't look forward to putting myself through any of this, either. But these are the times we live in, my love, and we don't have a choice!"

Zevran forced stiffness into his muscles to keep a hand from reaching out and wiping under her eyes. He would not falter here. He wouldn't. He wouldn't.

"We do," he said resolutely. "It stops here. No more of this, for either of us. There is my compromise. If you wish to learn to wield a weapon, I will train you myself. Dexterity, stealth-- strength, if you wish it. But the pain resistance stops now."

She sighed. "Pain resistance training is an important focus-building exercise for mages. We had it in the Circle. What you were put through was only for punishment if we failed at lower levels of pain."

"Find a way around it,” he said. “Minor discomfort only. Any pain, you will use your entropy spell to transfer it to me. If you refuse, I will repeat whatever you do on myself."

Rhodri stiffened, watching him with a deepening glare as a grimly triumphant smirk crept into his mouth.

She cursed softly. "Very well. Low discomfort only."

He raised a brow. "And for pain…?"

"Ae-ae, Zevran!" She sighed in exasperation. "Obviously there will be no pain if I’m expected to transfer it to you. You and I both know this!"

He allowed his smile to broaden. "Mmm, I do. But I still wanted to hear you say it."

"Well, there it is.”

The beginnings of relief infused looseness into his chest. “Good.”

"And you will take me with you for any even slightly risky mission," she insisted. "That is my final offer, and I will retract my concession entirely if you don’t agree."

He gave a resigned chuckle and nodded. "I agree, then."

Rhodri nodded, looking as bruised as she might have had he refused her outright. Her sleeves fell to her elbows, scars popping back into view as she wrapped her arms up around her shoulders. She flexed her feet into the mattress, rocking herself gently.

Zevran chewed his cheek, itching to melt that miserable look away. How odd it was, that there was such a desire to comfort the person who had unapologetically harmed her in his name. How horribly unfair that they were one and the same.

He inched forward anyway. "You know, my love," he said through a smile that was surprisingly easy to summon, "I do believe you will be lucky to get a moment alone for the foreseeable future. I find I am loath to leave your side at all, let alone for a risky mission."

“Good.” Her eyes darted up to his, and the last of the lingering resentment shrank away. "Have we finished this discussion?"

Zevran smiled and nodded. "I think we have." He shuffled forward a little more. “You look lonesome there.”

Rhodri slipped off the bed. “I’ll go and handle it.”

“Rhodri?” He reached out and took her by the elbow. She paused. “Stay with me, amore, hmm?”

She nodded, so easily following the pull that took her back onto the mattress. He brought her up until she was in arm’s reach of him, and she started to shift back.

“Hmm?”

“I’m not supposed to touch you,” she said simply. “I need to put space between us so I don’t accidentally reach for you.”

“Ah.” Zevran smiled and shook his head. “No, touch me again now, if you like. I was not sure how long I would be upset, but that has passed now.” He held out his arms. “Come? We can lie down and nap a little.”

She came over, she and her new bulk and scars, and rearranged him until he was wrapped around her like a vine. The familiar motions were like balm, careful hands moving over him and drowsy, affectionate Tevene filling the silence. It was enough.

Soothed at last, Zevran buried his face into her neck and let his eyes fall shut.

#Rhodri Amell #At fucking last #Is this an argument? I suppose it is. They didn't like it.#It's certainly the last one they ever have #not because like... they die soon. They just don't argue any more after that #Zevri #posting the draft because I'm sick of editing it enough enough enough #Dragon Age: origins

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c-oswinwrites-x · 3 days

Text

Flightless Bird

Chapter/Part/Whatever the fuck you want to call it 1

CWs: Suicide mentions, internalised ableism, body dysphoria, shipping.

If any of this makes you uncomfortable, please, don't read it. I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable with my writing.

I stood on a roof, preparing to jump. You might be wondering why was about to jump off a roof. Well, it's simple. I'm an avian. I fly. Or at least, that's what I'm supposed to do. I have a stupid birth defect, meaning I can't fly. My wings are too small for my body. Not small enough to notice, but small enough that they can't support my weight. I've never met anyone else like me. I've never even met that many avians either though, so that might be a factor. Anyways, back to the roof.

All I could think of was my probable impending death. I knew I wasn't high enough to kill myself, but jumping off a roof is terrifying, no matter how high it is. I was about to jump, force myself to fly, when I noticed Scar. That awful, awful, beautiful man. No Grian. Stop thinking like that. He's neither of those things, least of all beautiful. Look at him for Xelqua's sake! Those eyes spell trouble Grian. Those gorgeous green eyes... that are so easy to get lost in. Shut up Grian. You don't have time for this!

Scar walked in my direction, a lot more bounce in his step than normal. His face fell when he saw me too. Oh gods, he thought I was going to kill myself... I pulled at my sleeve, trying desperately to think of how I explain... jumping off a roof... with no suicidal intentions... I couldn't think of what to say, so I just jumped, spreading my wings, hoping for the best. Of course, I fell. I don't know why I thought I'd be able to fly if I jumped off a roof. But at least I didn't get hurt too badly...I led on the ground for a minute, upset. I don't know why I thought it'd work. I don't know why I thought I'd ever be normal. Scar approached me, dropping his cane and crouching down beside me. I wish I was more like him. He knows he's not gonna wake up one day and be completely normal, and he's ok with that. He owns it. I wish I could do that. I wish I didn't force myself to do things I can't. I wish I could just accept that I'm disabled, and I will be for my whole life. I wish I could just accept that I'll never fly by myself.

"You alright?" Scar asked. "Mhm." I mumbled, too lost in my own thoughts to really pay attention to him. "Grian, as much as I would like to agree with you, you just jumped off a roof. You can trust me. What's wrong?" Scar replied. I snapped out of my thoughts at that. I turned to look at Scar. "I can explain!" I stuttered. Scar nodded at me. "It's complicated... I... can't fly. My wings are too small for my body... I don't know why I thought jumping off a roof would help me fly, I don't know why I even thought it was a good idea in the first place-" I started, talking far too fast. "Calm down Grian. Breathe. Now talk. Slow down. It's ok." Scar interrupted. Usually I'd be annoyed at being interrupted, but he helped a bit. "I can't fly." I said, trying to hide the obvious break in my voice, badly. "What? Don't say that!" Scar replied. "No, I literally can't. My wings are too small for my body. They physically cannot support my weight." I replied. "Oh." Scar whispered. "Come here." he said, louder this time.

I sat up slowly, suddenly feeling a sharp pain in my legs. I don't know what I expected, I mean, I jumped off a roof. I let out a sharp hiss, a noise I didn't even know I could still make. Scar wrapped an arm around me, running his fingers across the back of my head. I smiled at him, trying not to look like I was crying. Scar started talking, a slightly serious tone. I don't remember a word, I completely spaced out in his arms, trying to focus on anything other than the pain and failing spectacularly. I don't know how long we were there, but I eventually started paying attention to what he was saying again. "Do you think you can stand up?" he asked. "No..." I replied. "That's fine. I don't think I can either." Scar laughed. I wish I could joke around like that.

Scar placed a hand on my wing, just where it connects to my back. I shuddered. I've told him so many times why he shouldn't do that. It's not the kind of thing you do to your friend. But maybe that's not a bad thing... Shut up Grian. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. You don't have time for this! You have better things to think about than Scar! We sat there for a few minutes. "Maybe I should call someone." Scar mumbled. I didn't really want to get up, not when he was so close to me... and touching my wings like that... Grian! Stop thinking like that. I didn't really want to get up, but he was right. We couldn't just sit there forever.

#flightless bird - grian fic #grian #hermitblr #hermitshipping #Tw suicide mentions #tw ableism #tw body dysphoria #grian fanfic

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