#it's kind of sad that the response to my post about being victims of russian imperialism is shit like this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ceterisparibus116 · 5 years

Note

Also on murdocklovespage’s post about you wanting prompts, they mentioned “What if Matt, Claire, and Stick were in a room together?” as a prompt and I want to see it

This is soooo late (I apologize) but I hope you like it!

Matt was trying—trying so hard and in so many ways. And thistime, it actually seemed like it was working.

Nelson and Murdock weren’t back together, no. Elektra wasstill gone, yes. And Karen? She said she needed time. And space. But Foggyseemed to have forgiving him, or to be on his way there. Part of it probablyhad to do with no longer having the pressure of maintaining a business togetheron top of the pressure of maintaining their friendship. Most of it probably hadto do with Matt’s sincere and detailed apology, not given in the heat of anargument or as a desperate bid to fix things between them but just because Mattwas really, truly sorry. So at least Matt had Foggy again, even if not in quitethe same way as he was used to.

And he had his own small law practice where he didn’t have anyoneelse lecturing him on the merits of accepting homemade bread in lieu ofpayment. Or on the ethics of some extralegal problem solving. Mostly, heoffered a lot of unbundled services, which basically involved stepping in atdifferent points of the legal process. He helped one client file paperwork,showed up at court for another client who was worried about talking in front ofa judge. Unbundled services were a cheaper route for the clients who had some moneybut not enough to actually retain him. Meanwhile, he enjoyed getting to help whereverhe was needed most.

And Stick had completely disappeared.

So it was good, really. Things were good. Slowly but surely,he was rebuilding. And honestly? It was nice. He’d so thoroughly trashed hislife both professionally and relationally that appreciating all the littleblessings of a relatively normal life was as easy as breathing.

Easier than, actually, since his two cracked ribs currentlymade breathing…difficult.

But that was fine. Much less immediately worrying than theblood spilling from his arm over the tear in his suit. Matt couldn’t faultMelvin for it. The suit did a good job against knives, usually, but Matt’s ownbody weight was responsible for driving the broken glass into his arm after hejumped out of the window. Generally, Matt was pretty good at jumping out ofwindows. But he’d sort of gotten hit on the head immediately before his self-imposeddefenestration, which messed with his balance as he fell.

He was fine.

He was also, however, incapable of stitching his arm up onhis own, so he tugged his burner phone out of his pocket. He’d been trying notto call Claire, trying to give her space. But this was…this was a lot of blood,showing no signs of stopping anytime soon.

“Matt?” Her voice was sharp on the other end of the phone. “What’swrong?”

“Nothing, I just wondered if you were free.”

“Depends on how close you are to dying.”

He hated that she still saw herself first and foremost ashis healer. Nothing more. Then again, he pretty much shut her down every time sheattempted to offer anything more intimate than pure medical advice, so maybethat was on him. “Does bleeding out count as dying?”

She groaned into the phone. “Matt, get over here.”

“Thank you, Claire.” He began the trek back to her place,wincing at the throb in his skull. Concussion? Possibly? Probably?

Maneuvering himself onto her fire escape felt surreal,brought him back to a simple black suit and simpler times. He couldn’t bring himselfto long for the past, though. Back then, she hadn’t even known his name. Hehated that it’d taken her getting beaten by Russians for him to risk revealing himselfto her, which didn’t seem so different from how he hadn’t been able to tellKaren about Daredevil until after he’d ruined their relationship. It was a patternof his. One he wasn’t planning on repeating.

Through her window, he smelled spices from whatever she wascooking. For a moment, he just listened to her light footsteps as she moved aroundthe kitchen, audible under the pleasantly unobtrusive voice of a podcast. Buthe didn’t have much time to waste. He tapped on the window.

The podcast shut off and her footsteps approached. She slidthe window open and hissed in a breath. “You weren’t kidding about bleedingout.”

“S’not that bad.” He rolled his shoulder experimentally asif he could draw her attention to one of the few parts of his body that wasn’t injured. “Can I come in?”

“Yes, idiot.” She stepped aside, gave him room to slitherthrough the window. As soon as his feet landed, she put one hand on his goodarm and the other on his hip, steering him towards her couch so he could sit. “How’dthis happen?”

He wondered, not for the first time, if she was asking becausehis answer might inform his treatment or because she just wanted to know. Hetook off his helmet and she ran a hand through his hair like she couldn’t help smoothingit back into order. “Fell out a window.”

“Have you considered not doing that, maybe?”

“It was an emergency.”

Snorting, she gingerly felt along his arm. “So you alsolanded on the window, I assume.” She reached for her medical bag, which wassetting on the couch beside him even though it smelled of the closet. She’d hadto get it out for him. Or, depending on how you looked at it, she’d gotten itout just for him. “If you fell out a window, does that mean the bad guys arestill out there?”

His stomach tightened with the sense that he’d somehow lether down. “Yeah. They weren’t my priority.”

“Since when are bad guys not your priority? Brace yourself, I’mpulling this out in three, two—”

She slid the glass out of his arm and he closed his eyesagainst a wave of dizziness as fresh blood soaked his sleeve. Then he squeezedhis eyes shut tighter at the burn of the antiseptic, his whole body clenchingdespite his best efforts to stay still. His ribs made their protest known.

“What were they doing, anyway?” She poked the needle throughhis skin. “The bad guys, I mean.”

He breathed slowly through his nose. “Human traffickers.”

The needle paused for an instant. “Oh. And you didn’t tearthem limb from limb because…?”

Would she have wanted that kind of violence? “Had to get thekids out first.“

“Kids?”

Not all of them. Two or three were in their early twenties. ButMatt was willing to bet they’d been caught in forced prostitution since highschool. Maybe even middle school. One of the girls he’d found was only eleven.

He didn’t share that particular detail with Claire. Wasn’tsure he’d share it with anyone. “Yeah.” He gritted his teeth as string draggedunder his skin. “Had to stay until I knew they were out.” But there’d been toomany men in that warehouse for him to fight off on his own when they were comingat him all at once like that. Hence jumping out a window. He was just too tiredto explain that reasoning to Claire.

But she was no longer pushing him to justify himself. “Itmight be ironic to say this while I’m sopping up your blood, but I’m glad youwere there. For the kids.”

“I’ll go back later. Find the men responsible. See if I canget enough evidence for…” He shook his head, trailing off, distracted by the awarenessof just how difficult building a case against them would be. The victims werelong gone, and proving a sex crime beyond a reasonable doubt without a victim onthe stand was almost impossible.

He rubbed at his eyes. Not that he wanted any of the peoplehe’d rescued to have to go through the trauma of taking the stand. But thethought of their traffickers getting off on, what, kidnapping charges? It was enoughto make him wish, just for an instant, that he could operate a bit more likeFrank Castle.

No. He’dconsidered that route before, with Fisk. It wasn’t right.

“Matt?” Claire prompted.

“Huh?”

“You spaced out. I asked if there’s anything else I shouldknow about, since I’ve got you here.” She was running her hand up his arm,checking for breaks or something.

“No, that’s…that’s the worst of it.” He flexed the newlystitched-up arm. “Thank you.” Then he started to push himself to his feet.

She stood up at the same time. “You’re leaving?”

His smile probably looked a little too sad. “I didn’t meanto interrupt your night.”

“Well, you did,” she said simply, “so you may as well do itall the way. You want dinner?”

His mouth watered. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Hmm. I think you should eat.” She leaned closer and put herhand on his stomach.

He flinched automatically, his good arm twitching up toshield his ribs.

“I knew it,” shesaid.

“Knew what?” he asked helplessly.

“You were moving way too stiffly for only a stab wound. Sitdown.”

“You’re that familiar with how I move?” He returned slowly tohis seat, not quite able to feel reluctant about it.

“Too stiff and too sluggish at the same time. I have apretty good guess what else is wrong with you, but I’ll leave you to be honestwith me on your own.” She retrieved the binding from her bag. “How bad arethey?”

“Uh…”

“Breath out for me.”

Matt exhaled obediently and couldn’t help enjoying thefeeling of her hands on him, encircling his body with the wrapping above andbelow the injury. “The, uh—”

She shushed him, then tied off the wrapping. “Okay. Nowspeak.”

“The other thing might be a concussion. I think? Somethinghit me when I was leaving.”

“And by ‘leave’ you mean ‘throw yourself bodily out of a window,’right?”

He grinned. “If you wanna get technical about it.”

There was a clickas she turned on a light. “Lemme see your eyes.” Slipping her hand under hischin, she tilted his head the way she wanted it. “Yep, you look pretty messedup. How do you feel? Nauseated?”

He shook his head.

“Good. So you have no excuse not to let me feed you.”

“Claire, I—”

“Shh.” Her hand was still on his jaw. “Let me take care ofyou.”

Why was she being so kind to him? It wasn’t like he’dtreated her well recently. Ignoring all the help she offered, turning herhospital into a war zone, getting her friend killed. “Claire, I—”

“If you’re about to say you’re fine, I don’t wanna hear it.” She packed away her bag and headedinto the kitchen.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, he followed at a safedistance. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“That’s a first,” she said, but there was no bite to hertone as she stirred the soup on her stove.

“I’m sorry I kept pushing you away. It wasn’t fair after allyou’ve done for me.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “If it helps, I hatedevery second of it.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

He wet his lips. “You were right, by the way. About me…becomingtoo much like the people I fight. I lost perspective.” He remembered bloodyfists and the snap of his wirecutting through Nobu’s neck.

“You don’t need to apologize to me for that.”

“But I want to.” He breathed in carefully, mindful of thetight binding around his ribs. “I should’ve listened. You deserved myattention. My trust. You deserved a…a conversation,at least.”

She didn’t say anything as she placed a bowl of soup infront of him.

“I shouldn’t have shut you out,” he finished quietly.

She still didn’t say anything for several long moments. Thenshe nodded once. “Thank you. Look, Matt, you’re your own person. It wasn’t myjob to…” She tipped her head back like she might find the words she was lookingfor on the ceiling. “Fix you, or something. So I’m sorry too.”

“Don’t be. Everything you said, I needed to hear it.”

“I’m just saying, maybe I should’ve been more patient. It wasjust hard for me, because…” She sighed. “I care about you, maybe too much.”

His stomach flipped at the present tense. “You weren’t theonly one fed up with me.”

“Right. And how is Foggy?” she asked carefully.

Of course. She knew Foggy. Weird that Claire, so firmlyassociated with his vigilante life, had mixed with Foggy, so firmly associatedwith the law, and he hadn’t even been there. “He’s good. Really good. Workingat a fancy law firm.”

“You don’t sound upset about that.”

“I’m not,” he said honestly. “It’s not the kind of lifestyleI’d want, but Foggy’s happy. And he still has a soul.”

Collecting her own bowl, she sat beside him. “How do youknow?”

He frowned, a bit confused why she was so interested in updatesabout Foggy. “We meet up. Talk about cases.”

“Did you ever apologize for not visiting him in the hospital?”she asked bluntly.

He felt himself flush. “Yeah.”

She waited a moment. “Good.”

What was that, some kind of test? If it was…he was prettysure he passed.

“What about you?” he asked tentatively. “How are…things?”

“Things,” she repeated, obviously unimpressed.

“I mean—” He broke off.

“Matt?”

“Shh,” he whispered.

“What?” she demanded, ever contrary.

“Someone’s coming.” He’d know that heartbeat anywhere. Hegot up from the stool, stood stiffly in the center of the room. “No, no, notnow.”

“Am I supposed to know why you’re freaking out?”

His hands curled into fists. “I’m so sorry, Claire. I’m so,so sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t realize he was following me.” Hadn’t even realizedStick was back in Hell’s Kitchen.

“How bad is it?” Claire sounded scared, but also like shewas trying not to be.”

He didn’t want to frighten her, but… “I don’t know,” he admitted.“It’s, uh, someone from when I was a kid. It’s the guy who trained me.”

She let out a whistle. “So, like, a superhero?”

“Ha,” Matt laughed grimly. “Stick’s not a superhero.” Hemoved to her front door. “He’s on the stairs.”

“But he’s a good guy, right?” She followed him, nervous butstill trying not to show it. “Right? Matt?”

“Not really,” he said heavily, resting his forehead againsther door. He couldn’t fight Stick like this, which…which…he shouldn’t have to,but Stick also shouldn’t be here atall.

His cane tapped along the stairs just outside her apartment.

Matt swore under his breath. “I’m gonna go take care ofthis.”

“Wait!” Claire grabbed his arm. It was his good arm, but hestill sucked in a breath as his ribs objected. “What’re you gonna do, pickanother fight?”

“If I have to.” He unlocked the door.

She slammed her shoulder against the door, shutting itfirmly. “Your mask’s on the floor.”

Right. Someone could see him. And now Stick was rightoutside. Planting his feet, Mat leaned against the door. “Stay back,” hewhispered.

Stick’s voice floated through. “Lemme in, Matty.”

It was enough to bring Matt back to a cemetery, standingover the grave of the woman he loved with the man who’d manipulated her intobecoming a weapon. Like he’d manipulated Matt.

“Matty,” Stick called.

“No está aquí,” Claire called back.

Matt sighed and wrenched the door open. “He can smell me.”

Stick wasted no time before strolling through, dropping hiscane by the counter. His left wrist was swollen. Sprained, maybe? “Anyone couldsmell you, Matty. Left a trail of blood thicker than a river. Might as wellhand out invites with her address on ’em.” He turned to flash Claire adangerous smile. “Nice to finally hear your heartbeat.”

That precious heartbeat sped up. “Excuse me?”

“Just that I’ve smelled you often enough, hanging out atMatty’s place.” He made a show of sniffing the air. “You’re a nurse. Or something. That explains somethings. Like why he’s still alive.” He slowly tilted his head. “And why you’realive too, I guess.”

“Is that a threat?” Claire asked in a low voice.

“No,” Matt said quickly. “He just has this stupid beliefthat anyone in my life will end up dead because of me.” Well, Matt wasn’tconvinced that it was actually such a stupid belief. But he told himself it wasstupid whenever it started echoing in Stick’s voice. He kept himself between them.“So you found me, Stick. Congratulations. What do you want?”

“It’s not about what I want, Matty. It’s about what youneed.”

“No. I don’t need anything—I’m done.” He risked a stepcloser. “We fought off the Hand, we buried the Black Sky. We’re done.”

“The Black Sky,” Stick said softly, bringing up his hand torest on Matt’s shoulder, his ancient fingers tapping against the thick materialof Matt’s suit. “How’re you doing with all that?”

“Fine,” Matt gritted out.

Stick jerked his chin at Claire. “Did he tell you his girlfriend’sdead?”

Claire’s lips parted.

It was like the broken piece of window was stabbing Matt’sheart instead of his arm. “She wasn’t—she wasn’t my girlfriend, Stick.”

“Oh, right, that was the other one. The reporter. Smellslike she cut you lose. Smart girl.”

“Don’t talk about her,” Matt snapped. “I gave you a chanceto tell me what you’re doing here, now—”

“Now what?” Stick drawled. “You’ll throw me out? You can barelystand up.” He took a casual step forward, like he was aiming to wander over tothe couch.

Matt shifted in front of him. “Leave.”

“If I do, it’s the same as leaving you and your new girlieto a horrible death.”

Claire stiffened, but she remained outwardly calm. As forStick, his heart beat steadily, but just because Stick believed something didn’tmean he wasn’t also insane. “Then Iwill deal with it,” Matt growled.

“No, you won’t,” Stick said derisively. “I heard you in thatwarehouse. You could barely get the kids out, and you left those men to keepdoing the same thing the second you look the other way. You’re not dealing withshit.”

“He saved those lives,” Claire cut in suddenly.

“Claire,” Matt warned.

“He saved those kids’ lives,” she insisted, edging up behindhim. “What’s your name? Stick? If you were there, why didn’t you jump in tohelp?”

Stick craned his neck like he could see past Matt standingbetween them. “Those kids, those men, it was all just a distraction. That’swhat keeps happening—he gets all caught up in all the wrong things, and as soonas the enemy strikes, he’s useless.” He paused. “I take it back. You can beuseful. You’d just be better off if you weren’t tied down by all that pity youcarry for every whimpering thing that’ll just die anyway once the war comes.”

Half of Matt’s brain was stuck on one single sentence—you can be useful. The other half wasfurious that Stick was still here. “WhateverI do, whatever I feel, it’s my business.”

“Until your bleeding heart gets you killed and I loseanother soldier.”

Suddenly, Matt was yelling. “Like you lost Elektra?”

Stick raised his voice to match. “We both lost her, and itwouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t dragged her off to save—”

“You knew she was the Black Sky—you would’ve killed her! Youtold me you would’ve—” He cut himselfoff, took a deep breath. “Are you back in this city because of some specificthreat or not?”

“I’m back because it’s time for you to get your head out ofyour—”

“Okay, great, we’re done.” Matt walked forward, straightinto Stick.

Stick didn’t budge. “The Hand’s coming. Whatever they’ve gotplanned, it’s big.”

“If they’re not here yet, I don’t care.” He shoved Stick.Stick shoved back, and Matt sucked in a breath as pain arced across his ribs.

“Matt.” Claire’s voice unsettled.

Stick drew his sword.

“Matt,” Clairegasped.

“Listen to your girlfriend, Matty. We need to have a chat.”

“Not my girlfriend, Stick.” Another shove.

Stick raised the sword, but didn’t strike with it. “If theHand comes back, you’ll just get her killed by playing around with her.”

See, that was the thing. That kind of logic made sense backhe was keeping everyone else tucked away in safe little boxes, boxes reservedfor best friends and secretaries and the kind nurse he had a crush on. Didn’twork so well for law partners who yelled at gang members and reporters who befriendedthe Punisher and the nurse who agreed to use her hospital for the Hand’svictims.

Actually, he should’ve known that logic didn’t work withClaire as soon as she pulled a masked vigilante out of her dumpster.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Matt said quietly. “I’ll doeverything I can to keep her safe. But if—if—somethinghappens to her, it’ll be because she decided that helping people is worth therisk. I definitely won’t keep her safer by staying away.”

Stick shrugged. “And then you’ll kill yourself when you loseher, and then I’ll lose you.”

Matt tilted his head. “And that bothers you,” he murmured. “Itbothers you because you broke your own rules. With me.”

“You’re useful,” Stick argued.

“You’re broken.” Another shove. Stick was at the threshold. “Iappreciate all you’ve done for me, I really do, but I don’t need you anymore.”

“Maybe not, but you will.”

Matt wanted to say, Youknow where to find me. But he also didn’t want to give Stick the slightesthint of permission. Not that Stick ever cared about permission. It felt like asmall victory to keep silent and just give him a final shove out the door.

“Take care of yourself, Matty.” Then Stick spoke a littlelouder, voice aimed at Claire. “I’ll see you around!”

“You won’t.” Matt shut the door. Locked it. Listened asStick hovered just outside.

Claire approached from behind him. “Is he still there?”

Matt didn’t move from his position. “Yeah.”

“And he can still hear me?” When he rolled his eyes inaffirmative, she put her mouth by the door. “Go put some ice on your wrist! Itlooks sprained!”

Matt shot her a look of exasperation. “What’re you—”

She pressed her hand to his mouth and cocked her head. Thenshe made a smug sound as Stick’s footsteps retreated.

Matt waited until he was mostly sure Stick was out of rangebefore finally stepping away from the door. “What was that about?”

“Bossing you around with concern over minor injuries hasalways been a surefire way to scare you off.”

“So you admit that a sprain is minor.”

“I admit that youthink a sprain is minor. Figured he’d have the same mentality.”

Matt stifled a grimace. “Yeah. We’re, uh…we’re a lot alike.”

“Not really.” Turning around to face him, she folded herarms. “Is he always like that?”

“Vaguely ominous? Pretty much.”

“I mean, is he always going on about how helping people isn’tworth it? Or how you’ll get people killed by playing around with them?”

He cringed at the phrase. “Yeah. He started in on that stuffback when I was a kid, when he was—”

“When you were a kid?”The shock in her voice was practically palpable.

Right. She was the first person since Elektra to know bothsides of his life, making it easy, sometimes, to forget how little she stillknew about him. “Uh. Yeah. He trained me to control my senses.” He paused. “Andto fight.”

“And he was telling you not to feel pity all the way backthen?” Her voice was tight with anger.

He wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t just make herangrier. “He wanted me to be a soldier.”

“Mierda,” shemuttered under her breath. “Explains a lot.”

What, exactly, did that explain? “It wasn’t that bad, Claire.In most ways, he saved my life. I could barely control my senses when my dadwas still alive. When I was in the orphanage, everything was too—”

“What orphanage?” Her voice was deadly calm.

Matt suddenly wished he was doing something. Eating, walking…evengetting stitched up would be preferable to just standing there, trying to fieldher questions. “St. Agnes.”

“I didn’t know,” she said softly.

“I didn’t tell you,” he countered, turning to shuffle backto his stool at her counter. Not that he was hungry anymore.

She followed, but didn’t sit. Instead, she stood close tohim, leaning against the counter across his legs. “Why didn’t he use his sword justnow?”

“Because he knows it would’ve killed me,” Matt said heavily.

“What?”

“It…it would’ve been a threat to you. So I wouldn’t havestopped fighting him.” Matt fidgeted with the material of his pants. “He didn’twant to lose me. Not before the war.”

“The war like…those ninjas who attacked the hospital?”

“Something like that.” He briefly closed his eyes. “If…ifthey come back, I’ll deal with it. I won’t drag you into it.”

She shook her head. “Like you told him, I’m here to helppeople.”

She was so…adjectives failed him. Matt swallowed. He’d toldStick she wasn’t his girlfriend. And she wasn’t.

But, oh, he wanted that. He still missed Elektra, and hestill missed Karen, but Claire…Claire was different. She wasn’t as destructiveas either of them and her moral compass was steadier than anything he’d everknown.

He still didn’t feel like he deserved her. Still didn’t wantto hurt her. But like everything else, that was her choice to make, not his. Andhe no longer believed the things Stick preached. So if he could bring her anyhappiness, any security, any…anything good, he’d do it. He cleared his throat. “Claire?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Can I…can I take you to dinner?”

She held completely still.

He was such an idiot. “I wasn’t—I mean—you can say no, Ijust thought—”

“I hope you’re not insulting my soup. It’s my mom’s recipe.”

“It was delicious,” he said weakly.

“What is this, then? Payment for me taking care of you?”

All right, he could spell it out, if that was what shewanted. “A date, Claire. I’m…I’m asking you on a date.”

“Huh.” Her arms wrapped tighter around herself, but he heardher heartrate picking up. “You’re concussed. You sure even you know what you’resaying?”

“I’m sure,” he said immediately. “Very sure.”

“You’re not just sticking it to that old man?”

She wasn’t saying yes. But she wasn’t saying no. He movedcarefully closer, reached out, found her hand. “Claire,” he said softly. “I’vewanted this for a long time. And you were right, before, to say no. I wasn’t…I’mnot proud of who I was.” He hesitated. “In many ways, I’m not proud of who I am.But—”

“I am,” she interrupted. “I’m proud of you.”

That right there was more disorienting than the hit to thehead. “What?”

“I’m proud of you,” she said simply. “And I can’t…I can’tpromise you more than a date, not yet, but—”

His heart leapt and he felt dizzy for very new reasons.

“I like Middle Eastern food.”

He was already nodding. “I can do that.”

“I have Thursdays off.” Suddenly, she was speaking veryfast. “Usually. Unless they need me, but I usually get a heads up. I’ll callyou if I can’t make it.”

“This Thursday?”

“Can we?”

He grinned. “Yeah. This Thursday. I know a great place.”

“I’ll trust your judgement.”

She trusted him. “Claire.”He said it just to savor the fact that he could. Drawing closer, he brushed thetips of his fingers against her wrists, then skimmed his hands up her arms torest on her shoulders. “Thank you. For everything.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “It was my pleasure.”

No lie, no lie in her heartbeat. One of his hands he slid overto the back of her neck; with the other, he lightly touched her lower lip.

She rose up on her toes to meet him with a kiss.

#Matt Murdock #claire temple #clairedevil #matt x claire #Daredevil #fic prompt

48 notes · View notes

venusdebotticelli · 7 years

Text

Okay, gather ‘round, children, ‘tis storytime!

Once upon a time when I’d just recently moved to Manchester, I needed to go do some paperwork in London, so I went and spent a couple of days with my uncle, who’s been living there for quite a few years.

It was a couple of days of sightseeing and eating cool food and basically just ~*¡¡¡London!!!*~, which sounds really nice, in theory. Thing is, it was a couple of days with just my uncle as company. At the time I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that, I thought it was a cool plan.

But here’s a non-exhaustive list of things I heard from him that weekend:

Autism is caused by drinking milk, and the government poisons the food in supermarkets so that only rich people can afford healthy food that won’t slowly kill them.

The government secretly murders all scientists who dare publicly speak out about this horrible truth.

All the abused women in the world deserve the treatment they get, because 100% of women (actual scientific statistic figure provided by him) always go for the assholes and ignore the Nice Guys™ like him.

The gays are horrible monsters who oppress the poor straights, because that one time he went into an Obviously Gay™ Gay Bar to have a drink on his own people gave him weird looks.

“I really don’t like the way you’re looking at me right now” -My uncle, to his queer niece, right after he said that we are horrible monsters who oppress the straights and have all the power in the world, because all the managers at his workplace are gay and very incompetent. (I’m pretty sure that means I was oppressing him with my stare, or something)

Apparently I just have a huge Victim Complex™, I like to victimise myself by seeing issues were there are none---says the aforementioned oppressed-by-the-gays-and-their-meanie-stares uncle.

This was around the time of the winter olympics in sochi, and when all the controversy about the Russian ban on gay propaganda was going strong, and people were actually getting arrested. One of the TVs at the pub we were at was broadcasting the olympics, and he thought it vital to inform me that the whole “gay thing” in Russia was just a ruse, a fake problem invented by the government to distract from the real truth of their shady dealings.

Apparently anything that affects the gays only is just a fake problem, because it’s not actually affecting anybody, y’kno¿? I’m guessing The Real Issues™ are just those that affect straight white men like him, everything else is just government fabricated distraction.

This is a very big secret, you know, highly classified information that he had confirmed by the obviously very reliable sources of his internet circles, so please read the next point at your own discretion, I don’t want the FBI/CIA/NHS kicking down your door in the middle of the night because you know too much:

There is a very very very exclusive gay night club, called The Black Rose or something like that iirc, where all the world’s biggest elites gather together in secret, you know, george bush, david cameron, vladimir putin, the clintons, to name a few, and they all partake in super secret initiation rituals that involve gay things that he couldn’t tell me about because they were too dark and perverse for my poor sensible ears to hear. But ovbiously that creates this huge Gay Elite ruling the world behind the scenes and oppresing all the straights globally.

I’m pretty sure there’s more stuff I’m forgetting, after all, this was around three years ago already, but you get the idea. It’s obviously the kind of edifying, fascinating conversation you’d pursue when your queer, autistic, just-turned-19 niece visits you in a foreign city and has no choice but to sleep in your house and to spend the whole two days with you :)

Perhaps a little unreasonably, my young self thought “Oh my goodness, this person is a little bonkers, maybe being a 50something year old man living on his own with no friends and the internet as his only company for years has slightly perturbed the waters of his mind¿? I feel a little alienated, I’d rather avoid his company in the future, whenever possible”. That is exactly the delicate way I told my friends about it in the next five hours of bus ride back to Manchester, fo’ sho’, no furious whatsapp ranting was involved at all :P

Anyway, as was my intention, I kept ignoring his existence, and only warily skimming through, and affording no response to, his emails full of links to conversation threads about the moral failings of letting beings like Conchita Wurst show their faces on respectable TV and similar topics.

It’s been a few years now, and every once in a while my grandma mentions that when he talks to him he’s really sad I don’t keep in contact with him, and that he thinks I’m quite ungrateful, and that he’d like to know what’s going on with my life and for us to see each other every now and again, and that he’d like to help me out in this foreign country we’re both living in but that I just don’t give him the chance. My mum also asks me whether I’d like to get in contact with him and go visit, sometimes, though not as often. Today was one of those times, since apparently they’ve been talking lately, and he asked her about me, and my mum sent him some of the assignments I did for class, which I’m quite proud of.

One of those is my poetry assignment, which includes five poems and an analysis of three of them, and the poems are quite personal pieces treating topics such as queer love, my mental illness and autism, and toxic societal ideals surrounding romantic relationships. His answer to that¿? He told my mum to look up the concept of “Generation Snowflake”, of all bloody things. Lemme just helpfully give you the definition of that here:

Generation Snowflake, or Snowflake Generation, is a term used to characterise young adults of the 2010s as being more prone to taking offence and less resilient than previous generations, or too emotionally vulnerable to cope with views that challenge their own. It is considered derogatory.

So now I ask of you, dear friends, to send me links to posts and articles giving good rebuttals to the utter bullshit that is that bloody baby-boomer concept, because I know I’ve read some very good ones here on tumble dot com, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to even begin finding them. Please help me out here¿?

#can you just feel my seething snowflake rage seeping through the sarcasm in here¿?#I AM SO FUCKING ANGRY WHAT THE FUCK I DIDN'T ASK TO BE RELATED TO SUCH A DISGUSTING INDIVIDUAL?¿#I should probably tell my mum about this incident #Originally I didn't want to tell her because he's her brother and stuff and this is just straight up weird and concerning #but if he's still asking about me on a regular basis #and my mum thinks it's a-okay to send such personal stuff to this fucking nutcase like he's just a normal family member #then maybe I should make it clear to her that I want absolutely nothing to do with him and my reasons why #UGH #*turns into a rage monster and destroys the city of tokyo*#personal #Coolification writes #Stop the world I want off

6 notes · View notes