#( this game could ill afford to lose him. how bout you? )

[newsworth]

     @tahitiwoke said:   five times kissed 🔪🔪 but maybe platonic besties 🔪🔪 or maybe not 🔪🔪

one.    of all the ways for them to make their snl debut,  this wouldn’t be chris’s first choice.   there’s fleeting moments that tease towards a bit more sophisticated humor and chris catches himself fighting a smile once or twice,   but it’s primarily meant to be an on the nose commentary on claire hale leading what kate mckinnon dressed as a reporter refers to as “ most operatically horny display in politics since the clinton administration, “  with overdrawn silences made less silent by the rousing laughter of the audience as the sexual tension builds in time with the music.  

the tightly framed close ups of suggestive looks amount to the guest star who’s meant to be phil  ( what he lacks in resemblance he makes up for with the same enthusiasm he’d brought to his lip sync battle,  which chris had thought done britney some real justice )  grabbing colin jost by a tie that chris would have never worn on his neck in real life ,   and ...    

“  wow.  “   chris’s voice startles the trio of chuckling interns into slamming down on the space bar of the keyboard and pausing the youtube clip of the sketch right as they start to see some tongue.   “  they’re really going for it.  “   the three of them turn,  red faced and apologizing throughout the coughing fit that had become of their laughter,  just in time to catch phil’s approach at chris’s shoulder.    “  hey.   you catch this?  “   chris says to him and watches every stage of grief pass across the each of the interns face as they part to make space for phil’s looming figure to lean in towards the computer screen.   a few moments pass before the chief of staff says anything,   and when he does,  it’s only to complain:   that guy doesn’t look anything like me. 

two.    “  holy shit!  “   chris’s hand took what slack it could find at the front of phil’s shirt and wound it tightly into his fist.   it’s a one hander,  a downcourt hail mary that sinks the net at the last stroke of midnight.   the sound of the buzzer through the tv is eclipsed by the uproar of that becomes of the bar.

now,   phil doesn’t give as much of a shit about basketball,  and chris is mindful enough of that to feel a little grateful that his truimph is enough to propel them both off of their barstools.  his smile catches the apple of phil’s cheek with a celebratory smack as peanut shells rain down like wedding rice.

three.  there’s a prickliness in phil’s broody mumbling that is usually reserved for things that fall under the claire and i had a fight category,   which chris has expressed in the past is hard for him to be entirely objective about so there’s just shit phil doesn’t bring up to him.  shit that chris doesn’t feel secure enough in their friendship to run the risk of repeating that two week long freeze out by prying after.   

whatever it was this time had phil’s near drunken deadweight hanging off of chris’s side in a way that was painfully awkward with their height disparity.   they’d barely made it through chris’s front door and the trek from the foyer to the bedroom felt miles long.  one step down,  twenty more to go,  and phil’s body was already swaying its weight onto his outside foot,  almost sending them into the console table where chris had just deposited his keys.  

“  you have to work with me here,  phil.  “    chris said.   

phil straightened his spine and shaded his brow under a two finger salute before using the full extent of his ungodly fucking height to survey the area.  “  this isn’t my place.  “   “  nothing gets past you.  “   chris bent down to help phil step out of his shoes.   “  mine was closer.  “   there was a turning point where phil stopped being consoled by the top gun soundtrack and got fussier the longer he had to sit in the car,   so chris made an executive decision.  there was some back and forth about whether or not phil was going to let chris offer him the bed that got settled by chris having to swear on someone’s grave  ( he gets the feeling that phil just picked a name,  any name,  because they don’t have a tonya in common )   that he really did like sleeping on his own couch.   then,  mercifully,   phil planted face first into the mattress.  at first it seemed as though he fell asleep in that same instant,  but then he groaned at the sound of chris’s wastebasket sliding across the floor towards the head of the bed.   “  i won’t throw up.  “  “  just don’t do it on my bed.  “    “  i will not throw up.  “    “  i believe you.  “   that doesn’t even sound true to chris’s own ears.   “  bathrooms through that door.  “   something phil already knows,  but a reminder can’t hurt.   “  there’s water and an aspirin on the nightstand.   i’ll be up for a while.  come get me if you need something.  “   he’s almost out the bedroom door.   “  chris?  “   phil lifts himself up onto his arms and turns to look at chris from over his shoulder. “  yeah?  “ they sit there for a moment,  phil’s expression softly obscured under the darkness but with one eye narrowing against the glow of the street light coming in from the window.  chris waits,  and he realizes he might wait all night if phil needed him to even if he would never let phil do the same for him.  what he gets in return for his patience is phil’s sloppy grin turning into an air kiss,  a wink.

that was a little too cute for chris not to grin back.  he catches the kiss with one hand and tucks the gesture in his back pocket with a wink of his own before turning the light back off.   “  sleep tight,  maverick.  “   “  g’night,  goose.  “ you shake my nerves and you rattle my brain.  even after he closes the door,  chris can hear him humming into the pillow.   too much love drives a man insane.   four.   "  what is it about your attraction to phil coulson that makes you uncomfortable?  “ dr. garrick is stoutly built.   his face has aged into a perpetual frown of intense contemplation over a set of deep set eyes that glister with their acquired intelligence and curiosity for more,   and he’s been chris’s therapist since the shooting in dallas a few years ago.   something about garrick reminds chris of his grandfather,  a man he’s never met in the flesh and only knows through the stories told by his mother from before she’d run away from home.   connecting with a therapist is not something that came very easily to him.   it was a great deal of trial and error for garrick and him get to the point where they are now. “  when i say attraction ...     i’m not speaking of a strictly sexual,   or physical attraction at all.  “   garrick clarifies with a wave of his hand.   “  the ...    incident you’re describing sounds a little more complicated than that.  “ the panic attack had come out of nowhere.  in the dark of his office he’d found the empty cave he’d made of the back of cassidy’s head,   claire’s face slack and empty through a stain glass mosaic of blood and bone,   only she couldn’t see him back.   the air was no good and sour as it left his lungs in scatters until phil set his hand on chris’s chest and willed his breathing towards a measure of five beats with the low steadiness of his voice.   cassidy’s been dead for almost two years.   he doesn’t know why the image of him had suddenly come back like that,  or what had warmly turned his mind away from that lapse in reality when phil settled him with a stare.   some of the details had to rearranged in his admission to garrick,  obviously,  but chris was better at omission than he had been before he took the job at the white house. 

the couch in garrick’s office reminds chris of the one he has in his living room at home.  the yield of the leather is right at that sweet spot that he appreciates but getting comfortable still feels like something he’s having to talk himself into.   as the moments continue to pass without much of anything offered from chris’s side of the room,   garrick shifts in his chair,   resting his hand on the knee that crosses over the other.   the notepad he uses is a ridiculously tiny thing that fits entirely in his palm.   one of those richly green,  tactical notebooks that doesn’t hold more than a hundred sheets,  and chris has only seen him write anything inside it a handful of times.

“  hearing you talk about it,   i’m reminded of..    other times you’ve expressed a struggle to identify the,   um ...   i think you described it as the thrill of your own vulnerability,  the intention behind it.  “ chris becomes reminded of them too,  even before garrick recalls them aloud.   “  the nature of your relationship with audrey shifted quite ...   dramatically,  because you had allowed her further into your life when you felt no judgement from her for your relapse.   we haven’t discussed it very much but i think you had a similar experience with your friend,   grace?  “

“  i’ve never wanted to sleep with grace.  “  giving garrick claire’s real name wasn’t an option when they started to broach certain discussions that fell outside of the realm of the assassination attempt,  and he was obviously quite limited in his ability to be perfectly candid about how much deeper their relationship ran than what was easily explainable.   easy isn’t the point of therapy.   he knows that.   garrick knew as much as chris felt he could safely tell him and still yield what he considered to be useable results. “  keep in mind that a desire for intimacy doesn’t start or stop at sex,   chris,   but grace is another situation where you were drawn to the security of having not been rejected for having allowed yourself to be seen in a certain light that you don’t typically afford to people.  “   again,   chris falls silent,  pensively chewing on the inside of his cheek as though that was where he was meant to find the truth inside that morsel of thought,  so garrick continues.   “  it may be difficult to make that distinction if most other times you’ve faced a situation like this has been with someone who had those certain expectations of you afterwards,   the way audrey did.   but i think that’s a fairer estimation of what you’re struggling with,   here.  “   

he knows how much garrick hates to be the one doing all the talking during these sessions,   how counterproductive it is to the whole point and moreso a waste of three hundred dollars for the hour,   so chris clears his throat.  “  that makes sense.  “   he scratches at a phantom itch of the word seen where it sits just behind his ear.   “  it was just ...   it felt really intimate.   when we locked eyes.  “   

“  that’s not surprising.   you’re familiar with the expression that the eyes are the window to the soul.  i like to consider how the optic nerves serve as something of a natural extension of the brain.  that when two people are capable of looking at each other while willingly stripping themselves of their private defenses,   it’s something like ...   a kiss between two minds.   a very vulnerable experience.  “   

with a look,  garrick reminds him of the rarity of chris allowing himself that experience.   the clock on the guitar pick table clicks to indicate that they only have a few minutes left of their session,  which is usually when garrick prefers to turn the conversation towards a lighter mood so that chris doesn’t leave the office with a tremendous weight over his head.

“  phil sounds like he’s a good friend,   when you let him be.  “ 

that’s why you called me and not the cops. 

“  he is.  “

five.   “  as always i’ve got chris,  meech,  and scott.  “   says phil from behind him.  chris turns just in time to catch a bounce pass and tucks the ball under his arm.   the sun hangs directly over their heads so their shadows don’t stretch very far across the asphalt.  one of the interns who they can always count on being goaded into a game of pick up puts enough stretch into his lunge to make chris smile despite how unwell he feels.  “  i think i’m gonna sit this one out.  “   he says and passes the ball back to phil.   waves off the look of interest he meets on ed’s face.   “  its hot.  i’m tired.  “  there had been a brief discussion earlier in the day about how little sleep chris had gotten the night before.   that may be why phil doesn’t fight him.

“  you can be our cheerleader.  “   phil says.  “  shame you don’t still have the skirt.  “

“  what makes you think i don’t have the skirt?  “    phil pauses mid jump shot,  and chris meets his eye from over the textured curve of the basketball.   “  don’t toy with me,  brady.  “  chris blows back that kiss he’d been saving in his back pocket.   phil takes one hand off the basketball to catch it in mid air with a wink and uses it put a little umph into the three pointer that the intern makes a comment about it absolutely not counting.  

[bakary-potter]

That boy's hot enough to melt Hell, burn Satan too

Fry his ass and put his ashes back together with glue

So you can hate him, he don't blame you, frankly, he would too

This game could ill afford to lose him, how 'bout you?

[aphspain-pure]

Spanish Gold in Moscow

@hetaliamondaychallenge September 28: “Chaos isn’t meant to be understood”. 

Category: Fanfic. 

Pair: RusSpa (Russia x Spain).

Words: 2.073.

Genre: Historical, Drama, angst, shounen-ai. 

Note(s): During the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) the Sencond Spanish Republic was completely ignored by Europe, while the fascist that had rebealed were helped by some militar forces. Spain was basically used as a test game of the military armament and strategy before the 2WW. The only country that gave real help to the Republic was the USSR. To finance the war, the government spent all the Spanish gold. 

1938

With an absolute ill look in his face, Spain, who still liked to considerate himself as the Second Spanish Republic, moved his gaze to the door that opened a few seconds before.

Nations could perceive other nations in a certain rate, so he wasn’t really surprised when the other entered the room; he had sensed him from far away, knowing he was leading to his position. Weary eyes without the so-called typical Spanish shine looked at the other, a little smile crossing his feverish face.

- Buenos días, Rusia.

Right in front of him, heavy, enormous and clearly powerful, the actual leader of the giant Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Russia, stared back at him with his famous sweet smile. Spain didn’t have known him till a pair of centuries ago, but he knew about this certain characteristic even before personally meeting him. He heard from France, England, Prussia, Austria and even Denmark about this “gentle look monster” that was so big and terrifying in the east.

Anyway, Spain didn’t have really hated this guy even once; he was actually grateful for his performance during the Napoleonic wars, though. If it wouldn’t have been for the Russian forces, France’s troops wouldn’t have retired from his vital territory and he wouldn’t have regained his independence. He sighed, trying to get rid of the thoughts of the past.

He was now, currently, going to lose his independence against his own people, in the middle of the worst civil war he had ever have –and Spain was certainly a country that had endured quite some civil wars-.

A strong ache tortured his mind while he suffered a new wave of deaths. Every time his people died, his body would burn and a painful sensation split him in two. They were dying at that very moment, out there, in the valley of the Ebro, killing each other in a battle that had been going on for months. He nearly cried, but couldn’t afford doing it in front of the power that was standing over there, staring at him with a complicated look in his eyes.

After a few moments, Russia, still smiling even if Spain’s looks were terrible, spoke with a calmed voice. – How are your wounds? –he had asked.

A quick smile was formed in the Spaniard’s mouth, quite ironic.

- Well, my right arm has grown up again, so I can’t complain.

Russia stared at the renewed arm, where a few days ago only a stump could have been appreciated. They, nations, received wounds just like humans but their bodies weren’t actually the same. If they were cut, they would recover; if they lost blood, after resting for a while they’d be up again; if they were burn till ashes, they would start to be reborn just like a Fenix. If they were killed, they wouldn’t die.

Only another nation could kill one.

Even if Spain had lately started to question if a nation could kill itself, just like how he was feeling during these days in which he thought he was actually going to be destroyed by his own people.

Russia’s hand reached him and touched his back. He jumped for a moment, sored. He then relaxed, looking far away and not giving attention to the hands that touched his still bleeding injuries. 

When a certain happening was so bad, so traumatic, that it gave the nations nearly-coma state, the injuries would still remain bleeding some time. Sometimes it lasted days, sometimes centuries. Those were produced by the bombing, the Biltz, in Guernica, and they still bleed after a year.

He trembled, just by remembering it. The hand in his back made him shiver in pain, but it was the most comforting thing he could afford to have those days, so he didn’t say anything.

Then, he gained composure and faced the other.  - What are you doin’ here, anyway? I thought you were going back at your place for some bureaucracy stuff.

Russia remained silent.

That silence made Spain worry.

He didn’t hate Russia at all. He was nice to him, and every time they had met he could only see a true innocence behind the brute and scary dude everyone saw. He liked him quite a bit, and he lately, during his few peaceful years with a Republic, found out that he was such an intelligent and interesting chat partner. Thanks to the leftist ideology of his government the relations with the Soviet Union had been pretty good, so they had become nearly friends at this point.

He even had became the only nation helping him in this suicidal situation.

During civil wars Spain, normally, stayed apart and watched his people decide his fate. He disliked choosing between his beloved people, so que stayed aside.

This time, he couldn’t.

He had seen what happened with Italy after the Great War. The fascism grow up and ate Ita-chan and Romano completely. The brutality that came with it made Spain shiver from his position in the neighbour peninsula. He didn’t recognise his cute Italian brothers with those black shirts and that dark look in their face. Then it expanded to Germany and developed into the National Socialism, which happened to be even worse. A virus was expanding all over Europe and even reached his brother, Portugal.

Spain could have seen it coming. He even spoke with a few general of the army and old requetés, he tried to create a flexible government just to evade the incoming clash. But it was all in vain.

The military coup happened, and while it wasn’t effective, war broke out.

It may be pathetic coming from a country that used to be a world power but, this time, Spain feared his people. That’s why he stayed with the republicans. That’s why he suddenly started dying from the insides.

And while Spain was in that desperate situation, Europe didn’t mind at all and, trying to avoid a Second World War, signed a No Intervention Pact in which 27 countries swore not to intervene in his civil war. That had broken Spain’s heart, who found himself suddenly isolated and left apart, left to die alone. It was even worse when, even if knowing it, the United Kingdom looked away while the Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy broke that pact and helped the rebels. He couldn’t believe England’s coward attitude.

But it was kinda worst when he watched his closest friends actually attack him, help the fascist rebels.

First, the Italian brothers; then, Germany, Austria and Prussia under the name of the Third Reich. Portugal also attacked the Republic by sending his Viriatos and even the American self-proclaimed Hero’s Ford Company sent help to destroy him. All his old friends were against him. He, on the other hand, only received some fusils from Mexico and a few airplanes from a very scared France, who refused to send more help. The only one who lent him it’s power was the Soviet Union, or preferably Russia.

He still remembered when he had met Romano in the site of Toledo. Romano had been excited, he spoke about autarchy, about having a great colonial empire, and about things such as war being the way through the future. His golden eyes sparkled when he had, for the first time in centuries, hugged Spain.

If you join us I promise we’ll bring this to an end.  –he had whispered, while speaking about how great it was being a fascist country.

He had been then, suddenly, pulled apart by a giant body that happened to be his ally, Russia, who looked at Romano with electric violet cruel eyes. Spain could have said something to stop a conflict, but, when he looked at Roma, he couldn’t longer see his cute tomato-like crybaby. In the past Romano would have cried and call him to save him but, then, he held his gaze prideful, strong and dangerous in front of the terrible Russia.

A bombing had made them react and, when he came to himself, he was with the International Brigades heading to Madrid.

Remembering all of that made him feel sick and hided half of his face while looking at the floor with a tired smile.  

He suddenly had an urge to vomit, but he managed to stay calm and recover a moment later. – Sorry, I beg you excuse me. My house is total chaos now, no, wait… EUROPE is a total chaos now, haha…! I don’t understand how or why, but it makes me think things a way too much.

- Chaos isn’t meant to be understood.

That statement made Spain stay quiet and, then, he looked with his nearly dead green eyes at the other.

- I’m going to ask again, Russia. –he said, this time, cautious-. Why are you here?  

- You haven’t paid me to help you lately.

And if he had frozen before, this time Spain had lost all the blood of his veins.

He started sweating. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t.

- Y-yeah, I-I know… It’s just that all the gold that I’ve been keeping in my reserves has been already taken to Moscow, so I-I…

Russia’s voice was sweet but cold as ice. – You’re not going to pay for my services.

The Spaniard’s eyes opened at his full.

- No! Don’t even think ‘bout that! I’ll pay, I swear it! It’s just that, right now, my people are starving, we don’t have armament and the industry it’s all stopped. I can’t now but, when we win, I’ll return what I owe! A-and I’ll even make it double…! I’ll work hard, I swear. But, now, with all my old gold gone, I…

- So you’re not paying.

The calmed voice made Spain feel like if he were to hyperventilate. He felt like crashing. Like glass about to break.

- I’m not. –he confirmed then.

The taller man stood up, and Spain followed him, clearly desperate.

- Y-you can’t leave me, Russia! If I don’t have your help I’m lost! –after hearing those words the Slavic turned around and faced him, with his so-typical smile in his face.

- So you’ll pay me?

The brunette looked away, clearly ashamed. – I have… nothing to pay you with. B-but I promise..!

- Нет. You can pay me. –response that took an ¿hah..? out of Spain. Russia laughed in a calmed way and then, explained. – Even if you don’t have anything you still possess your body, da?

And Spain’s eyes darkened.

Ah, true. Nation prostitution.

It had been a while.

It used to be so common in the past that he didn’t know why he felt so surprised when Russia suggested it. It may have been ‘cause Russia is fairly younger than himself, or ‘cause the times have changed. He had been so accustomed to it even when he was a child that it wasn’t so much of a surprise finding out that some new power wanted to take advantage of his position to appeal to this. Spain could easily remember when he was forced to be Rome’s or the Islamic Empire’s sex-boy, or even Turkey’s or France’s. Well, he had also been like that with some nations; but, well, let he who is without sin cast the first stone, and he was also a sinner after all.  

He looked back at Russia and sighed. – Is this old damaged body worth all the gold I could have had afford to pay you weeks before? –and Russia’s aura became surprisingly pink, just like a happy kid’s.

- And much more! I’m happy so I’ll help you.

And leaned forward to kiss Spain’s forehead. Spain rised an eyebrow, but let him be, anyway. He needed help and Russia was eager to help him only receiving some affectionate touches here and there in return. There were worst things he could have had to do.

Another wave of pain drove him crazy sored and let himself drown in the straw bed he had been using before. He took a deep breath. 

Then, when the fever started to be stable again, spoke directly to Russia.

- Well, then, how about a quickie? I have to go back to the battlefield in 30 minutes and I think I could come back quite worse than now, ha ha. –he had laughed, with his shiny –and now tiny- smile.

Russia smiled back, getting rid of his Soviet general military hat while getting closer to the sun-burned skinned nation. He sat, and grabbed the other’s cheeks with a gloved strong hand. That tranquil smile crossed his happy face.

- Let me tell you this is going to be a payment in instalments.

[metronomeihear]

Please Listen

I’m not sure how many of you know this, and I’m not sure how many of you care, but I’m sick.

I have a genetic disorder called CIRS that makes me sensitive to things in my environment, things like mold. A few years ago, I was exposed to black mold growing in my bedroom, mold that got there as a result of the bathroom above my room having a leak. My illness causes all sorts of havoc on my body, including swelling in my brain, inflammation in my joints and ribs, and imbalances in my hormones. As a result, I have days where I’m in so much pain where I can’t breathe (though those are thankfully far and few between), issues with long term and short term memory, and what has been dubbed “brain fog.” (Essentially it’s making really stupid and strange decisions that seem logical at the time, but in reality aren’t. Things like putting your cell phone in the fridge instead of the milk. You know you’re supposed to put something in the fridge, it just doesn’t quite click that it’s supposed to be the milk and not your phone). 

My entire family has this illness. It’s a strange twist of fate that both my parents have the genes, and thus all my siblings and I have it too. Of the five of us, my mother easily has it the worst. She got ill before I was born, and got worse when I was very young, and I can remember a period of my life where I was lucky if I saw her outside of her room more than once every few weeks. She is better now that she’s getting proper treatment, but she’s still the most ill. 

After her, I am probably the most sick person in my family. I have issues with my hands when I try to type for long periods of time, or if I try to do things like hold a game controller for more than a few hours. My ribs have flare ups, usually minor flare ups that aren’t much more than an annoyance (though they have gotten bad enough that I couldn’t do much more than lay there and hope the pain meds would kick in soon). I get headaches often and I’m prone to migraines. I am physically incapable of standing for more than 10 minutes at a time without having to sit down. I have issues with remembering names, places, things that have been asked of me, and things that I have done before. I can’t remember what I had for dinner yesterday, and I once couldn’t remembering the name of my first boyfriend, not even three months after we broke up. I am incapable of telling how much time has passed since an incident occurred, prone to dizzy spells, and often make poor decisions due to brain fog. Despite all of this, I have been told that I do not look sick.

I am not asking for pity. I am not asking you do donate to a fund, or to message a politician, or start a war.

 I have a story to tell and I am asking for you to listen.

My mother once told me a story about the time she had gall stones. I don’t remember the specifics of the story, and the specifics don’t truly matter in this case, but the story went something like this:

My mother woke one night from a bout of really intense pain. This was before I was born, back when it was just my mother and my father living just across the street from my grandparents. She woke up next to my father, who was still sleeping, and she just breathed. She breathed through the pain until it went away, and then went back to sleep. That was the end of it. Only the pain kept coming back. It would always fade after a short while, so whenever it happened, by mother would just breathe through it until it did. My father was worried, however, and insisted my mother go to a doctor. They described the incidents to the doctor, and the doctor prescribed some pain meds and sent my mother home. “It’s just gas,” he said, “It will pass.” Only it didn’t. Eventually, my mother was hit by a bout of pain so intense my father drove her to the emergency room, where they found out that the pain was a result of my mother passing gall stones.

Gall stones have been described as one of the most painful things a person can ever experience. There have been people who, when they pass them, cannot do much more than scream. My mother, on the other hand, simply got up and continued with her day. This was because she was already used to pain.

It’s not because my father is abusive or anything like that--that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It’s that genetic illness I mentioned earlier. That was the cause of her pain, though at the time everyone thought it was the result of Arthritis, rather than CIRS. She was used enough to pain that passing gall stones simply didn’t bother her until she tried to pass one that was too large for her to do so. 

It’s truly ridiculous what a person can get used to. I saw a study once that tested how long it would take for a person to get used to seeing the entire world upside down. It took them only three days before they were functioning normally. It was the same after the glasses they were wearing to flip their view was taken off. Only three days to get used to your vision being flipped.

Because my mother was as used to pain as she was, the doctor she visited misdiagnosed her. Because I am as used to pain as I am, and because my illness does not affect my appearance, people do not believe I am sick. Not unless I’m having a really bad day, where everything hurts, and even then I might not be believed. 

I'm in college. At the college I attend, there is an office for the disabled and I went there to get forms to fill out to help me make it through the semester. I was feeling fairly good that day, so I left my cane at home, and as a result the people working in that office did not believe I was sick. They didn’t say anything, but I could see the disbelief in their faces, and when I looked back after leaving, I saw them shooting glances at me and whispering. Other than that, I have been told, to my face, that I do not look sick.

And why would I? I have good days and bad days. I rarely leave my home anymore, mostly because I can’t walk very far and there isn’t much for me to do that doesn't involve a lot of walking or being in a building that potentially has mold in it. When I’m out and about and I don’t have my cane with me, there’s no sign that I’m ill. No sign. But I am. And if you looked at my home, you’d see that.

We have a counter in the kitchen that’s dedicated solely to supplements and medicine. We have boxes upon boxes of syringes and saline and needles and medicine. We have an oxygen machine because sometimes our brains don’t get enough so we need the extra help. We take pills at every meal, pills after we wake up, and pills to go to sleep. We eat special diets because our stomachs can’t handle regular, commercial food. We attend online schools because the last time that I attended a normal school, there was an issue with the air vents in my math classroom that triggered my illness so bad that I was down for two days after entering that room. I was pulled from school after that incident.

I compare it to mental illnesses in my head sometimes. To things like depression. I know a lot about mental illnesses, too, because that’s something my family suffers from as well. My brother is autistic. My sister has ADHD. Both my mother and I suffer from chronic depression. We look perfectly fine, and so often people just don’t believe us when we say that we feel these things, when in reality it’s all very real.

I live in fear that one day our insurance won’t be enough to cover the medicine we need. Already it’s approaching that point. We have to focus on what we can treat and what we can’t for no other reason than the insurance can’t cover everything and we can’t afford to pay out of pocket. I live in America, and I really hate the American medical pricing, because everything is ridiculously over priced and it’s literately something that’s killing my family slowly. I live in fear that one day one of my siblings will be exposed to something really bad and get just as sick as I am, or worse, just as sick as my mother is. I live in fear that my father will go to work in a building that’s mold infested, and come home every day sicker than the last because he doesn’t have a choice. He’s been out of the job for months now, and tonight we celebrated because he finally found one again, just as we were starting to wonder if we were going to lose our house. It doesn’t matter if the building he’s going to work in now might be mold infested, because we don’t have a choice. This is the only job he can have. The only job in months of searching that would accept him. And if he raises a fuss, they can drop him just like that. That’s what the last place he worked at did, after all.

(Fuck you, Intel. Seriously, fuck you.)

I’m not sure why I’m writing this out. Maybe it’s because that’s how I deal with things. I write. I write poetry dedicated to sunsets that sound like suicide notes. I write stories were the main character burned to death in her last life, and suffers from PTSD as a result. I write stories were boys walk to their deaths and nothing can stop them. I write stories were people suffer and hurt and struggle and fail. I write long rants that I never post anywhere because I’m afraid of what people would say if they read them. I write and I write and I write until it doesn’t hurt anymore.

I write stories were those people pick themselves back up. I write stories were the outcasts find family and friends. I write stories where the nightmares that haunt them become easier to bare because a friend is there when they wake up. I write stories where the suicidal boy finds someone to catch them. I write stories were people, normal people just like me, find home and happiness and safety. I write long rants to give to my parents to say the things I can’t bring myself to physically open my moth and say out loud. Things like how sometimes I feel like I’m falling apart trying to keep everything together when it seems like everything is crashing down around me. Things like how frustrating it is to not know how to help my brother with his homework because he thinks differently than I do. Things like how much it hurts to hear that my sister can’t force herself to say “I love you,” and “Good night,” when I go to greet her before bed. 

I love my life. I love my family more than I can say and I have never been more grateful for anything than how loving and supportive they are of me and my interests. I love the friends I have made on this website, as few and far between as they are, and I love that I’m finding people to talk to on Discord who share my interests. I love that the people I meet are so supportive of me, who call me strong for being able to talk and write about when I was suicidal when there are days when I feel like the weakest person on the planet. I have been to Yosemite and seen a deer walk right up to my table, so close I could almost touch it. I have seen water falls and sunrises on mountains and the ocean from high up in a plane. I have visited my grandparents in another country half way across the world to celebrate their 80th birthday, and walked a beach in Hawaii at night, my feet in water that felt so warm. I never get hateful reviews on my stories, the worst review I’ve ever gotten on a story I’ve written being a short comment about hating yaoi. I’ve been thanked for the things I’ve written, been told I brought them hope with what I’ve written. “Writing this chapter was an act of bravery I’ll never forget.”  A reviewer once wrote that in a chapter I wrote about a suicidal character, and I remember just staring at that review and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. I remember getting a review once, only two words long, that read “Thank you,” and bursting out crying because I’d had a really shitty day up to that point and that review--I’m not sure how to describe it. It made my day, made me think that everything I am doing, all the things I am struggling with, are worth it, and that feeling is something priceless, something precious. 

And then there’s today. Today has not been one of my good days. I woke up with minor aches and pains, pain that was worse than what I usually feel on a day to day basis, but nothing too bad. I posted another chapter of a drabble series I’m working on, a funny series that’s something like 90% crack with how ridiculous it is. I went on with my day, browsed through tumblr and rebloged everything that caught my eye. I worked on school work, got distracted, and worked on it some more. My pain got worse however, and it hurts to type right now. I’ve taken my pain meds, and they’ve taken the edge off of things, but it still hurts. My family noticed this. 

Today we were celebrating. My dad finally got a job, so we were having ribs and freshly dug up sweet potato and red wine. It was delicious, but it hurt for me to get up and out of the chair, and I couldn’t cut the meat properly without a steak knife because my hands hurt too much. After we were finished eating, and I put my plate on the counter to be washed, my father opened his arms for a hug, and he told me he was sorry.

He said to me, “I’m sorry you’re in so much pain.” I told him it wasn’t his fault. And he said to me, “Yes it is. And I’m sorry.”

And I wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he understood that it wasn’t his fault, that it wasn’t anyone's fault, and that the only reason this family was still going was because he has been working so hard for all of us, when anyone else would have left a long, long time ago.

I am frustrated. I am so, so frustrated.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know why I’m posting this. It’s not going to change the fact that I’m sick. It’s not going to change the fact that our insurance sucks and the leader of the country I live in wants to take away even that. It’s not going to change the fact that my father feels guilty for something that’s not his fault, and it’s not going to change any of the problems my family faces. 

But I want to. I want people to know that there are people like me out there, who suffer for reasons beyond their control. I want people to know that not every person you speak to has a perfect life, and someone who looks healthy could be dying right in front of you. I want people to consider people like me when they vote, to not throw us under the bus just because we’re a minority, or because our voices aren’t loud enough, or because our issues aren’t as public and well known as other issues are.

I want people to listen to me when I say I’m sick.

[veneataur]

Fandom: BBC’s The Musketeers

Day 23 of 24

Title: The Driving Problem

A/N: This one’s a bit different from the others. There’s no Aramis because it’s from the early days of Athos’ and Porthos’ partnership on the task force.

“I’m not getting back in the car with him, Captain,” Porthos says, pushing open the door to Treville’s office without knocking. “He’s a menace on the road. I don’t even know how he passed his police driving exam.”

“I told you, du Vallon, I didn’t want to drive,” Athos says, annoyed, as he follows Porthos in. They have been teammates for a week and today is the first day Athos has had to drive. Athos is new to the Musketeers and still a cadet. Having been a police officer prior to being offered a position on the task force, Porthos is not considered a cadet. He also had his Masters nearly complete upon acceptance, unlike Athos who is in his first semester.

The Musketeers themselves are a new with only a year of active service. Many of the kinks in the program are being worked out but it has so far proven to be a success. They’ve solved a couple cold cases and one active. Their manpower is low thanks to Treville’s high standards but he has confidence in each man’s demeanor and capabilities. As he told Louis and Richelieu when he accepted the position, if this task force is to be better than the police, smarter and more aware of social nuances, then he’s going to be selective about who he takes. As payback for his efforts, Richelieu has procured for them the old Dearborn Station, a brick building that has recently spent more years unused than used. It’s cold and drafty. Some improvements have been made, but there’s much work to be done. Treville has been promised that if they continue to show the same success rate, they’ll get these improvements. He knows this is more Richelieu’s doing than Louis’. No other government entity in the city has to show success for structural improvements.

Treville sighs when his newest team comes in. He has a good feeling that they’ll work out but the adjustment period has been terrible for not just him but the whole office. Both have clear drive to do well but their methods and attitudes are different. Athos’ main interaction with law enforcement comes from seeing his ex-wife sentenced to life in prison for her lead role in a drug ring that caused the city a lot of money and lives. The man is naturally taciturn and is currently working through a bout of depression following the end of his marriage and death of his brother. Treville is understanding of mental illness and has given Athos time to get it under control but he’s on limited duties until he receives psychiatric approval. He’s pleased that the young man has been working with a psychiatrist willingly and hopes that it will work because he shows promise as an investigator.

“If he didn’t want to drive, then why did you have him?” Treville feels like he’s dealing with children some days.

“It’s what a team does. They share the tasks like driving,” Porthos explains. “I didn’t know that he hates driving so much he drives like a maniac.”

“Hey, you pulled me over three times for speeding. That should’ve said something,” Athos retorts.

“A lot of people speed. Doesn’t mean they loathe driving. How’ve you not been in accidents? The way you drive, there’s nothing defensive about it.” In the week that he’s worked with Athos, Porthos suspects that no one, no car would dare run into Athos with that glare. If he can make it out of the cadet phase, he’ll be a great interrogator with his silent patience and natural gruff look.

“Because that kind of driving doesn’t get you anywhere.”

“That kind of driving nearly got us t-boned downtown.”

“Wait,” Treville says. “What were you two doing downtown? You had no reason to be anywhere near there.”

“Mr. Grumpy here decided it would be the fastest way to get back here.” Porthos points to Athos.

“It would’ve been faster if it weren’t for the traffic jam,” Athos says.

“That’s normal traffic, Athos. Anyone knows that you don’t drive in downtown Chicago on a Friday afternoon.”

“You put me in charge of driving, du Vallon.”

“The name is Porthos, de la Fere.” Porthos tries to hold back his growl of annoyance but he’s not terribly successful. Still, it doesn’t wipe the irritated look off of Athos’ face. The man is a menace, he thinks.

“That’s your call sign, nothing else. You have a real name and I’m sticking to it.” It feels too much like the game of cloaks and daggers his marriage had become.

“So you don’t want to be called Athos?”

“I don’t have a choice in it.”

For a moment Porthos regrets his words. Athos doesn’t have much of a choice thanks to his name appearing in the records that put away his ex-wife. In the station, they could call him de la Fere or even Olivier, if any of them felt like getting taken to the mat, but out on the streets, around suspects it’s Athos.

“Shut it, the both of you,” Treville says, exasperated. “Now, you know why you both have call signs. And you better get used to using them all of the time. No sense in getting caught off guard.”

Treville gets up and moves to the front of his desk, leaning against it. “While Athos did pass the driving test, I have read the report and recommend that until he can get his driving under better control, Porthos, that you drive. Find a different way to divide up the tasks.”

“Yes, sir,” Porthos says.

“And Athos, I suggest that you find someone to teach you to tamper your driving. You’re not a civilian anymore. You need to be a better, safer driver. I’m going to put you up for the driving test again at the end of the year and if I don’t get a better report back, then you’re out of the program.”

“I understand,” Athos says.

“Good. Now, I want to see the two of you doing more to work together. I don’t have many officers and can’t afford to keep shuffling teams around. Okay?”

“Yes, Captain,” the two say at nearly the same time.

“There’s still a few hours left in the workday. Try to make some headway on one of the cold cases.”

“Will do,” Porthos says.

As the two are leaving, Treville hears Porthos speak quietly to Athos.

“I can help you with the driving, if you want. I worked as a driving instructor in college.”

“Thank you. I may take you up on that offer,” Athos says. “I can’t lose this job.”

[alfarrcoast]

Eminem - Cinderella Man

[Intro: Eminem] Yeah, you know, technically I'm not even really supposed to be here right now So fuck it, might as well make the most of it (Amen, Amen) Yeah! Ha ha, feels good Guess I'm lucky Some of us don't get a second chance But I ain't blowin' this one Nah, man, ha ha Shit, I feel like I can do anything now [Bridge: Eminem] Who can catch lightning in the bottle, set fire to water Comin' out the nozzle on the fire hose, flyer than swatters? (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man) Smash an hourglass, grab the sand Take his hands and cup 'em Spit a rhyme and freeze the clock Take the hands of time and cuff 'em (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man) [Verse 1: Eminem] There's a storm comin' that the weatherman couldn't predict I start to bug, prick, you better flee, 'cause I get ticked It's a wrap, I was down when I was down, I was kicked I got up, I'm back to punch you to the ground, you trick! It's a trap, fuck my last CD, the shit's in my trash I'll be goddamned if another rapper gets in my ass I hit the gas and I spit every rap as if it's my last You can die in the blink of an eye, so bat your eyelashes And keep winkin' and blowin' kisses 'Cause you're flirtin' with death I'm destroyin' your livelihood, I ain't just hurtin' your rep I catch a flow and get goin' No remorse I'm showin', ain't slowin' for no one Knowin' there's nothin' you can do about it Zero in on the target like a marksman, the target is you I shut your lane down, took your spot, parked in it too Arsenic flow, lighter fluid saliva—what can you do? Go get your crew to hype you up Stand behind you like "Whooo!" That boy's hot enough to melt Hell, burn Satan too Fry his ass and put his ashes back together with glue See, you can hate him, he don't blame you Frankly, he would too This game could ill afford to lose him, how 'bout you? [Refrain: Eminem] Now guess who? (Hey!) Here's a clue (Hey!) He came to the ball in his wife beater, lost his Nike shoe It's in your ass, (Hey!), he's in your ass He's all up in your psyche too Now, what's his name? [Chorus: Kobe] (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man) If I had a time machine, I'd be Cinderella Man (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man) Music is my time machine, so call me (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man) [Bridge 2: Eminem] Fuck catchin' lightning, he struck it Screamed "Shut up!" at thunder Then flipped the world upside down And made it rain upward (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man) Rewound the future to the present Paused it – don't ask how Fuck the past, mothafucka He's the shit right now, he's (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man) [Verse 2: Eminem] Cinderella man, Cinder Fellow, Shady dane Came to wrap the game up in cellophane Raise hell, from Hell he came But didn't come to bore you with the Cinderella story Nor did he come to do the same old Can't afford to be a lame-o In this day and age and at this stage of the game Mediocrity can no longer be allowed to fly So say bye to the old, H-I to the new Que será, consider it his last hurrah The coup de grâce, raise 'em high In the sky, keep 'em up, time to bring the place alive Thanks for bein' patient, I Will make no more mistakes, shit, my Potato's baked, homie, the veggies on my plate can fly My filet is smokin' weed—yeah, faggot, the steaks are high Shit, I ain't even suppose to be here by the grace of God The skin of my teeth and the hair on my nuts, I skated by Now y'all are on thin ice with ankle weights, I'd hate to lie How fuckin' irritated are you? How much in your face am I? It ain't shit you could do but fear it, Proof is here in spirit And I'm his spittin' image, I mirror it when I stand near it Your pussy lyric, I "cunt" hear it Who forms pyramids and raps circles around square lyricists? [Refrain: Eminem] Who? Here's a clue (Hey!) He came to the ball in his wife beater, lost his Nike shoe It's in your ass, (Hey!), he's in your ass He's all up in your psyche too (Hey!) Now, (Hey!) what's his name? [Chorus: Kobe] (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man Cinderella, Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man) If I had a time machine, I'd be (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man) Music is my time machine, so call me (Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man Cinderella Man, Cinderella Man)

[denofdragons001]

There's a storm comin' that the weatherman couldn't predict I've start to ball prick you better flea cause I get ticked It's a rap I was down, when I was down I was kicked, I got up I'm back to punch ya to the ground ya trick It's a trap, fuck my last CD that shit's in my trash I'll be God damned if another rapper gets in my ass I hit the gas and I spit every rap as if it's my last You can die in a blink of an eye, so betcha I'll last So keep winkin' and blowin' kisses cause your flirtin' with death I'm destroyin' your livelihood, I ain't just hurtin' your rep I catch a flow and get goin' No remorse I'm showin', ain't slowin' for no one Knowin' there's nothin' you can do about it Zero in on the target like a marksman, the target is you I'll shut your lane down, if you can spot the parked in at 2 Arsenic flower, lighter fluid, saliva what can you do Go get your crew, hype you up, stand behind you like "woo" That boy's hot enough to melt hell, burn Satan too Fry his ass and put his ashes back together with glue See you can hate him, he don't blame you, frankly he would too This game could ill afford to lose him, how bout you Now guess who (hey) Here's a clue (hey) He came to the ball in his wife beater, lost his Nike shoe He's in your ass, he's in your ass, he's all up in your psyche too Now, what's his name

Cinderella man, Eminem 

[freebestbettingtips]

Premier League 2018/19 Tactical Analysis: Huddersfield vs Arsenal

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Premier League 2018/19 Tactical Analysis: Huddersfield vs Arsenal

bestfreebettingtips.com @chapulana

Relegation contenders Huddersfield fell to a 2-1 loss at home to Arsenal in the Premier League on Saturday. Unai Emery’s Arsenal went to John Smith’s Stadium knowing only a win would be sufficient to keep them in contention for a top-four spot. Goals from Alex Iwobi and Alexandre Lacazette meant Arsenal walked away with all three points despite another scruffy, unconvincing win. Jan Siewert’s Huddersfield deserved much more from a game which they arguably dominated.

Lineups

Team selection has brought Unai Emery in the firing line all throughout this season and the Spaniard did himself no favours by opting for a three-man defence against the lowest scoring side in the division. Lining up in a 3-4-3, a significant aspect was the return of Henrikh Mkhitaryan to the starting XI following a period on the sidelines.

A bout of illness in the Arsenal camp meant that Ozil, Aubameyang and Ramsey didn’t even travel with the squad. Lacazette led the attack in Aubameyang’s absence. Ainsley Maitland-Niles continued at right wing-back in Bellerin’s absence. This lineup had a greater element of width to it than we have seen from Arsenal over the past few weeks.

Arsenal lined up in a 3-4-3 which became a 5-2-3 out of possession.

Huddersfield opted for a 4-3-3 with Elias Kachunga leading the line. Adama Diakhaby and Jason Puncheon operated as the wide men on either side of the forward. Regular creative outlet Aaron Mooy played in a free role in midfield with support from Jonathan Hogg and Juninho Bacuna. In defence, Siewert opted to play Terence Kongolo at left-back over Erik Durm.

Exploiting the wide areas

The team put out by Unai Emery had a significant element of width to it. In the past few games, Aubameyang has usually started on the right wing for Arsenal before drifting inside to goalscoring positions. However, his forced absence and Mkhitaryan’s return meant that the visitors were able to utilise the spaces behind Huddersfield’s full-backs more efficiently, especially on the right flank.

Siewert’s decision to play Kongolo instead of Durm really backfired as the Dutchman was all over the place defensively. Trying to win the ball, his rash tackling and positioning meant that it was easy for Mkhitaryan and Maitland-Niles to operate in the space vacated by him. This was key in both the Arsenal goals. For the first, Iwobi was unmarked in the penalty box and was allowed to take a shot, while for the second Maitland-Niles had space and time to cross and find Lacazette on the far post.

Kongolo (circled in blue) is completely out of position after trying to win the ball up the pitch. The consequence was acres of space afforded to Arsenal’s wide men.

Almost identically to the previous image, Kongolo is caught out again. Lacazette is able to blindside the centre-halves while making a run into the box.

Kolasinac breaks free from his marker and makes his trademark run down the left wing. Circled in blue below, Kongolo is marking Lacazette while Iwobi is completely unmarked. This sequence led to Arsenal’s opener after Kolasinac floated in a cross which Iwobi was able to score from.

The buildup to the second goal sees Maitland-Niles unmarked on the flank. Huddersfield’s wingers did very little to help out their defenders.

Can Arsenal actually defend?

Regrettably, it seems a surety that Arsenal will concede a goal every match, even against the weakest of sides. Against Huddersfield, Arsenal were arguably second best, even statistically. Huddersfield enjoyed 55% of the possession while registering six more shots and making 74 more passes than Arsenal. They were all damning stats for the Gunners and indicate how lucky they were to come away with the win.

Better finishing on Huddersfield’s part and the result could have been much different. Arsenal conceded the goal in injury time but the warning signs were impossible to ignore. Mustafi, unsurprisingly, was at the heart of the nervy defending, especially in the first half. Poor clearances, misplaced passes and a lack of aggression summarised the Arsenal defence, barring Koscielny.

Arsenal’s captain, once again, led by example putting his body on the line for his side. The Frenchman made three tackles, two blocks, two interceptions and an exceptional 10 clearances. Despite his heroics, throughout the game Arsenal struggled to deal with Huddersfield’s wingers.

Monreal attempts to tackle Diakhaby but fails. This allows the winger to run into the space vacated and put in a cross.

Mixed performances 

The visitors were largely poor but there were a few bright spots. Iwobi and Maitland-Niles were especially difficult to judge. Iwobi divides opinion. While considered a winger, he isn’t one in the traditional sense. His statistical output is poor but his ball progression and influence in the xGChain is great.

The Nigerian’s performance against Huddersfield followed in this vein. His goal was slightly lucky as it was deflected but Iwobi really should have scored another when he shot straight at the keeper. Overall he had a good game but it is justified to expect more clinical finishing from him.

Iwobi’s heatmap

Maitland-Niles registered an assist, made seven dribbles and eight tackles. In terms of numbers it wasn’t bad at all, but the youngster seems prone to lose his concentration from time to time. In this game, he gave the ball away sloppily on many occasions, in very dangerous areas. The Englishman could develop into a fine wide midfielder but for now seems resigned to a position at right-back.

Maitland-Niles’ heatmap

Conclusion

Elegant or not, a win is a win and such was the case for Arsenal as they edged Huddersfield. The result did nothing to answer the underlying questions about Arsenal’s identity under Emery, any sort of defensive improvement or a more cohesive side but it remains an important result nonetheless if they are to keep up with United and Chelsea.

Huddersfield will be disappointed that they could not manage at least a point from a game they dominated but should take heart from their performance. Survival remains a mammoth task and Jan Siewert needs to oversee a miracle if the Terriers are to be playing in the Premier League next season.

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