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sarcastically-defensive17 · 3 years

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Coffee - T. Holland

Okay, I know I have requests but this song came on at work the other day and I felt super emotional and I had to write. The use of Tom was very last minute because I had no actual person in mind for the fic, and there are very little actual defining characteristics so you can imagine it to be absolutely anybody you want!

This has broken me, so I apologize in case it has the same affect.

TW: This story contains mentions of cancer, allusions to death, mentions of death, sadness, angst, allusion to suicide, a character with cancer, and all round sadness about death.

If this content may trigger you in any way possible, please do not engage with this fic. Your personal safety and wellness is important so please take care of yourself, my lovies.

Original story by sarcastically-defensive17. Please do not copy, translate or share outside of the boundaries of tumblr without my permission. Please do not steal my work and market it as your own. Basically, don’t be a dick. Also, the above gif does not belong to me. Credit to @thollandgifs

Also, sorry the format is shit. I write on my phone so it’s hella bad.

Don't stay awake for too long, don't go to bed. I'll make a cup of coffee for your head. It'll get you up and going out of bed.

While his life stood still, hers moved. Most days he could barely move without the nausea taking over. His head pounding, body exhausted and weak beyond recognition. She had established a routine the minute she could. She made sure he had his morning coffee everyday. Whenever his eyes opened, she would be right by his side with his favourite beverage, bringing him breakfast and a warm, loving smile to entice him to get out of bed. She understood on days that his body fought him more than it already was - she was compassionate and considerate. On those days she would help him prop himself in a comfortable position, switch on whatever show they were watching at the time and curl up next to him with her work beside her.

His heart was often overwhelmed with the care she provided him. They were well into the fourth year of their life together, and he had no doubt in his mind that he would love her until his last days. He often solemnly thought of the ring he still had hidden in his drawer of their shared cabinet. He had made a vow to pop the question if he ever recovered, but the thought of that day never coming simply tore another piece from his already dwindling soul.

He would often sit in his chair, or on the bed in their small, studio apartment, watching her flutter around the house in a graceful way only she could. He had memorized her every move when she conducted the most mundane activity. The way she poured a glass of water, the way she tapped her fingers against her thigh to the tune of a theme song, the way she always made his coffee to pure perfection - in a way that nobody else had been able to do.

He had so much love for her, that he was terrified of it slipping away at any moment.

Yeah, I don't wanna fall asleep, I don't wanna pass away. I been thinking of our future 'cause I'll never see those days.

He was 24, and she was 25. They had already planned a life together. They had steady jobs, an intense and passionate love, names picked out for future children, dinner at his parents house every Sunday, lunch with her parents every Wednesday.

He just knew that he had done something to deserve such a fate. At first he was angry, terrified of the possibility of his soul leaving this earth, but as time went on, his self-deprivation grew. Apparently it was common for people in his situation. The fear of dying was clouded by a justification that this was meant to be. He had done something terrible in a past life, and karma was giving him the painful ending he deserved... but he despised the thought, because Y/N didn’t deserve to watch her boyfriend meet his end in this way.

He had thought of near every scenario in his life in which he hurt somebody - cheating on his girlfriend in his first year of college, letting Y/N down time after time, only for her to forgive him. The hurt he caused his parents when he was a teenager and full of such hate for the world. But now, all he could do was pray for forgiveness. He had hope that there was some way he could make it out of this, but he was losing hope rapidly.

Even as he sat with his love on their bed, watching re-runs of How I Met Your Mother, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander.

“When I’m gone,” his voice was croaky, his throat dry and scratchy. “Please tell me you will find somebody else.” He fumbled around to grab her hand, winching as he caught her head snapping towards his in his peripheral vision. He couldn’t turn to see the expression on her face. “You’re so young, so full of life. Your life is going to be so beautiful.”

Her hand was pulled from his, and he steeled what was left of his nerves to get ready for whatever tongue lashing she had planned, but instead he felt the bed dip further beside him, her hands framing his sullen face on each side and softly turning his gaze to meet her own.

“Don’t you say things like that, Tom.” He forced his eyes to stare into her own. His eyes seemed as if they were always ready to release tears, and the intensity of the hurt in her own made his pool unconsciously. “There is no somebody else when the other half of my soul is already with me. I don’t need anybody else because you’re not going anywhere.”

Her thumb brushed away the tear that slipped from his chocolate orbs, ignoring the dark circles underneath that made his face seem further sunken than it was.

“You don’t know that,” he sniffed heavily, dropping his eyes down to his lap. His fingers unconsciously toyed with the bracelet she had given him years ago. A soft, black, faux-leather band. An unfit symbol charm dangled close to the strap, reminding him of her favourite line from her favourite book/movie - the perks of being a wallflower. He had gone wuth her when she got the titular floral piece tattooed on her forearm. She was so happy that day. “One day you’re gonna be in a nice house, a ring on your finger, watching your husband dote over your little baby and you will be at peace in the way I know you crave. I just... I know that will never be me, who slips a ring onto your hand, or waits for you at the end of the aisle. I won’t be the one who holds your hand when you meet your baby, or the one who can give you the life you deserve - the one you want.”

His eyes snapped up to meet her own when he heard her breath grow shaky, but the action caused his brain to lose its equilibrium and he had to close his eyes for a moment. He hated doing so. Every time his eyes were shut, it was a moment that he lost of memorizing every line, curve, angle of her body. He opened his eyes again when able, and he was met with her own eyes as red rimmed as his, tears streaming down her beautiful face.

“Don’t you every talk like that, Thomas Stanley. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to be the one to do all of those things because you’re going to make it and we are going to love each other until the end of our time, together. I’ll fucking Romeo and Juliet this shit if I have to,” her dark joke was met with a wet laugh from them both, before her face melted back into seriousness. “I’m never gonna need another person, Tommy. I have you, and I will have you forever.”

“You make every day a blessing, my love.” He whispered, his lips ghosting over hers as he gathered the strength in his lead arms to pull her into a hug. “You make hell feel like a summers day, and I cherish every moment I have left with you.”

My life was kinda short, but I got so many blessings. Happy you were mine, it sucks that it's all ending

Their days continued on for another three weeks, the same routine of morning coffee and testing the boundaries of his own fatigue. Three weeks without the dreaded conversation arising again, until she woke to find him staring into the ceiling with such an intense and thoughtful gaze. She knew instantly what was on his mind, and she could feel her heart breaking into more little pieces.

“Tommy?” Her melodic tone was soft, snapping him from his nightmarish reprieve. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing honey. Thinking about us... when we were young and full of life,” he snorted into the dark room, Y/N’s soft laugh pushed through her nose and he felt her smile against his neck. “Just, thinking about how sorry I am for all of this. I’m sorry that I’ve turned your life upside down, that we have changed so much.”

He felt weaker. His body was fighting to hold on, and he felt that they both knew that. He was being eaten up from the inside out, but he couldn’t bear to leave. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t leave her alone. He needed her, he loved her. He wanted to be her husband and give her everything she wanted in life. He wanted to live, for her.

“I would change everything if it meant I could be here with you,” her voice was heavy, riddled with sleep. Neither of them get much rest anymore. He is always up and down, and she frets too much to sleep through his late night jolts and retches. “You’re worth every minute of every day, Tom. You have nothing to apologize for. It’s not like you chose to have Can-“

“Don’t say it, baby, please?” He pled, silencing her before she could say the word. He hadn’t once uttered it since the day he found out. She had relayed the information to their families, holding his hand the entire time as he sat motionless. “Makes it more real than my emo ramblings.” His laugh was humorless, but he didn’t intend it to be so.

She apologised softly, snuggling closer to him. She knew how much he loved the feel of her body on his, how the intimacy of the comfort made him feel warm. Back when he could handle the weight, she would sometimes wake up curled on top of his chest because he had sought her out in his sleep.

“I would do anything for you, Tommy. I would give up everything I have just to see you smile. You’re the other half of my soul, my infinity.”

He felt a tear slip down his cheek. Her words always had that affect on him, but he loved the way she could send his heart beating with no effort. He loved her. So intensely.

“Sing to me, please?” A request he had let loose so many times before. He adored her voice, and the soft melodies that fell from her lips and lulled him to sleep.

She obliged with a smile on her face, and let the words tumble into his pale skin.

“If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do...”

Soon you'll be alone, sorry that you have to lose me

Two more months passed. His doctors were satisfied, stating that he was slowly improving. His body was beginning to regain strength. He had begun to grow more hopeful, slowly but surely.

Until there was no chance for hope left.

Y/N made his morning coffee, but when she went to rest it on his bedside, he could barely breathe.

Her fingers dialed emergency services faster than she thought possible, her voice cracking as she sung to him over and over, hands cradling his head in her lap as he whispered his love for her.

The coffee went cold as the red and blue lights approached.

Don't stay awake for too long, don't go to bed. I'll make a cup of coffee for your head. It'll get you up and going out of bed

Tag list: @starshonerose @snookiebrookie @another-lonely-heart @mantlereid

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#tom holland angst #tom holland #tom holland x reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker #spiderman #caz writes #deathbed #(coffee for your head)#I’m so sorry #I’m so emotional #this hits home so I had to write it #angst #marvel

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star-anise · 4 years

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An ask I got recently:

hi so i’m a transmed and i’m not sure if you’ll answer this because of that but i saw your post about transmedicalism and was wondering if you could expand on that? you seem like a genuinely kind and judgement-free person, thank you darling x

My response:

Heh, you call me “judgement-free” and ask for my opinion on a topic I’ve formed a lot of judgments about… I get it though, I’m not into attacking people for what they believe so much as providing FACTS. As a cis queer, my insight into transmedicalism isn’t really about the innate experience of trans-ness so much as using my education and professional experience to talk about social science research, diagnostic systems, and public health policy.

This ended up really long, so the tl;dr is, I think transmedicalism as I understand it:

Misunderstands why and how the DSM’s Gender Dysphoria diagnosis was written,

Treats the medical establishment with a level of trust and credibility it doesn’t deserve, at a time when LGBT+ people, especially trans people, need to be informed and vigilant critics of it, and

Approaches the problem of limited resources in an ass-backwards way that I think will end up hurting the trans community in the long run.

TW: Transphobia; homophobia; suicide; institutionalization; torture; electroshock therapy; child abuse; incidental mentions of pedophilia.

So first off I’m guessing you mean this post, about not trusting the medical establishment to tell you who you are? That’s what I’m trying to elaborate on here.

I have to admit, when you say “I’m a transmedicalist” that tells me very little about you, because on Tumblr the term seems to encompass a dizzying array of perspectives. Some transmedicalists believe in what seems to me the oldschool version of “The only TRUE trans people suffer agonizing dysphoria that can only be fixed with surgery and hormones, everyone else is an evil pretender stealing resources and can FUCK RIGHT OFF” and others are like, um… “I have total love and respect for nonbinary and nondysphoric trans people! I qualify for a DSM diagnosis of dysphoria but that doesn’t make me inherently better or more trans than anyone else.”

Which is very confusing to me because according to everything I’ve learned, the latter opinion is not transmedicalism. It’s just… a view of transness that acknowledges current diagnostic labels and scientific research. It’s what most people who support trans rights and do not identify as transmedicalists believe. But I kind of get the impression that Tumblr transmedicalism has expanded well past its original mandate, to the point that if a lot of “transmedicalists” saw the movement’s original positions they’d go “Whoa that’s way too strict and doesn’t help our community, I want nothing to do with it.”.

Okay so. Elaborating on the stuff I can comment on.

1. DSM what?

The American Psychiatric Association publishes a big thick book called The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, called the DSM for short. This is the “Bible of psychiatry”, North America’s definitive listing of mental disorders and conditions. It receives significant revision and updates roughly every 10-15 years; it was last updated in 2013, meaning it will likely get updated sometime between 2023 and 2028.

The DSM lists hundreds of “codes”, each of which indicates a specific kind of mental disorder. For example, 296.23 is “Major depressive disorder, Single episode, Severe,” and 300.02 is “Generalized anxiety disorder.” These codes have information on how common the condition is, how it’s diagnosed, and what kind of treatment is appropriate for it.

Diagnostic codes are the key to health professionals getting paid. If there isn’t a code for it, we can’t get paid for it, and therefore we have very few resources to treat it with. The people who actually pay for healthcare–usually insurance companies or government agencies–decide how much they will pay for each code item to be treated. They’ll pay for, say, three sessions of group therapy for mild depression (296.21), or they’ll pay for more expensive private therapy if it’s moderate (296.22); they’ll pay for the cheap kind of drug if you have severe depression (296.23), but to get the more expensive drug, you need to have depression with psychotic features (296.24).

Healthcare companies, especially in the USA where the system is very very broken and the DSM is written, are cheap bastards. If they can find an excuse not to fund some treatment, they’ll use it. “We think this person who lost their job and can’t get off the couch should pay this $1000 bill for therapy,” they’ll say. “After all, they were diagnosed as code 296.21, and then saw a private therapist for five sessions, when we only allow three sessions of group therapy, and you’re saying they haven’t had enough treatment yet?”

A lot of the advocacy work mental health professionals do is trying to get the big funding bodies to pay us adequately for the work we do. (This is a much easier process in countries with single-payer healthcare, where this negotiation only needs to be done with a single entity. In the USA, it needs to be done with every single health insurance company in existence, as well as the government, sometimes differently in every single state, and then again on a case-by-case basis as well.) Healthcare providers have to argue that three sessions of group therapy isn’t enough, that Medicaid needs to pay therapists more per hour than it costs those therapists to rent a room to practice in, or else therapists would lose money by seeing Medicaid clients. DSM codes exist a tiny bit to let us communicate with each other about the people we treat, and a huge amount to let us get paid. The fact that their existence lets people make sense of their own experiences and find a community with people who share common experiences and interests with them is a very minor side benefit the DSM’s authors really don’t keep in mind when they update and revise different diagnoses.

So when it comes to convincing insurance companies to pay for treatment, humanitarian reasons like “they’ll be very unhappy without it” tend not to work. The best argument we have for them paying for psychological treatment is that it’s economical: that if they don’t pay for it now, they’ll have to pay even more later. If they refuse to pay, let’s say, $2000 to treat mild depression when someone loses their job, and either refuse treatment or stick the person with the bill, then that person’s life might spiral out of control–they might, let’s say, run low on money, get evicted from their apartment, develop severe depression, attempt suicide, and end up in hospital needing to be medically resuscitated and then put in an inpatient psych ward for a month. The insurance company then faces the prospect of having to pay, let’s say, $100,000 for all that treatment. At which point somebody clever goes, “Huh, so it would have been cheaper to just… pay the original $2000 instead so they could bounce back, get a new job, and not need any of this treatment later.”

Trans healthcare can be kind of expensive, since it often involves counselling, years of hormone therapy, medical garments, and multiple surgeries. Health insurance companies hate paying for anything, and have traditionally wanted not to cover any of this. “This is ridiculous!” they said. “These are elective cosmetic treatments, it’s not like they’re dying of cancer, these people can pay the same rate for breast enhancements or testosterone injections as anyone else.”

So when the APA Task Force on Gender Identity Disorder (a task force comprised, as far as I can tell, entirely of cis people) sat down to plan for the 2013 update of the DSM, one of their biggest goals was: Treatment recommendations. Create a diagnosis which they could effectively use to advocate that insurance companies fund gender transition. Like when you go back and read the documents from their meetings in 2008 and 2011, their big thing is “create a diagnosis that can be used to form treatment recommendations.” So that’s what they did; in 2013 they made the GD diagnosis, and in 2014 the Affordable Care Act required insurers to provide treatment for it.

A lot of trans people weren’t happy with the DSM task force’s decisions, such as the choice to keep “Transvestic Fetishism,” which is basically the autogynephilia theory, and just rename it “Transvestic Disorder”. The creation of the Gender Dysphoria diagnosis, basically, was designed to force the preventive care argument. They didn’t think they could win on trans healthcare being a necessity because healthcare is a human right, so they went with: Trans people have a very high suicide rate, and one way to bring it down is to help them transition. One of the major predictors of suicidality is dysphoria. The more dysphoric someone is, the more likely they are to attempt suicide (source). Therefore, health insurers should fund treatment for gender dysphoria because it was cheaper than paying for emergency room admissions and inpatient psychiatric hospitalizations.

I have spoken to trans scientists about what research exists, and my understanding is: The dysphoria/no dysphoria split is not actually validated in the science. That is, when you research trans people, there is not some huge gaping difference between the experiences, or brains, of people With Dysphoria, and people Without Dysphoria. Mostly, scientists haven’t even thought it was an important distinction to study. The diagnosis wasn’t reflecting a strong theme in the research about trans experiences; that research showed that trans people with all levels of dysphoria were helped with medical transition. The biggest difference is just that dysphoria is a stronger risk factor for suicide. Experiencing transphobia is another strong risk factor, but that’s harder to measure in a doctor’s office, so dysphoria it was.

(I’ve seen some transmedicalists claim that dysphoria’s major feature is incongruence, not distress. And I’ll just say, uh… in psychology, “dysphoria” is the opposite of of “euphoria”, literally means “excessive pain”, and is used in many disorders to describe a deep-seated sense of distress and wrongness. As a mental health professional, I just can’t imagine most of my colleagues agreeing that something can be called “dysphoria” if the person doesn’t feel real distress about it. If you want a diagnosis that doesn’t demand dysphoria, you’d need Gender Incongruence in the upcoming version of the ICD-11, which is the primary diagnostic system used in Europe, published by the World Health Organization.)

2. Doctors are not magic

Medicine is a science, and science is a system of knowledge based on having an idea, testing it against reality, and revising that knowledge in light of what you learned. We’re learning and growing all the time.

I don’t know if this sounds painfully obvious or totally groundbreaking, but: Basically all medical research is done by people who don’t have the condition they’re writing about. Psychology has a strong historical bias against believing the personal testimonies of people with conditions that have been deemed mental disorders, so researchers who have experienced the disorder they’re writing about have often had to hide that fact, like Kay Redfield Jamison hiding that she had bipolar disorder until she became a world-renowned expert on it, or Marsha Linehan hiding that she had borderline personality disorder until she pioneered the treatment that could effectively cure it. Often, having a condition was seen as proof you couldn’t actually have a truthful and objective experience of it.

So what I’m trying to say is: The “gender dysphoria” diagnosis was written and debated, so far as I can tell, by entirely cis committee members. The vast majority of psychological and psychiatric research about LGBT+ people is written by cisgender heterosexual scientists. Most clinical and scientific writing has been outsider scientists looking at people they have enormous power over and making decisions about their basic existence with very little accountability.

And to show you how far we’ve come, I want to show you part of the DSM as it was from 1952 to 1973. It shows you just why so many older LGBT+ people find it deeply ironic that now the DSM is being held up as definitive of trans experience:

302 Sexual Deviation This category is for individuals whose sexual interests are directed primarily toward objects other than people of the opposite sex, toward sexual acts not usually associated with coitus, or towards coitus performed under bizarre circumstances as in necrophilia, pedophilia, sexual sadism, and fetishism. Even though many find their practices distasteful, they remain unable to substitute normal sexual behavior for them. This diagnosis is not appropriate for individuals who perform deviant sexual acts because normal sexual objects are not available to them.

302.0 Homosexuality 302.1 Fetishism 302.2 Pedophilia 302.2 Transvestitism […]

Yes, really. That is how psychiatry viewed us. At a time when research from other fields, like psychology and sociology, were showing that this view was completely unsupported by evidence, psychiatry thought LGBT+ people were fundamentally disordered, criminal, and incapable of prosocial behaviour.

My favourite retelling of the decades of activism it took LGBT+ people and allies to get the DSM to change is from a friend who did her master’s thesis on the topic, because she leaves in the clown suits and gay bars, which really shows how scientific and dignified the process was. The long story short is: It took over 20 years of lobbying by LGBT+ people who were sick and tired of being locked up in mental institutions and subjected to treatments like electroshock training, as well as by LGBT+ social scientists, clinicians, and psychiatrists, to get homosexuality declassified as a mental illness. And that was homosexuality; the push to change how trans people were listed in the DSM is very recent, as seen in the latest version listing “Transvestic Disorder”, a description very few trans people ever use for themselves.

Here are a few more examples of how people with a condition have had to take an active part in the science about them:

When HIV/AIDS appeared in the USA, the government didn’t care why drug addicts and gay people were dying mysteriously. Hospitals refused to treat people with this mysterious new disease. AIDS patients had to fight to get any funding put into what AIDS is, how it spreads, or how it could be treated; they also had to campaign to change the massive public prejudice against them, so they could be treated, housed, and allowed to live. Here’s an article on the activist tactics they used. If you want an intro to the fight (or at least, white peoples’ experience of it), you could look into the movies How to Survive a Plague, And the Band Played On, and The Normal Heart.

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) is a little-understood disease that causes debilitating exhaustion. It’s found twice as often in women as men. Doctors understand very little about what it is or why it happens, and patients with CFS are often written off a lazy hypochondriacs who just don’t want to try hard. There are basically no known treatments. In 2011, a British study said that an effective treatment for CFS was “graded exercise”, a program where people did slowly increasing levels of physical activity. This flew in the face of what people with CFS knew to be true: That their disease caused them to get much worse after they exercised. That for them, being forced to do ever-increasing exercise was basically tantamount to torture, so it was very concerning that health authorities and insurance companies began requiring that they undergo graded exercise treatment (and parents with children with CFS had to put their children through this treatment, or lose custody for “medical neglect”). So they investigated the study, found that it was seriously flawed, got many health authorities to reverse their position on graded exercise, and have made strides into pointing researchers to looking into biological causes of their illness.

Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) is a rare but debilitating disease that isn’t researched much, because it affects such a small portion of the population. The ALS community realized that if they wanted better treatment, they would need to raise the money for research themselves. In 2014 they organized a viral “ice bucket challenge” to get people to donate to their cause, and raised $115 million, enough to make significant advances in understanding ALS and getting closer to a cure.

A common treatment for Autism is Applied Behaviour Analysis (ABA), which is designed to encourage “desired” behaviours and discourage “undesired” ones. The problem is, the treatment targets behaviour an Autistic person’s parents and teachers consider desirable or undesirable, without consideration that some “undesired” behaviours (like stimming) are fundamental and necessary to the wellbeing of Autistic people. Furthermore, the treatment involves punishing Autistic children for failure to behave as expected–in traditional ABA, by witholding rewards or praise until they stop, or in more extreme cases, by subjecting them to literal electric shocks to punish them. (In that last case, they’ve been ordered to stop using the shock devices by August 31, 2020. That only took YEARS.) Autistic people have had to campaign loud and long to say that different treatment strategies should be researched and used, especially on Autistic children.

So I mean… I get that the medical model can provide an element of validation and social acceptance. It can feel really good to have people in white coats back you up and say you’re the real deal. But if you get in touch with most LGBT+ and transgender groups, they’d say that there’s still a lot of work to be done when it comes to researching trans issues and getting scientific and governmental authorities to recognize your rights to social acceptance and medical treatment.

Within a few years, the definition you’re resting on will turn to sand beneath your feet. The Great DSM Machine will begin whirring into life pretty soon and considering what revisions it has to make. You’ll have an opportunity to make your voice heard and to push for real change. So… do you want to be part of that process of pushing trans rights forward, or do you just want to feel loss because they’re changing your strict definition of who’s valid and who’s not?

3. Scarcity is not a law of physics

One of the major arguments I see transmedicalists push is that there’s only a limited number of surgeries or hormone prescriptions available, so it’s not okay for a non-dysphoric person to “steal” the resources that another trans person might need more. This makes sense in a limited kind of way; it’s a good way to operate if, say, you’re sharing a pizza for lunch and deciding whether to give the last slice to someone who’s hungry and hasn’t eaten, or someone who’s already full.

When you start to back up and look at really big and complex systems–basically anything as big, or bigger, than a school board or a hospital or a municipal government–it’s not a helpful lens anymore. Because the most important thing about social institutions is that they can change. We can make them change. And the most important factor in how much the world changes is how many people demand that it change.

I’ve talked about this before when it comes to homeless shelters, and how the absolute worst thing they can have are empty beds. I used to work in women’s shelters, which came about when second-wave feminists started seriously looking at the problem of domestic violence in the 1960s and 70s, It was an issue male-dominated governments and healthcare systems hadn’t taken seriously before, but feminists started heck and did research and staged demonstrations and basically demanded that organizations that worked for the “public benefit” reduce the number of women being killed by their husbands. Their research showed that the leading cause of death in those cases were when women tried to leave and their partners tried to kill them, so the most obvious solution was to give them someplace safe to go where their partners couldn’t find them. Therefore the solution became: Women’s shelters. When feminists committed to founding and running these shelters, local governments could be talked into giving them money to keep them running.

(Men’s rights activists, the misogynist kind, like to whine about “why aren’t there men’s shelters?” and the very simple answer is: Because you didn’t fight for them, you teatowels. Whether a movement gets resources and funding is hugely a reflection of how many people have said, “This needs resources and funding! Look, I’m writing a cheque! Everyone, throw money at this!” In other news, The BC Society for Male Survivors of Sexual Abuse does great work. People should throw money at them.)

When the system in power knows there are resources it wants and doesn’t have, it finds a way to make them appear. For example, in Canada, the government knows that it doesn’t have enough trained professionals living in its far North, where the population is scarce and not very many people want to live. Doctors and teachers would prefer to live in the southern cities. But because it’s committed to Northern schools and hospitals, they create incentives. For example, the government offers to pay off the student loans of teachers or health professionals who agree to work for a few years in Northern communities.

Part of why trans healthcare resources are so scarce is that for a long time, trans people were considered too small a part of the population to care about. Like, “Trans people exist, but we won’t have to deal with them.” Older estimates said 0.4% of the population was trans, which meant a city of 100,000 people would have 400 trans people. A single family doctor can have 2000 or 3000 clients, so the city could have maybe 1 or 2 doctors who really “got” trans issues, and all the trans people would tell each other to only go see those doctors because all the rest were assholes. And the cracks in the system didn’t really seem serious. A couple hundred dissatisfied people not getting the healthcare they needed? Meh! Hospital administrators had more to worry about!

But the trans population is growing. A recent poll of Generation Z said 2.6% of middle schoolers in Minnesota were some kind of trans. which is 2,600 per 100,000. That’s enough to make hospitals think that maybe the next endocrinologist or OB/GYN they hire should have some training in treating trans people. That’s enough to make a health authority think that maybe the state should open up a new gender confirmation surgery clinic, since demand is rising so much.

Or well, I mean. Hospitals have a lot on their minds. This might not occur to them as their top priority. They’d probably think of it a lot sooner if a bunch of those trans people sent them letters or took out a billboard or showed up by the dozens at a public meeting to say, “Hello, there are a fuckload of us. Budget accordingly. We want to see your projected numbers for the next five years.”

When you’re doing that kind of work, suddenly it hurts your cause to limit your number of concerned parties. Sure, limited focus groups or steering committees can have limited membership, but when you put their ideas into action, to protest something or lobby for political change, you need numbers. If you want to show that you’re a big and important group that systems should definitely pay attention to, you don’t just need every trans or GNC or NB person who’s got free time to devote to your campaign, you also need every cis ally who can pad out numbers or lick envelopes or hand out water bottles or slip you insider information about the agenda at the next board meeting. You need bodies, time, and money, and you get them best by being inclusive about who’s in your party. Heck, if it would benefit your cause to team up with the local breast cancer group because trans women and cis women who have had mastectomies both have an interest in asking a hospital to have a doctor on staff who knows how to put a set of tits together, then there are strong reasons to do it.

Basically: All the time any marginalized group spends fighting over scraps is generally time we could spend demanding that the people handing out the food give us another plate. If you don’t think you’re getting enough, the best answer isn’t to knock it out of somebody’s hands, but to get together to say, “HEY! WE’RE NOT GETTING ENOUGH!”

That kind of work is complicated and difficult! It’s definitely much harder than yelling at someone on Tumblr for not being trans enough. But if you do any level of getting involved with activist groups that fight for real systemic change, whether that’s following your local Pride Centre on Twitter or throwing $5 at a trans advocacy group or writing your elected representative about the need for more trans health resources, you’re pushing forward lasting change that will help everyone.

#staranise original #transmedicalism tw #transphobia tw #homophobia tw #my problems with sj let me show you them

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flowercrown-bard · 4 years

Text

The Boy who Ran: Chapter 3

Whumptober Prompt 4: Running out of time/ Collapsed

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/ Jaskier

TW: Injuries (no detailed description)

Note: Sorry for the non-consistant formatting. I am new to sharing my writing on tumblr and it took me a while to figure out how to best title my works. I will keep this format for the following chapters. Also on Ao3

part 1 part 2

The realisation hit Geralt without warning. Jaskier was getting older. He wasn’t old yet, by any means - in fact he looked barely older than the day Geralt had met him - but he would be. Someday Jaskier would be old and he wouldn’t be able to travel with Geralt anymore as he had for the past decade.

They didn’t talk about it. Ignoring the inevitable made it easier to forget. Like a child ignoring their mother’s advice to put on a raincoat, he pushed the thought of Jaskier aging into the far back of his mind.

But every once in a while, he looked at Jaskier and was reminded of the storm that was to come. No matter how insistently he tried to push it away, the treacherous voice of reason always came back, telling him that one day he would lose Jaskier to the one thing Geralt wouldn’t be able to protect him from.

No matter how young he might look or act, Jaskier wasn’t immortal. How long had they travelled together? Not nearly long enough. Geralt had lived for so long that he had lost all concepts of how long it took for humans to age. By the looks of it, Jaskier was still young, but he wouldn’t stay this way. One day, he would turn to dust and the world would forget about him. Eventually his songs would fade and Geralt would bear the burden of his memory alone.

Why couldn’t Geralt have loved a mage instead? After almost losing Jaskier to a djin, he had tried, had done his best to love Yennefer. It would have been easier, safer to love her; someone he could spend the rest of his life with. Someone he wouldn’t have to outlive and bury.

But she wasn’t Jaskier. She wasn’t the bard who had a smile so bright it and boyish that it was hard to imagine him as an old man. Yennefer wasn’t the man with eyes that were of such an unnatural blue that time seemed to slow when you looked into them. Jaskier’s boyish laugh made it easy to forget, that he doesn’t have all the time in the world.

There were things Geralt wanted to tell him, needed to tell him, but he pushed it back, as though ignoring time would make it pass slower. Geralt would wait to say these things until eventually he would run out of time to do so.

Geralt watched the days, weeks, months race past. Telling Jaskier what he meant to him would make it real and so much more painful. So he he let time run out without letting the words he needed Jaskier to hear pass his lips.

The griffin’s claws sliced across Geralt’s chest, right in the moment, as his sword plunged into the griffin’s.

Geralt’s breath became shallow, as his sword slipped from his grasp, still buried inside the beast that now lay motionless on the ground. Without having any control over it, Geralt’s knees buckled. He watched with morbid fascination as the ground came closer and closer until he hit it with a painful thud.

He tried to push himself back up, but his fingers slipped on something wet that made the fallen leaves slippery. Blood, his brain provided helpfully. Too much blood. He felt his heart pump it out of his body, heard it rushing in his ears

How often had he returned to camp, covered in monsterblood to find Jaskier complain about how gross he looked? A broken smile cracked Geralt’s lips. Every time, Jaskier’s eyes would soften and he would take care of Geralt, despite his complains and snarky remarks making sure that none of the blood was Geralt’s. It would be nice, if Jaskier took care of him like that now.

Geralt breath hitched. No, Jaskier couldn’t see him like this. He deserved better. He couldn’t watch Geralt die. It was Geralt who was supposed to outlive Jaskier, who was supposed to live with the burden of his death.

How could he have been so foolish to allow Jaskier to follow him on his hunts? No, not allowed. Geralt had pushed him to be there after the incident with the forktail, so he would be able to protect the bard.

There had been a reason why Geralt had initially hesitated to let him near him while he fought. Hunting was dangerous. For years, Geralt had been worried that Jaskier might get hurt, but he had always been able to protect him from the worst, from vengeful husbands, from his own damned djin wish, from any monster that had dared attack him.

Not once had Geralt imagined that it was him that would get hurt; that Jaskier would have to witness his death. He hoped with every fibre of his being that Jaskier still wouldn’t have to, now; that he had gotten bored watching Geralt fight and that he had left.

Naturally, destiny wasn’t merciful enough to grant Geralt his dying wish.

He heard Jaskier before he saw him, sliding down the small hillside to where he lay, calling his name. It sounded faint, like it was coming from far away.

Then suddenly there were hands touching him, pressing on his wounds, turning him around so that he lay on his back. Blue eyes filled Geralt’s vision and it felt like time had stopped, like he had an eternity left to live as long as he saw that endless blue. He could look into those eyes forever.

No, not forever. Time had rushed past and Geralt slipped through Geralt’s fingers. He needed the time. Days, weeks, months, years, all wasted.

With sudden clarity, Geralt knew. This was it. He had finally run out of time. He had let time slip by, days, weeks, months, years, until all he had left was this one moment. It wasn’t enough.

It was.

All he needed was one moment to tell Jaskier what he meant to him. He still had time.

But he didn’t have the strength. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“Shh, don’t speak. You will be ok. I promise. You’ll be ok. I will – I will safe you. I promise.” Jaskier’s voice cracked. “Save your strength. Breathe.”

No, he needed to tell him. He couldn’t.

Something wet landed on Geralt’s cheek. It took him a moment to realise what it was. A tear. A strangled sob escaped Jaskier.

“You stay with me, you hear me?”

The pressure on Geralt’s wound increased, but somehow Geralt didn’t feel any pain. He didn’t feel anything. Except a strange tingling and the burning need to tell Jaskier what he should have told him years ago and that he now would never be able to say.

Geralt felt his hand getting lifted, felt Jaskier’s trembling hand on his, as he pressed his cheek against it.

“You can’t leave me now, Geralt. I haven’t told you, yet – I need to tell you…” His voice broke off.

No, it didn’t. His lips kept moving, but Geralt couldn’t make out the words. His vision blurred and the only sound he could hear was his own rattling breath.

As darkness took him in its cold embrace, he thought that maybe, just maybe Jaskier’s lips had formed the words he had been too much of a coward to say. What a sweet lie to put him to rest.

Everything hurt. Geralt opened his eyes for only a brief moment before he had to squeeze them shut, because of the blinding light. For a terrifying moment he thought he was back at Kaer Morhen, a young boy, waking up from his trials with eyes that were to sensitive.

The thought made it hard to breathe, the memories of the trials flooding back to him. He needed to ground himself, somehow. But the terrifying thought that he might still be in Kaer Morhen bound to the table where the experiments had been performed on him prevented him from opening his eyes just yet.

Instead Geralt felt around with his hands. He left out a shaky breath of relief. He was definitely lying on grass, though it felt dry and broke beneath his fingers.

Carefully, he opened his eyes again. It hurt, but at least it calmed his racing heart. Around him were not the stone walls he had seen after the trials, but trees gently swaying in the wind. But something felt off. It was warm, the air didn’t sting in his lungs like it would in winter. So why did the trees around him look like all life had been drained from them?

He let his gaze wander, hoping that something would jog his memory. The last thing he could remember was fighting a Griffin, falling to the ground and – Jaskier!

Geralt’s head snapped to the side, dreading what he would see.

There he was. Jaskier, without his colourful doublet, lying next to him on the ground.

His head was lolled to the side and the way his limbs were splayed out looked as though he had collapsed One arm was stretched out towards Geralt, as if the hand had lain on him and slipped off as Jaskier had fallen. If his chest didn’t rise and fall with a steady breath, he could have been mistaken for dead.

The longer Geralt looked at him, the colder the blood in his veins became. Jaskier was white as the pages he uses to write his songs on and he had dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t rested in days. Dirt was stuck in his hair and there was a smear of blood under his nose.

Geralt’s stomach dropped, as he frantically scanned Jaskier for any injuries. What had happened to him? What had Jaskier endured while Geralt hadn’t been able to help him?

His racing heart only calmed down to its naturally slow rhythm, when he was certain that Jaskier wasn’t injured. At least not outwardly.

Geralt let out a strangled sigh of relief, made harder by something tight that was bound around his chest – the doublet Jaskier had been wearing.

Geralt tried to sit up to make breathing easier, but the movement only served to tug at his injuries. Before he could stop himself, he let out a groan.

He stilled at the movement next to him. The noise must have been enough to stir Jaskier awake. The bard’s eyes shot open and for a moment, he just stared at Geralt, frozen. His eyes lacked their usual twinkle. Instead they were dull, exhausted and bloodshot.

“You look like shit.” Geralt croaked out, throat dry from being unused for who knew how long.

This finally seemed to shake Jaskier out of his stupor. Jaskier scrambled into a sitting position, swaying slightly and wincing.

“Geralt!” he breathed out, relief flooding his features, but there was something shimmering in his eyes.

Geralt drew his brows together. Were there tears in Jaskier’s eyes?“You don’t need to cry over looking like trash.” The joke fell flat even to his own ears.

The smile Jaskier cracked held no humour. It was a pity smile at best and even so it was wobbly and faltered within seconds.

“I thought I had lost you.” His voice was small. Smaller than Geralt had ever heard it. There was nothing left of the confidence performer who had full control over his voice. There was only Jaskier, lost and broken over losing his friend. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to safe you.”

Geralt’s heart clenched painfully. “So what – you dragged me to a healer? Not even in death I can seem to get rid of you.”

“It’s not funny,” Jaskier said, dropping his gaze and avoiding Geralt’s eyes.

“I know.” Geralt’s tone became serious. Though it felt like his limbs were made of lead, he lifted his hand and took Jaskier’s in his. “Thank you, Jaskier.” For not letting me put you through my death. For giving me more time with you.

“Don’t thank me.” Jaskier looked down, at their hands and for a moment Geralt thought he would take his hand away, but instead Jaskier gave a little squeeze.

“But really,” Geralt said, looking around at the dead plants once more. “What happened here and why am I not dead?”

Jaskier winced. “What? Are you complaining?”

“Jaskier…”

“I guess you just got lucky.”

Geralt tightened his hold on Jaskier’s hand the tiniest bit. “You know you can talk to me. If anything happened – if anything hurt you – “

“I am fine.” he interrupted Geralt, but his words sounded hollow. Jaskier was very decidedly not fine. But even Geralt could see that he didn’t want to talk about what had happened, for whatever reason and he wouldn’t put Jaskier through even more distress than he already was in.

Jaskier must have sensed that Geralt wasn’t going to push the subject, for he bit his lip, hesitating before saying “I thought you were dead. I thought I had missed my chance to – “

Jaskier broke off, pressing his lips together. Geralt’s mouth went dry. He had wasted so much time. Life had been merciful enough to give him a second chance. Any yet -

“I remember you saying something, Jaskier. I don’t know what it was.”

Any yet he couldn’t do it. Because it didn’t matter how many monsters he fought, Geralt was a coward when it came to this, when the risk was losing his best friend and all the time he could have spent with him.

Jaskier’s breath hitched and his hand grew frigid around his.

“It was nothing.” he said too quickly and with a little laugh that held no humour. “If I told you, you’d probably go back to letting me think you’re dead just so you don’t have to deal with the emotional baggage. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to hear it.”

“What if I wanted to?” Geralt hesitated, his heart pounding painfully. “What if I would say it back?”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped back up to his face, darting between Geralt’s eyes, as if he was searching for something, maybe the tiniest glimmer that could give him hope.

“Then I would be in love with a fool who would have died without telling me.”

Geralt’s chest felt like it would burst, warmth spreading through him, as he took in Jaskier’s unsure smile.

“And I would be in love with an idiot who needed me to die to tell me.”

The small laugh that left Jaskier was the most beautiful thing Geralt had ever heard.

“Good thing you’re not really dead then. We have eternity left to tell each other.” Jaskier paused, smile brightening impossibly. And then he said it. “I love you.”

Jaskier was right, they had plenty of time. Geralt would not waste a single moment more. He would use every day he was gifted with Jaskier to tell him.

“I love you, too.”

#whumptober2020 #no.4 #running out of time #the witcher #fic #injuries tw #Geraskier #my writing #fae!jaskier #kind of

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iiccrus · 5 years

Text

hello it is me, thalia, i am so happy to be backkkkk !!! and here is my son icarus ! if anyone would like to plot/keep on old plots, please feel free to like this post or message me directly (on tumblr or discord whichever you prefer ! )

tw: car accident, death mention & sleep problems.

°✧｡ [PARK HYUNGSIK, CIS MALE, HE/HIM] IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS SINCE ICARUS JOINED VELIA FROM BUSAN, SOUTH KOREA. APPARENTLY THEIR NAME IS OH JAEWON AND THEY’RE A MYSTIC. THEY HAVE BEEN FIGHTING AS A UNITY MEMBER FOR A WHILE NOW. DIDN’T PEOPLE SAY THEY WERE NOT A BETA TESTER? I HEARD THEY TURNED TWENTY-FOUR THIS YEAR. LET’S HOPE THEY MAKE IT OUT ALIVE.

LEVEL : 66

GUILD : unity

CLASS : mystic

POSITION : healer

PET : lizard ( called toothless)

REAL LIFE.

jaewon was the perfect example of a middle child. his older sister was the trouble maker, his younger sister was the goody goody and he, well, there was absolutely nothing special about him. he just sort of floated somewhere in the middle, doing well, but not well enough, but also never slacking off. his parents had nothing to complain about when it came to jaewon and to him it sometimes felt like they found nothing to praise either.

life at home was good, his father owned a little cafe in busan, whilst his mother worked as an accountant. money was no struggle, they lived comfortably in their little house. they were the type of family to play card games together on sunday nights. thinking back to this blissful time often made his heart ache, for so much of the innocence of his childhood had been lost.

TW: CAR ACCIDENT, DEATH MENTION. when jaewon was 13 years old the family had decided to take a weekend trip away from the city to where his aunt lived. however, they never made it there. jae had fallen asleep in the car, and so he never quite knew what happened until it was too late. a car went hurling out of it’s lane and hit them directly. his father whom had been driving had made one last attempt to save the family by changing the direction of the car. but it was too late, they ran off the road. first, it was screams and then there was nothing but jae’s heavy breathing and his mother’s wincing as she did her best to get to him.

once they reached the hospital, she had already passed away along with his father and siblings. he blamed himself for having fallen asleep, he blamed himself for not having seen what caused his family’s death. and he hated himself for it. people kept telling him that it was better that way, then he could remember them for the life they had led before the accident rather than their last panicked moments. but these words of comfort never did comfort him, for their battered corpses followed him into his dreams.

he never slept well after that night. he’d wake up bathing in sweat every night, taking long midnight walks instead of attempting to fall back asleep just yet.

his uncle who also lived in busan took him in. at first he had been reluctant as he believed that he was no family man, but then caved as his aunt yelled at his uncle saying they couldn’t take away all that was familiar to jaewon and move him away from busan. and so he continued to work hard, suddenly missing being the child no one spoke about. instead he became that ORPHANED ONE that everyone seemed to know about. it was a heavy weight to bare, but he did his best to smile through it.

he did his best to live a life in a way that would make his parents PROUD. jae finished school and began to work as a waiter in a restaurant his mother used to always buy sunday dinners from. the income was not much, but it was enough to afford to move out from his uncle and into a little apartment of his own.

and then velia came out.

IN GAME.

jaewon logged into velia with the username icarus. he chose to be a mystic. he thought it would be awesome to play together with other people and have their back within the game (perhaps that was his guilt talking again). when he realized logging out was not an option, he began to panic. he didn’t want the rest of his life to be in this game.

then people began to die, and it was like he was losing his family all over again. for in the first few months he had made a couple of friends. they attempted to attack one of the monsters in the world when it became clear that they were not winning the battle, the two friends he made had already pixelated away and a stranger stepped in and saved him. he hadn’t forgotten the strangers kindness, and once more guilt plagued him. he began to feel like people just kept dying around him. like he was the cause, and not even him being a mystic could save them.

so, he did his best to level up. he did his best to become useful in the game. and ultimately chose to join unity. he wanted everyone to be able to survive together, he wanted everyone to come out of this happy to reunite with their families. and soon became a healer for the guild.

along the way he got a pet lizard called toothless, whom he treasures dearly. and the best part SHE COULD BE REVIVED. meaning that this being would not leave him, toothless couldn’t die forever, she couldn’t just pixelate away and that gave him comfort.

SIDENOTE: he doesn’t speak about his life outside of the game, people who don’t know him outside of the game wouldn’t know about his life !!! unless we plotted that he shared that bUT THats a high level of trust.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

someone whom has adopted him (jkjk just keeps an eye out for him bec he is a baby)

skinny love (two people dancing around affection for one another because they don’t know how to go about it - LOTS OF AWK MOMENTS)

someone from outside of his guild whom he has a soft spot for and often heals.

they hate each other because of some misunderstanding (probably something super petty)

someone he was good friends with outside of the game (they would have had to know each other from busan, south korea).

someone he low key be-mothers even tho he is the baby generally.

two people stuck in a prank war.

someone who’s actions he defends because he thinks there is good in every one.

someone whom he may have saved in the past buT they don’t talk about that because the other is too proud to admit it.

someone that he owes his life to in the early stages of the game.

someone who recruited him for unity.

someone who tries to push his buttons on purpose to see if he can actually get angry (no one is that nice and they don’t believe he is).

a bad influence on him, trying to get him to live a little !

a drinking buddy.

friendzoned (either chara sounds bomb)

an ex during the game (good or bad terms is all fun and games)

his first kiss / first time?

midnight acquaintances (someone whom also doesn’t sleep well all the time they could share midnight walks and snacks etc. looking at the stars etc.)

ANYTHING ELSE ! I AM ALWAYS GAME FOR PLOTTING AND BRAINSTORMING !!

#veliaintro #hehe :)

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moregelato · 4 years

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hi i wrote some short stories lmao (reupload whoops)

Alright so this is like my billionth time reuploading this cause tumblr sucks (for legal reasons that’s a joke please don’t take down my account) but here are some short stories I wrote because I dared myself to.

So I had challenged myself to write three contrasting stories and not only did I finish them within, like, a week, I was also very proud of how they turned out, so here they are.

There are three in total; the first one, Life, is a horror story that has some graphic gore and blood mentions and descriptions, so tw for that. The second one, All That Matters, is a love story between two women who’s names and kinda the story is based off of (but no depressing parts). The third one, Better Circumstances, is a comedic script that does contain some swearing and some implied torture so, again, tw.

Also I may or may not have written these in order to show I can write for a maybe writing job for Mark lmao so @markiplier if you are reading these please enjoy and hire me whoops

The stories will begin below the cut, so please enjoy these!

LIFE

The woman’s hand instinctively tensed up at the sound of footsteps around the corner. Chills climbed up her arm and down her spine at the feeling of the cement floor creating divots in her fingernails. The broken edges met the skin of her palm, digging into the tender flesh. Pieces of glass and stone remained embedded in the skin, the salty sweat dripping into her wounds making her nerves set aflame. The pain would make her muscles stiffen, her jagged fingernails digging deep into her swollen palm, and the cycle would repeat. She could feel her heartbeat pulsing throughout her, struggling to keep her exhausted body awake. She watched in a sick, hysterical kind of fascination as her breath clouded in front of her each time she felt safe enough to relax, and would hitch when her wounds would come in contact with the uneven stone ground. She felt as if she was under water, every movement enough effort to spike her heart rate. Her eyes flicked to her left and she could hear its movement, a wet sliding noise that was so loud she could hardly think. She blinked and the popping noise sounded like a bullet went off next to her ear, the sound nigh deafening. The footsteps approached the wall she was leaning against, and despite her body’s begging, she stopped breathing. Tears built up in her dry eyes when the ragged breathing moved towards her ear, its warmth a burning contrast to the sub temperatures of the room. Her lungs burned and screamed, the need for oxygen consuming her as black slowly clouded her vision, like ink bleeding onto a piece of paper. The thing that had been chasing her looked to its right, its gaze landing dangerously close, when a sound picked up by both creatures caught its attention. It shot up, the cold being welcomed like a blanket, and its footsteps scratched against the cement, slowly drifting further away.

She heaved in a breath, the clouds slowly coming into focus as the growing darkness slowly dissipated. Her less injured hand pressed against the smooth walls, the cold metal biting into her cuts. A silent hiss escaped her lips as the skin both stuck to the metal and slipped from the warm blood flowing from her wounds. She managed to upright herself, layers of her palm ripping off when she tried to detach it. She let herself have some relief, a dry groan of pain at the burning feeling. When she was fully standing, she looked at her throbbing leg, the numbness from her adrenaline rush slowly wearing off. A large chunk was missing from her calf, the muscle burnt and dropping like slabs of meat, the bone exposed with tiny cracks littering it. Veins and nerves were poking out, camouflaged with the strings of her ripped jeans. The streaks of blood that chased after her glowed with each flicker of the overhead lights. Deciding that dying of blood loss would be quicker than hypothermia, the woman haltingly removed her layers and winced as the fabric caught onto the glass in her palms. Her thinnest jacket was placed on the ground as she redressed, each jacket returned another glimmer of hope. A small portion of fabric from each sleeve was torn off and wrapped around her shredded palms, ignoring the debris making a home in her right hand.

The jacket was quickly tied around her wounded calf, but was drenched in her blood after a few seconds. It was the only warmth she had felt in the past three days. Her stomach had stopped growling before the first day ended, after the thing chasing her had nearly ripped it out, and her throat learned to accept the blood from her cracking lips after the second. But the sleep deprivation was slowly getting to her head. She saw large platters of food and water laying on a large dining table that would vanish in her hands the moment she touched them. She saw injured animals littering the ground crying out but would drop through the floor when she ran to them. She saw people in all white watching her throughout the maze who turned a corner and disappeared as if they were never there. Every time she tried to lay down and rest, every time she let her guard down, the Creature Never Seen’s footsteps would pound in her head and send her running, whether it was really there or not.

She no longer cared about escaping. Her only goal was to survive.

She moved her leg forward, pressing her weight on it and testing the pressure she could handle. She hissed out a swear as a debilitating tearing sensation clawed up her leg. She shifted her weight onto her left one and hobbled into a more sturdy standing position. Her newly bandaged hands gave her less traction on the steel walls but more protection from it. As she took a tentative hop forward, her hand slipped and she unconsciously put her right foot forward to keep balance. A scream shoved its way out of her the same time another, familiar voice could be heard yelling out. The sound caused a ringing in her ear and her vision tilted, trying to convince herself it wasn’t true. She let the small tears fall down her face, desperate for any kind of liquid other than the blood she’d been surviving on for the past seventy hours. The scream, that had been cut short into a disgustingly wet gurgling, sounded as if it was just around the corner. Her hand wrapped around the side of the sleek metal and pulled herself around.

Her brother lay at the end of the hall, the lights burning long enough to illuminate the gaping hole in his chest. The flesh and muscle had all been blasted inward, with shrapnel and parts of his shattered ribs sticking into his barely inflating lungs. His heart struggled to keep its host alive, and half of his intestines were laying over his thighs. The two made eye contact and he let out a cough, blood leaking from his mouth and punctured lungs.

The woman staggered to him, her eyes burning from the tears that wouldn’t fall. She swung herself around and sat by his left side, watching the boys head loll to where she sat. He blinked slowly at her, attempting to give his sister a comforting smile. More of the thick liquid climbed from his stuttering heart up his throat as he cracked out, “Mom’s gonna kill me.”

A pained laugh escaped her lips. “I won’t let her.” Her voice, croaky with unuse, was startlingly thick and wet. She pressed her palm to her cheeks, wiping away the tears that weren’t there.

“I… I shouldn’t’ve gone out,” he slurred. “Mom told me… she said it wasn’t safe.” His eyes drooped halfway, what was left of his stomach tensing in an effort to keep him upright.

“Hey hey hey, it isn’t your fault. You were just being a dumb kid.” The boy laughed, but was quickly hushed by his sister. “Shh, don’t laugh.” Her eyes unwillingly looked to her brothers chest, and he watched as a look of horror and anguish washed over her face.

She continued to stare at his wound. “I can’t even… feel it,” he struggled. Her body gave up on its own survival to share her tears with her brother. “Like yousaid… Iwas just bein a dumb...kid.”

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, snot and tears running down her face. She wiped at her tears and brokenly smiled at him. “I should’ve been paying attention to you. Mom told me to watch you but I was being so dumb and I just, looked away for one second and you disappeared.” She gasped, hearing the strange clicking of the Creature Never Seen. “Why’d you leave the house, man?” The question went unanswered and she pounded her fist into her forehead. “I should’ve been paying attention, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

He had startled at his sisters action, his nose running as he silently wept. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice broken. “It’s notyour fault. I thoughtI heard somethin an’ I wanted to help y’guys.” His one arm lifted, revealing their dad’s sawed-off twenty gauge shotgun. The boy smiled, revealing bloodstained teeth. “I shot at thething, Bee. Isaw it… it bleeds.” He tossed the shotgun to his other side, somehow managing to catch it in his weak arm and placing it next to him. “Go kill that sonofabitch.”

“Language,” she quipped, picking up the gun. It had two shells left. “Didn’t dad fully load this before he left?” He had the dignity to look a little embarrassed, but the happiness from seeing some color back in his face was ruined by the amount of struggle his heart was in to produce said color. “You always were a terrible shot.” She pushed herself off the ground, ignoring the pins and needles shooting up her leg at its slightest movement. She spared one last glance to her brother, finding strength in the determined look ripping its way through his agonized face.

She staggered away from her brother, refusing to look back in fear of seeing him already dead. There was no way in hell he was surviving his wounds, in fact it was a miracle he was still alive when she got to him, but she needed to give him hope. She needed to get revenge, if not for her, for him. She heard distinct scraping footprints of the Creature Never Seen directly before her. The moment the Creature turned the corner to the hall she stood at, the every-flickering lights went out. The only hint the Creature was still with her were the two burning eyes that seemed to peer into her very soul. She shakily lifted her shotgun and adjusted her stance, finding her entire left leg soaked in warmth but unable to feel any pain. The gun’s wood felt odd against her wrapped hands, the glass pressing deeper into her cuts. She couldn’t care less. She had to avenge her brother, and would gladly die trying.

The Creature moved forward, it’s eyes slowly losing their glow. It pointed its gaze to her leg and it made a twisted noise that sent chills down her spine. A noise sounded from the Creature, one that was all too familiar, one that haunted her every waking moment, and she felt a blast of wind brush past her left hip. It had somehow swung at her from several yards away, changing her perception of the Creature’s size into something beyond any nightmare she’s ever had. She took a fearful step forward and the Creature attacked again, this time it landed on the same spot it had originally taken a chunk from her calf. The shrapnel embedded itself into her bone and the exposed nerves were cut and ripped, causing enough pain to bring her to her knees. She let out an ear splitting scream and aimed her gun, not thinking twice as she pulled the trigger. Still burning in rage, she cocked the gun and aimed it again, emptying both shells into the Creature.

The lights flashed on. The fluorescent white blinded the woman. The gun clattered at her side. A wet gasp sounded from the Creature. Her blinks echoed in her head. Her gaze adjusted to the light. Her heart clenched and shock ate through her stomach. Her brother stood before her, his chest burst open and intestines pouring down to his knees. He looked at his sister in fear. Blood sputtered from his lips and he sank to his knees. She couldn’t move.

“Why’d you leave the house,” she found herself repeating. She turned to where her brother had been laying minutes ago, only to see the air occupying it. Her eyes widened in realization, the back of her eyes burning as she looked back to her brother. “Mom told you it wasn’t safe.” She took a step forward, freezing as her brother’s lungs stopped moving, the clouds that had been rapidly forming stuttering in fear. “I should’ve been paying attention.” Her voice was distant, struggling to force its way past the lump forming. “I’m so sorry. It’s… all my fault.” The light in her brother’s eyes dimmed, and as his head slumped over, she knew he was dead. “Oh god,” she spluttered, tears struggling to make themselves known. She wanted to tell him she thought he was an animal, that she hadn’t slept and was hallucinating, that she had only meant to scare him, but they were all lies. She knew what she was doing, she saw a figure and fired to kill.

She shot up, hands tugging at her hair. She revelled in the sharp pain as she pulled chunks out, some hair removing a layer of scalp. “IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?!” She screamed to the ceiling, to someone, anyone. “WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!” Tears were flowing freely now, needing to know the truth.

“CONFESS.”

The response elicited something within her. She began to sob, all the realization and guilt and pain hitting her at once. “I thought he was a thief.” She heaved forward in time with her sobs, feeling bile climbing up her throat as the sharp metallic smell of her brothers blood wafted through the air. “I shot him, I meant to kill him.” Her body ached and new blood broke free from her makeshift bandages, coating her skin in her sins. “I killed him,” she whispered between sobs. As she rocked back and forth and howl, she began to chant, “I killed him. I killed him, I killed him, I killed him I killed him I killed him I KILLED HIM I KILLED HIM I KILLED HIM-”

“GOOD.”

Her chanting didn’t stop until two men in white appeared though a hidden doorway in the wall. “I thought… I thought you were fake.” They said nothing as they grabbed her under the arm, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. They dragged her through the door and into a blindingly white room, every machine and monitor pristine and perfectly placed. She was placed and strapped tightly into a chair, with one of the men cleaning the blood trail that led into the room. A woman in a white suit approached her, shining a light into her eyes with no remorse before deeming her fit. She stood up and faced the small gaggle of men in business suits, plastering on a charming smile.

“As you can see, this experimental treatment has had a very high success rate. Subject 100 here is our lucky star. She’s proven that this treatment can be used to get those,” the woman in white bent over and tapped the criminal on the cheek, “ extra stubborn criminals to confess. The narcotics we administer cause them to forget the last 48 hours and allow them to survive in harsh conditions with little nutrients for elongated periods of time.”

“Ms. Beathen, wouldn’t this be considered torture? Afterall, this one is missing a chunk out of her leg and no one seems to have treated it. And, as you mentioned, you drugged her nonconsensually.” Ms. Beathen took an understanding breathe and stood up to her full height.

“We were worried about the morals of this whole thing when we first started. But, these are dangerous criminals, you must remember. I don’t believe Subject 52 thinking about morals and consensual drugging landed him with us.” Uncomfortable murmuring spread to the small group. “However, all injuries sustained during their crimes are treated beforehand to ensure it doesn’t get infected. And we find the more details we add, the more emotionally invested they become, the more likely they are to confess.” Audio from the room she had spent what felt like years in began to play, and the woman cringed deeper into the chair to avoid her sobbing admission. “So far, one hundred out of the one hundred federal criminals sent to us have confessed to their crimes and been punished accordingly. Speaking of which, Mr. Adilet, would you do the honors?”

One of the men in white stepped forward with a glimmer in his eyes like a child on Christmas. She thrashed and cried as he spoke, but he never paused his speech. “Bela Tuwile, you have been found guilty of the murder of thirteen-year-old Clay Tuwile, and have been sentenced to life in federal prison.” As the men in suits left, the could hear Bela’s sobs echoing through the halls, but their steps never faltered.

———————————————————————————————————

ALL THAT MATTERS

Judith Capehart was the sun. She brought pain; to look at her would risk yourself going blind, and few could handle the heat. Her eyes, two bright flares, shot and burned at anyone who strayed to close. Her hair was a solar prominence, looping down from her scalp in thick gold waves. Her skin had a permanent red tinge to it, littered with sunspots that burned to the touch. Her temper grew as she aged, from the mild light of a red dwarf to the raging fire of a blue supergiant. People liked her in theory, for she brought life to the world and gave warmth at a distance, but when they learned her truth, when she lashed out and never cooled off, they preferred to stay away. And yet, despite their love of a false version of her, she was always truthful with people.

Rosemary Moncella was the moon. She brought illumination; to look at her would bring clarity the dark, but few accepted the cold. Her eyes, large dark craters, were deep and inviting to those who looked closely. Her hair was the bright moonlight, flowing in small black and white rays. Her skin was deep as the night sky with stars creating portions of light. Her mood was like the tide, constantly fluctuating from destructive, crashing ocean waves to the tranquil, serene sea. People looked to her for guidance in their darkest times, always dependent on her light and annoyed when she herself was in a dark place. And yet, despite her seeming openness, she was never fully honest.

The sun and the moon were never meant to convene. But eclipses happen, as do once in a lifetime meetings.

No one remembered when the two first met, but everyone remembers when they began to change. Judith no longer burned in anger, but still shone as bright. It still was a peril to look directly at her, but only in fear of her smile blinding instead of her heat. Rosemary was no longer as cold, but still provided clarity. It was a danger to see her with the sun, but only to people who preferred her light. The two had illuminated the others features, both good and bad. And they found that they were in perfect harmony.

The moon shone brightly at the sun as she burned a beautiful red, speaking of a Leonid meteor storm that only happened once a year, and that her parents were finally allowing her to see it by herself, and maybe if she would like to come too?

“Midnight, huh? Just the two of us, watching the stars? Sounds pretty romantic if you ask me.” Judith blushed harder and spluttered, the heat infecting the moons chill. “I’m joking,” she laughed, the sound as calming as the sea. “I’d love to come. My mom’s out of town, so I can stay out as long as you want.”

Judith forced out a laugh, ignoring the connotations of the shorter girls words. “Perfect. I’ll, uh, I’ll meet you there?” She watched Rosemary’s glow dim just a smidge, her smile dropping than forcing itself back up like crashing waves.

“I’ll meet you there.”

The sun was in new territory. It was dark, and cold, and she was terrified. She was used to the blinding light, the warmth of the sky, but also the loneliness, and the glares from the others. Yet here she was, basking in the cool of the night, in the moonlight of her friend. She wasn’t even looking at the meteor shower, instead more fascinated in their reflection in the moon's eyes. They illuminated her skin, wishing to imitate the streaks in her dark hair.

Judith couldn’t handle the silence. “To be honest,” she started, the words like a tongue of flame escaping her mouth. The moon turned to her, brighter than any star above. “I just wanted an excuse to go stargazing with you.”

If the moon’s smile grew, the sun didn’t mention it. If the sun grew hot, the moon didn’t laugh. And if the two shared a kiss that night, it’s none of your concern.

High school came and went, and with the years the sun and moon began to drift away. Different plans, different hopes, different dreams. Rosemary had moved out of state for college, giving the sun a searing reminder of her love before leaving. The moon had disappeared, leaving a supernova in its wake. Judith burned hotter than ever before, setting fire to her surroundings. No one was safe from her anger, so they learned to keep their distance in fear of their safety.

It was now a lunar eclipse. The world had torn the two apart, leaving the moon in the dark and the sun unable to help her. After they separated, they tried to get on with their lives. Judith befriended clouds, who smothered her anger and dimmed her warmth. Rosemary befriended stars, who outshined her light and dulled her beauty. And yet, they refused to leave the other's mind, constantly orbiting their thoughts and circling their heads, always there but never meeting.

Years passed. The moon dated other satellites, but none lit her up as much as Judith. The sun dated other stars, but none cooled her off as much as Rosemary. They never gave up on the other, keeping an optimistic, unrealistic hope that the universe would push these two, always so close yet so far, back to where they were meant to be. Together.

And there had been many close encounters. Partial eclipses happen fairly often, as do the amount of times Judith and Rosemary almost met eyes, almost bumped into each other, almost sat on the same bench. Eventually, even the Universe grew tired of their never intersecting orbit. So, it was decided that a total eclipse would come early this year.

Judith hadn’t been expecting to see any familiar faces at the coffee shop. The clouds she befriended had decided the snuff her out like a small candle, controlling who she saw and where she went. The older, less popular coffee shop where she used to go (it was Rosemary’s favorite) was off limits, so she was forced to walk an extra four blocks to Starbucks. She despised the walk. She was cold, she was angry, but above all she was lost. Until the doors before her swung open and the moon had stepped forward, just managing to not run into her.

The moon began to ramble off apologies, not yet recognizing the sun before her. Judith could feel a small heat flicker in her chest, growing bigger and bigger as Rosemary trailed off. When the moon whispered her name, eyes glistening with tears and voice shrouded in disbelief, she felt the light within her squeeze and then burst, recreating the sun that had burned within her years ago.

“Oh my god, Judith. It’s really you, isn’t it?” A star-covered hand reached up and pressed gently against Judith’s forearm before dragging gently down, never breaking eye contact. Her hand reached Judith’s and grasped it, interlacing their fingers.

“Yeah, Rose. It’s me,” she smiled, huffing out a laugh. A throat cleared from behind her and the two quickly broke contact, apologizing and moving out of the doorway. They had released hands and, not knowing what to do with hers, Judith scratched the back of her head and gestured to the moon. “You, uh, you grew… taller.”

Rosemary gave a soft chuckle and Judith felt a flare of heat reach her face. “And you’re no smoother than you were in high school.” Embarrassment flashed through the sun and killed her warmth, an awkward sound leaving her lips. The moon reached out and tucked a ray behind her ear, lingering her touch at her cheek. “You’re just as cute though.”

“Y’know, this might, uh, this might sound weird but… I kept hoping we’d see each other again. Ever since senior year. I, uh,” she paused, noticing the odd look the moon was giving her. “I actually went to the coffee shop a few streets down, cause I remember you said it was your favorite. I always found it kinda weird we never bumped into each other.”

For once, it was the moon who blushed, a mix of dark red and pink rushing over her cheeks. The realization she made her blush made Judith smile. “It’s not weird, Jude. I actually find it kinda sweet.” A look of understanding crossed her deep eyes and she huffed in amusement. “I think I know why you never saw me there.”

“Why’s that?”

“Every morning I went to that food stand Eggslut,” a splutter of laughter left them both, tranquil chucking from Rosemary and sharp cackling from Judith, “all cause I remember how hard you laughed when you first saw it. You said that you’d go there every day once you graduated.”

A pause. Neither of them knew what to say. They had been searching for the other for years, and they had only met in the middle today. Judith wasn’t about to let her get away. “Well, if you’re free, wanna head over there now?” A look of surprise crossed her features, but she nodded nonetheless.

They shared a smile, glowing at the other. Judith scratched her scalp and offered Rosemary her hand, who took it without hesitation. They had walked a bit in silence before the moon filled the space between them. “I take back what I said earlier, by the way. That was pretty smooth.”

“Was it actually?”

“No, it was pretty terrible.”

And so the two began their dance around the cosmos, visiting planets and stars with intertwined hearts. Their light flooded every place they went, people needing to shade their view from their glow. Judith shone past the clouds, no longer letting them control where she went and who she went with. Rosemary drowned out the stars, finally believing she deserved to light up the night sky too. There were times when their anger would control them, Judith lashing out and Rosemary closing off. They would never last long, both realizing what they had done and grasping tight onto their love, not ready to let this end. They were together at last, and they planned to keep it that way.

Faster than the speed of sound, November approached. Nearly twenty years since their first trip into the galaxy, and nearly ten months since their transcendence. The two had been driving up to the cliffs near their house, the moon watching the usual nervous twitching from Judith. Rosemary noticed the familiar burning of the sun, the heat coming off in waves as she talked of the meteor shower happening that night. The moon’s crescent smile lit up the car as she recognized the name of the phenomena.

“Recreating our first date, are we?” The moon watched amused as the sun stutter, frantically grabbing for an answer.

“Wha- I, no, I’d- I don’t know- yeah, I am,” she settled, listening to the beautiful laughter of the woman beside her. “Okay, okay, I get it. I just thought it’d, y’know, be romantic and stuff…” She trailed off, parking the car and crossing her arms.

The moon gave her a smile so full of love it nearly blinded the sun, and Rosemary left the car before opening the door for Judith. “It is romantic, Jude. I was just teasing you.” Judith huffed but accepted the extended hand. She grabbed the blanket from her trunk, as black as the night sky with stars trapped within it, and walked Rosemary to the edge of the cliff.

“Wow,” the moon gasped, looking up to the stars that seemed to glow just for her. “This view is… wow.”

“Look who’s speechless now.”

“Oh, shut up and get over here.”

Judith barked out a laugh and sat beside her moon, hand nervously reaching for her pocket. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words burned in her mouth as a meteor sailed across the sky, followed by another. She stopped short, watching Rosemary’s eyes fill with the galaxy above, and her heart filled with more love than she thought was possible.

“Thank you for bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” Rosemary whispered, leaning her head against her sun’s shoulder. Judith’s eyes never looked to the sky as she agreed, wrapping her arm around her moon. And if the ring in her pocket remained unopened for the night, and if Judith decided that no diamond could compare to Rosemary’s eyes at night, then it isn’t important. What is important is that in that moment, right then, they had each other. And that’s all that matters.

———————————————————————————————————

BETTER CIRCUMSTANCES

DARK ROOM - MIDDAY - INTERIOR

LUCAS, a police officer, is slumped over in a dark room, unconscious. Slowly, he begins to wake up, wincing at the pinching in his neck and the throbbing on the back of his head. None of those prompt him to move his arms, for some reason. Only when the corner of his eye starts to itch does he try to lift his arm.

Only for him to realize they, along with his legs, are tied to a chair

LUCAS

Wuh? What the fuck?

Lucas pulls at his arms. The rope is a little loose, enough for his arm to move back a forth a bit, but not enough to escape. He pulls harder, pressing his shoulder to his ear as if that’ll help. It doesn’t. He then moves to his legs, kicking at them. The rope stays strong but his chair leans back a bit. He kicks a little too hard and his chair falls backwards. At this exact moment, COLE, his kidnapper, steps into the room, the open door letting light inside

COLE

Well well well, look who finally decided to-

Cole stops talking. He sees the cop he kidnapped laying on the floor with a look of complete defeat on his face. Cole blinks

COLE (CONT.)

-wake up.

Cole blindly swats for the door, not wanting to look away from the strange scene before him. He finally finds it and slams the door shut, effectively cutting off the only source of light

LUCAS

Where the hell am I?

Cole has to snort. Lucas sounded so serious and tried to sound like he had some kind of power in the situation, as if he hadn’t completely lost all hope in humanity. Cole walks over to where Lucas is lying and stands over him, bending at his hips to stare him dead in the eyes

COLE

Somewhere none of your little police buddies will find you.

Lucas laughs, trying to sound intimidating

LUCAS

Oh, I doubt that.

Cole cocks his head. He finds Lucas’ confidence amusing

LUCAS (CONT.)

Y’know, I bet my partner’s hot on your tail right now.

Cole laughs softly, then suddenly pulls a knife out of his belt loop. He brings the blade up to Lucas’ face, who still doesn’t realize he needs to stop talking

COLE

Don’t sound so optimistic, officer. No one’s gonna find you, not unless I want them to.

Lucas knows he’s in deep shit at this point, sweating buckets. One wrong move and he loses an ear, but will that stop him from being a smartass? Absolutely not

COLE (CONT.)

Now, you’re going to tell me everything I want to know.

The tip of the blade moves to the center of his forehead and, in a fit of stupidity, Lucas raises his head in intimidation

LUCAS

Or else what.

A glob of spit lands on Cole’s chin. Both men find this disgusting

COLE

Oh, you don’t want to know what I have in store for you-

A voice calls out from the hallway near the room. They both know this voice

RICH

Hello? Anybody home?

Lucas’ head shoots up, the blade moving just in time for him to not lose an eye, and Cole whirls around, facing the closed door

COLE

Well shit.

He starts to bite his thumb, knowing how much shit he’ll be in when his roommate sees the guy in the room. However, Lucas smiles wickedly

LUCAS

I fucking told you, didn’t I.

Cole stops, his thumb thanking every god that he was stopped before it could start bleeding. He faces Lucas, confusion very clear on his face. This wasn’t how the afternoon was supposed to turn out

COLE

Wait, what-

But before Cole can stop him, Lucas is tilting his head as far as he can and screaming:

LUCAS

I’M HERE! I’M IN HERE!

Cole starts to shush Lucas. He knows it’s useless, but it’s the sentiment that counts. The door kicks open, and RICH stands in doorway in all his glory. He’s still stumbling a bit from kicking the door down, but slowly regaining his balance. Lucas laughs, trying to see his partner

LUCAS (CONT.)

Oh you dumb sonofabitch, I never been happier to-

He stops short, seeing his partner standing in the doorway. In a pair of boxers. And a loose college t-shirt. Holding a bowl of cereal

LUCAS (CONT.)

What the fuck.

Rich has the audacity to look embarrassed, his spoon stuck halfway to his mouth. He looks to Cole, kneeling over Lucas, who was tied to a chair, holding a knife loosely at his throat. He connects two dots that aren’t there and coughs in discomfort

RICH

Um, am I… interrupting something, or…

Cole is the first to stand, being the only one who can, tipping Lucas’ chair to the side in the progress. He drops his knife, ignoring the scared scream from Lucas, and forces a fake smile

COLE

Rich, what are you doing? You said you’d be back at seven.

Rich spoons another bunch of Fruit Loops into his mouth before talking, knowing fully well how uncomfortable the other two find it

RICH

Well, uh, Lucas over there wasn’t updating us on the whole car chase thing, so I assumed he caught the guy and I decided to go home. I guess, uh, well I guess that wasn’t the case.

Rich dunks his spoon back in his bowl and peers around Cole, then waves to Lucas

RICH (CONT.)

Hi Lucas.

Lucas and Cole share an unbelieving look before turning back to Rich. The two are completely lost, simultaneously saying:

COLE LUCAS

Wait, Rich, you know Rich, who the fuck this guy? is this?

Rich looks at his two friends, chuckling nervously at their twin expressions of irritation. He knew the two would get along just fine, he just wished they’d met in better circumstances

RICH

Um, well, heh, this is awkward. Uh, Cole, this is my partner Lucas. Lucas, this is Cole, my roommate.

Everyone blinks. No one knows how to respond, least of all Rich

LUCAS

How the fuck are you so calm?! You’re roommate fucking kidnapped me you dumbass! He’s a criminal!

Cole and Rich exchange looks. Cole shoots him a warning look, his jaw tensed and eyebrows raised to his forehead. Lucas ducks his head, looking as if he was sorry, before scratching at the nape of his neck. Boy was he in trouble

RICH

Yeah, yeah, I uh, I know.

LUCAS

...What?

COLE

Rich, I swear to all that is holy...

RICH

Uh...

Rich looks to Cole, regrets it immediately, then decides looking at Lucas will incur less wrath

RICH (CONT.)

Well, when I first moved in, he flipped out when he saw my badge and tried to shoot me. Heh, it was kinda funny looking back.

He risks an amused glance at Cole, who’s glare would probably make him spontaneously combust if he really wanted. He decides to avoid Cole as he explains himself

RICH (CONT.)

It was a dumb little pact thingy. I promised him and his friends a few freebies, he makes sure I get protection from his friends. Good times, weren’t they Cole?

He takes a step to Cole, who in turn shoved him into the hallway. Rich’s cereal spills on the ground and he lets out a weak ‘no’. The door slams shut leaving Lucas in the pitch black room, wondering how the hell he ended up captured by that complete dumbass. He feels something with his hand and smiles

RICH AND COLE’S KITCHEN - MIDDAY - INTERIOR

Cole paces around the kitchen across from the door, having grabbed one of the many large knives and gesturing wildly with it as he scolds Rich. The man in question is sweating enough to fill a bathtub, distracting himself by staring sadly at his spilled Fruit Loops

COLE

I can’t fucking believe you dude! You know what this means for me, right? What it means for us?

The knife points between him and Rich multiple times. Rich shakes his head and subtly takes a step backwards, putting more space between him and his knife wielding friend

COLE (CONT.)

If this shit gets out, we’re both going to jail, and I can’t go to fucking jail.

He breathes, scratching his head with the hilt of the knife, and a soft worried noise escape Rich

COLE (CONT.)

Well, it’s decided. I gotta kill the fucker.

Rich blinks

RICH

Um, what the fuck Cole.

COLE

Dude, it’s all your fault I gotta kill him.

RICH

How the fuck is it my fault?!

COLE

You told him about me you shithead!

Cole stabs the knife into the table, an undignified squeak coming from Rich as he jumps three feet in the air. Rich will deny this until the day he dies. No one hears the crashing glass

COLE (CONT.)

If you just kept your dumbass mouth shut, we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we? But no, you just gotta keep blabbing, don’t ya!

Rich hangs his head, realizing that yeah, it kinda was his fault. Cole takes a breath, calming down, and seeing that yeah, he overreacted a lot. He grabs Rich’s shoulders apologetically, however the hell that works

COLE (CONT.)

Hey man, I’m sorry. I guess I kinda blew things outta proportion, didn’t I.

The two laugh and Rich nods. He raises his head and looks Cole dead in the eye. Uh oh, he’s scheming something

RICH

Uh, maybe instead of killing him right away, we could, y’know, fucking, talk to him like a normal human being. Explain what this whole thing is. Maybe he’ll understand and not turn us in?

Cole smiles softly at Rich’s dumb optimism. He sighs and opens his mouth to argue, but Rich was staring at him with those damn puppy eyes and fuck. Rich lets out a disappointed sigh when Cole doesn’t speak, and Cole couldn’t stand it. He breaks

COLE

Okay! Fine! I won’t kill him yet! Let’s talk to him.

Rich brightens immediately, and Cole realizes he’s been played

COLE (CONT.)

Oh you manipulative bastard. I’m still taking my knife with me.

Rich laughs as Cole takes a moment, struggling to pull the knife out of the counter top. He approaches the door and grabs the doorknob

RICH

Yeah yeah, okay, just try not to scare him too much, I actually-

He pauses, looking into the now fully lit room. The curtain covering the windows are ripped off, illuminating the empty chair and cut ropes, with a small trail of blood leading down the floor and to the shattered glass

RICH (CONT.)

Like this guy...

Cole runs to the window, angrier than Rich has ever seen him. He’s almost literally fuming

COLE

The fucker’s trying to steal my car.

Cole swings his knife brandishing hand, pushing past Rich

COLE (CONT.)

That’s it, I’m gonna kill him and no one’s fucking stopping me.

Rich goes completely into the room, seeing the empty chair that’s lying on its side. It’s left armrest is covered with blood drops and cut marks. He walks through the rest of the room, nearly slipping on a few wet spots. Rich stops at the back, the window broken open with a nice breeze blowing into the room. He looks down, seeing Lucas lying on the ground next to Cole’s car, his left leg twisted at an odd angle. Cole is standing over him and Rich doesn’t think he can keep watching

LUCAS

Hey man, I-I’m sorry.

Lucas is cut off by a wet slice. Rich looks away, pressing his fingers to his temples and he walks out of the room. He reaches the counter where he placed his jacket earlier and pulls out a piece of paper. Rich grabs one of the pens on the counter and marks off the fourth of twenty spaces, each labelled “Get Out Of Jail Free.”

RICH

Goddammit Cole, that’s the fourth guy this month.

2 notes · View notes

archived--hell · 6 years

Note

1, 2, 17, honestly all of them if you’re up to it

1 - already answered

2. Do you have a personal favourite among your OCs?

L O R D T jupiter fuck man got damn id die for jupiter

3. Have you ever adopted a character or gotten a character from someone else?

i have adopted characters before, but ive never done anything with them, and i have received characters Back from people but besides that nah

4. A character you rarely talk about?

HI PLEASE I BEG OF YOU ASK ABOUT THE GODS PLE AS E IM DYING

5. If you could make only one of your OCs popular/known, who would it be?

fuck uh.. honestly if its only semi popular would i do this bc being Well Known would be nice, yeah, but.. it scares me? idk but uh probably leo or aero, theyre two boys i hold close to my heart

6. Two OCs of yours that look alike despite not being related?

:) eldur and leo kinda? idk i try not to make any of them look alike rip

7. Are your OCs part of any story or stories?

YES! theyre actually all part of one universe called cooking with demons! i have a whole game planned out for the man cast kinda? but all in all its all set within one universe, with multiple different stories occurring within it jhfdksg

8 - already answered

9. Would you ever be willing to give any of your OCs to someone else?

unless specfifically made for them upon request, no. ive already tried that once and it lead to me losing any and all control i had over my characters. At this moment, i only “share” a few ocs with my boyfriend @coffee-burglar and even then, its taken almost a year to even be able to do that

10. Introduce an OC with a complicated design?

uh, all of them are kinda complicated for me, but as of right now, that would go to leos full form. (if u want a ref hmu and ill post it, but it wont be my art)

11. Is there any OC of yours you could describe as a “sunshine”?

like a ray of sunshine? yeah! angel and stitch would fit perfectly for that!

12. Name an OC that isn’t yours but who you like a lot

@coffee-burglar their oc chrome n koh, or derek but thats bc im a hoe

13. Do you have any troublemaker OCs?

aero, jhor, innis, leo are all trouble makers to some degree, leo being the most trouble some

14. Introduce an OC with a tragic backstory

uhhhh fuck what counts as tragic?

i guess id have to say leo or jupiter mostly, but eldur fits too

15. Do you like to talk about your OCs with other people?

if youd let me i would yell about these fucks for hours on end, ive done it

16. Which one of your OCs would be the best at biology (school subject)?

the best but wouldnt enjoy it: Jupiterthe best and would absolutely enjoy it: colby

17. Any OC OTPs?

stitch/lavaaero/kohcolby/derek/inniswill/happiness��aeyr/Eberictderek/Xhaztolleo/eldur

18. Any OC crackships?

jhfkdfsjghdfkjhgdkfjsgl i never talk abt it but will/aero is fucking A+

19. Introduce an OC that means a lot to you (and explain why)

ah,, leo. i originally made him to project the worst in myself onto, and because of that ive made his life a living shit hole. but,, recently ive been hell bent on giving him a good ending, one where he heals, and lives his life ok, where he finally, finally has a chance to be happy and get help. its,, kind of been a tiny growing point for me? he just, means a lot to me because of that haha

20. Do any of your OCs sing? If they sing, care to share more details (headcanon voice, what kind of songs they like etc)?

uhhh all of their voice claims are songs n such but only a few of them actually sing in canon! heres the voice claims of the ones who do sing:

Aero - thats his voice, but hed probably more likely to sing Something Like ThisAngelStitch - this is her voice! but shed be much more likely to sing something a lot more upbeat, kind of like thisColby (its jeremy from bmc jghfdkg)

and one i dont have a voice claim for yet that does sing canonically is Sycamore!

21. Your most artistic OC

!!!! oh thatd easily be will! hes nothing professional at all, but he does enjoy drawing and making diy type projects :0c hazels also artistic but with food :0c but what would you expect from a kitchen witch

22. Is there any OC of yours people tend to mischaracterize? If yes, how?

Hi My Names Skinny Penis And No One Has Ever Even Looked At My Ocs For More Than Two Seconds

23. Introduce OC that has changed from your first idea concerning what the character would be like?

lordt all of them would fit that, but the one thats changed the most? lordy thatd probably be will! he used to be a persona that was mostly only interested in dying and getting fucked, but now hes? evolved into a fully fledged character, and has even changed from being human lmao

24. If you could meet one OC of yours, who would it be and why?

jupiter, simply because he is The Biggest Comfort i have. hes,,, really important to me and i love him a lot

25. The OC that resembles you the most (same hobby, height, shared like/dislike for something etc?)

:) its bold of you to assume they dont all resemble me in some way. the most though? damian. lazy motherfucker with 200 emotional issues and no motivation to fix any of them

26. Have you ever had to change your OC’s design or something else about them against your will?

…yeah.

27. Any OCs that were inspired by a certain song?

Nope, most tend to be born from ideas spawned by me n my bf concepting about my ocs, and what would happen if this thing happened? yknow?

28. Your most dangerous OC?

He has yet to be revealed >:)c his names icarus

29. Which one of your OCs would go investigate an abandoned house at night without telling anyone they’re going?

INNIS, GOD INNIS WOULD AND HED PROBABLY DIE

30. Which one of your OCs would most likely have a secret stuffed animal collection?

secret: damiannot so secret: colby

31. Pick one OC of yours and explain what their tumblr blog would be like (what they reblog, layout, anything really)

uHHhhHh

damian would probably have a very shitty coded blog theme (or default) and would genuinely only reblog shitty, abstract memes, and nice food recipes for hazel to make him

32. Which one of your OCs would be the most suitable horror game protagonist and why?

protagonist? if youre going for the scared baby, colby. if ur going for the stoic “thats weird but ok” one, innis or aero.antagonist tho???? Leo and angelica :)

33. Your shyest OC?

uh, a oc thats genuinely shy and not just anxiety filled? angel :0c shes had a very limited interaction pool with anything thats not other angels so she tends to shy away from others bc she really, really doesnt want to get into awkward situations

34. Do you have any twin characters?

Jupiter and leo!

35. Any sibling characters?

Jupiter, leo, angelica, damian, eldur

jupiter, leo, damian, and angelica are all related via their dad, while eldur is related to damian via their mom

36. Do you have OC pairs where the other part belongs to someone else (siblings, lovers, friends etc)?

uhh if im understanding this question right yeah i do! derek, koh, n a lot of others belong to @coffee-burglar ! ive just roped them into my universe dkjfhkdjgh

37. Introduce an OC who is not quite human

Op All Of My Characters Are Inhuman

38. Which one of your OCs would be the best dancer?

surprisingly? aero! hes got really good rhythm and can actually dance really well, its kinda scary

39. Introduce any character you want

:)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))) Ill let yall have a choice, pick one

1.) Lust2.) Greed

40. Any fond memories linked to your characters? Feel free to share!

fond?? uh,, not really. but damian does have a very important memory attached to him.

tw for suicide ment hjgkdfs

with damian, i created him after i tried to kill myself and was stuck in a mental hospital. i had just finished reaing the first shadowhunters book, and decided to try and draw the first demon(???? was that what he was?? im a dumbass and its been over 2 years) you met, which had bright blue hair and if i remember correctly, electric green eyes? but yeah. i made him to cope with all the mental stress i had while being forced to be in that hospital, and hes become very close to my heart because of that

41. Has anyone drawn fanart of your OCs? If yes, maybe show a picture or two here (remember sources & permissions!)

!!!!!!!!! yeah!!! my boyfriends drawn damian and most of my characters bgjkfdhgkfdsgl but one i do hold close to my heart (bc at the time, i barely knew them) was when @stuck-in-the-ghost-zone drew aeyr! it made me really happy tbh. i still have it saved to my phone actually!!!

42. Which one of your OCs would be the most interested in Greek gods?

uhhhh,,, provided that they found a way to get anything involving earth and their beliefs itd probably be either angel or colby. angel enjoys learning anything and everything she can, while colby enjoys hearing about the Tea™ that comes with greek shit

43. Do you have any certain type when you create your OCs? Do you tend to favour some certain traits or looks? It’s time to confess

lordt ok

i really just? enjoy making demons really, or anything that doesnt quite fit “conveniently attractive” in at least one form they have. (i also favor making guys bc im Gay)

44. Something you like about your OCs in general

how well theyre coming together, for so long, their stories have been little fractures and pieces that never fit together. Fragments. but now, theyre almost fully put together and its… wonderful to see

45. A character you no longer use?

a hi have.. one. their name was angel aura, a steven universe oc. i got rid of them because of too many.. bad things.

46. Has anyone ever told you that you treat your OCs badly?

not directly, but yes. it.. actually helped me give a lot of them a ok life, or at least a good ending

47. Has anyone ever (friendly) claimed any of your OCs as their child?

@coffee-burglar eldur, colby, will n a few others lmao

48. OC who is a perfect cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure

ELDUR GOD ELDUR PLEASE SOMEONE GIVE THIS KID BACK TO HIS MOM

49. Which one of your OCs would most likely enjoy memes

damian

50. Give me the good ol’ OC talk here. Talk about anything you want

ghjkfgkfdhgklfjhglkjdfhgslfjdgh give me a actual thing to talk about bc im dying op

#general oc tag #Anonymous

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sunshowers-and-sunflowers · 3 years

Text

I tried to write about love

I posted this piece on fet and some man told me to “Go fishing and talk to someone” but the joke is on him bc I HATE fishing.

Admittedly I did come in hot...I tried to clean it up for tumblr so it doesn’t get taken down. TW: mentions of abuse and toxic relationships, blood and consensual acts of harm. Oh and suic*de

One of the only reasons I haven’t killed myself is because I know love is real.

If I had never experienced it, I might have ended my own suffering. But every day I wake up and I remember what it felt like to be in love. And I can’t die when there is a possibility, I could feel that way again.

I love a lot of people. Actively and passively every single day.

My platonic love is overwhelming. It’s a bright orange, like creamsicles with the soft pale-yellow swirl. It is messages asking about your day. It is always paying for lunch. It is a text exactly one hour after you left asking if you made it home safely. It is a warm blanket draped over you while you fall asleep watching a movie with me. It is a warm hand placed on your arm accompanied by the warmest most sincere smile I can muster. It is holding you while sobs rack your body and you shiver in my arms. It is absorbing your punches as you scream their name, pound my chest and curse. It is slowly rubbing circles with my thumb while we hold hands. It is carrying napkins, tissues, chapstick, change, extra sunglasses and a snack at all times. Just in case you need it. It is sending you positive encouraging messages reassuring you of your brilliance. It is four-hour long phone calls while you talk, and I nod along even though you can’t see my face. It is a handmade card for your birthday even though we’re nearly 23. It is remembering your parents, grandparents and siblings’ names. It is a soft kiss planted on your forehead. Rustling your hair. Laughing until I cry even though your joke definitely was not that funny. It is playing the same three songs when you get in my car because I know you like them. It is being the voice of reason. Reminding you to study instead of go out. There is no scolding, but a silent disappointment when you make the “wrong” decision. It is a heavy sigh when you tell me about repeated behavior that is causing you pain. It is a firm but gentle nudge forward towards your dreams. It is holding you accountable for your actions. It is forgiving you. Your favorite words fall into my vocabulary and when I catch them coming out of my mouth I can’t help but smile and think of you. It is seeing your favorite things and texting you a picture. It is searching for the perfect meme that I know you’ll love. It’s spending too much money on gifts and wanting to spoil you with material items because I am not good at expressing my love with words. It is a privilege to be by your side and watch you grow. It can be intense, but it is always soft.

My familial love is a dark purple, the deepest color in a bruise. It is beauty even when there is pain. It is picking up after you. It is cooking your favorite meal and dropping it off at your house. It is calling you and hearing the same things I have heard since childhood. It is listening to the same story I have heard one hundred times but smiling and nodding along anyways. It is staring at old photos of us for too long. It is sneaking my cousins their favorite snacks. And not scolding them when they curse. And laughing at their stories. And never letting them win card games. It is ice cream during the hot summer. It is kissing their heads and whispering I love you and I can’t believe how big you’re getting. It is saying “I remember the day you were born” and choking up with tears. It is knowing I’d give the world to them if I could. It is holding my grandmother’s hand. Running my fingers through her hair. Listening to my grandfather talk about the Army, and every job he’s ever had. It’s remembering how he let me play games at the carnival even though I never won anything. It’s forgiveness. Forgiveness for all the things I needed that you could not provide. Forgiveness for the raising of voices, the breaking of dishes and the hurling of insults. It is never sharing how I felt as a child, because I know it would break you. It’s sitting in silence and watching HGTV with my father for five hours. It is sweeping his floors, and helping him fold laundry because I worry, he won’t do it without my help. It is watching TV with my mother even though she pauses the show and stretches a 30-minute show into almost 2 hours. It’s sitting down on the couch, and then being immediately asked to grab something and doing it anyways. It is birthday cards, and Christmas cards, and even Easter cards every single year. It is the soft rays of an early morning drive. It is the swelling in my chest when I remember you are all human. It is feeling satisfied, but still sad, that you tried your best and it was not enough.

Then there is the love that drives me. But I guess there isn’t just one.

The soft yellow, a warm ray of light slipping through the blinds. Looking straight at the sun and smiling.

The waking up at 11 am on a Sunday, limbs tangled, light spilling into the room, a barely audible hum and a feeling of peace. It is making chocolate chip pancakes with smiley faces that exist for ten minutes at most before you devour them. It is reaching across the table with a napkin to wipe your face. It is grabbing onto your forearm in public when I am scared. It is the intertwining of feet at the dinner table. It is grocery shopping together and running with the cart. It is laughing so hard that people start to stare. It is watching your favorite movie 100 times and not complaining once. It is waiting to watch the next episode of tv with you even though I’m dying to find out what happens. It is leaving love notes in your lunch. Or on the bathroom mirror. Or the refrigerator. It is sending you snapchats of ugly faces because I know it makes you laugh. It is standing on my tip toes begging for a kiss. It is holding hands while we eat dinner. It is waking up at 3 am and looking at your face, so moved by your existence that I start to cry.

Then there’s an apple green.

Riding carnival rides and screaming together. Carving pumpkins and one of us definitely cuts our finger. It is singing karaoke and neither of us knows the chorus. It is pulling your pants down as you cut an apple in the kitchen but as I run away, I run into the wall. It is buying dinosaur band aids because I know you will love them. It is rolling the windows down and driving far over the speed limit while we both scream into the inky night. It is driving at the dead of night; darkness surrounds me and your snoring is so loud I cannot hear the radio. It is being horribly drunk in public, and I warn you about getting sick, but you keep drinking and we end up in the bathroom, me holding your hair back while you spill your guts. It is loud electronic music in a club as we flail our bodies around. Your face looks so good in neon flashing lights. It is doing dishes together and accidently flicking soap on you. It is the time I dumped noodles in a soap covered drainer and you never let me live it down. It is being sprawled out on the couch while you play video games, I scream at the TV pointing out all of your enemies as they shoot you dead. It is being selfish and not pausing the show even though you fell asleep 20 minutes ago. It is your morning breath that I can taste but don’t care because I have to kiss you as soon as I wake up. It is when you force me to cut your hair and my hands shake terribly but I am so moved by your trust in me. It is when you make me try new food and I hate it so you eat it all. It is anger when you say you don’t want any fries and then proceed to eat all of mine, but I don’t say anything. It is playing hide and seek in the aisles like we are children, not held down my societal expectations. It is holding back all the “I told ya sos”. It’s the absolute chaos sharing your life with another person brings. But god I’d take all the chaos in the world as long as you’re by my side.

There’s a lilac color. Like lavender.

It is so similar to platonic love. Picking up after you, seeing things and thinking of you, trying my best to make you happy. But it is different. It is running my fingers through your hair absentmindedly. It is leaving lipstick kisses all over your face. It is doing your laundry because it saves time. It is telling you my fears and hopes for the future. It is kissing all the spots on your body that you aren’t ready to love. It’s holding your hand when you try new things. It is listening to your hopes and dreams. It is encouraging you to be who you are inside. It is picking up your habits and being amazed when I catch myself doing them. It’s slipping your name into conversation with other people. It is laying on freshly cleaned sheets and listening to your heartbeat. It is our fingers intertwined during a nap. It’s getting used to your little quirks. It is finishing each other’s sentences. It is knowing your standard Chinese food order. It is going to corporate Christmas parties and watching you interact with all your co-workers as I stand in the corner. It is running a thumb across your lips. It is familiarity and comfort.

Then there’s a deep red. Like dried blood flecks on my face.

It’s the screaming and crying and shaking because I need you to understand me, but you just can’t seem to. It’s the splitting my knuckles on the wall that I punch out of frustration, and you gently wash my hands and bandage them in silence. It is the awkward silence when I meet your family and they just don’t seem to like me. It’s the pain that shoots across your face when they ask me “So what are you?”. It’s being curled in a ball on our bed, desperately sniffing your shirts because I haven’t seen you in days. It’s the white-hot pain that shoots through my body when your fist connects with my jaw. It’s the absence of air in my lungs, and the audible struggling as your fingers squeeze the life from me. It’s wearing pants in the summer because I can’t let anyone see all the bruises you’ve left on my thighs. It’s the strands of your hair, ripped from your head and grasped tightly in my fingers as you leave bite marks all over my body. It’s the slightest hint of blood on your back as my nails dig into your skin. It’s the sound of flesh hitting flesh in my car parked in an abandoned lot. It’s my backseat being covered in white and red fluid, clashing against my tan carpet. It is the smell of sweat. It is stained sheets. It is screaming into the void with you by my side, but not being sure what we’re screaming about.

It can be confusing. When it’s crying your name out. When it’s begging you to hurt me. When it’s feeling empty when I’m not with you. When it’s chains and shackles. When it’s warm breath pleading “Take the pain for me”. When it’s being covered in bruises. When it’s shaking uncontrollably when I’m with you. When it’s flinching when you go to touch me. When it’s crying in my room because you aren’t there. When you are all I can think about. It is a slightly metallic smell. Slightly off-putting but also intoxicating too.

But I know for sure what it isn’t.

It’s not emptying my first aid kit every month because we just seem to run through bandages like it’s nothing. It’s not sweeping up broken glass from our living floor. It’s not sweeping up pieces of ceramic in the kitchen. It’s not the smell of bleach as I scrub the spots of blood from the bathroom floor. It’s not the heat radiating from my cheeks as you humiliate me in public, in front of your friends because I dared to suggest you needed assistance in any form. It’s not crying. So many tears. It’s not waking up at 2 am to an empty bed. It’s not doing our laundry alone because you have worked 10 days straight. It’s not looking in the mirror and not recognizing who is looking back. It’s not cursing and screaming and crying and pulling away. It’s not knocking glasses off of tables as I run from you. It’s not waking up at 12 am to greet you as you come home from your closing shift, but finding you on the couch, talking to someone else through your headset. It’s not unanswered text messages. It’s not boiling water washing over me as I sit curled into a ball in our shower. It’s not wearing headphones and blasting music for a single second of peace. It is not our apartment filled with the sounds of chewing because we have nothing to say over dinner. It is not constant pain. It is not constant fear. It is not fearing for my safety.

I live every day because I think I might get to see the soft hazy yellows, or the bright candy apple greens. But the fear of rusty reds keeps me alone. It drives me to pull back from every encounter. It plants seeds of doubt in me.

And so, I settle.

I dream of those colors, while isolating myself. I consume literature and media that paints with such pretty colors. But me? I can’t imagine ever picking up a paint brush again.

And so I long for something I will never pursue.

I live knowing love is possible but not willing to risk it all again. Only to be left bloody, bruised and alone.

I’ve got no problem with blood, or bruises. But being alone while someone out there knows every inch of me?

I’d rather not.

#my writing #i didn't think this was very good but some girl said it made her cry #so uh i guess that's a compliment #tw: sui mention #tw: blood #tw: abuse

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