#no one tell me about migraine abortives

[thebibliosphere]

So, I'm one of those weirdos who finds heat more beneficial for relieving migraine pain than ice, and I've just realized I was in so much pain yesterday that I burned myself and didn't notice.

Thought I still had a migraine and that's why my forehead hurt. Nope. It's a burn from where I was grinding the heat pack into my skull to try and relieve the pain. My fingertips are burned, too.

But god forbid the pain clinic prescribe me anything stronger than Tylenol and Asprin because, apparently, this is a better scenario than giving me opioids, aka, the only pain relief that actually works for me.

Fucksake.

[gokartkid]

maxiel 10

10. things you said that made me feel like shit

“Max I just-“ Daniel presses his fingers into the tender parts of his temples. He can feel a migraine building, the sharp point of it digging into the back of his head, “-can we not? Right now? I don’t have time for it.”

When he squints his eyes open he can just see the blurry outline of him, wide planes of his face made ugly by the sharp crease at his brow, two spots of flushed red high on his cheeks, his mouth twisted downwards.

“Oh, you don’t have time for it, of course, you do not have the time to talk to me.”

He’s angry.

A blind person could tell you he was angry, a blind deaf person. The worst part of it was that it was fair. 

Max wasn’t even spitting-hysterical-shouting furious, it was a quiet build up over too many weeks of ‘later babe’ and ‘can’t we do this some other time.’ His hands were balled into fists at his sides, fingers white and red where they were pressing into the meat of his palm.

Daniel wanted to reach out and take them, spread out his fingers and press his thumbs into the half-moon crescents laid into skin. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to- god he wanted a panadol.

“No, we can just-” he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. He thinks that the wrong thing has already been said. “-we can, after. I promise.”

He wonders if it’s a bad thing to say that you promise something, and have it feel like throwing down a gauntlet, medieval knight style. He has an armour of silver and iron weighing him down. He wants Max to kiss a handkerchief and wrap it as a favour around his wrist.

Daniel knows that the migraine is getting bad, when he’s borderline hallucinating about being a fucking knight.

“You promise.”

Max has crossed his arms, soft t-shirt bunching at the armpits. It’s the one he sleeps in, worn in and on the verge of being full of holes. Daniel remembers running his fingers over the polyester this morning, Max’s face pressed into the pillow snoring under his breath, his soft body laid out between their sheets.

“I promise. I’ll take a walk, and then we’ll talk about it, okay?”

Max nods jerkily, an up-down motion with his head that looks like it hurts him to do. He’s tense, the long smooth line from his neck down to his shoulder solid and set.

“I don’t-“ his sentence is aborted. Daniel watches his Adam’s apple bob, the strange tendons of his neck. “-I don’t want to be, I don’t like this. Being mad.”

It’s like for a second his face crumples but he won’t let it, carved from marble, almost human.

Daniel feels like- he feels like a piece of gum squashed into the sidewalk, like an actual piece of shit. Bird shit. 

“Maxy,” it comes out helplessly, he doesn’t know how else it could be. He doesn’t reach out, shoves his hands into his pockets. Max doesn’t like it when he touches him when he’s like this, when he’s trying to make a point and Daniel distracts him. “I don’t like it either.”

“Okay,” his mouth is a flat line, tense in the corners. Daniel can’t stop looking at the red lines of his eyes, pupils blue and pale. “Go on your walk. Don’t forget your umbrella.”

“Alright. Okay.” 

It's like, dramatic irony, the drizzling when he laps around the block. The sky is a washed out grey, like it just needs to dribble about this bit of rain, needs to block the sun just enough for it to be gloomy. The smell of it soaks through the air. He can feel his jeans getting damp and stiff, steps around the puddles so they don't get all on his vans.

The taste of the migraine pill is bitter under his tongue, dissolving slowly into his bloodstream. He takes a sip from his water bottle once it's gone, washes down the flavour until his mouth is just cold and clear.

The thing about a walk, is even if you don't think you'll think, you do. There's nothing else to do once you've gotten in the rhythm of one step in front of the other, only so many times you can comment on the weather or state of the sky.

His shoes squeak going up the stairs to their apartment, echoing off the walls. He thinks that wet rubber might be in his top 5 worst noises.

Max stands up as soon as he opens the door to their place. His face is pale and drawn. He's bigger than Daniel is, but in moments like this it's hard to remember, when he seems like a kicked puppy.

"I missed you." Daniel offers. It's stupid. He's barely been gone for half an hour. He's gotten more used to saying stupid things in a relationship, the good and bad ways to not have a filter. That sometimes, the stupid things are showing that he cares.

"I missed you, as well." Max comes forward stiltedly before he tucks himself solidly against Daniel, a line of warmth when Daniel realises that he's cold.

He turns his head sideways, presses it into the side of Max's head, just against his ear in the facsimile of a kiss. He strokes his hand up and down the soft polyester t-shirt. He waits.

[spacefae]

RATING MIGRAINES IVE EXPERINCED

Hi I'm a chronic migraine girlie 🤪 💅 who has been having migraines nearly every day since I was like 8! I'm gonna tell you about some of my migraines and rating them!

Waking up at 6 AM on a workday with a migraine in full force! Who knows how long I was in pain becuase I was asleep! Abortive are useless! I try to go to work and end up coming home to frow up! -10/10

Migraines where I feel "funny" but don't have the pain. Like, all the symptoms of my migraine but literally painless. Honestly not that bad but scary becuase I think it's going to get worse. 3/10

Hangovers migraines! I drank and knew I would be suffering the next day and still did this to myself. If it isn't the consequences of my own actions! 4/10.

Migraines that crescendo to bigger ones even though I've taken my abortive, eaten food, cut out lights and sounds, ate chocolate, and chugged a pedialyte. I usually end up home, puking my gutz out, taking like 3 hot showers, and falling asleep naked because the feeling of clothes on me hurts. I also get extremely depressed and think about death due to the pain. -3/10.

Cluster migraines. I had migraines every day for a week. By the end of the week, I was willing to try THC/CBD to try and ease my suffering. I did a gummy, greened out, hallucinated for 8 hours straight, and woke up on the floor. I wasn't sure about reality until 48 hours later! I'm not rating this. It was just bad. Didn't have a migraine when I woke up, tho.

Migraines that are literally solved by taking a shit. These just make me angry. 5/10.

Migraines CAUSED by taking a shit. I think I have IBS. Send help. 7/10.

Concert/Movie migraines. I've know I get them, so I prepare ahead of time. Ibuprofen before the show, eating food, chugging water, and wearing earplugs at all times. Most of the time, I can prevent them. Loop earplugs are my favorite accessory. 8/10.

If I think of more, I'll add them to this post. I've been on medication nearly all my life to "prevent" my migraines. My liver will be dead by the time I'm 35 from the amount of NSAIDs I take, and so far, they have been resistant to prescribed abortives. I finally get to see a neurologist this month after waiting for 5 months. I'm hoping to find a treatment plan that works for me.

[bellysoupset]

alright alright - luke gets migraines you say 👀👀👀 and vince is the absolute goat at taking care of them…. hmmm….. maybe something there??

When their captain didn't show up for practice, Vince knew something was very very wrong. Lucas never missed practice. He came in sick, he had come in concussed from a minor car accident once and even when he was just a regular teammate and not the captain, back when he had just started dating Bell's and going through the honeymoon phase, even then he had never missed practice.

Their coach, Eric, was very useless, but he kept them practicing nonetheless and by the time they hit the showers, all of the men were in a sour mood. Practice simply wasn't the same without Lucas' high energy and terrible competitiveness pushing them forward.

"Vin," Leo stepped out of the shower, drying his hair, "any idea where Lucas is?"

He had texted him before practice and called, but there had been no answer. Bella wasn't in town, out visiting her mother back in New Mexico, so Vince was trying really hard not to text her, despite the growing anxiety.

"He hasn't answered me," Vince shook his head, "I'll stop by his place, I have a key."

"Alright," Leo nodded, worried, "please update us."

It was telling how worrying it was that Lucas had missed practice, because even Jonah hadn't quipped in about him being fine.

True to his words Vince ditched the rest of his classes and drove back to Lucas' building. Unlike Jon's it didn't have a fancy guy who monitored constantly who went up, you just needed to have the access code, which Vince did. He punched it in, then decided against the slow elevator, picking the stairs instead.

Luke's apartment was quiet, just as neat as it was normally. Bella was the messy one of the duo, Vince was well aware.

"Luke? You there?" Vince called out, snooping around. He didn't want to startle the shit out of his best friend or worse, walk on him doing things that Vince would rather not see, "Lucas?"

He knocked on the closed bedroom door, then waited for an answer. Then again. When there was none, he slowly opened the door.

The room was dark, Lucas had pulled the blackout curtains, which could only mean one thing...

"Aw dude," Vince sighed as he circled the bed and found Luke curled up on the floor, sitting against the wall, "hey..."

As an answer, Lucas let out a whimper and cradled his head even more, knees drawn up to his chest. It had been months since his last migraine episode and Vince hadn't been there for that one, so that made at least an year since he had last seen Luke in such a distressing state.

"Let's get you lying down," Vince whispered even more, barely enunciating the words, "I'm sorry-" he grabbed Lucas' arm, very gently ushering him up, only for his best friend to groan and push him away, chest jostling as he aborted a heave.

Vince's heart broke. He was no stranger to migraines, it was almost like he was surrounded by people who suffered with them. From his mom and sister, to Lucas and, now, Wendy too. It was infuriating how helpless it made him feel.

Deciding against moving him for the moment, Vince stepped into the bathroom and then paused, cringing at the fucking mess.

Clearly Luke had been feeling the headache for a while. He had somehow caused most of his and Bell's toiletries to fall to the ground, stomped on a tube of toothpaste in his rush to reach the toilet. And had failed spectacularly at that too, there was dried sick on the toilet lid and on the lid of the trashcan. Vince felt his own stomach turn at the sight, but decided he'd only deal with the bathroom once he managed to get Lucas settled and knocked the fuck out.

Instead, he wet the hand towel and folded it in, also filling up the cup Luke had knocked over with water and walking back to the room. Vin carefully set down the cup out of Lucas's reach, lest it spilled over, and then crouched down before the man, wiping his sweaty face with the wet washcloth.

"Fuck," Luke mumbled and his voice was hoarse and split the word, "Vin, fuck, it hurts..."

"I know, I'm sorry," Vince whispered back too, finishing wiping him clean and turning the washcloth over, so the fresh side was pressed to his overheated nape, "did you take meds?"

Another whimper, Lucas grimacing because of the meds, "won't stay down."

Vince's heart hammered in his chest, "ok" he said quietly, then took Lucas' wrist on his hand and pinched at the skin. It bounced back quickly, much to his relief. At least he wasn't dehydrated, yet, "ready to move?"

"Ok," Lucas groaned, then tried to move, but just the inch he managed caused him to whimper and cradle his head, "Vin..."

"Hug me," Vince whispered, all but hugging him too and Lucas promptly collapsed into the hug, wrapping his arms around his best friend's neck. Then, very very slowly Vince pushed them both up from the ground, immediately aiming for the bed.

He almost fell with Luke too, seeing as the other man was too out of it to realize he had to let go of his neck now that he was half lying down on the bed. He had his green eyes squeezed shut and a horrible frown on.

"I want to die."

"Shhh," Vince cooed, opening the bedside drawer slowly and pushing an assortment of random items to the side. Condoms, extra keys, a CD with no cover, "weed?" Vince raised his eyebrows, but Luke was too out of it to answer about the vape. Vin stashed the information away for another time, finally finding the pill bottle that had a black band on the label.

"Okay buddy, just one pill, alright?"

"Gonna hurl" Luke groaned, face half mushed on the pillow, "stomach hurts, everything hurts."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry-" Vince grabbed the abandoned cup and held up the pill for Lucas, "just a tiny sip, I promise-"

It took some coaxing, Lucas couldn't hold the glass to save his life, but he did gulp the pill down. Only to immediately gag, "Vin-"

"Breathe, you're okay," Vince cooed, taking the washcloth from his nape, turning it around and holding it to his forehead, "breathe."

Luke gagged again, whimpering, but then his body went slack. He let out a little sigh of relief and Vince the breath he wasn't aware he had been holding.

He stepped away from the bed, back into the bathroom to refreshen the washcloth, and grab the toilet bin, just in case. The whole thing was messed up, so he had to tie up the bag, wash it and only then bring it back to the room. Luke hadn't moved a finger.

"Bell?"

"Bella's out of town. Remember?"

"Uhm," he grunted, throwing an arm over his eyes, despite the room being terribly dark, "hurtssss"

Vince couldn't answer, didn't know what to answer and knew very well that empty words would only hurt more. Instead he settled for sitting on the edge of the bed, gently pushing the brown waves away from Lucas' forehead and sighing internally.

This idiot was his brother in any way that mattered, this much was clear to him. College or no college, team or no team.

Five minutes later Luke's breathing evened out and Vince lingered, waiting until he could hear snoring before pulling back.

He went back to the bathroom, opening up the window across it and starting by getting the exploded toothpaste off the ground, as well as all the other bottles and creams that had fallen. Then he crouched down to get the cleaning supplies from under the sink an finished cleaning up the old vomit from the toilet, the ground next to it and shut the door, flushing the toilet twice for good measure before dumping some bleach inside.

Much better.

He walked out of the bathroom, hoping he hadn't woken up Lucas and thankfully he hadn't, he was still knocked out. Vince tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door open so he could hear anything and took Luke's phone with him.

Vince's own phone had four different texts. Two from Leo, questioning about Lucas, one from Wendy "where should we meet?" and one from Bella, "Lucas hasn't answered me all day, have you seen him??"

Great.

He clicked on Lucas' phone and on the screen he could already see five different texts from Bella, four missed calls, one of which was his own.

She won't stop talking about us. SOS. Goodnight, text me in the morning. love you. Luke? Is everything alright? I've tried calling... Lucas, I'm worried, please call me back.

Oh fucking yikes, Vince thought as he wiped the notifications away and called Bella from his own phone, stepping into the living room so he wouldn't accidentally wake Lucas up.

She picked up on the second ring, "Vince?! Have you talked with him? Is he okay? If he's okay, tell him I'm going to fucking chop his b-"

"He's sick," Vince interrupted, muffling a chuckle, "well, not sick, it's a migraine. Found him curled up in the bedroom."

"Ah... Oh shit," Bella's anxiety clearly vanished, replaced by worry, "he stopped answering me before dinner yesterday... You think he's been sick since?"

"Yeah, I do," Vince opted not to mention the trashed bedroom, "just knocked him out with the good drugs, I'm hoping he'll be better when he's awake."

"...And if he's not?"

Vince sucked in a breath, could tell that Bella was thinking the same as him, because then she sighed.

"Look, just- Just call me if he's not better and I'll come back. I don't want him alone in a hospital."

"I'm not taking him to ER, he'd panic and make it all worse. If he's not better I'll call Jon, okay?" Vince pinched his nose bridge, feeling his very own stress headache, "don't worry honey, I'll take care of him. Enjoy yourself."

She let out a snort, "kinda hard to do, I've been here for two days and I'm already sick of my mother... Thank you V-" then some cursing as Vince overheard her mother speaking in the background and Bella answering in Spanish, "fucking hell, okay, I have to go. Please call me later, alright? And just- I love you. Take care of him."

Vince's face split with a smile, "yeah, love you too. Bye," he mumbled, feeling a little high from the impromptu declaration. He smiled as he put down the phone, still basking in the warm fuzzy feeling, then shook his head and answered Leo.

Then Wendy... Fuck, he'd have to cancel. They had been planning to go watch a very artsy movie she wanted to see, that only played that one night, and now he'd have to cancel. Vince pouted the entire time as he texted her back.

Sorry, family emergency. I'm gonna have to raincheck tonight.

He cursed as the text turned green, Wendy having clearly received and read it, but no answer came through.

In the bedroom, there was moving around and then a groan, snapping him out of his relationship drama and jogging back to the room, in time to see Luke blinking awake, drunkenly trying to pull himself up.

"Luke, no, don't-"

"I- my head," he groaned, mouth agape, a line of drool down his chin, "I'm-"

"Lu-"

His best friend gagged, productively, and a mouthful of watery bile hit his chest. Repulsion immediately caused him to gag again, just as Vince crossed the room in three large steps and help the bin up for him just in time to the next weak wave of stomach acid.

"Fuck," Lucas groaned softly, eyes still dazed from the pain.

"Yeah, dude, fuck," Vince put down the bin, "don't move, I'm going to take off your shirt..."

Luke was out of it enough to obey, sitting there like a trembling chihuahua, big green eyes moist with tears of pain, greasy hair sticking out in all directions.

Vince grimaced as he grabbed the neckline of Luke's sweat drenched shirt and then stretched it, so he could safely pull it up without getting vomit on his hair, "there you go- no don't-" he didn't get to say anything else before Lucas was falling back against the pillows, grabbing a secondary one and pressing it to his face.

Vin sighed, "okay, sleep shirtless I guess..." he mumbled, bunching up the ruined shirt in a hand and stepping out of the room to throw it in the washing machine.

When he made it back to the room, Lucas was once again, passed out. At least he wasn't awake and in pain, Vince thought sourly, looking at the hour and making a mental note of when he could try the medicine again.

Then he stepped out of the room.

----

"Hey," Lucas voice was hoarse as he emerged from the bedroom, shirtless still, rubbing a hand over his pale face, "I thought I had dreamed about you."

Vince snorted, looking up from his phone, "I'm not that dreamy..." his voice trailed off with concern, "how are you?"

"Better," Luke sat down next to him on the couch, "hangover, I think... When did you get here?"

"This morning," Vince ruffled his best friend's hair, moving to the kitchen and coming back with a gatorade bottle, "bottom's up."

Luke didn't even question it, taking a small sip, hesitant... Then a long gulp when it seemingly stayed down, "what time is it?"

"Uhm, around eight PM," Vince glanced at his phone's clock, "you've been in and out twenty four hours, basically."

"Goddammit," Luke winced, "I missed practice."

Vince stared at him, split between grinning and slapping the man, "never change, Lucas."

[stardustedknuckles]

Lmao I did spit gene testing to see how I metabolize certain meds so I can know for the future what I should avoid and what's good and uh.

Lol. Lmao even.

Basically everything I've ever said to doctors is here. Anti inflammatories and my beloved hydroxyzine are in the red zone. Which doesn't mean "do not take" so much as "your side effects will almost certainly suck more than this helps and by the way you can barely metabolize it." (I take literally half a child's dose of hydroxyzine, which is why it hasn't fucked me over but why it does so much for being so little)

Ssri's in general and pretty much every fibro med are in the yellow zone, the ones I recognized listed as poor metabolizes and increased plasma levels.

About the only two meds that are truly in my corner are Buspar (that tracks honestly) and my new migraine abortive.

It doesn't mean I can't take the things I'm used to, even in the red zone. It just means when I said "a week of prozac startes to make me crazy, please stop telling me I need to just stick it out and that it's normal" or "I can't get off the last 50mg of wellbutrin without withdrawal, YES it's withdrawal," I wasn't fucking crazy. God damn.

[elaine4queen]

Saturday and last night’s storm has cried itself out. The day is bright and still. I open my laptop to write but I find that my mind is draggy, then I remember that I took a migraine abortive last night before I went to bed. I’m still in it. The dog is nagging so I give up on any kind of a lie in and get ready to go out. I don’t feel like I have the mental bandwidth to drive or to go anywhere in any way ambitious. I loosen the laces on the left shoe of one of my pairs of trainers, the soft old orange ones, the better to save myself the pain I was in yesterday when I went to the gym. I’m training in my socks now, so I didn’t need to wear my gym trainers which are newer and less forgiving, but I forgot and they pinched. 

We went to St Anne’s Well which was bedraggled but sunlit. The dog scampered about and found a wind fall stick. I had her bring it into the little walled garden so I could perch somewhere. I couldn’t handle the cafe, even though I’d have liked a coffee, and all the benches were sopping. I always forget about this.

Lola is happy and she plays on her own. The only other person in there at this time is a man doing a work out in his bare feet. I imagine what that must be like, and it’s probably a lot better than my resistance, a sharply cold but squelchy pleasure in the shallow mud.

Back indoors and back at the page. The inside of my head feels bruised and even my arms are heavy. I get myself a mug of tea.

Last night I had a little chat with Jamie on Messenger. He asks how I am and tells me he doesn’t like the abrupt change of season. I tell him I try to have a different routine around the year, to make it less jarring. I also tell him that my new car has heated seats and a heated steering wheel. The wheel is an unexpectedly pleasant luxury if you are used to having painfully cold fingers when driving. He tells me he has heated seats but he doesn’t use them because of the sensation of having weed yourself. There is that, but I’ll take it for a warm back.

I tell him about the new violes I have for the front room windows, which are a tobacco coloured thin but slubby linen. They cast a warm light in the room and create a cosiness you’d think was impossible in this space, a golden light. Through them you can see the day, whatever it’s doing, but at a remove. Usually passers by peer in, so it’s nice to have some time off from that as well.

[brightsuzaku]

WIP WHENEVER

Hi, I've not updated anyone on my current WIPs, lately, have I? All the WIPs discussed are in drafts I have scattered here and docs.

Ohhhh, I wanna tease some! So, have the first paragraph of said WIPs, why don't you?

1. HOW TO GREET SPACESHIPS: PART 2, "Emergency Situations".

I'm having a hard time editing this one, because the sample dialogue is turning into something with broader context for the characters involved.

There are a few types of messaging that always override standard formal hails. One type is the repeated message type used as a distress signal. For example, "Mayday mayday mayday! To all able vessels. Designation Dancing Starlight CVMG5-3254. All engines out, incapacitated, need assistance. Conditions calm. Currently lost, engine issue during warp, safely aborted transit, no bearings. Mindgroup of 6, 1H incapacitated, 2M fair, 2M occupied, 1H speaking for 3, all. Carrying 30 passengers. Have fuel, life-support still Green. Please relay the signal broadcast, or respond."

2. A new thing I'm writing!

The protagonist's name is Olivia. She's like, going to space college or to a new space job, or something. At the very least, it's in space, and warp gates exist. Also, migraines still exist. Sorry!

Liv woke up to half her head pounding, and groaned. She'd hoped the migraine would be gone by now, but unfortunately, it was a stubborn one. It persisted as a steady chiseling feeling, located just behind her right eye. And though it was dulling (maybe), it was still irritatingly present.

3. MORE HORK-BAJIR

This isn't quite the first paragraph, but it's the first one that matters for introducing the topic. It will be about Hork-Bajir story-telling, and it's a very cool fanon theory, I'd say.

But ok, it's WILD FANON SPECULATION TIME!

As we all know, the way the Hork-Bajir Chronicles is framed is that Jara Hamee is retelling the story of the Yeerk Invasion of his people's homeworld, and all that happened to his family, to Tobias.

4. I don't have anything written in a draft yet, but at this rate, I desperately need to write "Who Are the Spaceships As People" that I write about.

Unfortunately, there's context that's just being missed without explanation in the stuff I've written. While it's relevant to how I write them as characters, of course, it may not apply to anyone else whose characters are also spaceships.

That's it for WIP Whenever!

If anyone wants to distract me away from my WIPs, feel free to drop a prompt or something in my ask box!

The result may be short or long, doesn't matter. You're always allowed to distract me, haha.

[smartbutuncertified]

Since it’s disability pride month, let’s talk for a second about eugenicist rhetoric.  

This post will be intermittently bolded for accessibility, since it will get long. 

Here’s a personal story. I saw someone talking about how she didn’t think that disabled people should have children, since they might be disabled. I was baffled, since I generally liked this person, and thought she had good ideas. I messaged her, telling her that I had two disabled parents, and that I was pretty happy to be alive.

She responded by telling me that from a moral standpoint, I should never have been born, and that she wanted disabled people forcibly sterilized so that no more tragedies like me existed. 

That is a prime example of eugenicist rhetoric. Eugenicist rhetoric boils down to the idea that some people are inherently inferior, and thus, they should not exist. In this case, this woman thought that my quality of life was inherently inferior, rather than inferior because I live in an ableist society, and thought that preventing my birth was morally crucial for my sake, despite my rather firm objection.

Eugenicist rhetoric against disabled people is particularly insidious because many people agree with this woman, that disability is inherently a cause of suffering. Therefore, fixing disability or preventing the birth of disabled people becomes a moral imperative. This completely ignores the opinions of living disabled people, many of whom have no desire for a cure, and the vast, vast majority of whom prefer being alive. 

However, it is important to note that many disabled people do seek cures. The divide tends to be between disabled people with disabilities that do not inherently cause suffering regardless of accommodation, a huge example being the Deaf community, and those disabled with something inherently painful, such as chronic migraines. There are exceptions on both sides, but generally, unless a disability will cause pain regardless of accommodation, we don’t want cures. 

What IS eugenicist rhetoric :

Saying that disabled people should not have children, or that them opting to have children is selfish

Saying that disabled people should be sterilized

Saying that if it’s found that a fetus may become a disabled person, it should be aborted regardless of the pregnant parent’s opinion

Saying that all disabilities need to be cured

Saying that disabilities that the community does not want cured should be cured

Saying that disabilities are holding back humanity

Saying that genetic screening should be required to have children, often with the implication that “bad” genetics should cause a couple to not have children

Saying that the existence of disabled children is tragic

Saying that the world would be a better place without disability, which inherently implies no disabled people would exist

Saying that disabled children are a burden on the family and/or that disabled families are a burden on society.

What IS NOT eugenicist rhetoric:

The personal reproductive choices of disabled people, including not having children, sterilization, genetic screening, and abortion

The personal reproductive choices of people that are or can be pregnant, including not having children, sterilization, genetic screening, and abortion

A disabled community wanting their disability cured

A disabled person personally wanting their disability cured

A disabled person being suicidal due to their disability or due to their disability not being accommodated

I recommend noting that there are two big differences between the lists. 

The first contains statements that are being applied as a blanket, and they can be said by people with or without disabilities. Disabled people are more likely to recognize eugenicist rhetoric and less likely to spread it, but less likely is not impossible, particularly in regards to disabled people with less stigmatized disabilities talking about those with more stigmatized ones. 

The second list contains statements of personal choices and desires, most of which are specific to disabled people. Some people’s personal choices may lead to eugenicist-friendly outcomes, but there is no way to counter this directly without infringing on bodily autonomy. Instead of attacking people’s reproductive choices, focus on making the world a safer and more comfortable place for disabled people, particularly disabled parents and disabled children. 

Lastly, eugenics is not specific to disabled people. It is applied to queer people and people of color as well. People at intersections of these get hit with eugenicist rhetoric incredibly hard. However, I am getting very tired and this is a long post already, so I cannot fully address how those forms of eugenics function.

Happy disability pride month, everyone

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 1! “Harvest”

My first ficlet for Suptober! Read under the cut :)

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Mature 

Word Count: 2,218

Tags: Fluff, Disaster Bi Dean Winchester, Daydreaming about hot farmers, Some suggestive language (and swearing), Angelic wheat harvest assistance, The Dom Brow makes an appearance, Sam Ships It, Mini Case Fic  

On AO3 here.

“All right,” Dean announces as he stomps into the hospital room, trailing mud with every step. “You’re not gonna have a problem anymore, Randy.”

The man propped up on the hospital bed cushions glares at Dean from under bushy eyebrows. “Well, it’s about time,” he snaps. “First these-- these things terrorize my fields for weeks, then y’all show up and are so useless that they maim me after you’re already on the case, and now I’ve lost the prime window to harvest a year’s worth o’ growth ‘cause I’m laid up in this godforsaken facility. So don’t you tell me I ain’t gonna have a problem anymore.” 

Dean sinks down onto the rickety plastic chair next to the bed, moving gingerly to avoid jostling his (probably) dislocated shoulder, courtesy of some extremely vengeful spirits. He fixes Randy with an even gaze. 

“Man, I’m sorry about your leg. I am. The spirits had a wider range than we thought and we figured you’d be safe at the house.”

Randy snorts in obvious derision, his scruffy mustache fluttering comically. Dean presses on.

“But, we’ve put them to rest. Your great-grandparents aren’t gonna give you any more grief.”  Even if the rest of your family did totally fuck them over.

He stands again, awkwardly, and pats Randy’s good knee. “Sorry about your harvest, though. Can anyone help out? Neighbors? Friends?”

Randy glowers. “I ain’t takin’ no charity.”

Dean quirks his lips and nods. “Right. Take it easy, Randy.” He leaves the still-grumbling farmer behind, following his own trail of mud back down the hallway. A tall janitor lurking around the corner sends him a death glare and Dean tries for an appropriately apologetic smile. 

It’s been a real headache of a night. 

The pair of spirits haunting Randy Johnson’s wheat fields ended up being way more pissed off than Sam, Dean, and Cas had anticipated. By the time Cas located the heavy brass key to the farmhouse that was apparently tethering the property-line-obsessed spirits to the material plane, Dean and Sam were long out of rock salt. In their retreat, they’d ended up waist-deep in a pebbly creek, splashing and wobbling as they beat off the screeching spirits with crowbars. Dean has an unfortunately-placed boulder to thank for his dislocated shoulder -- he went down hard and clumsy just as Cas reappeared next to the stream, the old key melting dramatically in the bright glow of his palm. 

The spirits burned away in a shower of sparks, along with Dean’s dignity.

To top it all off, Dean drew the short straw to go tell Randy the case was closed, and he may have stomped off in a sulky huff before thinking of asking Cas or Sam to put his shoulder right. 

Oh, well. At least it’s dealt with. One more night in their more-stained-than-usual motel room, and first thing in the morning they’ll get the hell outta Dodge (almost literally - they’re up in Osborne County). 

Dean thinks of a bright July morning on the open road and sighs in relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t get his wish.

“I just feel bad, Dean!” Sam protests as Dean gesticulates incredulously at him. (His shoulder was very pleasantly healed by Cas the night before, and if Dean noticed that Cas’ warm hands lingered a little longer on his skin than was technically necessary for a cursory dislocation repair, he didn’t mention it.)

“God, Sammy, yeah, it sucks about the guy’s leg, but maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole to everyone he knows, somebody’d help him out! It’s not-- it can’t be our problem.”

Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “It’s not about Randy. His fields are part of a huge supply that feeds a ton of people. Do you want people to go hungry, Dean?”

Castiel chooses that moment to materialize directly next to Dean, his nose inches away from Dean’s cheek. He’s holding two steaming cups of coffee and Dean immediately grabs one. Cas squints and tilts his head. “Why does Dean want people to go hungry?”

“Oh my god.” Dean throws his free hand up. “Fine. Fucking fine. We’ll find someone who’s willing to plow the dude’s fields. That’ll be easy.”

Sam opens his big mouth, probably to say something about having faith in humanity, but Cas beats him to it. Still planted firmly in Dean’s bubble, he sends a puff of warm air against Dean’s face as he speaks.

“Oh. I can do it.”

Dean and Sam both look at him. Dean shuffles back a couple steps and wills his eyes away from the guy’s lips. He really spends too much time staring at them.

“Um--” Sam clears his throat. “You can harvest Randy’s wheat?”

“I can plow, yes.” Cas nods firmly. Dean’s first sip of coffee comes spraying back out. He pounds his chest and wheezes. 

“Like-- like-- with a combine?” 

Cas furrows his brow. “Is that a machine? No, I don’t require machinery. This is a very basic task.”

“Plowing,” Dean says weakly.

“Harvesting,” Cas corrects, tilting his chin down and narrowing his eyes. “Humans have been doing it for a very long time. I used to help, now and again. I can’t imagine the process has changed much.”

Sam slaps his thighs as he stands up from his bed. “Well! Look at that, Dean. Cas doesn’t want people to go hungry.” 

Dean flips him off, but it lacks the usual heat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, they find themselves on the edge of a vast, lazily undulating expanse of gold. They’d skirted the north edge of the field extensively while working the spirit case, since the activity was strongest there along the creek, but in his single-minded focus Dean hadn’t really paid much attention to the field itself.

It’s big. Like, squint-into-the-distance-and-you-can’t-see-the-end big. 

“You’re really gonna plow all that?” Dean asks, glancing at Cas. The morning sun is turning the tips of Cas’ hair a chestnut gold. 

“I will cut down the stalks, separate the grain from the chaff, and deposit the edible grain into a large truck, which apparently takes it where it needs to go,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “I visited Randy early this morning to make sure I knew which truck it was.”

Sam laughs. “Oh yeah? How’d good old Randy take that?”

“He seemed dubious,” Cas says. “And rude. I assured him that despite his unsavory attitude, he would come home to harvested fields.”

“Very angelic of you,” Sam remarks. 

“So how’s this gonna go?” Dean lifts a hand to block out the steadily-rising sun. “You gonna be flapping back and forth? Probably not smart to let the locals clock an angel doing the harvest.”

Cas arches an eyebrow at him, somehow gazing down at Dean despite being an inch shorter. “I don’t flap, Dean. I may have wings, but their movement in the ether is beyond your comprehension.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his face away in a show of studying the field to the north, but mostly to conceal the flush of his cheeks in response to that eyebrow. 

For Christ's sake, keep it together, Winchester.

“I can’t explain to you how it will look,” Cas continues, oblivious. “You’ll just have to watch. Anything you see will be for your eyes only. I guarantee no locals will ‘clock me.’”

Dean looks back just in time to see the tail end of the finger quotes. Cas is staring right at him, that damn eyebrow still up, a subtle challenge, daring Dean to make a move.

Maybe not so oblivious. Asshole. 

Dean smiles sweetly and gestures at the wheat. “All right then. Have at it, buddy. Show us what you’ve got.”

With no further ado, Cas is gone. Dean’s left staring through the previously-Cas-occupied space at his brother, who’s grimacing with an air of great suffering. 

“What?” Dean demands. 

Sam sighs heavily and gazes out over the field. “You two are so weird.”

Dean’s about to respond with something really witty when Sam perks up and points into the distance. “Holy crap, look!”

Dean follows the path of Sam’s outstretched finger and his mouth drops open. On the horizon, at the far end of the field, there’s a cloud. No-- a mini tornado. A golden tornado. A… sparkly tornado?

“What the--” Dean cups his hands around his eyes like blinkers. Even with the glare of the sun blocked out, though, the tornado is just as bright -- a swirling, racing funnel criss-crossing the field way faster than a combine, or even Baby, could drive. 

“Why is it-- what’s the sparkly stuff?” 

Sam’s squinting too. “I think it’s the pieces of the stalks he’s separating? And they catch the light as they get tossed around.” 

The tornado’s already halfway across the field, approaching them steadily. It’s about as tall as an oak tree, and as it gets closer Dean sees that Sam was right: thousands of little stalks and bits of grain and -- what had Cas called it? -- chaff are whirling and flitting amid the twisting golden dust of the tornado. The effect is a bit dizzying, kind of like that ocular migraine Dean had one time as a teenager, when an aura of tiny flashing spots obscured his vision, right there in his eye yet impossible to focus on. 

He steps back instinctively, Sam mirroring his movement, when the tornado grows close to them. It whips past, blowing Dean’s jacket open, and where there was once chest-high golden grain, there’s now just dirt littered with aborted stalks. 

“Damn,” Dean whispers. He’s seen Cas do all kinds of badass things, of course, but they’ve been more of the smiting and heavy-lifting variety. This is a new level of cool. In a farmer-y way. This, of course, leads Dean’s traitorous brain directly to images of worn flannel stretched tight over biceps; of a blade of hay dangling jauntily from chapped lips; of long, strong fingers gripping a pitchfork--

“--Dean!” 

The pleasantly-evolving bubble bursts. Dean twitches as Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“Dude! Cas is done, come on.”

Dean blinks a few times to bring himself back to reality (a reality with wheat-harvesting angel tornados) and realizes that Sam’s heading north along the field to where a normal-sized, non-funnel-cloudy Cas is standing, brushing off his trenchcoat. Dean follows his brother and takes in the scene; the whole field really has been reduced to nothing -- just a flat, dappled expanse.

“Damn, Cas,” he says quietly as he reaches Cas’ side. His voice comes out strained and a little breathless. “That was some good plowing.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Can replies gravely. He tugs on his cuffs and some wheat dust puffs out. “It was an effective harvest. I disguised myself from mortal eyes -- including yours -- as I transported the grain to the truck, but I trust you saw the rest?”

Sam nods enthusiastically and launches straight into a barrage of questions about the physics and techniques and yadda yadda before Dean has to come up with a response. Yeah, I saw it. Yeah, it got me all tingly. That’s normal. He takes a few deliberate, slow breaths to calm the pounding in his chest.

Still tuning Sam out, he zeroes in on a single piece of wheat still stuck in Cas’ hair. It’s poking up toward the blue summer Kansas sky -- a tiny, trembling link between earth and heaven. Dean sidles up to Cas before he can overthink it. He slips his fingers into Cas’ wild, dark hair and plucks the wheat out. 

He throws it on the ground. It belongs to the earth. 

Sam falls silent with a choked-off laugh and Cas turns his trademark unblinking stare onto Dean. But this time there’s a slight crinkle to the edges of his eyes. A quirk of his lips. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says again. He reaches out and -- Dean stops breathing -- brushes another piece of wheat out of Dean’s collar. His warm fingers graze Dean’s throat and all Dean can do is watch the little stalk flutter to the ground. 

Well. So much for a steady heartbeat. 

“Hey, I’ve got stuff in my hair, too,” Sam announces, voice thick with amusement. “Anyone gonna help me out?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the enlightening piece of wheat and points a finger at Sam, leveling him with his sternest shut the fuck up face. He prays his cheeks aren’t flaming. 

“If you need assistance, Sam--” Cas says, starting toward him.

“--He’s fine,” Dean interjects hastily. Maybe a little loudly. He coughs to cover it up. Smooth. “Let’s go. I wanna hit the road.”

Sam’s already jogging away before Dean’s done speaking. “I’ve still got the keys,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll warm up the car. You guys can catch up!”

Cas and Dean are left at the edge of the empty field. Dean rubs his neck and shuffles his feet, acutely aware of Cas’ piercing gaze. It’s nearly warmer than the morning sun. “Uh-- that was really cool, Cas. Thanks for letting us see it.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, measured and deep. “I enjoyed sharing that with you.”

Wow. All right. Dean needs to get moving or he’s going to explode. But not before filing that particular comment away for extensive mental perusal later, in the privacy of his bedroom. 

He flashes a grin and punches Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, farmer angel. Let’s go home.”

[hotchley]

lauren: aaron and emily

Yeah so for something that is meant to be a conversation, there’s a surprising lack of her speaking but honestly, this was so much fun to write. I forgot how angsty Hotchniss could be like DAMN

This is my take on what happened at her bedside before they moved her, and is dedicated to everyone who said they would read it because without you guys, I probably wouldn’t have actually written it so thank you so much!

Trigger Warnings: serious medical injuries, references to abortion, implied/referenced child abuse, religious themes

read on ao3!

“You could’ve told me,” he tells her, even though she can’t hear him. Her eyes are closed. If it wasn’t for the rise and fall of her chest- so faint it almost isn’t there- he would believe she was dead.

And in some ways, she is. 

To the team, Emily Prentiss is gone. Just another victim of a dangerous serial killer with a vendetta. To the children that love her- Jack, Henry, even Carrie, who she still spoke to once a week- she will be in heaven. With Haley. To Aaron and Jennifer, she will be hiding. Alone and weak but safe.

Safe. He wants to laugh at that. How can she be safe when everyone she loved is being torn from her? When Ian Doyle is still alive? 

He doesn't want to be the one to tell her she was dead. He doesn't want to be the one to tell her that she had to go to Paris- the one place that had never been touched by the bloody hands of murder and pain- until they found Doyle. If they ever do find him. He doesn't want to let her go.

He wants to bury his head in her hair, inhaling the familiar smell of her shampoo that had always felt like the safety he craved but could never hold onto and pretend the sea wasn't pulling him under, cutting off his breathing as he struggled to stay afloat. He wants to hold her, hearing the steady and strong beat of her heart that reminds him of the reason for doing all of this. He wants to feel her hands- so warm and soft- against his stomach as she draws on his ribs so he can look in the mirror and see her, not George Foyet.

He wants so much. But there is a reason he is the Unit Chief. There is a reason he is in the room with her whilst JJ comforts a crying Reid. There is a reason that when the team thinks of Mom, they think of him. Not Rossi. Certainly not Gideon.

He does the difficult jobs. He does the things that need to be done but nobody else wants to. He cleans the blood off walls and stands guard at hospital beds. He pulls them away from dead bodies and witnesses their anger and sadness. He takes their insults and cradles them when they cry. He pretends he isn't human so they can believe they didn't hurt him. 

He does the difficult jobs because he brought all of them into a life of loss and pain, and in his opinion, it is a small price to pay. It is less than what he deserves to do. It isn't enough to make up for everything he has caused them to see but it is a start.

When Emily leaves- and JJ will go to Paris with her, no matter how much she may say he should go instead- he will carry out their grief assessments. He will let them look at him with pain and hurt and anger and sadness and ask him what the point is. As they ask him why they are alive. 

And then he will run. Because they will find Ian Doyle, and when they do, Emily Prentiss will return. They will hate him, and he will be a coward. He will take a job elsewhere and let them repair their lives, rebuild their home, without him.

But until that day comes, he will sit by Emily's bed, holding her hand, limp and cold, and pray for her to wake up. He hasn't prayed since he was a child. And even then, he didn't really believe in God. But desperate people will do anything. And although he was calm and collected before the committee that decided Emily's fate, he is desperate for her to just wake up.

So he will atone for his sins and take whatever punishment is deemed appropriate. He will let her go and never inhale her perfume again, if only so she is able to open her eyes.

"You could've told me," he repeats, thinking about the last woman he said those words too. But that had been different. JJ wasn't Emily. "I could've helped you. You could've trusted me with this. And I know it isn't about me. It's about you. But I'm selfish, Emily Prentiss. I'm selfish and I don't want to let you go but I have to."

He doesn't know how to. He doesn't know what he's meant to say when she wakes up and only sees him. JJ had looked at him when she said Emily never made it off the table. It was a single glance, but he'd understood. He had walked away from the team. Refused to let his tears fall.

And then he had looked the committee in the eye and told them he had no emotional attachment to her case. He had lied. And Emily had, in their words, been saved. He didn't believe it was saving her. He believed it was keeping her alive so one day, she could come home and live a better life. 

The woman on that bed is not his Emily. It is not the Emily he loves, or the Emily that told him he wasn't alone. It's not the Emily that dances around the kitchen with Jack, or the Emily that refuses to flinch when he has nightmares. The Emily that never walked away from him until that one fateful day.

He should have known something was wrong then. And if not then, when she was late twice in the same week. But he had been so blinded by his own hurt and anger and betrayal that he refused to comment. Secretly, vindictively, he had hoped that her lateness was being caused by her own pain. That she was trying to avoid him. 

Now he realises that he was right. She was trying to avoid him. Because he knew her. And if she saw him properly, she would crack. And in the same way he had been determined to find Foyet alone, without anyone else going down with him, she had been determined to find Doyle alone.

But Foyet had still killed Haley. And Doyle had technically killed her. In some ways, he had killed the team too. He didn't know how to bring up Spencer's migraines with him, but Emily had been his confidant. What was going to happen now? How is Derek supposed to move past being told to let her go? 

The doctors had told him to get some rest and to go home, but he can't. Jack is still with Jessica, and his apartment is still littered with scraps of her. He hadn't moved anything after that night. He had thought it was strange when she didn't ask for any of it. Now he knows why. She had bigger things going on.

He told Clyde Easter that it would be his fault if something happened to her. Because he needed someone else to blame. He needed to believe that he was a good man that had done what he could. But he hadn't. Rational thought told him that just like with everyone else, he couldn't force her to tell him the truth or accept his help.

The part of him that was still helplessly in love with her told him that he could have. Should have. But he hadn't. So now he was sitting there, watching the heart monitor, convincing himself she was alive. Bracing himself for the moment she woke up.

He still doesn't know what he's meant to say.

"I was so angry at you then. After everything we had gone through, I didn't understand why you were just so willing to throw it all away. You had told me you would never leave, and you just left me there, in the home we had finally started to build. But I get it now. And I am sorry. I am so, so sorry that I wasn't enough and that I didn't do more and-"

"Aaron," she whispered. Her eyes had fluttered open moments after he'd started speaking, but she hadn't been ready to confront the world. He needed to get the words out. He needed a moment to be Aaron before he morphed back into Hotch.

She has no right to his name. Not now. Not after everything she has put him through. Not after she left him on his knees, a ring so different from the one Ian had tried to give her that still symbolised the exact same thing, with tears in his eyes as she pretended he was nothing in order to protect him.

But she needed him. She was cold, and her stomach hurt, and she didn't know where she was. She didn't understand why it was so dark, or why only he was there, apologising. The team should have been waiting. He should have been smiling, looking slightly disapproving. Not crying. He wouldn't risk any of the team seeing him like that.

He looks up. "Emily," he whispers, pouring every inch of his heart into that single word. But as he says it, he is looking at her hairline. Not her eyes. He knows that if he looks at her eyes, he will crumble. And now she is awake, he cannot let himself do that.

He forgets that Emily knows everything about him. She knows the optimum temperature for his baths. She knows the way he takes his coffee, the fact that he hates two-in-one shampoo and conditioner but keeps it in his go bag for ease. She knows which nightmares lead to a cold shower that chills him to the bone and reminds him of his own fragility.

She knows that his own humanity terrifies him. She knows how he shuts down and avoids everything when it gets too overwhelming, which is how she knows whatever has happened is bad. Worse than bad.

"Where is everyone?" she asks, shocked by the weakness of her voice.  

He doesn't reply. He knows that he needs to. That with every moment that passes, she comes up with another scenario. But he didn't need to tell the team that she never made it off the table. Until now, he has been able to pretend that none of this is even happening. That when she opened her eyes, he would guide the others down to her room. 

That when they discharged her from the hospital, he would take her to his apartment, Jack's toys strewn across the living room and the carpet, which if you looked at it from just the right angle would see had been changed in one area.

"Hotch," she whispers.

He closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them, there is no warmth behind his stare. He still won't meet her eyes, and she feels herself begin to panic. His biggest tell is when he refuses to look at someone.

"They believe you're dead," he says, voice completely monotone as he fights a wave of emotion.

"Then why haven't you gone and told them that I'm not?" she asks, already terrified of the answer.

He looks down. "Emily, I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. You don't need to forgive me, but I need you to know that there was no other way to keep you safe. I tried. I tried so hard, but there was no other way-" he inhaled, snatching his hand back the moment she tried to hold it.

It hurt, more than anything that had happened over the past weeks, to see how he did not trust her. Not anymore.

"I always said that the only person that wouldn't forgive you is yourself. And I stand by that. So tell me the truth. Please Aaron. Just tell me what happened because I can't remember and it is terrifying, and you know what it is like. Please," she whispered. She tried, once more, to take his hand, but she was too weak.

He did not know what it was like to not remember what had happened. He remembered everything Foyet had done to him, from the first time the knife had touched his skin to the moment he had lost consciousness. He had never told her that. He probably never would.

"It's to keep you safe," he said, trying to find the words to explain what had happened. But like the ability to save the people he loved, they evaded him.

"Safe," she repeated. Like she didn't know what the word meant anymore. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she never had. There had been a time where his arms were the safest place she could find herself, but the man sitting in front of her was not the one that had held her at night.

The man sitting in front of her was a coward.

He flinches at her tone. It's been so long since she's spoken to him like that- snapping her words and rolling her eyes- that he's forgotten what it felt like. He wonders how. Her words always managed to meet their mark.

"Yes Em." The Em slips out without meaning to. He doesn't get to call her Em anymore. "Safe."

"Ian Doyle has murdered every single person on that team apart from Clyde Easter. Explain to me how I'm going to be safe."

"He's going to believe you're dead," he says, too quietly for her to hear. He says it to himself because he too needs to believe she's dead. In some ways, she is because she'll never be the woman she was before, and it's all his fault.

She frowns, the words not quite processing as her head still hurts from the painkillers. All she can say to him is: "What?"

She deserves more than what he can give. So he ignores his own shattered heart, and finally, finally meets her eyes. His own pain and anguish is reflected in hers. She almost looks away because she cannot handle his humanity. Almost. Her desire to prove she is better than he believes wins out, so she carries on staring.

"Ian Doyle hurt you. Badly. So-" he pauses again. Desperately tries to find that neutrality he had always stressed the importance of. He fails, because just like with Foyet, this isn't just a victim of a heinous crime. It's the woman that holds whatever pieces of his heart that still exist this time. Even as she had walked away, leaving him on his knees, he knew he would never stop loving her.

"So what, Aaron?" she presses, sounding angry.

It scares him, her anger. Everyone's anger scares him. He hates it, hates that his father still holds that kind of grip on him and his mind, but the moment someone seems angry he feels himself shutting down and becoming smaller. Drifting away to a fictional world where nobody cries and he's safe. 

He doesn't deserve to shut down now.

"Everyone thinks you're dead because that's what we've told them. And they will think you're dead until we find Ian Doyle and-" he doesn't finish his sentence. Ian Doyle needs to die before Emily can come home to him and the team. But if he tells her that, she will realise he is not the good man she believes him to be. He is just one misstep away from becoming an unsub they cannot find.

"They think I'm dead," she says, tears in her eyes as all the pain she has been repressing since the first sign of Ian's return suddenly makes itself known. She doesn't feel anything physically- the sedatives are working- but it feels like her heart is being ripped from her chest.

For a moment, she wonders if Aaron felt like this when Haley died.

"I'm sorry," he says, again. It's what his vocabulary has been reduced to. He doesn't know how to put everything he wants to say into words. He doesn't know what the point in doing that is, because it won't change anything.

JJ is taking her to Paris. She deserves that. She needs that. She needs to see something good. He doesn't deserve to see Emily smiling and healing enough to travel. He deserves the anger and hatred of the team. He already knows that when it's time for them to know, he will tell them how it was him.

"You're sorry."

"Emily, please, I am trying to keep you safe, so just let me tell you what's going to happen. When the doctor gets here, they're moving you somewhere out of state, and as soon as you're strong enough, JJ will go with you. Paris, I think. She'll be your point of contact." It comes out in all one breath because if he stops he won't be able to start again.

"Are you?"

"Am I?"

"Are you really trying to keep me safe, or is this about you? Because I told Derek to let me go. I told him to let me go because Ian won't stop coming after people until I am dead. He broke out of a prison that should've held ten of him. He murdered every single person from that operation apart from Clyde Easter."

She's hurting. She's angry and hurt numb and upset and still so in love with him, but she can't hold back. Not now. She has to let go of everything and everyone she has ever cared about, and although rationally she knows it isn't his fault- it's Doyle's- she can't shout at Doyle. She can shout at Aaron though.

"Emily," he pleads, closing his eyes.

"You should've let me die," she spits. "You should have let me die because then this whole thing would be over. Ian would've got what he wanted and nobody else would be getting hurt. He'll work out I'm not dead. He will. And then the next person he kills, their blood will be on your hands."

He knows she doesn’t mean it. He knows that. It doesn’t stop him from looking at her face, at the mouth that had always felt like a firework against his own and wondering how she manages to do this to him.

“Stop,” he begs. He can’t take much more.

“Just like Haley’s,” she says before she can stop herself.

Those three words make his heart shatter all over again.

Time seems to slow down. Her own words register in her mind and her jaw drops. She presses one trembling fist to her mouth, forcing the apology down. She can't give it to him right now. He won't accept it. The other traitorously reaches out for his hand, still resting on the blanket.

He had turned away the moment she said Haley's name. When he looks at her again, eyes read and cheeks damp, his mouth is forming the word why, but no sound is coming out. He's frozen, hands trembling and there is nothing she can do to cure his pain. 

There are no words she can whisper. No medication she can count out for him. No stories of her childhood that she can distract him. There is nothing she can do because this time, it was not a serial killer scarring his stomach so every time he looked in the mirror he would see them. It was not a man that should never have had children causing him to look at her and ask what he had been thinking.

It had been her. That was the problem with profilers. They always knew where to strike. The difference was, he was too afraid to do it. She was too angry to not.

The worst part is, he doesn't reply. He doesn't say a single word, because in his head, it is what he deserves. It is what everyone has been thinking since the day of the funeral. The difference with her is that she does not hesitate to say what she thinks.

It used to make him smile. In this moment, it breaks him.

He moves from the chair. He's done his duty. And if he looks at her, he think will say something he doesn't mean. Something cruel. Something about her own issues- about how she doesn't trust him, how she is so afraid of commitment she would let the only good thing she's ever let herself have go. 

She knows that he won't. He's too good. Too afraid. It's why, before she can overthink it, she whispers one word: "Stay."

He's still close enough to hear her. She watches as slight relief, then pained love, and finally a forced and cold neutrality that she has always hated because it means people don't get to see how beautiful and painful his humanity is.

Nothing he does will ever be enough for this. He will never deserve her forgiveness. The final decision was out of his hands, but if he had just fought a little bit harder, then he could have told the team and they would be able to share the burden. He will never be good enough for her. The darkness she has carried with her since that day in Italy, even though she understands now that she too was just a child faced with an impossible decision, will never compare to his.

Her darkness was part of her beauty. His got people killed. Her, laying on that bed, is just another piece of proof. He cannot give her what she deserves, but he can give her what she wants.

And so, he stays.

Nothing she says will ever make up for those words that now feel like copper in her mouth. She will never deserve the feel of his calloused hands- some from the horrors of his childhood, others from the guitar he loved to play so much- in her own. If she had just been quicker, less of a survivor then he would be able to mourn her death instead of hiding the truth. She will never be good enough for him. The darkness he has carried with him since he was a child, a darkness that should have never been created, will never compare to hers.

His darkness is part of his humanity. Hers got people hurt. Him, heart once more in tattered shreds because of her, is just another piece of proof. She cannot give him what he deserves, but she can give him what he needs.

And so, she reaches out for him.

She takes his hands that are not coated with Haley's blood, no matter what he believes and holds them tightly. He lets her, even though every part of him screams to let go. Haley's body was cold the last time he held her. He does not want to remember Emily as this cold and fragile girl. 

But he will not take her to Paris. JJ had to stand there as they fought to keep her alive because he was frantically trying to convince people that cared more about politics than they did about real lives. She needs it.

He won't survive without it, but maybe that is for the best.

They sit like that, hands clasped in some pathetic recreation of the long nights and days they had spent together. 

When the doctors came to take her away, somewhere where he could not follow, the full extent of what was about to happen hit her.

"Aaron, I-" 

don't blame you, need you to come with me, want you to forgive yourself, regret saying no, trust you with everything I am, think you are the best man I know, didn't mean what I said- 

"I love you."

"Emily, you-" 

don't need to lie, are so much more than you give yourself credit for, are one of the most beautiful women I have ever met, cannot regret saying no, were right about Haley, were right about everything- 

"You shouldn't have said that."

She knows that. But she needed to say it in place of all the things she could never find the words for.

"Be happy for me," she says, right before the doors close.

"I'll try," he whispers, to an empty and cold room.

He doesn't. He runs instead, like the coward she accused him of being.

[dadzawa-adopt-dabi]

Secret Baby Ch23

Dabi wakes up one day to Giran calling to ask him if he can take on an emergency mission. He needed Dabi to go spend a night or two at the League with Jin. Dabi says no at first, citing the agreement he made when he took Dabi on as an employee. Giran simply sends the exact same message back and Dabi knows he’s not truly asking. He doesn't have an option in whether or not he accepts doing Giran a favor. He’s been kind so far, routinely pays Dabi on time and always gives him his full amount of pay. He Can’t afford to lose his job, especially when the price for betraying Giran is higher than he can pay. “Come to the cafe right away, you will be shown straight to the back this time.”

Dabi swipes to mark it as read as texts Kikiyo’s babysitter, a feeling of dread and anxiety building. That’s normal for him though, he chalks it up to growing up the way he did and being on the wrong side of the law.

'You're going to have to find somebody else ‘Dabi.’ I know that’s not your actual name but whatever, Kikyo is obviously a mutant child. I'm not certified for Mutants. She wouldn’t stop screaming last time, I'm sick of the little feathers tripping me up as I try to take care of the other kids.”

Dabi tried to call her, to work something out just for the day as he drummed his fingers anxiously on the counter. Maybe get a recommendation if she wouldn't babysit Kikiyo, someone who was actually certified instead of going through this again. She must have blocked his number after sending the text because the number comes across as out of service. A quick internet search recommends a daycare several miles away from the nearest bus stop. It’s almost twice what he had been paying her. He swears and bites his lip as he rubs at his tired eyes, pacing in the kitchen. Kikiyo cries, scenting her fathers rising distressed scent filling the air. The black haired omega closes his eyes, biting his lip until it bleeds as he calls his mothers number. There’s a chance she won’t sell him out to Hawks or her husband. Slim as that chance is, Dabi isn’t left with any other choices with the trouble he’s gotten himself into and how much he owes Giran.

He can’t tell Giran that he can’t go through with this job. He can't take Kikiyo with him. This mission is coming at an inconvenient time and he doesn't have anyone else he can call to watch her. It’s been long enough, he misses his siblings if not his mother. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to do this. The phone rings and rings, Giran sends another message asking if he is on his way and Dabi sends back a simple no. Dealing with a disappointed or upset giran is somehow worse than calling his mother and he thinks about hanging up the phone and explaining to Giran for a moment that he has a kid and no babysitter. He doesn't know what other explanation he could give Giran that he couldn't disprove in minutes. He’s never been late before, the bus on his routes are suspiciously never late or full. He’s taken note of it before and had just been grateful. Only now does he consider that it may have been the work of his boss.

Maybe he was seeing how far he would go for him. At what point he would choose Kikiyo over his job. He had a job for kikyo, because of kikiyo. Dabi doesn't know the last time he had a moment or thought or action for himself that it wasn't stolen. Kikiyo’s cries turn to screeches as the call gets declined and Dabi’s stomach plummets. He feels sick as he leans against the counter, squeezing his eyes shut against a migraine hard. Redialing Rei’s number, just in case she had been away from the phone and missed the call. “This is Rei todoroki. May I ask who is calling this number?” she doesn't sound like she’s short of breath or in pain. Maybe it’s a good week. She can come and watch kikiyo and they can talk afterwards. Even if she never wanted Dabi, she can want and love her grandchild. Dabi can make peace with whatever he has to for her safety.

“Hey, it’s uh. It’s Touya.” saying his old name feels clumsy. Like an ill fitting coat, it reminds him of a different kind of stress. When he was struggling to be happy for just a few minutes before everything changed and he made plans to never be seen again. Married off to whoever gave enji the most benefits. Nothing but a tool and an object like his mother was treated. Kikiyo had very well saved him from that fate, Dabi isn’t sure how long he would have been able to bear it.

“I, I don’t know if you guys thought I was dead or um. I don't know what exactly you had thought happened to me but I, I had her, your granddaughter. I’m sorry I lied about geting a abortion. I’ve, I’ve been barely making it mom-” He hates doing this. Rei can’t offer him any help and even if she can she won’t. Dabi doesn't want to give up this thing he’s started with Giran. He can just, He needs his mom to watch kikiyo for a few hours. He can make it on his own with just this help from her.

“I can’t give you any money Touya.” she says and Dabi feels a tear dip down his cheek as he realizes her tone never shifted at the realization she was talking to him. Maybe enij reported him as a runaway but they couldn’t arrest him. they couldn't bring him home again because he was over 18.

“No, i. That's not why i’m calling. I need a babysitter.” He feels more tears leak out his eyes and he pokes Kikiyo’s cheek to make the screeching stop.

He places a few crackers in front of her and she’s instantly distracted with the food. Peeping at him every few bites and holding a cracker out for him that he smiles at as he pretends to eat it. Nibbling at her little fingers and forcing himself to smile at her to give his daughter the impression that everything is just fine. Daddy’s just weird sometimes and smells scared when there’s no need for her to worry.

“I have my own job. I just-” He hates begging her for things, she always lets him down and he’s tired of being out of options. “I’m not going to whatever rodent infested place you've landed yourself in to watch your child. Not when you shouldn’t be off partying with some random alpha who I’ve never even met or who never asked us to court you.” Despite the harsh words her tone is dreamy and far off. Dabi knows she’s staring off into space as she speaks on the phone, no clue where he is. Uncaring and someone else will have to dress the kids and feed them tonight, help with homework since he’s not there. She might come back to herself tonight, it's hard to judge over the phone.

“No mom. I’m by myself. The father isn’t in the picture. I told him the same thing I told you.” he panics slightly. She can't process what he’s saying right now, never has been able to. He needs her though. He’s gotten himself so far down in trouble that he can’t get out and he’s comfortable with that until now. “You can come meet your grand baby. She’s wonderfully behaved, I promise. She can just smell me right now and im. I’m scared and alone and i'm in some trouble if i don’t go on this job.” he admits as his eyes widen in panic and when Kikiyo wont eat her crackers and starts crying again he nearly cries with her. Instead he picks her up and bounces her in the air as he holds the phone between his ear and his shoulder. “I said no Touya. I can’t, He would find out. Just like he found out about your clubbing when that young blond man came knocking on the door. Looking for you. Everyone else had to pay for your mistakes because you weren’t here Touya. I refuse to clean up after a child I never wanted. I don’t have a grandbaby or an oldest omega son.” There’s a click as Kikiyo chirps shirlley and Dabi let himself slide down to sit against his counter.

Dabi’s head snapped up as there was a knock on the door. Grabbing Kikiyo and shuffling back away from the door. He glanced towards the balcony door as he held her tightly. They were on the 5th floor, no way he could make it down with her and still manage to run. The missed Call and message from Giran glowed on the screen and he pressed Kikiyo’s face tightly to his chest as he back away down the hallway. Not that it would do either of them any good to hide in the closet, still he pushed the clothes to the side and as he sank to the back shushing Kikiyo he spread them back forward to hide them. He hadn’t even taken his pills recently so he couldn’t hide them, throwing off distressed omega and baby pheromones.

His heart stopped beating as he buried his nose in Kikiyo's hair, clenching his eyes shut and clutching her to his chest as the door rattled and opened, of course Girain had sent someone who could pick locks.

He froze as his bedroom door rattled and a familiar scent met his nose. Kikiyo’s too seeing as how she managed to pull back enough to let out a cry to be picked up. It didn’t matter that Giran had come himself to harm them, that Dabi was terrified out of his mind and uselessly trying to shush her.

“I, I’m sorry Dabi. I didn’t think about how this must look to you.” Giran spoke outside the door. Dabi didn’t dare breath as he heard the rustle of clothes and Giran sat down outside the closet door. Scent deeply sad and like he was trying to comfort Dabi. Old books cigars and coffee the most comforting thing he’d smelled in a long time and the closest thing he’d ever had had to a comforting parental scent.

“Dabi, would. Would you mind coming out here? I can hold her if you wish or you can leave her in there but i think it’s time we talked. About what exactly you plan to do when your a single disowned omega with an infant getting involved in organized crime.” he sighed. Waiting another moment before he stood up and pulled back the door. Pushing Dabi’s clothes out of the way as Kikiyo cried loudly to be transferred to him and Dabi kept his head down, gritting his teeth against literally baring his fangs at Giran and shuffled them back deeper.

Giran let out a heavy long breath before stepping into the closet and sitting down across from them. Wrinkling his suit even further and closing the door behind him. Dabi marginally relaxed as he peered across the dark space at him. He took off his suit coat and placed it behind himself as he held his arms out for kikiyo. Dabi crumbled as he passed her into his arms as she coo’d at him. Patting him on the nose as tears dripped down Dabi’s face, head kept turned to the side as he avoided looking at Giran. Giran held her close and put her near his shoulder like he would burp her. Gently talking to her about how happy he was to meet her and how hard her dad was working to keep her safe. The words ‘I’m so proud of your father’ came out of his mouth and Dabi let out a sob before he managed to shove a mouth over his hand, fliniching back. “Dabi. Come here.” Giran held out his other arm as he comforted Kikiyo and Dabi dove for it. Getting easily pulled into his arms as he sobbed.

He doesn't know how long the 3 of them sat like that, sitting in Dabi’s closet as he sobbed and Kikiyo giggled and Giran held them both.

[halfbisexual]

Men Cause 100% of Unwanted Pregnancies

Our conversation about abortion places the burden of responsibility on women. I argue men are the root cause.

Gabrielle Blair

Sep 24, 2018·

As a mother of six and a Mormon, I have a good understanding of arguments surrounding abortion, religious and otherwise. When I hear men discussing women’s reproductive rights, I’m often left with the thought that they have zero interest in stopping abortion.

If you want to prevent abortion, you need to prevent unwanted pregnancies. Men seem unable (or unwilling) to admit that they cause 100% of them.

I realize that’s a bold statement. You’re likely thinking, “Wait. It takes two to tango!” While I fully agree with you in the case of intentional pregnancies, I argue that all unwanted pregnancies are caused by the irresponsible ejaculations of men. All of them.

Don’t believe me?

Let’s start with this: A woman’s egg is only fertile for about two days each month. Yes, there are exceptions, because nature. But one egg which is fertile two days each month is the baseline. And those fertile eggs are produced for a limited number of years. This means, on average, women are fertile for about 24 days per year.

But men are fertile 365 days a year. In fact, if you’re a man who ejaculates multiple times a day, you could cause multiple pregnancies daily. In theory, a man could cause 1000+ unwanted pregnancies in just one year. While it’s true that sperm gets crappier as men age, it doesn’t have a fertility expiration date; men can cause unwanted pregnancies from puberty until death. So, starting with basic fertility stats and the calendar, it’s easy to see that men are the issue here.

As a society, we really don’t mind if women suffer, physically or mentally, as long as it makes things easier for men.

“But what about birth control?” you might ask. “ If a woman can manage to figure out how to get an abortion, surely she can use birth control to avoid unwanted pregnancy, right?”

Great question. Modern birth control for women is possibly the most important invention of the last century, and I’m very grateful for it. It’s also brutal. The side effects for many women include migraines, mood swings, decreased libido, depression, severe cramps, heavy bleeding, aneurysm — and that’s just a small fraction of them.

Discouragingly, a promising study on a new male contraceptive was canceled in large part due to… (wait for it)… side effects. To be clear, this list of side effects was about one-third as long as the known side effects for commonly used women’s contraception. There’s a lot to unpack in that story alone. I’ll simply point out that, as a society, we really don’t mind if women suffer, physically or mentally, as long as it makes things easier for men.

But, men, I’ve got good news. Even with the horrible side effects, women are (amazingly!) very willing to use birth control. Unfortunately, it’s harder to get than it should be, but that doesn’t keep women from trying. Birth control options for women require a doctor’s appointment — sometimes multiple doctor’s appointments — and a prescription. They’re not always free, and often not cheap. Some are actually trying to make female birth control options more expensive by allowing insurance companies to refuse to cover them. In addition, contraceptive options for women can’t be easily acquired at the last minute. In most cases, they don’t work instantly.

The pill requires consistent daily use and doesn’t leave much room for mistakes, forgetfulness, or unexpected disruptions to daily schedules. Again, the side effects can be brutal — and not just in rare cases. Despite the hassle and side effects, I’m still grateful for birth control. (Please don’t take it away.) But it’s critical to understand that women’s birth control isn’t simple or easy.

In contrast, let’s look at birth control for men — i.e., condoms. They’re readily available at all hours, inexpensive, convenient, and don’t require a prescription. They’re effective and work on demand, instantly. They don’t cause aneurysms, mood swings, or debilitating cramps. Men can keep them stocked up just in case, so they’re always prepared. They can be easily used at the last minute. I mean, condoms are magic! So much easier than birth control options for women.

As a bonus, most women are totally on board with condoms. They keep us from getting STDs. They don’t lessen our pleasure during sex or prevent us from climaxing. The best part? Cleanup is so much easier — no waddling to the toilet as jizz drips down our legs.

So why would there ever be unwanted pregnancies? Why don’t men just use condoms every time they have sex? Seems so simple, right?

Oh. I remember. Men don’t love condoms. In fact, it’s very, very common for men to pressure women to have sex without a condom. It’s also not unheard of for men to remove the condom during sex without the women’s permission or knowledge. (Pro tip: That’s assault.)

Why would men want to have sex without a condom? Because, for the precious minutes when they’re penetrating their partner, not wearing a condom gives them more pleasure. So… that would mean some men are willing to risk getting a woman pregnant — which means literally risking her life, her health, her social status, her relationships, and her career — so they can experience a few minutes of slightly increased pleasure. Is this for real?

Yes. Yes, it is.

Pregnancies happen when men have an orgasm. Unwanted pregnancies happen when men orgasm irresponsibly.

Imagine a pleasure scale, with pain beginning at zero and going down into the negatives. A good back-scratch falls at 5, and an orgasm without a condom is a 10. Where would sex with a condom fall? A 7 or 8? So, it’s not that sex with a condom is not pleasurable, it’s just not as pleasurable. An 8 instead of a 10.

Let me emphasize that again: Men regularly choose to put women at massive risk in order to experience a few minutes of slightly increased pleasure.

For the truly condom-averse, men also have a non-condom, always-ready birth control option built right in: the pull-out. It doesn’t protect against STDs, it’s an easy joke, and it’s far from perfect. However, it’s 96% effective if done correctly, and 78% effective in practice (because it’s often not done correctly).

Still, many men who resist wearing condoms never learn how to pull out correctly. Apparently, it’s slightly more pleasurable to climax inside a vagina than, say, on their partner’s stomach. Once again, men are willing to risk the life, health, and well-being of women in order to experience a tiny bit more pleasure for roughly five seconds during orgasm.

Think of the choice men are making here. Honestly, I’m not as mad as I should be about this, because we’ve trained men from birth to disassociate sex and pregnancy. We’ve taught them that their pleasure is of utmost importance.

As a general rule, men get women pregnant by having an orgasm. Yes, there are exceptions — it’s possible for sperm to show up in pre-ejaculate — but in most cases, getting a woman pregnant is a pleasurable act for men. But men can get a woman pregnant without her feeling any pleasure at all. It’s even possible for a man to impregnate a woman while causing her excruciating pain, trauma, or horror.

In contrast, a woman can have nonstop orgasms with or without a partner and never once get herself pregnant. A woman’s orgasm has literally nothing to do with pregnancy or fertility — her clitoris exists simply for pleasure, not for creating new humans. No matter how many orgasms she has, they won’t make her pregnant.

Pregnancies happen when men have an orgasm. Unwanted pregnancies happen when men orgasm irresponsibly.

A woman can be the sluttiest slut in the entire world, she can love having orgasms all day and all night long, and she will never find herself with an unwanted pregnancy unless a man shows up and ejaculates irresponsibly. Though our society tends to villainize female pleasure, women’s enjoyment of sex does not equal unwanted pregnancy and abortion. Men’s enjoyment of sex and irresponsible ejaculations do.

Let’s move to the topic of responsibility. Often, men don’t know, don’t ask, and don’t think to ask if they’ve caused a pregnancy. There are often zero consequences for men who cause unwanted pregnancies.

If the woman decides to have an abortion, the man may never even know he caused an unwanted pregnancy with his irresponsible ejaculation. If the woman decides to have the baby, or put the baby up for adoption, the man may never know he caused an unwanted pregnancy with his irresponsible ejaculation either. He may never know there’s now a child walking around with 50% of his DNA.

If the woman does tell him he caused an unwanted pregnancy and that she’s having the baby, the closest thing to a consequence for him is child support. Our current child support system is a well-known joke. Only about 61 percent of required payments by men are actually made, and there are little to no repercussions for skipping out. In some states, failing to pay child support doesn’t even affect your credit.

If a man does pay child support, it doesn’t come close to what is required by a woman in the case of an unwanted pregnancy.

Let’s talk about abortion. When the topic comes up, men might think: Abortion is horrible; women should not have abortions. Never once do they consider the man who caused the unwanted pregnancy.

If you actually care about reducing or eliminating the number of abortions in our country, simply hold men accountable for their actions.

If we’re discussing abortion law — and not how to hold men accountable for irresponsible ejaculations, and the unwanted pregnancies caused by them — we’re wasting our time. Shift the conversation. Stop protesting at clinics. Stop shaming women. Stop debating whether or not to overturn abortion laws. If you actually care about reducing or eliminating the number of abortions in our country, simply hold men accountable for their actions.

What would that look like? A real and immediate consequence for men who cause an unwanted pregnancy. What kind of consequence would make sense? Should it be as harsh, painful, nauseating, scarring, expensive, risky, and life-altering…

… as forcing a woman to go through a nine-month unwanted pregnancy?

If you consider abortion to be murder, consider this thought experiment: Would you be on board with having a handful of men castrated to prevent 600,000 murders each year? If this argument sounds too provocative, could it be that many of us have a hard time wrapping our heads around a physical punishment for men? We seem to be more than fine with physical punishments for women. Perhaps we care more about policing women’s bodies, morality, and sexuality than we do about reducing or eliminating abortions.

Here’s another prevention idea: All males in the U.S. could get a vasectomy when they are ready to be sexually active. Vasectomies are very safe, highly reversible, and about as invasive as a woman getting an IUD implanted. In most cases, there’s some soreness afterwards for about 24 hours, but that’s pretty much it for side effects. (Take a moment to remember that female contraception options, used by millions of women in our country and billions across the world, have well-known side effects which can be brutal and severe — and yes, also include soreness.) If and when a man becomes a responsible adult, finds a mate, and wants to have a baby, the vasectomy can be reversed and then redone once the childbearing stage is over. Each man can bank their sperm before the vasectomy, just in case.

Don’t like my ideas? That’s fine. I’m sure there are better ideas, and I challenge you to suggest your own. My point is we need to stop focusing on women if we’re trying to get rid of abortions. Think of abortion as the “cure” for an unwanted pregnancy. To stop abortions, we need to prevent the “disease” — meaning, the unwanted pregnancy itself. And the only way to do that is by focusing on men, because irresponsible ejaculations by men cause 100% of unwanted pregnancy.

Ask yourselves: What would it take for you to value the life of your sexual partner more than your own temporary pleasure or convenience?

If you’re a man, what would it take for you to never again ejaculate irresponsibly? A loss of money, rights, or freedoms? Physical pain? Ask yourselves: What would it take for you to value the life of your sexual partner more than your own temporary pleasure or convenience?

Men mostly run our government, and men mostly make our laws. In theory, men could eliminate — or drastically reduce — abortions within months without ever touching an abortion law or even mentioning women. They’d simply need to hold men accountable for irresponsible ejaculations, and legislate accordingly.

To reduce or eliminate abortions, stop attempting to control women’s bodies and sexuality. Because unwanted pregnancies are caused by men.

[go-hux-yourself]

Regret

So I’m having fun participating in FebuWhump :D This is Day 1′s prompt fill for mind control :D Classic kylux time :) This work titled Regret.

See also on my ao3 here. My masterlist archive of bullshit i write can be found linked at the top of the blog or here. 

--

He raises the blaster to fire, but Ren already has him pinned in place by the force.

The assassination attempt isn’t entirely a surprise, but the immediate sting of hurt accompanying it certainly is. Kylo knew Hux was bitter-- downright hated him after he’d used the force on him after killing Snoke; both times- but Ren had always assumed that what they’d had had been more.

Yes, their relationship had soured to the point where the memory of desperate kisses and passionate embraces now seems like impossible fantasy, but Ren never thought Hux hated him so much to want to make an actual attempt on his life.

And that’s definitely what this is.

It hurts Ren more than he’s willing to admit, and the fact that Hux isn’t already dead for the attempt tells Kylo a lot more about himself than he’d been aware.

Hux doesn’t fight against the force that has him frozen in place, though. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t sneer, the unemotional, business-like single-mindedness to move his finger and pull the trigger on the gun his only concern.

It’s part of what stops Ren from murderously lashing out; the uncharacteristic placidness to the assassination attempt. Had Hux gone so cold from him? He’s so detached from the action, even considering their past and what they’d once had.

It’s like a slap to Ren's face.

Some part of him is consumed with an ache beyond soothing; a thing that still craves Hux’s love and attention, wanting to protect and cherish the man even as Hux’s finger still itches to pull the trigger. He can feel it now, the intensity with which Hux wants to shoot him, but nothing else below the surface.

Ren frees Hux’s mouth; frees him enough to speak-- defend his actions, vent his spleen, rage or coldly tell him he deserves it- but no words come.

Hux doesn’t speak. The look in his green eyes is intense, but vacant. He’s still focused on the goal of pulling the trigger, his entire being trying in vain against Ren’s force-hold. It’s all he wants; all he needs.

No, Hux might be doing this, but this wasn’t Hux.

“...Hux.” Ren doesn’t want to kill him for this. He doesn't want to hurt him, either. Even right now, blaster in hand aimed his way, Ren doesn’t want to hurt him. He still wishes he’d never hurt Hux in the first place, but Crait had been the last nail in the coffin, and after that, anything between them had fully withered and died. He’d foolishly allowed it to happen, regretting the distance between them now.

Ren doesn’t bother asking, using the force to enter Hux’s mind to understand what is happening. A deeper dive beneath the general’s one-train track of thoughts finds a compulsion planted firmly in Hux’s brain: shoot Kylo Ren. Shoot him. Shoot him. Must shoot him. Pull the trigger. Shoot him.

Whoever manipulated the general’s mind to try and carry out this assassination attempt must not have been aware that Ren can easily stop blaster bolts in midair. They must have counted on Hux having special proximity to the Supreme Leader. The element of surprise might’ve worked otherwise, but whoever did it clearly didn’t know that Hux hasn’t shared his bed in months.

“Hux…” Ren puts both gloved hands on either side of the other man’s face. He brushes thumbs over his cheeks, but there’s no recognition in his eyes aside from the desire to fire his weapon at his target. It’s his sole purpose at the moment; something Ren needs to snuff it out.

That’s easier said than done, though.

The compulsion to kill Ren is woven deeper into Hux’s mind than he feels safe simply ripping from the man’s head; the desire to shoot him is wrapped up in Hux’s own cognizance of anything Kylo Ren. Should he simply destroy it, he could destroy anything good Hux ever associated with him. ...or even erase himself completely from the general's mind.

It’s a much more complex problem than Ren at first assumed.

“Hux… Hux, I know you’re in there,” Ren growls, but his words fall on deaf ears. He tries to use the force in the man’s mind to snap him out of it and spark some recognition to wake him up from the drive compelling him, but the strain of such a thing has a visible result.

Hux’s nose begins to bleed and his heart rate skyrockets. A migraine pulses in the general’s head, and Hux is consciously numb to it all; to anything not devoted to putting a bolt in the Supreme Leader. The drive to shoot Ren is too important. Hux would accomplish his task at the cost of himself if he had to-- that’s the message here- and Ren realizes that this is far more dangerous than assumed. Someone was going to die, but it wasn’t going to be him, and it wasn’t going to be Hux.

Ren decides to let him pull the trigger.

The bolt goes wide and strikes the durasteel wall. Hux immediately fires another as Ren easily diverts it as well, listening in to the other man’s mind; he’s still noticeably absent. The end goal is not to fire the blaster, after all, but to shoot Ren. Not doing so when Ren is right there is punishing his body for noncompliance.

Ren makes another stupid choice, but it’s the obvious, simple one to make.

As Hux’s next shot finds its mark and hits home, Ren shouts at the pain-- it hurts less than a bowcaster, certainly, but it’s still a blaster set to kill impacting scar tissue- gripping his side with a snarl as he lets his force-hold on Hux go.

The gun clatters to the floor as Hux seems to wake up just as Ren had hoped. He’s blinking, touching at his face, visibly disoriented and confused. He wipes beneath his nose, seeing the glistening red of blood on the black synth leather of his glove. He’s next staring at the blaster he’s just dropped with something akin to dawning horror, like recognition from within a dream. Then his attention is finally drawn to Kylo.

Blood leaves Hux’s already pale face stark white, and makes the smear below his nose that much more brilliant. Ren doesn’t just hear the other man’s thoughts, but he can feel them too, flooding in in tumult after the vacancy that previously occupied his mind.

Fright. Worry. Shock. Concern. Fear. Hux doesn’t know how he got here or what he’s doing here, but he realizes what he’s apparently done, and knows that there’s no explaining it; no excuse he could possibly give to save himself.

That Hux genuinely thinks Ren will kill him-- wonders why he’s still alive- makes the self-appointed Supreme Leader growl in his throat.

“I let you shoot me,” Ren says pointedly, still standing but hunched over himself where he’d been hit in the side. He considers sitting back where he’d been meditating when Hux came in. “...Are you awake now?”

Hux is still rooted to the spot, mind spinning with concern for himself, concern for Ren, disbelief that this was even happening, and disbelief that he’s still alive. “Supreme Leader, I—!”

“Hux.” It’s both an expression of annoyance and pain. Not pain over the shot in his side-- he’s definitely had worse- but the distance between them has never been felt so keenly before, and he understands just how much of a betrayal his actions over Crait had been to the other man. He doesn’t like the look on Hux’s face-- afraid of him and what he might do over what is clearly a failed assassination attempt regardless of reason. He doesn’t want Hux’s fear; he wants to reassure him, soothe him that it’s not his fault.

He’d also really like the burn of the bolt to stop throbbing in his skin, and maybe some bacta to soothe that. The pain serves him no purpose; he doesn’t want to fight with Hux.

Hux’s voice is cautious, standing there looking between Kylo’s face and the blaster wound to the man’s side. “...I swear I don’t know how I came to be here, Ren...”

“I know.”

There’s a few moments of silence then, punctuated by Ren’s heavy breathing and the beat of Hux’s heart in his own ears. “...You let me shoot you…?”

Hux’s eyes linger on the wound Ren has a gloved hand over. Ren isn’t sure what to make of the look on Hux's face. He can feel the other man’s mental walls going up, and he doesn’t push against it, withdrawing from Hux’s mind instead.

Ren decides to lean on his ‘throne’ of a huge chair he’d been meditating in when Hux had first entered. The wound still hurts, but the way he’s leaned is better. “It was either that, or kill you. I have no desire to kill you, Hux. That wasn’t you, besides.”

Hux’s eyes dart to Ren’s own, back once to his injury, and then back to his face. “Ren…”

“A force-user has had access to you somehow…” Ren grimaces as his side twinges painfully. Hux makes an abortive move like he wanted to move towards Kylo, but doesn’t. “One of considerable skill. Security footage will need to be reviewed.”

Hux nods slowly in agreement with that same look on his face; wonder that he wasn’t being strangled to death or cut down with Ren’s lightsaber. He’d been compromised, used by the enemy somehow-- maybe this was even an attempt on his life via Kylo Ren as executioner’s tool- but it would be a lie to say his only worry is what the Supreme Leader might do to him for the fact.

At present it’s not even Hux’s most distressing concern, which is a tell all its own.

“...Ren, may I see that?”

Ren looks up, his heart clenching in wistful longing for the look on Hux’s face. With anyone else it might be a ploy; an attempt to get closer to finish the job. But he knows that look. He nods, and Hux comes close.

Inspecting the wound carefully, eyeing his own marksmanship, Hux frowns. Had it been a slightly different angle, it might’ve hit his heart. He wonders if Ren had diverted the shot to something less-lethal. He hopes the man had had that much sense before letting Hux put a damn blaster bolt in him. “...I’m sorry, Ren.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

The way Hux touches him tentatively at first makes Ren’s throat tighten. He knows that Hux is talking about the wound, but his mind is full of so much more, and all of his personal offenses against the other man. He wants to apologize for all of it-- something he never did- but he doesn’t even know how to start.

Not a day passes that Ren wishes he could take back what happened at Crait. He’s never regretted anything more than how he treated Hux, and how it utterly destroyed them. How he’d taken these kinds of touches as a given in the past; how wistful it makes him now, and lonelier for it.

Hux is skilled at battlefield aid, and the wound is already cauterized from the bolt. Ren’s in no immediate danger, but he gladly lets the general tend to him before Hux says they need to call a med-droid; he definitely needs bacta. Ren agrees, but lets Hux bandage him in the mean time.

This is the first time Hux has touched him since Crait, and his hands are just as gentle on him as ever.

Ren doesn’t ask Hux to leave when the med-droid arrives.

Hux stands by his side, and doesn’t ask to go.

--

my kofi | ao3 main

[elaine4queen]

Difficult Day

He tells me there’s an hour pick up margin, which is probably fine for people who are out. 

I realise that this could be a point at which I change walkers, and that’d be a shame because Lola loves Rooddogs. I write

I expect I will have to adapt. To be clear, I am talking about anguish here. A text before arrival would allow me to have the accommodation I need if you can’t give me a smaller window for pick up. I have loved having her picked up early, she gets real enrichment from the walkers, but I have to acknowledge the impact it has on my day. I have chronic illness as well as autism, and the stress of waiting today has had a considerable impact on my day.

He agrees to have the walkers text me when they’re on their way, and this resolves the issue. 

I’m talking online to Charlie and tell him 

Sometimes it takes a few passes to get your needs met. In general but also in a day. I’m 5h into my day and have already had false starts and had to argue my case and distracted myself with arguing on fb, and had to come away from that and come away from tv and begin to get ready for some Wim Hof breath work which will give me a bit of a reset. I realise now that the stress burden of today is not just from having a physical injury that’s dragging on but also a heavy day yesterday. I’m having to be what the recovery people call accountable because I need to be in decent shape for a long road trip next week to see a friend who is dying. I need it for myself and for her and for the friend who is driving.

Sometimes talking to someone you realise what you think, and what you’re doing, and why. Just being in your subjectivity without language doesn’t bring that intention out.

The breath work wasn’t quite hitting it. I was still very distracted. It was better to half do it than not to do it though, and when I segued into yoga I hit my stride. 

Talking to Charlie made me realise that the day before had ended up telling on me. My bathroom has been wrecked by a leak from the upstairs neighbour, and it seems that both my flat and the one below are so damaged we might have to decamp when they’ve fixed the leak and attempt to make good what is now four months of damage. The guys were in and out of my flat all day, and Lola barked her head off the whole time, and I didn’t get the privacy I need to do my yoga. 

I’m not having to take abortives for migraine anywhere near as often as I used to, but when I took one yesterday afternoon that hit the spot as well. It’s hard to know when it’s time. One of the features of autism is poor interoception, and it’s one of the laundry list of reasons why I do the yoga in the first place. As I sink into the practice and pay attention to my inner landscape I can feel a tide of tension leaving my body.

It took all day but that was it. I was fine. Tired, but out of whatever it was I was in. I watch some TV and then go to bed. 

Usually I walk the dog myself on gym days, but because of the flare ups I’ve had I’ve booked Lola in and get a WhatsApp message from the walker half an hour before pickup. Perfect.

I’m a bit hung over from the migraine, but my state of mind is better. True, if we have to decamp I will be worried about the lack of control I’ll have over getting my basic needs met in an unfamiliar place - and what about the dog? But I don’t think the housing association will spring for that kind of expense. I’d rather live with the dust and the stress of workmen coming in and out, I think. I’ve done it before though, and it is incredibly draining. Maybe I’d rather go away somewhere even though I’d probably have to pay for it myself. Tricky with the dog, but I can’t know in advance how this is going to play out so let me stop thinking about that now and get ready for the gym. The sun is shining, the dog is out, and I can breathe.

[fishyspots]

cover me with stuff

happy happy birthday to @petrodobreva!!! also available on ao3.

“What just happened?”

Patrick’s breath is coming fast, eyes darting between the back door and where David’s standing in the kitchen. “Um,” he clears his throat. “Nothing. Not a thing. No things.”

“Ah,” David nods. “No things. Would you like to try for something more believable?” After an afternoon of organizing folding chairs in the yard behind the store for a watercolor class the next day, he doesn’t really have the patience for their usual thing, where Patrick talks around his problem until David can suss it out for himself. He might have saved the patience if Roland hadn’t insisted on helping him. David knows that Jocelyn didn’t have to loan him the chairs, but the presence of her husband still felt like too high a price.

Patrick goes to lean against the back door but overshoots and has to use his arm to brace himself. “There’s a snake in the hydrangeas.”

David wrinkles his nose. “This is one of your worst euphemisms.”

“Ew,” Patrick says with feeling. “That’s—I hate snakes.”

“Was it a big snake?” David turns to peek out the kitchen window; he can see a bucket half-filled with weeds and soil spread out where Patrick had abandoned the gardening to find cover. “Should we call someone? Ray was talking about animal control at Twyla’s last party, but I can honestly say that I lost the thread and don’t know if it’s a new business of his or not.”

Patrick shakes his head, cheeks still flushed from his run. David narrows his eyes and looks a little closer. “Garter snake.”

“And you are...allergic to garter snakes?”

“I hate snakes.” Patrick looks at David then, and the look in his eyes makes clear that it’s not exertion but embarrassment turning his cheeks red.

“Aw.” David frowns exaggeratedly. He can sympathize; there was a millipede in the store last week. “Gross. Well, hopefully the snake goes away soon.”

“You don’t have to—” Patrick’s voice goes sharp like it does when they fight. David’s pretty sure this shouldn’t be a fight, so it’s...off. Something’s off. But Patrick inhales and lets it out slowly. “I hate that I’m scared of those stupid things.”

“Um, have we met?” David turns toward the cabinets but keeps Patrick in his sight. “I’m scared of many things.”

“But yours make sense.” Patrick runs a hand over his eyes. “Like the parasailing thing. Who wouldn’t hate heights after that?”

David takes Patrick in without being too obvious. He’s doing that thing with his lower lip that’s adorable and infuriating in equal measure. It’s probably technically a pout, but neither of them want to admit that. David can only make fun of it when he’s being condescending, but Patrick normally doesn’t bring this particular expression out unless it’s something serious that David can’t be petty about. Infuriating, really, because he has so few things he can poke at Patrick about. “You know that a fear doesn’t have to be logical, right? Like, sometimes it is. But I was terrified of my mom’s eyelet lace clutch for a year after she told me it was poisonous. That’s not logical.”

Patrick’s lip stops doing the horrifying thing, which is progress. And the light of teasing is back in his eyes, so David counts it as a win. “Why did she say it was poisonous?”

“She knew I was plotting to steal it.” David waves a hand. “Not important. As long as you can still take care of any and all moths, we don’t have a problem here.”

“Where did the moth thing come from?”

David can play this game. “Where did the snake thing come from?”

Patrick makes a face that’s less horrifying and more funny. David loves his husband and always wants to see him happy, of course, but. It’s fun to see him squirm. “I give.”

But something still isn't quite right. About Patrick’s face. David shakes his head. No, he loves Patrick’s face and all the things it does. Especially—ahem. He’s getting off track. “What else is going on?” He reaches behind Patrick into the wine fridge and grabs a bottle Patrick likes. Or at least David’s pretty sure he likes it—he grabbed three bottles last time they went to the first vineyard that didn't sell banana wine within five hours. It’s not a huge leap he’s making.

“Nothing else is going on.” Patrick looks up at the ceiling, which is one of his more obvious tells.

A memory from their belated honeymoon to Toronto wakes up and kicks around David’s head. Patrick had gotten all worked up about getting a migraine, moaning into the dark hotel room that this wasn’t what David had signed up for, as though he wouldn’t want to be there for any part of Patrick. “Hey,” he says lightly as he reaches for the corkscrew in the drawer. He keeps Patrick trapped between the counter and his arms—he doesn’t want Patrick to slip away from this conversation, slithering away like—ew. Screw this day for making him think so much about snakes. “What else?”

“It’s—I just don’t want you to have to. To be with me when I’m—this isn’t—”

“My kingdom for a conclusion,” David says mostly to himself. But they’re pressed in close, so Patrick fixes him with a look. He winces and sets about being soothing. “You’re not making me do anything.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. David thinks he can probably make fun of this move, but. He’ll wait to test the theory. “You didn’t sign up for—”

“I signed up for you,” David says. He tucks the you idiot back behind his teeth. He senses it will not aid his mission. “Warts and all. Or, um, some other non-amphibious reference.”

“Snakes and frogs are totally different.”

“And we’ll get right back to that deflection after we finish this,” David says sternly. “You didn’t know that I would break my arm in two places the week before our first anniversary, but you still saved me from Stevie’s attempts to deface my cast with doodles. And you didn’t know that my parents would basically move in with us for nearly a month after Sunrise Bay wrapped again.”

“That’s different.” Patrick’s being stubborn, which, water is wet, so it’s not exactly news.

“Because it’s me?” Patrick never minds soothing David’s worries, or talking him down from spirals, or letting him pluck at his shoulders while he works through distressing thoughts.

“No, David.” Patrick uncrosses his arms and pulls at David’s hips until David sways forward. “Because it’s—hard. It’s hard for me.”

“It’s hard for me too, you know.” David shakes his head. That’s not exactly right. “It is in the beginning. To trust that you’ve—got it. That you can handle the hard stuff, or the embarrassing stuff.” He resolutely does not think about wet sheets and aborted livestreams.

“But I can,” Patrick reminds him. Then he breathes out into the space that he’s made for himself against David’s neck. “And you can.”

David wiggles, but gently. He doesn’t want to dislodge Patrick. “I can.”

Patrick’s arms tighten around him, then loosen just enough for David to grab both bottle and corkscrew again. They’ve both earned a drink.

“You’re really good at this,” Patrick says, looking far too impressed. David’s done the corkscrew before. “I feel very supported.”

“I wish I could say I got that all the time.” David plays it up because he knows it will make Patrick smile. He straightens his back and pulls away from the cage of Patrick’s arms so he can watch the way his husband’s mouth turns down in fondness before the happiness takes hold.

Patrick clears his throat, then turns and reaches for the glasses. “A shame,” he agrees. “Especially since you’re so supportive that you won’t make me go back out there. Really kind that you’re going to weed the flower beds for me.”

“I support you,” David says. He thinks fast; doing one outdoor chore might open a door that he can’t close. And he’d rather die than mow a lawn, even if it’s his own. “And because I support you, I also support you facing your fears.”

“I’ll remember that when the next moth needs rehoming.”

“Fine.” David sets his wine glass down and crosses into the kitchen; he’ll get the weeds in the morning. Stevie’s coming over to crash between trips, so if he plays his cards right he’ll make it through the chore without getting any dirt on the knees of his jeans. “But we’re having spaghetti for dinner because now I’m thinking about noodles.”

Patrick chokes on his wine. “Why would you ruin pasta for me while I’m in this fragile state?”

[spardarose84]

This is still a work in progress but I suffer from debilitating chronic migraines (as well as some other health issues) and I just wanted to make a fic about MC (myself in this case) experiencing them in the Devildom and how a few of our beloved demon brothers would help MC with her pain. This is only part one but it sets the stage. Part two will probably be a bit more on the NSFW side but nothing like that in part 1. I hope you enjoy it. It brought me some comfort writing it. 

Migraine Diversion

Social events were never really your thing. Most people preferred to spend their Friday nights at a bar or a club or a concert; someplace typically jam-packed with people and quite lively. As far as you were concerned, getting into your comfortable clothes and curling up with a good book and a cup of tea was what you considered to be a ‘wild Friday night’. Honestly, crowds made you uncomfortable and you could never understand what people found enjoyable about being crammed together like sardines or having their ear drums ruptured by the loud music most of these venues played. And yet, here you were at just such a venue on a Friday night.

Asmo’s charm may not have worked on you but curse those pleading puppy dog eyes and those pouty lips of his. You just couldn’t say no this time around so, here you were sitting at the bar in the Devildom’s hottest nightclub The Fall. Asmo had been asking you to join him for a night out at The Fall for what seemed like ages now and you ultimately relented. You did adore the avatar of lust and while going to a club wasn’t your scene at all, you were willing to attempt it so long as it made him happy. And damn if his smile did not melt your little human heart when you agreed to accompany him.

The two of you had danced for a bit when you first arrived although, Asmo did most of the dancing and helped teach you as you went. You were starting to question your choice in shoes before Asmo decided it was time for a break and a drink. Asmo ordered himself a Demonus and a human realm Mudslide for you. You really didn’t drink much if at all but Asmo insisted that he get you something, so you politely accepted.

Currently you were sitting alone at the bar while Asmo went off and mingled with a few other demons. You sat there just sipping your drink quietly while the lord of lust did his thing when you suddenly became acutely aware of yourself and your surroundings. The flashing, pulsating lights of the club began to maim your eyes as they became increasingly sensitive. The music, which you typically loved seemed to turn against you, the notes becoming the shrill wail of a banshee that threatened to split your skull in two and rupture your eardrums. In that moment you knew you were in trouble as after all of this time a migraine had ambushed you.

You see, you had never mentioned it to the brothers but, you suffered from debilitating chronic migraines. Not that you had ever needed to divulge this information until now. Honestly, it was nothing short of a miracle that you had not had an attack until this very moment, especially considering all of the stress you had been under since arriving in the Devildom. As you sat there at the bar with this looming pain and increased sensitivity you were completely unaware that you had covered your ears with your hands to try and block out the music. You did not realize this until you felt a hand on your shoulder which startled you enough to jump out of your seat. To your relief, it was only Solomon.

“Are you feeling alright, MC?” asked the sorcerer.

You opened your mouth to speak, to reassure him that you were perfectly fine but those mysterious grey eyes of his told you he wouldn’t believe a word of it.

“No,” you sighed defeated. “I’m not feeling well…at all,” you confessed, telling him the truth without coming out and saying exactly why you were not well.

Solomon silently scrutinized you before he nodded in some sort of agreement with himself as to your words. The sorcerer could see that your complexion had paled significantly and that there were tears pricking the corner of your eyes. “Where is Asmodeous? I’ll have him take you home,”

“NO!” you protested before Solomon could even finish his sentence. “No…please,” you said a little softer. “He’s been really looking forward to tonight and I don’t want to take that away from him,” you admitted.

Solomon placed a hand to his chin in thought but nodded once more. “Very well. I won’t make him take you home but, can you get ahold of one of the other brothers? You know it’s not safe to walk around the devildom at night alone,” he reminded you.

Nodding, you pulled out your phone. Like roots from a tree trying to tether itself to the ground, a throbbing, stabbing pain was starting to take hold just above your right eye. You quickly sent a text message to Satan, apologizing for bothering him but asking if he could come escort you home.

The response was quick and to the point, as was typical of Satan. The lord of Wrath would come escort you home. You were to stay inside until he arrived however so, wait you did. Solomon got you a glass of water but the longer you stayed put in this club, the harder it was to concentrate on anything besides the searing pain in your skull. The migraine pain had completely taken root by this point and while you wanted nothing more to curl up in the fetal position and cry, you knew doing so would only make things worse.  

Only 20 minutes had passed when Satan finally arrived on scene. Solomon walked you out of the Fall to make sure you were passed over safely to Satan. Solomon was shady as Hell but he had proven himself to be a gentleman this evening so, he had that going for him at least.

Satan was looking at his phone not seeming happy with the time when you came out alongside Solomon. The blonde demon looked like he was about to give you a lecture until his eyes fell upon you and quickly assessed the state you were in. Rather than a lecture a sigh fell from his lips instead. “Thank you for staying with her, Solomon. I’ll take it from here,” Satan said approaching you and offering an arm to escort you home.

You gave Satan an apologetic look but took the arm he offered you wordlessly, thankful for it as vertigo had started to seep in at this point. You thanked Solomon and promised to text him later when you were feeling better before you and Satan started the long walk towards home.

The night was crisp and there was a definitive chill in the air that reminded you of Autumn evenings back in the human realm. Sadly, you weren’t able to enjoy any of it what with the stabbing sensation in your skull. Satan was quiet but ever observant and, since you were overly sensitive to everything right now you were hyper aware that those green-blue eyes were keenly watching you.

“I’m sorry,” you finally said in a soft and hushed tone.

Satan blinked at the apology but sighed and shook his head. “MC…you don’t have any reason to apologize. You’re obviously not well,” he said reaching over and moving a strand of hair behind your ear. “I would appreciate it though if you’d tell me what’s ailing you?”

“I…I suffer from what’s known as Chronic Migraines. It’s a neurological condition that causes multiple symptoms. In my case, excruciating head pain, extreme sensitivity to light, sound and smells and sometimes intense vertigo,” you explained. “There is no cure for it, just trial and error methods with medications. This is the first one I’ve had since coming to the Devildom,” you confessed.

Satan didn’t like hearing that you suffered from a chronic condition that had no cure. He didn’t like to see you suffer even though he wouldn’t bat an eye were it someone else. Everything had a different viewpoint when it came to you. “Is there anything I can do to make the pain go away?” asked the avatar of wrath.

You gave a little smile finding it sweet that Satan wanted to rid you of your pain but you lightly shook your head. “I’m afraid not. All my abortive medications were left in the human world. Best thing I can do is isolate myself in a dark, quiet room and hope sleep with take away the pain,” you sighed rubbing the temple above your right eye where your migraine always manifested. “I think I’ll take a shower when we get home. Sometimes the warm water helps,”

Satan nodded although the frown was still present. He wished you would have said something before now about your condition but realized that you had been whisked away here to the Devildom with no notice whatsoever. Diavolo really needed to reevaluate his selection procedures when it came to the exchange program. At least some sort of warning and preparation rather than being plucked from one realm to another straight away and without pause. There were certainly some kinks to work out.

At any rate, Satan returned you to the house of lamentation safely and without incident. You were grateful for the rare silence that had settled upon the usually noisy household but, as you passed the threshold, stepping into the artificially lit hallway just about did you in. You winced in pain as your extreme sensitivity to light only caused the imaginary hot poker in you head to delve deeper.

Satan frowned as you let out an audible whimper at the pain but he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“Come on. I’ll take you to your room and while you’re showering, I’ll make us some tea. Does that sound good, Kitten?” he offered soothingly, shielding you from the artificial light as he stepped in front of your smaller frame.

You certainly did enjoy a nice hot cup of tea so you readily agreed which made Satan smile a little although it didn’t alleviate the concern in his eyes. As promised, he led you upstairs and made sure you would be alright on your own before he left you and went back down to the kitchen to get the kettle going.

Along with the soft glow of the fairy lights in your room there was a Himalayan salt lamp on your bedside table. The lamp had been a gift from Asmo when you had mentioned one day how you had a couple back home and loved the soft, soothing glow they emitted. You turned the lamp on once you were in your room. It was the only spectrum of light your eyes could stand right now and even then, it seemed piercing in your overtly sensitive state. You managed to get the shower going without incident, but you were still practically bathing in the dark. It wasn’t like you were doing anything spectacular anyway, just standing underneath the showerhead and letting the warm water caress your scalp, hoping it would be enough to compress the nerves and vessels in your head.

Up until this point you considered yourself quite fortunate that you hadn’t had a significant attack until now but, at the same time you had forgotten just how merciless migraines were to their victims and this one wasn’t letting it’s hostage go. It was pure Hell, and you were actually in Hell so, how was that for irony?

You sat on the shower floor in complete darkness and silence with the warm water cascading over your head long enough that the water eventually became cold. You didn’t feel great as you turned off the water but, it was at least a slight improvement from earlier. Beggars cannot be choosers after all, not in the game of chronic illness Russian roulette. You would take what little relief you could get.

It was as you were blindly reaching for a towel in the darkness that you found yourself being wrapped up in one. You squeaked out of surprise but the soft chuckle behind you told you everything you needed to know.

“A….Asmo?” you stuttered in surprise at finding yourself bundled up in a towel in the lord of lust’s arms.

“Hello my darling. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said giving your head a soft kiss. “You weren’t there when I came back from mingling and Solomon told me that you had left because you were unwell,” Asmo explained as he helped dry you off with the fluffy towel. “Satan told me about your condition just now,” he said finding a comb and running it gently through your damp hair. “What a dreadful thing that ails you, my sweet. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like,” he said giving a pout.

“Well I…I certainly don’t wish it on anyone,” you said softly in reflection of your pain as Asmo gently dried you off, keeping you close so you wouldn’t fall if your vertigo became particularly bad.

Asmo nodded. “Of course you wouldn’t, my sweet. Because you are a kind soul. But still, to suffer that kind of pain…why didn’t you tell us?” he asked looking at you with expressively apprehensive eyes.

“As I told Satan, it never came up in conversation until today. I’ve just been so preoccupied with everything…” you sighed, shoulders slumping downwards. “I’m sorry, Asmo…I ruined your night.”

“No, no, no, my sweet,” Asmo said placing a gentle hand on your cheek and stroking it with well-manicured fingers. “You didn’t ruin anything. Don’t even think that for a minute,” he reassured you as you made eye contact. “Now, enough talk about pain. Let us get you into your pajama’s and snuggled into bed. Satan’s bringing some tea for you,” he said planting a tender kiss to your forehead.

True to his word, Asmodeous helps to get you into your pajamas before leading you to your bed. He manages all of this with the lights off since he did not want to risk your migraine getting worse. Satan arrives just shortly after Asmo gets you all settled and snug in your bed, propping you up with pillows so that you can drink and enjoy your tea.

“Feeling any better?” Satan asked as he approached carrying a tray with three mugs. “It might not work with your migraines, I haven’t done enough research on them yet to know for certain, but I brought you an anti-inflammatory,”

You smiled tiredly at Satan, the lord of wrath seeing the toll that the pain was having on you and it was honestly a bit startling to see how quickly your health deteriorated. “Thank you, Satan. It certainly won’t hurt,” you admitted. “It’s still there but the shower helped a little bit,”

Satan nodded. “Good. I’m glad you found some relief,” he said gently handing you your teacup and the anti-inflammatory.

The warm cup being placed into your hands already relaxed you some. Satan had made you a London fog, the tea always seemed to evaporate the own fog in your brain. You swallowed the anti-inflammatory and quietly sipped your tea with Satan and Asmo by your side. You had gotten close to all the brother’s during your time at RAD but Satan and Asmo were probably the two brothers that you were closest to. The fourth and fifth born were almost a package deal like the twins and you were ok with that.

You finished your tea and started to feel the lull of sleep outweighing the pain throbbing furiously in your head. Satan took the empty cup and Asmo helped you get settled down and comfortable. The avatar of Lust lay next to you, softly running his fingers through your hair, his touch relaxing you even further as his fingers gently caressed your scalp. Within only a matter of minutes the sandman had finally arrived to rescue you from the vile pain. “Sleep well, Princess,” Asmo said as he lovingly kissed your temple, hoping perhaps somewhat childishly that the action would take away your pain.