#not something I have much practice in but AM wanting to experiment more with wheelchair designs had lots of fun with this one :]

[dragondawdles]

hi been noodling with designs for block guys have some sandy boys

[cherry-pop-elf]

🧹 Training 🧹

George Weasley X Wheelchair Reader GN (Warning: Fluff)

“Easy-!” You laughed, as George was zipping you through the hallways of the castle. Was your own fault for trusting a Weasley with the reigns of your chair. A Weasley twin no less. On the bright side, you always got to your destinations faster then if you pushed yourself on your own. Was nice to give your arms a break. Hogwarts wasn’t the friendliest with your chair, so George offering help was nice. You couldn’t help but feel guilty that someone had to push you everywhere, but that Weasley Charm washed it all the way. “I need to practice my speed, if we want to defeat Slytherin next week.” George would laugh off your protest, as he made a sharp turn around the corner. Nearly sent you both flying, but he always managed to keep your chair down on the ground. “GEORGE-!” Even in your panic, there was a thrill. A thrill of just being two friends having fun. “Do me a favor and gain some weight. You are WAY to easy to push around. No resistance at all!” He scoffed, as you two were soon zooming through the courtyard. The target being the wooden bridge. You wondered how your wheels haven’t popped a flat yet. “If you want to ask me out, just say so-!” You tried to meet his energy, as you held on for dear life. Watching as the evening light flickered through the wooden beams of the shelter. The distant sound of the water fluttering between the thumps of your chair on the floor boards. “Nah, I’ve never been one who’s direct~!” He teases, with ease, leaving you warm in the face from his remarks. How he was able to still talk steady, while doing so much running, is yet another mystery for Hogwarts to hold. Was just perfect, until you both forgot about the bump at the end of the bridge. Where the wooden boards meet earth. It was a total wipe out, as you were suddenly on the ground. Staring up at the sky, as your wheelchair toppled over. Nothing Repairo can’t fix. You sat up, and shook your head. You experience more pain in just putting on pants then going flying down a hill. With a look around, you would see George having his share in the crash. Face full of dirt, as his Quidditch uniform was muddied up. “If you need the wheelchair, get your own.” You warned, but did hold some worry. Sure, he plays Quidditch, but empathy is empathy. “You good?” You asked, getting a thumbs up. “Good, now get me back in my chair. Think you broke something-“ Was nice to joke about your issues. So many people would get uncomfortable whenever you talked about being disabled. George was always able to meet your energy. Make you feel normal. Like right now. How he got up, tossed his long hair back, and stuck his tongue out at you. “Your arms work! Just crawl!” He cackled, as you have a dramatic flop. “But I am so helpless, weak, fragile. Oh, I see the light-!” You sobbed, as you reached for the sky. “Alright alright. Can’t have you leave me behind like that. I’ll get lonely.” George would playfully kick your side, before fixing your chair for you. Making sure the wheels were on tight, before easily hoisting you up in his arms. Those Quidditch Players. So strong. “Or do you prefer this ride?” He puzzled, with a eyebrow wiggle. That quickly had you yank his Quidditch hood over his face. “Knock it-“ You warned, but smiled. He would toss his head back, still smiling that Weasley smile, before gently placing you back down. Making sure you were comfortable, and secure, before being far slower with you down the hill. “Think that’s enough training for one day.” George admits, as he did have a few scrapes now. “So about gaining weight-“ He nudged your shoulder. “Hm…..I don’t know-“ You playfully muse. “The lakes right there, just gotta-“ And he slowly started to tip you forward. “HEY HEY-!” You quickly held on, as he laughed at the panic. That’s what you get, for falling with a Weasley. “You are paying though.” You warned. “Wow, really? Disabled AND a leech.” He scoffed, but it was always in jest. It was always normal. You couldn’t have asked for anything else. “Butterbeer does sound good right now-“ You admit, as he rolled you off to Hogsmeade, enjoying the ride.

[spookyprime]

I genuinely really, REALLY love your hometown au concept- the fact it's a no powers/no capes au, but also NOT, is really cool? Like exploring what it'd look like if these kids tried to be heroes/vigilantes, but in a realistic way where they're regular people, instead of a "this takes place in a comic book world" way, is something I'm so fond of because it's like combining the things we already love but in a way that makes it all so much more real? Idk, it's nice! Also your comments about Jason needing walking aids make so much sense because now looking back I can see that in that snippet of Jason catching Tim sneaking in, he's sitting in what I presume is actually a wheelchair. Anyways, I wanted to ask what's Kon's deal in the hometown AU, parental figure wise- without the whole Superman v Lex thing, how exactly are both of them connected to him?

Thank you!!! Yes Jason is in a wheelchair in that comic I didn't want to make it super apparent since I wasn't sure what I was doing with hometown quite yet and I have definitely changed a few things since then. (Like- tim is no longer in high school I've aged them all up to their early twenties) but that's stayed.

Kon. Conner. Is uhhh OK. Ok. Clark is an investigative journalist known for exposing corporate injustice and helping workers rights whether it be proving unfair hiring practices or exposing like actual literal crimes against nature. He and Lois are a team and they are very, very good at what they do.

Lex luthor is still lex fucking luthor. But superman doesn't exist. Instead of trying to clone Kal, he's going the Smallville route and trying to clone himself. But he wants a eufenically perfect version of himself. So he starts experimenting. Clark is in the middle of a very big expose about lexcorps workers rights violations and he won't stop hounding them and is sooo determined to make them know theyre doing something wrong. And lex, freak that he is, thinks that determination and strong sense of will is very admirable, if not misplaced.

So he wants to like- breed that in. To the clone. Because he's a fucking eugenicist. Except I am very adamant that the combination of two people is not a clone that's a baby.

Anyway- conner is a test tube baby clone amalgation but he ISNT aged up- since they're not trying to fast track a superman weapon they let him age normally. Because again- lex is trying to make himself. Clark has been digging into the shit at lexcorp for YEARS and he keeps finding new horrors and new crimes against man. And like it's worse every time. And the worst one of all? This guy he's obsessed with taking down? He *made a baby* with him and Clark is so fucking freaked out when he finds out.

Like of course he takes conner. But he also doesn't want conner. Conner is like 3 at this point. Clark drops him off at his parents farm and conner is basically raised there by his grand parents. Clark.....visits. (Lex doesn't give a shit but WILL start hounding conner to come stay with him and learn business/evil stuff when he turns 18. It's actually part of the main PLOT of hometown so I'm not gonna get into it)

Conner meets tim as kids because he gives him horse riding lessons because I'm very adamant that since tim is a rich boy from New England he KNOWS how to ride a horse. It's a given. I just want conner to be the one to teach him and maybe stable his horse for him. You know. They can have their horse girl romance movie.

(Not related to anything else but bruce is So Fucking Mad at Clark when he finds out he has a kid he's been neglecting. Like surprise idiot you have to take care of your kid it doesnt matter that you never asked for him conner didn't exactly ask to be made either.)

[yourbabies-thenmine]

I got to the bottom of my dash and so I moved to Pinterest

And I realized I haven’t been on Pinterest in a while

Looking through it a while, it’s all my past aspirations. Tiny houses and little organized studio apartments, house plant tips, baking, hacks and inspiration

And I realized I haven’t been on there because I’m not dreaming. I’m not planning. I’m not manifesting.

I finished the training I needed for my license. I have my license. I can do whatever I want now

I just want something to work out. This entire year has been hurry up and wait, next month will be better, give it time. All the jobs that fell through. All the interviews with no call back. All the credit card debt

I hope the trip to Arizona will bring some clarity of where I want to be. Should I stay close to the nephew(s)? (Okay fine the new baby could be a niece. But I have a feeling he’s a boy.) Should I be somewhere within driving distance so I don’t have to leave the dog? Should I find a birth center so perfect and busy that distance doesn’t matter and I just pay to travel when I need to?

I’m so tired of being alone I’m so tired of being at home

Not diving into this thing head on has kept me where I am. I thought the birth assistant thing would fill up my month while I get my bearings and learn to be primary. But with the opportunities narrowing I do wonder if I would have more if I start my own practice

But that’s not what I want. I don’t want homebirth I love birth center birth. I love knowing where the bathroom is where the meds are the wheelchair the ice packs the baby formula

But it makes me a subservient employee who relies on their employer. Which I don’t want to assume all the risk I’m not ready to be a one woman show and I’m ready to be exploited if someone would just let me work

I didn’t know it would be like this. I didn’t know it would be so hard. I had a busy apprenticeship with a steady flow of clients and it was so ample that I forgot that some people don’t have many clients and have short stays and small birth teams. If the world had stayed exactly how it was then some of my planning would have worked out.

We got bought. Things started to change. I asked my preceptor why she never let me do certain things in the primary role and now we don’t talk. I have reached out to so many midwives for homebirth or apprenticeship experience that I don’t want to reach out again begging for some sort of job or business partnership. The midwives I worked with like me and want to work with me again but their client load is small and they don’t need me. And A doesn’t need me. And B doesn’t need me. And so much of what fuels me in this job is being needed. Being appreciated. Coming in when they need me and seeing the difference I make in taking care of clients and my fellow midwives

And it’s a guilt tug of war bc i feel guilty I’m not doing much or making any money. I also feel guilty that I gave my word to the practices that I’m currently working at. Feeling guilty that I can’t keep “giving it time” and waiting around for nothing to happen as I lose the skills I worked so hard to learn.

I accept the choices I made

I accept the decisions I made based on the information I had

I accept myself for being new and young and having more things to learn

[aaliyahnakoodawrites]

WEEK 1

Reflection: What have I learnt about providing intervention.

Going into week 1 of fieldwork was daunting. As a student, I have this worry that I do not know enough and that was especially true for day 1 of fieldwork. The hospital itself is wonderful with such a well-equipped Occupational Therapy department. This daunting experience was made easier by the educational demonstrations by the supervisor. During both demonstrations, the knowledge and skill illustrated by the supervisor was wonderful to observe. In those short demonstrations, the flow between theory and practice of occupational therapy treatment was shown in a unique way.

During the first week of intervention, my main focus with the client was bed mobility and transferring in and out of her wheelchair. The client identified toileting and being independently mobile as two of her main goals so I tried to collaborate that with the therapy sessions.

In the first session, the client was interviewed. At first the client appeared as well and cognitively functional, however as the session went on, it was clear that there was a cognitive impairment. From this the supervisor suggested to read the files and ask the nurses about the client. There was a lack of information in both and nothing was achieved of this. Here I realized a day later that I should contact the client's contact person and this was my plan for Wednesday. However, on Wednesday I did not get a chance to contact the person and planned to do so for Monday when I had more time at the hospital and had done more research on the condition. This made me realize that I need to prioritize my time better whilst treating patients because contacting the family and communicating with them falls as part of treatment as well. In the future, should I want to get more information or do family education, there should be a set time to do this during treatment.

In the second session, the client practiced transferring out of the wheelchair to the plinth. This went better than planned as the client was able to stand by herself and transfer through pivoting to the plinth. Whilst on the bed, the client did some rolling, supine to sitting and weight bearing. This was facilitated by myself with some help from the supervisor. With the rolling, the client realized quicky what to do and managed to roll by herself to her affected side. I struggled with weight-bearing and the techniques. Whilst my first modality was to weight-bear with her left upper limb extended and the shoulder externally rotated, this was incorrect. When treating for weight-bearing, the treatment should always be proximal to distal. This means that weight-bearing should have been with her left elbow flexed and lying on the elbow to stop herself from falling flat onto her side. This was pointed out to me by the supervisor. This is a technique that I should read up more on. After researching, I realized that I could have positioned the client in supine and then got her to lift while leaning on the affected elbow. Whilst doing this, the client could not understand and follow through with the instruction. Demonstration and facilitation did not work either. For this reason, cognitive assessments are the focus of future sessions.

A weakness of mine that I identified during the second session, is that I am overly gentle with the client. I also tend to give instructions in long sentences. Feedback shows that I should be firm with short instruction to elicit a reaction from the client. Short instructions work better as they are simple to understand for cognitively impaired patients. I fear that if I am not gentle with them, they may think I am rude or not want to partake. However, I have realized that firmness is necessary, as the patients realize the importance of therapy.

Something that I realized in treatment session, is that research has to be done constantly. There is so much that I can learn if I research or read up about the client's conditions. This shows that therapy is not only in the wards or the OT department, it is external as well, with research on the conditions being a vital piece of facilitating treatment sessions. This also leads back to collecting collateral from the family which is also external of the ward or department.

Overall, week 1 of fieldwork in treatment and intervention was a great learning experience. In this short time, I have picked up a lot on how to run treatment sessions and how to adapt in sessions, to accommodate the client. It has also helped me to see the gaps in my understanding of theory that affects my treatment and intervention with patients. Practice demands research as this improves treatment. Going into next week of fieldwork is not daunting any longer.

[darkwood-sleddog]

I hope you don't mind me asking but I have a pretty generalized anxiety disorder and dog sledding in my situation requires travel and doing things that are out of my comfort zone. My question is do you think it is possible to pursue a dog sledding dream when it seems the odds are stacked against you? I don't know much about the dog sledding community but if you know of anything that sounds similar to my experience I'd love to know or if you even have advice. Sorry if this is not something you're used to being asked!

As somebody with anxiety myself I relate to your fears quite well. I am anxious in the car whenever we travel to our trail because the unknown is scary and I don’t know how our run will go that day, I hate that I feel that way about something I love doing…but you know how it is.

But there are options. You can run from where you live if that’s a safe options for you. You can choose a dog powered sport that is more within or closer to your comfort zone to start like canicross or bikejoring, both of which are pretty monetarily accessible as far as dog powered sports go, and work your comfort level up to be able to do actual sledding.

Being a partner in sport with a dog does require an ability to push through your fears because there is another living being along for the ride with you and sometimes dog sports can be intimidating for both human and dog and the dog needs to come first, we look after them. But you can take baby steps, everybody’s journey in this sport looks different and they are all valid. Do tasks for a short period of time, make your sessions positive for you, practice aspects without the dog and repeat, repeat, repeat until you are comfortable. Don’t add a new aspect until you are comfortable or feel ready to push yourself there. Do it all in your own time, take a friend if you need support (I rarely if ever run alone myself).

What I really want to impart is that this is a sport for everybody. I know wheelchair mushers, mushers with mental illness, mushers that struggle with addiction, mushers that are neurodiverse, and the community cares for and loves them all. You’re trying your best to be out there with your dog(s), that’s what matters. Many of us in the community are here because we find comfort being alone with dogs for long periods of time, most of us aren’t people oriented and have social anxiety at the very minimum. Yes, dog powered sports would require you to, in your own time, push past your anxieties and fears, but you are also not alone.

[hartigays]

rafe seeing barry’s scars for the first time🥺

warning: mature themes ahead kiddos! (descriptions of violence, mild threats of violence, sexual themes, ur usual rafebarry bullshit)

barry always keeps his shirt on during sex.

rafe really doesn’t get it - he can feel the hard lines of barry’s body through his clothes every time they touch. he knows that what’s underneath is something… something like a feast just waiting to be devoured.

he doesn’t understand why it’s being hid beneath an endless supply of fabric, because rafe is pretty sure whatever barry has going on under there is going to make rafe’s mouth water either way.

tonight, when barry rolls off of him with a grunt, rafe eyes the way barry’s sweat-soaked shirt clings to the toned muscles of his chest, to the soft yet sculpted lines of his stomach. rafe is pretty sure he can see the vague outline of barry’s happy trail, and his fingers itch to just hike the fabric up to barry’s neck so he can see and touch and taste.

rafe doesn’t like things being kept from him. it bothers him.

“you’re really good at that,” rafe starts, slowly. through the darkness of the room, he sees barry glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “you know what would make it better? if you’d take this goddamn thing off.”

rafe plucks at the fabric of barry’s shirt, wrinkling his nose, and barry swats his hand away immediately, almost as if on instinct.

“quit that shit, will you?”

“i just started,” rafe points out, moving his hand back to trace his fingers across the hem of barry’s shirt. “i don’t get why- ”

“don’t bother askin’, country club. you ain’t gonna get what you want,” barry cuts rafe off, then slides out of bed and leaves the room.

rafe can hear the bathroom door open and shut a moment later.

okay, so maybe his approach to getting barry’s shirt off was a little… well, rafe thought it was okay enough. but apparently barry disagrees.

the shirt seems to be staying on. for now.

when barry returns from the bathroom, his face is freshly washed and he has a different shirt on. it’s rattier, but still smells like barry. rafe catches the scent of it as barry crawls back into bed, resisting the urge to just reach out a take what he wants.

which is barry’s shirt, off. rafe would much rather drape the fabric over himself, smother himself in barry, and have the freedom to explore all the exposed skin that has been kept from him.

“you’re keeping things from me,” rafe says into the quiet of the room, his voice careful - steady and controlled. “i don’t like things being kept from me, barry. i don’t like lies.”

rafe can practically feel barry roll his eyes. “the fuck am i lyin’ to you about, baby boy? you ain’t seen my tits so now i’m a liar?”

“i haven’t seen your anything because you’re hiding it from me. and you won’t tell me why,” rafe replies, finally reaching out a hand and taking a fistful of barry’s shirt.

he doesn’t do anything with it besides hold it, but it’s obvious what he wants to do. “i just want to see. just once, at least.”

rafe is pretty sure just once will never in a million years be enough for him, but he doesn’t say that part out loud. it’s like barry hears it anyway, with the way he’s eyeballing him right now, gaze flickering between the fistful of his shirt in rafe’s hand and rafe’s eyes.

“‘m pretty sure you don’t wanna see any of this shit, country club. it ain’t pretty.”

there’s definitely insecurity laced through barry’s words, and rafe wants to shake it right out of him. all of it.

“why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” rafe huffs, wanting to smack barry for being so goddamn stubborn.

it takes another moment, but barry finally concedes. it surprises rafe - he hadn’t thought it’d be so easy to get barry to cave.

but that seems to happen more and more these days, and barry always has this look in his eye when it happens. something that looks a lot like trust. it always sends these delighted little shivers racing down rafe’s spine.

barry lays down on his back, reclining slowly, tucking his hands behind his head. he lets rafe scoot his shirt up, inch by inch, exposing marks and scars as far as the eye can see.

they’re clearly the source of barry’s insecurity, based on the way barry is avoiding rafe’s eyes now, and rafe wants to map out each and every one with his fingers, etching them into his memory like a brand.

rafe stretches out on his side, propping himself up on his elbow, smoothing his hand over the happy trail he knew barry was hiding. when he scratches his nails through the wiry hair, barry shivers.

he feels like he’s conquering undiscovered territory. rafe wonders, fleetingly, if there’s ever been anyone else. any other person who’s been permitted to see the full masterpiece that is barry the fucking coke dealer.

a flare of possessiveness sparks in rafe’s belly, and his physical response is to squeeze one of barry’s pecs in his hands, happily noting the way barry’s eyes flutter shut and his abdominal muscles jump.

“all of it,” rafe says suddenly, tracing an uneven scar that nearly runs the entire length of barry’s sternum. “show me all of it.”

barry’s eyes lock with rafe’s, and he’s never looked more uncertain. rafe just gives barry a challenging look, arching his brows.

finally, barry sits up with a sigh, his back to rafe, and rafe scoots his own body up the bed to prop himself against the pillows. barry tugs his shirt fully over his head, and rafe finally gets what he wants.

barry’s back holds the worst of it, flesh marred and littered with jagged scars, all varying in size.

“‘s always when your damn back is turned,” barry comments, turning his head to look back at rafe, noticing the way rafe is staring at him. “that’s when they get you.”

“they?” rafe asks, his eyes still fixed on barry’s back, the tips of his fingers reaching out and ghosting over a long, rope-like scar twisting its way down barry’s left flank.

“the enemy.”

rafe swallows as he thinks about it, about the violence and the pain and the blood and guts and gore that war brings, a curl of desire settling in the marrow of his bones.

for a moment, he wishes he could’ve traded places with barry during that point in his life. maybe so he could take away some of this insecurity that’s all tangled up inside of barry and make it his own - or maybe just so he could feel the thrill of a fresh kill, all the while adding scars of his own to his collection. little reminders - the forever kind.

most people wouldn’t feel jealous of barry’s experiences. but, rafe cameron isn’t most people.

“tell me about them,” rafe demands, though his voice is gentle. almost soothing, in a way. “what’s this one from?”

rafe scoots closer, tracing a short, thick scar that’s evenly lined up with barry’s shoulder blade.

“ka-bar,” barry says without even turning to look, able to tell just from rafe’s touch alone which scar he’s talking about. “little bastard got me durin’ a raid. never heard him coming til’ he was right fuckin’ behind me.”

rafe’s thumb smooths over the mark, his eyes fixed on it, entranced. he imagines the knife digging into muscle, blood pooling and spilling down barry’s back. his stomach twists, and he can’t decide if it’s a good twist, or bad.

maybe some sort of fucked up combination of both.

“and this one?” rafe asks, running his hand over the long scar winding its way down barry’s flank.

“bootcamp,” barry tells him, his voice a little breathless. “got tangled up in one of them damn climbing walls, y’know, with the ropes ‘n shit? rope burn’s a bitch.”

“that’s an understatement,” rafe mutters, tracing the scar with mild fascination. “rope burn did all this?”

barry shrugs, and rafe can feel the motion of his muscles shifting and resettling beneath his palm. “maybe dug in enough to cut. can’t remember too much about it, some dickhead kicked my damn head so hard i blacked out.”

you don’t have murderous tendencies, you don’t have murderous tendencies, rafe thinks to himself, breathing steadily through his nose to suppress the urge to ask barry what the stupid fuck’s name was so he can look him up, go to his house, and slit his throat in his sleep.

instead, rafe traces his fingers along a round, almost neat scar that sits close to barry’s spine.

“what about this little guy?”

barry snorts. “that little guy? gsw, baby boy. any closer to my spine and i’d be in a chair right ‘bout now. think you’da still fucked me if i came back on wheels, country club?”

rafe knows he would have. he’ll fall together with barry no matter what. they’re bound to it, rafe has decided. something as simple as a wheelchair wouldn’t be enough to block fate. or destiny.

whatever, it doesn’t matter. rafe just sits up, shuffling around until he’s straddling barry’s lap, facing him head-on. he pushes barry’s shoulders until he flops back against the pillows, looking up at rafe almost in earnest. like his whole world hinges on rafe’s response to his question.

instead of giving him one, rafe shifts down barry’s body, angling himself so he’s hovering over barry’s stomach. he kisses his way up barry’s happy trail, cataloguing every soft sigh and whimper so he can replay them all later, like a little symphony in his mind.

“and here? what happened?” rafe asks quietly, his lips ghosting over a jagged, star-shaped scar on barry’s hipbone.

“soviet slug, no rifling. bye-bye bikinis,” barry says in a strange voice, cracking a small smile that rafe can just barely see through the darkness of the room when he looks up.

rafe just stares. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“you- rafe, c’mon, don’t tell me you never seen the winter soldier,” barry groans, and rafe just blinks at him, unimpressed. “shit, you really ain’t seen a damn thing except fight club, huh?”

leave it to barry to ruin the fucking moment. rafe pulls his lips away from the scar, finding a smooth patch of skin nearby to sink his teeth into instead.

barry’s whole body jerks in surprise, but then his fingers tangle in rafe’s hair, holding him in place a little desperately.

rafe releases the skin from between his teeth, sucking at it until it’s nothing but a pretty pattern of teeth marks and bruised skin.

he has the sudden urge to bruise every inch of unmarked skin, his own personal way of claiming his prize. rafe slithers up barry’s body like a snake, coming to a stop at his chest so he can suck pretty little marks anywhere he sees fit. which is everywhere, including a mottled scar that rests just below one of barry’s pecs.

that one has barry keening in surprise, but he doesn’t shove rafe away. instead, he grabs rafe’s chin and lifts his head, forcing their eyes to meet. barry’s pupils are blown wide, and he’s looking at rafe with something that’s akin to fascination.

“you really ain’t got a problem with- with this shit?” barry asks, his voice tight with emotion.

rafe wants to mock him, just for a second, but he won’t risk losing this masterpiece. not now, not after he’s finally laid his claim. knowing barry is his to keep, well. it’s enough to deter him, and fill him with something that feels a lot like want.

“it’s- you’re perfect,” rafe says, his voice just shy of breathless. “like someone threw paint on the mona lisa and finally fucking made it better.”

barry, for a long moment, just stares at rafe, his chest rising and falling rapidly. then he tightens his grip on rafe’s jaw and pulls, causing rafe to lose his balance and topple down on top of barry, their faces nearly colliding.

and then they’re kissing, which is nothing new but it feels new. because so much of barry is new to rafe right now, and he’s starting to lose himself in it.

barry kisses rafe like he’s starving for it, like he’s a desert flower in desperate need of a light rain. rafe can’t breathe and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t need air - he’ll just steal barry’s.

just when he thinks he’s going to pass out, barry pulls back, his thumb stroking along the line of rafe’s cheekbone as he looks up at him.

he gives rafe a look that’s almost adoring, and says, “call me the fuckin’ mona lisa one more time and imma give you some scars of your own, princess.”

rafe just gives barry a wolfish grin, dipping down to nip at his bottom lip, then asks barry one simple, blessedly short question.

“promise?”

[sokkabeifong]

Can you write some tokka angst 🙏

ofc I can anon and IM SORRY THIS IS SO LATE but better late than never I guess. this is set in modern times because modern times are fun to write for tokka okay? a bit longer than usual but the more angst the better am I right

Toph had promised Sokka that she’d go to the hospital when it happened, so that’s exactly what she’d done. She hadn’t promised that she’d actually get anyone’s attention. Or check in. Or ask for help.

Although… the contractions were getting more insistent, and she doubted the medical staff would leave her alone if she stripped off the stupid maternity pants and just squatted down right there on the lobby floor.

With a heavy sigh, she waddled her way over to the nearest front desk. Spirits, she hadn’t been in a hospital in years. She wasn’t even sure what the different branches and buildings and desks were all for. But there was no way that she was giving birth at home. Katara was in medical school, sure, but she wasn’t done. And Toph wasn’t about to risk her life and her child’s life for a “practice trial.”

Still, there was something unnerving about the hospital, with its stuffy feeling and too-squeaky floor. It feels clean, clean in a way that you can just sense. She didn’t need sight to tell her just how antibacterial this place was.

A pinging, traitorous part of her wishes that someone was here with her, that she didn’t have to do this alone. But it was her own stupid pride that had taken a cab all alone in a Wednesday night, and the only person she truly wanted present was somewhere she could never get him back from. She’d promised him before he died that she would go to the hospital if she felt even the slightest change. He wanted her to be safe, he said.

And now, of course, Sokka was dead and gone while she was here, swollen belly stretching out her sweater and maternity pants. As much of an annoyance as labor would be, getting the thing out of her was going to be a blessing. She’d spent too long unbalanced and vulnerable to attack.

“Can I help you?”

Toph was broken out of her musings by the question from someone sitting at the closest desk. She turned her head to where she hoped the person, a woman by the sound of it, would be.

“I hope so,” she smiled, falling back into a generic cover ID face. “I should probably see a doctor.”

“All right,” said the woman. She heard the clicking of nails on a keyboard, then something sliding across the desk. “Why don’t you take one of these forms, fill it out, and bring it back here?”

“Can’t ,” she said shortly. “I’m blind.”

“No worries.” The woman clicked her pen open like she had blind pregnant ladies come into the ER every day. Who knew - maybe she did. “I’ll ask you the questions and you answer, okay?”

“Okay.” Toph winced as another contraction hit her. At least the protruding baby bump gave her something to lean against. She made sure to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth as the woman began questioning her, just as Katara had instructed her to do. I’m a few hours, the whole thing would be over and then - she bit her lip and redirected her thoughts.

She wished Sokka was -

She redirected that thought, too.

“Reason for your visit?” the woman asked, yapping the pen against the clipboard.

Toph waited a moment before she turned around yet again, because she was in the middle of another contraction and couldn’t decide whether she’d rather scream or just go ahead and kill the lady.

“My contractions are about eight minutes apart,” she said.

The lady blinked once and then repeated, “They’re eight minutes apart from each other? So you’re in labor. Are you in active labor?”

Toph smiled sweetly. “Are you asking me to stick my fingers down and see whether or not I’m dilated to seven centimeters?”

To the woman's credit, the crudity didn't seem to faze her, and she plowed ahead with, “Ma’am, this is the ER. We’re not equipped for a birth. I’ll call you a wheelchair immediately, and we’ll get you up to Labor and Delivery. Trust me, it’ll be faster than checking in here and waiting for a transfer.”

“Where’s Labor and Delivery?”

“Fourth floor, and I -”

“I’ll just walk over there. It’s fine.”

“Ma’am, I really must insist. You’ve technically checked in—” she waved the yellow paper “—and you’re our responsibility now.”

Toph leaned heavily against the counter and deftly snatched the page out of the woman’s hand. At least her coordination was still functional.

“There. Now I didn’t check in, and I’m my own problem.”

“Ma’am, please. You’re in no condition to go wandering the hospital, whether you take that against your pregnancy or your eyesight. Let me just call someone to wheel you over.”

Luckily for the woman, another contraction rendered her unable to give a snappy retort. She waited for it to pass, quietly, quickly, then faced the lady once more.

“Fine,” she said tightly. “Fine. Fine.”

“Thank you,” the lady said, obviously relieved. Apparently she did not deal with stubborn blind pregnant women on the daily.

By the time she had been put in a wheelchair and taken through the long halls and winding corridors to Labor and Delivery, Toph had managed to calm herself down. Not because the situation was in any way calming, but because she’d stressed her body and mind out enough that she’d fallen into full-blown mission mode.

Which was fine. It’d probably be easier to give birth with that attitude.

“Well, you seem pretty together, Toph,” the nurse gushed as she checked in yet again at the front desk. “We’ll get you back as soon as possible. For now, if you can just take a seat in one of those chairs, and listen for your name.”

Toph let her real self fade into the background, giving over control to the five other women sitting in the waiting room, and promptly closed her eyes. If she was going to be in pain, she might as well rest while she could.

-

The calm blind girl out in the lobby was already a topic of discussion.

It wasn’t completely unheard of for someone to come in alone. Life was weird and sometimes people gave birth without anyone they knew to help them through the experience. But this girl? The calm young girl with ebony in her hair and in her eyes wasn’t any of the typical stories. She was clean and put together. She was calm and young and looked like the kind of person who would have a dozen friends by her side, even if the father of the child was no longer in the picture.

And yet, there she sat. First in the waiting room and then in her hospital room.

Alone.

Moreover, Miss Toph Beifong had claimed on her paperwork that her contractions were now five minutes apart. However, she was sitting too calmly for that. In fact, the nurse had sat with phone in hand and timed out more than ten minutes, and the girl hadn’t moved once. She’d sat there calmly. No wincing, no cursing, no crying.

It wasn’t until the nurse pulled the woman back and got down to take a look that anyone believe the claim at all.

"Shit,” the nurse murmured.

The doctor startled and glanced up to see if Toph had been offended by the curse. Fortunately, the girl seemed more concerned with how many fingers she had, and didn’t seem to have heard.

“What?” the doctormurmured, more quietly.

“Her cervix is nine centimeters,” the nurse answered.

“Shit,” the doctor echoed.

-

By the end of it all, Toph had decided she did not like labor. She’d made that decision before she began crowning, and nothing that followed did anything to change that. While she had experienced worse pain in her life, she had never experienced that kind of pain.

She had once spent four straight hours being absolutely crushed by a girl at the gym and, at the peak of labor, she was pretty sure she’d trade out that experience for her current one.

Nevertheless, she didn’t scream. She screwed up her eyes and doubled her body up and flexed her fingers. Tears leaked from her eyes from the sheer stress of it all. But her lips remained tightly closed. The skin around them grew white from where she bit them between her teeth, and the nurses were afraid she’d draw blood.

One well-intentioned nurse had advised that she just give in and cry out.

Toph had rolled her eyes, widened her legs, and pushed again.

In the end, nature was inevitable. Toph had always had someone to remind her to take good care of her body, so the whole experience was over in a few hours. She collapsed back against the wet bedding. There was sweat and blood and who-knew-what all over her, and she’d probably never feel clean again.

There was screaming in the background, and her eyes finally focused on the small infant being washed by the hospital staff.

Then her view was cut off by the ring of congratulating nurses.

“It’s a beautiful girl. Do you have the name ready for her?”

“Call it Toph, for all I fucking care,” Toph murmured, too quietly for anyone to make out. She turned over on her side, away from the child, and shut her eyes tight.

-

Later that night, after hours of tossing and turning in her sleep, Toph was awoken by the small mewing sound coming from her bedside. She sighed. She’d tried to have the baby whisked away to some far-off nursery where she wouldn’t have to ignore its presence, but apparently the hospital didn’t “do that anymore.”

Spirits, she felt so empty. Tired and empty and drained.

Deciding she could avoid it no further, Toph feels her way to the other side of the bed. The hospital is quiet, and she can’t even guess what time it is. Probably late at night. She waddled over to the bassinet, and the mewing became a full-fledged scream.

She jumped. The baby continued screaming, but less so, as if it hadn’t realized anyone was there. She found herself reaching down, feeling the child, the blankets, so afraid she would drop it or break it or… worse. For a moment she hesitated.

This is your baby, she thinks. You’re allowed to pick it up. It’s yours. And his. You can pick it up.

Her. She could almost hear Sokka’s voice echo through the room, reminding her that their child wasn’t an it. The thought made her smile.

Slowly, carefully, as though her life depended on it, Toph lowered her arms around the tiny, tiny baby and lifted her up. The baby stopped bawling and snuggled against her mother’s chest.

“Hello,” she said stupidly, like the kid could respond. But her mouth kept moving. “Um. Uh, my name’s Toph. I’m your - Spirits, I guess I’m your mom now, huh?”

The baby gurgled, her lips curled like she might cry again. Toph hurried to keep talking.

“Oh, God, um. What else, what else… uh, you have a bunch of aunts and uncles,” she said. “They’re all gonna help raise you. They’re annoying sometimes, but they mean well. You’re our first baby, you know.”

Our. The word made Toph close her eyes for a second. Try as she might, there would be no more “our.” There was only “she.” The “our” in her partnership was long gone. How was she supposed to tell her child that?

She decided to start with the basics.

“Your daddy was so brave,” she whispered. It hurt to talk about Sokka in the past tense, but she kept going. “He was so, so strong and brave and I just know he would have loved to meet you. He already loved you, you know. He wanted to meet you so bad, kid. He just never got the chance.”

The baby blinked, her eyelids heavy like hearing about the father she would never meet was too much for one night. Toph wholeheartedly agreed and set her down in the bassinet once more, making sure she was secure before plodding back to her own bed and face-planting on the blankets.

The nurse had told her the baby’s eyes were blue. She let that thought sink into her heart before drifting off to sleep.

[angryschnauzer]

Superior Specimen - Chapter 4

Summary: One night when you are following the Archaeology tag on instagram you stumbled across a fun looking dig… and an even more interesting Paleontologist who soon follows you back. Over the following weeks you start chatting and a friendship soon grows.

Relationship: AU Henry Cavill x Female Reader (No race or body shape mentioned)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Warnings: Slow Burn, NSFW, 18+, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Drunken Piggy Back Rides, Oral Sex (Female Recieving), Drama, Theft, Amateur Heroics, Hospital Visit, 

I do not operate a tag list, but please follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications, as you will then be notified whenever i post something new.

I don’t have a masterlist, but all my works are on AO3, link here. Usually i post oneshots to Tumblr and AO3, and multichapters exclusively to AO3, but as this is my first henry story and its going to be a short series, i’ll post to both places.

Chapter 4

 The following few days were busy; it was the weekend and you were on duty both days, plus the following Monday and Tuesday. As it was the height of summer the museum was at its busiest, tourists, locals, and school groups all filling the halls of the old building, plus with a research team now on site the underground laboratories where people could get hands on with less valuable specimens were hugely popular. 

 During one of your breaks you decided to grab a frozen treat from the gift shop, making your way down to the viewing laboratories to see what the teams were up to. Sucking on the fruity ice you peered through the window, your eyes going wide when you saw Henry at the front of the classroom, thirty school children avidly listening to his every word. He glanced up and saw you looking through the window, a sly wink in your direction and his attention was back on the class who were all enraptured by what he was saying. You finished your snack and slipped quietly into the room, standing at the back where few paid little attention to you. Henry called out to the class;

 “So, I hope you have enjoyed the presentation, are there any questions?”

 Several small hands shot up, and you estimated the kids must have been around 9 or 10 years old;

 “Do you ever dig pyramids up?”

 Henry chuckled;

 “No, that’s Archaeology. I am a Palaeontologist. Archaeology is the study of humans; Palaeontology is the study of fossils… they do sometimes overlap where settlements will have been made in the ice age though”

 “Have you ever found a T-rex?”

 “Yes, I was part of a dig in America when we found an excellent complete specimen a few years back”

 “Do you have a girlfriend?”

 Your ears pricked up at the question, and you watched as a slight blush covered Henry’s cheeks and his ears went a cute shade of crimson. He let out a low chuckle;

 “Yes, yes I do”

 “Does she like bones too?” came an innocent voice and you could have sworn most of the teachers on the trip had to stifle their laughter. Henry cleared his throat;

 “Well, you can ask her yourself, she’s joined us and is standing at the back of the room”

 At that moment thirty heads snapped around, eyes going wide when they saw you and recognised you from giving them their visitors lanyards upon arrival. Henry cleared his throat;

 “Well darling, do you like bones?” he cocked an eyebrow and you could see a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You cleared your throat;

 “Yes, I studied Palaeontology at university and look forward to further studies on bones under Dr Cavill’s instruction”

 The kids seemed satisfied with that answer, and as you looked at the teachers you could see some of them had tears rolling down their cheeks from where they were trying so hard not to laugh.

 The class soon ended, the kids packing up their bags and visitors’ packs, everyone thanking Henry for the informative lesson, and when the door finally closed it was just the two of you in the large white room. Standing next to him you smiled;

 “So… bones huh?”

 He snorted out a laugh as he gathered up the samples into a box, nodding to a miniature model of a Diplodocus;

 “Just grab that would you, need to get everything packed away”

 Following him into the storage room you slid the model onto a shelf before suddenly a strong pair of arms was wrapped around you from behind, soft lips pressing kisses to your neck and you were practically melting into Henry’s arms;

 “Fuck… your mouth is so good…”

 He spun you around and his lips met yours, his tongue eagerly pushing into your mouth and you felt yourself  submitting completely to the skilled muscle as he kissed you deeply, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you flush with the hard plains and curves of his body. When you finally broke apart you were both breathless;

 “So Princess, what do you really think of my bone?”

 “Well, I haven’t actually had any experience of your bone yet”

 “Dinner, Friday night?”

 A huge smile spread over your face;

 “That would be wonderful… just let me know where and when”

 “I’ll pick you up at 7”

 “Where are we going?”

 He grinned;

 “I’ll pull in a favour, but it’ll be high end… black tie, etcetera”

 -

 You’d returned on a high back to your desk, already thinking about what you would wear on your date. You worked hard, the steady flow of visitors wanting help was continual, and you were tested to the limits of your knowledge of languages with so many international visitors needing assistance.

 However at the back of your mind a synapse was firing, and your attention was drawn to a group of older teenagers, in fact they were probably in their early 20’s. They didn’t seem to be with any of the school groups and didn’t look in the vaguest bit interested in the exhibits. They were however hovering around one of the large donation stations; the large Perspex fish tanks with a slot in the top for visitors to drop coins and notes into. In recent days visitors had been very generous, and there was a large number of notes sitting on top of the heavier coins. Once you had served the visitor who needed help finding the Butterflies exhibit you grabbed the security radio, paging the security guards and calling out a code 10 - suspicious activity/suspected theft. Two of the guards near the door looked at you and you nodded to the group and the guards started to slowly move towards them. 

 As you slotted the radio back into the cradle something else caught your eye, a young man intently looking at the backpack hanging on the back of a wheelchair as its user and carer were reading one of the large displays. 

 Suddenly he snatched the backpack and was running for the door, you called out to security, but the noise of the room was too much to be heard, but you could see the person in the wheelchair look in horror;

 “My medication!” you could read their lips as they shouted and without thinking you were pushing out of the desk and yelling back to your colleague;

 “Get security, the group was a distraction!”

 Thankful you’d worn flat shoes; you were running after the thief who was struggling to get through the crowds. He was out the front doors and down the steps way ahead of you, but the curved driveway was packed with visitors which was slowing him down giving you chance to gain on him. 

 Your legs were powerful beneath you, racing through the now parted crowds and as he took a sharp left to run down the ramp to the lawns you were gaining on him. It was painfully obvious what was going on, the man was carrying a bright flowery bag under his arm, and was being chased by a member of museum staff in uniform, so when two policemen that had been patrolling the area saw you in the distance, they started running towards you. The thief spotted them, slowing his run as he attempted to figure a way out, except the lawns only had two exits; the one the two of you had entered by, and the one the two policemen were now running down. His moment of indecision cost him his lead, and as you caught up you didn’t wait to talk, you ran fully into him, knocking him to the ground and the pair of you into the shrubs that surrounded the lawns. 

 The next thing you knew the two policemen were pulling the thief to his feet and arresting him, security having caught up with the pair of you. A passer-by offered you a hand, helping you up but you felt wobbly on your feet. Someone helped you to the grass to sit in the shade, and you winced as a tissue was pressed to your head;

 “You’re bleeding”

 -

 As you sat in a treatment area of the Chelsea & Westminster Hospital’s casualty department, the lovely policeman that had driven you there quietly took your statement between visits from the nursing staff. There had been a bad accident in Covent Garden, so all the paramedic and ambulance crews had been called to that, and with a head wound you needed to be treated. As you had been helped into the squad car you’d overheard that the thief had also been armed with a knife, and it shook you, to where as soon as you were able to you’d been sat down with a cup of strong sweet tea as the Officer had gotten you to hospital.

 One of the nurses fussed around you, checking on the stitches for the thankfully small wound that was mostly in your hairline;

 “It’ll sting like a bastard - excuse the language - for a few days, but you’ll be fine with over the counter painkillers. If you show any signs of concussion make sure to call 999… do you know what the signs are?”

 You nodded and explained you’d covered it on your first aid course you’d taken for work as she went on;

 “I’ll see if we can get a doctor to discharge you soon. It would also be advisable if you could ensure you don’t spend the night alone… it was quite a solid bump you had”

 “Ok sure” you nodded as you watched her walk away, the Officer turning to you;

 “Is there someone I can call to come pick you up? A boyfriend or girlfriend?”

 “Umm… boyfriend…” using the word gave your mind a happy tingle at the thought of calling Henry your boyfriend; “But I don’t have his number memorised… and I left my phone at the museum… you could message him on Instagram I suppose?”

 He pulled his personal phone out of his pocket;

 “Sure thing… what’s his username?”

 You told him and watched as his eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead;

 “This him?” he turned his phone and you nodded when you saw Henry’s page, sitting quietly as the officer quickly tapped out a message, his phone beeping almost instantly to which he smiled; “he said he’s on his way”

 -

 Fifteen minutes later you were being discharged by the doctor when you heard Henry’s voice, the Officer with you peering out of the curtained area before ducking back in;

 “Ok he’s here…”

 Moments later Henry appeared at the curtain, rushing in and pulling you into a giant bear hug. With you still crushed to his chest by one arm he extended a hand to the officer, thanking him for helping you. 

 Soon he was walking you to his car, parked on double yellow lines outside the hospital and with a parking ticket flapping on the windscreen, he helped you into the car before grabbing the ticket and climbing in beside you. Instead of starting the car he reached over and gently cupped your cheek;

 “How are you doing Princess?”

 You went to speak but all that came out of your mouth was a squeak, the tears starting to flow as the shock and stress of the afternoon came flowing out. He leant across the car and wrapped his massive arms around you, letting you sob into his shoulder as he gently held you. When you finally stopped sobbing, he pulled away and looked into your eyes, he steel blue gaze full of concern;

 “How about we get you home?”

 “Please...” you said with a sigh; “but my bag is still at the museum…”

 “Check the glovebox” he nodded, and you pulled the handle and your bag was there; “I got your supervisor to get it for you as soon as I got the message from the police officer… and I guess our relationship just became public too with the staff…”

 “I don’t care” you said with a smile as he started to drive.

Chapter 5 >>>

[spectrumed]

4. body

Do I have body issues? Well... yeah. Who doesn’t? I absolutely do not like being fat, that’s something I’d change about me. And I probably should bulk up a little, go to the gym. My diet isn’t terrible, I don’t eat any fast food, but I could still always eat healthier. More greens, less beans. But most of all, my biggest body issue is that I don’t really associate myself with my body. My mind feels disconnected from my body. The day scientists invent a way for us all to live as brains in jars on wheels, I’m there standing in line for a chance to become all cerebral. Being physical, it’s just so messy, so awkward, so uncomfortable. You feel pain, you feel embarrassment, you feel horny. Nothing good comes from having a body. If you were just a brain, you could go on thinking and calculating and just generally having a good mental time. Or you’d start feeling suffocated and trapped trying to move your limbs and realising that they have been all chopped off. Hmm… Maybe it’s more complicated than I initially thought.

I don’t understand people who enjoy physical activities. Let it be clear before we delve into this long rant of mine complaining about all things gymnastic, this is not particularly an autistic trait. In fact, there are plenty of autistic people who may excel as athletes, their drive and obsessive personality traits becoming quite useful in developing that discipline that is required to fully commit to becoming an all-star jock. Not all autistic people are reprehensible nerds. Some autistic people are actually quite sexy. Some even have abs. But that’s not me. That’s not my clan of autistic people. I like drawing maps. I like thinking about things. I like making cocktails. The only part of my physical body that I like to put strain on is my liver. Don’t make me go on a run. There isn’t an armchair in this world that I wouldn’t want to sit down in, even the ones that used to be owned by old chain-smokers that have that awful aroma that sneaks into your nostrils and makes you worry about second-hand lung cancer. Sitting is great. I like sitting. Also lying down. Lying down is good.

Am I lazy? No, I don’t think so. Maybe a little, but here’s the thing. I can’t control the things I obsess over. There’s a great deal of overlap between autism spectrum disorder and attention deficit disorder. If you’re reading this and you’re a fellow friend on the spectrum, you may have gotten diagnosed with both. One of those rare times in my life I have attended group therapy, more than half the group were diagnosed with both. I, however, am not. But seeing as the two conditions are so intertwined, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that a facet of autism involves difficulties in trying to focus on something, or even trying not to focus on something too hard. If you were to judge my tenacity, my ability to keep going, based solely on how I perform during physical tasks, you’d think I was the least resolute person on the planet. But then you’ll find me, some time later, staying up until four in the morning drawing another map. A map that’s really just a different take on another map that I drew earlier, that itself was a reworked version of a previous map that I drew but didn’t like, that actually began as a second iteration of one map I drew that was actually wholly different, that was based on a map of Europe but if Denmark never existed. How many maps have you drawn Fred? Why don’t you go mind your own business, you nosy ferret.

The DSM-5 (the fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. You can think of it as something akin to a bible of psychology, which is definitely an inflammatory way to refer to it, but I’m gonna go with it! Because I’m a wildcard, and that’s just how I roll,) includes this section as part of its diagnostic criteria for autism spectrum disorder.

Highly restricted, fixated interests that are abnormal in intensity or focus (e.g., strong attachment to or preoccupation with unusual objects, excessively circumscribed or perseverative interests).

Now, I personally don’t relate to that at all. There’s nothing abnormal in my intense love for maps. The fact that maps aren’t as widely cherished as they ought to be is a fault of others, and I refuse to acknowledge that this may be a part of my character that could be perceived as quirky, or out of the ordinary. But, still, for the sake of argument, let’s presume that I can get, at times, excessively circumscribed. I’d like to say that I’ve only ever engaged in excessive circumscribing in my privacy away from onlookers, but I am afraid that I may have allowed some of my excessive circumscribing to happen in public. I definitely do apologise for that. I will try to do better in the future. But you never know when you’re about to experience some excessive circumscribing. The best you can do is keep it limited.

I don’t know how neurotypicals work. So, you don’t feel these kinds of obsessions? These moments of intense focus? These fixations? Then, you lack passion? Are you heartless? Soulless? Or are you just weak? Are you too feeble to hold steadfast working on a project all night long? To lose touch with your sense of hunger, your need for sleep, and all contact with any other human person? My fixations may come across as strange, but to me, your lack of fixations come across as bizarre. The world is endlessly fascinating. Have you never felt that compulsion to just fully immerse yourself in a topic that allows you to forget about your physical body for just that moment in time? The body cannot hold me. I wish to absorb as much information as I can. If I could astral project, by gods, I would astral project. To decouple your consciousness from your mushy brain for just that little bit, to go soaring across the landscapes, to explore the cosmos, just free of all things corporeal, that would be swell. How terrible isn’t it, when you’re deep in research, learning all about the mystical religious practices of the long-dead hierophants of the ancient world, to be drawn back into the present by the sudden need to urinate? There is something so dreadfully mundane about possessing a human body. If only we could all be celestial beings allowed to just be without the biological needs associated with having flesh and blood and bone and bladders.

I am not religious, nor am I spiritual. I do not believe that there is an immaterial world that lies above the material. I do not believe there is an astral plane. I think that one of the terrifying things about living is knowing that we do not possess such a thing as an eternal soul, that all things are temporal, and that ultimately, we have to come to terms with that. It’s not so terrible. In some ways, the temporal nature of life can be its biggest blessing. All things must pass. Sure, that does include the good times, like that vacation you spent as a child wishing that it would never end. But it also includes the bad times. The heartbreak you feel from a failed relationship. The grief you feel after the passing of a parent. The depression some of us are burdened with. Some days are worse than others. But they too will pass. One of the remarkable things about the human body is its ability to bounce back from injury. To change and evolve in ways we sometimes find unthinkable. The brain, likewise, is transformational, capable of incredible developments. We’re not fixed in stone. We’re not eternal. Which is a good thing. It is what allows recuperation and progress. I should be thankful to my body for being there, even when I’m not. After all, isn’t your body your temple?

I am able-bodied. Am I disabled? There’s naturally a lot of questions that surround how we ought to understand mental illness or neurodiversity in regards to disability. Does autism spectrum disorder count as a disability? Well, yes, it can be considered a learning disability. It is certainly something of a handicap, you are experiencing struggles that most people don’t experience. But to your average layperson, your typical dullard who spends their time watching reality TV, drinking beer, and being happy, what counts as a disability to them? Would they see me and think I was disabled? I’m not in a wheelchair. I don’t walk with a cane. Though I will occasionally “stim,” make small repetitive moments with my hands or legs, I do not exhibit any kind of physical symptoms. If I told them that I was disabled, they’d scoff and tell me that I’m just making it up for attention. They’d say I’m probably just trying to mooch off the government, scoring welfare checks while doing nothing to contribute to society. I’ve got all my limbs. I am not sickly. I am actually quite strong, due to being a big and tall man, I am able to carry quite the load. So, I have no reason to not be a fully productive member of society, right? And yet, here I am, feeling at most times utterly perplexed by anything physical. Probably because I am just lazy, right?

I don’t think laziness is a thing. What is laziness supposed to actually be? Tiredness? If a person is perpetually tired, then they’ve likely got a sleep disorder. To call them lazy would be callous. There are plenty of overworked people that get called lazy, especially by tyrannical overseers who think of their charges as mere workhorses whose only purpose in life is to toil away in the factory until the day they die. Intolerable parents who see their terminally sullen child and instead of wondering what is making them so upset decide to deride them for their lack of ambition. Are you lazy when you are procrastinating? No you are just being a tad irresponsible, maybe, deciding to skip out on chores in order to play video games or masturbate. But you’re not just doing nothing. People generally don’t enjoy doing nothing. We need something to occupy ourselves, to fill that vacuum we all feel whenever we’re just sitting still. I am someone who appears to be comfortable just sitting still, but that’s because I’ve learned, since a very young age, to entertain myself with my own thoughts. To fantasise, to daydream, to do anything I can to escape from the void that is doing absolutely nothing. Boredom, that’s terrible. Boredom is existential dread. Of all the motivations that drive humans, love, spite, jealousy, or pride, I think the need to evade boredom is one of the most prevalent. Humans would rather experience electric shocks than sit alone in a room being bored.

I am not lazy, I am merely… excessively circumscribed. For as much as this may be a specific diagnostic criteria for autism spectrum disorder, I think it is also a common trait amongst all humans. There will always be within us a pull to do something other than the thing that we’re really supposed to be doing, that does not make us lazy, that just makes us terrified of boredom. Sure, you know that you’re supposed to mow the lawn, but that's just so dreadfully tedious, you just would rather be working on perfecting your new stand-up comedy routine. Thinking up jokes to tell on stage is so much more stimulating than cutting grass. And who cares if your lawn grows a little wild? Lawns are a scam, imposed by fascists to make us think grass in its natural state is ugly. All grass is beautiful, whether it is cut short or it is allowed to grow long. Do the thing that fulfils you. Allow yourself to become immersed in passion, to forget about those things that hold you back, the little silly things we’ve convinced ourselves is important. Stay up late, if you wish. You’re gonna kill it on open mic night, bud!

Yes, it is a problem when your obsessions grow so singular that you forget to feed yourself. When you forget personal hygiene, when you become trapped in your own apartment looking like some feral rodent caught in a cage. Like always, the key is moderation, and I know that from time to time, you may have to entertain a boring task or two. Clean your room, brush your teeth, trim your pubic hair, try to give an impression that you are taking care of yourself. If for anyone, do it for your mother. She will be happy seeing you looking like a civilised individual, wearing clean clothes and not looking malnourished. But don’t ever chastise yourself for being lazy. Laziness is a sin that we’re all guilty of, and if we’re all guilty of it, is it really a sin? Or is it just part of what it means to be a human? To be a messy creature made out of flesh and blood and bone and the occasional bladder. In the end, I’m more happy than displeased at having a body. It’d be much harder to type on a keyboard if I didn’t have fingers.

Still, I wish I wasn’t fat.

[lokismusings]

Russell T Davies on straight actors and gay characters.

I decided to put this here because I post a lot of Hilson stuff. As an actor, this article hit a nerve. However, as a defender of free speech, Davies is allowed to have his opinion without me thinking of him as insensitive. Just like I am allowed to have my own opinion and argument, and ask questions without being labeled “homophobic, intolerant” etc. (that would just make me laugh because have you SEEN my blog? Anyway, I’ve seen a few other websites covering this article. I am also very skeptical of everything I read, including the sources, and I try not to blindly believe everything. That being said, I felt like posting this to get other opinions and ask honest question to help my understanding. If this has already been covered on Tumblr, please feel free to send me the conversations! Some background on me: I graduated with a BA in Theatre and have worked both on and off the stage since I was twelve years old. I have directed plays and an audio play. Given my experience and dedication to my craft, I think my opinion is worth something.

Also, for the sake of this argument, I am leaving trans-actors out because that’s a whole different post. Here is the article:

https://news.sky.com/story/russell-t-davies-straight-actors-should-not-play-gay-characters-12185652

Okay, so first things first, let’s talk about this: “Speaking to the Radio Times, Davies compared a straight actor playing a gay character to black face.” Something that irks me is when one person tries to speak for a whole community and doesn’t reference people from said community who might disagree: whether it’s the LGBTQ+ community, a religious community, medical community, etc. The list goes on. Here, Davies is speaking on behalf of, or speaking for, both the LGBTQ+ community and the black community, is he not? I am genuinely asking because I would like to be more educated on this kind of speech. 

Then Davies says, "I'm not being woke about this... but I feel strongly that if I cast someone in a story, I am casting them to act as a lover, or an enemy, or someone on drugs or a criminal or a saint... they are NOT there to 'act gay' because 'acting gay' is a bunch of codes for a performance.” Does that not discredit his whole statement? If any actor does a caricature version of anything and doesn’t take it seriously or really works to get into the role and the mindset of a character, they’re not a good actor. At least, they’re not an actor that I’d want to hire. Second, by the logic that a straight person shouldn’t play a gay character, should someone without a criminal record not be able to play a criminal character? Before you go off and say “it’s about identity and sexuality, and playing a criminal is about the choice to break the law” or other arguments, I hear you. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the experience. How can an actor who has never committed a crime play a criminal character authentically? They do their research: reading, interviewing, etc. I’m not saying that an actor with a few minor marks on his record shouldn’t be considered for the same role. I’m saying that in an audition setting, if both of these actors were auditing for the role and the non-criminal-record actor just happened to do a better job and fit what the director and/or writer wanted, is that a mark against the criminal-record-actor? Maybe personally because we don’t know what the director is thinking. But chances are, it’s not a mark against the other actor. The other one just happened to have a better audition. Or, a major factor when considering casting, said actor was easy to work with--I’ve seen a lot of talented actors lose a lot of roles because of their inability to take criticism or notes. 

Plus, the whole “Breaking Bad” series?? I highly doubt the main actors were meth-making drug-lords. Or, a better example, “The Wire?” In that show, we see the constant battle and deals between drug-lords and cops. 

Another point I’d like to make:  “...is a bunch of codes for a performance.” That’s exactly right. The audience doesn’t want to know an actor is “performing.” We know that going in, with what is called “suspension of disbelief.” We know the whole show is a performance, but we also expect the actors to be truthful (unless it’s a comedy/farce, but again, that’s a different argument). 

Was it bad that, before 2020, some main characters in TV shows were portrayed as straight but the writers ended up “queer-baiting?” I am referring, of course, to House, M.D. (If you follow this blog, you’ll understand.) But I am also referring to the BBC Sherlock Holmes series. Yes, both pairs of characters (House and Wilson; Holmes and Watson) are assumed to be straight. However, some episodes allude that there could also be something more there. Even the actors have said in various interviews that they aren’t sure if it’s a true romance that the characters are afraid to face, or just a strong bond between best friends that blurs the line between platonic and romantic. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the picture. Therefore, should these characters have only been played by straight actors who are questioning their sexuality or feelings for a best friend? Would it have been disrespectful to gay people if these characters ended up becoming romantically involved? (If we ask the Hilson and Johnlock community, I’m guessing that’s a resounding “NO WAY! IT WOULD BE A DREAM COME TRUE!” xD <3) 

“It's about authenticity, the taste of 2020.” *Cinema Sins sigh*

"You wouldn't cast someone able-bodied and put them in a wheelchair...” Again I say, directors and casting directors need to ALWAYS search for someone who is in a wheelchair, or deaf, or HOH, etc. before looking for an able-bodied actor to play a character with that disability (I’m iffy on the whole term “disability because of its negative connotations, but I’m using that word in order to keep this post as long as possible). But I give you the example of Rainman with Dustin Hoffman. Or A Beautiful Mind with Russell Crowe. Or the play and movie Proof, where the father had a mental illness?  Anthony Hopkins was diagnosed late in life with Asperger’s Syndrome, but the father in Proof was written to allude more to schizophrenia. And yet, Anthony Hopkins did a tremendous job in that role. Or Even Forrest Gump with Tom Hanks. Many people today love Tom Hanks and laud him as a “woke” celebrity. But if he were to portray the role of Forrest Gump today, how many people would try to “cancel” him or at least have very strong words for the director not casting an actor with autism, due to the character’s autistic tendencies? A whole lot of people on the internet and Twitter, I’ll bet. As someone who struggles with anxiety and panic disorder, would I be upset if someone without that mental illness got cast in a role of a character struggling with that? Sure I would. But if they did an authentic job and approached the role respectfully, it would be hard to stay irritated. Besides, there are always more roles created practically everyday. 

To continue on with Davies’ quote: “...you wouldn't black someone up.” Yikes. I’m sure he didn’t mean this in a cast-off kind of way, but that’s how it comes across. I can see now why he said he wasn’t “being woke about this,” because a more “woke” way of putting that would be...what, exactly? “You wouldn’t cast a non-black person in a black role.” That sounds better and less harsh. Or even “a white person in a minority role.” Which should be common sense, and I agree with both statements. 

And then “Authenticity is leading us to joyous places." Oh! Look at that! There’s that word that I’ve been using and emphasizing throughout this whole post! Authenticity is one major brick in the foundation of good, credible acting. 

“High-profile examples of straight performers playing LGBTQ+ characters include Rami Malek's Oscar-winning portrayal of Freddie Mercury in Bohemian Rhapsody, and Taron Egerton's Golden Globe-winning turn as Sir Elton John in Rocketman.”

I haven’t seen Rocketman, but I saw Bohemian Rhapsody and it was great! Why am I high-lighting this movie? Because it’s the perfect example of a straight actor playing a gay character and playing it authentically, while also looking a lot like the real person they’re portraying. If a look-a-like had been cast who also happened to be gay, but couldn’t act to save their life or couldn’t bring as much as Rami brought to the role, wouldn’t that kind of put a damper on the film? And yet, Rami Maleck both looked the part and brought an authenticity to the role that many Queen fans loved and appreciated. Even the remaining Queen band members said that he did an incredible job and Freddy would be proud. I wonder if Freddy would care that Rami wasn’t gay? I doubt it, but no one can know for certain. 

Then there’s the whole term “gay face.” I personally don’t think this is the right term to use because it could possibly diminish the whole meaning and importance of “black face.” Even if Corden appeared to be mocking gay people (I never watched The Prom so I have no idea what his performance was like), calling it “gay face” takes away from and inadvertently belittles the whole dark history of “black face.” Black face’s whole history comes out of an even darker history of racist times filled with hatred and ignorance. I’m not saying that gay people haven’t had their own experiences with hate and intolerance, but isn’t kind of “un-woke” and “insensitive” to compare the hundreds of years of blatant, public racism against an entire race of people to the intolerance of homosexuals? (Again, I’m asking this genuinely because I want to learn and get other people’s opinions. I’m not trying to speak for any community, and I recognize that my personal opinion on this matter is just that: my opinion. And I could be better informed.)

Along the lines of the above paragraph, is it wrong to say or think that casting a non-minority actor in a minority role is a lot different from casting a straight actor in a gay role? Sexuality comes in all shapes, sizes, and colors; that is to say, every race has people with different sexualities. But I think it would be pretty cringe if a Caucasian actress was cast in a role meant for an Asian or African-American woman. 

Director Joe Mantello told Sky News the casting was not intentional, but rather a "very fortunate series of events".

He continued: "That being said, I think having an out gay cast really did inform the work and it took on a particular kind of tone because of that, which is not to say that's the only way to approach this material. But for this particular group, it did something that I think is very, very special. There's a chemistry that they have."

And this man summed up my entire argument! He also put into simpler terms what I have been trying to express about the beauty of theatre: there will always be special casts, especially when there’s a great chemistry from a shared experience. A "very fortunate series of events,” indeed. “The casting was not intentional...” leads me to believe that the director didn’t set out to have an all out-gay-cast, but rather, each actor brought great performances to their auditions and were considered by the director to be perfect for the roles. These actors also just happened to be gay.

If you’re still here after all of that, let me take a moment to sincerely thank you for reading the whole thing! I know it’s a lot, but I’m very passionate about acting and giving each and every actor a fair chance. Let me know what you think, and please be respectful!

[author-a-holmes]

Yooo, for the writer asks: 1, 21, and 23? :O

Evening darling, thank you for the asks! ^_^

Answering asks 1, 21, and 23 from this ask list.

1. Is there a story you’re holding off on writing for some reason?

Yes, actually! Right now I'm holding off on completing my Stolen Stories.

In the previous ask I mentioned that I completed the first draft of Book One in my Stolen Stories series between May and October of 2020.

My plan was to continue with that series and write Book Two while doing the first round of edits on Book One, so that I'd be writing Book Three while sending Book One out to Alpha/Beta readers. There's a full 6 books planned for that series, so I wanted to overlap them all slightly, and then eventually publish Book One sort of around the time I started writing Book 4.

But...

When I started looking into the publishing side of actually being a self published author, the reality of the process kind of hit me a little harder than I expected.

The first time you do something, anything, you're bound to make mistakes. I only have to look back at my first story to know that and, for all my years of writing practice, I've never hit the publish button on a book.

And 'Stolen' is my baby, for lack of a better term. Stella Korazon and Reilly Mosswolf are the darlings of my heart. I'd die for them, I'd kill or them. I do not want to "practice" the art of publishing a book with their story.

So Stolen, and it's sequels are currently on hold, and that's why I'm working on the Fey Touched novels right now. That's not to say I love Lizzy and Andric and Booker any less, but I have to split my mind into author and self-publisher. As an author, I love Fey Touched just as much as Stolen, but as a self-publisher a trilogy of 90k books failing is better than a 6-book series where each book is 140k+ failing.

Fey Touched is where I will hit publish for the first time and, hopefully, discover all the mistakes I'll inevitably make so that I can more effectively promote and market Stolen, when that monster of a series is ready for the world at large.

21. What do you think when you read over your older work?

That entirely depends on how old the work is :D

If it's something I've written within the last 1-5 years, then most of the time my reaction is something along the lines of;

"Oh wow, that's pretty good."

"Damn, that's an evocative line. Did I actually write this?"

"I FORGOT ABOUT THAT PART!!"

If, on the other hand, it's something like my first manuscript from when I was age 8 or 9, my reaction is usually something closer to;

"Oh no... that's... oh dear."

"Oh gods, please tell me I didn't say that..."

"Umm... That word doesn't mean what I thought it meant..."

"Bloody hell, I'm glad no one else will ever read this."

Having said that, @faelanvance takes great delight in digging through my old manuscripts and reading them back to me aloud for my ultimate mortification :D

23. Any obscure life experiences that you feel have helped your writing?

Probably too many to fit into a single tumblr post, honestly.

I'm constantly drawing from my own life experiences to put my readers into my characters positions. I can take pain and terror or Joy and Laughter from one set of experiences and then Copy/Paste it, for lack of a better term, into a different situation, but that direct knowledge lets me bring the descriptions to life for the reader. At least, I certainly hope it does!

As for specific situations that I feel have helped my writing... Let me just pick a couple.

(A) My Terrible Health

I mentioned in the previous ask that I was born with congenital talipes. Anyone can google it if they want more information, but it's also known as club foot. As a child, all this really meant to me was that I was constantly in and out of hospitals for operations and physiotherapy and that I wasn't physically able to run, jump, climb trees, or even walk long distances without my feet and legs hurting.

Also, because of the operations I spent a great deal of time in bed, or sitting in wheelchairs, while I recovered.

None of this is said in a negative light, in fact, in terms of my writing I'm rather grateful for all that free time to sit and think and imagine. I was and am a voracious reader. I was reading Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, and David Eddings' The Belgariad by myself at the age of 7 and 8. If I was only going to be allowed one book in hospital, I was going to make sure it was the longest book I could lay my grubby little hands on.

I could lay for hours on the children's ward while other patients yelled and fought over the single playstation or the jigsaw puzzles, and I could create entire worlds in my head. I could bring to life characters that could explore Middle Earth or go on adventures with Belgarath, and I only needed myself and my mind.

Books were a popular gift for me, because I was physically restricted, and then once I began picking up a pen, notebooks, journals, and fancy pens were quick to follow.

I think I would still have found writing, I can't imagine what my life would be like if I hadn't discovered this passion, but I'm not 100% sure I'd have discovered it as early as I did if I'd not been forced to stay still for so much of my childhood.

(B)

Another specific scenario that I feel really helped my confidence in my writing was my High School English teacher, Mr Reck.

I was bullied through most of my schooling, mostly for being on crutches, but this really didn't bother me. I just ignored them.

But one day we had been given a task in class, and I'd already finished, so as I usually did I pulled out my notebook and started writing a story while I waited or the next task.

One of the students thought to get me into trouble by telling Mr Reck that I wasn't doing the work. He came over, looked at my completed work, looked at what I was actually doing (writing an original story), and then told me that if I ever wanted someone to read over my writing and check it, I could always leave it on his desk during lunch... and then he calmly walked away.

This was, for 14-15 year old me, mind blowing.

I didn't care about the bullies, they really didn't bother me. I also wasn't self conscious about my writing, both my parents are and have always been strong supporters of my creative work. The reason this stood out to me at the time, and continues to stand out to me as one of the defining moments of my high school life was because it was the first time someone outside of my immediate family not only read my work, but thought it was good enough to actively encourage.

Mr Reck also got me into a writing workshop that year, that was only supposed to be available to graduating students. I've no idea how he managed it, but he did and I'll be forever grateful to him. I intend to add his name to the dedication page of the first book I publish, and I'm in the process right now of trying to track him down to send him a copy.

I think I've found him, I've just got to get the nerve up to send a private message to confirm!

If there are any teachers out there reading this though, please take note of this final story. I don't know that some teachers realise just how important one, single, non-family member showing a genuine interest in a students work can affect that students entire life.

[hold-me-sickfics]

14 Days: J-Hope (Part 2!)

Alright y’all, here’s part 2!

TW: Tiny emeto mention, food, anxiety/panic attacks, hospital, nightmares (let me know if you see any I missed!)

Also, huge thank you to @thatoneemokpop-02 for all their help and ideas <3 They’re amazing!

----

Yoongi was ready to do whatever he needed to in order to help Hoseok recover. He glanced at his watch, and saw that it was almost 8:00 a.m. The other members would be here at 9:00 to pick them up. Yoongi looked over at the sleeping boy, smiling a bit as Hoseok’s chest rose and fell. He went to Hoseok’s side. 

“Good morning Hobi.”

Hoseok woke up to Yoongi rubbing his arm softly.

“Morning Yoongi,” Hoseok still felt exhausted. Unfortunately, sleeping in a hospital was well… IMPOSSIBLE. All throughout the night, nurses had been coming in to check on him. He hadn’t been able to sleep for more than an hour at a time all night.

“I know you’re still tired bud. We’re gonna get you home and then you can sleep all you need to. Not to mention, I’m gonna be the one keeping track of what you eat.”

“No, Yoongi…” Hoseok pouted, knowing his fast food would now be limited.

“Yes baby. Your doctor came in this morning to check on you and he told me that you collapsed partially because you weren’t eating right.”

Hoseok sighed.

“My doctor’s a snitch.”

“No, you’re just bad at keeping track of your health when you get focused in on something.” Yoongi laughed and Hoseok looked at him with an annoyed glare.

Yoongi packed up everything Jin had sent in the bag the night before.

“Relax,” he laughed. “I won’t be totally crazy. You can still have some junk food.”

“Can we get McDonalds’ on the way home?”

“No.”

“Okay then see? You’re robbing me of the essentials.”

Yoongi laughed, and looked back at Hoseok who was partially smiling.

“Hey uh, Yoongi?”

“Yeah?”

“I um… I think we have a problem.”

“What do you mean?” Yoongi came over to Hoseok who was holding his phone.

“Namjoon’s called three times, Jin called four, and the maknaes have called nine times altogether.”

“Well… better call them back. I can talk to them if you’re feeling too tired.”

“Nah, I’ll call them. I know you’re just as tired as me. Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, anything.”

Hoseok took Yoongi’s hands.

“Go get yourself some breakfast. You gotta take care of yourself too.”

Yoongi hated to admit it, but Hoseok was kinda right. Since he’d been so focused on Hoseok’s health, he’d forgotten about his own.

“Okay, but don’t you dare try to get up on your own. I’ll be back in a few minutes alright?” Yoongi rubbed Hoseok’s shoulder, and then left to get food.

He ate nearly three bites of biscuit, and a piece of bacon. It was all he could stomach with Hoseok on his mind. He threw away his garbage and headed back to Hoseok’s room. He found it swarming with doctors. He pressed his way through and saw them laying Hoseok down.

“Mr. Jung, you can’t get up on your own yet. It’s only going to make your injuries worse.” The nurse closest to him looked in his eyes to try and strengthen her words.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure I get someone next time. Thanks.” Hoseok grimaced and ran his hand down his injured leg.

“Hoseok…”

“Crap.” Hoseok knew he messed up. Yoongi was already worried, and he’d no doubt just made it worse.

“I knew I shouldn’t have left you. I’m so sorry…”

Yoongi hated to pull this stunt, but if he was gonna get Hoseok to take care of himself, he needed to pull it off.

“No, Yoongi it was my fault. I was stupid. I’ll be more careful.”

“No, it was my fault. I could have waited to eat when we got home but I was being selfish…” Yoongi wanted Hoseok to understand what a careless act could cause a caretaker to feel like. With that, hopefully Hoseok would try to take better care of himself in an effort to keep Yoongi feeling like he was doing a good job. Psychology chaos? Yes. Crucial to Hoseok’s recovery? Also, yes.

“Yoongi, stop. I wanted to get up to prove to myself I could. I was gonna do it at home if I didn’t do it here. It wasn’t your fault alright?”

Yoongi knew Hoseok. That annoyance in his voice wasn’t directed at the situation. He was terrified that he wasn’t able to walk or stand on his own.

“Okay. I just… I don’t want you to hurt yourself worse…”

This was true. Yoongi was worried for Hoseok, and rightfully so. He’d just lost his independence and his ability to do the thing he loved. The boy wasn’t only broken physically, but emotionally as well.

“I know.” Hoseok looked down at his leg. It was already casted, black as he’d requested. Perhaps he was feeling a little negative…

Yoongi sat down on the bed next to his injured boyfriend.

“It’s gonna be alright Hobi. I promise.”

Hoseok broke, crashing into Yoongi’s neck in tears.

“I hate this so much.” He sobbed, and Yoongi held him close, as he would have a child.

“I know you do. We’re gonna get through this together okay?”

Hoseok couldn’t answer, his breaths were too ragged and his voice too small.

Yoongi kissed his head, and kept holding him.

After a few minutes, Hoseok stopped crying, just allowing Yoongi to hold him. He wished he could wake up from this nightmare. He was living his worst fear. Not being able to dance… if he couldn’t dance, what was he supposed to do? Lie around and be helpless? Lose his position in the band? What if Yoongi got tired of him and just dumped him? What if-

“Hoseok! Hey, hey, easy. Easy.”

Hoseok came back to reality, realizing that he had just had a minor anxiety attack. Those seemed to be more common under the current circumstances. His breathing slowed, and he released his white-knuckled grip on Yoongi’s hoodie.

“There we go. Breathe.” Yoongi knew what anxiety could do to a person, so he was also good at soothing attacks.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Hoseok had finally caught his breath.

“Alright. I’m gonna go pack our bag up, and then it’ll be time for the guys to come get us. By the way, did you call them?”

“Yeah. They’re getting me moved into your room.”

“That’s good. It’ll be easier for me to help you if you need it.” Yoongi knew that “if” was just for courtesy. From his research, he knew Hoseok wouldn’t even be able to pee without him holding him up.

Hoseok got a text from Jimin that they were at the front door. Yoongi called the nurse, and she came in and helped with getting Hoseok in the wheelchair. In no time, Hoseok was loaded into the van, and the boys were on their way home.

They arrived at the apartment, and immediately the maknaes went into “must help hyung” mode. They were sent to the kitchen to make some sort of healthy brunch while Yoongi helped Hoseok shower.

“Okay we can’t get this boot wet, so let’s just have you sit here and- “

“Oh no no no, Yoongi please let me keep this shred of dignity. I am not sitting in a shower chair.”

“Yes, you are. Baby, if you wanna get better faster, you gotta do what it takes to recover.”

“Fine, but I better get a lot of cuddling after this.”

“I swear on AGUST-D’s album cover, I will cuddle the daylights out of you Jung Hoseok. Now, let’s get these clothes off.”

Yoongi was gentle in taking off Hoseok’s clothes. Soon, he was in the shower, sitting in the chair, and allowing Yoongi to wash his feet and legs (as much as he could). He let Hoseok handle his upper half and privates.

Yoongi turned the water off, and handed Hoseok a towel to dry himself off with. Yoongi would have gladly done it for him, but he thought it would be better for Hoseok’s mental health to remain as independent as possible. He did have to help Hoseok get dressed and back in his wheelchair, but overall, the experience was pretty good for Hoseok. He came out of it smiling.

“There he is. Ready for brunch Hobi? The boys destroyed the kitchen, but they’re proud.” Namjoon laughed as another blast of flour came out the kitchen doorway.

“YAH! Do not throw ingredients that is not what they’re- JEON JUNGKOOK!”

“I sent Jin in there to help them… It seems to be going well…” He laughed, partially concerned for Jin’s mental stability at the moment.

“Ha, yeah let’s see how they did.” Yoongi wheeled Hoseok into the dining room, and into the spot the boys had already made for him.

A loud crash sounded from the kitchen.

“Oops…”

“Jimin. That was my special pot.”

“I can glue it!” Taehyung popped up out of nowhere with a glue gun.

“No! NO. You cannot use a glue gun on a… Ah shoot. Boys, just take brunch in there and I’ll sweep this up.”

The boys came in with several plates and bowls full of food.

“Bon appetite.” Jungkook smiled as he handed out clean plates and silverware.

“As you see here, we have blueberry muffins, chocolate chip pancakes, various fruits, toast, orange juice and milk. Anything else we can get for you?”

“Nah, guys you’ve done awesome. It’s nice to come home to good food, and all this support.” Hoseok smiled, and the entire maknae line practically crushed him in a hug.

“We’ve got you hyung. Don’t you worry.” Taehyung ruffled Hoseok’s thick, black hair.

“Thanks guys.”

“Alright, let’s leave these two for a bit. Yoongi, Hoseok, we thought you two would want to work out a routine, so I’ve got these guys coming with Jin and I to the store and to run a few other errands. We’ll be back after supper I believe.”

“Sounds good.” Hoseok started on the chocolate chip pancakes, relishing each bite he took.

The others left, and he and Yoongi were left by themselves.

“Well baby, we’ve got a lot to do today.”

Hoseok looked at him, confused.

“Yoongi, I can’t… I can’t do anything remember?”

“Oh yes you can. We are going upstairs to watch a movie because I promised you cuddles. Then, we’re gonna come down here after a nap and we’re gonna make pizza for supper. When the boys come back, we’re gonna hang with them, and then you and I are going to work on songs because I have the attention span of a squirrel when I have to work alone.”

“Yoongi, you and I both know that’s not true.”

“Okay well I still get lonely, so you’re coming with me.”

Hoseok smiled at Yoongi’s attempt to fill the time.

“Can um… can I ask a favor?”

“Anything baby.”

“Can we nap first? I’m honestly exhausted and I still feel sore from practicing so much.”

“Let’s do it babe.”

Hoseok smiled, and Yoongi wheeled him to the bedroom.

“Okay on the count of three. “One, two, three!”

Yoongi lifted Hoseok onto the bed, and then tucked him in, ensuring that his feet were covered up and warm as well.

Hoseok moaned in comfort.

“It feels so good to actually lie down and not feel bad about it.”

Yoongi slid into his “little spoon” position.

“What do you mean?”

“I used to feel guilty when I was resting too much. It was like I was neglecting my work.”

“Crap Hoseok, why didn’t you tell me you were so worried about that?”

“Because you and I both know I wouldn’t have stopped. Then, you’d have been worried and I’d have still gotten hurt.”

“Okay maybe you’re not wrong.” Yoongi knew Hoseok would have still worked himself that hard, but he did wish he could have helped.

“Yoongi?” Hoseok’s voice was already thick, he was falling asleep quickly.

“Hmmm?”

“If I need to, can I wake you up?”

“Of course, you can. Anything you need, I’ll take care of you okay? Just rest.”

Hoseok wrapped his arms around Yoongi and nodded before dozing off to sleep.

Yoongi woke up to Hoseok breathing quickly and gagging. He jerked awake, and immediately placed his hand on Hoseok’s back.

“Woah, woah, okay easy. I’m awake. You’re not alone. You’re safe.”

“Y-Yoongi?” Hoseok burst into tears and gagged again.

Yoongi did what he had always done when Hoseok was having anxiety attacks. He wrapped his arms around him securely, and grabbed his hands so he couldn’t dig his nails into his palms.

“I’ve got you.”

“C-can’t see.”

Yoongi looked at Hoseok, his eyes closed tightly.

“It’s alright baby. You’re feeling scared, but when you open your eyes, you’ll be able to see.

Hoseok shook in Yoongi’s arms. He opened his eyes, still breathing quickly.”

“Can see now…” Hoseok started to breathe more normally.

Yoongi thumbed over Hoseok’s clenched hands.

“Feel a little better now baby?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” Hoseok was still shaking, but he seemed calmer than he had been before.

“What happened?” Yoongi kissed Hoseok’s hands.

“Nightmare.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Can’t.”

“Okay. That’s alright.” Yoongi just kept rubbing soothing motions over Hoseok’s hands.

“Would you l-leave me if… if I couldn’t… if I couldn’t dance anymore?” Hoseok felt his entire body freeze.

Yoongi’s eyes softened as he heard Hoseok’s question. That must have been the nightmare.

“Hoseok, I’m never leaving your side. Ever. You’re going to get better, but even if you didn’t, you are mine. I’m not losing you. I’d rather lose everything I have than lose you.”

Hoseok’s eyes glistened with a sheen of tears.

“And something else. Back before BigHit found me, I could barely support myself. I would write songs, and sell them just to make enough money to eat. Some days, I didn’t eat. And you know what?”

Hoseok was silent, but paying close attention.

“I’d do it all again if it meant I would be right here with you. Right now. I wouldn’t have chosen any other path. I can’t live without you Hoseok. You’re everything to me. So, no. No matter what happens, I would never leave you.”

Hoseok was again, in tears. Yoongi hugged him, and Hoseok melted into his embrace.

It was then that, even though things would be hard, Hoseok knew Yoongi would be there to support him through it all, and everything would be alright.

4 ½ months later…

“Jungkook, what was that?” Hoseok walked over to Jungkook, who had tried to get by with lazily going through a rather difficult part of the choreography.

“Sorry Hyung…” the maknae sighed, sorrier he’d been caught than anything.

“Okay, let’s go again. Five, six, seven, eight…”

The music blared, and Hoseok grinned as he led the choreography practice once again.

[thetravelerwrites]

Ichabod (Part 2) Lemon

Rating: Explicit Relationships: Female Human/Male Demon-Fae Additional Tags: Exophilia, Demon, Fae Content Warnings: Multiple Sclerosis, Muscle Spasms, Temporary Paralysis, Wheelchair, Mobility Aids, Blood, Menstruation, Period, Oral Sex, Oral Sex During Menstruation Words: 4353

Commission by @littlemissmonsterfan​, Ichabod sneaks into the convent after hours to explain himself to Ellis. Please reblog and leave feedback!

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“Where’s the doctor?” Liana asked as she returned with the water.

“Oh…” You said, still in a bit of a daze. “He began feeling ill and left.”

“Tch,” Liana tutted. “Well, perhaps it’s for the best. That man gives me the creeps.” She looked at your face closely. “You’re rather pale. Are you alright?” She set the pan down and took your chin. “Did he do something?”

“No, no,” You said weakly. “I’m fine. Honestly, I am a little worried about him. He did seem quite unwell.”

“Well, he’s a doctor,” She said dismissively. “If he is ill, then he knows what to do about it. Now let’s get you into some proper clothing. It’s bound to get colder.”

That night, you had trouble sleeping. The crackling coals in the hearth kept the chill from the room, though your feet and hands never seemed to warm up. You monthly bleeding did indeed begin that day, and the cramping always kept you awake. Ichabod’s medicine helped, but your thoughts were in a roil. All you could think about was what Ichabod had done: the kiss on your ankle. Even now, the skin where his lips had been still tingled.

Why had he done it, and why couldn’t you get it out of your mind? It’s true that no other man had shown you such interest, but then again, you hadn’t met but three men in your entire life. Was he taking advantage of the situation, like the Daughters always insisted he would? Did he actually have feelings for you? Or was it something else? Something you couldn’t even begin to fathom?

As you lay there contemplating, you heard footsteps in the hallway. Wondering who was up this late, you lit your lamp and peered through the darkness at the door. It opened slowly and a pale head peeked inside.

“Ichabod?!” You whispered loudly. “What on earth are you doing here so late? Eldest will have your head on a platter if she finds you here! She already thinks you’re going to spirit me away at the first available opportunity!”

“My apologies, Ellis,” He whispered back. “I…I wanted to offer an explanation for what happened this afternoon. It’s been weighing heavily on my mind and I had to see you to put it right. I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“So you broke in?”

“I just scaled the gate. And climbed the wall. And maybe broke a door--it doesn’t matter!” He stepped inside. “Is your leg alright? I fear I may have bitten it accidentally. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Oh, yes, it’s fine,” You said, pulling back your sheets to show him. “It was a tiny cut. It’s practically healed now.”

“Oh, good,” He said, a hand over his heart. He looked genuinely distressed.

“Ichabod…” You began quietly as he shut the door. “Why… why did you do what you did?”

Ichabod sighed. He went and stoked the fire back to life, adding a log or two, then picked up the chair that sat in the corner of the room, placing it in front of you next to the bed and settling himself in it. He avoided your eye.

“Ellis,” He said, clasping his hands between his knees. “I greatly enjoy being a doctor. The opportunity to help people and ease their suffering gives my life purpose and meaning. Having said that, I wish I could say that it’s not in my nature to ever hurt another person, but there are… desires, you might call them… base impulses against which I have always battled. Impulses that are, to be blunt…”

“Not human?” You ventured.

His head shot up and he stared at you in shock. “How did you…”

“I guessed,” You said. “You’re not as good at hiding it as you think you are.”

“Not around you, at least,” He said, chuckling ruefully.

“Me?” You replied, furrowing your brow. “Why me?”

“Why indeed?” He asked. “Ever since I met you, I’ve been… enthralled. Perhaps it’s because I came to your rescue as if you were a baby bird, or perhaps it’s your perseverance in the face of your condition, I’m not sure. But I do feel a connection to you. I am… enchanted by you.” He looked at you again briefly with an indiscernible expression, and you found your cheeks grow warm. “Unfortunately, I also feel… those desires. Very strongly, I’m afraid.”

You had trouble parsing out what he was trying to say. “You want to… hurt me?”

His face was aghast. “Oh, goodness no! Never! Quite the opposite, in fact,” He averted his gaze again and rubbed his neck. “I want to protect you as much as I am able. You see… I… Oh, I don’t know how to say this…”

“Let’s start here, then,” You said. “What exactly are you?”

He took a deep, deep breath. “I’m not entirely sure. I fairly certain I have some fae and demon blood. Perhaps a little bit of human, too. I think.”

“How old are you?”

“Again, I’m not sure. There’s not much about my past I remember. My first memory is the cage.”

Your heart thumped against your ribs. “Cage?”

“Yes, I was kept as an… attraction… before I could control my…” He swallowed, flicking his eyes up at you and looking away. “My form. I don’t know how old I was at the time, but I don’t think I was fully grown, though I was rather large. I was billed as ‘The Demon Maneater’.” He laughed darkly. “I pulled in quite the crowd.”

“Maneater?” You echoed. “Why that title specifically?”

He scrubbed his face and sighed. “Because of my impulses. I eat normal food, drink water, sleep as humans do, and that’s usually enough to keep me sated. But underneath it, there’s this… thirst. A craving that I couldn’t control as well when I was younger. It led me to a lot of trouble.”

You hesitated before asking. “A thirst for--”

“Blood,” He said sharply. It was probably the first time his voice had ever had an edge to it. He was clasping his hands so tightly that the knuckles were completely bloodless. “The man who… owned me, he kept me starving so that the… bloodlust, I guess, was always strong and hard to control. He fed me on pig’s blood alone. Made a show of it, actually. Charged admission for people to watch me suck it down.” His face had a hard grimace of disgust and loathing on it.

“God, that’s terrible,” You said, clutching your chest. “How did you get away?”

“I got too big for my cage,” He said. “I attacked my captor as he was trying to put me in a new one. It was the first, and only time, I tasted human blood.”

“Besides today,” You reminded him.

He met your gaze and his face fell mournfully. “Yes. Besides today.”

“Why did you do that?” You asked again.

“I don’t know!” His head fell into his hands and he gripped his hair, which was out of its braid and cascading down his shoulders, obscuring his face. It was as disheveled as you’d ever seen him. “I’ve been so careful! I eat so much that I feel sick sometimes. I drink enough water to plant a field every day, just to suppress it. I’ve done everything I can, but today, I was overwhelmed. I don’t know why.”

“Can you… smell blood? Like, do you have the nose of a bloodhound or something?” You asked.

“No, no. That’s not a gift I was born with,” He said.

“That’s odd,” You replied thoughtfully.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, when you said I smelled good earlier,” You said, and he blushed. “To be honest… my monthly bleeding started today. Perhaps you…”

“...oh. Ohhh.” He breathed. “Huh. Honestly, there have been times when some people smelled better to me than others. I just thought it was because they’d used perfumes or oils or some such. Could I have been sensing…?”

“You don’t know?” You asked.

He shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole life suppressing this side of myself. It’s not something I ever wanted to explore.”

“You’ve never told your spouse or sweetheart?” You asked curiously, keeping your face and voice carefully neutral.

He eyed you with a rueful smile. “No spouses. No sweethearts. I’ve had… lovers before, but nothing serious. And I never revealed my true self to them.”

You shifted in bed so that you were sitting on the edge with your feet on the ground and looked him in the eye. “Will you show me?”

His face was all panic and he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he said, “Are you sure you want to see?”

You nodded. “I’m certainly intrigued.”

He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and furrowed his brow in deliberation. “My greatest fear is that seeing my true form will frighten you beyond the capacity for understanding, but at the same time, I want so badly for you to see me as I am. I want you to know me, all of me.”

“Even though you don’t like yourself?”

“One can only hide who they are for so long before it becomes tiresome. I suppose… I’m lonely.”

“Why me?” You asked him again.

“I’ve told you, you’ve charmed me. I am drawn to you in some way that I can’t identify. Your opinion and acceptance means more to me than anyone else’s, and I can’t say why that is.”

“Most might call that love,” You blurted, instantly regretting it.

Except, a gentle smile crept across his face for the first time since he arrived. “Love…” he repeated. “Yes. I believe you may be right.”

Your blush deepened. Was he serious? Could this man possibly love you, or was it just his impulses swaying his emotions? It’s not like you had much experience with the issue, so you could hardly tell.

“Your the first person I’ve ever told. The man who taught me medicine is the only other person who knew. He saved my life, gave me sanctuary, and showed me my purpose. I miss him.” He stood up. “Well… I’ve come halfway already. I suppose stopping now would be pointless.” His sad expression returned. “I just hope, after you’ve seen me, you might at least still consider me a friend.”

He began to change then. With your heart in your throat, you watch as his body stretched and thinned. He towered over you, his waist shrinking to be no thicker than your calf. He grew an extra pinky finger and thumb on each hand, and his ankles pushed backward into digitigrade feet, each with seven toes. His eyes went completely black and swallowed the light. He was more skeletal than lithe now, with bones jutting out all over, and his long hair seemed to be prehensile and moving under its own power. His mouth split his head to each ear, and inside were teeth that were more like jagged pieces of glass jutting out of his black gums. You imagined they had been what nicked your leg earlier.

His clothes had changed with him; his glamour must have also extended to his garments. You suspected he may have made them himself. He was longer, thinner. Sharper. Everything about him was angular and pointed, except the curve of his spine as he hunched over you.

You sat on your cot with your hands in your lap, just looking up at him. He seemed to be leaning away from you slightly, no doubt expecting you to scream or attack. You slowly stood up, blessedly needing no assistance at the moment, and took him in. Slowly, you raised your hand, and he flinched.

“Is it alright if I touch you?” You asked him. He seemed momentarily stunned by the question, but after a moment to recover, he nodded. You reached up and traced the line of his mouth, from one ear to the other, causing him to close his eyes and make a purring sound. You traced his lids, eyebrows, nose, jaw, and down his neck. When you got to his collar, he gingerly stopped your hand by taking it in his.

“You’re not afraid?” He asked wonderingly.

You shook your head. “I knew you weren’t human. Honestly, I was expecting ten arms and a tail with a stinger on the end, at least.” You laughed and stroked his hair, which wrapped itself around your wrist loosely. “Compared to what I was imagining in my head, this is tame.”

His eyes squeezed closed in relief, tears slipping down his face. Halfway down his cheeks, they crystallized and fell to the ground, tinkling like glass beads on the stone floor.

“I knew you were special,” He said. “I knew you were perfect.” He took your hands and pressed them against his nose, inhaling your scent into every corner of his lungs. His hands were shaking.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you? Or thirsty? Or… something?” You asked uncertainly.

He smiled at you gently, brushing your hair away from your eyes. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m more in control right now than I’ve ever been.”

“That’s good, but… um…” You cleared your throat nervously. “I was wondering if maybe I could help you. You’ve done so much for me, I just thought I could do something for you in return.”

He cocked his head in confusion. “What kind of something?”

You took a shaky breath and looked down, using his finger to tap the lower part of your belly. He continued to look confused for another several seconds before his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

“Are you… are you serious? Are you sure?” He asked in an awed whisper. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes,I’m sure,” You said. “I want to thank you. After everything you’ve done for me, I can’t help but feel like I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” He said emphatically. “The fact that you can look at my true face and still smile at me is all the thanks I could ever need.”

“I still want to do something for you,” You told him. “I feel stronger than I have in years. The therapy has helped me so much. If you don’t want to think of it as payment, then think of it as a gift.”

Though his eyes were completely black, you could feel the warmth that radiated from them when he smiled. He actually put an arm across his chest and bowed solemnly before you.  

“Then I accept with more gratitude than I can express.”

You smiled and patted his head.

“You’re quivering,” He said, standing back up and taking your hand.

“I must admit, I’m nervous,” You replied. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” You looked up into his eyes. “Will it hurt?”

“No, darling,” He whispered tenderly, bending to nuzzle your cheek. “No pain. In fact, I will do everything I can to ensure you enjoy this as much as I will.”

Your heart rate shot up, but you nodded. “Alright. How do we begin?”

He put his long hands on your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss. He was careful to keep his teeth tucked away so that they wouldn’t cut you. You kissed him back, a thrill in your spine. He carefully lifted your nightgown over your head and placed it on the chair. He knelt down and pulled your stockings and the linen roll you used for your monthly bleeding. Embarrassed, you took it from him and placed it in the washing pan to clean later.

He smiled at your blushing face. “Don’t be ashamed. It’s a natural thing.”

“Oh, I know,” You told him. “The Daughters see it as a gift. I’ve just… never been naked in front of a man before.”

“For what it’s worth, you’re exquisite to the eye,” He said, running his knuckles down your spine, making you shiver. “I could look at you like this and never grow tired of it.”

“Thank you,” You replied in a small voice. “So… what should I do?”

He took your hand and led you to the foot of the bed, urging you to lie down with your legs over the end. He climbed over you, kissing your lips. Your tongue ran over his jagged teeth and you pushed him back a little.

“You’re sure it won’t hurt?” You asked dubiously.

He grinned and opened his mouth, and you watched as the teeth receded into his gums, leaving only soft tissue behind.

“Oh,” You said. You watched as something slithered out and wriggled around. To your surprise, he had not one, but seven black tongues, tentacle-like and writhing.

“Relax,” He said. “I’ll take care of you. Are you still sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” You said firmly. “I do.”

He smiled. “Lie down, then. Get comfy.”

You obeyed, not really knowing what to expect. He knelt down in front of you, kissing your thighs as he opened your legs. He pulled you down a little further and, looking down, you saw him close in on your core, his mouth opening wide and suctioning to your lips and clit with a sigh of deep satisfaction. And he began to suck.

You were shocked at the effect the pressure had on you. You’d touched yourself before, but it didn’t feel like this. In addition to the suction, his tongues worked into you and around your pearl, massaging and contracting. Your back arched and you gasped, the muscles in your stomach tightening involuntarily.

Well, he said you’d enjoy it. He wasn’t lying.

You suddenly felt a spasm in your back and cried out. He seemed to realize this wasn’t a sound of pleasure and stopped immediately, licking his chops.

“What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?” He asked.

“No,” You said, wincing. “I had a twinge in my back.”

“Just a moment,” He said, standing. As he stood, you saw a bulge in his pants. You pressed your lips together to keep the startled smile off your face. He took your pillow and the extra blankets and tilted you upward, putting them behind your back so that you were sitting up a bit more.

“Where?” He asked, and you showed him. He took a few moments to massage the spot, easing the muscle down and working the twinge out. His extra fingers were magic for your muscles. “Does that help?”

You moaned happily. “Yes, very much. God, I wish I’d let you do the deep tissue massages sooner.”

He laughed. “My hands are yours whenever you want them.”

“I think I’d rather have your mouth at the moment,” You said, and then slapped a hand to your own lips, surprised at your sudden frankness.

His grin was devilish. “As you wish, my darling.” He returned to his previous position and took up his task with relish. You cried out again, but it was clear this time that it was nothing but ecstasy.

One of his hands gripped your thigh, but the other hand slipped up your torso. You bit your lip and smiled as his fingers cupped your breast, circling your nipple with his fingertips. His black eyes watched your every move, every expression, every twitch of your muscles. He watched for pain and pleasure in your face and body, changing the pressure to match. He was good at this.

Before long, you felt it: a wave of bliss that curled your toes and pulled the voice out of you. His hand covered your mouth, muffling your moans as the wave crashed into you. You reached down and ran your fingers through his hair, holding him there as you came down. As it ebbed, you took both of his hands and held them over your breasts. He kneaded the flesh back and forth with his long, long fingers as you held his wrists in place. He kept up the pressure, still sucking, and you felt another wave build and crash. And build and crash.

Finally, he pulled away from you with a long, drawn out moan.

“Incredible,” He breathed. “I’ve never felt so satisfied in all my life.” He rose up and examined your face. “Are you alright?”

“I am…” You said in a sleepy voice. “Lovely.”

“You are,” He said, bending to kiss you, but you stopped him.

“Um… maybe wash out your mouth first?” You suggested.

He ducked his head and smiled. “Of course. Forgive me.”

As he went to the pitcher of water on the table, you lay still on the bed, your body warm and tingling. You watched him swish water and a mint sprig around in his mouth several times and spit it into the chamber pot. His pants were still tented, and you bit your lip in curiosity. The feeling of cramps and bloating was completely gone, and once you caught your breath, you were feeling adventurous.

As he returned, you sat up and reached out, palming the bulge and looking up at him. He grunted.

“You… you don’t have to,” He said, though he leaned into your touch.

“I want to,” You said, reaching for the buttons. “I have a lot to learn. I want you to teach me.”

He smiled and caressed your face. “I think I like this bold side of you, darling.”

You chuckled and pulled him out. His cock was pearly and iridescent, as though it was made of frosted glass, though the skin was soft and pliable, and it was warm to the touch. You stroked it slowly, enjoying the weight and smoothness in your hand, before leaning forward and pressing your tongue to the head. He jerked and made a strangled noise. You looked up at him and held his gaze as you pulled the tip into your mouth. He groaned and tangled his fingers in your hair.

“Oh, my love, you learn so fast,” He wheezed. “I may not last long.”

“That’s alright,” You said. I don’t mind.”

Just then, he grunted loudly and released on your chest. You giggled.

“Sorry. Sorry,” He gasped, rushing to get a wet cloth to clean you up with.

“I don’t mind,” You repeated with a laugh.

After wiping you down, he helped you redress and put himself away. He kissed your lips, eyes, cheek, and neck.

“Ellis,” He said, sitting back on his heels and taking your hands. “Are you seriously contemplating becoming a nun, or would you consider another option?”

“What other option?”

“Marry me,” He said seriously, pressing your palms to his chest. “You needn’t… provide for me…” He said, gesturing at your belly. “You needn’t even love me in return. All I want is to come home to someone who accepts me as I am, to talk to someone without having to pretend. If all you have to give me is your time and company, I would consider myself doubly blessed for the rest of my days.”

You smiled at him, a little in shock, but knowing what your answer would be. You bent forward and pressed another kiss to his lips.

“I think I can give you more than that.”

You fell asleep in his arms, and he left before dawn. He told you he had arrangements to make and that by the time he returned for his next appointment, everything would be ready for you. You had a moment of self-doubt that perhaps he was absconding on you, but he seemed to sense your uncertainty and left you his doctor’s coat as collateral.

The Daughters were in an uproar when you told them you were to marry the physician, but there was little they could do to stop you. Even if they tried to lock you up for your own good, you knew they couldn’t stop Ichabod from coming for you.

Ichabod returned precisely when he said he would, having borrowed a cart from a friend to pick up you and your things and take you to his home. When he stepped down and saw you, his expression was so tender and warm, you couldn’t understand how the Daughter’s didn’t see that he was a man in love. It was obvious even to you. Well, you were biased, you supposed.

“Are you ready?” He asked, loading your chair into the cart. “I’ve got the house all fixed up.”

“Fixed up?” You echoed.

“Yes!” He said excitedly. “I made some modifications so that you can move around the house more easily. I put rails on all of the walls and a ramp on the front porch for your chair. The local woodcarvers helped me. They have a shop right next door to us.”

Your jaw dropped. “You did all that for me?”

He nodded shyly. “I want you to be happy and comfortable.”

You wanted to cry. You couldn’t believe how considerate he was. You took his hand, which hand only five fingers now that his glamour was back in place, and kissed the knuckles.

“Thank you,” You whispered.

His smile widened and he kissed your cheek. “Don’t thank me for that. It’s nothing,” He said. “For your acceptance, your understanding, it’s the very least I can do.”

You said goodbye to the Daughters, and Eldest held you for a very long time. You were concerned that she might not let you go. Eventually she released you and fixed a hard glare on Ichabod.

“I expect to hear from her regularly,” Eldest said. “If I go a month without a letter, I’m bringing a mob to your front door and kicking it in.”

“I’ll hold you to that, madam,” Ichabod said pleasantly. “I know you’re worried for this lovely young woman, but you have my word that I will treat her like a queen.”

“You’re word isn’t worth much to me,” Eldest replied harshly. “We’ll be checking in.”

Ichabod bowed to acknowledge the veiled threat. “Always a pleasure, Eldest Daughter. We will visit soon.”

You took Ichabod’s hand, and he helped you up into the driver’s box.

“Ready to go home?” He asked.

You took a moment to look back at the only home you’d known since you were small, then faced forward.

“Yes, love. Let’s go.”

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[rotationalsymmetry]

Hello! I hope you’re doing well. I saw your post about UUs and I myself am one as well! I was wondering if maybe you could explain some of the issues there are in UU congregations so I can better understand what’s going on. I can’t change much, but I’d like to know what can be improved and how I can better use my privilege. Thank you :)

Hi there. Thanks for reaching out. I think. Oof. Are you sure you want to ask this? I don’t have a really straightforward “here’s precisely what Unitarian Universalism needs to do to improve (broken down into concrete, realistic steps!)” I have a whole tangle of feelings and personal biases and incredibly subjective experiences. OK? All right. With that disclaimer out of the way. Eh, actually, more disclaimer: all institutions have problems. There are things that Unitarian Universalism does better than most other religious institutions. There’s a reason I was going off about what I like about UU before what I dislike. This is not saying that Unitarian Universalism is bad. OK?

Putting in a cut because this is long:

Unitarian Universalism has an ongoing, well-known problem around being kind of fuzzy around what it is and what it wants to be. Do we draw on multiple faiths, and if so what does that look like in practice? Are we Christianity lite? Are we basically a bunch of secular humanists who like to get together and sing sometimes? How far exactly does (or should) our tolerance stretch?

Unitarian Universalism has a whiteness issue and a class issue. Now, I’m white, so the race part isn’t mainly coming from my own experience. There’s something I’ve seen that sums it up well, but I can’t find it right now. Basically: there’s a bit of a tendency for UU’s to nominally want to more diverse congregations, but when a new person of color shows up, sometimes they get treated kind of...weirdly. Like they’re not one of us and not going to be.

a bit more on UU and race here: x

And, class wise, I was raised middle class, but I’ve been broke for an awful lot of my adulthood and a lot of the people I know in my generation (Millenials) are broke/struggling financially. So when the lead minister of my congregation made some random comment about having trouble attracting young people because church and brunch with friends are competing for the same time slot. I thought of a young adult in the congregation who was active in the youth group but couldn’t make it to Sunday worship because he had to work on Sundays. And the time one of my coworkers got a promotion at my workplace, and definitely she was competent and I don’t begrudge her getting it, but also she ended up working an awful lot of Sundays and that was very likely a factor in her getting the promotion. And I’d been trying to avoid pledge drive Sunday for years because it always, every time, made me feel like I wasn’t really welcome if I couldn’t contribute much financially, even when I was contributing a great deal of my time. This is subjective and it could mostly be an issue with my then congregation. But I don’t think it is.

While Unitarian Universalism likes to think of itself as trans friendly, and it’s certainly much friendlier than some denominations, sometimes it drops the ball. Here’s an apology for an article about trans people that centered a cis person’s perspective and had some other issues: x

Anecdotally, subjectively, etc: this is an issue across the board. Unitarian Universalism’ self-image and what the organization actually is has a substantial gap. I attended a few workshops at GA this year, and: on the surface, great! So many workshops on such great anti-oppressive topics! But...when I actually went to the workshops, it was unsatisfying. It felt very introduction-ish. Maybe that was on purpose. But...I was hoping for better. 

Super anecdotally: UU’s tend to forget that disabled people exist. UU’s tend to not support disabled people and parents of disabled children.

Back to the “are we Christianity Lite?” thing. I dropped out of seminary. One part of thatwas this: x  Another was that at the time (it’s apparently since changed) the MFC requirements (uh, this is getting a bit technical: congregations ordain ministers, but in practice fellowshipping is important as well, and that’s what the MFC does, basically it’s saying other UU ministers think you should be a UU minsiter) prioritized knowledge about Christianity and the Bible over knowledge of other religions, even though nominally Unitarian Universalism is not Christian and Christianity isn’t especially prioritized in our Six Sources. As someone who is not Christian and didn’t expect my future ministry to involve a lot of Bible talk and really didn’t think prioritizing knowledge of the Bible among our religious leaders was good for the denomination as a whole, this bothered me. A lot. (For what it’s worth, most Starr King classes were actually really good at not doing this.) (The classes that did, though, made me want to tear my hair out. And made me wonder if this denomination I was studying to be a minister in, was the same as the denomination I’d participated in as a lay person for years.)

This is hard to put into words. But: sometimes people will say they believe a thing, but their follow-through is bad. Or they say one thing but act another way -- not because they’re lying, but because what they believe on the surface hasn’t been fully internalized. This is, anecdotally etc, a really common issue in Unitarian Universalism.

More super anecdotal etc: UU’s need to break the habit of seeing RE as daycare, and worship services that involve kids as being about showing off the kids to the adults. I took a quick look at you and it says you’re 18, so if you grew up UU you probably have your own opinions on this. But...sometimes the adult congregation and the kids’/youth programs are entirely separate worlds, and that’s not healthy for congregations.

YMMV: I’m not a huge fan of approaches to worship that involve sitting passively for most of the service. If the worship is going to be the same whether you’re there or not, why bother showing up? (Obviously some congregations are more like this than others, and apparently some people like the “lecture and a concert” format?? I’m not one of them.)

Basically, I think UU’s need to work on connection more and mutual support of each other more. While I approve of the social justice focus of course, social justice starts at home. You need to support the people who are actually in your congregation. I moved a year and a half ago, and haven’t joined my local congregation. Why? Because my illness makes it almost impossible to go anywhere in the mornings, and while they livestreamed each worship service, before the pandemic (presumably it’s all zoom worship now), there was zero effort to actually include anyone watching the livestream. Not so much as a PDF of the order of service. No verbal acknowledgement that some people aren’t present in the room. Nothing. (Side note: I tried one worship service at a “normal” congregation after the pandemic started, and all the mourning of not being able to be together in person was extremely frustrating to me, since I hadn’t been able to attend in person worship before the pandemic either. No one was thinking of people like me, and it was really, really obvious. I’ve since joined Church of the Larger Fellowship.) You say you want to use your privilege. That’s great! Some thoughts.

Trans people: How’s your congregation on pronouns? If your congregation uses nametags, can you push to normalize people putting their pronouns on nametags? What’s the bathroom situation: is it clear that trans women (whether you currently have any trans women in your congregation or not) can use the women’s bathroom? Is there a unisex bathroom that non-binary people and binary people who don’t feel safe using “their” bathroom can use? Also: a lot of older people weren’t raised with this and never really caught up, (and tbf some young people are ignorant too) so there’s a need for some trans 101 education.

Disability: for zoom worship, is there closed captioning for people who have hearing impairments or language processing issues? For live worship, what’s being done to make sure deaf and hard of hearing people are included? What’s being done for blind people (eg, electronic copies of the order of service being available for people who are blind but have screen readers?) For people who just have a little trouble seeing, are there large-print orders of service? What about the agendas for committee meetings and so on? This doesn’t have a quick fix, but are there places in your congregation that can’t be reached in a wheelchair? What about the chancel? (ie that area that the minister and whoever else is leading worship is speaking from?) Is there a wheelchair-accessible entrance that’s open during worship but closed during other programming?

How’s ministry to people who are sick or injured or just too old to get out much? And: is that support available to newer or prospective members, or only people who contributed to the congregation first? How available is information on how to get that kind of support: is it a thing where only some people are in the know, or is there outreach?

Are there unspoken rules about who’s the “right kind” of person to be in the congregation and who isn’t?

Sexual harassment, abuse, etc: is there a clear way to report sexual harassment? Does everyone know what it is? Does the congregation have a policy for what happens if a congregant is accused of sexual abuse? If a minister is? What's the congregation’s child abuse prevention policy? Do the people who work/volunteer with kids know what to do if a child or teen reports abuse to them? Are they screened in any way?

What accommodations does RE make for special needs children? If a child needs one on one assistance, does the RE program force the parent to provide that assistance if the child is to be part of the program?

What’s the policy on support animals? (these days: what’s the policy on emotional support animals?) How are the needs of people with allergies or other issues with dogs etc, balanced with the needs of people who benefit from support animals? (This can be tricky, I’m not saying there’s a clear right/wrong here, but it’s something that can make a congregation inaccessible.)

I don’t know the details on this, but I know sensory issues can be a problem for some people, eg flickering overhead lights. Scents can be an issue for some people, one possible solution is to have part of the sanctuary marked scent-free, dunno how well that plays out in practice.)

Representation: who’s speaking up during worship, and what are they speaking about? Something to be aware of.

Us/Them language: especially relevant if you’re speaking to the congregation during worship, but important in casual coffee hour chat too: who’s “us” and who’s “them”? Do people in your congregation tend to talk about, say, people below the poverty line as “them”? Homeless people? Black people? Immigrants?

Finding ways of making small talk that aren’t “what do you do for a living?”

I haven’t said anything about racism yet; a lot of congregations have some sort of anti-racist discussion group or something? Those things are good; there’s only so much they do by themselves, but as part of a larger whole, they’re important. Also, presence at Black Lives Matter protests, putting up a Black Lives Matter banner or sign if your congregation hasn’t done that, stuff like that.

Oh, culture and music and stuff. What kind of music gets played. Congregations that have made a specific attempt to be multiracial often find it’s necessary to do a lot of hashing out of what the music is going to be like.

And there’s a representation aspect to who gets quoted.

Small Group Ministry/Covenant groups: my former congregation liked to ask what your demographic info is and then split things up for “diversity” purposes. This is actually a really bad idea. In a congregation that’s mostly white, it means that often the non-white people end up being the only non-white person in their groups. Great for white people who want to “experience diversity”, but not so great for actual poc. My congregation had enough queer people that it wasn’t one queer person per group, but I could see that maybe happening in other places. And I think it did tend to separate out trans people into separate groups.

Cultural appropriation/cultural misappropriation: uff. I think some people go off the deep end on this. But, some things to consider. If the congregation is doing something to celebrate a Jewish holiday, is it run by someone who is Jewish or is of Jewish heritage? Stuff like that. Sometimes Unitarian Universalists’ desire to be all multicultural and interfaith and stuff, leaves out important things like “is this part of the culture that it’s ok for outsiders to share?” and “are we actually in relationship with this group of people?” And “are we cherry picking messages from sacred texts that we like, and leaving out the stuff we don’t like, when it’s not our sacred text and we don’t have enough context to do that respectfully?” x for overview and in more detail x

Also RE: is this Native American story one that it’s actually OK for us to tell? I’m not necessarily suggesting you go over what other people are doing, but if you’re teaching RE yourself, you get a say in what you teach.

If you happen to be a UU pagan or there’s a CUUPS group at your congregation that you sometimes participate in, there’s kind of a ton of work about untangling cultural appropriation in specifically pagan spaces, honestly I don’t know where to start with that. Don’t put that on yourself if you’re not part of that kind of group though, focus on groups you are part of.

Land acknowledgements.

Oftentimes if someone brings up an issue that requires work to change it, especially a younger person, the people who get stuff done are going to be, “ok, that sounds like work, we’ve already got a ton on our plate so are you going to do it?” So, if you offer to do some of the work of running the congregation, you’ll be in a better place to implement these sorts of changes. (I know a lot of times older adults don’t want to trust young adults with responsibility, so it might take some time to earn trust.) But also some are things you can just do: like you can say your pronouns every time you introduce yourself or put your pronouns on disposable nametags, if you’re comfortable with it.

General advice: you don’t have to (and shouldn’t try to) change everything at once. Be aware of a lot of things and be willing to be a “follower” on a lot of things. Signing petitions, saying “yes, that sounds like a good idea,” stuff like that. Be a leader on a small, manageable number of things. Maybe see what other people in your congregation are already doing that seems like a step in the right direction, and see how you can support that. Some of what UU’s are already doing is already really good, and most likely there’s already people around you who want Unitarian Universalism to act in closer alignment with its ideals.

[docholligay]

"Healing is a small and ordinary and very burnt thing. And it's one thing and one thing only: it's doing what you have to do." -Cheryl Strayed

This is a very rambling sort of thing, but it’s a thing I’ve wanted to write, and as I’ve been having spectacular trouble writing anything lately I decided to go with it. Thanks to @katrani for sponsoring! Takes place in MaS. 

The sun rose in Paris. 

It had probably also, Michiru reasoned, risen in Tokyo, but she had not been able to see these things. Tokyo was where Haruka had been, and then wasn’t, and for that reason she found the entire place completely unforgivable. It is a strange thing, to have a human being own an entire sprawling city, and yet in Michiru’s heart, Haruka did. 

Tokyo. Michiru would never have stayed there but for Haruka’s love. It had belonged to her brother before it had belonged to Haruka, and oh how delightful to discover that it had been meant for someone else all along! How could Michiru have been so foolish as to imagine the bustling noodle shops with rich, thick broth and 1000 yen specials had been built for him? How could the cherry blossoms, pink as her cheeks when she blushed, be meant for a man whose soul was without beauty? He could could walk carelessly through the food halls, but Haruka prickled with delight at every booth, because they were meant for her. The sneaking alleys full of bars in Shinjuku, the kaleidoscope of lights and sounds as tourists and locals alike passed in Shibuya, even the lined streets of her own childhood district, all had been built for the pleasure of one Haruka Tenoh. 

It was a dead place, now, signifying nothing. A place where the forest had burnt to ash, and her heart was the same. 

She had left Tokyo because she had to. She could not survive it. This might have sounded cruel, considering her children, but her children were not of Tokyo so much as they lived there. Her children were of her own heart, and she could see any city in the world and be reminded of them. But Haruka was of Tokyo, and so Michiru had to leave it before the ghosts of Haruka’s love suffocated her. 

MIchiru had been here for three weeks. Haruka had always hated Paris, even before she had to attempt to navigate it in a wheelchair, and so it had always uniquely belonged to Michiru. She brought her girls here every year, to practice and shop and sip in the wine bars. It was her sharing something of herself with them, in a way she could not quite define. Perhaps she would live here forever. Perhaps she could never bear the pain of returning. 

It was impossible. She could not, she knew, so long as she was as bound to Haruka as Haruka to Tokyo. One or the other would have to uncouple in order to allow her back. But how could Tokyo, and how could she, belong to more than one person, ever? Especially that person being Haruka, who she had loved since she was a child? 

She laughed, a little. She had thought of herself as a woman in those days, like a fool. 

And so, because Tokyo had belonged to Haruka, she had to leave it. You cannot rebuild in a house that is on fire, Michiru had reasoned. She could no more stay where they had raised their children then she could wade into the into Tokyo Bay and hope to come out on the other side. There were things a human body could not bear. 

Her daughters had understood, at the least. Tokyo was burned for her, and so she had to try and grow something elsewhere, and the run rose in Paris. The sun rose, and the flower sellers painted the side streets with bright washes of color and rich perfumes in the air, and for a moment Michiru knew what it was to be a girl again, the excitement of walking the bridges and getting ice cream on the Ile Saint-Louis, hearing the tolling of the Notre Dame bells. 

Paris bubbled like champagne at her nose, the poetry of French filling her ears.

“Japanese is not much of a sea language.” She stood, wrapping herself warmly in a cashmere cape against the chill of the evening, “It is, I think, the language of a cliff face.”

“Uh,” Haruka’s face furrowed in confusion, “It’s...babe, Japan is surrounded by the ocean.” 

Michiru laughed as she passed the wine bar she frequented, Haruka’s young face clearly in her mind, allowing the pain that accompanied it, and waving it off like smoke in the darkness. 

She laughed then, too. 

“No, of course my love, what I mean to say is, Japanese is so very brisk, and sharp. It is ice, maybe, and rocks, and,” She looking dreamily out at the ocean, “defined. The sea is undulous and constantly sliding one bit into the next. It is watercolor and wave. Perhaps like French. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been happy there.” 

“I dunno if I want to give the ocean to France, just saying.” She pulled her knees up on the rock where they sat, and shrugged, “I like Japanese.” 

Michiru would have laughed, then, and told her she had experience with nothing else, but she knew even as early as it was that would hurt her, make her feel less-than, that she would tell herself she was stupid. It was true, that Haruka had never understood, even as she struggled to try and make a real show of learning English. The soul of a language, the art of the way it fell in the air, each language had a different sort of style, and to know many was to move from one museum room to the next. 

Immersing herself in the warm bath of French was like slipping into the Mediterranean sea, so different from where she had been and yet a place she always knew she would come back to. There was nothing sharp on the ear, no ending that reminded her of a certain social position or moment, nothing that echoed back the perfect syllables of Haruka’s name. 

She had divorced herself from the idea so entirely that when a pair of Japanese tourists had asked for directions, she had pretended not to understand. Rei would have snorted and called her petty, more than likely, and perhaps she would not be wrong, but it was Michiru’s life to live, in any case. To live. She had the right to go on. She had the right to do whatever it took to breathe again. 

She should write Rei. She certainly intended to. Michiru had left Tokyo so quickly, and though she had told everyone where she was going, and though she spoke to her children, always in French, which they were polite enough to make little comment of, it was simply too much to pick up the phone when Rei called. 

It was more than just Tokyo. It was more than just Japan. It was that so many years after everything had happened, Michiru sometimes still looked to her right hand, now weakened, and wondered if she’d lost the ring. A teal aquamarine, framed by the delicate swirl of silver water. Rei’s had almost seemed to belong to a queen, lacking the delicacy of Michiru’s. It had changed on their hand. It knew them. It bound them together. 

She could think of nothing else, when she spoke to Rei. She did not blame the moon for Haruka’s death, not even Michiru could be that silly, but she had been angry forevermore that she had the moon to thank for the gift of Haruka. Rei reminded her of that gift, wrapped herself by the moon and delivered in friendship to Michiru’s hands. 

But she should write her. A postcard, if nothing else. To tell her that she was doing well, that her apartment was quite lovely, and she had taken to eating at a small brasserie nearby for most of her dinners. That she had taken care to drink something other than wine, most nights. That the view of the city charmed. 

She had even purchased a postcard, some silly thing for one euro that had a filter-toned view down a small street, flowers and the red door of a bakery laid perfectly against the grey of the ancient stone. She’d purchased it two days ago, and imagined, since then, what she would say. A postcard is, of course, the most gracious of correspondence in such times, leaving you little room to have to say all the things people would like. Two sentences, perhaps. 

Still, she could not say them. She opened the door to her apartment, and scolded herself once again. When had she ever balked from confrontation? Confrontation, she laughed. Rei was her friend. She certainly wouldn’t be pleased that she hadn’t heard from Michiru for weeks, but it was ridiculous of her to assume Rei would wish to fight with her. 

Thus resolved, Michiru sat down to her small desk near the bar cart, and set the postcard in front of her. The pen was heavy and cool in her hand, stone and metal waiting to express itself on the page. 

I am well. Paris is lovely. 

She discarded the idea before she ever wrote it out. It was such a nicety as to nearly be dishonesty. She and Rei hardly had such a surface relationship, and it was an unkindness to treat it as such. She pulled a dram of gin and lillet from the bar cart. That was the entire purpose in having it there, after all. Really, it should be chilled, but if one cannot drink lukewarm gin as a recent widow swanning about a Parisian apartment, when could one? 

Paris is ever so lovely this time of year, and I have plenty of room if ever you would like to visit. 

Michiru shook her head, laughing at herself again, the foolish and selfish child she always was inside of her. She did not want Rei to visit. She had no desire to take Rei to the little cafes and shops near her apartment, to lie with her by the river and eat a baguette with some cheese. She didn’t want to take a train to London for the weekend, the two of them holed up in the Ritz, lunching with oysters and champagne. She loved Rei, and Rei was a reminder of an entire life that now cut with furious line through her, and both of these things could be true and terrible. 

Haruka has been dead for six weeks, and I cannot bear to be reminded of her. 

Michiru had meant not to write that, either, and she certainly hadn’t meant to write it in Japanese, the characters of Haruka’s name stark against the cream of the postcard, the black ink already drying, impossible to remove. She turned the postcard over with irritation, only to see that she had written so hard those characters poked through the Parisian alleyway, nestling in next to the flowers. 

She downed the gin and lillet--it wanted for a bit of citrus, but needs must--in one sharp quaff, and looked out the glass door to her balcony. It was spring, and yet still here in Paris the winter clung on at the corners, the sun lowering in the sky even in the late afternoon, slipping below the parapets of stone. Michiru touched her hand to the raised flowers, and then snatched up the postcard, flicking a match and setting fire to the edge of it before she quite knew what she was doing. She dropped the match on the desk, extinguishing it, but continued to stare at the burning card, Haruka’s name beginning to meld with the blackness of what had gone through the flame. 

She tossed it into her metal wastebin, atop the others she had failed to send. 

The sun set in Paris too, the red of it catching the city on fire, that burnt thing that would help her to rise.