#tw: sterilisation

[majaurukalo]

One of the (many) things that makes disabled people the most marginalised community is that there will always be some kind of degree to which a good number of people will think that discrimination against us is okay. That it’s even “healthy”.

Think of separated entrances for disabled people into buildings. You’d never have separated entrances for black people today because history taught us well.

But it’s okay to have a different entrance for disabled people because a ramp looks ugly in the front or it “can’t be build”. So we have to go to the back, slalom through garbage bins, get lost in some corridor.

People justify this.

People justify institutionalisation of disabled people because “that’s the best way to take care of them” (breaking news, no it’s not).

People justify keeping disabled people outside of certain places, venues, fields, experiences because “it’s too dangerous”, “we can’t think of everybody”, “it’s too hard” yada yada.

And many don’t the see the real problem.

People justify the sterilisation of disabled people “because they can’t take care of children/their periods/whatever”.’

Like, we are not even considered enough for our own bodily autonomy.

Even when a disabled person is murdered by a family member the killing is justified and the family member who killed is “the poor thing who couldn’t bear with it anymore” and the murdered disabled person becomes “the angel who is now free from the life’s pains”. But no one asked them if they enjoyed their life, if they wanted to live.

Because a disabled life is not supposed to be good, right?

It’s always “for the sake of us”, “for our safety”, “to protect us” as if we can’t take decisions, as if we aren’t human beings with feelings, dreams, choices, desires, needs.

Nothing done against us can be intended for our best interest or our own good. It’s for the good of the abled-bodied society.

Period.

[identitty-dickruption]

I know I said I’d go offline, but I’m going through my disability tag to see if I’ve ever said anything that could possibly be construed as pro-life and. nope! I never fucking said that! I’ve criticised some people within the pro-choice movement and the way forced sterilisation is continued to be justified by so-called “leftists”. I’ve criticised the depoliticisation of eugenics. but I’ve always always always given the caveat that I’m pro-choice / pro-reproductive justice. I’m so confused and I really do not understand how I can be blamed for ableism and infanticide

[praying-mantis-knight]

I don't know if anyone else agrees with me, but I firmly believe that APH Belarus has reproductive trauma. Maybe she miscarried, maybe she had a stillbirth, maybe she was forced into an unwanted pregnancy. Whatever it was, it was related to her being pregnant and she is Never getting pregnant again.

One another vein, my Australia also has reproductive trauma. She was sterilised by her big sister so the Carer's couldn't use her for Project Mandrake.

And for other F!Australia's, I reckon it was her government. Australia is almost universally portrayed as blak in fanon, and the government in the 19th & 20th would have definitely not wanted her producing nation babies with blak genes.

Basically, this is a really long post to say: If Romausbel (romano/australia/Belarus who are dating in my universe) ever decide to have children, Romano's the one carrying it.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for using my status as an agender person to get a surgery I want although I do not want it for gender-related issues ?

TW : talk of uterus, menstrual cycles and menstrual blood

I'll start by saying this is not the US so please don't make your judgement based on that. I'll describe how things are in my country.

So I (X24) want my uterus removed. The main reason is that I want to be sterilised to stop having so much anxiety about becoming pregnant, which would be a nightmare for me, and I never ever want this to happen again.

But I can't get any other form of sterilisation as then I would keep my uterus, so I would keep my period, and without hormonal treatment it's just not liveable. To give you an idea, my natural cycles are 21 days instead of 28, I get my period for 7 days instead of 5 and it can be hemorrhagic for up to 4 days of these 7. (I used to get post-op medication because of the hemorrhagia before I was under contraception.) And of course I get through excruciating pain every time, beside having iron deficiency among other things. I'm currently trying another hormonal contraception, it's still not going well. There is always something wrong. My first pill just stopped working, the next ones made me gain 20kg, I'm currently trying hormonal IUD and although I don't bleed as much, I bleed for so long and there is so much pain that no available painkillers can block. I'm so tired. I can't imagine going through that for another 15 to 25 years.

In my country, it is written in law that you are allowed to be sterilised using various methods, all of which keep the uterus. Nothing is said for hysterectomy as a sterilisation method. And although many refuse to sterilise you at all, if you find the right surgeon you can be no matter your age. The procedure is also fully reimbursed. Nothing is said in law about hysterectomy.

This means that the vast majority of surgeons won't remove your uterus. Except if you have a pathology related to it or if you're trans (coming back to that later).

So what I described above does look like a uterus with a pathology, right? It certainly looks like endometriosis at least. I went to a surgeon known for doing the other kinds of sterilisation and tried to convince him to just remove my uterus. He refused, not without an asserted pathology. To his credit, he looked for it. He had me take an MRI. Well, they found nothing.

Which means that, although I have a pretty dysfunctional uterus that I never want to use and just keeps causing me problems, he won't remove it. Because they can't find the cause. Even though I feel completely alienated from my body because of that damn organ that keeps trying to make me bear children and will have me bleed out and in pain when I won't allow it.

Then there is the other solution. I said above you could get surgery if you are trans. It's actually a bit more complicated that that. In order to get HRT and gender affirming surgery, you first need to get diagnosed with body dysphoria by a psychiatrist. And then you get a special status in our health system that allows you to get free access to all kinds of things in the medical field (like surgery and HRT) and beyond (like laser depilation).

As I said, I'm agender. They give this status to nonbinary people so my specific flavour of gender (or lack thereof) is not the issue. But I don't have body dysphoria, only social dysphoria. People misgendering me to my face will make me feel horrible but I don't see my body as gendered. My breasts and specifically my uterus are not something that I see as gendered, so they're not something that causes me distress in terms of gender-related issues. Which means as psychiatrist is never going to diagnose me with gender dysphoria as is, and I won't have access to hysterectomy through trans care.

Except if I fake it.

Now, I have no idea if it could even work. If I could even fool someone. But I've been considering trying because I really, really want to get rid of that damn uterus. And technically, I wouldn't be faking my gender identity. Just expanding on my dysphoria. Still, it feels wrong. I wouldn't transition in any other way except removing the uterus. This path doesn't feel like it's mine to take. I feel it would be disrespectful towards actual, dysphoric trans people.

So, what do you say Tumblr ? WIBTA if I tried it anyway ?

What are these acronyms?

[love-bugsy]

meet cut(e) | jason todd

the worst thing about love (two) / (one)

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

tw: allusions to character death, depictions of grief, mentions of blood and injuries, swearing, completely ooc Jason but he’s like my own lil character now and I’m protective, i learned my medical terminology from grey's anatomy don't hate me

only jerks steal other people's writing (just don't repost, mate)

You’re awake when he stumbles into your apartment two weeks later. You stare at him owlishly; knees tucked up against your plush, non-indented couch, glass of Merlot in your hand kept carefully away from the carpet you just scrubbed the bloodstains out of. You set it gingerly on your coffee table, half convinced he’s not real.

“I got… a cut.” It seems strange for this masked vigilante - you may or may not have been doing some tipsy research on the hooded hero - to look so sheepish. All six feet of him stooped in your cramped apartment, one hand clutched to his side, that emotionless mask staring straight through you. You get up from your couch wordlessly, walking down the hallway to rummage through your bathroom. 

First aid kit and isopropyl in hand, you return to his awkward stance in the middle of your living room; his gaze intently focused on your overstuffed bookshelf. His attention snaps to you when your sock-clad footsteps meet the edge of the plush rug separating you. From this angle, you can see the stubborn, brown bloodstain that you tried to hide under the leg of your armchair - little marks… stains or rusting memories… You gesture to your couch, and he sits, taking off his jacket.

Yanking a stool over to sit in front of him, you pull up his shirt, brows furrowing at the slice in his side. He’s undressed the cut you stitched up for him before he should have, and you examine it while you clean his most recent knife wound. Your stitches are far from perfect - the scar bulging in some areas - but for such a high tension wound, it’s healed well.

Your eyes flicker up to his blood red mask for a moment, and it occurs to you - distantly - that you should probably be terrified. I mean, seriously. A part of you screams that this is how people get murdered. Another part of you thinks that this is the most vulnerable he ever gets; his shirt off, gritting his teeth through the pain of 91% isopropyl alcohol. 

Another - buried - part of you thinks this seems familiar.

Your gaze darts back down to his chest, lingering unconsciously on the end of the scar that cuts out from underneath his shirt. Your eyes catch on the ugly bruises decorating the tan expanse of his torso, some angry and purple, others a sickly yellow. He clears his throat awkwardly and your cheeks heat, returning your attention to sterilising his wound. Real classy, birdie, ogling a guy whose face you’ve never seen. He breaks the thick silence first, low voice crackling through his modulator.

“How’s it look, doc? ‘m I gonna survive?” You hide a smile beneath your exasperated look, brows knitted. Still, you can’t fully conceal the amused edge in your dry tone.

“You’re not nearly as charming when you’ve been stabbed.” He cocks his mask; unreadable. For a long moment, you think you might have actually offended him, until he huffs out a staticky laugh.

“Slashed, actually.” You scrunch your nose. Pedantic asshole. 

“Look, I’ve had a long day, which wasn’t exactly made better by having to patch up a freak in a super-suit, so just… save the witty ironicism for someone who didn’t have to clean up baby vomit all day.” You can hear the smile in his voice when he responds, mask’s gaze still fixed on your face.

“Ouch, doc, and here I thought you were happy to see me.” A little pause as you meet his gaze briefly, unable to shake the familiarity… the instinctive fondness that warms your chest. His next words seem more guarded. “So, why’re you helping me then?”  Good question. Your focus never falters from the slow concentric circles you’re rubbing around his wound with an alcohol soaked hand towel. 

“I took an oath.” He laughs again and you quash the little spark of pride that hearing it gives you. You swap the towel in your hand for a roll of bandages and a plaster, applying the latter first before starting to wrap his waist.

“My bad, doc, I thought you were helping me out of the goodness of your heart.”

You scrunch your nose, trying to suppress the smile that tugs insistently at your mouth. Reaching for a clip, you secure his bandages and help him pull his shirt down so it doesn’t catch. You get up from the stool, shuffling it out of the way for your future self to move back in front of your kitchen island. Yawning, you stretch your hands above your head, a little noise of relief leaving your mouth when the tension in your shoulders loosens. You pretend not to notice how his mask tilts, lingering on the sliver of skin exposed as your shirt lifts.

He settles backwards, leaning his shoulders over the arm of your couch so that his legs don’t dangle over the edge. You watch as he yanks your throw blanket haphazardly over his torso and crosses his arms over his chest. You’re sure he must be keeping you in his peripheral as you startle out of eyeing him warily, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of it. Maybe to save you some dignity. Padding back to the hallway, you make it halfway before pausing, words spilling from your mouth unbidden.

“You can have some coffee, you know.”

“What?” The question comes out slurred, a full night’s worth of adrenaline finally dwindling. It brings back a flash of a near empty coffee pot - last dregs dripping slowly into a blue mug held in lethargic hands. You blink.

“In the morning.” He tilts his mask, and you stumble to elaborate, “When you sneak out. You can have some coffee.” Cautious, you study his reaction, but your vigilante doesn’t move an inch - his mask’s white slits boring holes into you like he’s trying to figure you out. Or waiting for a catch. You think he might trust you more if you give him one.

“You have to wash the mug, though. And the coffee’s old.” If you focus hard enough, you can hear something percolating - the coffee in your makeshift warmer or… the tenuous thread of something like dependency. He shifts on the couch and you suppress a wince at the stress it will put on his injuries.

“I like old coffee,” he hums out blurrily, hushed static of his modulator nearly rendering the words unintelligible. You flinch, turning off the living room light instead of responding.

You’re seventeen, he’s sixteen. You give him shit for being two months younger than you. It’s so late at night you’ll start to call it morning soon, and the two of you sit on opposite sides of a diner counter.

You lean over the counter, arms outstretched, dropping your head into your clasped hands. He reaches over you, pouring out another cup of old, lukewarm coffee. He follows it up with an unholy amount of cream and sugar - just how you like it - nudging it over to you with that wry grin of his.

“Tired, birdie?” You are tired, but not as tired as he is. You think maybe Wayne Enterprises should be funding his college tuition, not this superhero shit. Superhero shit that he never talks about, except. He used to tell you everything. You used to tell him everything.

Because he’s smart. He’s really smart. Smart enough to not risk his life every night. You want to tell him that but you know he doesn’t see it that way. In that mask, he’s infallible. Instead, you hum in agreement, dragging the mug closer and taking a sip. You scowl at the bitterness.

He frowns petulantly, looking at you with tired, amused eyes. “You don’t like my coffee?” You set down your cup, wrinkling your nose at the unexpectedly loud ‘clink’ it makes against the counter.

“You’re so dramatic, blue, only you like day-old coffee.” He gives you a dry look, one that says he’s too tired to mock-argue with you. So instead, you turn on the sink behind the counter, rinsing cutlery to load the dishwasher. You both sit in near silence, broken only by his fingers tapping carefully on the counter and your absent-minded hums. 

~

You spend days agonising over a present as his birthday rapidly approaches, though you know he hates the fuss. You settle on a gunmetal grey lighter, shakily hand engraved with a bluejay. Something to replace his shitty BIC one, with its smudged sharpie lettering that barely spells out ‘JT’. 

Secretly, you look forward to the sardonic comment he'll make about how he thought you disapproved of his cancer sticks. The truth is, you don't think you could stop enabling him.

~

A month out from his birthday, he drops by after patrol with your copy of Wuthering Heights. You ask if he liked it and he says he didn’t. Something, something, overly maudlin. He’s lying. He always gets that little specific crease between his eyebrows when he lies to you.

It feels like all you see lately.

Are the nightmares getting worse?

Lie.

Stayin’ out of trouble?

Lie.

Are we always going to be like this? Am I always going to lose you when you put on that suit?

Lie.

Over and over until you snap, poking a finger straight into the crease and smoothing it out. You tell him you want the truth and he tells you he can’t give it to you. You yell at him for ten hour-long minutes, sweeping angry gestures with your arms. One of them knocks over his half-full mug - blue shards shattering in the slow spill of murky coffee. You wish you remembered what he said to you, but all you remember is watching him leave. The last time he ever did.

You wait two weeks for him to come back, recording apologetic voicemails that he dodges with clipped, sullen phone calls. Then, he stops picking up at all.

His death isn’t reported on the news.

Alfred visits you once after he dies, carrying Jason’s old leather jacket like a sleeping animal that might come alive at any second. You don’t talk - not even when he hands it to you - you don’t know what you would say. You don’t know each other, you have nothing in common, except that you loved the same person once.

Your life shrinks - going through the same mechanical motions for months on end, school, work, home. It feels blasphemous to do anything but stare at the jacket - to lift it from where it hangs on the back of your door, to make it yours instead of his - until, one day, you can’t bear to be distant from him anymore. You put it on, shove your hands in the pockets like he always did, digging around. You find an old hairtie of yours in the inside pocket and a stick of apple pie flavoured lip balm you lent him last winter. 

His lighter is in the front pocket, blue as his pale, dark eyes. Carefully, you place it on your desk, next to the one you meant to gift him. 

Two lighters and you don’t even fucking smoke.

oof okay, this one was a bit of a monster (don't know if it bodes well for this series for me to have struggled with this chapter so much lol) but i hope you guys like it. :) i might have to take a little break over the next month because of my final exams, but rest assured, doc and jay will be back again come november. tysm for reading!

with love, bugsy

[girls-alias]

Have A Little Faith - Dean Winchester P2

Title: Have A Little Faith - Dean Winchester Part 2

Words: 1,079

Relations: Dean Winchester X Reader

TW: SPOILER S1E12.

Part 1

It had been a few hours since Dean and I talked. Nurses came in and out to do checks on us and other people in the room. My doctor came in with the same fake smile as always. I chuckled as I sat up and perched on the edge of the bed as he put his gloves and face mask on.

"I'm getting too predictable," He joked so I chuckled as I waited.

"Almost, you had soup rather than a sandwich today," I explained as he positioned himself behind me to start dressing my wounds. He chuckled.

"I still have no idea how you always know, you're like a psychic," He chuckled. "Sharp pain," He added nonchalantly like he had said it a thousand times. I sucked air through my teeth. Groaning from the pain of applying the cream to sterilise it.

"You have a spot of red on your shirt that isn't blood," I explained through my groans. He seemed to pause for a second probably to look at his shirt. He laughed seemingly noticing it.

"Impressive," He added before applying my bandages and smoothing them down. I gripped the side of the bed as the pain jolted my whole body. "All done, you can relax," I sighed with relief and relaxed. "The nurse will come in with your morphine," He added making me smile, ah the good stuff! I rested back in bed, my muscles tensing when I sat back and a sharp pain ran up my spine. I groaned slightly and rested my head back. The doctor walked out. I looked over at Dean to see he was watching me with sad eyes.

"It is as bad as it looks," I joked, Dean chuckled but his eyes still showed his sorrow.

"When will you be able to leave?" He asked softly like he was afraid to hurt me. I thought for a second.

"I don't know," I explained sadly, looking away to try to hide my tear-filled eyes. I hate emotions and crying. It's a waste of time but being stuck here is really taking its toll on me. Dean seemed to understand and respect my want for silence and didn't press for me to talk. I was given my morphine and not long after fell asleep.

I woke in the middle of the night when I heard shuffling around and groans of pain. I quickly looked over to Dean in a panic. I saw him struggling to get up so I rose to my feet and helped him.

"You should have woken me if you needed the bathroom," I sleepily informed but he chuckled at me as I helped him stand up.

"I'm not going to the bathroom, I'm breaking out," He smirked at me. I didn't even hesitate to help.

"They're not just going to let you walk out, Take a wheelchair, I'll be back in a second," I said and hurried into the hallways. I approached the nurse's desk.

"Hi, I was wondering if you could page Doctor Raylor, he's urgently needed." I lied to the new nurse. She started training today so didn't question it.

"Wait here. I'll be right back with someone who can do that." She said rushingly. She hurried down the hall so I walked around the desk grabbed her jacket from the back of her seat and threw it on. I saw a guy's hoodie from another doctor and grabbed that too for Dean. I walked back to see Dean in a chair trying to push himself but from the pain, he was struggling. I threw the hoodie at him and started pushing him towards the exit. He put the hoodie on.

"What's the plan?" He asked.

"Walking out the front door," I shrugged.

"What? That's a stupid idea." He sighed. There was a stand of equipment so I pocketed a couple of bottles of liquid morphine, sterilising cream and bandages just in case. "Walking out isn't going to work…" He added in a knowing tone. I shushed him as I approached the front desk. The guy behind the counter looked at me.

"Hi," I said in a seductive tone and bit my lip. He smirked at me.

"Hello, beautiful," He replied in a deep voice.

"I was wondering when your shift finished," I smirked suggestively before sending him a wink. I heard Dean lightly scoff behind me as I made sure to rest on the desk pushing my boobs and butt out.

"3," He quickly said.

"See you then," I smirked again and started walking Dean out the door.

"This isn't going to work," Dean whispered but was silenced once we made it outside with no argument.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I sarcastically asked, gloating about my skills. Dean just laughed as we approached a random car. I pulled a knife out of the waistband of my underwear, Dean looked impressed and confused.

"A part of me wants to ask where you just pulled that from the other part of me is saying to leave it to the imagination," He commented making me laugh.

"I didn't realise you were such a flirt, Dean," I replied.

"I'm a dying man, I've got to make it worth it by at least getting one kiss from you," He smirked as I pulled the handle of an unlocked car and used the knife to hotwire it.

"In your dreams," I giggled but it was in my dreams too. what can I say? He's crazy attractive!

"We do more than kissing in my dreams." He added making me laugh before the engine roared to life. I winked at Dean before rolling him to the other side of the car and helped him into the passenger's seat before I got on the driver's side.

"So, where's Sammy boy?" I asked and Dean told me the place of a motel in which they were staying. I started driving for it.

"I still don't see how it worked, you flirted with the guy at the front desk, I mean I had a nice view where I was but you distracted him so much that he let us just stroll out," He spoke out of nowhere, I giggled.

"What can I say? It's a talent," I chuckled making him chuckle.

"You must have magical eyes," He added so I smirked. My eyes are a vibrant Y/E/C, everyone always loves them. I've been told many times that they sparkle when I'm flirting. It really is magical.

Masterlist

Working On

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

Lessons learnt

masterlist

previous

TW: electrocution, conditioning, whipping (mentioned), captivity tw, pet whump

Alyssa barely had the will to fight Luke's iron grip on her upper arm as he led her downstairs to the basement.

Compared to the one at the old house, the new basement was luxurious and pristine. The floor was covered in slick black tiles, instead of plain concrete, there also was a drain built in the middle of the room. The walls were painted black, giving the illusion to whoever was stuck there that the darkness surrounding them was infinite. The ceiling was high up, level with the ceiling of the ground floor, providing enough space for the metal balcony stretching over one side, if spectators were to watch they comfortably had the space to do so.

The side opposite from the entrance held the display for a wide array of tools, torture instruments. Various chains and hooks were attached to the ground and other walls, if one squinted well enough past the lights, they could make out the place for them on the cross beams that supported the structure, running from the gallery to the wall across.

Alyssa was torn, she knew she wouldn't have to think about the risk of infection caused by the dirt and germs all over the old basement that was impossible to sterilise, the new place was tenfold as horrifying. She was sure she would've gone insane if Luke kept her down here after they moved.

"Sit" he pointed to the floor next to one of the hooks on the ground and pushed her towards it.

"Luke, please, I'm sorry, I won't run off like that ever again" she started, as if she could any sense of humanity in him. A futile attempt to appeal to his nicer side, calling him by name. Please. Don't hurt me.

"I know you won't" he said simply and started tying a rope between her collar and the hook.

"Please, please, please, I'll be good, you don't have to do anything I'll behave" There were tears threatening to spill over her waterline already, as she pleaded frantically for an ounce of mercy, which she wouldn't get.

"Shhh, none of that now" he cupped her face, just for a moment and let her lean into the touch.

"What do you think you should get for embarrassing me yesterday, hm?" he asked, with a deceptively soft and genuine tone.

"Please, don't- just please" he stood up and strolled over to the pegboards and shelves of displayed tools running his hand along them.

"I'm thinking a whip" He ignored her crying and settled his hand on the familiar leather handle "Fifteen lashes sound reasonable, right?" he called over his shoulder before actually taking it off the shelf and walking back to Alyssa.

"I asked you something" he stared down at her.

"Please don't"

"Not up for debate, I'm afraid, fifteen with this and we can forget it" She nodded miserably as a response.

"But first, we need to take care of something else" he crouched down and she picked her head up, locking eyes with him confused.

He reached into his pocket and took a small black rectangular object and dangled it in front of her. Alyssa's eyes widened in fear with the realisation. It was the remote to the electrified box attached to her collar.

"You told me yesterday that I confused you, right? We'll fix that in no time" She nodded, more or less accepting her fate. "Tell me what you called me just a few moments ago"

"What?"

"You called me by my name, love, say it again"

"Luke?"

The shock was instantaneous, piercing through her neck and burning through all her muscles. It was over before she could scream.

"Say it again" he instructed calmly, after she finally caught her breath.

"Luke" he shocked her the same. Her body contorted in agony, and this time she did scream.

"Do you know why I'm doing this?" No. But she wasn't completely clueless either. It was something that had to do with Claire, a woman she knew almost nothing and everything about at the same time, and yet again it was her drawing the short end of the stick. She shook her head, sending a wave of uncomfortable twitches running through her body at the movement, her muscles still spasming from the aftershock.

"I don't want to keep hurting you" he stated and fixed a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched. He didn't seem to care. "But you keep making me, and I'd like to fix this before I go overboard again. I know you're doing your best, you're doing so much for me, and I want to help you out so we don't have to keep coming back down here, okay?" She couldn't keep her face straight, Aly was falling apart at the seams, and she couldn't hold back her crying. Luke not wanting to torture her was almost laughable, but she didn't have it in her to find it funny. "Say it again" he prompted gently.

"Please, Sir, I get it, I won't- I know not to-"

"Say it!" he was calm as ever on the surface, but the twitch in his thumb hovering over the shock button proved otherwise. She obeyed miserably preparing herself for another shock.

"Alright, alright, there we go" Alyssa ended up on the floor this time. He gently pulled her back up to kneel, ignoring the spasms and twitches that made it infinitely harder for both of them.

"Now, did we say fifteen?"

[kate-y-n-adventures]

“That’s not twue!”

*In this one Natasha and Yelena are your sisters. Reader is a little and has not told anyone yet.

TW: Mentions of self harm (but it doesn't happen)

Reader POV:

Just coming back from a mission all I wanted to do was lock myself in my room and slip into little space. Everyone's making it really difficult for me as they want to hear about my "successful mission" in reality I guess you could say it was successful but many civilians were injured and one almost died I guess I've just been beating myself up on the way back to the compound because I wouldn't be able to handle it if anyone died on that mission.

Everyone's talking at me and it's getting too stressful my pleading eyes look all around the room for someone who could possibly get me out of this situation. "Are you alright sestra?" Lena asks me "I need to go" I say in a breathless whisper "okay everyone! We can talk more at breakfast tomorrow. Me and Y/n are going to bed, goodnight." Everyone's bids us a goodnight and I just do a small wave in return before walking with my sister up to my room. As I'm walking I'm thinking of whether or not I hid all of my little stuff. Surely I have the last time I slipped was when I came back from a really distressing mission a month ago it would all be put away by now.

I allow Yelena to walk me into my room but before I can get changed and ready for bed in anyway my eyes lock with Natasha's who is sitting on my bed with an object in her hand. "Y/n.. are you pregnant?" I am visibly taken back "Natasha are you crazy? Why would you say that to her?" Yelena demands we were all sterilised in The Red Room so Yelena was shocked Nat would say something like that. Nat holds up the item in her hand my pacifier. All I want to do right now is cry, nothing is going the way it should be and this situation has forced my emotions to erupt. "No I'm not" I state my voice not above a whisper because if I speak louder my voice would break, I say as little as possible because I'm on the verge of slipping and if I mix up my words my sisters are sure to notice. "Don't lie to me I know you are." Nat accuses "that's not twue!" Natasha goes to argue but stops dead in her tracks just as Yelena had when she heard those words come out of my mouth. "Y/n?" Yelena asks cautiously "mhm?" I avoided saying anything "Y/n are you a little? It's okay if you are we just need to know so that-" "NOS I NOT. GET OU GET OU. STOWP IT" Nat stands there shocked by my sudden outburst "okay we're going to Tasha's room if you change your mind and want to talk" Yelena leads her and Nat out of the room.

After Lena and Nat have left the room I don't stop crying. The only thing that I know will stop me crying is if I use the blades. As I'm thinking about what to do I'm pacing around my room if I enter the bathroom I know I won't be able to turn back so instead I rush out of my room and to the room directly across from mine, I don't bother knocking and just enter straight away. "I- i mm sow-wy fo yewwing" I say barley able to get the words out in my still panicked state "Breathe for me baby" Tasha stays walking up to me slowly. "I- i- i- dddidn'nt wan t hur" "the people on the mission? Baby you didn't hurt them you helped them." Yelena explains in a concerned tone "cut" the only word I could say in the moment to try to get them to understand. Yelena didn't understand, she doesn't know about my past history with self harm however Tasha does. "Where is the blade hon?" At that Yelena stiffens. "I din't do t" "that's good sweetheart, that's good. Why don't we go to your room and go sleepies?" Natasha asks "Lena, Nat stay wif me?" I look at them wonderingly "of course baby" Lena reassures.

Lena holds my hand as I lead them to my room. "Tuffie!!" I exclaim and grab my giant pink unicorn stuffie. Natasha pulls my covers out so we can all get in bed "okay there we go lay down sweetheart" Natty says in a whisper I fuss until Nat gently pushes me so I'm laying down, I face Yelena and keep my hand in hers and Nat hugs me from behind. "Nigh nigh" I say "night night Y/n/n" Yelena replies softly "goodnight bubs"

When Nat sees my breath has evened out she slowly unwraps herself from me and searches all through my room and bathroom to make sure any sharp items are gotten rid of.

Nat then sneaks herself back into bed so that her sister knows she's safe when she wakes up in the morning.

Author Note:

The end of my stories are difficult for me to write and tbh I just wanted to get something published today.

I hope you guys are having a good day

Thanks for reading <3

[weirdstrangeandawful]

TW: addiction, IV drug use

Sore throat as a healthy person: Oh that sucks. Hope I’m not getting a cold.

Sore throat with a chronic illness: Please don’t let me get sick… I can’t afford for my life to fall apart completely!

Sore throat in active addiction: …probably should have sterilised that. Hope I’m not dying. Not that I could get medical attention if I were.

[tinkabelle24]

To Build a Home

Chapter 13: Repercussions

A/N: Parts of this story were inspired by several of my favourite TV shows, The Vampire Diaries being one of them (the first couple seasons, at least).

I took a particular scene from season 2 and utilised it in this chapter. You'll know it when you read it. It's one of my absolute favourite scenes of this story as it showcases how far Val's willing to go to protect those she cares about. Enjoy! 🥰

TW! Blood and injury, assault (physical) attempt.

Masterlist / Chapter 12

---

“No – let me do it.”

Leo gently seized the pair of tweezers from Val’s grasp, returning them to the bowl of warm, salted water. He’d already cleaned and sealed her head wound with glue; wanting to get the quickest, easiest task out of the way first, so he could devote his full attention to the more complicated one.

The terrapin took her injured hand and set it palm-down atop the freshly cleared and sterilised dining table. Plucking the tweezers from the bowl and shaking off the excess water, he proceeded carefully extracting the many minuscule pieces of debris from the wound, one by one.

Leo stole a glance at Val’s face; her gaze was slightly lowered, staring at nothing in particular. Her lips were taut and eyes held a thousand unspoken thoughts. Aside from the occasional pained grunts and hisses, the brunette hadn’t spoken a word since they left topside.

He hadn’t yet enquired about the degree to which she was assaulted, but he did give her a brief onceover whilst reporting the incident to Donnie and police.

She looked dishevelled but, thankfully, no clothing appeared missing or out of place. Her face was covered in scrapes and her right brow had been split in half; he suspected a stray nail or an improperly placed brick was to blame. Whatever it was, he urged her to get a Tetanus booster.

Her left hand bore the brunt of the damage. The flesh of her knuckles had been ground away, some even to the bone. The brow would likely heal without scarring, but he doubted very much this will.

“I’m sorry...” he murmured regretfully.

At that, Val lifted her gaze to meet his. “Don’t be,” she insisted gently.

“If I’d just gotten there sooner-”

“-Leo, please. You’ve nothing to apologise for – this is on me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the leader scoffed, shaking his head. “You didn’t ask for this-”

“Leo,” Val leaned forward, staring him dead in the eyes. “I did this. I could’ve called for help, but I didn’t. Now, he’s dead… I’m so sorry.”

Leo frowned at her. “I don’t understand…”

“He was at my work,” she explained solemnly. “He got handsy with me, so I had him kicked out. I had a feeling he’d come back for me – I ignored it.”

"Why would you do something like that?”

“…C-cos I felt I'd already asked too much of you guys...”

“Too much?” Leo echoed, even more confused. “Where on earth did you get that idea from?” He then remembered her text. “Would this have anything to do with what you wanted to talk to us about?”

The brunette immediately looked away.

Ding, ding, ding!

“Look, Val,” Setting aside the tweezers, the terrapin shifted his body so he was directly facing her. It was now his turn to deliver the piercing gaze. “I know it mightn't seem like it sometimes but, trust me, I do like you. You’re great with everyone and you make Raph happy, something I've not seen in a long time. I consider you part of our family. In this family, we help each other - no matter what. You’d never be asking too much.”

At that point, tears were streaming down Val’s cheeks. The salt stung her broken skin but the surge of endorphins helped drown out the pain. This was precisely what she needed to hear.

Leo retrieved the box of tissues from the kitchen counter and set it in front of her. “Thank you,” the woman sniffled with a half-smile, then turned away to quickly wipe her face and blow her nose. The terrapin sat quietly in his seat, rubbing her knee comfortingly.

The pair snapped their heads toward the sudden commotion near the main entrance. Raph had finally arrived, squeezing through the door before it had the chance to open fully.

Leo promptly removed his hand.

The red-banded terrapin frantically searched about for a few moments, before his gaze finally fell on them. Out the corner of his eye, Leo watched Val shrink into herself as she looked away.

“Sorry. Got here as quickly as I could…” Raph apologised breathlessly as he strode over. Leo rose once again, allowing his brother to take his seat. “Thanks, brothah.”

"I'll give you two some privacy...” The leader glanced over at Val once more, before making his way over to the lab.

---

"-Val agreed to give her statement tomorrow-"

Donnie swivelled in his chair to find his eldest brother approaching. "Hang on a sec - Leo's here... Alright, keep us posted. Over." Tilting the microphone away from his mouth, he finally addressed the terrapin standing before him. "Hey. Is she okay?"

Leo shrugged slowly. "I don't know... no? Raph's here, finally."

Donnie nodded. "That's good... are you okay?"

"I'll be fine," the leader reassured. "He wasn't my first."

"I know that, but-"

"It was either him or her - I chose her. My conscience is clear."

Of course, Leo despised having to take a life. Had he the choice, he simply would've incapacitated the sorry excuse for a man. But he'd wasted too much precious time agonising over whether Val - who'd never given him a reason not to trust her - was the true aggressor.

He didn't feel deserving of her kindness.

"Okay, well... I'm here, if you ever need to talk."

Leo gave a small smile. "Thanks, Don. I appreciate it."

After a moment, Donnie finally changed the subject. "Mikey said the coroner just left. I've requested an autopsy be performed; I've an itch that needs scratching."

The purple-banded terrapin pulled over a swivel stool and beckoned his brother to sit. Spinning back around, he tapped the spacebar on his keyboard, prompting the arrangement of computer monitors to simultaneously illuminate. The largest, centremost one had a page already pulled up.

"What am I looking at, exactly?" Leo zeroed in on the awkward licence photo of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man. He looked familiar.

"Kyle Hill's records," Donnie answered simply. Leo's frown must've been burning into his head, as he quickly followed with a: "Val's assailant?"

"Okay..." He finally had a face to put to the grisly attack that should've never, ever fucking happened... "What about him?"

"He has no criminal record," Donnie informed. "Not even a parking violation. No mental health diagnoses - nothing. This guy assaulted someone in front of dozens of witnesses, then had the cajónes to go back to finish the job. He either had a nervous break, or drugs were involved-"

"Or he was just one of those sneaky pieces of shit whose luck finally ran out..."

Feeling the guilt and anger bubbling precariously close to unbearable levels, Leo paused to take a breath. "...Sorry-"

"N-no, it's fine. Seriously. Go off-"

"Do NOT patronise me!"

The brothers shared an alarmed look, before rushing out of the lab. They found Raph and Val standing in the kitchen, screaming at each another.

"Well- fuck, Valerie! I gave it to you for this EXACT reason. Why didn't you use it?! Explain it to me! Make it make sense!"

"I didn't feel like I could-"

Raph scoffed. "That's bullshit and you know it! You coulda been raped! You coulda been killed! Why would you willingly do something so fuckin' stupid?!"

Leo attempted intervening. "That was uncalled for, Raph-"

"No, he's right," Val interjected. "It was stupid and I'm sorry. The last thing I wanted was to add unnecessary drama to your lives, but I've gone and done it anyway..." A tear escaped her swollen, bloodshot eyes as she slowly shook her head. "...I-I can't do this, Raph."

The colour immediately drained from Raph's face, and he reached for her. "Val..."

She stepped away.

The terrapin's hand limply returned to his side. "So, what you said this mornin' about givin' us a shot..." He bit out, struggling to look her in the eyes. "... Was that all bullshit?"

Val's eyes grew wide. "R-Raph-"

"-If you knew ya couldn't do this then why didn't you stop me?! Why'd you kiss me back?! Why'd we go back to your apartment?! You've made me look like a fucking fool, thinkin' we had a chance-"

"Because I love you, okay?!"

All three Turtles froze. Leo and Donnie looked to their brother, who'd grasped the back of a chair to avoid collapsing. Val continued, fighting to keep her voice even as tears continued falling.

"I screwed up, I know that. When I promised to keep you guys a secret, I wasn't expecting to... I could do it, back then, when I barely knew you - I can't now. It's too complicated... I-I'm sorry."

A tense silence fell over the group as the brunette’s words sunk in. Leo turned to her and she immediately lowered her gaze, guilt marring her soft features. A coldness blanketed him as realisation set in…

The only thing standing between them was him.

“Raph, NO!”

Leo snapped toward the terrapin in question. Raph was thundering toward him, fists clenched and fire in his eyes. He braced himself for impact.

Val leapt between the two, with Donnie immediately following to protect her. Raph stopped dead in his tracks as he came face-to-face with the brunette.

“Leave him alone!” She cried as the purple-banded terrapin yanked her between himself and Leo.

"Stand down!" Donnie snarled, pushing his brother back as far as his arm would allow. The red-banded terrapin glared at him, then over at Leo. He shook his head, scoffed, then turned on his heel and stormed up the steps, slamming his way out of the Lair.

---

Masterlist / Chapter 14

@android-cap-007 @happymoonangel @miss-andromeda

[eldrai]

Untitled 01 (Hotch)

Big TW for self harm especially thought processes behind it

Wrote and 'edited' in 30 minutes at 2am. Forgive the poor quality that may lead to.

It starts again because nobody is going to notice the blood.

He has nine healing stab wounds and the incision from emergency abdominal surgery; the bandages and gauze curling up in the trash are always bloody. There's nothing suspicious about a couple more – not at the rate he's been going through them. And Jessica, because the others on the team stop by but she is the one he had trusted with those first, worst bandage changes, shouldn't pay it too much mind.

Aaron can do them easily on his own and he's taking his medication. Her two fears assuaged. They're worried about him, but not overly so. As far as they're concerned he's recovering fine. He is recovering fine.

Physically.

The other symptoms are harder to shake. How his heart lodges in his throat when someone knocks on the door. The strange shapes the shadows shift into late at night. Silence in the apartment when it ought to be his weekend with Jack. It is lonely, no matter who else is around. Lonely and cold.

And he has nothing to distract himself with. Phone calls from the team are nothing when he can't look at the files, can't be there with him, remote like Garcia but with nine of the resources at hand. They're doing him a favour even allowing him to consult like that, Aaron knows. It isn't on every case. They're still limiting him and he almost doesn't want to know on what criteria.

Just him and the apartment and some days Aaron is tempted to ask Jessica not to come over, because it makes the quiet when she leaves that much emptier.

Aaron wishes there was some big catalyst, an explanation. An alibi. A reason to blame for caving after so long.

There isn't.

He wakes soaked in sweat from a nightmare, and the picture of Jack and Haley on his bedside table is a punch to the gut, and it's his fault and nothing else will quite fix how his skin itches for it.

(He hates how much he wants to.)

Though it never is only one time, Aaron stumbles to the bathroom despite his fear. It's easier to kid himself in the dark that it won't become a habit. His hands are still shaking as he fumbles with the pack of refills under the sink. Still shaking as he sterilised it. Still shaking as he wipes down the area with the same muscle memory as the wounds.

Then they stop.

Just scratches. That's all they are. Scratches and one or two tiny darker red spots. He can't call that a relapse. He won't call that a relapse.

(It isn't like the scars he cut over. Not this time. It doesn't count.)

It's enough, and maybe if he could sleep, it would stay enough. Aaron sighs, runs a hand through his hair as he presses gauze to the stinging skin. The pain is there, a light burning, and so is that craving. The need for more.

For blood.

And he has bandages and gauze and medical tape and rubbing alcohol and ointment and an excuse right there.

(He's still doing this? God. Maybe it really would have been better if Foyet—)

Aaron doesn't want to. In the morning he'll regret it, knows there will never be an enough.

It's not like Haley is around. Nobody to stop for. Nobody who'd notice that. And if nobody knows then there's no harm done.

He could get up and clear up and call Jessica. She'd answer. She always does.

His hands aren't shaking.

The metal is warming from his grip.

Aaron closes his eyes. Tries to think of a way to talk himself out of it. For all he can do it with unsubs, he's never been good at negotiating with himself. This is his house, with his supplies, with the perfect excuse: no need to panic about what to use to care for it, no worry about hiding it after, no fear of being caught. No reason why not to, after all. Haley and Jack are in witness protection because he was too close to a case. Suffering. And the scrapes aren't doing it. His skin itches for that sharp, horrible release. Nothing else will help.

Distractions are steps away. Everything else is here with him.

He goes back to bed with a fresh dressing and an old pair of sweatpants loose enough to hide that.

[shuckle24]

I'm Late

TW: Gore, implied torture

Oh fuck we’re late. 

It’s alright, calm down, it's okay, we’re just going to walk through the routine procedure today. Nothing too fancy, I’ll wrap up in about twenty minutes. I mean, ideally you would have me for the entire hour but I have a… well, occasion to be present at. 

Anywho, open wide! Lemme help you a bit, yes, perfect, amazing, thank you, I’m just going to need you to maintain that angle for the whole bit, shouldn’t be too hard with the mouthpiece on.

What’s that?

No, I cannot give you too much legroom, now can I? Can’t have you all wriggling about while I do the ol’ poke and pry. We don’t want a mess like the previous time, do we? And, uh, yes the kids are fine. Catherine, well, Catherine is doing Catherine stuff; I guess she’ll come around eventually but I do wish it were sooner, ya’know?

Steady now, this is a delicate process and I understand you might be slightly intimidated, it’s perfectly natural, yet this cavity must be thoroug- there we go. Doesn’t that feel immediately better?

Splendid! Now onto the next. Oh, will you look at the time? I must hurry hurry hurry if I am to show up on time. You know how Catherine gets when these events are delayed on my account, with her it’s always first impressions this and time management that. I don’t get what all the hullabaloo is about, it’s not like the people have anywhere else to be!

Oh, look at me lollygagging again, it’s no wonder she doesn’t like to put up with me.

Hm, I guess we’re going to have to go without the sterilisation on these ones, the clock’s a tickin’! C’mon, c’mere, don’t make a scene, you’re getting saliva all over the mouthguard. Here, that is another one; and, let’s see, hmph, the third. Oh! What’s this, this little one dislodged with its neighbour, delightful!

Oh come, now, Mr. Johnson, don’t create a fuss. Gee Whiz! I sometimes wonder how you can manage to croak that intolerable croak with this substantially wide mouthguard. Can we go wider now? Would you prefer that? Phew! Maybe the folks on the market really did fool ol’ Doc. Denholm, the mouthguard’s no good! I’ve had it, I’m going to have Catherine sew me a proper gag in the morning. 

Golly! Clock’s a tickin’, clock’s a tickin’. Steady now, not too much pressure, not too less, loosen it up, pull it out, suction tube to clean the blood and wallah! Houston, we have the fifth tooth!

Let’s see here: one, two, three, four, um, five, hm, maybe that’s six, I really need to replace that lightbulb, I can’t tell blood from mere shadows. There! Seven! I can feel it with my tweezers. Five out today, seven left in total. Why! We might be out here by Christmas time, Mr. Johnson. 

Now, it’s already past nine, so I simply can not manage the time for stitches. Here, these super-absorbent cotton balls will have to do. On top of which, there! Perfect! This angle and the positive pressure should push the blood from your head. Can’t bleed if you have no blood! Haw, haw! Never gets old.

Alrighty Mr. Johnson, until later then! I hope to see you done by Tuesday, at most, and that is a promise. Pleasure doing business with ya, and now Catherine and the amputees await!

[love-bugsy]

the worst thing about love is… | jason todd (chapter 1)

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

tw: stitches, mentions of blood and injuries, swearing, completely ooc Jason but he’s like my own lil character now and I’m protective, very inaccurate medical terminology and procedure lol

only jerks steal other people's writing (just don't repost, mate)

There’s a dead man on your fire escape.

Well. He’s not actually dead, but his pulse is weak when you drag him into your living room, out of the relentless Gotham rain. Pulling your hand away from under his mask, you crouch down, peeling off the worn leather jacket around his shoulders and unbuckling his pauldrons. You feel around his back, brows furrowed. You can’t feel anything through the padding in his rain soaked shirt.

Hands wandering down to where his front is flat on the floor, you press down on his side, eyes widening when your fingers come back slick with blood. You go into autopilot, flipping him onto his back and yanking up his compression shirt. You might’ve gasped at the knife wound if you weren’t working on instinct. It’s bad. 

Shoving away the doubt clawing at the base of your skull, you steady your trembling hands. You’ve been trained for this. 

Don’t feel, just do.

The cut is long and serrated, and deep as all hell. It slices through the middle of a jagged, Y-shaped scar that chains over his shoulders like a noose. Jesus. 

It’s like he was stabbed and then dragged across the floor, cutting diagonally across his torso. How is he even still alive? Your hands move faster than you can think, completing an internal checklist as you go.

Breathing? Fast and shallow through his modulator, no obstructions. Bleeding? Applied tourniquet to epigastric region - transfusion isn’t even an option… Your brain works overtime, sifting through diagnostics lectures - penetrating abdominal trauma, debrided of devitalised tissue, no visible debris… You trace the edges of the wound looking for inflammation or fluid buildup; signs of peritonitis, but the weapon seems to have missed any internal organs. Lucky. Even luckier that he landed on a surgical resident’s fire escape.

Reaching over to the lamp by your couch, you shift it so that it shines directly over his abdomen. A last check of his wound confirms that there are no external indications that you should conduct a laparotomy. You just have to sew him up and hope to god the knife didn’t puncture anything internal.

You keep a hand planted firmly over his tourniquet, applying constant pressure, reaching for your backpack. Dragging it over, you use your teeth to open your suture kit and your free hand to sterilise his cut with Betadine and alcohol, wiping gentle circles outward from the wound. You dip your needle like Achilles in the Styx, hand and all, into the sterilising liquid, tugging a glove on with your teeth. 

You grip the needle driver in your dominant hand, pickups clutched in the other and take a steadying breath. There’s a stillness to the room, quiet save for your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The wound is large - high tension - so… mattress sutures… horizontal so the tension is spread over the edge of the wound. 

You take your first bite, adrenaline driving your needle into a clean stitch. You reverse it, passing through his cut again, before tying it off with the practised motions of a thousand surgical knots tied on yarn and thread and fraying jeans. You settle back on your knees after the first suture, readying yourself for the stitching to come, and start the next one.

~

Hours later, you haul him onto your couch, sitting him up on the arm rest to take pressure off of his dressed stitches. Frowning deeply at how uncomfortable he looks - even unconscious, you tuck a throw pillow under his scuffed metal mask. 

Leaning close to check his breathing, you hear crackling slow and deep through the helmet’s voice modulator. Bone-deep relief floods your system, a little sigh leaving your mouth involuntarily. Sitting heavily against your coffee table, you press the heels of your hands into your weary eyes. 

He’s stable. For now at least. 

Head bumping against the edge of your couch, you breathe in deeply, fighting the anxiety twisting in your ribcage. The couch smells like rubbing alcohol, stinging your nose so badly your eyes water. It’s followed by something familiar - underneath the heady scent of petrol and metal - like… if you mixed Gotham up into a single smell; rain and smoke and wet pavement. He… he smells like-

“Jay!” 

The faulty fluorescent lights - courtesy of your parent's small family diner - seem to flicker in tandem with your strident yell.

Your best friend looks up at you through a mop of dark hair, collarbones poking out of his thin t-shirt, second-hand leather jacket chucked haphazardly on the other side of the booth. He’s stolen your copy of Jane Eyre, flattened with one hand next to a plate of old fries you’d scrounged for him.

You tug your book from his grasp, tucking your pen into the pocket on your apron. He looks up at you with a mouth full of fries, infuriating confusion written across his face.

“What? You promised I could read it.” You sigh in exasperation.

“When I’m finished! And-” A dramatic gasp rips from your mouth when you examine the book. “Are these- grease stains?” You take the book in both hands, swatting Jason with it.

“What so it’s okay to hit me with a book but not get grease- fuck, jesus, okay, okay!” You raise the book over your shoulder with both hands.

“Do you yield?” His mock-angry expression almost makes you laugh, a hand held up near his face to shield from your attack. There’s a soft twist to his frown, like he’s trying to stop his mouth from pulling into a grin. He raises his hands in surrender, and you relax your hold on the book.

Rookie mistake.

Jason darts forward, faster than you can blink, grasping your waist with both hands and dragging you towards him. He yanks the book from your hands and lets you go, grinning childishly at you with the book in his hands. The cat with the canary.

You throw your hands up in exasperation before planting them on your hips like a disappointed mother. The admonishment on the tip of your tongue turns into a weary sigh when you hear your parents calling for you from the diner kitchen. “Fine. But you actually have to try to not spoil it this time.”

Jason crosses his fingers over his chest, “Scout’s honour, birdie.” 

You try not to flush at the nickname, just like you do every time he says it. Still, you fold like a stack of cards.

(He spoils it the next day.)

~

When you wake two hours later for rounds (at the ass-crack of dawn), he’s already gone. You pad quietly around your kitchen making coffee from day-old grounds, cautious not to disturb the sanctity of the early morning (or the ghost of his presence).

The only evidence of him is alight in the dim light that spills over your kitchen counter and into your living room - the deep indents in your couch and the bloodstains on your carpet… The rain on your wood floors, from the fire escape window you’re sure you didn’t leave open.

hi, hello, uhh this is the first fic I've ever posted so bear with me. if anyone actually sees this, i do apologise for the inaccuracies and lengthy prose. also, this will be a series so stick around if you like slow updates, slowburn and second chances. thanks for reading my rambles.

with love, bugsy

[redheadbigshoes]

Tw: suicide

Omg so glad other people are saying this, even though I'm a lesbien I've considered getting sterilised because the idea of even being capable of getting pregnant terrifies me. If I was to get pregnant I just know I wouldn't even be able to have an abortion and would quite frankly just have to kill myself

Lesbians not wanting to have kids, especially not wanting to get pregnant, are a lot more common than you think. There’s probably more people out there who share the same feelings with you regarding pregnancy.

[iris444x]

tender is the flesh

(tw: womanhood under this mf patriarchy) tender is the flesh of the girl who hardly has any; starving to impress, so the men at her feet will be many. tender is the flesh of the girl who drags a razor down its path, so that when she wears the short dress her legs are barer; smoother than brass. tender is the flesh of the girl who tattoos herself, self harm is "too ugly", so sterilised "stick n' poke" needles press into her skin, wishing it were her feelings that were sterilised, "please, God, drug me." tender is the flesh of the girl who does just that; heroin, coke, weed to transgress her pains too deep, too large, too abstract. tender is the flesh of the girl who traces it with her fingertips, bare; imagining the lines she draws weren't requests, made by herself, to herself, silent, without air. and tender is the flesh of the girl who feels hers is poison; "was it a man?" "who else could it have been? yes!" and destroys it in anguish, till with blood it moistens. all the daughters of this sad new age cry to their moms with a common rage it's not fair, don't you see? something needs to change! or tender the flesh will always be.

— iris

[oyasuminto]

(Tw - drugs, abortion mention)

Hey

Hey Minty

On top of keeping an AFAB s/o(?) pumped up on drugs constantly so he can just have his way with them, would he also keep 'em on birth control so he could creampie them whenever he wanted without too many worries? Or would he just- you know- make 'em get an abortion because he doesn't want to deal with a fucking kid

He strikes me as the type to not like wearing condoms

Locke definitely can't be bothered with condoms. He's lazy as shit, if there's a shortcut, he'll take it. However, he also might not want to put the effort in to get them birth control or drive them to a clinic, so he may get them fully sterilised if possible. Or, perhaps, just pump them full of so many substances that they miscarry.

He doesn't want kids, he doesn't like kids, and he absolutely should not be left in charge of a child.