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secondpubertyscene · 3 years

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8.14.21

This year has been one of major change. In Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower, there’s this quote, “God is Change. Beware: God exists to shape and be shaped,” and I think for the first time since reading it, I get what was being said. While I subscribe to the idea that there is a higher power of some kind, I also believe that we (as in, us as individuals) have great power as well. That power lies in our ability to change, to grow, to persevere. This year has been one of major change, and we really have to talk about it.

It is easy to look at this last year and think, “Well, that fucking sucked” because frankly, it did indeed fucking suck. I could write you a list of things that brought me great pain this year, unbelievable, undeniable, unrelenting pain that still lingers now. But, see, the beauty of it all is that none of that pain happens in a vacuum. Along with the pain, I’ve come through it all with more wisdom, more compassion, more empathy, more gratitude, more peace, more love, and more confidence. I’d like to share how those things all are connected, but first I would like to acknowledge something.

While I don’t know for sure if this is just an American thing, it does seem very clear that Americans aren’t fantastic at processing grief, death, and pain collectively. We often are encouraged to suck it up, to shut up about it, to not make others uncomfortable with our tears and trauma. I believe this is in large part due to the fact that American Exceptionalism doesn’t quite allow us to acknowledge when our systems have failed us or when we are suffering in the “greatest country in the world.” I don’t intend on participating in that toxic positivity or to dismiss the seriousness of the year past. I simply intend on acknowledging the nuances of my experiences, the complexity of it all. Now, let’s begin.

Without recounting every moment in large detail (in part because that would be far too much and also because I don’t need to relieve my traumas today), the events of the last year have been as follows: 1) COVID hit, 2) I had a severe emotional breakdown that resulted in a short stay at the hospital, 3) my grandma passed away, 4) I broke up with my partner of a year, 5) I was officially diagnosed with adult ADHD (inattentive), 6) I got into a PhD program for sociology (fully-funded), and 7) I moved to Ohio (two weeks ago now). So much happened in what feels like a blink of an eye. When you’re a kid, you think a year lasts forever. Now, a year feels like a couple months!

Anyhow, all of these things had super intense negative impacts on my life and most of them had super intense positive impacts on my life. Let’s talk about how. I won’t say that COVID had any “positive” impact on my life, because it’s still currently making things difficult and it is still destroying lives (full worlds) every day. The emotional breakdown that I experienced shortly after COVID began, however, was the impetus for some of the greatest change I would ever make in my life. It began with new therapy, medication for the first time ever to treat my mental illnesses, and a new relationship with boundaries.

Out of this breakdown, I came to realize a few things. 1) I wasn’t really feeling most of my life up until that point. That isn’t to say that I didn’t feel at all or that I wasn’t aware of my feelings all the time, but to say that most of the time, I numbed everything out that was too hard to bear. I didn’t cry, I didn’t write, I didn’t even take the time to try to identify exactly what emotions I did feel. I just lived through it and waited until I felt better. Or, I would breakdown with rage and then feel better. Therapy, especially the group therapy I participated in for a couple weeks after leaving the hospital, changed that in huge ways for me.

Because I was able to sit in my pain, in my discomfort, I was able to actually work through some of my issues. I began to identify the areas in my life that made me genuinely unhappy and began to grant myself permission to feel disappointment. I granted myself the permission to expect more, to want more. I granted myself the permission to set boundaries without guilt or shame. I granted myself freedom. It is an ongoing journey of mistakes and back-peddling and trying again, but it is mine and I am proud of it. Had I not had that breakdown, I don’t know that I would be where I am now.

My grandma dying is one of the most painful things I’ve experienced and honestly, I haven’t dealt with it all the way yet. I didn’t get to say goodbye to her in person, I still am battling the feelings of guilt despite knowing that there likely was nothing I could have done, and my chest still feels heavy thinking about her. Even as I write this, I feel that pain. I know she is not truly gone and that she lives within me, but oh, I do miss her physical presence. The nagging, the phone calls, the hugs, the cooking, her soft hair and beautiful hands. I miss her. Because of her, though, I have been able to rehabilitate another relationship in my life. The relationship I share with my mother.

My mother is a lot of things, but for whatever reason I continually forgot that she too is a victim of hardship brought on by nothing but sheer luck. In this last year, she lost her mother, the man that she loved, multiple cousins, friends that went back to childhood, and who knows who else. She suffered a lot this year and she has suffered a lot over the course of her 61 years of life overall. For the first time, I have been able to really acknowledge her as a full being with a complex history and understand her as a person, rather than just as a parent. I’ve set new boundaries with her as a result, boundaries that have completely change the dynamic of our relationship and will continue to do so as we both learn more about each other. Gone are the days where she relies solely on me for emotional support or financial support. Gone are the days where she feels comfortable talking down to me and then expecting any kind of favors from me. She understands and respects that I am an adult, that I am independent, and that I can terminate our relationship should it get to a point where I feel unsafe again. While this might sound like a threat or even negative, it is in fact quite the contrary.

We now share the belief that I deserve better from her and that my continued relationship with her is founded upon our mutual growth. That’s a beautiful thing that arose from us being pulled together by the loss of someone we both loved more than we maybe even loved ourselves. Thankfully, though, I have come to love myself more than anyone else on this planet. This newfound self-love and respect resulted in the severing of my relationship with my partner.

I won’t pretend like my ex was this horrible person because she wasn’t. She was kind, loving, intelligent, hilarious, unique, complex, and so many other amazing things. I still love her with all of my heart and have thought about her every single day since we broke up. It is not for lack of love that our relationship came to a close. The issue was that I needed more than what she could give. I needed someone who could really sit in my shit with me without invalidating my feelings jokingly because they didn’t know what else to say. I needed someone who could make me feel safe and secure, not fearful and insecure. I needed someone who understood boundaries as openings for futures, not closed doors. I needed someone who could show up for me the way I showed up for them, even when they hurt me, even when they lied out of fear. She wasn’t able to do that. She wasn’t able to stick beside me during the worst days of my life. She wasn’t able to see me beyond our relationship. When my grandma passed and our relationship was on the rocks, she made it about us. She didn’t stop pestering me about our relationship for long enough to give me support on losing someone who meant the world to me. I couldn’t trust her after that and I also realized, I wasn’t required to.

Boundaries in that relationship weren’t healthy. I felt unseen, unprotected, and sometimes even unloved. While I am sure that she has grown even more since we have parted, the reality is that when I ended things, I knew that doing so was the most fair thing I could do for the both of us. This is because I deserve someone who sees my value inherently. I deserve someone who takes the time to understand me, to love me, to see me. Not just see me and them together, but me as an individual separate from them. More importantly, I needed to be able to ask for those things without feeling guilty or bad. As of now, I still don’t know that she sees me as me, as a singular person, and maybe she never will. That is okay. I still love her anyway. I just love me more now. As a part of that love I’ve grown for myself, I also now have sought out more help for myself. This seeking of resources led me to realizing that I was ADHD and helped me change my life.

Being diagnosed with ADHD at 21 felt absolutely ridiculous. How could I be ADHD when I can sit still most of the time and have a pretty decent amount of impulse control? The answers came from my psychiatrist, breaking down the stereotypical understanding of ADHD and allowing me to find myself within the diagnosis. Finding the right combination of medication has been difficult, but what hasn’t been hard at all is finding more resources that help me manage my symptoms. It’s because of some of these resources that I am able to sit here and write this.

A huge part of ADHD is this perfectionist mentality that makes it nearly impossible to start or complete some tasks. Every time I sat down to write in the past, I told myself that I absolutely had to write every single day, once a day, or I should just not do it. When it came to this blog especially, I had so much shame when I failed to post for a long time or had a lull, that I would either consider deleting the whole thing to start over, or just never posting again. I realize now that those were just cop outs for my brain, that I can write as little or as much as I want because it is for ME. It doesn’t have to be perfect; it doesn’t have to be anything but what I need it to be. Waiting for perfection would have me waiting forever because it’s simply not how my brain works. Accepting that is a large part of how I got into my PhD program.

I’m not going to lie. I am still trying to figure out all of the feelings I have regarding this PhD program. I am shocked that I got in, shocked that I got full-funding, shocked that I am now in Ohio, shocked that I am in my own apartment, and overall shocked that I’ve made it this far in general. While I do not believe that I am stupid or not capable of greatness, I am realizing that I’ve always seen myself pursuing something more straightforward. When I was younger, I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted to do even as those things changed. I knew what was required of me, I knew what I would ultimately do, and I took refuge in that. Doctors go to medical school. Chefs go to culinary school. Forensic anthropologists get masters degrees and do field work. It felt clear cut, straightforward, safe. This is uncharted territory. What do you do post PhD? What do you do DURING PhD years? I suppose I’ll just have to find out!

Anyhow, this year has been intense. Change is always present in our lives and sometimes it brings with gifts that we can only receive when we’re healed enough to take them. I’m hoping to keep healing, keep growing, keep loving, and keep going. I’m learning so much about myself and about the world. I’m loving myself more than I have in the past. I am incredibly proud of where I am. And I’m not done yet.

#personal blog #vent blog #black ftm #black transman #black tpoc #black mental health #personal writing blog #sociology #sociology phd program #covid #grief

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fanfic-scribbles · 5 years

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Lunch Buddy: Chapter Seventeen

Masterlist

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Overall Story Facts:

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Story Summary: Steve Rogers makes a friend. A prickly, generally people-averse friend, but they’ll both take what they can get.

Quick Facts: Friendship (/Eventual Romance) – Steve Rogers & Reader (leading to Steve Rogers/Reader) – Female Reader

Story Warnings: Reader-insert that verges on OFC, written in 1st person past tense

Chapter 17: Ride

Chapter Summary: Spontaneity has its upsides. And downsides.

Chapter Warnings: Mention of Reader/OFC being big around the middle, bonus section at the end that isn’t from viewpoint of Reader/OFC

Chapter Word Count: 3344

A/N: Confession: I have had a version of this written for…a while. A long while. I saw a black and white photo of Chris Evans on a bike and the spirit took me, basically. I had to rework it a little but it’s mostly the same. Mostly. The picture is somewhere in my computer; if I find it I’ll reblog the post with that picture because 👀

Steve got called out to a job (or mission or whatever the fuck they called those things) on Monday but he made it seem like it wasn’t a big thing and even texted me while he was away. I assumed everything was fine and he would tell me when he got back, but the week wasn’t even over when, as I was boogie-ing past my window, I caught a glimpse of what I could have sworn was Steve’s bike parked on the street.

I walked backwards to get a better look at it and marveled at the look-alike– except, as I examined it, I wasn’t that convinced it was just a look-alike. And it wasn’t like Steve never showed up unannounced. However nobody had buzzed and I didn’t see him anywhere on the sidewalk; in fact I could see no rider to speak of. Maybe someone was just visiting and it wasn’t Steve’s. But it sure as hell looked like it was.

The more I stared at it the more it bugged me, and the longer I went without hearing a knock on the door the more perplexed I was. Curiosity finally sent me out into the cold night with slip-on shoes, my keys, and a jacket that was way too thin to be the easiest to grab. But I wasn’t going to be out for long. I just wanted to peek.

I didn’t run into Steve on my way down, but as I approached the gleaming motorcycle I realized it was his bike, confirmed by the little ‘A’ sticker Clint had stuck on it as a joke. Well, Steve would have to come back eventually, so I decided to wait for a few minutes. Under the streetlights his motorcycle looked really nice; freshly washed, shined…

“You want to take a ride?”

I stopped my hand before it made contact with the gleaming paint and I turned around. “No,” I said as Steve walked up to me. “I was just wondering where the loser normally attached to this bike was.”

He smiled at me, and he walked with a cocksure little swagger that belied a mission gone well. It was so rare to see him in an unprompted good mood, I had to smile too. “Also, that was terrible. You’re lucky I didn’t tell you to fuck off.”

“Well the night’s young, right?” he asked and came right up to me. He smelled nice, like new leather and soap. So he had actually stopped to take care of himself. Miracle of miracles. He held up a bag from the donut shop down the street. “I had to make a pit stop, but I wasn’t going to let a parking spot like this go.”

“That’s fair.” It was a really good spot, although it was in just the right place for the streetlights to shine on the bike like it was on a show floor. I didn’t live in a terrible neighborhood though, so it was fine.

“I meant it,” Steve said and I looked up at him. “Do you want to take a ride?”

I snorted, because there was no way to make that not sound dirty, but it was Steve, and Steve didn’t– but I did– and suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. I cleared my throat. “Um…no, I’m good.”

“Are you sure?” Steve went around the other side and lifted a helmet that was hooked to the back of the bike itself somehow.

I was about to refuse when I realized. “You have a helmet that you don’t use?”

“I don’t really need one, but I gave Maria a ride home one time and she–”

“Steven!”

He cringed. “Please don’t call me that. You sound like my mother.”

“Your mother was probably a very smart woman!” I said and crossed my arms. The mom-zone. Ugh. At least then I could stop deluding myself.

Steve’s lips quirked up again. “She was.” He crossed his arms and raised his head to look down on me. “And she probably would have been brave enough to get on a motorcycle.”

My eyebrows went way up. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged lightly. “It’s okay if you’re scared, I just wish you’d come out and say it.”

“Scared?” I knew he was riling me up, I knew it, but damn if it wasn’t working. “I’m not scared! I’m lazy and have a donut to eat and don’t want to put on real pants. Also, what about your primo parking spot?”

“You can get back in your pajamas afterwards.” He held up the bag and shook it. “With a well-deserved donut.”

He did have the donut. Damn it. I scowled at him. “Fine, I relent to your terms you monster. Just…let the donut go. It didn’t do anything.”

He shook his head, but he was trying not to laugh. He then handed me the bag. “Go get dressed. And take this up with you; we won’t be gone too long.”

I took the bag and turned around. Then I turned right back around again. “What’s stopping me from taking the bag and locking myself in my apartment and eating both donuts?”

“Well,” he said and took his phone out of his pocket to start messing with it. “You could. However…” He held up the phone and showed me a video. Of a chicken. That started clucking.

I scowled at him so hard my face hurt. “Someday I am going to get Natasha to owe me a life debt,” I said solemnly. “And then I am going to have her assassinate the hell out of you.”

“No you won’t,” he said, smiling brightly. The motorcycle’s shine suddenly had nothing on him. “It’s too much work.”

Thoroughly defeated, I stomped my way back to the building. For a little bit, because it hurt my feet. I turned and pointed at him. “This. This is why I don’t have friends.”

“Right,” he said cheerfully. “Wear your boots. Oh, but that jacket is fine– you can wear mine over it.”

I tripped on the first step.

“How’s the helmet?”

“Fine.” It felt a little big and I adjusted it so I could see better, but it was secure enough and would make sure my brains didn’t turn to tomato soup if something bad happened, and that was all I really needed. “I can’t believe you lug it around and don’t wear it.”

“I’m pretty hardy,” he said.

He sounded distracted so I turned to look at him and almost had a heart attack when I came face-to-bicep with his soft long-sleeve shirt. “Steve!”

“Honestly, I’m not that cold,” he said and held open his leather jacket. “Put this on.”

I stared at it for several seconds and wondered how it felt; how big were the pockets, was it the kind of soft that came from being well-worn, would it smell like, would it feel like, being wrapped up by–

“I’m good.” I patted my chest. My jacket; I was patting my jacket. “I’m covered.”

“This has more protection,” he said and held it closer to me. I leaned back. “Not that we’re going to fall, but it’s always better to be safe.”

“You need to be safe too. Last time I checked you still had skin under that thin-ass shirt.” It was long sleeved but, surprise surprise, skin tight. Was he doing this to me on purpose? That was just terrible (but also admirable).

What was just straight up terrible, though, was that I was almost ready to give in, steal his jacket for my hoard, and reveal myself for the magpie I secretly was. Then I noticed an issue that would, hopefully, drop this conversation entirely. Hopefully, because I found it just a touch depressing. “Also, there’s no way that would fit me.”

He gave me a look like he thought that was the lamest excuse in the world. “That’s the worst lie ever.”

I wished. “Really? Do you want me to try and zip it up?” I gestured from my…well-padded waistline to his ridiculous triangle point.

He examined me and didn’t that just suck, but as he did the math in his head, he seemed to come around to my side. Naturally, that did not make me feel better, and so I tried to put the issue to bed as fast as possible. “I can try and zip it up but I’m warning you, if it doesn’t fit I’m going to go back upstairs to mope and probably eat both donuts in a fit of fatalistic misery. Your choice.”

He pouted. That was cute, at least. “I think you’re just making excuses,” he grumbled but he put his jacket back on.

“More like you don’t want to risk your donut,” I said and stared out at the street while he circled his bike to check it or something. I briefly wondered if this was something I should be doing, or if I should make an excuse and bow out.

Arms suddenly wrapped around my waist from behind and I yelped.

“You feel pretty perfect to me,” Steve said and slid away to stand farther than arm’s length just before I could swat him. He grinned. “Comfortable.”

“Dick.” But I laughed and hated (loved) him a little more. “How am I supposed to be mad when you say shit like that?”

“That’s the idea.” He knocked the visor down over my face. “Let’s go.”

Despite not having the extra protection, I didn’t feel especially unsafe; Steve drove pretty carefully, taking streets that didn’t have too many cars so we could ride through easily, and my puffy jacket and warm gloves helped give me enough extra distance from him so I could keep my head. It was nice. It felt nice, getting out and doing something with Steve that felt like…what I imagined a date might be. Why he was still wasting his time with me when he could be out on a date, meeting people, making a deeper connection he seemed to long for, was beyond me though.

We ended up at Gantry Park and walked through. The few people around were easy to ignore and lights shone bright over the water from the buildings towering across the way. Steve stayed close and I was content to walk with him, but he led us off over to an area with a couple of empty benches, and we leaned against the railing and stared out at the city proper.

“So: how was it?” he asked.

He looked so earnest I didn’t have the heart to lie. “It was nice,” I said and focused on the buildings. “I don’t know what Sam is talking about; you’re a good driver.”

Steve scoffed. “Don’t listen to anything he says; I’m a great driver. Even when I have maniacs trying to shoot me off my bike.”

I gave him literal side-eye. “Didn’t you get two tickets last month alone?”

“Those were parking tickets.”

“Mm hm. Sure thing.”

He nudged me so gently I barely moved, so I overacted and pinwheeled my arms like he had shoved me. “Shit!” he said and was quick to ‘catch’ me– and with both arms around me like I would go crashing right through the railing I couldn’t find much to complain about. He pulled back and looked me over. “I’m so sorry; I–” He frowned and stared at me a little bit harder.

I cracked and started laughing. Until he lifted me up into his arms and brought me closer to the water. Then I wrapped my arms around him and dug my nails into his jacket. “Don’t you dare!”

“I really should throw you in for that,” he said, but he put me down and neither of us let go right away. Until I managed to pull my hands away; then he followed suit and held out his hand. “Truce?”

“Nope. I don’t trust you,” I said and walked over to a bench.

“Me? You’re the one who started it,” he said and sat next to me.

“Nuh uh; this whole thing began with you calling me a chicken,” I said and looked out at the lights again. I had to admit, “It is nice though.”

“So you don’t regret it then,” Steve said and swung an arm behind me. It lined the bench but I was the one who felt it.

“Of course not,” I said. I couldn’t face him. “I like spending time with you. Even if you are, surprisingly, anti-donut-and-pjs.”

His hand actually slid down to rest on my shoulder and I froze. “It just means we get to spend more time together when we get back.”

“That’s…good,” I said and forced myself to smile up at him. But he looked at me so intently. “Steve?”

He wasn’t quite smiling at me, but his expression was…something like it. Amused, or fond; there was something I couldn’t quite decipher but it was good. He looked happy. “I wanted to tell you–”

Something buzzed and we both jumped back. His phone, naturally, and he looked so murderous I thought he might break it in half when he answered it. I felt terrible for him– a nice night that he was supposed to be able to enjoy and he was getting called in again? It made me so mad that he never got a fucking break.

“You just barely got back,” I said when he hung up. “It’s not fair that they do that to you.”

He sighed and slid the phone back in his pocket. “It’s important. Who else are they going to call?”

“They’re gonna have to find someone else when they run you into the fucking ground!”

My snap surprised the both of us and I quickly tried to calm down. “I’m sorry Steve,” I said and breathed. “But that’s not…people care about you for more than saving the world, and you care about more than just that too. SHIELD doesn’t get to own you; they can’t just throw you back in the fight like you live in a character-select screen.”

He quirked a small smile. “Thankfully it’s nothing too strenuous, but it is related to the last mission,” he said and sighed. “Politics.”

“Ew,” I said but I felt a little less stressed. “You’re not making this better.”

“I know,” he said. “But it can wait until morning. I just have to…” He looked at me for a little while and sighed again, then stood with his hand out to me. “We should both get some sleep.”

“And donuts,” I said and took the help.

“You can have mine,” he said. “I’ll see you inside but then I have to go. I’ll…maybe we can do this again sometime?”

I was a little surprised by the earnestness in his voice. “Yeah, of course. This was nice.” It was so nice I was going to kick Agent Coulson the next time I saw him. And get destroyed, probably, but it would be worth it. “If we do it again and I hear your phone, though, I’m chucking it in the water.”

“I’ll help,” he said as we made it back to the bike.

“I guess it could be worse,” I said as he unhooked the helmet for me. “At least you weren’t out on a date or something.”

He stopped and looked at me strangely. “Why…what does that mean?”

I shrugged and took the helmet when he handed it to me. “I’ve been thinking…I’m pretty selfish with you, I guess, and you have your other friends and your job and that already doesn’t leave enough time to find someone. I guess I just wanted to let you know that…that it’s fine if you want to take some time to start dating again. If you want to. You’re doing really well, moving forward and all that good stuff, and I don’t want to be the thing that holds you back.” There. Said. Done. Now I would actually have to put my money where my mouth was if he ever did get set up on a date, but that was an issue I could deal with on my own. Likely by screaming into my pillows in the sanctity of my own home. Like an adult.

“You’re not,” he said quickly. “Holding me back,” he added, softer, and stared at me for a few seconds. “I’m not looking for–…well I can’t say that, I guess. But you’re right; I’ll move forward eventually. Right now, though, I’m doing what I want to be doing, and I’m right where I want to be.” He managed a smile for me. “So don’t worry about me either, okay?”

I jerked my head up and down. “Great.”

“Good.”

“Wonderful.”

“Fantastic.”

I tried to think of a good word. I failed and went with, “Super.”

“Amazing.”

“Awesome.”

“Fine.”

Really? That was boring. “Superb.”

He frowned at me. “Put the goddamn helmet on.”

I flashed him a grin. “You’re such a sore loser.” But I put the goddamn helmet on and got on behind him.

So. He was thinking about getting back in the game. He ‘couldn’t say’ he wasn’t, and that was…heartening and heartbreaking. A little less of the latter than I expected, honestly, though I also didn’t want to think about that inevitable day for too long. Because despite what he seemed to think sometimes, he was okay enough to start forging more new connections, and someday he would find a partner, someone who was wonderful and kind and good in every way, who would hopefully tolerate our friendship, and I would be happy for him. Eventually. For now, I settled into the selfish feeling of my arms wrapped around his stomach, soaked in his radiating warmth, and enjoyed the ride.

~Bonus~

Natasha walked in on Steve going at a punching bag. She raised her eyebrows and came to stand next to him, arms folded. “I thought you were going ho–”

“I will.” The bag, sturdy though it was, bounced with the next punch. “Later.”

Natasha watched him for a few more moments. “What got interrupted? Were you actually going to have a chat about feelings with a certain someone?”

Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but when he stopped she looked at him more closely. He hung his head and took some time to catch his breath. Sweat made his hair curl and his face was flush with exertion, but he still held plenty of irritation in his eyes. “It was perfect. I took her on my bike to a park. It was quiet, we were sitting together, she was…open. I had the perfect chance.”

“And you chickened out?”

“I opened my mouth and the fucking phone rang,” he huffed and downed half his water bottle. “She was– and then I had to…and I’m not blaming anybody; it just…”

“Ruined your shot?” she said.

“I’ve been waiting for a moment where she seems open to the idea,” he admitted. “And it was absolutely perfect. And then it wasn’t.”

“Steve,” she said, stern, but not unkind. “How many moments are you going to wait for? How many do you think you’re going to get?”

Steve didn’t answer. Natasha walked behind him and squeezed his shoulder. “Steve, you have control of the waiting period now. When you look back on this, how are you going to feel about it?”

Steve frowned deeper. “I’ve just started,” he said. “I have time, and I’m going to do it. But I’m going to do it right.”

Natasha took her hand back. And swatted him upside the head.

“Ow!” he said and rubbed his head. “What was that for?” he asked and craned his neck back to look at her.

“Being stubborn,” she said and pointed at the open floor area. “Let’s go.”

Steve flinched. “What did I do?”

Natasha pointed at the floor and glared at him.

He stumbled over but asked, “So just, out of curiosity…how fast do you want me to go?”

Natasha sauntered into the square lines marking the starting area. After a moment of looking him over, she said, “Too late,” and launched at him.

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#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers & reader #captain america fanfic #avengers fanfic #reader insert #lunch buddy

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absynthe--minded · 7 years

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a quick and easy “is my job exploiting me/a psychologically safe environment?” checklist

applicable to all hourly service/retail-type labor. posted here because a lot of young people out looking for work don’t know this shit and it took me years to understand the warning signs.

do they have OSHA and EEOC posters about wage, breaks, and working conditions posted somewhere I’m likely to see them?

if they don’t, is there someone I feel safe asking to produce copies of whatever form I want?

if I am a minor, have they informed me of any state requirements about breaks and lunches that differ from requirements for adults?

if I am in an at-will employment state, was I notified of this before I took the position?

do they allow me to keep copies of policies on attendance, overtime pay, ethics, and other applicable parts of my job?

was I required to sign a contract, NDA, or other legal form without having the option to call a lawyer who could examine it and advise me?

if the official language or dominantly spoken language of the country I work in isn’t my first language, was I given the opportunity for an interpreter or for bilingual paperwork? (note: this is not always an automatic red flag? some businesses are very small and only have the one other person working there. but if that’s the case, the person hiring you should at least make the effort to communicate.)

how am I being paid? if it’s direct deposit or check, do my pay stubs accurately reflect the hours I’ve worked? if it’s cash, do I have a pay stub at all?

if I feel like I’m not being paid correctly, is there someone I can talk to about that discrepancy without the company or my supervisor retaliating?

am I pressured to work without pay or without adequate pay that follows company policy?

was I required to disclose information that isn’t legally mandated (race, gender, sexual orientation, if I’m disabled) in order to get an interview or get the job?

if I’m a minor, will my parents or guardian be called if I do something wrong?

are there company policies preventing discrimination based on race, gender, sexual orientation, and religious belief?

if I were to come out at work, would I face retaliatory action, or would I be able to continue working as long as I remained professional and did my job?

will I be asked to remain at work and finish my shift if I’m sick or injured? (this doesn’t mean you should be required to go home with a paper cut or a minor bruise, but if you pass out or hit your head or sprain your ankle and you’re flat-out told to continue working, that’s a red flag.)

if my coworkers say prejudiced or bigoted or hateful things during the course of my shift or in common break areas, am I allowed to report them? will coaching or disciplinary action be given?

how anti-union are corporate policies? am I at risk of being fired if I express pro-unionization sentiments or attempt to unionize my coworkers?

am I provided with adequate training to do my job?

am I ever asked to do dangerous or potentially unsafe tasks with no safety equipment or formal instruction?

if I see a safety risk, are there avenues I can use to report it without retaliation?

if I’m disabled, can I request accommodations without the risk of being fired?

if I have a service animal, is that service animal allowed to work with me throughout the course of my day? am I placed in a position where my service animal can accompany me?

and finally

if I have questions about anything, can I ask them, or will I be ridiculed or called insubordinate?

know your rights and stay safe, guys. your labor has value, and you have value.

#absynthe is bitter about labor rights #information #labor rights

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xadoheandterra · 7 years

Text

Title: Don’t Write Me A Postscript Chapter: IV (I / II / III / V / VI / VII / VIII / IX / X / XI / XII / XIII) Fandom: Red vs Blue Characters: Church | Alpha, David Church | Agent Washington | Recovery One, Micheal Caboose | Agent California | Micheal-210 Summary: He was all sorts fucked up and didn’t want to admit it. Being alone for fourteen months didn’t help matters--except, well, Church was tired of being alone. Tired of people leaving and dying--and he thought, no more. I’m done. I’m out.

Won’t Say You’re Sorry (I / II / III)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

Church stared at the wall, stared at the dragged marks in the cement, raised the jagged piece of metal in one hand, and drags. It let out an unholy screech as he scored another mark into the cement, and then let the metal drop to the floor with a clang. They lined the wall in short, neat marks perfectly uniform and evenly spaced to count the days. It’d been precisely eighteen groups of five since he’d last spoken with Agent Nevada. Before that it was eight groups of five with two left over since he’d been dropped into High Ground. In total twenty-six groups of five with two left over, or one hundred and thirty-two days in High Ground.

His heels ached from where he leaned on them. Church gnawed his lip. Almost five months since he’d been left here. A little over three since Agent Nevada ceased communication. February fifteenth to June twenty-eighth. Friday when it started, to Wednesday now. The numbers ran through his mind in a continuous loop for a while. Church rocked on his heels, and then he pushed away from the wall and got to his feet. He turned away from the wall in a decaying hallway and returned to his self-made haven.

As the days grew shorter and shorter and the temperature began to drop with the planet’s winter-cycle, the more Church began to debate on whether High Ground was in fact safe for him to stay in. He missed the walls of his box canyon, the fact that the Vegas quadrant wasn’t too far and that he could convince Grif to head over and get him some alcohol for which he paid handsomely. He missed his most tangible memories that often wanted to overwhelm him with sensations he didn’t even realize he’d felt back then.

(every sound)

(every scent)

(every touch)

(every taste)

(every sight)

(clarity sharp and bright in a way a memory shouldn’t be)

Being alone made those memories sharper. The sting in them that Church felt, the terror and the heartache burned within his mind like a supernova, only to peter out with grit teeth. These days Church spoke little, and coming from a normal chatterbox of cuss words and vitriolic banter that meant something. He still hadn’t touched the boxes of gifts from the Director, nor had he bothered to send in a request for supplies even though he found himself slowly running low on lubricant.

Church didn’t want to bother. He focused on expanding his safe area, on fortifying walls and building up a small home in a space that didn’t’ feel safe, a space that wasn’t his. He wanted his canyon, his boxed walls and constant summer heat; his little deserted wasteland filled with his reds and his blues. He wanted Tex and Junior and even Wyoming. He wanted Gamma and Omega and Doc. He wanted Florida.

wantwantwantwantwantwantwant

Church could barely remember Project Freelancer. It felt more like a dream, less real, than living in Blood Gulch ever did. He didn’t want to be tied to Project Freelancer, to be indebted, to be protected like this. So what if he wasn’t safe in Blood Gulch in the way the Director wanted? He was just as unsafe here—at least there he had a sense of normalcy. At least there he didn’t have to worry if Sarge, Grif, Simmons, or Donut would really, truly try to kill him.

They got to blow shit up for fun why would they honestly try to ruin that? Sure there was an inherent risk of death but it was far more entertaining in the end to make them near misses and close calls. The rush of adrenaline those at Blood Gulch felt—and the true lack of the fear that the Great War inspired, as if the Sangheili couldn’t touch them in their little box canyon—was absolutely addicting. They could laze about, create, and destroy to their hearts content all the while getting paid to do so. It was dangerous, but oh so very fun.

Church paused mid setup of the defenses he’d finally gotten parts to jerry-rig into place as the realization struck suddenly home. He missed them. He missed his crazy Grif siblings, his stupid, idiotic Tucker so far in the closet that he could see Narnia, his destructive Caboose—Sarge who would spit curses back at him and create fascinating combat strategies with gleeful violence, Lopez who didn’t speak a lick of English and still came across as the snarkiest in the room; he missed Donut and the ‘wine and cheese’ hour they’d sometimes share in the caves when shit became too much at their respective bases. He missed Simmons, the way he’d spout random facts when nervous, the way he’d rant and rave and bemoan all that was Grif. He missed their ridiculous unresolved sexual tension. He even missed Shiela, the “dumb” AI who was quickly evolving in ways that shouldn’t be possible with Caboose’s weird technopathy.

Church stared down at his hands. He stared at the way they trembled—the way they’ve trembled since being aboard the Father of Intuition—and silently went back to work. He missed his assholes, his jerkfaces, and his cockbites. He’d probably never see them again.

(ain’t that a bitch)

It took work, finesse, and finally owning up to the fact that if he didn’t ask for things, then Church would never succeed in making his small little fortress secure enough. It needed to be secure, to be safe, to be sound. He didn’t like the feeling of vulnerability here; the walls he’d fixed up and supported to create his rather meager living space weren’t enough of a defense. The munitions supplied to him weren’t enough. He’d already jerry-rigged several other defenses toward the gate—tripwires attached to detonators attached to bombs and grenades. They’d at least prevent some people from getting too far past the gaping hole in the wall.

Church had also stuck a couple of traffic cones out there if only to make it seem like the space wasn’t as dangerous as he’d made it into. Beyond that though there wasn’t much in the way of protection, so Church began to word requests as careful as he could. He needed computers, motherboards, hard drives—anything that was technological that he could modify in some form to do what he needed. Circuits and wires and conduits to make an alarm system. A small short range radio tuned to a specific frequency attached to the alarm so that the intruders weren’t aware. Something better than simple tripwires.

It took months. Church’s wall now had fifty-one groups of five scratched into the wall. It came out to be almost nine months since his arrival in High Ground. Seven months since Agent Nevada was gone. Church breathed a sigh as he relaxed back into the couch, lips pressed thin. He wondered what the Director’s letters said. He had ten of them now. The gifts came in much smaller boxes than the first three, too. They were easier to handle, and as the months trailed on Church found himself drifting in thought.

He wondered about the Director. He wondered about why the man put him into small hidey holes and tried to make him feel safe.

(he wasn’t safe)

(he was safe)

(which is it?)

He wondered quite a few things about the Director, but never for long. They passed through his mind like the deaths he could count. Each death that was his fault—or not. Each loss that stung at him, tore at his entire being in a way that was indiscernible—and there were many. So many people had been hurt because of Church, hurt by the Director and by Church’s own failings.

“Only right I be alone,” Church mumbled. “Can’t get anyone killed that way, can I?”

He hated it. Church hated the fuzzy twisted memories of Freelancer. He hated the disoriented feeling that came with them, he hated how his body felt off and how things always processed wrong. He hated how sometimes he didn’t feel even human. Church pressed his hand over his eyes and tried to stop the thoughts that swirled in his head without end.

“Can’t do this anymore,” Church mumbled. “Won’t do this anymore. Don’t want to.”

Tex had been the last straw, Church thought. The way she’d so starkly said Goodbye just for him to hear—after everything she’d done for him, everything she’d done to him, after everything—cut deeper than anything Church could ever realize. It was a finality he didn’t want, that some part of him refused to accept.

He needed to see her—he needed to—

(allison)

(where are you?)

—he needed to confirm it, with his own eyes. Church lowered his eyes and his brow furrowed. He never got the chance before.

(when?)

(was that me?)

Church pressed his lips together. When this mess was done, when he could finally wash his hands of Freelancer and its pile of shit, then he’d seek out Tex’s remains. They had to be somewhere.

(distance from the planets gravitational pull)

(count for rotation)

(explosion would have caused wind)

(debris field how far?)

(too far)

(potential amount of damage)

(engine trouble?)

Church wouldn’t stop until he found her. Until he could bury her once and for all. That final goodbye that he could never provide, that she gave him—he’d make it right; he’d make it complete.

Church scribbled messily on a piece of paper and pinned it up to the map of Rhodam, the planet where Blood Gulch resided. The map was covered in pins and lines and half-thought scribbles. There were notes of mathematics that Church didn’t even recall how he knew them, but that he just did. Everything he’d worked to make some sort of semblance on where to find the pelican that Tex had taken.

He needed to be prepared. Church could read the subtle signs in the delays in receiving his supplies, in how supplies now included food he couldn’t even eat and was left to rot and be burned. Church could see how Project Freelancer began to tear at the seams. He wondered if the Director noticed it, or if he even cared. He never quite seemed to care about the Freelancer Agents, after all. The only thing the Director seemed to ever notice was Tex, and Church wanted to punch him for that.

(she’s mine)

(my beta)

(what?)

His obsession on finding Tex wasn’t helped by being alone. Church’s thoughts twisted around each other—little distractions aside from securing this facility and his box, from seeking out Tex, and making a livable space drove him to think. Church never noticed how completely discordant his thoughts were. Nothing made sense, little things bothered him and he couldn’t figure out why. Church started questioning why more often.

whywhywhywywhy

(who am I?)

The fuzzy memories of Freelancer versus the sharp clarity of Blood Gulch made his head hurt. He felt like he was forgetting something, but what? What had he lost in the head trauma that came with his arrival to Blood Gulch? What was he missing? The thought, the realization was just out of reach. Church wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. Would it change things?

(would it break him?)

(he’s been broken so much)

Church sighed and leaned back to stare at the wall with a contemplative frown. Twisting, confusing thoughts brought on by loneliness aside, there was little to wonder about just where Tex might’ve crashed. The spots on Rhodam were limited, the planet’s ecology so strange and varied that it didn’t make sense some days. From what Church gathered Tex either landed near one of the new installations, or she landed in the facility that the weird Sangheili cult had close ties to, and Gamma chose to hide out in. Church couldn’t recall the name, but that didn’t matter. His options were further deserted wasteland fairly close to Blood Gulch that one just had to pass through a few caves in the mountain and cliffs, or the mountainous region across the sea.

“But which?” Church mumbled. If he chose wrong, it’d take weeks of travel to get to the second location. He frowned, contemplating, when the small ping of the early alarm went off from his helmet. With a curse Church scrambled over to his armor and began to put it on as hastily as he could. There’d been no one before and he expected no one now and just—

“Shit fucking dammit clasp on you piece of shit!”

With a huff Church finished pulling on the armor and clasping it in place when a second ping went off. He cursed again and raced out of the small room filled with maps and notes and obsessive thoughts. He raced toward his ‘armory’ and grabbed his sniper riffle. He headed to the armaments as quickly as he could. If he could just scare off the intruder then everything would be fine. Then he could go back to his work on finding Tex.

Church got up top, above the gate and the hole in the wall, into the snipers nest in time to catch sight of regulation blue armor.

(caboose?)

Beside the soldier another stood in more customized pieces, painted grey and yellow, and Church grit his teeth. Couldn’t be Caboose because that wasn’t a set of armor that any Sim Trooper wore. They had set colors, set patterns, and none of it was customizable from the start. Church pulled up the sniper, looked through the scope, and fired.

Grey and yellow at least had the decency to duck for cover. Regulation blue however—

(tall SPARTAN friendly)

(who are you?)

—Church cursed and took closer aim. Fine, if this one wouldn’t accept his warning shot—

(familiar)

(an ache)

(home)

—Church said words that he didn’t even pay attention to as he lined up the shot. His chest ached, he felt like he couldn’t breath—

(he can’t)

(he’s dead)

—grey and yellow spoke in a familiar voice, a little aged, a little more rough and Church’s hands shook. They’d always shook but this was worse, this was familiar—fear—

(washington?)

(no)

(that’s not)

—Regulation blue spoke up, contemplative, familiar.

“Wait a minute—”

Church grit his teeth.

(can’t be)

(he’s safe)

Church settled down, squared his shoulders despite his trembling, and shouted—

(caboose—)

—and missed. His hands shook too much and the shot went wide.

“Aw c’mon, what the fuck!?” Church screamed, his voice hit that pitch. He couldn’t—he didn’t—they needed to go they were messing with his head too much—a dead voice and armor that shouldn’t be here—and then grey and yellow yelled a familiar name and Church froze solid.

“Caboose!”

(no)

nononononononononononono

(he’s safe)

(he can’t be here)

(I’ll just…)

“Church! Church! It’s me! Your all time best friend!”

Church felt like chocking as he shrieked out, “Caboose?!”

#rvb #red vs blue #leonard church #caboose #agent washington #fanfic #alpha ai #fic: don't write me a postscript #agent california #alpha church

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