#dr is right this shit should be prescribed cause what the hell

[leiawritesstories]

You did rowaelin teenagers, you did lysaedion teenagers, we all know this series won't be complete without elorcan teenagers...

then prepare yourselves for boy dad!Lorcan 👀👀

word count: 2,239

warnings: lots of language (they're Elorcan's kids), exhausted parents, injury

enjoy!

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

"I swear to the ruttin' gods--" Lorcan grumbled, swinging himself out of his truck and striding across the parking lot, clicking the key fob to lock the doors. It took him less than a minute before he strode through the automatic doors, their quiet swish completely opposing his scowl, and approached the desk. "Salvaterre."

The curly-haired lady blinked. "Are you Salvaterre, or are you here for Salvaterre?"

Lorcan suppressed the foul thing that threatened to come out his mouth. "Sorry. I'm Lorcan Salvaterre, here for Daric Salvaterre. I got a call saying he'd been brought in?"

The receptionist typed a few things into her computer. "Ah yes, Mr. Daric Salvaterre was brought in by someone who said he was a friend. May I see ID, please? Just a formality." Lorcan handed over his driver's license. She glanced at it and nodded. "All right. Daric is in Room 27, go on back."

"Thanks." Lorcan took back his license and headed through the doors into the clinic, the sterile smells of cleaner and medicine hanging in the air. He followed the signs until he reached Room 27, where he knocked a couple times on the door to make sure he wouldn't walk in on a doctor talking to his son.

"Come in."

Lorcan opened the door, his eyes immediately shooting to his oldest son. "'Ric, you alright?" He crossed the small room in a step and a half. "Shit, kid, what happened?"

"Calm down, Dad," Daric protested, though he made no move to bat his father away. "I'm fine."

"That godsdamn boot says otherwise," Lorcan retorted.

"Fair enough." Daric shifted, wincing slightly. "Shit!"

"Shit," Lorcan echoed, instinctively catching hold of his son's shoulders. "Kiddo, you're scaring me."

"I'm not a kiddo," Daric grumbled, lips twitching. "I promise I'm gonna be fine, Dad, the doctor said nothing's broken."

"Then what's wrong?"

The boy sighed. "I had a...small accident at practice?"

"Bullshit." Lorcan raised one dark brow as he sat himself down in the uncomfortable chair. "What happened?"

"Ugh, shit, you see through everything," his son complained. "It was just during a scrimmage, I got a little too tangled up with my man and we both went down, but my skate caught on his and twisted my ankle."

Lorcan winced. "And they sent you to the damn ER for that?"

"Trainer referred me," Daric explained. "Said he couldn't be sure without a scan and there's sure as hell no X-ray machines or any of that shit at school."

"Okay." Some of Lorcan's raging stress subsided. "So someone drove you here and they got a scan and said it's just twisted?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Daric affirmed. "I just had to wait here 'cause I'm only sixteen and they won't let me check myself out."

"Cause you're still a kid." Lorcan half-smirked. "Right, is the doctor coming back?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Right on cue, there was another knock on the door.

"Come in!" Daric called.

Sure enough, it was the doctor, a couple of forms in his hand. "Mr. Salvaterre?" he asked, looking to Lorcan.

"That's me." Lorcan shook the doctor's hand. "I'm this uh...rash youngster's father."

"Dr. Hesper," the man replied. "I'm sure your son's already told you, but the injury isn't as serious as it could have been. It's sprained, and he shouldn't put weight on it for at least two days and definitely shouldn't be skating for at least a week, but as long as he keeps to those guidelines, he should be back on the ice within a couple weeks and back to training and competing in a month."

"Well, that's a relief." Lorcan flashed a half-grin at his son. "Any other instructions? Medicine, whatever else?"

"We're not prescribing pain medication," Dr Hesper replied. "It's not that serious of an injury. He can have ibuprofen, Tylenol, the standard over-the-counter pain relievers, and if it starts to swell, elevate and ice for twenty to thirty minutes on and thirty minutes off."

"Okay great, thanks again, doctor."

"Of course!" Dr. Hesper shook Lorcan's and Daric's hands again, told Daric he needed to use the crutches for a week, and headed out of the room. "You're all good to go, Salvaterres."

Lorcan helped Daric get situated with the crutches and took the forms, walking beside his son as they went back out to the truck. At the door, Daric stopped, unsure quite how to swing himself up.

"Give me a hand, Dad?" he finally asked, a little grumpily.

"Course." Lorcan took the crutches and boosted his son up on his good leg, helping him swing his injured leg into the truck so he wouldn't put weight on it.

"Thanks." Daric took the crutches back and leaned into the seat, closing his eyes.

It was a rather quiet drive home.

~

"Holy shit!" Elide yelped, practically sprinting out of the house and out to the pickup the second she saw her oldest son on crutches. She was at Daric's side almost before Lorcan could blink, brows creased with worry. "What happened?"

"I'm fine, Mom," Daric mumbled, hopping along.

Elide planted herself in front of her son and folded her arms across her chest. "Don't you give me that crap, Daric Callum Salvaterre. What. Happened?"

Her son gulped, the use of his full name very much communicating how serious his mom was. "I sprained my ankle at practice, doc said if I follow his rules, I should be back to playing in a month."

"So...not too serious?"

"No, Mom, it's not too serious," Daric huffed. "Can I go in now? I want to sit down."

She chose to interpret his curtness as him being in some degree of pain and stepped aside. "I'll get you some ibuprofen." And she did, bringing him the medicine and some water once he was settled on the couch. "Here."

"Thanks, Mom." Daric flashed her a soft smile, exhaustion written all over his face.

Elide reached out to brush the dark hair out of his eyes. "How long until you can get back on the ice?"

"I'm on crutches for a week, so a week until I can do anything at practice and probably two until I can actually go on the ice." He sighed, frowning. "Don't fuckin' like it, though."

"Language, son." She huffed a soft sigh herself. "I know it sucks, 'Ric, but please--"

"You don't know!" he interrupted, scowling now. "God, Mom, I get you want to be sympathetic but you don't bloody know!"

Arching one dark brow dryly, Elide merely sat down on the other couch and raised her right leg, pulling down her sock to expose the scar tissue at her ankle. "Oh?"

"Shit," Daric mumbled, his cheeks flushing. "Sorry, Mom, that was stupid of me."

"I forgive you," she murmured, standing back up and ruffling his overgrown hair. "Think before you speak, son of mine." her lips curled into a little grin. "Hungry?"

"Oh yeah, I--"

"DUDE!" A slightly younger dark-haired boy burst into the living room, staring unabashedly at his brother's boot. "Dude, that's DOPE, can I sign it?"

"Matt," Elide groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose, "are you serious?"

"What?" Matthias Salvaterre, fourteen years old and his big brother's biggest fan, shrugged. "Taran said Ric had a boot!"

"Good gods above," Elide sighed. "Matt, leave your brother alone for now, I'm sure you can sign his boot after dinner."

"Ugh, fine," Matt grumbled, turning around and loping back out towards the kitchen. "DAAAAAD! What's for dinner?"

"Why don't you find out?" Lorcan's amused rumble sounded from the kitchen.

Elide chuckled. "I'll go control them. You just call out if you need anything, k?"

"Okay." Daric resettled himself and grabbed his laptop from his backpack. "Thanks, Mom."

"Love you." And she headed to the kitchen to make sure her husband and second son weren't actively burning anything down.

~

"Gods burn me now," Lorcan groaned, stripping off his shirt in one motion as he nudged the bedroom door shut behind him. "Remind me why we ever thought three boys would be a good idea, El?"

"Pretty sure you're the one who needs to remind me," she teased, "given that it was you who made them, babe."

"And I'd do it all over again," he purred, sliding his broad arms around her waist.

She laughed softly, leaning into his warmth. "Don't tempt me, Salvaterre."

His low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "We never had our baby girl, El..."

"Oh no you don't." She extracted herself from his embrace, strolling coolly into the bathroom. "I know we agreed we were done, but gods, Lor, you tempt me far too much."

"Not half as much as you tempt me, babe." He kissed the top of her head. And yawned, his jaw cracking.

She smirked. "Getting a little tired, babe? Age catching up with you?"

"'M'not old," he grumbled.

"Uh huh," she drawled, giggling as he playfully lunged at her. She dodged his grasp and returned to the bedroom, where she settled herself into bed and waited for her giant hulking husband to join her.

Which he did, curling himself into her side, his arms around her waist and his head leaned against her shoulder. She slipped her fingers into his loose hair, drawing a contented purr out of him as they both drifted into sleep.

Only to be awoken at some bloody unholy hour of the night when their door creaked open.

"D-Dad?" Their youngest, Taran, stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes blearily. "Dad? Mom?"

"What is it?" Lorcan cracked his eyes open, half-propping himself up.

Their eleven-year-old son bit his lower lip. "Ric's talking in his sleep again and he doesn't sound okay."

Elide pushed herself out of bed in an instant, hurrying over to Taran. "What do you mean?"

"Hey." Lorcan slid his hand into Elide's, comforting her. "Let me go, you go back to sleep."

"I--"

"I'll be fine." Lorcan kissed his wife's forehead. "I promise. Go back to sleep, El."

She sighed. "Okay."

Lorcan knelt down in front of his youngest. "What's Ric saying, kiddo?"

"I dunno." Taran's dark eyes were wide with concern. "I woke up to pee and heard him talking in his sleep and I think he said something about needing to skate."

"Shit," Lorcan muttered. "Alright, T, how about I get you back to bed and I'll go check on Daric, yeah?"

"Okay." Taran looked like he was on the verge of shaking, so Lorcan picked him up, letting the boy wrap himself into his father's hold.

"Dammit, kid, when did you get so big?" Lorcan mumbled.

"'M'growin', dad," Taran mumbled, his voice muffled in Lorcan's shoulder.

"Well, stop that," Lorcan chuckled. "Y'all growing up too fast." He got Taran settled back in his room, left the door cracked open, and went down the hall to Daric's room.

True to what Taran had said, Daric was mumbling in his sleep and rustling around in bed. Lorcan placed his ear to the barely-opened door, picking up mostly incoherent mumbles and a hint of ow shit hurts shut wanna play damn ankle.

He pushed open his oldest's door and went in, kneeling down by the side of his bed and gently shaking his shoulder. "Hey. Hey, wake up, Ric, you're scarin' me."

Daric jerked awake, disoriented, shaking himself as he realized that his dad was in his room. "Huh?"

"You're talking to yourself."

"Shit," Daric muttered. "Thought that was just dreams."

"Yeah, well, we heard you." Lorcan pressed the back of his hand to his son's forehead. "Shit, kid, you're damn warm!"

"I'm fine," Daric grumbled. "Just sleep hot, you know that."

"Fine." Lorcan raised his brows. "How's the pain?"

Daric didn't respond.

"How's the pain?"

"Not great," the boy mumbled.

Lorcan exhaled slowly. "I'm gonna get you a couple more ibuprofen, okay?" He ducked into the bathroom and grabbed a couple of the pills and some water, bringing them back and handing them to his son. "Here. Take 'em, I'm not leaving until you do."

"Thanks." Quietly, Daric took the pills, swallowing them down. "Ugh, gods, why'd this have to happen now?"

"Couldn't tell you." Instinctually, Lorcan brushed Daric's messy hair off his forehead. "You need anything else?"

"Uhh...can you--never mind, I can."

"Mm, no, tell me."

"Can you get a couple pillows under my leg?" Daric asked. "Doc said I should try elevating it when I'm sleeping if it starts hurting."

"Of course." Lorcan grabbed a couple of extra pillows and helped Daric get his boot situated atop them. "How's that?"

"S'great," his son mumbled. "Night, Dad."

"Night, son." Lorcan closed the door behind him and returned to the master bedroom, tucking himself back against Elide.

She shifted to face him, tracing her thumb across his cheek. "How is he?"

"He'll be okay," Lorcan murmured. "Gave him some more medicine and got his leg elevated."

"Good." She was silent for a moment, the worry in her brown eyes slowly dissipating. "Gods, Lor, it scared me."

"I know," he whispered, sliding his hand along her back. "Scared the hell out of me, too."

She hummed in agreement and curled into his side, her breath fanning softly against his skin. "You're the best damn dad, Lor."

He huffed. "I wouldn't say the best, but I try."

"Love you," she mumbled, her words slurring with sleepiness.

"Love you too," he whispered, twirling a lock of her soft, dark hair around his finger as he let himself fall back asleep.

~~~

TAGS:

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@julemmaes

#my writing #answered prompt #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #elorcan #and kiddos #elide x lorcan #elorcan fanfic #their kids are def the holy terrors #for sure

[lexwritess]

hii! i saw that your requests were open and wondered if you could do like an angsty xavier x reader? with the prompts 38. and 19? thank you <3 !

why’d you only call me when your high? [x.p.]

pairing: xavier plymton x reader

warnings: dr*g ab*use, fighting, angst, smut, swearing, cheating, both y/n and xavier are assholes, it’s a fucking lot okay? it’s good tho promise!

college au!

italics is flashbacks

normal text is present time

-

xavier fucking plymton.

you had some sort of an idea what you were getting into once you befriended the gorgeous blonde hair idiot but you never imagined this.

“xav, get over here!” montana shouted among the loud music and drunk students.

“meet my friend y/n! she’s super chill, i think i’m gonna make her join the group.” montana smiles.

“make me?” you raise and eyebrow at the blonde.

“oh yeah, montana isn’t to keen on asking people if they want to do things. you’ll end up doing it anyway.” xavier jokes.

“i guess i just got that kind of charm. i’m gonna go fill my drink!” montana walks away.

“xavier.” xavier introduces himself and extends his arm out to you.

“y/n.” you reply and meet his hand to shake it.

“you go to school here?” you asks xavier.

“no, i do go to the improv classes after school hours though.” he replies, leaning in closer to you.

“oh really that’s cool! what’s your interest in that?” you ask.

“i’m going to be a famous actor!” he says cockily.

“oh yeah?” you ask with an amused smirk on your face.

“yeah, i’m already in tons of commercials.” he gives a smile back to you.

you giggle and look around the cramped frat house.

“you wanna get out of here? there’s a really good pizza place down a couple blocks.” you ask xavier, hoping he agrees.

“hell yeah, this place sucks ass.” xavier says happily and grabs his jacket.

“wait wait wait, you’re telling me you did a commercial for some weird ass dildo in japan?” you laugh loudly.

“shhhh!” xavier laughs and pushes his finger against your slightly chapped lips.

“i didn’t know! it was before i had an agent and i was desperate for a gig.” xavier exclaims.

“mmm, japaneseeee dildoooo.” you giggle abruptly.

“oh my god y/n keep it down! are you sure you’re not drunk?” xavier quirks an eyebrow at you.

“i was just at a frat house for three hours with montana fucking duke as my tour guide...i’m drunk.” you giggle again.

“good point there.” xavier laughs at you.

“you can’t act innocent. you’re just as drunk as me!” you cross your arms and look at him.

“well yes, but i never said i wasn’t.” xavier gives you a smug look and takes a drink of his soda.

“yeah yeah whatever.” you playfully roll your eyes and take the drink out of his hand to take a sip.

“do you have a bucket list?” xavier asks.

“no, i don’t think so? i mean there’s things i wanna do but i don’t have them all sorted out.” you reply, shrugging your shoulders.

“well what’s one thing, anything in the world, you want to do and we’ll go do it?” xavier smiles.

“well...i’ve always wanted to hook up with a famous actor.”

“fuck xav!” you moan out as xavier thrusts increase in speed.

“shit y/n.” xaviers eyes roll back as he breathes deeply.

xavier moves your legs so they’re above his shoulders. making him go deeper, causing you both to moan loudly.

“fuck y/n you’re so fucking tight for me. so fucking tight.” xavier grunts, pining your hands above your head.

“shittt, xavier! i’m going to cum!” you moan into his ear.

“i’m almost there.” xavier says in a breathy voice.

“fuck xavier please!” you plead, tightening around him.

“shit shit...go ahead cum for me!” xavier’s thrusts get sloppy as he gets closer to his peak.

your walls clench around him one last time before you both finish.

“fuck that was good.” you giggle and xavier pulls out with a big smirk on his face.

“glad i could cross that off on your bucket list.” he smiles and gets under the covers.

“goodnight x.” you say sleepily and scoot closer.

“night y/n/n.” xavier says softly and wraps his arms around you before falling asleep.

that’s the night you thought you found your perfect person, but nothings ever perfect.

“we’ve just been on a few dates mon, it’s nothing serious!” you explain to montana.

she had found out about you and xaviers “relationship” you don’t think it’s a big deal. you’re just friends.

“what about all the hot dirty sex i’ve heard about?” montana looks at you with her eyebrows raised.

you rolls your eyes at her.

maybe you and xavier aren’t exactly just friends.

“keep your eyes on the road.” you tell her, avoiding the question.

it was her turn to roll her eyes at you.

“okay, you’re still not answering the question.” montana points out.

“okay! maybe we have sex sometimes but it’s normal! a little...” you give her a sheepish smile and she just laughs at your stupidity.

“don’t tell him but i kind of really like him. i like the way his eyes widen when he talks about acting or the way he gives side comments that fly right over chets head, or the way he has to remake his sandwich when we go out to eat because he has this very specific order-.” you rant while montana cuts you off.

“okay, you’re in love with him! why don’t you date him already!” montana shouts.

“he’s just been distant i don’t know...he’s only been calling me over to hook up i think somethings wrong.” you say glumly.

“you should go over and check on him, his apartment isn’t far away from aaron’s. want me to drop you off?” montana offers.

you debate her offer. you don’t just wanna show up uninvited but you did talk about coming over earlier.

“yeah sure if you don’t mind.”

you knock on the door of the apartment complex waiting for your favorite blonde bimbo.

when there was no answer you turn the handle to see if the door was locked.

you open the door and walk into the house a little.

“xavier?” you call out.

no answer.

“xav?” you ask again walking towards his room.

you smile when you see the sight of xavier sleeping soundly in his bed, little snores leaving his mouth once in a while.

you walk around his room admiring the many polaroids of him and his friends.

you grin when you find the one of the night you met.

you take it off the wall to take a closer took at it but you knock something over.

“oops.” you mutter to yourself and bend down to pick it up.

you pick up a small orange bottle with the words oxycodone written on it.

not prescribed to xavier.

you look at the location it fell and found another bottle of pills.

you don’t bother to look at the lable of it and put the other one back.

“what the hell?” you say quietly, tears brimming your eyes.

“y/n?” a groggy voice fills your ears.

you don’t say anything and walk out of his bedroom out to the kitchen.

“wait y/n where are you going?” xavier asks rushes out to stop you from leaving.

“you didn’t tell me you were an addict.” you say just above a whisper.

xaviers face goes white and he runs a hand through his hair.

“you weren’t suppose to find out like this.” he says quietly.

“were you ever going to tell me?” you ask louder this time, making contact with his icy blue eyes.

“of course i was going to tell you.” xavier grabs you wrist pulling you close to him.

“were you high all the times we hung out?”

“no! not all of them...” xavier looks away uneasy.

“the past couple times we fucked?” you ask him with an attitude.

xavier looks at you and a tear runs down his face.

you scoff and continue to put your shoes on.

“y/n, please don’t go! i’ll stop! i’ll drop the pills.” xavier pleads.

“why do you even want me to stay? you won’t commit to me, you don’t wanna hang out with me normally anymore, and you only call me over when you’re high! im fucking tired xavier!” you shout, tears streaming down your face.

“please, i love you. i’ll stop for you.” xavier pleads again.

“you love me?” you ask him with wide eyes.

“yeah.” xavier breathes, his face inches from yours.

“you promise you’ll stop with the pills?” you ask xavier, extending your pinky finger towards him.

“promise.” xavier whispers and intertwines his pinky with yours.

he technically never did break that promise.

“remind me again why we’re getting ice cream ten o’clock at night?” you ask your group of friends with a smile.

“because we’re fucking cool.” montana replies.

“i wish we would of took a car, it’s freezing out.” brooke shivers.

“here! take my jacket.” chet removes his jacket and places it around brookes shoulders.

“you guys are disgusting.” you laugh, taking a bite of your ice cream.

“oh c’mon y/n/n, let them enjoy being in love!” ray jokes, nudging your shoulder.

“yeah, you’re just mad xavier didn’t show.” chet says while shoving a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth.

“wait you told me xavier had an audition?” montana asks you confused.

“i know...i’m sorry i lied. i’m just worried and i didn’t want to think about it.” you say quietly.

the group looks at you with remorse and ray wraps a comforting arm around you.

“guys be careful going around this corner, lots of junkies.” chet says distastefully.

everyone picks up the pace a little walking down the alleyway to get back to the main street.

you turn your head to look towards a group of people when you recognize someone familiar.

“holy shit.” you say with tears brimming your eyes.

“guys be quiet and fast now.” you say urgently and you quickly get back to the main road.

“y/n what’s wrong?” brooke asks.

“xav-xavier was back there.” you say with a shaky breath.

“i think i’m going to head out...i’ll see you at home tana. thanks for ice cream.” you say quickly, walking past them to haul down a cab.

you got and the cab and told the driver to go to Arrow street.

which is not where your apartment is, but xaviers.

you had a key to his apartment so you just let yourself in and sat on the couch waiting for him to come home.

that’s until you saw a glimpse of orange in the garbage.

needles.

you didn’t want it to be true you did everything you could to try to convince yourself it was for something medical, but the more you looked around the apartment and saw the scattered needles in his bedroom you couldn’t.

“y/n, shit you scared me!” xavier laughs nervously.

“you disgust me.” you say say standing up, turning around to face him.

“what?” xavier knots his eyes brows in confusion.

“listen, you don’t think i know but i fucking know. i know you xavier. you’re not secretive i know when you’re not yourself, but heroin! seriously?” you ask the boy you love with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“babe-.”

“no! don’t do that shit! you’re in deep shit now. you know that? i do everything for you and you don’t make me feel like it’s worth it...you make me feel worthless! you lie to me, you’re high every time we’re together, and you blow me off to go buy dirty needles off junkies! it fucking hurts!” you scream, finally telling xavier how you feel.

“is it all worth it? is being high all the time worth it? it is worth to lose me?” you ask bitterly.

“no, no it’s not...” xavier says quietly as a tear rolls down his face.

“then why don’t you get help!” you say with anger.

“i will! i will please, one more chance just give me one more chance please!” xavier sobs.

you direct your gaze towards the floor as xavier steps closer to you.

“one more chance.” xavier says again, grabbing the side of your face, tilting your head up to look at him.

“are you high right now?” your voice hoarse from the fighting earlier.

“no, and i’ll flush the rest of them down the toilet right now.”

and you gave him another chance, and another chance, and another fucking chance.

always luring you with the dates, his jokes, the sex, his charm, the i love yous, and you would forgive him every time.

almost every time.

“how could you?” you say with a shaky voice, tears threatening to spill.

xavier told you that he wanted to have a movie night later that night, but when 8 o’clock rolled around and you walked into his room, you wish you never would of went.

seeing a girl on her knees in front of your boyfriend and him enjoying it killed you.

“you need to leave now.” you tell the girl.

she muttered a sorry and left the apartment.

xavier opened his mouth to say something but you didn’t want to hear it.

“don’t fucking lie to me right now, is this the first time?” you ask.

“no, i’ll never do it again please-.”

“xavier!” you say sternly.

xavier inhales sharply. “no this isn’t the first time, i’m sorry.” he sighs.

“you’re always sorry aren’t you? did you guys fuck?” you ask, clearly irritated with xavier.

“yes.” you can barely hear him.

“i fucking hate you xavier plymton...you ruined me!” you shout, letting all your emotions wash over you.

“you know it’s not like you’ve been fucking perfect either!” xavier yells, he’s never yelled at you like this before.

“i didn’t fucking cheat on you!”

“you’ve been distant. when i need you, you’re not here. you’re out drinking, or hanging out with fucking ray! i needed someone so sorry i was fucking that bitch but you weren’t here.” xavier shoots back.

“are you fucking blaming me? the only reason i’m drinking and hanging out with ray is because you choose drugs over everyone! you’re not the same guy i fell in love with. you say you love me xavier but it doesn’t feel like it...” your sentence trails off at the end, you’re not sure you can argue much longer you’re feeling yourself breaking.

“well maybe it’s because i don’t love you! you’re always on my back and you never shut the fuck up!” xavier hisses.

you’re speechless.

xavier doesn’t love you?

you can see the regret in his face after the words leave his mouth.

“don’t talk to me ever again, i swear to god xavier. never again.” you say as calm as possible, leaving the apartment building.

you go outside and let all your emotions out. your back slides against the wall as you bury yourself in your knees and start sobbing.

you pull out your phone and try your best to see through your teary vision for montana’s contact.

“y/n what’s up?” she asks.

“mon, i, i really need you to come pick me up.” you hiccup.

“shit, of course. where are you?” montana asks with concern.

“xaviers...”

you hear her sigh on the other side of the phone.

“be there in 5.”

“that son of a bitch! i’m so sorry y/n, this is my fault.” montana rubs your back for comfort.

“it’s not your fault, he changed.” you say, your voice raspy from all the screaming and crying.

“i just, i don’t think i can see him for a long time.” you say quietly, burying your face into your pillows.

“fuck, y/n my works calling, i’ll be back im going to call off.” montana starts walking out of your room.

“no, i’ll be fine. don’t call off.” you tell her.

“no, y/n it’s fine.”

“mon you call off all the time, they’ll fire you.” you give a little laugh.

“are you sure?” she sighs heavily.

“yes! now go i’ll see you later.” you shoo her away.

you never thought that day could of got worse.

you groan at the noise of someone knocking at your door.

“montana you have a key!” you complain, going to open the door.

you’re taken a back when you open the door to see two police officers.

“can i help you?” you ask nervously.

“you are y/n y/l/n, correct?” the one on the left asks.

“yes, am i in trouble?” you ask confused.

“no of course not, you’re number one in xavier plymtons emergency contacts so we decided to come to you.” the other answers.

you blood runs cold as a million possibilities rack through your brain.

“we regret to inform you that xavier has passed.”

you swear your vision went black for a second.

he’s not gone.

he can’t be gone.

“what, what happened? i-i just saw him two hours.” you stutter.

“he was found outside his apartment, needle in his arm-.” the woman officer cuts her partner off and mumbles something about being to blunt.

“he overdosed, heroin. i’m so sorry baby.” she looks at you with pitty.

“thanks for telling me...” you say so quiet you’re surprised they heard you.

they say goodbye again and you shut the door.

“no,no,no,no!” you scream falling to the ground.

“why the fuck would you do that? why why why why?” you tell again, tugging at your hair.

you let out a loud, heartbreaking sob and fall onto your knees.

“i didn’t mean what i said...i didn’t mean it i wanted you to talk to me i was just angry. you were angry. fuck fuck!” you wail out again.

xavier fucking plymton .

#ahs #american horror story #ahs 1984 #american horror story 1984 #cody fern #cody fern x reader #xavier plymton #xavier plympton x reader #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #evan peters #evan peters x reader

[misschinablue]

Awesome things I've learned in three days of having Bell's palsy:

On Monday my face felt twitchy and tingly all day. I put it down to work stress and brushed it off. Then on Tuesday I woke up to one side of my face not working properly. Kind of like when you have anaesthetic at the dentist except in that whole side of my face. A few hours of genuinely thinking I'd had a stroke/suddenly developed brain cancer overnight were kind of a trip but that doesn't matter now - I'm fine, thank god - and one hospital trip later I had a diagnosis of Bell's palsy (click here to learn about what this is but the tl;dr is that it's facial paralysis, usually on one side of your face, and temporary in the vast majority of cases), a 10 day course of steroids and an understanding that what brought me here was probably our good friend Stress, which has been linked to it. Some other suspected causes are dormant viruses (HSV-1 is considered a big culprit), flu, diabetes and Lyme disease, but the reality is no one seems to know exactly how it happens and everyone is totally different. In my case I'm almost 100% confident it was stress as I have no history of cold sores or any of the other conditions.

So right now one side of my face is partially paralysed. Thank god it's really not that bad - you can't even really tell when my face is neutral and there's no overt drooping really but I can't smile or laugh with one side of my face, eating and drinking without channelling my inner toddler is somewhat challenging and my affected eye does some awesome freaky shit when I try to blink. Some people experience slurred speech but luckily I can mostly talk okay, just gets harder at length and certain letters are hard to pronounce. I can't close my eye all the way on the affected side unless I squeeze it really hard (and I couldn't even do that yesterday so woo!) and I have to wear an eye patch intermittently in the day and all night (managed to find a leopard print one on amazon so I can stay sexy) and put drops in my eyes like every five minutes otherwise risk corneal damage at best and vision loss at worst. Did I mention how fun this is?

ANYWAY. I rarely post personal shit on this blog but I felt compelled to write something to process just over 48 hours of serious mental gymnastics, despair, anxiety, humour, hope, and actually more positive thoughts than I usually think. But first, in case anyone who happens to be reading this ever ends up with this little slice of hell of a condition, here is some helpful shit I have learned:

1. You need to catch Bell's palsy early. There's a crucial 72 hour window from when it starts where if you don't get it seen to and get medication (usually steroids but some doctors will also prescribe antivirals alongside it depending on your country) you potentially lessen your chances of a full recovery. Many people do recover anyway without any treatment, especially if it's mild, but early treatment heightens your chances enormously.

2. Vitamin B12 helps with nerve regeneration. Bell's palsy is a nerve problem - it happens when one of your cranial nerves is like "lol fuck this I'm tired" and stops working as it should. Take vitamin B12.

3. Actually, just take a shit ton of vitamins. Boost your immune system to help you fight this shit. No one needs Bell's palsy. Fuck it off.

4. REST. I know for me having to do this especially when I otherwise feel well is super frustrating but if you have this, you are sick, and you need to rest as much as if you had the flu or whatever.

5. Get emotional support, and get it from the right places. I've never felt so grateful for my good friends and family than I have over the last 48 hours.

6. Find a way to laugh about it. Seriously. It might be the last thing you feel like doing because it's fucking freaky when your face turns on you, but it really does help. Smile looks evil? Lol you're a mafia boss. Dribble all over yourself when you try to drink something? Laugh it off. Oh, and avoid hot drinks. Seriously. I learned this the hard and burny way.

7. A lot of places will advise you to drink with a straw. DON'T. Your nerve needs to rest. Drinking with a straw stretches your face too much and you will piss it off. The nerve already hates you. Don't poke the bear.

8. On that note, don't force your face to do shit it doesn't want to do. Same reason.

9. On that note again, don't try the facial exercises you might see online until there are obvious signs of recovery. Same reason. Keep that nerve happy. Leave the mean angry bear alone.

10. Lastly - DON'T PANIC. 85% of people recover in a couple of weeks to a month or so, the other 10% or so in a few months to a year and the final 5%, well, there's still hope - there are all sorts of alternative treatments that have been proven effective. Plus panicking will only stress you out and make things worse both physically and emotionally.

So this is the practical side if you ever find yourself with this - and if you're reading this I pray for you that you never have to experience it, or if you've found this post because you are experiencing it I hope what I have to say is at least somewhat helpful.

So, more general advice. At the risk of whining (although I only mention this to make my point), 2021 has been one of the worst years of my life. I won't get into it too much but I've had some seriously low moments this year starting with the death of a family member and spiralling from there. I had times where I really felt like giving up, and no matter how depressed my neurotic ass can get, that's not like me. And as I reflect on how stressed out I've been - and what I'm sure has led me here - well, no fucking wonder. Getting this has been a HUGE wake up call about taking better care of myself. Here is a list of little wisdoms I have been mulling over the last couple of days - I hope anyone reading this can take something away from it. Trust me, something like this changes your perspective on certain areas of your life quickly and A Lot.

1. Stop fucking worrying about how you look. I have dreadful self esteem and often avoid cameras because of it - there are many events with friends, family etc that there are no trace of me even being at because I hide whenever someone mentions taking a picture. When this is over - never again. I have a whole new appreciation for my face. You really don't know what you've got until you risk losing it.

2. Stop persisting with people who make you feel like shit. Seriously. I'm avoiding people who even stress me out a little bit while this goes on. It's not worth it.

3. Stop squashing your feelings. Stop apologising for your feelings and trying to hide them. You're human. Show it. The right people will respect you for it.

4. Your job is just a job. Don't make anything that's not your problem, your problem. Do your work, do your best, don't absorb it, go home and forget about it until you have to go back. Work to live. It's not worth it.

5. You don't have to have something going on every night of the week. Take some time to yourself and use it to rest. Just because you have time doesn't mean you have to use it. Don't give into the "unproductivity" jitters. You don't have to be making and contributing and socialising all. The. Time. It's not worth it.

6. Comparison is the thief of joy. It's not worth it.

7. Go to therapy if you need it and use it wisely. Don't touch stuff that you're not ready for. It's not worth it.

8. Will it matter in a week, 5 months, 5 years time? No? Then it's not worth it now.

9. You can't change the past and you can't control the future. It's cliche but it's true. Stop ruminating, and if you can't stop seek help. It's not worth it.

10. Avoid things that make you angry in an unproductive way. It's so, so, so not worth it.

If you're still with me hi and thank you for reading. I know this was a super long post but I felt compelled to share this experience for anyone who happens to see it and my thoughts/learning so far - my perspective has never shifted so dramatically and so positively in such a short space of time. There are really fucking hard moments with this but with early treatment, the right mindset and very small but definite signs of improvement already I'm confident I can beat this. I sincerely hope none of you ever find yourself in this position. And for anyone who I talk with semi regularly, sorry if I'm a bit quiet over the next couple of weeks - I'm using this time to do what I never do, focusing on resting and focusing on myself. Much love to you all xx

#bell's palsy #personal #my post #positivity #strength #it's not worth it #self care #advice for what it's worth

[sonicthecringehog]

you think me saying someone doesn't care about you is really abusive? yeah i see you posting about me in your discord.

TW: ABUSE; R*PE, SUICIDE, GASLIGHTING. Alrighty gather 'round children - I think I know exactly who you are now so I'm going to lay it down for you, maybe this is me being a sociopath with a victim complex as ableist as that sounds to my followers. Allow me to educate you, even if you think this is manipulation too~ Now, I may have grown up very privileged - considering my mother had escaped literal poverty, and my father escaping a cycle of intergenerational trauma from actual abuse. I will never deny that and I am grateful for all of the things I have and have worked hard for myself. But dude I have clinically diagnosed PTSD that I only just found out about last week after spending a few days in an actual psych ward - they genuinely thought I possibly had either bipolar disorder or schizophrenia because of how bad of a state I was in, I couldn't eat or sleep for days. I learned that when I rushed into a convenience store crying and shaking, and just apologizing constantly because I didn't even have a mask and my phone was dead, so I had no idea how to get to the hospital. I did not want to be turned away yet again out of looking like a walking stereotype (looking at you, Karens). And just before that, confession I broke into a friend’s house because I took his word literally that the door is always open, and someone convinced me I was gaslighting the both of them which is exactly what sent me spiralling to begin with. But anyway, the people at the store were really understanding even if it was just a liability thing, and they called the police for me, and the police contacted a social worker for me to get my story out and they all reassured me that I was doing the right thing - and eventually, I got the help I needed and I realized it's time to take back my life once and for all.

Not even strong antipsychotics like olanzapine, what I'm currently prescribed with, helps me in those times. I wake up with cold sweats, I have constant nightmares I don't tell people about because I don't want to fuck them up the way I got this way. And now I understand why my aunt from my dad's side of the family who was apparently schizophrenic took her own life, and never told anyone her struggles either. And why my dad was so overprotective of me for so long. You see, I live in constant fear for my life because I have dealt with actually violent, clinical psychopaths who only think for themselves and will instead lie through their teeth to make it seem like they'd changed. And they stalk you or just cling onto you, to try and find every little detail about you to use as ammo against you because they know they can, and will manipulate people into thinking you're the one abusing them and manipulating everyone around you until they have no use for you anymore. Lots of shit happened but honestly if I just accepted that "no one cares" and I just learned to "shut the fuck up and think before I speak," like my actual abusers would say... I'd be a single mother living in poverty right now, and I would probably have lost custody of that child to my one abuser at that time because he is exactly like this. I don't like talking about it because I know how triggering it is for some and this might blow up again like a lot of my "controversial" posts, but if I didn't accidentally stress and overwork myself into having a miscarriage in the bathroom at my work, I would have become the walking stereotype my other abusers would try to implant in people's minds. And I feel horrible and responsible for all the shit I'm causing now, because I know of people with diagnosed NPD or ASPD and they're trying to better themselves, and do their part in the world without hurting people. You really can't win no matter what side you're on. Hell, I developed a saviour complex over the course of a few years because I've seen some vulnerable people get taken advantage of like this, too without ever understanding why so they constantly find themselves being abused without realizing it, it's heartbreaking to me. I was r*ped at 7, not from the stereotypical creepy uncle. But a girl my own age who I'm pretty sure was abused herself, which is why I never held anything against her. Maybe it's my Stockholm Syndrome talking again. Regardless, I learned that you can't change a person. The only person you can change is yourself. However, sometimes those strangers who show basic human decency knowing one's past, are that ultimate kick in the ass to motivate people to save themselves.

So let this ask post be a lesson to all of you. These kinds of abusers I had also knew exactly how to dogwhistle me to try and get a reaction, exactly what to say and how to act in front of authority figures - to manipulate them into thinking I was the abuser or whatever ableist walking stereotype they wanted people to think. Hence, I was gaslighted into thinking I was on the autism spectrum my whole life by the people around me growing up, and that my close family and friends were the “real” abusers even though they were trying to help but didn’t know how... without these people even realizing who the real culprits were. Growing up being The Girl Who Cried Wolf even when you did nothing you were aware of, fucks you up for life, my friend. And that's exactly what they wanted. Maybe I do need a break from social media as even my family doctor says, maybe I do need to let myself be "cancelled" again to grow stronger from this. Because I'm not saying you specifically are abusive or a bad person per se, because I don’t even know who you are, I could have easily deleted and ignored this. But just let people live and stop trying to take away what little innocence they have left that they lost at a very early age... out of being too comfortable in your own magical fantasy world of self-pity to get your own shit together. Because shit like this is exactly why I overwork myself and get these "manic" episodes as my abusers called it, as live in fear that I might actually get shot one day when things seem to finally be stable and peaceful. Hell, I might never be able to get a real job because of shit like this. But if you want to report my posts again on my Instagram which I'm pretty sure was you at this point, go right ahead. Because you need to grow the fuck up... and to the other people reading this, don't ever let anyone tell you that no one cares or your feelings aren't valid, because there are people who do understand and will help you, even if to them you're just a passerby on the street. Because people do care.

This kind of cancel culture and bullying people out of getting help without giving them a chance to explain themselves, while doxxing and overanalyzing every post one says to use against them... has been so normalized in our society that we often do glorify the people who show basic human decency. When it should have been the standard all along. On to the point, I wish you all a wonderful journey to a beautiful recovery too - I might not be active for a bit because I think I need a break ^_^'

TL;DR: Don't feed the trolls, kiddies, but don't let them win out of fear that no one will believe you even with concrete proof. To make a bad Sonic reference - if you see someone abusing their power over you and doesn't want you to thrive because they think you're nothing more than some welfare queen attention whore... THATS NO GOOD~

(Also excuse all the edits, I’ve been spiralling mentally because holy shit I don’t appreciate being stalked and doxxed y’all regardless of who is doing this... so I’m keeping this post up as a reminder to all of you to just not feed the trolls and keep moving forward. Hell, someone on Snapchat kept stupidly adding me by my number for a few months on and off, so this is why I get in these situations where I’m kiiiinda scared for my life. I admitted myself to the hospital but ended up leaving after asking for resources for these kinds of situational crises. Oof. ^_^”)

Anyways, toodle-oo fuck you too bitch. ;)

~ Serena

#ptsd #ptsd recovery #tw #triggering topics #abuse #toxic people #toxic masculinity #patriarchy #bpd vent #actually bpd #actually ptsd #cptsdrecovery #actually cptsd #childhood trauma #untreated mental illness #intergenerational trauma #anti cancel culture #cancel culture #ableism #don’t feed the trolls #paranoia #check your privilege #privileged

[dontshootmespence]

A Smile You Could Get Used To

Summary: Spencer sees yet another doctor for help with his headaches and meets someone there that changes his life for good.

Words: 1,181

Warnings: Talk of schizophrenia.

A/N: My next entry for @cmbingo​ 2020! This fulfills my season 6 square.

“You really aren’t making it subtle?” Rosie said as you shuffled around the files.

Your eyes snapped between her and the files for a moment before you realized she was talking to you. “Wait, what?”

She motioned toward the man in the waiting room with her head. “The lanky brown haired guy in the corner. You keep looking at him. You think he’s cute.”

“I do not,” you laughed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go put these files in their respective rooms.”

Rosie coughed and spoke, “And of course you’ll make sure that you’re the nurse for cute boy over there.”

“Shut up.”

You strode down the hall and placed patients’ files into the bins near their rooms, leaving the last one, whose name was apparently Spencer Reid, for your and Dr. Bucholz’s room. Okay, so maybe Rosie had a point.

“You did it, didn’t you?” She asked when you came back.

“I plead the fifth.” Out of the corner of your eye, you could see his leg bouncing up and down, his hands clutching the sides of his head. He looked to be in a lot of pain.

Rosie motioned back toward the clock. “It’s time for his appointment. And I say go for it. He is pretty cute.”

---

Grabbing the sign-in sheet to quickly cross off his name, you called for him. “Spencer Reid?”

He gently waved his hand and stood up to accompany you into the room. Even with sunglasses, he still looked uncomfortable so you flipped the lights off. “Thanks,” he said softly.

“Please, have a seat.” You gestured toward the chair and introduced yourself. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N. I work with Dr. Bucholz. I just need to ask you a couple of questions.”

Spencer started to tell you about his headaches; they were blinding and starting to get in the way of his everyday life. “I’ve been to numerous other doctors and they all keep saying that nothing is wrong with me, but these headaches won’t stop no matter what I do.”

“And you think Dr. Bucholz will be able to help you?”

“I don’t know. But he’s one of the only specialists in the area I haven’t seen, so I’m exhausting all options.”

When he winced at the light streaming through the window, you shut the blinds. “I’m really sorry about what’s happening, oh, Dr. Reid. You’re a doctor yourself?”

“Triple Ph.D. Not an MD.”

“Still impressive.” Cute and smart? There had to be something wrong with him. He was too good to be true. “I’m planning on pursuing an MD myself.”

For the first time since he’d walked in the door, he cracked a smile. “Really? What do you want to specialize in if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Neuroscience actually. I’m enrolled in Georgetown now. Hoping to conduct research in schizophrenia. It, um- my uncle suffers from it.” Why you were divulging your family history to a man you hadn’t even met no less seen more than 30 minutes ago, you weren’t sure.

“My mother does, too,” he replied, barely above a whisper. “I was actually thinking about studying schizophrenia at one point too, but then I got involved with the Bureau.”

“FBI, you don’t cease to impress, Dr. Reid.” Why did that come out of your mouth? You blushed and looked away, feeling every inch the love-struck schoolgirl. The cute, sexy and intelligent FBI doctor for was intriguing, but the Bucholz would be ready momentarily, so you bid Spencer adieu and wished him luck in finding the root of his health problems.

“Thank you, Y/N. I really appreciate it.”

---

Apparently, Dr. Reid didn’t get the answer he was looking for because he stormed out of the office and for some reason you felt the need to run after him. “Dr. Reid? Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“What treatments have you had so far? What tests?”

“Umm, I’ve been prescribed various Triptans, but they haven’t made a dent, dihydroergotamines, Lasmiditan, calcitonin gene-related peptide monoclonal antibodies. I’ve had MRIs and CT scans, but nothing shows up.” He was desperate for an answer.

You felt for him. Technically, you were still a nurse and not supposed to suggest any kind of medical treatment. “Listen, I’m not supposed to suggest treatments, but has anyone tested your vitamin levels?”

“Yes. Some levels deviate a bit from the normal but nothing to suggest it’s the reason for my headaches.”

“Well, I can’t suggest medical treatments, but I could mention that 500 mg of magnesium, 400 of vitamin B-2 and 150 of coenzyme Q10 have been shown to help treat migraines. Dr. Bucholz is a great physician, but he can get tunnel vision sometimes. I’m surprised none of the doctors you’ve been to haven’t suggested a simple vitamin regiment.”

Despite the sunglasses covering his eyes, he looked as if a light bulb went off in his head. “Thank you, Y/N. I’ll try that.”

“I hope it helps,” you said before turning to return to the office.

Clearing his throat, he sputtered. “Y/N, w-would you like to get a coffee sometime?”

“Like a date, Dr. Reid?”

“Y-yea,” he stuttered. “Yea, like a date.”

“I’d like that. But one thing?”

He raised a brow, confused.

“Only after you figure out what’s causing your headaches. If you’re still having them, we should go out to dinner, not coffee. The caffeine will exacerbate it…obviously,” you said on a laugh. You reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out a card. “My number is at the bottom.” You could get used to his smile.

---

Spencer, as he insisted you call him, texted you just a few days later, but it took weeks to finally get together. As you walked into the restaurant, you pulled your pea coat tighter around you, the chill in the air creeping up your neck. He was already inside and seated at your table, looking much more alive and a hell of a lot happier than he was the last time you’d seen him. “Spencer, hi!”

Standing up from the table, he wrapped his arms around you. “Sorry, I just- We’ve been talking for a while now so I feel like I know you, you know?”

“I get it,” you laughed. “I’m a hugger anyway. How’s your head?”

“Great! Amazing! The headaches are completely gone. I can’t thank you enough for the recommendation. I was about to start reading migraine studies just to get some ideas, but this is better. Now, my headaches are gone and I got to meet you.” Smiling, he placed his hand over yours. “I was afraid I inherited my mother’s illness to be honest.”

You inhaled sharply. “I know the fear.” Talking nonstop for six weeks made you feel close despite the fact that this was the first time you were seeing him since his office visit. “But you’re okay. That’s what matters, right?”

“Definitely. Now, how about we push all the sad shit aside and actually have our first date,” he replied with a smile.

It was definitely one you could get used to.

#cmbingo #cmbingo2020 #cmbingo20 #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #dontshootmespence #a smile you could get used to

[mymelodyheart]

Starting Over Chapter 19 ~The Things We Do For Love~

Claire updated the last of the patients' charts from the morning consultation and then checked her phone. As soon as she saw the number of voice messages and unread texts from Jamie, she groaned and dropped her forehead on the desk.  Bloody   stubborn man! Why doesn't he get it?  Ever since she left Lallybroch three days ago, she'd been ignoring his calls, muting her phone and trying to keep busy. Unfortunately, cutting him out of her life wasn't going to be an easy feat. Besides sleep eluding her thinking about him, Jamie found creative ways to get her attention. 

On her first day at St Leonard's Medical Centre, there was a bouquet of flowers waiting for her, with a note wishing her good luck on her temporary job, signed  love Jamie . To her dismay, although her new colleagues were friendly and lively, they were also nosy and an inquisitive bunch, passing Jamie's wee card to one another and coaxing her to show a picture of the sender. She'd brushed them off with a smile and some excuse needing to familiarise herself with the clinic. But it didn't help her cause when not long after, coffee and croissants were delivered by staff from a nearby cafe and once again with a note signed  love Jamie .

Now everywhere she looked in the clinic, and at home, were reminders of him - flowers, plants, sweet treats, stuff toys, and also freaking balloons and pillow for neck support. What the hell?  She really ought to speak to Jaime, but what was the point? She thought she would be able to handle a fling and even courted the notion that Jamie might warm up to the idea of a long term commitment after meeting his parents. Of course, it was wishful thinking and unrealistic, now that the possibility of a job with the sports network was looming. She couldn't even last more than twenty-four hours in their arrangement. Talking to him now would only weaken her resolve and end up back in a relationship that had no future.

There had to be another way to get Jamie out of her system. She was cranky, tired and most of all, miserable because she missed him, and it was affecting her ability to function. And to make matters worse, the clinic was beginning to look like a gift shop, with all of Jamie's presents and offerings strewn about. Definitely not good when trying to make a good impression with the head of the clinic, Dr John Grey, an old friend of Joe and acquaintance of hers.

John was sympathetic when she'd apologised for the scene she was causing as everyone became caught up with the excitement. To her horror, bets were already being placed amongst staff, speculating whether the gifts were from an overly devoted boyfriend or a desperate suitor. Once again, her private life was generating interest, and even if it was on a smaller scale compared to paparazzi skulking around her home, it was still  bloody  intrusion.

It wasn't her intention to leave Jamie without a word. After being caught up with the beautiful day she had with the Frasers, her senses saturated in fine wine and Jamie kneeling before her, pleading not to break up with him, she'd been so close to revealing her feelings. It would have been the final humiliation if she'd bared her soul and heart to a commitment-phobe. If she hadn't known him any better, she would have believed Jamie was actually in love with her. The sound of his phone ringing had brought her back from the land of fantasy, and Claire sobered up quick. Without stopping to think, she'd ran and was grateful she'd caught Joe in time saying his farewell to Brian and Ellen. If Jamie's parents had been surprised to see her leave in a hurry with Joe, they'd shown no indication.

Now, she needed to get real. She'd had her Jamie and enough memories of him to warm her during the long, cold winter nights. She had to be happy with that. It wasn't Jamie's fault, and he had been forthright with her right from the start, giving her no illusions of a happily-ever-after. Time to get a firmer grip of reality and move on.

The door opened, and Mary, the senior receptionist, walked in. "Sorry about this Dr Beauchamp. I must have missed this." She waved a file folder in her hand. "Were ye about to go for yer coffee break? The patient can wait for Dr Grey instead. He doesnae look like he's about to die." She placed a cupcake on her desk.

Claire smiled. "It's alright, Mary, I'll take it. And thank you for the cupcake." No coffee nor croissants had arrived for her that morning, and her stomach was growling, having had no breakfast earlier. Maybe Jamie had given up, and that's the reason she was feeling a bit off. The cupcake should tide her over until dinner time. Sighing, she got up and put on her white coat. "So what's up with our patient?" she asked.

"The patient is Mr Alexander Malcolm. Heart palpitations, trouble with eating and sleeping, occasional hallucination, chest pains. He probably just over-indulged on curry and beer if I may say so. Some of these folks that come here doesnae need treatment and just want to get off from work. I'd say it's a bloody waste of NHS money," Mary scoffed.

Claire sighed inwardly. "Send Mr Malcolm to room 2. I won't take a minute."

"Aye, will dae." And Mary left.

Unfortunately what Mary said was true. Some of the people that came to the clinic were better off staying at home and resting. She missed the frenetic schedules she had at the Royal Infirmary and working under pressure at the surgical unit. All she'd done the last few days were diagnose patients with common ailments such as colds and flu, collect fluid and tissue samples for labs and administer or prescribe medications. It was a good thing she was only here for a couple of weeks.

Claire walked into room two with the patient's folder. "Good morning, Mr Malco ..." She stopped in her tracks when she found Jamie sat on the chair in front of a small desk. "What the hell ..."  Alexander Malcolm  ...of course, she should have known! He used his middle name. She'd been so distracted, the name hadn't immediately registered.

She made a move to go, but Jamie launched himself towards her and grabbed her hand before she could back out into the corridor. "Wait, Sassenach ...hear me out." Heart pounding hard, she stilled, as he pushed the door shut behind her. "I'm sorry for doing this. But ye left me with nae choice."

"Jamie ..." Her pulse started tumbling all over itself at the sight of him. He looked great except for the dark circles under his eyes, and his scent was making her giddy. 

"Please," he pleaded, his voice sounding like suffering.

He was standing so close, her fingers itched to touch him. But Claire steeled her resolve. "Fine ... you have two minutes. Let me remind you, you are wasting precious NHS resources."

He let out a breath of relief. "I'll pay for my way."

"That'll cost you. You have a lot of symptoms."

Hand still planted on the door, he stepped closer. "Then, ye'll need more than two minutes to diagnose me ..."

She placed a hand on his chest, stopping his forward progress. "Jamie ..." she warned.

Jamie dragged an impatient hand through his hair. "I wanted to see ye and ye wouldnae let me, alright? Ye left Lallybroch without a word, and I'd like to know what I've done wrong. Ye wouldnae answer my calls, so ye left me with nae other options. And I'm pissed off. I'm so pissed off like naebody's business because it scares the shit out of me that I may not be able to hold ye again." Taking advantage of her open-mouthed confusion, he leaned in very close, and his gravelly voice dropped low. "I ken I pushed too far too quickly. But all I ask of ye, is one chance, Sassenach. One chance. Tonight. I want to talk, and there's something I need to tell ye. But not here, though. And after we're done talking and ye dinnae like what I have to say, and ye still want to walk out of my life ..." He paused and swallowed hard as if he was having difficulty forming the words. "... I'll let ye go, and I'll never bother ye again."

His words bored an uncomfortable hole in her chest. "Y-you'll let me go?" she whispered. 

He dropped his head forward. "If that is yer wish," he muttered in a pained tone.

"Jamie, I thought I could handle this, but ..." Self-preservation constrained her from saying more.

He looked into her eyes and pleaded. "Have dinner with me tonight, Sassenach. And we'll talk."

Not a great idea.  "Fine, I'll come."

Jamie squeezed his eyes shut for a few heartbeats, and when he finally opened them, his face relaxed. "Shall I pick ye up here or at home?"

"No!" she said too abruptly. "I mean, I'll come in my own car and meet you." It was for the best, she thought. "Where shall we meet?"

"At my place. I'll cook. I hope ye like Italian."

Oh, so definitely not a good idea.  "Alright, I'll be there at seven, and I like Italian." 

She made a move to go, but Jamie stopped her. "How about my symptoms?"

Claire smothered a smile. "I'm giving you the all-clear and please, don't forget to pay at the reception." She left the room and headed out to see Mary.

...........

Claire stood outside Jamie's apartment door, fidgeting with the bottle of grappa. She'd arrived fifteen minutes earlier and snuck into his building when a resident came out of the main entrance. Now standing outside in his corridor, she couldn't bring herself to ring his doorbell. What could they possibly talk about that would make her change her mind about their relationship? Taking huge calming deep breaths, she let her head dropped to the left, then to the right of her shoulders, in an attempt to relax, the fragrance of tomato sauce cooking, making her mouth water, a reminder she hadn't eaten the whole day. Although hungry, she was not ready to confront Jamie yet, so she began walking in circles and counting backwards from a hundred.

"What are ye doing, Sassenach? I've been watching ye through the peephole for the last three minutes."

Claire jumped.  Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!   Bloody hell!  She took a deep breath and faced the door. "Alright, open up before I change my mind and go."

"I cannae have ye doing that." The door suddenly swung open, revealing a barefoot Jamie. His hair was still wet from the shower, and he wore a faded black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, a tea towel casually hung on his right shoulder. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the doorjamb and looked at her thoughtfully. 

She frowned at him.  Why does he have to look so good?  "How did you know I was out here?"

"I saw ye parking your car from my window. Ye really ought to practice more on yer parallel parking. Ye're terrible at it."

She scoffed. "It was bloody tight."

"I was waiting for ye to ring the bell so I could buzz ye in and when ye didn't, I thought ye'd gone to the wrong place."

"I was early."

"I'm glad ye're here now." He gazed openly at her, his eyes taking her all in, making her suddenly hot in the cool summery dress she was wearing.

"M-me too." Claire crushed the urge to throw herself at him and strived for calm and common sense. "Something smells good. What's cooking?" When he didn't say anything and continued to stare, she became self-conscious at the intensity of his perusal. "What?"

He sighed. "I'm still trying to decide how to greet ye, but after the way ye ran away the other day, I dinnae want to presume anything."

Her mouth went dry. "How about you let me in, and we'll take it from there?"

He straightened himself and turned sideways, opening the door only a fraction more, hardly giving her enough room to pass. As she squeezed past him, he stopped her and tilted her chin up with a finger. "May I?" he asked, looking at her lips.

Her heart did a double backflip.  Ah, what the hell!  Trying not to think about the hard muscles pressing against her, she licked her lips and nodded. Lowering his head, his eyes lit up, and he smiled. And when he kissed her, it was only a mere brushing of their lips, but it was enough to make her head spin.

"Hi," he whispered against her mouth.

"H-hi." Attempting to get her bearings back on even ground, she held up the bottle in her hand. "Y-you said you were making something Italian, so I b-brought grappa."

He arched an eyebrow. "Grappa? Normally, people bring wine to dinner."

"Ah, I figured you would have had the wine sorted out. This will make a nice aperitif or after-dinner drink. I just wanted to keep the Italian theme going."  God, oh God, he smells so good.  

"Sounds grand." He took the bottle from her hand and smiled. "Are ye coming in?"

"Of course, after you," she stammered, feeling slightly flustered.

"Sassenach?"

"Hmmm?" She was staring at his neck, imagining running her tongue along the column of his throat. 

"Ye're standing on my foot."

"Oh, sorry." She felt the heat creep up her face and darted past him.  Get a grip, Beauchamp! You're here to put an end to this non-relationship thingy!

The moment she stepped in, she instantly forgot her embarrassment and stared with awe at his apartment. The last time she was here, she'd been stood outside in the corridor and never got to see the inside. 

His apartment was bright and spacious and not what she'd expected at all from a bachelor's pad. The living space, kitchen and dining area all flowed into one big open plan. And although it had been modernised, it retained a lot of the Victorian era features with cornice moulding and high ceilings. It had solid oak flooring and beautiful exposed natural woodwork throughout, and sash and case windows. She'd expected dark colours and leathers. Instead, he had a plush L-shape red sofa, silvery-grey area rugs and matching curtains. He didn't have a lot of things except for the hardback books that lined the shelves and laptop and gaming accessories on the coffee table; nevertheless, the apartment looked lived in and very inviting.

"Jamie, your place is beautiful," she gushed. She turned around to find him watching her from the kitchen with an amused expression. After admiring the view from his window, she walked over to the granite island and slid into the stool. "And your kitchen is a chef's dream."

"I'm glad ye like it," he beamed, putting a block of parmesan cheese and grater on a wooden board. "I hope ye like pasta. Most women tend to stay away from carbs."

"I live for carbs." She began to relax as she watched him retrieve the wine and shot glasses and place the already opened bottle of Barbera on the counter. On cue, she uncapped the grappa and poured them their aperitif while Jamie stirred the sauce. "Do you cook all the time?"

"Here at home? Rarely," he replied. "I've only cooked for my brothers and sister when they come over to visit." He dipped a finger into the sauce and put it into his mouth to taste it. And then he grinned.

"Good?"  Oh Lordy, Lordy, he looks delicious enough to eat.

"Uh-huh. Very good." He added a pinch of pepper and stirred the sauce some more, winking at her.

Jamie looked at ease, working the kitchen and seemed to be in his element. It was a shame he wasn't the type to settle down, and the sooner she accepted that fact, the easier it would be for her to move on. "It smells heavenly. What's the sauce?" she asked, striving to sound cheerful.

" Sugo alla puttanesca , basically it's tomato sauce with anchovies, capers and black olives. It's a simple recipe Jenny taught me. It's done now. Want to taste?" 

Claire wondered why he was going through so much trouble just to talk, but she suspected he wanted to put her at ease after she did a runner on him a few days ago. She knew already more or less what he wanted to discuss about, but she'd already made up her mind. She wanted love and marriage and family, and she was never going to get that from Jamie. It was better to nip whatever they have in the bud before the heartache became too much to bear. For now, she was going to enjoy their last evening together before they go their separate ways.

Schooling her features, she got up from her stool and handed him a shot of grappa and picked up hers. "How about a shot first?" She needed one so badly.

"Sure," he said, taking the glass and raising it. "To ye Sassenach."

She sucked in a breath and raised hers. "And to all yer hopes and dreams, Jamie..." she whispered, meaning it with her whole heart and clinking their glasses together. "...may they all come true."

He smiled. "I'll drink to that."

They downed the shot in one go and slammed their glasses down at the same time, the clacking noise on the granite echoing through his kitchen. Claire grimaced at the heat that scorched her throat and Jamie's full lips, still moist from the alcohol, tilted into a mischievous smile. Her eyes watered, and she shook her head.

"Oh good, God, that was strong," she breathed, already feeling the effects of the grappa going into her head. She mentally reminded herself to go easy as she hadn't eaten all day. "I think I'm ready to taste that sauce."

Laughter bubbled out of his chest, and he took her hand and pulled her next to the hob. Scooping a spoonful from the pot, he blew into it and then held to her lips. "Open."

Her jaw dropped, and her mouth was filled with delicious herby tomato sauce. She let it swirl in her tongue and then she smiled. "Mmmm, yum."

He grinned and bit his lip. "More?"

She nodded, her stomach growling noisily.

They both laughed out loud as they heard the grumble.

"Your stomach must really love me," Jamie teased, holding the spoon next to her lips.

She giggled, enjoying the rich taste of the sauce and still feeling the pleasant warmth from the grappa they drank. "Not just my stomach, Jamie. All of me loves you," she said, before opening her mouth.

Jamie's head shot up, and he blinked as if coming to from a long sleep, and she caught the shocked look in his eyes. "What did ye say?"

"Huh?" Her eyes widened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.  Oh, sweet mother of God, what have I done!  She slowly backed away from him. "What do you think I said?"

Oh, he knows exactly what I've just said.  Claire held her breath and waited for him to call off their evening. Maybe it's for the best now that he knew what she felt. That would probably scare the bejesus out of his wits and save her from long explanations why they couldn't be together. But instead, a slow smile formed his lips. "Ye ken fine what I heard ye say."

"But ..."

He closed the distance between them and lifted her up by the waist and settled her on the kitchen counter. Parting her knees, he pulled her against him. "Tell me again, Sassenach." Before she could reply, he closed his mouth over hers, not giving her a chance to push him away nor to think. His tongue delved into her mouth, plunging inside to mate with hers, his hands firmly gripping her waist.

Raw emotions came in waves and engulfed her, making it hard for her to breathe. This was too much. Jamie must have misunderstood.

Sensing her hesitation, Jamie paused and looked at her, worry marring his features. "What's wrong, Sassenach, speak to me," he whispered. "Did ye not say ye love me?"

Her eyes welled up with tears. There was no point in fibbing and denying it. Jamie had caught her off-guard, and she knew he wasn't going to let the matter go. Resigning herself to the fact he'd never be able to reciprocate the love she had for him, she took deep fortifying breaths and willed the secret deep in her heart to have its say. "I do love you, Jamie and I know you can't love me back. I just can't bear to hear you say it. A-and I know you don't..."

"Ah, Christ." He closed his eyes as if a realisation dawned on him, and Claire saw the sheer anguish that creased his face. He leaned in to tenderly kiss her, his tongue tracing the swollen flesh of her lips, a gesture that bespoke reverence and humility. And when Jamie finally opened his eyes and looked into hers, the air whooshed out of her lungs. He was letting her see it all and allowing her in. The truth was all there to see in his face. "I love ye, Sassenach. I've love ye ever since that day in Lallybroch when I first heard yer voice behind that mask. But I was too daft and full of mysel' not to realise it. I'm so sorry for everything. For the conditions, I've placed on us. Ye didn't deserve that. All of this is new to me, and I'm still grappling, and I ken it's nae excuse for how I've behaved. If ye'll have me back, I promise to make it up for ye."

She was stunned beyond words, disabling her speech for a moment, as joy and relief competed to overwhelm her, but it was too easy. She pulled slightly away from his hold, searching his face. "Jamie, I don't think I have the strength nor the will to compete with the other women."

A pained sound escaped his throat. "Sassenach, there's never been and never will be anyone for me but ye. I thought I had it all before ye came to my life, but now that ye're here, I see my past as nothing but meaningless existence. And the future looks bleak if I cannae see ye in it. There'll never be another woman for me as long as ye walk the face of the earth, and no woman will ever make me feel the way ye do. Ye made me whole, and I would like it to remain that way." His voice struck with intensity as he pulled her in tight and spoke against her lips. "Please, Sassenach, allow me to prove myself."

Her heart started to speed up. "Is this why you asked me to come for dinner tonight?"

"Aye," he replied, stroking her hair. "Because I wanted to talk about this and us, and beg for yer forgiveness. I was running out of ideas to get ye to speak to me that I had to bribe yer receptionist to help me get through to ye."

Claire stilled. "What?? Mary??"

"Aye, the very one." He gave her a lopsided grin. "She wasnae interested in rugby, and she said she's never heard of me before, so I couldnae bribe her with tickets. But I found out she has a weakness for cupcakes and chocolate eclairs." His face turned serious and his brows puckered. "If she knew how desperate I was, she could have asked me for anything, and I would've given it to her just for a chance to speak to ye."

"You could have made your life easier and came to my house ..." she whispered.

"I was tempted, but I thought ...no. There was that possibility ye didnae want to see me anymore, and I didnae want ye feeling trapped in yer own home. All I'm asking for is a second chance, Sassenach."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, unable to believe he wanted her as much as she wanted him. "Yes," she laughed, tears of joy spilling from her eyes.

"Yes?"

The wall she had carefully built around her heart shattered with full force, allowing him to feel and see the love she'd kept hidden for years. "Yes, Jamie. I've loved you for so long and from afar even before we met."

His body sagged against hers, hands roaming all over her back, pulling, tugging and caressing as his lips planted kisses all over her face. "Sassenach, come to the sports award with me, please."

She nodded vigorously as she kissed him back, extracting a ragged groan from him. This time there were no reservations, doubt or question hanging in the air as he lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom. Tonight's dinner could be put on hold a little longer and tomorrow's problems could wait. Because first, they needed to heal each other.

#melodyheart #startingover #Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser #outlanderfanfic

[gvbejvmes]

Drabble: K-I-S-S-I-N-G (Pt 2)

Title: K-I-S-S-I-N-G -- The original ending Rating: R (For language mostly)  Relationship: Gabriel James/Jonathan Michaels (Trigger) Warnings: Mpreg, referenced spousal abuse, alcohol abuse, major character death, parents have sex lives, too.  Brief Summary:  First comes marriage. Then comes love. Then comes a baby in a male uterus. Wait. What?  Notes: This was how K-I-S-S-I-N-G was supposed to originally end. In the beginning this was going to be a part of the Mother’s Day bi-weekly task. Then it grew into this monster.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His head hurt, and he felt woozy. Just how much had he drank the night before? Wait. No. That didn’t make sense. He couldn’t drink right now. Wait... Why couldn’t he drink right now? He swore he knew the answer to that, but he couldn’t remember what it was.

He should ask Johnny. Wait. Didn’t they kick him out of the room?

His eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up, only to flail and fall back onto the bed when he realized he was wearing an oxygen cannula. 

“Fuck, Briel.” And Johnny was setting his coffee down on the rolling table, and all but pushing Gabe back against the pillows. “Of course you wake up in the five minutes I ran downstairs.” He pressed a kiss against his forehead. “You scared the shit out of me, baby. Do you know how terrified I was to come home and find you passed out on the bathroom floor? I thought I lost you.” And he was practically sitting on the bed with Gabe now, hand brushing against his forehead.

As he took the information in, there was just something about it that didn’t seem to sit right with him. It didn’t make sense. That’s not how he remembered getting to the hospital. Wait. Was he at the hospital? He glanced around the room, at the IV in his arm, at the fluids dripping into his bloodstream. Okay, he was at the hospital. The only thing he didn’t remember was why he was at the hospital. Then it hit him.

“What happened to the baby?” And his voice sounded like crap. How long had he been out for?

Johnny gave him a weird look. “The baby?” And that was the look he made when he was trying to figure out if Gabe was still asleep but talking or freshly awake and just not making sense. Then his eyes widened in recognition before he grabbed the watcher pitcher and poured Gabe a cup of water. “Oh! The dog. Here, drink this.” He waited until Gabe took a sip and he put the cup back before continuing on. “If the dog was warming up to me, he’s not warming up to me any more. He was laying on your stomach when I got home. I think he was trying to get you to throw up. He nearly took my hand off when I tried to get to you. I had to lock him in the guestroom, but I called Dusty to let him out and look after George for a couple of days.”

Before Gabe could tell him that wasn’t what he meant, the doctor came into the room. “Oh, Mr. James-Michaels, you’re awake. Your partner was worried about you.” And the way he said it made Gabe automatically assume that he’d been subject to a long rant about what rights Johnny was privy to as Gabe’s spouse. He was pretty sure he even remembered part of it.

“Husband. We’re legally married.” They corrected in unison. That had been one of the pains about moving to New York. Sometimes their marriage was recognized and sometimes it wasn’t. It was annoying as hell. It was getting better now that Governor Paterson had issued his directive, but there were still kinks that needed to be worked out within the system.

The doctor ignored their correction. “I don’t know if you remember anything about when you came in.” The doctor was logging onto the computer and looking at Gabe’s chart. “You were in and out of consciousness. I’m Dr. Swanson. Do you remember what happened?”

He thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. “No. Not really.” He admitted quietly.

Dr. Swanson nodded. “Understandable. Your body went through a severe trauma. Your brain may be protecting you from remembering what happened. I thought we were going to lose you for a second there.” He looked up at Gabe, giving him his full attention. “I haven’t seen an allergic reaction as severe as yours for a very long time. Your whole esophagus was inflamed and almost swollen shut. If your dog hadn’t been forcing your body to contract, you wouldn’t have made lasted until your-” He struggled to find the right word. "gentleman arrived. He said the dog is a new addition to your..." Again the  doctor couldn't seem to find the right word. "family?"

Gabe couldn't help but to exchange a look with his husband before nodding. "Yeah, he followed me home one day. He already had his shots, but wasn't chipped. We put out notices, but no one claimed him." He wasn't entirely sure where he was going with this.

"You're especially lucky then that the dog who decided to follow you home appears to have service dog training, which is also likely why he wasn't claimed." The doctor went back to noting something in Gabe's file. "When dogs fail out of a service program, they're often adopted by staff or taken to a shelter. It looks like the dog found you instead of a shelter. The fact that it looks like he was being trained as a seizure or allergy dog also worked out for you. God was smiling down on you, Mr. James-Michaels."

He couldn't control the grimace at the doctor's choice of words. "Funny. That would probably be the first time." He froze as he thought about what the doctor had just said. "Wait, you keep talking about allergies. As far as I know, I'm not allergic to anything."

Johnny brushed his hand through his hair. "Remember that almond tea I got you?" And he looked absolutely guilt-ridden which made no sense to Gabe unless...

"I'm allergic to nuts?" He asked the doctor in complete confusion.

Dr. Swanson nodded. "That's what it appears like. We're going to want to keep you overnight for observation. And I'm going to put in a referral to your primary to run a skin allergy panel once your skin heals. There's some pretty extensive swelling and hives on your chest. I've prescribed steroids that should help." He looked at Gabe, as though he couldn't believe that this was the first time this had happened. "You've never had a reaction to nuts in the past?"

Gabe shrugged. "My sister had a severe nut allergy, and if she couldn't eat anything I didn't out of solidarity." He tried to think if he'd tried anything with nuts since her death, but he was a purest when it came to chocolate. And he preferred sour candy. His sweet tooth mostly extended to ice cream and soda. "I think it was just habit after she died to not eat any nut product other than peanut butter." He blinked. "Doc, a severe reaction like that, can it cause hallucinations or vivid dreams?"

"Sometimes." The doctor stood. "We also had you on some pain medication when you first came in. Someone will check on you later. Try to rest, and remember, no nuts."

And it was probably the worst thing the homophobic doctor could have said. "Roger that. The only nuts going into my mouth from now on are my husband's."

Johnny's hand froze. "Gabriel." And it looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh out loud.

The doctor blanched, but didn't say anything before leaving the room.

Once he was gone, his husband started laughing. "Well, it looks like you're feeling better." He continued to run his hand through Gabe's hair. "What was your dream about? The one you just asked the doctor about."

Gabe's eyes started to drift shut, exhaustion washing over him. "The future."

#drabble #kissing universe #pairing: Gabe/Johnny

[toosmallinabigworld-blog]

Formal Introductions and Female Orgasms

Well hello, welcome to my blog. Some of you may know who I am, and others don’t, and I’m perfectly ok with that. I’m writing this anonymously because I want to. And that’s that. The things that I talk about on this blog are things that many people would consider to be rather controversial; sex, politics, gender equality. etc. The topics I'm going to talk about and give opinions on are just that, opinions. I don't claim to be an expert on any of these things (ok except some of the female sexuality things. I am a female and I have sex, so I have some insider info on that) so don't get mad and offended if they aren't completely accurate in your eyes. People have differing opinions, that's a fact, get over it. That being said, I respect your view and your right to disagree, I'm not going to slam you because we don't agree, that's just stupid. It’s also worth mentioning, I swear like a sailor, so as formal as I’m going to try to be; I’m not going to hide that part of myself. I do intend to do some research on these topics and will cite sources, the people that have done the work to produce the facts deserve recognition. And with that, let's begin!

Disclaimer! This is about female sex with men. I honestly don't have enough experience with women to do this subject justice in regards to them. I had a really interesting conversation yesterday about pleasure between partners and what that should look like, as well as pleasure in general.  The opinion of the person I spoke to was that what got him off was getting the girl off, making sure that she was able to orgasm multiple times and from that he was able to be satisfied. Which I found really interesting because it wasn't the first time, I had heard that from a man. What made it interesting was the fact that I know a multitude of girls who NEVER cum from sex, me included. And it got me curious, how many women suffer from orgasmless sex? Upon doing some research I found a book a called "Becoming Cliterate: Why Orgasm Equality Matters--And How to Get It" By Laurie Mintz, In the first chapter of the book Dr. Mintz addresses something called "The Pleasure Gap". If you've never heard of the Pleasure Gap, let me enlighten you. It is the gap between partners reaching orgasm, more often than not men reaching it and not women. She references a survey that asked thousands of men and women about whether they had reached orgasm in their most recent sexual encounter, 64% of women had reached an orgasm in comparison to the 91% of men. The fact that only 64% of women reported cuming is just sad. Women deserve to cum just as much as men do. I would place myself in the 36% that doesn't cum at all. Do you know how annoying it is to have sex with a guy, have him cum and not get to do that same? There aren't enough words in the English language to describe the mental and physical frustration it causes. Not only does it leave you craving more but it can also leave you feeling unimportant. You ask yourself questions like "Why does he get to cum and I don't?" "Does it even matter to him that I'm not happy?" "Does he even know how to get me off?". Questions like these rapidly lead to self-confidence issues. I know this from experience, I’ve been left feeling like shit because I “couldn’t cum” and felt like I disappointed him because I couldn’t finish. And that feeling of disappointment being confirmed by the look on his face when I told him I didn’t. I’ve also received looks of utter frustration. Guys have gotten legitimately frustrated that I didn’t cum from what he was doing. But the frustration wasn’t with himself, it was with me. Because it was somehow my fault that what he was doing wasn’t enough.

And now to address the elephants in the room, the men! No that is not a weight joke or a comment on the size of your penis. This whole post I’ve been talking about my experiences with men and the inadequacy of my sexual encounters with them. I would like to take a moment and say that it’s not all their fault. Shocker I know, a woman admitting that men aren’t all to blame for female issues. Do I think they deserve to take some of the responsibility for the fact that most of the women who have sex aren’t having an orgasm? Yes. But are they 100% at fault? No. From about age 12 (is that when guys discover porn? I’m not a guy I don’t know, so I’m guesstimating here) they see women getting off almost instantaneously. In all the porn I’ve seen the man humps her into oblivion and then 5 minutes in she has a screaming orgasm as he busts a nut on her chest. News flash, that isn’t real! I don’t know any women who have had that experience. It goes the same way in movies. I’d like to meet the original director who decided to put that in porn and give him a good smack upside the head. Figuratively, I don’t think you should hit anyone ever, unless it’s consensual, and that is a topic for a whole other post. From an early age men see women getting off from penetration alone and that is factually inaccurate. But I don’t think porn alone is to blame for this. I did a little Googling and on the Men’s Health website they have an article titled “Real Women Share 9 Tips For How to Give Them an Orgasm” it brought a smile to my face to see that a website geared towards men had this article. The first tip is getting to know the clitoris. I cannot express how important this is, you know that episode of SpongeBob where he stands on top of his house and yells “I’m ugly and I’m proud”? I want to do that but yell about how important it is to learn about the clit. Guys insider tip here, the clit is the key to unlocking the female orgasm. Most women require clitoral stimulation to get off, so it makes logical sense to start there. I know very few men that are educated on the clit. So, prepare yourself for a crash course on the vagina. Let’s start simple, where the hell is the clit? When you look at a vagina, which I’m sure most of the guys reading this have, you’ll see the labia majora and minora. For those of you that don’t speak medical, it’s the “lips” calling them that makes my skin crawl but for clarity purposes I will refer to them as such. There are big lips (majora) and small lips (minora). You will also see the vaginal opening, i.e. where you stick your fingers, dick, toys, etcetera, a few centimeters above that, is the clit. You’ve probably heard female masturbation referred to as “flicking the bean”, there’s a reason for that. It’s roughly the size of a bean. And covering said bean is what’s called the clitoral hood, the bit of skin that covers the clit. That is where you want to be. Now, the clit is super sensitive. There are 8,000 nerve endings located there in comparison to the 4,000 that are in the tip of the penis. You know how sensitive your dick is after you cum? Yea imagine having that sensation constantly. The magical thing about the clit is that its only purpose is pleasure. Score one for the ladies. There are hundreds of ways to stimulate the clit, too many for me to go over. But I would recommend starting slow. Most girls don’t want you to rub it like you’re rubbing a magic lamp to summon a fucking genie. Start with small circles that then increase in speed. Change up the direction of how you are rubbing it. Her body language and sounds will usually tell you if what you are doing is good.  Which leads us into the next tip in the article, ask her what she wants, I would also like to throw in paying attention to her body and listening to her. I can’t begin to explain the importance of this. How do you expect to get her off if you have no idea what she wants? Now I know this can be daunting and I know a lot of guys that are worried that if they ask, they will seem like they aren’t confident and don’t know what they’re doing. That isn’t true, I speak from experience here. There is nothing hotter than a man asking me what I like and how he can please me more. Not only does that make me feel important but it makes me want to do the same for him. I talked to a BUNCH of my friends about this and the general consensus was that they got off on the fact that their partner got off. Granted 99% of the people I talked to where men. But the one girl who gave me some insight felt the same way as the men. So, guys, don’t be afraid to speak up, your lady will appreciate it and in turn will more often than not return the favor. So, this ultimately boils down to men being given false expectations and not being educated. I’m not expecting guys to get in a football huddle and talk technique, but maybe you should. Information is king, yea?

Ladies! It’s your turn. We have pretty trumped up expectations as well. A very wise woman once told me that I am responsible for my orgasm, that I shouldn’t rely on someone else to get me off. And she was right. I will be the first to admit it, as frustrated as I have been, it’s my body and my job to make sure that my partner knows how to satisfy me. We have this built in idea that all men should know exactly how to please us, which is stupid because there are a fair number of us that don’t even know how to please ourselves. So, before we go shit talking our partners to our friends, we should probably figure out how to do it ourselves. The beauty of it is, it’s not super difficult. If you’re a lady that has struggled with finding your clit, refer to the section in which I describe to the men where this apparently elusive organ is. Figuring out your clit is a really rewarding endeavor because as I said earlier, its only purpose is pleasure. In the Netflix show “Sex Education” the main character Otis acts as a sex therapist for his classmates. And one of his “clients” tells him that she can’t come with her boyfriend. And he prescribes for her what I am prescribing for you. Masturbate. Figure out what you like so you can relay that to your partner. Not only will it be helpful when you have sex but it’s really fucking fun to do on your own. Take ownership of your body. It’s yours, right? Why not do something good for it. Not only is masturbating a god damn pleasure party but it also has health benefits. You know those gut-wrenching cramps you get when you’re on your period that feel like a fat man in stilettos is standing on your uterus? Yea, masturbating can help with those. In the article Orgasms for a Better Life: The Surprising Benefits of Sexual Pleasure they discuss pain management. When you have an orgasm your brain releases endorphins and corticosteroids that help combat pain. So, whether it’s period cramps or a headache, coming can help. Orgasms are also a natural sleep aid and stress reliever, after you cum your system is flooded with dopamine and oxytocin that initiate feelings of deep relaxation. One more thing, it’s a fucking mood booster. I can’t remember a single time that I was sad after coming. Not one. Those are just some of the recorded health benefits. Ladies, get familiar with your body. You’ll be thanking yourself and so will your partner.

Congratulations, you’ve finished…. the post that is (see what I did there? Got to love puns). As you’ve probably gathered, I’m blunt and brutally honest. I have no qualms talking about things that a lot of people find taboo, awkward, and controversial. And that’s why I love this blog. It starts a dialogue about things we should be talking about anyway. I encourage you to comment your thoughts on this. I won’t be surprised or offended if you comment anonymously, shit I’m writing this anonymously. I really would love to hear your feedback. Also, if you are a friend of mine reading this, which I’m pretty sure almost 100% of the people reading this are, please don’t out my identity. I’ll just delete the comment. And I really don’t want to do that. I’m trying to be as honest as possible, and censorship doesn’t fit into that equation. Thank you so much for reading! I don’t have a set posting schedule yet but when I figure that out, I will let you know. I’m really proud of my work and excited to share it with you! See you soon!

Citations (God adding this feels like doing a high school paper, but it’s important)

·      Mintz, Laurie B. Becoming Cliterate: Why Orgasm Equality Matters--and How to Get It. HarperOne, an Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 2018.

·      Beland, Nicole, and Melissa Matthews. “Real Women Share 9 Tips For How to Give Them an Orgasm.” Men's Health, Men's Health, 8 Nov. 2018, www.menshealth.com/sex-women/a19539937/sexual-techniques-for-guaranteed-orgasm/.

·      Donaldson James, Susan. “Female Orgasm May Be Tied to 'Rule of Thumb'.” ABC News, ABC News Network, 4 Sept. 2009, 3:17pm, abcnews.go.com/Health/ReproductiveHealth/sex-study-female-orgasm-eludes-majority-women/story?id=8485289.

·      “Orgasms for a Better Life: The Surprising Benefits of Sexual Pleasure - Sexual Health Center - Everyday Health.” Stroke Center - EverydayHealth.com, Ziff Davis, LLC, 3 June 2013, www.everydayhealth.com/sexual-health-pictures/orgasms-for-a-better-life-the-surprising-benefits-of-sexual-pleasure.aspx.

[ericka-writes]

broken bones (shredded soul) // one

Summary: It's been seven hundred and sixty five days and Eddie Kaspbrak can't help but think if he's going to die in this room.

It's been one thousand and one hundred forty seven days since he saw Richie Tozier and he still loves him just the same.

Pairing/s: Reddie, side Stanlon and Benverly 

Word Count: 2,658

Read it on Ao3

It was cold and dark. He was laying in a bed that was unfamiliar yet it made him feel so uneasy. The place was eerily silent that it was as if the air in this tiny room was suffocating him. He wanted to sit up but he couldn't move his body. He can feel his heart beating rapidly against his chest. He shut his eyes tightly, trying his best to calm down. A heavy weight dropped itself on his chest, making it harder for him a breathe. Suddenly, a shriek filled the atmosphere. The voice made his blood run cold, he didn't know what to do. He was trapped, caged inside his own body. He yelled and yelled but no sound came out of his mouth.

"What do you think you're doing, Eddie?" the voice slurred, "Thinking of going back to that rascal? No. You're going to stay here, with me."

Eddie. That was his name.

"He's bad influence, Edward. He infected you with his disease. Not to worry, The doctors will fix you."

Eddie. No, that's not his name.

"You know what will happen if you go back to those miscreants, Eddie-bear. Listen to me."

No No No No No

"Don't worry, Eddie. When I come back, you'll be good as new. Its okay, you'll be okay."

His eyes were already open when the loud buzzing interrupted the silence he was surrounded by. A few minutes after that, keys jingling to open the door was the noise that occupied his ears. His eyes slowly trailed towards the door, meeting the eyes of the nurse he had ever since he can remember. Dianne was her name, she had dark curly that she likes to tie into a messy bun. She's thirty two years old; twelve years older than him and she insists on treating him like a baby.

"Hey, Stranger." she greeted him with a smile, something he didn't return. It made Dianne's warm grin fall, making him feel guilty. With a sigh, she placed the tray of food she was holding on his bedside table and sat by the foot of the small bed. She gave him a small smirk and asked, "How about a little game, yeah?"

He was silent for a moment, then he nodded. Knowing his competitive side, it made her smile as she counted it as a success on getting him to do something productive for the day. Starting with something easy, she asked "How about you tell me what you remember?"

He was still, not knowing what to say. He racked his brain for anything that he could remember before finally saying, "My name is Eddie, I'm twenty years old."

Dianne hummed before asking "Is that all?" Eddie wanted to say no; he wanted to tell her about his dreams, the shrill voice, the feeling of drowning but instead, he settled with "I remember strawberries and cigarettes." making her smile widely.

"Strawberries and cigarettes, huh? Think you used to smoke?" Dianne lightly teased him before standing up, taking the tray of food and settling it on his lap. The tray consisted of a banana, a small packet of bread, some eggs, a water bottle and the small cup that had his medicines. Eddie sighed, "I highly doubt that."

"Come on, cheer up a little. Dr. Green told me he has something important to tell you." she said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Who?" he mumbled as he sat up, rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes. Dianne eyed him before sighing , "Dr. Green, honey. He's in charge of the whole hospital."

"Wash up afterwards then head on to his office, okay?" she called out as she walked out the door, leaving Eddie alone.

With him all alone, it gave him the time to think about what could Dr. Green possibly want from him. He was a quiet patient, not like the others who would cause such a ruckus. He can be trusted to take him medicines and be left alone, so Eddie was just confused why would the head of the hospital want to see him. The only time he ever saw the doctor was seven months ago, when Eddie had woken up from a therapy they tried out. From what he could gather, his old doctor was an asshole and did the method wrong so as a result, he fell into a coma and woke up with no memory of his life before that day. Sometimes, he wonders why he's even in this hospital. He doesn't look like a lunatic nor does he act or think like one but then again, that is what a crazy person would say.

After his breakfast, he cleaned himself up and walked towards Dr. Green's office. He knocked softly on the door, opening it when he heard a 'come in'. He peaked in before entering the room, walking towards the doctor. He wasn't alone. A woman was seated on the chair beside him, She looked well put together; her hair in a neat ponytail and a briefcase right beside her. The doctor stood up, " Eddie, this is Mrs. Gomez. Mrs. Gomez, this is Eddie Kaspbrak."

Eddie reached forward to shake the woman's hand. He sat down as Dr. Green pointed on the chair behind him.

Green looked at him and said, "Do you remember when you woke up from your therapy seven months ago? We told you that the doctor assigned to you did the procedure wrong causing your body to react so badly that you fell into a coma." when he nodded, the doctor continued "And you lost all of your memories because of it, yes?" he nodded again "Eddie, the truth is you've been checked into this facility three years ago. Your mother insisted that you needed proper treatment because you've been infected by some kids back in your hometown. A doctor named Henrik Weltch checked on you" He handed him a picture of the man, "Do you remember him?"

"Stay still, you little faggot. Your mother paid me good money and I intend on getting more of it."

"No." Eddie said, shaking his head hastily.

With a sigh, the doctor continued "Well, your mother and Weltch happen to be friends with the same mind, she paid him a lot of money and in return, he would do these methods on you, treatments, shock therapy to be exact, and medicines that weren't prescribed for you to take." the knowledge made him touch the scars on both his temples.

Eddie shook his head, "My mother insisted that I get treatment even when there isn't anything wrong with me? Why?"

Doctor Green looked at him with sympathy in his eyes, "We don't know for sure but we think its because she thought with the treatments she made Weltch do, you can convert back to your 'true-self' as your mother had put it. She thought with the medicine, you wouldn't be infected."

Eddie took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose "Correct me if I'm wrong but did my mother payed that man to torture me into turning straight?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Its a good thing we found out what he's been doing to you. We caught him and sent him to jail, where he deserves to be. And you would have been released seven months ago but we didn't want to risk your mother sending you into another facility. Not to worry now, It's not a problem anymore. Mrs. Gomez?" the doctor turned to the woman beside him.

"Hi, Eddie. I'm your mother's lawyer. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you but your mother died last week because of a heart attack."

He had a mother, and now she's dead. Eddie doesn't know if he should be happy or sad because his mother is dead. From what he's been hearing so far, his mother checked him into a mental health facility even though he's perfectly fine, she paid money for a guy to torture him and she wouldn't give a shit that the doctor was in jail already, she would willingly check him in another asylum. So, yeah, his mother sounds like a bitch and he doesn't know what to feel about that.

"This means everything she owns, according to her will, will be given to you. That means the house in Derry, Maine and everything that she owns; money, jewelry, everything. And I checked in with Doctor Green and he says that you do have G.A.D. but you don’t really have any major mental illnesses that we could consider you mentally incapable of deciding what's best for you so it would be okay for you to sign these." she finished handing him the documents and a pen to use. So, his mother is bitch but a rich bitch?

Eddie didnt know what to do, to say or to think but he knows one thing; he wanted to get the hell out of this place. So, He took the papers and signed.

He was packing up the very little things that he had when Dianne walked into his room.

"So, you're really leaving, huh?" she said with a sad smile on her lips "Im happy for you, really."

He sighed, "I don't even know where I'm going, Dianne. I don't know anything or anyone. I don't even know where I'm going to live. I'll probably be living in the streets after I leave." That's not exactly true, his mother did leave him a ton of money according to the Mrs. Gomez.

"Wait."she said before digging into his suitcase. She stopped when she saw a small green handbook, opening it and looking for something. "Aha!" she said, pointing at a page "Mike Hanlon, sounds legit. Come on, lets call him up." she tease, bumping her shoulder with his. He may hate this place, but he will surely miss Dianne. He stood up, closing his suitcase, and walking out of the room he occupied for three years.

They walked to the front desk, picking up his papers and calling 'Mike'. Dianne told him he should be the one to call the guy but he insisted that she talked to him instead. He felt uncomfortable talking to a guy he didn't know. As he anxiously waited for Dianne, he began to have a debate whether she should hang up on him or not.

Good Morning, this is Dianne from The Sisters of Merciful Angels. Is this Mr. Mike Hanlon?

Yeah Hi, This is him. How can i help you?

Sir, Do you know anyone named Eddie Kaspbrak?

um Eddie? yeah why?

Well, sir Would it be okay for you to pick him up? He's being released today and he doesn't really have a place to go.

.....

Sir?

What kind of game are you playing? Do you not have any respect?

I'm sorry, sir? i don't understand.

Eddie's been dead for three years. We know that, we had our peace with that. What do you think you'll get from this?

Sir, Im so sorry if i offended you on any sort but Mr. Kaspbrak is alive. He's been with us for the past three years. I don't know who told you that he's dead but he's alive and well. Would you like to talk to him?

Can I talk to him?

Of course, sir. Please keep in mind that he's gone through a lot and he doesn't remember anything from the last twenty years. He doesn't remember you as well.

Okay.

Dianne turned to him, "He wants to talk to you" his eyes widened, slowly talking the phone with his shaky hands. He cleared his throat before saying "Hello?"

Eddie?

Um, Mr. Hanlon, I would understand if you don't wa-

Oh my god, Eddie, It is you.

Um, yeah, its me.

I don't understand, Sonia said you were dead. She said you had cancer or some shit?

Who's Sonia? Oh wait, my mother. Right.

Yeah. Where are you? Ill pick you up.

Uh, talk to Dianne

And with that, he gave the phone to Dianne. As it turns out, Mike was four hours away, being in New York.

Dianne told me that they were in Boston, How in the hell did he end up in Boston?

Hours have passed, Dianne did her best to check up on him but she had to work or else she'll get fired. The girl at the front desk turned on the radio at some point. After a hurricane of high pitched pop songs, the soft tune of an acoustic guitar filled the waiting room Eddie was sitting in. The voice was deep and a little rugged, it felt so familiar. He can feel his heart wanting to burst out of his chest. The song continued on, he can feel himself slip into oblivion.

Laughter; the atmosphere was filled with laughter and joy. It was new for Eddie to feel this way. It was odd because for the last seven months, all he dreamed about was that shrill voice and the emptiness he feels in his heart. He felt free, like he could fly along with the birds on the sky. He can move, feel the grass and dirt beneath his feet.

"Come on, Eds! Stop being a pussy!" A voice screamed at him, the voice was followed by a group of laughter. He turned towards the noise, wanting to see who was talking to him.

"Oh my fuck, Kaspbrak! Hurry up and jump already!" "Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!" "Come on! What a chicken!"

"Alright, you fuckers!" he took a deep breath and jump off the cliff, landing on the murky green water. He swam towards the surface, gasping for air. Arms wrapped around his waist and a wet kiss was placed on his cheek. "I knew you could do it, Eds!"

His vision was blurry, he couldn't see the boy in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again, desperate to see who was calling him that.

Eds. That was his name, not his real name of course but he wanted it to be. He didn't want to be Eddie, he didn't want complicated and pain. He didn't want the emptiness and demons that came with Eddie. He just wanted to stay there, in the arms of the boy who calls him Eds. He wanted the blissful feeling of peace and love. He just wanted to be Eds.

He woke up to a new song; it was loud and obnoxious, he feels like an old man for saying that. To pass some time, he decided to read the magazines placed on the coffee table in front of him. Halfway through his third magazine, the doors busted open causing Eddie to look up from his paper. A guy with dark skin and dark shrivelled hair came in with a curly headed guy right behind him. Their eyes searched the room until it landed on Eddie. It made him feel nervous but when the two of them came running towards him, he couldn't help himself from standing up to meet them halfway.

Arms were suddenly around him, hugging him so tight that he couldn't breathe but he did nothing to stop them. Both of the their smell hit him in the face, it made him smile. Tears streamed down his face, he didn't know why but he doesn't mind, they're crying as well. The guy with dark hair was the first to pull away, kissing his forehead again and again before hugging him tightly, he couldn't help but laugh.

He may not know these two, nor does he know the name of this guy that has kissed him so many times on his forehead but he couldn't bring himself to mind so much because with the pair of them crying softly against each his shoulder, he thinks that there might be a chance that he belongs perfectly with them.

He never felt more at home.

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #it au #reddie fanfic #my writing #stanlon #benverly #broken bones

[chikabiddy]

Chapter 5

A/N - Finished the next chapter! I also have it posted on A03 here. Again, no beta so all mistakes are mine. I hope you all are enjoying the story. :)

Veronica sat behind the wheel of the loaner car she had while hers was in the shop. At least my adoring fans won’t know which car to target for a couple days… She drew in a deep breath, trying to mentally preparing herself before starting the school day. She’d taken the previous day off, at her father’s insistence, but knew she needed to get back into routine despite the lingering effects of the concussion. Make-up covered the worst of her injuries, though there wasn’t much she could do about the bruise on her jaw. She hoped avoiding unnecessary interaction and conversation would dampen her other symptoms; she needed a clear head for her work today. Let’s just hope my dear classmates play nice…

Her mind flashed back to her conversation with Logan. Be honest, Veronica, that’s why you’re really hiding out in your car. Talking had been nice, and her lack of panic attack after taking the heavy medication with him there was unexpected. She expected to choke down her fear for Logan’s benefit, just to get him off her back about the medicine. But the panic never came, and she slept without nightmares for the first time in over a year. You’re going soft, Mars. If anyone should cause nightmares, Logan should. It’s not like anything has really changed there, he’s still a jackass and I’m still an outcast. With a final stabilizing breath, Veronica shook off the memories and exited her car.

The school was still fairly empty, she’d come early for a reason after all, and she hurried across the courtyard and into the building. First order of business was to find Weevil. The shit storm that was her life at the current moment was, at least partially, his fault. His suspicions about the two marks she tailed wasn’t unfounded; she had the injuries to prove it. The big question she intended to get the answer to was why those guys knew who she was. Sure, she’d worked on behalf of Weevil, and his crew by association, before. The guys she followed weren’t part of his crew and shouldn’t have had any idea who she was. Weevil was worried some of his guys were taking outside contracts with the marks, she was following them for any sign of Weevil’s crew more than to track the actions and movements of the marks, and the marks knowing her by name indicated someone from Weevil’s crew was passing information at the very least. But who from Weevil’s crew knew she was doing him a favor? Who even knew who she was? Her contact with the rest of the crew was very limited. Though I did tase Felix. I suppose that would be memorable.

Either way, her experience proved what Weevil suspected: someone from his crew wasn’t as loyal as they wanted Weevil to believe. She stopped at her locker, changing the books she had with her to the ones she would need for class, then focused on locating the leader of the PCH biker gang. With any luck he’d be here early, but luck hadn’t exactly been on her side recently. Stalking the halls isn’t going to be very effective. Veronica turned toward the front entrance and her eyes fell on Wallace moving toward her, bright smile flashing.

“Superfly!” he called. “Where were you yesterd…” his voice trailed off as he took in her face. Damn, the bruise must be darker than I thought. She cracked a grin, hoping to distract him.

“Oh, you know me, can’t be too predictable. Gotta keep everyone on their toes.” She waved her hand dismissively. Wallace’s face fell, and his lips pursed.

“Veronica… you know there is no way I am not asking about that bruise.” His eyes were hard, and she knew he wouldn’t drop it, no matter how many times she changed the subject. She sighed and her hand lighted up to the scrape at her hairline. Wallace held her chin, inspecting both her cheek and forehead. “Seriously, V. What the hell?”

“What do you want me to say, Wallace? Sometimes what I do can be dangerous.” She shrugged her shoulders, dislodging her hand from his face as she did so.

“Your dad knows, right?”

“He was my personal escort to the hospital.” Veronica tried to keep her tone light, almost mocking but not to the point of sarcasm. Wallace wouldn’t appreciate sarcasm right now. “I promise I’m fine.” She was serious now. “A little banged up, but I heal fast.” She offered the most genuine smile she could, ignoring the ache in her temples. He looked back at her skeptically; she could see the protest forming on his lips. “Anyway, dear friend of mine, I have to go see a man about a horse.”

“But-”

“I promise we will catch up more later,” she offered as she turned to leave. “My table always has room at lunch!”

**********

Logan was off balance today. He’d left Veronica’s apartment when her dad got back, opting to let the Sheriff take over care of Veronica. Though he had made a point to mention Veronica had taken some of the doctor prescribed medicine. Her dad had looked surprised but made no comment about it, which had frustrated Logan. There was so much about Veronica that Logan no longer understood, and he had been hoping the Sheriff would share something, anything, that would help him understand the reaction Veronica had when he tried to get her to take the medicine. The Sheriff had not been forthcoming, and Logan had many questions left unanswered. He didn’t figure Veronica would be at school today given how bad she had looked the day before, so he was both surprised and a little angry to see her talking with the new kid. What was his name?

When Veronica turned away from her friend, I seriously need to figure out that guy’s name, Logan moved to intercept her. He didn’t expect answers to all his questions at this point, but he thought he may be able to convince her to go home and rest up more. There was no way she was ready to be back at school. He stopped short when Veronica began chatting with Weevil. What the hell does she think she’s doing? Getting mixed up with the leader of the PCH biker gang couldn’t mean anything good. Watching from a distance didn’t do anything to quell his curiosity, but it did keep him from kicking the shit out of Weevil. He wasn’t sure exactly where his animosity toward the biker was coming from, but it took all his self-restraint not to dash across the hallway and pummel the guy.

Veronica pulling Weevil into the girl’s bathroom didn’t help. What the fuck? There is no way Veronica is dating that guy, is there? A tight ball formed in his gut making Logan want to run to the bathroom himself. What the fuck are you doing, Veronica?

“Dude, that chick is weird.” A voice behind him made him jump. He forced his arms to his sides, willing his muscles to relax, and turned toward his friend. “I mean, the baseball team isn’t surprising, but now she’s hooking up with that biker?” Logan’s jaw locked, and he grabbed Dick by the collar. “Woah dude, what the fuck?” Logan relaxed a little, taking in the surprise on Dick’s face. “What’s gotten into you man?”

“Nothing,” Logan sighed and patted Dick’s collar flat. “Just leave Veronica alone.” He looked Dick dead in the eyes, daring him to argue. Dick lifted his hands up, palms toward Logan.

“Okay, dude. Whatever.” Dick stepped back, shaking his head. “Don’t know why you seem to care what anyone says about her all the sudden.”

“You don’t need to, Dick,” he forced through gritted teeth. “You just need to make sure you and everyone else leaves her the fuck alone.” His hands were clenched at his sides, shoulders ridged.

“Hey guys, what’s going on?” Of-fucking-course he shows up now. Logan forced himself to relax and turned his most dazzling smile on Duncan who was walking towards them, eyes darting from Logan to Dick.

“DK! Nothing at all-” Logan started when Dick cut in.

“The king has new orders regarding your old lady-love, Duncan.” Duncan’s eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows shot up as he motioned for Dick to continue. “Logan says we’ve all got to lay off Ronnie. Guess seeing her with that biker dude finally made him realize she’s not worth the trouble.”

Logan had never wanted to punch anyone more than he wanted to punch Dick at that moment. He turned on him, eyes blazing, when Duncan started laughing. Logan hadn’t heard Duncan laugh this hard in… well years. All his anger dissipated, and he turned to Duncan, jaw dropped and eyes wide. Dick had the same look. All they could do was stare as Duncan practically cried he was laughing so hard. After a minute Dick cleared his throat.

“Uh, you ok, dude?”

Duncan wiped at his eyes, gasping in breaths to control his laughter. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks man. I haven’t laughed that hard in forever.” Logan and Dick traded a look, waiting for Duncan to continue. Duncan gulped in more air, finally regaining control. When Duncan offered nothing further Dick began again.

“I mean, I know you guys used to know Ronnie, but Logan and I both saw-" Duncan cut him off, hand raised,

“Dude, I don’t care what you saw. No way is Veronica with Weevil,” he snickered out. Logan turned to him.

“I dunno man, Veronica has changed a lot.” Am I trying to piss him off? “There’s no telling what she’d do now.” Duncan’s face turned hard.

“She hasn’t changed that much.” They stared at each other a long minute before Dick broke in again.

“Well either way, Logan changed his tune pretty fast. No more picking on Ronnie, I guess.”

“Lay off it, Dick,” Logan snapped. “I don’t have to explain it. Just leave Veronica alone.” Logan turned away from them at hard Duncan’s stare and stalked off to class.

*********

Veronica kept her arms crossed, a barrier between her and Weevil. “So, you’re saying you suspected someone in your crew was working outside your bounds, but you have no idea who it could possibly be?”

“No, V. I brought you in on this just so you would get your ass kicked.” Weevil rubbed the back of his neck, eyes down. Veronica grunted.

“Amusing.” Weevil studied her face, lingering on her forehead. His Adam’s apple bobbed erratically, and he dropped his gaze again. Veronica rubbed her temples, frustrated. I’m not going to get anywhere if everyone keeps treating me like a delicate fucking flower. “Any-” she began, but Weevil cut her off.

“Those two, they did this to you? You know that for sure?” Veronica recognized the look in his eye. Plenty of paying customers had given her dad that look. That’s the last thing I need. “I don’t know for sure,” she lied easily. “I don’t remember much aside from deciding to watch them that night.” Weevil flinched. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You go all righteous fury on them I’ll never find out which of your boys is passing them info.”

“We don’t know for sure-”

“I do.” Veronica cut him off. “They knew to be on the lookout for a tail.” She decided not to mention they also knew her name. She wasn’t supposed to remember much, after all.

“Maybe your nosy self pissed someone else off and you just don’t remember,” Weevil muttered. Veronica jammed her lips together in a hard line, blood rushing to her cheeks.

“You came to me worried about your ‘boys’,” Veronica snarled. She reminded herself Weevil didn’t know everything she did, by her own choosing. Taking a moment to breath and calm down, she reconsidered telling Weevil. Who knows what he’d do with that information. She decided against it. “So, what I need from you is to know why these guys. You don’t even know who in your crew to suspect, but you knew to have me watching them. How?”

“Eh,” Weevil hedges, “they are really the only other game in town. If my boys are dealing behind my back, they are doing it with the Fitzpatrick’s.”

Veronica turned icy. “You… you sent me after the Fitzpatrick’s?” Weevil shuffled his feet. “You sent me after the Fitzpatrick’s and you didn’t tell me.”

“I thought you knew!” Weevil protested. “I mean, you’re a PI. I gave you their pictures. I thought getting their names would be your first priority.” Veronica scoffed. “Seriously, V. When you didn’t come to me with any issues I figured you didn’t care.”

“I fucking care, Weevil.”

“You out, then?”

Veronica stared at him, then turned and stalked from the bathroom.

#Veronica Mars #vm fic #fanfic #fanfiction #vm fanfic #logan x veronica #veronica x logan

[terriblelifechoices]

So, I couldn’t stop thinking about what @st00pz said about poor Jauncey and his autobiography regarding Ilvermorny: The Graves Years.  I suspect that would read more as an unintentional comedy, so maybe he decides to write a how-to guide for educators instead.

Specifically: how to deal with exceptional students who require very careful handling, because that thing about how if you give someone an inch they take a mile?  Yeah, that’s the Graves brood in a nutshell.  Like 90% of his examples are probably about Graves-specific.  

Educators from other schools (because of course there are other wizarding schools in America, what the hell, Rowling) probably look at those examples and go: “There’s no way that actually happened.”

To which Ilvermorny’s beleaguered instructors go: “AHAHAHAHA.  Sit down and let me tell you a story about the man we call Ilvermorny’s Bane and all his damn kids.”

TL;DR, more comment fic happened.  This is a follow up to this comment fic about Gawain vs. his potions instructor.

Galahad should probably not be allowed to plan things.  He tends to go zero to ‘full scale military assault,’ which will probably serve him well as an Auror/Director of Magical Security, but is sort of exhausting in a seventeen year old.

“And now I have detention,” Gawain concluded.

Galahad pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the inevitable headache.  It didn’t help.

This was not how Galahad wanted to spend his evening.  He had, maybe, three hours of free time all week to spend with his girlfriend.  He did not want to spend them attempting to beat common sense into Gawain’s head, mostly because he was pretty sure that was a lost cause.

Sam, well versed in Graves sibling dynamics, just made an amused noise and kept her attention firmly on her book.  Sam thought most of the Graves sibling interactions were hilarious, as long as they kept her out of their drama.

This was Professor Jauncey’s revenge for the dueling club.  Galahad was sure of it.  And, okay, fine, Galahad could have been a little more subtle about taking over the dueling club, but Professor Branagh was an idiot who barely knew which direction to point his wand in.  Teaching people the proper forms and etiquette was all very well and good, but Dad always said that survival was more important than your manners.

Galahad agreed with Dad.  Jauncey probably did too, although he was not above making Galahad’s siblings Galahad’s problem.  Galahad couldn’t really blame the headmaster.  He was the oldest and therefore responsible for the rest of the little monsters.  If he could’ve foisted responsibility of them onto someone else ....

Well, he still wouldn’t have done it, because they were his siblings, but he’d have been pretty tempted.

“I’m not intervening with Papa on your behalf,” Galahad said.  Dad like to pretend he was a total hardass -- and he could be, with his Aurors - but of the two of them, Papa was the disciplinarian at home.

Gawain looked at him like he was stupid.  “I don’t want you to intervene with Papa,” he protested.  “I want you to help me make Jauncey see that Thompson is dangerous.”

Galahad folded his arms across his chest and frowned.  “Dangerous how?” he asked.  Thompson wasn’t a disgusting pig, like Saunders.  He was a bit of a dick, yeah, but he’d never struck Galahad as being much of a threat to anything other than people’s free time.  Thompson was a bit too fond of giving people detention.

Gawain’s you must be stupid look went frustrated with a side of incredulity.  “He wanted us to test our Pepper-Up potions on each other,” he said.

“So?” Galahad asked.  He remembered that unit from second year.  Olwen had done it, too.  It was part of the curriculum.  It was just the way things had always been done.

“So we’re students,” Gawain said, throwing his hands up in the air for dramatic emphasis.  “Libby Frasier’s in my class, and she’s melted more cauldrons than anyone.  Her potions never come out right!  If she’d drunk her Pepper-Up -- or if someone else had -- they’d probably be in the infirmary being treated for -- I don’t even know.  Accidental poisoning, probably.  Our potions are supposed to be, y’know, experiments.”

“He’s got a point,” Sammy murmured, not looking up from her book.

Gawain beamed at her.  The little brat knew full well that if he got Sammy on his side, Galahad would fold like a house of cards.

“How d’you reckon?” Galahad asked.

“Libby Frasier’s been in the infirmary for potions burns six times already this year, and it’s only October.  That’s almost once a week or so.  The poor thing’s a danger to herself and everyone around her,” Sam told him.  Sam -- whose childhood knack for healing charms had blossomed into the sort of talent that hadn’t been seen since the Bluebird -- worked as a student assistant in the infirmary.  Having a girlfriend who worked in the infirmary was very helpful when it came to dealing with his siblings; Galahad always had the inside scoop on whatever dumbass stunts they’d actually pulled versus what they wanted him to think they’d been doing.  (The Bluebird maintained that was a uniquely Graves trait.  Galahad suspected it was just what happened when most of your extended family was made up of Aurors, who were almost pathologically incapable to admitting to being injured, much less how badly said injuries hurt.)

“No one wants to be her partner in potions,” Gawain piped up.  “And Thompson’s not helping her much, either.”

People who were reckless with the lives entrusted to their care didn’t deserve that trust.  Dad had taught him that.  So had his siblings.  Looking after his brothers and sisters wasn’t quite the same thing as being the Director of Magical Security, but Galahad would have done anything to keep the little monsters from harm, just like Dad would have for his Aurors.

Sam’s mom maintained that Dad was the best Director of Magical Security MACUSA had seen in ages, because he knew that the lives of his Aurors weren’t coins to be spent cheaply.  People trusted Dad because they knew he wouldn’t put them in harm’s way unless he thought they would come home again.  (Or unless he absolutely had to, but that was a lesson Galahad suspected Dad hadn’t wanted him to learn just yet.)

“Alright, brat,” Galahad said.  “I’m listening.”

Gawain relaxed.  He was still young enough to believe that Galahad could fix anything.

“The thing is,” Gawain said, “Rosamund’s right.  It’s dangerous having students test their potions on each other.”  He scowled when Galahad raised an eyebrow at the mention of his crush, but Galahad figured a bit of brotherly ribbing was his due, seeing as every single person in his family had been completely insufferable while he was trying to work up the nerve to ask Sam out.  “It’s like Uncle Robert says, when he’s doing the lab safety speech.”

Galahad held up a hand.  Gawain had already given the lab safety speech once today.  And magic knew he’d already heard it enough; potions was pretty much the only safe after-dinner conversation during the holidays.  (Mostly because politics got dangerous with Dad and Aunt Seraphina in the room, wizards didn’t put much stock in religion, and who was having kids was … well.  Pretty much always Dad and Papa and therefore not all that interesting.)

“Student potions are especially problematic,” Sammy murmured.   “The dosages aren’t held to the standardized scale, and if you give a kid the wrong dosage for their body weight … There’s a reason potions are supposed to be prescribed by a qualified healer.”

“Or a potions master,” Galahad pointed out.  “Which Thompson is, or he’d never have been hired here.”  He considered that.  “That might actually be worth looking into.”  He made a mental note to follow up on that with George, Dad’s current protege.  George owed him a favor, after that thing with the murderous tomatoes last summer.

Sam sniffed.  “I doubt he’s run them for every single student.  I don’t know that anyone has, at least not past Isolt Sayre.  The Pepper-Up unit is taught as a hands on one because that’s the way it’s always been.”

Gawain set his jaw stubbornly.  “Just because that’s the way something’s always been done doesn’t mean that it’s right,” he said.

People liked to make a big deal about Galahad being Dad’s heir.  Or his clone, or Director Graves in miniature.  Galahad didn’t mind the comparison, although sometimes it chafed a little.  He knew that he took after Dad.  He had Dad’s ridiculously overprotective personality and his talent for silent, wandless spellwork, with Papa’s reserves of magical ability to back his talents up.  Olwen was like Dad, too, even if she deliberately modeled her behavior after the aunties.

Gawain, though.  Gawain was like Papa.  Out of all of them, he was the only one so far who had inherited Papa’s sensitivity to magic.

And, apparently, Papa’s habit for revolution.

“We can do better,” Gawain told him.  “Professor Thompson should be tutoring Libby privately, so she learns the same as the rest of us.  Or if he doesn’t want to do that, he should at least make one of the older kids do it.  And the rest of us ought to be taught how to be safe in a lab.  Even if we don’t go on to be researchers or potions masters or anything like that, it’s a good skill.  It’ll teach us to be clean, and aware of our surroundings, and to think about things methodically rather than just dumping shit in pots and hoping for the best.”

“Language, brat.  There’s a lady present.”

“You’ve said worse,” Gawain argued.

That was true, but Galahad’s point remained.  He caught his younger brother up in a headlock and rumpled his hair while Gawain squawked indignantly.

“Sorry, Sam,” Gawain muttered.  He shoved Galahad’s arm off and said, “Will you help me?”

“You’re my brother.  Of course I will.”

Gawain beamed at him.

“So, first thing’s first,” Galahad said.  “Sam’s going to get us some numbers.”

“Oh, am I,” Sam murmured, in a tone that promised he’d regret trying to give her orders later.  Sam Collins took orders from no one.

“Sam, darling, my sun, my moon, my stars, light of my life, would you please take pity on us poor idiot Graves boys?” Galahad asked.

Sam sighed.  “Fine,” she said.  “But only because I’ve got a soft spot for you idiots.  Someone’s got to look after you.  Merlin knows you won’t do it yourselves.”

“Can you look into how many cases there are of … Hm.  Student medical complaints after self-administered potions?” Galahad asked.  “Going back a couple years?”

“You’re lucky that you’re good looking,” Sam said tartly.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Galahad promised, all innuendo and dark intent.

“Gally,” Gawain whined.  “Ew.”

“Shut it, brat, I’m helping,” Galahad said.  “Next thing to do is get your classmates on board.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be hard,” Gawain mused.  “Thompson’s a dick.”

Yeah, neither did Galahad, honestly.

“After that, we get someone who’s really good at potions to tutor you guys.  Maybe with some private lessons for Libby.”  Galahad flicked through his mental roster of the students in his year and the one below it.  Toussaignt would make the poor Frasier kid cry.  Hartman was his first choice, but Hartman hated him.

“There’s no one better than Andrea Hartman,” Sam pointed out.

“Hartman hates my guts,” Galahad reminded her.

“No, Hartman hates Olwen’s guts.  You, she hates by extension, but not quite as much.”

“How is that going to help?” Galahad asked.

“If you make Olwen make nice with Hartman, Hartman will agree to help you.”

Galahad laughed.  No one made Olwen do anything.  She’d followed where Galahad led, but she did it kind of like Dad did with Aunt Seraphina.  By choice rather than blind obedience, and will the knowledge that if Galahad proved unworthy, she’d take over in his stead.

Sam waited patiently.

“Shit.  Seriously?  You don’t want me to do something a little easier?  Like, I don’t know, pulling a star out of the sky for you to wear?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gally,” Sam said tartly.  “A star would be much too big.”

“Sam,” Galahad whined, because he’d outgrown that ridiculous baby name over a decade ago and really disliked the reminder.

“Galahad,” she retorted.

“Oh, fine,” Galahad said.  “The things I do for family, I swear.”

“How is getting good at potions going to make Jauncey see that Thompson’s dangerous?” Galahad asked.  “If we’re good at potions even though he’s a dick, it just makes him look good.”

“Oh, that’s not what Hartman’s going to be teaching you,” Galahad said, watching the plan unfold in his head.  “I mean, yeah, I do want you guys to learn lab safety because you’re right about the things it teaches you.”

“Sorry, I didn’t have a recording charm on.  Can you repeat that?”  Gawain ducked back, laughing, as Galahad took a swipe at him.  “What do you want Hartman to teach us?”

“Let me see if Hartman’s on board, first,” Galahad said.  “I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

*

Andrea Hartman was something of a potions prodigy.  Galahad knew for a fact that she was being scouted by the Fisher Institute and the Niehaus-Cormier group.  No one who wasn’t top of their class got to work for the Fisher Institute.  (See Exhibit A: Aunt Dindrane and Uncle Robert.)

He hadn’t expected her to have such a knack for teaching, though.  He’d sat in on the lessons - mostly to make sure that Ollie did not snap and murder Hartman, since Hartman had only agreed to help out if Ollie would play her assistant - and Hartman was actually really good at what she did.  She was thorough and methodical, which worked well with the students who were good at following directions, but just enough of an out-of-the-box thinker to be able to relate to the students who didn’t quite see the world in an orderly line.  She’d probably do really well at the Fisher Institute.

“Alright, minions,” Hartman said brightly.  “Today: the reward for all your hard work.”

Forty-odd second years looked up at her in semi-worshipful anticipation.  Or, in Libby Frasier’s case, actual worship.

“Today,” Hartman said, leaning forward conspiratorially.  “I am going to teach you to safely blow shit up and make a huge fucking mess of the potions classroom.”

“You are the best big brother in the history of ever,” Gawain told him.

“Sorry, I didn’t have a recording charm on.  Can you repeat that?” teased Galahad.

Gawain shoved him in the side.

“Make me proud, brat.”

*

Jauncey stared at Professor Thompson.  The man looked as though he’d tripped sideways into a surrealist painting, possibly while said painting was still wet.  He appeared to be wearing nothing but his underclothes, although that was hardly noticeable beneath the layer of orange slime he was wearing.  And that was mostly covered by the strange purple foam.

The purple foam smelled strongly of asafoetida and other, less pleasant things.

“I want that little brat expelled,” Thompson yelled.  “This is all his doing!  Do you know how many cauldron’s have exploded this semester?”

“Yes,” Jauncey said, because the director of finance had already raked both of them over the coals for that.  The phrase “does it look like I am made of cauldrons” had come up.  “Forty-seven.  A new school record.”

“Forty-seven!” howled Thompson.  “They’ll be coming out of my paycheck, next.”

“I think Fontaine was joking about that,” Jauncey soothed.  He really hoped Fontaine was joking about that, because if Fontaine wasn’t, his paycheck was likely to be sacrificed next.

“And if the cauldrons aren’t exploding -”

“Or melting,” Jauncey put in, because that had happened at least a dozen times too.

“- or melting, then the potions themselves are just -” Thompson made a vague gesture indicating a geyser of some sort.  Or possibly fireworks.  “Except what they turn in is perfect.”

That was honestly the biggest mystery.  Jauncey had a few theories about how and why that was happening, and it mostly centered around Andrea Hartman’s brand new unholy alliance with Olwen Graves.

“Expelled!” Thompson said.

Jauncey sighed and summoned one of the Ilvermorny elves.  “Peridot, would you please bring Galahad to my office?” he asked.

“Not Galahad!” Thompson shouted.  “Gawain.”

Jauncey resisted to slam his head against his desk.  “On second thought, Peridot, just bring me a bottle of whiskey.  The sort Cook favors will be lovely.”

Peridot had been an Ilvermorny elf for longer than Jauncey had been alive.  “Will sir prefer the whiskey Cook drinks, or the whiskey Cook puts in the food?”

“Are they different?”

Peridot shrugged.

“Then I trust your judgment.  Bring me whatever is the least likely to make Cook come shout at me, please.”

“Sir,” Thompson protested, aggrieved.

“No,” Jauncey told him.  “I am not debating this with you now.”  Merlin’s balls.  He thought Gawain had gotten this out of his system.

Evidently not.

“I will discuss this with you once you no longer look like a walking advertisement for the importance of lab safety,” Jauncey informed Thompson.  “Merlin’s beard, man, why haven’t you showered it off?”

“I did,” Thompson said through gritted teeth.  “The reaction melted my clothes and resulted in this.”  He indicated the purple foam.

Memory nagged at Jauncey.  He’d seen that particular potions reaction before, but where?

Oh, hell.  Arthur Graves-Flores.

“Right,” said Jauncey.  “Then I suggest you head to the infirmary, and see if Healer Cole can do anything for you.  I will discuss this with you tomorrow, Thompson.”

“If you won’t do something about that boy -” Thompson said warningly.

Jauncey smiled blandly.  The students of Ilvermorny were under his care.  He was not the duelist he had been in his youth, but he was still equal to the task of defending them.

Thompson shut his mouth.

“I will deal with Gawain,” Jauncey promised.  And Galahad, and Olwen, and Andrea Hartman.  And probably Sammy Collins, too, for all that the Graves’ siblings were adamant about leaving her out of their mischief.

“See that you do,” Thompson snarled, and stomped out.

Jauncey put his head down on his desk.  When he looked up again, William the Pukwudgie was staring grouchily down at him.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Jauncey told him.  “Or do you want to give an old man a heart attack?”

William’s judgmental silence got a bit judgier.

“I know you’re older than I am,” Jauncey said.  “At least, as far as the stories go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” William snapped.  “I don’t look a day over one hundred.”

“You know, remarks like that really don’t help,” Jauncey told him.  Even he didn’t know if William was the original William who had known Isolt Sayre.

Peridot reappeared with a bottle of whiskey for Jauncey and a bottle of berrywine for William.

“Thank you, Peridot,” Jauncey said.

William grunted something that might have been thank you.

“What do you think I should do?” Jauncey asked.

“With Thompson?  Or with the Graves brats?”

“You like the Graves brats.”

William shrugged.  “So do you.  They’re entertaining, and they’re good about not making extra work for us.”  By us he meant the pukwudgies and the house elves.

Jauncey hadn’t missed the way the pukwudgies on staff watched the Graves children after the Thunderbird Incident.  The pukwudgies complained about having to look after wizards - who were too naive and helpless to look after themselves, according to William - but he’d never heard them complain about Galahad and Olwen and Gawain.  He suspected he wouldn’t hear them complain about the rest of the Graves brood, either.

“Fine.  What do you think I should do about Thompson, then?” Jauncey asked.

William mimed shooting an arrow.  “Target practice?” he suggested.  “Or you could let them explain,” he added, seconds before there was a knock on the door.

Jauncey sighed and put the whiskey bottle in his desk.  “Come in, Galahad,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Galahad said politely, stepping into Jauncey’s office.

He really did look just like his father, Jauncey thought.  There was a bit of Credence Graves in the tilt of his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw, though.  Olwen stood at his right hand, and Sammy Collins at his left.  Andrea Hartman stood next to Olwen.  Three weeks ago, Jauncey was fairly certain Andrea wouldn’t have even deigned to breathe the same air as Olwen, but he’d been teaching for long enough to know that teenage friendships were fickle and terrifying.

“I was hoping I might have a word with you,” Galahad said, still with that exquisite politeness.  He’d learned that from his Papa.  Percival Graves did not have much use for manners, but Credence could bring a man to his knees with just a few well-placed words.

“By all means,” Jauncey said, conjuring up chairs for the lot of them.  “Take a seat.”

#comment fic #my fic #Possible 'verse #The Graves Brood #The Graves Brood vs. Ilvermorny #Galahad Graves #Gawain Graves #Samantha Collins #st00pz

[ppatibandla]

My Quarter Life Crisis

Told in a Series of Saved Snapchats

In about four days from now, I’m going to turn 26, which made me think that this might be a great time to reflect on year 25 of my life.

And well, also because I’m going through a post new year slump. You know, the point of time when you realize that you’re not sticking to any of your resolutions, you’re still recovering from the holiday season and struggling to get back into the daily grind, blah blah blah.

Since my creativity and productivity are at an all-time low, I figured that maybe if I just write and reflect, it might help get the juices flowing in my brain again. And I obviously had to tell my story in the most stereotypically millennial way possible - illustrated by a series of Snapchats that I’d saved over the year! :D

Sooo, back to 25 - the milestone number, the axis of our twenties, the pinnacle of our youth *eye roll*- was it everything I’d hoped it would be? Absolutely freakin not! Why? 

Well to start, I spent most of the first half of my 25th year, sick as a dog. I’m not sure what exactly happened but sometime in 2016, my immunity decided to go on a vacation.

Pretty sure I had brought it upon myself with my love for Indomie and Chunky Monkey (I’m sorry, mama!), but my body was suddenly no longer capable of fighting bad bugs on its own.

I was on antibiotics for various infections, eight different times in a span of fewer than six months. The amount and dosages I was prescribed caused absolute chaos in my body. 

Two months into my 25th year, after a particularly high antibiotics course, my stomach was pretty upset (common antibiotic side effect). I waited for the effects to fade away, but they never did. One week in, three weeks in, one month in, two months in…...my stomach was still chronically upset. When I say “upset”, you’re probably visualizing explosive diarrhea but it wasn’t that. I could literally not eat any food without my stomach bloating, having immobilizing cramps and feeling extreme pressure and fullness.

Now, all of these symptoms might not seem like a big deal, but imagine if this is your constant state of being where you’re always aware of the discomfort in your stomach. Imagine if the only time you feel relief is when you wake up in the morning because your stomach is empty then. Imagine if anything you put in your mouth is accompanied by the anticipation and fear of feeling like crap for the rest of the day. This was my life for months.

The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, they said I probably had Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). Now those who are familiar with IBS will also know that it is basically a medical pseudonym for “we don’t know what the hell is wrong with your stomach”. I didn’t even know what the problem was in order to look for a solution! So to fix myself, I had to turn to the last place I wanted to for help - the internet.

When you look up a sickness on the internet, it can actually be really helpful or it can fill you with a crippling fear and conviction that you’re going to die. But I had no choice because my doctor had sent me home with this very wonderful, completely unhelpful advice: 

“Well all your tests seem normal. Just wash your hands more and get more sleep so you don’t fall sick.”

*crickets*. This is what you went to med school for, lady? Thanks, much. >:-[

Also, everyone and their dog is a doctor on the internet. You have no clue who out there actually knows what they’re talking about and who is click-baiting you. 

Norma here would have made a much better doctor!

After trudging through hundreds of websites, I began my experimentation with the different remedies that Dr. Internet prescribed, in the hopes that it would give me some relief.

I tried three-day juice cleanses (juice only diet) and water fasts. This is supposed to help reset your stomach by giving it a break from digesting food. I received temporary relief but the moment I started eating again, my discomfort would return.

I avoided foods known to cause intolerance for months like gluten, dairy, soy, eggs, caffeine etc.

On a side note, I never realized how difficult life is when you have to actively check for and avoid ingredients like gluten, which wipes out more than half the options available to consume. My utmost respect for people who have to do this on a regular basis!

But that wasn’t helpful either because my condition was seemingly random, not caused (though exacerbated) by any particular kind of food.

I tried more antibiotics (look up Xifaxan, you need to sell a kidney to even afford this medication) and a ton of herbal drugs. Seriously, while my peers were out spending their money on vacation and parties, I was spending all of mine on expensive herbs and probiotics which promised results, but sadly never delivered. The herbal stuff was especially scary because it’s not regulated by the FDA - I was gambling with trying to fix my problem at the cost of causing new problems for my body.  

And of course, I also tried more obvious things like yoga, crying, praying and what not, all in a desperate attempt to fix myself. I was trying to go about my daily life and work with a semblance of normalcy but I felt anything but normal. 

There I was at 25, prime of my youth, unable to consume food, taking fistfuls of pills every night and avoiding eating any actual food, just so I didn’t have to deal with the discomfort. I lost a bunch of weight and the stress took the biggest toll on me, making my condition even worse. As if all of this was not bad enough, various members of my immediate family were having serious health issues as well which was further upsetting me.

Finally, sick of my constant visits, the doctor recommended that I get an Upper Endoscopy - a procedure where they shove a camera down your throat to look inside your stomach to make sure you don’t have cancer or a tumor.

$800 and the awful experience of having a minor surgery all alone later, the doctor came back and told me the same thing - my tests were normal! He suggested getting some other tests done too and kept talking, but as I laid there in bed in my shitty hospital gown and listened to him talk, I totally had a dramatic, bollywoodesque moment. I felt the doctor’s voice fade into the background as I made up my mind that I was fine. I covered all my grounds, did all the tests, tired all the remedies which yielded no results. I decided right then and there that I was going to be fine, even if I wasn’t.

And I swear to God, it felt like a switch had flipped and my body started getting better overnight. That night for dinner, I said “screw this shit” and bought myself pizza - I was eating gluten and dairy after months! I went back to eating everything like normal and ignoring the familiar discomfort I felt in my stomach.

Hell yeah, I post food Snapchats! Judge away!

And just like that in the following weeks, I started feeling so much better. Am I absolutely cured today? Is this going to be a miracle recovery story? Sadly, nope.

I still have pretty bad days when I’m doubled over with pain and I still take many probiotics and supplements every night. IBS is a chronic condition with no cure, it can only be managed. I know that it could be worse and that I should be grateful - I am grateful. But IBS has definitely affected the quality of my life and I will probably never be able to fully go back to how I was before. But I have learned to live with it and it’s just another part of my life now.

These were just some of the herbs, probiotics, supplements, vitamins and prescription meds I took (and still take) over the past year :/

So there you go, adulthood hit me like a brick when I turned 25 by bringing on wonderful IBS and what’s more stereotypically a sign of age than GI issues?  I brought this upon myself because of self-imposed stress. The moment I consciously stopped thinking about it, I gave my body the opportunity to restore itself, at least to a capacity where I was able to go about my daily life with relative ease.

None of the stress I was dealing with was particularly special, it’s stuff we all deal with - career, visa, money, family, friends, romance etc etc. But I let it get to me and it nearly destroyed the one thing that I actually can’t fix if broken - my health.

In addition to being chronic, IBS is also pretty common and affects many people in different forms. I am hoping that my overshare story is relatable to those who suffer from it and for those who don’t, please chill out and don’t mess yourself up over things that don’t really matter like I did. Pretty basic life lesson which we all know but conveniently ignore.

But year 25 was still pretty awesome - I made great new friends (and lost some) and got my H1B visa finally after 3.5 years. IBS definitely did not hold me back from going on many many many adventures. 

A Snapchat montage of all my adventures from year 25.

While I’m super excited for 26, I do feel the twinge of regret because like most people my age, I’m nowhere near what I thought I would be by now. But a big part of growing up is realizing that the world sucks, it’s not fair, there’re always going to be men with bad hair and no intelligence (read Trump) trying to control you and there ain’t nothing you can do about it. It’s all about accepting that success is defined differently for everyone, that you can’t change everything and being okay with that. It took me a totally avoidable physical and mental crisis to realize that. Here’s me hoping that your journey to self actualization is smoother!

P.S Before you click through and start reading my older blog posts, please note that everything before this was from when I was younger, dumber and not nearly as woke. 

[romanceinthevice]

Early Refills for the Lonely Girl’s Soul

Chapter One: “Life Skills to Kill”

“The tide is high but I’m holding on.”

And the tide is made up of 75 (edit: 80mg actually, they allowed me an increase today) milligrams of thick Methadone that runs a marathon through my bloodstream. It always wins the race for nothing. It’s all for big nothing.

Welcome to the static years. I’ll be your unreliable narrator with a heart of a darkness. Did anyone else read that in University English-lit? I couldn’t get through that book. Then again, I could barely get through campus mid semester.

Die with the lie? (Insert French for yes)

I’m questionable at best. And a terrible fake crier at worst. I need my Methadone every morning or I think about stabbing the walls of my apartment. I need my coffee for the ride to the clinic or I think about crying in the middle of the parking lot. Middle-class tragedy. Spoiled since day one. I NEED. I NEED. I NEED. I need you to read this.

My death wishes used to be bad-girl-charming at 22. Cute in that worried type of way. “She’s such a mess, isn’t it fabulous? I just love how complicated Cat makes everything.” Fast forward three psychiatrists, two evictions, one overdose and a series of voided lovers. Currently they’re just a broken record of empty. No! Really! I look in the mirror and regret it instantly. These days I see right through my own smoke and static; the attempts to distract my social circle from the rattling pharmacy bottles. There’s not enough black lipstick to mute a friend who cares. But there should be. (MAC, take note.)

Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the shameful of them all.

You are. You really are.

End of Chapter One

But maybe it’s mandatory for an author to have a loud reputation. You know what?A writers persona should be shrouded in rumors anyway. Fuck it. The checkered past. An affair with their professor. Or maybe their student. A secret arrest during the holidays years back. Maybe a forgotten relative with unfinished business. A hit and run inspired by Johnny Walker Red. A blood soaked sweater in the back of their closet to remember.

I have convinced myself that every writer deserves a notoriety to keep the masses at arms length. My, my, my, the mystery!

But the troubled-addict-writer is a cliche. And writers hate cliches. But writers also hate themselves.

Well, the good ones do anyway. What? Too far? And where was I before I launched a tangent of misplaced-poor me-bullshit?

Mmmmm. Methadone. My clinic has the pink kind.

I’m not the only one hurting myself, I tell myself over and over.

I think about how dramatic I’m trying to be, wanting to sound right and profoundly right at that. I feel like a bad actress in a dying career resurrecting a classic play. No need for an encore. Just cut. Besides there’s an after-party that I need to disappear into for eight hours.

I hate introducing myself in the first blog. Anything I write feels like the wrong thing. It’s so forced, I’m convinced no one knows themselves that well. Especially not I. Isn’t it better to keep a distance? Perhaps we can be strangers who make prolonged eye contact across the room.

Hi, I’m Cat. I feel like I just moved here. (Wherever here is.) I don’t know how to describe myself without comparing myself to the status quo. So, shallow generalizations about women, here I come!

Most girls find peace in an afternoon of shopping. Or make-up at Ulta. They get lost in the aisles and yell funny remarks to their friends about fashion sensitive culture. Maybe I’m jealous. And by maybe, I mean, absolutely.

Or perhaps They stalk their ex’s social media for clues about them, as if they were solving a murder. A new Facebook friend? An instagram story that makes no sense? It’s not adding up now, but it will. Oh, it will. By the way, who the fuck is Alicia and why are you tagging her?

I’ve always been sicker than the others.i win! Damnit. As the in crowd of seventh grade used to call it, I am “fuckin’ weird, no offense.”

“None taken” I nodded back taking a knee during gym class.

I do like to shop, although always by myself in the lonelier corners of shopping centers. And duh! I stalk many lucky persons on a semi-regular basis. It’s the American way at this point, I do it for my country. But on top of these typical hobbies of the expected feminine divine, I’m orbiting a different side of town. The side that no one thinks to go to for good reason; it smells weird and has no relevance to most standards of living.

Bare with me.

I’m a curious party. I’m also a drug addict in the harshest way. The combination of these two factors equal my favorite hobby; reading pharmacology research papers. Yes, sir. complete with abstracts and hypothesis that outlines the right balance of factual accuracy. Gets me giddy just thinking about it!

I like knowing what the new, FDA approved antidepressants are categorized as. And why they aren’t as good as Prozac. But better than Paxil. And less harmful to the female orgasm. Ladies, you know what I mean. It’s a cruel game when you finally stop thinking suicidal thoughts but suddenly can’t orgasm. God is really a piece of work. A sexist piece of work, come to think of it.

These new prescriptions hold possibilities, a potential change for an addict in the screaming cycle of addiction. It’s hope, baby. I’ve got that shit, I can’t play the bad ass who doesn’t care about anything anymore. I’ve been there and got the t-shirt. I had to rip it off.

Goodbye apathy. I’m blowing you a kiss. Of death.

I’ve been a pharmacy baby since day one. Hell, I was a pharmacy baby hopeful-groupie-wannabe-poser before ever cashing my first Celexa prescription. Or maybe it was Lexapro. Oh well. Same thing. I was so excited to be an official member of all the statistics I read about.

The few. The proud. The prescribed.

It began with therapy in ninth grade for a knot of emotional problems that caused me to isolate and skip class 80% of the school day. My counselor found this worrying. I thought nothing of it. Who gives a fuck about geometry? I wanted to listen to Celebrity Skin on my disc man and walk around the outdoors. If life was a one off, I was going to sit in this meadow with Malibu blaring my ears into deafening bliss.

Girl power. I understood my selfishness on a promising level, one that spoke volumes about who I was going to be, a stunningly poised sociopath with nothing to offer most of society. Adults felt the aura on me most of the time and soon their would be meetings about my “goals” and “friends.”

No wonder people were worried. I was a walking red-flag of rage and I hadn’t even gotten my first period. I didn’t have many good reasons to be pissed off and I was usually morbid about something if I wasn’t in my bed. This wasn’t looking ideal for a freshman with zero college ambition and no interest in recreational activities that would accompany academia and no doubt introduce me to new social groups. I wasn’t athletic enough to play school sports, and I was too wrapped up in my depression (which had no real cause, according to my family).

And they were rightful in their judgment. I was better off than most of my school friends, sporting the latest lava lamp that glowed my room a deep purple or concert tickets that we would countdown the days too. I got to see Ja Rule and Ashanti up close and personal much to the dismay of my classmates deep in the bleachers bitching constant complaints.

I didn’t have it bad. And I knew it, which made me feel worse. I hadn’t the faintest idea what my problem was. I couldn’t smile anything or even pretend to for the sake of my parents, who just wanted me to have a normal teenage existence that didn’t kill every mood with some invisible, existential threat. I must have been the most annoying fourteen year old with a lava lamp.

This stubborn depression led me to weekly ninety-dollar checks that were flawlessly made out to one Dr. Pat. Pharmacy Baby’s first shrink. Awww!

We all have to start somewhere. My start was Thursday’s at 4pm. This appointment made me vacate the bu on an earlier stop than the routine one. Kids soon began to take notice. And they couldn’t comprehend why I had to see a doctor four times a month. I must have leukemia or some other young person disease they saw on Dawson’s Creek. I must have been really sick, dying really! Afterall, my sole school-bus pal Kendra saw her hair stylist more than her primary care physician and the dentist combined. Highlights are a serious thing, she would state this as seriously as a heart attack. It made me chuckle and she never understood.

Unfortunately, the punchline was that I was dying. At fourteen years old I knew this was the start of a love-hate relationship with “irony.”

At my worst I was existing and not knowing why. I was wanting to sleep life away. Sleep was the answer.

At my best I was killing my old-self, the girl who reeked of unexplained trauma and bad moods and now this annoying trademark “irony.” The metamorphosis came around the third month of counseling. An anniversary with Dr. Pat meant we drank hot cocoa and did worksheets revolving around behavior and choices. Fuck prom, I had Dr. Pat! I was blossoming.

And i was learning about the power that was “change” and how it could empower you like a butterfly. Or whatever insect fit the worksheets. I sometimes felt like a spider, but I never told Dr. Pat this.

It’s never easy to kill the old you. Even more demanding to bury the old body, and just praying it won’t come back from the dead and replace you. Hoping wasn’t enough. I had to ask with my eyes closed.

I wanted to be a butterfly. I needed my wings. (Commence the beginning of secret plans that were thoughtlessly detailed in my diary, ready to be exposed any minute to a league of jealous girls re-enacting Mean Girls). The writer inside me cringed. Privacy truly died before Twitter. No girls thoughts were safe. They would never be safe. I would need to find new ways for my secrets and dreams. Then, I would fly away into the night, into a new city of strangers, outside of a small minded town of familiars. I wouldn’t need numbers in my yearbook. I was going to find what I was looking for.

But what the fuck was I looking for. Sweet sixteen started to taste sour.

I remembered Dr. Pat told me, “Happiness is a butterfly.��

I wrote it down in my diary, much to my own dismay, hoping that it would be both safe and true.

By: Caitlin Alysabeth Thomas, March 10, 2020, “pharmacy baby blogs,” “Romance in the Vice.”

[red-pillgrimage]

Debunking bullshit, partie deux

This is a continuation of a previous critique of a long-winded anti-feminist/MRA propaganda piece. 

Domestic Violence

Women are perpetrators often as men.(1) 286 sources on assaults on partners by women(2) Women are more violent(3) Domestic violence being equally committed by women, only males get arrested(4) Men are over 40% of domestic abuse victims(5) Male DV victims are discriminated against(6) Gay and bisexual men experience abuse in intimate partner relationships at a rate of 2 in 5, which is comparable to the amount of domestic violence experienced by heterosexual women. (7) About 17-45% of lesbians report having been the victim of a least one act of physical violence perpetrated by a lesbian partner (1,5,6,13). (8) Men or DV is Not the leading cause of death among women under 50 (9) More DV facts (10)

1. An academic paper? What a surprise. But a mighty surprise indeed for anyone who actually bothers to finish reading it. I’ll take a guess that OP isn’t an academic because one of the keywords on the title page includes “Feminist Theory”. 

It’s also of great importance to mention that in the introduction to the paper, the author makes the very narrow scope of the research known:

the article does not cover sexual assault because there is no controversy concerning the fact that almost all heterosexual rapes are perpetrated by men. When the term "violence" is used, it will refer to nonsexualphysical violence.

So I guess OP agrees with the author that “almost all heterosexual rapes are perpetrated by men” but I have a feeling the next post won’t necessarily agree. Does OP also think that physical violence is the only worth-while measure? What about emotional abuse? Psychological? Financial?Sexual? Are those not important measures of spousal violence as well as physical?

The Importance of Ending Cultural Norms Tolerating Male Violence

Until nearly the end of the 19th century, husbands were allowed to use "reasonable chastisement" to deal with "errant" wives (Calvert, 1974). Thus, even though female PV has been documented since the Middle Ages (George, 1994), men who "allowed" this were ridiculed. Thus male PV, like corporal punishment of children then and now, has been an accepted part of the culture, It has taken a major effort by feminists and their academic colleagues, including the author (Straus, 1976), to. change the continuing implicit cultural norm that accepts a certain amount of male PV.

So the author of the article wants us to know that it’s been legally & socially prescribed to beat your wife if she was “errant” up until the late Victorian period. Y’know, up until the late 1800s. What the author failed to mention is that this belief in the “duty”/”right” to beat women started centuries ago but was religiously predicated in the Tudor period. By means of publishing a little book known as the Malleus Maleficarum (Hammer of Witches), a couple of German priests outlined how one could detect demonic possession. Women, they argued, as the source of Original Sin, were predisposed to Satan’s influence. A ‘good’ woman was docile, quiet, obedient and weak. A ‘bad’(see: under Satan’s power) woman was opinionated, strong-willed and ‘disobedient’.

As centuries passed and religion was traded in for (pseudo)science, these Satanic influences were traded in for “biological instability”. “Hysteria” was initially conceptualized as a woman’s uterus was literally bouncing around inside of her and thus made her manic. Woman with a strong opinion? Must be her sexual organs, just smack her back in place!

And though the author outlined early on that only physical violence between partners was to be discussed in their research, for the sake of this section it is of great relevance to mention that “marital rape” was only outlawed as of the early 1970s-1980s for most western countries(Greece has only had marital rape law as of 2006). So your grandfather probably couldn’t beat his wife, but he could force himself on her sexually and not be considered a criminal rapist. 

Gender Stereotypes 

Most cultures define women as "the gentle sex," making it difficult to perceive violence by women as being prevalent in any sphere of life. More specifically, there are implicit norms tolerating violence by women, on the assumption that it rarely results in injury (Straus, Kaufman Kantor, & Moore, 1997). This assumption is largely correct, but as previously noted, it is also correct that about a third of homicides of partners are perpetrated by women, as well as about a third of nonfatal injuries (Catalano, 2006; Rennison, 2000; Straus, 2005).

Holy shit. Is there actual scientific evidence to show that women can in fact be violent contrary to patriarchal gender norms?  Radical. If only there were a group of people looking to dismantle existing gender stereotypes which promote mentalities that women are incapable of violence.

Defense of Feminist Theory

even though male dominance and male privilege may no longer be the major cause of PV in more egalitarian western societies, dominance by either party, regardless of whether it the male or female partner, is associated· with an increased probability of PV (Straus, 2007a).Moreover, comparative studies have shown that the more male dominant the society or segment of society, the more PV (Archer, 2006; Straus,1994, 2007a; Yodanis, 2004). Perhaps most important, although ending male dominance and male privilege may not be central to ending PV in western nations; it is central to creating a better society for men as well as women.

Huh, so when one partner behaves in dominant and aggressive ways, violence is more likely?  So male dominant societies likely value masculine values? Could this be why both men and women would exhibit these toxic masculinities in violent manner?

CONSEQUENCES OF THE DENIAL

The criticism inherent in this article is directed primarily to the research community, The thousands of dedicated women and their allies who developed and maintain services for battered women are part of a social movement that has benefited the entire society, not just women, The objective of social movements and advocacy groups. is to change society, 

 I am concerned that denial of the evidence On female PV may ultimately interfere with the very goals the denials intended to achieve because, when the evidence finally prevails, the discrepancy could undermine the credibility of the feminist cause. It may alienate young women from the feminist cause, and it could weaken the public base of feminist support. At the same time. casting PV as almost exclusively a male crime angers men who feel that they are. being unjustly accused and provides fuel for the fire of extremist men's groups. These organizations often have a larger antifeminist agenda and publicize feminist denial and distortion of the evidence on PV as part of that larger effort.”

Hahahahahaha. I was in tears reading this. 

At the very top of an MRA anti-feminist evidence pile is an article that promotes feminist efforts and specifically warns against being used by “extremist men’s groups” who “often have a larger antifeminist agenda and publicize feminist denial and distortion of the evidence of PV as part of that larger effort.” 

Pure fucking gold. Nice pick OP.

2. Ah, another academic source. Sorta. This isn’t really much ‘new’ to what has previously been said in (1). Especially seeing as OP sure as shit isn’t an academic, these academic ‘findings’ don’t mean shit. Unless you know the methodology employed, sample data and actually read the conclusion section of the peer-review research, findings don’t mean shit. See (1) for how that might work out.

3. Ah, another UK journalist. But I’m not sure this news paper article really says that “women are as violent as men”...

Male violence remains a more serious phenomenon: men proved more likely than women to injure their partners. Female aggression tends to involve pushing, slapping and hurling objects. Yet men made up nearly 40 per cent of the victims in the cases that he studied - a figure much higher than previously reported.

“Women are as violent as men” but only constitute of aggressors and according to this data are less likely to injure. Hm, dubious conclusion from what is here.  

Terrie Moffitt, professor of social behaviour at the Institute of Psychiatry at King's College, London, admitted that women do engage in abusive behaviour and said the Home Office should fund research into the issue in the UK. "If we ask does women's violence have consequences for their kids then the answer is 'yes'," she said. "There is also an elevated risk of children being victims of domestic violence if there is central violence between parents." However, Dr Anne Campbell, a psychologist at the University of Durham, said that women should still receive the most support because they were the greater victims of domestic violence. "The outcome of violence is that women are more damaged by it and need the bulk of resources," she said. "But women's violence has become increasingly legitimised. There is a sense now that it's OK to 'slap the bastard'."

Well, this sounds about right: when parents are violent, it fucks up the kids both psychologically and potentially physically as well. However, the conclusion that women are more harmed by it and deserve the most of the resources is actually contrary to OP’s argument, isn’t it? Hell, (1) tried real hard to disprove that argument actually. 

4. WOW OP, trying to play another fast one of us? This is the exact same link as (2), again distorting facts to promote wider antifeminist agenda.

5. Ah well, another british news paper article. Alright then. So what does this one say?

The official figures underestimate the true number of male victims, Mays said. "Culturally it's difficult for men to bring these incidents to the attention of the authorities. Men are reluctant to say that they've been abused by women, because it's seen as unmanly and weak."

So cultural gender norms prevent men from being perceived as “unmanly”/”weak”? I really wish we had a group of people looking to dismantle gender...

The number of women prosecuted for domestic violence rose from 1,575 in 2004-05 to 4,266 in 2008-09. "Both men and women can be victims and we know that men feel under immense pressure to keep up the pretence that everything is OK," said Alex Neil, the housing and communities minister in the Scottish parliament. "Domestic abuse against a man is just as abhorrent as when a woman is the victim."

Hm. The number of women prosecuted for PV nearly triples from 2004 to 2009 even though the reported crime rate actually drops for women? Doesn’t sound like there’s any conspiracy here protecting women from being prosecuted for conjugal violence. 

6. This privately funded research demonstrates that the outcome of decades of feminist activism amidst a patriarchal society has lead to resources being distributed towards women who are victims of partner violence.

It is absolutely abhorrent when the police blame victims or mock their dismay. Victim-blaming has no place in society, nor do patriarchal values that promote the idea that men cannot be victimized by women. As (1) outlined, regions with more conservative gender norms have higher rates of PV, which we can assume leads to higher rates of dismissal by law/courts. Soooo republican leaning institutions= raped male deniers? 

7. Another broken link, but if I may infer from the “conclusion” OP derived, non-straight men assault their partners as often as straight women? What? ? ? How does this demonstrate anything OP wants? ?  ?

8. So uh, this fact sheet that’s 18 years old (though based on 19-26 year old data now) isn’t really scientific. Know how I know?

The research usually has been done with mostly white, middle-class lesbians who are sufficiently open about their sexual orientation to have met researchers seeking participants in the lesbian community. Subsequently, these findings may not apply to women who are less open, less educated, or of other ethnic backgrounds.

Neeeext.

9. Lol? Really? Why OP put this here I have no idea. Probably to make this shit list longer. This is straight up a fact-checking page about what some idiot said during a government session. Not a researcher, not an activist, not a statistician. Just a politician throwing out numbers into the wind. So this one dude made some shit up, sooooo?

10. This fact sheet makes a good point

Range of findings due to variety of samples and operational definitions of PV

So all those different % we saw across the different studies are actually comparing apples and oranges? Wow.

Within military and male treatment samples, only 39% of IPV was bi-directional; 43.4% was MFPV and 17.3% FMPV.

Well I mean, this is straight up what we saw earlier from (1) about “male dominant” parts of society having higher rates of PV. 

#MRA #Men's rights activism #Feminism #Radfem #Intersectionality #Antifa #lol OP can't read for shit

[drennalynspast]

[ repetitive explanations ]

Sunday, Jan. 11, 2009

oh gawd, does she have to keep crying about it >.> .  The fact is that I basically told several things [not details like zomg I failed chemistry - am literally getting a damned w/f on my transcript now (due to unsympathetic professor) ].   a big mistake was that I probably should -not- have told her I got another conditional acceptance.  I told her how I sent a letter that I declined it.  and she is all "wtf!" 

I told as much as I could. It’s just -their- fucking problem about  how they can't simply comprehend the situation at hand.  even if I have to recite my explanation over again to a letter "t" - she still is going to be confused as hell.  

I basically told dad and mom:  "I am not doing pharmacy anymore."  "I have little interest in the classes and as a result, I am doing poorly in them."   "oh hay, but I’m gonna do health science instead *thinking: "so don't flip your shit about me doing something else (aka liberal arts) sporadically"*"

dad/mom: "what program are you going to do in health science?"

me: I don't know yet.

mom: physical therapists make a lot of money too blah blah blah

me: *getting angry* don't tell me what major/ what I should do now. 

dad:  I’m okay with whatever you choose. it's fine. 

 to mom: don't tell her what she needs to choose mom:  [insert woe story about her concern for us]

on that day, I was also talking to dad about how I’ve been seeing the counselor a couple of times in the past - talking to her.  "and she ..and I think that maybe I need to start taking antidepressants..."

And then, he changed the conversation or said something unrelated to that.  Seriously, I was speaking.  It's not like you couldn't hear me.  I mean, how can you not hear me and dismiss that?  Anyway, I just assume that he ignored it or didn’t' want to get involved in that sort of discussion.  Jacob and I were talking about how the Asian culture (like this old generation) may not be accepting or convinced of struggles due to emotional weakness from some sort of biological/chemical factor.  

And the fucking fact about how they don't give a shit about my personal feelings  - it's all about the concrete result that we give out (like grades, success, money and acceptance) that gets recognition.   I’m -fucking- through with even trying to say my personal feelings to them.  I have already scheduled an appointment to dr. __ and talk to her to diagnose/prescribe me anti-depressants.   dad called me today.  He asked, "did you make an appointment to see dr. ___ Tuesday?".  (The clinic calls home to remind the appointment).   I said, "Yes".  He said, "Okay, bye".    I don't know if he knows or what they are thinking...but he did not ask.  I’m relieved though.

I try to talk to them.  I know my limits on what to say at times because I know it will just make it harder and more difficult.  it's not like I am withholding everything from them.  It’s just simply that -they do not understand-.   I know myself more than anyone else.  I know my strengths and weaknesses.  I know how I did throughout my courses.  I took a look back at my grades, my habits.  I reflected and pondered upon them.  I know my low interest had an effect on my low motivation to study for the material as much as I could.   even if I tried studying - another individual who has studied the same amount of time like I have may still perform better than me.

of course, of course, there's the whole:  "ohhhh if I just try really hard.  I can do anything!!!!!!".    Well, you know what?  Sometimes, that just does not cut it.   it works for some people, yes.  but it does not work for me.  I fucking gave it a shot in the first place.  you know how I was never fond of chemistry or math.  But, I took the approach at attempting to do chemistry to see if I can get successful in it.   I tried.  meh.

Can I make it through college now?  I was baww'ing at my other academic counselor (the health sciences one). I asked him will an 'f' on my transcript hurt prevent me from getting accepted to whatever shit or succeeding in life.  he said, "no, since you are a junior, you have 60+ more hours that outweigh that 3 credit hour 'f' ".  

 I still feel sad/shattered/broken about the scar on my transcript.  buuut...I'm not going to let it bring me down.  I’m not going to let that tell me I am a failure as an individual over. no -_-.

You won't believe the talks I’ve had with other people [my friends] about all this.  

I understand the Asian culture and their concern for their offspring.   after their struggles, attempts  to do things for their children - you think their sob stories will inspire you to put much effort in your own work to make the proud and you become successful as well.  it works for some kids.   it did not work for me.  it's not like I don't fucking know what the hell is going on.  it's not like I am unwire of my laziness/unmotivation is hurting myself.   I am aware.  oh yes.  you can give me 97497498 motivational speeches about the value of life, success, hard work, money, family values,  how to make yourself motivated and become undepressed if you exercise/sleep/go out more/eat healthy and raise your serotonin/endorphinshit - it's just going to pass right through me.

cleeearly something is missing.  Something is wrong.  Maybe I am just sick of school and discouraged at this point.  maybe I am just fucked up in the head and I need some happy pills.  Maybe a change of major is what I need to do.   I need to just reevaluate who I am - what are my interests, what does linda want.  No - it's not about what the family wants.

And you know what?  I don't need anymore bullshit about how I should approach in making my decisions in choosing my major.  this time, I’m going to research the courses that correlate to the field.  if I enjoy the courses as well as the field description, maybe I will become more motivated.

Well yeah,  it's not like I don't like pharmacy..  but...obviously chemistry has such a strong connection with pharmacy. and that has become my weakness.  Apparently the money/job background of pharmacy was not enough for me to make me want to try hard[er] in chemistry.  y'see - that's the thing.   Sometimes you reach a roadblock in life and the attempts to try to overcome it will just cause a more stress and waste time.  if you simply take an alternate route, things may get easier and you know what? maybe I will do my job better and be more happier in the health science profession.  omfg!!!! did anyone ever think of that?

of course I feel sad and disappointed. but, right now - I don't need to face judgmental people at the moment.  I don't need fucking pity.  I don't need suggestions that only accommodate your selfish needs.  I don't need to be looked down as an inferior/lesser individual who has failed from just doing a rerouting of life. Everyone deals with this all the time. Outside bashing opinions just makes me feel worse as it is.   Right now,  all I just want is for people to accept it and deal with it.  if they can accept it without any form of anger or sadness and a calmer understanding, then I will feel less pressured any maybe feel like people truly support me for once. 

#asian parents #quitting #fail #depression #college #asian

[fckingfibro-blog]

A Good Day

Ohhhhhhm’gosh, what a beautiful day yesterday was! ❤ [heart] I went to my first pain management specialist appointment yesterday and was really nervous about it, but it went amazingly well! Especially considering how many shitty doctors I’ve had to deal with before!

Went to see Dr. John Michalisin, Jr. for help with my chronic pain from fibro and my shoulder’s adhesive capsulitis. He was very respectful, kind, understanding, and listened to me and made sure to tell me I was the boss on how I wanted to pursue treatments. Hell yes!

I explained to him that I’d had some really bad experiences with doctors, particularly rheumatologists and psychiatrists, and that I just wanted some pain relief and help, and he took what I said to heart. He explained a little about fibro to me where my rheumatologist (who diagnosed me!) did not, and he happily covered the treatments usually used to help with the pain. He immediately explained how little treatments there are for fibro-- not to make me feel hopeless, but to inform me that the basics for fibro treatment are “eat nutritious foods, try to exercise when able, and rest/avoid stress,” which is really what

everyone on Earth should be trying to do as a simple baseline for health, so, he explained, that this was pretty much useless for actual treatment of fibro. He explained this to me in a way that made it clear that any failing for treating my fibro is not on me, the patient with the condition, but rather on the fact that fibro research is still in its infancy and not always taken seriously by the medical community. I really appreciated him saying that because that’s exactly the attitude I often encounter and fear with new doctors who look to use these “findings” to blame me and other patients for something they feel unequipped to treat.

He informed me that he feels the best method for treatment is a global treatment of the issue rather than targeting whichever part of my body is acting up at the moment and returning for a visit each month for an injection of some sort. I was pleased with his comment and expressed my desire to do this, as well, since I’m so sick and fucking tired of going in to see doctors all the time. He said that the first treatment typically attempted is an antidepressant or  gabapentin medication. I explained that I was really not wanting to attempt things like that, such as Cymbalta, Lyrica, etc, because I knew that they had a chance of suicidal ideation and depression, and I’d become highly suicidal and depressed while taking 3 different antidepressants in 2014 and was really scared that I might have another bad reaction to them when I had just this year started to recover finally. I told him I didn’t want to end up dead trying to treat my fibromyalgia, and he was totally cool with it (lol imagine that! It’s sad how absurd that sentence is and how many other doctors ignore me on this critical issue). He agreed that it could be risky since I have a history of responding poorly to medications and have an increasing allergy to many things I digest, food and medicine, and he said that we could exhaust other options first before returning to this option if necessary.

I mentioned to him that I had read many things online from various fibro sources and friends with chronic pain for pain help, including medical marijuana, TENS units, herbal remedies, muscle relaxants, sedatives, and so on, and that I wanted to try these before resorting to Cymbalta/Lyrica, etc. as a last resort only. He was very happy to give me a referral to an anesthesiologist who would be able to help me obtain a medical marijuana prescription, and he himself prescribed me both a low dose muscle relaxant and some generic lidocaine topical cream to help numb areas with high amounts of pain, such as my shoulder. He also made sure to point out to me that in case it wasn’t something my insurance would cover, lidocaine is available over the counter (OTC), which I hugely appreciated. I am always so grateful when doctors try to be mindful (on their own initiative) that poor and disabled people don’t have the same access and coverage that richer folks do.

He also had me do some movements to check my range of motion (ROM), explaining to me the things he was looking for as he did (always a plus when the doc wants you in on things), and was incredibly gentle when checking my pressure points. My rheumy, Dr. Mehta, had been unnecessarily rough when testing mine, nearly causing me to cry out from the pain as she repeatedly dug her fingers into tender spots, never once acknowledging the amount of pain she was clearly putting me in or explaining what she was looking for. It wasn’t until I looked online that I understood that this was a trigger point examination, but I also knew that she neglected the fact that she isn’t supposed to use more pressure than it takes to whiten your fingernail when you press it when examining these areas. I believe that because I’m fat, she probably felt (wrongly) that she would need to dig into my body to be able to feel those parts, but it was completely unnecessary and cruel on her part to do so. Dr. Michalisin, however, used the correct pressure amount, was kind in his approach, and even was apologetic, acknowledging that he was putting me in pain but explaining why it was necessary, which I greatly appreciated. He also tested for a significantly larger ROM in my body and especially shoulder than did Dr. Mehta, which I also appreciated. And to top off my respect for him, when I mentioned that I was on the verge of triggering a migraine with certain motions, he was totally fine with not having me do a certain movement with my head and neck that I knew could push me over the edge.

To be taken for my word and respected and deferred to about my experience is such an incredibly validating and humanizing experience that is frequently completely missing from healthcare. I am more accustomed to doctors immediately dismissing and even mocking my pain or insinuating that I am just lazy because I’m fat. Chronic pain is often not believed by doctors, and it’s even worse when you’re fat because they seem to feel you caused it to yourself and therefore kind of deserve whatever they give you in examination. So to have Dr. Michalisin treat me as human and deserving of respect simply by that right was something I am incredibly grateful for and will not relinquish. This is the kind of treatment every single fucking human being on the planet deserves. Period. Absolutely no excuses.

Dr. Michalisin also didn’t subject me to taking a urine sample to prove anything and didn’t even bring up the idea of signing some ridiculous contract stating that I wouldn’t seek medicinal pain treatment from anyone but him while in his care. I understand that doctors face difficulties and fears in their fields, but forcing people who have few options while suffering from chronic pain into coerced agreements is abusive, stigmatizing, and horrendous. Even if someone is using drugs considered illegal, that is still a medical fucking condition that deserves treatment. There is plenty of evidence globally that demonstrates the necessity of legalizing drugs and chemicals to remove stigma and help protect users and help prevent them from dying. There is plenty of evidence globally that being able to seek help for a substance use issue helps decrease the chance of overdose and death in users because they don’t have to hide shit they’re dealing with and can make sure to get help if they want/need it in a way that won’t criminalize or stigmatize them.

Now, granted, I told him straight up that I wouldn’t be able to use things like Tramadol and Percocet because they trigger migraines in me and that I was concerned about their use because of addiction issues that run in my family. So I can’t say for sure that if you go to him and are going to request/receive any controlled substances that he won’t ask you to submit a urine sample or sign a contract. I really hope he doesn’t, but I can’t know that from my experience. So if you go in to see him, please keep that in mind. (Also feel free to let me know, anonymously or otherwise, if that does become the case and you would like folks to have a heads up.)

Anywho, to continue on with the appointment, I also asked him about TENS units (a friend of mine uses one for their chronic pain and seems to find relief) and herbal remedies, including topical ointments and such. He said that research has shown that over time that TENS units don’t always work/don’t have a consistent showing of relief, but when I interrupted him saying that they say the same thing about herbal options and acupuncture, he agreed very much and said that it’s something that can’t hurt you for trying it and that it does seem to bring relief to some, so it’s worth a shot to see if you’re one of the people it will help. He also agreed that herbal remedies might be helpful but that he sadly didn’t know much about them himself; however, he didn’t discourage me from trying and was open to the possibility that it could help. So if I try anything and find it helpful, I’ll bring it up to him in the future and see if he’ll hold on to that. I just hope he also takes any patients who are BIPOC as seriously as he did me, a white patient, if they bring it up as an option.

We also briefly discussed acupuncture, massage therapy, and chiropractics as treatment options, but those are all unfortunately not covered by my insurance. :\ [disappointed face] I’m hoping one day that will change, but in the meantime, it’s nice to know that it’s doctor-encouraged and not dismissed. If I ever get the money, massage therapy is high on my list since I know from experience that it helps me tremendously in ways pain killers do not.

I had mentioned corticosteroid injections as an option, and he explained to me that while it helps for an acute injury, for chronic pain such as mine, it could actually worsen things over time. I had a suspicion about that because I use an inhaler that has corticosteroids and had heard similar things, so I had been surprised when I saw it as a suggestion online for chronic pain in fibromyalgia. He said that if I get an acute injury, he’d consider it, but for something like this, he was afraid of putting me in more pain down the road. I wholeheartedly agreed and decided against the injections. It also made me think about all the doctors who have been insisting I try them for other issues such as my bone spurs in my heels. I had always been reluctant to try it, and now I’m really glad I waited for better informed folks on the issue who also didn’t have an investment in the hyper use of it as a treatment (hello, local podiatrist).

Speaking of chronic issues, he explained to me about my adhesive capsulitis (again, a condition my rheumy diagnosed me with and refused to tell me anything about) and said that it’s not, as I had suspected, something caused by my injury doing the self defense practice but simply a chronic condition that had likely been building up for years. He said that the good news is that it wasn’t an acute issue like a rotator cuff tear-- I laughed at it being called “good” news, but I got what he meant. It was also kind of nice to not have a doctor try to describe chronic pain as always worse than acute pain. I’m hoping that this is a sign of a healthy attitude of accepting chronic illness as another normal way of being human and not a sign of dismissing the debilitating nature of long term pain, but I really didn’t get a negative vibe from him like that at our appointment. Overall, he just acted as though this was all very normal from a medical standpoint and not something of a moral failing on my part as the patient.

He asked if I had ever been in physical or occupational therapy (PT/OT), and I told him about my three failed attempts to try for my back pain and carpal tunnel, mentioning that after the initial few appointments, it just became so stressful and overwhelming to go several times a week, spending hours at the appointments/rides to and fro, spending hours scheduling my rides and appointments, etc., that my days quickly became subsumed by treating my health and I had no energy or ability to pursue anything else at home. It seemed clear to him immediately that this was an issue, and I didn’t even need to explain that I needed more from my life than just exercising, scheduling medical appointments, and resting from those two things, and I was so damn glad I didn’t have to. He immediately just nodded his head and continued to discuss our other options.

It was a holy shit moment because, as a fat person especially, I always get treated as though if I don’t pursue every opportunity to “heal” the way the doctor feels I should, I’m deserving of and trying to be unwell and in pain. So to not be forced to explain myself, to be allowed to have desires in life for things other than exercise and therapies that only others (and not me) felt would help me was fucking amazing. A little confusing at first, but then it felt completely normal, which is how it should fucking feel. We deserve, as disabled people, to choose how we want to treat or not treat our conditions without being shamed for it or coerced into doing differently for someone else’s conception of what is healthy for us as individuals.

I also asked him about low impact exercises, and he told me basically what I already knew: using an elliptical, swimming, walking, and so on are all good, so I said I would just do my best to continue with that.

At the end, I also asked him about how to proceed with other issues, saying, “I’ve been seeing a lot of doctors the last couple of years, and I would like to stop.“ lol I explained that I had been through so many tests, kind of expecting that fibro might be a possibility and doing those tests to eliminate other conditions just to be sure, including with a gastroenterologist who ruled out IBS, Crohn’s, Celiac, parasites, etc., despite ongoing gastro issues. I explained that I was still going to check about the possibility of dysautonomia, which he encouraged me to look into to be sure, suggesting a neurologist would be best for that, and I explained that I wanted to basically just get confirmation that most, if not all, of my symptoms were attributed to fibro or were common issues with fibro, and I can finally stop looking and go home to rest and heal and pursue my life secure in the knowledge that this is my diagnosis. He said, “Yes.”

...

Y’all, I almost cried. ❤ [heart] I was so grateful. I’m tearing up just typing this. lol He said that since I’ve been worked up in so many ways and tests and have been able to rule out so much, that it’s pretty conclusive that fibro is the likely culprit for all my symptoms. We talked about the fact that fibro doesn’t cause things like IBS/IBD, migraines, etc., but that they’re often simply comorbidities and that I just have them now. I was so, so grateful to finally hear the words I’ve been needing for so long, the words I was looking for after 5 years of searching for an answer to this shit I was going through. I have a name for it. It’s real. There’s no cure, but I can try to treat it by doing all the things I’ve known all along would help. I don’t have to continue this hellish cycle of going into the doctor’s office so often that they know my name and face when I walk in the door and know my voice over the phone without even my name. God, I can’t wait to be unknown or barely remembered at all these doctors’ offices. It’s gonna be fucking glorious.

And let’s just take another moment to compare Dr. Michalisin with Dr. Mehta, shall we? In this instance, instead of shaming me for needing answers when I expressed confusion about my other non-fibro-caused symptoms or accusing me of seeking to be ill like Dr. Mehta did, Dr. Michalisin understood that I needed to simply hear answers and explanations about my condition and that I needed confirmation that I could stop looking for shit wrong with me because this is it. A conclusive diagnosis. Fucking thank you. What a beautiful thing to know.

We finally wrapped up the incredibly human-feeling appointment with a prescription for a muscle relaxant called cyclobenzaprine (commonly called Flexeril) at 5 mg, a prescription for lidocaine-prilocaine 2.5-2.5 % cream (commonly called Emla), and a referral for Dr. Daniel Hanono to discuss medical marijuana for my pain. He told me that if the relaxant helps, I don’t need to really come back, but that I was always welcome to come back, call him, or message him if it didn’t help or if something changed or something new popped up and we could try dose adjustments or something new. We exchanged pleasantries and parted ways, me feeling human in ways that I’m usually denied at doctor appointments, empowered by my pain treatment options, and hopeful that I could finally get even a minute amount of relief from my constant symptoms.

It felt so, so, sooooo fucking good to tell the receptionist no when they asked me if I needed a followup and even better to go, practically skipping, to CVS for my prescriptions which were all covered by my insurance and therefore costing less than five bucks out of pocket. It was like fucking Christmas in my house, I swear, that’s the most I’ve probably smiled since I got approved for my hysterectomy. lol What joy it was to have and what joy it was to feel joy again after so long!! ♡ ❤ ♡ ♡ ❤ ♡ ♡ ❤ ♡ [9 black and white hearts]

I’m so grateful to have been able to get this care. I’m so privileged and lucky to have been able to do so. Everyone deserves this in their lives. And if you haven’t been given this kind of treatment or been allowed to be and feel human, you deserve to be given that. You deserve kindness and respect and belief in your symptoms and difficulties and accessibility needs. You deserve pain treatment. You deserve care, quality and humane care. You deserve help and answers. My love and strength to you in the face of anyone who dares deny them to you. ❤ [heart]

#fibromyalgia #pain management #pain specialist #anesthesiologist #pain management specialist #pain doctor #fibro #fucking fibro #doctors #health care #medical system #spoonie #spoonie life #spoonie shit #disabled #disabled shit #disabled life #healing #answers #finally some fucking answers #finally some good news #medicine #medication #pain medications #pain meds