#listen. if my therapist can tell me to set aside those Same differences with my Mother. then......

[inawickedlittletown]

Queerbaiting and Buddie

(word count: 1,900)

I keep saying that I don’t want to spend any more time on 9-1-1 meta or fic, but the events of this weekend made me open up a document where I had some unfinished meta and in light of the S4 finale airing tonight, I thought I might at least write this: 

“Queerbaiting is a marketing technique for fiction and entertainment in which creators hint at, but then do not actually depict, same-sex romance or other LGBTQ representation. They do so to attract a queer or straight ally audience with the suggestion of relationships or characters that appeal to them, while at the same time attempting to avoid alienating other consumers.” 

That is how Wikipedia defines queerbaiting. And I really feel like everyone needs to read that and then read it again and realize that what is happening on 9-1-1 with Buddie is NOT queerbaiting. 

I don’t want to go into the long history of queerbaiting because we would be here all day and anyone that wants to do some research should go and do so. There are a lot of resources out there. Use them. 

But the short of it is this: queerbaiting has a lot more to do with the way a show is promoted, with the way that anyone involved in the show talks about a queer ship, and with the show deliberately scripting scenes that hint at a relationship without any intention of following through. Expectations and wanting a queer ship to go canon and those expectations not being met do not alone equate to it being queerbaiting. 

For any of us that have been around a long time there are a lot of perfect examples and if you compare Buddie to any of them, they are very different. I’ll name a few:

Merlin/Arthur

John Watson/Sherlock

Emma Swan/Regina

Derek/Stiles

Castiel/Dean Winchester (though they did go canon...barely)

Lena/Kara

Buck and Eddie do not fit into that list. Which isn’t to say that someday they could belong there, but I just do not believe that they will even if Buddie never becomes canon. And this all lies in how Buddie as a ship has been treated both on screen and off. I’ll break it down by season. 

S2: 

Eddie is very clearly introduced as a new character, a straight Army veteran with a disabled kid and family drama. He and Buck have immediate chemistry. We can’t deny that, or deny that from that first episode there are immediate sparks. Unintended sparks, but sparks nevertheless. And it is easy to tell that no one on the production team expected that and the story reflects that. 

Yes a foundation for their friendship is formed and yet the season long story focuses on Eddie’s relationship with his estranged wife and Buck is dealing with his own growth after being left by Abby. Their friendship shines and their scenes are great but none of them suggest romance and there are actually a lot of episodes where Buck and Eddie barely interact in S2 aside from in the background or for small work related moments (this mostly happens after Shannon returns). 

S2 does give us the first acknowledgement from the powers that be aka Tim Minear that they know what the fans have seen. This is why the elf scene exists, but it exists in a space where it’s a nod to the fans and not meant to do much more than that. The other moment is during the call with the livestreamer. But S2, places them completely and without question on a strong friendship. 

S3: 

We see a lot more conflict for Buck and Eddie in this season and we see how close and important they are to each other. Those are the two main things. That can be read as friendship easily and it’s a season where both Buck and Eddie deal with their pasts and in one way or another start to get closure while their friendship remains intact. 

Yes there are some scenes that make us squint and go huh, wtf? (I’m looking at you kitchen scene), but narratively we also know that neither of these boys is ready for a real relationship with anyone, let alone each other. But we can bask in how close they are as well as how Christopher fits in into all of it. 

But in S3 we are also introduced to Ana and we see the return of Abby. We also get to see that Buck and Eddie have become closer than ever and that the lawsuit only serves to highlight the importance that they both feel about having the other available to them. I’ll also quickly mention that Eddie Begins worked hard to highlight Buck’s devotion to Eddie. 

S4: 

Without considering the events of the finale (I am avoiding spoilers and know nothing about it or the speculation), we’ve seen Buck and Eddie both grow and get further closure on their past. This season has paralleled them well and their friendship has not faltered, they’re as close as ever. 

The beginning of the season was heavily focused on Buck and we saw him grow as a person and begin to work on himself in a healthy way and we’ve seen Eddie be supportive of that. 

We also have Ana to consider and her relationship with Eddie as well as the return of Taylor and yet the appearance of these women has not changed the Buck and Eddie dynamic. And I find it fascinating that Eddie beginning to date Ana, is the thing that prompted Buck to start dating. The parallels are all over the place but it is the strength of the friendship and the way they care so deeply about each other that remains whether that becomes romantic is still to be seen, but it could still go either way.  

Off-screen by the end of S2, Tim Minear had already addressed Buddie by throwing in that elf scene in a wink/nudge fashion that said “I see you” and in the scene with the girl with the livestream with the comments. During S3 he tweeted about being frustrated by the fans demanding and being hostile and thinking that that would make him more likely to do what they want (I’m paraphrasing what I remember seeing). Tim has never once said that Buddie will happen or shut the door on the ship entirely, but he did say he did not want to engage in conversation about it because he doesn’t want to get into arguments with fans. 

Oliver has always been enthusiastic about Buddie and has even said that he would be perfectly fine with it happening both a while ago and more recently in promo for S4. Conscious of queerbaiting and not wanting to give fans false hope, he has specifically said that he does not know if it will or won’t happen and that he wouldn’t speak on that as he’s not the one making that decision. His support for it happening does not mean he has any sway one way or the other. He’s said this a few times and even wrote a letter to the effect to make it clear to fans that the last thing he wants is to disappoint someone due to something he’s said. 

All in all, it just isn’t a constructive environment for anyone working on the show to interact with fans on this topic because any time that they do, they get attacked by overly enthusiastic buddie shippers that in many ways are making everything worse. 

In all of the interviews from Tim that I’ve seen, he has always been very quick to hint at what was coming up on the show in a way that at times has been misleading on purpose. The number one thing that comes to mind is early in S4 where Buck was said to get a new woman in his life. Tim absolutely made it out to seem like it was a girlfriend while knowing fully well that it was a therapist. This is an excellent example of what promoting and hinting is actually like. No one from this show has done that in regards to Buddie. 

No one has gone out of their way to hint that it may happen in a way that excites the fans. And this is one of my main reasons for knowing that Buddie is not a queerbait. At no point in the life of the show so far has anyone used Buddie in a promotional way to bring in viewers. Because THAT was the whole point of queerbaiting in the past. 

It was a way that some showrunners found to bring in a lot of viewers when they needed to up their numbers in order to show networks they were worth keeping around. Someone figured out that LGBTQ people wanted to see themselves represented so much so that they would tune in to anything that promised an LGBTQ character in some fashion. It was a tactic that worked well in the landscape of tv where there was so little LGBTQ content on mainstream media that anyone wanting it would latch onto anything. And then they just wouldn’t deliver on those relationships or characters. In 2021, that is not the world we live in any longer. 

In today’s tv landscape there is so much to watch and so much to pick from and diversity has grown, it is celebrated. Queer characters are well represented as are queer relationships and queer stories. The times are different. A while back I was listening to a podcast (Bait: a queerbaiting podcast) and something I found interesting was how the hosts both agreed that in today’s tv landscape there is no more real queerbait and that we won’t easily find anything like the ships I mentioned above. I think I agree more with this than I expected to, because I do think that it exists in some spaces, but it definitely isn’t what it used to be. This is a good thing. 

Specific to 9-1-1, this is a show that has that diversity and that isn’t afraid of tackling that diversity and giving us interesting and nuanced perspectives and stories embracing that. We have characters of color, women in positions of power, a F/F relationship, two multi-racial relationships, a disabled character, other queer characters including a M/M relationship. There is so much in this show that embraces diversity and that embraces the reality of what the world looks like. To call it queerbait is to disrespect everything else that this show is and has done and the hard storylines that have been tackled that we would not have seen on tv ten years ago. 

And I get that Buddie would be another breakthrough. It would be a novel way to tell a queer story, and it would be amazing if it were to happen. The set up is there, but it isn’t fully realized, and Buck and Eddie can still be read as just friends if we take off the shipping goggles. But it also isn’t queerbait or likely to become queerbait and people have to stop calling it that. 

What Buddie resembles is one of the many unintended slow burn ships that have frustrated viewers in many forms across fandoms and we just have to go along for the ride and maybe it will happen. Or maybe it won’t. But if we know anything about relationships on tv, it is that a lot of the fun comes from the journey, even if the destination is good too. 

#911 fox #buddie #911 meta #911 on fox #buddie meta #buddie is not queerbaiting #long post #this is almost 2k long

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

No, It's Definitely Funny

Prompt: Can I request a second part to "Let's Call It Funny" where Bucky, Sam, Steve, and Peter unite forces to confuse and concern all the other avengers (with at least one instance where two or all of them respond to something by pretending to jump off a building?) Love you! -Auggie

Does it count as being back on my bullshit if I never left?

Read on Ao3 Part 1

Warnings: none, unless you need a warning for gen z humor

Pairings: it's still found family hours

Word Count: 2259

Peter’s gonna be honest, he may or may not have some competition for the funniest person in the Tower right now.

Because let’s look at the list here:

Traumatized? Everybody and their private jet’s worth of vintage and designer baggage needs therapy.

Queer? If you think Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, or Sam Wilson is straight, you need to tell them everything they’ve ever done to make you think they’re straight so they can stop doing it immediately.

Superhero? Yeah, okay, shush, now you’re being stupid.

Neurodivergent? Have you seen the way these men behave? Definitely the model of Perfectly Normal Person™, what on earth are you talking about, absolutely 100% Normal™.

The only things he’s still got going for him that the others don’t are high-schooler and trans. That’s not a lot when it comes to the fact that hey, two of them are from the Great Depression���let’s be honest, they’re the OGs when it comes to fatalistic humor—and they’ve all got years of practice.

Sure, Peter’s got some trauma-given raw talent, but it’s not refined by years and years of throwing yourself off of buildings and out of planes to avoid having conversations about your emotions.

The day Aunt Nat dropped all of SHIELD’s files on the Internet and Peter found out that Steve yeeted himself out of a plane—without a parachute!—to avoid Nat’s prodding about getting a date was the best day of his fucking life.

“Don’t you go stealing my moves there, kid,” Steve had scolded playfully, winking over the rim of his mug.

“Try and stop me, I dare you.”

“And this is why,” Tony had sighed, looking every bit his 79 years—“Hey!”—as he watches this interaction go down, “you have a parachute built into your suit.”

“I’ll just wear my old one, don’t worry about it.”

“That heinous thing that’s just a cut-up old hoodie and goggles? Peter, no, that thing is being held together with safety pins and hope!”

“I mean, me too, so it’s fine.”

“Peter!”

“Also, like, it’s the one I almost got crushed to death in, so it’s got the emotional trauma seasoning already.”

“Wait—“ Bucky had sat up— “you almost got crushed to death by a building? Sheesh, kid, you’re really flirting with the reaper, huh.”

“It wasn’t so bad, I had training from the years and years of carrying the weight of my sins crawling on my back.”

“At least ask Death for his number next time, he’s not returning my calls.”

“Sergeant, I swear to God—“

“Actually, Death uses they/them pronouns, I asked when I met them last weekend.”

“What the fuck did you do last weekend?”

“Really? Oh cool, well, can you get their number for me? We had a date back in ’45 that they missed.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem.”

“Tony, why are you screaming? Not keeping dates is a very serious matter.”

“Trust me, I speak from experience, Tony, it’s not a good habit to get into.”

“You should respect your elders and not scream while we’re talking to you, mister.”

“All of you shut the fuck up.”

See? On one hand, it’s great to have more partners in this venture of making Tony’s hair turn grey—he’s that age, it’s bound to happen any time soon now— “One more crack about my age, kid, I swear.” — but on the other hand, Peter is seriously losing his massive lead on funniest person in the Tower.

The other thing he’s worried about is Sam’s ability to make it so the others can’t actually worry about him.

Because—listen, Sam Wilson is a fucking national treasure and all you fuckers better acknowledge that. It’s no secret that the Captains take turns going out with the shield, all of them answer to ‘Captain America’ because that’s what they are, but no one—and Peter will never say this under threat of death because he does not need any more of the Steve Rogers’ Puppy Dog Eyes™, thank you very much—no one does it better than Sam.

And that means that Sam fucking Wilson can turn a fatalistic, self-deprecating joke into a motivational speech that doesn’t feel disingenuous or cliché at all and everyone is too busy processing the philosophical revelations they’re having to scold him for his, frankly, outstanding sense of humor.

It’s not fair and Peter can’t do it.

He tried. Once.

Didn’t go very well.

No, he’s not gonna talk about it, let’s just move on.

Sam has offered to catch him a couple of times when he gets himself a little too deep into the Mamma Spider™ or Iron Dad™ trap of feeeelings, and he gratefully scoots out of the way when Sam sits down next to him and just makes another joke.

Sam is also a fantastic role model for the brand of ‘I’m going to the store and only have twenty bucks, stop asking for your will to live back’ jokes.

“Hey, Pete!”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go, bodega run.”

“Can we pick up some hopes and dreams, too, all of those got scribbled out in fat red Sharpie yesterday.”

“I said bodega run, not Court of Miracles run.”

“But Sam~”

“Listen, kid, if you manage to find your hopes and dreams in this bodega, keep an eye out for your childhood innocence, that might be on the next shelf over.”

“Deal.”

“Do you two need some more therapy appointments?”

“Only got fifteen bucks, man.”

“I’m literally a billionaire!”

Peter eagerly studies under this pinnacle of humor and keeps his worries to himself.

Because if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and Peter’s sense of humor is wonderful, but he is a tad intimidated by the amount of variety the others have got going for them.

“You’re a fucking terror, Spider-ling, that’s what you are.”

“Not true! I was ‘a pleasure to have in class.’”

“Oh, is that why you’re taking ‘Little Shit’ lessons from Barnes and Rogers?”

“And Sam! Don’t forget Captain Wilson, he is an invaluable part of this team. I’m surprised at your ignorance.”

“Pete—no, that’s not—“

“I’m ashamed for you, Mr. Stark.”

“Listen here you little shit—“

Anyway…

Steve and Bucky have a habit of telling these like, really awful jokes that have Peter in stitches for half an hour. It’s not fair and he doesn’t get why they’re so funny because they aren’t, and yet here he is, laughing anyway.

It’s probably some combination of Steve’s perfected innocent face that he wears when he has to do interviews and Bucky’s habit of not giving a single solitary fuck. But they’re able to make the worst jokes with completely serious expressions and it’s not fair.

“Hey, can you guys come help me with something?”

“Sure, Peter,” Steve says instantly, bounding over with his 95-year-old Golden Retriever energy as Bucky trails behind him like a cat that’s sitting in your lap because he wants to, not because he likes you or anything, “what’s up?”

“I have a history project on WWII due tomorrow and I haven’t started it yet.”

Bucky snorts, taking a swig of coffee and sitting down on the floor. Which, same. “You got your eulogy planned?”

“Drafted, sighed, notarized, but Aunt May said no so I gotta do this.”

“Well, if Aunt May says no then I guess that’s that.”

Tony, from far away in another part of the Tower, has a sickening feeling that May Parker has once again proven that she is the most powerful parent and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“I, um,” Peter mumbles, fidgeting with his pen, “I want to be respectful of your boundaries, and if you don’t want to talk about anything then—“

Because it’s one thing for someone to make jokes about their trauma and another for someone else to go poking and prodding at it.

“Hey,” Steve interrupts softly, nudging him with his knee, “first off, thank you for saying that and we appreciate your respect, but we got you. You worry about enough, sweetheart, let us take care of ourselves.”

Peter gives him a look.

“When it comes to this,” Steve amends, having the decency to look a little sheepish, “we’ll take care of ourselves.”

Bucky scoffs. “Uh-huh.”

“We will, Buck.”

“My therapist will be real happy to hear that.” He looks up at Peter and winks. “Besides, what good is our trauma if we don’t pin it up and display it for good grades?”

Peter huffs, the joke undercut a little by the way Bucky knocks his foot against Peter’s and Steve’s arm stretches over the couch behind him.

Peter has to resist the urge to lean his head onto Steve’s shoulder, because then Steve’s hand will come up and ruffle his hair and Peter’s eyes will droop slowly closed as he loses himself in the warmth and safety of Steve’s embrace and then Steve will lean down to press a kiss to his temple and—

Right. Homework.

“What’s it on specifically,” Bucky asks, clearly spotting the temptation on Peter’s end, “home front? Overseas? Time period?”

“Uh, it’s an analysis of total war.”

“Like, how much of the country was devoted to the war effort?”

“Yeah, basically. It’s talking about how the Nazi War Machine made their war total and how that extends to a lot of other countries, but also about the reasons why the war was fought—“

They delve into a conversation about total war, Peter pointing out how Italy’s motivation for territory keeps it from being a total war on their part, Bucky speaking to how the different dynamics worked in various countries and the fallout, Steve bringing up how much of the home front was devoted to bringing attention to the war being fought overseas. Then, of course, as is inevitable, they devolve into storytelling.

Peter’s notebook—with notes! He did his job!—is set aside as he gives in to the need to let Steve cuddle him on the couch. Come on, the man is warm and big and gives good hugs, how is he supposed to not? Bucky sprawls out on the floor, leaning back on his hands as he smiles fondly.

“You know,” he remarks casually, “I fought a Nazi in my pajamas once.”

Peter blinks sleepily. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, though how he got in my pajamas, I have no idea.”

Peter snorts. Then he giggles. Then he’s collapsing into Steve’s side, positively sobbing with laughter.

It’s not funny.

It’s really not that funny.

But here he is, fucking dying, and he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to welcome the sweet embrace of oblivion.

“Okay, note to self,” Bucky murmurs when he’s calmed down a little, wiping away tears, “sleepy spider likes corny jokes.”

“Just don’t break our baby spider, Buck, Momma Spider would kill you in cold blood.”

“Listen, if Natasha Romanoff kills me, don’t prosecute. That’s on me.”

Peter can’t do corny jokes. He really can’t. He just sounds like he’s a recording so old it’s unintelligible and it’s bad. He has a reputation to maintain here!

However, there is one sense of humor that Peter is very eager to learn and adopt, and hey, it might actually be Iron Dad™ Approved!

It’s a rookie mistake, asking Bucky Barnes for a hand, but in his defense, Peter was left unsupervised and was distracted.

“Hey, Bucky, can you give me a hand?”

“Sure thing, Peter.”

Something nudges his arm and he looks down. It’s Bucky’s metal arm, bumping up against his elbow.

It’s a cheap joke. It’s bad. It does not deserve Peter’s laughter.

He snorts anyway.

“That’s on me,” he says after a second, “you know what, that’s my fault.”

“What, is this not what you meant?”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Peter scruffs a hand through his hair. He looks down at the prosthetic again. “Well, that’s disarming.”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to snort. “You gotta hand it to me, though, it’s a good joke.”

Oh, it’s on.

“No, no, of course, I understand. You really can’t let an opportunity like that slip through your fingers.”

Steve chokes on his next sip of coffee. “Stop making the kid shoulder the burden of making puns with you.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Don’t palm this off on someone else, Steve, you’re as bad as he is.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.” Peter shrugs. “You just gotta knuckle-down and find the right one.”

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to reach for puns?” Bucky hefts his arm.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say a lot.”

“Jeez, Pete, good one.”

“What, are you not finding them humerus?”

Sam’s gone, Steve shortly after. Bucky just grins proudly at him.

Then there’s a massive thunk from behind them. Peter turns around to see Tony slamming his forehead into the counter.

“You are all going to kill me,” he mutters, glaring up at them, “all three of you.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Stark, Captain Barnes would never hurt you.”

Tony raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“After all,” Peter grins, gesturing to Bucky who is doing a very good innocent face—he must’ve been taking notes from Steve— “look at him, he’s completely armless.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker—“

Okay, so maybe it’s not Iron Dad™ Approved.

Oh, well.

#dragonbabbles #marvel #the longest running con in the mcu is people thinking steve isnt an extra hoe #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #peter parker #tony stark #steve rogers #sam wilson #bucky barnes #fic

[anarcoqueer1994]

I Need You Close

Bucky has been crashing with Steve since he came back from the blip. Steve apparently bought this small, beautiful country house on a couple acres with a barn, a few hours from the city in upstate New York. He invited Bucky to stay with him for "as long as he needs," even if that was forever. Truth be told, Steve kind of hoped it would be forever wanting Bucky to stay close to him. He could put aside how in love he was with the other man, as long as he was at least there. Not having his friend for five years after just getting him back, he refused to lose him again. This included him trying to secretly entice Bucky not to return to Wakanda. Sure Steve visited him often during his time there years ago, but he was so far away. But he knew Bucky had enjoyed his time there. Steve used to love to hear Bucky gush over his goats.  It was absolutely adorable, not that he would ever tell the  other man.

After Bucky disappeared, he never gave up hope that he would find a way to bring him back. He believed in this so much that he had actually bought this house shortly after he was gone, deciding that if he ever got Bucky back, he would give him the life he deserved, some peace. Again, not something he would ever admit to Bucky. It was, in fact, a little weird to buy your best friend a beautiful home in hopes he would live with you. But he did make sure as soon Bucky agreed to stay there, that he got some goats. He had loved seeing the brunette's face light up at the site of them when he first got there. Steve again played it off like he had goats all along, and didn't specifically but them for his friend.

Steve was around the house most days, having retired as Captain America, passing the shield onto Sam Wilson. He would sit on their big front porch and draw whatever caught his eye. Most of the time, the thing that caught his eye would be Bucky, doing various things around the property. It always seems like Bucky is continuously so restless, always trying to busy himself. Steve didn't mind, gave him something to draw.

Bucky was way more likely to leave the house. Sometimes he would go on missions with Sam, being away for a few days at time. Steve knew the man could hold his own obviously, but Sam still sent him secret texts every time, letting him know Bucky was okay.

Also, as part of the conditions of Bucky's pardon, he must drive in the city once a week to meet with his court appointed therapist. Steve thinks it's ridiculous that he even has conditions to his pardon considering that Bucky was a literal prisoner of war and was tortured and brainwashed for years. He let the government know exactly how he felt about it, but it didn't make a difference. So as it stands, once a week, Bucky has to drive two hours into the city to deal with it, even if it wasn't helping him, really.

Today was one of those days. Bucky had left early in the morning before Steve even woke up, probably trying to beat the city traffic. His appointment is 9am so Steve wasn't expecting him home until close to 1pm. Steve was using this opportunity to plan a surprise for his friend. Bucky had been sleeping on the floor in the living room. Steve had told him that the couch was a pull-out sofa bed, but Bucky still didn't use it. Steve assumed that it must not have been a comfortable mattress if the floor was more comfortable. Sometimes in the middle of the night while Steve was fast asleep, Bucky would sneak into his room and lay on the floor. Steve would find him there in the morning. Bucky had told him that the soft rug in Steve's room was more comfortable than the hardwood of the living room. He obviously didn't mind Bucky being in his room, he just didn't like that he was sleeping on the floor.

Steve had felt absolutely terrible that his friend was sleeping like this, knowing Bucky was having nightmares, even though he never talked about them. The floor couldn't be helping his sleep, so he was having a brand-new queen-size bed delivered and set up in the empty guest room. He had planned to make this Bucky's room all along, he just hadn't wanted to seem pushy when the man first showed up. But it's been three months at this point, so he pulled the trigger. The bed was so comfortable, and Steve had picked out beautiful bedding that was soft and luxurious. He knew he may have gone overboard but he hoped Bucky wouldn't point that out.

Steve was just finishing setting up the bed and making it all nice and fancy when he heard Bucky's car pull up the long dirt driveway. When Bucky enters the house, he calls out "Stevie, I'm home! I grabbed some food from the diner up the street for lunch. "

Steve smiles to himself as he listens to the man using the familiar nickname towards him. If anyone else called him that, he would hate it, making him feel little again. But with Bucky it always just made him feel warm. He made his way to where Bucky was at, standing in the kitchen.

“Hey bud,” Steve smiled as he steps towards the other man, holding out a bag a food at him. “Thanks.” He says as he takes it.

“No problem, I was starving so I figured I’d grab you something too.” Bucky smiles back, heading to the kitchen table, Steve following close behind.

“How much was my lunch? I’ll grab my wallet after we eat.” He says as he sits next to Bucky, maybe it was weird that they always sat next to each other and not across from one another, but its what they always did. Neither man would ever admit that it was because they wanted to be as close as possible to the other, both too oblivious that the other man wanted the same thing.

“What are you talking about? Its on me.” Bucky laughs “You have let me stay at your house for months and have refused to take any money for it, I think I can afford lunch."

He would never consider taking money from Bucky. For years when they lived together as young adults, Bucky had supported him when he was too sick to work. “It’s the least I can do.” Steve says, shrugging his shoulders and then changing the subject before the other man had a chance to argue. “So how was your appointment, Buck?”

“Uh, fine.” He says dismissively. Steve expected this. Bucky never goes into detail about these sessions. Steve wants to respect his friend’s privacy, doesn’t want to force him to talk about the nightmares and whatever else he may be discussing in the privacy of his therapist office. But that doesn’t mean that Steve doesn’t want to help. Not wanting to push though, Steve just nods in response.

They finish eating, talking about little day to day things, just enjoying each other’s company. After lunch, Bucky stands up and starts heading back out the door.

“Where are you heading?” Steve asks instinctively, before reminding himself that it was none of his business.

 “I’m going to go check on the goats.” He beams at Steve.  They only have four but Steve loves how much Bucky seems to love them.  But he really wants to show him his surprise before he goes outside.

“Hold up a second, okay? I have something I want to show you first.” Steve asks.

“Okay?” Bucky gives a questioning glance as the blonde stands up and starts towards the hallway, signaling for him to follow.

They get to the guest/Bucky’s new bedroom. Steve opens the door, Bucky following behind. Bucky’s eyes went wide at the sight of the bed, It looked warm and inviting, but not something Bucky wanted to sleep on. He says “What’s this?”

"Surprise, you like it?" Steve smiles at him. “I figured it's not fair you sleep on the floor, so I got you this."

Bucky looks dumbfounded. He doesn't want to appear ungrateful, especially with Steve smiling so sweetly at him, so he says "Uh thanks, Steve.." But inside he was fighting with himself. On one hand yeah he went to sleep on something soft and comfortable like this bed, but on the other hand, this room was too far away from where he wanted to be. He liked the living room because Steve's room is right off it and he liked being close to Steve. Steve was his safe space, his anchor to reality. That's why on particularly bad nights, he would end up on Steve's floor. Obviously, he’d never tell Steve the truth about why he was in there, always lying the next morning. This new bedroom though is all the way down the hallway. 

He also liked sleeping on the floor, as he connected to a time in his he and Steve were happy and he was not always plagued with nightmares, when they would pull out pillows and blankets, laying on the floor, having sleepovers way too late into their teen years, before moving in together after Sarah died. That was the last time he slept in a bed, too. When they were too poor to afford two, but Steve always insisted that they share because he didn’t think it was fair that he got the bed and Bucky got nothing. Bucky would tell himself that the reason he always ended up pulling Steve too close was to stay warm, but he knew he was lying to himself. Anyways, since then he only wanted to sleep in a bed if Steve was in their too.

Steve noticed the trepidation in his voice. He says "What is it, Buck? Is it the bedding? I knew it was too much, I'm sorry."

Bucky shakes his head. "No Stevie, it's perfect." He flashes a beautiful smile. Steve had gone out of his way to get him this, and he did not want the blonde man to think he didn't like it, even if the thought of sleeping in here tonight alone terrified him.

Steve tentatively nods his head, knowing that the other man isn't telling him something but doesn't want to push. But he wasn't imagining it, something seemed off about Bucky’s reaction.

~

The rest of the day was fine, neither man thinking much about the bed. But now it was 2am and Bucky found himself shooting up from a nightmare. He couldn't fall asleep on the bed; he just could not get comfortable. But he didn't want to let Steve know that, after all it was a wonderful gift. So, he falls asleep on his own bedroom floor.

But that sleep had been interrupted by another nightmare. This time it wasn't a victim of the Winter Soldier. It was a nightmare of the torture at the hands of Hydra. He had woken up sweaty and his heart was pounding out of his chest. Tears stained his cheeks; he must have been crying in his sleep.  It felt too real, and he found himself shaking.

Usually he would look over at Steve's bedroom door, using his serum enhanced hearing to listen in on the steady breaths indicating that Steve was sleeping. But more importantly, seeing it as a way to ground himself back into reality. He never talks about his nightmares with Steve. He doesn't want to add more weight onto the other man's shoulders. Steve has been looking out for him ever since he found out he was the Winter Soldier, literally almost getting himself killed and breaking up The Avengers over Bucky. It felt so weird because back when they were younger, it was Bucky who used to look out for Steve. So, he was fine to handle his nightmares on his own if he could silently assure himself that at least Steve was near and real.

But he couldn't do that this time, this room is so separated from Steve. He knows Steve meant well when getting this room ready for him. But Bucky hated being so far away. It's not like its Steve's fault though. How could he know that the only reason Bucky is still holding on, trying to make it through each day was because of him. The truth is Bucky is so in love with Steve and Steve is the only person in the world that makes him feel safe.

Against his better judgment, Bucky picks up his pillow and quietly leaves his bedroom. He pads softly down the hallway, trying his best to remain silent. He plans on quietly slipping into Steve's room and sleeping on the floor. The nightmare had really messed him up, and he couldn't shake the fears he felt reliving his torture through his dream. He needed Steve's presence, the little noises he makes as he sleeps, the smell that filled his bedroom that was so quintessentially him. He would have to make up some excuse in the morning about why he was on the floor given that he has his own bed now, but at this moment he really needed this.

He cracks Steve's door open slowly, trying to mitigate the amount of noise he was making. Steve appears asleep as he looks in, so he slowly enters the room, closing the door behind him. He makes his way to a spot on the floor at the end of Steve's bed. Before he could lay down though, he heard a sleepy voice say "Bucky?"

He freezes in his tracks, looking like a deer in the headlights at the now sitting up man staring at him from his bed, flipping on the side table light.  He doesn’t know what to do or say as Steve stares at him, confused on why he was there. He could only hear his heart pounding in his ears, the deafening silence around him making it feel like his world was crashing in around him.

It’s Steve who breaks through that silence though, noticing in the light Bucky’s tear stained face.  He whispers in a soft voice as he tries to put his friend at ease. “What is it, Buck?” Steve’s own features painted over in worry.

Bucky feels even worse now. He had thought Steve was asleep, and now because of his carelessness, Steve was now worried about him. He tries to speak as calmly as possible, but the adrenaline and fear that was still pumping through him from his dream, made it hard to control his voice. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be in here.” His voice cracks like he was holding back a sob, as he turns on his heels to leave, hoping that Steve will never bring this up again.

As he reaches the door though, he feels a hand on his shoulder, stilling him in his spot. He forgot how fast Steve could be. Steve had put something together when he saw Bucky’s face and reaction. He feels so dumb for not putting it together sooner when he first caught Bucky on his floor months ago. Steve doesn’t say anything, just steps between the other man and the door, throwing his arms around him, and pulling him into a hug. 

For Bucky’s part, he wants to resist, pull away, never talk about this again. He wants Steve to not worry about him. But he is not strong enough. As soon he feels Steve’s arms around him, he can’t help but lean into. He buries his head into the crook of Steve’s neck, letting his arms wrap around Steve’s waist.  That’s when Steve feels silent tears against his skin as Bucky starts to cry despite his attempts to hold back the tears. But now that the dam is open he can't stop.

Steve moves a hand to the back of Bucky’s head, stroking his hair softly, whispering “It’s alright, Buck…it’s alright…I’m here.” He hopes he is saying the right thing. Apparently, he is, as he feels the other man grip him tighter. All Steve wants to do is make all his friend’s pain go away. Bucky is the best person he has ever known, and it’s not fair that he must bear all this trauma, these nightmares, more pain than anyone person should ever have to endure.

Bucky starts to tremble in Steve's arms, pretty sure that if it weren't for Steve holding him up, his knees would give out right now. He whimpers "I'm sorry...I'm sorry…." Suddenly, Bucky's body goes stiff with fear in Steve's arms and then it's like he was not there anymore. 

He isn't in Steve's arms, he is in a cold metal room deep in Hydra's base.Accept it wasn't him, it was the asset, the Winter Soldier, the thing that was not him but always intrinsically tied to him. He shared it's memories, it's pain. He, the asset, just got back from a mission and something went wrong, a couple of their guys get killed. It hadn't been his, its, fault but it was there favorite thing to punish, to take out their anger at when a mission went wrong, because the asset couldn't fight, it and Bucky sharing a headspace, having to just take it. Those who abused the asset only had to leave it in good enough shape for the technicians to still clean up, wipe, and start over for the next time he was thawed.

The Winter Soldier was strapped to a chair, where he was given orders not to fight back. The men surrounding had berated him, and assaulted him wooden rods and electric shocks that left him smelling of burnt hair. It hurt like hell, the men going far enough where he would have been dead had he not been a super soldier. Times like this Bucky's voice would push through to the top of his, letting out little sobs and screams, the torture too much him. Tears broke free, and no matter how hard the asset fought, he could not stop them. The asset passes out. He passes out. 

Suddenly he shoots up, and looks around the room frantically, confusion covering his face when he sees Steve sitting on the edge of the bed holding a glass of water. Bucky's face was still tear stained. He is in the middle of the bed...Steve's bed..as the other man watches him, his face looking scared and anxious.  Bucky thinks Steve is too gorgeous for his face to be distorted by all those bad emotions. Bucky vaguely remembers being in Steve's arms a few moments ago...and then he was not. He rubs his face, Steve staring carefully at him, like if he stares too hard he might break his friend into two, he is keeping his distance, not wanting to touch Bucky in fear of spooking the other man.

Finally Steve whispers "Are you alright?" While reaching his hand out to Bucky so he may grab the water glass from his hand. Bucky instinctively takes it, taking a large sip. Steve was so sweet to him, even having something as simple as water ready for him. Bucky blushes at the thought before returning to the issues at hand.

"Yea, Stevie...I'm fine...what happened?" He looks at Steve, disoriented and confused trying to piece together what happened, why he was in Steve's bed.

Steve scoots closer on the bed, so he could reach Bucky's out stretched legs, tentatively placing a comforting hand on Bucky's knee, waiting to see the other man's reaction. Bucky lets it rest there, actually he felt safer this way. 

Steve replies to his question softly, trying to hide how scared he was when he replies. "I was holding...hugging you and suddenly you started apologizing before falling into a trance. It was like you were awake but not with me. You started to thrash in my arms, so I helped you to the ground, not wanting you to feel trapped by me but also not wanting you to fall to the ground. You kept screaming out in pain, asking them to stop… no begging them."' Bucky watches as Steve closed his eyes like he was remembering something particularly painful, before looking at him again. "And then you passed out, and I was so worried, so I moved you here and waited. You have been out for almost half an hour now.  And Buck...I'm so sorry."

Suddenly the memory plays in Bucky's head, the torture and pain, not so much reliving it like a few minutes ago but just remembering it. He must have had a flashback brought on by PTSD. He doesn't have these often, only when the nightmares get the worst. He looks into Steve's bright blue eyes focused on him, wondering why he was apologizing now.  "Why are you apologizing?" His voice quiet, embarrassment starting to take over knowing that Steve saw him so vulnerable, so weak again, another thing for Steve to deal with.

"Buck…" Steve's voice was unsteady. "I'm sorry that you had to go through years of torture, I'm so sorry I didn't save you that day on the train. I let you get captured because I was too dumb to realize you could be a live."

Bucky shakes his head in disbelief. Of course his friend would blame himself. He lets out a little huff before responding, his eyes seeing into Steve's.  "Steven Grant Rogers, I hate to break it to you, but that is the stupidest thing you have ever said."

Steve goes to open his mouth in reply before Bucky cuts him off. "I don't want to hear it. What Hydra did was Hydra's fault. They are the ones that hurt me, not you. No, you are the one who tried to single handedly take down Hydra to avenge me. You were the one who almost let me kill him to get me back. You are the one who broke up the Avengers, and went on the run for me. And…" Bucky pauses, thinking over his next words carefully. "That's the reason I do not want you to have to deal with my nightmares and flashbacks. You have done too much for me already….My mess is too much." His voice gets shaky, guilt pushing through to the surface.

Steve smiles sadly at his friend. "I guess we are both saying dumb things tonight. Cuz here's the thing, pal. You are never too much for me. I'm here to help you through anything, even if it is just a shoulder to cry on, or someone to talk to, someone to hug you. It's what we do. We are Bucky and Steve, always there for each other no matter how messy. It's been like this since you kicked Ricky Smith in the balls on my 4th birthday for pushing me into the mud and trying to blow out my candles. Til the end of the line, 'member?" Steve flashes that beautiful smile, sending sparkles to his eyes, the thing that has never changed regardless of his size. The first thing Bucky ever noticed about Steve.

Bucky swallows hard, taking in the weight of what Steve just said. He looks down at the strong hand on his knee, and without processing what he was doing, moves his hand down so it rests gently on top of the other hand, slotting his fingers in between Steve's. He doesn't know why he did it and when he finally realizes what he did, he turns bright red, rushing to pull back. 

Before his can get far though, he feels Steve's hand leave his knee so it could reach up and gently grab the wrist of the fleeting hand. Bucky is sure Steve must be able to hear his heart pounding against his rib cage.

The blonde haired man says "You... didn't need to move your hand, I, um don't mind it." Bucky's eyes must be playing tricks on him, because he swore he saw Steve blush.

Bucky stares at him, letting his wrist stay in the other man's hand. His mouth feels dry all of a sudden as he tries to swallow up the lump in his throat. He takes a shaky breath, hoping Steve will say something because he can't, not until he knows for sure he is reading this situation right.

He watched Steve carefully drop his hand back into his lap, trying not to show the rush of disappointment that was flooding him as he dropped his eyes to his now vacant hand. But that disappointment was quickly cut off, as he felt the mattress shift, Steve was moving closer, pushing up the bed until he was right next to Bucky. His shoulder against the other man's now. So close that Bucky could smell the soap clean skin of Steve. He could just breathe him in. They sat close to each other for a while, Bucky staring straight forward, trying not to look at the man next to him, in fear give his face would give away everything he was feeling. How he wanted Steve to love him... be in love with him, how he wanted to just lay on his chest and let Steve shield him from all the bad dreams, like he wanted to just let Steve take care of him. And he would do all that for Steve. He could be his protector, lover, biggest supporter.

He practically jumps out of his skin when Steve breaks the silence, still staring ahead, like he was equally afraid to let Bucky see his face. He whispers "Do you want to maybe sleep in here, with me? Would that be alright?" His cheeks are glowing bright red."

Without thinking about it, Bucky quietly answers "Yes…I'd like that." His words are shaky as he turns towards the other man. He is nervous….but also hopeful. The most hope he has felt in a long time. He has hope that Steve may want what he wants.

Steve finally turns his head, blue eyes gazing into the equally blue eyes staring back. A smile spreads across his face, his fingers moving to push a few loose strands of Bucky's long hair out of his face, his fingers lingering against Bucky's skin for a little too long.

Bucky feels his breath hitch as he stares at Steve, feeling the warmth of Steve's hand rest on his cheek. He moves his hand over Steve's again, this time leaving it there, as he closes his eyes and tilts his head into the sensation. He hasn't felt this safe, this grounded since they were kids in Brooklyn, inseparable.

When he finally opens his eyes again, letting his own hand fall back down, while Steve leaves his, Steve is smiling like some love struck puppy. Bucky finds it endearing. He can't believe that look is for him...or maybe he could if he thought about it, because this isn't the first time Steve has looked at him like this. 

This was the same look Steve gave him when he kicked that kid who hurt him and tried to ruin his birthday.

The look he would give him when Bucky would push him on the swing even though the other boys made fun of them. 

The look he gave Bucky when Bucky refused to go on a date with a girl because he couldn't bring Steve around because the girl's friend wasn't interested.

The look Steve would give him when he would sneak into his bedroom at night through the window when Sarah was asleep, just to hold him when he was sick.

The look he gave Bucky when he had finally gotten him back by his side in the war after saving him.

The same look Steve gave him when Bucky finally remembered him years later.

It was the same look when he found out that Wakanda had helped him get full control of his mind back.

And it was the look Steve would give him as he would sit on the porch watching Bucky work in the yard, trying to hide what he was drawing but now Bucky knew better, suspected what he was probably drawing.

Steve had loved him for as long as he has loved Steve, and he couldn't believe neither of them had said anything before, both too scared. Bucky whispers "I...love you, Stevie…" 

Steve starts to practically beam at Bucky. "Really?"

Bucky laughs at Steve's very Steve-like response. "Yea really, you punk."

"Good…I was worried I was misunderstanding this situation. I love you too, so, so much. You mean the world to me, my favorite person. And…." Steve's other hand makes it to the other side of Bucky's face. "And I would really like to kiss you...if that's okay?"

Bucky smiles again, Steve, always the gentleman, making sure to ask before just doing it. Bucky bites his lip before nodding, too afraid to speak again, worried this is just a dream And he was about to wake up.

But then Steve is leaning in, Bucky closes his eyes, and feels soft lips press against his. The kiss is chaste and sweet, and when Steve pulls away, he stays close, resting his forehead against Bucky's. He whispers "I've wanted to do that for so long, Buck…"

"Me too…" Bucky whispers back.

They stay like that for a while, just locked in their own world, before Steve pulls away, letting out a yawn. Bucky just registering that it is close to 4am now, his own eyelids now feeling heavy. He decides to be bold this time, making the first move. He pulls the blanket up that they had been sitting on. He crawls underneath, flipping it up to signal for Steve to join him. Steve smiles sleepily and happily obliges. 

Steve lays down, lifting his arm on Bucky's side  so that Bucky could come closer, laying his head on Steve's broad chest, with only a thin layer of cloth from his under shirt he was wearing to sleep in, separating him from skin. When Bucky is settled, arm draped over his abdomen, Steve wraps his arm around Bucky, running his fingers up and down the other's back lazily for a while.

Steve's fingers stop and Bucky realizes that the other man has fallen asleep, steady breaths coming from him. Bucky smiles, able to go to sleep himself now. He may not be ready to talk about his nightmares with Steve, or anyone, but this was a step, and Steve would be here next time he had one, because Steve will always be there.

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #steve x bucky #captain america #Steve does not go back in time to stay with Peggy #That's dumb #Steve loved Bucky #Stucky fanfic

[transsergio]

Emotions That I Simply Do Not Have (Read on AO3)

Chapter 1/3 - More Like A Relapse

Penemily + Hotchreid / Mature / 1893 words

Hotch and Emily have a drunken night together that Emily wants to forget, but Hotch can't let go. She and her girlfriend Penelope make a plan to get him out of their lives.

There's a brief paragraph describing Emily's dissociation in this chapter.

This started out as a parody of H*tchniss but then I got really into it. Hotch is pretty out of character and I'm picking on him this entire fic. There is no actual Hotchn*ss involved, which is why I didn't tag the ship, and because I don't need to fight with straight people today.

Emily’s head loathes her. She’s been hungover before, obviously, but this is something different altogether – she’s half-naked and her memory has completed ghosted her. There was tequila, she guesses, maybe vodka, shots, Hotch was going to give her a ride home because there’s something dangerous about a wasted agent wandering the city at night; snippets that don’t explain much beyond the ache hammering at the center of her skull.

At least Emily knows where she is. This is her apartment, her bedroom, her matted skin and grimy oils. The sheets reek of alcohol, so maybe she spilled some, or maybe it’s been sweat from her very pores. She’s missing a bra and she forgot to close the blinds last night. Only, she never forgets. It’s muscle memory. Did she…open them at some point?

The sink is running in the kitchen. And her toaster oven is beeping. Oh my god. She brought someone home last night. Hotch never would have left her in a cab with a stranger. How could Emily have picked someone up between the curb and her front door? She was a flirty drunk, but in no way smooth.

Emily moves on a slow incline, craning her body into an upright position. She winces. Sunlight beams directly into her eyes. It’s been a minute since she remembered exactly why she kept the windows covered. She pushes the duvet aside and swings her long, bare legs to the floor. They’re not bruised (yet), so she must’ve remembered to skip the stairs and go for the elevator this time. She’s tumbled down them before. Penelope made her promise she’d wear shin guards the next time she went out, Emily remembers, laughing under her breath.

Penelope, who definitely did not go home with Emily last night. She couldn’t have. She implemented a strict curfew after spending three consecutive nights in the batcave – bed by eleven, sharp. Unless Emily made a distress call sometime in the night. Emily scrunches the sheets between her fingers. A distress call, something like, “Come help me puke into my toilet for an hour and a half,” would bring Penelope running. Well, not running, but speed-walking, half awake. And it would be too late for Penelope to get home, with no one to text that she made it safely (except everyone else in the BAU, but that wasn’t the point). The point was, it could be her in there, popping Toaster Strudel in for the both of them.

Emily wobbles to her feet and kicks her crumpled slacks from her path. Oh, there’s her bra, launched to the other side of the room. She runs her fingers through her hair and hopes she made a difference, though it’s unlikely. Feet shuffle over her wooden floors, and someone opens and shuts the fridge door. Penelope uses fridges, coincidentally. That very well might be her.

There’s a cough, a low clearing of the throat. Emily stands upright like she’s been called to duty, and palms her forehead. Her headache makes it clear it did not like that. The cough does not sound like Penelope. Fear drains the strength from Emily’s limbs. Please, dear god, tell her that’s not a man.

Emily wants to crawl back into bed and have nothing to do with whoever’s in the other room. She wants to huddle under her covers and listen until the front door opens and shuts and it’s safe to emerge. She wants to have been sober last night. Instead, her phone vibrates on her dresser. Emily hadn’t realized that when it reverberates against the wood, her cell sounds exactly like a jackhammer, but she does now. She hears the same sound echoing in her kitchen.

Emily lunges for the text, from Garcia alerting them to a case, and slams all one hundred of those tiny Blackberry buttons to make it shut up, shut up, shut up. The bedroom door swings open.

“Two murders in Kentucky, looks like,” Hotch says. What? No.

Emily rubs her eyes with the backs of her hands. They come away streaked with dried mascara flakes and last night’s eyeshadow, but Hotch is still there. He’s standing in his boxers, a white undershirt, and five o’clock stubble. He doesn’t flinch at the fact that Emily is bare-chested in a pair of black boyshorts. This is bad. This is so bad.

Hotch says softly, “Can I…” Can he what? Can he call later tonight? Can he leave a toothbrush here? Can he have a drawer for his pajamas? “Can I get my shirt, please?”

“Oh.” Emily steps aside. His blue button-down is in a wrinkled pile beside Emily’s nightstand. Should she cover herself in the meantime? Would that make it weirder? He’s already seen what he’s seen, after all. The thought makes Emily gag.

“I’m going to get ready in your bathroom,” Hotch tells her. He makes too much eye contact. “There’s toast in the kitchen for you, if you want any.”

“Great, thanks.” Emily is tightlipped and dedicated to looking anywhere but his face. That leads to his boxers, and his dick inside his boxers, and the knowledge that they clearly had sex, and Emily might need the bathroom first if she didn’t vomit everything out last night.

Hotch disappears, and so does Emily’s presence in her physical body. She autopilots herself into her clean clothes, grips her dresser and stares into the mirror above it. C’mon, Emily, come back down to Earth. She tries what her therapist taught her in high school, focusing on a texture, on the feel of the woodgrain under her hands. How could she have come so far, a continent away, and still need the same techniques for the same problems? Hotch was an exercise in self-loathing and misery. Only this time, that exercise would be staring her down for extended periods of time while they mutually hunted killers.

Hotch reenters in the same suit he wore last night. Did he seriously have to wear a suit to the team’s night out? He couldn’t loosen up enough for a polo shirt and golf pants?

“Look, I understand if you don’t want to see me again in this capacity,” he starts. “But I had… a great time, honestly, and I’d be open to another meeting.”

Emily’s eyes are dead. “No, thanks.”

“You’ve decided already?”

“Yep. I’m good. See you on the jet.” Emily yanks the bedroom door open. His cue to leave. He takes it, if not wearing the look of a kicked puppy.

He makes it into a cab, and the cab leaves, and clears her block, and turns the corner. Emily stays for another five minutes just to be sure the car doesn’t loop back around, looking for a second chance. She washes her face clean and falls to her mattress. This will only take a second – she stabs her face into her pillow and screams. And one more time. And maybe a long one, just to be sure. Emily comes to work that day hoarse, unbathed, and willing herself into another life.

*

A month later, they’re gathered at Haley’s funeral. Hotch gives a beautiful speech, and Emily’s all but forgotten the number of texts she’s received since their hookup. The sheer volume of “Thinking about you.. do you like Thai food?” and simple, two-word messages like “Good work..”, alongside “Hey. Horny?” are a thing of the past, at least for today. Maybe not tomorrow. Emily doesn’t really know how grieving works. She does, however, know what it feels like to want.

She ushers Penelope into a storage closet while the rest of the team (plus Kevin) is at the funeral reception’s buffet. They’ll make up some story about going to the bathroom and try to defuse JJ later, assuring her that she wasn't left out intentionally. Right now, life is for living.

Emily’s lips move across Penelope’s jaw, her neck, her chest. She presses them to Penelope’s like she’s made of china, set on keeping Penelope’s lipstick intact. Penelope grips Emily while her own wrist is between her teeth to stifle her sound. Emily is gasping for breath when her fingers reach for the button of Penelope’s sweater. She is desperate to have her undone.

“Wait, wait,” Penelope huffs, putting an arm’s length of space between them. Her chest is heaving. “I can’t do this here, not today.”

“Today is why I want to do this,” Emily counters.

“We have time.” Penelope’s voice breaks. She fusses with her little hat and rights it atop her hair. “We have time that Haley didn’t –”

“How do we know?” Emily interrupts. “It could be me next. You’ve already been shot once before, and I just can’t… I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with you on the fringe of my life.”

Emily wipes a tear streaking down Penelope’s cheek. Before Penelope can reach for her compact, Emily passes her hers. She says, “I don’t mean we have to do anything right now in… what is ironically a closet,” Penelope laughs and dabs at her makeup, “but I want you. And seeing you with Kevin today, having to be next to you while he holds your hand? It’s maddening.”

A quiet passes. Penelope sniffles and the crowd outside makes somber conversation. Penelope whispers, “I’m scared.”

Emily closes the distance between them and cradles Penelope in her embrace. “I know; so am I. Can we be scared together?”

Penelope nods into the crook of Emily’s shoulder. They sway in the warmth of one another, in the cramped haven that is shelves of industrial cleaner and mop buckets.

“So what do we do?” Penelope asks. “Should I break up with Kevin, or tell him the truth? Neither option feels, uh, super-duper.”

Emily snorts some of the hat’s feathers from her nose. “If you want to be outed, I think telling Kevin he’s your beard is a great idea.”

“Stop. Kevin wouldn’t do that.”

“Penelope. He’s a man. He’s going to feel used, emasculated, and plenty bitter. I don’t see a reality in which he doesn’t out you.”

“I know, I know, but I don’t think Kevin’s like that. He’s sweet on me.” Penelope further buries herself in Emily. “On the off-chance that he would, though, I guess I’ll dump him.”

Emily hums in agreement. They keep themselves safe in their darkness a little longer, resistant to go out and face the mourning. Emily’s heart is busy fluttering, anyway. She and Penelope might remain a secret, but this is officially more than a hook-up. It’s all Emily could dream of when she stormed Penelope’s batcave the morning after Hotch. When she spun Penelope around in her desk chair and strung their mouths centimeters apart – a question and a dare all in one. Penelope leaned through the divide and they were kissing, slow and tender but driven by a force that urged them on. Emily had wanted Penelope for so long, but that morning, she needed her.

When they return to the team’s table, Kevin is at Penelope’s side. Emily puts her focus on Morgan, on caring about Hotch’s well-being, anything but Kevin’s soft, drooping face. It’s like his skin could slide right off at any second. No, Emily will ask what they can do, will let the team explain that their power extends to waiting Hotch out, will squeeze Penelope’s hand as they leave for their next case in Nashville.

#penemily #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #aaron hotchner #cm fic #criminal minds fanfic #cm fanfiction #mine

[squiddybeifong]

Not-Quite Couples Therapy, Chapter 6

On Ao3 here!

--

Dr. Quinzel smiled at the couple as she leaned back in her armchair. Raven and Donna were practically curled up together in the center of the loveseat, both looking brighter now that they had apologized to one another. But there was still more to discuss; grateful that the couple seemed willing to listen and grow in their relationship, the psychiatrist got down to business, “So, it seems that you both know how to apologize properly. That makes my job quite a bit easier.”

Donna intertwined her fingers with Raven’s ring studded ones, the last bit of tension leaving both their shoulders at Dr. Quinzel’s words. The blonde’s face slid into one that resembled a benevolent schoolteacher as she began her first and most important lesson, “Okay, you two. In order to keep your relationship from deteriorating, you need to listen to your partner. That means not cutting them off and actually hearing what they tell you before you start thinking about how you’ll respond.”

Raven nodded, her chin tilting towards Donna as the rock climber hummed out, “Do people do that a lot?”

The blonde nodded, crossing her legs and folding her hands atop her knee as she explained, “It’s the difference between active and passive listening.” The green and red gems within her simple wedding ring gleamed as the psychiatrist motioned to the loveseat that they sat on. “You two were passively listening to each other the last time all three of us were here.”

A lightbulb was practically visible over the goth’s head as gray eyes went down to her lap. “Since I was more focused on trying not to think about my father than hear what Donna was telling me about her sister,” Raven softly realized, her words accompanied with an encouraging squeeze from Donna. 

Raven looked up at her date as the rock climber added, “And I was so focused on thinking that my issues with Diana weren’t as dangerous as yours with your dad--”

“My father,” Raven quickly interjected. 

While Dr. Quinzel did hastily write a few words down, Donna didn’t seem to be too fazed by the look that briefly flashed over Raven’s face, immediately continuing, “--your issues with your father. I was only listening to things that would let me win this…” Donna shrugged, not exactly sure what to call the roil of emotions that twisted in her stomach whenever family and competition intertwined.

Raven tilted her head to the side, “Character test, maybe?”

Donna smiled softly, both apologetic and thankful as she squeezed the goth’s hand, “Kinda, yeah.”

“It’s important to be self aware both during and after an argument,” The therapist spoke up in the brief lull in their conversation. She glanced down at her notes and met the couple’s gaze, ensuring that she had their full attention. “For your relationship --and I mean yours in particular, this is not just general advice-- but it appears to me that you both were somewhat… how to say… appealing to the authority in the room?”

Donna’s brows furrowed, the rock climber briefly catching Raven’s confused gaze for just an instant before all of their attention was back on the blonde. Dr. Quinzel tucked her notepad against the side of her thigh and continued to elaborate, “So instead of arguing completely amongst yourselves about the issues that popped up the last time we had a session, you were each also trying to put the other down in my eyes while you were arguing.”

“Were we really?” Raven’s voice was quiet and held an undercurrent of shame as she thought back to the last time the three of them were together in the office, trying to remember the totality of her words and actions.

“I mean, knowing us we might’ve but it wasn’t on purpose, right?” Donna seemed a tinge more worried, her free hand starting to drum against the outside of her knee as she also tried to think back on their fight.

Before either woman could get too far in her head, the therapist hummed out, “Oftentimes it’s not quite subconscious but it is a type of passive defense mechanism.” She motioned to the rock climber, her voice going up half a pitch as she drawled out, “Oh, it’s not enough that Raven’s father is a criminal, I need to keep reiterating to Dr. Q that I had no idea about that aspect of her past and can’t possibly be associated with or tainted by it.” 

Noting but not writing down the surprise that filled Donna’s eyes, Dr. Quinzel immediately motioned to Raven with her other hand, “Oh, it’s not enough that Donna feels inadequate compared to her sister, I must point out that it’s an ungrateful mindset when others have worse family lives. How could she say such things when my father is literally the target of a federal manhunt. Don’t you agree, Doctor?”

At the growing looks of shock and budding clarification on her clients’ faces, Dr. Quinzel relaxed her posture and gave the two of them a kind, knowing smile. A soft sigh slipped out as the psychiatrist leaned forward in her armchair again, clasping her hands together and lowering her voice back to normal now that her point had been made. She clicked her pen and placed her notepad in its customary spot on her lap. “I’d imagine with both of your… familial issues that you’re probably used to getting in your opinions after everyone else? If for any reason than to keep the peace and ensure that your voices were the last ones heard in the room?”

As she spoke out her observations, the psychiatrist’s eyes went from Raven to Donna, her face softening as she watched the way the two automatically leaned against each other as the conversation got more and more personal. Dr. Quinzel was pleased that both of them seemed to be genuine in trying to learn how to be better for themselves and each other; the pink tipped nails drummed against her knuckles as Dr. Quinzel considered how she’d get them to reach the conclusions that she wanted.

As usual, she decided to go with the obvious. “In my professional opinion,” The doctor began, “You both seem to want to be better than the expectations that you feel others have put on you. And while it’s good to have goals, you also need to ensure that those goals --those ambitions, really-- are something that you want.”

A small chuckle slipped out of the psychiatrist, “It’s a bit cliche, but you truly can’t be the best partner you can be in a relationship if you haven’t figured out what you as a person want.” Donna bit back a tiny smile and Raven rested her cheek on the tall woman’s shoulder, instinctively wanting to be closer. 

Dr. Quinzel considered the move and then added, “Now professionally, I’d like quite a bit more sessions with the two of you. When it comes to competition and measuring up to those expectations, it appears that both of you are prone to falling into a defensive state. That’ll have to be addressed, especially as you two set about setting boundaries in your lives outside of this office and your relationship.”

Her blue eyes were a bit remorseful as Dr. Quinzel hummed out, “I know it’s troubling to think about but Donna’ll have to speak to her sister about this festering insecurity eventually.” The rock climber tensed in a move so minute that Dr. Quinzel only knew it happened by the way Raven shifted, the goth’s other hand coming up to encase Donna’s hands within her own. Gray eyes were anticipating the uncomfortable truths that were headed her way, the goth’s face just barely remaining stoic when Dr. Quinzel added, “And Raven’s going to have to deal with any sort of fallout that occurs once her father gets caught.” 

Without waiting for them to speak up, the blonde couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice as she declared, “It’ll obviously be difficult, but you two have proven time and time again that you’re willing to work at this: whether it be therapy, your relationship, your own selves.”

Raven and Donna shared a quick look, a bit of wonder and a lot of hope plain on their faces. “Now, in my not professional opinion,” Dr. Quinzel grinned at them, “I think both of your values and goals are focused enough that this relationship can absolutely work. In fact, it should thrive if you two put even half as much effort into it as you do when you’re in counseling.” 

Raven smiled as she rubbed her thumb over the soft scars that covered where the gauze didn’t completely cover Donna’s knuckles when she sparred with Dick. Donna let out a small laugh and ran a hand through her loose ponytail, fighting the urge to sigh in relief at the psychiatrist’s comment. 

Donna and Raven had the same thought going through their minds, urged on by the fact that there was a chance that they could work. 

Without realizing what she was doing, Raven rested her head on her date’s shoulder. Feeling a bit exhausted from the emotions of their reunion and the sheer amount of learned behavior she and Donna would have to work on, the goth rested her other hand along the crook of Donna’s arm. 

Dr. Quinzel bit back a smile and scribbled something down when Donna lightly jumped at Raven’s move. The rock climber let a languid smile curl her lips, “Hey, Rae?”

Instead of speaking, the goth lifted her chin to rest on the end of Donna’s wonderfully wide shoulders. Donna instinctively pressed a kiss to her forehead, feeling rather than seeing as Raven’s eyes widened at the move.

A part of her realized how odd it was to be so comfortable and romantically open while in the therapist’s presence, but Donna brushed the thought aside; their relationship had been formed in such a weird way that that wasn’t all too peculiar, all things considered.

Donna aimed a bright, dimple-laden, slightly crooked smile down at the goth that still clung to her arm, “Did you want to go out sometime? Like a date?”

Gray eyes both widened and softened at the same time, Raven’s lips splitting into a genuine smile that brightened her whole face. The sight almost made Donna lean down to finally kiss her, but the scratch of pen against paper interrupted the moment. Donna glanced at Dr. Quinzel when her scribbling kept up for more than ten seconds, unsure if something was wrong. Raven tore her gaze from the rock climber’s face as the doctor hastily flipped between pages of her notes, the swish! of paper loud in the quiet air. 

A tiny chuckle escaped the goth at the obvious stretch of emotions that came over Dr. Quinzel’s face. The psychiatrist considered her previous sessions’ notes, a bewildered sigh escaping her as a set of wide blue eyes considered the couple. “You two weren’t lying, were you?”

They both sheepishly shrugged as Dr. Quinzel gaped down at her past handwriting, over half a decade of professionalism just barely keeping the flabbergasted laughter from escaping, “When you said ‘I don’t even know her.’ You were being serious, weren’t you?”

Donna had the good graces to look abashed as she answered, “We met here, yeah.”

Dr. Quinzel swallowed a sound in her throat as she palmed her face, uncaring as some of her pink gel pen wrote on the side of her cheek. The blonde let out a soft cackle, her disbelief at the turn of events morphing into amusement as she leaned forward, holding her notepad against her chest. 

With Dr. Quinzel obviously occupied, Raven, feeling bold, brought their hands up to her mouth and pressed a kiss against the back of Donna’s hand. 

The rock climber jumped at the contact, their proximity meaning that Raven could see the tiniest trail of goosebumps that ran over her date’s arms as she smiled up at her. “I never got a chance to say yes,” Raven softly murmured against tanned skin.

While Donna giggled out an excited “Really?!” Dr. Quinzel slyly glanced at the clock; seeing that she didn’t have too much time to lead their conversation into the next subject, the blonde sat up straight. 

“Okay, I have some therapy homework for you two.” Dr. Quinzel punctuated her words with a clap, her grin wide as she considered the couple in front of her. 

Her arms spread open, the blue flannel giving way to the crimson button up that the psychiatrist wore underneath. She pointed between her clients, “You two’ll have to discuss some of this while out of my office.”

Dr. Quinzel immediately squinted at the guilty looks that the two young women shared, a worried sigh filling her lungs, “...You two are talking about our sessions outside of this room, right?”

Donna blushed and looked away, her fingers tightening around Raven’s as she rubbed the back of her head. Fiddling with the elastic band that held her ponytail, the muscular woman admitted, “We don’t really talk much outside of this room, actually.”

Raven bit the inside of her cheek, watching the thoughts fly across their therapist’s face as Dr. Quinzel remembered her earlier realization of how consistently literal their answers were. The blonde scooted back until she was flush with the plush back of her armchair, professional intuition and common sense preparing her for the expected answer of her next question.

Dr. Quinzel crossed her legs and asked the obvious, “How much time do you two spend together?”

Raven tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, the barest blush reddening the tops of her cheeks as she admitted, “About an hour a week, give or take a few minutes.”

Donna continued, “It usually depends on how long it takes us to walk down the stairs.”

Dr. Quinzel clicked her tongue, a small smile curling her lips as she deadpanned, “The elevator’s been repaired for a few weeks now. Think you can make the time to talk a bit longer?”

She leveled a gaze over the couple that somehow blended serious professionalism and kindhearted teasing all at once. Dr. Quinzel’s suggestion was a demand, “Maybe go out on actual dates rather than interacting only in my office?”

--

As usual, their walk down the stairwell was quiet; the new couple held hands as they languidly made their way down the concrete steps, enjoying the quiet and the feel of the other so close. Raven tugged on Donna’s hand as they neared the end of the stairwell, stopping the rock climber before she could get too close to the door. 

“Dr. Quinzel knows.”

Donna raised a brow at the obvious, trying to follow the psychiatrist’s advice and listen to her date’s words instead of staring at how kissable her lips looked. She thought back to their second session and her cheek tingled as she remembered the warmth of Raven’s lips against the corner of her mouth where her dimple lay.

The goth took a deep breath, “Should we keep this up?” 

Raven quickly added at the brief flash of concern that slipped onto Donna’s face, “I mean with this ‘only talking while in therapy’ thing. Dr. Quinzel’s right. We should go on actual dates eventually.”

Donna tugged at her ponytail, “Well, it’s only 4. I’ve got the rest of the day off, you up for an early dinner?”

Raven smiled, nodding as Donna grabbed her hand to pull her close. She got a scant second to savor the press of the muscular woman against her then, getting the hint when Donna turned her face towards the door to the lobby, Raven once again pressed a quick, firm kiss against Donna’s cheek, glad that this time she didn’t have to rush out to see the adorable way Donna’s smile showcased her dimples. 

A quiet little gasp slid out of the goth when Donna leaned down to peck the corner of her mouth. The rock climber squeezed their joined hands as they stepped out into the sunlight, the lobby’s noise drowned out by the passing cars along the street. 

#blind date couples therapy au #donnarae #raven #donna troy #harley quinn #wonderbird #my writing #just under 3k words till we reach 20k!!!! #this could've been the last ch but I wanted a fluffy epilogue thingy. I might even actually show them interacting outside the office 👀👀👀 #I want to gush about all the Emotions that occurred in this ch bc like. harley knows now! they're finally technically dating! we get one (1) #full on kiss at the end to be Dramatic and it's coming up like!!! this story will be in the 20k mark and I will finish before halloween but #I am dying rn yall. Did my best icarus and flew too close. i CaN fInIsH iN a MoNtH fucking hellllllllll #literally the day after I posted we got slammed at work and I now know that 3 straight 15 hour days equals a dying squid #this whole goddamn month like??? I work at a bakery (cakes not bread) (a cakery if you will) and SO MANY ppl wanted shit on 9/11 ughh #usually we avg like 35ish cakes a week. 38 on 9/11 alone my fucking god I'm still recovering from that week like?? why so many????? #I guess it's cause cali is kinda opening up? low hospitalizations plus later summer bdays means cakes everywhere I guess #my check was beautiful but like. I wanted to finish a story really fast yknow lmao 'I'll finish in a month' then a monthlong hiatus ;-; #even table for two like!!! a night's worth of editing was stretched thru like. 3 weeks of lunch breaks #g o d but at least things seem to be slowing down until the xmas stampede which means more time for writing *fingers crossed* #so many haphazard notes on my phone for random aus that I just haven't been able to even make a doc for asdfghjkla #I want to Sleep but I want to Write but I Need to sleep and I also need to jot down these ideas before I forget aaaaaaahhh

[zaph1337]

Monster Hunter Rating 16: Diablos, Tyrant of the Desert

Remember when I mentioned in the last review how Cephadromes try to keep their packs as far from a monster called “Diablos” as possible because of how freaking aggressive they are? Well, speak of the devil and he appears! Get it, ‘cause it’s called “Diablos” and “el diablo” is the Spanish term for--you know what, let’s just talk about the dragon.

(How it appears in Monster Hunter 1)

(How it appears in Monster Hunter Rise)

Appearance: Like Basarios, Diablos are Flying Wyverns--which is to say, they fit the description of wyverns in real-world mythology. Though, uh, I don’t think wyverns are supposed to have giant horns and tusks blocking out their faces. Seriously, look at the Rise render and tell me how easy it is to find its eyes. These guys must have really sucky vision. They’ve also got a Triceratops-esque frill and heavily armored backs. Their tail is also interesting, both because it��s a club and because it looks like a pair of human lungs. I hope to God it doesn’t actually keep its lungs in there, because using the casing around your lungs as a club sounds like a terrible idea. It also has weird horse teeth, which you probably didn’t notice because the tusks and horns take up most of the face. We’ll get into why a dragon has those soon.

If I ever actually fought one of these things, I’d probably find it a lot more intimidating, but it just looks kinda comical. Okay, the MH1 render makes it look disturbing, but that’s mostly ‘cause the face is more visible than the Rise one and it has beady white eyes. It still looks like a very clumsy creature, and all it would take to rectify that, in my opinion, is to get rid of the tusks to make the face less cluttered. 5/10.

Behavior: So, why do Diablos have horse teeth? Because why have fangs when your diet mostly consists of cacti? That’s right, this dragon, which is named after the freaking devil, isn’t even a predator, it’s an herbivore. How often do you hear about herbivorous dragons? Probably not very, if I had to guess. The thing about being an herbivore in the desert, though, is that aside from cacti, there’s not a lot to eat. Even then, a Diablos’ favorite type of cactus is a variety of large cacti that can grow up to 12 feet tall, but those suckers are pretty rare, so Diablos are always on the lookout for places where they grow. This often leads them to fight with other Diablos or even predatory monsters over territory, ‘cause once you find a spot with plenty of good food in the freaking desert, you kinda wanna keep it. This is why Diablos are so aggressive: everything is a potential competitor for their space, so they have to be willing to fight everything. The only monsters that Diablos won’t try to fight are Elder Dragons (we’ll get into those later).

Okay, so normally I’d stay away from this topic, but I feel obligated to mention that Diablos have a breeding season, and that females in heat turn black in color; these Black Diablos are considered a “subspecies” of Diablos, though the games themselves point out that this is a misnomer as they’re, y’know, the same species. Black Diablos are still treated as being different enough from normal Diablos to be close to a subspecies, so I’ll talk about them some other time. As for regular Diablos, there’s not a lot to understand about them; they’re feared for their temper and they eat cacti. The fact that they’re herbivorous dragons, of all things, is still interesting enough to cover for how basic they are. 6/10.

Abilities: This is unfortunately where Diablos falls shortest. It has no ranged attacks to speak of, and it’s too heavy to fly for extended periods of time. It instead relies on surprising speed and overwhelming strength in battle, charging at opponents head-on and using its tail as a club that can easily shatter stone. Its powerful legs are also good for burrowing through sand, and if it’s ever trapped in said sand, it’ll use its wings to push itself out. It’s certainly dangerous, but not exactly flashy or interesting. 4/10.

Equipment: Aside from having Diablos’ color scheme and texture, something several of its weapons have in common is that they’re pretty blunt, even when they’re cutting weapons. A good example is the pair of Dual Blades called the Diablos Bashers:

I like how their heads each look like a half of a Diablos’ tail club. Speaking of which, how’d you like to use one of those yourself? Well, with this Hammer called the Diablos Maul, you can fulfill your fantasy of beating a Diablos to death with its own tail (Disclaimer: Zaph does not support having a fantasy of killing something with a weapon made to look like a part of its body. If you regularly feel the desire to do so, please seek out a therapist):

And just ‘cause I think it looks cool and I haven’t shown one of these yet, here’s the Diablos Gunlance, complete with shield:

A lot shinier and pointier than some of the other Diablos weapons. As for the armor, it looks basically how you’d expect it to:

I don’t like how the male armor has a helmet (that also looks like it has tiny fangs for some reason) while the female armor just has a hairband because wE nEeD tO sEe PuRdY gIrL. Listen, I’m straight, but I don’t want the armor sets for women to be designed for my viewing pleasure, even if it’s in a way that doesn’t sexualize them (though considering the chest-piece on her armor outlines her cleavage, I don’t think I can say that sexualization didn’t occur here). Other than that, the armor looks fine. The equipment as a whole gets a 7/10.

Final Thoughts and Tally: I’m kinda disappointed that a monster called “Diablos” didn’t turn out to be very impressive, but it’s far from a failure. I don’t really remember a lot of what its fights were like when I saw them on a MH Rise stream, but I do remember that Diablos was talked about as a difficult monster to beat, so it clearly has a reputation. Again, I’ve only played the Rise demo and know everything else (outside what the wiki says) from streams, so you’re not getting the opinion of an expert here. If I ever get the game (and I plan to), then I won’t be surprised if my opinion on this guy changes. But until then, 5/10.

#monster hunter #monster hunter rating #monster hunter rise #zaph1337

[ryosei-hime]

Sex and Therapy: The L Word

Concord helps Fizz work through the aftermath of his violent encounter with Ahroth and his worries about the legitimacy of his love. There's a triggered episode for Fizz regarding his recent encounter with Ahroth. Also available on AO3.

Once they arrived at the apartment, Fizz gave Concord the repair fund he had saved up and asked him to take it down to Cog before they left. He didn’t want her thinking he would stiff her. While Concord ran down to give it to her, Fizz went to the bathroom to get cleaned up. He hadn’t felt dirty at Cog’s, but something about being home made him feel contaminated. He caught sight of his face in the mirror and looked away quickly. Dried blood still lingered around his mouth, his teeth stained. Concord had been kissing him like that. He felt an overwhelming sense of shame suddenly. 

By the time Concord got back he had scrubbed his teeth until the toothbrush bristles were shedding into the sink. No matter how hard he brushed, he couldn’t get his mouth to feel clean again. He could see Concord approaching cautiously in the mirror, but he just kept brushing with as much force as he could. 

“I think they’re clean, Fizz.” 

He bit down on the tooth brush and spit the tip into the sink before gripping the edges. 

“Why did you kiss me with his blood in my mouth?” 

Concord touched his arm lightly but he pulled away, keeping his eyes trained on the water circling the drain. Concord lowered his hand, respecting his boundaries as he always did.

“I love you. And you were hurt. I’d have kissed you no matter what.” 

“Why doesn’t it make you mad? That his blood touched you?” 

“Honestly, I don’t know. I didn’t even give it a thought.” 

Fizz’s arms relaxed as his grip on the sink eased. 

“It pisses me off. It makes me feel like shit. That I let any part of him touch you.” 

Concord shifted uneasily, clearly unsure of what to do. 

“Can I hug you?” 

“No.”

“Do you want some time to yourself?” 

“...No. Stay with me, please?” 

“As long as you want me here, I’ll be here. Whatever you want from me.” 

Fizz didn’t know what he wanted. That wasn’t true. He wanted to hold Concord, wanted his comfort and love. But he couldn’t touch him now that he felt contaminated. It didn’t make sense. He’d been touching him this whole time. But somehow, here, in their home, it wasn’t allowed. His voice came out tired and sad.

“I just want to be clean.”

He could see the sympathy pain in Concord’s eyes as he looked up at his reflection.

“Do you want me to help you get clean?” 

Fizz nodded. 

“Okay. I can do that.” 

Fizz finished rinsing out his mouth, picking bristles from between his teeth as he listened to Concord get the tub ready. Concord had always been gentle when they bathed together, but his touch had never been softer than it was now. Fizz wanted to scrub until his skin peeled off. But he let Concord do it. It was safer that way. 

It did make him feel better, the cleaner he got. And the more Concord caressed him with his careful, thoughtful touches. His sweet Concord. So much kinder than anyone he’d ever met. So willing to take care of him in so many different ways when he could. Something about the gentle nature of the bath and his appreciation for how caring and understanding Concord was made him feel like now would be the best time to ask the question that had been nagging him.

“Can I ask you something, Concord?” 

“Of course.” 

“How do you know when you feel true love?” 

Concord’s hands stopped on his back for a moment before slipping around him. He sat up on his knees to lean flush against his back. Every inch of warm imp that touched his synthetic skin made him shiver in pleasure.  

“Love is hard to define, Fizz. It’s difficult for anyone to put into words. And we all love differently. There is no one true kind of love. My love for you is probably very different from your love for me. But both are valid. Both are love.”

“Even if I only love you because of my programming?” 

Concord sat back and Fizz regretted saying that. Now was not the time to make Concord cry. But he didn’t hear any sniffles or sobs. He just resumed washing his back, voice calm and neutral. 

“Do you think that’s why you love me?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“How long has this been bothering you?” 

Fizz was silent.

“The whole time?” 

He nodded hesitantly. 

“Why didn’t you talk to me about it?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

“That’s fair. I understand why you’d be worried about that.” 

Fizz realized Concord had slipped into his therapist role. He wasn’t prone to showing his true feelings when he got like that if Fizz didn’t prompt  him. He wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees. 

“ Are you hurt?” 

“No. Not for me. I’m sorry that I caused you distress because I made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me about this.” 

A long silence fell over them, Concord running his hands over his back and shoulders, down his arms. He wasn’t washing him anymore, just soothing touches. 

“How do you know you really love me?” Fizz asked after a while.

“I have programming, too, you know? Genetics have given me a predisposition to certain things and my life experiences have an undeniable influence. Especially from the developmental period of childhood. I could probably write a psychological profile on why those factors make me love you. But I’d rather ignore that. Instead, I think about how I love the way my chest feels when you smile at me. How I love when you call me your little plaything and I know I belong to you. How happy I am to be yours.” 

Fizz concentrated on the ripples of water around his legs as he let Concord’s words sink in, his hands continuing their comforting pattern over his skin. Until they slipped around his waist, and Concord pressed himself against his back again. He laid his cheek against his shoulder. 

“But more than that, Fizz, I think about how I’m happy you exist. I’m happy this is a world in which you came into being. So that I could know you and how wonderful you are as a person. We don’t have to have a relationship to stay together as friends. And you don’t have to love me to have the same relationship we’ve been having, if it’s what you want. But I’ll always love you no matter what. Because I love you . Not what you can give me. That’s just how my love works.” 

Fizz turned, forcing Concord to sit back again. He felt weirdly light-headed and terrified all at the same time. He knew Concord gave him a lot of control, but he hadn’t realized just how much. He’d never abuse that control but the idea that Concord could have ended up with someone who would scared him. The idea of Concord being treated the way Ahroth treated him hurt to think about.

“You’d really let me have you like this without expecting anything back?” 

Concord smiled calmly as if it were nothing. 

“It’s how we were before, remember? My love is unconditional. And most importantly, I trust you. I know it’s safe to give myself to you this way. If I had any suspicion at all that you would hurt me, I wouldn’t. I was very guarded before we met. I hadn’t had a relationship in seven years. So, please, understand just how safe and loved you make me feel.”

Fizz leaned over Concord, chest aching in a way it shouldn’t with his pain receptors turned off. He cupped his precious little imp’s face in both hands and leaned down as Concord let himself be drawn up into the sweetest, softest kiss he could give him. 

“I do love you, Concord.” 

“It’s okay to still have doubts.” Concord assured him, fingers playing over his arm. “This isn’t something that’s easy to resolve, I know. But I’ll be here to talk to you about it when you need me. More than anything, I want you to have the relationship that makes you happy and comfortable.”

“Thank you for being so...you.” 

Concord’s smile turned into amusement. Fizz couldn’t believe how simple that was. If he could have just let himself talk to Concord from the beginning, he might not have had to worry so much. Or maybe it had to be now. Maybe everything had needed to line up just right.

That Concord also had a kind of programming helped Fizz stop worrying so much about his own. He felt what he felt and if Concord could tell his overactive brain to stop thinking about why, so could Fizz. 

He and Concord spent the rest of the day cuddling together in bed. Concord took a lot of pictures. His mood seemed to fluctuate as much as Fizz’s power drops which concerned him. But he knew Concord could worry too much about things. Fizz was sure he was stable enough now that he should be out of danger until Cog returned. But Concord would probably worry until Cog got him back to full functionality.

He didn’t mind the power drops too much. He just got kind of tired and silly. And Concord seemed to enjoy some of his silliness. He got to act on his urges a bit more now. Concord wouldn’t let him go too far, but there were a not insignificant amount of make-out sessions. 

But later in the night, as Concord seemed to be getting sleepy and ready to turn in, Fizz started to feel strange. Not groggy or silly. Anxious. Antsy. He took the phone out of Concord’s hands as he took another picture of kissing him on the cheek. He gave Fizz a curious look as he set it aside and turned to him. 

“I feel funny.” 

“Funny, how?” Concord asked, gripping his arm. 

“I really...really wanna...I gotta…” 

His eyes glowed at top brightness and Concord had to look away. He felt himself vibrating and thought he might have accidentally activated the various vibrators placed around his body. But that wasn’t it. He just wanted to move so badly. He needed to move!

“Power surge! What do I do?” 

Concord sat up and looked around, clearly panicked. 

“I don’t know! Cog didn’t tell me! Should I tie you down?” 

Fizz reached for the ropes in their bedside table with his good arm and dropped them in Concord’s lap. Concord moved as quickly as he could, starting with Fizz’s arms. He tied them to the headboard and started working on figuring out how to best secure his chest when Fizz’s legs started kicking. The covers went flying off the bed and Concord flinched. They were going so fast now they were a blur. 

He wrapped his arms around Fizz’s middle and held him down physically, trying to keep his chest stable without putting too much pressure on it. It was too late to try to secure it with ropes. And he’d never be able to get his legs. 

“Are you okay?” 

Fizz didn’t know how to answer that. He just felt so frustrated that he couldn’t go. He bucked against Concord suddenly, jerking his chest and making Concord gasp. 

“Fizz, please, you have to keep still.”

“I’m trying! I can’t!” 

He rocked from side to side, trying to roll out from under Concord as his arm extended. Tied as it was, it had nowhere to go. The arm just fell around them in coils and Fizz tightened them, pulling Concord against him. 

“Not too tight!” 

The arm stopped just short of constricting Concord’s breathing and a leg extended instead as Fizz tried to concentrate on where his energy went. It shot across the apartment and hit something in another room with a crash. Shit, he hoped that wasn’t the TV.  

“Sorry!” 

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Concord tried to keep his voice calm and soothing, but Fizz could hear the undercurrent of anxiety. “Just ride it out. It can’t last long.” 

It didn’t. As suddenly as it came, it went. After another few tense moments of thrashing all of Fizz’s limbs went suddenly limp and his eyes entirely dark. His head lulled. He couldn’t even find the energy to retract his limbs. He could hear Concord’s voice but couldn’t answer. He tried as hard as he could. Concord sounded so distressed and he wanted to let him know he’d be okay. But darkness took him as he sank into a deep sleep mode.

#Helluva Boss #Robo Fizz #Robo Fizz Helluva Boss #RoboFizzxOC #myfanfics #stuffididmyself

[bubblegumchaos]

TW: Violence, dark humor, all that jazz. Go no further, angry shit, yadda.

So, yanno...i'm just gonna yell into the void about something.

When i was very young, I read a lot of encyclopedias. Most of my knowledge of the world was attributable to the Encyclopedia Britannica, which my mother kept because well, a home should have a nice, impressive looking set of books. Along with a bunch of other old books that just...really weren't the best choice for a regressive anti-technology apocalyptic fundamentalist cult, but then, as we used to joke, my mother doesn't have to make sense, she just has to make decisions.

So, I eventually started plumbing the depths to try and figure out "what the hell is wrong with my family."

While i didn't get an answer about my family in general, I did note that i seemed to be oddly suited to the definition of "psychopath," minus the whole "being a problem for society at large" thing. Asocial, low empathy, lack of guilt, inability to plan cohesively, difficulty conceptualizing consequences, near total lack of emotions except curiosity and rage, both of which are carefully stifled, aggressive tendencies...frankly, I look at my younger siblings and i can definitely assure anyone that asks that had I not been raised quite far away from society, or if I'd stayed in the cult, I would most definitely have been a problem for society.

But psychopaths are *monsters,* you see. They're so, so bad, you see. Everyone assured me, at great length, that I couldn't be that, no, no sirree. I was too nice. Too kind. I didn't punch people nearly often enough (largely because I don't like being punched outside of sex, and I like to be in charge of where I'm being punched, and even that mostly cause I'm kinda badly out together physically, but that's aside the point.)

I wasn't *hate-able.* My empathy was too high.

On that last note, I have spoken elsewhere and i believe here regarding my empathy. My empathy is specifically a learned skill picked up by reading Edgar Allen Poe's Auguste Dupin stories. Dupin explains his near preternatural ability to get inside people's heads by his learned skill of micro-mimicking body and facial language and then analyzing what he feels when he copies someone else. Works absolute wonders, particularly as up to that point (i was 8-9), I was using the classical technique of provoking and hurting people around me to experimentally figure out how other people worked. Admittedly, it's somewhat like recording a speech and listening to it at the lwvel of a whisper in a crowded room, but then mimicry is far less likely to get you punched, and see previous for my feelings on getting punched.

But now i had, for all intent, a system to demonstrate empathy. Thanks to my mother's abuse, I had a complete paranoid delusion aping guilt. I could check plans past others, and once I got my hands on Google at 14, I had the capacity to directly look up what the general, societal consequences of most actions were and model behaviors that achieved my ends. I further had 18 years of direct training in mind control and manipulation, thanks to my cult.

You may notice that what you just read sounds like the origin story of a serial killer. Ape people around them to avoid detection, paranoia making them scrupulous enough to not get caught, and careful study of laws to find the lines, plus a hyper manipulative persona.

Roll with me here. This continues forward.

So, i'm out and about, 2, 5, 6 years free of my cult. I have married a self avowed psychopath who actually HAS been diagnosed with antisocial disorder thanks to a teenage habit of theft and punching people. He is fairly sure I am not one, since I perform guilt and empathy fantastically, by rote at this point. I literally have days that my face hurts from faking emotions for too long, i am slowly developing agoraphobia because there are far too many people to mimic in a retail job, and my guilt subroutine is just a voice chanting in my head, "they're coming to get you, don't fuck up" 24/7 to the point that i am developing hallucinations, but yeah. It's definitely not psychopathy. At this point, that's just ASPD, and i'm just too darn social. Never that. I'm no monster, you see. I'm "nice."

About this point, I have learned to use mind control techniques to help people, carefully applying them with direct permission to help people open up and discuss problems. My near preternatural ability to get into people's heads, my ability to find information, and my absolute lack of fucks about morals (thus making me wildly nonjudgemental), makes me the go-to confidant for many of my friends. This neatly surrounds me with people that can smooth my life out, but you can't tell people you're friends with them cause the world is made of grey paste and you're deathly bored 24/7 and being allowed to pick through people's minds and help them optimize is the closest you get to not wanting to shoot yourself or others. Or that you carefully maintain contact with people so you can check and make sure you're not doing anything jail worthy. Or that a large group to mimic lets you blend in easier, and finding one that also is transgressive, but socially permissable (thanks, kink) blows off some steam.

Of course, people that don't know me find me deeply off-putting, as I am at this point rapidly learning to turn off the mimicry when not immediately interacting with people. This results in me appearing utterly emotionless, but as soon as people talk to me, bing, back on. I had also joined the kink subculture, giving my hedonistic and transgressive sides an outlet.

I'd also gone to the trouble of getting a multifaceted degree. Ostensibly, my degree is "multimedia journalism." If you aren't aware, this means I have a degree in research, interpersonal communication, public speaking, written communication, mass communication, some psychology, critical thinking, media creation and analysis. In short, I have the literal perfect degree for figuring out, communicating with, and functionally understanding people, as well as a vastly enhanced ability to locate obscure information.

Fast forward again. Three mental breakdowns, four years of therapy, poking at my gender, figuring out a lot of mental health problems, and a rotating series of diagnoses, life is...slowly improving. I've left a toxic marriage (toxic on both sides), moved to a completely new place, started over. I have sort of resigned myself to focusing on my (admittedly annoyingly complex and wide ranging) physical disabilities.

And it comes up, in talking to my partner, that his adoptive mother displayed (she's dead) quite a few signs of ASPD. And he asks curiously if there's any connection between ADHD, autism, and ASPD, mainly cause the "personality disorder" part. PD's can, with long or early exposure, sometimes be passed on, you see.

Guess what's being studied, right now? Not a connection between ASPD and ADHD. A connection between psychopathy and ADHD. Wait, but I thought psychopathy wasn't a thing, says I? I thought there was only ASPD, now?

Ah, but for you see, the DSM is a load of horseshit. And i have heard that from multiple communities with different relations to it, and from multiple therapists, psychiatrists, professors...as a general rule, when the people who use it, the people it's used on, and the people who teach it all agree that a document is manure, I get a touch distrustful. I get more so when current studies use umbrella terms disavowed by a document known for being reductivist and that has been noted as having a great number of entries that were manipulated deliberately to make them as narrow and unusable as possible.

So anyway.

Turns out that while no, ADHD and Autism don't make you a psychopath, there's a distinct overlap. Empathy issues are a possiblity in all three, though both ADHD and autism can create *hyper*empathy. Inability to navigate social constructs is another point of overlap.

But really, it's the serotonin deficiency that hurls it across the line for me. And the genetic factors. Can psychopathy result from environment? Yeah, seems so. But there does seem to be a genetic and neurochemical component. Which is...curious for a disorder presented as purely a traumatic abreaction that creates dangerous amorals.

I then looked it up. And wouldn't you know, psychopathy is only pathologized as ASPD/APD, and DPD? The former is the sort of psychopathy that is characterized by violent amd criminal antisocial behavior, and the other an inability to understand and perform social mores at all. But this is the DSM, so these are of course diagnosed by problems caused for others as a first line.

Violation of societal norms, lack of emotions other than rage, aggression...it's almost like the same people that named a serotonin and function deficiency Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder to enshrine the disorder only by those aspects that make neurotypical people uncomfortable rather than seeking to help the neurodivergent person, the same people that invented torturous behavioral correction therapies to "fix" the neurodivergent person? Those strike me as people that might possibly have looked a serotonin deficiency that causes rage, limited emotions, impulsivity, difficulty conceptualizing consequence, and potentially a hell of a lot of other fun side shit and decided to call that "Doesn't get along with others well" disorder.

What really kicks it in the teeth for me, however, is that psychopathy used to mean more than "a social pariah." You see, Theodore Millon, the guy that wrote the book on personality disorders, noted between 5 and 10 subtypes. Do you know what they are?

Nomadic

(including schizoid and avoidant features)

Drifters; roamers, vagrants; adventurer, itinerant vagabonds, tramps, wanderers; they typically adapt easily in difficult situations, shrewd and impulsive. Mood centers in doom and invincibility

Malevolent

(including sadistic and paranoid features)

Belligerent, mordant, rancorous, vicious, sadistic, malignant, brutal, resentful; anticipates betrayal and punishment; desires revenge; truculent, callous, fearless; guiltless; many dangerous criminals, including serial killers.

Covetous

(including negativistic features) Rapacious, begrudging, discontentedly yearning; hostile and domineering; envious, avaricious; pleasures more in taking than in having.

Risk-taking

(including histrionic features) Dauntless, venturesome, intrepid, bold, audacious, daring; reckless, foolhardy, heedless; unfazed by hazard; pursues perilous ventures.

Reputation-defending 

(including narcissistic features) Needs to be thought of as infallible, unbreakable, indomitable, formidable, inviolable; intransigent when status is questioned; overreactive to slights.

(It should be noted: the features listed above are simply what each presentation is most likely to display if disordered. A reputation-defender may not display narcissm, a risk taker may not be histrionic. A malevolent [what a terribly judgy name...] could be negativistic, or avoidant, or histrionic. And so on.)

Now, ya may be going, "wait, hold up, narcissism is on there! We still have that! Schizoid is on there, we have that! Sadism, paranoia, we got all those things!"

Flash quiz: do you know what a personality disorder is? It's a series of learned behaviors that require moderation and unlearning.

Why yes, they did spin multiple neurotypes off into diagnoses that require behavioral therapy to "fix." Why on earth would you think they wouldn't? They're still trying to use reparative therapy on auties. Hell, near as I can figure, histrionic got spun into Borderline Personality disorder. You know what the therapy for that is? DBT, aka, "it IS your fault and you SHOULD feel bad."

Beyond knowing there used to be different flavors, did you know that there is about a millionty scare articles about how psychopaths are everywhere? Guess why.

What do you get when someone has an absolute need to see what's on the other side of the hill and no real fucks to give about how you get there? You get scientists, explorers, people utterly driven to find out. Think about how many of our science and exploration heros are noted as deeply weird and off-kilter. We have whole stereotypes about this. There are books and articles devoted to the transgressive personas and behaviors of famous scientists and explorers.

What do you get when someone is belligerent, paranoid, truculent, violent, fearless? Snipers. Literally. The army has openly stated they like psychopaths quite a lot. Someone that can look at a map of human lives and commit calculus with the phrase "acceptable losses" makes a damn fine general, wouldn't you say? Hunters, too. Make a good king? Or bounty hunter. Or, if we're going to be honest, a martial artist. Hell, think of all the ways our society accepts violence in real terms and symbolically. Management. Video gamer. Espionage. Actuary. Pest control. There are THOUSANDS of of societal uses for people like this.

Covetous? Well, banks are openly quite loving towards psychopaths. CEOs are indicated here. Businessmen. Fandoms with collection as a function have any number of anecdotes of individuals who have an intense drive to get more. "Focused on the chase, rather than the victory, to the exclusion of all else" is considered a positive, laudable personality trait. To put it in other terms, "can't stop, won't stop, never done." Sports players, yes? Football, rugby, hockey...

Risk takers are the real standouts, in terms of societal love. Doctors. Firemen. EMT's. Skydivers. Extreme sports players. Equipment testers. The list goes on. Society loves risk taking psychopaths. Hell, look at the diagnostic criterion up there: it's mostly traits with high positive connotations.

Reputation defending? Politics. Law. Advertising. Acting. Writing. Religion. Leadership of any kind.

I'm not talking out my ass here. All those fields have been noted as friendly towards, attractive to, and having a high representation of people who fit the behavioral model of psychopath.

But only if they're useful. Like literally every other non-normative neurotype.

Society loves ADHD and autistic people when they're displaying savant abilities or when they can mask well enough to use their sensory and cognitive differences to societal ends.

And if they're a problem for people around them, that's treated. The underlying difficulties? The societal structures that punish and harm them? The pain of adapting their entire neurobiome to do all the work of interfacing with different neurotypes while being driven to harness anything useful and discard the rest of their brain? No, we don't treat that. That's just the price of doing business. "Pull yourself up and don't be a problem."

And here's the problem, in plain terms: psychopaths who learn to cope, to mask, to adapt like I did are never diagnosed. I have spent most of my life fairly concerned about the fact that I seem not to have emotions or compunction, that i am always consciously working to figure out and connect to people around me on the most basic level, that I am constantly working to keep an active model of social norms going at all times. And I don't mean "shake hands, eye contact." I mean I have the same mental conversation regarding "don't shoot that person" and "use a turn signal." All prosocial behaviors, all social behaviors period, are a struggle to understand.

The funny thing is, it also makes antisocial behaviors difficult. Shooting someone seems remarkably inconvenient in many cases. Regardless of whether I care about getting caught or not, shooting somone will interrupt my day.

Not shooting them also seems remarkably inconvenient in many cases. Yes, it'd be a pain in the ass to shoot them, but then again, if I do it correctly, I only have to do it once.

But again, "correctly" is a wildly unfixed variable, and the whole question won't come up if I always ensure I fail the "do i currently have a firearm" step. And I don't. Ever.

That's how my brain works. Y'all go on about moral and ethical and legal reasons. That's an exhausting conscious mental conversation to have every other day, so my shortcut is:

"Should I shoot them? Oh, right, I don't have a gun. Guess not. Should I get one? No, cause I might shoot someone, and that'd be a pain in the ass. Welp, no shooting people."

And so it goes. I don't understand any social norms. Good or bad. I have all the problematic issues still, mind you. Environmental factors. I mimic and I was raised in an apocalypse cult in Oklahoma. I spend a lot of brain space sorting between prosocial behaviors and the violent antisocial behaviors I was taught were prosocial.

Because, you see, I can't really understand the prosocial behaviors, but I can see they work. And antisocial behaviors don't, really. Have i impulsively pocketed something? Couple times. Even got away with. Can't steal a house, though. And theft gets boring, for me.

Ok, except piracy. I may quite enjoy piracy.

Cooperation with a larger whole can and does yield benefits. Forcing myself to sit through mind numbing gratification delays does seem to yield results that are beneficial, though I really try to keep that one to a minimum. I refuse to be bored if I can help it. Making nice talky sounds gets me shit faster than making angry talky sounds.

Possibly this is a result if being raised manipulative. No idea. Kinda don't care.

Point is, I'm one of the psychopaths that, while not immediately useful, is also not actively a problem. So no-one will listen when i talk about everything being gray and cold and exhaustingly complicated because people make no sense and almost all my emotions are dialed so far down it's a joke i lack the ability to laugh about.

No one has believed me that the one emotion I have in spades is rage and that i have to literally consciously work out from first principles why violence is a bad option as my sole method of controlling that, my ONLY EMOTION OF ANY STRENGTH, which I cannot allow myself to feel for any length of time because I start losing sight of that consequence model and I worry i'll make a mistake I can't unmake. Or that it took me two decades to learn not to smash things I need when someone looks at me funny. Or just smash them.

Or that i have to keep my hands in my pockets and chant "don't steal" in my head some days. That I wear tight clothing with shallow pockets to make stealing harder so that, like guns, I simply can't do it easily and therefore short circuit my behaviors.

People are more than happy to hurl me at any problem that requires a lack of emotion, but if I dare to be less than appropriately emotional on a date? At a wedding? Funeral? If I make an error and don't diagnose it myself and perform contrition appropriately, regardless of if I knew there was a social or personal rule there? Well, I'm fired/broken up with/punished/evicted.

But I am not actively a problem for society. So none of those things are worth diagnosing. Or helping in any way.

And those that are useful? Are often fed utter horseshit and encouraged to break society. Bankers creating recessions. Generals commanding useless wars. Cops. Doctors that uphold a broken system. Politicians that pursue a broken society.

I know, I can see, that ASPD people catch a shit ton of shit cause they get blamed for "useful" psychopaths mistakes, and none of the benefits when said same psychopaths are lionized. Looking back at what it was, and what it is now, pathologically speaking, it makes perfect fucking sense for the asshats that designed a diagnosis to only include the people they don't like as the "sick" ones, and label the "good" ones as "heroes." Makes a nice distinction there between people we want to demonize and people we want to lionize for having the exact same chemical imbalance, and neatly creates a fall group when any of the "heroes" trip up. Silence those who can't cope, elevate those that can, treat neither effectively, and if an elevated one stops coping, we can just "realize" they were "sick" all along, and oh, yeah, those sick people are so bad, you guys, nothing like those heroes at allllllll.

I am...so tired of this society bullshit.

So anyway, I'm a psychopath. Paranoid, some schizoid. So whatever grains of salt you feel like taking, grab 'em, I guess. I'd mostly like for people like me to stop being weaponized, lionized, or punished for having a different neurotype. I'd like to be able to talk to a doctor about that and for there to be some options beyond "stop that," "get locked up," "have you considered the army" (yes, a doctor actually asked me that as a teenager) or "you seem fine, tho."

And if you resonate with this, well...I'm 32, never been arrested, mostly managed to avoid terrible shit, and I've got a life, couple partners, and I'm surviving, so like. You can do this. Lotta people wanna tell you you can't have this or that cause "you're not bad, tho." They're stupid. Y'ain't evil, just different. Don't let them get to you.

And (this is a joke) if you decide to shoot someone, do it once, correctly. Saves time.

#actuallymentallyill #vent #tw violence

[arin-schreave]

the first appearance of light in the sky before sunrise

before you read i just wanted to say thank you soooooo much to bri for being the most amazing cohost and my voice of reason these past 6+ months and putting up with me (y’all seriously have no idea lol). thank you to everyone who participated in oc6 and for helping make it the fun mess it was with your amazing characters. this fic is is trash but it’s what i’ve got. thank you to bri and ester for editing. my watch has ended.

-anna🙃

HELLO OC6ERS. this has been quite an interesting selection, hasn’t it? and yes. i did put up with anna but it was fun most of the time :) i can’t believe y’all roped me into this hosting thing a second time around, but it’s been a hoot. i hope you enjoyed safiya, wylan, jackson, and my evil villains as much as i did. and to bertha and myr!!!! y’all!!!!!!! idk how your characters have managed to make arin fairly decent in my eyes but you have. quite the feat. many thanks to anna for listening to my screeching advice most of the time, to anya for making the loveliest lady for jackson, and to ester, my homie, for making idalia--the most perfect match for wylan that could ever exist. it’s been WONDERFUL. see you guys next round!!!

-bri <3

You can click here for the Google doc or keep reading below. If you go to the doc please note there are some edits at the bottom of the fic so you may want to come back when you’re done reading and scroll down to the bottom to see them.

October was the hardest before Arin had readjusted to the silence. Everything had gone from chaos to calm in an instant and he hadn’t realized the ways he’d gotten used to it. He’d look for the familiar faces of the Selected only to be disappointed when he remembered that everyone had gone home.

He often wondered what Clemence and Jen would think of the choice he’d made to send them home, followed by too much silence on his part. Arin felt selfish because of the regret he felt for missing them both but he still knew it was the break they all needed. He’d put their lives on hold for months and hadn’t given them as much as he could have during that time. So he was trying to give them the space and time they needed to heal from the damage of the Selection.

Then came November with its highs and lows. Arin spent so many sleepless nights alone in his bed staring up at the ceiling thinking about his mistakes. He thought of how controlling he’d been with Felicity and what it had done to her, how devastated Jen had been when she thought he was eliminating her, the way Clem had been heartbroken when they’d said goodbye… But he was trying to be better. He’d gotten back into running, he’d finally started seeing a therapist again, he cooked for himself. Some days he’d go to the library on campus and spend a few hours doing his work in one of the study rooms before returning to the palace. Others he’d spend in back to back meetings with advisors discussing Illéa’s transition into a casteless society. Still, there was always a lingering empty feeling inside him. Then a call came.

---

It was the quietest Christmastime that Arin could remember there ever being in his home. Servants were still rushing around as they tried to put the final touches on the decorations. The majority of palace staff would soon go on vacation through the beginning of the new year and it would only grow quieter. There wasn't the same level of excitement there usually was during the holiday season.

There was a soft knock at the door and he straightened in his chair while he set aside what he was working on. He glanced down at his watch as he called for her to enter. She was early but only by a few minutes. When she slipped inside the office he noticed she'd kept her jacket on, which meant she didn’t plan on staying long.

He took a deep breath as she walked towards the desk, trying not to think about the last time she'd been in his office. When she’d kissed him in front of Clem. That hurt to think about but for different reasons than it had at the time. When she reached the desk she didn’t sit. Felicity merely raised her eyebrows at him in anticipation. 

“Thanks for coming.” He gave her a nervous smile. “It means a lot to me.”

There was some skepticism in the look she gave him when he motioned for her to sit. She even glanced around the office to see if they were alone as if it was all a trick. Then her eyes met his again but still, she remained standing. It gave him somewhat of an uneasy feeling but he ignored it since she was likely uncomfortable as well.

“I know Christmas is over a week away but I wanted to give you your gift early since we won’t be doing things the usual way this year.”

Some of the awkwardness slipped away and Arin could feel the hint of the friendship they’d once had. He’d forgotten how good that felt. For a moment they were who they’d been before they’d ever been Arin & Felicity. They were two childhood friends sharing a moment that was nothing but platonic. He’d missed the sense of ease between them.

He thought about the way things usually were on Christmas. Every year his parent’s friends would come over at some point for a few hours to visit and they’d exchange gifts. When they'd been younger all the kids would play and Felicity had been among them. With everything that had happened they had decided it would be for the best to skip the year’s celebration.

This year the Schreaves would likely attend the Christmas Eve service at church before returning home for a somber meal. Then afterward they would gather in the family room for an hour or two before they all went their separate ways. As for Christmas morning… Well, that was one big question mark. So many things were those days. It was all one day at a time.

“I didn’t get you anything.” She gave him an apologetic look which he waved off.

“Well, I didn’t either.”

Arin glanced over at his desk drawer, taking a moment for himself before he reached down to open it. This moment had been such a long time coming and he was ready. He pulled the little velvet box from where it had been sitting for almost a year and set it on the desk. Felicity’s eyes widened with recognition as he slid the small box towards her. She swallowed hard, one hand going up to cover her lips as she only stared at it. He couldn’t help but smile a bit at the reaction, knowing her well enough that he was able to tell she was far from upset.

“Lis, I’ll always love you no matter where we are or who we’re with, you know that.” It felt good for him to say what he knew he’d been feeling the last couple of months. “But only as a friend. I’ve known you longer than almost anyone in my life and you aren't someone I could ever replace. But we aren’t the same people we were five years ago or even last year and we both know that’s for the better.”

Felicity reached up and wiped at her eyes, huffing a laugh before she mumbled something about how unfair he was being. Her eyes met his as she picked up the ring box, one thumb brushing over the top with fondness. She was silent for a few moments while she enjoyed the familiarity of the velvet against her skin.

“I know things are busy this year but please don’t put off getting her present. It’s your first Christmas.” She looked down at the ring box with a soft smile.

He could tell how much it meant to her that he’d given it back. Given how things had ended between them proper etiquette was that she return the ring and she had. But what was Arin going to do with it? He couldn’t propose with it or ever give it to his future… spouse, which meant that it would only end up tucked away in some corner of the vault collecting dust.

Felicity didn’t know that Arin had yet to figure out what he was going to do. Not that she would since they didn’t speak often and he wasn’t sure how much his sister told her. It was a reasonable assumption that he’d have made a decision by now even though there’d been no announcement. There'd been so much going on recently that Arin's priority wouldn't have been that, which Felicity knew.

“It doesn’t matter since I’m not sure when I’ll see her next anyway. Jen is with her family in Waverly for Christmas.”

Arin paused at that as he processed what he’d said. He replayed the sentence in his head to make sure he’s said what he thought he had. Then he narrowed his eyes at Felicity. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him.

“What did I say?” He asked somewhat cautiously.

She gave him a confused look as if she didn’t understand the question. Then seeing that she’d heard him right she frowned.

“You said Jen is in Waverly for Christmas.” She answered. “Is there a problem?”

Arin tugged at his collar. He began to count in his head as he took a steadying breath. He knew Felicity was someone he could talk to but not about this. Not yet. Maybe one day they’d completely go back to the way they were before they’d been together but they weren’t there yet.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry to keep things so short but I have a meeting in a few minutes,” Arin told her.

He didn’t but he glanced at his watch anyway. She knew him well enough to know it was Arin telling her he needed to be alone. Felicity nodded in understanding but didn’t move quite yet. Then she stepped around his desk, giving the box a couple gentle taps against the surface. She stood there a few more moments but then she shook her head, changing her mind about what she was going to ask him.

“Merry Christmas, Arin.” She said in a hushed voice, then turned to leave.

Arin leaned back in his chair once she was gone, a million thoughts running through his mind. He thought about the two women who had become his world over the past couple of months. Both were kind and wonderful. But he couldn’t be with both of them. When he thought about Jen he couldn’t help but smile and feel warm inside. She had a way of lighting up everything around her and making it all feel so alive. Then there was Clem who was soft and sweet and reminded him that he could always keep going. When she looked at Arin he felt like his mistakes meant nothing and all would be forgiven.

Each woman meant more to him than he could put into words. They’d seen Arin as he was and they still wanted him despite it all. Through the ups and downs, they’d stood by him, giving him their time and love. He’d known for some time that he was in love as well but up until then, he’d thought it possible he had equal feelings for them both. He’d been searching for an answer and there she was. She’d been in front of him all along.

He had the vague memory of telling her that she wouldn’t ever be happy with him but that didn’t feel so true anymore. So much had happened since then. She'd seen him at his worst and together they’d gone through more in the span of a few weeks than most couples went through in years. Jen had become someone he relied on and turned to when things were hard. She’d held him that night in the kitchen when he’d burnt the cookies, she’d tried her best to comfort him when he’d been sick in the Great Hall after they’d somehow stayed alive, and she’d been behind him every step of the way during the funeral procession. Even when she'd broken up with him she'd been the person he'd wanted to share it with.

Their moments weren’t always perfect and rarely turned out as planned but each one added up and made them who they were together. They’d had sad moments like when Jen had told him how well he’d done the day of his mother’s funeral. Then there had been the in-between moments like the day in the library when she’d told him what had happened with Ian. He’d been so careful and scared. But then there were the happy moments. There was the simplicity of painting with her in the attic, grocery shopping in a supermarket with narrow aisles, reaching for her in the middle of the night, the way she would laugh at his terrible jokes, so many things…

Arin thought of Felicity then. There had been love between them but at some point, over the past months, it had slipped away. Looking back on it, it didn’t feel the same way being with Jen felt. Somehow everything with Jen felt so much brighter and vivid. When he thought of her there was a pleasant heavy feeling in his chest and if he tried to imagine his life without her it felt meaningless. There were so many things unspoken between them and yet they both knew they were safe together. It only ever took one word.

He needed to think. It was Thursday and Arin had talked to Jen recently enough that he knew she’d be arriving back in Illéa on Monday. He had a weekend to figure out what he wanted to do if he even wanted to tell her that soon. Talking to someone would help but Wylan wouldn’t be the best person since he was with Jen and Arin didn’t want to put more on his plate. Wylan deserved to enjoy the rest of his vacation with his girlfriend- even if they had a third wheel.

Arin considered his mom but wanted someone more level-headed… so the obvious choice was Safiya. 

---

When Arin found his sister in the family room on the third floor, she was curled up on one of the couches beneath a blanket. She had her laptop resting on her lap, playing a movie. Safiya didn’t pause what she was watching as Arin walked towards her,  a hint of a smile on his face. He could already tell she knew something was up as he sat on the couch across from her.

“Do you have a second?” He asked after watching her for a long moment.

Being curious, Safiya paused what she was watching with a nod and set her laptop down on the coffee table. She laid back down on her side, still snuggled beneath the blanket facing him. 

“A few. It looks important”

Arin took a deep breath, leaning back against the cushions of the couch. He noticed how Safiya wasn’t sitting up the way she normally would have been but the past months had been hard on everyone, her especially. Not only had she lost a parent but so had Theo.

“It’s actually very important.” It’s actually about Jen. He smiled a bit.

Safiya’s smile matched his own as she tucked one hand against her cheek.

“Finally joining the club?” She wiggled her ring finger enough for him to notice.

Arin blushed at the suggestion. The thought had crossed his mind but hearing someone else bring it up made it feel more real. Most mentions of marriage with Jen had been brief and made as jokes. Yet that's what he wanted. He wanted to marry her one day and have a life. If that was what she still wanted with him.

“I don’t know…” Arin admitted, grimacing in embarrassment. “I haven’t talked to her yet. And she doesn’t know it’s her.”

“You should probably remedy that.” She told him, her voice calm as she spoke despite her growing smile.

Arin nodded in agreement. He had every intention of telling Jen- assuming she’d listen. He thought back to the conversation they’d had in the early hours of the previous morning. They’d had moments during the call where they’d been at odds but at the end of it, they’d been... them and it made him optimistic.

“She’s in Italy with Wylan right now and won’t be back for a couple more days.” Arin was grinning at that point. “So I have a bit of time to think.”

He knew all it would take was a text or a phone call or even getting on a plane but he needed to think things through. Arin was certain about Jen but he wanted to make sure he got things right. He had four days until she was back in Illéa which felt like too much time and not enough time all at once.

“I’m happy for you, you know,” Safiya told him in a quiet voice.

Arin chuckled a bit at the realization that he hadn’t said Jen’s name out loud a single time the entire conversation. Safiya was smart enough to know who he was talking about from the mention of Wylan since she knew about his trip. Still, Arin wanted to make sure they were on the same page.

“It’s Jen. I realize I should have led with that. Sorry.” Arin ran his fingers through his hair with some anxiousness. “It’s been a weird day.”

He paused, taking a moment to consider his next words more carefully. It was a delicate topic that most people had grown used to tiptoeing around with him. He hadn’t told anyone what his plans had been with Felicity though he’d mentioned he'd be seeing her that afternoon to Jen during a conversation. She’d asked how he’d felt because he’d been so nervous and she could tell something was off.

“I just came from giving Felicity her engagement ring back.”

Safiya raised her eyebrows at that. Arin was sure she’d be hearing about from Felicity at it some point. It was possible she already knew since Felicity would have had time to text Safiya and she’d been waiting for him to bring it up. Though he figured was unlikely.

“Oh? Did that go well?” She asked.

He furrowed his eyebrows briefly as he thought back to when he'd returned the ring. Arin focused on those last moments before Felicity left and the way she’d stepped around the desk. Then there’d been the hesitation. That was the only part of the interaction he had any uncertainty over but he kept that to himself and nodded in response to his sister’s question.

“It went surprisingly well. She seemed to appreciate it.” He answered, stopping a moment to bite at his lip. “It felt right since I didn't have any use for it.”

“I don’t think Jen would appreciate a ring given to your former fiancée,” Safiya replied with more of her usual snark.

“Is this a bad time to tell you that I've already bought her a brand new ring that looks exactly the same?” Arin smirks a bit as he speaks. “I thought her only issue would be that it's used.”

Safiya half snorted and shifted onto her back to face towards the ceiling. Arin wondered if she was feeling well but didn’t dare ask. His sister had the best handle on her health out of anyone he knew. But still, he worried about her.

“You’ve reached the end and yet still so much to learn.”

“Don't worry, I haven't given the ring a single thought considering she broke up with me a few weeks ago.” He sighed. “I have that mess to fix first.”

“Is that what made you realize she’s who you want to be with?” Safiya gave him a sideways glance.

Arin rubbed at his forehead, feeling like it would overcomplicate things to explain how the conversation had gone. She’d only been the person who gave him the push in the right direction. Even if he couldn’t pinpoint the moment he’d fallen in love with Jen it certainly hadn’t been twenty minutes ago in an office with his ex-fiancée.

“Not quite. I’m sure that helped but there was this moment with Felicity where it was so easy like we were friends again. Maybe I just needed to let go.”

“Sometimes it takes letting go to realize what you want to hold onto.” She hummed, eyes going back to the ceiling.

Arin frowned as he went over his sister’s words. He thought back to the attack in the Great Hall, remembering the moments of uncertainty and the whispers in the chaos. She’d told him that she loved him for the first time. Jen had told him since as well, even when things had gone wrong on their Greece trip. Even then.

“I’ve already lost her more than once and if she’ll take me back and I think she will, I don’t ever want to let her go.”

“So... what did you come here to ask me?” She nodded before asking more quietly. “Or did you just want to let me know?”

“I came to tell you because you're my sister and one of my best friends…” He paused and huffed a laugh. “But right now I'd kind of like you to tell me what to do because some crazy part of me wants to drop everything and fly to Italy and sweep her off her feet but I don't feel like that's the right move.”

He knew it was ridiculous but he had an overwhelming feeling that he’d wasted so much time being an idiot. And he knew the feeling was right. He’d paused the Selection two months before and while he’d made progress for the country and even some for himself he felt like without her it didn’t mean nearly as much. But Safiya immediately shaking her head told him that she agreed with him for once.

“I've talked to Wylan a bit and seen how it's going from pictures.” Safiya pursed her lips slightly. “And she broke up with you. Let her enjoy the time where she doesn't have to be stressed about something else being asked of her after... everything. I don't think she needs to be swept off her feet. She needs to be told that she's all you could ever want and you're willing to spend the rest of your lives showing her how much she's valued.”

“When we spoke yesterday we left things on a really good note and I haven’t stopped thinking about everything she said. I want to spend the rest of forever giving her everything even knowing things won't always be easy.”

“Is this a sensible, adult decision I hear coming out of your mouth right now?” She asked, the corner of her mouth lifting into a half-smile.

“Seriously, Safiya?” Arin narrowed his eyes at her. “I am the leader of a country and you're going to tease me about adult decisions?”

“Someone has to.” She chuckled.

“You, Wylan, Mom, Jen...” Arin held up a hand then put a finger down for each of the names he listed off emphasizing Jen’s because he'd let her tease him every day for the rest of forever if she wanted.

“Jen's the only one who will be as honest as I am, and since she's not in a place to tell you this, I will.” She waved her hand.

Real or genuine. That’s what she’d said her name meant and she was never anything but. Jen, Jennie, Bee… She felt like the most real person in his life. And he never wanted that to change.

“I think she might be harder on me than you are though.” Arin joked, reaching for one of the pillows which he pulled to his chest.

“You say that as if it's a bad thing,” Safiya said with a small laugh.

“I’m afraid you’d both get along a little too well.” He raised his eyebrows at her.

He wasn’t sure how much time his sister had spent with Jen in the months she’d lived in their home but he was certain that they’d get along. Safiya would gain a sister which was something Arin knew she wouldn’t take lightly. It had only been the two of them the majority of their lives until the past few years. They’d added Wylan, then Theo who Arin was still working on getting used to, and he hoped Jen would be next.

“You should be happy she'll get along with the in-laws.” She told him, amused at the thought.

Arin gave her a sad smile as he thought about their mother. He knew their loss haunted them both every day but he wanted to focus on the things they had to look forward to even if it was only briefly. Though he wondered how soon things would settle. He was still adjusting to his brother in law and the transition was still strange for him to wrap his brain around at times.

“Well, I don't come with a lot of people. It's just you, Mom, Wylan, and Theo.”

“You don't need a whole village. I think we'll suffice.” She briefly returned the smile before it faded when her thoughts also went to what they’d lost.

Arin grew more concerned as he observed the look on Safiya’s face. The past months had taken their toll on the entire family but seeing his sister act so… ordinary worried him. It seemed to Arin that it was more difficult than usual for Safiya to keep up her usual appearances.

“Hey, how are you doing?” He asked in a softer tone.

She stayed facing the ceiling. Safiya didn’t smile again but she didn’t let herself delve into the dark feelings the attack brought on. 

“Fine. For the most part.” She sighed, looking over at him. “Maybe you can invite her over for New Year’s.”

He pursed his lips at the sudden subject change. It was strange for him to see his sister deflect in the same way he did. They both knew she wasn’t fine and saying it wouldn’t make it so. Still, he blew out a breath and decided to let it go for the time being.

“What are the big plans this year?”

“Homemade pizza, champagne, and watching the ball drop from the couch.” An absent smile formed on her lips. “Theo still needs rest.”

Arin nodded in understanding. Anyone who had been there still needed rest but that wasn’t possible. At least Theo was taking his time with his recovery. He could imagine the loss of a parent having also experienced it but he couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of witnessing what Theo had after enduring everything the night of the attack.

“It'll be his first Christmas and New Year's away from home, won't it?” 

“They do Christmas a little differently so I’m leaving that to him.” Safiya nodded.

“It'll be different for us all this year I think. A lot quieter than usual.” Arin told her.

“At least Wylan will be around.” She replied as she thought about how she’d been missing him.

Arin smiled at the idea. At least some things stayed the same. They’d each been so busy that they hadn’t gotten to talk as much as they should. After everything, he’d almost expected Wylan would spend Christmas in Clermont. Though he wasn’t sure why. However, Allens seemed like another decent possibility as well.

“I haven't spent enough time with him recently,” Arin admitted.

“He's preoccupied with his future wife.” She chuckled to herself.

Arin wondered if they’d have had more than just a couple days if things could have been different. Maybe he’d have come to his senses… She wouldn’t have broken up with him. But as lovely as the thought was he knew it wouldn't have happened.

“I wish I had the time.” He sighed. “But I have meetings and a million other things to do. And Felicity reminded me about all the Christmas shopping I haven't done.”

“And what are you getting for Jen, hm?” Safiya asked.

“Am I allowed to say myself?” Arin joked in a serious tone after biting at his lip.

His sister’s only response was an intense flat look which caused him to roll his eyes in response. Sometimes she didn’t appreciate his sense of humor as much as he would have liked.

“I wasn't serious.”

“Good.” She said with mild amusement.

“Just because we talked yesterday doesn't mean we'd get back together if I told her I wanted to. So I may not need to get her anything for Christmas.”

“I think a gift might soften it, Arin.” She chuckled.

That seemed like it wouldn’t go over well. He wasn’t sure showing up out of the blue with a gift would be what Jen wanted. He’d expect a telling off if he pulled that move. Though he deserved to be told off regardless of how he went back to Jen. He knew that much.

“Are you saying I should just start sending gifts now?”

“Everything in moderation.” She fiddled with the blanket on her lap. “One gift and some suppressed Arin honesty should suffice.”

“At this point, I’m not sure there’s a point in toning down who I am.” He told her, furrowing his eyebrows as he spoke. “She already knows.”

“Everyone could use a little self-improvement.” Safiya shot him another flat look.

“It’s possible I’d rather focus on the country first.” He shrugged. 

Safiya sighed. She didn’t feel like opening the same can of worms again since it never seemed to get them anywhere. Though Arin wasn’t trying to get on her nerves with that statement. He had so much he wanted to do for Illéa and he felt like even if he had years it would never be enough. There were so many things leftover from the previous generations of Schreaves that needed to be fixed.

“Congratulations.” She told him, having summoned a smile. “I'm happy with your choice, not that you really needed my approval.”

He knew he didn’t need her to say that but he did at the same time. Arin needed someone to tell him what he wanted was right. It might have been shallow but it reassured him.

“She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Safiya chuckled. “Very wonderful.”

“She’s the one, Sia.” He smiled, thinking about Jen.

“I know.” She said softly. “Go get her, Arin.”

Go get her.

That was all Arin wanted to do.

There were so many things he was still uncertain about but Jen wasn’t one of them. With her next to him he was sure the rest would fall into place. She wanted more which she’d made sure to tell him and he wanted more too. He wanted the ups and downs and the times in between. Arin didn’t want only one more minute with Jen. He wanted a lifetime of moments and minutes with her.

He’d told her that it would be easier if it was a choice they could make together and she’d agreed. Now he’d made his choice. Whatever came next they could decide together. Together. Jen and Arin. He liked the sound of that.

#the selection #selectionoc #schreave fic #challenge ten

[a-student-out-of-time]

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m sure many of you remember me, and for those who are new here, I’m Gekkougahara Miaya, the one to whom they gave the title of ‘Ultimate Therapist.’”

“Looking back, it seems a little silly, doesn’t it? Giving that role to a woman who uses a text-to-speech device to communicate. It’s not that I can’t speak, of course. I’m just far better at articulating my words through text than I am through speaking, and my job requires listening as much as it does speaking, perhaps even more so.”

“This is my last year at Hope’s Peak Academy, and I’ve done a great deal of thinking and reflecting, seeing how much things have changed. To say it’s been a tumultuous time would be the grandest of understatements. It’s been home to...some of the highest highs and lowest lows of my life.”

“When I was a first-year, I was so nervous about actually dealing with patients. I was just a girl who enjoyed studying psychology, then I received a letter in the mail asking me if I’d like to attend the most prestigious academy in the world. I knew that meant starting my planned career early, but I worried if I could really help people. I was a high-school student being asked to jump into work as an actual therapist.”

“And then, I met the other students of Class 75. I met some of the kindest, friendliest people I’ve ever known. They were all so excited to begin their work, I felt some of that determination rub off on me. I felt as though, maybe, I’d been judging myself prematurely. That maybe I was more capable than I’d given myself credit.”

“But in my second year, as I’m sure you’re all aware, I was in an accident that left me paralyzed from the waist down. An accident that...also lead to a close friend of mine dropping out of school. A friend I haven’t seen or spoken to since. That remains one of the darkest days in my life, and I hope it remains that way going forward.”

*She takes a breath before continuing*

“During my stay in the hospital afterward that I really started to read through the Hope‘s Peak Forums, and I got to read the...criticisms of me that had been floating around for some time. Discussions about whether I was qualified to act as a therapist if I can’t talk, and especially now that I’d been confined to this wheelchair.”

“And it would be easy to just brush those aside, but I didn’t. I also used that time to really think about what I wanted to do from there. Whether those criticisms were justified, and if I’d failed at what I’d set out to do. And if I had, what could I do differently? What would be the best decision for me and for my patients?”

“I briefly contemplated also dropping out of the Academy, but then I really started to think. I wondered how I could channel what I’d experienced into helping my patients. I started speaking with some of my past patients and with friends through email, and I learned a lot.”

*She brings her hands together*

"There’s this recurring idea in much of our media that we should praise disadvantaged people for their all of accomplishments. That there’s all these ‘inspiring’ stories about, for example, people getting out of their wheelchairs and walking down the aisle, even if it’s painful. It’s what Stella Young has called- if you’ll excuse my use of the term- ‘Inspiration Porn.’”

“I won’t lie, my condition comes with a lot of pain. Every day of the last year, I’ve dealt with chronic pain and difficulty breathing. I’ve had to figure out how I was going to live like this from now on, and it’s been pretty scary.”

“But you know what’s scarier? The idea that this chair is going to define me for the rest of my life. That my role now isn’t as a therapist, but as just an object of inspiration. My goal is to help people, don’t get me wrong, but I aim to do that as an actual hands-on worker.”

“The reason I bring this up is because I’m fairly sure that, after my graduation, someone is going to make a captioned photo of me meant to be inspirational. That’s the last thing I want. I don’t want to be pitied for my condition, and I don’t want to be praised for overcoming the restrictions that have now been put on my life.”

“It’s part of this ongoing idea that to be disabled is an inherently bad thing. That your life is not a life worth living, and that the only role you have now is to be an inspiration for able-bodied people. That using a wheelchair or prosthetic limbs is a shameful hindrance, and that you should call someone outstanding for being able to get out of bed in the morning.”

“And that ties back into the ideas about mental illness as well. The depictions of them as violent serial killers and criminal masterminds, or romanticizing conditions like depression and schizophrenia, causes of real psychological pain, as sources of artistic inspiration or creativity. The fact is, they’re not.”

“There’s also this over-emphasis on letting these qualities be the defining features of people, rather than just small components of who they are. People live utterly normal lives with them every single day, doing what they enjoy even if they struggle with physical or psychological conditions.”

“For example, hello, my name‘s Gekkougahara Miaya. I’m 18 years old, I grew up in Akihabara, and I spent most of my childhood watching magical girl anime and probably thinking too hard about how weird Freudian Psychoanalysis really is.”

*The crowd laughs*

“I know, right? It’s okay, you can all laugh.”

“I don’t blame anyone who’s held these beliefs or who were trying their best to actually be positive. I’m certain your hearts were in the right place if you’ve ever reblogged images like those. The problem is that, regardless of intent, it applies this ‘otherness’ to disabled people, that they’re inherently disconnected from the rest of us and only exist for our benefit.”

“Would I be making this kind of speech if I hadn’t been in that accident last year? In all honesty, I probably would be. Because my goal is not to be an inspiration. It’s to knock down that pedestal we’re often placed upon and to be down there with the rest of you.”

“If there‘s one thing I’d want to ‘inspire,’ it’s a shift in society’s attitudes toward disability. Where achieving normal things is seen as normal, and achieving great things is seen as great. Where the expectations on us are the same as anyone else’s.”

“As for my achievements, as of this month, I’ve helped over 355 patients since I came to Hope’s Peak Academy. I’ve studied different treatment methods, been granted opportunities to work with some of the most amazing people I’ve ever met, and I’ve been able to use what I love to help others. And this was a path I was on even when I could walk.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little more praiseworthy than telling me I did a good job getting out of bed this morning?”

“What I want is to break down that barrier between abled and disabled, and you can start very easily. Talk with people, get to know them, educate yourself, and don’t be afraid to ask questions. Above all, please listen to what they have to say too.”

“Thank you all for indulging me.”

#danganronpa #dr3 #danganronpa 3 #miaya gekkougahara #a student out of time #DR #practical exams arc

[aliypop]

Simpatia

Word Count: 2,225

Character Count: 11,925

Warning: themes of trauma mentioned, Mentions of Rape,  and all things Hannibal like 

A/N: I really really hope you guys enjoy this fic it’s a part two to Empatia and more of Shanel Mahone please let me know if you guys enjoy it! 

"Sometimes I think the curse is gone...Days or even months, pass in peace but then, without warning it stirs... like malaria." Shanel said, her grip on the black leather seat hard almost causing scratches on it, It had been only a week since she and Hannibal had, had dinner together, and neither party wanted to bring anything up about it which made her think that maybe it was for the better, 

Hannibal watched her fidget in her seat, pulling at her clothes, specifically at her white buttoned-down shirt, almost as if it were choking her, "One month I can forget that it all," 

"That it all what.." Hannibal asked curiously as to what she would have said next, setting his notepad aside on his desk he could smell the fear on her, not from him but from something else though he'd push to even say that it was from somebody else, "Happened," she responded her tapping her heels and slouching in the seat making herself almost seem swallowed whole by the space around her which was already dark and bleak, she couldn't run and hide from the bad guy in her nightmares nor could she push the memories of what he told her didn't happen away either, 

"Our scars have the power to remind us our past was real.." Hannibal gave her a soft smile and a comforting handhold,

"DON'T!  do that..." she removed her hand away from his as quick as she could, to her it felt as if time was  frozen  and that everything she did had only slowly begun to catch up to her, standing to her feet like a rushing whirlwind only made doctor Lector's analyzation on her stronger, of course, he had known for her to lash out on  themes that he might have mentioned in their sessions, but nothing to the point that it made her end their discussion so early, 

"I really should head back to work.." she mumbled, walking out the door, "Same time next week?" she asked as he only nodded back in response. Her office, however, was only a door down from his, a bleak walk that felt like death row with the gloomy winter skies painting the background of her office she only felt more alone and swallowed whole by her own guilt and shame of her past, something that felt like an anchor on her life still she refused to tell her own therapist about these things, for example, her reoccurring nightmares, flashbacks, or how she secretly fell that she would never be enough and therefore became a lawyer in a country where no one knew who she was, 

"Ms. Mahone, are you okay?"

"Just another bad day, any calls Carlos," she asked, her breathing still shaky as if she had finished running a mile. Carlos was an intern of the Mahone law firm which dealt with sexually, heinous crimes and was more so a cover-up business for what she really did, but that was only a secret shared between her and Hannibal, 

"Not that I know of, but Will dropped off the files for the Hobbs case," he shrugged handing her the files her curled up hair pressed to her forehead, taking the yellowish envelope she rushed into her office, slamming the door behind her making it her sanctuary, one that tended to either blare 80's music and or classical operatic melodies, grew silent the only thing that she could hear was the robotic ringing of her office phone, in which she refused to answer until it rang for the tenth time, 

"Hello," she answered listening to the crisp silence of the call,

" la mia piccola puttana," 

"I.. I don't understand..." she began trembling and shaking under her desk as she repeated to herself that what she had just heard was unreal,  "The.. letters and.. the gifts.. you," 

"I wanted you to forgive me, to trust me... ya know ever since I treated you bad I wanted to make it up to you," a condescending tone in his voice, this, however, was the same man who had taken the wrongful liberties of turning her into what she was today a closed-in private life woman who didn't know what love was nor did she understand the purpose of trusting someone let alone think about it, this was the man who hurt her so badly she killed him, or so she thought,

 "I don't want anything from you," her voice gave out wavering, like a candle in the wind alone by itself. 

"I thought that maybe we could talk, go on a ride as we used to when you were 12, just me and my little puttana," he could feel the way she had nearly shrunk into herself every time he had even uttered the letters to the name that he used to call her, it still reminded him of the power that kept her down enough for him to use her again like old times, Shanel put the phone back on the hook hoping that it would be the end to his scheme, but like most, she was dead wrong, the side of her suit had vibrated, indicating that she had just received a text which read, 

"I see you," 

Peaking her head out from under her desk she could only see what looked like ebony black hair and an olive skin man standing in the parking lot next to her pink sports car, trying to steady herself using her office chair, keeping her head held low, walking down the hallways made her feel as if she were heading towards death row with a bag over her face and two prosecutors carrying her down towards the sweet electric chair which she could hear it buzzing like a song in her ear, 

" Lack of trust in other people increases the need for religion. If you can't rely on others, you'll have to rely on god,"  

She heard the voice of Hannibal say, looking around herself it was almost as if she had transported herself to a museum of  some sort where every picture was everything that she was able to remember some that were good and some that weren't, 

"Where am I... where are we?"  she asked turning to the blonde hair psychiatrist who was dressed in something completely different than what she had remembered from earlier, she too was also dressed differently, wearing red as he wore white,  

"Your mind palace, and as I see, you've built quite the wall around it... tell me Shanel will you let yours fall eventually.."  he asked her watching the way her features fell soft when she was around him, letting him see the sides of her that she wanted him to, nothing less and nothing more to it, besides what was a monster if you loved it she had always figured,  walking alongside him sitting down to admire the "art" around them,

 "About earlier I-" 

"Good you're up.." a hand caress her cheek as she was bent over what felt to be a couch underneath her, a knife was pressed against her leg as it slowly began to peel away her brown skin revealing what was under her skin the beautiful red of O positive blood rushed down her leg staining her tan heels, as he began digging the knife deeper into her skin as if she were a pig and he was checking for fat, 

 "Scream, and I'll kill ya," he grabbed her cheeks pushing her head further down onto the couch, she could hear him unzip his pants, and his satisfied breathing in her ear, silent tears fell from her face her body frozen just like it used to be when Christopher attacked her, though most times his buddies in the mob would join along with him, 

"Now be a good princess and let father Christoph-"  she took her heel gouging out his eyeballs blooding up her suit, 

"I can't see! " he shouted as Shanel then searched into the couch cushion finding a pistol in which she loaded and cocked the gun feeling his hand on her thigh crawling up further under her skirt as her finger found the trigger pointing the barrel at his head, then at his arm blowing a hole right between his shoulder watching him scream in agony, 

"That was how you made me feel, for 13 years !" she shot at him, "13 miserable years, and now it's time to make you pay for it all.." her voice was now a hushed whisper as she watched him beg an plead to her as if she were God, but unlike him, she was unforgiving, the murderess that killed those who hurt the one's who killed those who hurt in the inside, the judge of wicked the wrong and the unrighteous, 

"May he have mercy on your soul.." she mumbled under her breath, taking the final blow to his head, the FBI had then begun to bust into the room watching before them the renowned and loved lawyer covered in blood staggering back and forth as she in a blurry panic saw what looked to be Hannibal falling into his arms,  Will only sighed seeing the shoe that was lodged deep into his eye cavity and the other that seemed to show the deep scalping of his head, the crime was far worse than anything he had seen so far in his profiling classes, 

"I'll take her to paramedics.." Jack tapped Will on the back as he shook his head, 

Shanel laid there in the hospital hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor as well as a few other machines to check her breathing and her vital signs, as Hannibal sat there waiting for her spring to life he contemplated on looking at the wonderful spread of parts near him, but also the beauty of getting to know her true soul, thinking back go the night they shared dinner together made him think about how he wanted to keep her around as his and only his for as long of the time he could get the FBI off his scent, roses surrounded her, but still her beauty had out shown them all, Watching  her fingers move around his own chased him out of the scattering waves of thoughts causing him to  break away from the rushing noises around him, 

"You're up I see," he smiled up at the wounded lawyer, who this time didn't remove her hand from his own, turning her head slowly to look towards him she could sense a new aurora around him a gentle one that almost shocked her in a way,

 " I assume you saw everything.." she asked him

" I did," he squeezed her hand reassuring her, watching her turn away from him, 

"I assume you think me a monster then.." she suggested a chuckle leaving her mouth her bringing a new piece of music to be written to his ears, 

" Must I denounce myself as a monster while you still refuse to see the one growing inside you?" he asked her, taking her hand up to his lips kissing her knuckles in an adoring fashion, 

"I was nearly raped today, and you think by kissing my knuckles, I'll just fall under your charm .. and yet you won't even talk about our dinner.." she pulled her hand away from his "If I never see you again then clearly I would be -" 

"Lonely .. hurt again, drowning deeper in regret then what you already suffer in, feeling that no one will ever love you," he suggested watching her squirm uncomfortably from how correct he was, 

"I've already made arrangements for you to live with me, think of it a partnership.." he smiled,

"My apartment is fine.." she growled at him, turning away hiding her blush from him, she knew that she belonged next to him like Persephone alongside Hades. He was her match in every plausible way, but she couldn't let her guard down,  

"Not from the notes left there, let alone the state that you're in, and as I am currently  your doctor, I know what's best for you.." he suggested, hearing her become silent,

 "You only know what I allow you to know.."  she snarled at him, " which isn't much... besides, I hunt alone," she glared into his maroon eyes deep down into the very last inch of soul left in him, 

"If you want to catch an Egale you better learn to fly doctor lec-" she felt a quick peck on the lips her eyes wide as the very breath in her lungs was taken away from her eyes flickering, and lips puckering up for more, 

"Say you'll stay.." he asked her, as the taste of him lingered on her lips, he had a taste of honey and oak with the sheer sleek taste of iron on his tongue O negative to be exact, the blood of Christopher himself peppered over    rice,

 "We'll have an old friend of yours for dinner.." he suggested watching her nod in utter bliss, "You'll hunt, and I'll gather," he asked her 

" The wicked the wrong and unrighteous .." she looked at him,

"And the Rude.." He asked

"What?"

"When feasible one should always eat the rude.," he smiled petting her curls taking in her scent, 

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