If you grew up emotionally neglected or abused, you may have developed the belief that your needs are not important and that you are selfish for having them. You may even automatically put others before yourself without thinking, as it has been so engrained in you. Here are some tips for how to tune into yourself, and begin putting your needs first:
1. Use your feelings as your guide. If you’re feeling angry, sad, frustrated, etc, ask yourself, “Why am I feeling this way?” You may not even be sure of what you’re feeling… maybe you can only pick up on feeling something “bad” or “uncomfortable.” Explore it. Find the roots.Honor your feelings. Because our feelings are indicators of our values and boundaries, and when they are being violated.
2. Recognize your self-doubt, if you have it. Many victims of abuse or neglect have become wired to believe they are “bad” or at fault for anything unpleasant or hurtful that happens. Doubt can become the fog between you and your needs. Using mindfulness, separate your self-doubt from who you are. You are not your self-doubt. You are worthy. You are good. You are enough. These are truths, but you have been brainwashed to believe otherwise.
3. Take time to build self-awareness into yourself and why you struggle with meeting your needs. Usually it is because of your childhood and how your parents raised you that have caused you to become that way–Mom called you selfish and shamed you. Dad neglected or left you. Explore your story, and give voice to the feelings that come up.
4. Make a practice into telling yourself frequently, “My needs are important,” and “I will honor my needs.” Everyone has needs. Everyone. While everyone else is advocating for theirs, it is up to you to advocate for yours. Repetition and practice will re-wire your brain from “My needs aren’t important” to “My needs ARE important and deserve to be heard.”
5. Practice tuning into yourself throughout the day. Ask yourself, how am I feeling right now? What do I need? Be patient with yourself, especially in the beginning. It may be difficult hearing yourself initially, but the more you tune in, the more you’ll be able to recognize your inner voice.
6. Make sure to have support! At times dealing with the feelings that come up may be overwhelming–like a beginner starting out on a 10-mile run. But take one step at a time. Having the support of a therapist or loved one will help you through the process. Remind yourself that you’re building a new skill from scratch. You can do it!
//so I was thinking this morning (always a dangerous sign) that I’ve talked a bit recently about how the Tumblr RP community isn’t always very good at encouraging people to find ways to manage or get to their drafts, and is instead more likely to coddle peoples’ anxieties without actually helping them at all.
So this is a post of a few tips and tricks that might help RPers manage some of the more common anxieties I see crop up in our circle. Now, I’m not a full psychologist and nor am I licensed counselor. But I do have my master’s degree in clinical psychology with the intention to go on for the PhD (or get licensed to practice if I don’t get into a program) so I do kinda know what I’m talking about. Hopefully some of this advice is a little helpful:
1. “My drafts just stress me out.” This is a pretty common complaint, but I think in most circumstances it’s caused by stress going on outside of the RP world. Take a step back and breathe. Handle whatever is going on in your real life. That always comes first. If you come back and your drafts are still causing you to feel panicky, the next step is to find out the more specific reasons why. That’s going to help you best address the anxiety. Read on for some common reasons.
2. “I’ve gotten so behind, there’s so many and I’m overwhelmed.” This happens all the time! You take a hiatus for a week or two, or life just got really busy for a while, or just lost muse and now it’s back. But in the meantime, your drafts have piled up- suddenly you’re looking at 20, 50, 100- how do you even start?
The best way I’ve found to handle this is to break them up into smaller chunks. It might be helpful to copy and paste your partners’ replies over into one or more word documents. You can then further organize those word documents even more. One for short replies, one for long, one for medium length. Or you can organize by muses, by how long the draft has been in your folder- whichever way you want to handle this. If you want to put one reply per document, you can organize them into folders instead. How you do this is entirely up to you.
Set a small goal for yourself- even one draft a day is better than no drafts at all.
But by breaking the work up into chunks, you’ve taken a lot of the pressure off yourself. A goal of 1-5 drafts a day is a lot better than looking at all 50.
Another tip- use the queue! Or simply keep completed drafts saved in the drafts folder until you’ve caught up enough to start posting. The queue will stagger your posts so replies aren’t coming out all at once, and your partners aren’t able to immediately reply back. And obviously keeping them in drafts even after they’re done lets you have more time to catch up. These are just a couple of tips, however, and there are probably other good ways to manage drafts. Find what works best for you!
And don’t be afraid to drop a couple if you have no muse for those threads anymore. Just let your partner know, they’ll understand. And if they don’t, they’re just an asshole and who needs that, right? It is better to communicate that you’re dropping them, however, so you’re partner isn’t left hanging.
3. “I haven’t replied in weeks, I’m worried my partner hates me.” I guarantee this is not true. Most people in the rp community are very understanding of slow response time. Your partners want to rp with you- they’ll be thrilled to see a response, even if it’s been several weeks. Responding, even slowly, shows a lot more dedication and excitement over your threads.
So if it’s been several weeks, and you finally have muse for that thread and want to reply to it, but feel guilty or anxious because it’s been so long- reply anyway. Your partner will be so happy to see your response.
Another way to alleviate this anxiety is to simply talk to your partner. And I know, this can be scary- but sometimes you have to bite the bullet and do the thing that makes you anxious. Take it slow if you need to, but communication is the best way to feel better about it. And I guarantee, you are going to feel so much more proud of yourself if you did the thing that made you anxious than if you didn’t.
That goes for replying as well.
4. “I feel so inadequate compared to others. I should just stop.” This is an example of what mental health professionals call a “negative automatic thought”, or “NAT”. And like real gnats, these little thoughts get all up in your ears and start buzzing around. They can spiral out of control very quickly, until you feel absolutely terrible about yourself. These thoughts are very common in people with both anxiety and depression.
But the thing is, they can be changed. You can actually re-wire your brain with a little work so that it won’t think these thoughts quite as often. One of the most effective ways is to simply replace the negative thought with a positive one- even if you don’t believe it. So if your negative thought is “I’m horrible compared to other people,” a replacement thought could be “No, I’m just as good as anyone else,” or “my writing is unique to me and it has value.”
You will not believe yourself at first, and it will seem a little bit weird when you start. It’s also a little challenging- your negative thoughts are automatic, you’re so used to thinking them that you aren’t even fully aware of it it half the time. But when you do catch yourself spiraling off into those negative thoughts- try to stop them. This is something we teach in therapy and over time, it does help. And it does get easier.
5. “It has to be PERFECT.” Perfectionism is at the root of a lot of peoples’ anxieties. But I challenge you with this- why? Why does it have to be perfect? What will happen if it’s not perfect?
The answer to that, usually, is “my partners will hate me/lose interest/think I’m stupid or a bad writer.” Perfectionism is usually a fear of judgment, and it’s usually fueled by feelings of inadequacy or fears of failure. So to that, I refer you back to the previous advice about negative automatic thoughts.
Challenge your thinking about your perfectionism. A good replacement thought for this one is “even if it’s not perfect, my partner will still be happy that I responded. My writing is still valuable to them.” Another good one- “imperfection means there’s room to grow. Mistakes don’t mean I’m a failure or no good.”
In general, don’t let anxiety say “I can’t do this.” You can do it. Anxiety is not a permanent state. The body cannot sustain it very long- the elevated heart rate, heavy breathing, heightened arousal- it’s physically impossible for it to last. Eventually, your body will start to calm itself and even back out. This is something that is very hard to sit with, because your natural instinct is to run away from the thing that’s making you anxious. Your instinct is to close the drafts folder, to close the messenger, to log out of tumblr and ignore it all completely. But the truth is, that only makes your anxiety worse in the long run.
Now, if these tips don’t help, or you’re finding your anxiety is so bad that it’s affecting your daily life in almost everything- I encourage people to please see a psychologist, psychiatrist, or some other mental health professional. Anxiety that’s chronically preventing you from doing the things you enjoy is anxiety that probably needs treatment. Having the extra support of a therapist or medication often makes it possible to implement some of these strategies, or find better ones that work for you. Especially if you’re having a hard time managing things on your own.
Anybody that wants to add to this with other ideas that have been helpful to you, please feel free to do so.
Keith knew his wings flickered with the thought. The soft nest of blankets hidden in the corner of the common room was well rounded with seven out of eight of the team cuddled up inside, but without Lance, it felt like there was a desolate spot, a blank filled with grey longing and melancholy. Keith frowned. He wanted Lance to fill that space.
The others did too. Pidge sat in Shiro’s lap, and Allura leaned against Coran like always, but this time everyone stared at the empty spot next to Keith. The spot Lance would fill. It was normal, expected even, the cuddle a teammate or family member before they went off to do something dangerous by themselves, like Pidge was going to, but Lance still hadn’t come. Did he still feel unsafe with the team, distrustful and unsure, lacking trust in them to show his wings? He never let them out either. It wasn’t healthy, for Lance or for their relationships. Keith was so surprised when it hadn’t hindered them forming Voltron. Was it like the first time on repeat for Lance, all about survival and having to or die?
Lance hadn’t come, even after Keith had caught him in the nest after he skipped a preening session. He always skipped, or was pulled away, or was sleeping. Keith was hoping he had reassured the other, at least enough for him to come and have his wings cleaned and cuddle a little. Apparently, he hadn’t. There was no way they weren’t filthy. Was Lance, who loved skincare and being clean, deliberately leaving his wings dirty so he wouldn’t have to show the team, show Keith? Was he really that suspicious and uncomfortable, did he have so little faith in them, even Hunk? Keith wasn’t sure to be hurt or concerned.
Deep down, he knew. He was both.
“Lance, c'mon! we’re going to fly with Pidge before she leaves!"
He sighs at Hunk’s call. Just how long until they know?
He pokes his head in the doorway.
"I want to, but Blue needs some re-wiring. I promised her I’d do it this morning.”
“You could ask Hunk to do it afterwards.” Shiro kept deliberate eye contact. “Blue probably wouldn’t mind an engineer like Hunk fixing her up so you could fly.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind either. Space ships were going to be my career anyway. It’s no trouble, Lance.” Hunk appealed. His arms were crossed reassuringly, and there was a cocktail of emotions on his face. Lance didn’t miss the fleeting glances out the open hangar doors.
“The lion has spoken.” He finished, slipping into the hallway, away from the team, away from Shiro’s disappointed-dad frown, Hunk’s sigh and sad eyes, Pidge’s frustrated huff and scuffling feet, from Keith’s melancholy stare and lonely apathy.
Slicing through a sentry, Keith kicked it down to finish it, letting the others coming at him trample it. The rescue mission hadn’t gone as smoothly as hoped - they had had to clear the hallways and send the prisoners into escape pods through the PA system, instead of straight to the castle when the work camp surprised them with a small fleet of jets crowding around the castle. The prisoners had been ejected around the planet, some floating in the water and others on islands. It had been Lance’s idea, and it made something warm like pride tickle Keith’s chest. It was safe, it was sturdy, it was clever. Better than anything else they had come up with.
Now, they had to finish off the connected hangers filled with Galra robots and soliders.
A bright blue laser, a streak through the mundane purple ones, cut past Keith, knocking a solider to the ground. He kept hacking and slashing, sword pulling through cold metal bodies, but a small smile was hidden in his helmet at Lance covering him. The fluidity of them working together always brought Keith home from the battle, from the war he was fighting, from the war he wasn’t fighting alone. From the sharp knives and purple fur and screaming aliens.
Lance never left him alone.
Keith sends three hunks of metal crashing to the floor, wings arched high. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a sentry lining a shot at his wings. He can see the hand pulling the trigger squeeze. He can see Lance jump over him.
He can see Lance get hit and fall to the floor hard enough to bounce, clutching his arm.
He can see the blood spilling on the floor, not purple blood, not purple, red, red, crimson, scarlet, red, paladin-
The half dozen robots in front of him are done away with a few swift movements, he’s screaming at Shiro and Coran through the coms, and he doesn’t recognize what they’re saying other than “bring him to medical”. Lance is staring in shock at his arm, and then Keith is picking him up. The others materialized from thin air and create an opening that Keith dashes through, and if there’s anything following him, he’s lost it in seconds. Lance is still in shock, but his good arm is gripping Keith. His wings knock the shit out of a sentry when they turn the corner, then the castle is in front of them, and he’s running up the ramp, giving Lance to Coran. He spares a moment to stare at Coran rushing Lance down the hallway, the bright red trail behind them worrying him.
Don’t leave me, Lance.
He spins on his heel, and heads back into battle.
Coran doesn’t waste time inputting the code for the pod to put Lance in the medical suit when he walks in. The pod rises from the floors, cool steam escaping into the room, and he sets the half-conscious paladin inside. Blood loss out in space without human donors is dangerous, Coran had figured that much day one, so he sets the pod to do a full scan and heal as fast as he can.
“Sleep well, Lance.” He nods, locking the pod closed on the boy he sees as a son. Wistfully, he stares at Lance’s sleeping face, before placing a hand on the glass. With a sigh, he pushes off and strides out into the corridor, heading back to help the princess destroy the Galra who hurt his grandchild.
- Within her first week at Starfleet Academy, Jaylah hacked into the environmental controls and security systems of her dorm– because she was bored and twitchy, because she didn’t know what to do with a home she had not taken apart and re-wired herself.
- She broke into the cafeteria after hours and told herself it was just to see if she could. She skipped class to go wander the streets and build a map of the city, of these concrete canyons and glass-and-steel cliff walls, of which way she would run if she needed to. She played her music too loud. Kirk wrote her from deep space, further and further away as the months and maydays of their mission moved on, to ask if she was trying to beat him in demerits earned in an Academy tenure. She took that to mean he approved.
- Jaylah had had a big brother, once. Elah had taught her about engines, about how to wrestle, and a lot of really terrible jokes, once. But Scotty walked her through the Enterprise’s engines, when she was rebuilt and shining. They got grease and fluids all over their overalls. Kirk and Spock sparred with her while they waited for the Enterprise’s next mission to come through– Academy martial arts and Vulcan holds and corn-fed Iowa brawling tricks. Uhura provided the bawdy humor, parsed out smugly at the edges of social gatherings.
- They had set the ruins of the Franklin up as a museum, tucked into the floating bubble of Yorktown. Schoolchildren would take field trips to wander the halls of her house. They invited her to the opening ceremony, cut the ribbon while she and the Enterprise crew were still wandering, limping, through those clean curving streets, but she did not attend.
- Instead Scotty showed up at her doorstep with a bottle of Scotch stolen from Chekhov. They played her music so loud it shook the walls and earned them a dozen pissed off texts from Bones and a single sternly disapproving note from Spock. They ignored them all and toasted the Franklin, a good lady, a fine home.
- When Jaylah boarded a transport ship for Earth, for California and San Francisco and the Academy that lived in the shadow of that golden bridge, the whole surviving crew of the Enterprise came out to the loading dock to wave her good-bye. It had been so many years since she had known any faces so well, living, other than her enemies’. She pressed up against the window and watched them– peach and blue and brown and black and green– disappear.
- No matter how hard she fought and hoped, she had thought she would never get off that planet. The moment she saw her father go down, she had thought she would never be able to survive that stab in his gut, that light that went out of his eyes. She had been small, willow limbs and shaking hands, and she had thought she would never see another sky again.
- She got up early on cold mornings and walked through the swirling San Francisco fog. She greeted the sun as it climbed up over the Bay and burned the sky back to blue.
- The crew pooled their credits and bought her a motorcycle for her next birthday, to replace the one they’d left on the planet. Jaylah had left a lot of things in that boneyard. She drove the steep streets on her humming bike and felt like perhaps she had not left everything.
- When Jaylah took the Kobyashi Maru her final year, she watched her classmates complain and rant afterward about unfairness, about no win scenarios. She did not speak up, just took her results and left. The lesson was one she had already learned, already buried in herself. Sometimes you cannot win, no matter how good you are, no matter how brave, no matter how much you love your daughter and want to live and live and live for her. Sometimes all you can do is die the best way you know how.
- (When the ruckus had finally died down on Yorktown Base, after the smoke had settled, after the crowds had parted, Jaylah had seen Demora Sulu run to her father’s arms. She had seen Hikaru kneel in the rubble and lift his daughter into his lap and hold her safe in his arms. She had thought, I would have died for this. I am alive, and I am glad, but I would have died for this, I would have, I would have died for this)
- (Her little sister Jessy had been about Dem’s age, the last time Jaylah had seen her alive).
- She didn’t declare an emphasis in her Academy studies for two years. Scotty thought she should go into engineering, because as a traumatized, escaped child she had reverse-engineered repairs on the Franklin that could only be matched by his own genius. Kirk thought she would make an excellent command officer. Uhura, impressed by how she had taught herself Federation Standard from the Franklin’s logs, made sure the communications department paid friendly attention to her.
- Instead, Jaylah took the introductory classes for every field of study in the Academy, ignoring the disapproving cries of her guidance counselors. In combat she was years ahead of her peers. She found languages easy, but their technical underpinnings were unengaging and confusing. In engineering she was gifted, but decades behind the state of technology. Scotty had happily dragged her through the Enterprise’s rebuilt engines, but her heart and her blackened fingers would always belong to engines lifetimes older.
- The Enterprise crew were on their second five year mission when Jaylah graduated from Starfleet Academy. They gathered in the main mess hall, all the crew that had survived the Enterprise’s first death, and the new crew members who had heard stories of this adopted daughter of the ship for years. They live-streamed the ceremony. Scotty wore a ‘PROUD BIG BROTHER OF A STARFLEET GRADUATE’ shirt Sulu had hand-lettered for him. Bones opened a bottle of good ol’ Earthside bourbon and pretended not to tear up when her name was called.
- She wore medical blue.
- After years of Academy schooling and medical training, Jaylah stepped onto a Starfleet ship, her badge pinned to her chest. The corridors curved into the distance. The lights hummed and lit up as the ship floor murmured under her feet. It felt like coming home.
- But there were no rocky hills out her shipboard window, no dull sky, no shimmering shield to hide her from her enemies. There was just space– black, cold, endless; brilliant, star-studded; full of discovery and danger and things worth dying for. She was ready to boldly go. She was ready to bravely go. She had thought she would never see another sky and here she was, older than her oldest brother had ever gotten to be, with hands that could defend lives and save them and heal them. The universe was spreading out before her, endless stars lighting the skies of endless planets. She was ready.
Summary: You’re retired, living a quiet and secure life when your ex, Steve Rogers, turns up on your doorstep with his best friend, seeking refuge. (bucky x reader, enhanced reader)
Prompt(s): Okay I know I already wroteNight Walks with these prompts but I really wasn’t happy with it, so here is attempt #2. @pandarositarequest: 93 and 94… but Reader being upset rather than Bucky?
93.“I’m telling you. I’m haunted.” 94. “I had a bad dream again.” Plus anon request: 64 “Here, take my blanket.”
Warnings: swearing, nightmare, that’s about it. :)
Word Count: 5168 (woops…)
Author’s Note: Okay team, enjoy the fluff while you can…
The next morning you’d woken early, it was bright and damn
cold. Snowing again. But Bucky was warm, and breathing slowly and softly and
you didn’t want to move, wishing you could stay there where you’d fallen
asleep, tucked close to his side long into the morning. But there were three
people to whom you certainly did not want to explain this situation so you
dragged yourself as quietly and gently as you could away from Bucky’s sleeping
body beside you.
Our brain is crazy. You know how like? If you loose one sense like your brain hard wires it self to just put it in another spot?
Oh? We are blinded? Our hearing and smell get significantly better, like it takes time but our brains just go- oh this part isn’t working- alright! Give me a month and we will have this re-wired to another sense and you will be right as rain!
Warnings: MAJOR ANGST (self-image issues, insecurity, self-loathing), brief description of injury, swearing
A/N: I’ve been feeling not so hot for the past few days so I thought writing about it would help things out. This fic is intensely personal to me, so I hope you guys enjoy it.
More than anything you were glad your quarters didn’t have a mirror outside the bathroom. You weren’t sure you could handle looking at yourself right now, especially not in the skin-tight uniform top and the short skirt that came with it. You’d convinced Scotty a long time ago to let you wear coveralls instead, but the Captain had called you up to the bridge for briefing on an away mission, and you hadn’t been able to convince him to let you keep the coveralls on. Normally, you’d just pop on a pair of tights underneath and call it a day, but your last pair had torn where your thighs rubbed together and you hadn’t gotten around to fixing them yet.
A/N: I’m ever so sorry that this has taken so long, but here is part three, a little longer than the other parts. The places in this story are all real! I researched them and everything.Sorry if the spacing is weird, I was using Google Docs. On a side note, I do love all of my aunts. And I actually did take a self-defence martial arts class from six to eleven.
(not my gif)
“Relax! Relax, it’s me! Spider-Man!”
Mouth dropping open in shock and relief, you froze. Then reality shook you back into action.
“What were you thinking?” Stepping forward you slapped his shoulder. “Don’t do that ever again or, so help me, I will beat you up. Spider-Man or not.”
“Really?” The amusement in his voice irritated you.
“I’m not playing around, Spider-Boy,” you said dangerously, stepping up to him. “I’ll put you in the freaking ground.”
Your noses were an inch apart, but Spider-Man stepped even closer to you. “I’d like to see you try.”
As the last word left his lips, you grabbed his wrist and pinned it to his back. He leaned forward with the force, unknowingly making it harder for himself. You sprawled out a hand against his lower back, pushing him with enough vigour to make him drop to the floor, sprawled out on the grimy ground. He groaned; his mask was slightly askew so that you could see his mouth.
“Just a little taste,” you smirked as he sat up slowly.
“Where did you learn to do that?” There was no mistaking the surprise in his tone.
“Parents made me take a self-defence class from ages six to eleven, to be exact.” You bowed sarcastically.
Spider-Man’s mouth hung open in awe. “First you can make the world’s best coffee and now you prove yourself to be a total badass! Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Well, I can’t do a forward roll, for starters and –” You paused. “’World’s best coffee’? What do you mean? As far as I know, Spider-Man has never been into The Grind before.”
Spider-Man pulled his mask down and giggled nervously. “What? I never said that…” He stood suddenly and turned slightly. “Well, I’ve got to, um, save the world and stuff, so –”
“No, wait –”
He waved once and whipped away, leaving you to stew in confusion. Resting your hand on the café’s back door handle, you didn’t look back as you stepped inside.
Peter didn’t come by early or at all the next day, which made you uneasy. Had you been too harsh telling him to go home yesterday? Had you screwed up his coffee? As cliché as it was, over the very few days you’d known him, you liked him. You weren’t sure if it was just friendly, but still. You’d spent your whole life criticising people who acted like this, and here you were, exactly the same. What a hypocrite.
Peter was an incredibly pretty guy, inside and out. Literally the purest person you’d ever met; gentle and kind. Ready to help no matter what. He was too good to be true.
A few weeks passed. Then a couple of months. You felt sick almost all the time, wondering what you had done which was so bad.
Winter came and went. Spring began. You vowed to make this a new beginning. No more Peter. No more dreaming.
Still antsy and upset over Peter’s sudden disappearance, you spilled Chet’s order, drenching Chet, yourself and the new napkins which had come in that morning. So, you weren’t exactly in your Aunt’s good books. (Were you ever?)
“(Y/N), if you don’t get your crap together, I’m talking to your mom,” she said tauntingly as she patronisingly squinted at you. “And I’m not going to be as nice this time.”
You rolled your eyes. “Do it! I’m getting below minimum wage anyway. Might as well go and work at freaking McDonalds.”
She scowled and trooped off into her ‘office’. (It was really more of a broom cupboard.) (What kind of narcissist needed an office in a freaking coffee shop, anyway?) Seeing her disappear and leave you to it made your blood boil. You had had enough.
Storming after her, you stuck your foot in the doorframe, stopping her from slamming the door, one of her favourite things to do. Elbowing the door to the side, you leant against the door frame.
“You know what?” You threw up your hands in frustration. “I quit. See you at Thanksgiving.”
She let out a surprised noise and you unceremoniously slammed the door behind you. Hurriedly you gathered your things before your Aunt could come out and publicly yell at you. You also made sure to quickly spill some black coffee outside her office door. Hurtling to the front of the café, you ran into a customer, a regular you thought, who asked where you were going. You ignored them, budging past to burst out into the open street.
And then you walked.
You walked and walked and walked and walked. The anger fuelled you; it didn’t look like you would be stopping anytime soon. Despite the little sun and the grey skies, your skin prickled with sweat.
Eventually, you stumbled your way into Queens Center Mall, moving speedily to the escalators and stepping off at Level 3. Following the steady stream of excited kids, you slipped into Build-A-Bear, trying to look inconspicuous. Oddly, the colours and cute clothes calmed you, and you let out a deep breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. Perusing the wide selection, you picked out a pale-yellow bear, had him stuffed and named him Rover. Then you made your way to the clothes section. You smiled, almost laughed.
Right in the middle of your line of vision? A Spider-Man t-shirt and leggings. You recalled the odd encounter you’d had with Spider-Man a few months prior and your stomach did an odd, sad flip.
Grabbing the tiny clothes anyway, you raced to the checkout, paid and rushed outside, finding a bench to sit on. Pulling off the tags, you began pulling the shirt over the bear’s head. Then you moved onto the leggings. Trying to stuff the bear feet-first into them, you suddenly became aware of how odd you must look to everyone else. You put a bit more effort in, attempting to work fast. A shadow passed over you and then hung there.
“Nothing to see here,” you said tiredly. “Just a girl – a girl trying to squeeze a bear’s over-sized legs into some leggings.” The shadow chuckled.
“(Y/N)? Are you body-shaming a Build-A-Bear?”
Your head shot up in surprise. Peter was standing there, arms folded, watching you with a very obvious look of amusement. Self-consciously you clutched Rover to your stomach, one of his legs only half inside the leggings.
“Oh, Peter,” you tried to flip your hair nonchalantly over your shoulder and caught some in your mouth, losing the little dignity you had left. Your insides prickled at the sight of him. So much for getting over him. “Didn’t expect to see you here! You come here often?” You winked.
Peter looked taken aback for a second, then his smile widened and he looked away for a second, scratching his nose. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
You shrugged. “Nothing is real, Peter,” you said solemnly, then promptly burst into a shaky fit of laughter. Peter looked incredibly confused. You sighed. “I quit.”
Peter’s eyes widened, but he nodded slowly, understanding. He’d seen your Aunt yell at you numerous times, despite only having started going to The Grind.
Peter held out a hand and when you took it, he hauled you up. Gently he took Rover from you, and began walking away. He looked over his shoulder, signalling for you to follow him. So, you did. Walking next to him, you watched as he easily fit the bear’s legs into the leggings, taking more care than you had. With a smirk, he turned to you and held Rover out with both hands. You scowled and took him back.
“Thank you,” you said sulkily.
“You’re welcome,” he cheerily replied. “I like the Spider-Man clothes.”
“Where are we going?”
“Well, I was going back into Center Mall. Ned wanted McDonald’s… Do you wanna come with?”
Weaving back through the mall, Peter placed his hand on the small of your back, gently guiding you, even though he probably knew that you knew the way. But it felt nice.
Eventually you saw the glowing sign, and squeezed in to restaurant. Peter assured you that he didn’t need any help, so you sat in a booth and waited for him. You watched as he ordered an incredible amount of food, laughing when he attempted to carry five paper bags and two paper cup holders. Rushing forwards, you grabbed as much as you could, earning a very grateful look from Peter. Your stomach nervously fluttered, making you grimace.
Steadily walking out of the restaurant, you turned to Peter.
“You said you didn’t need any help!” You shook your head, smiling. “Where are we taking this?”
“Just to Hoffman Park,” Peter mumbled, looking at his watch. “Like, six minutes.”
“What are you guys doing in Hoffman?”
“Ned re-wired this remote-control car thing and we wanted to try it out but Aunt May wouldn’t let us do it in our apartment.” He sighed. “But we tried it in there anyway, and broke, like… two plates? So, now we’re trying it out here, because there’s more space. Then we’re going to look for some new plates for Aunt May.”
“And so the moral of the story is…” you prompted.
“Uh… Listen to your elders?”
“Not even close,” you grinned. It didn’t feel forced; it felt as though you’d never been apart. “The moral of the story is: either be a pro at whatever stupid crap you’re doing, or be a pro at covering up when you mess up your stupid crap.”
Peter nodded solemnly. “You’re probably right,” he sighed.
You walked in comfortable silence until you reached Hoffman Park’s gate. As you both entered, Ned came hurtling towards both of you. He practically attacked you, tugging the bags from your grip. You shrieked, both of you falling over onto a patch of nearby grass. Ned immediately sat up and began asking questions.
“Peter, did you get a Happy Meal? And a fruit bag? Peter! They’ve got Spider-Man toys in now! Please tell me you got a Happy Meal!” You sat up and brushed yourself off, Ned gasping in realisation. “You’re not Peter…”
“I’ve got your Happy Meal here,” Peter shook one of the bags mockingly and sat down on the grass between you and Ned.
“Who’s this?” Ned wiggled his eyebrows, seeming to forget the fact he’d just flattened you.
“This – This is (Y/N).” Peter pointed at you awkwardly.
“’Sup, girl?” Ned wiggled his eyebrows, and the two of you burst into peals of laughter.
Three hours later, and you’d exhausted several topics of conversation with the two boys. The food was almost finished, apart from a few large fries and Peter’s Happy Meal. Stuffed and happy, you and Ned lay stretched out on the grass, your head in Peter’s lap, asking random questions.
“Who’s your favourite superhero?” Ned asked.
“Spider-Man,” you said, too quickly.
Peter abruptly choked on his milkshake, wheezing to the side, trying to avoid coughing over you. Ned began hysterically laughing. You watched them both, concerned. When he stopped, you nervously slid a hand through his. He looked down at your entwined hands and smiled, then turned back to Ned to answer his question.
“Spider-Man is pretty cool,” he said tensely, though with a smirk.
Ned nodded seriously, still trying not to laugh, looking between you two. “So, you guys are going out, right?”
“You’re not? Well, you should be. I could see you guys walking from a distance, all cute and stuff.”
Peter looked at you, utterly mortified and embarrassed, trying to mutter an apology. Your face broke apart in a grin. He was so cute. Ned had a point. You turned to him and laughed.
“You’re right!” You stood and mockingly bowed to Peter, shaking a little. “Peter, dear, would you… Would you accompany me on a date?”
Peter spluttered, staring at you, mouth wide. “You’re – You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not.” You smiled gently. “So, what do you say?”
Still shocked, Peter continued to gape at you. Ned took the wheel.
“Dude.” He rolled his eyes at Peter, exasperated. “He says yeah, (Y/N).”
Peter nodded frantically. “Yeah!”
Your smile widened, and you stood to leave. Remembering you still had one of The Grind’s Sharpies, you fished it out of your pocket and knelt down, uncapping it and sticking the lid in your mouth. You tenderly took Peter’s hand, pushing his sweater sleeve up his arm. Then, you scrawled your number across his forearm. Peter watched in excited silence.
Standing again, you took the lid from your mouth and recapped the pen. You threw it to Ned, who caught it easily.
“Keep it,” you grinned and he smiled back. Then you turned to Peter, your smile widening impossibly.
“You better go all-out on this date, (Y/N),” Peter twinkled. “I want roses. I want to be swept off of my feet.”
“You bet your ass I’m going all out,” you beamed, waving your hands about. “The works.”
The both of you goofily grinned at each other before Ned made a disgusted noise, pulling you out of your daze. You mimicked him, told Peter you’d call, then bounced away, a new spring in your step. When you reached outside the gate, you clenched your fists, ecstatic.
“Yes!” you exclaimed, fisting the air several times, making several people around you stare quizzically. Mouthing an apology, you rushed off down the street.
Could you write something about Maggie watching Alex work in the lab, if you're taking prompts? Your fics are freaking amazing, I enjoy reading everything you write!
First prompt - yay! Thanks anon, hope I did OK : )
In between getting her stitches done and signing her discharge forms, there’s not a whole lot to do but wait.
She remembers being shot how an ocean remembers a tempest – complete upheaval in the moment, but now everything’s stilling, quieting, in a way that’s almost as dizzying as the original chaos, and the floor tilts when she tries to rise to meet it, and her elbow buckles against the bed, and every light in the room is suddenly too much to bear.
“Woah, easy…” she hears Alex murmur, gently pushing her down by her uninjured shoulder. “Those painkillers can knock you around a bit.”
“No kidding,” Maggie groans, wincing a little. She glances down at her shoulder, the place where moments earlier Alex had done tender violence to her skin, sewing together ripped flesh with the precision of a scientist, the care of an friend.
It seems, with work and with women, Alex Danvers is nothing if not exact.
Plot: The best part about being an assistant in a lab was watching all new inventions come to life, although sometimes some of them fail, leaving them away in a storage room, never to be bothered with; free for the taking.
Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Reader | Jeon Jungkook x Reader
Genre: Fluff, angst, Futuristic au!
Notes: Gif cred goes to the owners! And lol I looked at my storyboard wrong. NOW, there are 2 more parts left (there are 12 parts). :)))) I’m such a fuck up sometimes, sorry for scaring your guys lol. Enjoy! 4k Words
The information you just found had you immediately rushing out of the messy apartment with your car keys and lab coat. Instead of waiting around and panicking, you were going to act quickly – you figured you needed to before something even worse happened.
That entire scenario you wrote for Shiro with the s/o in the black dress o.m.g. Id ask for something like that with Hunk simply because your writing is👌👌👌💯 and I would love love love to read about a more aggressive Hunk since most people write him all gentle-- anyhway would you write something similar for Hunk?? Hes just like super distracted by any engineering things that need fixing and ofc still being away on missions? plox
It only took forever, but TV Bob is finally, finally done. I might re-wire the jaw at some point, the more I look at it, the more it looks like the wire I got was too thick, but that’s probably me just being nitpicky.
the friendship of jack zimmermann and shitty knight
I know we talk a lot about how much Shitty helps Jack (constantly defending him, encouraging him to be himself, showing him how to have fun) and believe me, I agree with all of it (I am currently working on a freshmen year jack and shitty friendship fic) BUT may I also present:
Headcanons on How Jack is Just What Shitty Needed:
So Shitty went to Andover, which context clues/google tells me is a fancy boarding school for fancy, rich people. And we also know Shitty is… Shitty. Of all the boys, I feel like he fits in with the Andover crowd the least.
And I’m sure some of that is rebellion against the school after the fact (I went to an all-girls catholic school so rebelling after the fact is in my lifeblood) but the signs must have been there while Shitty was still attending. He chose to go to Samwell for a reason so we can assume that even in high school, Shitty did not 100% fit with the Andover crowd.
He’s not unpopular, because Shitty is loud and friendly and plays hockey but I’m not sure Shitty had any super close friends. The smart kids are a little bit jealous that he never seems to do any work and most of the hockey team isn’t keeping up with his questioning musings on sexuality and gender and he is probably known as that kid who gets in fights with the teachers all the time and Shitty doesn’t go to Harvard for many reasons: because he doesn’t want to and because fuck his dad and his dad’s family, but also because… he wants to meet different types of people. Because he doesn’t really fit in at Andover. And he never really wanted to.
So he goes to Samwell and he doesn’t get a hockey scholarship but he is allowed to walk on the team and suddenly he finds himself living across the hall from Jack Zimmermann. Who Shitty of course knows about. Because he grew up in Boston. And he plays hockey. And he loves hockey.
But he does not imagine he will be that close with Jack Zimmermann. Because, honestly, at this point, Shitty can’t imagine being that close with anyone. His friends at Andover put up with him (or at least, they at least pretended to listen to him for part of the time before talking over him or telling him to cmon, man, shut the fuck up!) and Shitty could share a few laughs with them but in terms of connecting well…
(Just please, please imagine slightly insecure but has convinced himself he’s fine young baby 17 year old Shitty Knight. But like… not even insecure just he probably doesn’t even realize that real friendship is out there. maybe he has a small inkling that this isn’t how friends treat each other but not really and i am going to need to think about this more. baby shitty. who knew.)
ANYway, the one thing Shitty does know how to do well and does love doing is getting into fights (god, young shitty was probably almost like Dex in this regard). So it’s natural that when someone says a sly, stupid comment about overdosing to Jack, Shitty jumps on ‘em. Because fuck you, sir and he has been looking for a fight since he arrived and–
Okay, I promised myself I would keep this focused on how Shitty needs Jack so let’s skip forward to the moment when Shitty realizes that Jack listens to him. Like ever since the outstanding defense move, Jack has opted to sit near Shitty and Shitty feels a warm glow of something at that (and, later, he will recognize this as claiming his role as Defender of Jack Zimmermann against All Evil) and at first they work because Jack is pretty much silent and Shitty never really stops talking and Shitty figures that is his role. To talk while Jack Zimmermann thinks about hockey.
But then one day at breakfast, Shitty is talking about his Intro to Women’s Studies class and the studies about how the idea that “boys are better at science and math” is a learned behavior, and Jack is sitting next to him, as usual, and then– “Hold up,” Jack says. “I have to go get more eggs.” and for a moment, Shitty is completely confused as to why Jack told him that information because he is more than used to people walking away from him mid-ramble and so he sort of watches as Jack leaves and wonders what is wrong and then Jack returns and doesn’t look up from his food but says something like “Okay, sorry, so girls want to be doctors, eh?” and Shitty realizes that Jack has been listening this whole time.
“There are 100 billion neurons in the human brain making and re-making connections. Helping us with math. Remembering our keys, our dad’s voice. Working hard all the time. So when the brain is faulty, it’s a big re-wiring job and there’s no margin for error. When you’re going into surgery you worry you won’t wake up. But with brain surgery, you worry you will wake up but you won’t be there when you do.”
“The trouble with crossed wires is you don’t know they happened until it’s too late so we have to be very careful with our connections. They take time, care and attention. They take vigilance and single-mindedness. We re-connect everything that we can as carefully as we can and then we just have to pray to God that we got it right.”
- Amelia Shepherd, 14x04 - ”Ain’t That a Kick in the Head”