#trigger warnings!

If you have some kind of vendetta against straight men. Then by definition, I am the thing you hate. As I am exactly that. I've never tried to hide that detail and just in case those of you who read, watch, follow or interact weren't aware, now you are. I'm not saying this to cause drama, if you've been around me at all, you know full well I have no interest in it, can't stand it. However I wanted to clarify that detail for anyone here who wasn't aware of me being one. So you can simply block or unfollow or whatever. And if you are wondering why I feel the need to suddenly bring this up?

I fully acknowledge that straight men are usually and most likely the cause to a lot of issues, in abuse, crime and many other topics. That is fact! And I am right there with you in condemning those who make life worse for people.

However, what I cannot agree with is the growing casual generalisation that we are the sole problem, that we are the exception to the rule in how you view and approach people, that we are what needs to be vindicated and shamed for being who we are.

I'm starting to see such comments surprisingly often and while they may not be aimed at me directly, it doesn't change the fact that as one of those men. You are telling me that I am the enemy purely for the sake of being part of that 'group' or that I'm not doing enough to help or change things as part of them. What more am I meant to do? Other than accept people, love people, support people, regardless of who they are. Every person by right can be who they want to be, love who they want to love, I would never judge, I accept and I'm happy for you. Unfortunately there are bad eggs among the good yet it seems some have the idea someone like me as part of the 'good' ones should become something of the equivalent of a vigilante, what do I dress like batman and start hunting every wrong doer? Honestly, it upsets me, because again, it may be true we are the most likely culprits but that doesn't mean you should automatically assume every one of us is the issue or ignore the idea that others are just as capable of committing such things.

Yes, you can feel the need to be cautious, yes, you can be wary of people, but by that very same definition being poised towards straight men, it should be applied to every part of us as humanity. The rate may be higher in men, but it doesn't mean you shouldn't be cautious of anyone else who is a stranger and etc.

i was????? in a mall with mari??????? and some dude in a blue shirt came up and was like ‘hi lets get to know each other’

Know that he didn’t have any worker uniform like jenius or sumn (jenius is an indonesian app) and ... he was so much older than us⁉️⁉️

At first we were like ‘sorry what’ and ‘why though??’ And at hat point he figured that we only spoke english and then went ‘oh selfie selfie’

Because of that we got super weirded out so we just made an excuse of how we were in a hurry to go meet our friends and we full on bolted away

Another sleepless night spent researching. Another stack of empty coffee mugs. Another mess in need of extensive clean up. And with school in fifteen minutes, Stiles just wants the ground to open up so that he may take his eternal rest.

Scott asks him if he’s okay when Stiles falls asleep in class and almost falls out of his desk.

“I’m fine, Scotty.”

A girl goes missing. Stiles knows why, but he can’t get a word in between the werewolf snarling and declarations of heroic intent. He can’t focus his eyes and figures it’s just easier to wait for the werewolves to calm down. He stares into his cold coffee instead.

Somewhere along the lines, coffee has become his only salvation.

Once the plans are made and everyone knows their role, they go hunting this thing. The latest monster. The newest nightmare. Stiles is just so tired of it all.

He starts his jeep. Malia is wrinkling her nose as she sits in the passenger seat but keeps whatever she’s thinking to herself. Stiles is grateful for the silent respite as he gets on the road.

He faints at the wheel halfway to their destination.

It’s cold and dark. There are shadows everywhere. He can’t breathe. His heart is going a mile a minute, but he can’t see. He just knows—feels—that there is something in the darkness that can see him. He wants to scream but his breath is coming too fast. And he can’t do anything about it.

A familiar hospital ceiling greets him when he finally opens his eyes. It’s silent, but not suffocatingly so. His head aches, and his wrist feels newly sprained, but he doesn’t feel all that terrible really. Considering what happened.

Sitting up turns out to be a terrible idea as he faints again.

It’s still dark and cold. But he can breathe a little easier after what felt like an eternity of trying to calm down. There is still something out there, and it still frightens him, but, hey, gotta die sometime, right?

He doesn’t die. Malia caught the wheel and righted the car before it had a chance to crash, but Stiles still hit his head pretty hard on the wheel on his way down. And Malia re-sprained his wrist when she used her wolfy strength to try and catch him.

Melissa asks him, “When was the last time you’ve eaten?”

He doesn’t remember. “Does coffee count?”

The pack lets it go eventually.

Being tossed into a tree is not fun. Stiles is out of commission for the rest of the week. He doesn’t sleep well.

There is a massacre. A lot of bodies tossed around, missing legs and arms and heads. In the middle of the woods, naturally. Campers. Many have been snacked on by the woodland creatures. The Sheriff’s department is on top of it, but many of the officers are ashen and uncharacteristically silent.

Scott is uncharacteristically silent as well.

“Did you pick up a scent of what did it?”

Scott glances at Stiles, eyes haunted. “No.”

It’s dark, but not so cold. Stiles can breathe. Not being able to see is not much of a hardship. It’s calming. He thinks he’s finally making friends with his demons.

They never catch the killer. But they do find more supernatural creatures coming to town. Supernatural creatures of the dangerous variety.

Stiles researches. Insomnia is his friend. Scott gets his retribution on all the baddies and the pack protects its territory. It’s a win-win.

He sees it in slow motion. The clawed hand of an insane omega werewolf slashing at his head. There is no way his human reflexes will move him out of the way in time, and any of the betas are too far away to intervene. Scott is too far away.

Stiles moves anyway. And, turns out, he underestimated himself. The claw misses, and Stiles is at a perfect angle to ram a wolfsbane coated knife into the bastard’s heart.

He doesn’t hesitate.

That’s the first time he walks away from a fight without an injury.

It’s not so dark anymore. Neither is it cold. Stiles thinks he sees little flashes of light at the edges of his vision. But there is muted screaming. Stiles pays it no mind.

For once in his life, he wakes up refreshed.

The trend continues. Somehow, Stiles is all sorts of lucky. Hits that never before had an impact stagger his opponents. He dodges before he even realizes someone is attacking him.

Scott looks at him triumphantly after the vampire burns into a pile of ash. “I can’t believe that worked.”

His enthusiasm is contagious. Stiles grins. He doesn’t have a scratch on him. “That was awesome,” he says.

Scott hugs him, and for once, it doesn’t bruise. “Hey, I thought your wrist was still bothering you. How did you manage to roll away like that?”

“I don’t know,” he says, but Scott’s attention had wandered away to check up on everybody else. Stiles rolls his wrist absently and it doesn’t hurt. He thinks he sees little lights from the corners of his eyes. “It must be better now,” he finishes anyway.

His dad comes back home subdued that night. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and Stiles hesitates to share the latest success. “What happened?” he asks instead.

His dad throws back the entire glass. “A massacre.”

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it feels good. What should be a nightmare—people screaming, guts flying, blood spraying the earth in gory caricatures of a Jackson Pollock painting—doesn’t actually bother him. It’s not dark anymore. He can see little fireflies flitting above all the destruction, paying it no mind.

It feels like forever. He wakes up with a smile and a body pleasantly relaxed.

Scott is looking at Stiles. Malia is looking at Stiles. Kira has her hand on her belt and tries not to obviously stare. Lydia studies him from underneath her long eyelashes. It’s a beautiful day. Stiles just tries to enjoy it. His friends will eventually tell him what’s bothering them.

Or maybe he’s smiling on a day that that another massacre occurred, and they think he’s being weird.

He can see Scott. Can see his snarling shifted face as it turns blotchy with constricted blood. He can’t pry the perfectly human hands from around his neck.

Stiles recognizes those hands. Immediately he lets go. Scott falls, gasping for breath.

He looks around, confused why Lydia is barely holding on to consciousness. He can’t reconcile the fact of Malia and the large hole in her chest, missing a very valuable organ. His hands are coated with something warm, and it drips down his forearms as he stares at them.

Red. So much red.

Kira is standing above Scott, badly bruised but with a sword in hand and her kitsune completely visible.

There's a presence behind him that he recognizes from his dreams. It calms his frantically beating pulse. “Scott—” he chokes out, terrified of the understanding he just came to.

Abruptly, he remembers. All the death. Remembers the rush of power. Realizes the cost of his sudden skills. Understands what fuelled his improved reflexes and what it all really meant.

“Scott—” he tries again. Tries to push it past his constricting throat.  “I’m—I—”

But didn’t it feel good to finally have some control?

And by god, it did. Not being constantly abused, forgotten, ignored.

Didn’t it feel good to defend yourself?

It did. Stiles can’t deny it.

Didn’t it feel good to be strong?

It did.

Wouldn't it be worth it to feel it all again?

It . . .

You’re going to have to choose a side.

Stiles looks at Scott’s betrayed face. At the resolve in Kira’s.

That's the way it works.

Stiles doesn’t know anymore.

The Sheriff wakes up with a now familiar hangover. His brain adds another tally to the days Stiles stays missing. He doesn’t get out of bed.