#..because i seriously fucked up the anatomy BAD so instead of posting it in the same format that i have for the rest of them uhhhm. ummmmm

[iiscpr]

tactful cropping..

[mywheelieweirdlife]

So I have been terrified of needles most of my life.

To the point where my biggest fear with transitioning was the number of blood tests and shots, hence starting with gel.

Well since getting covid in August, I have had really shit lung capacity and my brain and memory is shit. My stutter is also so much worse and I'm constantly slurring my words to the point we occasionally question if I may have actually had a stroke sometimes... but that's not actually the point of this post even tho it does add to it.

I'm about to start shots. Because my memory after having covid is so bad that I can never remember if I've taken my testosterone via gel, that every few months I now get to have one of my partners hold me while I have a mild panic attack about a needle being stabbed in my ass for a few minutes so that I can actually continue to transition.

My brain capacity no longer really exists, I'm moving in about 9-12 weeks to somewhere more accessible and manageable for me where I will have an office space and more time and energy to write my book on accessibility and sex (which has ended up becoming more of a sex education book for at least the first few chapters because when asking non-disabled friends their thoughts to see where peoples brains went I realised that abled bodied people don't know or understand basic anatomy or the brain and I realised that I was putting too much faith in public education); as well as starting to work on new health routines to try and improve some things that I might be able to fix.

But seeing covid not taken seriously again as I'm here fighting for the hope of functioning or the ability to tell my partners that I love them and why without stuttering or being so unable to get the words out I end up crying in frustration and giving up and just eventually texting it after looking up different ways of saying what I kinda want to say and using that to get the wording that works... not even the wording I want because that's usually too much, just what works.

And my words being so frustrating they bring me to tears isn't new... but that used to be stutter frustration and usually it was just one or two words that I couldn't get.

This is genuinely feeling similar to when I was freshly dealing with amnesia in 2018 and I couldn't remember things at all and there were just blank spots. But instead of being my memories, it's my everything.

And it's so fucking hard.

Covid isn't a curse that I would wish on anyone because for me it was like a flu where I just felt like something was more wrong than normal and then afterwards my body kept going and suddenly everything was burnt to the ground.

My language skills, my ability to understand words, to speak, to write efficiently (I know I can still kinda manage on my good days like today but these are rare af and I'm only here today because my partner has put a lot of effort in to help me the last few weeks) and to do my basic levels of work and care.

And it hit like a month later.

I thought it was a flare but then the flare didn't go away and I was trying to work it out and a friend very lovingly pointed out I've been like this ever since then seizure that hospitalised me after I'd had covid.

I'm a performer and artist; losing my voice is my biggest fear and I'm living it. I'm also constantly confronted with my other fears because of this.

Extra needles because I can't take meds normally anymore, heights because I constantly need to be picked up and the people in my life who can lift me are all (roughly) 6ft giants and I'm 5'ft (ish) and really don't like loss of control, and being seen and being naked in a vulnerable position… well guess who's had to accept help showering and has had to actually let someone see what it looks like for me to navigate my room without legs because I was paralysed and they were on a video call and couldn't help me right at that moment and I really really just wanted to feel a tad more human.

I genuinely would only wish this on one person I've ever known and that is the same person I would light on fire if the purge was real. And even then I feel it would be extreme even for my sense of justice.

Basically; the pandemic isn't over, wash your hands, wear your masks, social distance and get vaccinated if you can. Stay home if you're sick and don't be an ass to people who are trying their best to also not get sick.

[arrowflier]

I wish you would write a fic where the gallaghers + kev & vee find out about ian's 87% comment and they all give their opinions and ask why mickey, ian's husband who's been a part of ian's life for nearly eleven years only gets 87% of his heart, if the other 13% goes towards his toxic exes and why since they're not in his life anymore, ian explaining himself and ends with ian taking the comment back so mickey has 100% of his heart

I decided this was perfect for Gallavich Week Day 5: Fix-It! Thanks as always to @gallavichthings for hosting💖. Also on AO3.

Eighty-Seven Percent (Anatomy of a Heart)

It was a normal morning in the Gallagher kitchen.

That is to say, it was chaotic.

Carl and Liam sat across from each other at the narrow table, tossing dry loops of off-brand cereal at each other over Franny’s backpack, which lay open between them. The girl herself was running circles around them both in her pajamas, Debbie chasing after her with a stern face and a frilly dress held in outstretched hands.

“Come on, Franny,” she muttered impatiently as her daughter evaded her again by diving under the table, “just put on the dress!”

Mickey laughed when Franny ran to him instead, trying to hide behind his legs where he stood by the brewing coffeemaker. Ian ruined her attempt by swinging her up into his arms and twirling her around until Debbie snatched her from him, resulting in an angry shriek as Franny writhed in her hold.

“For fuck’s sake, keep it down in here!” Lip hissed, coming in from the living room where Tami had just gotten Fred settled in his play pen. “If you get Fred crying again, I swear I’ll fucking end you all.”

If anything, the kitchen got louder as everyone there chimed in in their own defense.

Mickey just snorted as he grabbed two mugs and got to pouring the fresh coffee. “Good luck with that,” he offered to Lip, amused. “You get one Gallagher going, you get the whole fucking pack.”

Lip glared at him, opened his mouth the say something undoubtedly scathing and most likely regarding Mickey’s place in the family, when Carl laughed and chimed in from the table.

“Funny, man, that’s what Trevor said to me and Ian at the station yesterday.”

The room went quiet.

Or maybe it just seemed that way to Ian, who could see the way his husband’s back immediately tensed at the familiar name, the way he gripped the handle of his mug a little too tight and poured the coffee a little too high before setting down the pot with a hard clack.

“Trevor, huh?” Mickey asked, voice deceptively mild, and Ian winced behind him.

Carl didn’t get the memo.

“Yeah, you remember him, right?” he checked. “He still works at that youth place, came in to post bail for some kid when Ian was bringing by lunch.” He shrugged, tossed a handful of cereal into his mouth. “We chatted a bit,” he mumbled as he chewed.

Mickey gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles going white under his tattoos. “Funny,” he said quietly, “Ian didn’t think to mention that.”

Ian sighed, ignoring the eyes of his family on their quickly unfolding drama. They’d been fighting a lot lately, a lot more than they used to, and today had been shaping up to be better, damn it. Now he had to do damage control again instead of enjoying a quiet day in with his husband.

“We’ve talked about this, Mickey,” he started, a tad bit exasperated. It must have come through in his voice, because Mickey’s shoulders went up. “Trevor’s not a bad guy, and I’m not gonna avoid him if I see him around.”

Mickey released the counter to grab his coffee again, taking a long, scalding swallow. “Right,” he said finally, not looking at Ian. “Not a bad guy at all. Just wanted to leave your ass rotting in jail when you couldn’t be his poster boy anymore, that’s all.”

“Mickey…” Ian warned, but it didn’t stop him.

“Tell me, Ian,” Mickey mused, turning to face him with hard eyes. “How much of that thirteen percent belongs to him?”

Fuck. Not that again.

“Wait, what’s he talking about?” Debbie was the one to ask first, voice cutting through their palpable tension. She’d even stopped trying to force the dress over Franny’s head in the interim, allowing the girl to escape up the stairs unscathed. “What thirteen percent?”

“Oh yeah, he told me about that,” Lip butted in. “Said Mickey got all bent out of shape cause Ian still thinks about his exes, or something, right?”

Ian closed his eyes against the hurt in Mickey’s as his brother revealed that he knew about their squabble. Fuck his family right now, seriously.

“Not quite,” he gritted out, but when he opened his eyes again, Mickey had schooled his face back into disinterest.

“No, that’s just about it,” Mickey confirmed. “Got my nose out of joint because Ian, here,” he gestured at Ian with his mug, ignoring the hot coffee that splashed over the side, “said I only got eighty-seven percent of his heart.”

Someone whistled, low and long. Ian couldn’t tell who.

“It’s not that big a deal,” he insisted yet again. “My whole life is a fucking shrine to you, Mick. If my heart was a room, there’s be posters of you on every fucking wall.” He took a step closer, until Mickey’s mug pressed into his own chest, leaving a wet spot on his shirt.

“You really can’t let the others have a little space in that room? Not even in the bottom drawer of a dresser that nobody uses anyway?”

Mickey was still, and silent. Then he spun around and slammed his mug back down on the counter, shoved past Ian, and stormed off up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Ian called after him.

“To clean out the goddamn drawers!”

It was quiet in Mickey’s wake, and then—

“Dude, that’s fucked up,” Carl said frankly, and Liam nodded in agreement, eyes wide.

“Did you really say that?” Debbie asked, sounding horrified, and before Ian could answer the back door slammed open.

“Morning neighbors!” Vee greeted as she came through, Kev on her heels. She was holding something, a dish covered in foil, and a carton of juice hung from Kev’s hand.

“We brought you guys some…” Vee trailed off when no one even looked at her, noticing the tension in the room.

“Uh,” she voiced, confused, “what did we miss?”

Carl answered, still looking at Ian in disbelief. “Ian told Mickey he keeps stuff from his exes in a drawer, so Mickey’s up there looking for it.”

“Oh, that’s cold man,” Kev breathed, and Ian exhaled.

“It was a metaphor,” he muttered, and Vee heard him.

“A metaphor for what?” she asked, curious.

“For the thirteen percent of Ian’s heart that belongs to other people,” Debbie revealed, and Vee set down her dish with a clatter.

“You said that to him?” she clarified, and at Ian’s reluctant nod, shook her head and turned to Kev.

“You ever say shit like that to me,” she said firmly, “I’ll cut off thirteen percent of your dick.”

—

A few long minutes later, after he had finally escaped his family’s inquisition about the state of his relationship, Ian made his way upstairs, alone.

When he got to their bedroom, Mickey wasn’t actually going through their things. He was just sitting on their bed, back to the wall, spinning his wedding ring round and round on his finger. Next to him, balanced on their folded blanket, sat the little box with the fancy ones they used in the ceremony just so they wouldn’t have to take theirs off.

Ian’s heart beat harder. That box had been sitting safe in the bottom drawer of their shared dresser.

The one that nobody used.

“Hey,” he said softly from the doorway. Mickey didn’t look up.

“You okay?” Ian asked, and that at least got a response.

“Do I look fucking okay to you?” Mickey returned, eyes on his knees.

He didn’t. Not really. He looked haggard, and upset, his hair spiky where restless fingers had combed through it. Ian couldn’t see his eyes, but he had a feeling they were rimmed in red.

Ian let himself into the room, sat opposite Mickey on the bed with his feet still firmly on the floor. He reached out to trace a finger over the rings in the box, and then the ring on Mickey’s finger.

Mickey let his own hand fall away when he did.

“You know that’s not how I meant it, right?” Ian asked, suddenly desperate to hear Mickey agree. He needed to know that Mickey understood, that just because he remembered his past, it didn’t mean he wasn’t dedicated to his future.

But Mickey just shrugged.

“Not a lot of ways you can mean it,” he said, and shit. Ian had really fucked up this time. “Either I have your whole heart or I don’t,” Mickey continued, “and I don’t. So,” he shrugged again, “whatever.”

Ian took a moment. A long one. He thought of Mickey’s reaction the first time he had said it, when he was mostly just teasing. The way he had been shocked to think that Ian still had fond thoughts for other men. And he thought of his family downstairs, each one more fucked up than the last, all in agreement over the severity of his error.

And to be honest, he still didn’t quite get the uproar. But maybe that was because none of them got his side, either.

“You’re right,” he began, “you don’t.”

Mickey tensed further, pulling away from him on the bed, but Ian wasn’t done.

“You have all the good bits, you know,” he continued. He went to rest a hand on Mickey’s chest, saw his stiffness, and pointed at his own instead.

“You have all four chambers,” he told him. “Atrium and ventricle. You keep my blood moving, keep it useful, keep me alive. And you have my valves,” he added, trailing a finger side to side to point to the right spots as he spoke. “Mitral and aorta, pulmonary and tricuspid.” He smiled. “You keep me going in the right direction.”

Mickey was softening, he could tell, the tension seeping from his limbs as Ian droned on. He kept going anyway.

“You have all my arteries, Mick,” he whispered. “You’re in all my veins. You said I was under your skin, once?” Ian laughed. “Well you’re under my skin, too. And in my muscles, and in my blood.”

“And the others, they’re like…” he hesitated, searched for the right words. Better words than he had used before. “They’re like cholesterol,” he settled on, “plaque. Or…like the scar tissue from a triple bypass, the parts that don’t work anymore.”

Mickey’s lips quirked, despite himself, and Ian counted it as a victory.

“You have a lot a heart surgeries, Gallagher?” he questioned softly, catching on.

Ian smile widened, and he reached out to take Mickey’s hand. This time, Mickey didn’t pull away.

“Maybe a few,” he admitted. “And maybe I’m better for it.”

He lifted Mickey’s hand to his lips, held it there.

“I don’t mind the broken bits,” he told his husband. “The pieces they left behind. Because you pushed through them every time, and made me healthy again.”

Mickey fidgeted, and nudged himself off the wall to settle closer to Ian’s side.

“Alright,” he allowed, “I get it.”

“Do you?” Ian asked earnestly. “Because I want you to, you know.” He dropped Mickey’s hand to hold his face instead, gently stroking a thumb over his cheek. “I want you to know that that thirteen percent, it doesn’t really matter. All that matters are the parts that are you.”

"I chose you, Mickey," he murmured. He reached out blindly for the spare rings in their box on the bed, worked one free. Slipped it onto Mickey's finger without looking away from his eyes. Mickey's hand clenched around it, around Ian's hand, and held tight.

"I married you," Ian added. "Because I love you with every real part of my heart, every little bit that works."

“All eighty-seven percent?” Mickey prods with a soft expression, leaning forward until his nose brushes Ian’s.

“All eighty-seven percent,” Ian confirmed, and kissed him.

[derivativealigner]

Well I haven’t watched sp all the way through for about a decade now, so I thought it was time

Sometimes I wonder how accurate the fandom is when it comes to how we interpret the characters. Like, why is Stan a football star so often in fanfic and why’s Kyle always the smart one? So I thought I’d rewatch the show and make notes along the way to see where the source of all these interpretations is. I also wanted to see if I could get some fun info to analyze, but season 1 is pretty sparse in that regard so there’s not too much of that in this post, but I’ll make a post for all the other seasons too as I watch them

In summary, it’s established in season 1 already that Stan’s a star quarterback and an animal lover, Kyle’s an A+ student, and Kenny is poor and knows a lot about sex and doesn’t have many qualms about doing crazy shit. Cartman is a bit weird since he’s mostly just a naive brat in this season, but he and Kyle have a mildly antagonistic friendship already

I have all my notes under this cut. They include a bunch of small details and other observations. I also listed every Kenny death just because

Ike has freckles

Cartman says “Weak!” and “You guys” and “Seriously” a lot from the start, also “Kickass!” He doesn’t say weak or kickass much in the later seasons iirc

Stan says “Dude, this is pretty fucked up right here” three times in this season but they dropped that catchphrase pretty quickly

Bebe got named in episode 2

Stan’s been an animal lover since s01e03 Volcano since he won’t shoot a bunny or anything else. He does shoot Scuzzlebutt at the end though

Cartman’s a pathological liar but in a childish way

Randy got named in s01e03 Volcano (and it only got worse from there)

The mayor went to Princeton

South Park is next to Mt. Evanson

Kenny will literally drink gasoline

Stan’s a star quarterback in 3rd grade

Clyde’s voice is wrong as hell in S01E04 Big Gay Al’s Big Gay Boat Ride and he has a dog, Rex

Garrison says Kyle is an A+ kid

Shelly seriously abuses Stan, punching him, throwing him, maiming him with a lawnmower

Cartman had a pot-bellied pig called Fluffy

Cartman’s mom smokes crack and has sex with strange men

Dr. Mephesto is probably a Buddhist since he says “Thank Buddha” instead of “Thank God”

Clyde’s voice gets kind of fixed in S01E06

A guy called Mr. McCormick is killed in a protest, launched and splattered against a network building. He doesn’t look like Kenny’s dad though

Zombie Clyde attacks Bebe, rude

Wendy gave her costume contest prize (2 tons of candy) to hungry children in Nairobi

Cartman’s mom is on the cover of Crack Whore magazine. “Back do’ ho… Five on one action!” is the headline

Cartman genuinely cries at Kenny’s grave after the whole zombie thing but gets over it because of candy

Stan knows his mom’s credit card number and has no problem using it to adopt an Ethiopian child (the boys wanted a watch that came with the adoption, they weren’t doing it to be nice)

Cartman calls Stan a vas deference, Stan doesn’t know what that is so Kenny says “Dude, it’s a pipe for your peepee” (according to a transcript). Kenny sure knows male anatomy

Kyle sniffs Kenny after Cartman asks why poor people smell like sour milk and Garrison says “idk eric they just do”

Cartman thinks poor people should die and decrease the surplus population

When the boys get Starvin’ Marvin delivered to them, Cartman says “Hey mom, we found an Ethiopian, can we keep him?” and his mom says “Sure, hun.” She rarely says no to Cartman

Kenny’s dad is an alcoholic who drinks scotch according to Cartman. I mean, Mr. McCormick is seen drinking in multiple episodes and has a hat that says SCOTCH so it’s probably true

Kenny’s family says grace

Craig’s first appearance is S01E09. Also, S01E09 is the first time Kenny doesn’t die (Coincidence? I THINK yeah but it’s still fun)

Clyde got named in S01E10

Clyde and Bebe both spit on Pip’s face, friendship goals <3

Cartman and Kyle have their first fight at Cartman’s birthday party because Kyle didn’t give the right gift. Cartman slaps his face and  screams “I hate you! I want you to die! Die!” while on top of Kyle who’s not really fighting back

Satan throws a fight with Jesus after everyone except Satan bet that Jesus would lose, which leads to Satan winning everyone’s money. Mr. Garrison says “What a mean thing to do!” and Jimbo says “He is a jerk!” and I thought it was quite a laugh so I wrote it down

In S01E11 Tom’s Rhinoplasty Bebe and Wendy are sitting in the swings together and generally appear together throughout the episode, then Bebe gives Wendy a makeover so they’re bffs obviously <3

Craig first appears in the classroom, though not sitting down, in S01E11

Wendy’s not happy about Ms. Ellen taking Stan away from her, she says “Don’t fuck with me! Stay away from my man, bitch, or I’ll whoop your sorry ho ass back to last year!”

Kenny gives Ms. Ellen a scrumptious looking sausage as a valentine’s gift and giggles deviously. Wendy’s gift to Ms. Ellen is a dead animal

Even Kenny doesn’t know what a lesbian is

Wendy’s grandma died in S01E11

Wendy gets Ms. Ellen killed by hiring the Iraqi government (?) to put her in a rocket and shoot it into the sun, then she and Bebe have a pool party (very cool, they wear sunglasses 😎) and watch the rocket hit the sun

Cartman and Pip play a game of kicking each other in the nuts until someone falls. Cartman calls it “Roshambo”

Kenny has a sack of marbles

The boys aren’t fans of Barbra Streisand, but Stan is a fan of the Denver Broncos quarterback John Elway (he’s not a quarterback anymore, he’s an American football executive and the president of football operations for the Denver Broncos of the NFL according to wikipedia.)

Officer Barbrady is a fan of Fiona Apple (who was 20 at the time and had only one album released called Tidal)

Ned knows how to pilot a helicopter

Kyle’s mom is a fan of Streisand unlike literally everyone else, she even gets an autograph from Mecha Streisand

The boys are fans of Robert Smith, the lead singer of The Cure. Stan says “Robert Smith is the greatest person that ever lived!” and Kyle says “Disintegration is the best album ever!” and Cartman says “Robert Smith kicks ass!” and Kenny’s dead so he doesn’t get to have an opinion

Cartman has tea parties with his toys: Polly Prissypants, Clyde frog, Peter Panda, and a dragon called Rumpertumskin

Kyle wants to make fun of Cartman for the tea party but Stan stops him because he’s concerned that Cartman needs help

Craig is in front of the school counselor’s office in S01E13

A young miss Cartman drinks like a motherfucker at the 12th annual drunken barn dance where Cartman was supposedly conceived

Stan lets Cartman borrow his bike like a good friend

Garrison wanted to have a threesome with Chef and Cartman’s mom. I don’t know why I’m making a note of this but uh… yeah.

Cartman’s mom has had sex with everyone at this bar that Garrison’s drinking at, including principle Victoria, the mayor, Father Maxi, and Jesus (and maybe Kenny’s dad since he’s at the bar but the camera doesn’t pan to him when Garrison says they’ve all slept with Liane). Later Gerald Broflovski is a possible father to Eric, so he fucked her too. Also Mr. Mephesto and his friend Kevin, that little guy, are candidates along with a lot of other people, including the 1989 Denver Broncos (and Mr. Tenorman is included in that later)

Cartman doesn’t make fun of Kyle for being Jewish much at all in this season even though the Christmas episode is all about Kyle not celebrating

Clyde and Token appear very early on and Clyde has always been in the classroom (along with Bebe, Red, Kevin Stoley, Wendy, and Pip and uhh DogPoo too I think). Craig appears later in the season and Tweek’s not in season 1 at all, so Craig’s gang isn’t really a thing yet

And here’s a list of the ways Kenny died in this season. He dies in every episode except episode 9, and he dies twice in episodes 2 and 3. Altogether he dies 14 times

S01E01 Killed after alien shoots him, cows stampede over him, then cop runs him over which finally actually kills him

S01E02 Killed in a play by a falling teepee, then a second time shot by Garrison which sends him in the air and he gets impaled on a flagpole on the way down

S01E03 Killed by a volcano rock that burns him then rolls on him but he’s alive again in the end but gets shot by Ned’s gun that he drops and it accidentally goes off

S01E04 Gets his arms and head torn off in an American football game

S01E05 Stan’s clone punches Kenny into a microwave where he gets cooked alive

S01E06 Death touches Kenny

S01E07 Kenny gets crushed by a Russian space station and turns into a zombie because he gets Worcestershire sauce in his veins, then Kyle chainsaws zombie Kenny in half, then zombie Kenny rises from his grave and is crushed by a statue and a plane

S01E08 Kenny is killed by a bunch of turkeys. His eye gets plucked out. It’s dark blue

S01E10 After Kenny gets turned into a duck-billed platypus, Jimbo and Ned shoot him

S01E11 Ms. Ellen throws a sword through Kenny’s face

S01E12 While Mecha Streisand and a giant robot Leonard Maltin fight, Kenny plays with a tetherball and gets the rope wrapped around his neck and it strangles him

S01E13 Kenny gets stuck on a go kart and it drags him around but stops and he’s still alive! Too bad the go kart stops on train tracks and a train runs him over. Stan’s grandpa sends a video of the event to America’s Stupidest Home Videos and wins $10,000

If you read all that, first of all hello. I’m not new to the fandom even though this is the first thing I’ve posted on this tumblr blog. I’ve been writing a fanfic called Caffetamine though so I’m not a complete non-entity. Anyway, I’ll watch season 2 soon and post my notes on that too probably.

[themetaphorgirl]

in which Emily makes a poor choice

HEY Y’ALL I AM BACK!!! WITH A PATRON SAINT DRABBLE!!

Y’all can thank @linguinereid for this one!! Sweet Bee suggested this and I ended up writing part of it while I was in line for rides at Epcot. 

I’m excited to be writing and posting again!! Please tell me what y’all think of this one, and tell me what I’ve missed in the past couple of weeks!!

---------

Emily poked at her ear, trying to twist around to get a better look in the mirror. “Shit,” she mumbled, wincing as she prodded a sore spot. She leaned across the bathroom counter, almost sitting in the sink. “I think I fucked up. Shit.”

“That looks infected.”

She jumped in surprise and fell off the counter, hitting the faucet on her way down and splashing water across her shirt. “What the fuck!” she exclaimed. Spencer stood in the bathroom doorway, head tilted and eyes wide like a very small owl. “You little gremlin, you scared the shit out of me! What are you doing in here?”

“You left the door open,” Spencer said. “What’s wrong with your ear?”

She fumbled to turn off the faucet and pick up Hotch’s knocked-over toothbrush. “Nothing.”

“It’s red and swollen,” he said. “That’s a sign of infection. What did you do?” His eyes went wide. “Did you get that piercing after Hotch told you it was a bad idea?”

She smoothed her hair down over her ear. “Nope,” she said. “Why would you think that?”

“I heard you guys arguing about it,” he said. “Hotch said it was against dress code, and you said you didn’t give two fucks about dress code, and he said you were shit at cleaning the piercings you already have and you’d fuck up your ears, and you said-”

“Okay, okay, you and your eidetic memory can stop at literally any time,” Emily said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that big a deal. There was a girl at the party last weekend who said she’d pierced like everybody’s ears at camp last summer, and she’d always wanted to try an industrial, and-” She paused. “Why am I explaining myself to you? You’re ten.”

“Nine.”

“Close enough. Why are you here, anyway?”

Spencer shifted his weight. “I have to pee,” he said.

“All right, I’ll get out,” Emily said. “But not a word to Hotch, understand? Not a single word. He cannot know about this. You know how smug he gets when he right about something.”

“Is he right, though?” Spencer said. “Did you fuck up your ear?”

“Okay, no swearing either, Alex will murder me if you pick up on me swearing,” Emily said. She stepped out of the bathroom and gave Spencer a little push inside. “Seriously, though. Don’t tell Alex either. You know she’ll be pissed at me too. I’ll- I’ll buy you that Star Wars lego set you want as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

Spencer brightened. “The Millennium Falcon?” he said.

“Sure, sure, why not, just keep your mouth shut!”

She closed the bathroom door and went back down the hall to the common room. It was Derek’s week to pick for movie night; he was having a great time with whatever Will Ferrell comedy he’d chosen, but Hotch was focused on his homework and Alex was reading a book. Emily sat down in her usual spot, tucking her legs underneath her. Her ear was still burning, but she brushed her hair over it surreptitiously. She could keep it a secret, as long as Spencer did. It would be fine.

By Tuesday, she realized it was not fine.

Her ear continued to swell and throb, the skin red and stretched tight around the barbell in the cartilage. She’d had to actually style her hair every morning instead of throwing it up in a messy ponytail or bun, or asking JJ or Alex to braid it for her. It wouldn’t take long for Alex to catch if she kept this up- she was famous for rolling out of bed at the last minute, getting up early to do her hair was drastically out of character. But she wasn’t sure who to be more afraid of catching her, Hotch or Alex.

She sat down at their usual table in the dining hall and pulled her hair back behind her ear, hissing when her nails brushed the irritated skin. “Oh, fuck,” she mumbled under her breath. It wasn’t good. It really wasn’t good. 

Spencer climbed up on the chair beside her. “Are you doing okay?” he asked. 

She sighed heavily. “How bad does it look?” she asked. 

Spencer knelt on the chair so he could lean his elbows on the table. “Pretty bad,” he said. “Ew, is it oozing? I think it’s oozing.” He wrinkled his nose. “You should tell somebody.”

“Like hell I will,” she said, pulling her hair back into place. “This is a hill I will die on.” She paused. “This...this won’t kill me, will it? I won’t actually die on this hill?”

“Probably not, but infection was one of the leading causes of death during the Civil War,” he shrugged. “Try rinsing with saltwater, that might help.”

“Really?”

“Couldn’t hurt. I mean, in a manner of speaking. It’ll probably hurt a lot.”

Emily blinked. “That wasn’t reassuring, babe,” she said.

Hotch walked over to them and set his tray down. “What are you two talking about?” he asked as he sat down and cracked the top of his yellow Red Bull.

“Nothing,” Emily said quickly, dropping her fork in an effort to pick it up fast.

Alex set a glass of milk down on Spencer’s tray. “Sit on your butt or you’re going to fall on the floor again,” she said. 

Spencer tilted his head back to look up at her. “I wanted chocolate milk,” he objected. 

“Plain first, darling,” she said, bending to kiss his forehead. “Now sit down before you fall out of your chair.” Spencer obeyed, sliding down from his knees to sit down. 

Emily poked her fork around in her scrambled eggs. They were way too yellow and a little watery around the edges, and her stomach turned. “Emily, are you okay?” Hotch asked. 

“Yeah, fine, why do you ask?”

He gestured towards her tray with his Red Bull can. “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything since you came back from the party on Friday night,” he said. “Are you still sulking because I told you not to pierce your ear?”

“I don’t sulk,” Emily scoffed.

“Yes, you do,” Hotch said. “You’re pissed because you know I’m right, and it would be a terrible idea to get an industrial. Especially since you don’t have a guardian over eighteen to sign off on it, so it’d be illegal.”

Emily stabbed her fork into the eggs. “I’m fine and I’m not sulking,” she said. “But you’re wrong. I’ll be fine if I get my ear pierced.”

She met Spencer’s gaze. His hazel eyes were wide, glancing over first at Hotch and then at Alex, but he kept his mouth shut. Her ear throbbed, but she wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they were right. 

By Friday, she knew they were right, and she hated it, but damn, her ear hurt. 

She huddled in the corner of the library sofa, her history textbook open on her lap but long forgotten. Her ear was an ever-present pain now, too sensitive to touch, and oozing something disgusting. 

The library was quiet and peaceful, rain tapping steadily on the window. James was sorting through his anatomy flashcards while Dave pretended to write a paper while he was really working on the novel he claimed he wasn’t writing. Spencer was lying on his tummy on the floor, absorbed in a book far above his grade level. The rest of the kids were at clubs or practices, and Alex passed by in her own paths as she shelved books and answered questions.

She glanced up to see Spencer watching her poke at her ear; she dropped her hand and glared at him. “Don’t say anything,” she said to him sharply in Russian. “Remember the Millennium Falcon.”

He sighed heavily. “Your ear looks really bad,” he said. His Russian wasn’t as strong as his Italian, and his accent was terrible, but at least James and Dave wouldn’t understand them.

“Not a word!” she said.

Alex plunked down on the opposite side of the couch, jostling Emily and making her scowl. “I’m taking a break,” she sighed. “The sophomores are working on their poetry projects and I don’t want to discuss Ezra Pound anymore.”

Spencer pushed himself up from the floor. “Alex?” he said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, dearest,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “What’s up?”

“If I told you I wanted to do something and you said no, and I did it anyway, would you be mad at me?” he asked.

Emily shot him a dirty look, but he ignored her. “Well, I might be a bit disappointed, but I don’t think I’d be mad,” Alex said, squeezing his hands. 

“If I did the thing anyway, and I ended up getting hurt, would you be mad at me?” he asked. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” Alex said, drawing him onto her lap.

“And you wouldn’t tell me you told me so? And you’d help me?” he continued. 

She frowned, clearly concerned over this line of conversation, and hugged him. “Of course I’d help you, baby,” she said. She stroked his hair away from his forehead. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Spencer leaned around Alex’s shoulder to make direct eye contact with Emily. She sighed heavily. “So...you know how I wanted to get an industrial piercing, and you and Hotch said it would be a bad idea?” she said hesitantly.

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she said. “Why?” Emily tucked her hair slowly behind her ear. “Emily, holy shit!”

“It’s pretty bad, huh?” Emily said glumly.

Alex moved Spencer hastily off her lap and leaned over Emily to take a better look at her ear. “Oh my god,” she said. “James, can you come take a look at this?”

James pulled his headphones off. “Hm?” he said. “Oh shit! Emily, what did you do?”

She submitted reluctantly to his poking and prodding. “So a girl at the party last week offered to pierce my ear,” she said. “And it...kind of went wrong.”

“That looks like it hurts,” Alex said, smoothing her hair. “It looks super infected.”

“Yeah, that’s the medical term for it,” James said. “Holy shit, Prentiss, I can’t believe you pulled a Parent Trap.”

“A Parent Trap?”

“Yeah, when Hallie pierces Annie’s ear with a sewing needle, an apple, and...you know what, never mind.”

Emily winced as the earring shifted. “Can you just...make Hotch promise that he won’t say I told you so?” she said. 

“I think he’ll agree that you’ve suffered enough,” Alex reassured her. 

Spencer hovered at her elbow. “I would have said something sooner, but Emily said she’d buy me the Millennium Falcon set,” he said.

“Please don’t scold me for bribing the baby, either,” Emily said. 

“Okay, I might scold you about that one.”

[ssa25]

Naruhina - Save My Soul -NH2020

For Naruhina2020 March (Bodyguard AU) and April (Celebrity AU)

A/n: Re-posting this long oneshot after major edits. I’d blundered previously when I posted this with huge chunks of old drafts attached at the end, smh. If you have read this story before, please ignore this post.

Rating: Mature

Warning: Modern AU with RTN Hinata and RTN Naruto

-

Hinata knew how some people have fetishes. She never thought she had one. Until that moment.

Wait. Would it still count as a fetish if she found that particular body part extremely sexy and distracting on only one specific person?

Sitting in the back seat of her chauffeur driven customised Maybach, Hyuuga Hinata could not take her eyes off of the large manly hands of her bodyguard who was sitting in the front passenger seat. Her nipples puckered and rubbed against the lace of her bra under the short black dress, as flashes of those very same hands skimming over her body, played through her mind. Especially how his long fingers had pinched and thrust into parts of her anatomy that had made her scream and tremble in toe curling pleasure. Involuntarily, her thighs clenched together at the reminder. 

She had to force herself to look away from the man who was absolutely unaware of how his mere presence was wreaking havoc on her mind and body. Not even the constant chatter of her relatively new, chirpy assistant Matsuri, who was sitting right beside her, could pull her thoughts away from the self destructing path she was seemingly on.

Get over it, get over him, she told herself.

Uzumaki Naruto did not want her. He had made it clear. That one particular night, exactly nine days back, had been etched, engraved and embossed into her brain, was supposedly a slip-up on his part. A rare moment of weakness, was how he’d labelled it.

He was her bodyguard. Nothing more, nothing less.

So why did her body yearn for him? Had she imagined the explosive chemistry they had shared in bed? Was she not his type?

The whole world assumed that being a young famous singer-songwriter, she had more men in her life than she could handle. But little did they know that all through her existence, she had been left sorely disappointed by the men who truly meant something to her.

-

As soon as she entered her suite at the hotel, she flung her crystal studded killer heels to the side and made a beeline for the well stocked mini bar. 

She had only had a few cocktails at the lavish and exclusive birthday bash of a world renowned, award winning artist, at his sprawling mansion in the outskirts of the city. Usually, she preferred to be in control of her senses at these events. She absolutely hated the idea of other people witnessing her in a weak moment.

It was probably one of the very few traits she had inherited from her now-estranged father. Her already precarious relationship with her only living conservative parent blew into smithereens when she decided to pursue her dreams. 

But that topic was a terribly sore spot for her, and she did not even want to think about it. The only thing she wanted was to drink herself to numbness, now that she was back in the security of her room. Just so that, she could stop feeling unwanted and unrequited emotions and just drift off to sleep.

She could hear Naruto stepping inside the suite, but she willed herself to not glance back at him. He would sleep on the sofa bed in the living room like he had done the night before.

He had been hired by her label’s President to protect her. After she had, apparently, irked quite a few psychopathic, batshit crazy fangirls of the famous rockstar Sabaku Gaara. Just because they had casually dated for a few months last winter. They went especially haywire when the man had written an entire song about her and had openly admitted to it in an interview.

Their relationship ended prematurely, but the threats became progressively scarier and outrightly morbid. That’s when Naruto was taken on board from an elite security organization. He was to protect her, accompany her everywhere for the foreseeable future and always stay within reach. 

Lucky her.

Hinata picked out a small bottle of red wine on impulse and carried it to her room. She shed down to her lacy underthings and poured out a generous amount of the merlot into a bulbous glass.

Taking it to her ensuite bathroom, she began wiping off her makeup in preparation for bed. The process had become so common for her, she was lost in her musings while doing a perfect job of stripping her face bare. 

Refilling her glass again, she lifted it to her lips, when it was snatched away. The harsh tug of Naruto’s fingers made her gasp and spill some wine on her chest. She had not seen him enter her private bathroom.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”, she snapped at him. “You spilled wine on me!”

His gaze flickered to her wet cleavage before he looked away. With his jaws clenched, he poured the drink into the sink and looked at her with a less than pleasant expression.

“You should know better than to drink irresponsibly. Matsuri has already reminded you that you have an early morning meeting with Mr. Senju. The last thing you need is a hangover.”, he uttered those words with a straight face. He tried his best to seem unaffected.

She forced a smile on her face. “I can’t sleep without getting myself drunk. Unless you can think of another way to tire me out. That might just help.”

She was shamelessly coming on to him, but at this point she could care less. Or it was probably just plain ol’ liquid courage.

“Go to bed, and count sheep, for all I care.”, his voice was steady but she could see the inkling of desire in his azure eyes.

She wanted to egg him on, and brought her hands to the front clasp of her bra. “Oh, come on, help me out a bit. Just one more time.”, she was almost playfully begging him now. And she knew she would take whatever he would throw at her. It probably went against feminist ideals, but she was never this weak for another man. She needed him like no one else. Why did he not get that?

“Don’t you want me again?”, she propositioned him and unhooked the wet lace bra to tempt him further.

But before he could get an eyeful for her naked heaving chest, he turned around to walk out of her bathroom. She could only laugh, while her heart squeezed painfully inside at his outright rejection.

“You’re such a pussy!”, she commented mockingly to goade him further.

And lo, behold, it made him stall at the door. His fists were clenched at his sides, but he did not retaliate with words. Just when she felt a sliver of doubt that he would walk away, he swung around and marched over to her, capturing her burgundy stained lips under his hungry ones. 

She moaned audibly at the surge of passion in their liplock, it positively made her giddy. His hands pulled and pressed her body against his, before cupping her perky round bottom and lifting her up against him.

Hinata squealed into the kiss at the sudden change of altitude, but she did not dare break away from him. She needed him so badly that she grasped at his short hair desperately to gain leverage and rub her core against his hardening length.

She heard him groan out loudly and then he pulled away from her lightly bruised, swollen lips, as he joined their foreheads and continued what she had started. Holding her from her bottom, he pushed her against the nearest wall and started thrusting upwards for some desperately needed friction. The silk of her panty was really thin and flimsy, and the ridges of his jeans gliding over her most sensitive point was delicious.

“Yes!”, she cried out. “Naruto… Please!! Don’t stop…!!”

Her hoarse pleading made him curse out loud. Abruptly, he her away from the wall. But instead of taking her to the bedroom like she had expected, he stepped into the large glass walled shower.

Unceremoniously, Naruto pulled the tap handle and the shower sprayed them with really cold water. She screamed as the icy water fell on her skin, instantly cutting off the heat of their encounter.

“F*ck! What the hell?!”, she scrambled out of his grip and out from the chill of the water. “What was that for?”

The cold spray had drenched Naruto, by the time he turned the supply off.

“That was me trying to act on the shred of rationality left in me.”, Naruto said seriously while rubbing a hand across his hair. She shivered and wrapped her arm around her naked chest.

“Oh, for f*ck’s sake, do you have to be so rational all the dam* time?!!”, her voice echoed against the walls. “What’s wrong with you??!!”

He slipped out of the shower cubicle and threw the nearest dry bathrobe at her. She quickly pushed her arms through it to cover herself. Doing what he did was humiliating enough, especially after she had literally begged him to take her.

“Call me old fashioned, but I prefer my women sober in bed…”, he replied with a snort.

“Oh just stop with that holier than thou attitude… I’m barely tipsy… You’re the one who’s got his panties in a wad for no reason.”, she let her frustration speak through with zero filter. “Seriously, have you ever let yourself get carried away by your instincts? Instead of being so dam* uptight 24/7?...”

“Oh, I’ve tried it… Look where that got us…”

“You say it as if it was bad for you…”, she followed after him into the bedroom.

“That is beside the point… You, Miss Hinata Hyuuga, are my employer… It is inappropriate for us to sleep together...”

“It’s a little late for worrying about appropriateness, don’t you think?!...”, her voice was laced with sarcasm. “Surely you realise that or have you lost your memories while perched on your moral high horse?”

Naruto gritted his teeth and glared at her with icy blue eyes. “I haven’t forgotten anything… But I have more self respect and pride than repeating my mistake of being your rebound hookup.”

She felt hurt by his accusation. “Is that what you think? A rebound?... Gosh, Naruto... I have been over Gaara for months...”

“Well then, what else is it??”, he demanded.

She was tongue tied by the abruptness of his question. What was it? 

She was crazy attracted to him. She cared for him. She wanted him to do unspeakable things to her. She wanted to do similar things back to him. But that was as far as she had thought.

Seeing her speechless, he nodded curtly. “That’s what I thought.”

He moved away from her before her muddled brain could make a sense out of the deviation their conversation had taken. Naruto picked up his wallet, blazer and keycard before walking towards the main door.

“Get some sleep… Please… I will be right outside.”

Hinata could not utter the right words to stop him. Even if she desperately wanted to. 

-

By eight o’ clock next morning, Hinata was seated in an upscale rooftop restaurant that was famous for its breakfast menu. Mr. Senju was notorious for being an early riser, and he believed in using as much of the daylight as possible to conduct profitable business.

Clad in a flowy lavender maxi skirt, a white lace crop top and a pair of comfy birkenstocks, Hinata was half heartedly listening to Mr. Senju. Her mirrored sunglasses provided her the perfect ruse to hide her tired eyes and also to frequently glance over at Naruto, who stood a few feet away, where he had the perfect vantage point of the whole setting.

Matsuri sat beside her, jotting down important points that were discussed. By the end of the meal, Hinata had agreed to lend her voice to a character of a big budget animated movie that would be produced by Mr. Senju. Few remaining details would be ironed out by her label before she would sign the contract.

“Then I’ll see you back in the city in two weeks, Miss Hyuuga.”, Mr. Senju shook her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you. Have a good day!”

Hinata smiled widely and bid him goodbye.

“Wow… That was definitely worth losing a few hours of sleep…”, Matsuri commented.

Hinata nodded listlessly, and nibbled on the poached eggs. She would have certainly liked Naruto to join her at the table, but he had maintained the cool aloof demeanour from last night. Like they only worked in a professional capacity.

Hinata could not openly make any grand gestures towards him because the restaurant was decently filled with posh clients.

From behind her shades, she had even noticed more than one woman staring in the direction of the tall figure of her bodyguard. And it lit her with jealousy. It was absurd. She had no claim over him, but she wanted to gorge the eyes out of any woman who so much as second glanced at him. Curiously, she had never felt this possessive about any of her past boyfriends. Not even Gaara, who the craziest female fandom their music industry had ever seen.

Speaking of the devil.

Gasps and murmurs filled the air, as Gaara Sabaku waltzed into the establishment like he owned the place, with his manager right behind him. Most patrons were affluent enough to not stumble out of their seats to approach celebrities for an autograph or selfies. But there were quite a few heads turned and much interest shown, when the red haired rockstar made a beeline for her.

“G-G-Gaara!”, she squeaked and flushed uncomfortably. Hinata was amused to see her so flustered. Especially, when she was quite unaffected by the famous actors and singers at last night’s bash.

Hinata got up from her seat to greet her ex-boyfriend.

“Hinata… What a pleasant surprise to see you here…”, Gaara spoke fondly as he engulfed her in his arms.

Hinata was a little taken aback by his enthusiasm, but she let it slide. There was nothing wrong with acknowledging an old friend or acquaintance with a genial hug. But she noticed the way Naruto had become stiff and alert, standing a few feet away from them.

“It’s nice to see you too Gaara… Weird running into you here… What are you doing so far off from the city?”, she asked him casually.

“Same thing as you. I made it to the party a little late last night… My flight got delayed on my way back from Seoul… By the time I got there, you had left…”, he explained.

“Ah, yeah…I was feeling a little tired…”, Hinata replied. She felt a little uncomfortable by Gaara’s attention, so she deviated from their conversation. “Gaara, this is my new assistant Matsuri… Matsuri, this is Gaara… You might know him….”

Gaara nodded at her nonchalantly before focusing back on Hinata. “How long are you here for?”

“Umm… Just for tonight.. We will be driving back to the city tomorrow morning…”

“That’s great! We must have dinner together tonight. Especially when we are both staying at the same hotel.”

Hinata was quite surprised at his invitation. She could see from the corner of her eyes, Naruto got closer to them and stood behind her protectively.

Was he jealous? Or was this a part of his job?

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea Gaara…”

“Come on, it’s just dinner… I won’t try to kiss you or anything… Unless you want to, ofcourse!”

Hinata fixed him with a mocking glare. She had separated from him on amicable terms. He was not keen on her suggestion of breaking up. But as a free spirited musician himself, he loathed the idea of binding her to him against her wishes. So he let her go. Now, even the thought of having dinner plans with him seemed to hold no attraction for her. Deep down, she realised the reason why.

“Haven’t we had enough problems because of our past? Being seen together again in public would be asking for more trouble.”, she tried to reason with him.

“Fine, if that’s your worry. How about you come over to my suite? We can have a private dinner where no one can see us.” Gaara glanced at Naruto and added, “You can even have your guard installed outside my door to keep an eye out for you.”

She really wanted to decline his invitation without seeming rude or uptight. But it seemed a little difficult now, with Gaara being insistent and the eyes of other patrons of the restaurant on the two of them.

She lowered her voice and replied, “How about I think about it and text you back?”

Gaara smirked and nodded. “Okay. Remember, I will be hoping for a yes.”

He flicked her chin lightly, like he used to do when they were back together, and moved towards his reserved table.

With that, Naruto suggested they make a move out. He trailed closer than ever before, and kept a light protective hand on her back while the few paparazzis outside clicked furiously. She wondered if Gaara’s invite had spurred this extra protective and possessive streak in him. The idea of making him even more jealous appealed to her. But she absolutely hated toying with people to play games like that. She wanted him to want her back without any underhanded tricks in play.

Once back inside the car, Matsuri asked incredulously, “You are not seriously thinking about going out with him, are you??”

Hinata rested her head back and watched Naruto for any sign. He did seem a little stiffer than usual, even as he was busily texting someone on his phone.

“Technically, it’s not ‘going out’... More like ‘dining in’... But I haven’t made a decision about it. Yet.”

A full minute later, her phone pinged and she took it out to read the new text message, thinking it might be from Gaara.

‘For your eyes only. Make sure no one is peeking into your phone.’

It was from Naruto. When she raised her head up, she saw Matsuri trying to inconspicuously peek at the text. She understood that Naruto might be trying to communicate with her without Matsuri knowing about their recent past.

“Who was that?”, she asked nonchalantly.

“Uh, no one.”, Hinata lied easily.

Seconds later, another message popped up. This time she was careful about not letting wandering eyes stray over to her phone.

‘I have to warn you about something. But what is most important is for you to NOT panic. Matsuri has a carving knife in her bag. She picked it up from the restaurant. Beware. Do not engage her in any conversation about Gaara. I have alerted the police, we will get you to safety soon. Just keep calm. You will be fine.’

Hinata grew pale as she finished reading the text. Why would Matsuri pick a knife? Slowly, the pieces fit together, and she realised that her new assistant was one of the psychopathic fans of her ex-boyfriend.

“Was that Gaara?”, Matsuri’s suspicious voice broke her trance.

“Umm… No…”, she replied faintly and looked outside the window to hide any signs of distress on her face.

“I think meeting Gaara again would not be good for either of you.”, her assistant kept talking.

If Naruto had not warned her, she would have snapped back at Matsuri and given her a piece of her mind. And that would have been disastrous. She looked to the front and found Naruto looking back at her. He gave her a small reassuring nod.

“If he thinks-“

Naruto interrupted her just as she spoke. “We’re almost here. It will be ideal for both of you to discuss this in the privacy of the suite, while I run a small errand.”

Soon the car stopped, Naruto jogged out to open Hinata’s door.

“You did good. I am here with you, don’t worry.”, he muttered close to her ears.

Hinata felt safe in his presence and she had to stop herself from leaning into him. The trio moved through the hotel lobby that seemed quieter than usual. Matsuri did not suspect a thing, but she raised an eyebrow at him when he joined them in the elevator.

“I thought you had an errand to run.”

Hinata understood that she was trying to get rid of Naruto to confront her in the suite.

“I do. I just need to grab some papers from my suitcase.”, he lied easily.

As soon as  they entered the suite, they were confronted by the police who were waiting for them. Matsuri turned vicious when her plan was foiled. She tried attacking Hinata even with so many officials around, but she was easily tackled by Naruto.

“Stay right where you are!!”

Soon, she was handcuffed and dragged away, but she kept hissing and cursing at Hinata.

“B*tches like you don’t deserve any love!! You f*cking wh*re!!!”

Hinata was aghast watching the complete switch in her personality. It was chilling to realise that someone who harboured ill intentions for her was kept close.

Her sight turned blurry as she stood rooted to her spot. Whether they were tears of relief or shock or exasperation, was anyone’s guess.

Naruto dealt with the police officials quickly before he went up to her. Wordlessly, he gathered her in his arms and hugged her tight.

“I don’t know why I am crying… I am not a crybaby…”, her words were muffled by his suit jacket.

“It’s okay… It’s okay to feel the way you do...I’m right here for you.”

But she shook her head and looked up at him. “How did you realise…”

Naruto explained his observation of Matsuri’s expression when Gaara came into the restaurant.

“It was somewhere between shock, awe and fanatical lunacy… And when he kept his attention solely on you, she looked vengeful… Both of you were too busy chatting to notice the stark change in her demeanour…”

“Oh…”, she pondered over the events. “So, that was why you stood close to me… Because of Matsuri… Not because you were jealous?”

Naruto sighed and lifted her face up to him. “I was jealous. Extremely so. But even in that moment your safety was my priority.”

Hinata looped both her arms around his neck. “Oh Naruto….About yesterday-“

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No… Let me say it… When you asked me about what you meant to me… I was unsure of how I could put my feelings into words… It might not be love yet, but you are so much more than a rebound… No, actually let me rephrase that… You are nothing like a rebound… I feel very very strongly for you…Honestly, I always keep thinking of you, my eyes keep looking for you... So much so that I’m afraid it might turn into an obsession.”

He smirked and leaned his forehead towards her. “Are you sure that’s not the after effects of the traumatic event talking?”

She grabbed him by his lapels and mockingly glared at him. “Don’t make fun of my feelings for you. I know what I want. Besides, I would hardly call this encounter traumatic. It was shocking and a little scary, but I can get past it. I’m stronger than you think.”

Naruto nodded and looked away from her gaze. “And you are sure you don’t mind that we have almost nothing in common… I mean, you could do much better than me.”

Hinata rolled her eyes at him, “You sure like doubting yourself for someone with so much pride and self respect.”

He just shrugged, “Just putting it out there… Fair warning… I am not easy to get rid off… So I just want to cover my bases…”

“That’s strange…”, she replied with a frown. “I was going to give you the same warning.”

“There’s one thing common between us then.”, he commented before asking. “Shall we seal the deal with a kiss?”

“Only a kiss??”

-

Over the next few days, Naruto and Hinata received several phone calls informing him about the development of the case against Matsuri. She had confessed to all accounts of threats and intention to harm but pleaded not guilty citing mental instability.

x

Note: Apologies for the very late entry. And also I would like to apologise to fans of Matsuri, she was portrayed negatively in this story, but I assure I have nothing against her! If anything, I like to feature her as Hinata’s friend in a lot of ny other stories.

[marvelandimagine]

Framework (Part Two)

Summary: Request - Bucky x reader songfic where he pushes her away and they break up but he’s miserable without her and it all ends in fluff and apologies

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word Count: 2,200

Author’s Note: This was literally the hardest chapter I’ve ever written idk why but I should probably start outlining instead of winging it 25/7 lol anywho sorry this took forever and hopefully p3 will come to my brain faster! / based on Framework by The Story So Far

Taglist: @firefly-in-darkness @emptynote @buckysgoddess

How’d this happen?

Found your way in

So distracting

Splitting me in half again

Can’t ever sever the ties I made

The knots are strong

The framework’s laid

No matter how many things I say

The tangible will always be what I crave

Six agonizing days pass, with Bucky coming to the conclusion that he actually can’t live with his decision. He feels like he’s drowning in regret, his anxiety is off the charts, and, plainly, he’s just fucking miserable.

Despite everything he said to you, to himself, to Sam, it’s become crystal clear that not having you in his life is hurting him way more than confronting his trust issues and fear of impermanence.

He misses you like hell. The scent of your clothes, the way you laugh, the warmth in your eyes and on your fingertips. How perfectly your bodies fit together, the way you gasp and growl his name. How you would hold him to your chest, tracing soothing patterns across his skin when he couldn’t stop shaking from the nightmares and the flashbacks. How funny and beautiful and kind you are. Even things that had irritated him, your reiterated suggestions of different therapies and mindfulness techniques (some that had helped you personally), how you never tried to hide rolling your eyes, you constantly misplacing your keys/phone/wallet and him finding it within seconds -- he missed it all. All of you, the good and bad, had somehow become woven into his being. He could sooner get rid of how he felt about you than get rid of himself.

He told himself he wouldn’t do it, but he’s been repeatedly checking your Instagram page, heart thudding each time as he anticipates seeing the pictures of the two of you together deleted -- or worse, seeing you with another guy’s arm wrapped around you. So far, though, there’s been nothing except a video post of your dog, Balto, howling and grinning at your TV screen when Ghost appears on the latest Game of Thrones. It just makes his heart ache more, that he chose to remove himself from these small, wonderful little moments in your life, and for what? 

He keeps staring at your number, his thumb hovering above the screen before he chucks the phone to the side, rubbing his eyes as he once again chickens out of contacting you. 

He reaches the breaking point when he starts reading back through old texts from around the time when you two first started dating. 

“I know we just said bye five minutes ago but I just wanted to say how happy I am that I met you. And you are definitely cuter than I am. That is all! Night, Buck.” And now the same blushing smile emoji that had him grinning from ear to ear makes his heart twinge.

“What the fuck did you do, Barnes?” he asks himself, letting the phone drop to his forehead with a dull thunk. 

He knows he wants—needs—you back, but he doesn’t know where to even begin. 

He sighs, grimacing as he rolls himself out of bed and trudges out toward the living room. There’s only one thing to do.

Bucky can already hear Sam’s voice emanating down the hall as he approaches:

“You call THAT avant garde?! That silhouette is as bland as toast. TOAST, Nina!”

Bucky sits himself down in the ottoman in the corner, careful not to walk in front of Sam — he thought he’d never hear the end of it when he accidentally blocked the screen during the last Grey’s Anatomy season finale.

“Project Runway again?” he asks, shaking his head.

“Hey, don’t you be getting all judgey now.” Sam smirks at Bucky, taking in his disheveled state. “You need to be jotting down notes, Kurt Cobain, wearing the same grungey-ass flannel three days in a row.”

Bucky shrugs.

“Not like I have anyone to impress.”

“You had someone to impress, but remember, you broke up with her, you cowardly fucking jackass.”

Bucky clenches his teeth as his scathing tone rattles in his head. He tries his best to ignore it and sound nonchalant as he swallows his pride to do something that normally sets his skin on edge: reach out to another person.

“Anyways, you busy?”

“Nah, I’ve had enough disappointment for today.” Sam grabs the remote, shutting off the screen and shifting to look at Bucky. “What’s up?”

Bucky exhales deeply, and he can practically feel the apprehension settling on his face, his habitual reluctance to open up kicking in.

“Um …” 

He bites the corner of his lip, trying to think over his words when his gut just wants him to yell, “I FUCKED UP please tell me how to get Y/N back.”

He’s spared having to, though, as Sam cuts through the silence:

“You want to get back together with Y/N, don’t you?”

Bucky stares at him.

“Is my misery that obvious?”

“Painfully.”

Despite his deadpan tone, the corner of Sam’s mouth twitches, and the two find themselves chuckling together. While he’ll never admit it to him, this is why Bucky views him as his best friend, why he trusts him -- he always knows how to make him laugh when he needs it. He knows Sam has his back.

Bucky shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.

“So, what do I do?”

“Before I can try to answer that, you need to tell me why you broke up with her in the first place.”

Thought I’d burn the seams if they frayed

Thought I’d prove the point that I made

“I thought if I ended things, I’d be able to stop caring and feeling so vulnerable, I guess. That it’d be better for her, because she deserved better anyways, and maybe it’d be better for me … I don’t think I really believed that, deep down, but … I was scared. Scared of getting hurt, not being enough.” 

Bucky pauses and sighs, staring at the ground as he wrings his hands, running his flesh thumb back and forth over the smooth metal.

His voice is quiet, apprehensive.

“I was scared of how I felt about her.” 

Bucky glances up after a few moments of silence and is met with Sam looking at him more seriously than he can ever remember.

“Do you love her?”

Normally Bucky would flinch at such a direct question, but now, finally facing the consequences of keeping himself so guarded, he hesitates only for a fraction of a second before he nods, and it feels like a weight has left his chest in acknowledging how he feels.

He loves you. And he doesn’t have to run from that.

Sam nods back in response, running his hand along the dark stubble on his face as he begins in earnest.

“Look … you have a lot of regret in your life, right? I know it’s over things you didn’t choose, but now, you can choose. So what’s your choice gonna be? The way I see it, A) You can keep doing what you’re doing and let fear run you into the ground, or, B) you can tell that fear to go to hell, reach out to Y/N, buy her the nicest apology flowers you can, and tell her everything you just told me.”

“And if she tells me to go to hell?”

Sam sighs.

“I mean, she’s probably going to be pretty pissed at you —and rightfully so— but,” he pauses, his tone lightening, “God knows why, she seemed to really be into you. And nobody gets over a breakup that fast unless the relationship was already dead for awhile. You guys looked like you were solid until -”

“I blew everything to pieces, yeah.” 

Bucky sits quietly for a few seconds, pausing to sit and feel the knowing. The alignment in both his heart and mind, what he wants moving forward.

“I think choice B is the clear winner, here.” 

Sam waves his fist back and forth.

“Ding ding ding!”

Bucky nods.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice earnest as his eyes lock on Sam’s.

Sam’s returning smile is full of encouragement.

“Hey man, I got you. And I know this ain’t easy for you, opening up about stuff. Just know there’s always a seat at the VA group just waiting for your supersoldier ass to sit down, if you ever want to talk more.” 

 “Nah I’m-” Bucky physically stops himself from finishing his default “nah, I’m good for now, but thanks” response, because if he’s realized anything throughout this entire ordeal, it’s that he is most definitely not “good,” or at least not doing as good as he’d like to be.

“Yeah, ok, I’ll do it.”

“For real?”

Bucky exhales deeply, his sadness hanging on every syllable.

“With all this … I don’t know, maybe I wouldn’t have acted the way I did with Y/N if I had started dealing with this sooner, getting more okay with talking and being honest with people,” he muses. “Like you said, if I really do want a normal life, I kinda need to find a better way to handle what’s going on in here,” he taps his temple and then his chest, “than just shutting people out.”

Incredulity is all over Sam’s face, coupled that something Bucky could swear looks like a glimmer of pride. 

“Wow, yeah, that’s great, that’s the kind of perspective that’ll help you move forward.” He grins. “You sure you’re feeling ok? This isn’t some fever-induced thing, right?” 

Bucky flips him off while Sam chuckles.

“Hilarious.”

“You know I’m playin.’” Sam nods vigorously. “Seriously, it’ll be good for you. Anyways, though, back to choice B.”

Bucky feels the rise and fall of his chest pick up in nervous anticipation, but he slides the phone out from the pocket of his jeans anyways, thumbs tapping away on its surface. 

“Hey. Can we meet up?” 

Before he can second guess himself, he hits send, promptly hurling the phone onto the opposite corner of the couch where Sam is perched.

“Watch it!”

“You tell me what she says back. I don’t wanna see it first.”

However long you’re gone, I will wait, I will wait.

And then an agonizing, crawling two hours pass, with Bucky finding himself unable to focus on the National Geographic moon landing documentary that would normally absorb him entirely, his eyes constantly straying from the screen to the phone sitting silently in the corner. You never took this long to answer a text when you were dating, so he knows you’re ignoring him.

“Maybe she blocked you and didn’t even see it.”

He’s just about to ask Sam for the phone back to message you on Instagram, past the point of caring how desperate he looks because it’s the truth, when it pings.

Sam snaps out from his half-napping state at the sound, stretching across the couch and grabbing the phone. He pulls a face and Bucky’s heart sinks -- Sam might as well have said “yikes” out loud.

“What’d she say?”

Sam looks at him with the tiniest bit of pity, tossing the phone back.

“Why.”

“Why? That’s it?” Bucky looks down at the screen in disbelief, and there it is, the one-word response.

“Yup.”

Bucky buries his head in the throw pillow closest to him, muffling his yell. 

“What do I even say to that?! She’s pissed off, and I don’t wanna do this over text.”

“You don’t have to do it all over text, but you gotta give her something. The last thing you said to her was that you wanted to break up, and now you want to see her. I’m guessing she doesn’t want to assume you want to get back together, but if you do, she wants you to know she’s still upset.” Sam shrugs. “You messed up, now you gotta work for it.”

Bucky takes the pillow off his face, grimacing.

“Goddammit.”

He takes a minute to craft his reply, staring down at the screen.

“Because you were right about everything. I never should have ended us, I’m an idiot and miss you like hell. I just want to talk.” He hits send and turns the phone over, heart thumping inside his chest.

Ten minutes pass before you answer:

“I’ll be home until 7, I have plans after.”

Bucky’s stomach drops as his brain conjures images of you dressed up but not for him, for some other guy, his metal hand clenching involuntarily.

“You don’t know that you don’t know that, c’mon. It’s only been six days.”

He replies immediately:

“Can I come see you at 5?”

“Ok.”

Even with the realization that it’s already 4:10 and he’s gonna have to haul ass to Adams Morgan while still finding the time to get you the nicest flowers he can, Bucky already feels lighter with hope. You agreed to see him. You’re giving him at least a fraction of a chance to put things back together. 

He flies up off the couch and takes off down the hall.

“I’m meeting her at her place at 5!”

Sam calls out to his retreating back, and Bucky allows himself a small smile.

“Hey, go get her. But you go shower first!”

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Needle and Thread

Prompt: Whumptober Day 11, Stitches

Summary: Yandereplier rips his stitches - again - and nearly dies. Dr. Iplier is tired of putting his boy back together.

Warnings: Gore, blood, surgery

Tagging: @peribloke (ask to be tagged!)

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober Series)

Enjoy!

~

Yandereplier is many, many things, but he is not, hasn’t been, and never will be “careful.”

This is only proven by Yandere’s decision to go train in the dojo, despite the stitches tugging at his side. He’d been in a group fight a couple weeks ago and a guy with a knife had snuck up on him and nearly gutted him like a fish. Fortunately Chrome had been there to take Yandere home, and Dr. Iplier was able to fix him with a long line of stitches in a column up his side. He’d been confined to the clinic for a while and released on strict orders from Dr. Iplier to take it easy for the next several weeks, maybe the next month, so as not to rupture his stitches. That meant, according to Dr. Iplier, no going out at night to pick fights and party, no training in the dojo, and no other activity more strenuous than Mario Kart. But after two weeks of video games, drawing, watching anime, and reading manga while sitting on his butt all day, Yandere is bored. He’s fit to bursting with restless energy, so much so that he can’t think about anything else. Finally, he reasons that it’s been two weeks, he left the clinic last week, and he should be okay training so long as he doesn’t go too crazy, right? Maybe just for an hour, and then he’ll go back to light activities like Dr. Iplier wants. And even if he does tear his stitches, it’s not like it’ll be the first time.

But Yandere inevitably gets more and more into his training as the afternoon goes on, and an hour comes and goes with him still in the dojo, hacking open training dummies and throwing bulls-eyes with ninja stars. The stitches tug and tug and eventually start to burn, but by then the rest of his body is burning, too, burning with exertion and waves of sweaty heat, so Yandere ignores them. He finally stops after three hours, and curses to himself when he realizes how much more time he spent training than he meant to.

He curses again when he realizes his side is damp.

He looks down to see his clothes soaked with blood from his ripped-open stitches. There’s blood trailing Yandere’s path through the dojo as he trained. As the adrenaline wears off, the pain starts to set in, and so does the dizziness.

“Fuck,” Yandere gasps, putting a hand to his wound. He can feel how it’s gaped open, how his shirt is sticking to the inside. It throbs worse every second as Yandere stumbles out of the dojo. At first he thinks he ought to go back to his room and try to make the injury look less awful before going to Dr. Iplier, but he quickly begins to realize just how much blood he’s losing, and just how exhausted he suddenly is. He turns to go in the other direction instead, to Dark’s office, hugging the wall as he walks.

His wound sends stabbing pain rocketing through his body with every step, even as his legs get shakier and weaker. He finally slumps down against the wall, unable to keep walking, still a distance away from Dark’s office. When he hits the ground, he feels something awful inside him, like something ripping away. He cries out in pain. When he touches his side, he can feel something there, something wet and warm bulging from his side, something too solid and formed to be blood.

“Oh no,” Yandere gasps. He’s really done it this time.

He’s not awake when Dark finds him half a minute later.

~~~

Dr. Iplier is having an ordinary day doing paperwork in the clinic until he hears the telltale sound of Dark teleporting into the waiting room. He barely has a moment to register the sound when Dark is shouting.

“Doctor!” he roars.

“Woah, hey, I’m coming!” Dr. Iplier yelps, dropping his pen as he gets up from his desk, flustered. He rushes to the waiting room as he continues. “What on earth is–”

His words die in throat when he sees what Dark is here for. Yandere lays in his arms, unconscious and pale, drenched in blood. There’s something hanging there from his side, something reddish, looped, twitching in the air.

“Dear god, is that part of his intestine?” Dr. Iplier gasps. Dark’s aura cracks and flashes around himself.

“You tell me, Doctor,” Dark growls.

“Alright, just, here–” Dr. Iplier gestures for Dark to follow and dashes to the operating room.

Dark lays him on the nearest operating table as Dr. Iplier washes up, preparing for surgery.

“Get Plus,” he tells Dark, “I’m going to need another pair of hands for this.”

Dark nods and vanishes. Dr. Iplier pulls on a surgical mask and looks over at Yandere, at his pale face, at the timer above his head, his time, his time, oh god he’s almost out of time–

The instant Dark returns with Plus, Dr. Iplier turns off the parent in him with effort and begins the frenetic surgery.

Dr. Iplier ignores the timer. Ignores Yandere’s face. Thinks of him as “the patient” and nothing stronger. Push this back in, pull this closed. Hold this, Plus. Hand over that, Plus. Blood. More blood. More packs. Pull together flesh. Connect layers. Muscle, fat, skin. Intestine and bowel. It’s anatomy. It’s textbook. Hold it together, sew. Watch the monitor. Watch the monitor. Clean up more blood. Wrap gauze. Let Plus leave. Let the patient sleep off the anaesthesia. Watch the monitor. Wash up.

When it’s over, he throws up into the clinic’s bathroom sink and sobs until he can’t breathe.

~~~

Yandere wakes up in the clinic more sore than he’s ever been – an achievement, considering the injuries he’s gotten in the past. His side is stiff, swathed in bandages and stitched up tight once again. There’s a faint buzzing at the back of his mind – the painkillers, probably – and he stares at the ceiling and sighs. He can only imagine how Dr. Iplier must’ve reacted to seeing him.

“You’re awake.”

Oh, shit.

Yandere turns his head and locks eyes with Dr. Iplier, who’s sitting at his bedside.

“Uh.” Yandere tries for a sheepish grin. “Hi, Dad.”

He expects Dr. Iplier to sigh in exasperation, to lean in and kiss his forehead, to chastise him for being reckless, tell him how worried he was, tell him how relieved he is that Yandere’s alright. But Dr. Iplier doesn’t do any of it. He just looks back at Yandere with a measured glare and crosses his arms. His eyes are bloodshot. It hits Yandere like a rock that Dr. Iplier isn’t relieved, or worried, or sad or happy or even disappointed.

He’s angry.

“What did I say to you when I discharged you last week?” Dr. Iplier asks, voice tight and cold as steel.

Yandere is too taken aback to speak for a long moment.

“Dad–”

“What. Did I say. When I discharged you.”

“You s-said…” Yandere swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “You said I had to…take it easy for the next few weeks.”

“And what did I mean by “taking it easy,” do you remember?”

“Y-Yeah.” Yandere looks away, unable to take that glare any longer.

“Look at me,” Dr. Iplier orders, “And explain exactly what I said.”

Yandere looks back at him. He isn’t used to that look on Dr. Iplier’s face, isn’t used to that tone of voice. The lump in his throat gets bigger.

“Y-You said no going out,” Yandere mumbles, unable to speak louder, “And n-no dojo training.”

There’s a long pause. Dr. Iplier sighs, but it’s not the exasperated sigh Yandere’s been waiting for. It’s short and angry, like the snorting breath of a bull.

“Did you think I was joking when I told you that? Did you think I wasn’t serious? Or maybe you thought I was telling you that for kicks, just so you’d be bored for the next month?”

“N-No…” Yandere whimpers, sinking deeper into the mattress. He hates this. He hates this so much.

“Are you sure? Because this keeps happening. You keep ignoring my post-op instructions and you keep ripping your stitches, and I keep having to fix it. I don’t know–” He breathes in, trying to calm himself. “I don’t know why you don’t listen to me. Do you take me less seriously as your doctor because I’m your father? Or is it the other way around?”

“No! Neither!!” Yandere cries, almost screams.

“Then what is it?” Dr. Iplier seethes. “Why does this happen every time? And why…” He breathes in again. “And why can’t I get you to stop?”

Yandere doesn’t answer. He can’t. He doesn’t know what to say. There’s tears in his eyes but he begs himself not to cry, not now.

“Yandereplier,” Dr. Iplier begins, and Yandere flinches because he can’t remember the last time Dr. Iplier used his full name, “How much time do you think you had left when Dark brought you here?”

So it was Dark who got him to the clinic. He must’ve heard Yandere’s cry of pain. Yandere feels guilt twist deeper into his gut knowing that Dark had to see him so hurt. He wonders if Dark is as mad at him as Dr. Iplier is. He pushes the thought out of his mind as he addresses Dr. Iplier’s question.

“Like…an hour?” Yandere asks, voice shaky.

“Twenty minutes.” Dr. Iplier enunciates every syllable. “When I laid eyes on you, you had twenty minutes left to live. I thought, “This is it. This is the day I lose my son.” I fought tooth and nail to keep you alive. And then I realized: This is only going to happen again. Maybe not as bad, but this’ll happen again. Hell, I thought, maybe you’ll even rip these stitches again, and god knows you barely survived it the first time.” He looks away. “I can deal with you being violent. I can deal with you being reckless and going to unsafe places and starting fights. I can deal with you being an adrenaline junkie. But I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with you sabotaging your own recovery. I can’t deal with the idea that you’re always at risk, always in danger, even when you’re at home and I’ve told you to be careful, and you’ve promised me to my face that you would be.”

There’s a long pause as Dr. Iplier finds the strength to look at Yandere again. As much as Yandere didn’t want to meet his eyes before, this is almost worse. Finally, Dr. Iplier looks at Yandere, and his eyes are shining.

“I think,” Dr. Iplier begins, with a shaky breath, “That maybe you’re starting to take me for granted. And don’t get me wrong; I’d rather you feel confident that I’ll help you when you need it than you feel like a burden and like you’re bothering me. I’m glad that all my reassurances that I care about you and want to take care of you are sticking. But Yandere, it’s not easy. You don’t make it easy.” He runs a hand down his face like he’s trying to keep himself from crying. “Every time I see you on my table it hurts. It hurts me, and I know it hurts the rest of us, too. And like I said, I know you can’t help how much you like to take risks. I understand that you’re going to get into fights and get hurt. I understand that accidents happen. But this?” He gestures around himself, at the room, at the whole situation. “This did not have to happen. This was not inevitable. This was not an accident. This was you being irresponsible and thoughtless. You understand that you can rely on me to help you, but I don’t think you’ve internalized what that means.” He reaches out and takes Yandere’s hand, squeezing it before continuing. “It means that I love you, and that I want you to be safe. I want you to take care of yourself, and so does everyone else in this building who loves you.” He stares at Yandere, no longer with anger, but with deep, earnest love. “I love you unconditionally, and that’s why I always fix you, and that’s why I tell you to take it easy when you’re hurt. Because I don’t want you to be hurt. You deserve to be safe and healthy.”

Yandere doesn’t know when tears started falling, but try as he might, he can’t get them to stop. Dr. Iplier’s right, he’s right, and Yandere can’t believe he was ever so selfish.

“I’m s-sorry,” he sobs, “Papa, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I w-wasn’t thinking…”

“I know,” Dr. Iplier tells him. He squeezes Yandere’s hand again. “I know you’re sorry, sweetheart. But “sorry” doesn’t mean anything if this happens again next time you get hurt.” He leans closer to Yandere, and tears start to fall from his eyes, too. “Can you think about this next time? Can you remember this next time you want to ignore my post-op instructions?”

Yandere nods, speechless with tears. He holds out his free hand, begging for a hug. Dr. Iplier gets up from his chair to sit on Yandre’s bed and hug him gently, avoiding his injured side. Yandere twists his hands into Dr. Iplier’s lab coat as Dr. Iplier strokes his hair. He peppers Yandere’s cheeks with kisses, shushing him and whispering sweet, gentle words into his ear.

“I’m sorry I made you cry, honeybee,” he murmurs, “This conversation was hard for me, too. I love you so, so much, and I always will.” He pauses, then speaks with a small amount of humor. “Even if you rip your stitches again someday.”

“I love you too,” Yandere whimpers into Dr. Iplier’s shoulder. “I’ll be careful n-next time, and from now on, I p-promise.”

“Good,” Dr. Iplier says, kissing the top of his head. “When you feel better, I can let the others know you’re awake. I know they’ll be happy to hear it, and they’ll definitely want to see you.”

Yandere nods. He does want to see his other loved ones when he has more composure. But for now, he’s perfectly content to stay like this, wrapped up in his father’s arms.

Yandere is a lot of things, but he was not careful, and he hasn’t been careful. But maybe, with time, he will be.

[alphabetaus]

Ghost AUs

Honestly, I came to this house because I heard it was haunted. I was expecting some sort of badass, home-wrecking ghost that would scare the little shit out of me. I wasn’t expecting the ghost to offer me some tea or a house tour, that’s for sure. 

You keep asking what my vengeance was that made me a ghost, and I’m too embarrassed to tell you that my unfinished business was I didn’t know how the last season of Supernatural/RuPaul’s Drag Race/Grey’s Anatomy ended. I didn’t have a lot going on in my life when I died ok.

(alternatively) “You’re such a dick! That was my favourite vase!” “That’s what you get for spoiling my favourite show.” “That show aired like fifteen years ago!” “STILL. I died happy with the ending and you ruined that!!”

We’re best friends and we died at the same time so we’re stuck with each other for the rest of eternity. We’re gonna be the coolest ghost duo out there.

”Is there anyone here who wants to talk to us?” “Do you know the wifi password?” “Y-You heard that right, that wasn’t just me?” “Seriously, what’s the wifi password?”

Millenial ghosts are the worst.

Listen, I’m really tired, so how about you just leave the house because I asked you, instead of me having to show up in your dreams and drive you to the brink of insanity.

You’re a ghosthunter and honestly, you tried contacting me but all you heard was me giggling because you have a fucking vacuum on your back. I’m sorry, but did you seriously think that that works?

“HaHAH! I’m a ghost! I’m scary! Get spooked!” “Dude, you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

How the fuck am I meant to scare them now?

Some people seem to forget that if someone dies from being impaled/stabbed/shot etc. the thing that killed them stays in them?? And honestly, do you know how much this shit hurts, it’s so difficult to sleep with this in me!!?? NO, YOU CAN”T TOUCH IT DON’T EVEN TRY —

I used to be a ghost hunter and I turned into a ghost when I died; do you know how ironic that is?

And also it’s made me realise that I wasted such a large portion of my life hunting ghosts because ghosts don’t even care anymore, they’re just fucking with everybody and nothing is consistent.

Sometimes, I touch something and it disappears. I can’t control it and I feel really bad because I don’t know how to break it to you that your favourite necklace went missing because I touched it. 

I live with a really stubborn ghost and it’s so difficult to not have arguments with them because they’re literally the biggest dick ever, I’ve had to start nailing all my precious valuables to the floor because they keep shaking the house everytime we fight.

We got in a massive argument once and I came home to find all my broken valuables carefully rebuilt and a ghost puppy waiting for me in my room. Ok, maybe you’re nicer than you look.

The neighbours asked one time if I had any roommates and I said no and they just looked really confused because they can always hear me shouting or talking to someone. Yeah, my neighbours think I’m crazy now, so thanks for that.

We’ve been arguing for a solid hour about whether Amelia Earheart actually died when the plane supposedly crashed; I don’t care if you met her one time when you were in purgatory. That doesn’t make a difference!

My ghost is really temperamental so I sometimes just scream “FUCK OFF” at it really loudly. It quietens down after that.

Hey, that was a bit rude. I’m just trying to do my job.

I’ve become so used to all the weird shit that happens in my house that when I invited people over and you were just throwing books around in the hallway, I completely forgot that they aren’t used to it like I am and now they just ran out of the house screaming. 

Can’t you just keep your shit together for when my friends are over?

Stop possessing me to find out all my secrets, that’s a real invasion of privacy. And also a really awkward way to find out about what I think of you.

You talk aloud a lot about your problems and troubles, so honestly, I’m a bit surprised that you were so scared when I responded? Isn’t that what you wanted?

“You’re a terrible houseguest.” “You’re a terrible houseowner.”

You’re really upfront about my fashion choices and it turns out that you’re just trying to save me from an eternity of hating your outfit choice. I would not want to die wearing your outfit because leg warmers??? Really?? 

I can never find anything in this house because you’re always hiding my stuff in random places and at first, it was cute, but now I can’t find this really sentimental object and it’s making me really upset. 

Stop touching my stuff, this isn’t funny. I thought I’d lost it.

Stop walking through me! It’s the weirdest shit ever and makes my intestines all cold and you start vibrating and shit, it’s just uncomfortable for you and me.

“Oh, that was probably just the wind.” “The wind? THE WIND??? Bitch, I’ll show you wind!!”

You’re a ghost and you scared me so much that I died and I literally rose out of the floor two minutes later as a ghost, now we’re stuck together for eternity and now that I’m a ghost I’m gonna beat your ass.

Listen, I know you’re mad (about what I have no idea) but can you just like.... chill for a second so I can walk into the kitchen and grab some snacks without having plates and mugs chucked at me and on the floor.

I thought you were gonna be a scary ghost but you just started like, tapdancing next to me because you thought I couldn’t see you. Is this what ghosts do to amuse themselves?

I’m the only one that’s been able to see you and it’s blowing your tiny ghost mind. Now, you’re asking me a bunch of questions, shouldn’t I be asking you the questions?

CAN YOU NOT POSSESS DOLLS PLEASE IT”S NOT FUNNY AND IT”S JUST A DICK MOVE AND SCARES THE HECK OUT OF ME EVERY TIME

You’re a young, Victorian era ghost, so I’m teaching you slang and stuff and how society is nowadays. and I said ‘trousers’ and you just like, gasped so loudly because apparently, that was really rude in Victorian times. 

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[mybleachedsoul]

Becoming who we were meant to be - Chapter 1 

My current multi-chaptered ichiruki fic. It’s always available on fanfiction.net if you want to read ahead, but I thought I’d post the first chapter here because we’re in desperate need of some pure IR content in the middle of this whole mess with the origos (sigh). Anyway here it is!

                                             1: Not a good day to die

Ichigo Kurosaki juggles with the pile of textbooks in his hands in a desperate attempt to regain balance and keep the tower standing. He thinks he’s succeeded, until one textbook falls literally in his face, making the rest of the textbook-tower crumble miserably on the ground. Ishida Uryu instantly becomes disappointed in his own lack of logical thinking. Really, he should’ve seen this coming long enough to be able to pull out his cellphone and film it. That would’ve made a great slow-motion montage, he thinks with regret.

“Fucking hell,” Ichigo cusses, staring at the mess he’d made around his feet.

“I would say nice going Kurosaki but honestly I’m not even surprised by your lack of grace anymore,” Uryu hides the amusement that was tickling his lips and pushes his glasses up on his nose.

Ichigo groans in animalistic irritation and bends his knees to start picking up his books, one by one. “Thanks a lot, asshole. Why don’t you help me pick these up instead of bragging like a goddamn princess?”

Uryu puffs air out of his mouth. “Well, since you always insist on the fact that you do not need my help, I’m gonna respectfully decline the offer, thanks.” He puts his hands in his pockets as he looks down at Ichigo.

Ichigo’s eyebrow pops. “Right when I was beginning to think you could do something besides knitting and sewing like a woman…” he mumbles to his friend, carefully getting up with a revisited textbook tower in his arms.

Uryu squints his eyes. He is about to retort when Kurosaki opens his trap again.

“Oh, and while we’re at it,” Ichigo says as he picks up his walking. “Thank you for letting me spend nearly a thousand-fucking-dollars on fancy ass textbooks when you already have all of them peacefully accumulating dust in your dorm room.”

Uryu catches up with him, frown growing heavier by the second. “I need mine in perfect condition, and as you can so clearly see, Kurosaki, you cannot be trusted with such value.”

Ichigo scowls deeply, walking even faster now in the hope of out-running Ishida. Honestly it could easily be possible; the man has the stamina of a morbidly obese Dachshund. Ichigo genuinely wonders how he ever could’ve considered bringing Ishida for his textbook shopping as something other than a terribly bad idea.

Sure, he had decided to change his major at the last minute. Sure, he didn’t know anyone to guide him through this other than four-eyes over here, and sure, maybe he had absolutely no idea what to expect of this medicine program but what the hell, he would’ve been perfectly fine figuring this out on his own.

After all, he’d been accepted into the program with his own grades, hadn’t he?

Not to forget the two years he had spent studying law.

Shit, what a mistake that had been.

The law program had seemed like a decent idea at the time. After spending a year working a part-time job and coaching Karin’s soccer team straight after high school, his dad had urged him to find something he wanted to study. Anything, he said, as long as Ichigo was living his life to the fullest.

And so, he chose law. If he’s being honest, Ichigo still isn’t quite sure why he first chose to go into law major. Perhaps it had been the integrity of it all, or the fact that he felt like, as a lawyer, he would be able to change things for the better. He seemed hopeful, and his dad was proud, though he didn’t say it out loud.

Might’ve been a perfect plan, had it not been so excruciatingly boring.

Reading after reading after reading. Paragraph following paragraph, following another paragraph. It never stopped. He might’ve been able to keep good grades, but for those two years of his life, he had never felt so severely bored and out of place. The only moments of peace he got were when Rukia or Renji showed up, about every month or so, and they would go slay a couple of hollows (a great way to relieve stress, by the way) or just hang out in his dorm or, on a few occasions, in Karakura town.

Ichigo suddenly gets dragged out of his thoughts when they finally reach his new dorm room, one he shares with a complete stranger; a nerdy and shy looking kid.

He throws his keys to Ishida, gesturing for him to unlock the door as he himself is busy carrying the mountain of books, which by the way, weighs a shit ton more than one would think.

As the door finally opens Ichigo barges in and drops all of his ridiculously new and expensive books on the couch. “Fucking finally,” he breathes out in relief.

Ishida comes in, slowly, and looks around. “So, this is your new dorm, huh. Where’s the roommate?”

“Uh, gone I guess.” Ichigo answers. “I only met him once.” He then turns his attention back to his books, beginning to sort them out. Anatomy and Physiology I & II, Diagnostics, Pathology, Pharmacology…and more, way more. How can one need so many books for the very first semester?

“Kurosaki,” Ishida’s voice resonates in the unfortunately small room. There’s a serious tone to it but then again, Ishida is always serious.

“What?” Ichigo snaps at him, but doesn’t turn to make eye-contact.

Ishida doesn’t answer right away, as if hesitating with the choice of words. He wonders if he should even mention it at all, but the words are leaving his mouth before he can stop himself and it’s too late.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

Ichigo stops, just for a moment, then resumes sorting out what he just bought. “Couldn’t have asked me that before I pissed away the content of my bank account?” He asks and Ishida knows there’s no seriousness in his voice, as if this isn’t one of the biggest decisions of his life.

“I’m serious Ichigo,” he continues. “Do you really want to throw yourself in medicine, after telling me again and again how tired you were of studying for your law classes? This program might be even more time-consuming and-“

“You don’t think I know that?” Ichigo cuts his friend suddenly as he swings around 90 degrees, looking at him straight in the eyes. “I don’t know if this is for me, Ishida, but I won’t know until I try.”

Uryu frowns, but barely. “Obviously. I just thought, to be honest, that when you dropped your law major, it was to accept the Seireitei’s offer.”

Ah.

There it is, Ichigo thinks.

Both men stare at each other for a few, weirdly quiet seconds, before Ichigo drops his eyes and sighs heavily. “That was one year ago, Ishida. And I still have no answer to their question,” he replies and doesn’t look at his friend, because he simply cannot.

One year ago, he got a proposal indeed.

The Seireitei were looking for something to add to their forces, to make Soul Society stronger; a way to assure it would never again risk collapsing into nothingness. And they found one. Some were against it, some didn’t think it would be wise, or even enough of an addition to actually strengthen the Gotei 13, but in the end, the Central 46 voted for the project to pass. A project in which they were planning on creating a 14th Division. And obviously, that meant they needed a captain, before anything else.

Apparently, they couldn’t come up with anyone better than him for the job.

Believe it or not.

Anyway, when Rukia and Ukitake-taichou showed up at his doorstep with the proposition, needless to say he was confused, speechless, angry and relieved, all at the same time. He was told to reflect on it, but no matter how many days he’d spent analyzing every single aspect over and over, he only had one and only answer in head, if it even counted as one. His time living in the human world wasn’t over, in fact it was far from being over. He wanted to experience it; live life the way his mom would’ve wanted him to. Soul Society would always be waiting, would something ever happen to him.

He just couldn’t give up on living.

At least not yet.

Rukia understood. Of course, he knew she would. She had always been the one to encourage him to live his life the way he was supposed to; as a human being. And when he’d been talking about it with her, on the Kurosaki residence rooftop, he saw something in her eyes. Something she never allowed the world to see but for a splint of a second, let him witness.

He was human, and he was also Shinigami. He still had the choice to decide which one of those lives he wanted to live. He could even choose to keep living in balance between the two. But Rukia never got to choose. So, when he told her he couldn’t accept, at least not just yet, what else could she do but understand?

The sharp ring of his cell phone pulls him out of his thoughts like a bucket of freezing water thrown in his face.

He sighs, roughly, searches for his phone in his pocket and opens it one quick motion of exasperation. He doesn’t even look for the ID before answering with a not-too-pleased “Hello?”

“Ichigo,” he hears his dad’s low voice on the other line.

“Dad? What’s up,” he asks, turning away from Ishida.

Silence.

“Dad?” he asks again, and feels a twinge of anxiety begin to form in the pit of his stomach. His dad rarely calls him, and when he does he’s yelling his name in his usual craziness, not staying silent.

“Dad,” he says suddenly and louder than before. “What is it?”

“Son, you better come home. You sister…” Isshin sighs, and the heaviness in his voice is clear, and it makes Ichigo’s heart beat fast as he feels cold sweat beginning to form on his back. “Karin… She was in a car accident. It’s bad, Ichigo.”

No.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Ichigo’s heart stops and he can’t tell if his lungs are still functioning. He doesn’t- What should he- What the hell happened- No- He can’t-

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” his mouth moves on its own and he hangs up the phone before he can hear another word from his father.

He immediately turns around and, checking for his wallet in his pocket, slides out of the room. “Ichigo, wait. What’s going on? Ichigo!” he hears Ishida ask behind him but he can’t answer, and instead, starts running, his legs numb as he heads straight for the train station.

The ER smells like isopropyl alcohol and needles when Ichigo flashes through the automatic doors of Karakura General Hospital. It’s been about two hours since he hung up the phone, back in his dorm room, and hasn’t gotten any news since, except for one text from his dad, telling him they are in room E-15.

Ichigo stops at a reception desk and hears himself asking for room E-15. The lady mumbles and points, and then once again his feet are moving, fast, and his heart pumps hard, filling and hitting his ears.

He passes by many hallways, then catches a thick black E-0 out of the corner of his eyes. He practically runs. E-1…E-3…E-5…E-7…E-9…E-11…E-13… He looks in front of him and-

Thump.

His dad is sitting on a chair in the hallway. His head is low, too low, and his shoulders are slumped down in resignation.

Thump.

He hears someone crying, sobbing, in the room facing his dad, and Ichigo realizes- It’s Yuzu.

Thump.

His father’s arm is resting on his knee, and his hand is curved upwards, as if holding someone’s hand. Ichigo raises his eyes.

Thump.

Karin Kurosaki, standing in front of her father, holds her hand in his own. There are traces of tears on her face and…

…a broken chain anchored in her chest.

Thump.

This isn’t happening, is the only thing Ichigo can think right now. He thinks his legs have given in, but somehow he’s still standing. His ears ring, in a piercingly low frequency. He takes a step forward and his dad lifts his head up just as Karin’s turns, and just like that both of them are looking at him, only…Karin’s eyes are no longer alive.

This isn’t happening. Ichigo feels like screaming and vomiting at the same time, but he cannot speak. Karin smiles at him through her pain, just as another tear falls down her cheek.

“Karin,” he murmurs, and his voice is dry.

He sees her lower lip tremble but she keeps her smile on, as if it’s the only thing preventing her from breaking. He hears another cry, then sees Yuzu come out of a room, room E-15, eyes heavy with tears and misery. “Ichigo,” he hears Yuzu’s voice crack and she runs into his arms, hugging him tight as she sobs, louder and louder.

Ichigo holds his baby sister, the sight of room E-15 finally filling his view and he realizes; he’s too late. There, in a hospital bed lies Karin Kurosaki’s lifeless body.

“She’s hasn’t left her bedside in over three hours,” his voice is hoarse and he basically whispers the words, wind blowing in his face as he stands on a platform outside of the hospital.

“She can only see the edges of her shape, Ichigo. Her reiatsu hasn’t grown since she was eleven.”

Ichigo looks down, and slowly shakes his head. “She’s never going to recover from this, dad.”

Isshin Kurosaki puts his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re wrong,” he says. “She will recover, because she knows Karin is not gone.”

Ichigo jerks his father’s hand away. “The human her is,” he says, and he can’t help how sour and raspy he sounds.

Isshin’s eyes soften. “Again, Ichigo, you’re wrong.”

Ichigo grits his teeth. This is unfair, so unfair. He imagines pulling on a brick until it breaks out of place and smashing it on the wall. He sighs abruptly, trying not to give in to anger.

“Did you call Urahara?” he suddenly asks his father.

The man keeps quiet, then shakes his head. “I was waiting for you,” he answers.

Ichigo rubs his eyes with two of his fingers. “Do it. Tell him to send a hell butterfly to Rukia,” he tells Isshin, turning around and entering the hospital building.

Isshin stares at his son’s retrieving figure until he is no longer in sight. He sighs silently and turns back to rest his arms on the metallic fence, eyes looking at the town’s horizon. The sky is charcoal grey and the sun’s almost completely set. He pulls his phone out of his pants pocket and dials.

It picks up after the second ring. “Kisuke,” he says. “It’s me.”

Rukia Kuchiki is sitting at her desk in the 13th Division headquarters, squinting and straining her eyes in her last attempt to read yesterday’s surveillance report. What kind of idiot would write in such an immature and deconstructed hand-writing? As she throws the paper away in frustration, she makes a mental note to find out who those initials belong to. If she can even make out the letters.

“Kuchiki-fukutaichou,” her squad’s ninth seat calls out and slides the door open.

“What is it,” she says coldly. How some people still enter an officer’s room without waiting for permission first is absolutely beyond her. Byakuya would never let something like this slide twice, she thinks.

“A hell butterfly arrived for you, from Urahara-san,” her subordinate tells her and she turns her head to look at him, but only briefly.

“Fine,” Rukia answers. “I’ll look at it once I’m done here.”

“I-It says it’s urgent,” the boy speaks again and this time, when Rukia looks at him her eyes have changed.

After passing through the Senkaimon, Rukia stops and feels for Ichigo’s reiatsu. He’s never been good at controlling his spiritual energy and right now, with what’s happening to his family, she knows it must be all over the place.

She closes her eyes for no more than a few seconds before she finds it and interiorly grabs that distinctive red thread with her hand. She uses shunpo to move, as fast as she can, again and again until she knows he’s close, and suddenly her feet are touching grass and she’s standing in a forest.

“Rukia,” she hears Ichigo murmur her name and she turns around. She meets his gaze, and lets out a breath as she instantly recognizes what she sees in his eyes. His amber eyes, usually so bright and vivid, are now faded into emptiness. Sober of the fire that makes them so driven and alive. With just one look she knows; he is defeated.

Therefore, she looks back at him, silently communicating in a sea of regret and understanding. This is the only way she can let him know. I’m here for you. For all of you.

Rukia walks foward and notices Isshin and Yuzu, a few feet behind Ichigo. She can practically hear Isshin’s gratitude emanating from the look he gives her, soundlessly saying Thank you. Rukia stays silent. Yuzu is clinging to her father as if her legs can no longer hold her weight. She isn’t looking towards her, in fact she isn’t looking at anything, and the expression on her face seems dazed and disconsolate. Rukia can only begin to imagine…what sort of pain she is going through.

That’s when she finally sees, away on the other side of a tree, Karin’s wandering soul. She’s already looking at her with her arms crossed on her chest and the attempt of a smile on her lips, as if trying to lessen the heaviness of the situation.

“Rukia,” Ichigo speaks her name again, breaking the silence. “I’ll do it,” he says and she doesn’t need anything more to know he’s talking about Konso. She turns to look at him and notices he is in his Shinigami attire; not in his human body. She nods and he continues. “Karin and I just had questions first.”

“Anything,” Rukia answers, turning back to nod at Karin.

Ichigo walks a few steps forward until once again, he enters her field of vision. “She’ll be sent to Rukongai,” he says as a statement. “There’s absolutely no way to know exactly where, right?” he asks and he already knows the answer, but can’t help asking anyway.

Rukia looks down, but barely for a second. “Unfortunately, no,” she turns to Karin. “Once we proceed with Konso, the soul finds its way to Rukongai, but the district is completely random.”

Karin nods, and somehow manages to pull up the strength to look at her brother with certitude. “I’ll be fine, Ichigo.”

He sighs harshly in response. “You don’t understand, Karin. Rukongai is made of 340 districts divided into four sections. If you somehow find yourself stuck in the lower ones, you’ll have to fight for your life.”

Karin’s pupils constrict. “I know, Ichigo. I’m not eleven anymore, and I’m in shape. I told you, I’ll be fine.”

Fuck, Ichigo almost hisses but manages to keep it in.

“Your reiatsu is high, compared to the average soul in Rukongai,” Rukia cuts in just in time. “We’ll have soldiers looking for you as much as possible.”

“I’m going too,” Ichigo adds. “I know how your reiatsu feels like, Karin. I might be able to find you faster.”

For a second Rukia thinks Karin is about to open her mouth, but she stops and nods instead.

“Will I…” Karin whispers, and Rukia notices she is now hugging her arms. “Will I remember…” She doesn’t finish her sentence but it isn’t necessary. Will I remember my life? Will I remember who I am? The words echo in her head.

“Some don’t,” Rukia answers in a low voice, eyes fixated on the ground. She swallows and for a moment, remains silent. She lifts her eyes back up and this time her voice is louder. “But some do.” She doesn’t say anything more. She knows, for Ichigo and his family, that the possibility hurts too much to even consider.

“Dad, what’s going on? I can barely hear anything…” Rukia suddenly hears Yuzu’s small voice and feels chills going down her spine at the desolation of it. She turns around slightly, and meets Isshin’s eyes. “It’s okay, honey,” he tells his daughter. “They’re just talking.”  

“How long has it been?” Rukia suddenly asks Ichigo.

He frowns slightly, most likely out of habit. “A few hours,” he answers. “Hollows have already felt her spiritual pressure, I had to kill two of them.”

Rukia nods slowly. “We shouldn’t wait too long before it draws out more,” she murmurs, and Ichigo knows she’s right.

They both look towards Isshin, to which he nods once. “It’s time, Yuzu.”

“I need to talk to her, just the two of us,” the blonde chokes out, wiping away a few tears that escaped. “Even if I can’t hear her that’s okay, she just has to listen to what I say.”

Karin takes a painful breath in before the twins move away from them, over to a quiet and hidden place behind a few trees. Karin puts her hand in her sister’s hand, even though Yuzu cannot see it.

“Ichigo,” Isshin speaks after making sure his daughters are out of sight. “Once you find her, come back and we’ll-“

“I’m not coming back,” Ichigo interrupts his father. When Isshin stares at him with wide eyes, he grits his teeth and continues. “No way in hell I’m leaving her alone over there.”

“Ichigo…” Rukia whispers but Ichigo yet again steps in.

“Don’t. I’m telling you, both of you, I’m not leaving her alone. I’ll figure something out.”

They both give in to silence. Really, Rukia knows there’s nothing she can say or do that’ll get to him. And his father probably knows that too, which is why all he does is sigh and nod as he closes his eyes.

The twins come back, Karin walking silently behind Yuzu, traces of tears down her cheeks. How unimaginably agonizing it must be not to be able to say goodbye to the one person you have shared everything with… Rukia swallows and feels her chest squeeze and she’s hurting, so much so for these people she has grown to know like a part of her family.

Karin walks in front of her father and hugs him. “I love you, dad. Please take good care of her… And tell her how much I love her,” she says, then smiles at him. “Tell her not to worry about me, I’ll be okay.”

Isshin smiles back, wrinkles appearing at the crease of his eyes. “I know you will,” he answers. “I’m proud of you, Karin. And your mom would be too.” He hugs her once more before releasing her and a few moments later, Karin is standing in front of Ichigo and Rukia. Her eyes expose her fear, but also a strong and striking fire of confidence, one Rukia is so used to seeing in Ichigo.

“I’m ready,” the twin whispers.

Rukia opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s so much she wants to say, but she can’t. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Karin… Somehow this feels like it is neither the time or the place, and before she knows it, Ichigo’s zanpakuto is in his hands and his hilt is brought lower and lower, very slowly, until it is completely facing Karin.

Ichigo swallows with difficulty, but smiles down at his sister. “See you soon, baby sis.”

Karin smirks at him. “I’ll be waiting.”

Ichigo brings Zangetsu’s hilt closer until it touches Karin’s forehead, and she closes her eyes at the contact, smile somehow still on her lips. A white light appears, originating from the contact, and increases in size, radiating all around Karin’s body. It lasts a few seconds before the light dies down and Karin is gone.

Rukia’s eyes are low, and she feels cold. Ichigo’s name is threatening to come out of her lips, and she wants to reach out her hand to touch his arm because it’s really the only she can let him know she’s still there, supporting him. She doesn’t speak, and when she moves to look at him, he’s already placing his zanpakuto at its usual place against his back.

“Let’s go,” he simply says.

Rukia blinks and regains her focus. She walks a few feet ahead and opens up a new Senkaimon. The wooden doors open, slowly, and she feels Ichigo’s presence getting closer.

“Don’t worry dad,” she hears him speak and there’s a determination she knows by heart. “I’ll find her.”

Isshin grins. “I know you will, son.”

Rukia waits until Ichigo turns and he looks at her, nodding. She nods back, and together, they walk through the gates. Gates leading them right into Soul Society. 

CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE READING THE NEXT CHAPTER

[kenmaiii]

stop being jealous and bitter!

Now i know you cant outright just throw away your jealousy in the art community. You see a really cool popular artist or just someone with absolutely amzing art and you think “wow holy shit their art is so good i wish that was me and that i could do that....” I understand that spite can be a good thing sometimes; it can be what motivates you to improve and do well, especially if the artist is well... not the best person in terms of personality. Great, that’s even more motivation to do well right!? 

But when does all the comparing go too far?

----------------------------------------long post incoming------------------------------------------

Now i’ve had people very close to me do this. I’ve been told that im ‘popular’ which im honestly not seriously. They could probably be reading this right now, but this has been bothering me for awhile so i must get this out there. Let’s step into a certain mindset for a moment:-

You hate your artwork. You hate your current skills. Sure there are artists you like. But then there are ‘THOSE’ ones. You have very specific artists you follow just because theyre so good and popular they make you feel bitter and you still check up on them regularly to fuel that bitterness. You know good and well that they make you bitter and angry and peeved but you just keep going back.

Step back for a moment and think.... why on earth am i fucking doing this???? Comparing and feeling bitter about another persons skill or popularity and letting yourself stay sad and bitter isn’t good for ANYTHING, art aside. It’s good to want to feel validated at the work you spent time on but it WILL get tiring if you keep complaining that ‘your art is bad’, ‘your art isnt good’, ‘its shit’ or ‘garbage’. Your brain is just internalizing that and hindering your work and future improvement. It’s most importantly WASTING YOUR own time, YOU the creator. And not to sound snobby here, i really truly dont intend for that, but some of you know good and well that you keep belitting you work because you only just want people to compliment your art when youre only doing the bare minimum to improve! I can only tell you as a friend or an on-looker that i love your art so many times (as much i really do love it and hope for your improvement) if you continuously decide to still turn around and say you hate your work and tell me im wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!! Why reach for compliments then! Why continuously turn them down?

And i’m not saying you cant ever not like your art (cause it happens) or decline a compliment, but to do it every single time....it leaves a bad image for your work. You either start to believe it, or the person complimenting you will get put off from your negativity!  

It makes people feel bad, especially if theyre also artist AND also your friends. You can’t keep saying you prefer their work and still put down your own. It makes your artist friend uncomfortable. They might not know how to respond when you keep doing it. And im sure they wouldnt want you to keep making yourself feel bad. Personally, i wish all my art friends success and improvement, and i want them to love and feel proud of their work more than the times they hate it. We really need to uplift each other as artists.

Thanks.

What you think and say is what you become and if youre always negative and comparing youre gonna tear down both the person you admire and yourself. Ie, if youre constantly thinking ‘ill never be as good as this person’,’no ones ever gonna like my work’, ‘i cant color as well as they do’ or saying that your work is only ever garbage... newsflash asshole! your mind absorbs that negativity and makes you believe it! u fool!!!!! Because brains are stupid and can be your worst enemy at times! 

Sometimes you just need to stOP looking at certain peoples work completely if it gets you that bitter or angry or sad. Unfollow them! Block them! Delete their name from your search history if you have to! Stop hurting yourself and forget about them, it’s like trying to think about an ex thats moved on. Pointless.

Negative emotions such as sadness and anger are our brains direct ways at trying to reach out to ourselves.

You: seeing cool art Your mind: remembering you dont have some of those skills or popularity + comparing = sadness/ anger/ bitterness at not being able to be at that lvl withtin the same timeframe or less

Your brain is trying to tell you to fix this! But you know you might not have the tools to gain that much popularity or become so good at anatomy, coloring , compositions or backgrounds overnight, so the only solution for your brain is to self-sabotage.

It’s just the same as suddenly feeling sad for no reason. It’s your mind trying to work out a problem you never resolved. Maybe your friends haven’t replied in awhile and you feel ignored. Or you subconsciously remembered a bad experience without really realizing. You’ll get sad. Your mind is is saying ‘Hey asshole im sad. I know it might be out of your control but I’ll stay sad about this one thing until you resolve it somehow. ’ (whether it be blindly distracting yourself on purpose or fully wallowing in the feelings)

So we realized youre feeling intensely about this persons work vs your own...then what exactly happened there? The answer is pretty simple. Some kind of information processing happened in your brain. The result of this processing made the your mind conclude that one of your existing problems (art in this case) can never be solved; whether conscious or unconscious, and this explains why your mood might change all of a sudden without any kind of warning signs (in relation to what you saw). 

Inspired VS Jealousy When youre inspired youre working against yourself in a GOOD way. You’re feeling motivated to make something great! Youre feeling motivated to make something better than the last piece!! And honestly thats wonderful!!!  That is a lot nicer than being in art-block, comparison negativity hell.

YOU are the only one responsible for where you are as an artist. That goes towards every artist of every skill level! There’s always someone better than you and there’s always someone worse than you. People get better at art in different intervals depending on how much they take in or put into practicing. Some people just get some concepts and fundamentals a lot easier and quicker than others but that doesn’t mean they naturally had that ability from birth. They put in the work just as you should be doing instead of feeling so intensely negative! But when you’re jealous and negative all the time, that’s when it starts to go downhill. :/

Jealously is a very human emotion at its core. And im not saying its super easy to deal with and just suddenly get over, but there are things you can do to slowly help yourself do it at least a little less.

Here’s the best things you CAN do instead:- - Write down some of the things you find yourself feeling bitter over about, especially when you look at another artists work? Ask yourself why these specific things? If it’s something you yourself can work on in your own pieces then maybe uh do that?  - Find the time to practice your work. - Practice even more. - If it’s your style that you arent happy with think of the artstyles you like and set aside time to mimic the way that artist might draw something (hence adding that to YOUR style). Take a sketchbook page or two and just draw entirely in those styles. - Practice. I can’t stress this enough. I know artists say this a lot and it can kind of just be thrown around carelessly, but if you keep putting this off and saying you don’t want to practice or talking about how time is going by when you should be practicing things.... and STILL refuse to practice then???? I cant help you sorry. Time waits for no one, so sometimes you need to grab time by the horns and kick its ass for awhile. Put in that effort! - Please use references. Even better if you use it nearly EVERYTIME you draw something, especially yknow...if its a pose, body part or background that you know you have no idea how to properly express! Find a stock image or a variety of websites to use! Save poses that you like from online magazines, other artists and photographs you see anywhere online. I like to look at online magazines from other countries or photographers, and there are tons of places like pinterest or instagram and whatnot. - Stop comparing and being bitter. Ii cant say this enough it gets me so ticked off, but my stubborn taurus self refuses to fully go off until it all piles up and this post is the result lol. If you know you can’t let go hating on a certain artist (for no good reason) then dont hate-follow them! Don’t check up on their work constantly! Don’t even talk about them!!!!!!! Try to get them out of your head for goodness sakes. Majority of the time they dont even know who YOU are so why are you worried about what they’re up to. - STOP SHITTING ON YOUR OWN WORK. - STOP IT RIGHT NOW. - AS THE ARTIST SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO FORCE YOURSELF TO SAY ‘’hey, my work isn’t exactly where i want it to be at this point in time and it may never be but i can appreciate that i’ve gotten better at a lot of things and im better than where i was a few years/ a year/ a month ago/ even weeks ago.” - ”I’m proud of this piece and can’t wait to get even better.” - Art is a struggle that takes time, effort and a lot of work. There’s always going to be someone better than you and there’s always going to be someone worse than you. You can only strive to get to the level that would make you happiest, otherwise you will get irritated with it and feel absolutely miserable about everything you produce. - PUT IN THE WORK TO GET YOUR ART OUT THERE. Social media has been both a curse and a blessing to artists all around. It’s made it easier for us to share our work around and opened paths for making money online and at home and connecting with other artists, but competition grows everyday as more people post their work in the same market. (ie another reason why it can be hard to get your commissions out there) Also as artists we want that dopamine rush you get from people liking your stuff, i get that its gucci. -But if you aren’t tagging your works well, posting somewhat consistently, not really bothering to talk to people in certain art communities (even people in your fandom because hey potential friends and even partners on future projects), not adding your works to groups (a big problem i see with people on places like deviantart mostly), joining and sharing them in art group chats/aminos/discords, joining events to get yourself out there (such as zines/big bangs/gift exchanges etc), giving tips and advice or even little helpful tutorials to people then how do you expect to be noticed? How.  If youre not doing at least TWO of these things then hoW can you complain about not getting attention. :(

 Of course you dont have to do ALL of this. Im just saying ...if you arent out there advertising how will more people know about you? This leads to you thinking no one likes your art (skill level excluded because even my cringiest old art would have a few comments or encouragements to see my future improvement, and i still want to hide when people like/comment/reblog said old art to this very day). 

I understand mainly OC artists feel this way that no ones gonna like their characters, or it just doesnt get reblogged enough in general but thats understandable too. No one is ‘selling out’ if they only do fanart. No one is ‘snobby or scared to get themselves out there’ if theyre really enthusiastic about their stories and worlds. Otherwise we wouldnt have fandoms int he first place, theyre all someones work. And hell, good for you if you draw both. It really is just a matter of how you put yourself out there!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It’ll take some time but there IS always someone out there that likes your stuff. And sometimes you just have to be content with making work for yourself, work that makes you happy. The online art world is tough especially when youre small but once you fall into the depths of bitterness its hard to rewire your mind...

This is how yall should be looking at your/others work majority of the time: You: seeing cool art  Your mind: omg thats beautiful! i wish i could draw and paint like that. i should practice more , try out some poses and anatomy or implement what they do into my work. i wanna make a cool ass piece like this too i feel so pumped to draw and work!! 

And that’s that! Do yourself a favor and be happier you bastards! Its tiring being negative and sad all the time and i want tf out of it. Its so very tiring and annoying to be sad and bitter as shit!!!!! My goD

I can’t really think of anything else to add to this and the text may appear angry sometimes as i was very heated when i wrote this but tried to tone it down a lot hfkds. Im not some ‘art guru goddess with supreme skill uwuw’ but advice is advice! It’s always up to the person listening to take it or not.

I’m gonna end this with one of my favorite art quotes of all time from t h e Arin Hanson himself. Because it really is true. 

Get yourself out there, practice towards a level that makes you content and try to have more fun with loving your work.

It’s taken me a long while to post this, as i’ve been feeling this way for...at least a couple months??? but i finally put it all out there i just needed to do this lol.  Sorry if i mightve repeated info sometimes here and there?

This post is just as much of a call out to my own actions but more so @ those of you that specifically do this! 

[sloumate]

I think it’s time to do a recap of the whole year, isn't it? For me, 2017 has been such an intense year: i can say that i have experienced more things that i had ever experienced in my whole life, from the purest joy that came from studying abroad and having the chance to get to know many beautiful people, to overcome my limits and get out of the comfort zone which had always been a wall between me and the rest of the world, to the darkest pain that can only come from grief. As i always say, though, fics have been a safety blanket for me, they helped me through some really tough times and i am forever grateful for the authors that have decided to put their work out there for us all to enjoy. 

To all the authors i’m gonna mention in this post: thank you from the bottom of my heart. ♥

So, here are my favorite fics from this year (put in chronological order): 

{ 2016 list here / more fics here }

Stars and Boulevards by cherrystreet / @cherrystreet / 6k

They’d been friends for years, had known each other throughout middle school and into high school, meeting in a music class on a sticky September morning. They hit it off instantly, falling into one another immediately, never looking back. Their friendship was comfortable, genuine, safe, always there, achingly present and solid. Harry never felt uneasy confiding in Louis, their one year age gap making Louis somehow seem more worldly, more experienced, and even when Harry had to look down at Louis, he still looked up to him. They spent the quickly passing school years making each other’s homes their own, Harry’s mom calling Louis her honorary second son, Louis’ mom giving Harry a similar title, and everyone knew that if you wanted to find Harry, you had to find Louis first.

Like a boomerang by youwilll / 51k

AU in which Harry gets trapped in a lift, Louis gets stuck in a Wednesday, and it's always February 2nd. Until it isn't.

The End Should Be A Good One by bananasandboots / @anylessreal / 43k

The one where Harry loses the love of his life on New Years Eve and finds him again, six months later, ready to open some poorly-stitched wounds.

Shape of You by sincewewereeighteen / @downgoesanotherhero / 21k

The club isn't the best place to find a lover, but somehow they find each other.

Dance Like Warriors On A Battlefield by whoknows / @crazyupsetter / 20k

Down in the arena, the triumphant gladiator places his foot on the back of the loser, holding him there as he waits for instruction on his next move. Kill or let live. It’s barbaric, really, the bloodlust involved in this sport. Louis is pretty sure that if it wasn’t for his distaste for the killing there would be a lot more blood soaking that sand.

As it is, his father rarely gives the kill order anymore. He gives the order to let the loser live. Louis rolls his eyes, turning away. He doesn’t miss the way the gladiator’s eyes linger on him.

Tangled up in you by missandrogyny / @missandrogyny / 45k

Harry blinks once. And blinks again. And says, his voice dangerous: “Niall, did you get me a mail-order bride?” Because what the actual fuck. It kind of looks like Niall’s just purchased a person. For Harry. Niall blinks back at him for a few moments, before throwing his head back and howling with laughter. Harry throws a pillow at him. Hard. “No, what the fuck, Harry.” “A prostitute then?” Harry also doesn't want a prostitute. “Of course not!” “A stripper?” “No!” Damn, he’s running out of ideas. He settles for launching another pillow at Niall’s head. Niall bats it away easily, still laughing. “Stop!” “What did you get me, then?!” Niall must hear the tinge of hysteria in his voice, because he’s pulling himself together, trying to stop himself from laughing. There’s still a big grin on his face, though, when he says, “I got you a professional cuddler.” A professional…what. “What?”

Perfect Storm by cherrystreet / @cherrystreet / 80k

What do you do when your best friend asks you and your (now) ex to be the best men at his destination wedding? You can either tell him the truth, tell him you’re not together anymore, and deal with the consequences, or you can pretend you’re still together and roll with it, just pray you don’t spiral. Fake it ‘til you make it. You know, for the sake of the wedding.

Harry and Louis choose the latter.

All the Right Moves by cherrystreet / @cherrystreet / 32k

This is the third game in a row that Harry has been distracted by the noisy boy in the stands, five rows back.

There’s really no reason that he should feel compelled to stare into the audience as frequently as he is, but he can’t help it. This boy is a nuisance. And he’s loud. Even from basketball court with nine other players running by him, shoes squeaking on the shiny hardwood floor, and thousands of cheering college students, Harry can hear this boy nearly shrieking, his laugh more like a cackle than anything.

It’s seriously obnoxious.

Say Hallelujah, Say Goodnight by alivingfire / @alivingfire / 110k

Louis is an angel who is just a little too bad to be good, Harry is a demon who is just a little too good to be bad, and they're both a little too in love to be impartial when angels and demons go to war.

The Melody You Never Heard by bananasandboots / @anylessreal / 30k

The one where Harry gets roped into a four-day camping trip with the boy who kissed him and never called back.

Atlas At Last by louisandthealien / 83k

It’s 1978. Harry and Louis are just trying to get to San Fran in time for the Queen concert.

Pour Your Heart Out by hrrytomlinson / @hrrytomlinson / 92k

Louis is his soulmate. Or at least Harry thinks he is. Louis feels the same as Louis. But there are a lot of people named Louis in the world and this Louis might not be the Louis. It’s besides the point though, because Harry knows he can’t allow himself to get close to any boys. He just can’t and he’s told himself this multiple times. He has to simply stay away from Louis Tomlinson. But he can’t. Harry Styles can never stay away from Louis Tomlinson. It’s physically impossible for him to.

Show Me How The Fire Works by turnyourankle / 49k

The Styles-Twist holiday in the Catskills is supposed to be just that: a family holiday. A last hurrah before Harry relocates to the states for uni. Instead, it quickly devolves into a honeymoon for his parents, leaving Harry and Gemma to fend for themselves. Harry quickly befriends the staff at the resort, and is enticed by Louis, one of the dance instructors. Harry gets in over his head in an attempt to impress him, but with Gemma egging him on and a ticking clock, how could he not at least try?

Or, the Dirty Dancing AU no one asked for.

Rivers 'til i reach you by embodied / @crossnecklace / 29k

AU. Louis studies astronomy; Harry studies Louis. They spend their summers on the water and it shouldn't be complicated (spoiler: it is).

Got the sunshine on my shoulders by hattalove / @hattalove / 124k

five years ago, harry styles left his tiny home town to make it big as a recording artist. he didn't have much regard for what he left behind - a life, a family, and a husband, who woke up one morning to find him gone.

now, harry has everything he could possibly want: he's rich, famous, and adored by everyone he meets, including his boyfriend. but when said boyfriend proposes to him, he's forced to face the uncomfortable facts of his past - and louis, who's spent the last five years returning every set of divorce papers harry sent him.

(or, an au based on the movie sweet home alabama.)

Waiting On You by emma1234 / @lads-laddylads / 76k

“Vampires,” Louis says with disgust, glaring over at the vampire who is noisily slurping from the woman’s neck nearby.

Zayn gives the neat fang marks on Louis’ neck a meaningful look.

“Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” Louis finishes, ignoring Zayn when he rolls his eyes.

Louis takes a long sip of his milkshake, presses his fingers against the marks on his neck, and definitely doesn’t think about the vampire who left them there.

Above your head by deadspy / 57k

Space AU. Louis is an astronaut. Harry works for Mission Control. They don't get along.

Do Not Go Gentle by afirethatcannotdie / @afirethatcannotdie / 70k

When Harry Styles starts his first day as a surgical intern, he expects a lot of things: to treat patients, to observe a surgery, to feel a bit overwhelmed. What he definitely doesn't expect, however, is that the handsome guy he kicked out of his bed this morning is also an intern.

A Grey’s Anatomy AU where tensions are high, Harry and Louis are hooking up in secret, and no one has time for love. Or do they?

Through Eerie Chaos by MediaWhore / 102k

The Ghost Hunter AU where Niall lives to prove ghosts are real, Zayn is a skeptical librarian and Harry gets caught up in a century-old mystery and catches feeling in the process.

Back To You And Tennessee by rippedgloves / 57k

Louis Tomlinson rises to rock and roll fame at age twenty three and is thrown into a life of luxury and excess, but being on stage isn’t easy for a boy who has always stuck to the side-lines, and Louis struggles to deal with his new fame as he joins the Grand Ole Opry and is sent out on tour with names like Liam Payne and Elvis Presley. His life takes a turn, however, when his childhood role model, Harry Styles, joins them on tour, and the two become closer than two men in the spotlight are allowed to be.

-

OR, the one where Louis is Johnny Cash and Harry is June Carter

Barefoot in Blue Jeans by indiaalphawhiskey / 24k

AU. Louis Tomlinson is trying desperately hard not to fall for his son’s au pair, but he can’t, for the life of him, remember why.

The wonderlands by stylinsoncity / 150k

Harry's daughter, Andy, is signed to Louis' girl band. Her path to success is marked by competition, chaos, and for Harry, a love affair.

Sometime Around Midnight by cherrystreet / @cherrystreet / 3k

Louis is trying to get over his ex, and he thinks that paying their favourite band a visit might help bring him some closure.

He's wrong.

Paint Me In A Million Dreams by green_feelings / 110k

In short, Harry's in love with someone and doesn't care about dating anyone else, Louis never felt home in L.A., Liam writes love songs for someone he shouldn't write love songs to, and Niall makes everything better with good food.

It's a Better Place (Since You Came Along) by phdmama / 51k

When Harry Styles, a mid-level talent, Finder, and small business owner, sets off on the vacation of a lifetime with his best friend, Niall Horan, he has no idea the changes his life will undergo over the next nine days. He's got it all planned - there's going to be shore excursions, lounging by the pool on the deck of the luxurious cruise ship, not to mention margaritas. What he does not plan for are the new friends, new bonds, or the mystery from his past that comes back to haunt him, and he certainly hasn't planned for Louis.

Here, There, and Everywhere by harioandlouigi / 54k

Louis was in a rut. He was still living in the same small Texas town he’d hated all his life, he was about to graduate with a degree he’d never been interested in, and he was hooking up with a guy he didn’t even like just because it was probably his only chance to be with another man.

And then someone else’s overindulgences triggered a series of events that lead to where Louis is now, touring the world as a roadie for Harry Styles.

You're A Universe by Jiksa / 15k

Louis’s a stay-at-home dad in London and Harry’s a business expat in Qatar. Louis doesn’t know how much longer their marriage can survive the distance.

Chasing Empty Spaces by Lis (domesticharry) / 79k

The year is 1934 and Harry Styles was to inherent the largest tobacco firm in the south. His parents have picked out the “perfect” girl for him to marry and he has the privilege of receiving the highest education possible. The problem was, Harry hadn’t realized he didn’t actually want any part of that future until he met a mechanic named, Louis Tomlinson.

Given a Chance by Fabby / 173k

the one where Louis and Harry run into each other five years after One Direction ends and learn how to love each other again. Featuring: Reggie as the overweight labrador, Niall as Louis’ last grip on reality, and Nowheresville, North Carolina as the setting for Louis’ worst nightmare to come true.

Golden Like Sands of Time by afirethatcannotdie / @afirethatcannotdie / 51k

AU. Harry and Zayn are spending the summer on an island, and there's a plethora of booze and bonfires and boys. Or in Harry's case, just one boy.

One Shines Brighter by afirethatcannotdie / @afirethatcannotdie / 11k

Harry's wedding was never supposed to be the happiest day of his life. No, that was going to be the day after, when he finally got to start his marriage. Unfortunately his family (and Louis) have other ideas.

Featuring a pair of moms who only want the best for their kids, meddling sisters with too much time on their hands, and a groom who gets caught up in the fairytale.

Turning Page by purpledaisy / 67k

AU: Harry Styles tries to get lost in a place he’s never been.  Louis Tomlinson has been perfecting the art of being lost for years. What they don’t expect to find is each other.

Runaway Land by daggerinrose / @thetommmo / 103k

Louis is sure he’s stumbled upon a secret, underground nightclub, though that is far from the truth. He’s also pretty sure he’s stumbled upon Apollo, which… isn’t very far from the truth, actually.

Modern Greek mythology AU.

The World Still Turns by hrrytomlinson / @hrrytomlinson / 21k

They had their eyes on the stars.

Harry and Louis have known each other since they were tiny little boys, both wildly obsessed with airplanes, space, and the stars. More than twenty years later, Harry plans to propose to Louis, but when he wakes up, Louis is gone.

Where I Belong by hopeneverdies / 31k

Harry Styles is an introverted director of a small nature reserve in Norfolk County, England. Louis Tomlinson is an Emmy winning wildlife documentary filmmaker with a bad boy reputation. When Louis arrives at Harry's reserve in search of a new project, and a new path in life, Harry is less than thrilled. Yet, the two men realize that working together may benefit them both, especially when the future of the reserve is threatened by a large corporation and its powerful CEO.

Things Gone Cold by MediaWhore / 24k

With his soulmate’s thoughts about him written on his skin and the world’s eyes trailing his every movement, Harry Styles is having a bit of a rough time releasing his second album in peace. And that’s not even counting the breakup. Or the car crash.

Can't Fool Me by emma1234 / @lads-laddylads / 30k

AU where Louis hates fraternities and would never be into a frat boy. And one of these things is definitely not a lie.

No Place Without You by fackinglouis / 19k

A Wanderlust AU in which Harry doesn't have a permanent home and stays with Louis when he visits NYC.

You Know Sometimes Words Have Two Meanings by alienharry /  22k

Harry and Louis navigate the universe.

No One Like You by myownspark / 19k

Where Liam and Niall are art historians discovering the truth about two nineteenth century painters on opposite sides of an artistic divide.

We're What's Right In This World by BriaMaria / 48k

the World War II AU where Harry goes off to fight and all Louis wants to do is be the boy who brings him home.

Never mind the odds (i'm gonna try my luck) by spit_on_me_larry / 59k

Featuring Louis as a writer/workaholic, Harry as a plastic surgeon with a heart of gold, Zayn and Niall as Louis’ colleagues and long-suffering best mates, and Liam as everyone’s favorite pediatric surgeon and Harry’s right-hand man.

Walk That Mile by purpledaisy / 141k

A Route 66 AU where falling in love was never part of the plan.

You flower, you feast by stylinsoncity / 18k

He's King of the Underworld, but don't assume Louis has it all. He could stand for some excitement in his monotonous, eternal life and maybe, even.....a soulmate.

(Despite not having a soul.)

And along came "Harry".

(We will be) as if chosen by alivingfire / @alivingfire / 35k

the course of true love never did run smooth, because sometimes people are stubborn and sometimes people are scared and sometimes, just sometimes, love can cause just as many problems as it solves.

The dead things we carry by MediaWhore / @mediawhorefics / 25k

There are some things people never fully come home from. Until, one day, if they’re lucky, home comes to them.

(Take Me Home) Country Roads by Awriterwrites / 86k

A Northern Exposure AU featuring Louis as the big city doctor, Harry as a natural healer, Niall as a secretive barkeep, Liam and Zayn head over heels for each other but they don't know it and a lot of hurt, comfort and moonshine in between.

Falling, catching by tsuneni / 23k

the one where Harry likes poems, soft sweaters, old novels, and that one boy in his Romantic Poetry course that keeps falling asleep during lectures.

Like Vines We Intertwined by bananasandboots / 11k

the one where Harry and Louis first figure it out. A prequel to You Watched Me Sink.

Kiwi by fondleeds / 24k

AU. Harry plays on Saturday nights at The Motley. Louis bartends on Saturday nights at The Motley.

It’s a thing.

Knives don't have your back by turnyourankle / 51k

The lone survivor of an on campus massacre that claimed the lives of his four housemates, Harry is urged to take a sabbatical or transfer. Instead, he chooses to stay in school, move into the dorms, and overcome his fears.

He finds comfort in a budding friendship with Louis, an upperclassman who lives on his floor, not realizing that their relationship will bring him closer to his traumatizing past rather than further from it.

You and Me by delsicle / 36k

Alex goes to war. He comes back and everything is the same -- his hometown, his flat, the boy with the bad heart he left behind.

Everything is same. Except for him.

Things unspoken by stylinsoncity / 6k

he wants to say it. he’s waited his whole life to say it. but how do you tell your childhood best friend you want them?

Yellow by 13ways / 84k

A Batman/ Catwoman AU

Find You Home by FullOnLarrie / @fullonlarrie / 35k

When Louis lies to his family and says he’ll bring his new boyfriend home for Christmas, his best friend and roommate Harry agrees to play the part. It’s that, or be left alone over the holidays. What will happen? No one knows! Perhaps Santa will swoop in with a Christmas miracle. (Featuring lovesick idiots, kissing and cuddling, pies and Christmas clichés.)

The Unexplained by mooninherhair / 34k

Harry has just moved to Los Angeles to work for HiveNews Media, and his dark mood from homesickness and his creepy new apartment inspire a brilliant idea for a new paranormal video series. Unfortunately, he finds himself partnered with the biggest ghost skeptic of them all. Will they be able to get along well enough to get the series off the ground? And what's going on with the other unexplained events that are beginning to surround their lives?

To the light by fondleeds / @fondleeds / 13k

AU. Harry is a mermaid lost at sea and Louis is a boy determined to make his first Christmas a memorable one.

[halfabreath]

Always Halfway to Go, Part III

Part I. Part II. The Tag. Read it on Ao3. 

Ever since Bitty moved in Sunday afternoons in the Haus have been sacred. Guaranteed brunch is the ultimate means of Haus bonding and Ransom knows that no matter how stressed out he is about his upcoming anatomy test that he still has to go downstairs and show his face. He’d hoped that getting up early to look at his study guide would help relax him enough to eat without guilt but it had only set him off instead.

Ransom’s just extracted himself from under his bed, where he’s been hiding for the past hour, and is halfway down the steps when he hears the commotion at the front door.

“Oh, good morning! Come in!” Bitty’s words carry through the Haus easily, bright and friendly.

“I really shouldn’t, Bittle.” Ransom stumbles on the steps when he recognizes Adam’s deep voice. He grabs onto the railing to steady himself, taking a moment to prepare. Adam is here, in the Haus.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Bitty presses, using the no-nonsense tone he employs with the team.

“No, but I - “ Adam tries to protest, falling directly into Bitty’s trap.

“Then come in! I’d be remiss in my Southern Hospitality if I ever let someone turn down food.” Despite the buoyancy in Bitty’s voice there’s still no room for argument. When Ransom continues down the steps the scene comes into view: Bitty has the door thrown open and Adam is on the other side, shoulders curled in with his hands tucked in his pockets. Bitty might be a half foot shorter than Adam is but Ransom can tell he’s going to win this battle. As unprepared as Ransom had been to see Adam, he can’t leave him there looking so blatantly uncomfortable.

Ransom jumps the final few steps and lands right beside Bitty, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Bitty, I don’t wanna freak you out but I think I smell something burning.” He says, and Bitty bolts towards the kitchen with a worried yelp. Adam’s shoulders come down from around his ears. “You really should come in. It’s not going to be weird, I promise.” Ransom says before Adam can run back to his car.

“I don’t know, I’d have felt so weird if a random coach-like figure dropped in on one of my team breakfasts.” Adam frowns and crosses his arms, fingers tapping nervously along his bicep. Ransom can’t help but track the movement, and if his eyes linger on the shifting muscles, well. He’s only human, and it’s a nice bicep.

“Yeah, that would be strange, but you’re not a random guy. Besides, you dropped in on Hazeapalooza and it was fun, right?” Ransom says. He shifts his weight, moving to the side so he’s not blocking the threshold.

Adam worries his bottom lip with his teeth. It’s cute, even though he’s bigger, broader, and more bearded than Ransom will ever be. “Yeah, I’m just - “

Ransom cuts him off. “Seriously, bro, if you don’t come eat with us they’ll be disappointed.” It’s true - Adam’s almost a mythic figure, an actual professional hockey player who’s suddenly dropped into their lives. Ransom thinks they don’t know the half of it. "Besides,” he continues, waving Adam in. “Brunch is like, the least formal and most chill meal. Plus, Bitty made cinnamon rolls.”

“Fine, but only because I have to drop off tape.” Adam sounds resigned at best but Ransom knows he’ll feel more comfortable after he sees how much they all like having him around.

When Ransom and Holster step into the kitchen they’re greeted with a chorus of good mornings and one goddamn, look at these beauts. Ransom pushes Holster towards the seat next to Lardo and drops into the one right next to him. Separate conversations crop up as Jack asks him about his test schedule and he hears Lardo quietly talking to Holster about his weekend on his other side. Bitty and Shitty are engaged in a contest to see who can create the most aesthetically pleasing frosting pattern over their cinnamon roll.

It’s a gentle chaos. They talk with their mouths full and spill their coffee but soon everyone’s leaning back in their chairs, filled with dough, sugar, and spices.

Ransom’s just taken a picture of Bitty’s perfect cinnamon roll, because he always wins the food styling contests, and he’s adjusting the filter levels when Jack pipes up beside him. “Which, uh, thing are you putting that on? Instergram? Or is that the one hundred word limit thing?” Jack asks, mouth set in a confused frown. Shitty rolls his eyes fondly and Lardo smiles down at her coffee, but Adam and Bitty both look over at Jack in shock. Bitty begins a long, rambling tangent about the virtues of Twitter when a deeper voice cuts through.

“You don’t know what Instagram is?” Adam asks in horrified amazement. The team groans, having already been down this path a thousand times. “Jack, Betty White has an Instagram.”

Jack blinks. “Who’s that? Does she go here?” He turns to Ransom, which makes sense given that he’s the one charged with reminding Jack of who he knows and doesn’t know. Ransom, though, is distracted by the series of blink and you miss it expressions flittering over Adam’s face. There’s the shock, of course, then the wonderment that comes when he’s forced to contemplate just how much pop culture Jack doesn’t know, then Adam even looks angry for a hot second. He opens his mouth and closes it several times, trying to make sense of the situation he’s found himself in. Ransom pats him on the back; they’ve all been there.

“I need to sit down.” Holster finally says.

“You’re already sitting.” Jack helpfully points out in his cat-got-the-cream chirping voice. Holster levels him with a flat look, one Ransom’s seen him shoot at reporters asking stupid questions during post-game interviews.

“I need to sit again, Zimmermann.” Holster snaps, but there’s a lightness to it. It’s a nuanced annoyance, with a little bit of fondness and a whole lot of snark. Ransom loves it. Shitty cuts in with an anecdote about how Jack thought Kim Kardashian was one of the cheerleaders their freshman year. Ransom watches Holster’s expressions shift in bursts of disbelief and laughter. He’s one of them now.

“I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m so fucking fucked!”

The cry is slightly muffled by the thin walls of the Haus, but Adam can still make out every desperate syllable from his spot at the kitchen table. He and Jack have been going over tape for the last hour, occasionally debating drills and conditioning exercises but Justin’s cry has him staring up at the ceiling in concern. Jack, though, still has his eyes trained on the screen of his laptop, and Adam knows he’s not the most personable guy but he hadn’t expected him to be that cold. Jack’s nonchalance is the only reason Adam hasn’t bolted out of his chair and scrambled up the stairs, bad knee be damned.

“Are you gonna?” He asks, nodding his head in the general direction of the stairs. They’re the only ones in the house besides Justin and whatever’s going on sounds like it’s serious.

Jack just shakes his head, finally tearing his eyes away from the footage of Bitty’s assist at their last home game. “No, he doesn’t like anyone to see him when he studies. I tried, during his freshman year, but having someone there makes him more anxious.”

“I’m not freaked out, I’m anxious, I have anxiety.”

Justin’s words from their discussion after the first practice of the preseason ring in Adam’s ears and while he believes that Jack knows best, leaving Justin alone doesn’t sit well with him as they keep talking. He’s distracted, constantly glancing back and forth between the doorway and the screen until Jack closes his laptop with a sigh.

“Class,” he explains succinctly, giving Adam a quick farewell nod, and then he’s out the door. Adam’s alone in the Haus and he can’t help himself from going to check on his…what word should he use? They’ve decided to be friends when no one’s around, and as Adam walks through the Haus it’s painfully clear they’re alone. He takes his time on the steps, following through on the motions like his physical therapist told him to, and to his surprise he’s able to clear the first floor with no pain at all. He knocks on the attic door, a warning, before opening it slowly. He knows it’s probably creepy, hearing the door creak open and then uneven footsteps slowly coming up the stairs, but he can’t rush this.

When he arrives at the top of the steps he thinks that Justin has left. There’s no sign of him but his backpack is on the bed and there are books strewn across the floor, and just when Adam’s about to go back downstairs he catches a flash of movement from under the desk. He rounds the corner and sure enough, all six feet and two inches of Justin’s muscular frame is curled up under his desk. His flexibility is impressive but frankly worrying because that can’t be comfortable for him, and he’s not moving at all besides the shivers that jolt through his body intermittently. Holster gently raps his knuckles on the top of the desk, like he’s knocking on a door, and Justin doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

Adam has no fucking clue what to do. Justin clearly doesn’t want to be touched or bothered, but Adam can’t leave him here alone. Slowly, carefully, he eases himself down until he’s sitting across from Justin.

“Hey, uh, there isn’t enough room in the living room to do my stretches, so I’m just going to do them here if that’s all right?” Justin doesn’t speak but his eyes flicker over and Adam takes that as a good sign. He slowly works through all of his floor stretches, trying to take up as much time as possible. His excuse is flimsy, but every time he glances under the desk Justin’s shoulders seems a little less tense, and by the time Adam has finished he’s spread out as much as he can in the tiny space.

“You should do the figure four stretch.” Justin says suddenly. His voice is tight and strained but at least he’s speaking. Adam nods and moves into the familiar position. It looks strange and it feels less than comfortable but when he relaxes back and sits normally he actually feels pretty good.

“Thanks, man.” Adam stretches his legs out in front of him, carefully reaching forward to touch his toes now that his quads are loose.

Justin rolls out from under the desk and lays down, spreading out for the first time in God knows how long. Adam hesitates for a moment, then lays down next to him, staring up at the wooden ceiling.  

“I have an anatomy test tomorrow. I’m…Not great with tests.” Justin says, voice hoarse. When Adam looks over his brows are knitted together, his full lips pulled down in a pained frown. His muscles must be aching from the stretch after being so tense.

Adam bites his lip, then fills the silence. “I, uh. I heard you yelling.” He admits, eyes tracing over Justin’s pinched profile.

Justin doesn’t seem surprised. “What did I say?” He asks softly, resigned.

“You just said you were fucked? Like a lot?” Adam winces, hating how his voice rises in an unsure question. The last time he’d seen Justin so stressed he’d instinctively known what to do, what to say. Now, though, with their strange history and weight of the pull he feels towards the other man, he’s not sure how to help.

Justin sighs, covering his face with his hands. “Yeah, that sounds like me.” He sounds embarrassed and exhausted. Adam moves over in small, minuscule stages, shifting until their arms are pressed together. Justin’s hands fall to his sides, and Adam has to fight the urge to lace their fingers together. Justin’s quiet for a long moment before he speaks again. “It’s hard to find a place to study. I don’t like to be by myself because, well.” Justin waves his hand in the vague direction of the desk. “But I don’t like to be in public because,” he waves at the desk again. “The library’s too quiet, the kitchen’s too distracting - plus I’ll get fat from all the pie I’ll eat - and I can’t go to a coffee shop if I’m going to yell about getting fucked.”

“Come study at my place.” The words are out of his mouth before his better judgement can kick in. Justin’s looking over at him in surprise, which yeah, makes sense given how strict he’s been, but he can’t bear the thought of Justin spending another minute alone under his tiny desk. “I mean it.”

“I don’t know -”

“it’s perfect. You won’t be by yourself but you won’t be in public, my neighbors are loud as fuck so there’s always background noise, I won’t distract you because I’ll be studying too and I can’t cook for shit so there’s not going to be anything to eat, anyway.” Adam explains, addressing each of Justin’s concerns one by one. The solution is so clear to him now.

“What about the yelling? Won’t it weird your neighbors out?” Justin asks, sitting up. Adam sits up, too, turning to face  him. His leg is still stuck out awkwardly to the side and Justin’s curled up on his knees, but he looks thoughtful instead of terrified, and Adam can see that he’s almost convinced him.

“They hear weirder shit when I binge watch The Real Housewives.” Adam shrugs, nonchalant. It’s not a lie or an exaggeration of any kind. Those ladies are in some shit.

“What about…” Justin vaguely gestures between them. It’s astonishing how the slightest flick of his wrist can encapsulate all that’s been left unsaid.

Adam shrugs, about to mumble an excuse about how coaches are supposed to help student athletes thrive before deciding against it. This isn’t for Oluransi, #11, the core of his defensive line. This is for Justin, his friend. It’s good for you to be close to them, Murray had said. “Offer stands. You have my number - just text when you need a place to study.” He heaves himself up and offers Justin a hand, waving it in his face until he takes it and pulls himself up. “Seriously, anytime.”

“Thanks.” Justin says, almost shy. Adam’s suddenly aware that they’re still holding hands, and he gently pulls his away. “So…” Justin continues, expression shifting into a sly grin. “Like, how often do you watch The Real Housewives?”

Four days later Ransom finds himself tucked under the kitchen table at two thirty in the morning, eating a hot pocket he’d dug out from the very back of the freezer. Every once in awhile the ceiling creaks; Bitty’s still awake and if Ransom had any sense at all he’d go upstairs and sit on the clean floor of Bitty’s nice smelling room but instead he lingers beneath the table, sitting directly on the sticky patch that apparently was formed during a kegster Johnson’s sophomore year. He takes another bite of the hot pocket. It’s still cool in the middle but he eats it anyway, unable to loosen the grip he has on the table leg.

It’s a low point, that’s for damn sure, and midterms aren’t for another three weeks. He’s not going to make it to second semester if he keeps this up. Justin’s told himself that he needs to find a healthy way of dealing with his thing a million times, but now, tonight, with the top of his head pressed against the grimy bottom of the kitchen table and chilly marinara sauce coating his fingertips, Justin knows he has to make a change. Luckily, Adam’s already given him an opportunity, one he knows now he shouldn’t, should, no, shouldn’t, wait, should pass up. Justin sighs; it’s time to make a list.

He forces himself up to wash the sauce off his hands at the kitchen sink, wincing when his shorts stick to the linoleum floor. Justin immediately runs up to the attic to take them off. After he brushes the tomato aftertaste away and washes his face he curls up in bed with his phone and makes a new note. It’s painfully clear he has to do something, but is taking Adam up on his offer the right thing?

PROS:

I like him

He immediately cuts and copies it to the CONS column he creates below. He tries again.

PROS:

he knows how to help (citation: A- on anatomy test)

my GPA will thank me (i luv u bb)

no more screaming in the library (everyone wins)

I’ll survive fall semester (probably)

CONS:

I like him (fuck)

I’m not allowed to like him (double fuck)

this will make me like him more (triple combo fuck)

He stares down at his list, and the data speaks for itself. Four pros to three cons? The Pros have it. He closes the note and texts Adam.

Me: can i study at ur place 2morrow after practice

He winces when he sees the timestamp. Adam doesn’t reply before he falls asleep, but when he wakes up the next morning he finds a new message (and seventy seven Instagram notifications, but his outfit of the day yesterday was stellar and he regrets nothing).

Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]: Sure, meet me by my car after.

Hours later, freshly showered after a long practice, Justin finds himself loitering in the parking lot next to Adam’s car as he waits for the other man to emerge. He worries the strap of his backpack between his fingers, twisting the fabric into tight rolls only to release it and begin again.

“How’d you know which car is mine?” Asks a deep voice just behind his shoulder. When he turns Adam’s standing on the other side of the car, a small smile on his face. He looks so good when he smiles.

Justin shrugs, matching Adam’s expression. “Buffalo plates,” he explains, opening the passenger side door to climb in. Adam’s apartment isn’t far from campus, and they pull in front of his building in minutes. It’s a classic Samwell apartment building, one of the many renovated town homes dotted around campus.

Adam’s on the first floor, and within moments Justin’s in his space. There’s painted over crown molding and the original hardwood floors creak beneath his feet. It somehow seems cozy and sparse at the same time. There’s a soft looking couch with blankets and a sweatshirt thrown over the back but just behind it is a mostly empty bookshelf. He recognizes some of the books - they’re all by sitcom writers or SNL celebrities - and there’s pile of pucks haphazardly stacked on the top shelf. He can’t make out the writing scrawled along the white tape that’s wrapped around the edges but he instantly recognizes them as Adam’s game mementos. The desk on the opposite wall is completely devoid of clutter, as is the coffee table. Meanwhile, the kitchen counters are crowded from daily use - a box of teabags is still open on the counter next to an honest to God kettle and there are dishes in the sink. It’s not that Adam’s neat, Justin realizes. He just doesn’t have many possessions. Adam gives him a quick tour that ends with him clearing a stack of mail and some assorted cups from the kitchen table as Justin sinks into one of the chairs and pulls out his textbook.

When he finally finishes the problem set an hour and a half later, Adam’s nowhere to be found. The apartment is quiet but for the occasional creaking of Adam’s upstairs neighbors moving around and the soft music that’s wafting over from Adam’s open laptop, still positioned across from him. There’s an empty bottle of water by his elbow he doesn’t remember drinking, but when he swallows his throat isn’t as dry as it usually is after a study session. He throws it in the recycling bin and stands, wincing when the movement tugs on his sore muscles. Adam had put the defensemen through the ringer that afternoon, pushing them through drill after drill with no remorse. It had been a relief, actually, to focus on anything besides the stress of school. He’d managed to sweat out the last bit of tension clinging to his back and neck and by the time practice had finished he’d felt almost like he hadn’t cowered under a table for the better part of an hour the night before.

Justin wanders through the apartment, pausing to glance at the stack of pucks on the bookshelf. #4, 1ST NHL GOAL, DETROIT, one reads. Justin turns away, feeling like he’s intruding on some private part of Adam’s life even though he’s seen the goal footage before. He turns down the hall, searching for the bathroom. Adam had said it was at the end of the hall to the right? Left? He’d been on the cusp of Study Mode during the tour earlier and hadn’t been paying that much attention. Justin picks one of the doors and turns the knob, brow furrowing in confusion when he steps inside.

It’s not a bathroom, that’s for sure. It’s probably meant to be an office or second bedroom, but it’s clear that Adam’s just using it for storage. A piano peeks out from the darkest shadows at the back of the room. There are cardboard boxes and large plastic containers everywhere, a thin layer of dust covering them. Only one box is open, and Justin can see a pop of Schooners blue and green peeking through the brown flaps of the box.

It’s none of his business. Adam’s lived here four months and still hasn’t unpacked, but it’s none of his business. Justin slips back into the hall and tries the other door, relieved to find the bathroom on the other side. He doesn’t intentionally snoop, but he can’t help but notice the frankly ridiculous amount of tooth-care products Adam has - he’s got three different widths of floss and at least four brands of toothpaste.

The kettle, the piano, the floss. Justin’s gotten to know more about Adam in the past two hours than he had in years of post game interviews and he desperately wants to know more.

When Justin steps back into the hall he hears the sound of the front door opening and closing. Plastic bags rustle as the lock turns, and when he arrives back in the open living room Adam’s there with carryout.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind if I left, especially since I brought food.” He explains sheepishly, holding up the plastic bags like an offering.

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m fucking starving because someone made me do a bag skate at practice today.” Ransom says with mock annoyance, already beginning to clear the table.

Adam laughs and Justin can’t help joining in. “Your coach sounds like a dick. Reminds me of my water aerobics instructor.” He chirps. Justin rolls his eyes. He’s not that bad. He just knows what Adam is capable of.

“Really?” Justin asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s smiling, though, so it probably isn’t as effective as it should be. Adam just nods and sets the bags on the table.

“Definitely. This guy doesn’t let me get away with anything.” He says, handing Justin a container of fried rice. They trade chirps as they eventually migrate to the couch with beer and their food, carefully positioned on opposite ends as they watch the second half of a basketball game. Justin lingers until the final buzzer sounds and he officially doesn’t have an excuse to stay any longer.

Justin slings his backpack over his shoulder and follows Adam to the door, taking one step outside before turning around.  He’s unsure of how to say goodbye. For the first time that evening Justin feels like he’s on a date. He wants to step back inside and kiss the taste of beer off Adam’s lips - it’s not a new feeling, certainly, but the past few hours hadn’t felt like a date. Studying, greasy takeout, and watching basketball is what friends do, but this, the way they’re looking at each other, the pull he feels towards Adam, this feels like a date.

“Keep your teammates out of trouble this weekend.” Adam’s leaning against the door frame, white t-shirt stretched over his broad chest.

“I always do.” Justin shoots back.

Adam laughs, rich and deep. “That’s a lie.”

“Yeah.” Justin shrugs, smiling ruefully. He adjusts the strap on his backpack that’s twisted around, tugging on it idly. Adam reaches out, slipping his fingers under the fabric to straighten it out for him.

“Get back safe, Ransom.” He says fondly. It’s the first time Holster’s used his nickname unprompted, when it’s just them. Ransom beams up at him, something warm and bright unfurling in his chest.

“I will, Holster.” Ransom says. He thinks back to his CONS list. This will make me like him more, he’d written. As he walks back to the Haus he adds it to the PROS column.

Justin straps on his gear with tight, explosive movements, tugging the synthetic material with far more force than necessary. He’s been in a foul mood all day, ever since Adam stood him up for their regular meeting before water aerobics. He’d been worried sick when Adam hadn’t shown up to class, so distracted that he’d almost ended the routine before the cool-down stretches in his haste to find his friend. He’d even run over to Adam’s apartment and knocked on the door, lingering until the lost possible moment before he had to rush back to campus for class. He’d arrived late anyway, and to top it all off he’d received a team-wide e-mail from Adam containing the week’s practice schedule. An e-mail’s not a bad thing, in and of itself, but if Adam had the time and resources to send an e-mail then he had the time and resources to text Justin and let him know he’s okay.

He slams his helmet on and makes his way to the rink, letting his stick clang against the equipment and detritus left in the halls by his teammates. Adam’s already on the ice, talking to Jack before practice begins, but Justin bursts onto the ice and does a few quick laps, trying to burn off his anger before he has to speak to Adam in front of his teammates. Everyone knows they get along - Ransom is slowly becoming RansomandHolster - but he won’t be able to explain why he’s so angry.

Luckily, Justin doesn’t have to speak to Adam until the second hour of practice when the lines have separated. He’s standing next to Adam, watching Nursey and Dex do drills with Ollie and Wicks when he breaks.

“You didn’t come this morning.” Justin says suddenly. It’s the first thing he’s said to Adam all day, and the words are tight and angry.

Adam doesn’t react. He stands still with his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking out over the team as they skate. “I know.” He finally says, but he doesn’t look away.

Justin squeezes his stick tightly. “I went to your apartment.” He turns and Adam finally glances over at him, a quick flicker of blue before he turns his gaze back on the other defensemen.

He takes a deep breath. Justin waits for him to speak, mouth set in a grim line. “I know.” Adam exhales, letting out the breath in a quick huff.

Something boils in Justin’s gut. It’s too vulnerable to be anger and burns too hot to be anxiety and he realizes it’s disappointment and hurt melted together in a sticky, bubbling mess. When he was knocking on Adam’s door, worried sick that he’d fallen in the shower, Adam had been inside waiting for him to leave. Adam had let him wait, Adam hadn’t let him in, and Adam doesn’t seem to care about either of those things. “Then why didn’t you let me in?” Justin whispers harshly, demanding an answer. They don’t have much time but Justin doesn’t know when they’ll speak again, since Adam’s apparently content with abandoning him.

A muscle in Adam’s jaw twitches; he must be grinding his teeth. Good. “I couldn’t.” He ducks his head, offering no explanation.

Justin scoffs. “But you could take the time to send us a redundant fucking e-mail? C’mon, Adam.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s the softest Adam’s voice has ever been, the syllables so timid and tumultuous Justin can barely hear the words over the din of practice. When he glances over Adam’s staring down at the ice and for the first time that morning Justin actually looks at him. His beard is longer, bushier, unkempt. There are bags big enough to carry equipment in under his eyes, and when he adjusts his baseball cap Justin can see that his hair is unwashed and greasy. I couldn’t. It’s obvious he’s not doing well, now that Justin is finally looking, and he doesn’t understand how everyone around them is doing practice as usual when Adam’s so clearly in pain. He doesn’t understand how he hadn’t seen it and he swallows down the guilt before swinging his stick to gently bump it against Adam’s shoe. The disappointment and hurt cool quickly, transforming into sharp worry.

“Next time, text me.” He says, giving Adam a small smile when he looks up in surprise. “Not just that you won’t be there, but so I can help. I’ll sit outside your door and study until you can let me in.” He’d through it would at least make Adam smile, but he simply nods, apparently resigned to more days just like this one.

I couldn’t.

The words stay with him after he skates away for drills and conditioning, as he showers and changes after practice, when he’s sitting in his Public Health class hours later. He racks his memory, trying to figure out exactly when Adam had taken a turn. Two weeks ago he’d had Justin in hysterics before class with his impersonation of Linda. On the bus during their last roadie he’d watched Adam’s shoulders shake as he laughed quietly at an episode of Parks and Rec. Before practice last week Adam had mentioned going into Boston and planned on seeing where an episode of 30 Rock had been filmed before his appointment with a specialist.

The realization jolts him awake, out of the daze his professors’ droning voice always sends him into. The appointment must not have gone well and now Adam’s depressed because of it. It makes total sense and now he knows exactly what to do. He opens Excel and creates a new workbook: Adam’s Recovery and Road to Eventual Happiness Masterplan.

He can already fill in some of the categories: Frog Kick Mobility, sitcoms re-watched, Aerobic Endurance, Stride on Ice Speed, but he knows he’ll have to ask Adam directly about everything else. He feels confident in his progress after class, and it’s pure luck that has him bumping into his friend in front of Founders later that afternoon.

“Hey!” His voice sounds weird, too cheery, but Adam doesn’t seem to notice. He barely even looks up, actually, his hat still pulled down over his eyes.

“Hey,” Adam echoes, sounding absolutely exhausted. He manages to give Justin a small smile, but it comes off as more of a half-grimace. Justin can’t ask him directly about how he is when he’s clearly doing so poorly.

Justin bumps their shoulders together gently, making sure he doesn’t actually hit Adam too hard. He sways anyway, off balance until Justin reaches out to steady him. Adam doesn’t react. “I’m going to Annie’s; wanna come?” Adam looks like he’s about to protest, but Justin takes a few steps ahead of him to block his path. “I didn’t get to see you this morning.”

“I don’t know why you’d want to see me.” Justin can barely hear the mumbled string of syllables but he stands his ground.

“Dude, Holster, please. I’ll even buy your gross leaf water.” He bargains. Using Adam’s nickname is a gamble. It usually makes him duck his head, embarrassed, but Justin always manages to catch exactly when his eyes light up. Sometimes, though, it sends him backpedalling back into the carefully constructed professional zone he’s set up for himself. Today, it makes Adam’s shoulders droop as he gives in. It’s worse than the backpedalling.

“Fine.” Adam sighs in agreement. Justin moves and they walk side by side to Annie’s, the backs of their hands brushing occasionally. He wonders what would be so bad about taking Adam’s hand. Statistically speaking, there are very low odds of any negative consequences. Hall and Murray are both off campus and the team isn’t anywhere in sight. It’s all Justin can think about when they walk into Annie’s and when Adam holds the door for him. They’re standing in line, pressed together in the small shop, when Justin takes a chance. He trains his eyes on Adam’s face and carefully laces their fingers together.

Adam doesn’t react, at first, but after a long moment he squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling shakily, and tightens his grip on Justin’s hand. His fingertips are calloused but his palm is broad and the heat from his fingers seeps into Justin’s. They wait in line for a long time, their coats and bags hiding their clasped hands, saying nothing. Adam only lets go after they’ve ordered and paid, releasing Justin’s hand just before he turns away to find a table. He selects one in the corner and has one leg propped on an extra chair by the time Justin arrives with their drinks.

“Thanks,” Adam says, smiling for the first time that day. It’s small, just the slightest curve of Adam’s lips, but it’s real. Justin drops his bag into the chair across from him and settles beside him, his knees brushing against Adam’s good leg under the table. It feels intimate and he wants to take Adam’s hand again but he knows it’s an objectively bad idea. He hadn’t calculated the consequences of holding hands two separate times.

“Anytime,” he says, and means it. They sip their drinks in silence before he leans in and breaks it. “So how was Boston? Did you see where Tina Fey yelled at a tour guide?” Adam chuckles, low and throaty, and it’s the best thing Justin’s heard all day (and he found out he got a 94% on a test, so).

“Tracy Morgan, and yeah, I did. I even got to see Vichy - ” He cuts himself off with a laugh when he sees Justin’s confused expression. “Antoine Kerlovich, he played with me in Seattle but was traded to the Bruins right before the deadline last season.” Adam clarifies, and the new data makes Justin’s head spin. Maybe it wasn’t the appointment at all, but seeing an old friend? Being confronted with someone who still has what he’d lost? Before his train of thought can spiral too far, Adam’s leaning back in his chair with a soft smile ghosting over his lips. “It was good to see him. He’s trying to get me to visit him in St. Petersburg when he goes home, because his ‘grandmama makes best food, Holtzy, you like and eat and get big and strong like me.’” He’s actually grinning when he slips into the dramatic Russian accent, and Justin laughs with him, knowing that Adam’s got at least six inches and forty pounds on his former teammate. He quickly reverts back to his original hypothesis - visiting Kerlovich clearly put Adam in a better mood, and Justin can’t keep from asking his next question.

“And the specialist? Good news?” Adam’s face twists, and Justin’s about to call the whole thing off before he replies.

“Yeah, actually.” Adam picks at the lid of his cup, fidgeting with the plastic rim. His big hands dwarf the cardboard container but his movements are delicate and contained.

“Yeah?” Justin echoes. That’s the last thing he expected to hear. The data doesn’t support his hypothesis at all but the conclusion is the same: Adam is hurting, and Justin’s going to fix it.

“I’m, uh, doing really well. I have above average mobility. I’ll even be able to skate as soon as my physical therapist clears me.” Although Holster’s saying good things, his face has fallen yet again. Justin wants to take his hand again, to pull him in and hold him tight enough to banish that expression from his features forever, but they’re in public and not even together and all he can do lean in and hope his presence is somewhat comforting.

“You don’t look like a guy with above average mobility.” He says slowly. Adam looks up at him in surprise, like he can’t believe someone’s noticed he’s not himself. Justin aches because it’s not entirely unfounded; he’d only realized earlier that morning when Adam’s been back from Boston for at least four days. He spends so much of his time making sure that he doesn’t stare at Adam that he’d missed the signs right in front of his face.

“I feel like shit, Justin. I’m in pain, I can’t do any of the things I used to do and I’m supposed to think I’m doing great? This isn’t what great is supposed to feel like.” Adam’s voice his hollow, punched-out and exhausted. His shoulders are drooping towards the table and someone as large as he is shouldn’t look fragile, but he does.

“It’s going to get better.” Justin says weakly.

Adam gives him a flat look, too tired to be fully annoyed with his platitude. “Is it? No matter what I do or how much I improve I’m never going to get back to where I was. I’m going to plateau at some point and it’ll be all downhill from there.“

Justin doesn’t know what to say. There isn’t a formula for this, a professor didn’t tell him that he’d have to know what to do in this situation. He can’t ask Excel what to say to make his friend feel better. He glances around the room - no one he knows is there, and everyone from the team is usually in class right now - and cups his hand over Adam’s. Adam squeezes his eyes shut, just like before, but this time he pulls his hand away. He stands, moving faster than Justin’s ever seen him.

“I have to go.” Adam takes his tea and weaves through the tables. It takes Justin a second to process and then he’s up, grabbing his coffee as he follows as quickly as he can without accidentally knocking someone over. He catches up to Adam in seconds and takes him by the shoulder. Adam tries to shrug him off half-heartedly but Justin just tightens his grip. They’re alone in the quad, the space empty as usual during popular class times. They square off, both holding their Annie’s cups, mouths set in thin lines.

“I can’t let you help me with this.” Adam’s broad shoulders are hunched, drawn inward. Justin wants to push them back into place, wants to feel his muscles bunch and jump under his hands, wants the warmth of Adam’s skin to seep through his clothes and onto his palms and then he wants to shake some sense into this asshole.

Justin takes a step to close the gap between them, then another when Adam automatically moves backwards. “You can’t stop me.” He says, and it sounds menacing as fuck but he’s just trying to help.

Adam blinks, taken aback. “What?” He asks, brows narrowing. Justin advances again, determined to make Adam understand that he’s not going to back down easily.

“How are you going to stop me? I told you this morning. If you don’t let me in, I’ll wait. I’ll make sure you go to water aerobics. I’ll keep track of your workouts and we’ll make sure you get better. I’ll turn the full force of my anxiety fueled organizational skills on you, dude. I’ll fucking do it.” He punctuates the words by jabbing his finger into Adam’s chest, trying not to think about the hard muscle he finds there.

“Justin,” Adam says, a warning. He bats Justin’s hand away.

“You said we were friends. This is how I treat my friends.” Justin’s voice breaks but he doesn’t turn away. He holds Adam gaze and catches the motion of his hands jerking towards him, like Adam wants to reach out but decides against it at the last minute. He makes the decision for the both of them, stretching out his arm until his hand settles on Adam’s chest. Adam doesn’t move. Justin takes a small step forward and speaks into the hushed space between them.

“I’m going to help because I’ll go crazy if I don’t. I’ll fucking lose it. I need this and you need me and we both need us.” Justin knows he sounds desperate, but he can’t bring himself to care. He knows they look strange, huddled together in the quad, but he can’t bring himself to care about that, either. He cares about Adam, he realizes, the thought crystallizing with startling clarity. He’s been dealing with his crush for months now and Adam’s somehow become the closest friend he’s ever had, but he hadn’t understood the depth of his feelings until this second. It’s not a crush on his favorite player anymore; it’s something new, something small and little bit terrifying and wonderful and real and he can’t do a fucking thing about it.

Adam’s gazing down at him, looking more worn than Justin’s ever seen him. Justin’s hand rises and falls as Adam takes a deep breath and slowly lets it go. “There can’t be an us, not when I want to coach and you want to play. It’s not just that I could get fired, Justin.” At the sound of his name Justin’s hand closes around the fabric of Adam’s pullover, tightening into a fist. Their eyes are still locked but Adam raises his hand and brushes his fingers over the delicate tendons and sinews in Justin’s wrist. His fingers are still warm despite the fall chill and Justin loosens his grip, slumping forward. “I can’t,” Adam continues, slipping his hand under Justin’s to twine their fingers together again. “I can’t stand the thought of someone thinking that you’re first line because of how I feel about you. I don’t want your accomplishments to be fucked up because I’m involved, and I - we both need this team. I’m not going to let someone take hockey away from you.”

It’s not just about the sport, Justin knows. It’s not the skates or the stick or even the rink. It’s the team, the friendships, the community that they both would be lost without. Justin’s had Samwell Men’s Hockey for years but Adam’s only recently found them, and he can’t stomach the thought of Adam losing them so quickly. They both need the team.

Justin sucks in a breath; the New England fall air is cool in his lungs. It’s comforting, and it would feel like home if the air carried a sharper chill. “Whatever you’re doing, Adam, it’s not working. Can you at least think about it?” He asks softly, and Adam ducks his head. They’re so close, now, foreheads almost touching now that the two inches separating them have vanished.

“I’ll think about it.” Adam says, and Justin’s shoulders fall slack in relief. It’s not a yes but it’s not a no and that’s all Justin needs.

“All right.” He says, and Adam carefully untangles their fingers before turning to walk away. Justin watches him walk away, back straight against the strong wind, steps sure even on the wet grass. The distance between them multiplies again and again but Justin’s chest swells with hope.

He’ll think about it.

It’s Friday afternoon and Adam’s spent most of the day in a thick fog. He’d had an appointment with his physical therapist that morning, and he’d heard the news he’d been waiting for since June: he can finally skate again.

Instead of being relieved he’d been terrified and he’d wandered back to his apartment in a daze that had taken him hours to shake off. Now, though, he has to face the task he’s been putting off since he first moved to Samwell. He has an hour booked at Faber tomorrow morning but he doesn’t know where his skates are, other than the fact that they’re somewhere in the boxes he hasn’t been able to face yet.

Adam takes a fortifying breath and opens the door, gripping the handle far tighter than necessary. The room is brighter than he’d expected, light streaming in from the windows across from him. It’s a nice room; he should really use it for more than procrastination. Adam leaves the door open behind him - it feels important to have an escape route - and wanders over to the only open box.

He’d attempted to unpack everything once he’d graduated to walking without a cane a few weeks after he’d moved in but one look at the familiar jersey carefully folded at the top of the first box he’d opened had sent him reeling. He’d gone straight to bed, only leaving a day and half later to drag himself to a physical therapy appointment.

Today, he’s going to do everything he can to prevent that same outcome. He has the Hairspray soundtrack playing from his laptop, a ten hour playlist of his favorite episodes of various tv shows queued up just in case, and he knows for a fact his mother is going to call him tomorrow morning in case he winds up in bed for another few days. All he has to do is find the box with his skates. Simple enough.

Three hours later Adam’s sprawled on the hardwood floors, plastic lids and balls of clear packing tape strewn around him. The majority of the boxes have been opened, the contents piled around his prone form. He’s watching Tracy Jordan describe his hilariously traumatic past for the second time in a row, hoping that watching it again will be the kick in the ass he needs to at least sit up. His phone has been buzzing consistently for the past thirty minutes but rolling over to grab it seems like a gargantuan task, one he’s not prepared to face anytime soon.

“I once saw a baby give another baby a tattoo,” He quotes, still tracking along with the episode even though his eyes are closed. He lays there, quoting the rest of the episode on and off until there’s a sudden banging sound coming from the other side of his apartment. The shock of the sudden sound is enough to jolt him into a sitting position. It’s the door, he realizes suddenly, and it’s only the mental image of Justin standing on the other side that pulls him to his feet.

The knocking continues as he drags himself down the hall, breaking into familiar rhythmic bursts by the time he reaches the living room. When he finally reaches the door he’s had to suffer through four shave-and-a-haircuts but he manages to pull the door open before another can begin. He steps back in surprise when he sees who’s on the other side of the door.

Beth’s drawn up to her full height of five feet and four inches and she’s got a cardboard coffee cup in each hand. There’s a red spot on her forehead, and Adam realizes she’d been literally banging her head against the door instead of knocking with her hand. She glares up at him as she sweeps into the apartment, brushing past him easily. Beth hands him the two cups and toes off her shoes and by the time he realizes what he’s holding she’s on the other side of the room.

“What do I always say, Adam?” She asks, voice brusque. Beth walks around his apartment, inspecting each and every item in his living room. Adam lingers by the open door, trying to make sense of what’s going on.

“Gosh, Tabitha looks great today?” He tries.

“Not that, the other thing.” She stop in front of his bookshelf, running her fingertips over the titles to examine them quickly. She pulls one book out, then another, and the next thing Adam knows she’s rearranging the titles by subject and author. Adam uses his shoulder to close the door as he thinks.

“Do no harm, but take no shit?” He says before setting the cups down on his kitchen table. Beth nods and plucks his copy of Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (and Other Concerns) from the shelf, flipping through the pages idly before tucking it into her purse.

“There it is. This is me taking no shit.” She points at him with one hand, picking up one of his game pucks in the other. Beth examines it for a moment before setting it back, and quickly arranges the rest of the pucks into a stacked pyramid.

“Did someone give you shit?” Adam asks, no closer to making heads or tails of Beth’s cryptic hints as he watches her arrange his memories into a more aesthetically pleasing form.

“You did. You stood me up!” Beth points at him and he takes a step back, worried for his safety despite the fact that she’s sixty three and fifteen feet away from him.

“Beth, we didn’t have plans to meet today,” He says slowly, worried for the first time that she’s misplaced some information. She turns to face him, hands on her hips.

“Don’t you dare use that ‘I’m talking to an old lady’ voice on me, Birkholtz.” She snaps, and crosses the room much faster than he’d ever thought possible. Water aerobics is seriously working for her. “I’m sixty three years younger than you’ll ever be. You stood me up emotionally, and I will not have it.”

“I’m really, really lost, and I’m having the shittiest day, so can you please explain everything from the beginning? Slowly?” He pleads, sinking into Justin’s chair. Well - the chair he always uses when he comes over to study. It’s just a chair.

Beth eyes him warily. “I saw you and Justin on the quad yesterday. They occasionally let the librarians leave the library, you know.” His face falls and he gestures to the seat across from him, and takes a long sip of his tea in preparation.

The entire story pours out of him. He tells her everything, from seeing Justin at the first practice of the year to trying to find his skates earlier that morning, months of tension and pining and awkwardness and belonging all spilling out in a long, unruly narrative. He tries to explain gaining a team and what that means to him and spends far, far too much time describing Justin’s first goal of the season but he manages to tell her everything before he finishes his cup of tea. It’s cold by the time he takes his last sip and he drops the cup down on the table with a sigh, slouching in his chair. Beth’s been mostly silent, aside from appropriate laughter or oohing and ahhing, and she’s had both her hands wrapped around his since he explained Hazeapalooza.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Beth says, giving his hand a firm squeeze. “We’re going to hug for a very, very long time. Then I’m going to find your skates and you’re going to ask Justin to help you when you practice tomorrow. It’s okay to let him help you.” Adam opens his mouth to protest, mostly out of habit, but she raises one unimpressed eyebrow and he stops in his tracks.

“I’ll find my phone.” He agrees, and when they stand he has to hunch over so her arms can wrap around his shoulders but she rubs his back and holds him tight and he feels better than he has in days.

Justin’s in the dining hall when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He digs for it with one hand, the other occupied with a chicken tender, expecting a text from Bitty about Betsy’s slow decline or a snap from Wicky but his eyebrows raise in surprise when he sees the familiar string of emojis. He drops the tender and wipes the grease off his fingers before unlocking his phone.

Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]: I need a water aerobics tutor but I don’t have Tabitha’s number. Know anyone who can help? Me: i might Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]: Cool, thanks. Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]: P.S. It’s technically on ice instead of in water. But they’re the same thing because #science. Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]: P.P.S. It’s also not so much “aerobics” as “skating” but whatever. Me: ur cleared to skate?? Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]: Yeah.

Justin’s about to respond when the little ellipses pops up; Adam’s typing. He waits but the three little dots flash up at him, appearing and disappearing in their coded cycle for what feels like hours until -

Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]: Will you help me? Me: of course Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]: Faber, 8:30, tomorrow morning. Me: see u then Me: u do kno that ice and water have differences tho right. they have different molecular structures and shit Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Me: why are u like this

They text on and off throughout the rest of the evening. Justin’s not sure why Adam’s suddenly onboard but he’s not going to fight it. He’s watched Adam’s carefully constructed professional boundaries come down in stages and at this pace, maybe someday soon they’ll -

Justin shakes the thought away. Adam needs someone to make sure he doesn’t fall and hurt himself again, not a fan-turned-water aerobics instructor-turned-friend who’s already 63.2397% in love with him.

It feels good to admit it to himself, even if it’s just something he mumbles to the empty bunk above him.

The next morning Justin meets Adam on the bench after running into Bitty and Jack in the locker room. He hadn’t realized they were still doing those checking practices but they were both smiling and Bitty hasn’t goat-fainted since early in the season. Justin can see the progress in the way Bitty sings under his breath as he puts his pads away and the soft upwards curve of Jack’s lips.

He takes a seat next to Adam, who’s bent over as he tightens his laces. Justin pretends not to notice his shaking hands.

“Pretty good morning for ice aerobics, don’t you think?” He asks, tone light as he sways gently to bump their shoulders together. Adam makes a little half-laugh, more of a quick burst of air than anything else.

“Good as any,” Adam replies, finally sitting up. He rubs his hand over his knee, a nervous habit Justin’s come to recognize. Justin pats his shoulder and stands, clearing the distance to the ice in one step. He glides a short distance and turns, then turns again, just getting accustomed to the feeling of ice beneath his blades. When he glances back at the bench Adam’s watching him. He’s smiling but he looks – not quite sad and not quite hopeful. Melancholic, Justin’s standardized test vocabulary reservoir supplies.

“Hey, man. You’ll be doing this in no time.” Justin knows his phrasing is a little off, but it’s worth it to see Adam’s eyebrows rise in surprise before he smiles. The expression is still tight around the edges and fades altogether when Adam stands and makes his way to the ice, but Justin’s proud he managed to relax Adam for at least a moment. He skates back over to the boards and offers Adam both his hands, his back facing the rink. Adam takes his hands in a too-tight grip and steps onto the ice, limbs stiff with tension. They glide back, both of them staring at Adam’s feet, until Justin stops them.

“How’s it feel?” Justin asks, absently running his thumbs along Adam’s knuckles in an attempt to relax him; his grip on Justin’s hands is painfully tight.

“Terrifying.” Adam says automatically. He bends his knees experimentally, eyebrows knitted together in a look of intense concentration. “Knee’s fine, though.” He adds. He lets out a long, relieved sigh and finally tears his eyes away from his feet. The anchors of his lips rise in a tiny, hopeful smile and Justin’s 63.237% rounds up to an even 65.000%.

It’s a long, painstaking hour. It takes Adam a while to get out of his own head and Justin’s on edge from start to finish, determined to keep him safe. There are a few close calls - Adam’s momentum carries him further than he expects more than once and he ends up in Justin’s arms - but halfway through the hour Adam finally begins to relax. Justin can see that it’s not his body that’s holding him back anymore, and he’ll keep as close as he can until Adam’s mind catches up.

They’re practicing stopping and Justin’s pressed up against Adam’s back, hands firmly on his hips to make sure he’s steady. Adam’s leading but Justin’s gently guiding him, helping his muscles remember what to do. They’ve been going back and forth, sending up small bursts of ice as they turn their skates to stop, when Adam turns suddenly, rotating in Justin’s arms. They’re pressed close together, chests touching, and Justin couldn’t look away if he tried.

“Hour’s up,” Adam says, cheeks pink above his neatly trimmed beard. His eyes are startlingly blue on the ice.

“Yeah,” Justin agrees, breathless. The immeasurable distance that always looms between them shrinks, disappearing with every breath.

Adam places a hand on his chest, mirroring exactly how they’d stood in the quad earlier that week. Instead of a fall wind and wet grass there’s an artificial breeze and hard ice but the distance between them shrinks again. Adam’s ducking his head, blue eyes level with Justin’s brown. The corners of Adam’s mouth twitch and then he’s suddenly moving backwards, having pushed himself back with the hand on Justin’s chest. The small smile become a full blown grin as he glides away and eventually turns to skate back to the bench without any assistance. Justin laughs, pride and joy bubbling up so fiercely it has to escape the confines of his ribcage in an uninhibited burst. The sound echoes around Faber, bouncing off the walls and ceiling until it fades, slipping beneath the hum of the rink.

65.000% jumps up to 66.000%, then 70.000%, then 74.000%, rising steadily with each beat of his heart. Later that evening, hours after they’d trudged off the ice, Justin can still feel the warm weight of Adam’s hand over his heart.

[aliveandpleasant]

Explaining my hiatus

tl;dr: I just want to disappear. I don’t want anyone to notice me. I don’t want anyone to know that I had had existed. I don’t want anyone to remember me. The funny thing is that nothing anyone say will change me. The only person who can change me is me, but i don’t know how.

I feel like I just have to write this for my own purposes because I’ve honestly just been feeling so lost and no longer have any idea on how to cope. So here goes.

Drawing has always been my way of expressing myself, to escape from the world. I’ve always used drawing as a to cope with depression and anxiety. I was actually creating instead of destroying myself. It gave me stuff to look forward to, like “oh hey I can’t wait to study what things in different lighting conditions look like” or “I can’t wait to draw this thing from my favorite anime tomorrow after I get home from work.” As bullshit as it sounds, drawing gave me purpose and a reason to keep moving no matter how monotone my life had become.

Unfortunately, that fact doesn’t hold up anymore. In fact, drawing, on most days, make me feel even worse. Mostly because my insecurities creep up more than usual these days. Whenever I finish a drawing, so many thoughts come up. Mostly negative. Like, “you didn’t do the anatomy right,” “you color like a fucking idiot,” “you should’ve drawn it like this one artist”, “you deserve all the hate,” or “people say good things to you only because they’re sorry for you”. So I took breaks. But the thoughts then turn into “you’re a lazy fuck, you can’t do anything other than being useless”. It’s just an endless cycle of negative thoughts whenever I do ANYTHING, and I just couldn’t handle it.

Whenever I look at my old drawings, I feel jealous. Because I used to be so happy whenever I draw. Because I never really thought about any thing much other than just having fun. But now I can’t help but equate my self-worth to the amount of likes I get. There are many times where I’m like “oh yay i love this drawing I made” but then it doesn’t get that many likes so then I end up hating the thing I was proud of making.

I have people who follow my work. But I am too insecure to realize that it’s a good thing, not a bad thing. Most days, I just feel a lot of pressure about needing to keep up with my follower’s expectations and that I have to make sure that they like it or that I need to post regularly and on time. This really has nothing to do with the people who follow my work; in fact, they are extremely wonderful and I’m pretty sure all of this is just in my brain. And since I have a shitty brain, I always think that their nice comments/DMs are just so that I don’t feel bad about myself, and that they clearly don’t mean it seriously. Not just online, I always unconsciously believe that people who say good things about me are just lying. So, no matter how much and how often I receive good feedback, it won’t change anything because they mean nothing to me. Which makes me feel like a piece of shit because people actually took the time to say nice things to me. Plus I feel so irresponsible for throwing away all the work I’ve put in for these past few years.

Then I’ve come to realize that my stress in drawing really has nothing to do with drawing. I’ve just become uninterested in things. I can’t watch movies, can’t read books, can’t scribble because i hate all of them. Literally the only thing that keeps me busy now is going on 9gag.com and scrolling through the same memes over and over again trying to laugh out all my problems. I take sleeping pills and some nights I take too much on purpose because I honestly just wanna die. I don’t look forward to anything else in life because nothing has meaning anymore. Sure, when I die, some people are going to be sad. But I’ll give it 5 years tops and they’ll forget about me. Even if they don’t, everyone I know is going to die in 60 years anyway. Nothing will matter after that. So what difference does it make if I die today?

[soap-brain]

gonna take a sec here and talk about my life in some detail bc things are happening

so like. life is fucking great atm. technically.  because there are finally people who are ... idk, interested in me and like me for me and where i don’t have to hide and who are willing to talk with me and who are here for ravenna, and not just bits and pieces of her. and ... that’s really fucking great and i’m hanging out with people who geniunely like me. and ... that’s never happened to me before (lol i am so happy i’m away from my dearest lea i hope you get fuckin’ rekt or smth you toxic bitch) (seriously though i am super happy to be rid of her, i’m feeling ... so good honestly, it’s such a relief). i’m going to a poetry slam tomorrow, we went out for dinner and drinks yesterday and sometime next week me and a couple others are going to see the new thor. so that’s awesome.

but ... i also feel like i don’t have enough time. not because i’m having such an active social life (i’m not, i’m just hanging out a normal amount), and not in the “oh my god my life is almost over i’m going to die soon i’m so old” kinda way, but just ... twenty-four hours in a day is fucking nothing. i’m currently trying to plan out my days in a bit more detail, because my general plan isn’t working too well for me, and ... there is so fucking little time. like ... tomorrow, for example. i know i’ll be fucking useless before 9am. i’m aiming for 8am but idk how well that’s gonna go. so say i start at 8. i go over my flash cards until ten, which is two hours. you’d think it’s a lot but i have a LOT of flash cards to learn. after that i’ll take a half hour break. then i’ll get ready for my presentation on monday until noon. then i’ll take another half hour break, and then i’ll take half an hour to get ready for anatomy class aka look over my topic and do research for that. then i’ll take an hour off, have lunch, write a little maybe (even tho idk what to have for lunch unless i go get bread before starting my day). then from two to three i’ll go over my flash cards again. from three to five i’ll do extra work on my presentation, maybe on my topic too if i need to, or i’ll continue working my way through the textbook. then i’ll  have an hour off and we’ll go to the poetry slam at six, and that is on until nine. i’ll get home, wash up and hopefully hit the bed at ten, which i need because otherwise i will have world’s worst time getting up the next morning. and ... the tally is seven hours of work (including smaller breaks and stuff), and ... that’s just not enough time. i don’t know whether seven hours of work is even enough, but in that time i also didn’t hit the gym at all, i didn’t vacuum, i didn’t do my laundry, i didn’t shower (which i absolutely need to do tomorrow), i didn’t clean up my desktop, i didn’t make a meal plan for next week etc etc.  and i still didn’t watch any of the sectio chirurgica eps, didn’t watch any more tas or voy, didn’t write, didn’t read ...  there just isn’t enough time and that’s so frustrating. because i’m so excited to go to the poetry slam tomorrow and i’m so excited to learn all this (even if it is a bit of a drag sometimes lmao), and i am still kinda excited about anatomy class, and i am excited about working out, and i am excited about writing, but ... there is no time, you feel? and on monday i’ll get up to be at the store at 8, so i can get breakfast items and generally do my shopping, and then i still have an hour before class so i can go over my presentation again, and then i’ll spend five hours at uni if i do go get lunch with the others (and i do want to, so), and then i’ll probably manage to squeeze two hours doing flash cards into the afternoon, but i also want to go the gym, which’ll take 90 mins approx, and then when i come back it’ll be shortly before eight, so i gotta eat by then, and then i can maybe squeeze in another hour or so of studying, either going through the textbook or preparing for the next class on tuesday, and then it’ll be nine thirty pm, and then i gotta get ready for bed, but i didn’t yet watch the new disco ep, but if i don’t go to bed at ten, then i know i won’t be able to get up early the next morning. there just isn’t enough time to do everything i need to do and want to do.  and then i’ll have pretty much the same day on tuesday, and then i’ll have wednesday off, so that’s where i might sleep an hour longer usually, but this week i have an appointment at 8:15, and then i’ll try to put in five hours of studying plus two hours of going to the voluntary seminar which i probably should do, and then i’d like to go to the gym as well, so boom, eight hours+ done for. and then the week after next it’s my little sister’s birthday on tuesday, so i should her present sent before the weekend so it arrives on time, but i don’t know when to even shop for the present, so i’ll have to do that on friday or so, and then two days after her birthday i’ve got an exam, so i also gotta study a lot for that, and then two weeks after that december is going to start, and ideally i’d have all the presents ready in the first week of december so i can relax the rest of december and don’t have to worry about that and can instead focus on starting to study for chemistry so i pass that at the end of the semester, but there’s also another exam on the organs very shortly before christmas, and then at the end of january there’s the third exam which i think is neuroanatomy, and then two days after that there’s the final on anatomy class, and sometime around that time i’ll have to do the chem exam, and then i’ll likely visit my parents again so i’m there for my mom’s birthday, and then i’m going to come back because a) i have some more uni (in my holidays, i know) and b) a great friend of mine is visiting so close to me, and then i’ll get to see them which i usually don’t (bc they come all the way from america so like ...), and then the new semester will start already and i just hope i’ll have had time to already pre-study for that. oh yeah and on one of the first days of december another really great friend of mine has their birthday, and i wanna do something for that, and i already know what, but it’ll take a lot of time.

just ... time. i don’t have nearly enough. i need 48 hrs every day, honestly.

anyways. i am super happy though. life is finally going really great. i still have a lot of work to do with my personality and who i am vs who i want to be, but ... seriously, while moving seemed so bad because i would lose my “one true friend” (who then freaked out about me “destroying the friendship” and “not taking her feelings into consideration”), and i’d have to start completely anew and i’d be all on my lonesome, it turned out to be so good for me. i’m so incredibly happy. i just seriously need more fucking time :D

anyways, i’ll go now, i’ll do some planning. if you read all the way until here, you get a free ... a free ... a free emoji. reply to this post with anything and you shall receive your free emoji for all your troubles :DDD

[woodentrain]

On OBSABH chapter 2- the angsty bits

Viktor, sweetheart, what have you done?  (AKA the drawbacks of being an optimist)- part 2

(Part 1 has the happy bits and part 3 has the rest of the angst)

So after my post about the happy, positive, optimistic bits of Viktor in chapter 2 of OBSABH I said I might try to post about the sadder bits.  The angsty bits, if you will.  The bits where you read it and wish Viktor had listened to the voice of reason inside his head and done something different, instead of listening to… other, less rational parts of his anatomy.  So here goes! (Turns out I do indeed ramble too much so this is going to be in 2 parts.)

I’m going to do bullet points because that might make me be more concise (hopefully)

After the Olympics

Viktor has the very sensible thought that ‘After getting yelled at for several minutes straight, regardless of whether he could understand the words or not, Viktor was pretty sure that the worst of Yuuri’s animosity towards him probably hadn’t died down like he had begun to think’.  Hold that thought, Viktor.  It’s correct.  Ignore it at your peril.

Yuuri was drunk and not in any state to be answering questions so Viktor resigned himself to living in confusion for a little while longer’.  Or to put it another way:  Viktor condemned himself to living in confusion, and also pain, for a few more years. Maybe Viktor should have just asked Yuuri why he hates him so much.  Once Yuuri had got back to speaking English, he may well actually have got some sort of a useful answer out of him.  He knows that Yuuri’s negative feelings towards him had been on his mind, because of the drunken Japanese yelling, so that could imply that Yuuri wants to talk about it.  But at the same time, would that have been a bit immoral?  I mean, Yuuri was drunk, so would asking him be taking advantage of his lowered inhibitions?

Cut here... it’s getting so long already

Here’s an idea- you know Yuuri is really really drunk.  Is he safe to be left alone in a hotel room?  Is there a chance he could be so drunk he might get ill and choke on his own vomit?  Viktor could legitimately settle down for the night in his room just to keep an eye on him. I mean, not in a creepy way, but at the far, far, other side of the bed (hotels normally have nice big beds right?). Then in the morning Viktor could say ‘You were really drunk, I was worried about you, I didn’t think you should be left alone… how are you feeling?  Can I get you water/toast/coffee?  By the way, you said some stuff to me last night, could we talk about…’.  I mean, this would actually have been a bad idea.  Yuuri was pretty freaked out the next morning anyway, and if he woke up and found Viktor there?  He would not have wanted that.  So… a bad idea, but an interesting one nonetheless, right?

After the Olympics scene Viktor pretty much hits the nail on the head.  ‘Just as there was a part of Yuuri that didn’t hate him, there was a part of Yuuri that wanted him as well’.  It’s true, Viktor.  He’s been having these sexy dreams about you after all.  But- important point- don’t forget the part of him that hates you.  

At the Fateful Banquet (you know it’s fateful because I gave it its own capital letters)

Viktor thinks about how to talk to Yuuri- ‘he tried to think of how best to approach Yuuri, of what to say to start off a conversation that he had been wanting for so long’.  Here’s what you do, Viktor.  Go up to him.  Say hi. Tell him how brilliant his skating was. Ask him if he has any plans for the off-season.  Is he going on holiday, perhaps?  A bit of small talk might not have worked out well, but it still has to be healthier than getting all hot and bothered with him on the dance floor and taking him back to your room for a one-sided hate fuck.

Your routine was very good today… it was worthy of second place’.  It would be interesting to see what Yuuri’s reaction would be if Viktor called him out on this passive aggressive little insult.  I suspect he would have panicked and fled, but who knows?  I can see why Viktor is lost for words.

At the end of their dance Viktor comes soooooo close to actually asking Yuuri Why.  Why Yuuri acted the way he did, why he was hot one minute and cold the next and what Viktor could do to make him happy and not hate him anymore’.  Viktor, you should probably have tried to continue this conversation instead of taking him back to your room for a one-sided hate fuck.

Viktor is torn: ‘the rational knowledge that he needed to talk things out with Yuuri at war with the need to simply touch Yuui, to do whatever the other man wanted and finally give in to the desire’.  If in doubt, it’s best to listen to the rational knowledge, Viktor.  Seriously. You’re not a hormonal teenager.  You’re old enough to know better.  This will not end well for you.  

‘They could talk later’.  Oh bless you, Viktor.  You can and you will, but... It’s going to be years later… (for now, why not just go back to your room for a one-sided hate fuck?) 

‘It might be impulsive but Viktor hardly cared because he had been being impulsive for his whole life and it had always worked out fine in the end’.  Yes, well it always does… until suddenly it doesn’t.  Although this does work out fine in the end, it’s just… well, there’s a really long time to go until ‘the end’.

‘Distantly Viktor was aware that they were moving far faster than was probably wise and with much less talking than was probably safe’.  Yes, yes indeed.  Listen to the distant voice of reason, Viktor.

I have to stop now because there’s long posts and there’s just stupidly long posts, and this has become the latter, and my ironing pile beckons.  Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion of this angst fest, starting with ‘My room, it’s just upstairs’… maybe tomorrow?