#and also because i said i would. and also it's good practice. even if the amt of time it took was a lil embarrassing oops /silly

[downtroddendeity]

I have no idea why I'm thinking about this post again, but I am, so even without penicillin, some thoughts about how a modern person could be the past's greatest doctor* with minimal effort:

Sanitation: besides knowing about washing your hands, you know to boil water or filter it through several layers of cloth to make it safer to drink. My previous reblog said how to invent soap, and distilled alcohol is also pretty easy to invent- you heat an alcoholic liquid like wine in a container that's sealed other than a pipe/tube in the lid, which is attached to another container that isn't heated, allowing the steam to condense. The first little bit that comes out will be methanol and some other horrible poisons, but after that you'll get mostly ethanol, because alcohol evaporates much more easily than water.

Cholera and dysentery: what actually kills people with these is dehydration, which means even cholera is very treatable even without antibiotics. The most important thing is making sure the sick person drinks as much clean, boiled water as they can keep down and gets some electrolytes and calories in there too, such as by drinking broth, thin soup, or water some sort of grain has been boiled in.

Scurvy: you know this one. Cooking destroys a lot of Vitamin C, and copper stops it from being absorbed. Besides the kind of fruits and vegetables you might think of, rose hips have a crazy amount of Vitamin C, tea brewed from pine needles is pretty good for it, and while there isn't very much of it in meat, some Arctic expeditions managed to recover from scurvy by eating nearly-raw seal.

Rickets: Vitamin D deficiency, and maybe sometimes calcium. You can literally cure the first one with sunlight.

Goiter: often iodine deficiency. Seaweed and eggs are the foods of choice here.

Malaria: quinine is extracted from the bark of a tree native to Peru, which Europeans were smart enough to immediately bring over to Spain when they found out about it. Enough cloth to make mosquito nets would probably be way too expensive to be practical for normal people in most of the world until the Industrial Revolution, but at least you know.

Smallpox: STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM SMALLPOX, SMALLPOX IS TERRIFYING, IF YOU WANTED TO MAKE A DISEASE TO KILL AS MANY HUMANS ON THE PLANET AS POSSIBLE IT WOULD BASICALLY JUST BE SMALLPOX. It's insanely contagious and frequently fatal, and you probably aren't vaccinated. However, you can become inoculated, and developing a true smallpox vaccine is way easier than discovering penicillin. People in China were practicing variolation for centuries before it became a thing in Europe- it consists of taking a scab from someone with smallpox, keeping it in a bottle for a week or two to make sure most of the virus is dead, and then having someone inhale the dust or using a needle to prick their arm and get a little of it into the wound. This generally gives them a mild case, which still isn't a good time, but will make them resistant to getting the real thing afterward. Vaccination is the same procedure, but using the much less deadly relative cowpox, which is why the word "vaccine" is from the Latin vacca, "cow." The vaccine that was in use when smallpox was declared extinct in the wild was developed by deliberately passing cowpox between test animals to get it to mutate and selecting for the mildest strains.

Syphilis: the only good treatment for syphilis is antibiotics. However, syphilis is such a bastard that there are a couple of bad treatments that are, somehow, not the worst thing you can do. Insanely enough, this is the one time that mercury actually sometimes helps- like with chemotherapy for cancer today, if you catch it early and poison the bejeezus out of it, sometimes the disease will die before the person does (it's useless once the syphilis goes systemic, though). The other most effective treatment for syphilis before the discovery of penicillin was- I shit you not- giving the person malaria by injecting them with blood from a sick person. Malaria causes extremely high fevers, which kill off a lot of the syphilis bacteria. The drawbacks to this one are, uh, pretty self-evident.

As a bonus, since you probably know how a lot of these diseases are spread, you know when it's worth bothering with the full plague doctor getup! No need to bother when it's cholera or syphilis! But don't skip the mask if there's actual plague though, it's not just the fleas, plague can spread through the air and it can literally kill you in under 24 hours, don't fuck around with the plague-

*Besides time period, how much you would have it made as Superdoctor would also depend heavily on where you land. The Islamic world and China, for instance, were both working off fundamentally incorrect models of health and disease but were still generally a lot more competent than European medicine until the last century or two, while there are Inca skulls with marks from healed brain surgeries from 400 years before European doctors started to consider whether they should maybe consider washing their hands before sticking them in open wounds.

I can understand how "modern person thrown into the past gets by pretending to be a healer/doctor" is as surprisingly common of a trope as it is. I mean I'm fluent enough at bullshitting to be pretty sure I could pull it off to impersonate a doctor in any time pre-1800s. If I have no idea what something is or how to treat it, I could just get the opinion of the other whatever-passes-as-medical-professionals around, but if their suggestions sound like bullshit I'm not doing it. And I'll beat the shit out of anyone suggesting bloodletting or mercury. With my healing stick. I've tied little bells on it, that jingle comically with every smack.

The awesome curative powers of my healing stick come from two separate sources: Placebo, and me using it to beat anyone trying to give my patients mercury.

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to their s/o fangirling a little too much over another member

Request: So I have an idea…what would ot13 do if their s/o was like fangirling over another member… a little too much?? Like you're dating him, but you're like “OMG MINGYU IS SO HOT” ”Dokywoms vocals vocals literally save lives”

THANK YOUUUU GIRL 😭💗

A/N: It’s all innocent… right? RIGHT?? 😇 also a side note, kyeom could literally bench press the world 🤤 THIS WAS SO FUN!!! and funny!!

“OH REALLY?? GO DATE HIM THEN 😤” — Seungcheol, Joshua, Seungkwan

You said “Mingyu is the hottest member” and this man just turned into a petty cartoon villain if that makes sense. “Wow. Didn’t know I was chopped liver.” Goes full drama mode bc he's crossing his arms, fake crying, mumbling, “should’ve known you liked tall guys with arm veins.” Will NOT drop it. You could say, “you’re the only one I want” and he’d be like, “too late. I’m already packing your bags to Gyuville.” He secretly really really loves when you chase after him to reassure him though 😏

Literally hurt and trying not to show it — Dokyeom, Mingyu, Dino

You’re like “Seungkwan's vocals are UNREAL,” and he's like “😐…” He doesn’t say anything right away as much but his whole mood shifts and goes quiet. “Do you like him better than me?” BABY 😭😭 He’s not mad, he just doesn’t know where he stands in that moment. One cuddle, one, are you kidding me? I only want YOU! — and he’s fine again. But you best believe he’s dropping a killer performance next time y’all go to karaoke.

Fully agrees but still lightly side-eyes you — Jun, Hoshi, Vernon

You’re fangirling hard and he’s like, “you’re not wrong… but I’m right here??” He’s mostly unbothered and kind of amused, until you say something like “I’d let Minghao choke me with that performance 😭” THEN he’s like: “OKAY. CALM DOWN. 😃” He teases you back, maybe even joins in like “yeah, Dokyeom’s high note? Mmhm yes!” But the moment gets suspiciously quiet afterward, because the next thing you know, he’s suddenly taking his shirt off during your FaceTime call like it’s hot in here or something 💀

Pretends not to care but is plotting — Wonwoo, Minghao

You’re like, “Jeonghan just has this charm 😩” and he just goes, “hmm.” That’s it. Just ’hmm.’ But behind those eyes are, calculations. Suddenly he's becoming more charming, more flirty. Better hair. Better eyeliner. He doesn’t need to fight. He just… upgrades. You never say the other member’s name again, and it's not because he told you not to, just because he made sure you forgot. AND THAT'S SO HOT!!

Immediately turns it into a competition — Jeonghan, Hoshi [yes again]

“Ohhh Seungcheol's arms are hot? Bet.” He’s in the gym for 4 hours. “Ohhh Woozi's vocals? Cool cool.” He starts practicing runs he never even needed. He just looks you dead in the eye and says “uou like bad boys?” then walks away like a he didn't just make you go, “...???? 😟 ?????” He will turn your offhand comment into a lifelong challenge, and he will WIN.

Laughs it off but remembers forever — Woozi

He acts unbothered, smiles, and mods, “yeah, Mingyu’s hot. Good for him.” But three weeks later, you ask if he wants to watch a movie and he’s like, “why don’t you call Mingyu? He’s hot, right?” 😐 He’s petty, but very quiet about it. He knows you love him, but he’s still gonna milk it, and somehow… you low-key love when he gets like this.

[userluhna]

࿔⋆ LIKE LIVING

dad!hwangjunho x mom!pregnant!reader

based on this request

words: 1.3k

warnings: adoption. pregnancy. childbirth. season three spoilers. soft domestic life<3

a/n: might be the last request i write like this—junho discovering the baby with his girlfriend/wife—because it’s starting to feel a bit repetitive. however, if you guys want small scenes of what dad!junho looks like when the baby’s older, I’M DOWN FOR IT OKAY. you can also find more in: still ours. new dad.

enjoy! :)

you and junho met in winter, years ago—you were at the same café. it wasn’t the first time you saw him there, but he always passed through, coffee in hand, never staying long. never long enough. until one day, you went for him. right after he took his coffee—

“hey!” you had said, a little louder than intended. because the way he looked at you—he seemed on guard. not afraid, just ready. like he’d been waiting for this moment but didn’t know from who, or why. “sorry,” you added quickly, stepping a little closer—not too close, just enough so you didn’t have to raise your voice. “just—i see you, often, there,” you said, pointing awkwardly to the café window. “and […]” you were awkward. painfully awkward. and he was just there, listening to you, eyes steady like he hadn’t talked to anyone in years. “so yeah,” you said, because the silence was too much. “i’m sorry. i probably don’t have time for this anyway.” your lips pressed into a tight line as you turned and slipped back into the café. but maybe two days later, he sat beside you. coffee in hand.

“the light is really good,” he said.

and from there, it just… went. small coffee dates. soft mornings. you told him about the films you loved. he told you he read sometimes. you told him he should think about himself more. he told you he couldn’t. and still—you helped. without meaning to, you helped so much. he found comfort in you. a shoulder when he was too tired. his hand finding yours when he got anxious. his palm at your back to ground you in crowded rooms.

you grew safer and safer with each other.

so safe that one day, he asked you to marry him. so safe that he told you about his brother—not everything, but enough. so safe that he showed you his wound. so safe that he explained. so safe that he rested his head on your shoulder and cried. so fucking safe that when you handed him a positive pregnancy test, saying nothing, he didn’t even hesitate—he just looked at you, confused, and then hugged you so hard your feet left the ground. “oh my god—” he breathed, voice full, body shaking. “we’re having a baby.”

and you nodded, crying, just because you were happy. he moved with you through your pregnancy—slow, careful. his hand would brush your belly even before it started showing. his lips too, gentle and quiet. “hi there,” he’d whisper at night, like a lullaby. “talking to you early so you get to pick favorites.” you pinched his ear.

“ow, hey— that hurts!” he gasped, as if a tiny pinch could kill him. it was around three months in. you were craving rice and sauce, early morning. junho was already up, making breakfast. when he heard your footsteps in the hallway, he turned around.

“hi love,” he said softly, moving toward you like it was a dance he’d practiced for years. “slept well?” his lips brushed your temple. his hands rested over your belly. you nodded, still sleepy. “need to grab a few things from the store. you wanna come before it gets crowded?”

“oh yes please.”

you went, got what you needed, paid. really, it was such a small, normal thing—barely took time. but when you returned—oh god. you stepped inside, slipping off your shoes, and junho was already moving with the grocery bags—until he froze.

“june? you okay?” you asked, coming closer—only to freeze too. “what the—” your hand found your belly, as if to make sure it was still there. he didn’t speak. just opened a black envelope that had been left by the door.

inside: a golden card. player 222. winner. your eyes jumped from the baby, to the card, back again.

“just—it, oh my god.” you breathed, steadying yourself against junho’s shoulder. his hand found your waist, holding you tight—but his eyes were on the card. he pulled it out. a credit card. and then he looked at you—lips parted, eyes wide, searching for answers he knew weren’t there. “is it from the fucking games?” you asked. he nodded. unsure, but still—he nodded.

you couldn’t even believe it. your free hand covered your mouth. his hand—the one not holding your waist—moved to your cheek, brushing tears you hadn’t even noticed were falling. and junho—he was speechless. he always had something to say, even if small. but now, nothing. you just stood there. with a baby that wasn’t yours. with another one not yet born. his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, like even they had run out of words. minutes passed. you breathed out.

“okay,” you whispered, wiping your tears. stepping back to meet his eyes. “okay. so… what do we do now? how much is on that card?” and junho—he already knew. he’d seen it before. the kind of money gihun walked away with. and from his face, you could tell—it was a lot.

you moved eventually. junho strapped the baby to his chest, walked beside you, checked the balance on the card. and you just looked at each other. fucking stared. two days later, you used it. for diapers. for the little girl who’d been left at your door.

you had talked—god, you’d talked so much. sleepless nights, whispering about what this meant. you were three months pregnant. in six months, you’d have two babies. the one thing that was clear: the money from the card, knowing where it came from, would be for the baby. only the baby.

you asked for help—how to manage two. leaned on your parents, your sister. junho apologized, knowing no one from his side could help. you asked your friends. good ones. the ones who didn’t hesitate. you filled out paperwork. because the baby didn’t have any. you named her—hyejin.

it was like meeting your baby early. way too early. but you were okay. because you knew. because you had time to prepare. even if, some nights, it was hard. even if you felt distant. disconnected. but then—love arrived. quietly. in the middle of the afternoon, when she fell asleep on your chest. at night, when she cried and junho was holding her, but she still wanted your voice.

junho kept taking care of you. you were still pregnant, still heavy, still tired. he massaged your ankles when they hurt, even with hyejin drooling all over him. you laughed.

“she’s drooling, you know?”

“no way??” he gasped, fake offended. “yah, that’s not fair!” you squealed, kicking your feet lightly. careful not to disturb hyejin. “you’re not fair—” he muttered, hand over his chest, pretending to be wounded. “i’m pregnant. i have every right.” he laughed through his nose, the quiet kind of laugh that meant he was totally defeated. oh, and junho—he didn’t hesitate with her. held her like she was the most fragile, most precious thing. maybe it was instinct. maybe guilt. maybe just love.

sometimes he whispered, “you’re so safe, baby.” other times, he said nothing at all—just held her. watched the sky shift through the windows. and you—pregnant, heavier each day—watched them. and you loved her. not because you had to. not because you chose to. but because love came anyway.

then the delivery came. quietly. middle of the afternoon. hyejin was at your dad’s—he insisted. the due date was near and you needed rest. then you felt it. the warm trickle down your leg.

“junho—” you called, not loud. not scared. just needing. hours later. crying. sweating. clinging. she came. alive. strong.

you still remember junho’s face when he held her—wrecked with wonder. “she’s here,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “you did it.”

they’re different, your daughters. hyejin is quiet. watchful. like she’s already survived too much, even if she won’t remember it. she clings to junho’s hand when the world gets loud. buries into your lap when strangers come too close.

your newborn is louder. impatient. she wants warmth, milk, everything, now. but her eyes—god, her eyes. they look just like junho’s. wide and calm and full of something still.

some days, it feels like a miracle. other days—it just feels like living.

masterlist

[tommysparkles]

ooo for the cuddling prompts pls <3

24- Between strangers

Cia, my darling, anything for you. ❤️Also, this is so long, sorry lol. Buck had a lot to say. If all of these end up being this long, they might take me a while, oops.

Buck leans against Hen, laughs maniacally as they egg Chimney onto chugging the latest round of Tequila. Buck's starting to have problems even remembering what day it is, so he thinks this should probably be the last, but they're having so much fun after such a hard year, Buck's almost loath to give up this little floaty feeling.

"Think we've had enough," Hen says, far too reasonably, but he knows she's been pacing herself far better than the rest of them have.

There's a weight on his shoulder and he looks to the side to see Ravi practically collapsed against him.

"Too much there, probie?" Buck asks, but he's not entirely sure that was coherent. He thinks it might have sounded a little like 'T'much thr probe?' he shakes his head to clear the alcohol cobwebs away, but it doesn't help. Maybe more tequila will do it.

Ravi mumbles "not" and Buck has no idea what that means. He's just holding up a hand to ask for more when Hen grabs it and pulls it down.

"No, Buck, I think we're done for the night. Your better half is already on the way."

Buck pouts, vaguely remembers he'd thought he should stop, but Hen said his better half is coming, so that's fine. When Hen turns to wrangle a very drunk Chimney, Buck can feel his gaze turn to the door of the bar, like he's drawn there or something. Maybe it is, because the hottest guy he's ever seen has just walked in.

"Hey, look who it is!" Chimney hollers. Buck winces, when did he get that close? The guy coming toward them is wearing the LAFD t-shirt and slacks.

"Hot firefighter, oh my god," Buck mumbles and Ravi snorts a laugh against his shoulder. Buck doesn't know what's so funny, he does know that he shouldn't be drooling over the Hot Guy when his better half is coming for him.

"Sorry, I'm so late," Hot Guy says to Hen. "Shift ran over. I meant to make it here ages ago."

Hen gives Hot Guy a hug and Buck pouts again. How does she know this guy and he doesn't?

"It's totally fine," Hen is saying. "When you texted to say you were running late, I stopped at one drink, but let me tell you, these guys have had more than enough to make up for both of us. We lost Eddie a while ago."

"He found a girl," Ravi stage-whispers, collapsing into giggles against Buck again.

Hot Guy shakes his head. "Good lord. Hen, do you need me to take anyone else home?"

She waves that away. "Nah. Maddie's in the bathroom and she stayed sober too. I've got Ravi here."

"I'll text Eddie in the group chat," Hot Guy says. "Make sure he's okay."

"That would be good," Hen agrees. "Take your boy home. Call me tomorrow."

"Will do. Tell Chimney I said Happy Birthday." Hot Guy takes Buck's arm and wraps it around his own shoulders, but Buck refuses to move, frowning.

"I can't go with you," he says. "My better half is coming."

Hot Guy shoots Hen a look that tells Buck he's trying mightily not to laugh. He schools his face, looks at Buck and says, "I'm taking you to him."

"Oh." Buck thinks about that, decides he trusts this stranger to bring him where he needs to go. "Mmkay."

"He'd be so easy to kidnap," Hen mutters and Hot Guy snorts a laugh.

"Would not," Buck manages. He curls into the guy, just can't help it. "You smell good."

He's gently squeezed against a hard chest as he demands a cuddle without words.

"Thank you," Hot Guy says, guiding him to the door. "Come on, Evan. Let's go."

For some reason, that 'Evan' calms Buck more than anything else. It's his name, of course, but it's said in such a way that makes Buck think the guy's actually called him 'sweetheart' or 'baby' and that makes Buck feel floaty for a different reason.

Soon enough, he's being bundled into the front seat of a very familiar truck, doesn't think much of it when he's ushered into a house that smells, of, well, home. Doesn't really track it when his shoes are removed gently from his feet, he's urged to drink an entire glass of water, doesn't argue when he's bundled into bed.

He could swear a kiss is placed on his temple, but he's out before he can think too much about it.

____

When Buck wakes the next morning, his headache isn't too bad, considering. He looks toward the nightstand, sees another glass of water, sitting next to two ibuprofen. He takes them, washes them down and thinks back to last night. His eyes widen when he vaguely remembers forgetting he had a...

"Hey," that soft, lovely voice says from the door way.

Buck looks up, sees Tommy standing there in old jeans and word t-shirt.

"How are you feeling?"

Buck laughs sheepishly. "Hungover. Kind of embarrassed."

Tommy grins. "Nothing I haven't seen before. Besides, you were very cute."

"I can't believe I forgot!" he looks down at his left hand, the ring that's settled on its home where it belongs. He doesn't know how he didn't feel it last night.

"Well," Tommy says, flashing his own wedding ring. "To be fair, it's only been a few weeks." Then he heaves a put-upon sigh. "But you forgot your own husband. It's very sad."

Buck shoves at him with a laugh. "I didn't do anything too embarrassing, did I? Well. More embarrassing?"

"Mmm," Tommy thinks about that. "Not really. Although, we were halfway home when you asked if you could bite my bicep."

Buck groans and collapses against the pillows as Tommy continues, "Which, you know, you tend to just do that without warning anyway, so drunk Evan is actually very considerate."

Buck laughs, Tommy's grin is bright and beautiful. "God." He holds out his arms. "Come here."

Tommy obeys, laying down on Buck's chest. Buck wraps his arms around him. "I think I still knew you anyway."

"Yeah?"

"Mmhmm," Buck hums, squeezing him tight. "Thanks for coming to get me."

Tommy presses a kiss onto his t-shirt covered sternum. "Always."

[cryptic-doe]

𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝘁 ❦

wc: 2,035

summary: sam meets the shy girl who lives with bobby for the first time

warnings: mentions of death and small mention of suicide, shitty dads, minor cursing, pls lmk if i missed anything !

a/n: there is no real romance in this first chapter, only because they're around 15 so this kind of just the beginning of their friendship ! i also tried to follow the show's timeline, meaning this is set around 1998, so hopefully, it's somewhat lore accurate. i hope u guys all love it, and like always, pls take care <33

you were just a baby when your mother's post-partum depression took hold of her, claiming her life. and you were only nine when a werewolf claimed your father. you would've liked to say that you missed them. and a small part of you, more so your mother than your father. you had no memories or reminders of her, other than the silver heart locket you wore around your neck with her wedding ring on it. your dad never talked about her, always changing the subject whenever you asked questions about her. so all of your information came from bobby. he said she was a kind and beautiful woman, with the sweetest soul he'd ever met. "you look just like her. she would've adored you." he told you that when you first asked him about her. you wanted to believe him, but it was hard for you to do so when your dad would tell you the opposite your whole life.

whenever he'd drink too much after a long hunt, which was often, he'd spew the most hateful words at you. "it's all your fault, girl. she'd still be here if it wasn't for you. i didn't even want ya anyways." and then he'd throw the glass bottle in your direction. sometimes it only hit the wall, or sometimes the pieces would bounce off and cut you. you'd end up hurt either way. only for him to wake up in the morning, seemingly forgetting what he'd done the night before, and act like you were still his little girl.so no, you didn't miss your father as much as you did your mother. but when it was late at night, and the only presence was bobby's sleeping body down the hall, you missed the idea of him. you missed the man who would cry over the cuts he'd given you, and whose salty tears would flow into the bloody wounds.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

you laid on the cold, wooden floor of your bedroom. the vinyl of radiohead's ok computer played softly in the background as you flipped through some old teen titans comics bobby bought for you. you could hear the front door of the house open and close before hearing the faint creaks of the rickety stairs. you didn't pay too much mind to it, though. figuring it was either rufus or that old lady down the street coming to watch you. but the three hard raps sounding on your bedroom door told you that it was actually bobby. you furrowed your eyebrows, looking up from the comic book. "i thought i heard the front door close?" you asked."yeah, it did. but there's some people i want you to meet," he replied. as if sensing your hesitation, he reassures you with a smile. "only for a few minutes, honey. these are some good people." you glance back down at your unfinished comic book, trying to think of some excuse you could make, but when you look up and see the almost hopeful look in bobby's eyes, you know there's no way of winning. you sigh, closing it, and then standing up. "fine, but only for a few a few minutes." he smiles at you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, and you practically melt into his side. "that's all i ask of you."

as you and bobby walk down the steps, you take notice of the three men standing in the living room. there's two boys, one who looks a few years older than you, and the other looks to be about your age. a man stands behind them, and you assume that he's their father. once making it to the bottom of the stairs, you move yourself to slightly stand behind bobby, as if to hide away. you never took well to meeting new people. especially when they were ones your age. "y/n, this is my good friend john, and his two boys. the oldest is dean, and that's sam. he's your age."

dean looks down at you, and politely smiles, but doesn't say anything. he's handsome, you think to yourself, and has green apple eyes. then john looks at you and smiles, but his isn't as warm or friendly as dean's. "it's nice to meet you, y/n. i knew your dad, he'd talk about you all the time. and i'm... i'm sorry for your loss." it had been nearly six years since he died. you don't react other than a slight widening of your eyes when he says your dad mentioned you. and that leaves sam. the boy your age.

when he looks at you, it's with the softest eyes. you thought dean had beautiful eyes, but sam's beat his by a mile. they were a hazel color, wide and round. they reminded you of the doe that stumbled into the backyard last week. and when he smiles... it erupts something like butterflies to fly around in your belly. you didn't know these feelings really existed. they seemed like something that only happened in the books you read. "hi, y/n," he greets softly, looking at you. his direct gaze doesn't make you nervous like most others do. instead, you shift from bobby's back to stand at his side. "hi," you greet back.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

it's later now, probably an hour or two after you met the winchesters. what a funny coincidence that they were a family of hunters named after the gun. after you finished meeting them, bobby and john excused themselves to talk about some vampire nest nearby. when dean tried to follow after them, john snapped at him, and it made your spine go rigid. you didn't like their father. he reminded you too much of your dad, maybe that's why they got along so well. dean and sam left to go to a nearby arcade, when dean offered to take you along, you just politely declined with a shake of your head.

it was dark now, the sun had already set and the moon was rising. you sat on the front porch of the house, rocking back and forth in the white rocking chair bobby built for you. he was still inside talking to john, leaving you to stew in your thoughts, something you did often. you thought about a lot of things. like the black cat that passed through the yard last night, or that movie bobby showed you the night before. it was called mars attacks, or something. you liked it a lot, and laughed at the aliens whenever they would talk to each other. but then your thoughts drifted to sam. you didn't have much experience with kids your age, especially not boys.

having a dad as a hunter didn't really allow you the opportunity to go to a regular school. most of the time you would have to learn on your own. and when that got too hard, you'd walk over to the local library of whatever motel you were staying in and ask someone for help. you were thankful you moved in with bobby when you did, because school only got harder from there. he tried to enroll you into the local middle school, but you didn't want to one bit, and he wasn't gonna force you. and when your freshman year of high school rolled around, he knew that it would be the same outcome. so you never really made friends, not like you wanted to. most of the kids in town were assholes, whispering amongst themselves whenever you and bobby would roll into town to get some groceries. ghost girl, is what they called you. mainly because nobody knew anything about you, other than the fact you weren't here one day and then were the next. but partly because you had this weird aura around. off-putting and not very approachable. you rarely spoke unless it was someone you knew, and you would just stare at those who even tried. you didn't mean to, though, you just couldn't help it. when you were ten, you asked bobby if you were scary. if that's why none of the kids ever wanted to talk or play with you.

he sighed and patted your head. "you're not scary, honey, you're just... different. but there's nothing wrong with that. it's a small town, meaning small minded."

however, you quickly realized that you didn't care what they thought about you, or the whispered words shared between them. there was a part of you that hoped sam didn't think you were scary, though. the sound of tires on gravel brought you out of your thoughts. the black, chevy impala of rolled up to the front of the house, and dean and sam later hopped out of the car. dean made his way up the porch steps first, smiling at you as he carried in some pizza boxes. "hey, y/n, we got pizza if you want it." you muttered a quiet 'thanks' as he just nodded in response, before the screen door slammed shut behind him. when you made eye contact with sam, you immediately dropped your gaze. instead, looking at the worn-out black converse you wore.

out of the corner of your eye, you could see him standing there, shifting from side to side. he fiddled with something behind his back, and your curiosity got the best of you. "what do you have?" you suddenly asked, looking up slightly. he looked at you with his lopsided smile, and you noticed the dimples he had. "uh, just a prize i won. you should've come with us, it was pretty cool."

you just shrugged, pulling your knees to your chest. "i've never been to an arcade. i don't think i'd be very good at it," you murmured, tilting your head to look up at him. for only being fifteen, he was pretty tall. almost as tall as dean, who was four years his senior. "you don't have to be good at them to have fun," he replied, moving to lean against the porch rails. "between you and me, dean's not very good at them, either." his voice dropped to a low whisper, and you found yourself letting out a small laugh at his words. and to sam? that was better than any prize he could've won.

the screen door squeaked, as bobby peaked his head out. "alright, you two kids, pizza's on the table. let's eat." you and sam both nodded as he left to go sit down. you stood up from the chair, and brushed off the dirt from the jean shorts you wore. as you moved to open the door, sam's fingers brushed against your arm, sending shivers down your spine. "the prize i won, uh, it's for you." he held out a small plushie of a light purple butterfly, your favorite color. you gratefully took it from him, smiling the biggest smile he's seen from you all day. "thank you, sam." he ducked his head, kicking nonexistent rocks. "it's no problem."

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ʚଓ་༘࿐

for the rest of the week, sam and dean kept you company while john and bobby hunted the vampires. dean drove you guys to the arcade, and you were surprisingly good at some of the games. that same day you got ice cream and you laughed when sam got got sprinkles stuck around his lips. and when dean would leave you and sam alone, you showed him your comics and all of your favorite vinyls. "this is the teen titans. these ones are my favorites. i like raven, she's cool." his eyes stayed focused onto you as he nodded along to every word you said. he didn't talk, he listened, as if some part of him knew that's what you needed. and when the week came to an end, and you all said your goodbyes, he took you to the corner of the living room, pressing a small piece of paper with a number. "whenever you just need someone to listen to you," was all he said, before brushing his lips against your cheek as dean called for him. he waved goodbye and you did the same, watching as the imapala drove away.

and as you drifted to sleep that night, you clutched the butterfly plushie close to your chest, and dreamed about the boy with the hazel eyes. with his number placed right underneath your pillow.

a/n: this was intended to be a short drabble, but nothing is ever short with me 😭 i feel like it's a kind of a mess, as i was trying to introduce a lot of things, but i hope u guys still like it and lmk if you'd like to me tagged !! i plan for the next one to have a bit of timeskip, and for them to be around 16-17, so we can get into more of the romance ! we'll see how many chapters i plan to write for this series, bc i lowk already love sm <33

taglist: @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl

[monayen]

If you were to rate everyone on how pervy/how much of a freak they are, what would the rankings be? Do you have any HCs regarding this? I'm curious abt what you think :]

Okay byeee!!! I love your writing so much!!!!! 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

➷ paring - Multi x Gn!Reader [Randal's Friends / Ranfren]

➷ cws - pervy behavior, fantasies, humping, masturbating

a/n - this is very quick and short and i'm posting this at almost 4 am when i gotta be up at 7 am because i like to ruin my sleep schedule. anyways, i know yall would love to hear about Luther being a perv, but he's a supreme gentleman and i think these guys are better fits for being pervs. doesn't mean nobody else can't be tho, just thought i write best rn with these 5 fwreaks. sorry if this is ass im sleepya. oh and also some angst is coming up if yall like that. i've written a lot more than i expected and i hope yall like that since it's just pure angst lol. any depressioners in da chat?!

1. Randal

Is this even a competition? This freak gets nose bleeds just at the thought of you. Absolute pervert, doesn't know personal space

He'll shamelessly stare and point things out, or ask you embarrassing questions like "What color underwear are you wearing today?" won't stop until he gets an answer. And when you finally do give in and respond, he'll give you a cheeky grin and demand you "prove it."

Freak meters are off the charts, his dick is superglued to your holes. Good day

2. Satoru

Obligatory because he exists thanks to Randal, so there's definitely some overlap with the... fantasies that he has

A nice guy perv, if that exists. You'd barely notice the incredibly weird undertones of him staring too long at any exposed skin or his lingering touches on your waist or hips, if not for his nice smile and friendly attitude

Maybe he's taken a few candid pictures when he's grown more attached and obsessive over you. And maybe he's jerked himself off stupid imagining things he'd love to do to you. Thats for him to know ;-)

3. Nyon

As said before, he could get off to the weirdest things as long as it has to deal with you

Good at keeping it under wraps though, so you might not notice the missingm personal items for a while

And even if you did, you probably wouldn't assume that it's Nyon taking your hairbrush and running his tongue over the bristles, or that's he's the reason your pillow cases suddenly has some... suspicious stains

Would be painfully embarrassed if you ever found out, but sometimes he gets sloppy by just stuffing a pair or two of underwear underneath his pillow. Perhaps a part of him does want you to find out, and gosh, he humps against your dirty shirt silly wondering what you'd do. Freak

4. Michael Jr.

All of the ratmen are pervs to some degree. The second they see bare skin, it’s like a switch flips. Their one shared brain cell short-circuits, and suddenly the only thing on their mind is rutting until the urge burns out

But Michael is more susceptible to it. You've seen him literally cry for a crumb of something to stick his painfully eager dick into. Hell, he'll settle for grinding against your thigh if it means he gets to feel your body against his

He has plenty of fantasies. Quite a few involving the other ratmen, but all involving you. He practically dreams of the day where you can complete them all. He'll definitely be begging you to for the time being, of course

5. Sebastian

Oh, he feels terrible to be up here with these other freaks! But he really can't help it. He doesn't really remember the last time he felt so painfully attracted to someone enough to be fantasizing like a pervert

The guilt is there every time he catches himself staring too long at you. Every time his mind wanders and he pictures himself laid out while you are bare and on top of him. How soft you're skin would feel, how pretty the noises you'd make, how tight you'd feel—

He has to snap himself out of it each time, embarrassingly excusing himself to the restroom to deal with his neediness. But there's times where you look at him with those beautiful eyes, and he wonders just how amazing it would be to just indulge

[viviansturns]

𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒔 - part 1

... you find yourself falling for your university pen pal

cw (whole series): flirting, fluff, very sad angst

September 10th, 2024

Hi Matt, Or do you go by matthew?? I kinda like matt better so i'm sticking with that.

I don’t really know how to start this. I haven’t written an actual letter since I was like, 8, and it was addressed to the Tooth Fairy. I also wrote one to my family when I tried running away.

Anyway, I’m y/n. I’m in my first year at Oxford, and I signed up for this pen pal thing because I thought it would make me have purpose and also practice my penmanship. I honestly just want to yap and vent into letters for some rando to respond. 

I’m majoring in psychology which is already horrifying. Also fun fact I like drawing people I see on the subway. Or just drawing people in general, that’s always fun. I do pottery, I play volleyball, and I have an cat named sally. I’m also super into photography and polaroids and such.

I don’t know what you look like, but I’ll stereotype you when you get back to me and tell me your major!

I hope this program’s mailing system is quick. Anyways bye!

—y/n

P.S. Are we allowed to swear? Cause i’m itching to.

_______________

September 21th, 2024

Hey Y/N,

Matt’s good, matthew is for my teachers and that’s it. Also the mail shipping takes like a week, that's crazy.

I haven’t written a letter like this since forever, so this feels different and way personal than text messages or whatever.

I’m in second year at UCLA, studying Art History. Mostly trying to figure out why people painted the weird stuff they did, and hoping my own sketches don’t look like a toddler’s.

Pottery sounds impressive. I can’t even handle a moldable eraser I fear… anyways I’m super into drawing people too so it’s crazy that we both draw ppl on the subway!

I don’t have a cat, but I’m definitely a cat person. Low-key hoping you’ll send a Polaroid of Sally sometime. Please please please.

I like that you want to vent in letters. Same here. No pressure though, I just wanna talk to people about things.

Anyways I’m looking forward to hearing more about Sally and everything else you want to share.

—Matt

P.S. Here's a sketch of a cat if that maybe convinces you to send me a pic…

ALL CREDITS TO John Nixon ON PINTEREST

_______________

October 2th, 2024

Hi Matt,

You win. Sally and I took a Polaroid just for you. I tried to get her to pose but she’s deeply uncooperative and bit my thumb halfway through. Ignore that my face is in it, being right up against my face is the only way she’ll ever cooperate.

I put it in a little sleeve thing so it doesn’t get smudged. I expect a thank you note (or another sketch).

Also your cat sketch was like so good. Like, I showed my roommate and she said, “Tell your pen pal I’d buy that for 12 bucks at a thrift store.” Which is her version of a compliment, I think.

Psychology is still horrifying. Did you know there's a phenomenon called "the illusion of explanatory depth" where you think you understand something until you try to explain it and realize you know nothing? That’s literally this degree.

Anyway. My week’s been kind of weird. I dropped my coffee on a guy’s shoe and then he asked me out right after. I guess that's a good sign? 

This letter’s kind of all over the place but whatever, you said no pressure, and I’m holding you to that. 

Hope UCLA is treating you nice. Tell me more about your art history class! Also, I’m kinda sad that the shipping takes so long. I guess the distance from oxford to LA is really far but still…

—Y/N

P.S. You never answered if we’re allowed to swear. I’m going to assume yes and just censor myself creatively until confirmed.

_______________

October 13th, 2024

Y/N,

Sally looks like she owns your apartment and you just pay rent. Also I thought she was a full grown cat, but she's a kitten! Also I owe you a thank you for the Polaroid, sally is so cute. You look nice too. Or at least the corner of your face

The sketch I sent was just me messing around. I hadn't drawn anything outside of class in a while. It felt good, actually. Thanks for giving me a reason, I might just keep doodling shit for fun.

This week’s been foggy. I’ve been spending more time in the library than I want to admit, mostly pretending to read while I look at the pages. There's a painting in one of my textbooks of a woman crying in the dark, but you can’t see her tears. Just her hands. I keep coming back to it.

You said you draw strangers. Ever think about what they’d say if they saw the versions of themselves you made? Do you make them kinder looking?

—Matt

P.S. I wouldn't mind any other pictures of you or Sally or something.

_______________

October 23rd, 2024

Matt,

Thanks! You’re so sweet, I'm sure you look nice too.

And yeah, I wonder about that sometimes, how people would react if they knew I’d sketched them mid-yawn or while picking at their sleeves on the subway. I don’t make them better or worse. I try to draw them like they are, but there’s probably bias in my work. I think it’s hard not to romanticize people when you’re just observing.

Thanks for the sketch again and the new one. Just so you know, I’m cutting them out to put it above my desk. I also want to get back into sketching, if you wanna keep doing that back n forth.

Oxford’s been grey in that relentless, boring kind of way. I bought an overpriced croissant and ate it on the steps outside the psych building like I was in a film. It was stale.

What about you? You never really told me what made you choose Art History. Or drawing. Why that, and not something practical?

Also, if you really want a photo of my full face, say it straight next time. I’m not scared.

—y/n

P.S. That was a threat.

P. P. S. I'm just kidding, you’re cute lol

_______________

November 3rd, 2024

Y/N,

Fine. I want a photo of your full face. Direct enough? I kinda want to draw if you think that's okay.

As for Art History, my mom wanted me to study something “useful.” I picked this to spite her at first. Then I stayed because it stopped feeling like spite and started feeling like mine. I like looking at something that once mattered to someone else and figuring out why. That includes faces, sometimes.

I don’t know. The world’s already loud enough. Drawing is the only thing that makes it quiet. It’s not even about being good at it. Just having a place to put things.

Lately, it’s been harder to concentrate in class. Everyone’s always talking like they’re performing for each other, and I keep zoning out. It’s exhausting, pretending I care when most days I’m just trying to keep from going under.

I’ve started sketching you. Just based off that Polaroid. Not in a weird way. I just liked the way the light hit your cheek. I’m really into sketching people if you haven’t noticed…

Send the real photo. I want to get it right. Or at least try.

—Matt

P. S. I’m out of things to P. S. write back soon I guess?

_______________

November 14th, 2024

Matt,

Umm I’ll have you know I always write back as fast as possible. mail just takes ages dude. Also, I attached the photo. Let me know if it’s okay, I tried to make it a not awkward picture.

It’s weird, letting someone draw you. There’s something about it that feels like handing over a version of yourself and hoping they don’t miss the parts that matter. But I trust you. I don’t know why.

Psych’s been eating me alive. We’re doing a unit on perception. How two people can look at the same thing and see it completely differently. It made me think about you. But I feel like you pay attention. 

And I get it, it’s also hard for me to pay attention in class. Everything just moves so slow.

Also, I sat in that terrible jazz café again. The muffins haven’t improved. But there’s something comforting about knowing exactly what you’re going to get. Even if it’s underwhelming. I really like consistency if you couldn’t tell. Maybe that’s why I like this whole pen pals thing

Draw me how you see me. I won’t be mad if it’s not perfect.

—Y/N

P. S. Ugh. I’m tired.

[Photo here, could not find a good one, mb! Also i wanna be inclusive so just imagine ur face here.]

_______________

November 28th, 2024

Y/N,

The photo is way better than the Polaroid. You’re smiling in it, which surprised me for some reason. Not in a bad way. Just didn’t expect it.

I finished the sketch. It’s folded into this letter. I kept thinking I was done and then going back in to fix the curve of your mouth. You smile a little unevenly. That’s not an insult. It made the whole thing feel more alive.

Most of the time when I draw people, it’s like cataloging expressions. With you, it felt more like remembering. That sounds too serious, but I don’t know how else to say it.

I’ve been kind of stuck lately. Everything’s loud and too much and pointless in that vague way where nothing is technically wrong. But drawing you just steadied everything for a bit.

Anyway. Hope it looks like you. Hope you don’t hate it.

—Matt

P. S. You don’t have to, but I’m always willing to draw more.

P. S. P.S. I know the pen pals program is pausing over the break, but I’ll miss hearing from you. Write to me anyway?

ALL CREDITS TO @Chommang ON YOUTUBE AND INSTAGRAM.

_______________

December 10th, 2024

Matt,

Duh, I'll write during the break. Even if it’s just one letter because of this stupid shipping time.

I didn’t hate the sketch. I love it, actually. I stared at it longer than I should admit. You made me look calmer than I usually feel. Softer, maybe. It’s strange, seeing yourself through someone else’s hands. But I don’t know, it made me feel understood.

It’s literally unfair the amount that you’re able to capture facial expressions. I showed it to Sally and she immediately sat on it, so take that as her formal approval.

I’ve been thinking a lot about perception lately. Not just in the psych-class way, but in the real-world way. Like, how you can know someone for years and never see them. Or never know someone for a couple months and see them.

Oxford’s gotten cold. The kind of cold that makes your bones feel hollow. But I like the way the fog rolls in across the river in the mornings. Makes everything feel unreal in a good way.

Anyway, you said you’re always willing to draw more. So I’m holding you to that.

—Y/N

P.S. I made you a playlist. You don’t get a say in the matter. It’s one of those spotify codes that you can scan.

_______________

December 22nd, 2024

Y/N,

I’m glad you liked it. I think I was trying to draw how you made me feel, not just how you looked. Hope that doesn’t sound weird.

I’d be lying if I said I haven’t reread your last letter a few times. That part about perception—I keep circling back to it. How some people never see you right, and others just... do. I think that’s rare.

Campus is quiet now. Everyone’s gone or going. I stayed behind for a few more days before heading home. Something about the silence feels easier to manage when it’s earned.

You mentioned fog. I haven’t seen real fog in months. Just Los Angeles haze that smells like old traffic. But the sky’s been orange lately, and it’s the kind of color that makes you want to say something even if there’s no one around.

I’m working through the playlist. Trying to really pay attention to the lyrics.

—Matt

P.S. I hope you’re having a good christmas break. If we were in the same city, I’d take you out for hot chocolate at the Italian cafe. Or maybe a better place, I don’t know oxford.

ALL CREDITS TO Mike Phillips ON PINTEREST

_______________

January 3rd, 2025

Matt,

You got your wish. I’m writing from my childhood bedroom. I’m surrounded by a shit ton of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Sally is sulking in my suitcase because she loves my parents and knows I’m leaving again soon..

Break has been fine. Way stranger than I’d like, like time folds differently here. Everyone I used to know feels just a little unfamiliar, like they’ve all been redrawn slightly wrong. Or maybe I’m the one who shifted. I don’t know.

Your letters make more sense than most conversations I’ve had since I got back. That’s not a sad thing. I think it just means I trust you in a way that’s starting to feel pretty permanent. I guess I’d say my relationship with my parents is complicated. I’m not about to trauma dump on you, but things are just weird around them.

Appreciate these lovely sketches, that’s a great santa/elf?

—Y/N

P.S. You were right about smiling. It is harder to fake than it looks.

ALL CREDITS TO Elliana884 ON PINTEREST

idkkk how i feel about this...i tried being creative and now i have this.

*THESE POSTS ARE SCHEDULED AS I AM AWAY CURRENTLY, TO FIND OTHER PARTS YOU NEED TO SCROLL DOWN ON MY BLOG*

[thelawfulchaotic]

As an aspiring lawyer, yet to go to college, I'm always very confused about what kind of law I want to take up. Not just because i'm divided between corporate and criminal law, but also because corporate criminal and divorce law are the only three laws I am AWARE of.

In my country, corporate is difficult to study and better to practice, criminal is easy to study and difficult and also for a lot of reasons, terrible to practice. I'm more drawn to criminal law but i was also drawn to astrochemistry about 4 years ago so i don't trust myself right now.

What i want to ask you is of course

a. Should I do criminal or corporate? b. What other types of laws are there that I can practice(I didn't even know constitutional law and juvenile protection law existed until a few months ago, ik how do I not know what these are, I'm about to go to college in less than a year, but that's what i wanna know(the internet is weird and i'd rather know from some whose practicing, than some rando website))

You have SO MUCH TIME to make this decision. Don’t pressure yourself at all.

It’s a really good thing to leave yourself open to changing and growing as a person, which might mean that in a year you change your mind about what you want.

You also have plenty of time to learn about what options there are! More than that, you’ll get to take classes about them in whatever law school your country does.

In America, you do a four-year undergraduate degree then three years of law school, but I know that you can go straight to studying law in, for example, the UK. If you’re in America, my biggest recommendation is that in college you don’t even study law at all — you’ll learn it all in law school. Study something totally different. Something that just Interests you. The “typical” major is usually political science; mine was a film degree, but I’ve met lawyers who did theatre, science, literature, art history.

You can always tell people who majored in pre-law once you’re in law school, because they don’t know anything. Where I’m always telling stories, they would argue in a circle: the law is the law because it’s the law.

All that said: law school tends to divide itself into private and public interest, not necessarily by subject. (Criminal law can be with a private firm or with the government, so it could be either). When you’re talking about types of law you can specialize in, the field is so so wide.

The lawyers who sue people for accidents, who sue companies for bad products, who sue for negligence? That’s tort law. Around that there’s things like medical malpractice law. Personal injury. Products liability.

You talk about corporate law like it’s one thing, but it isn’t. Partnerships and LLCs have their own issues; lawyers specialize in tax law, secured transactions, employment law, the law of corporations specifically, property and real estate law.

Intellectual property law is about patents, copyrights, and trademarks.

Lawyers help people write wills — estate law. Family law involves child custody, visitation, and support, marriages, divorces.

Environmental law preserves our natural spaces and fights pollution! International law deals with treaties! Constitutional law is about the very structure of the country! Immigration law helps people find and stay in their new home!

Criminal law in itself can look very different depending on if you’re in a fancy expensive law firm vs a public defender vs a prosecutor vs the Innocence Project.

And you don’t have to pick one; you’d have to pass a bar exam anyway with a lot of these topics on it. You can practice any of these once you become a lawyer.

I’m sure I’m missing tons. The point is: there are tons of options and you don’t have to even start deciding for years.

[xoxolaw]

+ 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗥𝗬

in which a quiet visit to her room turns into something else entirely. Hyun-tak finds her diary, and with it, the truth he never saw coming.

+ 𝗚𝗢 𝗛𝗬𝗨𝗡-𝗧𝗔𝗞 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

CH 5 , CH 6

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

March 14th, 2025

Dear Diary,

A lot has happened recently. And by a lot, I literally mean a lot! Everything feels too loud and too heavy — and I think my heart’s been sitting outside my body this whole week, because I can feel it bruise every time I breathe.

Hyun-tak got injured.

Badly.

I don’t even know how to explain it without my hands shaking. His leg — his knee — it got injured during a fight. With Seong-je.

I hate him so much! I swear to god, if I was strong enough I would have beaten him. If only I didn't get bored of taekwondo and quit just after a few months as a kid.

But I guess taekwondo also doesn't help much against people who like to play dirty. Seong-je was just looking for a reason to be cruel again — because that’s what he does, right? That’s what he is. A mean, mocking, overgrown bully who doesn’t know when to stop.

I don't know how to even write it. Hyun-Tak loves taekwondo so much. That's like his second personality or maybe even the only personality he has. But turns out... He won't be able to continue anymore.

It means everything to him. When I saw him lying on that hospital bed — hooked to IVs, hair a mess, his eyes fluttering open with that foggy kind of pain — I swear, Diary, I wanted to scream. Not cry — scream.

And when the doctor said, “We’ll need scans to confirm, but there’s a chance he won’t be able to compete again,”

my vision blurred.

Just like that. A chance. Like his dreams were a coin toss now.

Geum. Seong. Je.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I don’t care if hate is a strong word — it doesn’t even feel strong enough right now.

But I saw the look in Seong-je’s eyes when I found him afterward, leaning against the school gate like nothing happened — like Hyun-tak wasn’t lying in a hospital bed, trying not to cry in front of his mother.

He smirked, Diary.

He looked at me and smirked.

So I lost it.

I don’t even remember what I said — it all came out in a blur of tears and fury and shaking fists. I screamed at him. Shoved him. Told him he was a mockery of everything good in this world. That he was cruel and small and rotten to the core.

I told him that if he ever touched Hyun-tak again, I’d make sure he wouldn’t be able to walk either.

And do you know what he said?

He said,

"Calm down, princess. It’s not like your precious Gotak died."

I nearly slapped him.

No.

I should have slapped him.

But instead I walked away — because if I hadn’t, I think I would’ve broken. Not him. Me.

Because this whole thing has broken something in me.

I visited the hospital that night. He wasn't in his bed so I panicked a little. But then the nurse told me that he went up to the rooftop. My feet practically flew up the stairs.

He was sitting near the edge, hunched over with his hood up, one knee bent, the other stretched out and wrapped in bandages. The wind was cold. Too cold. But he wasn’t shivering.

He looked like he belonged to the night sky.

I stood there for a while. Just watching him from the stairwell door. He didn’t see me. His back looked... small. I don’t know how to explain it.

He’s taller than me, stronger than me in every way — but in that moment, he looked like a kid again. Like the boy who used to climb trees and then freeze halfway down because he was scared to fall.

I walked over slowly. He didn’t look at me.

So I sat beside him. Not too close — just enough that he’d know I was there. He looked at me. Then he said, “You didn’t have to come.”

But I did. God, I did. What was he even talking about?? If I didn't come, then who would??

Dumbass.

I wanted to tell Hyun-tak that it wasn’t fair. That he didn’t deserve this. That he didn’t have to pretend like it didn’t hurt.

But I didn’t say any of those things. We sat in silence until I heard some sniffs.

At first, I thought maybe the wind had made his nose cold, or maybe I imagined it. But then I saw the way his hand moved — just a little — like he was trying to wipe his face without letting me see.

And my heart cracked right there.

Because Hyun-tak doesn’t cry.

Not in front of people. Not even me.

He always acts like he’s too tough for that. Always shrugs everything off with that familiar “Tch,” like feelings are just something you can kick out of the way and keep walking.

But tonight, he couldn’t hide it.

And I think that broke me more than anything.

I didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I just reached over and — very slowly — rested my hand over his, the one he’d used to wipe his face.

He flinched a little.

Then he turned his face away.

But he didn’t move his hand.

He let me hold it.

Just like that.

His fingers curled a little, like maybe he was holding on back.

We didn’t look at each other. I didn’t need to see his face to know what was happening. That silence? It said more than any words could’ve. I could feel the weight of it — the grief, the loss, the anger — the fear that maybe, this time, he couldn’t just brush it off and keep going.

He whispered something. I’m not even sure I heard it right.

“I don’t know who I am… if I’m not doing this.”

And that’s when I wanted to cry.

Because I know who he is.

He’s the boy who stood up for kids getting bullied. He’s the one who always walked me home even when I said I was fine. He’s the one who gave me his scarf and the better half of his lunch. He’s the one who always showed up, even when he didn’t say he would. He’s Hyun-tak.

And I wanted to say all of that.

But the words just stayed in my throat.

So instead, I gave his hand a squeeze.

And that was it. That was all I could do.

Sometimes I wish I could do more.

But maybe that was enough.

I love you, Hyun-Tak.

-Y/N

(hoping to someday tell him everything I have been holding back)

✎ᝰ.ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

Hyun-tak sat frozen.

The page hadn’t moved. His eyes hadn’t blinked. His thumb trembled faintly on the edge of the paper, holding it open like it might slip away from him if he let go for even a second.

That last line. It hit him like she’d whispered it into his ear. He could hear her voice in his head—quiet, steady, so close it made his chest ache.

His hand instinctively moved down, resting lightly on his right knee—the one still stiff under his jeans, the one the doctors kept talking about like it wasn’t part of him anymore.

He remembered that night. Not the hospital walls or the IV lines. But her.

How she’d looked under the pale rooftop lights. Her expression trying to stay calm, but her fingers were gripping his hand too tightly. He remembered thinking she was warm. So warm.

And wondering if it was okay to lean into that.

He hadn’t let himself.

Not then.

And maybe not now either, because his heart was thudding so loud it felt like it was caught in his throat.

He had to swallow hard, lips parting like he was about to say something—even though there was no one to hear it. Just the silence of her room, the faint rustle of a curtain, and her words. Her truth, pressed between paper and ink.

And suddenly, all the quiet memories started screaming:

The way she used to mimic taekwondo stances behind the teacher’s back — all elbows and bad posture — just to make him laugh.

How she always looked at him during tournaments, never at the scoreboard.

The time she ran after his bike with a bandaid because he scraped his palm falling, yelling, “It’s pink but it still works!!”

The way she always sat next to him. Always.

How her hand fit inside his jacket sleeve when it got too cold.

And how he always noticed.

He’d brush it off, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it was just habit.

Like she was just habit.

But now…

He let out a shaky breath and rubbed his face with both hands, like that could slow the spinning in his head. His fingers dragged through his hair, then dropped, landing back on the diary.

So many pages.

All of them about him.

Every word from her younger self to now — it was him.

Him in the margins, him in the moments, him in the in betweens.

His chest tightened.

Because—

Maybe he had, too.

Without even realizing it.

Without ever saying it.

He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. The softness of her pillow behind him. The golden glow of her lamp.

Everything here had her warmth.

And it overwhelmed him.

He closed the diary carefully, this time not because he was done reading—but because he was too full.

His palm hovered over the cover for a moment before pressing down like it needed to be held.

Because he was scared of what would happen if he opened another page and saw more.

And even more scared of what would happen if he didn’t.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, the smallest of cracks in his voice.

Then, after a pause, almost a whisper—

“…Why didn’t you just tell me?”

But even as he said it, he already knew the answer.

Because maybe…

he wouldn’t have been ready to hear it.

Not then.

Maybe not even now.

But he was listening now.

And the one thing he knew, clearer than anything else?

He didn’t want to lose her.

Not her voice.

Not her truth.

Not her.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

I LOVE THIS SM 😭😭😭

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@keizvn @soobinbunnie5 @chaywkk @l5byrinth @inom17 @randomheyl @coffee-ii @mizxuqii @dna-black-and-blue @kyungjunnies @maxinehufflepuffprincess @deboizzzstay @coolasiangal123 @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @chenlegendj @changbinkisser @xh01bri @jww-sjzyeirie @thebatapex @itzcandy @ryeounistic @ruruyinn @ashayein @bblgeum @tojirin @lov3lylyn @urmazah

[cloroxcasser0le]

Fashion show (of emotions) (Get it cuz show of emotion. Fuck you)

Summary: You and Jax were trying on his dumb outfits when you made a dumb outfit of him. You accidentally tell him to kill himself kinda.

Word count: 767

It feels wrong not having any trigger warnings here. Except for really mean y/n I guess

 “Come on, just show me!” You called to Jax from the other side of his closet door. He was trying on outfits he found spawned in his closet after someone complained to Caine about wanting more. Not off his own volition, though. You told him he should because it’d be funny seeing what Caine thought he’d like. The two of you could’ve just looked at them, but this is better.

   He didn’t agree with that though.

”No! I’m changing, I look ridiculous!” 

You chuckled at how upset he sounded over clothes “I bet you look great, Jax. Show me!” 

 He huffed loud enough for you to hear through the door “Fine, but if you laugh I’m gonna kill you.”

  The door slammed open, and standing in the middle of the frame was Jax. You couldn’t help but snicker at what he’d semi-willingly put on his body.

It was a grey shirt, cropped in the middle of his torso and with the sleeves ripped off. It does look like something he would wear, minus the american flag over the chest.

 The jorts need no description, they are jorts. Bermuda jorts. 

“Not what I was expecting…”

He grumbled and scrunched the shirt so you couldn’t see the flag “ What were you expecting then? A dress? Why would I wear a dress?”

 “Well maybe a dress would do you some good.”

He turned back into the closet and slammed the door, beginning to change while he talked to you “What does that even mean?” 

 You shrugged “Could humble you a bit.”  

“I don’t need any humbling. I know my worth.”

“Sure dude..”

 He came out of the closet wearing his usual outfit, grabbing you when he got close enough to and pushing you into it “Now it’s your turn to look stupid.” He shut the door behind you before you could protest. 

 “Fine but these are yours, so I’m still laughing at you.” You picked up a dress that was just like his overalls but… a dress. You didn’t mind dresses so you decided to see if there was a purple shirt to put under it. You know, to mock him.

  …

You emerged from his closet with the dress, a purple turtleneck and yellow gloves. His face went from surprised to smug “Aw, you like me that much, well I-“

 You forced your eyes in two different directions (cartoon physics I guess) and practically yelled in a dumb voice “I’m Jax, and I’m a big stupid rabbit!” you took a looong step towards him “are youu Gango? I think I’m gunna bully your self!”

You slapped him across the face, wiping off an offended face and turning it into a pained one “Y/N what the hell!?” 

 You put a hand on your hip and rested the other on his shoulder “Boy gangl you sure ure a meanie today!” you pretended to tear up “I don deserve thid! I just wanna hurt people and waste space! I know eveyone would be happier if was dead wbut thats why i cant die! theyd be haoppy for once!”

 He stared at you in disbelief “I’m not a waste of space..”

You got in his face and strained your voice more annoying “Never said yooou were gans! I said i jax the unlovable-“ 

 You stopped talking when you saw he was actually hurt… nah, you can keep going. He deserves it anyway! 

 “-sensitive piece of S%$& am stoopid!”

“I’m not any of those things..” 

 You focused both of your eyes on him and returned to your normal stance and voice “well you said it’s my turn to look stupid, and those are your clothes, so…”

 The look he gave you seemed genuinely upset, maybe you went too far?

 “Look, Jax I’m sorry, I was just joking…

 His voice sounded small “So you don’t really think I’d be better off dead?”

 “No, obviously I don’t. You might be rude but we care about you.”

“K…”

  “Jax I’m serious. If you died I.. I think I might too. You’re the best friend I have here.”

You may have been exaggerating that a little bit, but it was mostly true. You also didn’t like to see him actually upset. Why did this evening have to turn south so quick..?

 “So you don’t mean any of that?”

Hah, wow this was really out of character for him, he hates being normal “Obviously! Like I said, you’re my friend. I would never think so lowly of you.”

 He stood up, stretched and made his way into the closet “Well where were we?

 Oh, that makes more sense

[gerardsbest]

Our Lady of Sorrows

Previous | Next

Chapter 2

Relationship: Gerard Way x Reader. Frank Iero x Reader

Tags: love triangles, slow burn, meet-cute, angst, fluff, falling in love, unrequited love, love confessions, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, awkward flirting, love at first sight

Summary: Gerard goes to a venue hosting local artists on a whim one day and sees you. Completely enamoured, he makes it his mission to see you again.

You see him, too. And you wonder what made him stand so close to the stage.

Frank sees the both of you.

(or the formation of mcr but you're there, and you have a special bond with gerard. frank is your long time friend, and the reason you got into music)

3.2k words | ao3

Frank greeted you right after the show. 

But you were so out of it that you nearly walked right past him.

"Woah, hey, you have one solid show and now you're suddenly too good for me?" Frank jested, elbowing you as you brushed by his side.

You blinked, you felt drunk, or even high. Which, you'd never even taken a shred of marijuana, but if you did, you were sure that this is what it would feel like. All dazed or more like fuzzy. Like you knew you were there since you could physically feel your feet planted on the floor and Frank standing next to you, and you could also see everything, but you weren't quite there. You were there but not there. Physically there but not "there", there— what the hell were you on about?

"You good?" Frank asked after a bit, lowering his voice.

"She's just in shock still," Grace said as she slung her guitar over her shoulder. "She was like this all the way through the audience cheering for us! I mean, I get it though, your performance was fucking stellar."

Grace patted your back, and you felt that, just like you felt your other bandmates to the same. One even ruffled your hair. But none of it was computing.

Because in your mind, you were still replaying everything.

You'd only played four songs, and those were the songs you and your band had been obsessing over in the practice room— your drummer's garage— for weeks now. The five of you had played and sang 'til your vocal chords were torn and fingers were bleeding. It was perfect.

And it had all been worth it because the show was perfect.

Everything. The playing, your own singing, the crowd. You finally felt the rush that all musicians assuredly felt. The rush which signalled that this was it. This was where you were meant to be.

The audience, though none knew the lyrics were all screaming, running around, flailing their arms, cheering, some even got a little aggressive. just like how you were when you attended these shows. Lost in the music. Your music made them like that.

God, it was all chaos.

Well, strangely, there was one bit which stood out to you. One guy, dark hair and face paler than the moon. He stood there for the whole performance, not attempting to sing along or getting rowdy with the rest of the moshpit. Just standing there.

"I saw a guy in the pit. Boy, did he stand out."

You looked to Frank, and he raised his eyebrow, "Oh, now you look at me?" He asked, lips wet from the water he was chugging.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to ignore you like that. I'm just... wow."

"It's cool. I'm not actually upset, just surprised that you're this shellshocked right now."

You went to sit on a nearby chair. It was one of those plastic foldable ones, the quality was absolutely shitty and it felt like the hinges might snap at any moment but you just had to sit down.

"This is what it's like, huh."

"Yep, it is."

"This rush?"

"The high." Frank added.

"The high." You agreed.

Frank gave you his water, there was only enough for a sip but you accepted regardless, "Thank you." You whispered and sighed gratefully at its coolness. 

"Wanna head out now? Since I promised you to play you that song. Or do you want to go greet your adoring fans."

You snorted, "I don't have adoring fans."

"I dunno... that guy in the pit looked real... what's the word, enamored?"

"Ooh, big words, Frankie."

"Shut up." He snatched the bottle from your hand, then realized it was empty and promptly threw it into the trash. 

"I think I'm ready to go now. Your place or mine?"

"Mine's closer."

"Alright."

You got up, and everything felt a lot better, At least now I can exist without feeling like I'm having an out of body experience.

The two of you were about to leave the venue when you heard your phone ring, "Frank, wait," You said as you checked it out. "Oh, shoot."

"What is it?" 

"I forgot my boyfriend and I have plans tonight."

"Oh," Frank said, and that was all he said for a while. "Why wasn't he at the show again?"

"He was busy. Had a shift at work," You answered while also texting him back. "I'm so sorry. Can we reschedule? Tomorrow, maybe?"

It was too dark to see Frank's expression, but you knew he wasn't happy. You imagined he was doing that thing with his lips where he was pressing them super tight together, making them all pale as he tried not to look too bothered by anything. It was the face he made when he wanted something to go one way but knew it was fruitless to try and fight for it. A bitter acceptance.

"Yeah, tomorrow," Frank conceded finally. "Need a ride?"

"No, he's coming. Sorry again."

"Don't worry about it," Frank said, then stepped forward and gave you a side hug. "I didn't say this, but you were great, by the way. Truly."

"Thanks, that means a lot coming from you."

"Does it?" Frank was able to laugh, even if it was short. It made you feel at least marginally better.

"Of course it does. You're brilliant."

Frank chuckled, "Flattery gets you nowhere. See you."

"Bye."

You watched Frank, shrouded by shadows step into his car. It was relatively old and made funny sounds which made you a bit anxious when you rode in it, but it had character and memories, which was what was most important. 

You waved one last time, but it was too dark to see if he did so back. You hoped he did.

🦇

"I want to see her again."

Mikey turned his head. He'd been sitting in the passenger seat, and was looking out the window until now, "Who?"

"The one we saw towards the end."

"Yeah, that narrows it down." Mikey retorted sarcastically.

"Mercy."

"The guitarist or singer?"

"Singer."

"Do you have a crush?"

Gerard nearly crashed the car.

Thankfully, there was a red light. But Mikey wasn't having it.

"What the hell! Gee, it's not that big a deal. Christ, we almost died..."

"Sorry, sorry," Gerard murmured as he leaned back momentarily. "You just caught me off guard."

"Right. So, what's with the reaction? And more importantly, why do you want to see her again?"

The light turned green and Gerard was driving again. Steady, this time. Maybe too steady. His arms were outstretched and pin straight.

Gerard tried to think of ways to answer him because in truth, he didn't really know, either. The reasons swimming in his head were a hodgepodge of ambiguity. Did he want to see her again simply because she was pretty? No, he can't be that shallow. There was certainly another reason.

Her voice? Her mannerism? Her stage presence? Her attributes? Her style?

"Her..." Gerard began and Mikey waited for the answer with bated breath. 

He had to think some more.

"... Quality."

Mikey blanked, "Her... quality."

"Yes. Her quality."

"Um," He started. "Well, alright then. Whatever you say, Gee."

They pulled up into their driveway. The lights were off. Made sense, it was past midnight on a weekday.

Mikey got out first, then realized Gerard was still inside, "Gonna stay here for a bit?"

"No." Gerard said way too quickly as he hurried out of the car and bumped his head on the ceiling. 

Gerard clutched his head and muttered a small "ow..."

Mikey poked his head over, "This girl has you real messed up. Do you even know her name?"

"I don't..." Gerard murmured, juggling his keys to find the right ones as he kept rubbing the side of his head. "And she hasn't gotten me messed up. You're over exaggerating things."

"Let's see, you nearly crashed the car over me just asking if you had a crush and you've been out of it all night since that performance. It's okay if you like her, just admit it."

"How can I like someone when I don't even know them?" Gerard hissed as he opened the door. 

They walked in carefully, opening and closing the door all slow and gentle so as to not wake their parents. Their conversation continued in hushed whispers.

"You should ask her out."

"What?" Gerard whisper-yelled.

"It's not like she's some untouchable celebrity. Far as I know, she's probably just a university student who does this on the side. Actually, I might even go to the same school as her, so it won't be hard."

"We're moving way too fats right now. I don't even know that I like her and I probably don't. The performance was just so good it left me a little shocked, alright? That's it."

"Alright, well, if you change your mind, just let me know," Mikey relented as he started to make his way upstairs. "Good night."

" 'Night."

Gerard stayed for a bit. Pacing around in the kitchen, hands messing with his uneven and short hair. 

The events of the night were still unfolding in his mind, a constant loop, like a broken VHS tape replaying the best, most exhilarating moment of a film. 

Except, this wasn't a film, and there wasn't a VHS. It was just his mind and a girl.

Gerard thought about the way her dress flowed, how thin it was, like a veil covering her body. Moreover, the sparkle of the rhinestones, though fake and probably bought from the local craft store, still matched how shiny her eyes were throughout the whole thing. And they weren't shiny from the light or anything like that, they were shiny from passion.

He admired that. He admired that a lot.

Gerard headed to his room— a basement, technically, but a place he considered his most sacred and private nonetheless. 

There were posters, action figures, comic books, games, and other geeky paraphernalia galore, but Gerard's favorite spot was his desk. It had all his art supplies, as well as his sketchbooks and even just stray pieces of paper he'd draw on as well as a few stray canvases; painting wasn't his speciality, but he tried, sometimes.

Right now, however, Gerard didn't want to paint. Nor was he interested in his comics or video games. He wanted to draw.

Gerard laid his latest sketchbook flat in front of himself, it was about eighty percent or so filled. The latest drawing was of a superhero, an original one he'd just come up with. Most of the pages looked like this. Not this one, though, the one he was about to draw.

Grabbing his pencil, Gerard began with a circle. That circle became the rough outline of a face. All of his drawings were unique. All of the characters had exaggerated features, uncanny looking eyes and hair which lay all stiff like a comic. Dynamic posing was a must, Gerard just couldn't draw anyone without them being in a zany position.

The girl in the drawing, the girl he couldn't stop thinking about, had her arms outstretched and was stood on stage but almost looked like she was floating. Much like biblical paintings which depicted a holy figure.

Her dress, her hair. 

Gerard tried his best to capture the shine of the silk, as well as the glimmer of the stones. The texture of her hair, too. It felt like simple pens and markers couldn't do this well, but he tried.

The final detail was the microphone, which laid enveloped between her fingers.

Gerard drew each intricate curve of her hand and all of its pieces, She held it so gently. He took note. 

Fingernails, joints, knuckles - hands were personal. Individual. And Gerard remembered how pretty her fingers were. Maybe it was weird to notice this, he was definitely weird.

Finally, Gerard held it up, a few inches from himself so he could get a nice, full view of it. Only then was when he realized a fatal error.

Her face.

Gerard couldn't believe himself. Out of all things, her face? He'd forgotten to draw her face. 

Hell's wrong with me. Gerard grumbled as he placed it down and picked up his pencil again. 

But as he placed the tip of the graphite onto the blank space where her features should be, he paused. 

Her face.

Gerard just couldn't capture it.

The image was there, in his mind, all perfect and waiting to be drawn but he just couldn't. And he couldn't bring himself to try, either.

It almost felt wrong, in a sense, as stupid as that sounded. It wasn't illegal to try, nor would anything bad happen. Gerard was just being complicated.

So, it was left blank, but he wasn't satisfied with that, either. Gerard just couldn't leave it blank and go on with the rest of his life, knowing this would just be left. Unfinished. 

More than anything, he wanted to complete it. This drawing.

He needed to see her again.

That would be the only way.

Gerard placed the pencil down and sighed.

🦇

You looked over at your boyfriend, who was already fast asleep. Always one to do so early.

The date went well for the most part. First, the two of you got something to eat at a local restaurant, a real "mom and pop's" kind of place, which you loved. Then, it was straight home to comfortable clothes, goofy movies, and snacks. It was nice.

You just wished he didn't want to have sex. 

Sex was nice. You enjoyed it like any average person would. But it wasn't something you particularly wanted to do a lot.

A sentiment he didn't share.

"C'monn babe, you look so hot right now."

You hated how sleazy he sounded sometimes. 

"Are you serious? It's been like two weeks. You're really just gonna leave me hanging?"

And how angry he could get.

"Whatever, then. I'll just go to sleep then."

Was it such a big deal? You didn't understand.

You slowly rose from the bed, watching as the little blanket you'd been using fell to the ground. You didn't bother to pick it back up and just walked into the hallway, mindless.

Your parents were out on a honeymoon trip, and knowing them, they wouldn't be back for a while. The house was empty except fro you and your sleeping boyfriend—

The doorbell rang.

And that person, apparently.

You checked the kitchen clock. Two forty-eight A.M.

So, that's probably a bloodthirsty murderer or a lost kid. Is this where I meet my end? You thought. Grim, but it was lighthearted to you.

Even so, you weren't stupid so you looked out the peephole and your jaw dropped.

"Frank?" You opened the door, absolutely agape.

"You look surprised."

"It's three A.M.!"

"Two forty-nine, actually. Can I come in? It's cold as balls."

You nodded and opened the door wider for him, but was still flabbergasted, "What are you..."

"Sheer and utter boredom." He answered before you could finish.

Frank made his way to the couch, placing his feet on the coffee table as if he owned the place. It was only then where you noticed a bag in his hands. He noticed, too, and chuckled as he reached into it and brought out something.

"Hostess snacks."

"Holy shit." You immediately went to sit next to him and grabbed the bag from him like it was a billion dollars.

"Aren't I the best?"

"Absolutely."

You grabbed a cupcake, ripping open the thin plastic packaging and tossing one to Frank who caught it with one hand, "These are fucking timeless." You groaned.

"Woah, don't orgasm over a chocolate cupcake." 

"Oh, shush," The cupcake was small, so you finished it quite quickly. "That healed me..."

Frank raised his brow, " 'Healed you?' "

Shoot... should I not have said that?

You turned to him, all slow. At first, you contemplated how much to tell him, if at all, but after only a bit of that, you decided to just let it all out. One, because it was too late for you to care and two, because you were upset still and wanted to talk to someone about it. You wouldn't deny yourself that.

"My boyfriend was a bit of a dick."

"How so?"

Getting all comfortable, you sunk into that little crevice between the cushions, "He upset me," You sighed. "How should I say this... he wanted to have sex and I didn't want to—"

Frank cut you off right there, "— What the hell did he do?"

You were a bit caught off guard by that, by how he went from zero to a hundred in the matter of two seconds.

"Woah, woah," You laughed, patting him on the shoulder. "Nothing happened. I didn't do anything I didn't want to do. Just, he got kind of asshole-y over me not wanting to. He's upstairs right now, sleeping."

Frank calmed a lot, he actually seemed to physically deflate which was a little funny, "Alright, 'cause I thought... anyway," He said quickly. "What did he say?"

"Just the standard stuff..." You were drawing circles in your palm now. "About how I'm leaving him hanging... saying we haven't done this in a while..." 

"Tell me, why are you with this guy again?"

"He's not a bad person. This is just a little flaw amongst many good things."

"Good things like what?"

"Like, he texts me good morning and good night everyday. He always pays for our meals, which I wish he would stop doing 'cause I feel bad but regardless. He always gets me flowers. He's supportive of my pursuits in music. Oh, and on that note, we have all the same interests and hobbies except he thinks comics are kinda lame."

Frank was nodding along, but he looked like he wasn't really listening. It was the same monotone expression he always had while looking at the teachers in school.

You felt like you had to say something.

"... Look, he might not sound like prince charming, but I love him, okay? And he's not awful. Like I said, a little flaw amongst many good things."

"So, you're settling."

Now, you were getting a little frustrated, "I'm not," You said, calm despite the little bit of rage bubbling in you. "Can we just move on from this?"

"Yeah, sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"Hm... what did you do tonight?"

"You mean after you abandoned me?"

You snorted. Frank cracked up a little, too. This was what was nice about him - he always knew when to jest. And when to get serious (even if sometimes he took it too far).

"Hey, I didn't... abandon you. I simply just was stupid and double booked."

"Yeah, yeah. Well, I went to the after party, had a few drinks, lounged around for a bit, talked with some of the other bands, but ended up leaving early 'cause it was kinda lame."

"Oh, how so? You love parties."

" 'Love' is an overstatement. I just like the drinks and the company. But this one wasn't too exciting."

"I see. So, what did you do after?"

"Watched some late night TV as I had some leftovers, wrote a few lyrics down to a song I'm thinking of, practiced guitar... then, decided to come here on a whim."

"And what if I wasn't awake?"

Frank looked at you, "I knew you were awake."

It was quiet in your home. You had no pets, nor any siblings, just a sleeping boyfriend upstairs and a best friend next to you. Outside, there was no wind nor rain, just a smooth night and its following tranquility. 

[zazaiafe2]

hi helloo!!

theres this thing ive been struggling since my shifting journey started 4 years ago.

i cant manage to stay awake.

i know that awake methods exists, but i dont have the time to do so. or the patience.

whenever i start to focus on my breathing (to induce a meditative state), i fall asleep. whenever i listen to a guided meditation, i fall asleep even before the person starts to guide me through the method. doesnt matter what i do, im always falling asleep, even if im not sleepy.

also, i had a few lucid dreams before, randomly. tried to shift in every single one of them but i keep getting "sent" to another dream where im not lucid.

for a little context, everyday i wake up around 3-4 am (to go pee...) and recently i found out that its the best way to induce a good state for shifting. ive been trying to visualize when im back to bed, but its so hard because i keep falling asleep as well.

do u have any tips for it? or smt u would recommend? thank u!!!

Hey! I totally get how frustrating that feels, and I’m honestly a bit concerned about how easily you seem to fall asleep even while trying to stay aware or doing a guided meditation. That’s not something everyone experiences to this extent, and it could be a sign that your sleep is not fully restorative, or that there’s an underlying sleep issue. I’d really encourage you to check in with a sleep doctor or sleep specialist, just to rule things out. You might discover if you have a hidden sleep problem like hypersomnia or a circadian rhythm disruption or sleep apnea etc..., which could absolutely explain why it’s so hard to stay awake. On top of that, you could also try to regulate your sleep schedule more consistently, which can help shifting attempts later on. Wishing you the best!

That said, while you’re waiting to see a sleep specialist or working on stabilizing your sleep schedule, here are a few things you could try to make staying aware easier:

1)Micro-focusing instead of full visualization

Instead of big, vivid scenes, focus on a single tiny detail, for example, repeating a word in your mind, or noticing your breathing without trying to control it. Big mental imagery can tire you and push you to sleep faster, while micro-focus is easier to maintain.

2)Use a slightly uncomfortable position

If you always lie down as if you’re ready to sleep, you’ll probably doze off. Try propping yourself up with pillows, or semi-sitting. This way, your brain will be less likely to slip into deep sleep.

3)Keep a dim light on

Total darkness = total sleep mode for many people. Having a small dim lamp on can help you maintain that “partly awake” awareness.

4) Set a mild, repetitive external sound

Like a ticking clock, a subtle metronome, or even a faint podcast. The gentle stimulation can anchor you to awareness without fully waking you up.

5) Train your mind in the day

If you can, practice focusing exercises during the day (like a 5–10 minute mindfulness practice) so your mind builds more stamina. That way it will be easier to hold awareness at night.

6) Use the “one word” anchor

Pick a word, like awake or aware, and repeat it gently in your mind whenever you feel yourself fading. Simple, monotone words are less tiring than affirmations or elaborate scripts.

7) And of course: be kind to yourself.

Your brain is trying to rest, so don’t feel defeated if you doze off. Every attempt still builds experience, even if you fall asleep.

I also invite you to look at my master list, there might be posts that could help you regardless of lucid dreaming !

Take care

[freyafrida]

rilla of ingleside, chapter thirteen

getting to the lusitania, here we go 😬

“But I will say that I would not have minded throwing a few stones myself. One thing is certain—Whiskers-on-the-moon said in the post office the day the news came, in the presence of witnesses, that folks who could not stay home after they had been warned deserved no better”

whiskers BAD pacifists BAD and that's why we should throw rocks at their windows

“Bruce Meredith is worrying over the babies who were drowned. ”

While Bruce is, as a character, super twee and unrealistic (kind of wonder what the purpose of him is? To show the effects of the war on innocent children who just Care Too Much? to make it a kind of 'out of the mouths of babes' situation re: sympathizing with the war effort?), I would be legit worried for him if he were a real kid. He's so distressed over world events he can't do anything about, and his parents make no effort to insulate him because ~that would be lying~ (and ofc in deep irony, half the stuff Bruce is losing sleep over is exaggerated anyway). Cannot say that I'm thinking Rosemary is much improvement over Rev. Meredith, as a parent. It's starting to seem like a miracle that the older Meredith kids are okay.

“You don’t expect me to ask her?” giggled Amy MacAllister, the other member of the committee. “Irene and I haven’t spoken for a hundred years. Irene is always getting ‘insulted’ by somebody. But she is a lovely singer, I’ll admit that, and people would just as soon hear her as Mrs. Channing."

Ayyy Rilla hanging out with girls her own age! I kiiinda get why we don't get much of her having friends -- the book is way more concerned with portraying all the various facets of the war and showing the heroism (heroineism?) not only from girls like Rilla, but also older women like Susan -- but after how detailed every stage of Anne's life is, it just leaves me wanting more of Rilla, you know? I also would have liked to see more focus on the generation that came of age during the war in general, instead of Gertrude and Susan tbh! (Again, I get why we don't, but lettuce discuss how this book could appeal more to me personally lmao.)

Also, occurs to me that in terms of like, how much on-page time they spend together, Rilla's closest friend her own age is Miranda Pryor. LOL.

“there’s even a big party coming out from town”

Town being...Charlottetown? I've always been under the impression the Glen is basically the largest settlement in its area (with over-harbor/Upper Glen/Glen St. Mary being the largest town?) but I guess given that none of those are actually large towns, it would make sense for Charlottetown to still be "the" town.

“I think Irene is the one who should apologize,” said Miss Oliver. “But unfortunately my opinion will not fill the blanks in your program.”

Realism :( Always horrendous to realize that what's right and what's practical are not the same thing. Rilla's reply is once more on the theme that she can't shirk doing things she hates, especially in service of the war effort (getting up a concert), when soldiers are facing the ~Huns.

The bit where Rilla apologizes to Irene is so good -- relatable, tbh (me gritting my teeth and writing "Thanks for catching that! I'll fix it right away!" in the work chat when the person who makes me review 10+ photo batches in per day is like "omg freyafrida there's a speck of dust in this photo!! can't believe you didn't see that!!") and I always love how Rilla is a lot tougher and willing to do what's necessary than she appears. (Honestly, very classic "I'll do it I'm just going to be dramatic about it first" which, same girl.) It's come up before, and I think you can see it again now, that Rilla's honestly pretty...chill, for lack of a better word haha, not prone to holding grudges like her mother -- e.g. she doesn't really let Ken's teasing of her get in the way of liking him (unlike Anne with Gilbert) and here, she pretty much moves on from Irene, accepts that she isn't a good friend, and gets over losing her friendship, even in the face of Irene being passive-aggressive to her.

Do agree that while I can see how she put on two different stockings, I don't know how she put on two different shoes (does she not keep her shoes in pairs?) and somehow walked the whole way to the Upper Glen without noticing her stride was wonky?

“Dear, dear, was Irene at feud with everybody? As for Una Meredith being hateful to anybody, the idea was so farcical that Rilla had much ado to keep from laughing in Irene’s very face.”

you: Walter Slur Mystery; me, an intellectual: Una-Irene Beef Mystery (j/k why not both). Always been curious about this given that everyone else and their mother thinks Una is an angel who's never fought with anyone! I've always headcanoned it as Una possibly being tired/slightly frustrated and maybe being a bit short -- not rude, but perhaps snippy -- with Irene one day and Irene taking it overly personally (also wouldn't be surprised if Irene just like, didn't like Una in general for being kind of plain and boring...and maybe didn't like her for having an in with the Blythes and Walter?). Also love the mention that Una plays piano -- grasping crumbs for character details, lol, but I do like the idea that music is her hobby, since she also wants music lessons really badly in Rainbow Valley.

“And Ingleside was a very charming house to visit, especially when a handsome college student like Walter was home.”

Curious that she's interested in Walter still -- handsome as he is, given how everyone is on his case for not enlisting, it's interesting that reputation-obsessed Irene would like him. (Walter Slur Mystery time: if it was a suggestion Walter is gay, I wonder if Mrs. Burr was, like, "helpfully" trying to warn Irene off since Irene does think Walter is handsome...although Irene is still interested in him here and seems to still think she has a chance if she hangs around Ingleside. That would support Rilla's belief that Irene might not even believe the rumor herself and was just trying to put Rilla down 🤔)

“There is only one thing of importance just now—and that is that the Allies win the war,” she said aloud.”

ok I just googled and the Triple Entente was apparently referred to as "The Allies" through WWI, presumably by their own side. Confusing since the other side was the Triple Alliance!! why would they do this to me, personally, a hundred years in the future

glossary:

Readying Rilla bits:

Draft originally mentions that Mrs. Channing's son is in Halifax with his regiment; Halifax is then replaced with "Kingsport". Pretty sure most people have speculated Kingsport is basically Halifax, which makes the decision to ignore the Halifax explosion later puzzling!

Re: the slur against Walter, it originally says "she [Rilla] could not utter what Irene had reported about Walter", which kinda reads more serious than the final version.

Irene's appearance: her hair is originally described as "golden", which is replaced by "pale, straw-colored" (can't be too flattering to the villain, lol), and instead of "extreme fashion", it's described as the "very latest Charlottetown fashion." ("shallowly-set, insolent" is also added to the description of Irene's eyes, lmao).

Cut bit after Irene says "and sing at your concert?": "She might as well have added, 'that is just why you are apologizing to me' for her tone said it for her. And the worst of it, from Rilla's point of view, was that it was quite true."

Rilla originally suggests "Millicent Arnold" (related to Fred?) to accompany Irene, before Una and Gertrude.

The entire paragraph about Rilla outgrowing Irene isn't in the first draft (it's inserted as a huge chunk in LMM's notes).

Rilla originally gives her full name as "Bertha Marilla Cuthbert Blythe" (muscle memory re: Marilla from LMM?)

[love-you-likeallfire]

Happy Birthday Haymitch.

A Sunshine and Roses universe fic.

Description: one year after her life changed forever, Ember learns very quickly why you do not wish Haymitch Abernathy a happy birthday on Reaping Day. But maybe Haymitch might change his mind in a year…or ten.

A/N: happy 4th July to all you Americans, Hope you’ll accept this Haymitch fic as an adequate apology from a native of Great Britain (that goes for any of the other countries my country colonised centuries before my birth and have nothing to do with the colonisation beyond being British) 😂

Anyway I couldn’t decide between two concepts for this so I combined the two of them together, I’m also saying that this is probably teen rated fic (I mean most of us I hope are at least over the age of 16), because it’s a bit borderline spicy but not actually spice because I physically can’t write smut so it’s implied. So I guess implied sexual content warning is in play. But anyway hope you enjoy the fic!

I balance the cake tin in one hand, my prosthetic tucked awkwardly at my side as I knock on Haymitch’s door with my elbow. The air is already warm, thick with the smell of coal dust and the too sweet scent of sun on damp pine. It’s early — early enough the world’s still quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like something bad is about to happen.

I shouldn’t be nervous, but I am. Not about the cake. That’s just something to do, a routine. Goat’s milk, butter, sugar, the good stuff from the Capitol allowance I never spend, all swirled together like I remember from before the Games, before everything.

It’s his birthday.

No one really talks about it, not even him, but I heard it from Ripper months ago in passing as I sold her cheese. "The miserable bastard came screaming into the world same day he practically got ripped outta it." She laughed when she said it. But there was a weight to it, too. I didn’t ask more.

So I baked. It felt… almost normal.

I knock again. Nothing.

The door creaks when I push it open. It’s dangerous that it’s not locked but what would be the point? Haymitch lives alone. No one ever comes here unless they have to.

I step inside. It smells like whiskey and rotten cabbage and unwashed clothes and damp and and dust. The furniture’s worn in and out at the same time, a mess that somehow suits him.

He’s asleep on the couch. Sprawled sideways, one hand curled beneath the edge of a threadbare pillow. His hair’s all over the place, and there’s a bottle on the floor, half-fallen from the table. The sun slants through the window across his face.

I should’ve left the cake in the kitchen.

But something about him like this — quiet, not yelling, not muttering — makes me hesitate. Maybe it’s okay. Maybe I’m over thinking the silence around his birthday, maybe it’s just the fact it’s a doubly horrible anniversary for my family what with Uncle Woodbine and my Reaping and everything. Maybe he just hates the 4th July as much as everyone else in the district. Maybe it’ll be nice to see a friendly face when he wakes up.

I approach the sofa and softly say the words everyone hears every year on their own special day:

“Happy birthday, Haymitch,”

….That’s when everything goes wrong.

In one breath, he’s up.

Not awake — not really. Just up like something inside him got yanked. I see the flash of something silver, I see the way his eyes don’t register me. They’re wild. Half-dreaming. Somewhere far away.

I open my mouth to speak, to say it’s me, it’s just Ember—

The glint I saw is a knife. A blunt kitchen knife.

The blade arcs before I can move, before he can stop. A white-hot line slices across my left side, just above the waist. I suck in a breath, stumble back, the cake crashing to the floor.

“Haymitch!” I cry out, clutching my side. “Haymitch—it’s me!”

The shout stops him cold.

He freezes, knife still half-raised, mouth slack. His eyes focus — slowly, painfully — like he’s dragging himself back into the room. Back to the land of awake.

“Ember?” he says, hoarse.

I’m on one knee, palm pressed against the fabric of my shirt, which is already blooming red.

He drops the knife.

“Shit.” His voice is different now. Horrified. Real. “Shit.”

He’s kneeling in front of me a second later. I can’t tell who’s shaking more.

“Let me see,” he says, urgently, hands hovering over mine. “Ember, let me—damn it—hold still.”

“I didn’t know,” I whisper. “You sleep with a knife.”

“Yeah, and now you do.” He pulls my hand away. Hisses. “Alright, Doesn’t look deep. You’re lucky I’m a drunk, or I’d have gone clean through.”

I try to laugh. It sounds like a cough.

“I was just… I didn’t know. I thought it’d be nice.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.

He moves fast after that. Not smooth — not practiced, like Mrs Everdeen — but efficient. He disappears to the kitchen and comes back with a dented first-aid tin that smells like old wood and vinegar and a bottle of something clear. He’s got a half-used roll of gauze, a flask with a makeshift cork, and what I immediately recognize as rubbing alcohol.

“Where’d you get that?” I ask, a little breathless.

“You don’t want to know” He kneels again. “Now, you’re gonna hate me in about ten seconds.”

I glance down, he’s already lifting the edge of my shirt, and I flinch instinctively.

“You’ll need to hold this up, unless you want me to rip it.” He commands, not looking at me. My hands shake, but I do it immediately. My skin is slick, raw around the wound, which is long and shallow but angry. I’ve definitely had worse, not from him, never from him, from the obvious. It’s going to scar though. Just another I’ll add to the list on my body.

“This’ll hurt,” he says, voice flat. “Scream if you need to. No one’ll care.”

“My ma will” I point out “Effie definitely—”

He pours the alcohol. I bite down a scream with my black metal arm in my mouth. He doesn’t flinch. It’s like fire and ice all at once, something I’ve actually experienced before, but still my leg kicks involuntarily, and eyes water at the sensation.

“Sorry,” he mutters, even though I know he’s not sorry for the pain — just for the reason it’s happening. “You’ll live.”

Then his fingers are already unrolling a length of gauze.

He works in silence. Gentle, surprisingly. Tight enough to hold, not tight enough to hurt.

When he’s done, he leans back on his heels. He’s still not meeting my eyes and I’m the one who breaks the silence between us. “You really don’t like your birthday, huh?”

His laugh is dry. Bitter, even. “Yeah. Maybe don’t do that again. Ever.”

“Okay,” I say softly. “I won’t.”

He leans back against the wall, rubbing a hand down his face. “You come here to say that every year and you’ll be leaking from somewhere new each time.”

There’s blood on the floor. On his hands. But he’s calmer now. Or something close to it. Now he knows I’m not hurt badly.

“It’s Reaping Day,” I say after a minute.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes closed. “Second gift of the day.”

“My first one as a mentor,” I add.

He opens one eye and looks at me sideways.

“I thought about letting you go at this alone,” he admits suddenly. “Like I’ve done for years.”

That surprises me a little, I expected him to say it’s my turn and wash his hands of the whole thing.

“Why didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s low. Meant more for himself than me.

“Didn’t sit right.”

That’s all.

But I hear the rest of it anyway. The unsaid. What happened in the Capitol last year, the past year. The way they’ve paraded me like a doll. Taken parts of me and never really gave anything back.

“Thanks for patching me up,” I say.

He shrugs. “You did me a favour, I’m awake.”

He finally looks at me. Really looks. “don’t sneak up on me again like that, Ember.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“Then don’t wake me up at all.”

“I can’t not do that, we have a deal, I wake you up on Reaping day and you hold my hand through all the Victor crap.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I”

“Ember”

“Right. Okay got it.”

He pushes himself to his feet with a grunt. “Now go home. Clean up. We leave in what? two hours.”

I start to move. Stop. “Haymitch?”

He pauses, back turned to me.

“Is it always this hard? The Fourth of July?” I ask.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then:

“You have no idea kid” he says as he heads up the stairs to get ready.

I stare at the ruined cake on the floor. Frosting smeared across old wood like a smear of snow. A cherry’s rolled near the bottle.

I wipe at my eyes with my sleeve.

Yeah, I think I do.

10 years later

When I wake up, I can’t tell where I end and Haymitch begins.

It’s still early. Summer light spills through the half-cracked curtains, gold and warm and gentle, soft as a memory. There’s birdsong, mockingjays probably, singing a melody long lost to the Capitol cruelty, one they have finally been able to reclaim.

I shift slightly and feel his arm tighten around my waist.

Haymitch breathes out slow, steady against the back of my neck, and I realise he’s already awake. His legs are tangled in mine, as if even in sleep he’s afraid I’ll drift off without him. The sheets are twisted around us, and his palm is warm and flat against the bare skin of my stomach.

It’s the perfect way to wake.

I turn, carefully, until I face him.

He’s watching me like I’m the only thing that matters. Like he still can’t quite believe I’m here, that we’re here. His eyes are soft — the kind of soft he doesn’t let anyone else see. The kind I never saw until the war ended.

Until we let each other love each the other in the quiet.

His hair’s all over the place, a little silvery now in places it used to be straw-colored but not noticeably unless you’re looking. There are lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, deeper than they were when I was sixteen. And still, he’s beautiful, the way a home is beautiful after it’s rebuilt. Solid. Worn. Real.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He hums, low in his throat. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

The nickname still makes my chest ache, but in a good way, not in the way that’s like a wound. In a way that makes me want to just love him more even though I know it’s impossible to love him more.

“You been awake long?”

“Long enough.”

I reach up and brush a bit of sleep from the corner of his eye, trail my fingers down the side of his face. He catches my hand with his, presses a kiss into my palm.

I don’t say it. Not yet. Not those words.

There’s no panic behind his eyes this morning, no knife under the pillow, no tension in the set of his jaw. He’s just…Haymitch.

“You alright?” I ask.

“’M alright,” he shifts closer, tucking me fully against his chest. “Reckon you’ve got somethin’ to do with that.”

We stay like that for a while, not talking. Breathing. Listening to the quiet of the house — a house that no longer smells like whiskey and sweat and sour bread, no longer echoes with the sound of a man trying to drink away ghosts. It smells like fresh soap, coffee grounds and goat milk, with only the faint scent of whatever liquor Haymitch is into.

It smells like us.

I trace the edge of a scar on his shoulder with my fingers. I don’t know how he got that one. He’s told me things, but not everything. Not yet.

“I was thinking’,” he says, voice low and rough with sleep, “we don’t have go anywhere today.”

“No,” I agree. “We don’t.”

“No Games. No Capitol,” he says, like he still doesn’t quite believe it. “Haven’t got to pack, haven’t got to send anyone to die, haven’t got to drink myself stupid.”

“Thanks to Katniss,” I say, “and thanks to you.”

His hand slides up, rests over my ribs. “You did more than me”

I close my eyes for a second. Try not to let the weight of memory settle too heavy. We all helped. All of us who made it out the other side. But some days it still feels like more of me got left behind in the wreckage than made it into this new world.

I think about Woodbine. Can’t help it that he comes into my mind today. The uncle, who I never met but who my father mourned until the day he left us, the uncle who lives in the hollow space between my ribs on days like this. About the way Haymitch’s hand had trembled when he told me — really told me — what happened that year. How he hadn’t been reaped in Woodbine’s place well, not in the way I’d been told at least. How the Capitol had reset the bowl like nothing had happened. How he’d been picked from the crowd and stood there, sixteen and not giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing him cry, as he was called up.

I’d never really seen Haymitch cry until then. A few times, but not when I won the games. Not when I almost didn’t. Not even when I told him I loved him for the first time. Only when he mentioned people he lost or the prospect of losing what he’s built now. Never when he describes things, his voice trembles but never breaks. Maybe because he never goes into detail.

But that night, he had and I’d held him, just like he held me after my own nightmares, and we didn’t say anything else.

My chest aches, thinking of it now. It’s weird how that one incident on one specific day could alter so many people’s lives. Even those who weren’t even born yet. It’s a strange feeling to consider that if my uncle hadn’t died when he did, I ultimately wouldn’t be here now, and likely neither would Haymitch.

Our lives would be completely different. He’d be celebrating his birthday with his childhood sweetheart and worrying about his kids being sent into the arena and I wouldn’t be here. I know that much to be true. But I don’t want to dwell on weird feelings, on what ifs, so I move gently, press my head to his shoulder and let myself breathe him in.

“Peeta wants to do something later — nothing big.“

Haymitch grunts in response.

“Before you ask it’s because he loves you.”

“Can’t think why.”

“You’re his family.” I simply say, “Katniss’ too.”

“You know, you’ve got a real annoying habit of being right lately.”

I smile slightly and I finally decide to risk saying the thing I’d been avoiding.

“Happy birthday, Haymitch.”

I lean back slightly and watch his reaction. His eyes don’t close, his breath doesn’t hitch. That’s good at least. A big improvement from getting stabby at me.

“Didn’t think I’d see forty-three,” he replies

“You’ve certainly earned it.”

He goes quiet. Just stares at me and I know where he’s gone. To Sid. To His ma. To Maysilee. Louella, Wyatt and Lou-Lou.

To Lenore Dove.

Names he’s whispered and trusted me with more than once. Pieces of himself he never gave anyone before. I don’t know everything. Not yet. But I know their names now at least, and that’s enough. It’s a start. He’ll tell me one day when he’s ready all their stories and I’ll be there then, like I’m here now.

“You okay?” I ask, just under my breath.

“Gettin’ there.” He nods once, slowly. Not a lie, but not a complete truth. “Just… feels wrong some days. Being the one who made it.”

“But you did,” I whisper. “And you’re still here.”

“Yeah,” he says, and then he turns, wraps himself around me tighter like he’s anchoring himself. “Thanks to you.”

I shake my head against him. “You’re the reason we’re both here. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Wouldn’t dare,” he says.

I let my fingers drift across his ribs. Feel the rise and fall of his breath. He’s solid beneath me, warm and real and present. I think of the man I met when I was fifteen, and the one I wake up beside now. Same man. Just… different now. Loved, as he should’ve always been.

“I ever tell you how dangerous you look in the morning?” he murmurs suddenly, voice low and gravelly.

I glance up at him.

“Oh, in what way do I look dangerous, Haymitch?”

“In the ‘I want you in bed for another hour’ kind of dangerous”

He’s smirking now — barely — but it’s there. Familiar and lazy and something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.

“Well, who am I to deny you anything today. Is there anything else you would like?”

“I want to stay like this,” he says “right here. With you.”

“You’ve got me.”

“Good. And I was thinkin’ maybe I should start my birthday off right,” he drawls.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And how would you like to do that, Mr Abernathy?”

“Well, Mrs Abernathy,”

He shifts, flipping our positions, rolling me onto my back with a low groan that comes with middle age and settles over me, one hand bracing beside my head, the other slides down slowly to rest over my hip, drawing lazy circles over my skin. careful, deliberate, his breath ghosts against my throat.

“I might have a few ideas”

I laugh, his mouth meets mine — not rushed, not desperate, just full and slow, the kind of kiss that says I love you without needing words. I melt into it, threading my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer.

It’s familiar by now.

He deepens the kiss, his breath hitching as he presses closer, his fingers slipping beneath the blanket draped over us. I gasp softly against his lips.

His hand slides over my waist, up my ribs, slow and reverent, like he’s touching something he still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to have even after all these years. He doesn’t hesitate like he used to. His thumb brushes the place just under my breast, where my bra starts and he pauses — checking, always checking, even now.

I nod, barely, just once.

And that’s all he needs.

He kisses me again, a sound in the back of his throat like he’s breathing out relief. His hand slides higher, warm against my skin, and everything about the moment stretches — quiet, slow, like time’s finally decided to give us space instead of taking things away.

The weight of him is comforting. His body fits against mine like it’s always been meant to. Tangled legs, shared breath, a life remade in the aftermath.

His fingers find the edge of my underwear, tentative, but only in that familiar way that means I know you. I know what you’ve survived. I’ll never take more than you give.

And I do.

Give.

All of it.

Outside, the wind stirs the trees. A bird cries again, but further away this time.

His lips move along my jaw, down to the place just below my ear, slow like he’s memorising me again from scratch.

“I love you,” I whisper.

His hand stills for a second. Then:

“You better.”

I laugh again — breathless, honest — and his smile ghosts across my skin.

He shifts again, his hand lacing with mine above my head, his mouth finding mine one more time.

And just before the world falls away, he whispers against my lips:

“Best damn birthday in a long time.”

[flock-of-cassowaries]

Honestly, I’ve had therapists who were even less effective than the esteemed Dr. Lecter.

Like, I’m not defending him - he should not have a license, what with all the murdering, and also whatever the fuck he said to Randall Tier - but like… in terms of clinical effectiveness, I’ve literally seen psychiatrists who were worse at their jobs than he is.

Mind you, my therapist did not intentionally set out to destroy my life, so that’s a point in her favour.

…but we did have two years of extremely aimless conversations, and she gave me her two unwanted purebred cats, and counselled me to cease taking my medication - something that was not within her scope (she was a psychologist, not a psychiatrist), and which was… not the vibe. (I took her advice, it was a bad plan.)

I actually have a worse story from earlier in my life (below the cut, for the horror fans), but tldr:

As a frequent flyer in the world of mental health services, Hannibal’s utter lack of professionalism seems plausible as the kind of thing that could easily pass under the radar for a while.

Cw: ED mention, generally incredibly irresponsible doctors, and also, my parents (they weren’t good at their job, either).

So, over the course of the last three decades, I’ve seen like… at least eleven psychiatrists and psychologists; but the two worst ones were:

1. The psychiatrist who told me, 20 minutes into our first and only appointment (a medication consult), that my real problem was that I had “a competitive relationship with my mother”, and the only way I could fix that was to book repeated (expensive, paid-out-of-pocket) sessions with him specifically.

And like, maybe that bullshit worked on some patients. He seemed pretty confident it would work on me.

But he cold-read me wrong, because as unpleasant as my mother is, the real nightmare parent is my father. I just remember thinking Shit, if there’s a competition, I’ve won by default. Cause she is married to my dad.

That was pretty much the end of the appointment. No medication consult took place. (I have since found my golden ticket - it was sertraline all along! Sertraline, my beloved. I’ll never discontinue you again.)

But hey, at least that guy didn’t actually endanger my life! That distinction rests with…

2. The “adolescent medicine specialist” that my parents took me to to treat my (extremely severe) eating disorder in sixth grade. 

She confidently told them that I didn’t need to be hospitalized. After a few months, she prescribed me ritalin so that I could “concentrate on eating”.

Ritalin is an appetite suppressant.

I had a restrictive eating disorder.

And like… I was a kid, but I could tell how sick I was. I was terrified. I ended up begging my mother to take me to the emergency room.

As soon as they saw me there, I was admitted to the (public, not-for-profit) hospital. And then kept there for the better part of six months. Because I was, in fact, life-endangeringly sick. It was not a great time.

(I am okay now; but it was dicey for a bit. Do not recommend developing an eating disorder. Bad impulse, 0/10 experience.)

But yeah, her RateMDs page is… scathing. And yet, somehow she continued to practice until she retired of her own accord in 2020 or so, more than two decades after I saw her.

I really wanna know wtf was Hannibal actually doing as a psychiatrist!! They really were just having conversations. What advice did he actually give Will ? He was only analyzing him. And to think that will was never prescribed anything for his nightmares or time loss is a bit wild to me.

[thepoisonroom]

that post that's like "learning social skills helps with social anxiety" applies to dating also btw