#but it got even smaller since my disabilities worsened

[2001fairyprincess]

everyone around me falling in love and im so happy for them but it just digs in the very possible reality of me dying alone. i just don't think i'm meant to be loved or wanted romantically in this lifetime. being disabled and a lesbian is so lonely.

[arreuyas]

Emperor! Gojo x Blind! F!reader

*⁠.⁠✧ In which the womanizer emperor got engaged in an arranged marriage with a blind woman.

warnings: mentions of adultery to which you will forgive; gojo is cruel towards your disability at the beginning; a bit of angst; suggestive content at the end, dirty words and cursing.

english is not my first language! i'm sorry for minor mistakes. and please, if you don't like the theme just scroll.

word count: 1.5k

—

GOJO SATORU went from crowned prince to a emperor way too soon, after the past emperor passed away. That might've lead him to worsen the spoiled, childish personality he already had. As a emperor, he could have anything he wanted and oh, Gojo was a lover of all luxurious and pretty things. He wanted, so he got it; it was that simple.

He lived a hedonist life, it wasn't a surprise for people that their emperor was a womanizer, considering how frequently he could call for more concubines to him room at the evenings. The rumours and gossips about his ways spread, and his reputation was far from being a good one. As a ruler, Gojo was lazy, always leaving the work, meetings, paperwork and any other management to his trusted subjects. He didn't really care about the situation of his territory.

And because of that, he was back-fired with something from years ago – a engagement. A contract that his father accepted when Gojo was only a baby, with a girl from a smaller kingdom that provided them with a lot of resources. His ‘trusted’ subjects were the ones to bring up the arranged marriage, because the other kingdom was pressing them for the ceremony, considering that both Gojo and the girl were above adulthood now.

Yet, there was a small problem. Gojo's supposed wife was blind.

That wasn't mentioned in the contract, but it still wasn't enough for an annulment. The Emperor would be damned to the marriage, wanting it or not. And oh, how Gojo wanted to kill his already deceased father for making him go through all that bother.

The ceremony was awkward, it wasn't a big thing like it would normally be – but it was something that both Gojo and you agreed on. There was no loving gazes, no happy guests, no happy couple. Only a political thing you two were forced upon.

The following days were even worse.

Your blindness wasn't really a problem when Gojo actually stopped to give it a thought. No, it was a good thing. He could just cheat. After all, what could you do about it?

For starters, you didn't bring any loyal servants with you, and the ones tending to you were loyal to Gojo. Second, it's not like you could see the evidence – the lipstick on the corner of his lips or the nail marks on his back. And if you did end up learning about it, well, wasn't it common for emperors to have concubines?

It was cruel.

Yes, Gojo knew. He knew that he was using your disability to his advantage. Maybe he did feel slightly guilty for you, but that didn't stop him from bringing women to bed.

And days passed since then.

He didn't know when, why or how. It was ridiculous, and he didn't like it one bit. But at some point, your clumsy self and obliviousness got to him. Gojo had to admit: you were adorable. And smart! You actually handled the politic matters with vast knowledge – something he never tried doing before because he was lazy. You were almost a perfect empress.

No, you were perfect.

He noticed that after a few weeks. How you would ask for directions with your polite, soft words to the servants and how your soft hands you touch things to identify them. How your eyes were always closed, probably because you didn't want people finding it disgusting – to which he felt bad, considering that he laughed at your condition just some days before. And your appearance, oh, how didn't he notice it at first? How beautiful you were. Truly, a goddess. It was saddening that you couldn't see yourself on the mirror and Gojo felt a weird need to tell you just how pretty you were.

At some point, Gojo started to communicate with you more, wanting to get closer to you – going as far as dismissing the servants and helping you himself. He would always walk you to the garden that you loved so much. He found himself missing you and asking the servants about your whereabouts. And the womanizer emperor started, surprisingly and shockingly, turn down women that swooned over him. Everyone was so shocked, because no one had ever thought that the spoiled emperor they knew would have such a drastic change.

You still couldn't forgive him completely. It hurt knowing that he made fun of you with other women because of your disability. It hurt knowing that he ignored you at the start of the marriage. And Gojo knew that you wouldn't forgive you that easily, but at least he was trying, right? Even if he was doing the bare minimum.

But at some point, you too started to appreciate his company. Of course, it didn't mean that you would forget, but you could forgive. ‘Only one chance,’ is what you said to him. And Gojo couldn't be more happier to make you the happiest you deserved to be – he would be damned to not take such a chance. He had already fallen for you. Maybe it wasn't love, it was still too early to tell, but he couldn't deny that it was very close to that.

Yet, people don't change everything from a day to another. Gojo didn't cheat anymore and he respected you, but his naughtiness was still there. It was hard controlling himself, specially now that he saw you in a new light.

He wondered how it would feel to hear your sweet voice calling him, moaning his name. He wondered how your warm fingers would touch his chest, biceps and back to feel around his muscles. He wondered if you were sensitive to the touch, like a person with a blindfold. He started fantasizing about you constantly, and every single time his cock would harden and twitch inside his pants. Fuck, you were so tempting.

One day, he drank too much. Gojo was a lightweight despite always stuffing his chest, saying that he was good with alcohol. But oh, he wasn't. Only one or two drinks and he would start rambling whatever came to mind loudly.

The emperor stumbled inside your shared chambers, his pale cheeks now pinkish and he was breathing heavily, almost sweating. You were laying down, but turned your head to the direction of the sound of the door opening and closing, surprised and slightly suspicious. “Satoru? Is that you?”

Gojo wasn't in his right mind. So, when he saw your laying form in your nightdress, those sexy thighs of yours and your cute, curious face- oh man. His mind automatically started to have the most dirty thoughts ever, already having a bulge on his pants. And you see, he was an experienced man. Yet, you were the first to drive him that crazy.

“Yesss~,” he mumbled as he approached the bed, falling down on the mattress and wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. “I mist yuw.” I missed you.

You had to hold back a chuckle when you heard his nonsense and by the alcohol smell you took notice that he was probably drunk. “Drunkard,” you said while patting his soft, white locks. The emperor almost purred like a kitten, hell, he loved your headpats.

He nuzzled his face on your lap, closing his eyes with a hum. It was then when he realized just how close he was to your thighs and he couldn't hold himself back. Not with that much of alcohol in his system.

“Ah! S-Satoru..?!” You gasped with surprise as you felt his teeth sinking down your skin, your body almost jolted and a pinkish mark was made on your thigh. “What are you–”

“I want you.”

You were surprised when you heard those words from his lips. After all, Gojo did stop sleeping with women. Yet he never once tried flirting with you, always respecting your personal space and boundaries — even though you hadn't set any. So you finally realized... that he probably must've had taken care of himself for weeks, alone.

Gojo stared up at you even if you couldn't see his pleading eyes. At this moment he wasn't a bratty, hedonist emperor anymore. Only a man that desired you deeply. “Please. I've been holding back for so long...” It was almost as if he wanted some sort of praise. He never acted submissive like that in front of you, so the alcohol probably was having some effect on him. However, he wasn't that drunk. Gojo knew what he wanted and what he wanted was you. So, so badly.

“Alright,” you finally said after a long time wondering about the pros and cons. You didn't have any experience with a man, first because you were a woman of power and couldn't simply sleep around without having your reputation tarnished. Second, because of your insecurities towards your blindness, and yet... You felt like you could trust Gojo, somehow. He wasn't that cruel man you met at the beginning anymore. He actually took your chance and didn't let you down once since then. “But be gentle... and stop if I ask.”

Gojo opened a happy, yet malicious smirk once he heard you – you would feel tempted to go back on your words had you seen it. “I'll stop whenever you want... but I won't make promises about the gentle part.”

-----------------------

[leam1983]

It’s the end of the work week and, well...

I’m having thoughts on labor culture.

My father was born in 1958. He lived as the son of an absent father of five children who had no ability to truthfully express his love and care, and who instead chose to bury himself in work as a means to display his commitment. My paternal grandfather made and sold mattressees and died quite young of a cancer strain that today would’ve seemed benign. He was described as a hard worker, either up to his neck in his business or wanting just a scant few hours per day to himself. It made an aloof lover out of him and a distant father - who still loved his wife and children to bits but who felt emotionally castrated in a sense, as were men of the era.

The family consensus is that his work killed him.

My father is now 65 and survived a bout of Non-Hodgkinian Lymphoma. The oncologist and anyone with half a brain agreed that stress was the culprit. Early on, Dad had the family as an excuse for his tendency to overwork. He had to provide for us, after all, and garnish my mother’s meagre savings. All she has is her government-issued pension plan, while my father does have his own pension as a retiree of the City of Montreal’s Real-Estate Appraisal service. Considering, he felt obligated to pull a heavier load to bring in more, so they’d have better investment opportunities. Later on, he kept working out of a sense of fealty and attachment to his division, breaking out of retirement during the pandemic to join the work-from-home team. He wanted to help techs and city officials find ways to bring more of the traditionally snail-mail-based parts of the system online so the city’s Land Management service wouldn’t be paralyzed by COVID-19. What was supposed to be a single month turned into four, which turned into twelve.

By the end, they were begging him to stay on the team and to pull longer hours. We’re talking twenty hours per day, in some particularly grueling stretches. That means being logged in by breakfast and scarfing bagels down with Urban Design techs on Zoom instead of your own family, or having supper with your boss because she needs a play-by-play of the situation to stave off her executive anxiety.

Long story short, I didn’t see Dad much during the first wave. His reasoning was that he’d eventually stop, pool all this cash, and chuck it into his and Mom’s Registered Retirement Savings Account - with maybe an extra two thou or so in case the country reopened enough for their postponed trip to Cuba to take place.

Guess what? His zona flared up and he ended up with odd, shingly bumps along his scalp which to this day the local dermatologist grimaces at and tentatively has us dab with cortisone cream.

Mom, though? She’s a retired and registered nurse with a self-negating streak and a chronic propensity to undervalue her own physical ailments. Someone who quite literally understands the pain of busted hips on a clinical level because she was trained in Gerontology - and also someone who refuses to schedule an appointment with her GP and who inexplicably self-medicates with white wine.

As for me, I’m a 37 year-old man with a paycheck I consider massive with its meagre six bucks above the minimum-wage threshold - someone who chose to shack in with his folks until the current crisis ends and who therefore has a history of a single, willingly terminated apartment lease that originally began in the Planned Housing market. The apartment I want is basically a Barbie doll house for adults, a gleaming fantasy I’ll never have enough capital to touch unless I feel like trying my hand with criminal applications of my skills. The apartment I can get right now is a shithole, and I have the audacity to think I deserve a shithole that at least wasn’t someone’s former cockroach den.

Now here’s the kicker: I value my sanity and my health. I know my mental stamina levels and I know from experience that after working seven-point-five hours per day with the occasionally shorter Friday, I’ve found my limit. I could invest more if I worked more, yes, and I’m already in a better position than my parents, retirement-wise. I’ll never be rich, but I’m already set to be comfortable, provided I don’t spend my golden years trying to make it as an unsponsored TechTuber or anything else that’s equally ludicrous.

Where that’s a problem is in the toxicity this is generating. See, I have the gall to slide my daily schedule later so I can start at an hour that fits my biological clock and ends at an hour where I’m at my most creative. That means the folks saw me spending my pandemic mornings on Animal Crossing while Dad was trying to wrangle Excel spreadsheets for non-tech-savvy fellow Boomers while preventing the dog from eating his meeting notes. That means they guzzled vinho verde like it was Kool-Aid after seven while I made sure to find more concrete means to distance myself from work - ideally ones that didn’t involve functional alcoholism.

Naturally, what was bound to happen, happened: Dad soon spent his evenings calling me shiftless or “unwilling to commit”, while I was stuck watching him miss all the cues his stressed-out body were sending him. We already had Trump’s last desperate months and a global plague to handle, I really didn’t want my work to turn into more of a nuisance than it already is. I already love the people I work for and hate what I do (repeating the family cycle, it seems), but I’ve at least decided to give myself ample Me time every single day. 

I’ve paired that with smaller, if consistent portfolio investments, along with a few new habits I wanted to get into to stay saner. Dad pulls crosswords or plays competitive chess in the wee hours, while I usually lay down to meditate around midnight and fall asleep by 1 AM at the latest. I’m half-expecting my father to pull a Tyler Durden and to sneer at me, at some point. “Self-care is masturbation,” he’d probably say.

Looking at classifieds for rentals, it’s obvious that the entire system is predicated on abuse. Work yourself down to the therapist’s office, right down to the fucking bone, and you just might earn a half-decent retirement because nobody’s taught you to invest incrementally. Nope, Society seems to say, you’re supposed to buy, buy and buy some more, until you realize you have ten years left to start from scratch!

I remember Dad’s face on my eighteenth birthday. “Why would you want a Disability Care Savings Account, Brain? You just turned into a legal adult by Canadian standards - you’re in no rush, right?”

I told him the real gift I wanted for my birthday, that day, was a ride to the family’s Financial Investments counsel. I pulled up the PDFs I’d printed out and filled and brought them over. From then on, if I dropped a penny in my nest-egg, Ottawa would drop another one. If my share grew, so did the government’s. In the twenty-odd years since, it’s expanded exponentially.

Dad thought I’d done this to have a big cushion by the time I’d retire. Mom thought I’d done this in case my disability worsened and I started requiring equipment or physical assistance. Honestly, my dumb, if slightly prescient eighteen year-old self figured I’d rather spend my time reading or playing video games than working. I knew I’d need something to help cushion my admittedly low career-related ambitions. I might throw several thousands at a new computer every seven to eight years, but that’s because I’ve saved them up for just as long, little by little. I have no vices beyond what sillicon offers and what you’d find in the pages of a book and don’t exactly need a big ‘ol, stonkin’ humidor stuffed with conoisseur stogies.

I have a shoebox with a poked-out Ziploc bag and a sponge, with a handful of joints and a few Santa Anas I got off of a buyer’s pool from work. Five of us occasional chair-bar goons pooled cash together on Cigar Chief and cushioned prices with a single, shared and massive order. I’m nowhere near rich, but assuming the housing market can catch its breath eventually, I’ll be able to live modestly - with one or two markers of occasional luxury I’ll have chosen.

I have a shittier job than my father has had and I’ve chosen to be happier than him. It’s just sad that the usual response elevates overwork as the supposedly one, true way to leave a mark in society.

No, Dad. I don’t want to die while my own cells eat me alive, I want to die blazed out of my fucking mind, happy because I’ll have had time to enjoy my friends’ company and to finally make some sense out of Kerouac’s Subterraneans or to figure out what the fuck is going on in Joyce’s Illiad. I’ll die crusty as shit and fulfilled as a Pop Culture jockey, because I’ll have either finished Persona 5: Golden in my lifetime or I’ll have watched the entirety of the MCU’s output before Disney finally manages to kill their golden goose.

I want to die decades from now, feeling like I at least owned my choices and didn’t spend my time tethered to someone else’s professional expectations of me.

[lovehotelreservation]

I Fancy You - Mayday, This Will Be Very Serious

Summary: At the end of a long, hot and grueling work day, Doppo especially of all people needed to unwind.Perhaps he should have thought twice than to touch himself while nuzzling his face against the seat of your chair though.

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Reader/Doppo

GOT

DANG

THIS IS REALLY TURNING TO BE THE RISE OF SENPAI-KOUHAI OFFICE SHENANIGANS IN MY WORK HUH

THO NOT AS MUCH AS THIS YEAR FEATURING THE SUMMER OF TWICE AS THIS WEEK’S FICS WILL ALL HAVE A BIT OF A TWISTED TAKE ON THEIR IMMACULATE “FANCY”

ANYHOW I HOPE U ENJOY THIS NASTINESS FEATURING MY BELOVED SALARYMAN HUSBAND

**Warning: this fic alludes to themes of obsession, creepy perversion, etc. Please take discretion while reading!**

-------------------

Filth.

Absolute filth.

This was no way to behave during after hours.

Hell, any hour.

It was typical for Doppo to stay in the office well after the work day was over.

However, instead of staring at yet another spreadsheet on his computer screen with strained, dreary eyes while he prepared a quarter review report, he was working himself to a frenzy in a different part of the office.

Not within the familiar confines of his cubicle.

But at the comfy desk chair of his superior who he respected and revered immensely.

You.

For when Jakurai's counseling wasn't immediately available, if there was anything keeping his peace of mind in tact from the long grueling work days under the burdensome watch of his boss and the pressures of society, it was you.

His sweet, inspirational senpai.

Infatuation, love--the line between those contrasting feelings was muddled to say the least. However, what he was most certain of was that all he craved was you.

You weren't too much older than him, so relating with you never came off as awkward or strained. No matter how demanding or difficult a task was, you always seemed so eager to work, committed to seeing your job through to completion. Even then, for as busy as you may be as his superior, you always offered him a listening ear, welcoming him to be open about whatever was stressing him out to you while encouraging him during his low points.

And it was for this reason that he felt so disgusted with himself to be acting so selfishly depraved upon your personal work space.

Here, kneeling on the floor right in front of your desk chair, Doppo had his face planted upon the seat, nuzzling into the leather material while he stroked his cock with hurried, desperate strokes.

While the fingers of one hand curled around his cock, the others gripped onto the soft fabric of your handkerchief.

The tiny fabric itself was the catalyst for his deplorable shamelessness.

Japan was in the midst of summer, the intensity of its humidity inescapable.

Given that the office was under some renovations, staff had to be shuffled around, especially since air conditioning in certain rooms had to be disabled. Though Doppo had to be shifted over to a desk space much smaller than his cubicle, he had no complaints whatsoever.

Because he was now situated in your side of the office once again--the last time being when he was a new recruit and was shadowing you for training.

With the scorching weather at its most brutal this afternoon, you--being his ever benevolent superior--decided to surprise him with a refreshing iced coffee from the cafe just down the block. Grateful as he was to receive this simple treat, the calm tranquility that he was enjoyed while working so close to you again soon shattered into a chaotic storm of lasciviousness.

Right when you handed over his iced coffee--looking so radiant and heavenly while he gazed up towards you--he was so enthralled yet so stunned by your generosity that he barely registered what happened next.

As you stood right by his desk, your arm extended to hand over his drink, you were balancing a considerable stack of folders, along with a loosely closed box of paper clips that you picked up from the supply room. Right when you adjusted your hold on the items, it was then that the box began to slide away from you.

And crashed right onto Doppo's lap.

Given the flimsy structure of their containing box, the paper clips were all over his thighs and seat in an instant.

Doppo was surprised to suddenly have a rain of paper clips fall upon him. And though it wasn't his fault whatsoever, an alarmed yelp of "So-- Sorry about that, senpai--!" still flew out from his lips.

However, shocked as he was, there was absolutely nothing in the world that could have prepared him for what you did next.

While you sweetly reassured him that he had no reason to apologize and that the fault was yours, you quickly set your things down on his desk.

And proceeded to pick up the dropped paper clips .

In your haste, with your fingers picking off the paperclips from his seat, the brush of your knuckles against his thighs was a call for immediate willpower. The ghost of your touch knocked at his sensibility, cracks forming in his good conscience, which only worsened as the absolute filth in his mind dared to rush out.

Trying to keep his feelings at bay, Doppo instead focused on helping you pick up the fallen pieces of paper clips.

While his heart rejoiced at hearing your thanks upon reclaiming all the lost paper clips, his loins ached from the faint but blessed physical contact shared with you. As you turned to leave, he immediately rolled his chair further into his desk to hide the bulge that was quickly forming in his work pants.

There was the idea to slip away to the restroom to relieve himself, but he scolded himself for even thinking up such a deplorable solution. It was already one thing to be thinking of you in such a way, but to act upon those feelings at work was down a path where there was no turning back.

Thankfully, with the stack of sales forms and contracts that needed to be taken care of by the end of day, he was able to guide his mind away from personal matters to professional.

While he usually was so at ease whenever you were around, he was relieved when he noticed that you were about to take off early for a meeting with some clients, as he came to realize when he noticed some movement from your desk. Your purse was set upon the table surface while you were busy fixing your make-up.

He was quite taken by the sight of you pressing your handkerchief over your lips to remove excess lipstick.

As much as Doppo always hated to have to say goodbye, he was finally able to release the tension in his shoulders once you stepped out of the office.

Even though his cock began to stir once again while his gaze lingered on the outline of your backside, made even more prominent by your form-hugging skirt.

While he scolded himself for his loose control over his own libido, Doppo continued to finish his tasks, working well into the late evening until completion.

With his quarter report completed at last, all that was left was to leave a newly organized binder on your desk before he could finally take off.

But once Doppo approached your work space, it was then that he noticed something that caught his eye.

Hanging off of your office seat was your blazer, while on your desk was your handkerchief, your lipstick print from earlier still displayed prominently on the fabric.

You must have forgotten the two when you were about to head out. Professional or not, it was much too hot to attempt going outside with a blazer.

Even without you there, a sense of guilty exhilaration began to take hold of Doppo once placed the binder on your desk.

Only to reach for your blazer and bring it to his face for a deep, indulgent inhale.

Your natural scent paired with your favorite perfume made his head spin with bliss. For the times he would get to be close to you, whether you were hovering over his shoulder while going over a sales chart in his cubicle or standing beside him in the elevator, he wished to be able to enjoy your scent fully.

While he probably wouldn't get to inhale your scent off of your neck while offering it sweet nips and bites, getting to nuzzle his face against your blazer was the closest opportunity to do so, and he definitely didn't want to miss out on the chance present before him.

But if he was to truly and fully indulge...

His gaze shifted to your the small square cloth on your desk.

Carefully returning your blazer back to your seat, Doppo quickly plucked at your handkerchief, pressing his lips over the lipstick kiss mark your mouth left earlier.

An indirect kiss.

With you.

His senpai.

Doppo's eyes slowly shut.

He took in another careful breath.

It was that rare time he was so happy to have stayed in late for work.

And it was then that he immediately reached up to loosen his tie before nearly ripping off his belt and yanking down at his zipper.

Doppo's knees plummeted to the carpeted floor before he near slammed his face down against the seat of your chair while he proceeded to soothe the longing ache of his cock with the stroke of his hand.

How long had he fantasized about kneeling before you while you sat at your desk, his lips parted and eager to feast between your thighs, his tongue hungry for your taste?

You worked so diligently, spending hours seated at this very chair.

The jealousy he had towards your work space had an intensity that could rival the summer heat.

This long-running fantasy of his, where your legs were parted, those pretty stockings of yours torn at the crotch by his hands because he couldn't wait to plant his mouth all over your dripping core. Your voice, so shaky with delighted pleasure, praising him, encouraging him--perhaps even begging him if he so dared to imagine.

His imagination fell into a more depraved pit than this particular one, but it was this scenario that seemed so attainable.

Still, knowing that there was no way that you would even look at him twice for a relationship, if this was the closest to his fantasy that he could experience, then he would indulge himself to the fullest.

Until someone yanked and dragged him all the way back to reality with a single, stuttered word.

"Do-- Doppo?"

The voice was familiar.

Too familiar.

One that had his head snapping upwards to the side in surprise, his breath becoming still as his hand immediately drew away from his cock.

Standing right to his side, a dropped purse fallen to the floor, still dressed in the very same work attire from earlier, expression frozen in absolute shock was you.

Doppo felt hollow as his eyes grew wide upon feeling the gravity of this situation crash right onto his shoulders.

"I-I...I don't know what to-- Doppo--" You were at an absolute loss for words, confusion so present on your features as you struggled for something to say.

He could feel his cock throb even more. Here you were, his dependable superior, looking so adorably flustered with surprise. The expression on your face made him want to ravish you on the spot.

While everything in his conscience was yelling at him to say something, to apologize, all Doppo could get himself to focus on was how lovely the view of you was from his place on the floor.

Though you mentioned that you weren't going to be back in the office, he assumed that you probably forgot something of importance.

Like the blazer he was indulging in your scent from.

You were still dressed in your business attire. Though it was summer, you still wore sheer stockings beneath your pencil skirt. Paired with the short-sleeved blouse that hugged your curves and the pretty pair of heels adorning your feet, you looked like the deity he revered you to be.

Doppo's shoulders tensed.

Then if you were his goddess, surely it was on him to confess to his sins now that you caught him, no?

While you were still struggling with something to say, Doppo found it in himself to rise up to his feet, immediately catching your attention as he did so.

Without bothering to cover his perversely sloven appearance, his shadowed green eyes were cast to the floor as he mumbled out your name, making sure to emphasize your honorific.

Though you seemed unsure of how to process the situation, you still responded with a gentle, "...Yes, Doppo?"

The hand that was still holding onto your handkerchief reached forward to take hold of your wrist, right as he lifted his head so his eyes could gaze into yours. "Senpai, you always say to not bottle up my feelings right? ...I ended up not following your advice and look where that's gotten me..." He panted out, proceeding to guide your hand over to his stiff, aching cock. When your palm was close enough, he immediately nudged his hips against your fingers, doing his best to hide back his rejoiced yell from both the blessed physical contact and how you didn't immediately snatch your hand back in response.

His hold on your wrist tightening, a quiet but building passion rose within his voice as he then confessed. "I have so many feelings pent up for you--I'm gonna go crazy if I don't release it all right now...!" He took a step forward, daring to bring his face right up to yours as he pleaded with a needy gasp, "Will you help me? Your disgusting, perverted kouhai?"

While it was evident that you were still reeling in from literally stepping into this situation, Doppo was glad to have not heard a firm, immediate "No." He watched as your eyes remained trained on his blushing face before slowly gazing down towards his cock as he continued to rub it against your palm. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, your demeanor teetering on that fragile balance of hesitation.

And then, after some thought, you answered.

"I-I...I suppose it wouldn't be right to leave you this distressed, Doppo."

So gentle, so shy, so genuine.

Your handkerchief fell to the floor as soon as he released it and your wrist.

Because he quickly cupped your cheek as smothered your mouth with a needy kiss, yanking you over to him with his other hand.

As much of a dream as this moment felt, Doppo couldn't have been more elated that this was all reality.

Joy truly seized hold of his heart as he loomed above you, a saccharine smile on his features--his typical gloominess nowhere in sight. beneath him, lying sprawled over your desk was you, with a cute, flushed complexion, your blouse undone, bra unhooked and gorgeous breasts freed, and careful anticipation in your eyes. He couldn't resist from stealing another kiss from you, just before he mumbled against your lips, his words melding together in a pleasured slur.

"Doesn't it feel uncomfortable wearing something so form-fitting all day, senpai? Why don't I help--" Trailing off, his hands reached for your thighs, spreading them wide apart for him to soon fill the space. for your stockings. As his fingers touched over the flimsy sheer material, he couldn't wait a moment longer to start tearing at the material.

The sound of your stockings ripping drummed up the same ferociousness that took over him during Hypnosis Microphone battles.

Noticing the adorably shy look that formed on your face along with the sight of your now exposed panties, Doppo shuddered before you as he quickly bent down to press his face and nudge his nose against your clothed center. Your heady scent wafted forward, causing his cock to ache with painful need. Tugging your undergarments to the side, his tongue reared itself as he began to indulge in the feast he longed and craved for so long.

Hungrily sucking on your clit, lashing his tongue up and down the slit of your core in long and indulgent strokes, even nuzzling his face right onto your sopping center, Doppo sloppily licked away and left you squirming and thrashing beneath him in pleasure.

His hands gripped onto your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide and open for him as he ate--all the way up until he had you bucking your hips against his face before you mewled and gasped out his name in pleasure.

A sound that resonated deep within him once he drew his mouth away, licking his lips longingly as he cleaned off your taste.

While you thought to catch your breath, Doppo was only filled with a surge of energy that he couldn't wait to fully exert out through you as he quickly pushed down at his pants and boxer-briefs.

You felt Doppo's hand on your hip first and then the blunt, wet tip of his cock against your core second.

While expected, you were still surprised with how eager your subordinate was.

He didn't give you a moment more to think about this contrast in personality however.Not when he was fully sheathing the full length of his cock inside you. To be stretched out like so you had moaning, to which Doppo responded with an awed noise.

The sweet sound of your pleasure ringing in his ears, Doppo began to move.

Pounding.

Pummeling.

Hunched over you, with his face nuzzling over your breasts, Doppo kept you tucked close to his body in a tight embrace while he hammered his cock inside your core. If this all turned out to be some fantasy he lost himself in during the work day, then there was no way he could allow for you to leave.

But as he felt you writhe beneath him and your hips actually raise to meet the ravaging tempo of his thrusts, he was glad that this was very much the present.

"You work the hardest out of anyone I know, senpai!" He declared just before indulging himself with the taste of your nipples, his mouth planting over your breasts with noisy sucks and tender kisses. His voice was muffled as he spoke with a mouthful, but still he spoke, "You deserve to feel good and you can trust me to make sure of that!"

You gasped out something, of which had little coherence with how much pleasure you were currently lost within the depths of. Your response--or lack thereof--caught his attention as he lifted his head, his expression yearning and sweet.

"Does my cock feel good, senpai?" Hugging around you tighter, he groaned, feeling even more compelled to slam into you, his balls slapping over your ass with each thrust. "I need to know...!"

"I feel--" You began, eyes clenching shut in pleasure as you felt the tip of his cock hit over a particularly sensitive spot within you, causing your lips to squeal out, "I feel so good, Doppo-kun! I feel good because of you!"

The rate of his thrusts began to slow while his eyes continued to bore into yours.

The flustered look on your face intensified as you caught on to what he was asking of you. "--because of your cock too!"

His tempo was back to its merciless rhythm, now with the rising build of your climaxes finally approaching its peak.

"That-- Ahh that makes me the happiest! I'll continue to make you feel good then...! From now until forever!" Doppo declared with an earnestness you had yet to ever witness.

His lips found yours again, the connection messy as it was passionate. Driving into you over and over until the both of you were damn near clinging onto one another, he--a long last--confessed in a burst of the emotions he had been bottling up for so long, soon pouring it all into you upon his release. "I love you, senpai! I love you! I love you!"

"Doppo, I--!" What you had to express as well was cut short as your release soon claimed you. However, by the way your hands cupped his cheeks, keeping his face still as you kissed him with a hunger that matched his, you already expressed everything he wanted to hear and more.

And thus on this night, rather than bear the stressful loneliness of overtime, Doppo instead spent the evening as he had been working so diligently to achieve: In the tenderly affection embrace of you, his senpai.

[naivesprites]

Update 11/24/2019 - Major Health Concerns

Hey all, we’ve got some icky news.

On November 18th I had my second colonoscopy. It turned out they only took one large polyp (that seemed sorta dangerous) because they felt it was pointless to remove the 100's of smaller ones. They said they wouldn't be able to keep up with the growth of them and they can only keep me under for so long.

Due to all of this, I’ll have to have ALL of my colon removed VERY soon. My doctor sent a referral to the Cleveland Clinic for a surgeon as they do a LOT of colon removal surgeries and our area doesn't really have anyone my two doctors would suggest to go to. The other problem we run into is that I'll have to be in the hospital for 2-4 days and will have 2-3 surgeries over the course of a couple months, so I'm not sure how much work I'll be able to get done on the game during those time periods. My first appointment will be on November 29th and I’m assuming we’ll be figuring out what type of surgery and when I’ll be having it.

Truthfully, I don't know what my quality of life will be like afterwards, especially when you pair it with the aftermath I deal with from the thyroid cancer. I do not plan to let this affect things too much, but it probably will at the beginning of treatments and getting used to my new life.

On top of the colon situation, my current thyroid medication isn’t working as well as it used to since the manufacturer has changed suppliers. This is the second time this has happened with my medication. My primary care doctor recommends me going to a Functional doctor as she thinks I need to get a compound thyroid medication specially made for what my body needs and also to finally have a doctor that will look into all of the health issues I have. Problem is that my Medicaid won’t cover Functional doctors and the first appointment would be $936 (and unsure how much subsequent visits will be) which doesn’t cover lab work.

As I’m unable to work and Justin can’t because of his own medical issues along with acting as my caretaker 24/7, we have no income. A low rough estimate comes to $4,000 for the trips up to Cleveland, hotel stays, and doctor appointments between both the colon issues and the Functional doctor. The goal is to diagnose what’s causing the muscle weakness, muscle and bone pain, memory issues, worsening depression, anxiety, and fatigue along with many of the other problems that I’ve been dealing with for seven years. During this time I’ll also be applying for disability, getting treatment, and hoping that I can eventually work again at a real paying job.

I’ve been so proud of all of us for working through whatever has been put in front of us, but lack of funds are truly a roadblock in this situation. I am beyond upset that I need to setup a gofundme for this, but there’s really nothing else I can do. I do not expect any of our fans to donate, but I would very much appreciate it if people could share my gofundme link. I feel like the faster I can get all of this over with, the faster I can put all my focus back on game dev work.

Along with my own personal health issues, Darkenmarr is out of commission for a while. In September her right thumb swelled up out of nowhere. For awhile she was able to still work on Alison’s sprite, but it’s gotten to the point she can’t hold anything in her drawing hand. She had gone to urgent care for help and they claimed it was arthritis, but after talking it over with her, Justin, Darkenmarr, and myself disagree with the diagnosis (we believe it to be fractured somewhere). She’s trying to get the VA to approve her doctors to look at her thumb and it has been taking awhile to get a chance to even talk to people at the VA. There’s also some very personal family stuff going on at the same time that understandably needs more of her attention.

The plan is to contact her on December 12th to see what’s going on and the plan of action at that time. In the meantime, I think Justin and I will focus on helping the other team members with their work and dealing with our health issues while we wait for Darkenmarr’s return.

Since I last posted, though, we did manage to get a couple of backgrounds done and Justin’s been finishing up the look of some of the GUI elements. So some progress has been made at least. Hopefully, we’ll have more to update on in the next post.

[gumnut-logic]

The Bellini Incident (Part Six)

Title: The Bellini Incident

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six

Author: Gumnut

Apr 2019

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: Kayo was going to kill him.

Word count: 2288

Spoilers & warnings: Virgil/Kayo, Virgil!whump with a side order of Scott!whump.

Timeline: Standalone, not Rain Series.

Author’s note: For @soniabigcheese who threw the prompt at me, and @i-am-chidorixblossom who suggested some Virgil whump. Scott got a bit whumped, too, I’m branching out as a writer, blame @scribbles97.(And thanks to her for the read throughs :D )

The prompt: The character who doesn’t realize they’ve been hurt trying to see if everyone else is okay only to slowly realize that everyone is looking at them with mounting horror. Then they touch their side to find it’s wet and oh no…

Why do I do this? Stuff happens, I hope you enjoy it :D

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

“Mr Tracy!”

Virgil startled out of sleep. The voice was sharp and authoritative.

“I told you to rest in bed. Do I need to list the complications of an untreated concussion? The possibilities for disablement should the injury worsen?”

“I’m just sitting at his bedside.” Scott.

Virgil frowned.

“Honest, Doc, he hasn’t been doing anything but sitting there.” Gordon.

“We’re just waiting for him to wake up.” Alan.

“I know you are worried about your brother, Scott. But you must take care of yourself. That was no low-grade concussion you received. You need bed rest. Especially after the strain from this morning. It is late. Rest.”

The woman’s voice had gone from anger to pleading in one paragraph. Obviously, she had become familiar with his brother.

“Scott, do as she tells you.” His voice came out as a rasp.

“Virgil?”

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know he suddenly had everyone’s attention. A hand wrapped around his.

A frown and he pushed his eyelids up, finding exactly what he expected minus one very important person.

“Where’s Kay?”

He turned his head slightly to his left and found Scott sitting beside his bed. The man was pale. Virgil’s frown deepened. “Scott?”

“Virgil?” It wasn’t his brother speaking. The doctor moved around the bed and approached him. He blinked. He’d seen her before. His eyelids closed on him and he had to open them again. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” Another involuntary blink. “Where’s Kay?” Another frown. “Where’s John?”

“I’m here.” John’s voice came from the corner of the room. Gordon moved aside and Virgil saw his brother sitting up against the wall manipulating his tablet and a hologram. “Kayo is on the ground doing the necessary footwork to get this bastard.”

“What?!” He tried to sit up, but several hands held him down. A gasp as he was reminded why he was in a hospital bed. “‘S not safe!”

“She’s fine, Virgil. She has IR security with her.”

“Still not safe.” His heart rate was up. Worry clawed through his mind.

“Virgil?” That doctor woman again.

“What?”

“I need to check you over.”

The hand holding his tightened. He frowned and found it was Alan clinging to him. His little brother was almost as pale as Scott. “Alan?”

“Maybe you should do what the doctor asks as well.”

Another involuntary blink. “Kay...”

“She will be fine.”

He turned his head back to Scott. “You should be in bed. You look horrible.”

“Pot, kettle, Virg.”

“Yeah, but I’m already in bed. Do as you are told.” A frown. “Where’s Grandma? She can kick your ass.” God, he was tired.

“Virgil.” The doctor patiently drew his attention again.

The woman had very pale blue eyes. Quite lovely contrasting against her dark hair, porcelain skin, like a painting.

She blinked. “I hope you’re not referring to a Picasso, Mr Tracy.” But her lips were curving into a smile. “Now let’s see how you are.”

There were pokes and prods, a touch to his forehead and his blood pressure was taken. Didn’t nurses usually do that?

“I’m afraid you are under strong security arrangements, Mr Tracy. Usual doesn’t apply.”

Alan was still holding his hand.

“You are always so entertaining when you’re on the hard stuff, Virg.”

“Shut up, Gordon.” His eyes suddenly closed of their own accord and he had to force them open again. “Scott, bed.”

“Virg-“

“Now.” He winced. “Before I make you.”

His brother sighed and with a touch to Virgil’s arm, stood up.

A frown as he swayed. “Damn it, Scott!”

“I’m fine.” But he put a hand to his head and the doctor and Gordon grabbed him. His protests petered off as they dragged him around Virgil’s bed to his own. Virgil didn’t let his breath out until his brother was as prone as he. He watched Scott close his eyes with relief.

Alan still hadn’t let go of Virgil’s hand, but his worried gaze was now on his eldest brother.

“Allie, it’s going to be okay.”

His little brother turned to him and pained blue eyes hit him hard. “It is not okay, Virgil. You were shot.”

“I’m still here.”

“That bastard wants you dead.”

“I’m not dead.”

“Yet.”

“Alan!” Gordon stalked over to his brother. “We can’t afford to think like that. John and Tin will find proof. We’ll take him down.”

Alan’s hand tightened around his again. Virgil squeezed his brother’s smaller fingers. “It will be okay.” A second and he was pulling his little brother down into a one-armed hug. “It will be okay.”

The younger man submitted to the awkward embrace and Virgil hoped it provided even a little reassurance. He couldn’t help but feel he was lying through his teeth. Kay was out there. His Kay.

Alan pulled away suddenly. “Virgil? What did you say?”

“Huh?” His eyelids dropped of their own accord again and he had to force them up to look at his brother. He let out a breath. God, he hated this.

“Don’t sweat it, bro. We’ve all seen it before. You is a dopey dog on da drugs.” Gordon’s grin split his face and spoke of blackmail material stocked up for the next decade.

“Shut up, Gordon.”

The doctor was standing to one side her gaze bouncing from one brother to another as the by-play jumped about the room. “I think we should probably let these two rest.”

Virgil frowned again. “Where is Grandma?”

-o-o-o-

Sally glared at Val Casey. “I thought we had an agreement.”

“Sal, don’t push it. This was unexpected and we are doing our best to remedy the situation.”

“I know it has been some time since I wore the uniform, but this does not appear to be a remedy.”

Casey sighed. “The threat uncovered by John negates moving your family immediately. That conversation led to the Network. Do you know what that means? There is enough money behind this to take out the entirety of Tracy Island and half the South Pacific with it. These bastards have their fingers in everything. International Rescue is not the only issue currently at hand.”

“International Rescue is not an ‘issue’, Val. They are my family.”

“I know!” The woman bit her lip. “They’ve angered the wrong people, Sal. People with power. You know the deal. You fought them for years.”

A sigh. Damn it, she did know it. “I had thought I had left that all behind.”

“Unfortunately, assholes in power are a worldwide phenomenon.” The colonel sighed again and put her hand on Sally’s shoulder. “Sal, Kayo is out there. We have the information John dug up. She will find the connection between Polominka and the assassin. He will go down. The boys will be safe.”

Sally straightened shrugging off the other woman’s hand from her shoulder. “How? You said it yourself, this goes beyond Polominka. The man’s an idiot, but he has lit a fire. He’s obviously thrown money at the right people to get what he wants done, done. You need to kill this and kill it now.” She glared. “And I find it very interesting that despite everything we still have to dig ourselves out of this. Where the hell is Rigby?”

“Rigby is on it.”

“He better be or Penelope will have him. She and Parker are not any happier than I am.”

“I have no doubt.”

“You promised, Val. You signed the agreement. The damned world government signed the agreement. International Rescue operates to save lives. All you have to do is protect six so they can do what they need to do.”

“I know that, Sally. Believe me, I do.”

“Well, prove it or I will do it myself.”

Brown eyes caught hers. “That will not be necessary.”

“I define ‘necessary’, Val, and believe me, I will follow through if ‘necessary’. I’m not completely out of the game, I have contacts.”

“Sal-“

“No.” She held up a hand. “This is my family, Colonel.” She spat the rank. “I will do what I have to do.”

“Very well.” But the woman’s lips were thinned with displeasure. “Rigby will be in contact.”

“I can’t wait.” Sally turned. stalked out of the room and slammed the door.

She had grandchildren to attend to.

-o-o-o-

Every town had a place like this. An establishment tucked into a corner, hidden in an alleyway. The graffiti on the door was stylised, a little too stylised to be the real thing, planted like the paint over one of the windows and the scratching that had half peeled it off.

It was an ‘in’ place, a trendy drinking spot that claimed to be one thing while actually being completely another. It tried to look rough, low on the IQ scale, but was actually smart in all the dark places.

The sign above the sill said ‘O’Connors’ in roman letters. Beside it was a spray-painted Japanese scrawl that basically said ‘All comers’.

Kayo stepped through the door; her tight jeans low on her hips. Her equally high cut shirt left her navel to sparkle in the dim light, her emerald piercing a silent reminder of why she was here and the man she needed to protect.

And what would that man say if he could see her now? Her dark hair was now a deep red, plaits mixed with ringlets cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes were pale blue and she wore dark green lipstick to match her long green nails. She was a sight that might have set Virgil laughing or lusting. She wasn’t sure which.

Aiden was already in the bar. An unassuming bearded individual faking one too many drinks over in the far corner. Jo would be entering two minutes after her, pink in her hair and hanging off Chu as if he was the love of her life. The two definitely had a relationship, but it was one of sparring rivalry that often led to bruises.

This was Kayo’s front-line team. Three trusted friends who had trained with her, known her and her father for a long time. They were IR security before there was an IR.

She called them in the moment Virgil was safe.

Walking up to the drink service, she asked politely in Japanese for a mineral water and once delivered, she holed up at a table in a dim corner and awaited her contact.

Exactly two minutes later, Chu and Jo laughed through the door and planted themselves on the far side of the room going all out and ordering a meal.

The room was full of people.

Most appeared to be locals, some were definitely not. Japanese outnumbered other peoples, but there were still a fair few westerners dotted amongst the crowd.

She waited, eyeing her phone.

Three men entered the establishment several minutes after her friends. A split-second assessment summed them up as dangerous. The man in the middle scanned the crowd, his eyes brushing across her as if she was nothing of interest.

She wanted to be nothing of interest.

“Kim?” The young woman who sat down opposite her was not what she expected. White blonde hair, porcelain Japanese complexion. A small tattoo of a bird high up on one cheek. “You are looking for someone?” Flawless Japanese as expected, but the smile on her face was suspect.

“I am.”

“I could be your someone.” Her tongue brushed over her lips as she smiled.

“And you are?”

She shrugged. “Useful.” A pause. “You GDF?”

“Of a kind.”

“The bad kind?” The smile turned smug.

“Depends who you speak to.”

“Oh, I’ve spoken to a lot of people.” Again with the smile. “Some say you’re not GDF. Some say you are worth so much more.”

Kayo frowned. “Some people have no idea what they are talking about.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” The woman leant back and her smile growing more confident by the moment. “Why’d you come here?”

“I need Network access and what I can offer in return is to your benefit.”

The woman leant forward. “Do tell me, what can you offer me, Ms Kayo Kyrano?”

She didn’t blink, but her heart sank. “At this point, that is entirely up to you.”

“Kayo, get out of there now.” John’s voice was little more than a whisper in her ear, but she couldn’t agree more. This end was a dead one.

The woman’s eyes sparkled. “So, you are open to negotiation?”

Kayo kept a straight face. “What are you offering?”

That sickly smile turned into a grin, her tongue teased between her teeth. “Oh, your boyfriend. Word is he is worth a lot of money...dead.”

Do not react.

John yelled in her ear. “Kayo, there is movement in the alley behind, get out of there!”

Aiden had climbed to his feet and was wobbling between tables, a haphazard trajectory that no doubt would end up in her lap before he made it to the bar.

Useful sighed and raised a single finger.

Aiden collapsed where he stood. Several people gasped, crowding around him.

“You don’t really think we wouldn’t identify your companions, did you?” On the far side Jo and Chu were limp at their table. Dead or unconscious, Kayo did not know. How?

“Ms Kyrano, did you think a history with your petty criminal uncle put you in the big league? This was far too easy.” The woman leant back and crossed her legs. A finger toyed with her lips. “Far too easy. I do hope your dear Virgil is more of a foe or this could just get boring.”

Kayo stared at her, her calm slowly beginning to crack.

The woman waved her hand. “Take her.”

Something bit Kayo in the neck, and the world went dark.

-o-o-o-

End Part Six.

[xtruss]

‘I Feel A Bit Rusty’: Has Covid Killed Our Sex Lives?

The end of lockdown was supposed to herald an explosion of pent-up desire and a bonkbuster of a summer. But it’s been way more complicated than that

— By Zoe Williams | Saturday, 25 September 2021 | The Guardian USA

In lockdown only 1 in 30 women and 1 in 10 men had a new partner. Photography by Antonio Olmos for the Guardian; styling by Andie Redman

This year was meant to be a replay of the roaring 20s, your hot girl or boy summer. We’d be hedonistic, bacchanalian and, above all, getting laid. All the pent-up energy of lockdowns, the only time it has ever been illegal for people from different households to have sex, would explode in one helluva bonkbuster summer. But has it panned out that way? Or has Covid ruined our sex lives?

Have We Really Stopped Having Sex?

Every decade since 1990, the UK has carried out a detailed National Survey of Sexual Attitudes and Lifestyles (Natsal). In 2020-21 it was replaced by the smaller Natsal-Covid study, which painted a complicated picture: of those in cohabiting relationships, 78% saw a change in their sex life, usually for the worse. One in 10 reported sexual difficulties that started or worsened in lockdown. Even though 63% reported some sexual activity, 75% of those who did were in a cohabiting relationship. Times have inevitably been even leaner for couples who weren’t living together. As for people who weren’t in a relationship, the lockdown months were a catastrophe: only one in 30 women and one in 10 men had a new sexual partner.

A rise in sexual activity can often be detected by a rise in STI rates, but these are hard to judge at present. Anecdotally, professionals have reported a jump. Will Nutland of the London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine, who is co-founder of the not-for-profit Love Tank, which researches health inequalities, says: “All my clinical colleagues have noted STIs rising. There’s been a big increase in syphilis, particularly among straight women.” But the general feeling is that Covid-driven lack of STI services means these are mostly stored-up cases from 2020. In summary: just as summer failed to materialise, so did the love.

Does Long Covid Kill Your Mojo?

Short answer, probably. Robyn, 37, caught the virus last December, felt better in January, then found her symptoms coming back. “The main thing is dreadful fatigue and brain fog. I forgot my housemate’s name. I technically could go on a date, but I’ve barely enough energy to walk to the corner shop, let alone have sex.” And anyway, she adds: “I’ve got absolutely nothing to say for myself. My interests are napping and having baths. I’ve got no sparkling personality. Oh, and since December, I’ve had no sex drive at all.”

But Eleanor Draeger, a sexual health and HIV doctor, counsels against too much extrapolation. “People with all sorts of physical disabilities have sex, and long Covid is a physical disability. They may not be having hanging-from-the-chandelier sex, but they can still have sex.” However, she agrees that if low libido is a symptom, it will be pretty decisive.

How Does Fear of Catching Covid Affect Our Sex Lives?

It’s not unreasonable to try to avoid catching Covid. Rose, 27, lives in Edinburgh and works in responsible investment, so uses the phrase “risk budget” more than most of us. But she says “I don’t want to waste that budget on spending time with anyone other than my friends.” She doesn’t want to try getting off with friends: “You’d ruin a friendship at a time when it’s so hard to make new ones?”

People aren’t necessarily scared of Covid; they’ve just forgotten how to be close Photograph: Antonio Olmos/The Guardian

Has Social Distancing Atrophied Desire For Intimacy?

There’s a subtle but gigantic mental barrier to cross in going from two metres to zero millimetres apart. “People are not necessarily scared of Covid,” says Nutland. “They’ve just forgotten how to be close.” This doesn’t always have a sexual dimension – many people describe anxieties about everyday proximity and crowded spaces. “We’ve lost those social and sexual skills,” he adds, “though they’ll come back with a bit of time.”

Have Lockdowns Shaken Our Body Confidence?

Nearly half of us – 48% – put on weight in lockdown, and 29% said they drank more. But that interacted with more nebulous feelings of pessimism and low self-esteem that come with too much time indoors. Jenny Keane, a sex educator who was running an online orgasm workshop when the pandemic broke out, says feedback she was getting “centred on low libido, lack of desire and low self-esteem, which are in a vicious circle.” So she tailored a course on “body confidence and sexual self-care”.

Not everyone sank into despair about their bodies. Anya, 38, is frustrated by the fact that she is in decent shape but there’s no one to appreciate it. “I wouldn’t get on Love Island, but I want someone to bear witness to the fact that I’m reasonably attractive and look good naked.”

Have We Become Obsessed with Hygiene?

Sanitised sex is a contradiction in terms. It isn’t reasonable or possible to be intimate with someone while maintaining germ barriers. After 18 months of trying to keep ourselves physically separate, it is quite hard to stop seeing closeness as a threat. Draeger has seen this play out vividly in her clinical work, to the point where an STI diagnosis that wouldn’t normally have caused a huge amount of angst has had a hugely damaging effect. “People have told me having an STI felt really stressful in the context of Covid,” she says. “They just felt that everything was unclean.”

Phil Samba, 31, a researcher and campaigner who helps black gay men in particular access HIV and STI testing, says: “Suddenly the message was ‘Just wank.’ That really irritated me. That didn’t work during the HIV/Aids pandemic, and it wasn’t going to work now.” But it was still “very triggering” for people who lived through the HIV epidemic. Samba says: “People were dying of a mystery virus spread through interaction, and it put people back into that 1980s fear.”

Are We All Just Happier Staying at Home Now?

Alan, 50,

says: “I’ve got so used to pottering about my flat that I think, ‘Yeah, that’s my life now.’” Greg, 45, divorced with two children, ended a relationship at the start of lockdown partly because his kids, 10 and 12, were not happy about it. “Now I can’t even go to work without the dog going up the wall. Everybody’s got used to this cocooned, slightly selfish world. I’d struggle to bring anybody else into my life. I was supposed to be having a date tonight, but I don’t really fancy it. I feel a bit rusty.”

Where is Everyone?

Dating apps, brutal at the best of times, are a bit quiet. Anya says: “When the pandemic started, I was 36. Now I’m 38. Part of me does worry that men are looking for women whose fertility isn’t going to be an issue.” And where do you meet people, if you’ve had enough of app dating? After-work drinks, bars and festivals have all either disappeared or are operating under new limits that squash flirting opportunities.

Are Cohabiting Couples Really Having it the Best?

The problems in a cohabiting relationship are different, Keane says. “A woman might be a mother in the morning, a worker in the day, a mother again when she comes home, and a partner when the children go to bed.” In lockdown, we lost those boundaries and became everything in one room.

Then there is stress, which can send you in one of two, really unhelpful, directions: “Either we become activated, so the kind of sex you want then is generally fast and easy,” says Keane. “Or we become disconnected, and have that sense of being further away from the person you’re in the room with.”

Even Before the Pandemic, Were We Having Much Sex?

In the US, research from 2018 found a distinct downward trend: millennials were having less sex than boomers did at their age, and Zoomers were having less than millennials. This doesn’t appear to be the whole story in the UK, unless we’re just slower to notice. Here, under-35s are drinking less and taking fewer drugs, but according to the most recent Natsal (2010-2012), they were having more of everything sex-wise: partners, experiments, encounters. Certainly, they are not very reliable narrators – one 21-year-old I spoke to had sex with two different people between agreeing to be interviewed and the actual interview, and that was a window of 24 hours. So I had to drop her, but I don’t think she minded.

Why Haven’t We Gone Back to Normal Now?

The lifting of lockdown doesn’t mean intimacy returns. A lot of the practical barriers to sex, such as a house full of children – or, worse, adult children – and everyone working from home, are still up. Tom, 37, is in an open relationship with his same-sex partner of 20 years. “We’re intimate but we’re not really sexual,” he says. They both used to travel a lot for work, and had sex with other people when the other was out of the house. Since Covid, that’s harder. “It’s a bit awkward saying: ‘I’m just off out to get laid.’ Where we’re out of practice is the tacit understanding: “Oh, you had a shower and went out for two hours.’ It feels as if I’m doing something dishonest.”

Sex is about connection, and the pandemic has been about disconnection – physical and emotional: at some time or another, we’ve all been in fight-or-flight mode, which is about as disconnected as life gets. Keane believes there is a way back, if we understand better how our state of being affects our interest in sex. “Whatever the problem, everybody’s question is always: ‘Am I broken?’ When so many of us carry shame about bodily functions and confusion about sex, good quality, sex-positive education is key. You can change your entire relationship with yourself just by changing the understanding of your body. My answer is always the same. ‘No, you are not broken.’”

[neureaux]

i’ve been feeling alright, lately! but i’m having some like, body stuff. so let’s get real for a minute.

a lot of the time, i tend to do this thing where i do stuff that everyone does and say yes to stuff that i know that i can’t do for as long as possible until my body is at breaking point; like i just sit in positions that i know are hurting me bc i don’t want to make a scene, i have to contort my spine so weirdly and support it excessively to be comfortable and i can’t bring myself to indulge that more than just a little with others(in this way, i think that the electric wheelchair may actually end up being a physical relief however much i dread it), i don’t fuss about steps or stairs or hills or when people forget about heavy doors or moving chairs or lifting/dragging, i don’t protest when people decide to walk ���because it’s shorter’ or ‘it’s a nice day out anyway’ and i do it with this performative posture with so much added pressure on my walker and c-spine, like i fashion my body as if i don’t need to be taking careful, measured steps and wrench at my hips and spine to take similar strides to everyone else and push against my limited flexion areas to like reach for things or gesture as normally and smoothly as i can manage literally until i can’t take the pain anymore lol like it sends shocks through my body and i think it’s a sign of where ptsd & physical health actually cross over, because i’m so used to instinctively trying to appear normal, make myself smaller and grit my teeth/steel myself through discomfort both during my past and over the last decade through my active symptoms that i do it emotionally and physically and i’m always really hurt after i go out! (i know this bit isn’t totally rational, but sometimes i wish that someone could learn to read me just well enough to gently stop me sometimes - but i know i have to learn to stop myself too. imagine that kind of emotional care and understanding, though?)

by the time i ever say offhand ‘i’m hurting/achy’ or flinch at some pain, i’ve reached a stage where my pain is hitting a point where i know i can’t control my reaction as well anymore - but something about mentioning it even then feels really viscerally wrong and it makes me feel guilty and dramatic. i can only ever speak up around my disabled friends when they mention their pain, bc it feels like i have permission to admit that it hurts then? and with able bodied people, that short permission doesn’t feel like it ever truly comes in my mind and i know it’s me, and some self-worth issue. it doesn’t make sense logically, because i’ve been prescribed my walking aides and wheelchairs for 8-9 full years, i’ve has my diagnoses but i know that it feels in part like some sort of request for softness and patience that might not feel deserved. i don’t really understand properly yet. i don’t know when i developed this complex but over the past few months, i’ve really been noticing it and i really want to try to stop or find some middle ground, because my condition is worsening and i feel like i don’t know how to say ‘this is what i can do today’ properly and i’ve been worried about the effects of that, especially bc lately i’m having much more pain when i’m not doing anything either. i have trouble sleeping even on good sleep days bc it’s just painful & i’m trying to figure out how to navigate losing flexion in my arms, it’s a pretty painful and unpredictable movement limit too, it’s not limp-ness, more of a tight elastic band type of restriction with the shocks and i think i’m just even more self-conscious of not allowing it to be seen more than it needs to be because it’s new and i’m just falling into that loop of trying to hide it again even sub-consciously? it’s tricky. i know i can’t totally hide it and i don’t, but i don’t know why i approach it in such an unhealthy and unhelpful way for myself though i don’t want to just surrender to that now that i know, so i’m in an uncomfortable transitional period with that at the moment.

sometimes i feel kind of angry, my body seems to hurt from just existing like everyone else sometimes; like yesterday, my friend came by to see me and by the end i was so achy that it was hard to sleep, it was awful. just from normal things, like sitting in an ‘acceptable’ way and going to grab things for her and picking up and moving things or leaning for things, i just find it so bizarre that my spine is this way at such a young age! so sometimes in private, i just feel really disgruntled by it, but i don’t allow myself to really wallow for long. even writing this feels wrong but i know that it’s just the lot i’m given, and it could be much worse! i’m grateful that for the most part it’s steady with some peaks and flows in terms of pain/discomfort but sometimes i just have to stop for five minutes to just let myself be angry, especially whilst i’m just trying to lay down or get up and do something at home and it just hurts so thoroughly or isn’t working at all - so, that’s what i do. but i think i will need to figure out some ways to manage this more healthily too because ignoring or avoiding does not cut it, either for personal life stuff, mental health stuff or physical health stuff. i don’t want to live like that anymore. i’m figuring it out, slowly.

i noticed something that made me feel embarrassed somehow too, which is that my weight has changed so much that all my actual underwear is too big and i feel like i don’t know when it happened, but it seems fast. i bought a gown for dinner last week and got measured(a weird experience in itself) and it was the first size 6 (US 2) that i’ve bought in like 5 years plus and since then, i feel like i’ve been noticing all at once that my clothes don’t fit - i think it’s partially because i like wearing baggy clothes so it didn’t matter that much, but like... my underwear? that’s so weird it like flusters me but i guess i need to just buy all new then? bc it’s like physically falling off at this point and it’s making me not want to go out! but i find the idea of buying all new stuff in new sizes a bit daunting because if my body changes again then i’ll have a bunch of clothes that i can’t wear lol? which seems like a horrible experience and i feel kind of fragile, i don’t want to deal with that sort of thing at the moment. i’m thinking about this a lot because i have to get some new stuff for physio and i’ve only just learned what size i am too, i was putting it off a bit before but i’ll have to get it done. generally, i just feel a bit frustrated with having a body at all. i feel like being a floating orb entity would involve much less pain and awkwardness - but yeah, i’m having some body stuff.

i feel okay today though, it’s finally a totally free day to cook & read, and i’ve been using my nice heat pads, which are giving my ol’ bones some tlc since my spine was being tricky and i didn’t sleep that well last night, so i’m enjoying it and i’m liking just taking pleasure in the little things today. the sun’s shining and i watered my plants! its really tidy at home, it’s been nice to see and hug my friends and though next week is a really treatment heavy week with another physio session starting (which means losing yet another weekday to appointment slots!) i think i’ll be okay, bc it feels good that i’m busy because i’m being patched up. i think it’s important to make sure i heal right so that i have strong foundations to thrive in my newest goals as well as my existing ones! feeling that bit softer after getting my complaints & thoughts off of my chest too. happy saturday!

[pravasiga]

June 19, 2017 - Wabi-Sabi: (Im)perfection.

Wabi-Sabi: (n.) "the quality of being attractive because of being imperfect in some way...wabi-sabi suggests that we see the flaw as being part of what is charming. Can apply to pots, furniture, houses - and whole lives." Origin: Japanese.

Trigger Warning: Body Image and Expectations

I wasn't sure how to start this post to be frank with you. I spent a few hours aimlessly looking around for a word to inspire me to make sense of a whole collection of experiences that I've felt since I've been here. Perhaps the most personal post I've made in a long time, I realized that in the last few years, I've lost my confidence in writing because as I grew up, so did my insecurities, so did my stress levels, and so did my ability to self-doubt. Part of my journey towards writing again is the willingness to be honest, to go deeper, to go pick at the scars that haven't healed properly.

As evidence by the slew of Instagram photos that I've been spamming you all with, being in India meant a change in what I'm used to wearing. For those of you that go to school with me, you know that I stick to a steady stream of sweaters and sweatpants because quite frankly if I have to suffer at college, I might as well be comfortable and warm while I do it. When I go shopping, I go straight to the larger and plus sizes. I thought I had learned to stop being disappointed at finding few items that fit and learned to seek out alternatives. But in India, where I have had to buy new clothes and adjust to a brand new style, I've had my fair share of struggles with body image, grappling with an age-old insecurity that has only worsened with the years and only has been exacerbated by hurtful comments, overactive paranoia, and the desperate need to prove to myself that I can do and be better. One of the biggest things that this trip has forced me to confront was a personal journey that I had long been avoiding - the burden I have borne my entire life regarding Asian-American, feminine, and personal expectations on body image and size.

But I don't owe anyone the debt of feeling sorry for who I am, and wearing my first sari, an ensemble that asks me to bare a part of my body that I have spent most of my life hiding, gave me a burst of confidence that there is so much that I should not and will not be ashamed of. I thank you, ahead of time, for reading this post, and hope that you recognize that this post is an expression of freeing myself from some of the worst thoughts I've had, in pursuit of self-acceptance and integrating the imperfect into the (I'm)perfect.

*If you would like to talk, if this post triggers you, I am here for you. As much as I can be with this spacey wifi. :)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------- When yet another size XXL kurta (long shirt) barely made it down over my chest, I was prepared to shed a few tears. The straight, narrow cut of the cloth was not made to fit me and in the dim-lit dressing room, I could only stare at my reflection and feel the same old thoughts come back. If only you had actually used your gym membership this year instead of being lazy. If only you could have foregone that McDonald's meal at the airport. If only you could have just, for once in your life, been smaller. Coupled with a time constraint and limited inventory, I was absolutely exasperated with myself. I had to somehow, find enough salwar kameez combinations to make it through the rest of the summer and so far, all I could be absolutely sure of was that my dupatta (scarf) was not going to be a problem. Though I later was to learn that most Indian women would tailor their clothes or alter it in ways to fit, the pain of quite literally, not fitting into, the new culture and society that I was going to engage with, was enormously difficult to bear. Even at 20 years old, having been overweight all my life, I was not immune to the dread of yanking off a clothing item that didn't fit, praying that no seams would rip.

A Chinese-American woman, I learned at a young age that I didn't fit the mold. I grew up seeing skinny women on runways, in my magazines, and TV-shows. I was fortunate to grow up in a family where my grandfather used to touch the skin on my arm and smile proudly, telling me that my yellow skin ('jing huang pi fu', he would say), golden and luminous, was beautiful. My grandparents were always the most insistent that their grandchildren never forgot to appreciate and love their roots, to continue a proud story that had crossed the Pacific Ocean, weathered world wars, and landed in a strange new country. Save for a brief infatuation with Cinderella where I stubbornly stated that I wanted blonde hair and blue eyes because "that was what princesses looked like", I grew up in love with my long, straight black hair, especially when I could brush it until it gleamed. I used to stare in the mirror at my dark brown eyes, trying to discern the exact rich chocolate brown-black shade of my irises. I decided early on that no matter what color they were, they held light and enthusiasm for life. Enveloped in love, emboldened in a household of two tongues - English and the warm embrace of my ancestors' Mandarin - I was raised in love with my Chinese heritage. But with this, I inherited expectations that would prove to be most constant source of my self-esteem issues - I have never been petite, slender, or thin.

I take a second to dodge questions about my health to simply state that regardless of that condition, it has never warranted the kind of overwhelming pressure to have collarbones that could hold rolls of quarters (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/…/Country-goes-wild-new-social-m…) or a waist that could hide behind a sheet of paper (http://www.nbc26.com/…/asian-women-are-pressured-to-be-peti…). I have never felt quite at home within the Chinese-American community because I have never been able to shake the shame of not fitting what I saw as the ideal Chinese-American woman. It is assumed that our bodies are meant to be a certain way and that it is woven into my DNA to be a porcelain doll, slim and well-proportioned.

I come from a family where love is shared in food, love is communicated in asking about health, and love is given by pinching cheeks and unfortunately, openly asking about my body weight. When my family comments on my waist before my college experience or when I get asked questions, I get asked about my SAT, my GPA, my weight, the amount of times I've gone to the gym far before I get asked about my mental well-being and happiness. I grew up understanding that this was how love was shown sometimes, even when it would twist in too-round stomach and curb my appetite. I have grown up always feeling like my answer was never good enough. I have grown up understanding that this was something I had to desperately change, not simply out of concern for my health, but because - what would other people think? "We just don't want other people to make fun of you," relatives would assure me, "You're a beautiful girl, but you should lose weight."

And so it goes.

I scrambled to find kurtas that fit and while I was able to find some, I couldn't lift the feeling of defeat that followed me out of the door of Big Bazaar, onto the van, and back into my hostel room. I had been so excited to go shopping for those loose garments, wrongly guessing that such loose fabrics and clothes would be easier to fit into. Even though many of my team members expressed similar frustration of finding clothes that fit, I tuned it all out, I tried to hold myself above wallowing but I couldn't help but sink in. That night, I ate less than half of what I had been given for dinner. I felt like I could have burst out of my skin every single time food passed my lips.

When we got the chance to buy saris, I tried to put a lid on the excitement. A sari is a long piece of fabric (anywhere from 5 to 9 yards), often beautifully decorated, meant to be wrapped around the body to form a skirt and to drape over the shoulder. (Side note: it is so hard to tie this damn thing, I tried and ended up hopping around the room trying to keep everything in place). We had been invited to the wedding of the son of a local technology company, known for its dedication to employing those with mental disabilities and pushing for similar practices in other companies. But I was focused not appearing lumpy, misshapen, and enormous in my sari. I was most afraid of what my rolls of stomach fat would look like, hanging out of the skirt, or worse, not fitting in at all.

The sari store was stuffed to the brim with gorgeous fabrics and I remember my breath being taken away as I ran my fingers along the ornamentally decorated trims of red, blue, purple, golden - every color of the rainbow - saris. I had long decided to go with a red sari, taking a lesson from my prom dress shopping fiasco that red, in fact was my "power color". I tried sari after sari, and as the women who worked at the store hastily tied and rolled me repeatedly into increasingly beautiful fabrics, I couldn't help but focus on everyone around me, finding their perfect sari. Between indecision and an inability to be satisfied by anything I had seen so far, I began to feel that same sense of dread that I had experienced the week before in the dressing room. I began to feel like a little girl trying to play dress-up, attempting to mimic an imaginary standard that was always meant to be above my grasp. Time was running out and I was among the last people to choose - and of the few I had tried on, I just felt completely out of place in all of them. I begged the women to let me try one more on - a red sari with tear-drop gold embroidery, and a golden-green trim. I reviewed the photos a friend helped take of me, and still couldn't bring myself to love it. But in all honesty, I don't know what I had more difficulty loving - the sari, or myself.

I bought the sari anyways. I didn't have time to find another one and this was the best I had found from the bunch. I kept my negative thoughts deep in my belly, swallowed to prevent them from reaching the surface. I told myself that I would just have to learn to wear it, learn to love it for all the other aspects. The fabric was beautiful - there was no doubt in that. I would have to do my best to fit myself in its folds and present as little trouble to the tailor in the next few weeks.

The week flew. We got fit for the tiny blouses (which were MUCH shorter than I expected) and patiently waited for our first chance to wear our beautiful new garments. In my room, I clumsily tried to imitate what I had learned from the women at store and "tied" my first sari. I have a long way to go. Getting those folds perfectly evenly and crisp much be a superhuman talent, honestly. I have incredible respect for anyone who can do it perfectly.

But of course, this is a blog post with a happy ending. The first time I was properly tied into my sari, with the little red blouse, my hair swept back, and my favorite red lipstick on, I was floored. I had tried pulling my petticoat up as high as I could, to hide as much of the skin that peeked out, a fact that the women helping us tie our saris noticed. They originally had pinned part of the draped fabric to my blouse, to form a curtain over the expanse of waist that I had hidden for so much of my life. Staring in the mirror, turning and feeling the fabric swirl around my feet, I unpinned that little curtain and tucked it back into my skirt. And I gave myself time to appreciate the form in front of me, a force in red, gold, yellow, and black. In that moment, I thought little of the expectations that I had carried on my back all my life. I didn't feel hidden under the beautiful fabric nor did I feel that the sari was wearing me. The body that I had spent so many years of my life berating, squeezing, hiding, was perfectly displayed.

It was a breath of fresh air, it was freedom from a restriction I had long placed on myself. And you damn well know I had to take a million photos to celebrate.

But more importantly, it is a reminder. It is a reminder that for all the comments of my family, I come from a long line of strong, sturdy women. Women whose hands and arms bore equal weight as the men in my lineage, women who were mothers and doctors and businesswomen and accountants and caretakers and brilliant and brave. Never had I once questioned whether they were fantastic role models. Never once have I questioned their beauty, their grace, their strength. So size zero be damned, I know that I may never fit into anything at half of the store I stop by, but what there is of me, I will love, I will cherish, and I will protect. And so should you, you fantastic, incredible, wonderful human being.

Dhanyavada galu (thank you) Ninna gelati (your friend), Winnie

PS: The wedding was also amazing and great and wow so many people I can't believe they just literally let 30 random Americans in at the last second. Congratulations to the bride and groom!

PPS: I learned the hard way how hard it is to pee in a sari and let me just tell you it involves a lot of folding, clutching, and praying.

PPPS: Photo credits to my least-favorite person and kind-of favorite photographer, Anant Sriram because bless that camera and his patience for dealing with my idiocy and basicness.

PPPPS: I love all of you, just the way you are.

[leechie]

When my lover became my carer

By ELLICE MOL (Originally published on SBS Life)

Most couples have difficulties balancing work, family and friends, making time for each other, making decisions and paying bills. But when one of you has a disability or serious illness things can get a lot tougher. 

Photo credit: Jessamine Chen

Like any couple falling in love, we were crazy about each other. We cuddled, stayed up late, made love. We wrote songs and connected over a mutual love of grammar and words. We laughed for hours. Nothing to worry about. We had finally found each other. We were lucky. Very lucky.

Rhys was at university when we got together. Planking had gone viral and Charlie Sheen was ‘bi-winning’. I had just returned from Afghanistan where I had been working as a journalist.

I was run down. My specialist, who had seen me as a patient for at least seven years, but could never remember my name, asked if I’d ever thought about having a lung transplant. I wasn’t worried. I’d been dangerously unwell before but I’d always pulled through. It was all part of the package of cystic fibrosis (CF), a genetic condition that affects the lungs and digestion. It’ll pass, I thought.

Meanwhile my relationship was moving fast. After five months Rhys and I decided to move in together. In our apartment, under the flight path, Rhys became familiar with the chaos that comes with CF.

My lung function had been stable at 30 per cent for the past 10 years and according to my specialists I was unusually ‘high functioning’. But by our six month anniversary my lung function had dropped to an alarming 19 per cent. I could no longer climb stairs, hang out washing or lift shopping bags. I started to depend on Rhys for help with all those domestic chores.

Rhys watched me deteriorate. I struggled to get out of bed most days. He would cook delicious feasts to entice me to eat but I had lost my appetite and was fading away.

Rhys started coming to my clinic appointments. The doctor ignored him – I suppose he thought it wasn’t worth the effort. But Rhys quietly observed and heard what I couldn’t bring myself to admit. I was dying.

When I was told I had a 50 per cent chance of surviving unless I received a transplant soon, Rhys, who had become my advocate and my carer, was left out of the discussion. He was upset when he found out. I was furious and felt like I was being forced to have a transplant. But my health was the worst it had ever been. My quality of life had slipped and now that I was with someone I cared about the decision wasn’t just about me anymore. I finally accepted that if I wanted a future with Rhys I would need a transplant.

Back at home we were becoming even more isolated. We didn’t see much of our friends. I couldn’t be out for more than a few hours before my body was swathed in pain. I was barely hanging on. I developed social anxiety. I could barely speak due to constant chest and throat infections. Rhys became fluent in my subtle cues that would signal when I needed him to speak on my behalf.

We were introduced to a new team of doctors at a new hospital that specialises in heart and lung transplants. To our relief we were warmly welcomed at the new clinic. The staff learned my name immediately. They made a special effort to invite Rhys to all the appointments. Rhys did a thorough job of asking the doctors all the questions I’d forgotten to ask. They offered him support. I saw a psychiatrist for my anxiety. The heavy load suddenly became a little bit lighter.

Once I had finished an all-consuming round of tests, known as the ‘work up’, spread out over eight months, Rhys and I had some space to work on our relationship. The trouble was I could hardly breathe. There were times when the only use for sharing a bed was so Rhys could hear that I was still alive. Every day I worried that he might find it too hard and walk away. Some days I even wished he would. The physical chemistry we had gave way to emotional dependence. We were both grieving for the relationship we once had.

My health worsened to the point where Rhys had to carry me up the two flights of stairs to our apartment. My reserves were empty and our relationship was fraught. I’m not sure whose life was more shit.

There were times when the only use for sharing a bed was so Rhys could hear that I was still alive.

By the middle of winter 2012 I was officially listed for a lung transplant. All we had to do was wait. We weren’t sure how long it would take. Maybe one day, maybe five years. The match would depend on blood type, tissue type and size. I was smaller than average so I might have to wait longer. We agreed to stop thinking about it and enjoy the days we had left together. We shared brief moments of joy and laughter. The relationship was still worth fighting for.

Seven weeks later I got the call we were expecting: a match. It was a huge surprise and even though I was so desperate for the transplant we weren’t really prepared for it. Rhys and I sat on the edge of our bed, holding hands waiting for the ambulance to arrive to take me to the hospital. Once we got there I was prepped for theatre and was suddenly faced with having to say goodbye to Rhys, perhaps for the last time. We said our goodbyes and he watched me as I was wheeled in my bed through the doors to the operating theatre.

I woke up a day and a half later with a breathing tube in my mouth. I knew everything was going to be ok the moment I saw Rhys’ smiling face. My mum was with him and she was smiling too.

It was a slow and critical path to recovery and Rhys was with me every step of the way. He witnessed the pain, the tears, the medication-induced rage, the hallucinations, the moment when I got my appetite back and shamefully scoffed a Mrs Macs pie at the hospital cafeteria, the moment when I took my first walk around the ward and the moment I was told I had a bleed near my heart and would have to go back to theatre for another risky operation. After two weeks he brought me home and the real healing began.

On the first anniversary of my transplant I ran in Sydney’s famous City to Surf. It’s now been four years since a generous donor saved my life.

Rhys’ kindness and strength endures. He is my best friend and my heart is full of love for him. We are back to where we were before I got sick and in celebration of our renewed life together we brought a puppy into our home. He reminds us every day that life is fun and worth living. There are still some health-related challenges but we know how to do it now. I’m not sure what the secret is to holding on to a relationship through an experience like ours but I do know that we never lost hope and we never stopped loving each other.

As seen on SBS Life

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© Ellice Mol 2016