#even though its absolutely exhausting. and just crying in bed is appealing

[iliothermia]

Tonight I'm gonna call some more therapy places to see if anyone can help me.. I call places at night so I don't gotta lose steam if I get rejected (and I get rejected a lot, I have federal insurance for disabled people but most don't take it). I feel like I'm at rock bottom emotionally.. but I can't get help unless I keep trying to ask for it If you're reading this and also need help I'm holding your hand, please keep trying

[whoistheasshole]

How do I get out of this unsatisfying life I’m living?

Anonymous asks: So the thing is that I feel incredibly stuck - I have all the basics of life which I'm grateful for but also that was my BIG dream as a kid, to get tf out of my parents' house - but now I have that and idk what to do for the rest of my life. Like, if I try those "visualize your future" things I'm just like, "I'd like to sleep for a month, maybe longer" & it feels like I don't really WANT anything so I can't plan, you know? Just flailing here honestly. Pretty tired of it.

I wrote back: I got your question. To pinpoint my answer a little better, can you tell me about your current situation, like how long has it been since you moved out? Which are the things you have in order to your satisfaction? Some vague idea of your age range would also be helpful, but I can work without it too if you’d rather not share.

Anonymous answered: Ah, sorry. I was trying to fit in the character limit & also whenever I think about this my mind just goes flbbbbth. It's been about 5 years? That's about the only thing I'm truly HAPPY about, I'm not thrilled with my social/love life, career, etc & have pretty much been just coasting tbh. I'm almost 30. Thanks for entertaining this.

Alright, thanks for adding some background. I will come at this from different angles and you can pretty much pick and choose what sounds helpful and leave the rest, okay?

First, while there are people who have it all figured out, methodically planning their next career step or fully certain that there is no greater joy than raising a child, there are tons of other people who just, to quote, go „ flbbbbth“ when asked about their next steps or, god forbid, their life plan. I would say I fall in the latter camp, but I don’t mind because I think there is nothing wrong with that. I let myself be guided by the things I need to be happy (more on that later) and by current necessities – if my job becomes shit, I need to find a new job. If a friendship goes sour, I need to end it respectfully. But I couldn’t tell you specific career or personal goals, except...

... let’s talk about the „later“ now.

I’m an organizer, maybe even a worrier, and therefore I like lists. And for that reason I made a list a while ago that I still have and expect to keep for a long time. It is a list of everything that I need to be satisfied with my life. It consists of 29 entries and has three of them checked, though several others could be counted as half-checked. I wrote down everything that came to mind, paying no attention whether it was reasonable or feasible to want. That wasn’t the question.

It covers stuff like a clean flat (not checked), restful sleep (not checked), friends that I see regularly (checked) or a job with purpose (not checked). This list is my guide. Well, generally my needs are my guide, but it can be hard to be aware of your needs sometimes, so I got this list. And if I wonder what I need or want to focus on, I can turn to it and choose one of the entries and see what I can do about it. I can also look over the list every few years and see if things have developed in the right direction. Little progress is no reason to chastise myself, but helpful information to see whether I need to re-direct my focus.

Please note that I wrote „satisfied“, not „happy“. Being happy is a passing emotional state. It is completely normal and okay not to be happy all the time. But quiet satisfaction with where you are or where you are going, that is pretty achievable. It certainly is a process, but an enjoyable one.

This list is not a race and it is not really a to-do list because most of the things I wrote down aren’t easy to accomplish with a single action. They take months and years and, for some items, I can only try and hope it works out some day (see anybody who ever purposely looked for a partner).

So maybe this kind of list could be an exercise for you. Maybe it provides you with some insight, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s not the right point in your life. But if you sit down and the only thing you can come up with is „cry forever“ or „sleep forever“ then, you know, that’s a sign.

Which brings me to my next point: Journaling or automatic writing. This method is especially helpful for those „I feel some kind of way and I couldn’t even tell you how“ moments – so maybe exactly where you are right now. Captain Akward has introduced me to a website called „750 words“ and I’ve used the principle of „morning pages“, though not the website, since then whenever I felt like some emotions were starting to boil over.

I sit down, ideally in the morning, and just barf it all on the (digital) page. There are only two rules: 1) Don’t edit or judge yourself, write everything as it comes to mind (that’s the automatic writing part) and 2) Don’t stop before you’ve reached 750 words. You are not looking to write anything readable or clever or lyrical, you’re looking to get all the weirdness out so you can move on. Repeat this as many days as you feel queasy or weird or confused or angry or sad. Each day, as soon as you’ve reached the 750 words, you can walk away. Heck, you could even delete/burn the document if that feels right. It’s just about giving your thoughts the room they need so you can continue with your day, hopefully feeling somewhat relieved.

While we’re at writing, I also have a question for you: Where is the pressure coming from to „do something with your life“? Is it truly coming from inside you or are there outside factors? Are people in your life asking you when you’ll have kids? Do you live in a culture where it’s expected that everybody does something of note, works certain prestigious jobs? Do you compare yourself to the people around you and feel like you’re „late“?

Maybe mull this over on a leisurely walk or write about it, using the method above. No matter where it’s coming from, the feeling of pressure won’t go away just by knowing its origin, but the knowledge can help you keep it under control. And if you find it is truly your own wish, you will have tools to shape your life according to your needs.

So, next, sleep: Maybe do that?

You wrote "I'd like to sleep for a month, maybe longer". I understand this was half a joke, but also … it was probably more than a joke.

How are your energy levels? How does life feel? Are you trying to jog through jello most of these days?

If we’ve been overachievers or had a tough home life or needed to take care of ourselves pretty early, we can become accustomed to everything being difficult. This feeling and behavior can become a way of life, even when circumstances change and we have a chance to act differently.

Do you feel rested? Do you have regular moments of quiet in your life that let you breathe? If not, this is where I would start. Forget about lists, though morning pages might be a helpful accompanying tool (if they don’t become a task to punish yourself with if you don’t find the energy).

Take some weeks or months, maybe even a year to make rest your priority. You will have to find a way that works for you. Yes there is a lot of clinically proven stuff out there, but you will not see me do yoga or meditate. Though feel free if that’s up your alley. If you love cycling or taking photos or drawing or just plain lying on your bed and staring at the wall, see where you can add more of that to your day. Whatever brings you closer to yourself and makes you feel like you can exhale and stand still for a moment, that’s the way to go. Do this as long as sleeping seems like a fine choice. And for good measure maybe a month longer. You are ready to stop when you cannot wait to do something else goddamnit I’m bored!!! (you might say)

If you are in this picture, please start here. Any kind of life plan, next steps, strategizing, solving of riddles would set you back and perpetuate your exhaustion. Rest is not time wasted, rest is how you get your life back.

If you are in this picture, you will likely find that if you really pull through, if you truly rest, as long and boring or even scary as it may be, the other questions will probably have an intuitive answer afterwards. Not like „this is my 20-year career plan“, but „I feel like doing x this week“. And that is enough. Because you won’t need to strain to hear your needs through the fog of exhaustion anymore.

Finally, some practical information and links for when you do have the energy and inclination to tackle your job and social life. I am not saying you need to change anything if that’s not what you want to focus on. These are just some tips, in case they become relevant.

For your social life, I recommend what others have recommended before me: Pick an activity that you do with other people and stick with it long enough to become a familiar face, see also here and here (yes, meeting gay people is similar to meeting other people). If you try out new stuff, go there at least 5 or 6 times before you decide it’s not for you – of course assuming nothing bad is coming up like racist or abusive people in the group. Shop around if the first group/activity doesn’t work for you until you find something that you’d like to do permanently. Maybe you’ll gain some friends, maybe you’ll find a romantic opportunity. In any case, if it’s something fun that you like to do anyway, you will have found an outlet with a social group attached. It is absolutely not as easy right now, with Covid and all, but if nothing outdoors-y comes to mind, you could also use this time to brainstorm what sounds like fun for when things are safer again.

Of course you can also look at opportunities online, like Discord servers, online interest groups etc but I do understand if that’s just not appealing right now. I am certainly over sitting in front of a screen.

To round this up, don’t sneeze at contacts that you already have. Are there acquaintances, friends of friends, colleagues, family members who you would like to get to know better? Then go do that! Suggest a time and place to meet up and see how they react. Say yes to the potential friends.

Speaking of which...

The Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes might also be interesting. Sure, it’s a little pop culture positive thinking kinda stuff, but I did like the impulse it gave me to consider when I say no to opportunities out of anxiety or worry. It made me accept some social invitations from colleagues (… in the before times) that I would not have otherwise considered. I did not gain life-long friends, but I did learn another valuable info: That my FOMO wasn’t justified for these events ;)

It also lead me to the decision to do one new thing every month – visit a new place or try a new activity or cook a new food. If the concept sounds appealing, just think about what sounds interesting and achievable to you.

And finally, the advice blog recommendations that I’ll always have. For social life, love life, and general life planning turmoil: Captain Awkward. For everything job-related, including how to write a good cover letter or interview well and, of course, how to get out of the dreaded current job you have: Ask A Manager.

To sum it up:

1) Figure out if you even have the energy to tackle any of this right now.

2) Figure out your pillars for a satisfying life – nothing big and shiny, just … basic needs, wishes, social needs.

3) When you feel like it, pick what you want to tackle next and see where it leads you.

4) Stay flexible. This is your life and it’s okay to go where it takes you, even if it doesn’t look „cool“ or „impressive“ from the outside. All you need is to make it your own.

And if you want to, let me know how it goes some time. :)

[cartoonsaint]

Try Not to Use the “F-Word,” Okay?

[Ao3]

was reading about @doodledrawsthings​ ‘coffee shop au’ and thought it was interesting that from the jump Luka uses “peck” as a swear. told myself not to overthink it... so naturally here’s nearly three thousand words about the idea that Luka used to swear a LOT. not sure how in keeping it is w his character, but it certainly is in keeping w MY experiences of unthinkingly swearing around a toddler ahahah.... fuck 8)

Summary: three snapshots of luka that are definitely only about swearing (coffee shop au) Characters: Luka, Vanessa, baby Hattie, Luka’s parents. Rating: T (features swearing, implied unhealthy relationship, post-birth scene, minor bleeding) Length: 2878 words

One evening during dinner, Luka loses his grip on his fork and drops it under the table with a clatter. “Fuck,” he says mildly.

Dad gasps, which is a poor choice since he was mid-sip of water. He sputters and coughs, face turning alarmingly red, while Mom throws her head back and laughs. It’s even louder and longer than usual; even by the time Luka crawls back up from under the table, errant fork clutched in one hand and brow wrinkled in confusion over his weird parents, his mom is still laughing. His dad, though, has managed to get his breath back.

“Luka T. Princeton!” he says hoarsely, looking both absolutely scandalized and absolutely soaked from the water that escaped his mouth and cup. “We do not say that word at the dinner table!”

“What word?” Luka asks, before a metaphorical lightbulb goes off. “Oh, ‘fuck’?”

“Don’t—!” his dad says, then goes “hrng” and looks to his wife for help. 

Luka’s mom, now face-down at the dinner table in stark contrast to her usually flawless manners, just smacks the table with a fist and laughs harder. The water in Luka’s cup ripples with it, which in itself is pretty funny, but his dad still looks so uncharacteristically thunderstruck that Luka is unsure whether to join in. Plus he pulled out the full name, so… 

Luka bites his lower lip, suddenly worried. Did he do something bad…?

“Where did you even hear that word?” Dad is massaging the bridge of his nose now in the way he only does when dealing with a tough client or a call that he doesn’t want Luka to overhear, and Luka finds he has to bite his lip even harder because it wants to wobble and he’s a big kid, he’s not going to cry.

“M-Mom said it the other day, when she cut her finger,” he admits, fiddling with his fork. Dad turns to her with such a look of betrayal, even as Mom tries to stifle her continuing giggles. “Um… is it bad?”

“Yes,” Dad says, just as Mom catches her breath and says, “Well, sort of.”

Luka’s parents glance at each other in surprised confusion, but Luka barely notices. He said a bad word… Does that mean he’s bad? Despite his best efforts, his vision starts to go blurry with tears as he stares down at the fork in his hands. He doesn’t want to be bad.

“I don’t think it’s that big a deal,” his mom says.

“I do,” replies his dad, sounding baffled. “I just assumed we were on the same page with this.”

Luka sniffs, trying desperately to hold it together, but he said a bad word — but he didn’t know — but does it matter if he didn’t know? He’s still bad, right? Hot tears start to trail down his cheeks and he sniffs again, harder and louder.

“Oh, Lu,” his dad says softly and crosses around the table to kneel by Luka’s seat. Luka wipes at his eyes fruitlessly as his mom reaches across and takes his smaller hand in hers. “I’m sorry, kiddo, I didn’t mean to get upset. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s okay,” his mom tells him, giving his hand a squeeze. “It’s alright, Luka. We’re not angry — it is a, ah, a ‘bad word,’ but you didn’t know. It’s alright, sweetheart.”

Once Luka starts crying, though, it always takes him an embarrassingly long time to stop. He can’t help it. His frustration about unwillingly acting like such a dumb little kid makes his tears come faster and harder; he has to scrub at his face for a while, his dad handing him tissues, and so he doesn’t pick up on the silent conversation happening over his head between his parents.

They are a matched set in so many ways. To Luka they seem to move in perfect tandem, one picking up the tasks of the other with seamless grace. It seems so natural, so unpracticed and easy, and indeed some of it is — but as Luka cries, they communicate in a series of small expressions each has long-studied in the other: We will talk about this when Luka goes to bed. And, Well I thought it was funny. And, Alright maybe it was but I still don’t want him swearing. And, We’ll discuss it. We’ll figure it out together. I love you.

Luka never realizes. He just assumes that perfect couples are never out of sync with each other — and if they are out of sync, then they must not be perfect.

***

“Fuck, Ven, she’s perfect,” Luka breathes.

He couldn't get close enough sitting in one of the chairs, so he had been leaning against his wife's hospital bed when Vanessa passed him their child — their child, their baby, theirs — and his knees went weak. Now he’s kneeling on the tile floor, barely aware of his surroundings because in his arms he holds a truly, beautifully perfect little baby girl.

She has… a nose. He couldn’t say whether it’s more like his or Vanessa’s because this perfect bundle of joy is a scrunched up little pink newborn so mostly she looks like a lot of wrinkles that a sleepy face got on, but fuck, he loves that little nose and everything attached to it. Honestly through the tears he can barely see her right now but she’s perfect, perfect, perfect… even if she is, objectively speaking, not actually that appealing to look at. “Shit, Ven. Ven. Look at her goddamn little face, fuck.”

Vanessa makes a sound and reaches for him, touching his hand. “You don’t like her face?”

“I fucking love her face,” he says hoarsely. “I love her so goddamn much, Ven, I don’t even know how to say it. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Good,” Vanessa says tiredly. Luka doesn’t want to put their daughter down for a second so he does his best to wipe his eyes on the shoulder of his shirt sleeve. He gets to his feet only to sink right onto the bed beside his wife. His perfect, wonderful wife who has given them the tiny creature he never wants to look away from. “You wanted to name her Harriet, didn’t you?”

It’s like there’s a thread pulling his gaze directly to their daughter but he resists it for long enough to look up at the radiant woman he loves. She’s watching him, eyes glittering. “Do you mean…?”

She gives him one of her luminous smiles, even exhausted as she clearly is. “If it’s what you want, my love.”

Luka’s heart leaps as he looks down at their daughter — at Harriet. “Harriet,” he whispers in wonder. “Little Harry.”

Vanessa’s grip on his arm briefly tightens. “No,” she says.

Luka can’t help the wet laugh that comes out of him, though he tries to keep it down for the sake of his exhausted wife. “No,” he agrees. “How about… Hattie? Little Hattie?”

Hattie sleeps on, a teeny tiny person wrapped up safe in Luka’s trembling arms. He’s probably going to get dehydrated from all this crying and his face already hurts from how hard he’s smiling but, fuck, he doesn’t care about that at all when their perfect daughter is right here. “Hm? Hattie? How’s that sound, princess?” And he presses a gentle, wet kiss to Harriet’s brow.

Luka doesn’t notice Vanessa’s stung shock. He doesn’t notice the shadow of fear, anger, and confusion that darkens her face as she looks between her husband and the daughter she’s given him. It will take him a long time to realize his assumptions about their mutual goals as a unit are different.

For now, he loves Vanessa with all his heart — and loves their little Hattie just as much, if not more.

***

“Fuck,” Luka hisses, jerking his hand out of the hot, soapy water to check his fingertip. Blood wells up from its soft pad, mixing and diluting in the dirty dishwater. “Fuck,” he sighs again, and turns the squeaky nozzle of his shitty sink to run clean water over it. What kind of a fucking fool leaves a sharp knife in the sink like that, anyway.

Obviously, he does. This god awful apartment is just his, after all — he’d run here as soon as he could manage to pull together both the separate funds and distance necessary to prevent Vanessa locating it. This place is safe: Vanessa has never been here, and as of today she never will. So it’s safe, that is, from her — not from Luka’s own inability to keep track of where the goddamn sharp objects are.

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself as the water rushing over his cut starts to run clean. “Shithead.”

It’s been a weird day — a weird week — shit, a weird few years, if Luka thinks about it. When Vanessa came into his life, she seemed to him so bright that nothing else was worth looking at. It took until their daughter — his daughter, now — for Luka to start looking into the darkness she brought as well. Then the divorce proceedings, custody battles, the restraining order — for so long it had seemed that the legal system would fail Luka and Harriet, that Vanessa’s long shadow would follow them wherever they went.

Until earlier this week, that is, when Vanessa used magic in the courtroom.

Things had happened quickly from there. The paperwork barring Vanessa in his and Hattie’s life was just signed and made official today; his copies are still set neatly on the junky, second-hand kitchen table until he figures out exactly where to put them. After so long, it’s finally over. He and Hattie are free.

The old pipes complain as he turns the water off. The cut isn’t too bad, but he probably ought to bandage it anyway. He wipes away the spilled water with a ratty towel, turning to —

“Ffffpffpffpfpfpflllffff,” says Hattie from right by Luka’s feet, which is also outside of her playpen.

“Fuck!” Luka yelps, leaping about a foot in the air. Hattie stops blowing air through her lips to smile up at him, totally angelic. Luka presses a hand to his chest, staring at his little girl. “Kiddo! You scared me! How did you—?”

He looks across the small, open floorplan into the den, where he’s set up several different brands and varieties of baby gates to keep Hattie out of the kitchen when he’s occupied with cooking or cleaning. Her many toys are left behind, the gates apparently untouched, but somehow she’s escaped them — again — to hug Luka’s leg and smile up at him.

He smiles back, of course — he couldn’t deny her anything. And even if it is a problem that his little girl can’t be contained anywhere, he feels a swell of pride at her continued and baffling ingenuity — as well as a slight prickling in his eyes because even with all her toys she always just seems to want to be close to him. “No one’s gonna keep you trapped anywhere, huh, sweetheart?” he asks, squatting down to ruffle her light brown waves.

“Fffpllfpllfff,” Hattie replies importantly, graciously accepting the affection.

“Ah, I see. Your jumping abilities are unmatched, are they?” Luka says in return. His daughter started moving early, her curiosity about the world apparently unable to be sated with just looking even when she was just a few months old. She has always wanted to touch, to crawl, to walk — just the other day Luka could swear he caught her trying to climb the couch. His little princess is unstoppable, and his pride in her every step has gotten him teary-eyed more than once (more than once this week, even).

“Fffflpllplflffff,” Hattie tells him, eyes bright. She smiles hugely in between blowing air through her lips. What she lacks in the ability to form words (she’s a little late, and Luka’s not worried, exactly, but he is watching that with hawk-like eyes) she makes up for in expression. She turns her big blue eyes to the hand Luka isn’t using to brush back her wavy locks, curious. “Fffllllllllflflplf?”

“Oh, your dad cut himself,” Luka explains, showing her the slim red line of blood beading up on the pad of his finger. “Pretty stupid, if you ask — oh, sweetie, don’t—!” She’s grabbed his finger in a little fist before he can stop her, smearing blood all over it. He quickly scoops her into his lap, frowning down at her messy hand. “Fuck. Alright, we’ll just—”

“Fffffffuck,” Hattie says clearly.

Luka blinks once. Twice. He looks down at his daughter, who is beaming up at him with clear pride.

“...what,” Luka says.

“Flffflpplf.”

“A-alright, okay, that’s — sorry, princess, your dad thought for a second there you said—”

“Pllllfffflllplflflfff. Fffuck!” Hattie says again. Then she claps her little hands together in delight, further spreading the blood between them.

“Ha,” says Luka, voice unusually high. “Hahaha I? You??? …Alright! Alright! This, ah, this is fine, kiddo, we’ll just—”

“Fuck! Ffplplffuck fuck fuck?”

Luka takes a deep breath. Then he takes another one.

When Harriet was first born, he’d made an effort to cut back on the swearing. He had the ability to turn it off, after all, in the courthouse and with clients, so presumably it should have been easy to transfer that back home, too. But changing the way he’s spoken for years in his own space turned out to be quite difficult; with the stress of the past few months, that effort had been one of the many things to fall by the wayside in favor of more immediate concerns.

So Luka has been swearing a lot lately. And his sweet Hattie has been quietly soaking it all up, patiently biding her time until she could attempt to communicate with her dad in his own language.

“Ffffuck?” Hattie asks, eyes concerned. She presses one dirty hand to Luka’s face, as though attempting to stem the flow of tears. “Fffpllppff?”

“Oh, princess, I’m sorry,” he tells her, rubbing his wet face on his shoulder to clear his eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have — I—” He sniffs, then exhales hard. “Alright. Daddy’s been saying some bad words lately, but he’s gonna stop now, okay?”

“Fuck!”

A part of Luka really, really wants to laugh, actually, because damn is Hattie cute with her big, sparkling eyes, her chubby cheeks uplifted with a smile, the absolute adoration on her face as she looks up at him for approval. The contrast between how sweet she looks in her bird-patterned onesie and the foul language coming out of her mouth is almost —

“Fuck?”

“Nope!” he says brightly. “We’re gonna try something different! Okay, kiddo?” Hattie tilts her head adorably and Luka’s chest squeezes — fuck he loves her. “Hmmm…”

She watches him silently as he thinks. In the dozens of parenting books he’s read there was never anything explicitly about what to do if a toddler started cursing (because no one else has this problem because only he is this bad a dad, holy shit), but he can recall a number of chapters about encouraging them in pronunciation…

He’ll need something that sounds like “fuck,” but definitely isn’t. He laces his fingers together, tilting his head at Hattie. She pats his hands, looking solemnly back. He sticks his tongue out at her; delighted, she does the same. What word to use?

He notices that her orange onesie has penguins on it. 

“Alright, kiddo, this is going to be a little silly,” he says, and goes, “fllpppplffffpeck.”

It might be easier to just let this go, to let Hattie say and do whatever she wants, and part of Luka is tempted. But he knows now how important it is to talk in a family, to put in the work to understand one another. This situation might be a minor instance of it, but he wants to make sure he and Hattie never have a problem talking to each other. He’s willing to put in the work, as much as it takes.

It takes an hour or so to convince her that “peck” is superior to “fuck.” The process is complicated by the continued desire to laugh every time she swears, but eventually they manage, and Hattie goes toddling off merrily chanting, “peck peck peck peck.”

Luka painfully hauls himself up (shit, his tailbone hurts) to finally finish doing the dishes in water that has long gone cold. This is a good start, he thinks, but he’ll need to watch his own language as well. Maybe he can encourage Hattie’s positive association with the word with a bird toy or something? He considers this as he reaches into the water to unplug the drain —

And jerks his hand back as the same finger grazes probably the same goddamn knife. “Fff—!”

“Peck!”

He glances over his shoulder. Hattie is painstakingly tugging at the baby gates, trying to get back into the playpen he knows she knows he prefers her to be in. Her eyes are solemn, watching him for what he’ll do.

“...peck,” he agrees weakly. She smiles brilliantly and goes back to her toddler work.

God, he fu— he pecking loves her.

[the-sympathetic-villain]

L’Appel Du Vide - Chapter 2

AO3 | First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

Description: Logan has been captured by a government agency who researches human with  supernatural powers. Able to manipulate the world with his mind and tell what others  are thinking, Logan finds himself in one of the most high security  government prisons in the country that's run by a sinister Dr. Emile  Picani.  After several long months of deprivation and torture at the hands of Dr  Picani, a devilish-looking man with scales on his face will break into the  prison looking for Logan's less than friendly bunkmate, but will he be  too late? Prompt by @LoganIsACoolTeacher on AO3

Endgame pairings: Lociet, Intruality, Prinxiety

Word Count: 3323

Chapter Warnings: Blood, Crying, Depression, Casual Suicidal ideation, Depriving someone of food, Captivity, Solitary confinement, Knife, Threats of violence, Swearing, Mentions of abuse/torture, Injuries, Panic Attack, Food (Let me know if need to add anything!)

---

    The first night, Logan screamed himself hoarse well into the middle of the night. His body ached with misery, as he yelled and pulled at his restraint. His wrist was bruised and he could feel a this stream of blood dripping from where the metal had cut into his skin but he kept fighting until his body collapsed with exhaustion and he was forced into a restless sleep.

    Agony burned in his chest as the long hours dragged by in absolute silence. Being alone was a rare experience for Logan and one he adamantly avoided. While the sound of the constant chattering of strangers thoughts would probably sound nightmarish to the average person, he'd grown accustomed to the comforting presence of others' thoughts. He was used to the white noise, and though he knew it was irrational, the sudden silence growing nearly painful with every hour that passed.

    The second night, the isolation started to dig its claws into the corners of his mind. The restraint on his wrist limited his movement to only a few feet around the bed and so far, he'd spent hours staring into the empty window on the far side of the room. Anger twisted in his stomach at the thought that he was likely being watched through the one-way reflective surface and he felt like screaming at his silent observers until his voice gave out, but the previous night’s experience had already proved that effort would be futile. Expending the energy would only make him hungrier.

    All he could do was wait.

    The third day, he'd woken to find the restraint on his wrist had been released while he'd slept. He blinked, unsure of what this new revelation meant for him. Rubbing his sore wrist, he sat up to scan the quiet room. The door remained closed, and likely locked, but somehow a container of water has found its way into the room. He stepped off the bed, glancing cautiously at the one-way mirror as he approached the glass jug sitting at the base of his door. He was aware of the danger. Tampering with his water supply would be a simple way to entrap him or drug him, but his thirst quickly overrode any hesitation he had. They were his only access to resources and he knew he'd have to give in eventually or risk simply dying of dehydration. Not to mention, quite frankly, if the people in this place decided to kill him, he had little recourse in stopping them. No amount of bargaining would change that fact that he was at their mercy.

    Next to the water, he found a fresh change of clothes. The sight of fresh white hospital-like clothing brought a bitter taste to his mouth as memories of the night before came rushing back. He hadn't seen a hint of another person since the doctor had left him, taking with him the only people who might be even remotely sympathetic to his situation. He brushed his thumb over the stiff fabric picturing the faces of the two other prisoners who'd been dressed in the same sterile uniform as he now held in his hand. Still, he changed his clothes, feeling a new level of numb as he changed in front of the window.

    Numbness had settled in fully by the fourth night. The hunger left him too weak to stay focused on anything for long. The water provided for him sustained his body in only the barest sense and he could feel his willpower draining away as he spent more time curled in his bed, mind blank as he succumbed to the silence. That night, a particularly sinister breed of depression had taken root in his mind, pushing him toward the precipice of giving up. Dark, self-destructive thoughts clouded his mind as finally drifted off to sleep, making his abrupt awakening all the more jarring as he opened his eyes to find a sharp blade pressed to his throat and a shadow with glowing purple eyes looming over him.

    “Move and I'll slit your throat.”

    Pure adrenaline flooded over Logan at the familiar voice. The man who'd nearly strangled him the first night straddled his chest, silhouetted against the dark room by the eerie red light. Logan swallowed, barely breathing as he as he pressed himself backward, tilted his head away from the blade.

    “You will answer my questions.”

    A whimper escaped Logan’s lips, but he forced a small nod, hardly daring to move under the delicate pressure of the sharp blade.

    “Why's Picani interested in you?”

    “I don't kn—”

    “Find a better answer.” The man's hiss sent chills down his spine as the knife moved up Logan’s neck. “The other night, you blew me back into the wall like a goddamn ragdoll. What’s was that?”

    Logan sucked in a shallow breath as he struggled to keep his weak body breathing. “Tele—telekinesis.”

    “Do not fuck with me right n—”

    “I’m not—” Logan breathed, closing his eyes. “I can move things with my mind—”

    The blade pressed against his throat with a preciseness just short of drawing blood. “If that were true, why haven’t you blasted me again?”

    “I—I don't control it. I never learned how.” Logan blinked, surprised as the blade released a touch of pressure. He blinked, staring up at blank expression on the man's face as he continued.

    “Picani’s guard said you'd feed on me.” The man growled his disbelief as he glared down at Logan. “Explain.”

    “I don’t know what he was—"

    “Not good enough.” The man's deep voice growled above him as the blade returned to his throat. "If you don't start talking, I'll—"

    “Please—” Logan whimpered as the sharp nicked his throat and a thin line of blood dripped down his neck.  “—It's not what you think.”

    “Then explain,” The man’s eyes flashed dangerously as he continued but the pressure of the blade eased slightly. “before I start to get impatient.”

    Logan swallowed, feeling a wet streak trail down his face. “Others’ thoughts—I hear them.”

    “Are you telling me you feed on my thoughts?”  

    “No—“ Logan whispered as tears flowed freely down his face. “Please, I don’t know how it works but I can’t—It doesn’t hurt anyone. I wouldn't hurt anyone. Please—”

    Logan clenched his eyes shut, stifling a terrified whimper as the blade moved up his neck. His heart pounded in his chest until the blade lifted slightly from his throat and a wet sob escaped his throat. He sucked in a breath as the man leaned back, knife still pointed in Logan's direction as he continued in a hushed tone.

    “Are you listening to my thoughts right now?”

    “N—no,” Logan breathed, avoiding the man's eyes. “I'm too weak. I can’t—I can’t do anything.”

    The man was quiet for a long moment, eyes glinting in the red light as he stared at Logan. “What'd he do to you?”

    “Who?”

    “Picani,” The man's voice softened slightly. “The doctor, I mean. What's he done to you?”

    “I—I’ve been kept alone and—” Logan bit his lip, uncertain about sharing the true depths of his weakness. “—and I haven’t eaten. Anything that fuels my power, he's taken it from me. I can't—I can't hurt you."

    The silence hung in the air for a long, tense moment before the man spoke again, knife still inches from Logan's throat.

    “Close your eyes.”

    A chill crept up Logan’s spine at the seriousness in the man's voice. “Please, don't—”

    “Don’t argue.”

    Logan swallowed the lump in his throat as the glisten of the blade pointed at him inches from his face. Stilled trembling and tense, he let his eyes flutter closed.

    “Move your hands where I can see them.”

    “I'm already blind—”

    “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

    “Fine.” Logan muttered as he rested his head back on the pillow, lifting his hands in apparent surrender. After a moment, he could feel the bed shift as the man climbed off the bed in absolute silence. Logan strained his ears, but he was unable to trace the man’s careful movements after he stepped onto the flow. He slowed his breathing and forced himself to remain still, unsure of how the man would react to even the smallest twitch.

    “If Picani finds out I have a knife because you rat me out, I will not hesitate to kill you with my bare hands.”

    Logan bit his lip, body shaking as he gave a stiff nod. “U-understood.”

    “Telling him won’t protect you.” The man continued gruffly. “It will only put me in danger.”

    “I won't tell him.” Logan swallowed. “You have my word.”

    “Your word doesn’t mean shit to me.”

    A bitter from twitched at the corner of Logan’s lip. “The man dropped you back in here in the middle of the night, while I was weak and defenseless, knowing full well that you'd already made one attempt on my life. I'm not so much of a fool to believe him my ally.”

    “Picani was hedging his bets that you'd appeal to my good will.”

    Logan let out a huff, dropping his head to his chest. “Well, it appears he made a miscalculation.”

    “Perhaps.” Virgil sighed quietly after a moment. “Or perhaps not. You can have this, but I want you to give me back the wrapper, so I can hide it later.”

    A small object struck Logan’s chest, causing him to flinch back with a sharp breath. His muscles tensed as his eyes cautiously fluttered open to reveal the ominous sight of the stranger’s eyes glinting at him through the darkness. Slowly, he sat upright, maintaining eye contact as he turned his head down to stare at the protein bar in his lap.

   “Don't make a mess.”

   Glancing cautiously up at the other man’s stiff form, Logan leaned forward to tear at the wrapper. He wasn’t sure what had brought about the sudden change of heart, but he wasn’t about to waste his first chance for food in three days. His hands shook as he attempted to tear into the difficult piece of plastic, growing  desperate as the man above him tensed.

   “Hey, be careful!” The man held up a hand, stopping as Logan flinched at his volume.  He paused, giving Logan a quick sympathetic look before edging closer. “Listen, hand it over for a second.”

   Logan hesitated, gripping the bar tightly as if his life depended on it.

   “Listen, dude. It's all yours, I swear.” The man whispered with a wary smile, holding up his friends as he dropped down on the side of the bed. His movements were slow, as if he was suddenly deliberately making an attempt to be non-threatening. “Just let me open it for you so you don’t make a mess. I don’t want to get backlash for helping you out. Okay?”

   “Okay.” Logan whispered after a moment of tense silence, keeping his head bowed from the man's gaze as the man took the bar from his hands. “Thank y—”

   “Don't thank me.” The man cut him off sternly. He made quick work of tearing the wrapper open before offering it back to Logan. “What's your name?”

   “Logan.”

   “Okay, Logan. Mine's Virgil.”

   The man whisper filled the air as he waited patiently for Logan to take the bar from the wrapper. Logan took a quick bite, watching the man in his periphery as he chewed the small offering of food slowly. His body ached for him to finish faster, but he didn't want to be caught off guard if the man suddenly changed his mind.

   “Listen, I'm sorry.” Virgil muttered as Logan took another bite. “I know I must have scared the shit out of you just now.”

   Logan blinked up in mild surprise at the man's change in tone, still wary of the man's anger as he swallowed his first bite.

   “You were being cautious.”

   “That doesn’t suddenly make any of this shit okay,” Virgil muttered as he crumpled the wrapper into his pocket and stared at his lap. “The way I reacted is straight fucked, but you got to know that Picani only keep his most dangerous subjects this deep into the labs. You're not the first piece of fresh meat Picani’s dropped in my bunk—And when I heard the guards talking about you feeding on me, I panicked.”

   “I assume the doctor has given you plenty of reason to be wary of newcomers.” Logan whispered, still slightly unnerved by the man's choice of words. “H-how long have you been here?”

   “Long enough that I stopped counting the days.”

   Virgil absently ran his fingers through his hair as Logan took in the sight of the man for the first time. His white attire seemed dirtier than before, especially next to the stark white color of Logan’s matching attire. Logan’s eyes tipped up to the man's face. Fresh bruises covered his face and arms and large pieces of gauze appeared to have been haphazardly applied to his head and around his elbows in a poor attempt at first aid for whatever injuries he sustained over the last few days.

   "W-where did they take y—”

   “Don’t ask.” Virgil interrupted abruptly, glancing at the fearful look in Logan’s eyes as he cut him off. He paused, briefly considering the harshness his words before looking up at Logan. “You'll find out soon enough and trust me, you'll wish you never found out.”

   “The doctor—He hurts you because of your powers.” Logan observed, curling his knees to his chest as Virgil’s dark gaze turned back to him. “Doesn't he?”

   Virgil blinked up at him. "How did you—"

   "I saw you starting to turn invisible before the doctor walked in on us." Logan bit his lip, looking shyly at his lap. "Just after I blew you back into the wall."

   "Huh, well, its not invisibility." Virgil huffed, dropping his shoulders as he pointed up at the red lights. "I can manipulate light. It's the reason for all of those."

   "What?" Logan furrowed his brow, glancing at the strange lights.

   "I can't shift red light as easily as the rest of the spectrum." Virgil muttered bitterly. "They put these in here to make sure that Picani always knows where I'm at."

   "And he hurts you because of these abilities?"

   "He runs tests." Virgil blinked, looking up a the fear Logan was barely concealing behind his eyes. “Picani’s a bastard and this—” Virgil muttered, looking disgusted as he stared at his bandages before glancing over at Logan. “—is nothing. He's done much worse to me when he gets worked up. He says its about figuring out how I do it, but if you ask me, he just gets off on hearing me scream.”

   Logan's skin tingled with fear and he could feel tears growing in his eyes as he swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. “I felt like that might be the case.”

   “He owns us. We’re not even people to him.” Virgil’s words fel from his lips absently as he rambled. “And when Picani gets a new subject, he's miserable. He a whole new level of sadism and miser—Shit.”

   Virgil paused as Logan sucked in a sharp breath, shaking from the overwhelming series of events from the last few nights.

   “Hey, don't panic.” Virgil jolted upright, turning to rest his hands on Logan’s shoulders. “Wait—No, no, just breathe with me. Don't panic.”

   Logan sucked in a ragged breath as Virgil rested a hand on his chest, applying a gentle pressure to help ground him. His throat ached as he tried to suppress another sob and Virgil curled an arm around his shoulder.

   “You are going to get through this, Logan.” Virgil hushed him urgently. “God. I'll help you but you need to stop. You can't lose it now.”

   “I—I’m sorry.” Logan felt himself tugging on his hair as he whispered between ragged breaths. " I'm s-s-sorr—"

   “It's okay.” Virgil whispered insistently, tightening his grip on Logan’s shoulders. “You're going to be okay. Just get your breathing under control.”

   Logan nodded, body aching as he suppressed the overwhelming panic seizing his muscles. Slowly, through Virgil’s gentle touches and kind words his breathing returned to normal and his muscles started to relax.

   “There you go.” Virgil let out a sigh, leaning back. "You did okay."

   “I'm sorry.” Logan whispered between pained breaths. “I'm being irrational—”

   “Don’t do that to yourself. Your reaction is the only thing that makes sense in this godforsaken place,” Virgil’s eyes tipped sympathetically towards Logan in the dark, flashing with the knowledge of their grim reality. “but you can’t afford to be emotional here. You'll get hurt if you do this around the wrong people.”

   Logan paused, feeling his breathing slow a bit at the kind look in Virgil’s glowing purple eyes. “Thank you for your help.”

   “I mean it. You can't react like that with the doctor.” Virgil whispered, roughly wiping away the streaks of tears off his cheeks. “The doctor will exploit every fear you show him. You have to be stronger than him.”

   “O-okay.” Logan whispered, still trembling as Virgil talked him through his panic.

   “Find a place in your head that you can disappear to when you’re in his hands.” Virgil stated with a pitiful smile as he stared at Logan’s distant stare. “Whatever you do, don’t show him what you’re feeling.”

   “I will—um, thank you for the advice.”

   “It's nothing.” Virgil muttered quietly. “Consider it an apology for waking you up with a shiv to you throat. Alright?”

   Logan sucked on his lip, curling his knees to his chest. “It's fine. I realize now why you acted in such a manner.”

   "It's not fine, but whatever." Virgil shrugged as his lip twitched with guilt. “but either way, you look like shit and I think you should get some rest.”

   “I'm not sure if I’ll be able to sleep at this point.”

   “You need to try. You need whatever energy you can get to get through tomorrow.”

   Logan blinked up at the serious tone in Virgil’s voice as he slid up on the bed and faced the door.

   “I'll keep an eye out and wake you before Picani and his goons show up. Okay?”

   “S-sure.” Logan whispered, chilled by the seriousness in Virgil’s voice.

   “You can trust me on this, Logan.” Virgil paused raising an eyebrow at Logan. “There’s not much I can do to protect you, but at the very least, I won’t let Picani catch you by surprise.”

   Logan let out a breath as Virgil patted the bed next to him. Stiffly, Logan slid over to him and slipped underneath the thin blanket. Uneasily, he rested down on the pillow next to where the Virgil perched, staring at the door. “Thank you, Virgl. I—I know you don't have to help me.”

   “I want to.” Virgil muttered under his breath almost to himself. His voice was so quiet Logan nearly didn’t catch the end of his statement. “I never meant for anybody to get hurt.”

   Logan blinked, considering Virgil’s words as a deep exhaustion crept over him. He leaned his head back on the pillow, staring up at the distant look in Virgil’s eyes as he stared at the closed door of their cell. He sighed. Falling asleep next to the stranger who'd had a knife to his throat only minutes seemed like an impossible feat but only a few short minutes had passed before the exhaustion began to outweigh his anxiety. He could feel his eyelids dropping even as his heart fluttered with fear of the man next to him. This had to be a mistake and Logan was well aware of that fact. Yet, as his mind drifted off to sleep, he found himself easing to sleep with the madman with the knife next to him anyway.

---

Author’s Note: That’s it for now, but hopefully it won’t be too much longer before we get to here more about these poor boys. Thanks for reading, and again, if you want to be on the taglist, all you have to do is let me know!

General Taglist:

@justanotherhumanstuff @im-an-anxious-wreck @shadowyplaidpurseegg

[whump-town]

The Unexplainable

This has been sitting in as a WIP for so long and I’m tired of looking at it so here’s something but it’s not much

Mortch-- and lots of hurt

The first time that Derek Morgan sees it happen is about the third time it’s happened overall. It’s an awful thing to watch happen to someone he loves so dearly but there’s absolutely no warning it’s happening. He’s forced to watch Aaron’s concerned furrowed eyebrows fall and his soft brown eyes roll back into his head. His nose still gushing like a slashed artery and his trembling left hand covered in dark crimson. Derek can’t even hear his own scream but he can feel it claw its way up his throat. He falls to his knees before Aaron, pulling the seizing man onto his side, watching him choke and sputter for three agonizing minutes.

Aaron doesn’t wake up until he’s settled in the hospital. The EKG above his head measuring out his steady heartbeat but his body is so weak it doesn’t even feel attached to him. Morgan’s grip on his hand is vice-like and before he can help it a groan leaves his dry lips and Morgan lets go. His brain can’t form words so all he can do is part his dry lips and whimper softly from the pain. He’s cold and he can’t move his legs and he doesn’t want to be here blanketed in wires and thin scratchy blankets.

“Shh.” Morgan brushes tears from Aaron’s eyes, his lower lip trembling as he forces himself to smile. They release him within the day with specific instructions for Morgan to watch him carefully. Despite the importance, they place on this, despite how scared Morgan is they go home. Aaron’s electroencephalogram comes back normal given the circumstances and with normal brain activity now and with him growing more distressed with being in the hospital each passing hour they decide it’s better he just goes home.

No matter how many blankets Derek pulls around his shoulders, his teeth chatter and there’s a vacancy to Aaron’s eyes he just can’t handle. Derek keeps Jack at a distance, telling the boy Hotch is just sleeping, that he’s just tired. It’s easy to buy, Hotch is always tired, and Jack spends an hour tucked up against his father’s side. Face buried in Aaron’s side until Derek calls him in for dinner and Derek can see the fear, how little Jack truly trusts him. But it’s not him, it’s-- It’s the number of times Jack has been told that particular lie. “Daddy’s fine, Jack. He’s just tired.”

He finds himself with a shadow, Jack not straying too much further than arms reach. He wedges himself between wherever Derek is and someplace else he can see Aaron. Derek reads him his bedtime story and promises that Aaron will be feeling better tomorrow and things will be back together. Even if he doesn’t know if that’s true or if Jack even believes him but he says it because he needs to hear and because he hopes Jack might forgive him for not knowing if that was true.

He comes out of Jack’s room, later than normal. Jack cries himself to sleep and Morgan can’t figure out what he’s supposed to say, how to stop it, and wants to ask Aaron how he does this. He wants to ask him intrusively deep questions in the dark of their bedroom where he won’t see Aaron’s reactions. Instead, he walks into their room and finds Aaron exactly where he left him.

So Morgan crawls into bed beside him, tucking himself against Aaron’s side. Pressing his face into Aaron’s cold collarbone and closing his eyes, his day clothes still on. “Why can’t anything be simple with you?” Derek asks. He falls asleep but it’s light, with no true rest. He wakes with each bump, each caught breath, and every jerk of his muscles.

The next day Aaron has no memory of what happened just that he was standing in the kitchen when his head started to hurt and then nothing, he’s waking up in their bed. The shock of it stings and Derek wishes he could forget.

The doctors can’t pinpoint anything specific. Aaron’s anemic but he’s always a little anemic, it’s never caused seizures before. So, they assume it’s a once and done sort of thing.

The second time saves him the exhaustion of the seizure but Derek will never forget the impact of the ice-cold hole that hits his stomach at the sound of Aaron’s body hitting the ground. He’s in the shower, having just walked away from Derek’s too curious hands trying to worm their way down his pants. They’d separated with a kiss and an aroused shiver down Aaron’s back as Derek got exactly what he wanted, to get him hot and bothered. But Aaron’s self-control is annoyingly strong and they have things to do and Aaron isn’t rearranging their carefully constructed schedule for some fooling around.

Derek rolls over to Aaron’s half of the bed, seeping heavily into the warmth left behind by Aaron’s body. His heated blanket still tangled with their comforter. Aaron can’t go anywhere without that thing and Derek has accepted that if there is a fire his safety comes second to the blanket. He doesn’t understand the damn appeal of his ragged old thing but Aaron’s weird and he accepted, long ago, that there is just no way to fully understand the man.

He’s floating, only half-conscious of the world around him when Aaron falls. It’s loud, he brings bottles of things down with him but more concerning than spilled shampoo is the crack-- the distinctly painful sound of a body hitting the tub’s unforgiving floor. Then silence.

Derek throws the bathroom door open, not giving Aaron’s sacred privacy any thought. Aaron is there, on the cold tub floor sputtering and coughing up blood and water as quickly as it pours from his nose and from the showerhead into his mouth. He’s shaking, eyes dopily blinking in his confusion.

Not minding the harsh spray coming down over them, fortunate to escape the entrapping feeling of soaked clothes against his back, Derek bend over the side. He’s in his boxers, the only clothing he bothers to sleep with. “Aaron.” He cups the back of the other man’s neck, moving him from the direct spray of the water. With a cough, Aaron turns his face into Morgan. Sitting up and turning towards where Morgan doesn’t hesitate to draw him close. “Dammit,” Morgan runs his hand under Aaron’s nose. Trying and failing to wipe his face of the thickly falling blood. “Your nose is bleeding again. Did you get lightheaded? What happened?”

Leaning his head into Morgan’s shoulder, Hotch shrugs. He’s naked and cold and sitting on the floor of the tub. His hip is throbbing and his fingers are tingling painfully from where he hit his elbow coming down. There is the memory of sticking his face into the spray, drawing back, and seeing only the light trails of blood coming off of him. He can’t even remember bringing his hand to the source.

“Ok,” Derek sighs in-defeat. If Aaron knows, Derek can wrangle it out of him later but for right now he just needs to get him out of the tub. Easier said than done but they power through. Derek stopping every time Aaron can’t bite back a grunt of pain, shaking in Derek’s arms as he manages to get his feet underneath him.

“Sit.”

Aaron shakes his head, arms wrapped around his chest as he shivers. He’s shaking so hard he’s jerking, nearly taking himself off his feet. “Can’t,” he rasps, “ ‘m wet.” Derek grabs him by a hip and a shoulder, not pushing more moving his body down anyways. Aaron groans as the sheets get wet, as they stick to his skin. “Gonna have to wash these again,” Aaron mumbles.

Too tired to argue much farther, Aaron leans back into the pillows, closes his eyes. Derek takes his hand after a moment, rubbing his thumb across Aaron’s cold skin.

Derek is blinking quickly to keep his tears from falling. It’s not a matter of shame he just doesn’t want to upset Aaron more than he already is. Aaron knows that he’s upset. “Please don’t cry,” he whispers, rubbing at Morgan’s hand. “I’m okay. I promise.” Aaron tries to be more attentive than he really feels. Sitting up even though it makes him nauseous and watching and talking with Derek as he gets dressed.

Derek still has to go and do what they were planning on doing, he’s just got to do it by himself.

“I’ll bring you ice cream,” Derek promises softly. He lingers just a moment longer, palm on Aaron’s cheek. He moves to speak several times but none of what he needs to say can force its way up. How do you express such tremendous fear in losing someone while communicating the outrage that boils at the base of your sternum at the very thought of the realization that you know they’re lying to protect you? Because he doesn’t have those words anymore. He can’t look at Aaron and feel the pain of fury. He only sees tired smile lines on Aaron’s face and the ache of where those stronger emotions should be is nothing. “Call if you feel anything. Anything, Aaron. I mean it.”

Aaron nods, eyes falling to the comforter. He hates feeling weak and he hates worrying Derek even more.

“Just rest,” Derek sighs, seeing the tension rolling off Aaron in thick waves. They can deal with that later. “Call me and if you don’t--” it takes him a moment to think of a proper threat to issue out. “Well, if you don’t I’m sending the team over to get you. I’m sure you don’t want them to see you in your full glory.”

Aaron narrows his eyes, “you wouldn’t.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, “test me. I dare you.”

“I’ll call.” he promises. 

Derek doesn’t believe him, not for a moment. “Okay.” He knows there has to be more that Aaron isn’t telling him. Though he isn’t sure what it is and if he’s wrong then he’s poking something far more serious. He’s just worried and it’s complicated with Aaron (good God everything with Aaron always is). He loves him though, and for some stupid reason he really loves Aaron’s stubborn ass. Even if right now he wants to kick him.

“Hey, get Jack some more cereal?” 

Morgan pulls a hoodie over his shirt, nodding. “Same thing as last time or is he over the frosted flakes?” 

Hotch shrugs, “I never know. Just get something that looks good.” Either way, Derek will end up eating it too and then they’ll both make fun of his oatmeal but beg him for a piece of the fruit off the top. 

“Okay,” Derek bends down and kisses the top of his head. “Be back in a few hours. Read one of your books, watch a movie, but stay out of paperwork.” Hotch tries to open his mouth but Derek just shakes his head. “I don’t even want to hear it. Please Aaron, just stay in bed. Relax.”

Relax isn’t even in Aaron’s vocabulary. 

“I will.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Derek rolls his eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

[tessiete]

This was for the prompt from @treescape who asked what would happen if Obi-Wan had taken Korkie back with him from Mandalore after Satine's death. I said, "Well, at the very least it would force him and Anakin to talk to each other, and maybe stop the whole Fall of the Republic from happening."

And she said, "They won't talk."

And I said, "I'LL SHOW YOU!"

But then, she was right.

I tried. THE PUNISHMENT OF SILENCE

She throws him on a ship, and says “This one’s yours,” and they’re already away by the time he comprehends she meant the pilot on board with him. 

He’s pale to the point of imagination, and trembling - a reflection of how Obi-Wan imagines he himself must look, bloodless and haunted. His eyes seem hollowed out from the shadows between stars, his hair lank and lifeless, his mouth a jagged streak of blood cut straight across his face as though his jaw has been neatly bisected, his tongue cut out, and silence fills the space between them.

But he steps away from the controls at Obi-Wan’s approach.

He says nothing to the boy as he staggers to the pilot’s seat, and straps himself in. He hears the sounds of violent retching being pulled, and pulled, and then replaced with shattered breathing, and he spares him a glance to shout, “Do you know how to man the cannons on this ship?”

The boy lifts his head. His hair has tumbled out of its militant lines to hang over his eyes like some wild thing hunted. 

“The cannons,” Obi-Wan repeats. “Can you use them?”

The boy nods.

“Then do so,” Obi-Wan says.

He turns his attention back to the front. They are approaching the edge of the atmosphere, but are still trailing the most dedicated of their enemy’s pilots behind them. He feints left, then swings back to the right, trying to shake their aim as his companion slides into the gunner’s seat, and places his hands on the controls.

A strange look falls over his face then - something cool, and placid - and Obi-Wan too feels himself steady. He ceases to think of the sweat trickling down his brow, or the ache between his shoulders, or the pounding of his heart. Instead, he is flying. They are buoyed by the wind, then freed of atmospheric friction, and at last, with a contemptuous spit of the cannons, loosed from their pursuers and the strangling grip of Mandalore.

Without thought, Obi-Wan primes the hyperdrive, sets a course for Coruscant, and presses them into the stars. The ship resists for a moment, unwilling to let go of the planet, but soon gives in, and they are thrown into the cosmic whirlpool of hyperspace where time and place fall silent. 

And Obi-Wan can think.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“It’s Korkie. I’m Korkie,” the boy gasps, his hands falling away from the console and his calm with it. “Kiorkicek Kryze. My mother - my aunt…”

He shakes his head, his mouth still open but his voice has broken into absence.

“Your mother?” Obi-Wan says. “Bo-Katan? She wanted you off the planet -”

But Korkie shakes his head harder. He swallows. He swallows again, still gaping. 

“My mother - she died. I saw - I tried to save her. I tried to help - she said you’d help her.”

He feels a creeping numbness spreading from his joints, like muscles stiffening in the wake of a blaster’s stun.

“Satine,” he says, knowing and yet unsure. “Satine is your mother.”

“Yes,” Korkie says. “We were going to leave together. She said - we’d leave together when you came.”

“Your father -?”

“No.” It falls from him like a single tear, stifled before the onslaught of grief.

This one’s yours, she’d said.

“No,” whispers Obi-Wan in kind.

And then Korkie is crying, desperate, greedy torrents of grief that stutter out between his teeth like laughter. He presses a hand to his mouth, and wraps an arm about his middle to barricade the doors, but they are flung open, and the vacuum of his heart is filled by loud, rushing sobs. 

Obi-Wan barely hears him, caught instead listening to the voices of the past. Bo-Katan’s. Satine’s. Qui-Gon’s. He unbuckles the straps from his waist, and his shoulders, and slips from his seat to stand. 

“I...I need to change,” he says. “You should get some rest. We’ll hit planetfall in about six hours.”

This ship is unfamiliar, but equally unimaginative in its design, and so he stumbles to the fresher without effort. The room is warm, but there is no comfort in sonics the way there is in a shower. There is no rhythm of water beating out its rage upon your skin, at first soothing, then numb, then painful in its insistence. There is no cleansing fall of rain, no slick of wet across your skin, no satisfying whirlpool of dirt and grit spinning out of sight down the drain. Instead, the detritus of battle falls from your body, settling like the dust of memory upon the floor.

He steps out of the fresher, and feels no different.

The cockpit is abandoned when he returns, and the galley too, and he thinks perhaps, somehow, he is alone again in space.

He presses his hand against the door to the officer’s quarters, and it slides open with a gust of wind. Inside, curled atop the coarse coverlet of an unforgiving bunk, Korkie Kryze lies asleep. His hands are tucked beneath his arms, and his knees drawn up as if he’s cold, but he does not shiver. He barely breathes. In his stillness, Obi-Wan studies him.

There is familiarity in his expression, his brow furrowed, plagued by worry even in dreams, his hair swept across his forehead. The slope of his nose. The bow of his lips, though the bottom one is red and raw as though he habitually frets at it. There is a deep, purple bloom around the orbit of his left eye, and the cracked seal of broken skin like the stain of a fist upon his cheek. Obi-Wan touches his own cheek, as though the blow might be reflected there as well, but it is smooth. His own injuries lie elsewhere.

For a moment, he debates waking the boy, debates ordering him to wash and dress, but he can’t think of seeing her again, or himself, or whichever ghost might be looking back at him from behind those eyes. So instead, he unfolds the spare blanket at the end of the bed, provided to compensate for the chill of deep space, and lays it gently atop the sleeping form.

He spends the rest of the trip in the cockpit staring out at the stars, and thinking of absolutely nothing at all.

They land on Coruscant in the middle of a beautiful day, and Anakin is there to meet him. 

“Another Council sanctioned secret?” he spits, as Obi-Wan stumbles down the ramp. “Another noble cause? What have you done with my ship?”

“I’m sorry,” says Obi-Wan, as Ahsoka shoulders her master aside to wrap Obi-Wan in a fierce embrace.

“We were worried,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

She pulls away, or he does, and her eyes catch on movement behind him.

“Korkie?” Her voice rises with surprise.

The boy still wears the grey uniform of his insurgency, though it is bloodied and torn, and he hangs over himself with his arms clasped around his middle as though to keep from spilling across the docks. He looks up at Ahsoka’s call, and blinks in the light of the day.

She leaves Obi-Wan, and he falters as she goes, moving to catch Korkie as he falls apart in her arms.

“You went to Mandalore?” Anakin asks, his voice threaded with outrage at this hypocrisy.

“I had to,” Obi-Wan says. “I had to.”

“Where’s Satine?” demands Ahsoka, from a distance. “Where’s his aunt?”

“Dead.”

Ahsoka is the first to recover.

“We should take him to the Halls, master,” she says, appealing to an Anakin still frozen in scrutinizing his own master. “I think his arm is broken, and his eye -” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and Obi-Wan feels the focus levelled upon him strain and snap like an elastroband. “Let’s do that.”

They move slowly, up the steps, through the hangar, and past the minor customs and hazard authorities, and through the grand hallways of the Temple. Ahoska keeps her arm around Korkie’s waist, and lets him lean upon her, limping with exhaustion. Beside him, Obi-Wan can feel Anakin hovering close, but not touching, as though one or both of them might shatter with contact. He doesn’t reach out, and he is unaware of anything else until they come to the Halls of Healing and are ushered inside.

Then it is all confusion.

Korkie is pulled away from Ahsoka with a small cry as his arm is jostled, and probing fingers are pressed to his cheek. He grips Ahsoka’s hand in his own, and holds on as she tells the healers the little bit she has managed to glean since their arrival. The healers, unsatisfied, ask question after question about Mandalore, about his injuries, about the time since their occurence. They ask what hurts, and where, and how they happened. They ask if this was a fist, or a stick, or the back of a blade. They ask if he fell, or was pushed. They ask if there’s anything else, anything more, anything he’s hiding from them.

And Bant is there, too.

He can tell by the faint scent of deep sea salt, and the coolness of her hands upon his skin as she turns his face from the chaos of Korkie’s arrival to focus on her, and her alone.

“What about you?” she asks. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt,” he mutters, the words habitual though no sound comes to fill them with weight.

She shines a light in his eyes, and he winces, turning away.

“A concussion,” she says. “At least. And what else?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine. What about -?”

“He’s being taken care of,” she replies. “Now, let us do the same for you.”

The little light goes back in her pocket, and she takes him by the hand like a child. He goes with her, willingly, casting only one look back to find Anakin, watching him as always, as he is led away.

__

The room she takes him to is small, and white, and the door shuts behind her keeping back the world with it. She guides him to sit upon a little bed that reminds him of the one he once had in Qui-Gon’s quarters, but when she puts her hands on his shoulders to lay him flat, he gasps, and resists.

“No,” he says. “No, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she says, her voice calm. “That’s okay, you don’t have to lie down. Just look at me, okay? And we’re going to figure this out. Yes?”

He nods. He trusts Bant. “Yes.”

“Now, we know about the concussion. Can you tell me if you were hit, or struck by anything?”

“I fell out of a ship,” he says, and to her credit, Bant doesn’t even pause between this question and the next.

“Were you alone?”

“No. I was with Satine. We were shot down. The ship fell, and we had to evacuate.”

The way he says it, the way he looks in this moment...Bant remembers how it was when he first came home from Mandalore, and she pulls a stool close to sit as near him as possible.

“Where is Satine now?”

He inhales sharply, the breath catching on his teeth, and tears still trapped deep in his chest.

“Do you know, I think I’m rather tired? I’d like to return to my quarters, now.”

“Obi-Wan -”

“I’d like to return to my room.”

“I know,” says Bant, taking his hand in hers. “I’m just going to give you a quick check over to make sure you’re not bleeding out anywhere, right? We know that’s very much a possibility with you, don’t we?” She smiles, trying to nudge him into something safe and familiar.

Very briefly, he smiles back, and relents. “Alright.”

“So,” she continues, pulling a holochart from a nearby drawer. “When you fell out of the ship, how did you land?”

“Badly.”

“Like how?”

“I hit my shoulder. I rolled. I tried to protect -”

But Bant cuts him off before he is strangled by memory.

“Okay, your shoulder, your ribs. How do your hips feel?”

“Fine,” he says. “I could walk after. I could run.”

“Your arms?”

“I don’t know.”

She sets her chart and stylus aside. “Can I see?” she asks.

He shrugs, but makes no objection when she reaches for the thick layer of a Mandalorian flight shirt that shrouds his torso. She lifts from the hem, and pulls the fabric upwards. His arms ache as they are drawn above his shoulders, and the high neck of the collar squeezes some colour back into his cheeks. He flinches in the chill of the room, and Bant apologises, pulling a pale green blanket across his back.

She frowns as she examines the markings upon his skin.

“Obi-Wan, that must’ve been some fall.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She doesn’t acknowledge this as she prods at him with impossibly soft, webbed fingers, frowning and tutting at each wince and grimace she elicits from him. 

“You’ve got some broken ribs,” she announces. “Some deep bruising. Let me see your hands.”

He gives her his left, and then his right when the first passes inspection. The second is not so lucky.

“This your saber hand?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve two broken fingers here,” she says. “Do you remember that happening?”

“No.”

“And bruising. Like a boot. Did someone step on your hand?”

“I don’t know.”

She taps the end of each, and he tries not to cry out, suddenly aware of the pain flaring there.

“The good news is, you’ve not lost any feeling,” she says. “The bad news is, you’re going to need a dip. I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan.”

“I don’t want bacta.”

“I know, but that concussion alone needs more sustained treatment if you don’t want to end up with some significant issues. And your hand…”

“I’m fine,” he says, pulling his hand away to hide it in the folds of the blanket. “You said I could go back to my rooms.”

“You know I didn’t,” she says. She knows him. She knows this dance, even if the steps are heavier and more fatigued than normal. She does not rise to his bait. She waits him out.

At last, his shoulders heave and droop, and he gives in. 

“Where’s Anakin?” he asks.

“Probably outside, half hysterical with worry by now,” she says.

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Where’s Korkie?”

“Who’s that?”

“The boy who came with me. He’s Satine’s - he’s Satine’s…”

She hesitates, not wanting to guess, but by his struggle she thinks the answer can only be one thing.

“Her son?”

He nods, a wordless gasp of distress breaking free of him. She wants to lean forward, to embrace him, but he’s still so distant that she knows he would not let her. So instead, Bant puts her hand upon his head, and strokes his hair over and over again from his crown to the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t know she’d found someone else.”

But that’s not it. He shakes his head vehemently, as he clutches the blanket closer, and grits out a reply which Bant could not have anticipated no matter how many years of friendship lay between them.

“She didn’t,” he says. “He’s mine.”

And with that confession tumbling free, so too, comes grief, like huge rolling waves pulling him under, and spinning him upwards until he is disoriented and gasping for air. She doesn’t wait, now, instead reaching out to gather him in her arms, giving him something to hold onto, as the tides of anguish rise and rise, and eventually fall, and him with them, into a deep, exhausted sleep.

She eases him back onto the pallet, pulling the cover high, and dims the lights. 

In Admittance, she inputs her data into the medcomp, and makes a recommendation for immediate bacta immersion. Her face is somber, and stoic, showing nothing of what she feels or thinks of this turn of events. She doesn’t quite know, herself, in any case.

Anakin is waiting, his elbows braced upon his knees, one leg bouncing, standing out like a bruise against the ceramplast white of the hall.

“Where’s Obi-Wan?” he demands, rising to meet her as soon as she steps away from the monitor.

“Asleep,” she says. “We’re waiting on a dip. Where’s Korkie?”

“Ahsoka’s with him,” he says. “Did he tell you about the Duchess?”

“He did.��

Anakin nods. She watches as his jaw clenches, and the muscles there leap as he chews up the marrow of his thoughts.

“Kriffing idiot,” he spits. “I would have gone with him, if he’d asked.”

“Does he know that?”

“He should,” Anakin insists. “But he doesn’t trust me.”

“He doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, great job,” Anakin says, a bark of laughter punctuating his words. It rings through the vaulted ceilings of the hall, a clarion of upset. “Now he’s hurt, and his girlfriend is dead.”

“Anakin!”

But Anakin’s outrage is mounting, and gathering like an Alderaanian storm falling off the mountains.

“Oh, don’t defend him,” he says. “Don’t pretend this isn’t on him, because it is. Just like the Hardeen thing. It was his choice to go alone. It was his choice to turn his back on us. It was his choice to leave me behind. I don’t feel sorry for him, Master Eerin. I don’t. He’s done this himself.”

Bant stares at him. She says nothing. She only waits until the impact of his words rebound from the blank slate of her response and fall back on him. She waits for him to hear himself, and she knows he does when his mechanical hand forms a fist, and his shoulders turn him acutely away from her gaze. Anakin sighs, his voice turning soft, his words clipped short.

“Just comm me when he’s out of bacta,” he says. He stalks out of the Halls without a backward glance.

Bant sighs, her guard dropping just in time for her to hear the soft click of another door closing from behind her. She turns with an admonition on her lips. If Obi-Wan has roused himself to chase after his padawan, he’ll have no help from her.

But instead, it is Anakin’s padawan she meets.

“Master Eerin?” she calls, slipping out of the room behind her. “Did Anakin talk to you about Obi-Wan?”

Bant frowns, then turns a rueful eye on Ahsoka, a smile twisting at her lips.

“In a manner of speaking,” she says.

“Oh,” says Ahsoka. “He’s still mad about the Rako Hardeen incident.”

“So I gathered,” says Bant. She flicks through pages of data on her holochart, idly reminding herself of the litany of abuse Obi-Wan had come to her with following that particular debacle so recently ago. 

Ahsoka watches her intently, her head cocked. She runs her hands nervously over a lekku before she speaks again. “Aren’t you still mad?” she asks.

“No,” says Bant, looking at her again, and seeing only youth where the Republic sees a Commander. 

“Why not?”

“A healer learns only to be grateful when someone comes back from death,” she says. “It doesn’t happen often enough to grow bitter for it.”

Ahsoka nods, and frowns again. It is clear that there is more she’d say, and more she’s considered in the weeks following Obi-Wan’s undercover mission. Things that she cannot say to her master, who is still angry, or to Obi-Wan who is still too lost to guide anyone with authority. So Bant sets her chart aside, and sits against the wall, gesturing for Ahsoka to join her.

“I wish they’d talk,” she says, as she drops into the seat next to Bant. “I mean, they do talk. We had that whole mission to Onderon, and everything was fine. I mean, mostly. But then...why wouldn’t Master Obi-Wan have come to us?”

“I don’t know, Ahsoka,” says Bant. “But I do know it was never meant as a slight against you. Whatever is between Obi-Wan and your master has nothing to do with how Obi-Wan feels about you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve known Obi-Wan since the creche, and I can tell you: he’s always been like this.”

Ahsoka is silent for a moment, considering this, but before her contemplation can slide into brooding, Bant intervenes, tapping her forearm with the stylus to draw her back to the present.

“What about that young man you carried in here? Korkie, was it?”

“Yeah,” she says. “He’s the Duchess’ nephew. We worked together the last time I was on Mandalore. The Prime Minister was establishing a black market, and he helped catch him.”

“By yourselves?” she asks, caught somewhere between surprise and a familiar chagrin.

“Well, with friends,” she says. “And his Aunt.”

“Sounds like a good kid,” says Bant, then laughs at Ahsoka’s grimace of distaste. “Tell me about him.”

“Oh, I don’t know him that well,” she replies. “He was really interested in the Jedi when we met, though. Kept asking about the Temple, and lightsabers, and Jedi philosophy. He’d mentioned something about Master Seva once, but I don’t remember enough about the Old Age philosophers to know what he meant.”

“I suppose philosophy and literature classes have somewhat fallen by the wayside in the past couple years,” Bant says. 

“I guess,” says Ahsoka. “But I don’t think I’d have time to write essays while in the middle of a dogfight, you know?”

“Tell me,” she says, pushing just a little further than is probably wise. “Did Korkie ever mention anything about his father?”

“No,” says Ahsoka. “Just that the Duchess was like a mother to him. That she raised him, and he grew up mostly in the palace. I assume he’s an orphan. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Or maybe it’s too painful to talk about. I didn’t ask.”

“No, no,” Bant assures her, patting her hand fondly. “Of course not. Do you think he’d mind if I went in to visit him?”

“Korkie? He was asleep when I left.”

“That’s for the best. I just want to give him a quick check up. Make sure nothing was missed. You’d better go after your master - make sure he doesn’t blow up something we can’t replace.”

Ahsoka smiles at that, and springs to her feet eager to be directed towards some useful task.

“You mean himself,” she says. “Anything else he could probably fix.”

“Or improve.”

“Or that!” Ahsoka agrees, laughing now. She gives Bant a quick bow, then exits the hall with a quick, and sturdy step while Bant slips silently into the room at her back.

It’s quiet inside, the air is warm, and it may as well be the same room she’d vacated earlier for all the similarity of the figure on the bed. He looks like Obi-Wan - the way she remembers him. He looks like he did in those in-between years of childhood and adolescence. His hair follows the same line, his brow furrows the same way, and in the soft light she takes a small sample of his blood and confirms that which she already knew for sure.

__

Anakin is waiting for him when he wakes. He sits at his bedside, and watches as he rises up through the fathoms of sleep, buoyed to the surface by piercing shafts of light, like a diver on Mon Cala. Anakin can feel his muscles twitch as consciousness returns in the dry warmth of the palm pressed flush against his own.

“What time is it?” Obi-Wan asks, blinking him into focus.

“It’s late,” he replies.

Obi-Wan relaxes, his head rolling back to settle against his pillow. “You should go to bed,” he says, and Anakin huffs with laughter.

“We’re way beyond that, old man.”

“Are you okay?” he asks, and that’s just so typical that Anakin smirks.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Good.”

“Are you?”

The pleasant warmth of drowsiness is stripped away in his next breath, and Anakin can feel the  air turn so cold that it raises gooseflesh across his arms, and freezes against Obi-Wan’s lips. His fingers flex against the sheets, and Anakin’s hand tightens in response, keeping him there when he’d rather turn away.

“Don’t -” he warns, but Anakin doesn’t listen. He never does.

“You were in bacta for three days,” he says. “You could have died. All because you couldn’t bear to come to me first. To ask me. To trust me.”

“I do trust you, Anakin.”

“Don’t lie to me, too,” he says. 

“It’s the truth,” he swears. “I couldn’t - The Council -”

“I don’t care what the Council said,” Anakin protests. “I would have come for you, master.”

Obi-Wan blinks rapidly up at the lights overhead. Anakin can feel as he grasps clumsily at the insubstantial wisps of the Force, cloudy and distant with sedation, and grips his hand more firmly still. He, at least, is solid.

“What of Korkie?” Obi-Wan asks, at last.

Anakin slides his hand free.

“The kid? He’s fine. A little beat up, but nothing a couple of bacta patches and some bone knitters couldn’t fix. Ahsoka’s with him now.”

“Good,” says Obi-Wan, his breaths coming more and more easily. “That’s good.”

Anakin licks his lips, and sits forward, accepting of but not resigned to the fact that he will never get an admission from Obi-Wan that isn’t first willingly proposed. He knows this. It’s fine. They can talk about the kid.

“Why’d you bring him?” he asks. “What happened on Mandalore?”

“There was a coup,” says Obi-Wan in a tone like the salt flats of the Jundland Wastes. “Satine fell, and her government was usurped.”

“By who?”

“Maul.”

Anakin spits a curse like acid, but Obi-Wan scarcely seems to note it. Instead, he keeps talking as though Maul is the least of his story.

“But he wasn’t alone,” he says. “He had his brother. And Death Watch turned the people. The city was lost. I only meant to get her out.”

“And Korkie.”

“I took him because his aunt told me to.”

“Satine did?”

“She’s not his aunt,” his master says, the admission coming like a weary sigh. “She’s his mother, and I...he’s my son.”

There are many things that Anakin feels in this moment. There is a nasty, vindictive kind of ache that licks at his throat like flames when he hears that Maul had brought his own brother, when Obi-Wan had not. There is sorrow for the Duchess, and righteous indignation on her behalf at the perfidy of her people. There is a whipping cyclone of confusion and disbelief as Obi-Wan refers to a second woman whom Anakin doesn’t know, and then a son he’s already met, but who should be impossible. And an anger as this settles in, and he realises the depth of his master’s betrayal.

“Your son,” he repeats, and Obi-Wan only nods. He rises, having nothing more and far too much to say, and palms open the door. He spares Obi-Wan only a single moment from the threshold. “You should have told me,” he says.

And Obi-Wan, still gazing at the ceiling, still gripping the pleats of bedsheets in his hand, just shakes his head. “I didn’t know.”

[itsybitsylemonsqueezy]

Heyo! Can we have the nsfw hc's for Daigo's bfs? :3€ thank you in advance!!

Of course you can, my dear c: Apologies in advance for my very strong bias for my fav boy Mine, but I’ll try to be fair to everyone ^^; 

Ryuji Goda: 

Ryuji and Daigo have that classic enemies-to-lovers friction. That gloating victory, that simmering hatred melted away into physical attraction. So, at first, they’re all rough touch, biting and snapping and grabbing. No tenderness, no gentleness. But over time, this would cool to lazy ego-stroking and pampering. A knowing fondle, a smug tease. 

Ryuji is the world’s laziest dom. I’m sorry, but he’s got a little too much of that “I’m king god and I know it” going on to put in effort most of the time. Oh, he’s happy to order you around and have you worship him, but he’s not going to make your job easier or even praise you too much for doing it, unless it’s to mock you. This isn’t to say that Ryuji’s mean, necessarily, just that he’s smug and everything’s about him. 

If he ever gets around to actually fucking you and not insisting that you get him off in a way that does nothing for you, he will put in effort doing that. After all, he’d be unworthy of his exalted status if he couldn’t actually back up his claims. So he makes a point of fucking people good and hard, in a way they’ll remember. And he even makes it a point of personal pride that you enjoy it, even if that means he has to be gentle. Being strong enough to be gentle is still strength, after all. And you’ll hate him just a little bit more for the fact that he can make you feel nice and you like it. 

Daigo certainly hates his smug face about it. 

But the real trick is if you can get Ryuji on his back. He’s a whimpery baby when it comes to bottoming. He’s inexperienced taking it, but does enjoy it, which puts him in an awkward position, having to listen to someone else for a change. Suddenly it’s “Oh, be gentle with me!” and “Wait, slow down!” and not quite knowing what he wants anymore. It takes patience to get that far with him, but Daigo certainly think it’s worth it. Ryuji’s got an ass that won’t quit and driving into that self-congratulating asshole, no pun intended, is delightful. 

Daigo prefers a more generous environment than Ryuji, but Ryuji’s stuck-up pride is appealing as a target to launch yourself at. And it is flattering that Ryuji won’t fight with you in the first place if he doesn’t think you’re worthy. It is a little warming in itself to have his attention. 

In a long-established relationship, Ryuji’s pride would lose its edge, he wouldn’t feel quite so desperate to prove himself. So his teasing would be more fond and soft, less biting. Daigo would grow in confidence, able to rebuff Ryuji a bit better and lead him around if need be. Daigo sparks under Ryuji’s overbearing dominance, but only when Daigo’s trying to be dominant. Daigo’s happy to receive most of the time. It’s more the way Ryuji comports himself that is the issue. But Daigo would relax over time too, seeing Ryuji soften and open up. They could learn to be tender with each other, rather than only mock and sneer.

Mine Yoshitaka: 

Fucking Mine is like driving a brand new Ferrari. It’s very sharp, very fast, very expensive. It’s beautifully designed. But it wants to be doing everything at 200 mph when most of your life is, at best, at the 60 mph speed range. And you know it’s going to break. You don’t know when, you don’t know where, but the thing is so fucking temperamental and insistent about going 200 mph that it’s just going to break, there’s nothing you can do about it, and you’ll have to get it repaired. That’s what fucking Mine is like. 

Mine is an entire goddamn disaster. He’s SO hot and SO fucking on fire. 

There is absolutely no way on earth Mine had ever fucked anyone before Daigo. Come on. Think about it. He’s very pretty but... psychotic. And also convinced that other people are, I don’t know, dust mites. Is fucking you going to get Mine power? No? Then why the fuck are we still talking? 

So no, Mine never fucked anyone, may not have even been interested in sex at all before Daigo. 

But he’s... oh god, he’s gotta be The Best at Everything. You can see where this is going. 

Mine’s SO DESPERATE to prove how good he is at sex, how willing, how flexible, but he’s instantly overwhelmed by everything and we have to scale back his insane plans to... how ‘bout we hold hands in bed for awhile, okay? Maybe your blood pressure will go down some. 

Daigo has to, somehow, contain Mine’s insane need to please and be The Best while also convincing him that it’s okay to take things one step at a time and slow down sometimes. He has to hold his hand through everything and show him, literally, all of the steps. Just kissing might paralyze Mine for a day, to say nothing of removing clothes or touching each other. 

That’s okay, Daigo can be patient. Apoplectically insane doesn’t do it for everyone, but... there’s something charming, for Daigo, in the way that Mine will absolutely break if you’re cute to him, if you’re nice to him. It’s so little effort for Daigo to be nice, and he gets SUCH a response in return. That alone is satisfying. It’s okay that Mine needs to move inches at a time or he’ll explode. It’s okay that every little thing sets Mine off, it’s kinda adorable. As long as you can be patient and don’t have to look after him every second, it’s actually pretty functional. 

After a lot of coaching and patience, their first time is... still a total disaster. But no one had to go to the hospital and Mine only wound up crying for an hour, so Daigo’s taking this as a good sign. 

Slowly, after a lot of therapy and socializing him with other people, Mine calms down. Over time, Mine can become functional and even very skilled. As Mine would never accept “adequate” for anything. And Daigo can’t fault him for his ambition and discipline even if it is... terrifying to watch how fast he develops. 

After the initial volcano of embarrassment and feelings of panic and unworthiness, once he finally fucking calms down, Mine becomes flawlessly competent. Daigo’s actually little worried that Mine could get him off in three strokes if put to it. He’s careful to absolutely never under any circumstances ask Mine to demonstrate. 

And Mine’s own desires grow apace with his skills. Mine’s main kink is endurance. He’s sort of similar to Majima’s exhaustion and over-stimulation gambit, but it’s a little different. Majima wants to be fucked until he can’t think anymore. Mine wants to prove his stamina, he wants to be the greatest physical specimen possible. So marathons are truly his thing. Daigo struggles to keep up. 

Fortunately, Mine is an absolutely mewling bottom, hungry for any attention. He wants to be stretched to his limits whenever possible, pushed to the utmost, but he’d never forgive himself if Daigo isn’t also enjoying himself. He learns to balance the two, to make sure Daigo is having a good time and not ask... more than is humanly possible. 

Even so, fisting is not out of the question for him and Daigo has, on occasion, worn a cock sheath. Mine’s a bit of a size queen. Again, the stamina thing. He’s... he’s insatiable in almost all possible ways. 

Mine will also gladly fuck Daigo! He has never refused a request from his one and only beloved and he never will. But Mine has no impulse to dominate. He doesn’t need to prove anything, he already knows he is the best there is, and he doesn’t need to serve to derive his sense of purpose and meaning. He will serve, but it is only to make Daigo happy. His pride is taken from how happy he can make Daigo, rather than anything about the act itself. His intense attention is borderline unbearable, but Daigo has gently coached him into where to direct his attention and how much intensity is needed. Mine is a ready and willing student, trying hard to be the right amount of too much, rather than monstrously too much. So he’s always excited to be ordered by Daigo and do what he likes. Daigo, for his part, has never been disappointed. 

Daigo, despite the incredible emotional and physical exhaustion of fucking Mine, does enjoy it. Mine does push him to his limits and asks for so much, but... the loopy, satisfied smile on Mine’s drained face when he finally lays back, when he’s at last loose and pliable... it fills Daigo with such a sense of satisfaction and pride and love. Whenever Daigo doubts himself, whenever he’s unsure, he remembers that the most perfectionist man on earth is head-over-heels in love with him and begs to be fucked every night... nothing comes close to being that kind of ego trip. And Mine is even genuinely reassuring when Daigo needs that too. 

It’s a disastrous beginning and it’s rough and rocky for awhile, but... in time, their dynamic becomes a smooth beat-counterbeat of lust and confidence, doubt and reassurance. They support each other in their weak spots and they love each other for it. 

Shinada Tatsuo: 

Shinada is like a breath of fresh air after the work of those last two. He is neither on fire nor selfish. A welcome relief for Daigo, if he fucked the last two. Finally someone he doesn’t have to put in all the work for. 

Shinada is the definition of easy going. Whatever you want to do, he’s up for it. And with his predilection for sex workers, safe to say he’s not a virgin by any means. No awkward hand holding with him. 

Shinada is not much of a dom, way too lackadaisical to take charge, but he is very warm and giving. So if Daigo just wanted to be taken care of today, he’d do his best to comply. He doesn’t have Mine’s intensity or stamina nor Ryuji’s forceful personality, but he’s sincere and generous and that goes a long way. 

Shinada is far more willing to be acted upon though. He’s lazy in the exact opposite way of Ryuji. Shinada would love to be fingered and fucked and taken care of, while putting in very little effort to achieve this. He’s happy to receive your energy and fierce determination. And at this point in Daigo’s life, sometimes he needs to take charge, just for the sense of control over something. Shinada’s got no problem with that and it’s reassuring and satisfying to know that Shinada’s happy with whatever you have to give him. Not having to put in a major effort or think about what will make him happiest makes Daigo’s job a lot easier. 

Not to say that Daigo wants to just use Shinada and leave him. Daigo’s very kind and cuddly with Shinada, eager to appreciate him simply because he’s so low effort. Shinada thinks it’s cute the way Daigo tries to pamper him. 

Daigo does sometimes push Shinada for more, ask him to go harder, to be rougher, but it isn’t really in Shinada’s make up to be forceful and intense. He’s up for anything so he never blinks if Daigo asks for something a little unusual or wants to experiment with something new, but at the same time, there’s no drive in him for any particular thing. 

Shinada’s main kink is hands, using his hands or hands being used on him. Hands are still his best method of communication, still dexterous and tactile, even if he’s out of practice these days. Also toys, strangely. He loves self-service toys or partner toys. They take some of the effort off of any one person to perform a certain way while still making sure everyone’s satisfied. No much ruffles him, but he will get a little blushy if you praise him a lot.

Daigo... loves to be taken care of. But also likes to fuck people into whimpery piles. He’s just so tired at this point. Sometimes he misses Ryuji’s demands or Mine’s intensity. But right now, he likes taking it easy with a sweet, pretty boy who like to lay in the sun and do nothing. He’s easy to pamper and his eyes go wide for just a little love and care. Daigo likes making someone happy and not having the fear that it will all go horribly wrong all too soon. 

Shinada sees him get sad sometimes and hugs him close, murmurs gently and keeps their hands close. He doesn’t mind that Daigo’s hurt and has been through a lot. He’s happy to be with him now and to make him happy in whatever ways he can. 

[anerdd]

DEATH BY SALMON

What do Elvis Presley, Judy Garland, Kind Edmond II of England, the Japanese warlord Uesugi Kenshin, and myself have in common?

We all died on the facking toilet. Except I didn't go because of drugs or an assassin. No, sushi from a shady supermarket took me out. After shitting out what felt like all my organs, I died. No I can't tell you in specific medical terms what happened, I'm no expert. But I guess extended diarrhea can really take a toll on your body.

So thats how my trip to the afterlife started. Part of me wishes it was by truck-kun (if you know you know) because its very embarrassing to die hunched over your shit. But no isekai or rebirth webtoon prepared me for the slow and intense pain of the death process. I didn't even know I was dying. It felt like period cramps on crack and before I knew it, it happened.

How do I even know I'm dead then? Simple. I'm not in my body. Don't worry I'm not a ghost, not that that wouldn't be a welcomed experience because let's face it, scaring people is pretty funny and I'd be great at it. No, when death came knocking and my view went pitch black, I later woke up, not in a hospital bed like I had hoped, but as what seemed to be a levitating pile of goop.

I currently have no arms and no legs. Hell I don't even think I have a head. I'm just one giant torso floating in space. To boot, I wasn't given any directions or insight into this matter. No manual on what comes next. Just goop and that goop was me. Poetic, right?

And sure, like I said before, I don't have a head. So how do I know I am goop? It was innately known. Truth be told, I've always wanted to be a blob. You know, for like societal reasons. Goops and blobs don't need to wear clothes or put on makeup. They don't need to worry about their shape because they can change it whenever they want. They have smooth...well skin I suppose. They also have no gender or genitalia, which I personally find very appealing.. Goops and blobs are all I've ever aspired to be in my life and now that I am one, I'm not sure what to feel.

Im surrounded by absolutely nothing and its left me wanting. I don't mind total darkness but a view of the mountains or a nice brook would have been nice. That aside, what do I even do now that I'm here? I'd always thought that before you get to the afterlife, whatever that maybe, you had to watch every single embarrassing moment from your life before you could rest. I didn't even get that...well not that I'm super bent out of shape because of it (get it? I'm goop so this is funny now).

But family, friends, my cat! I would want to see them again in my memories. Not current versions of them because I can't imagine a funeral where they weren't taking the piss out of how I died, the cat included. They love me, for sure. However if someone close to me kicked the bucket from $9 spoiled salmon sushi, I'd laugh at their expense as well. Maybe cry a bit in the process though. I'm not completely heartless.

The more I think about what comes next, the more exhausted I become. Is it because this is all too philosophical for my blobby goopy spirit to handle? Or maybe trying to know is not something thats welcomed. What do I do? What do I do? What can I do, except sleep? Sleep. Sleep...Yeah let's do that.

FIN

[sweet-nebulae]

♡ Comforting them when they’re crying ♡

✿ Zen ✿

He has to be strong for his prince/ss!

But sometimes he is just so fucking exhausted that laying in bed with the love of his life seems more appealing than getting out of bed to do anything else

Your head on his chest, his arms around your waist, and your legs intertwined - yes please

It may be a low energy, low motivation day, but that doesn’t mean it’s not enjoyable

He has a tendency to get too introspective when you’re both so silent, but his sudden tears will still shock you both

He’ll laugh it off, rubbing at his eyes and tightening his grip on you

“I’m fine jagi, really! I don’t know what happened”

Feel free to make a big deal out of it, propping yourself up on your elbows to shower his face in kisses to chase all those tears away!

He’ll find it absolutely adorable and won’t be able to stop himself from grinning or laughing some more

He won’t say it, but it’s actually really comforting to know that you’ll always be there for him, even in cases like this

It’s a really warm feeling that makes Zen flip the two of you and start showering your face in kisses instead

Revenge!

✿ Yoosung ✿

This sweet child

Cries when he’s drunk

Cries when he thinks you’re hurt

Probably cries when the LOLOL server goes under sudden maintenance in the middle of a raid

But if it’s serious crying, he’s the type to scrub at his face and tell you it’s nothing while still whimpering and sobbing

clutches chest

Gets red-faced when he cries, hot to the point that you can feel it even through your lips when you kiss his wet cheek

Doesn’t really see a problem with you seeing him cry?? Like yeah, it’s embarrassing, but you’re not making fun of him

You’re actually looking at him in worry, reaching out to brush his tears away, and fuck you’re so cute -

are you sad or in love yoosung

You are his safe place to cry - right in your arms, head against your chest

And he wants you to feel the same about him too

He wants to be able to make you feel as safe and protected and loved as you can make him feel

This isn’t even remotely angsty anymore it’s just cute wtf Yoosung

✿ Jaehee ✿

Baehee actually rarely cries

She’s so used to having her will to live absolutely destroyed on a daily basis by one Jumin Han that she’s like

Crying??? Why, I could be doing other things

I do have 56 things to do for Mr. Han at this moment after all

jumin ffs

She’s an incredibly cute crier, which is sort of unfair considering it’s crying

Why does anyone look attractive when crying

Her cheeks redden and she makes these soft little hiccupping sounds and listen

It may be cute but it’s fucking painful to see or hear

She’s such a strong woman, if she’s crying about something and it’s not tears of happiness/emotion because of a Zen musical then something has really gotten to her

Likes to be absolutely enveloped and close to you when she’s upset

Gently slide her glasses of her face and then take her to your bed and pull the covers up over the two of you

She’ll curl up and just cling to you

It’s a rare sign of vulnerability that she usually can’t show in her line of work, and she is so grateful you don’t judge her for it

when she peeks her head back up and her face is all red from crying and her hair is all messed up she’s so cute i just want to fdjhgjdhffh kiss her a lot, so you definitely should do that

✿ Jumin ✿

Mr. Trustfund Kid?? Crying???

Lol

Lololololololololol

He doesn’t cry

It’s a lie, you’ve seen him cry a lot

There’s a picture of him with tears in his lashes during your wedding that you value over your life

It’s actually really rare that Jumin cries anything other than surprised tears of happiness

Rare, but it does happen

You never know what triggered it though. Jumin, talking about his feelings? LOL

I mean, he tries, but in moments like these it’s more comfortable for him to just stay silent, and you give him that small comfort

A very silent crier, but will grip you so tightly

Buries his face in your shoulder or neck and just clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from crumbling you may be

Pressing soft kisses to his temple and placing your hand on the back of his head are probably his favorite ways that you try to soothe him

He’s not someone who needs to hear assertions that everything will be okay - he’s a logical person, he knows this

But in the moment nothing is okay

He takes the most solace from just having you, the person he loves most in the entire world safe in his arms, holding him back and showing you care through small physical acts of affection

God he fucking loves you

✿ Saeyoung ✿

Despite how larger than life his personality seems to be at times, he really makes an effort to make sure no one hears or sees him crying

Tensed shoulders, hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into flesh, a dull and all-consuming pain in his throat and wrists as he tried sort of successfully to shove his anguish back down

Crying was just simply something he didn’t think he deserved the luxury of doing

When you entered the picture, things went slightly different

He still tried like hell to keep you from noticing, because what if you got the wrong idea? What if you thought he was anything less than incredibly happy you were in his life? What if you thought -

He can work himself into a panic pretty easily, especially when his brain works against him

When you wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind or reach for his hand in moments like these he just absolutely breaks down

Just turns into you and the comfort you provide no matter what position he’s in and sobs

Literal sobs, the kind that causes his entire body to shake and his throat to ache

It’s not an over-exaggeration to say that you are the only thing keeping him together in these moments

Will tell you what’s bothered him, but you have to press to get it out of him - usually his response is just a whispered and teary “I love you so much”

Because he does

He really does love you with every minuscule fiber of his being, and he cannot believe he ever got so lucky to have you in his life

✿ Jihyun ✿

This poor baby TT

Seeing him cry is just so fucking painful

His eyes are so bright and clear that when tears blur them they get all glassy and just lost looking

Will always try to apologize and wipe his tears away with the back of one of his fingers

His breath will hitch if you gently grasp his hand in your own and draw his fingers away from his face, pressing a soft kiss to the skin beneath his eyes instead

His eyes will widen for a split second at such a tender display of comfort and affection and then his expression will shift into one of such pure sadness and love that it will just break your heart even more

Kiss him

Kiss him lots

Please

He needs a lot of soft kisses TT

Honestly just needs a lot of soft treatment in general

He’ll always end up crying harder when you try to comfort him, but don’t misunderstand

He’s just always floored by what a wonderful person you are

Lots of gentle kisses will be pressed to the back of your hands in thanks and love, even if he’s still crying

Jihyun you dummy dry your tears first gjhdjh

✿ Saeran ✿

Does he like crying in front of you?

Fuck no

Does he?

Unfortunately for him, quite often

Now he knows that logically him crying isn’t a sign of weakness, or of how broken he is

And it’s not going to scare you off or give you second thoughts about staying with him

That doesn’t stop the sharp pang of fear whenever he feels tears burning at the backs of his eyes though

Comforting him isn’t always easy - sometimes he craves the safety of physical touch, sometimes he’s snarling at you to leave him the hell alone

If he pushes you away he just needs some space - he inevitably feels awful about it, which just upsets him more, and he ends up even more emotional than before

Will never ask for it but absolutely loves when your cup his face and tenderly brush away his tears with your thumbs, kissing his forehead and eyelids

The contrast of your cool fingers on his hot skin helps relax him

He doesn’t know how, but you always seem to know what to do to help him feel better

Whether it’s just sitting next to him with your fingers interlaced with his or cuddled together on the couch with some stupid show playing in the background, legs interlaced

No matter how shit he feels, just being near you makes him feel a tiny bit better

Like you’re helping to fill some empty part of him

He doesn’t like feeling so weak around you, but somehow, you make it more bearable than trying to deal with it alone

✿ Vanderwood ✿

He’s a fucking agent, he doesn’t have time to cry

If he feels like he’s about to he usually just roughly rubs at his eyes like oh fuck no

Has no idea how to react when you tell him it’s okay to cry

Like???

He wants to be the strong one and crying isn’t a sign of strength??

vanderwood shut the fuck up

He doesn’t mean to act so gruff and coarse about it all, but he’s just not used to allowing himself to be vulnerable like that, especially in front of anyone he cares about

Feels a bit uncomfortable when you show so much obvious worry and care towards him, but does manage to send you a small smile with the hint of a flush high up on his cheeks to assure you that everything was okay

He is unfairly attractive when he flushes, btw

Unless something really fucks with him, he never allows himself to cry for very long

And unless its one of those times, the most comfort he really needs is just your hand on his arm or the warmth of you at his side

Things in the world may fucking suck, but he feels like they may not suck as much so long as he has you

did he actually just think that?? djhdhdfdhs please ignore the suddenly flustered vanderwood who can’t control his own thoughts

[purplesurveys]

969

What is your least favourite thing about your full name? I don’t know if it’s right to say I have a least favorite thing about it. At this point in my life I’ve gotten over complaining about anything about my name and I’ve ended up liking it, actually.

How good is your grammar? My fluency in both English and Filipino is pretty much perfect. Kinda called for when it comes to communications graduates, haha. But yeah I grew up speaking Filipino and then learned English through media, school, and my English-speaking friends, so my exposure has always been balanced.

Do you like the age you are? Idk I feel like age loses its significance when you’re like 20. < Yeah, same. The last age I got excited about was 20, but turning 22 this year felt a little boring and not just because I had to celebrate at home. I’m imagining it would be the same for 23, 24, 26, 27, etc and that I’ll only look forward to milestone years now, like those that end in 5 or 0.

Music. It’s amazing. Do you agree? It’s great, but I’m not as attached to music as most people are. It’s hard for me to get into new acts and I mostly stick to the artists and albums I’ve listened for years. Music can also sometimes be too emotional for me, so most of the time I prefer flocking to content that will entertain me when I’m sad, like sitcoms or YouTube videos.

What’s your favourite kind of poptart? I’ve mentioned this before but only like, five flavors ever get shipped to the Philippines. My favorite is chocolate fudge, but I’m sure I would have other favorites if we were able to have their whole flavor roster.

Do you like sunglasses? I don’t really care for them. They look nice and there are certainly a lot of cute and classy sunglasses designs out there, but ultimately I don’t like how it impairs my vision. No matter how bright it is where I am, I tend to not feel comfortable when everything I see has a black or brown tint to them. 

Do you think dreams can give us insight to things? I don’t know if it can give insights, but I believe that your general emotions and life experiences can have a hand in what dreams you end up having. In my case, whenever something is currently heavily troubling me I always, always end up dreaming about them.

Have any cheesy kids songs memorized? Depends on what you mean by cheesy kid’s songs. I don’t actually know what that refers to.

Besides your computer, what else is cluttering your desk? A Tupperware with peanut brittle, another Tupperware with a half-eaten brookie, two notebooks, my copy of Midnight Sun, my phone charger, a nearly-empty glass of water, and my night light.

Why is your worst enemy your worst? I don’t have an enemy...haven’t had one since, like, grade school.

What does your dad do? He’s an executive sous chef at a luxury liner. But his company and the nature of his work is obviously one of the most affected by Covid, so he hasn’t been in his workplace since February and it’s impossible to tell when he’ll be needed again.

How late do you usually stay up? During weekdays, I’m in bed by 9 or 10 PM. Work is exhausting most days. But on the weekends, I’m able to stay up til midnight or even a few hours beyond that.

The political spectrum. Where do you fall? The more radical side of the left.

Do those commercials from the ASPCA make you cry? They’re a US-based org so no I haven’t, but their ads probably do have the ability to make me cry.

When was the last time you visited a nail salon? I remember going inside a nail salon with Gabie in like 2017? 2018? because she had been trying to get me interested in pampering sessions for myself haha. I never saw the appeal though and if I remember correctly that was the only time I ever found myself inside of a nail salon.

What was the last thing you used sliced bread to make? My breakfast yesterday. I just used the bread to wrap a hotdog. 

If you had to eat one type (Chinese, etc.) of food which would it be? I would have absolutely no problem eating Indian food for the rest of my life. Their spices, the curries, breads, chutney, samosas, paneer? *chef’s kiss*

Enough about food. Have you used Wikipedia for a school report? I used Wikipedia all the time but use the sources on the bottom of the page. It was so easy to go around the whole “don’t use Wikipedia for research” when the sources cited in Wikipedia articles are always subject to strict review by the site’s moderators to ensure their credibility lol.

What is your favourite glass to drink from? I love my mom’s Starbucks mug. I use it all the time when she isn’t home.

When did your family immigrate to wherever you live now? We’ve never migrated, even though my mom had always wanted us to. If we pushed through with it, we most likely would have landed in either the US or Canada.

What does your room look like when you sleep? Completely dark. I also like keeping my windows open and my blinds partially open, because the cold air at night feels nice.

What tabs are open on your computer? The window I’m currently on is pretty loaded actually. There are six Tumblr tabs, 12 Bzoink tabs, two tabs on Google search, and one Wikipedia tab.

Are your fingers long, or short? They’re rather long. 

Reality TV: Love it, or hate it? OMG hahah I like most of them, but I can’t stand dating shows. As a demi, I just could never relate to the idea of casual dating and dating shows have always been super boring to me. I can binge most of the other reality TV shows though, especially cooking ones and KUWTK.

What time is it in the country you get the most of your heritage from? Welp, that’s a creative way to put it. 6:47 PM.

Do you use a top sheet? My current bedsheet doesn’t come with one but I do have other bedsheets with top sheets that I routinely change to.

How often do you engage in illegal behaviour? It comes up every now and then but it’s nothing more than illegally downloading books and movies lol.

Who is your favourite comedian? I’m not big on comedians but I came across Sindhu Vee’s stand-up comedy on Facebook a month ago and she’s sooooooo fucking hilarious. Jokes about extreme Asian parenting will never get old for me. I definitely wish more of her acts were available online.

Do people say you have an accent? Sometimes I’ll get compliments for being able to speak in English well, but idk about accents.

Could you tell me what the capital of Bosnia is without looking it up? Nope. I wouldn’t even be able to point at its general region on a map. Soz.

AOL: Do you use it? No.

Do you find Family Guy’s cutaway scenes funny, or annoying? I generally find cutaway scenes funny. I’m sure I would find Family Guy’s funny as well, considering I’ve enjoyed their humor styles in the past.

What colours are on your current shirt? Brown.

How many children do you want/have? Two.

Would you rather live in this decade, the 1960’s, or the 1910’s? 1910s. The very limited women’s rights and social issues of the time would be sucky to witness, but I’m still interested to see how different life was back then whether in terms of technology, how different my city used to look, or whatever.

Pepsi vs. Coke? Neither.

Do you think you look good with a hat on? Sure, I like hats :)

[delicrieux]

-- valar dohaeris

                                         + all men must serve +                                                       chapter 2

pairing: jon snow x reader x various

summary: Sansa Stark finally reunites with her brother

warnings: mentions of blood

words: 2.1k

author’s note: i love this. i love different POVs. i love strange characters with questionable intentions. i love--

tagging: @emmaamalie

feedback is always appreciated xoxo

masterlist | ch.1 | v. d. masterlist | buy me coffee☕

MELISANDRE

Melisandre is not one to doubt her God, yet the traitorous thoughts had plagued her since Stannis came to be not the Promised One. She felt ashamed; shunned; a disgrace to the Red Priests, to the God of Light and Fire, to herself. A century of living and for the first time since the early start her vision was unclear. Was bringing (Name) here the right choice? Was (Name)’s council needed when her magic abandoned her? Was she blinded by evil? Fed to sinister illusions? She feared to speak High Valerian again after her abysmal failure.

But the Jon Snow rose from the dead, from the ashes, from the frosty snow. Life blooms within him now, and he is unchanged: still perpetually frowning and still loyal to his core. He is the Promised One, she has no qualms about this. Her God has returned to her. And all of her worries had melted into distant memory.

Her heart swells in her chest and she can hardly contain her smile. Castle Black drowns in shadows, and she hides in one of them, watching as (Name) and Jon sit together, share whispers: he, donned in his Commander clothes, and her, dripping in deep red satin. The Hall is otherwise empty of spectators, only the flickering flame illuminating their silhouettes twirls and watches in the fireplace. She gently takes his hand, turns it, and pulls the sleeve all the way to his forearm. Jon, pensive, observes her elegant movements with morbid interest. (Name)’s fingers trail down from his elbow to his wrist, touch no lighter than a feather, hiss like whispers falling from her lips. The fire behind them rages and jumps, golden-orange and angry; in its brilliance glimmers one of the rings on her finger, one made of Valerian Steel and oily black stone.

Melisandre’s gaze shift to the ring, enraptured with its power. Its glittery surface reminds her of Asshai and its castles and homes, all infused with ancient magic. Perhaps that is why she took (Name) with her; perhaps she reminds her of home. But Melisandre hardly cares for such human values as home or family. She lives to serve, to fulfil a prophecy.

She does not recall the exact date of when (Name) first stepped foot on Asshai, but she knows it was dusk, and the night had been dark and misty. The sun was barely breaking the horizon, purple and blue from clouds and smoke. Then came whispers to her, mutters spoken in many languages, some of which even she did not recognise. They told of a child, no older than three, left by the peer, whose cries echoed with the crashing waves like thunder. In the dancing flames she saw an ashen face and eyes so piercing it struck her deeply, taking her breath away. Orders barked, people rushed, the babe was brought into the temple and candles lit up as the women in red walked over. Around the child’s throat hung the ring. She saw herself in its reflection.

Melisandre had watched (Name) grow in the glooms of Asshai; watched her eyes spark with wonder and lust for knowledge; watched her breathe freely in the labyrinth-esque library; watched her recite spells over and over and scry into fire and perform rituals of blood and bone. But (Name)’s birth remained a mystery – she, when confronted, did not know, and Melisandre, inquisitive, could not see it in the light. What she managed to find out, however, was a small secret, tailed by doubt: (Name) hails from Yeen.

Yet if she truly did, she would be dead.

And there is only but one explanation, one which reassures her that everything is connected. (Name) had been brought to Asshai by the Lord of Light for Melisandre to teach, and she had brought (Name) to Westeros because she saw strands of her hair dancing in the northern wind of a vision.

Slowly, she sinks back into the shadows and leaves the hall, missing the suspicious glance (Name) had thrown the corner she had been standing in.

THE RED WOMAN FROM ASSHAI

 His arm quivers under your touch; his skin is hot against it. His gaze jumps from your lips to your eyes and then to anywhere but you before the cycle continues. You find it somewhat amusing, and your lips quirk with a half-smile, your concentration breaking as enchantments burn in memory. You sigh and let go, make distance between the two of you and he breathes with relief, “If you keep staring at me, I will have trouble focusing.”

“Can’t I…uh…Can’t the Maester just have a look at me?”

You raise a brow, indifferent once more, “Did the Maester bring you back to life?” He lowers his head, “But, no matter now. You are fine. You shall live. There is nothing amiss.”

“That’s…good, I suppose.”

His face slips into a frown and you almost see his mind bend and boil with difficult thoughts. His gaze, distant and sombre, bores into the specs on the wooden table, and you sense he is no longer with you, rather lost somewhere. You turn to the fire: its warm glow kisses your face; the scent of burning wood reminds you of home. Your hands fidget with the ring absentmindedly. Images of today play in the flames: The Hanging, Jon’s desire to leave, and you, eventually, stopping him.

“What troubles you, Jon Snow?” You ask him softly. His jaw tenses, eyes closing painfully.

“You know what.”

“They were good men.”

You attention returns to him with curiosity, your words intentionally provocative and harsh. You wonder what shall he say, how shall he explain himself, what sort of twisted sense of justice he has. They stabbed me, is the first thing that comes to mind. You tilt your head and watch him mull it all over; the painful blink of his lashes; the tightly shut lips; the tense shoulders that heave with contained breaths. They betrayed me, is the second thing. You expect he shall give one of these answer. Then again, he might not grace you with an answer at all.

“They were.” He finally says, his voice low, barely a whisper. Your gazes meet and once again your heart jumps to your throat – within their gentle depths resides a fire, traces of ancient magic, ancient blood – and you feel a shiver crawl up your spine. “They did what they thought was right.” He continues, turning away “And I killed them for it.”

“All men must die.” You say, “But before that… All men must serve.” You add after a thoughtful pause. He nods hollowly, not entirely listening. “Those who fall out of line must be guided back. Or face the consequences of their actions…Would you have them betray you again?”

“I would rather not have any of this happen at all.”

“What is done cannot be undone.”

“Not even with magic?” He asks, voice shimmering with amusement.

“No. It would be unwise even to try.” You glance at the fire, it now subdued to but a glow, “The outcome could be…Haunting.”

His eyes squint, “Have you…ever tried?”

Jon’s question takes you back into Asshai, into a dark room lit by candles and a flag of a red heart hung above the bed. The moon is in full bloom, its magnetic radiance illuminating the tombs spilled with blood, the silver blade laying forgotten on the pillow, and the ring dotted in maroon spots.

You return to reality with a deep inhale and sit up straight, “No.” Is all that falls from your lips, too quick to be the truth, too quick to have any real meaning. You clear your throat and your hand grasps his wrist, startling him. His pulse drums against your skin, erratic, “Someone’s coming to see you.” You announce, eyes not leaving his strained veins, “Be ready.” You finish and let go just as harshly as you had grabbed him.

You leave him stunned and confused, exiting the Hall and meeting the bleak day. Crows fly around in circles. Their croaks warn of a visitor.

 SANSA STARK

It was an emotional reunion, and Sansa’s bones nearly cracked from the fierceness of Jon’s hold, strong and protective, and she had cried into his shoulder in silent, happy tears. It came in waves, that terrible relief and sadness: she could breathe again knowing there is no safer place on Earth than by his side, yet she was devastated because it had taken so long to reach him. The adrenaline that had been fuelling her died down in his arms, and she was suddenly exhausted, too frail to stand, yet too fearful to let go. Eventually she did, after muffled words exchanged between them, and she wiped away her tears hurriedly. Red from crying and puffy, her eyes glistered like emeralds against the snow. Alas, with the promise of reuniting once more at supper, she was escorted to a temporary chamber. As climbed up the creaky, uneven stairs, and listened to the harsh wind whipping against the small windows, she almost fell into tears again.

But when she entered her room she was not alone. The small space contained a bed, a single window, a chair, and a fireplace spilling with hot flames, they casting strange shapes on the pale, dirty walls. On the chair sits a woman clad in red, hair hidden behind a satin hood, her expression tranquil and pleasant, fingers working quick on embroidery. Sansa halts by the door, startled. A soft hum slips past the shut lips of the stranger, before she finally lifts her eyes and greets her, “Hello, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. You seem tired. You should rest.”

It struck Sansa there and then that she is no one ordinary, no chamber maid, no lady. The delirious, sing-song tone of her voice, foreign features belonging neither to North or South, the air of absolute secret…It struck Sansa that she is the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, and she had witnessed many Queens in their silk dresses, ladies with their charming rose-bud smiles, maids in blushed timid faces. Yet never had she found them all that appealing, though now she reconsiders and her heartbeat quickens if a bit. But it is silent here, she realises; no whips of wind, simply the fire cracks and jumps in the fireplace.

“Who are you?” Sansa asks, cautious and untrusting, unmoving by the door. The woman in red sets down her embroidery, regarding it with a bored glance.

“I am (Name) of Asshai.” She introduces in the same lovely tone.

“Asshai?” Sansa frowns, the name familiar yet unplaced.

The woman, now dubbed as (Name), nods, “East most and South most of Essos, at the end of the known world.” She explains, “The land of arcane arts.”

“You’re a witch?” Sansa questions doubtfully, voice riddled with mirth and disbelieve.

(Name) leans out of her chair, her face glowing pretty in the firelight, “I am. Does that frighten you?”

“Should it?”

“Well, you have not moved yet. I promise I mean no harm. I am here because your brother asked me to be. He does not trust the men working here. And for good reason, might I add.”

(Name) told about the death and resurrection, the tale so outlandish Sansa would have trouble believing it if she did not know for fact that it was true. She eased eventually, the mysterious figure of the Red Woman appeared less menacing and more child-like with a curious disposition. (Name) explained that she had never been to the North, and that her skin had burned from the cold and her throat was sore immediately within but a few breaths. She also admitted that she did not like the North, her gaze wandered to the window, to the Wall moulded from snow and magic. She mentioned a great evil restlessly drifting beyond it. But Sansa, finally in bed, her body covered in mountains of blankets and fur, hardly listened to words spoken in common tongue. She frowned softly when the tone shifted so something ululating and low. She blinked owlishly, presented with a gift – (Name) offered the embroidery with a wolf woven out of silver thread. Sleepily Sansa accepted, running her fingers along the neat lines.

“Your brother said you loved sewing.” (Name) admitted, “I thought this would make you feel more at home.” She added, the first notes of tenderness blooming in her voice. Yet she did not stick around for long, and with a smile, genuine or not Sansa could not tell, she slunk back to the door, and silently shut it behind her. The fire died down. The room went dark.

And it is as if everything that had happened up until this point faded in memory, and overcome with drowsiness Sansa fell asleep, the gift still tangled in her fingers.

thank you for reading! xx

[believerindaydreams]

Dead dove: do not eat

unless you're really looking for bad things to happen to Arcade Gannon

The truth is, you don't even want him.

People don't appeal to you. Voices, maybe, sometimes- a half-heard murmur across the Muddy Rudder, the call of soldiers talking to each other under an open polluted sky, maybe these things stir something. But flesh? No. Absolutely not.

Desire has very little to do with what's happening right now; this is rage.

Arcade's cry is audible even across the room, as you check the door locks one more time. Nobody can come in short of an authorization slip for President Eden himself, and Eden...will not interrupt unnecessarily. He's learned his lessons well enough to be shot through with violence for the sake of violence.

"Why me?" The blondish hair is damp, soaked with sweat. You stroke it gently with one hand, using the other to check Arcade's handcuffs. They're satisfactory.

"If you were an enemy of the Enclave I wouldn't bother. You're something worse."

"How can there be something worse?"

"A traitor." He's cuffed at the ankles as well, pinned to the bed with tight sleek ropes wrapped in velvet- less likely to give you a burn or an accidental strangulation. This isn't about giving you pain, either. "As an ally, you'd be untouchable. As an enemy, there are still some rules of war. What you are is nothing."

He troubles himself to twist his head sideways, looking up at you best he can. "Is that why the Mesmetron? Why I can't remember anything?"

"Right."

"Why can't you tell me what you want me to be?"

There's still a lightning-fast mind working behind those unsettled eyes, good Enclave stock through and through. He could have made himself known to Raven Rock a long time ago, if he wished. He didn't wish.

"All right. Be a piece of meat."

That's not how this goes. There wouldn't be any satisfaction in cutting cloth away from a cow or a corpse, nothing to raise the hairs down your spine like watching the careless stroke of a combat knife nick through enough skin to make blood well up. He gasps, clings to a stony silence. Childhood training took, it would seem.

"If you are truly amnesiac, I suppose you won't remember the bamboo conumdrum."

His backside is slippery, too much sweat and salt. The smell isn't wholesome.

"...I'm sorry?"

All this and there's a touch more inquisitiveness than fear, somehow. He should have signed up as a Scribe. "A thought experiment. How do you torture a man who himself doesn't know what he's afraid of? There were thoughts that such a person might be the best couriers of war messages..."

He hears your voice, feels your hands pressing against his bones and probing for weakness. To him, this must be the terrifying prelude to unknowable horrors.

To you, it seems hardly worth the trouble you've gone to. The binds and safeguards, yes, but he's wearyingly human after all. The biological apparatus to be expected of a well-bred human male. Remnants of a peeling sunburn at his neck- you swipe your hand across it.

He splutters pleas for mercy. It's very tiresome; for a moment, you almost think you'll let him go just out of distaste.

But there's something that burns inside you with a comforting inner fire, the one thing that you love and won't ever need to question.

Arcade's cock is in a subdued state; it's soft beneath your hands.

"Now I want you to repeat after me. I love the Enclave."

He stays stubbornly silent.

"I love the Enclave. It isn't difficult, Arcade."

Still working his cock with one hand, you take up the combat knife with the other, let him feel the flat against the soft useless fat of a buttock. Cold steel makes him welp.

"Fine! I love the Enclave! I love it a lot!"

There's plenty of defiance left in his voice even now. America's last are still her best.

"Fine. Keep saying it."

"I love the Enclave. I love the Enclave. I love the Enclave...this can't seriously be what you want?"

Forcible stimulation is starting to show some results.

"You're right. I'd rather have your thoughts than your words, but words will have to do. Now you keep saying that until you get off to it."

"I..."

You leave the knife delicately balanced on his spine, and set to work with both hands. The rapid motion is more like reloading than anything else, and pleasant by association.

"I love the Enclave. I love the Enclave. I love the Enclave..."

He sounds exhausted now, already worn. It was a time sensitive operation: the further away from the rigors of the Paradise Falls battle, the more he would be able to recoup a sense of self, regain his usual faculties. As it is, you think you've timed this about right. Most of the work's already been done for you.

"...I love the Enclave, I love the Enclave, I love the Enclave...."

He's warming up now- a drop of homemade gun oil probably wouldn't hurt, though the notion of carrying on until he's bruised and painfully insensate has attractions of its own. But there's still tonight's punch cards for Eden, and range practice. You'd prefer not to miss that.

Gun oil it is, then. A dollop of it actually quiets Arcade's ragged breathing for a moment.

"I love the Enclave...love the Enclave..."

He's twisted around his head again, peering hazily at you with his weak eyes. There are tear-tracks down his cheeks, he licks wet lips.

"I love the Enclave, I love the Enclave, I love the Enclave-"

Arcade's stare isn't much, but there's a intensity to it that might well turn murderous. So be it, if it happens. Nobody would miss him.

"-love the Enclave. I- love the Enclave-"

The raggedness is unmistakably the sign of overstimulation by this point; your hands and his speech are moving in rhythm now, the recitation a schematic for motion. His cock is engorged now, clearly on the verge-

"-I love the Enclave, I love-"

His voice has reached a high, shaky pitch, and there's something undeniably compelling there, to stir something in the deep silence where your private thoughts live-

"-love the Enclave- I love- I love you."

He slumps firmly to the bed, crushing your hands under two hundred pounds of meat and sticky cum.

It's an act of defiance, of course. He's trouble. No good will come of humoring him.

But the proof there's some kind of truth to it is literally in your hands.

[hannahindie]

A Way To Go: Part 3

Characters: Sam x Reader, Dean Word Count: 3,201 Warnings: Sliiiiight angst but just barely. Mostly fluff. A lot of fluff. A little bit of sass, because of course there is. A/N: This is the third and last part of A Way To Go, and it was written for a challenge that @kas-not-cas is having! Catch up on part 1 here and part 2 here. Thank yous to @trexrambling and @pinknerdpanda for beta’ing this. Their incredible words of encouragement made this what it was, and i love them both dearly. #T3W I really have enjoyed writing this, and I’m so excited to share this last part with all of you. As usual, tags are at the bottom and if you see that you are missing or would like to be added, please let me know! Feedback is always welcome! :)

There is nothing in this world that can prepare you for waking up from what is literally a dead sleep. I’m crouching in the backseat of the Impala, literally perched like some sort of zombie bird, and staring at Sam and Dean like if I move one of them might shoot me. Honestly, I can’t say that Dean isn’t tempted, judging by the look on his face. Sam’s reaction is a cross between excitement and sheer terror, and the only thing that is keeping me from laughing is knowing that I must look like an absolute disgusting disaster. Actually, the more I think about that, the funnier this situation is becoming.

“What the hell?!” Dean speaks up first as I slide myself into a normal sitting position. Sam is still looking at me slack jawed. “You’re...you died, Y/N.”

I look down at myself and realize just how bad the damage is. My shirt is a torn and bloody mess, and if the gaping hole in it is any indication of what my body must have looked like...I can’t even think about it. I glance up in the rear-view to find blood is still smeared all over my face. That’s a real good look. “Well, Dean, you aren’t wrong there, buddy.” I sigh and lean back in the seat. If there’s nothing else to learn about this experience, it’s that coming back from the dead is exhausting. I thought dying was hard.

“What the hell happened?” It looks like Dean is trying to decide whether he’s relieved, angry, or a combination of the two, and I have no idea how to explain any of this to him. ‘Oh hey, by the way, our little convention-going prophet? Actually God. So maybe next time we see him, dial back the smartassery and threats on his life if he keeps writing.’  Yea, that will inevitably end horribly, and I am wanting nothing more than to make it home and take a shower before I have to explain any of this.

“Dean, I will explain as well as I can, but can we please just go home first? It's a long story, and I'm not sure sitting in the middle of the road is the best place to get into it.” He looks at me a moment longer, grunts, then faces forward. Sam is still silent, and my eyes meet his. They still look like sunflowers, and I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to see them as anything else. They're a little darker now, and the rims are red, and I absolutely hate that it's because of me. “Sam…” He just looks at me and smiles, then faces forward without a word. Fantastic.

I remember that I still have blood all over my face and sigh. This day is not going as well as I thought it would this morning. At least I'm not dead anymore.

“So you're telling me...that Chuck...is God?” I'm sitting at one of the tables in the library, still covered in gore because Dean couldn't stand waiting ten minutes when we got home, and he's pacing back and forth, alternating between his hands being on his hips and gesticulating wildly. Sam, as he has been for the past two hours, is silent. He's watching me closely, and I'm honestly not sure what he's thinking. It's not distrust or shock or whatever other emotions people go through when their family or friends die. I'm thinking I can't tell because people usually stay dead, and I'm guessing there's not really an emotional response that accurately describes ‘Oh hey, someone I love just came back from the dead. Sweet.’

 “Yes. Chuck is God.”

 “And he just zapped you back?”

 I nod, “Yea, pretty much. I guess he thinks you guys need me.” I laugh, but it's forced. I don't think Dean notices, but Sam’s eyebrows knit together. He's always been able to tell when I'm not giving the whole story, and in this instance I don’t think they need to know the exact details of my Heavens or what Chuck said.

“He didn't give you an explanation? Just wham bam thank you ma’am, and you're back in your meat suit?”

I crinkle my nose and frown, “Thanks for the colorful and classy description, Dean, but no. One minute I'm dead and talking to Chuck, the next I'm waking up in the Impala.” I push away from the table and stand up, “Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to take a shower and go to bed. I'm disgusting and dying and then being resurrected is exhausting. Night, boys.” I start to leave when I feel a hand on mine and I look down. Sam’s holding me back, I mean barely, but who's going to pull themselves away from that, and I give him a gentle smile.

“I'm glad you're back, Y/N.”

I contemplate just throwing myself at him and telling him everything between stupidly enthusiastic kisses, but instead I squeeze his hand and smile again, “Me too, Moose. Me too.”

 I’m standing in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. My injuries are healed, but my clothes still bare all the marks where the injuries were, and I’m beginning to realize why Sam was looking at me so strangely. It’s become apparent that I wasn’t shot just the one time. There are at least two other places with bullet holes, and my clothes are a wreck. I peel off the blood covered layers and throw what is salvageable in the hamper and crank the hot water as far as it will go. I cannot explain how wonderful it feels to step under the scalding stream and wash the blood and dirt out of my hair. The water is swirling red around my feet, and it finally hits me exactly what has happened. And here come the tears.

I’m sobbing so hard that I can’t stand, so I curl up in the corner of the shower and wrap my arms around my waist. I’m not sure what I think that’s going to do other than it kind of feels like I’m holding myself together, and it’s oddly soothing. Everything Chuck told me is bouncing around in my head, and all I can think of is my family and what I lost because he thought I was needed elsewhere. All I can remember is coming home and finding my parents, bloodied and broken, and being trapped in the house for the next three days because the monster that killed them locked me in the closet. I’m not sure to this day why it did what it did, probably just saving me for another meal, but the next thing I remember is John Winchester bursting in to save the day. The door to the closet was flung open and there he stood, blood spattered across his face and a machete raised as if preparing to strike whatever was making the god awful noise in the closet. Instead what he found was a fourteen year old girl covered in her parents blood and sobbing uncontrollably.  My parents deserved better than that, and as much as I loved the Winchesters and Pastor Jim and Bobby...they weren’t my parents. None of this is Sam and Dean’s fault, which is why I don’t want to tell them what Chuck told me, but it’s going to be hard to deal with and I’m not entirely sure how to even try. The wracking sobs have finally slowed down and I’m able to uncurl from my position in the floor and finish washing away the blood and grime I’m covered in.

The bunker is freezing a majority of the time, so once I finish in the shower I rush to my room and hurriedly put on my warmest pajama pants and one of Sam’s flannels that has somehow magically found its way into my dresser. Despite telling Sam and Dean that I was going to bed, I’m wide awake. There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep any time soon, so I settle in and start going through my Netflix queue. I’m about to give up because nothing seems appealing right now when I hear a faint knock on my door, so quiet that I’m not even sure I actually heard anything. I wait for a moment and then I hear it again, that faint knock of someone clearly debating on whether or not they should have knocked in the first place. “Come in!”

The door slowly opens and Sam’s face appears in the small crack between the door and the door frame, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

I shake my head, “Nah. Turns out it’s much harder to sleep after a traumatic experience than I thought. Coming back to life is new territory to me, though. I’m sure you guys are used to it by now.” Sam laughs, and I’m pretty sure it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. “Wanna come in?”

Sam comes the rest of the way through the door and quietly shuts it behind him. I pat the open space next to me and he immediately crosses the room and stretches his long frame out beside me. No matter what happens, Sam and I always fall back into our routine. As usual, we stay silent for awhile as he scrolls through Netflix and finally lands on one of our favorite movies and hits play without asking. He doesn’t have to; he knows what my answer will be. We make it about thirty minutes before the silence is broken.

“I thought I lost you.” He whispers it, almost as if he is thinking out loud without realizing it. I glance over at him and he’s looking at me with those puppy dog eyes he gets when he wants something, but this time...this time it’s different. He’s looking at me like this is the first time he’s really seeing me, and my chest aches at how lost he looks. “I was right there, Y/N. I was right next to you and I couldn’t save you. All I could do was watch you die.” His eyes are shining, and I can tell he’s trying his hardest not to cry in front of me. I may have already died today, but this sight alone is going to actually be the thing that kills me.

“Sam, it’s okay. I’m fine, and we’re here together. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” I smile at him, but he is still looking at me like he’s not sure if I’m real or if he’s dreaming this. Alright, it’s time for me to get it together and convince him. I put my hand over his and he looks down as he laces his fingers with mine. “See? I’m here. This is real life, and I’m not going anywhere any time soon.” I feel him sigh, but he doesn’t say anything, just rubs his thumb over the back of my hand like he’s contemplating what to say next. Maybe he needs some more convincing. “You’re my Heaven.”

Well, that was smooth. Was there really no better way for me to say that? Note to self: whenever I need to make a life altering declaration, I need to plan that shit out. At least say something that's a full on sentence. Sam’s looking at me like I've gone crazy, and I can't say I blame him. I turn to face him more directly and take his other hand. I need him to understand what I'm saying and I'm like 99% sure I can't get through this again without hyperventilating.

“Do you remember the day we met?” Sam nods. “When I died...that was the first Heaven I went to.” He looks at me in surprise, and I almost laugh out loud. That was my reaction too, buddy.

“Why the hell would that be your Heaven? That was a terrible day, you almost died-” I interrupt him because I've already had these epiphanies and I need to get my feelings out before I explode.

“Yea, but you were there. And when I realized that, the memory changed to the cabin.”

Sam smiles, “That seems to be a bit more appropriate.”

I nod, “Yea, and honestly I would have stayed there if I'd had a choice. If I have to be dead, might as well be in the best memory I have.” I pause, unsure of if or how I should proceed. “The next two Heavens...more like memories instead of Heavens, I guess...were of you too. One was the day that you left. The other…” I stop because I don't know that I can admit that I drove all the way to Stanford to see him, that I had talked myself into telling him how I felt and how much I missed him, or that I had left without saying a word because there was no way in hell I could compare to Jess.

“Y/N? What was the last one?”

I'm biting my lip hard enough to draw blood and I can feel his hands tighten in mine, which is all the encouragement I need.

“It was Stanford. I came to see you...but when I found you, you were with Jess, and I didn't have the heart to ruin it. You looked so happy, Sam. I hadn't seen you that happy since the cabin, and Jess…she could give you a life I couldn't. So I left.”

Sam is frowning, and I look down at where our hands are lying on my lap. I'm not sure where else to look, but for some reason seeing his hands intertwined with mine is soothing so I keep staring at them. Better to stare at them than at Sam’s face as he works out what I just said.

“I don't understand…why were those your Heavens? Why would me leaving or you choosing to not talk to me be good memories?”

I chuckle, “Great minds think alike, Sam. Those were two of the worst days of my life. Chuck apparently had a good reason for it, although I may have called him an asshole.”

Sam laughs and my heart swells. Another note to self: make sure Sam laughs more often. The sound alone is enough to make me swoon, but that smile...Get it together, Y/N, and keep it in your pants a little longer. The story isn't finished, and Sam still needs to know where this drawn out explanation is going.

“Of course you called God an asshole. I would expect nothing less.” Sam reaches up and tucks a stray hair behind my ear, and all I can think about is Zombieland. Now I'm in between just jumping him and laughing at the reference, and honestly, self...I'm disappointed by the lack of discipline. “What was his reasoning?”

“That it didn’t matter that those were some of the hardest days I’ve had...they all revolved around you. He told me...he told me that my story didn’t start until I met the Winchesters. Specifically you.” Sam is looking at me, and I honestly can’t tell what he’s thinking. I know what I heard him say when he was by the Impala but love is such a broad term and I don’t want to assume...and he’s kissing me.

I don’t want to get all corny and cliche, but I’m pretty sure there are fireworks going off. One of his hands is in my hair and the other hand is cupped against my neck and he’s pulling me into him like he’s desperately trying to get as close as he can without fusing into a single person. I won’t lie and say I never thought about what this would be like, and I like to think I have a pretty good imagination, but nothing I have ever come up with even compares to this. His lips are soft and are a stark contrast to the five o’clock shadow he’s been sporting the past couple of days, so it’s this wonderful mixture of smooth and rough that I don’t think I could have ever dreamt up. Despite the messy hunt we’d just gone through he still smells good, and I wonder briefly how he manages to do that until his hands slip down to my hips and I forget what life even means for a second. Before I can react to anything he’s doing, he’s grabbed my waist and lifted me over to where I’m straddling him as he leans back against the headboard. This has all happened within a span of probably thirty seconds, but I swear to God...Chuck...it feels like it takes an eternity for me to comprehend what’s happening. Eventually we both need to breathe, and I pull back for a moment to catch my breath. He leans his forehead against mine, and for the first time in a long time...my heart feels full.

Sam kisses me again, this time just a quick graze, and smiles, “Did Chuck mention that part of the story?”

I shake my head, “Nope, he definitely did not. Although I do appreciate a good plot twist, so maybe that’s why he left it out.”

“It's not much of a plot twist,” Sam pauses and tucks another strand of hair behind my other ear, “I've wanted to do that since I was sixteen years old.” I'm pretty sure my heart just stopped. Despite everything, despite the loss and the heartbreak and the years it's taken to get here, I feel like I'm finally home. Sam's looking at me expectantly, and I smile.

“Well, I suppose we should get to work on that next chapter then.”

Sam grins, and before I can say anything else he's flipped me over onto my back and I'm looking up at him, his sunflower eyes sparkling in the dim light of the lamp. He leans in, and his mouth barely grazes my ear as he whispers, “I think I know where we can start.”

Forever Tags: @trexrambling @pinknerdpanda @wheresthekillswitch @emilywritesaboutdean @arryn-nyxx  @escabell @deanssweetheart23 @canadianjelly @super-not-naturall @emptywithout @aubreyreadsstuff  @charliebradbury1104  @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @dean-winchesters-baby

[leigh-kelly]

(More Hospital!AU)

Had she made the decision knowing that she’d be nearly five months pregnant with twins, and growing wider by the day, Santana never would have agreed to present research at a pediatric and neonatal surgery conference in Phoenix. She doesn’t do conferences often, not like Brittany, who is so prolific in her field that she travels at least once a month, but she does consider her occasional invitation a real badge of honor. Still though, the idea of waddling down the aisle of an airplane, being away from home for three days, and having even more trouble than normal sleeping in a hotel bed isn’t exactly appealing to her.

The week before she’s set to leave, Santana buys maternity clothes. She definitely didn’t think she’d need them so early, but even the most roomy of her professional clothes have become tight around her middle, and she refuses to look stuffed like a sausage in a room full of surgeons. So she goes out on her lunch hour, and she buys whatever she can find, figuring she’ll just return anything that doesn’t look good on her.

That night, after Liam is asleep, Santana goes up to the bedroom to try everything on. When Brittany comes in, she’s shy about modeling for her, still getting used to the changes in her body. Besides her ever growing belly, her face has gained weight, and her breasts feel massive, but Brittany gives her soft, adoring smiles. Brittany compliments her curves, Brittany kisses her and strokes her sides when she’s in between outfits, standing in just her bra and high-waisted maternity panties. Brittany makes her feel beautiful, even when she may not feel that way on her own.

The night before she leaves, Brittany makes love to her long and slow. Given her increased libido, Santana knows she’s trying to leave her sated while she’s gone, and she lies back, prone on the sheets as Brittany kisses every inch of her body. She threads her fingers through Brittany’s hair, and then she kneels at the edge of the bed while Brittany spreads her own legs, the most comfortable position now for Santana when she wants to go down on her wife for as long as she possibly can.

Because Brittany has to work, Santana takes a cab to the airport. Brittany and Liam hug and kiss her goodbye on the curb, and Liam hugs her belly tight, giving Santana a picture for them babies. It’s a struggle, but she doesn’t cry. She’s not quite there yet, losing all control of her emotions, but it’s getting closer, and she’s trying to prolong it for as long as possible. In the cab, she gets car sick, though she doesn’t throw up, but frankly, she’s beyond concerned about getting air sick and having to maneuver down the aisle of the plane and sink to her knees in the tiny bathroom to vomit.

When she checks in at the airport, she’s surprised when the woman at the desk tells her she’s been upgraded to first class. Though she’d considered it herself, she thought it was ridiculous to spend the money, and figured she’d be fine with coach. Smiling to herself, even the whole way through security, when she finally has her shoes back on and her computer tucked back in her bag, she digs out her phone, and sends Brittany a text message.

You really didn’t have to do that, Britt. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love that you did. She sends, shoving the phone back in the pocket of her elastic waisted jeans.

Heading into surgery. But I didn’t do anything? The reply comes quickly, and Santana furrows her brow.

You didn’t upgrade my ticket?

I didn’t. But now I wish I did!

Hmm, I guess it was just the airline. Okay, I love you. I’m boarding soon. Good luck in surgery, call you when I land.

Love you too, and give those babies a kiss for me.

Though she knows she might regret it when she has to pee ten minutes into her flight, Santana grabs a cup of coffee before she wheels her carry on down the jetway. As soon as she boards the plane, she sees a blonde grinning at her from the seat beside her in first class, and she has to laugh, shaking her head as the man across the aisle stands up to help her stow her bag in the overhead bin.

“Hey sweet cheeks!” Holly Holiday grins. “Took you long enough. Hope you like your upgrade.”

“That was you?”

“Come on, I couldn’t handle sitting up here all by myself when I knew you were shoving that basketball sized abdomen in the back of the plane. Shelby told me you were on my flight, so I took it upon myself to get some company.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Santana ducks her head sheepishly, settling into the aisle seat. “Really.”

“Please.” She waves her off. “Least I could do for my favorite peds surgeon.”

“Well, considering I figured I’d be fine when I decided not to change my ticket, and this morning I was kind of dreading coach, I seriously appreciate it.”

“Lopez, every time I see you running around the hospital like you’re not lugging two kids with you, I’m impressed.” Holly sits back in her seat, buckling herself in. “So how’s your presentation looking?”

“Good. I finished it last night. I figured I might pass out on the plane, so I didn’t want to leave anything up to chance.”

“Mind if I have a look?” She raises her eyebrows, with an excitement that only another surgeon would have. “Or do you not want to spoil the surprise?”

“Here.” Santana laughs, taking her iPad out of her briefcase and opening up the document containing it. “Enjoy reading about localized radiation in conjunction with ependymoma removal.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, I will.”

Despite the coffee, Santana falls asleep a half hour into the flight. She feels really bad that she doesn’t have it in her to stay up and talk to Holly, but she didn’t sleep well last night knowing that she’d be leaving, and honestly, hefting around her added weight makes her more exhausted than she could have ever imagined.

When she wakes up, they’re landing in Phoenix, and she shares a car with Holly out to the hotel where the conference is being held. While she’d really love to go up to her room and stay on FaceTime with Brittany and Liam until she falls asleep, she insists on taking Holly to an early dinner after they check in. She appreciates the company, and she knows Brittany does too, worried that she’d be anxious alone and pregnant far from home, but by the time they’re done talking about Holly’s keynote address and Santana’s future plans, she’s ready to turn in for the night.

It’s just about Liam’s bedtime when she gets upstairs, and Santana takes a quick shower and changes into her pajamas before she gets them on the phone. They’re snuggled in his bed, and Santana feels a pang, missing them terribly already. She doesn’t know how Brittany manages to do this all the time, she doesn’t know how she can handle the travel and the hotel rooms and he being away, but she does it, and Santana gives her so much more credit than she can begin to express.

“Mommy Noodle!” Liam smushes his face against the screen. “You can read me the Crayon book! Mama didn’t read it yet, okey?”

“Oh, you know the crayon book is my favorite.” Santana laughs, settling back in her pillows. “I need Mama to hold the pages where I can see them, okay?”

“Okey! Okey! I am ready!”

Resting her phone on her belly, Santana reads The Day the Crayons Quit in its entirety, even though Liam falls asleep three-quarters of the way through. When she’s done, Brittany holds the phone, just letting her watch him sleep for a few moments, and she sighs heavily.

“Are you alright, Santana?” Brittany whispers, tucking Liam in and turning out his lights.

“Mmhm, just…wish I were home.”

“We wish you were too.” Santana watches Brittany turn the lights on in the bedroom, and set the phone down on the dresser so she can unbutton her blouse.

“Not helping.”

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to step out of the view of the phone so you don’t have to watch.”

“Don’t you dare.” She leans back in bed and crosses her legs at the ankles. “If I have to sleep alone, I at least want to watch you undress.”

“Anything that makes you happy, Santana.”

It’s possible that Santana gets a little carried away watching Brittany undress. Though she decides not to touch herself, instead, laying her iPad on the pillow beside her so she can fall asleep with Brittany, she wakes up in the middle of the night after an extremely vivid sex dream. Her hormones have run wild, she knows that, and considering the dream involved Brittany bending her over her desk at work, something she would never even consider, they seem to be even worse away from her wife.

The next morning, she’s exhausted from her fitful sleep, but she gets dressed slowly, making sure that her maternity skirt and blouse look normal on her. She’s a little nervous, even though she’s not speaking until tomorrow, she’s a little…embarrassed of how heavily pregnant she looks, and the idea that it will draw unwanted attention toward her, but there’s nothing she can do about it. She is gestating twins, and they—and she—gets bigger every day.

She takes over a hundred pages of notes, until her fingers cramp like they used to in medical school, but she loves to absorb information. She loves the idea of getting better and better and better in her field. Being a great doctor is one of the things she’s most proud of, one of the only things she managed to accomplished on her own, and as exhausted as she is, she’s thoroughly enjoying all the learning she’s doing.

After the day’s events are over, she goes to the cocktail party and sips ginger ale from a wineglass. Though she’s itching to get to bed, she fully takes in conversation with the greats in pediatrics that take the time to talk to her, peppering medical conversations with questions about her pregnancy, and from those who have been there, tips on how to handle surgeries as she gets increasingly bigger.

Liam is asleep when she gets back to the hotel room, but she FaceTimes Brittany, falling asleep again with her on the pillow beside her. The next morning, she’s an absolute wreck. She feels like her skirt is too tight and her blouse shows too much cleavage, so she tugs at herself the whole way down to the conference room, finally deciding to button her blazer and just…deal with it.

When she gets up to the podium, Holly gives her a thumbs up from the fifth row, and she bites her lip, smiling at how much she feels like a third grader saying the Pledge of Allegiance at a school assembly. That’s how she gets sometimes at things like this, like she’s a little fish in a very big pond. But she measures her tone, she articulates and projects, she avoids reading off the prompter as much as she possibly can, and she smiles, because she is proud of her work, even if she’s just a young doctor at the very start of her career.

There is applause when she finishes, and Santana waits until she’s off the stage to unbutton the constricting blazer. She goes back to her seat in the rear of the room, and when, after two more hours, they finally break for lunch, Santana feels a tap on the back of her neck. At first, she’s annoyed, already hot and prickly, even in the air conditioner, and never one to favor her personal space being violated, but when she turns her head, she gasps, and feels tears spring to her eyes like some kind of lunatic.

“How did you…? When did you…? You’re here.”

“I’m here.” A smile spreads across Brittany’s face, and professional decorum be damned, Santana wraps her arms around her wife as people mull around them, and feels her whole body relax. “You did an amazing job.”

“I can’t believe you’re here. Britt—”

“I hope it’s okay that I am, I wanted to surprise you, and maybe steal you away for a little babymoon in Sedona when your conference is over tonight.”

“Of course it’s okay you’re here. It’s…basically the best thing ever. And you really want to take me on a babymoon?”

“I do. I didn’t change anything, in case you want to go home in the morning, but, Liam is with your mom for the weekend, so whatever you’d like to do, you’ll have me all to yourself.”

“Wow.” Santana breathes, a rush of…so many different emotions hitting her all at once. “That sounds really good. And…I think I’d rather go to Sedona than go right home. I was only in a rush to get back to the concrete jungle, where I feel like I might die of heatstroke every time I step out of the house, when you were there.”

“There’s a spa resort there which supposedly has amazing prenatal services. I’d love if you let me have you pampered all weekend.”

“Britt?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously, why are you like this? Why do you treat me so well?”

“Because I love you, and all I want is for you to be happy and relaxed, and to feel at peace.”

“Thank you. For everything you do, every single day.”

After Santana grabs a quick sandwich for lunch, she gives Brittany the key to her hotel room, so she can pack her things, and sits through the remainder of the conference, still furiously taking notes, though she’s thrilled by the idea of her surprise getaway with Brittany. Before she leaves the conference center, Santana finds Holly, and she thanks her profusely for her plane ticket, for introducing her to some of her prolific friends, and for overall just being a mentor and a support system. Of course, as always, it’s in the back of Santana’s mind that she still may want to pursue neonatology someday, but she knows right now isn’t the time. When it comes though, she’s sure Holly will be the first to know.

Brittany is in the lobby when Santana gets there, and she feels such a surge of emotion when she sees her. It stays with her through checkout, and even when she’s settled in the passenger seat of the car Brittany rented, it doesn’t subside. There’s just something about the way Brittany loves her that she doesn’t think she’ll ever get over. Something about knowing there is someone who will love and support and protect her no matter what that settles her in such a visceral way.

She doesn’t sleep for the entire drive to Sedona. She leans her head against the window, rests her hands on her swollen abdomen, and she watches how Brittany drives so carefully on unfamiliar roads. She’s beautiful in the glow of synthetic light, she’s beautiful always, and Santana sighs, amazed that she gets to spend the rest of her life with her.

Though she still has a perpetual ache between her thighs from whatever it is the hormones are doing to her, she’s too exhausted to do any more than crawl into Brittany’s arms under the softest hotel sheets she’s ever slept on. She closes her eyes and lays like that, listening to the sound of Brittany’s heart, feeling the soft stroke of fingertips through her long, loose hair and over the swell of her belly. It has only been two nights since she slept in her arms, but it had felt like an eternity, and now, now she’s comforted in a way that lets her sleep soundly through the night.

In the morning, Brittany has breakfast delivered to the room. Santana leans against the headboard of the bed, and smiles as Brittany brings her avocado toast and hard cooked eggs. Brittany sits cross-legged across from her, and Santana has to lean over to kiss her, pressing her forehead into her wife’s, and holding the side of her face. She’s filled with emotion, she’s always filled with emotion these days, but this is the good kind, the kind that makes her want to close her eyes and wish that she’ll always feel this happy.

“I think I’m getting spoiled by you.” She smiles against her mouth. “The kids are going to come out rotten.”

“Stop.” Brittany laughs, running her hand over the top of Santana’s bump. “They’re just seeing what love is very early on. Can I…”

“Mmhm.” Santana nods, lifting up her shirt. She’s sensitive about it, being touched and kissed where she feels so…different, but she always tries to let Brittany experience everything with her, she always tries not to clam up and deny Brittany every part of this pregnancy. “Go ahead.”

“Hello, sweet babies.” Shuffling down so she’s laying on her belly with her legs kicked up behind her, Brittany places soft kisses below Santana’s naval. “Look how big you’re getting in there.”

“I feel like they’re really tiny humans now, Britt. Ten inches, that’s like…we could hold them in our hands. I just hate that I can’t feel them moving yet, I feel like it’s really late, and it weirds me out.”

“They’re probably just really snug in there, Santana. You’re so tiny.”

“I don’t feel tiny anymore. I look like I’m about to give birth any day.”

“Halfway there.” Brittany smiles, kissing up Santana’s torso until she reaches her lips. “And another scan in a few weeks.”

“I still can’t decide if I want to know the sex or not. I mean, I feel like nothing can shock me more than finding out there were two in there, but I don’t know if I want to wait until they’re born for another.”

“You know I’m okay with either choice. I’m just so glad that they’re healthy, and you’re healthy.” She smiles, tenderly pulling down Santana’s shirt. “We haven’t really talked about your anxiety though.”

“I’m…getting there, I think. I’m still a little, I don’t know, freaked, but I don’t feel that same pervasive sense of fear that I did at first. I guess it was just unexpected. If we’d done a multiple embryo transfer, then I would have been prepared for the possibility, you know? But having it split, and…identicals. I mean, what if I can’t tell them apart and I’m a horrible mother? Remember that episode of Full House, where they mixed up the twins.”

“Honey.” Brittany stifles a laugh. “I don’t think mixing them up will make you a horrible mother. I happen to know first hand that you are such a good mom. And yeah, maybe we might get confused a little at first, but we’ll know them. They’re ours.”

“That’s still kind of crazy to me.”

They take their time getting ready. When Brittany tells Santana she has a couples massage scheduled for them at noon, Santana puts on a pair of leggings and a loose fitting top, her pregnancy uniform, she teases, and Brittany hugs her close, kissing the top of her head. They go down to the spa, and though Santana really is hesitant about a stranger touching her naked body, she relaxes at the sound of the music, the smell of lavender salts, and the idea that Brittany is only a few feet away from her.

She nearly falls asleep on the table, belly in a protective cradle through the hole there. The masseuse works knots out of her lower back that didn’t even know she had, and she breathes in and out, in and out, focusing on the health of herself and her babies. She assumes they’re close to done, when a strange sensation washes over her, and she feels a push in her abdomen. At first, terror hits her hard and fast, but then…she realizes what’s happening. Then, she realizes that though she’s yet to feel even the slightest twinge of movement inside of her, one of the babies is nudging and she sits up with a start.

“Santana?” Brittany mirrors her motions on the other table with alarm, startling her masseuse. “Are you alright?”

“I…can you just…” She shakes her head, and Brittany is at her side in an instant, accepting the towel that is handed to her, and covering Santana with it before she grabs another. “Just…here.”

“Where?”

“Here. Hold your hand here. I think…I think I felt something.”

“Okay, alright.” Brittany presses her hand gently where Santana shows her. Santana closes her eyes, tries to bring herself back to the same state of being that caused it to happen the first time, and she waits, putting her hand over Brittany’s.

It doesn’t happen again, and Santana feels a sinking feeling in her stomach. She wanted Brittany to feel it, she wanted her to get to experience it, and she flutters her lashes, trying to clear away the tears she knows are forming there. Brittany can always tell when her heart sinks, and she leans forward, kissing her forehead softly.

“We still have a lot of time, honey. I’ll feel it, don’t worry.”

“No, I know, I just…whatever, it’s dumb, and I’m hormonal.” Santana waves her off, not wanting this to be a thing. “This is a really good massage, Britt. Thank you.”

Santana lays back on the table, and tries to relax again as she finishes her massage. There’s no more kicking, which she actually is glad for, not wanting to set herself up for disappointment if Brittany misses it again. When they’re finished, they get pedicures, and really, considering the insanity of her work week, coupled with wanting to spend time at home with Liam, she can’t actually remember the last time she had one. But since she can’t bend to paint her nails anymore, it’s actually the perfect thing, and while the pedicurist scrubs her feet and paints her toes, she takes Brittany’s hand and squeezes it in her lap.

After they’re done with that, the drive up to see the red rock formations, and they walk for awhile, Santana consuming excessive amounts of water to avoid dehydrating. The quiet is nice, and when they have an late lunch in a restaurant, Santana knows she’s making moon eyes across the table at her. This is the first time they’ve ever really been away alone together, not counting Santana’s surgery, and then their one night in the hotel room right after she found out she was pregnant. And as much as Santana loves having Liam with them all the time, there is something really nice about a romantic getaway, where she and Brittany have each other all to themselves.

When they get back to the hotel, Brittany gets in the shower, and Santana can barely wait two minutes before she joins her. She’s needy, and she’s horny, the clingiest of combinations, but when she climbs in behind her, more careful than she’s ever been not to slip, she feels Brittany’s smile, even without seeing her face. She slides her hands over Brittany’s soapy skin, and presses her chin into her back, cupping her small breasts in her hands.

“Well hello there.” Brittany turns slowly, and puts her arm around Santana’s waist. When their nipples brush, even with the swell between them, Santana feels a jolt of arousal, snd Brittany takes her bottom lip between her teeth. “Nothing better than being surprised in the shower by my naked wife.”

“If I wasn’t afraid of slipping and dying, I’d probably have to take you up against the wall right now.” Santana husks, trailing her fingers over the curve of Brittany’s ass.

“How about you give me five minutes to wash my hair, and you can take me anywhere you want?”

Santana shivers at the thought, and she quickly washes herself, watching as Brittany slowly drags a washcloth between her own legs, smirking and raising her eyebrows as she does. As Brittany’s long blonde hair cascades down her back, suds running from it, Santana has to pinch her thighs together, overcome by the desire to touch her, overcome by the desire to hear her name escape from her lips in the sort of reverence reserved for only her.

They’re barely dry from the shower when Santana takes Brittany’s hand, and leads her over to the turned down bed. When Brittany goes to lay her back, Santana stops her, giving a slight shake of the head, and pressing her shoulders down so she’s sitting at the very edge of the bed. Santana touches her knees, pushing them apart, and when Brittany’s tucked towel falls from her body, Santana sinks to her knees before her.

“Santana.” Brittany whispers, awe in her voice.

“I had a dream about this the other night, and I’ve been dying to do it since then.” She looks into Brittany’s darkened eyes, and she kisses a droplet of water from her thigh.

Every since Santana popped, she’s found it difficult to settle on her belly without losing her breath, but the longing to pleasure Brittany with her mouth has been pervasive. Kneeling before her like this, spreading her legs wider, watching her grow wetter as she kisses and sucks the creamy skin on the side of her thighs is so sexy that she can’t help but slip her left hand between her legs, rubbing herself in slow circles on her clit, as her mouth inches further up toward Brittany’s center. There’s something almost pornographic about this, Santana thinks, especially for her, who spent most of her life fumblingly touching with clothes on, but it’s really sexy, and she can tell by the way Brittany’s eyes drift down to where she touches herself that she thinks so too.

Brittany inches closer to the edge of the bed, and she gently touches the back of Santana’s neck, urging her closer, urging her mouth to her sex. When Santana tastes her, she moans, sending vibrations through Brittany’s body, and coupled with the touching of herself, she’s afraid she might come before she even starts to pleasure Brittany. Her hand between her leg stills, and she sees the slightest headshake from her wife, who smiles.

“Don’t stop.” Brittany breathes. “Watching you is…wow.”

Swallowing hard, Santana wraps her lips around Brittany’s clit and enters herself with two fingers, clenching around them as she does. It’s an almost out of body experience, especially when Brittany gives raspy directions, telling her pretend it’s me, curl your fingers, ugh, your tongue, right there muddling whether she’s talking about Santana’s actions on her own body, or Brittany’s. Santana comes first. She does, usually, and normally it embarrasses her, but Brittany threads her fingers though her hair, and keeps guiding her, throwing her head back and moaning as Santana probes her tongue against her entrance.

Santana can’t stop curling her fingers inside of herself, she can’t stop quivering, and when she finally pushes Brittany over the edge, her whole body quakes with a second powerful orgasm. Brittany grips her side with shaking hands, afraid Santana might fall back. Santana just stares up at her for several moments, taking in the sweat on her brow, her erect nipples, right hand still slowly squeezing a pale breast, the flush that covers her whole body, the look of love and lust and adoration in her eyes.

When Santana finally makes to stand, not able to wait any longer to kiss her wife, to crawl beneath the sheets with her and sleep naked in her arms, a shooting pain stabs at the back of her calf, and she yelps, catching herself on the corner of the bed. Brittany is on her feet in an instant, and she pulls Santana by the waist, eyes coloring in deep concern.

“Santana, what’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

“Agh. Fuck. Motherfucking shit.” Santana cries, tears running down her face. “Another stupid fucking charley horse.”

“Oh honey, I’m sorry.” Brittany lifts her gingerly and sets her down on the bed.

“God, this is so not sexy.” Santana pulls her leg up as much as she can, though she can’t get it too close with the orb that protrudes from her. “Fuck. Why the fuck am I taking potassium and magnesium and all of this other crap witch doctor shit if this keeps happening?”

“Baby.” Brittany bites her lip. “Let me rub it out for you.”

“I—” Santana can’t help but laugh, even through her pain, when Brittany begins rubbing her calves. “I thought I took care of that.”

Brittany just chuckles in response, continuing to massage the tightened muscle in Santana’s leg and pepper kisses along her hairline and eyelids until she relaxes. Once she does, she kisses Brittany’s lips, holding the kiss there for a long time, just…needing it. Her breath is still labored from the pain of the spasm, but to kiss Brittany feels good, to kiss Brittany is calming.

“Do you want me to get you water? Or pajamas? Or anything else?” Brittany asks, still concerned with Santana’s wellbeing.

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “Want to lay naked with you and feel you up against me.”

“That’s easy enough.” Brittany smiles, kissing her forehead and shuffling behind Santana, pulling Santana into her arms, and the blanket over them both.

Contentedly, Santana sighs, and tangles her fingers with Brittany, before settling their joined hands below her naval. She likes when they sleep like this, she feels secure and loved, she feels like the babies are secure and loved, with Brittany’s unwavering fortitude, and she closes her eyes, just breathing it in, until the same sensation she’d felt earlier comes back, bubbling low in her belly, and producing a nudge, nudge, nudge just where Brittany’s hand rests.

“Britt, do you—”

“I do.” Brittany sucks in a breath, barely whispering. “They like when you’re laying down.”

“I read that in the book too.” Santana swallows hard. “I wonder which one it is.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it? I wonder if you’ll figure out anything about their personalities while they’re still in there.”

“Well one of them is up under my ribs now, so maybe that’s the shy one.”

“That could be.” Brittany moves her hand up under Santana’s breasts and rubs it across there. “Are you shy in there, little one?”

“I love when you talk to them.”

“Yeah? I wasn’t sure how you felt about it, I don’t want to overstep and make you uncomfortable with anything.”

“They’re your babies, Brittany. I know that they’re in my body, but I want you to know that…that you always have the right to just…be here with them, okay?”

“Okay.” A slow smile comes across Brittany’s lips, and she kisses the side of Santana’s head. “I love that.”

[shes-an-oddbird]

RomAntics

Romancing (Verb): a. to court or woo romantically; treat with ardor or chivalrousness:

Antics (Noun): a. a grotesque, fantastic, or ludicrous gesture, act, or posture.

Or 5 times Jemma attempts to out romance Fitz and the one time she learned she might already have.

Happy Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine to @theclaravoyant! Who asked for Jemma Outromancing Fitz. I only hope I did such a fun prompt justice

It was only after Fitz gave her a tiny nudge that Jemma acknowledged the incessant chirping of her alarm. She couldn’t ignore it, she’d already allowed herself to hit the snooze button yesterday, she didn’t want to make a habit of it. Although it was much more appealing to stay in bed curled around her warm and cozy boyfriend, she had stuff to do and as long as she turned off the alarm before its little song ended she was still on schedule.

She finally did pull herself from the bed, slamming her hand down on the off button before Fitz was officially disturbed and grumpy as a result. Jemma looked down at his sleeping form. Every morning, once her side was vacated, Fitz stretched his limbs out in every direction, lying diagonally across the bed. She shook her head in amusement. He always had preferred to sleep that way; adjusting to having her there with him had not been easy. Many nights she found herself inches from tumbling off the edge of the bed.

God he was adorable. Jemma allowed herself a few moments to admire the sleeping man, before she absolutely had to start getting ready. As she dressed she couldn’t help but take extra notice of their things so easily meshed together. Both their papers strewn across the desk. Her family pictures and his. Her sweaters and his and her shirts and his all folded up in one drawer. It wasn’t ideal the cramped space they shared but it was sufficient.

Feeling a burst of affection, and knowing better than to wake Fitz if she ever wanted to get on with her day, she took a page from her note pad and scribbled down a message.

Fitz,

It’s going to be another long day, meetings and press conferences and translating the lab reports into “English” for Mace. I’m starting to forget what the lab even looks like. If I start to forget what you look like I swear I’ll quit. I’ll try to stay awake, but if I’m asleep when you come in just know that I love you and I miss you. Let’s try to find time for just us this week.

Love, Jemma

She set the note on his tablet where she knew he’d find it and headed off to work. She’d mostly forgotten about it until she returned to their room late that evening. Fitz was still working in the lab and probably would be for another hour at least. She was surprised to find the bed made, usually the covers were just tossed back and she would drop in to make it sometime around lunch. Though she didn’t have time for that today.  Even more of a surprise than Fitz making the bed was the folded sheet of paper placed on her pillow.

Jemma,

I miss you too, so much. I’m afraid any day we’re not side by side for most of our waking hours and sleeping ones I’ll miss you. But I’ll take what I can get, be it five minutes as you walk from meeting to meeting or a sixty second video chat when we’re just two rooms away from each other. I’ll try to work more quickly today, so you won’t have to stay up too long. Not that you have to wait up, I’m sure your exhausted. I could never do everything that you do in a day, I am so amazed by you. You should get your rest and we’ll start fresh on spending more time together tomorrow. I know it’s probably late now that you’re reading this, you really must stop for lunch sometimes, so instead of hoping you have a good day I’ll just say I hope you had a wonderful one.

All my love, Fitz

Jemma wiped at her eyes. Why was she crying? Why was he so wonderful? All she did was leave him a silly little note and she receives this in return. He was always such a romantic.

As she was about to set aside the letter and decide which book to tuck it away inside of for safe keeping when her eyes narrowed. Was that what this was about? He was still trying to prove he was more romantic than her? She knew they could be competitive but this seemed a little ridiculous. And he certainly wasn’t playing fair. It wasn’t even a note, it was a beautiful letter. The kind you kept in a box in your attic that your grandkids found decades later.

Well he wasn’t going to get away with it. She’d proved it before and she’d prove it again. She was just as romantic as him. Maybe even more.

The next morning Jemma’s alarm went off fifteen minutes early. She dressed in half the time and answered her emails from her phone as she breezed through the local grocery store for supplies and a slightly less local grocery store since so few people carried buffalo mozzarella.

He just had to love the sandwich with the homemade pesto aioli and the fancy cheese and the bloody imported prosciutto didn’t he? It was a time-consuming pain in the ass to make and she really had a tight schedule that day as it was. But that just made it all the more romantic to prepare the beloved lunch for him.

Once it was done, she left it in the fridge with his name on it in large letters so he wouldn’t miss it and no one else would mistake it for their own. When she passed him in the hallway on her way to meet with Mace she grabbed her hand tugging him to a stop. “There is a surprise for you in the kitchen.”

She has to keep moving so he only smiled back confusedly and holds her fingers until they can’t reach anymore.

Aside from the look on Fitz’s face, the best part about making that sandwich was she snacked while making it so she wouldn’t be starving if she didn’t have time to stop for lunch. She never expected to balance out her lack of lunches with a beautiful three course meal. When she returned to their room that night she found Fitz had dragged out a folding table and chairs and set it up with candles and plates and napkins.

“Fitz what is all this?”

“Dinner.” He said simply and quickly moved to pull out her chair for her.

“But why?” It wasn’t an anniversary. Not since they started dating, not since they met, not since they graduated, not since any number of milestones they had conquered together.

Fitz took his seat across from her and began to remove the lids from the trays. “Just a thank you for lunch.”

“Well I think this a bit grand for a thank you.” Jemma said as she pulled the tray nearest to her closer for a whiff of what they were having. She recognized it immediately. Chicken Kiev from her favorite restaurant. They hadn’t been since their three-month anniversary. Everything had just been too hectic. She had attempted to recreate the meal herself but wasn’t ashamed to admit that it had fallen short. However, it had been just good enough to have left her craving it ever since.

Well that and their-

“We’ve got tiramisu for dessert.”

Oh it was on now.

The next day was the first day in weeks she had down time. Not a day off exactly. She was on call as soon as Mace was out of his meeting but it was unexpected and had no predicted end time. She immediately headed for the lab. There was a compound she’d only worked out on paper that she’d like to see through to fruition but in the spirit of competition she arrived at the lab and took up her spot next to Fitz who smiled happily down at her, surprised to see her in the lab at all.

“What are you doing here?”

“Mace has a meeting.” Jemma explained. She pulled over some of the papers Fitz was sorting through. “What are you working on?”

“These are some unfinished designs I found in storage, most of them are too dated to bother with completing but there are a couple here with potential, you want to help me decide which to start with?”

“I only get to help choose?” She asked with an exaggerated pout.

“No, no you can help too, I just didn’t know how much -uh- time you had.” Fitz said. He smiled knowingly. “I know you hate to leave a project unfinished.”

“Well hopefully I’ve got some time, what about this one?” She picked up a design for an old-school spy watch. Like the ones Coulson liked to collect. “Has anyone updated what these do recently?”

Fitz smirked. “Uh, yeah, a little company called Apple.”

Jemma shoved his arm. “I bet we could come up with something better.”

“Me too.”

The meeting ended up lasting over three hours. In that time, she and Fitz sketched out designs for watches for men and women agents, with features of your typical health monitor watch, a standard GPS, a similar laser to that of the mousehole device and some designs even incorporated a backup dosage of dendrotoxin.

“These are great Fitz, I wish I could stay longer, but I’m sure you’ll make something the great out of what we’ve started here.”

Fitz shuffled the papers with a thoughtful expression. “You know this is nothing urgent, doesn’t have a deadline or anything, I can hold off working on it, until the next executives only meeting.”

A warm feeling swirled in her stomach. It was nice to know he missed working with her as much as she missed working with him. “It’s a date.”

--

Jemma used to block out everything when she was running on the treadmill. Her brain had never liked to be idle but it was healthy to turn it off at least for a few minutes and the running gave her something else to focus on. Until she picked it up again after her return from Maveth. Then she found she needed distractions like music or it was a little too much like being back there, running, endlessly. She tried to find a good running companion but Daisy really hated it and May preferred her own routine. Elena was happy to run with her but she was on and off base so frequently it was always a surprise whether she was on the treadmill next to her.

She wasn’t today, although Elena was certainly on base but otherwise occupied. Jemma suspected she would see Mack for his morning workout either.

So instead she blasted her music through her headphones. Today’s pick was old pop songs. Maybe tomorrow would be classical.

The rhythmic beat pulsing through her headphones drowned out the hum of the machine next to hers turning on. It was only when she saw the familiar profile in the corner of her eye did she know anyone was even there. “Fitz?” She asked suddenly, tugging the buds out of her ears but trying to keep her pace.

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?” He was wearing what she was sure was his only pair of running pants and an old sweat shirt over an even older t-shirt.

“Jogging.” His jog was really more of a brisk walk but that was beside the point right now.

“Fitz you hate jogging.”

“Yes, but we said we’d spend more time together, since we’re so busy during the day I thought this was a good time.”

“But,” Jemma faltered, “you really hate jogging.”

“Yeah, but I really like you.” He said trying with some difficulty to flirt and fall into step with her. She slowed her pace just slightly. “I had tried the other morning but you must have been off to the store because I couldn’t find you in the gym and then the morning after our dinner I was still too full to even consider trying to run, but no excuses today.”

“Well alright, that’s really thought-FITZ!” There was a loud thump as Fitz mis-stepped on the treadmill and fell forward. The speeding belt dumped him on to the gym mat with a second, even more cringeworthy thud. Jemma slid off her own machine and dropped down onto the floor next to him.

“Are you alright?” Jemma turned him over, inspecting him for injury.

“No, no I’m alright.” Fitz mumbled. Jemma rolled her eyes and pulled him up to a seated position. She checked his eyes but everything looked good. The worst of his injury, aside from the brusies to fresh to see was a few scrapes from where the belt scratched him.

“Come on let’s get you patched up.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt your run.”

“Oh, no its perfectly alright.”

Leave it to Fitz, Jemma thought as she supported as much of his weight as possible, not only did he out do her attempt at quality time by spending time with her by participating in something he hated to do but now he’d gone and hurt himself in the process.

--

Jemma was prepared long before Fitz returned to their bunk. Whether he would admit it or not she knew he was sore from his tumble off the treadmill and she could easily admit that she gave excellent massages. Her knowledge of the human body and a thorough understanding of how to relax muscles did give her an advantage.

She must have been quite the sight when Fitz walked in, towel laid out in front of her, basket of lotions and such next to her, candles lit. He faltered at the sight of her, positively beaming at him as she sat cross legged on the bed. He looked back over his shoulder into the hallway before entering and slowly closed the door behind him.

“What’s going on?”

“I thought maybe you could do with a bit of relaxing.” She said, patting the spot of the bed in front of her.

“Um well-yeah that would be nice I guess –“

“I mean you must be terribly sore, falling off the treadmill earlier.” He tilted his head at her.

“What—oh yeah, well a little I guess.”

“Well come on then.” Fitz clambered onto the bed, laying on his stomach only for Jemma to tug him back up to remove his shirt. Once he was settled Jemma swung a leg over to his over side and sat on his bum to give her the best access to his back.

“That smells nice.” Fitz muttered as she lathered his back in lotion.

Jemma smiled. “It sooths sore muscles and stimulates the mind.”

“Mmhmm.” Fitz acknowledgement turned into a hum of pleasure as she worked out a sore spot in his lower back. “God that feels good.”

“Well I’m glad.” She slid her hands along his sides, less focused by the minute on the massage and more so on pulled reactions from him. Did he have any idea what he sounded like? She pushed the heel of her palm into a knot between his shoulder and he groaned. Goodness it was like listening to one of those songs about sex on the radio.

Eventually they died down and she realized he may have started to does off. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better.” He reached one hand awkwardly back to take hers, running his thumb over her knuckles. Jemma did a second pass of the tenser spots and was just working her way over his shoulders when she was dislodged from her seat as he rolled over. “Thank you.”

Jemma leaned back against his propped-up legs. “Anytime.” The look on his face said it all. She had won this round.

At least she thought so, until once more she was tossed off balance as Fitz sat up abruptly and toppled her backwards on to their pillows, sealing their lips together in the process.

Perhaps this one would end in a draw.

Jemma placed the perfectly wrapped box on Fitz’s desk, drawing his attention from the Icer he was running maintenance on. It was a last-ditch attempt. She was running out of ideas that didn’t involve asking for time off or an increase in pay.

“What’s this?”

“Just a little gift.”

“But it’s not-“

“I don’t need an occasion to get you a gift Fitz,” she said, cutting him off before he could finish his objection. “I just wanted too.”

“Really-okay that’s good to know.” He stood from his chair. “Come with me then.”

“What about-“ He scooped up the gift, took her hand and nearly dragged her out of the lab and back to the bunks. “Fitz what are we doing?” Jemma asked with a slight bit of irritation as her gift was practically ignored.

“You’ll see.”

He shuffled around their bunk until he retrieved a small wrapped present as well. “It was sort of an impulse buy but I thought eventually I’d have an occasion to give them to you but since you said we don’t really need an occasion-“

Jemma’s irritation quickly faded, the competition falling out of mind briefly at the sight of the tiny package. “Thank you Fitz, come on lets open them at the same time.”

They each took a seat on the edge of the bed, gifts poised in their laps. “one, two, three…”Jemma slowly opened her gift, more interested in seeing Fitz reaction to hers. He had enthusiastically ripped away the shiny blue paper. Inside was a box set of documentaries and a monkey mug with all the ingredients for some old fashion hot cocoa nestled inside.

“Jemma this is great, I’ve been wanting to watch these since we saw the Amazon documentary, the team that works on them is genius.”  

“I’m quite excited myself, they received raving reviews.”

“Why don’t we watch the first one now, I’ll go boil some water if you-hey you need to finishing opening yours.”

“What?” Oh that’s right. Her gift still say in her lap half wrapped. She tugged off the rest of the paper, revealing a jewelry case. Her stomach swooped and sunk all at once. Oh, she was excited, certainly, but something told her she’d just lost the final round. She lifted the lid of the box to reveal a set of sparkling gold studs.”

“Oh they’re beautiful.”

“Really? Cause I wasn’t really sure, I know you don’t care for bracelets because they hang in the way and you’re so attached to that old watch of yours and you seem to really like the necklace I got you since you wear it so often a new one seemed unnecessary and these kind of matched it so-“ Jemma looked up at him with watery eyes. Damn him he’d done it again.

She took her face in his hands and pulled him into a kiss. “Why must you be so damn competitive you sweet man.”

Fitz stared back at her uncertainly. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh please Fitz, the dinner, the letter, the jewelry, the sex?”

Fitz’s jaw dropped. “Jemma I truly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re just trying to prove that you’re the more romantic one, out doing me every time I turn around.”

“When, when am I doing this?”

“Oh don’t act so innocent!” Jemma exclaimed. “First I leave you a little note purely because I was feeling extra affectionate that morning and then you leave me that beautiful letter.”

“Of course I did! I wanted to tell you how much I agreed with you but I didn’t think I’d see you at all that day and I really wanted you to get your sleep.” He explained.

“Okay fine well what about dinner, from my favorite restaurant and that dessert.”

He only shrugged. “A thank you for the sandwich, you’ve always told me it’s a pain to make.”

“But a three course meal is hardly the same thing.”

“You’re right all I had to was dial the phone and run down the street to pick it up, you make such a fuss with that sandwich I can’t believe you ever bother.”

“I bothered because I was trying to be romantic.” “Spending time together working on those designs, that massage I gave you the other night.”

“You do those sorts of things all the time.”

“Yes well you don’t always go through such lengths to one up me, jogging, honestly you can’t stand it and I’ve told you I don’t mind-“

“It was the biggest chunk of time I could think of to add to our time together.”

“And the sex, you really weren’t in any condition-“

“I just wanted to make you feel as good as you made me feel and I’m not nearly as good as giving massages so it seemed like a fair exchange.”

She fell back on the bed, covering her eyes with her arm. “Fantastic so even when you’re not trying you’re the more romantic one.” The mattress shifted underneath her when Fitz laid down next to her.

“Actually, I think the award for more unconsciously romantic goes to you.”

“Oh, and how’s that then?”

“You’re a cuddler.”

“A what?”

“A cuddler,” he draped an arm over her waist and pulled her closer, “every night even if you’ve already dozed off before I even come into the room, I’m in bed not two minutes and you’ve curled yourself all around me like a cat or something and you’re asleep the whole time. I’ve even kicked you away, unintentionally of course- you know how much I have to spread out but you just latch on tighter, honestly you’ll take us both to the floor one of these days.” She still wasn't convinced. "I think its extremely romantic that you can sleep like that, that you want to be that close to me."

Jemma looked at him uncertainly. He was holding her so close she had to really crane her neck to see his face. The view made it worth it, just his loving blue eyes staring down into hers. Finally, she let out a short laugh.

“What?”

“It’s nothing, I just think if that’s the case then instead of the award reading most unconsciously romantic it should read most romantic while unconscious.” Fitz let out a barking laugh and pulled her over until she laid on top of him.

“I love you.”

She rested her head on his chest with a contented sigh. “I love you too, I’m sorry I turned your kind gestures into a competition.”  

“No big deal, now that I know what’s going on I can really fight back, prepare to be wooed."

[thisisatester]

redefining the meaning of an extraordinary life

The sadness is a deep reservoir that refills itself as if by magic. It never ends. It’s constantly flowing into my life and though I build dams to keep it at bay, it still finds a way into my life. It’s insidious like that, the sadness. You think the dams are high enough, strong enough. You think there’s enough support to manage it. You got this, you think. You’re okay. But suddenly the waves swell and crash and crash and crash against the walls you built to protect yourself and suddenly you’re drowning, the water of the depression pulling you under, filling your lungs, blinding and deafening you with it’s muted seduction. You’re trapped. You swim upwards, trying to find air - your lungs long for it; the taste of fresh air, to be reminded that you are a live but the water is never ending. There’s no reaching the surface. It looms forever in sight, growing clearer and more attainable then shifting away. You think you can reach out and touch it, if you just stretch your hand will break the surface and soon your body will follow but it’s just a trick. A mirage. There’s no escaping. The sea has claimed you for its own.

I feel like I lost a bit of my soul. I find that I am still healing from things that I feel like happened ages ago. And I’ve learned that that’s okay. There are no expiration dates on feelings. Maybe that’s because we’re organic beings – and we were never programmed to feel and stop feeling things according to a timely schedule. Maybe we need to remember that life has never worked that way and it never will. I don’t know, but I do know there’s something beautiful about all of it. Moving forward at your own timeline is reflective of what it means to be human.

I’m mad. I’m just so angry. I was okay the last time I wrote, but right now I hate everything. I hate the way my roommate walks to the restroom. I hate the way she closes the door. I hate the way I look in the morning. I hate how people don’t respond quickly enough. I’m just so unhappy. Every time I open Facebook or Instagram or Snapchat, I feel insanely depressed. Everyone’s hanging out without me again. Everyone’s smiling. Why can’t I do that? My life is good. I just have to keep telling myself that. It’s good. I can afford higher education, my parents love me, I have friends. I’m so scared of things happening, things that might not even happen. I don’t even know what I’m doing or thinking. I feel my heart beating out of my chest. I feel like I’m being pushed to the ground and being forced to stand up at the same time.

I’m sitting in my bed, with blankets wrapped around my knees. I know that there are two routes to take — lay back down or get up and start the day. Now I know that one choice is more appealing and the other is the right one, but I knew deep down I would make the wrong one.


I lay back down on my bed, feeling warmth and relief in addition to the guilt and anxiety picking at me, telling me there’s so much to do and so little time.

I did not move.

The thing was, I really wanted to. I wanted so badly to be able to just jump off my bed and take on the world with open arms and a wide smile. I mean, who wouldn’t? I just couldn’t. The very thought of just waking up and starting my day made me so emotionally exhausted and I just couldn’t handle that. The only thing I wanted to do was lay in my bed and not talk to anybody or do anything. I didn’t want to kill myself, but I just wanted to just be there and not exist. I didn’t want to die, if that makes sense. I wanted to press the pause button on my life, but not stop. I wanted to take a breather without everyone zooming past me.


 It all sounds so incredibly selfish, to have the desire to halt the lives of others in order to make myself feel better about myself. 
I’m incredibly selfish.

Throughout my whole life, I wanted to be extraordinary. I wanted to be successful and unique and seen that as that. Who doesn’t dream of bylines in national publications, their face on television, Forbes 30 under 30, or an offer from a renowned company?

We’d all be lying if we said we didn’t have some small desire to have that glory inside us somewhere.

Now that I’m graduating in May, I spend a lot of time thinking about what type of “legacy” I’ll be leaving behind.

Will it be for writing inspirational columns in the paper? Advocating for diversity and inclusion in journalism? Will it for be winning a startup contest? For running a successful blog with the right branding?

Sometimes on my darkest nights, I tell myself it’s nothing.

But, are we not more than titles and who we know and what we did over the summer?

For years, we stack our schedules with activities we know we don’t have time for. But we don’t quit these things because being overwhelmed is better than underachieving. We never stop talking about how tired or stressed we are. We skip class to work on homework for another class, go out when we don’t feel like it because we don’t want to feel left out. Then, we accidentally oversleep or forget important commitments, and then self-loathe for letting everybody down. And repeat.

Of course we are more than such superficial things. But, society simultaneously tells us to be ourselves and to enjoy these four years while stacking the pressure that somehow whatever we’re doing is not enough.

I knew something was wrong when I found myself feeling jealous of someone with an internship at a place I never even wanted to work at, but thought I did because everyone in my major wanted to work there.

If there’s anything that I’ve learned through my time in college, it is that chasing fleeting success is like drinking from a cup that will never quench my thirst.

Nothing will ever be never enough if I can’t appreciate life for what it is. If I get an accomplishment, it won’t feel like enough compared to someone else’s. There’s never time to revel in success because … that person already accomplished that two summers ago. There will always be more. And I will never feel like enough.

My heart breaks when I listen to people talk about how much they love life, how much beauty they see in people and the world around them. People who not only appreciate every little thing, but also have the hunger and immense joy and enthusiasm to serve this world and its people.

My heart breaks because I can’t see the world the same way these people do. At times, my happiness feels conditional. I only feel happy if I get that job, or that relationship, or that validation. How can we all be living in the same place, under the same God, and feel absolutely opposite feelings?

A quote from American author William Martin says that we should not ask our children to strive for extraordinary lives. He says while it may seem admirable, it is the way of foolishness.

Martin says, we should instead “find the wonder and the marvel of an ordinary life. Show them the joy of tasting tomatoes, apples and pears.

Show them how to cry when pets and people die.

Show them the infinite pleasure in the touch of a hand. And make the ordinary come alive for them. I know in time, the extraordinary will take care of itself.”

I used to tell my mom that the worst thing in the world to be is just like everybody else. To work a 9-5 and follow all the rules of society and then just die without leaving something epic and grand behind.

But now, I think the worst thing in the world is to not find beauty in simple things.

I don’t want to look back and think that I did not have time to enjoy anything because I was too busy feeling like I wasn’t doing the “right career moves” or talking to the “right people.” That would be such a life wasted.

Going against the current, I’m going to try worrying less every day about what my post-grad job is going to be or feeling jealous of those who appear happier or more successful.

I just want to focus on making the ordinary things feel special. I want to find joy in breathing in the beautiful southern California weather. In walking on our beautiful campus. On buying the same salad every Tuesday from Seeds. On taking the Metro line to Santa Monica.

If there’s any underclassmen or stressed senior reading this — ask yourself — how much of your schedule is filled with things that you actually want to do? How much of it is just things you’re doing to please someone or to impress people you don’t even like?

Success is different to everybody; what you want in life doesn’t have to be what everyone else wants. I’m not condoning a lack of ambition, but emphasizing the fact that it doesn’t have to be the be-all end-all.

Notice that the things that fill your heart with warmth are things that you did not have to look far to find: phone calls with your mom, surrounding yourself with people that make you feel seen, your favorite lavenders in a jar, midnight talks heart to hearts, singing in the car.

What if the only thing you left behind in your legacy was not a long list of accomplishments, but actual joy and love for life?

That sounds pretty extraordinary to me.